The Manticore Rising

[North Timistania]

Faishahn, Capital of the Faishah Isles
Present Day
​

The isles glittered in the golden light of day, the city glowed with vibrant hue as bone white towers and lush greenery was illuminated by the suns greeting. The sea air was hot and perfumed with the scent of salt and wildflowers, it was as though the gods had reached down and placed a shard of heaven just off the coast of Astragon.

Faishahn has often been called the jewel of the Meterran sea, a city of tropical delights catering to the decadent whims of South Iteria’s most wealthy. The capital of the Faishah archipelago, its balmy piers are host to the drunken celebrations of carousing nobles, its white-sanded coast the haunt of scantily clad partygoers. Far from the stuffy formalities of Tyrooz it is in Faishahn that Astragon’s elite comes to let their hair down.

Normally the dawn air would be filled with the soft crooning of musicians, the wild calls of tropical birds and the vacuous laughter of thousands of the empires most privileged. Today was not a normal day, in the harbour yachts and pleasure barges kept a fearful distance from newly arrived warships that cast vicious shadows over the lesser craft.

In the sky above too, great formations of fighters darkened the morning views with their massed presence. The screech of warplanes would have been deafening if not for the even greater cacophony unfolding on the streets below. Tens of thousands of Kaiderin marched in perfect step and answered their officer's commands with fierce affirmations that roared across the processional.

Leopard cloaked colonels urged their regiments on and Leveresh* held the battle standards aloft as the empire's soldiers marched past throngs of cheering citizens. Great clouds of the misodzi tsvuku* descended from the balconies and rooftops of the Faishahn skyline, their red petals forming a rain of crimson that bore the appearance of falling droplets of blood.

Imperial triumphs were proudly displayed by the great procession, the tattered banner of the reclaimed city of Rio fluttering grimly in the breeze alongside dozens of civil war battle honours. At the head of the parade marched a regiment who stood out even amongst the sea of ceremonially garbed figures. The bloody skulls were instantly recognizable by the gory death totem leering from its lofty perch.

They marched with the confident steps of the recently victorious, some observers might have beheld a hint of arrogance in 15ths advance but if they did, they kept it to themselves. The skulls had every reason to be proud, they had fought well at Tyrooz and now one of their own sat the throne of Astragon.

The grisly war standard of the 15th had a reputation for making people uncomfortable, the regimental artists had taken sadistic delight in making the stitched skull as detailed as possible. The bewitched skull glared out with pale white eyes and its stitched lips lent it a macabre air that had always made the 15ths presence unnerving. Today though it was something far smaller that drew the eye, hanging from a spear a Leveresh waved a single sun-bleached skull and it elicited far greater revulsion.

*A Veteran who has served faithfully in multiple campaigns, Leveresh form the trusted inner circle of a regiment and will often serve as standard-bearers or senior officers.
*Red Tears in mercanti, a sacred flower is often thrown aloft during military parades.

 

[North Timistania]

Talesh Murza, grand admiral of the Imperial navy and the greatest traitor to blight the exalted empire for millennia. He sought to tear down the old order but instead his actions all but assured its ascendency, A Kevshah* empress now sits the throne and his skull now sits upon a pike. That leering deaths head that once schemed and plotted with the mendacity to match ancient Suthulu* now parades with boney jaw agape and eyeless sockets gazing emptily into nothingness.

The balcony of the governor's palace affords me a commanding view of the parading armies below, it also lends me a lofty elevation which forces those below to gaze upwards with their necks craned as they struggle to get a glimpse of their empress. I sit upon a throne of ivory flanked either side by my most trusted officers.

A flash of discomfort covers my features for the briefest of moments, I conceal it behind a façade of regal composure as I rise from my throne and salute my soldiers with a fist pressed to my chest. Below the massed ranks of my regiment repeat the gesture with instinctive precision. The colonel leading the bloody skulls raises his sword in salute and a roar rises from the soldiers below.

“LONG LIVE THE EMPRESS!!!” they roar in approval

The 15ths cheers echo across the processionals long after they have faded into the distance, I lower myself slowly onto the throne and attempt to stifle a frown. Murza was meant to be a footnote, a “paper tiger” as Taneli Gadi had called him, instead, he persists after death following me wherever my Kaiderin march.

“Malek” I say gently

My prime marshal steps from the shadows with a slow and dignified soldiers' pace. Loyal Malek, the oldest and most distinguished of all my uncle's officers, the man whose army and loyalty I owed my throne and life to. The black and red of a Prime Marshal suited Malek Korshad, the martial beauty of his uniform contrasting with the wild beard and long scar. The gruesome cut had been received from a bayonet in Iraelia and ran down his face blinding him in one eye. he had the look of a proud lion, triumphant but scarred.

“Yes, your Exalt?” he asks in a reverent tone

“I could have sworn I instructed the 15th to dispose of Murza’s head after it had rotted,” I say

“The men appear to have taken it as a good luck charm, I will instruct the officers to have it removed” Malek replied in a placating tone

“No!” I snap “No, the men fought hard at Tyrooz, we shall indulge their superstitions in the name of morale,” I say in a softer voice after a pause

“Most gracious your Exalt” Malek says saluting

I nod in approval and turn my gaze back to the endless lines of soldiers flowing across the processional in tight columns. It all seems so fragile, the stagnant chest-beating of an aged beast, this entire display an attempt to convince the masses that the empire still has some life in it. The first months of my reign have seen me playing the role of excising surgeon as I have attempted to remove the sickness from Astragon’s ancient form.

The treatment has been bloody, entire ministries shuttered, corrupt officials purged at all levels, the empire has been bled. But while my agents have hacked away the diseased parasites that sickened the body, sword and fire alone will not save the anaemic carcass that remains. And so, I have come to the isles with the goal of doing what my uncle could not, I have come to reform our ailing nation.

“Is everything prepared?” I ask

“The council has arrived in Faishahn and will assemble here tomorrow that they might hear your will majesty” Malek replies

“Good, let us hope that this council proves more loyal than the last,” I say ominously

They could hardly be worse, vultures and hyena have displayed more fealty then that collection of parasites and wastrels.

*House Kevshah, the ruling Imperial House of Astragon
*Suthulu, a legendary general of Shaddan II and the Ibis of the Shavashkaid, Astragon's secret police, infamous for his ability to manipulate and deceive.

 

[North Timistania]

Sovereign Hall, Faishahn, Capital of the Faishah Isles ​

The night air was oppressive, the streets were slick with rain and a sticky humidity clung to every surface. The normally serene boulevards and processionals of Faishahn’s palace district now buzzed with activity. A great council was gathering in Sovereign hall and it promised to be one of the most important political gatherings in Astragon’s modern history. Streets normally awash with tourists and sightseers now hosted disciplined patrols of military police and riot Kaiderin, military helicopters buzzed overhead, and armoured vehicles kept watch at every checkpoint.

From his command post inside the hall’s central tower, Exalt-Captain Ashan oversaw the operation from a thousand screens. No chances were to be taken with the Empress’s life, the hard-earned lessons of Murza’s abortive coup had been taken to heart. Three regiments of Kaiderin had been seconded to the defence of the imperial delegation, an entire wing of the air corps gunships kept steely watch above, thousands of military policemen combed the streets and within the palace grounds, a detachment of the elite red Kaiderin stood sentinel.

Was it too much? There had been many on the council who had thought so, fearing that such a vast security presence would suggest weakness rather than strength. Ashan had overruled all objections, these were volatile times and crowned heads were falling across the wider eras both to friends and enemies. A mere month earlier Sherwin of the Vestrugat had been stabbed to death under a banner of truce, Astragon would not make the same mistake, trust was a luxury best left unindulged.

