SN Chapter 25

The chamberlain standing outside the Emperor's study stepped inside. Word of Rikardis's visit was relayed, and the doors opened shortly after. At the center of the ornate interior, the Emperor sat with bright golden hair and an expression gone stiff with displeasure.

"The blessing of Illavénia, which calls the White Night. I present myself before His Imperial Majesty, the Glacial Laurus, in all glory."

"The blessing of the White Night. Come in, Rikardis."

Rikardis settled into a seat and turned his eye over the papers spread across the table. Assembling the visible words and phrases, he recognized them as assorted reports from territories bordering the Kingdom of Balta. Proof that Dark Moon's activity had been intensifying of late. The reason for the Emperor's stiffened expression became readily apparent.

"I hear the witch has spoken."

"Yes. This is the poison first deployed at the hunting competition. Recently, an attempt was also made to use it inside Moonstone Castle. May I examine these documents, Your Majesty?"

"Go ahead."

Rikardis picked up the topmost sheet from the stack of dozens. Impressed at the very head of the pile was the seal of the Count of Iron-Bramble—lord governing Vista, the vast territory where the hunting competition had been held. The Count of Iron-Bramble held the rank of Margrave. Unlike other nobles whose obligations extended only to defending territories granted by the Emperor, this title carried the additional right to invade foreign nations first. Its holder possessed autonomous military authority, and was considerably more powerful than ordinary counts. The title had always passed to those of sharp mind and aggressive temperament.

Even so, the woman who had succeeded the title two years prior was a warmonger without comparison to her predecessors. Those who had dismissed her had their words swallowed in an instant, confronted with the blood-soaked trail she left behind. Even accounting for the size of the forces stationed to defend Iron-Bramble's territory, her tactical instinct was something altogether uncommon. The way she fractured her armies into pieces, reassembled them, moved them with fluid responsiveness—many tacticians had described it as possessing a vividness, as if the strategy itself were a living thing. They had given her names.

Slaughterer of the Borderlands. Mad Dog.

She was the kind of officer who extracted the best outcome from the worst situation—and yet what Rikardis was reading now described something at appreciable remove from that reputation.

The worst, if pressed.

Forty personnel had crossed the mountains under cover of darkness and inflicted casualties exceeding four hundred. Neither the strength of men nor the power of gods had helped. Dark Moon was wielding a threat unlike anything before it, and the report entreated the Emperor to look with mercy upon the people of the borderlands, so that Illavénia's glory might endure through the ages. Four hundred casualties was not, in truth, a grievous blow for Iron-Bramble territory. But she had observed similar incidents erupting simultaneously across adjacent territories, one after another, and concluded the current was running in an ominous direction. The Emperor dragged a weary-looking hand repeatedly across his face.

"This has become a headache. How long can we keep it buried..."

Rikardis laughed inwardly. As though this were the kind of thing that could stay buried. The new poison Dark Moon had developed resisted any physician's intervention, any priest's power. Their activity, which had quieted since the hunting competition, was growing more aggressive again—and the poison's use was gradually expanding alongside it. The border territories that fought Dark Moon regularly would begin questioning the unusual lethality rate soon enough.

"I had considered that one solution was simply to erase Balta from the map before the poison's use and influence could expand further—but..."

"......"

Stupid. He'd always known it. But this—this had transcended stupidity into something approaching art.

Rikardis looked at the Emperor.

He was Elpydion's father. Unmistakably.

Balta's official position had always been the same: Dark Moon was certainly based within their borders and had extended its reach as far as the royal house, but the royal house bore no connection whatsoever to the organization and was in fact working with great effort to expel it. There was not a nation on the continent that believed this fiction. But the position existed in name, and that was what mattered.

Illavénia and Balta had never fought a full-scale war. Unlike two individuals coming to blows, nations in collision left devastation in their wake—which was why justification in war was everything. By publicly separating the royal house from Dark Moon, Balta had erased any such justification entirely. And yet here was the Emperor, proposing they discard justification altogether and simply open hostilities. The sheer thoughtlessness of it induced something close to a physical ache. This was not some foreign empire. This was a Holy Empire in the service of the God of Light, speaking of invading a foreign country without provocation. Illavénia's own citizens would be appalled.

