Previously~
The woman nodded respectfully, and with a final look at Alexander, she stepped back as the carriage rolled forward.
Turning toward the looming gates of Draken Palace, Alexander's expression shifted to one of quiet resolve. "Now," he murmured to himself, stepping forward, "let's see what this day brings."
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Alexander turned his gaze toward the towering golden gates of the Draken Royal Palace. The palace loomed before him like a sentinel, its opulence unyielding. Golden gates gleamed in the sunlight, golden door handles gleamed with unyielding shine, and golden fountains danced beneath the warm rays of the sky. Every inch of the palace whispered of the Fafnir Empire's boundless wealth.
Golden spires stretched high into the heavens, their tips seemingly touching the clouds. Atop the crimson dome of the outer palace, a statue stood proudly—covered in gold, its details precise. It depicted Fafnir, the legendary dragon whose bloodline had helped the emperor forge the mighty empire.
The last of the dragons. The wise dragon. The harbinger of wealth and glory.
Though dragons were known to live for millennia, spanning lifetimes of ten thousand years, Fafnir was different. Even after six thousand years, his appearance remained that of a youthful, mighty creature. Not a soul knew how he maintained such vigor—not even Fafnir himself.
WHAM!
The massive doors of the Throne Room burst open, their golden hinges quivering with the force. Alexander stepped into the room, the weight of his mission bearing down on him.
Inside, the grandeur of the room was overwhelming. Rows of golden chairs with velvet cushions lined either side, their luxurious seats forming two columns. A red carpet, rich and deep, stretched toward the raised platform at the far end of the room. There, upon the throne, sat the Emperor of the Fafnir Empire.
The throne itself was an imposing sight—a symbol of pure authority. Its armrests were carved into the shape of dragon claws, its feet resembling the talons of the mighty beast. Wings of gold unfurled on its back, glinting softly under the glow of flickering candlelight.
On the throne sat Emperor Thaddeus Drakengard. His golden hair cascaded like fine silk to his shoulders, and his amethyst eyes locked with Alexander's as he rose. His beard, just over two inches in length, framed his sharp jawline. His tall, slim frame was cloaked in luxurious coats and scarves that spoke of his status.
STEP! STEP!
With measured steps, Alexander moved toward the emperor, his gaze briefly scanning the room. Two men stood before the emperor, both of them eyeing him with varying degrees of interest.
'Caelum… Richard…' he thought, a fleeting smirk curling on his lips as he locked eyes with Caelum. But when his gaze fell on Richard, his expression soured into a scowl.
Kneeling before the emperor, Alexander lowered his head in respect.
"Alexander Leonhart greets the Emperor of the Fafnir Empire, Emperor Thaddeus Drakengard," he said, his voice steady.
Thaddeus nodded, acknowledging the greeting, and then gestured for Alexander to rise.
As Alexander stood, his body trembled. Was it fear? Anger? Or perhaps something more? His fists tightened, nails digging into his palms. The tension in his chest rose, pressing against the confines of his body like a storm ready to break.
"Your Majesty—" Alexander's voice faltered, escaping like the heat of a breath.
"WHAT BULLSH*T IS THIS?!" He roared, his booming voice shaking the room. A piece of parchment fluttered in his grasp, his fury apparent.
The emperor stumbled back in surprise, Caelum snickering in the corner while Richard's brows furrowed in confusion.
"Alexander Leonhart!" Richard barked, his piercing grey eyes narrowing on the young noble.
Richard Marbrand, the Duke of the South, was a striking figure—his windswept silver hair clipped short on the sides, the longer top pushed back like crashing waves. His presence was commanding, rugged, the air of someone who had seen battle.
"Richard, stay out of this," Alexander growled, his jaw clenched, his fist tightening.
He extended his hand, holding up the parchment for all to see.
"What is this blasphemy?" he hissed. With a swift motion, he tore the paper into a dozen pieces.
"Edward being suspicious?" Alexander's voice rose with scorn. "What a joke!"
His gaze snapped to Thaddeus, his anger now visible in the reddening of his eyes.
"How dare you stoop so low, Emperor Thaddeus!" His words rang with accusation.
Thaddeus flinched, his eyes darting away. A lump formed in his throat as he struggled for words, his gaze momentarily dropping.
"Leonhart," Thaddeus muttered, his voice trembling slightly. "I cannot tolerate this any further."
The tension in the room thickened as Richard drew his saber. The curved blade gleamed in the light, its edge honed by countless battles, reflecting the sunlight as its tip pointed menacingly toward Alexander.
"Marbrand! Leonhart!" Thaddeus barked, his voice a forceful command as he sat back down on his throne. His lips curled in an almost amused manner, his voice echoing through the chamber with an authority that shook the walls.
"What are you doing? Behave yourselves."
Caelum, ever the peacemaker, stepped forward. His hand gently landed on Alexander's shoulder, offering him a quiet but meaningful nod of understanding.
"I know you are frustrated, but this is not the right way," he whispered softly, his voice calm yet firm.
"Hah!" Alexander scoffed, his frustration boiling over. He spun on his heel, his anger momentarily overwhelming his reason.
CLINK!
Richard sheathed his blade, bowing slightly in a mock apology.
"Please forgive my unsightly behavior," he said, his voice laced with disdain. He cast an angry glare at Alexander before returning to his seat.
Caelum, ever the diplomat, stepped forward again. His voice was clear and composed as he addressed the emperor.
"Your Highness, we have all gathered here at your call," he began, his tone respectful but firm. "Please, enlighten us on the matter concerning Edward."
