An Empress of Iron

Chapter 1 – A Passing Mantle

Her father fell ill on a Tuesday and died on a Thursday. Boromund, first of his name, Emperor of Humanity and Shepherd of the Lesser Peoples always suffered from a weak constitution. Even so, the suddenness of it had shocked her. Now the following Tuesday, it still didn’t feel real. She had to keep reminding herself of the weight she now bore. Her eyes were sunken, tired. She’d hardly slept for the bells mourning her father's passing, no matter how exhausted she was.

His last whispered shreds of advice rang in her ears. She wasn’t sure she’d really heard anything else since that day, leaning over his deathbed:

I’ve chosen you. I’ve chosen you, Selia. You must do it. Remember the Vesper remnants must not be trusted or treated with. If you defeat the foes without, you can crush the foes within. Dierno is the only one who knows what he’s doing. Listen to him. Be strong in all you do, but failing that, appear strong at least.

Her final hours with her father had felt a long, droning, and pained lecture in statecraft rather than the soft teary-eyed goodbye she’d always expected. There was nothing of love in those final parting words. But how could there be when the mantle of responsibility being passed was so great? The fate of all humanity was hers to determine. When weighed against that, the love of one daughter for her dying father was… nothing. He had always told her: in everything we do, we weigh the options, and work towards the greatest good for the greatest number. We rise to the duty Ove has chosen for us. We prove ourselves worthy of it. And he had followed his creed to the very end. He’d taken his dying breath to tell her: You must be strong.

“Your Worship.” 

Selia turned back from the sweeping view of her holy city below and towards her father’s office. A knight of the Swift-Feather stood there, warm ochre cloth about his shoulders. He bowed deeply, clutching a large scroll in one hand.

“You need not avert your gaze, sir.” She smiled easily. “I have not yet been enthroned.”

With the small folk, be easy. Her father always told her. They carry no pretensions that they are not beneath you. Be as a caring parent. With greater men, be steel. Lest they forget their drop of godly blood entitles them to nothing more than you choose to give them. 

A shame she didn’t seem to meet many small folk these days. 

“Great pardons, your Worship.” The knight squeaked, slowly and uncomfortably raising from his bow to look upon her. He was young and handsome. So incredibly far beneath her station, but the kind of man she could have had an earnest conversation with, at least in her past life.

She wondered what he saw when he looked down at her. Only nineteen, shorter than most, clad in a magnificent crystal dress and rich white furs, lavish diamond earrings glistening in the morning sun, complementing the elegant line of her jaw, long dark hair done up in a neat bun, held in place by a crystal pin. Coupled with her pale complexion, she must have looked like a glittering clown. The cost of her outfit alone was several hundred marks, enough to supply a division for a year. And that was no exaggeration. She had done the math. 

Soon she would stride out into the Cathedral of Light, the centre of the world, the place where Tredeh himself first heard the word of Ove. There she would adorn the many badges of office, artifacts of an older age. At that point her outfit would supply a whole legion for two years at least.

“What have you brought for me?” She asked him, coming back to the world.

“A map, your Worship. Your map. Finished early this morning in honour of your enthronement.” 

“It is already dry?” She turned delicately, curious as to how this was possible. 

“It is, your Worship.” The knight nodded. “I’m told a new varnish has been developed, one which dries over paint in a matter of minutes.”

“Marvelous.” She glided forward to take the map from his hands, a lifetime of training in elegance at work. “May I?” 

“Oh! Of course your Worship, my greatest pardons, please.” The knight moved ever so carefully to place the rolled-up map in her hands. “I hope it is to your liking.” 

She felt for a bare moment the brush of his fingertips, and her loneliness struck a sharp pang. Part of her wanted to ask him to stay and view the map with her. Just that he might stand by her side until the enthronement, that she might have somebody to talk to, to complain to about her crystal heels, to laugh with. But part of her wanted to cry as well. Neither would be proper, neither would be what her father wanted. To rule is to be lonely, he had always said. And she needed to make him proud. She needed to make humanity proud. All of civilisation was in her care now. 

She stepped away, alone with the map, brushed aside a pile of reverent well-wishes and laid it out across the table.

In Honour of the Enthronement of Empress Selia, Second of her Name: Here Shown is All the Civilised World, Those Lands and Peoples Upon Which Her Blessed Light Shines.

And there it was. The realm her father had given his life to. Everything for which she would now have to do the same. From snow-blanketed Für on the edges of the great frozen wastes to azure Bergiama on the Southern tip of the Mailanese isles. Her lands, her people, all seven and a half million square kilometers of them depicted in a great circle around Ovburg. The city of God. Her Capital. 

Her.

