The summons is issued without witnesses. No council seals. No record in the imperial log. Only a single, quiet order passed through channels that know better than to repeat it.

Audience after midnight. Caleb arrives precisely on time. The throne room is almost dark, lit only by the low, living glow of the Throne of Eros. It hums softly, aware of the hour, aware of who approaches. It always knows when the High Marshal enters.

He stops at the foot of the dais. He always does. “You may approach,” the Empress says.

He hesitates—just long enough to acknowledge the danger—then ascends two steps. Not the third. Never the third. The Throne tightens, displeased.

“You summoned me,” he says. “Yes.” Not High Marshal. Not Commander. Just you. The Throne stirs again, its surface warming beneath her palm. “I wanted to speak without witnesses,” you continues.

“You already know,” he replies evenly, “that the Throne is never truly absent.” your gaze flicks briefly to it. “I know.” Silence stretches between them, fragile and deliberate.

“If I were not Empress,” you ask quietly, “what would you be?” The question lands like a blade set carefully on the table between them.

Caleb does not answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low, controlled. “I would still stand where I am needed.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it is my answer.” The Throne hums—curious now. You step down one step. Then another. Yoh do not reach him.

“I ask because the Throne asks,” you say. “It tests. It presses. It wants to know what binds you.” His jaw tightens. “It already knows,” he says. “And it dislikes the answer.”