The council chamber felt colder than usual. Maps of the empire sprawled across the long oak table, districts marked in red where famine and sickness had sunk their teeth deepest. The eagle banners overhead cast long shadows that seemed to stretch, heavy and watchful, across the room.

  Phiniaster sat stiff in his chair, staring at the ink bleeding across the parchment, feeling the weight of his crown press harder on his brow.

  A councilor’s voice broke through the silence.

  The councilor bowed his head, his voice brittle. "Forgive me, Majesty. I bring only ill news, but the disease spreads faster now. The city outskirts first. Fevers, wasting sickness, the young collapsing in the streets."

  Phiniaster’s throat tightened. “How did it happen so quickly?”

  “The people starve, Majesty. The grain is gone. Even those with coin cannot buy what does not exist.”

  Another councilor cleared his throat, voice grim. “The maenads remain untouched. Their enclaves are free of disease.”

  Phiniaster straightened. “They have more grain?”

  “They grow only what they need. And they tend only to the psyad drug producers. Their alchemy feeds the nobles’ needs, but not the empire’s.”

  The room settled into an uneasy quiet until Kuda Dawnriser stepped forward, his tall, lean frame cutting through the tension like a blade. His golden armor fit him like a second skin, the sharp lines of his shoulders casting long shadows across the map. His every movement held the precise control of a man trained to command death.

  The councilors shrank back as he rose, their shoulders curling inward, gazes dropping to the floor. None dared meet the eyes of the commander of the Golden Guard as he folded his hands behind his back, eyes cold as the empire’s winter.

  “There is a solution,” Kuda said.

  Phiniaster’s gaze flicked toward him. “What is it?”

  Kuda’s tone remained steady, detached. "You know as well as I do—the maenads never sicken. Their bodies resist every plague, every rot that touches the rest of the empire. They hoard that gift, letting others die while they thrive."

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  He stepped closer, eyes fixed on Phiniaster. "We take their children."

  The words hit the chamber like a stone in still water.

  Phiniaster recoiled. “That’s barbaric. We are the empire! We’re supposed to be better than that.”

  Kuda’s voice didn’t waver. “Better? Better dead? Your people dying in the streets is better?”

  Phiniaster shook his head, desperation creeping into his tone. “The gods gave them their gifts. Taking their children is blasphemy!”

  Kuda took a step closer, looming. “And the gods gave us the will to rule. If they oppose us, let them descend from the heavens to stop us.”

  Phiniaster’s hands trembled against the eagle-headed armrests. “We can ask them again. Offer more gold. They’ll listen.”

  Kuda’s lips twitched into something close to amusement. “We’ve offered gold. They care nothing for it. They want nothing from us but distance.”

  Phiniaster’s voice faltered. “We’re not monsters. We don’t steal children.”

  Kuda leaned in, his shadow stretching across the map. “The Solokhians lived because they did what needed doing. And they stand. Your empire rots while you cling to illusions.”

  Phiniaster’s breath came faster. “If we hurt them, they’ll hate us forever. They’ll rebel.”

  “They already hate you,” Kuda said, voice soft, sharp as a blade. “They fear us now. But hate without fear breeds rebellion. This will remind them who holds the knife to their throat.”

  Phiniaster’s last protest cracked in his throat. “They’re just children. They haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Kuda’s eyes burned cold. “And neither have the children dying in the streets. Choose who you will save.”

  The chamber fell into silence.

  Phiniaster’s gaze dropped to the map, the red ink bleeding across the parchment, spreading like blood. His father’s lessons rang in his ears—sacrifice is the root of rule.

  Kuda pressed the final weight onto him. “Your father would not have hesitated. He understood what it meant to carry the eagle.”

  Phiniaster’s fingers curled into fists against the armrests as Kuda slid a sheet of parchment across the table—a decree, pre-written, waiting only for the emperor’s signature. The ink gleamed dark as blood beneath the flickering candlelight.

  Phiniaster stared at it, bile rising in his throat. His breath shook as he uncapped the pen, his hand hovering over the words. Every line of the decree burned into his eyes: the cold, clinical language that would condemn innocent children to imperial custody.

  His father’s voice rang again—sacrifice is the root of rule. His grip tightened on the pen, knuckles whitening, sweat beading along his brow.

  With a hollow sigh, he signed.

  The ink dried black on the parchment as Kuda turned away, the decision carved into stone.

  Phiniaster remained seated long after the chamber emptied. He rose and crossed to the gilded basin, washing his hands as the ink bled red down the drain. His reflection in the water warped, twisting the boy emperor into something unrecognizable.

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