Andrey studied the graphs crudely affixed to the wood wall with pins, staring at the dots of red ink scattered across the paper like a spreading plague. Normally, he would have demanded something better, but with the September Uprising in full swing, he had no such luxury.
The two leaders of the rebellion now blazing into existence across Leithania had remained elusive, much to his chagrin. And now, this war they had started could risk plunging Leithania's empire into turmoil. His Majesty – or, as the rebels called him, the Witch King – would not be pleased.
Andrey carefully kept any hints of frustration from his mind as he pondered the situation. The walls had ears and so much more in this Arts-infused palace, and while he was sure his own spies wouldn't turn him in, those overzealous Casters of the General very much could.
"My lord, the rebels have taken Vyseheim!" A man walked in, kneeling to the ground before him.
"Dismissed." Picking up a pen once more, Andrey placed a spot of ink upon the city, the excess ink flowing down and becoming a blood-like streak upon the map.
He could still feel the man behind him. Drawing his knife, he absentmindedly sliced towards the man's neck. He wouldn't miss; the messenger barely had the time to blink.
On second thought, perhaps wasting a perfectly good messenger wasn't the best of ideas. Just as steel was about to taste blood once more, he stopped the blade, the edge grazing the messenger's neck.
"Dismissed."
Focusing back upon his maps and graphs, he idly probed the man's mind, finding only fear. Smiling, he went back to work.
That smile lasted all of a second, as he was again reminded of sordid reality. As a spymaster, he could provide all the information he could to His Majesty, tell him precisely what was going wrong and right, but what use was that?
That fat general would bungle it, somehow. Andrey had told him, time and time again, that this was no longer a race to see who could suppress the rebellion first. This was a threat, damn it, on par with the Battle of the Four Emperors!
Sometimes, he wondered why His Majesty didn't simply take control of his armies himself. But then again, to the man, his Arts were far more important than these petty wars. Perhaps, with a bit of manipulation, he could install somebody more competent in the General's place…
Actually, scratch that. With how this war was going, they would either have lost or won before he could finish executing the first step of any of his plans. He'd have to contend with the chronic incompetence permeating the upper echelons of the empire for now.
Hidden behind a building, Andrey coldly watched as the rebels marched through the streets of the city. The army had been all but annihilated by now, and all that was left was a few remaining elites defending the palace. Fortunately, his spy network was largely intact, and Andrey had already enacted the Remnant Doctrine – they would be acting on their own now, doing their best to serve the empire by simply causing unfettered chaos throughout the rebel-controlled nomadic cities.
With any luck, it would take decades before the rebels could clean them up.
For a moment, he considered escaping, and taking control of one of the many splinter cells of his spies, before a voice interrupted his thoughts. "Andrey. Retreat to the palace."
"Yes, Your Majesty." And there went that.
Vaulting a set of crude steel spikes with practiced ease, Andrey easily passed the remnants of the first line of defense within the city. It had fallen within hours under the flood of furious rebels, though – Andrey smiled, remembering – swaths of them had died from the poisoned wells just hours later.
Delayed-action poison was always a good tool to have when killing en-masse.
By the time he reached the second line of defense, a sturdy line of two-meter stone walls, Andrey began to smell the familiar scent of blood, still lingering in the air. It had been a few days since the second line had been breached, but nobody had bothered to clean up the corpses. They still laid on the ground, unattended – rot beginning to set in.
A messenger was waiting for him within one of the broken watchtowers, looking like he was about to retch from the smell alone. Without a word, Andrey followed him as they kept moving back towards the palace.
The third line of defense had held until now – the palace walls dwarfing any castle and towering over even the tallest Sarkaz. Quietly slipping by a group of rebels, Andrey spared a passing glance at the moat. It had long since been filled with a combination of dirt and bodies, Andrey noticing the occasional golden glint of armor among the unarmored bodies of the rebels.
Slipping in through a hidden door and locking the series of solid steel doors shut, Andrey finally reached the gates of the palace. The massive wood doors were closed at the moment, guarded by a group of elite troops. Their golden armor had long since been stained a dull red, yet they still snapped into a salute the moment they saw Andrey; hastily opening the door for him.
Andrey dismissed the messenger that had escorted him and returned to his chambers. His Majesty was best left unbothered, lest he be angered – or worse, experimenting.
As much as he was curious to what Arts His Majesty was studying now, he would much rather avoid becoming a test subject.
His hands glided across the lid of the piano as he passed it. Now was not the time, as much as he wished for it. Turning back to the wooden wall, every inch of it now covered in paper, Andrey got back to work. He could still do much to deter the rebels from their advance. Hm… perhaps he could use activated Originium next?
Andrey stood at the doors, watching the last few palace guards struggle to stop the rebels from trampling through the gates. No use helping; with the sheer numbers of the opposition, his Arts could do nothing. Sure, he could kill a few dozen before his luck and Arts ran out, but that was pointless.
