The palace corridors had never been more agitated. Servants hurried over gleaming floors, guards were stiff but shared furtive looks, and courtiers spoke in hushed, tense voices. Even the mystical crystals embedded in the ceiling appeared to vibrate with greater than normal energy, their pale blue light fluttering ever so slightly, as if the empire itself waited in anticipation of what was to happen.
Sharath Darsha, Emperor of the New Order, paced back and forth along the length of the audience hall, his boots beating against the marble in a cadence that belied his turmoil. For all the councils he had held, for all the wars he had survived, nothing had disturbed him so much as this night. Behind the heavy golden doors at the end of the corridor, Madhu struggled in chambers screened by priests, midwives, and healers.
The empire bided for the wail of its initial heir.
🐧NeuroBoop's voice, devious as always, hummed in his head. "Chill, oh great emperor. You've battled legions, outmaneuvered nobles, and evaded more attempts on your life than a cat has lives. And one small infant has you strut about like a chicken headed to the slaughterhouse."
Sharath winced but held his tongue. His fingers touched the hilt of his formal sword, not threateningly, but habitually—a reassurance of power. Tonight, he had none.
Around him, officials attempted to look unruffled, but they too were aware of the significance of the moment. Lord Bassana, his grandfather, had placed himself like an unshakeable column close to the council table, smoothing his silver beard, his eyes relaxing into pride every now and then. Lord Varudan, Sharath's father, tried to appear uninterested, reading tax ledgers, but the fact that he turned the pages too rapidly gave away his nervousness.
Messengers went and returned from other palace wings with news of the empire's heartbeat. Even during this moment of personal significance, Sharath had directed that news still come: the census all but complete, the shipments of crude oil from the Beastmen on the rise, dwarves experimenting with stronger alloys for engines, and the elves shipping enchanted seedlings for the empire's green zones.
Advancement never stopped, not even for an heir's birth.
Nevertheless, each report dissipated swiftly into nothingness, the air snapping back into suspense.
Beyond the palace gates, the capital pulsed with energy. Citizens had congregated in the squares, lit magical lanterns on the streets, and set up impromptu shrines to the gods. Sweets and roasted nuts were sold to expectant lines by hawkers, and bards improvised songs of welcome to the arrival of a new era. Children spun ribbons while guards fought to maintain order.
"Half the empire believes the baby's going to be born radiant with godstuff," Bassana growled, under his breath. "The other half believes it'll begin writing imperial edicts before it can roll over."
Sharath struggled to muster a smile, while his gut tightened another notch with every second.
Hours seemed like years. Sharath had issued instructions for news on infrastructure: the northern suspension bridge's completion, the trials of magical engines, law officers sent to border towns. Yet even as scribes read reports out loud, his thoughts returned to the room behind those gilded doors.
🐧NeuroBoop teased again. "So, what will you name it? If it's a boy—Sharath Jr.? If it's a girl—Sharatha? Maybe name it after me? Emperor 🐧NeuroBoop the First sounds majestic."
"Shut up," Sharath muttered aloud, earning startled looks from two junior scribes who quickly bent back over their parchments.
Bassana chuckled. "Still arguing with your invisible advisor?"
Sharath ignored him and kept pacing.
With the moon rising higher, the noise at last arrived. A stentorian, raw cry—high and demanding—shattered the stillness of the corridor. Heads turned in every direction. The golden doors creaked slowly open, and the high priestess emerged, hands raised in a blessing gesture.
"The heir is born," she said, her voice booming like a trumpet. "Mother and child survive. The gods favor House Darsha this evening.
A chorus of relief and triumph swept through the hall. Courtiers applauded, guards struck their spears against the ground, and servants cried outright. Sharath's knees trembled, but he regained his balance and walked forward.
Within, the room radiated soft light. Madhu rested on silken covers, pale but smiling, her hair wet with sweat. In her arms, wrapped in crimson fabric embroidered with the imperial crest, lay the babe. Small, wrinkled, and loud with life.
Sharath's heart tightened in a manner no battlefield had ever done. He knelt at Madhu's side, his hand shaking as he stroked the child's cheek. The baby tilted its head naturally toward him, its wails growing softer.
"A son," Madhu breathed, her eyes aglow. "Your heir."
Word faltered for a moment. Finally, Sharath drew breath and said, "Then the empire is safe.
*"Well," 🐧NeuroBoop muttered sarcastically in his head, "safe until he comes up with something that explodes the nursery."
Sharath came close to guffawing.
Word spread like flame. Bells tolled in the capital, priests lit ritual fires, and impromptu celebrations broke out on the streets. Citizens cried blessings, recited ballads, and some even inscribed poems on the walls. In taverns, health toasts were raised for the infant heir.
In the palace, nobles soon swarmed in, hoping to be among the first to swear allegiance to the child. Generals bowed respectfully, already fantasizing about another Darsha to lead armies. Scholars made omens of good luck, writing down prophecies into their notebooks. Even the priests, who had previously grudged Sharath for using reason and invention, claimed the occurrence as divine evidence of his rule.
But Sharath, with his son in his arms, heard none of it. For the first time, once again, politics, innovations, and empire-building were quiet in his mind. He just knew the weak frailty of life in his arms.
Later that evening, after Madhu had slept deeply, Sharath stood on the balcony facing the city. His son slept in a crib beside him, watched over by nurses and a watchful ward of burning runes. Below, the city erupted into celebration, fireworks of magical fire streaming the sky.
Bassana joined him, leaning heavily on his cane. "I've seen empires rise and fall, grandson. But tonight… tonight, the people believe you've built one that will last."
Sharath nodded, though doubt whispered at the edges of his thoughts. Could any empire truly last? Even with engines, oil, and schools, even with law and order, invention and surveillance, the future was always uncertain.
But when the child moved and gave another robust cry, Sharath smiled. Maybe that was enough.
At dawn, he arrived back at the council hall, his determination clarified. There were reports waiting for him, and he read them with renewed purpose. Oil refineries were being tested. Dwarves were loading an shipment of better steel. The elves had produced enchanted saplings to increase forest reserves. Schools had record attendance.
And then, above all that, he had a son—a purpose for all of it to continue.
"Send word to the provinces," Sharath ordered. "Let it be known throughout the empire: the son of Darsha is born. Today dawns a new era.
His voice rang through the hall like a decree carved into stone. And across the empire, people cheered louder still, their faith in the future sealed by the cry of a newborn child.
🐧NeuroBoop's last whisper that morning was strangely gentle. "Congratulations, Sharath. You've built machines, armies, councils, schools… but this? This is your greatest invention yet."
Sharath chuckled, shaking his head. For once, he had no argument.
The empire had a future.
And its emperor, at last, let himself breathe.