Veracles was close behind the Lord Commander when he noticed the falter.

  A slight drain in the man’s stride as he climbed the palace steps. Too slight for the others to notice, yet unmistakably off in his own.

  A subtle slackening of the shoulders where unbending iron would be. A breath caught too shallow.

  Then their youngest, Klethiar, reached out on instinct alone steadying the man who had always stood like immovable ramparts.

  A muscle tightened along his jaw. The thought of the Lord Commander being summoned as though an oathless cur, churned in his stomach like rotted blood.

  His hand found the hilt of his blade without thought. Its pommel caught the candelabras’ light; a promise waiting to be sealed.

  There will be a moment. And when it comes, I will take it.

  The clerk led them through the outer corridors of the palace with ease, navigating the maze of carvings as though a skilled helmsman through a sea of stone etchings.

  Light pooled along the floors in cold ribbons. The halls had been scoured of uncleanness, their austere sheen reflecting imperial perfection.

  Even the archways seemed to swallow sound, each footfall taken and kept by invisible hands.

  They reached the threshold of the Inner Palace. Two Imperial Guards stood before it, their armour of gold and deep blue catching the dim glow of the sconces. The sound of steel rang as they crossed their halberds with a single, precise motion.

  The clerk stopped, then turned and bowed.

  “Only the Lord Commander is permitted to cross,” he said, voice low and ceremonial. “The remaining officers will be escorted to their chambers.”

  Veracles’ hand tightened around his blade’s pommel.

  Vargo’s shoulders rose like a beast ready to pounce.

  Regulus stiffened with ritual.

  Klethiar stood straight, jaw set, courage trembling beneath the surface.

  Alric did not move, letting the silence settle.

  Then Veracles stepped forward.

  “Lord Commander.”

  Alric turned.

  From within his satchel, Veracles withdrew the document. The only shield they had left, the only weapon the Seneschals could not confiscate.

  “The requested report, my Lord.”

  Alric reached out and took it without a word.

  Its weight pressed like that of an old, forgotten oath.

  Veracles inclined his head.

  “We will be here, Lord Commander.”

  Alric’s eyes moved over him, then over the others.

  Vargo’s steady defiance, Regulus’ rigid protocol, Klethiar’s earnest fear held in place.

  “Return to your quartes,” Alric said at last.

  They bowed as one.

  Though clarity had returned, each pace bore its own weight.

  The clerk stepped aside and bowed with reverence; the Guards’ halberds parted in precise movement.

  Alric crossed the threshold.

  The gates shut behind him with the echo of a sealing tomb.

  Though courtiers walked about, none dared let their voices rise above a whisper.

  When he passed by, they bowed with eyes averted. All posture without any of its meaning.

  He’d walked these corridors too often to be moved by their pageantry.

  How many marble busts lined these halls? How many imperial paintings of old? How many golden trinkets and baubles?

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He had never tried to reach the count of it, nor would he do so now.

  Only cold marble and straight, austere lines were present in his gaze. All else drifted past him as weightless ornament.

  His stride had returned to its measured cadence, posture straightening as the corridors narrowed toward the palace’s central heart where he was expected to wait.

  Strange, he thought, where does this temperance come from? As if it were not mine, but lent…

  He distrusted such sudden stillness. He always had.

  He was about to shatter before his men, yet now he stood as though unmarked by its passing.

  It felt too clean. Too neat a break from moments before. Such calm did not belong to him now.

  Its arrival on the cusp of the War-Council felt ill-placed, as though the Empire itself had decreed this moment long before he walked it.

  But he had no choice but to wear it.

  The clerk halted at a tall wooden door bound with iron filigree.

  He bowed and opened it for him.

  “Your chamber, Lord Commander.”

  Alric entered.

  The room was small, spare, and quiet.

  A single brazier burned low, its heat touching the air in muted orange hues.

  A marble bench ran along one wall, carved smooth by decades of use.

  Above it hung a tapestry of old campaigns, its colours dulled into greys and rusted reds.

  The seats were leatherbound, held by polished oak frames.

  Luxury enough; function mattered more.

  The clerk bowed one final time and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

  Alric stood in the centre of the chamber.

  The calm within him lingered, steady as an unbroken line.

  He looked down at the parchment in his hand.

  The seal was unbroken, its edges crisp with military insignias.

  Veracles' last safeguard.

  His men’s last tether.

  He rested it on the marble bench beside him.

  For a moment he simply breathed, his shoulders rising and falling in measured rhythm,

  the earlier tremor nothing but a distant memory.

