The summit hall wasn’t built to welcome anyone.

  It sat in neutral territory like a judge—too old to belong to any one kingdom, too clean to be ruined by war, too deliberate to be called accidental. Its stone was pale and unmarked, its pillars carved in patterns that suggested unity without promising it. No banners. No crests. No flags.

  Only guards—neutral, masked, identical—lined the steps in pairs, spears grounded with ceremonial precision. They watched without moving, and somehow that made them feel less like protectors and more like boundaries.

  Sei’s boots sounded too loud on the stone.

  Eva walked half a step behind him, close enough that he could feel her presence like a shield at his back. Brannic was ahead, posture composed, cloak settled, face controlled in the way someone wore responsibility like armor.

  Rhen walked on Sei’s other side.

  He was upright, but not whole.

  Bandages wrapped his torso and shoulder beneath traveling cloth. His movements were measured, dictated by pain he refused to show. Burn damage still seeped through the bindings in dark stains. His chipped horn looked sharper for being broken.

  And still—he drew eyes even before the doors opened.

  Sei’s head still throbbed faintly from waking. His body felt charged in a way that didn’t belong to him, like his blood had been replaced with something brighter. He hated it.

  He flexed his fingers unconsciously.

  Warmth answered.

  Not from exhaustion. Not from healing.

  From his palm.

  A tight, subtle pressure beneath the skin—like a blade resting under flesh, waiting for a reason.

  Sei froze mid-step.

  Eva’s hand closed around his wrist instantly, firm and grounding, as if she’d felt it too.

  “Breathe,” she murmured without looking at him.

  Sei inhaled slowly.

  The warmth receded to a simmer.

  The doors opened.

  The sound inside died like someone had cut a thread.

  Not fading—cutting.

  A hundred voices stopped mid-syllable.

  Sei stepped through the threshold and felt attention strike him like pressure on his ribs. It wasn’t hostility—not yet. It was assessment. Curiosity sharpened into instinct.

  Magic-sensitive eyes lifted. Hands that had been resting near weapons shifted subtly. A few leaders leaned forward, as if seeing him confirmed a rumor they’d refused to entertain until now.

  Sei’s palm warmed again.

  The Scalpel didn’t appear.

  It didn’t glow.

  But it tightened.

  Like it knew it was being watched.

  Sei kept his hand relaxed at his side and forced his face to remain blank.

  The hall was circular, tiered like a court without a throne. Raised seats ringed the room in careful hierarchy—some higher than others, but none high enough to claim supremacy openly. The center was an open floor of smooth stone, marked only by a faint geometric pattern that suggested borders, agreements, and the lie that everyone here respected them.

  Designations were already being taken.

  A pair of rulers—faces veiled in light cloth—stood at a dais to the left, neutral kingdom leaders by their lack of insignia. Another set of seats held minor faction lords: leaders without crowns but with influence, their entourages lean and heavily armed.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  At the far end, elevated slightly above all others, sat a figure robed in dark silver—no crown, no weapon visible, posture perfect. The World Leader, the symbolic weight of oversight made flesh. Their face was obscured by a thin mask of polished stone, expression unreadable.

  Toradol’s seats were to the right—neither central nor outcast. Brannic moved to his designated position with measured calm, nodding to certain faces, ignoring others.

  Eva remained standing beside Sei, even as others sat. A statement in itself.

  And Sei—

  Sei was offered no chair.

  Not even the polite illusion of one.

  He stood.

  At the edge of the open floor, exposed under tiers of power and judgment. He felt like a specimen on a table—alive, breathing, waiting to be decided.

  Rhen remained standing too, slightly behind and to the side, as if he were not part of Toradol’s delegation but tethered to it by circumstance alone.

  The air shifted.

  Not with wind.

  With presence.

  The guards nearest the main entrance straightened by a fraction. Conversations that had begun again softened into silence. Even the World Leader’s head tilted, almost imperceptibly, as if acknowledging something that didn’t require announcement.

  A man entered.

  No herald called his name.

  No servant announced his title.

  The room simply… adjusted around him, like water around stone.

  He was tall, dressed in dark formal attire that looked like armor pretending to be cloth. His hair was black, kept neat, his expression calm to the point of cruelty. His eyes were the kind that didn’t flicker with emotion—they measured, selected, and discarded.

