Reivan had faced many things in his life—mercenaries trying to kill him, nobles trying to outmaneuver him, merchants trying to scam him—but standing outside the imperial throne room, he had to admit that this was on an entirely different level of bad ideas.

  "Remind me why I agreed to this?" he muttered to Sylpkx, who was leaning against the marble wall beside him, inspecting her claws with a boredom that was definitely faked.

  "You didn't. They summoned you." She smirked. "And ignoring an invitation from the Emperor is generally considered an express route to an unfortunate accident."

  "Ah, right. The ever-popular 'mysterious disappearance' strategy." He exhaled. "You know, this throne room was a cutscene in the game. Back then, I could just watch from a safe distance. Now? Not so much."

  "You'll be fine. Just don’t accidentally declare war."

  The doors creaked open before he could respond, and a royal attendant motioned him forward. Swallowing the urge to flee, Reivan stepped into the throne room.

  The chamber was massive, an architectural masterpiece of marble, gold, and red banners hanging from towering pillars. It was designed to make anyone who entered feel small, insignificant. A constant reminder that the man who sat on the throne was absolute.

  And speaking of the man himself—

  The Emperor of the Valerian Empire, Lucien Thorne, was not what Reivan had expected.

  Most rulers in stories or games tended to fall into certain categories—old and wise, young and reckless, or sinister and cunning. Lucien was none of those. He was in his early fifties, broad-shouldered but lean, with sharp features and tired, intelligent eyes. He looked like a man who had seen too much and had learned to carry it without complaint. His presence filled the room, not with overbearing authority, but with the quiet certainty of a man who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.

  And worse?

  He looked amused.

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  "Reivan, isn't it?" The Emperor’s voice was calm, level. Not a question, but a statement of fact.

  Reivan gave the required bow—low enough to show respect but not so much that he looked subservient. "Your Majesty. An honor."

  "I imagine so," Lucien mused. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

  Reivan resisted the urge to sigh. "Hopefully some of it is accurate."

  "Some. The rest is... fascinating fiction." The Emperor studied him like one might study a particularly interesting puzzle. "A merchant who controls military forces but refuses official command. A strategist who claims no political ambition but outmaneuvers nobles effortlessly. A man who, despite holding no title, is feared by both the aristocracy and the Holy Kingdom alike."

  Reivan sighed internally. "When you put it that way, it does sound dramatic."

  Lucien smiled faintly. "And yet, I suspect you do not see yourself as a threat."

  "A threat implies I want something, Your Majesty. I mostly just want to keep breathing and avoid paperwork."

  A chuckle. From the Emperor. That was either very good or very bad.

  "You have a habit of turning problems into advantages. That makes you dangerous, whether you intend it or not." Lucien leaned forward slightly. "So tell me, Reivan, what do you intend to do with the power you’ve gathered?"

  Now that was a loaded question.

  Reivan carefully measured his words. "I don’t seek power, Your Majesty. But I do believe in stability. And right now, too many factions are pushing for chaos. That seems... inconvenient."

  The Emperor was silent for a moment, then nodded. "A reasonable answer."

  That should have been the end of the conversation.

  It wasn’t.

  "You remind me of someone," Lucien continued. "A man who built power without seeking it, who reshaped the board simply by existing."

  Reivan didn’t like where this was going. "And what happened to him?"

  Lucien’s expression was unreadable. "He learned that the strongest rulers are not the ones who move first, but the ones who move last."

  That sent a chill down Reivan’s spine.

  Because that wasn’t advice.

  It was a warning.

  He wasn’t just being acknowledged.

  He was being measured.

  The Emperor studied him for another moment, then gestured. "That will be all."

  Reivan, taking the hint, bowed again and left as quickly as dignity allowed.

  Outside, Sylpkx was waiting, arms crossed. "Still breathing?"

  "Barely," Reivan muttered. "Good news: I don’t think he wants me dead. Yet."

  She raised an eyebrow. "And the bad news?"

  Reivan exhaled. "He’s watching. Closely."

  Sylpkx whistled lowly. "Well, that’s fun."

  "Oh, thrilling." Reivan ran a hand through his hair. "This game just got a lot harder."

  Because now, he had confirmation of something he had always suspected.

  The Emperor wasn’t just some passive ruler.

  He was a player, too.

  And Reivan had just been added to the board.