When Ries emerged from the front entrance of the National Assembly, her suit smeared with dust and blood, and a bloodied saber clutched tightly in her hand, she was met with the cold stare of dozens of rifles aimed directly at her.
The tense silence was broken only by the faint crackling of fires burning in the distance and the low murmur of soldiers barking orders. The army had arrived in full force, reclaiming what was left of the city.
“Hold! Identify yourself!” a commanding officer barked in his sharp and authoritative voice.
Ries halted, raising her hands in a gesture of compliance, though her grip on the saber remained firm. “Anise,” she said with a steady voice despite the exhaustion weighing her down. “Deputy—Acting Minister of Home Affairs.”
There was a moment of hesitation among the ranks. Soldiers exchanged glances, unsure of how to proceed. Was she one of the traitors? Was she a survivor? They weren’t told the full specifics.
The officer, a man in his mid-thirties with the insignia of a captain, took a cautious step forward. His gaze lingered on the blood-soaked saber, then flicked back to Ries. “Acting Minister?”
Ries’ expression twisted with irritation, her patience worn thin by the day’s relentless trials. Whether it was the exhaustion of battle, or because of the decisions she had made, or simply the grating tone of the officer’s voice, she couldn’t be sure. But she was done playing games. Her tail flicked sharply, a visible sign of her growing annoyance, and she dropped her hands, refusing to keep them raised any longer.
“Enough of this,” she snapped, her tone cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “Get me to your commanding officer.”
The soldiers around her stiffened, unsure of how to react to the sudden shift in her demeanor. The officer hesitated, caught off guard by her defiance. It wasn’t often that anyone spoke to the military with such a tone, let alone someone covered in blood and dust from the chaos they had just subdued.
The officer stepped forward, visibly weighing his options, before nodding to a nearby sergeant. “Escort her,” he ordered, his voice begrudgingly compliant. “But keep a close watch.”
Ries wasted no time on pleasantries or gratitude, marching ahead with the sergeant at her side. The streets were a graveyard of shattered stone and twisted metal. Soldiers moved like shadows among the ruins, their faces obscured by the smoke still lingering from the night’s chaos.
Upon entering the tent, she was greeted by a tall man wearing an austere military uniform. The insignia on his shoulders and the tricorne on his head suggested he was an important figure.
Ries squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze. “Acting Minister of Home Affairs, Anise,” she introduced herself, offering a respectful nod.
The man regarded her with a cool, appraising look before offering a nod of his own. “Lord-Marshal Fountainne, commander of the Imperial Army under direct orders of Her Majesty,” he said, his voice as sharp and disciplined as his appearance.
There was a pause, a brief but palpable tension between them. The Lord-Marshal’s eyes swept over her disheveled appearance—dust-covered suit, blood-streaked face, and the saber still clutched in her grip. For a moment, it seemed as though he might question her presence, challenge her authority in the space dominated by military might. But instead, he simply gestured toward a chair at the table.
“Minister,” he said evenly, “I assume you have a very compelling reason for being here. Let’s hear it.”
Ries glanced at the offered chair but remained standing, the saber still firmly in her grip. She didn’t have time to waste on formalities. “What happens now?”
The aftermath of Eden’s rebellion was still painfully visible. His forces had been decimated—most killed, the rest captured, their weapons and banners discarded like worthless relics of a failed coup. His body now lay unceremoniously in the back of an army truck, stripped of power and significance.
But his death hadn’t undone the damage, the city center lay in ruins, the National Assembly riddled with bullet holes, and artillery encampments looming ominously over the skyline, like monuments to violence.
Fountainne folded his arms, his expression grim as he outlined the state of affairs. “The army’s priority is to restore order and eliminate any remaining resistance. But beyond that…” He paused, his eyes narrowing as he met Ries’ gaze. “It’s up to what’s left of the civilian government to reassert control until Her Majesty returns.”
Ries frowned. “Reassert control? With what? Hopes and dreams? How many ministers do we even have left?”
“Out of the twelve ministers, only four survived,” Fountainne replied, his voice edged with frustration. “The rest were either killed in the chaos or fled before the dust settled. We’re operating on fumes here.”
Ries let out a bitter laugh. “And I suppose I’m one of the lucky ones, right? Eden’s Deputy Minister, the last piece of his twisted legacy. So that makes five of us left.”
Fountainne nodded. “Five ministers to pick up the pieces of a shattered government. We’ve got to make do with what we have.”
