The past was not spoken to fill silence. It was spoken because without it, no man in the court could understand the weight of the present.The names of lands, the rise of kingdoms, the Devotass line, the rivalries of Soilía and Noiodd—these were not just old stories. They were the soil beneath every decision taken inside the Courtesy and when the last thread of history was laid bare, silence returned. All eyes turned back to the present—back to the throne, back to the blood on the floor, back to the heads that still seemed to breathe fear.The Courtesy waited. What had begun as history was about to turn into judgment a siken`s pupil that carried thousands of curiosity
He stepped into the hall, and the place seemed to shrink around him. His skin carried the shade of fields left long in the sun, his beard rough as if carved by stone. His face showed nothing—like a mask chiseled clean of feeling.His armor was a walking massacre—blackened steel carved with the fury of a thousand battles, each plate soaked in the memory of bloodshed. Every plate was dark and scarred, pulsing with crimson gems like fresh wounds, embedded in the chest like trophies ripped from the hearts of the fallen. Fur-lined shoulders flared out like the mane of a beast mid-slaughter, still reeking of smoke and death. A leather strap cut across his chest, ending at a wide belt where a beast's face snarled in metal, its stone eyes burning faintly red.His gauntlets weren't gloves—they were cages for wrath, spiked and ready to crush skulls with a single swing. From his waist hung scales of iron, heavy as a fallen chain, a strip of crimson cloth swaying like a slow drop of blood. Every inch of his gear whispered violence, every step screamed you're already dead.By his side rested a sword, black and corroded, no shine left in it. It was not a blade for pride, only for ending. Short, plain, and cold—half his size, yet heavier than silence itself.But it was his eyes that truly killed. Hollow, like windows to an abandoned house—no fire, no warmth, just emptiness. He looked less like a man and more like a shadow wearing flesh, still moving while the spirit inside had already turned to dust. A war god in ruin, animated not by life but by the echo of vengeance. His presence didn't just promise death—it mourned it.
The chamber lay heavy with silence, until Benzil's sharp voice cut through the Courtesy like a blade.
"Is that one head of Oren Madello?" he demanded, the question bursting forth with cold, calculative tranquility.
All eyes turned. The man who bore the severed heads was Morass—a young warrior, but pupil of none other than Siken Dunkworlith himself.
Exxar, the Head Minister, leaned forward, his tone measured.
"Speak plain. Tell us the facts. Do not lead us to the side of mere surprise."
Siken Dunkworlith stepped forth, bowing his head before answering.
"Yes, Head Minister, sire. That is the monster's head—the very intellect that doomed the kingdom of Pasrel for decades. And this man, the one before me, no older than five-and-twenty, has played his part as a true Espoirer should."
Exxar's brow furrowed.
"Very well. Yet, dormant Morass—hast thou any proof of thy claim, of thy eligibility? For how shall we old men bend to your tale, without a weight more solid than Siken's words?"
Siken drew breath to answer, but Benzil burst forth again, cutting across him with fire in his tone.
"Proof? Let the whelp speak! Is the Espoirer becoming you, Siken—or him? By the gods, even his name mocks him. Morass? A more-ass! And yet here we sit, spoon-feeding green fledglings while the Courtesy decays!"
He muttered lower, yet still sharp enough to be heard:
"Why is this fool even here? The name fits—the more ass among us."
The King's voice rose then, iron and final.
"Enough, Benzil. Enough, Siken. Let the child speak as a man."
Benzil bowed stiffly, returning to his place, though his scorn did not fade from his eyes.
Morass at last spoke, his words few and bare.
"I am Morass. I slew Oren… with his own pupil beside him. And here is proof."
He moved slowly, drawing forth from his waist a blade no longer than half a man's height. Blackened, corroded, heavy with age and blood, the sword clattered as he laid it upon the stones.
The King rose to his feet, astonished.
"By all heavens… we thought it lost. Stolen, perhaps, or carried away into the soil of Soilia by Estin Tuc."
Freyal Wuin, minister of affairs, spoke humbly.
