Ciel: <>
Voice of the World: <<>>
******
In the Harpy Queendom of Fulbrosia, Demon Lord Frey, the queen of Fulbrosia, was flying swiftly through the spacious corridors of her palace.
Just minutes ago, she had been seated in her throne room, reviewing documents related to the administration of her nation, when one of her guards burst in and urgently informed her that the old seer had requested her presence.
Normally, anyone who dared to summon Frey would have sealed their own fate—but the old seer was an exception. This elderly Harpy had been serving Fulbrosia since before Frey was even born. She commanded great respect in Frey's heart and was known for her preference for solitude, rarely interacting with others unless something truly warranted it.
That was why, the moment Frey heard she'd been urgently summoned, a sense of unease rose within her. Now, wings beating with urgency, she was rushing toward the old seer's chamber.
A moment later, she finally arrived outside the old seer's room and entered, closing the door behind her. As for someone eavesdropping on their conversation, she wasn't afraid of that, after all, the fear of her claws was well ingrained in all of her subjects, and none of them would dare to do something like that.
Upon entering, Frey saw the old seer seated before a crystal ball, her eyes closed in concentration. "Seer Circe, you called for me?" Frey asked, halting just a few paces from the elder Harpy.
Circe slowly opened her eyes and regarded Frey for a moment before gently gesturing to the seat across from her. "Come, take a seat, my child." Frey obeyed, folding her wings neatly behind her as she sat.
"Queen Frey," Circe began solemnly, her voice soft yet heavy with a weight that seemed to chill the very air, "just moments ago, I received a vision... a great disaster looms over Fulbrosia."
Frey's eyes widened instinctively, but she quickly forced her expression into calm since she had suspected as much the moment she was summoned. "What kind of disaster, Seer Circe?"
"I fear my words cannot do justice to what I've seen," Circe sighed, placing both hands on the crystal ball. With a subtle nudge, she pushed it toward Frey. "It's best you see it for yourself." A soft glow flared to life as Circe poured her magic into the sphere. Mist swirled inside, parting to reveal flickering images
Frey's eyes widened again, and her body tensed as she stared at the vision of a massive, shark-like dragon swirling in the glass. "Is that...?" she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yes," Circe said, her tone grim. "That is Charybdis. The beast foretold in the prophecy... Fulbrosia's natural enemy. It was said that one day it would awaken and bring ruin upon our lands."
She paused, letting the weight of the words settle.
"Centuries have passed since that prophecy was uttered. Many queens have ruled without ever worrying whether it would come to pass. But fate has made its decision." She looked directly into Frey's eyes, her expression heavy with sorrow. "It is your reign that will be tested. You must stand against this threat—and find a way to preserve our kingdom and protect our people."
Frey clenched her fists, wings twitching with restrained fury. Her jaw tightened, and with a growl of frustration, she slammed her hand on the table, the sharp sound echoing off the stone walls. "Damn that fate!" Silence fell between them for a moment before Frey exhaled deeply, forcing herself to think clearly. "How much time do we have?"
Circe's gaze dropped to the glowing sphere, the shifting image of Charybdis still pulsing within. "I cannot say for certain," she replied, her voice lined with regret. "Visions are fickle, and time within them is always blurred. But judging by the strength of the omen and the signs I've seen... I believe the beast could arrive at any time within the next eight months."
"That's nowhere near enough time to prepare a proper defense," Frey muttered through gritted teeth, clicking her tongue in frustration before abruptly rising from her seat. "Very well. I'll take my leave. I need to come up with something—anything—that might help us in this situation."
"Very well. Take care, my child. May the winds guide your path," Circe said softly, watching as Frey nodded and swiftly exited the room.
******
Meanwhile, in the Kingdom of Siltrosso, Granbell Rosso stood by the tall windows of the palace's sunlit sitting room, a glass of wine in hand and a warm smile on his lips as he watched his daughter-in-law enter. One hand rested gently on her rounded belly, the other held lightly by a maid for support. She was seven months along now, her steps slow and careful, but her posture graceful despite the weight she carried.
