As Xolani described, the caucus mostly consisted of elder gentlemen, though he would not deign to call them solons. They have served the nation since the time of the whilom emperor, and clung tightly to their outdated, traditionalist values. In that same vein, these quote, unquote, “old fogeys” were not that dissimilar to their father, hence why Xolani eluded the statesmen like they were a plague, for they had a tendency to… “lecture” them, which was putting it nicely.

Needless to say, Xolani had never consciously waltzed into their censorious den until now, and there was no kicking or screaming or bellyaching— but rather a grave, uncharacteristic silence and a harsh grip around his wrist. The entire journey felt akin to trudging through a pit of thick mud as his brain ran through theory after theory; the elephantine weight of his apprehensions like a rockslide, threatening to bury him. 

Senility aside, the statesmen were usually well-mannered— preeningly, even, donning unflustered dispositions and robes of peerless white, balanced and high-shouldered. For they had a reputation to uphold; they were the king’s core circle— his gurus and counselors— thus, even when differences in opinion occurred, even when feathers were doubtlessly ruffled, they always maintained their poise— their decisions and actions were reflective on the government as a whole, after all.  

However, Jevon could descry their feuding from yards down the hall; it was unnaturally heated, and he wondered if they had somehow ended up on the doorstep of the rageful colosseum instead. He and Xolani exchanged a look of likeminded bewilderment and, presumably, came to the same tacit understanding: the situation must be incredibly dire if it has managed to get even the knickers of the ever-composed senate in a big, angry knot. 

So, there was a moment of hesitation when the pair had paused in front of the humongous doors of the squally conference room, as if they were dithering on the threshold of destiny— and he was admittedly quite afraid of what lurked on the other side. However, Xolani ultimately marched forward with stride, even if it was tantamount to sticking your toes into a piranha-infested lakebed— their confidence unafflicted— at least, on the surface— the entranceway parting with an echoey moan. Cowardly, Jevon shrunk behind his far shorter companion as they sashayed into the room, arms akimbo and hands settled against their lithe waist. 

Their abrupt appearance brought the stormy squabbling to a deathly standstill; their horns temporarily disjoining as a wave of shared bafflement washed over the council. The bearded senators were arranged in a ring of podiums with mountains of indubitably important work cluttering their spaces. Whereas from upon his grand throne at the precipice of the positioning, the king’s herculean penumbra loomed over the council like a chilling shadow. His head was propped up with his elbow situated on the great arm of the chair as his dark, unshorn curls splashed over the grim mahogany. His facial expression was undecipherable, shadowed in a mess of hair and untouched by the chandelier’s condemning light— lost amidst the royal heraldry that adorned his person, priceless gold coruscating with each micro-movement.  

His ever-dutiful right-hand Sir Mercutio stood unseated and poised with his man-sized claymore— its legendary steel weathered from overuse and embossed in ornate gilded etchings. The broad point was aligned solemnly with the floorboard while his large hands lay folded around its decorative hilt; his stature unflinchingly imposing, watchful. For a fleeting instant, however, his unblinking gaze flickered over to Jevon, and there was a flash of unconcealed distaste before his head promptly jerked away. How petty.  

Kisses and waves tossed flippantly to the surrounding audience, Xolani strutted up to the center of the room wherein an enormous rug embroidered with the winged— lion-esque seal of the Montagues was enringed by the attending council.  “Hello, hello, nice to see you all... oh, Gregory! Did you get a new haircut, darling? It looks wonderful on you...”  

“Lord Alexis,” arose the guttural voice of one of the more elderly statesmen, holding a thin stack of papers in a pair of wrinkly hands. “Why have you come here? And who is this person with you?”  

Jevon cordially removed his mask and draped an arm around his chest as he deeply bowed in greeting. “Jevon Fulbright of Public Relations, Your Grace. Forgive me for intruding upon your conference unsolicited… but I was informed of the situation with Roxx—... with His Highness, and I...”  

“Public Relations?” Another councilman spoke up— a middle-aged man with a comically curvy mustache, which he proceeded to fondle with a moue of palpable contempt like some affluent pig— leering at Jevon as if he was but a mere pebble. “This matter doesn’t concern you people— you ought to learn your place, boy. Run along now, will you?”  

“Actually, I’ve come across certain rumors regarding this fellow and His Royal Highness...”  

“Oh, really? Like what?”  

“Apparently, they’ve been courting in secret—” 

“Courting? Another man? Don’t be ridiculous— His Royal Highness would never stoop to such debauchery—” 

“But I hear that they were once caught—” 

“It is a blatant fallacy— are you daft—” 

Despite the fact that they were butting heads like indignant bulls prior to his arrival, whatever subject that incited their quarreling had been completely forgotten about, it seemed. Now, the statesmen, both young and elderly, were huddling together leading small-minded whispering campaigns, reminding him of those covens of gossiping housewives he has unintentionally eavesdropped on while grocery-shopping in the market.

Though hushed, their words were carried on tangible echoes, reverberating through the spacious hall. With his background, along with his longtime affiliation with House Montague swathed in mystery, of course, this was hardly the first time he had found himself at the heart of such controversy. In fact, it was a day-to-day occurrence for him: his colleagues, for example, thoroughly enjoyed spreading misconceptions about him due to his reserved nature, and while it was certainly annoying at times, he has learned to cope with it. He had Xolani’s encouragements to thank for his steel-clad will; however, with rows of hypercritical eyes weighing upon him like so— it almost felt as if he had been placed on trial. 

