Chapter 300 Chapter 300

Chapter 300 Chapter 300
More days passed. After torturing Dorian a couple more times, the latter finally gave up and revealed the names of his allies who were still running free in the realm.

Xenon went on a hunt with Morvan, capturing every single one of them who still harbored ill intentions toward his rule and imprisoning them.

Once they were brought to justice, Xenon and Rayena began the secret preparations for Morvan’s investiture. It had be or else, Morvan would back out the second they realized they were doing something like this for him.

The day arrived, and Xenon pretended it was just another ceremony where he would award his most loyal subjects during the time when the realm had been close to ruin.

The hall was packed mostly with soldiers—from the realm’s army and the remnants of what was left of the human army that had yet to return—but there were still some civilians present.

Starting with the least important, he worked his way through until he was finally left with Morvan.

“Commander Morvan,” the herald called, voice ringing through the hall. “Approach.”

Morvan tensed from where he stood, startled by the unexpected summon. He glanced at Xenon who stood at the Dais, holding a long ceremonial blade, expression inscrutable.

Whatever was going on?

Taking a deep breath, he took a step forward, spine straight, face impassive, though his pulse had begun to pound. He stopped at the foot of the dais and dropped to one knee out of instinct, fist pressed to his chest.

Still, Xenon did not speak.

The murmurs floating around, slowly died down as people wondered what the king was about to say. Then it stretched, long enough to weigh, to unnerve.

Xenon stepped forward, clearing his throat.

“Rise,” he said calmly.

Morvan looked up, confusion flickering across his features. “Your Majesty?”

Xenon’s gaze sharpened, and when he spoke again, his voice carried—measured, deliberate.

“Morvan,” he said, using his name without title. “For years you have stood at my side. You have bled for this realm, held it together when it threatened to tear itself apart. You have commanded my armies, kept order where there was chaos, loyalty where there was doubt.”

A murmur rippled through the hall.

Morvan remained still, every muscle taut. “I have only done my duty.”

Xenon inclined his head slightly. “And you have done it well.”

He turned, gesturing to the herald.

“Let it be known,” the herald proclaimed, “that by decree of King Xenon, this assembly convenes for an investiture.”

Morvan’s breath caught.

An investiture?

Xenon faced him again. “You were not told,” he said evenly, not unkindly. “Because if you had been, you would have refused.”

A flicker of something like protest crossed Morvan’s face. “Your Majesty—”

“Kneel,” Xenon commanded.

The word cracked through the hall like a blade striking stone.

Morvan hesitated—just a heartbeat—then lowered himself fully, bowing his head. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavy and unfamiliar.

“I name you,” Xenon said, voice resonant, “for what you have already proven yourself to be.”

He lifted the ceremonial blade.

“With this blade,” Xenon continued, “I grant you command over all the armies of this realm, not as a servant of the council, nor as a tool of politics—but as my chosen hand.”

The blade was lowered, its flat resting briefly against Morvan’s shoulder. A shudder went through his spine as the cold weight settled on him.

“With this seal—” Xenon took a ring from the velvet cushion presented by an attendant, its face carved with the Iron Claw “—I grant you dominion over the weretiger clans. Their protection, their governance, their discipline, entrusted to you alone.”

Morvan’s head snapped up. “My king—”

“Swear,” Xenon said quietly, cutting him off.

The hall held its breath.

Morvan swallowed. His voice, when it came, was steady—but raw.

“I, Morvan,” he said, “swear my claw, my command, and my life to the Crown of Xenon alone. I will not raise arms without his word, nor stay my hand when he commands. The weretiger clans I shall guard and lead in his name, until death, dismissal, or dishonor releases me.”

Xenon placed the ring into Morvan’s palm and closed his fingers around it.

“Then rise,” he said, “Duke Morvan—Warden of the Weretiger Clans, Commander of the Realm’s Armies, second only to the Crown.”

The herald’s voice rang out, sealing it.

“Behold Duke Morvan!”

Steel rang as the army struck their fists to their chests in salute. The weretiger elders bowed. Even the nobles, stiff and reluctant, inclined their heads.

Morvan stood slowly, turning around to look at the people watching him, blood roaring in his ears.

The title sat heavy on his shoulders, foreign and immense. He looked at Xenon—not as commander to king, but as man to man—and for the first time, emotion cracked through his composure.

“You planned this,” he said quietly.

Xenon’s mouth curved, just barely. “I needed you where you could not refuse.”

Morvan exhaled—a breath caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant acceptance—then bowed deeply.

“Then I will serve,” he said, “as I always have.”

Xenon nodded once, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his expression.

Then he turned to the crowd before him. “Let it be known from now onwards that the ban preventing unions between the werewolves and weretigers has been lifted!” he announced, his voice booming.

A sharp gasp rippled through the hall, followed by loud cheers and applause. Below him, Morvan’s grim expression melted to reveal one coated with relief.

“Let the festivities continue,” Xenon added, and music rang out, floating through the huge hall.

Some people took to the dance floor, while others hounded Morvan, congratulating him on his new title.

Morvan found the sudden attention unnerving, but he managed to stay respectful until there was a chance to slip out of the hall, only to meet Soraya in the hallways. She seemed to have been waiting for him for quite some time, a knowing smile on her face.

His heart began to race at the sight, and he hurried towards her.

She performed a deep curtsy, saying, “Congratulations, Your Grace. This new title was well deserved.”

“Your Grace?” Morvan repeated, taken aback at seeing Soraya smile at him.

“What, don’t you like it?”

“No, it’s not that…” he answered quickly, shaking his hands. “But please, don’t call me that. To you, I’m just Morvan.”