The Ceremonial Imperial Hall was a cathedral of opulence—its domed ceiling painted with the founding of the Empire, golden light streaming from stained-glass panels that portrayed the Twelve Imperial Seats as pillars of civilization.
At the far end, a raised obsidian dais waited beneath an imperial banner embroidered with a lion wrapped in celestial flame.
Every courtier from the Court room had come inside to the Cerimonal hall recovered, at least physically, from the weight of Aden's earlier release of Fear, but the air remained brittle—like a room recovering from an earthquake.
Conversations stayed hushed. Glances flicked to eachother.
The herald's staff struck the floor thrice. A sonorous voice followed, cutting through the tension like a sword through silk:
"His Imperial Majesty, Julius Chrono, Sovereign of Flame and Crown, Warden of the Thirteenth Realm, Defender of Humanity."
The doors parted.
The Emperor strode in—no flourish, no escort, just presence. He wore no crown, yet every step made the world feel smaller beneath him.
His black-and-gold regalia shimmered faintly with runic enchantments, though he bore no weapon. He didn't need one.
Julius Chrono was a man who had not inherited power.
He had taken it—and the room remembered that with every breath.
As he crossed the hall, the nobles bowed in practiced synchronicity. Aden remained standing, his chin high. For a moment, the Emperor's golden eyes brushed across him—not in reprimand, but in recognition.
He approached the throne and stood rather than sat, his voice like rolling thunder as he addressed the court.
"The Empire does not suffer vacancy," Julius declared. "When one seat among the Twelve falters, the others must rise to fill it—or fall alongside it."
He turned slowly, gaze sweeping the gathered court.
"The Seat of Nightshade lies empty. Its former bearer—Duke Cassian Elric—is dead. Not from age, nor illness, nor retreat. He died on the field, sword in hand, spine broken by the enemy's hand. Such is the weight of the title you seek."
Murmurs fluttered like crows in the rafters.
"You who seek that seat must prove yourselves not only with strength, but with purpose. With vision. With loyalty—not to bloodlines, but to the Empire itself."
Just as he opened his mouth to continue, an Imperial Knight in silver and red armor rushed to the Emperor's side, whispering urgently.
Julius paused.
Then smirked—just slightly.
"Let him in."
The chamber doors groaned open once more.
And Aden Vasco stepped through them—not rushed, not apologetic, but deliberate. His pace was unhurried, his expression unreadable.
His arrival was not late.
It was strategic.
He descended the golden carpet that led to the heart of the court, his boots echoing like drumbeats.
There was no armor now—just a sharp black coat with crimson threading, the Vasco crest embroidered above his heart.
His very existence contradicted expectation: a boy with a man's calm, a criminal turned knight, a shadow with a crown-shaped hole behind his eyes.
Eyes followed him.
Jaws tightened.
And some, especially among the older nobles, took unconscious steps back.
The Emperor observed him in silence. And as Aden reached the circle of contenders and bowed faintly, Julius turned his gaze to the court.
He noted to himself internally, had he not been informed by the knight of Aden's arrival, he would have mistaken him for Ed Vasco or one of the other Dukes.
Aden took his place among the assembled contenders as the golden platform retracted and the Emperor stepped back into the shadowed alcove behind his throne, watching silently now, like a deity who had already judged them all.
The others in the room shifted uneasily—some still shaken from the earlier eruption of Fear, others trying to reclaim composure with noble posture and strained expressions.
Six stood before him. Seven, now with Aden. Each one marked by the scent of blood and legacy.
To his right stood Marquis Elron Cadell, a war hero draped in steel-trimmed violet—scarred across the face, a symbol of valor from the Southern Rebellion.
Next to him, a sharp-eyed sorcerer in cobalt robes—High Arcanist Velid, rumored to be one of the few mortals to converse with the Ninefold Archons of the Veil.
Beside them, a younger man—noble bearing, princely looks, but eyes too hollow—Sir Ravel Kaelthorn, heir to a faltering duchy seeking relevance through imperial power.
Aden studied them all. None looked like cowards.
But none looked like survivors either.
And then she stepped forward.
Lady Veris.
The Spider of the West.
She walked with unhurried grace, her raven-hued gown catching the light like a net spun from midnight. Hair as dark as coal, eyes the color of wet onyx. Her features were beautiful, in the same way a dagger is—polished, symmetrical, and made for blood.
"Aden Vasco," she said, voice silken yet lined with steel. "I had expected you to come, but do not cross the line."
A murmur rippled through the court, but no one dared interrupt.
Aden gave no reply. He simply watched her, unblinking.
Lady Veris stopped in front of him, her gaze sharp and intimate—like she was mapping every fracture in his mask.
"I'll speak plainly," she said. "You intrigue me. But I did not claw my way up from the bones of Western traitors to be outshined by some haunted boy with a shadow riding his spine."
She turned her head just slightly, addressing not just Aden but the whole court.
"I'll be claiming the vacant seat. You should consider stepping aside before you find out what happens when you get caught by me."
The threat was direct. The tension immediate. Gasps flared from the audience like sparks from dry leaves.
Aden blinked once. Slowly.
But then it happened, a pressure erupted from him.
Then the world changed.
The stone beneath their feet groaned faintly. A pressure—ancient, coiling, suffocating—settled over the chamber like fog laden with razors.
Fear.
Not the full force from earlier, but focused—tactical. A blade at the throat, not a hammer to the head.
Lady Veris flinched, her faced turned plae. Her posture held. But her hand twitched at her side.
To her left, Sir Ravel staggered and fell to a knee, blood draining from his face. The Arcanist stepped back involuntarily. Two others passed out outright.
Elron Cadell, to his credit, didn't move—but sweat pearled on his scarred brow.
Only the Emperor's silent pressure kept the chamber from collapsing into full chaos.
Aden stepped forward—one measured pace—and his voice was calm and absolute.
"If you try to get in my way," he said, "I'll kill you."
Egmund chuckled inside his head, low and approving.
"You're learning, boy. Now you look more like a Vasco."
Not shouted. Not dramatized.
Just the truth, offered like a cup of water.
Lady Veris met his eyes, and—for the first time—her poise cracked. slightly. Enough.
The other nobles in the hall, panicked unsure of what to do.
But before more could unravel, a second pressure crashed into the room like the breaking of a storm.
The Emperor.
His aura swept over them all, a vast, golden fire that smothered everything else, forcing Egmund's Fear to lessen.
Julius Chrono's voice followed:
"Enough."
It wasn't shouted.
It was commanded.
Like gravity.
Aden's gaze lifted to meet the Emperor's. For a heartbeat, the boy and the sovereign stared across a gulf of power and fate.
"This is not the battlefield, Aden Vasco," the Emperor said. "Not yet."
Aden inhaled… and the pressure receded.
The moment passed.
As order returned, the Emperor turned and slowly walked away, speaking without looking back:
"The trial begins at dawn, three days hence. Let the wolves sharpen their teeth."
As the court returned to its rhythm, Lady Veris whispered without turning:
"You might think you've won something today. But I'll show you—on the field—what true fear looks like."
Aden didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
Her fear was already showing.