Politics? It had never been Lily's field, nor had she ever claimed to understand it.
That was a world where affairs were conducted through words and treaties, whereas she was drawn to what could be measured, tested, and proven through results. As for medicine and the craft of alchemists, that was where she stood on entirely different ground; ground where her talent had revealed itself so early that some went so far as to say that—since the age of fourteen—she had reminded them of the era of the Fourth Emperor. Not because she had reached his stature, but because people had grown accustomed to borrowing his name whenever they failed to explain an uncommon talent.
And the story began with a family crisis, not a scientific discovery.
Her father fell bedridden with an illness that left physicians with nothing more to offer, and left the family with nothing more to pay. She could not afford the price of "ecclesiastical care," whose doors opened through the generosity of donations. She found herself facing a truth that was at once simpler and harsher: if she did not understand the illness herself, no one would.
She had no teacher, and hardly any tools worth mentioning. An introductory book on alchemy was the only thing available to her. She treated it not as a sufficient reference, but as the first thread she could hold onto. She read, then experimented, then failed, then tried again, without ever thinking about whether what she was doing qualified as science in the sense recognized by the institutions.
When her father finally recovered, the recovery itself was not the decisive moment, but what came afterward. At that moment, she understood the rule that governed this world:
"Knowledge that is not recognized by the Church is not considered knowledge, but transgression."
She did not try to argue against that rule, nor did she seek to break it. She did what was simpler and more effective: she presented what she had reached once again, within the framework that was permitted to exist. Her work was accepted, she was granted a license, and she finally gained a recognized place instead of remaining an unwelcome exception.
She established a small guild, and over time it expanded. Other names appeared working alongside her, until they formed a short-lived professional organization. It flourished quickly, then declined along with the Empire's own instability, just as many other things declined through no fault of their own except that they had been born in an age of unrest.
But her name did not decline to the same extent.
It continued to be called upon whenever results were needed rather than debate. Although she was not yet older than twenty-six, most of those in the hall respected her. That was why she had not entered the hall today representing an institution or her family, but carrying her experience alone, as one of the Empire's most important figures.
Now, as she walked forward with steps less steady than she had expected, she did not remember her achievements as much as she remembered where they had begun: a cramped room, an open book, and a man struggling against death.
That man was sitting among those present today, watching her ascend—not to save a single person this time, but to try to save what remained of the health of an entire Empire.
Her approach was nothing like Elias's. She paused for a moment before the first step, as though making sure no one else would be called instead of her, then climbed with obvious caution, trying to make her footsteps less noticeable than they actually were.
When she reached the throne, she did not immediately extend her hand to receive the pen. Instead, she looked briefly at Morgana—a look from someone who appreciated the weight of something before carrying it.
Then she looked at Morgana and spoke in a quiet voice.
"I'm afraid I don't know where to put it so I won't lose it."
The meaning of the sentence reached Morgana immediately, and she asked calmly,
"Do you lose things often?"
Lily answered with a sincerity that unsettled some of those who understood the implication behind the conversation.
"Only the important ones."
A brief silence followed, but it was not the silence of objection... it was the silence of thought.
Then Morgana gently pushed the pen toward her and said,
"Then don't carry it alone. A ministry isn't run from a pocket."
It was not an outright joke, but it was light enough for a slight tension to leave Lily's shoulders. She accepted the pen this time without hesitation.
"That's reassuring... because I didn't bring a suitable pocket in the first place."
A fleeting smile passed across Morgana's face—it did not last, but it was clear to anyone who was watching. Then another silence settled, though it did not last long.
As soon as Lily returned to her place, it became clear that the effect of her words—or perhaps the nature of her work—was not the kind that provoked debate, but the kind that quietly made those present reconsider things they had long grown accustomed to overlooking.
But as Ray had said a short while earlier, the Empire was not suffering only from within. There were things too obvious to debate... and too serious to postpone.
