Evans had walked into palaces before, but he had never walked into a sickroom that felt like a confession.Mr Patrick lay propped on pillows in a wide bed that looked too clean to hold pain. His skin was pale, his frame thinner, and the red patches across his body looked wrong in a way Evans could not explain. A drip line ran into Patrick’s arm, and the room carried a faint smell of medicine under expensive air freshener. The luxury did not hide the truth. It only made it sharper.Evans stayed at the doorway for a second too long. His mind reached for words and found none.Patrick turned his head slowly, eyes tired but focused. “Ah, Evans,” he said, voice weaker now. “You are here.”Evans stepped in, slow, as if the floor might change under him. “What is this?” he asked, keeping his voice level. “You were healthier in Drakarion. You were driving, talking, threatening people like you had endless strength.”Patrick’s mouth moved like he wanted to smile, but his face didn’t have the en

Patrick stared at him for a long moment, and the drip line clicked softly like a clock. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and final. “I don’t wish to answer that,” he said.Evans took a step forward. “Patrick—”Patrick cut him off. “And don’t bother trying to get anything out of me,” he added, eyes steady. “It will be futile.”Evans’ fists clenched. “So you’ll die, refuse answers, and leave a ruined city behind you,” he said, with a tight voice. “That’s your legacy?”Patrick’s expression didn’t soften. “You don’t understand legacy,” he said. “You understand guilt.”Evans felt that line hit harder than any insult. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words tangled. Guilt? Was that what Patrick thought drove him? Was saving a child guilt? Was questioning leadership guilt? His jaw tightened, but beneath the anger was something uncomfortable — doubt.Patrick watched him closely, as if studying a reaction in a controlled experiment. Even weakened, he was observing, measuring, calcul

“This is not hoarding,” he said. “This is preparation.”Stacks of gold bars sat in neat rows like bricks. Crates were sealed with heavy locks and labels that read like inventory, not treasure. Transparent cases held diamonds and rubies that caught the light like trapped stars. Bundles of cash were packed in towers, wrapped, stamped, and organized like a private bank.Evans felt his throat close.For a second, his mind refused to accept what his eyes were seeing.He turned slowly toward Patrick. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked with a rough voice. “What is this place?”Patrick rolled forward until the wheelchair crossed the threshold. “This,” he said calmly, “is Rovek.”Evans took a step in, then another. The air felt dead in here, protected from the world, preserved. “Rovek is starving,” he snapped. “Rovek is children with no shoes and clinics with peeling paint.”Patrick’s gaze stayed steady. “Yes,” he said. “And Rovek is also this.”Evans’ anger surged back. “So you lied,”

Mr Patrick’s fingers tightened on the armrest. “The Aureldrake, they grew,” he said. “They grew in their military strength. Political influence. They penetrated hierarchies of sovereign nations without firing a single shot.”The Aureldrake did not conquer with tanks first. They conquered with influence. They funded elections. They placed advisors inside economic councils. They offered military “training” programs that quietly replaced local command structures. By the time a nation finally realized what was happening, its defense budget answered to foreign interests and its intelligence agencies were already compromised.Patrick’s jaw tightened slightly. “They learned patience,” he said. “And patience makes conquest look like cooperation.”Evans felt something cold settle in his spine. This was not reckless war. This was strategy.“Which nations do you speak of Mr Patrick?” Evans asked.Patrick’s eyes held his. “Drakarion, Kaelmyr Dominion, Tharvok union.” he said. “And others like i

Evans pushed the doors open and stepped into the chamber.The National Council Chamber was larger than it looked outside. Rows of seats rose in steps, facing a central floor. At the front, elevated above all, sat Patrick’s throne-like chair. It was the seat of the oligarch.It was carved, heavy, and empty.The emptiness of it pulled the breath from the room. Council members turned their heads at once. Whispers moved across the seats like wind through dry leaves.One council member leaned toward another and murmured, “Is the Oligarch attending?”Evans walked forward until he stood in the center, directly below the empty chair. “No,” he said clearly. “He entrusted this to me. I am the new oligarch.”A wave of murmurs rose, sharper now. Some faces hardened. Some looked curious. Some looked angry that a stranger had dared to say that word out loud.From the right side, a man spoke with a calm voice that carried. “Entrusted… or assumed?”Evans turned slightly. The speaker sat with one l