"Varric will serve as Chancellor, overseeing governance across Thrace. His task is to ensure that this machine—the one we've built—turns without pause or failure."
Next, Hadrian nodded toward a woman with cropped hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. "Alara, our Treasurer. She will manage Thrace's wealth, its trade, and its industries. She will ensure that every coin works for us, not against us."
The appointments continued—Marshal Dren, grizzled and unyielding, to oversee the military; Justiciar Rilen, meticulous and sharp-eyed, to enforce Thrace's new laws. Finally, Hadrian gestured toward a figure at the end of the line.
"Joren," Hadrian said, and his tone shifted slightly, losing some of its formality.
Joren stepped forward—a stout, elderly man with broad shoulders and hands calloused from years of work. His uniform, though similar to the others, seemed slightly out of place on him, as though he belonged more among the fields than in the grand hall. Joren had once been a farmer whose land had been saved by Hadrian's crop rotation reforms. Now, he was being handed one of the most important roles in the duchy.
"Joren will serve as the council's communicator with me," Hadrian announced. "The council's task is to handle its affairs efficiently, to solve its own problems, and to carry out its duties without my constant oversight. Joren will ensure that when communication is needed, it is clear, concise, and worth my time."
A faint ripple of amusement crossed Joren's face as he gave Hadrian a lopsided grin. "In other words, I'm the one who gets to knock on your door when things go sideways."
Hadrian's lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "Exactly. Which means I expect your knocks to be rare, Joren."
"Rare's fine," Joren replied, his tone light. "But if they're knocking every day, don't blame me. You gave me this job."
The faintest chuckle rippled through the hall, cutting through the tension like a blade. Joren bowed slightly and stepped back into line, but the warmth he brought to the room lingered.
Hadrian turned back to the room, his expression cold once more. "This council exists to serve Thrace. To serve humanity. It will operate under my authority and answer only to me. Thrace will no longer falter under weak leadership or divided loyalties. This is the foundation of our future—a future where humanity stands unbroken, united under one banner."
He returned to his throne, sitting with a quiet finality that signaled the ceremony's end. His eyes swept the room one last time, then drifted toward the shadows. Let them handle the details, he thought. I have more important work to do.
The grand hall was empty now, its echoes replaced by an almost suffocating stillness. The flickering light from the chandeliers seemed duller without the presence of soldiers and councilors to catch its shine. Hadrian remained seated on his throne for a moment longer, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the far wall.
He let out a slow breath, leaning forward slightly and resting his elbows on his knees. His hands clasped loosely together, but the tension in his body betrayed the weight of his thoughts.
It's done, he thought. The council is in place. The vassals are gone. Their lands are mine. Thrace is mine.
For months, he had worked toward this moment. The elimination of the old feudal order, the creation of a centralized bureaucracy, the rebuilding of Thrace's infrastructure—all of it was necessary. Without it, the duchy would remain a fractured, vulnerable shell of itself, just as it had been under his father's rule.
The faint creak of the door behind him pulled him from his thoughts. Hadrian didn't turn, but he heard the familiar shuffle of boots and the gruff voice that followed.
"You're brooding again, lad."
Hadrian opened his eyes, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself. "Joren. I thought I told you to knock rarely."
The old man chuckled, his footsteps slow but steady as he approached. "Rarely doesn't mean never. Besides, figured you could use some company. Standing in the dark like that, staring out at the city—it's a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
Hadrian finally turned, his expression softening slightly. "If it's dramatic, it's because there's a lot to think about."
Joren crossed his arms, his uniform looking slightly rumpled compared to the pristine attire of the other councilors. "Oh, I don't doubt that. You're running the whole damn show, after all. But you've got a council now, don't you? Let us do the thinking on the small stuff. You've got bigger boots to fill."
Hadrian raised an eyebrow. "I'd rather not have boots that big, thank you."
Joren snorted. "Too late for that. You're the Supreme Chancellor now. Big boots come with the territory."
The room fell quiet for a moment, the two of them standing by the window. Finally, Joren broke the silence. "You're doing good, lad. You might not feel it, but you are. The people believe in you. And that's more than most rulers ever get."
Hadrian didn't respond immediately. He looked back out at the city, the faintest flicker of resolve returning to his expression. "Belief is a dangerous thing, Joren. But if it keeps them moving forward, I'll take it."