“…That concludes my report, my Imperatrice.”

General Eras, commander of the Daemon armies, kept her head bowed, waiting for a reaction. Kneeling before the Imperatrice—the ruler of all Daemonkind—she felt the weight of her silence suffocating.

The Imperatrice’s expression was cold, unreadable. Eras’s pulse quickened as the seconds dragged on. Had she overlooked something? Was her report lacking? Was the news not what the Imperatrice had wanted to hear?

Finally, the Imperatrice’s voice sliced through the silence, low and edged with disbelief.

“That’s it?”

“P-pardon, Your Grace?” Eras stammered, her mind reeling. Had she misjudged something? The Imperatrice’s gaze turned inward, as if considering some hidden flaw in their victory.

The entire Valerian Imperial army—three hundred thousand strong—had been shattered, routed in days. Their victory had been effortless, eerily so. Was this really the military power Valeria had boasted for so long?

This was the Valeria everyone feared? Could an empire with so many resources be so… vulnerable?

It was a thought that unnerved even the Imperatrice. Was the infamous Valerian Empire nothing more than a paper tiger?

The strong and professional standing army of the Empire numbering of around three hundred thousand was defeated just like that, against her army of less-professional and hastily put together army of five hundred thousand.

The Imperatrice broke her silence, “I expected Valeria to be a worthy challenge—a conquest that would test us, even bloody us.” Her gaze bore into Eras with an unyielding intensity. “Tell me, General, is there any explanation for why they crumbled so easily?”

“Your Grace,” Eras began, clearing her throat to hide her discomfort, “our allies among the Valkorians and Borians report that the Empire has known no large-scale conflict in over a century. Their commanders have grown overconfident and stagnant. They left numerous gaps in their strategy and, remarkably, they haven’t deployed their famed fleet of airships.”

“So… we have yet to face the full brunt of their strength?”

“No, Your Grace,” Eras admitted, nerves tightening as she continued, “but our landships have made devastating headway. The Imperials were ill-prepared, they appeared… terrified, confused by their power and sheer size.”

The Imperatrice’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Fear… How sweet. But I don’t want them cowering. I want them broken, utterly and completely.” Her gaze shifted, hardening with renewed determination. “If Valeria has hidden strengths, they’ll show themselves soon enough. General, I want no illusions of their invincibility to remain among their ranks.”

Eras bowed her head. “It will be done, my Imperatrice. We will draw out whatever resistance remains and crush it.”

The path to Starfall lay open once more. This time, no Valerian force stood to guard it. The road was clear, ripe for conquest. For the Daemon army, the timing was crucial. They were a relentless force, but few knew just how desperately they needed this campaign.

Unbeknownst to everyone, the Imperatrice’s miraculous unification of the Daemon tribes had come at a cost, one she’d kept carefully hidden. She had promised lands lush with life, so vast that no Daemon need encroach upon another’s domain. Lands rich with the essence of mortal fear, away from the fiery, desolate hellscapes of their homeland. A place where they could settle, feed, and thrive without end.

Fear, to Daemons, was more than power; it was sustenance. Just as humankind needed air, Daemons depended on the essence of terror that only mortal minds could produce. Their hunger for it was unrelenting, as natural to them as breathing. Since the dawn of time, they had battled amongst themselves, each tribe constantly seeking dominance, each skirmish a chance to taste the fear of the fallen.

But now, under the Imperatrice’s rule, peace had reigned—peace that had caused their numbers to swell. Yet as the population grew, so did their hunger. Their taste for fear had outpaced the meager reserves available in their own kind. The Daemon race was starving. With no wars, no mortal terror to sate them, their thirst for conquest had become a question of survival.

It’s a ticking timebomb. Daemon society was built for one thing and one thing only.

War.

Built for endless conflict, it could not sustain itself in peace.

Without war, Daemon society will falter. In order to keep her hastily industrialized empire keep functioning, the factories churning, and the army growing, she needed an influx of resources, fear, and land to be assimilated into itself, lest it would first slow down, then stall, and eventually collapse in on itself under its sheer bloated weight.

The race was on, her empire would need to keep expanding until there is none left to conquer. Even going so far as to betray her allies when the time is right.

There was only one path forward—complete unification, a world ruled by Daemons.

----------------------------------------

image [https://i.imgur.com/LjZtxJV.png]

The air felt thick and heavy, more oppressive than the usual chill that crept into the office. Outside, a relentless blizzard swept through the streets, blanketing everything in a shroud of icy white. For the past three days, Ries had been forced to stay overnight, buried in a mountain of administrative work.

