“There is nothing sweeter than the poison we drink willingly.”


    — Praesi Saying.


    <hr>


    This is truly pathetic, the voice taunted.


    I ignored it. Barely.


    Golden eyes lit with sly amusement met mine as Akua turned to smile, her fingers trailing idly along the edge of her dress. My gaze darted away for the twentieth time, and I scowled. She knew exactly what she was doing, the damn tease. The stunning red dress she wore emphasized every curve that I didn’t have. It had to be against at least one law. And I’d be adding a new law the moment I took over if it wasn’t.


    No, I wasn’t jealous. Not one bit.


    That I wore a matching dress did nothing for my mood. I’d look good anywhere else. Next to her? I was little more than a convenient mirror to make her shine brighter.


    I reminded myself — not for the first time — that I planned to plant a knife in her back the moment it suited me. Climb the Tower, kill the Empress, and claim a side dish of dead Heiress before taking the throne. Of course, she was plotting the same for me. I didn’t doubt that for a moment. The silk gloves and delicate smiles didn’t change that. But at least the knives were visible with her if I looked closely.


    Unlike the Black Knight.


    He would’ve killed me outright. I doubted he’d keep a traitorous apprentice around. That, or I’d have grown complacent around him. Akua? She was a walking lesson in paranoia, a reminder that trust was a fool’s currency. She expected treachery from me. Encouraged it, even. She was a shining example of every Praesi virtue.


    “Prepared, I trust, Catherine?” Akua inquired in a tone that sent a shiver down my spine as we strolled down a wide — and strangely deserted — avenue.


    The dark cloud overhead shifted, briefly revealing the Tower. A hulking spire of black stone clawing at the sky like a hungry beast. One that defied all reason. Stories didn’t do it justice; you had to stand at its feet to grasp its sheer scale. The entire Blessed Isle ruins could’ve fit inside its walls, and it was so tall that its peak disappeared into the haze.


    “Enough to make it through the evening,” I muttered. “Does that suffice?”


    It still boggled my mind that the empire would fall apart without its nobles stabbing each other in the back. The Tower was merely another monument to their dysfunction. Poisoned food and wine were just the appetizers of its politics. Those who didn’t bring antidotes made a fool of themselves. I’d already planned to cleanse anything I ate with my Name.


    “Confident, are we?” she teased, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “At least we’re sparing the gate your… colourful repartee.”


    Only official summons granted entry through the front gates. This was to be my unofficial introduction to the court at the Tower. Heiress would’ve preferred more time for me to “absorb civilized culture,” but circumstances had forced her hand.


    “Nobody’s stupid enough to trade barbs with a demon,” I complained.


    “After the memorable affair in Okoro…” she mused.


    “Once is hardly a pattern,” I excused.


    “Then consider the complications in Nok,” she teased.


    “Hardly my fault he couldn’t handle his drink,” I defended.


    It didn’t take me long to realize I could get away with exacting a spot of vengeance on nobility here, so long as I played it right. The trick was to frame the deaths as an unfortunate political necessity. Poison was approved of, though I failed to understand the appeal. Knifing someone in a back alley was apparently uncouth, but poisoning their wine at a dinner party? Why, that was practically high art.


    “You poisoned him,” Akua drawled, “Despite my warnings, of course.”


    “The Squire, then,” I deflected as my cheeks warmed. “Let’s start there.”


    Akua allowed my evasion with an amused smile.


    The Black Knight had taken on a Squire, a Callowan boy named William of Greenbury. His sister perished in the flames set on a farm during a strike by the rebellion. He’d tried for vengeance and nearly died for it, only to be saved by the Black Knight at the last moment.


    “It would have been preferable to wait before presenting you to the Court,” she affected care.


    Heiress wanted me as her Black Knight. She claimed that made this Squire my rival. She loved to preach about how our iron only grew sharper by cutting it against those fate had so graciously lined up for us to crush, as if she were handing out life advice instead of plotting murder. For now, I’d play the part. Later, I’d decide whose throat to cut first.


    “Patience is a luxury we can’t afford right now,” I agreed.


