It is something of a cliche that being an Emperor is no easy task. The great burden of leadership, the weight pced upon the man in power, the way in which that weight unceasingly grinds away at his body and soul, these are the subjects of many a fable. Peleus of Macaria never quite found it so daunting as the stories described. Certainly, it was never an effortless position: there was always work to be done, seals to be stamped, foreign dignitaries to be addressed, members of the vast imperial bureaucracy to be micromanaged, not to mention the countless public events for which the Emperor’s appearance was necessary. But busy did not mean soul-grinding; a shepherd in his field was a very busy man, but everyone knew the satisfaction to be found in such a life. And, of course, there were always those moments which made it all worthwhile: wars, and the great parades of glory that came after.

  These st few weeks had started to feel more and more like they belonged in the fables. There had, of course, been the terrible shock of his first—and so far only—experience with the ring of invisibility, and the still-unfolding fallout from that, but learning the sheer extent of insubordination within his pace was only the beginning. Aissa, Peleus’s only child, had fallen ill with a racking cough and an intense fever that refused to leave. Every day and every night, waking and sleeping, he imagined what might happen if she were to finally pass. Each day made it seem all the more inevitable.

  Not, of course, that he had many opportunities to sleep at all, peacefully or otherwise. Every night, it seemed, the witch would be there, ready to continue the ritual and manufacture more of those deadly bdes. Lord Ethirus’s Cws, she called them. Already they had produced more than enough bdes to equip Peleus’s personal Trabakondai guard, but that would not be enough. If the bdes were to truly protect the Empire, he would need enough to deploy them to the field, which meant hundreds of them, maybe thousands.

  The ck of sleep wore on him more deeply than any stress or difficulty, and each night that the witch appeared the urge to deny her grew yet stronger. But what sort of man would Peleus be if he could not endure hardship for the sake of his empire? He had decided he would create five hundred bdes and be done with it. Five hundred was enough for a tagma, a single elite unit to stand at the center of the line, and it was still so far away.

  Despite such difficulties, Peleus could not help but remain fond of his newest acquisition. Though she loathed him, she could do nothing to truly harm him, and so her loathing remained locked within to stew and fester in a way that he could not help but find utterly delightful. And while her rage grew, she still served him regardless, and served him quite well indeed. Even were she entirely bereft of magic, her expertise with regards to Trabakond alone would have made her a worthy advisor. Her mastery of alchemy put to shame any other man or woman in all of Macaria, drugs that could do anything from fixing an old man’s limp to infming bodily passion, all with absolute effectiveness. Greatest of all, Shirrin seemed to know every move being made in the grand game of the court, and at a word could whisper into Peleus’s ear the secrets of any nobleman he cared to name.

  It was this tter ability, the mysterious divination of the witch that operated without scrying pool or sacrificial beast, that drove Peleus to seek her aid with the newest of his several woes. He waited for her in the most private pce he could think of, a small clearing deep within the imperial gardens, pacing anxiously back and forth. Rumors and reports from servants, guards, and noblemen alike swirled through is head, painting a convincing picture and leaving him drowning in uncertainty.

  And then the Witch-Queen appeared. It was another of her mystical skills: she could enter or exit a room without a sound, so swiftly and so easily that Peleus was halfway convinced that any time she did make a sound when moving it was an intentional announcement of her presence. She wore, as she always did, a tight bck doublet and grey trousers, with a strange amulet on a string around her neck, though this time her outfit was accompanied by a forest green half-cape slung over one shoulder. Peleus briefly noted an unusual messiness in her long, bck hair before his attention turned to the matter at hand.

  “My Emperor,” she said with a slight bow. “What did you need of me?”

  “Council,” said Peleus, speaking to her not quite head-on. “What do you know of the activities of my chosen successor, General Eteocles?”

  The Witch-Queen thought that she was being subtle, but the way that her eyes lit up at the mention of Eteocles’s name spoke volumes. Though she dared not to put voice to it, as her former enemy she took great relish in any kind of discord within Peleus’s household. That the discord was between him and his greatest supporter only strengthened that feeling.

  “I know a few things,” Shirrin said. “I know he has a great many business interests throughout Chrysopolis and beyond, and I could name them for you if you wished. I know that he has been warring with drink of te, sometimes waking up with no memory of his prior actions the st night. He has been very faithful to you in matters of military, I believe; anything to do with the army that he has done, you already know of.”

  Peleus shook his head. “That is not what I ask. Are you certain you have not heard other rumors about the actions of my second in command?”

  The Witch-Queen furrowed her brow for just a moment. “I have heard stories of him entering the pace te at night. But I had assumed those were on account of the business you had with him.”

  Peleus turned around, kicking at the dirt. “What is the point in keeping you around if you cannot even tell me whether my closest associate is seducing my wife!”

  “Enchanted bdes, protection against curses and poison, the cessation of hostilities with Trabakond. What would you like me to do about this seduction, my Emperor?”