But now, as she sat in her leather chair, she found herself confronted by an unexpected visitor.

“Minister of Military Affairs, Lord-General Alto Jachs, Baron of Lechdens,” she greeted coolly, leaning back as her amber eyes met his. “What brings you here?”

For a moment, Jachs remained silent, his face shadowed with something unreadable. He stepped forward, stopping at her desk, and produced a neatly folded piece of paper, placing it in front of her. Ries eyed it with mild curiosity before unfolding it.

Eyeing him curiously, Ries took the piece of paper and unfolded it.

Her brow arched as she took in the title: Battle Report.

It detailed the recent engagement against the Daemon forces, outlining the General Staff’s strategy—mages, shock troopers, artillery—but notably, no aircraft. Her eyes scanned down the lines, catching the casualty count, and her pulse slowed.

Then, she looked at another paragraph.

127,411 soldiers killed in action.

11,000 Missing in Action.

An uneasy silence settled between them, cold as the blizzard outside.

“I would like to resign,” Jachs said suddenly.

“Like damn you are. How did this happen?”

"We miscalculated," he began, his voice barely a murmur. "Our intelligence suggested the Daemon forces were poorly organized, that their numbers and cohesion would break against the sheer force of our artillery and disciplined ranks. But... they adapted. Faster than we ever anticipated.”

Ries leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And the aircraft? Why were they grounded? Why don’t we have any airships in the air when our doctrine demands it?”

Jachs exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping. "It was sabotage. Our mechanics discovered evidence of a corrosive agent laced in the fuel reserves—”

“Bullshit. At which airport? I read the reports from time to time, and from my understanding, we don’t even have an airport in range for that battle, nor do we have enough space for any airship.”

Jachs froze, caught off guard, his confidence wavering under her gaze. "I… well, the report—"

“Enough,” Ries cut him off. “If you’re going to offer explanations, at least make them consistent with reality. Air support wasn’t an option, so let’s dispense with the evasions. What went wrong?”

Jachs drew in a slow breath, visibly regrouping as he met her gaze. “The truth, Prime Minister, is that they’ve unveiled a weapon of war our tactics simply weren’t prepared for.”

“Such as?”

“A landship, Madam Prime Minister,” Jachs replied, his voice strained. “The likes of which we’ve never encountered before. These behemoths are heavily armored, capable of both offense and defense, and our conventional artillery barely dents their hulls.”

Ries’s brow furrowed. “A landship? Are you telling me they’ve developed something akin to a fortress on wheels?”

“Exactly,” he confirmed. “They’re equipped with cannons, multiple turrets, and reinforced to withstand even our heaviest fire. Our forces were overwhelmed before they could adapt. Our strategies simply hadn’t accounted for anything like this.”

Great. Another disaster to juggle. First a defeat, now an entirely new weapon capable of shredding through their lines like paper. Her fingers drummed against the desk as she considered the implications.

“Can the military replicate it?”

“I—”

“Never mind, you’re fired.”

Jachs froze. “Madam Prime Minister, I—”

“Spare me,” Ries interjected, leaning back and gesturing toward the door. “Your inability to anticipate this cost lives, and I won’t risk a repeat. You’re dismissed.”

Without waiting for another word, she turned her gaze to her documents, signaling the conversation’s end.

As Jachs left, his footsteps echoing with resignation, Ries allowed herself a brief sigh, though her mind was already turning back to a far older, more insidious problem. She slid open her desk drawer and retrieved a document, setting it on the desk before her. It was the petition, the one that had set her on this path in the first place.

The proposal had been clear in its objectives; to fuel the economy through the war industry, channeling resources, manpower, and innovation into the machinery of conflict. In her initial inexperience, she had followed its recommendations, trusting the ministers she handpicked. But now, with disaster after disaster piling onto her shoulders, she was beginning to see the petition’s true nature.

All this talk of fortifying the economy had been cloaked in patriotic language, but in reality, it was a mechanism to feed the empire’s appetite for money, an economy fueled by blood, not progress. It was a system built to churn, grind, and profit, no matter the toll it took on those caught in the gears.

And now, that machine was beginning to break, leaving her to pick up the pieces. She drummed her fingers against the desk, after a beat, she picked up the telephone. It rang a few times before the line clicked, and Clarissa’s calm, if surprised, voice answered.

“Clarissa, get me Lord-Marshal Fountainne and Director Vaspier.”

"Right away, Madam Prime Minister," Clarissa replied, her professionalism slipping just enough to show her surprise at such a late-night request.

