At the edge of the Milky Way galaxy – the seat of power of The Domain, the interstellar empire that spans the universe itself – there lies a world known as Jupiter. It is a violent, turbulent place; an impossibly large mass of writhing winds and world-shattering storms and, in truth, little else. And in the sway of this mad titan there hang in perpetual orbit countless moons, all of them as cold and bleak and silent as the grave – save for Callisto.
Its surface is one of scars and deformities, its outer shell pockmarked with countless craters and crags - all of them tipped with sheets of thin, sparkling frost. It is an ugly, malformed thing, and it us upon this unsightly rock that a city of eighty-four million is perched – and it is at the precise center of this teeming city, in the heart of a grand structure part palace and part fortress, that a young man now sits and waits.
He was a thin, dark-haired man, with a face that might very well have been quite handsome in the absence of his gaunt cheeks and sunken, heavy-lidded eyes. That was always the first thing anyone noticed, you see – his eyes, verdant blue and oh-so-intelligent and oh-so-hungry, like a crow's eyes, always darting to and fro and always observing. Always taking in some invisible little detail. Always searching for more.
He wore a white-and-black robe in the style of ancient Earth, his garment bound together by a simple length of cord that had, in truth, cost more to procure than a dozen hovels combined. Dangling from his earlobes were a pair of gold-plated studs, and upon the fingers of his right hand were the gold, silver, onyx, and cordite rings that marked him as Jaheed Kesol Gragnad Demnod Vell, Deiform Ascendant Heavenly 43rd Imperial Marquess of the Most-Hallowed Thrice-Honored 257th Dukedom – the son of the Hallowed Duke Jerohd Vell, one of the most powerful men in the entire universe.
One of them, anyway.
The Marquess sat now upon a gilded throne of dark ivory, one that hovered nearly a foot above the ground, and concealed beneath the folds of his robe there lie a pair of warped, shriveled legs – crippled things that looked not unlike a pair of wash-rags wrung out to dry.
Every day of his life, it was these ruined legs that drove Marquess Jaheed Vell forward. They alone were the reason for every one of his ambitions, his fears, his hatreds, and his passions. There was never a moment in which the failure of his body was not present somewhere in his mind.
He had never been a particularly happy man.
At any rate, however, his father had now begun to speak.
"A toast!" the old man was calling, rising to his feet and holding aloft, with a spindly mechanical hand, a goblet of some bubbling concoction. "To the Seventh-Venerated Holy Emperor!"
"Here, here!" the hall of nearly a thousand guests thundered in immediate response. Jaheed turned the corners of his mouth upwards into some facsimile of a smile, raised his glass to his lips – then immediately set it aside. The taste of alcohol had long disgusted the young Marquess.
His father was standing there at the head of a table nearly two thousand feet in length, shoulders squared and chest puffed-up like a prized ether-bird at an auction. Though the Duke was not yet an old man, he was certainly an older man, his gray hair rapidly thinning and his face marked with the indelible wrinkles brought on by age and fatigue both. The venerable Duke was resplendent in a suit festooned with all manner of chaotic black-and-red patterns, one that nearly concealed the fact that nearly half his body was cybernetic in nature. And they were beautiful cybernetics – masterworks, all of them, many crafted not from metal but from wood imported at unfathomable cost from the ruins of ancient Earth.
Jaheed found himself brutally disinterested. There was nothing and nobody interesting here – just the usual array of graying beards, boisterous voices, sparkling finery, and mewling sycophants. He sighed to himself, reached down to begin cutting into his brahmin-steak – and then, slowly, his keen eyes shifted towards the far end of the table.
Well. There was, he had to admit, someone interesting here.
Seated at the far, opposite end was a tan-skinned man with a shaved head and an easygoing smile, clad in a simple and elegant black-and-emerald vest. His eyes were brilliant, sparkling yellow, and he bit into his steak now with motion that appeared almost uncannily calculated and smooth. Standing at his side was a towering figure clad from head to toe in a sleek gray bodysuit adorned with beautiful, swirling lines of gold. The figure’s face was entirely obscured by a visor of featureless black, and though they were unarmed all present knew well the lethal prowess of the Emperor's legendary Sed-ai.
Duke Jerohd was one of the most powerful men in the entire universe. But Ket Sal – the yellow-eyed man in the emerald vest – was one of the Emperor’s twenty-nine Scions, those deemed worth to speak on the Holy One’s behalf. He was beyond such paltry concerns as power.
