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sculptorofcrimson · 29 days

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Down With His Throne

Synopsis: Traitor Valdor, and his endless hunt. His endless hate, for the Shards of his master. Relations: Aquilans x f! Shard A/N: Essentially traitor Valdor trying to kill the Shard, and his musings on his loathing of all Shards of his master.

They know better by now than to let him go.

They know he feeds from fear. Whose fear? Theirs? No, the Custodes do not fear. From Him. From the tip of the Apollonian Spear.

He hates them. He loathes them. He loathes those that wear his master's face like a crown, bearing His resemblance, bearing His glory. Does He not belong to him? Does his glorious servant not have the right to His bones, when there is nothing left of Him? Why should he not reclaim what is rightfully his, rightfully meant for the greatest of the Ten Thousand, why should some pitiable, worthless mortal earn what should have been granted to him? To him to safeguard, to protect, and to fervently worship?

Siphoning memories blow by blow, if only to tear out the last shreds of his lord's sharded soul, if only to drink up His cries and hear 'Oh, Constantin' one last time, even if it's spoken in rage and pain instead of in praise, even if it leaves him broken and aching and so utterly alone afterwards, even if it leaves the traitor that was Valdor wallowing in the misery of his own betrayal.

Sometimes he kills them in the middle of a life, in the middle of a laugh, a cry, or a sob. He kills them in the middle of being human, a sniper's bullet through the skull or a sudden poison leaked into their goblet. The greatest of the Emperor's assassins, having gone against his vows. Quick deaths never grant him many memories. He never feels alive after those, but he also never feels pain from a quick kill. In the scant moments he feels human, the weight of his betrayal finally sinks in and he knows despair, he knows pain and hate and vicious denial until the obsessions and the heartlessness sinks in again and he feels nothing at all, not even despair at what he had become.

It was Horus' poisoned gift to him. The Archtraitor's greatest and final laugh. Enough mind to be human, yet not enough to care.

His brothers will try to stop him. Sometimes they almost succeed. Csarthal. That fool. He saved her, the seventh shard, he dove in front of the Apollonian Spear's blade and held Valdor down with the dying remnants of his corpse as the Emperor's newest incarnation fled from his blade, he had gazed Death in the eye and spat in its face. He had refused to scream as the Apollonian Spear flayed him skin from flesh, slow and deathly quiet, refusing to cry out and bring more brothers to the same site of his death even when he could see the red glimmers of their eye lens, even when he knew if he screamed, they would undoubtedly dive down and try to save him. And so he had refused to even cry out as he was bled by a thousand small nicks of the Apollonian blade, he refused to scream as Valdor tore every last shred of a life from his mind and drank up the ragged humanity remaining in his marrow. He had saved his charge, he had saved her for the price of himself and the price of dying a slow, ignoble death without even pity, and it was enough. For an Aquilan Shield that sacrificed himself, it was enough.

He was the first of many Aquilans.

The Siegebreaker, the Traitor Captain, the First of the Custodes, he had done his utmost to make sure Csarthal died a heartless, ignoble, merciless death. That he died, worthless, screaming into the hollow void. He turned his grave into a traitor, he made sure his name would be remembered with nothing but scorn and loathing, he made sure to betray his name in death as he had never betrayed in life. Scorned, loathed, shunned for consorting with the First of the Ten Thousand, one of the many Custodes who stood idly by as he lowered the blade. Havadur would be remembered with no more kindness than the Companions that had still bowed, reverent, obedient, when he had first betrayed them all, when he had lowered the walls and shields of the Imperial Palace and broke the Siege of Terra with traitor hands. When he alone had broken the Palace's walls, and welcomed in Horus' hordes.

His sacrifice had robbed Valdor of his kill. He will bleed all traces of honor from his death. No light, no rest, and no mercy. The Custodes will remember him as nothing but an incompetent fool, without a single trace of success, dying a voiceless demise at a traitor's hand. And should she ever call out in disgrace, swearing her bodyguard had died to save her, the shard would have to break the vow of silence her beloved Aquilan had died to maintain.