Setting the receiver down, Ries resumed her rhythmic tapping on the desk, the chill in the room nearly lost on her as she thought through the implications. If she was going to pivot the empire’s course, she’ll need to set things straight.

Minutes later, the telephone rang again, cutting through the quiet. She lifted the receiver to Clarissa’s calm voice.

“They’re both on their way, Madam. Should I notify anyone else?”

“No, just them. This meeting is off the record,” Ries replied.

As the line disconnected, she straightened in her chair, fixing up her suit. It wasn’t long before she heard the faint sound of footsteps in the hall, the low murmurs of guards stepping aside, and then a firm knock on her office door.

“Enter,” she called.

The door opened, and in walked Lord-Marshal Fountainne and Director Vaspier, an oddly matched pair in both demeanor and dress. The Lord-Marshal, tall and commanding, wore a full dress uniform with a minimum of medals, his sword swaying at his hip. Beside him, Director Vaspier seemed understated, dressed in a simple black suit accented by a red tie with a distinctive golden zig-zag pattern

The two men gave a brief bow before seating themselves across from her.

“Gentlemen,” Ries began, her tone cutting through the silence, “it has come to my attention that this Empire is facing yet another crisis. And this one, like the last, threatens the integrity of the Empire once more.”

Both men remained silent, their expressions carefully measured. They were noblemen, experienced politicians, they knew how to gauge a room, and they sensed the gravity in her tone. With a deliberate motion, Ries placed a document in front of them, the petition from the seven ministers.

“Read this.”

The two leaned forward, their eyes scanning the paper’s contents. Fountainne’s jaw tightened subtly as he read, while Vaspier’s brow furrowed, though his face remained impassive. The petition, though brief, was a masterstroke of manipulation worded to appear like a call for economic rejuvenation but crafted to entrench the empire’s dependency on the war industry.

It proposed to prolong the war by any means necessary, investments into several sectors, and most notably, putting several industries under state-control under a so-called “Economic Committee”, all in the name of “national strength” and “preparedness.” But the true purpose was evident to anyone willing to see, to funnel resources and power into the hands of a few at the expense of the Empire’s future.

Vaspier, as if on cue, cleared his throat and asked, “what do you need me to do?”

Ries nodded. “I’ll have to trouble you with another round of purges. I want you to target these specific ministers who signed the petition and have them arrested, at least for now.”

“And the charges?”

“Treason against the crown.”

Vaspier gave a curt nod. “Consider it done.”

Turning to Fountainne, Ries continued, “Meanwhile, Lord-Marshal, I plan to dismiss several military officials whose loyalties seem… compromised. I’ll need you to recommend suitable replacements.”

“I’ll assemble a list by morning,” the Marshal replied as he set down the piece of paper.

“Good.”

With the practical steps now set in motion, Ries leaned back, though her mind continued to work. Dismissing compromised military officials and purging war-mongering ministers was essential, yet it barely scratched the surface of the political fallout looming before her.

These purges would open crucial vacancies in her cabinet—Finance, Foreign Affairs, Military Affairs—key posts that required shrewd, loyal statesmen. But finding qualified allies within a climate ravaged by recent purges was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Eden’s failed coup had already swept the Empire’s nobility, and those who remained were either inexperienced or under intense scrutiny.

The elections were only months away, and tensions were already at a breaking point. Expectations among the people were soaring, and any delay would almost certainly incite another wave of unrest in the capital. The National Assembly had already been dissolved in anticipation, leaving a power vacuum that would be difficult to manage in the coming weeks. If she miscalculated, this maneuver could backfire, giving the CDLWP and other republican factions fuel to fan anti-royalist sentiment.

Taking a steadying breath, she assessed her next moves. Her inner circle would need to be airtight, aligned on every point. Reestablishing stability would require allies who could keep order and resist the inevitable political wrangling once the Assembly has been elected and convened.

Thus, her opening volley must be precise.

“Lord-Marshal, Director,” she began, her gaze sharp. “Do either of you know any experienced statesmen? Someone we can trust?”

The Lord-Marshal shook his head with a faint sigh. “Unfortunately, most of the senior statesmen are either imprisoned or dead. Those left are mainly young nobles—eager, perhaps, but too inexperienced for a crisis of this magnitude.”

Ries sighed. “Figures…” She drummed her fingers against the polished wood of her desk. “Then, we’ll need to mold what we have into what we need.”

Fountainne looked at her thoughtfully. “The younger nobles could be an advantage. They’ll be more malleable, willing to prove themselves, especially if they see themselves as saviors of the Empire.”

