Page 47 of Realms of Swords and Storms (Empire of Vengeance #3)

T he message arrived as I was finishing my evening meal—a folded piece of parchment delivered by a boy in nondescript clothes who vanished before I could question him. No seal, no insignia, just my name scrawled across the front in a hand I recognized immediately.

Legate Santius.

I unfolded it carefully, tension creeping along my spine. The message was brief, cryptic: "The Broken Wheel. Midnight. Come alone."

The Broken Wheel was a tavern in the lower city, the kind of establishment no one of my supposed rank would frequent, let alone the Emperor's son. Which, of course, was precisely why Santius had chosen it. Whatever he needed to discuss couldn't risk being overheard by the wrong ears.

I burned the note in the flame of my desk lamp, watching the paper curl and blacken until nothing remained but ash. My evening plans—which had consisted mainly of reviewing tactical texts for next week's examination—would have to wait. When the Emperor's right hand summoned, one did not delay.

The lower city at night was a different world from the carefully manicured grounds of the academy.

Here, the streets were narrow and twisted, the buildings leaning into one another like drunken revellers, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of unwashed bodies, cheap ale, and rotting food.

I kept my hood pulled low, my expensive boots and tailored clothing hidden beneath a plain cloak I kept for such occasions.

The Broken Wheel lived up to its name. The tavern sign hung askew from a single chain, the painted wagon wheel so weathered and faded it was barely recognizable.

Inside, the low-ceilinged room was dimly lit by tallow candles that filled the air with a greasy smoke.

A handful of patrons hunched over their drinks, none giving me more than a cursory glance as I entered.

Santius was at a table in the back corner, his back to the wall, his face half-hidden in shadow.

Despite his attempt at discretion, he couldn't quite hide his military bearing—the rigid posture, the calculated positioning that gave him a clear view of both the entrance and the back door.

I made my way to him, careful not to draw attention.

"Lord Jalend," he greeted me quietly as I slid into the seat opposite him. Despite the informality of our meeting place, he didn't abandon the honorific. Some habits were too deeply ingrained.

"Legate," I returned, pitching my voice low to match his. "An unusual location for a meeting."

"Unusual times call for unusual measures." He gestured to the empty cup before me. "Drink?"

I shook my head. The ale in this establishment was likely to be more water than barley, and even if it wasn't, I needed my wits about me. Something about this clandestine meeting set my nerves on edge.

"What's this about, Legate? Why the secrecy?"

Santius leaned forward, his weathered face solemn in the flickering candlelight. "I come with a warning, my lord. And instructions from your father."

My body tensed involuntarily at the mention of the Emperor. My relationship with my father had always been complicated—a mixture of duty, fear, and a desperate, childish hope for approval that I had never quite outgrown despite knowing better.

"What warning?"

"Stay away from the Storm Festival tomorrow." His voice was flat, brooking no argument. "We have received intelligence suggesting there may be... trouble."

I kept my expression carefully neutral, though my mind was racing. "What kind of trouble?"

Santius glanced around the tavern, as if to ensure no one was within earshot. "Rumours of a possible attack by Talfen resistance elements. Nothing concrete, but enough to warrant caution."

I frowned. "If there's a credible threat, why not cancel the festival entirely? Surely public safety—"

"Cancelling would only cause panic and confusion," Santius interrupted. "And it would alert the perpetrators that we're onto them. Better to proceed as planned, with additional security measures in place."

"Additional security," I repeated, studying his face. "So there will be troops stationed throughout the city?"

"Precisely." He nodded, a thin smile stretching his lips. "Discreetly positioned to deal with any suspicious individuals. The festival should be safe enough for the general populace."

Something in his phrasing caught my attention. "Safe enough for the general populace, but not for me? If it's safe enough for citizens, surely it's safe enough for a nobleman's son."

Santius shifted uncomfortably, his eyes sliding away from mine. "Your father—the Emperor—has specifically ordered that you remain away from the festival tomorrow. It's a direct command, my lord."

"I see." I kept my voice neutral, though suspicion was now fully awakened within me. "And if I were to disobey this command?"

