[Imperial Records 7712]

  Clouds blanket the midday sky, veiling the sun but trapping its warmth. The air hangs heavy with moisture, scented with pine and mountain herbs that grow nowhere else in the known world. This is the hidden heart of the Empire, the Imperial Palace—hidden, secretive, untouched by common eyes.

  The Imperial Palace stands against Mount Enlas, defying nature itself. It is not merely built upon the mountain—it is carved into it, emerging from living stone as if the mountain chose to transform itself into perfect architecture. Polished granite and marble, blocks larger than village homes, fit together with such precision that not even a whisper of air passes between them. No mortar binds these stones; no tool marks betray their shaping. This is the work of the Umbrari, a race whose existence falls under conspiracy. Whispers of the mad.

  Great rivers thunder in the valleys below, their waters cascading from heights that disappear into the morning mist, their powerful currents singing the endless songs of nature. Ancient trees stretch toward the heavens, their trunks wider than ten men could encircle with joined arms. In their shadows, the forest floor remains perpetually twilit, home to flowers that bloom only in darkness.

  The palace stones gleam despite the absence of direct sunlight, pearlescent white and silver, untouched by erosion or time. Staircases wide enough for fifty men to walk abreast spiral upward, leading to balconies that seem to float unsupported. Arches curve gracefully between towers that stretch impossibly high, defying all known principles of architecture. Common wisdom holds that the palace would collapse if built by human hands. Perhaps this is why conspiracies of the Umbrari take hold—their mastery surpassed the boundaries between craft and sorcery.

  Upon the grand landing before the palace gates, a gathering of figures stands in careful formation. They do not mingle; invisible boundaries separate them by allegiance and purpose. Imperial advisors in white and purple silks stand nearest to the palace doors, their faces impassive but eyes alert. Scrolls and writing implements ready in their hands, they prepare to record every word, every gesture of the coming meeting.

  Elder elves linger near the edge of the platform, their emerald and amber robes rippling in the gentle breeze. Their ageless faces reveal nothing, but tension radiates from their stillness. A delegation from Fellhaven stands apart, three men and two women in obsidian cloaks trimmed with silver thread, representatives of the Blackthorn cartel. governers of the troubled city.

  The Order's clergy forms a tight cluster, their dark robes emblazoned with silver symbols that catch what little light filters through the clouds. Among them stands Archbishop Eldrich, his fingers absently stroking the ancient tome bound to his waist by a golden chain.

  However, the most unsettling are the hooded figures in midnight blue—unnamed operatives, intelligence gatherers, and secret enforcers of Imperial will. They stand motionless, their faces hidden in shadow despite the brightness of day. None approach them; none acknowledge them directly.

  All wait. All eyes search the forest’s edge.

  The female palace advisor with lips painted in gold leaf steps forward, her white silk robes billowing around her slender frame. Her voice carries clear and commanding across the gathering: "They approach." Movement ripples through the assembly. Hands smooth robes, straighten collars, check the placement of ceremonial daggers. The anticipation is palpable—not merely diplomatic, but primal. The coming guests are more legend than ally, more force of nature than political power.

  Through the ancient trees, flashes of crimson appear. Red capes snap in the mountain breeze, stark against the deep green forest. The sound comes next—the rhythmic thunder of hooves against stone, the jingle of metal against metal. Then, as if materialising from myth itself, they emerge into the clearing.

  Olympians.

  Bare-chested riders upon horses larger than any bred within Imperial lands, steeds with coats the colour of burnished steel and eyes that seem to burn with inner fire. The men who ride them appear carved from the same substance as their mounts—muscle layered upon muscle, skin bronzed by sun and battle, faces etched with the confidence of those who have never known defeat. Their only armour consists of greaves and bracers that gleam like living silver, their only clothing the crimson capes and simple kilts that leave their battle-hardened bodies exposed to view.

  Each carries a spear that stands twice the height of an ordinary man, its tip glinting with deadly promise. These are not merely weapons—they are extensions of the warriors themselves, as much a part of them as their arms and legs.

  At their head rides a figure who dwarfs even his impressive companions. King Orion of Olympia sits astride his mount with the easy confidence of one born to rule. His black beard, intricately braided with golden threads, frames a face that could have been chiselled from mountain stone. His eyes—a startling, piercing blue—survey the gathering with calm assessment, missing nothing, revealing nothing.

  The procession halts before the palace steps. No command is given; the riders and their mounts stop in perfect unison, as if sharing a single mind. The silence that follows feels weighted, pregnant with possibility. The gold-lipped advisor steps forward again, her voice carrying across the clearing with practised precision: "The Imperial Palace welcomes King Orion of Olympia, Lord of Ardekia, Master of the Spear, Blood of the Unconquerable."

