This chapter turned out much longer than I originally expected. That said, I can assure you there's no compromise in the story's context. I'm firmly against trimming down chapters just for length. However, I can't say the same for grammar. I didn't get the chance to fully proofread before uploading, though I do plan to revisit and polish it when I have the time.
If you spot any mistakes, please let me know in the comments. Your feedback will be a huge help during the proofreading process. Thank you for understanding!
**********
The chamber breathed in shadows. Oil lamps sputtered along the walls, their weak flames painting crooked silhouettes across marble that drank in the light.
The air smelled faintly of smoke, old parchment, and spiced wine.
Around the vast obsidian table sat the men who oiled the gears of the empire.
Robes trimmed with silver thread, rings glittering on restless fingers, eyes that measured more than they spoke.
Their smiles were thin, almost brittle, the kind men wore when the true conversation ran not from their lips but behind their eyes.
For a time, no one dared break the silence.
Then a voice did. Smooth, commanding, and practiced like a blade drawn for display.
"It is my pleasure," said Izar Vrenholt, the Emperor's Right Hand, his tone rich with both velvet and iron, "to address this gathering. Today, we are graced by the head of the Imperial Trade Syndicate, patriarch of the Draevus family, Lord Valthar Draevus… and the esteemed Marquis of Valmont, Lord Kael Valmont."
Valthar's gaze, dark and narrow, slid across the table. His lips curved, though not enough to be called a smile.
He turned toward Izar, and in that silent lock of eyes the chamber seemed to grow sharper. Two predators circling in stillness.
"The pleasure is all mine, Lord Vrenholt," Valthar said at last, his tone clipped, perfectly polite, yet carrying an edge meant only for the man opposite him.
Kael Valmont, seated stiffly two chairs down, shifted in his seat. His face flushed faintly in the lamplight.
When he finally spoke, his words stumbled out like loose coins dropped on stone.
"O-of course… Sir Vrenholt. Your presence is as valuable as His Majesty's. The pleasure is all mine."
The room stilled. Not a cough, not a scrape of chair. Breath itself seemed to hesitate.
Izar's lips twitched, just slightly, the faintest crack in his mask of composure.
The words, however clumsy, had placed him on a pedestal beside the Emperor.
For many in the room, such a slip might have cost a tongue. But Izar's restraint was legendary.
"I appreciate the sharp humor of Lord Valmont," Izar replied, every syllable wrapped in silk but edged in steel. "To call me the Emperor's represntative… a jest, of course. This humble servant could never compare to His Majesty's light."
He pressed a hand to his chest and bowed, not deeply, but enough to draw attention to the courtesy. A gesture both self-effacing and poisonous in its reminder.
Kael chuckled, too quickly, too thin. "H-hahaha…" The sound clattered in the chamber, brittle and out of place.
Around the table, several merchants exchanged looks, their expressions carefully schooled into neutrality.
Behind their eyes, calculations shifted.
Izar let the awkward moment stretch just long enough before cutting it with his voice again.
"The Emperor currently holds court with his people," he said, tone smooth once more. "He will join us soon."
At that, servants entered the chamber like shadows.
Silver pitchers tilted, pouring crimson wine into crystal goblets with a grace that allowed not a single drop to spill.
Platters of roasted meats, soft breads glazed with honey, and bowls of spiced fruit were set with reverence upon the obsidian surface.
Each gesture was measured, flawless, the sort of silent ritual meant to remind those gathered that even service in the Imperial Palace was art.
No one touched their goblets yet. All waited.
Then Izar's voice returned, pulling their attention.
"Before His Majesty arrives, the greatest mind of our Imperium, Prime Minister Eldrin Solquar, will brief us on today's purpose."
At once, all eyes shifted to the old man seated near the Emperor's place.
Slowly, Eldrin rose.
His back was bent, his beard long and white, his robes heavy with embroidered seals of office. Yet his eyes, keen and unclouded, cut sharper than any blade.
He nodded faintly toward Izar. In return, the Emperor's Right Hand bowed, this time deeper, then stepped back into the dim edges of the room like a servant retreating into shadow.
Eldrin's gaze swept the gathered merchants, lingering on each face just long enough to remind them he missed nothing.
When he spoke, his words came slow, deliberate, each syllable landing with the weight of stone.
"I trust your journeys were comfortable. Please, before we begin, savor the wine His Majesty himself selected for you."
He lifted one frail arm. The wide sleeve of his robe flowed like a silken curtain.
As though on command, goblets rose around the table, raised by hands that moments before had clutched nervously at rings or chair arms.
