Chapter 16

To my dearest Rezion,

Has Catalos remained free of trouble? I can’t even remember the last time I set foot on your land. The thought of once again laying eyes upon the Imperial Palace fills me with excitement. Say what you will, but your ancestors had an exquisite eye for architecture. I do hope to have at least one church built in the Catalos style in the Arathos I shall one day rule.

And how fares my bride? Never in my life have I found myself pining so desperately for a woman who wants nothing to do with me. Staring at the same old portrait over and over again has grown unbearably pathetic. Please, do send a new one.

Though it hardly feels adequate as a gift, I’ve enclosed a newly painted portrait of myself in return. It won’t suit the taste of a princess raised on the sight of your face, I’m sure, but for the love of all that is sacred, try not to set it on fire. If not for the art itself, then at least for the hours I nearly passed out from sheer boredom while sitting for it.

I look forward, with great anticipation, to the day we become true brothers. If that day should come before the year is out, I could ask for nothing more.

P.S. Just when, pray tell, does this so-called “emperor” of yours intend to wed? Should you drop dead without an heir, my father would be thrilled to raise a war banner. Am I to sit back and watch that circus unfold? Do get a grip, would you?

– In loyalty,
Ravellan Arathos

“He curses me like he’s casting a spell. And his handwriting is as vile as ever.”

Still reclined on the long couch, Rezion tossed the letter aside without even sitting up.

His secretary, Neyron Verdian, swiftly caught the letter and cast it into the fire. It was poor treatment for a personal letter from the Crown Prince of Arathos, but necessary for the sake of confidentiality.

“Shall I prepare your reply?”

Rezion draped an arm across his aching eyes. Even the sunlight slipping through the window seemed to throb against his skull, worsening his headache.

He wanted to reply, but what was there to say? Even if he ignored the absurd nagging at the end, the truth remained. There had been no progress with Elphenlira.

“Just read the report.”

“Are you certain, Your Majesty? You don’t look well.”

Neyron looked genuinely worried, poised to summon the chief steward at the first sign of a sneeze.

Though it didn’t sit well with him to show weakness, there was little Rezion could do about it. With this particular secretary, he could hardly hide anything at all.

Neyron Verdian was the illegitimate son of a dissolute marquis. Born without a surname and raised in hardship with his mother, Rezion took him in and sent him to university. Not as an act of charity, but a calculated decision. Rezion made a habit of gathering those who owed him absolute loyalty and placed them in key positions. Neyron was one. The chief steward was another.

‘You gave me a life when I should have died rotting in the gutters like vermin. My life is yours, Your Majesty. Use it or discard it as you please.’

Neyron had sworn that oath, kissing the foot of the newly crowned emperor. For the past six years, he had repaid the favor with unwavering loyalty and ruthless efficiency.

The problem was that those sharp instincts and keen intelligence could be troublesome at times.

“It’s just a headache.”

“The chief steward’s been worried too. He claims you haven’t been sleeping well, either in quality or in hours.”

“So now the two of you have joined forces to torment me.”

“It is a servant’s privilege to worry over his master.”

Rezion waved a hand, as if swatting away a bothersome fly.

Neyron sighed deeply, but still unfolded the stack of documents tucked under his arm. It was a report submitted by an inspector who had been dispatched to the south the previous year.

Shoving the southern lords’ miserable tax records in his face did nothing for his headache.

The southern lords—led by Duke Vellua—had made staggering profits through trade, yet their tax records were a disaster. Falsified ledgers and widespread tax evasion were rampant.

Even though Rezion was fully aware of the corruption and disloyalty happening in plain sight, there was little he could do. If he arrested the entire southern aristocracy, Catalos’ economy would collapse—assuming a full-scale rebellion didn’t break out first.

The empire was vast. No matter how solid the imperial authority, not even an emperor could rule it alone. The more power was divided, the more parasitic factions emerged to feed off it.

‘What would Ravellan have done?’

He tried to imagine it, but no answer came. Just as Rezion had inherited a beautiful palace, Ravellan had merely inherited a precise and efficient government.

‘Still, if I could choose only one, I’d take administrative power.’

During the reign of Rezion’s father, the previous Emperor of Catalos, the empire had enjoyed what one might generously call peace, or, less kindly, stagnation.

As a son, Rezion loved and mourned his father. But as a ruler, he did not consider him a good sovereign. By doing nothing, his father had allowed men like Duke Vellua to amass unchecked power.

What was broken had to be fixed. What had rotted had to be cut away. To hold the hammer and blade yet do nothing, that was the true sin.

Which was why Rezion had to make this plan succeed. While the hammer and the blade still remained in his and Ravellan’s hands. By any means necessary.