Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, reality found a way to prove me wrong. We were now facing the worst possible situation. Our head of state lay incapacitated, and even after consulting the country’s best medical experts, none could give us a definitive answer. They said he could wake up in months, maybe years. Some even warned us to prepare for the worst: he might never wake up.

To make matters worse, there were no clear protocols on who would temporarily assume his role. No contingency plans for an incapacitated leader. We were left adrift in a sea of uncertainty, and the sharks were already circling. Political rivals, foreign powers, and even members within our own government were all watching, waiting for a moment of weakness to exploit. It wasn’t just the fate of the government on the line—it was the future of the entire nation.

With all our existing problems piled on top of this, I had to wonder—would we even have a country left a week from now?

I was in a typical planning room, the walls adorned with dusty maps and old portraits, relics of the empire that came before us. On one side sat various agency directors and military officials, including myself. Across from us, the eight governors representing each province sat in uneasy silence. Most of them twiddled their thumbs, waiting for someone else to take the lead. The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on all of us.

These governors were mostly aristocrats and lords of the old empire. Sure, they were corrupt as hell, and fighting so hard just to keep the same people in power left a bitter taste—but it was a necessary evil, and meant to be temporary. They knew their lands and their people well, and cooperating with them was the wise choice. It bought us time to carefully implement elections, to teach people how to govern themselves without slipping back into chaos.

This room was divided in every sense. We represented the new order, while they were remnants of the old—an old regime whose time had long passed. Naturally, many of them feared and resented us. And, frankly, the feeling was mutual.

The murmur of quiet conversations echoed across the room, growing louder until Governor Valois cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to him. He wore a tailored suit, finer than most could afford, and his gray eyes glinted with barely concealed hostility.

“Martial law will only make things worse!” Valois shouted, his voice laced with fury.

Like sheep, the other governors muttered their soft agreements, some nodding emphatically, others too fearful to meet my gaze.

“Please understand that this situation is undeniably a national security emergency," I explained calmly, clasping my hands on the table. "We are well within our authority to invoke martial law under these circumstances.”

“So typical of you military simpletons," Governor Valois sneered. He leaned forward, his voice dripping with contempt. "Suddenly, you’re all so hungry for power. Imagine the fear you’d bring by marching soldiers down every street and treating our citizens like criminals! What would your Chancellor think if he were here to see this—”

“Our Chancellor,” Eliza interrupted, her voice cutting through the governor's rant like a knife.

“What?” Governor Valois blinked, caught off guard.

Eliza is my closest ally here, once an assassin renowned for controlling a vast network of spies during the war. Now, she serves as Director of the Protective Surveillance Agency—a classified institution, its existence hidden from the public eye.

Eliza is tall, with an imposing presence that seems to fill the room when she enters. Her long, dark hair often falls loosely over her shoulders, framing her sharp, angular face. Her hazelnut eyes are always watchful, glinting with intelligence and a hint of something dangerous—an echo of her former life. There's a grace to her movements, the kind that comes from years of training, each step deliberate and smooth, exuding a confidence earned through countless missions.

image [https://i.imgur.com/wdO1ni6.jpeg]

The previous regime had a secret police force that served a similar purpose, though on a lesser scale. When the capital finally surrendered, we gained access to dozens of classified documents detailing the brutality of that force. We publicized much of it, albeit in the form of propaganda illustrations, which proved highly effective in rallying the people to our side.

The chancellor wanted to disband the force immediately, but Eliza was adamantly opposed. I can still see her standing there, her tall frame rigid, her eyes blazing as she spoke. Instead of dissolving it, she proposed reform—transforming it into an agency focused solely on surveillance. She argued that any existing members involved in acts of cruelty would, of course, be expelled and imprisoned. Her voice, while calm, carried the weight of her convictions, and her gaze never wavered from the chancellor's as she presented her case.

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They debated for half an hour that day, each growing more agitated, their voices rising with every counterargument. I was present in that meeting, watching as the chancellor's idealism clashed against Eliza’s cold pragmatism. After hearing her reasoning, I chose to back her in front of the chancellor. Her stance was clear, unflinching, and logical—rooted in the belief that intelligence and control were essential to ensure our new government's survival.

