The golden glow of dawn slithered through the stained-glass windows of the lavish inn, casting fractured light across silken sheets and the tangled bodies strewn across them. Prince Lucien stirred, not from the call of responsibility but from the insufferable pounding on the chamber door. His temples throbbed, the remnants of last night’s excesses clinging to him like the lingering scent of expensive perfume and sweat.
“Your Highness!” came the grating voice of Lord Valerius, his tone laced with impatience. “You’re late. The God-Emperor does not appreciate tardiness.”
Lucien groaned, rolling onto his back, his head resting against the soft thighs of a sleeping courtesan—one with violet-hued skin and eyes that shimmered like twin moons. Another nestled against his chest, her mechanical limbs still twitching slightly from last night’s indulgences. The gynoid’s synthetic skin was seamless, indistinguishable from the real thing unless one knew where to look.
He reached for a goblet, only to find it empty. “Saints preserve me,” he muttered, pushing himself upright. “Tell me, Valerius, must you always arrive at the worst possible moment?”
“The worst moment would be your head on a pike outside the palace gates,” Valerius shot back from the other side of the door. “The God-Emperor waits for no one.”
Lucien smirked, scratching at his bare chest. “Well, neither does my cock, and I assure you, it is far more demanding.” He nudged one of the courtesans awake. “Be a dear and fetch me some wine, won’t you?”
The woman—human, or at least mostly—giggled drowsily and rolled over instead. Useless.
With a resigned sigh, Lucien swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stepping onto the marble floor in a display of unbothered grandeur. He stretched, unashamed of his nakedness, and cast a glance downward. “Magnificent as always,” he mused before reaching for a discarded robe trimmed with gold and lined with the sigil of House Solarius.
Opening the door just a sliver, he found Valerius standing stiff-backed, his robes pristine, the emblem of Solarius gleaming in the morning light. “Oh, how radiant you are in your righteous indignation,” Lucien drawled. “Has anyone told you how well anger suits you? Makes you look almost... virile.”
“Get dressed, Lucien,” Valerius snapped. “Drakon is waiting.”
“Drakon can wait.”
“No, he cannot.”
Lucien sighed dramatically but stepped back, allowing Valerius inside. “Fine. But next time, at least bring me something stronger than your usual droning.”
Outside, Elyndor shimmered in the early light, its spires of gold and marble rising toward the heavens, a city of impossible beauty. The grand avenues were paved with obsidian and quartz, and noblemen paraded their wealth with garments of the finest silk, adorned with solarite jewels that captured the dimming light of Solara Prime’s dying sun. Above them, the vast celestial towers of the Astral Ministry loomed, their translucent domes housing the physicists and chronomancers tasked with keeping the black-gold star in its fragile stasis.
Yet beneath the gilded facade, in the shadowed alleys that wound between the opulent structures, Elyndor’s underbelly festered. Cutthroats and black-market alchemists lingered in the gloom, their whispered dealings masked by the city’s perfume of incense and spiced wine. Whores of every species beckoned from curtained balconies, their eyes sharp and hungry. A priest of Solastrism—robes immaculate, face serene—slipped a pouch of solarite coins into the waiting hands of a masked figure, their silent transaction vanishing into the morning bustle.
At the entrance of the inn, Drakon leaned against the polished limousine, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. His armor, polished to a mirror sheen, bore the insignia of House Draconis. “Took you long enough,” he muttered as Lucien emerged.
Lucien smirked, stretching his arms as though he had not a care in the world. “Well if it isn't my favorite Draconis. Such a pleasure to have you join me today, Lord Drakon.”
Drakon barely blinked. "You reek of whores and wine. Get in the car."
Lucien clutched his chest dramatically. "Ah, straight to the point. No foreplay? You wound me, Drakon. At least pretend you missed me."
Drakon exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "Try not to make a scene before we reach the palace."
Lucien slid into the limousine with a satisfied sigh, lounging as if he were the emperor himself. “No promises.”
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The gates of the Imperial Palace loomed ahead, an obscene display of opulence and power. Carved from celestial stone and inlaid with veins of radiant gold, they depicted the conquests of House Solarius in painstaking detail—scenes of emperors past, their hands raised in triumph over kneeling worlds. Above the entrance, the sigil of the God-Emperor glowed with divine radiance, an ever-burning sun encased in an intricate web of runes that pulsed with ancient energy.
At the foot of the grand staircase, the paladins of the Solarian Order stood motionless, their golden armor catching the dim light of the dying star above. Their helms were sculpted into serene visages, their faces forever frozen in an expression of divine purpose. Clutched in their hands were plasma glaives, weapons said to burn with the Emperor’s own wrath. These were not mere guards—they were zealots, utterly devoted to their god-ruler, and willing to slaughter in his name without hesitation.
Lucien smirked as he stepped out of the limousine, eyeing the palace with a mixture of amusement and disdain. "Subtle, isn’t it?"
Drakon ignored him, already ascending the stairs with his usual stoic determination. Valerius followed, his expression tightening as they neared the gilded doors of the throne room. They parted without a sound, revealing the hall beyond—a place where decadence had been elevated to a form of worship.