"Genevieve," Granbell greeted her warmly, stepping forward. "How are you feeling today?"
Genevieve gave a tired chuckle, her expression touched with fondness. "Heavy and exhausted—but honestly, not too bad. It's been easier than I expected. A lot better than what some of my friends went through during their pregnancies."
"Well, I'm not surprised in the slightest," Granbell replied with a proud gleam in his eye. "My granddaughter is special. She's not like any of those other children."
Genevieve smiled, but there was a weariness in her gaze as she lowered herself into a nearby armchair with the maid's help. "Father-in-law, we still don't know if it's a girl or a boy," she reminded gently, though it was hardly the first time she'd said it. From the very beginning, Granbell had been unwavering in his certainty—and that wasn't even what concerned her most.
Granbell waved the thought away with a dismissive hand. "Of course it's a girl," he said confidently. "My beloved Maria is returning to us—reborn as my grandchild."
Genevieve's smile faltered for just a moment.
That was what truly unsettled her. It wasn't just the gender assumptions—it was the belief that the soul of his late wife, Maria, was somehow reincarnating through her unborn child. She knew Granbell was still grieving; Maria had passed years ago, and her absence had left a wound that time hadn't managed to heal. Still, there was something about the intensity of his conviction that made Genevieve uneasy. She didn't want to offend him—he had always treated her with kindness and respect—but as a mother-to-be, the thought of her child being burdened with such unrealistic, possibly unhinged expectations filled her with quiet dread.
After a moment, she offered a polite smile and began to rise, with the maid's assistance.
"Well, I think I'll lie down for a bit," she said. "I'll see you at dinner."
Granbell nodded. "Of course, my dear. Get some rest."
He watched her go in silence, the soft echo of her footsteps growing fainter with each passing second. When the sound finally vanished down the corridor, he turned back toward the window, his smile shifting into something more enigmatic.
Raising his glass of wine, he gazed out over the sprawling gardens below and murmured to himself, "You don't understand, Genevieve... You're not just carrying a child. You're carrying the future of the Rosso family."
He took a slow sip, his eyes gleaming with quiet certainty—and something else, deeper and far more unsettling, hiding just beneath the surface.
******
Night had fallen over the Kingdom of Raja, but the castle courtyard blazed with torchlight, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. A thick crowd of citizens had gathered before the grand platform erected at Queen Towa's command. The air was taut with anticipation, charged with a silent, heavy tension that clung to the skin like mist. Whispers moved like wind through the masses, hushed yet fevered, carrying questions, rumors, hopes, and fears.
Then, the great double doors of the castle creaked open, and all sound died in an instant.
Queen Towa emerged, and it was as if the very air held its breath. Draped in robes the color of the starless sky and crowned with a silver circlet that shimmered in the torchlight, she stepped forward with the composure of one who bore the weight of an entire kingdom without flinching. Her expression was unreadable—calm, regal, and commanding.
With a single, measured gesture, she stilled even the last few murmurs.
"People of Raja," Towa began, her voice ringing out clear and strong, cutting through the night like a blade through silence. "These past weeks have tested us all. You have endured fear, uncertainty, and hardship. The lake that once gave life to our lands was poisoned. Enemies beyond our borders gathered their strength, hoping to strike while we struggled, believing we were vulnerable, divided, weakened. But I stand before you tonight to tell you this: those threats no longer hang over us. As of this evening, they have been vanquished."
She let the declaration breathe before continuing.
"The lake has been purified. What was once a source of death and decay now flows clean and pure once more, thanks in no small part to the intervention of powerful new allies. And the invading army of Astoria..." She lifted her chin, voice rising. "They have been utterly, completely defeated. Their formation broken, their banners trampled, their weapons discarded. Their soldiers now kneel, disarmed and under our control."
"But I want you to understand something—and I want you to remember it well," she said, her voice now sharper, more deliberate. "This victory... this overwhelming triumph... was not won by an army of thousands. No. The Astorian forces, nearly ten thousand strong, were brought to their knees by just three warriors."
