No one from centuries ago would've imagined what would become of the Holy City. The towering walls, once thought to be impenetrable, now bear a massive gaping wound, shattered by relentless assaults. What was once a bastion of hope and faith has turned into a battlefield of fire and death, its defenders clinging desperately to hold back the demonic hordes surging through the breach.
The introduction of modern weaponry has transformed the face of war for both sides. Yet, while the jingoistic Valkorians adopted these innovations as quickly as they emerged, the demon armies and the human armies led by the holy city lagged behind, burdened by centuries of tradition and pride.
For the demons, it was a matter of arrogance. They believed that brute strength and ancient arcane powers would always reign supreme. The idea that mortal-made weapons—mere rifles—could pose a serious threat was laughable to them, until the day they were slaughtered en masse by organized volleys of gunfire. Now, they begrudgingly wield cannons and other human-crafted weapons, integrating artillery into their brutal strategies.
The humans, meanwhile, faced a different dilemma. They were not blind to these advancements; they had watched as the Valkorian Kingdom unexpectedly defeated the great Borian Tsardom, transforming themselves into a preeminent great power. But the human armies, beholden to their feudal lords and bound by stubborn pride, resisted change. The noble houses saw rifles and artillery as harbingers of upheaval, tools that could erode their power and disrupt the established order. Thus, they clung to outdated strategies and neglected to industrialize on a meaningful scale.
It was only after facing defeat after crushing defeat that the humans reluctantly turned to the Valyrians and Valkorians and even the Borians for aid, importing vast stockpiles of rifles, artillery, and the expertise needed to wield them. Yet, despite these frantic efforts to modernize, the hastily implemented policies failed to turn the tide. Factories that should have been churning out guns and cannons stood empty as resources were allocated into more reliable sources.
Général d'armée Eras watched with grim satisfaction as another volley of artillery shells found their mark, slamming into the ranks of the human defenders. The explosions rippled through the battlefield, sending soldiers flying like ragdolls.
Ahead of the barrage, a wave of Greater Demons surged forward, cutting a bloody path through the human lines. Their massive swords cleaved through armor and flesh with ease, their unstoppable momentum scattering the defenders like chaff in the wind. It was a sight Eras had dreamed of for ages—the complete dismantling of human arrogance.
Her leathery wings twitched, an involuntary shiver of pleasure coursing through her at the sight. She allowed herself a wicked grin, her elongated fangs catching the glint of firelight. The humans, for all their efforts, were finally learning their place.
This has been a long time coming.
She couldn't stop her wings from quivering in satisfaction, their subtle movement betraying the excitement she barely contained. Every fallen soldier, every shattered wall, was another triumph. Another nail in the coffin of human resistance.
Her eyes flicked across the battlefield, and she could feel it—victory was close, tantalizingly within reach. Oh, praise the Impératrice! She thought, her awe growing with every step her forces took. What the Impératrice had said was true all along. If only the Daemon clans had united earlier, had set aside their petty squabbles, they could have achieved this dominance long ago.
Eras, once skeptical of the Impératrice's grand promises, now found herself overwhelmed with a mixture of awe and respect. The Impératrice had spoken of fertile lands for their people, lands where the Daemon race could thrive once more—free of conflict, free of desperation. Eras hadn’t believed it at first. Too much blood had been spilled between the clans, too much pride at stake for such unity to ever be possible.
Yet here she was, standing in the middle of a battlefield, witnessing what could only be described as the impossible. Under the Impératrice's banner, the Daemons had set aside centuries of infighting, and now, they were on the verge of claiming the Holy City. A city that was the bastion of the human faith.
Eras smiled to herself, her wings trembling with exhilaration. The Impératrice had not only given them a path to victory but had ignited a new era for the Daemon race. These lands, once ruled by humans, would soon be theirs, and with them, the future of their people.
"Générale!" A deep, gravelly voice called out, and one of Eras's aides approached—an imposing figure clad in black armor, even his face concealed beneath a helmet. "The remaining human armies have surrendered. We are victorious!"
Eras couldn't suppress a smirk. Victory was sweet, but her eyes quickly flicked toward the aide. "And what of the Hero's party?"
The aide shifted uncomfortably, the armor plates creaking. "Erm... they, they escaped," he admitted hesitantly.
"Escaped?" Eras's scoff cut through the air, dripping with disdain. "Really?" Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding slightly as she bit her lip in frustration. The fall of the Holy City had been inevitable, and with it, the human forces would collapse soon enough. But...
The Hero’s party. They were always a problem, weren't they? A thorn in her side, constantly slipping through her grasp when they should’ve been wiped out along with the others. Many great heavenly generals have been killed by them.
Eras folded her arms, her wings twitching slightly in irritation. She knew well enough that the human kingdoms weren’t limited to the lands in the western region, and the Hero’s party fleeing into those other domains would complicate matters.
Her eyes narrowed as she mulled over the next move. The Impératrice had been diplomatic—carefully negotiating with the Valkorians and Borians to keep the Daemon forces from being surrounded. Those petty human kingdoms were manageable, but Eras wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss the larger threats looming beyond the western frontier.
Rozafir. And beyond that... the giant that cast a shadow over the continent: the Empire of Valeria.
Unlike the other humans who groveled at the feet of their powerless Gaia deity, the Valerians worshipped something altogether more dangerous—a dead dragon. This was no mere mythic beast, but a creature whose reign of terror had scorched the continent centuries prior, ravaging nations before it was finally slain. Even in death, the dragon had left a legacy, one that Valeria had built its empire upon.
But that dragon’s fall hadn't brought peace. For years after its death, the Valerians had turned on one another, waging bloody civil wars until they had finally united under a single banner. In some ways, they were not so different from the Daemons. Both races forged by chaos, driven by ambition and a lust for power. The thought made Eras's lip curl in disdain—but it also planted a seed of understanding.
The more she thought of it, the more she realized how much they were alike: both their histories steeped in blood, both their empires built from the ashes of destruction.
Yet, Valeria had chosen isolation. The humans there, as formidable as they were, remained distant from foreign entanglements. An empire behind its own walls, paralyzed by internal conflicts and political infighting. The Impératrice had ensured that much. Their agents within Valeria had exacerbated the Empire’s instability, keeping their giant neighbor distracted and unwilling to intervene. Eras smirked at the thought.
She never quite understood why Valeria had never expanded beyond its borders with all that power at its disposal. What cowards, she thought. With their vast armies, their technology and their disciplined military machine, they could have conquered half the world by now. Yet, they remained bound by their own politics, as if shackled by the very legacy they worshipped.