"My liege, was that sword meant as treasure? What is its true worth?"
Exxar's eyes narrowed. "Is it so…?"
The King, Ozzess Devotas, answered with grave weight.
"Aye—it is Vartan. One of two swords, passed down only to Espoirers. Lost in betrayal, when a faithless Espoirer turned against us. I, and Exxar, and others beside, thought it stolen."
Exxar gave a heavy nod.
"Yes. The second blade was borne by Master Vesil Putch, but in his deadly duel with the traitor Estin Tuc, he fell. Estin took that sword. Thus we were left Vartan-less… until this day. Now, once more, a Vartan stands before us."
Quins Ray spoke humbly toward Exxar.
"Why then is the front edge corroded, and the grip darkened, as though soaked in draught-blood?"
Exxar gave a grim smile.
"Likely because the blade slew an Espoirer himself. His blood corrupted it. And as for the rest—vengeful blood of our soldiers, perhaps, etched deep into the steel. A cursed relic, aye, but proof nonetheless."
Still Benzil's voice pressed, dense and sharp, turning again upon Siken.
"And how do we know this is near Oren? Or that Oren himself did not steal it, and the boy simply picked the bones?"
Siken did not flinch. His hand drew forth a parchment.
"Then here, my lords—written plots, his very schemes, laid by Oren's hand. If this does not prove it, nothing shall."
Benzil seized the writing, his eyes scanning with a scowl.
Siken's tone grew cutting, a lash across his rival.
"See it, Benzil. Read it. Or hold your tongue. The King shall judge. And I say—Morass has earned his place. Make him Espoirer."
The chamber fell into silence once more, all eyes fixed upon the youth who stood hollow and steady, the corroded Vartan at his side—the blade and the head his only testament.
"Who's the other head?" Freyl Wiun asked, leaning forward. His eyes burned with curiosity. "I know one was Oren's head — but the second? Any name?"
Siken Dunkworlith let out a weak laugh, the kind that trembles before breaking. "Ahh… haha… just a pupil, and how we—"
Morass's voice crushed his words. Cold. Flat. Final.
"It's all right, master. I will tell them."
The question cut through the hall like a blade.
Siken tried again, almost pleading. "But Morass—"
"Yes."
"…Fine."
Morass stepped forward. His boots echoed like hammers against the floor.
"This," he said, "is the head of Tenser Duix. We confirmed the identity."
The name hit like iron against stone.
The hall froze. Faces drained. Even the torches seemed to gutter, smoke coiling heavy. The carved walls looked as though they held their breath.
Then Benzil erupted.
He shot to his feet, voice raw, shaking with fury and grief.
"Serious? I'm the one your people mock — the jerk, the hypocrite who speaks truths no one likes. But this—this shameless, hollow man before us—he butchered his own friend! No flinch. No grief. No fucking heartbeat! A filthy bastard, killing with hands that once swore loyalty!"
His finger stabbed toward Morass like a blade.
"He is cold as stone."
Exxar's voice snapped, a commander's bark. "Benzil — temper your words. Caution."
Benzil spat, eyes blazing. "Not now. Not today. He stands here a goon of decades. And you praise him? Why not bind him in chains? Why not make him rot in prison? Tell me—what of Presel Duix? What of a father who learns his son was slain by his son's childhood friend?"
His voice cracked. His breath faltered. Freyl moved, steadying him into his seat. The court murmured like a storm at sea.
Then the king moved.
King Ozzes Devotass leaned forward. His voice was stone, unshaken.
"Benzil, I hear your view. But in my court you will not spit insults on the new Espoirer. One more word of filth, and you lose your title. Kyuon Desil will rule in your place for two years."
The sentence struck like thunder. Even Exxar's face shifted. He dared a protest. "My lord, he was only—"
The king's eyes burned him silent.
Benzil's lips quivered, caught between rage and fear. "My lord—I do not betray Pasrel. But this man—this traitor—killed Tenser Duix! Why name him Espoirer?"
