Sophia’s siblings wait for her like a column of mismatched guards, all four of them forming a protective barrier between the base of the staircase and the shrinking wave of guests. Like healthy crowds to a leper colony, the invited visitants all quarantine themselves away from these specters of death.

There were five royals in total beneath Empress Annia, the current ascendant to the Silver Throne. Certainly an unusual number of heirs and heiresses in this day and age, especially for an empire of this size, power, and scope.

But this is the country that’s the herald, the keystone of an entire continent.

It’s power through the crushing riches of their economy eating through the foreign markets, it’s the power of their armies of legionaries and armored vehicles rolling across battlefields of trenches, and it’s in their reckless, divine defying abandon in their aerostatic airships bombing cities to rubble.

And once their empress rots in the dirt, it’ll be the heirs’ duty to fight over the scraps.

It’s a simple assumption made by foreign powers, the Elise line attempting to forcibly create the most ruthless of heirs through a controlled succession crisis: the supposed end of their “Ceramic Era” paved through by an Emperor born from the spilled blood of their own kin.

But the true reason for their existence, however, is better left unspoken and, even more tragically, well understood by their plentiful children.

It’s cause mother tends to get carried away. The Fourth Princess’s internal dialogue reminds her of this most horrifying fact of how exactly they all got here. And father is all too willing to indulge.

Three older siblings and one younger, Sophia’s own immediate family dress now in accordance with their own well wishes for this most formal occasion. Conveniently organized by age, as well as probable allegiances in case of a battle-royale type civil war, they all simply crack equal parts concerned and prideful expressions at their sister.

Sophia coldly looks each of them over, this seemingly once–in-a-year kind of event bringing them all together for a mad excuse to dress up like this.

Wait.

She remembers the traditions suddenly, some still functioning part of her exhausted psyche instinctively moving her body to the standard noble procedures of manners and greetings in this most high-stakes meeting. Despite them being of the same blood and womb, in the public eye they still (and always will have to) act according to those damned ancient ticks and demands.

No happy, suffocating hugs or sibling roasts on the political stage of performance! Sophia’s brain tells her, rolling its eyes. Time to be as stoic as a slab of granite and gracious as a coursing river!

Even worse she’ll have to do a full, imperial curtsy for each of the four of them, and already her shoes are literally (figuratively) murdering her.

Well, maybe we can cut it down a bit.

She gives a small curtsy as she combines the first two greetings together, speaking out their names as she feels a prick at the base of her ankle. “Naomi, Natan…”

The two oldest came into the world together, a bad omen in the central belt of Ensolia. Natan and Naomi Elise were, if one was simply going by appearances, cut from the exact same rock. Each with their light brown amber eyes, blond hair, and creepily similar facial structures. Both of them seemingly crafted like a lazy sculptor attempting to force a pair of masterpieces through a working deadline.

Naomi, the first one to evict herself out of mother—their mother’s words, and no one else's—stood at a stouter height than her younger sister and maintained that iconic short bob of well-kept hair. Wearing a tight-fitting cavalry command uniform in the First Legion colors of grassland green with polished silver pauldrons, it was all tailored to exemplify her personal assets—specifically the eight medals and straight silver bar of her campaign decoration. Six of the eight decorated her for exemplary service, one for bravery, and one more for rifle marksmanship; all were derived from just one operation into the chaotic republics west across the Adranic Ocean.

How the hells can she be so productive as to process logistics paperwork, command an entire legion in pitched irregular combat, and play power politics through radio-carriers all at the exact same time?! Sophia groans to herself.

Still, Naomi was the first born and there were specific demands made of her for it.

Natan preferred to stay close to home. Though, his appearance within the palace was just as transient as Naomi’s (his own business kept him occupied throughout the Imperium at the moment); the two oldest bunch always kept themselves busy. A simple fashion statement of the exact same suit he wore for his own shared coming-of-age debut, Sophia noted he seemed to always wear it, was his constant comical demonstration of frugality. From his nearly worn-out silver pocket watch (a gift from Father, eighteen years ago on his tenth birthday), to his constant travels through the still expanding rail network of the empire; everything on his repertoire was on a self-imposed budget.

