1

Her Imperial Majesty’s daily struggle against injustice would begin more or less the same way each morning.

If it was not easy to be the ruler of a nation of millions, it was not all that effortless to serve one either. The subjects were unexpectedly quick to accept their new leader, but it took a while longer for the small army of servants in her majesty’s employment to adapt to her peculiar character, as atypical as it was.

Even after becoming the Empress, Yuliana didn’t cease to be the Knight Princess of Langoria in spirit, and she would stubbornly cling to her usual habits as close as she reasonably could, even after the change of titles, if only to feel a little more at home.

Maids would go to the Sovereign’s quarters to wake her up, clothe her, do her hair, apply makeup, and get her presentable in every respect, before escorting her to breakfast. Such was the default plan. Yet, by the time the maids would reach her majesty’s door at the start of the third period in the morning, Yuliana would already pass them in the stairs on the way down, fully clothed, and raring to go. She would do her own hair, and prepare herself breakfast in the servant’s quarters, consisting of a meager ham sandwich or two, and a big glass of milk. Makeup she wouldn’t apply, nor any jewelry, save for the mandatory tokens of rank—the Imperial Medallion, and the Ruby Ring—although her natural beauty made additional adornments rather unnecessary, at any rate.

“Good morning!” Yuliana would greet her servants with an energetic smile, and head straight to her office from there. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

No amount of persuasion or lecturing by the maids or courtiers could change her abnormal conduct. The best the servants could do was get up even earlier than they were scheduled to, and prepare the breakfast set before Yuliana would leave her chamber. And not a word of her uncouth diet could be spoken to the Palace chefs, they would have rioted.

There were countless office rooms around the Palace complex, but Yuliana generally favored one peculiar chamber in the west wing, with great windows facing the sunrise. There, she would start the day with briefings by her viziers and confidants. First they would discuss domestic affairs, then news from the foreign lands. Then came the Imperial Army’s update on the national security situation and movements abroad, supplemented by the confidential reports by the Intelligence Bureau. Last came matters pertaining to the inner circles of the Court.

If there was nothing demanding immediate action on her part, the Empress would then go on to receive visitors. Various figures of varying importance sought to meet her majesty each and every day. Most of the time, they would come to request some manner of financial or political assistance, bearing gifts and compliments in tow, thinking they could easily win such a young monarch’s favor with petty trifles and honeyed words.

However, the new Empress was not half as naive or inexperienced as she appeared. A great many visitors had to leave home empty-handed, without contracts or commitments, bearing her good will alone, and she soon learned which guests to shut outside the gates of Selenoreion, based only on their title and retinue.

Following brief lunch break, during which her majesty would at last depend on the Palace kitchen’s work, Yuliana faced the uphill battle of paperwork.

There were trade contracts, permits, grants, legislation, different army operations and more, dozens upon dozens of documents requiring her majesty’s signature, and her spelling of it soon devolved far less eligible than her old teacher at home would have allowed. She was also saddled with copious amounts of correspondence. Her predecessor had been unusually busy dispatching letters to recipients all over the vast continent, and Yuliana had her hands full responding to all those people, telling them what would happen to the agreements and arrangements made with the previous regime.

Some of these correspondents were of a rather shady sort, and Yuliana could only inform such people and organizations that any and all forms of co-operation between them and the Empire were now decisively through. In response, she then received passionate promises of a painful death, curses, and other less pleasant replies, which would have shaken the heart of anyone too attached to this mortal coil to the core. But though she was only twenty summers old, Yuliana had already witnessed such horrors and gore in life, that she could only answer the empty, penned threats with a wry smile, before letting the fireplace claim them.

In this fashion, her majesty labored until evening, when her servants’ persistent pleas finally coerced her to leave the remaining work for another day. A situation they were again wholly unaccustomed to; generally, it had been more a problem of convincing the ruler to at least do the bare minimum of necessary. All the staff’s conversational strategies had to be rewritten from scratch.

Instead of relaxing from this point on, enjoying the various luxuries and comforts only available to royalty, her majesty would again subvert the expectations. Her standard course was to get a change of clothes and head to the stables, where she would take a horse out and ride to the suburban zone of Tornelion.

Why? It took a long time for her followers to wrap their minds around the concept, but this was Yuliana’s idea of “entertainment”.

