Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

the best love story of all time was when
upon the bloody battlefield, down there
(ignore the maggots feasting on the men)
the place of Death and War's sordid affair

the Lady War led noble men to Death
she winked at Death as soldiers drew their swords
Death flicked her lifeless frock and took a breath
inhaled the stench of flesh and craved still more

as War watched blood cascade over the grass
she said, "You act as if these lives are dirt."
said Lady Death to Lady War, "Alas—
with you I know no other way to flirt."

take heed, my man—don't lust for Lady War
she's nothing but a tease, and Death's her whore

- "Courting Lady War," a sonnet by General Yosif, 4 GKE

It's impressive how quickly the servants—there must be at least one hundred—whip the di Vivar family palazzo into shape. All surfaces—furniture, statues, and lighting fixtures—are thoroughly dusted and polished to a high shine. The stone floors are scrubbed, and rugs are cleaned and laid out. Windows are washed until they sparkle with the incoming sun—there's an impressive amount of natural light illuminating the place that didn't make it in before. Cracked tiles are replaced, loose stones are cemented, peeling paint is refurbished. The grounds, particularly the gardens and the paths leading up to the palazzo, are tidied up. Dead leaves are cleared, and flowers are cut and arranged.

Inside, black silken draperies are hung in the main hall and reception areas to signify mourning and reflection. Candles and lanterns are placed throughout the palazzo, providing a somber, flickering light that enhances the reflective atmosphere. Bouquets of white lilies and roses, which Linden tells me symbolize purity and remembrance, are arranged in vases and placed on small display tables. Wreaths made of dark foliage and white flowers are hung on the doors and walls.

In the foyer—a massive room with three story floor-to-ceiling windows, and two sets of spiral staircases winding up the entire five stories—the glowing ball of fire illuminating the ceiling some eighty feet up is taken down with a rope levy to be cleaned. My first impression of it was right—it's a mass of entwined oil lamps and stained glass. Between the two staircases, six massive altars are set up—they take up most of the room, which is large by anyone's standards. Portraits of fallen lords and ladies—and kings and queens, on Love's altar—are displayed in chronological order, along with incense, talisman offerings, and holy water. A copy of each of the Testaments is placed on each respective altar—The Book of Snakes is omitted, as Lady Loss doesn't get a table.

Jebah arrives early—he's holding a hand-sized portrait, and he and Killián get into a fight in front of Lady Death's altar. Linden and I are sitting on the bottom step of the right-hand staircase, trying not to get in the way of the servants and unable to hide the fact that we're eavesdropping. We're polishing two goblets we snagged from the kitchens—Linden says looking busy is almost as good as being busy.

"Your mother was never a Lady," Killián says, arms folded over his chest. "This altar is for departed generals and incarnates only—not even elites have a place on it. I'm not adding a spot for Médéric's whore."

"Watch how you speak about my mother," says Jebah, stepping closer—they're almost nose to nose. "She was Médéric's wife, not his whore. She loved you like a son. Have a heart."

"I'm not budging on this, Jeb. There are other altars in the back gardens—she can go there."

"I'm not putting her next to Staffmaster Brayden like she's some commoner!"

"Staffmaster Brayden was an honorable man, and your mother was a commoner."

"Ida shouldn't be next to Brid Naya'il!"

"My mother was the Lady Death who came before our sister. It's the rightful order."

"Da—Da! Dadadadada. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Brid flies down the stairs—she practically leaps over Linden and almost falls. I reach out to grab her, but it's too late—she's already pushed herself off a knee and smoothed down her black lace skirt. She runs toward Killián and grabs his hand, tugs. She looks so tiny in comparison to him—she's taller than his waist, but only just. He looks down at her, expression widening into one of surprise. Jebah blanches.

"Da, there're servants in my room," she whines. "I cleaned it last night, and it's not like I'm having anyone up there anyway. They're invading my space, and they won't leave! You can't possibly have authorized this."

"Brid." Killián's voice is flat. "I'm entertaining your uncle."

Jebah stares at Brid with a peculiar expression on his face. I can't get a read on it, but it's not a happy expression—his gaze drifts from her face to the place where her hands are clenched around Killián's. He doesn't say anything.

