CHAPTER 522: THE BIRTH OF AN EMPEROR!

The heavy doors of the Chamber of Council groaned open, and Alaric stepped inside. His cloak, dusted with the road’s pale grit, trailed softly over the polished stone floor.

After talking to Agilus, he went directly to the Chamber of Council. Lara followed in silence, her eyes taking in every inch of the room — the soaring vaulted ceiling, the banners of the Four Kingdoms hanging like faded ghosts of history, and the sprawling map that dominated the eastern wall, lit by a shaft of afternoon light, seeping through the high window.

King Heimdal turned first. His once-black hair had turned silver at the temples, but his gaze still carried the sharpness of command. Prince Dakota stood beside him — older, back hunched, his face marked with wrinkles that bore the wisdom of old.

"Your Majesty. Your Grace," Alaric said, bowing with the disciplined grace of a soldier who had not forgotten the weight of protocol, though his tone held neither submission nor pride — only purpose.

King Heimdal regarded him for a long moment before gesturing toward the map. "You’ve done in two years what three generations of kings failed to achieve," he said. "Calma stands like a jewel at the heart of the four kingdoms. I almost wonder if you intend to make it your throne."

Alaric’s lips curved faintly. "A throne is only as strong as the walls that guard it, Your Majesty. You are right, Calma was built to rule, the heart of the four kingdoms — Azurverda."

Prince Dakota gave a low chuckle, a trace of mirth in it. "Spoken like a man who already knows how to rule," he said. "Don’t play coy with us, boy. You have the loyalty of soldiers, the admiration of commoners, and now—" he gestured to the glowing map, "—a city that rivals the capital itself."

Alaric met his gaze evenly. "Loyalty is not won through birthright, Great Uncle, but through blood and burden. The crown demands one; the field, the other. I have merely chosen my battlefield."

Heimdal’s expression softened, and he stepped closer. "Your mother, Astrid would have been proud," he said quietly. "She believed you’d rise above the rest of us — that you would build something the kingdoms could not destroy with politics and fear."

At the mention of his mother’s name, Alaric’s composure faltered for the briefest instant. His eyes flicked toward the map — toward the shining sigil of Azurverda. "I only hope her faith was not misplaced."

"I am so glad that I did not destroy you with my indifference and neglect, my son. Otherwise, I could not face Astrid in the afterlife." King Heimdal spoke softly, almost inaudibly.

Alaric’s eyes flickered. He sighed. It was all in the past. He understood and accepted that it was his way of protecting him. He had already forgiven him.

Lara moved slightly behind him, her presence calm and steady, a shadow of loyalty and quiet fire. Her gaze lingered on the Heimdal and Prince Dakota before her — relics of a fading age, men bound by crowns and bloodlines. Alaric, she thought, was something else entirely. A man, building not from inheritance, but from the ashes.

Heimdal returned to the table, resting his hand upon the carved terrain. "You’ve united the Phoenix Legion, restored the trade routes, and fortified Calma. But you’ve also made enemies. Roman watches your every move. Estalis still bleeds. And the west — the west hungers."

Alaric stepped closer to the map, his shadow falling across the four kingdoms. "Then let them watch. Let them hunger. Calma will not yield. When the storms rise, it will stand — and when the smoke clears, it will be the heart that beats still."

Alaric faced his father and held his gaze. "Estalis has already pledged loyalty to me and to Azurverda. Soon, Zura will fall into my hands, and Westalis will beg for the army of Phoenix Legion."

Prince Dakota studied him with new intensity, then glanced toward Heimdal. "You hear that?" he murmured. "That’s not the voice of a king. That’s the voice of an emperor."

The words hung heavy in the air.

For a long moment, none spoke. Then Heimdal smiled — slow, weary, and proud all at once. "Perhaps," he said. "But kings are not born — they are forged. And this one," he nodded toward Alaric, "was tempered by fire."

He turned to Lara. "And you — Lady Lara. You were at Estalis, were you not?"

"I was, Your Majesty," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "We saw what the Estalians were capable of. With the guidance of Alaric’s loyal generals, their army would soon become formidable and our ally. Their new weapons, their fleets — they’re not rebuilding for defense. They’re preparing to assist us in our conquest."

At that, the room seemed to still. Even the flames in the sconces crackled more softly, as if listening.

"I heard that General Turik found a way to cure his broken legs." Heimdal said at last.

"Yes," Alaric said. "And he will walk again."

Prince Dakota’s eyes widened, disbelief cutting through his practiced composure. "Impossible. His injuries—"

"Were meant to break him," Alaric said, his voice hard as iron. "Instead, he found someone and reforged him."

Heimdal exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "Then the storm is closer than I thought."

Alaric nodded once. "The tides are shifting, Your Majesty. When they reach our shores, Calma will be ready."

Heimdal looked at him for a long time — not as a ruler studies a subject, but as a father regards a son he cannot protect. Then he placed a hand on Alaric’s shoulder.

"Then may the heavens grant you strength, Alaric of Azurverda. For the future you will build."

King Heimdal reached into the folds of his cloak and drew forth a sealed scroll. He broke it open with deliberate calm and spread it across the great oak table. The parchment, edged in gold and bearing the royal sigil of Northem, unfurled like the banner of a new age.

"This," he said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of generations, "is a pledge of allegiance. From this day forward, the Kingdom of Northem — like Estalis — shall stand as a vassal under the dominion of Azurverda. I, Heimdal of Northem, and my successor, Crown Prince Alderan, swear fealty to you... Emperor Alaric Kromwel."

For a heartbeat, silence held the chamber— vast and heavy as destiny itself. The words hung in the air like thunder that had yet to break.

Alaric’s eyes widened, the meaning of the moment dawning upon him like the slow rise of a sun through storm clouds. His breath caught, not from pride, but from the sheer gravity of what stood before him: a king, his father bowing to his vision, a kingdom bending to his dream.

Then, slowly, the surprise melted from his face, replaced by something deeper. A genuine smile, rare and unguarded, broke across his features. It was the smile of a man who had built an empire not by inheritance, but by ambition and endurance.... and now saw the world beginning to bow.