If he still had the ability to enjoy such cruel ironies, he would have smiled at such bitter humor. It was their ugly secret, between him and her alone, known to them both how he had truly died, but if she wished to tell the golden the truth, he would know. He would know she had lived after all, and the golden would hunt her down, both the Traitor and his loyal brothers, they would hunt her down and this time he would be truly sure that Csarthal Havadur's sacrifice had meant nothing. Nothing at all.

He believed that one shard would live, sneaking away onto an Agriworld where she had cast away her laurels and lived quietly. She would fall in love with a Commissar, and pass away peacefully in her sleep at the ripe age of three hundred and seventy two, surrounded by her great-grandchildren.

That secret had died with her. Only he knew, and as of his words, none would tell. None would see the scar Havadur had clawed into his back, none would hear how he had roared as the Aquilan clung on with a dying man's embrace and screamed at his charge to run, to run from the beast that was once a glorious captain. To run, and never once look back upon them both. None would know he had died resolutely, without even uttering a scream, as the Apollonian Spear wrenched free from soft tissues and tangled bones, its edge now dull from hacking through auramite.

In the grand scheme of things, Aquilan's sacrifice had truly meant nothing. Nothing at all.

But sometimes they would fail to stop him.

Sometimes he would catch one alone, away from their bodyguards, away from their guns and their knives and their spears. He could lure them away, with such cold, cold determination, Apollonian Spear swinging, ticking, pawing at the earth beneath his feet like a pendulum as he waits, and wanders, waiting for the shard to fall. The spear blade occasionally dipping, accidentally slicing through the ragged silk of his tabard or through the chains wandering over his armor, nicking his armor just enough to reawaken images of the previous owners of his auramite, just enough to dream of the past before the blade swings back, waiting, waiting. Waiting for them to stumble, stagger, finally tumbling to a halt. Watching that beautiful, golden light of his lord's reincarnation finally die out, that love of humanity stamped to ash and bone when they realize the Aquilans can't save them. When they call out, and hear nothing back.

Those ones die in languish silence, without even a word. Dying thinking they were betrayed, dying entombed on a throne, thinking they were never truly loved enough. Thinking they were abandoned, left to die by the Aquilans when the Yellow King caught them in his grasp, dying in his arms as he drank and tore the memories of his master from their bones. The cold, almost joyous revelation from each sip of his lord's memories he steals, dreaming of Him through His corpse, sinking in His love, if only for a moment, if only for a sweet, addictive taste of ichor leaking from a single shard's broken corpse. Just enough to keep him dreaming, make him feel human for once, before it is gone and the last light of his lord trickles away from truly shattered remnants and he casts them aside, wandering on, always moving, never returning.

Always onto the next one, with just enough madness left in him to head on to the next, and the next, and the next. It is the hunt that must never end, the thirst that will never be quenched. The True Blood Games, played out through an arena without walls and without boundaries, where the only prize was his master's skull, cracked open and leaking time over his bloodstained palms. Lapping up the dregs of His dreams, inhaling His humanity and His love, basking in His stolen radiance before it fades and he digs deeper, slices further, bleeds the shards more and more just for a taste of His dream. Just for a little more, a little more of His love that the fallen captain will never feel again.

Sometimes they sacrifice themselves. Sometimes, they die meaningless, worthless deaths. Sacrificing themselves in a vain illusion of glory. Valdor crushed those ones down, cutting into them with no less steel than if they were lambs. Sometimes, he whispers the true uselessness of their sacrifice in their ear when he sinks in the Apollonian Spear and drinks in the tattered soul-weave of his master. He speaks to them of how he lied to them, how he promised to spare so and so if they would surrender. How he promised, but how he lied, how he had no concept of honor and no concept of denial, and when they finally perished, he shall have no concept of honor either. They sacrificed themselves, they died, and it was worth nothing in the end. Not even a few seconds of respite from his blade.