Every vehicle was searched, every would-be guest was required to provide identification, every bag and every suitcase was scanned and checked by hawk-eyed officials. Ashan secretly relished the opportunity to put the nobles in their place, they had grown indolent and treacherous in the dying days of Kaskaran’s reign, now they would be made to behave as loyal subjects of the empire.

It was not simply the nobles who felt renewed pressure from a newly assertive state, in the bars and restaurants of greater Faishahn, the empress’s Shavashkaid prowled. Dissenting voices were catalogued, potential threats assessed and would be problems snuffed out with calculated efficiency. Nothing would interrupt the council of that the nation could be certain.

Ashan felt invigorated for the first time in many a year, the rot of the Valdishah’s last days was being hacked away and replaced by the vitality of the ascendant Kevshah dynasty. It felt good to be serving a strong ruler once more, Sabhrain had already proven herself equal to even mighty Sakard and Ashan took great satisfaction in being the shield to the body of this Kevshah empress.


“Exalt-Captain, the final dignitaries have been processed and are within the compound” the senior field commander buzzed over the comms

“Excellent, keep me posted on any new developments and maintain vigilance” Ashan replied affirmatively before closing the feed

“That just leaves the Exalt herself,” Ashan thought suddenly feeling a spike of anticipation

The central tower had once been host to little more than a collection of ageing manuscripts and discarded paintings. Ashan had seen to it that the space was refurbished with modern electronics and surveillance equipment, he had turned the building into the eye of a vast security apparatus. The main monitors soon focused in on a series of black spots on the near horizon, the spots rapidly grew larger until their black metal frames and whirring propellers were easily visible.

“The Imperial entourage is approaching” the comms officer announced

 

[North Timistania]

Ashan’s guard of honour formed up around him as he descended the tower stairs and made his way towards the gatehouse. They soon descended into the lower palace levels, passing statues and portraits that gazed out from their elegant perches. They passed through the gatehouse and were soon lined up in perfect formation as their empress arrived.

Four red hawk gunships painted entirely in black save for their distinctive crimson roundels swooped in low around the palace grounds and took up stationary positions. Behind them, a Shomesh* large transport helicopter painted entirely in red and gold descended onto the grass below. The ramp of the Shomesh was lowered and a dozen armed bodyguards fanned out onto the grass in two lines.
Next came the Ambhadzi, the traditional herald of a tribal leader, his green tunic and leopard-skin cloak instantly marked him as an announcer. The elderly man raised a spear high above his head and began to chant the traditional challenges to any would-be onlookers.

“An Empress Approaches!” he roared in ancient Ubgandian

Behind him, four Kaiderin in scarlet tunics and glittering bronze armour descended the ramp of the Shomesh. They wore no helmets and their faces were painted in scarlet and bone-coloured tribal motifs. Each guard carried a ceremonial spear and a cowhide shield emblazoned with the ancestral symbols of Astragon. The peacock, the ibis, the elephant and the hippo were lovingly embroidered on each guard's shield respectively.

Behind the guardsmen came singing women in traditional dress, they wore tall headdresses that glittered in the evening light and gowns of deep indigo. They carried gourd instruments in their hands and sang in loud and sonorous voices. Behind them came yet another procession, this time elderly men in vibrantly coloured silk and linen, they carried in their aged hand's ancestral masks and statuettes devoted to the ancient Ubgandian gods*.

“Anogadzirira asvika! Hapana munhu achamupokana*!” The Ambhadzi roared loudly in Ubgandian

The procession marched towards the gatehouse singing in jovial voices and with rhythmic ceremonial dances. Ashan watched their coming with a relaxed eye, the spectacle of an imperial arrival was one he was all too familiar with, he had witnessed thousands of such processions during Kaskaran’s reign. There was still some stirring of pride in his soul despite the familiarity. The arrival of a Hailakaid ruler blessed by ancestors, mothers and fathers was a vibrant reminder of the glorious heritage of the Astragonese.

Then the singing took on a wild almost feverish quality, warriors stood to attention and stamped feet and tapped spears upon the ground. A crowd had gathered to watch the Exalt arrive, dignitaries and nobles began to clap and stamp their own feet as the ancient song of welcome filled the evening air. Then all sound was drowned by raucous cheers as the empress descended the steps flanked on all sides by her Kaiderin guards.

Sabhrain I, Na Kevshah, Exalt Empress of Astragon and defender of the Hailakaid peoples descended the ramp. She wore a uniform of deep crimson and a cloak of peacock feathers that was held aloft by ladies of the court. She strode toward the gatehouse in thigh high officers' boots of tan leather and a brown sword belt with a snarling manticore buckle whichh hosted a bronze hilted sabre. Upon her brow sat a circlet of red gold with a rampant Manticore of darkest ruby at its centre.

As she arrived at the gate captain Ashan and his entourage knelt in reverence, she raised a hand and bade them arise. Ashan and his men did so, armour clanking as they rose. Ashan raised his sword in salute the kaiderin snapped to attention and raised their arms in proud salute.

“LONG LIVE THE EMPRESS!” they roared in unison

“Long live her Kaiderin!” Sabhrain replied in a proud voice

“Your imperial majesty, the council awaits your will in the great hall, allow us to escort you there,” Ashan said in a dutiful voice
Sabhrain nodded “lead the way captain”

The red Kaiderin formed a tight square around their empress and march in precise step towards the hall of the sovereign. Behind them, the great procession followed with their soaring voices and stirring music playing.

*Traditional Ubgandian deities are still worshipped in many parts of Astragon and often syncretically with Kaidain or Shaddai

*A Shomesh or "sparrow" in Mercanti is a large transport helicopter capable of carrying large numbers of passengers

*"An empress approaches! None shall challenge her!"

 

[North Timistania]

“The Menials, Astragon’s forgotten children, a caste of criminals, military disgraces and the descendants thereof. In times past they served a valuable purpose, a cautionary tale of how far any could fall without due vigilance, over time, however, their numbers had swollen to the point where there were nearly 5 million menials in Astragon in the late 2010s.
They congregated in vast slums within the urban centres of Astragon’s coast and worked in gruesome conditions in the factories and sweatshops of the noble cartels. Without a means of escape from this state the menial caste had become hereditary and a source of social unrest that threatened the empires very existence”

-”Astragon’s Caste System Examined” by Luko Jardin

Sovereign Hall, Faishahn, Capital of the Faishah Isles

The hall of the Sovereign better resembled a gladiatorial arena, the ageing Hightonian architecture bearing silent witness to one of the fiercest debates in recent history. The marble busts of great statesmen beheld the scene below with Stoney faced horror. From his position in the antechamber, Deklah watched as men in elegant robes sized one another up on floors of darkest obsidian.
Deklah shifted uncomfortably in his dress whites, the old naval uniform far stiffer than he remembered. The scene beyond the antechamber put him in mind of lions fighting for control of the pride, Mpande Na Lungu was presently laying into Vizier Ebesha with more venom than a Mondabaland gorgon snake.

“GRANT MENIALS RIGHTS!? ID SOONER GIVE MY DOG A SEAT ON THIS COUNCIL!!!” Chief Justice Mpande Na Lungu roared defiantly

Mpande had been Minister of Justice for five months, promoted like so many in the aftermath of the civil war. His predecessor had been a lax man who was amenable both to financial compensation and convincing arguments to look the other way. That former judge had been hurled from the battlements of the Palace of the Exalt, in his place Mpande had risen to the rank of Minister.

