A heavy silence hung in the air, punctuated only by the soft rustle of silk and the occasional clearing of throats. The Empress sat at the head of the table, her gaze sweeping over the gathered magnates. She understood her position was precarious—her authority stemmed not from bloodline or conquest, but from her proximity to the late Emperor.
Yet, power was a game of perception, and she had long mastered the art of playing it.
Give a horse a carrot, and it will plow your field.
Marcellus was the first to break the silence, his sleek black hair brushing against the collar of his robe as he straightened. His voice was firm, slicing through the tension like a blade.
"Your Grace," he began, his tone leaving no room for pretense, "we desire neither snow nor whores in our court. We seek strength, and stability''
Lisidor, ever the cynic, let his lips curl into a sardonic smile. "Maesinius may be as harsh as the northern winds, but he is brave, and many of the warlike nobles will rally behind him. Revenge for the late Emperor still burns in their hearts." His gaze flickered to the Empress. "Mavius, on the other hand, bends like a reed in the wind. He follows power, but who is to say what he will do once he holds it himself? I have no desire to see the days of Vitellio the Despicable return."
Croxiatus, his double chin wobbling slightly, gave a slow nod of agreement. "Indeed. There is only so many bastards a king should make."
The Empress grunted at the remark, but the fat lord pressed on.
"The best course is clear—we must look to the young prince. He is like fresh clay, waiting to be shaped into the image of a true Emperor."
Valeria listened carefully, masking her satisfaction. Though their words had irked her, they had all landed exactly where she wanted them to. Their support was paramount if she was to secure her hold on power.
She allowed a measured pause before speaking. "I am grateful we are all in agreement," she said, her voice calm, controlled. "Together, we shall shape Mesha into the leader our Empire needs."
Lisidor inclined his head, approval measured but clear. "A wise choice, Your Grace. The best ruler is always the one molded by skilled hands."
By mine, Valeria thought.
But Vritinius, ever the pragmatist, remained unpersuaded. His sharp gaze met hers. "Your Grace, we must consider the reactions of the other nobles—particularly those in the North and East. Livius is the youngest. The warlords will prefer his elder brothers, and between them, they will rally behind the eldest." His voice was firm, unreadable. "As for Mavius, well... whatever he does, it will be to serve himself. But the South—" he hesitated, "some of our own brothers in the heart of the Empire may turn to the elder princes instead."
A heavy silence followed Vritinius' words, his concerns settling over the room like an unwelcome specter. The Empress met his gaze, nodding thoughtfully. "You raise a valid point, Lord Vritinius," she acknowledged, her tone measured. "The reactions of our fellow nobles are indeed a concern—especially those in the North and East, where blood ties to the elder brothers run stronger."
Her gaze swept across the gathered magnates, reading their expressions as she continued. "Mesha's youth may be seen as a weakness. Maesinius commands the favor of the warlords of the north , and Mavius..." she let her voice dip, "Mavius will always serve himself. Meanwhile, the South may harbor its own reservations."
Vritinius inclined his head. "Indeed, Your Grace. The South is bound by old loyalties and older rivalries. Some will look to the eldest prince as the rightful heir; others may be tempted by Mavius' ambitions."
Lisidor, ever the cynic, leaned forward, his golden hair falling into his face. "I assume, Lord Vritinius, that you have a solution?"
Vritinius took a deep breath, his expression firm. "Yes. We must make Mesha the viable choice. And for that, Your Grace, I believe it is time to reinstate the Council of the Two Hundred."
A ripple of murmurs swept through the chamber. The Empress remained silent, though the weight of his words pressed against her like an iron gauntlet. The very mention of the Council stirred memories of an empire governed not by a single will, but by a legion of scheming senators and advisors—a time when bureaucracy spat in the face of emperors and made them thank them for it.
She did not react. She knew the game. If one wishes to pluck the apple, one must first plant the tree. Nothing came without cost. If she wanted her son on the throne, she would have to give something in return—no matter how much she despised it.
She took a measured breath. "The Council has been dead for one hundred and forty years, since Vrivius the Red crushed the Latvian rebellion. It was then that the senators, in their ambition, conspired with foreign envoys. When their treachery was revealed, Vrivius butchered them all and assumed absolute rule. And now you would have me resurrect that relic?"
Croxiatus, wiping sweat from his bald brow, reached for a slice of apple. "New men make new choices, Your Grace," he said, chewing deliberately. "Our ancestors were blinded by ambition. We wish only to aid the Emperor in his rule—to collaborate with the Empress Regent in leading the Empire through these troubled times."