Third Arc (Fallen Heart) – 269. Royal Show II
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Third Arc (Fallen Heart) - 269. Royal Show II
Amidst the hushed murmurs and speculative whispers that wove through the city, Angel remained unmoved. The air crackled with judgment and suspicion, yet his expression remained stoic, a mask that betrayed nothing of the internal calculus transpiring beneath.
The echoes of "traitor" and discussions about cunning strategies seemed to dance around him, like the fragments of a song he had grown accustomed to. 'Once a traitor, always will be a traitor'—the phrase lingered in the air, a reminder of the shadows that clung to his name.
Yet, in the midst of the clandestine commentary, Angel maintained a cold composure. His thoughts remained focused on the strategic chessboard of politics and power. The city may question his motives, but he had grown impervious to the chorus of doubt and speculation that trailed in his wake.
'I guess I can't blame them for my bad reputation,' he mused, a flicker of acknowledgment in the recesses of his mind. The world may have painted him with the hues of betrayal, but Angel understood the nature of perception. Reputation, after all, was a fickle ally in the realm of politics.
He knew the danger of unchecked whispers—how they could birth rebellion and fuel the agendas of those seeking to sow discord. He was no stranger to the art of manipulation, the strategic game of leveraging rumors to his advantage. In times when the sword wasn't the ideal solution, he'd wield the rumors as his verbal arsenal.
Angel recognized that brute force wouldn't silence the murmurs. Instead, he'd use the rumors, turn them on their heads, shape them into a narrative that played into his hands.
The nobles, the key architects of influence in this drama, were his primary concern. A misplaced word from their lips could be the spark that set the kingdom ablaze. Angel had to ensure their loyalty and discretion. He planned to deploy actions that countered the rumors, subtle gestures that spoke louder than any words he could muster. He aimed to quell the rising tide, not with force, but with a strategic finesse that befitted a ruler of his caliber. With other rumors. His version of rumors.
Also, with some action to prove that his rumors were true. In this way, he hoped, he could handle the people peacefully. The most important thing was that he had to pay attention to the nobles so they didn't spread false rumors that could destroy everything.
He needed to quell it so that it didn't become an excuse for some people to stage a rebellion or a reason for separatist groups to recruit new members. This was important.
With a wry smile, he acknowledged the irony of his position. 'I guess, I really am cunning,' he mused, a self-awareness tinged with a hint of amusement. Fate, that capricious trickster, had transformed him from a dutiful prince into a king adept at navigating the treacherous waters of politics and power. From a prince who only knew how to serve his kingdom to a king who played with political and military power to his advantage, manipulating the people around him like puppets.
Without Angel realizing it, Ophelia's gaze flitted toward Angel like a fleeting wisp of curiosity, a subtle dance of glances that betrayed the weight of unspoken dynamics. Riding beside him on horseback, her glances, though occasional, held a depth that spoke volumes. Angel, stoic and composed, may not have noticed, but those with a keen eye for subtleties might catch the ephemeral exchange between the supreme ruler and the would-be successor.
Her eyes, like embers beneath the surface, sought answers to unasked questions. Why this peculiar alignment beside Angel? Why the permission to don attire that echoed princely authority? The weight of responsibility seemed to hang in the air, a shared secret between the silent gazes.
Ophelia understood the language of gestures. Riding alongside Angel was more than a mere equestrian procession—it was a silent proclamation, an announcement that resonated beyond the cobblestone streets. The legacy of her brother's duties now transferred onto her shoulders.
Yet, she remained discreet. Her glances were not overt, not head-bowed affirmations that would invite scrutiny. Instead, they were glimpses, like the play of shadows in the flickering light.
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