The messenger arrived at dawn.
Matthias stood in his command tent, reviewing supply reports from the recently concluded campaign. The Eastern Marches were secured, the rebel forces scattered, another victory added to his unbroken record. He was already planning the return to the capital, to report his success to Emperor Adrian.
Then the messenger stumbled through the tent flap, travel-stained and exhausted, and thrust a sealed letter into his hands.
The imperial seal. Black wax instead of red.
Matthias felt something cold settle in his stomach even before he broke the seal.
The words swam before his eyes.
Emperor Adrian is dead. Crown Prince Adrian the Younger is dead. Drowned when their ship foundered in a storm. Prince Lucian ascends to the throne as Emperor Lucian the First. All generals are commanded to return to the capital immediately to pledge their loyalty to the new Emperor.
The letter slipped from Matthias’s fingers.
Adrian. Dead. The Emperor who’d valued him, who’d promised him partnership when he took the throne, who’d understood the burden of command and the weight of responsibility.
Gone.
And in his place…
Lucian.
Prince Lucian, who’d hated Matthias since childhood. Who’d sneered at his tactical brilliance, resented his success, nursed decades of accumulated grievances. The second son who should never have ruled, who’d spent his entire life in the shadow of his brother and his father.
Now Emperor.
Matthias felt his hands begin to shake. He pressed them flat against the table, forcing them still through sheer will.
Lucian would kill him. Of course he would. The new Emperor’s first act would be to eliminate the man who’d overshadowed him their entire lives, who represented everything Lucian had failed to be, who commanded the loyalty of armies that should bow to the throne.
Matthias had served faithfully. Had been loyal to Emperor Adrian, to Crown Prince Adrian, to the Empire itself. But none of that would matter to Lucian. Only the hatred mattered. Only the decades of humiliation and resentment.
The General closed his eyes, took a breath, then opened them again.
He would return to the capital. Would face whatever awaited him there. Because that was what duty demanded, even when duty led to execution.
“Lieutenant Marcus,” he called out.
His second-in-command entered immediately. “Sir?”
“Assemble the men. We ride for the capital within the hour.”
Marcus’s face paled slightly—he’d clearly heard the news. “Sir, perhaps we should—”
“We ride for the capital,” Matthias repeated, his voice flat. “That is an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
The journey took two weeks.
Matthias rode in silence, his face an expressionless mask. His personal guard surrounded him—twenty loyal soldiers who’d fought at his side for years. Behind them, a larger contingent of troops, the vanguard of his victorious army.
They could see it in his posture, in the rigid set of his shoulders. Their beloved General was riding to his death, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.
On the tenth day, Lieutenant Marcus rode up beside him.
“Sir.” His voice was quiet, urgent. “The men are talking. They’re loyal to you. If you gave the word—”
“No.” Matthias didn’t look at him. “We serve the Empire. Whoever sits on the throne.”
“But sir, Emperor Lucian—”
“Is the rightful Emperor.” Matthias’s voice was hard. “We will not discuss this again.”
Marcus fell back, defeated.
Matthias continued riding, his mind empty of everything except the steady rhythm of his horse’s hooves and the certainty of what awaited him.
Death. Finally. After eighteen years of war, after countless battles survived, after victories too numerous to count—he would die not on a battlefield but on his knees before an Emperor who hated him.
There was something almost fitting about it.
They reached the capital at midday on the fourteenth day.
The city gates stood open, but no crowds gathered to greet the victorious general. The streets were eerily quiet as Matthias rode through them, his army following in disciplined columns.
People watched from windows and doorways, their faces pale and frightened. They knew. Everyone knew. The Undefeated General was returning to a new Emperor who had every reason to want him dead.
The silence was oppressive. No cheers. No celebration. Just the sound of horses’ hooves on cobblestones and the terrible weight of anticipation.
The palace came into view. Its gates stood open.
Matthias rode through into the courtyard, and his breath caught.
The space was empty. No assembled court. No celebrating nobles. No guards or officials.
Just empty stone, echoing with the sound of his army filling the space behind him.
And at the top of the palace steps, standing completely alone, was Emperor Lucian.
The new Emperor wore the full imperial regalia—robes of midnight blue and gold, the crown upon his head gleaming in the afternoon sun. But no guards flanked him. No advisors stood ready. He was utterly, completely alone.
Waiting.
Matthias dismounted slowly. His hand moved to his sword without conscious thought, years of training making the motion automatic.
He looked up at Lucian, and their eyes met across the distance.
