The very next day, all the knights of Zantoran gathered once more for the council. Before each of them stood a goblet of wine—into which, unseen, Malthus and Nortal had dropped a single shining drop of the Elixir of Truth. The knights were gathered, their armor gleaming like ripples of light across the grand hall. Malthus lifted his cup and spoke solemnly.  

“Before we begin, let us drink to the memory of my father, Malthus the Eleventh. May he guide us from where he is, and help us bring peace to our empire.”  

He took a sip of wine, watching with quiet satisfaction as every knight followed his example. Now, all they had to do was wait for the potion to take effect. A minute passed—silence, then unease. Malthus glanced toward Nortal, who signaled for patience. Then, slowly, the truth began to spill forth.  

Just as Malthus had feared, three among them revealed themselves as traitors—beyond Seltus, who was already imprisoned. The loyal knights seized the men at once and sent them to join their co-conspirator. When the chamber finally stilled, Malthus told them everything that had happened the day before, and what must now be done according to Digo’s counsel.  

By dawn, all was ready. The army had undergone the same test as the knights; the traitors were jailed, the loyal armed and waiting for orders.  

When Nortal opened the emperor’s door, the room was empty. He sat heavily on the bed, half-worried his friend had done something reckless. He was lost in thought when a familiar sound startled him—the secret door swung open, and Malthus stepped out, armored for battle and radiant with resolve.  

Still only twenty, yet already a king hardened by three long years of war. Nortal admired him deeply. Younger, impulsive, not yet beloved by the people—yet he had held the empire together while civil war gnawed at its heart like moths devouring wood.  

“Why are you sitting around? We have an empire to save!” Malthus grinned.  

Nortal blinked at him. “Where were you?”  

“With Azora,” Malthus replied with a spark in his eyes. “We’ve decided—once the war is over, we’ll marry!”  

Azora was their childhood friend, a peasant girl of simple grace. Malthus had never cared for noble bloodlines. “A peasant wife,” he often said, “will teach me more of my people than a hundred courtiers ever could.”  

“You’re mad,” Nortal laughed. “How will your mother accept it?”  

“The same way my father accepted her,” Malthus said lightly.  

Nortal froze, astonished. He’d never known the empress had been a commoner herself. Then again, he had never understood the purpose of royal marriages—there weren’t many blue-blooded brides left anyway.  

They set out for battle. Faces grim, hearts heavy. Even the bravest feared what was coming—feared not for themselves, but for the empire, for the world. Digo had told them: this war would decide more than borders.  

“Courage,” Nortal murmured, standing beside his friend in the front line, “is not the absence of fear. It’s standing before it—for the sake of all.”  

Malthus smiled faintly, wishing he could feel even half as brave as Nortal sounded. But how could he, when so much depended on his every choice?  

The battle was brutal. Even weakened by the witch’s potion, the pirates fought with ferocity born of blood. They had been trained from birth for war, while his men had fought only when forced. The pirates were merciless—souls carved of stone, hearts long emptied of kindness. To be a pirate was to drink blood instead of milk, to learn hatred instead of love.  

For five relentless days, the empire fought its final and fiercest clash. With the people’s help, the knights captured Ayrton and most of his kin, along with the remaining traitors.  

When the fighting ceased, the emperor—wounded and weary—was brought the pirate leader in chains. The people demanded death. But Malthus, raised to value life above vengeance, could not pronounce such a sentence. “No man,” he whispered, “has the right to take another’s life.”  

He called instead for a public tribunal. “Let the people decide,” he said, though it gave him no comfort.  

When the verdict came—death by beheading—he faced the crowd, his voice heavy with sorrow.  

“Let the judgment be yours,” he told them, “but do not become killers like the one you condemn.”  

No one listened. The grief of a broken nation cried louder than mercy.  

The next day, the square overflowed with those eager to see justice done. Malthus approached the bound Ayrton and said quietly,  

“If you have any last words, speak them now.”  

The pirate turned his head, hatred burning in his eyes.  

“You call me a murderer,” he spat, “yet you stand ready to kill me. You will only feed the fire, boy. My death will not bring peace—only fury. My blood will haunt you. My kin will become your shadow, and they will not rest until you and your empire are ash.”  

Malthus knew Ayrton was right. He gave the signal for the sentence to be carried out and withdrew to the tower. He could not bear to watch the killing of yet another man—no matter what evil lived in his heart.  

The executioner raised his sword. Nortal stood among the crowd, his face cold, his heart breaking. How could hatred twist a peaceful people into something so cruel? He watched in silence as the once gentle citizens rejoiced in the violence—saw them boil the pirate’s severed head, dip it in tar, and mount it on a pike at the castle gates as a warning.  

The nightmare of civil war was finally over, but it had left behind a wasteland of sorrow. The people began to rebuild the very next day, but not all wounds could be mended with stone and timber. How could they heal the pain in their souls? Too many lives had been lost; too many hearts would carry their grief forever—for those they had lost, and for those they themselves had slain.  

For two days, Malthus shut himself away. He neither ate nor spoke, nor would he see anyone. Nortal, worried beyond measure, disobeyed his emperor’s command and went to him. He knocked. No answer. After a pause, he entered quietly.  

Malthus sat on the edge of his bed, staring into nothing. When Nortal sat beside him, he didn’t even turn.  

“What are you thinking?” the knight asked gently.  

There was no reply. Then, at last, Malthus turned his hollow eyes toward him.  

“Ayrton was right,” he whispered. “I am a murderer. How can a murderer lead his people toward what is right? How can he dream of a family, when his hands are drenched in blood?”  

Nortal cut him off, his voice firm but kind.  

“When the world is at war, we all become killers, sooner or later. Not because we want to, but because war leaves no choice. And the war isn’t over, Malthus—not until we find the Crystal Palace. We still have families to protect, and the pirates strike us without mercy every day.”  

He understood his friend’s pain. Malthus had inherited an empire at its darkest hour, burdened with impossible choices. He had been forced to betray his own beliefs—to sanction Ayrton’s death and to take lives on the battlefield with his own sword. Once, the blade had been only a tool for fencing practice, for sport and ceremony. Now it had become an instrument of death.  

Nortal, though, was born to battle—the sea knight who had stood beside him through every storm.  

“You’ll make it through this, Malthus,” he said softly. “You’ll be a great emperor—and a good man. My family will stand by yours. It is my honor to protect you, even if it costs me my life.”  

He bowed deeply before his friend, his oath gleaming like a blade in the dim light of the chamber.