The sun that rose over the Argentine Capital did not carry the oppressive, heavy heat of the Golden Throne's old magic. Instead, the light was pale, cool, and remarkably clear, as if the very atmosphere had been scrubbed of a long-standing fever. In the streets below the palace, the citizens of the empire woke with a collective gasp, a sensation of lightheadedness that many mistook for illness. It was, in fact, the first time in ten centuries that their life-force was not being subtly siphoned by the "Protocol of the Void."
Inside the Throne Room, Livius remained seated. He did not look like a conqueror. His silver-black hair was matted with sweat, and his high-collared tunic was torn at the shoulder, revealing the fading iridescent scales of his Silver lineage. He watched the dust motes dancing in the shafts of morning light, his golden-silver eyes tracing their chaotic, free-form paths. For the first time since he was a child in the North Wing, he didn't feel the "Hunger" of the ancestors whispering in the back of his mind. The First Emperor was not just defeated; he was erased, his thousand-year gluttony dissolved into the Silver Dragon's void.
"You look... surprisingly human, Your Majesty," Cian said, his voice echoing softly against the cracked marble pillars. The clerk was leaning against the heavy oak doors, his spectacles held together by a piece of enchanted tape. He looked like a man who had spent the night fighting a war with nothing but a book, which, in a sense, he had.
Livius turned his gaze to his friend. A small, genuine smile—one that didn't carry the weight of a secret or a threat—touched his lips. "I feel human, Cian. It's a terrifyingly light feeling. I keep expecting the floor to give way."
"The floor is solid, but the walls are shaking," Cian replied, walking toward the center of the room. He held up a stack of fresh reports, the ink still damp. "The Guardian Family is in total disarray. Without the Protocol to fuel their 'Divine Strength,' they are just elderly men in heavy suits of armor. Most of them have surrendered to the Nexus agents. The few who resisted... well, Raven handled them."
Livius stood, his joints popping with a sound like dry wood snapping. He walked to the window and looked down at the Imperial Plaza. He saw the "Web-Walkers" moving through the crowds, distributing bread and water. He saw the city guards, no longer wearing the crest of the Golden Dragon, but a simple black sash—the mark of the Ghost.
"The Guardians are not to be executed," Livius commanded, his voice regaining its calm, regal resonance. "Strip them of their titles and their lands, but let them live. I want them to see the empire flourish without their 'Protection.' That will be a far greater punishment than the headsman's axe."
"And the Council?" Cian asked.
"Dissolved," Livius said. "By sunset, I want a proclamation issued. The 'Council of the People' will be formed. One representative from every province, one from the merchant guild, and one from the scholars. And you, Cian... you will be the High Proctor. You will ensure that the ink they use to write the new laws is as permanent as the blood we spilled to get here."