Page 60 of Realms of Swords and Storms (Empire of Vengeance #3)

T hree days. Three days since fire and death had consumed the heart of the imperial city. Three days of searching lists of the dead and wounded, of combing through makeshift hospitals and morgues, of asking endless questions that no one seemed able to answer.

Three days of hoping, then fearing, then hoping again.

I stood outside the imperial palace, my body still aching from injuries barely healed, my mind exhausted from grief and worry.

Marcus and Antonius flanked me, silent sentinels whose own suffering was etched into the lines of their faces.

We were three where we should have been six—Octavia, Septimus, and Tarshi absent in ways that felt like physical wounds.

At least we knew what had happened to Octavia. Marcus and Antonius had found her remains the previous day, had carried her broken body from the ruins with a gentleness that had broken my heart anew. We would bury her tomorrow, outside the city walls in a meadow where wildflowers grew in profusion.

But Septimus and Tarshi remained missing—not on any list of the dead, not among the wounded, simply.

.. gone. Vanished in the chaos of that terrible day.

Hope told me they might still be alive, might have escaped the city, might even now be making their way back to us.

Logic whispered crueller truths—that bodies were still being recovered, that many had been burned beyond recognition, that some might never be found at all.

"You should eat something," Marcus murmured, his voice pulling me from my dark thoughts. He offered a small bundle wrapped in cloth—bread and cheese he had somehow procured despite the food shortages gripping the city. "You've barely touched food since it happened."

I accepted the bundle but made no move to open it. "I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyway," Antonius said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You'll need your strength for what's coming."

What's coming. The words hung between us, heavy with implication.

The Emperor was due to address the city in less than an hour—his first public appearance since the attack.

Rumours had been swirling through the streets, each more ominous than the last. Retaliation against the resistance.

Military action against the Talfen territories.

A final solution to the "Talfen problem" that had plagued the Empire for generations.

Jalend had made his excuses for not joining us—some meeting with fellow scholars he couldn't postpone.

I hadn't pressed him, understanding his reluctance to be seen with known resistance sympathizers on a day like today.

He had been kind these past three days, offering comfort, helping with the search for Septimus and Tarshi, even arranging for Octavia's burial outside the city where such things were typically forbidden.

But there was something in his eyes whenever the Emperor was mentioned—a shadow, a flinch—that made me wonder what he knew that he wasn't sharing.

I unwrapped the bundle mechanically, taking a small bite of bread that tasted like dust in my mouth.

Around us, citizens gathered in increasing numbers, filling the plaza before the imperial palace.

Guards watched from every corner, their faces impassive behind polished helmets, hands resting on sword hilts.

"Do you think they survived?" I asked suddenly, the question that had been circling in my mind for three days finally finding voice. "Septimus and Tarshi. Do you think they're still alive?"

Marcus and Antonius exchanged a glance, a silent communication born of years of friendship.

"I think," Antonius said carefully, "that they are two of the most stubborn, resourceful men I have ever known. If anyone could survive what happened in that square, it would be them."

"But you don't believe they did," I pressed, needing honesty more than comfort.

Another glance between them. Then Marcus sighed. "I believe that hope is never wasted, Livia. Even when logic argues against it."

It wasn't an answer, but it was as close to one as I was likely to get. I nodded, taking another bite of bread to please them, to maintain the illusion that I was holding myself together.

In truth, I felt hollow—scraped out, emptied of everything but grief and a rage that simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for a target upon which to focus itself.

The crowd around us continued to grow, people pressing closer to the palace gates in anticipation of the Emperor's appearance.

Most faces reflected fear, confusion, grief—the expected responses to the tragedy that had befallen the city.

But I noticed others, too—faces tight with hatred, with a thirst for vengeance that mirrored what I felt churning inside me.

"The resistance is being blamed," a woman nearby whispered to her companion. "They say the Talfen orchestrated the whole thing."

"Animals," her companion replied, her voice hard with conviction. "They should all be put down."

I felt Marcus stiffen beside me, saw Antonius's hand move to rest on the concealed dagger at his belt. I placed a calming hand on each of their arms, though my own anger flared at the casual cruelty of the words.

"Not here," I murmured. "Not now."

They subsided, but the tension remained—in their bodies, in mine, in the very air around us as more citizens gathered, more whispers circulated, more hatred found voice in the crowd.

A fanfare of trumpets silenced the murmurs, all eyes turning toward the palace balcony where the Emperor would soon appear. The imperial guard formed ranks before the gates, their armour glinting in the late afternoon sun.

I found myself thinking of Jalend again, wondering why he had really chosen to be elsewhere today.

He had been devastated by the attack, by the loss of Octavia, by the disappearance of Septimus and Tarshi.

But there had been something else in his eyes when I'd told him about the Emperor's scheduled address—something that looked almost like shame.

The trumpets sounded again, and a hush fell over the crowd as the imperial doors opened, and a procession of dignitaries emerged onto the balcony.

I recognized some of them—the High Priest of the Imperial Cult, the Commander of the City Guard, various senators and nobles whose loyalty to the throne was beyond question.

And then, finally, the Emperor himself.

He looked resplendent in imperial purple, a golden laurel wreath upon his brow, his face set in lines of appropriate gravity. To anyone who didn't know better, he appeared the very picture of a leader in mourning for his people, determined to guide them through tragedy with strength and wisdom.

I knew better. I saw the calculation behind his solemn expression, the satisfaction barely concealed beneath his show of grief. This was a man who had orchestrated the deaths of hundreds of his own citizens for political gain, who had destroyed lives and families to further his own agenda.

This was the man who had taken everything from me.