  King Orion dismounts in a single fluid motion that belies his enormous size. His feet touch the stone with surprising lightness. He stands momentarily, gazing upward at the impossible palace with an expression that might be admiration or might be calculation—it is impossible to tell. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, not quite a smile. "The Emperor honours us with such a gathering," he responds, his voice rumbles, deep and resonant, carrying effortlessly despite his measured tone. "It seems my arrival warrants... attention." His gaze sweeps across the assembled dignitaries, lingering briefly on each delegation. The Fellhaven representatives shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. The elves remain impassive. The deep blue hoods turn slightly toward one another, as if exchanging silent communication.

  King Orion's companions dismount, flanking him without ceremony or subservience. There is no hierarchy evident among them—only a brotherhood forged in something deeper than mere military discipline. Imperial servants move forward to take the horses, their movements carefully measured to avoid any suggestion of seizing Olympian property. Orion plants his feet firmly on the polished stone, eyes once again lifting upward toward the impossible structure that lies ahead.

  The palace doors begin to open, revealing darkness beyond. The grinding of ancient mechanisms echoes across the courtyard as massive gears, hidden within the mountain itself, pull the hundred-ton stone slabs inward. King Orion's expression does not change, but something flickers in his eyes—something that might be anticipation. Or hunger. "Shall we begin?" he asks, already moving forward.

  The Olympian delegation steps forward with him, meeting the gathered Imperial envoys on the grand landing. Polite nods are exchanged, careful handshakes offered, and voices remain respectfully subdued. But beneath their calm demeanours lies a quiet readiness—a preparedness born of long diplomatic strategy. For three years, these alliances have been negotiated, every detail meticulously planned. Today merely seals it formally.

  The gold-lipped advisor bows with perfect precision—not too deep to suggest subservience, not too shallow to cause offence. Her movements are a choreography practised a thousand times, each gesture carrying the weight of Imperial protocol. "King Orion, the Emperor awaits within. We are honoured by Olympia's presence at the heart of the Empire." Her words flow like polished stones, smooth and deliberate.

  Orion's blue eyes sweep across the assembled dignitaries once more before settling on the towering palace entrance. Unlike the others present, he shows no sign of being humbled by the impossible structure. "A marvel of craftsmanship," he acknowledges, his deep voice carrying to those gathered. A half-smile plays at his lips as he adds, "But give me Ardekian stone, Olympian fields and silence over all this."

  Several Imperial advisors stiffen at what might be perceived as criticism, but the gold-lipped woman merely inclines her head, unruffled. "Each civilisation builds according to its nature, Great King." The Olympian warriors stand in formation behind their leader, their bare chests rising and falling in perfect unison as they breathe the mountain air. The heavy spears on their backs gleam, diffusing the light. A sense of barely leashed power emanates from them—not aggression, but readiness.

  The advisor gestures toward an alcove carved into the mountainside, where Elite Imperial guards stand at attention. They nod in acknowledgement, she returns the nod, subtly but meaningfully. Then motions towards an open archway flanked by Imperial guards—armoured, faceless sentinels. “It is tradition that all weapons remain here, secured within the palace vault. I trust this won’t be an issue?”

  Orion exchanges a brief glance with the Olympian men and women with him. A silent communication passes between them, followed by subtle nods. He turns back to the advisor with an easy smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course," he says, handing his weapon to the nearest guard. "But our will and mind stay with us."

  The Imperial guards accept the weapons with practised care, placing each spear into specialised cradles within the vault. Even disarmed, the Olympians radiate lethal capability. Their hands—callused, scarred, powerful—hang loosely at their sides, ready to become weapons themselves at a moment's notice.

  As the massive palace doors begin to open wider, a solitary figure emerges from the shadows beyond. Unlike the richly attired advisors and the ceremonial guards, this man wears functional armor of darkened steel over a simple grey and purple tunic. No ornamentation adorns him save for a single medal at his breast—a golden sun with the Imperial twin-headed eagle. His hair is cropped close to his scalp, grey showing at his temples. His face bears the weathered look of one who has spent decades beneath open skies rather than palace ceilings.

  "King Orion," he says, his voice quiet but carrying the unmistakable tone of authority. "I am General Solomon, Commander of Imperial Forces." Where Orion is a mountain in human form—broad, imposing, immovable—Solomon is a blade, lean and purpose-forged. His eyes hold the calculating assessment of a man who has commanded armies across a hundred battlefields. Though lacking the Olympian's raw physical presence, he projects a different kind of power—measured, precise, deadly.

  The two warriors regard each other with immediate recognition. Not as rivals sizing up a potential opponent, but as craftsmen acknowledging another master of their trade. Orion inclines his head a fraction—the closest he has come to a bow since his arrival. "General. Your reputation travels further than even the Empire's borders." "As does yours, King Orion." Solomon's gaze sweeps over the Olympian delegation with professional assessment. He knows that Olympia's warriors are without equal in open combat.

  The two men hold each other's gaze for a moment longer, the air between them charged with mutual respect tinged with wariness. Then Solomon gestures toward the open doors. "This way, if you please. The mountain climb is considerable." He says as they begin their ascent up the grand staircase that spirals within the mountain. The steps are wide enough for ten men to walk abreast, yet Orion, Solomon, and the gold-lipped advisor walk ahead, with the Olympian emissaries and Imperial officials following behind.

