The golden hall of the Imperial Citadel was nothing like the Academy.
Where the academy was practical, built for the training and housing of hundreds, the Imperial Citadel was made to awe.
Its walls stretched high above, carved with the stories of humanity's greatest triumphs—some real, others, perhaps, aspirational.
The floors shimmered like mirror-polished obsidian, and towering windows spilled sunlight across elegant crimson carpets.
Every step echoed like a declaration.
And yet, the hall was quiet.
No procession. No guards. No advisors.
Only a single man waited at the far end, seated on a simple but imposing throne, vines of silver curling along its arms.
He looked young—mid-thirties, perhaps—but his gaze carried the weight of centuries.
His uniform was crisp and unadorned, save for the golden seal of the Empire on one shoulder.
His dark hair was swept back, and though he bore no crown, his presence alone bent the air around him.
