The room was modest in size, especially when compared to the opulent halls of the palace. Its walls bore no gilded carvings, no lavish tapestries—only the proud banner of the eagle, symbol of the realm's enduring might. Unlike chambers designed for indulgence, this space was meant for duty, not pleasure.
"If they desire pretty things, they may go to a whorehouse."
So spoke Emperor Lakianos I, the Austere, when he ordered its construction.
For over a century, the room had remained unchanged, its solemnity matched only by its stark simplicity. The only embellishments were the banners of the reigning house, the Kazontous, hung upon the walls eighty years prior and never taken down. The Kazontous had not won the throne through conquest or cunning, but through marriage—an irony not lost on those who now whispered of their warlike emperors. That the bloodline with the greatest tally of warrior-kings had gained power through peace was, in its own way, a jest of history.
Yet despite its austerity, the chamber held immense significance. Here, within these unadorned walls, the five most powerful men of the empire convened. Each a magnate, each a pillar of the realm, their bloodlines traced back through the annals of Romelian history. Their authority stretched across the empire's southern heartlands, their names woven into its very fabric.
They sat now in grave silence, their hands resting upon the sturdy oaken table before them.
By right, their seats were hereditary. Yet what seemed a privilege was, in truth, a gilded chain. It was the emperor's will that each seat be occupied by either the patriarch or his firstborn son—an unspoken method of keeping the great families' heirs under careful watch. A masterful maneuver: hostages in all but name. In theory, they were the empire's highest council. In practice, they were little more than advisors, stripped of true power.
And yet, placing the lords of the empire's mightiest southern houses within the same chamber as the royal family—perhaps that was not the wisest decision.
But such thoughts could wait. There was business to attend to.
As the council convened, a woman rose to address them.
Her hair, a cascade of striking red, shimmered under the dim torchlight, woven into an intricate bun adorned with jeweled pins. The wealth of the empire gleamed upon her, each gemstone a tribute to her station, each adornment a symbol of her power. There was no mistaking her. She was no mere noblewoman—she was the empress of Romelia.
"My lords, I believe it is time we speak of what has transpired in these past days."
The empress's gaze swept across the chamber, lingering on each of the men seated before her. If she were to succeed, she needed to present her case well.
"Our deepest condolences, Your Grace." Lord Vratinius of House Bax inclined his head solemnly. "The people weep at the emperor's passing. They light candles and pray in his name."
At thirty-three, Vratinius was the youngest of the council members, yet as the patriarch of one of the capital's most influential magnate families, he commanded respect. His appearance was unremarkable—a slight build, delicate hands, a long nose that lent his face a certain severity. His cheekbones protruded, giving him a gaunt, almost skeletal look, yet his presence in the political arena was formidable.
"Our prayers reside with the imperial family, Your Grace," Lord Croxiatus of House Vox intoned, his bald pate gleaming under the dim candlelight. His words were always measured, each syllable carefully chosen.
Despite the lack of hair atop his head, there was nothing weak about him. If anything, his baldness accentuated the sharp angles of his face, giving him an austere, almost regal air. His fair skin was smooth, nearly porcelain-like, a testament to a life of luxury. When he spoke, his thin lips barely parted, revealing a glimpse of unnervingly perfect teeth.
"May the gods bless his soul," murmured Lord Marcellus of House Thalassos, his dark, windswept hair neatly combed back. His weathered features, lined with years of experience, were as hard as steel—much like the gaze of his deep brown eyes.
"And that of the imperial family," added Lord Isidor of House Veritia, his fair complexion and angular features tinged with sorrow. His striking blue eyes, usually sharp and perceptive, remained fixed on the ground, refusing to meet the empress's gaze.
The empress concealed her satisfaction well, but inwardly, she was pleased. Seeing such powerful men bowing before her was a sight to behold. Yet now was not the time to revel in it.
"The empire may weep, for it has lost its father," she said, her voice steady. "But we, who are blessed by the gods, must think of the greater good. It is time to discuss what comes next."
Her gaze moved between the magnates, studying them—measuring who was an ally and who was an enemy.
"We must speak of the matter of inheritance."
Lord Vratinius was the first to respond. "Your Grace, I presume you wish to summon Prince Maesinius. He is the eldest and—"
"And also 150 leagues away, buried in northern snow," Lord Isidor interrupted smoothly. "A bit far, don't you think, my lords?"
A murmur rippled through the room.
"Aye," Croxiatus said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "The last thing we need is for the prince to bring the cold with him. It is rather warm here, and I fear he may not find the climate to his liking."
"Come spring, the snow melts," the empress said lightly. "That is true. Though it seems Maesinius prefers the crude company of the north rather than the refinement of the south."
"Well then, there is always the second prince, Your Grace," Croxiatus suggested, his double chin wobbling slightly as he spoke.
A scowl nearly crossed the empress's face. "We could offer the crown to Maesinius , yes. And instead of snow, we will be buried in whores. They will serve our wine, warm our beds, and soon, the palace will be overrun with bastards."
"Such depravity cannot be allowed, Your Grace," Isidor agreed, nodding like a dutiful hound.
"Nor the brutality or inelegance of the north," Marcellus added dryly.
The empress exhaled, her voice turning softer—more contemplative. "It is the duty of the old to guide the young. Perhaps we should not look so far for our answer."
She let the words linger, allowing the realization to settle among them.
Her son. The youngest of the three princes. The only one who shared her blood.