She noted with distaste the mapmakers had included Alfika to the extreme South-East and Markarasa in the Western wastes, two cities which had been engaged in a state of ‘prolonged rebellion’ for decades. But she couldn’t fault them. Had she been a different kind of woman, their exclusion might have seen the craftsman disappeared, never to be seen nor heard from again.

She sighed, imagining them sweating with anxiety, going back and forth for hours on the decision of whether or not to include the two cities. Would she ever get used to instilling that much awe? That much fear? Her father had instilled fear in his subjects. He’d aimed to do so. Ideally, a ruler would be feared and loved. He’d smile at her. But few have the talent for both. 

She would not be an Empress to be feared, she thought. If she appeared strong, she would not have to be. She would lead with hope. A gentler hand, if she could help it.

“It's beautiful.” She told the knight of the Swift-Feather. “The gloss the alchemists have developed is superb. Please give them my utmost compliments on their work.”

“Of course, your Worship.” The knight bowed again. 

Selia paused. She had hoped he would say more. Comment on the state of the gloss perhaps? Maybe even tell her about how exhilarated the scribes would be to hear of her approval?

But he said nothing. He merely stood, rigidly at attention, ready to do his duty.

She ought to do the same, she thought regretfully. 

“I give you leave, good sir, and wish you a blessed day.”

“Yes, your Worship.” Bowed the knight as he turned to depart.

The door clicked softly into place behind him. 

Selia allowed herself to deflate, but only a little. She turned back to her map. It struck her that she didn’t actually recognise all of the names and places it listed. Towns on the edge of the world she’d never heard of. How could places she’d never heard of be hers? The idea she ruled over and was prayed to by people whose homes she didn’t even know existed sent her head spinning.

Why hadn’t her father chosen one of her siblings? There were dozens of them, all legitimate sons and daughters of the priests of Ove. But he had chosen her. He had chosen her over Martland, over Egodin and even over Ranulf. Ranulf! Her brother had proven himself worthy, he’d crushed the Murskoski rebellions! He was widely popular, and so easily confident, so genuinely kind. She’d always looked up to him, as did most anyone who met him. He could be a little rough around the edges, of course, but she had always thought that a part of his charm. Maybe he was a blunt instrument, but he was certainly effective. 

If her father had wanted strength in an heir, it seemed mad he’d chosen her.

***

Selia strode regally down the aisle, as she ought to, making her way towards her mighty throne. The choir, stuffed with subjects wealthy and gifted enough to find a place in it, hymned her advance. The light of the sun shone through the mighty stained-glass depictions of her heroic ancestors, lighting her way with the memory of their deeds. To her sides the great men and women of the empire, along with the many representatives of the Throne’s eighteen Member Peoples, sat with rapt attention. The elites of all civilisation were eyeing her up, judging her every move, weighing her. Sharks hungry for the first sign of blood. She would not give it to them.

As she ascended the steps to the throne, her foot became nearly tangled in the train of her dress. Nearly, but not quite. She deftly maneuvered it back a half-inch, narrowly escaping catastrophe. It hardly slowed her pace, and nobody had noticed. A small victory.

She halted before the throne and turned to face the legion of onlookers. The upper crust of the empire. Of her empire, she reminded herself.

Standing ready at her side was the eternally sturdy Martien Leus, former Master-General of the Knights of the Radiant-Spear. The original company of Tredeh, they who had banished the Darkness, now served as close bodyguards to the Imperial family.

He gazed somberly onward. He too ever a man bound to his duty. He emanated strength in that moment, strength of focus, strength of purpose, strength of will. 

“Good people.” He spoke in flawless Old-Torathi, words ringing throughout the cathedral, though she wondered how many of them knew the language. “Rejoice and bear witness. Ove has come to you in this form. He has granted you an Empress, that you might find salvation in her light. Rejoice!” He chanted. 

Selia felt a tightness in her body. She held herself, tensed into a well-rehearsed and imperious pose, shoulders back, chin held high.

It was carefully measured to project the image that she approved of everything being said and done but was only slightly above it all. Soon Leus placed the magnificent golden cloak about her shoulders, then the seal, and then the many other badges and signets of office. There could be no doubt she certainly looked the part, whether she felt it or not.

The chanting, the recitation of prayers, all extended the ceremony into the afternoon. Some great men and women in the crowd began to fidget by the third hour, nature’s call surely sounding in their ears more loudly than the hymns.

Unlike them, she had fortified herself for this moment. Though her thighs burned ever more intensely from holding still, she would show no weakness. Her stoic visage would betray no trace of pain. She would be as steel. She would be strong.

When finally the enthronement reached its climax, Leus drew from a golden box the crystalline crown of the Throne, raised it high, and lowered it onto her head. Then, long awaited, came the ultimate symbol of authority. He held out a simple and well-worn scabbard, that which contained the blade of Tredeh himself. The one he had used to cast down the Vesper Lords of old, thereby bringing peace, safety, and unity to all of civilisation. 

