Chapter 41 – The Pillars Gather
The doors of the Imperial Council chamber opened with a muted groan, polished iron scraping across marble. Twelve seats surrounded the circular table, carved from obsidian and moonstone, and polished to a mirrored sheen. Eleven of them were filled.
Sirius entered without announcement.
He moved like silence—sharp, seamless, dispassionate. Not a single eye failed to track him, yet none met his gaze for long. His presence pulled the light subtly toward him, as if the chamber leaned in to listen. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He was sixteen.
And already the Empire's youngest Pillar.
The chair to the right of the Emperor's empty throne awaited him—its high back carved with the insignia of House von Ross: a silver wolf eclipsing a dying sun. He sat without pause.
Only then did the murmurs begin again—quiet, cautious, like stones skipping across a frozen lake. He did not listen. Or perhaps he heard everything.
She was seated three chairs to the left of the Emperor's vacant seat—his mother.
Her hair was pinned in a perfect coil. Her robes shimmered with sigils of the old kingdom. One of the Six Great Magicians, bearer of the Eighth Class, daughter of a foreign crown, and one of the Ten Pillars in her own right.
She did not look at him.
Neither did he.
They had not spoken since the night he overheard her.
Not truly.
And he had nothing more to say.
Across the table, the Grand Duke sat with his hands clasped. Sirius's father. The Sword of the Empire. The first and once-only Grand Sword Master—until his son surpassed him. Unlike the others, his gaze met Sirius's with open approval, something steady and unspoken lingering behind it.
His eyes said, I see you.
And that was enough.
The rest of the Pillars sat taller when Sirius arrived. Some out of respect. Others out of habit. A few, out of the strange discomfort that came from being in the presence of something they didn't understand—but dared not question.
He had always done what was required.
And yet no one truly knew what he wanted.
Not the archbishops. Not the generals. Not the Grand Mage of the Tower, who sat stiffly, robes brushing the floor like dead leaves. Not even the woman who had borne him.
They saw a prodigy.
They didn't see the cold sanctuary behind his eyes.
They never saw her.
Not the girl with silver hair whose smile lived in his paintings.
Not the one who had taught him mercy with laughter and left him before this life began.
He sat, hands folded, back straight, expression unreadable. Beneath his robes, the emblem of his House rested against his collarbone—a piece of forged star-iron, once gifted by the Emperor himself.
But Sirius wore it like a chain.
The chamber fell quiet as the hour struck.
And then—
Footsteps.
Measured. Unhurried.
The Emperor entered.
He did not sit.
He moved to the head of the table, cloak trailing behind like a second shadow. His eyes, pale gold, swept over the Pillars—pausing, only once, when they landed on Sirius.
For just a breath.
Then he spoke.
"There has been movement," he said, voice low but resonant. "Along the western border. Whispers of treaties breaking, of blades being drawn in the dark. Kingdoms shift when they smell weakness. And they believe we are… distracted."
A pause. No one interrupted.
The Emperor's gaze turned toward Sirius again—subtle, but not lost on anyone.
"They will be corrected."
Another silence.
And then—
"We convene today," the Emperor continued, "not because we are uncertain—but because the Empire remembers. We stand at the edge of another reckoning. The Pillars are not symbols. You are weapons. You are shields."
He turned his back to the table, speaking now to the banners that lined the stone walls.
"I will not declare war yet."
Yet.
The word fell like a quiet verdict.
"But you will be ready."
Eyes turned toward Sirius again.
Not out of doubt.
But expectation.
Because despite his age, despite his stillness, despite the fact he rarely spoke—he had already eclipsed them.
He was the Empire's only Ninth-Class Magician.
The youngest Sword Grandmaster in history.
And he had never once been defeated.