Chapter 28. The Coup.
The Parpaldian Empire. Capital: Esthirant. Imperial Palace. Throne Room.
The majestic arches of the throne room, adorned with golden bas-reliefs and heavy brocade drapes, could inspire awe even in the most seasoned political veterans. And yet today, even the wealth and luxury of the surroundings couldn't dispel the oppressive silence that hung over the chamber. All the highest-ranking officials of the Parpaldian Empire had gathered here to discuss the tragic events of the past few days.
Remille entered the throne room, her gaze sweeping across those assembled. Their faces—usually proud or impassive—were now grim and clouded like thunderheads. Emperor Ludius the First sat upon the dais, his stern gaze fixed on nothing in particular, heavy with the weight of the defeats that had befallen the Empire. With a respectful bow, Remille took her seat at the grand oval table. Her heart tightened, and a lump rose in her throat.
In attendance were the key figures of the Empire: Lieutenant General Rume from the Bureau of Intelligence, Supreme Commander Arde, the heads of the three critical branches—Elto, Rius, and Kaios—as well as His Excellency Baar, representing the Third-Tier Command Assembly, and Muel, head of the Office of Economic Development.
Arde was the first to speak. The Emperor gave a small nod, and the Commander stood and began his report:
"According to incoming reports, our army has suffered catastrophic losses. Our primary naval forces have been wiped out, along with a significant portion of our maritime battalions. The reserve squadrons in the east and west are nowhere near enough to cover the gap—the enemy outmatches us in every category. Our largest garrison at a key strategic location has been completely destroyed. The capital, Your Imperial Majesty, is now defenseless."
He paused for a moment, but the chamber remained silent.
"I've ordered an immediate recall of forces stationed in the vassal states to reinforce the capital. However, it must be noted that their training is nowhere near the level of the legions positioned closer to the heartlands."
Baar shot to his feet, his face flushed with anger.
"Recalling troops from the vassals?!" he barked. "That'll set off riots and open rebellion! Why not recall legions from the continents instead?"
Arde turned to him with a gaze of frigid calm.
"Lord Baar, the strategic importance of our continental garrisons is far too great. If we weaken them, the vacuum will be filled immediately by our enemies. Sure, the legions might help stabilize the vassals, but at what cost? What becomes of our holdings abroad then?" — He turned his head slightly toward Rume and Baar, his tone now edged with cold sarcasm: "Isn't handling unrest in the vassal states part of your job descriptions?"
Baar flushed even redder, but had no reply. Rume, for his part, let out a barely noticeable smirk, clearly enjoying his colleague's discomfort.
A sudden knock at the doors silenced everyone.
"Enter," Arde said, glancing toward the Emperor for a silent nod of approval.
A young officer entered, pale as a ghost. His hands trembled visibly, and it was clear he was barely holding himself together. He approached Arde and leaned in to whisper something into his ear.
Arde somehow went even paler. He stood frozen, like a man struck by lightning.
"What is it, Arde?" the Emperor's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Y-Your Imperial Majesty…" Arde began, but the words caught in his throat.
"Speak! Now!" Ludius growled.
"The industrial city of Duro has come under attack by Russian forces…" Arde's voice wavered. "The city has been completely destroyed. All factories, all plants—gone. The military garrison stationed there was also wiped out."
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the sound of breathing seemed loud.
That silence was broken by the entrance of a second adjutant, right behind the first. He looked no better—same deathly pallor, same shaking hands.
"Speak," the Emperor snapped before the man could compose himself.
"Y-Your Imperial Majesty," the adjutant knelt without lifting his gaze. "The vassal states of Kooze, Arukh, and Marte have all risen in open rebellion. The mansions of their governors were attacked and plundered. One of them managed to get a message out before the magical transmission cut off… the last thing we heard were screams—and the sounds of slaughter."
The room was gripped by a crushing silence, thick as the calm before a storm. No one spoke. Faces glistened with cold sweat, betraying their inner panic. But the adjutant in the center of the hall wasn't done. He took a deep breath, like a man about to dive into freezing waters, and continued:
"Those states…" — his voice trembled — "they've already been completely overrun by the rebels. And… and uprisings have now broken out in fifteen more vassal states. Bloody revolts. The governors and their defense legions are under siege. They're holding out for now, but all of them are urgently requesting reinforcements… any reinforcements."
The officer's words still lingered in the minds of those present as he bowed quickly and hurried out, as if afraid he too would be blamed for the Empire's disasters.
