Chapter 142 – Successional Leverage
(Erynd)
Nyxa had decided my lap was a sovereign territory again.
She was sitting sideways across me in my office chair, veil pushed back, bare feet hooked under the armrest like she was a teenager and not an eldritch witch older than my entire timeline. Her head rested against my chest, one hand lazily poking my ribs through my shirt.
"This document's stupid," she muttered, flicking the edge of a report. "Why are there eight pages about grain?"
"Because without those eight pages of grain, everything else collapses," I said. "Civilization is just logistics with better clothes."
"Civilization is boring," she decided.
"Yes."
I didn't move her off.
It was easier to read around a clinging witch than argue with one.
The knock came in two sharp raps.
"Come in," I called.
The door opened.
Tamara stepped in.
She'd dressed like she was walking into a duel: plain shirt, fitted vest, sword at hip. Hair tied back. Face blank in that very specific way that meant she was working very, very hard not to show anything.
In her hand: a cream paper tube sealed with thick red wax.
Royal crest.
Nyxa stiffened on my lap, eyes snapping to the seal.
"Father," she said quietly. "That has the Emperor's stink on it."
"I can see that, yes," I said.
Tamara didn't sit. She crossed the room and held the tube out like it weighed more than her sword.
"From the Royal Escort," she said. "It came addressed to you. Julia scanned it for tricks already. It's… about me."
Her voice was steady. Her knuckles were white.
I took the tube, broke the wax, unrolled it.
The handwriting was, as always, immaculate and devoid of soul. The Empire could execute people with ink alone.
I read.
Of course.
"Ah," I said. "They went with that version."
Nyxa tilted her head back to see my face. Tamara watched me like she was waiting for a sentence.
I read aloud, because there was no point softening it.
[ "By decree of His Imperial Majesty, after due investigation into the deaths of Duke Orvel and his heir, it is the determination of the Crown that these tragedies were self-inflicted, with no evidence of external interference or treasonous intent.
In accordance with imperial succession law, Lady Tamara of House Orvel is hereby recognized as successional duke and provisional head of her house, pending formal investiture at a time of the Crown's choosing.
Her person is under imperial protection. Her loyalty is trusted. This matter is closed." ]
"The matter is closed," I repeated. "How comforting."
Tamara's jaw clenched hard enough I heard it.
"So that's it," she said. "They're calling it suicide."
Father. Brother.
Suicide.
I remembered Marion's voice in my office months ago, shaking and flat at the same time as she described what the brothers had done when Tamara wasn't there.
How the father had killed his wife when she'd tried to interfere.
Marion had been more mother to Tamara than the woman who birthed her.
The brothers had treated her like… property.
So I'd given them rope. Tools. A stage. And crafted deaths that would pass every official examination as self-inflicted.
Painful. Prolonged. Unmistakably "their own fault" in the ledgers.
The father had put a blade through his own throat before I'd reached him. One small mercy I hadn't been allowed to plan.
I kept all of that off my face.
"You knew they'd go this way," I said aloud.
I saw the flicker in her eyes: yes.
She wasn't stupid. She'd seen enough of the Empire to know it preferred clean paperwork over messy truth.
"If they called it murder," I said, "they'd have to admit someone killed a duke and his heir under their nose. That invites panic. Conspiracy theories. Questions about security."
I tapped the letter.
"This lets them fold it into 'sad private tragedy.' No revolt. No stain on the throne. And they keep your house."
Tamara swallowed.
"And I'm…?"
"Successional duke," I said. "Not formally Duchess yet, but for all practical purposes, Orvel is yours. One of the Empire's eight ducal crowns."
Her fingers tightened at her sides.
"Good," I added. "That was the objective."
She gave a short, humorless laugh.
"Oh? Was it?"
"Yes," I said. "This wording is almost ideal. They confirmed your blood-right, cleared your name of treason, and left the timing of investiture vague."
"'Almost'?"
"They also branded your house 'the suicide line' in every noble's mouth," I said. "You'll walk into Orvel with a ducal claim and a narrative that your men are cowards and your blood drives people mad."
Nyxa made a displeased noise, fingers digging slightly into my shirt.
"But," I went on, "that just means we adjust tactics. You don't need them to love you. You need them to obey you. Respect can come later."
Tamara looked at me for a long moment.
Then:
"So what now?"
"Now," I said, setting the letter down, "we accelerate."
Her spine straightened automatically. Warrior reflex.
"You will go back to Orvel as successional duke," I said. "Officially to 'restore stability' and honor your father's memory. Unofficially to purge parasites, re-align the vassals, and make sure when the Crown finally puts a coronet on your head there's still a ducal kingdom attached."
She hesitated.
"Alone?"
"No," I said. "I'm not an idiot, and I didn't train you to throw you into a nest barehanded."
I let my tone sharpen, just enough.
"Tamara," I said, "who mentored you in tactics? Who tore your forms apart until you could fight three-on-one? Who made you redo political essays until you could argue both sides of a succession war?"
Her mouth twitched.
"You did," she muttered.
"Right," I said. "I didn't do that so you could go back to Orvel and play scared little girl. You've been carved for this. You're not walking in as a victim. You're walking in as a weapon."
Nyxa hummed approval.
"And Marion?" Tamara asked, softer.
"Non-negotiable," I said. "She goes with you."
Tamara's eyes gentled in a way they rarely did.
"She's more mother than maid," she said quietly.
"I know," I said. "She knows the house. The staff. Where the bodies are buried, metaphorically and literally. She was there when your father broke your mother. She was there when your brothers—"
I stopped.