  Water flows alongside the staircase in carefully engineered channels, creating a constant symphony of gentle splashing that echoes through the cavernous space. Golden light filters down from apertures cut through the mountain at precise intervals, illuminating the path without revealing its source. "The Umbrari understood harmony between the ordered and the natural worlds," the advisor explains as they climb. "The water you hear comes from the mountain's heart, channelled through the palace to provide cooling in summer, heating in winter, and music throughout the year." Orion nods, his breathing unchanged despite the climb. "Impressive engineering. Yet I notice your guards still patrol the perimeter rather than trusting a loyal nation." "Even paradise requires vigilance," Solomon responds quietly.

  As they ascend higher, the staircase opens to reveal breathtaking views of the forested valleys below. The Olympians walk with the same unhurried confidence they displayed on arrival, their crimson capes contrasting vividly against the pearlescent stone. Where the Imperial delegates carefully watch their footing on the ancient stairs, the Olympians move with the surety of mountain goats, their eyes constantly scanning, assessing, remembering.

  They pass through a series of archways adorned with intricate carvings depicting the Empire's history—its founding, its wars, its periods of enlightenment. The final arch bears the current Emperor's sigil: a hand holding holding the known map of the Southlands. Beyond this arch lies a vast antechamber with a ceiling so high that its details are lost in shadow. The floor is polished stone inlaid with constellations rendered in precious metals and gems. At the far end stands a stone door of polished granite—the entrance to the Imperial throne room itself.

  Orion pauses, his cape settling around his shoulders as he studies these final doors. The journey through the palace has been calculated to humble visitors with its beauty and scale, to remind them of their place within the Empire's grand design. Yet the Olympian king stands unbowed, his presence somehow diminishing the very splendour meant to overawe him. Solomon watches him with quiet intensity. "The Emperor awaits," he says simply. Orion's mouth curves into a smile that carries equal parts anticipation and challenge. "Then let us not keep history waiting."

  The ancient granite doors open like sliding ice, the stone parting to reveal the Emperor's inner sanctum. A soft rush of air carries the scent of incense and mountain water into the corridor, blowing Orion's face like an intimate welcome.

  The throne chamber unfolds before him—a circular marvel of architectural precision. Massive pillars of white marble rise toward a vaulted ceiling where a diamond skylight captures the mountain sun. Silken drapes in Imperial purple cascade from ceiling to floor, swaying gently in the carefully engineered currents of air. Gold lace traces constellations and battle maps across the white dome, catching light at precise angles. This is a room designed for the wielding of power.

  Behind Orion, the Olympian delegation disperses with practised efficiency. Diplomats and trade ministers follow their Imperial counterparts toward smaller chambers branching from the main hall, while military advisors move toward the tactical lounges. Unlike the nervous energy of other visiting delegations, the Olympians radiate calm readiness. The dance has been rehearsed for three years—today merely formalises what has long been negotiated.

  Orion walks toward the sanctum centre, his bare feet silent against the polished stone floor. Solomon keeps pace beside him, their steps matched despite their different builds. The gold-lipped advisor glides ahead, announcing their approach without words. The walkway widens, opening to the chamber's true purpose—the Emperor's ceremonial circle. Here, ranked in perfect formation, stand representatives of every power centre within the Empire's vast reach.

  The Emperor’s ceremonial chamber unfolds around him in a vision of breathtaking grandeur.

  The gold-lipped advisor stops at the circle's edge, turning to face Orion. "King Orion of Olympia," she announces, her voice carrying with perfect clarity despite its measured tone. "The Imperial Circle welcomes you—may today mark the beginning of a long and fruitful alliance." As one, the assembled dignitaries begin to applaud—a soft, controlled sound, more symbol than celebration. A precise volume. Too enthusiastic would suggest Olympian superiority; too tepid would risk offence. This is calculated with respect, politically calibrated.

  Orion steps forward as the applause continues, his crimson cape flowing behind him like liquid fire against the room's cool marble. Solomon takes his position at the edge of the circle, joining the military contingent—Imperial generals in their formal armor standing alongside foreign commanders. He looks almost plain among their ceremonial finery, yet somehow more dangerous for his simplicity.

  The Emperor sits upon a throne of what appears to be a single piece of crystal, elevated on nine white steps. His features remain partially obscured by expertly positioned light from the skylight above—a deliberate effect that forces visitors to look up toward him, straining to discern his expression. His Imperial white and purple robes are immaculate, accented with gold thread that catches the fractured sunlight. He wears no crown, but there is no mistaking his position.

  Orion breathes slowly, feeling countless eyes assessing every gesture. “Let them watch. Let them witness.” He steps forward, unyielding. “History favours the bold.”