“Hmm…” Ries’ expression turned thoughtful.

Though less experienced, the younger generation, with their inexperience, might indeed lack the ideological rigidity of their elders. Potentially malleable, she thought. If guided correctly, they could champion her vision for reform while tempering the influence of her old guard.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Then we’ll use that angle. Lord-Marshal, I want you to assemble a shortlist of these younger nobles, ones with enough skill or potential to be shaped into capable leaders. They may be untested, but their inexperience might make them adaptable.”

"Prime Minister," Vaspier interjected smoothly, "there is one candidate with experience who might be of use, though she has ties to the late Lord Eden."

Ries’s eyebrows lifted in interest. "Ties to Eden? Who? His wife?"

"His daughter, actually," Vaspier clarified, watching her reaction closely. "Lady Rosaline. She’s kept herself far from Imperial politics, which may be why you haven’t heard of her."

"Lady Rosaline?" Ries began, but Fountainne shifted as if to speak. Before he could, Vaspier continued with a faint smile.

"An interesting fact, Madam Prime Minister," he said, amusement glinting in his eyes. "The Lord-Marshal’s son once proposed to her but was promptly declined by Lord Eden himself."

"Really?" Ries turned to Fountainne, a brow raised in intrigue. "Is that true, Lord-Marshal?"

Fountainne’s expression remained controlled, though a faint flush crept into his cheeks. "Yes, Prime Minister. Though it’s hardly relevant anymore."

"Relevant or not," Ries smirked, "it seems she’s well-connected. What are her qualifications?"

“She’s an intellectual at heart,” Fountainne replied, arms folding. “And, as far as I know, she was a classmate of the Empress herself. So yes, she’s well-acquainted with both the throne and the aristocracy.” His expression shifted slightly. “But therein lies the problem.”

"How so? Being classmates with the Empress is hardly a problem."

"It’s not the association, per se," Fountainne replied carefully. "It’s that she differs from the Empress and her father… considerably."

"Different, how?" Ries asked, her curiosity piqued.

"For one, she’s an open and unrepentant socialist," Fountainne replied, his voice flat.

----------------------------------------

At the same time, a different meeting was taking place. A meeting deep within the mountains.

Azazel had always admired the architecture of the Dwarves. They were brutally utilitarian, and the sparse elements of grandeur, the gleaming veins of rare minerals embedded in the walls, were less decoration and more a testament to their wealth of underground resources, prized not for luxury but for the mark of survival and pride they represented.

Her mission, bestowed by the Imperatrice, was clear. Destabilize the Empire from within, to weaken it enough that it would pose no threat to Daemon expansion.

Was she a traitor to her race for her actions? After all, she is still a human of the Church.

The man before her was known as the King of the Dwarves, though his title had become largely symbolic. For sixty years, the Dwarven kingdom of the Dwarvar Mountains had remained fragmented, torn by the rivalry among three brothers after their father, the last true king, passed. This division was a gift to the Empire, which had easily manipulated the divided clans, each scrambling for power and resources in their isolated strongholds.

King Dardanell was a formidable dwarf, broad-shouldered and unusually tall. For four decades, he had ruled his secluded stronghold, focusing on local matters while the Dwarvar Mountains remained splintered. His two brothers had claimed much of the remaining land, fracturing what was once a unified kingdom. Each had established his own domain, constantly at odds with the others, leaving no central authority.

Dardanell’s eyes met Azazel’s, his gaze scrutinized her. “You tread boldly, human. Few from the surface bother with our mountains,” he said, his voice gravelly and laced with suspicion. "State your purpose before I decide if this meeting is worth the mountain air you're breathing."

Azazel inclined her head respectfully. “My Imperatrice sees potential in these mountains, Your Majesty, and she wishes to see the Empire’s influence removed. She offers you an alliance, one that could restore dwarven unity and strengthen your rule.”

The King let out a harsh laugh. “I don’t need help, least of all from outsiders. The Empire barely touches me. My brothers, though?” His laugh faded into a grim smile. "They’re another story.”

Azazel kept her smile, as courteous and genuine as possible. Ah, dwarves and their stubborn pride. Perhaps that was why they had withstood the test of time—albeit at the cost of their own isolation.

Isn’t that what makes humanity superior, then? she mused. While dwarves clung to isolation, humans united, bending diverse races and cultures to their will.

The Empire’s ability to manage this diversity had once amazed even her. But could such an empire survive? An empire built on the remnants of feudalism, could it withstand the rise of nationalism?

