The Price Of Hatred

Chapter 29- The Heir to the Throne

​Lyssa slowly turned her head, looking toward Arthur's coffin. For one brief, split second, a flash of profound, bleeding pain crossed her eyes before she locked it behind a mask of iron. She looked back at Roman.

​"My father was not respected because of his bloodline, Roman," she whispered, her words cutting through the air like scalpels. "He was respected because every single person in this room knew he was willing to carry heavy structural burdens that would have crushed your spine. He made horrific sacrifices that none of you vultures even know about."

​Roman opened his mouth to retort, but Lyssa cut him off with a sharp, dismissive gesture.

​"You want his throne?" She pointed a rigid finger toward the coffin. "Then first, you carry his coffin out into the mud. You want his crown?" Her eyes hardened into pure steel. "Then you carry every single ounce of his pain! You want his title?" She took another aggressive step forward, forcing Roman to tilt his head back. "Then you carry the army of enemies he left behind in the dark!"

​Roman's arrogant confidence began to visibly crack, a bead of sweat forming near his temple.

​Lyssa’s voice echoed like a physical blow through the hall. "My father is not even buried beneath the earth yet! And already, people are fighting over his seat like starving vultures tearing at a fresh corpse!"

​Nobody dared to utter a single word. A single tear rolled down Lyssa's cheek, but her voice remained perfectly strong, unyielding as iron.

​"My father spent his entire miserable life protecting this family," she said, her palm slamming firmly onto the top of the coffin lid. "And if any single one of you truly loved him... then today is not the goddamn day to fight over his throne!"

​The entire Council Chamber fell into a profound, suffocating silence. Even Roman had no answer left, his mouth closing as the true, heavy weight of the man they had lost finally settled over the room.

​BANG!

​Suddenly, the heavy, reinforced double doors at the back of the council chamber were violently blasted open, the sound echoing through the vaulted ceiling like an explosive charge.

​Every single person in the room instinctively spun around, their hands flying to their holsters.

​Visha stepped through the threshold first. Without uttering a single word, her cold, dangerous face perfectly neutral, she stepped to the side of the frame to clear the path.

​Then, Gage walked in.

​The very molecular structure of the atmosphere in the room changed instantly, turning thick, heavy, and impossible to breathe. Gage was dressed in a sharp black suit, the jacket left entirely unbuttoned, revealing the lean, powerful frame beneath. One of his hands was rested casually inside his pocket, while the other swung loosely by his side as he walked.

​He didn't look at a single person. He didn't acknowledge the guards, the lords, or the commanders. He simply walked forward down the central aisle.

​The rhythmic, solid sound of his leather shoes striking the polished marble floorboards echoed throughout the silent hall like a death march.

​Step.

Step.

Step.

​An absolute, paralyzing fear spread across dozens of veteran faces. A few senior commanders immediately lowered their eyes to the floor, unable to hold his focus, while others froze completely in their seats, their breath locking in their throats.

​The moment Roman saw the silhouette approaching through the dust, every single drop of color drained from his face, leaving him a pasty, terrified white.

​"Oh... fucking hell," Roman whispered unconsciously, taking a sharp, instinctive step backward away from the aisle.

​Nobody mocked his retreat. Nobody laughed. Because every single soul inside the Pitch House felt the exact same thing in that moment.

​Gage was nothing like Arthur. Arthur was a tyrant who ruled through structural authority and calculated leverage. Gage ruled through fear. Pure, unadulterated, primal fear—the specific kind of terror that crawled beneath a person's skin, wrapped around their spine, and whispered that an executioner was standing right behind them.

​Without breaking his stride, Gage continued his march. The massive crowd of council members automatically parted before him, scrambling backward into their rows to create a wide, unobstructed path for him to walk. No one had ordered them to move. No one needed to. The sheer aura of violence radiating from his frame cleared the room like a shotgun blast.

​When he reached the base of the altar stairs, he began to ascend them slowly.

​One step.

Then another.

Then another.

​Lyssa stood her ground, her eyes tracking him as he approached. For a brief second, even her stoic expression wavered, an uncertainty flashing through her eyes as she tried to calculate exactly what the monster was about to do.

​The moment Gage reached the top tier of the platform, Lyssa immediately stepped aside, clearing the space around the podium. She wasn't commanded to move. She simply knew better than to stand in his path when his face carried that specific, dead look.

