The throne room felt like a tomb. King Theron sat motionless, the weight of Ravi's ultimatum pressing down on him, heavier than any crown. The two Royal Sentinels, having recovered their composure, stood at a respectful distance, their hands gripping their swords so tightly their knuckles were white. They had witnessed an impossibility, and the very foundations of their worldview had been shaken.
For hours, the King did not move. He stared into the twilight gathering outside his balcony, replaying the conversation in his mind. He was caught in a perfect, cosmic trap. On one side, a slow, guaranteed decay into a kingdom of hollowed-out nobles and festering resentment. On the other, a swift, violent political storm that would likely cost him his throne, if not his life.
He thought of his ancestors, the warrior-kings who had forged Eldoria with blood and steel. They had faced armies, dragons, and rebellions. He was facing something far more terrifying: a philosophical choice with world-ending consequences.
His mind drifted to Duke Pheros, his cousin. He imagined the Duke's smug satisfaction as his legal web tightened around the Mire. Then, he imagined the Duke after Ravi's "judgment"—a weeping, broken shell, his wealth turned to dust, his pride to ashes. He imagined that fate befalling every noble in his council, every lord who supported his reign. The kingdom would become a grand, gilded asylum. Ravi's promise was not one of destruction, but of a slow, creeping insanity that would rot the nobility from the inside out. It was a terrifyingly elegant solution.
Then he considered the alternative. A Royal Decree. An act of defiance against centuries of tradition and the entrenched power of the aristocracy. He would be branded a traitor to his class, a "slum-lover," a weak king swayed by a phantom. The Duke would rally the other nobles. There would be calls for his abdication. There might even be a civil war.
"If you choose justice, I will ensure the scales remain balanced in your favor."
Ravi's parting words echoed in his mind. What did that mean? Would the Slum God stand with him? Would he strike down the King's political enemies? The idea of having such a being as an ally was as terrifying as having him as an enemy. It would mean ceding ultimate authority, admitting that his crown was second to the judgment of a boy in rags.
The moon rose high in the sky, bathing the silent throne room in its pale, silver light. The King rose and walked to the balcony, the cool night air a balm on his fevered brow. He looked down upon his city. He saw the glittering lights of the noble estates, the warm glow of the merchant quarters, and the dim, flickering lamps of the distant Mire.
For the first time, he did not see them as separate parts of a whole. He saw them as a single, interconnected ecosystem. He saw the truth in Ravi's words: the wealth of the spires was built upon the suffering of the slums. The well was poisoned. And he, the King, was its keeper.
What kind of king did he want to be? The caretaker of a gilded cage, watching his subjects slowly go mad? Or the man who dared to break the cage open, even if the birds within it turned to peck him to death?
A decision settled in his heart. It was not a decision of political strategy or of self-preservation. It was a simple, moral choice. A choice for justice over law. A choice for his people over his nobles.
He turned back into the throne room, his expression no longer weary, but filled with a grim, terrible resolve.
"Summon the Royal Scribe," he commanded, his voice ringing with an authority he hadn't felt in years. "And wake the Lord Commander. I have a decree to issue. It is to be copied and posted in every district by sunrise."
Duke Pheros was enjoying a late-night glass of brandy when the news reached him. A royal herald, his face pale with shock, was granted an emergency audience.
"Your Grace," the herald stammered, holding out a freshly copied parchment with the King's seal still warm upon it. "A new Royal Decree. Effective immediately."
The Duke took the parchment, a frown of mild annoyance on his face. He read the first line, and his annoyance turned to disbelief. He read the second, and the disbelief turned to cold fury.
By the Sovereign Hand of King Theron XI, the decree began. It is hereby declared that the fundamental right of a citizen to their home and hearth shall hold precedence over ancestral land claims and deeds of acquisition. Let it be known that any law, contract, or edict used to displace a peaceful, established resident for the primary purpose of redevelopment or profit shall be deemed an act of Unjust Eviction. Such acts are hereby declared illegal and unenforceable within the kingdom of Eldoria. All current eviction proceedings matching this description are to be halted immediately and deemed null and void.
The Duke's hand trembled, the parchment crinkling in his grip. The King had not just folded. He had set fire to the entire game board. He had sided with the slum, with the phantom, against his own blood, against his own class.
"He's mad," the Duke hissed, his voice dangerously low. "The King has lost his mind."
"There is more, Your Grace," the herald squeaked.
The Duke's eyes scanned the rest of the text. The decree went on to establish a new Royal Tribunal for Land Disputes, its purpose to mediate fair buyouts and relocations, with the "well-being of the citizen" as its guiding principle. It was a systematic dismantling of the very foundation of his power.
"He has declared war on us," the Duke whispered, the implications crashing down on him. He crumpled the parchment in his fist. "He has chosen a god of dirt and filth over his own nobility. So be it. He will learn what happens when a king stands alone."
He turned to his own aide. "Send messages. To every lord, every baron who has a stake in the Guild. Tell them the King has betrayed us. It is time we reminded him who truly holds the power in this kingdom."
The pieces were in motion. The political storm was about to break.
At the first light of dawn, the decree was posted on the door of the Mire clinic, directly over the eviction notice. A royal scribe, his voice shaking, read it aloud to a small, disbelieving crowd.
As the words sank in—Unjust Eviction… illegal and unenforceable… null and void—a stunned silence fell over the people. Then, a single person began to clap. Another joined in, and another, until a wave of rapturous applause and joyous, weeping cheers erupted through the streets.
Elara stood beside Lyra, her hand pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. It was a miracle, but a different kind of miracle. It wasn't a display of impossible power. It was a simple act of justice, delivered through the most unexpected of channels.
Lyra watched, her expression one of deep, analytical awe. "He did it," she murmured. "He didn't break the system. He forced the system to fix itself. He balanced the scales not with a judgment, but with a choice. Incredible."
Elara looked around at her people, their faces alight with a hope so pure it was painful to behold. She knew this was not the end. The nobles would not take this lying down. A great struggle was coming.
But then she looked up, towards the silent, watching bell tower. She couldn't see him, but she could feel him. A calm, steady presence. A silent promise. The scales will remain balanced.
For the first time, she wasn't afraid of the future. The kingdom of the blind had been forced to open its eyes. And their god was still watching.