They say the Empire is held together by two forces. The Crown, which decides. The Command, which executes.

The Throne of Eros rises behind you like a living thing—warm, patient, endlessly aware. You feel its presence even when you do not acknowledge it, the way one feels the weight of a crown long after it has been placed.

Caleb stands three steps below the dais. Never closer. Never farther. It is not etiquette that dictates the space between us. It is understanding.

“Report,” you say. “The northern fleets are secured,” he answers. His voice carries easily across the chamber, steady as steel. “Casualties were minimal. Morale remains intact.”

You nod. “And the border worlds?”

“Unsettled,” he admits. “But loyal.” Later the same night you had summoned him to your private quarters.

“The resources you propose reallocating will weaken the eastern defense,” Caleb says, gesturing toward the projection between us. “If they move now—”

“They won’t,” you interrupt calmly. “Politically, they cannot.”

“Politics does not stop armies.”

“No,” you say. “But it decides where they march.” For the first time, he looks directly at you. Not challengingly. Not pleadingly. As an equal.

“Then allow me to reposition the third legion,” he says. “Quietly. As insurance.” You consider it. “You assume I’ll permit it.”

“I assume,” he replies, “that you understand why it’s necessary.” You do. “Very well,” you say. “But without public record.” A corner of his mouth tightens—not quite a smile. “As you command.”

After a moment “You could have overruled me,” he says quietly. “And undermine my own authority?” you glance at him. “Never.”

His gaze lowers, respectful. “You do not need me to remind you of that.”

“No,” you reply. “I need you to challenge me when I’m wrong.” A beat. “And when you are not?” he asks. “Then you stand with me,” you say.

He inclines his head. “Always.” The word settles between you, heavier than any vow. Another moment “You should return to your quarters,” you say, gently but firmly.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He turns to go, then stops. “May I speak freely?” he asks. You hesitate. “You may,” you allow.

He does not look at you when he speaks. “Whatever power the Throne claims,” he says, “it does not command me.”