Chapter 60: Verdict of the Trial

  The echoes of the Trial of Kings still hummed in the air of Canindrus, though the blood had long since dried on the arena stones. Victory should have meant the end of the battle, but Marcus knew better.

  He stood now in the Throne Hall of Canindrus, where battles weren’t fought with fists, but with words, alliances, and power plays.

  The hall was a grand arena of its own. Warriors, nobles, and advisors sat in elevated stone rows surrounding the great ironwood throne where King Rathgor loomed, a monument of muscle and authority. Unlike the wild fervor of the arena, this place pulsed with a quieter, more dangerous energy.

  A battlefield of politics.

  Marcus stood at the center, his allies—Vira, Boruk, and Ragn—positioned behind him. At his sides, seated like vipers waiting for a moment to strike, were the noble houses of Canindrus. Among them, his most dangerous opponent yet—Thane Vulgaris.

  The white-maned lion king studied Marcus with keen golden eyes. "You fought well, Marcus Elder," Rathgor said, voice rolling like distant thunder. "Stronger than expected. Smarter than assumed."

  A murmur rippled through the gathered Beastfolk nobility. Some nodded in respect. Others whispered among themselves, exchanging looks filled with intrigue—or resentment.

  Thane Vulgaris, seated with the nobles, remained eerily silent. The smugness he had worn before the trials was gone. But Marcus could feel the man’s calculating stare, studying him. Measuring.

  "The Trial of Kings is more than a contest of strength," Rathgor continued. "It is a test of those who seek power. And with your victory, the Orcs’ claim to sovereignty is acknowledged. No power—human, Beastfolk, or otherwise—may dispute this without declaring war."

  The words landed like a hammer.

  Silence stretched before murmurs of protest began.

  Marcus stood before the war table, his fingers pressing against its worn surface as the murmurs of the gathered Beastfolk nobility grew louder. They were circling, like predators sizing up a wounded prey, waiting to see if he would collapse under the weight of their scrutiny.

  "Sovereignty is earned, but it must also be maintained," a broad-shouldered tiger Beastfolk noble declared, his voice sharp with skepticism. His amber eyes narrowed on Marcus. "The Orcs may have won this right, but can they hold it? Victory in the arena is one thing. Defending a stronghold from real threats is another."

  "Agreed," chimed in an older hyena matron, seated among the high-ranking merchants of Canindrus. She had the look of someone who had thrived on cunning rather than combat. Her spotted fur was streaked with silver, her grin filled with too many teeth. "You fought well, human, but a dungeon does not make a kingdom. The Orcs have land, yes—but no infrastructure, no economy, no true governing system. You’ve won them isolation, not power."

  A few nobles nodded in agreement, while others murmured their doubts. Marcus could feel the tide turning against him.

  "Their stronghold will collapse under its own weight before any enemy marches against it," sneered a leopard Beastfolk, his tone dripping with condescension. "Even if we acknowledge this claim, why should Canindrus stake its reputation on an unstable force?"

  The debate was escalating, shifting from skepticism to veiled dismissal.

  Marcus inhaled slowly, keeping his posture relaxed. Inside his mind, Stem’s voice hummed—calculating, refining, feeding him responses like an advanced strategist.

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  "Your first task is not to prove them wrong outright. It is to control the conversation. Do not let them dictate the terms of the debate."

  Marcus exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly. Then, he spoke—not loudly, but precisely.

  "You're all making an assumption," he said, his tone even, measured. "That the Orcs must succeed in the same way as your own kingdoms. That the only valid way to govern is the one that already exists."

  A few heads tilted, intrigued by the shift in angle.

  Marcus pressed on, channeling the cool confidence of a seasoned diplomat, even as his ribs still ached from the battle earlier.

  "You say they have no economy—but they control a dungeon unlike any other in the region. You say they have no structure—but they've already begun fortifying their defenses before anyone even acknowledged them as a nation. You claim they have no allies—but they’ve just proven they can produce warriors capable of standing in your most honored arena."

  He placed his palm firmly on the map. "Tell me. What is it that truly makes a kingdom? A title? A bloodline? Or is it power?"

  Silence.