The reaction was instant and electric—shocked cries, incredulous gasps, and the buzz of voices breaking into stunned disbelief.
"Yes, you heard me correctly," Towa said, her voice unshaken, calm as still water beneath a storm. "Three warriors. And not one enemy soldier was killed. Not a single life was taken on that battlefield. Every last soldier in the Astorian army still draws breath."
"And because of that, we now hold unprecedented leverage in the days to come. The Astorian army cannot paint us as butchers. They cannot cry massacre. Their defeat was clean, undeniable and shameful enough for the world to remember."
Towa stepped forward, her silver circlet flashing in the torchlight as she delivered the final blow.
"And most importantly... we have taken their king, along with both of his crown princes, alive. They now rot in our dungeon—stripped of their titles, their pride, and their power."
The crowd erupted. This time, there was no holding back—cheers rang out from every corner, mingled with cries of disbelief and exultation, until Towa raised her hand once more. Gradually, the storm of voices quieted.
"And now," she said, her voice softer but no less commanding, "you must know the name of the one who made all of this possible—Rimuru Tempest, the King of Monsters."
Her words settled like a drumbeat in the hearts of her people. "In our darkest hour—when the lake that sustained us turned to poison and death, and the shadow of war stretched over our land—he was the one who answered our call. He sent his finest warriors to defend our people. He cleansed our waters with his own magic. He demanded no tribute, claimed no land, and asked for no oaths of submission. And in a single day, he changed the fate of our kingdom."
Towa drew in a slow, steady breath, her gaze sweeping across the silent sea of faces before her. When she spoke again, it was with the unwavering resolve of a monarch whose path had already been chosen. "That is why, as of this night, I declare that the Kingdom of Raja shall become a vassal state under the protection and guidance of the nation of Tempest."
A hush fell across the courtyard, deeper than any silence that had come before. For a moment, it was as if even the torches had stilled. Then came the murmurs—soft, uncertain, like waves lapping against a fragile shoreline. The announcement rippled through the gathered citizens, carried on breaths held too long. Fear, confusion, and disbelief began to churn beneath the surface of their composure, and Queen Towa saw it in their eyes.
Her jaw tightened, and her voice rose again, not with anger but with fierce conviction, as if daring the shadows of doubt to linger. "I see your hesitation. I hear the questions you do not yet speak aloud. And I do not fault you for them. But I ask you—when our lake turned against us, where were our neighbors? When disease swept through our streets, when foreign armies closed in, which of the so-called great nations reached out their hands in aid?" She paused, letting the silence answer for her. "None of them. Not a single one."
She stepped forward, the firelight dancing along the polished silver of her circlet, illuminating the strain etched into her features. "I have never ruled you from a throne of comfort. I have walked beside you through drought and famine, stood beside you in mourning and in celebration. I have shed my blood and burned the midnight oil in service of this kingdom. And yet, it was Rimuru Tempest who gave us back what we feared we had lost forever. He restored what we thought beyond saving. And all he asked in return... was trust."
A subtle shift moved through the crowd—uneasy expressions gave way to thoughtful silence, and a few heads bowed, as if ashamed to have doubted.
Towa's voice softened, but her resolve remained ironclad. "If there are still those among you who fear this path, then I urge you to go to Tempest. See it with your own eyes. Walk their streets, see their people, their technology, their unity. What you will find there is not a kingdom of monsters, but a nation of individuals who live free, thrive together, and are led by someone who values life."
She scanned their faces one last time, no longer the queen demanding allegiance but the guardian of her people's future, asking for trust one final time. "I am not asking for blind faith. I am asking you to believe in me, as you always have. I have never steered you toward ruin, and I do not intend to start now. This decision marks the beginning of a new era for Raja. No longer will we stand alone. No longer will we live in fear of being abandoned or overrun. With Tempest beside us, we step into a future where we can stand tall and never alone again."
Her hand slowly lowered, and the finality of her words lingered in the air like the last echo of a bell. There was no instant eruption of noise. Instead, a solemn stillness settled over the courtyard, heavy but no longer filled with doubt. It was the silence of thought, of hearts weighing fear against hope, and choosing the latter.
