The Witch's Cursed Daughter

70. A Solemn Sentence

Clearing his throat loudly, the Emperor narrowed his eyes, like a predator before the hunt. "Chancellor Lucienne Ad Henos, as of this moment, you are stripped of your position and title of Marquess. With the rank of a commoner, there is little I can do for you now that you have plotted and aided traitors to the crown, aiming for your Emperor's life."

As the Emperor's guards rushed forward and grabbed hold of Lucienne, a dizzying reel of emotions swept through him. Images of Julian from when he was young, learning the sword, hiding from his mother. His mother, Sharlo, had been the love of Lucienne's life; no other woman had come close to her beauty, intelligence or heart. Having remained an unmarried man all his days, staying true to his affections, the thought of reuniting with her where the Myrde sings was a firm comfort as the grips on his arms tightened while he was dragged away.

"Lucienne Ad Henos, you are sentenced to death," the Emperor's voice shattered through his thoughts. The result was unsurprising; having lived in war when he was a young man Lucienne did not fear death, but he did fear the viridescent eyes of the princess, whose lips curled prettily as she followed him towards The Chamber.

***

After journeying around the empire at the Emperor's behest for almost a month, Wen finally returned to the gigantic stone Wall that surrounded the palace. Standing on the bridge, which signified the tragic death of the young Lady Myrde several years ago, the first prince watched a large corpse hang limp and unaffected by the late spring breeze.

Even with no eyes in its head, nails in its fingers, no feet to walk to the other world, and no shirt to protect its dignity, Wen was confident that he recognised the corpse. Shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight, he whispered words so softly they may as well have been a thought, "May you fly with the Myrdes and watch over us all."

Not wishing to remain in the presence of the dead, Wen made his way inside, not stopping by his own palace or study; he walked unaccompanied towards the throne room. Wen spotted Kallin Ro Beras, the Emperor's steward, scuttling in the same direction, blinded by a stack of papers en- route to the same destination. Following behind him without offering a hand, the two arrived at their journey's end simultaneously.

Having been unaware of Wen's presence, Kallin jumped, scattering a few papers, "Greetings, Your Imperial Highness, I hope you're travels were enjoyable."

"As enjoyable as they could be," Wen responded irritably, "is my father inside?" Looking down at the sheets by his feet, Wen noticed one of the sketches seemed to be for a new type of weapon; before he had the chance to examine it, Kallin answered.

"Yes, I will come back later. Please take your time," the steward courteously bowed as he collected the loose sheets from the floor before retreating in the same direction as he had arrived.

Watching him leave, Wen wondered about the weapon he had seen. All decisions regarding the guards, budget, even the military had been run by him for years, yet this was new unreported information. His brain wracking its internal bookshelves, Wen nodded to the knights by the doors, signalling his intent to enter. As he has suspected, the Emperor was relaxed in his throne, which had been upgraded yet again. Over the years, as the kingdom's wealth grew and the empire flourished, the Emperor had grown greedier, distancing the wealth between the crown and nobles, nobles and commoners, increasing the slave trade exponentially.

The previous gold throne had been replaced by one so intricate it is said more than three artisans could no longer work as the strain to complete such delicate craftsmanship had rendered their hands useless. Jewels from only one certain source glittered from the eyes of multiple Myrde sculptures flying out from the chair and studded the feet, cushions, and armrests.

Wen waded through the thick green carpets, approaching the Emperor, finding a white marking to bow over before addressing his father. Waiting for permission to speak, Wen remained with his head dipped uncomfortably. Almost an hour passed before an amused snicker broke the silent, light-filled hall.

"Father, my brother must be tired; after all, he did only just return," Illea entered through a side door and danced over to her older brother's side, genuine concern welling in her eyes.

"You are right, dear daughter," the Emperor agreed dispassionately, "welcome home, my son, what do you wish to report?"

Raising his head, Wen felt as though invisible needles were rotating into the nerves as blood rushed through the previously strained muscles. Without making eye contact, Wen said politely, "I see that there has been a change in staffing during my absence."