"Ugh, please just set me on fire, Brighid," Mòrag complained. "Death by flame would be a much nicer fate."
Brighid laughed. "I have a strict policy against turning my Driver into a human torch. And don't blame me. As memory serves, you volunteered for this."
"No, I volunteered to produce an heir. I did not volunteer for this."
Mòrag gestured at the collection Brighid had strewn across her bed: dresses. Of all the things she'd endured in the past weeks, the prospect of dressing up was by far the worst. Makeup, fancy etiquette, dancing, and pretentious nobles...it was not how Mòrag wanted to spend her birthday.
If only she could go back to the council meeting a week ago, she might have kept her mouth shut.
"Not a successor, Your Majesty. A continuation of the Ardanach bloodline. An heir."
The council's intent had been all too clear: they wanted Niall to pick a random noble, marry her, and produce an heir...and soon. Mòrag overreacted; the council had never seen her lose her composure like that. But the thought of Niall being forced into a loveless arranged marriage, and so young—for Architect's sake, he was just barely fourteen—the thought angered her so fiercely that the words burst out of her mouth.
"I will do it. By law, I'm an Ardanach. I'll produce an heir."
And yet, she didn't regret it, either. Sure, the thought of marrying a random stuck-up noble made bile rise in her throat. But everything she'd ever done in her life had been for the sake of protecting Niall. This wasn't all that different. But instead of protecting him on the battlefield, she was protecting him in the political arena.
Once the counselors had peeled their jaws off the floor after her outburst, they agreed quickly. In fact, only Niall objected to the proposal. But despite the Emperor's protests, arrangements burst into existence. Within a day or two, rumors that the Flamebringer intended to find a husband covered the entire empire. As for how that would happen—that was where the dresses came in.
In three days' time, Alba Cavanich would host its first gala since immigrating to Elysium. The pretense: celebrating the Special Inquisitor's birthday. Of course, the party would merely provide Mòrag with an "easy opportunity to mingle with the Empire's most eligible bachelors," as one royal counselor had put it. Either way, everyone in Mor Ardain buzzed with frivolity at the promise of a social event.
Mòrag, however, did not share in the excitement.
"When was the last time the Empire formally celebrated your birthday?" Brighid asked, picking up a simple purple gown. She held it up to Mòrag, scrunched her nose, and tossed it aside.
"I was sixteen. My coming-of-age celebration," Mòrag said.
"You were an adult long before that," Brighid mused.
Mòrag nodded. "But Architect, a ball? Couldn't I just duel all of the...suitors and pick one?"
Brighid simply laughed, still focused on her task. "...How about a navy one, hm? The color does suit you."
"Brighid, I am not wearing a dress," Mòrag protested. "I may be subjecting myself to this...domestic venture, but I will not be ogled at."
"Lady Mòrag, in the sixteen years I've known you, I've let you embarrass yourself at hundreds of social events by flouting the dress code. Indulge me just this once...And besides, Niall sent these up personally."
Mòrag exhaled heavily. "Fine. But only because he sent them."
Her Blade grinned. "Good. Then I won't have to burn every pair of pants you own. Now, try this one on."
Mòrag scowled at the threat to her wardrobe but did as she was told. Clearly, Brighid intended to enjoy dressing her up like a doll for the gala. But when it came to discussing the prospective marriage aloud, Brighid withheld her opinion. Normally, the Blade readily gave her thoughts about, well, everything.
"Brighid, what do you think about all this? Honestly."
"...I will support you and stand by your side whatever decision you make."
There it was: Brighid's historic line for, This is a terrible idea but I have no choice but to go along with it.
"You disapprove, then."
Brighid stopped sorting through the pile of gowns. "As admirable as your intentions are, Lady Mòrag, I fear that, given your past, this arranged marriage can only end in disaster. Or at the very least, you'll be miserable. As your Blade, I cannot approve of that."
"That...that was a long time ago, Brighid. And I have to do this."
Mòrag had considered it a thousand times already. The office of Emperor had already stolen so much of Niall's innocence. Surviving the assassination attempt at Indol, watching refugees and his own citizenry starve, fighting off a power-hungry Senate, shouldering the affairs of an entire country at such a tender age...he endured so much. And yet he never complained. He, unlike so many warmongering rulers before him, truly deserved to be happy. He deserved the chance to have an awkward adolescent crush on a girl his age and fall head over heels for her. Emperors rarely got that opportunity. So if Mòrag could give him that chance by marrying, then she felt certain she could live with the consequences.
