Recess should have felt like relief.
Instead, it felt like the moment a duelists' blades lowered only so both could regrip more comfortably.
Tobias remained in the No'aar alcove while the Clansmoot chamber's hololithic grandeur dimmed into a softer, less formal glow. Delegations broke into clusters, voices lowered, faces rearranged into masks meant for private bargaining rather than public record. In the palace war chamber on No'aar, Tobias could feel the tension through the link even when he was not speaking, as if the Imperium itself vibrated with unsaid decisions. The Merwyn representative stood at his side with calm dignity, eyes unreadable, posture as still as deep water.
Kvasir's slate chimed first, the tone sharp and urgent enough to cut through the murmurs.
Trace leaned in immediately, and Cassian's gaze snapped toward the data stream as if expecting it to be hostile. Kvasir's pleasant expression broke into something close to satisfaction, which was how Tobias knew the news was good before he heard it. "Castellan," Kvasir said quietly, then expanded the update into the shared private layer of Tobias' display. "House Sinclair's second fleet has entered the system. They are actively assisting in defense operations."
For a heartbeat, Tobias simply stared.
Then the pressure behind his sternum eased in a way he had not realized was possible. Castellan was not merely a strategic point, it was the House's heart, and every report of siege had felt like a hand tightening around it. Sinclair's arrival was more than reinforcement; it was a declaration made with engines and mass. The only Great House permitted two fleets had chosen to spend that privilege like coin on Hawthorne's behalf. Tobias felt a fierce gratitude rise, and he forced it into discipline, but it still warmed his blood.
Cassian exhaled softly, a sound almost like laughter. "That's a flank secured," he murmured, then corrected himself with soldierly caution. "Or at least not bleeding." Trace's mouth tightened into a rare, genuine smile, the expression of a man who believed in odds only when they improved. Even the Merwyn representative seemed to soften by a fraction, their gaze shifting as though recalculating the stability of the alliance in light of Sinclair's commitment. Tobias turned slightly toward his retainers, and his voice carried a quiet steadiness that felt earned.
"Sinclair doesn't arrive to admire the stars," Tobias said. "They arrive to win."
The recess ended with a subtle change in light.
The Clansmoot chamber brightened again, banners sharpening into full prominence as the session resumed. Lords and ladies returned to their alcoves, and the sound of movement became orderly, ritualized, the way predators returned to their perches after circling. Tobias' projection held in the No'aar alcove, still separate from House Hawthorne's crest, and the separation felt less like isolation now and more like a statement. A world had been given a seat, and Tobias sat there as its steward, with the Merwyn representative beside him as living proof that the Imperium's shape was changing.
Duke Archimedes rose from the Hawthorne alcove the moment the chamber stilled.
He stood with his cane in hand, posture straight despite the subtle fatigue that still lingered in him. The earlier strain of politics had not dulled his presence, and when his gaze swept the chamber, even House Mordred's smug stillness seemed to tighten. Tobias felt the sudden, sharp awareness that his father was about to do something dangerous in a room where dangerous things were remembered. Archimedes did not ask permission to speak. He spoke as if his House's history had already paid the price of entry.
"There is a claim being shaped in this chamber," Archimedes said, voice calm but resonant. "Not always spoken aloud, but implied in glances and in the careful distance placed between father and son." His eyes flicked toward Tobias' alcove, and Tobias felt the movement like a hand reaching across a gulf. "Some believe that by physically separating Tobias Hawthorne from House Hawthorne, they can separate his will from mine."
Archimedes paused.
The pause did not weaken the words. It sharpened them.
"Let the record reflect this," Archimedes continued, voice steady. "Even if Duke Jorgen Mordred were to place my son on the far edge of the galaxy and myself in the heart of Solarion, we remain one House and one purpose." His gaze hardened, and Tobias felt pride and pain mingle behind his eyes. "Tobias speaks with my authority. Tobias acts with my sanction. Tobias has upheld Hawthorne honor and Imperial continuity while I lay poisoned, and I will not permit any House to imply that the blood that carried him is somehow separate from the House that raised him."
The chamber held very still.
Tobias felt the words strike not just the nobles, but himself. Archimedes had never been a man of overt tenderness, never someone who displayed affection as if it were virtue. His love had always been expressed through training, expectation, and silent endurance. Hearing him speak loyalty aloud, in front of enemies and allies alike, felt like watching a fortress gate swing open to reveal the beating heart inside. Tobias' throat tightened, and he kept his posture firm, because the last thing he would do was make the moment look like weakness.
