[I Cast Gun] - Chapter 37: A King's Welcome

Cindergold rose in the distance, as auspicious as ever. The tired retinue breathed a sigh of relief as the battlements came into sight. There would be little chance of monster or bandit attack once they drew closer to the walls.

“Amazing!” Princess Peace shouted excitedly, hanging from the carriage window.

“Don’t hang out the window like a common lass,” Catherine corrected her, then winced, feeling Seven's eyes on her.

“Yeah, yeah,” Peace dismissed, though she sat back down. “In Lanostira, we're taught that Cinderia is a backwater country, plagued with issues. They said that King Linet Dragula was an upstart who dreamed beyond his station.”

“And now?” Catherine questioned.

“I see they were mistaken,” Peace said. “Anyone who could build such a magnificent city in the Forgotten Plains must have been quite the individual.”

“Indeed,” Catherine began, then paused as Seven tugged on her sleeve. “Yes, Seven?”

“Forgotten Plains?” Seven asked curiously.

“Before these lands were the center of Cinderia, before Cindergold was built on this spot, this land was known as the Forgotten Plains,” Catherine explained. “King Yelt Dragula conquered these lands, reclaiming them from monsters, demons, and nature itself.”

“Was King Yelt Dragula the father of King Linet Dragula?” Seven asked.

“Just so,” Catherine confirmed. “You catch on quick.”

“You’re a good teacher.” 

“King Yelt allied with the Elves and the Dwarves to conquer the Forgotten Plains,” Arthur broke into the conversation from where he rode by the carriage window. “A lot of Cinderians like to forget that part, especially about the Elves.”

“Why wouldn’t we forget the likes of traitors...” Catherine began heatedly, then stopped, remembering who she was speaking to.

“Were the Elves traitors?” Seven asked Arthur.

“Yes, and no,” Arthur responded. “We're approaching the gate. I'll tell you the rest of the story later.”

He kicked his horse and galloped off to the head of the column, leaving Catherine, Peace, and Seven in awkward silence.

---

Arthur held the amulet up for inspection.

“Arthur White, Hero of the Kingdom.”

The gate guard blanched, examining the amulet with shaking hands. 

Once finished, he saluted. “V-very good, Sir! Go right on through! No need for inspection.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed.

“Get me your officer. Now.”

The young man went white, scurrying off in terror.

In mere moments, a concerned-looking man bearing captain’s stars on his uniform presented himself. 

He saluted Arthur crisply.

“How may I help you, Sir Hero?”

“Your men are complacent at best, incompetent at worst,” Arthur said, his voice devoid of emotion.

The Captain winced. “What have they done to upset you, Sir? I will see to it they are punished.”

“Do not punish a man before you understand the failure,” Arthur replied.

The Captain stiffened.

“They were prepared to let every man, horse, and wagon in this column enter the city based solely on my status.”

The Captain’s eyebrow cocked a hair. “So your complaint is that… they didn’t hinder your entry?”

“Precisely,” Arthur replied. “Inspect everyone and everything. Immediately.”

For a moment, the captain seemed unsure whether he was being tested, mocked, or honored.

Then training won out.

“Yes, Sir.”

Arthur turned back to his entourage.

“Liam, remind me to draw up a paper later.”

Liam scribbled in his notebook. “The subject?”

“Security and protocol.”

Gratianus snorted.

---

King Alric sat waiting as courtiers and noblemen socialized in the great hall. His usual bored expression was wiped away, replaced with a careful, intentional neutrality.

The others gossiped, as always, though the subject of the day had turned from marriages, inheritances, and petty rivalries to the matter fixed in every mind.

Arthur White.

He'd returned from Lanostira bearing a grand story and news that Alric was eager to hear. 

But propriety demanded a lord give travelers space to recuperate before any summons. As much as that grated, Alric bit his tongue and endured the anticipation.

Then the doors opened.

Arthur’s formal uniform drew every eye the moment he entered.

