Autumn clouds had begun to gather above the capital, and once again, the Imperial War Council chamber echoed with the footsteps of those who held power.
Candles were lit, and velvet curtains drawn—to keep the warmth in and the secrets sealed.
At the center of the round room stood a black stone oval table, facing the seat of the Emperor.
High nobles, generals, and key representatives of the Academy had taken their places.
There was no visible tension only measured expressions because today's topic was not full-scale war,
but the seeds of something that could become one.
Emperor Gaius Octavianus Magnus was the first to speak, calm and resolute:
"The report from Commander Alberch has arrived.
Unusual movements in the southeast.
An armed local militia has begun open action against our garrison in Althaar."
Some nobles sipped their wine. Others gave small nods.
There was no shock.
Small rebellions were not new but the speed and coordination of this one was troubling.
Lord Severan Malrec, Head of the Imperial Court and controller of the Empire's information web, interlocked his fingers before speaking:
"I've confirmed parts of the intelligence.
Someone is supplying these militias with logistics and arms.
Too organized for a spontaneous peasant uprising."
"A puppet master?" asked Caerwyn Haldeir, Grand Rector of the Academy his tone calm, but laden with meaning.
"Possibly," Severan nodded.
"But the trail is clean.
We suspect movement from within someone who understands tax routes, logistical distribution, and the quiet simmer of dissatisfaction."
Duke Armand Vaelric, the old lion of the North, interjected with his gravelly voice:
"Every drop of leniency only breeds greater treason.
If a border town believes it can freely raise arms who follows next?"
Marchioness Selene Arceval offered a thin, elegant smile, laced with venom:
"Or perhaps they've simply gone unseen for too long.
The frontier is often abandoned.
Emptiness invites ambition."
In a quiet corner of the chamber stood Soren Voltaire Duval, silent until now.
When he finally spoke, his voice was flat cold with calculation:
"If there is indeed a puppet master then we let the fire burn a little. Let them step into the light.
And when they do we destroy them,
and the story they try to write."
The Emperor turned to Soren.
Their eyes met for a brief moment.
"And you'll take charge, Archon?"
Soren nodded slightly.
"I will send an envoy first.
But if necessary I'll go myself."
The Emperor gave a single nod, then addressed the room.
"We will not send the army not yet.
Begin investigations.
Protect our symbols.
And make sure this rebellion does not become an inspiration."
Reports were drafted. Orders prepared.
One by one, the nobles rose and left the chamber,
their steps light, their thoughts heavy.
At the far end of the room, Soren remained, staring at the large map hanging on the wall.
His gaze fell on a small dot Althaar.
"Shadows only need the smallest crack,"
he murmured.
And the night continued its calm course as if no flame had begun to rise
at the edge of the Empire.