The Imperial audience chamber was a monument to cold, indifferent power.
Sunlight, filtered through panels of stained glass depicting the founding Dragon Kings, cast bloody red and deep blue shadows across the marble floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the dead air.
Empress Lyra sat upon the Iron Throne, a woman whose beauty had curdled into rigid, watchful cruelty. Her gown, the color of newly minted gold, did nothing to soften the calculating scrutiny in her eyes. Across from her, his posture radiating barely contained impatience, stood Prince Darius, her fourth son and the Empire's heir apparent.
"The carriage has left the western gate, Mother," Darius announced, his voice smooth and predatory.
Lyra gave a minute, approving nod. "The sixth son is dispatched. Good. Alaric's presence in the capital was becoming an eyesore, a perpetual reminder of his failure to inherit the magical affinity."
"His failure to breathe, you mean," Darius scoffed, straightening the silver embroidery on his jacket. His hand rested habitually on the hilt of his ceremonial longsword, a gesture meant to convey strength. "Sending him to Stonehaven is appropriate. A weak horse is put out to pasture before it breaks a leg in the stable."
Darius was everything the Empress valued: magically powerful, ruthlessly ambitious, and utterly lacking in imagination; it was a tool she could wield without fear of competition. Unlike Kaelen, the Arch-Mage of her generation, Darius was predictable.
"Do not dismiss the matter so lightly, Darius. Failure breeds weakness, and weakness breeds rumors," Lyra said, her voice dropping slightly. "Though Kaelen is gone, his ghost is still invoked by the lesser mages who believe they deserve more power. Alaric's miserable existence served only to remind them that the Imperial line can be broken. That weakness is now sealed away."
"And replaced with my strength," Darius supplied, his lips curving in a confident smirk. "I have already begun the final stages of the Azure Flame cultivation. The Arch-Mage title will pass to me, rightfully. But you said the exile served two purposes?"
"It does. An exile is a convenient death, should fate or a Harpy-Fiend decide to claim him. More importantly, it deals with the Silverblood problem."
Darius paused, the casual cruelty draining from his face, replaced by calculation. "Lady Seraphina? Her silence has been frustrating. She sends only polite refusals to my invitations."
"She is not interested in invitations, Darius. She is interested in power," the Empress explained, tapping a manicured finger on the armrest. "The Duchess is ambitious, tactical, and dangerously popular with the Northern Houses. Her family is immensely powerful, and the betrothal contract to Alaric, though useless, currently prevents her from forming a more beneficial alliance. A contract is a contract, even for the sixth son."
The betrothal had been brokered years ago, a cynical exchange of political influence for royal blood. Everyone knew Alaric was a cipher; he was simply a temporary cage for the formidable Silverblood inheritance, locking them into the Imperial fold.
"Alaric is gone, Mother. Why does this not solve the problem?" Darius pressed. "We simply wait for a few months, declare him lost to the northern wastes, and dissolve the contract ourselves on the grounds of death."
"We cannot wait a few months. The Dreadlord's campaign will begin within the decade. The Seers are unanimous on this point," Lyra hissed, her composure momentarily cracking. "We need the Silverblood resources and the loyalty of the Northern Houses now. To wait is to risk losing the entire northern front, Darius. If we dissolve the contract, Seraphina is free to marry Prince Corvin of the Western Marches, creating a rival political power that could challenge my throne during the war."
A cold smile, thin as ice, touched Lyra's lips. "She is pragmatic, not sentimental. She doesn't care that Alaric is weak. She cares that he is present. As long as he is alive, even moldering at Stonehaven, the contract holds. She cannot publicly break it without risking the entire political edifice of the Northern Houses. But she must break it before the Dreadlord's return, or she risks being tied to a prince who will only drag her house down to ruin."
Darius nodded, understanding the trap. Lady Seraphina would come north, expecting a pathetic, sniveling boy, and leave having secured a political victory. It was a neat, surgical solution that offered immediate political gain without risking a civil war with the powerful Silverbloods.
"She will not wait for him to freeze. She will send a formal delegation, perhaps led by her own person, to Stonehaven within the month," Lyra continued, her voice regaining its smoothness. "She will observe the ruins, declare the arrangement politically untenable due to the prince's inability to fulfill his royal duties, and dissolve the contract with public consensus. She will then be free to marry a useful son. Likely you, Darius, once the dust settles and her resources are secure."
"So, we let the Duchess do our dirty work, and we gain her allegiance in the end," Darius concluded, flexing his fingers in anticipation. "And Alaric? If he survives her inevitable humiliation?"
"He won't," Lyra said, her voice turning to silk. "Even if he survives the cold and the ghouls, the environment will break him. The garrison is minimal, and the fortress records are doctored to show low-tier threats, preventing any rescue attempts. Alaric's miserable spirit will succumb to despair. He is a cripple without a magical core and a prince without a future."
Neither of them realized that the "cripple" was now possessed by the sharpest strategic mind the Empire had ever known. They had sent a weakling into exile; in return, they had given an Arch-Mage the single greatest gift: obscurity and a clear political target.
"Ensure that if the Duchess requires an escort to the northern garrison, she is given one that is highly reliable," the Empress instructed. "We want no accidents on her journey. She must arrive and leave safely, providing a perfect, unimpeachable account of Alaric's utter uselessness. Let her be the one to confirm his ruin."
Darius bowed deeply, a calculating light in his eyes. He already envisioned Seraphina's return, her cool, aristocratic facade momentarily cracked by the frustration of the journey, ready to be consoled and claimed by the powerful heir.
The Prince is done. The Duchess is next, he thought with smug certainty. And soon, the throne.
The Imperial court had sealed its fate. The Empress had planted a fragile seed of rebellion in the coldest, darkest place in the Empire, and now, she was actively sending the only person capable of nurturing it, the ambitious Lady Seraphina, directly to his side.
The Arch-Mage's second ascent was about to begin, and his greatest enemies were unknowingly organizing his defense.