The morning was brittle with autumn light when a summons went out across the palace: Darius Valen was to present himself before the throne. Word traveled like a ripple through the marble halls Darius did not ignore summonses lightly. He arrived with the slow, careful step of a man who had learned the value of patience and the currency of secrets.
Silas sat upon the Dragon Throne as the chamber filled. Courtiers fell into hushed rows; the generals watched from their benches; even the servants quieted as if the air itself had been charged. When Darius stepped forward and bowed, the smile he offered was practiced politely insolent, the kind that masked a mind always counting advantages.
"Darius," Silas said, voice cool as steel, "you know why I called."
Darius straightened, folding his hands with the composure of the well-bred. "Your Majesty, I serve at your pleasure. If there is"
Silas rose before he finished. The motion was simple, but as he moved the room seemed to tighten. The dragon embroidered on his robe caught the light; his golden eyes were not the warm light of a benevolent sovereign but the pinpoint glare of a hunter.
"Do not forget your place," Silas said. The words were soft, but they carried like iron across the hall. "I have let you fly your games and weave your webs because they entertained me and, sometimes, because they served the crown. You are useful, Darius. Do not make me learn how dispensable you can be."
Darius' smile faltered for the first time. He replied with the politeness of a man who hopes to soften a blade's edge. "You flatter me, Your Majesty. I would never—"
Silas stepped closer. He lifted his palm as if to emphasize something small and domestic, but the effect was anything but small. Mana thin, glorious, raw coiled out from his fingertips. It crawled along the floor like living mercury, then surged upward in a silver ribbon that wrapped the columns and ran along the vaulted ceiling. The air thrummed. Candles flared and guttered. A low vibration rolled through stone and bone until the entire castle shuddered as if something vast had shifted beneath the foundations.
Gasps burst from the court. Nobles steadied themselves against the carved benches; a chandelier swayed like a pendulum. Even the Imperial Drakes at the rear of the hall stilled, hands on hilts, eyes wide.
Darius stood motionless, the color leaving his face in a thin line. He had known Silas could command magic who in the court did not? but feeling that command swell through the palace, feeling the stones complain and the dust tremble, was intimate and terrifying in a way ink and rumor never were.
Silas' voice was quiet but everywhere. "Cause any trouble while the Empress is here," he said, "and you will feel me in ways neither bribe nor threat could teach."
He let the mana linger for a heartbeat longer—an entire argument held in a single, suspended instant—then drew it back, folding the light into himself like a cloak. The castle calmed as if a hand had smoothed its brow. Candles steadied. The air thinned. Only the echo of what had been remained, a memory of thunder in a cup.
Darius swallowed, then bowed deeper than before. "Your warning is noted, Your Majesty. My loyalty is to the crown."
Silas inclined his head, not with gentleness but with an austere acknowledgment. "See that it remains that way." He gestured to the side corridor. "Come with me. The library. There are matters a man of your… capacities should understand."
They moved through the palace in a hush. Courtiers exchanged glances—some awed, some frightened, some already recalculating alliances. Darius' carriage of composure had been cracked; he hid it with the ease of a practiced actor, but the tremor in his fingers as he adjusted his sleeve betrayed him.
The library lay beyond the private chambers: a long hall of books, maps, and scrolls smelling faintly of glue and old ink. Here, away from gilded eaves and the listening ears of the court, Silas preferred to think aloud. Massive windows framed the River's Crescent beyond, and in the light that pooled along the reading tables the two men's shadows stretched long and thin.
Silas motioned for Darius to sit across from him. He unfurled a map of the continent on the table—precise pins marking inferable troop movements, trade arteries, and recently intercepted routes of rumor. The library had been quiet long enough to host strategy; the room seemed to gather itself, attentive, as a good audience does.
"I wanted you here because your faction matters," Silas began. His tone was patientfatherly, almost yet every syllable held the weight of a verdict. "You know the court's rot. You have friends, and you have debts. I wish to understand both, Darius. Tell me plainly: who among the nobles do you counsel? Who whispers with traders? Who would light a match if the wind favored them?"
Darius' eyes flicked to the map, then back to Silas. He chose his words with the same care he used to thread alliances. "We have pockets of unease, sire. Lords of the western reaches resent the new tax inspections. Some maritime trade lords fear Varkan's influence will swallow their profits. A handful of minor houses—no more than three or four—still speak of older claims. None, in my judgement, have the stomach for civil war. Yet."
"Yet?" Silas prompted.
"Yet… a skilled nudge, the right coin, and the right foreign backing could make them act reckless. They seek opportunity, not ruin. If some foreign house Arizon, perhaps promised quicker returns, their caution could dissolve." Darius watched Silas carefully for reaction. "There's talk of tents in the northern steppes for hire mercenaries with no loyalty but gold. there are always temptations."
Silas let the words settle. He traced a thin line on the map from the Iron Ridge to the Draven Pass, then up toward the Frostborn marches. "And your hand in this?" he asked.
"My hand?" Darius repeated, incredulous but measured. "I advise and I maneuver. I play the court's game so it does not swallow me. You cannot expect a noble not to use what the world affords him."
Silas' gaze sharpened. "I do not ask for illusion. I ask for clarity. If you seek influence, find it under my banner. Align openly, not in shadows. Those who pretend to be my counsel and then sell my ear will find their coins worthless when the bell tolls."
Darius inclined his head. "And if I prove useful?"
"Then you keep your place. You fly, for now," Silas said quietly. "But remember: every javelin has a head. Throw it well."
Darius' practiced mask returned, only slightly rearranged by the morning's tremor. "Understood, Your Majesty. I will serve."
Silas rolled up the map and tucked it away, his expression unreadable. "Good. For the Empress' arrival and while she is in our halls—no sparks. We will show a united front. And you will ensure your people behave accordingly. If not…" He let the threat hang, unspoken, as heavy as the castle's stone.
They left the library together, two figures stepping back into the sunlight. Outside, the palace moved on preparations quickening, banners oiling, guards drilling. The court would watch, trade whispers, and test the edges of loyalty. Silas walked with the quiet certainty of a man who had learned the cost of leniency.
Darius walked with the slow, guarded step of a man who had been reminded afresh that power was not privilege; it was the perilous stewardship of consequence.He bowed once more at the palace threshold, lips polite, eyes steady, then turned away. Inside, as he walked through the carved corridor, a thought slipped across his mind like a silk blade: You win for now, Emperor. I will behave — but the second you show weakness, I will be there to gobble you up.