And sometimes the shards don't even die. He cripples them, he leaches perfection from their bones, he strips away the very core that had His essence intertwined, and leaves the broken, rotting mess behind. Unable to walk, to move, to even weep, stripped away of all that made them live. A husk, without even a soul, or a mind, or a memory. No past, no future, just a silent, sobbing ghost, broken so utterly beyond repair. The living dead, haunting the Aquilans. A corpse staring them in the eye and begging for death, a mewling corpse with their heart torn out and crushed beneath golden boots, just like what He did to him. Just like how He took his dreams and crushed them, and now he shall deal unto His shards as He has dealt upon him. How he tears out their core and laps up the fragments of the Emperor, and leaves nothing but ghosts behind.

Nothing. Nothing left of him now. Not even enough left to hate.

When the rush of exultation fades, it leaves nothing behind. Not even a shallow pain, not even a sorrowful keening, simply an voracious ache, a hollow so empty not even despair could fill it. It was the cries of a long-broken heart finally imploding under its own weight, crying out for justice and finding nothing back. It was a body built to be loved by a god, built to throw itself on the altar of sacrifice, now starved of the one thing that had made its life worth living. When the once-doting hand had turned striking, when he could no longer lap adoration from the hand of his king, he learned to lick it off of His fingerbones. He learned to chew it off of the scraps of His skin and gnaw open marrow for the scraps of His essence, for the split, scant moments of joy, of purpose, in a life devoid of all else. When He had starved him of all that had made him worth existing in the first place, what else was there but to scrabble uselessly, to tear away dregs of His dream, just for the split moment of being loved? Of feeling loyal, even once, when you know you have betrayed Him beyond even death itself?

He had betrayed the Emperor once. He will do so again.

Sometimes, he can actually lure them away. The eight shard fell to deception. Promise him so sweetly that he'll seek redemption, promise him that His favored servant surely couldn't leave Him forever? Surely he'll see the light, if only he'll let him in, if only he'll promise not to scream, if only he'll promise to take him in like he had taken in the Custodes.

He should have known better than to trust a traitor.

The only rewards of tolerance are treachery and betrayal.

He had betrayed the Emperor once. He will do so again.

When he cleans the Apollonian Spear from the splatters of the shard, when he sinks deeper into that reverie of Emperor-laden memories torn from the shard, he can almost feel a smidgen of regret for what he had become. For taking all he could from a naive, innocent man and laying him to death for the soul of a man he loved(no, hated?). For a sin he both loathed and adored and was so utterly loyal to, for the Emperor tore out his ability to hate His abuse. For the pain he adored to damnation, for the sin, for the brief high of being in His love. He had loved him, yes? He had loved him, but it wasn't enough, it is never enough, the shards must bleed, they can only bleed, it's their only gift to die before the Apollonian Spear and feed the mind of an assassin that killed for love, and killed because he hated. They were his master, they were his master once upon a time, but he cannot let them live. He cannot let them be, he cannot spare them from the Apollonian edge, when all he feels is sanctity whenever he butchers them back to the grave His lord resides.