Roads that had been repaired over patches older than themselves, until no one remembered what they had originally been.
Warehouses that had been used far beyond what they had been designed to endure.
Districts within the walls that had grown more crowded without ever being given new room to expand.
It was as though the cities were no longer capable of growing... yet were not allowed to die.
These were not problems that could be solved by medicine or by decree,
but by work that reordered what had already been built... before it collapsed while still standing.
[Ministry of Public Works and Construction: the body responsible for building roads and bridges, carrying out major construction projects, and ensuring the connection between the Empire's cities and the continued operation of its infrastructure.]
Sislin stepped forward with the ceremonial case, just as he had done before, and opened it beside the throne. What lay inside was less ornate than those present had come to expect: a broader key, fashioned more like a tool than a symbol, engraved with the title (Architecture).
Beside it rested a pen engraved with the title (Foundation).
There was nothing about either item that invited prolonged admiration. They seemed intended to be used, not displayed. Rei then continued with the announcement of the name.
[Baron Arthur Stone... please step forward.]
The name echoed through the hall for a moment, not because it carried great weight, but because most of those present tried to remember whether they had ever heard it before.
At first, no one moved.
Then a man rose from the back rows, as though the call had reached him only after he had made sure no one else would answer it first. His rise was not hesitant, but practical; a direct movement devoid of any attempt to project a dignity he did not need.
He did not look around to see who was watching him. Instead, he cast a quick glance at the distance before him, measuring it as though it were a passage inside a narrow workshop, then began to walk.
His name was not well known in the imperial court, but neither was it unknown throughout the Empire.
Elsewhere—far from the red carpets and sealed decrees—his name appeared beneath blueprints and in the margins of proposals that arrived only to be filed away without response.
Over the years, he had submitted designs for bridges that were never built, plans for roads that were said to be ahead of their time, and ideas, some rejected because they were too complicated, while others were simply left aside because their author... was only a baron without enough influence to impose his vision upon reality.
Even so, those papers sometimes reached where they needed to reach.
Ray had reviewed a number of them.
Not as completed projects, but as the work of a mind trying to rearrange what others had grown accustomed to. A mind that did not see the road as it was, but as it could become if it were redrawn from the very beginning.
That was why he had not hesitated to summon him now.
Arthur stopped before the throne and bowed, a bow closer to a professional greeting than to ceremony. He neither prolonged it nor shortened it; he performed it as though it were simply one step in a procedure that had to be completed before moving on to the work.
Morgana did not hurry to signal. She allowed the silence to linger for a moment, as though giving those present enough time to examine the man standing before them... then she said, in an ordinary tone free of celebration,
"Baron, your talent is obvious, but the Empire does not need an engineer who dreams of perfection now. It needs a builder who knows how to seal the cracks before the roof collapses over all our heads."
Morgana paused briefly, then pushed the pen toward him with seriousness.
"Begin with the foundations... the decorations can wait another century."
Arthur extended his hand and took the pen as though it were a tool whose weight he already knew. He looked at it for a brief moment, then simply said,
"I understand, Your Majesty. What is broken comes before everything else."
He delivered the ceremonial words as protocol required, in the same tone with which he had been speaking:
"I raise my gratitude with the edge of the sword and the sincerity of my words to the Sun of the Empire... and its Moon."
He bowed—not with ceremonial slowness, but with clear discipline—then took the ceremonial case and closed it himself before returning to his place, carrying it as the others had carried what had been entrusted to them—not as a keepsake, but as a set of tools entrusted to his care.
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End of Chapter
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[Side Information: The Master of Curricula]
[It is one of the customs of the Aster Empire that an emperor is not referred to after his death by his personal name alone, because the name belongs to the man, while the title belongs to the legacy he left behind. For that reason, the Fourth Emperor became associated with the title "The Master of Curricula," for it was during his reign that knowledge transitioned from scattered practices into principles that could be measured, reviewed, and taught.]