She recalled a passage from a book she’d read upon her first arrival in the Imperial capital: "Tens of races, each with subraces, each with its own culture. Hundreds of religions, practiced openly under the Archonate’s scrutiny. Thousands of nobles, both native and from annexed kingdoms. All bound by a loyalty to the nation, though, in truth, it was the state bureaucracy and the Valerian Crown that held them together."

She saw this complexity as a weakness, a splintered web of allegiances that she intended to tear wide open.

“Your Majesty,” she inclined her head once more. “What if I offer you more than just words?”

The King scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “And what would that be? Gold? Hah! I’ve no shortage of that.”

Azazel kept smiling. “I’ve established contact with other kingdoms who share your predicament under the Empire’s heel. They’re prepared to launch a coordinated insurrection for independence.”

That caught the King’s attention. “What?!”

“Indeed. And if you choose to join us, we’ll ensure that you, not your brothers, will reunite these mountains under your banner.”

Dardanell’s defiance softened as he mulled over her words, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his stone throne. He had waited decades for a chance to reclaim his family’s legacy, but the cost of trust was high.

“And what does your ‘Imperatrice’ gain from all this, human?” His tone held a guarded edge. “What reason would she have for backing Dwarven independence?”

“She seeks to liberate these lands from the Empire’s stranglehold,” Azazel replied smoothly. “Not to conquer, but to free. The Imperatrice sees potential here, a future where Dwarves hold their rightful place as masters of their own destiny, no longer fractured by outside hands.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the offer hanging between them as the flickering torchlight cast shadows along the stone walls. After a long pause, Dardanell nodded.

"Then tell me, human," he said, leaning back with a glint of newfound resolve. "What must I do?"

.

.

.

.

.

Azazel exited the throne room with a faint smile tugging at her lips. Convincing another leader to rebel against the Empire felt almost routine by now. Not that she harbored any illusions of their victory. In the end, it would be their struggle, not hers.

Now who next?

Beastmen races, check.

Elves, check.

Minor human kingdoms, check.

Dwarves, done.

Aquileans, already in motion.

Isn’t that all of them?

As she pondered her next steps, a figure appeared by her side—a dwarven guard in appearance, but she knew better. it wasn’t an ordinary guard, nor was it a Dwarf, but one of many Daemon shapeshifters assigned on infiltration.

“The Imperatrice has marked the tenth of the first month for an offensive. Are preparations complete?” he asked in a low voice.

Azazel barely spared him a glance. “Mhm.”

The infiltrator pressed on. “The High Command is requesting you further destabilize the Empire’s core.”

Azazel let out a small, derisive laugh. “Destabilize it? And how exactly? The last infiltrator they sent barely lasted a day, got herself shot after completing the one exam that allowed her to enter government.”

The shapeshifter was silent for a moment, then added, “Marshal Kravan—”

“Him?” Azazel scoffed. “The self-styled military genius? What ridiculous scheme has he come up with now?”

“He—”

“Out of my way,” she interrupted, pushing the guard aside. “Let him talk all he wants, but remember, this the Empire is my domain. I decide what happens here—not him.”

With that, she strode off, her heels echoing against the stone, not bothering to look back. The shapeshifter didn’t attempt to follow. He had his orders, but Azazel’s authority was rarely something he—or anyone else—dared to question. The human seemed to have gained the Imperatrice’s favor, and didn’t dare to anger the Imperatrice.

----------------------------------------

"Whoa…" Anna's eyes sparkled as she took in the grandeur of the Valerian Academy's entrance, a blend of marble and intricate ironwork that radiated an almost regal atmosphere.

“Now, don’t cause trouble and be a good girl for Mother, alright?” Her mother’s voice was soft but filled with pride, though her amazement was evident too. After all, her daughter—her daughter—was stepping into one of the most prestigious institutions in the Empire.

The memory of that fateful day came rushing back to her mother’s mind. It had started as a normal afternoon. She was sorting through the usual pile of letters: property tax, social welfare tax, water tax, and then… something that made her pause. Scholarship approved. She had reread it over and over, hardly believing her eyes, until the words finally sank in.

"Isn't it amazing, Mother?" Anna whispered, glancing up at her mother, who had managed to pull herself together, though her cheeks still glowed with pride.

“Yes, it is, Anna. And you deserve it,” she replied, squeezing Anna’s hand. The two of them looked around, taking in the sea of students dressed in polished uniforms, bustling parents, and towering, ivy-covered walls of the Academy.

Anna's mother couldn’t help but feel a bit out of place among the noble families, her simple dress marking her as an outsider in this world of privilege. But what bothered her more was that Anna was the only child here without a father by her side.

