The throne room of the Imperial Palace was a masterpiece of grandeur—golden arches reaching for the heavens, stained glass windows bathing the floor in divine hues. Statues of old emperors lined the marble path like sentinels of a dying ideal.
But beneath that beauty, rot festered.
Behind the gilded smiles and ceremonial armor, the Empire's heart was bleeding. Whispers of rebellion, merchant unrest, and foreign tensions gnawed at its core.
At the center of it all sat Emperor Castiel, cloaked in white and silver, his hand resting on a sword he had not drawn in years. His eyes—sharp, hawk-like—scanned the line of nobles kneeling before him.
But he wasn't listening.
His attention was on the one man who stood unbowed.
Kael.
Dressed in black, not out of disrespect—but to remind the court that power did not kneel.
Not anymore.
"You stand while others kneel," Castiel said, voice smooth, amused. "You've grown bolder."
Kael smiled faintly. "I merely stand where I'm most effective, Your Majesty."
Some nobles chuckled nervously.
Castiel's fingers tapped his armrest. "You've made quite the reputation—whispers in the court, shifting loyalties among merchants, even priests seeking your counsel instead of mine."
"I offer them certainty," Kael replied.
The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "And what do you offer me?"
Kael stepped forward slowly, deliberately.
"A future. One where your throne is not upheld by tradition, but by necessity. Where your enemies don't even realize they've lost until they're already serving you."
The court went still.
The words were not disrespectful.
They were terrifyingly logical.
"Then speak," Castiel said after a long pause. "Let's hear your proposal."
Kael's voice was low, steady—cutting through the room like a scalpel.
"The rebellion in the west isn't the threat. It's a distraction. The real danger lies here, within your own court. The Church is not your ally. It watches. Waits. It seeks to crown a king of its own—cloaked in virtue, masked as divine will."
"The Hero?" Castiel asked.
Kael gave a thin smile. "A sword blessed by gods is still just a sword. And swords can be turned."
The Emperor studied him. "You would turn the Hero?"
Kael didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The suggestion alone was heresy—and brilliance.
Later that night, within the quiet chamber of Lady Evelyne, Kael moved with purpose.
She leaned against a balcony railing, her silk robes fluttering in the wind. "You're tempting the Empire's wrath," she said without turning. "You speak of turning champions and manipulating gods."
"Wrath is predictable," Kael replied. "And predictable is exploitable."
Evelyne turned to face him, dark eyes searching his. "And the Empress?"
Kael's lips curved. "She already sees the Emperor as a fading star. She's just waiting for a stronger light."
He approached her, slowly, deliberately.
"And when that light arrives," he whispered, "she'll burn the past herself."
Their eyes locked.
No seduction. No warmth.
Just understanding.
And danger.
Far from the palace, in the forgotten district where no guards patrolled and no nobles tread, a beggar stumbled into a candlelit crypt.
Inside, three cloaked figures awaited—symbols of the Church engraved onto their rings.
"He moves faster than we anticipated," one said.
"We must respond," hissed another. "Summon the Hero. Publicly. We must remind the people where divine authority lies."
"And if he fails?" asked the third, more softly.
A silence fell.
Because they all knew:
If the Hero fell—whether by sword or scandal—the Church would fall with him.
And somewhere far above them, seated in shadows and silence, Kael smiled.
The game had begun.
And every piece was moving exactly as planned.
To be continued…