Brid flicks a wave of dark hair over her shoulder—some has gotten caught in her lip paint—and offers Jebah a scrutinizing once-over.

"Nice to see you again, Uncle Jeb."

He looks away. Doesn't respond.

"I like your portrait," she says, leaning forward to examine what's in his hand. "Is that your mother?"

"She's going outside," Jebah says shortly. "Goodbye, Brid Naya'il. Killián—come next year, you'll be on that precious altar of yours. That's not a threat—it's a promise."

He turns on his heel and struts out the front doors.

"No one calls me that!" Brid yells after him. "And you're a loon if you think you can kill Da!"

Killián turns away. We make eye contact, and I quickly try to look occupied with the chalice Linden's having me polish.

"Yosif help me," Killián mutters, and then he follows Jebah out of the palazzo. Brid trails behind him, rapid-firing questions and complaints.

I look at Linden.

"Did you think about going home for Veneer Week?" I ask.

"If I had a home to return to, I'd be long gone," he says, not smiling. "This family…God King Almighty, this family. I've been an elite for over a year, and I still can't believe I'm a part of it."

"Not really," I say. "The di Vivars are on their own level—we're just soldiers."

"We're di Vivars by honor, not by blood."

"Is that what Killián says?"

"Aye." He stares down at the chalice. "A di Vivar by honor, and I can't even play the mirror game without losing my soul."

"You got it back."

"No thanks to anything I did—that was all Yosif. My soul is still with Galtero right now—that's where we are in Time. Fate's playing, and I'm from the Fourth Circuit. Hope is my caste. That's what Kempe thinks."

"You're an atheist."

"I've gone into a mirror, Ko. That's magic. I hope there's an almighty power supervising this."

"Is Galtero going to sell you into slavery?"

"Kempe says I'm already a slave—all soldiers serve Lady Death." Linden pauses. "Lady Hope just has my marble right now. This is a theocracy. We're all sworn to a Lady. Does anyone have freewill?"

We finish polishing the goblets in silence.

###

There must be at least fifty altars set up in the back gardens, complete with candles and incense. As guests arrive, they place portraits on the silk tablecloths and bow their heads. The wooden pews that have been set up on the grassy field to the right of the palazzo begin to fill. I'm in the front row, seated between Linden and Miro. Brid's on Miro's other side, then Bardic, then Killián. The other elites take up the first two rows—across the narrow aisle from us, the Darkblooms are taking their seats. King Audrin and Prince Lucian are seated in elegant golden chairs on the other side of the pew. A young girl sits between them—I had caught a glimpse of her as they walked up the aisle and almost gasped. She looks exactly how I imagine Brid must've looked at five—dark and shiny hair, tawny eyes, olive skin. She couldn't look more different from her father and brother. I make a mental note to ask Linden about it later—it's jarring, and it makes me wonder. How close were Jebah and the departed Queen Adelaide? They were engaged once, right? Is it possible…

No. Not my business.

The Remembrance Rituals are set to begin at any moment. Killián makes his way to the podium in front of the pews. He's in his black leathers, feathered cloak billowing out behind him in the wind. Golden beads have been woven into his hair, and thick black war paint lines his eyes and cheeks. He looks formidable and indifferent—when he stands behind the pulpit and rests his hands on the wood, I look behind me. Most of the pews are filled, and there's a lot of people in the crowd—several hundred at least. It's hard to imagine how the palazzo is going to hold so many individuals.

"Thank you all for coming." His voice is loud, carrying—the audience falls silent, save for the occasional murmur or cough. "Brothers and sisters, lords and soldiers, worshippers and guests. We are gathered here in the presence of Lady Death's eternal grace, and we come together to honor those who have journeyed beyond this mortal realm. On this sacred Day of the Deceased, we stand united in memory, bound by the threads of Fate that weave our past to our present.

"In shadows deep, where Lady Death walks, we feel the weight of absence and the echo of lost lives. We light these candles as beacons, guiding the souls of our departed loved ones back to us, if only for a fleeting moment. Their light shall pierce the veil between our world and theirs, reminding us that although they are gone, they are never truly lost."

