The sun of Sorriso was still high when the imperial messengers from Bragan?a arrived at the castle. Trumpets echoed through the courtyards, and the crowd gathered beneath the balconies. The Empire’s banners waved proudly. Victory smelled of gold… and of lies.

  The air before the castle warped.

  A portal opened—wide and stable—pulsing with clean, precise residual mana, a clear sign it had not been opened in haste.

  Catarina was the first to step through. Her face was weary, her eyes alert, her posture firm—the bearing of someone who had never truly let go of control, even after the war. Draken followed close behind, heavy as a living wall, his axe resting on his shoulder.

  Then the courtyard fell silent.

  Silvio walked through the portal.

  He wore a heavy black overcoat, the G carved into its back. His arms did not occupy the sleeves—the fabric rested only on his shoulders, leaving deep scars fully exposed across both arms. Old marks, thick and unmistakable, visible from afar.

  His pale skin contrasted sharply with the Gath uniform: rigid black trousers, war-heavy boots like military combat gear. His black hair was simple, unstyled. His dark eyes scanned everything with constant attention—predator’s eyes, the gaze of someone who never lowers his guard.

  Tucked under his arm, he carried Aisten.

  Thin, black hair cut straight, round glasses, slanted eyes, pale skin. Far too fragile in appearance for someone who had just handled seals few dared to touch.

  The Gath aligned instantly.

  Two perfect rows formed. Fists clenched. Absolute posture.

  — Welcome back, Commander.

  The chorus followed—contained, respectful, a formal salute.

  Silvio walked between them, answering only with short nods. He greeted captains, never breaking stride.

  As he passed Ravia, he placed a hand on her hair.

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  — Good work. I’m proud of you.

  Ravia remained neutral. Inside, she was exploding.

  At the front of the courtyard, Kyros waited.

  — Took you long enough, Silvio.

  — Did what I could.

  — Thanks for the help with the heart. I’ve got a few things to tell you.

  Silvio lowered his head slightly.

  — Friends don’t bow to me.

  Even so, he kept the gesture—out of respect.

  Kyros touched his own shoulder, where an old scar was still visible. The Gath glanced sideways.

  So it was true.

  Silvio handed him a roll of manuscripts.

  — Everything’s written down. The Tower, the chaos, all of it. Catarina and Draken did good work. — But I’m guessing it was the tenth one, right?

  — It was. — Kyros replied. — Let’s talk inside. The Patriarchs of the Seasons are waiting.

  — A lot happened while I was gone.

  — Not much. I’ll tell you on the way.

  Lukas walked through the corridors, his body still heavy, bandages wrapped around his arms. The sound of trumpets mixed with the voices of the people. He thought it was another announcement about reconstruction—until he heard the name.

  — “Honors bestowed upon the military strategist Dariam Fernandes, in the name of Bragan?a!”

  The world seemed to stop for a moment.

  Applause rose in waves. Bells rang.

  In the central hall, Dariam climbed the steps, wearing a freshly polished uniform. His expression serene, his gaze trained to lie.

  — I did nothing more than my duty. My father’s orders were clear. I merely translated Kyros José Fernandes’ instincts into military strategy.

  The audience roared.

  Helena and Alex exchanged a quick glance.

  — He lies too well. — Helena murmured.

  — And people love lies that sound like heroism. — Alex added.

  Farther back, Catarina and Draken stood side by side. She with her head lowered. He unmoving, like a wall.

  They knew the truth. They knew who wrote every plan, who predicted every move, who kept the South standing.

  But Lukas’ name was absent from every seal.

  Dariam lifted his gaze.

  — Let the Emperor know: the South shall never fall as long as Fernandes blood remains to defend it.

  The hall erupted in applause. The golden crown of honor was placed upon his head.

  And behind the cracked stained-glass windows, the true author of victory simply watched.

  Lukas stood on the upper balcony, motionless. Sunlight struck his face, highlighting his exhaustion and his calm gaze—no anger, no vanity, no hunger for glory.

  — Glory is the prize of the living, not the just. — Caesar murmured. — And it usually goes to the prettiest one in the audience. — Morgana laughed.

  — If he wants the applause, he can keep it. — Lukas replied. — I just wanted to save the South.

  — And you did. — Caesar said.

  Lukas descended the steps and left the hall without looking back.

  Catarina saw him pass.

  — Lukas…

  — It’s alright, Cat. They won their war. Mine ended a long time ago.

  Outside, the southern wind blew once more.

  Kyros watched from the balcony. He knew.

  He knew that his son’s silence was louder than any applause.

  As the people celebrated, two truths were born within the castle: the victory of a boy who only wanted to save the South… and the seed of a lie that would grow from a brother’s pride.

  End of Chapter 19