The hall of Velhross Citadel was carved from obsidian and veined white marble, tall as a cathedral and silent as a tomb. Massive banners of various nations fluttered without wind, suspended by ancient magic—sigils of kingdoms, republics, and empires gathered here for one purpose: the Council of Seven Nations. The air held a brittle sharpness, like the moments before a sword meets flesh. Diplomats murmured in low voices, scribes scratched feverishly, and guards lined every exit, armor gleaming in the cold torchlight.

At the head of the room was a half-circle of raised thrones—each symbolizing a sovereign realm. And there, sitting back like he owned not just his seat but the entire hall, was Emperor Kael Vorrakar. Draped in black military regalia with blood-red lining and a serpent-shaped clasp at his collar, he radiated the oppressive heat of a man too powerful to be told "no." His gauntlets gleamed like onyx. The hilt of his ceremonial blade rested against the stone with deliberate menace.

All eyes turned when the heavy double doors opened. Footsteps echoed—the room held its breath.

Kael didn't stand.

Instead, he watched with predatory patience, silver eyes glinting beneath the candlelight like drawn steel. His expression unreadable, save for a faint, smug downturn at the corner of his mouth—the kind of smile meant to provoke, not welcome.

To his right, his war minister leaned in with hushed warning. "They say she's come prepared with sanctions and evidence. She's calling the seizure of the western provinces an act of imperial aggression."

Kael responded without turning. "Good. I was beginning to worry she'd lost her voice beneath all that diplomacy."

Across the room, whispers flickered like firelight. Some envoys muttered concern over Zareth's expansion westward—an open violation of the Valelorne Accords, signed less than three winters ago. Others speculated if Thalnora would dare call for military retaliation. But no one in the hall could ignore what was unsaid: Kael had moved his troops into disputed lands under Thalnoran protection.

A crime by treaty. A declaration by empire. And yet the Emperor sat there, proud and unrepentant.

When the speaker's gavel struck once, the room silenced like a dying flame. The Council's High Chancellor turned toward Kael first. "Emperor Vorrakar, you stand accused of violating Article Nine of the peace accords. The annexation of Halbrecht Ridge is—"

Kael raised one gloved hand, not brusquely, but with cold precision. His voice, when it cut through the air, was rough velvet—measured and unbothered "Halbrecht Ridge belonged to no one. A dying village of no strategic value, unclaimed, unguarded, and forgotten. I merely... remembered it before anyone else did."

A hush. Then murmurs. Someone gasped. "Your armies marched into land under Thalnoran oversight," one envoy snapped. "Your banner flies where hers once stood. You did not remember—it was stolen!!."

Kael chuckled, just once, deep in his chest like gravel sliding off a cliff "If Thalnora wishes to preserve her fragile boundaries, perhaps she should not wrap them in poetry and parchment."

He finally turned his eyes toward the Queen. Something sharp flared behind them—mockery, heat, and a blade's edge of disdain. He didn't rise. He didn't bow. He simply studied her like a general studies the next battlefield "Tell me, Your Majesty—when your scholars drew those borders with ink and idealism, did they really think they could stop men with steel?"

The room held its breath again.

Then, leaning forward just enough to sharpen the challenge, he smiled.

"Or is this where you lecture me about 'honor' again, while hiding behind trade sanctions and treaties written in lilac perfume?" His silver eyes glinted. "Please... enlighten me."