My life as a king

Chapter Title: "Cracks in the Alliance"

The room was dimly lit, the heavy drapes drawn tight to keep out prying eyes. The atmosphere inside was stifling, a tangible weight pressing down on the three men seated around the table. Prime Minister Veranthor, Duke Marcius, and Marquess Torran shared a rare silence, their faces a reflection of their collective frustration and anger.

For years, they had operated as a unified front, their alliance ensuring control over the kingdom's key resources and decision-making processes. But today's council meeting had shaken their foundation. Roman, the so-called "useless king," had played a masterful game, using the assassination attempt and the evidence he claimed to possess as leverage to strip them of some of their most significant powers.

Veranthor, usually composed, was visibly seething. His hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "That bastard," he hissed, breaking the silence. "He's played us. I underestimated him, and now we're paying the price."

Duke Marcius leaned back in his chair, his expression grim. "We all did, Veranthor. But underestimating him doesn't change the fact that we've lost ground. The city guards… under his direct command? Do you understand what that means?"

Marquess Torran scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. "Of course we understand, Marcius! The city guards were a cornerstone of our power, and now they answer to him. And to add insult to injury, he removed you as their 'commander.'and make luke the commander . He's mocking us!"

Marcius slammed his fist on the table, his voice rising. "You think I don't know that, Torran? You think I don't realize how much I've lost today? But yelling about it won't change anything."

"Enough!" Veranthor's voice cut through the argument like a blade. He straightened in his seat, his sharp gaze darting between the two. "This is exactly what he wants. He's trying to sow discord among us, and it's working. We can't let him divide us further."

The room fell silent again, but the tension remained palpable.

---

After a moment, Torran broke the silence. "So, what do we do now? We can't just sit here and lick our wounds. The king has already gained more influence in the council, and if we don't act, he'll consolidate even more power."

Veranthor nodded, his mind racing. "You're right. We need to regroup and find a way to counter him. But this time, we can't rely on brute force or overt actions. He's proven that he's more cunning than we gave him credit for. We need to be smarter."

Marcius frowned. "Smarter how? He has the evidence. If he presents it, we're finished. Our reputations, our influence—it'll all crumble."

"That's why he hasn't presented it yet," Veranthor said, his voice laced with bitterness. "He's using it as a sword hanging over our heads, keeping us in check while he builds his power base. But there's a risk to that strategy. The longer he holds onto the evidence without acting, the more time we have to discredit it or him."

Torran raised an eyebrow. "And how do you propose we do that? The man just survived an assassination attempt. His popularity is soaring, and his enemies are on the defensive. We're cornered."

"Not entirely," Veranthor said, a glimmer of his usual confidence returning. "The council is not as unified as it seems. There are still members who are neutral, watching and waiting to see who comes out on top. If we can sway them to our side, we can begin to counter his influence."

---

Marcius stroked his chin thoughtfully. "And how do we sway them? Bribes? Promises of power? Most of them are too afraid of the king to align with us openly."

Veranthor smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Not openly, no. But fear is a double-edged sword. If we can make them fear the consequences of opposing us more than the consequences of defying the king, they'll fall in line."

Torran frowned. "Fear? What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting we remind them why our alliance has ruled this kingdom for so long," Veranthor replied, his tone icy. "We've built our power through influence, through connections, through strength. It's time we remind the council of that strength."

Marcius hesitated. "That's a dangerous game, Veranthor. If we push too hard, we risk alienating them further—or worse, driving them into the king's arms."

"Which is why we must be subtle," Veranthor said. "We don't need to intimidate everyone. Just a few key members. Enough to create doubt and hesitation. If we can fracture the king's newfound support, we can stall his momentum."

Torran leaned forward, his expression skeptical. "And what about the city guards? They were our greatest asset, and now they're his. How do we counter that?"

Veranthor's jaw tightened. "We don't. Not directly. For now, we focus on the council. The guards are a lost cause, but the council is still within our grasp. We need to chip away at his support before he consolidates it further."

---

The three men sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their thoughts. Finally, Marcius spoke.

"And what if we fail? What if the king outmaneuvers us again?"

Veranthor's expression darkened. "Then we'll be left with no choice but to consider more drastic measures. But for now, we focus on rebuilding our position. The king may have won this round, but the game is far from over."

Torran sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. I'll start reaching out to some of the neutral council members, see where their loyalties lie. But don't expect miracles. The king has them all on edge after today."

Marcius nodded reluctantly. "I'll do the same. But we need to tread carefully. If the king gets wind of our efforts, he'll use it against us."

Veranthor stood, his posture stiff but resolute. "Then we make sure he doesn't. This isn't over. Not by a long shot. But we need to be smarter, more cautious. One misstep, and we'll lose everything."

The three men exchanged wary glances before parting ways, each consumed by their thoughts.

---

As the door closed behind them, Veranthor allowed himself a moment of unguarded frustration. He slammed his fist against the table, his face a mask of anger and regret.

"How did it come to this?" he muttered to himself. "That boy... that useless boy... he's made a fool of me."

But even as he seethed, a flicker of determination sparked in his eyes. The game wasn't over. Not yet. And Veranthor was nothing if not a player.