He goes on like that for a while. It's a little boring, to be honest—the crowd grows shifty, restless. I hear murmuring behind me—Torrense laughs quietly, and on the other side of Linden, Kempe turns in her seat to stare at him.

After a good five minutes, Killián finally seems to be wrapping it up. "As we gather around the sacred altars, let our hearts be filled with remembrance and gratitude," he says. "Let us remember that death is not an end, but a passage—a transformation. In honoring the lives of the fallen, we celebrate the eternal cycle of existence under the watchful eyes of Lady Death. Together, let us embark on this day of remembrance with solemnity and grace, cherishing the memories of those we have lost and finding solace and strength in the presence of our shared sorrow. May Lady Death guide us and grant us peace."

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

I think it's over, but then he starts effing listing people—every general, every staffmaster, every spouse and every child. He starts with Yosif, which is how I know it's going to be a long ride—Yosif died in 10 GKE, which was almost 200 years ago. For the staffmasters, he lists the accomplishments for each and every one—it takes him almost thirty minutes to get to Staffmaster Brayden, who died four years ago trying to hold down the metallite mines in the Córdoba foothills.

Then—just when I think it's over— Killián welcomes Audrin to the stage, and it's time to listen to him recite the kings, queens, and other assorted Darkblooms of lore.

At about the same time I realize we're going to have to go through this for each and every one of the lords, my bladder is getting uncomfortably full. Audrin's still talking about Mariette, L'Angly's wife and queen—how everyone loved her, how much she did for the people of the realm. I can barely take it—my mouth was dry this morning, and I had three flasks of water before the ceremonies.

I think about holding it until we're onto Bardic—if I slip off while he's talking, he'll probably forgive me. I don't know about the king—but…I really have to pee. I shift uncomfortably, then decide to go for it.

I nudge Linden, breathe out an exhale in his ear. "I have to go."

His brow creases—he looks at me. "It just started, Ko."

"Move. Please."

He shifts. Ducking low, I half run in front of the pew. Kempe, Torrense, Laetitia, Péri, Jasiel, and Billi all have to move their legs so I can pass. I straighten up when I get to the end of the row and walk briskly to the house.

Entering through the back door, I find the first washroom I can. It's on the first floor, a guest bath—I briefly remember Brid pointing it out when she gave me a tour. Bladder pounding, I push open the door.

It's occupied.

Leómadura's standing in front of the mirror, the medicine cabinet open in front of him. He's holding a flask of pills in front of one of the candles and seems to be examining it—he turns to face me when the door opens, quickly tucking the flask behind the mirror and closing it. We stare at each other, equally surprised—his green-gray eyes narrow, his mouth quirks into a grin. I can't speak. Can't move.

Can't breathe.

"Hello, Whoreson." His grin widens—the smile seems heartfelt, genuine. "At ease, soldier."

"You're supposed to be in the dungeons," is all I can think to say.

"I was exonerated." He tilts his head to the side, studying me. "Last night—Ra'mes gave me the all clear, and the guards discharged me. The investigation proved no wrongdoing on my end—you were compensated for your time, and royals with looser ties to the Darkbloom family have been pardoned for worse offenses. I suggest you make peace with it."

So he's facing absolutely no repercussions for those thirty-seven minutes in his office? No. No, of course he wouldn't, because why would life be fair? Fucking Hel, I hate the way he's smiling at me—it's all I can do not to sink a fist into his perfectly straight nose. I imagine doing it, imagine the crunch, imagine the hot warmth of blood trickling down my fingers and wrist, and—lo and behold—I'm able to breathe again. It's a long, shaky exhale, but it's a start.

"Why'd you do it?" is what comes out of my mouth.

I don't want to know, but something makes me ask. He's still looking at me with that twisted smile on his face—he never looked at me like that when I was his student. I can barely remember seeing him smile at all.

"You're a Whoreson—I assumed you'd be better at discretion," he says. "Clearly I made a mistake."

Clearly—except he's faced no consequences, save being fired from the academy. It's common knowledge on L-Street that you can't charge a john with assault—workers aren't entitled to those sorts of rights—but I thought it would be different when I enlisted, when Killián changed my matronymic. Maybe I felt safe in the fact that I'm a guy—these things are more likely to happen to female soldiers, even with the crackdown on unwanted advances after Killián took the scythe. Never in a million years did it occur to me that something like this would happen to me, especially not at L-DAW. I feel so fucking stupid.