In the picturesque farmland scenery, she would leave her horse and run the village road for a loop of some eight miles, to shed off the accumulated frustration and mental fatigue. Then she would buy a hot bath at a local tavern, before riding back to the city. Was she a masochist, by chance?

Needless to say, her majesty’s counselors were growing gray hair over such risky habits, made worse by the Empress’s refusal to take a proper, armed escort with her. All she could ultimately agree to was a pair of guards in civilian clothing, fit enough to keep up with her on foot.

Dangerous, far too dangerous.

Growing more familiar with her routine, the Intelligence Bureau positioned archers and agents in the fields, without her majesty’s knowledge, to secure her route. But Yuliana, growing likewise familiar with the locals and sporting an unnaturally keen eye, learned to identify these spies, and sent them all home without exception. Over time, the situation evolved into a bizarre game between the Bureau and the Sovereign; a rite of passage of sorts, to see if aspiring agents could follow her without being detected. None could make it to the end, but getting even halfway through the course earned top marks for the candidate.

Of course, Yuliana was not suicidal, nor would she deny the necessity of protection. But at the same time, she strongly felt that her personal safety was not enough reason to disturb the lives of the local farmers and trample their fields. Fortunately, no one malicious showed up to interfere with her pastime. Potential assassins would likely have had a hard time believing that the girl racing through the dusk-dyed pastures in her boyish clothes, her rose-gold ponytail fluttering, occasionally taking a whimsical plunge in the river along the way, was in fact the most powerful of Noertia’s modern rulers.

Done with unwinding, Yuliana would return to the Palace and have a hearty dinner. Going by her choice of breakfast and lunch, one might have assumed her majesty a light eater, but this was not the case. She simply didn’t have an appetite in the morning, but did triple so in the evening, to everyone’s endless marvel.

After dinner, the Empress would then spend time quietly in her quarters, reading books, or privately meeting with people she had come to friendly terms with in the city. Sometimes, she would go back to work to handle any urgent matters that she felt couldn’t wait, until finally judging that she had done all that she possibly could.

An early riser, Yuliana also retired reasonably early, sparing no time for alcohol, drugs, or consorts, or more malevolent hobbies, as tended to be her predecessors’ want. And at sunrise, she would spring back to action again, brimming with seemingly limitless vigor, and all of this would repeat with only slight variations along the way.

Despite the early concerns, the change of regime ended up proceeding so smoothly it was a bit uncanny.

The worst fears of the skeptics were avoided, and the new Empress assumed her duties with admirable fortitude, almost too good to be true. Tratovia didn’t succumb to anarchy, there were no riots, strikes, coups, or rebellions, and nothing much changed for the majority of the provinces either.

Yet, it would have been wrong to claim that life was naught but rainbows and sunshine. Rather, the sunshine itself appeared, to a perceptive observer, to have grown inexplicably off. As fond as the Palace workers became of their new Sovereign over the days of her office, there were certain traits to her character that seemed even more unsettling and—in a word—inhuman, than with any of the rulers before her. Anyone working close to the Throne couldn’t escape noting certain incidents, which were better excluded from public discourse, lacking obvious cause and natural explanation.

For example, there were moments when the Empress’s eyes could be spied to take on an unsettling shine and a harsher disposition, defying her established, mellow demeanor. Her face would sometimes assume a callous, unfriendly expression that couldn’t have been further from her standard self, then to swiftly return to the usual again. It was more than a simple lapse in focus, but as though she had, in those brief moments, ceased to be herself altogether, and there had been something else viewing the world through her mortal eyes, eluding identification.

These could yet be explained as mere tricks of imagination, but there were also other such incidents, no less disturbing. Her majesty might be seen randomly going in places with only one way out, then to re-emerge elsewhere entirely, and no one could tell when and how she had passed. No means other than ancient sorcery could be offered to explain these abrupt shifts, though Yuliana practiced no magic in the open, nor expressed any interest towards the occult.

Such incidents were fortunately rare in frequency, and those around her deemed it wisest to ignore them, as there was no perceivable harm done. But neither would these oddities be entirely forgotten. They kept alive in the maids’ and courtiers’ late night tea talks, causing most of them to favor a polite distance when dealing with her majesty in person.

