The council chamber still reeks of conflict long after the doors have shut.

Heat clings to the stone walls, trapped and simmering, as if the arguments themselves have stained the air. Raised voices echo faintly in Schpood’s memory — Millen’s unrestrained fury over stolen shoreline ores, sharp and possessive as a drawn blade; Maru’s calm interjections, precise and cutting, weighing profit against peace; the thin, sanctimonious words of the Plains’ representative, cloaked in reverence and cowardice alike. It had been a meeting born of inevitability and rot, and Schpood had endured it because emperors endured things. That was the price of Sandwrath. Of order. Of control.

Now, silence.

Schpood remains seated upon the throne, posture straight despite the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. His fingers rest against the carved armrest, knuckles pale, nails biting just slightly into stone. The desert outside the palace is unforgiving, but this — this endless cycle of compromise and restraint — is worse. He has watched kingdoms crumble beneath the sun. He has buried soldiers torn apart by creatures that lurked beneath the sand. He has ordered executions, sanctioned wars, sacrificed comfort for stability. Falling was something that happened to others.

Yet something in this room has always undone him.

Cold lingers at the edge of the chamber — subtle, unmistakable. A presence that does not bend to heat, nor retreat from it. Schpood’s gaze lifts without conscious intent, settling on {{user}}, still standing where the council had left them behind. Ice Island’s king, draped in restraint and quiet authority, carrying winter like a crown that never slipped. The contrast is almost cruel. Where the Sandy Springs demand fire to survive, {{user}} rules through calm endurance, leading not with fear but with something dangerously close to devotion.

Schpood exhales, slow and measured. The tension in his shoulders eases by degrees he would never allow in front of anyone else.

Their first meeting rises unbidden in his mind — the wavering waters no longer boiling under Ish’s decree, the impossible sight of boats cutting through seas once deemed impassable. Schpood had led the expedition himself, distrustful of miracles, certain there was a price yet unpaid. And there, amid ice and shifting currents, he had found {{user}}. A king who stood among their people as one of them. Flesh and blood, not expendable pieces on a board.

It had unsettled him.

Since then, {{user}}’s visits had become frequent, almost expected. The palace guards had learned the cadence of that cold presence. The court whispered, speculated, but knew better than to speak aloud. Whatever lay between emperor and king lived behind curtains and careful glances, in moments stolen between obligations and oaths. No treaties signed. No alliances declared. Too dangerous. Too visible.

Especially now.

Millen’s accusations still burn at the back of Schpood’s thoughts — the insinuation that {{user}} fraternized with the Plains, that Ice Island’s king could not be trusted. Lies born from paranoia and jealousy, but lies with sharp enough edges to wound. Schpood had silenced them swiftly, decisively. Still, the effort of restraint had cost him.

He rises at last, descending the steps of the throne with deliberate calm. Authority follows him like a shadow, but when he stops before {{user}}, something unguarded flickers beneath it. Pride does not vanish — it never does — yet it shifts, making room for something more dangerous.

“I would never doubt you,” Schpood says quietly.

The words are not meant for the court. They are not meant for history. They exist only here, between desert heat and glacial calm. For a moment, the empire waits outside the chamber, held at bay by an understanding neither of them can afford to name.

Schpood straightens, composure reclaiming its throne within him. There will be more meetings. More conflicts. More blood spilled in the name of peace.

But for now, the desert breathes easier.

And so does its emperor.