'Oh, Constantin.' he hears Him sigh. 'Look at how far you've fallen.'

~~~

The Aquilans despaired after the last death. They had deluded themselves into thinking she would be different, that the boy that had naively trusted the monster the first time was a mistake.

It was not.

It was the Order's eleventh loss by then. A blow to their morale, and a blow to their pride. The Emperor had died before Horus. His remnants had died before His own captain. They curse his name, they curse his spear, they curse his stitched-together-armor built from the raiments of his brothers, but most of all, they curse themselves for failing Him again. And again. And again, as the monster clad in scraped-together auramite kills them again and again, always with cold, swift zeal, without err, and without deviation. He never lets them live. He cannot let them live. There is no respite, no mercy and no rest. For those that caught the rage of his eye, there is only death.

They stand in meaningless, sullen vigils. Shield-Captain Lehievin, the Leviathan of Terra, only watchers over their latest charge's grave with an ashen face and a grim scowl. The failed bodyguards rustle in quiet, aimless rituals, dropping flowers over the upturned dirt, draping veils over her portraits, burying the bloodstained laurel with infinite reverence. Their cloaks, when they turn, are full of tears. It would have been kinder if they had lamented. It would have been crueler if they had sobbed and screamed and lashed out at one another for their failure. Anything but the silent penitence they face, tears coating immaculate auramite, giant golden gauntlets carefully scooping out the dirt and replacing it over the new grave. Knowing the monster is listening to their cries, knowing the monster is reveling(or at least as close as he can to revel) in their charge's death. Knowing he will kill again, unrestrained, unchained.

And knowing their next charge would end much the same.

'Shield-Captain.' Magtanggol bows his head. Lehievin barely turns to greet him. 'Shield-Captain.' he tries again, and Lehievin shakes his head in an irate motion, finally jerking around to meet him.

'Speak.'

'The next shard is predicted to be in the Sol system already, Shield-Captain. We will have to move fast to intercept her.'

Lehievin considers the news with no grand expression. The corpse was barely cold in its grave, and yet now the Monster was already trying to set his rifle's sights on the next.

'When?' he finally responds.

'Another twelve years. Long enough for her aging to finally noticeably stop, and around the time the first...mutations of His begin to occur. We will have to deploy rapidly, before he settles into the adjacent systems. We will have to conceal all evidence she had ever been at all.'

'And the Captain?'

Magtanggol smiles cruelly. His handsome features, as sharp and as weathered as marble statues, were highlighted by the gaunt grimace of his smile. 'He won't know. Not if we obscure the paranormal occurrences this time too.'

Lehievin considers this for a moment. He heaves a sigh before replying.

'It is rare,' he begins. 'when a charge re-appears before even a century has passed.'

'Her death was particularly swift. A single bolterround through the next. The Apollonian Spear's wounds were not numerous. I suspect he did not have enough time to...erase and eradicate all traces of our lord from the corpse before we descended upon him. Our lord's essence may have fled. Departed for a better host, shall we say.'

'Departed...' Lehievin murmurs. 'It is such an ugly word.'

'As I agree, Shield-Captain.'

'And how sure are you about this news?'

'Quite. The Astropathic signals match.'

'You do know that so close to our current system, the Captain will likely have prepared for this, yes?'

Magtanggol smiles humorlessly. This time, there were teeth in that grin. 'Oh. Yes. Certainly. But we have no option but to try, do we not? We still have time. He doesn't know yet. Our communications take time to run, even for the Custodes, and even if he intercepts us now, we will reach her much swifter than he can dream of. And besides. Do you see another option, Shield-Captain? A single alternative, but to endure?'

Did they truly have no option, but to hope, to grasp, and to endure? Yes, they truly didn't.

Lehievin looks away, leaning heavily against his guardian spear. For a moment he looked like an old man with a crutch, wistfully looking into the sunset and wishing he was a young man again, when oceans were still unburnt and brothers yet unbetrayed. Finally, he snarls one last time at the grave. His fingers close tightly upon the spear's haft as he whips around to face his lieutenant.

'Very well, Magtanggol.' Lehievin returns Magtanggol' grin with a soft, yet surprisingly bitter, smile. 'We deploy at dusk. Notify the Aquilan Shield Captain-Commander. We have found our second charge. The Shield-Company will not let Him die.'