Selia did not feel worthy of it. She wanted to run, she wanted to scream. But that was out of the question. With one smooth motion she drew the blade. Simple, like its sheath. Unadorned, but beautiful in its plain elegance. She held it high, presenting it to the world, then sat, as she had rehearsed so many times, placing the artifact evenly across her lap. 

She hoped that she might hear the word of Ove then, as Tredeh had before her. If ever there was a moment to hear the voice of the god for which she was meant to be an avatar, this was it. She had hoped against hope for a word, any word. If not language, then some minuscule flutter in the air or sudden change in the weather, some sign of recognition, to let her know He was watching. Even a reproach would have been welcome. Then at least she would know that her father had made a terrible mistake. She could abdicate, put off the whole mad business and hand the throne to Ranulf.

But there was nothing. How childish a fantasy to imagine it could be otherwise.

And just like that, the ceremony was over.

“All hail the God-Empress!” Erupted the crowd in an echoing roar she heard in her bones. “All hail the God-Empress! All hail the God-Empress!”

***

    It was Thursday now, a week since she’d watched her father die. She sat in the palace’s innermost council chambers, before her The Men and Women to the Empress. Her father’s closest advisors, formerly the highest ranking and most influential members of their respective institutions, now graduated to the greatest honour achievable by subjects of the Throne: advising the seat of power itself. She had always thought of them as lofty, unreachable people. Now she was told they were The Men and Women to her.

“The simple matter is.” Huffed the portly former head of the Banque Imperial. “That unless the lords and ladies of our great Southern Cities begin to pay us taxes in the quantities we’ve projected given their wealth, we will need to cut military expenditure. Something everyone present agrees the Throne cannot afford to do!” And he thumped the table with bravura.

“Surely our projections are incorrect.” Raised the ancient former Master-General of the Order of the Knights-Illuminant, picking at her nails. “Could we not solve the problem simply by increasing excise duties between those cities?”

“What would solve the problem.” Growled the banker. “Is if your knights in Mailana would get off of their asses and actually raise a finger to prevent the wanton graft and corruption which plagues those cities like the pox on a rat!”

Selia hesitated on whether to interject. She had to show strength, and allowing discussion to devolve into ad hominem attacks would surely make her look weak. But would balking at little spirited debate make her look weaker still? Like a child? Who was she kidding, she was a child compared to these ancients, these veterans of statecraft. 

Above all, she thought, she must not be seen to hesitate, and so merely looked after the former Master-General as if awaiting a response.

“Your Worship.” Martien Leus’ commanding voice cut in before a reply could be given. “I’m afraid I have a more urgent matter here.” He squinted at the paper in his hands. Leus, a dutiful and honourable man she hoped, would prove a rock she could cling to through all of this tumult. “It seems we’ve received word your siblings are returning to Ovburg to pay you their fealty. One is unaccounted for I’m afraid. I was hoping to receive a report from the Chapter-Master in Noviansk that your brother Ranulf had departed the city on his journey home. This is… not that report, your Worship.” Leus held the paper to the light, liver-spotted hand quivering as he tried to make out the words.

Selia felt a cold shiver run up her spine at the mention of her brother, all of her anxieties run amok. The council room was deathly quiet. It seemed then the fate of the world might hang on Leus’ next words. It very well might, she thought. 

“It would seem- It would seem your Worship, that Ranulf has begun to gather men loyal to him in the city. The Chapter-Master reports that he himself only knows of this because he was personally questioned about his… loyalties. Additionally, Ranulf has recalled the Second Legion to the city from its garrison along the river Detchran for ‘reorganizational’ purposes. It is as of yet unclear what he plans to do with them.”

Selia felt her guts drop out of her. Her heart sank. Her own brother was plotting to depose her. How could this be real? Ranulf, the boy she’d always looked up to? Did he not see what this would do to the Throne and its people even if he did succeed?

She realised they were all staring at her. The whole two dozen of them. Compared to facing down her treasonous brother, the dread she felt at sounding an idiot in front of her closest advisors seemed ridiculous.

“He means treason then?” She heard herself say, a little shriekier than she’d have liked. “He means to usurp me?”

“Undoubtedly so, your Worship.” One of the advisors quickly confirmed. “There can be no other reason for recalling the Second Legion but to prepare for a push on the capital.”

The others nodded their agreement.

“I could order his arrest.” The former head of the Knights-Illuminant rasped once again. “He cannot resist my agents. Say the word your Worship and we shall put him in irons and this matter behind us.” 