  To the Emperor's right stand the Elder Elves, their green and amber robes rippling like leaves in a gentle breeze. Their ageless faces betray nothing, but their eyes follow Orion with ancient calculation. These are among the Empire's oldest allies, their forests providing the rare woods and medicines upon which Imperial prosperity partially depends.

  To the left, the Order's representatives form a sombre line of black and silver, Grand Inquisitor Lazarus and Archbishop Eldrich at their center. Their expressions range from open curiosity to barely concealed distrust. The relationship between Olympian culture and the Order's doctrines has always been tense—philosophical differences in religious matters. The Order members stand quietly near Fellhaven cartel leaders, who smell faintly of smoke and exotic perfumes.

  Most intriguing are three figures standing near the Emperor's throne—small of stature, dressed in tight-fitting dark grey leather. Children at first glance, yet their stillness is… odd. He notes their presence silently, filing it away for later reflection.

  Then he sees them.

  Opposite them stand three taller figures completely shrouded in dark blue robes that pool around their feet. Unrecognisable gold symbols adorn their attire—not decorative, but functional in some obscure way. The mesh that covers their faces reveals nothing of their features, yet their posture suggests female forms beneath the heavy fabric. They offer no greeting. They merely observe, patient and still. Though hidden, Orion feels their gaze as surely as a blade’s edge—assessing him, deciding whether he poses ally or threat.

  The clapping begins—soft, polite, calculated. A political formality rather than genuine welcome. Orion steps confidently forward into the centre of the chamber, head held high, meeting every gaze directly. He does not bow or acknowledge their applause. He moves as if born to stand here, in the very heart of Imperial power—because he was. The Emperor leans forward slightly, his first movement since Orion's entrance. Light shifts across his features, revealing a face, old but ruthlessly calculated, marked by the peculiar agelessness of those who wield true power.

  The Palace Advisor steps forward, her voice resonating with practised authority. The chamber falls silent as she raises her hands, palms open to the gathering. She steps forward into the perfect centre of the chamber, her white silk robes flowing like liquid moonlight around her slender form. She raises her chin, waiting for the last echoes of conversation to fade. The entire chamber stills, all eyes drawn to her as naturally as moths to flame.

  "Honoured Sovereigns. Esteemed Lords and Commanders. Pillars of our great united Empire—" She offers a slight bow as the chamber falls into perfect silence. Her voice carries with effortless precision, trained through decades to command rooms exactly like this. "With the blessings of the Eternal Light, and by decree of His Radiant Majesty our Emperor—Protector of the Empire, Guardian of the Southlands, Keeper of Balance and Order—"

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  She turns toward Orion, her golden lips catching the fractured light from above. "I present to this hall of power a sovereign not summoned, but invited." The air in the chamber seems to thicken with anticipation. Orion remains perfectly still, his crimson cape settling around his shoulders. "From the red mountains of Ardekia, where the blood of warriors runs pure and undiluted, he comes not in conquest… but in common purpose. From the sun-scorched halls of Ardekia to the stone-forged disciplines of Mount Enlas—Olympia has stood apart. Not for want of power, nor for lack of pride, but because their people were born to stand unbroken. Their warriors are forged in the old way. Their leaders do not inherit the throne... they earn it."

  Now her voice lowers slightly, creating an intimacy that draws everyone closer despite the vastness of the chamber. "Today, the Empire grows stronger. Today, the Unshaken joins the Unshakable." A breath. A smile—small, but deliberate. Practiced. "It is my honour to present to you: Champion of the Old Code, Warden of the Stone Wreath, Lord of Old Ardekia and King of Olympia—Orion, the Unyielding." A soft applause surrounds Orion, smiles directed toward him. He returns a smile of his own—not of glory or gratitude, but of measured indifference. His glory belongs to Olympia, as does his heart. He stands unmoved by their grandeur or approval, a mountain acknowledging hills.

  As the applause fades into expectant silence, Orion steps forward to take his place at the center of the chamber. The gold-lipped advisor turns to face him fully, raising her hands slightly. The gesture commands immediate silence—not through power, but through precision.

  "And now, by custom of the Imperial Accord, we acknowledge those who hold the pillars of this great Empire—those who have shaped its strength, its law, its spirit, and its silence." A beat. The chamber grows still, as if holding its collective breath. "First, the blade of the Emperor's will. General of a thousand banners. Master of the Imperial legions, unbroken in every theatre—General Solomon of the Emperor’s Select."

  Solomon steps forward with military precision, his darkened armour gleaming subtly beneath the grey and purple Imperial fabrics. He bows, a controlled movement that speaks of discipline rather than subservience. His dark hair spills momentarily over his stern, unbroken face—a face carved by battlefields and hardened by command. Orion studies him with professional appreciation. This is a man born of war. Moulded by conflict. Shaped by combat. The finest the Imperium has to offer, with loyalty that would never waver. Orion can sense the respect Solomon commands from every corner of the chamber. "A fine warrior," he thinks, recognising in Solomon something familiar—a kindred spirit forged in different fires.

