The Askye Empire had been built on brute power, manipulation, deception, elite swordsmanship and fear.
But there was one thing the Royal Family hated most – betrayal.
And that was why the Emperor's actions could be justified...a bit. A feast was supposed to be on, but it had been halted. Rather than a feast to celebrate victory, there was mourning all over the lands, for a dark cloud had seeped in.
The Queen wasn't executed. She was murdered. But none dare speak out with their mouths, though their eyes were expressive enough.
Night fell, but the palace couldn't sleep.
The Queen's body had been moved to the Central Tower where a quiet burial was held. The Emperor had nothing to do with it and that was the price she had to pay for treason, but some of the servants and nobles handled it. Because they knew, she still deserved respect.
Grief moved through the halls like a silent procession, unseen but heavy, pressing against every door and every chest and every whispered conversation that died the moment footsteps approached, afraid it might be the Emperor.
Servants lowered their eyes. Guards stood stiffer than usual, as if posture alone could keep their thoughts from spilling out.
Queen Ingrid was dead. An unlikely news, but true. Though some expected it, due to her continuous failing health. But she didn't die due to failing health.
Officially, she had been declared a traitor.
Some thought otherwise. But of course, no one dared speak a word.
Candles burned low in alcoves along the corridors, their flames bending in the restless drafts that slipped through the stone. The castle, once warm with smiles and courtly chatter, now felt like a mausoleum pretending to be a Royal House.
Behind the thick doors of the Emperor's chambers, Damon paced. His boots struck the floor in sharp, erratic beats.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Like a man trying to outrun something that lived inside his own skull. He wasn't calm. He couldn't be calm. He could still see it. Her face, her eyes. Those eyes filled with hate.
She was not twisted in fear, nor begging. Nor cursing him. She was smiling. The memory clinged at him.
He stopped abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair. His reflection in the tall mirror startled him. His blue eyes are bloodshot, jaw tight. A ruler who looked hunted rather than powerful.
Never in a million years would he have thought that Ingrid would be capable of doing this to him. Although he always sensed that she disliked him, she never really paid attention to Palace affairs and was always on her own. That was why it was even more marveling.
Had she hated him that much?
"She made a fool of me," he muttered to the empty room. "In front of everyone! In front of my people."
His voice sounded shaky, but trying so hard to be fierce.
Then, a knock suddenly came at the door. Damon's head snapped up. "Who is it?"
There was a brief pause, before a soft voice drifted through. "It's me… Euphemia."
Damon had ordered his guards on standby to leave, because he didn't want anyone hovering around or close to him, and that was why no one was there to announce her presence.
He hesitated. He actually wanted to be alone. But, he could use a little of this.
Earlier that evening, Euphemia had decided to go meet Damon but Sibyl got in her way.
Sibyl had gripped Euphemia's wrist in a shadowed corridor, "I don't think this is a good idea."
Euphemia eyed her, "You always think nothing is a good idea. Leave me be," she yanked her hand out of her hold, "My husband needs me and I shall go to him." She said finally, then strutted out, leaving Sibyl stare back at her with thinned lips.
Despite Sibyl's warnings, she had gone.
Inside the chamber, Damon stared at the door for a long moment. Then, "Enter."
Euphemia stepped in quietly, closing the door behind her. She wore a simple night robe, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders. There was this sparkle in her eyes, as if the death of her co-wife seemed to add more joy to her life.
"Your Majesty," she bowed gently.
Damon let out a slow breath. "Came to celebrate?" he asked.
Her brows creased. "I came because you should not be alone, Your Majesty," she cooed.
And then, he chuckled. "I am Emperor," he snapped. "I am always alone."
She walked toward him slowly, like approaching a seething beast. "You have not eaten, nor have you rested. It burdens my soul to see His Majesty in such a state."
"Do not speak to me like I am a child," his eyes blazed, but that did little to deter Euphemia. She lifted her fingers to his bare chest, stroking it adoringly.
"I speak to you like a man who just lost his wife," she said softly.
Something dark flickered across his face. "I did not lose her!" He barked and Euphemia shivered. "She chose her side."
Euphemia did not answer that. The silence between them thickened. Her fingers went sideways, meaning only to touch his arm, to calm him. But, his hand shot out suddenly, gripping her wrist hard enough to make her gasp.
"Damon—"
"You think I don't see it?" he said, his voice low and shaking with restrained fury. "The way they looked at me? Like I am the villain here."
"You are not," she said quickly, though her heart pounded. His grip tightened regardless.
"Exactly. I am Emperor," he repeated, as if trying to convince himself.
And then, he shoved her hard onto the bed. Euphemia gasped. And in one swift motion, he tore the fabric on her body, pinning her on the bed, spreading her legs and thrusting into her with no emotion or care.
Euphemia shook, trying to adjust but Damon held her in place, not caring less if she was hurt or glad.
It was not tenderness, not comfort, not love in anyway. It was anger looking for somewhere to land. Euphemia's protests softened into quiet, stunned silence as she realized resistance would only make the storm worse.
There was nothing she could do. He was much stronger than she was and there's no way she could overpower him.
When it was over, Damon stepped away from her as if she were something spilled and inconvenient. His breathing was uneven and labored. He did not even look at her.
"Leave," he said flatly.
Euphemia stood frozen for a moment, clutching her robe closed. Her throat burned. "Your Majesty?"
"I said leave!"
The shout made her flinch. She stumbled toward the door, her fingers trembling as she opened it. The corridor air felt cold against her flushed, warm skin.
The door shut behind her with a heavy thud, and she gulped. Damon didn't even regard her.
She did not make it too far. Just past the bend in the hallway, Euphemia sank to the floor, with back against the wall and pressed her hands over her mouth to muffle her sobs.
Tears slipped through anyway. Yes, she did plan on comforting him, but the way she was treated wasn't respectful.
Sibyl found her there minutes later.
She took one look at Euphemia's face and chuckled. Euphemia's gaze landed on her and they steeled.
"If you came just to laugh, you should as well just go."
Sibyl shook her head and then looked at her again, "I told you," She whispered, not unkindly though.
Euphemia rolled her eyes, "Wow, you deserve a medal."
Sibyl raised a brow, but then shrugged, "Just don't cry all night," she said finally, walking out.
Down below, in the servants' quarters, quiet mourning continued in secret.
Lena, was the one who cried the most. Her fellow servants tried all they could to pacify her but it seemed as if she wanted to follow her Queen to the afterlife.
"My Queen, don't leave me! Oh, I warned you!"
Some of the servants exchanged looks. It seemed as if Lena was aware of what the Queen had been planning, but all of them kept mute.
An older maid sat on her narrow bed, clutching a handkerchief embroidered with Ingrid's initials. The queen had once stopped to thank her for polishing a tarnished candelabrum. No one of Status had ever done that before.
In the kitchens, two young scullery boys whispered about the execution, both voices trembling. One insisted he had seen the queen smile. The other told him to shut up before someone heard.
And in the highest tower, alone at last, Damon stood by the window.
The moon cast pale light across the kingdom below. From this height, everything looked peaceful, orderly and obedient.
His reflection hovered faintly in the glass.
For a moment, just a moment, doubt crept in.
Then his jaw hardened. "She betrayed me. And that's enough," he whispered to the night.
But the words did not carry the weight they once had.
"And I swear to the Almighty! When that Trontine girl is captured, I will break her into half!"