Lysandra's Point of View

She blamed it on Hanson.

He was, of course, the reason she'd lost her temper. His miserable failed search had been what set her on edge; then the Duke of Cobalt's ridiculous demands had been all it took to send her off the cliff.

"Do you mean to tell me," she said furiously. "That six months and extensive funding have led to absolutely nothing?" Hanson shuddered slightly at her tone: as her court had now learned, that tone meant someone was about to lose their head. Maia, who was seated next to her, shuddered a little as well.

"There have been some benefits," he said nervously. "We have confirmed that His Highness, Prince Aaron Crimson, is not hiding in Calore or the

Isthmus cities, or indeed Miras or any of the city-states of Asriel—"

"The only thing we have confirmed," Lysandra thundered. "Is your utter incompetence. Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull and how many promises I had to make for you to get searching rights in Calore? And Triad and its sister cities? Not to mention how much convincing it took to get Kestra and Layla to agree to let my soldiers into their countries. The High Council wouldn't agree about it for weeks! Weeks, Hanson, of careful negotiation and you completely bungled it! Your incompetence astounds me. You have had six months and unlimited access to this entire continent. And yet my brother is not in this room." Maia gave her a look which Lysandra pointedly ignored.

"Your Holiness, Your Imperial Majesty," he said, using the titles she'd installed a day after her ascension. Punishment for not using them was exile or execution, depending on her mood. "Great Saviour, please. I just need more time—"

"Time? Time?" Lysandra demanded. "You had six. Whole. Months. And I have good witnesses that have told me some very interesting things. That you spent most of this time in various shady bars, spending the treasury funds allocated for search expenses on alcohol."

"Your Holiness—"

"Enough," Lysandra snapped. "You are deprived of your position. Your fee must be repaid to me immediately, as you have proved yourself a waste of my money and time. If you don't pay it back this instant, it will be your head that you lose."

"My apologies, Your Holiness." Hanson was near weeping. "My deepest, most sorrowful, most solemn apologies. Please, I do not deserve my position, or my salary. But let me make it up to you—free, free of charge of course—I'll have your renegade brother in the dungeons by the end of the week like the scum he is—"

"What did you say?" Lysandra demanded. Hanson slinked back into the corner, realising his mistake. He shook from head to toe, his hands clasped in front of him, praying to whatever god he thought might save him. Lysandra slapped his hands away.

"Your only god," she hissed. "Is me. What am I, Hanson?"

"Our Saviour. Our High Empress. Our Goddess Upon the Earth."

"Yes. And what is my brother, Hanson? A 'renegade'?"

"No, no, Your Holiness."

"Is he scum, then?" She asked, as though genuinely curious.

"No, no of course not Your Holiness. Please, I beg of you, I misspoke—"

"Do you know the price for speaking against a member of the Imperial Family, Hanson?" Her voice dropped to a deadly, silky calm. At her words, the snivelling man burst into desperate sobs.

"Oh, Great One, oh Saviour, oh Empress, please, please spare me—"

"Lysandra!" Maia snapped, leaping out of her chair and reaching for her hand. "I want Aaron back as much as you do. But you can't take it out on him." Lysandra ignored her.

"Get up." She snapped at Hanson. "You disgust me. Leave this instant, give me back my wasted money and never set foot in this throne room again. I sentence you to exile from the great and imperial nation of Lysandria. If you step foot in my country after ten days have passed, I will rethink my kindness."

"Thank you, Your Holiness, thank you. You are most merciful, most merciful..."

"Out." Lysandra spat, disgusted. "If I ever see your face again..." The man fled the room.

Lysandra leaned back in her throne, relishing in the wonderful fabric. So much better than darling Mother's slab of metal.

"What?" She said, noticing the various nobles staring at her, mouths hanging open. They hurriedly found somewhere else to look. Except for Maia, who continued to glare at her.

"Unless there are any other matters, I believe this meeting may be adjourned—" The Duke of Crimsith coughed pointedly. She turned her razor sharp glare to him. To his credit, he didn't flinch.

"The Duke of Cobalt and I have a petition to present to the court, Your Imperial Majesty."

"Do you?" Lysandra smiled. It was more of an exhibition of fangs than a grin. Shadows swirled around her hand. The dukes paled. She hadn't told anyone why no one had known about her magic up until the moment she took power. The rumours that had sprung up were almost as terrifying as the truth: that Lysandra had bargained with a witch to keep it concealed.

"Yes, Your Holiness." The Duke of Cobalt confirmed. He was one of her older dukes; one of the few smart enough to escape her displeasure. His partner, though, Crimsith...a foolish man who'd only come in to his title only two weeks ago. She still hadn't bothered to learn his name; he'd probably soon go the way of his predecessor.

The previous duke's head was still spiked to the gate.