Curse that war. A pang of anger and worry struck her whenever she thought of her husband on the battlefield. Just wait until he gets back! she thought, half in frustration, half in hope. She was determined to knock some sense into him when he returned. If he returned… She swallowed, quickly pushing the thought away, then took a deep breath and turned her full attention back to her daughter.

Finally, she let out a sigh. "Just promise me one thing," she said softly.

“What is it?” Anna asked, curious.

Her mother’s eyes shone with an earnestness Anna hadn’t seen before. “Promise me you’ll make the most of this, no matter what. Study hard, stay strong, and don’t let anyone make you feel like you don’t belong here. Not even for a second.”

Anna smiled, feeling a warmth inside her. “I promise.”

With a final hug, she bid her mother farewell and joined the other new students heading into the grand auditorium hall, where the welcoming ceremony would soon begin. The air inside was charged with excitement and nervous energy as students found their seats, glancing around at the new faces and impressive architecture.

As Anna settled into her seat, a tall, dignified figure took the podium at the front of the room. Her robes were deep navy, trimmed with silver, and her presence commanded immediate attention. She cleared his throat, and the hall fell silent.

“Welcome, new students,” she began. “Today marks the beginning of your journey at Valerian Academy, a place where curiosity and resilience will shape your future. Here, you will meet those who may become your greatest rivals or your dearest friends. But remember, each of you has earned your place here, regardless of where you came from.”

Anna sat up straighter, absorbing every word. This was it—the start of something monumental.

But then she began to notice whisperings around her. Quiet but pointed voices echoed from beside, in front of, and behind her.

"Isn't she the daughter of the disgraced nobleman, Henry Eden?" Murmured someone to her left.

"She's the rector? Why is she still allowed to keep her position?" Someone else muttered skeptically.

Anna frowned, glancing around. It seemed as if nearly every student nearby was engrossed in quiet gossip, their eyes narrowed in suspicion or disdain as they watched the woman at the podium.

Why is everyone so negative about her? Anna wondered.

A quiet voice nearby caught her attention. “I don’t get it,” someone muttered, sounding exasperated. “Everyone talks like she’s some kind of criminal, but she’s never done anything wrong. People need to get over the past.”

Anna turned, spotting a black-haired girl who appeared lost in thought, her expression tinged with frustration. Intrigued, Anna leaned closer. “Do you know why they’re talking about her like that?”

The girl looked startled, realizing Anna had overheard her. She blushed, casting a sheepish glance in Anna's direction. “Oh! I didn’t realize you were listening.”

Anna offered a warm smile. “Don’t worry! I was just curious.”

The girl hesitated before answering. “Well… she’s the daughter of Henry Eden, the man who tried to launch a coup in the capital a few months ago. Ever since then, people have been… less than forgiving.” She cast another glance at the rector, who stood calm despite the atmosphere.

“A coup…? Oh! So that’s what all the noise was about that night!” Anna exclaimed softly.

The girl looked at her in surprise. “You… heard the coup happening?”

Anna nodded. “Yeah, I live in the capital. I remember hearing some shouting and loud explosion one night, but I had no idea what it was all about.”

The girl’s eyes widened with a mix of envy and amazement. “That must be incredible… Living in the capital, I mean. I’m a noble, but my family’s estate is out in the middle of nowhere. Nothing ever happens there.”

Anna gave her a warm smile, sensing a bit of loneliness behind her words. “Don’t be sad! Hey, we’re here now—and we can be friends, right?”

The girl’s face lit up. “You mean it? I’d like that a lot.” She smiled, some of her earlier hesitation melting away. “My name’s Charlotte, by the way.”

“Anna,” she replied, extending her hand.

They shook hands, both smiling as they shared a sense of relief. The intimidating Academy seemed a little less daunting now with a newfound friend by her side.

As the crowd dispersed from the auditorium, Charlot looked around before turning back to Anna. “So, which dormitory did they assign you to?”

Anna pulled out her paper, glancing at the information. “East Hall, Room 12. What about you?”

Charlotte’s face lit up. “No way! I’m in East Hall too, Room 14. We’re practically neighbors!”

Anna grinned. “Looks like we were meant to be friends after all.”

The two made their way toward East Hall, already talking and laughing as if they’d known each other for ages. They passed a wide corridor overlooking a lush garden, where, across from them, another scene quietly unfolded.

The hallway was nearly empty, save for a few essential workers preparing the academy for the new semester. It would be the first time some of these workers encountered someone of apparent importance surrounded by guards—guards whose uniforms were unmistakably those of the Royal Guard. It didn’t take long for whispers to ripple through the workers, the visitor was none other than the Prime Minister herself.