But no matter. Valeria’s isolation played to her advantage, and the Daemons had exploited it. Their agents had even managed to convince the sea-dwelling Aquileans—those slippery, sea creatures who kept themselves to the abyss—to launch a sudden attack against the Empire. That bold move kept Valeria occupied on another front, their attention split and resources tied down in an unexpected conflict.
A masterstroke of distraction, orchestrated by the Impératrice herself.
Valeria, for all its strength, was now too preoccupied, too fractured to pose any immediate threat. With the Empire embroiled in its own problems, Eras knew the Daemon army had the precious time they needed to consolidate their foothold in the west.
But time was still a fickle thing. If the Valerians ever got their act together, or if the scattered human kingdoms united under a new banner, the Daemons could find themselves facing an enemy of unimaginable strength.
But they’ll be ready by then.
She turned to her aide. “Ready the men! We’ll march into the Holy City!”
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The tavern felt suffocating, even for its regular patrons. Dimly lit and heavy with the stench of sweat, alcohol, and smoke, it had long been a hub of discontent, a front for operations of the CDLWP, where laborers and low-class citizens gathered to vent their frustrations and share whispered complaints.
But this particular patron was different.
A woman cloaked in white sat at a small, corner table. A wide-brimmed hat cast a deep shadow over her face, concealing her features—save for her piercing blue eyes, which gleamed with an unsettling sharpness. Those eyes remained fixed on the two figures sitting opposite her: Sardine, leader of the CDLWP’s Liberal faction, and Anya, the head of the entire CDLWP.
Anya cleared her throat, attempting to break the icy tension. “So... Madam—"
The woman cut her off with a swift motion of her hand. “Please, do not waste time with formalities. I am here to provide you with information." Without another word, she slid a discrete brown folder across the table. “Take a look.”
Anya’s gaze flickered from the folder to the woman before she slowly reached for it. Sardine leaned in as Anya cracked it open. Inside, a document titled IMPERIAL CONSTITUTION DRAFT #5 Jumped them both.
Anya’s eye widened. “This is…”
The woman’s lips curled into a subtle, knowing smile. “It is to my understanding that the CDLWP strives for equality for the people under the law. But… it appears the promises of a constitution are leaning towards something much different—a conservative, reactionary constitution, designed to uphold the Empire’s hierarchy. Convenient, don’t you think?"
Anya’s hands tightened around the paper as she read the articles of the draft, her eyes scanning each line with growing fury. So much so that her hands began to tremble, the anger coursing through her visibly. Sardine, seated next to her, placed a steadying hand on her arm, urging her to keep calm. He, though less outwardly emotional, felt the same frustration inside.
“This draft…” she muttered, her voice low but trembling with rage, “It consolidates the crown’s power while dangling hollow promises of rights to the people. It’s a farce. A betrayal of everything we’ve fought for.”
Sardine let out a long, weary sigh. He had known this moment was coming, had felt the pressure building for months, but that didn’t make it any easier. As much as he tried to stay measured, he couldn’t deny the weight of her words. The document in her hands was nothing more than a cleverly disguised reinforcement of the status quo.
Across the table, the woman who had handed them the document stood up, a cold smile curling on her lips. “It’s up to you what happens next.” Her voice was almost taunting, as if daring them to make the bold move she already anticipated.
Silence hung between them for a moment.
Anya’s eyes remained locked on the paper, her hand tightening around it until the veins on her arm stood out. Sardine watched her carefully, his heart sinking as he read the fiery determination in her gaze. It was the same look her father had worn—the same reckless, unstoppable resolve that had driven him to death.
“Anya…” he began, his voice quiet but cautious. “You’re not seriously considering—”
She looked up, her eyes blazing. Sardine’s breath caught in his throat. He had seen that look before, and it always meant trouble.
“I’m Calling for a General Strike.”
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Wars, in essence, are the continuation of politics by other means—and, in the modern era, they have also become a continuation of economics by other means. What does this mean? Quite simply, wars today are astronomically expensive!
Gone are the days when warriors armed themselves, purchasing their own swords, shields, and armor. Now, every aspect of a soldier's equipment is provided by the state. Rifles are no longer simple tools like swords or spears that a blacksmith could forge overnight. Modern weapons require complex industrial production chains. No lone artisan can craft bullets, artillery shells, or explosives. These are the products of advanced factories and supply lines, all of which demand immense financial and material resources.
For the war against the Aquileans, ships needed to be produced in colossal shipyards in major port cities, each one consuming a staggering amount of steel. Coal was no longer the fuel of choice—diesel, the precious black gold, powered the massive fleets. Fortunately for the Empire, their recent campaign in the Palushian lands had secured a substantial supply of this vital resource, ensuring they could continue to wage war without the fear of running dry.
But now, a more immediate and domestic crisis had gripped the capital. A crisis that no amount of diesel or steel could resolve.
Ries stood at the window of her office, her brow furrowed as she surveyed the chaotic scene below. The boulevard, once bustling with merchants and pedestrians, was now a sea of red, with multiple blocks around the governance complex sealed off. Millions of citizens had flooded the streets, packed together so tightly that it seemed as if the city itself had been swallowed by the tide of people.
From her high vantage point, the sight was unsettling, even for someone who previously felt prejudice and discrimination because of her race, per se. It was a vast, seething mass of discontent. The air itself seemed to hum with tension as the chants of the crowd echoed upward, piercing the thick walls of her office.
A general strike.
“Another day at the job, huh?" She thought bitterly, grimacing as the bitter taste of her lukewarm coffee lingered on her tongue. In between juggling to make a workable constitution, and the recent war with the Aquileans, the strike had only multiplied her already overwhelming workload.
“Madam Prime Minister,” Clarissa’s voice interrupted her reverie from behind. “Your cabinet has arrived.”
Your Cabinet. It still feels like a fever dream. No one would’ve believed the Beastmen in front of them was an exile—well she escaped—and was a former C-ranking Adventurer. Maybe she should write a book about it?
She sets down her coffee and took a deep breath. “Fuck my life.”
image [https://i.imgur.com/82VNvcV.png]
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When she entered the meeting room, discussions were already in full-swing. Viviana led the discussion pertaining to address the strike outside.
"We cannot allow this strike to paralyze the city any longer," Viviana was saying in a diplomatic voice, though with a hint of annoyance. "The economy is already strained due to the war effort, and now the entire city is gridlocked. We need a resolution, and we need it now."
Ries slipped into her seat, catching the last of Viviana’s statement. The other ministers turned their heads briefly to acknowledge her, but the conversation pressed on without pause.
