Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 59: The Assembly

Sleep was a concept Eastiel had abandoned days ago. If he slept at all, it was only when his body gave out and dumped him into unconsciousness.

Even then, it was never for long. Nightmares, or worse, dreams so sweet and too good to be true they were a special kind of torture, would jerk him back to the land of the wake.

In truth, asleep or awake made little difference for him now. His mother, Harriet, watched him cycle between two states in his endless waking hours. Either meticulously planning the crusade that would swallow the continent in fire, or staring blankly at the horizon in a silence so deep it seemed to swallow sound.

All for a woman.

Harriet was convinced it was her fault. She always was. She was certain some poison in their family’s teachings had caused this.

The Edengold line never married humans. They were purebred Werelions, a point of pride repeated over generations.

Eastiel’s father, the late King Eliam, had married her, a lioness from a different desert, a different tribe, in adherence to that same tradition.

Never once had Eliam considered a human consort. And with time, duty had bloomed into love. They had been lucky. Or perhaps they had simply chosen to make it work, understanding that marriage was only part love, and a larger part commitment, communication, and compromise.

Eastiel had internalized that tradition. Deeply.

Harriet and Eliam had never imposed it on him. They’d never bluntly commanded, You must marry a lioness. But the weight of centuries was a heavier burden than any decree. To be the first to break it... that was a great pressure for a son who took his duties as seriously as his breaths.

Because he had fallen in love with a human. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

"East, how about you sleep for an hour? Mother will wake you, on the dot. Promise," Harriet said, landing a hand on his rigid shoulder, rubbing gently.

Eastiel raised his face to hers and smiled. "No, Mother. I will need to go soon."

"I see."

It was her fault. She should have told him tradition was just that. Tradition. A suggestion from the dead. The burden was never meant to be his. His late father had said it himself, that Eastiel was a good child, a good prince, almost too good. Eliam had wanted him to live for himself.

"Even to marry whoever he wants?" she’d once asked.

"He’s a wise boy. Whoever he chooses will be the best for us."

"What if... she is a human?"

"Yes, Harriet. Even then. And for the record... I might have married you because you were a lion. But I would have begged for you anyway, even if you’d been human."

So when Eastiel finally came to her, desperate, Harriet was surprised, but not opposed.

"It’s... the Saintess, Mother. Saintess Cecilia Araceli. I want to marry her. I truly do. Mother... please. I will do anything. I will even let go of the throne. Let Elias have it. Just give me your blessing to propose to her."

Harriet had hugged him tight that day. His brother Elias had laughed beside them, teasing him for falling so hard he’d trade a kingdom for a bride.

But alas.

It was too late.

Cecilia Araceli said yes to Arzhen Vasiliev’s private proposal, blindsiding the world.

If only...

If only that inherited burden had never settled on Eastiel’s shoulders, he wouldn’t have needed a year of silent agony to muster the courage. He might have told his father before he died. He wouldn’t have waited, trying to prove his worth first, believing he needed to be flawless to deserve her.

It was Harriet’s fault.

All of it.

And a few days ago, her son had returned home. Gaunt. His eyes were dead, soul extinguished.

"They killed her, Mother."

He’d said.

"He killed her."

***

Hettor’s gaze swept the assembly. The gathering was... modest. While the list of lives Cecilia Araceli had saved was long as a king’s scroll, the number of those willing to answer this particular call was far shorter.

Of course. Who’d willingly shatter a hard-won peace spanning decades? Who’d rally to a banner of vengeance unless driven by personal, gut-churning guilt, or a deeply buried agenda of their own?

Eastiel, it seemed, had chosen well.

The faces around him belonged to only three types. Those whose bones still remembered the disaster they’d narrowly escaped thanks to a ’fake’ Saintess’s warning, those whose political compasses pointed unerringly toward the rising star of the Edengold Pride, and those whose hatred for the Iondora Empire, the Vasilievs, the Delanivis, or, for a brave few, the Temple itself, outweighed their caution.

More might trickle in later. The uncertain, the curious, the cautious forecasters testing the wind. War was war, no matter how just the cause, and choosing a side required cold, pragmatic calculation.

"I knew you’d come, Lord Hettor."

The voice, smooth and familiar, startled him from his assessment.

Turning, Hettor found himself facing Cassia Kingdom’s Prime Minister, Qinryc Lukas.

The man was another of Cecilia’s living receipts. Though his salvation was of a different flavor. Most of her interventions dealt with storms, quakes, or marauding bands. But at thirteen, years ago, the young Saintess had solved a murder.

The late Prime Minister Rohan Morlynn had been found in his bed with a dagger in his chest. The last person seen with him was his own disciple and assistant, a young man of fallen nobility, the perfect, powerless scapegoat to soothe a panicked court. The noose was practically around his neck.

Then, a letter arrived from the child Saintess to the King.

Simultaneously, her "prophecy" was published to the world. The disciple was innocent. The real killer, she detailed, was a rival with a debt to pay and a signature left in the placement of the blade. The case unraveled. The young disciple stepped down from the gallows and, in time, up to the highest office in the land.

That disciple was the man before him now. Qinryc Lukas.

"But I am surprised you would, Lord Lukas," Hettor said, implying the man was better known for his political survival instincts than sentimental debts.

Qinryc offered a thin smile. "Oh, I’m offended. What do you mean I wouldn’t come?" He leaned in slightly. "Even a man as shrewd as I am remembers to pay a life debt. Especially one that came with a crown attached."

Of course, Hettor thought.

In truth, even if Eastiel had never sent a single summons, a hundred percent of this assembly would have found their conviction the moment they laid eyes on the Saintess herself.

She did, after all, have a dragon by her side.