Empress 1

The Imperial City was quiet tonight, save for the nightlarks, whose songs would carry on until the moon sank and the sun rose. Serene listened to the shrill sounds from the mouth of her window, swirling deep purple wine around in a heavy, ruby-crusted goblet. Ebonari Nightlarks, she thought, were ugly birds with unpleasant voices, incredibly fitting of the broken land they came from. Were she to have her way, she would order the legion to exterminate them like vermin, like they did the rats. Unfortunately for her- and fortunately for the nightlarks, Emperor Tavius found that the birds held a ‘tragic yet poetic’ beauty, and thus favored them. Serene would not argue with her husband about the aesthetics of foreign birds. In fact, she was compelled to never argue with him again, as long as he was ill, and contained to the sickbed. Let him keep his joy, she thought, it’s all he has left.

She took a long pull of wine from her goblet, staining her dark lips red.

The court physicians had no idea what Tavius was afflicted with. The running theory was that whatever the illness was, was of Ebonari origin, a relic of the past. Just like the nightlarks. But Ebonar was long gone, lost to the Cataclysm- and their medical archives with them. Serene watched as the doctors scuttled back and forth in the courtyard, from the apothecary to the royal tower. They would tend to her husband all night. He would cough and thrash and weep. She would sleep in her own room if the Saints permitted it. They would permit it, wouldn’t they?

A sharp knock against the wooden door of her quarters answered the question and simultaneously dashed away any hope for sleep she had naively harbored.

“Enter,” she sighed, lifting her goblet to her lips again, draining it of all its contents.

In came one of the physicians. Which one, she couldn’t tell. They all wore the same cassock, marking their place in the Dominion holy service. Healers wore green. Ever since Titus fell ill, everywhere she looked was marked by green cassocks and veiled faces, veils that were embroidered with the Dominion’s bleeding sun.

“His Imperial Majesty is asking for you, your Grace.” The physician whispered, he lowered his head as he addressed her.

“Yes, it seems he is.” She could hardly mask her annoyance as she followed the man out into the hall, bare feet echoing against the cold white stone of the tower, stilling to a halt in front of the Emporer’s open doorway. She lingered on the threshold, pale green eyes falling on the shrunken form of her husband. His skin clung to his bones like dried meat, his eyes hollow, but also large and glossy. He looked ninety years old when he had celebrated his fifty-third only a season ago.

Serene would never admit it out loud, but the very sight of him frightened her. She desired to stay as far away from his ill form as possible. In this withered state, he was barely a person to her. Just a sick…thing that used to be her husband. Her face twisted in disgust as the Emporer turned his head to her and rasped,

“Serene…”

“Yes, my love?” She steeled herself, moving to his side despite her fear urging her to stay put. She rested her hand on top of his, staring into his wide blue eyes. He was unable to blink.

“You look frightened,” he said.

“I am afraid. I fear for your health,” she replied.

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“As do I,” there was humor in his voice, his vocal cords scraped together, attempting to laugh. The sound made Serene cringe. Like a rock scratching against glass.

“You should be sleeping, my love,” she gently scolded. She removed her hand from his. “Please sleep.”

A different physician tapped her on the shoulder. This one was tall and slim, with dainty hands. Serene was sure her name was Dahlia, or something similar.

“Your Majesty, If I may,” she bowed, “I sent to Black Rock for their medical journals, per your request. They arrived last night.”

“Did you have time to look through them?” Serene turned her gaze from Tavius’ perpetual stare in favor of the healer’s veiled form. “Do you know what’s killing my husband?”

Dahlia nodded, “I believe he may contracted Mortalia during his visit with the Archmage last spring. It progresses slowly,” she explained, “and there is only one cure. Anthenium.”

Serene’s face twitched as if Dahlia had cursed at her.

“We don’t have Anthenium,” she snapped “It’s all gone.” And good riddance too, she thought.

“It isn’t gone,” Dahlia retorted, “Only locked away. It could cure him- Saints he could live forever!”

The Emporer grabbed Serene’s wrist then and squeezed her with all his strength. She gasped in panic, her head whipped around to stare at the haunted expression on his face, her own mouth hung agape in surprise. There was pain in his eyes that went beyond the flesh. For a moment, Serene thought she could see what wounds festered on the surface of his soul, wounds that threatened to lash out and strike her if she continued to witness them.

“You must not open the vault!” he retched, “I will gladly die if it means keeping that evil locked away!”

Serene thought that perhaps his illness had driven him to madness, she tore her wrist from his grasp, clutching the offended limb close to her chest. The healers rushed to Tavius’ side like bees to the hive.

“Your Grace please calm down!” One urged,

“You’re going to have an attack-” Another warned.

Dahlia knelt beside the sickbed, a willowy hand cupping his hollow cheek with a gentleness that Serene regarded with hot discomfort.

“The vault stays closed,” Dahlia assured him, “It can’t be opened without an enchanter, your Majesty, and they are all long dead.”

This seemed to soothe the Emperor, who sank back into his bed with a hoarse sigh.

“Thank you, Dahlia.”

“Of course, your Grace, I apologize for mentioning it.”

Serene’s eyes passed between Dahlia, and then back to her husband, who had exhausted himself into sleep. A twinge of jealousy plucked her heart, but she was equally grateful that she had not needed to touch her decaying man in such a way. Dahlia's words echoed in the back of her mind. Not only could the Anthenium cure her husband, but it could preserve his life forever. It could preserve her life forever. She'd never have to fear illness again. Despite her Imperial distaste for magic, the idea was.... alluring to her. Though she supposed that same allure is what caused the Black City to explode in the first place.

She stood, dusting her night dress off as she did. With a snap of her fingers, she had everyone’s attention once more.

“Dahlia, walk with me back to my quarters, please.”

The gangly woman followed close behind her quiet as a mouse. When they arrived, Serene turned to face her.

“I want that vault open,” she leveled, her voice stern.

“But-,” Dahlia sputtered, “but His Imperial Mag-”

“Is too sick to make his own decisions,” Serene interrupted, “His mind is leaving him. That is what you will tell his advisors.”

Dahlia stood frozen in front of her. Serene was certain the physician’s veil concealed a stupid, dumbstruck expression; as if the idea of the Empress defying her husband had broken her brain. Perhaps she had forgotten who she was speaking to? In his stead, she was the voice of the Empire.

“Do you want him to live?” she asked the buffering woman.

“Of course!” she stammered.

“Of course you do,” Serene parroted, “So get. That. Vault. Open.”

Serene closed the door rather hard in the poor girl’s face. Muffled on the other side, she heard the Physician cry,

“But there aren’t any Enchanters!”