“Lord Alric Vaelgard, Lord of War, Commander of the Sixth and Third Legions!” the guard cried as he opened the door to the chamber beyond.

  Alric stepped through the threshold. Aureate stained-glass windows arrayed in rows lined the arched ceiling in perfect symmetry, light cutting through the room in expertly woven shafts. Twelve stone pillars presented themselves before him with golden filigree adorning their length, six on each side.

  Seven ivory-overlaid marble steps descended beneath his feet as he crossed to the centre, the floor giving way to a tapestry of smoothed-to-shine rock. Its veins ran in purple and blue, scarlet and gold, azure and green; all of them reflecting the fractured light in dotted constellations of intertwining colour.

  At the far end lay the throne. It had been there since the inception of the Empire. Some said even before it.

  Elevated on twelve steps overlaid in grey sapphire and gold, it rose from the ground like it had been grown or hewn from the palace itself rather than placed by human hands.

  Though it had been silver once, it had turned to black after the sixth Emperor disappeared. None knew how it was made, only that it existed immovable, unyielding, and so the palace had been built around it.

  Its back was jagged and vast, as though a cliffside were overlooking the entire room with complete assurance of its own immutability and perpetuity.

  The only colour upon it were the twelve spear-like points at its crown, shooting outward in sunburst formation, each one dyed in burnished brass.

  And seated upon it was the Emperor, donning his armour of a thousand battles. The same one he had worn beside Riktas during their very first campaign in the north.

  It was not the armour of ceremony. Interlocking silver steel plates encased him in silence, each one bearing the weight of battles fought before Alric even knew to recognise his own name. Dents filled and reforged so many times that the metal had developed a texture of its own, a fingerprint of endurance and power.

  A silk mantle, the colour of twilight fell at his back, its edges lined in winter wolf’s pelt, clasped at the throat with onyx stones and golden thread.

  The twelve-stone diadem rested on his brow like the only concession he would ever make to the throne beneath him.

  Below him, between each pillar, stood a Seneschal flanked by their respective assigned Lord Commander. Only Vaudrel stood alone at the centre of the hall.

  When Alric reached him, he caught Kriklak standing to his right with the corner of his eye beside Caellis. He was relaxed, almost amused, where everyone else stood rigid in performative solemnity.

  Kriklak saw him noticing, and smirked just enough to be seen by Alric alone.

  Alric fixed his gaze on the throne. Yesterday, that man had stood beside him on a quiet balcony, speaking of Riktas with grief that no Emperor should have been capable of feeling. He had said please. He had said thank you.

  Today he was the Sun of the Empire, and Alric was simply the next thing to be decided.

  The Emperor raised his hand and the chamber stilled.

  "Lord Alric Vaelgard," he began. "Lord Commander of the Sixth and Third Legions. Stormbreaker. Conqueror of the South.”

  Alric remained still, kneeled, eyes fixed on the constellations before him.

  "You have served this realm with distinction. You have led your legions through the fires of war and the veil of darkness. You have proven yourself worthy of greater responsibility."

  A pause, heavy with ceremony.

  “Therefore, by imperial decree, you are hereby named Margrave of the Western Borderlands. From this day forth, you shall hold dominion over Fort Dracoli and all territories extending to the Drakorythi border. You shall govern in the Emperor's name, defend the realm's edge, and uphold the law of Valekyr against all threats foreign and domestic.”

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  The Emperor rose from the throne, extending his left sideways.

  Attendants stepped forward, bearing a wooden case lined in black velvet. Within it rested the Margrave's ring, silver and obsidian interweaved in splendid fashion.

  The Emperor descended the twelve steps, each footfall echoing through the silent chamber, and stopped before Alric.

  The Emperor lifted the seal from its case and held it before the court.

  "With this seal, I grant you authority. With this title, I grant you land. And with this command, I send you forth to serve the Empire at its western edge."

  He placed it in Alric's hands.

  Their fingers touched briefly, father and son hidden beneath emperor and general.

  "Don it."

  Alric slid the band onto his right middle finger, and the Emperor lifted his hand once more to an attendant who stepped forward with a crimson standard in hand.

  It bore the insignia of the Western Borderlands: a silver two-headed crow, a shield clasped in its right talon, a spear in its left.