  The gold-lipped advisor shifts her attention smoothly, her gaze sweeping across the chamber before settling on the next figure. "By order of the Council of Binders and Book, we welcome the Empire's hand of coin and trade—Geldrin Bancroft, Grandmaster of Economy. Coin does not move without his blessing. He does not count riches—he creates the systems that do. And where others build empires from stone… he builds them from debt." A shorter man steps forward, round at the belly but trim in posture, as if he's grown accustomed to bowing only when it profits him. His white-and-purple robes strain slightly at the sides. A monocle glints in his left eye, fastened with a fine golden chain that snakes into a vest stitched with embossed currency symbols. His fingers are thick, ringed with jewels—but his nails are perfectly manicured. His smile never reaches his eyes, which scan every corner of the room like an assessor calculating interest.

  Orion's jaw tightens imperceptibly. He watches Bancroft closely, recognising a different kind of danger. "Now, there's the real tax collector," he thinks. "If war is decided by generals… he's the one who chooses which wars are paid for."

  The advisor continues, her golden lips forming each title with precise reverence. "And from the Silver Archives of Kirellon, where policies are drafted and history is signed into law. We welcome the Iron Law of the South—Aelion of Elyndor, Lord Commander of the Imperial Government. Architect of legislature. Overseer of bureaucratic will. He is the thread that binds noble decree to practical enforcement, and the silent pen behind every law the Empire claims as civilised." Aelion inclines his head—a movement so slight it's barely a bow. No words escape him, but his presence fills the space between breaths. His Sol elven features remain perfectly composed, unreadable behind a flawless mask of diplomatic serenity.

  "Another Elf," Orion notes, observing the faint golden trimming on Aelion's immaculate robes. Symbols of statecraft and seal patterns run along the edges of his cuffs like ancient runes of command. This one is no warrior, but no less dangerous. His kind doesn't draw swords; they draw borders… and erase names.

  A subtle shift in the advisor's posture signals a change in tone. The chamber's atmosphere cools noticeably as she turns toward the next delegation. "And from the obsidian towers of Vulemaark, where coin is earned in shadow and law bends to the will of those strong enough to shape it—Representing the Kingdom of Fellhaven, in place of her absent husband, we welcome Queen Gabriella Blackthorn." The tension is immediate and palpable. Throughout the chamber, spines straighten, faces harden. No one speaks, but disapproval radiates from every corner like heat from banked coals. Queen Gabriella does not bow. She does not smile—at least, not in any way meant to soothe. The curve of her lips is a blade's edge: thin, humourless, sharpened with scrutiny. Her black hair and cold eyes sweep the room with the slow precision of someone taking stock… or measuring coffins. She sees a new customer for her family's illicit business. Draped in a gown of black & white silk veined with threads of gold, she stands flanked by four silent men. Their coats are long, their hands gloved, their tattooed faces cold. They do not speak. They do not move. But their presence, like hers, is heavy.

  The gold-lipped advisor continues quickly, her words flowing like oil over troubled waters: "Fellhaven, in its enduring loyalty, remains a crucial seat of trade and influence… ensuring, as always, that balance is maintained between the needs of coin and crown." The lie is smooth, well-practised. But everyone in the room knows better.

  King Orion watches her from the centre of the chamber, arms loosely behind his back. Queen Gabriella watches him back, unblinking. She moves first—graceful, deliberate—crossing the space between them with slow, measured steps. She stops just short of speaking distance, tilting her head in the barest nod of courtesy. "Well, well… the mighty King Orion," she says, her voice velvet over broken glass. "A pleasure." Her face, mocking. Orion studies her for a beat, smiles, then returns the nod—polite, but shallow. "Queen Gabriella," he replies, voice calm and even. "I had expected to greet your husband." Her smile sharpens. "As did I," she says, voice quietly shuddering. Maybe intoxicants. Maybe pain. "But he has somewhere… more important to be." Orion raises an eyebrow slightly, “Go on.” Gabriella’s cold eyes flicker, hiding her inner turmoil. Distressed. A beat passes. Then she speaks, voice meant to be strong, but comes soft, "If you must know. Our daughter is gone." Quiet. Heavy. A mother's pain. Orion’s posture shifts slightly—almost imperceptibly—but his voice stays steady. "I’m sorry to hear that," he says, with the genuine weight of a man who understands loss. "I hope she is found soon." Gabriella inclines her head in silent acknowledgement. No gratitude. No pleasantries. "She will be," she says, looking at Orion as if he is wasting her time. She steps back abruptly, folding herself once more into her small fortress of silent men.

  King Orion watches her from the centre of the chamber. He notices her subtly staring at Lazarus and his Order. Her hatred evident through her gaze. Orion sees that this is a woman who does not walk among nobles. She walks among wolves. And she feeds them.

  The advisor turns gracefully, her movement deliberately drawing attention away from the Fellhaven delegation. Her voice warms noticeably as she continues. "From the white towers of Averielle, Elyndor, land of the elves, where knowledge is currency and the earth is sacred—High Matriarch Iridessa of the Elder Council, chosen voice of the Sol Elves, and architect of the instruments and measures by which we now mark Time itself.