"Minister Livingstone, you're suggesting we send the army to put down the strikers," another voice interjected. It was Minister Callahan, the head of Health, always the voice of reason in these debates, perhaps owing to his commoner background. “If we send in the army, we’ll be escalating this into violence. The people aren’t just striking for better wages or working conditions anymore—they’re after the constitution. The real question, now that the Prime Minister has joined us," his eyes flicked toward Ries, "is how did it get leaked?”
The room grew noticeably more tense, eyes shifting towards Ries as if expecting her to have all the answers. Callahan’s question hung in the air like a dagger. The ministers, who had been engrossed in the logistics of quelling the strike, were now suddenly focused on the larger issue—the draft constitution, the very document that was supposed to be kept under the strictest secrecy, had somehow found its way into the public’s hands.
Ries took a deep breath, keeping her expression neutral despite the growing storm inside her. “We’ll address the leak in due time,” she said, her voice measured, though she felt the weight of suspicion in the room. “Right now, we need to focus on preventing this situation from spiraling out of control.”
She couldn’t believe it either when Clarissa reported to her that the fifth draft of the constitution had gone missing. At first she dismissed it as her accidentally misplacing it somewhere—it’s unlikely she misplaced it in a random tavern or something, right?
Viviana, unwilling to back down, spoke up again. "But if we don’t show some force, Prime Minister, this strike will set a dangerous precedent. We can’t let them think they can strong-arm us into submission every time they’re unhappy with our decisions. We’re not a fucking charity, alright?"
The sudden curse caught most of the newer ministers off guard. She was blunt and straightforward, simple as that. Viviana always had a way of pushing her buttons, especially when it came to the delicate balance of power and public perception. She was a noble who was born into a system where the only thing that matters are stability at all costs.
“We can’t treat this like any other labor dispute,” Ries responded coolly after a while. “If we use force, we risk escalating it into something far worse. These people aren’t just protesting wages or conditions—they’re angry because they feel betrayed by their own government. They’ve seen the draft, and now they think we’re playing them.”
"Which we are," Viviana snapped. "That draft was never meant to appease the masses, it was to stabilize the damn country and that Empress of ours. You think rewriting it on their terms is going to bring them peace? They'll want more, they always want more."
Ries closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Viviana’s hardline approach grated on her, but she couldn’t afford to let it distract her now. The missing draft, the leaked constitution, the strike—everything was spiraling out of control. Depending on which action she might choose in this room, it could set the precedent for future events.
“What about the others?” She said, opening her eyes and scanned the room. “Any other opinions, or does any of you agree with Minister Livingstone?”
Immediately, one minister tapped the table loudly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," it was Minister Callahan, the minister of health. An odd one out in the group of aristocrats is the fact he is from a commoner background. Difference is, he isn’t a poor laborer, he’s a businessman, or so she heard.
Ries turned her attention to Minister Callahan, watching him carefully as he tapped the table and spoke up.
"Look, Prime Minister, I come from a background where you don't get handed things on a silver platter. I understand the frustration of these people out there, I really do. But you can't govern by giving in every time someone raises their voice. Viviana’s right—as much as I loathe that idea—if we bend now, we set a dangerous precedent. "
Ries gave a thoughtful look. Callahan’s perspective carried influence, especially because of his commoner roots. He had managed to climb the ranks in a system designed to keep people like him out, which gave his opinions more gravity in the eyes of the other ministers.
Similar to her, now that she thought about it. Difference is one was able to get stupidly rich by making a business, the other… well you know.
"That doesn’t mean we ignore the underlying issues," Callahan continued, his voice hardening. "But we can’t let this strike cripple the country in the middle of a war. The Aquileans are watching—if they see instability here, it could embolden them. The last thing we need is to look weak, especially when we’re in the middle of mobilizing."
"And what exactly do you suggest, Minister Callahan?" Ries asked with a neutral tone, though her mind was already on a million different consequences with the implications of their options. "A full military crackdown?"
Callahan leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "Not a full crackdown. But we need to regain control of the streets—disperse the crowds, arrest the ringleaders. Show them we’re not afraid to act, but we don't need to bring in the army just yet. Use the police and Marechausse… sorry, they don’t exist anymore, and then we open negotiations. We can't afford this to drag on."
Ries glanced around the room, gauging the reactions of the other ministers. Most nodded in agreement, though some looked uneasy. Viviana, unsurprisingly, seemed pleased.
The Prime Minister weighed her options. She had to tread carefully. One wrong move could ignite the kind of unrest that couldn’t be contained, but doing nothing was just as dangerous.
“We’ll put it to a vote,” she announced. “Raise your hands if you support Minister Callahan’s proposal to deploy the police to disperse the strike.”
She glanced around the room, watching as hands slowly began to rise. Callahan, naturally, was the first, followed by Viviana. Several more ministers followed, though a few hesitated.
Four yeas, five abstentions, and three nays.
A slim margin, but enough to proceed with Callahan’s proposal.
“Very well,” Ries said, her voice calm but authoritative. “The police will be deployed to disperse the strikers, but I want clear directives—no unnecessary force. This is still a delicate situation, and we can’t afford for it to spiral into outright violence.”
Her eyes swept across the room, lingering briefly on the ministers who had abstained. The abstentions were a sign of apathetic reasoning, those who’d have no reason or saw the issue as not theirs.
"Minister Callahan," she continued, "you’ll be responsible for coordinating with the police. Ensure that any ringleaders are apprehended swiftly, but do it with discretion. We’re not making martyrs out of anyone.”
Callahan nodded sharply. "Understood, Prime Minister."
Ries shifted her gaze to the remaining ministers who had voted against the proposal, particularly Minister Elga Aesir, the Elf and Minister of Arcane Arts. The tension between the factions had always been palpable, but now it was on full display. Elga’s faction had grown more vocal in recent months, opposing what they saw as increasingly authoritarian measures. Aside from Ries herself, Elga was the only non-human in the room, a fact that had not gone unnoticed.
“Minister Aesir,” Ries addressed the elf directly, “you’ve been quiet. I’m sure you have concerns—feel free to voice them.”
Elga sat back, folding her hands in front of her. Her pale eyes gleamed with the wisdom of centuries, but her expression remained unreadable. "Prime Minister," she said coolly, "my faction and I oppose this decision not because we wish to see chaos reign in the streets, but because we believe force, even under the guise of maintaining order, will only deepen the resentment."
“You’re suggesting we let the strike continue?”