"I respect and admire your sense of duty, Lady Mòrag," Brighid added, her tone somber. "But my greatest fear is that the man you marry will find out the truth. But will he respect your privacy? I fear he won't."
"...Then I'll have to choose carefully," Mòrag said. She fastened the zipper on the dress and showed it to Brighid, who beamed like a schoolgirl.
"That's the one," Brighid decided. "It's perfect."
"It shows a touch more skin than I'm comfortable with."
"Nonsense. It's classic and tasteful. And ninety percent of the other gowns Niall sent show much more than this."
On that point, she could not argue; Ardainian high fashion and modesty often seemed to be mutually exclusive terms. It was a bit ironic, really, to see women parading around in revealing gowns when Mor Ardain's court valued propriety so highly. It was one of the many inconsistencies Mòrag hated about court life. And Brighid was right; this dress was tame. Aside from the plunging back-which swept down to her waist-the dress was perfectly modest.
"There's just one problem: no sleeves."
Brighid gave a knowing smile and picked up a pair of long gloves. "I never forget a detail, my dear."
"I'd be lost without you."
"Indeed. But we'll both be lost without some rest," Brighid observed. "It's late, and we have many matters to attend to tomorrow. Unless you need anything else, I will be retiring for the evening."
The mere suggestion of rest caused Mòrag to stifle a yawn. "You've done quite enough for one day. Goodnight, Brighid."
When her Blade was gone, she quickly changed and collapsed into bed. Sleep came quickly. But thanks to a nightmare, rest eluded her...
The mob pressed against her. She pushed back, desperately trying to fight her way through. She shouted her title and ordered the crowds to part. No one listened. How did they get in? Commoners, nobles, Senators, mercenaries, even foreigners—they all clogged the palace hallways. And even though their feet carried them away from her, their faces glared in her direction, heads on backwards.
But each face was the same: indigo eyes, pale skin, strong nose, thin lips. They all sneered at her, chanting.
"Lies, lies, thousand lies. Lies, lies, thousand lies." Pain shot through her stomach, as if their words were daggers, their eyes spears. Somehow, they knew the truth.
The nursery. She had to reach the nursery.
But she was drowning in bodies. Whenever she tossed aside one face, another took its place. She reached for the sheaths on her hips—empty. Swords would not clear a path for her here. Despair hit her like a boulder, and she wanted to curl up in a ball. Why not let the mob trample her, let them stamp out the lies?
No. If the mob was here, then he was here. And he would take Niall.
The thought sent a wave of panic through her, and she screamed his name. The noise echoed against the palace halls. But her lone voice overpowered the shouts of "Lies," ricocheting against every accuser. The mob thinned, and she found she could force her way through as long as she kept shouting.
Left turn. Thirty meters in the northern corridor, then another left. Third door on the right, nursery.
She arrived too late. The mob was already here. They tossed about pieces of bodies —the palace guards, she realized—like toys. She swallowed down the vomit that rose in her throat. At least they weren't pieces of Niall. But then, she saw him.
He, a Driver, stood taller than all the others, and his dark robes bubbled about on the floor as if his very presence melted the earth beneath him. In one hand, he clutched the Emperor by the hair, dragging the boy from his bed. In the other hand he gripped a cruel scythe. A dark hood covered his entire face, but somehow, she knew that under the cloak, she'd see the same face the mob wore. Only the face actually belonged to that man, and on him, it was beautiful.
He was Death.
Death held the unconscious Emperor high in the air. The mob erupted once more, throwing their bloody toys and rocks at the young ruler.
"Down with the impostor!" they screamed.
The Emperor awoke at their cries, but he did not stir, nor did he flinch in pain or cry out. Only his indigo eyes betrayed his fear.
At last, Death turned his attention to her, stepping in her direction. With each footfall, the pain in her abdomen grew. His scent hung thick about her, sickly sweet. She closed her eyes. Somehow, being unable to see him made the pain go away, and she could think clearly. Relying on instinct, she lunged for Niall, who still hung limp in Death's hand. Death simply lifted the boy out of reach as if he were a rag doll.