  “Advise. In truth, I do not know whether to believe this rumor at all. The evidence is suggestive—an unfinished love note here, a sighting of Eteocles in attempted disguise there, not to mention a few suspicious disappearances on my wife’s part—but would a man who has been at my side more than a decade really betray me?”

  “It is certainly possible,” the Witch-Queen said carefully. “Lust can drive men mad, urge them on to their own destructions. But you are correct for not acting immediately, of course.”

  “I did not ask for affirmations, Witch-Queen, I asked for advice. What should I do?”

  The Witch-Queen csped her hands behind her back and paced for a moment, her eyes flitting across the brilliant foliage of the Imperial garden. Eventually, she said, “You must investigate, obviously. If you are correct in this assumption, it is a dire crime, worthy of the most extreme punishment; but only evidence should sway you one way or another. Do not bring the matter up with Athan, it will only do her harm.”

  In truth, Peleus had not thought of bringing the matter up with Athan until that very moment. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why not? Infidelity requires two participants.”

  “If you are correct that it exists, and that it is reciprocated, then yes. But Athan is a kind and gentle woman, not known for scheming, and she preoccupied with her daughter’s sickness besides. Do you really believe that it is her who would initiate?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “You know Eteocles better than I, of course. But I do believe from what I know of him that he is a very simple man. What he wants, he takes.” The Witch-Queen paused. “Though, he must think you quite weak indeed if he thinks to take even the Empress.”

  Peleus’s eyes went wide with sudden understanding. No wonder Eteocles was acting to subvert him, he was merely going along with the crowd! Everyone, from the sves to the nobility, thought that Peleus was weak, they had ever since he had allowed himself to be swayed by the Witch-Queen, ever since he had failed so disastrously to carry out his part in the Tertalia ritual. Eteocles probably thought that he could steal Athan right from under the Emperor’s nose without a hint of resistance.

  “I’ll have him watched, then,” Peleus said. “And his correspondence monitored, yes. Perhaps I shall even find a way to y a trap for him, to catch him in the act, if it really is true. He must know that I am not weak.”

  “Of course, my Emperor,” said the Witch-Queen, giving a small bow. “And please, report everything to me. Two minds shall find the truth more easily than one.”

  Peleus chuckled. “You may go, Witch-Queen. I may remember to keep you informed.”

  It was another thought to harry the Emperor’s heels, one more painful than even the constant ache of exhaustion. He could hardly look in the direction of his wife without wondering what was happening, whether she was lying to him or hiding something for Eteocles’s sake. The Witch-Queen did not appear that night, there was no ritual drawing him away from sleep, but even still he paced in his chamber for hours, muttering to the flickering candle-light shadows as he tried to concoct a pn to find the proof.

  The rest of his duties felt altogether less pressing. Even his daughter’s illness faded into the background compared to the all-consuming all-important question of fidelity. Those things which were less essential fell, one by one, to the wayside. Peleus had often missed Senate meetings when there were more important things upon which to spend his time, but after the meeting with the Witch-Queen he found it easy to miss them for no reason at all. Attending grand feasts meant allowing his paranoia to run wild, so Peleus often ate alone, or in the company of a few chosen courtiers. Once, it was requested that Peleus inspect a newly-constructed insu in the rapidly-growing worker’s quarter. It was a simple job, an excuse for the Emperor to feel the sun on his skin and the ground under his sandals; but the insu was adjacent to a warehouse owned by Eteocles, so Peleus brusquely declined.

  So muddled was the Emperor’s mind that even his normally-firm understanding of the calendar began to fall apart. One morning, Peleus was shocked to see his attendants bringing him, on top of his usual tunic, a resplendently decorated silk toga, and a huge shoulder wrap made of brown bear’s fur. When he expressed shock at this, the attendants fell silent; it took the bravest of them all several seconds to work up the courage to tell their Emperor that it was the day of Lone Torch.

  Lone Torch was one of the less extravagant Chrysopon festivals, certainly holding no candle at all to Tertalia or even the rapidly-approaching feast of Midwinter. It commemorated a single event, some centuries ago, back when Chrysopolis was but one of many poleis city-states along the Sea of Dolphins, when even the unification of Macaria was a distant glimmer in the eye of its inhabitants. A rival poleis, it was said, organized a daring winter raid, knowing that the soldiers of Chrysopolis would be unarmed and indoors during the cold, hungry months. Forty or fifty men snuck over the city wall at night, pnning to sughter the city’s magistrates and generals, crippling it in a single fell blow. It is said, one man, a mere potter, received a vision from the Golden Lord, and set up watch with a torch in one hand and a bde in another. He met the intruders alone, killing a dozen of them or more before he was overcome just after the rising of the morning sun. But although he died, the cmor of his fighting awoke the other fighting-men of Chrysopolis, who repelled the intruders.

