CHAPTER 34: SHRANK TO BLUE EYES

The throne room held its breath beneath Vincenzo’s gaze, slow and deliberate, as though measuring the worth of each life before him.

Every whispered murmur, every twitch of a glove or shuffle of parchment, was amplified in the oppressive silence that wrapped the chamber. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the four alcoves where the house leaders sat—their faces betraying flickers of unease beneath.

"Lady Valeria," Vincenzo’s voice cut through the stillness—icy, absolute, brooking no argument. "Such forgery cannot thrive without hidden hands inside your ranks." His voice was hard as iron, leaving no room for doubt. "There is a traitor sheltered within your own walls. I expect the responsible found and named. Alive. Untouched. Delivered to Versimoil within one week."

Valeria’s fingers clenched the velvet folder until it creased, her breath hitching under the crushing weight of his command. Vincenzo’s gaze pressed down on her like a physical force; even the room’s grand expanse felt suffocating. She dared not meet his eyes, instead lowering them in silent submission.

Vincenzo’s voice sharpened, brooking no hesitation. "Confiscate every forged seal, every altered decree found within your borders. Send them here. All of them."

A flicker of panic swept across Valeria’s face before she bowed her head deeply. "I will see to it personally, Milord."

Vincenzo held her under a sharp and relentless gaze. "Ensure every perishable—food supplies, quality blood, medicinal herbs—is stored in the northern buffer zones, where the cold preserves their shelf life far longer than anywhere else. Any failure to maintain them will invite grave consequences."

"Lastly," he said, voice low and dangerous, "secure the supernatural stones and garnets in the remotest heights of the North. The harsh landscape and merciless weather will serve as their strongest defense."

Valeria swallowed hard, inclining her head slightly, the tremor betraying the weight of his expectations. "Your commands will be executed without fail, Milord."

Vincenzo’s sharpened gaze settled on Sire Sebastian Roderick, a man whose knowledge was tied deeply to the ancient forests of the East.

"The East’s age-old woodlands have long guarded secrets, vital to healing—herbs untouched by time, waters as clear as the mountain air, and a wild refuge held sacred," Vincenzo said, voice low but commanding. "These lands will serve best as the heart and backbone for the art of healing."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like the stillness before a storm. "Extend healing centers throughout the East, with Willowbrook as the main hub. Scholars and trainees shall be admitted from the highest skill to the lowest, trained rigorously according to their caliber—from physicians to dressers and nurses. Excellence is the only standard."

His gaze swept the chamber once more. "Versimoil will bear all costs—training, resources, supplies."

Sire Sebastian dipped his head slightly, voice measured and cautious. "Your vision honors the wisdom of the East, Milord. These ancient woods have long been a wellspring of healing knowledge—if we nurture their secrets, the future healers shall be forged in strength and skill."

He bowed deeply, showing respect. "With Versimoil’s support, all will have the opportunity to fully grasp the healing arts."

Vincenzo’s gaze locked onto Xavier, his calm voice edged with steel. "The borders are unforgiving—bitter cold in the North, scorching heat in the South, tangled wilderness in the East, and suffocating humidity in the West. Establish more military posts in each region. Recruit fighters without discrimination; train them to endure their harsh surroundings."

Xavier’s lips pressed together briefly as he absorbed the command. He knew better than to question, but the sheer scale of the task churned uneasily in his mind.

Vincenzo’s eyes cold and unblinking, voice void of emotion, "Offer generous wages and compensation to the soldiers and their families, so that more will be drawn to serve."

Vincenzo rose slowly, deliberately—his movement fluid but charged with quiet menace.

Every eye followed him instinctively, the shift in atmosphere palpable as the Lord rose, commanding attention with each deliberate step.

The rustle of silk and the soft tap of boots on marble echoed through the stillness as he stepped down from the dais, his eyes locked on the assembly but his steps aimed toward Xavier’s alcove.

Xavier straightened, a faint terrified crease forming between his brows.

A tense hush fell over the throne room. The heavy air seemed to thicken, as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for what would come next.

Vincenzo stopped just before Xavier’s feet, his gaze sharpening with calculation. "Ensure blacksmiths work without pause. Iron or magic-woven weapons—production should not falter."

Murmurs stuttered to silence. Valeria’s knuckles whitened around her folder. Sebastian’s brow furrowed, lips pressed in wary concern. Zephyr, sitting beside Xavier, stiffened visibly, his gaze flickering nervously. Every soul in the room exchanged anxious glances. Even in the upper gallery, breath seemed to stop the moment Vincenzo rose from the throne.

Then, in one fluid, practiced motion—ruthless and absolute—the Lord of Versimoil drew his sword. Its steel sang a sharp, chilling note through the still air.

Before Zephyr could even blink, the blade descended.

The sickening slice of steel meeting flesh echoed, then fell away into a haunting silence. Zephyr’s head tumbled onto the marble with a dull thud, rolling once before resting near Vincenzo’s boot.

The chamber froze—hearts pounding in suspended horror.

Valeria gasped, color draining from her face.

Sebastian staggered back a step, eyes wide with disbelief.

Xavier’s jaw parted, then clenched tightly, face a mask of cold terror.

Vincenzo stood motionless for a heartbeat, blade dripping, eyes void of mercy.

Then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, his gaze lifted, piercing through the silence to the upper right gallery where Anneliese sat, delicate and still. Her face was pale, lips parted as if trying to form words she could not say. Her eyes, wide and searching, betrayed a flicker of terror rising beneath her calm facade.

For a moment, his world shrank to those blue eyes, locked with his in a heavy exchange of unspoken tension—bridging the distance between throne and gallery.