[Katherine PoV]

Katherine fought to keep surprise from her face when the newcomer, older than her by a few years but an unknown to anyone in this chamber, dragged a chair across the polished floor and seated himself alone.

Her training helped for a heartbeat, then her eyebrow betrayed her, lifting before she could will it down. The reaction echoed around her. Military brass on the balcony leaned forward; Minor Houses whispered behind hands; Heirs traded sidelong looks that asked the same question. What in the hell was he doing?

While some might have found it curious or even brave, others took it personally. As an offense, a spit in their face. It was most clearly seen coming from the Imperialist benches. Their posture stiffened, protocol bristling. Adrian in particular wore outrage like a sash, eyes cold, chin set, as if the very scrape of that chair across the floor were an insult to his legacy.

Mordred, by contrast, tilted his head and smiled to himself. He was like a man who had just discovered an intriguing toy and wondered how hard it could be pushed before it broke.

'He is drawing too much attention,' Katherine pondered, her interest cooling. From the moment his ship had burned across the sky, she had marked him as a potential ally to court, a useful pivot in reformist calculations. But moments like this spoke of someone who wanted more than a measured change. Such a man wanted leverage and a stage, and would need supporters to build both.

Opinion settled, she faced forward. At that moment, the wall behind the throne stirred. Stone-seam lines parted with quiet mechanical grace and a hiss. A section of paneling retracted and vanished into a hidden recess, leaving a dark corridor that spilled cooler air into the hall.

Two figures emerged.

The first was a tall man in his fifties with straight white hair combed back from a severe brow. He wore the Imperium's general's uniform.

Each of his steps carried its own gravity. It was measured, unhurried, final. His face stayed set, eyes forward, the kind of intent that didn't ask for respect so much as made the room remember it. Katherine knew him well by reputation.

Stewart was an old general in an age that had burned through younger ones too quickly. He was nearly as experienced as Wiz. He was the Commander of the Sixth Division, the blade reserved for edicts that bore the Emperor's personal seal. When politics and peace talks failed, the Sixth arrived.

He emerged from the hidden passage and turned left, taking up station beside the throne. His uniform was an immaculate ledger of service, high collar sealed at the throat, medals where they belonged, the insignia of the Sixth sitting like a brand over his heart.

Two paces behind him came the most critical figure in the room.

The Emperor's steps were light by comparison, a softness that made the faint chiming of medals stark in the hush. Lucius wore the ceremonial armor of the Imperial forces.

Once, he had been the Empire's idea of itself. He was strategy-sharpened to a point, raw power wrapped in restraint. He had faced the ninth wave like a madman. Now he looked, Katherine couldn't help but think of a grandfather.

He was not much older than Stewart, but the burden had etched itself into him. His eyes sat deep under sleep-dark skin; the flesh beneath them carried the heavy shadows of fifteen years without enough rest. White hair framed a face that had learned endurance the hard way. The years had cut lines where steel couldn't, but his gaze still burned clear. Behind the tired mask, the old lion watched.

Lucius reached the throne and sat. The movement snapped the moment like a wire.

All around the chamber, bodies rose. Chairs scraped back in a hiss along the floor. On the tiers above, officers and nobles surged to their feet in a synchronized ripple. Hands crossed, chests in salute.

"Hail Emperor," they said in one voice.

It rang different in every mouth. Fervent from the Imperialists, measured from the Militarists, calm from the Reformists, and wary from the Republicans.

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Katherine crossed her hand in salute with a quiet vow braided into the gesture. 'Let this be the last time.'

Around the chamber, the heirs' gazes held different hungers. In some, there was ambition, relief, and retribution. Yet every one of them shared a single wish: to see Lucius vacate that throne and another body take its place.

Stewart took up his post beside the seat like a pillar forged of discipline. He stared forward, ignoring the murmurs and the glitter of uniforms, but his attention seemed to move through the room anyway, weighing, noting, indexing. His eyes returned, again and again, to the newcomer who had made himself a fifth line, Atlas Blackwell.

'Interesting,' Katherine thought, 'even Stewart is interested in him.'

'Was he a surprise even to the Emperor?' The thought flickered through her as she glanced his way. 'Where had he come from?'

"Be seated. Be seated," Lucius said, his voice roughened by years and burden. He lifted both hands in a small motion that somehow commanded the entire hall. "This is the twenty-seventh time I open the assembly of the Senate."

He ran his palms over the throne's armrests, a gesture that read as both weariness and ownership.

"Fifteen years I have held this chair. In all that time, we have welcomed no new participant at this level. The last House to ascend to this council was House Lot." The emperor explained.

His hand indicated Mordred. "You can imagine how many headaches this boy and his family have given me over these past years. Thus, allow me to be rigorous with the new member of this council."

Mordred's mouth tipped at one corner, pride and provocation mingling. He seemed content to be the thorn on the Emperor's side.

Lucius's gaze found Atlas and fixed there. He was assessing everything, observing every change in posture, cataloging breath, micro-movements, and intent. When he spoke, there was no surprise in the words, only the weight of judgment. "You are outstanding," he said. "You managed to hide your movements even from my team. That is not something anyone can do."

On the surface, it sounded like praise; in the undertone, it was a warning, cold as steel. I see you. I will keep seeing you.

"Thank you," Atlas answered, the smallest bow of his head acknowledging the address without surrendering ground. His eyes never left the Emperor's.

Katherine bit down on the instinct to roll her eyes. 'Another one looking to challenge him,' she thought. This room is a canister of nitroglycerin, one wrong jolt and everything goes up.

"You do realize that commanding a thousand Rangers is only one of the most basic requirements?" the Emperor asked, voice worn and rough.

"Yes, sir," Atlas said without blinking. "Among several other things, a House must hold territory, sustain its forces, and—most importantly—wield power."

"Territory," Lucius repeated, tasting the word. "That's the part that rang strangest to me. Mere hours ago, 'special reserves' were discovered in the star system around Aquarius. Seconds later, a magnate began acquiring rights and control over lands long deemed worthless, too close to the borderlands to be anything but trouble." He let it hang in the air like smoke. "Curious timing."

"Where others see problems, I see an opportunity," Atlas replied, one eye catching the light with a glint that was almost a dare.

"Yes. Interesting," Lucius said, almost idly. Then his tone sharpened by a hair. "More interesting is Aquarius itself. A system founded by the Nameless, fugitives, mostly."

Atlas's expression didn't change. He watched the Emperor. The Emperor watched him back.

"Borderland territory is lawless," Lucius continued. "Unregulated. A place where terrorists, mutineers, and mercenaries can grow without our control. Among them, one particular terrorist who, in the past five years, has made it his mission to cause us trouble. My informants believe that the terrorist is you."

"Who would that be?" Atlas asked, confusion drawn brief and clean across his face.

"I believe you are the Green Ranger," the Emperor said, the accusation landing like a hammer. Stewart took two steps forward, moving toward the fifth line.

Katherine's heart lurched. For a breath, she forgot to control her face; eyes widened, jaw loosened. 'Had she fought him?'

While trying to judge Atlas if he was the enemy she had fought these last years, her Gauntlet shook.

She glanced down—just long enough for the overlay to paint her vision. The Red Rangers' HQ pushed a priority feed: time-stamped, verified, hot. Location tags snapped into place. Real-time. No delay.

"Sir," Katherine said, rising a fraction and lifting one hand. "With respect, I do not believe he is the Green Ranger."

Lucius's head turned toward her, one eyebrow lifting, the tiny shift felt across the hall. "And why do you believe that?"

She didn't hesitate. "We've just received an alert," she said, voice steady. "The Green Ranger is attacking one of our spaceports."

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