Sitting upon his throne, Pierce Gallagher stared into the void.
His posture was immaculate, regal. The heavy cloak of crimson that adorned his shoulders cascaded down, pooling around his feet like a river of blood. The silence of the hall felt suffocating, as though the very air was held captive by his presence.
In his good eye, a faint gleam flickered, slowly transforming into a burning intensity, like the flare of a distant wildfire igniting across the horizon.
"It is time," he said, his voice calm, steady, but carrying an undeniable weight.
"Yes, my lord," responded one of the knights who had been silently waiting in the hall. His voice was respectful, obedient, like all the others who served in the presence of the Emperor.
_________
Cleeeeng
The sharp sound of metal striking metal reverberated through the room as the great imperial doors creaked open.
Nothing extravagant. No unnecessary grandeur. No golden embellishments or intricate tapestries that might have clashed with the solemnity of the place.
Instead, the hall was simple, stark in its Romanesque style. Its walls stretched high into the air, their smooth surfaces reflecting the dim light, creating an almost ethereal glow that made it difficult to discern whether the ceiling truly existed or if the room simply faded into shadow.
The throne room was nestled at the very top of the Kaiserliche Burg, the Imperial Castle. Once known as Schloss Neuschwanstein, it had stood as the final bastion of resistance during the Great War against the kingdom of Ragharind. Its high stone walls had defied countless sieges, its towers standing tall like sentinels against the tide of enemies that had tried to breach its gates.
Now, centuries later, it was the heart of the Capital, the very symbol of Imperial power.
"Please, enter," one of the guards commanded, stepping aside to allow the three individuals to pass.
And so, the three stepped forward into the hallowed hall.
"Welcome," came the Emperor's voice, firm, unwavering, yet carrying a hint of something deeper. A command, an expectation.
"Frederic Wettkampf, Katrina Gallagher, Morlowe Deligt... You three have distinguished yourselves in the Tournament. Third place, second place, and first place, respectively..."
His words echoed through the hall, each syllable laden with significance.
Pierce Gallagher, seated upon his throne, appeared unmoved. His legs were crossed with an air of nonchalance, but the stillness of his posture exuded an unmistakable confidence—an emperor who knew his power, who had long ceased to be affected by the trivialities of lesser men.
No trace of nervousness, no flicker of emotion.
"As you all know, each of you will receive a reward. A recognition of your talents, your hard work..."
The Emperor's voice softened as he continued, but only slightly, enough for the weight of his words to settle in.
"Let us begin."
And with that, Pierce Gallagher rose from his throne, his heavy cloak flowing behind him like a river of regal authority.
Tack
Tack
Tack
Each step he took sounded like the toll of a distant bell. The echoes of his boots striking the cold stone floor reverberated throughout the room, amplifying the tension that thickened the air with each passing second.
If Morlowe had wanted to describe him—though he had yet to find words that could capture the true scope of the man's presence—he would have started by saying that Pierce Gallagher was, undeniably, handsome.
Strong, defined features, but not harsh. A straight nose, eyes sharp and calculating—except for the one eye covered by a black patch. Long, straight black hair, thick and glossy, cascaded down to his broad shoulders, a stark contrast to the cool, measured demeanor that he presented to the world.
Despite his age, few signs of it were visible.
Only a few streaks of silver threaded through his dark hair, and tiny, almost imperceptible wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
And yet, something about him seemed... off.
I thought he'd be taller.
Morlowe's eyes followed the Emperor's movements, his thoughts momentarily distracted by the discrepancy in his expectations.
A hundred seventy-five centimeters, maybe a little more.
Among the men in the room, Pierce was undoubtedly the shortest, though his presence towered over all others.
"It's time to confer your gifts, don't you think?"
Pierce announced, his voice cutting through Morlowe's reverie.
And in that moment, the aura around the Emperor changed. What had been a man—albeit a powerful one—now felt like a living force of nature. A monarch so absolute that the room itself seemed to bend in submission to his will.
Morlowe could feel it, the sudden change in the air. Something intangible, yet undeniably powerful, seeped into his bones, urging him to lower his gaze, to kneel. Without thinking, he found himself on one knee, his eyes automatically shifting to the cold, polished floor.
