“Better a usurper than a herald of the end.”

 “You are here because you wish to know my intentions. You wish to know why I have marched legions into Béy Sü and shattered the sanctity of the Choosing. I will tell you why.

My glorious father, Hirkáne, the Stone Upon Which the Universe Rested, is dead. By tradition, once he is entombed in the vaults beneath Avanthár, the Rite of Choosing a new emperor begins. But how can we pretend that rite still matters, when one of the candidates for the throne is not a prince, but the puppet of a god who should never be named? I talk not of Sárku but the One Other, a pariah god whose worship was rightly banned in Tsolyánu millennia ago. In the face of so great a threat, I will not allow the Choosing to take place. I will not permit anything that might give the One Other a foothold in Tsolyánu.

Many of you will say I subvert tradition. But if Dhich’uné ascends the Petal Throne, it is not just the Choosing that will be ended. All will end – and the One Other will sit upon the Petal Throne forever, wearing the mask of Dhich’uné.

So no: I will not let him ascend. Not while I draw breath.

By now, many of you will have heard whispers about a bargain, an ancient pact, a blood price my line has paid since the reign of my father’s fathers. You will have heard that the sacrifice of the defeated princes sustains the Empire and that, without it, it will crumble.”

I spit on that bargain.

If the Tlakotáni made a pact with the One Other, then shame on them. I will not honor it. I will not feed it more sons and daughters so it can grow fat upon the bones of princes.

An Empire built upon such a foundation is unworthy of the loyalty of any man. I’d rather the Empire fall than survive through allegiance to such a foul god.

This is not mere ambition. This is necessity. I do not seek the Petal Throne simply for power. I seek it to close the door before that thing walks through it and calls itself emperor.

And if that means I am damned by the priests, if the high clans curse me and tradition recoils at my name – so be it.

Better a usurper than a herald of the end.

My sister, Ma’ín, stands with me now. She has finally cast off her veils of ambiguity and spoken plain. She chooses the Empire, not its undoing. And you, noble lords and high priests, must know: this decision was not lightly made. The blood that flows through our veins is also a burden we carry.

But not all blood speaks with clarity. Mridóbu, the master of scrolls and subtle poisons, hides behind his ledgers and his robes, huddled in Avanthár with his bureaucrats, pretending neutrality is wisdom. He opposes me – not openly, not yet – but he stands against my actions because I am loud, because I am honest, because I leave no room for a clever escape.

As for the others, I cannot yet say. I hope they will stand with me. I intend to make my case to them, but I will act regardless of what they choose, because I see no other option.

I now make my choice plain. I have made it with sword drawn, with banners raised, with no room for doubt. The Choosing is broken – because it was already broken, shattered by Dhich’uné’s foul designs. I have no patience for masked horrors or ancient ghosts who whisper from their tombs.

I now claim the Petal Throne – not just for glory, not to wear a high diadem, not to live in luxury. I claim it to end this nightmare before it begins.

And if you call me traitor, then call me traitor. If you call me usurper, then so be it. Let history debate what name to carve on my tomb.

But let no one say I stood idle while the Empire died.”