Once a year, the thrones are polished.
The twelve around the One.
Empty by tradition.
Filled by rumor.
Celestial Dragons from the most "decorated" lines gather in Pangaea for what they call The Feast of Unity.
I called it something else: The Parade of Cowards.
Still, I dressed well.
Ivory robes. Masked helm. A serpent coiled into a monocle across my left eye. Entirely too much perfume.
Winter wore black.
Ash wore nothing but a collar and the smug expression of a creature learning how to scare adults.
The feast was held in the Marble Hall.
A room built by slaves and filled with people who forgot they existed.
Each table held families too inbred to walk straight.
Figarland Garling sat apart, sipping wine with one boot on the table and a revolver in his lap.
Saint Saturn was absent.
The Gorosei sent a steward: an old, hunched man who smelled of salt and secrets.
I took my place. Mid-tier. Not too high to threaten. Not too low to insult.
Perfect.
The toasts began.
Empty platitudes.
"Peace."
"Justice."
"Order."
Words with no meat.
The food arrived: gilded carcasses, extinct birds, synthetic wine that fizzed like champagne but tasted like regret.
Ash tried to bite a waiter.
Winter stopped her by flicking her ear.
Progress.
A young noble approached me during the fourth course.
Saint Roswald's son.
Puffed like a pigeon. Teeth too white. Eyes empty.
He gestured to Winter.
"How much?"
Ash bared her teeth. Winter didn't move.
I leaned back.
"She's not for sale."
"Everything has a price."
"Yes," I said. "And yours is lower than you think."
He blinked.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," I said, sipping my wine, "that if you ask again, I'll buy your mother and make her clean my boots."
He turned pale.
Garling barked a laugh from across the hall.
After dessert — a sorbet made from frozen sea prism and genetically resurrected berries — the games began.
A show of power.
Each family paraded its strength: mutants, rare beasts, devil fruit experiments barely able to stand.
One boy lit himself on fire and survived.
Another turned his bones into mercury and made a chair from his own spine.
I let Ash into the ring.
She walked up to a man-sized creature made of stitched corpses and gutted it with a smile.
No powers.
Just knives and joy.
The hall clapped.
Winter didn't.
She watched me instead.
The steward approached during the final toast.
Bent low and whispered.
"Imu wishes to meet."
My blood chilled.
"When?"
"Now."
I left the hall.
Took the long route. Through seven doors, across three mirrors, and beneath a curtain of rain.
The throne room was empty.
Except for a single shadow.
He stood barefoot on the marble.
Imu.
His face still hidden by the veil.
But his presence — heavy.
"I hear you're building an army," he said.
"I'm raising children."
"Children burn."
"Only when no one teaches them the match from the torch."
He turned.
"Your Winter has drawn attention."
"I would hope so."
"She glows like a beacon in the dark."
"She's mine."
Imu stepped closer.
"And if I want her?"
I smiled faintly.
"Then you'll have to ask nicely."
Silence.
Then laughter. Cold and real.
"You're funny," he said.
"I'm alive."
"For now."
He waved a hand.
"Go. Continue your games. But remember — I see every move before you make it."
I bowed.
"I'd expect nothing less, my King."
Back in the hall, Ash had claimed a jug of wine and sat on the lap of a noble three times her age.
He looked terrified.
Winter had a hand on her dagger, ready to separate his head from his body if Ash asked.
I collected them both.
We walked out as the feast ended.
That night, I wrote a new letter.
To: Dragon, Monkey D.
Subject: Mutual Interests.
I didn't send it.
Yet.
But the idea had been planted.
The throne may have been empty.
But I wasn't.