  The Emperor took it in both hands and lowered it once to Alric's left shoulder, then his right. The silk whispered against his armour like a benediction.

  "By standard and seal, I name you Margrave of the Western Borderlands."

  The court erupted in measured applause: Seneschals inclined their heads. Nobles murmured between each other, and officers struck fists to chests.

  Vaudrel's smile was thin and knowing, while Kriklak's was wider than it had any right to be.

  "Rise, Margrave Vaelgard."

  Alric did as commanded.

  A second attendant stepped forward bearing a standard unlike the others in the room.

  Deep grey silk, a single golden shield ringed by twelve silver spear points. The Margrave's standard, his new heraldry.

  "This flies above Fort Dracoli," the Emperor said solemnly, "and every territory under your dominion. Let it be known that where this standard stands, the Empire's will is absolute."

  Alric took the standard from the Emperor’s hands, crimson silk brushing against his skin briefly like velvet judgement.

  Then the Emperor turned and climbed the twelve steps without looking back, the distance between them restoring itself with each pace he took.

  When he sat, he addressed the assembly.

  "Lord Commander Vaelgard departs at dawn tomorrow for Fort Dracoli. The Third Legion will establish permanent garrison at the western border. His Stormguard will cross into Drakoryth to mediate the civil conflict at the Queen's faction's request."

  He paused.

  "The Sixth Legion is hereby relieved of service with full honours. They return to their home garrisons."

  His gaze swept the chamber before settling upon Alric once more.

  "Go with the Empire’s blessing, Margrave. Drakoryth will know peace."

  The court began to disperse, voices rising in the quiet hum of political machination.

  Alric had not moved from where he stood when a presence settled beside him.

  “Margrave Vaelgard,” Kriklak said as though something sour had been swallowed forcefully.

  Alric turned his head but said nothing.

  “Drakoryth,” he began. “Dragonfire and a warring dynasty await.”

  “So I am told,” Alric answered plainly.

  “They came here in the dead of night like rats afraid of predators. Begged for you specifically to the Emperor. Asked for the Scourge of the Southern Purge to mediate a peace treaty between their factions.”

  He turned.

  “Your exploits precede you, Lord Vaelgard.”

  Alric held his gaze and replied.

  “It appears so, Lord Kriklak.”

  Kriklak faced the dispersing court again, eyes moving across it the way one reads a map.

  “Not a diplomat, nor an ambassador, but a military commander just about to win a war sent to broker peace. Curious, is it not?”

  Alric slightly inclined his head.

  “It is.”

  “Funny how that works.”

  Silence settled between them, neither feeling the need to fill it. Kriklak's voice dropped, the register shifting into something closer to a field briefing than court conversation.

  “Alric,” a pause, “do not mistake this for authority. You are being sent as a scapegoat. Something for the half-breeds to fix their hatred upon instead of each other.”

  Alric studied the landscape of his expression the way he read battlefields: looking for what wasn't said rather than what was.

  “Speak.”

  The smirk returned, though it carried a different weight now.

  “I do not know the whole of it, but what I heard is this: the war began over a prophecy's interpretation, and the object of that prognostication has since matured into a fine woman ready to be wed."

  Alric’s face hardened.

  “One faction claims her as queen. The other as the end of all things. But neither has given proof.”

  “How do you know of this?”

  “I studied the place for three years while you were away.” No bitterness edged his words, just fact, stripped bare. “This was not the first time the Queen’s faction had sent envoys to court, so I set to work proving myself worthy for the assignment. But the Emperor stalled me at first, then refused me outright.”

  A pause. “And now, it falls to you.”

  Alric looked down for a moment.

  “Do you think His Majesty knows about the prophecy?”

  Kriklak shook his head.

  “No. Every report of the period cites a difference in religious practice between the King and Queen's factions as the primary cause of conflict. The prophecy does not appear in any document submitted to the court.”

  Kirklak stopped speaking, letting silence took its throne again between them.

  Alric studied him. "What do you gain by telling me this?"

  Kriklak's expression shifted to something that wasn't quite a smile nor quite contempt.

  "Because if you go in ignorant and die within a fortnight, they will send someone else. And that someone else might be me.”

  He met Alric’s eyes fully.

  “I will not inherit your failure, Vaelgard. I refuse to clean up what you leave behind as though I were a dignified maid."

  "Then pray I succeed, Kriklak."