“If your agents fail to capture the man? What then?” Another advisor rose, shaking her head in dismay. “Recent events have made abundantly clear that the Knights-Illuminant and their magics are not infallible. What’s more, despite Ranulf’s treasonous nature he is a hero to the Second Legion and many of the people of Noviansk. If you order his arrest, you may find you’re simply springing his plan into action. He could claim you ordered him killed without cause. If he controls the city, he can resist a gang of your thugs.” She spat at the former Master-General. “You’d only be giving him just cause to attack.”

“We can hardly march on Noviansk with an army. Not until he does something publicly against which we can justify.” Another added grimly.

“Or at all, if we don’t begin to see the appropriate revenues!” The banker held up his book of accounts. “We can scarcely afford to crush one of our own legions, after what it cost to put down the Murskoski rebellions for the third time! Or what we lost when the fleet was almost sunk trying to keep hold of Alfika! Or the daily tireless drain of preparing to beat back the next horde of Umman Manda from sacking Estrickt and pouring down into Fodveil!”

The conversation began to devolve as three of the others tried to offer ripostes to the banker all at once. The Argument swirled and grew as ever more voices joined the chorus. Selia was as a rowboat in a storm. 

“We have no hope of defeating the Second Legion in the field! It’s too well equipped, its soldiers too experienced!” Someone barked.

“We must recall the Fourth Legion to the capital at once!” Someone else shouted.

“And abandon our claim to Qilib’Ungrav?” Another balked. 

They were all standing now. All except for one. Dante Dierno, her father’s favorite advisor and the former Grand Architect for the Commission of Public Works, sat in reclined contemplation amongst the shouting.

There was safety, she thought at once. There was an opportunity to seem for a moment at least like she knew what she was doing. A chance to seem strong.

“Lord Dierno!” She called out with as much forcefulness as she could muster. The cacophony of advisors quieted near instantly out of respect for her station, each demurely returning to their seats.

Dierno turned his head to look at her, brow furrowed deep in thought.

“Your Worship?” He replied in that high, distinctly nasally voice of his.

Selia realised with a start that more was expected of her.

“We seem to face difficult circumstances.” She tried, suddenly unsure if this was quite the clear path she’d believed it to be. “Do you have any recommendation to make?”

Dierno took a pause before he spoke, as if he still weren’t certain of what he was about to propose.

“You have a good relationship with your brother, do you not?” He offered. “Perhaps this issue can be resolved diplomatically?”

He was right, she and Ranulf had grown up together. They’d been close friends before he left for Murskosk. She’d thought they’d be friends forever, but maybe she’d been wrong? Maybe she’d been wrong about a lot of things.

“Previously, I had believed it so.” She said softly. “But it would seem our relationship may not be all I had hoped. Moreover, I can hardly go calling on my wayward brother. What message would that send? I would seem... supplicant.”

“Indeed you cannot, your Worship.” Nodded Dierno coolly. “But we can disguise the endeavour easily enough. Announce your plan to make a grand tour of civilisation. Announce that you hope such a tour will allow you to survey your domain and connect with your people, to hear their prides and their plights. The first stop will of course be a visit to Noviansk, where you plan to observe the impressive reconstruction efforts underway following the terrible siege, at long last broken by your noble brother. Perhaps you even announce your intention to reward his fine work, construct baths or even a monument in his honour. A great public work in the city that will display his heroism there for generations to come. This will provide you with the cover you need to treat with him in-person and you can cancel the rest of the trip easily enough once the issue is resolved.”

She didn’t hate the sound of that. In part because she still held out hope, however childish, that the report must be mistaken, Ranulf didn’t truly mean to usurp her. It had been years, but if only they could speak, they could surely sort out this misunderstanding. She would show him how entrenched she was, how strong she was, and he would be forced to reconsider his mad gamble for power. 

Her father’s words rang in her ears. Only Dierno knows what he’s doing. She could only hope that was true. Her reign might well depend on it.

Chapter 2 – The Burden of Necessity

She had brought with her quite the imperial procession. A whole company of Knights of the Radiant-Spear, and one of the Golden-Wing as well. The latter could not help but impress her rivals as they soared above the city on griffon-back. Then there were all the hundreds of hangers-on of course, the army of cooks, cobblers, smiths and squires that if ever missing from a force of any meaningful size meant that the force was in dire straits indeed. She also brought her personal attendants, face-maids and clothiers, and a caravan of fine carriages, one of which held the imperial artifacts. It was not the whole of her court by any means, but it was a healthy portion of it. It seemed it was almost impossible for an Empress to travel without a small army at her back. 

The grand procession would intimidate of course, but it was carefully calculated not to over-do itself. Only what would be appropriate for a ten-month tour of civilisation.

