The pain never quite left the ivory leg. It was always there, a twisting, churning feeling, like something was sucking his marrow through a straw. He should have counted himself lucky. He’d seen what happened to most men aboard the HEM Ascendency. Few reacted as quickly as he did, cutting off the leg before the infection had a chance to spread.

He swung his black cape over his right side to hide the injury from a whispering couple across the street. A quick glare sent them on their way, whispering something about his Venra nose. His scowl deepened on his sun-kissed face. After everything he’d done for the Empire, after he’d shed so much blood to reach the title of Admiral, he was still a Venra.

Drake walked past the ornate statue of the emperor spearing the body of a fat noble with an exaggeratedly large nose, bushy eyebrows, and facial hair that was once called the Venral goatee. In Bergin’s better cities, one could expect to find a few statues of the emperor or the Empire’s Sons, immortalized in some great victory. Once, he would pass by this statue, his hands tracing his eyebrows and nose to match that of the caricature of the last Venral king.

No more.

The Admiral walked past the gates and into the courtyard, an immaculate space of carefully managed hedge sculptures, fountains, and perfectly trimmed grass. He walked up the marble steps, standing before a vast set of mahogany doors carved with leaves and vines so elaborate, a fresh coat of paint would have made them seem real. He stared into the castle, the massive doors opening to him, not to the ungrateful plebs that decried him as inferior. A gust of cool, lavender-scented air buffeted him as he passed the threshold. He walked through the lavish hallway, treating the paintings along the walls with the same indifference he gave the royal guards standing as still as statues. His footsteps were muffled by the ornate tapestries of fallen kingdoms; their histories and prophecies, heroes and villains, all woven together as a carpet for the Bergin elite to walk upon in the Hall of Victories.

It was a long walk, only punctuated by the creak of his prosthetic leg. The door to the throne room was a humble one. Black and featureless, the more one stared into it, the harder the features were to define, shadows melding into one another and playing tricks on the eyes of all who beheld it. At its sides were two of the Empire’s Sons, their arms crossed and their heads tall.

The first time he’d seen one of the Empire’s Sons, he’d been cowed by their elaborate gilded armor. Thick plate armor, layered with enough enchantments from a Spellmaster to bankrupt a city. Helms that had no gaps or holes, but from which they could clearly see as they moved to watch Drake when he approached nonchalantly. Two golden skulls crowned by silver laurels seemed to dig into his soul. One reached for the door, his purple cape fluttering as he rushed to meet his expected duties. But the other did not move. A clear insult: It was from the combined strength of the two elite warriors that the heavy doors would open.

Glaring at him would be pointless. Instead, he smiled at the one who reached to help and bowed his head in appreciation. A rare gift from the stern and unrelenting Admiral. Drake reached out with his one arm and placed it on the door. And he pushed. The door slowly creaked open, his prosthetic leg whining from the strain. It was built to survive his fae-touched strength, but even still, the delicate ivory articulation screeched. The door opened wide, Drake stepping through into the throne room.

Braziers hung from the ceiling of the massive room, the crackling fires drowned by the loud arguments of the most powerful men in the empire. The Admiral leisurely walked towards them, noting the Emperor’s absence. His throne was a work of art, the chair itself carved from the very ironwood that made the doors. It was massive, suitable to fit the Emperor’s titanic frame. But it was also a sign of humbler times, the simple chair was constructed when the Emperor first took the throne over four hundred years ago. Over generations, the throne grew, a layer added beneath the last to raise the throne higher. Like the rings of a tree, one could determine the prosperity of Bergin by the value and complexity of every layer. The lowest two layers were the most elaborate. A platinum step shaped meticulously to form images of glorious battles, embedded with precious gems. The last step was even more extravagant, twice as large as the previous one, gold and silver weaving into platinum to form a complex display of all that had been accomplished in the last thirty years.

The voices grew silent as Admiral Drake approached the empty throne. He passed the bickering nobles, their squawks of outrage not registering. He kneeled at the base of the throne and bowed deeply, the ghost of his right hand clenching into a fist and meeting his chest. Only the nub of his arm moved, and he winced, quickly using his left hand instead. The four Sons of the Empire looked down on him from their spots on the elevated platforms, the only ones allowed to stand on the steps of the throne aside from the Emperor himself.