The Emperor’s face was stone. Cold. Impassive. But underneath—Matthias could see it, even from here—something burned. Anger. Old hatred, finally given the power to act.
This was it. The moment Lucian had waited for his entire life.
The moment he could finally destroy Matthias Corvain.
Matthias drew his sword. The rasp of steel echoed in the silent courtyard.
Behind him, his men tensed. Someone—Marcus, probably—drew breath as if to speak, to protest.
But Matthias was already moving, beginning the long climb up those steps. Each footfall was steady, measured. The sword hung loose in his right hand.
He didn’t look away from Lucian. Couldn’t look away. The Emperor’s gaze held his, cold and burning at once, that stone mask barely containing decades of accumulated rage.
Step by step, Matthias climbed.
This was how it would end. Not in battle. Not in glory. But here, on these steps, before an Emperor who had every reason and every right to kill him.
He reached the top.
Stood face to face with Lucian, close enough to see the ice in those eyes, close enough to see the slight tension in the Emperor’s jaw. Close enough to strike, if he’d wanted to.
But he didn’t.
Matthias reversed the sword, catching the blade with his left hand. Then he dropped to his knees, the movement sharp and final. His head bowed. The sword extended across both palms, hilt toward the Emperor.
An offering. A surrender.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” his voice was flat, empty. “I am yours to command.”
Lucian’s hand closed around the hilt.
The Emperor drew the sword from Matthias’s grasp and raised it. The blade caught the sunlight, gleaming as it moved to rest against Matthias’s bowed neck.
Cold steel pressed against his skin.
The courtyard was absolutely silent. Even breathing seemed too loud.
Then Lucian spoke, his voice soft and carrying: “Are you prepared to die, General Corvain?”
Matthias closed his eyes.
He’d known. Had known from the moment he read that letter. Had known through every mile of the journey back. Had known climbing these steps with the sword in his hand.
This was always how it would end.
“If Your Majesty commands it,” he said quietly. Resignation. Acceptance. Not even fear anymore, just the hollow certainty of a man facing his inevitable end.
The blade pressed slightly harder against his neck.
Matthias waited for the cut. For the pain. For the darkness.
Instead, Lucian’s voice came again, still soft, almost conversational: “My brother trusted you. My father valued you. The Empire has relied on you for eighteen years.”
A pause.
“Tell me, General. In all that time, did you ever once consider taking the throne for yourself?”
The question hung in the air.
Matthias opened his eyes, though he didn’t raise his head, couldn’t see anything except the stone beneath his knees.
“No, Your Majesty.” His voice was hoarse. “Never.”
“Not even when you commanded armies that would follow you anywhere? Not even when you were more loved by the soldiers than any Emperor?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Why not?”
The blade remained steady against his neck. This was it—the final conversation before the execution. Lucian wanted to understand before he killed him.
Matthias took a slow breath. “Because I am a servant of the Empire. Not its master. I was given a gift for strategy, for war. That gift was meant to protect the realm, not to seize it.”
Truth. Simple, unadorned truth. It was all he had left to give.
“And if I let you live,” Lucian said softly. “If I gave you command again. Sent you to win more wars, gave you more power, more influence. Would you remain loyal to me? To an Emperor you believe hates you?”
Matthias felt something twist in his chest. “Your Majesty has every right to hate me. I know I have—” His voice caught. “I know I humiliated you. When we were children, when my abilities overshadowed yours. I never meant to, but that doesn’t change what happened. You have every reason to want me dead.”
Silence.
Then: “That wasn’t my question, General.”
The blade lifted slightly from his neck, though it remained close. Waiting.
Matthias swallowed hard. “Yes. I would remain loyal. Even to an Emperor who hates me. Because loyalty is not conditional on being liked. It is duty. Honor. Service.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then the sword withdrew completely.
“Look at me.”
Matthias raised his head slowly, finally meeting Lucian’s eyes.
The Emperor stood over him, the sword still in his hand, his face still stone. But something in his gaze had shifted—something Matthias couldn’t quite name.
“I don’t hate you, General Corvain,” Lucian said quietly. “I never did.”
The words made no sense. Matthias stared at him, confusion breaking through the resignation.
Lucian’s lips curved into that small, satisfied smile—the one Matthias remembered from childhood, the one that always meant the prince had gotten exactly what he wanted.
