The news of the Southern Fleet's annihilation reached the capital before the morning mist had even cleared from the cobblestone streets. It didn't arrive via a royal herald or a trumpeted proclamation. Instead, it came as a series of frantic, panicked whispers from the harbor workers who had seen the sky catch fire and the sea turn to glass. By noon, the "Invincible Armada" of Duke Maros was a memory, and the "Ghost" was no longer a myth—he was a nightmare that walked the clouds.
Inside the Imperial Palace, the atmosphere was suffocating. The nobles who had once walked the hallways with their heads held high now moved in huddled groups, their footsteps hurried and their eyes darting toward every shadow. They had spent years mocking the "Freak of the North Wing," dismissing him as a byproduct of a commoner's womb. Now, that same "byproduct" had dismantled the empire's greatest naval power in the span of a single storm.
Cian sat in the center of the Chancellor's office, his desk buried under a fresh avalanche of scrolls. The communication crystals on his shelf were humming incessantly, glowing with the frantic queries of regional governors and fearful allies. He ignored them all. His focus was on a single, black-inked ledger that contained the names of every officer who had served under the Southern Duke.
"Panic is a curious thing, Raven," Cian said, his voice raspy from a lack of sleep. He didn't look up as the shadow-girl materialized beside a suit of decorative armor. "If you push a man too hard, he fights. If you scare him just enough, he runs. But if you show him something impossible... something that defies the laws of the world he knows... he breaks."
Raven adjusted the strap of her obsidian dagger. "The city guards are deserting, Chancellor. Three captains from the West Gate fled during the night. They say they won't stand against a King who can command the lightning."
"Let them flee," Cian replied, a cold, calculated glint in his eyes. "A guard who stays out of fear is a liability. A guard who stays because they believe in the new order is an asset. We are currently filtering the chaff from the wheat."
Cian stood and walked to the window, looking out toward the horizon where the sea met the sky. "Livius isn't just winning a war. He's performing a surgery. He's cutting away the parts of this empire that think they are more important than the heart. But the patient is bleeding, and we need to ensure the neighbors don't smell the iron in the air."
He turned back to the desk, his finger tapping a map of the Eastern Steppes. "The Khan's envoy is dead, and the 'Ever-Burning Rose' is a block of ice in the cellar. The Khaganate will interpret this as a declaration of war. They don't know about the Silver Dragon blood yet, but they know the Golden Throne is no longer vacant. They will strike while they think Livius is exhausted from his 'miracle' at sea."
"Shall I mobilize the Nexus strike teams?" Raven asked, her voice eager.
"No," Cian said, a sharp smile touching his lips. "We don't need daggers for this. We need the Scribe's touch. I've already sent a letter to the Khaganate's trade minister. I didn't mention the envoy's death. I simply informed them that their 'tribute' was received and that His Majesty found it... lacking in quality. I've invited them to send a second, more 'substantial' offering, or face a trade embargo on the mountain passes."
Cian sat back down, picking up his quill. "While Livius is the storm, I will be the drought. By the time the Khan realizes his General is a corpse, he'll be too busy dealing with a starving cavalry to launch an invasion."