The delicate chime of crystal against crystal rang out. A sound too pure for the thickness of the chamber.
"Now then," Eldrin said, lowering his glass. His gaze sharpened. His next words fell heavy, stilling even the breaths in the room.
"As you know, the matter before us is the Eternal Prosperity Harvest."
A subtle ripple passed through the merchants. They had heard rumors.
Tonight, the rumors would be given teeth.
"In this project," Eldrin continued, his voice low thunder rolling across stone, "we introduce a miracle crop engineered by the finest of the Imperial Alchemists. A crop that promises abundant yields, harvests enough to end famine, to enrich trade, to ensure prosperity flows in every corner of the Imperium. It is a gift to the people. Seeds freely given, to foster unity and shared wealth across all our provinces."
The words struck like sparks. And then the chamber ignited.
Applause burst forth, chairs scraping as men leaned forward, eyes alight with golden hunger.
Cheers rose, voices overlapping, echoing with praise and flattery.
But then Eldrin's palm lifted, steady, patient.
And the noise collapsed into silence as though cut down by a sword.
"Letters bearing His Majesty's edict," the Prime Minister went on, "have already been dispatched. Counts, marquises, dukes. All commanded to implement this project in their domains by the coming fall."
He paused. The old man's eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the table.
"And for you, the voices of the Imperial Trade Syndicate, contracts await. But first… I ask for your counsel. For this decision will shape not only our trade, but the Empire's very destiny."
The silence lasted a beat. Then the room swelled again.
"We are honored to be invited into the Syndicate!" cried one.
"His Majesty's grace is endless!" shouted another.
"Truly, a golden age begins!"
Their praise clattered against the table like thrown coins, eager and desperate.
And then, from the far end, one voice cut through.
"Prime Minister Solquar…"
The chamber stilled again.
It was Torven Haldris, head of the Capital's Merchant Guild. His dark eyes glinted, his words careful yet edged.
"We do not doubt the brilliance of the Imperial Alchemists. But we are men of trade, bound by pragmatism. It is our duty to weigh the worst of possibilities… surely you understand."
The shift in the room was immediate. Eyes sharpened. Lips curled. Murmurs hissed.
"Leave, if you doubt the Emperor's gift."
"He thinks himself our voice because he rules the Capital's guilds?"
"Arrogant fool…"
The disdain pressed like heat, swelling toward Torven.
And then, Eldrin smiled.
"Do not worry, Sir Torven of House Haldris." The Prime Minister's voice was steady, almost comforting. "The contracts already account for such concerns. If any retailer fails to meet their quota, their assets will be seized as penalty under forfeiture clause and placed under the syndicate's stewardship. Those seized assets, naturally, will be yours to claim, enough to cover any loss you might suffer."
He raised his hands in playful surrender, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"We wouldn't dare touch the rightful spoils of our honored guild head."
A ripple of laughter swept through the chamber.
"Truly, the Prime Minister is wise!"
"Ever so thoughtful!" voices chimed.
Torven flushed, then bowed low. "It was only the immaturity of my tongue. I spoke before studying the contracts properly. Please forgive me."
The heavy doors creaked open, and the air in the chamber shifted.
First came the guards. Their armor gleamed in the lamplight, polished steel catching every flicker of flame.
Boots struck the marble floor in unison, each step deliberate, each movement a silent reminder of the power they served.
Then he appeared.
The Emperor of the Ravencourt Imperium.
He walked without hurry, yet every step commanded the room.
His long black hair flowed down his back, catching the light like dark silk, and over his shoulders hung the Imperial Crimson. The mantle of his bloodline.
The deep red fabric was threaded with gold embroidery of soaring ravens, curling laurel, and conquest. It wasn't just a cloak. It was history. Authority. A warning.
Behind him followed a figure: A man in a plain mask who seemed less like a courtier and more like a shadow made flesh.
He stationed himself at the Emperor's right, silent and unreadable.
At the head of the table stood Izar Vrenholt, ever the loyal hand. He bowed low, his voice carrying clear.
"His Majesty, the Emperor."
The words rang like a bell through the hall.
Every merchant, every noble, every guest rose in unison. Chairs scraped back, heads bent low.
The movement wasn't just etiquette. It was instinct.
In his presence, deference came as naturally as breath.
The Emperor lifted a single hand. "Be seated."
Chairs slid back into place. Men who just moments ago had filled the air with chatter and laughter now sat straighter, quieter, their gazes steady but cautious.
The Emperor did not need to demand silence. It followed him like a shadow.
His eyes swept the table. They lingered nowhere, and yet every person swore those dark eyes had fallen on them alone.
