Sophia was never a morning person, instead preferring to sleep till afternoon before even attempting any activities. So beautiful was this time between sunrise and midday, the soft shafts of light entering her room countered the still remaining chill of a night spent wide awake reading. She could so easily just sleep in the gentle caress of both mothers of the night and the three distant suns; and on most days, she very much did so.
In fact, when her Head Maid threw open the doors at the extreme time of 8:62am (in the Ensolian Imperium, standard workplace practice had a sharp 7:00am start) Sophia was completely unconscious. Utterly exhausted from last night’s social function, she was a corpse rotting away in her thin silk summer sheets and piles of half-read romance novels. Suddenly, cruelly dragged out of the beautiful comfort of a lovely cocoon and into a heartless world of nothing but pain and suffering.
So when she was bathed in a bath of cold water and given a short form breakfast of cut fruit and two hard boiled eggs; and her calm request/pathetic begging for donuts this morning denied by a written writ of the throne, punishable by an error of blood (a dull blade driven into the stomach as ritual suicide for failure of service to the crown, the most dishonorable of punishments), she knew something was brewing.
Fermenting more as the maids dress her in informal house wear, finalized as one of the family butlers leads her towards the central wing of the royal palace.
Alone.
Uh oh.
Sophia had hoped she would never see her again after last night’s catastrophe, the secondhand embarrassment still weighing on her mind like the branded scar of a repented criminal. Standing next to her, wishing that she’d melt like a snow bank into the soil; almost in awe at how that woman could still somehow salvage something out of what was, for all the guests, a harrowing search and recovery action by the imperacutta. Perhaps it would be better if the letter came to her in relative anonymity and imperial writ, announcing her eternal exile into some distant island colony in the middle of the Adranic Ocean; then she’d never have to face any of those guests anymore.
Sadly, there were no such mercies available to the heirs of the Imperium.
Sophia was being led into the so-called war room of the central palace. Just two doors away from the Silver Chamber; seat of the Silver Throne and where, at least originally, the Empire held court. Empress Annia, current ascendant to the Silver Throne, had it specially converted from an extraordinarily well decorated sitting room into the nation’s nerve center during the Third Stygian War.
More private than the vast, echoing depths of the Silver Chamber; the converted room was made to house at most thirty councilors (assuming they all stood up, packed together with lips touching) rather than the Throne Room’s two hundred or more capacity. Sophia assumed that her mother quite enjoyed the intimacy of much smaller meetings, as she did end up keeping this practical format of court now more than ten years after the end of the conflict.
And the fact that you’re meeting her in her office is a bad sign. Some politically educated part of her exhausted brain informs her. When was the last time you had a talk with her in this manner?
Rather than a close mother-daughter heart to heart within her room, or a heated discussion alongside the family in one of the palace’s tertiary dining rooms; this would be a much more serious matter.
Sophia realized the horror of that implied meaning: her first real day as a fully grown adult and she would face a lecture from her mother.
How embarrassing…
She remembered as a child thirteen years ago she was once led into this same room, when at the time the Third Stygian War was still at its most pitched. Where she quietly observed as her mother calmly mediated a meeting between the general staff of the eighth legion and some admiral’s own entourage from the imperial navy’s Grand Fleet. How that woman sat at her place at the end of the massive pine table, silent and observant; regal yet listening to each of the exchanged words. At the end of it, when both sides came to an agreement on the complicated logistics of the matter (young Sophia’s brain at this point had the same consistency as pulverized gelatin), her mother simply nodded and said “It will be done.” Her duty, providing that stability and calm in a volatile situation, completed without any scandal or escalation.
Sophia hoped that her mother would keep that calm professional demeanor this morning, and not her usual emotional appealment in her strict lectures or bone crushing hugs in celebrations; but she doubted it. When it came down to the five heirs, the Empress of the Ensolian Empire was nothing more than “Mom.”
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So it made it all the more scary when she was sat down at the edge of the table, facing directly towards that once blonde but now silver haired, middle aged woman in full military uniform with all honors.
Completely alone.
