"Michael, save me," the puppet said.
Michael moved the threads, steering Princess Aurora forward. He had redone and replaced her puppet countless times, but he had yet to capture her majesty and beauty. But this one had to suffice.
His puppet version entered the stage, clad in his armor, his helmet off, revealing his beautiful face. "Princess," Michael said, "I have come to rescue you."
"Ah, my savior," Aurora said, falling into his arms. He rested her puppet version against his, freeing his other hand. Master of puppetry could control more than two puppets at the time, but Michael had yet to reach this level.
Xeras entered the frame. The Beloved stared at the princess, laughing. "You think you could escape me, Princess Aurora. You will be mine. Accept your fate. I shall sacrifice you and finally become the god I was always meant to be."
Michael raised his tiny wooden sword at Xeras. "You shan't have her, you Xenrus. I will deliver Ekon from your cursed existence. My blade shall hit true, and you wil…"
A knock at the door put an end to his play. Michael had kept his room dark. He couldn't risk seeing his reflection in his helmet, lying next to him.
"Yes?" he said.
"Michael," Teresa said. "Come."
Michael dropped everything. He activated the lamps, his skin crawling as the light revealed all around him. Only as he put on his helmet did he relax. His twisted face hidden, he could breathe easy. With trained hands, he slipped into the rest of his armor. Knights twice his age, having encountered the Empire's enemies on all battlegrounds, would have put on their boots when Michael was finished already. He was nothing without his armor.
Michael opened his wardrobe, his only mirror sealed away in there. He checked himself, ensuring to appear presentable. His eyes shone through the slits of his silver helmet. Their strong blue was the only appealing feature in his face. His armor rivaled the artistry of any Knight Dracon. A present from the Emperor himself. To the youngest member of family Michon, the Empire's most trusted Sacred House. A hero of his standing had to present himself as such. All the more reason to hide his face away.
He closed his wardrobe and opened his door. Despite his best efforts, the Mother of Angels was not impressed. She examined him, her eternal scowl never changing. A woman of over sixty years, she ought to have no presence or control over Michael. The royal Alchemist had done their best with her face and body, but no Alchemy could reverse the cruel hand of time. Michael wished they could do the same to him, but his burden was one bestowed upon him by Harras Himself. He had to carry it, as bearing sin and failure was a fate worse than his.
Her face was marked with deep wrinkles, brought on by the life she had endured. Dressed as any member of the royal court, Teresa was no ordinary woman. She had birthed and raised the leading members of the House Michon. Her children were destined to be adopted into the Sacred House. She made sure of that, twisting fate with her own hands.
Michael bowed down. "Mother," he said.
A formality neither believed in. But what would they be without tradition and ancient rules, inherited from the ones before?
Teresa clicked her tongue. The Mother of Angels never gave compliments. The best one could hope for from her was a lack of insults. "You will come with me. There are things to be discussed."
Michael bowed again, following her. She said not another word on their walk. There was no wasted motion with her. A moving statue, carved from marble to encapsulate the ideal of nobility. An emotionless tranquility honed with a faithful heart. A few servants had cursed her to be a bitch. They were punished accordingly. Insulting a member of House Michon, even an indirect one, was an insult to Harras Himself. Teresa had purged them from their sin herself. The Mother of Angels was known for her mercy after all.
Obedient as he was, Michael became her shadow. He had grown up in the castle and Casares, knowing every inch as well as Harras' holy words. Though, he scanned through each turn they took, each corridor they entered, and every person who walked past them. Outside his room and his stage, chaos ruled. A sword hanging over his head. He could not allow it. One mistake, and his face might be revealed.
The people of the Empire didn't know him, but Sir Michael Michon. They knew his armor and blade. He had to keep this illusion alive. The strings steering him couldn't be disturbed.
No, the people didn't know the real him, but they loved the idea of him. The servants bowed as they crossed him, whispers of admiration following him. Even in the safety of Casares, the Silent Prayer wore his armor, always ready to fight for their heavenly father. Michael soaked in the attention, but their praise was forgotten as he saw Aurora.
The princess walked alongside her assistant. He caught nothing but a glimpse, and she was gone again, never noticing him. The sight of her forced his heart to skip a beat. She didn't have to hide behind armor. Aurora embodied her royal blood fully, wielding a presence even Teresa paled next to. Armies kneeled to her and would fight the Qilesh back to the Tainted Mountain. What he would give for a single look, a brush of her hair, a stolen kiss.
"Michael," Teresa said. Only the Mother of Angels managed to say his name with an open threat interwoven into it. No Gift or Magic, yet her words carried the weight of mountains.
Michael pushed his affection aside, following his adoptive mother. They entered Teresa's study shortly after, Gregor waiting for them. The head of the Michon family had brought his falcon, feeding him with strips of meat. The bird was the product of careful breeding, allowing it to be small enough to fit on his master's arm. Gregor supervised the breeding process himself, as any Michon should.
"Took you two long enough," he said, scratching the eagle's head.
Michael bowed down. "Father," he said.
That caught Gregor's attention. After witnessing Aurora's perfection, Gregor's deformed appearance stung deeper. The crown of his head was bald, dirty grey hair hanging on to the sides, unkempt and ungroomed. His lower jaw protruded forward, not aligning with his upper teeth. The left side of his face hung lower, deflated, not matching the right side. He had the scar from a cleft lip, disfiguring him further. The only man in Casares that matched Michael's ugliness. A common feature for most Michons. Harras' heavy burden manifested, weighing heavy on them. Gregor had aged again, new wrinkles marking his weathered skin. He had reached a high age for a Michon. In a few months he would turn 47, a considerable age, as the oldest in their family died before 50.
