He bowed—just enough to remain respectful, but not enough to appear submissive.

"Forgive us, Your Highness," he began, his voice steady, carrying the weight of experience rather than fear, "but your departure... was never formally declared. There was no record, no decree left behind. Even the late emperor’s inner circle did not influence the understanding of the court at large."

A pause.

His eyes lifted slightly.

"What we believed... was based on what was left for us to see."

The words were careful.

Calculated.

A challenge—wrapped politely.

The hall went still.

Because this time—

It wasn’t fear speaking.

It was defiance.

Elara didn’t let him finish.

A short, sharp sound left her lips—something between a scoff and a laugh, entirely devoid of amusement.

"It hurt your pride?" she cut in, her voice low, dismissive. "Your assumptions? Your... interpretations?"

She waved her hand slightly, as if brushing away something insignificant.

"I don’t give a damn about any of that."

The air shifted instantly.

"I was gone for a year," she continued, her voice rising just enough to press against every ear in the room, "not a decade."

A step forward.

Slow. Deliberate.

"And even if I had been gone for a decade..." her eyes locked onto his, sharp enough to make the ground beneath him feel unsteady, "...who the hell are you to question me?"

Silence slammed into the hall.

The noble’s jaw tightened.

Others shifted, their expressions flickering between anger and restraint. A few opened their mouths—ready to argue, ready to push back—

But they didn’t.

They couldn’t.

Because something in her tone made it very clear—

This was not a discussion.

Elara let her gaze sweep across them again, slower this time, colder.

"And look at you," she continued, her voice dropping again, quieter—but far more cutting. "Not even waiting for the ashes to settle."

She turned slightly, gesturing toward the coffin without even looking at it.

"Your emperor is dead."

Each word landed like a strike.

"And within three days... you are already debating succession. Power. Replacement."

Her lips curved faintly—but there was no warmth in it.

"Normally," she added, "this assembly should not even have been called yet."

A step.

Another.

Her presence pressed harder against them now.

"His body is still here," she said, her voice tightening just slightly, just enough to hint at something darker beneath the control. "And yet you are already preparing to place someone else on the throne."

A pause.

Then—

Her eyes darkened.

"What?" she said softly. "Planning to kill him too?"

The words dropped like poison into still water.

For a moment—

No one breathed.

Because no one had expected that.

Not here.

Not like this.

Several nobles froze outright, their composure cracking for the first time. Others looked away instinctively, as if avoiding her gaze would somehow distance them from the accusation.

But it was too late.

The silence itself had already betrayed them.

Elara watched them.

And in that moment—

She understood enough.

Her expression didn’t change.

But something in her eyes settled.

Decided.

"As it stands," she said at last, her voice returning to that calm, controlled coldness, "none of my brothers who are eligible for the throne are present."

Her chin lifted slightly.

"And as the living daughter of the previous emperor—my father..."

A pause.

"...and the blood of the former emperor "

Her voice sharpened, carrying absolute authority now.

"I am claiming the throne."

The words didn’t echo.

They landed.

Final.

Unmovable.

She let the silence stretch, forcing them to absorb it, to feel the weight of what she had just declared.

Then—

Her gaze hardened.

"Anyone who has a problem with that..."

A step forward.

Her presence turned suffocating.

"...come forward."

Another step.

"I promise you," she continued, her voice dropping into something quieter—far more dangerous than before, "I will personally show you..."

A faint, cold smile appeared.

"...whether I am capable of sitting on that throne..."

A pause.

"...or not."

In the end, no matter how chaotic the court had been, no matter how many voices had risen in defiance or submission...

Everything still came down to this.

The end.

The silence after power.

Elara personally oversaw every part of the funeral.

Not because it was expected of her—but because no one else would dare mishandle it under her watch. Every ritual was carried out with precision, every step observed, every tradition followed as it should be. There was no room for error, not here... not for him.

And when the time came—

The late emperor was laid to rest among the royal graves, in the ancient cemetery where generations of rulers had returned to nothing more than names carved in stone.

It should have been a bright day.

Clear skies. Sunlight falling gently over white marble and polished stone.

That was how royal funerals were meant to be.

But the sky had chosen otherwise.

Dark clouds stretched endlessly above, heavy and unmoving, as if the heavens themselves refused to look away. Rain fell steadily—not harsh, not violent, but constant. Quiet. Unrelenting.

As if the world itself had acknowledged the loss.

Black umbrellas filled the cemetery, a sea of mourning that moved slowly, silently.

One of them was held above Elara.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Her gaze remained fixed on the tombstone before her.

On the portrait carved into it.

He was smiling.

A calm, almost gentle expression—one that did not belong to someone who had died the way he did.

For a long moment, she simply stood there.

Still.

Unmoving.

And then—

Memories surfaced.

Not loudly.

Not chaotically.

But quietly, like something long buried rising just enough to be seen again.

She remembered the day she had looked him in the eye and told him—without hesitation—that she would kill him if he stood in her way.

She remembered the way he had responded.

Not with anger.

Not with fear.

But with something far more unsettling.

Acceptance.

And then... his words.

He never wanted to become emperor.

The memory lingered longer than she expected.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the bouquet she held.

Then, without ceremony, without hesitation, she stepped forward and placed it on the tombstone.

"Born as a royal..." she said quietly, her voice almost lost beneath the sound of rain, "...this is our destiny."

Her gaze didn’t waver.

"No matter how much we resist it..."

A faint pause.

"...we never truly escape it."

The words were meant for him.

But they did not belong to him alone.

Because in that moment—

She wasn’t just speaking to the man beneath the stone.

She was speaking to herself.

From the very beginning... she had never wanted this.

Not the throne.

Not the crown.

Not the endless weight that came with both.

She had only wanted one thing—

Strength.

Enough strength to survive.

Enough strength to never be cornered, never be controlled, never be erased.

But the moment the assassination attempts began... she had understood something far more brutal.

Strength was never enough.

Because the stronger she became—

The more dangerous she became to others.

And so—

The more they tried to eliminate her.

Even when she became regent...

Even when she stepped forward not for power, but for stability...

Nothing changed.

If anything—

It only grew worse.

The attacks became sharper. Faster. More frequent.

Relentless.