The lights in the Privy Council were burning brightly, seven candles lined up in a row, illuminating the faces of everyone on both sides of the long table with perfect clarity.
The scent of candle wax was faint, mixed with the slight aroma of old wood. This room had been here for at least sixty years, and the Imperial Map hanging on the wall had been updated three times. Only that long table remained unchanged, its black oak surface worn to a dark, dull luster by countless hands.
Augustus took his seat. Without any opening remarks, he spoke directly.
He was not talking about Ophelia.
This caused the several Councilors present to exchange glances—they had originally prepared a wealth of rhetoric regarding the current status of the Sword of the Empire. Some had even drafted proposals in advance, folded into thirds and tucked beneath their sleeves. In the end, not a single word was needed.
Augustus was speaking about that young man, Ophelia's husband, that minor noble from the countryside.
“He said that if you use someone else as a reference, wherever you go, you will always be their shadow.”
Augustus's tone was flat as he repeated those words. He offered no commentary, resting his fingers on the edge of the table. His thumb lightly traced the grain of the wood, pausing for a moment before he continued.
“He rejected a position in the royal capital.”
Silence fell over the ends of the long table for a moment.
Someone coughed—not to speak, but simply because they couldn't stand the quiet.
Of the seven Councilors, the eldest slowly set down his teacup. The bottom of the cup clicked against the tabletop; the sound wasn't loud, but it was starkly clear in the silence.
“What ability could a mere countryside alchemist possibly have?”
He didn't look at Augustus as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the rim of his teacup as if he were talking to himself. However, his tone rose slightly at the end, firmly carrying the weight of a conclusion—
“He is nothing more than a pawn of the Sage. Pull him out when needed, and put him back when finished.”
The person beside him nodded in agreement.
One remarked that the young man’s words were too grand, noting that the young are prone to flowery speech and would only realize their true weight after a few years. Another added, “A minor noble from a poor region; it's only natural for him to talk big to save face when presented with the stage of the capital.” His tone carried the practiced disdain of someone who had seen it all, as casual as dusting off a sleeve.
Someone else pulled the conversation toward practical matters—alchemy could treat the pollution on the west coast. If that were true, everything else aside, that was useful. They should keep the man; just don't let him run away.
The discussion continued in a flurry of voices for a while.
Augustus neither joined in nor interrupted. He simply sat there, looking at each of their faces in turn.
Finally, the Executive Officer sitting in the seat on the left near the window spoke up.
This man was named Carver. He had connections to both the academy and the Alchemy Association; he had students in the academy and old acquaintances in the association, making him one of the few who could speak for both simultaneously.
“I believe we could test him a little.”
He spoke slowly and steadily, his right hand resting on the back of his left. Neither hand moved—a posture that usually indicated he had already thought out his next three sentences.
“The academy might not be entirely ignorant of that young man's background. Back when Old Dalin was alive, the small circle of alchemists only consisted of so many people. By investigating his lineage of apprenticeship, we can probably figure out how deep his roots go.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over those present before finally landing on Augustus's face.
“And his attitude...”
He said those three words slowly, as if intentionally leaving time for everyone to savor them.
“For the Empire, a man who can settle Ophelia's heart is far more dangerous, and far more useful, than a simple alchemist.”
He didn't continue, but the implication of his words was laid bare on the table—if Klein was just a researcher buried in experiments, he was merely a tool to be discarded after use. But if he was the sheath that could make the Sword of the Empire obey, then his value was far more than just alchemy.
And a sheath should either be held by the Empire, or—
“We should find out more before deciding,” Carver finally concluded, keeping his words within proper bounds.
Before his voice had even faded, someone on the right immediately cut in.
“The Sage said personally that we are not to interfere with those two.”
The speaker was the Councilor in the third seat on the right, named Loin. He wasn't particularly old, but he had always been the most cautious person in the Privy Council. He half-rose from his seat, his chair letting out a short screech against the floor. His tone carried an uncontrollable anxiety.