And he would not be sitting here without a very, very good reason.
"A fine toast," Ket Sal called, his voice amplified by a near-microscopic speaker somewhere on his cowl, and at once a room of nearly a thousand fell deathly silent. "Such enthusiastic loyalty to the Blessed Emperor's distant authority is always a welcome sight."
Jaheed leaned forward now, intrigued.
"Well," Jerohd replied, letting loose a canned but nonetheless authentic-sounding chuckle, "we are closer to Mercury than most. We can't get away with half the same nonsense as those Alpha Centauri ruffians!"
As if one cue, the entire room erupted into raucous laughter – then, Ket Sal opened his mouth to speak, and once more there was frigid silence.
"Indeed," the Scion smiled, unbothered by the uncomfortable hush. "And, of course, we all know full well what would happen to a backwater Duchy like your own if you ever considered..." he paused, letting his words hang, "...straying."
Jaheed forced himself to suppress the smirk tugging at his lips. His father, he knew, was already simmering with rage.
"Well," Jerohd replied, not even skipping a beat in response to the bold-faced insult that the Scion had so suddenly delivered. "At any rate – please, enjoy your meal! These brahmin were carefully tended to for nearly three decades before their slaughter just the morning prior."
"I shall indeed," Ket Sal replied graciously, taking a bite of his steak and chewing carefully – his eyes fixed upon the Duke all the while.
All conversation had gone completely and utterly dry. What were once boisterous and affluent guests were now a garden of statues – and, in the middle of them all, keen-eyed Jaheed couldn’t help but smile to himself.
"Now then," Jerohd continued, lowering himself onto his throne once more, "if I may, Lord Scion – what brings one of the Emperor's chosen to my 'neck of the woods', as it were? Though, before I continue, I should make clear that your gracious presence will always be more than welcome within these halls – no matter the occasion."
"Really?" Ket scoffed, his tone suddenly quite casual. "How droll."
Jerohd narrowed his eyes – but said nothing. To be insulted once within his own domain was as grave an insult one could muster. But twice? Jaheed could see the bait clear as day, which meant his father could as well. And if there was one compliment that the Marquess could pay his father, it was that the canny old Duke never, ever took the bait. Patience and cunning in the face of adversity – that was their family creed.
"Anyway," Ket Sal said, waving a hand and setting his utensils aside. "I am here to announce the coronation of the Celestial Seraphic Empyreal Seventh-Blessed Panoptic God-Emperor Doss Ken Vessholt Tefand Disnal El Errendekes Sen Sorad Volsif, Ninety-Seventh of his name and Seventh-Touched by the Outer Hand."
This was nothing new to Jaheed’s ears. Every man, woman, and child of the Domain knew that the reigning Emperor Volsif XCVI had died some weeks ago at the age of three-hundred-and-seven, and that now his son Volsif XCVII was here to take his place. All of this information was well-known and well-disseminated. It certainly did not warrant the physical presence of one of the Emperor's twenty-seven Scions. There was something more to this visit – of that, Jaheed was certain.
"By the Seven Spokes," Jerohd intoned, bowing his head and pressing two fingers to his forehead. In unison, all present did the same – Jaheed included.
"By the Seven Spokes," Ket repeated dryly, tapping two fingers against his forehead. There was a wry smile upon his face, now.
"My heart is full, and my soul is glad," Jerohd declared, after a moment had passed. "I will serve the new Emperor with all that I am. The people of Callisto will serve His Great Domain with all that they are."
"I'm sure you will," Ket Sal replied, his smile never fading. Then, abruptly, he rose to his feet.
"Well, then," the Scion declared, dusting himself off as the Duke, too, shot to his feet. "You've been an accomodating host, Duke Jerohd, but I'm afraid I must now take my leave. Even in quiet days, I am a busy man, and in the wake of the Emperor’s coronation these next few thousand will be anything but."
"I-wait-" Jerohd sputtered – a rare loss of composure from a man who had been conditioned to public appearances since birth. He expression resolved itself at once; an easygoing smile spread upon his face as he extended a hand towards to blatantly-disinterested Scion.
"Please, noble Scion," Jerohd offered, his voice infused with all of the warmth and charisma that a charlatan of six decades could muster. "Feel free to take in all the many comforts that Callisto has to offer. Our gratitude at the presence of one of the Emperor's chosen is beyond words, and we would be more than happy to-"
"I have much to do," Ket said, turning away. "Good day, Jerohd. We'll be in touch."