After exchanging a few words with Lord-Marshal Fountainne, Ries stepped out of the tent and surveyed the devastated boulevard. By now, a crowd had gathered. children played among the rubble, heedless of the dangers, while parents and soldiers looked on with a mix of concern and weariness. Journalists were already scribbling furiously in their notepads, capturing the first drafts of history. Construction crews had begun scoping out the wreckage, preparing to rebuild what had been lost.
As Ries turned to leave, a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. She spun around, her instincts flaring, and found herself face-to-face with a grotesquely overweight man.
“Deputy Minister Anise, isn’t it?” the man wheezed, she could feel the sour breath of his. “Director Elias Veron of the ISD.”
“The ISD, huh?” Ries said coolly, masking her disgust. “What, did you guys sleep through Eden’s coup?”
Veron chuckled, a low, oily sound that made her skin crawl. His eyes narrowed, and his hand began to slide lower, creeping across her back. “Careful with your words, Minister. I know what you really are.”
Ries went rigid. Did he know? Had the ISD uncovered her secret? She’d always been careful, but she forgotten about attempting to change her ACC. The realization sent a chill through her. Veron’s grin widened, sensing her unease.
“Meet me tonight at the ISD office,” he said, his voice dripping with smugness, before walking away, leaving Ries stunned and seething.
As she stood there, lost in thought, another hand gripped her shoulder. She snapped back to reality, startled as a familiar voice shouted in her ear. It was Viviana Livingstone.
“Did Veron give you a hard time?” Viviana asked, concern etched on her face.
Ries blinked, still processing the encounter. “Huh? Y—yeah, you could say that.”
Viviana scoffed bitterly, crossing her arms. “Of course he did. That bastard thinks he’s untouchable just because he’s the ISD Director.” She glanced at Ries, her expression serious. “You really shouldn’t be alone with him.”
“Why not?”
Viviana’s face twisted in disgust. “Because he’s a predator. He preys on the vulnerable—children, young girls. He’s a monster hiding behind his title.”
Ries’s expression hardened. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were,” Viviana muttered, pulling out a box of cigarettes. She offered one to Ries, who accepted it gratefully, needing something to steady her nerves. “We’re having a Special Session soon with all the surviving ministers. Veron will be there, of course—hungry for more power and the fact he’s technically a civilian official. He’s made enough enemies, though. People who know what he really is. No one would blink if he were… dealt with by the army for ‘conspiring’ with Eden.”
Ries studied Viviana, she still hasn’t lit her cigarette. “You’re suggesting we get rid of him?”
“Let’s just say, in times like these, accidents happen. The Empire’s better off without him, wouldn’t you agree?”
Ries took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling slowly as she considered the proposal. The director just became infinitely more dangerous now that she knew he knew her identity. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if he were to slip down the stairs.
“Yeah,” she finally said, flicking the ash carelessly, as if already discarding the thought of the man. “I’d say it’s time to clean house.”
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Her Imperial Majesty Lyria Victoria Reyvrys Des Valeries, Empress of Valyrya, Queen of Valyra, of Raede, of Arran, of Myst, of Kristall, of Rym, of Weter, Apostolic Queen of Chaos, of Reyvrys, of Excellsia, of Dorgon, of Elvire, of Scorpia, of Aquisius, of Rozafyr, Queen of Chaos, and so forth. Archduchess of Valyra, Archon of Chaos, Dragoness of Valyra, Sovereign of the Celestial Throne, of the Chaos Order, of the Crimson Dragon.
These were but a few of the titles that defined the young Empress upon her ascension. Yet, despite the weight of her lineage, Lyria's early life was largely unremarkable, especially for someone of her standing.
Unlike her more politically active brothers and the ambitious nobles of her era, Lyria showed little interest in the Empire’s affairs, often voicing her disdain for the burdens of her status.
Her upbringing was fairly standard for an Imperial Princess, having stellar records throughout her days in the Academy, constantly being in number one ranks, and showed interest in machinery during her time in University.
Following the sickness her father protracted and the ensuing power struggle between her brothers for the throne, the Princess would take more prominent role in Imperial politics. Most notably was she endorsed the ‘Imperial Group’, a group of centralists and populist think-tankers, forward-thinking nobles, and scientists; and offered greater support for women’s right within the Empire.
Now with the powers of a Sovereign and the old guard decimated, Empress Lyria’s rule was now teetering on the brink of absolute power. The crown, once burdened by the weight of tradition and the meddling of aristocrats, now shone unchallenged. Eden’s coup, though violent and nearly catastrophic, had unwittingly cleared the path for her ascension.
