The throne room was silent.
Seated upon the throne, the Empress surveyed the assembly without haste. Her gaze moved slowly across the faces before her, noting every posture that was too rigid, every restrained breath, every averted glance. She allowed the silence to stretch for a few seconds longer—just enough for it to become uncomfortable.
Then she spoke.
"Tonight, my dear demons, we will speak of the future of the Empire," she said at last, her voice calm and perfectly measured. "And we will speak of it together."
She did not raise her tone. She did not need to.
"I do not expect blind obedience from you, nor meaningless flattery. If I have gathered you here—each of you representing the elite of the demonic world—it is for your competence, your experience, and your ability to understand what is at stake."
She paused, allowing her words to settle gradually into their minds, without haste and without unnecessary emphasis.
"Very well. Since that is clear to everyone, let us begin."
She clapped her hands three times.
The sound, sharp and precise, echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling before the side doors opened. Several demonic servants entered at once. Their movements were mechanical, almost devoid of life, executed with cold, professional precision. None of them raised their eyes. Each carried a stack of documents, which they distributed methodically to every demon present, placing the files before them without a word, without a glance, without the slightest hesitation.
Once their task was complete, they withdrew in the same silence they had brought with them, and the great doors closed behind them with a dull rumble. The outside world had been sealed away from this chamber.
"Before you are the documents that will serve as the foundation for all our discussions tonight," the Empress continued. "I invite you to review them carefully."
My thanks to the palace scholars for their meticulous work, she thought with cold irony, fully aware of what those files truly contained.
A subdued rustling passed through the assembly as the demons began to leaf through the documents. Some read eagerly, already seeking hidden implications. Others proceeded more cautiously, aware that every line had been placed there with deliberate intent. They had all the time they needed. She had ensured that none of them would leave this room before everything was settled.
At last, one demon rose.
Tall, pale-skinned, his black hair slicked back, his red eyes scanned the hall with confidence that still seemed intact. The faint display of his canines betrayed his vampiric lineage. He raised a hand to draw attention.
"Your Majesty," he said evenly, "I have not received any documents."
A second demon stood in turn. His curled horns, thick white beard, and hard gaze gave him the bearing of someone accustomed to being heard.
"Nor have I, Your Majesty."
A third rose slowly. His dark red skin, massive black horns, and frame unbalanced by an abnormally developed arm gave him a brutal appearance. His tail lashed once through the air, nervously.
"The same applies to me, Your Majesty."
The Empress's smile widened imperceptibly. It was neither mockery nor cruelty, but the cold, calculated expression of someone who knew exactly where the scene was leading.
"My dear demons, what an excellent beginning," she replied calmly. "I invite you all to turn to pages four through six."
Pages turned almost in unison. Eyes skimmed the lines quickly, then slowed, then froze. The atmosphere shifted subtly. Expressions hardened. Some demons stopped reading and looked up; others continued, faces closed and rigid.
"As you can see," she went on, "these documents concern Count Dracule, Baron Dyanisis, and War General Argus."
All eyes converged on the three demons who had stood moments earlier. This time, there was no neutrality in the gazes directed at them—only contempt, cold disapproval, or silent understanding. The three began to feel the weight of those stares pressing down upon them.
"Step forward, gentlemen. If you please."
She descended the steps of the throne slowly, stopping near the table of the Archdukes, her presence asserting itself effortlessly. The three accused obeyed. One trembled slightly. Another kept his back straight, as though still refusing to acknowledge what was unfolding. The last walked with the resignation of someone who already understood.
When they were in place, the Empress spoke again.
"To begin this evening, we will hold the tribunal of these three demons. The principal charge, common to each of them, is treason against the demonic race."
She allowed a heavy silence to settle.
"The sources presented in these files were submitted and validated by Archduke Ophar himself. He will not be present tonight, as he is currently engaged in a mission classified as a matter of state secrecy."
Her gaze rested on the three accused, devoid of visible pity.
"That said, it is a mission we shall revisit later this evening."
Fear was no longer concealed.
It had settled in.
