the duty
Chapter 5
[Anton von Darrington x Isabella Bradford]
synopsis Every kingdom begins with an oath; sealed in blood, ends in ashes. But no crown is carried only with honor and victory. Every victory leaves shadows behind, every victory comes at a heavy price. With the sudden death of his father, King Elias, Prince Anton finds himself both the heir to a throne and the bearer of a vengeance. Enemies lurk not only outside, but also within him. His kingdom the Empire of Milas is based on a deep history and full of deep secrets. Because sometimes, the fiercest battles are not fought with swords... but with a thirst for retribution.
genre historical fantasy, romance, angst, hurt-comfort, political drama, royalty
contains alcohol consumption, war scenes, ptsd signs, political manipulation, war themes, imprisonment, power struggles, murderous thoughts
Anton had always been strong-willed. As a child, he was infamously stubborn, once he set his mind on something, there was no prying him away. Anton remembered the summer afternoon when he was ten, standing in the training yard with a wooden sword too heavy for his arms. His palms were raw and blistered, his shoulders ached from the endless drills but when his tutor told him to stop Anton refused. He clenched his jaw and raised the sword again, the weight pulling his wrists downward with every swing.
“You’ll break yourself,” the man muttered, exasperated.
But Elias Darrington had been watching from the stone steps above. His father did not interfere, did not tell him to rest. Instead, the King’s voice carried across the yard, steady and commanding.
“Again, Anton.”
Anton’s breath came in ragged bursts but he obeyed. The sword wobbled, his stance faltered yet he did not quit. When at last the boy collapsed onto the dirt sweat stinging his eyes. Elias approached.
“Do you know why I let you push yourself?” his father asked, his shadow falling over Anton.
Anton shook his head weakly.
“Because a ruler who gives up at discomfort,” Elias said, “is a ruler who will surrender at the first true hardship."
"And a king cannot afford to bend.”
The words lodged deep inside him that day. Even now, years later, Anton could still feel the grit of dirt against his palms, the sword he was too small to wield, and the sharp pride in his father’s voice.
He had not bent then. He would not bend now.
Looking back, he realized that was exactly what his father had wanted. Discipline. Conviction. A ruler who would not bend. And Anton excelled at what was required of him; ruling, fighting, commanding men.
The council chamber felt stifling, even with the tall windows cracked open to let in the late-summer air. A dozen voices whispered, and the scent of candle wax and parchment clung to the stones.
Anton sat at the head of the long oak table, his hand drumming faintly against the armrest of his chair. Sohee, ever sharp, leaned forward, adjusting a roll of parchment.
“Your Majesty,” the chancellor began smoothly, “it is time we establish your court in full. These men and women will be the pillars of your reign. Their loyalty or their ambition will shape our future.”
Anton glanced down the table. One by one, faces turned to him, bowing their heads lightly as Sohee introduced them.
“Master Eden,” Sohee intoned first, gesturing toward the philosopher-general seated stiffly with hands folded on the table. “The Head of the Tower of Scholars and Royal Tutor, and a man whose counsel shaped both your father’s reign and your own upbringing.”
Anton met Eden’s steady gaze. The old man inclined his head, offering neither smile nor frown. For Anton, that was approval enough.
“Mister Shotaro,” Sohee continued, “Royal Advisor. A trusted companion since your youth.”
Anton’s lips curved faintly, the closest thing to warmth he’d shown all meeting. Shotaro returned it with an empathetic glance, more friend than official.
The military seats came next.
“General Sungchan,” Sohee said, his tone clipped. The young general, Anton’s cousin rose with military precision his smile charismatic but edged. “Lieutenant General Wonbin,” Sohee continued, “who fought by your side, Your Majesty in the campaigns at Arhant.” Wonbin stood briefly, steady as stone, loyalty plain in his posture.
“General Eunsok,” Sohee added, voice lowering. The older man didn’t rise, merely grunted acknowledgment. His scarred face was expressionless but Anton caught the hard glint in his eyes.
Beyond the soldiers sat others of influence.
“Chamberlain Osric Fenholt,” Sohee said. A plump, hawk-eyed man gave an elaborate bow. “Keeper of the palace, and a man who sees everything.” Anton thought he caught a smirk.
“Spymaster Lady Nerissa Vale.” A woman in silks of shadow inclined her head ever so slightly. Her eyes lingered on Anton longer than most.
“Lord Justice Jaehyun Holt,” Sohee said, gesturing to a tall, severe man in black robes, whose stern face looked as though it had never known a smile.
“Keeper of the Seals, Maelis Runhart,” Sohee continued, pointing to a meticulous scribe with ink-stained fingers.
