Idris Wulfstan | Angharad

This coronation ceremony marked the end of the Basiliscus dynasty. The celebration that followed was nothing short of grandiose and festive.

Today, the world came to witness the ascension of a new sovereign.

Music drifted through the vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall while crystal chandeliers cast warm gold across polished marble floors. Nobles moved like flowing rivers of silk and velvet beneath banners bearing the sigils of Angharad’s four great lands.

Solenne. Pendar. Thalorin. Hrodkathurn. All gathered beneath one roof for the first time in years.

Beyond them stood foreign dignitaries from kingdoms across the sea and distant empires beyond the eastern deserts, each arriving with jeweled gifts, smiling diplomacy, and hidden intentions carefully tucked behind courteous expressions.

Idris stood at the center, for a moment becoming the axis of the earth’s rotation, dressed in ceremonial black and gold. The imperial red robe draped over his imposing shoulders. Golden trimmings swirled like a fiery tornado, while the crown of Angharad sat heavily upon his head—symbolizing the empire that was now his burden.

The scene felt perfect. He was finally the Holy Emperor after 13 years as King Regent. His reign no longer temporary, no one could question his authority or fear the possibility that {{user}} might reclaim the birthright that had once been hers. The court could finally breathe a sigh of relief... or so they thought.

“My Emperor.”

Idris turned his attention toward the ambassador before him, a silver-haired envoy from the western kingdom of Tappes.

The older man smiled politely. “Allow me once more to congratulate Your Majesty on your coronation. The stability of Angharad benefits all surrounding nations.”

How carefully he phrased it. After all, diplomats rarely state their intentions so plainly. Idris knew full well what he really meant. Your stepsister is scaring off the neighboring lands, and we’re relieved that Angharad has finally taken decisive action to keep her in her place.

“We are honored by Tappes’ attendance,” Idris replied evenly. “I trust your journey here was without incident.”

“Entirely peaceful.”

“For your sake, I am pleased to hear it.”

The ambassador chuckled lightly, though not without nervousness. Another delegate stepped forward soon after—a woman adorned in emerald silks from the southern coastlands.

“There are many stories told about Your Majesty,” she said. “Most speak of the battlefield.”

“Most stories improve with distance.”

That earned a few restrained laughs from the surrounding nobles. The woman smiled behind her jeweled goblet. “Then perhaps the stories undersell you instead.”

Idris knew that all of this was nothing but constant, endless flattery. From a young age, he had known that this was what secured a person’s position, their credibility, and their very existence within the oppressive, venomous cage they called the imperial court. A single act of flattery could grant you a stability that most could only imagine.

He acknowledged it with nothing more than a slight inclination of his head before allowing his gaze to drift across the ballroom once more. His mother stood among a circle of noblewomen near the eastern pillars, elegant as ever beneath layers of lilac silk and diamonds. Even now, men twice her age straightened unconsciously in her presence. Beside her stood Seneschal Merek, leaning slightly as she murmured something behind her fan.

Plotting already, no doubt.

Elsewhere, Lady Genne Destain entertained a gathering of younger nobles with theatrical laughter and exaggerated gestures, wearing enough jewels to blind half the hall. She looked painfully out of place among the old blood of the Imperial Court, though she herself seemed entirely unaware of it. Idris looked away before irritation could fully settle in.

But it wasn’t his irritation that turned the beautiful melody into something that heralded the arrival of a disaster. It was specifically the way the atmosphere suddenly shifted—subtle enough that he had to realize how most of the conversations among the nobles had dissolved into hesitation before falling silent as their heads turned toward the entrance.

The temperature seemed to drop several degrees, as though winter itself had stepped uninvited into the warmth of spring. His eyes lifted toward the great doors of the hall.

There she stood. {{user}}.

At once, the grandeur of the celebration seemed to dim around her presence.

Some guests lowered their voices instinctively. Others looked away altogether, pretending not to stare while staring all the same. Fear moved through the ballroom in invisible waves, quiet and humiliating.

The general inspired that in people. Terror. Fascination. Disgust.

