Afternoon of the Next Day — The Imperial Chambers
The formal ceremonial crown sat on the bedside table. Heavy. Still.
Its gold and inlaid jewels gleamed faintly in the mellow afternoon light that filtered through the sheer drapes, casting long, golden shadows across the room. The air was quiet—suffocatingly so—and even the sound of the wind beyond the windows felt silent, as though the palace itself was holding its breath.
Elliott hadn't moved much since the morning. He'd barely managed to keep the crown on during the public address—his neck still ached from its weight, his temples throbbing with a dull, persistent pulse.
He had appeared before the empire earlier that day—stoic and composed, announcing that he was recovering well... and that war was inevitable.
Now, back in the privacy of his chambers, he sat slumped in an ornate chair near the window, still dressed in the purple and gold of imperial formality. The silks clung to his frame, heavy and suffocating. Attendants had offered to help him change, to bring something lighter, more comfortable. He'd dismissed them all. He couldn't bear company—not now. Not with the weight of everything pressing down on his chest.
He needed solitude.
One elbow rested on the armrest, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as a long sigh escaped him, fragile and weary. The soft click of a door opening cut through the silence, and Elliott's hand fell limply to his lap. He tilted his head lazily toward the entrance.
It was Aiden.
The younger man was still dressed in formal court wear from the announcement earlier, though his collar was slightly loosened now. Aiden's steps were quick, although measured, as he crossed the grand chamber, moving straight to where Elliott sat.
Elliott didn't acknowledge him. He didn't even look up when Aiden approached and reached forward, gently brushing golden strands of hair away from his forehead.
Aiden's heart twisted. "...Your hair's a mess," he murmured, fingers soft as they tucked another lock behind Elliott's ear.
Elliott didn't react. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling—glazed, unseeing, like he wasn't really present in the room at all. Above them, painted on the domed surface high above, stretched the vast mural commissioned by a long-dead emperor.
A masterpiece.
A legacy.
Elliott had spent more than a decade ruling beneath that ceiling, yet he had never really looked at it—never paused to take in the sheer artistry of it. Not until now.
The painting was vast and radiant, known as The Light of the Empire. It depicted a faceless emperor draped in imperial robes, radiant in purple and gold, surrounded by rays of golden-white light. A halo circled his head—symbolic of the sun god the Lancasters were said to descend from. Beneath him were depictions of the empire's people, fields blooming, rivers flowing, trade flourishing. A nation thriving under the guidance of its sovereign.
The emperor as a guardian. As a nurturer. As the god-chosen.
It was a marvel. Everyone had always said so.
But to Elliott, in this moment, it felt like mockery.
Aiden, noticing Elliott's silence and glassy stare, knelt beside the chair, following his gaze upwards. His voice was careful, gentle. "What are you looking at?"
Elliott didn't blink. "Nothing," he murmured, eyes still on the painting.
Aiden glanced up again, trying to see what Elliott saw. His eyes landed on the faceless emperor in the center.
"That's a beautiful painting, isn't it?" he said casually, tone light—trying, perhaps in vain, to coax Elliott back from wherever his mind had gone.
"It is," Elliott whispered. The words hung in the air, delicate as smoke.
Aiden waited, hoping he would say more. When he didn't, he tried again.
"You know, I read somewhere that it was considered an architectural marvel in its time. One-of-a-kind."
Still, no real response. Just the quiet hum of the room, and Elliott's vacant stare.
Just as Aiden was about to open his mouth again, Elliott spoke. His voice was so quiet that Aiden almost missed it.
"Do you think I'm like that, Aiden?"
Aiden blinked. The question came out of nowhere. "Like what?"
Elliott slowly raised a hand, pointing toward the center of the painting. "That."
Aiden looked up again at the painting, at the radiant emperor on the ceiling. He faltered. "...Of course. You're the emperor."
Elliott smiled. But it was hollow—drained. "You know that's not what I meant."
Aiden hesitated. "Then... what do you mean?"
Elliott exhaled slowly. "Do you know what this painting means, Aiden?"
Aiden gave a small nod, unsure if Elliott needed the confirmation.
But Elliott continued anyway, as though talking more to himself than anyone else.
"It shows the ideal ruler," he said, voice level but empty. "A sovereign who protects. Who nurtures. Who leads the empire into light."
His voice thinned with grief. "And today... today I'm finally realizing how much I've failed."
Aiden's heart clenched at those words. "Elliott. That's not true."
But the emperor didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed on the painting, though now there was a shine to his eyes that hadn't been there before—a sheen of unshed tears, pooling quietly.
"Elliott," Aiden said again, gently, like one might try to rouse someone from a nightmare.
This time, Elliott stirred. He sat up, slowly, lifting his neck and finally turning his gaze to Aiden, who still knelt at his side.
Their eyes met.
Elliott's eyes were dull, wet, and glassy— shadows cast deep beneath them. There was no light in his eyes today.
"I swore I wouldn't wage wars," he said quietly, as though the confession were something sacred. "When I took the throne—I saw. I saw how much devastation war brings. I told myself... no more blood. No more death."
His voice trembled. "You must've thought I had no spine when i always pushed for negotiation. Maybe I didn't. Maybe I don't. Because I bowed. I compromised. I kept hoping... if I just bent far enough, I could keep them safe. Keep everyone safe."
He paused, breath hitching. "But now—"
A tear slid down his cheek.
"Now I've failed."
Aiden felt his own chest ache, hearing it. He reached out, gently placing a hand on Elliott's.
"You didn't start this," Aiden whispered. "You did everything you could to avoid it. Everyone knows that."
Elliott shook his head. "Does it matter?" His voice cracked. "Does that matter, Aiden? When people will still die—because of me?"
He looked down at his own hands, swallowed in layers of ceremonial silk. They looked too delicate. Too clean. As though they hadn't yet been stained with the blood he feared was coming.
The room was silent again. The wind outside rustled faintly against the windows.
And beneath The Light of the Empire, Elliott sat hollow, watching the shadows gather under his reign.
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