The storm left behind by General Varn Delacroix had not yet settled when the Assembly doors opened once more.
This time, the banners that entered were not war-torn and bloodstained. They were clean. Embroidered. Quietly radiant with generational power.
The first was House Travan, its sigil a black fox under a waxing moon. The Travan Lord walked with a cane—not from weakness, but from an old battle injury earned defending the palace during the Scouring Rebellion.
A silver chain ran across his chest, connecting scrolls of law and prophecy. He was the High Magistrate of the Inner Courts.
He did not speak immediately, nor loudly.
But when he did, it was with chilling precision.
"I speak with no intent for conquest," Lord Travan said, his voice echoing cleanly off the crystalline columns. "I speak for continuity. For the spine of this Empire, the laws that bind it. I support Maximus Aregard not because he promises glory—but because he has already ensured stability."