“Advisor Lady Celina Moren,” he said at last, “beloved confidant of Queen Mother Era.” Anton’s eyes flicked to her.
But the list continued.
“Ambassador Theo Marquel.” A smooth-tongued man with a too-easy smile bowed extravagantly.
“Royal Historian, Ser Belwyn Ashmoor.” An elderly man muttered something about ancient treaties before Sohee coughed him quiet.
“Master of Ceremonies Vellor Kray.” A fussy man in embroidered velvet.
“Court Alchemist Liora Venn.” A pale woman whose eyes gleamed like quicksilver. Rumors clung to her more than perfumes ever could.
“And finally, Royal Mage Caelan Durell.”
The mage, cloaked in shadowed blue, bowed only slightly, his hand resting over the seal at his chest. His oath-bound power hummed faintly in the air, making the torches flicker.
Sohee’s voice lowered. “These are your pillars, Majesty."
Anton leaned back, eyes sweeping across the chamber, looking each face in silence. Soldiers, schemers, whisperers, and truth-seekers.
A court of wolves.
And he, they must call king.
The council chamber was heavy with incense and whispers, but to Anton it reeked of something sharper ambition. Every glance that flickered across the table was a measuring one, every word was important not for truth but for advantage. Wolves, all of them, dressed in velvet and lace.
So when the meeting, meant for appointing new members of the court, derailed into another dull discussion of the nation's “future”. Anton felt the pressure of tedium pressing against his skull. Politics he could tolerate, war he could thrive in but this?
“…and of course, Your Majesty,” one of the older chamberlain Osric Fenholt said, clearing his throat with self-importance, “the matter of succession must be secured. The Queen, your future wife, must be chosen with both diplomacy and legacy in mind...”
Anton’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked toward him, then to the tall windows of the chamber, where the late afternoon sun streamed in, far more interesting than the endless talk of dynasties.
He is a warrior, a field marshal who had bled in battles his councilors could barely stomach to imagine. And now they sat here, speaking of marriage like they were bartering over land or livestock.
His father would have leaned forward, nodded gravely and chosen a bride that strengthened the empire. Elias Darrington had been a king through and through.
He exhaled slowly, masking his frustration with the faintest smile, one that fooled no one who truly knew him.
“Perhaps,” Anton said, voice deceptively calm, “the empire might survive a few months more without chaining me to some unfortunate woman.”
The room fell into uneasy silence.
Anton sat at the head of the council table, posture sharp, jaw set as though every syllable from the chancellors scraped against his patience.
“And moreover we have important things to discuss.” His voice cut across the chamber.
Silence fell.
“The Tower of Scholars,” Anton began, each word deliberate, “until further notice, it will close its gates.”
Gasps broke out among the courtiers. The sound echoed against the marble walls like a crack in ice.
Anton’s fingers drummed against the polished wood. His expression betrayed no hesitation. His eyes narrowed, sharp and unrelenting.
“No lectures. No access to the archives.”
A ripple of disbelief surged through the council. Master Eden, who had guided Anton’s hand in both sword and study since boyhood, leaned forward, his face heavy with disapproval. He did not speak, but his silence was louder than a thousand protests.
“The people will see this as tyranny, Your Majesty,” Theo Marquel smooth-talking ambassador who’s too charming for his own good, ventured his voice trembling with a dangerous mixture of fear and defiance.
Anton’s gaze snapped to him cold, precise, the kind of look that stripped a man to his bones.
“You dare to question me?”
The ambassador swallowed hard, but the damage was done. The court was watching. The air thickened with unease, nobles shifting in their seats, scholars exchanging nervous glances.
The Tower of Scholars, closed? The lifeblood of the empire’s intellect, its counsel, its memory? The young king had just handed his enemies the very weapon they needed, fear of his rule. And as the chamber erupted into hushed murmurs, one figure among the courtiers quietly clenched his fist beneath the table.
If Anton von Darrington was willing to silence the scholars, then perhaps it was time to silence the king.
Anton looked at them with a stoic expression, his gaze sweeping the chamber like a blade.
“If you have nothing of value to add,” his voice cut through the silence, low but commanding, “then today’s meeting is over.”
A hush followed, thick with unease. Some of the councilors shifted in their seats, others dropped their eyes to the polished table as if the grain of the wood held more importance than their king’s stare.
The chamber emptied slowly, leaving only the echo of boots on stone and the faint rustle of parchment being gathered. Anton remained seated at the head, his hand still poised on the armrest like a commander gripping his sword. His eyes stayed fixed on the door until the last advisor bowed and withdrew.
