Chapter 130: Shadows Over The Empire.
Seven Years Later*
The capital of Valeria had not softened under Emperor Xavier’s reign—it had hardened.
Where once stood marble halls and perfumed gardens, there now rose bastions of stone and steel.
The old ornamental arches were carved away, replaced with sharp-angled gates that spoke of function, not grace.
Colossal banners, each marked with the black sun of conquest, hung from every tower and bridge. They snapped like whips in the northern winds, casting long shadows over the city’s avenues.
The streets were widened to make way for marching cohorts; cobblestones thudded beneath iron-clad boots day and night.
Barracks had swelled beyond their old boundaries, bleeding into merchant quarters and swallowing inns, warehouses, even temples. Smithies ran endlessly, forges glowing like open wounds in the night, hammering out spearheads and breastplates in numbers fit for endless war.
Everywhere, soldiers lived and trained.
Children learned drill commands before prayers. Schools of war—once reserved for nobles—now admitted even the lowborn, provided they could bleed for the empire.
To the north, south, and east, fortresses dotted the borders like a chain of teeth gnashing outward, daring the world to test Valeria’s resolve.
The Imperial City still lived, but its pulse had changed. It no longer beat like a heart of culture and art—it throbbed like a war camp.
---
In the Citadel of Dominion, deep in the heart of the capital, Emperor Xavier sat upon the high throne. The chamber was wide as a battlefield, lined with obsidian pillars etched with names of campaigns past.
A vast war-table stretched across its center, maps pinned with glowing stones that marked the empire’s provinces, rebel strongholds, and enemy borders.
The High Council gathered in solemn ranks before him. Archmages swathed in blue and silver robes stood shoulder to shoulder with armored generals, their helms tucked beneath their arms.
Ministers of coin and grain shifted uneasily beside them, their ledgers fat with figures that bled red ink into the empire’s war machine.
"The southern provinces grow restless," intoned Minister Veynar, a lean man with parchment skin. "Tithes have doubled under the levy. Fields go fallow, and whispers of revolt stir in the markets."
General Karros slammed a mailed fist against the table. "Allow them whisper. The empire was not built on the mercy of farmers but on the steel of soldiers. Double the levies again if it feeds our legions."
"An army unfed rots before the enemy," countered Veynar, voice sharp as a quill. "No conquest endures on empty stomachs."
Xavier did not stir. The Tenth Circle mage sat in imperial black, his presence more oppressive than the weight of his crown.
His eyes, cold as forged steel, watched their quarrels without impatience, yet without warmth.
"Enough," he said at last, his voice rolling through the chamber like the sound of iron drawn from a scabbard. Silence fell instantly. "The southern lands will pay. If they lack bread, they will eat conquest. We march south in spring."
---
A courier entered then, bowing low, a sealed scroll trembling in his hands. The room’s attention shifted as Xavier gestured for it. Breaking the wax with a single motion, he scanned the words.
His silence chilled the council more than any rebuke. At length, he spoke.
"Maximus has began moving again."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. The name was curse and ghost both.
"Impossible," hissed one archmage. "The second prince was stripped of title, lands, and loyal men. He should be nothing."
"Nothing is precisely what he thrives upon," said Veynar, almost to himself. "The cracks between stone, the shadows between torches—that is where Maximus gathers strength."
Xavier’s lip curled, the barest hint of disdain. "Let the rat gnaw. He is exiled, powerless. A prince of shadows cannot overthrow a throne of iron."
Yet unease lingered. The council knew the truth: Maximus’s spies had been seen in distant ports, his silver found in the hands of mercenaries, his words whispered in the ears of governors who wavered in loyalty. Stripped of power, he was still dangerous.
It was the northern question, however, that broke the chamber’s composure.
"My Emperor," said Councilor Dareth, an aging strategist whose hair was as white as frost, "forgive the intrusion, but... the Northern Sect."
At once the chamber stiffened. Even generals, so bold in their boasts, avoided one another’s gaze.
Dareth continued, voice low but urgent.
"What began as a rebellion has grown into something else. They have cities now—walled, ordered, defended. Their banners rally not brigands, but disciplined men. They trade with border tribes. Some say they wield arts older than our circles of magic. They are no longer a rabble. They are a power."
Xavier leaned back in his throne, shadows cutting across his angular features. His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, it was with contempt sharpened into certainty.
