Reborn As Noble

Chapter 829: The Right of Arms ( 829 )

Once within the private chamber, the air grew still.

Princess Kliatana sat with measured poise at the table, the Royal Advisor and General Gilmon at her side.

Opposite, Count Garius entered with calm authority, accompanied by Alf and Erinnette, while Javier trailed in with his usual reluctant posture.

Garius inclined his head in formal courtesy.

”Your Royal Highness.”

He remained standing, allowing the weight of formality to settle, then spoke with measured tone.

”Before we begin our discourse, I would make one request of you,” he said evenly, his gaze steady upon Kliatana. ”Tell me, in your own words... what is your understanding of the Right of Arms?”

Kliatana exhaled softly, her posture still regal, though her fingers betrayed her tension, lacing and unlacing atop the polished table. She met Garius’s gaze only once before glancing down, then forced herself to speak.

”The Right of Arms...” her voice steadied, though a faint tremor lingered at the edge, ”is not a fable, nor a courtesy. It was written into law after the Great War. When Armand stood alone against the banners of this very kingdom. Twice the kingdom raised its standard against you. Twice it was broken. The council could not erase those defeats, so they codified them instead.”

Her eyes drifted briefly before flicking back to Garius.

”It is the law born of victories. When the crown declared war upon Armand and failed, it was forced to recognize your strength as legitimate. By that decree, should the crown or council act unjustly against Armand, the Count of Armand may contest it, lawfully, by force of arms. Not as rebellion, not as treason, but as the kingdom’s own statute.”

She drew a shaky breath, her gaze flicking toward Javier for the briefest moment, before returning to Garius.

”The Right of Arms is this realm’s admission that, when injustice strikes, might used in defense of one’s people becomes law itself. And that right, by tradition and blood, rests with you and your house alone.”

Garius leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable.

Then his gaze settled firmly on Kliatana. His voice, calm and even, carried the weight of command without raising.

”And now... tell me, Princess,” he said, each word deliberate, ”what is the true result of war?”

Kliatana’s fingers tightened together, her knuckles paling as she drew in a slow, composed breath. The silence after Garius’s question weighed heavily in the air. Though her posture remained straight, the tension in her shoulders betrayed the storm within.

She lowered her gaze, collecting her thoughts.

”The result of war...” she began quietly. ”It isn’t the songs or the banners, nor the tales of glory they tell in the feasting halls. It is... it is hunger, when the fields go untended because the men who tilled them are marched to the front. It is mothers clutching children who will never see their fathers return. It is sons buried in shallow graves, names forgotten beneath the mud.”

She paused, her voice tightening, but she continued with care.

”War drains coffers faster than rivers in drought. Gold poured into weapons and wages, while homes fall into ruin, roads crumble, and illness spreads. Trade falters, for no merchant dares cross a border guarded by drawn blades. And the people... they suffer. The common folk who bleed the most. Nobles may argue treaties, but it is the people who starve.”

A breath caught in her throat, and she gently unknotted her fingers, laying her palms flat on her lap.

”And when it is over, the victor may stand tall, but even victory bleeds. Armies return diminished, broken men carrying scars that never fade. Hatreds fester across borders, grudges that linger for generations, waiting for another spark to reignite them. Refugees scatter, some never to return home.”

Her lips tremble, trying her best to continue.

”And power... it shifts like sand beneath the feet. What was once stable becomes uncertain, even after peace is signed.”

She exhale, trying to calm down.

”Even when victory is claimed, the burden falls upon the people. Victor and vanquished both. That, I believe, is what war leaves behind.”

Garius turned his gaze toward his youngest son, his voice calm but edged with quiet authority.

”Now you, Javier,” he said evenly. ”You fought the last war. You led your knights. Your machines. Your craft. Tell us, what do you know of the result of war?”

Javier exhaled slowly, his fingers curling against the armrest as his eyes lowered to the polished table.

He sat up straight, his voice steady, clear, but lined with something deeper.

A memory.

”The result of war?” he began softly. ”It’s not something you understand from scrolls or lectures. You don’t feel it in meetings or royal courts. You feel it when the battlefield goes quiet. When your ears are still ringing from screams you can’t unhear.”

His gaze drifted, unfocused, somewhere past the chamber walls.

”I saw bodies... strewn like broken dolls. Faces frozen in terror, still holding the last expression they wore before they died. Some died screaming. Others didn’t even know it was coming.”

”Blood soaked the dirt until the whole field turned black. The smell... the rot, the iron, the smoke, it clings to your skin, even after you scrub it raw. The wind stops carrying songs. It carries ash.”

He leaned back slightly, tone sharpening, not theatrical, not loud. Just heavy.

”We stood on fields where homes used to be. Villages we couldn’t save. Children clinging to the rubble, waiting for fathers who would never return. Fires that burned long after the enemy was gone.”

Javier’s hand tensed slightly on the table, and he continued, voice low and grim.

”When it was over, the ground wasn’t ground anymore. Just corpses. Stacked. Twisted. Swollen. Enemy or not, they were still men once. Every body meant a family torn apart. A name erased. A story that ended without closure.”

His gaze grew darker.

”War doesn’t end when the last spear falls or the banner is raised. It ends with the number of graves dug. The number of mothers who scream your name in grief. And the number of voices left cursing you, for surviving, or for not dying with the rest.”

”That’s the result of war. Not banners. Not songs. Just silence. And scars that don’t stop bleeding.”

”...That’s why, during the last war,” he said slowly, ”I didn’t take the main roads.”

His gaze dropped, then shifted faintly toward Kliatana.

”I made sure... to avoid every village. Every town. Any place where the common folk still lived and breathed. I bypassed them all. Not a single step into a settlement, not unless it was already consumed.”

He paused, voice tightening.

”I didn’t kill for sport. I didn’t draw my sword to hear screams.” His fingers curled lightly on the table.

”I attacked only where the soldiers gathered. Only where the madness had rooted itself too deep. The frontlines, the corrupted camps, the cult-scarred hills near the Armand border...”

Javier’s tone darkened slightly.

”Because I knew what the result of war looked like.”

”And I wanted it to end quickly.”

Then he looked straight at Kliatana.

”I had no choice.”

”Your father, the late King Edmund... he was already beyond saving. The corruption had taken everything. His eyes... his voice... even his shadow didn’t move the same way anymore.”

Another breath. This time, heavier.

”I killed a king not out of hatred. But because no one else could.”

And then he looked away.

Javier’s voice, low and worn, lingered like ash in the air.

”...And I hope...” he murmured, turning away, his back to the table now.

”I really hope... there won’t be any more war.”

His shoulders trembled, from the weight of memory no boy his age should carry.

( End Of Chapter )