"Now, now, little princess," Death scolded, his voice too familiar, too kind. "You'll never be a good Driver if you telegraph your movements to your opponent in advance."
"Please, don't take him from me!" Mòrag begged.
Death slung his scythe over one shoulder and Niall over the other. "The boy is rightfully mine. I have been cheated out of my quarry for too long."
A cloud of smoke and darkness filled the room. When it dissipated, everything vanished—Niall, Death, the mob. All that remained was the empty nursery...and Niall's crown.
"Niall!" Mòrag shot up, taking in her surroundings. It was dark, but she recognized it all. Red carpets. Mahogany furniture. A miniature steamwork organ on top of her dresser. A pile of dresses on a chair. The most recent portrait of the royal family. Her twin whipswords glowing blue against her nightstand. Everything right where she left it.
Of all the nightmares to have tonight, she thought. It always ended the same way, and it never failed to rattle her. Usually after a bad dream, she could take inventory of her surroundings and lie back down and sleep. But whenever Death came, speaking with her old teacher's voice, sleep never returned. Without bothering to turn on a lamp, Mòrag rose, donned her uniform, and left the room.
As she walked, the guestlist for the gala kept scrolling through her brain...or at least, the part of the list that contained the single nobles and reputable tradesmen. She knew most of them, the "suitors," and she'd already gathered intelligence on those she hadn't met. There was Senator Birall...a little old and affiliated with the Gardic party, but respectable and loyal to the crown. He'd served as one of her uncle's advisors, too. Jedrek Carthaigh was a military man; Mòrag respected his drive and tactical prowess, but his popularity among the noblemen's daughters concerned her. Maximus Reagan, on the other hand, had no political ties whatsoever. His volatile temper and over-the-top theatrics, however, made even Zeke seem as reserved as a librarian.
But will he respect your privacy? Brighid's question burned in her mind. When she thought through the list in that light, not a single name met the criteria. Her dueling method looked more and more appealing as a selection method.
She looked up. Her feet brought her on instinct to the training grounds. No surprise there—training relaxed her, cleared her head. Eager to banish the last remnants of her nightmare, she took up a practice sword in her right hand and a blunt dagger in her left. Even after all these years with Brighid's whipswords, the dagger-longsword fighting style felt comfortable. She took a fighting stance.
Now, catch your opponent's blade with your dagger. Hold it there, and his side will be exposed. Use that opening to stab with your sword. She could almost hear her father coaching her through each movement as she battled her imaginary opponent. Step backwards, then press again. When the blow is too heavy to block, roll to evade. No wasted movements.
You'll rarely be stronger than your opponents. When that happens, wit and momentum are your best weapons. And patience. A patient fighter angers her enemies. And angry enemies make mistakes.
"It's been ages since I've seen that fighting style." The small voice broke Mòrag out of her trance-like state.
"Your Majesty," Mòrag said, breathless from the exertion. "You shouldn't be up."
"I could say the same to you," he replied, smiling weakly. "And for the last time, please call me Niall when we're alone."
Even in the dim light, Mòrag could see the shadows underneath his eyes. The efforts to temporarily placate the Gardic party were succeeding—largely thanks to Senator Birall, who probably saw the arrangement as his own opportunity to gain control over the throne without the help of his party. But making those concessions demanded long hours at the negotiating table. Undoubtedly, the extra work wore Niall out.
"A lot on your mind?" Niall said. It wasn't really a question.
Mòrag nodded. Judging by his expression, he wanted to hear her thoughts. But she did not volunteer them. The agony of picking a suitor, her distaste for balls and gowns, the trapped sensation when she thought of marriage, of all things...she couldn't burden Niall with that.
Niall's lip slipped into a pout at her silence. "It really should have been me, you know. It's not uncommon for emperors to marry young. I've always known that. It's my duty."
It was Mòrag's turn to frown. "And it is my duty to protect the crown," she said, her tone businesslike. "The Senate's bill threatens the crown. My producing an heir will shield the crown from that threat and preserve your happiness in the process."
"How do you know producing my own heir would make me unhappy?"