When he spoke, his tone was warm, almost casual, but it carried the weight of iron beneath velvet.
"Welcome, esteemed merchants of the Imperial Trade Syndicate. It is by your hands that my vision reaches the people. Dreams remain dreams unless carried by those willing to see them through. For that, you have my gratitude."
The words should have sounded flattering, but everyone at that table knew better. Gratitude from an Emperor was as much command as it was praise.
Still, murmurs of thanks rose, heads bowed again.
He turned toward the man at his left. "Prime Minister Eldrin Solquar has already briefed you, I trust?"
The old statesman inclined his head. "They have been informed, Your Majesty."
The Emperor gave a faint nod, his gaze sweeping back over the merchants.
"Then let us not waste words. This project, the Eternal Prosperity Harvest, cannot be carried forward on decree alone. It will rest upon your backs. Speak now, do you accept?"
For the space of a heartbeat, the room went still. Then, like a dam breaking, voices spilled out.
"Of course we accept!"
"A gift to merchants and people alike!"
"His Majesty blesses us with prosperity!"
The chamber swelled with agreement, though behind every cheer lay the same glint of hunger.
The Emperor raised his hand again, and the noise died down instantly.
His lips curved into something between a smile and a warning.
"I am pleased," he said, rising from his chair. His cloak shifted like the wings of a bird, crimson spilling across the black marble floor.
"This Empire, its people, its wealth, all of it is bound to me. But remember this: it is through you that my reach extends to every market and village. You are not mere merchants. You are the lifeblood of the Imperium itself."
He spread his arms, cloak unfurling like the wings of a raven.
"And so, tonight, I invite you to the banquet I have prepared for the heroes of my nation. Drink deeply. Eat heartily. Know that your Emperor values you."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then, like fire catching dry grass, the hall erupted:
"Long live the Emperor!"
"Long live the Ravencourt Imperium!"
The Emperor chuckled lightly, gesturing with both hands.
"Now, now... don't trample one another. Eyes to the front while you walk."
Laughter rippled through the merchants, the tension broken by his casual tone.
Guards began to guide them toward the adjoining hall where the banquet awaited.
Soon, the long chamber emptied of its noise and clamor. Only a handful remained: Izar, Eldrin, the masked figure, and the two nobles: Valthar Draevus and Kael Valmont.
The Emperor's gaze shifted, resting on Kael.
"Lord Valmont," Eldrin began smoothly, "we are grateful that you joined us amid your many duties. Your contributions to the Syndicate are already a boon, yet a man of your stature among our merchant friends would surely inspire them further. Might you honor the banquet with your presence?"
Kael rose at once, bowing deeply. "Of course, Prime Minister. I will go at once." He turned to the Emperor, bowing lower still.
The Emperor gestured with his palm, regal but faintly dismissive.
Kael left the chamber with hurried steps, vanishing into the warmth of the banquet hall.
The heavy doors shut behind him.
And silence settled once more.
What remained in the room was silence, thicker now, heavier.
The Emperor leaned back in his chair, the warmth gone from his face as if it had never been there.
His lips curled, not into a smile, but a sneer.
"Tsk…" He clicked his tongue. "Why must I lower myself to entertain those parasites? Merchants, groveling like dogs for scraps, yet thinking themselves clever."
His voice cracked through the chamber like a whip. Even without raising it, his irritation filled every corner of the room.
Izar bent at once, his posture deferential, but his tone careful.
"Your Majesty, forgive them their smallness. The Imperial Trade Syndicate is still young. They need your presence, your authority, to bind them together. Without it, they would scatter like birds."
The Emperor scoffed and waved a dismissive hand. "Hmph. Whatever." His gaze shifted, sharp and cutting, toward Valthar Draevus. "But tell me, Valthar, why do I still hear whispers of problems? I gave you the Syndicate so that I might sleep easier, not to nurse your incompetence. Explain yourself."
Valthar rose so quickly his chair nearly toppled behind him. He bowed so low his forehead almost touched the obsidian table.
"My deepest apologies, Your Majesty. But… there has been a breach. Our scheme, the true purpose of the Eternal Prosperity Harvest, may have leaked."
The Emperor froze. For a moment, disbelief flickered across his features. Then rage exploded.
"You useless dog!" His fist slammed into the table, rattling goblets and sending one tumbling, wine spilling like blood across the stone. "You can't even guard a single secret?!"
The masked man did not flinch. Eldrin merely stroked his beard, his old eyes calm.
It was the Prime Minister's voice that cooled the storm.