There was no sign of oddities today. The previously described routine was acted out without noteworthy detours and come noon, her majesty was hard at work again in her luxurious Palace office, signing papers. Or no, perhaps there were some minute differences compared to the usual. Not in the proceedings, but in the person herself.

Every now and then, the fountain pen in Yuliana’s delicate hold would pause, and she would exhale an audible sigh, before resuming with visible effort. Her closest servants had grown familiar enough with her majesty to tell that these sighs were not indicative of standard boredom, but of a more heartfelt variety, previously unheard.

They also had an hunch regarding the possible cause.

Her majesty had spent most of her free time last night listening to the tales of a visiting minstrel. These tales were centered around a certain wandering warrior, the exploits of whom Yuliana had previously only heard about in curt reports by the Intelligence Bureau.

Who was that bard, exactly, and how had he found his way into the Palace? None of the servants could be quite sure, but the Empress had made it clear that the artist enjoyed her favor, and was free to go wherever he pleased, without anyone to trouble him. It was more than a little alarming how quickly that stranger had weaseled his way into her majesty’s good graces, even though she had scarce displayed any interest towards males before.

The High Courtier had requested a Court Wizard to investigate the boy, to see if he had put some manner of charm on the ruler. But the mage soon reported that there was no need for concern and vouched for Waramoti’s honorable character. Not that the simplicity of the answer helped quell the suspicions entirely. In some sense, it only fanned the flames.

Either way, ever since meeting the bard, the Empress had begun to exhibit signs of uncharacteristic melancholy, characterized by frequent, heavy sighs.

This became a cause of great curiosity to her maids.

When dealing with the citizens’ private matters, or important state secrets, or any other such confidential topics, Yuliana would dismiss all her servants and work alone, but at most other times, a pair of female attendants stood close by her, ready to assist if needed. And since they had the perfect opportunity to do so, the maids resolved to learn more of her troubles.

“Your majesty,” the maid standing right of Yuliana, Tilfa, spoke up after counting thirteen forlorn sighs that afternoon. “Are you perhaps feeling unwell today? It might be high time for a brief rest now, if you wish so.”

All the Palace maids wore uniforms of neutral beige, with black linings, and headpieces that showed only the face; the very minimum of individuality, as was the fundamental role of such outfits. But what could be seen of Tilfa’s face was young and fair. She had willful, blue eyes, and her expressive countenance reflected the commitment she had for her role, and the will to ever try her hardest.

“Your majesty.” Before Yuliana could answer Tilfa’s question, the maid standing to the left of her, Hila spoke also. “Are your shoulders stiff today? Does your back hurt? Then say no more. I understand. I heartily do. With a bosom as blessed as yours, it is inescapable. Would you perhaps like a quick massage? My hands are always at your service, should you need them.”

“That will not be necessary, thank you,” Yuliana replied, unable to keep the tops of her cheeks from heating up, her brow twitching. She was not too happy with certain aspects of her own body, but there was nothing she could do about her biological heritage either.

On the outside, Hila looked like a carbon copy of her colleague, as was to be expected, thanks to the excellence of the tailor’s designs. The person inside the uniform was perhaps an inch or two shorter than Tilfa, her short, blonde hair more wheaty, and her build ever so slightly fuller. But the largest difference was in her personality, which could get somewhat unprofessional at times—if not straight up indecent—bringing to question how she had ever ended up in such an important role.

Then again, Yuliana had mostly only herself to blame for this.

The two maids had first been assigned to her when she was still only a guest at the Imperial Court—or, a hostage more like. The maids had been picked for the role specifically for being new, for being entirely disposable. Following her abrupt ascension, Yuliana had been asked whether she would like to have the pair keep attending to her, to which she had readily agreed at the time, longing for familiar faces in the foreign castle of strangers. Yuliana had prioritized psychological support over regal etiquette at the time—but had started to somewhat regret her decision since.

Going from the rock bottom of the servants’ pecking order to the very top alongside their master had done naught at all to mend the maids’ performance. And while she had become the Empress only by chance, by forces of circumstances, Yuliana was still of royal blood, and possessed certain deep-rooted, if not outright rigid, ideas on what was appropriate for a servant.