  The words land with subtle weight—A creator of the instruments and measurements that govern our very understanding of Time—a revelation so casually stated it takes a moment to comprehend its magnitude. Matriarch Iridessa rises, graceful as moonlight on still water. Light blonde, almost white hair flows perfectly down her back. Her green and yellow robes catch the light like leaves in wind as she bows with one hand over her heart. She is beautiful in a way that transcends mere appearance—a beauty that verges on the unsettling when one realises her age is counted not in decades or centuries, but in millennia. Before humans knew how to count the hours, she walked the earth. Before the concept of "yesterday" or "tomorrow" existed, she was already ancient.

  "Yes, I know of Iridessa." Orion's voice rumbles through the chamber, breaking the reverent silence. "We have met briefly before the start of the games. The elves have greeted and treated us warmly. And for that, we thank you for your hospitality." His eyes reflect something close to genuine respect, though a shadow of wariness lingers behind it. “These Sol Elves, huh? Creators of Time itself. Fuck sake. Figure they've been around longer than the dirt under our feet.” Orion offers a smile, but his eyes dart away from the ancient being before him, as if looking too long might reveal too much.

  The gold-lipped advisor allows a moment for this exchange to settle before continuing. Her posture shifts subtly, preparing the chamber for something… different. "And from beyond the mountains of sight and sound, from a realm the Empire does not speak of publicly, from Deepstone—I now present the Umbrari."

  The chamber stills. Even the Imperial advisors hesitate to move, their faces suddenly unreadable. King Orion narrows his gaze as the trio steps forward. They are... small. No higher than his hip. Dressed in charcoal-black robes that shimmer with no known fabric, their attire appears grown rather than stitched—organic, alien, seamless. A faint hum seems to rise from their presence, not heard but felt beneath the skin. Orion's eyes had caught them earlier—he thought they were children. Strange ones, dressed in tight, perfect garments, standing near the shadows. Quiet. Watching. But now… no. These are not children. He sees now that their heads are too large. Their eyes—solid black, rounded like river stone—do not blink. Emotionless. Their limbs, long and spindly, taper into four elongated fingers that stretch and curl as they raise one hand in greeting. They do not speak. They do not need to. A chill moves through Orion's spine, subtle but sharp, like cold steel laid gently between his shoulders. He straightens. It is not fear, not exactly. But something close. Something primal.

  As if man evolved to fear them.

  From his elevated throne, the Emperor watches Orion closely, studying his reaction to the Umbrari with quiet interest. His eyes, half-hidden in calculated shadow, narrow slightly. The Olympian king's composure before these ancient beings tells him something valuable—something he tucks away for later consideration. A test, perhaps, but whether Orion has passed or failed remains unspoken.

  "The Umbrari," the gold-lipped advisor says more softly now, her words almost reverent. "Those responsible for the building of impossible things. New Olympia is one such thing. They completed it in mere weeks. Without fail. Without question." Orion doesn't respond. His mind flicks between admiration and unease. Even now, the Umbrari do not move. Their stillness is unnatural. Too precise. It is like watching living statues made of breath and shadow. He wonders—absurdly—if they can hear his thoughts. Or worse, feel them.

  He tries not to glance at the elves. But he feels it—the tension. Subtle. Cold. Unspoken. The Elves shift ever so slightly in their regal positions. Eyes narrowing. Chins raised. Not a word is exchanged, but Orion senses it with all the instinct of a seasoned warrior. A mutual disdain. Ancient. Personal.

  Orion says nothing. What could he say? This is a part of the Empire that he was never shown. A people even the legends failed to explain. And yet… here they are. One of the Empire's many secrets. The builders of miracles. The architects of New Olympia. He forces a breath through his nose. Calm. Unmoved. But inside—something watches him, and he watches it back.

  The advisor senses the ripple of discomfort spreading through the chamber. She smoothly directs attention elsewhere, her golden lips forming the next introduction with careful precision. "And now…" Her voice shifts subtly, reverent, careful, as though speaking of something ancient. "From the vaults beneath the sacred Imperial Cathedrals, from the chamber where stars are named and death is mapped... I present: Grand Inquisitor Lazarus, Keeper of the Flame of Truth, Speaker of the Red Doctrine, and Eye of The Order of the Forbidden Seal." From the far end of the ceremonial ring, an old, frail figure begins to approach, robed in black with the Order's sacred crossed symbol, lined with inked scripture along every fold of his garment. The robes move as if they breathe, revealing shimmering sigils stitched in gold thread. He walks with a long staff crowned with a crossed symbol, a relic made of obsidian, etched with lines that look like constellations, shifting subtly as the light catches them.

