The third moon since the Emperor's death passed without ceremony.
Across the Empire, tension lingered like a knife above the neck. Roads bustled, markets chattered, noble courts performed their endless theatre of civility—but beneath it all, silence stalked like a predator.
Every Duke and Archmage, every mercenary commander and coin lord waited for the first public blow in the imperial succession. None came.
None dared.
Because Maximus Aregard had not yet moved.
But now, in the deepest corridors of power, the shadow had begun to crawl.
---
A golden raven carved from mana crystal perched on a tall bronze stand inside Maximus's war chamber. Its wings were spread in mock flight, eyes flickering with arcane light. As his fingers brushed its obsidian-tipped beak, it spoke in his brother's voice—clear, clipped, and impatient.
"Maximus. You promised order. And yet I hear whispers of resistance in the lower courts. Handle it. Before I do."
He didn't reply. He rarely did.
