Admrilia Hortus Ashiphiex blew air slowly out of her nostrils as the coughing turned into a desperate, wheezing hack. She swallowed her seething irritation as the ancient treasuer coughed up a lung. He’s ruining my moment. Admrilia darted a discrete look up from the green and turquoise mosaic of the Stormlord. General Hortus, her father, loomed behind the Conqueror, his bear-like hands gently gripping the laurel wreath that should have already been place atop her head to awe-inducing applause. That was, if not for Trajan Perimar being obstinate and attempting to die at her promotion. Honestly, it was as bad as when Asho farted at their joint twelfth birthday celebration.
The treasurer finally had the good decency to live. He whispered sheepishly into his handkerchief. The Senate murmured in uncomfortable second hand embarrassment. Admrilia dared another glance through her hair, now free from its constricting braids, at her father. His thin mouth stated that Perimar was better off dead on the senate’s tiled floor.
When the Emperor spoke, Amdirlia snapped her eyes back to the tiles. “I, Atesh the Conqueror, Stormlord sired, first citizen of the Ashenian people; Emperor of all it’s lands and seas, call forth the Senate into session!”
“The people answer your call!” The Senate parroted.
The Conqueror’s voice echoed off the marble columns. “The people are gathered here today to commemorate a military triumph. Hail! Admrilia Hortus Ashiphiex, captain of the Serpent, destroyer of the Argenti blockade and liberator of the Argyro Islands. Hail! To she who brings the false Argentis king to justice!”
Culus Caestus' shackles rattled somewhere behind her. He would be guarded by the Conqueror’s centori. Admrilia could just picture the hateful sneer on his face as he was brought to his knees.
“Stormlord bless this captain and grant her praise!”
“People of Aegtrys cast your eyes upon your pride and glory!” The Senate answered.
“In recognition of the captain’s victory, I, Atesh the Conqueror, call upon the Senate and people of Aegtrys to grant the captain the honorific of ‘Argenti’. In addition, I hereby grant the Argenti command of the second neptor.”
An entire fleet, hers! And not just any fleet, the fleet responsible for guarding Aegtrys’ coastline. A fleet entrusted with the protection of the Ashenian people. Admrilia’s chest swelled with pride. She dared not to glance up, dared not to search the Conqueror’s dark eyes for acknowledgement or praise. It was duty, not glory, that kept her eyes to the mosaic of the stormlord. She felt, rather than saw, the Conqueror nod to her father. She heard her father’s boots approach. The wreath slid atop her hair.
Admrilia counted down, allowing the moment to swell, and pushed to her feet. She faced the Senate; dissecting them cooly as they politely clapped. Their faces were drawn tight, as if it was difficult for some to stomach her advancement. Let them. At the age of twenty, she had achieved more in her naval career than any of them would in a lifetime. Admrilia hardened her eyes like the Conqueror’s— so it was the only place they could look.
And look they should. Once she had proven herself on the Triumph, she would become her grandfather’s successor. She would rise to Empress; leader of their vast territories and peoples. It would be her responsibility, and hers alone, to guide the Ashenians towards generations of continued prosperity. The oath Admrilia had sworn only days ago pressed its cold knuckles against her spine, forcing her taller still.
Argenti. Admrilia rolled her new name around her mind slowly, sliding the honorific into place. She mirrored her expression to match the Stormlord’s composed marble countenance. Brn the image of her deity into their minds. She was a wyrdling, after all. Let there be no doubt, Admrilia Hortus Ashiphiex, the Argenti, was the prodigal daughter of the Empire.
The Conqueror’s next words threatened to crack her composure. “Culus Ceastus, you are hereby sentenced by the Empire and her people to be placed into the Argenti’s household. You shall be her prisoner for a decade, and shall then be put up for mercy in accordance with our traditions at the next Triumph.”
“So shall be the mercy of the Ashenian people.” The Senate echoed.
Uneasiness, as quick and as fleeting as a hummingbird’s wings, tore through Admrilia. Ashenian Mercy was a tradition she could not rifle with. She should have anticipated this. She had. Hadn’t she? Admrilia had taken out the precaution of cutting out Culus’ tongue. Admrilia frowned, she should have broken his hands too… but no, maybe that would have been to obvious. Besides, you have nothing to hide. The Argenti Islands fell. The details are… irrelevant.
And Admrilia had told the Conqueror the relevant details upon her return. Like the detail that she had cut out Culus’ tongue because he had called her a whore. That part had been true, so technically, she had not lied to the Conqueror.
Admrilia stood at attention as her two closest neptori, Flavius and Alexandros, were called forward and given the honor of accompanying Admrilia on the Triumph. A honor which typically was only granted to the Conqueror’s own centori. Admrilia stared steadfast forward, despite the impulse to celebrate with her crew. The Senate adjourned. The Conqueror left the building accompanied by his council, consisting of one member for each of the empire’s five territories accompanied them. Their robed dictated their region: purple for Aegtrys; red for Sugia; pine green for Iornore; white for Thrys; and gold for Ker. A handful of senators followed after them, badgering about Triumph preparations. Stormlord help them.
