{Chapter: 41: The Price of Victory And Intrusion of the Cloth}
"James Woz!"
The voice was familiar, bitter, and full of impotent rage.
James turned his gaze toward the commotion and found himself staring into the hollow, bloodshot eyes of General Harry of the Ar army. Once a proud commander known for his unyielding discipline and battlefield brilliance, he now stood as a symbol of defeat—chained, bruised, and paraded like a beast for slaughter. His once-immaculate silver armor was stained with blood and grime, his cape torn, and his pride utterly decimated.
He was being dragged along in a reinforced prison cart, reserved for nobles and high-ranking officers. Though given a private cell, the iron bars did little to hide him from the jeering crowds who had gathered like vultures, eager to mock the fallen hero. Each step the cart took was like another nail in the coffin of his dignity.
Despite his disheveled appearance, Harry's fury had not cooled. He lunged against the bars, eyes wild. "James Woz! Remember this humiliation! I swear—one day—I'll repay every second of it!"
James stared back calmly, unmoved.
My friend… you're standing at the edge of the abyss, he thought. And you think you'll climb out? You're not even worth mocking at this point.
Still, after a moment's hesitation, James refrained from responding with cruelty. A flicker of decency stirred in him—perhaps it was pity, or perhaps he simply didn't see the point. Instead, he offered Harry a glance filled with unspoken meaning. One noble to another. One man who had won to a man who had lost everything.
Then, without another word, he turned to his adjutant, Baron Duke, a man with an excellent memory for instructions and an even better one for politics.
"You'll remain here to finish the clean-up," James ordered with quiet authority. "And make sure everyone knows—General Harry is to be the first transported to Mobis Island."
Baron Duke blinked. "Mobis, Your Highness? That's where—"
"Yes. Where we keep the traitors and the damned. A man like Harry deserves to lead by example, don't you think?" James offered a half-smile. "Let that be his final duty."
Though his words sounded light, there was a steely finality beneath them. Mobis Island was not a death sentence—it was worse. A slow descent into madness surrounded by criminals and exiles, far from the politics of the mainland.
Satisfied, James climbed atop his black warhorse. The animal neighed softly beneath him, sensing his rider's shifting mood. With one last glance at the battered army of Ar and the broken general they had once followed, James turned his horse toward the capital.
There was still a role to play. A victory to celebrate. And a mask to wear.
---
The Following Day – Noon
James awoke in his gilded chamber, bathed in light from the high stained-glass windows. His head throbbed like a war drum, each beat a reminder of the excessive revelry from the night before. He groaned and pressed a hand to his temple, his vision swimming.
"Ugh… never again," he mumbled, his voice hoarse.
The celebration had been as extravagant as it was exhausting. Nobles, soldiers, merchants—everyone had gathered to toast the war's end. Wine had flowed like rivers. Toasts had gone on for hours. And James, despite his resistance, had not been allowed to escape the endless clinking of goblets and the pressure to be the face of triumph.
Though a trained knight with the constitution of a hardened warrior, even he had his limits. Somewhere around the eighteenth toast, he had felt his knees buckle. By the time he faked a desperate need to relieve himself, he had already decided: no more wine for a month.
He sat up slowly, noting the bitter herbal taste in his mouth. A sobering potion, likely slipped to him by one of the palace maids before bed. Without it, he would have still been asleep until dusk.
Groaning, he dragged himself to the edge of the bed and began dressing. Silk tunics, a belt with gold threading, boots polished to a mirror sheen. The finery of nobility.
Yet his body still remembered the battlefield. Out of habit, he reached for the sword resting near his armor stand and gave it a few testing swings. The blade felt slightly heavier than usual, and his movements were slower—dull, unresponsive.
"Still in my blood," he muttered, referring to the alcohol. "Can't even swing properly."
Despite the sluggishness, he smiled. Deep down, he was in good spirits. The threat to his principality had been quelled. The nobles of Marton were united behind him. And his name, already known, had now been etched into the memory of the continent.
James Woz, the Crown Prince of Marton, was no longer just a figurehead.
He was a force to be reckoned with.
Just as James began stretching his limbs, intending to initiate a much-needed physical routine to flush the lingering effects of alcohol from his system, the sound of hurried footsteps shattered the quiet.
The rhythm was uneven—panicked, perhaps? It broke the early calm of the royal wing like a hammer to glass.
His brow twitched.
He hadn't even finished a single stretch.
And he had given clear orders just the day before: "Unless the sky is falling or dragons descend from the heavens, don't disturb me. I need a day."
He needed that day—mentally, physically, and spiritually.