No. Never. Never again.

Because, in truth, what other choice did they have, but to hope, to beg, and to fight against the inevitable?

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #sculptor of crimson #constantin valdor #adeptus custodes #warhammer #wh40k writing prompts #emperor of mankind #traitor!valdor #traitor au #traitor custodes #adeptus custodes x original characters #custodes x reader #adeptus custodes x reader

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turbofanatic · 1 year

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The primary sensory modes for an Envy division Mark 4 Heavy Combat Cyborg (HCC) are proprioception and UHF radio. In general, sounds, smells, and optical inputs are relegated to heavy computer filtering before the organic brain takes notice. It is common for HCC’s to lose vision in their remaining eye, and remain effective, to the point where the eyes are removed for all Pride division siegebreakers and all future HCC versions. The easy access to both optic nerves being considered a worthwhile trade.

Using UHF allows for passive radar, using local electronics to generate the signals they navigate by, as well as 360 degree “vision” and some ability to observe through thin walls and around corners. The drawbacks include having to use active radar in “dark” areas, and poor resolution of stationary objects below 10cm in size. Generally the multiple cameras and IR sensors compensate for this, but the computational filters are imperfect and the organic brain is limited in its focus. Anyone acting upon these limitations should be well aware that Envy division heavy combat cyborgs have the ability to multitask and focus far beyond other heavy combat cyborgs, which themselves are generally beyond baseline human capabilities.

#tankeater #myart #cyborg

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theworldvsyoshiko · 7 months

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Yoshiko turned 18! She survived to adulthood. Somehow.

For her birthday, she gets to summon an ancient war machine in a life-or-death attempt to further her understanding of mechanoids.

The Diabolus, a centuries-old siegebreaking robot made with technology beyond human comprehension, with a cannon that can destroy almost anything in the game over about a five meter radius. (with supporting guests: three shotgun robots)

VERSUS

A teenager, her six-year-old ward, two shotgun robots, a bunch of roombas, and a trap gauntlet best described as 'what if ewoks did a Home Alone and got sadistic with it.'

Oh okay. I kinda expected it to get farther, since mechanoids can shrug off a lot of wooden traps, as this still demonstrated.

Well, now Yoshiko gets to upgrade her stuff.

#rimworld #the world vs. yoshiko

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inventors-fair · 2 months

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Sterling Sorts: Subtype Runners-Up ~

Our runners-up this week are @helloijustreadyourpost, @mycosynthgardens, and @feyd-rautha-apologist!

@helloijustreadyourpost — March of Morsels

Food is all about flavor, both in-game and out, and this is certainly no exception. Honestly, this is such a distinctly Eldrainian image that I'm genuinely surprised we haven't already seen it, although that's not to discredit you in the slightest. Syr Ginger's on the warpath, leading armies of gingerbread soldiers to glorious conquest. Getting into the meat of this card though, it's very solid all around. Bringing two Foods with it means that baseline, it's providing a respectable 4/4 of stats. Allowing you to gain life when the animated Food die from any means is a great addition that better plays into the unique aspects of the type, and the anti-sacrifice clause preventing you from double-dipping is very clever. Big fan.

@mycosynthgardens — Kami of Lost Knowledge

If you told me at the beginning of the week that I would be heaping praise on an Arcane support card, I'm not entirely sure I would've believed you. All the same, though, here we are. Arcane is a bit of a black sheep among subtypes, being an infamously parasitic mechanic that's entirely confined to one of the worst blocks in the game's history, and I struggle to refute those accusations. But I've always had a soft spot for splice, and this plays into that mechanic in a really cool way. Much of the gameplay around splice is focused around hoarding an arsenal in hand, but the fact that this only pulls for the graveyard forces you to cast them more aggressively or find ways to get them there otherwise. You're very much incentivized to do so, too, because getting the effects added to a single spell each turn at no additional cost is a very attractive reward. Careful with the language, though. Optional once-per-turn triggers usually use the phrase "Do this only once each turn," because the way you have it here means that if you choose not to add the effects to the first spell, you've essentially missed your chance. Part of me does wish this didn't have to be shackled to Arcane, but until they revisit splice for a proper archetype, this is more than good enough.