They had rushed to Noviansk, hoping to arrive before Ranulf could prepare for anything drastic. Even so, the expedition had taken nearly three weeks. The price of controlling so expansive a state, she supposed. She’d charted their march across her map and despite the length of their journey it seemed they had moved only a few inches, still nowhere near the edge.

Noviansk was a low, crowded, sooty place nestled on banks of the river Tsillen. She gazed out the open window of her carriage as they approached the city gates, its thick stone walls still wrecked in some places, the last of the Winter’s snow melting off of the rubble. She breathed in the cool northern air, watching the Knights of the Golden-Wing play in the lazy trails of smoke winding their way up from Noviansk’s many foundries. A sight only slightly diminished by the rows of hanged men beside the road.

“The air is not so fine inside the city, your Worship.” Leus spoke up from across the carriage. 

“No, I can’t imagine it would be.”

Just then the stink of corpses hit her, this despite the cold. Placards hung alongside the long-dead traitors to identify the specifics of their crimes; rebels and deserters both. They choked the fields outside the gate in their many hundreds, a forest of death that would teach the Murskoski the price of rebellion once and for all, or so Ranulf probably thought.

Selia sighed. All she could think about was the cost. Hundreds of swinging corpses meant hundreds of gallows. Each was simple, but the beams had to be sturdy, and the nails had to come from somewhere. It was tens of thousands of pounds of good lumber, and many more hours of work by skilled masons.

She glanced on to the city wall with its gaping breaches, and to the burnt-out buildings beyond. To the shoeless children playing in the half-melted snow.

How many taxpayers had this lesson cost them? How many new enemies had it made? An expensive lesson to learn, clearly. She just wasn’t sure if it was the Murskoski or the Throne who’d paid more dearly for it.

She pulled shut the blinds just as the first of her brother's legionaries came into view from atop that crumbling wall, peering down at them.

“Your schedule is quite tight, your Worship.” Came Dierno’s high voice. She had been sure to bring her two most trusted advisors along, Leus for emotional support and Dierno for his strategic mind. “Your brother has sent word he wishes to change the location of your meeting from the Governor’s manor to a playhouse nearby. Does that suit you?”

“A theatre?” She turned. “What game is he playing?” 

“None that I can tell your Worship. He claims it is one of the only large and enclosed spaces left standing following the siege. Whatever advantage he might hope to gain, refusal on our part could prove an unwise opening move in what are sure to be difficult negotiations.” He bowed his head respectfully. “As long as he does not interfere with our men sweeping the building and keeping watch nearby, I don’t see any trouble in it.”

“Very well then.” She nodded. “Approve the request.”

***

She spent hours the next morning in the apartments chosen for her, humming and hawing over her choice of garb. What best to present strength? A military uniform? Atrocious. He would only laugh at the host of unearned medals. Even without the medals, the wearing of it was unearned. All of this felt unearned. What of a dress then? It was flashy. It would certainly show him she was unafraid. But she was afraid. Astonishingly afraid in fact. Maybe to try and hide the truth of it would only make it more obvious? Besides, one ought not wear the same dress to tense diplomatic negotiation as one would to a ball. There was a silvery dark-blue dress she quite liked the look of, but she wasn’t trying to sleep with him, so it wouldn’t do.

Finally she decided. It would be unassuming but fine black linens. Garb appropriate for mourning her father’s passing. She would add to the outfit the Sword of Tredeh. Itself unassuming, but the ultimate symbol of power. It made quite the pairing with the funeral garb and would remind her brother who was who. As for her hair, she’d gotten used to wearing it in a bun and would keep it that way. Crystal pin and all.

“I’m ready.” She told the Knight of the Radiant-Spear.

***

She could hear the din of the crowd outside as they rode from the building. Leus and two of his lieutenants accompanied her by carriage now, as well as half the company trailing behind on horseback. The street was packed with a host of onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of her divine face, no doubt. 

“Quite excited, aren't they?” She floated.

“It would seem so your Worship.” Leus offered curtly. “Nothing like a visit from your Holiness to get the people’s spirits up.”

“Yes.” Her only reply. Her mind was on the meeting. What would she do? What would she say if he asked for the throne? How would she talk him out of it?

A great cheer erupted from the crowd as she heard the distinctive whoosh of the Knights of the Golden-Wing sweeping overhead. 

“Perhaps I ought to have rode in on the back of a griffon?” She tried, only half joking. “That would certainly have projected strength, don’t you think?” 

Leus opened his mouth as if to respond, but nothing came out. “Your Worship.” He started cautiously. “Perhaps…” 

Selia smiled nervously at him to dispel any notion she was serious, then looked down, rubbing at her hands.

The carriage came rolling to a halt and two firm knocks were sounded on the glass. 

They had arrived.