He got up and turned to face his fellows of the Emperor’s personal court. There was the Minister of Finance, his eyes as red as his bulbous nose. He pulled out a flask to hide his smile with his vice. Lochlan Kerr was no doubt happy to have another foil to his rivals. Sitting on the plush chair next to him was the Minister of Truth, Lennox. Rumor has it he made anyone who knew his family name disappear. Not what one would think from a skeleton of an old man who’d seen the last two layers of the throne placed. Further away from the throne, picking his teeth with a chicken bone, was the Minister of Resources. Kendrick had recently inherited the position when his predecessor disappeared under mysterious circumstances. A convenient fact most of the court ignored because the last Minister of Resources had few friends. At the end of the council, furthest away from the throne, was the Senate Head. Caleb Carcassonne was an annoying little man who had spun the Senate into a complex web of political games and schemes. Having the weasel in your debt meant much.

Facing him was High Judge Feldspar, swathed in lavish robes to hide the sores that covered his body. He knew what happened to the weak in court, but no matter how much expensive perfumes and silks he covered himself in, he could not hide the stench of his venereal disease. Drake had been with sailors long enough to recognize the smell. Cringing from the unpalatable mix of cologne and sweaty rot emanating from the man besides him, the Minister of Logistics squirmed under Drake’s gaze. Franklin Guldmist was among the youngest on the council, but stress and political games had given him a head of white hair and the gaunt face of a haunted man. One might mistake the hairy brute sitting in front of Lennox for a warg. Perhaps General Malach was part warg, his manners and ferocity so much like the fell beasts he oversaw. The general’s sharp-toothed smirk was an open challenge, his intentions more obvious than most when his eyes darted to the man in the seat next to him.

Drake’s seat.

A wiry man who had never been on a ship without falling sick, with a smile as greasy as his hair. Vice-Admiral Valos had been highly recommended by Feldspar and Kendrick. His skills as a quartermaster were adequate, but his attitude and seamanship were lackluster at best. Nevertheless, he had powerful friends. Friends who no doubt put him in Drake’s seat, just as they forced him into his lap five years ago.

“Vice-Admiral Valos.” Drake’s voice was cold. “Why are you in my seat?”

Valos leaned back into the chair, settling comfortably into it. His awful smirk grew a smidge wider. Admiral Drake loomed threateningly over him.

“You have been sick. Someone needed to stand in for you.”

“Yet here I am.” The Admiral kept his tone even the storm in his eyes boring down into Valos. The man, ignorant or foolish, just shrugged.

“Your recent performance has left much to be desired.” The man prattled on, casually looking at his fingernails. “As you recovered, our peers have found me…acceptable.”

“It is not up to my peers.” Drake emphasized their positions. “The Emperor decides if I am to be replaced.”

“The Emperor is currently dealing with a minor rebellion.” High Judge Feldspar commented. “Personally. Since you were recovering from the loss of the Ascendency, we thought it best if Vice-Admiral Valos took your place in these meetings. He has performed admirably.”

“I have been walking for a week now.” Admiral Drake ignored the barb, not looking away from the little shit grinning from his seat. “And in that time, you have lost two ships in an attack on the Faulk, and twelve more to retaliatory raids.”

“The death knell of a dying people.” Valos waved his hand dismissively. “All those swamp suckers can do is raid. Not even as advanced as the Marnesian barbarians.”

“How little you know.” Drake grit his teeth. Calling on Guldmist to explain how much was lost by the Faulk’s targeted raids would be unreliable, as the man would say whatever the most powerful faction in the room would like to hear. Asking Lennox for the truth of the matter would be as good as jumping out of one noose into another. Facts would not work within a court lacking its head. “Your ignorance speaks volumes of your incompetence.”

“I didn’t lose one of the three great galleons.” Valos steepled his hands together. “The Emperor has made his discontent with you known by only sending you a prosthetic leg.”

“Are you saying that I should not have tried to rescue Caldon Carcassonne? Ignored the message he sent?” Drake enjoyed the expression Valos made.

“Of course not!” He held up his hands, eyes lingering on the Senate Head. “Just that there were exaggerations of the attacking force. A few demons should be easily handled, no?”

“Now you’re accusing Caleb’s son of lying?” The Admiral watched as the greasy smile fled from Valos’ face as his eyes began darting around in a panic.

“You are putting words in his mouth, Admiral.” Kendrick put in nonchalantly.

“Am I?” Drake Freedman cocked his head, stepping closer to Valos. “If you weren’t a sniveling coward who could get seasick on a lake, what would you have done if a demon the size of a mountain attacked your ship?”

“I…uh…don’t have enough information on the, uh, scenario.” Valos’ Adam’s apple bobbed. He didn’t even react to the insult.

“Even with all the reports from the survivors? Have you really been doing your duties?” Drake leaned closer to his insubordinate Vice-Admiral, pulling out papers from his lapel. “Or have you spent most of your time trying to forge my signature and acting in my name?”

