73Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnJQ0r4VMetCHAPTER 10
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"THE FLAMED CROWN"
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— KING'S LODGE — CAFETERIA —
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The lodge cafeteria carries Theron's weight before he even speaks.
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Red and Gold banners hang from the tall beams like royal decrees. White and black accents sharpen the room's edges, giving everything a cold, ceremonial order. The tan marble floor gleams so clean it reflects the chandeliers like a crown of fractured light.
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Above it all, the V.I.P balcony dominates the space. — White rails, with white cloth laid on polished dark wood tables, and at the very front, the Queen and King's seats carved into the lodge like thrones overseeing a kingdom.
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Theron takes his seat.
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He doesn't need to raise his voice.
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His presence alone fills the balcony, settles over the cafeteria, and makes nobles below eat with a nervous, humbled politeness.
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His wife Susan, sits beside him, posture perfect, hands folded around her utensils. With the grace of someone who has learned to survive under a crown's shadow.
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Below, a few farmhands work the floor. Nobles in expensive rented rooms dine carefully, aware that the king of the lodge is watching.
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Traeven stands behind Theron, still as a statue carved into a wall.
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His eyes track the room with that calm, predatory patience.
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After a long moment, he steps forward and lowers himself into the seat beside them — slow and respectful, but not submissive.
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Theron doesn't look at him.
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Traeven leans forward slightly, eyes on the King.
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Traeven:
"My lord…"
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Theron doesn't look up from his plate.
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Theron:
"What do you want… I'm eating."
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Traeven doesn't flinch.
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He shifts his gaze to the queen instead —
softening, bowing his head with a slow, respectful grace.
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Traeven:
"Your Highness, forgive me for the interruption. You are as beautiful as ever this morning."
He holds her eyes with a gentle, almost puppy-like sincerity — a calculated softness he uses like a blade, splitting ice.
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The queen turns her head, rolls her eyes, but the faint smile she tries to hide betrays her.
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Theron's jaw tightens.
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He swings his golden cup in irritation.
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Theron:
"On with it. What is it!?"
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Traeven straightens, voice lowering into something controlled and precise.
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Traeven:
"We received mail last night. There was a disturbance in the fortress.
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Fire…
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Bandits…"
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Theron's gaze drifts down over the cafeteria, suddenly distant.
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Traeven stares behind him like a hawk scanning for threats.
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Traeven:
"Metro may be out of control. It may be time to reorganize strategy with your captains."
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Theron's wife looks sharply at Traeven — eyes widening, searching his face.
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Traeven keeps his expression neutral; but inside, he's fighting a smile.
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Traeven:
"I've already sent word.
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"A farmhand couple and several archers witnessed everything, they're on their way here now."
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Theron freezes, stunned.
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Traeven leans, slightly, voice softening,
dangerous and calm.
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"They should be here any moment,
to give you clarity… my lord."
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Right on cue —Phillip and Jeffrey stumble in, arguing loudly, armor clattering.
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Every head in the cafeteria turns.
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Theron.
The Queen.
Traeven.
Nobles.
Farmhands and servants.
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A lodge servant in a teal coat approaches Traeven, bearing a pitcher of deep red liquid, bowing as he pours into a crystal cup.
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A farmhand servant appears beside him, a golden platter stacked with small pink cakes, (pushing) them inches away from Traeven's face.
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Traeven waves them away fiercely, with a flick of his wrist, visibly irritated.
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He hates interruptions.
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Below, Phillip and Jeffrey climb the side steps to the balcony. Their boots echo on the marble.
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They reach the top and bow slightly, neck down.
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Phillip:
"My King. Cat's forces have doubled beyond what we expected, we're holding them off the Rabbits Village. The remaining men have returned to the Whispering Village as commanded. We're awaiting orders…"
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Theron gestures for them to sit.
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Phillip sits upright, focused, ready.
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Jeffrey immediately cracks open a honey biscuit, and starts devouring them like he hasn't eaten in days.
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Traeven's eye twitches — just slightly. New players entering his board, variables he didn't invite.
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Theron wipes his mouth with a cloth, voice steady.
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Theron:
"Hold forces there, take half the men from The Whispering Village, prepare them to be sent to The Castle Fortress."
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Phillip nods sharply.
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Phillip:
"Right away sir!"
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Jeffrey slows eating, nodding in affirmation at the command.
