The coronation was not a celebration; it was an execution of the old world. The golden crown of the Argentine Empire sat on a velvet cushion on the nightstand of the Emperor's bedchamber, its jewels glinting mockingly in the moonlight. Livius didn't wear it. He sat by the window, staring out at the capital city he now technically owned. The silence of the palace was deafening. For seventeen years, this building had been a labyrinth of whispers and threats. Now, it was a tomb.
"You should sleep, Your Majesty," Cian said, his voice echoing in the vast, vaulted room. The clerk-turned-chancellor was busy sorting through a mountain of scrolls—the personal "Black Ledgers" of the deceased princes that Nexus agents had recovered from hidden wall safes. "Tomorrow morning, the High Council expects a formal address. They are currently huddled in the West Wing, debating whether you are a god, a demon, or a very well-trained actor."
Livius turned his gaze from the window. "Let them debate. Uncertainty is a more effective leash than a collar. Did you find the records for the 'Iron Maidens'?"
Cian pulled a dusty, red-bound book from the pile. "The Empress's secret spy network? Yes. It seems Isabella wasn't the only one with eyes in the walls. Her mother, the late Empress, had a list of every 'indiscretion' committed by the Duke families over the last thirty years. It's a map of the empire's rot."
Livius walked over to the desk, his fingers brushing the old parchment. This was the "system" he had inherited—a machine fueled by blackmail and fear. "I want every person on this list summoned to the 'Blue Parlor' tomorrow. One by one. No guards. No advisors. Just me and their sins."
"That's over two hundred people, Livius," Cian noted, rubbing his tired eyes. "It will take weeks."
"I have time," Livius replied, his golden eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "For seventeen years, I waited for them to notice I existed. They can wait a few weeks to find out if they get to keep their heads."
He picked up a quill and began to cross out names. This was the granular work of a King. It wasn't about swinging an axe in an arena; it was about the slow, methodical dismantling of a corrupt hierarchy. He thought of Vaelin, who was finally resting in the royal infirmary, and his grandmother, whose ashes rested against his chest. He wasn't just King of the people; he was the King of the Ghosts, and he had a lot of debts to collect.