Elga remained composed. "Not indefinitely, no. But deploying the police might suppress this particular strike in Valyra, yet it will do nothing to address the root cause—the leaked constitution. The people feel betrayed, and in their eyes, we are their betrayers. What they need are answers and reassurances, not the heavy hand of authority."
Minister Viviana scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “And what do you propose? That we hold hands and sing songs until they’re satisfied?”
Elga didn’t take the bait. “I’m proposing dialogue. Meet with the leaders of the strike, listen to their concerns. Offer them a compromise before resorting to force. We must be seen as listening to the people, not crushing their dissent underfoot.”
Both sides had valid points, but there was no time for indecision. The decision had been made, after all. Yet, ignoring Elga's concerns could lead to even greater instability in the long run.
After a brief pause, Ries' voice hardened, though she kept her tone respectful. “Minister Aesir, I understand your concerns, but the leak is a separate issue, one we’ll address once the immediate crisis is under control. For now, we need to restore order, or the situation could escalate beyond what any of us can contain.”
Elga inclined her head in reluctant acceptance. “As you wish, Prime Minister. But remember, once force is used, trust will be much harder to rebuild.”
“Your concerns are noted, Minister,” Ries smiled. “But we will not let the city descend into chaos.”
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Ries' gaze swept across the streets below, where the sea of red-clad protesters swarmed like ants, a solid mass of defiance that the police struggled to control. Millions of striking workers and citizens, their collective fury undeterred by the show of force, had surrounded the governance complex. Even with the deployment of police, the sheer scale of the protest was overwhelming.
However, her eyes drifted further down the boulevard toward the Imperial Palace. The palace guards, adorned in gold yellow and burgundy, stood vigilant and unmoving, keeping a tighter grip on the situation within the palace walls.
For now, the true heart of the empire remained untouched by the unrest.
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The door to her office creaked open, interrupting her thoughts. Ries didn't need to turn around to know who it was. She had been expecting this visit.
"Director Vaspier," she greeted without turning from the window, her voice calm yet taut with tension.
Orko Vaspier, head of the Imperial Security Directorate, entered the room silently, his dark eyes sharp and calculating behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He was a tall, thin man with a demeanor that always reminded Ries of a vulture circling its prey—patient, but ever ready to strike. Unlike Veron, the man was a complete blank slate.
"Prime Minister," Orko said smoothly, his voice carrying a tone that suggested both respect and the slightest hint of condescension. He approached her desk, his movements deliberate and measured. "The situation is... evolving."
Ries finally turned to face him, her feline ears twitching slightly as she studied the ISD director. "Evolving," she echoed. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
Vaspier’s lips curved into a small, humorless smile. "Our agents have obtained the missing draft, you can see it in this folder." He placed a brown folder on the coffee table.”
Ries' fingers drummed on her desk as she stared at the folder Vaspier had placed on the table. The brown, unassuming folder seemed almost mocking, a reminder of how quickly things had spiraled out of control. Her tail flicked in irritation, her feline beastmen instincts urging her to react, but she kept her emotions in check.
“Let me get this straight,” she said in an icy tone. “You have the missing draft now, after the city—no, the entire Empire has erupted into chaos? Convenient.”
Vaspier’s expression remained unchanged, his dark eyes reflecting no emotion. “The document only resurfaced in the last few hours, Prime Minister. We had agents working around the clock to locate it. As I mentioned, we believe it’s already been copied and distributed.”
Ries exhaled slowly. “So? Do you know how it got stolen? Last I check, and I’m sure you know, it was inside the drawer of my desk.”
Vaspier adjusted his glasses, "Yes, Prime Minister. We are investigating the breach as we speak. The ISD has identified a handful of individuals who had access to your office during the critical window. However, it’s not just a matter of access—it’s timing. Whoever took the draft knew exactly when and where to strike."
Ries' eyes narrowed, her fingers still tapping rhythmically on the desk. "You're saying it's an inside job?"
"That’s a possibility we're not ruling out," Vaspier replied calmly. "Given the nature of the document and its implications, whoever is behind this has more resources and connections than your average dissident."
“Then who is it?” Ries snapped. “Tell me. I’ve given you people enough time to investigate.”
“Regretably, we have reached a dead end.”
Ries' tail flicked sharply, a sign of her growing frustration. She crossed her arms and leaned forward, eyes locked onto Vaspier. "A dead end? After all this time, that’s what you bring me? While the empire teeters on the edge?"
Vaspier remained unfazed, his expression as calm and cold as ever. "Prime Minister, we’ve narrowed down the list of suspects, but none of them have left sufficient evidence to act upon. Whoever orchestrated this has covered their tracks well. They’ve used proxies, intermediaries—no one with direct ties to the leak. We’re dealing with professionals."
"And what do you propose we do next, Vaspier?" she asked, voice laced with sarcasm. "Wait until they’ve burned the empire to the ground before we find the culprit?"
Vaspier’s thin smile appeared again, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I suggest we shift our focus, Prime Minister. The leak was a catalyst, but the bigger issue is controlling the narrative. The people don’t just want answers, they want someone to blame. If we can direct that anger elsewhere, we might be able to diffuse the situation before it gets any worse."
Ries raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite her annoyance. "You’re talking about scapegoating someone."
"Not scapegoating, Prime Minister," Vaspier corrected smoothly. "Redirecting. There are individuals within the aristocracy who have long opposed the Empress’s reforms—conservatives with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. We could use them as a lightning rod for public outrage. Shift the blame onto those who would naturally benefit from destabilizing the government…" He trailed off.
“Or, we could use the Aquileans who are unfortunate enough to happen to live inside our borders. We are at war with their homeland, no?” He finished.
Ries’ fingers stopped drumming, and her gaze hardened at Vaspier’s final suggestion. Her ears twitched in irritation, and her tail lashed behind her. The Aquileans," she repeated, almost as if testing the taste of it on her tongue. “Citizens, many of whom were born here, who’ve done nothing but live their lives under our banner. And you want to pin this on them and stir up more hatred in the middle of a war?”
Vaspier’s calm, predatory smile didn’t waver. “Prime Minister, the people are angry, confused, and scared. If we can channel that energy toward an external enemy, it will unite them under the Empire’s banner again. We are at war, after all. Sacrificing a few Aquileans for the sake of stability isn’t much of a stretch.”
Ries clenched her jaw. "And when the truth comes out? When it’s clear the Aquileans had nothing to do with this? You think people will simply forget we fed them a lie?"
“By the time the truth surfaces—if it does—the situation will have stabilized. People will have moved on, and we’ll be in control of the narrative.” Vaspier stepped closer, his voice lowering. "It’s the safest option, Prime Minister. And the most efficient."