"Your Majesty," Eldrin said, his tone measured and steady. "The leak is small, contained. Too few know of it to do real harm. Allow me to explain, and you will see."
The Emperor glared, chest heaving, but did not interrupt.
Eldrin inclined his head slightly before continuing. "As you know, the Eternal Prosperity Harvest serves two purposes. On the surface, it is a gift to the people, a miracle crop, distributed freely, that promises prosperity and unity."
He paused, letting the words sink in, then leaned forward. His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial.
"But the truth… is that the crop is sterile after a single harvest. Farmers must return to us every year for new seeds. Over time, all competing grains will vanish from the market. We will hold the only key to survival."
A faint smile ghosted across Eldrin's lips. "When quotas are inevitably missed, the forfeiture clauses will trigger. Land and wealth will flow upward: from retailers into the Syndicate, and through it, back to the Empire. An endless cycle of dependence. And with that cycle, Your Majesty, we fund our ongoing war against Orvelian Dominion."
The Emperor's anger eased, satisfaction creeping into his expression like sunlight after a storm. "Yes… yes, that is good." His eyes narrowed again. "So where is the flaw? Why do you cower, Valthar?"
It was Eldrin who answered, his voice grave.
"Because, Your Majesty… one duchy has refused."
The chamber chilled. Even the guards at the edges seemed to straighten, their hands inching toward their hilts as though sensing danger in the words alone.
The Emperor leaned forward, his smile gone. "Who?"
Eldrin's hand dipped into his sleeve. He unfolded a letter, the wax seal of the Duchy of Sinclair broken cleanly across its raven emblem.
His voice rang steady as he read:
"'My duchy shall not fund the Empire's war in this way. The livelihood and well-being of my farmers must come first. The miracle crop goes against that principle. I hope His Majesty finds it within himself to excuse this vassal from disobedience.'"
"Cassandra Sinclair."
The Emperor's fist slammed against the table once more, the crack sharp enough to echo off the marble walls. His eyes blazed with fury.
"Damn that woman! That bitch dares spit on my decree?!"
His gaze snapped toward Eldrin. "Cut her funds. Strip her duchy of the imperial budget. Tax her people until they choke!"
Eldrin shook his head slowly, his long beard brushing his chest. "Already done, Your Majesty. To push further now would force her hand. And that is not a hand we want revealed too soon."
The Emperor's nostrils flared. "And why not? She is a duchess, nothing more. How many soldiers does she command? I have a Sword King at my call."
This time, Eldrin's voice turned sharp, cold, his words slicing through the chamber.
"Your Majesty… you underestimate her. Cassandra Sinclair is no ordinary duchess. She carries the divine title of Sword Saint. And she is a seventh-circle fire mage."
The chamber fell into silence, so deep it seemed even the flames in the lamps held their breath.
The Emperor sneered, trying to mask his unease with disdain. "A Sword Saint is still beneath a Sword King. Fire mage or not, we have mages stronger. Numbers will crush her."
But Eldrin's eyes, hard, unflinching, stayed locked on him. His voice dropped even lower, each word heavy as stone.
"She possesses something more dangerous. Something not even our greatest warlords hold."
The Emperor's hand, resting on the arm of his chair, stilled. "…What?"
Eldrin's gaze swept the chamber. Izar's smirk faltered, the masked man stiffened. Even Valthar shifted uncomfortably, sweat beading at his brow.
Eldrin leaned forward, his voice slow, deliberate, and final.
"Its her aura mastery. She possesses… Sovereign's Aura."
The Emperor's breath caught. His eyes widened, disbelief and dread flashing across his face.
"…No. That's impossible."
But no one in the chamber moved to deny it.
The words hung in the air like a blade at their throats.
Sovereign's Aura.
The Emperor's breath came short, a shiver crawling across his skin despite the heat of the chamber. He leaned forward, eyes wide.
"No… not even my warlords have it. Not even Ragnar, the Warlord of the South, the so-called strongest of them all."
Eldrin's voice was grim, unyielding. "She outshines him, Your Majesty. And with her alliance with the Valkyries, should she ever turn her blade against us… the cost of victory would be ruinous. Yes, we might win. But we would bleed so much the vultures circling beyond our borders would descend at once."
The Emperor clutched his temples, muttering, "How did we let such a monster grow under our noses…?"
But Eldrin wasn't finished. His voice sharpened like steel. "And her economy, too... rumor has it the Sinclair merchants have formed an alliance with the Elvian Empire. She is not dependent on the treasury you grant her. She does not need us, Your Majesty."
