First session(1)

For a century and a half, the abandoned building lay dormant, shrouded in dust, cobwebs, and the occasional scurry of insects. When its doors were finally pried open, a thick cloud of dust billowed out, choking those tasked with cleaning its neglected chambers.

"It felt like we were breathing dust and insects," one of the maids had remarked, when asked about the experience.

Despite the fact that it had remained untouched for generations,luckily the blood had been cleaned alread , as the day Vrivius the Red had made a slaughterhouse of it he deemed it necessary to cleanse the walls and floors of bones and dried blood.

Some believed disturbing the remains of the past would bring grave consequences—but in reality, there were none.

Vrivius was adored by his people, hailed as a hero for his victories in the wars against the Latvians and for the many public works that flourished under his reign, funded generously by the wealth of his defeated foes. He was a rarity among emperors, leading from the frontlines and earning the unwavering loyalty of his soldiers.

Only the nobles resented him—but a brief civil war swiftly crushed any notions of opposition. The most powerful warlords had fought alongside him for decades, leaving the imperial army to be made of lions, led by a lion. Meanwhile, the nobles that rebelled could scarcely agree on whom to give command, so of course victory was already decided before battle.

After the civil war, Vrivius reigned for another decade, his rule marked by prosperity and relative peace. However, his mysterious demise—occurring the day after a grand banquet—cast a shadow over the end of his reign. Some whispered of illness, others of poison. The rumors spoke of a maid's hand in his death, though no culprit, if one even existed, was ever found.

Now, the long-abandoned building had been meticulously cleaned, from its grand marble floors to its towering vaulted ceiling, in preparation for the gathering of 200 nobles. They had been summoned to reinstate the long-defunct political body. The hall's semi-circular design, once meant to amplify the voices of statesmen, would now ensure that every word of political debate rang through its chambers.

Rows of marble seats stretched from the back of the hall to the dais, where a throne—unoccupied for a century and a half—finally found a new claimant. Emperor Mesha Kantazoukenes, first of his name, sat upon it. Though the throne dwarfed his stature, its minimalist design—white marble, with only a red cushion for comfort—stood in stark contrast to the opulent seats of other royal courts. The preparations for this first meeting had been made in haste.

Seated in the royal box above, Empress Valeria observed the nobles below with a detached amusement. She preferred to let them squabble over their seats a while longer before descending to join her son on the main floor. Watching them jostle and maneuver, she felt a certain satisfaction—like a cat toying with a mouse.

A presence at her side drew her attention. Lord Marcellus, his black hair neatly combed, had appeared from behind. He bowed slightly before speaking. "May I stand beside you, Your Grace?"

She gave him a small nod, her gaze never leaving the scene below.

"The emperor looks quite regal," Marcellus commented, his tone respectful. "Though he appears… distressed."

Valeria's eyes narrowed slightly as she studied her son. "It's his first time," she replied coolly. "He's young. Likely overwhelmed."

"That is true, Your Grace. He is young. But don't you think a familiar face beside him might ease his nerves? Perhaps it is time for the Empress to join her son?"

He was right.

Valeria's gaze lingered on Mesha. He was an amiable child, and she could already sense the beginnings of authority in him. Yet, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was struggling to mask his unease. He was failing—but at least he was trying.

That had to be worth something. Right?

She had done everything in her power to ensure he did not grow up soft. The boy loved animals—especially cats. Three years ago, he had a small black one, a pathetic thing that clung to him like a shadow. He carried it everywhere, even insisting it sit beside him at supper.

Valeria had found it revolting. Cats were for old men and lonely women, not for emperors. So, she had the creature taken away, its fragile body mauled and dumped in the garden for him to find during one of their daily walks. A lesson. A necessity.

She had feigned sorrow when his small, trembling hands lifted the lifeless thing from the dirt, his wide eyes swimming with grief. "Foxes," she had whispered, voice thick with motherly concern. "The forest is full of them, my love."

Foxes, of course, would not have left the corpse so conspicuously whole. But he had been young enough to believe her.

The tears had been troublesome, but necessary.

Not long after, she had presented him with a dog—a strong, sharp-eyed beast with powerful jaws. "This one will defend itself," she had told him. "Cats are weak and disloyal. A dog is a warrior, loyal to the bone."

And so Mesha, too young to resist the shaping hands of his mother, had grown to love the dog just as fiercely as he had the cat.

Now, as she prepared to descend the marble staircase, her arm looped gracefully through Lord Marcellus's, Valeria noticed his lingering gaze, the barely concealed hunger in his eyes.

She did not mind.

Marcellus was a striking man—his presence as commanding as his well-tailored attire, his sharp features betraying both intelligence and ambition. She knew how to wield such desires to her advantage. Men, no matter their station, no matter their titles, thought with their cocks. And she, like any woman who understood the game, knew the power of a lingering glance, a well-placed touch, a perfectly timed smile.

With each step, the crimson soles of her shoes clicked against the polished stone, her long legs cutting through the air with effortless grace. As they reached the floor, she released Marcellus's arm and approached her son.

The council fell silent at her presence.

She savored it.

How they loathed her, these men who expected women to sit silently in the background. How they feared her. Valeria was no mere consort, no passive regent waiting for her son to grow into his crown. She was Vrivius reborn, the emperor without cock and balls.

She would mold the empire with her own hands, steer it through the storms of politics and treachery. She would be what her husband had been—a warrior in a world of vultures.

Had she been born with a sword in her hand instead of a womb in her belly, perhaps her father would have loved her as he did his sons. Perhaps she would have led men into battle instead of enduring the dull ache of childbirth.

No matter.

They would kneel before Mesha, yes—but they would kneel before her, too. 

Let them watch. Let them whisper.

She had already won.