"Who would you marry?" Mòrag asked bluntly.
The emperor stared at his shoes. "I...I don't know. I've not considered it, really."
"Then you'd be unhappy. I cannot stand by and watch that happen, Niall."
"But what about your own happiness? A year ago I told you to follow your heart. That order still stands."
She surprised herself by pulling him into a hug. "...I am, Niall. I promise you that."
Niall nodded as he withdrew from the embrace. "Very well. Will you be training much longer?"
She nodded.
"Could I join you? I'd like to spar, for old time's sake."
Before she could object, Niall took up a single training sword and gripped it like a chroma katana. That remained his most comfortable style after years of training with Aegeon. Mòrag matched his style with a single sword of her own and waited for him to make the first move.
Clearly, Niall had been practicing. Given enough time, he could easily become a peerless Driver himself. But they only had enough time to exchange a few blows before they were interrupted by one of the castle pages.
"Your Majesty. Special Inquisitor. Apologies for the interruption. I bring urgent news."
"What is it, Collin?" Niall asked.
"Special Inquisitor. I have news from the Tantal outpost. The criminal you apprehended last week, Cor Baragh...he's escaped."
...
Zeke could not decide what was the bigger joke: his father's passive aggressive parenting (and ruling) style, or the invitation Pandoria had just handed to him—which, of course, she'd already peeked at.
His Imperial Majesty, the 68th Emperor of Mor Ardain, Niall Hugo Ardanach,
Humbly requests the honor your presence at a royal gala
Celebrating the 28th birthday of
Her Imperial Highness & Special Inquisitor, Lady Mòrag Ladair
The Imperial Ballroom
Alba Cavanich
Amathatober 13th, 4060, 7 p.m.
"Woaaaaah, Mòrag's only twenty-eight? I coulda sworn she was in her thirties," Pandy gasped.
"Don't let her hear you say that," Zeke snickered.
He looked at the invitation again. The handwriting definitely wasn't Mòrag's. Not Niall's, either. That could only mean that a staff member had painstakingly penned each invitation—in gold leaf, no less. That was opulent, even for Mor Ardain.
"Say, Pandy. Since when does the mighty Flamebringer celebrate her birthday?"
"Hell if I know. They probably do every year and just never invited you because you ruin every party you show up at."
Zeke shook his head. "Nah, this is downright fishy. Mòrag hates parties. Remember that big bash they threw the day we finally got all the borders settled? Best party of the century, and Mòrag made herself scarce thirty minutes in...Did the messenger say anything when he delivered this?"
Pandoria shook her head, but the lightbulb on her head flickered twice—her tell for when she was hiding something.
"Pandy. The truth."
"You won't believe me. But get this: word on the street is that Mòrag is looking for a—wait for it...a husband." Pandoria giggled. She vividly recalled the hijinks she'd caused by letting Tora believe that Mòrag was a man. In many ways, Pandoria egged the nopon on, confusing him even more. The thought of "Mr. Mòrag" marrying made her burst into laughter.
Zeke laughed briefly, too, before getting lost in thought. "Our Mòrag getting hitched, eh? Now that I have to see," he said.
"So we're going?"
"Hmm…It might be a good excuse to get away from hovering Eulogimonos over there."
Zeke thought about the conversation he had with the king that morning. Most of it was his typical "You're a sad excuse for a prince" scolding. Zeke could almost recite the lecture by heart; they had the same conversation nearly every day since coming to Elysium. Only this time, the king said something new amid his empty self-righteousness fluff: he set a deadline. Tantal needs an heir apparent, Zeke. Gird yourself like a man and choose a wife before the year is out, or I shall pick one for you. Unfortunately, Eulogimonos had as much taste in women as a dead flamil. The female nobles in court proved that.
But as Zeke vividly recalled, the noblewomen in Mor Ardain were much prettier.
"Pack your suitcase, Pandy," Zeke announced. "We've got a ball to crash."
...
Cor Baragh never expected to be rescued. From the moment the Inquisitor's blades lashed around his wrists, he resigned himself to execution, hoping that they'd choose a painless method. Not that they thought he deserved it. So when a band of rough-looking men had abducted him from military custody, Cor did not resist—not even when they tossed a burlap sack over his head and dragged him across the countryside. When their journey finally came to an end, Cor felt his guards rip the sack from his head.
