Previously-
The crowd fell into stunned silence for a moment, the weight of Henry's words hanging in the air like a thick fog. Then, murmurs broke out—hesitant, unsure, questioning.
Henry, reading their confused expressions, spoke again, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd like a blade. "What I mean," he said slowly, his tone heavy with gravity, "is that Duskrane has dealt with the Church's attack successfully."
The crowd sighed with relief. Henry turned on his heel, his steps towards the cardinal.
"Let's begin the questioning, shall we?" A grin stretched across Henry's face.
**************
The grin Henry wore wasn't of joy, it was of a predator savouring his prey. He strode towards Cardinal Anselm and grabbed him by the few remaining hair on head.
"Let's get started, Cardinal?"
He yanked the Cardinal towards a wooden chair.
"Hmm… So Cardinal Anselm, first question." Henry circled him, like a vulture circling prey.
"Did you order the templars to attack the Duskrane County?" Henry's voice echoed throughout the court.
Anselm looked at Henry, then at his knees. His hands trembled as his teeth dug into his lower lip, the taste of copper seeped into his mouth.
"Duskrane, how –" his lips parted in protest.
But before he could finish, Henry interjected him,
"Just answer the d@mn question!"
The Cardinal went silent. He looked at the crowd before him, but where once there would have been reverence, now he saw only disapproval. Noble lords and ladies leaned forward in their seats, expressions twisted in suspicion, some in outright disgust. Even the clergy seated among them shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to meet his gaze.
"You see it, don't you?" Henry's voice rang in his ear, cold and cutting. "They don't revere you anymore."
Anselm kept quiet for a few moments, his breath shallow. The weight of hundreds of eyes pressed down on him like an executioner's blade.
"Yes…" he finally muttered, voice brittle. "Y-Yes, it was me who ordered the assault on Duskrane County."
The chamber erupted—not in cheers or fury, but a stunned, horrified silence. Even the soft clink of armour and shifting robes halted.
Anselm glanced at Thaddeus, his gaze sharp now, like a drowning man reaching for anything that floats. His voice steadied, if only just.
"But—what I did may be wrong…" he said, pausing to look across the sea of watching eyes. Then, louder: "But I had the consent of the emperor."
A shocked gasp swept through the chamber like a sudden gust of wind.
Thaddeus jolted upright, his face turning ashen. "You lie!" he barked, rising from his throne. "I gave no such order!"
Anselm's lips curled into something between a sneer and a plea. "Your Majesty… shall I produce the sealed missive? The one bearing your signet?" He looked at the crowd, then back at the emperor. "You told me to do what must be done, no matter how ugly it looked. And I obeyed."
The court exploded into chaos. Nobles shouted over each other. Some demanded the letter, others demanded Anselm's execution on the spot. A few stared up at Thaddeus with horror.
"You… you twist my words!" Thaddeus said, pointing a trembling hand. "That letter was vague counsel—nothing more!"
Henry didn't speak at first. He simply watched, arms folded, as the emperor floundered and the court turned to madness.
Then, quietly—but with deadly precision—he spoke:
"Your Majesty… is it true? Did you, in some way, authorize this purge?"
The chamber fell deathly silent again.
Thaddeus opened his mouth. Closed it.
A moment of silence stretched into agony.
"I… I trusted the Church to interpret my will with wisdom," he finally said. "I did not expect bloodshed."
Henry stepped forward, voice like steel. "Then you are either a coward who signs death warrants with a blindfold… or a liar who now seeks to hide behind your robes and crown."
"Enough!" Thaddeus roared—but his voice lacked the conviction to carry weight.
Henry turned to the crowd. "You've heard it from both mouths now. One sent the sword, the other looked away."
His eyes scanned the nobles, the lords, the generals.
"Who here still believes the emperor's hands are clean?"
No one raised a hand.
No one spoke.
CLAP! CLAP!
Henry clapped his hands together, sharp and deliberate—like a magician concluding a damning performance. The sound echoed in the silent chamber, snapping the nobles from their stunned stupor.
He turned to Thaddeus, who sat slumped on his throne, head bowed in shame, his crown heavy with guilt.
"Folks," Henry said, his tone suddenly more casual, almost conversational. "As some of you may know… Emperor Thaddeus is my brother-in-law."
A ripple spread through the crowd. Gasps rose, some hushed murmurs of confirmation. Others exchanged knowing glances—the family ties were no secret, but they had rarely been mentioned in public court.
Henry's smile was thin, humorless. "Yes. I married his sister. The finest woman I've ever known. Stronger than him. Smarter, too." His gaze lingered on the emperor. "And he—this emperor of ours—somehow saw fit to put her in harm's way."
The words landed like hammer blows.
He stepped forward, voice sharpening. "By allowing the Ashen Church to unleash their Divine Order on Duskrane, Thaddeus not only endangered an entire county, but his own blood. My wife—his sister—was there. She could've been killed by the very knights he chose to empower."
Thaddeus didn't raise his head.
Henry scoffed. "Do you understand, Your Majesty, what kind of man you have to be to sacrifice your own family for convenience? For cowardice?"
No answer.
He turned to Anselm,
Henry's eyes narrowed. "Speak plainly, Cardinal. The people deserve the truth."
Anselm's throat bobbed as he swallowed again. His fingers twitched at the edge of his robe.
"I-I was told that we…" he began, but the words dissolved into silence.
The chamber seemed to close in on him. A thousand eyes pierced through the layers of his robes, stripping away the sanctity he once carried.
'I can't tell them about the relics… If I speak of… of what we found… the panic would spread like wildfire. But if I lie… the chains would crush my heart.
