*Note: These are excerpts taken from the unabridged journal of the late Emperor Florence Dominique Sibylla. The notebook was found in the late Emperor’s quarters, with explicit orders to have it delivered to the succeeding monarch, King Augustus Adélard. 

The notebook was delivered to King Augustus shortly after the late Emperor was sentenced to indefinite imprisonment in the Fortress of Taratus. 

Thirty years later, the notebook was then publicised following the execution of the late emperor. 

***

If you are reading this letter, then that must mean that I already passed. At this point, there are only three ways for me to die:

One, that idiot assassin must have gotten to me;

Two, the truth has come to light; 

And three, I’ll have killed myself. 

The first one is unlikely. He’s made more than ten attempts so far, and while each attempt gets more creative than the last, I’ll hardly put my trust in someone who couldn’t get the job done on the first try. 

The third is uncharacteristic. While the thought flits into my mind from time to time, there’s hardly ever a suicide method worthy of ending a life like mine. At best, even if I do manage to successfully kill myself, I’d hate my death to be used for any other purpose than my own interest. These courtiers will do anything to forward their agenda, and I shiver at the thought of them framing my death as foul play when it is anything but. 

The second one appears to be impossible, but a man can hope. I haven’t done that in a while. The truth wouldn’t be of any use now except land me to the gallows, but I would be heading there anyway, whether as a commoner or as a ruler.  

I write this in my fifth year on the throne. I have been advised to begin planning for my successor, and the court keeps dancing around the subject of taking in a wife and birthing an heir. It’s funny how often the topic keeps being brought up in meetings, but none dared to explicitly point out the fact that the emperor is at his prime and would do well to start planning for marriage. I hope they will. I sincerely dare them to. Life without beheadings has gotten boring. 

Be that as it may, if the truth has come to light, then I imagine you would have questions. I won’t dare deny my crimes. In fact, I will even do you a favour by listing them here as detailed as possible. 

Being a scribe truly has its perks. 

***

To be honest, the future I envision for Ambros does not include an emperor. 

I have mentioned this to the court, my council, and my trusted aide, Helen. The court thinks I jest. The council says that I shouldn’t drink so much, lest I ended up saying the wrong thing to the wrong people. Helen does not say anything. 

Helen does not say anything these days, starting on the day I ascended to the throne. She still believes that there are better ways to rid this land of corruption and rot. I asked her if those ‘better ways’ are in the room with us, and the girl responded by smacking me upside the head. 

I spoil her too much. 

But even she knows that the old Imperial family had gotten off easy. If I had my way, I would exile them to the outskirts of Taratus and leave them to the wolves. Or, if fate may be kind, perhaps they’d be eaten alive by the same people they starved. 

The villagers wouldn’t eat them, though. Their rotten, vile flesh would make anyone sick. All royal blood carries that – including me. 

The court doesn’t dare imagine that someone could be so repulsed by the idea of monarchy. Understandable: they lived their lives protected by it. Even now, they fawn over me, flatter me, glorify me. They don’t know that I’m drafting their execution orders as we speak. 

The future I envision for Ambros does not include an emperor, for I hate emperors down to the core of my being. 

But more than anything, I hate this empire and everything it stands for. This is why I don’t dare envision a future for Ambros at all. 

This is part I imagine is what I’ll go down in history for: burning the empire to the ground. But think about it for a moment: was it not burning long before I came to be? We were at war long before the Verusians and Sannans invaded. 

All I did was finish it.

***

Before I was emperor, I worked as a scribe. 

Most people don’t really understand the concept of humble beginnings, so I took upon the liberty of introducing myself as the last surviving member from an obscure noble family. It’s not entirely wrong. As a matter of fact, I took great pains to ensure that the Sibylla bloodline dies with me. 

My uncles have a word for that – eliciting demand, is it? You create a shortage of supply, thus raising market value. It’s hilarious how a drop of mine would cause wars while spilling buckets of theirs hardly made a dent in history. 

There’s a word for that too – losing value. Not that there was ever much, in the first place. 

As it stands, working as a palace scribe opens you up to the inner workings of the court. From nonsensical lectures, confidential meetings, to gaining access to damning records – it’s akin to being handed an arsenal of weapons for safekeeping, and somehow they trust you not to use it. 

Perhaps they thought no one would dare to. After all, who would stir up chaos when there’s comfort and luxuries to be had? It’s always safer to work within your means and remember your place. 

And I would’ve stayed in mine, truly. My job allowed me enough blackmail material to keep myself safe for the next decade, and I've long curried favour with every notable official in my first two years working within the court. I held no desire to climb my station or improve my status. Everyone knew that I simply wanted a place to be remembered, and I would do anything for it. 

But four days before the end of the lunar month, right before the eclipse, Emperor Narcisse Silvana sent a letter to General Percival Ettore. He says the north needs help. 

From what—we didn’t know. That was up for us to find out, so it seemed, and it was up to us to get rid of it too. So I headed for Taratus along with the empire’s white knight and his most trusted men. They carried their swords and shields, I carried my ink and parchment. 

To this day, not a single soul aside from me knows what truly transpired in the outskirts. One of the soldiers who went out never came back, including the General. The Emperor burned the records – heaps and piles of letters I sent him. 

He forgot to burn me. 

***

As soon as we stepped into Taratus, I immediately understood what Emperor Narcisse Silvanno sent us here for. 

Or rather, it was achingly clear that it was going to be General Ettore’s final mission. 

We both knew it. The Emperor can throw all the lavish, send-off parties he wants, give our families silk, jade and gold, and promise us glory and honour upon return. He held banquets and luncheons amongst noblemens and foreign dignitaries, bragging about the empire white knight and his accolades. 

No one batted an eye or held a shred of doubt, because this was how Emperor Silvano always treated his favourites. General Ettore basked in his favour for so many years, thanks to the white knight bringing home the heads of several enemy commanders and plots of land. I was lucky enough to be close friends with the General, and luckier still to be good at something that His Highness deems important enough to keep. 

(He has to, lest he’ll have to find someone better at doing his dirty work for him.)

But you see, where General Ettore wanted for nothing, I wanted a lot of things. Perhaps, in His Highness’ eyes, that made the General more of a threat compared to the scheming half-blood he’d taken under his wing. 

After all, between the pure-hearted General and some bastard from the Sibylla household, who was more likely to stage a coup and succeed?