@feyd-rautha-apologist — Khenet, the Siegebreaker

Battles are a relatively new type, and while Sieges are currently the only subtype they have, this card is geared so specifically towards the mechanics and gameplay of Sieges that it really does feel like a Siege support card. Amassing an Army to fight a battle is such a natural pair, and it helps better guarantee you have enough power to push through all the Sieges you'll be playing, especially with trample. The last effect is also a great inclusion, removing the decision of whether it's better to attack an opponent directly or a Battle they protect by cutting the knot and making it so you're essentially attacking both with the same creatures. I would caution against deathtouch and trample, as there's not currently a card in the game that can grant both at the same time (beyond cards that share or assimilate keywords, anyway), and for good reason. For the uninitiated, trample allows any damage past lethal damage to carry over, and deathtouch makes any amount of damage lethal. Put them together and a creature with both only has to assign 1 damage to any creature it's blocking, with the rest of it carrying through to whatever it's attacking. That's strong, but more importantly, it's very unintuitive, so it's usually avoided.

That was a lot of all-stars! Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to type out the rest of the commentary. Heh, heh...I'll go. @spooky-bard

#mtg #magic the gathering #custom magic card #inventor's fair #commentary #winners #subtype contest

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officialleehadan · 10 months

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Escort Equipped

To Build an Empire

+++

Cuira allowed her maids to tease her in a way she might otherwise have shut down, simply because she was in such a good mood. As it was, the word spread quickly among her maids exactly how Bess had found her, and who she had been with at the time.

“I’ll never know how you do it,” Maritza complained cheerfully as she finished with Cuira’s hair and began threading glittering pins into it. “We’re all of us trained to watch you, keep you safe, and otherwise make sure nobody is getting close enough to do you harm, and yet, somehow, that hulking husband of yours managed to get into your rooms without any of us knowing about it.”

“He is your emperor, Maritza,” Cuira chided her gently, because while teasing was acceptable, even welcome, disrespect to her husband was not to be permitted. She liked Maritza, but Cuira knew perfectly well who was paying her maids, and that it wasn’t her. Until she was certain of their loyalty, her trust would have to remain her own. “And he was trained in infiltration before he was an emperor. Do you think those skills simply disappeared when he was given a throne?”

Maritza paused, chastened by the firm, although kind correction of her behavior. Cuira patted her hand reassuringly. She wasn’t angry, but there was decorum required, and as one of Cuira’s maids, her behavior did reflect on the throne.

“How long has he been coming to your rooms?” Whiloh asked more softly and helped Cuira up, towards her gown for the day. Dominik would almost certainly be wearing his armor to lunch with her father, and she intended to match him. Rather than wear red twice in two days, she opted for almost-black navy blue, decorated with crystal stars, stitched into perfect constellations. It took three maids to get her into it. One to steady her, one to hoist the dress up, and a third to lace it tight. “None of us have seen a bit of him, but lately you’ve seemed… close.”

“You need only know that he is not a stranger to me,” Cuira said, knowing that it would do more to frazzle her maids, and any spies they reported to, than anything else she had to say on the matter. “But do please feel free to come up with whatever colorful exaggerations you feel my father will believe. I encourage your creativity, provided that it retains the facts of who you found in my bed, and what we were doing when you found us there.”

It was something of a risk, but it also wasn’t a secret who they reported to. They could prove their loyalty to her by allowing her father to chase his tail in any direction that they chose.

Dressed, bejeweled, and ready for war, Cuira gave herself a once-over and caught Bess’s eye. “Please check on Hindera this morning. I have not seen her since she came aboard, and I promised she would want for nothing.”

“Yes Empress,” Bess said, still smiling to herself. “Would you like me to attend her?”

“If her own maids are not treating her with appropriate respect, yes, but tell me first.”

“Yes, Empress.”