His gaze flicked across the nobles, the generals, the clerics. Then it halted—just for a moment—on a shadowy figure near the back of the chamber. Cloaked, nondescript, but staring directly at him.
Anselm froze.
The figure gave no signal. No gesture. But its presence alone made the Cardinal's blood run cold.
He looked away quickly, breath quickening.
"I was told," Anselm said finally, voice brittle, "that Duskrane posed a threat to the spiritual unity of the Empire. That heresy and defiance brewed there—Aaah!"
Anselm's eyes went wide with horror. He clutched his chest, stumbling forward.
Golden light flashed from above—pure, radiant, and terrible. A single chain, forged of shimmering celestial links, spiraled down from the heavens. It coiled around his torso like a serpent and clenched.
Anselm screamed. The chain pulsed with holy fire, tightening around his heart. Blood gushed from his mouth, his nose, his eyes. His legs kicked once—twice—then stilled.
Crack.
A final, sickening sound echoed through the throne room as his ribs gave way beneath divine pressure. The chain shattered into golden dust and scattered on the wind.
Silence.
No one dared move. Even the emperor looked frozen in time, a trembling breath caught in his throat.
Henry stepped forward slowly, staring at the scorched imprint left on Anselm's chest—a divine seal in the shape of a broken eye.
He exhaled through his nose. "He swore in his God's name… and broke the oath. The chain of judgment does not lie."
A murmur spread like wildfire.
"They bound him with divine law…"
"He tried to twist the truth."
"And it killed him…"
Henry looked at the stunned crowd, his voice heavy.
"Let this be known: the Ashen Church wields more than influence—they wield divine weapons of silence." He let the words hang before adding, "Ask yourselves—how many others have died like this, far from the eyes of the Empire?"
He turned to the emperor. "Your Highness, I ask again: How much did you truly know? And how long do you plan to hide behind your crown?"
Thaddeus stiffened, his eyes still fixed on the wooden floor beneath his throne. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a slow breath, he lifted his head to meet Henry's gaze.
His voice, when it came, was quieter than expected—measured, but tired. "Count Henry Duskrane… I will ensure you are compensated. For the lives lost. For the injustice done."
He hesitated, then added, almost to himself, "But I swear it—I never believed the Church would go so far."
Henry's jaw clenched.
"Compensation?" he echoed, the word bitter on his tongue. "You speak of coin, as if silver could mend the betrayal you gave my wife."
He took a step forward. The guards at the edge of the dais shifted, but Thaddeus raised a hand to stop them.
Henry's voice dropped, but it carried. "My county was assaulted, Your Highness. They burned while you sat in this palace, blinded by incense and sermons."
Thaddeus said nothing. His face was pale, but his gaze remained steady.
Henry exhaled, the fire in him cooling to something colder. "I don't need coin. I need truth. I need reform. And I need your word that the Church's leash around this Empire will be cut."
He looked once more at the corpse of the cardinal, still lying where the divine chain had ended him.
"Because if it isn't," Henry said, turning back toward the watching nobles, "I swear on my family's name—Duskrane will not tolerate next time."
"Okay…" a mutter escaped Thaddeus' lips.
The court was dismissed in haste after the death of the cardinal. The emperor, pale and shaken, ordered trusted nobles and retainers into his private chamber—Henry, Alexander, Caelum, Richard, and Arnold at his side.
The room was quiet, candlelit, and heavy with unsaid things.
Then, in an act no one expected, Emperor Thaddeus stepped forward and dropped to his knees before Henry.
"I have failed you… failed this empire," he said softly, head bowed. "I was blind. I let others rule through me. For my cowardice… Count Henry, I beg your forgiveness."
The silence that followed was cold and stunned.
But before Thaddeus could bow his head again, Henry stepped forward and caught him by the shoulders.
"No," he said, voice low. "Not me."
He lifted the emperor to his feet, his eyes dark with something unreadable. "Someone else will pass judgment on you."
The room stirred with confusion.
And then—it came. A faint, humming sound like glass under strain. A thin crack shimmered into being in the air itself, warping the candlelight around it. The rift split open.
From the swirling fracture stepped a boy with silver hair and calm, strange eyes—Vincent.
Behind him, radiant even in the dim chamber, walked a woman draped in a crimson dress. Her golden hair was pinned into a graceful bun, her eyes a deep, regal violet. She stepped through the rift as though she had always belonged beyond it.
"Orianne…" Henry whispered.
Her gaze found him instantly. Her steps faltered—and then, without restraint, she rushed forward, throwing her arms around him.
"You idiot," she said, her voice trembling as she held him close. A soft smack landed on his shoulder. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?"
Henry said nothing at first, only held her tighter.
Thaddeus moved next, slowly, hesitantly. "Orianne…" he said, voice breaking. "Sister. Please, I—"
Crack!
Her palm struck him clean across the cheek, the sound echoing louder than expected.
"You let them hunt my son. You sent fire down on my husband's land. Don't call me sister."
Thaddeus recoiled, stunned.
Richard, loyal to a fault and never one to tolerate an insult to the emperor, stepped forward with fury flashing in his eyes. "You dare—!"
Before his blade could even rise, the room shook.
A suffocating pressure slammed down. Richard's knees buckled—then his whole body hit the floor. Stone cracked beneath him, veins in his arms bulged unnaturally as though even his blood struggled to move. His breath hitched. He gasped, helpless.
The pressure didn't come from magic. It came from something deeper. Older.
Henry's glare alone pinned him like a curse.
"Gaze upon her like that again," he said, his voice like cold steel, "and you won't live long enough to regret it."
No one spoke. Even the air seemed afraid to move.