Chapter 27: The Reward That Was Not a Reward
The eighth prince, Draven, was already seated.
He leaned back in his chair with careless elegance, one leg crossed over the other, as if this hall of judgment were nothing more than a private theater arranged for his amusement.
The palace hall session began.
One by one, the Queen’s representatives stepped forward.
They spoke with preparation.
With law.
With precedent.
They argued for border funding.
For military reinforcement.
For royal authority.
And one by one, their arguments were dismantled.
Not with shouting.
Not with anger.
But with precision.
The noble representatives answered each claim with cold logic and polished rhetoric, their words sliding neatly between every weakness in the Queen’s position.
Every rebuttal landed.
Every defense was turned aside.
The balance in the hall shifted, slowly but unmistakably, toward the right side.
Toward the nobles.
With each exchange, the tension thickened.
Voices echoed against marble.
Arguments rebounded from golden pillars.
Silence fell sharper after every failed defense.
Sylvaris noticed it first.
She turned slightly.
Rynvaris met her gaze.
Just for a heartbeat.
That was enough.
This was not a normal council.
This was not debate.
This was a demonstration.
Rynvaris’s eyes drifted toward the dais.
The Queen remained still.
Listening.
Watching.
Saying nothing.
_I think… the Queen doesn’t hold any real power._
The thought formed quietly in her mind.
_She’s sitting there like a figure placed on a throne for tradition’s sake._
She had come expecting gratitude.
Perhaps even a reward.
_But if she has no authority…_
_Would these nobles even allow her to grant it?_
Her gaze slid, almost unconsciously, toward the man standing beneath the throne.
Prime Minister Soryn Altheris.
He had not spoken yet.
He had not moved.
He simply stood.
Hands folded behind his back.
Back straight.
Eyes half-lidded.
But the air around him felt… wrong.
Not heavy.
Not oppressive.
Simply… controlled.
As if the space itself deferred to his presence.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen in this hall…” Rynvaris murmured under her breath.
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She leaned slightly toward Sylvaris.
“Sis,” she whispered, her voice barely stirring the air between them, “would you tell me the name of this Prime Minister… and how powerful he truly is?”
Sylvaris did not answer at once.
Her gaze remained fixed ahead, unreadable.
“Prime Minister Soryn Altheris,” she said at last, her voice lowered to a whisper. “He is a great magician.”
Rynvaris studied the man again.
“So that’s why he stands there like a withered branch,” she murmured, a faint curve touching her lips. “Fingers long and thin… not the hands of a man built for combat.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“The aura he carries is even heavier than the Queen’s,” she added quietly. “I cannot sense it directly… but his Miki level surpasses the Queen’s—and everyone else present here. Still, his true power in this court does not lie in magic.”
Her eyes shifted, cold and precise.
“It lies in the nobles who stand at his side.”
For the first time since entering the hall, Soryn Altheris moved.
Not his body—only his gaze.
His eyes lifted. Just enough.
They did not settle on Rynvaris.
They did not need to.
The pressure in the hall shifted.
Subtle.
Instant.
The noble representatives fell silent.
Even the Queen’s delegates stopped mid-sentence.
No command had been spoken.
Yet the hall obeyed.
Soryn inclined his head a fraction.
The debate resumed.
Under his rhythm.
Rynvaris felt a thin chill trace her spine.
Both siblings smiled faintly.
Across the row of seats, Prince Draven watched the exchange.
And smiled.
“You may smile now, Rynvaris…” he whispered softly. “But when the Queen grants you your reward, you will likely be in tears.”
He leaned back, fingers loosely intertwined.
“I share… very close ties with several of the High Nobles.”
His smile widened, slow and deliberate.
“Just wait.”
A quiet, amused breath escaped him.
“Heh.”
“Sister,” Rynvaris whispered without turning her head, “why is that moron smiling?”
Her voice remained soft—controlled.
“But every time I look at him… my blood begins to boil.”
Prince Draven sat eight chairs away.
Sylvaris glanced in his direction—only once, and only briefly.
“Who knows?” she whispered in reply. “Idiots often smile at the wrong time.”
The final arguments concluded.
The last noble bowed.
Silence fell.
A man stepped forward from the side of the hall.
The one responsible for calling names.
His voice rang clear.
“Eleventh Princess Elowen Rynvaris, come forward.”
The words echoed once.
Twice.
“Eleventh Princess Elowen Rynvaris, come forward.”
He called her name a third time.
And still, she did not move.
The silence that followed was no longer ceremonial.
It was dangerous.
A faint stir ran through the hall.
Eyes shifted.
Nobles exchanged glances.
The caller hesitated.