Jerohd. Not Duke Jerohd, not Lord Jerohd - just Jerohd. It was an insult for which a common citizen would be flayed alive. It was an insult the likes of which could forge century-long rifts between two of the Noble Dynasties. It was unforgivable – from anyone but the Emperor himself.
And everyone knew that the Scions spoke with the Emperor’s voice.
"Of course," Jerohd said quickly, bowing and returning to his seat – and then, as the conversation and bustle began to resume, Jaheed was on the move, his chair floating silently past countless seated backs as the Marquess depressed the actuator-key with a pale, ring-laden finger. Those curious, hungry eyes were now tightly and rigidly focused.
There was opportunity here – for one with the courage to seize it.
-----
"Lord Scion!" Jaheed called, and the moment he opened his mouth the Se-dai was whirling around faster than his eyes could follow. In an instant, there was an obsidian blade – a weapon so black as to hardly exist at all – hovering only the barest fraction of a micrometer from Jaheed's throat.
The Marquess fell abruptly and totally still. He knew full well that the Se-dai were masters of the Sixth and Seventh Vile Arts – the Art of the Silent Cut and the Art of Instantaneous Death. To provoke their ire was to invite total obliteration, no matter one's status. Even a venerable Duke would not to be spared the blade of a Se-ai – to say nothing of a Marquess.
The three of them stood, now, in the center of a hangar that stretched nearly five thousand feet in the air, to a ceiling so thoroughly draped in darkness as to be completely inscrutable. All around them, drenched in hazy amber light, were countless ships - some bulbous and organic, some blocky and rigid, and some utterly amorphous in appearance. Ahead loomed an enormous vessel; a spacecraft that was little more than one long, pointed needle, its surface covered in innumerable and intricate engravings. It was, like the Duke's cybernetics, more form than function – more artwork than vehicle - and it could only have belonged to a man such as Ket Sal.
The Scion turned, now, a bemused smile upon his face as he regarded the crippled heir.
"That's enough, Ammit," he said. "Give the boy a chance to breathe – otherwise, he’ll suffocate himself."
The Se-dai stepped back at once, the weapon retracting back into its arm, and Jaheed let out a ragged gasp. He had indeed been forced to hold his breath, for fear of gouging his throat open on a blade sharpened down to the molecular level.
"My apologies, Lord Scion," Jaheed coughed, after a few moments of labored, gasping breaths. "I often forget that my chair moves quite silently – it was in no way my intention to startle you.”
"Ammit was aware of your presence from the moment you entered the hangar," Ket Sal scoffed. "Your mistake was simply to enter within a certain radius without my permission."
"Then I must apologize again," Jaheed acquiesced, inclining his head. "But if I seem brash or impudent, Lord Scion, know that it is only as a byproduct of the severe importance of that which I would bring to your attention."
"Oh?" Ket asked, cocking his head to the side – a sardonic gesture, to be sure, but one that carried with it a faint undercurrent of bemused interest as well.
Jaheed closed his eyes – steeled himself – then opened them and began to speak.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
"My father," Jaheed declared, meeting the Scion’s yellow gaze with not even a hint of fear, “has on over a dozen occasions now made contact with the Crimson Emir.”
The Crimson Emir – a name that carried with it an unspeakable weight. Ordinarily, it was by ancient decree that the Emperor’s firstborn would succeed him upon the event of his passing. But Volsif XCVI had, on his deathbed, instead nominated Volsif XCVII – adopted, third in line, and the only one of the Emperor’s children to bear the old man’s name – leaving the man known informally as the Crimson Emir with nothing. And, of course, Volsif XCVII's first act was the dismissal and exile of his brother by Immutable Decree – thus making an enemy of the most celebrated Admiral in the history of the Great Domain, of the man who had led and won no less than thirty-seven interstellar campaigns across one-hundred-and-seven years of service.
Volsif XCVII had the support of both the nobility and the commonality – but it was an open secret that the forces of the great Solar Militaria still swore allegiance to the outcast Emir. These were tumultuous times – and to even make mention of the Domain’s infamous black sheep was to invite unwelcome and dangerous attention.
Ket Sal continued to smile.
"We know," he replied, and Jaheed could only blink in stunned, silent surprise. For a moment, the wheels were spinning within the Marquess’ agile mind – and then, a moment later, he had resolved to continue forward exactly as planned.
