Morning in the capital arrived gently.
Too gently.
Sunlight spilled across white stone rooftops, bells rang from distant towers, merchants opened their shops as if nothing had happened the night before.
And that was exactly what unsettled Arthur.
He stood in the council chamber, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the slowly rotating projection of the capital's mana grid.
No abnormalities.
No lingering resonance.
The eastern district was clean.
Too clean.
Seraphina entered silently.
"You were right," she said. "No reports. No rumors. No panic."
Arthur nodded once.
"They wanted invisibility."
Darius followed her in, expression tense.
"But something did happen. I can feel it."
Arthur turned slightly.
"So can they."
He gestured toward the table.
"Show me the morning reports."
Seraphina activated the orb.
Trade logs appeared first.
Arthur's eyes moved rapidly.
Then—
He stopped.
"There."
Darius leaned closer. "What?"
Arthur pointed.
"Eastern trade tariffs dropped by three percent overnight."
Seraphina's eyes narrowed.
"That's… generous."
Arthur corrected calmly.
"That's strategic."
A reduction meant increased trade flow.
More merchants.
More mana circulation.
More cover.
"They're preparing the ground," Arthur said quietly.
"For what?" Darius asked.
Arthur didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he shifted the projection.
Noble correspondence.
Sealed letters.
Meeting requests.
Subtle changes in tone.
Requests for stability assurances.Concerns about rapid reform.Suggestions of temporary pauses.
Arthur exhaled slowly.
"They're testing how much pressure it takes to slow me."
Seraphina folded her arms.
"And?"
Arthur's golden eyes hardened slightly.
"They'll be disappointed."
—
Later that afternoon.
The imperial court convened — unofficially.
No announcements.
No banners.
Just a gathering of influence.
Arthur arrived last.
As always.
The nobles rose instantly.
Not out of ceremony.
Out of instinct.
He took his seat beside the Emperor.
Caelus Drakenhart surveyed the room calmly.
"You requested audience," the Emperor said.
A tall man stepped forward.
Duke Valmont.
Older than most nobles present. Hair streaked with grey. Expression composed, confident, controlled.
One of the oldest bloodlines in the empire.
"Your Majesty," Valmont said smoothly, "and Your Highness."
Arthur watched him closely.
No fear.
No defensiveness.
This man was used to standing before dragons.
"There has been… concern," Valmont continued.
"Regarding recent actions."
Arthur waited.
Valmont smiled faintly.
"Reforms are necessary. Of course. But sudden movements risk destabilizing long-standing structures."
Arthur tilted his head slightly.
"Which structures concern you?"
Valmont's eyes flicked briefly toward the surrounding nobles.
"Trust," he said. "Between Crown and aristocracy."
Arthur nodded slowly.
"And how is trust maintained?"
Valmont replied without hesitation.
"Through predictability."
Arthur smiled faintly.
That was the answer he expected.
"Predictability," Arthur repeated. "Or complacency?"
The air cooled.
Valmont did not flinch.
"Power thrives on balance," he said. "Too much pressure, and something breaks."
Arthur leaned back slightly.
"Something broken revealed Viscount Harlowe."
A murmur rippled.
Valmont inclined his head.
"An unfortunate exception."
Arthur's eyes gleamed.
"Exceptions define systems."
Silence followed.
Then Valmont spoke again, carefully.
"Some believe Your Highness is acting from… personal disorientation following your injury."
The words were polite.
The meaning was not.
Arthur felt it.
A test.
A probe.
He rose slowly.
Every movement deliberate.
The pressure in the chamber intensified — not from mana flare, but from presence.
"My injury," Arthur said calmly, "did not weaken my judgment."
He took one step forward.
"It sharpened it."
Valmont held his gaze.
"Then perhaps," the duke said evenly, "you should allow the empire time to adjust."
Arthur stopped directly in front of him.
"Time favors those who hide," Arthur replied quietly.
"And exposes those who move."
Valmont's eyes narrowed slightly.
Just a fraction.
Arthur saw it.
And smiled inwardly.
He turned away.
"Your concern is noted, Duke Valmont."
Dismissal.
Polite.
Absolute.
Valmont bowed.
But his smile was gone.
—
That evening.
Arthur stood alone again.
Not in the palace.
But atop the western watchtower overlooking the river.
Emily joined him quietly, handing him a cup of tea.
"You rattled them," she said lightly.
"Yes."
She leaned against the stone.
"Father says Valmont rarely exposes himself."
Arthur accepted the tea.
"Then my presence required it."
She studied him.
"You're forcing the old guard to react."
Arthur nodded.
"They are accustomed to still water."
He took a sip.
"I am disturbing the surface."
Emily smiled faintly.
"Careful. Even calm rivers have depth."
Arthur looked out at the city lights.
"I know."
That was why he hadn't struck.
Not yet.
—
Deep underground.
The crimson-cloaked figure observed a projection of Arthur's court appearance.
"He did not deny the crack," the figure murmured.
A subordinate spoke.
"And Duke Valmont engaged him directly."
The figure nodded slowly.
"Good."
Another voice asked quietly.
"Do we proceed?"
The crimson figure's fingers tapped the armrest.
"No."
Pause.
"Not yet."
Arthur was dangerous.
But not reckless.
Which meant—
He could be guided.
"Let him continue reforming," the figure said softly.
"Let him strain the system himself."
—
Back in the capital.
Arthur closed his eyes.
He could feel it now.
The empire wasn't resisting him.
It was bending.
Slowly.
Creaking under the weight of change.
And somewhere within that strain—
The true enemy waited.
Patient.
Confident.
Arthur opened his eyes.
Golden.
Focused.
Unrushed.
"You've chosen a long game," he murmured.
"So have I."