The forum was peaceful. Early evening, it was sparsely crowded with merchants. Across the street, scholars sat clustered together on the steps of the library. A group of children chased a dog around a fountain. Admrilia walked beside her father back up the hill towards the palace. The general was silent, nodding occasionally to centori as they approached the massive limestone walls. They were ushered inside the compound and strolled past the passive gardens until finally arriving at their family’s private villa.
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A centori hastened to open the front gate. She followed her father into the atrium.
“Daughter?” Her mother’s voice carried. “We are in here.”
She followed her father into the family’s sitting room. Her mother, Raja-Kai, reclined serenely on a short couch, her dress cascading around her swollen belly. On the rug, her younger sisters; Julia, Lilee, and Hora, looked up from the set of wood and cloth dollies.
“Hello mother.” Admrilia sidestepped around her siblings elaborate setup. Raja-Kai patted the space next to her. Admiral eased herself down onto the cushion.
“I see it went well.” Raja-Kai direct her words at her husband.
“It did.”
“And the Emperor?”
Her father made a motion that could be perceived as a shrug on a less disciplined man. “Pleased.”
“Truly?” Admrilia sked, unable to hide her relief.
“He expects your victory will allow our navy to regain the silver islands.” The general explained.
“So, pleased.” Her mother concluded.
Her father grunted.
Lilee pressed up against her knees. “I want to see the wreath!” Her sister made grabby motions at her head.
“Get down, child!” Raja-Kai swatted at the eight-year-old. “That belongs to your sister.”
“No fair! I want a leaf!” Little Hora crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.
Admrilia looked down her nose at her sisters. They were miniatures of their mother, small and delicate, with warm rusting brown eyes, and silken curls done up in elaborate Ker braids. They had none of her, rigidity. “Well, Hora, if you kill some pirates. You can get one too.”
“Truly?” Hora’s eyes turned as big as dinner plates.
Julia snorted.
Her mother smacked her arm. “They are children!”
Admrilia frowned as her sisters returned to whacking dollies on the carpet. “What did the healer say?”
“Whose to say?” Raja-Kai cupped her belly. “Perhaps the Goddess will bless me with a son.”
Admrilia swallowed clay. “Father would love that.” The General could finally have the son he always wanted. “The Conqueror too.”
“It would be a blessing.” Hortus admitted. He dragged Hora off of his leg and up onto his shoulders. Her sister dug her tiny fingers into the shells of his ears. Her father met her frown. “All my children are a blessing.”
“More heirs for the Empire.” Her mother whispered under her breath.
“Anyone would be better than Asho.” Admrilia sneered.
“Admrilia.” Her mother scolded. “That is unkind.”
“That boy will not be Emperor.” Admrilia straightened at her father’s tone. It was the one that led armies. The one she never dare question. “It is up to the Conqueror to decide his successor. No one else.” Hortus pursed his lips. “You will have the Triumph to convince the Conqueror of your ability. And may the Stormlord bless you with some aptitude in the wyrd.”
The wyrd. The magic that allowed wyrdlings, descendants of the Skytops, to control various aspects of nature. Admrilia had seen the Conqueror use the wyrdstone, had known of its prized existence since early childhood. She had studied the wyrd in the scholarly sense, had impressed her tutors with her understanding. Countless hours had been spent reading ancient philosophers who hypothesized that the wyrd was the fifth binding element of existence, just as air, water, earth, and fire were. And yet, Admrilia had never felt an iota of connection with the Stormlord’s magic.
“And if Asho learns it first?” Admrilia whispered.
“Asho does not possess the mental fortitude.” Her father dismissed.
A knot formed in her stomach at the Conqueror’s words: neither of your fathers, for all of their promise, could wrestle with the power of the Stormlord. None of the Conqueror’s eight children had. The oath Admrilia had sworn was more than an oath of duty. It was an oath binding her to the Stormlord, to her death.
“Of course, father. I misspoke.”
“The Conqueror’s methods are aggressive. But with an iron will you shall overcome.” Which was about as close to reassuring as General Hortus ever got. Her father placed Hora gently back down on the rug. He straightened. “You must succeed, Argenti. Ashenia needs a steady hand to lead it. Duty to all.”
Duty to all. Duty to her family, duty to her country, duty to her god. Duty before any of her own selfish needs or desires. Duty was something Admrilia understood to her core. She never had the chance to know anything else.
“You will prevail.” Her mother tapped her neptori breastplate, just above her sternum. “You have powerful blood in your veins.”
Admrilia’s gaze moved to the shelf of the lars. What would make her any different? Even her father, the Conqueror’s only surviving child, was inconsiderable for succession after what happened.
The General helped her mother to her feet. His blue eyes sparked with conviction. “Next summer my daughter shall return as the future of our nature. Head up Argenti, you will make it so.”
Raja-Kai ushered her siblings out of the room and towards dinner. Admrilia glanced down at the rug’s discarded toys, and when the room had cleared, repositioned the wreathe.