Downfall

One by one, the pillars of his empire turned to sand. The food synthesis plants reported ninety-eight percent efficiency, but the raw material stockpiles were at twelve percent—diverted to black markets run by provincial governors he himself had appointed. The military academies were producing officers who had never seen combat, only simulation scores that could be bought. The communication relays that tied the hundred worlds together were running on century-old backup systems because the replacement parts had been sold to mining colonies.

The first crack wasn't a loud bang or a shattering of glass. It was the faint tink of a porcelain cup against its saucer, a sound so small it was almost polite. In the grand throne room of the Solarian Empire, that tiny noise marked the beginning of the end. Downfall

The final crack came not from without, but from within his own body. As he stood to confront his reflection in the dark glass of the throne room window, a hot lance of pain shot through his chest. The same pain that had killed Caelus. A worn-out heart. One by one, the pillars of his empire turned to sand

The Chamberlain’s smile thinned. “It was deemed prudent, Sire. Caelus was old. His hands shook. He spilled a drop yesterday on the ceremonial map.” The communication relays that tied the hundred worlds

The Grand Chamberlain, a man whose spine was made of silk and ambition, bowed. “Your Radiance, the cupbearer was… replaced this morning. He failed to appear. We have a substitute.”

He began to dig.