Chapter 404| I’m Going To Offer Him Something That Even The Emperor Won’t Be Able To Refuse

?Rianor stood by the window of his room, observing the streets below.

?This inn wasn’t a cell. It was a two-story stone building tucked in the corner of the eastern district, far from the bustling markets and the clamor of the factories. The windows had thin iron grates, and the steel doors weren’t deadlocked. Two Praetorian Guards stood watch outside, not inside.

?Laborers began crowding the sidewalks, carrying their packed lunches, marching briskly toward the factories. The steam-lamps lining the streets had just been lit. The sun had yet to fully rise.

?Rianor’s gray shirt was still grimy, his cracked glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. His left arm hung limply with its completely dead Bracer, while his right arm still bore dried lacerations. But his eyes were sharp, mapping every single detail below.

?Two guards, rotating every four hours.

?The morning shift was younger, walked with a brisk pace, and easily showed fatigue toward the end of their watch. The afternoon shift was older, paced slowly, but had sharp eyes that rarely strayed. The night shift—he couldn’t read them yet. He hadn’t had enough time to observe them.

?Roland had been out since dawn, claiming he needed to scout the postal routes. Downstairs, Riven was doing light physical conditioning in the empty common room. The Dwarf King sat in a wooden chair near another window, his warhammer propped against the wall. Borch, Thorne, Naya, and Dom were split between two rooms at the end of the hall, keeping to themselves ever since they arrived.

?Rianor was still calculating the guards’ patrol rhythms when his door pushed open quietly, without a knock.

?Anastasia stepped inside. Her black wolf-fur mantle draped flawlessly over her shoulder, her expression as flat as ever.

?"You have one hour," she said, skipping any pleasantries. "I can get you into the red archives."

?Rianor turned to look at her.

?"If you get caught," Anastasia continued, "I will deny everything."

?Rianor stared at her for a second, running the variables through his head. "Deal."

?They exited the inn. The two guards outside simply bowed their heads, letting Anastasia pass without a single question.

?The palace corridor they navigated sloped down into the sublevels—long and completely windowless. At the very end, a solid steel door awaited.

?Anastasia pressed her palm against the locking panel. Small circuits lit up with a dim glow, scanning her handprint. Three seconds passed before the door slid open with a soft hiss, creating a gap just wide enough for a person to slip through.

?The air inside was cold and bone-dry, a stark contrast to the damp corridors they had just traversed.

?Steel racks lined the room in perfect rows, filled with dark red leather-bound files that lacked even a speck of dust. Dim steam-lamps hummed on the low ceiling, providing just enough light to read by, and nothing more.

?"Thirty minutes," Anastasia said, standing guard near the door.

?Rianor didn’t answer. His eyes were already darting across the labels—generals’ names, military operations, border reports—until his fingers stopped at a single title.

?DWARVES — LONG-TERM DIRECTIVE.

?He pulled the file and opened it on the nearest reading desk.

?It wasn’t a war report.

?Not a casualty log. Not a conquest strategy. It was something far simpler, and because of that, infinitely more terrifying.

?The first page contained only a single handwritten sentence, the ink slightly faded by time.

?The Dwarves must not be eradicated. The Dwarves must not be allowed peace. The Dwarves must persist—and they must suffer.

?The following pages went into greater detail. The Dwarven forces had to be continuously suppressed. Just enough to keep them busy surviving, but never enough to actually defeat them. Their lingering threat served as the perfect justification for massive military budgets, a live-fire training ground for new officers, and a testing facility for new weaponry. An eternal enemy united the people.

?There were pages detailing which reports had to be doctored. How casualty numbers needed to be manipulated. How sieges had to be strictly scheduled, never executed spontaneously.

?The final page was written with a much heavier pen stroke than the rest.

?If the people realize the Dwarves were never a true threat, they will ask why we are fighting at all.

?If they realize we need the Dwarves, they will ask who the real enemy is.

?If they realize our vengeance against the South is built on the exact same lie, no one will ever march to war for me again.

?Rianor closed the file quietly.

?"Did you find what you were looking for?" Anastasia asked from the door.

?Rianor didn’t answer immediately. He slid the file back into its exact original spot, making sure nothing looked disturbed, before walking out, passing Anastasia without a word.

?"Rianor." Anastasia’s voice was softer this time.

?He glanced back briefly. "You already know the answer. You’re the one who brought me here."

?Anastasia didn’t argue. She shut the archive door, engaged the locking panel, and the two of them headed back to the surface in total silence.

?Rumina and Yara walked along the cobblestone sidewalks of the workers’ district, two Praetorian Guards tailing them exactly three paces behind.

?Rumina’s hospital gown was thin and plain, her raven hair tied in a loose bun, her back still stinging with every step she took. Yara walked beside her, her blistered right hand still wrapped in fresh bandages.

?Low-rise stone houses lined both sides of the street. Their windows were small and grated, chimneys belching thin trails of smoke into the gray sky.

?Children ran through narrow alleys, playing with sticks and stones—not a single toy in sight looked like it was bought from a store. An elderly woman sat on her stoop, sewing the same piece of fabric she had been working on when they first passed by, her hollow eyes staring off into the distance.

?Rumina stopped in front of one of the houses.