Alas, reprimands didn’t fix the servants’ poor manners, and neither did Yuliana have the heart to actually punish or dismiss them either. She knew the maids both cared for her, in their own way, and only meant good.

Still, it seemed that her majesty’s silent tolerance was only encouraging the misbehaving maids.

“Hila,” Tilfa coldly reprimanded her colleague. “While it may be true that her majesty’s feminine assets are as gargantuan as they are supple, perfectly symmetrical and balanced in every regard, defying nature, gravity, and common sense—and likely also a source of various pains and sores, in addition to pride and fame—you laying your hands on any part of her majesty’s body would be downright criminal. And I will not stand by and watch it happen. Not under any circumstances. If anyone here is qualified to perform massages, it should be myself.”

“Why, what horrible, baseless accusations is my esteemed colleague spewing in my face, so early in the day?” Hila retorted, feigning innocent. “What qualifications are you talking about, having no breasts whatsoever yourself? You couldn’t even begin to understand the troubles of legitimate mammals. And unlike corrupt, two-faced skeevers such as yourself, I only have her majesty’s best interests in mind. I wouldn’t ever dream of taking advantage of her unwavering faith in me and my hands to cop a feel of heaven while about it. N-not at all! I am...entirely immune to...ehehehe!”

Unable to even finish her sentence, or hide her lecherous grin, suddenly short of breath, Hila clutched her reddening cheeks and squirmed.

“’Unwavering’ would not be the word to describe my faith in you,” Yuliana corrected, leaning her chin on her fist, suddenly feeling quite tired.

“Your majesty!” Tilfa bowed her head. “Please accept my deepest, heartfelt apologies on behalf of this mindless animal that pretends to be my co-worker! With your leave, I shall have her removed and cast into the darkest available dungeon at once, among the other renegades of her scope. If any exist.”

“To be frank,” Yuliana muttered in response, “after that needlessly verbose analysis of my chest earlier, I feel you are not entirely free of guilt in this matter.”

“Why…!” Tilfa froze, looking aghast.

“Oh your majesty, you understand!” Hila exclaimed in turn. “I knew you would not be deceived! Truly, you are justice and fairness incarnate, and in every way above this backstabbing viper of a maid I must call my colleague!”

“And you are every bit the degenerate she says you are,” Yuliana replied.

“Thank you very much, you are too kind!” The maid bowed in gratitude.

“It was not a compliment!” Tilfa informed her.

“No,” Hila argued, “merely hearing a word like ‘degenerate’ pass her majesty’s velvety lips is a reward more precious than any jewel to me. Aah, even were I struck dead where I stand, I’d have no regrets!”

“Then die! Your majesty, I beg your leave to go and execute this waste of taxpayer money immediately!”

“Why ever should I deserve such a fate?” Hila defended herself. “My only purpose is to be honest with her majesty in all affairs, as a true, loyal attendant should, instead of masking my feelings with empty cajolery, the way my toxic colleague always does.”

“Personally, I wish you masked your true self a little more,” Yuliana interjected. “This is a level of honesty I don’t need.”

Hila retreated a step, shocked.

“But your majesty!” she gasped. “My interest in your body is purely professional! To be able to serve you with proficiency your exalted rank demands, I ought to know you better than I know myself! Can you fault me then, for using every idle moment in study of your graceful form, so that not one nook or cranny might be left strange to me? I have undergone rigorous image training ever since you took office, and am confident that the way I picture you unclothed is close to the reality of it. Therefore, no one could presume to provide more expert, personified massages, I am sure!”

Somehow, Hila’s assurances of professionalism failed to impress her majesty. Sinking even lower over her desk, Yuliana replied,

“The idea of you constantly staring at me, trying to imagine me naked behind my back, has become a major obstruction to my own professional interests.”

“Your majesty,” Tilfa interjected. “For your own good, listen not to another word by this foul beast! I assure you, anything this mockery of a maid can do, I can do ten times better! You see, I possess the necessary faculties of critical thinking to recognize my limits and work around them; I do not merely picture your splendid form in my mind—I draw sketches of it in my spare time, adding with logic where imagination falls short! I am sure my understanding of your anatomy is second to none! Therefore, we may safely dismiss this worthless lecher, and have me as your sole attendant from hereon.”

