There’s something horrifying about this whole thing, a feeling that Sophia couldn’t quite put her finger on as they’re marched through the courtyard and into the home proper by just this single guard with nothing but a small, almost pathetic revolver handgun on his waist.
Vast hallways of wood, smoothed in arches with walls covered in lacquered paneling and stretched silk paintings: from vast landscapes, caricatures of ancient gods, and strangers laughing in still water.
But there was something off, something… wrong.
As if a thin layer of plastic was draped over this home’s interior, some true form deep down was smothered away by fanciful fiction.
There was no dust here.
No warmth in these halls.
No soul.
The floors creak with each step taken in this terrible silence, with not even a distant clink of dishware or brush of a broom from working servants. Just the echo of their steps and the sharp clack of boots from the two guards behind them.
They were brought into this sitting room through a side corridor, a pathway much longer than it needed to be. A space for guests dressed in gaudy opulence: crimson cushions around a low, inlaid lacquer table. Gold leaf etched into the walls in swirls and sunbursts, all too much, alongside a series of trophies, art pieces, and decorative statues of precious metals.
We know art. Some antique part of Sophia adds its voice to this consciousness committee. You remember right?
Because of course she would know something as ridiculous as this.
And we’re gonna impress this boy with this.
Sophia nudges her politically married husband, pointing carefully at one of those small statuettes. “You see that statue, the headless bust with the six packed dude? That thing’s probably a thousand or more Denar, probably a Laurent Piece from the Imperium. And there’s art here probably worth more than that…”
“What else?” Zai whispers back, watching as that town guard bows quickly and leaves them alone in the room. “Recognize anything else?”
“Anything else?” The Fourth Princess of Ensolia blinks, a once hyper-fixation returning like a tidal wave of embarrassing memories. “I mean, I probably know a few…”
Welcome to Sophia’s Roadshow Antiques.
It’s obvious someone here had shouted their wealth into the universe, to scream out to an empty auditorium about their own wondrous, vain achievements. Expense for the sake of expense, money for the sake of money.
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And nobody sits.
The guards both take spaces on the far walls, covering each corner with fatal funnels of fire; while both Zai and Sophia standing together facing what they assumed was the entrance to this… chamber.
Deep in Sophia’s mangled mind the Consciousness Committee begins its deliberation within its sheltered bunker. Alright, survival time. First political meeting with someone who *might* want to kill us.
There’s a long consideration at that thought, the entire body tensing.
Exactly, there’s a Mayor out there who would be much better off without these two interlopers dealing in his town. I mean look at this place, it just screams ill gotten gains. One would think he would at least try to hide it better.
“Maybe it's just like this in the Dominion.” Sophia whispers aloud to herself, so quiet that only one amongst the four catches those words.
And Zai replies to her with an equal hushed silence. “It’s always like this.”
They wait.
And they wait in this purgatorial silence.
He makes us wait because it's an insult. Sophia notes to herself. It’s a universal evil to make your invited guest sit for your arrival. It means we’re beneath him… or at least he believes us to be beneath him.
One of her thought processes nods along, planning out this encounter before it begins. So what’s the play? Let the husband do all the talking?
Sophia is insulted at that concept, at her incompetence in this social matter. What?! I think I can handle a small social encounter such as this! She rolls her eyes. Of course I can do it! Just watch me.
There’s footsteps that shuffle across hardwood flooring beyond the doorway, just two pairs as trained ears discern through the ambient silence.
The Fourth Princess gulps, panic overwhelming her as she turns to Zai. “You’re handling this right?”
“As much as I can, yes.”
Guardsman Mori Fushimi grips something on her wrist, while the Silver Hand Agent carefully holds her right arm over her waist in a casual, yet close stance to her concealed firearm. Both guards stare at one another, nod, and remain as statues as those two doors finally pry open.
Unlike in the Imperium, these Mayors hold office forever. Blessed, at least here, to pass these long years in their positions of power like some ancient geological formation. Not a temporary burden like in the Ensolian belt, not some shouldered rock straddled upon the back of a leader.
But not here. Not in the Dominion.
Out here, power wasn’t a burden. It’s a prize.
And here lies its champion.
He’s old: thin, gaunt but still handsome in his middle age.
Those Tiancin robes cling tightly to his narrow frame, but cut with the precision of someone who actually cares about appearances to an almost offensive front. Each seam stitched to draw the eye away from the bones threatening to peek through his skin.
Dirty gray hair lacquered in place, not even a single strand out of order.
And the rings… There were rings on every finger, each one too large for his knuckles but worn anyway. Jewelry for the sake of proving that he could afford the weight of them.
The way he shuffles in is a man convinced that he owned the floor, that he owned the very earth this lifeless husk of a home was built upon.
And he stares at the two intruders into his world, and greets them in a level, husky voice.
What's Sophia's game plan?
