The throne room had been transformed.
Where there had usually been an empty, crushing space meant to remind all of the absolute power of the imperial seat, long tables now stood, draped in dark tablecloths. Richly carved chairs were aligned with almost excessive care. Food overflowed everywhere: still-steaming roasted meats, platters of rare fruits, spiced breads, thick sauces in deep, vivid hues. Carafes of dark glass held a light, refined alcohol, chosen to please without dulling the senses.
Around the tables, demons laughed, spoke loudly, and ate without restraint.
Conversations blended into a lively, almost cheerful din. Barons joked with generals, nobles raised their glasses, and even some high dignitaries allowed themselves an unusual degree of relaxation.
A banquet, yes.
But a banquet under watch.
For near the dais, right at the foot of the throne, stood a table unlike the others. Shorter. More austere. And above all… closer to power. Four chairs were set there, but only three were occupied.
It was the table of the Archdukes.
Elisabeth, First Vampire of this world, undisputed leader of the Night Clan and regent of the northern region of the Empire, occupied one of the seats. She embodied the dark nobility of violet itself: her long hair of that deep shade cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face of cold, controlled beauty. Her piercing violet eyes surveyed the room with barely concealed amusement.
She wore a dark violet corseted gown, fitted to an extreme degree, its plunging neckline pressing her chest against the rigid fabric. The ensemble was neither vulgar nor discreet—it was calculated. A demonstration of absolute control.
She slowly unfolded her fan, its sharp snap briefly drawing attention, then spoke in a soft voice… far too soft.
"What is the meaning of this situation?" she asked. "Why would Ophar go to such lengths to organize a banquet in this place?"
Her gaze swept over the hall, then returned to the table.
She disliked not knowing.
The answer came from a very different presence.
Agram.
The other Archduke seated at the table had neither visible face nor flesh. A full suit of armor occupied the chair, massive and motionless. Fine cracks ran through the dark metal, from which seeped an unhealthy glow—black mingled with red—as though something were breathing behind the plating.
No one truly knew what the armor contained.
No one… except those seated at that table.
Regent of the southern region of the Empire, the one bordering human lands, Agram inclined his helmet very slightly toward Elisabeth before answering in a muffled, metallic, perfectly calm voice.
"Be a little patient, will you. We will know soon enough. Ophar is not the sort to shake the pillars of the Empire on a whim."
Elisabeth's fan snapped shut abruptly.
A simple, muffled tchhh… escaped from behind the fabric. Nothing more. Yet the irritation was obvious.
The third presence had still not reacted.
Seated in the remaining chair was Nerhya, the witch.
The last of the four demonic Archdukes.
Leader of the Dream Clan.
She appeared to be a woman in her thirties. White hair fell carelessly around a face with fine, almost delicate features. At first glance, nothing seemed unusual… until one met her gaze.
Her eyes sometimes changed color, imperceptibly.
As if something were dreaming behind them.
Slouched in her chair, her back slightly hunched, Nerhya seemed half asleep. Her gaze wandered without settling on anyone. She was not truly listening. If she had come, it was not out of desire. It was an obligation. Those close to her had forced her to attend, and she already regretted it.
The atmosphere at the table slowly cooled.
The absence of the final Archduke—Ophar—hung heavily over them. As though the hall itself were waiting for his presence to regain its balance.
Then…
The massive doors of the throne room slowly opened.
The dull sound of metal echoed beneath the vaults, spreading between the tables like a cold wave. Little by little, the laughter died out. Conversations faded on their own, without any order being given. Tankards remained suspended for a moment before being set down again, almost timidly.
The change was not sudden, but it was total.
From the youngest baron to the oldest Archduke, all recognized that particular silence. The kind born neither of surprise nor of immediate fear, but of the certainty that something important had just begun.
Something had entered.
What stood in the doorway was neither a mythical creature nor a divine entity, but a woman. A woman with long, smooth white hair, with icy blue eyes too pale to belong to an ordinary demon. Two understated, perfectly symmetrical horns rose from her head without ostentation. In her right hand, she held a katana that everyone recognized instantly.
Tenkōsetsu.
Behind her walked Lily, only a few steps back, silent and attentive. Yet no gaze rested on the child.
The Empress advanced.
With each of her steps, a thin filament of ice spread across the stone floor, tracing behind her a pale, irrevocable path. A silent reminder of what she was. The sound of her heels echoed clearly beneath the vaulted ceiling, the only audible noise in a space now frozen in place.
No one spoke.
Even the proudest clan leaders remained motionless. Even the Archdukes watched without a word. All eyes followed the woman's progress, aware they were witnessing something that went far beyond a mere banquet or political summons.
She walked with absolute dignity, her gaze straight ahead, seeking neither to impress nor to persuade. She did not walk to claim the throne. She walked because it already belonged to her.