He may as well have been carved out of stone judging from the perpetual scowl that lined his ageing features. Mpande was bald and clean-shaven save for a single braided tail at the back of his scalp, he wore simple white linen robes and bore no jewellery or ostentatious marker of wealth. His face was a map of wrinkles that lined a face that had seldom smiled and often frowned in its time.

“These degenerate menials earned their misery! If they had remained loyal and just, they would not now endure the squalor of the slums!” he roared spraying Vizier Ebesha in spittle

Mpande was like many in Sabhrain’s new council, loyal, incorruptible and utterly conservative in outlook. Sabhrain had sought to restore fairness and good governance to the empire, in practice this had meant a society that was more stringent but just as cruel. The military policemen Sabhrain had replaced the prefects with might not take bribes, but they still beat anyone foolish enough to break laws.

Deklah often wondered why he had been allowed to live long enough to witness this moment. Sabhrain had held a blade above Deklah’s head, he had been kneeling and prepared to meet his end, he had deserved execution. Instead, she had spared him, used him as a tool to cause the menials to reject Murza. Still, he had expected an assassin to come and do away with him in the war's aftermath, but the fateful visit never came.

Deklah had kept his life and rank, better than that, he had been elevated to a higher caste and placed under the supervision of the newly formed imperial security ministry. That she had spared him suggested he was of use to her, that she continued to do so suggested he continued to be useful. He wondered grimly how long his utility would last before he was quietly disposed of by the shadows that guarded the imperial throne.

“We must have reform! If we allow Astragon to stagnate we invite further chaos!” Sarakhaid shot back in a loud and confident tone

The two men circled each other like duelists, the assembly watched like with torturous anticipation to see who would retort next. A long pregnant pause followed as both men prepared to dive into another session of rhetorical sparring, but the resumption never occurred. The great Baobab doors to the forum swung open and two lines of red uniformed Kaiderin formed up, the Exalt-Empress made her way down the steps and seated herself in the Governers throne that adorned the centre of the forum.

Everyone in the room made the traditional salute by raising their fists with bowed heads. Sabhrain said nothing, she said nothing instead motioning for the debate to continue. The Empress gave Mpande an amused look as though she was saying “No please, Continue!” the elderly judge cleared his throat and tried to resume his argument.
“Errr...as I was saying, we cannot allo...” he stopped mid-sentence as Sabhrain raised her hand for silence

It was a cue that Deklah knew all too well, the ministers would argue and jostle for power but in the end, it was the Exalt who always had the last word.​

 

[North Timistania]

I raise my hand, the council has been indulged enough, signalling that the time for discussion is over. I study the room with an appraising eye, passions have been inflamed and battle lines drawn, the forum better resembles a battlefield. I rise from the ivory throne and regard the room one final time before speaking.

“When Sukuru* punished traitors by declaring them Wapansesha* it was rightly lauded as justice but honoured Sakuru did not account for how his law would be misused, the punishment for the foulest traitor becoming a tool to brutalize debtors and fools” my voice echoes through the dome, the forum remaining deathly silent

The solution of yesteryear has become the nightmare of today, Dembe could not have imagined the swollen hordes that crowd slums and darkened corners of every city in Astragon. In condemning generations to this wretched state, the dynasties of Astragon slowly but surely made certain that the menials' numbers would swell to bursting.

“The menials have become a problem we can no longer ignore, the stagnation of the old system has the potential to become its undoing, Murza may have failed but he has shown us the danger that men promising freedom and opportunity pose "I speak in a loud but soft voice my eyes scanning the forum, respectful silence and fearful glances greets me as I do so

“Majesty, if we abolish the castes we will be faced with social collapse! The system has existed since your ancestor Kayyvan declared us a nation three millennia ago!” Mpande protested

“I am not suggesting we abolish the castes, we all know such an act would lead to chaos, but we cannot continue to rule an empire that claims to be exalted but condemns millions to generational misery with no opportunity for redemption. My uncle punished the guilty when they earned such judgment, but he was never cruel! Let fairness return to our nation!” the final words

Fairness, that long-lost virtue that once informed our actions, the empire has forgotten this most important of values. I will restore it if men earn their damnation in my Astragon they shall earn it for themselves and themselves alone. My uncle dreamed of a world where merit rather than birth or wealth would determine a soul's path, perhaps now that ambition will become a reality.

“So... what path do we take your Exalt?” Mpande asks anxiety filling his normally resolute voice

“Astragon has need of dutiful servants, let the menials prove their worth, open our industries and markets to those who can demonstrate relevant skills, we shall utilize these forgotten children and in doing so avoid them being utilized against us,” I say my voice thundering at the last sentence

I have a vision, Murza tried to use menial conscripts to destroy me, I shall use them as an untapped resource. The menials shall have their chance to reclaim a place in this empire, they shall fight my battles, build my cities and man my industries. I will give them a path to salvation, and they shall love me for it. The other castes may protest, some might even do so violently, but ultimately, we will be better for it.

“This will take some time...” Mpande replies bluntly

Now there is an understatement, time is the least of our concerns, the nobles will buck and rail against this reformation, the commoners will grow fearful of change as they always do. Time we have, but will to endure the storm, that is a more finite resource.

“Then take it and make sure to do it right, this council is dismissed, for now, we have much work to do” I reply turning to leave

As I leave a chorus of whispers steadily rises in my wake, by the time the doors slam the whispers have become the roar of argument and debate. Let them fight, in a democracy, the leader is beholden to his ministers, in Astragon my will is absolute. Let them fight, so long as my will Is done.

*Sakuru Dembe I, Emperor of Astragon during the abortive War of Red Shields, which saw southern nobility attempt to revolt against the imperial state in 534. Dembe crushed the rebellion and punished the nobility by stripping them of their caste and declaring them Wapansesha, or “menial” in Mercanti.

 

[North Timistania]

Juku Na Eboye watched the empress depart with his jaw clenched, the room around him descended into a heated debate. He might as well have been alone and in total silence, he glared at the baobab doors as though he wanted to tear them from their hinges. He had been holding his glasses case in his right hand, he looked down to see cracks forming in the plastic.

Juku had once been content to ignore the endless debates that had typically defined the assembly, during Kaskaran’s twilight years there had been much talk and little action. The Duke of Ekon had been happy to let the status quo reign, his privileges protected by corruption and tradition. Now though the talk was brief and action common, this Kevshah order was pushing the envelope in directions that fundamentally opposed the comfortable privilege the Juku had long enjoyed.

Sabhrain had emerged as a wild storm, her armies crashing through ancient Tyrooz like an enraged elephant. Juku had hoped that coronation would be the end of that storm, but then had come the brutal purges of the corrupt and the traitorous, that too had not been the end of the storm. These things alone, Juku could have put up with, but changing the caste system? That was a step too far.

Juku saw the way this storm was blowing, and it was a tumult that he feared would strip the exalt empire bare. Juku remembered the ancient tale of Thassad and Mashenda, two brothers fighting over the throne of Kayyvan, Thassad had beheaded Mashenda and seized power. Juku wondered if the time had come for similarly bold action. He let the treasonous thought bury itself within his mind as though he feared it would be overheard by the masses.

“This Empress must be stopped,” he thought darkly

But how to stop a storm? Juku did not know that answer yet, but he was determined to discover the means.

 

[North Timistania]

Sovereign Hall, Faishahn, Capital of the Faishah Isles

The morning sky blazes a shade of scarlet as the sun rises on the horizon, the sea is bathed in its hue appearing wine dark in the nascent daylight. From the balcony I can hear the tropical birds begin to fill the air with their dawn cries, the low roar of urban life temporarily subdued in the small hours. The peace will be short-lived, soon the deluge of factional politics and intrigue will wash over my world once more.

