Soren stepped into his silent home after a long day in the Imperial War Council.
The echoes of political arguments and strategic debates still murmured in his mind,
but now only silence greeted him.
In his study, a room steeped in history, the old stone walls stood as mute witnesses to the Empire's past.
Here, predecessors had made decisions that shaped nations and now, it was his turn to bear that same burden perhaps heavier than ever.
He was no son of lineage,
no noble blood flowed naturally through his veins.
He was a choice a tool of imperial authority, selected to guard and oversee the relentless motion of power without flaw.
His hand reached for the sword,
sheathed not in a scabbard, but within an empty dimensional space.
It was no mere weapon but a symbol of will, of force, a burden forged in steel.
The sword was cold,
its weight familiar,
its pressure a constant reminder of the responsibility that chained him.
His eyes narrowed as he stared into the old mirror across the room.
What he saw was not merely a man holding a blade but the bearer of imperial will,
not by blood,
but by a destiny he had chosen himself.