Chapter 17

"L-Lord Azrael..."

Leviathan, the amusement wiped clean from his face, shot up from his chair. A wide grin, genuine and unexpected, split his features. "Azzy!" he boomed, his voice filled with a genuine warmth rarely heard. "You have no idea how much I've missed your… stoic presence."

Rayden, his earlier bravado replaced by a nervous stammer, clutched his chest. "L-Lord Azrael," he stuttered, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension. "I swear, I'll never get used to these… unorthodox entrances."

Lord Azrael inclined his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment of their greetings. His gaze, cold and assessing, swept across the room, taking in the shattered goblet at Leviathan's feet and the nervous fidgeting of the King's courtier.

Malcolm, the ever-present butler, approached Lord Azrael with a deep bow. Rayden followed suit, his bow a touch more elaborate. Malcolm, however, couldn't help but let his gaze linger on the bloodstains marring Lord Azrael's armor. The crimson droplets dripped ominously onto the plush rug, sending a silent wave of dismay through the meticulous butler. Already, he envisioned the arduous task of cleaning the delicate fabric.

"Victory, I presume?" Leviathan's voice cut through the tension, laced with a hint of barely concealed excitement.

Lord Azrael's response was a curt nod. No fanfare, no boasting – just a simple confirmation of the success everyone had been anticipating.

Leviathan, unable to contain his excitement, clapped his hands together. "Victory demands celebration! Malcolm, bring us the finest vintage, the one reserved for… special occasions." He flashed a predatory grin towards Lord Azrael.

Before Azrael could acknowledge the request, Leviathan continued, his voice buzzing with barely suppressed curiosity. "Speaking of celebrations, Azzy, have you heard the news? Lord Arnold… met with an unfortunate demise. Tragic, really. But more intriguing," he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "is the… guest the King has brought back with him. Quite the… anomaly, wouldn't you agree?"

Azrael's impassive face remained unchanged, but a flicker of surprise flitted across his icy eyes. He raised an eyebrow, a silent question directed at Leviathan.

Rayden, ever eager to prove his worth, couldn't hold back any longer. He barged into the conversation, his voice laced with a nervous tremor. "Why the sudden materialization , Lord Azrael? Surely you could have waited with your troops until they reached the designated entry gate? Such an… unexpected arrival might raise suspicion among the populace."

A tense silence descended upon the room. Leviathan's grin faltered, his eyes narrowing at Rayden's impertinence. Lord Azrael, however, remained unfazed.

Rayden's bravado crumbled under Lord Azrael's icy stare. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as the weight of his outburst settled upon him. He knew better than anyone the ruthlessness that resided beneath Lord Azrael's stoic facade. A misplaced word, a hint of disrespect, and Rayden wouldn't be the first courtier to find himself on the wrong side of the North Lord's blade.

The door once more creaked open to reveal a figure. Samael stood by the door casting fleeting glances at the room occupants.

Lord Azrael, ever stoic, inclined his head in a curt bow. "Your Majesty," he rumbled.

Before Samael could speak, Rayden, who had seemingly regained his bravado in the presence of his King, rushed forward. "Your Majesty!" he exclaimed, bowing deeply. "We weren't expecting you back so soon. Surely the… funeral rites haven't concluded yet?"

A sardonic smile played on Samael's lips. "Lilies, Rayden," he spoke, his voice laced with a dry humor. "I bestowed the appropriate number of lilies. What more do they expect? My undying sympathy for a man who wouldn't know loyalty if it bit him in the… well, you get the picture."

Leviathan cleared his throat. "Your Majesty," he boomed, a touch of theatricality in his voice. "A most… unexpected return. But a welcome one nonetheless. Lord Azrael and I were just about to delve into… the finer details of your recent… victory."

Rayden, ever eager to prove himself, couldn't resist another attempt to glean information. "Your Majesty," he interjected, his voice laced with a hint of forced cheer, "the… guest. Did her presence at Lord Arnold's funeral cause any… stir? Surely the other nobles must have been curious about her identity."

Samael spared Rayden a withering glance, his golden eyes glinting with something akin to annoyance. He remained silent, letting the weight of his stare settle on the persistent courtier.

"Perhaps," he interjected smoothly, his gaze flickering between the King and Lord Azrael, "we should focus on matters of greater import. His Majesty's return… Lord Azrael's presence… surely the war itself must have been… eventful."

Samael's lips curled into a humorless smile. He gestured towards Lord Azrael with a flourish. "Eventful? Azrael wouldn't know 'eventful' if it danced a jig in front of him. A pack of squabbling rabbits could have managed the same feat."

Azrael remained impassive, his face an unreadable mask. Whether he took offense to the King's jest or not was impossible to tell. He simply inclined his head in a curt acknowledgment.

Rayden, ever eager to play a role, couldn't help himself. "Perhaps, Your Majesty," he piped in, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, "it would be beneficial to formally introduce… your guest to the court. Such an… irregularity needs to be addressed, wouldn't you agree?"

A heavy silence descended upon the room. The air crackled with barely contained suppression. One beat passed, then two, as Samael's golden eyes narrowed on Rayden. A slow smile spread across his face, devoid of warmth.

"Rayden, Rayden, Rayden," he drawled, his voice laced with a dangerous amusement. "Always the eager beaver, aren't we? But perhaps your… 'duties' lie elsewhere. Malcolm must be in dire need of assistance with cleaning that unfortunate glass shards on the rug, don't you Malcolm?" He glanced at Malcolm who gave a brief nod.

His words, though seemingly lighthearted, carried a clear threat. Samael was dismissing Rayden, reminding him of his lowly position and hinting at the consequences of overstepping his bounds.

Rayden's face flushed crimson. The weight of the King's displeasure settled on him like a leaden cloak. He stammered, searching for a response that wouldn't further incur Samael's wrath.

"Y-yes, Your Majesty," he finally managed, his voice barely a whisper. "Of course. Assisting is… a most important duty." He bowed low, his face burning with shame.

With a final, scathing glance at Rayden, Samael waved his hand dismissively. "Then be off, Rayden."

A satisfied smirk played on Samael's lips as Rayden scurried out of the room, not before mumbling some words about the fact that he was a courtier not a servant. The air, though still thick with tension, felt lighter with the annoying courtier gone. He turned towards Malcolm, who stood stiffly, a silent observer of the unfolding drama.

"Ah, Malcolm," Samael boomed, his voice regaining its usual theatricality. "Excellent timing! We require a celebratory toast – a toast to Lord Azrael's glorious victory, wouldn't you agree?"

Azrael's stoic expression remained unchanged, but a flicker of something that could be construed as annoyance crossed his icy blue eyes. Celebrations were not his forte, and the boisterous display Leviathan seemed to favor felt out of place after the harsh realities of war.

Leviathan, however, couldn't contain his delight. A wide grin split his face. "Hear, hear! A toast to victory! And perhaps, Your Majesty," he added, his voice laced with a hint of sly suggestion, "we could also toast to… a new chapter for the kingdom."

Samael's golden eyes gleamed with a hidden meaning. He gestured towards Malcolm. "Indeed, Leviathan. A new chapter. But first, fetch us the finest vintage, Malcolm. Something worthy of such a momentous occasion."

Malcolm, ever the stoic butler, bowed his head in silent acknowledgment. He knew better than to question the King's commands, even if they involved celebrating amidst the lingering shadows of war and the whispers surrounding the mysterious guest. With a silent efficiency, he turned and exited the room, leaving the three figures alone.