His heart hammered in his chest as he watched the Emperor move closer to Frederic.
Frederic Wettkampf, the young man from the third place position, now kneeling as well, clenched his fist over his heart in a practiced salute. His gaze was steady, resolute.
The Emperor stood before him, drawing his sword with fluid grace, the blade shimmering in the dim light of the hall. It was a fine weapon, its double-edged steel gleaming as he raised it to rest on Frederic's shoulders—first one, then the other.
"Frederic Wettkampf," the Emperor's voice rang out, "for the skills you demonstrated in the Tournament, I, Pierce Gallagher, appoint you Corporal of the Army Corps."
The words hung in the air like the ringing of a bell. Frederic's face betrayed nothing, but Morlowe could feel the weight of the title upon him. It was an honor, a recognition. And yet, there was something more.
The Emperor's gaze now shifted to Katrina. The briefest flicker of something colder passed through his eye. A quiet, almost imperceptible shift, but Morlowe caught it.
Once again, Pierce drew his blade, placing it on Katrina's shoulders, his voice unwavering.
"Katrina Gallagher, for the skills you demonstrated in the Tournament, I, Pierce Gallagher, appoint you Corporal of the Army Corps."
And finally, the moment Morlowe had been waiting for arrived.
His heart beat louder in his chest, a strange mix of pride and nervousness rushing through him.
"Morlowe Deligt," Pierce announced. "For the skills you demonstrated in the Tournament, I, Pierce Gallagher, appoint you Sergeant Major of the Army Corps."
The same words, but the distinction was clear.
"Well..." The Emperor's voice was now softer, almost contemplative. "And now, tell me, soldier, what is your wish?"
That gleam in his eye flared back to life, blazing with an intensity that matched Morlowe's own desire. The boy did not hesitate, not for a second.
"My wish?" Morlowe began, his voice steady, though his heart was pounding.
In his eyes, the same flame that burned in Pierce Gallagher's reflected back with equal force.
"I wish to enter the Armory and choose a sword."
The room fell utterly silent. The very air seemed to still, holding its breath.
The guards, whose eyes had been watchful until that point, gasped audibly.
"What...?"
"How dare he—!"
"This is outrageous!"
The mutterings began, low and fierce, but Pierce's eye flashed with something else—something deeper, more dangerous.
The Imperial Armory. The sacred vault where the relics of the Empire's past were kept. A place of legends, of honor, a place that only the Emperor himself could access. No one, no one, had ever been granted such a privilege.
Not even the most esteemed generals or knights had been allowed entry.
Pierce's gaze turned sharp, a malevolent glow now flickering in the depth of his eye.
From his body, a dark aura began to leak—subtle at first, but growing, wrapping itself around him like an inescapable mist.
For a moment, Morlowe thought the entire room would collapse under the weight of that presence.
And then, just as swiftly, the Emperor laughed.
"AHAHAHAHA! I like you, boy! I love people with big ambitions! The Empire could use more like you! Even my daughter could learn something from you! AHAHAHAH!"
The sound of his laughter was loud and vibrant, a stark contrast to the gravity of the moment. It was a scene none had ever witnessed before—the Emperor laughing so wholeheartedly, so genuinely.
But even as he laughed, the Emperor's gaze softened, and a hint of something deeper lingered in his voice as he spoke again.
"However, what you're asking for is a great honor. Far too much for what you've accomplished so far."
Morlowe felt a twinge of disappointment, but he pushed it aside. He had asked. And that was the first step.
"Okay... if I have to choose something else... for now, give me him."
Without hesitation, Morlowe pointed toward Frederic.
The room gasped in unison. Shock, disbelief, and even a hint of fear passed over the faces of those present.
The Emperor's laughter echoed once again.
"AHAHAH! Very well, Morlowe Deligt! I accept your request. So it's decided."
And with those words, Pierce Gallagher returned to his throne.
In his mind, the boy's request resounded, sweet like a melody.
For now... Ahahaha!
Despite the stoic face he presented to the world, inside, Pierce Gallagher longed to laugh, to savor the sweetness of the moment.