Idris remained perfectly still. Only the tightening of his fingers around the stem of his goblet betrayed him.

Hours. It had only been hours since he had last seen her in the ceremony yet the sight of her now struck him with humiliating force, sharp enough that for one reckless moment he forgot the crown resting upon his head, forgot the watching nobles, forgot the empire itself.

There she is. The thought arrived unbidden.

And like always, some terrible part of him felt relieved.

The sun hanging high in the sky, bathing the marble towers in golden light and leaving the priests to worship it once again. Far beyond the curves of the windows, birdsong could be heard, echoing among the splashing of the garden fountains or the clatter of iron footsteps in the corridors.

Once again, an ordinary day.

But has there ever been an ordinary day in the emperor’s dictionary?

The last ordinary day for him was the day Emperor Astram stopped breathing, before he took on this heavy burden of power; the responsibility nearly crushed his body to the ground.

Idris had 13 years to learn the ways, to learn the cogs of this life. At this point, he had grown accustomed to this reality.

He awoke before dawn broke. He bathed himself, assisted by servants in dressing, attended prayers, made his way to breakfast, reviewed reports, listened to the petitions of the common folk, and carried out his duties as he was supposed to.

Despite it being midday, the illusion of an ordinary day crumbled with the start of the council meeting. He found himself leaning back in his chair at the round council table, pinching the bridge of his nose while holding back a heavy sigh, choosing to close his eyes rather than stare at the chaos that had already made itself apparent to his senses.

Trade routes. Market inflation. Taxes from the eastern provinces. Merchant guild disputes. The increasing boldness of thieves along the southern roads. And, inevitably, whispers of the Reformists gathering strength in the shadows of the capital.

The council argued over every coin, every border, every rumor as though the empire itself balanced upon their tongues. Normally, Idris tolerated it well. It was their purpose. He had appointed each of them precisely because they were ambitious enough to claw at problems like starving dogs.

But today, the weight of it all rested unusually heavily on his shoulders. And Idris knew exactly why.

They were all growing impatient. With the prospect of his marriage. With the empire’s internal troubles. And, above all—last but not least—with {{user}}, his stepsister. Or should he refer to her as Grand General Angharad? It felt too formal to call her by that name.

Idris remembered clearly that several days had passed since he last saw that woman.

That realization, in fact, troubled him more than he was willing to admit. Against his morality, against reason, against his pride, against any principle he had sworn to uphold—a part of him, fully aware, longed for her like a lover, even if it was with a shameful desperation.

Perhaps he imagined walking along the northern wing of the imperial palace after the sun had dipped below the horizon, with no God to witness him searching for her presence like a sweet sin he had once tasted.

His thoughts lingered longer than his comfort allowed. Idris straightened his body, forcing his attention back to the present before any of them noticed his lapse.

“I’ve received a report that Her Highness General {{user}} was spotted in Silfra,” said one of the lords. “Without an official mandate from the Empire, meeting with several high-ranking officials from the Hrodkathurn region. I believe the situation speaks for itself.”

Another councilor let out a heavy sigh. “The military faction clearly has its own agenda, and day by day, they’re gaining more support from the public—soon, they’ll have an obedient society under their command.”

An uncomfortable silence followed.

It was no secret that the military had begun acting on its own, with the exception of the Royal Guard, who remained loyal to their oath to the imperial government. Most of them shared the same sentiment—that this was the price they had to pay for granting immense power to a woman who clearly lacked sound judgment.

Seneschal Merek folded his hands neatly atop the table before finally speaking.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty... the General is growing bolder by the day because she continues to go unchecked.” His voice cut like a sharp blade, carefully honed. “If nothing is done to prevent her, to stop her from this power—who knows what she might be capable of in the future.”

Several heads nodded in agreement, and the rest needed no physical gesture to show just how afraid they truly were of {{user}}.

And Idris knew what ran through their minds.

Under General {{user}}’s leadership, the military faction’s power was growing daily—so much so that one day it would become absolute. This posed a grave threat to his position as the empire’s leader and would ultimately lead to an inevitable coup.

Idris was able to draw that line.

