The morning following the "Feast of Crows" brought a silence to the capital of Argentine that was heavier than any riot. The ash from the Cathedral of the Dragon God still hung in the air like a gray, suffocating shroud, tasting of burnt incense, expensive silk, and the copper tang of spilled imperial blood. Livius sat by the arched window of the clock tower, his silhouette framed by the gears of the massive timepiece that overlooked the city. He watched the sun creep over the jagged horizon, its light struggling to pierce the smog of a city that had spent the night tearing its own heart out.
He wasn't wearing his royal finery or his vigilante mask; he was simply a young man in a plain, cream-colored shirt of common linen. His black hair, usually kept neat by magic, was messy, and his golden eyes reflected the cold, indifferent dawn. In his hand, he held the silver locket containing his grandmother's ashes. The metal was cold against his palm, a reminder of the only warmth he had ever known in the North Wing. He realized then that the world he had known—the world of hiding in shadows and dodging the cruel laughter of his siblings—was officially dead.
The siblings who had occupied his nightmares were now just stories. Alaric, the arrogant; Kaelen, the butcher; Isabella, the viper. They were reduced to stains on a cathedral floor. Livius felt a strange, hollow ache in his chest. It wasn't grief, for there was no love in the Argentine bloodline, but rather the sudden, crushing weight of being the last. He was no longer just a ghost; he was the only living memory of a dynasty.
"You're brooding again. It's a bad habit for a future emperor," Cian said, entering the room. The floorboards creaked under the weight of the massive stack of ledgers he carried. He set two steaming mugs of bitter chicory root on the table, the scent earthy and sharp. Cian didn't wait for a response; he immediately began spreading out a map of the Northern Territories, pinning it down with heavy brass weights.
"The Duchy of Ironspire has already declared a state of 'Protectorate Emergency,'" Cian noted, his quill scratching across a notepad as he spoke. "Duke Valerius of Ironspire is a clever rat. He's claiming that since the capital is in chaos and no heir has stepped forward to take the Blood Oath, he has the 'divine obligation' to secure the northern mines and collect taxes in his own name. He's essentially carving out a kingdom while we're still scrubbing the blood off the throne room floor."
Livius took a sip of the bitter brew, letting the heat ground him. "Valerius is a parasite disguised as a patriot. He was the one who funded Kaelen's Cinder-Knights, hoping that Kaelen would win and leave him to rule the North as a semi-independent king. He doesn't want order, Cian. He wants a vacuum so he can expand his borders."
"Which is why he's our primary objective," Cian said, his eyes sharp behind his spectacles. "The commoners in the capital whisper your name because you gave them bread. But the nobles in the provinces... they need to feel your hand on their throats. They think the 'Ghost' is a local phenomenon, a spirit of the slums. We need to show them that the Ghost has a reach that spans the entire empire."
Livius stood, walking over to the map. His finger traced the jagged mountain ranges of Ironspire. "I've spent a decade reading the ancient geological surveys in Vaelin's library. Ironspire isn't just a fortress; it's built directly atop a 'Dragon's Pulse'—a primary mana vein that regulates the fertility of the northern plains. Valerius has been using forbidden siphoning arrays to draw that mana into his private armory. It's why the northern harvests have failed three years in a row. He's starving his people to power his ambition."
He closed his eyes, extending his senses. Even miles away, the dragon blood in his veins thrummed in sympathy with the planet's magic. He could feel the North crying out, a muffled throb of pain from the earth itself. "I won't just take his gold, Cian. I'm going to unmake the very foundation of his power. I'm going to show the empire what happens when a mortal tries to hoard the breath of a god."