The Imperial Office replied with the kind of politeness that felt like a collar.
Kvasir received the transmission first, verified the seal twice, then let it unfold across the war chamber's hololith in crisp, formal text. The message granted remote attendance at the Clansmoot "for the present circumstances," citing the destabilized orbital environment and ongoing blockade posture as justification. It also reserved the right to require Tobias' physical presence at a later date, framed as a matter of procedure rather than pressure, which made it more dangerous. Tobias read the line three times and felt the intent behind it settle into place like a blade laid gently on a table.
"They're letting you breathe," Duchess Satine said quietly, standing beside him with her hands folded in front of her. Her voice held no comfort, only the clean assessment of someone who understood court currents as well as any battlefield. "But they've also made sure you know they can close the air again whenever it suits them." Tobias nodded once, because the truth was clear and insulting in its clarity. Remote attendance was not a concession; it was a probation.
The war chamber remained dim, lit by hololithic light and the steady pulse of No'aar's orbital grid.
The FMC fleet still hung above the planet in corporate discipline, its formation unchanged, its posture still dressed in the language of protection. Tobias kept the Second Naval Squadron dark behind the third moon, and the hidden markers on his private command layer felt like a held breath. Cassian and Trace remained close, quiet and attentive, while the unseen SCORPIO remnant lingered at the edges of the palace like a shadow that refused to leave. Tobias could not pierce that shadow with prescience, not cleanly, because mind-blocking training dulled his inner sight into haze whenever they were near.
Information arrived from other channels long before official proclamations did.
It came through coded whispers in private relays, through favors repaid by lesser clerks, through minor houses eager to prove relevance by sharing what they shouldn't. Kvasir sifted it all with the delight of a man raised to treat secrets as nourishment, then condensed it into a clean summary that the room could digest. Tobias watched him work and felt, not for the first time, that House Cocytus' true weapon was not knowledge, but timing. A secret revealed too late was dead weight, and Kvasir never let facts die of neglect.
"House Sinclair has declared support for House Hawthorne," Kvasir said, projecting a crest Tobias recognized from histories of old campaigns and bitter alliances. "Their statement is couched in duty, stability, and opposition to corporate interference in Imperial stewardship." Tobias felt the shift inside the room immediately, because Sinclair's support carried a very specific kind of weight. House Hawthorne produced the Imperium's finest ground warriors, duelists, generals, and WarMech commanders, but Sinclair produced something equally dangerous in a different theater. They churned out the Imperium's finest ship captains and admirals, masters of fleet tactics and stratagems, the kind of naval minds that could win wars with geometry rather than brute mass.
Trace's expression tightened into something close to approval. "That matters," he said softly. "Sinclair doesn't sign on unless they intend to move pieces." Cassian nodded once, and Tobias understood why his vice-commander looked relieved. House Hawthorne's fleet already held proven talent, with seasoned captains, task group commanders, and even an admiral among their ranks, but Sinclair's endorsement was like gaining a second set of eyes for the void itself. It meant tactics, doctrine, and naval legitimacy backing Hawthorne's position at the exact moment corporate fleets were trying to redefine sovereignty.
Kvasir continued, tone measured.
"House Sinclair is also the only Great House permitted two house fleets," he said, letting that detail rest in the air where everyone could feel its significance. The allowance was not charity, but acknowledgment, a political admission by the Imperium that Sinclair's naval stewardship was considered essential enough to justify an exception. Tobias felt the implication sharpen into focus: if Sinclair sided openly with Hawthorne now, they were risking those privileges, which meant their support was not casual. It was calculated commitment.
Kvasir's next words carried less comfort.
"House Cocytus remains neutral," he said, and though his tone stayed pleasant, Tobias caught the faint sharpness beneath it. "Their official posture is abstention pending the Emperor's address and the final form of any proposed oversight measures." Duchess Satine's gaze did not move, but her jaw tightened slightly, the subtle sign of someone who understood what neutrality usually meant among the powerful. Tobias understood it too, because neutrality was often a way to profit without bleeding. It was the posture of people who intended to survive regardless of who won.
Then Kvasir brought down the blade.
"House Kantreel," he said carefully, "has aligned with House Mordred's petition." The war chamber seemed to chill by a fraction, even with the hololith's warm glow. Tobias felt prescience twitch, not into visions, but into the instinctive warning that machinery and politics were never separate where House Kantreel was involved. If the empire's master engineers backed Mordred, it meant the argument was not purely moral, not purely legal, and certainly not purely about Dust. It meant someone had promised them something that made betrayal feel like investment.