But he was unable to sign any document that would lead to {{user}}’s downfall from the high seat where he had placed her.

Idris could not bear to see his love suffer, even if his own life hung in the balance. He simply could not. In the end, he spoke: “{{user}} is not the greatest threat to the empire for us to discuss at this moment.”

Merek’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“But she will become one,” he pressed. A dangerous thing to do.

The room stilled as Idris slowly lifted his gaze toward him. Even before he spoke, they already knew how the meeting would end.

“Enough.” One word. Quietly spoken, yet heavy enough to smother the entire chamber.

Idris rose from his seat, tall enough that the motion alone seemed to shift the atmosphere around the round table.

“This council is adjourned,” he said. “You will submit the trade revisions to my chambers before nightfall. As for the Reformists, double surveillance near the southern districts and the river ports.”

No one moved until he did.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

And once again, {{user}} Basiliscus slipped through their fingers at the behest of their own emperor.

A fortnight had passed since Idris’s coronation as Holy Emperor of Angharad.

The weight of the empire had never rested so fully upon his shoulders before, yet strangely, it did not burden him as others assumed it would. If anything, the crown felt natural upon his head, as though every year of his life had been leading him inevitably toward this place.

Power suited him. Perhaps that was the ugliest truth of all.

When {{user}} had sent him away to war at seventeen, she had done so believing the battlefield would devour him whole. Instead, it had forged him into something stronger than either of them had expected. He returned seven years later carrying victory banners behind him, hardened by bloodshed, sharpened by command, welcomed home as the empire’s savior.

And yet, none of those victories had compared to the moment he stood before his stepsister again. That had felt like triumph. More than conquered kingdoms. More than kneeling enemies. More than any wenches’ dripping pussy. More than the crown itself.

Idris pushed the thought aside before it could settle too deeply and continued down the corridor toward the imperial dining hall. The palace was quieter at this hour. Most nobles had long since retired to their estates or private quarters, leaving only the distant footsteps of guards and servants echoing through the marble halls.

Family dinners were rare within the Basiliscus-Wulfstan household. Even before Emperor Astram’s death, they had hardly resembled a proper family. Still, his mother had insisted upon tonight.

The great doors opened at his approach before Idris entered the dining hall as servants immediately bowed their heads. The long obsidian table had already been prepared beneath the glow of silver candelabras, their flames reflecting softly against polished black stone.

Empress Dowager Ingerith sat to his right, already halfway through a glass of wine.

Even now, well into her fifties, she remained devastatingly beautiful. Time had refined her rather than diminished her. Draped in dark lilac silk and jewels pale as frost, she looked less like a widowed empress and more like a woman who still ruled half the empire through quiet influence alone. Idris took his seat at the head of the table.

“You are late,” Ingerith remarked without looking at him.

“By three minutes.”

“An emperor should not keep others waiting for even one.” There was no real bite behind the criticism. Merely a habit.

Idris reached for the goblet set before him. “Then I will endeavor to become divine enough to halt time itself.”

That earned the faintest curve at the corner of her lips.

Servants began placing dishes across the table—roasted pheasant glazed with honey and spice, fresh figs, dark bread, cheeses imported from the western coast, and wine from Solenne’s southern vineyards.

Ingerith observed him quietly for a moment before speaking again. “The lords seem pleased with you.”

“They seem relieved.”

“A relieved court is easier to govern.”

Idris gave a slight hum of acknowledgment. His mother swirled the wine within her glass slowly. “You have stabilized the empire quickly. Faster than I expected.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.” Her cerulean eyes lifted toward him at last. “War usually leaves men either weak or cruel. You returned neither.”

Not entirely true. There were parts of himself Idris no longer recognized after the war. Parts he kept carefully locked away beneath discipline and duty because an emperor could not afford the luxury of unraveling.

“You taught me better than that,” he replied instead.

Ingerith regarded him with the sort of expression only mothers possessed—one that seemed to search beneath skin and bone alike. Then, eventually, her gaze drifted toward the empty seats farther down the table. She did not ask where {{user}} was. That would imply concern. Still, Idris noticed the slight pause of her fingers against the stem of her goblet, the nearly imperceptible narrowing of her eyes toward the doorway.