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A teal coat servant approaches Traeven again, gently dropping plates and silverware across the table.
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Traeven watches them, expression unreadable.
He turns directly towards them, with smooth effortless authority.
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"I commend your noble leadership, Phillip."
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Phillip straightens, still shaken from battle, but grateful for acknowledgement.
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Traeven's gaze slides to Jeffrey — who is already stuffing his face again.
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Traeven:
"And you… Jeffrey —for your never-wavering loyalty."
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Jeffrey nods mid chew, crumbs falling onto his armor.
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Traeven side eyes him, a single blink of disbelief, then snaps his attention back to Theron — sharp enough to cut air.
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Theron barely moves, keeping composure.
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Traeven leans forward, voice low, controlled.
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Traeven:
"Never worry, I've sent scouts throughout all the sectors, all ready to send word by raven at a moment's notice."
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Theron nods, not out of authority, but uncertainty.
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Theron: … alright.
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Traeven lets the silence stretch.
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Letting the weight of his words settle over the balcony.
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He speaks again, slower, more deliberate.
Traeven:
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"I don't think it's wise to send so many men, so soon, with potential danger on the horizon. We should wait until we know what truly happened at the fortress."
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Phillip looks up.
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Jeffrey stops chewing.
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Traeven continues, voice tightening like a noose.
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"Wait for the men. I'm sure Phillip's word is true, that Cat's forces are doubling, regrouping, they know you've cut them off. We both knew that fact as soon as we gained intell he was the one guiding their forces."
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Theron's wife looks sharply at Traeven —
calculated fear being controlled behind her eyelids.
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Traeven softens his tone, almost gentle.
"They're preparing for war…"
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Allow me to handle this, at least the castle fortress."
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He places his hand over his chest, bowing slightly, ceremonial-like.
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"I'm ready for your word, my lord…"
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The balcony goes still.
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Theron sits back, thinking hard.
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Phillip and Jeffrey lean in, fully dialed in now.
— The weighted pressure of the offer sits in the air, hanging, dangling.
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Theron exhales.
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Theron:
Philip, Jeffrey, have the infantry prepare themselves as I've said. We will wait until we hear word on the situation concerning the Estates.
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"… I'll have Traeven inform you how many men."
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The queen shifts in her seat — a small, uneasy movement.
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Phillip and Jeffrey arise immediately. They bow in humble reverence towards the King and Queen.
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Phillip:
"Your Grace!"
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Jeffrey bows too, but casually, crumbs still in his armor.
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Jeff:
"Your Majesty."
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They turn to leave —Then —
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click.
click.
click.
(echoes)
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Veronica's heels cut through the cafeteria. Every noble, every servant, every farmhand feels her presence before they even see her.
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She ascends the stairs with that cold, royal, precision —chin high, eyes forward, the air tightening around her.
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Traeven's gaze flicks towards the staircase.
She stops at the balcony's entrance —poised, composed.
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Veronica:
"Father, the soldiers and hands have arrived."
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The room shifts.
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Even Traeven's breath stills.
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Theron looks at her.
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Veronica lifts her chin.
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Veronica:
"I'm ready to oversee the fortress now as well, whenever transport departs."
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Traeven's gaze sharpens instantly — a hawk catching movement.
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A new variable.
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Theron's eyes light, a longing breaking through the mask he always wears.
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He tries to hide it.
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A father seeing his daughter rise again.
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Theron's face softens, pride blooming across his features. Then worry, as he realizes the inevitable war that's coming.
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Theron:
"Very well, you may go, but not until I know the castle is safe, and fortified with security."
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Susan tightens. Traeven rises.
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Not abruptly…just enough for the air to shift.
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He steps forward, placing himself between father and daughter —not blocking, but inserting himself into the decision.
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His voice is low, steady, impossible to ignore.
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Traeven:
" Send me with her like we agreed upon."
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The eyes of the queen flick towards him, startled.
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Veronica clinches.
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Theron looks between them, torn between his pride for his daughter and reliance on his advisor.
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Traeven doesn't look at Veronica.
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He doesn't look at The Queen.
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He only stares at The King.
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At that moment, the entire balcony feels the weight of his intention.
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Veronica steps forward, shoulders squared, blazing hot.
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Veronica: (snapping)
"I don't need your help!"