  He knew the Seneschals made him wait as a show of rank, but he would not break protocol here. Not when this misstep would give his enemies arrows to loose.

  So, he waited.

  Minutes passed in silence without movement or sound, save for the faint crackle of coal in the brazier.

  In that hush, the calm held. His thoughts, once tormented, now held winter frost.

  A soft knock broke the stillness.

  A different clerk, younger, precise in bearing, opened the door.

  “Lord Commander,” he said, bowing low. “The War-Council is convened. They await your presence.”

  Alric nodded and rose.

  He took up the parchment and stepped toward the door.

  He followed the clerk in the passage beyond. The corridor narrowed into long ribs of stone, each archway drawing the light thinner and colder.

  Their footsteps rang soft upon the palacial furs, each sound barely audible over the echoing fire crackles.

  The clerk spoke no further. He walked with ritual precision, each pace measured for ceremony rather than haste.

  At the final archway the air shifted. A faint scent of rotted perfume and wine drifted from deeper in.

  Ahead, the Council doors waited.

  Two massive panles carved from darkwood rose like pillars, each engraved with the Empire’s crest: a two-headed falcon carrying a scepter in one talon and a chain on the other, crowned with a crown of spears.

  Two Imperial Guards stood before them, armour lacquered in deep gold and crimson, helms sealed, halberds held in formal readiness.

  The clerk stopped before them and stepped aside. He bowed and gestured toward the entrance.

  “Lord Commander,” he murmured. “They await.”

  Alric approached, the calm within him settling over him completely.

  One of the guards struck ground with his weapon, and a single, heavy note rolled through the hall.

  The doors began to open, and the other announced his arrival, voice resonant beneath the helm.

  “Lord Commander of the Sixth and Third Legions of the Empire, Lord of War Alric Vaelgard!”

  He stepped into a circular chamber carved in sweeping arcs of white. High windows admitted cold shafts of light, casting pale spans across the floor.

  Hammered gold traced twelve long pillars that rose from the ground like ascending rays.

  At the far end, upon a raised stone dais, sat the Emperor framed by shadow and light.

  His violet eyes fixed on Alric the moment he entered.

  To either side, forming a broad crescent, sat the twelve Seneschal Lords: one for each legion.

  Vaudrel among them, hands folded, smile faint. Caellis to his right, tapped metronomically against the wooden table, while Durell, to his left, stared with an unbecoming hunger.

  Alric bowed to the Emperor.

  “I, Lord of War Alric Vaelgard, present myself before the Great Sun of the Empire and the twelve seats of the tribunal.”

  “Step forth, Lord Alric Vaelgard.” The voice of the Emperor carried with absolute command.

  Alric straightened and moved to the center of the chamber. There waited a single chair.

  The Emperor spoke.

  “You stand before the Council to render account for the Southern Campaign. Your actions, your decisions, your burdens. I have read the Seneschals’ reports. Now I will hear your own.”

  Alric’s reply came steady.

  “I will speak plainly, Your Majesty.”

  The Emperor gestured to the chair.

  “Sit. And begin.”

  Alric did so, meeting the Emperor’s gaze without wavering.

  “First, begin with the most recent victory. That of Khal-Drathir.”

  Alric inclined his head.

  “As Your Majesty commands. The first month of the year was—”

  Vaudrel’s voice cut across his words.

  “Your Majesty, if I may, before the Lord Commander continues—”

  Alric did not stop. He did not even look at him.

  “When the Sixth and Third reached the city. We first proceeded with securing the supply lines—”

  Vaudrel half-rose from his seat, silk rustling at his sides.

  “Lord Commander, the Council has reques—”

  Alric turned his gaze to the Emperor.

  “Your Majesty asked the first question,” he said, voice steady. “I am beholden to give you my answer before all others.”

  A measured pause.

  “Unless the Seneschal Lords wish Your Majesty to yield the floor?”

  The chamber froze.

  Nine Seneschals shifted, glances sliding like thin knives toward Vaudrel, then back toward the throne.

  Caellis’ tapping halted mid-stroke, his fingers curling in on themselves, robbed of their rhythm. Durell’s smile faltered just enough to reveal the displeasure beneath.

  The Emperor’s grip tightened around the armrest, approval without words.

  He turned his head.

  “Vaudrel.” A single word, cold as judgement. “Your request may wait. Let him finish.”

  Vaudrel lowered himself back into his seat, jaw clenched behind courtly composure.

  Alric resumed.