"Well then, present it to me," She smiled. He handed a sheet of parchment, the bottom carrying the signatures of most her court: dukes, barons, lords, generals and knights alike had signed, along with several prosperous and influential businessmen and merchants. If she thought that would impress her, they were much mistaken. A few no-name nobles had little impact on her.

Her eyes flicked up to their 'requests'. Titled Preservation of Culture, it was filled with sly ways to return Lysandria to the infinitely boorish Kallian ways. Well then. Someone's head was going to roll.
"We ask that the law allowing poisons and other foul play in Army Challenges be repealed—" Crimson began.

"You want me to return Challenging to its archaic state of buffoons waving swords at each other." Lysandra replied flatly.

"It's only a suggestion, my lady—" The Crimsith Duke soothed.

"Your Imperial Majesty. You will address me as 'Your Imperial Majesty'. Or Your Holiness. Even 'Great Saviour' or 'Great One'. Your choice."

"My apologies, Your Holiness—"

"We also propose, Your Imperial Majesty, that some of the old privileges of nobles be reinstated." Cobalt added. Ah, so this was why the petition had gotten so many signatures. "Giving all with noble blood the rank of captain the moment they enter the army—"

"You want me to install your apes of second sons into high positions over soldiers with actual talent and two intelligent thoughts to rub together?"

"We also propose that the legislation placing noble-born above all crimes other than treason be reinstated." Cobalt added.

"Are you above the law, duke?"

"All law but your own judgement, Your Holiness." He replied promptly.

"You are not above the dirt on your shoes, let alone the law." She snapped back. "What else?"

"Reinstating conscription except in cases of valuable workers," the Crimsith Duke continued hurriedly. Cobalt gave him a warning look, but he ignored it. "Repealing the law making Lysandrism a required religion, and allowing the old anthem to be given equal status with 'Lysandra, our Great Saviour'. In the interests of preserving our culture and heritage."

"Ah," she said softly. "I'm afraid as compelling as your argument is, I'm going to have to decline all proposals."

"All proposals?" The Crimsith Duke asked. "It took Cobalt and I months to prepare the petition—surely, you could just take some time to consider, Your Holiness." Silence fell upon the room. The duke finally shut up, realising his mistake. The nobles glanced at one each worriedly, silently considering what punishment the Empress Lysandra would exact on Crimsith. Cobalt winced. There was nothing he could do to save his partner now.

"Who are you to tell me what to do?" Lysandra hissed, her voice falling into a cold, silky calm that meant death and pain. "Do you presume to decide for me what I should and should not agree to? Even this miserable proposal—" she gestured to the piece of parchment "—is nothing short of demanding. You seek to undermine my rule with your foolishness."

"No, my lady, never, my lady..."

"There it is again." She snapped. "Your disrespect. I am your High Empress. I am your goddess upon earth. Your saviour, your chosen ruler. I am not 'your lady'. You do not presume to tell me what to do. Though, I suppose it runs in the blood, doesn't it? Your fool of a brother was disrespectful, too...and look where it got him."

"Please, Your Majesty, in the name of your mother show mercy..." A cold roaring filled her head. She'd only intended to strip him of his position, but the moment he brought up her mother...

"Off with his head!" She shrieked. "Up on a pike with his brother! Treason! Disrespect! Off with his head!"

"Please, Your Majesty, he is only a foolish boy—" Cobalt begged.

"And might his friend like to join him?" She asked, her voice returning to its calm, cold silkiness.

"My apologies, Your Holiness, oh Great One...forgive me. He deserves to die indeed, for such disrespect..." Crimsith gave one last pleading look at his partner, betrayal flashing through his face.

"Off with his head!" Lysandra commanded. "Guards!" She stalked out of the council room, pausing only to send shadows tingling down Cobalt's spine.

She could have sworn Maia's disapproving look followed her as she stalked off.

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In the four years since her reign had begun, Lysandra had gone through seventeen dukes, five barons, three lords and countless knights. And that wasn't even counting the ones who turned out to be actually plotting her downfall. The lucky ones had been stripped of their titles and wealth, if she were in a bad mood they were exiled and if they really managed to upset her, then they were beheaded, such as the latest two dukes of Crimsith.

They were all hangovers of her mother's court, wretched human beings one and all. Medea had been far too merciful with them; she'd only executed the ones who actually plotted against her, rather than those who were simply disrespectful or presented particularly stupid petitions. There had only been two nobles Lysandra was satisfied with: her dear friend, the Duchess of Kazimiar and her reliable ally, the Duke of Karone. And she'd had to go through a lot of dukes to finally find those two amongst the noble bloodlines. Darling Cobalt was alright, she supposed; but he was getting more bold and foolish with every execution. His head would be on the line next.

