The law of Zenithara

The throne room was quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the heavy, suffocating silence that settled before a storm. Courtiers and officials stood along the walls, their faces stiff, their bodies tense. Some clutched the hems of their robes, others stole uneasy glances at one another, and a few dared to glance toward the emperor himself, their eyes betraying barely concealed apprehension. Even the guards, disciplined and battle-hardened, remained unnaturally still, their grips tightening on their spears as if bracing for an unseen blow.

At the center of this silence sat Emperor Baek D. Zenithara, draped in deep crimson and black, his fingers resting on the gilded lion-shaped armrests of his throne. He had been still for some time, his gaze distant, as if only half-listening to the conversation. But as Duke Crapin spoke, the emperor let out a slow sigh, lifting his head with an expression of growing impatience.

"What do you mean?" Baek's voice, though quiet, carried through the room like the first rumble of thunder before a storm.

Duke Crapin, a seasoned statesman who had served Baek's father before him, felt the weight of those words press down upon him. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The sweat forming at his brow glistened under the dim torchlight, though he tried to mask his unease with a tight, practiced smile.

"The prince of the Indrath Empire, Ian Indrath, has been captured," Crapin said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "The soldiers of the Zeph Empire seized him during his travels, and they are offering him to us as a gift, Your Majesty."

A murmur rippled through the chamber—barely audible, yet enough to shift the expressions of those present. Some officials exchanged wary glances, others lowered their heads as if hoping to disappear into the background. One general clenched his jaw, his face darkening with unspoken frustration, while another official pressed his lips into a thin line, wary of what was to come.

Baek, however, did not move.

His silence stretched, thick with something more dangerous than anger. His fingers slowly curled into a fist atop the throne's armrest. When he finally spoke, his words were as sharp as a blade drawn in the dark.

"So you are saying… our soldiers were unable to capture that prince?"

The question was not meant for clarification—it was an accusation, and everyone in the room knew it. The murmurs died instantly, as if the very air had been sucked from the room.

Baek's voice, once merely irritated, now carried something far more perilous—disappointment. And for those who served under him, disappointment was often a prelude to punishment.

Crapin's forced smile faltered. "N-no, Your Majesty," he stammered. "They will hand him ove—"

"I asked you a question, Duke."

Baek's voice sliced through the room, cutting off the duke mid-sentence.

Crapin flinched. A nervous tic pulled at the corner of his mouth, and his hands twitched at his sides as if resisting the urge to wring them together. One noble, standing near a pillar, inhaled sharply but caught himself before making a sound. A scribe in the back swallowed hard, his quill trembling slightly in his fingers.

Baek leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze unyielding. "Was my army not ordered to find the prince? Was it not made clear that the capture of Ian Indrath was a matter of utmost importance?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Crapin hurried to answer. "But the Zeph forces were—"

"I do not care about the Zeph forces." Baek's voice did not rise, but its weight pressed upon everyone present. "I care about results. Tell me, Duke, did my forces succeed?"

Crapin hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.

Baek exhaled slowly, leaning back into his throne. His fingers now tapped against the gilded wood, measured, calm. And yet, that calmness was more terrifying than outright rage.

"So, the mighty Zenithara army, the force that crushed the western kingdoms under my rule, the army that carries my name across Drakmir like an unrelenting storm—failed?"

The word burned into the duke's ears like molten iron.

Crapin's mouth opened, but no words came out. Across the chamber, the general who had clenched his jaw before now lowered his gaze, as if ashamed by the implication. The noble near the pillar swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. A single drop of sweat slid down the scribe's temple.

"N-no, Your Majesty," Crapin finally stammered. "They did not fail! The prince is still captured, and he is being delivered to us as we speak. He is as good as in our hands."

Baek regarded him for a long moment. Then, he rose.

The room felt colder.

At full height, Baek towered over most men, and the heavy folds of his imperial robes made him seem even larger, his very presence casting a shadow over the chamber. When he took a step forward, Crapin nearly stumbled back, though he forced himself to stand his ground.

Baek's dark gaze did not waver. "A dog that eats from another's hand is no beast of war," he murmured.

Crapin blinked, confused.

Baek's expression darkened. "You say the prince will be handed over to me, yet not by the hands of my own men. Do you not understand what that means?"

Crapin hesitated. "It means we—"

"It means," Baek interrupted, his voice like a blade's edge, "that the Zeph Empire will claim that they were the ones who subdued Ian Indrath. That they were the ones who accomplished what the Zenithara Empire could not. And so, instead of my name striking fear into the hearts of the Indrath fools, it will be the name of Zeph that they curse in the night."

A terrible silence followed.

Crapin, for all his experience, had no answer.

Baek studied him for a long moment before turning slightly toward one of the shadows at the edge of the room. There, barely visible, stood a man clad in dark armor, his face obscured beneath a hood of deep crimson. A royal enforcer.

Baek did not need to say anything.

The enforcer stepped forward.

Crapin's breath hitched. "Your Majesty, please! I have only ever served—"

Baek lifted a single hand, and the duke's pleas died in his throat.

"I do not tolerate failure," Baek said simply. "Nor do I reward incompetence."

With a flick of the emperor's wrist, the enforcer moved.

A sharp gasp, a whisper of steel—then silence.

