"Before Emperor

  Philip's great war, the Arcadian kings were known as Kings of the

  Mountain. Despite a lack of information, historians believe it to be so

  because of Cairnspire being carved from a mountain."

  —From A History of the Arcadian Kings by Baron David von Remiel

  Adrial

  del Valtieri, as a boy, was not groomed for war like the other

  nobility. A sickly child, he could barely go out and play with his

  brothers and sisters without getting sick or injured in some way. He

  found solace in the library of the Valtieri family, a large building

  separate from the family palace on Claudius III, their capital.

  Always

  shunned, always ignored by his father, today he is the patriarch of his

  house and the Prime Minister to Emperor Selucus IV. He had to hatch so

  many plans, too many plots, to get here—to get atop the system. Since he

  could not fight with his arms, he fought with his mind, first

  conquering his house and then the Imperial Court.

  Today, he sees something that threatens his Empire. Something that threatens his Master.

  In front of him stands a commoner, and in his hand is the head of Baron Victor von Remiel.

  He

  thought back to just a few hours ago, when he awoke in his chambers. He

  freshened up with a sonic shower, and his servants dressed him in a

  vest of emerald green and a black suit—black and green, the colors of

  House Valtieri. He pinned the sigil of his house on the lapel and made

  his way to the Emperor's chambers to brief him on the events of the day.

  The

  Imperial Tower in Cairnspire Citadel stood above all other buildings in

  the city. Standing atop the terrace, one could see everything from the

  base of the Citadel to the walls protecting Cairnspire. A structure so

  tall that a mischievous prince once ordered a ladder so he could carve

  his name on the crystal dome. That prince went on to unite all of

  humanity under his banner.

  Adrial

  chuckled, remembering the story as he stood on the terrace scanning the

  dome. Though he never found it, he always suspected the legend was

  true. Philip always left his mark, in both ways seen and unseen.

  An officer climbed up to the terrace. "The Emperor will see you now, Lord Prime Minister."

  Adrial

  navigated the familiar steps of basalt and obsidian. He could walk them

  blind by this point. Ten years is a long time in Cairnspire, long

  enough to memorize the many floors of the Citadel.

  He

  entered a room that smelled of cinnamon and lilies, a giant pool at the

  center flanked by vast gardens of flowers and trees. It is said that

  one of the Kings of Arcadia was betrothed to a girl from a far-off

  planet—a planet of lakes, fields, and orchards—while Arcadia was but

  rock and ice. To give her a sense of familiarity, he made a floor of the

  Imperial Quarter a massive garden with a lake at the center to match.

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  Those days are long gone.

  Now, an old, withered man—his descendant—sits on the bank, attended to by slaves and maids.

  "Your Grace."

  The Emperor spoke, his voice hoarse. "Ah, Adrial, come. Join me."

  Adrial

  walked over to the bench beside the Emperor, Selucus IV. He studied the

  Emperor—his pale skin, gone translucent with age, the deep lines, the

  cloudy eyes that once held the fire of command. His once-great frame

  reduced to bones under the imperial robes.

  "You have news?" Selucus asked.

  Adrial nodded. "Fleet Admiral Vyncent makes his appearance in court today."

  "You disapprove?" the Emperor asked.

  Adrial

  held his tongue. It was by the Emperor's grace that Vyncent was able to

  reach such heights—a commoner would otherwise retire at the rank of

  captain, if he was exceptional.

  "Speak freely, Adrial."

  There

  was a time when speaking freely with the Emperor meant something. Now,

  the Emperor might not even remember half of what was spoken.

  The

  Emperor's mind was not what it once was. Each passing year, his grip on

  power weakened, yet his name still bound the Empire together.

  "This man… Vyncent," Adrial paused, measuring his words, "he is dangerous."

  The Emperor let out a dry chuckle. "A man who wins wars is always dangerous."

  "Your

  Grace, it was more than a war—thirty thousand dead, hundreds of

  thousands dead on the colony below, and two mining stations completely

  destroyed. He did this all without doubt, without hesitation."

  The

  Emperor stared into the still waters of the artificial lake. "And what

  do you fear, Adrial? That he will want a crown as compense?"

  Adrial

  hesitated. He had read of too many men being presented crowns by their

  legions not to be wary of a man like Vyncent. Victory after victory.

  Human society is built on the belief that noble blood is superior and

  the Emperor's blood is divine. This man challenges it with every

  victory.

  "He has not made any such suggestion. Not with words. Not with action." Adrial exhaled. "For now."

  The words lingered. A dead leaf danced through the air onto the water.

  "You

  were always a cautious man, Adrial," the Emperor spoke. "What would you

  have me do? Cast him aside? Let the court devour him?"

  "Send him to the frontier. Bury him in some campaign where he can burn bright and fade away."

  The Emperor chuckled again. There was no humor in it this time. "You would waste such a weapon?"

  "I would ensure it doesn't turn on us."

  The Emperor tilted his head and faced the artificial sky. He let out a sigh and spoke suddenly.

  "When

  I was young, my father would take me hunting in the frozen wastes." He

  turned to face Adrial. "There was a wolf once, white as the snow, fierce

  and unrelenting. It killed three of our best hounds, sent the rest

  scattering. My father had us corner it in a ravine, where he intended to

  finish it himself."

  He sighed. "But the beast did not cower. It did not flee. It stood its ground and stared him down, blood on its teeth."

  Adrial remained silent.

  "My

  father did not kill it." The Emperor’s eyes flickered with something

  distant. "He brought it back in chains, had it caged under the keep we

  stayed in when we hunted. He thought, in time, he could break it. Make

  it his."

  "And did he?"

  The Emperor's smile was thin. "No. It escaped and tore out his throat in the night."

  Adrial inhaled slowly.

  "Send him away," he pressed.

  The Emperor closed his eyes. "Perhaps," he murmured. "Perhaps not."

  He did not dismiss Adrial. He did not speak again.

  The Prime Minister knew the conversation was over.

  He bowed, turned, and left the Emperor alone in his garden, staring into still waters that would never give him answers.

  Adrial could not let Vyncent get too powerful. He threatens order. He threatens peace.

  And the Emperor does not care.