The silence was suddenly broken by rhythmic clapping. Kaios, the head of the Third Division, rose from his seat and began to clap slowly, mockingly, as if laughing in everyone's faces. His voice, cold as a winter wind, carried a faint note of derision:
"Well then, gentlemen, now that everything is crystal clear, I believe we can officially admit it: the Russian army has outmatched us. We've lost." A smirk tugged at his lips, one that made more than a few in the room bristle. "The Empire's breadbaskets have risen in revolt, and without food, we'll all starve to death in six months. The rebels are probably already making deals with the Kingdom of Riem. It's only a matter of time before they form a coalition. And once that happens, all that'll remain of our Empire are scorched ruins."
Kaios paused, sweeping the room with a slow, deliberate gaze. Then he turned toward Ludius.
"You, Your Imperial Majesty, through your sheer incompetence, have driven the Empire into ruin."
"You dare say such a thing?" Ludius growled, barely containing his rage.
But Kaios didn't let him finish. He pressed a button on his manacom and spoke in a cold, metallic voice:
"Captain, come in."
A crisp voice crackled through the device: "Yes, sir!"
Heavy footsteps echoed through the hall almost immediately. Moments later, thirty guards in dark gray uniforms bearing the insignia of the Intelligence Bureau stormed into the throne room. Their enchanted arquebuses were trained on everyone—except Kaios and Rume.
"What madness is this?!" Ludius leapt to his feet. His face turned crimson, eyes blazing with fury. "Traitors! How dare you?!"
The captain stepped forward, weapon steady, his voice sharp and unyielding:
"Sit down, usurper, before I blow your damn head off myself."
The click of his arquebus's firing mechanism made it clear he wasn't bluffing. Ludius, burning with barely restrained fury, slowly sank back onto the throne.
Everyone else in the room stood frozen, paralyzed with fear, barely daring to breathe. Silence once again cloaked the hall like a thick fog.
"While the Empire suffers its greatest tragedy, you decide to stage a coup?" Ludius snarled, his glare cutting into the soldiers like a blade.
"This is your fault," Kaios cut in coldly.
Remille, seated nearby, went even paler, as if struck by an invisible whip. Her hands clutched the armrests of her chair in a white-knuckled grip.
"This is madness!" she shouted, leaping to her feet. "You have no right!"
Two soldiers moved to her instantly, seizing her arms and binding them behind her back.
"Don't make this worse for yourself," one of them said quietly, turning to her. "Any resistance will only make things harder for you."
"Roma," Kaios said, turning to Rume. "Why are you still sitting there with these fools?"
Rume—Roman—rose from his chair with casual indifference, gave a short snort, and strolled over to Kaios.
"Bastards!" Arde spat, fists clenched. "If you kill us all, who the hell's going to run the Empire? The enemy's already at the gates, and you want to decapitate the state?!"
"Power abhors a vacuum," Kaios replied with a faint smirk.
"Arrogant swine!" Ludius roared. "Our troops will be here soon, and then you'll all pay for your betrayal!"
"There might be a problem with that," Rume added slyly, the corners of his mouth curling upward.
Just then, another soldier burst into the hall. He was panting, drenched in sweat, but still managed a salute, pressing his hand to his morion helmet as he began his report:
"Commander, Russian forces are landing! They'll be here soon!"
Kaios, who had been calmly lounging in the Imperial throne, slowly rose to his feet. His expression remained cool and composed as he fixed his gaze on the breathless soldier. For a few moments, he said nothing, as if weighing the weight of what he had just heard. Then, in a near-whisper, he murmured:
"So… it's come to this."
He exhaled softly, then raised his voice:
"Do not open fire under any circumstances. Escort them to the capital. We'll deal with it there. That'll be all—you're dismissed."
The soldier saluted again and responded with a crisp:
"Yes, sir!"
Spinning on his heel, he bolted from the throne room as if the very flames of war were licking at his heels.
Kaios watched him go, then turned to Captain Morte—a guard standing nearby. His voice now carried a new weight: firm, commanding.
"Captain Morte!"
"Sir!" Morte replied instantly, snapping to attention and saluting sharply.
"Take these people"— Kaios gestured toward the assembled nobles and military commanders, their faces still pale from the recent upheaval—"and get them out of my sight. Throw them in the cold cells. If they resist, shoot to kill."
"And one more thing—take Remille to a separate cell."
The captain nodded curtly:
"Understood."
