Frustrations of a Self-Proclaimed Villain Lord

Chapter 95: The Grand Duke Begins the Arrests Properly (1)

There were two ways to conduct arrests in a room full of nobles. The first was to be discreet. The second was to be educational.

Naturally, I chose the latter. Not because I enjoyed public humiliation, that would be an unfair accusation. I enjoyed justice when it arrived dressed well, spoke clearly, and left enough witnesses to prevent convenient revisions later. If certain nobles happened to feel humiliated while being restrained for participating in an ancient rite involving children, imperial succession, hidden hymns, and a soundless bell beneath the coronation dais, then that was merely the natural consequence of having poor hobbies.

The Coronation Hall remained sealed. Not by the old ritual. Not anymore. The dark lines in the marble had withdrawn into the cracked ring beneath the dais, and Abi had gathered their residue into a violet knot no bigger than a walnut. It floated above his palm, trembling every few breaths as though deeply offended that it had been reduced from ominous imperial threat to decorative inconvenience.

I found the size appropriate. Most evil looked larger before someone competent folded it.

The hall itself, however, had not recovered. Several windows had cracked from the pressure of the soundless bell, the banners overhead hanging crookedly, one imperial sun drooping in a way that made the founding dynasty look like it had suffered a migraine. Nobles who’d once arranged themselves according to rank now stood in nervous clusters, carefully watched by palace guards and Sonomi shadows.

The military lords looked the least distressed. Of course they did. Soldiers enjoyed clear enemies, and priests chanting old rites in the middle of a coronation rehearsal apparently qualified.

Father Lorian, the bishop’s deputy, knelt near the base of the dais with aura thread around his wrists and throat. Arthur hadn’t gagged him yet, probably because I hadn’t given the order, though he’d positioned one hand very close to the man’s jaw, as though waiting for the privilege.

Arthur was developing taste.

Lord Pellas, the central faction advisor who’d started chanting through someone else’s voice, sat on the floor several paces away, shaking so badly his medals clicked against each other, still whispering that he hadn’t meant to. I believed him, which was precisely why he was alive, conscious, and not yet sharing Father Lorian’s current posture.

Duke Rouvier stood under my father’s supervision. That meant he wasn’t bound. It also meant he wasn’t free. My father had the kind of smile that invited people to underestimate him exactly once, and the duke, to his credit, hadn’t made that mistake. He stood still, face ashen, one hand pressed over the place where the ritual had dragged through his chest. Lady Evelina stood a careful distance away from him, trembling but upright.

Good. I appreciated people who trembled honestly but didn’t collapse for effect.

The Emperor descended from the dais with a face that looked carved out of every mistake he hadn’t realized he’d made. The Empress stood beside him, colder and more composed, though her gaze kept returning to the fading ring beneath the marble.

A mother remembering a room. A child. A rite. A lie.

Not my problem. Or rather, it had become my problem, but I refused to let it acquire sentimental rights. That was how problems multiplied.

The Verdant observer remained in the upper gallery, hood lowered enough for everyone to see a face too serene to be merely pretty, green-gold eyes, dark hair that seemed to hold the faint sheen of wet leaves, a calm mouth, amused in a way that suggested the room was less crisis to her and more theatre with a tolerable script.

I disliked that. I was the only person allowed to enjoy theatre in my vicinity.

"Your Excellency," Arthur said, tightening his grip on Father Lorian’s shoulder as the man shifted. "Orders?"

"Begin with the mouths," I said.

Several people in the hall went very still. Arthur looked pleased.

"Not literally," I added. He looked less pleased. A pity.

"We separate those who spoke willingly from those who were used," I continued. "Anyone who repeated the old phrasing is to be held. Anyone who carried revised wording from Father Lorian or Duke Rouvier is to be identified. Anyone who attempts to leave without being recorded will be treated as an accessory."

A noblewoman near the second row made a faint sound. I looked toward her, and she immediately stopped.

