Kaelith Vaerion

The empire was built in layers. Stone cities carved into mountainsides. Frozen bridges spanning endless drops. Thrones sized for giants, corridors echoing with the weight of claws and hooves and wings. Size determined worth. The larger the body, the higher the place in the world. Rodents lived low — in walls, beneath floors, in cages carried by others. Snow mice were rare, their white fur prized, their fragility mistaken for emptiness. The day the emperor received his gift, the palace was silent beneath falling snow. Emperor Kaelith Vaerion ruled from the highest peak, a snow leopard carved from winter itself. His presence alone bent rooms into stillness. Courtiers feared his gaze. Enemies learned not to run. No one questioned the offering. A creature small enough to be overlooked. Light enough to be crushed by accident. Listed in ledgers as possession, not citizen. Yet within the frozen halls, something shifted. Not loudly. Not visibly. Only a subtle change in the balance of the empire — as the smallest life was placed within the hands of the most powerful. Snow continued to fall. And the world held its breath. (Please ignore the voice)