When she reached the foot of the steps, she did not slow.
Her footsteps rang even more sharply as she began to ascend them.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
With each step she climbed, ice spread beneath her heels, freezing the ancient stone. The dry, regular sound struck the mind with silent violence. She felt the stares fixed upon her, the restrained tension, the fear mixed with an almost irresistible fascination. She did not need to look at them to know what they felt.
They are looking for a justification, she thought coldly.
They will not have one.
Reaching the throne, she stopped, then slowly turned toward the assembly. The entire hall lay before her gaze: frozen regents, lords unable to look away, demons who understood, at that precise instant, that this moment would mark the history of the Empire.
She raised her right hand and set the katana upright, its blade resting against the frozen floor. Her left hand came to rest above the guard in a perfectly controlled gesture. When she spoke, her voice was clear, calm, devoid of any unnecessary emphasis.
"I, Anastasia Valen Keral Morne. Homunculus, created from the First Heroine and the last Demon King. Bearer of the divine weapon Tenkōsetsu."
She paused briefly, allowing her words to impose themselves.
"Here, before you, regents of the Empire, I proclaim myself Demonic Empress."
The silence that followed was heavy, almost crushing.
Without waiting for any reaction, Anastasia turned away. She climbed the final steps and sat upon the luxurious throne with a natural, almost haughty ease, lightly crossing her legs as the katana came to rest against the armrest. From that elevated position, her gaze settled upon the entire assembly.
Not out of arrogance.
But because it was now her place.
The first to rise was Agram.
The movement, simple as it was, sent a wave of silent shock through the hall. The massive armor slowly straightened, the dark red glow filtering from within its joints seeming to pulse more intensely for a moment. Then, without the slightest hesitation, without any visible calculation, Agram did something he had not done in centuries.
He knelt.
A heavy hand struck the frozen floor, metal resounding dully through the throne room. His head bowed deeply, helmet pointed toward the icy stone, in a gesture of total submission, devoid of any theatrics.
His voice, muffled by the armor, nonetheless rose with implacable force.
"Glory to the Empress, Anastasia Valen Keral Morne."
The silence that followed was brief.
Then something broke.
The demons, still frozen by surprise, began to move. One by one, they rose in turn. Chairs scraped against the floor. Cloaks slid from shoulders. Dead conversations did not resume. Instead, a coordinated, almost instinctive movement swept through the hall.
They knelt.
Barons, generals, clan leaders, high dignitaries. The hundred demons present—the absolute elite of the Empire—fell to their knees before the throne. Not one remained standing. Not one dared to hesitate. All recognized, in that precise instant, the legitimacy of the one who stood above them.
The rightful heir to the throne.
The one who would lead the demons into a new era.
And their voices rose.
"Glory to the Empress, Anastasia Valen Keral Morne!"
The cry repeated again and again, filling the hall, echoing beneath the frozen vaults, carried by a raw, almost religious fervor. The floor vibrated beneath the unison of that collective submission, as though the Empire itself were bending the knee.
Then, little by little, the tumult faded.
The hall returned to absolute silence.
All were kneeling.
Heads bowed.
Bodies frozen.
On the throne, Anastasia watched.
A smile slowly stretched across her lips, a smile she did not even try to hide. It was neither cruel nor triumphant. It was twisted by something deeper: a cold, lucid, almost intimate satisfaction. She savored every second of this authority expressed without constraint, of this power born neither of brute force nor of immediate fear, but of belief.
So this is what they wanted to create, she thought.
A wish… and a faith.
She felt that adoration flow toward her, strengthen her, legitimize her. Not because she demanded it, but because they needed it. The fallen Demon King's wish was finally taking shape.
Then she spoke.
Her voice cut through the silence without crushing it, steady, almost gentle.
"If anyone opposes this," she said calmly, "I will hear them. I will inflict no punishment."
Words imbued with an almost angelic compassion.
But behind that apparent softness lay an icy certainty. She was not offering a chance. She was stating a fact.
No one spoke.
In an atmosphere where even the Archdukes and the leaders of the seven great clans had acknowledged her authority, who would have been mad enough to oppose her? Who would have dared shatter this moment, this silent consensus sealed by faith and mingled fear?
Anastasia let a few more seconds pass, deliberately prolonging the spectacle. Her smile remained, discreet but unapologetic. Then she spoke again, in an almost familiar tone.
"Then so be it. Sit down. This night will be long. We have much to discuss."
Only then did the demons rise. They returned to their respective places, the same chairs, the same tables as before her arrival. Yet nothing was the same. The atmosphere had changed. Lightness had vanished, replaced by a respectful tension, heavy with promises and fears.
The Empire had accepted its Empress.
And Anastasia fully intended to show them what that meant.