Michael dared to believe that one's appearance didn't mirror one's soul. His spirit could be something beautiful. But Gregor made him doubt as always. His smirk twisted his features further. He let Michael remain bowing, seconds passing. "My son," he said. "It is good to see you."
"As it is to see you," Michael said, standing up.
Teresa stalked next to her son, her pride and joy. She had birthed him, raising him to take the Michons towards the future. She caressed his hair, making him purr like a cat. Michael had found their interaction disgusting at first, but years of witnessing it had dulled his senses.
"Father, you have called for me," Michael said.
"Yes," Gregor said, slapping away his mother's hand. Anyone else would have lost their fingers, but how could the Mother of Angels ever punish her beloved son? "We have things to discuss, Michael. The Empire has been led astray. The future is unsure, as you can tell. We have received confirmation. The Ravenspawn escaped his righteous punishment, stealing away his sister and putting Kupferrang to the flames. It is to be expected that the entire city has perished."
Michael clenched his fist. Thousands of innocent souls, butchered by this Child of Drom. The Dreadraven had chosen his Scion well, it seemed. "What should we do, father?"
"There is nothing much we can do, son," Gregor answered. "The Ravenspawn is beyond our grasp. No, we have to focus on our own realms."
Teresa nodded, continuing. "The Lockrams and Urachs have sized the chaos to raid the towns of each other at their border. The bad blood left behind by the War of Ascension runs thick still. The Lorraines are cowards as always. None of them can be trusted. They serve the Empire not by choice or conviction."
Michael swallowed. The hostility between the Sacred Houses was an open secret, their bloody history all too well-known. But neither Gregor nor Teresa had ever shared their opinions on them openly. No hidden insult or threat.
"If this continues, another War of Ascension might be upon us," Gregor said. "I don't think I have to tell you why a civil war would bring ruin to us all. The Qilesh will not wait for us to punish the unfaithful and reinstate order. Once our weaknesses become glaring to the open eye, they will find a way to use them against us. I pray to Harras his end shall be a long one, but Xeras is not foolish. He will know when to strike and when to wait."
"We need to regain control," Michael said. "We need to rein in the other Sacred Houses."
Gregor rewarded him with a rare, sincere smile. "Good, my son. The Ravenspawn is a bigger threat than we had anticipated, but he might offer us what we need. The other Houses have grown too complacent. They have forgotten the ruin that could await us. Another enemy, one that forces them to cooperate, is precisely what we need.
"Hugo Lorraine himself has been entrusted with informing the Empire of the danger this Ravenspawn holds. He has started with his paintings already."
"I see," Michael said. Beyond his sacrilege of killing the Emperor, the Ravenspawn had earned Michael's disdain. Something about him struck him as wrong. Even before he had ravaged an entire city. "But this isn't enough."
"Yes," Gregor said. "The cracks in the Empire have grown too large. We need more allies. Should a war become inevitable, it needs to be a short one."
"The Divine Generals," Michael said.
Teresa folded her hands in front of her stomach. "Joan is sworn to the Empire. We can rely on her. Nihil is beyond our comprehension. He might be born from faith, but his existence is an anomaly that cannot be trusted. Fugner is a heathen. He will fight for whoever he fancies more. Cursed faithless. I shall never understand why his Highness has anointed a common merchant. He should have chosen von Freudhaus."
"And Julius Kraft?"
"We are unsure," Gregor said. "He is called the Mad Berserker for a reason. Don't be fooled by his demeanor. By all rights, he should have died. No Wrathling is supposed to win back his mind. Like Nihil, we cannot trust him."
"But you are unsure," Michael said.
Gregor licked his lip, his tongue scratching his scar. "Kraft and Nihil are both Fides. They are strengthened by faith. But unlike Nihil, Kraft is as sharp as he was before becoming a Wrathling. I don't know what he is, but perhaps he is still the man he used to be. You will be sent back to the war. But not now. You might be needed here. However, as soon as we have regained control, you will accompany Kraft. Be our eyes and ears. It will be your responsibility to discover whether we can trust him."
"Your wish is my command," Michael said, bowing down.
Gregor smacked his lips, smirking at the great Silent Prayer humbled before him. "There is another matter, my son. One that you will be thrilled to hear."
Michael stood up, saying nothing.
"The Emperor and the Arists have… proven themselves weaker than feared. They are the heart of the Empire, but a heart is still a servant to the body and mind. They have forgotten their place. Our forebearer knew this would arise."
Gregor patted his hawk's head. Despite its size, he was the pinnacle of his kind, a perfect specimen. "The Arist's divine blood needs to be purified and bred. For generations, they have not considered the ones they conceived children with. It is high time to change this."
Michael's pulse quickened, growing restless. "Father, are you saying that…"
"Yes, son. We are close. The union between an Arist and a Michon knight. What our family has built towards for centuries. We are not there yet. The Emperor would deny us still, but not for much longer. We need to maneuver carefully, but finally, we don't have to bed riffraffs anymore."
Teresa looked away. She was such a riffraff, her family a distant cousin to the Arist line. Too watered down to inherit their Gift, but still connected to Harras' Scion. Most Michon knights married members of such families, fathering children with them to receive a drop of the Arist blood. An unfortunate consequence of this practice was inbreeding, cousin marrying cousin.
Gregor sighed. "As much as it pains me to admit, I cannot be the one to bed the princess. I am too old and could only impregnate her once or twice. But you, Michael, shall. Prove yourself, and I promise you, the princess will become yours. And with her, both our lines are finally unified. You will fulfill our House's greatest desire, my son."
Michael had never seen pride in the faces of Gregor or Teresa. He didn't know whether what he was seeing was pride, but it was something.
The thought alone of having Aurora finally for him. Her touch would heal him. Her kisses would wash away his stain. Her body would purify his soul, and their children would bring him salvation.
"It will be done, Father," Michael said, smiling.