[Same period. Executive Council session]
[Selas POV]
"At the top," I began, "the title of Chief becomes Emperor."
"The Eldar have their kings. Their word is aran. Thingol is an aran. Círdan styles himself a lord but functions as one." I looked around the table. "We will not be kings. We will be something greater. Something that has no precedent among the Quendi."
"Emperor," Dirmal repeated, his quill hovering. "That's… not an Eldarin word."
"No. It isn't. And that's the point." I paused. "But we'll also have our own word for it. In Avarin, the title will be Vaeratar. The Avari will know their ruler by an Avari name."
The word rippled around the table.
Vaeratar. Lips moved, testing the shape of it.
"The Vaeratar rules, and the succession passes through the imperial dynasty," I continued. "My designated heir first. Then the eldest child. Then the remaining children by age. Then the Empress, the Vaeratari. After the immediate family, succession passes to other branches of the dynasty."
"Empress," Mireth said, and the slightest smile crossed her face. "The Vaeratari."
"The Vaeratari holds formal authority and participates in governance. She is not decoration. She rules alongside the Emperor."
I caught a few glances darting toward the tent's entrance, as if Ilvëa might materialize there at the mention of the word. She didn't. She was at the Tree, where she spent most mornings.
"The Executive Council becomes the Imperial Council," I continued. "Same function. Advisors who manage their domains and carry out imperial decisions. But with expanded authority as the state grows."
Nods around the table. This was familiar. They were essentially voting to give themselves broader mandates and weightier titles. Nobody objected to that.
"The Council of Elders," I said, and watched the room tense slightly, "expands and transforms into the State Assembly."
"Transforms how?" Írissë's voice was sharp. She hadn't spoken yet, and when Írissë chose her moment, it was never casual.
"Currently, the Elders represent the thirty-three founding clans. That made sense when we were a small group where everyone knew everyone." I spread my hands. "We're three thousand now. Growing every year. Soon we'll be ten thousand, then more. The clans won't be enough to represent everyone."
"So what replaces them?"
"Elected representatives. Assemblymen chosen by the people to voice their will and advocate for their interests. A counterbalance to the Emperor, the Council, and the old aristocracy of the founding houses."
Silence.
Thoron broke it. "You're giving the common Avari a voice equal to the Elders?"
"I'm giving everyone a stake in their own governance. An Elder speaks for a clan. An Assemblyman speaks for a community. Different scales, different concerns. We need both."
Maethor's fingers drummed on the table. "And if the Assembly and the Emperor disagree?"
"Then we argue until we find a solution. That's what the structure is for. Not to prevent disagreement, but to channel it productively." I let that settle, then added: "However, on any decision of the Assembly, the Emperor retains the right of veto. Final and absolute."
The room shifted. Írissë's eyes narrowed.
"So the Assembly proposes, but the Emperor disposes?" she said.
"The Assembly debates, legislates, and represents the will of the people. That's real power. But there will be moments when the state needs a single clear decision, fast and without committee. Moments when popular sentiment runs against what's actually necessary for survival." I held her gaze. "In those moments, someone has to be able to say no. That someone is the Vaeratar."
"And if the Vaeratar abuses that power?" Maethor asked. Not hostile. Genuinely testing.
"Then the Assembly exists to make that abuse visible. A bad Emperor who vetoes good law will hear about it from every corner of the realm. The veto is a shield, not a sword. Use it too often and the people lose faith. Use it wisely and it never needs to be used at all."
Maethor grunted.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same session. The Land Question]
"One more thing," I said. "And this one's going to be controversial."
They braced.
"All land belongs to the state."
The silence this time was different. Heavier.
"Any Avari can live on it, use it, farm it, build on it, pass it to their children as an inherited right of use. But no individual owns the land itself. The Empire does. Usage rights can be leased, transferred, inherited. But sovereignty over the territory remains with the state."
Gelasiël frowned. "Why?"
