The palace of Almeric did not truly sleep.
Even when the fires in the great hearths sank to sullen embers and the last laughter of wine-soaked courtiers faded into the corridors, the Imperial Citadel breathed on—quiet footfalls of servants, the distant clink of steel as guards changed watches, the faint murmur of priests reciting prayers to Lune beneath moonlit alcoves while, elsewhere, Aurora's acolytes tended braziers that were never permitted to die.
It was a living thing of marble and gilt, of banners and bloodlines.
And Alaric Voss Ecthellion, swaddled in cloth that smelled of incense and lavender, was carried through its veins as though he were both treasure and burden.
His world had been reduced to sensation: warmth, motion, sound. He could not lift his head properly, could not form words, could not even focus his eyes for long before the edges of his vision swam. Yet behind all of it—the helplessness, the infant fragility—James Silver remained awake, watching, listening, cataloging the palace the way he might have once cataloged a campaign setting.
Only this was not a book.
This was Zoridia, and he was inside it.
Asimi held him close to her chest as she walked, her steps measured and graceful. Silk whispered with each motion of her gown, and the faint chime of jewelry—moonstone and silver filigree—followed her like a quiet melody. Whenever she glanced down at him, her eyes softened with an emotion Alaric could not yet name without feeling something tighten painfully beneath his ribs.
A mother's love, perhaps.
Or perhaps something more complicated, something sharpened by palace life. A love that knew it might be tested.
Ahead of them, heavy double doors stood open like the jaws of some ancient beast, revealing a hall that took Alaric's breath away even through newborn haze. Sunlight spilled through towering stained-glass panels, fractured into gold and pale blue across the polished floor. High above, vaulted arches rose like the ribs of a cathedral. From the ceiling hung banners bearing twin sigils: a crescent moon in silver thread and a sunburst in gold.
The Hall of Sun and Moon.
The air was thick with the scent of wax and sacred smoke. A choir of Imperial Faith attendants stood in two lines, their voices low and harmonious, reciting an old rite—words that sank into Alaric's mind with strange familiarity, as if his new blood remembered them better than his old soul did.
At the far end of the hall, upon a dais of white stone, sat Emperor Tuare Wulfric Ecthellion.
Even from a distance, his presence pressed against the room. He wore court regalia that did not try to hide his warrior's body: an immaculate mantle of white trimmed in gold, armored pauldrons etched with sun motifs, a sword at his hip whose hilt glimmered like captured daylight. His hair—molten gold—caught the sunbeams and returned them brighter.
To either side of the dais stood the five great ducal lords and ladies of the Empire.
Alaric's eyes, unfocused and watery, still managed to latch onto them as though some instinct whispered danger.
Duke Theric Brionac stood with arms folded across his chest, his posture so rigidly disciplined that he might have been carved from stone. The gold of his Aurora-bound hair was darker than the Emperor's, more tempered, like metal that had seen the forge. When he glanced toward the dais, it was with the sharpness of a man who understood blades better than words.
Duchess Herith Regnium, seated in dignified stillness, wore silver and midnight-blue that suited her Lune-bound nature. Her gaze drifted over the hall not like a noble admiring a crowd, but like a scholar studying a text. Even as a babe, Alaric felt as though her eyes peeled back layers he didn't know he had.
Duke Reginald Othel was broad-shouldered and thick-necked, his armor less ornate and more practical, the stance of a man accustomed to cold winds and border threats. His expression was impassive, but there was something comforting in that blunt steadiness—like a wall that did not pretend to be anything else.
Duke Tabris Angelique, Lune-bound, wore a small smile that never reached his eyes. His face was handsome in the smooth, curated way of courtly men who learned early how to hide their true thoughts behind polished charm. When he looked at Asimi, his gaze lingered a heartbeat too long, measuring.
And Duke Sathiel Brisingr—seated with one leg crossed over the other as though he were at ease—was the most unsettling of all. His presence was elegant, almost languid, his smile faintly amused. His eyes held a brightness that reminded Alaric of starlight reflected on deep water—beautiful, and impossible to read.
Behind the dukes and duchess, rows of nobles filled the hall, their silks and jewels glittering. And beyond them, separated by a low gilded barrier and watched by an extra line of guards, stood the civilian public: craftsmen in their best tunics, merchants in fine coats, common women with braided hair and clean aprons, even children hoisted onto shoulders so they might glimpse the Emperor's newest blood.
