Chapter 4: Poisoned Tongues
I had begun to understand why Alaric had been assassinated by the time the council chamber doors creaked shut behind me.
The room was as grand as everything else in this castle—vaulted ceilings, golden chandeliers, a polished mahogany table large enough to seat twenty. It was meant to impress, to remind anyone sitting here who held the power. But today, the room felt like a battlefield.
Nobles lined both sides of the table, each one dressed in their finery, their faces carefully neutral. Too neutral. Like they were already weighing the cost of betting on me versus tearing me down. Whispers died as I took my seat at the head of the table, the throne-like chair heavy beneath me.
Gregor stood behind me. In the flame light, his armor shone like polished metal. A living wall of vigilance, that man was; yet still I felt the tautness in him.
Your Majesty," said one of the nobles, his voice as smooth as the silk doublet he wore. "It's a relief to see you so. well after all the events of last night.".
Words oozed fake niceness that could have turned my stomach, though; I'd never seen this guy, but by his dark gaze I would swear he's a smoothie who'd always say what's required, only mean its opposite.
I am pretty sure it is, I replied calmly to them.
Another noble, a stout man with a gray beard, replied, "Aye, my king. But, if I may be so bold, the court is most curious to learn how you managed to survive such a grievous wound. Some might even go so far as to claim it. unnatural.".
The room stiffened. Implication hung in the air like a poisonous gas that poisoned it, unnatural. It wasn't something that required an oral expression, though already present in their thoughts.
Sorcery.
For a moment, I couldn't fault them. If I'd walked in on a man collapsing to the floor and pooling in his own blood and then he stands up and starts murdering the people who just laid him down, I would have been suspicious.
I leaned forward and folded my hands together on the table. "I understand your curiosity," I said, my voice steady but firm. "But let me be clear: I am alive because I refuse to die while this kingdom stands on the edge of ruin.".
A murmur ran through the room. Not exactly a fulfilling answer, but I wasn't going to explain the glowing status window floating in my head or the odd voice that whispered about skills and levels.
The stout noble frowned. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, the court requires something more than vague assurances. There are some who fear. darker forces may be at work.".
I don't recall asking you to let me live, I said the words coming off my tongue harsher than I meant.
The murmurs ceased. For a moment, the stout man's face clouded, his jaw set—but then he bowed his head.
Of course, Your Majesty.
That'll close those folks. At least for awhile.
The meeting continued and seemed to go on forever. I nodded to reports of grain shortages, reports of rising crime out in the outer provinces, merchants complaining of tariffs. Their voices began to blur as they went on and on, merging into a choral work of politics and interest.
But as the hours ticked by, I noticed something-or someone.
Duke Eravon.
He sat near the far end of the table, silent and composed, his dark robes pristine and his hands folded neatly in front of him. Where all the other nobles were sparring and posturing, Eravon didn't flinch. He merely watched.
Not that I was aware of it at first, but seeing him as often as I could, I started to get glimpses of how he looked more intensely at certain speakers and how his expression changed when a word about the royal treasury or the guard's few remaining members was mentioned. Subtle, calculated, like he was playing some game we didn't even realize we were in.
Then there was the memory.
I saw earlier the flash of the fragment—the scene of Alaric in the same room, his voice full of fury as he accused Eravon of treason. I did not have all the pieces yet, but the look in Eravon's eyes now matched the one in Alaric's memory: calm, controlled, and full of quiet menace.
If he saw me staring, he did not indicate it.
It pounded at my head once the council meeting had been adjourned, though I remained standing upright with hand waved across the front of the council hall. Gregor followed me out. His footsteps were heavy behind me.
"Your Majesty," he said softly, once we were out of earshot. "You did all right at council." Did I? I whispered. Because it felt like holding off a pack of wolves with a stick. Gregor didn't laugh, but his lips curled up.
"The court respects strength, sire. And tonight, you showed them you're not easily cowed.". I did not react.
My head was already elsewhere, focused on the status window that had been visible to me before the meeting, which I had not dared open in front of the nobles.
Once I got back into the secrecy of my chambers, then I called it up once again, willing the faint chime to sound.
Name: Alaric Varelius
Title: King of Varestia
Level: 7
Health: 80/100
Mana: 50/60
Strength: 15 (+3)
Agility: 12 (+2)
Endurance: 10 (+1)
Intelligence: 13 (+2)
Charisma: 18 (+4)
Unique Skills:
Gluttony (Active): Absorb stats, skills, and memories from slain enemies.
Regression (Locked): Revert to a fixed point upon death.
My eyes stopped on the word. Regression.
I frowned, the meaning sinking in slowly. Revert to a fixed point upon death.
I thought back to the assassins, to the way I'd woken up in Alaric's body with no warning. Did that mean I'd already... died? Was this skill the reason I was here?
My pulse quickened as I tapped the description, hoping for more information. But instead of answers, I was greeted with a new message.
Skill Locked. Requirements Not Met.
Of course it was locked. Nothing in this world was ever simple.
I clenched my fists, frustration bubbling in my chest. If this skill was my safety net, the thing keeping me alive, then why the hell couldn't I use it?
For now, I could only guess. But one thing was clear: this world wasn't done with me.
And neither was Eravon.