  King Orion watches him closely. Lazarus is not young, but he moves with the grace of someone whose presence has never once been questioned. His face is pale, untouched by sunlight. His hair is silvered and neatly swept back, though his eyes, grey, unblinking, reveal no warmth. Only precision. Calculation. And yet… he smiles. "King Orion," Lazarus says, bowing low with ceremonial poise, his voice like ash settling after fire. "Olympia's arrival marks the closing of an age long watched in the heavens. We have long awaited your alignment." Orion nods slowly, offering only a polite glance. "And I thank you for watching, Grand Inquisitor," he replies evenly. His gaze holds steady, testing, weighing. "Snake in the field."

  "I am in service to offer guidance, King Orion," Lazarus says, voice silkier than before. "Guidance... and protection. In these uncertain times, Olympia would not stand alone. And I'm sure you would appreciate that faith binds faster than iron." he says with a smirk.

  Orion's eyes harden. "Olympia's bond is blood… not whispers." Lazarus smiles fully, the faintest dip of his chin. "Blood fades. Fear endures," he whispers to himself. Confident in method. "Our temples welcome you," Lazarus says openly, almost an announcement. "For your people's benefit. To nourish them." Orion's focus begins to sharpen. A storm stirs in his gut. “You can plant your seeds, Grand Inquisitor. But don’t expect much fertile soil where Olympians walk.” Lazarus only smiles in response, confident that faith finds a way even in stone.

  Behind Lazarus, the clergy of The Order stand in absolute silence. Hooded, cowled, their robes mimic the constellations—a thousand tiny beads sewn in perfect star-patterns. The priests hold relics wrapped in silk. Others simply carry unmarked books bound in waxen cloth. The Elves nod their approval subtly, buying into the fake, as if their affinity for The Order is tradition. Familiar and old.

  But in Orion's sight, the Umbrari shift—barely—but enough for him to notice. A strange pulse in the air, as if something sour has crept in. They watch Lazarus with blank, glistening eyes. Not disapproval, not quite. But unreadable. As if they've seen what he truly is. "Fanatic." Orion thinks. Not because he seeks war. But because he speaks in riddles… and might believe them.

  The gold-lipped advisor hesitates. Just slightly. A breath lingers too long. A syllable waits too closely behind silence. Her composure—perfect until now—shows the faintest crack, quickly sealed.

  But she continues—

  "And finally…" Her voice lowers. Smoother. As if careful not to stir something… forbidden. "By decree of the Emperor, and in accordance with the sealed accords of the Arubian way…" She clears her throat, the first uncertain gesture she has made since the ceremony began. "We acknowledge the presence of Xephyra—Head of the Arubanarak and Temple Arube." The chamber shifts. Not in movement—but in atmosphere. A stillness spreads. Like frost creeping across warm stone. Tension, sudden and electric, touches every gathered figure. Even the Elves—ancient and proud—straighten slightly, their smiles fading. The priests of the Order cast downward glances. The Umbrari remain unmoved, but King Orion can feel it in them too. A ripple through their strange presence.

  She steps forward. A woman wrapped in bottomless blue—the colour of deep water and darker skies. The hood of her robe casts a shadow too thick for this light, her face barely glimpsed, hidden behind a sheer veil of indigo silk. Golden runes glimmer faintly across her sleeves, like words spoken not with breath, but with thought. She moves without sound. No footfall. No weight. As if she exists slightly above the ground she walks upon.

  King Orion's jaw tightens. Not from fear, but from instinct. He's fought beasts, commanders, kings. But this—this woman—she is not a warrior. She is not even a weapon. She is the hand that creates them. He doesn't know what she is, but a word jumps into his mind. Screaming at him. Forcing his respect.

  "Witch."

  The word alone sits uncomfortably in his mind. "Of course, they'd keep her veiled. Of course, the people don't know." Even the Emperor himself stirs. A subtle shift in posture. A slight upward tilt of his chin. His lips curve—just faintly. Approval. Not fear. Not command. Something else. This is his.

  Xephyra faces no one and everyone at once. She does not speak. She only lowers her head slowly once. The silk of her veil trembles faintly, as if stirred by something only she can hear. That one motion is enough. A bowed head from the Arubanarak is not submission—it's permission. A whisper glides across the chamber like the brush of cold wind. Not words. Not language. A presence. Some, even among the powerful, dare not look directly at her for too long. But Orion does. He studies her. Watches her for who she is and what she represents.

  The Empire's secret weapon.

  The chamber falls into perfect silence as Xephyra's presence settles over the gathering like a shroud. Even the gold-lipped advisor steps back, her ceremonial duty complete. She melts into the shadows at the chamber's edge, her purpose served. In this stillness, all eyes lift toward the crystalline throne.

  The Emperor rises.

  There is no rush to his movement, no grand flourish meant to captivate. He simply stands, and in that singular action, the entire room feels the shift. Power recognises power. His white and purple robes catch the fractured light from above, transforming simple fabric into something ethereal, almost transcendent. When he speaks, his voice is like polished stone soaked in oil—smooth yet heavy, burning slowly with a quiet intensity that demands attention. "King Orion," he begins, each syllable carrying across the chamber like a slow-moving tide.

