{Chapter: 51 Troops Enter the City In The Dark}
This wasn't about James being too kind—far from it. Ciel had watched him rise through the ranks, outmaneuver rivals, outwit opponents, and crush threats with surgical precision. James Woz was no stranger to ruthlessness. He didn't wear the velvet robes of a crown prince by accident. He had taken them from others—many of whom no longer had heads to wear them.
But Ciel knew how power worked. Once you climbed high enough, it was no longer about strength or cruelty—it was about balance. About the consequences of every swing of the sword. About how much ruin you were willing to leave behind.
And it was that awareness that sometimes led powerful men to hesitate.
"I've seen this before," Ciel murmured, almost to himself. "In Yvelorn. In Mirdas. Even in the King's court. A crown is a weight... and sometimes that weight crushes the will. Not because the king is weak—but because he cannot afford the aftermath."
James stood silently for a moment longer, staring into the heart of the flame dancing atop the candle. Then, slowly, a change came over him. His expression hardened. The uncertainty drained from his eyes, replaced by cold resolve.
He turned to Ciel, his voice barely more than a whisper—but edged with steel.
"Then we search the final targets last," he said.
His words hung in the air like an executioner's blade.
"We'll sweep the lesser targets first. Flush them out. And if the trail leads to bloodlines or crowns…" He paused, clenching his fist, "then so be it. I won't allow the capital to rot from within. Not under my rule."
His jaw tightened, and he looked down at the map, now littered with ink and symbols like scars on skin.
"If it must come to blood," he said grimly, "then let it flow. The city is already sick. Perhaps it's time I cut away the infection, no matter how deep it runs."
Ciel gave a rare smile, raising his glass in salute. "Now that," he said, "is a crown prince. A true heir. Power is not maintained by sentiment. It's held through fire and fear."
James picked up his own glass, though he barely tasted the wine as it passed his lips.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "I'll call in the regiments loyal to me. Every man whose sword I've bought with gold or honor. I'll bring them into the city under the cover of night... and when the sun sets—"
He paused, then added, "—we strike. Swiftly. Decisively. Let those in shadow feel what it means to be hunted in the dark."
Ciel nodded approvingly. "Then we drink tonight... and tomorrow, we make history."
"Or infamy," James replied darkly, and clinked his glass against Ciel's.
---
The next night.
The capital remained enveloped in the soft darkness of sunset. The stars were still visible, and the towering structures of the city stood majestically like ancient giants against the night sky. Lanterns flickered in the fog-choked streets, casting long shadows as the people of the city slept unaware of the storm that approached.
At the southern gate, tension pulsed through the air like the tremors before a quake.
Krot, the officer stationed at the gate, narrowed his eyes at the distant shapes forming beneath the low horizon. Rows of soldiers were approaching, armor gleaming faintly even in the weak light of dawn. Standards waved softly in the cold breeze, and the slow thunder of hooves echoed down the road like a war drum.
He gripped his halberd tighter.
"Don't come any closer!" he barked, his voice slicing through the early silence. "Identify yourselves! Which unit are you with? I want to speak with your commanding officer!"
The soldiers did not halt. Instead, they continued their march with disciplined silence, the road rumbling under their boots.
His stomach twisted.
And there were far too many of them for this to be a routine deployment.
"By the gods…" he muttered under his breath.
"What in the name of the gods is going on down there?"
Krot's eyes narrowed as he leaned forward on the battlement, his hands white-knuckled around the spear he held. Beneath him, like the slow swell of a tide in moonlight, thousands of armored soldiers were moving into formation outside the city gate—silent, efficient, and ominous in the cold pre-dawn gloom.
The clanking of armor, the stomping of heavy boots, and the whinnies of warhorses echoed through the vast open fields around the capital walls. The torches in the soldiers' hands flickered in the breeze, their firelight casting dancing shadows over polished steel breastplates and crimson banners emblazoned with the royal crest.
Krot's breath caught in his throat.
"Sending so many troops into the city in the middle of the night... what the hell are they planning? Is this a coup?"
