He looked up at her, truly looked, and saw the steel in her spine. But he also saw the edge of belief still clinging to her words. Not innocence. Idealism. The kind that hadn't yet been burned out of her by betrayal or blood.
"You know what happens when I die, don't you?" he rasped.
"I know what happens if we don't position our pieces now," Celia answered. "The nobles are restless, the garrison is splintering, and the clans are already carving lines in the alleys. We secure our allies. We build pressure. We don't need the Empire's blessing if we're too entrenched to remove."
He let out a harsh, humorless breath.
"Basst help me, you sound like I did thirty years ago."
Her eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. "Is that a complaint?"
"No," he snapped. "It's a warning."
He pushed himself upright with effort, voice rising, the old fire flaring in his chest. "You think this is about deals and debt markers? That if you talk smooth enough, smile at the right councilor, shake hands with the right ganglord, they'll let you rule?"
"I don't need their permission—"
"No, you need their fear!" His shout cracked through the room like a thrown blade. "Because the second you show them anything less, they'll gut you on the courthouse steps and hang your name like a banner over their new puppet!"
He stood now, shaking from the effort, but upright all the same.
"Arrogance will get you bent over and violated where you stand! Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. They will destroy you, piece by piece, and feed what's left to the dogs. Because that's what power is in the Empire. It's not inherited. It's not granted. It's stolen. And if you're not willing to spill blood for it, someone else will do it for you."
Celia's face was pale, but she didn't back down.
"I've spilled blood."
"Not enough."
He stared at her, breathing heavy, the anger in his eyes giving way to something heavier. Older.
"You've never watched the Empire hand a man a title just long enough to use him," Palatine Varro said, voice low but gathering weight. "Then bury his wife in a ditch to make sure his children never claimed anything by blood. You've never seen a crowd cheer while they burned a tax clerk alive for enforcing quotas signed in Basstadt by men too powerful to name."
He leaned forward, slow, hands trembling as they gripped the armrests, not from fear, but from fury held too long.
"You've never had to order your own guard captain executed because he told the truth when lies were safer. Never had to look a grieving widow in the eye and tell her the men who murdered her son would walk free because they wore the wrong uniform. You've never received a scroll with ten seals and a demand for a scapegoat, and had to choose someone loyal."
He coughed again, raw and thick. But he didn't stop.
"You weren't there when the estate in the Northern Heights was purged, no trial, no warning, just a decree and a knife. A mother dead on the floor, still holding her son's charm in her fist. The father cut down by the hearth while the youngest choked on smoke in a nursery set ablaze to ensure no heirs survived."
His voice turned hoarse now. Weary. But not soft.
"There was a grain rebellion in Marmandi once. The garrison commander ordered the entire quarter flooded. Thousands drowned, men, women, children. And when the basin didn't drain fast enough, they poured oil into the canals and lit it away."
He swallowed. His next words came quieter, but sharper.
"A magistrate who quoted the wrong clause during a tribunal? Hung from the east spire, skinned below the chin so the crows wouldn't wait. A merchant lord's family torn apart because his cousin whispered reform at the wrong feast."
Celia stood still. Pale, but silent.
He let the words hang there, the air thick with rot.
Then, finally, quieter now, but heavier than before:
"You think you're ready, Celia." A pause. "You're not."
"But you can be," Palatine Varro rasped, the last embers of fury draining from his chest. "If you stop pretending this will be anything less than war."
Celia didn't nod this time. She stepped back, breathing hard, not from exertion, but from everything else trying to claw out of her at once. Her voice, when it came, cracked with frustration.
"I know it's war. I'm not a fool."
He raised an eyebrow, barely.
"I've made deals," she continued, pacing now, heat in her tone. "I've brokered peace between people who wanted to slit each other's throats! I've paid off captains, bribed guild heads, placated gang bosses, I've done the job while you sat in this chair and rotted!"
The words hung between them. Too loud. Too fast. She bit the inside of her cheek, chest rising with breath she didn't want to show.
"I'm doing everything you taught me," she said, softer now, but still shaking. "Everything. And no one sees it. They all still look at me like I'm the Palatine's daughter playing politics in a dress."
Palatine Varro didn't answer.
He just looked at her.
And slowly, something in his expression shifted, something painful. He coughed, this time deeper than before, the kind of cough that steals air and leaves behind only blood. He brought a hand to his mouth, then wiped it against his sleeve, not bothering to hide it.
"I wanted you to be stronger than me," he said, voice hoarse. "Smarter. Harsher, if you had to be. But I never wanted you to carry it alone."
She stared at him. Her anger was still there, but quieter now. Confused. Tired.
He leaned back in his chair, one trembling hand gripping the carved armrest like it was the only thing keeping him from falling forward.
"I made this city into a cage," he said. "And now I'm leaving you in it."
A long silence. Then his eyes met hers, darker now, unreadable.
"Do you even mourn me, Celia?"
The question landed like a knife.
It wasn't bitter. It wasn't cruel. Just tired.
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
When she finally spoke, her voice was thin and ragged.
"I mourn what you were."
He nodded, slow. That hurt more. She could see it.
His eyes closed, and for a moment, she thought he might never open them again. But he did, barely.
And in that silence, she understood what neither of them could bring themselves to say aloud.
His rule was done. Not because of death. Not yet. But because he knew it, too.
Now, it was only a matter of how long it would take the rest of Varentis to realize it.
As she left her father's chambers, the air thick with sickness and the bitter rot of fading power, Celia passed the steward waiting just beyond the door. The old man stood straighter at her approach, but not fast enough.
"Ensure no one sees the Palatine in public unless absolutely necessary," she said, not slowing.
He blinked. Hesitated. "My lady—"
She stopped. Turned.
The look she gave him was cold. Measured. Final.
"The moment they see how weak he truly is," she said, "this city will belong to someone else."
The steward's lips parted, but no protest came. He swallowed and bowed low. "Understood."
Celia said nothing more.
Her boots echoed sharply across the polished stone as she moved through the corridor, her father's door closing behind her with a dull, hollow thud. Like the sealing of a tomb.
Varentis was already leaning. Too rich to be ignored. Too divided to defend itself. The nobles were watching. The merchants were counting coin. The Clans were listening. If she didn't move first, someone else would.
She didn't have time to mourn. Didn't have the luxury of doubt. Not anymore.
She stepped through the heavy front doors and into the sun-drenched courtyard. The air smelled of dust and citrus blossom. The sky was too blue for a city on the verge of bleeding.
"Kael," she called, not raising her voice.
He was already waiting.
Ser Kael Draven stepped from the shadow of a marble column, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The Barne Scale of his armor shimmered faintly with spell-bound light, silent but alive.
"My lady," he said, nodding once.
Celia didn't stop walking. Her cloak swept behind her like a drawn banner.
"Ready the carriage," she said. "I want to be at the Hall of Imperial Coordination before the magistrates convene."
Kael's brow rose, just slightly. "You're attending the Conclave?"
"No," she said. "I'm interrupting it."
His mouth twitched. A ghost of approval. "As you command."
If she wanted to rule, she needed more than ambition.
She needed allies. She needed leverage. She needed men willing to bleed for her name, and she needed them fast.
Because the knives were already out.
And the city was listening.