The king's voice rose, cutting.
"How dare you utter betrayal to Pasrel? Does your tongue not choke before such words? Do you forget you are one of the eight ministers?"
Benzil stammered, shrinking. "But sire, this son of Ra—"
"Enough!" The king stood, his cloak spilling like blood behind him. His eyes swept the chamber, hunting.
"Am I the king?"
Silence fell. Heads bowed like wheat before the scythe. All but Morass — still, calculating — and Benzil, who stood frozen, breathless, lifeless, his soul retreating from his body.
"Am I meant to create justice? Am I meant to answer you?" The king's voice carved the air.
The crowd bent deeper.
"Am I the ruler?" The king's roar rattled the hall.
Benzil sagged. His mouth trembled. "My lord… I—"
The king's stare shattered him. He forced out words, his voice breaking.
"Yes. No doubt. No doubt, my lord."
"Am I the true ruler?"
"Yes… yes… yes!" Benzil shook, all bravado gone.
"Then—terminate U."
The word was law. Cold. Absolute.
Exxar opened his mouth. "King—"
A glare cut him down to silence.
Guards advanced.
Benzil roared, thrashing. "Fine! If there is no faith in men or kingdom, I spit on this post! Bury your kingdom with your crown! You spit on the legacy of Pasrel and Devotass—thinking to solve rot by sitting high on that throne. A filthy throne. Clumsy! Weak! Ozzes… Ozzes! Burn in hell, King Ozzes!"
His scream echoed like a curse.
The king's hand moved to his astral blade — the Sword of Devotass — glowing with death. He raised it—
Steel clashed. Sparks spat. Siken's sword blocked the king's strike.
"My liege," Siken breathed, straining. "You must not soil your hands. Let blades like ours settle this man."
Exxar rushed forward. "My king—don't! His blood is not worth yours."
Freyl added, desperate, "Your throne need not drown in his filth. Let the guard end him."
The king froze, breath harsh, blade trembling. Slowly, he lowered it. But Benzil's words about the throne gnawed. His blood boiled. He turned, cloak whipping.
His voice rang like iron:
"By right of Devotass, descendant of Grgor Devotass, I sentenced him to order of engravement . A slayer of benzil will get 2000 ryuils from treasury, guards, let p. duix in, a minister of welfare to settle this. Kyuon Desil takes his seat for two years. Guards—remove him. order shall pass after end of courtesy, Let him go ,hide and breathe heaven until death claims him."
The judgment fell like stone.
Guards seized Benzil. He struggled, snarling, spitting words like poison. "Honor! Truth! You blind bastards!" He cursed them, cursed the hall, cursed the crown, dragged backward, thrashing.
At the doors, he wrenched one last breath and spat fire:
"You think I hunger? That I bend? Your father — Grgor Devotass — chose me! I was his dog! Kill me if you must, Ozzes… but know this: my pride walks from this hall alive, while yours rots beneath your crown!"
The doors slammed shut. His voice was cut.
Silence crushed the hall.
Morass stood still, his corroded black blade leaning against him. His face was empty. Siken's jaw clenched. Freyl's hand shook. Exxar's eyes burned dark, already measuring the cost.
The king sat rigid, jaw stone, eyes shadow.
The hall held its breath. The court had seen a verdict. But the true judgment still hovered, sharp and waiting:
What would the realm say of a boy who stood with two heads at his feet… and a black Vartan at his side?
The great doors groaned open. A tall man entered, his cloak black, his steps heavy like drums. His hood hid his face, but everyone knew him. P. Duix. Minister of Welfare. No herald called his name. No guard walked beside him. He came alone, like a shadow out of the grave. The king's hand rested on his sword, but he did not draw it. All eyes followed as P. Duix stopped in the hall. He did not bow. He only looked at the bundle—the two severed heads lying in blood. The torches dimmed. Silence crushed the chamber. At last, he spoke, his voice deep and slow. "Whose head lies there?" No one dared answer. The doors slammed shut behind him. The chapter ended.