CHAPTER 552: ZURA’S DOOM 2

The following morning, when the pale light of yellow kissed the palace grounds, still drenched dew and blood, the palace’s council hall was already open and under heavy guard. No servants were permitted inside.

General Turik, watched as the highest nobles and ministers filed in, one by one. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the chamber, a rhythm of unease.

The great hall of the palace had never felt so heavy. The throne of King Roman stood draped in black silk, the royal banners replaced with mourning veils. The air smelled of incense, blood, and fear.

Around the long obsidian table, ministers, nobles, and generals gathered—faces pale, voices sharp and trembling.

"The royal family is gone," cried the Minister of Finance, slamming his trembling hand upon the table. "The bloodline of Roman Soderna is ended! What are we to tell the people? The kingdom will collapse before the week is out!"

"The people within the capital already know," murmured one of the generals, his tone bitter. "The bells tolled at dawn. There were riots in the southern quarter—shops were looted, and bandits attacked. Without a sovereign, the kingdom will devour itself."

"Then we must name a regent!" shouted one of the younger nobles. "Until a new monarch can be chosen!"

"Chosen?" scoffed Duke Vargas, an old and sharp-tongued counselor. "The bloodline of the Soderno has ended. Who remains to claim the throne? The cousins? The bastards hiding in monasteries? The nobles will tear each other apart before the end of the day if that is the case."

A wave of panicked murmuring filled the hall. Fingers pointed. Voices rose. Some called for vengeance against Northem. Others demanded the generals surrender power to the council.

And through it all, General Turik remained silent.

He stood near the dais, his armor still streaked with the blood of the fallen. His silence was heavier than any speech. When he finally raised his head, the hall quieted.

"Enough!" Turik said, his voice low but commanding. "Do you think the dead care for your shouting? The enemy watches while we bicker like merchants."

The old minister who had first spoken—the Minister of Finance—rose shakily. "Then what would you have us do, Supreme General? The people demand a ruler. The army demands leadership. Who will they follow?"

Turik’s gaze swept the room, calm and piercing. "They will follow strength."

He took a step toward the throne. The ministers exchanged nervous glances; a few instinctively rose to block his path, but froze as his soldiers at the hall’s edge shifted their weapons.

Turik mounted the dais. His hand rested briefly on the black silk draped over the throne.

"I have served two kings," he said, his tone solemn. "I bled beside them on the battlefield. I swore to protect Zura—its people, its honor, its name." He turned to face the council. "But the crown now lies in the dust. If none among you will bear its weight, then I must."

The hall fell silent.

One of the younger ministers stepped forward, pale and trembling. "General... this is treason."

"No," Turik said quietly. "This is survival. Besides, to whom will I commit treason? To the corpses of the royal family?

He sank onto the throne—not with triumph, but with grim purpose. The metal of his gauntlets clinked against the armrests. "From this moment forth," he declared, "Zura shall not be torn apart by fear. The assassins will be hunted. The people will be fed. The armies will march. And the crown..."—he looked up, his eyes burning with a fierce light—"...will rest on a head strong enough to protect it."

The ministers looked at him with different expressions. Some out of fear, some out of resignation. A few, out of cold calculation.

"Speak," Turik said, his voice even. "Let your doubts be heard while you still have the courage."

Duke Vargas, always the first to speak his mind, rose. "Supreme General, no one denies your valor or loyalty. But Zura has always been ruled by royal blood, not by the sword. Without royal lineage, how can you claim the crown?"

Turik regarded him for a moment, then descended the dais. The motion alone was enough to make half the council flinch.

"Blood," he said, walking slowly toward the table, "is nothing without the strength to defend it. The royal bloodline could not even protect itself from a few blades in the dark. I do not claim this throne by birthright—but by necessity."

A murmur rippled through the assembly.

Lord Duran, the oldest counselor, leaned forward on his cane. "Necessity breeds tyrants," he rasped. "You were a soldier once, Turik. Do not forget—you serve the crown, not become

it."

Turik’s eyes hardened. "There is no crown left to serve."

He motioned to Gareth, his second in command. Gareth opened the door, and soldiers stepped forward, carrying several coffins and arranging them at the end of the hall.

"This," Turik said coldly, "is what remains of your royalty."

The air grew thick. No one dared speak.

"You talk of law," Turik continued, "but law means nothing when the kingdom is in chaos. Zura needs a ruler who can command fear, not pity. Do you think Northem will wait for our mourning to end? Even now, their armies move on our borders. While we squabble over royal blood, they prepare to drink ours."

He let his words hang in the air.

One by one, eyes began to lower. Fear—cold and reasonable—was doing what persuasion could not.

Turik leaned forward, his gaze sweeping the room. "Swear your loyalty to me now, and Zura will live. Defy me, and you will have civil war before the day ends."

For a long moment, no one moved. Then Lord Duran, pale and sweating, sank to one knee.

"For the safety of the kingdom," he whispered, "I pledge my loyalty to the new king."

Others followed—hesitant at first, then quickly, one after another. The sound of voices murmuring "Long live the King" filled the chamber, uncertain and fearful.

Turik watched them bow, his face unreadable.

When all had sworn, he raised a hand for silence. "Good," he said. "Now let us act as rulers, not mourners. The assassins must be found. The people must see strength, not weakness. Issue the proclamation: General Turik is the new King of Zura."

He turned to Gareth. "Seal the city till the assassins are found. Hang the thieves. Let the streets run orderly again. No one questions this throne."

Deputy General Gareth bowed deeply. "Yes, Your Majesty."

As the nobles filed out, whispering among themselves, Turik remained on the dais.

Only when the chamber emptied did he allow the mask to slip. A broad smile appeared on his face as he fixed the crown upon his head.

That very morning, the remains of the royal family were laid to rest, and the new ruler of Zura sat on the throne, still drenched in blood.