The Scorched Throne

XI - Sadira

My slippers keep the sound of my steps faint as I storm back up to my chambers. Though my scheme with the mayapple worked out, I'm very, very annoyed. I despised how intolerable, yet also so similar to me, the suspected archer was. She never hides her emotions, yet it's still somehow impossible to tell whether she was lying, or what she truly meant.

Since she refused to answer the questions I raised about the diharamkan ritual, I had Kaia look into it in her spare time. She scoured death and missing persons records for a young, fair-skinned girl within a hundred miles, but found nothing. It surely would have been noticed if the victim were taken from the nobility, so that's ruled out. I tried to return and find the secret chamber again, but the floor was completely, utterly seamless.

Some trivial part of me had also hated the way the assassin looked at Seneca when he wasn't paying attention, though I tell myself I was more annoyed with the sergeant himself. He had the nerve to ask if I wanted to torture her! Though I have to give him credit for his willingness, he should know by now that subtler methods always work best. I've tried both.

I control my breathing, falling into a steady, familiar rhythm as I climb the stairs of my tower. Every other year my father offers to find me a new room at Convergence, one in a more accessible location, but I refuse.

As children, Rova and I used to pretend to be princesses of the oldest myth-legends, trapped in a tower by some infatuated god, forced to come up with a clever escape. We would plot ways to get past our guards, to steal supplies, and even once a plan to steal rope and rappel out of our window. It entertained us for hours. The first and only time we tried to execute one of the plans, a guard posted by our door spotted us and laughed.

"Imperial Majesties," he said with an exaggerated bow. "You are permitted to leave your chambers. Would you like us to escort you down?" I still remember how pink Rova's cheeks turned, the color of white spring apples blushing red, just like our mother. She was always her spitting image, and I was always our father's. At our quick agreement, the guard nodded quickly.

"Very well," he said. "Marcus, will you assist me?" The other guard nodded too, with a dramatically stoic expression that elicited a giggle from both of us. Without warning, each grabbed one of us, hoisting us up onto their backs. They carefully walked down the stairs, dropping us off near the dessert section of the kitchens. They knew us all too well.

When I reach my door, I turn, skimming a hand over the stone blocks to its left. There are only five marked, though they still are five too many. I find the two I am looking for. They read;

Marcus Heia. Captain, 30th Centuria of the Imperial Corps of the Holy Empire of Cela. 2728-2750. Died fighting rebels, suspected murders of Grand Duchess Rova Decimus. May pax in aeternum.

The second says the same, bearing a different name and lifespan and title, but the same inscription. Died fighting rebels, suspected murders of Grand Duchess Rova Celis Decimus. May pax in aeternum. I think of the two guards who laughed with us, protected us, served us. I remember the thousands of others, my people, my future subjects, sacrificing everything to prevent another threat to their safety. To ensure the Empire's safety. To preserve peace.

I cannot die. It's been a mantra in my head, every day since that day with Rova, that day in the Celodian kitchens. Without me, one of my incompetent cousins will be crowned empress. They'll destroy the lives of my people, the people who depend on my government and who give everything for it—their money, their hearts, and their lives. I must complete these tasks, then I must eliminate the threat this mysterious usurper poses.

Whoever he is must be affiliated with the rebels, and the only outcome worse than one of my cousins inheriting the throne would be the rebels stealing it, then dumping my Empire into anarchy and poverty and war. I will not let the sacrifices of Celan soldiers and commoners alike be in vain. The rebels and their leader will not shatter the peace we have forged by our blood and will.