About thirty minutes later, the air was shattered by the sudden wail of a horn, followed almost instantly by the violent peal of alarms. The sound rolled like a storm through the streets, bouncing off walls and rooftops, ringing sharp and high around the massive gate of Region 4. It was the signal everyone had been waiting for—the herald of an arrival of great importance. And indeed, it was the first wave of the emperor's entourage.
The crowd surged forward instinctively, though guards along the barricades pushed them back, their halberds flashing under the early sun. Dust rose from the cobblestones as disciplined ranks appeared, the first wave composed of guards and disciplinary officers, stern-faced young military recruits, and hardened men armed with gleaming weapons.
They marched in 10 perfect units of fifty, each step so precisely timed that the sound of boots striking the ground became a steady thunder, echoing like the heartbeat of one massive creature. Shields gleamed, spears tilted at an exact angle, and banners rippled in the morning wind. The sheer sight of their synchronicity was enough to draw gasps of admiration from the gathered citizens. It was less a march and more a living proclamation of the emperor's power.
The people erupted into cheers, their voices swelling until it seemed the very air trembled. The noise was so deafening that one could hardly hear their own breath. Children clapped wildly, women lifted their scarves to wave them, and old men, who had seen rulers rise and fall, wiped tears from their eyes at the magnificence of it all.
Amid the commotion stood the trader, the same man who only a short while ago had unwittingly spoken to one of the hidden assassins. He clutched his daughter close, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from anticipation. Excitement danced in his chest, but a part of him also trembled at the thought that evil might lurk amidst the chaos. It was in crowds such as these that dark intentions often hid themselves, waiting for the perfect chance.
"This is just the first wave of the emperor's entourage," he said, leaning close to his little girl so she could hear him over the roar of the multitude. His eyes sparkled, reflecting the glint of sunlight on polished armour. "What do you think will happen when he himself decides to appear?"
The girl, nestled snugly in his left arm, clutched his tunic with tiny fingers and looked up at him, her face alight with innocent wonder.
"Papa," she cried, her voice cutting through the din with surprising clarity, "the Black Dragon comes majestically! His presence will roar like thunder and spread like fire!" Her eyes widened as she spoke, as though she could already see the emperor descending like a force of nature.
The trader threw his head back and let out a great belly laugh, his voice booming. "Ahahahaha! Danielle, you are truly your father's daughter. Always with your imagination. I should have known you would be the emperor's greatest fan. Sometimes I fear you may love him more than you love me!" He looked at her with mock suspicion, feigning jealousy as he bounced her lightly in his arm.
Danielle's lips curled into a mischievous grin. "No, Papa. I love you both equally," she said, tilting her head playfully.
Her answer only made the man laugh harder, his joy spilling out amidst the clamour of drums and horns. He kissed her forehead and turned back toward the gate, eyes wide as the second wave of the procession approached.
This second wave was even grander still—resplendent nobles in flowing robes of silk and brocade, their jewels glittering under the light; members of the imperial court with banners trailing behind them; and the extended royal family, whose names carried weight across the empire.
Prince Michael rode at the forefront on a white stallion, clad in shining armour that reflected the sun like a mirror. Beside him was Princess Zemira, her gown of crimson and gold billowing like a flame, her crown catching the light with every step of her steed. Around them rode the royal army, their armour polished to brilliance, swords drawn in ceremonial salute.
The crowd went mad. The sound of voices crashed together, wild and unstoppable, a tidal wave of exaltation. The cries were so loud, so piercing, that many clamped their hands over their ears, yet still the roar penetrated. The trader's heart swelled, and he held Danielle closer. He could hardly imagine what the world would become when the emperor himself appeared.
Josh, the Emperor, had not cleansed the land with blood as many conquerors before him had done. Though the day of the takeover had claimed its share of lives—chiefly among those who resisted to the bitter end—he did not, in the aftermath, turn his wrath upon every member of the former royal family nor upon his own siblings. His advisers had urged it, some loudly, others with hushed urgency. They feared the lingering shadows of the old dynasty, men and women with names powerful enough to ignite rebellions in distant provinces. "Crush them now," they had insisted. "Extinguish the embers before they burn anew."
But Josh Aratat had been firm. He would not rule by fear alone, nor would he stain his reign with needless executions. "A tree may be cut," he told them, "but its roots can steady the soil if tended properly." Against their protests, he extended clemency to those who had not raised arms against him, and even went further—he entrusted them with responsibility.
Prince Michael, known for his good manners and unshakable sense of justice, was appointed as regional inspector over three major regions, where his steady hand soon calmed lingering corruption and unrest. Princess Zemira, gentle in nature and peace-seeking, was placed as mediator between rival guilds and trade houses, her words dissolving disputes where swords would have otherwise clashed.
Even among the empresses of the former court—those women once considered dangerous simply by association—Josh found allies of worth. Some he raised into positions of influence, where their intelligence and poise became assets to the stability of the realm.
When these royals appeared now in the emperor's entourage, the people did not jeer, nor did they spit in scorn. Instead, they cheered, for a year had passed, and in that year they had proven themselves. Their deeds had been laid bare before the eyes of commoners and nobles alike, and the empire had grown steadier for it. Farmers, traders, artisans, even soldiers—all could vouch for their sincerity, their honesty, and the fact that they no longer served an old, broken order but a new throne under which the land was beginning to flourish.
Yet not all of the former bloodline embraced this path of reconciliation. Alloysius, for one, could not bury his ambition beneath Josh's mercy. Once a high noble with a sharp tongue and sharper desires, he bristled at the sight of his kin serving under the very man who had toppled their crown. To him, mercy was weakness, and compromise, a humiliation.
He vanished from the public eye, slipping into the cracks of the empire like a serpent into tall grass. Whispers claimed he sought forbidden power, wandering through lawless lands where desperate men bartered loyalty for promises of gold and sorcery. Others said he allied himself with outlaws and exiled sorcerers, weaving together a secret network aimed at reclaiming the throne—not to restore it, but to bend it wholly to his own will.
So it was that as the procession of nobles, princes, princesses, and generals passed, the people's cheers rose like a storm. They looked upon Prince Michael and Princess Zemira and knew: these were figures who served the empire with clean hands. But somewhere in the vastness beyond the borders, in shadows untouched by sunlight, Alloysius nursed his hatred and plotted, a reminder that though the empire thrived, its peace was not unchallenged.