Tamara's mouth pressed into a line.
"We're not leaving her behind," I finished. "She goes as your right hand."
"And my heart," Tamara said under her breath.
"Even better," I said. "People talk more freely around servants. They talk even more around servants they think are 'just' a childhood nurse."
Her lips quirked—painful, but real.
"When do we leave?"
"A few hours," I said.
Her head jerked.
"A few hours?"
"Speed is safety," I said. "If we give the Court days, they'll start sending 'advisors' and 'chaperones.' You arrive first. Let them chase."
She exhaled a disbelieving huff.
"You never let anyone breathe."
"Breathing is for people who aren't already behind," I said.
Nyxa laughed into my chest like I'd said something delightful instead of miserable.
"Oh," she said. "She's going to break them."
"Yes," I said. "One more thing."
Tamara raised an eyebrow.
"When you get there," I said, "you will receive offers."
"For grain?"
"For marriage," I said.
Her face twisted.
"Over my corpse."
"Exactly," I said. "You are now the unmarried head—provisional or not—of one of the Empire's eight ducal kingdoms. Every house with an idiot son or ambitious nephew will suddenly discover deep concern for your emotional wellbeing."
She looked like she'd swallowed something sour.
"I don't care if it's a prince," I went on. "If the proposal doesn't come from me, you say no."
She blinked.
"…From you?"
"Yes," I said. "If I decide a political marriage is useful, I'll craft it. Until then, any offer you accept undermines your authority and straps you to someone else's agenda. So: if it's not me arranging it, you reject it. Publicly if necessary."
Tamara stared.
Then a slow, vicious smile spread across her face.
"So if some marquis sends a letter asking for my hand…"
"Burn it," I said. "And tighten his taxes."
She laughed, actually laughed, shoulders loosening for the first time since she'd walked in.
"I can work with that," she said.
"I know," I replied.
I waved a hand toward the door.
"Go tell Marion to pack," I said. "Julia will organize carriages and cover stories. We'll do farewells in the courtyard before sunset."
She turned to go.
At the threshold, she hesitated.
"Erynd," she said without looking back.
"Yes?"
"If I… mess this up?" she asked. "If Orvel eats me alive?"
"It won't," I said.
"You don't know that."
"I taught you," I said. "And I know exactly what you're capable of when someone hurts the people you consider yours. Orvel should be more afraid of you than you are of it."
She was silent for a breath.
Then:
"…That helps," she said.
"Good. Now get out before Nyxa gets jealous."
"I'm already jealous," Nyxa murmured.
Tamara snorted and left.
The door clicked shut.
Nyxa tilted her head up to look at me.
"I like her," she said. "She's sharp."
"She's angry," I said.
"Same thing, if you use it right."
***
The farewells were quick only on paper.
The courtyard was lined with carriages, each bearing a different future.
Tamara and Marion at the Orvel carriage, its faded crest already waiting to be repainted.
Noelle by the white-and-gold Great Church carriage, fingers worrying her prayer beads.
Lyra pacing like a caged predator next to the Royal Sword Academy crest.
There were hugs. Grips on shoulders. The kind of brief, fierce touches people do when they're pretending this isn't a battlefield in slow motion.
I didn't say much.
They knew.
Tamara climbed into Orvel's carriage with her jaw set and Marion at her back.
Noelle stepped into the Church's with one last whispered, "Please don't die."
Lyra kissed me hard enough to bruise and threatened necromancy if I got myself killed.
Then they were rolling away, one by one, dust and distance stealing them.
They looked happy, waving from the windows.
They were terrible liars.
So was I.
***
"Master."
I turned.
A house servant waited under the archway, another paper tube in his hands. This seal was more elaborate: the Imperial Conclave mark, not just a standard summons.
"Royal courier, my Lord," he said. "Jarl Julia asked that you receive this after the ladies departed."
Of course she had.
"Thank you," I said, taking it.
I cracked the wax and unrolled the letter.
To Viscount Erynd Milton, head of House Milton,
By order of His Imperial Majesty, you are summoned to attend the Imperial Conclave in the capital one week hence. Your presence is required for the renewal of oaths, deliberation on matters of state, and the Feast of Oaths that shall conclude the assembly.
Attendance is mandatory.
Mandatory.
Naturally.
The Imperial Conclave: every two years, all eight ducal crowns and assorted predators gathered in one gilded cage to pretend civility while counting each other's throats.
"Wonderful," I muttered. "Politics and small talk."
Nyxa, who'd followed me out and currently had a death grip on my sleeve, peered at the letter.
"Do I get to come?" she asked. "I want to see which nobles smell wrong."
"Probably," I said. "Someone has to keep me from stabbing anyone during dessert."
Melody's laugh brushed the back of my mind.
You chose this, she reminded me. You wanted a title. Territory. Influence.
"I wanted leverage," I thought back. "I didn't realize it came with this much wine."
In a week, Tamara would be walking into a broken ducal kingdom.
Noelle into the heart of a god's bureaucracy.
Lyra into a school that forged weapons out of people.
And I'd be standing in a hall with emperors, dukes, and whatever else the world decided to throw at me.
Old Gods were dying.
Outer Beings were watching.
Cultists were breathing.
And I, apparently, was going to a banquet.
"Man," I said aloud, rolling the letter back up, "being a noble sucks."
Nyxa squeezed my arm.
"You're not a noble," she said. "You're my father."
"That's worse," I said.
She smiled, sharp and bright.
"Then don't die," she said. "I'm not done being clingy yet."
I looked at the road where the carriages had vanished.
"Yeah," I murmured. "Me neither."