“Since the Sage gave such instructions, she must have her reasons. Do not forget, that young man is a candidate personally nominated by the Sage—he wasn't chosen by us, nor was he chosen by Your Majesty. The Sage never leaves a useless piece on the board. If we act rashly and happen to interfere with her arrangements—”
Augustus raised a hand.
It wasn't a large movement. His fingers curled slightly, palm facing down, as if pressing down on something invisible.
Loin's words stopped right there. He stood there, half-up and half-seated, his knees pressing against the edge of the chair. After an awkward breath, he slowly sat back down.
Silence fell over the long table once more.
Augustus glanced at him.
There wasn't much emotion in it—it wasn't a reprimand or a sign of displeasure; it was just a glance. But the weight of that look was enough to make Loin put his hands back on the table, his fingers tightening slightly as he fell silent.
The Privy Council remained quiet for a few moments. From outside the window came the distant sound of the guard change; the footsteps were rhythmic, the pace over the flagstone path like a small drum beating in the distance.
“I remember the Sage's words.”
Augustus spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear.
“However, this is the Privy Council, not the Sage's back garden.”
His expression didn't change as he said this.
But everyone present heard what lay beneath those words—it wasn't directed at the Sage, nor was it entirely a rebuttal to Loin.
It was a declaration. A quiet, heatless declaration that left no room for retreat.
He was the Emperor.
He would listen to the Sage's opinions, but the final decision rested with him.
Loin lowered his head, staring at his fingers on the table for a while, and ultimately said nothing more.
He knew in his heart that Augustus's words weren't just for him—they were for everyone present. The Sage's influence was too great, so great that when more than half of the Councilors in the Privy Council made a decision, the first thing they thought was not “What does His Majesty think?” but “What does the Sage say?”
This thorn had been lodged in Augustus's heart for more than a day or two.
Augustus turned his gaze back to Carver.
“Proceed as you suggested.”
His tone became calm again, as if the previous moment had never happened.
“Mind your boundaries. Do not disturb them, and do not let Ophelia notice.”
He paused, then added another sentence: “That young man... his mind is sharper than he lets on. Do not use the same tactics you'd use on ordinary people when dealing with him.”
Carver stood, cupped his hands, stepped back half a pace, and acknowledged the order.
He answered decisively, without further questions or grandstanding—he knew better than anyone how to handle it.
After the meeting adjourned, only the light of the candles flickered against the floor tiles in the long corridor.
The seven Councilors left in small groups, the sound of their footsteps echoing between the pillars until they gradually faded.
Loin was the slowest to leave.
He stopped for a moment at the entrance of the corridor, looking back at Augustus, who was still sitting in his chair. The lamplight cast the Emperor's shadow long against the base of the wall, deep and dark like the silhouette of another person entirely.
Loin opened his mouth, wanting to say something—perhaps that the Sage's arrangements should not be lightly disturbed, or perhaps something else—but in the end, nothing came out.
He turned and walked away.
The sound of his footsteps disappeared at the end of the hallway.
Only Augustus remained in the Privy Council.
The fire was still. The seven candles had already burned down by a small fraction, the wax dripping down the sides and congealing into a thin layer in the bronze trays.
Augustus stayed alone beneath that light, not rising immediately.
He replayed everything that had happened in the dessert shop today in his mind.
There was no sharpness. But it was precisely that lack of sharpness that, for the first time in his twenty-seven years on the throne, made him feel something indefinable from a “countryside minor noble.”
It wasn't a threat.
It was harder to handle than a threat.
It was a feeling... that the man was not on his chessboard.
Augustus reached out and flicked the wick of the nearest candle. The flame jumped, leaning to the right for a hesitant second before standing straight again, burning brighter than before.
He looked at the fire and thought for a long time.
The Sage had placed this man by Ophelia's side—was he a pawn, a piece, or something else?
He was the supreme ruler of the human empire on this continent.
There were things others didn't need to know.
But he had to know them for himself.
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