“This is getting overwhelming.”

  These were the words Severin Dain muttered the moment he stepped into his office and saw his desk buried under hundreds of neatly stacked reports. He sighed and bent down to assess the damage.

  “One... two... three,” he whispered, counting the reports illegally occupying his beloved desk. “Fifty-four... fifty-five... I give up.”

  Where was a thinking machine when you needed one?

  That Duke Orven had the right idea.

  Orven—

  He dreamed of the place. Far from the Emperor’s reach, far from Arcadia, far from damned Cairnspire. They were traitors, yes—but as Severin stared at the stacks of paper piled up on his desk's limited real estate, he felt treasonous too.

  With a groan, he gave up and collapsed into a nearby armchair. He’d been dragged into work by his assistant. He would not let the day get any worse.

  He closed his eyes.

  Lady Enira.

  He could still see the embroidery on her dress. The arch of her brow. The way she spoke—careful, practiced, and sharp. He had her address. Of course he did. But he wasn’t impatient enough to strike there directly. With the campaign drawing near, he could find time to plan a more delicate advance.

  A personal campaign.

  A conquest, as the old ones called it.

  He felt himself blush. Oh, if only his father were here to see him now—red like a teenager with a crush. It would have infuriated him. The thought of that old bastard rolling in his grave over Severin's antics gave him such immense satisfaction he almost felt motivated to work.

  The door swung open.

  His assistant strode in—an Imperial officer, but not like the others. She did not dress like a noblewoman. She hardly dressed like any sort of woman at all. A white waistcoat and beige trousers, a grey coat slung over her shoulders, the Imperial sigil pinned at her high collar. Her hair was, as always, pinned in a bun. No makeup, save for kohl around the eyes and a deep violet on the lips.

  “You forgot to knock,” Severin muttered, half-lidded. Why did everyone insist on violating protocol around him?

  “You forgot to work,” she replied, arms crossed, chin tilted toward the paper throne of lies on his desk.

  “That,” Severin said, sighing dramatically, “is not work, Felina. That is torture.”

  "You are too dramatic Severin."

  "You know I treat you too well," he sneered, "Try calling Prime Minister Valtieri 'Adrial' and see which disciplinary commitee you land in front of."

  "I am sorry," she said with overexaggerated sarcasm, "My Lord." The way she said it almost made him disgusted by his noble birth. This woman would be the death of him.

  He got up from his armchair and sat in front of the ominous stacks of reports plaguing his morning. "I hate this job," He grumbled as he opened the first page. Most of the reports were gossips and tall tales as is usual, the volume tripled due to the Magistratum convening. A few affairs raised his brow, and he got deeply invested in the budding romance between a young land knight and a high Lord's daughter. "Felina!" he shouted for his assistant.

  She turned to look at him with her usual expression of disinterest, "I am in the room Severin."

  Severin peered over the evil paper pile onto her, "Set an informant on Sir Jobim, I want to know where he goes and what he does."

  "Read the story about the two romantics did you?"

  He had been caught, he had no choice but to yield, "Nevermind."

  Felina crossed her arms and leaned against a pillar.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Should I also schedule a tea party for the young lovers?" she asked.

  Severin groaned and rubbed his temples, "By the grace of the Sun God do not tempt me woman for I will accept your jabs in earnest than complete the task set upon me"

  "You think yourself too clever"

  He grinned, "Do I?"

  He continued flipping through the reports, until his eyes lingered a little too long at one of them, his lips twitched as he scanned the contents. "Huh, The Marquis LeCoult is meeting with Lord Marshall Draeven."

  Felina sat down next to him, scanning the report. "They seemed cordial at the ball"

  Severin continued reading as he responded, "Yeah I stopped looking at Claudius when he was yelling at Crassian for taking the Prime Minister's deal, I can't stand the sight of old men yelling."

  Felina smirked. “You missed a good show. Half the gallery was watching them argue like it was theater.”

  “I was too busy watching Valtieri pretend he wasn’t orchestrating the entire thing,” Severin muttered, flipping to the next page. “Crassian doesn’t even realize he was maneuvered into the post. That’s the best part.”