"I don't know what they've been discussing," Jaheed continued, slowly, "but every night for the past three weeks he's been in contact with a remote sector of the Horsehead Nebula – what can only be the location of the Crimson Emir’s flagship. And I’m sure you wonder, now, to yourself – how could I possibly know the identity of my father’s contact? My answer is only that the Crimson Emir is a man with not even an ounce of shame. He signs his correspondences with his full name – blatant as a festering wound." He hawked, then spat upon that perfectly constructed floor. "Their disloyalty to the seventh-venerated Holy Emperor offends and disgusts me.”
"Are you asking me to kill your father?" Ket Sal asked, cutting to the heart of Jaheed’s words with all the precision and brutality of a laser-scalpel.
"I'm asking for justice," Jaheed replied firmly – conjuring up as much bravado and passion as he possibly could before a man who could order him killed with little more than a gesture.
The Scion saw right through him, then – Jaheed was certain of it. And he was equally certain, too, that there was no backing out of this now.
"That's adorable," Ket Sal smirked, thumb resting upon his chin now as he regarded the Marquess. "You’d like to order me around, then?"
"That's not-" Jaheed started.
"Want me to bow?" Ket Sal continued, his words dripping with cold venom. "Want me on my knees? Should I start by addressing you by your full name and title, boy?"
"Lord Scion, please, do not misunderstand-"
"You Callisto dogs," Ket Sal snarled, his smile somehow unchanging even as his nose wrinkled with disgust. "The sight of you, the smell of you – I can't stand it. And your legs-" At that, the Se-dai strode forward – its footfalls pounding against the hangar floor – and grabbed a handful of Jaheed's robe, yanking it up to reveal his ruined limbs.
Shame hung about Jaheed’s head like a spiteful crown – and slowly, his hands began to tighten into impotent fists.
"As I thought," Ket Sal chuckled. "Disgusting. And that look in your eyes! Such unguarded hatred – such helpless fury! Do you want to kill me, dog? Want to put those pampered hands around my neck and squeeze and squeeze until I finally stop smiling?"
"What I want..." Jaheed growled, his voice going low. Gone were the mannered affectations, the faux-outrage, all of it. Unlike his father, Jaheed had a long way to come before truly mastering his outward appearance, and now he was as his true self before the Scions' yellow eyes. "...is for that stupid, arrogant, empty-headed bastard at the head of that table to never again have power over a single thing in his entire life. I don’t want you to kill him, I want you to leave him with nothing."
"Go on," Ket Sal said slowly, observing the young Marquess as he shuddered and spoke.
"This moon is ripe with unclaimed possibilities," Jaheed declared. "The harsh conditions, the higher gravity. Our people are stronger and faster than the average citizen of the Domain, and we sit at the seat of one of the largest Cordite veins in the entire system. We could become a military and economic force to rival the Dynasties of Centauri if only that lazy old man wasn't so-"
"Content," Ket interrupted, clicking his tongue. "If only that lazy old man wasn't so damned content with what he already has."
There was a momentary pause.
"Exactly," Jaheed agreed, finally. He was beginning to calm, now. And he was starting to understand, too, that something very, very important had shifted between them.
"And are you content, Marquess?" the Scion asked. And Jaheed did not hesitate for even a moment to reply.
"Only to serve directly at the Emperor's side," Jaheed said firmly, and there was steel in his words now. "Anything less and I will always, always strive for more. It is simply the nature of my soul.”
With that, Jaheed fell silent, and slowly the reality of his situation began to dawn on him. What he had just said. What he had just done – in front of a Scion, no less. And as his heart began to beat faster and faster, Jaheed was able to take only minor comfort in the fact that death at the hands of a Se-dai would come faster than he could ever hope to even perceive.
The Scion was observing him – staring directly into his eyes. Was he looking to confirm the presence of something? Or the absence?
All Jaheed could do was sit in silence and await either absolution or obliteration.
Seconds crawled by like hours.
Then, finally, the Scion nodded – and turned sharply away.
"As I told your father, we'll be in touch," Ket Sal said simply, his back turned as he spoke. "I thank your Dynasty again for your generous hospitality."
"The honor," Jaheed replied, after an uncertain pause, "is all mine."
"Indeed," Ket Sal agreed, his back still turned as the Se-dai moved silent and lethal to stand by his side. Its deafening footsteps now let out not even the barest of whispers. "Oh, and by the way – a bit of advice, young Marquess."