Then, from the front of the crowd, a pair of hands began to clap. Others followed. One by one, applause spread—not wild or raucous, but steady, deliberate. It carried the sound of a people not blindly cheering, but accepting. Not euphoric, but resolved. Their hearts had not caught up with their minds, but they were willing to try. And for Queen Towa, that was all she needed.
As the applause slowly faded into a steady murmur, Queen Towa stepped forward once more. "Before you return to your homes with lightened hearts and renewed hope," she began, her words thick with gravity, "there is one final truth you must hear. A truth I wish I did not have to speak. Because not all the threats we faced came from beyond our borders."
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Where moments before the crowd had basked in awe and relief, now a cold stillness spread among them, stiff with dread and growing apprehension.
"Earlier today," Towa continued, her tone steady but edged with something darker—steel wrapped in sorrow, "I was betrayed. Not by a foreign king, nor by an enemy army lurking beyond our lands. No. This betrayal came from within our own walls. From our court. From someone I trusted—not just with state secrets, but with the safety of our people... and with my life."
"Lucius Spellweaver," Towa said at last, and though her voice remained level, a deep fury pulsed beneath each syllable, "the very man who served as our Court Magician. The one entrusted with our kingdom's magical defenses, who stood beside me at the council for the last six months. He used that trust to mask his deceit. With forbidden spells and vile ambition, he tried to seize my mind, my will, my soul. He sought to bind me with magic, to make me his puppet, and rule this kingdom from the shadows... through me."
The disgust in her voice was unmistakable, and it struck the crowd like a slap as they all wore visible expressions of barely restrained outrage.
But Towa's tone changed again—softer now, but not weakened. Her gaze turned tender, a glimmer of gratitude lighting her eyes. "But I was not alone. I was saved—not by chance, nor by divine intervention, but by one of Rimuru Tempest's kin. His sister... Framea, the rabbitfolk whom I now proudly call my dear friend."
A quiet murmur passed through the crowd at the mention of the name, though no one dared to speak too loudly.
"She uncovered Lucius's betrayal and intervened without hesitation," Towa said, her voice thick with quiet reverence. "She stood between me and the spell that would have stolen my mind. She risked everything to stop him. And had she been even a heartbeat later... I would not be standing before you now." She paused just long enough to let that truth settle in. "For her courage, for her loyalty, and for the life she saved... I am eternally grateful."
Towa's gaze swept slowly over her people, lingering not with triumph, but with the weight of solemn duty. Her expression, carved from stone and shadow, held no warmth as she extended a single hand toward the rear of the platform. At her silent command, a deep, metallic creak echoed through the courtyard, and the great red curtain, drawn tight since the beginning of her speech, began to part.
Gasps erupted across the courtyard as the crowd laid eyes on what stood behind it.
Three men knelt at the center of the raised platform, their heads bowed, hands bound tightly behind their backs. Flanking them on each side were armed soldiers in dark armor, swords bared and gleaming coldly in the torchlight.
A wave of uneasy murmurs spread through the gathered citizens. Whatever celebration or relief they had felt moments before now curdled into dread.
Towa turned to face the prisoners. She stepped aside, granting her people an unobstructed view of what judgment looked like. Then, in a voice low and clear as thunderclouds, she began.
"I take no pleasure in what you see before you now," she said, each word deliberate and heavy. "Public execution has never been a spectacle I wished to bring to our square. It is not our custom. Not our way. And yet... tonight, you will witness one."
She let her words hang, watching the shift of discomfort and confusion in the crowd before she continued. "Two of the men before you are traitors. Trusted leaders who stood by my side as stewards of our kingdom... and yet they chose silence and treachery over duty."
She turned her eyes to the first man, a broad-shouldered figure with graying hair and a jaw clenched in defiance. "Theron Shadowbane. General of our Royal Army. The man I entrusted with our borders, with the lives of our soldiers. And beside him... Jareth Ledgerleaf, our Minister of Finance, keeper of the kingdom's purse, voice of reason in our council chambers."