Because I've seen what happens when you don't do this, I thought. Feudal lords. Land barons. Petty princes carving out private kingdoms within the kingdom, hoarding resources, building private armies, undermining central authority until the whole system collapses into civil war.
"Because we're building something that needs to outlast any individual," I said instead. "If land can be privately owned, it concentrates."
"This way, no one becomes a feudal lord. No one builds a private power base that rivals the state. The land serves the people, not the other way around."
Mithlen Kelmaris was nodding slowly, already calculating implications. "Lease payments would form a reliable tax base. Predictable revenue. Much cleaner than trying to tax production alone."
"Exactly."
The discussion that followed was long and granular. Territory divided into provinces, Udels, each centered on a major fortress or city. Provincial Governors elected from among local village Elders. Village Elders elected by their communities.
A ground-up system where authority flowed from the people to their representatives and from the Emperor down through appointed officials.
I layered in the checks. For every Governor managing civilian affairs, there'd be an imperial Steward watching on behalf of the crown. Reporting directly to the Vaeratar and the Imperial Council. Ensuring that local power didn't drift into local tyranny.
For military matters, fortress Commandants appointed by the Emperor and his military advisor. Responsible for border defense, garrison management, and the security of their assigned territory. Separate from civilian governance. Answering to Vertalas's chain of command.
Governors handled civic life. Commandants handled defense. Stewards watched both.
"It's clean," Vertalas admitted. "Separation of authority prevents any single person from accumulating too much power in one place."
"That's the idea."
"Except for you," Maethor observed.
I met his gaze. "Except for me."
A beat.
The truth was, virtually nobody in this room seriously questioned the arrangement. And the reason was simple arithmetic.
Roughly nine out of ten Avari alive today had been born after the Sundering. They'd never known a world without me as their leader. I'd been there when they took their first steps, when they spoke their first words in Avarin, when they learned to hold a spear and till a field and read a map. Their parents had followed me out of Cuiviénen. Their grandparents had stood beside me at the Farewell.
Every member of my Council was either a childhood friend or someone who'd grown up under my guidance. They trusted me not out of blind loyalty, but because they'd watched me work for decades without a serious misstep.
And the Elders, even the stubborn ones, even Maethor, had chosen to follow me when following meant walking into the unknown with two thousand souls and no guarantee of survival.
That kind of trust, earned over a lifetime, reinforced every single day for decades, didn't make me a tyrant. At least, I hoped it didn't.
That was an enormous advantage. It was also an enormous responsibility. A mortal tyrant's mistakes die with him. Mine would compound forever.
Which was exactly why the Assembly existed. Why the checks existed. Why every safeguard I'd built into this system was designed to restrain not just future Emperors, but me.
Power without accountability was poison. Even for someone with the best of intentions. Especially for someone with the best of intentions.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[That evening. The riverbank]
[Selas POV]
After the council session, I found my old friends gathered by the Taurion. The way we used to sit by the shores of Cuiviénen, centuries ago.
"What I haven't worked out," I said, settling onto a flat stone, "is the state's name."
"Or the city's," Dirmal added. He'd followed me here, tablet in hand. Never truly off duty, that one. "What names should I enter in the Council Chronicle and the Avari Annals?"
A moment of quiet. Then everyone spoke at once.
The argument lasted an hour.
Half the suggestions were terrible. A quarter were decent. A few had real promise.
In the end, we settled on two.
The capital city would be called Avarstad, the City of the Avari. And the state itself would be named Avarderon, the Realm of the Avari.
Avari words for an Avari empire. Not an Eldarin realm. Not a pale imitation of Thingol's Eglador or Círdan's havens. Something entirely our own.
For now, our state amounted to a city-state. An ancient Greek polis, like Athens or Sparta, transposed onto a fantasy world.
But every empire started somewhere. And city-states had a habit of outgrowing their walls.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same evening. Later]
[Third-Person POV]
The debate over symbols came after the names.
"I'll forge the finest crown ever made!" Eol's eyes burned with that particular fire he got when a challenge presented itself. "Something that'll make Thingol's circlet look like a kitchen pot!"
