The throne room was packed to capacity, nobles pressed shoulder to shoulder, all of them desperate to witness what everyone knew was coming.
The execution of General Matthias Corvain.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat—eager, nervous, terrified whispers.
“He summoned the General back from the border three weeks ago.”
“Personal command. Immediate return.”
“We all know what that means.”
“The Emperor has hated him for years. Everyone knows it.”
“Remember what he did to Count Valerius? Had him flayed for laughing at the wrong moment during a banquet.”
“And Duchess Ferrara—she’s still in the dungeon for failing to bow deeply enough. That was two years ago when he was still just a prince.”
“The General is doomed. The only question is how painful it will be.”
Count Aldric stood near the front, his face pale but his eyes gleaming with morbid fascination. “I heard the Emperor spent three days planning Lord Blackwood’s execution. Three days. For a man whose only crime was winning a card game against him five years ago.”
“The General’s crimes are worse,” someone whispered back. “He’s better than the Emperor at everything. Always has been. Military genius, beloved by the army, praised by the late Emperor himself. Can you imagine how much our new Emperor hates him?”
“This won’t be quick. Mark my words. This will be a spectacle.”
The nobles who dared to stand closer to the throne shifted nervously. No one wanted to be too close—not when Emperor Lucian was in one of his moods. And summoning the General he’d despised for years could only mean one thing.
Emperor Lucian sat on the throne with perfect stillness, his face an expressionless mask. The crown sat on his head with an authority it had lacked in his father’s final years. His eyes were cold, calculating, missing nothing.
Around him, the court remembered.
Remembered Prince Lucian, who’d spent his entire life in the shadow of his brilliant older brother. Who’d been mocked, dismissed, overlooked. Who’d been compared unfavorably to General Corvain since he was a child—”Why can’t you be more like the General? Why can’t you apply yourself like he does?”
Remembered how Prince Lucian had smiled when nobles made those comparisons. How he’d said nothing. How he’d simply… remembered.
And when his father and brother died in that hunting accident, when the crown fell to him, the remembering had begun.
Lord Blackwood, who’d once joked that Lucian couldn’t hit a target if it was painted on his own foot—arrested for treason, tortured for three days, finally executed in the most painful way the executioner could devise.
Count Valerius, who’d laughed when young Prince Lucian had stumbled during a ceremony—flayed alive in the public square.
Duchess Ferrara, who’d failed to show proper deference—rotting in the dungeons, forgotten by all except as a warning.
And those were just the ones people talked about. There were others. So many others. Anyone who’d ever slighted him, mocked him, compared him unfavorably to his brother or to General Corvain—they’d all paid. Some quickly. Some slowly. All of them screaming.
The nobles who’d whispered about deposing him had been the first to go. The ringleaders had died so horribly that no one dared speak of rebellion anymore. Fear kept the court in line now. Terror kept them obedient.
And now, the Emperor had summoned General Corvain.
The General who’d been praised while Lucian was dismissed. The General whom his father had called “the finest military mind in three generations” while Lucian stood ignored in the corner. The General who represented everything Lucian had never been—strong, capable, respected, beloved.
Everyone knew how this would end.
The great doors opened.
A herald’s voice rang out: “General Matthias Corvain, Shield of the Realm, Commander of the Northern Legions!”
The whispers stopped. Every eye turned to watch.
The General entered alone, walking with steady, measured steps. He wore his formal military uniform, the one reserved for court appearances. His sword hung at his hip—the same sword the late Emperor had given him eighteen years ago.
His face was composed, calm. If he knew what awaited him, he showed no fear. No hesitation.
He walked the length of the throne room, through the crowd of nobles who watched him with a mixture of pity and fascination. This was the Undefeated General, the man who’d won every battle, who’d held the borders for eighteen years.
And he was walking to his death.
When he reached the base of the throne dais, he stopped. For a moment, he simply stood there, looking up at the Emperor.
Then he knelt.
Slowly, deliberately, with perfect military precision. He bowed his head until his gaze fixed on the marble floor.
The silence was absolute.
The Emperor looked down at him, his expression unreadable. Cold. Calculating. The face of a man who’d spent years nursing grievances, planning revenges.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. Dangerously soft. The kind of quiet that made everyone in the throne room lean forward to hear.
“Your oath, General.”
The General’s voice was steady, unwavering: “I, Matthias Corvain, do swear by all that is sacred that I am the servant of the throne, the defender of the realm, and the sword of the Emperor. My life is his to command. My loyalty is his by right. My service is his until death takes me or he releases me. This I swear before these witnesses, before the gods, before the Empire itself.”
The oath echoed in the silent hall.
The Emperor’s expression didn’t change. “Your weapons, General. Your insignia. Remove them.”