Maids settled, Cuira nodded to Whiloh and Maritza to follow her, and checked the small comm that hid neatly away in a pocked amid her skirts. Dominik had sent her a message, requesting her presence by the siegebreaker wing of the ship, where he was to introduce her to the siegebreaker who would be assigned to her side. It would be a protection and assistance in one, for it would take a strong assault indeed to go through even a single one of Dominik’s enhanced soldiers, but she also needed those same enhanced senses to pick out the loyal among the court.

It was very difficult to find good help when everyone she spoke to lied as easily as breathing.

“We have a stop to make before we go to the meeting rooms,” she said when they were on one of the many transports that hummed through the base. This one was hers, of course, but there were many aboard the immense space-base. It wasn’t far to the siegebreaker’s wing. She had wondered about that before, about her nearness to what she thought was simply the bulk of their military. Now she suspected it was because Dominik’s rooms were still among them. “My imperial husband has promised an escort of one of his elite, which should make my meetings with the household go more smoothly.”

“And if he doesn't, you can have them shoot whoever is annoying you,” Maritza said slyly. Cuira didn’t laugh, but it was a near thing. “Where are we to meet His Imperial Majesty?”

Cuira sent a message to Dominik and got a reply that came so quickly he must have been waiting for it. “The training rooms.”

Cuira had never been to the training rooms. It wasn’t even close to appropriate after all, but she was beginning to realize that she didn’t particularly care what was appropriate. She had sacrificed far too much to propriety, and refused to let it steal away her happiness now that she was just beginning to find it. Still, it wasn’t like the ship didn’t know who she was, and Dominik’s siegebreakers would certainly know her, on sight if nothing else, but they very probably knew her by scent as well.

That was harder for her to understand, and made her a little uncomfortable, but there was nothing for it. They couldn’t turn off their senses, and she didn’t blame them for it.

She did ask Dominik if her perfume was bothersome, but he assured her that it wasn’t. The way he smiled faintly when he said it suggested he had more to say on the matter, but he kept whatever it was to himself.

The scene inside the training rooms of the siegebreakers was one of controlled chaos wrapped in careful order. There were other soldiers among them. Those who were brave or foolish enough to train with soldiers many times their own strength and speed. All the same, it was clear that the siegebreakers welcomed those soldiers in and taught them. Better, it let the regular soldiers practice techniques that would kill or maim a weaker opponent.

Cuira new almost nothing of military affairs. She couldn’t even throw a punch, and despite having a rough idea of how to stab someone, it being fairly self-evident, she didn’t have more than that.

Still, the first sight of her husband, battling against three of his own soldiers, left her mouth dry.

He was shirtless, muscles on display as he fought back. The three soldiers in the ring with him, two men and a woman, pushed him hard. None of them had weapons, but bruises bloomed under their hands whenever someone landed a blow. Those bruises barely had time to show purple before they were gone again, washed away by the nanites that made them what they were.

Dominik was giving a good showing of himself, to Cuira’s inexperienced eyes. She thought they were trying to take him ‘alive’, which made sense, all things considered. Dominik was an emperor now, and while many would try to kill him, more still could wish to capture him for their own purposes. She was glad to see him training for that possibility.

She might not be able to protect him, but at least he was more than able to protect himself.

Cuira saw the moment he noticed her. He paused just for a moment, gave her a roguish wink, and kicked one of the other siegebreakers hard enough to send him flying out of the ring. The woman dove at him, but although her strength was likely close to his, she was still much smaller. He caught her, and bodily threw her at his third opponent. Before any of them could recover, he ran for the corner of the ring, where another man was waiting, and tagged his hand.

“Match!” the fifth man yelled, and the other three pulled themselves to their feet, grinning and groaning playfully. Dominik paused to talk with them, and clapped one of the men on the shoulder. The woman punched him in the ribs, but it looked playful even to Cuira’s eyes. The woman then whirled and pounced on the third man for a frankly obscene kiss,. He caught her easily, and staggered for a nearby door, to the hoots and whistles of everyone who saw them.

Dominik only shook his head and climbed out of the ring to join her. He snagged a loose shirt off one of the nearby benches, but, much to her delight, did not put it on.