The Empress stepped forward with measured pace and stopped before the first accused.
Count Dracule stood upright, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed ahead, fully aware that any unnecessary movement would be noticed. His bearing remained dignified, yet a muted tension ran through his shoulders, as though his body restrained something no longer possible to hide.
"Let us begin with you, Count Dracule," she said calmly.
There was neither accusation nor anger in her voice. Only acknowledgment.
"Did you maintain a romantic relationship with the human woman named Aurelia?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The answer was immediate, without evasion.
"Under the influence of that relationship, did you disclose information concerning the demonic Empire?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
A few muffled murmurs rippled through the assembly, quickly smothered by the imposed silence.
"Is it confirmed that this woman was a spy sent by the human government?"
Dracule inhaled deeply before replying.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The Empress inclined her head slightly, as though each answer merely confirmed a structure she already knew in full.
"Do you therefore acknowledge yourself guilty of treason against the demonic Empire, even if these acts were committed under emotional influence?"
The Count straightened almost imperceptibly. When he spoke, his voice was firmer, lower, stripped of illusion.
"As a high dignitary of the Empire, it is my duty to protect it at the cost of my life. To have transmitted state information to the enemy—even under the influence of personal feelings—is unworthy of my rank. I therefore plead guilty, Your Majesty."
Not bad, Anastasia thought with cold lucidity. A principled mind, faithful to Ophar's reports. A steady head… except when it comes to love.
She looked up at him.
"Count Dracule, by the absolute authority of the demonic Empire, whose will I embody, you are found guilty."
She added nothing further. The verdict had been delivered.
Without wasting time, she turned toward the second accused.
Baron Dyanisis was already trembling.
His once-robust frame seemed to have collapsed under the weight of fear. His eyes avoided the assembly, and his hands shook so violently he struggled to keep them still.
"Baron Dyanisis," she began, "your love of alcohol—and wine in particular—has marked your long existence, has it not?"
"T–that is correct, Your Majesty," he stammered, his voice nearly breaking.
"Did you engage in commercial exchanges with humans in order to obtain it?"
He lowered his head.
"Yes…"
"Do you acknowledge yourself guilty of treason against the demonic Empire?"
This time, he collapsed.
His knees struck the stone floor heavily, and he clasped his hands together in a pitiful gesture, tears streaming freely down his face.
"Mercy, Your Majesty… I beg you… be merciful… I was mistaken…"
"Enough."
Her voice cracked through the hall—sharp, cutting.
The Empress regarded him with barely veiled contempt.
"Is this the extent of your dignity? Is this the image you wish to leave to the other nobles of the Empire?"
She gave him no opportunity to answer.
"In any case, you are guilty."
She had already turned away.
A slow smile curved her lips as she approached the final accused. At last. The one she had been waiting for.
"War General Argus—"
"I will interrupt you, Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head briefly.
When he raised it again, his gaze burned with defiance.
"I regret nothing."
The next instant, he lunged.
His massive body shot toward her in a bestial roar, jaws open, his oversized arm descending with the raw violence of a cornered beast.
Everything slowed.
As expected, Anastasia thought in perfect calm.
Agram was already behind him, his steel-like hand clamped around Argus's neck in an inhuman grip. Elisabeth stepped in with fluid precision, her fan extended to block the remaining momentum. Nerhya, perfectly lucid, had already moved, ready to unleash her magic.
"Ever true to yourself, General Argus," the Empress said without turning.
She ascended the steps, the sharp echo of her heels resonating beneath the vaults, retrieved her katana, then descended again slowly, the blade still sheathed.
"By your actions, I condemn you for attempted assassination against the Crown and for treason against the demonic race."
She drew Tenkōsetsu.
The blue blade slid from its scabbard with an icy whisper.
Agram forced Argus to his knees, head bowed.
The strike was clean.
The blade fell with implacable precision.
There was no hesitation, no resistance—only the brief hiss of steel cutting through air, then the dull impact of edge against flesh. In the next instant, the neck gave way. Vertebrae were severed with a muted crack, smothered by the cold that erupted immediately along the open wound. Frost spread through the tissues at terrifying speed, crystallizing the blood before it could spill. Argus's head detached in a brutal motion, still frozen in rage, and rolled heavily across the stone tiles, leaving behind a pale trail of ice rather than a crimson pool.
