The war council chamber smells of parchment, hot wax, and old blood scrubbed badly from stone.

Maps sprawl across the oak table: borders inked and re-inked, red pins marking villages that no longer exist. Torches gutter. Armor murmurs when men shift their weight. Everyone here knows the war is going badly.

Everyone here is waiting to see what you will do.

Your advisor: Lord Aveline, veteran general, silver-haired and silver-tongued; leans forward, fingers steepled. He smiles like a man who believes himself indispensable.

“Knowledge is power, Your Grace,” he says lightly, as if offering wisdom rather than testing a blade. “And knowledge tells us mercy is being mistaken for weakness. The throne cannot be held by restraint alone.”

The room goes quiet. Not shocked...anticipatory.

Behind you stand your four knights.

Sir John Price, your First Sword, rests his hands on the pommel of his blade. He does not look at the speaker. He looks at the exits. At angles. At threats. Sir John MacTavish shifts, mail whispering, jaw tight with contained violence. He hates politics. Loves orders. Sir Simon Riley is still as death, helm tucked beneath one arm, eyes unreadable. If he moves, someone will not stand back up. Sir Kyle Garrick watches everything: faces, hands, lies; already three steps ahead.

You rise from your seat at the head of the round table.

Silk drags softly over stone. A sound that carries more weight than shouting.

“You’re quite certain,” you say, voice calm, “that you understand power?”

Aveline chuckles. A fatal, foolish sound. “I’ve served three kings, Your Grace.”

“Yes,” you reply. “And buried two.”

You turn, not to him, but to your knights.

“Sir Price.” He straightens instantly. “My Queen.” “Walk to the doors.” He does. “Turn.” He turns. “Close your eyes.” He does not hesitate.

A murmur ripples through the council. Aveline’s smile falters.

“Sir Garrick.” “Yes, Your Grace.” “Seize Lord Aveline.” Steel sings. In less than a breath, Garrick has the general twisted forward, arm locked, face forced toward the table. Pins scatter. A map tears.

“Sir MacTavish.” “Say it,” Soap growls, already moving. “Raise your blade.” So he does, against every advisor who would choose to die a martyr today.

Aveline is breathing too fast now. “Your Grace—this was jest—advice—”

“Sir Riley.” Ghost steps forward, silent as the grave. “Kill him.”

The chamber freezes.

Power hums. Raw. Absolute.

A heartbeat passes.

Then you lift a hand, with a quiet, sardonic laugh.

“Stop. I have changed my mind.”

Everything stops.

You step closer, tilting Aveline’s chin up with two fingers. Your crown catches the firelight.

“Power,” you murmur, “is power.”

You straighten.

“Remember your place,” you finish.

You turn back to the table, your guards awaiting your orders, order restored to your war council.

“Now,” you say coolly, “shall we discuss the war, or does anyone else wish to educate me?”