I gaze at the sea, the waters glitter like liquid fire as the ray's glint of their surface, soon I shall cross that vast expanse once more. Somewhere across the horizon Tyrooz waits, the ancient city of my forefathers calls me home, the stone coast beckons. I return to an uncertain future, my reforms still in their infancy and my enemies plotting from the shadows. I have never had more need for good advisors, but I am parting with one of my finest.

“You summoned me your Exalt?” Sarakhaid says bowing his head in deference

“I did” I reply gently before turning to regard my cousin “Your support these many months has been invaluable”

“it was my honor to serve” he replies placing a fist to his chest in reverent salute

“I am losing a superlative Vizier but the Iterian league shall gain a worthy Leader” I say with a sad smile

Sarakhaid’s appointment to the league is a triumph for a resurgent Astragon, the empire shrugging off the isolationist tendencies of the past, but it is not without risk. Sarakhaid was a vital member of my inner circle, his departure will create a rift, one that many will seek to exploit.

“Fazzah has all the qualities needed to be a great Vizier” Sarakhaid says reassuringly

If only it was Fazzah that my worries lay with, no, the fears I hold lie with far less stalwart souls. The new order has asserted itself over all sectors of society, not everyone appreciates that change, in darkened corners many a conspirator dreams of rolling back the change.

“It's not him I'm worried about cousin” I reply grimly

“Who then?” he asks

“The noble's bicker and plot behind my back even as they shower praise upon me to my face and then there's Sedhain” I say almost hissing her name

“General Sedhain?” he says quizzically

The one and only, Sedhain, the woman whose change of loyalties assured my victory at Tyrooz. but her loyalties are exactly the thing in question. Her very name is a threat to my ascendency, she is the last scion of the Sedhain dynasty. her ancestor's days of glory are long gone, but that doesn’t mean she won't try to relive them at my expense.

“She chafes against the restrictions I have placed upon her, convinced she is deserving of higher honors, she held a gun to my head once if given the opportunity to do so again would she fire next time?” I say irritably

I pinned medals upon Adasha Sedhain’s chest and made her marshal of the capital armies, her promotion raised her to one of the most prestigious commands in the nation. But I know ambition when I see it, even as I pinned the decorations upon her dress reds, I knew she lusted for greater status. She waded through blood and gore at the battle of the assembly, but she did so for her own glory rather than a duty to me. When I raised Malek Korshad to the office of Prime Marshal, she simmered with resentment. And now I wonder how long before this last scion of an Imperial House will seek more than to lead my armies, I fear Sedhain has designs upon a far greater office.

“Enemies have underestimated you before majesty,” Sarakhaid says solemnly

“Let them do so again,” I say darkly

I stare out into the wine-black sea and wonder silently if I have fallen victim to the same paranoia as my forebear Sakard, jumping at every shadow that crosses my path. My enemies lurk in the dark corners of the empire, plotting and scheming as they attempt to destroy everything I have tried to build. But Sarakhaid is correct, I have been underestimated before and the ones that made that mistake are now all dead.

“Let them come” I mutter in a vicious whisper “I will show them the folly of toying with a Manticore”

 

[North Timistania]

Kynanza Palace, Ekon, Eastern Astragon

There was an old saying in Astragon “Go to the coast to make money but go to Ekon to invest it” it had held true for thousands of years. Ekon was something of an oddity amongst the 12 states of the Exalted empire, where other provinces boasted vast tracts of savannah or open plain, Ekon was a fraction of the size and made up of terraced settlements that hugged the mountains. But what the Ekona people’s land lacked in size It more than made up for with ingenuity.

Ekon was not a rich land, the mineral wealth that other provinces had been blessed with was non-existent in the hill country, Ekon’s wealth was its people. Since the province's earliest days as a petty chiefdom, it had displayed a level of social organization that had eluded the larger states of Astragon. The Ekona had been instrumental in the creation of banking systems, investment and economic theory. From their great estates, the Ekona nobility had experimented in the collective economics which had eventually made them the envy of lesser tribes.

The Ekona did not build, they did not fight, and they did not engage much in the wider nation's political scene, what they did do was leverage their immense wealth into almost every facet of Astragon’s economy. The Ekona lords had a stake in almost every major company and Cartel in the exalted empire, even the legendary B&K had Ekona investments at its foundation. This didn’t mean the mist capped east was some idyllic paradise however, Ekon was a deeply unequal land and its rulers had little incentive to change.

Ekon’s vast agrarian estates were ruled over by a noble caste who plotted, schemed and lived in extravagance all the while ignoring the agrarian caste who's sweat, and toil provided the foundations for their immense finances. The situation had crystallized into something utterly stagnant centuries before the present, society no longer moved in Ekona, the rich grew ever more distant from the source of their wealth. With distance also came corruption, the Ekona growing haughty and unwilling to contribute to the “lesser peoples” of the empire, during the dying days of the Valdishah dynasty they had bribed and influenced enough politicians to ensure tax exemption and virtual autonomy.

But now the Valdishah were gone and the rot at the heart of that old dynasty was being hacked out root and stem. The Kevshah empress was not burdened by the grief and sickness that had made her predecessor withdraw from the wider world, she governed with a firm hand and her officers could not be bought with wealth and trinkets. These new stern-faced officials represented an existential threat to the Ekona’s often less than legal business activities and the scrutiny threatened to encroach into once untouchable Ekon.

Juku Na Eboye was well aware of the danger, the fourteenth* man to bear the title of Duke of Ekon was ill at ease with the new order. Even as he lounged in the courtyard of his palace, he found he could not relax, the pounding fear in his chest was impossible to ignore and the threat of the empress was always at the back of his mind. He gazed up at the rounded domes of his ancestral home, the stone shaped to resemble the circular huts that his forefathers had dwelt in. Ekon was a proud land, Juku feared though that it might soon be humbled.

He traced the path of the mist that flowed down from the mountains above, his future much like the tips of the Mavunga felt shrouded. He turned back to the social scene unfolding around him in the courtyard. Servants hovered nearby in immaculate white and black robes, they carried plates loaded down with Cassava and sweet fruits and they watched intently for the cue to attend to their noble charges.

Gossip filled the afternoon air as noblewomen in linen dresses of cream and azure idled amongst the sea of divans and garden benches. They chatted over cigarettes and games of chance, they lounged in the shade of acacia trees and surrounded by proteas, flame lilies and orchids. The women’s heads were shaven in the traditional Ekona fashion and their lower jaws were painted in ghostly white to show their status as noble-born.

“I hear the empress is half Kaiderin!? No wonder she's so...unrefined”

“She intends to tax the finery from our backs!”

“What will the duke do?”

They gossiped in conspiratorial whispers, as though Sabhrain might hear them and come to tear down their mountain homes. The fact that the court was gossiping in the open, within earshot of the duke no less, was a grim sign of the times. Quite simply they did not know what to make of this soldier empress but the Ekona were already uncomfortable with the idea of some brutish Kevshah scion coming to tell the proud children of Ekon how to live.

“Uncle...you are doing it again” a young man's voice called out, snapping Juku out of his trancelike musings

Juku turned to regard the unfinished game of chess on the Camphor table, two piles of obsidian and ivory pieces rested either side of the intricately carved stone board, Juku’s nephew Gasimba had played well but the game was ending. He smiled and picked up a curious piece, the obsidian had been sculpted to resemble a man in fine linen robes his hands outstretched in a placating gesture but with a dagger at his waist.