He'd heard whispers in the barracks. Rumors of power struggles. Of nobles who'd sworn fealty to old families switching sides. Of brothers turning on brothers, sisters in wrong bed chambers. In royal bloodlines, such things were common—kings were not made by divine favor, but by ruthless hands and sharpened steel.
He shifted uneasily, his instincts screaming at him to raise the alarm and shut the gates. If this was the beginning of a rebellion, the man on duty would either be hailed as a savior—or found hanging by dawn.
Then, suddenly, the sea of soldiers parted with almost choreographed precision. A lone rider emerged from their midst, torch in hand, galloping toward the gate on a dark warhorse that seemed forged from shadow. The rider didn't raise his weapon or shout commands. He simply moved with purpose, as though the city already belonged to him.
The rider halted just before the gate. He lifted the torch and held it high, illuminating his face beneath a silver circlet. The firelight reflected in his steely eyes and carved harsh lines into his regal features.
"Open the gates," he called out in a commanding voice. "Krot, it's me."
The officer squinted through the flames, and recognition struck him like a lightning bolt.
"Your Highness... James?!"
Prince James Woz. The Crowned Wolf of the Marton. The man rumored to have outlived five assassination attempts and orchestrated twice as many.
At once, Krot's fear shifted into awe.
So this was what the movement was about. Not a rebellion... a purge.
James's tone was calm, but behind the calm was a thunderstorm barely contained. "Open the gate. Immediately."
"Yes, Your Highness!" Krot snapped to attention, his heart pounding in his chest.
He turned and barked a series of orders. The guards moved quickly, gears grinding and chains groaning as the great iron doors began to part. Wind swept in from the plains, carrying with it the scent of steel, sweat, and the faint coppery tang of blood. Somewhere in the dark, a raven cried once and flew off into the mist.
Krot stood aside as the prince rode past him, followed by a sea of soldiers marching in synchronized precision. He had never seen anything like it. No fanfare. No drums. Just grim silence and focused eyes.
James didn't look at him, but his voice came again, cold and resolute. "Keep the gates sealed. No one enters. No one leaves."
"Understood, Your Highness," Krot said quickly.
But then James paused, turning his head slightly.
"The capital is rotten. There are cultists hiding among us. Spreading lies. Plotting to destroy the principality from within. From this moment on, anyone attempting to leave the city without my direct permission is to be killed on sight. No exceptions."
Krot's blood turned to ice.
The prince's words had the weight of a death sentence. He glanced at the empty streets behind the gate, suddenly feeling the enormous burden on his shoulders. His garrison was too small for something like this. If panic broke out, they wouldn't last an hour.
He hesitated. "Your Highness... with all due respect, if there's unrest... I don't have enough men to hold the gates."
James's eyes flicked toward him, expression unreadable. Then a rare smile tugged at his lips—not warm, but pragmatic.
"You'll have soldiers. I'm leaving you a full company—archers and heavy infantry. They'll answer to you while I handle what's inside. You only have one job now: keep the rot from escaping. No matter who it is."
Krot felt the weight of the prince's trust settle on his shoulders like iron chains—but alongside that weight came something else. Power. For the first time in his career, he held command over hundreds of trained soldiers.
He saluted stiffly. "Yes, Your Highness. I will not fail you."
Although this military power has a time limit, it cannot be used at will.
But at least it's okay to have fun!
He immediately followed a knight to lead his soldiers, looking extremely impatient.
After all, every man expects something like this to happen.
James gave a brief nod and rode forward, his cape fluttering in the cold wind.
The capital was eerily quiet. Not the quiet of peace, but the kind that comes just before a storm breaks.
The cobblestones echoed with the marching of soldiers, their boots a steady, relentless drumbeat in the dead of night. Taverns were shuttered. Temples locked. Windows dark.
At this hour, the city should have been sleeping. But James knew better. Somewhere, in the hidden places of power—in libraries, in temples, in noble estates—the enemy was awake. Preparing whatever they were summoning.
Tonight, blood would cleanse the capital. And when the sun rose, the city would be reborn.
Or it would burn.