Ries stood abruptly, moving to the window once more. She could still see the crowds surging in the distance, banners raised, voices shouting their anger into the wind. She hated this—hated the politics, the manipulation, the games that people like Vaspier played so effortlessly, wielding fear and deception as easily as a knight wielded their sword. She hated—loathed every single bit of it.
"Do you really think this will stop the strikes?" Ries asked, her tone measured. "Blaming the Aquileans? These people aren’t just angry about the leak, they’re angry about everything. The inequality, the reforms, the way they’ve been ignored by those in power. You think a scapegoat will solve all that?"
Vaspier stepped back slightly, his thin smile widening as if he were unfazed by her concerns. "It won’t solve everything, but it will buy us time. Time to address the deeper issues—or time for the people to lose their momentum and the strikes to fizzle out. Either way, we regain control."
Ries stood there in silence, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. This wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to reject Vaspier’s proposal outright, to condemn the manipulation for what it was: a cowardly move to protect the powerful at the expense of the vulnerable.
But what choice did she have? The Empire, this colossus that she had never fully embraced, now rested on a fragile foundation. Any moment of hesitation could send it crashing down, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake.
A deep, unsettling feeling crept into her chest. When did she start caring about the Empire? When had the weight of this responsibility crept into her heart? She was supposed to despise it, to despise them—yet here she stood, trying to salvage the mess they’d made.
Her instincts screamed for rebellion. To throw off the chains of decorum, march out into the streets, and tell the people the truth—to make things right. But a colder, more rational voice whispered caution. What would that change? Could her actions, as righteous as they may be, actually make a difference now? Or would they only add fuel to the inferno already raging outside?
For whom does the bell toll?
She wasn’t sure anymore. Perhaps it tolled for all of them—for the guilty and innocent alike, tangled in a web of lies and power plays.
Ries drew a long breath, then turned to face Vaspier. Her tail flicked sharply, a sign of her continued agitation, but her expression was carefully neutral. “…I’ll consider it.”
Vaspier’s smile didn’t falter. “That’s all I ask, Prime Minister. I trust you’ll make the right decision.”
As he turned to leave, Ries remained by the window, watching the people below. She wondered how many of those people understood the depths of the corruption beneath their feet, or if they, too, were caught in the web of lies spun by those in power.
The absence of morality in politics, in every decision she had been forced to make, terrified her more than she wanted to admit. She wasn’t made for this world, this game of manipulation and deceit. It clawed at her conscience, a weight growing heavier with each passing day.
Looking back at it now, she should’ve come clean to the guards that she wasn’t a government official—should’ve told them she wasn’t meant to be Deputy Minister, let alone Prime Minister. But she hadn’t. She had played the role, first out of necessity, then obligation, and now... She wasn’t even sure anymore.
Once more, her mind wandered back to the days when her life had been simpler—when all that mattered was survival and becoming stronger in her tribe. The bureaucratic halls of power couldn’t be more different from the life she knew, where strength and honor governed everything. Yet, here she stood, entangled in the Empire’s machinery, trying to protect her people from a system that had done nothing but subjugate them.
She clenched her fist. Had she become complicit in the very oppression she once fought against?
The doubt gnawed at her, but beneath it was something stronger, something fiercer. She couldn’t go on like this, playing the game by the Empire’s rules, tiptoeing around the whims of the aristocracy and the Empress. There was a fire growing inside her—one that had been stoked by the cries of the masses outside.
For once, she had something the Empire couldn’t take from her: a mandate from the people. These weren’t just riots, they were cries for justice, for change. And she could be the one to deliver it, if she had the courage to defy the powers that be.
She took another deep breath and closed her eyes, centering herself. Whatever decision she made, it would echo far beyond the walls of this office, far beyond the Empire’s capital, and into the world.
She would do it her way.
Whether the Empress or the aristocracy liked it or not, the consequences be damned.
----------------------------------------
Night had fallen on Valyra, but the protests showed no signs of slowing. The city's streets, normally quieter by this hour, were alive with the clamor of voices, and even a sudden, torrential downpour couldn’t quench the fiery determination of the crowds. Rain cascaded from rooftops and hammered against the pavement, soaking everything in its path, yet the people continued, undeterred.
The tavern door swung open with a forceful thud, and Herman stumbled inside, dripping wet from head to toe. His gruff face was plastered with rainwater, his coat clinging to his broad shoulders. "Bah!" he growled, shaking droplets from his hair.
Behind him, his daughter slipped through the doorway, more composed, carefully collapsing a soaked umbrella. "Dad, we could've shared the umbrella.”
"Didn’t want to inconvenience you," Herman grumbled, though his words were softened by a slight grin. He looked around the tavern, noticing the unusually large crowd.
The room buzzed with the chatter of customers seeking refuge from the storm and perhaps from the rising tension outside. Behind the bar counter, Bart looked worn thin, rushing between patrons, his face a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude for the sudden business.
"Remember," Herman started, his voice lowering as he glanced back at his daughter, "don’t—"
"Don’t drink alcohol, don’t talk to strangers, don’t get in trouble," she finished the familiar lecture, rolling her eyes. She had heard it countless times before, but it was clear her father meant well.
Herman gave a curt nod, satisfied, though a hint of concern lingered in his eyes. The streets were unpredictable these days—protests, dissent, unrest. It wasn’t the kind of environment where a father could feel entirely at ease, even in a place as familiar as Bart's tavern.
They found a table near the window, where they could still hear the faint echo of the protests outside. The rain drummed against the glass, casting blurry shadows of passersby. Herman sat heavily in his chair, wiping his face with a napkin while his daughter sat calmly in her seat, swinging her legs.
"I'll go order," he said, standing up. "I’ll get you tea," he added, his voice softening slightly as he gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
She gave him a small nod, her eyes drifting to the window as he headed toward the bar.
Herman reached the bar, wiping his damp hands on his cheap coat. Bart glanced up from polishing a glass and gave him a nod of recognition, his usual weariness softened by a hint of a smile.
“Long day?” Bart asked, his voice gravelly from years of tavern talk. His gaze flickered over Herman’s shoulder. “I see you brought your daughter with you tonight. Managed to sort out her tuition yet?”
Herman’s expression tightened, his jaw setting as he glanced back at his daughter. She was staring out the rain-soaked window, oblivious to the conversation.
Herman took a deep breath, he leaned on the bar, fingers drumming against the worn wood as he spoke. “I’m planning to join the army.”
