My Bratty Wife
Chapter 215 - Two Hundred And Fifteen

Chapter 215: Chapter Two Hundred And Fifteen

A week felt like a lifetime. Ryan sat rigidly upright in the hard-backed chair designated for him, facing the long, imposing table of the Royal Council. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows of the grand chamber, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but doing little to warm the cold, heavy atmosphere within. Polished shields bearing the crests of noble houses adorned the stone walls, silent witnesses to generations of judgments and decrees. He remembered standing confidently before this very council only months ago, briefing them as the lead investigator into the country’s gruesome murders. Today, he was the accused.

Murmurs rippled around the long table where fifteen of the kingdom’s most powerful nobles sat in judgment. Fingers were pointed, not overtly, but in hushed whispers and sideways glances. He could feel their eyes on him – suspicion, curiosity, condemnation. He knew the whispers had been spreading like wildfire through the court: Duke Ryan, involved in murder? Covering for the killer? Selling information? Betraying his country? It was poison, expertly served by Lord Evan.

The King himself, Albert, seated on a slightly elevated dais at the head of the table, had initially conducted his own discreet inquiries after Ryan received the ominous red letter. Ryan knew the King harbored doubts, felt something was amiss in Evan’s swift accusations. But politics were a treacherous beast. Word of the King’s private investigation had leaked, and factions within the council, perhaps spurred on by Evan’s allies or Ryan’s rivals, had loudly demanded a formal hearing. "To ensure transparency, Your Majesty," they’d declared. "To avoid any appearance of royal favoritism.." Reluctantly, the King had granted their request and insisted he stays in the palace before the time for the hearing instead of staying in prison making him stay in the palace for almost a week. And so, here Ryan sat, his fate hanging in the balance, waiting for his accuser.

"I simply cannot fathom His Grace having a hand in such atrocities," came a low voice from down the table. Baron Loftus, an older man known for his sharp mind and loyalty to Ryan’s family, spoke clearly, though his face was troubled. "He has served the Crown faithfully for years. What possible motive could he have?"

Across from him, Lord Greyson, a man whose lands bordered Ryan’s and who had long nursed petty rivalries, scoffed softly. "Power, Baron. What else? Perhaps the victims knew something? Perhaps he sought to control the investigation for his own ends. Power corrupts even the best bloodlines."

"Speculation and slander!" another voice, Lord Vance, known for his cautious neutrality, interjected firmly. "We are here to examine evidence, gentlemen, not to trade rumors. Let us maintain decorum until Lord Evan arrives."

Other murmurs continued, a low buzz of divided opinions. Some defended Ryan’s character, others seemed ready to believe the worst, citing his known pride or his recent removal from the investigation as suspicious signs. Ryan focused on keeping his expression impassive, his hands resting calmly on his knees, though inside, a storm of anger, frustration, and weariness raged. He would not engage with whispers. He would wait for the evidence Evan claimed to possess.

King Albert raised a hand, his expression stern. The murmuring subsided instantly. "Lord Vance is correct," the King declared, his voice echoing slightly in the large chamber. "This council will proceed with order and gravity. Lord Evan has been summoned. He will brief you all on the evidence presented to me, upon which the necessity for this inquiry is based." The King then turned slightly, leaning towards his Prime Minister who stood beside the dais, and whispered, his voice low but audible in the strained silence, "Where is Evan? Didn’t you personally ensure he was informed of this morning’s hearing?"

The Prime Minister leaned closer to the King. "I did, Your Majesty. He confirmed receipt of the summons two days ago. He should be well on his way. I have already dispatched a messenger to his residence half an hour ago, just in case there was some unforeseen delay."

The King nodded curtly, settling back in his chair, though a crease of impatience appeared between his brows. Ryan watched the exchange, a knot tightening in his stomach. Evan, late? It wasn’t like him to miss such a prime opportunity for public drama, for solidifying Ryan’s downfall.

The minutes ticked by, marked only by ray of sunlight. The initial buzz of conversation had died completely, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. Council members shifted uncomfortably in their seats, avoiding each other’s eyes. Papers rustled. Someone coughed nervously. An hour crawled past. The tension in the room became almost unbearable. Even the King looked increasingly uneasy, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the armrest of his chair. Where was Lord Evan?

Just as the King seemed about to speak again, perhaps to adjourn or send another, more urgent summons, the great double doors at the end of the chamber burst open. Not with the dignified entrance of a high lord, but with the panicked arrival of a single, breathless servant. It was the young man the Prime Minister had sent to fetch Evan. He stumbled into the room, his face pale, his clothes slightly askew, panting heavily as if he had run the entire distance from Evan’s residence.

Instinctively, two Royal Guards stationed near the door reacted to the sudden, unannounced intrusion. Steel rasped as they drew their swords halfway, leveling the points at the terrified servant.

"Wait!" the young man gasped, throwing his hands up in immediate surrender, stumbling back a step. "My apologies! Your Majesty! Council! Your Grace! I apologize for the manner of my entrance!" He was struggling to catch his breath, his chest heaving.

King Albert signaled sharply to the guards. "Stand down!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the tension. The guards reluctantly sheathed their weapons, though they remained alert. The King fixed his gaze on the panting servant. "Report! Where is Lord Evan? Why this delay? And why do you arrive in such a state?"

The servant swallowed hard, trying to compose himself, though his voice still trembled with shock and exertion. "Lord Evan... Your Majesty..." he stammered, looking around the room at the sea of expectant, powerful faces. "Lord Evan is dead."

A collective gasp went through the chamber. Dead? The word hung in the air, stunning everyone into momentary disbelief.

The servant rushed on, eager to deliver his message. "We found him, Your Majesty. Him and his aide... Brook, I believe his name was. Inside Lord Evan’s carriage, on the main road to the palace." He emphasized the location. "Both of them... dead, Your Majesty. It... it looks like they were met with an accident. The carriage was overturned in a ditch, partially hidden by trees. No obvious signs of struggle, the guards who found them said... just... broken."

The silence that followed was absolute. It pressed down on the room, heavier and more profound than the tense waiting had been. Council members stared, mouths slightly open, eyes wide with shock. The Prime Minister looked utterly aghast, his hand flying to his chest. King Albert sat frozen on his throne, his face a mask of stunned disbelief.

Ryan felt the news hit him like a physical impact. Evan... dead? His accuser, the architect of his downfall, the man who had smiled so smugly as Ryan was stripped of his duties, the one family member who hates the very air he breathe ... simply gone? A confusing wave washed over him – shock, undeniably. Disbelief. But underneath it, was there... relief? Or was it a new, colder dread? An accident? Or something far more planned? Evan had made many enemies. And now, the key witness, the holder of the supposed evidence against Ryan, was silenced forever.

He remained perfectly still, his face unreadable, but his mind raced. What did this mean for him? For the investigation? For the kingdom? The silence stretched, thick and unnerving, broken only by the distant, mocking tick of the clock. "What happens now?" He whispers to himself.