"So," she said.

That single word cut through the room, clean and sharp, slicing away the lingering shock in the air.

"The work I assigned before I was taken."

A pause.

Her gaze lifted, slow and steady, resting on each of them one by one—not asking, not questioning... simply expecting.

"Is it done?"

The room, which had already been silent, seemed to grow heavier.

Demorti straightened instinctively. The others followed, exchanging quick glances—not out of confusion, but habit. A silent check. A shared understanding.

Then they nodded.

"It is completed, Your Highness," Demorti said, stepping forward and placing a stack of documents on the table. "All reports, financial records, and intelligence summaries have been organized as instructed."

The papers made a soft sound as they settled.

Elara didn’t touch them.

Not immediately.

Her eyes rested on the stack for a brief moment... as if weighing not the contents, but the effort behind them.

Then—

She exhaled.

A quiet, controlled breath.

"I left this entire empire," she said slowly, "in the hands of those people."

Her tone wasn’t angry.

That would have been easier to handle.

Instead, it carried something far colder.

Disappointment.

"I assumed," she continued, "that even if they lacked competence, they would at least possess enough fear to keep things from collapsing."

A faint tilt of her head.

"A few years of stability was not an unreasonable expectation."

Her gaze shifted slightly, distant for a moment, as if replaying something only she could see.

"But less than a month..."

That made her pause.

Not in shock.

But in quiet acknowledgment.

"They didn’t even try."

The room stayed still.

No one interrupted.

Because no one could deny it.

Elara finally moved.

She stood up from the table in one smooth motion, adjusting the sleeve of her blazer, brushing away an invisible crease as if preparing for something routine.

Something ordinary.

"Fine," she said.

One word.

Simple.

Decisive.

"If they cannot manage it..."

Her eyes sharpened slightly.

"I’ll take it back."

The way she said it made it clear—

It was never truly theirs.

She turned her head slightly, looking at her people.

"Prepare."

A brief pause.

Then—

"Let’s go."

---

On the other side of the capital, the palace stood wrapped in a carefully crafted illusion of grief.

It was the third day after the Emperor’s death.

The halls were filled with the thick scent of incense, burning endlessly, as if the smoke itself could cover the truth.

Servants moved quietly, heads lowered.

Torches burned dimly.

Curtains were drawn.

Everything was arranged to look solemn.

Respectful.

Mourning.

But beneath that carefully maintained surface—

The palace was rotting.

The Beast Knights stood at their posts, rigid and silent, their usual authority gone. Without clear command, they had become little more than statues—armed, trained... but directionless.

The Emperor was dead.

The Fourth Princess was missing.

And no one knew who held power anymore.

That uncertainty should have brought caution.

Restraint.

Silence.

But the nobles...

Were doing the opposite.

---

Their voices filled the grand pool room, loud, sharp, uncontrolled.

Crying.

Shouting.

Arguing.

From a distance, it might have sounded like grief.

But anyone standing inside that room could see the truth written clearly across their faces.

There was no sorrow.

Only hunger.

Because for them, the Emperor’s death was not a loss.

It was an opening.

An opportunity.

And they were already moving to claim it.

---

"The bloodline is clear!" Duke Haren shouted, his voice cracking not from emotion—but urgency. "The child carries the Emperor’s blood. That alone makes him the rightful heir!"

"He is five years old!" Marquis Vane snapped back, his composure slipping. "A child cannot rule an empire! He needs guidance—a structured council—"

"A council you want to control," someone muttered under their breath.

The tension snapped tighter.

Eyes shifted.

But no one denied it.

Because it was true.

Every single one of them was here for the same reason.

Power.

The story they had created was convenient.

Too convenient.

A forgotten prince.

Born from a "cup of wine."

A hidden heir suddenly revealed at the perfect moment.

No records.

No witnesses.

No proof.

And yet—

They accepted it.

Not because they believed it.

But because it benefited them.

---

At the center of the room stood the child.

Small.

Confused.

Dressed in clothes far too heavy for his tiny frame.

He stood on a velvet stool, barely able to balance properly, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the golden tassel hanging from his sleeve.

He didn’t understand.

Not the voices.

Not the tension.

Not the fact that he was being turned into a symbol.

A puppet.

---

"We must crown him before the week ends!" Haren insisted, stepping forward. "Delay will only create instability!"

"Instability?" Vane laughed harshly. "You mean interference."

That word lingered.

Unspoken—but understood.

"The Fourth Princess," someone said quietly.

The room shifted.

Just slightly.

A ripple.

"Before she returns," Haren added quickly. "We all know what she is capable of. If she steps back into this palace—"

"She won’t," another interrupted. "She’s gone. Missing for over a month. Either captured... or dead."

That thought settled into the room.

And slowly—

Relief followed.

Because if Elara was gone...

There would be no one to stop them.

---

The argument rose again.

Voices overlapping.

Tempers breaking.

Men stepping closer, fingers pointing, alliances forming and breaking within seconds.

The room was loud.

Messy.

Uncontrolled.

And completely unaware—

Of what was about to walk in.

---

The doors slammed open.

The sound was sharp.

Violent.

It echoed through the entire hall like a crack of thunder.

Everything stopped.

Not gradually.

Instantly.

The voices cut off.

The movement froze.

Even the air seemed to still.

Then—

She walked in.

Elara.

Her steps were steady, measured, unhurried.

Each one echoed clearly against the marble floor, filling the silence that followed her entrance.

She wore her usual white blazer, perfectly fitted, untouched by dust or disorder. The light color stood out sharply against the darker tones of the room, drawing every eye toward her without effort.

Behind her, her administrators followed in precise formation.

Their clothing—dark, uniform, controlled—created a clear contrast.

They didn’t look like nobles.

They didn’t look like courtiers.

They looked like a system.

Organized.

Efficient.

Unshaken.

Together, they entered not like guests...

But like people returning to a place that already belonged to them.

---

The nobles stared.

Some took a step back.

Some went completely still.

Some looked like they had seen something impossible.

Because the woman they had just spoken about—

Dismissed.

Declared irrelevant.

Possibly dead—

Was now standing in front of them.

Alive.

Calm.

And completely unaffected.

---

Elara didn’t look at them.

Not immediately.

She didn’t look at the child either.

Her gaze moved past everything—

And landed on the center of the room.

The place where authority gathered.

Where decisions were made.

Where power sat.

She walked forward.

Step by step.

No hesitation.

No pause.

No acknowledgment of the chaos she had just walked into.

Only when she reached the center did she stop.

Then—

She spoke.

"I see," she said softly.

Her voice wasn’t loud.

But it carried.

Perfectly.

To every corner of the room.

"The idiots gathered early today."

No one responded.

No one could.

She let her gaze finally shift—

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Taking in each face.

Each expression.

Each flicker of fear.

"Arguing over a throne," she continued, "before the body is even cold."

A faint smile appeared.

Sharp.

Controlled.

Not warm.

"How efficient."