The open court dispersed with echoes still trembling against the pillars. The scent of ink, wax, and iron lingered where judgment had been carved into flesh. The Emperor did not return to his chambers. He turned instead toward the inner hall–a quieter place, where the lamps burned low and secrets burned lower.
The great doors shut behind him. Only a handful of officials and Imperial Scholars remained: those who had stood beside him during Jo Berque's trial, and those who had not, yet wished to share the reflected light of loyalty. The Preceptor was absent; having departed earlier to tend to matters none dared question.
Dharam sat upon the smaller throne of the inner court, a thing less adorned but more dangerous in its intimacy. He said nothing for a while. The men bowed and waited. The silence stretched until even their hearts began to count the seconds.
At last, a minister stepped forward, his tone trembling with hopeful deference.
"Congratulations, Your Majesty. The riot has finally subsided. The realm is at peace again."
Dharam's gaze rose from the polished floor. His lips curved–not into pleasure, but into irritation barely masked.
"Really? That is all?"
He rose abruptly, robes whispering like drawn blades.
"Peace? You call this peace? Fools."
His hand crashed against the arm of the throne. "If those commoners had not been selfish, we would be drowning in blood by now. We barely escaped a greater storm, and you celebrate drizzle!"
The officials fell to their knees, voices quivering.
"Your Highness, forgive us. We do not understand what troubles you so."
"You don't?" His laughter came sharp and humorless. "Jo Berque! None of those peasants spoke his name today, but do you think their silence will last? Do you think rumor sleeps forever? The man vanished, and not one of you has sense enough to invent a truth before the real one crawls out of its hole."
He paced down the steps, the sound of his boots measured, deliberate. "We need a story. A diversion. Something that turns the eyes of the Empire away from the dungeon and toward the horizon. Who among you has wit enough to give it shape?"
The hall froze. No answer came. Then, from the back row, a timid voice broke the air.
"Your Majesty… I may have an idea."
Heads turned. A young scholar stepped forward, hands trembling as he bowed. His robe was new, the ink on his cuffs still fresh. Dharam's eyes narrowed.
"I haven't seen you before. Who are you?"
"Your Majesty, I am the disciple of Imperial Scholar Yike. My master is away on an assignment of importance and sent me to attend in his stead. I beg forgiveness if my presence offends."
"Fine," the Emperor said, settling back onto the throne. "You are forgiven. Speak."
The youth's voice steadied as he spoke, though his eyes darted like startled fish.
"My thought, Your Majesty, is simple. None beyond this hall knows what became of General Berque. Why not use that? Issue a false decree–a mission sealed years ago, a dangerous posting to the Snow Mounts in the far north. The terrain there devours travelers, the beasts are legends themselves, and no word returns once one enters. If we spread the tale that he was dispatched on an imperial mission, none can question his absence. Alive or dead, his silence will serve the Empire."
A murmur ran through the court. Dharam's expression eased into a smile–not of joy, but of approval sharpened by opportunity. He rose and descended the steps, stopping before the trembling youth.
"A clever thought," he said softly. "Truly a good disciple of Yike." His hand fell on the young man's shoulder. "You have solved a knot in the Empire's throat."
The court exhaled in relief–until Dharam's tone changed.
"Therefore," he continued smoothly, "you will carry this decree yourself. You will go to the Snow Mount and find General Jo Berque. You will not return until you have found him–or his bones. Take this Onzai Token; with it, you may command twenty Imperial guards. Leave tomorrow at dawn."
The hall froze. The color drained from the scholar's face. He bowed low, but his thoughts screamed behind his composure. He remembered then his master's old warning: Speak last, never first, and never show wit before a throne.
But it was too late.
"Meeting dismissed," Dharam declared. "The young scholar departs tomorrow. Take what you need from the Treasure Hall–but not from the Vault Chamber. It is sealed."
He turned away. Relief spread among the officials like oil on calm water. For the rest, the boy's sacrifice was lesson enough.
That night, the dungeon below the palace breathed with cold damp air. Torches smoked in the narrow corridor, each flame fighting its own reflection against the wet stone. The guards stiffened when the Emperor's steps echoed toward them.
"Open it," he said.
Chains rasped. The iron door swung inward.
Jo Berque sat against the far wall, a shadow within shadow. His beard had turned to ash; his body, once carved from war, was now a framework of hunger and endurance. His eyes, though, still carried the same light–the patient glare of a man who refuses to die on another's command.
Dharam stepped closer, smiling as though visiting an old friend.
"Long time no see, Jo Berque. How fares your life in Snow Mount?"
The name twisted mockery into conversation. He looked around the cell, clicking his tongue.
"You've grown thin. Poor Berque, the mighty general turned into a relic. Who starved you like this, I wonder?"
He turned toward the wardens, his tone sharpening.
"Who told you not to feed him?"
The guards exchanged glances, terrified. One stammered, "Your High–"
"Enough," Emperor Dharam cut in smoothly, lips curling into a smile. "I think four hands are enough to fill your stomach, aren't they, Jo?"
The wardens froze, understanding too late. The Emperor's cruelty was deliberate. They bowed low and obeyed. Shame burned their faces as they knelt and fed the broken general with their bare hands, spooning rough gruel between cracked lips.
Dharam watched, voice mild, almost tender.
"As for me, I only ordered mercy. How strange that mercy looks so much like punishment when given too late."
Jo Berque chewed slowly, not out of hunger but defiance. Each mouthful was an insult thrown back at the throne. For the guards, the act was degradation. For him, humiliation greater than any wound.
The Emperor's words drifted like smoke.
"Do you know, Jo, how your people wept for you? They rioted in your name. So touching. And yet, because of you, more will die before I am finished. You are a fine man to hang the sins of the empire upon."
He crouched lower, the smile gone now, voice dropping into cold amusement.
"I've not seen your family yet. I wonder if they're still alive. Perhaps I should send someone to check?"
Jo's voice cracked the still air–dry, low, but unmistakably steady.
"Do what you wish. You won't learn what you seek. You can't kill me. You can't kill my name."
Dharam's face hardened. The smirk died. He straightened slowly, his tone turning glacial.
"Wait and see."
He left without looking back. The torches dimmed in his wake, and the cell closed again upon silence.
Far from the palace, beyond the forests and the fog, the valley exhaled its evening warmth.
It was that same night–while torches still burned in the palace court, while verdicts and vengeance were shaping the Empire's heart–where two travelers rested at a tavern deep in the mountain forest.
Lanterns hung in rows, their glow trembling upon wooden walls. The younger traced faint lines across his cup; the elder smiled at something unseen. The scent of roasted fish and spiced wine thickened the air, wrapping the room in the gentleness of a world untouched by schemes or thrones.
Outside, fireflies drifted in lazy arcs over the stream, their reflections scattering like fallen stars.
The Empire turned as it always had–half in laughter, half in shadow.