With the emperor's speech concluded, Prime Minister Alan continued. "As you heard from His Majesty, the eradication of those outlaws is our foremost duty. For that task, His Majesty entrusts the operation to General Mikhail Rozasar."
Mikhail rose and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I'll raise hell upon their souls. You will not be disappointed."
Alan nodded. "We are confident in your abilities, General. But to be prudent, we will assign a unit of thirty ships under the command of your sister, Emilia Rozasar. They will join your fleet and march with you."
"Help is always welcome, especially from my sister," Mikhail replied.
Alan then outlined the mission plan. The operation, officially designated Mission: Grave, relied on the latest intelligence. "The Tartarusios is currently believed to be on Antia," he said. "A barren world in the Bermuda Galaxy. No ruling system — in short, an outlaw haven."
A hand shot up. Duchess Wistoria Lang's voice carried the question everyone wanted answered. "How did they travel such distances so quickly? The Bermuda Galaxy is nearly three million light-years from the Pascal region. Our fastest ships would take two months — yet they reached Antia in ten days."
It was a mystery that chilled the room. Alan answered carefully. "It appears they have access to a method of travel far beyond our current understanding. I doubt they can sustain that speed constantly. That interval — the cooldown — is our advantage. If we time our approach to when they must recover, we can close and destroy them."
"And the Altopereh?" someone demanded from the consul.
Alan inhaled. "To counter that threat, General Rozasar will be assigned two God units — Sirius and Pericosa — to accompany him."
Throughout the briefing Leonora listened without interrupting, watching plans mount to strike at the man she still called husband. When the meeting ended, she moved quickly toward the palace — toward the seat of the emperor himself. Her summons was granted, but only on one condition: the emperor would meet her in the Royal Garden.
The Royal Garden of Terria lay behind the palace like a living painting. Enclosed by marble walls veined with gold, it felt for a moment like a sanctuary apart from the empire's burdens. The air was soft and perfumed with lilies, night orchids, and the pale blue roses the imperial house cultivated. White stone paths ribboned through beds of blooms; fountains carved as celestial beings murmured; marble busts of long-dead rulers watched in silent procession. Oaks arched like sentinels, cherry and amber trees stitched color into the sky.
At the garden's heart rose a circular platform of pale terran marble streaked with gold. It was edged in vines and moss, and on it stood a long ceremonial table carved from a single slab of crystalwood, polished to a mirror sheen. Gilded steel chairs, padded in velvet, waited for councils, quiet feasts, and private conversation. Once, music and laughter would have drifted across this space; today only the fountains moved, white petals skimming their surfaces.
A small gazebo draped in silken curtains sheltered one side of the platform. Lanterns hung like low stars. The table bore a single unlit candelabra and garlands of blue roses — ritual arrangements kept even in grief. The garden felt like memory made physical: every tree, stone, and blossom holding a hundred private histories.
Leonora entered the garden to see the emperor already seated at the table. She approached and, by custom and habit, dropped to one knee. "Your Majesty, thank you for granting me this meeting."
"Rise, General," Johan said, and his tone carried no malice. "Sit. The tea will be brought."
She took the chair opposite him. When the servants poured their cups, Johan watched her for a long moment before speaking lightly. "How fares my cousin? Has retirement been kind?"
She lifted her cup, then set it down. "He's getting by," she answered, fingers curling around porcelain. "The treatments continue. It will take time."
Johan nodded, sipping his own tea. "He seemed steadier at the funeral. I hope he recovers." He set the cup down and fixed his gaze on her. "So — why did you want to see me, Leonora?"
She met his eyes and asked plainly, "What will happen to Youri?"
Johan clasped his hands together. "You know the law better than anyone. Those who turn their backs on the Empire have their days numbered — even if they once held noble title."
Leonora's voice tightened. "Your Majesty, I do not ask for mercy in ignorance. Consider what he has done for this realm — the battles he turned, the lives he saved. A man who served this nation his whole life... is he not worthy of some measure of grace?"
The emperor's lips curved in a faint, cold smile. He leaned forward and told a story, not unkindly: "When I was young, my father told me of a warrior who never lost a battle. there was a time when a mighty worrier went in to countless battles never lost always came out victorious, after every battle won he would always use to say I owe all this victory's to my sword, he said that again and again until one day after he head won his battle he looked at his sword, chipped and raged, its edge almost doll, any other would have taken the sword and place it some where every one would see it as a glorious mighty weapon of victory, but he did not, he went strait to the blade smith and said to the guy, take my sword and melt it all up, and from what is left make me a new and a better one, the smith cried tiers of sorrow as he melted the metal that head brought peace and prosperity to his nation, then after four days and three nights the mighty worrier comes to collect his sword, the smith looks at his eyes and ask the worrier, why did you make me destroy this mighty and glorious weapon? the worrier looks at him back and replies, I wield the sword, the sword does not wield me, as such I decide when the time comes to laid to rest.'"
The story landed like an argument, and Leonora felt it as one. Johan's meaning was clear: instruments and men alike must be shed when their usefulness ends. Still she would not relent. In a final plea she said, "Your Majesty, I respect your judgment, but — humbly — I ask you one favor. Let me see his end with my own eyes."
Johan considered her. Then he smiled — a small, almost private thing — and gave his consent. "You may accompany General Rozasar as backup. Watch the field. If fate decrees it, you will see the end you ask of."
Leonora bowed again, gratitude and grief mingling. A single tear tracked down her cheek as she rose. Her voice was steady though hollow: "Thank you."
She left the garden with a resolve pressed down like armor, the finality of her husband's fate settling into place. The Consul had spoken. The Empire would move as one. And Leonora, who had once thought she might drag him home herself, now walked toward war.