The people had been invited, Alaric realized, not because they were equals, but because the Empire understood spectacle.
A prince announced was a prince legitimized.
Asimi carried him down the long central aisle. The choir's murmur rose, then fell away as she approached the dais. Every step seemed to echo. Alaric's small fist curled reflexively against her gown, and he was vaguely aware of the warmth of her skin through the cloth.
Tuare rose.
The movement was simple, but it changed the room. Conversation stilled. Even the civilian crowd seemed to collectively hold its breath.
"Asimi," the Emperor greeted, his voice resonant and calm, the tone of a man who had spoken commands that decided the fates of thousands.
"Your Majesty," Asimi replied, sinking into a graceful bow without jostling Alaric. "I present to you your son, born under Lune's gentle eye and Aurora's vigilant light."
A priest stepped forward—an older man with silver-threaded robes, the crescent of Lune embroidered at his collar. He held a shallow basin of water that shimmered faintly, as if it had captured moonlight even in the bright hall. Another priest, Aurora's acolyte, carried a candle whose flame burned steady and fierce.
The rite began in earnest.
Words spilled over Alaric like warm rain, ancient phrases about blood and duty, about the twin goddesses and the covenant between throne and people. A soft cloth brushed his forehead, cool water tracing a symbol he could not see but somehow felt settle into him like a quiet mark.
Then Tuare stepped close enough that Alaric could smell the faint tang of steel and cedar on him.
The Emperor's gaze fell on Alaric's face.
For a moment, there was nothing—no softness, no warmth, only appraisal.
Then Tuare's mouth turned slightly, not quite a smile.
"Alaric Voss Ecthellion," he proclaimed, and his voice carried to the far end of the hall without strain. "Tenth child of my blood. Fifth child of Empress-Consort Asimi. Second son born of her line."
A ripple moved through the nobles, a whisper that passed from mouth to ear like a flickering candle flame.
Fifth child… second son… politics in numbers, power measured in birth order.
Tuare lifted a hand, and the whispers died.
"Let it be known," he continued, "that Alaric is recognized by the throne, protected by the law, and bound—as all of my children are—by the duties and rights of the Imperial House."
His eyes swept the hall.
"Three rights are inalienable to all sentient peoples beneath our banners," Tuare said, his tone sharpening into legal cadence. "The right to make a living. The right to protect oneself. The right to speak one's values. These are not gifts from the throne. They are the foundation upon which this Empire stands."
The civilian crowd stirred, some faces lighting with pride. Even a few nobles inclined their heads, as though acknowledging doctrine.
Tuare's gaze returned to Alaric.
"As tradition and fairness demand," the Emperor said, "each of my children shall be given a manor within the capital, that they may be raised under the eyes of the court and instructed in the ways of rule."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"And each shall be granted a village fief, that they may learn stewardship not as a concept, but as a living duty."
The public's attention sharpened. Names meant little to them, but land meant everything. Land was bread. Land was taxes. Land was protection.
The priest beside Tuare unfurled a scroll sealed with gold wax.
"Prince Alaric Voss Ecthellion," the priest intoned, voice formal, "is hereby granted the Manor of Starfall within the capital district, to be held in trust until his majority—"
Alaric's mind snagged at the name Starfall. Pretty. Symbolic. He wondered if every imperial child received a manor with a poetic title. He wondered if it had once belonged to someone else, long dead, long forgotten, as the palace chewed through generations.
"—and," the priest continued, "he is granted the Fief of Asmora Village, situated to the west and south of the City of Julian, under the Duchy of Soethas."
Duke Sathiel's smile deepened by the smallest fraction, as though the world had just handed him a pleasant amusement.
A quiet murmur rippled again—less formal this time, tinged with curiosity.
Asmora Village.
Alaric could not picture it yet, but his old mind supplied the logic: a village fief was a lesson and a leash. A place to learn governance, yes, but also a place others could pressure. A small thing, easily influenced. An investment that could be starved or fattened by those who wished to shape him.
Tuare lifted his hand again.
"And now," the Emperor said, voice steady, "my eldest children shall bear witness."
From the right side of the dais, three figures stepped forward.
Crown Prince Julios Valencia Ecthellion moved like a young wolf dressed in silk. Fourteen years of age, Aurora-bound, he wore a white-and-gold coat that mimicked the Emperor's style in miniature, with a thin circlet of polished metal upon his brow. His eyes were sharp, his mouth curved into a smile that was too practiced to be innocent.
