Midas was on his way to speak with his father, the Hegemon. They would have to plan what to do with this new information. Midas felt his shadow come to life for a few seconds, and a small portion of it split from the main body, moving at great speed. It was Dorien, one of the members of the Cloudless Storms.
He immediately understood that Dorien intended to inform his father of the situation, even if he himself did not. Still, many of Emperor Ferdinand's visions were unsettling, and he honestly couldn't tell which was worse than the last: a civil war or even a dragon.
A dragon…
Midas only knew of three dragons, which was far more than anyone else could claim.
In fact, one of them he only knew from his dreams: an immense dragon that had fought an angel in the sky.
Another was the empire's banker, holding the title of Minister of Logos of the Treasury. She ensured that imperial finances did not collapse and offered economic counsel to the Hegemon.
Some considered it madness to appoint a dragon as Minister of Finance. Midas smiled faintly at the memory.
But, by the Goddess of Storms, if anyone saw that woman arguing with the Hegemon over imperial expenditures, they would have no doubt she was the right person for the role.
The last of them, however, had left the deepest impression on him. He still remembered her; it had been four years ago.
Back when he was still learning about the responsibilities and meaning of being the heir to the governance of humanity.
It happened during the first month of his father's decision to expose him to the world.
In the Palace of Storms stood the Hegemon of the Stormlands with his son, who, despite being only fourteen years old, already had the height of the tallest men at court.
But that was hardly noticeable. In fact, people often wondered if he might actually be a girl. He wore white garments that covered his entire body; the only thing visible of this young successor was his long, fine hair flowing beyond the veil.
Everything about him seemed divine. The nobles often said that the young heir Hegemon was a gift from the God of Storms, a living treasure. Word had spread among the empire's inner circles that this youth possessed divine beauty, immeasurable talent, and unmatched intelligence.
In truth, only some of these things were certain. Midas was indeed an intelligent boy—he had to be. From an early age, he had been tasked with studying the different cultures of the territory, military tactics, finance… all manner of subjects were taught to him so he could be worthy of his position.
Today, as always, Midas observed how the various trials, requests, and decisions unfolded between his father and the different powers of the land.
But something changed today.
The Hegemon raised his hand and, as was customary, all nobles, ministers, and priests fell silent at once.
"Today I have an important announcement to make."
The Hegemon's voice was as cold as ever, almost robotic, devoid of soul.
"Today is the day I present to you the next Hegemon: my son, who has been accompanying us for several days now."
The Hegemon's gaze fell upon Midas. Ever since childhood, he had felt small under that gaze, as though he had no secrets, as though he were not a child but a machine… and machines are expected to fulfill their function.
"Midas, remove your veil. Let the people see you."
Midas's hands trembled. He had never spoken with anyone outside his teachers or his mother, and even with the former he still wore these garments that fully covered him.
Clumsily, he pulled the veil back, revealing his divine features: golden eyes that seemed to shine with their own light, just like his hair. His skin was white as marble; however, this time his cheeks held a faint blush of embarrassment.
He was a feast for the eyes in a place as gloomy as the Palace of Storms, where every visible tone was dark.
Everyone stirred and began whispering among themselves. Unfortunately, from his throne, Midas could hear it all, deepening the embarrassment he felt in that moment.
"The rumors were true—we have been blessed."
"Look at him… this is how gods must appear."
"Oh, God of Storms, thank you for this precious gift."
The devout men were mesmerized; some knelt and prayed, others wept as they claimed to have never seen anything more beautiful in their lives.
"Quick, cancel my daughter's wedding."
"Send double the gifts to our Hegemon, and even more to his heir."
The nobles hurried to arrange strategic marriages and all kinds of offerings. Many lowered their gaze, as if looking directly into the young man's eyes would be disrespectful, and knelt.
"My Hegemon, your son is the future of the Stormlands."
"There is no greater honor in this world than to rule by the grace of our two sovereigns."
Other kings and emperors, even more powerful, took the floor only to offer praise and win the favor of the young heir.
However, at a certain moment, the still-timid Midas raised his hand, asking for silence. He had prepared greatly for this day: the day when, for the first time, he would listen to his subjects and respond to their desires and petitions. A test from his father. From now on, he would be present in these councils, though he honestly preferred playing with his little sister or taking care of his younger brother.
The protocol had been clearly established by the Hegemon. Since Midas had raised his hand, the whispers ceased immediately, all attention fixed on the young heir's words.
"T-Today… hahh… Today I will hear three petitions. Those who wish to present their requests, raise your hands."
Normally, there was a protocol where the most important figures of the empire would speak first, but that did not exist today. His father had decided that he himself would choose whom he wished to hear.
Everyone raised their hands—well, almost everyone. Some felt unworthy of standing before this youth; after all, there are those who fear the divine, and Midas certainly was.
At once, he felt the weight upon his shoulders. On one hand, if he chose only important figures, it would mean he did not care for the heart and blood of his empire: its people.
If he chose only the poor, he would appear weak, his decisions dangerously influenced by an unholy pity.
In the end, each of his choices would be judged today.