Meanwhile, Ries moved purposefully through the halls of Valerian Academy, her feline ears twitching slightly as she took in the refined surroundings. She had never imagined she would set foot in a place like this—one so bound to tradition, privilege, and the upper echelons of society. For a Beastmen who had spent all of her life in hardship and distrust towards society, the academy felt like a different world entirely.

With a few respectful nods from academy staff and whispers following her path, she finally reached the tall, intricately carved doors to the rector’s office. Taking a steadying breath, she knocked, awaiting the moment she’d meet Eden’s daughter.

As the door opened, the rector greeted her with a warm smile. “Prime Minister Katzennia, it’s an honor to welcome you to Valerian Academy.”

Ries nodded, her gaze steady. “Thank you, Ms. Eden. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

“Please, come in. Sit down.” The rector gestured toward a sofa.

Ries took a seat as the rector poured tea, finally sitting down across from her with a polite but assessing look. “Now, I understand there are… expectations,” she began, her eyes flickering with curiosity. “You’re considering whether I might have a role beyond the academy. A ministerial one, if I’m not mistaken?”

Ries took a steadying breath. Sitting before her was Rosaline Eden, the esteemed rector of Valerian Academy—remarkably young, around the Empress’s age, and as known for her intellect as for her ideological leanings.

She met Rosaline’s gaze. “The Empire is in the midst of profound change, and we need individuals with both vision and grounding in reality. Your experience here, shaping young minds at Valerian Academy, has not gone unnoticed.”

Rosaline’s expression shifted, a faint smile playing at her lips. “And you believe I’m suited for a ministerial role… interesting.” She stirred her tea thoughtfully. “I must admit, I hadn’t envisioned myself within the Empire’s political structure, especially given our ideological differences.”

“Exactly why I’m here,” Ries responded, her tone firm. “The Empress believes—and I agree—that true progress comes from diversity of thought, not uniform obedience. You’ve worked tirelessly to push boundaries and support reform even within your own circles. You’re more aligned with us than you may think.”

Rosaline raised an eyebrow, amusement gleaming in her eyes. “A socialist Minister in a theocratic empire. Truly a curious proposition. But what specifically are you asking of me, Prime Minister?”

“We need an experienced hand in administration. My last cabinet… they are compromised until further notice.”

Rosaline's smile widened. "Compromised. Interesting choice of words, Prime Minister. I had thought the Empire preferred loyalty over competence."

Ries' expression remained impassive, though her tail twitched slightly. "Competence without loyalty is as dangerous as loyalty without vision. The Empress, however, is intent on balancing both."

Rosaline took a slow sip, letting the silence linger a beat too long. "And here I thought the Empire preferred uniformity over… 'vision.' After all, isn’t that why you’re in power, to ensure compliance?"

Oh great, this again.

Ries held back a sigh, her expression unchanging. "My race has nothing to do with my position. I’m here because I’m effective, Ms. Eden. The Empress chooses those who can serve the Empire, not just those who conform."

Rosaline's smile didn't falter. "Effective? Interesting. It’s just curious that ‘effectiveness’ in the Empire seems to coincide with… obedience. A quality I’m sure you’ve had to demonstrate repeatedly."

Ries' eyes narrowed slightly. "If the Empire valued blind obedience, I wouldn’t be here discussing potential reforms with you, Rosaline. You think I don’t understand what this position requires? My appointment wasn't made to satisfy tradition, nor do I need anyone's approval for it."

Rosaline leaned back with a smirk, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t need me for ‘reforms,’ Prime Minister. After all, your royalist constitution is a load of window dressing designed to placate the masses.”

Ries remained impassive. “The constitution, flawed as it may be, is still a step forward. It's a framework to be built upon, not torn apart on a whim.”

Rosaline chuckled, her voice thick with derision. “Built upon? Do you honestly believe an empire, rooted in centuries of exploitation and hierarchy, can reform itself through bureaucratic amendments and polite discussions?” Her gaze bore into Ries. “You, a Beastman, know what that system has done. You’ve seen firsthand how the ‘progress’ you speak of is a veil stretched over an ancient, decaying structure propped up by force and fear.”

“Force and fear may be how we survive now, but it’s not how we’ll thrive in the future,” Ries countered, leaning forward. “The Empress is changing things, and if you refuse to see that, then you’re blinding yourself with ideology.”