The body remained kneeling for a brief second, seized by a final nervous spasm, as though unwilling to acknowledge its own end. Then it collapsed, massive and inert, with a dull thud that echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling.
The silence that followed was more violent than the blow itself.
Baron Dyanisis, ashen-faced, eyes stretched wide in painful horror, stared at the frozen head that had come to rest only steps away from him. His lips trembled, searching for breath that would not come. A strangled whimper escaped him before his legs gave out. He slumped gracelessly to the floor, unconscious, overwhelmed by what he had just witnessed.
What weakness, Anastasia thought without emotion.
She slowly sheathed Tenkōsetsu, the metal sliding back into its scabbard with a cold murmur, as though the weapon itself had already forgotten the life it had taken. Then she turned her back on the still-frosting corpse and ascended the throne steps with the same composure as before.
When she sat, upright and sovereign, dominating the hall with her gaze, the metallic scent of frozen blood still lingered in the air.
And no one, now, doubted what it meant to defy the Empress.
"Good. That is settled."
She clapped three times.
The demonic servants entered once more, this time carrying two pairs of shackles. Without a word, they bound Dracule and the still-unconscious Dyanisis, then escorted them toward the palace's underground prisons. The headless body of General Argus was removed with them.
The doors closed again.
The hall remained submerged in heavy silence—not merely marked by execution, but by what it signified. Seated upon her throne, Anastasia observed the faces before her with almost serene lucidity. She made no effort to conceal the satisfaction this moment inspired in her—not brutal joy, but the clear awareness of having transformed an act of justice into a demonstration of power.
In his death, Argus had offered her more than an example.
The servants had returned with only two pairs of shackles. The demonic elite, trained to analyze detail, had not failed to notice. They would understand that the outcome had been anticipated. Ophar's report described a proud general, incapable of enduring public humiliation and prone to violence when cornered. She had not been certain he would attack, but she had measured the probability.
The agreed signal with the servants—three claps for two shackles if an incident occurred, four for three if all proceeded smoothly—was enough to create the impression that every variable had been accounted for. A simple stratagem, yet effective. In a world where authority rests as much on perception as on strength, no detail is insignificant.
The second point was political.
By deliberately positioning herself near the Archdukes' table, she had created the ideal conditions for their intervention. She could have neutralized Argus herself; her enhanced body and mastery of Tenkōsetsu made the outcome obvious. Yet she had chosen not to act. She had allowed Agram to seize the general, Elisabeth to halt his momentum, and Nerhya to prepare her strike. To the assembly, the message was clear: the Archdukes stood behind her without hesitation, even in the immediate defense of her person. That image reinforced her authority far more effectively than any solitary display of power.
Finally, there was the reason for the condemnation itself, as stated in the documents they had all read.
During the last war, Argus had received orders to eliminate every resident of a conquered human fortress. He had executed the order in appearance, but had secretly allowed several human children to escape, concealing the act from his superiors. Only recently had a soldier revealed the truth, enabling Ophar to verify it with witnesses present that day. Some might have interpreted the act as mercy. That was not the issue. The true crime lay in disobedience. Within an imperial structure, an order is not subject to individual interpretation. It is carried out. Whoever opposes it—whatever the motive—exposes themselves to sanction.
The message was simple.
Murmurs began to circulate, at first discreet, then clearer as each demon measured the implications of what had just been established. Anastasia allowed the exchanges to develop briefly before lifting her gaze.
"Good. This gives us the opportunity to move to the second matter of this evening, my dear demons. Please turn to page seven."
The conversations ceased at once, replaced by the orderly rustle of turning pages. The sound, regular and almost synchronized, passed through the hall like a signal of collective obedience. No one spoke.
When she judged that all had reached the indicated section, she resumed in a steady voice that allowed no ambiguity:
"My coronation."
This time, no murmur followed.