Marble pillars lined the chamber, each carved with the celestial myths of Solarius’s divine lineage. The floors gleamed with mirrored obsidian, reflecting the golden chandeliers overhead that dripped with alchemical fire. The God-Emperor’s court was gathered in full splendor—nobles dressed in flowing robes of solar-thread, courtesans lounging among silk-draped divans, and high priests adorned with sunburst crowns murmuring prayers of devotion.
And there, seated upon the Solar Throne, was the Emperor himself, draped in gold and arrogance. A living god amongst men.
The throne room fell into a reverent silence as Prince Lucien approached the Solar Throne, his every step echoing against the polished obsidian floor. The God-Emperor sat unmoving, his expression unreadable beneath the golden mask of his station. The air shimmered with raw power, a palpable reminder of the divine authority he wielded—or what little remained of it.
Lucien offered a languid bow, his smirk never quite fading. “Your Radiance,” he drawled, “a pleasure, as always.”
The Emperor did not acknowledge the jest. His silence was heavier than words, an absence that sent unease rippling through those gathered. It was the court that filled the void, their laughter and murmurs slithering through the gilded chamber like bloated, self-satisfied serpents.
“The campaign against House Auroxa. Report,” the Emperor intoned at last, his voice resonant and hollow, as though it came from somewhere distant.
Drakon stepped forward, his posture rigid, his voice ironclad. “House Auroxa’s forces were routed at the Battle of Veridian Reach. Their strongholds on Karthos and Dain-7 have been reduced to rubble, their fleet scattered. The house is extinct. Their heir did not survive.”
Laughter rippled through the court, dismissive and smug.
“Is this what we have been summoned for?” scoffed a corpulent noble draped in solar-thread finery. “To hear of the fall of an insignificant house?”
“An insignificant house that held against the Imperial Fleet longer than it should have,” Drakon countered coldly, his gaze like a blade. “Their resistance was not mere desperation. They fought with precision, with strategy. It should have been a swift execution, but it was not.”
Another lord, his face ruddy with years of excess, waved a dismissive hand. “Come now, Lord Drakon. You speak as if House Auroxa was a threat. They were vermin awaiting extermination.”
Lucien chuckled, feigning amusement, though there was something sharp in his eyes. “And yet, dear lords, those ‘vermin’ forced us into a prolonged engagement. One must wonder—are the great lions of Solarius losing their teeth?”
Murmurs of offense stirred, but no one dared voice them outright.
“The minor houses grow bolder,” Drakon pressed. “They rally, they resist, and they hold longer than they ever should. If a lesser house like Auroxa can force our hand so, what of the others? How long before one rises with true strength?”
Mocking laughter followed him, rolling through the court like thunderclouds swollen with arrogance. “Paranoia does not suit you, Lord Drakon,” one of the elder statesmen chortled. “No power rivals Solarius. The God-Emperor’s will is absolute.”
The Emperor remained silent.
Before Drakon could respond, Lord Valerius stepped forward, his tone calm, measured. “What my esteemed colleagues mean to say, my lords, is that while the campaign was ultimately victorious, the length of the engagement is a matter worth noting. It is not a question of Solarius' strength, but of efficiency. If even minor houses are forcing our hand, then perhaps it is time to refine our strategies rather than dismiss these engagements outright.”
He turned smoothly toward the gathered nobles, offering them a smile of polished civility. “Surely, it is not weakness to anticipate greater challenges, but wisdom to prepare for them.”
The laughter died down somewhat, replaced by murmurs of grudging consideration.
Lucien exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. “A reasonable point, Valerius. How fortunate we are to have you to remind us of the virtues of foresight.”
A sharp voice cut through the chamber. “And what of the methods used?”
All eyes turned to a thin, hawk-nosed noble in emerald robes, his expression twisted with distaste. “There are… troubling rumors, Lord Drakon. That your house resorted to necromancy in the final battle.”
The murmurs swelled, some scandalized, others intrigued.
Drakon did not flinch. “House Draconis is well within its rights. The Imperial Decree of War-Time Reinforcement allows exemptions where additional troops are required.”
Another lord scoffed. “A convenient loophole. The law exists for dire times, not for a minor campaign against a lesser house. Are we to believe that House Draconis, with all its vaunted strength, was so desperate that it needed to field the dead? The noble sneered. “Necromancy is illegal for a reason. Raising the dead is an affront to the Emperor’s divine law.”
Drakon’s voice was a blade drawn in the quiet. “The Emperor himself has not spoken against it.”
Silence fell over the court like a weighted shroud. The nobles cast furtive glances toward the Solar Throne, seeking some sign of outrage, of condemnation.
But the God-Emperor remained unmoving, his expression unreadable, his silence damning in its own way.
Valerius, ever the diplomat, interjected smoothly, “The real concern here should not be a legal technicality, but rather what this means for our military doctrine. If the minor houses are forcing us to make such decisions, then it is clear we must reevaluate our approach.”
Drakon said nothing more. The silence was more damning than any argument.
The Emperor raised a hand. The room silenced at once. “Ensure no remnants of Auroxa remain. The campaign is finished.”
Then, for the first time, his gaze settled on Lucien. “And you, my wayward prince—see that your talents are put to proper use. I grow weary of indulgence without purpose.”
Lucien inclined his head, his smirk never quite reaching his eyes. “As you command, Your Radiance.”