The Ember Beneath the Throne

The moonlight streamed through the arched windows, casting long shadows across Ethan's chamber. Servants avoided the hallway outside—none dared disturb the man who once spoke with the voice of the empire but now sat in exile within his own walls.

He poured a glass of Blackwood Reserve, the signature scotch reserved for high-ranking elites. As he took a slow sip, the bitter burn reminded him of where he stood—and where he needed to rise again.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Ethan didn't answer, but the door creaked open anyway.

It was Amal.

She stepped in, dressed simply, but her presence carried a quiet strength. "You shouldn't be drinking that alone," she said, walking up to him.

"I'm not dead," Ethan muttered. "Just dethroned."

"Temporarily," she corrected. "If you play it right."

Ethan looked at her, searching for signs of betrayal. But Amal had always been loyal—to the Empire, yes—but also to him, in her own way. She understood power. And more importantly, she respected it.

"You still have allies, Ethan," she said, lowering her voice. "People who don't want Christiana holding that much control."

He arched a brow. "Are you one of them?"

"I'm on the side of balance," she replied coolly. "Christiana is powerful, yes. But unchecked power? That's dangerous. Even Chris should know that."

Ethan's smirk returned—small, but sharp.

"Then we build," he said, setting his glass down. "Quietly. Strategically. Let Christiana enjoy the spotlight. I'll take the shadows."

Amal nodded. "What do you need?"

He leaned in, voice low but steady.

"Information. Access. Loyalty. And when the time comes…"

He stood up, eyes blazing.

"…I want the throne—not just back. I want it redefined."

---