Wonderful.

The Emperor’s gaze moved to me. "You are issuing orders in my hall."

"I am."

"This is still an imperial matter."

"Your Majesty, a cultist priest just declared that the throne of Yarina is built on a seal older than your empire, then attempted to use your coronation rehearsal to wake something beneath it. If there was ever a time to temporarily outsource competence, I believe it is now."

The hall held its breath. The Emperor stared at me, and the Empress closed her eyes for a very short moment, which I assumed was either despair or approval.

Possibly both.

Then, to his credit, the Emperor turned toward the palace guards. "You heard the Grand Duke. Cooperate."

How lovely. Royal pride had bent without shattering. Perhaps Adrien had inherited some sense after all.

The guards moved. Bernard appeared at my side with three ledgers, two pens, and the face of a man who’d realized that history sometimes required one to write while standing within striking distance of treason. His hair had come loose near his temple, ink smudged on his thumb, his expression remaining focused.

Excellent boy.

"List categories," I told him.

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Category one: direct participants. Father Lorian. Any clergy who received or transmitted unauthorized ritual text. The rehearsal master, pending questioning. Lord Pellas, under possible compulsion. Duke Rouvier, under financial and ceremonial implication. Any official tied to the archive seats."

Bernard’s pen moved.

"Category two: witnesses used by resonance. Anyone who answered the older phrases and exhibited physical reaction."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Category three: witnesses under protection. Lady Evelina Rouvier. Military representatives. Palace guards with Sonomian thread knots. Anyone who repeated the revised protocol voluntarily."

A military lord with an impressive moustache straightened, looking quite pleased to find himself on the correct side of a ledger. People were simple creatures when properly labeled.

"Category four," I said, my voice lowering slightly, "evidence involving children."

Bernard’s pen paused, only for a heartbeat, then continued.

Arthur’s gaze flickered toward the folded cloth in my hand. Ansel. The name sat against my palm through the fabric, not heavy, not physically, but some names weighed more after one learned what adults had done to make them disappear. The red glass shard lay inside a separate containment case, sealed in violet light. Abi had removed it from the dais cavity personally, and he hadn’t joked while doing it. That was how I knew it mattered more than he wished to say.

Father Lorian began to laugh, a soft, dry little sound. Arthur’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

"Careful," I said.

The priest looked up at me, his eyes bright, too bright, like a fever had crawled behind them and decided to settle there. "You think arrests matter?"

"I think they matter to the arrested."

"The rite has failed here, but you cannot arrest a hymn."

I smiled. "Perhaps not. But I can arrest every person who has been singing it."

His expression twitched. There. People devoted to grand ideas often disliked being dragged back into practical consequences. They preferred to speak of fate, destiny, ancient seals, lower voices, sacred continuity, and other phrases that sounded impressive enough to hide the smell. But when one mentioned custody, testimony, ledgers, and physical discomfort, their holiness became surprisingly human.

"You are standing on a wound," Father Lorian whispered. "All of you. Your empire was built over a mouth that should never have been covered. The first emperor knew. The old temple knew. The archivists knew. They all sealed it and called the seal a throne."

The Emperor’s face darkened. Duke Rouvier closed his eyes. The Empress didn’t move.

I looked down at the cracked ring. A wound. A mouth. A seal. Religious poetry continued to be one of the most irritating forms of labor.

"What did Ansel do?" I asked.

Father Lorian stopped laughing. Good.

"What did the child do?" I repeated. "The one whose name was wrapped around red glass beneath the imperial dais."

His face shifted. Not pity. Not regret. Something almost reverent.

How offensive.

"He witnessed."

My hand tightened around the cloth. Arthur’s eyes went cold. The Emperor inhaled sharply. The Empress looked as if someone had pressed a blade beneath her ribs.

"He was twelve," I said.

"He had resonance."

"That wasn’t my question."

"He was chosen."