(Square still owns it. -- I had not really intended anything beyond the opening. But I've grown to like the premise, and for now its a fun distraction. But I can't continue with such a weird style. It makes things too confusing for dialog. For better or worse, it'll be more traditional from here out. I'll figure out a proper description someday.)

-

In the coming weeks, things had changed within the Empire's newest vassal state. Trade had flowed freely again with the rest of the Empire. Imperial goods had lined the merchants' shelves once more. Food had become plentiful, the fear of contamination long since gone. The blight itself had become little more then an afterthought. The people had been content.

Then the culling started.

"The guilty need no trial. The innocent need no fear," the Judge had told them. First it had been the criminals. Then the pirates. Then the black-marketeers. Parts of the under city, long known as havens of villainy, had been swiftly cleaned out in brutal, efficient raids. The people had cheered. The city had glowed.

But it had not stopped there. Next it had been the dissenters, the rebellious, and the undesirables. Pauper and gentry alike had been the same before the iron fist of the Judge. To speak out was to slander the rule of law, regardless of station. The traitorous burden even themselves with ill-thoughts, they were told time and time again. The meaning behind the words had soon become clear. Embrace your new life, or be relieved of it. It mattered not.

The palace, too, had changed. No longer was work confined to the rising and setting of the sun. In these times of political uncertainty, sleep was a luxury only the meek and the careless brave could afford. It had meant employing twice as many servants, but the former Kingdom had become a goldmine without the past hindrances of equity and equality to hold it back.

Now, the people were safe. They were fed. They were happy—they were afraid of what would happen otherwise.

-

The Judge slowly ran the whetstone along the blade. It was sharp, but not sharp enough. Not yet.

A full feast lay before him. The table was loaded with all manner culinary delights. Not that it mattered. The only hunger he felt these days could not be quenched by any meal, whatever its extravagance.

His recent trip had gone well. The Jungles of Golmore had hardly changed since his last time beneath the shadowy canopy. Finding the village had then been easy. The Wood's own gifted tear had led him right to it. The village chief had been waiting for him, while the rest of the inhabitants had stayed well clear. Perhaps they knew what it was he sought. It was then that he had been reminded of the other special thing about these Viera. They were gifted in more ways then just one.

The deal had been simple. One sibling or the other; it had mattered not which. He had been feeling generous. After all, it was not everyday that he was willing to trade an entire jungle for a single life of servitude. He had even gone so far as to give the now-former chief the chance to say her goodbyes before they had left. Such kindness was unbecoming, the voice had told him. But he had been tired then, and was tired still.

"You had better eat," he said examining the sword. "You're of little use to me if you starve."

Across the table, his dinner companion said nothing. Servitude did not come easy to her people, and she was no exception. She could not understand why she had been plucked from her home, or of what use she could be to this . . .hume—tainted as he was. The safety of her home had warranted the acceptance of his offer. More and more trespassers had defiled the sanctity of her home as of late. It she could ensure the safety of the Wood by his will, then her duty was clear. Even if it meant she was to become a slave, the future of the Wood would be secure. She would endure.

"Why. . ." she said, suddenly relieving the burden from her mind. "Why bring me here?"

The question was not unexpected. He knew it would come sooner or later. He was just surprised she had waited this long. "Your sister and her companion have become a nuisance to me. One way or another, your presence should be quite the deterrent," he said, setting the sword aside. "It is only a matter of time before that emotional little sibling of yours gets word to them. I only wish I could see their faces when she does."

The Viera watched him. The man's mind was in shambles. That much was clear, yet she could also see something else—something darker lurking behind his eyes. When they had traveled beneath the scorched skies of Giza, she had seen him argue with himself one night before storming off in a rage. She knew of the concept of madness, but to see it first hand was truly disturbing. But somewhere in that fractured mind, beneath that stern grimace of a Judge, there had to be some trace of the energetic young man she had met long ago.

"Once, they were your companions, too, Va—"

She was cut off by the crash of the Judge's fist hitting the table.

"That name has no meaning to me, Viera. You will not utter it again."

-

The throne had been removed. It made things easier. Thrones gave people ideas, the Judge was finding. Best to be rid of the wretched things.

Knowledge was money. Information was power. Fortune was whispered to those who could afford it. These were the stalwarts of the Empire. It was these lessons that he had learned well in the Imperial capital of Arcadia, a city where secrets were bought with blood and strife. And once he'd had a great many secrets to sell.

It was for these reasons that the Judge always took audiences with this man. Ever keen, ever listening, the man known as Jules by name, but questionable by reputation, stood curtly before him. The information he had must be valuable indeed for him to waste time coming all the way out here, the voice whispered.

"I am glad to find you well, your lordship," Jules bowed. "And I would like to see you to continue so, now that—"

The Judge waited. Pleasantries were a part of the game. It was a game every birthed Imperial understood, but his desert heritage made him an impatient man as the streetear prattled on about one ceaseless thing after another.

"—which is what brings me here. I suspected you would be interested our fair capital's recent visitors," Jules finally finished, and folded his arms.

"You speak of. . ."

"That's right, your old friends," said Jules knowingly. "One in particular was looking very regal. She has matured into a fine woman. That pirate has stolen him a nice one this time, don't you think."

The Judge scowled. This was troubling news. There were likely many reasons the former Queen would go to the Imperial capital, but all of them were detrimental to his plans. If she allied with another Judge—or worse yet the Senate—his hand would be forced. He had assumed she would remain in Bhujerba, hopeless. An assumption that now seemed quite naive in retrospect.

"What were they doing? Who did they meet?" the Judge asked quickly.

Jules waved his hand. "Not so fast, your lordship. There is the little matter of my rather large fee."

"Whatever, just tell me," the Judge growled. If it would not have been such a waste, he would have had the man thrown in prison for his insurrection long ago.

"They came with knowledge," Jules smiled. "It seems some in the Senate have been careless with their. . . pleasures. Naturally, they told this to one they felt would be eager to hear it."

"Zargbaath," the Judge said coldly. "But why, he has no love for Dalmasca."

"Two Judge-Magisters, but only one empty throne. Quite the problem," said Jules.

"That old fool thinks I want to be Emperor?"

Jules looked surprised. That had sounded like money. "You mean you don't?" he asked.

While there were many things the Judge wanted, the Empire was not one of them. Or at least it certainly was not at the top of his list. An Emperor, like any man, would eventually die. "There are things in this world more valuable then Empires," the Judge said quietly.

"So then, you really are barmy for the Queen. . . Imagine that, a Judge pining for a Que—," the streetear suddenly froze. Reason said that no man could have had possibly moved that fast, but the feel of the cold blade at his neck told him otherwise.

"A man with a family should watch what he says," the Judge hissed through gritted teeth, "and especially who it says it to."

"By. . . by your honor's grace," Jules squeaked in a broken voice, feeling the blade pull away.

The Judge sheathed the sword. He needed to think. Too many people had flirted with death by testing him lately. This could not go on. He had to maintain control. Without fear there was no obedience. Without obedience there was no control. Without control there was no. . .

"If Zargbaath wishes to aid them, then so be it. He is not important," said the Judge. "Neither is the Senate for that matter, but I doubt they will cross me. I know their crimes all too well."

"So what will you do?" Jules relaxed, and absently rubbed his neck.

"The only thing I can," the Judge said putting on his helmet.