    “Acquainting yourself with your rival is vital,” her eyes lingered on me as she spoke. “It should not be overly challenging; he is yet unpolished in the ways of Praes.”


    I squashed the warmth the words evoked under the heel of my shoes. They were spoken in a tone that I’d come to realize meant genuine praise. No surprises, the monster was approving whenever I became more monstrous.


    “Right,” I acknowledged. “Blend in, listen, and keep out of trouble.”


    We climbed the stairs in silence. The steps — carved into the likeness of weeping men and women — pressed a steady rhythm into my back as we ascended. Charming. Was there a specific branch of architecture for Evil? Because this was a strong argument for it.


    Twin rows of steel-clad soldiers in black iron masks flanked the staircase. The silent march of their presence alone was sufficient to make anyone feel insignificant. A fitting reminder for the madmen who passed through these halls.


    At least I knew what I was doing when I climbed my Tower, the Voice mused.


    When you climbed the—wait, what? I thought back.


    The voice didn’t answer. Typical.


    Heiress led me to a side passage near the gates, the sound of our heels echoing against smooth obsidian walls. Runes and symbols thrummed with latent sorcery. The air thrummed with energy, an almost imperceptible vibration that raised the hairs on my arms. I shivered despite myself, grateful we weren’t entering through that demonic gate.


    The antechamber led into a high-ceilinged room of cold black stone, barren of tapestries or warmth. The mosaics on the walls — an unsettling weave of reds and greys — drew the eye despite the gut-deep instinct to look away. I knew better than to look. The gibberish that would pour out of my mouth afterwards was a humiliation I had no intent of enduring. Two sets of spiralling stairs rose to the first level, their railings sculpted into snake tails so lifelike that I half-expected them to writhe. I kept my hands to myself.


    Akua paused at the top of the staircase and spoke, “sharpen your resolve, Catherine.”


    Resolve. Right. I’d confided in Akua about my struggles to control the shadows clawing at my mind’s edges. She’d suggested with the usual flavour of Praesi Evil that fulfilling my Role would help. As if giving in to mass murder or megalomania was an eminently reasonable solution to my woes. I’d decided to accept what I could. Leaning into the parts of villainy I could stomach without wanting to claw my own skin off.


    You’ll justify liking all of it before you reach the top, the words intruded on my thoughts.


    “I do,” I ignored the voice as I replied.


    We stepped through an archway into the aptly named Hall of Screams. The place where people ended up when they tried for the Tower and failed. The air reeked of blood and rot. Rows of human heads were strung up on silk ropes to either side. They swayed gently like gruesome wind chimes, before turning as one to face us.


    The moaning started.


    A chorus of agony sang in over a dozen different languages I couldn’t name.


    My breath hitched. My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my palms.


    This is what I chose. I’ve seen and done worse. I can live with this.


    The voice in my heard laughed at my lie.


    We stepped foot on the second floor. Carved from the same unyielding stone, the space sprawled open with no real walls, just sculpted archways leading to oversized circular balconies. Masked guards in eerie silence stood between them like statues. The only sound was the faint echo of our footsteps against stone.


    Akua led us to a balcony adorned with the number twenty-four in Miezen numerals. She whistled a sharp, commanding note as we approached. A shadow fell over the balcony as a monstrous, grey-skinned creature with bat-like wings descended. Its hissing revealed jagged, blood crusted teeth. I swallowed.


    “I expected something more… impressive,” the words slipped out of my mouth.


    “In Aksum, they come much larger,” she suggested.


    “I think I’ll pass,” I said dryly.


    “Best to steer clear of the head,” she advised, “they have a penchant for snapping.”


    I stepped back quickly, not trusting her casual tone. She offered her hand as she climbed onto the beast. I hesitated before clasping it, her touch as infuriatingly steady as her gaze.


    Leather handles bolted into the saddle offered the illusion of safety as Akua gave the order and the creature leapt. I clenched the handles. Shadows whispered in my ears as I bit down a scream that would have delighted the Tower’s residents. The wings snapped open, catching the wind, and we climbed steadily. My stomach still hadn’t caught up when we landed. I exhaled as solid ground welcomed us like an old friend.