  “Claudius knows,” Felina said, picking a dried fruit from the bowl on the corner table. “He looked like he wanted to throttle someone.”

  “He always looks like that.”

  "But why would the Prime Minister send Crassian away?"

  "Well," Severin sighed, pushing back into his chair. "There are a few reasons I can think of, firstly and what seems the most obvious to anyone, is that if anyone can take down Orven's fortress worlds, it is Crassian von Draeven. He didnt become minister of war for his looks i can tell you that much. The second reason is that Valtieri is preparing for the succession."

  Felina shuddered, "I hate to live in interesting times."

  He continued, "Now the House Draeven's shipyards produce the finest battleship's in the empire, their elite shock troops can take down continents at once. The mines of Draeven produce the hull plating for the standard navy commission, basically you can't get on their wrong side."

  "But did the Prime Minister accomplish that exactly?"

  "No, see Claudius would never be an ally, of that Valtieri must be sure, but without his younger brother, the sword of Draeven, the old wolf cannot do much but wait. Valtieri expects this campaign to outlive the Emperor, and by the time Crassian can return to put the weight back in his older brother's words Valtieri will already be kingmaker."

  Felina seemed content with that, but Severin knew there was another reason, a reason no one would admit. Adrial had been hounding Severin to get Vyncent's mask off, and even in the meeting between Crassian and Adrial he had teased the possibility of Vyncent being one of them.

  A psyker.

  Severin knew Crassian was a religious man, not to a fault however. The Draevens were a martial people and deep down they respected Vyncent as a warrior despite his birth, but if Vyncent was revealed to be one of the golden eyed Crassian would personally put an end to his life, no matter the cost.

  Orven was the perfect stage, if Vyncent was indeed a psyker, he would have to use his abilities to win, and the moment Crassian got proof he would go rabid. Adrial del Valtieri had set the stage masterfully. Both his nightmares far away from the throne, and poised to ruin each other.

  Felina tapped the edge of the report with one long finger. “So what do we do?”

  Severin looked at her flatly. “We? You go back to making sure none of the palace stewards poison my ink pots. I figure out how to keep the empire from collapsing in on itself.”

  She snorted. “You know, for someone who doesn’t like the job, you sure act like it belongs to you.”

  “It does,” he said, not smiling. “Even if I despise it."

  Felina studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once and stood. “I’ll keep an ear on LeCoult. He’s clever enough to pretend to be stupid.”

  Severin raised a brow. “The most dangerous kind.”

  “And the easiest to underestimate.”

  He didn’t reply, just reached for the next file. But as she reached the door, he called out, “Felina.”

  She paused.

  “If Valtieri’s maneuvers right—then this campaign is his coronation march—then I want to know who he’s planning to crown. Because it’s not himself.”

  Felina tilted her head slightly. “You think he’s grooming someone?”

  Severin exhaled, slow and even. “I think he’s building something. And we’re all just stones in the foundation.”

  Felina nodded once, then left without another word.

  When the door closed, Severin leaned back in his chair again, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. His office felt colder than it had before—quiet, yes, but not peaceful. Like the silence before a storm.

  He picked up the report on Vyncent and stared at it. The ink smudged slightly where his thumb rested.

  Golden eyes.

  He’d seen a hint once. Briefly. Just a glint, in a corridor where Vyncent thought no one watched. Makeup or treason, he was unsure.

  It wasn’t enough. Not yet.

  There were too many players, and he still had no idea the motives of Marquis LeCoult. Ever since he had arrived on Cairnspire all he had done was meet the Lord Marshall Draeven. What was his angle, his bastard would follow Vyncent to war, but did he trust Vyncent enough for that? And even if he did not, did the Marquis have that much sway over his child.

  Felina suddenly arrived at his door,

  "Marquis LeCoult is here"

  "What?!"

  "Military Quarter"

  "Commodore Johann's quarters"

  Severin was unsure if what he felt was excitement or dread, but of one thing he was sure. Things were moving and they were moving fast.