Zamir had barely recovered from the briefing.
He had nodded through an hour of words he didn't understand and situations he barely followed. Somehow, doing nothing had apparently defused a war, stalled a trade rebellion, and initiated an "Era of Reclamation," whatever that was.
Now he sat quietly in the lounge area of the throne chamber, holding a cold drink he didn't remember asking for. His head leaned back against the tall cushioned seat.
He sighed.
Maybe if he stayed still long enough, the NPCs would forget he existed.
The doors opened.
Small footsteps echoed across the marble floor. They were... lighter than usual. Quicker.
Zamir cracked one eye open.
A small avian figure, maybe five feet tall, stood at attention with his wings tucked neatly behind his back. He wore a neatly pressed dark blue robe and a golden pin with the imperial crest—oversized for his little body. His feathers were tidy, with a neatly puffed chest and a strange energy in his eyes.
"I bring greetings, Sovereign," the little bird-man said with a deep, official-sounding tone that almost didn't match his size.
Zamir blinked. "Uh... hi?"
"I am Tim. Spokesman of the Crown. Voice of the Throne. Your mouthpiece to the galaxy." The way he said it was confident. Practiced.
Zamir sat up slightly. "Wait. Mouthpiece?"
"Yes. Press statements. Speeches. Public relations. I translate Your Excellency's divine intent into digestible language for the average citizen."
Zamir stared at him.
Tim adjusted his collar. "I've already scheduled your first message."
"My what now?"
"A press conference. It's standard following any grand return of a sovereign ruler. All sectors are watching. I've already written your address."
Zamir's feathers twitched. "I haven't said anything."
Tim smiled. "You didn't need to."
He turned around.
"It begins in two hours."
Zamir stood up, panic rising. "Wait—Two hours??! Tim, what did you write?!"
Tim paused mid-step and turned his head slightly, like he was being asked why water was wet.
"Your return, Sovereign, is history in motion. I merely... interpreted your silence."
Zamir was about to shout when a servant entered quietly and offered him to be guided to the Lounge.
Two hours later, Zamir sat in front of a massive floating screen inside the Imperial Lounge, where snacks he couldn't pronounce were stacked next to drinks.
He had tried to go back to bed. But someone had whispered that "The Sovereign's Revelation Address" was about to go live. Whatever that was.
He had a bad feeling.
The lights dimmed. A broadcast countdown began. The screen flickered.
And there he was. Tim. On every galactic channel. Standing on a stage backed by a banner that just said: THE STAR HAS RETURNED.
Tim was dramatically underlit like he was introducing a movie.
"To all worlds under the glorious wings of the Solarii Empire," Tim began, voice amplified ten times deeper than it actually was, "I bring you divine news. The Sovereign has returned."
Cheers erupted across the live crowd. The camera cut to a field of nobles crying and throwing flowers.
Zamir's eyes widened. "What the hell...?"
"The Sovereign did not speak with words," Tim continued, eyes blazing. "He looked upon our humble report and—without uttering a syllable—he understood. In silence, he commanded us to pause the fires of war. With a single glance, he halted the storm!"
Zamir nearly choked on a purple fruit.
"That wasn't a command!" he shouted at the screen. "I spaced out!"
Tim raised one wing to the stars.
"Our Emperor, in his infinite cunning, waits. He tests us. He walks again among stars... not to conquer... but to judge who is worthy of the next dawn."
Zamir buried his face in his hands.
"No, Tim. Stop talking."
"Let the banners fly!" Tim shouted. "Let the doves scream! For the Age of the Sovereign has begun again!"
The crowd went absolutely ballistic. The screen showed planets lighting fireworks. Statues being polished. Clerics dropping to their knees in prayer and crying.
Zamir groaned and slid out of the chair until he was just a pile of feathers and clothes on the floor.
"I didn't even say anything!"
He looked up.
"Did i make a cult?"
Just then, a servant quietly placed a golden tray next to him with a tiny card that read:
"His Radiance is always welcome to prepare a personal statement for the next broadcast." – Tim"
Zamir curled up on the couch like a dying worm.
"I don't understand anything anymore."