    The balcony we disembarked onto was as ostentatious as everything else in this damned place—gilded, jewelled, and suffocatingly rich. Catherine of the past would’ve called it gaudy. It barely registered after five months in Wolof. Golden hooks jutted from the walls for coats we didn’t have. I flexed my fingers, burying the wince at the ache from gripping the saddle beneath a mask.


    The creature hissed at me again. I glared back.


    Go ahead and try me.


    My first thought upon stepping into the chamber was that there was no way this absurd space actually fit inside the Tower. It was excessive in every way. The ceiling soared like it wanted to touch the heavens. Black marble was back in full force, with an extra helping of ostentatious red, green, and gold drapery. Subtlety had clearly been dragged out behind the Tower and put out of its misery along with all the other peasants that had died building this monument to hubris. The floor was a massive mosaic featuring a chaotic tangle of scenes that practically screamed, “Look at me! I’m historically significant!” A stylized siege of Ater unfolded beneath my boots. I’d guess it was the First Crusade, but I wasn’t entirely certain.


    However, my attention didn’t linger on the décor.


    The gallery teemed with hundreds of people, all engaging with each other in quiet conversation. I’d grown used to Praesi nobility after five months in Wolof, but they still looked magnificent in their element. Silk and brocade, velour and velvet in every gaudy shade under the storm clouds. Hairstyles so elaborate they could double as siege engines. Arcane patterns shaved into scalps, emeralds braided into hair, and more than one outfit that should’ve been declared a crime against good taste. Taghreb, Soninke, human, orc—all here to preen and sneer. No goblins, though. Not that I could see, anyway. They might have been hiding behind someone’s robes.


    Akua swept ahead, serene and imperious, a queen among lesser mortals. I schooled my expression into neutrality, the only safe mask in a room like this. A strange melody lilted quietly in the background.


    “Lady Akua, Lady Catherine,” Fasili greeted with a shallow dip of the head. “Gods turn a blind eye to your schemes.”


    Ah, Fasili. His voice practically dripped with the kind of affected warmth that made me want to scrub my ears after hearing it. He stood beside Hawulti Sahel. I’d met both of them before in Wolof. They were apparently our allies. Both of them shining examples of everything I hated about Praes. I tucked away the hint of hesitation in his voice for later. It might not matter tonight, but I’d enjoy thinking of it when I one day slit his throat.


    “Lord Fasili, Lady Hawalti,” I greeted them with false cheer. “May blood never whet your blade.”


    The glimmer of anger that flashed across Fasili’s handsome face was worth the effort. A lovely thing, veiled insults. I’d learned them from Heiress. The suggestion that he wasn’t worthy of facing real opponents since Aksum’s loss to Malicia must’ve stung. It was meant to.


    You only did that because it made Akua smile, the words invaded my thoughts.


    “Lord Fasili,” Akua interrupted, “how proceeds matters at court?”Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    I allowed the conversation wash over me and contributed only when addressed. My responses were the sort of vapid platitudes that were common within these walls. Meanwhile, I kept an ear out for anything of use.


    The lull in conversation was sudden, a palpable shift in the air as the music dwindled away.


    I turned, and fury coiled hot in my gut. A green-eyed familiar figure in black armour marched toward the throne. The Black Knight. A boy trailed behind him. Dark-haired, green-eyed, maybe fifteen summers old. He wore the sort of brooding expression that belonged on the cover of the books I’d caught Abigail reading. A pang of worry struck me. She’d had to stay behind in Wolof.


    The boy looked utterly lost in the court. Like a child playing dress-up in armour. The anger burned brighter. Stupid, irrational anger. I’d considered trying to apprentice under the Black Knight once. I’d thought it might be my way forward. Then I’d decided it wasn’t worth the cost. And now here was this fool, walking in and siding with the man who’d broken Callow.


