Her Great Grace

The sound of his shoes is the only noise currently present in the entire north wing of the palace. There’s sweat persistantly building in the palm of his closed fist, as he continues forward, aware of the adverse effects that his report will have on his empress's mood. He swallows, clearing his throat so that even if his words are not the right ones, his tone will be one that isn’t used against him.

He enters the throne room, his heart beating painfully against his ribs. As the tip of his sullied boot touches the end of the brooding black marble platform, he leans low into a bow. “Empress of Velshlind, Lady of Night, Leader of Death, I come baring news from your dispatched mercenaries in the Land of Creatures.” Even his heavy breathing has now turned silent in the presence of his great grace.

There’s a tapping noise, one that most would associate with death if they were anyone other than her dearest messenger. “Rise,” Is all that is said. The voice is low, yet not an ounce of softness can be found in it.

The messenger rises, his eyes still directed towards the ground, never directly at his empress. “What have you come to tell me?” There’s something in her tone that makes him want to retreat more than a step. The messenger just barely holds in the perverse shiver that's begging to escape.

He swallows again.

“Trige and Hunts have reported that they have taken a misstep in their mission. They had to slaughter a boarding house full of natives.” A low hiss fills the dead air. There’s a noise that follows. It’s a rustling that sounds a lot like the empress's gown sliding against the fabric of her ornate throne. But that can’t be.

No, it most certainly can’t be.

But then he sees it.

He sees her sturdy iron tipped boots fall into his line of vision. Then he sees her flowing midnight gown follow shortly behind, the gossamer fabric shifting in a way that plays with his senses. His empress places a delicate hand on his cheek and lifts his eyes to meet her own. A tear almost manages to escape, but all she does is talk to him.

“Tell them,” She starts in that voice overflowing with honeysuckles and molasses. “They are to meet me at the coast. Since they cannot do their job themselves, it seems I will have to take care of it for them.” He does not say that this is only their first attempt.

He does not say that she should give them more time or another chance.

He does not say that she should be lenient in the punishment that they will receive.

No. Instead, he holds his finger to his temple and searches the continents for the two mercenaries. When he finds them, he simply reports what the empress needs him to report.

Then he drops back down into a bow. “It is done, Great Grace.” He listens to her leisurely retreating steps, and just barely manages to hold in his sigh of relief when she dismisses him.

Hand to his heart, he slowly backs his way out of the throne room, and closes the door just as the empress lets out a mighty pissed roar that’s loud enough to shake the stars.