With a swift gesture, the guards advanced. Steel glinted beneath the chandelier light as the arquebuses shifted. The assembled officials slowly rose, unwillingly, and began a grim march toward the exit under the watchful eyes of loaded weapons. Some tried to maintain an air of dignity, but the rigid tension in their backs betrayed their fear.
Once the hall was emptied, Kaios slowly sank into the Imperial throne—the very seat Ludius had occupied not long ago. He leaned back, running a hand over the intricately carved armrest with quiet satisfaction. His face revealed a blend of exhaustion and triumph.
"Well then," he said softly, without turning around. "Let's go greet our guests."
The night in Esthirant after the arrest was dark and grim. Moonlight barely pierced through the thick clouds above. In a makeshift underground prison, locked away in a damp and narrow cell, Remille sat still on a crudely built wooden bench. Her wrists were bound tightly by heavy chains, and her ankles were shackled to the floor with thick iron cuffs. A heavy silence weighed on her ears, broken only now and then by the dripping of water and the echo of guards' boots on the stone floor.
Her thoughts were bleak, but deep down, a spark of resolve remained. She knew that if she didn't act, she'd be handed over to Russia. Her future—prison, or maybe even execution. That ending was unacceptable. Remille, raised in luxury and accustomed to power and influence, couldn't stand the thought that her life might end in a filthy cell.
For several days she'd been watching the guards closely, memorizing their shifts, their weaknesses, their habits. One of them—a young, inexperienced guy—was always assigned the night shift. He was her way out. And tonight, the plan would go into motion.
When it was her turn for dinner, Remille pretended to be sick. Her breathing was labored, as if each breath might be her last, and her voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Please... water... I don't feel well..." she murmured, barely lifting her head.
"Cut the act," one of the guards grunted, shoving a tray toward the bars.
But the second guard—the young one—hesitated.
"What if she really is sick? If something happens to her, we'll all be in trouble..." he muttered, glancing at Remille with a flicker of sympathy.
"You kidding me? She's just playing you!" the older guard snapped, but the younger one was already unlocking the cell, a canteen in his hand.
This was the moment she'd been waiting for.
As he stepped closer, Remille shot upright with sudden force and splashed water right in his face. The boy yelped in surprise, and despite the chains around her legs, she lunged forward, driving her elbow into his throat. He dropped to his knees, choking, and she snatched the keys from his belt.
"Alarm!" the second guard shouted, but Remille swung her chains in a wide arc, smashing him across the head with a loud crack. He staggered back, fell, and she pounced, grabbing his knife.
Freeing her hands, she paused to catch her breath. Her legs were still shackled, but she didn't stop. Using the knife, she worked at the lock on the cuffs. It was slow and grueling, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through. After several tense minutes, there was a faint click, and the metal brace slipped off her ankles.
Her hands trembled with adrenaline, but she managed to strip the chains away and slip out of the cell. She sprinted down the narrow prison corridor. Behind her, voices echoed—shouts and the pounding of feet on stone.
"She's heading for the exit! Block the gate!" the guards yelled.
Remille burst into the open courtyard. The night sky above looked too distant to mean freedom. Spotting an old hay cart, she ducked behind it, holding her breath. Her heart thundered, and her breathing was ragged, but she stayed focused.
After a few minutes, the guards rushed past. Remille seized the opportunity. She had found a rope earlier in a supply shed and now hurled it over the wall, beginning her climb. The coarse fibers bit into her palms, but she kept going.
When she finally pulled herself over the prison wall, freedom felt tantalizingly close. But fate had other plans.
In a shadowy alley, her path was blocked by a man with a scar across his forehead, dressed in tattered work clothes.
"Well now... what's a pretty lady like you doing out so late?" he asked, his voice laced with mockery.
In one swift, decisive motion, she drew her knife. The blade glinted in the moonlight like a ghost's revenge. Her strike was sudden, but not wild—she aimed for his throat, right at the Adam's apple. But he was faster and stronger than she'd expected. His reflexes were lightning-fast. He dodged the blow, seized her wrist with crushing force, and with his other hand—quick as a snake—grabbed a fistful of her hair.
Their struggle was brutal and short. Remille fought with desperate fury, despite the pain and exhaustion, but the man's strength was overwhelming. He was agile, and his strikes were sharp and precise. She managed to scratch him a few times, drawing blood, but he didn't back off. Finally, he slammed her to the ground, pinning her into the cold, damp earth.
Her knife flew from her grip and landed in a puddle of mud. The scuffle had drawn attention—the Kayos patrol had been combing the area for her. She was seized, her hands tied roughly behind her back with a scratchy rope. As the soldiers hauled her to her feet—
"That's her! Inform command immediately!" the officer barked.