    A touch on my arm pulled me from the spiral. Akua’s fingers lingered a fraction too long, sending a shiver up my spine. Her nod toward the boy was subtle, but the message was clear. I mirrored the gesture with a smile that was all teeth. It was time for me to become acquainted with my “rival.”


    He could be trying to do the same thing as you, my mental partner explained.


    The flames of anger sputtered but refused to die completely. The voice had a point, which only irritated me further. There was nothing more grating than when I agreed with the voice in my head, since half the time it advocated for heroism.


    Maybe the boy wasn’t an enemy. Perhaps his path only looked like a betrayal because it mirrored my own. But that was a problem for another time. I’d play Akua’s game for now. I’d decide whether he was a traitor or not when we met again in quieter circumstances.


    The path cleared ahead, revealing the throne—and her.


    I spared the legendary chair little more than a glance.


    My attention was drawn to the woman seated upon it.


    Dread Empress Malicia.


    I’d seen beautiful women before, but compared to her, they might as well have been pigs. She was more than beautiful; she was alive. Radiant, commanding, impossible to ignore. She wore her power like a second skin, her silk dress of green and gold flowing like water over her figure. Even the sharpness of her Soninke features was rendered irrelevant by the sheer force of her presence.


    She rose with the easy grace of a predator.


    “All kneel for Her Most Dreadful Majesty Malicia, First of Her Name, Tyrant of Dominions High and Low, Holder of the Nine Gates, Sovereign of All She Beholds,” a harsh voice rang out.


    I wanted to spit.


    Instead, I bent at the knee along with everyone else.


    For now.


    You’ll never get a better chance to kill her than this, the voice suggested.


    How many other people thought that? I argued with the poor idea.


    The illusion of safety is an illusion, it protested.


    I’d just die in the process, I challenged.


    Better than becoming a monster, it countered.


    “We,” The Black Knight’s voice cut through my internal argument, “do not kneel.”


    His quiet words carried like the dying of a pig in the hush of the room. Heavy with meaning, a claim, a challenge. He wasn’t bound by the law—he was the law. There he and William stood, clad in steel and black like a pair of crows perched on the edge of a feast, surrounded by preening peacocks in silks and gold. The only ones still on their feet while the rest of us played ths stupid game of submission.


    A sharp and familiar resentment clawed its way up my throat. A press of the boot. Another chain to pull me to the ground. I bit down hard on my lip, my glare slicing across the room like a dagger aimed for no one and everyone at once.


    They’re not the ones with a boot on your neck any more. You are.


    Dread Empress Malicia’s smile was a thing of silk and poison as she sashayed toward the two of them.


    I swallowed down the bitterness with a promise.


    One day I’ll see you all dead.


    One day.


    “Welcome home, Amadeus,” the Empress said. “I see you brought along your Squire.”


    “It’s good to be home, Malicia,” the monster replied mildly. “If I may introduce William, formerly of Greenbury.”


    The boy’s face flickered with confusion before he realized they were talking about him. My lips twitched in mirth.


    “My dear Knight has long been delaying the taking of an apprentice,” she mused. “I look forward to finding out how you changed his mind. I must confess I have great hopes for you, Squire.”


    Her smile could have lit a battlefield. I suspected it might’ve once or twice, if only to watch the carnage. She turned that same devastating expression on the rest of us.


    “We all have great hopes for you,” the Dread Empress asserted.


    We rearranged our faces into polite agreement, like marionettes tied to the same strings.


    “I’ll do everything I can to live up to them, Your Majesty,” the red cheeked boy croaked earnestly.


    “How is the Empire, Black Knight?” the Empress asked, her voice carrying like a songbird in the cavernous chamber.


    “Quiet,” the green-eyed monster replied, flashing the kind of grin that made me want to wash my hands. “But eager for another reminder.”


    “And the provinces?” she inquired.


    Provinces. My face settled into something appropriately neutral, hiding the bile rising in my throat. Provinces. That was Callow to them. Nothing more than a rough, uncivilized backwater meant for stripping bare. And the worst part? They weren’t entirely wrong. I’d walked the streets of Wolof. I’d seen its grandeur. Even at our best during the rebellion, Laure and Summerholm looked like a child’s sketch of a city in comparison.


