Chapter 4
CHAPTER
Azrian
His imperial majesty Tharion Ashvarin, Supreme Ruler of the Velyarian Empire, sat waiting on his throne. Not gilded. Not jeweled. Simply carved from a single piece of obsidian, firm and immovable, just like the man himself.
Many were at first surprised upon discovering this. Those people clearly did not know the Emperor like Azrian did.
He’d spent the last fifteen cycles by the ruler’s side, ever since he’d been plucked from his home in Corven after his Weighing. In that time, he’d learned Tharion was as obdurate as the Stone affinity he wielded.
Your Emperors have built their throne on sand.
Azrian fought with the memory to keep his features neutral. “Your arrival is much delayed, son.”
Son .
Azrian was, indeed, very much not the Emperor’s son.
And yet, that one word told him more than any grandiose speech ever could: Tharion wanted something from him.
Something outside of his role as the Hand.
Though in fairness, that role was to do the Empire’s bidding, even when the cost seemed too high to bear.
Azrian bowed. “My apologies, Your Majesty. Interrogating the prisoner proved more challenging than expected. I was delayed at the Registry.”
Which was all unequivocally true. Azrian deeply disliked lying. So he simply avoided saying that his delay at the Registry had not been caused so much by the prisoner but rather by a sharp-tongued, blue-eyed lady with a golden mark under her collarbone.
His neck itched. Azrian summoned his iron-clad control to keep himself from scratching it.
“So, how did our guest do?”
“He did not reveal much new information, I’m afraid.” Azrian straightened. “He insists, as they often do, that their people have no part in the Fade. That it’s of our own making.”
The Emperor ran a hand over his face. “Please, come. Sit.” He pointed to his right, to a smaller throne with none of the gravitas or heft of the first. Azrian knew better than to defy his ruler, so he climbed on the dais.
Sconces carved like grasping hands held flameless Light-affinity orbs, casting the chamber in sharp contrasts.
If he’d learned one thing in his cycles of service, it was never to let Tharion see any hesitation.
So he sat on the throne that did not belong to him, and never would, as if he’d earned the right to be there.
As if it’d been his rightful place all along.
Back straight and gaze locked on the Emperor.
Some would have been afraid to stare at His Majesty so directly. Azrian understood the Emperor better than to cower.
“We know the effects of blood vows have been somewhat… less than optimal, in recent cycles.” The Emperor thrummed his index on the arm of his throne once. “We cannot continue to allow those heretical rebels to poison our people with the disease.”
Anyone with half-decent eyesight could’ve seen how less than optimal indeed the effects of blood vows had become.
The Fade was spreading quickly. More and more often, people left a blood vow with increasingly erratic outcomes—failed bonds, lower magical outputs, infertility and mental instability, and in the most tragic of cases, death.
One would have to be blind not to notice.
Luckily for the Crown, Gilt gentry were more bats than eagles.
The Emperor produced a parchment from the inner pocket of his jacket and passed it to Azrian.
He unfolded it and read it. A list, perhaps ten names long.
All members of the Gilt, though mainly of minor rank.
“Sympathizers,” the Emperor explained. “Some here in Ilvarenne, some in the Imperial Core duchies, mainly Velmarch. Their peers have reported them for housing Children, helping them sneak into the capital unseen.”
It seemed likely that the Children might have had support among the nobility; it would have explained how they made it to Ilvarenne and stayed hidden once in the city, despite the frequent raids he and his soldiers carried out.
“Find them, Azrian. Bring them here. I want them all in a cell by week’s end.”
Azrian nodded. “It shall be done, Your Majesty.”
“Tell me, Hand. Have you heard much ado about the current Season?” the Emperor asked, the change of subject catching Azrian off guard.
Once again, he settled on a convenient truth. “I cannot say I pay much mind to the inner workings of Gilt debutantes, Sir.”
His Majesty curled his lip. Wrong answer.
“Come now, Azrian. It is your job to know all, is it not?”
He would not get a third chance. “There have been rumors about marks appearing on some of our young people. Apparently, they are to be attributed to the Registry—a new… program, it would seem, to identify auspicious matches.”
Tharion nodded ever so slightly. “And do you believe the rumors?”
“What I do or do not believe is irrelevant. What would Your Majesty wish the people to believe?”
This time, the Emperor grinned. Tharion may have been a master manipulator, moving people like pieces on a chessboard, but Azrian had learned to play the game well enough to stall a checkmate.
“Let me tell you the truth about the situation.” Or, in other words, let me tell you how you ought to ensure the story is being told.
Azrian did not interject. The subtle bite of stone dust and ceremonial incense hung in the air between them.
“The Registry has indeed devised a new way to match our young people, a tool to ensure the Fade does not continue to propagate, to thwart the efforts of those heretics.”
“That sounds good. We want the Fade to disappear.” That Azrian managed to say so without any shifts to his expression was a credit to his iron-like discipline.
The Emperor nodded again. “Yes, quite good. Though you will forgive my apprehension for such a… novel and revolutionary approach.”
“Your Majesty fears the Registry may have miscalculated the marks?” If he had been any other member of the court, even a gentryman from the
Royal Circle of advisors, such a declaration would have been punished swiftly. But in his dealings with the Emperor, what Azrian had lost in freedom he had gained in frankness.
“Oh, but mind you, I do not think the Registry could have made such a mistake in earnest,” Tharion said, dripping with false contempt.
Azrian nodded, sharp and clipped, but with the memory of the High Binder smearing blackened blood on him and his bride haunting him, he couldn’t bring himself to agree. “You are simply considering the well-being of your people, Sir,” he said instead.
“Yes, yes. I knew you would understand.” Tharion skimmed a hand over his jaw, closing his fingertips over his chin. “So you see, I need insurance these marks are working as intended. For my people, of course.”
“Of course. I shall order a unit to monitor the Season, ensure everything is functioning per Your Majesty’s wishes.”
But Tharion shook his head. “We cannot let the matter leave this room. It would not serve us well should the people come to fear the Registry’s work.” Azrian’s back pulled taut. “Sir, my spies are discreet and loyal. They would never disobey an order.”
“That may be the case, Hand. I know you train those soldiers well. But this matter is simply too delicate.”
Azrian held still when the Emperor leaned over his throne, straightening the hand-shaped brooch pinned on Azrian’s lapel.
“Those spies may be your Shadows, but you are mine, Azrian. My angel of Destruction. I trust you to act swiftly, if needed.”
The Hand braced. Ten seconds passed. Fifteen. Then—
“You shall infiltrate the Season and keep close watch on the mark situation.”
And there it was.
“We can announce you are no longer in mourning and ready to take a new blood-vowed bride.”
It had been over ten cycles since his first blood vow failed. Would anyone truly believe he’d want to bond again, after so much time in solitude? His fingers itched to scratch the skin crawling at his neck, but he forced himself to stillness.
It would be highly unusual indeed for the Emperor’s Hand to look for a bride in the glittering salons of Ilvarenne’s marriage mart.
Highly unusual, and deeply torturous. Especially knowing he would have to find ways to avoid the lady from this morning, without even knowing her name. But he did not say any of that. Azrian knew which battles he could win and which he should abandon.
So instead, he bowed his head and said, “If it pleases Your Majesty, then it shall be done.”
But Azrian’s collar felt tighter than ever, a silent warning that some assignments were meant to strangle.