Tobias' arrival at the Clansmoot did not feel like entering a room.
It felt like being projected into a court of knives.
The remote suite in No'aar's palace war chamber was quiet except for the low hum of encryption arrays and the steady cadence of system handshakes. Kvasir watched authentication strings scroll like prayers. Trace stood off to Tobias' right, posture controlled, eyes scanning for anything that looked like intrusion. Cassian remained behind, still as a drawn blade, ready to respond if the FMC fleet overhead interpreted Tobias' attention elsewhere as weakness. The Merwyn representative stood close to Tobias' left, draped in deep blue ceremonial cloth threaded with faint bioluminescent strands, a calm presence that carried the weight of the deep even in virtual form.
Then the link completed.
The Clansmoot chamber unfolded around Tobias in hololithic scale, grand and austere, designed to remind every noble in attendance that the Imperium was older than their ambitions. Alcoves ringed the space like carved teeth, each marked with the crest of a Great House and filled with their delegations. Tobias' instincts reached for the alcove reserved for House Hawthorne, the familiar place of banners and tradition. Instead, his projection resolved elsewhere, into an alcove labeled in stark script:
NO'AAR.
It was not a seat in the family circle.
It was a seat on the world.
Tobias felt the meaning strike with quiet force. The Imperium had separated him from Hawthorne's sanctuary and placed him in the posture of stewardship rather than blood. He could see House Hawthorne's alcove at the chamber's edge, where Archimedes stood in person among Hawthorne nobles and officers, cane in hand and posture unyielding. Archimedes' gaze met Tobias' for a brief moment, and Tobias felt a flicker of fatherly pride buried beneath the Duke's political discipline.
The Merwyn representative stood within the No'aar alcove beside Tobias, and the chamber took notice.
Some faces showed curiosity, others distaste, and a few masked calculations sharpened behind polite stillness. Tobias could almost feel the pressure of assumptions trying to form around the Merwyn presence, as though the Imperium could not decide whether to treat them as allies, assets, or threats. Tobias kept his expression composed and his posture formal, refusing to give them the satisfaction of visible discomfort.
Across the chamber, House Mordred's alcove shimmered with dark elegance.
Its banners bore old symbols that looked like family pride only if one ignored the blood beneath them. At their center stood Duke Jorgen Mordred, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair silvered at the temples in a way that suggested experience rather than age. His smile arrived first, warm and welcoming, and Tobias recognized it instantly as the sort of smile that claimed innocence while sharpening blades behind the back.
"Lord Tobias Hawthorne," Duke Jorgen said, voice rich with practiced courtesy. "Steward of No'aar." He opened his hands slightly, a gesture of public warmth meant for the audience as much as for Tobias. "How refreshing to see a young lord willing to appear before the Clansmoot with such… confidence." His smile deepened by a fraction. "We've heard so much about your tenure. Conflicting reports, of course. But the Imperium thrives on clarity. I hope you've come prepared to provide it."
The chamber's attention tightened like a net.
Jorgen's words sounded welcoming, but the undertone was clear enough to taste. He was offering Tobias an opportunity to speak, yes, but also demanding that Tobias justify his very presence. The subtle implication hung in the air: If you cannot prove yourself, you should not be here. Tobias felt his prescience stir faintly, sensing branching reactions from the minor houses, but he did not chase visions. He had learned that the cleanest victories in politics were won with evidence, not prophecy.
"I've come prepared," Tobias replied evenly.
His voice carried across the chamber with formal steadiness, not rising to match Jorgen's theatrical warmth. "And because the Imperium thrives on clarity, I will begin with something unambiguous." Tobias gestured once toward Kvasir, and a cascade of sealed data packets appeared in the Clansmoot's shared hololithic space, each stamped with Imperial authentication codes and time-locked verification. "These files are real-time fleet and sensor confirmations," Tobias continued. "They demonstrate beyond doubt that House Mordred's fleet elements and approximately half of House Mordred's ground assets are currently engaged in hostile action."
He let the words settle before finishing the sentence, because timing mattered.
"They are sieging House Hawthorne's Castellan system."
A murmur ran through the chamber like a gust through dry leaves.
The minor houses reacted first, because minor houses survived by reacting quickly. Tobias watched posture shift, watched heads turn, watched whispers begin as people recalculated loyalty in the space of heartbeats. Jorgen's smile remained in place, but Tobias saw the tension at the edges of it, the faint tightening near the eyes that betrayed irritation. Archimedes did not move in his alcove, but the air around House Hawthorne's banner seemed to grow sharper.
The Clansmoot's verification systems began to process Tobias' files.
Each packet opened into crisp tactical overlays, sensor logs, and transponder confirmations, all time-stamped and cross-verified. The evidence did not merely accuse. It demonstrated. It showed fleet vectors, troop movement registries, and intercepted communications that matched Mordred encryption keys. It showed the siege unfolding in a way no one could honestly dismiss as rumor. Tobias watched the chamber's response pivot as the data locked into official record.
Half of the absentee minor houses shifted posture within minutes.
