Chapter 111: The High Ranker’s Fury: Abandoned by the King

The heavy, suffocating panic in Vilucious’s chest expanded, transforming into a desperate, frantic necessity to reassert his control over the stone.

Before he could pull away from their grip, the massive double doors at the far end of the hall burst open with a sudden, violent crash.

BANG.

Trampling over the shattered remnants of royal porcelain, silver trays, and spilled wine that had already been jolted to the floor, an elite militant rushed inward.

The soldier was covered head-to-toe in reinforced, matte-black militant plating that clanked heavily with every desperate stride.

Behind him came Governor Kerwon, running with a stiff, breathless panic that shattered the hall’s remaining stillness.

Clack-clack-clack-clack!

They sprinted directly toward the spot where Vilucious sat on his throne and Florianthum remained kneeling on the floor, their hands still tightly locked together.

Above them, the broken chandelier groaned again, releasing a fresh, vicious downpour of razor-sharp crystals. A heavy, jagged fragment whistled down through the air, slicing cleanly across Kerwon’s bare cheek.

Slash.

Bright light blue blood immediately welled up, dripping down the side of his face and soaking into his formal collar. Kerwon didn’t make a single noise. He didn’t even wince.

He stood perfectly rigid, like a mechanical doll shocked by a sudden jolt of panic, his voice breaking out in a rapid, robotic report.

"Disastrous eruption reported from the West Coastal Mountain area, your gracias, Lord!" Kerwon gasped, his eyes wide and vacant.

"The Obsidian Ridge... the ancient volcanic shelves that seal the deep sulfur-seas... they have completely fractured. The magma is breaching the lower basins. The sky over the entire western coast is already turning to black smoky glass!"

The moment the words left the governor’s mouth, the spell binding the throne room broke.

Without a second thought, Lord Vilucious completely abandoned Florianthum.

Lord Vilucious’s inner thoughts screamed in confusion:

The tunnel-vision operation broke... the disaster got their attention, without any of my alerts... That can’t happen! THAT WON’T HAPPEN, I WON’T LET THAT---

He dropped her locked hands instantly, leaving her kneeling on the cold floor like an ignored bag of old sack- a tool suddenly entirely forgotten in the face of this direct insult to his absolute dominion.

He stood up from his throne, his light grey eyes hardening with cold, manic fury.

"Bring the royal iron carriages," Vilucious ordered, his voice dropping into a mechanical, resonant rumble that shook the dust from the walls.

"The heavy steam engines. We travel to the ridge immediately. If the sky thinks it can crack without my word, I will hammer the earth back into its place myself. Move!"

"Right away, my Lord!" Kerwon rasped, turning on his heel so fast his robes whipped against the debris.

Vilucious didn’t speak to the elite militant, but a sharp, silent tilt of his chin toward the walnut table was enough. The faceless soldier moved with terrifying, robotic speed. Before the white cat could react, the militant’s iron-gloved hands shot forward.

Snatch.

Vermonia let out a sharp, strangled hiss as the heavy metal fingers locked around the scruff of her neck, lifting her straight off the dark wood.

The cat’s dark blue fire flared violently, her claws scraping uselessly against the militant’s iron breastplate- skrrr-t- but on the silent order of the king, the soldier turned and ran out of the dining hall, carrying the thrashing beast with him as he followed the governor.

Thud, thud, thud.

Florianthum didn’t follow.

She didn’t turn her head.

She remained left there in her previous position, kneeling on the hard marble with her hands still slightly raised where his palms had just been. She was completely motionless, like a robot whose power had been suddenly severed.

The brilliant royal blue fire in her eyes remained lit, but it burned with a flat, mechanical emptiness.

Above her, the final stability of the ceiling completely disrupted.

CRASH.

The remaining heavy sections of the iron chandelier gave way entirely, raining a massive downpour of jagged glass and heavy metal links straight down upon her unmoving frame.

Shards struck her shoulders, slicing new, thin light-blue lines through the bruised-red velvet gown.

All around her, the room disintegrated; the remaining royal crockeries, silver chalices, and fine crystal platters on the table exploded outward in a chaotic shower of white porcelain dust and shattered glass.

Smash! Clatter-clash!

A heavy silver cup bounced off the marble, rolling right past her knee with a hollow ring. Still, Florianthum did not move.

White plaster dust sifted down like snow from the weeping pillars, coating her white, snowy, light blue hair and the torn velvet of her dress, while the room fell into a heavy, dead silence, broken only by the distant, mechanical ticking of the wall clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The grand doors groaned on their broken mounts as the final echoes of the militant’s retreat faded entirely from the corridor.

The cold stone of the dining hall grew heavier, suffocating under the weight of settling lime and the sharp, chemical stench of ozone left behind by the ignition of her high-ranker magic.

Yet, Florianthum remained locked in place, an ornament of beautiful, unfeeling ruin.

The blue fire behind her irises did not pulse or flicker; it simply stayed, a pair of static lanterns staring blankly at the empty space where Vilucious’s chest had been just moments ago.

The velvet of her gown, dark as drying blood, bunched beneath her shins like crushed petals. She was a weapon forged for total warfare, yet without the hand of her master to tilt the blade, she was nothing more than an elaborate piece of statuary left to collect the dregs of the falling ceiling.

Drip... drip.

From the high, shadowed vaulting above, a stream of dark fluid began to weep from the cracked structural joints of the castle.

It wasn’t water.

It was a thick, industrial condensation, stained with the ancient soot of the under-keep, dropping rhythmically onto the ruined table.

Splat. Splat.

Every strike of the fluid against the split walnut wood sounded like a muted pulse in the tomb-like quiet.