A ripple went through the crowd. This was it. The symbolic stripping away of rank before the execution. Everyone had seen it before—the Emperor’s favorite ritual before dealing with those who’d offended him.
The General reached for his sword belt without hesitation. Unbuckled it. Laid it carefully on the marble floor before him. Then his hands went to his shoulders, removing the insignia of his rank—the marks of his eighteen years of service, the symbols of everything he’d earned.
He placed them beside the sword.
All of it laid down. All of it surrendered.
He knelt there, stripped of rank and weapons, his head still bowed.
The Emperor smiled.
It was a small smile, cold and cruel, the smile of a man who had his enemy exactly where he wanted him. The court held its breath, nobles pressing back slightly as if to distance themselves from what was about to happen.
The Emperor held out his hand. Captain Varen, standing at attention beside the throne, placed something across the Emperor’s palms.
A sword in its scabbard. The leather was rich, well-maintained. The hilt was ornate, beautiful.
New.
The Emperor rose from his throne with deliberate slowness. He descended the dais steps one at a time, the sword held across both hands, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
The General remained kneeling, head bowed, waiting.
The Emperor stopped directly in front of him.
Then he drew the sword.
The rasp of steel leaving its sheath was loud in the silent throne room. The blade gleamed in the light from the high windows—sharp, deadly, perfectly balanced.
The General closed his eyes.
The court surged forward slightly, everyone trying to see. This was it. The Emperor was going to do it himself. Was going to execute the General personally, right here, before the entire court.
“What do you think?” someone whispered. “Through the heart? Beheading?”
“Neither. Not quick enough. You know how he is.”
“Gods help him.”
The Emperor held the sword, looking down at the General’s bowed head. When he spoke, his voice carried through the throne room, clear and cold.
“Eighteen years ago, you received your sword from my father. Along with it, he gave you his trust. With that sword, you served this realm for eighteen years. You won every battle. Held every border. Never wavered. Never failed.”
He paused, and the pause stretched.
“But my father is dead.”
The words hung in the air like an executioner’s blade.
The General’s shoulders tensed slightly—the only sign of emotion he’d shown.
The Emperor raised the sword slightly, angling the blade.
Then he continued, his voice still cold but somehow… different.
“Today, I give you this sword. And with it, I give you a new rank: Minister of War.”
The General’s eyes snapped open.
The court erupted in confused whispers.
“Did he say—”
“Minister of War?”
“But—”
The Emperor spoke over the confusion, his voice cutting through: “Rise, General. And know that just as my father did, I give you my trust.”
The General remained frozen for a moment, clearly trying to process what he’d just heard. He’d been prepared for death. Had expected the sword to pierce his chest or take his head. Had made peace with dying.
And now—
Slowly, uncertainly, he stood.
The Emperor held out the sword, hilt first.
Their eyes met.
And the General saw something he hadn’t expected. Not hatred. Not cruelty. Not the cold rage everyone had warned him about.
Just calm certainty. A steady gaze that held no malice, no mockery. Just… purpose.
“Take it,” the Emperor said quietly. “It’s yours. Earned through service. Proven through loyalty. And needed now more than ever.”
The General’s hand shook slightly as he reached for the sword. His fingers closed around the hilt, and he felt the weight of it—perfect balance, superior craftsmanship. A weapon worthy of his rank.
No. A weapon worthy of his new rank.
Minister of War.
“Your Majesty,” the General’s voice was hoarse. “I… I don’t understand.”
The Emperor’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. “Don’t you? The realm is in chaos, General. My father’s death left a vacuum, and ambitious men are already circling like vultures. The borders need strengthening. The army needs reorganization. The nobility needs to understand that loyalty will be rewarded just as surely as betrayal will be punished.”
He gestured to the throne room full of shocked, confused nobles.
“They expected me to execute you. They wanted to see me destroy the man my father trusted most, the general he praised, the soldier he relied on. They thought that because I am not my father, because I am not my brother, I would be petty. Vindictive. That I would let old resentments dictate policy.”
The Emperor’s voice grew colder, harder.
“They were wrong. I am not my father. I am not my brother. But I am also not the fool they take me for. I know talent when I see it. I know loyalty when it’s offered. And I know that destroying the realm’s greatest general out of personal spite would be the act of a weak man, not an Emperor.”
He held the General’s gaze.
“You served my father faithfully for eighteen years. You never plotted against him. Never schemed for power. Never did anything except your duty, even when that duty was thankless, even when you could have seized the throne at any time. That kind of loyalty is rare. Precious. And I would be an idiot to destroy it.”
The General swallowed hard. “Your Majesty, I thought… everyone said you hated me.”
“I did,” the Emperor said simply. “When I was young, foolish, jealous of every comparison that made me feel inadequate. But hatred is a luxury, General. And I can no longer afford it.”