​Gage stopped directly behind the microphone. An absolute, heavy silence filled every corner of the massive chamber.

​Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head. His cold, dangerous eyes met the crowd.

​The effect was instantaneous. Dozens of hardened mercenaries and regional lords looked away, their hearts pounding violently against their ribs like trapped birds. Roman stood frozen at the base of the steps, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to find his tongue.

​Gage's gaze swept across the room—cold, empty, and lethal. Finally, he spoke.

​"My father is dead."

​The voice wasn't loud. It wasn't a roar. Yet the low, raspy frequency of his words carried so perfectly that every single person inside the chamber heard it clearly inside their skulls. No one dared to interrupt.

​"He built this miserable empire with rivers of blood," Gage said, his eyes drifting slowly to the left, tracking over the polished wood of Arthur’s coffin. "And now, all of you are standing around his corpse like a pack of hungry, pathetic dogs."

​The words struck the room harder than a physical slap across the face. Nobody responded. Nobody could find the breath to argue.

​Gage's eyes snapped down, locking directly onto Roman’s tensed frame. "You."

​Roman visibly stiffened, his shoulders locking.

​"You were just talking about the throne," Gage murmured, his voice flat.

​Roman opened his mouth, his jaw working silently, but absolutely nothing came out of his throat. Gage stared down at him for several long, excruciating seconds, his expression completely hollow, before slowly looking away as if Roman wasn't even important enough to continue discussing. The sheer, public humiliation was worse than any physical insult Roman had ever endured.

​Gage slowly turned his entire body to face the coffin, staring at the shell of the man who had ruled them all. For the very first time, a dark, complicated flicker of raw emotion appeared in the depths of his eyes.

​"My father was not a good man," Gage said, his jaw tensing as the words cut through the microphone. "Never will be, even if he were still alive and breathing today."

​The entire room froze. Even Lyssa turned her head sharply to look at him.

​"He wasn't kind," Gage continued, his voice dropping into a dark, intimate register. "He wasn't fair. And God knows he wasn't innocent. He was a monster who ruined everything he touched."

​The council members exchanged frantic, nervous glances in the tiers, terrified of the blasphemy.

​"But he was my father," Gage whispered, his eyes locking onto the lacquer of the box. "When every single person in this world abandoned me to rot in the dark... he didn't. When everyone else in this room called me a monster and wanted me put down..." Gage swallowed hard, his throat working as his fist slowly clenched at his side. "...he stood right beside me."

​For one brief, microscopic fraction of a second, his voice almost cracked under the weight of his childhood trauma. Almost.

​"But now, he is gone," Gage hissed, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white. "And the man responsible for ripping him from this world is still drawing breath."

​The temperature in the Council Chamber instantly turned freezing cold. Gage slowly turned back to face the crowd, his eyes completely darkening into two bottomless voids of pure malice.

​"I don't give a damn about your votes," he said, his voice sharpening into a lethal blade. "I don't give a damn about your traditions. And I certainly don't give a single shit about who in this room thinks they deserve to sit in this seat."

​Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

​Gage took a heavy step forward, his hand rising through the air before slamming down firmly onto the leather armrest of Arthur's empty high seat—the sacred throne of the ruler that no operative had dared touch for thirty years.

​His voice echoed through the chamber like a sovereign decree. "This throne belongs to Arthur's first blood. And he will live for eternity inside the shadow of this flag."

​Silence. An absolute, terrifying silence.

​"And Arthur's blood is mine."

​No one objected. No one stepped forward to challenge his claim. Not because they agreed with his right, and not because they respected his lineage—but because they were absolutely, profoundly terrified of the slaughter that would follow if they spoke.

​Gage slowly sat down into the massive high seat.

​The exact moment his weight hit the leather, the entire energy of the room shifted entirely, as though a catastrophic storm had just settled onto the throne. He leaned back, his cold gaze sweeping across the High Council one final time, his voice dropping into a whisper that chilled the room to the bone.

​"If anyone has a problem with that..." Gage murmured, his bared teeth catching the dim light of the chandeliers. "...stand up."

​Silence. Absolute, dead silence.

​Not a single person in the room moved an inch. Not a single commander breathed. Not even Roman.

​And in that final, breathless moment, every soul inside the compound understood. Arthur's reign of structure had ended. Gage's reign of fear had begun.