The bells of Elyria had not ceased ringing since dawn.
Each toll rolled over the city like thunder, shaking dust from statues and fear from men's hearts. It was the Summoning of the Great Houses — the first in over a century — and the people whispered that when the bells stopped, the Emperor would be dead.
From the hilltops, the imperial capital shimmered under storm-gray skies. Elyria, the heart of the Empire, where ten rivers met and ten thousand ambitions boiled.
Golden banners fluttered as the House of Kaelthar, masters of the northern marches, rode through the gate. Their lord, Darian Kaelthar, carried himself with the calm arrogance of a man who had never lost a war — and never trusted peace.
At his side walked his daughter, Lady Selene, her eyes sharper than her father's sword. She watched the city walls with quiet disdain.
"An empire built on marble and lies," she murmured.
"And we're here to inherit both," Darian replied.
Behind them thundered the House of Veyra, draped in crimson and silver, their wagons heavy with gifts and spies. Their matriarch, Lady Maris Veyra, had once been the Emperor's mistress — now she came to claim something far more valuable than love.
In the high balconies of the Council Tower, servants hurried like ants. Banners of the ten Great Houses were hung beside the Imperial crest — a golden sun split by a black blade.
Lord Chancellor Renn, the Empire's chief diplomat, paced the hall. His voice was low but sharp.
"Make sure the northern seats are placed beside the church's delegates. If the Kaelthars and the Sanctum glare at each other long enough, they'll forget to glare at me."
He turned to a young scribe — a thin, nervous man named Aldren, born a bastard of minor nobility.
"And fetch the royal seal. The Emperor's proclamation must be ready before nightfall. Gods help us if he dies before it's signed."
Outside, in the market below the palace, rumors spread faster than the wind.
They said the Crown Prince had vanished, the High Priest was preparing for war, and a foreign fleet was sighted beyond the western seas.
Amid the chaos, a hooded man lingered by the fountain — a mercenary, or perhaps an assassin. When asked who he waited for, he smiled faintly.
"For the bell to stop ringing."
As twilight fell, the Great Houses entered the Council Hall — nobles, generals, and serpents alike. The marble pillars cast long shadows, each one hiding a dagger.
At the head of the chamber stood the Imperial Throne, empty but for a single crown resting upon its arm.
And then, the bells stopped.
The silence that followed was heavier than any war drum.
Every lord in the chamber turned their eyes toward the throne.
The Emperor was dead.
And the game for the Empire had begun.