“I can’t fault you for not trying, that’s for sure,” Yuliana replied, growing even more lifeless. “But I find the thought of being left alone in a room with you more disturbing than anything!”

“Ahem, but we digress!” Tilfa recovered her composure with a dry cough and fixed her posture. “Whatever could be troubling your majesty on such a fine day? Though there may not be much we can do for you, or understand your lofty concerns, our desire to aid you is genuine. I hope you can believe this much.”

“For once, I may bring myself to agree with my nefarious, flat-chested co-worker,” Hila concurred. “Whether it be a shoulder to lean on, an ear to receive your words, or a chair to sit on, I am both willing and able to provide in all cases.”

Yuliana sighed once again. Leaning listlessly on her elbow, her knuckles against her cheek, she stared off into the distance and drummed the tabletop with her free hand’s fingers.

“I just thought—how unfair is the share of fortunes in this world,” she then spoke. “How much suffering one person can be made to endure, entirely undeserved. Some out there call me ‘god on earth’. And yet, I am powerless to remove even the burdens of one person dear to me, though I would wish for nothing more.”

Yuliana fell quiet, knowing it was meaningless to unload her grief on others. No one else could bear her heartache with her. And for a moment, the maids stood likewise silent, contemplating on her heavy words.

Then, Hila broke the spell,

“...So it is your chest that burdens you?”

“Truly, the share of fortunes is too unfair,” Tilfa nodded, gritting her teeth in sorrow.

“I was a fool to ever say a word!” Yuliana lamented.

“By the way, your majesty,” Hila asked. “If I may disturb your solemn reflections with a question, might I know who is that seedy-looking young male lazing on that fourth century divan in his tactless garb, continuously scribbling in what looks like a cheap moleskin notebook?”

“Certainly, I have been wondering the very same thing,” Tilfa added. “I cannot fully immerse myself in the appreciation of your bosom’s curvature, while in the presence of such an unsavory character.”

They were, of course, referring to Waramoti, who sat by the far right wall, while silently writing his notes.

“He’s...Ah, never mind,” Yuliana felt too languid to even explain. “He wanted to observe me at work, for his writings. I’m not entirely sure what for, but just act as if you don’t see him. Such was his wish.”

“If your majesty so insists,” Tilfa answered with a bow. “I shall gladly wipe his shameful existence from my consciousness altogether. There, it is done.”

“Yes,” Hila said, “if your majesty insists he is not a potential romantic interest, or otherwise corrosive to cultured life, I may somehow forgive him for breathing the same air as we do.”

“What have bards ever done to you two?” Yuliana asked.

At that moment, there came a robust knock from the door.

“Ah, do come in!” Yuliana called out, quickly throwing the preceding nonsense from her mind, and was back to business again.

If a courtier was not there to announce the visitor, or guards to open the door, it usually meant that it was a regular staff member with the necessary security clearance. Such people wouldn’t bother with ceremonies, coming and going all the time. As expected, the guest opened the door with accustomed motions and stepped quietly in. And as soon as she saw who it was, Yuliana’s face brightened like the afternoon sun that comes out from behind clouds.

“Master!” she exclaimed with a smile, recognizing the features of her past role model.

Closing the door behind her, Miragrave Marafel answered her majesty’s smile with that of her own, although quite a bit more reserved in manner. The sight of the officer’s formal black-gold uniform evoked instant, instinctive tensing among the other people in the room, though they had all seen it before.

Half of the effect was evoked by the person in the outfit, and not so easily overcome.

Only twenty-seven years of age, a beauty with a rare hair tone of deep brown-red, and eyes the purest green, Miragrave should have grown up a peerless enchantress at the upper echelons of Imperial aristocracy. However, instead of such life, she had elected the road of a soldier, and the grievous hardships of this path had honed her into something not quite human.

Miragrave’s presence could be described as a bolt of lightning caught in a human shape; perpetually intense, fatal to any who toyed with it, unyielding, unforgiving—most of all to her own self. She had seen death as well as delivered it, and the associated horror hung low above her, as an ever-present shadow.

Yet, when it came to Yuliana, the infamous commander showed a completely different face, a face she would never reveal to another, one of unreserved sympathy and gentle affection. They were like a mother lioness and her cub, and woe befall any who dared step between them.