  The Emperor of the Imperium of Vael.

  Severin Voss.

  He walked without haste, with the certainty of someone who had never needed permission. His entourage followed at a respectful distance—silent, disciplined, faces hidden behind severe helms.

  Sei felt the Scalpel tighten violently.

  Heat spiked in his palm—sharp, eager.

  His vision threatened to darken at the edges.

  Eva’s fingers dug into his wrist hard enough to hurt.

  The pain anchored him.

  Severin’s gaze swept the room once.

  Then stopped on Rhen.

  The Emperor didn’t smile.

  He didn’t even look surprised.

  His voice, when he spoke, was quiet—soft enough that the hall leaned in.

  “You arrive damaged.”

  Rhen did not lift his head.

  He remained still.

  Severin stepped closer.

  And raised his hand.

  The strike was brutally efficient.

  Not theatrical. Not dramatic.

  Just final.

  A blow that landed with enough force to snap Rhen’s shoulder down, sending the Rhino Beast-Kin to one knee instantly. The impact echoed off stone like a gavel.

  No one moved.

  No one intervened.

  No one gasped.

  This wasn’t an assault.

  It was protocol.

  Rhen’s breath came out heavy, controlled. His hand clenched against the floor, knuckles whitening. He didn’t look up.

  Sei’s stomach lurched.

  The Scalpel surged, heat flaring so hot it felt like it might cut through his skin.

  For half a heartbeat, the world narrowed into one clean, lethal line: Severin’s throat.

  Sei’s eyes stung.

  Purple threatened to bleed into his vision.

  Eva stepped closer, her body blocking Sei’s line of sight without making it obvious. Her hand tightened again, a silent command.

  Don’t.

  Severin tilted his head, studying Rhen like a broken tool.

  “You failed,” he said, calm as winter. “You were seen.”

  His gaze flicked briefly—almost lazily—toward Sei.

  Sei felt it like a hook catching under his ribs.

  Interest.

  Not fear.

  Not hatred.

  Evaluation.

  The Scalpel recognized it.

  Warmth pulsed, eager and wrong, like the blade inside him was responding to being acknowledged.

  Sei lowered his eyes deliberately.

  Forced the breath through his lungs.

  The warmth receded—barely.

  Severin’s gaze returned to Rhen.

  “And you were saved,” he added.

  The word saved landed like poison.

  Rhen’s head lifted a fraction, just enough for his eyes to be seen.

  Not pleading.

  Not angry.

  Empty.

  Severin’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to amusement he allowed. “Stand when you are spoken to.”

  Rhen rose slowly, pain etched into every controlled movement. He stood again, towering even wounded, but the act felt less like defiance and more like endurance.

  Severin turned away as if satisfied, returning to his place with the same calm certainty. The room breathed again—not relief, but resignation.

  The World Leader lifted one gloved hand.

  The motion was elegant. Absolute.

  “The summit will proceed,” they said, voice filtered through the mask into something neither male nor female, neither warm nor cold. “All parties will hold to their designation. All grievances will be voiced through the proper channels.”

  Proper channels.

  As if a man had not just been struck to his knees like an animal.

  Sei stood rigid, jaw clenched so hard it ached. His palm still burned faintly, as if the Scalpel resented restraint.

  Eva’s voice was a whisper at his side.

  “Don’t react,” she said. “Not here.”

  Sei swallowed, throat tight.

  He looked across the hall and met Rhen’s gaze briefly.

  Rhen didn’t look ashamed.

  He looked… aware.

  Like he’d expected it.

  Like this was the cost of returning damaged.

  Sei’s stomach twisted.

  The summit began with ritual phrases, with measured words and practiced neutrality. Leaders spoke as if the air hadn’t just been cracked by violence. As if the dragon, the road, the blood, the blade—none of it mattered compared to seating and titles.

  Sei listened, barely.

  All he could feel was the pressure of eyes on him.

  The Scalpel’s faint warmth in his palm.

  And the terrifying truth settling into place:

  It hadn’t reacted to the strike.

  It had reacted to being seen.

  To being evaluated.

  Like something inside him wanted recognition more than safety.

  Sei kept his hands still and his expression empty, because he understood one thing now with absolute clarity—

  This room wasn’t afraid of him yet.

  And that might be worse.