Hibiki

At its highest level, the business of Empire seldom relented, even on a Sunday afternoon, and it afforded little space for privacy. But His Eternal Majesty Hibiki Yamagoe had held his throne a very long time, and knew a trick or two. Now, as he was escorted through the hanging indoor gardens of this luxurious new skyscraper, he paused by an out-of-season rose and leaned close to study its long-bladed thorns. Lachlan appeared at his elbow on cue.

Quietly, his voice velvet, Hibiki said, “The race finished?”

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Lachlan did not need to ask which race, nor was he surprised that his master had known – to within ten minutes – that it was over. “Yes, milord.”

“Phoebe?”

“A convincing victory, milord.”

“Olympia?”

“Finished the race, but two laps behind.”

“The other Hermeia rider?”

The Emperor knew Arden Markwe’s name, of course, but Lachlan understood what he was asking. “Struggled with the conditions, milord. Royal Hermeia took no points.”

His Eternal Majesty sighed, slowly and deliberately pressing his fingertip against one thorn. “That makes two of my dukes who will be very upset. Pirenne in particular. Perhaps it is time we began to cultivate a relationship with young Helia ourselves, before her father does anything rash.”