The streets of Fansilia swelled with its citizens, all the projected screens in the city showing one thing — the Imperial Palace of Terria. Once a monument of splendor and triumph, it now stood cloaked in mourning. Its countless spires and domes, usually radiant with gold and silver light, were dimmed by decree. Black banners hung from the marble parapets, trailing in the wind like long shadows cast by grief itself.
Inside, the corridors that once gleamed with white light were now steeped in a muted amber glow. The air was heavy with incense — a slow-burning mixture of myrrh and ashroot — its scent carrying through the vaulted halls, solemn and unyielding. Servants moved in silence, their footsteps muffled by the dark carpets laid over the marble floors. Even the palace's great time bells had been stilled, their ringing replaced by the low drone of ceremonial hymns played from the great organ in the Hall of Mourning.
The Grand Hall of Celestine, where the funeral would be held, had been transformed into a cathedral of sorrow. Normally, it dazzled the eye — its crystal chandeliers casting fractal light across the white-gold columns and mosaic floors depicting the empire's victories. But now, those chandeliers burned dim, their glass veiled in black cloth. The mosaics beneath the guests' feet seemed to lose their color in the subdued light, as though the empire itself had drawn back into silence.
Along the walls, vast banners hung from ceiling to floor — each one bearing the sigil of a noble house in monochrome thread, stripped of color for the mourning period. Rows of guards in black ceremonial armor flanked the hall, their faces hidden behind reflective helms. Their halberds were lowered in reverence, the sound of their armor faintly echoing through the chamber like distant thunder.
At the center of the hall, beneath the vaulted dome painted with constellations, stood the Imperial Catafalque — a raised dais of obsidian and silver upon which rested the coffin of Marquess Miller. It wasn't as though there was a body to bury; after all, he had perished in the explosion. Still, it stood there — a symbol of honor. The coffin itself was a masterpiece of Terrian craftsmanship, forged from translucent crystal steel, its surface etched with the lines of the empire's crest. Inside, the faint outline of the fallen commander could be seen beneath the thin layer of misting glass. Around it, hundreds of white lilies and black roses had been placed in perfect symmetry, their scent both sweet and funereal.
All the nobles of Terria attended the funeral. Among them were Leonora, Roland, and Aurelion, representing the Kaelthorn family. Even though this was a mourning day, it did not stop the gossip. "All this fuss over Miller," they said. "He was nothing but a hot-blooded, angry man who only chased glory to feed his ego." And to an extent, they were right. Indeed, Norda was a bit of a brute, but he did one thing most of those nobles standing there would never dare to do — he never ran from a fight or turned his back on the enemy.
As the air grew tenser and tenser in the room, the doors opened.
In the grand marble halls of the Celestine, beneath the towering banners, stood Emperor Johan Adrin, the sovereign of the Terrian Empire — a man both admired and feared, whose presence alone could quiet an entire chamber.
He was tall — taller than most of his guards — with a frame built not from the luxury of courtly living but from years of discipline and a youth spent in campaigns long before the crown was his. His hair, once raven black, now carried faint streaks of iron gray near the temples — the only visible concession to time. His eyes, a steady and unyielding brown, bore the weight of decades spent balancing the scales of ambition and survival. There was wisdom in them, yes, but also a lingering exhaustion — the mark of a ruler who had seen too much and trusted too few.
The Emperor's attire was a declaration of sovereignty as much as it was of history. Draped across his shoulders was a cloak of deep crimson velvet, lined with gold threading that shimmered subtly beneath the chamber lights. His tunic, a masterpiece of imperial tailoring, was made from woven fibers mined from the moons of Arctel — strong as steel, soft as silk — bearing the crest of the Terrian empire embroidered over his chest. His boots, polished obsidian-black, clicked with sharp precision on the marble floor, each step carrying the rhythm of command.
Upon his brow rested the Imperial Crown of Terria — a circlet of polished aurite and onyx forged in the first age of the Empire. The crown was not ostentatious; its elegance lay in its simplicity. But the gem set in its center, a deep amber stone said to contain the light of the first dawn, glowed faintly whenever it caught the sun through the citadel's vast stained-glass windows.
With the Emperor's arrival, the royal funeral of Norda Miller could begin. As most of the nobles made their way to their respective places, among them stood some important figures besides the Kaelthorn family — one of the most powerful houses in the empire. Along with them were other renowned names, like Duchess Wistoria Lang, head of the Lang family. She was a proud woman, one who stood tall even among men who looked down on her simply because she was a woman. Still in her mid-thirties, she had blond hair that waved down her back, paired with a set of blue eyes that made her appear both elegant and unshakably resolute among the countless noblewomen present.
Coincidentally sitting next to her was her soon-to-be fiancé, Marquee Mikhail Rozasar — the renowned young general yet to be defeated in battle. Also in his mid-thirties, his straight posture told you everything about him. His red hair, neatly swept back, shone as the light struck it — but what outshined it were his green eyes, the eyes of a man who had not known defeat.
Yet if there was a man who commanded respect right after the Emperor, it was Duke Antonio Bach — head of the Bach family and father of the Emperor's wife, Christina Bach Adrin. This made him one of the most influential men in the empire. In his late sixties, he still stood strong, not yet wavering to old age. He was as noble as a noble could be — long hair that had turned gray, and a slight belly not from negligence but by choice. His green eyes still carried the look of someone who wanted more from life — and intended to get it. These days, he spent most of his time with his grandchild, the Emperor's son.
With the seating of the Emperor, the ceremony began. Many great deeds of the late Norda Miller were mentioned — some shared war stories of him, others just stood silently, listening. As time passed, it was time for the Emperor to take the stage and say his final words.
As he rose and made his way to the center stage, he exhaled slowly once. All across the empire — throughout every system they had conquered — citizens watched the broadcast of the funeral.
Then, with a soft and calm voice, the Emperor spoke.
"I was saddened by the news of the death of Marquee Norda Miller. As the Emperor of this mighty empire, I lost a great commander that day. But as a person, I lost a friend. Throughout my early years, I happened to spend a lot of time with Marquee Miller, so we grew close. He always put the empire above everything else, and he was a true patriot until the very end. That truly makes me proud.
I know I will not be seeing you again, my friend, but I am certain the doors of heaven have welcomed you with all their glory. And I promise you this — no matter what, I will avenge you. May we meet once again, in the only place that matters."
The Emperor's speech touched the hearts of many across the empire. And with that, the funeral of the great hero — General Norda Miller — had come to an end.