Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

Lucien's expression faltered—just for a heartbeat.

His eyes widened—not in anger, but in raw, unguarded disbelief. It was as if the very air in the great hall had shifted. A refusal?

From Arthur?

He had expected a negotiation. A clever deflection. Perhaps a request to restructure the terms, or even a veiled plea for leniency. But this? A direct, outright renunciation? No apology. No excuses.

It was unthinkable.

A vassal king, a minor sovereign barely standing on the edge of stability, now looking him—him, the voice of Chronos—in the eye and saying, no.

It was the sort of move that should have come from desperation, or madness. But Arthur looked neither desperate nor mad.

He looked certain.

Lucien's face resumed its practiced calm, but something behind his gaze had turned sharp. The courteous tone he had worn like armor peeled away, replaced by a blade honed on diplomacy and veiled threats.

"Do you think Chronos is a joke to you, Arthur?" he said, his voice colder than the marble beneath their feet. There was no honorific now—no title, no grace. Just the name, spoken with pointed disdain.

He stepped forward, not hastily, but with the slow, deliberate rhythm of a predator advancing on prey. The soft echo of his boots rippled across the grand chamber like distant thunder.

"Do you think the agreement you signed with Chronos—an agreement witnessed, and ratified—is some child's promise you can break at will? A seasonal tax you can waive like a lord over his tenants?"

His eyes locked onto Arthur's, unwavering.

"You speak of reform. Of knowledge. Of lifting your people from ignorance. But let me remind you—this kingdom breathes peace because Chronos allows it. That agreement wasn't forged from generosity. It was the cost for protecting your falling kingdom from the invasion of Elysia. Do you think you can withstand the attack from Elysia if Chronos hasn't helped you?"

Lucien's voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with menace.

"I can see the changes. You've shed the fat, straightened your spine, and perhaps even earned the fear of your court. Your people may whisper your name with pride now, but pride does not pay debts."

He took another step, his shadow spilling across the base of the dais.

"Don't mistake personal transformation for political immunity. You can't just walk away from a signed agreement because you woke up one day with a cause."

Lucien let the silence linger, his final words sliding through the air like the edge of a dagger:

"You may wear a crown now, Arthur. But if you continue down this path, you'll learn what it means to bleed for it."

Arthur didn't respond immediately.

He sat unmoving upon the throne—not with the slouched indifference of a spoiled sovereign, but with the quiet composure of a man who had weighed this moment carefully, again and again, in the silence of his study.

He let Lucien's threat hang in the air like the chill before a storm.

Then, with the poise of a ruler who had learned when to strike, Arthur leaned forward—just slightly—and spoke.

"Lucien Vale," he began, his voice steady but edged with cold authority. "You may stand here as the envoy of Chronos. And yes, your kingdom is stronger—for now. But do not mistake that strength for license."

His eyes locked on Lucien's, unwavering.

"You are not a king. You are not Brandon Rivas. You are a courier—decorated, perhaps, but still a man sent in another's name. So do not address me as if we are equals. And certainly do not forget to whom you speak."

Arthur's voice sharpened.

"You are in my court. Before my throne. And I am not some trembling child of yesterday, but the King of Keldoria. You better know your place."

The air in the great hall tensed. Even the Chronos knights shifted slightly, the faint creak of armor betraying their unease.

Arthur hadn't merely deflected Lucien's provocation—he had turned it into a calculated blow, and one that landed clean.

He had anticipated that the envoy would arrive brimming with veiled threats, cloaked arrogance, and the smug assurance of Chronos's superiority. He was prepared for the posturing. What he hadn't expected was for Lucien to abandon all pretense of respect and address him so casually—so insultingly—by name.

It was a mistake.

And to Arthur, it was a gift.

The kind of slip he could exploit not just in this room, but as a precedent in future dealings.

Lucien's lips parted, likely to walk back his words or steer the tone elsewhere, but Arthur raised a hand—calm, commanding—cutting off the rebuttal before it formed.

"I'll remind you again, Envoy," Arthur said, each syllable deliberate and unmistakably firm. "You are not speaking to a vassal. And if Brandon Rivas himself were here and spoke to me as you just did, I would correct him all the same. My blood may not stretch back centuries, but the weight of this crown is no less real."

He didn't rise from the throne. He didn't need to. His voice alone held the room.

His gaze narrowed.

"You may carry the authority of a stronger kingdom, but don't be so quick to forget—Keldoria holds the Fate of Chronos. While your borders rest easy, it is our men who bleed at the frontier. You call it tribute—but if payment must be made, it is Chronos who owes us."

Lucien's expression cracked—not from outrage, but from genuine disbelief. For a heartbeat, the envoy was stunned. Not because he didn't know the geopolitical reality Arthur was referring to—he did. All of Chronos's military advisors had acknowledged it. If Keldoria had fallen to Elysia last year, Chronos would've had no choice but to intervene anyway, treaty or not. The fall of Keldoria would mean Elysia knocking on Chronos's gates.