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Her voice cuts through the balcony like a whip.
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Phillip stiffens.
Jeffrey puts down his fork, stops chewing.
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The queen's breath catches.
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Traeven doesn't flinch.
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He just turns his head at her, a controlled stare, that has broken stronger minds than her.
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Traeven:(voice stays calm)
"Oh…
But you do."
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Traeven steps forward, voice low but carrying the weight of command.
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Traeven:
"Your father must maintain control of his operations, every project that his hands have touched, must be maintained with strategic mastery."
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He turns slightly towards Veronica, stating truth with surgical precision.
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"Phillip and Jeffrey are strong fighters, that lead, and are resilient, noble, as you are Veronica, also one of the most intelligent."
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He states facts.
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Not mocking or belittling.
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(He pauses)
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Placing his hand lightly on his own chest.
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Traeven:
"But I… am the strategic eye. Overseer of the battlefield.
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The hawk's eye."
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He shifts his gaze at Theron — slow, deliberate, locking the King in place.
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Traeven:
"My lord… I am the missing piece on the board.
Send me."
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(A beat of silence.)
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He lets the words settle and take root.
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(Silence continues)
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Traeven:
"If Cat's forces are doubling, you'll need your best mind on the grounds."
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He steps closer to the balcony rail, eyes narrowing with purpose.
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"The fortress is too important to leave to chance."
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He bows his head slightly, like a knight offering his sword.
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Theron sits stuck, crushed beneath the weight of Traeven's logic and their agreed decision vs appeasing his daughter.
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His eyes drift over the balcony rail, unfocused… and for a moment —a red flicker burns beneath his pupils. He keeps staring, breathing slow, expressionless.
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Then —
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Theron:
"OK. You'll be sent."
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(voice strained thin)
"I want Veronica and you back by sunset. I don't want either of you gone for too long (beat) and it's not settled whether anyone will be sent yet…"
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He trails off, lowering his head.
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His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose.
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A silent, crushing headache grips him — no sound, no complaint... just a man fighting with something in his own mind.
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The queen watches him, nerves tightening her posture.
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Phillip and Jeffrey stand tight, unsure whether to move.
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And then — Heavy armored footsteps echo through the cafeteria.
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The largest knight in the King's Guard steps through the entrance, towering over the nobles.
More guards follow behind him, marching in formation down the red carpet.
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Nobles try to continue their breakfast, but their hands won't move.
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The Giant Knight's void is too powerful, too sharp.
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The King's guards reach the end of the cafeteria near the balcony and bow deeply.
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King's Guard:
"LORD THERON."
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"We have the soldiers, and hands, who were present yesterday, witnessing the battle at The Whispering Estates."
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The entire cafeteria goes still.
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A trance kicks in gently throughout the atmosphere.
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Held breaths.
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Every eye turns toward the Balcony.
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Theron lifts his head.
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Theron:
"Send them in."
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Everyone at the V.I.P. table sits in perfect formation — a line left to right:
Phillip, Jeffrey, The Queen, The King, Traeven, Veronica.
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Six figures, each carrying their own gravity.
All staring down the entrance like judges awaiting testimonials.
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A young farmhand steps in first — Barefoot, overalls dusty, Strawhat tilted back. His skin is sun-browned, his smile bright, and his eyes glow with the thrill of finally being important.
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He grips a wooden staff like it's part tool, part trophy.
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Beside him, his young wife clings to his arm, head lowered, nervous, but proud to stand behind him.
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Behind them, enter the arches — four men.
Gregory, tight expression, posture disciplined,(masked face)then Chad, eyes sharp, scanning the balcony, the two archers who witnessed Sally and Metro's transformation—their faces are pale, expressions carved from memory.
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They line up beside the farm hands, a couple of bows on their backs, standing calm and ready to speak.
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The nobles are completely attentive, silverware down, eyes forward. Servants stop in their movements. All attention peers down over the witnesses.
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Theron lifts his hand.
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Theron:
"You may speak."
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The young farmhand in the strawhat bows so fast his hat nearly falls off — then springs upright — eyes locked on the King like he's been waiting for this moment his entire life!
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His voice rings with theatrical confidence.
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Straw Hat:
"My gracious and noble king,
I endeavor to speak boldly before thee this day, in truth and in clarity!"
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He nods again, smiling wide.
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He launches in.