"A wolf pack fattened on frost and time. Nothing more. When spring thaws the north, we will burn them out of their dens."
"But, Majesty," pressed Dareth, his voice cracking, "they grow stronger with each season we dismiss them. If left unchecked—"
The emperor’s gaze silenced him. "Unchecked?" Xavier said. "I am the check. I am the measure. The empire is mine, and no sect of snow-born heretics will rise above it."
The council bowed, though unease clung to them like smoke.
The generals spoke first, their voices heavy with calculation.
"Majesty, the legions remain unmatched across the south and west," said General Harven, his bronze pauldron gleaming with inscribed runes of protection. "No force of men or mages can contest the Aregard Army’s scale. But..." He paused, as though the next words were treason. "...the North does not field armies. They gather something else."
Xavier’s eyes narrowed, but he did not interrupt.
"The sect," Harven continued. "A host of cultivators. Where we marshal battalions, they forge masters. Where we wield mana in circles, they channel Qi without limit. One man against a hundred soldiers, one master against a fortress—our mathematics falter."
Across the table, an archmage of the Sixth Circle clicked her tongue. "Bah. Cultivators are wild things. Untamed power, yes, but not unified. Armies win wars, not hermits sitting under pines."
But another minister, pale and thin, leaned forward. "Tell that to the southern watchtowers, Archmage. Already, emissaries whisper of villages swearing fealty to the Northern Sect, of caravans bribed not by coin, but by talismans—power sealed in paper. Fear of them grows faster than any legion can march."
The chamber fell quiet.
At last, Xavier rose from his throne. He was a towering figure, every inch of him carved for battle—broad-shouldered, armored even in council, with the scars of conquest visible like medals across his hands. His voice, when it came, was deep and cold, filling the room without need of spell or echo.
"You speak as though the North is a storm that will sweep us away. Do you forget what it means to be Aregard?" His gaze cut across them like a blade. "Empires are not measured by how they love their people, but by how long they make others kneel. Love breaks when hunger comes. Fear endures."
He paced slowly along the table, his gauntlet tapping against the polished oak.
"A cultivator may tear a mountain from its roots. And yet—what of it? Will he feed the provinces? Will he patrol the borders? Will he sit in council for ten thousand days and nights to keep the empire whole? No. He is a wolf, nothing more. And when sheep fear the wolf, they will beg for the shepherd’s crook, no matter how heavy it strikes."
He paused, his eyes glinting.
"If the sheep look to the wolf for safety... then the wolf is king."
The words hung like iron in the chamber, and none dared contradict him. Ministers bowed their heads. Generals clenched fists to their chests. The doctrine of fear, of dominion by the sword, settled once again into the bones of the empire.
But unease did not die. It shifted like an ember hidden under ash.
The council was dismissed, the banners of conquest trembling faintly as the chamber emptied. One by one, archmages vanished in whirls of mana, ministers withdrew with scrolls tucked to their chests, and the generals marched out with boots striking like war drums. Triumph filled their voices, but unease lingered in their eyes.
At last, Xavier was alone.
He stood at the high window of the council hall, the Imperial City sprawling before him like a battlefield awaiting orders.
Barracks lined the streets where gardens once bloomed, training yards rang with the clash of steel, and colossal banners of the dragon-emblem flared crimson above every gate.
The empire pulsed like a living army. His army.
Yet his gaze did not linger southward, nor to the seas that promised conquest. It turned north. Beyond the forests, beyond the frozen reaches of Ranevia, there lay the shadow whispered in corridors too quiet for his guards to hear.
Sect.
No, not just sect. A name.
Lanard Solaris.
The syllables moved through his mind like a wound that refused to heal.
His spies spoke of him in half-whispers, never daring to write the name in full. Of a leader who did not command through bloodline or throne, but through will alone. Of a man who turned gangs into legions, outcasts into zealots, frost into fire. Of talismans that blinded even Imperial diviners, of powers thought impossible outside myth.
Xavier’s jaw tightened. He did not fear rebels, nor pretenders. He had crushed kingdoms in his youth, shattered towers that were said to stand eternal. But this man—this cultivator—was something else.
God of the north.
The emperor’s reflection caught faintly in the glass. For the first time in many years, Xavier Aregard’s eyes did not shine with certainty. Instead, a question lurked there.
How long before wolf met wolf?
And when they did, would the empire endure?
The horizon held its silence.