As she entered the playhouse, alone as they had agreed, she saw him at once. Ranulf stood by a plain round table in the vast emptiness of the stage, lit from above by some miracle of engineering and magic. He too wore black, tasteful nobleman’s garb, forgoing his uniform.

“Dear sister.” He smiled. “Please join me.” 

She made her way silently, smoothly through the dim seating and up onto the stage. Once she was standing in the light it was almost blinding, and the rest of the room became shrouded in darkness.

Four years had passed since they last saw one-another, and he had the same easy good looks and charm as ever, thought made somewhat rugged by the time spent on campaign. He’d acquired a manly scar under one eye, and his tousled dark hair was cropped short. Twenty-five now, everything about him was bolder and more commanding than when he’d left. She, for her part, must have looked much the same as the child he remembered.

She pulled her own chair from the table and sat upon it. He followed suit.

She must remember who was in charge. She must be steel.

“Am I not ‘your Worship’ Ranulf?” She asked pointedly, well rehearsed given the expectation he might omit the title in his greeting.

He gave her a sad smile.

“They tell me father passed quickly.” He answered, dodging the question.

“And painfully I’m afraid.”

“Is that so?” His gaze fell, downcast. “I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am.” He sighed. “How have you been, Selia? These last few years?”

He was trying to control the conversation and she’d already given ground. She had to stay focused. “Am I not ‘your Worship’?” She persisted, uncertain of what else to say.

Ranulf shook his head. “Straight to business then, is it?” 

“I’m afraid so.” She held firm.

“Then I won’t do you the insult of pretending this is anything other than what it is.” He rested his elbows on the table, steepling his hands together. Gone was the pleasant, welcoming demeanor. “We both know I would make a better Emperor. For the good of civilisation I hope you can see that, and we can put this all behind us.” 

So there it was, plain as day. She’d spent weeks second guessing it might be otherwise, but now she had to face the truth of it. 

“I disagree.” And set her elbows in turn, mirroring his stance. “You’re rash.” 

He gave her another sad smile. “What did father tell you when he died?” Ranulf asked her, earnest and open, but cold and unsympathetic as well.

“He told me he’d chosen me to rule in his place.” Part of her had hoped that just telling him that might change his mind. A foolish, childish part of her. She was beginning to hate that part.

A small grimace crept across his lips. “What else? Surely he spent his dying hours filling your head with words of wisdom. Sharing the secrets of leadership? Like it was a lesson that could be crammed into you at a moment's notice?”

She could do nothing but nod. Now more than ever she needed to present an iron will.

“The truth is, Selia, it cannot be taught. Some people are born leaders.” He straightened in his chair. “And others are not. You know you always looked up to me. Ever since we were children you would follow me around the palace grounds trying to steal my toys. Weeping when I would not share.” He gave a soft, fond laugh at the memory. “Father would set a Knight of the Radiant-Spear after us to make sure we played nice! Do you remember?”

“I remember.” Selia frowned. “But we are not children anymore. Do not pretend you are the only one prepared to rule. If leadership cannot be taught, then it can certainly be learned.”

“Oh, on that we can agree.” Ranulf leaned forward, like a tiger ready to pounce in for the kill. He’d been waiting for this moment. “And do you know what I have been doing since I was a child? When the guards would escort me away from our bed-sheet fortresses? Exactly. That.” He stood, ground his fist into the table as a punctuation mark and spit out the last words with a steel she wished she could match. “I have spent a lifetime learning, preparing, training to be worthy of my birthright. Those lessons father taught you on his deathbed? He had been feeding them to me since the day I was weaned from the priestess’ teat. I have led soldiers in battle, I have seen brothers and sisters at arms die in my hands for the Throne. I know more than anyone on earth what it will take to rule our people.” He held his fist before him, clenched tight. “Strength.” He snarled. “Only steel will keep this crumbling empire together. I have it. I have true strength. You do not. No matter how well you manage to put on a show.” He stood with great vigour then and gestured towards the stage. “There is only one actor who can do this role justice. Face the truth of it Selia, you are not they, and you know it as well as I. You are not worthy of that blade you carry.” He pointed an accusing finger at the sword of Tredeh. “Make the right choice, step aside peacefully. Exit the stage.”

She didn’t know what to say. He’d cut right at all of her greatest fears and totally disarmed her. It was quite the performance. 

And all of a sudden it struck her like a shovel to the face. That was all that it was: A performance. It was all a performance, all rehearsed. She realised then that he’d brought her to a theatre so he could liken leading all of humanity to a play, and as insane as it sounded, he was right. In their line of work, in the role of the Empress, there was no difference between appearing to be strong and being strong. There was no decision to be made between strength and tact. The two moved together at all times, two sides of the same coin. True strength was tact. Yes, she didn’t know what she was doing, maybe she never would. But neither did he. Neither did anybody else.