"A crown isn't the right choice," Dirmal said mildly.
Eol's expression suggested he was reconsidering whether archivists were necessary to civilization.
"Why not?" Vertalas asked, moving a chess piece without looking.
"Because crowns are Eldarin. They carry Eldarin associations. If we're building something distinct, our symbols should be distinct too."
"What about wreaths?"
Every head turned. Mireth had spoken quietly, almost to herself, but the words carried.
"Wreaths?" Eol repeated.
"Think about it." Mireth sat up straighter. "We already use them in wedding ceremonies. The wreath is ours. Part of our tradition. A crown is borrowed. A wreath is earned."
Celestia watched the idea take root around the circle. You could see it happening, the shift from skepticism to consideration to enthusiasm, passing from face to face like a wave.
"A wreath forged in metal," Eol said slowly. The fire in his eyes changed quality. Not the competitive blaze of outdoing others, but the deeper glow of genuine inspiration. "Shaped like living branches. Leaves. But in silver and gold."
"Two wreaths," Selas said. "One for the Emperor. One for the Empress."
"Why two?" Vertalas glanced up from his game.
"Because the Vaeratar doesn't rule alone," Balga said, rolling her eyes. "Honestly."
Celestia caught Mireth's eye across the circle. They shared a look. The same look, the same thought, arriving at the same moment.
One particular golden-haired Quendi came to mind. Recently made Avari. Currently tending a magical tree. Frequently casting glances at their Chief when she thought no one was watching.
And he says he hasn't chosen an Empress yet, Celestia thought. Sure. And wolves can't hunt.
Eol was already questioning Selas about the wreaths' design, his mind racing ahead to materials and techniques, the practical magic of turning raw metal into something worthy of an empire's aspirations.
When the group finally broke apart for the night, the stars overhead were thick and brilliant, and Celestia walked back to camp with Mireth beside her.
"He's going to marry her," Mireth said.
"Obviously."
"Think she knows?"
"She knows what she wants. Whether she knows she'll get it?" A shrug. "Selas works on his own schedule. Always has."
"Men," Mireth sighed.
"Men," Celestia agreed.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Weeks later. The Council of Elders session]
[Selas POV]
The Elders debated everything.
The governmental structure. The succession rules. The land policy. The provincial system. The judicial framework. The names, the symbols, the wording of every clause in every document.
While they argued, the work continued.
The Taurion's banks were lined with stone now, the river widened and deepened into a proper waterway. The moats around the central squares held water, dark and still and deep enough to drown a horse. The canal to the Gelion was taking shape, meter by agonizing meter.
Temeryl's builders had finished the stone embankments along the river and begun laying foundations for the sewage system.
And the Tree had grown.
Not just grown. Surged. Whatever combination of gold and silver Light and Cuiviénen's waters lived in that acorn had produced something extraordinary.
The sapling was now taller than a house, its trunk straight and pale, its leaves catching starlight with a faint luminescence that made the surrounding forest look dim by comparison.
The Avari treated it like a shrine. Families visited to pour small amounts of their own Light into its roots. Children played beneath its spreading branches. Ilvëa tended it daily, and under her care and the farmers' attention, it grew faster than any tree had a right to grow.
It was beautiful. And more than beautiful, it was becoming the heart of what we were building. The living center around which everything else would take shape.
Finally, after weeks of deliberation, the Elders reached consensus.
On every point.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[The formal session. The State Assembly chamber]
[Dirmal POV]
Dirmal Falireël stood before the joint session of the Imperial Council and the newly formed State Assembly, his assistants flanking him with a pair of thick, leather-bound volumes held high.
He'd spent more hours on these two volumes than on anything else in his life. More than the maps of the March. More than the archives of Cuiviénen. More than the census records and genealogies and trade accounts and military dispatches that filled three wagons and now occupied an entire wing of the new archive building.
"Honored Councilors and Assemblymen," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the stone chamber. "The first editions of the Law Code and the Book of Rights are ready for formal adoption."