“My sister tells me that your father never taught you how to play chess?” He asked gently as he scratched his beard with a ringed hand

“He didn’t much care for games” the boy replied meekly

Runye had been more interested in drink and hunting, pursuits that had worked to end the fool's life at the unfortunate age of 33. Gasimba had largely been raised by his mother in the family home in Mondabaland while Runye had wasted weeks at a time hunting leopard in the savannah. Juku’s brother in law had underestimated both the strength of his palm wine and the ferocity of Iteria’s predators, Juku had felt more than a little satisfaction when the news of Runye’s death at the claws of a big cat had reached Ekon.

“Chess is the game of kings Gasimba, both entertaining and educational” Juku explained in a gentle tone

“Educational?” Gasimba asked in an unsure voice

“Chess mimics the politics of life, take this piece, the advisor,” Juku said holding up the obsidian figure The advisor, ancient Astragon’s contribution to Iterian chess, the robed figure represented the internecine plotting and conspiracies that had wracked medieval Astragon. The diagonal movement of the piece symbolic of the advisor's ability to move in many circles as they cultivated and broke alliances in equal measure.

“The advisor represents the shifting directions of politics; this piece can whisper in the ears of emperors and if used properly,” Juku said placing the piece down next to Gasimba’s king “Depose them,” he said putting Gasimba’s king into checkmate

“That was fun,” Gasimba said with a slight smile

“You played well for a novice, we shall play again soon,” Juku said rising from his couch with a warm smile “but now I must attend to business, I shall see you at dinner nephew,” he said heading for the palace interior

Juku had been ecstatic when his beloved sister had agreed to move back to Ekon, her years in Mondabaland finally done. Gasimba was starting to come out of his shell and with Runye finally removed from the picture the boy might have the chance at a childhood not entirely defined by neglect. But all that promise was heavily dependent upon Juku’s plans being successfully implemented, like the advisor on the chessboard the duke had to choose his moves carefully if he hoped to put the empress into check.

He strode down a long hallway of sandy-coloured walls adorned with portraits of past rulers and tapestries lined with traditional patterns. Two ducal guards stood to attention as servants opened the door to his office, the oval-shaped chambers were comfortably furnished. Two great warthog tusks adorned place of honour above the mantel and a long desk fashioned from camphor wood rested in the centre of the room. Juku lowered himself into the cattle hide armchair and pressed the power button at the centre of the pyramid-shaped Volta*, the doors were shut as he signalled that he required privacy.

Juku opened an encrypted file and regarded the data in front of him, biographical details and important military postings filled the documents body text. The attached images depicted a woman in her early 30s with pale brown skin a little too light to be a full-blooded Ubgandian and aquiline facial features. The woman's expression appeared standoffish, confrontational even, the name read “Adasha Sedhain” Marshal of the Coast. She was the scion of a once-proud imperial house, her ancestors having ruled Astragon centuries ago.

Sedhain by all accounts chafed under the leash of her Kevshah master, resenting Sabhrain for both her position and for not being chosen as the next Prime Marshal. Adasha represented a personality as fierce as Sabhrain’s and the two would likely soon fall into conflict as both women sought to assert their dominance. Juku saw an opportunity in this confrontational general, a means of replacing the Kevshah and their authoritarian rule with someone more...pliable. But first, he had to plant the seed of betrayal.

Juku reached for the phone and dialled “Make the arrangements” he said before hanging up

*The distinctly non Ubgandian title of Duke was first adopted by Hanya Na Eboye in the 1700s at a time when Gotic titles were becoming increasingly fashionable during the reign of Shaddan II.

*The Astracomm Volta, notable for its pyramid shape and excellent office applications, one of Astragons most popular brands of personal computer.

 

[North Timistania]

Ondo military district, Bayyah Na Tyrooz

It was raining again, it had been for the better part of a week already, soon the pleasant chill that the rain brought would give way to the intense heat and sticky humidity that defined spring on the stone coast. Adasha watched the droplets slide down her office window with a disinterested eye, precipitation provided little in the way of stimulation, but it was a far better sight than the mounds of paperwork that loomed on the desk behind her. She felt trapped, the office serving as an air-conditioned prison cell, the responsibilities of a marshal proving more akin to shackles then a promotion.

The months that had followed her greatest triumph had been hollow and stagnant, like going cold turkey after the most intense of highs. She could still feel the heat of the battle whenever she closed her eyes, the smell of burning vehicles and Gunsmoke had burned itself into her nostrils. The heady rush of fear, adrenaline and aggression had been intoxicating as she had led her men through the thickest of the fighting. She had charged the assembly pistol in hand, she had seized victory at the tip of the spear, and now she was cloistered in a general's office rubber-stamping a sea of paper.

It was the same for all Kaiderin, the narcotic-like highs of battle hit everyone, but no two people experienced the mufaro wehondo* the same way. It was this variable reaction which revealed some of the most significant differences between Adasha and her would-be empress Sabhrain. For Adasha the mufaro was visceral the scent and emotion of war providing the ultimate rush, not so for Sabhrain, the empress was different her joys cerebral. Sabhrain had always been as ice to Adasha’s fire, she took no joy in the physical act of warfare, Sabhrain’s mufaro was the cold intellect of a strategist delighting in dissecting and decapitating her enemies with the elegance that a composer might guide an orchestra.

The two were like fire and ice, Adasha emotional and quick to anger, Sabhrain by comparison glacial and prone to contemplative thought. Together they had claimed an empire, but the war had been less complicated than the peace which had followed. Adasha had been rewarded for her actions at the assembly, but not to the same extent as her superior Malek Korshad. The ageing general was a proven commander and more importantly a trusted loyalist, Sabhrain had likely been prudent in promoting him to Prime Marshal.

However, to Adasha the sting of being passed over for promotion had festered into full-blown resentment. SHE had delivered the city back into Sabhrains hands, not Malek! There had been many hateful nights spent glaring at the medals Sabhrain had pinned upon her chest, they seemed more mocking then honorific. Sedhain found herself casting her mind back to the moment she had come upon the Exalt’s throne in the assembly building.

She had gazed longingly at that throne, wanted so desperately to lower herself into it, it had taken all her resolve not to. And yet now she wondered privately if she should have, after all, she was the scion of an imperial house. The Sedhain’s had ruled Astragon for centuries, why should she with a far older claim allow this Kevshah upstart to seize power? It was a dirty, treasonous thought and she indulged in it only fleetingly and only in private.

And yet the thought would not leave her, it tormented her every waking moment, what if she was the rightful empress and not Sabhrain? What if Astragon had been delivered from Murza only to fall to another tyrant? She pushed the thought down deep within herself, such musings tended to end with either a firing squad or a long descent from the battlements. She sighed and turned her back on the window, the mounds of paperwork would not remove themselves.

“enough delusions for one day,” she thought bitterly

The mobile phone on her desk began to shake as a message came through, she sighed and reached for the aging Savannah*. To her surprise a text message with no identification had appeared on her screen, that would have been unusual on a normal phone, but it was downright suspect on a secure military device. Even sending a message to an official device would require knowledge of encrypted networks, sending an anonymous one would require skilled hacking.

