A year passed. The civil war had turned the once-beautiful capital into a city of barricades and hunger. The Emperor was officially declared dead, but no one sat on the throne. The crown remained on a velvet cushion in the center of the Throne Room, guarded by the neutral "Guardian Knights" who refused to let any prince touch it until a clear victor emerged.
The First Prince, Alaric, decided to break the stalemate. He organized a "Great Feast" under the guise of a peace summit, inviting his siblings to the neutral grounds of the Cathedral.
Livius, disguised as a cathedral acolyte, moved through the shadows of the rafters. From his vantage point, he could see the tension in the room. Kaelen sat with his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes darting around the room like a caged animal. Isabella, the Second Princess, wore a dress laced with subtle paralytic poisons. Elowen, the Seventh Princess, sat trembling at Alaric's side, playing the role of the loyal puppet.
"They look like children playing with matches in a hayloft," Livius whispered into his communication earring.
"Indeed," Cian's voice crackled back from the Nexus hub. "And you're about to provide the spark. The documents proving Alaric's deal with the Southern Rebels have been placed under the plates of the High Priests. On my mark."
As the First Prince stood to give a toast to "unity," the High Priest reached for his napkin and found a stack of incriminating letters instead. The room went deathly silent as the Priest read the contents—Alaric had promised to cede three Imperial provinces to foreign invaders in exchange for military support.
"Traitor!" Kaelen screamed, his chair flying backward.
The Cathedral erupted into chaos. It wasn't a battle; it was a slaughter. Alaric's guards clashed with Kaelen's knights. Isabella utilized her hidden needles, and the air became thick with the scent of steel and death. Livius watched from above, his heart cold. He saw Alaric shove Elowen into the path of a stray fire spell to save himself. He saw Kaelen laugh as he cleaved through his own siblings.
In that moment, Livius felt the last shred of his attachment to the Argentine name vanish. These were not his family. They were a plague.