Chapter 98
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The sessions of the Privy Council were traditionally scheduled for the break of dawn.
The royal schedule followed a rigid hierarchy: first, the monarch met with the Privy Council, followed by a consultation with the Council of Elders, before the general Council officially commenced. Joint deliberations between both advisory bodies were saved for the very end of the day. The King’s attendance at these final sessions was unpredictable, as he frequently chose to absent himself.
However, the morning Privy Council was a different matter entirely. Because these men were his essential political pillars, the King never failed to appear.
It had become a predictable habit for the sovereign to arrive late, yet the councilors were expected to be in their places well ahead of time. Yuls was no exception to this rule of punctuality.
The chamber for the Privy Council was a two-story structure defined by its architecture. Massive bookshelves lined the lower walls, acting as the foundation for an upper gallery. While the balcony above was drenched in morning light, the shadows pooled deeply among the stacks below.
These shelves held the entire written history of Dalcatir’s governance, from its inception to the present era. The oldest records appeared so fragile that a single touch might reduce the parchment to cinders.
A long, rectangular table dominated the floor, surrounded by twelve chairs. Five seats lined each side, with two prominent positions reserved at the head and foot.
Spencer Grimaldi occupied the final seat on the left. As the other advisors filtered into the room, they visibly recoiled upon spotting him. Their wary expressions suggested they would have been less startled to find a demon from the abyss sitting among them than the Count.
Spencer remained entirely unfazed by their hostility. Beside him, Yuls mirrored that same mask of stone-faced indifference.
As the proceedings began, the atmosphere felt like a weary repetition of the previous year. Claude was predictably behind schedule, and the King was expected to be even more dilatory than his heir.
Yuls scanned the faces around the table. The scenery had stagnated; youth was a vanished commodity in this room. Aside from himself and Viscount Carver, the average age was ancient. Claude’s arrival would add one more young face, but the demographic shift was negligible. Had Luigi survived, the council might have skewed younger, but that possibility had been buried. Instead, the seat that had been a revolving door of candidates was once again occupied by its former master: Count Grimaldi.
“……”
Yuls felt a fleeting, irrational spark of curiosity. If Adi—if the Count had permitted her to remain in her guise as Adrian—could she have earned a place at this table one day?
He dismissed the thought almost instantly. Adrina was ill-suited for such a grim environment. She was light and life, whereas the men gathered here were nothing but the scent of rot and stagnant water.
“The Prince is taking his time,” a voice finally cut through the silence.
It was Count Montac, a representative of the mid-western territories and a member of the Council of Elders. Montac was a political anomaly, placed here by the previous King. He was perpetually at odds with his peers. While the Council of Elders served as a stronghold for the Aristocratic Faction, the Privy Council was traditionally the domain of Royalists. Montac had once claimed that loyalty, but he had defected to the aristocrats the moment the old King drew his last breath.
Grimaldi’s presence was equally irregular. Usually a fixture of the Elders, Spencer had been thrust into this inner circle by royal decree. Both he and Montac were exceptions to the standard order.
Despite the hour, two seats remained vacant. In the gallery above, three scribes worked diligently, their quills scratching against paper. At this moment, their records likely consisted of nothing more than a tally of the minutes the King and Prince were late.
The room’s acoustics were lopsided; voices from the floor rose easily to the rafters, but sounds from above rarely reached the table. Yet, the silence below was so profound that the rhythmic rasp of the scribes’ pens felt like a hammer blow. Even that small noise seemed heavy with unsaid threats.
The tension finally broke when an usher announced the Crown Prince. The doors swung wide, and Claude marched in. He gestured for his Escort Knight Division to remain in the hall, a sign that he was thinking clearly enough to respect the council’s privacy.
Claude took the head seat nearest the entrance. Recognizing the gravity of the morning, he had shed his usual mask of boredom.
Seeing Claude without a stray thread, an unbuttoned collar, or a visible yawn was a rare phenomenon, occurring perhaps once or twice a year.
Spencer watched him, thinking that if the boy could only maintain this professional veneer, he might actually resemble his father. It was only his habitual sloppiness that masked the family likeness.
“Is His Majesty also delayed?”
Claude’s brow twitched at the sharp, accusatory tone of the question. His relationship with these men was strained, but today the air was thick with a new, pointed aggression.
