ShadowBound: The Need For Power
Chapter 337 - 337: Royal Summit 3: Old Wounds

The tension in the chamber thickened like a thundercloud ready to break. Galen's words didn't just echo—they stabbed, each one like a blade dragging ghosts out of the dark. Even the chandeliers hanging up the walls seemed to flicker lower, shadows creeping in like silent witnesses.

Caelum's jaw flexed, grinding against the past. Seralyne's narrowed eyes never left Galen. But it was Valemir and Tharion who froze—not confused, not shocked… just haunted. The kind of stillness that only comes when old wounds are ripped wide open.

"I remember that day clear as if it happened this morning," Galen murmured, his voice lower now, but sharper—razor-edged and laced with venom. "A woman who asked for nothing but a life of peace. A home. A family. But because she fell for the wrong man, you called her a threat. A danger to your precious kingdoms. And without so much as a trial, you erased her like she was nothing more than a fly."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table with bitter smirk. "You burned her name off the records like she never existed… and you did it wearing crowns that still drip with her blood."

"You dare compare us to Sylvathar?" Tharion growled, rising halfway out of his seat.

"Oh no," Galen said with a cold chuckle. "He's a monster, no doubt. But at least he doesn't pretend to be noble. You two? You hide your sins behind polished steel and public smiles."

"That's enough," Queen Elanora said softly, but with firm grace.

Galen's gaze cut to her, flat and emotionless. "Stay out of this, woman. I respect you same as I did my mother—'cause I know you had no say in what those bastards did."

Valemir opened his mouth to speak, maybe to defend her—but nothing came. For once, the Iron Strategist stood speechless.

But Tharion wasn't.

"That's enough from you, Galen. If you're still angry about Serah, this—"

"You say her name again," Galen interrupted, voice low and lethal, "and I swear on that dead crown of yours, you'll never speak your son's name again. Hell, you'll never see him again."

Tharion stiffened. Not from offense—but from fear. True fear. All of Lucy's digs, all of Dove's sharp words—none of it cut as deep as that threat from his own blood.

Galen leaned back slightly, gaze fixed, voice colder than frost. "Try me. I'll show you this ain't fifteen years ago."

Mystica, though surprised seeing Galen like this for the first time in her live, had fingers twitching, preparing to cast a spell to silence him with a flick—but Lucy quietly raised her hand, stopping her. Her eyes never left the kings.

Valemir still hadn't moved. He stared at the center of the table, fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. Finally, after a silence that felt like a trial, he spoke.

"What happened fifteen years ago… was necessary."

Galen let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Spoken like a man still convinced he did the right thing."

"No," Valemir replied, voice calm and sharp like a drawn blade. "Spoken like a man who wears a crown and bears the weight of choices no one else is willing to make."

"Ah. So the burden of leadership justifies murdering my sister?" Galen's voice turned mocking, teeth bared in his words.

"It justifies survival," Valemir said, unblinking. "And your father—he knows that better than anyone."

Galen's smile vanished like breath in winter.

The air between him and Tharion turned heavy—solid and suffocating—like the room itself had stopped breathing, unwilling to exist in the space between father and son.

Tharion's eyes locked with Galen's—not as a ruler, not even as a parent—but as a man drowning in ghosts. "You think I don't feel it?" he said, voice low but unyielding. "You think I don't hear her in my dreams? See her eyes every time I look at you? Every morning I wake up, I wonder what kind of man I had to become to send her to her death."

Galen's voice was low and sharp. "Don't twist it, bastard. You didn't just sign the order—you wrote it. With your heart tucked away and your hand steady."

The words struck like a hammer to the ribs.

Tharion didn't respond at first. He just sat—slowly, deliberately—not in surrender, but under the weight of the past. "I did," he said at last, his voice flat. "And I would again. If it meant saving the realm."

Galen shook his head in disgust, then turned his attention toward Valemir, his smile reappearing—twisted now, full of malice. "Then I hope you're ready to do the same, your majesty. Because your dear friend over there just admitted he'd sacrifice your daughter in a heartbeat if it kept his kingdom breathing."

The silence that followed wasn't sharp—it was dull and heavy, like a long-held breath finally collapsing in the chest. No one looked surprised anymore. Just tired.