These were the houses that had tried to stay absent, avoiding commitment by avoiding visibility, and now the siege dragged them into light. Tobias watched as declarations came through, some hesitant, some indignant, some calculating, but all moving in the same direction. Support for House Hawthorne strengthened, not out of affection, but out of survival instinct. If Mordred could siege Castellan while pleading for "stability," then any house could be next.
Duke Jorgen lifted his hands slightly, still smiling, still welcoming.
"A regrettable misunderstanding," he said smoothly, as if hostile fleet action could be reduced to poor scheduling. "Border tensions flare. Unfortunate incidents occur. Surely you don't imply this is a planned aggression." Tobias held his gaze and did not answer the rhetorical trap. The proof spoke louder than rebuttal, and Tobias refused to cheapen it with argument.
The voice that rose next came from House Kantreel's alcove.
A figure stepped forward, clad in immaculate attire with subtle mechanical ornamentation that suggested pride in function rather than appearance. Their eyes were bright with the kind of intelligence that loved systems more than people. "House Kantreel maintains its political alignment," the speaker said calmly, tone precise, "but we are not an organ of sabotage." The chamber stilled slightly, because when Kantreel spoke, fleets listened. "We will not personally interfere with House Hawthorne's maintenance channels or supply chains," the Kantreel representative continued. "We have no interest in destabilizing the Imperium's industrial continuity."
It sounded like a concession.
It was also a warning.
Tobias recognized the careful phrasing instantly. We will not personallyinterfere, which left room for allies, contractors, and "administrative realities" to do the interfering instead. Still, the declaration mattered, because it limited how openly Kantreel could strangle Hawthorne logistics without exposing itself as hypocritical. Tobias inclined his head once in acknowledgment, neither thanking nor accusing, because both would have given the Kantreel speaker leverage.
Duke Jorgen waited until the murmurs softened, then stepped forward again with renewed warmth.
"You are quick with accusations," he said pleasantly. "But let us speak of No'aar, since you sit beneath its name." His gesture drew attention toward Tobias' alcove label as if it were a collar he could tug. "My House stewarded that world for years," Jorgen continued. "We know its rigs, its tides, and its production realities." He paused, then sent a data projection into the shared hololith.
Images of Dust rigs appeared.
They looked battered, rust-streaked, half-maintained, their drill arms worn and their submersible conduits patched with temporary seals. Maintenance logs highlighted delays. Structural scans showed fatigue fractures. Production charts displayed a sharp decline, and the accompanying commentary framed it as inevitable under "inexperienced stewardship." The data package was presented with the same welcoming tone, as though Jorgen were offering helpful criticism rather than preparing an execution.
"A world like No'aar requires seasoned management," Jorgen said, voice soft and regretful. "Not idealism. Not youthful confidence." He smiled again, warmer than ever. "We asked for proof, Lord Tobias. If you claim competence, show us competence."
Tobias did not flinch.
Because he had been waiting for exactly this.
He raised his hand and released his own files into the chamber's shared space, stamped with Imperial verification and Merwyn co-signature markers. "The images you've provided are real," Tobias said calmly, "but they are not current, and they are not complete." He let that statement cut cleanly through the room. "They are staged from the final weeks of your stewardship, before House Hawthorne restored rig integrity and expanded production capacity."
The hololith shifted.
Tobias' records unfolded into live operational dashboards: repair timetables, structural reinforcements, Merwyn-led deepwork modifications, upgraded filtration arrays, and the implementation of new safety thresholds that increased uptime without tearing the seabed into ruin. Production figures rose steadily across the chart, surpassing Mordred's best recorded months even before the Merwyn alliance had fully stabilized labor rotations. The numbers did not merely refute Jorgen's narrative. They humiliated it with undeniable truth.
"Our Dust production has increased," Tobias said, voice steady, "and it has done so while ending forced labor, restoring sanctuaries, and stabilizing the planet's internal security." He turned slightly, acknowledging the Merwyn representative beside him. "We have exceeded House Mordred's stewardship output without Mordred's methods." He paused, letting the chamber absorb the implication. "That is not lackluster. That is competence."
For the first time, Duke Jorgen's smile faltered.
Not fully, not enough to give the crowd a clear emotional victory, but enough that the chamber felt it. Tobias watched the small crack appear in Mordred's polished mask and felt something settle inside him. This was what it meant to fight politics the way war was fought: not with loud words, but with positioning, timing, and proof.
The Clansmoot murmured again, but the murmur had changed.
It was no longer a sound of uncertainty. It was the sound of recalculation.
As Tobias held his posture within the No'aar alcove, separated from House Hawthorne's banner yet anchored by evidence and alliance, he understood something fundamental. The Imperium was not deciding whether he was young or old, reckless or careful. It was deciding whether his stewardship could be dismissed as a temporary anomaly or recognized as a precedent that would reshape the balance of power.
By the time the session recessed, half the chamber looked at him differently.
Not with affection.
With respect.
And respect, Tobias had learned, was the only currency that mattered when the knives came out.