Bart froze, his eyes widening as the words sank in. “The army?” he hissed, careful not to let his voice carry over the hum of the tavern. “Are you out of your mind? You could get killed!”
Herman held up a hand, as if to calm Bart’s outburst. “I know, I know.” He glanced over his shoulder at his daughter, still watching the rain trickle down the window, lost in her own world. “But the government’s calling for a general mobilization, and it’s the navy getting sent into the thick of things with the Aquileans. I’m not heading to the front lines, Bart. I’ll be in the logistics division, far from any actual fighting.”
Bart shook his head, still looking unconvinced. “And you think that’s any better? You think it’s safe just because it’s not the front lines? War’s unpredictable, Herman. No one’s safe.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Herman replied, voice lowering. “The tuition, the protests, the bills piling up... I can’t wait around for something better. The pay is decent, and it comes with benefits. She—” he nodded toward his daughter, “—she needs this.”
Bart's expression softened, but the worry didn't leave his eyes. “It’s a gamble, Herman. You sure you’re willing to risk it all?”
Herman took a deep breath. “I’m doing it for her. I don’t have the luxury of being afraid.”
Bart looked down, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. “War changes people,” he muttered. “Just... be careful, alright? Your daughter needs you more than any paycheck.”
Herman gave a slight nod, appreciating the sentiment but knowing it didn’t change his decision. "I’ll make sure she’s taken care of. I’ll come back." Holding up two fingers, he added, “One tea for my daughter, and something strong for me.”
Bart nodded mechanically, his mind clearly elsewhere as he grabbed a mug. “Right, coming up.”
Just as Herman settled back at the counter, the tavern door burst open, slamming against the wall with a force that silenced the room. A gust of rain-laden wind followed, but it was the entrance of the young woman, fiery and fierce, that drew every gaze. The red armband she wore was unmistakable—hands clasped inside a cog, surrounded by a star, colored yellow—symbolizing the CDLWP, the revolutionary faction that had been igniting unrest across the city.
Behind her, a group of similarly clad revolutionaries entered, their wet boots clomping against the wooden floor. They carried red flags bearing the same emblem, their movements purposeful and loud in the suddenly tense atmosphere.
“Barkeeper! We need to borrow this place for negotiations!” the woman’s voice rang out, commanding the attention of everyone present. “We will compensate you fairly.”
Bart’s face paled. His hands stopped mid-motion as he was about to pour Herman’s drink. The tavern went silent, all eyes darting between the newcomers and Bart, who was clearly trying to decide how to respond.
Bart opened his mouth, hesitated, and then closed it again. But it didn’t matter—the CDLWP wasn’t waiting for permission. The woman motioned to her comrades, and they immediately began rearranging tables and chairs, making themselves at home without a second thought.
Herman watched the scene unfold, his grip tightening around his glass. He shot a quick glance at his daughter, who had turned her head toward the commotion, her eyes wide with curiosity.
Curiosity kills the cat, as they say.
Bart finally regained his voice, though it was shaky. “I run a quiet tavern. You’re going to scare off my customers.”
The woman fixed him with a sharp look, her gaze steely. “We don’t intend to cause trouble. This negotiation could shape the future of Valyra, and your tavern just happens to be the safest place to hold it. You’re free to stay open—your patrons will be safe.”
Bart swallowed hard, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. He glanced at Herman, a silent plea in his eyes, but Herman gave a small shake of his head. This wasn’t something either of them could control.
“You want a drink?” Bart finally asked the woman, his voice resigned.
She smirked, though there was no humor in it. “Just water. We’re here to talk, not to party.” She glanced around at her comrades, who had begun setting up their makeshift negotiation space. “But don’t mind us. Carry on.”
Herman returned to his daughter’s table, placing her tea in front of her. “Everything okay?” she asked with a soft voice.
“Yeah,” Herman replied, though his eyes flicked back to the CDLWP group. “Just a little... excitement.”
The patrons who hadn’t left tried to resume their conversations, but the mood in the tavern had irrevocably shifted. All the while, the young revolutionaries murmured among themselves, plotting their next move as if they were oblivious to the impact they had on the space around them.
Several minutes passed, and the revolutionaries seemed to settle in, taking control of the tavern's atmosphere as though it were their own war room. They huddled in close circles, murmuring in low voices, casting the occasional glance toward the entrance as if expecting someone important. But no one arrived, and the steady downpour outside likely kept whoever they were waiting for delayed.
Herman sipped his drink slowly, his eyes never straying far from the group. His daughter, still curiously glancing at the strangers, whispered, "Who are they?"
He hesitated for a moment, unsure how to explain. “They’re from a group called the CDLWP. Revolutionaries.”
“Are they... dangerous?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
Herman’s eyes flicked over to the woman with the red armband, discussing something with an older man. “Depends on who you ask,” he muttered. “But they’re not here to cause trouble—at least, not right now.”
His daughter stared at the group for a few more seconds, then took a sip of her tea. “They look serious.”
“They are,” Herman replied, glancing again at the door. He could feel the tension in the air building, the uneasy silence occasionally broken by the sound of rain pounding against the windows. Whoever they were waiting for, it seemed the tavern was stuck in a strange limbo until they arrived.
Bart, visibly rattled, continued tending to the remaining patrons with less of his usual charm. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if he were waiting for something to go horribly wrong.
Then, the tavern door creaked open once more, drawing everyone's attention. This time, the figure who entered moved slowly, deliberately. She was tall, cloaked in a dark, soaked overcoat. The brim of her hat dripped with rain as she stepped forward, her boots squelching against the floor.
"Looks like I’m late," the woman remarked, her voice smooth but carrying an edge of familiarity that tugged at Herman’s memory.
He squinted at her, feeling a strange sense of recognition, as if he had heard that voice somewhere before. It tugged at the corners of his mind, teasing him with its familiarity but not quite coming into focus.
The woman reached up and pulled off her wide-brimmed hat, shaking it slightly to rid it of the rainwater. As she did, two feline ears sprang free, twitching with irritation from the damp. Herman’s breath caught in his throat.
There was no mistaking her now. There was only one Beastmen who can wear such clothes, even if he didn’t know what kind of Beastmen she is, there’s no mistaking her status.
It was her—the Prime Minister herself.
Herman’s heart skipped a beat. The Prime Minister—here? In this tavern? He had heard stories of her rise to power, whispered accounts of her sharp mind and even sharper instincts. Yet seeing her now, drenched from the storm yet commanding the room with little more than her presence, he felt a ripple of unease run through him. What could possibly bring someone of her stature to this backwater tavern, especially on a night like this?