Then the Queen herself spoke.
“Princess Rynvaris…!”
Her voice cut through the chamber, sharp and unmistakable.
The sound struck Rynvaris like ice.
A chill slid down her spine.
She rose at once.
“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she said, inclining her head with flawless courtesy. “We were merely discussing the affairs of the Orimvess Empire… and its enduring greatness.”
Her tone was gentle.
The Prime Minister looked at Rynvaris.
And perhaps, in that quiet, calculating mind of his, he thought—
What a cunning child.
To use the Orimvess Empire itself as an excuse for discourtesy in court.
Upon the throne, Queen Elowen Calista studied her.
Her smile remained perfectly polite.
Not anger.
Calculation.
_Is this child doing this on purpose…?_
She could not accuse her.
And the hall was watching.
_I cannot challenge her here…_ she whispered quietly. _Very well. I will let this pass._
Her fingers tightened slightly on the arm of the throne.
“Princess Rynvaris,” the Queen said aloud, her voice settling back into its measured calm, “step forward and receive your reward.”
Rynvaris stepped out from her seat.
She walked alone through the open space of the hall.
Each step echoed.
She felt every gaze upon her back.
From the nobles.
From the princes.
From the Prime Minister.
When she stopped before the dais, she straightened and bowed.
She stood tall.
Unflinching.
The Queen regarded her for a long moment.
“I have been informed of your duel with the Twelfth Princess,” Queen Calista said evenly. “A reckless confrontation… yet not entirely devoid of talent.”
Her eyes narrowed, just slightly.
“You demonstrated courage.”
A brief pause.
“And more importantly—control.”
She gestured.
An attendant stepped forward, bearing a long, narrow case of polished wood.
“You may one day become a great swordsman,” the Queen continued. “And so, I grant you this.”
The case was opened.
Inside rested a silver blade.
Unadorned.
Unceremonious.
A real weapon.
Forged for use.
“I bestow this blade upon you,” Queen Calista said, her voice calm and resonant, “as acknowledgment of your potential.”
Rynvaris accepted it with both hands.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said softly.
But as her fingers closed around the hilt—
She felt it.
Not the weight of the blade.
The weight of every gaze in the hall.
And beneath it all, the faint, unseen pressure of a Prime Minister who had not uttered a single word.
When a voice cut through the hall.
“Your Majesty.”
Prime Minister Soryn Altheris spoke at last.
Not loudly.
Not forcefully.
Yet every sound in the chamber seemed to retreat before his words.
Rynvaris froze.
The maid halted mid-step.
The Queen lifted her eyes.
“Princess Rynvaris has rendered considerable service,” Soryn continued, his tone composed and unhurried. “Is such a modest reward truly befitting her contribution?”
His gaze never wavered from the throne.
“I have already prepared a more fitting proposal for her.”
A subtle stir rippled through the nobles’ ranks.
Whispers rose—
And died before they could fully take shape.
“Prime Minister Soryn Altheris,” Queen Calista said evenly, “her actions do not warrant such elevation.”
Her fingers tightened, almost imperceptibly, against the armrest.
“I am merely acknowledging her effort with this reward.”
Soryn inclined his head a fraction.
“Yesterday’s victory may have been small in scale,” he said calmly, “but it was not small in meaning.”
He lifted one hand slightly, as though weighing an unseen measure in the air.
“She stood against a royal opponent.
She chose restraint over arrogance.
She revealed talent in swordsmanship… and judgment beyond her years.”
His eyes shifted—just once—to Rynvaris.
“How, then,” he asked softly, “are we to honor such potential with something so ordinary as a blade?”
The pressure in the hall deepened.
Even the nobles were silent now.
Upon the throne, the Queen felt a slow heat rise behind her eyes.
_Prime Minister…_
Was he truly challenging her over something so trivial?
Did she no longer possess even the authority to grant a simple reward?
The thoughts flickered through her mind—but her expression did not change.
She remained composed.
“Tell me,” Queen Calista said slowly, each word measured with deliberate restraint, “what do you believe she should be rewarded with?”
The words echoed.
And for the first time since the session began—
Everyone leaned forward.
No one knew what the Prime Minister was about to say.
Not the nobles.
Not the princes.
Not even the Queen.
And Rynvaris, standing between throne and minister, felt with sudden clarity—
This reward was no longer about a sword.
It was about power.
The Prime Minister wielded influence that, in many ways, surpassed even that of the Queen of the Orimvess Empire.
What had begun as a simple reward ceremony had quietly transformed into a political contest.
And Rynvaris—
She was about to become the piece sacrificed in the struggle between them.
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The journey grows darker from here.