“Your promotion does not match your ability Marshal Sedhain, would you like to discuss brighter prospects?” the message read

“Who is this? hacking a military device is a capital offence!” she typed back

“just a friend who can offer you something more than paperwork” the reply came back instantly

“What do you want?” she typed back with shaking fingers

“only to talk” the sender replied

"Talk about what?!" she typed apprehensively

"The future and how we can both benefit from each others support" the text read

"I don't even know who you are!" Adasha protested

"You will" the reply came through ominously

“where?” she asked, shocked by the speed at which she agreed

“come to the old city, the shaddaist temple to be exact, we will be waiting, come alone, you will not regret it” the message came through

“how do I know I can trust you?” she asked

That was a fair question, any unofficial meeting was a risk but this one sounded utterly treasonous if anyone was listening in or watching she could be signing her own death warrant.

“Because we have both been forgotten by the current regime, Marshal, we have mutual interests” the sender replied

“Alright, but I am only coming to listen, I make no promises” she replied assertively

“Very good Marshal, we will see you this evening, remember to come alone” the message read

The text lingered on her screen for a few moments before erasing itself, clearly, the hacker had only intended the information to be temporary, no digital trail meant no leads for anyone watching. She set the phone down and breathed heavily, her chest was pounding with anxiety. She was unsure how to proceed, the offer intrigued her more then she would have liked to admit...but the consequences were very real and potentially fatal if she made the wrong decision...

She reached for her coat and prepared to leave the office, she would go to the old city, if only to hear what these mysterious “friends” had to say. She wondered briefly if she was setting out on the road to damnation by even considering such an action. She sighed and told herself she would only go to listen...but deep down she knew she desired to do much more than that.



*The “joy of battle” in mercanti
*The Savannah phone series, Astracomms flagship phone brand​

 

[North Timistania]

HEMS Kaskaran III, Meterran Sea, Off the Coast of Astragon

Waves lap at the edge of the vast carrier as its hull cuts through the waters like a blade, the setting sun glows burnt orange in the distance as we turn our backs to the isles, Bayyah Na Tyrooz is mere hours away. The fleet around the carrier is a hive of activity, I watch from the balcony as sailors rush to complete their tasks and announcements boom over the loudspeaker. In the skies above us, squadrons of Shrike fighters keep a deadly watch as we make for the capital.

The Kaskaran ploughs through the waves, its immense bulk propelled forward by two massive diesel engines. The great warship is a waterborne fortress, Astragon’s first true aircraft carrier in over half a century. In many ways, this ship represents Astragon as a whole, like the country it had lain stagnant due to corruption and neglect. When I rose to power, I ordered this vessel completed, the prior minister of armaments execution serving as motivation for his successor.

The ship was finally completed and put to sea, a potent symbol of the direction I seek to take Astragon in. Her once silent decks now roar with activity befitting a ship of war, her steel hold serving as my headquarters. Our fates are tied together, many would love to see my reign and this vessel sink beneath the waves. I named this great warship in honour of my uncle, the thought of my uncle's spirit watching over me giving me strength. A pity then that this great weapon cannot follow me onto land, where I am going its iron shell will afford me no protection.

The door to my cabin opens with a loud metallic creak, a rating with a machine gun on his shoulder salutes and motions for my guest to join me on the balcony. The rating salutes and takes his leave as Jannah Na Deklah, my would-be assassin, strides into view. he's just as ugly as I remember his bald head a mass of burn marks, scar tissue and badly stitched wounds. Even the pristine dress whites of his naval uniform do little to improve the grotesque visage before me.

“You requested my presence majesty,” Deklah says formally, pressed his fist to his chest as he bows

He has a thick accent, a coast lander for certain, it’s a rough baritone speech, the sort you would find in any working-class neighbourhood in old Tyrooz. The gulf between us could not be more marked, my own speech is softer, the accent more subtle and the delivery slower, his voice is that of the working poor and mine of the nation's most privileged. Politics makes for strange acquaintances though and I didn’t summon Deklah to discuss elocution.

“I did, we will be arriving home in Tyrooz soon and a great deal of work awaits us when we do,” I say my tone serious

“I am at your disposal as always your Exalt, but if I may ask, what would you have me do?” he asks obediently

“We are entering a critical time Deklah, the reforms I have commanded will create many enemies, I will need a protector and who better to keep unseen blades at bay then my would-be assassin” I reply in an amused tone

His face twitches, a subtle sign of discomfort on his part, the scar on the side of his left cheek seems to shift as he does so. Barely a year has passed since Deklah under orders from Murza was dispatched to eliminate me as I mourned my uncles passing in the north. That attempt failed and for his trouble, he received a bullet to the face, a parting gift I gave him when I pulled the trigger. The wound is a constant reminder of his failure, his service to me penance for the sin of attempted regicide.

“I am sworn to your service majesty, but if I may ask a question?” he asks nervously

“That would depend on the question” I reply before taking a long drag on my cigarette

“At the battle of Tyrooz you could have killed me, I would have deserved it as well, but you spared me, why?” He asks his voice almost pleading, he has been thinking about this for a while

“A valid question I suppose,” I say shrugging

I stub out my cigarette and breathe in the salty sea air, why indeed, it certainly wasn’t out of mercy. When my agents had dragged him into my tent, I had held a knife above his head, it had been tempting to make the killing blow there and then, but then he had said something which gave me pause. “I deserve to die but please save my people” he had said in a resigned voice, uttering those words had saved his life.

“If you had begged I would have slit your throat without a second thought, but you didn’t, you asked me to save your people, that willingness to accept death for the greater good is the reason I spared you” I explain my tone moving from bluntness to admiration

I omit the fact that I also spared him because I knew that Deklah was merely a symptom of a greater disease. I choose not to reveal that I let him live because I knew killing him would only lead to other menials taking up arms in his place, sparing him was a form of co-option. I'm not lying about the first part, of course, I do respect his willingness to serve his people, but I have no reason to tell him that his survival was also due to the fact that I would rather use the menials then have them used against me.

“Murza gave you vague promises of reform, I have put my neck on the line for your people, see that my enemy's blades don’t sever it,” I say in an authoritative voice

“I will not fail you,” he says in a low and sincere voice, his fist pressed to his chest in salute

I nod approvingly and dismiss him, once Deklah’s footsteps fade out of view I turn my gaze back to the horizon, Tyrooz Beckons in the darkness and all the plotting shadows that lurk therein.



​

 

[North Timistania]

The Old City, Bayyah Na Tyrooz, Capital of Astragon

Night descended upon the old city crowds of citizens flocking toward the lights of the clubs and bars like moths to a flame. Ubgandibeats blared from loudspeakers with infectious energy, big screen TV’s flashed with a flurry of bright images and the sounds of a city in its hours of leisure could be heard. It was the end of the working week and lower and middle caste workers filled the streets eager to spend paychecks and welcome in the weekend.

The smell of roasted lamb skewers and cumin seed was mouthwatering as kebab shops hawked their wares to passersby. Cafes were inundated with customers who sat drinking red bush tea and black coffee from steaming cups. The mélange of scents filled the nostrils with the clashing hints of perfume, unwashed bodies, nicotine and incense. The old city burned with vibrant life as businesses filled to bursting.

The vast melting pot of the old city was awash with figures from every caste and background tonight. The clean linen suits of office employees were contrasted by the faded overalls of industrial caste workers. Both, in turn, were a sharp departure from the brightly coloured traditional robes that glittered amid the night revels. Amidst such a sea of humanity, it was easy to disappear into the heaving mass of colours and noise.

Tonight, was especially festive due to the upcoming soccer game, Tyrooz was playing a friendly against the capitals ancient rival Domos, the clash of the two great cities of the coast drawing thousands to watch. The bars heaved with traffic, patrons eager to drink their fill of cheap ale and spirits, there was a barely contained atmosphere of rowdiness, something combustible that could turn from cheers to rioting at the drop of a hat.