He stepped back, allowing the General space.
“I need you. Not as my father’s general, but as my Minister of War. I need your experience, your skill, your loyalty. The realm is unstable. There are nobles—” his gaze swept the throne room, and several people flinched, “—who mistake my youth for weakness. Who think they can manipulate or overthrow me. They need to understand that I may not be a warrior, but I know how to use warriors. And the greatest warrior in the realm stands beside me by choice.”
He turned to face the court, and his voice rang out clearly:
“Let it be known that General Matthias Corvain is hereby appointed Minister of War, with authority over all military matters, all armies, all defenses of the realm. His rank is second only to mine. His word in military matters is law. And anyone who questions his authority questions mine.”
The Emperor’s eyes were cold as they swept across the assembled nobles.
“I have executed traitors. I have punished those who insulted the throne. I have shown that disloyalty and disrespect will not be tolerated. But I am not a mad tyrant who destroys valuable servants out of spite. I am an Emperor who rewards loyalty and uses the tools at my disposal.”
He looked back at the General.
“You expected to die today. So did everyone in this room. They expected me to be petty, to be vindictive, to destroy you because my pride demanded it. Let this be a lesson to them all: I reward those who serve. And I destroy those who betray. Know the difference, and you’ll thrive. Mistake one for the other, and you’ll die screaming.”
The threat was clear. The promise was clearer.
The General stared at him, understanding slowly dawning. The Emperor had let the court—let everyone—believe the worst. Had let them think the General was doomed. And then, in one move, he’d demonstrated both mercy and power. Had shown that he could be ruthless or generous, and that everyone had underestimated him.
It was brilliant. Cruel, manipulative, calculated—but brilliant.
“Your Majesty,” the General said slowly, and this time when he knelt, it was different. Not the resignation of a man awaiting execution. But the genuine respect of a man recognizing his superior. “I will serve you with the same loyalty I showed your father. No. With greater loyalty. Because you have proven yourself worthy of it.”
“Rise, Minister,” the Emperor said, and there was satisfaction in his voice. “We have much work to do. The realm won’t stabilize itself.”
The General—no, the Minister of War—stood, the new sword at his side, and followed the Emperor as they walked together toward the council chambers.
Behind them, the throne room erupted in shocked whispers.
“He appointed him? After everything?”
“Did you see the General’s face? He truly expected to die.”
“We all did.”
“The Emperor played us all. Made us think one thing, then did another.”
Count Aldric’s face was ashen. He’d been so certain, so confident that the Emperor would eliminate his greatest rival. Instead, he’d just elevated him.
“He’s smarter than we thought,” someone whispered.
“Ruthless when crossed, but…”
“But not mad. Not petty. Just… calculating.”
“Gods help us all.”
In the council chamber, away from the court’s eyes, the Emperor turned to face his new Minister of War.
“I need you to understand something,” he said quietly. “I did hate you. For years. Every time my father praised you, every time I was compared to you unfavorably, every time you succeeded where I failed. I hated you for it.”
The General nodded slowly. “I know, Your Majesty. I always knew.”
“But I’m Emperor now. And my personal feelings cannot dictate policy. The realm needs you. I need you. Whether I like you or not is irrelevant. You’re the best tool I have for the work that needs doing.”
He paused.
“That being said… I did enjoy making them think I’d execute you. The fear in their eyes. The anticipation. Watching them expect the worst of me.”
The corner of the General’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “You’re very much your father’s son, Your Majesty. He would be proud. Not of the cruelty, perhaps, but of the strategy.”
“I’m nothing like my father,” the Emperor said flatly. “My father was beloved. I am feared. He ruled through respect. I rule through terror. But we both understand the same thing: power means nothing if you don’t know how to use it.”
He met the General’s eyes.
“I will never be the Emperor my father was. I will never be the warrior my brother would have been. But I will be an Emperor this realm remembers. And I will use every tool, every advantage, every talented person at my disposal—even the ones I personally dislike—to build something that lasts.”
The General studied him for a long moment. Then he bowed deeply, sincerely.
“Then I am honored to serve, Your Majesty. And I believe you will indeed be remembered. Perhaps not loved. But respected. Feared. And ultimately, effective.”
“That’s all I ask,” the Emperor said. “Now come. We have a realm to secure. And nobles to terrify into obedience.”
They worked late into the night, Emperor and Minister, planning the future of a realm that had expected bloodshed and instead received cold, calculating strategy.
The General who’d expected to die found himself serving a master who valued him.
The Emperor who’d hated him found himself respecting the man despite everything.
And the court learned a valuable lesson: their new Emperor was not to be underestimated. He might be cruel. He might be vengeful. But he was also brilliant.
And that made him far more dangerous than they’d ever imagined.