Miragrave crossed the carpet to Yuliana’s desk, carrying a slim, red file under her arm. There she paused and gave the maids a brief, scrutinizing look each, before returning the attention of her emerald eyes to the young Sovereign.

Following her ascension, one of Yuliana’s first acts had been to promote her most trusted friend and confidant in a show of apparent, shameless nepotism. Not that she had done it as a mere favor.

The decision had been far from a light one, as much as it was unavoidable.

In the current army leadership, Miragrave was perhaps the only one to look beyond the borders of her nation, and see the big picture. In regards to the Age of Chaos and Geltsemanhe’s prophecy, she remained an undecided skeptic, but she did hold stark awareness of the necessary facts: unless all the nations and races of the world joined hands against the daemon threat, life on Ortho would come to an end.

Since the early days of her career, Miragrave had worked in favor of the alliance between the men of Noertia and the colony of cirelo in Ledarnia overseas, whom the less educated called dark elves. Attached to this frail union was knowledge of their enemy, and access to the Old Continent, on the far side of which stood the Tower of Destiny, where the world might yet be saved. Considering this, until the new year’s day, no one else could be allowed to hold the reins of the Empire’s army.

Today, Miragrave’s collar was decorated by the insignia of the Grand Marshal of Tratovia, a rank second only to the Empress, abolished six hundred years ago, but revived by dire need.

Yet, it was only so much brass. Much like her “protege”, the person herself remained unchanged, inside and outside.

“Forgive me, Yuliana,” Miragrave apologized. “It’s been quite a while since my last visit. How have you been?”

Due to her promotion, the already workaholic officer had become even busier, and rarely had the time to come see Yuliana, though her concern for the girl was great. The unusual nature of the occasion made it all the more joyful to Yuliana.

“Me?” The Empress looked around, spreading her hands. “I—I’m fine. I’m great. We’re all doing a lot of good work here, and important decisions are made each day. Yes. I’m doing just fine, and—well, all’s fine, as you can see. Uh, how about you? Are you in good health, Master?”

Miragrave answered her majesty’s assurances with a wry smile.

“Yuliana,” she quietly said. “This is Tratovia. If we ask how you are doing, it means we want to hear the truth.”

The young Empress bit her lip and averted her face.

“...I don’t know,” she confessed with sincerity. “I’m so worried. About her. About Izumi. And the time. Are we doing enough? Am I doing enough? I don’t know. There’s bare months left. Have I actually achieved anything of worth in all summer? I’ve changed some laws. I’ve—spared apple thieves from decapitation. I’ve allowed married women to seek employment without their husband’s written permission. I’ve allowed the children of divorced parents to go to school. I’ve made it illegal to stone a foreigner to death for stepping on your property. Will that save the world? I don’t think so. I mean, it may be a slight improvement, but...for how long? Is signing this paper, or that paper, really the most important thing I could be doing right now? Or is there something else I’m missing? Is there a way I could do better, and I just don’t see it? I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Yuliana fell quiet, sitting perched on the edge of her gold-engraved chair.

Of course, Miragrave had no easy answers to such questions. An understanding, empathetic smile was the best she could do. Telling her majesty, you’ve done your best, you did all that you could, might have been comforting, but also woefully hollow. Only the ultimate result would tell whether their path had been the correct one.

“—Her majesty has done more than enough!”

To everyone’s surprise, it was Tilfa, who suddenly spoke up, loud and clear, despite her visible nervousness. “Were I to stake my head for it, I’d say she’s already done so much more than any other person rightfully could have! I don’t know about the world, but her majesty has saved a great many lives. By her shining example—I myself have been saved! Begging your pardon, but this is a fact!”

The maid fell silent, stiff as a board, staring into the opposing wall, silently praying no one would execute her for her impudence. But she hadn’t been able to hold it.

“—That’s right!” Hila unexpectedly concurred. “Her majesty is an inspiration! I always used to think of only myself and my own good. Finding a way to stay alive another day took all I had. But lately, I’ve been filled with an almost unbearable desire to do something more for another’s sake! I never knew there could be such happiness in being depended on! Even today, her majesty asked me to aid her with two heavy problems! It was the proudest moment of my life!”

“—She didn’t!” Tilfa corrected her.

