Isabella stormed out of the king's chamber, her green hair wild and disheveled like a storm-tossed sea. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from fury so potent it could have melted steel. She crunched a paper bearing the name 'House Creed' in her grip, reducing it to pulp before tossing it aside as though it were nothing more than trash.
"All I needed was his ring," she hissed under her breath, venom dripping off every word. "His stupid, goddamn ring!"
Her thoughts raced back to Henry's whisper—'It's his now.' The words clawed at her mind, sharp and merciless. Whose else could he mean but that rotten son of hers? That ungrateful brat who dared defy her at every turn?
"Men and their obsession with their sons," she spat, her voice low and dangerous, like a blade slicing through silk. "Fine. If the board has shifted, then so will I."
She paused mid-step, her eyes narrowing into slits as an idea took shape. A cruel smile tugged at the corners of her lips, cold enough to freeze fire itself. "I'll need to call Lara back," she murmured, almost to herself. "Let her deal with this mess while I prepare for what comes next."
As she strode away, guards and servants alike knelt before her, trembling beneath the weight of her wrath. None dared meet her gaze; none dared breathe too loudly. Even the air seemed to shrink away from her presence, thick with dread and despair.
.
.
.
Meanwhile, in a dimly lit office deep within the castle, Atlas lounged on a plush chair, appearing utterly relaxed despite the tension crackling around him. His golden eyes gleamed with amusement as he surveyed the three figures standing before him—each radiating power, authority, and thinly veiled contempt.
"So, my dear ladies and gentlemen," he drawled lazily, flashing a small, razor-sharp grin. "What is it that you all want from little old me?"
Before him stood Darius, Claire, and Daron—titans of politics, nobility, and military might respectively. Each carried documents demanding his attention, each expected compliance. Outside the room, dozens more waited impatiently, their whispers echoing faintly like distant thunder. But inside, Atlas remained unfazed, his heartbeat quickening not from excitement but survival instinct roaring to life.
Darius stepped forward first, his high-pitched tone clashing jarringly with his position as head of the ministry. He pointed at the stack of papers in his hand, practically shoving them toward Atlas.
"Prince Atlas," he began, his voice laced with forced politeness that barely masked his disdain. "I hope you merely stamp the new budget documents here. The king entrusted you with this task—I trust you'll fulfill it with all your might." He jabbed a finger at a blank space on one document. "Just use the king's ring to stamp HERE."
Atlas arched an eyebrow, his smirk widening ever so slightly. "Later," he muttered dismissively, cutting off Darius mid-sentence without even looking at the papers.
Next came Daron, the high commander—a man whose reputation preceded him. Unlike Darius, Daron approached with measured respect, his posture rigid yet dignified. His words carried the weight of experience and duty.
"My prince," he said, bowing slightly. "Please approve these requests for new armor and blades for our soldiers. This era of peace has left us vulnerable to rust. Should demons return—as they did last year—we must be prepared."
Atlas nodded faintly, appreciating the man's professionalism if not his demands. At least Daron wasn't treating him like some incompetent child. Still, the prince made no promises. "Later," he repeated, waving Daron off with the same indifference he'd shown Darius.
Finally, Claire stepped forward—or rather, barged in like a tempest unleashed. Her purple eyes burned with pure irritation as she barked her orders without an ounce of respect.
"Boy!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. "Hurry up and sign over those lands to my house! Stop wasting our time!"
Atlas tilted his head, studying her with detached curiosity. Here was the infamous Marquise of the East, a woman known for her ruthlessness and ambition. Yet today, she seemed less intimidating and more like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum.
"Hmm…" he hummed softly, leaning back in his chair. "Such impatience. Are you always this charming, Lady Claire?"
Her glare intensified, but she said nothing further, knowing full well that pushing too hard might backfire. After all, Atlas was still the prince—and technically, the holder of the king's ring.
"Sir Darius, Sir Daron," Atlas called, rising to his feet with deliberate slowness. "I will consider your requests… later." His tone brooked no argument.
"But your highness, this is of utmost importa...." Darius preached.
"...LATER!" Atlas interrupted.
"And you, Lady Claire," he continued, turning his piercing gaze on her. "Perhaps we can discuss your demands when you learn how to address royalty properly."
Claire bristled visibly, but before she could retort, Kury stepped forward, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. Sansa followed suit, moving gracefully to intercept any potential threats outside the room.
"Master," Atlas said calmly, addressing Kury. "Please escort Sir Darius and Sir Daron out. And Sansa?" He glanced at her briefly, his expression softening ever so slightly. "Kindly assist her. There's far too much noise outside for my liking."
Kury's lips curled into a predatory smile as she gestured toward the door. "Of course, Your Highness."
With that, the meeting ended abruptly, leaving behind a palpable sense of unease. As the doors closed behind the departing guests, Atlas exhaled sharply, sinking back into his chair.
"Haaa…" he breathed, running a hand through his hair. "The fire of Birmingham burns brighter than ever, doesn't it?"
Now only him and the fake queen remained as her stare intensified and so did his, until...
"Hahahahaha...." Claire laughed, leaning back into the plush sofa as though they were old friends sharing secrets instead of predators circling each other in a gilded cage. "So how was my act, Atlas?" she questioned, her voice dripping honey laced with arsenic. The pride and annoyance from earlier dissolved into this new performance—a calculated charm designed to disarm him.