Emperor Thaddeus leaned back in his throne, his expression a mask of calm. His gaze flicked from the torn remnants to Alexander, and then, with a cold, deliberate tone, he spoke.
"I believe Edward is colliding with the vassal kingdoms, preparing for treason," he declared, his voice steady yet heavy with accusation.
The words struck Alexander like a blow to the chest, his blood heating in an instant. His eyes flashed with fury, the room suddenly feeling unbearably small. He stood frozen for a moment, shock turning into rage.
"Traitor?" Alexander's voice broke the silence, low and threatening. His chest rose and fell with each breath as he took a step toward the emperor. "How dare you—"
Without another thought, he strode forward, his hands seizing the emperor's golden collar with an almost animalistic force. The weight of his grip was raw with anger.
"You accuse Edward of treason?!" Alexander spat, his face inches from the emperor's. "I won't let you drag his name through the mud!"
Thaddeus's eyes widened for a split second, but before he could react, a sudden gust of wind slammed into Alexander, pushing him back and breaking his hold. His stance faltered, his body thrown off balance, but he regained himself, eyes now filled with fury.
Richard Marbrand stood, saber raised high. His eyes locked onto Alexander with pure rage as he took another step forward.
"Enough!" Richard growled, his voice like a crackling storm. "You will not lay your hands on the emperor!"
The air in the Throne Room shifted, thickening with tension, when the emperor's voice rang out.
"Arnold!" Thaddeus's command was sharp, and it was enough to make the room go still.
Moments later, the doors to the Throne Room creaked open with a slow, deliberate groan, and a figure casually strolled in. The man was massive, his muscular frame radiating power. His thick mustache twitched as he grinned. A medium-length beard covered his chin, and his golden eyes scanned the room with quiet amusement.
Arnold, the Empire's Sword, stood tall, his imposing presence casting a shadow over the gathered nobles. He casually twirled a giant axe in his hand, the blade gleaming ominously.
"Well, well," Arnold said, his voice deep and rough like the rumble of thunder. "It looks like we've got ourselves a bit of a situation." He stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles, and then looked at Alexander with a challenge in his eyes. "Care for a duel, Leonhart?"
Alexander's fists clenched, and his teeth ground together, but before he could respond, Richard stepped in.
"No," Richard snapped, his voice hard as iron. "He doesn't need a duel. He needs a lesson in discipline."
Alexander glared at Richard, but his attention was swiftly drawn away by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from the far side of the room. The air seemed to ripple as a new figure entered, one whose mere presence shifted the atmosphere entirely.
From the shadows of the hallway, Fafnir appeared.
He was a vision of myth—his golden hair shining as if it had been spun from the sun itself, his golden eyes burning with an ancient wisdom. His chest was bare, the muscles rippling beneath his skin, and his presence was so commanding that the room seemed to fall silent in his wake. A golden aura swirled around him.
Fafnir's voice was calm, but it carried the weight of ages.
"This drama won't end well for you, Alexander," he said with a casual tone, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Alexander's eyes narrowed with contempt. He sneered and snapped back, his voice sharp with defiance.
"I don't need the opinion of an overgrown lizard."
The words struck Fafnir like a slap, and for the briefest moment, the golden dragon's eyes flashed with something more primal. A subtle crack of his knuckles echoed in the room as he stepped forward, his powerful presence filling the space.
"You…" Fafnir growled, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You're braver than I thought."
As Fafnir moved to join Arnold, Richard turned toward the dragon, his expression no longer one of calm but of growing fury.
"Enough!" Richard shouted, his anger reaching its peak. "This is not a matter of pride. This is a matter of discipline!"
Fafnir looked at him lazily, shrugging as he continued his advance toward Alexander. Arnold stood beside him, the two of them a wall of muscle and power.
Caelum, always the diplomat, stepped forward, his hand tightening around the hilt of his spellblade—a wand of medium length made from the ancient branch of the World Tree, Irminsul. Its runes pulsed faintly with magic as his grip tightened.
"No," the emperor spoke sharply, his voice cutting through the rising tension. "No one moves."
Caelum's eyes flashed in confusion, but he hesitated, his fingers twitching with the urge to defend Alexander. The room seemed to hold its breath as Alexander, still standing defiant, grasped the hilt of his sheathed claymore.
"Not yet," Thaddeus commanded, his eyes narrowing as he watched the room. "The situation is delicate. Let us see where this goes."
The tension in the room was thick as a storm cloud, and no one moved, waiting for the next spark to ignite the fury.
The room was alive with tension, the silence stretching between them like a taut rope, ready to snap. Alexander's grip on the hilt of his claymore tightened, the cold steel an anchor for his seething fury. His chest heaved with each breath, his gaze locked onto Fafnir and Arnold, the two imposing figures now standing side by side, their mere presence a challenge.
Fafnir's golden eyes glimmered with amusement, the corner of his lips curling into a smirk as he assessed Alexander's defiant stance. "You think you can stand against us?" His voice was low, almost lazy, but it carried the weight of centuries of power.
Beside him, Arnold twirled his giant axe with ease, its massive blade catching the light. "You've got guts, Leonhart. But not enough strength to back them up."
Richard's sharp gaze flicked between the two, his hand resting near his saber, his stance ready but restrained. "Enough talk. Let's end this."
Caelum stepped forward, his hand still gripping his spellblade, his expression a mask of calm but with eyes that burned with unspoken resolve. "This doesn't have to escalate."
But Alexander's heart beat like a war drum in his chest. "I'm done talking." He pulled his claymore from its sheath with a thunderous motion.
The room erupted.