Dux didn't know when he'd dozed off, only that he now stood before the Onyx Throne. Even with the many braziers and torches burning along the walls, the throne room was beyond freezing. His breath misted in the still air, fingertips painfully numb to the touch. Silence howled in his ears, barely contained by the crackling flames surrounding him.
Tapestries littered the walls and pillars, stitched with the deeds and honors of loyal houses. Some were longer than others, but none compared to the one that hung behind the throne. The Vangen Guard's crimson, four-armed cross stood emblazoned over a field of checkered black and gold, billowing out from the very top of the ceiling to the very bottom step of the great stone dais where the throne rested.
And yet it was not the Vangen's tapestry that held Dux's eye, but the carved ivory mask glaring down at him. It was featureless save for two eye holes and a rigid tapering of the nose.
In the past, Dux would have feared the mask, its visitations brought with such terrors that it left him howling through night. He used to awaken dripping in sweat, breath huffing and puffing as if he'd been marching for hours. Now, after twenty years, he saw the mask as nothing more then a terrible nuisance.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
The mask regarded him in a silent malice that washed over him like the tides of an ocean. Its hollow eyes bore into him, touched his thoughts, leaving parts of his mind scorched and ragged, but he knew better now. He steeled himself, envisioning a curtain of iron to shield himself.
The mask pulled back. "Three days." Its words echoed throughout the bitter hall.
"I know," Dux said. "I have the letter."
"They plot and scheme against me, scurrying like rats in the dark."
"As all rats do." Dux's lungs began to burn as the air turned colder.
"Do you plot against me?" The mask regarded him.
"I serve the Onyx Throne," he said through chattering teeth.
The light in the throne room grew dim. Fingers of sunlight pouring through crystal glass windows winked away one by one till only firelight remained.
"Captain," the mask hissed.
"I serve," Dux began to say.
"Captain!" The mask's voice changed, shifting in tones that made the air crackle.
"I..." Dux fought for breath. "I serve..." His vision blurred as the last of the flames guttered out and only darkness remained.
"Captain!"
Dux woke with a start. He looked up, expecting to see the mask, but it was only Magus. The old, haggard looking magician leaned over him, one bony hand on his shoulder.
"You fell asleep," Magus said. "I had to shake you awake. You're lucky I didn't use my magick on you. That would have been uncomfortable."
Dux regarded Magus with a tired smile. "Sorry about that, old friend. Guess the days are finally catching up with me."
"How long have you been awake?" Magus asked.
Dux sucked on his teeth as he fished out the better part of his lie. "A few days at most."
The magician didn't appear to believe him given the look in his eye. "My offer still stands, you know. A little glamour, and I can provide you with a few hours of dreamless sleep."
Dux frowned. "And what makes you think I need my sleep dreamless?" He settled back into his chair, desperate to find at least one comfortable spot under all his lamellar and chain. Even in his own quarters he still dressed for battle. Experience had taught him that an attack could happen at any moment, and he'd be damned if he wasn't out there in the thick of it.
"Because your eyes were rolling around in your skull when I tried to wake you. Mouth flapping like a fish out of water." Magus made the motion with his hand for emphasis.
Dux rubbed at his eyes. "Did I say anything interesting?" He looked up, holding the magicians gaze.
The old man's mouth twitched. "No, not really. You were mumbling something but these ears of mine aren't as good as they used to be."
"I thought not."
And with that, the conversation ended. Magus stepped away and settled back into his chair. He looked around, saw the fires burning low in their iron braziers. With a snap of his fingers the flames jumped back into life, filling the tent with light and warmth.
Dux turned his attention elsewhere, eyeing the Empresses letter surrounded by various charts and maps. He took the paper gingerly into his hands, ran his gaze over the written words over and over again until he'd practically memorized them. Each time his heart sank a little further, leaving him feeling cold and hollow inside, just like in the dream.
First the rebellion, and now this? How could it get any worse?
"You never told me the contents of the letter," Magus piped up. He had his hands cradled over his stomach, hood pulled up so that his eyes seem to glitter in the firelight.
"I wanted to wait for the other Tribunes to arrive," Dux said. "So that everyone knew at the same time. They deserve as much."
"That bad is it?"
Dux puffed his cheeks. "I don't think your old heart could take it."
"You'd be surprised what I'm capable of. I didn't survive this long just by being a frail old man."
Dux shrugged and slid the letter over to him. "Suit yourself, but I warned you."
Magus gingerly picked up the letter and held it close, narrowing his gaze to see better. His old eyes flickered over the contents as he reached the last few lines. "Oh," the magician muttered as he set the letter down. "That's quite bad."
