Overwhelming Firepower

The first sound that echoed through Vaelgard’s Theater House was not music, nor a narrator’s voice.

It was the sound of steel.

A lone figure stood at the center of the miniature city, armor battered and darkened, his blade planted into the stone at his feet.

Around him, the illusion of smoke drifted through shattered streets, and faint cries echoed—remnants of a battle already won.

The city still stood, because he had stood. A voice rang out from the shadows, calm and steady.

”This is the story of a man who never sought a throne.”

Just this first line alone already had a few nobles frowning, and even the first prince started glaring at the stage.

Others whispered to each other, careful not to be overheard, exchanging glances that flickered between disbelief and irritation.

Some adjusted their posture, crossed legs stiffly, or tapped a finger against the armrest, a sign of impatience that was otherwise masked in courtly composure.

Despite maintaining his usual calm, Marquis Valeire’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes briefly flickered toward the stage with a sharpened intensity.

A faint furrow appeared between his brows, vanishing as quickly as it came. Not caring about what those nobles were thinking, the play continued.

As the lights shifted, the city behind the knight came alive. Merchants opened their stalls. Children ran through the streets.

Guards lowered their weapons, relief evident on their faces. The people were safe, safe because of the man they now looked upon with unease.

The narrator continued.

”He bled for the people. He fought for the people. He defended their livelihood and happiness, and when enemy soldiers crossed the borders, he stood where no one else would.”

The knight turned slowly, lifting his helm just enough for the audience to see his face.

There was no triumph in his eyes, no hunger for more. Within that stoic look was simply and only exhaustion.

The actor playing the knight was truly a good one; he was able to convey the feeling of the knight with only his facial expression.

The audience was already getting immersed in the story. The children were focusing on seeing what would happen next.

Several actors then surrounded the knight, and with illusion spells, the scenery changed. Cheers erupted from the miniature city below.

The people surged forward, hands raised, voices overlapping in praise and relief. Flowers were thrown. Banners were lifted. Mothers pulled their children close and pointed toward the knight with trembling smiles.

”Our hero!”

”Our savior!”

The knight, despite the praise, remained as stoic as ever as he picked up his sword and simply walked forward amidst the cheering crowd.

Behind the knight, ranks of soldiers appeared along the city walls. They stood at ease, battered armor marked with the same scars as his own. When the knight took a step, they shifted with him, not by command, but by habit.

The cheers did not fade as the knight walked; they followed him. Hands reached out, not to grab, but to touch, armor, cloak, even the air around him, as if reassurance could be passed from skin to steel. Children ran alongside him, laughing, while elders bowed their heads in gratitude.

Yet even as the celebration swelled, the light above the stage shifted. From the highest balcony of the illusory city, banners bearing the sigil of the crown descended slowly, their fabric stirring in a wind that did not exist.

They did not overshadow the people, but they reminded them they were there. A single figure stepped forward from among the city officials.

He wore no armor, only formal robes trimmed with modest silver. His voice, when he spoke, was not loud, but it carried.

”People of the city,” he said, raising one hand.

The cheering crowd of people lowered their voices as they looked at the person who spoke.

”We rejoice because we still stand,” the official continued. ”Because our homes remain unburned, our children unharmed, and our borders unbroken.” He turned toward the knight and bowed his head briefly.

”For this, we give thanks.” A fresh wave of cheers answered him, but the official did not step away. Instead, his gaze drifted, just for a moment, toward the soldiers on the wall.

”The city endures,” he said evenly, ”not because of one blade... No, one blade cannot persist. It is because of order.”

”Because of laws, because of the crown. Because no sword, no matter how loyal, stands above them.”

The crowd on the stage nodded their heads in approval, while others were frowning. The audience also had similar expressions.

Lysette was amused by the words spoken and the setting of the play. A faint smirk played across her lips as she quietly anticipated each line, each reaction, understanding the play’s deeper purpose.

Despite only seeing the first scene, which wasn’t even over yet, she already had some guesses on how it was going to go. She was truly in awe of Lucen’s talent in writing such a play.

Back in the play, a few from the crowd followed the official’s gaze to the soldiers, then back to the knight, noticing, perhaps for the first time, that the soldiers seemed to be only focused on the knight, not the official.

The narrator’s voice returned, low and distant.

”He did not need to command, nor did he need to make them follow him. The men simply did so, not out of ambition, nor because of fame. They swore loyalty simply because that knight had never abandoned them; no matter the crisis, he stood by them and protected all without question.”

A mother tightened her grip on her child’s hand. A guard shifted his stance. The official took a careful step back, allowing the space between himself and the knight to widen, just enough to make the knight’s silence feel heavy.

”Despite his sacrifices, the people did not know the knight; they could not understand him, and all they knew was what they had heard,” the narrator said softly. ”And thus gratitude learned to share its place with fear.”

The knight remained silent. He did not deny the words spoken, nor did he affirm them. His hand rested loosely on the hilt of his blade, not in readiness, but in familiarity.

The city, the people waited. The official watched him closely, as if expecting a response, any response, but none came.

The narrator spoke once more.

”The knight, the hero, believed his duty ended when the people were safe. He did not know that his power, which brought them safety, bred questions, and questions demand answers.”

The narrator’s voice softened further, almost regretful. ”Answers he had never prepared to give.”

The official inhaled, then spoke again, his tone gentler than before, careful. ”Great deeds inspire great trust,” he said. ”But they also inspire great responsibility.”

He gestured toward the soldiers on the walls, then toward the people below. ”The city must know,” he continued, ”that its defenders answer to the same laws as every other man. Do they answer to the same crown as every other person in the kingdom?”

The question lingered in the air, heavier than steel. For the first time since the battle’s end, the knight moved.

He did not draw his blade; he did not kneel in front of the official. He simply lifted his head and looked at the person who questioned him.

”My answer,” he said at last, his voice rough, unused to crowds, ”has never changed. From the beginning until the end.”

His voice was not loud, but it echoed through the theater. This was done by enhancing his voice using a few spells and adding a bit of gravitas to it.

”I stand for this land,” he continued. ”For its people and their happiness.” He looked at those who cheered him on and at the soldiers who followed him through battle.

”I have never raised my blade against the crown,” the knight said. ”I have never gone against the laws of the kingdom. My heart knows no shame, for I have upheld chivalry.”

The more the actor spoke, the more Marquis Valeire frowned. He already knew that this was a counter to the rumors his side had been spreading, but to think it would be shown in such a way.

He looked at the audience watching. The commoners were entranced, and a few of the nobles were deep in thought, as for the royals, it was hard to say, but they were focused on the play.

Back on the stage, the knight’s gaze returned to the official. ”But loyalty,” he said, ”is not proven by words spoken in comfort.”

A faint stir passed through the illusory crowd.

”It is proven on the walls, in the fields, in the moments when no banners are watching. It is proven with blood and blade at hand, when even one’s honor is at stake.”

He placed his sword back in its sheath. ”I did not fight to stand above the law,” the knight continued. ”I fought so the law would still have meaning.”

He inclined his head slightly, not in submission, but in respect.

”My blade has always been drawn in the name of the crown,” he said. ”When the crown commands, I obey as a knight should.” That answer settled the crowd, relief flickering across many faces.

Then he added, calmly, ”But I will not abandon the people at the word of those who merely claim to speak for it.”

The air tightened, and the official did not respond at once. The nobles in the audience seats were also reacting differently.

The narrator’s voice returned, low and grave. ”Thus, the question was no longer about loyalty, but about who truly held the right to demand it.”