Archimedes' gaze met Tobias' again, and for an instant the Clansmoot vanished.
There was only a father and a son, linked by blood and duty, and the memory of a poisoned bed and a boy forced to become a ruler too soon. Tobias inclined his head slightly, not the bow of a subordinate, but the acknowledgment of a son receiving something he had wanted his whole life without knowing what it would cost. The Merwyn representative watched with deep stillness, and Tobias had the fleeting sense they understood this kind of bond, forged under pressure rather than comfort.
Duke Jorgen's smile remained in place, but it looked thinner now.
Before he could speak, the Imperial Chancellor's voice rose, crisp and authoritative, cutting through the chamber like a blade through cloth. "Quiet," the Chancellor commanded, and the word carried the weight of law, not request. Conversations died instantly, and even the great banners seemed to still in the air. The Chancellor stood at the central dais, robes simple compared to the Houses, yet somehow more dangerous for their restraint.
"The Emperor will address the Clansmoot," the Chancellor announced.
The chamber's attention shifted as one body, and Tobias felt it like gravity.
At the far end of the hall, the largest alcove gleamed with regality that made the others seem like decorated rooms rather than thrones. It was adorned in Imperial crimson and gold, carved with ancient sigils that predated the current schism and would likely outlive it. There, from within the deepest shadow of that alcove, Emperor Lucius Daeva Regius III stepped forward.
The Imperial Herald spoke his full name as if it were a spell.
"His Imperial Majesty, Lucius Daeva Regius the Third, Emperor of the Solar Imperium, Sovereign of Solarion, Keeper of the Imperial Peace."
Tobias saw him clearly now.
The Emperor appeared as a handsome man in his early thirties, almost delicate in the face, with a grace that read as refined rather than frail. His hair was white-silver, combed with meticulous care and tied into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. Yet Tobias knew the truth beneath the illusion of youth, because history and dates did not bend for beauty. Lucius was sixty-three years old, and the only reason he wore time lightly was because the blood of House Regius did not move through years the way ordinary blood did.
His Imperial robes were heavy with meaning.
They carried medals stitched and pinned in neat rows, ten years' worth of honors from the Solarion–Helian war, not ceremonial decorations but the marks of a veteran who had survived battles that killed lesser men. A platinum imperial chain rested over his shoulder, its weight undeniable even across distance, the metal gleaming against golden tassels that marked rank as more than tradition. When he moved, the chain shifted with a subtle sound like restrained thunder.
He reached the dais and paused, letting the silence deepen.
Then he spoke, and his voice carried the strange calm of someone who believed the future was already half-written.
"My Lords and Ladies," Emperor Lucius said, tone smooth and resonant. "To the five attending of the Six Great Houses, and to the minor houses who bear their banners, I offer you greetings." His gaze swept the chamber slowly, as if measuring each face and each hidden motive in a single pass. Tobias felt the faint pressure of psychic presence, like standing near a vast, quiet fire. "We convene not merely to argue," Lucius continued, "but to preserve the Imperium's continuity."
His eyes shifted toward Tobias' alcove.
For a moment, Tobias felt as though the Emperor's gaze was not simply looking, but seeing, the way prescient minds saw through posture into possibility. The Emperor's expression softened slightly, and when he spoke again, the chamber seemed to lean in. "Lord Tobias Hawthorne," Lucius said, "and honored representative of the Merwyn, I thank you personally for your presence." The acknowledgment struck the room like a bell, because emperors did not thank lightly, and they did not do it publicly unless they intended that gratitude to become political fact.
Lucius' hands folded loosely in front of him, and his posture was effortless in the way only absolute authority could afford to be.
"I have foreseen this schism," he said plainly.
The words rippled outward.
Some nobles stiffened. Others lowered their gaze. A few looked almost relieved, as if the Emperor's foresight gave them permission to believe the chaos had a shape. Tobias felt his prescience stir in reflex, meeting the Emperor's aura like a tide meeting a deeper current, and he forced himself to remain still. This was not Tobias' vision. This was the Emperor's.
"I have also seen the method of its resolution," Emperor Lucius continued.
Then he paused.
It was not a pause of hesitation, but a pause crafted like theater, a deliberate stillness designed to make every mind in the chamber fill the silence with their own fears. Tobias felt his heart beat once, slow and heavy, and he realized the Emperor was controlling not just the room, but the space between words. He let that silence hang long enough to become unbearable, then held it a moment longer.
The address would continue.
But not yet.
And as the chapter closed, Tobias understood that whatever Lucius said next would not merely decide No'aar.
It would decide which future the Imperium was willing to admit was real.