The obsidian-walled council chamber bore the emblems of ancient glory. Sunlight filtering through stained glass cast colored shadows on the stone floor beautiful, but incapable of warming the tension that gripped the room.
Emperor Gaius Octavianus Magnus sat on the black stone throne, a seat used only for emergency gatherings. His face was composed, but his silver eyes scanned every movement with piercing clarity.
Present were the high nobles and principal ministers of the Empire. Among them stood Duke Armand Vaelric, the Lion of the North and Supreme Military Commander. Opposite him, Lord Severan Malrec, the Imperial Chamberlain and Spymaster soft-spoken, serpent-tongued. Near the wall, Soren Voltaire Duval sat apart, cold and detached, yet his presence alone added weight to the room.
The Emperor's voice echoed through the stone:
"Reports from the southeast are clear. The fires have begun. If we do not act, this will become a small war that opens a wide wound."
Duke Vaelric spoke first, his tone sharp and martial:
"The front lines will be reinforced. I request permission to mobilize two full regiments. If fire spreads, we burn it back."
Lord Malrec gave a thin smile.
"And if we burn the wrong village, Your Majesty? High taxes have already left the people starving. One spark could ignite them all. Perhaps we need sharper intelligence, not more swords."
Vaelric glared.
"And too much intelligence breeds treachery. I won't wait on reports that arrive after the fact."
The Emperor held back a cold smile.
"You both have your roles. But this time, we won't blame each other... yet. Malrec, activate your networks. Find out who is stirring this unrest. But leave the bloodstains where they are. For now."
Malrec bowed slightly.
"As always, Majesty. But the architects of chaos are clever they hide well behind the cries of the hungry."
Count Riven Destrois spoke next, voice smooth but laced with disdain:
"Perhaps if the Empire listened earlier, we wouldn't be searching for culprits among ashes. The people don't need reasons to rebel just hunger."
Marchioness Selene Arceval gave a soft laugh.
"As always, we discuss root causes only after the fields have burned. Classic."
The Emperor turned toward Soren.
"Archon Duval. Your thoughts?"
Soren's dark eyes moved over the chamber. Calm. Opaque.
"If this is a game, then the pieces have moved. But I do not play chess. I clear the board."
The Emperor nodded with approval.
"You will handle the shadow. Bring your agent Lucard Vehlheim. If there are traitors, make sure they don't speak twice."
Duke Vaelric interjected:
"If the militia grows into a real army, we'll greet them in the field."
The Emperor agreed.
"Prepare your troops, Duke. Malrec, revise supply routes and the tax edict. We don't want our people thinking they have no choices left."
The council ended without applause. No farewells. Only footsteps, and the whispers of ambition bouncing off old stone.
From where he stood, Soren looked down at the map before him expressionless, calculating.
"Let's see... who dares to play with fire."