Behind him came Prince Kendrik, thirteen, also Aurora-bound, his posture slightly hunched as though he wished to be smaller than his brother. He kept glancing toward Julios, mirroring his expressions with the anxious loyalty of someone desperate to remain in favor.
Princess Adele followed, eleven years old and composed, her golden hair neatly braided. She watched Asimi with an expression that held a quiet respect, and when her gaze fell on Alaric, it softened.
Julios stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed—barely.
"Father," he said, voice clear. Then his eyes slid toward Asimi, and his bow became a hair deeper, as etiquette demanded. "Empress-Consort."
Asimi returned a gracious nod, though Alaric felt a subtle tension in the way her arms tightened around him.
Julios looked at Alaric fully then.
And the bullying began.
"Well," the Crown Prince drawled, loud enough for those nearest to hear—and for rumor to carry the rest. "He certainly looks… unusual."
A few nobles chuckled behind gloved hands.
Julios leaned closer, head tilting as if studying an exotic animal. "That hair," he continued, amusement sharpening. "Silver and gold tangled together, like someone couldn't decide which goddess he belongs to."
Alaric's small body stirred, not in fear—he had no infant fear of insults yet—but in indignation that bloomed hot and immediate inside James Silver's mind. He could not speak. Could not glare properly. Could only endure.
Julios's gaze flicked to Alaric's eyes—one warmer, one cooler, mismatched in a way that was already becoming whispered gossip.
"And his eyes," Julios added lightly. "Even stranger. Perhaps Lune and Aurora were arguing over him and settled on compromise."
Prince Kendrik laughed—too quickly, too loudly. "Yes, brother, perhaps they—"
Adele cut him off with a single look.
Julios straightened, smile widening as though he had merely delivered a harmless jest. Yet there was a satisfaction in his expression that made it clear: he had struck where he wished to strike.
The Emperor's gaze turned toward Julios, and the temperature of the hall seemed to drop a degree.
"Julios," Tuare said, and there was no heat in his voice—only law.
The Crown Prince's smile stiffened. "Father?"
"Your brother has been presented before the Empire," Tuare replied. "He is of my blood. Of lawful birth. Insulting him in this hall insults the throne itself."
A hush fell. Even the civilians seemed to sense the shift, though they might not have understood all the nuance.
Julios's jaw tightened, but he bowed again, this time properly, the picture of obedience. "As you say, Father. I meant no insult."
The lie was beautiful in its smoothness.
Asimi's expression remained serene, but Alaric felt her pulse quick against him. She lowered her face slightly, and her lips brushed the edge of his hair—silver and gold—like a quiet vow.
Adele stepped closer, her gaze lingering on Alaric with something protective in it. She did not touch him—protocol likely forbade it—but her voice was soft when she spoke.
"He's… pretty," she said, not to Julios, but almost to herself. "Like dawn."
Julios's eyes narrowed a fraction, but he let it pass.
The priests resumed the rite, swiftly, as though eager to guide the ceremony away from sharp edges. The scroll was rolled, the seal displayed, the blessings spoken.
Asimi turned to face the hall, holding Alaric outward just enough that the crowd might see him.
For a heartbeat, Alaric's unfocused gaze swept across hundreds of faces.
Some were curious. Some were reverent. Some were calculating. A few common women smiled with genuine warmth, perhaps seeing only a baby and not a piece on a board.
And somewhere in the back, he caught the smallest flash of movement—an older servant girl in a black maid uniform, carrying a tray with practiced balance, weaving through the edge of the crowd as though she did not belong in the hall yet had learned to become invisible within it.
Amber eyes, focused and busy.
Gina Othel, a name drifted through his mind like a leaf on water—something he did not yet know the meaning of, but which his new world seemed eager to teach him in fragments.
Then the shimmer appeared again at the edge of his vision—faint, like glass catching sun.
[System: …]
It did not fully form. Not yet. But it was there, waiting.
Alaric stared at the bright hall, at the Emperor and the nobles, at his eldest brother whose smile promised future cruelty, and he understood something with quiet clarity:
He had been announced.
He had been given a manor and a village like a gift.
But gifts in the palace were never free.
Asimi drew him back against her chest, and the choir's voices rose again—sweet, solemn, and utterly indifferent to the quiet war that had just begun.