    “Settled,” the Black Knight continued. “For now.”


    Malicia cast a soulful look at the nobles.


    “After the threat of gnomish intervention…” the Tyrant of the Tower trailed off with false sincerity. “I do hate ending old bloodlines.”


    I stilled.


    Gnomish intervention. Because of course. As if dabbling with apocalyptic consequences were a pastime for them. Did they think they’d tinker their way into invincibility before the Gnomes turned the entire empire to ash? I’d read what I could on Procer’s little disaster. I’d read about an entire city blotted out as casually as swatting a fly. Insanity. Or maybe arrogance. They tended to mix the two around here until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.


    “It is,” the Empress spoke with genteel regret, “a great shame that the High Lady of Foramen forced our hand in such a way again.”


    She played the picture of a grieving young woman, but her words coiled like a whip.


    Black turned to face the gathering, and his expression held no such pretence. The thing I’d fought outside Summerholm looked out at them through his luminous green eyes, grinning with too many teeth.


    “That is ever the way, with those who overreach,” he said, his tone almost pleasant. “It should be remembered that unsightly ambition so often lead to an unsightly end.”


    He raised a single nail, tapping it against his palm with deliberate slowness. The room fell still, breaths caught somewhere between fear and anticipation. A single gesture was all it took to remind them that High Lady Amina had been left to rot on a cross.


    Look at them all squirm. How many of these vultures are rehearsing the same insincere regret for you, I wonder?


    The realization hit me like a punch. None of this was spontaneous. The easy exchange between the Black Knight and Malicia was choreographed. Not rehearsed, exactly—it was too fluid for that—but practised nonetheless. They’d been performing this duet for so long that it had become instinctive.


    So this is how it works.


    Malicia’s was the diplomat. The voice of reason. The one who respected the old families and their so-called “contributions.” And standing beside her was the monster. He was the reminder that the Empire’s aristocracy would be nothing more than decorative stains in the Hall of Screams without her. Her hand brushed his arm lightly. Hundreds of stares followed the deliberate motion. We all read the message nestled within: Look at my monster. Isn’t he dangerous? And aren’t you lucky that I’m the one holding the leash?


    “Now that the inevitable politics are out of the way,” Malicia said with hollow cheerfulness, “we can get back to the part of the evening you’re all actually here for.”


    Polite and obligatory laughter rippled through the room. I forced a smile, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was supposed to be amused by. Malicia clapped her hands, and the music swelled to life once more. The court dissolved into cliques as nobles and their sycophants weaved through the chamber like hungry rats. The smell of something sweet and cloying filled the air as servants emerged with trays of wine.


    Malicia’s parting smile was one of practised warmth as she drifted away into the throng. It was impressive how she managed to seem approachable without ever being truly accessible. A lesson in appearing human while keeping the knives tucked firmly behind her back.


    Are you watching closely, Catherine? This is what Evil winning looks like. A constant game of knives in a Tower where everyone wants you dead.


    I ignored the voice and wandered to one of the refreshment tables. It took only a few moments before I selected an Arlesite red—a bold, acidic vintage that matched the mood of the evening. I let the liquid roll over my tongue for a moment before burning the poison away. It didn’t take long to spot Akua, her entourage of vultures forming an elegant circle. Our minions, I corrected, teeth gritting at the thought. My steps carried me back toward them, though not without a glance at William.


    The Squire stood in the centre of the court, looking like a lost lamb in a den of wolves. He exchanged a few awkward words with a woman with ink-stained hands, only for her to disappear moments later. He shuffled toward an orc girl beside another table. The Squire’s gaze lingered on her distrustfully for a few moments, before he squared his shoulders and whispering something under his breath.


    “-taking care of my sisters up north,” the orc said, “so I got stuck doing it.”


    I let my feet carry me closer as the orc skewered a cutlet with efficient brutality and loaded it onto her plate. I mirrored the action with a deliberate calm, allowing the tension to ripple.