The chamber darkened with those words, as though the very lamps flickered in fear.
The Emperor's head snapped toward the masked man, his eyes burning. "What of the Fenrir? Did you capture it? I need Galad's training completed. I need the Spear King now!"
The masked man hesitated, then lowered his head. "We tracked the beast. Its trail led east… to the forests."
The Emperor's eyes lit with sudden hope. "Then go! Capture it. Finish Galad's training!"
But the masked man's reply was hesitant, heavy. "We cannot, Your Majesty. The Fenrir is under the Spirit King's protection."
The Emperor slumped back into his throne, the fire in his gaze dimming. "The Spirit King? The elves have crossed into our lands?"
The masked man nodded. "It seems likely they are here to free the Spirit Saint we hold captive."
"Enemies at every turn…" The Emperor buried his face in his hands, his voice cracking in frustration.
Then, quiet and smooth, another voice slipped into the silence.
"Your Majesty," Izar said from behind him, his tone almost too calm. "I have a plan."
Every head turned toward him. Even Eldrin's weary eyes glimmered with interest.
Izar stepped forward, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
"Someone like Cassandra Sinclair cannot be toppled by armies or decrees. Her power is too great. Her alliances, too deep. To break her…" He paused, letting the silence stretch. "…we must destroy her from within. From her own duchy."
The Emperor's gaze narrowed. "From within? Explain yourself."
Izar's smile widened, dry and sharp. "Her strength is a fortress. But a fortress always has cracks. Loyalty, trust, ambition, they can all be turned. If we sow seeds of doubt in her people, if we poison her alliances, if we make her look like the enemy of her own land… she will fall without ever drawing her blade."
"Here's the plan, your majesty." Izar began explaining, venom oozing in everyword.
For the first time that night, Eldrin's lips curled into a knowing smile.
"Clever. That… that might work."
The Emperor's laughter rolled through the chamber, low at first, then rising.
"Heh… hehehahahah! Very good, Izar. Very good!" His teeth flashed in a vicious grin.
"Yes. Let's see how long the proud Duchess of Sinclair lasts when her own people rise against her. I want her on her knees, begging for mercy!"
He seized his goblet, raising it high before drinking deep, wine dribbling down his chin. "To her downfall! And when she is gone, the Eternal Prosperity Harvest will reign supreme."
The masked man leaned forward. "Then, Your Majesty, after Sinclair falls, we should mobilize against the Spirit King. Seize the Fenrir. Complete Galad's training. Only then will the borders be safe."
The Emperor smirked, drunk on both wine and triumph. "Yes… yes, we will. First the duchess, then the elves. All will kneel."
He turned to Izar, his grin vicious. "And you… if this works, I'll reward you with whatever you desire."
Izar's eyes glinted in the shadows. He bowed deeply, but his voice, barely above a whisper, slipped past lips twisted in a sinister smile.
"Oh… I will take what I want on my own."
The Emperor didn't hear the words. Instead, he swung his gaze toward the masked man again, voice turning sharp.
"What of my sons? Those useless brats, are they finally making themselves useful?"
The masked man answered quickly. "No threats from them, Your Majesty. The First Prince is managing the Adventurer's Guild. The Third Prince has just left for the Academy with the princess."
He paused.
The Emperor narrowed his eyes. "…And the Second?"
The masked man hesitated, then said carefully, "Until recently, he was wasting away in that little room, ignored even by his maids. But three months ago, something changed. Our top spy from my Ebos syndicate, Merlin, reported strange behavior. He was speaking to the air, staring at nothing as if… reading something invisible. Muttering to himself. And then—"
The Emperor cut him off with a scoff. "So he finally lost his mind after twenty years of rotting indoors?"
But the masked man's voice dropped, heavy with unease.
"Merlin was found dead in his chambers, Your Majesty. Her body already decomposing. She never sent her next report."
The room fell silent again, all eyes fixed on the masked man.
The Emperor's face darkened, his expression unreadable. "Merlin's dead? …And where is that good-for-nothing now?"
The masked man replied, "He has left. To take control of a rogue border town near the warfront, rife with bandits. We only discovered Merlin's body after he was already gone."
The Emperor leaned back, his smirk returning slowly, curling like smoke.
"Hah. So the wretch has decided to die out there instead. Good. If he survives, perhaps I'll think of him again. But he's no threat."
His grin widened, sharp and cruel. "No… it's Cassandra Sinclair we must crush. That insolent bitch of Sunclair Duchy. She will learn what it means to defy me."
The chamber filled with the Emperor's laughter once more, echoing off stone walls like a curse.