The Altherian throne room.
The throne room in Altheria was not like the Vellurian palace. Instead of the comfortable, gilded court that had flourished under Elliott, Altheria had known decades of a cruel tyrant. The throne room was all sharp angles, dark abraded stone and tall, narrow windows that let in slants of cold, silvery light. While Velluria lay largely on fertile plains and plateaus, Altheria sat among mountains — a hard geography that bred harder people, the sort who learned to survive harsh weather and unforgiving terrain, and later to endure a cruel, tyrannical rule.
The throne itself was a magnificent piece of carved obsidian — a stark contrast to Elliott's softer, cushion-lined sun throne. Aiden sat on it now. He was surrounded by a full court, a whirl of documents, maps, and a dozen new, anxious faces. All the faces in the court were still new to him; Aiden was new to the court. Up until now they'd known him only as Aiden Lancaster. But now he was James Corvette.
The court was swamped. Aiden was proficient in vellurian statecraft and ruling- The laws weren't fundamentally different, but culture mattered. Altheria was more militaristic- the military held a more pivotal role. Nestled in the mountains, the kingdom ran a thriving mines-and-weapons industry and an impressive army. Aiden wasn't some naive princeling who'd never seen statecraft — he'd grown up as the prince of an empire, after all — but he'd been trained to govern Velluria, not a mountain realm. He was learning, and the workload still felt vast.
"Your Highness." An older man with a stern face stepped forward. One of the ministers, Aiden remembered. He held a scroll detailing grain allocation for the regions Cyrus had annexed — Altheria had only rare patches of fertile land. Mines meant metals and gems, but you cannot feed people with metal and gems. Velluria had been a formidable prize- one that Cyrus had never actually managed to conquer or invade. But Cyrus had succeeded to invade smaller border kingdoms and forced their monarchs into vassalage, extracting tribute until those lands were hollowed out.
"The traditional tithe from the Isopoe's Peaks has always been—"
"I don't care what it has always been." Aiden cut in, his voice firm though lacking heat. He pointed at the map. "Cyrus bled these lands dry for years to fill his war chest. If we demand full taxes now, we'll have famine and rebellion by winter. We'll take half this year. The crown will supplement the rest by trading grain from other kingdoms. Contact the finance minister to allocate the funds."
The minister blinked, clearly surprised. Cyrus would have simply taken the grain and let the region starve. "But... the precedent, Your Highness—"
"You mean the precedent which nearly destroyed this empire?" Aiden replied, voice leaving no room for argument. "Such precedents hold no meaning for me. We'll establish new ones now. Next."
The minister, still stunned, stepped back. The next man moved forward. The dance repeated itself, countlessly. He was navigating uncharted waters, but he had what Elliott had taught him. Suddenly a memory rose unbidden — him, a pale, raw teenager, sitting at council meetings beside Elliott, watching the way the emperor chose words, weighed a life against a measure, made the hard call with something gentler than cruelty.
A ruler's strength is not in taking, but in providing. A stable empire is a loyal empire.
The court watched with calculated, wary awe. They had survived under a tyrant and thus suspicion still clung to them like dust. They did not yet know James Corvette, but they knew Aiden Lancaster. His reputation as the Vellurian prince — fierce loyalty, strategic brilliance, the ability to act where the kind emperor hesitated — had crossed borders long ago. What had crossed borders too was the mercy he'd learned from Elliott. Neither of them were perfect rulers alone. Aiden had shown — sometimes — that violence, swift and terrible, is necessary not to conquer but to protect. Elliott had shown him that mercy and fairness could build something far steadier than the sword.
To the people, James was already an unimaginable upgrade from Cyrus. He was not a pushover. He was stern; his blue eyes could freeze the most intimidating man mid-sentence. But he was not cruel. He was not selfish. He listened when reason spoke. He took merciful decisions when mercy was the right tool.
When it came to dealing with Cyrus's former supporters, Aiden had been pragmatic. Only the key figures — Cyrus, Cynthia, the most visible loyalists — had been executed. Those who'd followed out of fear or opportunism were imprisoned; their fates to be decided against their crimes. It was ruthless when it needed to be, merciful where it could be.
And there was, beneath every peaceful resolution, a quieter motive. Beneath pardons and negotiated settlements lay a selfish thread: a childish devotion tying him to a man lying unconscious in another palace, miles away. Every time he made a decision Elliott would have approved of, Elliott's face — gentle, approving — flashed in his mind. He remembered lessons in sunlit courtyards over pastries, Elliott's hand on his shoulder when a choice was hard. He remembered being taught the cadence of diplomacy, the patience of ruling. He remembered Elliott laughing at him for worrying too much and then quieting him with a look that said: do this because it's right, not for applause.
The thought — I did this. You taught me this. I built this peace, just as you always said I could — fed him. It was fuel when all his heart wanted was to bolt back to Elliott's bedside. When the ache got too much- he would force his heart to question down and instead, think rationally- he was already taking regular updates on Elliott's condition. There was much to do here, and Elliott would want him to root out what was wrong first. Yet on lonely nights in the new, unfamiliar cold chambers, when the ache of absence was almost too much, he read Gabriella's letters and let them anchor him. He was doing it for Elliott. He was building a world worthy of Elliott's smile.
Sometimes, when papers stacked like small, harmless mountains and ministers fussed like wasps, a simpler memory would creep in — Elliott standing at a window in the Vellurian study, letting light fall across his face while he read rewritten laws aloud, or bringing Aiden a pastry and watching him try not to laugh with teasing indulgence. Those moments were private and soft: fingers brushing over a book's spine, the warmth of Elliott's hand when he'd grip Aiden's hand in a quiet crowd, the way Elliott would tilt his head when pleased, like a man savoring a quiet song. Aiden would close his eyes, breathe, and let the memory steady him. He would tell himself, again and again: build this, so you can come home to him.
The court sessions went on. New laws were made, old grievances resolved. The careful unpicking of a tyrant's web was a slow, tiring process. Aiden- no, James, kept moving like someone wearing a new outfit that fit a little stiffly at first but would, in time, soften to the body.
And in the quiet of that new rule, between the scratching of quills and the talks of strategy and diplomacy, James kept a small space for one more thing- for the image and reverent memory of a pale, sleeping man in another palace, and the fierce hope that one day he would wake, come to him, look at and nod at the empire James built— proud, soft, and right there to take his waiting hand.
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