  As the leader of all the armies, Macaria’s greatest warrior, it was traditional for the Emperor to make an appearance at the yearly commemoration of that event. Though sleeplessness weighed upon him like a gown of lead, Peleus could not excuse his absence from the Lone Torch celebrations.

  And so, as the sun zily crept above the horizon, Peleus’s carriage was already bringing him from the pace to the Grand Temple of the Golden Lord. The Temple was already packed when he arrived, parishioners ready to give their thanks to the god whose power had granted them all the wealth and security that was Chrysopolis’s. A priest greeted him as he stepped off the carriage, and with a halo of pace guards forcing the crowd to part before them, quickly filled Peleus in on the nature of the Patriarch’s sermon. Peleus grimaced; he had only barely had the time to memorize his own speech two days ago, when he had briefly remembered Lone Torch was approaching, let alone memorize it well enough to extemporize. The hoi polloi would have to be content with a mediocre performance this year.

  But the Patriarch’s sermon came first. Peleus sat in a back chamber of the temple, amidst a swirl of busy initiates and lesser priests, and tried to bring himself into focus. The Patriarch’s sermon echoed off the chamber walls, blending together into undefinable noise. Around him, the priests kept quiet as best they could, whispering to one another, their robes rustling. It was an atmosphere strongly conducive to focused thought… and yet Peleus could not manage it. His mind was moth-bitten, and a crust of unfocused rage clung to its edges. He could not stop himself from thinking about Eteocles and Athan, imagining their limbs intertwined, or his lovely wife being forced to fend off his unwanted defenses day after day, her womanly pride too great to ask him for his aid.

  In almost no time at all, the Patriarch stepped through the archway and informed Peleus that his time had come. The Emperor rose, throwing the mantle about his shoulders, and began to recite the opening lines of the speech once more in his mind. Finding his way easily to the pulpit, Peleus spent a moment staring out over the assembled mass. Through all the stress, all the sleepless nights and ill tempers, he would always have this: his people. His command. The Empire which served him and him alone.

  The speech began. It was fairly typical for a Lone Torch speech, being as it was a somewhat modified and iterated version of the speech he had given st year. He began with a discussion of what it meant to be Emperor, his gratitude toward the people, and so on. Then came the build up. A dramatic restatement of the immense bravery of that lone warrior, of how it showed the innate courage of those who bore the blood of Macaria, a shout of praise to the Golden Lord for all that he had granted to the city who worshipped him first and foremost above all others. And as he built his emotions, ran through the shockingly shallow well of his willpower, the same familiar feelings came back. Peleus could not speak the phrase “Macaria’s enemies, both fearsome and cowardly” without imagining Eteocles’s smirking face. He could not describe “the sacrifices we make for our glorious Empire” without being struck by a wave of exhaustion. And then, at st, came a crack in the facade.

  “I have spoken at length about some thing, some object which is called the dignity of the Emperor of Macaria; but what is this thing? Does it exist? How is it that my office can…”

  His mind wandered, the next phrase in the speech forgotten. Peleus squeezed his eyes shut and spped the heel of his palm against the sharp edge of the pulpit, forcing away the thoughts of Eteocles and, through pain, bringing his mind into focus.

  Before he could continue, however, he heard a man in the audience ugh. All at once, the dam burst. Every muscle in Peleus’s body clenched with an overpowering rage. It was all the control he had to stop himself from screaming at the man who had so insulted him, who did not understand the weight under which he had been by circumstance forced to operate.

  “And here we see the importance of that sacred, mysterious thing that is the dignity of the office of the Emperor. For lo and behold, that man over there in the set of pews to my left has just vioted it! Allow me, then, to give a demonstration as to the concept of authority. Guards, take that man away, that I may decide what to do with him when I am less concerned with other matters.”

  There was a long period of silence, the whole of the temple taking one great inhation while it sank in what had just been done. Then, all at once, movement. The man who had so insulted Peleus burst into movement, crying indistinct words in his defense as he leapt from the pew and made a dash for the exit. All around, the innocent masses let out a collective gasp as they unanimously leaned away from him, as though afraid that his sin might contaminate them in the same manner as lice.

  And Peleus’s honor guard, the pale-skinned Trabakondai with bdes at their sides, moved in for the kill. They were swift-footed men, the best warriors that their hard, cruel country had to offer, and they moved to carry out the Emperor’s order with more precise control than even his own limbs. From their stations in the shadowy corners of the room, they closed upon the man, seized him, and dragged him away.

  His screams, at turns demanding to be let go and begging for forgiveness, were the only sound in the temple until at st the doors closed behind him. Bit by bit, the people turned their eyes back to Peleus, still standing ready at the lectern, though now their gazes were ragged and fragile with terror.

  “Now then, where was I?” Peleus said. “Ah, yes. The dignity of the office of the Emperor.”

  SaffronDragon