The revolutionaries had quieted down as well, their murmured plans put on pause. They too recognized the woman who now stood in their midst, though whether they saw her as a threat or an opportunity was hard to say.
Her amber eyes scanned the room, assessing everyone with a calculating gaze before settling on the group of CDLWP members huddled together. The leader, the young woman who had commandeered the tavern earlier, straightened up, her fiery demeanor tempered by the sudden change in atmosphere.
“Negotiations, is it?” The Prime Minister’s voice cut through the tension, there was no hint of expression in her voice. “You should’ve invited me sooner. After all, it’s my empire you’re trying to change, isn’t it?”
The woman with the red armband tensed but didn’t falter. “Prime Minister Katzennia,” she addressed her formally. “We didn’t think the government would take interest in a peaceful discussion among citizens.”
The Prime Minister’s expression didn’t change. “Peaceful discussions don’t usually involve barricading streets and inciting riots. But I’ll indulge you for now.” She gestured with the hat in her hand.
Herman felt his palms grow sweaty, gripping the table in front of him. His daughter, on the other hand, looked ecstatic. Herman only just remembered that apparently her daughter admires the Prime Minister as some kind of hero.
The Prime Minister sat on her seat opposite to the CDLWP leader. Her soaked overcoat clung to her frame, though she seemed completely unfazed by the discomfort. “Let’s see what you have to offer then.”
“Offer?” the young leader echoed, trying to maintain her composure. “This isn’t a negotiation about favors. We want systemic reforms. A fair wage, the right to organize, and the abolition of forced labor in the factories. Your government needs to stop bleeding the people dry.”
“And the constitution—don’t think we don’t know what’s in it! We demand free and fair elections, not this farce where a chosen few decide who gets to represent the people.” She continued, her tone growing bolder by the time she finished.
“Alright.”
“See! This is—Wait, what?”
The revolutionary leader blinked in surprise, her rehearsed rebuttal dying in her throat. She had expected pushback, a heated exchange where she could rally the room and expose the Prime Minister’s dismissiveness. But the simple, unexpected agreement left her momentarily speechless.
"Alright?" she echoed, the word barely escaping her lips. Her body, still tense from her earlier declaration, now wavered with uncertainty.
The Prime Minister’s expression remained calm, though her eyes gleamed with an unreadable intensity. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table, the damp fabric of her overcoat making a soft squishing sound. “You want systemic reforms, free and fair elections, and an end to forced labor,” she repeated, her voice clear and even. “I said alright.”
Herman’s grip on the table tightened, and he could hear the soft gasp of his daughter beside him. The room, already thick with tension, seemed to freeze in time as everyone processed the Prime Minister’s words.
The revolutionary leader’s mouth opened and closed as if she were trying to catch her breath. “But… you...”
“You expected me to argue with you,” the Prime Minister interjected, filling the silence that followed. “You wanted me to tell you that such reforms are impossible or that you’re asking for too much. But I’m not here to dismiss your demands. I’ve been listening—closely.”
The leader clenched her fists, struggling to regain her footing in the conversation. “You can’t seriously mean to just... give in. The government never gives in. There’s always a cost.”
The Prime Minister waved her had. “There is always a cost, but not the one you’re thinking of.” She paused, her fingers tapping the edge of the table lightly. “You see, the changes you demand are already in motion. Whether you’re aware of it or not, forces within the government—within the Empire—are pushing for the very same things you’re here to fight for. What you’ve done, by raising your voices, is merely accelerating the inevitable.”
The young leader narrowed her eyes. “If that’s true, then why has nothing changed?”
“Because,” the Prime Minister nonchalantly responded, “reform takes time. Revolutions, however, are impatient. They—you— want immediate results, consequences be damned. You don’t trust the system, so you try to dismantle it—without realizing that by doing so, you make it harder to implement the very changes you want.”
Herman felt his heart pounding in his chest, his sweaty palms making it difficult to keep his hands steady. His daughter, oblivious to his anxiety, was practically glowing with admiration for the Prime Minister, her eyes wide with excitement. She seemed to hang on every word Katzennia said, as though witnessing a defining moment in history.
“But,” the leader pressed, her voice firming again, “what guarantees do we have that the reforms will happen? You talk of trust, Prime Minister, but what reason do we have to trust you? Or your government?”
The Prime Minister leaned back. “I have no reason not to trust my own people. We are at war, are we not? Against a greater threat than internal division. The question is, are you patriots of this empire—or are you willing to let it burn to prove your point?”
The revolutionary hesitated, she glanced at her comrades, then back at the Prime Minister. "Patriots? We're fighting for the people, Prime Minister. The people who suffer while you sit in your high towers, safe and secure."
“And that’s exactly why I’m here,” the Prime Minister replied. "I'm offering you the chance to work with me—to be part of the solution instead of the problem.”
The older man who sat beside the young leader put a hand on her shoulders, then he pulled her back presumeably to discuss.
The leader's brow furrowed as she listened, her earlier bravado now tempered by uncertainty. The Prime Minister, for her part, waited with a patience that seemed calculated. She knew the power of silence, and in this moment, she wielded it like a weapon.
Herman's daughter, oblivious to the undercurrents of the negotiation, leaned in and whispered excitedly to her father, “She’s incredible, isn’t she? She doesn’t even have to raise her voice.”
Herman barely heard her, his own nerves too frayed to respond.
After a few more murmured exchanges, the young leader straightened, the older man giving her a nod of reassurance. She faced the Prime Minister once more, though the fire in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by something more measured, almost pragmatic. Her voice, when it came, was steady but resigned.
“we’ll work with you.”
The Prime Minister smiled. “Good choice. Though, now I must ask. How did you get the draft of the constitution?”
“We—"
“AHHHHH!!!!” A scream pierced through the air, sharp and panicked.
The tavern exploded into motion, the sound reverberating off the walls as a man rushed from the crowd. His face contorted with rage, and in his hand gleamed a sword.
Herman barely had time to process the scene unfolding in front of him. The man moved fast—too fast. The Prime Minister seemed to register the danger only at the last second, standing abruptly and raising the wooden chair in a swift, instinctive motion. The sword crashed into the chair’s frame, the force of the blow splintering the wood, but the strike was only deflected, not stopped.
A sickening thud followed as the blade found its target, piercing the Prime Minister’s thigh.
“NO!” Herman’s daughter screamed, her eyes wide in horror as the room descended into chaos.
The Prime Minister staggered, gripping the shattered remains of the chair with one hand while blood began to stain her soaked overcoat. But even as the pain shot through her leg, her amber eyes were still sharp.