Yuliana was too embarrassed to speak, and just a little moved. She looked down to hide her blushing face, hoping no one saw what went through her mind.

“Hm.” Instead of getting angry at the servants for interrupting, Miragrave suddenly made a relieved smile. “Thank goodness.”

“Master…?” Yuliana raised her face and looked at the woman, surprised by the reaction.

“I thought you’d be all alone and lost,” Miragrave told her. “A stranger in a foreign land, a girl in shoes much too big for anyone to fill. And I feared for you. Yet, it turns out my worries were groundless. You’ve already found good friends in your short while here. You didn’t give up. I’m glad for you.”

“Her majesty called me her best friend,” Hila said. “I’m so happy I could die!”

“—She didn’t!” Tilfa immediately corrected her, louder.

“Friends or not,” Miragrave told the maids, and her smile turned a little frightening, “I’ll have you whipped if you speak without permission again.”

“…………….”

The maids fell quiet at once and straightened their postures, like a pair of tin soldiers.

Yuliana made a bit of a crooked smile. As caring as Miragrave was on the inside, she was still an Imperial and a product of her society. Reforming the system was likely easier than changing the Grand Marshal’s personality.

“How are things on your end then?” Yuliana asked her. “The file in your hands suggests this isn’t just a social visit. What could it be, at this time of the day?”

“Bad news,” Miragrave grimly answered, placing the file on the desk before Yuliana’s hands. “Our naval fort in Ducarest reported that an Imperial supply ship, the Fergo, was attacked north off the coast of Aesir, and captured. By pirates. The ship was sunk, the crew left marooned, and the cargo plundered. Four men drowned.”

“Pirates again…?” Yuliana picked up the file and leafed through the contents with an anxious look. “They grow more brazen by the day.”

“You could say that again,” Miragrave remarked. “They typically avoid our ships, knowing them better equipped and defended, but there’s been a clear change in the trend in recent years. They’ve taken to targeting our colors out of spite and attempt to overpower even larger vessels by superior numbers. They also assault our shipyards, conducting sabotage and arson, and murder officers on land wherever they find them.”

“Is this reaction to our increased activity in the Edrian Bay, perhaps?” her majesty speculated. “Their way of saying ‘keep out of our waters’?”

“If so, then a larger confrontation in the nearby future is inescapable,” Miragrave replied. “To make matters worse, the survivors of the Fergo reported something even more unsettling than Jolly Rodgers.”

Yuliana turned a page, to see a disturbing charcoal drawing.

Depicted in the monochrome illustration was an inhuman creature with a horned head, like a barbed flower, great, featherless wings, and a long, whip-like tail. It should have, by all means, been included in a collection of fantastic tales instead of an official military document.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Yuliana asked, raising her face with a look of alarm and disbelief.

“If only I could!” Miragrave replied with a powerless shrug. “This report is not the only one of its kind. As if the greed of lawless men weren’t dire enough an adversary, rumors now speak of a myth come to life: a dragon! An ancient wyrm battling alongside lowlifes!”

“You were right,” Yuliana said, staring at the picture. “This is bad news.”

“We have to do something,” Miragrave said, frustration in her appeal. “The Fergo was bound for Ledarnia. Our allies sorely need our backup, yet we are unable to deliver. The dragon aside, so long as the pirate Confederacy rules the seas, our efforts to reach Amarno and the Trophaeum will boil down to a gamble of blind luck. It doesn’t bode well for us—or the world.”

“But what can we do?” her majesty pondered with a frown. “Without a proper fleet of our own, we cannot challenge the pirates in their own element. We’d need help from outside. But Melgier is still weak after the Dharvic war. The corsairs’ influence has spread throughout their towns and ports. Unfortunate as it is, many northerners depend on the plunder the pirates trade them, and the threat of slavery keeps them compliant. They have more reason to hinder than help us.”

“Cartognam,” Miragrave pronounced. “The Pirate King stands at the center of the picture. He’s all these bands of faithless buccaneers have in common. It is no ideology, or a flag, or a blot of land that binds them, but the charisma of one man. He is their ideal, their source of strength, as well as their one weakness. If only we take out Cartognam and make a show of it, they would never recover again. But no one knows where to find either him or his fabled ship. The Numénn has only too many hideouts for fish who know her waters.”