The Legate's face hardened. "Then I am under orders to take you into my custody until the event has concluded." He leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower. "Please don't make that necessary, Lord Jalend. I have no desire to restrain the Emperor's son."

I sat back, digesting this. The Emperor was concerned enough about tomorrow's events to ensure I was nowhere near the festival, yet not concerned enough to cancel the event itself. That suggested he knew more than Santius was revealing—or perhaps more than Santius himself knew.

"Of course I'll follow my father's orders," I said smoothly, fabricating a reassuring smile. "I appreciate the warning, Legate. Better safe than sorry, as they say."

Relief flickered across Santius's face. "Good. Very good." He took a long draught of his ale, then set the mug down with a decisive thud. "There's another matter. This conversation—our meeting tonight—must remain between us. Completely confidential."

"May I ask why?"

He hesitated, then apparently decided I deserved at least a partial truth. "We're hoping to apprehend the ringleaders of the resistance during tomorrow's festival. If word were to spread of increased security measures..."

"You're using the festival as bait," I said, the realization striking me like a physical blow. I quickly modulated my tone, ensuring it sounded like approval rather than the horror I actually felt. "A clever strategy."

"Precisely." Santius nodded, clearly relieved I understood. "The resistance has grown bold of late. Too bold. They need to be reminded of the consequences of challenging Imperial authority."

A cold knot formed in my stomach. "And the civilians attending the festival? Are they worth the risk, just to catch a few resistance leaders?"

Santius's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing me. "We're at war, Lord Jalend. A shadow war, perhaps, but a war nonetheless. There are always casualties in such conflicts."

"Of course," I agreed, though bile rose in my throat at the casual dismissal of civilian lives. "The greater good must be served."

"Exactly." He drained his ale and stood, clearly considering the conversation concluded. "Remember, my lord—stay away from the festival tomorrow. And speak of this to no one."

"You have my word, Legate." The lie came easily, born of years of court training. "I'll remain at the academy all day."

He clasped my forearm in the traditional soldier's farewell, his grip firm. "Your father will be pleased to hear of your cooperation. He worries for your safety, more than you perhaps realize."

I doubted that very much. The Emperor worried about his legacy, his bloodline, the continuation of his dynasty. My actual wellbeing had never been high on his list of concerns.

"Please convey my gratitude for his concern," I said, the courtly platitude automatic.

Santius nodded once more, then pulled his own cloak tighter around his shoulders and slipped out the tavern's back entrance, leaving me alone with my troubled thoughts.

I remained seated for several minutes, turning our conversation over in my mind.

The Empire was deliberately allowing a potentially dangerous situation to unfold, using ordinary citizens as bait to draw out resistance leaders.

And my father was ensuring I would be safely distant from whatever bloodshed might result.

Anger coiled in my gut, hot and venomous. This was the Empire I was destined to inherit—an Empire built on lies, on sacrifice, on the expendability of its own people. An Empire that saw its citizens as a means to an end, as pieces on a game board to be positioned and sacrificed at will.

I had been raised to believe in the righteousness of Imperial rule, in the necessity of harsh measures to maintain order and prosperity. But sitting there in that grimy tavern, with the taste of Santius's casual cruelty still bitter on my tongue, I found my faith in that teaching crumbling further.

What kind of ruler would I be, inheriting such a legacy? What kind of man was I now, sitting silent while innocent people were placed in danger?

I left a few coins on the table and departed, my mind in turmoil. The night air was cooler now, a welcome relief from the stifling interior of the tavern. I walked blindly, letting my feet carry me while my thoughts raced ahead, exploring and discarding possible courses of action.

I could warn people—spread word that the festival might be dangerous. But who would believe a nameless warning? And even if they did, the resulting panic might cause more harm than good.

I could try to identify the resistance leaders myself, warn them that they were walking into a trap.

But I had no way of knowing who they were or how to contact them.

And if I were caught doing so, the consequences would be.

.. severe. Treason was not taken lightly in the Empire, especially not from the Emperor's son.

I could go to the festival anyway, position myself to help if violence erupted. But would one man—even one trained as I was—make any difference in the chaos that might ensue?