"I told you."
"I...," Magus worked his mouth to find the words. "I never realized the Ministry had the stones to do something like that. Have they—?"
"No," Dux cut in, shaking his head. "Not yet, anyway. The Empress merely suspects their coupe against her. But you know how she gets when there's even a hint of betrayal in her Empire."
"I've only heard the rumors." Magus ran a withered hand through his patchy beard. "And all of them quite dreadful. So then, what do you plan on telling the other Tribunes? What do you plan on telling Libro?"
Dux pursed his lips and fumbled with a stone figurine on the table, wondering himself how best to break the news. The contents of the letter spoke of something big, something far more significant than anything the Vangen had ever faced before. Rebels were one thing, But this, this was bad.
Beyond bad.
Dux open his mouth to speak before he was cut off by the tent flap opening. Civis stepped inside, short flaxen hair plastered to one side of his head from the rain. Even in the bright candlelight his sharp, gaunt features held shadows in his cheekbones, eyes hard and callous.
Towering behind him was Regis, clad in stinking furs, his ash-blonde beard swaying with every lumbering step, the massive ruby stud in his left ear glinting like the eye of a devil.
"Evening, Captain," Civis said as he took his seat. Regis sat beside him, grunting out a greeting that betrayed his irritation.
"Squashing rebels like it's going out of style," Dux said. "But what's new there?"
Civis chuckled, his mouth twisting with mirth like he'd been told a particularly funny joke. "Nothing goes out of season when your murdering for the Empire. It's practically a national pastime these days."
Regis spat onto the ground. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm ready to pack up and feck off elsewhere. Three years in this shitty, wet countryside and I'm already over it."
"But the lands here are just so lush and beautiful," Civis countered.
"It rains too damn much. I'll die of rust rot before a blade ever kills me."
"And the locals—,"
"Would rather hide behind a palisade then kill you with said blade," Regis countered. He crossed his arms, settling into his chair until the wood creaked back dangerously.
"You're in a particularly foul mood tonight," Dux said. Indeed, Regis had only grown more irritated the longer he'd been with the Vangen. Twenty years ago when they'd first met in Macedonibus he'd been singing songs and swinging axes like the world was made of gold. Ten years ago, when they'd marched into the burning dunes of Austerland, the man had given himself something to smile about when telling stories over the campfire. Now, he was nothing more than a grumbling old hound, whining over every little misfortune that went his way. Dux almost felt compelled to make the man run laps around the camp just for old times sake.
He let his thoughts trail off as the tent flap peeled back and Libro entered, his dark hair too short to be plastered anywhere save the roof of his head. The Archive he carried was clasped tightly to his belt, fastened by two sets of thick iron chains. A fresh inkpot and iron quill fit neatly into the bandolier around his chest, the leather old and cracked from past generations of Chroniclers.
Libro stopped at the sight of Civis. The two locked eyes, tension mounting between them.
"Fashionably late as always?" The Legate was first to say.
Libro narrowed his gaze and stormed off to the opposite end of the table. He unclasped the hefty tome and slammed it down, flipping to an empty page before uncorking an inkpot. With a deft hand, he pulled a quill out and settled into his chair.
"Captain." Libro addressed Dux with a bow of his head, ignoring Civis with obvious intent. "What news do you have for us?"
Dux almost had the urge to have all of them running laps, but whipping the pettiness out of everyone was at the bottom of his list right now. There were more pressing matters to attend too. "Patience, son. We still have Nox and Culter to wait for. The two of them should be here soon." He turned to the magician. "You did set off the flare like I asked, right?"
"Yes, yes." Magus waved a dismissive hand. "I may be ancient, but I'm not competely brainless. They'll be here."
Dux felt compelled to point out the contradiction before the tent flap opened a final time. The albino practically glowed as he entered, his bald head the shape of a fresh, white egg, though Dux surmised the yolk had long since spoiled within. Nox trailed close behind, the Austerlander practically blending into the shadows had it not been for his ivory toothed smile and the large crossbow he cradled in his arms.
The last of the Tribunes sat down. Libro looked to Dux expectantly, quill poised over a fresh page as if he were about to give his victory speech. The rebels have given up. The false Dragon Emperor was no more. His final bastion burned to the ground. If only.
Dux puffed his cheeks, wondering just what to say. In times like this, he thought of his own Captain, back when he'd been a lowly sergeant in the palace guard and not the man he was now. Of course, the answer was the same. He would tell the truth. Just as she'd done.
"Men," he began to say. "I've got some bad news."
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