Yuliana thought for a moment in silence.

“If we find no aid in the north,” she then said, “we must turn to the south instead. Luctretz has the greatest naval forces in the Edrian Bay. Their knowledge of the sea is surely second only to the corsairs themselves. With their aid, we may yet clear the seas.”

“The problem is, how shall we win them over?” Miragrave replied. “The Principality has severed their diplomatic ties, in anticipation of our imminent invasion. Should we ride to Efastopol now, asking to borrow their ships, they would first laugh in our faces, then chase us back with torches. I see no way to get what we need, save by war.”

The Empress looked up at her old mentor, and the strength of her lavender gaze wouldn’t lose even to the seasoned Marshal.

“That is not an option,” she said.

Miragrave closed her eyes and shrugged. “A dead end it is then.”

“No,” Yuliana replied after a thought. “There is still a way. I will go to Luctretz myself. The Prince is an old friend of mine, he will listen to me. I will tell him everything, and with his help, we will convince the Senate. We’ll show them we’re not the Empire they knew anymore. That way, we may still have hope.”

“And there’s no way I can change your mind on this?” Miragrave asked her. “The Sovereign has not ventured as far from Imperial soil in three centuries. You should know why without my telling. It is too dangerous.”

“I know,” Yuliana replied quickly with a smile, her mind already made. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’m still doing it.”

“...As you wish. Your majesty,” the older woman answered with a sigh and a bow, and a helpless smile. “I shall have an escort assembled, and send notice to the Principality forthwith.”

“Good,” her majesty nodded. “The sooner, the better.”

Then, Yuliana suddenly paused, blinking, as if something about the exchange had struck her as odd.

“Wait. Master? Didn’t this all go awfully well for me?” she asked. “I didn’t think you would let me have my way so easily.”

Miragrave answered her with a smile a degree warmer,

“Why, do I seem to you like the sort of an uptight hag, who does nothing but look for ways to drag you down? It is a good plan, even if a risky one. So what reason do I have to get in your way? You are not the blue-eyed little girl you once were.”

“Is that it…?” Yuliana asked, cautiously raising a brow.

“Yes,” Miragrave nodded, the enigmatic smile lingering on her lips. “You should go and have a good, long talk with this old friend of yours. I believe it’s for the best.”

“Um, why the emphasis...?” Yuliana’s smile grew rather tense in exchange. “Have I unwittingly said something strange...?”

“Please,” the Marshal said. “Langoria may be far away, but I do read the news. Especially the ones concerning my cute little disciple. I was quite happy for those news in particular, back when I first heard them.”

“The news?” her majesty blinked. “What news?”

“Five years ago. Regarding your engagement—to the Prince of Luctretz.”

“Ah...”

While they very admirably maintained their positions unshaken, and kept even their expressions superficially serene, the maids by Yuliana’s side exhibited quite the wealth of emotion through their eyes alone. It was a veritable marvel how such a pandemonium of shock, grief, disbelief, and jealous wrath could fit at once in such small organs. Meanwhile, Yuliana herself looked like someone hit with a petrifying curse. She soon recovered from her temporary daze with another heavy sigh.

“And here I hoped everyone had forgotten about that by now!” she groaned. “It was something my father decided for me, I had no say in it!”

“Yes, yes,” Miragrave said, not listening. “Why don’t you take your trip to Luctretz as a chance to forget all the doom and gloom for a week or two? Remember again that you’re a maiden at your finest, and have a bit of healthy fun with your dear old friend. Naturally, I will be coming along, to ensure that you don’t go too far overboard with your fun. I am such a meddlesome old hag, after all. For similar reasons, I’m also going to have to outfit two warships, recruit about a hundred knights, a battalion of mages, procure a new stock of Yodith arrows, and a handful of other useful things. So if only your majesty could bear to be apart from this old friend for another two weeks, I would appreciate it.”

“Er, could you stop that now?”

“Ah, yes, but should the wait prove simply unbearable for you,” Miragrave added, still not listening, “I might have a horse ready for you at the stables, day and night. You need but say the word.”

“Master, have I ever said you have a very bizarre sense of humor?”

Grand Marshal Marafel turned to leave the office, answering lightly over her shoulder.

“Why, my dear, I’ve never cracked a joke in my life.”