A guard spared a glance back at him and the five spies flanking him, voicelessly begging for support. Andrey ignored him, turning and walking away. Behind him, the battle continued. The candles in the halls had long since went out, leaving them only with the dim light of the evening. Striding through the halls, Andrey stepped up a flight of staircases, steps even and measured even as his spies whispered behind him. As much as he wanted to, he needed them now. No use killing them over small talk.
Perhaps he could escape through the balcony, rejoin his spies –
"Stay."
A million pinpricks of pain blossomed into full-blown agony, Andrey walking back down the stairs as he barely suppressed a gasp of pain. He would stay, then. Carefully putting down his anger, he gestured for his spies to come down with him. They obeyed.
"We retreat to the east wing." Andrey commanded, as if nothing had just happened. His spies followed behind him as he turned and stepped towards where he knew the spies' barracks lay. A good position to hold, though Andrey held no illusions about their enemies.
One of them turned to run, a grimace on his face as he activated his Arts, raising his wand – the tip glowing red.
His mind was ripped to shreds before he could react. The wand fell from nerveless fingers, the Arts upon it fizzling out upon the ground. Properly cowed, his other spies followed behind him as they walked towards the barracks.
Andrey looked at his gloves, feeling the Arts units within depleting slightly. Direct mental attack had been overkill, and he was beginning to feel a dull headache coming on. Unfortunate.
Somewhere in his ages-old mind, he noted that this would likely be his last stand.
Andrey thrust forwards, impaling a rebel in the heart. Beside him, he heard a cry of pain. Another down. His spies would never cry out, even in death. Looking up, he faced a crossbow, aimed straight towards his face. His Arts killed the crossbowman, and he picked up his loaded crossbow, firing the bolt towards the rebels still streaming through the narrow hallway.
A man slashed at him with his sword, Andrey blocking it with the crossbow and tossing a vial of acid at the swordsman. He fell back screaming, the Arts-assisted corrosives making short work of his face.
Tossing away the now-ruined weapon, Andrey raised his wand and fired a burst of Arts, taking down two Casters readying an orb of Arts. The Arts exploded and killed the nearby rebels, and a fleeting smile dashed across Andrey's face.
It was quickly replaced by anger as he felt one of his spies simply blink out of existence. Turning, he barely dodged the laser of Arts that claimed another one of his spies, firing his Arts back; the Caster behind the Arts pressing themselves against the wall and avoiding the red energies.
A crossbow bolt came from his right and killed the Caster before he could cause any further harm. To his left came a quiet gurgle, and Andrey reflexively flipped back, avoiding the knife that barely missed his throat.
Another group of swordsmen rushed at him, and finally, Andrey retreated, leaving his dead and dying troops behind – and triggering the gas within the hallway, watching as the noxious fumes consumed the cramped space.
He himself was resistant, but that didn't mean it was pleasant; Andrey coughing lightly as he shut the door behind him, looking around his chambers as he pondered his next move.
There were no conventional paths out of this place; that was for sure. His backdoors and escape passageways had long since been blocked, and His Majesty would have had killed him for using them anyways.
Hiding? He had considered that, yes, but in an empire where half the population used Arts, his saferoom would be found within a matter of hours.
At least he could deny the rebels his knowledge. Taking a weakly burning candle off its stand, he lit his bookshelves afire, watching his decades of diaries and knowledge burn. No time to reminisce. The fire spread upon the ground, lighting the floorboards, then the wood panels upon the walls, hiding Andrey within smoke.
The crystal of Originium he had kept still lay upon its pedestal, the flat facets reflecting the orange light within the room and scattering it into a kaleidoscope of colors.
It looked strangely beautiful surrounded by the flames, Andrey walking over to his piano as he waited for the fires to consume the room.
Perhaps… he could live.
He picked up a score, from long ago, feeling the energies within his gloves slowly return.
Enough power, at least to try. He began playing, the notes a mourning whisper in the crackling flames. Outside, the doors were beginning to be broken down, the gas having dissipated.
The world around him blurred into a symphony of colors as he played, his soul slowly seeping away.
With each crescendo, he felt himself slipping, barely keeping conscious enough to keep his Arts active.
A streak of red shot towards the crystal as the light within his eyes faded.
The last note echoed in the air, the lid slamming down upon motionless fingers.
And unseen to all, the crystal shattered into a million tiny pieces.
AN: 40k words, 60 days of writing, and another arc done! I decided to write this without italicizing it, like I had done for the previous flashbacks. Otherwise, it would likely have been far too hard to read.
Formatting aside, however, I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. Evil Andrey is a mood, and I am all for it.
Unfortunately, current Andrey isn't evil. Unless I make him.
To HarukaHiragi: Got it. Well, I'm sure that I'll get enough practice, considering there's still 60% of this story to write. About "preplanning 100k words," however… yeah, that was about 50 words for each arc. Enough to get a general sense of what's going to happen and help me avoid writing myself into a corner, but not much else.