“You got here faster than expected, or I would have met you at the door,” he said, just a little breathless, and with his friend, the fifth man in his match, at his heels. Cuira thought about giving him the very-appropriate curtsey she should offer her emperor, and stood on her toes for a kiss instead. He made a small, surprised noise but leaned down to meet her with a pleased hum. Whistles echoed from around them. “What was that for?”

“I thought it was simply the way your siegebreakers end a successful match,” Cuira said impishly and startled a laugh out of him. “But if it was inappropriate…”

“Just unexpected,” he told her a shade too quickly, and slung his shirt over one shoulder before taking her hand. With the other, he beckoned his friend, who wore a very amused grin, forward. He was a tall man, taller even than Dominik, although not as heavily-muscled, and boasted close-cut blonde hair, and blue eyes. Like Dominik, he sported the metallic ring of nanites around the iris of his eyes, although they barely showed against the blue. “Cuira, this is Jyn Deurians, my closest friend, and second in command of the siegebreakers. I asked if he would mind working with you and he agreed to help with whatever you need.”

“Nice to meet you, Empress,” Jyn said, polite, although still resoundingly, charmingly, incorrect. He gave her something like a bow and Cuira resolved to arrange etiquette lessons for any of the siegebreakers who agreed to them. She thought their blunt honesty was delightful, but there were many courts where it would be a liability. “I hear you have a problem with people lying to you. I’ll be able to sniff them out for you. Plus, I’m pretty good at killing things.”

“You really should have had a siegebreaker escort before now,” Dominik said apologetically, but Cuira waved it off. “Jyn’s one of our best, and I trust him completely.”

“High praise, my husband,” Cuira said and smiled up at Jyn. “I would be glad for the escort, and I do need help with the household. The perils of running an empire. Everyone wants to know what we’re thinking before we think it.”

“Sounds stressful.”

“Depends on their motivations and how annoyed I can make them on the way.”

Jyn stared at her, and then burst out laughing and clapped Dominik on the shoulder. “It figures you married the only noble girl around with as much sass as you. Go shower. I’ll watch out for your empress.”

“You’re an ass,” Dominik muttered to him, but kissed Cuira again, to the titters and giggles of her maids, and Jyn’s snickers. “I promise he knows how to be appropriate when he feels like it.”

“I never doubted it,” Cuira promised, and cast her eyes on Jyn, adopting a strict expression that he could almost certainly see right through. “Commander, I will need you garbed appropriately. I assume you have something resembling my dear husband’s armor?”

“I- yeah?” Jyn said, apparently startled out of his laughter. “I have a dress uniform too, somewhere.”

“I would rather you look somewhat terrifying. Fear, I have discovered, makes people more inclined towards honesty,” Cuira said, and leaned into her husband’s shoulder, still just a little resentful that they had been interrupted this morning. Hopefully it wouldn’t take much to talk Dominik into another visit to her chambers, this time with rather more intent involved. “Now if you do not mind, Commander. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. Shall you meet us there, or can you be ready in time?”

“Give me five and I'll be ready,” Jyn said cheerfully and clapped Dominik on the shoulder. “Come on, Dom. Kiss your Empress and wrap it up. You need a shower before you go yell at the generals.”

“Fine, fine,” Dominik sighed, but he did kiss Cuira one more time, lingering and sweeter than she would have expected before she got to know him. When they parted, he brushed his thumb over her lips and Cuira gave him a very wicked smile that made his heart speed under her hand. “Minx. Go on, I’ll see you for lunch with your father in a few hours. Perhaps by the time I get there, I’ll feel less like shooting him.”

“If you decide to do it anyway, warn me first. This is a complicated dress,” Cuira teased him brightly and gestured at her dress. On a whim, he lifted their joined hands and encouraged her to spin for him, which she did gladly. “Blood would ruin it, and that would be a shame.”

“Perish the thought,” he agreed, and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “Now go on, or you’ll be late. Jyn, keep her safe. I don’t trust Steil not to try something stupid while my back is turned.”

+++

To Build an Empire:

Garden Dome (Subscriber Only!)

Claxon Call

First Name Basis

Arrangement of Nobles (Subscriber Only!)

Of Adamant

Cross an Ocean (Subscriber Only!)

The Second Challenge (Subscriber Only!)

Snacks and Snipers

Torn Silk and Blood

Hostage Explained