He paused. Let the moment breathe.
"These texts represent the collective will of the Avari people. Every clause was debated. Every word was chosen with care. They are not perfect. They will require amendment and expansion as our state grows. But they establish the foundation upon which everything else will be built."
The applause was immediate and genuine.
Selas, sitting in the Emperor's chair at the head of the chamber, caught Dirmal's eye and gave a small nod.
Dirmal knew that nod. It meant: good work, and also, now comes the hard part.
He suppressed a sigh.
The Vaeratar was right, of course. These foundational laws were only the beginning. The judicial system alone would require volumes of procedural law. The tax code was still a sketch. Commercial regulations, military law, diplomatic protocols, all of it still to come.
But for today, this was enough.
Two books. Two pillars.
The first laws of the Avari Empire.
Dirmal allowed himself a moment of quiet pride. Then he returned to his desk, picked up his quill, and began outlining the next document.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same period. The naming of symbols]
[Selas POV]
The Avari chose a Golden Tree on a white field as the imperial banner of Avarderon.
{image: banner of Avarderon}
It made sense. The Tree had become sacred to our people, a living connection to Cuiviénen and to the mingled Light that sustained us all.
The three loops at the base of the design, resembling seeds, represented the three original kindreds from which the Avari had sprung: Lindar, Tatyar, and now, with Ilvëa's admission, Vanyar.
The banner also symbolized our reverence for nature. We were Quendi, guardians of the living world. The Golden Tree was a reminder and a promise.
For my personal and dynastic banner, I chose a Silver Phoenix on a field of blue and gold. The blue for the Lindar. The gold for the Vanyar. And the Phoenix…
{image: dynastic banner}
Well.
A symbol of rebirth. Of something that burns and rises again, different and stronger.
The Avari assumed it represented our people's journey. The destruction of Cuiviénen, the fire of the exodus, the rebirth in Beleriand.
They weren't wrong. It did represent all of that.
It also represented something else entirely. Something I would never explain.
Eol noted with a craftsman's eye that the Phoenix's silhouette mirrored the Tree's. Tail as roots, body as trunk, wings as branches, feathers as leaves, head as crown.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[End of Chapter 13]
GLOSSARY
For those who wish to delve deeper.
GOVERNANCE
Vaeratar — "Emperor" in Avarin. Sovereign ruler of the Avari Empire. Deliberately distinct from the Eldarin "aran" (king).
Vaeratari — "Empress" in Avarin. Holds formal authority and governs alongside the Emperor.
Imperial Council (formerly Executive Council) — Expanded royal advisory body. Councilors manage domains and implement imperial policy.
State Assembly (formerly Council of Elders) — Legislative body of elected representatives (Assemblymen). Counterbalances imperial authority. The Emperor retains absolute veto power.
Udel — Province or administrative district, centered on a fortress or city.
Governor — Elected civilian administrator of an Udel.
Steward — Imperial appointee monitoring each Governor. The Emperor's eyes and ears.
Commandant — Military officer appointed by the Emperor to command fortresses. Separate from civilian governance.
State land ownership — All land belongs to the Empire. Individuals hold inheritable usage rights, but no one privately owns territory. Prevents feudal power concentration.
LEGAL FOUNDATIONS
The Law Code — Criminal and civil law of the Empire.
The Book of Rights — Charter of citizen rights and duties. Functions as a constitution.
PLACES
Avarderon — "Realm of the Avari." Official name of the state.
Avarstad — "City of the Avari." The capital.
SYMBOLS
The Golden Tree Banner — Imperial flag: golden tree on a white field, three seed-loops at the base representing the three kindreds (Lindar, Tatyar, Vanyar).
The Silver Phoenix Banner — Dynastic banner of Selas's house: silver phoenix on blue-and-gold field. Phoenix silhouette mirrors the Tree. Symbolizes rebirth.
Wreaths of Office — Forged metal wreaths shaped like living branches, replacing Eldarin crowns. One for the Emperor, one for the Empress.