CHAPTER 220: CHAPTER 221: NEW ORDER

The hall echoed with slow, heavy breaths.

Inside the grand palace of Phinixia, under golden chandeliers that had burned for three days straight, the kings and queens of the Unification finally rose from their seats. Their faces were hollowed from exhaustion, eyes sunken with sleepless deliberations, yet their steps were lighter. Triumphant. Not one voice dared protest, not one monarch walked away embittered. The long war of diplomacy had ended in thunderous success.

Some collapsed into their carriages without even removing their ceremonial robes. Others leaned on their aides, whispering calculations, estimates, dreams.

And at the center of it all stood Atlas, straight-backed, his dark coat untouched by time. Unbent. Unburned. His gaze scanned the palace’s high ceilings as though still measuring its weight. Claire stood behind him, hands crossed. Her presence had become a counterbalance—a compass to every flaring temper, every rising scream. She had not only soothed kings, she had bent the shape of history by her voice alone.

Still, even now, Atlas remained motionless.

The Empire was bleeding. Chained to a past that would not die. This council, this treaty, this... reformation, was not merely to strengthen Berkimhum—it was a siege without swords. A siege of structure, economy, allegiance.

And it had worked. Every major kingdom, from the southern dunes to the frost-slick east, had signed.

The discussions at the council table stretched long into the night, yet they moved with purpose, driven by a singular, looming goal. The room, heavy with the weight of decision, was alive with voices—each king, queen, and merchant weighing in on the fine print of the agreement that would shape their future.

Talk turned first to routes, an essential lifeblood of commerce between the kingdoms. Plans were laid for new trade roads to be carved through mountain ranges, and sea routes to be widened and reinforced with heavy-duty vessels.

It was a monumental undertaking, one that required collective effort, yet the dividends were too large to ignore. The expansion of these pathways would unlock unimaginable wealth for each kingdom involved—new markets, new suppliers, new consumers. For a time, this vision seemed so beautiful, almost too good to be true.

But the devil was always in the details. There were taxes to consider—on both imports and exports—tightening their grip on trade, suffocating the free flow of goods and services. Lowering them was a victory, but a calculated one.

It was a concession that all knew would bring prosperity but only if executed carefully. With less weight on tariffs, the flow of wealth would increase. But it also meant shifting dynamics. The weaker kingdoms would find themselves more dependent on each other, less capable of standing alone.

As these conversations stretched over the course of three days, there was no denying the pressure mounting. Each monarch, from the eastern steppes to the northern highlands, could feel it—the tightness in their chests as they realized the magnitude of what they were discussing.

The words of Henry, lord of the newly united council, were like a shadow hovering above them. His mind worked like a serpent, weaving through each concession with the precision of a grandmaster.

And then, the final truth came into view.

Henry had known, from the start, what would happen. His true goal was never about unity, not in the sentimental sense of peace or cooperative prosperity.

No, it was far more grounded in the harsh reality of survival. The Empire, in its weakened state, was looking for a way out. Its lands were barren, their resources dwindling, their armies stretched thin.

The resources of Berkimhum, with its fertile lands and untapped potential, became not just a desirable prospect but a desperate necessity.

There was a biting realization that settled over the table as Henry laid his cards down. The resources they needed—food, minerals, technology, knowledge—were locked behind the borders of Berkimhum.

To ignore that fact would be to doom their kingdoms to eventual collapse. They were nearing the edge of extinction. The land was drained. The taxes that had once buoyed their economies—import and export duties—could no longer sustain them.

Yet, through the clever words and the subtle strokes of diplomacy, Henry had steered them all into an agreement. The Empire, for all its threats and past aggression, now found itself bound by necessity to Berkimhum. The unification—unspoken and unacknowledged—would secure their survival.

The price was high.

In exchange for trade privileges, the kingdoms would abide by a new, draconian set of rules. All goods, all merchandise, from Berkimhum would be imported and exported without restriction, sanctioned, and overseen by a single collective hand. The Empire would no longer impose tariffs on the goods that passed through its gates. There was no other choice; the wealth of Berkimhum was their only salvation.

And then, of course, the question of power. Henry had always been the puppet master in this game, but now the strings were more openly visible. Atlas, his son, had become the emblem of the new world order.

The monarchs did not voice their doubts aloud, but their eyes always lingered on Atlas—, poised, carrying the weight of a new realm on his shoulders. The face of the unification would be his. The one who could broker this peace would also inherit the mantle of leadership.

