I found myself thinking of Jalend again, wondering why he had really chosen to be elsewhere today. He had been devastated by the attack, by the loss of Octavia, by the disappearance of Septimus and Tarshi. But there had been something else in his eyes when I'd told him about the Emperor's scheduled address—something that looked almost like shame.
The trumpets sounded again, and a hush fell over the crowd as the imperial doors opened, and a procession of dignitaries emerged onto the balcony. I recognized some of them—the High Priest of the Imperial Cult, the Commander of the City Guard, various senators and nobles whose loyalty to the throne was beyond question.
And then, finally, the Emperor himself.
He looked resplendent in imperial purple, a golden laurel wreath upon his brow, his face set in lines of appropriate gravity. To anyone who didn't know better, he appeared the very picture of a leader in mourning for his people, determined to guide them through tragedy with strength and wisdom.
I knew better. I saw the calculation behind his solemn expression, the satisfaction barely concealed beneath his show of grief. This was a man who had orchestrated the deaths of hundreds of his own citizens for political gain, who had destroyed lives and families to further his own agenda.
This was the man who had taken everything from me.
"Citizens of the Empire," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the silent plaza. "Three days ago, our beloved city suffered a blow so terrible, so heinous, that words fail to encompass its horror."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"Men, women, children—innocent lives extinguished in fire and chaos. Sacred buildings reduced to rubble. Our festival of unity transformed into a day of terror and grief."
His voice broke on the last word, a masterful display of emotion that I knew to be entirely false. I felt bile rise in my throat at the performance, at the way the crowd leaned forward, captured by his artificial sorrow.
"In the face of such tragedy, we seek answers. We demand justice. We cry out for vengeance against those who have inflicted this wound upon our city, our people, our Empire."
The murmurs grew louder, anger replacing grief in the expressions around me. I saw Marcus and Antonius exchange another glance, their faces grim with the knowledge of what was coming.
"Evidence has been gathered," the Emperor continued, his voice hardening. "Witnesses have come forward. The truth can no longer be denied, though it pains me deeply to speak it."
He paused, allowing tension to build, showing himself a master of manipulation.
"The attacks were carried out by the so-called resistance—a network of traitors and malcontents who have long sought to undermine the peace and prosperity of our Empire. But they did not act alone."
Another pause, another calculated beat of silence.
"They were aided, funded, and directed by agents of the Talfen territories. The bombs that tore apart our city were built with Talfen technology. The hands that placed them belonged to Talfen sympathizers. The minds that conceived this atrocity were Talfen minds, filled with hatred for our way of life, our traditions, our very existence."
The crowd's reaction was immediate and visceral—shouts of anger, cries for vengeance, faces contorted with a hatred stoked by lies and manipulation. I felt sick, watching how easily they were swayed, how willingly they accepted the narrative being fed to them.
"For too long, we have sought peaceful coexistence with the Talfen," the Emperor declared, raising his voice above the growing clamour. "For too long, we have tolerated their presence within our territories, allowed them to live among us, even granted them certain privileges in the name of harmony."
His expression hardened, all pretence of sorrow falling away, replaced by righteous anger that set the crowd alight.
"That time is over. The Talfen have shown their true nature. They have written their intentions in the blood of our children, in the ashes of our city. They will not stop until they have destroyed everything we hold dear."
The crowd roared its agreement, a sound like a gathering storm.
"Therefore, I stand before you today not only as your Emperor, but as a father who has witnessed his family threatened, as aprotector who has seen his charges harmed, as a leader who must make difficult decisions for the greater good."
I felt a chill run down my spine, recognizing the rhetoric for what it was—justification for atrocity, for the violence to come.
"Tomorrow, our legions will begin a campaign unlike any in our history. We will take the fight to the Talfen territories. We will root out every nest of resistance within our borders. We will cleanse our Empire of this threat once and for all."
Cleanse. The word hung in the air, its implications clear to anyone with ears to hear. This was not talk of war, of battle between opposing forces. This was extermination, genocide cloaked in the language of security and justice.
The crowd's response was deafening—approval, bloodlust, fear transformed into violent purpose. I looked around at the faces surrounding me, at ordinary citizens transformed into a mob baying for blood and felt a despair so profound it momentarily eclipsed even my rage.
The Emperor continued speaking, outlining his plans for the "final solution to the Talfen problem," but his words began to fade in my awareness, replaced by a roaring in my ears, a pounding in my chest.
I thought of Octavia—brilliant, gentle Octavia, who had loved knowledge and beauty and had died trying to save a stranger's life. I thought of the child Miri, who had lost her mother in an instant of flame and terror. I thought of the hundreds of others who had died that day, imperial citizens whose lives had been sacrificed like pawns in the Emperor's game.
I thought of Tarshi, with his quiet strength and his unwavering loyalty, manipulated into helping create the very disaster that had likely claimed his life. I thought of Septimus, whose hate and rage had died in fire and destruction.
I thought of my own hands, stained with blood from years of fighting, from believing that violence could somehow leadto peace. I had been considering laying down those weapons, had allowed myself to dream of a quieter life somewhere far from the imperial city, surrounded by the men I loved, building something that didn't require death to sustain it.
That dream was ashes now, as surely as the festival square. There could be no peace, no quiet life, no retreat from the fight—not while this man lived, not while he wielded power with such casual cruelty, not while he used the lives of innocents as currency in his political machinations.
The rage I had been holding at bay surged through me then, no longer a simmer but a boil, a white-hot fury that burned away uncertainty, that crystallized into purpose purer and more focused than anything I had felt before. This was not the wild, chaotic anger of youth, but something colder, sharper, more dangerous—a blade honed to a single purpose. Something broke inside me then—some final barrier between the woman I had been forced to become and the rage I had suppressed for so long.
I turned away from the balcony, the Emperor’s voice fading into an insignificant drone. The roar of the crowd faded to a distant hum, my world narrowing to the icy hate for the man on the balcony. He was no longer an Emperor, a symbol of power, a distant, untouchable force. He was just a man. A man with a heart that beat, with lungs that drew breath, with blood that could be spilled. And I would be the one to spill it.
My grief for Octavia, for Septimus, for Tarshi, did not vanish. It coiled in my gut, a serpent of ice, its venom a clarifying poison that swept away all other feeling. The love I had felt, the hope I had foolishly nurtured—it was all cauterized, leaving behind only the clean, hard certainty of my purpose. There would be no more running, no more hiding. The game had changed. I was no longer a pawn. I was the hand that would sweep the board clean, starting with the king. I would not rest. I would not stop. I would trade my life for his, if that was what it took. I would burnhis empire to the ground, starting with its heart. The Emperor's voice rose again, promising a swift and merciless victory. But I no longer heard the words. I heard only the beating of his heart, a steady, rhythmic countdown to the moment I would finally make it stop.