“It will take strength to keep civilisation together under the Throne.” She agreed evenly. “But it will be wasted without a delicate hand to wield it. A careful approach is needed, just as well as strength. Maybe you have more strength than me, maybe more experience. But you lack subtlety. This for instance.” And she motioned to the stage around them. “Is a particularly blunt analogy. Don’t you think?”

His eyes narrowed. “You speak of being careful. Was it careful of you to step into my city? You know no force in civilisation can stand up to the Second Legion and they are loyal to me. I wanted to end this agreeably sister, for what we once shared and for our father’s sake. But if you force my hand I will have you arrested, I will have my men shoot your prancing griffon riders out of the sky if need be, and I will seize the throne almost as bloodlessly as if you had surrendered it. That is true strength.”

And that was what it came down to in the end. Where who ruled and who was ruled began and ended. Selia looked down at the table, grinding her teeth. She’d thought a lot about that in the last month. At last she felt she finally understood. It had been a month now since her father died, and it seemed that not a day went by where she didn’t reflect on his parting words. 

We rise to the duty Ove has chosen for us. We prove ourselves worthy of it. He’d said. You must be strong.

Nobody begins worthy. It wasn’t because she sat on the throne that she’d earned Ove’s acknowledgement. You have to work to prove yourself, and that meant doing things you wished you didn’t have to do.

“Very well.” She sighed, showing in every way her exhaustion and defeat. “I won’t have innocent blood shed on my account. I’ll announce my plan to abdicate this afternoon. For the good of civilisation.” She was stern then, resolved. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

Ranulf brought his hands together. Relief, joy, gratitude even, written across his face. 

“Thank you Selia.” He grasped her hand, kissed it. He almost came down to a knee, looking like he might cry. “You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted this. How much it means to me! Ever since I was boy I-” He stopped, composed himself. She hardly heard him. She wasn’t breathing, she realised. “Father always told me I would be his heir.” Ranulf turned, dabbing one eye as he faced the darkness beyond the stage. “You know, once he took me by arm and he-”

Selia was like a taut bow, and she wouldn’t get a better shot than this. 

She leapt from her seat, the sword of Tredeh singing as it sprung from its sheath. Subtlety took a backseat as her chair clattered across the stage.

Ranulf turned, like he didn’t quite understand what was happening. Selia’s heart was racing so fast she thought it might explode. Her hand shook. Everything depended on the next few seconds. If Ove wasn’t watching now, then he never was.

No swordsman by any account, she managed to close the distance and deliver a cut to Ranulf’s face. A line of crimson sprung from his cheek, hardly a scratch.

“You bitch!” He squealed, catching her second thrust in his hand, blood welling from his palm. The holy blade was stained with royal blood. “Kill her!” He shouted. “Kill her now!”

So he had men waiting somewhere. Men her own soldiers had missed. No hope in trying to guess where the bolt would come from, surrounded by darkness. She was in Ove’s hands now.

Selia drew back the sword, something whizzed by her face, a line of hot pain lancing down her cheek. She leapt forward and skewered her brother in the gut.

“Gah!” He cried, blood spattering from his lips as he fell to the floor. 

And just like that it was over. She could tell from the pale colour already creeping up his face as she stood over him. She’d beaten him, and in less time than it had taken her to choose her outfit. She watched his eyes follow her as she stepped towards him. She’d loved her brother, or at least loved the boy he once was. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t fear what came next, but she couldn’t deny it needed to happen. 

“You are not worthy of that sword.” He breathed sharply.

“I thought so.” She grimaced. “But now I know I am.” 

And she drove the point into his throat.

***

She was back in her apartments now, preparing to move into the governor’s manor where Ranulf had been staying. It was a month since she’d watched her father die, three hours since she’d killed her brother, and she was preparing for an emergency meeting with those innermost councillors she’d brought with her. Many of Ranulf’s closest agents had already been arrested, but there was still the simple matter of ensuring everything and everyone fell into line after what happened.

Stood before her mirror, she touched delicately at the stitches on her face. The wound would not make so bold a scar as her brother’s, she thought, but it would do nicely.

“Send in Dierno please.” She told the Knight of the Radiant-Spear. “Alone.”

The man nodded curtly and departed for the antechamber where her advisors were waiting.

In some ways, what she was about to do would be even harder than killing Ranulf. She loved her father after all. For so many years she’d depended on him for absolutely everything. But, just like her brother, he was dead now. And just like him, she had to face the facts: he’d been fallible.

A knock at the door moments later heralded Dierno’s arrival. Unabashed, unashamed, he strode coolly into the room.

“How can I be of service, your Worship?” And he bowed deeply, eyes not for a moment stopping on her blood-splattered tunic.

