Chapter 371: A Tense Dismissal

The moment Yerel finally shut his mouth, the atmosphere in the Grand Banquet Hall instantly transformed into that awful, suffocating awkwardness you get when someone drops a glass in a crowded restaurant and nobody knows where to look.

Standing beside Zarius, Cherion kept his posture straight and his face locked into the classic "I am a peaceful bystander with zero thoughts behind these eyes" look. But beneath that? Absolute chaos.

His pulse was performing a hyperactive drum solo against his ribs. Yerel’s creepy eyes had finally drifted somewhere else, but the aftertaste of that intense glare still felt like a cold, awkward hand hovering way too close to Cherion’s neck.

On paper, this was supposed to be a massive win. The Crown Prince had just publicly cleared Cherion’s name, putting a sudden, aggressive end to the vicious whispers making the rounds through the capital’s gossip mill. But as Cherion stared down at the floor, his stomach twisted into a tight, deeply suspicious knot.

He’s defending me? Cherion thought, his brain immediately squinting in heavy skepticism. Wait, why? What’s the catch here?

He frantically tried to slap a lighthearted, logical spin on it just to keep his sanity from taking an unscheduled leave of absence. Okay, look. Maybe he’s just doing some aggressive recruitment. Yeah, that’s it. Man’s building his fantasy draft for when he takes the throne, and he wants as many nobles as he can on his team.

It was a ridiculous, almost hilarious thought, but Cherion clung to it like a life raft. Because the alternative, actually diving into whatever dark, twisted, hyper-calculated motives were sloshing around behind Yerel’s cold face, was a rabbit hole he lacked both the emotional energy and the stamina to explore right now. Some doors were better off left bolted shut until at least after breakfast.

Around them, the nobility looked like they had all collectively forgotten how human lungs worked. Heads were ducked, and a series of frantic, side-eye glances darted back and forth between Cherion, Zarius, and the central stage. Nobody dared to open their mouth. Yerel’s warning had been crystal clear, and absolutely no one in this room was stupid enough to test a royal’s petty tolerance levels on his own stage.

Yerel swept his eyes over the silenced crowd one last time, tilting his chin with the subtle smugness of a man who knew he owned the room. "I will be very pleased," Yerel added, "if everyone here understands the gravity of my words. Slander is a poison of its own, and I will not see it cultivated in this court."

Before the awkward stillness could become entirely suffocating, a slender, absurdly elegant figure glided up right beside the Crown Prince.

Philia moved with the kind of effortless, main-character grace that instantly yanked every single eyeball in the building toward him. Yerel’s fiancé stood tall, looking so cool, calm, and effortlessly photogenic it was almost offensive to the sweaty, nervous aristocrats watching him.

Philia dropped a smooth, graceful bow to the room before glancing back up, a soft, perfectly calibrated I feel your pain smile touching his lips.

"His Highness speaks the truth," Philia chimed in, his voice ringing out with a warm, soothing melody that practically knocked everyone’s heart rate down by twenty beats per minute. "We fully understand that when terror strikes, the mind naturally turns against its own wisdom. A terrifying event happened within these walls, and it is easy to let anxiety cloud one’s judgment."

Philia turned his body slightly, his bright eyes shifting first toward Gillian and Iryna, then toward Zarius and the northern delegation.

"On behalf of the royal household, I sincerely offer our deepest apologies to the North, and to the Solaric delegation," Philia continued, his words falling with practiced, flawless weight. "This gathering was originally meant to celebrate the incredible success of the subjugation, a victory won through the sweat and blood of Duke Zarius and his men. It is a tragedy that your triumph was marred by such a cowardly act."

He then glanced toward Iryna. "And to Princess Iryna, who nearly lost her life... we are deeply grieved that you suffered such danger while under our roof. The palace takes full responsibility for the breach."

Cherion watched Philia from across the room, feeling a weird mix of horror and genuine respect.

It was kinda working. The stiff, panic-mode postures of the nobles were melting away like butter on hot toast. Nobles were nodding along like hypnotized bobbleheads, completely sucked in into Philia’s speech. Their earlier paranoia had vanished, replaced by a sudden wave of wow, he makes a great point.