How could I not support her? Eliza's approach was practical, her understanding of power unclouded by sentiment. The chancellor, on the other hand, argued from a place of ethical idealism, but we all knew that ideals alone couldn’t sustain us. If our fragile new government was to survive, we needed internal unity, which meant knowing the sentiments of our beloved citizens and regional leaders, and identifying the anti-revolutionaries hidden in their midst.

Her loyalty, her unshakable sense of duty, and that piercing gaze that seemed to strip away all pretenses—Eliza was a force of nature. She may have set aside her assassin’s blades, but she still wielded power, only now it was the power of information, the power to see and to know. And in this new era, that was a weapon more vital than any knife.

“I was simply correcting you, Governor," she said with a thin smile. "Still can't let go of the past?”

Her comment was pointed, a deliberate reference to Governor Valois's past as a noble of the old empire.

“Y-you! How dare you!” Governor Valois sputtered, his face flushing a deep shade of red.

“Please, everyone, we need to get back on topic,” I reminded them, trying to regain control of the meeting. The situation was hanging by a thread, and every word exchanged only seemed to fray it further.

“No!” Governor Valois shouted, standing up abruptly. His face was flushed with anger. “This meeting is a joke! You all spout hypocrisy—claiming we should work together, yet you still treat us like old dogs.” He was huffing and puffing now, his anger boiling over. “We don’t need any of you.”

“Governor, plea—” I began, but it was already too late.

“Me and every other governor here can handle our regions just fine. There will be no military intervention. We have the public on our side. Try anything, and I swear, we will denounce you.”

With that, he stormed out, followed closely by the other governors, their footsteps echoing through the hall as they left the room.

“Well. That went well,” Eliza remarked dryly, her expression unreadable as ever.

I remained silent for a moment, the weight of the situation settling heavily on my shoulders. It was futile. I got up, my face expressionless, but not before giving her a disapproving glance. That could not have gone any worse. We had appeared weak, fractured—exactly what Valois wanted.

***

It had been two days, and Governor Valois had finally made his move.

A freshly printed newspaper sat on my desk, its ink barely dry. The headline was bold, almost taunting: "Governor Valois Raises Local Guardsmen in Lorianne Province; Questions Authority of Federal Military."

“He’s testing us. If we keep doing nothing, we’re looking at total secession before long,” Eliza said, her tone as sharp as ever. She leaned against the corner of my desk, her eyes focused intently on the map hanging on the wall—Lorianne Province marked prominently.

I couldn’t help but look down, feeling a wave of hopelessness wash over me. “Can’t you… can’t you find something to turn this to our favor?” I asked, my voice betraying a hint of desperation.

Eliza tilted her head, considering. “Hm… Well, I have people in place. The problem is that he’s too beloved by the locals. Many are already flocking to join his new toy militia as we speak. The good news? They’re under-equipped and poorly trained.”

That wasn't much comfort. If we went in with force, guns drawn, we’d be giving him exactly what he wanted. We would look like the oppressive government that everyone feared we were becoming—a new tyranny rising from the ashes of the old.

“Everything is at stake. Sacrifices are inevitable,” she said, her voice oddly calm.

A chill ran down my spine at her words, and I looked at her carefully. There was a darkness in her eyes, something calculating and cold, a reflection of the past she had tried to put behind her. "What are you trying to say?" I asked, a sense of unease creeping in. A faint, dark thought was growing louder in my mind. Did she know what I was considering? Could she read my thoughts?

Eliza’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile. “I’m saying time isn’t on our side. It’s better to act now than to sit here and wait for things to fall apart. At least stop the bleeding, y’know?”

The silence between us stretched out, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. I could almost hear the gears turning in her mind, the strategies forming, the plans unspoken.

She set her half-empty cup of tea on the desk, the clink of porcelain echoing in the room.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking right now—do it. No matter the cost.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Valois wasn’t just a threat to our authority—he was a threat to our entire vision for the future. And Eliza was right: sacrifices were inevitable.

The question was, how far are we willing to go to protect what we’d built?