Trace leaned forward, voice low. "Kantreel siding with Mordred is a knife aimed at your engines," he said, and Tobias did not need explanation to understand. If Kantreel's influence reached fleet maintenance channels and supply networks, the war could be strangled without a shot fired. Cassian's eyes narrowed, thinking in terms of redundancy and contingency, already planning how to keep Hawthorne forces functioning if the wider Imperial machine began to resist them. Tobias kept his face still, because reaction was what enemies fed upon, and he refused to feed them.
The minor houses were worse, not because they were strong, but because they were numerous.
Kvasir displayed a circular chart on the hololith, cleanly segmented and annotated with names Tobias only half recognized. "Approximately forty percent favor House Mordred," Kvasir said, letting the words settle before continuing. "Thirty percent claim neutrality or abstention, likely waiting to see which side becomes safer. Twenty percent openly support House Hawthorne, and ten percent have stated they will wait on the Emperor's address before committing." Tobias stared at the distribution and felt the subtle cruelty of it. Most of the Empire was not choosing justice or truth; it was choosing momentum.
Duchess Satine broke the silence with a quiet, precise assessment.
"Forty percent is not love," she said. "It's fear dressed as prudence, because House Mordred has traded in fear for generations." Tobias nodded, because she was right, and because the numbers told a story that words could pretend to soften but never change. Mordred's strength was not that they were trusted. It was that people believed Mordred would punish them if they weren't obeyed. The ten percent waiting on the Emperor's speech were the most honest faction in the room, because at least they admitted their loyalty belonged to the throne, not the truth.
Tobias felt the old ache behind his eyes as prescience tried to rise anyway.
He could sense futures branching outward from the Clansmoot chamber, but the shapes were blurred by distance and by the Quiet Sisterhood haze that clung to SCORPIO's remaining presence in the palace. It was like trying to see stars through a storm window, knowing the light was there but unable to read its exact position. Tobias forced himself to stop seeking certainty, because certainty was a luxury no commander ever truly possessed. He did not need visions to understand that the Emperor's coming speech would be a fulcrum, and that every faction was leaning toward it with hungry patience.
Preparation became Tobias' answer to uncertainty.
He ordered the war chamber converted into a secure remote-attendance suite, with redundant comm relays and encryption layers thick enough to satisfy Imperial protocol and frustrate corporate interception. Kvasir coordinated authentication procedures, tracing every data path to ensure it did not pass through nodes that could be quietly compromised. Trace arranged physical security and counter-surveillance sweeps, insisting that no corridor near the chamber remain unmonitored even for a minute. Cassian handled fleet readiness adjustments, ensuring that No'aar's remaining defenses could respond instantly if the FMC fleet interpreted Tobias' remote attendance as weakness.
The Merwyn envoy arrived before evening, not to argue, but to observe.
They stood near the chamber's threshold with quiet dignity, their presence a reminder that Tobias' legitimacy was now braided with more than human politics. Tobias welcomed them formally, offering a seat within sight of the hololith, because he understood the symbolism. If the Imperium was debating Tobias' right to steward No'aar, the Merwyn had the right to witness whether that stewardship included them as allies or treated them as convenient ornaments. The envoy watched Tobias' preparations with still attention, and when Tobias met their gaze, he saw no sentiment there, only a steady expectation of action.
Later, Tobias received a brief message from Archimedes.
It was not a detailed report, because detailed reports could be intercepted, but it carried the weight of warning in its phrasing. The Clansmoot was tense, factions sharp, and House Mordred's plea was being treated by some as a question of stability rather than a question of guilt. Archimedes' closing line was simple: Hold your ground and your temper, and make them pay for every lie with evidence. Tobias read it twice, then locked it away in his mind where doubt could not touch it easily.
Night fell over No'aar with a deceptive calm.
The FMC fleet remained in orbit, a corporate wall pretending patience, while beneath the sea Merwyn lights flickered in patterns that felt like guarded hope. In the moon's shadow, Tobias' Second Naval Squadron waited in silence, arranged into three task groups like a hand held behind the back. Inside the palace, the war chamber's air tasted faintly of ozone from active encryption arrays and the quiet heat of systems working too hard. Tobias stood alone for a moment before the remote-attendance dais, hands clasped behind his back, listening to the soft thrum of No'aar's life-supporting infrastructure.
He did not feel heroic.
He felt responsible.
By the time Tobias sat before the activated hololith and the secure channel began its handshake with the Clansmoot's relay, he had already decided what kind of ruler he would be during the Emperor's speech. He would not plead, and he would not posture, and he would not allow the story to be written by contractors and liars while his people watched helplessly. He would attend remotely for now, as permitted, but he would prepare as though tomorrow demanded his physical presence anyway. The Imperium had offered him a narrow corridor of air, and Tobias intended to breathe in it like a man who could swim if it closed.