Atlas mirrored her smirk, letting his lips curl just enough to show he wasn't fooled but not so much that she'd feel threatened. "...Marvelous, Aunt Claire," he drawled, his tone lazy, almost bored. "Here I was afraid you'd changed your mind about playing nice."
Claire chuckled again, low and throaty, waving one hand dismissively as if swatting away an invisible fly. "Aww...my nephew is still young in the pants, I see. You need to have at least this much flair in noble society." She flicked her wrist dramatically, her movements exaggerated yet deliberate, like a conductor leading an orchestra of chaos.
They sat comfortably now, facing each other across the small space between them. To anyone else, it might look like two family members catching up after years apart. But Atlas knew better. This wasn't camaraderie; it was chess. And every word, every glance, every twitch of muscle was another piece moved on the board.
He'd anticipated this rebellion when Henry handed over the ring. Power shifted suddenly, violently, and people hated sudden change more than anything. Especially when the spotlight had been shining so brightly on Lara—the golden child destined to save them all. Now here came Atlas, stepping out of shadows long cast by his sister's brilliance, demanding attention no one thought he deserved.
It reminded him of those training sessions in management sims back in his original life. Managers would fake fights with supervisors to calm down disgruntled staff. It was textbook manipulation: pick someone influential, stage a confrontation, then resolve it publicly to quell unrest. Simple psychology, really.
And Claire? Oh, Claire was perfect for the role. Logical, ambitious, ruthless—everything Atlas remembered from playing through her schemes in the game. She'd used Lara countless times before, pulling strings to further her own goals while dangling promises of power in front of the heroine like bait. When Lara became queen, Claire planned to dissolve the nobility altogether, consolidating absolute authority under her cousin-turned-king.
Now, Atlas simply copied her playbook—with a modern twist, of course. Because where Claire relied on brute force and cunning, Atlas brought strategy born of knowledge. He understood these characters better than they understood themselves. Knew their weaknesses, their fears, their desires. Claire thought she was using him, but in reality, he was already three steps ahead or so he wants to think.
"...Aunt," Atlas began cautiously, testing the waters, "you still want all the profits from the vein mining? Cause it's gonna—"
Shhh!!!
Her finger pressed firmly against his lips, silencing him mid-sentence. Her touch was cold, commanding. A warning wrapped in velvet gloves. "That ship has sailed, Atlas," she murmured softly, her voice carrying the weight of finality. "It's all done and dealt. No need to look back now. You are king now. Rule like one."
She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, "Don't deal in ifs and maybes. It's only absolution or nothing. That's how you rule. That's how my cousin—your father—ruled."
Atlas swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain still under her scrutiny. Her words hit too close to home, stirring memories of Henry's advice. Absolution or nothing. Ruthlessness cloaked in righteousness. A mantra etched into the bones of rulers since time immemorial.
"Well," Claire continued, pulling away slightly, her gaze piercing through him like daggers, "I have to say, Atlas. When I received your letter, I thought what kind of bullshit were you spawning upon me. But now..." She paused, tilting her head ever so slightly, studying him like a scientist examining a rare specimen. "...after seeing you..."
Atlas felt sweat prickle along his spine despite the cool air. His heart pounded wildly, adrenaline coursing through his veins like wildfire. Every instinct screamed at him to move—to blink, to breathe—but he forced himself to stay frozen, silent. Even the slightest twitch could give him away.
Claire's eyes were sharp, sharper than any blade. They saw everything, missed nothing. So he remained steady, offering only a faint smile as his response. Anything more would be a mistake.
"Hmmm..." Claire hummed approvingly, standing up gracefully. "I am starting to like you, Atlas. I guess my job here is done."
Atlas blinked, caught off guard by her abrupt departure. "Aunt, we still haven't discussed the details yet..."
"No need, dear," she interrupted, turning toward the door without looking back. "I am afraid my greed would take over and take what little remains of you as well." Her voice carried a teasing edge, playful yet menacing. Like a cat batting at its prey before delivering the killing blow.
Atlas watched her go, his jaw clenched tight, fingers digging into the armrests of the sofa until his knuckles turned white.
'Woman...' he thought bitterly, gritting his teeth. 'Always so damn hard to deal with. Ohhhh...I want to make her kneel right now. Break her pride into pieces and watch her beg. Haaaa...not yet. Not yet. One problem at a time, Atlas.'
Bang!
The door slammed shut behind Claire, echoing loudly through the empty room. For a moment, silence reigned supreme. Then—
"You won this time, Atlas, son of Henry!" Claire shouted from beyond the threshold, her voice laced with venom. "But I will not fall for your tricks later!!"
Her footsteps faded quickly, leaving Atlas alone with his thoughts. He sank deeper into the sofa, exhaling sharply through clenched teeth.
"Fuck..." he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "Too much fucking drama!"
For all his planning, for all his knowledge of the game, dealing with Claire left him drained. She wasn't just a player on the board; she was the storm itself, unpredictable and destructive. And though he'd managed to maneuver her today, Atlas knew full well that victories like this were fleeting. Tomorrow, she'd come back stronger, hungrier. More dangerous.
He glanced at the ring gleaming on his finger, its weight heavy both literally and metaphorically.
Atlas closed his eyes, letting darkness envelop him momentarily. In the quiet, he heard echoes of Henry's voice whispering warnings, Claire's laughter ringing like bells tolling doom, and somewhere far away, Lara's name whispered like a prayer.
"Haaa…" he breathed out slowly, opening his eyes once more. "One problem at a time."