Adasha moved with the crowds and used their vast bulk to conceal herself within them, she had to be careful, there was no telling if she was being watched. There was never any certainty when it came to the Shavashkaid, no way of knowing whether Sabhrain had ordered them to watch her or not. She had been meticulous in her journey, leaving the car at home and taking the ferry to conceal herself within plain sight, but that didn’t mean she could relax now that she was close.

She moved down a nearby alleyway her boots crunching on broken glass as she walked, her face was largely concealed by her hoodie, but she kept a pistol holstered in her jacket as insurance. The Shaddaist temple was a few blocks away, its tall spire piercing the night skyline like a stone needle. She made her way through the darkened side passages taking care to stay concealed, finally after what seemed like an age she had emerged onto the grand processional.

The temple had an eerie quality to it as though the ages had left it untouched, it remained pristine even as the world around it decayed. Barely a year ago the old city had been a warzone, it still bore the scars of that fierce battle, bullet holes and fire damage marked many of the buildings around the temple and there were yet more structures that were still in ruins. The destruction around the temple only added to its mystical air, even as Tyrooz had been rocked by shelling and firefights the temple had been left unharmed.

The temple was a potent religious symbol, Exalt’s were crowned here and Gadol’s invested, some fifty million souls regarded this structure as second only to the holy city of Adoneh-Jirei in importance. Even Murza, the arch-traitor who had sought to pull down the old order, had wisely chosen to leave the temple precincts unmolested during his months of terror. There was a certain irony then that Adasha now entered this holy place likely intent on the same goal as that hated enemy.

She crested the hill that the temple sat atop, she paused near the top of the steps, a sudden apprehensive feeling gripped her. Somewhere beneath the toxic walls of pride, entitlement and ambition, a part of her knew that what she was doing was wrong, but she pushed the doubt down and pressed on. She would never admit it but her lust for the throne had become all-consuming even if deep down she knew it to be wrong. The temple beckoned and with it, ironically, damnation in all probability.



​

 

[North Timistania]

Elsewhere

My body sleeps but my mind gains no rest, deep in the unconscious, I find myself gazing upwards at a blood-red sky. The firmament bleeds crimson, the sanguine hue flows across every surface and bathes the dream in darkness. I am standing on a shoreline, water flowing across my ankles as they rest in the white sands of this dreaming realm. A wind that is not a wind blows across the horizon; shadowy palm trees stir in the breeze. I hear a voice in that wind, a calm and eloquent tone that carries in the drift.

“A far greater storm is brewing in the lands of the living,” My father says ominously

Farhad Kevsha sits at a nearby table reading from the Mikra, a look of focus etched across his features. He is as I remember him, his horn-rimmed glasses rest upon a face that is both gentle and weighed down by unending anxieties. His grey eyes regard me with a warm but distant gaze, as though he is looking at me but seeing a thousand possibilities. He died when I was 4, the victim of a Na Themba bombing, strange to think that those eyes regarded me for such a brief span of time.

“I have well and truly rocked the boat...the days ahead are uncertain,” I say in a weary voice, it feels good to admit the danger

He nods, like a teacher listening to a student make excuses, I sigh and sit down beside him. It has been months since I last experienced a lucid vision of my father, I have honestly stopped trying to explain them one way or another. Whether a delusion of my stress-filled brain or a genuine visitation from the ancestors, it is comforting to see my father, if always only for these briefest of moments.

“It was a storm that was always doomed to occur Sabhrain, our empire has grown fat and stagnant, traditions meant to last centuries have endured into the millennia and now a reckoning with past abuses is unavoidable,” Father says his tone never straying from cold analytical neutrality

The Wapansesha, the menials, Astragon’s forgotten children who huddle in darkness in their millions. Once they could have been ignored, an odious open secret confined within vast slums far from prying eyes. Those days are long gone, Astragon must face its shame or risk being consumed by it. But the land of my fathers is a lumbering beast, ancient and bloated, change is abhorrent in an empire built upon tradition. The powerful and the weak alike will fight like demons to preserve traditions that would ensure our annihilation.

“My position is more vulnerable now than ever before, my enemies were easy to destroy when they fought in the open, but now I fear I will be forced to make war upon shadows” I reply in frustration

When I took Tyrooz I did so with the force of arms, I seized my ancestors' throne at the tip of a spear. But as the cheers of victorious armies settled a new and terrible struggle had begun, taking the throne was the easy part, holding it against countless unseen threats would prove far more challenging. I may have ended one war, but I now find myself embroiled in another far more complex and uncertain conflict.

“Astragon is doomed if it does not change, the beast must evolve or perish from its own obsolescence,” Father says in a tone that bears no ambiguity

“And how do you propose I achieve such a transformation? The nobles and the castes alike will seek to resist at every turn” I reply irritably

“My child, you have been blessed with your uncles' compassion but we both know that kindness is not the wellspring that you must draw from,” he says setting down the Mikra

“What are you saying?” I ask

“You are Sakard’s granddaughter, the same ruthlessness flows in your veins, you must lead the people into the future” he replies gravely

My Grandfather, the Lion of Kosh Kosad, the man who was a scourge to both fascism and communism. He brought Astragon back from the brink, reversing nearly have a century of shame and weakness. He also razed entire cities, cracked down upon all dissidence and ruled the empire with a fist of iron. He died alone, hated by a people he had kept in check with fear. Is another Sakard truly what the empire needs?

“And if they will not come willingly?” I ask sceptically

“Then like Sakard before you, drag them kicking and screaming into the light” he replies his voice carrying a hint of ferocity

“Then I am to be a tyrant,” I say dejectedly

Father laughs at that, a flash of ivory white teeth sinister against the red glow of the skies “Tyrant, Mother, Demi-god and Empress, you will be whatever they require you to be” he replies firmly his ghostly eyes locking mine in a piercing gaze

I feel the pull of the waking world, my body calls me back and I am torn from the dream.​

 

[North Timistania]

Grand Temple, Bayyah Na Tyrooz

Adasha crossed the temple threshold, the ancient dome within smelt of dust and cloying incense. The temples colossal interior had served as a focal point for Shaddaists in Astragon for nearly two millennia, there was not a single surface that did not bear the marks of bygone ages. Intricate stone carvings lined the walls depictions of the acts of prophets and kings danced across the ancient stone, Adasha even recognized some of the scenes. Adasha wondered quietly if one day they would carve images of Sabhrain and herself into these walls.

She crossed the long aisle before seating herself in a pew at the edge of the hall, she was not waiting long. A middle-aged Shahkaid man with a forked beard and grey linen robes lowered settled into the seat next to Adasha, he did not look at her but rather continued staring straight ahead as he spoke.

“You were not followed I trust,” he said in a thick Tyroozan accent

She shook her head, the man leaned closer and locked his gaze with her own, he had stern brown eyes beneath which hung sunken eyelids that suggested this man seldom slept. His tanned skin was lined with wrinkles and frown lines and his angular face seemed constantly locked in an apprehensive expression. His paranoia was entirely justified, were the Shavashkaid to get wind of this meeting everyone involved would be disappeared without a second thought.

“You are certain,” he asked again in a slow and firm voice

“I came through the back alleys via the night crowds, I was not followed” She replied emphatically

He seemed to accept that answer, leaning back and nodding slightly, after a pause the man rose to his feet and motioned for Adasha to follow. They moved down the long aisle and back out into the warm evening air outside.

