Chapter 203: The Return Of The Wise Owl
The audience hall thundered like a storm. Ministers rose from their seats, robes flaring as they cried for blood, their voices colliding in a cacophony that shook the vaulted chamber. The Dowager’s smile, faint and knowing, never faltered. She alone sat calm amid the tempest, as if she had already written the ending of this play.
Leroy stood in the eye of that storm, and in his chest the spark of vengeance grew hotter, sharper, as though the flames were being fanned by the very hatred aimed at him. Across the dais, the Emperor gripped the armrests of his throne so tightly the wood groaned under his fingers. His lips twitched with the temptation to smile: victory was near, his rival undone, the court turning against him.
Just then...
A sound cut through the hall.
Not a knock. No, it was a steady, deliberate... tap... tap... tap... The sound of a silver cane striking marble.
Those closest to the doors turned first, curiosity flickering into shock. An audible gasp spread like a ripple on still water, and with it, the storm of voices died. One by one, the ministers silenced themselves, until the vast hall lay wrapped in a hush so tense it trembled.
The doors parted, and there in the threshold stood a man. Old, yes. His back bent slightly with the long years he carried, but his shoulders yet sought their dignity, drawn back with quiet pride. His hair, long and unbound, was the pale silver-white of winter’s first frost, spilling to his shoulders in cotton-soft waves. His step was not quick, but it was deliberate, every strike of the cane measured, commanding attention not by force, but by reverence.
The guards flanking the door froze, uncertain. They bowed only to the imperial blood, and yet here... here was a presence who drew instinct to their knees.
The Dowager Empress rose at once, so swiftly it was almost graceless, like a guilty child caught in idleness when her governess entered the room. Her hands gripped her sleeves tightly, but her composure faltered.
The Emperor’s smile vanished, struck from his face as though by a blow. He forced his back against the throne, his chin lifted higher, jaw tight. He was the Emperor of Vaeloria, ruler of the greatest empire the continent had ever seen. He should bow to no man. And yet... every nerve in him screamed to stand, to honor this figure. He bit it down, hard, forcing steel into his spine.
Leroy turned with the rest, his gaze falling on the decorated silver cane. The white owl, wings furled, carved with meticulous detail from ivory, its moonstone eyes glinting with eerie life. His stomach clenched.
The sigil of House Vaelith. The paternal home of the Dowager.
And with it, the truth struck him like thunder.
Osric Vaelith.
The Dowager’s uncle.
House Vaelith had once been little more than a minor house: keepers of records, readers of stars, quiet guardians of the night. Their white owl was no lion or bear, no dragon or wolf, but a creature of silence and wisdom, watchful eyes piercing the dark. A sigil unassuming, yet enduring.
And it was Osric Vaelith who transformed that quiet crest into something revered.
He had been meant to inherit the patriarch’s seat, but chose another path. Unmarried, childless, he relinquished power, yet paradoxically drew all of it to himself. By the sheer weight of his intellect, his foresight, and his iron reputation for fairness, Osric had lifted his family into prominence. The shadow he cast stretched longer than crowns and thrones, longer even than the Dowager herself.
It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say it was Osric’s good name that helped the dowager enter the palace as the crown princess consort, when she was from a very minor house in Vaeloria. That was how much the current emperor’s grandfather valued Osric.
In the days of the late King of Vaeloria, Osric’s word had been prized above all others. His counsel was sought like scripture; his judgment, as unshakable as stone. Ministers and generals alike admitted, sometimes grudgingly, that his wisdom had preserved the empire more than once. His loyalty to Vaeloria was not a gentle thing, but fierce and consuming, an unbending love that demanded she flourish, even when it meant standing against her rulers.
And stand he did.
For it was Osric, calm, deliberate, immovable, who had openly opposed the current Emperor’s most infamous decree that broke the River Pact. When others bent their heads, Osric’s voice rang in the hall like a prophecy of ruin, condemning the choice. He had warned of drought, of famine, of the slow bleeding of trust between nations. He had warned of the price.
The Emperor did not listen.
And so, Osric left after serving two Kings, dismissed by a very young King who didn’t listen.
He turned his back not on Vaeloria, but on her throne. The empire that day lost not merely an advisor, but its conscience. Since then, his name had drifted into legend; half myth, half memory, spoken in whispers of what once was, and what might have been.
No one had heard from him again.
And now, as the ministers stared, dumbstruck and pale, he returned.
Returned today.
His eyes which were wrinkled with age yet razor-sharp, swept the hall. Years had not dulled the icy blue intensity that burned in them. They landed on the bloody head at the center of the audience chamber. Chaos had swept through the hall mere moments ago, and the remnants of that uproar were etched plainly on every face, frozen in fear, shame, or guilt.
Osric walked forward with measured steps, his silver cane clicking softly against the marble. He came to a stop just behind Leroy, a single deliberate stride away.
"So... the wheel turns, yet the cart remains mired in the same mud as when I departed," he said, his voice calm, but carrying the weight of decades. "Who’s that prey?" His cane jabbed gently, almost lazily, at the head of Hadrian.
The room fell into a tense hush. Leroy swallowed and spoke carefully. "It’s Hadrian Arvand." His voice was steady. The dowager’s uncle was here—this could be his leverage, a reminder that Hadrian had died at the hands of his enemies, not him.
"He was killed by his enemies in a—" Leroy began.
"Arvand?" Osric’s words cut through, his tone almost a whisper yet loaded with gravitas. For a brief moment, the veneer of control cracked. His lips trembled, and he whipped his head toward the dowager. She lowered her gaze, silent.
Osric advanced, now standing beside Leroy, a silent pillar of authority. "Pray, what fool hides beneath that mask?" he demanded. His squint sharpened, lips curling as if the world’s absurdities weighed heavily on him. "Is it fear, shame, or nature’s cruelty that drives you? Show me the face you think the world cannot endure."
Leroy blinked. Age? Experience? Or was it the sheer force of personality that made the bluntness... compelling? Oddly, it reminded him of his wife. If she had lived as long as this man, she would have spoken in exactly this tone—unyielding, piercing, yet commanding respect.
His eyes flicked to the dowager. Earlier, when the emperor had asked him to unmask, she had skillfully diverted the command. She would not allow him to reveal himself. And now...
Leroy inclined his head in a bow of respect, but before he could lower himself fully, Osric’s cane pressed under his chin, halting the motion.
Thinking the old man demanded to see his face, Leroy began to lift his mask.
"Uncle!" The Dowager’s voice cut through sharply.
Leroy’s lips quivered, holding back a smirk. The dowager did not want him revealed. He hesitated, but Osric raised his other hand, flowing sleeves slicing the air like a storm.
The dowager’s hand flew to her mouth. She stepped back, swallowing the words that had formed on her tongue.
Leroy’s heart thumped. Just a gesture, and this man silenced her completely.
He slowly removed the mask, eyes fixed on Osric, waiting to see what the old man would do.
Thump. Thump.
The room seemed to hold its breath.