"I meant—why did you steal my soul?" I say through gritted teeth.

"That's quite an accusation." The smile widens. "Did I do that? I don't remember doing that."

"I felt it happen," I say. "When you were talking about what you were going to do to me at your goddamn hunting cabin—I felt the loss."

It's mostly a lie, but he doesn't know that. I'm banking on the fact that the shite he said then was as bad as it got—worse than bad. If it wasn't then, I've got nothing to prove it was him.

He exaggerates his blink, accompanies it with a little head shake.

"It was just sex, Ko," he says. "Unprofessional on my part, but it had been a while for me. I was in the mood, and you were there. Are you suggesting I took the opportunity to commit an unrelated crime punishable by life in prison or hangman's noose, prosecutor's choice? Think very carefully before you answer. Any patience I may have once had for you has been depleted by a week in the bowels of the central facility."

So he's playing innocent because soul stealing is a crime—I wonder how the eff L'Angly still has so much influence in the First Circuit. That leaves me two choices—lengthen this conversation at the expense of my bladder and try to extract a confession I can use later, or find somewhere else to pee. I don't want to be here, talking to him—I'd rather be anywhere else—but leaving feels cowardly, spineless. I'm furious and humiliated, so frustrated I can't see straight, and I'd like nothing more than to beat him up—but even though he's lost some weight since he was teaching at L-DAW, he instructed PT and could probably beat me if it came to fisticuffs. I don't want to be alone with him—being alone and injured would be so much worse. Hel, I already am injured. My right arm is still in straps, and my left hand is missing fingernails. This is a bad situation.

"I know you took it." My mouth is dry, my throat is dry, but at least I'm too pissed to start crying. "Lady Life told me."

"Mm." He doesn't look concerned. "Leclère or Aui?"

"Leclère."

"She's a bitch and a liar—ask anyone."

"Are you a conduit for L'Angly?"

"Perhaps." For the first time, he looks cagey—his eyes flick from my face to the door behind me. "What business is that of yours, Whoreson?"

I take that as a yes. "He taught you how to do it."

"Even if that's true, you'll never prove it." His smile is back. "I've never spoken in your mind, never assumed control of your thoughts. I'm sorry to hear your soul is missing—a tragedy, truly, I hear there's nothing worse—but you've accused the wrong man. I suggest you take a deep, hard look at Killián—men who've been leveled have the most to gain from accumulating souls. Makes them feel powerful—their minds are not their own. They have nothing else the Ladies want."

"Killián would never."

"It's good you trust him." He yawns. "Misguided, of course, but you're still young. I've played the mirror game with him, prepped him for bouts with Galtero, gone into the depths of what Yosif and Médéric left in their wake, squirreled away secrets under layers of defenses. It wouldn't be the first time he committed a felony and got away with it."

"Killián's not a criminal." My hands clench into fists—I want to hit him so badly. "You're a liar."

"Am I?" He looks amused. "Washroom's yours—have a lovely day."

He brushes by me—it's full chest to chest contact as he squeezes through the narrow space. I feel him, all of him—the bastard enjoyed this. I'm frozen in place. Frozen like a damn animal, like I'm still a kid, like I'm still trapped in that effing office.

The door clicks shut behind him.

I make it to the toilet before I throw up my breakfast.

###

I don't go back to the Remembrance Ritual. Instead, after I relieve myself, I sit on the floor of the washroom, trying to decide my next move. I'm next to the chair over the sewage hole—it's a little gross—hands around my legs, face pressed into my knees. I feel a bit like crying, but thankfully tears don't come—I'd smudge the coal I smeared around my eyes, and dripping whore-paint is such an L-Street cliché I wouldn't be able to return to the party. When I was a backroom boy, Caressa told me more johns were into making her cry than seeing her feet, which apparently was saying something—Keev hit her lightly with a hairbrush and told her to watch how she spoke to baby brothers.