Empress Annia Elise the Second, Ascendent Regient of the Ensolian Imperium, Dutchess of the Ensolian Belt, High Arbiter of the Silver Conclave, First Champion of the Hundred Legions, Prophet of the Ensolian Church to her Holiness (That was all Sophia could remember for her titles); was a monstrous presence. A uniform tailored a pale gray of the Imperacutta Legion (her own personal army, by tradition and ten years prior: by command), perfectly ironed and without a single wrinkle. Her entire left upper chest was covered in campaign ribbons and medals, so many in a comical quantity that Sophia realized this was not just a dress uniform, but her full regimental dress uniform. Inclusive of every campaign ever done during her reign (literally all of them, as they all were technically done in her name), and every single silver rank marking and all three gold studded officer daggers.
Sophia gulps, even during her coming of age ceremony last night the woman wasn’t this well dressed up.
They lock eyes, both mother and daughter sharing those pale blue orbs. It was said that as Sophia grew, she was the closest in physical similarity to her mother. And with the rumors circulating around in the foreign powers, also most likely to pull intrigue for ascendancy to the Silver Throne.
Fat chance of that, I’m nothing like my mother… Sophia thinks to herself.
Mom calls to her, softly and gentle with grace and mercy. “Sophia my dear, how was your party last night?”
Sophia Elise halts as part of her is engulfed in a civil war, one seeing that woman as her officiated liege and another as an annoying presence attempting to give her a mighty hug and many, many kisses on the cheek. She blushes with embarrassment. “Uh… ah…”
“Naomi said sorry by the way.” She plays the maternal role now. “She didn’t expect that your head maid would call for the imperacutta while searching for you last night; old Marini had assumed you had been kidnapped or worse. A bit of a misunderstanding.”
No wonder why the old maid was in such a good mood this morning. Sophia connects the dots with a grimace.
“Still, it made for a fun evening for sure! High time for a snap exercise of the sort anyways.”
Sophia was certain that the rest of the Guests didn’t share the sentiment, their evening suddenly interrupted by automatic storm rifles and power blades pointed at their faces by the legendary (and very well feared) imperacutta legion.
“Plus, I’m certain it made everyone pay all the more attention to you. Truly the star of this show don’t you think?”
The Fourth Princess just stares at her mother with an extremely faked smile, trying not to cringe or cry out in embarrassment.
Oops. This wasn’t working out in Empress Annia’s favor, the mother realizes. An attempt at that maternal humor falling completely flat, her disarming of her daughter only making her build higher and thicker walls. At this point, she might as well ask the poignant question. “So Sophia… did you meet anyone interesting last night?”
“N-no…” Sophia instinctively squeals, then stops herself at the realization. You did girl, but eh… it didn’t exactly go well did it?
The Empress has had enough time in court to develop a sense to read humanity; her wisdom reading that hesitation, her insight diving into the lie spoken by the daughter. Sophia did meet someone, most likely in no official capacity either. Something occurred in those short, reported twenty seven minutes without her personal surveillance; something that her daughter couldn’t tell her own mother about.
Empress Annia hadn’t prepared for this… snag – of a mysterious lover already in the heart of her fourth daughter.
The Prophet of the Ensolian Church to her Holiness prays silently, a panic entering her thought process. Goddess, please don’t allow her to hate me. Goddess I have always believed in your love (not really but still) so please forgive me, please please!
The Empress has to take this bandage off as quickly as possible, amputate this already infected limb before it kills the body. Like a bullet already leaving the barrel of the gun, events were already set in motion, too late to take back. Now, only regret fills the void.
“Sophia, you want a donut?” She offers, reaching beneath the table and producing a stack of six of her daughter’s favorite pastries.
Something inside the girl triggers, reaching out towards the bowl like a little monster. “Gimme donut mother, gimme gimme.”
Even in front of such an authoritarian figure she returns to savagery, one in each hand; bites taken in sequence.
The Empress has to take solace in this tiny little moment of happiness for her daughter, forcing herself to smile falsely. She burns that simple joy into her mind like a mad prophet branding themselves, remembering all the times in that child’s youth where she smiled, cried, laughed and told her mother “I love you mamma.” She wished, Empress Annia the Second, that she could hug her daughter for the last time before the rage, the anguish, the words of hatred that will inevitably come from Sophia.
This could perhaps be the last time she ever could see her happy.