"Citizens of the Empire," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the silent plaza. "Three days ago, our beloved city suffered a blow so terrible, so heinous, that words fail to encompass its horror."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

"Men, women, children—innocent lives extinguished in fire and chaos. Sacred buildings reduced to rubble. Our festival of unity transformed into a day of terror and grief."

His voice broke on the last word, a masterful display of emotion that I knew to be entirely false. I felt bile rise in my throat at the performance, at the way the crowd leaned forward, captured by his artificial sorrow.

"In the face of such tragedy, we seek answers. We demand justice. We cry out for vengeance against those who have inflicted this wound upon our city, our people, our Empire."

The murmurs grew louder, anger replacing grief in the expressions around me. I saw Marcus and Antonius exchange another glance, their faces grim with the knowledge of what was coming.

"Evidence has been gathered," the Emperor continued, his voice hardening. "Witnesses have come forward. The truth can no longer be denied, though it pains me deeply to speak it."

He paused, allowing tension to build, showing himself a master of manipulation.

"The attacks were carried out by the so-called resistance—a network of traitors and malcontents who have long sought to undermine the peace and prosperity of our Empire. But they did not act alone."

Another pause, another calculated beat of silence.

"They were aided, funded, and directed by agents of the Talfen territories.

The bombs that tore apart our city were built with Talfen technology.

The hands that placed them belonged to Talfen sympathizers.

The minds that conceived this atrocity were Talfen minds, filled with hatred for our way of life, our traditions, our very existence. "

The crowd's reaction was immediate and visceral—shouts of anger, cries for vengeance, faces contorted with a hatred stoked by lies and manipulation. I felt sick, watching how easily they were swayed, how willingly they accepted the narrative being fed to them.

"For too long, we have sought peaceful coexistence with the Talfen," the Emperor declared, raising his voice above the growing clamour.

"For too long, we have tolerated their presence within our territories, allowed them to live among us, even granted them certain privileges in the name of harmony. "

His expression hardened, all pretence of sorrow falling away, replaced by righteous anger that set the crowd alight.

"That time is over. The Talfen have shown their true nature. They have written their intentions in the blood of our children, in the ashes of our city. They will not stop until they have destroyed everything we hold dear."

The crowd roared its agreement, a sound like a gathering storm.

"Therefore, I stand before you today not only as your Emperor, but as a father who has witnessed his family threatened, as a protector who has seen his charges harmed, as a leader who must make difficult decisions for the greater good."

I felt a chill run down my spine, recognizing the rhetoric for what it was—justification for atrocity, for the violence to come.

"Tomorrow, our legions will begin a campaign unlike any in our history. We will take the fight to the Talfen territories. We will root out every nest of resistance within our borders. We will cleanse our Empire of this threat once and for all."

Cleanse. The word hung in the air, its implications clear to anyone with ears to hear. This was not talk of war, of battle between opposing forces. This was extermination, genocide cloaked in the language of security and justice.

The crowd's response was deafening—approval, bloodlust, fear transformed into violent purpose. I looked around at the faces surrounding me, at ordinary citizens transformed into a mob baying for blood and felt a despair so profound it momentarily eclipsed even my rage.

The Emperor continued speaking, outlining his plans for the "final solution to the Talfen problem," but his words began to fade in my awareness, replaced by a roaring in my ears, a pounding in my chest.

I thought of Octavia—brilliant, gentle Octavia, who had loved knowledge and beauty and had died trying to save a stranger's life.

I thought of the child Miri, who had lost her mother in an instant of flame and terror.

I thought of the hundreds of others who had died that day, imperial citizens whose lives had been sacrificed like pawns in the Emperor's game.

I thought of Tarshi, with his quiet strength and his unwavering loyalty, manipulated into helping create the very disaster that had likely claimed his life. I thought of Septimus, whose hate and rage had died in fire and destruction.

I thought of my own hands, stained with blood from years of fighting, from believing that violence could somehow lead to peace.

I had been considering laying down those weapons, had allowed myself to dream of a quieter life somewhere far from the imperial city, surrounded by the men I loved, building something that didn't require death to sustain it.

That dream was ashes now, as surely as the festival square. There could be no peace, no quiet life, no retreat from the fight—not while this man lived, not while he wielded power with such casual cruelty, not while he used the lives of innocents as currency in his political machinations.

The rage I had been holding at bay surged through me then, no longer a simmer but a boil, a white-hot fury that burned away uncertainty, that crystallized into purpose purer and more focused than anything I had felt before.

This was not the wild, chaotic anger of youth, but something colder, sharper, more dangerous—a blade honed to a single purpose.

Something broke inside me then—some final barrier between the woman I had been forced to become and the rage I had suppressed for so long.

I turned away from the balcony, the Emperor’s voice fading into an insignificant drone.

The roar of the crowd faded to a distant hum, my world narrowing to the icy hate for the man on the balcony.

He was no longer an Emperor, a symbol of power, a distant, untouchable force.

He was just a man. A man with a heart that beat, with lungs that drew breath, with blood that could be spilled. And I would be the one to spill it.

My grief for Octavia, for Septimus, for Tarshi, did not vanish.

It coiled in my gut, a serpent of ice, its venom a clarifying poison that swept away all other feeling.

The love I had felt, the hope I had foolishly nurtured—it was all cauterized, leaving behind only the clean, hard certainty of my purpose.

There would be no more running, no more hiding.

The game had changed. I was no longer a pawn.

I was the hand that would sweep the board clean, starting with the king.

I would not rest. I would not stop. I would trade my life for his, if that was what it took.

I would burn his empire to the ground, starting with its heart.

The Emperor's voice rose again, promising a swift and merciless victory.

But I no longer heard the words. I heard only the beating of his heart, a steady, rhythmic countdown to the moment I would finally make it stop.