May 2. Ginsley, his jaw rough with stubble like frost on stone, stepped onto the palace rooftop terrace; Elyu and Delaia’s favorite perch had changed hands like a banner passed.
Paris often stood at the railing, gaze deep as a well, staring across the steel-blue sea. Velledo lounged at the stone table, one leg up, sipping tea like drifting cloud. Outside the door, Hippo kept watch like a black tower, unmoving as a cliff.
“Raven is dead. One stroke through the heart. Coins on the ground. From the count, it looks like murder for money,” Ginsley reported, voice flat as calm water.
Paris didn’t turn. “Is that so?” His tone rippled no more than a pond touched by a leaf, as if the news were a stray breeze.
“By my count, Talant and her party should be close by now, right?” Paris’s words fell like a Meteor, and storm-waves crashed through Velledo and Ginsley. Even Hippo’s Black Spear at the door quivered, a reed in a sudden gust.
Talant—three syllables with magic on this continent.
She’s the pride of the Eastern Nation, its strongest weapon; her sheer personal might holds up a nation like a lone pillar holds a gate. When people speak of the East, they don’t picture the sleek, daring navy; they don’t picture the Dike Guard with land strikes sharp as winter blades; they don’t even picture Hippo, the rumor-wrapped star-breaker.
They picture Talant, the “Sky-Piercer.” On this continent, call her spearwork first and no one dares protest; she’s already carved that truth across the land like a stroke in stone.
“If she turns her spear on Your Majesty...” Cold sweat slid from Velledo like dew down a leaf; the rest died on her lips.
A rare sorrow shadowed Paris’s face, a cloud over the moon. “That’s exactly what worries me. Her force is absurd. Honestly, even if I obtained the [Divine Eye], I’m not sure I could counter her.”
“Isn’t Your Majesty’s power absolute? Is there really a power you can’t restrain?” Ginsley asked, puzzlement his armor, words a tonic for his own heart.
“It is absolute. I’m just not sure I can lock her down.” Fear like buried ice edged Paris’s voice.
Ginsley asked for orders, then withdrew in a hurry, a shadow slipping from light.
[Godspear City]
Mure looked over the listless men, and the paperwork piled like hills before him pressed the breath from his chest. The ripples from every province surged beyond expectation; Emperor Paris’s blood-wash had gouged the kingdom like a flood through fields.
Good or ill, local stewards are keystones. Paris had laid the roof before the rain and set his people in place, yet some gaps still yawned; in those cracks, crime sprouted like weeds after a storm.
A cult calling itself the [Church of Redemption] has flared back to life, embers fanned from old ash. They shadowed the battle of Sia City, tried to grow in the dark. But while Haidra lived and Elyu kept tight order, they didn’t even dare show their heads, mice under a hawk.
Now...
“Acting Commander, the troops are on edge. Since Emperor Paris took the throne, his moves and his stance have left them deeply uneasy. What should we do?” A white-armored soldier spoke, worry heavy as lead in his voice.
Mure rubbed his brow, helplessness writ clear like rain on glass. “Train as usual. Tighten the watch. No matter what, we hold until the Commander returns. The emperor’s wings aren’t full yet; for now he won’t dare grab our mandate. Later… I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Their exchange set Paris on the opposite shore, a line drawn in wet sand. For a king of Eunomia—the realm that calls itself peace—his recent hunger felt ill-fitting, a blade unsheathed at a banquet.
It deepened the doubt in Mure’s heart about the deaths of Elyu and the others—Meteor, Delaia’s betrayal; from takeover to firm rule, he’d crossed the board in a single breath, barely a month.
Paris’s first act on ascending wasn’t mourning, nor repairing the Royal Capital; instead he unrolled a pre-drawn map and moved at once, a campaign poised like arrows on the string.
On parchment it’s not improper, yet it chills like a north wind through thin clothes.
Across the world, that style belongs to the Southern and Northern Kingdoms, river-currents of their own—but not to the Eastern Nation.
“Commander... if Emperor Paris is still as wise and loyal as that day, I hope we can seek the truth with him. If not...” Mure stood, his eyes deep as open sea, fixed on the far shore beyond the billowing, clear blue; and for a long time, he said nothing, like a wave holding its breath.
