The title lingered in the air — Emperor — strange yet inevitable, like a prophecy finally spoken aloud.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Heimdal's hand remained on the parchment. The fingers that had once gripped a sword now trembled slightly — not from age, but from memory. He had fought for a lifetime to preserve his kingdom's sovereignty, had watched men die beneath his banner so that Northem's name would never be spoken in subservience. And yet here he stood, surrendering that independence to the son of the woman he once loved, and to the vision of a world she had foretold.
But shouldn't he be proud? The man who would lead the two kingdoms together was his first born.
He raised his calm and resolute eyes to Alaric, but shadowed by something unspoken. "I am wishing you success and I hope to see this Azurverda empire in my lifetime." Heimdal waved his hand over the painting on the wall.