Before the assailant could strike again, the tavern erupted. Patrons surged forward, a wave of bodies crashing toward the man, intent on subduing him. The revolutionaries, no longer bystanders, leapt into action. Shouts, curses, and the sound of tables and chairs being overturned filled the air.
The assailant swung his sword wildly, desperate to escape, but the combined force of the crowd was too much. Someone tackled him to the ground, and the blade skittered across the floor, out of reach.
The Prime Minister, meanwhile, had already begun assessing the situation, despite the blood trickling down her leg. She reached to her brooch pinned on her lapel and spoke some words into it. There was no panic in her tone, as if she’s been through this before.
Herman’s daughter, her face pale, turned to her father. “Is she going to be alright?” she asked, her voice trembling.
He could barely find the words, watching as revolutionaries and patrons alike struggled to pin the would-be assassin to the ground. The Prime Minister, despite the injury, was already trying to stand, refusing to show weakness in front of those gathered.
Just then, a group of men pushed their way through the crowd, Royal Guards—the Prime Minister’s guards, no doubt finally catching up. One of them rushed to her side, his face taut with concern. "Prime Minister, we need to get you out of here.”
“I’m not leaving until this man is dealt with.”
The struggle at the center of the room intensified, but it ended just as quickly as it began. The assailant’s last, desperate struggles ceased as his body slumped to the ground. The revolutionaries backed away, leaving him lying in a pool of his own blood.
Silence descended over the room, the weight of violence heavy in the air. But as the tension began to ebb, it was the sight of the assassin’s body that sent a fresh wave of horror through the crowd.
Herman, still rooted to the spot, stared at the corpse in disbelief. The man who had attacked the Prime Minister wasn’t lying there. In his place was something grotesque—a creature that, at first glance, seemed humanoid but was unmistakably not human. Leathery wings splayed out beneath its broken form, and sharp fangs jutted out from its mouth, twisted in a deathly grimace.
Gasps echoed around the tavern as people backed away from the body, eyes wide with terror. Whispers broke out, murmurs of confusion and disbelief spreading like wildfire through the crowd.
“That’s… that’s not the man who attacked her,” someone stammered from the back, their voice shaking.
For the Prime Minister, however, this strange turn of events might solve more than it complicated. Despite the authoritarian mask she wore, Ries was shaken to her core, though she would never let it show.
----------------------------------------
Ries sometimes wondered if she was a miracle worker or simply reckless. She had successfully convinced the strikers to stand down and return to their jobs, though at the cost of promising actual liberal reforms without alerting the Empress beforehand.
"Compulsive, much?" she thought to herself with a smirk.
Was it her impatience that drove her to act, or was it the intoxicating taste of freedom—of making choices without waiting for permission? Either way, getting stabbed had certainly not been part of her plan. Not even close.
Her left leg still ached with a stiff, throbbing pain, forcing her to lean heavily on a cane to walk. The pain not just physical but a harsh reality check on her limits.
She swore she was much more agile when she was an adventurer. What happened? Come to think of it, it has been ages since she trained or even wielded aa dagger or sword. The last time was during that Palushian war.
Speaking of, she should ask Jachs about the status of the Palushian insurgency.
She glanced down at her leg, her hand tightening on the cane. Sighing, she stood up and walked behind her desk, looking out through the window. She was expecting someone, you see.
As if on que, the door to her office opened.
“Madam Prime Minister,” the man who entered spoke. It was Vaspier.
“Director.” Ries acknowledged, turning from the window. She leaned on her cane, keeping her posture straight despite the discomfort. "Have you figured anything out yet?"
“As a matter of fact, we have.” Vaspier stepped forward, his voice low but direct. “The attempted assassination last night wasn’t carried out by any ordinary assailant. It was a member of the Daemon race. Demons, if you will—the same kind that the western kingdoms are currently at war with.”
“Them? In Valyra?” She doesn’t exactly know about that race, but she just nods along.
“Yes, and it gets worse,” Vaspier continued. “They are shapeshifters. The man who attacked you was one of them, disguised as a human. It explains why his body transformed after death.”
“Shapeshifters.” She repeated the word, more to herself than to him. “And what does the ISD make of this?”
“We suspect something more,” Vaspier calmly said. “The Daemons have no reason to target the Empire unless they have allies here—or a greater plan in mind. Perhaps even an attempt to destabilize us from within.”
Ries gripped the cane tighter. The threat wasn’t what frustrated her most—it was the workload that had suddenly multiplied. Just when she thought she was making headway, this crisis appeared.
“And you're certain it was a Daemon?” She asked, seeking confirmation.
“Well, you saw it yourself. The man shapeshifted back into his original form after he died.”
Ries gave a slow, measured nod, her mind already turning over the implications. “And I assume the ISD has developed plans?”
Vaspier took a step forward, his tone calm, almost clinical. “Yes, Prime Minister, we have. After identifying the germs, the inoculation campaign would be smooth-sailing.”
Ries raised an eyebrow. “...You’re talking about a purge, aren’t you?”
“A controlled operation,” Vaspier corrected. “If we want to contain this threat, we need to act decisively. Root out the Daemon shapeshifting as our people.”
"And who exactly are the 'germs' you intend to target?"
“Why, everyone. We have to make sure they aren’t who they’re supposed to be.”
“Everyone?” she repeated with disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“Yes, Prime Minister. We have to ensure that no one hiding in plain sight is a Daemon. That means we can’t exclude anyone from suspicion. Their ability to shapeshift makes them the perfect infiltrators.”
Ries felt a chill run through her. “You’re suggesting that every person in this city is a potential enemy.”
“To a degree, yes,” Vaspier replied, unflinching. “We’ve already seen what they’re capable of. The attack on you was only the beginning. If we wait, if we give them time to burrow deeper, the cost of inaction will be far greater than any discomfort now.”
“And how do you plan to 'make sure' they’re not Daemons?” Ries pressed. “What kind of tests or processes are you even talking about here?”
“We’re developing arcane and biological tests—things that even the most skilled shapeshifters can’t evade. But in the meantime, we’ll have to rely on intensive scrutiny; identification checks, surveillance, and controlled interrogations. It’s the only way.”
Ries leaned against the desk, feeling the weight of the decision press down on her. She knew that if she gave him the green light, it would set a dangerous precedent. But the alternative—doing nothing while the Daemons gained ground—felt just as perilous.
Ah, fuck it. Anything she said or decided will probably bite her in the ass. But that’s already happened like what? Nine times already? A hundred?
“See that you do.”