The eagle-headed goblet trembled in Phiniaster’s hands, the wine within rippling against its polished rim. His reflection stared back at him from the warped metal, distorted, stretched—a boy wearing a crown too large for his head.

  He set it down too hard. The clatter echoed through the marble chamber.

  Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows of the Imperial Palace, casting the sigils of Livadia—eagles soaring against a blue field—across the floor. But the warmth did little to chase away the cold knot tightening in his gut.

  They’d knocked him into the mud. The emperor of Livadia, sprawled in filth, his eagle sigil sinking beneath stolen grain. The murmurs still carried through the streets. They knocked the emperor into the dirt.

  Phiniaster turned away from the windows, his steps quickening as he paced the length of the hall, robes swishing behind him. His hands twisted at the sleeves of his garment, his mind turning over the same question again and again.

  Have I failed my people?

  The doors opened with a soft creak, and Kuda Dawnriser stepped inside. The psyad commander bowed shallowly, his golden armor catching the morning light, though his expression remained carved from stone.

  “Majesty,” Kuda said, straightening. “I’ve just received word from the city.”

  Phiniaster stopped pacing, trying to still the flutter in his chest. “News of the… incident?”

  Kuda nodded, stepping closer, voice low and even. “The rabble struck at the heart of the empire, Majesty. They dared lay hands on you. This was no petty theft. It was an assassination attempt.”

  Phiniaster winced, gripping the back of a gilded chair. “I… I don’t think they meant to harm me.”

  Kuda’s gaze sharpened, and he took another step forward, lowering his voice as if confiding a painful truth. “Majesty, they had every chance to flee unnoticed. Instead, they charged directly into your procession. They carried sacks, yes—but what might they have concealed beneath the grain? A blade? A bomb? They knocked you to the ground before the eyes of your people. Imagine if they'd been more competent. Do you believe they'd stop at your pride?”

  Phiniaster’s knuckles whitened against the gilded chair. His heart pounded louder.

  Kuda’s voice softened, coaxing. “They came for your life, Majesty. I am sure of it.”

  Phiniaster lowered himself into the chair, the eagle-headed armrests cool beneath his fingers. His reflection shimmered faintly in the polished brass, warped again.

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  “We must rebuild trust,” Phiniaster murmured. “Make the people whole again.”

  Kuda’s lips twitched, though whether it was amusement or scorn, Phiniaster couldn’t tell. “Majesty, the treasury agents you sent to distribute gold to the hamlets and villages… They’ve done their work.”

  Phiniaster brightened faintly. “Good. That will ease the burdens.”

  Kuda stepped closer, voice sharp enough to cut. “It has eased nothing. Prices are climbing faster than the coin reaches their hands. Inflation spreads like wildfire.”

  Phiniaster straightened, his tone defensive. “If bread costs more, we give them more gold.”

  Kuda blinked once. “And what happens when the gold becomes worthless? When a man needs a sack of it for a loaf?”

  The emperor’s brow furrowed. “That’s not how it works. My tutors prattled on about scarcity and supply, about restraint. But I’ve seen the faces of starving people. They don’t care about theory. You give them gold, they spend it, they live. It’s simple.”

  Kuda folded his arms, the steel of his gaze pressing in. “Majesty, your tutors spoke truth. Scarcity matters. Flooding the streets with gold does not grow more grain.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You are not the first ruler to believe compassion outweighs caution. But you must reconsider their teachings.”

  Phiniaster bristled, waving a hand. “No. Theory is theory. The real world bends differently. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  Kuda’s lips pressed thin. “And I see the markets, Majesty. I see the hunger.”

  Phiniaster waved a hand, the color rising in his cheeks. “Enough. I won’t be lectured on things I already know.”

  Kuda inclined his head slightly, backing off—but only just. “As you wish. But there are other matters.”

  He produced a folded map, laying it across the emperor’s lap. Red circles marked several districts of Matiran. “The dryad quarters boil with unrest. The hawkers and factory hands chant in the streets. They light their fires and sharpen their sticks.”

  Phiniaster’s heart thudded. “A riot?”

  Kuda’s lips pressed into a line. “A storm gathering. If we do not strike first, it will break upon us.”

  Phiniaster’s hands curled over the map, tracing the angry red lines. “Can we not reason with them? Offer grain, lower prices?”

  Kuda stepped closer, towering above the emperor’s chair. “Majesty, they smell blood. They knocked you down, and thank all the gods we stopped them before they could go further, but now they test how else they can erode your power. Fear must be restored.”

  Phiniaster looked away, eyes drifting to the balcony. Beyond the glass, he saw the faint glimmer of torchlights in the lower quarters, the city restless beneath the dawn.

  “I won’t slaughter my people,” he whispered.

  Kuda leaned in, voice soft. “Fear breeds stability. You are not slaughtering them. You are reminding them of the eagle’s talons.”

  The emperor’s fingers traced the eagle-headed armrest, the cool metal biting beneath his skin. His mind turned again to the mud, to the echoing laughter of the crowd.

  He closed his eyes, the words bitter on his tongue. “Deploy the Golden Guard. Let the Black Cloaks do what they must.”

  Kuda bowed, his satisfaction hidden behind polished restraint.

  Phiniaster remained seated long after Dawnriser left, staring down at the eagle in his grip, feeling the metal’s cold weight.

  Below, beyond the balcony, a banner burned. One of the eagle’s wings blackened, curling in the wind.

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