Regressor of the Fallen Family

“Truly wise, Your Majesty.”

When the prime minister, Roberts Floyd, bowed his head with these words, all the ministers in attendance at the state council similarly bowed their heads to express their respect.

A familiar sight.

It would have been perfect if it had ended there.

But the same phrase was always added.

“Then I shall discuss this matter with Count Logan and bring it back to the agenda in the next meeting.”

Twinge.

King Rogers felt that today, of all days, this was particularly grating on his nerves.

Usually, he would have laughed it off, but today he found himself raising his eyebrows unintentionally in annoyance.

“Your Majesty, are you feeling unwell?”

Being poked at by an idiot who couldn’t even detect the mood of the monarch was irritating indeed.

Or maybe, he knows exactly what he’s doing?

…No, that wouldn’t be the case.

‘It couldn’t be that serious.’

The King let out a sigh as he opened his eyes again.

“No, no. I’m just a bit tired, Prime Minister. We shall end today’s meeting here.”

“…Understood, Your Majesty.”

As the Prime Minister bowed and retreated.

Unnecessary voices carried on the conversation.

“We must find a queen for Your Majesty soon.”

“That’s right. It must be lonely during the long nights; no wonder you feel tired.”

“Hahaha. Indeed, we must.”

The ministers could joke like this if they were close to the monarch.

But were we ever close?

…Since when?

Crunch.

Bang!

As Rogers slammed his fist on the desk, overwhelmed by rising emotions, the hall fell silent. However, faced with the startled gazes of his ministers, he immediately regretted his actions.

‘Damnit…’

What a foolish act.

A ruler should not show such emotional outbursts, especially for such trivial reasons.

“Hmm. I will mention the marriage when the time is right. The affairs of state need not be rushed, especially since the heir is still young.”

He managed to speak calmly.

Then someone unexpected spoke out of turn.

“Earl Palmer’s words are not entirely wrong, Your Majesty.”

Roberts Floyd.

What scheming is this now?

The King struggled to keep his thoughts from turning negative and tried to maintain a benign expression.

“What do you mean?”

“Should Your Majesty not marry and produce an heir as soon as possible for the stability of the country’s future?”

It was not incorrect.

But why did such words, said with a smile, sound so irritating?

Before he knew it, another sarcastic remark slipped out.

“Are you suggesting I’ll die before that happens?”

“Your Majesty, I did not mean…”

The Prime Minister, no, that father-in-law of Logan Maclaine, looked flustered, which gave the king a low sense of satisfaction.

Yet, he found himself contemptible for it.

Perhaps that’s why the thoughts he had tried to hide slipped out.

“Even if I die, it wouldn’t matter, would it? After all, the person who will be king is already decided.”

He was referring to the man who had turned a prince with nothing to his name into a king.

“Your Majesty, how can you speak such words…!”

As they all looked surprised, pretending to be his loyal subjects.

‘Pathetic. I am…’

Feeling that if he stayed seated, he would continue to make a spectacle of himself, the King stood up.

Thump.

As he left through the grand hall’s doors, a familiar face welcomed him.

“Your Majesty, I shall accompany you.”

Nod.

The faithful royal Chamberlain, Cleo, seemed to read the king’s discomfort and moved into action at a mere nod.

As they walked, and his stifling emotions began to subside, Cleo approached with impeccable timing.

“Your Majesty, was there any trouble during the meeting?”

Indeed, it was because of such abilities that he kept people like Cleo close.

The King looked at the servant he had first promoted with some pride.

Of course, not proud enough to fully disclose his weaknesses.

“It’s nothing.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty. I simply noticed a shadow upon your countenance…”

“No need for apologies. Who wouldn’t be stressed in a discussion of state affairs? It’s common. Just…common.”

A king was a king, yet he felt like anything but – an unpleasant, all too common feeling recently.

“Shall I serve the usual drink like always?”

The trustworthy servant knew how to soothe his troubled heart.

“Do so.”

Indeed, without such slight comforts, he wondered how he would cope with it all.

*Rustle*

Moonlight shone through the window, illuminating the study, and a miniature moon floated in the glass, quietly soothing his spirit. But the blunders of the day gnawed at him relentlessly.

‘I still have a long way to go. I am…’

*Gulp*

The burning sensation as the liquor traveled down his throat was soon replaced by a cooling sensation that washed over his heart.

“Cleo.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The faithful servant immediately bowed his head from a distance.

“What was the name of this drink? It tastes particularly good today.”

“It is one of the empire’s famous liquors, called Flamara, Your Majesty.”

“Flamara?”

“Yes. It is said to mean ‘flame’ in the ancient language.”

Pause.

“…Right. It’s fitting. Is this the one you recommended?”

“My apologies, Your Majesty.”

“Apologies? I’m praising you. Ha ha.”

“It’s an honor, Your Majesty.”

“Honor, nothing. I am thankful. This drink, if nothing else, brings me comfort.”

*…*

Once again filling his glass, he found pleasure in the sight of the newly risen moon.

But.

‘Flame, huh…’

The name reminded him of someone.

Maybe that’s why he found himself saying something he usually wouldn’t.

“What do you think of Logan Maclaine?”

Had the question come too abruptly?

Cleo’s face tightened slightly, but then.

“He is the chief contributor who ended the civil unrest and supported your ascension, Your Majesty.”

It was the typical answer anyone in the kingdom might give.

Perhaps even adding that he was a hero who saved the nation.

“Yes. That’s true…”

Someone not much older than himself, who had changed the kingdom.

The man who made him king out of nothing.

He should be grateful, and indeed, he was supposed to be grateful.

“Then why…”

Why did that man bother him?

A self-deprecating mumble.

Almost hoping no one heard, he swallowed the rest of his thought.

But then he thought, why should a king feel troubled about expressing his feelings?

“Louis.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“If I were to die now, who would become king?”

Louis couldn’t answer that question, and the king’s expression only hardened.

Days later…

Logan Maclaine arrived in the capital.