"Well, that didn't last long, sweetheart," muttered one of the soldiers, stretching lazily.
Remille's eyes locked onto the officer's face—it was sharp and cruel, like a wasp's sting.
She was back in custody, and this time, she knew her chances of escape were as good as gone.
A decision had already been made to promote everyone involved in her capture. If you were to introduce yourself to Lord Kaios—soon to be acting governor—as someone who helped bring her down, he'd no doubt reward you generously.
"From the head of government himself?"
"Exactly. Until the situation stabilizes, report to the former Imperial Army headquarters and give them my name..."
As for Marcus—the janitor who had unexpectedly become the key to her capture—he was elevated to new heights. For his "heroic" contribution to the arrest of a dangerous fugitive, he was ceremoniously transferred to the General Command. Sure, he didn't get the high ranks or medals his old buddy Bart had, but for a man who'd spent his life knee-deep in dirt and poverty, this was the peak of his career.
In just a matter of days, the Coalition forces—composed of troops from former vassal states—crushed the Empire's military in Caus and advanced as a united front toward the Imperial city of Aruni.
Sunlight barely filtered through the smoke-choked skies above the city. The acrid stench of ash and blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the clash of steel and the chaos of battle. Once a beacon of grandeur with its golden spires and majestic bridges, Aruni had become a battlefield, a city gripped by war.
The Coalition army, assembled from the former vassal states of Parpaldia, pressed forward in a wide formation. Five thousand strong, they were a ragtag mix of soldiers, mercenaries, and militia. Exhaustion etched their faces, but behind their eyes burned a deep thirst for revenge—payback for years of imperial oppression. Their banners soared overhead, symbols of hard-won freedom, stained in blood.
From Parpaldia's side, the situation was nothing short of dire. Only two thousand troops remained to defend Aruni. But their reinforcements—twenty-three wyvern-riding knights and three land dragons—struck terror into the enemy ranks.
The battle erupted at first light. The clash of swords was met by the heavy thud of catapults and the whine of enchanted arquebus fire. The Parpaldian soldiers, veterans of countless campaigns, repelled the Coalition line with cold efficiency. Their cavalry and dragon support gave them a brutal edge. One of the land dragons, a massive beast with dark granite-colored scales, unleashed a torrent of flame, turning an entire line of Coalition fighters into human torches. Their screams echoed across the battlefield, drowning out the shouted orders of commanders.
But in the heat of combat, something happened—something Parpaldia hadn't seen coming.
From the hills cloaked in thick forest, a new sound thundered through the air. It wasn't the crash of siege weapons or the pulse of magical artillery. It was something modern. Something otherworldly.
The first Igla MANPADS missile streaked into the sky, trailing a thin plume of white smoke. It slammed directly into the chest of a wyvern. These beasts—long considered the apex of military dominance—were powerless against the modern weapon. The wyvern exploded midair, its body torn apart, crashing into a row of homes and reducing them to rubble. The rider barely had time to realize what had happened before being vaporized in the blast.
The land dragons were next. One, in the midst of torching a group of Coalition troops, suddenly erupted from within—its flesh torn apart by a single RPG-18 "Mukha" shot. Chunks of bloodied meat and shattered scales flew in every direction as the beast collapsed, dead before it hit the ground.
The Coalition fighters were stunned at first. Then came a roar of triumph. On the other side, the Parpaldian troops began to falter. Their terror was palpable.
The Kingdom of Riem refused to sit out. Their own wyverns joined the fray, diving into aerial combat against Parpaldia's riders. The sky above Aruni became a deadly ballet. Every spear strike, every shot of magic, every flare of flame meant death for someone.
By sundown, the outcome was clear. The Imperial garrison had been defeated. Aruni had fallen. It was the first major victory for the Anti-Parpaldian Coalition. Across the blood-soaked streets of the city, spontaneous celebrations erupted.
But the victors had little time to savor their win.
Just hours later, envoys from Riem arrived at the Coalition camp with stunning news: a coup had taken place in Esthirant. A provisional government had seized control of Parpaldia—and had already entered negotiations with the Russian Federation.
By the very next day, Russian troops, acting under the terms of the agreement, began to secure key regions across Parpaldia. Checkpoints and armored convoys appeared overnight, rapidly locking down the Empire's borders. Russia moved fast—and thoroughly. Within hours, the frontiers were sealed tight, cutting off any hopes of rebellion or foreign interference.
