In the centre of the Empire, in a palace composed entirely of crystal windows, rests the Covered One.

The Covered One is oval-shaped, with two small, uneven lumps along one side. It is draped in a single embroidered satin cloth. Sometimes the colour or material of the cloth changes, but the Covered One never does.

Many have tried to guess the nature of the Covered One. All have failed. The crystal palace is neither locked nor guarded. Any citizen of the Empire may choose to remove the cloth at any time, and any citizen may watch. This is encouraged. It is the reason for the transparent walls, and the reason cameras are trained on the object from every conceivable angle, beaming their signals into the homes of anyone who dares tune in.

Many dare. Many come to regret.

The cloth has been removed 6,552,348 times since records began, but none have witnessed the act. Instead, it is the aftereffects they remember.

Victims of low exposure first. The ones who injure themselves in their haste to replace the cloth; the ones who cut their hair, or scribble meaningless jargon on the floor.

Then the ones foolish enough to try again. The ones who slice their arms; who write in blood; who turn on their neighbours in mad frenzy until the cloth is restored. Sometimes the cloth is different. Sometimes it is a piece of clothing.

The veterans, who murder and suicide alike; who paint the glass opaque with blood; who smash the cameras and hunt those who watch from afar; who wake after years have passed with their hair grown long – or not at all – returning to their senses only once the cloth has been returned.

And the worst of all: those who burn the cloth and discard their clothes. The gougers of eyes; the massacre-makers; the flesh-carvers who wreath the Covered One not in cloth but human skin. The ones who survive only to die shortly after by their own hands.

Always, the cloth is restored.

Always, the Empire stands.

It is said the Covered One and the Empire are one and the same. To overthrow one, one must overcome the other. But the Empire is an institution, and the Covered One hunts in the mind. The Empire is old – very old – and even its own cogs and springs seek new purpose.

They who discern the nature of the Covered One may chart the future course of the Empire: grow it, dissolve it, whatever they desire. This is encouraged. It weeds out the rebels, idealists and egotists, while never abandoning the collective hope. Interest in the challenge ebbs and flows – but always, after enough time, someone new will try.

Children of the Empire learn that all are equally fallible, and that curiosity is best tempered with prudence.

I have been there. The cloth was blue, embellished in gold. It felt slick and gauze-like under my fingers, the product of the finest artisans the Empire had to offer. I reached out and touched the Covered One through the fabric. It was neither warm nor cold, just like the texts said. The lumps were irregular, neither soft nor hard, one slightly wider than the other.

We bound our hands and feet, protected our tongues, and when we were ready, I was the one to light the fire. The blaze burned solidly for several seconds.

The cloth is green now. I do not know where it came from. I cannot pass this information onto you, my child, for I have no fingers left with which to write and no tongue with which to speak. If I could cry, I would mourn my mistakes.

I hope you are not watching.

Long live the Empire.