Ink: Living Life as Serena Gleis

Chapter LII: The Throne

"Make me your Emperor, and I will ensure the safety and protection of this land," Zion reiterated, his words carrying a weight of determination and assurance that demanded attention and consideration from those assembled.

Celine gritted her teeth, her gaze fixed on Zion as his bold declaration swayed the majority of the nobility present, casting a shadow of doubt over Cynfael's claim to the throne. Her fingers tightened their grip on Cynfael's shoulder, a silent gesture of threat amidst the tumultuous turn of events.

"Now this is getting interesting," Augustus remarked with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he observed the unfolding drama before him. The tension in the room was palpable, each word and gesture shaping the destiny of the empire with each passing moment.

"I am your crowned prince, and I shall ascend to the throne as Emperor," Cyn's voice rang out with authority, commanding the attention of all present and quelling the murmurs that had erupted throughout the room.

"According to the laws of the Empire, the second prince retains a claim to the throne should the crowned prince be deemed incapable," Augustus interjected with a mocking laugh, his words dripping with sarcasm. Celine shot a fierce glare at the Duke of Gleis, who met her gaze with an infuriating smirk, his amusement at the unfolding power struggle evident for all to see.

"How dare you speak like that in front of your next Emperor?" Celine's words were laced with thinly veiled contempt as she addressed the Duke directly.

"Who?" The Duke's response dripped with sarcasm, his tone mocking and dismissive.

"And according to the laws of this Empire, if there are two heirs vying for the throne and neither renounces their claim, then it shall be decided democratically," Esmeralda interjected, drawing attention to a crucial aspect of the law.

"No," Cynfael countered, his refusal ringing through the room with finality, refusing to entertain the notion of a democratic resolution to the succession crisis.

"Are you scared?" The Duke's voice dripped with venom as he locked eyes with Cyn, his gaze unflinching and devoid of fear.

"So be it. Let's settle this democratically then," Celine responded, her voice firm and unwavering.

"Excuse me, young lady. I don't mean to be impolite, but who are you? And who gave you the right to voice an opinion on this matter?" The Duke's words were laced with mockery as he turned his attention to the fuming Celine, dismissing her with a condescending sneer.

"I am already the crown prince; my ascension to the throne as the next Emperor is absolute," Cynfael declared with unwavering authority. "If you do not appoint me as your Emperor, then the empire will receive no support from the imperial family," he added, his tone resolute and commanding. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, underscoring the gravity of the choice facing those gathered in the room.

In August's calculating mind, every move was a strategic play on his personal chessboard. The fate of the throne, the destiny of the Empire itself, all were but pieces in his grand design. Yet amidst the political turmoil and the looming shadow of Yeoris, one singular obsession burned bright: vengeance for his daughter. Gleis, resilient and independent, stood apart from the capital's whims, a beacon of autonomy in a sea of uncertainty. With unwavering determination, August knew one truth above all: Yeoris would never dare to challenge the sovereignty of his domain.

"The law is absolute," declared the once timid Duke of Clox, his voice resolute as he stood before the gathered nobles. "With the authority that Astarte has blessed Clox, I hereby acknowledge the democratic ascension for the throne." Though lacking the courage of the Duchess of Draux and the Duke of Gleis, he vowed never to let his people suffer. For it was they who bore the greatest burdens of this war, and he would stand firm in their defense, come what may.

Murmurs filled the room, swirling among the assembled nobility. For the Empire, this moment marked an unprecedented decision-the selection of its own Emperor. Celine, her fury palpable, seemed on the verge of eruption, her nails piercing Cynfael's shoulders.

"Be it. I hear you," Cyn declared proudly, his demeanor unwavering despite the looming possibility of losing the throne to his younger brother.

Under Duke Clox's command, every individual in attendance was handed a piece of parchment and a pen, tasked with marking their choice for the throne. The suddenness of the decree left the neutral nobles no room for hesitation-they were compelled to decide in the heat of the moment, their hands guided by the weight of history and the uncertainty of the future.

Celine's gaze swept across the room, her desire to manipulate the outcome plain in her eyes. Yet, she understood the futility of such efforts. Despite her formidable abilities to influence and control minds, she recognized the impossibility of swaying the collective will of the masses gathered before her. In this vast assembly, her power, though potent, remained finite.

Moments stretched into eternity before a knight approached, the box brimming with the parchment bearing the nobles' votes. With solemnity, Duke Clox undertook the task of tallying the results, his every movement scrutinized by the tense onlookers. Despite the deafening silence, his expression remained inscrutable, betraying no hint of the verdict hidden within the folds of those delicate papers.

Zion's breath caught in his throat as he observed the Duke meticulously tallying the votes. His gaze shifted to his brother, once a figure of admiration, now a stranger shrouded in detachment. The emptiness in his brother's eyes pierced Zion's soul, as if they were mere windows to a puppet being manipulated by unseen forces, devoid of the spark of life that once animated them.

Since their youth, Zion had admired his brother, the embodiment of justice and compassion. It pained him to witness the transformation of the once noble prince into a tyrant. Despite his fear, Zion harbored a fierce determination to rescue the Empire he held dear. Zion's determination to salvage the empire stemmed not only from his love for his homeland but also from a deeper, more personal motive-Serena.

The memory haunted Zion like a ghost, the image of his brother's solemn vow to protect Serena seared into his mind. He had surrendered his own affection for the Lady of Gleis, convinced of his brother's genuine love for her. But it was all a deceitful charade, a betrayal that pierced Zion's heart like a dagger. The burden of guilt weighed heavily upon him, tormenting him with each passing day, as he grappled with the knowledge that he had failed to rescue Serena from the clutches of this monstrous sibling. Each moment was a relentless erosion of his soul, leaving him shattered and consumed by remorse.

Serena's death weighed like a stone upon Zion's heart, a burden he carried with crushing remorse. Unable to save her, he felt powerless and consumed by grief. Yet, in her memory, he resolved to thwart Cynfael's monstrous ambitions, seeking to honor her memory with the justice she deserved. It was the only semblance of solace he could grasp amidst the overwhelming tide of sorrow.

Zion's reverie shattered as the Duke of Clox cleared his throat, drawing his attention back to the present moment. With a practiced hand, the Duke carefully returned the parchment to the box, signaling the conclusion of the vote tallying process. The tension in the room thickened, each individual holding their breath in anticipation of the imminent revelation.

As the Duke prepared to announce the results, the weight of the empire's future hung in the balance, resting squarely upon his shoulders. His expression remained an enigma, betraying no clue as to the outcome. Esmeralda, consumed by anxiety over the prospect of a misguided leader steering the empire astray, watched intently, her concern palpable. In stark contrast, Augustus wore an amused smirk, seemingly unfazed by the gravity of the moment.

"By the authority vested in me by Astarte," the Duke began, his voice resonating with solemnity, "the voice of the Empire's people has spoken. I now declare the dawn of the 18th principate of Bluistain." Tension mounted as he paused for emphasis, the anticipation in the air nearly palpable. "All hail the new Emperor-," he continued, the words hanging in the air, pregnant with anticipation, poised to shape the empire's destiny for generations to come.

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