 “My brother gave me a lot to think about before I killed him, and I have done nothing but think all this afternoon.” He seemed unfazed. She paused, considering him. “My brother told me my father worked tirelessly in his education, in helping prepare him for the burden of leadership. You did witness this?”

Dierno nodded, ever dour.

Selia pressed on. “He sent him, with a host of the best officers we have at our disposal, to quell the latest Murskoski rebellion. A perfect environment to prove himself, to forge a name known throughout all of civilisation. To make of him a worthy heir.”

“A wise decision at the time, your Worship.” Dierno agreed.

“You had a special relationship with my father, did you not Grand Architect?”

“I did your Worship. We were…” And something caught in his throat. The first and only crack in his demeanor she’d ever seen. “Close.” He finished.

“You exerted significant influence at court.” She went on.

“I did your Worship.” He agreed again. “Your father always heeded my counsel.”

“When he fell ill, did you fear losing your place?” It was not a question. “You saw, I am sure, that you would not wield the same influence with Ranulf the self-made hero on the throne.”

“I-” 

“You swayed my father in his final days that I was to be his successor, not Ranulf. A weak, pliable young girl you could bend to your will. Is that so?”

Dierno kept silent.

“Do you contest it?” She snapped.

“It was not for me.” His voice broke. A second crack now in his even facade. “It was for all of us. Your brother was rash, popular with the Second Legion perhaps but the people of northern Murskosk despised him. The war was far bloodier and more brutal than we ever could have predicted. The enemy is quashed yes, but we’ve sown deeper resentment than ever before. His enthronement would have seen a fourth rebellion alight within the decade.”

“A nice story, but do not insult me by pretending that it was anything other than what it is. You sought power and the means to keep it.”

“As do all men!” He barked, snarled even, mask finally torn away. “But I stand above all others because I know the worthlessness of power for power’s sake. I have killed and built and climbed, dragging myself from the muck by my fingernails for a purpose!” He shook his fist, much as her brother had, she thought. “This empire, your empire, must not fall.” He pressed on every word. “Only fools are blind to the cliff's edge, always at our side, and we are surrounded by so very many fools. Perhaps in another age the Throne was secure, but in my lifetime we’ve stepped to the precipice, my Empress.” He pleaded. “Always, we stand on the edge of collapse. There are some, the Murskoski for instance, who do not remember the tyranny of monsters. They believe that the Throne’s destruction would save them their annual tithe, bring them prosperity even.” He scoffed. “Our enemies, our true enemies, are not less present for their subtlety. Immortal, they need only wait for the day the Throne tumbles over the edge. When that day comes, we will be powerless to stop them. If humanity is not unified, we will have no hope to stand against them. Civilisation will be snuffed like a candle in the wind. The Darkness will come again.”

A terrifying picture he’d painted, to be sure, but she mustn’t let him change the subject.

“And when you recommended this whole endeavour.” She waved. “I suppose you predicted the outcome? You knew one way or another that two claimants to the throne could not walk out of that meeting alive?”

“A play to sacrifice the queen but save the game.” He admitted softly. “I won’t insult you by pretending it was anything else.”

She let him stew in a long silence then. Watched him awkwardly try to rebuild that detached professional facade.

“By rights I should kill you.” She finally declared.

It wasn’t an easy thing for her to say. Her father had loved this man, she now realised. Merely uttering the words felt like a betrayal. But as hard as it was to say, it must have been many times harder to hear. Impressively, Dierno did not flinch.

Selia paused, thinking a moment longer. “But that would be a waste of great administrative talent. Instead, I’m appointing you as Dux, military governor of Estrickt principality. You will prove to me that you can put your skills to work in service of the Throne. Enough of your high-flying rhetoric, let us see if you accomplish a practical objective.”

He looked at her with a deep curiosity, a sprinkling of hope, and just a sliver of hunger.

“You will solve the Umman Manda. When their raiding has ended, when their hordes are crushed, when I have their warlord’s heads on pikes and I never again need to hear their cursed name spoken aloud nor send another bent copper bit to repair Essen’s fortifications so long as I live, then I will let you back into my court. Show me you can take us a step away from this precipice you so fear, and you will have the place of highest honour at my side.”

“Your Worship” He bowed again. “Thank you for this chance.”

“You leave for Estrickt at once, Lord Dux.” She snapped. “And send in the others as you go.”

A third bow, and he stepped carefully away, opened the door, and slinked out of the chamber. The latch made a soft click as it rested closed.

Selia wiped her brother’s blood from her chest as she moved to lay out her map across the table where the meeting would take place. There, from the fly-ridden wastes of Qilib to the mighty peaks of the Bulwark Mountains, the afternoon sun glistened across Tredeh’s empire. Her empire.