"Hey, watch it!" Cor yelled. The light stung his eyes.
"Can it, you. The Boss can still throw you back to the wolves if you don't behave," one of the guards said. "But do as you're told, and you can call this place home."
"A right step up from an unmarked grave," Cor muttered.
Cor had only stepped foot inside an Ardainian battleship once, but even he could tell that this one had been grounded for a while. It had, for lack of a better term, crashed. But even a crashed ship made for a good hideout.
Dozens of people milled about the broken hull of the warship, carrying crates of gold, core crystals, handcrafted goods, and weapons. It didn't take a trained eye that a majority of the items were pilfered. And the people carrying them? All hardened criminals. The gleam in their eyes gave it all away. Most were Ardainian, but Urayans, Tantalese, and even a few nopons and Indoline roamed the halls.
After a long walk through a maze of galleys and halls, the guards stopped at what remained of the ship's bridge and gave terse half-bows before forcing Cor to his knees.
"Here he is, Boss. Cor Baragh, just like you asked," the first guard announced.
Cor took one good look at the "Boss" and decided that his own usual tactics of intimidation would not work against the stranger. The man had an underwhelming stature, but everything else about him screamed mastermind: a strong nose, lips set in a firm line, and keen indigo eyes framed by a pale face and hair. But a shiver ran down Cor's spine when he looked at the man's scar: severe burn marks lined his chin, neck, and cheek in the shape of a hand—as if the very fist of hell had tried to strangle him and failed.
"Thank you, Baldwin. Leave us." The Boss's voice did not fit his face. It belonged to a politician. "Cor Baragh. You have quite the...reputation."
"What do you want?" Cor demanded. "What is this place?"
"Ah, yes. Break the law, and you'll end up in one of three places: prison, a shallow grave, or here, in my little empire. You could call this a guild of sorts, I suppose. And you're our newest member. So congratulations are in order. Your days of running from that little Ardainian bitch and her toy soldiers are long gone. You're a free man."
"What's the catch?"
The guild leader laughed. "Smart man. Cutting right to the chase...You see, Cor, people don't just find their way into this little brotherhood of mine. They're recruited. I protect my people. I give them a sanctuary, let them be themselves in a world that just doesn't understand them. But in return, each person I recruit does a little job for me here and there."
"So, you have a job you want me to do? And if I do it, you'll let me stay here?" Cor asked.
"Correct. And whenever I don't require your assistance, you're free to do as you please. Find yourself new toys to play with at night. Skin people alive. Take up knitting. I don't really care as long as you pay your dues."
"And if I refuse?"
"No skin off my back," the Boss said amiably. "You're welcome to try and make it on your own if you'd like. Although given your reputation, I doubt you'd stand much of a chance. From what I hear, even Uraya has signed an extradition agreement with Mor Ardain for you or your carcass. The whole world hates you, Baragh."
Cor thought about the burns on his wrists and how easily the Special Inquisitor captured him. He did not want to relive that ordeal. "What's the job, then?"
"It's quite simple, really. I want you to lead the Special Inquisitor on a wild goose chase. Pop up long enough to get her to leave the castle and pursue you, and then disappear again."
"What the hell? You just told me my days of running from her were over," Cor protested.
"Yes, but if you're working for me, you'll have resources at your disposal. I run a criminal empire, Cor. Men, fortified safe houses, core crystals, money, whatever you need. You'll be untouchable."
Cor crossed his arms and glared at the man. "Why me?"
"I need the emperor's watchdog distracted. From what I hear, she takes an uncanny interest in...people like you. With your record, she won't be able to resist pursuing you. That's all you need to know for now."
"If you want me to risk my neck, you're going to have to give me some collateral," Cor insisted. "What's this really about?"
"I gave the best years of my life to Mor Ardain. Their best knight, I was. They owed me everything for my service, so I took one little thing I wanted. I deserved it. But how do they thank me? With this!" The leader ran his hand along his burn marks. "They scorched me, and now I intend to repay them in kind. A war of succession is flickering in the Ardainian Empire, and I will fan the flames."
"How, exactly?"
The man grinned. "Simple. With your help, I'm going to kidnap the Emperor."