“So it seems,” Claude replied coolly.
He glanced up at the scribes, whose pens never stopped moving. Then, Count Montac spoke again. As one of the highest-ranking members present, he felt entitled to challenge the room.
“Was it your decision, Your Highness, to call Count Grimaldi back?”
“It was. Do you have an issue with that?”
Claude’s bluntness made the councilors’ faces sour.
“You all look as if I’ve committed a crime,” the Prince remarked.
“Regardless of the vacancy, it is a breach of protocol to reinstate an exile,” Montac argued. “Furthermore, that specific chair was intended for His Excellency, Marquis Francopan.”
Claude let out a sharp, mocking breath.
“Certainly, a man of Luigi Francopan’s status is the standard,” Claude conceded. “But tell me—how many men in the capital are actually fit for this table? And of those few, who possesses the weight of Count Grimaldi?”
The silence was the answer. Beyond his sheer capability, Spencer’s devotion to the throne was legendary. He was, after all, the man who had secured the King’s crown. In this circle, talent was secondary to absolute fealty. Luigi had only been tolerated in that seat because his blood relation to the King offered a thin guarantee against subversion.
The idea made Claude want to laugh. Luigi, incapable of betrayal?
Claude knew better. Even he, the King’s own son, was constantly searching for a weakness in his father’s armor. To think Luigi was any different was a fantasy.
“Besides,” Claude added, “that seat belonged to the Count long before the Marquis.”
When Spencer had first eliminated Luigi, Claude hadn’t quite grasped the strategy. Now, in hindsight, it was a masterstroke that had cleared the path for his own interests.
“The Count was stripped of his status,” Montac countered stubbornly. “He was banned from the royal court indefinitely.”
“There was never a decree of permanent banishment,” Yuls interjected.
The room turned as one toward the Duke.
“He lost a specific title within the palace,” Yuls continued, a faint, relaxed smile playing on his lips. “Did the King seize his lands? Did he revoke his right to serve the crown in other capacities?”
Yuls appeared entirely at ease. Spencer, however, watched the Duke with a look of genuine confusion, unable to fathom why the younger man was stepping into the line of fire for him.
Claude shared the sentiment. He wasn’t sure if Yuls was protecting the Count or trying to salvage the Prince’s own reputation. Then, Yuls caught his eye.
He’s doing this for me, Claude realized.
“He remains Count Grimaldi,” Claude declared, regaining his momentum. “And this is his seat. Is there any further dispute regarding my recommendation?”
The councilors looked ready to burst with objections, but the words died in their throats. The reality was sinking in: the man who had built the King’s throne was now aligning himself with the heir.
The implications were terrifying.
Count Grimaldi was a predator. However, a whisper of comfort circulated through the minds of the elders—the Count had no heirs left. His terrifying influence would end with his own heartbeat. Perhaps, they reasoned, this was a temporary storm they could weather.
Secretive, calculating looks were exchanged across the table. They would undoubtedly convene in the shadows later to discuss this, excluding the Prince, the Duke, and the Count from their schemes.
“Since no one is speaking,” Claude said, “I will assume we are in agreement.”
A few men started to protest, but the sound of the heavy doors groaning open cut them off. Every head turned.
The table was full. Only the seat of highest honor remained.
The King had arrived.
“Arguments, I hear?” the monarch mused as he crossed the threshold.
He was flanked by the head chamberlain and a single knight—the only person permitted to bring an armed guard into this sanctum. The King’s eyes drifted to the Count, then to Claude, and a dry chuckle escaped him.
“If we are obsessed with history and legacy, there are many who could claim a seat before the Count,” the King remarked. He looked Spencer directly in the eye. “Though, I suppose most of those men have since lost their heads.”
The room went cold. Everyone knew whose hand had directed the blade that took those heads. It was Spencer’s design that had purged the old guard.
“We honor Your Majesty,” the councilors shouted in a ragged chorus.
The echo of their greeting lingered as the King walked the length of the table, sitting opposite his son.
“Count,” the King said, his voice carrying a sharp edge of finality. “It is good to see you back where you belong.”
It was the ultimate seal. The King had personally validated Grimaldi’s return. With those words, the opposition was silenced; no one could question the Count’s right to be there.
And in response, Spencer Grimaldi smiled.
