Chapter 793: Imperator’s mission(1)
Imperator Mesha, son of the War Emperor, First of His Name, Shepherd of the Faithful and Protector of the Faith, wore a robe of imperial purple on the day of his first mission since ascending the throne.
The carriage beneath his feet trembled and rattled with every stone in the road.
The dog at his side whined low in its throat, its head pressed miserably against his knee. Mesha reached down, fingers brushing through coarse fur, scratching behind its ears in a vain attempt to calm it. The poor thing loathed travel, and for a moment, Mesha envied it. At least the dog’s unease was honest, and he could shout it, differently from Mesha.
He would have liked to smile, to find some levity in the beast’s antics, but the weight upon him smothered all such impulses.
Of course, his own unrest had little to do with swaying carriages or sour stomachs.
This was his first true act as Imperator, the first thing that would not be scripted by others, not signed and sealed at someone else’s urging.
He had put his hand to edicts before, had recited proclamations written by others, but never had the choice been his. This was his first step into the world as Imperator, not the boy sheltered behind layers of regency.
Uncle Keval had raged against it, pacing the marble floors like a caged lion, demanding that he be sent instead. Mesha could still recall the man’s words, sharp with panic: "If harm befalls you, the dynasty is lost." For all his bluster, Keval’s fear had been real, fear for the heir to the throne, perhaps, but also for the boy he had helped raise.
But the Regent could not go in his stead, nor would Grandfather permit it. "The Empire cannot show its face behind a veil of guardians forever,
" the old man had said, his voice gravel, his eyes cold as iron dispensing the same wisdom that he was known for "If the Imperator cannot walk into the world on his own feet, then he is no Imperator at all."Mesha had not forgotten those words. Nor the weight of the stare that had accompanied them.
His grandfather was truly the best person that Mesha could have met.
And so here he was, clothed in purple, rattling in a carriage, with the eyes of gods and men waiting to see what shape he would take. This was meant to be his triumph, if he could achieve what he was sent to do. Or perhaps, as Grandfather surely intended, his first test.
The thought tightened around his chest. Had there ever been a day when his steps had not been measured, guided, judged?
He searched backward through memory, but even in childhood there had been watchful eyes, some stern, some kind, but always watching.
First his mother, who had once held him in her arms with a warmth that hid the cruelty within her. The woman had dared things that should have sealed her death a dozen times over, yet she still lived, alive, wandering somewhere beyond the borders of his Empire, her shadow lingering like a ghost.
Even now the mere thought of her brought a shiver, cold and sharp as a knife along his spine. He despised that reaction, despised the weakness it revealed. What power did she still hold over him after all these years?
At least those who came after her, the regents, the tutors , had been different. Stern, yes, but in their sternness there had been care. In their watchfulness, concern. They had shaped him not out of ambition, but out of duty. And as he grew older, he began to see the difference. His mother had sought to use him. They had sought to guide him.
It should have been a comfort, but it was not. It only made the uncertainty of this moment more unbearable. For the first time, there were no hands to steer him, no voices to tell him which word to speak.
He was alone.
For a fleeting moment, Mesha’s mind wandered back to his grandfather, the old Lion of Romelia, and wondered how he
might have acted in such a position.A hollow ache opened in his chest, for what came to him was not counsel but the frailty of that farewell.
The cheekbones sharp as blades beneath paper-thin skin, the proud and commanding face wasted to a hollow mask that he had last seen. The sight of Marthio Achea, once the mightiest man of their age, reduced to brittle bones and sunken eyes, had shaken Mesha more than he would admit aloud. It was clear then: the regent of the Empire, the lion who had kept it whole, had little time left in this world.
Marthio had already prepared the succession. That was his way, never leaving a flank exposed. The burden of his mantle was to be borne by his two sons. Keval, the steady hand, had already shown his worth by steering the Empire through storms. And Tyros, so unlike his brother, who lacked patience for figures, but carried the fire of war in his blood.
If Keval was the anchor, Tyros was the sword.
To them Marthio left the Empire’s pillars. To Mesha, his grandson and heir, he had offered something far greater and far heavier: his wisdom. Those words, carved into Mesha’s memory, felt heavier now than the robe of purple upon his shoulders.