?A small child, maybe four years old at most, sat alone on the stone steps, clutching a piece of stale bread that was already molding on one side.

?Rumina knelt down slowly, ignoring the sharp sting in her back. She pulled a leftover roll of bread from her pocket—rations from the hospital she hadn’t finished—and handed it to the kid.

?The child looked up, eyes wide and dead. They took the bread without a word, took a quick, desperate bite, and then looked back down.

?The two guards merely watched from behind, their hands resting casually at their sides. No one intervened. No one cared. It was as if this sight was far too mundane to even warrant a reaction.

?Rumina stood up, scanning the street once more. Laborers passed by with exhausted faces. Women sewed in silence. Children played without laughing.

?"This isn’t a city that’s winning a war," she murmured.

?"What do you mean?" Yara asked.

?Rumina didn’t answer. She turned around and started back toward the inn, never looking back.

?Riven finished his final set of push-ups, stood up, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

?The Dwarf King sat in his wooden chair, observing him from the corner of the room. "You never stop," he remarked.

?"Force of habit," Riven replied.

?The Dwarf King gave a slow nod. "I used to be like that. Before I realized that training doesn’t actually change anything."

?Riven grabbed his canteen, took a swig, and sat on the bench opposite him. "Have you given up, Your Majesty?"

?"No," the Dwarf King answered. "I just stopped believing that surviving on our own was enough."

?"You’ve lost a lot of people."

?"Two sons," the Dwarf King said quietly. "Three grandchildren. More warriors than I can possibly count." He stared at the floorboards. "Every night, I pray the list of names stops growing. But every morning, there’s always a new one."

?Riven stayed quiet for a moment. "If I were in your shoes, I’d start looking for allies."

?The Dwarf King let out a short, bitter laugh. "That’s exactly what we’re doing right now."

?Riven gave a single nod.

?The Dwarf King leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "I’m far too old to trust words anymore. But you and your brothers are still standing here. That’s more than enough, for now."

?Riven didn’t reply. He simply stood up, walked back to the center of the room, and resumed his workout.

?In his private study, Emperor Regulus sat behind a steel desk instead of a throne. His mechanical respirator hissed softly in the nearly silent room.

?Volkov stood across from the desk, his brass measuring rod tucked neatly into his belt.

?"Has it been verified?" the Emperor asked.

?"It has," Volkov replied. "Northveil wasn’t a fabrication. Rudigor did indeed fall there. The fleet that was wiped out was the very armada being prepped for the southern expansion campaign. The losses were astronomical."

?The Emperor remained silent.

?"Northreach possesses technology unfamiliar to us," Volkov continued. "Magnetic projectile weaponry. Mana engines. Wireless communication. Several aspects are far more advanced than anything we currently field."

?"More advanced?"

?"In certain aspects," Volkov clarified. "Not all. But enough to make a full-scale war against them exceptionally costly."

?The Emperor tapped the desk once, then fell into a long, drawn-out silence.

?"And the Dwarves?" he finally asked. "How have they survived this long?"

?Volkov didn’t answer right away. "According to Grigori’s report from last night, the Dwarves rely on natural defenses that are incredibly difficult to breach with conventional forces. I’ve cross-referenced it with the old reports. Nothing contradicts it."

?The Emperor stared at him. Volkov added nothing more.

?"Your recommendation?" the Emperor asked.

?"If our ultimate goal remains the southern war," Volkov stated, "we must not open a new front with either Northreach or the Dwarves. We need them quiet."

?The Emperor nodded slowly. "Quiet. Not allies. Quiet."

?"For the time being," Volkov agreed.

?The Emperor closed the file in front of him. "Summon the envoy. Tomorrow morning. Before he gets the chance to change his mind."

?Volkov bowed his head, then left the room.

?The Emperor sat alone, staring at the freshly closed door. For the very first time in years, he felt as though he was finally facing an opponent who truly understood his game.

?And that made him profoundly uncomfortable.

?Rianor returned to the inn just as evening fell, his pace steady, his expression as unreadable as ever.

?Roland was already waiting in the common room. He sat in a wooden chair, a cup of completely untouched tea resting on the table in front of him.

?Rianor took the seat across from him.

?"You found something," Roland said. It wasn’t a question.

?"I know why the Emperor never wiped out the Dwarves," Rianor replied.

?Roland waited for him to continue.

?"He did it on purpose," Rianor continued. "He sent just enough troops to suppress them, but never enough to win. The Dwarves are just a tool. A justification for military budgets. A training ground for new officers. A method to control his own people."

?Roland didn’t look surprised. He stared at Rianor for a long moment, leaning back in his chair.

?"If the public finds out," he said, "the Emperor loses his entire justification for war."

?"Not just that," Rianor added. "The justification for the southern war collapses as well. Both are built on the exact same lie."

?Roland gave a slow nod. He took a sip of his stone-cold tea, then set the cup back down on the table.

?"Tomorrow, the Emperor will summon us again," he said. "I can feel it."

?"What are you going to say to him?" Rianor asked.

?Roland carved a faint smile—not his usual diplomatic mask, but something colder, more absolute.

?"I’m going to offer him something," he replied, "that even the Emperor won’t be able to refuse."