It was not a nobleman’s coat. There was no lace at the throat, no embroidered vines crawling up the sleeves, no slashed velvet or jeweled buttons. The garment was martial from collar to hem, cut from cloth of such deep blue it seemed almost black beneath the lamps. A stiff standing collar framed his neck, edged in scarlet, with the same red worked cleanly around the cuffs. Polished gold buttons ran down the front in a straight, uncompromising line.

The trousers matched the coat, save for a narrow scarlet stripe running down the outside seam of each leg. His boots were black and mirror-polished. His gloves were white. His belt was white as well, stark against the dark uniform, holding no sword and making no apology for the absence.

The entire effect was severe, foreign, and unmistakably military.

Cinderian formalwear was built to display breeding, wealth, and patience. Arthur’s uniform displayed discipline.

Across the room, King Alric studied him for a long moment over the rim of his glass.

Then, very quietly, he thought, I must speak to that tailor.

Catherine entered at his side.

Not behind him.

That, too, drew notice.

She wore Cinderian formal dress, but there was nothing delicate in the impression she made. The gown was cut in the old Bedivere style, high at the throat and narrow through the waist, its dark red fabric falling in clean, controlled lines rather than fashionable excess. Silver thread marked the seams in restrained patterns, less decoration than declaration, tracing the suggestion of armor across her shoulders and breast without ever becoming armor itself.

There were no bright jewels at her throat. No fluttering ribbons. No lace chosen to invite admiration.

At her breast rested the small badge of House Bedivere, polished until it caught the light like a drawn blade.

Her hair had been pinned up with severe precision, leaving her face unobstructed. She had inherited little of her brother’s height or breadth, but the same unyielding quality remained. Sir Bedivere had been a wall before his king. Catherine was something narrower, colder, and no less dangerous.

A court lady was expected to soften the room she entered.

Catherine did not soften anything.

She walked beside Arthur with one gloved hand resting lightly at her side, her gaze level, her expression composed. The courtiers who had turned to stare at the Hero found themselves staring at her as well, though for a different reason.

Across the room, Alric’s fingers tightened around his glass.

For a moment, he did not see the rebellious noblewoman who had once made scenes in his hall.

He saw Marcus Bedivere’s sister.

Then he saw something more troubling.

He saw that she had become herself.

Together, they made a strange picture. He was foreign severity wrapped in martial cloth. She was Cinderian nobility stripped of all softness. Neither looked made for court, yet somehow the court bent around them.

Alric set his glass aside and rose.

The motion quieted the room more effectively than any herald’s call.

“Sir Arthur,” he greeted, voice carrying with practiced ease. “Lady Bedivere. Your return honors my hall.”

Arthur bowed with military precision. Catherine curtsied with equal restraint.

“Your Majesty,” Arthur said.

“Come,” Alric continued, gesturing toward the high table. “Sit with me. I have waited with admirable patience, and I would hate for anyone to accuse me of developing that habit.”

A faint ripple of laughter moved through the room. It was just enough to loosen the air, and not nearly enough to hide the curiosity behind every smile.

Arthur and Catherine crossed the hall.

The courtiers parted.

Not widely. Not obviously. Just enough.

Alric noticed. So did Catherine.

Arthur likely noticed too, though his expression gave nothing away.

When they reached the table, Arthur did not immediately take his own seat. Instead, he stepped behind the chair offered to Catherine and drew it back for her.

The gesture was simple. Polite. Almost old-fashioned.

It still drew another ripple of attention.

Catherine paused only long enough to acknowledge it with the faintest incline of her head, then sat with composed grace. Arthur eased the chair in, careful not to crowd her, and took the seat beside her.

Still at his side.

A servant approached with a silver ewer.

“No wine,” Arthur put his hand over the cup before the servant could pour. “Tea only, please.”

Another murmur spread through the hall.

The servant froze for half a heartbeat, eyes flicking toward Alric.

Alric’s mouth twitched. “Bring tea.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Arthur rested his hand back on the table as if nothing unusual had happened.

Only then did Alric look past them toward the doors.

“I was informed Princess Peace traveled with you.”

“She did,” Arthur replied.

Alric’s expression did not change. “And where is Her Highness now?”

“Resting under guard,” Arthur said. “With a palace-appointed maid, her personal effects, and enough witnesses to satisfy propriety.”