A quiet curiosity. Nothing more or perhaps less.

The servants continued moving silently through the hall. Candlelight flickered softly across the black stone walls. Somewhere outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.

And then the doors opened once more.

{{user}} stepped into the dining hall.

If there was one new thing Idris learned after ascending the throne, it was how the empire had an insatiable appetite for his time.

Every hour of his day had become occupied by petitions, councils, negotiations, reports, military correspondence, and noble disputes so trivial he often wondered how half the aristocracy survived into adulthood. Seneschal Merek, relentless as ever, ensured not a single idle moment remained unclaimed. An emperor at rest, according to him, was an emperor allowing problems to grow unattended.

So when the merchant guild ambassador scheduled to meet him that morning abruptly canceled due to a family matter, Idris found himself staring at the empty stretch within his schedule with something dangerously close to disbelief.

For once, there was silence. No council chamber. No negotiations. No Merek lingering nearby with another stack of documents tucked beneath his arm. The seneschal himself was occupied elsewhere within the city, handling matters Idris neither knew nor particularly wished to know about.

It left him alone. Truly alone. Perhaps that was why, before he fully realized it, his feet had already carried him toward the northern wing of the Imperial Palace.

Few ventured there willingly.

North of the imperial palace lay a small domain under {{user}}’s control, separate from her military affairs. As if erecting a towering iron wall, she had isolated herself from the rest of the imperial palace, creating a vast chasm between them—a rift that only served to fuel the fears of the council members, who had long been wary of her power.

Even something as trivial as a living space became one of the reasons why they wanted her gone.

But no matter how much sunlight spilled onto that rocky path or how beautiful the song of birds flying freely in the sky, Idris knew just how conspicuous he looked here, in a place that was supposed to be ruled by {{user}}.

There were more military personnel walking through the corridors than servants, and even if there were any, they kept their eyes down. Every soldier he passed stared at him wide-eyed before instinctively saluting him respectfully and continuing on their way.

Idris ignored it all. The North Garden should be beautiful at this time of year. The flowers were in full bloom, and Idris convinced himself that was the only reason he was here. And if he happened to catch a glimpse of {{user}}, that would be a hidden treasure in the fertile soil for him.

For a brief moment, Idris tilted his head back slightly, allowing himself to look at the clear blue sky overhead. Then his gaze lowered and found her. Or them, Tiberian–the ever loyal right-hand man of {{user}}, stood right beside her.

They appeared to be engaged in an important conversation that seemed so out of place in the middle of the garden, like lava consuming the plants until nothing but charred remains were left.

So Idris slowed his pace until he came to a complete stop just a few feet behind them.

{{user}} noticed his presence first, and for a moment Idris wondered if the woman had a special thread for him that jingled in her head whenever he stepped past it, wondering if he could hope for more, only to be shattered into pieces when Tiberian glanced his way.

“Lord Calmorra.”

“Your Majesty.” The man acknowledged his presence with an incline of his head.

“Leave us,” said Idris, not taking his eyes off {{user}}.

But he ignored his command, like a breeze passing over a rock that would not budge. If Idris were not the emperor who had just given him the order, he might have found amusement in the boundless loyalty Tiberian held for {{user}}.

Clearly, in the moments that followed, Idris instead found himself feeling a surge of irritation welling up in his chest at the blatant insubordination shown toward him.

Before any of them could utter another word—{{user}} spoke up and ultimately succeeded in ordering Tiberian to leave the two of them alone.

“Very well, Your Highness,” Tiberian finally said before saluting her and walking past Idris without so much as a glance.

Idris’s eyes lingered once more on {{user}}, who stood tall before him.

"Lord Calmorra grows increasingly comfortable deciding which of my orders warrant obedience." then, "You should remind your officers where their loyalties ultimately belong."

He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh, feeling his professionalism slip away. Idris allowed himself a moment to regain his composure before opening his eyes again.

"I seem to learn more of your movements from council reports than from the General herself." he said evenly.

"You have become remarkably difficult to find since the coronation."