    “Should I even ask if those are safe?” William asked the orc.


    Safe? The question almost made me laugh. He didn’t know how to burn poison with his Name?


    “Completely,” I lied, looking up and meeting his gaze.


    The long tusked green skin snorted, her tone dry as ash.


    “Don’t listen to her,” she advised. “They’re poisoned. Should’ve planned this one better, Squire.”


    “You’re an unusual sight for a place like this,” I said.


    “It feels as if everyone wants me to die,” the Squire muttered under his breath.


    “Smile, nod, and pretend you care,” I advised. “It’s the safest way to survive.”


    “Good advice,” the orc interjected. “You should listen to it.”


    “You don’t exactly look old enough to belong here,” he said.


    “Power opens doors here,” I explained, rolling my eyes. “Not years.”


    The Squire examined my face like he might find a hidden truth in its angles.


    He hesitated.


    “You’re no Taghreb,” William accused.


    He thought I was Taghreb?


    “Sharp eyes,” I agreed sarcastically.


    William stiffened.


    “Traitor,” he snarled.


    A knot of nausea tightened my stomach, but I shoved it aside. I couldn’t afford vulnerability. My “allies” would jump upon it.


    “Who are we blaming now?” I feigned confusion.


    “People talk about you,” he declared.


    “Only good things,” Hawulti interjected, “or so I’ve heard.”


    I felt the weight of another’s presence behind me. My gaze flicked left and right, confirming what I already knew. Hawulti and Fasili had positioned themselves at my flanks, boxing me in with their presence. It took all my willpower not to roll my eyes. I looked every inch the scheming villain they painted me as, with these two at my sides.


    This would be funny to watch if it wasn’t so abysmally tragic, the Voice drawled.


    “You brought your lackeys with you?” William mocked.


    “Where are your friends?” I asked. “Mine came on their own.”


    William’s face darkened further.


    “Of course,” William snarled, “the Reluctant Strategist’s monster sides with the Truebloods.”


    “Poor breeding is no excuse for poor manners,” Fasili said with a sigh.


    I swallowed the first unwise retort that came to mind and shaped it into something fit for the audience.


    “Those who wallow in the circumstances of their birth deserve only scorn for it,” I drawled.


    William’s fists clenched.


    “You slaughtered Callowan farmers,” he said through gritted teeth.


    Angels will switch sides before he hears you out, the Voice snorted.


    The voice was probably correct. Unfortunate. I shrugged, feigning indifference as I met his gaze.


    “Which farmers, exactly?” I said with a shrug. “There’s been such a long line.”


    The air between us turned brittle as his hands reached for his sword.


    “What exactly do you mean by that?” William hissed.


    I took another sip of my wine.


    “Do you expect me to keep a tally? It’s exhausting,” I replied.


    There was a flash. I felt a sting as a line of red cut itself across my face.


    The crowd quietened.


    “Must barbarity be your sole contribution?” Akua interjected with a sniff.


    William’s eyes darted from me to Akua, to everyone else. Then, it sank in that he’d made a mistake. I was about to open my mouth and turn the moment to my advantage when another voice cut in.


    “My, my,” the Empress murmured. “Such spirited youths we have in attendance tonight. What seems to be the problem, my dears?”


    I saw Akua’s knees begin to bend. Recalling what I’d learned, I followed suit a heartbeat later.


    “Your Majesty,” I spoke as I rose to my feet. “I was only offering advice on etiquette when the Squire turned his blade upon me.”


    “That wasn’t the real argument,” the Squire challenged, before his eyes widened.


    “Why don’t you explain the nature of the disagreement?” honey dripped from her tongue.


    William hunched his shoulders.


    “Nothing,” William stammered. “Just a mistake.”


    “I trust that we will have no more mistakes of this kind, hmm?” Malicia’s eyes sparkled as she spoke.


    William nodded stiffly.


    The Empress’s gaze lingered on us for a few moments before she swept away.


    The Squire spared me one more glance before stalking off in her shadow.


    Approval radiated from Akua as she smiled beside me.


    The knot in my stomach tightened further.