Anastasia, seated upright upon the throne, allowed a few more seconds to pass before speaking again, aware that every announcement had to unfold within a perfectly controlled framework.
"My coronation will take place in one month, to the day, on April twenty-third. On that date, a new era will officially begin for the entire Empire."
Her voice was steady, devoid of emphasis, yet the decision was irrevocable. By tradition, each ascension of a Demon King inaugurated a new era; she was not breaking with that rule—she was claiming it. This coronation would not be a mere symbolic formality, but the founding act of a structured reign.
She continued without raising her tone.
"We will enter the First Valen Era. On that occasion, I will establish a new tradition: the Imperial Festival, an annual celebration of the Empire and its authority, held across three distinct days."
Several glances crossed the tables. Elisabeth slowly closed her fan, attentive; Agram remained motionless, yet the faint glow filtering through his armor betrayed his interest; Nerhya slightly lifted her head, emerging from her apparent torpor.
"The first day will be devoted to demonstrations of power—displays of strength and grand parades. The second will be dedicated to games, allowing clans and regions to compete within a regulated framework. The third, finally, will honor the Empire's wealth—its production, its trade, and its prosperity. Each edition will differ, but all will remind the world of the same truth: the Empire's stability rests upon strength, order, and abundance."
A murmur passed through the assembly, thoughtful rather than anxious. Anastasia let it settle before adding:
"To ensure that every region benefits, the Festival will follow a four-year rotation. It will begin here, in the capital. The following year, it will be held in Dravenholde, in the north; then in Eldrakhar, in the south; and finally in Tharvélion, along the eastern coast. The cycle will then repeat."
At these words, Elisabeth allowed herself a faint smile, fully aware of the prestige the north would gain; Agram inclined his helm almost imperceptibly; Nerhya was already contemplating the political implications of such a gathering.
"The details of future editions will be discussed later. Tonight, I establish its foundation."
The murmur gradually subsided. No one openly objected. Anastasia observed the assembly with quiet lucidity: she was not merely imposing authority—she was structuring it across time.
"Thus shall the Valen Era begin," she concluded calmly. "An era where power will be visible, order unquestionable, and the Empire's grandeur shared by all."
The murmurs continued, stronger now. Some nobles leaned toward their neighbors; others sat perfectly straight, attention sharpened. All understood that the festival announcement was merely a prelude to something greater. Eyes met. Calculations formed. Beneath the regents' habitual caution, a feverish curiosity was taking root.
Anastasia raised her hand.
Silence fell without resistance.
She did not speak immediately. She allowed the gazes to return to her, to anchor themselves upon her motionless silhouette. Then she slowly crossed her legs, her fingers resting upon the throne's armrest as though still refining her wording.
"If I speak to you of these festivals," she said at last, "it is not to adorn my reign with an elegant tradition politely mentioned in the chronicles. Nor is it to flatter your need for display, or to give each region the illusion of a carefully maintained balance."
She rose.
The movement was fluid, almost unsettling in its smoothness. Yet the instant her feet left the throne, a subtle shift passed through the air. Her gaze had changed. It no longer merely dominated—it dissected. Her pupils seemed wider, darker, as though something within her had drawn closer to the surface.
"I speak of this because the Empire, despite its strength, has grown stagnant. It has settled into a comfortable, acceptable, reasonable stability… and that reasonableness has slowly stripped you of what defined your very nature."
She descended one step.
Beneath her heel, the stone frosted over with a delicate layer of ice, spreading in translucent filaments along the seams of the floor. The temperature dropped by a degree, then another—so subtly that only the most sensitive noticed at once.
"You are beings who live at least a hundred years—sometimes a thousand. You have crossed entire eras. You have watched continents reshape themselves. And yet, in these recent centuries, what have you done with that longevity?"
She tilted her head slightly.
The gesture, simple in appearance, carried something predatory. Her gaze lingered upon several regents in turn, as though weighing their individual worth.
"You have consolidated. You have managed. You have administered. You have avoided unnecessary losses, limited risks, preferred balance over momentum."
A darker smile appeared.
It was not broad, but it was real—and it revealed a cold satisfaction in stating the truth.
"You have survived."
She paused.
"But you have not lived."
The shiver that passed through the hall came not from her words alone. A frigid breath slid along the columns, stirring the banners. Several nobles instinctively straightened, their own mana activating reflexively to regulate their body temperature.
She descended further, reaching the level of the first tables, and her voice grew denser.
Around her, bluish filaments began to appear—at first mere reflections in the air, then true luminous trails, thin and unstable, winding around her arms and shoulders.
"The Empire's sickness is not a lack of wealth. It is not a lack of soldiers. It is not even human hostility. The Empire's sickness is boredom—and boredom is a disease that erodes civilizations more surely than defeat."
Her fingers slowly closed, almost delicately, as though crushing something invisible between her palms.
