The Dirrium kingdom act 3
The golden gates of the Royal Palace groaned open, not for a returning general, but for a carriage that bore no royal crest—only the sleek, obsidian seal of the Southern Trade Conglomerate.
Outside the throne room, the grand hall was a hive of panicked silk and trembling lace. High-ranking nobles huddled in tight circles, their voices a frantic hiss.
"The grain wagons were destroyed within sight of the city walls!" one Count whispered, his face ashen. "If the Southerner pulls his funding now, the winter riots will tear this palace stone from stone."
"And the King?" another replied. "He has been in the war room for three hours. He looks like he's ready to execute the entire City Guard."
The heavy double doors at the end of the hall swung wide. The nobles fell silent, expecting a diplomat in heavy velvet or a nervous scholar.
Instead, Leornars walked in.
He had shed the Academy blazer. He looked disturbingly casual, as if he were walking across a private dock rather than a royal floor. He wore blue jean pants and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a black bracelet on his pale wrist. A single red earring caught the torchlight, mimicking the predatory glow of his crimson eyes.
As he moved, his white hair shifted in a slow, phantom breeze. Behind him, Stacian walked with lethal grace, dressed in a yellow sundress and a straw hat, her black heels clicking with the rhythmic precision of a ticking clock.
"He's wearing... slippers?" a Duchess gasped, staring at his blue footwear.
"He isn't dressed for a meeting," a Marquis whispered. "He's dressed for a stroll in a garden he already owns."
The Throne Room
King Jilim Hilin Kutomia sat on a throne of jagged iron. He was a mountain of a man, his skin mapped with scars from a dozen border wars. His presence usually suffocated the room, but as Leornars entered, the King felt the atmospheric pressure shift.
"Lord Leornars," Jilim's voice was a low growl, like grinding stones. "You walk into my hall dressed for the beach while my capital is in a frenzy over your destroyed cargo. Do you not value your life or your property?"
Leornars stopped ten paces from the throne. He didn't bow. He didn't blink.
"Logic, King Jilim," Leornars said, his voice a cool breeze in the heated room. "If I were worried, I would be wearing armor. If I were angry, I would have sent my fleet. I am dressed like this because I am relaxed. My property is insured. My life is protected by the fact that if my heart stops, your kingdom's economy collapses six seconds later."
Jilim's grip tightened on the armrest of his throne. "The 'attack' on the wagons is a stain on my honor. I will find these terrorists."
"Don't bother. You can't afford the manhunt," Leornars replied, waving a hand dismissively. "Let us speak of the 'Emergency Stabilization Loan.' Your treasury is empty. The destroyed grain was your last hope for a peaceful winter. I will replace the grain—quadruple the amount—and I will provide a liquid loan of two billion gold coins."
The King leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "At what interest?"
"0.5%," Leornars said.
The room went deathly silent. That wasn't an interest rate; it was a gift. Jilim looked suspicious. "What is the catch, boy?"
"No catch. Just a clause," Leornars smiled, though the expression didn't reach his glowing eyes. "I want the 'Administrative Rights' to the Royal Library and the National Archives for the duration of the loan. I want my researchers to have unfettered access to your history. Information is the only currency I value more than gold."
Jilim looked at his ministers. They nodded frantically. It was a steal. "Agreed. My scribes will prepare the parchment."
"My people are already there," Leornars said.
The Royal Library: Deep Shadows
While the King was signing the loan documents, a shadow detached itself from the ceiling of the restricted Royal Archive.
An Undead Servant, its form blurred by a high-level "Void Veil," stood before the shelf containing the Notes of the Kutomia Bloodline—the private journals passed from King to King.
The creature didn't use hands. It used a pulse of necromantic energy to "scan" the pages. At the Palace residence, a magical printer began to hum, spitting out perfect copies of the King's darkest secrets, his tactical failures, and the hidden locations of the Dirrium treasure vaults.
Leornars watched Jilim press his signet ring into the wax.
"You think you've won a reprieve, Jilim," Leornars said, turning to leave. "You think you've outsmarted the 'Southern Merchant' by taking a low-interest loan."
Stacian adjusted her straw hat, her cyan eyes gleaming with a sharp, cruel mirth. "Our Lord doesn't give gifts, King Jilim. He buys futures."
"In three months," Leornars added over his shoulder, "you'll realize that this loan didn't save your kingdom. It just changed the name of the landlord. Stacian, let's go. I want to see if the library's 'notes' are as incriminating as I calculated."
As they walked out, Leornars tapped his black bracelet. A holographic interface flickered for a second, showing the progress of the library scan: 98% Complete.
"Logic dictates," Leornars whispered as they reached the carriage, "that a King who sells his history has no future. Act 3 is officially underway."