Scene: Private Imperial Lounge — Amara's POV
I stood by the tall mirror, adjusting the high collar of my deep emerald robe. The Blackwood crest shimmered at my shoulder — power stitched into fabric, every thread a statement.
Behind me, Chris sat by the hearth. One leg crossed, a tumbler in his hand, half-full of dark fire. He looked regal — but distant. Observing the flames like they held the answer to a question he hadn't yet asked.
He'd been quiet this morning. Thoughtful. Introspective.
It irritated me.
> "You're not coming, are you?" I asked, still watching him through the mirror.
Chris raised the glass, sipped once, and answered without looking up.
> "Classic's got it handled. Let him have his day."
I turned.
Slowly.
Walked toward him until I stood directly in front of his chair.
> "No."
That one word made him finally meet my eyes.
I didn't blink.
> "This empire doesn't just need his brilliance," I said, voice sharp and measured. "It needs your shadow. It needs to feel your presence walking beside power, not vanishing behind it."
Chris opened his mouth. I didn't let him speak.
> "They've grown too comfortable questioning your silence. Too bold in imagining succession. And while I admire their ambition... they've forgotten."
I leaned closer.
> "You are Blackwood One. You are the storm they survived. The crown they fear and worship. Let them see that."
Chris's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression unreadable.
> "You want me to walk in there and reclaim fear?"
I smiled.
> "No, love. I want you to remind them that mercy was a choice... not a weakness."
He stood, then.
Glass down. Crown not yet on his head — but his spine straightened like he already wore it.
He stepped forward, slowly, until we were inches apart.
> "You want the King back?" he asked, voice low.
> "Yes," I said. "Let them remember what Blackwood really means."
He smirked—cold and calculated.
> "Then let's give them a performance they'll never forget."
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