Zamir sat motionless in the center of his hovering throne, his tail feathers awkwardly folded beneath him, his hands gripping the armrests like they were life preservers.
Above and around him, the Imperial Senate rotated slowly in zero gravity. A kaleidoscope of colors, shapes, and voices—a three-dimensional storm of banners and flashing holographic vote-counters. Each floating platform carried a representative: world governors, sector delegates, vassal lords, and—probably—a few smugglers in fake uniforms no one dared question.
The echoes of the last speaker still rang in his ears:
"If His Radiance wishes to re-establish contact with the galaxy... does He also wish to change the nature of our Empire?"
It was the kind of sentence that made your feathers itch.
Zamir blinked. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful—it was baited breath. Waiting for a statement. An edict. A plan.
All things he absolutely did not have.
Inside his mind:
"Okay, okay. Deep breath. Just say something smart. Something imperial. Something that doesn't sound like a freshman trying to bluff his way through galactic law 101."
His beak clicked as he leaned forward, then immediately leaned back.
Nope.
Still nothing.
Thankfully—or tragically—he was saved by the soft whir of another platform drifting forward.
It was Virelth.
She wasn't on the royal bench. She had her own seat. And her tone carried none of Tim's musical fanfare or scripted monologues. Just clarity. And a blade's edge.
"The Sovereign has only just returned. Would you demand judgment from a man who has not yet walked his own palace grounds? Or memory from a soul that has weathered a divine silence none of us could comprehend?"
A pause.
The chamber shifted. Some murmurs. Some irritation.
Zamir didn't say anything. Not because he was grateful.
Mostly because he was still buffering.
"I didn't ask her to defend me. Hell, I didn't even have a plan for what I was doing five seconds ago. I just spaced out."
Virelth continued: "His Radiance will hear all petitions in time. And when he speaks, it will not be as an echo of the past—but as the beginning of a new chapter."
Zamir swore he saw someone roll their eyes in microgravity.
But others... paused.
And that pause was enough.
The Senate Marshal's voice cut in. "Assembly business will resume in an hour. This session is adjourned. The Sovereign is excused."
Zamir didn't wait to be told twice. His hover-podium drifted backwards, out of the chamber's core like a kicked dog. He kept his face neutral until the lift doors closed.
Then:
"WHY WAS THAT SCARIER THAN FINALS WEEK?!"
He landed back in the reception hall, practically falling out of the lift. Tim was waiting there with a bouquet of feather-dyed roses.
"Victory flowers, Your Radiance!"
Zamir didn't answer. He just stared into the distance.
Tim paused. "That bad?"
"I'm going to throw up."
"On the flowers?"
"No, on the Senate."
He walked off.
Not with confidence.
Just... direction.
Later, in the royal chambers, Zamir slumped in a gravity-adjusted hammock, scrolling through a digital tablet filled with parliamentary complaints, historical war decrees, and... memes from Tim's fan page.
The silence returned.
But now it had weight.
"They're not waiting for orders. They're waiting for weakness."
He tossed the tablet away.
For the first time since his return, Zamir understood:
This wasn't just a game world come to life.
This was a galaxy of wolves.
And he was wearing the crown of the last meal they remember being served.
1 hours later
The Senate chamber dimmed further as the discussion entered private recess. A soft chime signaled the temporary adjournment.
Zamir didn't move.
He floated in his isolated, elevated throne platform, completely still, staring at the shifting constellation of delegates as they began drifting back to their chambers or private conclaves. A few stayed, whispering to aides. Others vanished entirely behind glimmering shields of privacy holograms.
Tim floated close again, looking absolutely wrecked—like someone had just told him the Imperial anthem had been off-key for the last fifty years.
"I—They cut me off," he whispered, still stunned. "In public. That was… undignified."
Zamir gave a dry stare. "Welcome to the club."
His communicator pinged.
Virelth's voice came through, sharp and hushed: "Return to the private viewing tower. Now."
She didn't sound like she was asking.
Moments later, Zamir stood alone again in the lift as it rose toward the chamber's upper balcony tower. He tried adjusting his robes, then gave up and let them hang awkwardly.
The door slid open.
Virelth stood by the transparent wall, wings slightly unfurled, her eyes on the chamber below.
She didn't turn around. "You almost drowned out there."
Zamir stepped in, rubbing his arm. "Thanks. I think I swallowed half the political atmosphere."
She finally turned to face him.
"They smelled your hesitation the moment you opened your beak," she said. "You need to stop giving them doubt."
I am in doubt! I'm literally ninety percent winging it, and ten percent wondering why I still haven't woken up.
"When Aven'Rox challenged your authority, many expected you to flinch. You didn't. You stood there and let her burn herself trying to bait you."
"I wasn't standing still," Zamir muttered. "I just… forgot how to move."
That got a small, surprised laugh from her.
"You looked like a Sovereign," she said. "And sometimes that's all it takes."
Zamir blinked.
"I didn't ask her to defend me," he thought. "Hell, I didn't even have a plan for what I was doing five seconds ago. I just spaced out."
Out loud, he muttered, "I'm not a ruler. I'm not even a political science major. I was studying game design…"
"I know."
Zamir stared at her. "You—wait, what?"
"You dropped hints. Language. Gaps in your memory. And you haven't once asked me about the psychic communion rites, or the Song of Light."
Zamir's eyes widened. "I thought that was a music album!"
Virelth almost cracked a grin.
She stepped back. "I don't know what you are, Sovereign. But I know the Empire needs something new. And right now, that something is you."
That hit harder than he expected.
And for a brief moment, in that quiet upper chamber above the political chaos, Zamir felt it.
Not power.
Not control.
But weight.
The kind of weight you can't shake off. The kind that sits behind your eyes and reminds you, every time you blink, that none of this is a game anymore.
The hovercar back to the palace was silent. Tim sat next to him, unusually reserved.
Zamir stared out the window at the stars slowly coming into view beyond the capital towers.
He remembered the platform. The banners. The questions.
He remembered how quickly the room turned on him.
And how Virelth had stood up—not with a speech, not with pomp—but with presence. With just enough pressure to give him a moment to breathe.
He muttered, "This isn't fun anymore."
Tim blinked. "Was it supposed to be fun?"
Zamir slumped in his seat. "I think I missed the tutorial."
That night, Zamir didn't even try to sleep.
He sat on the floor beside the window, the stars of the Holy Sector shining above like cold spectators.
A data slate hovered nearby, pulsing with unread reports. Rebellion risk charts. Budget deficits. Senatorial blackmail logs.
He picked one up.
"Drafted policy: Proposal to review Imperial Expansion Act – Classification: Hostile. Sponsoring World: Aven'Rox."
He swiped it away.
Another pinged in.
And another.
It didn't stop.
Zamir stared at the flashing list and whispered:
"I used to just click the buttons that had cool names."