But she hadn't seen the last four years of her reign killing off nobles, of course. Apart from giving Mother's uncomfortable thrones and crowns a do-over, she'd repealed conscription, make much-needed modifications to the rest of the army, built roads, boosted the economy, opened mines, written new laws, formed treaties and trade deals with her neighbouring nations, helped create the Isthmus cities, founded several cults all following Lysandrism, installed her new titles, amended the national anthem, renamed not only her country but also dozens of streets, art galleries, museums and ships in her honour, placed banners all over the empire of herself, built seven new statues bearing her likeness, commissioned half a dozen new royal portraits, written countless autobiographies, created a paid position of Royal Dog, turned down countless proposals from power-hungry nobles, ignored dozens of viziers' suggestions of finding a husband and heir and searched endlessly for her brother.

She'd had success with all of the above, except for the last and most important: locating Aaron. Dozens of search crews—elves and valkyries as well as the best experts from her own country and from Calore—had covered every strip of land from the bottom of the former Southern State to the very tips of Miras. Every stone had been turned, every hiding place had been searched, everyone had been hunting for Aaron Crimsith.

And yet the only information they had gotten was that he had run into the Midlands within days of their mother's death and simply disappeared. Not believing all of these reports, she'd combed across Lysandria and the Midlands herself, using her shadow magic in an attempt to pick up any trace of her brother. But she'd found nothing. It was as though her brother had disappeared. If she had still had his Name she might have been able to use that to track him down, but he had taken that from her the moment their mother died and the long hours she spent straining her memory for it had let to only the barest fragments, like a dream just out of reach. Aaron was gone completely, as though he'd been wiped off the planet.

And she missed him. Missed his laugh, missing playing cards and getting

drunk with him, missed reminiscing over childhood memories with him, missed just having him nearby and knowing that he would always be there. She had Nala of course, but it wasn't the same as her brother. Especially since she was holed up

in Crimsith most of the time, rather than Triad where all the High Council lived in their shared palace together.

Burn it, she really hated Crimsith on days like this. It might be a coastal, but the heat was still suffocating—and worst of all, it was still winter. When summer came...

Triad, the Isthmus city that was home to all three races, human, elf and valkyrie, was magically adjusted to perfect temperature by the elfin inhabitants. Her palace suite was larger. She had a better view. Nala was there...

Nala, she remembered suddenly. Oh, Nala was going to give her summer for this. Why couldn't she have held in her temper? She could almost hear her friend shouting already: that's the second duke in a month, Lysandra!

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"That's the second duke in a month, Lysandra! Just when we're finally getting some good publicity, as opposed to the usual screeching about the foolishness of letting the Empress' child live and keep her throne to boot, and how the elves and valkyries are about to go for each other's throats, just when we're finally showing the world that this alliance is a good idea and that the three races can work and live together, you have to come out with the second duke in a month! Poor Myra and Jasper were looking forward to a lovely honeymoon two years after their wedding—because that's how much work they've had—and now they're dragged right back into it, trying to justify to their people that working with a madwoman who kills members of her inner circle for not addressing as 'Your Majesty' or 'Your Holiness' or whatever you're up to now, is a good idea. And it's not easy for me, either. Calore is in outright rebellion. After everything my people experienced at your mother's hands, for you now to be showing signs of becoming just as much of tyrant as she was wrecks everything we've worked for. How could you be so completely stupid and hotheaded? Do you have any idea what damage you've done?"

"Okay, slow down." Lysandra interrupted. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep control of this court? They're all going for my throat like they were with my mother, constantly plotting against me, looking for any signs of weakness. I'm their second female ruler in a row and none of them are happy about it. If I just let them disrespect me, then they'll smell weakness. And if they smell weakness you'll end up with some moron on the throne, declaring war and putting as right back to square one."

"Oh no, don't you use the 'stabilising the country' excuse on me, Lysandra. You cut the poor duke's head off because the search for Aaron come up with nothing and you needed something to throw your anger at and had a little tantrum." Lysandra opened her mouth to disagree, but she silenced her with a look.

"I know you're not your mother. I know you've stopped conscription, and been a fair ruler, but people forget that pretty burning quickly when you start killing off anyone who gets in your way."

"Ruling isn't a popularity contest." Lysandra snapped.

"Oh no, not for you it isn't." Nala said, crossing her arms. "But I am running a democracy and have been for three long, long years, and let me tell you that it often is. I have half a mind to declare myself monarch instead, but do I? No. Because it's better than having some crackpot tyrant a few generations down who assembles a court of entitled, spoiled brats. But for me to keep my position, Lysandra, I can't be associated with a person who kills off her dukes every second week. Especially when I'm thinking about making the terms shorter."

"Six years is a bit long," Lysandra said thoughtfully. "All of this would be quite unnecessary if you just let me rig—"

"No." Nala said firmly. "No rigging the election. I didn't need to rig the first one—"

"That was only a year after you killed Medea, and people liked you then."

"Lysandra, for the last time—"

"We're still a few years out," Lysandra shrugged, cutting across her. "Give me a shout if you change your mind."

"No. Rigging."

"Suit yourself," Lysandra shrugged. "The door's always open."

Nala gave her a stern glare. Lysandra looked away guiltily.