As Philia stepped away, the Captain of the Imperial Guard stepped forward. His voice echoing authoritatively through the hall.

"The lockdown on the palace grounds is officially lifted," the Captain announced loudly. "All guests are permitted to return to their private residences tonight, or remain in the guest quarters until tomorrow morning. However... you are all reminded that the investigation remains active. You are expected to cooperate fully should the guard require further testimony."

"Your Majesty! With all due respect, is this not terribly premature?"

A sharp, booming voice sliced through the hall like a butter knife through cream.

A high-ranking capital lord marched right out into the center aisle, his cloak swishing dramatically behind him as he dropped a rushed bow toward the stage.

"The maid is dead, yes," the marquess argued, his face flushed with visible anxiety as he gestured broadly toward the crowd. But what if someone was actually controlling her? Manipulating her? By opening the gates tonight and letting everyone scatter, we are practically giving conspirators a free pass to burn their letters and hide their tracks!"

Predictably, the room instantly dissolved into an obnoxious chorus of yelling and frantic arguing.

"He’s right!" a young baron chimed in nervously from the front row. "If the master behind her is still standing in this room, then..."

"Nonsense!" another old lord countered loudly, turning to glare at the baron. "Why would any of us risk our heads for such madness? A war between Auzelian and Solaric brings absolutely zero benefit to anyone here! Fields will burn, innocent blood will flood the streets, and our people will suffer! To suggest one of us orchestrated a plot for a maid to poison a princess is utter lunacy!"

"Agreed!" a noblewoman called out, clutching her fan tight against her chest. "We have been cooped up like prisoners for days!"

The hall quickly turned into a chaotic hum of opposing factions, some terrified of leaving while a mastermind walked free, and others furiously defending their own innocence, arguing that sabotaging the peace treaty made no financial or political sense for any sensible house.

Yerel took a single, heavy step forward to the very edge of the dais. He didn’t raise his voice, but the freezing aura radiating off him caused the shouting lords to quickly shut their mouths.

"Enough," Yerel commanded, his eyes sweeping over the protesting marquess with cold disdain. "Keeping dozens of high-ranking noble houses under house arrest without concrete charges borders on tyranny, and I will not destabilize the empire over wild paranoia. The palace lockdown is lifted. However..."

Yerel’s gaze hardened. "...the capital watch is on maximum alert. City gates are barred to all noble carriages. If any house attempts to flee the capital, you will be treated as an accomplice to high treason."

That single, deadly line put a hard stop to the debate. The protesting marquess swallowed hard, bowed deeply without another word, and quietly retreated into the crowd.

"You are all dismissed," King Alderon’s heavy voice boomed over the remaining chatter.

With the royal command given, the nobles abandoned all pretense of lingering and began swarming toward the grand archways.

"Let’s get out of here," Elios muttered from behind Zarius, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an itch. "This air is giving me a headache, and I’m not even the one in rut."

Flio nodded in quiet agreement, glancing over at Marielle, who was already heading toward the main doors, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Zarius turned, placing a hand on the small of Cherion’s back to guide him out alongside their officers.

"Zarius."

The voice was quiet, but it cut through the rising chatter of the exiting crowd with absolute authority.

Zarius stopped dead in his tracks. Cherion paused beside him, both of them turning back toward the raised dais.

King Alderon was standing alone at the top of the steps, having already dismissed the others. His eyes locked straight onto Zarius, ignoring the remaining nobles who were lingering to shamelessly eavesdrop.

Zarius squared his broad shoulders, his face dropping right back into his usual unreadable wall. "Your Majesty."

King Alderon didn’t offer a smile, nor did he adopt the pleasant tone Philia had used moments earlier. He simply looked down at the Northern Duke.

"We need to talk tomorrow," King Alderon said plainly.

Zarius met the King’s heavy gaze without flinching. "Understood, Your Majesty."

Alderon gave a single, curt nod before turning around and disappearing behind the door. Zarius stood there for a beat, watching the spot where the ruler had just been standing.