A Marriage of Daggers

1. ONE

ONE

Darius

Apublic execution would’ve been far less messy.

I wipe the slick crimson from my sword on the jacket of the man closest to me and survey the carnage.

Expecting traitors to take their charges with grace was foolish.

Instead of a quick stop at the end of a rope—an effective warning to all—they went on the defensive and called in their personal guards.

It’s laughable, really. The whole room dead in under two minutes. Eight on one is hardly a fair fight—for them.

Even in their final moments, they couldn’t fathom how I figured out their plan. They were so confident in their own power and influence, when, in reality, they weren’t even players on my board. Just flies trying to land on a piece.

“Monster—” my former councilor gurgles through the blood seeping from the gash in his throat. His fingers dig at the wound, desperate to save himself.

He deserves to suffer more, but I have a schedule to keep.

I take one of the fallen guard’s swords and cleave the rest of Lord Ultimb’s head off. I glance around the room, settling on the flower vase on the mantel. Steam hisses at me as I dump the bouquet in the fire. It’s as close to a funeral as these bastards will ever get.

I walk back over to the table and place his bloodied face on top of the vase, sliding it to the center as a token of warning for the rest of my council.

I call for a few soldiers and maids to dispose of the bodies and ready the room for the next meeting.

They wipe up any blood before it can stain the stone floors.

At least most men died on the rug. The soldiers roll several limbs onto the soaked fabric before hoisting it over their shoulders with a grunt.

“Make sure the other heads are displayed at the edge of the city with a posting of their crimes,” I command.

They wordlessly salute a fist to their chests and set off. The maids finish scrubbing on shaky limbs, eyes glued to their task, until all that remains is a slight discoloration.

One of the maids stands, red water sloshing in her bucket. Another dry heaves at the sight. The moment the sound leaves her mouth all eyes turn to me. The scent of fear is so heavy I can practically taste it.

“You’re all dismissed. Take the rest of the day off.” They bow and disappear into the hallway, somehow managing not to spill in their haste.

I’m not nearly as bloodthirsty as people believe, but the rumors serve a purpose, so I don’t bother correcting them. Despite the unfortunate outcome of the meeting, I’m only violent when necessary, and I’ve seen enough unnecessary bloodshed to last a lifetime.

Staefan grazes into the room, takes one look at my centerpiece, and huffs. “So much for the plan.” He walks over to the large glass window and throws it open. Crisp mountain air replaces the coppery tang of battle.

“The results haven’t changed. Anyone who tries to take what we’ve built will end up the same way.”

The blood on my hands is bright against my paling white skin. Any tan lines from training outside have started to fade, which means I’ve spent far too much time in meetings this month. I wipe the blood off on my pants and relax against the table.

“Are you joining me for the next meeting?”

He holds out a thin stack of papers. I skim them as he responds, “As entertaining as their reactions will be, I still have a small mountain of paperwork to organize for you.”

The fools I left in charge of the palace for the past three years were kind enough to provide every ledger, post, and document for review.

War didn’t kill me, but the monotony of finances might have if not for Staefan’s sharp eye for detail.

Not only did two of my councilors skim from the treasury, but they used those funds for a poorly planned coup.

Now that they’re dead, we need to reallocate their finances and estates to recover the losses.

I sign the papers and hand them back to Staefan. “Try to keep this meeting less exciting,” he says, heading for the door. The jagged scar on his umber forehead crinkles as he fixes me with a chiding look over his shoulder.

“That depends entirely on them.”

Heavy footsteps echo down the hall. I breathe deep, letting the crisp breeze center me.

I take my place behind my chair, straighten my jacket, and greet what remains of my council as they trickle in.

Their conversations die out when they notice the centerpiece.

A few blanch, hands flying to their mouths, while the more seasoned councilors barely bat an eye.

I file their responses away and move a pawn forward on the board in my head.

“Your Majesty,” they greet in unison.

I nod for them to sit. Everyone glances around the table, counting empty chairs to see who’s dead and if any of them are next.