At that exact moment, a sharp crack echoed—the nearest table had split under the invisible pressure of the surrounding mana.
"Boredom dulls instinct. It turns strength into routine. It turns domination into administration. It turns predators into bureaucrats."
The mana began to vibrate around her, subtly at first, like tension in the air.
The most powerful in the room immediately felt the growing pressure—a steady force pushing against their own aura. Some widened their magical fields to avoid being crushed; others clenched their jaws, refusing to show weakness.
"I pity you, my dear demons."
The word was not mocking. It was sincere.
Her expression softened briefly—almost compassionate—and that softness unsettled them more than anything else.
"I pity your centuries without true trial. I pity your restrained ambitions. I pity that latent greatness you have allowed to sleep."
Her breathing quickened slightly, almost imperceptibly, and a faint flush colored her cheeks.
It was not anger.
It was excitement.
"But do not misunderstand."
The mana intensified.
Torches flickered violently, their flames shrinking under the sudden cold. A thin layer of frost formed upon several armrests, forcing nobles to withdraw their hands.
"I was not born to preserve this torpor. I am not the product of a Heroine and a Demon King to maintain a cautious equilibrium."
She slowly turned, as though already embracing an unseen horizon.
Her cape lifted faintly in a wind that did not exist, and the blue filaments thickened into spirals, swirling around her like a contained storm.
"You want power? I will not give you symbolic displays. I will give you conflicts that test your limits. You want glory? I will not offer you additional titles. I will give you battles that redefine what it means to survive."
Across the hall, several gazes truly ignited. Fangs bared in uncontrolled smiles. Nails scraped against wood.
"You want wealth? It will come—but not from cautious trade. It will rise from conquered territories, from roads opened by force, from resources torn from those who deem us unworthy."
Her voice lowered.
Without anyone noticing, she had moved closer to the center of the hall. The space around her now seemed subtly distorted, as though reality itself bent beneath the pressure.
"You call yourselves the strongest and freest people in this world. Yet you accept that this world tolerates you at a distance—that it fears you but never acknowledges you as its dominant force."
She stopped.
"That ends now."
The mana exploded outward—violent, glacial—casting blue shards of energy that made the torches reel and forced several nobles to draw upon their own power simply to remain standing.
Some placed a hand upon the table to keep from kneeling. A less seasoned regent felt frost creeping along his boot before reinforcing his aura to repel it.
She briefly closed her eyes.
Around her, the storm intensified, lifting her white hair in an almost unreal halo.
"I do not declare war upon a single human kingdom. That would be too simple. Too limited."
She opened her eyes again.
They shone with unsettling intensity.
They no longer seemed entirely human.
"I declare war upon the balance of the entire world."
Absolute silence.
Even the nobles' mana seemed suspended.
"Upon human kingdoms. Upon elven cities. Upon dwarven fortresses. Upon the clans of beastmen. Upon all who exist while considering us an anomaly to be contained."
Her voice grew almost gentle.
That gentleness clashed with the violence of the cold now filling the hall; thick mist escaped every breath—even from the strongest among them.
"This war will be total. It will ravage entire regions. It will kill by the millions. It will erase bloodlines, redraw maps, shatter balances centuries old."
Her fingers trembled slightly—not with fear, but with exhilaration.
Her lips parted, and her smile took on an almost ecstatic shade.
"It will be long. It will be terrible. It will be magnificent."
Some demons shuddered. Others smiled openly.
A baron let out a brief, stifled laugh, unable to contain the surge of adrenaline. Another, older noble felt an ancient thrill run down his spine.
"For through that destruction, you will reclaim what you have forgotten—the sensation of being fully alive, fully dangerous, fully free."
Mana whirled around her like an uncontrollable tempest, her eyes fixed upon a point none of the others could see.
Cracks of ice spread beneath her feet, forming a complex network across the floor.
"Yes, millions will die. Yes, lands will burn. Yes, seas will turn red."
She drew in a deep breath.
The air around her seemed to be drawn in with it.
"But when this war ends, there will no longer be a world that rejects us. There will remain only a world shaped by us."
The mana contracted violently, rushing back into her as though swallowed by an invisible abyss.
The temperature rose abruptly, leaving frost in its wake—and stunned gazes throughout the hall.
She straightened, perfectly upright.
Her face was calm.
"This is the Valen Era. Not an era of stability. An era of conquest."
Around the hall, the reactions were visceral: some nobles bared their fangs in rapturous grins, fists clenched upon the tables; others, more cautious, wore pale faces but shining eyes; a rare few already understood that this war would also be a merciless internal purge.
Elisabeth smiled, captivated by such unrestrained audacity. Agram vibrated silently, the dark energy within his armor resonating with the promise of carnage. Nerhya observed, half-awake.
And at the center of it all, Anastasia smiled.