Towa's voice sharpened, now laced with cold fury. "They knew. Both of them. They knew of Lucius's treachery. They stood idle as he plotted to enslave my mind and seize the throne through deceit. They saw what was coming—and they said nothing. They chose cowardice over courage. Silence over justice. Their loyalty was to their own power, not to you."
The murmurs among the crowd surged into open outrage. Shouts rang out—angry, confused, betrayed. Some wept, others cursed. And in their eyes, the last vestiges of respect for the two men burned away like parchment in flame.
"They chose cowardice. They chose ambition. And in doing so, they betrayed all of you. They were willing to let your queen become a puppet so long as their power remained intact." Her gaze hardened. "But Raja is not a kingdom ruled by shadows. Not while I wear the crown."
She turned and gave a single nod.
In one smooth, silent motion, the soldiers raised their blades and brought them down. The steel sliced through the air with a sound that seemed to cut the very breath from the lungs of the crowd.
The heads of Theron and Jareth hit the platform with dull, lifeless thuds and rolled a short distance before settling, eyes forever shut to the justice they had been denied to others.
The crowd recoiled, a wave of gasps and stunned silence crashing outward. Shock anchored them in place—no screams, no cheers. Only the cold, oppressive reality of what justice looked like when it arrived too late.
Towa turned at last to the final prisoner.
King Astoria, stripped of his robes and crowned arrogance, knelt in the rags of a common criminal. The pride that once adorned his every word had curdled into a mask of fury and disbelief. His jaw trembled, but his eyes still burned with the desperation of a man who refused to accept his fate.
"You dare," he spat, his voice thick with venom. "You dare to lay a hand on me? I am a crowned king! You think you can execute royalty without consequence? My people will come for you in fire and steel. Your lands will bleed for this!"
But Towa's expression did not change. Her steps were measured as she approached him, slow and steady, her presence alone enough to silence the ripple of anxiety passing through the crowd. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but it rang across the square like the tolling of a bell.
"You already tried to make us bleed. You poisoned our lake. You marched your armies to our gates. You threatened the lives of my people. And when we stood against you... you were found wanting."
Astoria tried to rise, but the soldier behind him drove him back to his knees. He snarled, struggling, but his strength had long since been spent.
Towa raised her eyes, not to him, but to the crowd—to the people she served.
"To any who would dare strike at Raja in our darkest hour. To any who believe we are weak, divided, or alone... let this serve as your warning."
She raised her hand high.
The blade fell.
King Astoria's head joined those of his co-conspirators, landing with a final, echoing thud. Blood pooled and trickled across the platform, soaking into the wood like ink on ancient parchment.
Silence consumed the courtyard. No cheers followed, no cries of elation. Only stunned stillness.
Towa turned once more to face her people. Her shoulders remained square, but her voice, when she spoke again, was softer, heavy not with regret, but with the weariness of a queen who had done what must be done.
"I am sorry you had to see this. I know what this night will cost us—not just in blood, but in spirit. This is not the legacy I wished to write with my reign. But it is the burden of leadership. The burden of protection."
She paused, her eyes scanning the silent sea of faces.
"This is how we guard the future of our children. This is how we show the world that the crown of Raja is not a brittle trinket, not a token to be bartered, stolen, or broken."
Her final words rang out like iron across stone.
"We are not prey. We are not victims. We are a kingdom that stands unbroken. And whether the threat comes from beyond our borders... or from within our walls... we will meet it without fear. With fire and with sword."
There was a brief, breathless pause—then the courtyard exploded with sound. Cheers rang out like thunder, echoing off the stone walls as the crowd erupted in celebration, chanting Queen Towa's name with a fervor that reached toward the heavens.
High above it all, on the palace's grandest balcony, Rimuru stood with arms crossed and a knowing grin on his face. Watching the sea of people below, he murmured to himself, "And with that, the Kingdom of Raja becomes part of the Tempest Empire... the first of many still to come."
To be continued...