I'm not sure how long I sit there—an hour, maybe two. Time ticks by without me really noticing it. I feel numb, as if my body is disconnected from my mind. The washroom floor is cold, but the sensation is dulled and distant. I'm lightheaded, dizzy—my hands and feet tingle as if they're falling asleep. There's a profound feeling of detachment, as if I'm observing myself from outside my body—the mirror doesn't help. Eventually I hear muffled sounds and voices from the other side of the door. The Remembrance Ritual must've finally let out, and people are beginning to enter the palazzo. The noises seem disconnected and far-off from my immediate reality, as if I'm at the end of a very long tunnel—I've never felt so isolated, so alone.

I can breathe again, easily enough, but it's hard to form coherent thoughts. I don't know who I am, what I'm doing, why I couldn't get confirmation that Leómadura stole my soul. I'm a stranger to myself—a stranger with sweaty palms and a spinning head. I focus on my breaths. It's all I can do.

Eventually there's a knock on the door.

Bardic's voice. "Someone in there?"

I jolt to attention. "Ko."

A pause on the other side of the door—I wonder if my voice sounded as strange as it felt.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"Fine." My voice sounds distant, unreal—I don't remember deciding to lie.

Another pause. "Can I come in?"

The door isn't locked. "Sure."

It swings open. He looks down at me. He's wearing robes that look identical to the ones the lords wore when the Septemvirate met—they're green. Silver epaulets and trim. Medals and insignia are pinned to the left side of his chest—three bravery laurels and Cahal's clover, the mark of a healer. A long, flowing black cloak is pinned over the robes, clasped to his shoulders with square pins that display the Vandame family crest, the skeleton of a stallion. His face is clean shaven, framed by shoulder-length strands of brown hair—a little gray at the roots. I meet his eyes.

"Is it your head?" he asks. "The crowds can be overwhelming during Veneer Week."

I rub the back of my neck. "I'm fine," I say again.

The door shuts behind him. "Can I sit?"

I shrug. He sits with his back to the sink, a respectful amount of space between us. His sharp, angular features are twisted into an expression of concern—maybe he's fighting the urge to check my pulse. I lower my gaze to my knees and wait. Should I apologize for missing his speech? Was my absence noted by the king and other lords? Am I in some sort of trouble?

The last thing I need is to make enemies with L'Anglimar's most powerful politicians. I can't seem to stop messing up. What's wrong with me?

"Leómadura's here," I tell him.

He exhales a long, drawn-out sigh. "We saw him at the reception. He was asked to leave."

"He was exonerated."

"The Lord of Hope oversees the realm's judicial system. Ra'mes must have something on him—that's why Galtero is making this call. Leómadura's been discharged, though—that's Killián's jurisdiction. He'll never serve in Lady Death's guard again. We're all furious at Ra'mes."

"So, what—will Leómadura go into politics?"

"I don't know," Bardic says, watching me carefully. "I doubt he could get a job in Galtero's church—Galtero's a puritan, and a history of solicitation and same-sex attraction are no-goes for priests. He's a staunch traditionalist. Ra'mes is a little looser with his beliefs, and he would probably take Leó on if he didn't follow Lady Love—Life tries to be monotheistic, and she doesn't employ men from rival churches. Audrin says he's staying out of it—he won't help Leó. I expect our king is afraid, to be honest. Leó almost got him to concede the last time they played. I don't know what he uncovered—they were using shields—but Audrin was in a bad way when Leó finally let him out of the mirror."

The fact that Leómadura has something to hold over the king of L'Anglimar does nothing to make me feel better—neither does the fact that Bardic still calls him Leó. The fact that the ex-lanista doesn't seem to have a future career in politics is a bit of solace, but he's basically a Darkbloom—I doubt money is a problem for him. Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll retire somewhere far away, and I won't have to deal with seeing him around the First Circuit. Somehow I doubt Fate would be that kind to me—I'm missing my soul, after all.

"Come back to the party," Bardic says, when it's clear I'm not going to respond. "You missed the silent procession, but there's a feast in the back gardens. Memento creation tables. Live music."

I've never felt less like celebrating. "I think I'd rather rest. Prepare for the mirror game."

Bardic's expression is thoughtful, a little sad. "You sure?"

"Very."

"Okay." He gets to his feet. "I'll leave you to it—unless you want to talk?"

I shake my head.

The door clicks shut behind him.

My head goes back to my knees.