Rikardis raised his gaze to the Emperor. The look carried its own meaning: You're not genuinely planning to start a war.

The Emperor appeared to read it.

"But Elpydion has said we should observe how the situation develops a little longer."

So Elpydion's head did turn a few degrees further than his father's. Rikardis breathed out quietly.

"A wise choice."

"And."

The Emperor brought his fingers slowly down against the armrest.

Tck...... Tck......

His finger broke the silence between them at a steady, measured pace. An inexplicable unease rolled over Rikardis like a tide.

"There is a proposal to send a delegation, and I have agreed."

Elpydion, you piece of shit.

Rikardis's face went rigid. Like everyone who dwelt in the imperial palace, he was highly skilled at concealing his emotions and expressions. Had he not played the devoted younger brother for that same Elpydion? He recovered quickly—but a fragment of his composure had shown itself to the Emperor before he could stop it. Fortunately, the Emperor was too occupied with extending his own words to notice.

"It has been two years since the last delegation visited Balta, hasn't it. Quite some time. It's about time we began pressing those mongrels..." The Emperor's lip curled. "Filthy dogs."

"I would venture that dispatching a delegation at this juncture—with large and small battles already breaking out in territories bordering Balta—carries considerable risk. Furthermore, in a situation where neither research nor a viable antidote exists for the new poison, the current state of affairs runs decidedly in their favor. Even if a delegation is sent, the probability is high that the gain would not justify the risk and effort involved."

So that was why Elpydion had sought out the Emperor that morning. Whatever else one said about the man, that conniving little brain of his never stops working. He was maneuvering to have Rikardis dispatched as the delegation head. The name was peaceful. The reality was not. Akin to walking one's own neck to the guillotine, given the current state of affairs. Rikardis had stood at the forefront of every confrontation with Dark Moon and had emerged victorious from every one. Furthermore, the opponent who had earnestly wished for his death, sending three or four assassins a day—that person would be walking into their territory... Balta's prince, Haqaev, would never let such a good opportunity slip.

His name carried glory; the guillotine's blade shone with equal brilliance. He had barely survived the hunting competition, and the Emperor was already driving him toward another death. If Second Prince Rikardis died in Balta, it would provide the finest justification for war imaginable. If the delegation returned with something—good. If Rikardis's death provided cause for war—also good. Either outcome served. Elpydion had worked that calculation into the Emperor's thinking with some skill.

The suggestion that the situation currently favored Balta evidently grated. The Emperor wore the expression of a man whose authority had been scratched. His manner and voice sharpened.

"Your worry is excessive, Rikardis. Who am I? What is the name of this nation? The glorious light that blesses this continent is felt by those who are blind and deaf alike. This radiance does not bow before a single poison."

Rikardis inclined his head. The Emperor's tone softened.

Not a child of three years. And yet here he was, coaxing and placating with painstaking, almost reverent effort. Fatigue rolled over him.

"You are entirely right. Those Baltan mongrels have never known their place, and their audacity has only worsened of late... I see now that I was worrying needlessly."

"Indeed, indeed. Their audacity has grown. Which is precisely why we are sending this delegation. Have you not earned distinguished merit in suppressing Dark Moon? The name of Rikardis will prove most effective in pressuring Balta. The noble station of the Empire's Second Prince, and Idelabheim's glory within your name—there is nothing to fear."

His first attempt at dissuasion had already failed. Rikardis had never made a second attempt to oppose the Emperor's will. The Emperor's manner—settled, as though the matter were already resolved—afforded him few options. Elpydion had worked on his father with considerable skill. Rikardis closed his eyes once—slowly—and opened them. Many deaths moved through his mind.

He descended from the sofa and knelt, bowing his head.

"I will follow Your Imperial Majesty's will."

The Emperor laughed softly and gave Rikardis's shoulder a gentle tap-tap. The formal announcement, he said, would come in a few days' time. Rikardis acknowledged this and left the Emperor's chambers.

Behind him came the sound of Itserion's indignation. He said nothing—nothing beyond the ordinary, nothing improper—but the rough, hard-edged rhythm of his breathing was speaking for him.

Rikardis clenched his jaw until it ached. His lip had torn slightly. Blood, faint and metallic.

"We return to Moonstone Castle."

His escort knights, white-uniformed, followed behind him.