The throne room of Pendragon was silent, but Emperor Charles zi Britannia did not require noise to feel the weight of his dominion. He stood before the vast window overlooking the capital, hands clasped behind his back, golden eyes fixed on the horizon.
Area Eleven.
The reports from the colony had been… unusual.
Economic growth was exceeding projections. Reconstruction projects were advancing at remarkable speed. Productivity among the Elevens had risen sharply. Terrorist activity had nearly vanished. Even social unrest—once a constant irritation—had diminished to statistical insignificance.
On paper, it was exemplary governance.
And that, perhaps, was precisely the problem.
"Peace," Charles murmured, the word heavy with quiet disdain. Peace was not an end. It was a tool. Stability existed only to prepare the Empire for greater conquest. Area Eleven had been broken, conquered, reshaped. It was not meant to flourish independently—it was meant to serve the mainland.
Yet someone there did not share that vision.
His thoughts shifted to the Euro Universe. Preparations for war were nearing completion. Logistics were aligned, fleets positioned, supply routes secured. Schneizel was already laying the groundwork for the invasion strategy. When the time came, the Empire would expand once more.
War was clarity.
War was truth.
Compared to that, the subtle transformation of Area Eleven should have been insignificant.
And yet, it wasn't.
A knock echoed through the chamber.
"Enter."
A high-ranking aide stepped inside and bowed deeply. "Your Majesty, Prince Clovis has announced his intention to visit Pendragon within the week."
Charles' expression did not change, though his gaze sharpened slightly.
"Has he given a reason?"
"No, Your Majesty. He claims the matter is personal."
Personal.
Charles dismissed the aide with a flick of his hand. Clovis was not ambitious by nature. Artistic. Emotional. Not dangerous.
Still, timing was rarely coincidental.
Just a few hours earlier, Count Lawrence—a noble he had dispatched to gather intelligence in Area Eleven—had presented himself at the palace, claiming to possess critical information for the Emperor.
Charles decided he would see him before meeting Clovis.
If something was moving in the shadows of Area Eleven, he would see it himself.
And if someone believed they could conceal ambition from the Emperor of Britannia—
—they would soon learn the cost of that arrogance.
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The audience was granted under the strictest protocol.
The spy was escorted through three successive security checkpoints deep within the imperial palace. Armed guards searched him thoroughly. A portable metal detector passed over every inch of his body.
No reaction.
"No metallic objects detected," one officer confirmed.
He was searched again manually for certainty. Nothing. No blades. No concealed firearms. No devices.
Only then was he permitted to enter the private chamber.
Before being admitted, he was left alone for several minutes in an antechamber. Had anyone observed closely, they might have noticed him discreetly assembling several small components retrieved from within the lining of his clothes.
The doors closed behind him with a heavy thud.
Emperor Charles sat upon a smaller audience throne reserved for confidential meetings, his posture relaxed yet imposing. His golden eyes studied the man before him.
"You requested secrecy," Charles said evenly. "Such audacity demands justification. Speak."
The spy knelt.
"Your Majesty," he began, voice steady despite the weight of the room, "what I am about to reveal concerns a threat within Area Eleven. One that has already taken root."
Charles' gaze sharpened.
"A threat?" he repeated.
"Yes. Someone who—"
The man's hand moved.
Too fast.
From within his sleeve emerged a crude weapon—assembled from hardened plastic and reinforced bamboo components. Primitive. Non-metallic. Undetectable by conventional means.
A single shot rang out.
The bullet struck Charles squarely in the chest.
For a fraction of a second, the Emperor remained upright, eyes wide—not in fear, but in stunned disbelief.
The man who had just fired the shot was one of his own trusted supporters. He had a family to protect, lives that would be ruined if he were caught committing treason. Charles could never have imagined that this man would dare to strike him so boldly, so deliberately. Yet it happened. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. Then, with a final, stunned breath, he collapsed.
The doors burst open as guards stormed inside, weapons drawn.
The spy did not flee.
Before they could reach him, he turned the weapon on himself and fired.
He fell beside the Emperor.
Silence swallowed the chamber, broken only by the echo of alarms beginning to wail throughout Pendragon.
The Emperor of Britannia lay motionless.
And the Empire had just lost its center.
---------------------------------------------------------
The news had not yet reached the public.
No official announcement.
No mourning banners.
No imperial decree.
And yet, within the inner circles of Pendragon, the truth had already detonated.
Emperor Charles zi Britannia was dead.
Guinevere de Britannia stood before the tall windows of her private chamber, overlooking the distant spires of the capital. From the outside, the city appeared unchanged—orderly, magnificent, eternal.
Inside the palace, however, tension had thickened into something almost tangible.
The High Lords knew.
The Inner Council knew.
The military command knew.
And most importantly—
The royal family knew.
The princes and princesses had all been taken by surprise. Even those long prepared for succession had not expected it to come like this—sudden, violent, destabilizing. Alliances were already forming. Messages were being exchanged behind closed doors. Private guards were doubling their presence.
Succession was not determined by seniority.
It was determined by strength.
Guinevere's fingers tapped lightly against the glass.
Schneizel was absent—overseas, finalizing preparations for the invasion of the Euro Universe. That left a temporary vacuum at the center of power.
A dangerous vacuum.
But also—
An opportunity.
"If I move quickly," she murmured, "I can consolidate support before he returns."
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Enter."
One of her trusted attendants stepped inside and bowed.
"Your Highness, a message has arrived from Prince Clovis."
Guinevere turned, eyebrows lifting slightly.
"Clovis?"
"Yes. He arrived in Pendragon this morning."
Interesting.
"And his message?"
The servant stepped closer and lowered his voice.
"He states that he wishes to support your claim to the throne. He believes your ascension would ensure stability. He requests a private meeting this evening."
"Private?"
"He insisted that no other party be informed."
For several seconds, she remained silent.
Clovis was not known for political ambition—nor for subtlety. However, she had heard of Area Eleven's unexpected prosperity over the past year.
Which meant either he had finally grown a spine—
—or someone was advising him.
Guinevere allowed herself a slow smile.
"Very well," she said. "Inform Prince Clovis that I accept. The meeting will take place tonight. Discreetly."
The servant bowed deeply.
"As you command."
He exited silently. The door closed behind him.
Guinevere's smile widened slightly as she turned back toward the window.
"Clovis," she thought with quiet amusement, "if you believe you can use me as a stepping stone, you underestimate me."
If he sought alliance, she would extract every advantage.
If he sought protection, she would make him dependent.
Either way—
She would profit.
Outside the chamber, the servant walked calmly down the corridor, his expression neutral until he turned a corner and ensured he was alone.
Only then did he remove a small secured communicator from his sleeve.
He activated it.
"The target has accepted," he said quietly. "She has taken the bait."
A brief pause.
"Yes, Your Highness."
He ended the transmission.
Far from Pendragon—
Lelouch smiled.