"Oh?" Jaheed said, straightening in his seat. “I would be honored to hear it.”
"Keep an ear to the ground," Ket said, and there was just a hint of mirth in his words as he spoke. "A new regent brings great change, always - and with great change comes great opportunities, for those with the courage to seize them. And, well," he glanced over his shoulder, and Jaheed caught only a glimpse of a single yellow eye, "let’s just say that I expect to return to this place – sooner, rather than later.”
Then, the doors slid shut, and with neither sound nor heat nor even light the Scion’s ship rose, then slid forward, passing through a gate of crackling, iridescent lightning and out into the empty maw of space.
Jaheed stared at that receding vessel for a long, long time. Then, he reached up – felt the spot on his neck where he had come infinitesimally close to death – and grinned.
"Opportunities, huh?" he chuckled to nobody – surrounded, as he was, only by lobotomized hangar-workers. "Alright, Scion. I'll be waiting."
-----
"Man," Ket Sal sighed, sinking down into a waiting seat. "What a day."
It was in an ovular, blue-lit room that the Scion sat and the Se-dai stood – and now, the Se-dai reached up, removing its helmet to reveal a face marred with a hundred different intersecting scars. These were not the scars of battle, but rather the byproduct of the torturous training and conditioning that each Se-dai underwent from the day of their birth to the day of their coronation as a full-blooded warrior.
"Were you successful?" Ammit asked bluntly, her voice deep and somewhat oddly modulated. The Se-dai were the only individuals in the entire Domain exempt from the ritual declaration of titles.
"Hmm," Ket Sal mused in reply, closing his eyes and massaging his temples. "I'm not sure yet. Ah, Amnit, I hate it - all this needless floundering about while we try to find an excuse to remove some powerless, no-name Duke."
"The precepts are clear," Amnit replied flatly, reciting that which Ket Sal already knew. "None can harm blessed nobility of the Great Domain without a seven-times-ratified Crux of Purpose, not even-"
"I pity you, Amnit," Ket Sal chuckled. "Forced to memorize every one of the twenty-thousand precepts when, with young Volsif in charge, most will soon be rendered quite unrecognizable."
"I will memorize those as well," the Se-dai replied without a hint of irony.
"I'm sure you will," Ket Sal smirked. Outside the window, the stars were beginning to turn to streaks of white light. "At any rate, I think we could perhaps make some use of the boy. Perhaps. He's exactly what I expected, after all – which is both a blessing and a curse."
"Too much ambition is a dangerous thing," Amnit cautioned. "Even the Se-dai fear a man whose hunger cannot be sated.”
"Well, we can always take certain," Ket Sal yawned, “precautions. Contingencies, failsafes, whatever. If we decide to use him, Amnit, we'll fit his collar tight – so tight that he won't even realize it's there."
"And if you deem him unsuitable?" Amnit asked.
"What do you think?" Ket Sal scoffed, glancing back at his towering bodyguard. "I expect you’ll likely be one of the ones doing the dirty work, after all."
"The entire family?"
"If it comes to that? Absolutely."
The entire room was beginning to hum, now, and there was a strange sensation in the air – a feeling of building power, of potential energy waiting eagerly to be released. The hair on Ket Sal’s arm stood on end, and Amnit's red-glowing eyes flashed white for just a moment before returning to their usual color.
"Finally," Ket Sal sighed, as the vessel began to slip into the space-between-space. "Anyway, Jaheed's the only one we can use. The father, as you well know, is an impotent old fool with no place in Volsif XCVII’s Great Domain. The mother's been dead for a decade. And the other two siblings are," he waved a hand, "utterly unremarkable. No..." he shook his head. "If we can't use Jaheed, then it'd be better to have a clean break. These are the early days of Volsif's regency, you know. Many of these early atrocities will be forgotten to history, in time." Slowly, his eyes moved to meet the Se-dai's own. "Tell me honestly, Amnit – are your people excited for the changes to come? These will be busy days ahead."
"We are ready," was Amnit's only reply – to which the Scion gave a small, knowing nod.
"So are we," he said, staring out at the window now as the blackness of space twisted and warped and discolored around them. "So are we."
There was a crack, a pop, a shriek like metal grinding on metal – and then the ship simply ceased to be.
It would appear just nineteen hours later at the gates of Blessed Mercury at the seat of the Emperor’s divine power.
-----
There was a knock on his door.
