The night before the decisive csh between the Empire’s army and the united forces of the Southern Rebels and Lunethria, I stood before the war table, surrounded by generals and strategists, our eyes tracing the maps of the Astravellian Empire spread out across the surface like veins of fate.

  Tension was thick in the air—strategic, political, personal. And although none dared speak it aloud, I could feel the discomfort radiating from the men around me. Their disdain was barely hidden. I wasn’t blind to it. To them, I was an outsider—too young, too idealistic, too unseasoned to be commanding the future of this war. In their eyes, I hadn’t yet earned my pce here.

  Perhaps they were right. But still, I remained. Whether it was stubbornness, pride, or the smallest sense of duty cwing at my conscience, I insisted on being part of this meeting. They had tried to keep me away, with words disguised as concern, but I knew what it really was—doubt. I had no intention of walking away from it. Not now. Not when lives were at stake. I needed to witness this, to learn from it, even if it meant bearing their scorn.

  As the night deepened and arguments grew sharper, the room split into two factions.

  Duke Zonneveld—unyielding as ever—and those aligned with him pushed for total annihition of the enemy. "Let this be a lesson to all," he said coldly, "that rebellion bears only ruin." It was a strategy drenched in blood, meant to instill fear, not justice.

  Then came Duke Bourdelle, calm but firm, advocating for a more restrained approach. He believed in rooting out the leaders who had ignited the rebellion, sparing the rest—the farmers, the conscripted, the ones who marched because they had no other choice. "Crush the cause," he said, "not the people."

  These two dukes had never seen eye to eye. Their ideologies were as far apart as the ends of a pole, and their rivalry extended far beyond politics. Not only did they lead opposing factions within the Imperial Court, but they also competed fiercely on the economic front.

  Duke Bourdelle, who governed the western territories of the Empire, often held the upper hand when it came to trade and resource control. His nds were rich in natural resources, and his longstanding alliance with the Western Continent granted him a strong foothold in international trade. His influence was further solidified by his powerful allies—Marquis Voschell, the Empire’s leading agricultural producer, and Count Hertel, whose territory dominated the textile industry.

  On the other side stood Duke Zonneveld, ruler of the eastern region. His territories were abundant in metals and ores, giving him a stronghold in military manufacturing and industry. He was supported by Marquis Brauer, the Empire’s foremost weapons manufacturer, and Count Kellner, who led the rgest ironworks and machinery production in the region.

  Their rivalry shaped much of the Empire’s internal dynamics—every policy, every vote, every military or economic decision was, in some way, a tug-of-war between their opposing visions.

  And at the center of their rivalry stood the Emperor—my father.

  A man who wore the crown, yet often felt like little more than a spectator to the great game unfolding around him. He watched the push and pull between Duke Bourdelle and Duke Zonneveld with a strange kind of detachment, as if it amused him. As if their constant power pys were nothing more than a performance put on for his private entertainment.

  But silence has a cost.

  Over time, his passivity allowed others to fill the void where imperial authority should have stood. His silence became permission. His presence, ceremonial. And the longer he stood idle, the more his figure faded behind the towering shadows of his dukes and ministers.

  I grew up in that silence. I saw firsthand how little true power the throne held when its bearer chose not to wield it.

  I learned young that wearing the crown meant nothing if you couldn’t command the room. And my father never did.

  Perhaps that’s why the thought of succession never appealed to me.

  That, and the Empress.

  She made her intentions clear from the beginning—my younger brother was her chosen heir. She groomed him publicly and relentlessly, molding him into the image of the perfect future emperor. The court saw it. The nobles whispered it. And I, the firstborn, was quietly pushed aside—not out of scandal or disgrace, but simply... omission.

  I was the son of the Emperor, but never his heir.

  And so, I stopped reaching for something that was never truly mine to hold. I found peace in the shadows, outside the weight of the crown’s expectations. While others schemed and whispered and carved out their pieces of the Empire, I learned to watch only and settled on what I have.

  Let them have their throne.

  I never wanted it.

  As I was musing over the discussions unfolding in front of me, the room turned to me.

  As the acting commander, the final call was mine to make.

  I could feel the weight of every pair of eyes, some waiting for me to stumble, others silently daring me to defy their expectations.

  I knew what the practical choice was. The Empire wanted control. Swift, brutal control. But I... I found myself unable to ignore the cost. I thought of the soldiers who’d be forced to die for a cause they didn’t believe in. I thought of the children who would wake up to silence where their fathers used to be.

  I leaned toward Duke Bourdelle’s proposition. Maybe it was naive. Maybe it was idealism. But I wasn’t here to win a war at any cost. I was here to change the kind of legacy we would leave behind.

  It helped that Trevon, the same age as me, stood on my side. Though young, he had risen to the rank of Knight Captain not through favor, but through merit. His voice carried weight, not because of his name, but because of the battlefield. And when he echoed my thoughts—his calm conviction firm beside mine—I felt the tide of the room shift. Just slightly.

  Enough for me to hold my ground.

  The silence that followed my decision was deafening.

  For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. Then, I saw it—Duke Zonneveld’s jaw tightening ever so slightly, his hands csping behind his back with too much force to be casual. He didn’t protest, but his silence was pointed, a bde pressed ft rather than drawn. I had just stepped on his pride, and though he said nothing, I knew this would not be forgotten.

  Beside him, General Heimann shifted in his stance, arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral but his narrowed eyes giving away his disapproval. I could practically hear the unspoken thoughts: Too soft. Too young. Unfit.

  But then there was Duke Bourdelle, who inclined his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. There was no smile—he wasn’t one for open approval—but the flicker in his gaze told me he understood. Maybe even agreed.

  I didn’t need praise. I just needed support.

  Lady Tanner, one of the rare female strategists at the table, was the first to speak. “Then it’s settled,” she said, voice calm, almost curious. “We will move to isote the leadership. I’ll adjust the positioning of the Second Legion accordingly.”Efficient, professional, and respectful—she gave no indication of doubt, which, in this room, was worth more than words.

  Trevon gave a faint nod from across the table, his arms resting casually at his sides. There was no need for dramatics between us—just the quiet trust that we understood one another.

  Still, I couldn’t ignore the undercurrent rippling through the room. I had disrupted the rhythm of their usual decision-making. I had not pyed the part of a silent royal, nodding along to the old guard’s wishes. That made me unpredictable. Dangerous, even.

  But I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t afford to.

  They may doubt my presence now, but when dawn breaks and we face the battlefield... it will be my decision that echoes in the blood and dust. And whether they agree with it or not, they will see it.

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