The hall continued to vibrate with the force of Sharath Virayan Darsha's pronouncement. His words hung in the air like smoke after a cannon blast, making the court hang poised on a silence so cutting it could slice.
The Emperor had requested. Sharath had responded. He had marked his boundary in blood and flame — family was holy, inviolate, and the cost of forgetting that fact was destruction.
Now arrived the ripple.
The first nobleman to get his tongue in anther way near choked on it. "Y-Your Majesty, this will not do! The Darsha whelp has just declared public war on a house of the Empire! If one child's fit of temper is allowed to pass, tomorrow any house will grab an excuse and burn another!"
Another noble added his voice, oily and cutting. "It is tyranny, disguised as filial piety! Today House Sabato, tomorrow, who can tell? Will the Empire submit to a boy with firearms rather than law?"
Rumors spread like wildfire, growing to yells. Accusations, demands, whispered threats in the guise of righteous indignation.
The Emperor lifted a hand, but before he could utter words, the voice of the Empress broke through the tumult like silk covering steel.
"Enough."
All the nobles stood stock-still.
She scanned the court, every look a thread sewing quiet into their throats. "You talk of law and precedent as if this were the first noble disagreement to consume fire. Families have burned houses down for less than a slander. But what was the insult?"
Some nobles fidgeted.
The Empress's lips curled, not into a smile, but into something harder. "House Sabato had the temerity to touch children of the Darsha lineage. Infants. Heirs. Do any of you want to justify that move in my court? In the Emperor's court? In the gods' own presence?"
No one spoke.
Because to justify the Sabatos meant to label oneself a sympathizer to abductors.
And even nobles knew better than to invite that taint.
The Emperor's head canted forward, his voice thunderous but muffled by fatigue. "Sharath Virayan Darsha. You have shed noble blood unauthorized. The Empire will not overlook this. But… nor can it overlook the outrage committed against you." His gaze locked on, cold and unyielding. "You are walking on a knife's edge. One misstep, and your guns or your rage will be unable to keep you safe from the Empire's justice."
Sharath stared back at him without wavering. "Then let those who would do harm to my people tread cautiously."
A chill swept through the room. It was not pride — it was fate.
The session ought to have ended there. It should have broken up into closed rooms, confidential advisories, and stealthy admonitions.
But the nobles refused to leave well enough alone.
"Your Majesty," one lord spit, "are we to reward this… child? He sits atop an arsenal the Empire can't claim, massacres a whole house, and now suns himself under protection? If we don't act, the precedent will eat us all alive!"
Another spoke up, "We call for restitution. Land. Money. An acknowledgment that the Darsha's brutality cannot be erased under the guise of family honor.
The Empress raised an eyebrow. "Reparation? From whom? A bereaved father who took revenge for his children? Or should we extort compensation from the river when it overflows your vineyards?"
The hall divided like a battlefield — half demanding punishment, the other half intimidated into silence by fear of Sharath's legend.
The Emperor banged his scepter down. "Enough!"
The crack rang out like a whip.
"This is settled. House Sabato is reduced to ashes. Let it stay ashes. The heir of Darsha has been warned. The Empire has been warned. And let no one ever forget—" His eyes scanned the nobles, each sentence driven home between their ears. "Blood is not blackmail. Not in my Empire. Not while I am alive."
The gavel of conclusion came down. The court broke up. But the rumors did not.
That evening, under the shadows of velvet-hung mansions, the nobles congregated.
Plots flowed like wine from broken cups.
"He must not be permitted to grow uncontrolled. Today a household, tomorrow the throne itself."
"His arms — even if he terms them 'talent' — they are perilous. The Empire cannot stand one family grasping so much power."
"Then what do you propose? Open insurrection? Suicide."
Not rebellion. Subtlety. Poison, maybe. A knife in the dark. A whisper to foreign ears. A stolen perfume. A professional thief. Something to drain him without provoking another massacre."
In the light of the moon, allegiances were realigned, swords pledged, gold bartered.
They had learned their lesson — frontal attacks yielded only flames. Now, they would nibble from the perimeters.
In the Darsha mansion, tension hung.
Lady Ishvari, white as a ghost and shaking, held the twins tight as if to release them would call forth darkness. When Sharath appeared, soot still adhering faintly to his armor, her control broke.
"What were you thinking?" Her voice trembled. "Storming into a noble household? Bringing the court down around our ears with your craziness? Do you wish us all to be destroyed?"
Sharath's head bowed, the fire embered but not extinguished. "They laid hands on what belonged to me. What belonged to us. I would burn the world once more if I must."
His mother's eyes watered. "And if the next time it is the world that burns you?"
The room was silent.
But only Lord Varundar spoke, voice low, conflicted. "You did what any father would do. But you are not just a father, Sharath. You are duchy heir, ruler of a land, a Count now by the Emperor's hand. Every move you make is no longer your own. Remember that."
Sharath bunched his fists. The pressure of obligation weighed down as much as any boss in a dungeon. But beneath that, the spark of anger still glowed.
The next morning, emissaries came — scribes, ministers, even spies dressed as servants.
Some came with condolences. Others came with oblique warnings. Some were brazen enough to ask about details of his "skill," seeking secrets to the thunderous guns.
Sharath sent all of them away with icy efficiency.
But one diplomat bore something else: an imperial seal, a parchment inscribed in the Emperor's own words.
The edict was straightforward: the massacre was closed. No payment owed. No penalty imposed. But also — no further indulgence. The next unprovoked bloodshed would go unpardoned.
And under the edict, a handwritten line: Do not try my patience, boy. I have bent for you once. I will not bend twice.
Sharath creased the scroll, lips pinching. A warning, indeed. But also an acknowledgement. He was no longer merely a noble brat. He was a pawn on the imperial board — one that could not be easily displaced.
That night, when the Darsha family sat down to eat dinner, tension lingered in the air like a mist.
Lady Ishvari observed her son with pride and trepidation. The twins, blissfully ignorant, were playing with wooden blocks on the floor. Lord Bassana relaxed, face fixed between merchant greed and grandfather concern.
At last, Bassana spoke, his usual bluntness cutting through the tension. "Well, boy, you've lit the Empire ablaze. Congratulations. Now we'll see if you can prevent it from burning us up with it."
Sharath smiled with the thinnest of smirks. "I've always had a knack for fire."
The family chuckled, but it was tight. Because underlying it, they all knew: the nobles wouldn't pardon.
Not the slaughter. Not the shame. Not the youth who had reminded them that power, true power, was not always crowned.
And somewhere, in the dark recesses of the Empire, killers honed knives, poisons fermented, and plots were hatched.
The tempest had just begun.