But what shook Lucien was hearing Arthur say it aloud. Boldly. Proudly. As if he held the upper hand and how he declare that Chronos fate is in the hand of Keldoria.

And worse—there was truth in it.

A year ago, when Keldoria was desperate and the Elysian invasion loomed, the old Arthur—still inexperienced and scrambling—had reached out for aid. Chronos had responded, but at a price. Ten million gold, paid in annual installments of one million. A lopsided agreement born from panic, not negotiation.

Arthur had signed.

He hadn't realized then that Chronos would have helped anyway. That they needed to, for their own survival.

But now? Now Arthur knew.

And worse—he was weaponizing that knowledge.

Lucien could see it in the way the young king spoke with certainty, in how he refused to flinch or falter. Arthur had finally pieced it together. He had realized that the original agreement—one million gold coins annually—had been a ransom forged in desperation, not diplomacy. And now, armed with newfound confidence and a reshaped kingdom, Arthur was trying to cast off the chains.

Lucien didn't scowl. He didn't argue. His face remained composed, his tone level.

Because none of this surprised him.

Chronos had expected it.

King Brandon Rivas, calculating as ever, had foreseen that the day would come when Arthur would awaken to the truth—and try to tear down the terms. That's why safeguards had been implemented from the very beginning.

When Keldoria pleaded for aid against the Elysian invasion, Chronos responded swiftly—but not blindly. As a condition of military assistance, they had demanded lowered border restrictions, ostensibly to "ensure faster supply routes and logistical coordination." It sounded reasonable. Cooperative. Even generous.

But embedded within that agreement was the true move.

Chronos knights. Chronos mages. Strategically stationed across every key region of Keldoria. Formally, they were there to defend the realm against future incursions.

Informally?

They were an occupying force in all but name.

Troops embedded within towns and strongholds, familiar with local terrain, supplies, and watchposts. They trained beside Keldorian units, ate food from their storehouses, received equipment from their armories. And while Arthur may have reshaped his kingdom, he had never truly pushed them out.

They were the quiet sword at the king's throat.

Chronos's soldiers didn't march in columns through the streets of Keldoria. They didn't hoist their banners above keeps or demand fealty from the local lords. No, their power was subtler—embedded, waiting. A battalion stationed under the guise of protection, watching, mapping, training alongside Keldorian forces, but loyal to one crown only.

Arthur thought himself surrounded by allies. In truth, he was encircled by blades—blades he had willingly invited in.

So no—Lucien was not concerned.

Not angered. Not even amused.

He sat silent, composed, his diplomatic smile having cooled into something colder. This wasn't the tantrum of a spoiled heir, nor the misstep of a naïve ruler fumbling through politics. Arthur had declared open defiance. And in doing so, he had shifted Lucien's role entirely.

He was no longer a negotiator.

He was a witness.

Let the boy-king rant. Let him hold court with lofty ideals and illusions of autonomy. Let him parade his reforms like armor. Because while Arthur believed he had turned the game on its head—believed that uncovering Chronos's strategic dependency on Keldoria gave him leverage—he had missed the deeper truth:

He wasn't playing a game.

He was the game.

The moment Arthur signed that agreement, accepted those troops, lowered the gates, he had stepped onto a board that Chronos had carved, piece by piece, over years. A board where even his defiance had been anticipated, accounted for—and quietly prepared against.

And now, having declared his independence, Arthur had given Chronos what it needed most.

Justification.

Lucien shifted in his stand, one gloved hand resting lazily on the hilt of his ceremonial blade—not in defense, merely in acknowledgment, as if entertaining the idea of danger.

Then, he chuckled. Soft. Dry. The kind of laugh one might hear from a professor humoring a child's flawed equation.

"Oh, Arthur," he said, letting the name fall without title or courtesy, soaked in condescension. "I'll give you this—you've staged your little coup quite theatrically. The tone, the posture, that spark of righteous fury. Almost—"

He never finished.

Arthur's hand moved—barely a twitch—but Klein understood.

In a single, fluid motion, Klein unsheathed his blade, and with a sound like silk tearing, steel kissed flesh. The knight beside Lucien didn't even have time to cry out. One moment he stood tall; the next, his head rolled across the marble floor, trailing a thick smear of blood. His decapitated body remained upright for half a breath—then collapsed like a sack of meat, blood spurting from the open stump, arterial jets painting the columns and banners in grotesque arcs.

Gasps and steel followed. The remaining three knights by Lucien scrambled, blades drawn with wide, furious eyes. But they weren't alone. The guards stationed throughout the great hall—the loyal ones—moved in unison, drawing weapons and forming a silent wall around the throne.

Lucien looked up at the young king seated above him—no longer fat, no longer foolish, no longer soft.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Arthur remained seated on the throne, his hands relaxed on the arms of the chair as if he were watching a play unfold exactly as scripted. His eyes were hard, his voice devoid of anger—only ice.

"I warned you once, Lucien," he said, his tone like frost on a blade. "Know your place and address me with respect. Speak to me as a king, not as some petty vassal to be mocked."

Arthur then continues "But don't worry, you still have three more chances to insult me… before it's your turn to fall."