If given the chance he’d very much be eating gruel and living out of overnight economy class train carriages of his own volition. She narrows her eyes at her brother. Actually, he probably did, coming back home for this.

Naomi carefully curtsies, pretending to raise a nonexistent skirt while Natan holds his right hand over his left breast and dips his head respectfully.

Two more and we’ll be done with this absurdity.

“Beatrice.” She curtsies again, this time to the third, trying not to toss a scowl from the pain now shooting up her leg.

Beatrice is beautiful, perhaps even more than Sophia, depending on the personal preference of the surveyed. It’s her long brown hair, bluish eyes, and a body contoured like a comically perfect decorative statue of the Goddess—her flowing dress of pale sky blue tonight dusted with crushed malachite crystals glittering in the light, like an ocean garden rich with life and mesmerizing depth.

Her voice is alive, Beatrice living in the rush of the crowd and the court. Like the sound of flowing water from a distant stream alongside the chirping of summer birds and rustling leaves, the words and compliment almost makes this young lady forget her own troubles at the moment. “My dear Sophia, you look so wonderful.”

Sophia silently curses herself as she watches her older sister curtsy back. Wishing we could have even the tiniest sliver of that extroversion she somehow conjures out of thin air right about now.

Maybe then we could actually enjoy ourselves in this mess.

At least this last one is a sight for sore eyes.

“Alice,” she greets, this time an actual smile somehow finding its way to her face.

Alice’s brown eyes are wider than tea saucers in absolute joy, her curly brown hair braided and topped with the tiny, gold studded silver tiara of final elevation (something that Sophia was once forced to wear before this surprise of the family). Barely twelve years old, putting her a solid nine years younger than the closest sibling: more cute than beautiful at this point.

Alice’s hands swing like that of a jogger’s in the midst of a run, almost forgetting the polite response to the greeting.

Almost.

Alice gives a quick curtsy, so adorable that Sophia even detects a quiet awww from Naomi’s usually cold facade. The girl follows up with a serrated dagger of worded truth driven directly into Sophia’s chest cavity. “Wow, Sister, you're so beautiful! Maybe you can actually find a man tonight!”

Sophia suppresses the urge to punch the youngster directly in the sternum.

“Alice is right.” Natan smugly takes her side, adjusting a slightly frayed button near his suit pocket. “Given your…habits this may be your only chance to actually have any say in choosing someone.”

“Just like you did?” Sophia bites back at the older brother.

There’s a slight pause before he replies with grace, the stupid smile remaining on his face. “Well, it at least gave me an idea of what I wanted in a woman.”

Of COURSE he’d say that…

Sophia tries to ignore the images that start bubbling to the surface of her mind, that debut ball shared between the twins something much better forgotten than remembered as fond memory. There were more people packed into this ballroom than she could’ve ever imagined back then, and with an equal distribution of suitors from both sides of the gender gap.

More “alliances” were probably made that night than could be admitted, Sophia grumbles to herself.

But still, she can’t argue with the advice. After all, Natan is, out of all of them at the current moment, perhaps the closest to betrothal. If Mother and Father are to be believed.

Some big breasted, curvy princess (probably a brunette too) was about to have her wildest fantasies come true. Sophia’s inner monologue crassly assumes.

“Where is mother?” Sophia emotionlessly asks as she adjusts her footing.

“Mom’s busy with talks,” Natan informs her. “She’ll be arriving later this evening.”

“We’ll keep you safe, sis.” Beatrice shoots a wink towards her.

They all turn towards their elder, Naomi’s eyes scanning the guests, a falcon preparing to dive towards prey. Like commanding a fireteam of Imperial Marines she gives the order. “As rehearsed, keep any of the…undesirables out of her way. Remain vigilant.”