“I resented you, yes. Envied your gifts. Found it galling to always come second to the common-born prodigy.” The Emperor’s voice was conversational now, almost casual. “But hate? No. Hate would imply I wanted you destroyed. What I wanted was for you to finally see me as more than the inadequate prince you’d spent your life outshining.”
He reversed the sword, offering the hilt back to Matthias.
“Rise, General. You have proven your loyalty beyond any doubt. Now prove your service. The Empire still needs its Undefeated General.”
Matthias remained kneeling, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. This wasn’t execution. Wasn’t even punishment.
This was…
“Take the sword,” Lucian said. Not a command. Almost… an invitation.
Slowly, Matthias reached up and closed his hand around the familiar hilt. He stood on trembling legs, the sword heavy in his grip.
Lucian was watching him with that same unreadable expression, that small smile still playing at his lips.
“You thought I brought you here to kill you,” the Emperor said. “You were prepared to die. Didn’t even try to save yourself, to use your army’s loyalty to resist. You simply… submitted.”
He paused.
“That, General Corvain, is exactly why you will live. Because a man who would kneel before an Emperor he believes wants him dead, who would accept execution without resistance rather than plunge the Empire into civil war—that is a man I can trust absolutely.”
Understanding crashed over Matthias like a wave.
This had been a test.
Not the campaign. Not the victories. This. This moment. Returning to an Emperor he believed would kill him, surrendering his sword, accepting death—all of it had been the final, absolute proof of his loyalty.
And Lucian had known. Had planned it. Had stood here alone and unguarded, waiting to see what Matthias would choose.
Rebellion or submission.
Life or duty.
The sword in his hand felt impossibly heavy.
“I—” His voice cracked. “Your Majesty, I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Lucian said simply. Then he raised his voice, addressing the silent courtyard: “General Matthias Corvain has proven his loyalty to the Empire and to the throne! He will continue to serve as my foremost military commander. Let all who witness know—those who serve faithfully will be honored, regardless of past grievances or childhood jealousies!”
The courtyard erupted. Cheers from his army, relief from the watching crowds beyond the gates. The tension that had gripped the capital for two weeks shattered like glass.
But Matthias barely heard it.
He was looking at Lucian—at the Emperor who’d let him believe he would die, who’d played on his fears and his guilt, who’d manipulated him into proving his loyalty in the most absolute way possible.
It was brilliant. Cruel. Necessary.
And Matthias understood, with sudden clarity, that he’d been wrong about Lucian his entire life.
The Emperor gestured for silence, and the courtyard slowly quieted. Then he looked at Matthias, and spoke loud enough for all to hear:
“You have served three Emperors, General Corvain. My grandfather, my father, my brother. Now you will serve me. Not because you must. But because you choose to.”
He paused, and his voice dropped slightly, meant more for Matthias than the crowd:
“Do you so choose?”
Matthias looked at the Emperor—really looked at him, perhaps for the first time. Saw the intelligence in those eyes, the calculation, the absolute control. Saw the man who’d orchestrated this entire scene to get exactly what he wanted: not just Matthias’s obedience, but his willing loyalty.
And Matthias realized he did choose it.
Not out of duty alone. Not out of fear. But because this Emperor—this brilliant, ruthless, strategic Emperor—was worthy of service.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Matthias said, his voice steady now. “I choose it. Today and always.”
Lucian smiled—genuinely this time, not that small satisfied curve but something warmer.
“Good,” he said simply. “Then welcome home, General. The Empire has need of you.”
He turned and walked into the palace, leaving Matthias standing at the top of the steps, sword in hand, surrounded by cheering soldiers and a city that had just witnessed something they didn’t quite understand.
A General who’d come prepared to die.
And an Emperor who’d let him think he would, just to prove a point.
Matthias looked down at the sword in his hand—his sword, returned to him, earned through the most absolute demonstration of loyalty he could have given.
And for the first time since reading that terrible letter two weeks ago, he felt something other than resignation.
He felt alive.
Emperor Lucian had tested him, manipulated him, played on his fears and his guilt—and proven that underneath all the strategic brilliance, all the military genius, all the victories and accolades, Matthias Corvain was simply, absolutely loyal.
Not to power. Not to glory. Not even to his own survival.
But to the Empire. And to the Emperor who now ruled it.
He sheathed his sword and descended the steps to join his men, feeling their relief and joy wash over him.
The test was over.
And Matthias had passed in ways he hadn’t even known he was being tested.
Above, in the palace, Emperor Lucian watched from a window, that small satisfied smile once again on his lips.
Everything had gone exactly as planned.