The Central Liberatorium's palace was not a structure. It was a world.

A city wrapped in walls of sanctified marble and breathing gold. It sprawled across mountains and lakes, yet not a single window showed the sky. Because there was no sky here, only a ceiling. A ceiling so high above it might as well have been heaven's underbelly, painted with drifting clouds of glowing light and sun-forged mosaics that changed with the hour. And in the heart of it all, winding like a sacred artery through the throne-nation's chest, ran the most important road in existence. The Royal Road.

It stretched for twenty kilometers in a straight, unbroken line, crafted entirely from golden bricks so polished they reflected not just the ceiling above, but the faces of those who walked upon them. Between every block, molten lines of silver flowed in constant motion, eternally circling without spilling, like veins carrying divinity instead of blood. No dirt ever touched this street. No wind blew here. The air was still, clean, and warm, kept in perfect climate by ancient machines buried deep beneath the floor. On either side, walls rose like cathedral facades, adorned with thousands of embedded banners. Each one bore a royal symbol: high ranking Liberators, noble bloodlines, victorious generals or living saints.

But there were no citizens here, because this was the inner path. The way only the chosen few could walk. The road that led from the palace gates to the imperial sanctum where the King of the World sat. And down that street, two figures now walked. Their steps made no sound. Not because they were silent, but because the road had no interest in recording anything less than a march of purpose.

The first was a woman. She walked with her hands folded behind her back, wearing a flowing mantle of deep indigo lined with threads that shimmered like polished pearl. Her gown, elegant and skin-tight, bore no armor, yet exuded such authority it might as well have been plated in divine right. Her hair was white, not gray, not silver, but a defiant white, tied into a braid that coiled down her spine like a serpent preparing to strike.

Her eyes were also closed. She did not need to open them, since she remembered every brick of this street. She had walked it a thousand times since birth after all. And it had always led where she needed it to.

Beside her walked a man. He was taller, slower, wrapped in layers of royal red and black, each trimmed in symbols that pulsed faintly with recognition. His boots were simple, but each step of his bent the silver veins beneath the bricks ever so slightly, as if the road itself adjusted to carry him forward. His face bore a sharp, angular frame, with a jaw that hadn't smiled in a decade and eyes that burned like coal behind glass.

"Lord Marshal Otharon," the woman said, the bow of her head as sharp as the tip of a scepter. "I trust the Royal Road remembers your step."

"Duchess Lysivelle," he replied, with just enough warmth to pass as respect. "The street remembers all who walk it properly. It's those who wish to run ahead it tends to forget."

She offered a soft, dry smile at that, the kind one might give an equal after a successful parry in conversation. The silence between them stretched for a few more steps—comfortable, but not idle. There was always meaning in silence here.

"Another council ended," she said at last, her tone light but knowing, "And yet another day remains unchanged." Her eyes flicked briefly toward a banner fluttering without wind, its gilded threads catching the false sunlight above.

"One wonders why we even convene." Otharon gave the faintest inclination of his head, not quite a nod, not quite agreement. "Perhaps to remind ourselves we still have control over something. Even if it is merely our schedules."

Lysivelle allowed herself a small, sharp smile. "Control is an illusion we cherish, Marshal. The more we claim to hold, the more elusive it becomes."

"Perhaps," Otharon conceded with a nod. "Yet I've found illusions comforting in times of uncertainty. They make fine armor when truth becomes unpleasant."

"And do you find the truth unpleasant now, my lord?" she asked, a delicate eyebrow arching ever so slightly.

Otharon paused a heartbeat before answering, his voice dipping lower, "I find it increasingly difficult to tell where truth ends and illusion begins. Particularly within these walls."

Lysivelle glanced briefly toward him, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "These walls have stood longer than most of the capital city, Marshal. They know truth far better than we do."

"Yet the stones remain silent," he said with a faint sigh, gaze drifting momentarily toward the towering columns and ornate banners that hung overhead. "And we are left to guess their secrets."

"Perhaps it is better we do not know them all," she murmured, her voice tinged with careful caution. "History weighs heavily enough without uncovering every hidden sin."

A silence fell again between them, deeper now, each lost in thoughts they did not wish to share. Their footsteps echoed gently down the endless corridor, swallowed by the vastness above. After several long moments, it was Otharon who stirred first, his voice quiet but clear.

"I spoke to the First Prince last evening," he offered gently, testing the conversational waters.

She glanced at him sharply, reading the careful neutrality of his face. "And did the Prince say anything worth repeating?"

Otharon hesitated, then shook his head slightly. "Only that he prefers the company of scholars and artists to generals and courtiers. And that he finds the throne's burdens… distasteful."

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Lysivelle's expression softened slightly, eyes betraying a fleeting sympathy. "He has never hidden his desires. Nor has he ever shown any taste for power."

"Precisely," Otharon agreed, frowning slightly. "It is troubling when the rightful heir disdains the only thing that could give this place stability."

"And the youngest prince?" Lysivelle asked, her voice deliberately neutral, masking deeper concerns.

A flash of something akin to irritation crossed Otharon's face before he quickly mastered it. "Ambition and pride, with neither tempered by wisdom nor patience. He longs for the crown more than he deserves it."

"Desire alone has never made a king worthy," she said firmly. "Yet desire can ignite a great many fires, if left unchecked."

They moved forward again in silence, each lost momentarily in private calculations of what the future might hold. Lysivelle's eyes flickered briefly upward, catching the false sunlight above, and she took a slow breath before daring to say what they both already knew.

