The air in the Blue Parlor was thick with the scent of dried lavender and old wood, a fragrance that Livius found grounding amidst the sterile, cold stone of the rest of the palace. He sat in his high-backed chair, his fingers tracing the rim of a porcelain teacup. Opposite him sat High Inquisitor Draken. The man was a veteran of a thousand interrogations, his face a roadmap of scars and cynical lines, yet today, his usual aura of iron-clad authority was fraying at the edges.
"You've been very busy, Draken," Livius said, his voice a low, melodic hum that seemed to vibrate against the walls. "My 'Specter's Eye' tells me you've been frequenting the lower sanctums of the Old Cathedral. Looking for birth records? Or perhaps a scandal involving a certain commoner maid?"
Draken didn't flinch, though his jaw tightened. "An Emperor's blood must be pure, Your Majesty. The people follow the Dragon, but they will not follow a fabrication. If your mother was—as the rumors suggest—a mere servant who used forbidden alchemy to mimic the Imperial traits, then your crown is made of glass."
Livius let out a soft, chilling laugh. It wasn't the laugh of a boy; it was the laugh of a predator watching its prey walk into a snare. "Alchemy? You think so poorly of the Dragon God's bloodline? My mother, Elara, was a low-rank mage, yes. She was a woman who was forgotten by the world, but she possessed a lineage you couldn't begin to understand. She didn't use alchemy to give me these eyes, Draken. She used sacrifice."
Livius stood, the movement so fluid it was almost spectral. He walked to a painting on the wall—a simple landscape of the Southern Wilds. With a flick of his wrist, he channeled a thread of solar-mana into the frame. The painting didn't move, but the space behind it groaned. A hidden door slid open, revealing a spiral staircase that descended into the foundations of the palace, deeper than even the royal dungeons.
"Since you are so curious about my origins, let us go to the source," Livius commanded. "But I warn you, Inquisitor: the truth is a heavy burden. Once you see it, you can never go back to being a simple servant of the Law."
Draken hesitated, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword, but the pull of his obsession was too strong. He followed the young King into the darkness. The air grew colder as they descended, smelling of ancient salt and ozone. This was the "Origin Vault," a place sealed by the First Emperor and opened only by the blood of a True Heir.
As they reached the bottom, Draken gasped. The room was filled with thousands of floating blue crystals, each one pulsing like a heartbeat. In the center of the room stood a sarcophagus made of pure white jade. It wasn't empty. Inside lay the body of a woman, preserved in a stasis field of golden light. She looked exactly like Livius, except for her hair, which was the color of spun silver.
"My mother wasn't just a maid, Draken," Livius whispered, his golden eyes glowing with a fierce, protective light. "She was the last daughter of the Silver Dragon Tribe—the ones your ancestors claimed were extinct. The Argentine family didn't 'happen' upon her. They hunted her. My father didn't 'want a woman' in the hallway; he wanted a blood-seal. He raped the last of the Silver Dragons to ensure the Imperial line wouldn't lose its magic."
Draken fell to his knees, the weight of the revelation crushing his lungs. If this were true, the Argentine Empire wasn't built on divine right, but on a cosmic crime. The "True Heir" standing before him wasn't just a Prince—he was the living vengeance of a slaughtered race.
"Now," Livius said, leaning down so his face was inches from the Inquisitor's. "Do you still want to share your 'findings' with the Council? Or shall we discuss how you are going to help me dismantle the very system that allowed this to happen?"