I lift my sword from where it leans against the table and hold it in the air for a moment, halfway to being sheathed, noting each man’s reaction again.

Once the metal slides home, they all relax a fraction.

“Welcome, gentlemen. Would anyone else like to steal from the empire and try to claim the throne?”

My entire council stills, eyes wide as they assess each other. They weren’t involved in the coup, but I can’t exactly take my remaining irritation out on the dead.

“No one? Excellent. We can move on to why you all requested this meeting.”

Lord Barista clears his throat. “I offer our deepest apologies. We should’ve noticed one of our own moving against you. Our failure put the empire in danger.”

My newest councilor, Lord Pascal, stares at him with a mixture of awe and fear. Lord Barista has held his position the longest and seen far worse from my sword. He’s the least fazed by his former co-councilor's head on display, eager to get down to business as always.

“Fortunately, I’m not so easily killed.” I wave for him to continue.

“We have a solution that will hopefully discourage all future attempts on your life.” Lord Weisman gives a nod of encouragement, and Barista continues, “The people of Veloria need something to bring them together. Something to celebrate now that the war is over.

“We believe selecting your queens will be the perfect event. A royal wedding will showcase the empire’s wealth and give hope for the future with your heir secured soon after.”

After four years of endless campaigns to unite every kingdom from the Petrovos Mountains to the Draconos Pass under one banner, one empire, I can say with confidence that finding a wife sits firmly at the bottom of my task list.

I still have to redraw territories, give out fiefs to the soldiers who earned them, and negotiate the distribution of the war treasury.

Roaming thieves are trying their luck in the farmlands to the east. A strange illness is working its way through the western coast. I’ve mobilized special units to investigate both issues, but their previous posts have to be covered around the city now.

“Surely the people will benefit more from our economic stability initiatives. I’m in no rush to secure an heir.” Or at all.

The concept of blood succession is what led to my hand around their throats in the first place. I haven’t decided how it’ll work in the new world I’m building, but I know family won’t guarantee anything. No more sibling squabbles over power and entitlement. No more bloodshed.

A competent leader is worth far more than lineage.

Lord Barista’s smile twitches. “Of course, Your Majesty, but marriage to noteworthy candidates will solidify your position as Emperor of Veloria and quell any unrest left by bitter rivals. You’ve done the hard work to unite the continent.

Why not show the people what peace and unity truly mean with a celebration? ”

The others find the courage to voice their enthusiasm.

As much as I want to refuse, the whole point of a council is to help me consider my rule from multiple perspectives.

I have zero care for the perception of my romantic life, or lack thereof, but if it helps ease the peace along, I’ll pick a queen for the sake of my people.

“Fine. How do you propose we select the candidates?”

Lord Duponte raises a meaty hand. “Why not choose them personally at the ball next week? Plenty of eligible women will be in attendance, eager to celebrate your victory. We can announce the engagements within the month and plan the first wedding after your twenty-fifth birthday this fall.”

If I’m going to be forced to pick a queen, I need a pawn, not a romantic partner, and certainly not a spy for my councilors. They’re probably planning to stack the ball with the daughters of men in their pockets, but I won’t fall prey so easily.

I need to find a woman who will happily exchange her obedience and silence for the wealth and comfort of the palace. Someone content with a loveless marriage.

“An excellent plan.” The atmosphere in the room brightens considerably until I add, “Open the ball up to any eligible women from age eighteen to thirty, from any territory of Veloria.”

The main goal of my empire is to encourage more equality and equity, diminishing the haughty egos of the wealthy.

I demolished most classes, save for fiefdoms and political positions.

The title of lord and lady now extends to any who own land, no matter how small.

Opening up the invitations to former commoners is another way to showcase that my promises are far more than pretty words.

“A generous notion indeed, but I’m not sure we have the time to make such an adjustment so close to the day. The palace is large, but not large enough to host all of Veloria,” Lord Duponte says.