The Grand Throne Room of Atheria was a study in profound humiliation. General Roric had not bothered to replace the banner of the ruling House with his own sigil; he had simply ordered the gold and crimson tapestry torn down, leaving a stark, rectangular patch of clean stone amidst the dust-caked walls. He now presided from the foot of the dais, the velvet throne itself empty, lending the space an air of conquered emptiness.
Princess Elara was made to stand before him, not on the richly embroidered carpet of her birthright, but on the cold, polished marble tiles. She wore black—not for mourning, but for defiance—and every line of her posture spoke of a venomous dignity. She hated him. She hated the very cut of his enemy uniform, hated the casual arrogance with which his men slouched along her ancestors' hallways, but most of all, she hated the man himself: the unrelenting machine who had shattered her defenses in three brutal weeks.
Roric had the eyes of a cold, clear winter sky—beautiful, perhaps, if they weren't perpetually focused on strategy. He did not look at her as a woman; he looked at her as a complication, a piece of infrastructure to be managed.
"The Council has signed the Act of Submission," Roric stated, his voice quiet but carrying effortlessly through the vast room. He held a scroll of parchment, its seal dripping with the defeated wax of her government. "You, Princess, are the last necessary signature."
Elara's chin lifted, catching the thin light filtering through the high, arched windows. "My signature is unnecessary. Your victory is complete. My title means nothing now but a decorative chain you wish to rattle."
"It means everything," he countered, stepping closer, closing the distance that her guards—now his guards—had previously maintained. His boots clicked once on the marble, a sound that felt like a gunshot. "The peasantry will riot for a fallen King. They will rally behind a defiant Princess. My peace requires your public, signed acknowledgment of my Emperor's authority. It requires you to tell your people, with your own voice, that their war is over."
The stench of stale smoke and damp wool—the smell of an occupying army—was suddenly overwhelming.
"And if I refuse?" she whispered, a challenge that felt reckless and exhilarating.
Roric tilted his head, a gesture of intellectual amusement that only fueled her rage. "Then I will secure the city without your cooperation. And the cost to your people will increase exponentially with every hour of your delay. You may lose your kingdom with noble pride, Elara, but your people will lose their lives with empty stomachs."
He placed the document on the dais step between them. It was a clear line in the sand, separating her duty from her fury.
She looked down at his clean, manicured hand resting near the scroll, and all she could see was the blood he had shed. All he saw, she knew, was a fragile obstacle to his next promotion.
"Do not mistake my patience for weakness, Princess," Roric concluded, his tone dropping to a level that was genuinely menacing. "You may despise me, but you will respect the reality of your defeat. Sign it."