  The nobles exchanged glances. Some frowned, others leaned in just slightly, reconsidering.

  "Maintain pressure," Stem prompted.

  Marcus gave them no room to counter yet.

  "You speak of legitimacy," Marcus continued, "but history is built on those who took what was not given. The Beastfolk Kingdom was not granted dominion by an old treaty—it was forged in battle and solidified through trade. Xenor was not always a city-state of power—it clawed its way into existence through politics, backroom deals, and war."

  His voice did not waver, and his gaze did not shift.

  "Now, the Orcs have done the same. And you tell me they have no right?"

  The hyena matron let out a low chuckle. "Hah. Bold words."

  But she was no longer dismissing him outright.

  Marcus pressed further, shifting from defense to offense.

  "Trade is the lifeblood of every power in this room. You say the Orcs have no economy? Then let’s fix that. They have something no one else does—control of the Rebirth Dungeon. We regulate it. We allow guild-sponsored adventurers to enter, under Orc authority. We ensure a steady flow of resources—dungeon cores, rare metals, enchanted artifacts."

  The tiger noble’s brow furrowed. "And who governs this trade?"

  "A council," Marcus answered smoothly. "One with representatives from the Orcs, Canindrus, and Xenor’s Merchant Guilds."

  That sent a ripple of murmurs through the room.

  The leopard noble crossed his arms, clearly irritated. "And if Xenor refuses? They control the southern trade routes."

  Marcus smirked. "Then we create our own."

  That got their attention.

  "The Orcs' stronghold sits at the perfect junction between eastern and northern Beastfolk lands," Marcus said, tapping the map. "We establish a new trade corridor through Canindrus—bypassing Xenor entirely. We build supply routes through Beastfolk territory, ensuring that any merchant who wants access to the dungeon goes through your city first."

  The hyena matron’s ears perked up.

  Marcus saw the shift—opportunism. She was calculating, running numbers in her head.

  "She sees the potential profits," Stem noted.

  The tiger noble stroked his chin. "A direct trade link to a renewable dungeon… The Guild would fight it, but if Canindrus backed it…"

  Marcus saw the doubt cracking. He went for the killing blow.

  "Support the Orcs now," Marcus said, "and Canindrus doesn’t just gain an ally. It gains control over a new economic lifeline. A trade route untouched by human politics. A dungeon managed by warriors, not by greedy merchants."

  He folded his arms. "The alternative? Leave the Orcs to fend for themselves, let Xenor strike first, and when they inevitably seize the dungeon, guess who they’ll charge for access?"

  The hall fell into deep silence.

  Marcus could see it in their faces—the slow realization that he was right.

  Canindrus didn’t have to care about the Orcs.

  But they would care about power. About trade. About staying ahead of Xenor.

  King Rathgor sat back, his golden eyes filled with amusement.

  He let the silence stretch before speaking. "You argue like a beast of the court, not just the arena."

  Marcus shrugged, his smirk unwavering. "Why not both?"

  The hyena matron grinned, clearly entertained.

  The tiger noble gave a reluctant nod.

  The leopard scowled, but offered no further rebuttal.

  The political tide had shifted.

  Yet, in the midst of this victory, Marcus felt Vulgaris’ gaze.

  The Thane had been silent during the debate, but his expression was carefully neutral—too neutral.

  Then, as the conversation pivoted toward signing agreements, the throne room doors burst open.

  A courier, sweating and exhausted, stumbled forward.

  "Forgive me, my King," the courier gasped, "but this letter—intercepted from Xenor’s inner circle."

  Rathgor broke the seal, his expression darkening.

  Then—he handed it to Marcus.

  Marcus read aloud:

  "The Orcs grow bold. It is time to remind them who truly rules these lands. Prepare the War Bands. March before weeks end. Burn their stronghold to the ground."

  Silence.

  Boruk’s jaw tightened. Vira’s eyes flashed with fire.

  Marcus slowly folded the letter.

  Then, he met Vulgaris’ gaze.

  The Thane remained calm, but there was satisfaction in his eyes.

  Marcus exhaled.

  "Looks like we’re not done yet."

  "I look forward to seeing 'you' on the battlefield...

  Thane Vulgaris"