It would be his duty to pick up where the old lion faltered, to bear the flame forward when that mighty voice was finally silenced.
A voice broke the thread of his thoughts.
"Your Imperial Majesty..."
Mesha raised his eyes from the dog curled at his side. Across from him sat the envoy assigned to guide him on this mission, a man of fine robes and softer manners. Doria, they called him.
He had already much experience with the Yarzat Prince, so he was sent as an aide for the Imperator.
The envoy bowed his head slightly, his voice careful, deferential, as if he feared that even humility might be taken as presumption. "Forgive my interruption, Majesty. I had hoped... only... to entreat you with a humble request. That you might allow me to ensure your Majesty understands fully where we are to act, and why."
His tone trembled at the edges of reverence.
Mesha inclined his head, a silent gesture granting permission. That single nod loosened Doria’s tongue; the envoy straightened, his voice gathering confidence now that the young Imperator had opened the door to it.
"Right now, His Grace finds himself in a rather... precarious position," Doria began, folding his hands in his lap as though to anchor himself. "Most of the southern princes have sent word requesting a peace conference. On the surface it seems honorable, but the truth is far less so. Their sympathies are already leaning toward the Oizen prince, for none of them wish to see Yarzat grow too strong."
Mesha leaned back against the cushioned seat, the motion betraying a quiet unease he would not admit aloud.
"I suppose refusing to meet with them and pressing for war, was not an option," he said flatly, though he already knew the answer.
"You suppose right, Your Imperial Majesty." Doria’s tone was careful, so as not to insult the Emperor. "Had he refused, it is likely foreign intervention would have come swiftly, perhaps even decisively, to put an end to his ambitions. As it stands, the gathering will be dominated by voices hostile to him. That, precisely, is why he reached across the border to us. To balance the table in his favor."
The envoy’s gaze flicked toward the young Imperator, seeking a sign of comprehension, or better yet, agreement. Mesha gave the slightest nod, and Doria pressed on, emboldened.
"It is, in truth, a great opportunity for Your Majesty," he said with a note of eagerness. "An occasion to make your voice heard, to remind the nobles o that Romelia still casts its shadow there.’’
Mesha’s fingers drifted absently to the hound at his side, scratching the animal’s head as if grounding himself. Outwardly, he gave another nod. Inwardly, he recognized the bitter truth: what had once been Romelia’s pasture, a region that bent easily to their will, had grown into a tangled forest where their footing was unsteady at best.
Control had slipped, and this was not a matter of reminding the South of Romelia’s presence as much as it was to keep face.
Doria, perhaps reading the flicker of doubt in his eyes, continued swiftly. "Furthermore, this is the most fortunate opportunity to have His Grace owe us. By allowing the Imperator himself to speak in his stead, we gain not only the appearance of friendship, but leverage. His Grace will be far more inclined to consider our petitions if they come from your Majesty’s lips, rather than from an envoy’s pen."
"Leverage depends," Mesha murmured, finally breaking his silence, "on how the conference unfolds. If the winds turn against him too sharply, even our presence may not steady the ground."
"True," Doria admitted with a slight bow of his head. "But that is where our strength lies.
Circumstances are no longer what they were the last time Romelia approached Yarzat. We hold more cards now. More than His Grace, I daresay.
As it is clear to him how diplomatically isolated he is." He spread his hands almost as though weighing those invisible cards on his palms.
"Still," he added, "it would not serve us well to appear unhelpful. To come across as merely using his plight for our own gain would sour what favor we might earn. Better that we present ourselves as the bigger partners in his hour of need, so that when the conference ends, our friendship seems indispensable."
Mesha considered that in silence, his face unreadable. The dog whined softly beside him, breaking the stillness, and Mesha let out a slow breath.
And so the talk turned to details.
As for the rest of the journey, the Imperator and his envoy bent their words to the work of plotting and rehearsing. How Mesha was to speak, where he was to stand, which princes and their envoy to treat with courtesy and which to leave cooling in silence.
Again and again, they rehearsed the diplomatic dance until the rattle of wheels and the thuds of hooves became the rhythm of their whispered words