Most of the noble class lay dead, victims of Eden’s bloody purge, and those few who had dared to side with him were being hunted, dragged from their estates, and swiftly executed for treason. It was the perfect pretext—one that allowed her to reshape the Empire without the fetters of dissent.
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As Lyria leaned forward on the railing of a balcony in the Elysium Palace, her gaze fell on the distant city center, where pillars of black smoke curled into the sky. She couldn’t suppress the smile that crept across her lips.
Yes, it was only the beginning.
The beginning of a new order.
Lyria’s fingers brushed against the cool glass bottle at her side, filled with a dark, fizzy liquid that seemed to mirror the tumultuous sea of thoughts swirling in her mind. With a slow, deliberate motion, she poured the soda into a crystal glass, the effervescent bubbles rising like tiny, fleeting moments of calm amid the storm she had unleashed upon her Empire.
Raising the glass, Lyria took a slow sip, savoring the sharp sweetness that danced on her tongue.
There was still work to be done. The Empire, despite her newfound power, was far from perfect—a tangled mess of corruption, outdated traditions, and festering unrest. There were problems that remained untouched, festering like open wounds, but she was confident they would be resolved in due time. After all, empires weren’t built in a day.
It would take more than a little effort—an ocean of elbow grease, really. Every cog in the imperial machine would need to be oiled, every dissent silenced, and every loyalist reminded of where their loyalties truly lay.
But in the end, her enemies fell one by one, the old and defiant were cast aside, and she alone, the Empress Eternal, stood triumphant amidst the ruins of those who dared oppose her.
She coughed as she took a much larger sip of her soda.
“Still better than alcohol, I suppose.”
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The Special Meeting convened in the main hall of the governance complex, where the emptiness of the vast room was only magnified by the echo of footsteps and the uneasy shifting of chairs. Six figures sat scattered among sixteen seats, a somber testament to the chaos that had swept through the Empire’s leadership.
Ries scanned the room, taking in the faces of those who had survived this purge of power. There was Minister Callahan of Health, his eyes sunken and tired. Beside him sat Minister Nay of Foreign Affairs, he looked more confused than tired, though, evident by his clean appearance.
Across from them sat Minister Talbott of Agriculture, nervously tapping his fingers on the table, unable to mask his discomfort. He kept glancing around as though expecting someone else to take the lead.
Beside Ries was Viviana Livingstone, the Minister of Public Works, whose steely demeanor was only betrayed by the occasional twitch of her clenched jaw. She was visibly seething, though her anger was directed not at their circumstances but at the man sitting directly across from her.
The sixth seat was occupied by Elias Veron, the bloated and insufferably smug Director of the Imperial Security Directorate. He lounged in his chair with an air of casual arrogance, fingers steepled as though he were observing a minor inconvenience rather than a government on the brink of collapse.
Minister Callahan cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “We’re down to five ministries and a Director who, frankly, has no business sitting at this table.” His voice wavered, frustration bleeding into his words. “Our leadership structure is in shambles. One of us doesn’t even know what the hell we’re doing here. So, what’s the plan? How do we move forward?”
Ries glanced at Viviana, who returned her look with a knowing nod. Clearing her own throat, Ries leaned forward, her voice slicing through the murmurs of uncertainty. “Ahem.Gentlemen, I’d like to propose a new agenda item: the conduct of Archduke Elias Veron.”
Viviana quickly raised her hand. “Seconded! It’s time we take stock of what we’re dealing with.”
Director Veron’s smug expression faltered, his eyes narrowing as he sensed the shift in the room’s atmosphere. “If you have a serious proposal, Madam Acting Minister, then let’s hear it. Otherwise, let’s not waste time with theatrics.”
Ries ignored his dismissal and continued reading from the document in her hand, her tone growing bolder with each accusation. “I accuse Director Veron of collaborating with treasonous elements within his administration, undermining the Empire and the Crown—”
Veron cut in, his voice laced with growing panic. “This is outrageous! There’s no formal motion—”
“—and betraying the Crown to reactionary forces—”
“This is a blatant overreach of your authority!” Veron’s voice rose, trying to drown her out.
“—and actively conspiring to—”
By this point, chaos erupted. Ministers banged on the table, shouting over one another as the Director’s protests grew louder. Veron desperately tried to regain control, his words lost in the cacophony of accusations and clattering wood. Ries, undeterred, glanced at Minister Talbott, who sat frozen in his seat, eyes darting nervously between the warring factions.
Unfortunately for him, he sat on a seat where Eden usually sat, as the de facto leader of the Ministers.