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Straw Hat:
"The arrows shot through the glass, shattering the fortress like raining stars, your honor!
Right through the cafeteria windows!
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We're drinking ice brew, having a good time —
Lutheran on the violin —then men just start dropping dead!"
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He throws his hands up, face in disbelief.
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(— Sharp gasps ripple through the audience of nobles)
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"Chaos, Your Majesty!
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All the farmhands ran upstairs to the chamber. The infantry, bravely and heroically, ran after the bandits attacking the front gate — but it was a trap!"
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Phillip stiffens.
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Jeffrey pauses.
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STRAW HAT:
"I peeked through Metro's chamber window, seeing bandits flee in the forest, luring hopeless soldiers in the dark — butchering them in cold blood.
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His wife squeezes his arm, head down.
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STRAW HAT: (shakes his head)
"I escaped Metro's chamber, following him, and soon regretted that decision.
So I hid under a table, no military experience —
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(hands out, pleading)
There I was holding on to a table leg — when I kicked myself, seeing Metro run in through the main hall, running like the wind. I didn't want to be a coward, So I pushed the envelope."
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He gestures intensely with his hands.
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"Lighting, Rain! Fire! Shadows! Screamin'!
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Blood mixed with steel, clashing, rolled in confusion — a chaos of dooming noise."
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He spreads his arms wide.
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"On the rooftops, masked assassins threw explosive clay balls, blowing men to pieces!
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‘The soldiers crept into the forty acres, towards the Fiery Bloom, that's where I was — hiding under a bush — invisible. Trying to get a good look at where the action was coming from."
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STRAW HAT:
"Masked bandits dressed like grim reapers catapulting bundles of leaf over the walls like they were playing catch with slingshots.
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It was amazing, actually."
(looks nowhere into the distance)
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Traeven raises his eyebrow. Theron looks distraught.
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STRAW HAT:
"The enemies ambushed us from the top battlement watchtowers.
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"Lutheran's squad swiped through, bandits on the battlements with exact precision…”
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Little by little, bit by bit, almost half the crop is cleared —just getting tossed over the back wall. That's when the drivers took off with the loot.
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Theron's eyes sharpen.
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Strawhat lifts his staff like a conductor.
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Straw Hat:
"That's when Metro came in —Thundering down the field with Sally, his horse. —like an angel riding a mystical beast, Your highness!"
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The queen's eyes widen.
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Veronica's breath catches.
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Traeven's posture tightens.
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Straw Hat:
"Scorching men with supersonic flares, lighting up the night — He downed multiple men, never killing them. Darts slicing through limbs like they were swiss cheese, your Grace."
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(…continues)
— He gets more theatrical, stepping closer —
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Straw Hat:
"He saved Paul's life —and every man on that field."
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He points towards the archers.
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His voice softens. His wife nods in agreement, eyes shining.
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Straw Hat:
"Never in my life, have I seen such magic…
and expertness in great skill."
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(A beat)
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Straw Hat:
"Never has there been a man to serve the king so faithfully."
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The cafeteria goes silent.
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Every noble.
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Every guard.
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Every captain.
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Every member of the V.I.P. table.
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All frozen in time.
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Staring into a crystallized tale.
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Theron sits on his throne-like chair, eyes wide, breath shallow.
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The farmhand's words echo in his skull.
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A tremor runs through his spine.
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Inside his mind, he whispers.
("Is this The White Flame Susan spoke of???")
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His pulse spikes.
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His vision narrows.
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Panic coils in his chest — but his body stays stiff, royal, unmoving.
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Only his eyes betray him.
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Traeven sees it.
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He leans in smoothly, voice soft, almost playful, trying to smother the rising myth before it grows teeth.
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Traeven:
"He's really good… I think we should give him a spot in the play."
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A joke.
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A dismissal.
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A strategic downplay.
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But Theron doesn't hear him.
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He's too deep in a spiral.
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The queen notices the King's shift.
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The strawhats wife finally lifts her head, voice trembling but clear.
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STRAWHAT'S WIFE: (old English accent)
"There was a flame, my lord…all the men saw it.
A White Flame...like Fire. It covered the rider… and the horse."
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The words hit the balcony like a thunderclap.
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→ Susan nearly rises from her seat —catching herself at the last second, fingers gripping the tablecloth.