But Henry, ever the master tactician, knew well enough that it could not be done by power alone. A voting system, he suggested—simple, fair. Every two years, the leader of the union would be chosen through the collective will of the kingdoms. It was a gesture of democracy, a veneer of cooperation and mutual respect. Henry knew it was a farce.

When Atlas voiced his own concerns over the leadership structure, the monarchs laughed. It wasn’t mockery, not exactly. It was the laughter of certainty. The rules had been made, the leaders decided—Atlas had always been the leader. There was no real debate.

And in that moment, Henry smiled. It was a smile filled with pride. Pride in his own foresight, in the cleverness of his diplomacy. He had secured their futures with a few deft strokes, and Atlas had unwittingly become the symbol of this fragile, yet powerful, new world order.

He turned to Henry.

"...Father," he said, the words dry in his mouth. "... Is she....quiet? "

Henry’s old eyes flicked with restrained amusement, though the weight of the three-day ordeal hung in the lines of his face.

"...Surprisingly, yes," Henry said. "No attacks. No screaming. No plans made. Nothing. She insisted she’d just keep quiet. In a room."

Atlas’s jaw locked. "What?"

"You heard me. No games. No threats. She’s just been... still."

"And you let her?" Atlas snapped. "She is dangerous."

"Of course," Henry said. "That’s why Aurora is there."

"...She belongs in chains," Atlas murmured.

Henry didn’t laugh. "Is there a chain that can hold the Empress and Merlin?"

Silence. Even the servants stilled.

There wasn’t. Not truly. Not one they trusted. Not one that lasted.

"...I’ll go check on them myself."

He turned, cloak rustling softly over the marble floor. Claire’s steps were quiet behind him, catching up.

"...Just rest," she said. "Relax. You already did so much. Aurora is there. So why are you worrying?"

Atlas didn’t answer. Didn’t trust himself to. He only gave a slight nod and walked on. Each footstep down the spiral stairwell sounded like a heartbeat growing louder. Down and down. Through relics of an older age. Through layers of stone kissed by ancient inscriptions. Through wards layered on wards—some made from silver dust, others pulsing like breath.

He passed guards that barely breathed. Passed weapons hanging from the walls that glowed faintly in his presence.

He reached the lowest door. Knocked.

A metal slit slid open.

A single green eye stared out from the dark.

"...It’s you," Aurora muttered, dryly. "The hero finally arrives."

Atlas exhaled, shaking off tension.

Click. The door opened slowly. With each turning bolt, old magic stirred—creaking like bones. The hinges whispered secrets. The scent of cold metal and faint incense drifted into his nose.

Aurora hovered inside, cross-legged in the air, levitating just above the smooth black stone floor. Light reflected off her yellow eyes. Her hair was braided back now, more ceremonial than combat-ready. She looked both regal and tired.

"If you keep doing that," Atlas said, stepping in, "your legs will be useless. Use them, for gods’ sake."

"Okay, okay. Savior’s orders," she muttered with a grin, descending slowly.

The chamber was silent save for the echo of his boots. A thick magic hung in the air—not hostile, not alive, but *watching*. The walls were covered in ancient sigils. On the other side of the transparent barrier, beyond two more layers of wards, was a chamber of warmth and silence.

"I assume the meetings are finished?" Aurora asked, brushing nonexistent dust off her robe.

"Finally," Atlas replied. "What’s the update?"

Aurora looked at him. Really looked at him. Something about her stare peeled through his surface calm.

"...What?"

"...Is there something with you and the Empress?"

Atlas blinked. "Wh–what? No—"

"Okay," she cut in before he could finish, "because she’s been asking for you for three days. And three nights. Like you’re her lover. Annoying me like no tomorrow."

Atlas’s mouth parted slightly. But no sound came.

He stepped to the glass and peered in.

The chamber was perfectly prepared. A bed carved of ancient wood, shelves of untouched books, a crystal pitcher of untouched wine. Soft pillows. Silk drapes that rippled slightly from some unseen breeze.

And there—curled like a silent flame at the center of it—was Elizabeth.

She wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t chained. She wasn’t arguing or scheming.

She was lying on the sofa, legs folded beneath her. Her white hair spilled over the cushions like moonlight melted into flesh. Merlin knelt nearby, eyes closed in deep meditation, his hands glowing faintly—doing what, Atlas couldn’t tell.

And Elizabeth...

She was staring directly at the glass.

Like she knew.

"...Let me in," Atlas said.

Aurora stepped forward. "....You sure?"

"Yes."