Scene: Delvaron Central Square – Kael Dran's POV
The chains weren't on my hands.
They were in my eyes.
Because everyone who saw me—everyone watching this broadcast, every citizen across what used to be my country—they didn't see a president anymore.
They saw a warning.
I was dressed in ceremonial white robes. Immaculate. Pressed. Robes I hadn't worn since the day I was inaugurated.
But this wasn't my day.
This was his.
The stage was built where the national monument once stood. They'd torn it down within twenty-four hours—Blackwood's military engineers replaced it with a towering black platform of steel, LED banners, and a rising mechanical mast.
The Blackwood Flag was folded on a silver tray.
Next to it stood a B.A.M. commander, emotionless.
And behind him?
Two throne chairs.
Empty.
They were watching, I knew it. From the castle. Or the skies. Or some dark room where power didn't need to be present to be felt.
> "Raise it," the commander said, handing me the flag.
My fingers didn't move.
For just a second, my mind flashed.
Back to the moment I stood with my people. When I meant something. When I wasn't a piece of someone else's story.
But the hesitation passed.
I lifted the banner.
The wind caught it like it knew.
It flapped once.
Twice.
Then slowly—so slowly—I fastened it to the mast.
And pressed the black button.
The mechanical rod hissed upward.
Higher…
Higher…
Until the flag towered above the capital.
Above the people.
Above what used to be Delvaron.
> "Long live the Flame," the commander said sharply.
A crowd repeated it on cue.
Thousands of voices.
Not cheering.
Not chanting.
Just… obeying.
> "Long live the Flame."
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Cut To: Blackwood Castle – Throne Room
Chris's POV
I watched the feed in silence.
Amara sat beside me, eyes narrowed, fingers tapping the armrest in rhythm with the crowd's chant.
> "He did it," she said finally.
> "Of course he did," I replied. "Men like him don't fight revolutions. They perform funerals."
> "Are we done with him?"
I paused.
Then:
> "Not yet."
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