“Talbott,” Ries barked, her voice sharp and commanding. “Push the button.”
Talbott hesitated, in his face a mask of indecision. He looked from Veron, who was now half-risen from his seat, to Ries, who was staring him down with intensity.
“Talbott!” Ries snapped again, her patience wearing thin. “Push the button under the table. Now!”
Both Ries and Veron shouted at the bewildered minister, their voices overlapping in a frenzied tug-of-war for Talbott’s compliance. Sensing the tide turning against him, Veron bolted from his chair, making a hasty move towards the door.
“Push the fucking button, man!” Ries yelled, leaping onto the table, her hands scrambling to reach Talbott’s side. Her fingers slammed repeatedly into the hidden mechanism beneath the surface.
At that moment, the room erupted into chaos. The heavy wooden door swung open violently, slamming into Veron’s face just as he reached it. He staggered back, clutching his nose, his smug composure shattered in an instant. A squad of guards, led by their captain, stormed into the room, weapons drawn and eyes fixed on their target.
Everyone in the room stood, their attention riveted on the unfolding scene. The captain marched straight to Veron, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him backward. Veron struggled, shouting in vain. “You can’t do this! I’m no traitor! This is a farce!”
The captain sneered, unfazed. “Looks like the only farce here is your freedom. You’re under arrest for conspiracy and treason against the Empire.”
As the guards tightened their grip on Veron, the ministers watched in silence, a mix of satisfaction and relief playing across their faces.
“Come on, then,” Ries said, her voice cutting through the tension. “Let’s get this over with. We’ve got a lot to clean up.”
The captain of the guard, holding the now tied up Veron, turned his attention to Ries, awaiting further instructions. “What’s your command, Acting Minister?” he asked.
“Right, just as we planned. Get him out first.”
The guards began hauling Veron out, his muffled protests drowned by the clanking of their boots echoing in the hallway. Ries signaled for the ministers to follow, her eyes cold and resolute. This was not a time for hesitation; the plan had been set in motion, and there was no turning back.
Ries walked at the head of the group, the ministers trailing behind her like shadows, each lost in their thoughts but united in purpose. The plan was simple, brutal, and necessary. Veron had to die.
They stepped out of the main building, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows across the courtyard. Waiting for them was a nondescript military truck flanked by armed guards, its once-proud imperial emblem now faded and barely visible. Veron was shoved inside, his muffled curses cut short by a swift gag.
Ries turned to the ministers. “This doesn’t leave the room,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying a weight that made each of them nod in silent agreement.
Nay, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, let out a bitter laugh, his earlier fear giving way to a dark sense of satisfaction. “The bastard had it coming. We’re doing the Empire a favor.”
Viviana, the Minister of Public Works, folded her arms and nodded. “I’ve arranged for the route to be clear. No patrols, no witnesses. This will be over quickly.”
Minister Talbott glanced nervously at the truck. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we? Executing a director without trial... it’s dangerous.”
Nay, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, cut him off with a snort. “Oh, spare me, Talbott. Would you rather let him slither back into his office? Or better yet, let him near your daughter?”
“That’s not—”
Ries stepped forward, her patience thinning. “Enough! We don’t have time for this.” She gestured sharply toward the truck. “Get in.”
Reluctantly, Talbott climbed inside, followed by the others, the truck’s engine rumbling to life as they pulled away from the governance complex. The city outside passed in a blur of dilapidated buildings and abandoned streets, each turn taking them further from the center of power and deeper into the seedy underbelly of Valyra.
The streets were eerily quiet as they wound through the back alleys and deserted thoroughfares of the city, the guards ensuring there would be no prying eyes. The Empire’s citizens were well used to looking the other way when military trucks rolled through, and today was no different.
As they approached their destination, a rundown warehouse on the city’s outskirts, the truck slowed to a halt. The guards moved swiftly, yanking Veron out and dragging him toward the warehouse, his muffled cries echoing in the empty lot.
Inside, the warehouse was dim and cold, the scent of rust permeated the room. The guards—who were coincidentally Army soldiers and officers—quickly set to work, dragging a plain wooden table into the center of the room. They placed a single chair in front of it, the setup resembling a makeshift court with no judge or jury, just the inevitability of Veron’s fate.
Veron was forced into the chair, his wrists bound tightly to the armrests. He glared defiantly at his captors, though the sweat on his brow betrayed the fear that simmered beneath his bravado. Ries stood in front of him, flanked by the ministers and the many soldiers that surrounded them.