"Then, Marshal, there remains only the princess."

"Yes," Otharon said simply, pausing to choose his words carefully. "Celestine is perhaps the most capable heir. The First Prince knows it, and even I have seen it. She understands leadership. Were she born a prince, there would be no contest."

"But she was not," Lysivelle said softly. "And tradition is an enemy even stronger than reason."

Otharon didn't answer immediately. His jaw tensed, and his gaze wandered briefly to one of the many banners lining the arched walls—an old crest, embroidered in silver and flame, bearing the image of a lioness coiled protectively around a crown. It had not been touched in decades. Nor spoken of.

He exhaled through his nose. "If capability alone were the measure," he murmured, "The matter would have been settled already."

Lysivelle's eyes did not leave the golden path ahead of them, though her voice deepened with something like warmth. "She bore the weight of an empire across her shoulders, knowing all the while it would likely grant her nothing in return."

Lysivelle allowed herself a rare, honest sigh. "She is her father's best legacy," she said. "And his worst regret."

At that, Otharon tilted his head slightly, glancing toward her. "You believe he regrets her?"

"I believe," Lysivelle said carefully, "That he loves her, fiercely so. But not enough to name her." She paused, voice lowering. "Not enough to defy the old laws, and not enough to crush the vultures who would call her reign unnatural."

Otharon's mouth tightened. "He need not crush them. Only silence them."

"And he won't," she said, her tone now cooled back to steel. "Because he fears they are too many. That if she ascends, the crown will fracture into factions, rebellions and schisms. He sees her as the brightest sun… but fears she would burn the world before it would learn to bask in her."

"She would," Otharon said without hesitation. "If it meant the world was cleaner for it."

They walked in silence a while longer, the gold beneath their feet reflecting not only their forms, but something harder to name: a shared truth, half-spoken. "Then why not change the name?" she asked quietly. "Why not make the world bend?"

Otharon gave a long, low breath—one that echoed faintly in the stillness of the endless corridor.

"Because the world is tired, Duchess. It has seen far too much…"

Their conversation slowed as they reached an their destination, where the path widened into a circular plaza dominated by a magnificent fountain. Carved from pale marble veined with blue and gold, the fountain rose from the floor like a monument, its tiers ascending gracefully to the height of several men. It was encircled by a polished stone basin so vast and so flawlessly smooth that it appeared as still as frozen glass, broken only by the gentle ripples of creatures gliding within.

Here, tradition and spectacle became indistinguishable. The fountain was no mere decoration, nor was it just a display of wealth—it was a statement. Each living creature swimming or resting upon its tiers was meticulously chosen and carefully maintained, a living symbol of the royal line and its tangled alliances. They glided and drifted serenely, as though utterly unaware that their very existence had been crafted into metaphor.

Closest to the water's edge swam the Royal Swans, each with feathers shimmering white and silver as if woven from moonlight itself. They were utterly silent, dignified in their graceful movement, long necks curving elegantly as they glided past one another, eyes dark and reflective as polished onyx. Their lineage traced back nearly a thousand years, each generation carefully nurtured, each feather guarded as if it were a sacred artifact. It was said they wept silver tears upon a royal death, though such things were rarely discussed openly.

In the tier just above, brilliant koi circled endlessly, their scales a tapestry of reds, whites, blacks, and golds—colors reflecting the sigils of the kingdom's most powerful noble houses. Their slow, thoughtful movement mirrored the careful dances of court politics; each fish circling the others in patterns that suggested alliance, rivalry, and delicate power balances, all shifting without a word spoken.

Higher still were the turtles, ancient and slow-moving creatures plated with shells etched by craftsmen into miniature landscapes of the Liberatorium itself. Tiny rivers, mountains, cities, and castles adorned their backs, their weathered eyes holding centuries of quiet dignity. They had witnessed generations of nobles come and go, and they would see many more before their peaceful vigil ended.

At the fountain's highest level rested a cluster of small, vibrant birds, feathered in brilliant blues and greens, chirping softly yet continuously—never too loud, never intrusive. Each bird was no larger than a palm, yet their presence was somehow profound, resonant with a quiet importance. They were descendants of royal messenger birds, symbols of loyalty and communication, each trained carefully never to leave their assigned perch, despite having wings capable of flight.

Lysivelle watched the fountain for a long moment, her eyes reflecting the quiet beauty before them. "It never ceases to amaze me," she murmured softly, "The lengths we go to remind ourselves of our grandeur."

"Or perhaps our fragility," Otharon replied, studying the koi as they weaved their intricate patterns below the surface. "All this beauty, maintained with effort bordering on obsession. Each life here entirely dependent on hands that could easily grow careless."

She turned her gaze toward the turtles, ancient creatures moving with deliberate patience. "Yet it has endured. Generations have passed, Marshal, and still they remain. Symbols etched in flesh and feather, living proof that even vanity can carry meaning."

Otharon's gaze was distant as he replied quietly, "And yet, despite it all, these creatures have no idea of their roles. They live and swim and rest, oblivious to the weight they carry."

"Much like some within our own walls," Lysivelle murmured, a faint smile ghosting across her lips.

He glanced at her, eyes darkening slightly. "And like these creatures, ignorance will not spare them if the waters change."

She nodded, her gaze returning slowly toward the elegant swans, watching as they passed each other silently, reflections blending together until it became impossible to know where one ended and another began.

"The waters always change, Marshal," she said softly. "The question is merely who will guide the current when it finally turns."

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