Rosaline raised her chin, eyes alight with fervor. “Ideology? My ideology is justice! It’s the belief that every citizen, regardless of birth or race, deserves dignity, agency, and the right to challenge those in power. Not merely to serve as a pawn to be manipulated by a monarch who thinks a few reforms can wash away centuries of oppression.”

“Your ‘justice’ is an ideal that sounds righteous until it’s used to dismantle everything and leaves chaos in its place. We’re building something real, something that can be sustained.”

“Ah, yes. Sustainable. Stable. Peaceful.” Rosaline’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You mean obedient. You mean an Empire that thrives as long as its people comply and bow their heads—an Empire that pretends to embrace diversity while subtly enforcing sameness.”

“Then you misunderstand us entirely,” Ries shot back, her voice edged with frustration. “The Empire is trying to embrace change, even if it’s gradual. If you’re unwilling to work within the system, then all your ideas are just talk. What would you actually do, if you had any real power?”

“Exactly what I do now,” Rosaline said coldly. “Educate, inspire, and challenge those who believe the world begins and ends with tradition. If that means standing against the Empire to uphold truth, then so be it.”

Ries stood, her patience thinning. “Then you might find yourself alone, Ms. Eden. Principles are noble until they’re worthless. The Empress sees that, and so do I.”

Rosaline’s lips quirked into a challenging smile. “Better to stand alone for truth than to kneel for half-measures, Prime Minister. Remember that as you move forward in your ‘effective’ little role.”

Ries paused at the door, taking in Rosaline’s self-assured expression with one last glance. “So it’s a no, then?” she repeated, tone half-question, half-confirmation.

Rosaline’s smile was almost triumphant. “I suppose I’ll see you in the elections, Prime Minister,” she replied, her voice laced with certainty.

Ries gave a faint nod, biting back the retort forming on her lips. “Elections... right,” she murmured. Without another word, she turned on her heel and left, the heavy door closing behind her.

She strode down the hallway flanked by the Royal Guards, hands clasped behind her back.

Elections, elections, elections… in a month…

----------------------------------------

“And to this we say, NO!’

The crowd roared, and Anya let herself a satisfied smile. The last few weeks the CDLWP had been hard at work campaigning for the elections, and so far, they had the momentum.

Anya raised her fist, rallying the crowd’s energy. “Our voices have been silenced for too long!” she declared, her voice ringing out over the sea of supporters. “The Empire may cling to its traditions, but we are the future! The change this country needs!”

The crowd surged with approval, chants of solidarity echoing through the square. Anya had spent weeks gathering support, going town to town, city to city, alongside the CDLWP, determined to make this the year the people’s voices truly reached the Empire’s highest offices.

A staffer rushed up behind her on the stage, breathless. “Miss Anya… you need to hear this…”

Anya turned, “What is it?”

“A special broadcast from the Empire.”

Her eyes lit up with an idea. “Perfect! We’ll let the Empire address the people directly.” Before her assistant could protest, Anya grabbed the radio, striding back to the center of the stage.

Anya held up the radio, flashing a confident smile at the crowd. “Citizens! It seems the Empire has decided to address us!” She clicked the device on, amplifying the broadcast for everyone to hear.

“This is a Special Broadcast from Her Excellency, Anise Des Katzennia, Prime Minister of the Empire,” the announcer began, his voice dripping with official pomp.

The crowd fell silent, some leaning closer in curiosity, others scowling at the mention of the Prime Minister.

“Good morning, good afternoon, and good evening to all citizens, whether in the westernmost reaches of our Empire, the eastern borders, or in our more remote regions. It is my solemn duty and privilege to address you during these turbulent times.”

“These last few days have indeed tested us all,” the voice continued, "from the disruption of our sea trade routes due to the ongoing conflict with Aquilea, to the strain of the western war, which has claimed the lives of countless noble men and women. Their sacrifices will not be forgotten, and their duty honored as we face this ongoing challenge together."

"With great deliberation, I have decided to exercise my authority as Prime Minister to suspend the upcoming general elections. This decision has not been made lightly but stands as a necessary response in order to maintain the security and integrity of our Empire. Until this war has been won—until peace and order have returned—our attention must remain undivided.”

The broadcast paused as if to let the weight of the words sink in. Then, with a simple, hollow, “Thank you,” the broadcast ended.

Silence blanketed the square.

Anya’s mouth was slightly agape, her face pale with shock, words failing her as she absorbed the declaration. Then, murmurs began—a murmur that quickly grew into an angry hum, surging into frustrated shouts and disbelief.

The shock shattered, replaced by rage, and the crowd erupted.

“Do you hear the people sing?”