And yet here they were.
The suddenness of the interruption triggered a dull ache behind his eyes. It wasn't just the hangover, though that certainly didn't help. It was the feeling—deep, instinctual—that something was wrong. Trouble always walked in on heavy feet. It never sent an invitation first.
With a breath drawn between clenched teeth, James rose, not bothering to don the formal attire hung beside his armor rack. He remained in a loose-fitting training robe, barefoot on the cold stone floor. His movements were slow, but precise—like a lion pacing within a cage.
He didn't wait for a knock.
Didn't need to.
The moment the footsteps halted just outside his chamber door, James called out with controlled authority:
"Speak. What's the matter?"
A pause followed. Silence bloomed thick enough to cut with a dagger. Whoever stood on the other side was caught off guard—perhaps startled that he was awake, let alone already speaking.
Finally, a female voice answered, muffled but clear. It belonged to Elira, one of the more competent attendants in the palace's inner circle.
"Your Highness… a bishop from the Central Church is here. He's arrived with several attendants and claims the matter is urgent. He bears a sealed document marked with the crimson sigil of the Ecclesiastical Assembly."
James's face didn't move—but something cold stirred in his chest.
The crimson seal.
That was no mere message from the local parish requesting donations or land. It was a formal, emergency edict—something used only in times of serious concern. War. Pestilence. Or… divine visions.
His mind raced with possibilities, but his heart remained unmoved.
"Church business again…" he muttered under his breath with visible distaste, rubbing his temple. His voice held no reverence, only resignation and an echo of memory.
It had been years since the last time a bishop tried to push his way into courtly matters. He still remembered the meeting vividly. The elderly bishop, robes gilded with silver thread, had spoken with an air of ancient authority, requesting permission—no, demanding—to build a new cathedral in the very center of the royal capital.
At first, the request had seemed harmless. Religious buildings were common enough. The commonfolk adored them. And the royal family, pragmatic as they were, had never openly moved against the faith, even if they didn't kneel before it.
But then came the audacity.
The bishop had proposed that the crown should fund it. Entirely.
James's father, King Woz, had laughed for a full minute before finally dismissing the bishop outright. His words still echoed in the memory of the court:
"If this were five hundred years ago, when your Church called kings to kneel and emperors to bleed, I might have considered it. But now? You can't even pay your own priests. You come here like paupers and still expect to be treated like gods. Look in a mirror before asking pigs for pearls."
Needless to say, the discussion ended in hostility. The bishop left empty-handed, humiliated, and furious.
James had inherited that grudge. He respected belief, but he loathed the church's arrogance—how it clung to its ancient glories like rusted armor, refusing to accept its new place in the world.
The mysterious side of the world—the realms of magic, prophecy, divine intervention—had diminished. The Age of Miracles was long past. The people had changed. The world had changed. But the Church?
The Church wanted to go back.
Back to a time when theocratic power could eclipse kingship. Back when bishops held more influence than generals, and papal decrees could silence armies.
James shook his head and sighed.
"Do they really think a crimson seal is enough to make me bow?" he muttered, mostly to himself. "They must be desperate."
Yet, deep down, something about the timing gnawed at him.
The war with Ar had only just ended. The Principality of Marton was still stabilizing. The economy was adjusting. Trade routes were reopening. Nobles were still deciding whether to praise or plot.
For the Church to barge in now, with urgency… it meant either boldness or panic.
And the Church rarely acted boldly anymore.
"Very well," James called, his voice clear. "Escort the bishop and his entourage to the Solar Hall. Have them wait there."
Elira hesitated. "Should I inform the royal guard—?"
"Yes. Double the detail. No weapons are to be carried by guests within the Solar Hall, not even ceremonial staffs. Disarm them politely, but firmly."
"…Understood, Your Highness."
Her footsteps retreated quickly, replaced by distant orders shouted down the corridor.
James turned away from the door and moved toward the window, pushing aside the velvet curtain.
Outside, the royal capital bustled. Sunlight reflected off merchant banners, castle spires, and the gentle curve of the palace garden. To any observer, it was a scene of peace.
But peace, James knew, was always the eye of the storm.
"But since he has an urgent document in his hand, it shouldn't just be about building a church. Could it be…?"
"If this is about land or tithes, I'll crush the discussion before it even begins," he said aloud, as if the words themselves might ward off irritation.
But part of him knew better.
They hadn't come for land.
Not with a crimson seal.
They had come with prophecy.
Or worse—with secrets.
Could it be…?
Secrets they were willing to risk everything to whisper into his ear.
And James Woz was ready to listen—but only as a king, not as a servant.