Duke Crapin's body crumpled to the marble floor, his lifeless eyes still wide with the horror of his final moments. A pool of crimson spread across the polished surface, reflecting the golden torchlight above.

For a long moment, no one in the room dared to move. The courtiers stood frozen, their faces pale, their breaths shallow. Some lowered their gazes, unwilling to look upon the corpse. Others clenched their jaws, struggling to suppress the terror gripping their bones.

Baek did not spare the fallen man a second glance. With the same measured grace as before, he turned and strode back toward his throne, the hem of his imperial robes gliding through the silence like a shadow cutting through moonlight.

As he ascended the steps, the flickering torches seemed to dim, casting his figure into an even darker silhouette. He lowered himself onto the throne with slow, deliberate ease, as if the execution had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His fingers rested against the lion-carved armrests once more, his gaze sweeping the room, cold and unreadable.

No one spoke. No one even dared to breathe too loudly.

Baek exhaled, the sound soft yet commanding. Then, with a voice as calm as it was merciless, he declared:

"Send word to the Zeph Empire." His fingers tapped idly against the throne. "If they so much as think of claiming sole credit for capturing Ian Indrath… they die."

The words hung in the air, heavier than the execution itself.

A few courtiers exchanged quick, fearful glances, but no one dared to question the command. A scribe, hands trembling slightly, hastily scribbled the decree onto parchment. Messengers bowed and rushed out of the chamber to ensure Baek's will was carried out without delay.

The emperor leaned back into his throne, his expression unreadable. He had made his message clear.

Baek D. Zenithara closed his eyes for a brief moment.

He would not be humiliated.

The world would not question the might of Zenithara.

He would make sure of that,,

Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper, Baek spoke a single name.

"Ron."

It was not a shout, nor a call laced with anger, but there was something in the way the name left his lips—slow, measured, heavy—that sent a cold chill down the spines of those present. The weight of unspoken authority, of restrained menace, coiled around the syllables, making the name itself a command.

A man standing near the base of the throne immediately stepped forward, bowing his head with precise deference. Ron, the royal adviser of the Zenithara family, was an aging man of sharp intellect and a sharper tongue when the situation allowed it. Though his hair was streaked with gray, his dark eyes remained keen, wary, and ever-watchful. He had served the imperial family for decades, navigating treacherous waters of politics and war with a steady hand.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Ron replied without hesitation. His voice was firm, but there was an unspoken understanding beneath it—he knew Baek did not summon him without reason.

Baek's gaze did not waver. "Who is the successor of House Crona?"

The room, though already still, seemed to tense further. The question was expected, but the tone in which it was asked sent a ripple of unease through the chamber. It was not a matter of formality. It was a declaration that the fate of House Crona, or rather the remnants of it, would be shaped by Baek's hand alone.

Ron did not hesitate. "Blane Crona, the eldest son, is the rightful successor, my lord."

Baek exhaled slowly, considering the name, then gave a single, decisive nod.

"Make him the next head of House Crona."

It was an order, not a suggestion. There would be no debate. No hesitation. Blane Crona would ascend because Baek had decreed it so. The Zenithara Empire did not tolerate power vacuums, and families that failed would be rebuilt under Baek's iron rule—or discarded entirely.

Ron bowed his head. "It will be done."

Baek said nothing in return. Instead, he let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of his decisions to settle over the court like an invisible noose.

Then, without warning, he spoke again.

"Akan Smith."

Another name, another summons. This time, the reaction was more immediate. A man clad in dark red and black stepped forward from among the assembled nobles and generals.

Count Akan Smith, head of the formidable Smith family, was a warrior before he was a statesman. His very presence carried the aura of battle—a broad-shouldered, powerfully built man in his mid-thirties, with a face weathered by countless campaigns. He did not flinch under Baek's gaze, nor did he display any sign of hesitation. He simply bowed his head with practiced discipline.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied, his voice steady.

"The Smith family is known for its spearmanship," Baek said, his fingers tapping idly against the gilded throne. "Its warriors have played a vital role in many of our conquests."

Akan remained silent, waiting. He knew Baek did not speak without purpose.

Baek leaned forward slightly. "Announce our successful conquest of the Indrath Empire."

A stir moved through the room, though no one dared to let their reactions show too plainly. The conquest of Indrath had been inevitable, but to hear it declared so formally—so finally—made the reality sink deeper into the bones of those present.

Akan inclined his head. "It will be done, Your Majesty."

Baek's gaze did not shift. "Arrange a gathering in the capital," he continued. "I will personally address the civilians. They will hear of our victory from my own lips."

There was no doubt in his voice. No question of whether the people would rejoice or tremble. They would listen. They would understand. They would know that their emperor had triumphed, and they would revere his name.

Akan bowed. "As you command."

Baek let the silence return, watching as the weight of his words sank into the minds of all who remained in the chamber.

"That is all."

There was no grand dismissal, no ceremony to mark the end of the gathering. And yet, the moment the words left Baek's lips, the court moved with swift precision. The officials and nobles bowed deeply, murmuring quiet affirmations before turning to leave. Messengers and scribes hurried to carry out their emperor's will.

Baek remained seated for a moment longer, his fingers tapping lightly against the throne's armrest. Then, without another word, he rose, his imperial robes flowing behind him like the shadow of a storm.

And with that, the conference ended, and Baek took his leave.