Reivan had seen many bad ideas in his life.

Walking into a noble’s assassination trap? Bad idea.Taking on mercenary armies while still pretending he was a merchant? Also a bad idea.Agreeing to meet a mysterious informant in a dark alley? Potentially the worst idea yet.

And now, he was walking into a room filled with people who would rather see him dead than in power.

Truly, his streak of fantastic decision-making was unstoppable.

The letter had arrived the day before—an official summons to a secret war council meeting. The wording was polite, neutral, and completely full of thinly veiled threats.

The empire had noticed him.

Not as a problem to be ignored or a merchant playing at war, but as a factor they now had to acknowledge.

Which meant they either wanted to control him or remove him.

Sylpkx had been unimpressed when she heard. "Sounds like a setup."

Garm had been far too excited. "Oh, this’ll be fun. I love watching nobles squirm when they realize they can’t just stab their problems away."

Reivan had no choice but to go. The moment he ignored an imperial summons, he would be marked as an outsider, a rogue element.

So here he was, stepping into the heart of the empire’s war strategy, walking a very fine line between ally and threat.

The council chamber was grand, lined with banners of the empire’s military legions. Unlike the usual noble meetings—filled with silk-clad politicians—this room was split between men who commanded armies and men who paid for them.

Which meant they all thought they were the most important person here.

Reivan immediately disliked the atmosphere.

Duke Varion sat near the center, his sharp eyes watching everything. Count Estienne was also present, looking far too smug for Reivan’s liking. Several imperial generals, high-ranking noblemen, and a few unnamed advisors were gathered, discussing what was clearly already a debate in progress.

Reivan barely had a chance to sit before someone spoke.

"Sir Reivan," one of the older nobles said, his tone dripping with forced politeness. "You’ve caused quite the stir."

Reivan gave his best innocent merchant smile. "I have no idea what you mean."

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Varion let out a soft chuckle.

Estienne, on the other hand, was clearly not amused. "You’ve been raising armies, controlling trade, and now interfering in imperial conflicts. All without an official title. Tell me, Sir Reivan, do you even recognize imperial authority?"

Ah.

There it was.

The accusation was not about what he had done. It was about what he refused to do.

Because he had played the game without following their rules.

Reivan tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity. "I wasn’t aware responding to an attack on imperial lands required permission."

A few generals visibly approved of that statement.

But Estienne leaned forward, his voice sharp. "You do not speak as a mere soldier. You act independently, without oversight. That is dangerous."

"Independence is only dangerous if it threatens something," Reivan said smoothly. "And I wonder, Count Estienne—what exactly do you feel is being threatened?"

Estienne’s jaw clenched.

Varion was openly smirking now.

Another noble cleared his throat, drawing attention away. "The war council has convened today because the Emperor’s advisors have discussed the matter. A solution must be found."

And there it was.

They weren’t here to discuss him. They were here to decide what to do with him.

Reivan sat back, waiting.

And then the offer came.

"Sir Reivan, we propose an official military position within the imperial army. Your forces would be granted status as an official legion. You would be given authority—but under imperial command."

It was spoken as an honor. A prestigious offer.

In reality? It was a leash.

If he accepted, he would no longer be independent. He would owe loyalty to the Emperor, be bound by orders, and have every move scrutinized.

Which meant he had to refuse.

But refusing outright would paint him as an enemy.

So he smiled. "I am honored by the offer."

Silence.

"But I must decline."

The room tensed.

Reivan continued, his voice casual, almost friendly. "It would be irresponsible of me to take such a position without first stabilizing the regions under my care. If my forces were drawn into an official imperial role, who would handle the ongoing trade operations? Who would ensure the refugees displaced by war are supported? Surely the empire would not wish to abandon them?"

The trap snapped shut.

Because now, if they insisted he accept, they would be the ones admitting they were neglecting parts of the empire.

Varion let out a quiet chuckle. "A clever response."

Estienne looked murderous.

One of the generals, clearly frustrated, cut in. "Then tell us plainly, Sir Reivan—what exactly is your goal?"

Reivan exhaled, meeting the man’s gaze directly. "My goal is simple: stability."

There was something dangerous about those words.

Because it didn’t align with any noble faction.

Not "power," not "loyalty," not "imperial interests."

Just stability.

Which meant he was not playing by the empire’s game.

And that made him the most unpredictable piece on the board.

The war council eventually adjourned.

Varion approached him on the way out, looking amused. "You just avoided being pulled into the imperial fold. That makes you a bigger threat than ever."

Reivan sighed. "Fantastic. That’s exactly what I wanted."

Varion smirked. "Careful, Sir Reivan. You’re making enemies faster than you’re making friends."

"I know."

"And yet, you seem entirely unfazed."

Reivan smiled faintly. "I’m getting used to it."

He left the chamber, feeling the watchful gazes of nobles who now saw him as something dangerous.

This was no longer just about political games.

This was about power, control, and survival.

And the empire had finally realized that Reivan was not a man they could ignore.