Lucy rose from her seat. Her voice didn't boom. It didn't snap. It sliced—precise, clean, like the edge of a healer's scalpel. "I may not know all that happened fifteen years ago," she began, her gaze briefly touching Galen, "and for my ignorance, I apologize. But the past is set. What matters now is not vengeance or guilt—it's the choice we make next. This is no longer about redemption or blame. It's about stopping Sylvathar before there's nothing left to protect."

She motioned toward Ember—still kneeling, still blindfolded, her hearing sealed by Mystica's silence spell.

"We have one hybrid rotting in a lab," Lucy continued, "and another—right here—willing to risk her life to stop the monster who made her."

The weight of that truth pressed on every soul in the chamber.

"What do you mean, 'help'?" Mage Eliv snapped. "She's still a hybrid. Still one of his. What if this is just another step in Sylvathar's plan?"

Lucy met his glare without flinching. Then she laid out everything Ember had confessed to her, Mystica, and Dove—how she had been sent as a pawn, but now moved with her own purpose… to betray her creator, to forge her own freedom. And that one of Sylvathar's generals, Morbuan, was already en route—to seize Sheila, if she was left unguarded.

"And still," Eliv said, folding his arms with stubborn defiance, "none of that proves she's not lying."

"No," Lucy admitted. "But it gives us a chance. One we might not get again." Her tone hardened, eyes sharp. "And in a war like this, a chance is everything."

"Mage Borges, your caution is wise," said Sylas, the young man cloaked in regal blues and silvers—his features so refined he looked more statue than soldier. He had sat in silence until now, untouched by the venom and chaos that had bled into the chamber. "But if such an opportunity presents itself… to turn a pawn of the enemy into a piece on our board—then we would be fools not to consider the play."

His voice was smooth, steady—calm in a way that felt unnatural after everything that had just unfolded.

"Knowledge of a Demon Lord's generals?" he continued, eyes scanning the others, unwavering. "That alone could change the tide. Knowing who moves in the shadows, what tactics they favor, what kinda of beasts they are... gives us not only insight, but time. And time, in this war, is the most expensive currency we have left."

A low hum of consideration stirred the room. Even those most resistant—Eliv, Mois, Berg, Tharion, even Valemir—gave pause, the gears of strategy grinding behind their eyes.

"Assuming she tells the truth," Eliv said, his tone still hard but less venomous now, "what does she want in return?"

"She wants freedom," Lucy replied. "Not today. Not tomorrow. She's not naive. But a chance. A life after all this ends."

Donella, the young advisor of the Solara Kingdom, leaned forward, brows furrowed and fingers steepled. "Do we have a method to confirm she's telling the truth?"

"Mental scanning has already been performed by Dove," Lucy replied. "The results showed no signs of deception—her thoughts matched her words."

Caelum raised a brow. "Mental scanning? Never heard of it."

"It's an advanced spell," said Berg, the round-bellied advisor from the Crescent delegation, twirling the end of his mustache with idle confidence. "Usually reserved for alchemists and top-tier intelligence casters. It projects a metaphysical image of the subject's thoughts—disjointed, but traceable."

Valemir's voice cut in next, cold and clipped. "Even if her story checks out, she's to be watched. Every step, every breath."

"That won't be an issue," Lucy answered plainly.

Sylas, still the calmest among them, gave a courteous nod. "Then let's address the next concern. I hope we're not seriously considering leaving Princess Sheila at the academy. Yes, she may be the most protected soul in Amthar… but can the same be said for those around her?"

His words stirred unease in the room—an echo of a conversation Lucy had shared with Mystica just the day before. Yes, Sheila was shielded, guarded by Magnus himself. But the students? The mentors? If a coordinated strike from Sylvathar's hybrids hit the academy, the bloodshed would be immeasurable. Knights might hold them off—but how many would die before that happened?

There was only one solution. Harsh, but necessary.

"You raise a critical point, Knight Sylas," Lucy said, standing now, her voice steady like stone. "After much deliberation, I propose a lockdown of all major academies across Amthar—effective immediately. Classes suspended. Campuses sealed. All students to remain under armed protection until further notice."

The room rumbled with murmurs, some of shock, others of agreement.

Caelum folded his arms. "That'll send a message."

"To the people and to Sylvathar," Mystica added, a flicker of amethyst in her eyes. "That we are aware. And we are not unprepared."

Sylas simply nodded. "Then let the realm be warned. War is not knocking. It's already inside the gates."

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