Outwardly, he was composed, but his chest had tightened considerably, and his breaths tipped into a quiet staccato. Imperceptible to most, but Xolani appeared to catch on, and their mouth opened to no doubt protect his reputation— but a deeper, irrefragable voice pierced through the murmuration like a mallet’s silencing strike, commanding order. 

With a hand raised, King Raphael simply uttered, “Peace,” bringing silence to the room. He shifted slightly, stretching himself to an impossible height— the fact he was hunchbacked before was startling, to say the least— the man truly was a titan among men. 

Now, the chandelier caught his countenance, only partially obscured by twilight, and Jevon felt the corners of his mouth upturn on their own accord. He looked well, he thought, as his eyes scanned every contour and every line upon the king’s robust countenance, worn down and wrinkled and marred with enervation and age and bygone battle. There were visible circles under his eyes, and his beard was a bit on the scruffier side, and the smile he wore was evidently tired, but nevertheless joyous. Truly, Raphael was but a kindly sheep hidden behind an oppressive wolfly aura, constructed like a mountain but as soft as sand. Like King Alirense, he thought, Raphael was an offspring of malice— but harbored a heart of undeniable goodness. 

“Jevon, my boy... how long has it been since you and I have last seen one another? You’ve grown so much— I hardly recognized you,” he stroked his beard in contemplation, analyzing Jevon— his loyal guardsman as well— but Mercutio was doing an acceptable job at suppressing his repulsion— and Jevon lowered his head once more in greeting. However, rather than obligation, this bow was one of genuine respect— a brilliant smile painting Jevon’s lips when he faced the gargantuan man, perhaps audaciously for one of his rank, but neither he nor Raphael particularly cared for those silly formalities, anyhow.  

Initially, Raphael had terrified him. As a meek child, in juxtaposition, he was but a tiny as an insect while their imperious monarch was perhaps as monumentally terrifying as a carnivorous lion. But once he was able to creep out of his shell, he came to learn that Raphael was a warm man— one who pampered his children, talked to the flowers in the garden, and cherished his subjects above all else.  

“Forgive me, Raphael; I’ve been distracted by my work lately, I’ve been wanting to take you up on your request for tea, but...”  

“You heathen!” A senator blurted coupled with a slammed fist to wood. “How dare you address His Royal Majesty so discourteously!”  

As the king lifted a silencing hand again, the statesman adhered, head falling. “It is quite all right,” Raphael stated, then shifted his attention back to the whitehaired man before him, smiling sweetly. “I’m grateful to hear that you’ve been getting along well with your peers, Jevon. No longer that timid boy who fled from his own shadow, are you?”  

“I... I suppose. Ah, but Raphael... as much as I’d like to catch up with you, Xolani...” He exchanged a brief glance with his cross-armed companion before meeting the king again, understanding evident on his face. With a hypothetical sigh of relief, he continued. “... We’ve heard some... troubling news in regards to His Highness. I... we came here so we could confirm this.”  

His question had dislodged a nail, and the delicate framework of the king’s strained composure came crashing down. He slumped back in his highchair as a large hand cradled his face, exhaling a deeply anguished breath. The storm of doubt whirling inside of Jevon then spiraled into a savage hurricane— Roxxy is dead, he thought immediately, his own composition crumbling as his knees shook, his body mass suddenly too burdensome for them to support. They have unearthed his corpse among the detritus of war, or floating lifelessly in a blood-soaked river, or his lone head had been speared upon an enemy’s lance—  

When the king or council did not rise to the challenge of answering, Mercutio fearlessly stepped up to the plate, loudly clearing his throat and extracting an opened envelope, stamped with what he recognized as a national Codoslian emblem— a bejeweled, ornamental crown. Its contents were unavailable, but he could only presume that they were within the possession of the king. “... We received a report from our messenger... this was personally addressed to the royal family of Igerene by none other than King Faustian himself. Allegedly... His Royal Highness, Prince Roximus, has been detained...   and that come next month, insultingly on our very own Day of Reclamation when spring draws toward its end… he will be executed by the College.” 

Execution...? Roxxy will be... he’ll...  

"… Oh, so that’s their game? I must admit... for Codoslia, that’s rather daring of them. How exactly did they manage to catch our indefatigable Warrior Prince to begin with though, I wonder?” Though eternally, Xolani appeared unfazed, when they sidled up to Jevon’s side, he could tell that there was a tremble to them— though he was unsure if it was due to fear, or anger, or some other emotion.  

“... I mean, that pretty little title he flaunts around isn’t just for show, after all. He is about as skilled, if not more so, than that of the Valkyrie— Drucilla’s own chosen. Of course everybody’s got their Achilles’ heel; however, I still find it exceptionally hard to believe that someone as bullheaded as him could be taken down so simply.” 

“... The Ministry has received reports that Codoslia has supposedly solicited the aid of another nation... but we have yet to acquire the data to confirm if that is actually the case or not— but we all know how the Codoslians— how the College— have historically acted in wars of the past— they are always currying favor with their stronger allies— or strategically putting them in a position in which they are unable to decline their “generosity” — in exchange for their forbidden fruits” Mercutio explained, tucking the envelope back into his armor and marching into the spotlight, pausing just a few feet away from his offspring— whose scalding gaze he purposefully evaded.  

“... But we have received additional reports about a rogue swordsman who is not yet affiliated with any known banner… a completely neutral party who has been rather... indiscriminate with their killing.”  

Xolani thoughtfully stroked their chin like an imaginary beard. “Indiscriminate, you say... what, is it some sell sword with a bad case of vigilantism?”