To the surrounding nations, it was a clear message: stand down.
Even those with the deepest grudges against Parpaldia didn't dare challenge Russia. Grumbling with frustration, they withdrew their forces from the Empire's borders. The conflict, for now, was over.
Coalition units that had stormed Aruni were quickly evacuated, their mission complete—if not on their own terms.
The Parpaldian Empire. Capital: Esthirant.
It had been a long time since a Russian diplomat last set foot on this land. Esthirant, once a grand and majestic capital, now drowned in a strange blend of silent despair and the heavy anticipation of an inevitable end. As the Russian delegation entered the city, the streets were empty. The remnants of imperial splendor were covered in the dust of oblivion, and the few passersby quickly disappeared behind tightly shut doors.
The Russian diplomats, who had previously met with Remille, had returned to Parpaldia on a very specific mission. Their task wasn't only to mediate peace—it was to escort Remille to the Russian Federation. A woman who had once been surrounded by luxury and power now found herself in a damp and freezing prison cell where the cold seemed eternal.
"The First," as the head of the Russian delegation was known, decided to conduct the interrogation himself. With a small security unit, he descended into the dungeon—an underground facility built specifically for traitors and those deemed enemies of the Empire. The irony wasn't lost on him: as they made their way through these grim corridors, Emperor Ludius himself was signing documents transferring power to Lord Kayos. The Empire, built for centuries on fear and despotism, was crumbling right before their eyes.
The prison building, tucked away among the dense greenery of the palace garden, looked more like a forgotten chapel than a place of incarceration. Two silent guards at the entrance stepped aside to let the delegation pass. Inside, the air reeked of rot and decay. The flickering torchlight barely illuminated the mold-covered walls. The silence was broken only by the dripping of water and the echo of their footsteps. Along the way, they passed cages holding withered corpses—some barely recognizable as human.
"This place is hell," one of the guards whispered, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. But the First paid him no attention. He knew exactly why they were here. The objective was clear: take Remille, interrogate her, and deliver her to Moscow. The rest didn't matter.
The cell that held the former Empress was located at the very end of the corridor. The door was sealed with a massive iron grate. The floor—cold and stone—felt just as lifeless as the place itself. Inside sat a woman, barely visible in the dim light. Her head was lowered, knees pulled tightly to her chest, her lips muttering something incoherent. A metal collar gleamed around her neck, and her wrists and ankles were shackled with heavy chains.
The First stopped in front of the bars and looked at her in silence. Suddenly, she raised her head. Her eyes, sharp and blazing with hatred, locked with his. She didn't say a word, but her gaze said everything: rage, pain, contempt.
"Well, hello there, Remille," the First said, a hint of mockery in his voice. He stepped closer, squinting as he studied her face. "How long has it been? I'll admit—I'm quite happy to see you… just to see you."
Remille turned her face away, staring at the floor. Her shoulders tensed, but she remained silent.
"You really have become pitiful…" the First continued, his gaze never leaving her. His voice dripped with contempt, though it was cold, almost professional.
"Shut up!" she suddenly snapped, whipping her head toward him. Her voice trembled with fury. "I am the wife of Emperor Ludius Parpaldian! You'd be executed for even looking at me the wrong way, you worthless scum!"
The First smirked.
"Wife of the Emperor?" he repeated, drawing the words out slowly. "Your 'Emperor' is signing treaties right now, groveling before the very people he used to call trash. You know what's really funny? He's willing to give up even you… just to secure political asylum. And guess where?"
Remille stared at him, unable to speak. Her lips twitched slightly, and fear flickered in her eyes.
"In Russia," he said, pausing deliberately. "In that 'barbaric country' you used to mock in your golden halls."
Her face turned pale. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
"Tell me, you bitch!" the First roared, slamming his boot against the bars. His voice thundered through the dungeon, shaking the air. "Do you feel even a shred of guilt?! For all the lives you destroyed!"
He glared at the woman behind the bars with raw hatred. Remille, fragile and seemingly harmless at first glance, was still the symbol of thousands of deaths. Her expression stayed blank, but something flickered in her eyes—maybe fear, maybe exhaustion.
"You think that just because your country became powerful, you have the right to torment the weak?!" the First pressed on, his voice shaking with fury. "You think the gods will forgive you for your crimes?! Those people you butchered were no different from you or me! They had families, friends, dreams… And how much pain did you bring?! How many tears? How much blood was spilled because of you?! Can you even imagine it?!"
