[Oliver PoV]

"That should be enough," Oliver said. "Right?"

"You! You! How dare you? A few soldiers would have been one thing, but you brought a whole battalion." Adonis of Meridius surged a step forward, rage tightening his jaw. "You, a mere citizen of the Empire, you have no idea of this island's history. Its sanctity."

"What can I say? This place isn't exactly featured in the Empire's history books, is it?" Oliver shifted as if to continue up the white steps.

"Soldiers!" Adonis snapped, and the men around him tensed.

Before the command could form into anything sharper, another heir slid neatly between the blade and the throat.

"Don't you dare, Adonis." She warned him.

She was tall and willowy, all hard angles of resolve beneath formal lines. A hand settled on Adonis's shoulder and rooted him. Her eyes were a clear, cutting green that took in Oliver without flinching and dismissed Adonis's posturing in the same breath.

"Our enemies are not human," she said, and the words landed like stones. "He has brought proof that he belongs with us."

Demi of Demeter. Oliver had studied the Houses until their sigils and faces were burned in his brain. Even at a distance, he would have known her. One of the few who had survived being captured by Orks and returned with her hatred transformed into doctrine. She had founded the militarist faction not from inherited duty but because she had seen what happened when the Orks had their way.

Oliver allowed himself a small, private smile. 'Still within expectations,' He pondered.

His troops had placed him beyond easy refutation. He was now an unexpected king on the chessboard. His thousand Rangers regiment made him far too valuable for any faction to dismiss outright. Though every House present boasted tens of thousands more soldiers in total, the wild card in Oliver's pocket meant he could tip the delicate balance between them.

Adonis pivoted on his heel and marched away toward the mansion. Behind him, his allies followed in a hush. The other heirs, with wary glances at Oliver, also turned to head inside.

Oliver caught sight of Demi, the harsh-boned heir of the Demeter faction, and gave her a small nod of thanks. She answered in kind, her expression unreadable, then slipped into the flow of nobles and officers climbing the steps.

They entered under the mansion's vast colonnade and emerged into a courtyard awash with roses. At each corner, corridors branched into the main body of the mansion. Adonis led them through the primary doorway into a grand hall. It was lined with portraits of past Emperors and scenes from the Empire's last century of conquests. Glass cases displayed Crystals as trophies, rare rifles, and banners that once flew over battlefields.

Some of the lesser nobles paused to gawk; the Great Houses kept walking as though it were the dullest museum in existence. At the hall's end, two large mahogany doors stood guarded by a pair of soldiers in ceremonial armor. To one side, a narrow spiral staircase curled upward.

Adonis swept through the double doors with a smug smile, turning halfway to cast Oliver a knowing look over his shoulder. Then the other heirs passed, each disappearing into the following room. As Oliver stepped forward, both guards raised their arms, crossing them in front of his chest.

"Only members of the Great Houses may use this entrance," one guard said, voice stiff with protocol. "Others must take the stairs."

Oliver didn't slow. He kept walking as though they weren't there. "You may not have heard," he said, pushing between them, "but the Houses number thirteen now."

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The guards hesitated, eyes flicking to the heirs for confirmation, fingers pressed to their comms. Oliver didn't break stride. He slipped between them as if they were ornamental posts.

A dark wooden platform marked the entrance to the hall. At the far end, a throne sat under a decorated ceiling. All attention was focused on that single seat, symbolizing the Empire's power over the Great Houses.

In the center of the floor, four chairs stood in a stark line, each set slightly apart from the others like anchors. Behind each, rows of seats fanned back in shallow tiers, waiting to be claimed.

Above all of it, a second level ran like a balcony, lined with hundreds of armchairs where officers and lesser nobles were settling in.

Adonis took the first chair with theatrical ease, settling into it as if he'd been born for that. Directly behind, the heirs from Sforza and Echo slid into place. A handful of military brass, their decorations heavy with past campaigns, filled the remaining seats.

'Off the table,' Oliver thought. 'My first impression had burned that bridge for good. Not that they would have offered me more than an insult wrapped in denial.'

The Imperialists wanted the world as it was. The Republic of Enceladus crushed, turncoat Houses punished, and the imperial chair kept between themselves. Under current rules, Adonis couldn't become Emperor. 'Under current rules,' Oliver reminded himself. 'Rules were made to change.'

To Adonis's left, the Militarists took the next front seat. Demi sat in her place. Behind her, House Arcantus took one seat and House Nemo another.

Oliver checked, blinked, and then swore to himself. 'That bastard, he thought, the universe's most resilient cockroach.'

Damian sat as Nemo's heir. Older now, but not by much; time had sharpened him rather than softened anything. The paleness remained; the mouth had that same downward set of habitual disappointment; the eyes weighed the room and assumed the worst, then made plans to profit from it. He carried the air of someone who'd found a way to fall upward, always landing on his feet.

The Militarists were one of the neutral blocs, their doctrine unyielding and straightforward: turn the Empire back toward the war that mattered, toward eradicating the Orks. Politics was a distraction; survival was the mission.

After them came Katherine with her cadre, the Reformists. They were called the Indecisive by their critics and their propaganda. Neutral, too, in their way. They wanted the Emperor's power reduced and the next election held on schedule, nothing radical, nothing that would tear the Empire's skin. Trim the power, don't amputate it. Keep the body alive.

Last, Mordred's faction filled its benches. He took the leader's chair without hurry, his supporters settling in a murmurous wave behind him.

Yet, that wasn't what caught Oliver's eye. It was Alan, stone-faced in the seat reserved for Enceladus's military.

'Interesting. So that was the road he'd chosen. Aligning with the most unpopular banner in the room took either faith or calculus. Maybe both.' Oliver contemplated.

Traitors, the Empire called them. Republicans, they called themselves. Strip the throne away. Replace it with a strong Senate that spoke for states, not dynasties. Limit power by spreading it. Right or wrong, a thousand voices from a dozen worlds had started to call them heroes.

When the four blocs were seated, only Oliver remained standing.

The chamber turned toward him without turning. Eyes slid. Whispers braided together on the balconies.

"Who's he going to back?"

"He looks like a businessman."

"The NET says he owns half a dozen asteroid mining firms."

"He'll end up with the Militarists."

The man they saw, a bearded figure in his thirties, shoulders squared beneath a formal cape, walked with steady purpose toward the Militarist benches. The susurrus rose, then stilled as he reached the last seat.

He didn't sit.

Instead, he caught the nearest chair by its back and dragged it. Wood cracked the hush with a long, deliberate scrape across polished planks. Heads turned all the way this time.

Oliver pulled the chair past Demi's line. Past the Reformists' row. Past the Imperialists' claim and the Republicans' counterclaim. All the way to the end of the line, the room had intended. Then a step beyond it.

He set the chair. The scrape stopped.

A breath caught on the balcony. One collective gasp, then a hundred smaller ones. Adonis's jaw clenched; Demi's eyes narrowed with interest; Katherine's expression thinned to something like surprise hovering over caution. Mordred's mouth curved, not quite a smile.

Oliver sat.

Not with the Militarists. Not with the Reformists. Not in the Emperor's shadow. Not beneath the Republican banner.

A fifth chair. A fifth line. A faction of one.

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