CHAPTER 248: CHAPTER 247: DEFIANCE IN THE THRONE HALL

His gaze drifted further. Four of the Twelve Generals were present, standing in ceremonial formation just behind the Legates. Each carried themselves with a soldier’s steadiness, yet even in stillness, there was a sharpness to them, a readiness that suggested battle could erupt at a word.

And then, beyond them all, he saw him.

The emperor.

Aurex Draventh the Ninth. The Everlight Sovereign.

His hair was golden, though streaked faintly with silver at the temples, his beard trimmed with regal precision. He looked no older than his fifties, yet the weight of centuries seemed to rest in the calm of his blue eyes. He sat upon the throne as though it had been carved for him alone, his presence steady and unquestioned.

’So this is the man who has ruled for over a thousand years...’

At his side stood a dignified man in flowing robes, sharp-eyed and deliberate in his movements. He held a scroll and spoke with a clear, authoritative voice, his role, the emperor’s spokesperson, the one who oversaw formalities.

"Step forward," the man declared.

One by one, names were called.

Knights and nobles walked to the dais, kneeling before the throne. Their achievements were announced to all, armies of Sengolio scattered, pirate fleets burned, cities defended, bounties collected. For each, a reward was given: medals etched with the imperial crest, purses heavy with gold, weapons blessed by the court smiths, noble titles, lands, and even promotion of rank.

Lumberling watched silently, Liraeth beside him, as the line of people thinned.

And still, Lumberling waited, his turn approaching.

The herald’s voice rang clear:

"Sylas Duskbane."

The name rippled through the chamber like a spark thrown into dry grass. Conversations halted. Eyes turned. Even the five Legates and the generals straightened, their attention sharpening.

From the crowd, the hooded man in dark armor stepped forward, his movements calm, deliberate. His presence wasn’t loud, but it carried weight all the same, the kind that made others watch him whether they wished to or not.

He stopped before the throne, then lowered himself to one knee, his head bowed.

Murmurs broke out at once.

"So that’s him... the rising hero."

"They say he cut down two Sengolio generals himself."

"He looks far too young for such a record..."

The emperor’s spokesperson lifted the scroll and spoke with formal gravity.

"Sylas Duskbane. For the beheading of two Sengolio generals, the slaying of numerous enemy officers, and for your deeds in defense of the empire, His Majesty grants you the title of Viscount and a fiefdom in the north."

The chamber buzzed with approval, until Sylas raised his head. His voice was steady and unflinching.

"Your Majesty. Instead of land or title, I would ask for another reward."

The spokesperson stiffened. "That is not..."

But before he could continue, the emperor raised his hand. The gesture alone silenced the hall.

"Speak," Aurex said, his voice echoing with quiet authority.

The hall itself seemed to lean toward Sylas as he rose slightly, his hood shadowing his eyes.

"The Iron Legions, the Legates, and the generals, they are our sharpest blades," he began, his tone deliberate, measured. "Yet too many of them are tied to guarding the cursed fields of Duskwind. A land of ruin. A graveyard of ancient wars. All for an artifact whose value is more superstition than substance."

The words struck like stones tossed into still water.

Gasps, murmurs. A sharp intake of breath from several nobles.

Sylas went on, undeterred.

"Our cities suffer raids. Our borders bleed. Villages burn while we pour strength into that wasteland. I ask, please station our might where it matters. Protect the people. Guard the empire’s lifeblood, not a cursed relic no one dares touch."

The displeasure was instant. Nobles stiffened, their faces twisting with offense. Several officers muttered under their breath, and a few outright scoffed.

"Outrageous!"

"He dares question His Majesty’s judgment?"

"This is insolence dressed as loyalty!"

The emperor, however, did not move. He sat upon the black iron throne, eyes steady, gaze fixed on the man before him.

Only calm and silence.

And that silence pressed harder on the hall than the loudest voice could.

Lumberling watched closely. His own chest felt tight, not from Sylas’s words, but from the fact the emperor had not struck them down.

"Your Majesty, your citizens are dying, families broken, men and women dragged off as slaves by our enemies. Are you just going to watch?"

The sudden outburst sliced through the silence. Nobles hissed in outrage, whispers swelling like angry hornets. But Sylas did not falter, his voice steady though it rang like defiance.

Aurex Draventh’s blue eyes narrowed, his face hardening.

"Are you telling me what to do?"

The words were soft, but then it came.

A wave of pressure exploded outward.

The emperor’s aura poured across the grand hall like an unseen storm, crashing over walls, columns, and men alike. It wasn’t just weight, it was an ocean pressing down, suffocating, relentless. The chandeliers above trembled. Marble tiles cracked under the sheer force.

Lumberling staggered where he stood, breath crushed in his chest. His vision blurred, his knees nearly buckling. The pressure he felt was even stronger than the oppressive ’divinity’ he had felt from the self-proclaimed god Naxxiriss.

’This doesn’t make sense. Naxxiriss should’ve been beyond a Knight Five.’

Yet this, this feels heavier... like reality itself bends under him.

All around, nobles dropped to their knees, servants collapsed, and even hardened knights trembled.

But at the center of the storm, Sylas still stood. His back hunched, his teeth gritted, sweat rolling down his bro, —yet he refused to bend.

"Your Majesty..." His voice shook, but the words carried. "I am not telling you what to do. This... this is the cry of your people."

The defiance was raw. Almost reckless.

The Legates, their faces unreadable, watched with keen interest.

The generals, however, bristled with fury. One finally snapped.

"Impudence!" The man’s roar shook the chamber as he unsheathed his massive blade and lunged. "How dare you speak so to His Majesty!"

Steel flashed. And his aura flared.

But Sylas moved.

His body blurred, almost too fast to follow, and in a flash twin dagger gleamed in his hands as if they had always belonged there.

Steel met steel. The first clash cracked. Sparks leaping where the blades kissed. The general pressed down with raw strength, but Sylas twisted, slipping aside with a predator’s grace, daggers scraping and biting in counter.

They circled each other, strikes weaving into a storm. Sword against daggers, strength against speed, at first, it seemed evenly matched.

But as the rhythm quickened, Sylas’s ferocity began to surface. His daggers darted like fangs, snapping closer and closer to flesh. Each strike carried not just speed but a ruthless precision, forcing his opponent back step by step.

Where the general swung with power, Sylas flowed around it, cutting in with short, vicious strikes meant to end fights quickly. His eyes glimmered coldly in the dark, his breathing steady even as his blades carved lines of sparks across the sword’s steel.

Soon, it was clear. This was no contest of equals, Sylas was overpowering his opponent.