The silence that followed the shattering of the monolith was broken by the sound of the High Priest falling to his knees. He wasn't the only one. Like a wave hitting the shore, the soldiers, the commoners, and even some of the minor nobles began to bow. They didn't do it out of tradition; they did it because the pressure of Livius's presence was so immense that their bodies simply refused to stand.
Livius held the Blood-Axe, the heavy weapon looking light as a feather in his hand. He turned his gaze toward the Royal Box, where the High Council sat in stunned silence. The High Inquisitor, Draken, had reached for his sword, but his hand was frozen, his muscles locked by the sheer intensity of the "Dragon's Gaze."
"Today is my eighteenth birthday," Livius announced, his golden eyes fixing on the Duke of the South. "I told you I would come for my crown. I told you I would clean the house before I moved in. I believe I have been thorough."
He tossed the ancient relic aside; it clattered loudly on the stone, a discarded toy. "I do not need an axe to prove who I am. I do not need a council to tell me I am King. I am Livius Mortem von Argentine, and I have come to take what is mine."
He began to walk toward the palace, the crowd parting before him like the sea. Cian was waiting at the gates, flanked by a dozen Nexus agents who had shed their disguises. They were no longer shadows; they were the new Imperial Guard.
As Livius entered the Throne Room, he found it exactly as he had left it—stale, dusty, and smelling of the deaths of his siblings. The crown sat on its cushion, mocking him with its golden weight. He walked past it, heading straight for the massive curtain at the back of the hall. With a sweep of his hand, he tore the fabric down.
Behind it hung Vaelin's masterpiece: the portrait of the "Ghost of the North Wing." In the painting, Livius looked exactly as he did now—cold, powerful, and utterly alone. The nobles who had followed him into the room gasped. They realized then that the boy they had ignored for seventeen years had been watching them, judging them, and planning their downfall from the very beginning.
Livius turned and sat, not on the throne itself, but on the steps leading up to it. He looked at the trembling Council members, at the guards, and at Cian, who stood by his side with a fresh ledger in hand.
"The cleaning is over," Livius said, a small, dangerous smile playing on his lips. "Now, let's talk about the reconstruction. Cian, read the first list of names. We have a lot of 'retirements' to process before the sun sets."
The Ghost had finally come home. And for the corrupt, the nightmare was only just beginning.