“I demand my rights!” Veron barked, his voice a frantic rasp as he wrestled against his restraints. He bit at the gag in his mouth, tearing it partially free. “Get this off me! This is illegal—”
Ries calmly pulled a folded document from her pocket, the faint rustle of paper silencing the room. Veron’s eyes darted to her, rage and desperation etched into every line of his face. “You!” he spat. “You’re nothing but a fraud, a liar! You’ve got no right—”
“Madam Acting Minister, let’s get on with it!” an officer snapped, pounding the table to emphasize his impatience. The room was a cacophony of muttering voices, anger and disgust bubbling beneath the surface.
Ries unfurled the document, her eyes never leaving Veron. She smirked, enjoying the sight of him thrashing helplessly against his fate. “Let me read this,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain.
Veron lunged forward, but the soldiers held him fast, his threats now reduced to furious, incoherent curses. Ries raised the paper and began to read aloud, her voice clear and unwavering.
“Elias Veron, Director of the Imperial Security Directorate, you are accused of conspiring against the Empire—”
“Traitor!” someone shouted from the back, echoing the sentiment that rippled through the assembly.
‘—with the intent to subvert its sovereignty and forward the interests of foreign powers”
“Foreign powers? Who? The fucking moon?!” Veron sneered, his arrogance flaring one last time.
Ries continued, unflinching. “You are also accused of one thousand two hundred forty-seven counts of rape, of sexual deviancy, and acts of perversion against children as young as five.”
The room erupted. Ministers and soldiers alike pounded the table, some shaking their heads in disgust, others shouting obscenities. The atmosphere was thick with rage and contempt, pure hatred.
“Rapist!” “Monster!” The words bounced off the warehouse walls, growing louder, more vicious.
Veron, now reduced to a desperate, sputtering mess, hurled insults back at them—slurs, vile accusations, anything to drown out the truth. But no one listened anymore.
Ries stepped closer, waving the document in his face. “Would you like to read the list yourself?” she taunted, shoving the paper close enough for him to glimpse the names—dozens of names, victims of his.
“Rapist!” “Rapist!” “You are a Rapist!” They shouted.
“You are accused of treason, and anti-Reyvrys behaviour,” Ries declared. “The court finds you guilty, and sentences you to be hanged.”
The room erupted into chaos as shouts of anger and disgust filled the air, the mob’s fury now fully unleashed. The ministers and soldiers jeered at Veron, taunting him with fists and firearms, their collective hatred a damning verdict that needed no further explanation.
“No! Please! Don’t hang me!” Veron’s desperate plea went under deaf ears. The monster who once commanded fear was now reduced to a pitiful figure, thrashing helplessly as soldiers dragged him toward the open field outside. His cries, raw and unfiltered, only amplified the disgust of those present, fueling the mob's contempt.
“Look at him now,” Minister Nay scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. “Begging for his life like the scum he is. Serves him right.”
Ries watched impassively as Veron’s pleas turned to sobs, the reality of his imminent execution sinking in. A hastily erected gallows stood outside the warehouse.
Veron was shoved onto the platform, his knees buckling as he was forced to stand beneath the noose. The noose dangled above him, swaying slightly in the breeze, a silent reminder of his sins. Veron’s eyes darted frantically, searching for any sign of mercy, but all he found were cold stares and evil smiles.
“Please…” Veron whimpered, tears streaming down his face. “I’ll do anything… just don’t…”
The soldiers, unmoved by his pathetic display, grabbed him roughly and forced the coarse rope over his head. He tried to pull away, but the soldiers held him firm, shoving him back toward the center of the platform.
Veron’s final pleas fell on deaf ears, his pitiful sobs drowned out by the indifferent silence of the onlookers. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, the tension hanging as thick as the rope around his neck.
Then, without a second thought, the lever was pulled. The trapdoor opened beneath Veron’s feet, and his body dropped with a violent jerk. The snap of the rope was sharp, final, cutting through the air like a knife. Veron’s body hung there, lifeless and still.
Ries stepped closer. “Well, there’s that,” she said flatly, her voice void of any satisfaction or remorse. She turned to the soldiers who stood nearby, watching in silence. “Burn him,” she ordered, “I don’t want a single trace of him left.”
The guards exchanged quick glances before setting to work, hauling Veron’s limp body from the noose and dragging it toward a makeshift pyre set up outside the warehouse. They doused the heap of wood and cloth with oil, the pungent scent filling the air as they prepared to erase Veron’s presence from the world entirely.
Ries turned to the other ministers who looked more relieved after the whole ordeal. “Let’s get back to work, shall we?”