The ruler of the empire had once stood tall, but now he lay still upon his deathbed, his complexion pale, his skin cold. Once, he had led armies, issued edicts, and steered a crumbling empire back from the brink. Three years of brutal civil war had nearly torn Romelia apart, yet his reign had ushered in three decades of hard-won prosperity. None could claim such an achievement—none but him, Gratios the Restorer.
When he first ascended the throne, the empire teetered on ruin. The treasury was barren, and two rival armies led by his brothers encroached upon the capital, each vying for dominion. Though he was the weakest of the three factions, he prevailed—not purely through skill but by virtue of fortune and shrewd calculation. He had been in the capital, while his two brothers, the strongest claimants, were locked in a bitter stalemate. Neither dared march upon the city while the other still lived.
And so, as they clashed on the fields outside Romelia, Cracchus, his elder brother, emerged victorious over Eauron. But the triumph was fleeting.
Eauron's nobles, seeing their liege slain, turned swiftly to Gratios. They pledged their loyalty, lured by the promise of lands stripped from Cracchus's supporters. When Gratios laid siege to the capital, Cracchus found himself encircled—not just by his rival's army, but by mercenaries bankrolled by the noble families that had once served Eauron. Realizing his precarious position, he ordered a retreat, but his own allies saw this as cowardice.
They had bled for him. Many had emptied their treasuries to fund his war. And now, he fled, leaving their fiefs vulnerable to Gratios's retribution. It was not what they had signed up for.
Within weeks, a quarter of his own nobles betrayed him. They delivered his severed head to Gratios, hoping to secure their own futures.
Gratios welcomed their surrender. He accepted their gold and their offerings—only to execute them one by one. Their treasuries were confiscated. Their heads were sent to their heirs, grim reminders of the consequences of disloyalty. Most of these heirs were second-born sons, for the firstborns had ridden to war alongside their fathers. To keep these newly minted nobles in check, Gratios took their elder brothers hostage. The implicit threat was clear: step out of line, and your brother takes your place. Fear, debt, and ambition kept them obedient.
Now, that same man—the one who had survived war and betrayal, the one who had ruled with both cunning and force—lay lifeless before him.
Tibianus stood at a distance, watching in silence.
Gratios had been strong, wise, ruthless when needed, honorable when it served him. He had been a pillar of stability, a figure of undeniable greatness. And now, he was gone.
Should I be crying?
The thought drifted through his mind like a stray feather on the wind.
Gratios was his father. Yet they had scarcely spoken. There had been no tenderness, no guiding hand. Tibianus had never understood why he, a bastard, was even permitted within the palace walls. It had never been out of love. That much was certain.
But neither did he hate the man.
If anything, he had always viewed him through a distant, reverent lens—the image of a mighty ruler, a just emperor. A figure to be admired, not a father to be loved. And now, faced with his death, Tibianus felt... nothing.
No grief. No anger. No relief.
He simply stared.
A few paces ahead, his younger brother, Mesha, knelt at their father's bedside, his small frame trembling with grief. Tears streamed down his cheeks in silent, endless rivers. His sobs were muffled in the heavy hush of the chamber.
The nobles had left them to mourn in solitude.
But Tibianus could not mourn what he had never truly known.
But amid the sorrow, Tibianus couldn't help but notice the empress standing a short distance away. Her countenance remained composed, a sadness etched upon her features, yet there was no outward display of emotion.
That's strange. Wasn't the scream hers?Did she stop now that the nobles are no longer there?
He couldn't help but wonder about her true feelings. As a woman who had stood by the emperor's side for ten years, her reaction seemed somewhat muted compared to the overwhelming grief of his younger half-brother.
But then he checked himself. Who was he to judge? A bastard, not truly part of the royal family, he stood on the fringes, observing from a distance, his own emotions held tightly in check.
The emperor was laying still on the ornate bed, his once-vibrant brown hair now streaked with silver, cascading over his shoulders and mingling with his long beard that covered his chin. He seemed so old and tired. His skin, once bronzed from years of command and rule, now appeared white as snow, he once projected sternity, yet he now he only showed peace.
His eyes, closed in eternal rest, were now hidden behind shuttered lids. His mouth, typically firm and commanding, was now quiet and still, giving no hint of the words that once shaped empires and inspired loyalty.
He was the emperor , he was dead and now a new one was to arise
The empress, her voice tinged with a mix of sorrow and authority, addressed Petrinus, the head of the guards who had served the emperor faithfully for five years.
''Where are those who brought the body?''
Petrinus, a man of stoic demeanor and noble lineage from the prestigious family of Achaeia, stood before her, his gaze steady and respectful.
"They are under surveillance," Petrinus replied, his voice carrying a coolness that matched his rigid posture as he bowed before her.
The empress, her brow furrowed in thought, pressed further. "Are they Arlanians?"
Petrinus nodded in confirmation
"Cut off their heads and put them on pikes," she ordered, her words cutting through the air with a sense of finality.
''Bastards should not be allowed here.'' The cool voice of the empress spoke when she realized he was there . Her eyes not deigning to look at his , giving him the same repulsion one had when finding a bug on the ground.
'Seems like she recovered quickly', Tibianus mused as he bowed before nudging the sleeve of Clara to bring him inside his room. He preferred to be alone right now as he felt uncomfortable with the eyes of his stepbrother and of the empress looking down at him.He wanted to go to his room and gaze at the sky, it was such a nice day and yet it was supposed to be so gloomy.
'Fuck them, fuck the emperor that never bored himself to meet his spawn, fuck his wife and sons and fuck the church .
I did not choose to be born, it was the protector chosen by the gods who spilled his seed on my mother's womb, so why am I to get the shit?' He knew the answer, though, he was a bastard, and his father was the emperor.
And emperor were supposed to have concubines, his mother was probably one. Still just because they were supposed to, it did not mean that he was to be treated well.
He was the emperor true, and now that he was dead , a new one was to rise.
And the head of that such small bastard would probably end on a pike or bowed on a monastery. Bastards were cursed by birth that was known plainly . A bastard brought ill-luck that was known too.Bastards were shady and disloyal, that too was acknowledged.
And yet a bastard liked to gaze at the sky and that was not known.