Jaheed did not move, did not speak. He merely waited.
Another knock.
Still, Jaheed waited.
A third rang out.
They weren't going to leave, were they?
"Come in," Jaheed called, finally, and at once the door swung upon to reveal none other than the Duke himself - a Duke who looked as though he had aged a great many years since the events of the night's repast.
The Duke stepped quite briskly into the chamber, ignoring the Marquess' pointed stare as he closed the door shut behind him. It was, for a prince-to-be, a surprisingly small chamber, one overstuffed with all manner of books and manuscripts. Jaheed was at his desk – a finely ornate thing of rich mahogany, topped by a centuries-old oil-burning lamp – and he turned, now, to regard his father fully.
There was nothing Jaheed hated more than an unwelcome intrusion upon this private space.
"Son," the old man said, by way of greeting.
"Father," Jaheed replied flatly.
"Quite an eventful dinner, wasn't it?" Jerohd said – and he was pacing, now, his hands clasped behind his back. Jaheed's eyes narrowed – but he forced himself to remain silent. Never cede an advantage – it was one of his primary guiding principles. Mask your animosity. Give the old man not even the tiniest bit of information to work with.
"Indeed," Jaheed said – another response that conveyed naught else but rote acquiescence.
"And an interesting ending, too," the old man continued. "An ending one could draw quite a number of conclusions from, no?"
"I suppose so."
"One could assume, for instance, that I – Duke Jerohd – am finished," he declared, his voice suddenly rising in volume and intensity both. "That this new Emperor sees neither interest nor value within me, and that I will soon be swiftly discarded. That I am a powerless, aging monarch, and soon I will be subsumed by the coming wave of the next generation. That one day, a Se-dai will appear in my bedchamber, and I will pass from this world without a sound."
"One could..." Jaheed replied, after a moment. "But-"
"But," the Duke countered, turning sharply on his heel – his words growing cold and hard now as he stalked towards his son, "they would be wrong, wouldn't they?"
"Of course-" Jaheed said quickly – then, without warning, Jerohd's hand shot out and grabbed Jaheed tight by the face. And the Marquess fell completely and utterly still as the Duke forced his son's eyes to meet is own.
"You idiot fucking child," the Duke growled, and Jaheed could smell the wine on the old man's breath as he spoke. "A room packed with over a thousand guests – did you really think that not one would see you following that Scion out?"
"I don't know what you're-" Jaheed started – but Jerohd released his grip and slapped the boy hard across the face.
"Callisto is mine!" Jerohd roared, and flecks of spittle impacted against the face of his firstborn son. "The dirt, the sky, the iron, the smog, the people – they are mine, you insipid little speck!"
Jaheed was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring and his face dripping with sweat as he stared up at the ceiling, unwilling to meet his father's gaze. Then, he remembered what Ket Sal had said – and, slowly, his head came down, his eyes brimming with blazing fire even as a trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth. For the first time in many years he met his father's eyes without fear.
"Nothing lasts forever," Jaheed said, simply – and he reached up, wiping away the blood with his thumb.
"No," the Duke admitted, glaring down at his firstborn with naked contempt. "But it'll feel like forever to you, boy."
Moments later, the door slammed shut, and then Jaheed was slumped over his desk, sobbing into the sleeve of his gown. He let out a hoarse, muffled scream, his fist pounding against the mahogany as his body shook with every wrenching cry. They were not tears of sorrow, nor were they tears of despair. These were tears of hate - the raw, unfettered hate that pumped through Jaheed's heart now like boiling blood. This was the hate that a man held within him for a lifetime, unchanging and undiminishing.
Then, slowly, Jaheed's head came up once more, and his bloodshot, tear-streaked eyes fell onto the holy sigil etched upon the corner of the desk. Once, it had been a triangle intersected by two horizontal lines – the sigil of the old Emperor, Volsif XCVI. But now, it had been corrected by the unseen hand of some diligent lobotomite – and what Jaheed saw, instead, was the symbol of the new Emperor. A crescent moon, one constrained so tightly within a surrounding rectangle as to scrape against the sides of that four-pointed enclosure.
Jaheed gulped. Swallowed his misery.
He knew then that the old man was wrong. It wouldn't feel like forever – in fact, it wouldn't feel like any time at all. And, even if it did, Jaheed decided at that moment that it mattered not how long it would take. Days, weeks, months, years - it was irrelevant.
Jaheed was willing to wait.
-----