The scent of scorched grass and blood still clung to the imperial training grounds. Bodies had been cleared, but the memories hadn't.
The great stone amphitheater, where the simulated war had concluded just hours ago, now stood silent save for the murmurs of nobility gathered once more—this time not for combat, but for coronation.
Aden Vasco stood at the foot of the imperial dais, armor still dented and smeared with crimson. His face was unreadable, a canvas caught between exhaustion and silent defiance.
Behind him, the wreckage of formations and shattered weapons painted a clear message: the Empire had a new predator.
The Emperor rose from his throne, gold-edged robes sweeping like storm clouds. His voice rang out, deep and final.
"Aden Vasco. You have demonstrated not just strength, but the terrifying elegance of command. You turned a battlefield into an orchestra of death."
A murmur passed through the nobles. Some clapped. A few dared to cheer. Others, like the remnants of House Veris, remained still as statues.
"Step forward," the Emperor said.
Aden moved. One step. Then another. Egmund stirred within him, that familiar voice curling into his thoughts.
'Oof. Look at this crowd. Real stiff energy. Bet half of them pissed themselves when you sliced off ol' Veris' limbs.'
The Emperor held out a black obsidian medallion—its surface etched with the imperial crest: a flame-wreathed wolf. It glistened under the sun like a shard of midnight.
"Take it," the Emperor said. "With this, you are named Twelfth Seat of the Imperial Council. You are now one of the Twelve Pillars that bear the weight of the Empire."
Aden reached out and closed his fingers around the medallion. It was warm—as if it had been forged from blood and memory.
"Wear it well," the Emperor murmured, his voice low enough only for Aden to hear. "And remember, a crown made of blood drips eternally."
'You hear that? A crown of blood. Damn, if we got a nickel every time someone poeticized your war crimes…' Egmund spoke out smirking.
Aden replied, 'We'd have enough to buy the throne.'
'Or at least a bigger sword.'
As Aden turned to face the crowd, he caught the eyes of several seat-holders: cold, calculating, masked with smiles. Enemies, allies, all cloaked in silk.
Egmund: 'So... what now, your Twelfthy-ness? Do we smirk dramatically and disappear into the shadows? Or do we start planning whose throat we slit next?'
Aden: 'Neither. We smile. Let them wonder if we're mad or brilliant.'
Egmund: 'Why not both?'
Aden lifted the medallion high for the court to see. A symbol not of triumph, but of what was to come.
Beneath the fanfare and forced applause, the air grew colder—as if the Empire itself had paused to consider what it had just crowned.
The wolf had not just survived the trial. He had claimed the seat at the high table.
And so the wolf was crowned…
Not in gold,
But in the silence left behind by those who dared to stand in his path.