I Became the Villain Chapter 72: The Cold Warning

Chapter 72: The Cold Warning

"He’s dying, Your Majesty. We shouldn’t hide behind polite words, the man is barely holding on."

The voice belonged to Marquis d’Arvayne, a man whose skin always looked slightly too tight for his skull, as if his own greed were trying to burst through. He slamd a weathered palm onto the table of the Great Council Table, the vibration rattling the silver inkwells. The air in the Royal Council Chamber was thick, a cloying soup of ancient, dust-laden parchnt and the King’s preferred heavy tobacco. It was a scent that usually signaled stability. Today, it felt like the sll of a funeral pyre before the first spark.

King Alderon sat at the head of the long table, looking every bit of his sixty years and then so. His eyes were hooded, weary from decades of balancing the fragile egos of the nobles who wouldn’t know a monster from a mountain goat if it bit them. Outside, the sun was likely shining on the Capital’s marble plazas, but here, under the vaulted ceilings, it was all shadows and sharp tongues.

"The Subjugation is not a re seasonal hunt," another advisor chid in, his voice rising in a frantic, unpolished pitch. "If Duke Valtrane is as... diminished as the rumors suggest, the Northern border becos exposed. If he cannot lead the hunt, those beasts won’t just stop at the treeline. They’ll be at our very gates before the first snow settles. We cannot risk the safety of the Crown on a man who might cough up his lungs halfway through."

"The rumors aren’t just rumors," a third voice piped up, sharper this ti, cutting through the tension. "You should have seen him the other day when he arrived. Ghastly, pale as a corpse, barely standing upright. How could he be expected to fight with his health like that?"

The room felt tight, every breath heavy with sothing unsaid. A murmur of agreent rippled through the council. Fingers drumd nervously on polished wood, papers rustled, and a heavy silence fell after the words. The nobles were terrified. To them, the North was a dark, mythical wasteland that existed only to keep the nightmares away. If the "Monster Duke" failed, their plush carpets and fine wines would be the first things to go.

"Perhaps," d’Arvayne suggested, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light, "it is ti to send a Royal Investigator. Or better yet, an Assisting Commander. Soone from the Capital who can... oversee everything."

It was a bold move. A transparent one. They didn’t want to help, they wanted to strip Zarius of his absolute autonomy. To place a leash on a Northern wolf.

"Enough."

The King’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the bickering like a guillotine. He leaned forward, the gold of his signet ring catching the dim light. "I have known Duke Valtrane since he was a boy with more iron in his blood than sense. He has bled for this kingdom in places you couldn’t find on a map. If he says the North will hold, it will hold. My trust in him is not a thing to be bartered by n who fear a chill in the air."

There was no doubt in his tone. None. It was the kind of absolute support that made the lords’ faces turn a particularly mottled shade of purple. They were deeply frustrated by his response, but one does not argue with a King who has already made up his mind.

Sitting just a few feet away, seemingly carved from gold and calm, was Yerel.

The Crown Prince looked every bit the perfect heir. While the others were sweating through their silks, Yerel looked as if he were rely watching a particularly dull play.

"His Majesty is correct," Yerel said. He didn’t even have to raise his voice. "The Duke of Valtrane is the Shield of the North for a reason. To question him now is not only premature, it’s an insult to every soldier dying on those borders. We should be discussing supply lines, not investigations."

He looked around the table, his sharp eyes pinning each advisor in turn. He skillfully shut down the panic, asserting that the King’s faith was the only compass the Council needed.

King Alderon offered a small, proud nod toward his son. The advisors, however, remained unsettled. They shifted in their seats, exchanging looks that whispered of secrets yet to be told. They knew Yerel was right, logically, but the gut-level fear of the "Monster Duke" failing was a hard thing to suppress.

The eting adjourned shortly after, the lords scuttling out like beetles disturbed by a light.

Yerel didn’t linger. He made his way through the winding corridors of the palace, his cape billowing behind him in a way that felt more like a warning than a fashion choice. Karson, his quiet and reliable aide, followed silently, keeping pace beside him. He stepped further into the study as Karson closed the door behind him.

"Subjugation," he muttered to the empty room. "Always so dramatic, aren’t they? The great hunt of the beasts. A bloody tradition for a bloody family."

Karson cleared his throat. "It is important, Your Highness," he said evenly. "Perhaps... we should focus on what can actually be done. Preparing supplies, assessing the terrain... practical steps, at least, so the tradition doesn’t turn into disaster."

Yerel moved toward the tall window, hands brushing the sill as he leaned slightly, staring at the sky. The sharp knocks made him straighten.

Yerel turned back from the window, a slow, sharp smile spreading across his face. "It’s about ti for the North to get busy, isn’t it? The Duke will be distracted. And our dear, sensitive Cherion..." He trailed off, his fingers drumming a rhythmic beat against a stack of reports.

He looked at Karson, his eyes glittering with a toxic sort of amusent. "Karson, we really ought to be better neighbors. It’s been awhile, after all. I believe it’s ti we sent a ’gift’ to Duke Valtrane."