The papers flew by his face, his pupils shrinking as beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I suppose I can let you have the seat.” He swallowed again and tried to get up. Drake pushed him back down.

“No, no, no.” The Admiral’s smile was not a kind one. Behind it were years of pent-up rage eager for any chance to erupt. The battlefield was one such place to vent his frustrations, his stormy wrath bringing him fear and renown throughout the Empire. “You claimed you could have done better in my situation. Fought better. How about we test that claim? You fight someone who lost against the monster, and if you win I’ll concede. The man you fight will even be a cripple, lacking his dominant arm.”

Fear fully blossomed on the Vice-Admiral’s face. He got up, tripping over himself to get past Drake.

“Apologies, sir.” He mumbled. An iron grip on his shoulder prevented him from leaving.

Drake paid attention to his ‘peers’. The next few moments would give him a valuable insight into the web of alliances and rivalries that developed in his absence. It was only a moment. Valos looked pleadingly between Kendrick and Feldspar. Kendrick didn’t bother to look his way and Feldspar looked away. General Malach watched eagerly, licking his lips, whereas his neighbor, Guldmist, looked on in terror. Carcassonne had a small smile, and Kerr had a large one, his pupils dilated from whatever strange concoction he drank. Lemmox kept his eyes closed, looking like a sleeping old grandpa. And the four Sons of the Empire near the throne moved their heads slightly to focus on the Admiral and his subordinate.

“I can forgive you for insulting me. I can forgive you for being ambitious.” Drake’s lies had long mixed with his sincerity. Maybe he could forgive if he pushed down the rage for long enough. He didn’t intend to. “I cannot forgive you for claiming to know the will of the Emperor.” Drake Freedman flipped him around with one hand, so the terrified man was facing him. His fear kept him in place, staring into Drake’s black eyes. “You know nothing of loyalty, Valos. To me or to the Emperor. I admit my failings, but had I been cast aside, the Emperor would not have given me a leg to walk, to sail, to kneel. I only need one arm to write orders, one arm to hold the wheel, one arm to kill.”

Quicker than a snake, his sole hand grabbed the ambitious usurper by the throat and lifted him above the ground. His legs kicked at nothing, his arms trying desperately to keep himself up.

“Come now, fight back.” The Admiral’s voice was without a hint of mockery. “Show me how well you would have done against Yannis. How you would have fared with a piece of herself worming into your body and mind.”

Valos summoned his Tome, but the magic dissipated into the enormous sigils inscribed in the floor below. An enchantment that sucked the magic from the room at such a pace only the most experienced spellcasters could act. Having no magic, Valos kicked and punched at the older man, but the grip only grew tighter. His mind began to fade, heavy limbs flailing for any escape.

“Enough, Admiral.” Minister Kendrick raised his disinterested voice. “You’ve made your point.”

“You’re right.” Drake nodded, relaxing his grip enough for Valos to gasp a lungful of air. There was a hint of relief in Valos’ eyes, along with a tiny spark of indignation. Drake jerked his hand in a swift motion, breaking his subordinate’s neck with a swift crack. The throne room quieted once more, interrupted by the thump of a dropping body and the mad giggle of a thoroughly inebriated man.

Kendrick’s eyes flashed with a spark of annoyance, and it disappeared as if it never existed. Lemmox chuckled, his soft voice echoing throughout the room.

“There’s one every decade.”

Drake sat down in his seat, leaning back comfortably.

“What were you talking about before I interrupted?” Drake Freedman said, ignoring the body two paces away.

“The Winter Solstice celebration.” Minister Kerr stretched. “We still haven’t decided what to do for the parade.”

“Might I suggest using the HEM Purity?” Drake leaned forwards. “It will do well to inspire some recruits for the coming war with the Faulkie Jarldoms. Not to mention the increased demon attacks since the incident. Speaking of, does anybody have any suggestions on how to better eliminate the demons?”

“What if we doubled warg production with another Meta?” Malach licked his lips. “Preferably a female.”

“Or paid a Spellmaster to make some anti-demon spells?” Kendrick rubbed his hands together as he threw out the suggestion.

“What if we…”

The discussion continued, the members of the Emperor’s court each offering a solution that would bolster their power or detract from the strength of their rivals. Without Lyon the Eternal, this den of snakes would have eaten the country apart from within. Drake scanned each of the players in the elaborate game constructed by their master, forever bound by rivalries and responsibilities orchestrated by the Emperor long before any of them were even born. The slave-born admiral wondered if any children he had would be stuck in this game, forever vying for a greater piece. Or if he would eventually die to the people here. He straightened his back. It was through strength and devotion that he would save himself. It was through strength and devotion that the Empire prospered.