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Theron shifts violently in his chair, discomfort rippling through him. He clears his throat, wanting to sound composed, authoritative, in command, not scared.
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But his glow betrays him.
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Traeven sees it — and stands fully — like a dagger being unsheathed. His chair scrapes backward loudly. His tone cuts through the silence.
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Traeven:
"And what of the crop!?"
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The question snaps the room's attention away from Metro —and back to something mundane, something manageable.
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Veronica's eyes flick between the witnesses and Traeven, trying to read the battlefield.
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Phillip and Jeffrey are still frozen, unsure whether to breathe.
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The archers step forward, boots striking the marble.
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They bow deeply before the King.
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Gregory:
"Permission to speak sir!"
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Theron doesn't move.
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He's paralyzed by fear, by prophecy.
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Traeven cuts through the silence.
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Traeven:
"Granted!"
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The archers exchange a confused glance —the King hasn't spoken yet —but they steady themselves and face the balcony.
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One steps forward.
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His voice is firm, almost robotic.
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Gregory:
"The crop is secure, because of Metro."
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The archer continues, eyes locked on the King.
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"Some believe he might be a god… some think he's of elven or warlock heritage."
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Traeven's eyes narrow.
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Gregory:
"He received a vision from that same White Light that devours him from time to time."
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The queen's hand flies to her heart, mouth slightly open. Veronica looks ghostly. Theron's fingers dig into his chair's armrest.
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"That Light guided him. Telling him where the bandits were."
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"He pointed at the map… directing us, He told us… To stay in the fire."
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Phillip leans forward. Jeffrey stops breathing.
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"He was confident…No man could resist his words."
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He gestures to the others.
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"We departed with Paul and Lutheran — split into two squads, east and west. Crossed the river silently and ambushed them."
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His voice grows stronger.
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"Paul led the first assault from the left. It was a success.
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The enemies were scattered. The remaining generals were eliminated by Lutheran and his squad from the right side, pinching the stragglers."
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The nobles murmur.
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Gregory:
"We then obtained five steeled wagons, full of the King's glow leaf, gathering twenty new horses, with loads of medicine and medical supplies and returned them to the fortress."
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He pauses.
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"The bandits tried to escape with one third of the acreage's product. Approximately twenty thousand quarter blooms, which is now in your control."
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Theron's eyes sharpen — hunger rising.
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Gregory:
"The men are done harvesting the forty acres."
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(A beat)
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Gregory:
"The estimated weight is said to be around one hundred thousand quarter blooms — all ready for the king.
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Early cured.
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Packaged.
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Ready for Shipment."
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"Truly, I have never seen anyone able to predict where enemy forces were, and also able to protect his brethren and crop while being guided by something holier than himself."
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"We all followed him, and believed."
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He bows again.
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"Your Grace."
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The room sits stunned after the archers' testimony.
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The queen rises — too fast — her chair scraping the marble.
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Her voice breaks before she can steady it.
Susan:
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"Listen, is this not the Great Spirit who sends punishment upon the people because of their murders?"
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Her words hang in the air like scripture.
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The archers bow their heads in respect.
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Gregory steps forward.
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Gregory:
"Whether he be the Great Spirit, or a man, we know not. But this we know."
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He looks at the King.
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"He cannot be slain by enemies of the King. Nor can they scatter the King's men, when he is with us. Because of his expertness, and his great strength."
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The room pauses, its breath tightening.
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"Therefore, we know he is a friend to the King. And now your majesty, and my queen, we do not believe a man can possess such power… For we know… that he cannot be slain."
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Traeven's jaw locks — fury simmering behind discipline. Veronica leans forward, eyes bright with something new. Phillip and Jeffrey sit stunned, unable to speak.
Theron trembles.
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The archers bow in unison.
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Silence.
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The King rises halfway from his seat, voice shaking, eyes burning.
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Theron:
"Now I know…
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that this is the Great Spirit, and he has come down at this time to preserve your lives…
that I might not slay you as I did your brethren."
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The queen shifts her eyes downward, darkened.
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Traeven's eyes widen — this is slippery beyond his reach.
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Theron lifts his head fully, voice low, reverent.
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Theron: (reverent, terrified)
"This is the Great Spirit of whom our fathers have spoken."
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The room falls into a holy, dreadful silence.
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The scene fades black.
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— Switch scene —
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and then Add to home screen.