  The Emperor's face remains partially veiled in calculated shadow, but his eyes—ancient, knowing—fix upon the Olympian king with unnerving focus. "Three years ago, your people crossed the threshold of diplomacy not with requests, but with understanding. You did not kneel. You did not petition." His hands rise, a gesture both commanding and inclusive that encompasses the entire gathering. "You stood tall... and offered alliance. Not in weakness. Not in desperation. But with strength. With Olympian honour."

  The Emperor's gaze sweeps across the chamber, taking in each faction representative in turn. The Elves straighten imperceptibly. The Umbrari remain motionless. Xephyra's veiled head tilts a fraction. Lazarus watches with calculated interest. "Today, that strength joins ours," the Emperor continues, his tone deepening. "And because of it, the Empire is greater." He descends the first of the nine crystal steps, a move so unexpected that several advisors shift nervously. The Emperor rarely leaves his throne during formal gatherings.

  "You do not enter these halls as a subordinate. You enter as a pillar. One that will not break. One that we may all lean upon... when the time comes." The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Several of the gathered dignitaries exchange glances. Queen Gabriella's eyes narrow slightly. General Solomon nods once, almost imperceptibly. "Olympia's place in the Empire was never a question of law," the Emperor states, his voice gaining resonance as he descends another step. "It was a question of timing." His chin lifts a degree. "And now... the time is right."

  The final words land with the weight of prophecy. Not a single breath disturbs the silence that follows.

  King Orion steps forward. He does not bow. But neither does he posture. He simply stands—as he always has. Equal. Unshaken. The crimson of his cape seems to burn brighter against the chamber's cool marble and crystalline surfaces. He meets the Emperor's gaze like an old mountain meeting the dawn. "Old friend," Orion says, his voice like gravel warmed by the sun. "You haven't aged a day. Which either means the stress of ruling hasn't caught you... or you're drinking damn good wine." Quiet laughter ripples through parts of the chamber. The tension breaks, if only for a moment. The Elves glance at one another, uncertain how to react to such familiarity. Even Solomon's stern features soften momentarily. The Emperor's lips curve in the faintest smile, but he offers no response.

  Orion walks forward, his bare feet silent against the polished floor. His movements have a natural confidence that makes the carefully rehearsed ceremonial posturing of others seem artificial by comparison. "I've walked through your Palace, marvelled at your mountains, admired the view," he continues, his tone casual, as though speaking around a campfire rather than addressing one of the world's greatest powers. "It's all very impressive. Truly." He pauses. The chamber waits. "And yet—none of it holds a candle to a morning in Ardekia. The hush of wheat. Hot wind. The sound of spears over sand." There's no boast in it. Just truth. Memory. The women of the chamber watch him with heightened interest—not just for his physical presence, but for the unexpected poetry in his words.

  "You offered my people sanctuary. Food. Fertile land. A future." Orion's voice deepens, gaining gravity. "And for that—we are here." His face grows serious, the warrior beneath the diplomat emerging. "But let no one mistake this for submission. We did not come to kneel. We came to stand." The tension in the chamber shifts, crystallises. This is not the rehearsed diplomatic exchange many had expected. "Because the storm is coming. We all feel it." Orion's eyes meet the Emperor's directly. "You and I—we've both seen the signs. Heard the whispers. Read the silence between the stars." He turns slowly, addressing the entire chamber now. His gaze touches on Lazarus, then Xephyra, then the motionless Umbrari.

  "Some of you already know what's out there. Some of you pretend not to." The Umbrari remain still, but something in the air around them seems to pulse. Queen Gabriella's hand tightens on her dress. General Solomon's jaw sets firmly. "Olympia is not blind," Orion continues. "We may be new within your walls... but we are not new to war." He clasps his hands behind his back, letting the silence stretch. The tension hums beneath the gold and marble like a plucked string. "We'll honour the pact. We'll build this New Olympia. We'll bring our best, and we'll stand beside you."

  Orion turns, making a full circle now, ensuring every person in the chamber feels the weight of his next words. "And when that time comes—and it will—don't look to us for permission." He stops. "But you will have warriors with you. Not because we owe it. But because we choose to." And with that, he says no more. He doesn't wait for applause. Doesn't expect ceremony. He just stands. Tall. Still. Unmoved.

  For a long moment, the chamber remains frozen in silence.

  Then the Emperor descends the final steps of his dais—an unprecedented action that causes several advisors to gasp softly. He crosses to Orion, and the two men stand face to face. Neither bows. Neither yields.

  Only equals.

  Chapter 12 was a huge moment for this novel — setting the stage for everything that’s about to unfold in Act II.

  - Olympia is now—almost—officially part of the Empire.

  - Hidden tensions stir between the Elves, the Order, the Umbrari, and the Arubanarak.

  - Storms are forming on the horizon — seen only by those wise enough to feel it.

  Who do you trust least after this meeting? Who do you trust most? ??

  Stand tall. Stay unshaken.