Sohee did not move. He lingered near the council table, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze steady. When the doors finally shut and silence settled, he inclined his head slightly.
“Your Majesty,” he began with calm restraint, “was it necessary to chastise them so openly?”
Anton’s jaw flexed, though his expression did not soften. “A king cannot afford hesitation, Sohee.”
Sohee stepped forward, measured in his pace, his tone respectful but firm. “With due respect, Sire… closing the Tower is no ordinary decree. Knowledge is not a weapon one may sheathe like a blade. The people may see this as harsh some may even call it tyranny.”
Anton’s gaze flickered toward him, colder than the marble pillars around them, yet shadowed with something unspoken.
Sohee lowered his head slightly, though his words carried quiet. “If there are traitors, Your Majesty, then let justice fall upon the guilty. But forgive me for saying so casting suspicion upon every scholar of Milas may wound the loyalty you wish to preserve.”
Anton’s fingers stilled on the armrest. For a long moment, neither man moved.
At last, Anton leaned forward, voice quieter, almost weary. “You think me reckless.”
Sohee held his gaze, respectful yet unwavering. “No, Sire. And that is what troubles me.”
Sohee's eyes sharpened. “They will call you tyrant.”
“Perhaps,” Anton admitted. “But if this is my will, then let them speak, and I will silence the worst of it.”
Sohee inclined his head. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
Anton leaned back, a faint, dangerous smile tugging at his lips. “Edges are where kings stand, Sohee. And where kingdoms are ruled.”
Master Eden gathered the senior scholars in the central hall. His usual calm carried a sharper edge. His voice carried across the marble chamber, calm but edged with finality.
“The Tower of Scholars will remain closed to the public until further notice,” he declared. Murmurs rippled through the assembly of robed figures, their ink-stained hands clutching scrolls and books as if the decree might snatch them away.
“Your projects will not cease,” Eden continued, his tone allowing no room for protest. “You will work as you always have, but what you produce will stay within these walls. No lectures. No public readings. No dissemination to the markets or courts. Knowledge will be safeguarded until the time is right.”
A silence followed. The Tower, a beacon of open inquiry for centuries, had never been shuttered in this way. To scholars, it was both sanctuary and stage. Now, it would become a vault.
At the edge of the hall, Isabella’s brows knit together, her fingers tightening around the spine of her notebook. She knew what this meant.
When the others finally dispersed in subdued whispers, she lingered.
“Why?” she asked softly to herself, though her voice carried an edge. “What knowledge is so dangerous it must be hidden from the very people it was meant to enlighten?”
The Tower of Scholars had never been this quiet.
Gone were the lively debates echoing through the marble corridors, the rhythmic scratching of quills and the chiming laughter of apprentices racing to lectures. Now, only the sound of turning pages and distant footsteps filled the air, a silence too precise to be peace.
From the upper gallery, Isabella looked down upon the central hall, where the morning light filtered through stained glass in fractured hues of gold and crimson. Dust floated in the beams like suspended time.
Every book she touched felt heavier now, as though the bindings themselves knew they were forbidden.
She closed her notebook slowly drawing a line across the unfinished page. The ink bled slightly forming a small black scar across her thoughts.
At the far end of the hall, Master Eden stood before the great doors conferring in low tones with two senior scholars. Their faces were grave and their voices low. Isabella couldn’t hear the words but she saw the fear. Fear, not of war, nor of gods, but of silence itself.
When he finally turned, he saw her watching. “Miss Bradford,” he said, voice roughened with fatigue. “Walk with me.”
They crossed the hall together their footsteps echoing softly. Eden’s hands were clasped behind his back his posture as rigid as the pillars lining the corridor.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said at last.
Isabella hesitated. “Do you?”
“That this decree is unjust. That we are betraying our purpose.”
She met his gaze. “Are we not?”
He stopped beside a tall, arched window. Outside, the gardens stretched toward the horizon still, serene, deceptively beautiful. “Knowledge is a double-edged sword” he murmured. “And our king is bleeding on both sides of it.”
“Then he should not have drawn it.” she replied, unable to hold back the bitterness in her tone.
Eden turned his head slightly.
“You speak as one who has not seen the world beyond ink and parchment. You may disagree with his methods but do not underestimate what shapes them.”
Isabella’s voice lowered. “And how long must the rest of us carry his burden with him?”
Eden didn’t answer. He only placed a hand on her shoulder a quiet warning and walked away.
She stood alone for a while her reflection staring back at her in the glass. For the first time since arriving at the Tower she felt trapped within its walls not sheltered by them.