The Reborn Sovereign of Ruin, Bound by His Star

By the time the first snow settled over Deira, Cyran Solvere had become Prime Minister of Nuria.

The months leading to the official instatement had been quieter than Arik expected, though hardly simple.

Once the foreign-funded support around Cyran’s campaign was cut away, several regional offices collapsed almost immediately. Consultants vanished, supposedly independent civic groups stopped producing promotional material, and two provincial coordinators resigned within the same week.

For several days, Cyran’s numbers dropped sharply.

Then he started rebuilding.

Without Gerard’s machinery behind him, he spent most of the remaining campaign traveling. He appeared at universities, agricultural councils, industrial cooperatives and provincial debates, answering questions until his voice was rough and his staff had to drag him toward whichever transport waited outside. He was irritatingly good at it.

Mireya Soren retained strong support among public-sector workers and several northern provinces. Hana Cerel dominated much of the industrial south, while Evander Rosch performed far better in rural districts than anyone expected from a titled nobleman.

Cyran somehow gathered enough support from everywhere else.

When the final certification reached Arik’s desk, the result sat at forty-one percent.

Arik read it twice.

Mezos stood near the window, deep red hair tied loosely at his nape, waiting with the patience of a man who had already checked the numbers himself.

"He actually won."

"You told him he had to."

Arik looked up.

"I threatened to execute him if he failed. That is not electoral strategy."

From the sofa, Liam glanced away from the academy documents in his hands.

"It apparently has motivational value."

Arik decided not to dignify either of them with an answer.

Liam had his own problems anyway.

Ayla and Samuel had fallen in love with the Imperial Academy.

What had begun as several experience-exchange days turned into applications for the remainder of the academic year, followed by examinations, interviews, and an argument with Liam when both siblings announced that they intended to live in the dormitories.

Their palace rooms, according to them, created too much hassle.

Liam had stared across the breakfast table as though they had proposed living beneath a bridge.

"You already have rooms here."

Ayla buttered a piece of toast without looking remotely troubled.

"And every time we leave them, palace security knows before we reach the stairs."

"That is generally how security works."

Samuel leaned over his coffee.

"It is also why people stare when we arrive at class."

"There would only be two guards with you."

Ayla finally looked up.

"Liam, listen to yourself."

Arik had made the tactical mistake of smiling into his cup.

Liam turned immediately.

"You agree with them."

"I think living with other students would be good for them."

The betrayal in Liam’s expression was remarkable.

Arik reached for another piece of bread and wisely stopped contributing.

The worst part was that Liam understood their reasoning.

Ayla and Samuel wanted the academy itself, with cramped rooms, roommates, terrible coffee, crowded study halls, and the freedom to complain about morning lectures without an imperial household adjusting everything around them. Liam had spent too many years trapped by Felix’s decisions to turn privilege into another form of confinement for them.

Understanding did not make the dormitory room look any larger when he helped Samuel move.

Liam stood in the center of it, surveying one narrow bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and enough remaining floor space for approximately three people if nobody breathed too deeply.

"This is tiny."

Samuel dropped a box beside the desk.

"It is a dormitory."

"You have one wardrobe."

"I own normal quantities of clothing."

Ayla laughed from the corridor.

Liam remained offended until Samuel called three nights later to report that his roommate had attempted to cook noodles directly inside an electric kettle.

He laughed so hard that Arik eventually stole the communicator to hear the story properly.

Pride, Liam discovered, could coexist very comfortably with irritation.

The palace became quieter after they moved, although hardly peaceful. Liam returned to foundation work and engineering consultations while Arik became increasingly occupied with the restructuring of the civilian government. Beneath that ordinary rhythm, Mezos and Severin continued mapping every connection between Gerard’s network and Cyran’s former campaign.

Cyran reported each contact.

Messages were copied before reaching him. Responses were reviewed. Attempts to move money were traced rather than interrupted whenever doing so might expose another participant.

As far as Gerard knew, everything remained intact.

The private parts of Liam and Arik’s lives settled into something equally predictable.

Liam’s next heat arrived close to the physician’s estimate and passed without the uncertainty of the first one after suppression. Arik’s rut followed soon enough afterward that their physician confirmed their cycles had begun synchronizing.

Liam found that much funnier than Arik did.

One morning, Arik stood near the bedroom windows fastening his shirt while Liam remained buried comfortably beneath the blankets.

"You followed me."

Arik looked over his shoulder.

"That is not how biology works."

"Your rut moved."

"My body adjusted to my bonded mate."

"Which means you followed me."

Arik stared at him for several seconds before crossing the room.

Liam’s smug expression survived until Arik climbed onto the mattress.

The argument ended there.

By midwinter, Nuria had settled into an unfamiliar shape: a functioning parliament, an elected prime minister waiting to assume office, two Wrohanian students causing trouble at the Imperial Academy, and one foreign king who remained convinced that his investment had succeeded.

Cyran’s installation took place on a cold, brilliantly clear morning.

The restored Hall of Government had been prepared without excessive imperial ceremony. Gold ether lines glowed through the dark stone floor while winter sunlight poured through the tall windows, catching against the black and silver clothing worn by the man standing below the imperial platform.

Cyran looked composed.

Liam knew better now.

The oath required loyalty to Nuria, obedience to constitutional law, service to its citizens, and protection of the authority granted through election rather than inherited position.

When Cyran finished, Cassian passed the prime ministerial seal to Arik.

For a moment, emperor and prime minister looked at one another.

Months earlier, Cyran had entered the palace as Gerard’s chosen instrument.

Now half his communications were being written under Mezos’s supervision.

Arik placed the seal into his hand.

"Prime Minister Solvere."

Applause rolled through the hall.

Cyran inclined his head and stepped into the office he had nearly lost before anyone had cast a vote.

Mezos approached Arik while the galleries were still applauding.

He kept his voice low enough that only Liam and Cyran, standing nearby, could hear.

"King Gerard crossed the eastern checkpoint twenty minutes ago."

Arik turned.

"He came personally?"

"He did. His delegation is already on the Deira road."

Cyran’s eyes shifted toward them.

A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Arik looked toward the enormous doors at the end of the hall as bells continued ringing across the capital for Nuria’s first elected prime minister.

Months of waiting had finally ended.

Gerard was coming to collect what he thought he had bought.