“Where are we going?” Adasha asked in confusion

“The temple was merely the initial point of contact; we go now to formally introduce you” the man replied without turning

“Introduce me to whom?” She asked irritated by the vague answers

“To your benefactor” he replied calmly

They crossed the road and walked up to a black Sedan car, several men in nondescript civilian clothing loitered around the vehicle. A young man in a leather jacket waved to the man guiding Adasha, her guide simply nodded and inclined his head toward Adasha. The men opened the door and ushered her inside, moments later they were driving down the streets of the old city, Adasha did not know where to.

“I must ask you to not take offence, our employers' safety must be protected,” the Shahkaid man said as he placed a black bag over Adasha’s head

The rest of the ride continued in total darkness, the bumps of the car on uneven roads and the sounds of the evening city becoming distant as she sat blinded. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity the car came to a stop and she was led out of the car, she could feel herself being guided downstairs, the air began to stink of moisture and dust. They walked for what must have been at least half an hour before finally a door creaked open and she was led inside a warmer room.

She was given a chair and told to sit, as she did the bag was pulled from her head and her eyes struggled to adapt to the sudden flash of lights. She eventually opened them and saw that she was in a small room somewhere underground, she was seated at a round table facing a very finely dressed man in an elegant green linen suit. The man smiled and motioned for drinks to be brought in, one of the men from the car returning moments later with a silver tray bearing Admiral Sedhain rum and two glass tumblers.

“Marshal! So glad you could join us!” the elegantly dressed man said with a broad grin

He had a practised smile, a politician's grin that looked the part but didn’t seem particularly sincere. His eyes remained cold orbs of green, calculating and without mirth, combined with the grin on his face it made for an unnerving visage.

“Who are you?” she asked

“I am the Duke of Ekon, and we have much to discuss,” he said still smiling as he handed her the glass

*********************************************************************************

Juku raised his glass and sipped his whiskey first, an ancient gesture meant to ward off suspicion of poisoning. He watched as his apprehensive guest seemed to relax slightly as he drank, still seemed guarded though. He had taken an enormous risk coming to Tyrooz but it had been necessary to handle Sedhain with a personal touch, Kaiderin had no respect for those who acted through intermediaries.

“is it safe to talk with your entourage in the room?” Adasha asked sceptically

“These men are from my personal guard, handpicked for loyalty, they are as sons to me, anything said in this room will remain hidden,” Juku said reassuringly

“So why does the Duke of Ekon wish to meet with me in... where are we anyway!” Adasha asked in a flustered voice

“Old smugglers tunnels, they run up and down the length of the old city, in the days of Sakard dissidents and political opponents would conceal their activities by gathering in such places, appropriate then that we are doing the same when dealing with another Tyrant” Juku explaining motioning to the room around him with a casual hand

“Sabhrain...” Adasha exclaimed

“Our new Empress is taking the empire in a direction it was never meant to travel, how many upheavals have occurred because of her reformist obsessions?” Juku asked in a probing voice

“She is the rightful empress!” Adasha yelled in knee jerk outrage

“is she? Based on what evidence? The supposed word of a decaying old recluse? How are we to be certain the emperor chose Sabhrain as his heir? Perhaps her claim was fabricated as Murza suggested” Juku replied his tone smooth as silk as he worked to instil doubt

He watched as her defences began to crack, Juku didn’t need to do much, Sedhain was already ambitious and her loyalty wavering, all he had to do was give her justification for rebellion. The fact that Kaskaran had adored Sabhrain and privately spoke of her suitability to succeed him was irrelevant, the point he had made was impossible to ignore. No one had heard Kaskaran officially declare Sabhrain his heir, she had taken the throne by force of arms, such ambiguity made it easier to dismiss her claim as illegitimate.

“Murza was a tyrant! He brought Tyrooz to its knees with his iron-fisted rule!” Adasha snapped

“And what has our new Empress done since claiming the throne? Purged ministers, enacted sweeping changes to all walks of life and filled the streets with her personal armies, can you truly say that she is any different from Murza?” Juku replied in a silky-smooth tone

Juku stifled a grin, the hairline cracks in Sedhains loyalty were growing into great fractures, he need only press a little further and any lingering resistance would shatter like glass. All that was left was to attack the one spot that Juku knew the Marshal would not be able to resist, her pride. Juku knew ambition when he saw it, Sedhain practically reeked of it, for all her justifications and protests the truth was she craved greater power.

"And then,” he said pausing “there is the matter of the battle of Tyrooz, remind me Marshal, who liberated the new city?” he asked giving Adasha a sly look

“I did!” she snapped seemingly surprised by how instinctive her reply had been

“And yet Malek Korshad is the current Prime Marshal” Juku replied quzzically with a raised eyebrow

“Yes, he is....” she replied bitterly

“Does that not strike you as terribly unfair? Your strategic genius delivered the Empress her throne and yet now she trots out an Iterian war fossil to take a position that is by all rights yours, why is that?” He asked his tone never straying from a soft probing speech

“I don’t know, Sabhrain is a complex woman,” Adasha said bluntly

“I think you do know Marshal, the truth is she doesn’t trust, feels threatened by your popularity, your sidelining is deliberate” Juku replied firmly

“There it is,” Juku thought, the crack in her loyalty had finally emerged, Pride and ambition undoing any prior thoughts of fielty. He watched as his words began to sink in, watched as her lip curled and her firsts tightened. She knew that on some level Juku was correct, she had been deliberately sidelined, the best manipulations always had enough truth to make the victim believe the lie.

“What would you have me do?” Adasha said in a resigned tone after a long silence

“For now? Nothing of great difficulty, be my eyes in the court and report back to me Sabhrains plans” Juku assured her in a tone that suggested the matter was almost trivial

“I was half expecting you to ask me to kill her” Adasha replied seemingly relieved

“I hope it does not come to that if the empress is swayed from the path of self-destruction all the better, but until then, keep watch and report her movements to me” Juku explained in a gentle voice trying to sound as sincere as he could

That part was a genuine lie, there was only one way this would end, either a Duke would die or an Empress.

************************************************************************************

The man that the duke knew as Sembele watched Sehdain leave with a calculating eye never breaking character for a moment. That was all there was to Sembele, the man did not truly exist, just a very convincing mask. The Shavashkaid had long deemed it necessary to keep a closer eye upon the nobility, the agent had watched the Duke for years now, building up the corrupt nobles trust even as he reported every detail back to the Ibis.

The Civil war had disrupted many years of investigation, established channels of communication going dark as the country had descended into months of bloody slaughter. When the dust had finally cleared, and chain of command had been restored the orders had been simple, watch the duke and report all his activities. The countries nobility was now under far greater scrutiny than at any other time, Sabhrain’s security apparatus seeking to prevent any future insurrections. However, it now appeared that another would be Murza intended to try his luck.

Secreting himself away from the Duke and his entourage the agent now began transmitting information on encrypted channels. The risks inherent in such an action were immense, getting caught would mean torture and death, the former event likely being agonizing enough to make the latter seem mercy. But for all the duke's subterfuge and cunning he had fallen prey to a fatal weakness, pride, the Duke believed his men would never betray him. It was that arrogance, that inability to even consider betrayal, that would be his undoing.

“Meeting between prime target and secondary completed, both subjects compromised, awaiting further instructions” he typed into the encrypted device

“Confirmed, continue observations and await further instructions” his handler replied over the hidden channel

Await further instructions may have seemed like a relatively dull response, but the agent knew better than to protest. Likely the Shavashkaid were seeking greater evidence, it was standard practice to only strike the killing blow when the investigation was at the proper juncture. The killing blow would come, but command was clearly curious as to what the Duke might be planning. The agent put his phone away and adopted the now instinctive mannerisms of Sembele, the façade would continue for a little longer yet.​