“You’ve always been clever.” Ogathas pressed him down with a hand rough as old bark. “Your elder brother wears an Emperor’s look, fit for a throne heavy as mountains.

He swallowed a breath, eyes shadowed like a storm at dusk. “He devoured strategy as a boy. War and state were maps in his palm. He could recite every vassal’s name like beads on a rosary.

He’s sharp, gifted, his mind a deep lake without ripples. Even I can’t see its bottom. That talent startled me like winter ice cracking underfoot.

He was seven when the legend of the Divine Stone reached the palace. After that, he changed, like a tree struck by lightning. All those gifts bloomed afterward. Did you feel it?

He told me, not once but many times, he’d gather every Divine Stone. I thought him young, blind to how vast and vicious the continent is. He grew, yet the ember didn’t fade; it flared.

He’s collected many shards in recent years, slivers of night pulled into his hands. From those fragments, he teased out foreign secrets like threads from a tapestry. That’s why you sensed him shift.

He believes a ruler should inspire dread and worship, a statue on a cliff. He sneers at me bowing to share wine with vassals, and at the kindly face I show the people.

And he’s hungry. He says Eunomia’s strength shouldn’t lie beneath another’s boot. You catch my meaning?” The room felt colder, like a wind through stone.

“Father?! You mean Big Brother…” Panic hit Elyu like surf in a storm. He’d faced roaring seas, prides of lions, strange beasts, yet never shook like this.

“I don’t know…” Ogathas shook his head, tangled with thoughts like thorns. “I’m not sure he wants that crown by blood, but he won’t bend. That castle stands like a fang.

I’ve kept him in check for years, dust thrown over embers. If he climbs to my seat, I can’t promise what follows. The horizon looks dark.”

“No! I don’t believe it!” Elyu’s voice burned hot, like iron in a forge. “He’s loyal to you. He’s stern with rank, but never crossed a line.

Would you toss ten years of his work into the fire over this? Everything he’s done, everyone saw it. It’s his due, isn’t it?”

“No, you don’t see him.” Ogathas’ pain showed like a bruise. “You drifted from him these years. He isn’t the dutiful, gentle, steady brother you remember.”

Elyu bit back a retort, then recalled yesterday—same chair, Paris speaking politics in a chill tone, questions like needles under the skin.

“No, Father—this is foolish! Treat him like that, and the blow will break bones.” He thought of last night’s long talk, the brothers spilling childhoods and old adventures like stars. That warmth wasn’t a mask.

“Do you know how vassals and ministers feel about your brother?” Ogathas’ gaze hardened, a blade catching moonlight. “Fear. Dread.

They fear him because his smile carries a knife. His walls are high. He rarely speaks more than three lines, and every word weighs like a scale.

And all those new faces—didn’t they multiply? He dismissed vassals with reasons polished like jade. Even I couldn’t overturn them.

Guilty or not, no vassal dares approach him. Imagine the morning court with him on the throne. Silence like frost. Every eye lowered.

That’s a fist, not a council. A tyrant, not a king. Eunomia’s thousand-year roots would be torn up, and the continent stained red.

You are different, my child. You know the path between ruler and subject, the bridge across a river. You feel a minister’s heart and stand in his shoes.

Eunomia endures by fair weather and by ruler with ministers at his side—by sword and statute sharing the same table. Ministers hold private wishes, yet strike balance.

That delicate balance is our pillar, a thread keeping the continent’s pattern taut. Your brother would grip only the sword and cast aside the statute.

He’ll break that balance, snap the line. Picture every minister replaced like trees cut to stumps. The court would sit entirely in his palm.

He’d become a true sovereign, not just a king. You know what that means. Don’t forget that year.” Ogathas’ words made the room feel like a cold palace, Paris pushed to its shadows.

“Then what will you do?” Elyu’s thoughts scattered like birds at dusk.

“I’ll write my own decree. I’ll pass power to you and name your brother Prime Minister. If he serves Eunomia with a clean heart, I’ll raise no wall against him.

I’ll seal another decree. In five years, I’ll hand him the reins. That’s best for you, for him, for us—a bridge across fire.

If poison grows in his heart…” Ogathas’ eyes sharpened, like ice over steel.

“Then… I’ll end it.” Elyu’s resolve settled, a stone dropped in deep water. After a fierce bout of words, they found their shared path, and the talk drifted to odd tales and lighter winds.

Night pressed in. Near sleep, Medith and the girls crowded one bed, arms woven like vines. “Prince Elyu didn’t show all day,” Medith sighed, after combing the Royal Capital like a net through a sea.

“Probably talking with the king,” Milia said, easy as a breeze. “Father and son, after so long.”

“Emerald Hawk brought me bad news.” Medith sat up, tension like a drawn bow.

“?” The girls straightened, spines like strings tuned tight.

“It said that, passing Sia City, it saw a middle-aged noble buying flowers.” Medith’s voice felt like rain before thunder.

“A middle-aged noble? In Sia City, only Powell carries that kind of weight,” Sais answered, a frown like a crease in paper.

“Lord Powell buying flowers is normal,” Iling said, respect rising like dawn. “After what happened, they’re an offering to the unfortunate dead.”

Medith lifted a slender finger, moonlight on ivory. “First, the quantity was wild—‘thirty thousand black roses, twenty thousand Klein blue.’ That’s what he ordered.

He stressed delivery within five days, an offering to a certain lord. Second, he made a show of it—full noble dress, greeting commoners along the road like a parade.

He wanted eyes on him. Why turn buying flowers into a drumbeat?

Third, I checked their meanings. Black roses speak of hatred and darkness, a shadow of ill omen.

Klein blue whispers of illusion and deceit, with a sweeter death underneath. Forget the bulk—the choices are strange, and the deadline bites.

I don’t think this is simple.”

“What do you mean?” Sais reached for a shape, like catching fog with fingers.

“I don’t know. I’ll tell Elyu and hope he takes it seriously,” Medith said, worry settling like frost.

“Maybe you’re overthinking.” The girls lay down, shutters closing like lids.

Medith looked at the bright moon beyond the window, a silver coin on velvet. “I hope so,” she breathed.