That earned a few sharp looks from the older nobles.

Catherine added smoothly, “The princess endured a difficult journey. It seemed best that she not be placed before court immediately upon arrival.”

Alric looked at her.

A small, almost invisible approval touched his eyes.

“Thoughtful,” he said.

“Necessary,” Catherine replied.

The word landed a little harder than courtesy required.

One of the courtiers near the lower tables, a narrow-faced lord with too much embroidery at his cuffs, leaned toward his companion and murmured, “A foreign princess under guard. How graciously we receive guests these days.”

Arthur’s eyes shifted.

Only slightly.

Catherine’s did not move at all.

Alric smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile.

“Lord Tern,” he said, without looking away from Arthur and Catherine, “I am pleased to hear your voice remains strong after dinner. I worried the roast might have exhausted you.”

Several nearby nobles went still.

Lord Tern straightened. “Your Majesty, I meant no offense.”

“Of course not,” Alric said. “You merely mistook a royal ward for a dinner anecdote.”

The correction passed through the hall like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

Royal ward.

Not hostage.

Not prisoner.

Not guest.

Ward.

Arthur understood the choice immediately. Catherine did as well. Her gloved fingers flexed once at her side.

Alric finally sat.

“Now,” he said, his voice lighter again, “before this hall drowns itself in speculation, let us establish what may safely be said aloud.”

Alric leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough that the room could not pretend not to listen.

“You returned with a Lanostiran princess, a new diplomatic obligation, and enough rumor to make every merchant in Southcross nervous.” His gaze sharpened. “So. Let us begin with the version fit for this hall.” 

Arthur looked across the table at him.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, “We discovered criminal activity in Lanostira.”

The answer was so plain that several courtiers seemed almost offended by it.

Alric waited.

Arthur continued, each word measured. “Counterfeit coinage. Smuggling. Unlawful confinement of children. The matter was brought before the Lanostiran crown.”

A murmur rolled through the hall.

Catherine spoke before it could gather strength.

“The recovered children have been placed under protection,” she said smoothly.

Alric’s eyes moved to her. “And Princess Peace?”

“The Princess entered Cindergold’s care as part of a diplomatic arrangement intended to preserve stability,” Catherine replied. “Her presence here should be understood as protective wardship, not imprisonment.”

Lord Tern, apparently unwilling to let wisdom visit him twice in one evening, opened his mouth.

Alric looked at him.

Lord Tern closed it.

Arthur’s tea arrived then, saving the room from itself. The servant placed the cup before him with both hands, careful not to spill a drop.

Arthur inclined his head. “Thank you.”

The small courtesy seemed to unsettle the servant more than a command would have.

Alric let the silence stretch while Arthur took the cup, then asked, “Was the Lanostiran crown complicit?”

The hall went still.

Catherine’s expression did not change, but her gloved hand rested lightly on the table.

Arthur set his tea down untouched.

“The Lanostiran crown was informed that such crimes occurred beneath its authority,” he said.

“That was not my question.”

“No,” Arthur replied. “It was not.”

A ripple of unease passed through the hall.

Alric studied him for a long moment.

Then he gave the smallest nod.

“Then the answer is not fit for this hall.”

“No, Your Majesty.”

Catherine added, “Public accusation without full presentation would serve neither justice nor diplomacy.” 

“Convenient,” someone murmured.

This time Catherine’s eyes moved.

Only her eyes.

The courtier who had spoken found sudden interest in the tablecloth.

Alric leaned back. “Let the record of this hall be clear, then. Sir Arthur White and Lady Catherine Bedivere returned from Lanostira after uncovering a criminal enterprise involving counterfeit currency, smuggling, and the unlawful captivity of children. Princess Peace of Lanostira is received as a royal ward under my protection.”

He paused, letting each word settle.

“Further details will be reviewed in private council.”

That was the end of it.

Not because the court had no questions.

Because the King had decided they would not ask them.

Arthur lifted his tea and drank.

And around them, the great hall slowly resumed its conversations with the brittle care of people who had just learned that the most interesting part of the story was the part they were not allowed to hear.

---