The heart of the Empire smelled not of incense or glory but of sealed correspondence and veiled threats. In the vaulted chamber of the Senate, dust drifted from marble columns as old men bickered over military appointments and provincial commands. They spoke of ideals, but their true interest was influence and power.
Emperor Valerius sat at the head of the chamber, his throne of black marble a cold perch rather than a seat of power. He wore no crown—only the gilded cuirass of a commander—but even that could not disguise his dependence. Every gesture was calculated: nodding to one patrician family to secure their legions' loyalty, ignoring another so as not to seem beholden. His scribes stacked reports at his side like siegeworks: a governor in the east mustering private troops, border skirmishes ignored by a general with political ambitions, riots among populists starved not for bread, but for a strong hand to guide them.
When a senator rose to complain that the latest war tax had bled his province dry, Valerius suppressed the urge to laugh. The same noble who begged relief here would tomorrow bribe a legion to secure his position. What held the Empire together was not law, but a fragile web of loyalties and fear. He knew a dozen governors who would carve out their own kingdoms if they sensed weakness at the heart of Solaris. Cut a single thread of allegiance, and the mighty Valorian machine would tear itself apart in a month.
The peace, Valerius knew, was a ledger of fragile loyalties. And debts had a way of being called due.
Far to the north, the air was thinner, sharper, filled with the smoke of pine fires and the stink of unwashed men. In a snow-choked valley, Grak Ironjaw stood before the gathered chieftains of half a dozen clans. Their banners—wolves, ravens, bears—snapped in the icy wind. Each man there had blood on his hands, but none carried as much weight as the giant with the iron jawplate hammered into his skull.
Grak did not rule by law. He ruled by strength. He knew the men around him swore oaths easily, but oaths were worth only as much as the glory that followed. His rise had been swift, forged in wars that united entire valleys and humiliated rival chiefs.
Now, though, he saw the cracks. His men demanded more than plunder and bronze trinkets. The hunger in their eyes was not just for food but for conquest. They craved a real war that would forge them into a nation. Grak's charisma might bind them for a season, but without a true enemy to face, his fragile alliance would collapse into the usual mountain feuds.
He stared south, across the jagged ridges where the Frostfangs gave way to green valleys. The Empire beyond was soft, its generals plotting against each other, its senators fat with intrigue. To his warriors, the thought of legions being denied reinforcements for political spite, of commanders betraying their own soldiers, was a weakness ripe for the slaughter.
Grak clenched his fists. If he did not lead them against that weakness, someone else would.
In the province of Dareth, the air was thick with dust and resentment. Kaelen Brightblade watched from the shade of a ruined colonnade as the Governor's personal guard enforced the new tithes. A scribe with ink-stained fingers marked down every coin. When a farmer fell short, soldiers stepped forward and seized the man's daughter for "service" in the provincial capital.
Kaelen's jaw tightened. These were not barbarian raids—this was the Empire's own power, perverted to serve the ambitions of a corrupt governor. He had once been a noble, but titles meant little after his family was branded traitors and their estates seized by a political rival. He had learned the hard truth: the Empire did not reward loyalty, only power. And power belonged to those who were ruthless enough to seize it.
Around him, others gathered quietly. A merchant whose business had been crushed by the governor's cronies. A one-armed veteran discarded by the legion he bled for after speaking out against his commander. Peasants clutching their scythes as if they were pikes. They whispered of liberty, but Kaelen saw only opportunity.
He was not fooled. Liberty was a banner, nothing more. The real war would be for the throne itself. Whoever commanded the legions would command the world. And if the Empire's generals could be turned against each other—if its chain of command could be broken—then even the black marble throne of Valerius would crumble.
Kaelen smiled grimly. The tapestry of peace was already fraying. All he had to do was pull the right thread.