His voice grew stronger with every word. The First stepped forward again and struck the bars so hard they rang like a bell. "Look me in the eyes, you piece of shit!"
But Remille stubbornly stared at the floor.
"You didn't even spare the children," he growled through clenched teeth. "You and your braindead excuse for a husband!" His face twisted into a grimace of disgust. "What kind of sick fantasy were you living in, you monster? That if someone was born in a state you controlled, you had the right to treat them like toys and throw them away when you were done?! I can see it in your eyes—there's no regret. Not back then. Not now."
He suddenly pulled out a pistol, so fast that the guards froze, too stunned to react. In one swift motion, he chambered a round, then emptied the entire magazine into the wall just inches from Remille's head. The deafening shots made her flinch violently.
Inhaling deeply, then exhaling, he spoke again—his voice low, almost animalistic: "If it were up to me, I'd wipe every last one of you off the face of the earth. You're demons in human skin. You don't deserve mercy. You know how many like you I've taken out? Hundreds. Killing you would be easy. But I've got orders. Moscow wants you alive."
That broke her.
As if a dam had burst, Remille's body shook with uncontrollable sobs. She buried her face in her hands, but it didn't muffle the sound. Pain, loneliness, and fear hit her all at once, crushing her.
"Shut her up and get the cuffs on," the First barked, not even turning around. He walked out of the cell, leaving behind a room charged with seething hatred.
After some time, the ship brought Remille to one of the coastal cities.
She had spent the entire trip confined to a small, cramped cabin, where the walls seemed to press in on her with their cold indifference. Time dragged with torturous slowness. Sleep hovered over her like a weight, constantly threatening to pull her under, but Remille fought it. She was terrified that if she closed her eyes, she might never open them again.
When the ship finally docked, she was led up to the deck. A biting sea wind whipped against her face, stinging her skin like frozen needles. She barely had time to glance around before someone yanked a black bag over her head—roughly, without a word. It was soft to the touch but smelled sharply of chemicals.
Without explanation, she was ushered forward, shoved into a plane, and forced into a seat.
The moment she felt the rumble of the engines during takeoff, her mind gave in. The exhaustion, built up over long days of fear and uncertainty, finally swallowed her whole.
She came to in a different place. The hood was ripped off her head so suddenly that her hair came loose from its style. A blinding light hit her eyes, and it took several seconds to adjust. In front of her stood a black, tinted-out SUV. A man in military uniform gave a curt command:
"Get in."
The vehicle, as she quickly realized, was a marvel of engineering. She could feel every movement of the car, but not a single bump or jolt. She gazed out the fogged-up window at the city outside. And what she saw stunned her.
On the horizon, enormous skyscrapers loomed, their glass facades gleaming in the sunlight like the surfaces of giant crystals. The streets were packed with people wearing clothes that looked both elegant and functional at once. Store signs flashed with neon brilliance, pulsing in every color of the rainbow. Cars and streetcars moved in perfect harmony, like parts of a well-rehearsed performance.
She stared at the roads—smooth, flawless, without a single pothole or crack. These weren't the dirt paths or cobbled streets she was used to. They looked like they were made from some poured stone, sleek and seamless.
Remille watched the citizens of this capital. They looked calm. Confident. As if they had never known war. There was no fear in their eyes, no exhaustion in their faces. They moved quickly, their posture upright, radiating a quiet strength and prosperity.
What she saw stirred something painful and twisted inside her. Remille thought of Esthirant, her own capital, the city she had once loved with all her heart. A city that had once shone with splendor, hailed as the symbol of imperial greatness.
But now the comparison was unbearable. Even at its peak, Esthirant couldn't hold a candle to this place. There was something here—something in this Russian capital—that wasn't just powerful. It was absolutely dominant. She didn't just see it. She felt it in her skin, her bones, every fiber of her being.
Esthirant, her beloved city, now seemed like nothing more than a provincial town. Remille's heart clenched in agony. Her homeland would never reach this level—not in a hundred years, not in a thousand.
Despair and bitterness welled up in her chest. It wasn't just the sting of defeat in battle—it was the crushing weight of failure in existence itself. She sat in silence, her hands clenched tightly on her knees, trying to hide the trembling. But what frightened her most was the dawning realization: the people who had built all of this—these cities, these machines, this life—they didn't even look at her world with hatred.
They looked at it with indifference.
As if her empire wasn't even worth their contempt.
Remille turned away from the window, unable to bear the sight of such overwhelming power. Her pride, like her country, had been obliterated.