Chapter 13

The Empress and her daughter strode through the grand marble halls of the Imperial Palace, their heels echoing in perfect cadence upon the polished floor. Golden chandeliers overhead flickered softly, their light dancing across intricate carvings on the pillars—each a silent testament to the long, storied history of the empire.

As they neared the inner chambers, the Empress broke the silence.

"It seems your father has summoned us to the imperial table. Do you have any inkling of what this might entail?"

Her measured tone belied the curiosity—and unease—that tugged at her heart. Even she was uncertain about this sudden summons, a rare disruption in the steady rhythm of imperial affairs.

The imperial table was no ordinary meeting place. It was a sacred space, reserved exclusively for the true ruling members of the imperial family—a council where intelligence, strategies, and insights were shared to ensure that no part of the empire's intricate machinery operated in darkness. This table was the cornerstone of their power, a system designed to bind them together while keeping the vast, scheming nobility perpetually divided.

To the untrained eye, the imperial family appeared as a traditional dynasty—a father, an Empress, and their heirs—bound by blood and ceremony. Yet this familiar facade was a carefully crafted lie, woven seamlessly into the empire's very fabric. The titles of Emperor and Empress were nothing more than masks. In truth, the imperial family was not chosen by divine right or mere heredity; each ruler was selected from the noble class for their willingness to serve within the empire's grand design.

This illusion of dynastic succession served one paramount purpose: to ignite endless rivalry among the nobility. When ambitious lords believed that a connection to imperial blood might bestow true power, they turned on each other—betraying allies and undermining their peers in a ceaseless struggle for favor, influence, and control. Yet none among them would ever grasp the real authority.

For, hidden in the shadows, a silent collective orchestrated these noble struggles. This unseen force ensured that no single house could ever rise too high. An empire so vast could never be governed by one family alone—it could only be controlled if countless ambitious pawns battled for favor, all the while oblivious to the true power manipulating their every move.

Thus, for centuries, the imperial family had maintained its rule—not through divine right, but by artful deception, calculated manipulation, and meticulous control.

At last, the Empress and her daughter reached a seemingly unremarkable double door within the palace. Exchanging a brief, determined glance, they pushed it open.

Beyond lay a chamber that, at first glance, offered little sign of imperial grandeur. Aside from a circular table at its center, the room was modest: potted plants adorned the corners, and the ceiling, sparse of ornate embellishments, seemed designed for practicality—more in keeping with a servant's hall than a gathering of the empire's most powerful figures.

Yet, at the very heart of this plain room stood the circular table, surrounded by six thrones—each crafted from gleaming gold and draped in the finest silk. Their opulence rendered even the Emperor's own throne modest by comparison. Each chair's backrest was adorned with a carved golden lion, its eyes set with dazzling gemstones in a variety of hues.

At the first throne, the lion's eyes shone with sapphire-blue gemstones. Here sat the Emperor—a striking man with golden hair and piercing blue eyes, scarcely older than twenty-six.

Behind him stood a young boy, his mirror image in miniature—the Imperial Prince, a mere nine years old and born in the same year as Seraphina.

To the Emperor's left, a chair featuring emerald-green gemstones was occupied by the Imperial Head Adviser. The elderly gentleman, draped in ceremonial robes, exuded the quiet wisdom and gravitas of one who had long served the empire.

Beside him, the third throne—its lion's eyes set with onyx-black gemstones—was taken by the Imperial Head Butler. With jet-black hair and eyes as dark as midnight, he wore an immaculate suit, his silent authority evident in every measured gesture.

The fourth chair, distinguished by silver gemstones, belonged to the Empire's sole Archduke, Valerian Thornwood. As head of the mightiest noble house—renowned for producing the empire's most formidable military commanders—he carried himself with the disciplined air of a veteran soldier. His silver hair and steely blue eyes, complemented by a military uniform of impeccable cut, spoke of a legacy forged in battle.

To his left, the fifth seat—its lion's eyes aglow with golden gemstones—was occupied by Varro, the venerable head of the empire's wealthiest trade house. Now in his fifties, with raven-black hair and golden eyes, Varro embodied a commercial dynasty that had dominated the empire's trade networks for six generations.

Finally, the sixth throne, embellished with ruby-red gemstones, awaited its rightful occupant. With graceful resolve, the Empress approached the final seat and took her place. Directly behind her stood Seraphina, the Imperial Princess, who cast a fleeting glance at her brother before refocusing her attention on the center of the table.

In that moment, as the interplay of power and legacy converged, the silent hum of destiny grew louder. The meeting was about to commence—and with it, the intricate web of imperial deception would once again be set in motion.

Victoria's POV

As I sat down, an uneasy feeling settled deep within me.

Never before had we been summoned under such circumstances. The imperial table met every six months as part of our tradition, but this… this was different. This was unexpected. This was my husband's doing.

He had always been reckless—a trait that had made my life far more difficult than it needed to be. But he was the Emperor, and it was my duty to endure it.

Yet, something about this meeting felt ominous. I could only hope that vixen hadn't poisoned his mind with more foolish ideas.

I let my thoughts wander, considering every possibility that could have warranted such a sudden gathering. As I glanced around, I realized that everyone else was just as in the dark as I was. All eyes were on the Emperor, waiting.

So, I followed their gaze.

And as I did, he turned his attention toward me. Then—to my surprise—his gaze shifted to our daughter.

A flicker of something unfamiliar passed through his expression. Why?

He had never paid her any mind before. She was nothing more than a piece on his board, just as he had been in his youth. A pawn meant to secure favor. He had married me to control my family's influence, just as Seraphina was meant to marry Axel to secure control over his family.

That was her purpose. That was her fate.

And yet, for the first time, he was looking at her.

I don't like this. Not at all.

Before I could dwell on my unease, he finally spoke.

"I will leave all formalities aside and tell you exactly why I have summoned you here. I have decided that the First Prince will be the next Crown."

His voice was flat. Emotionless.

For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. But no—those words had left his lips, clear and undeniable.

I wanted to stand up and throw my crown at his face. Had he lost his mind?!

The delicate balance upheld by the imperial table—did he not understand what he had just shattered? A ruler was not simply appointed. They were trained. They were chosen at birth, molded into their role from the very beginning.

Seraphina had been that choice.

She had endured the same grueling path he himself had suffered through, and yet he was casting it all aside?

And to make matters worse…

He was giving it to the son of that vixen.

A boy who had been allowed to play while Seraphina spent every day perfecting herself for this throne. A boy raised by a woman who believed the Emperor held all the power, ignorant of the intricate web of manipulation that was imperial rule.

I clenched my fists and turned to my daughter.

She was looking down. Her hands trembled slightly.

Was she sad? Was she angry? I couldn't tell.

But I would not let this happen.

I had never been able to show her love. That was not my role. I was not a mother—I was her teacher.

And I would not let my sacrifices—or hers—go to waste.