Cherished Sword
"Your Majesty. The Executioner is nearly here."
The attendant's report came in a low, cautious voice. He knelt at the door, head bowed. As the final syllable touched the floor, he silenced even his breathing, as if erasing his presence entirely.
The Emperor did not respond. The study was quiet. It was a vast room, but the sense of emptiness struck first, before any impression of grandeur. There were few unnecessary decorations. True to a royal chamber, expensive furnishings abounded, yet they didn't feel placed for ostentation. Everything seemed positioned not by personal taste, but by function.
The windows were long and high. Afternoon light filtered through the glass, casting thin rectangles on the floor where dust motes drifted lazily. The desk was black wood, bearing only a few open documents, sealed letters, an inkwell, and a half-cooled cup of tea. A scene without excess.
At its center sat Levan de Lowern. He neither leaned deeply into the backrest nor hunched forward. His posture was comfortable yet impeccable, every angle naturally calculated to reveal no vulnerability.
His fingertips lightly pressed the corner of a document on the desk. Tap. The paper shifted ever so slightly. His gaze rested on it, but he wasn't reading. He was thinking.
"A day late."
The Emperor spoke slowly. His voice was low, more observational than surprised—like a scholar noting an intriguing variable.
"Philia is seldom delayed like this."
The attendant bowed lower. "My deepest apologies, Your Majesty. I hear the river basin was rougher than usual."
The Emperor showed no reaction. His pupils shifted only minutely. The situation at the river basin. He didn't believe it. Or rather, he wasn't interested. Rough roads, fierce currents, bad weather—Philia returned on time regardless. She never used human inconveniences as excuses. If she had to return, she did. A delay wasn't mere postponement; it was a result in itself.
His gaze drifted to the window. Beyond lay the palace's outer gardens—manicured to excess. Trees planted at precise intervals, branches uniformly trimmed. An artificial mimicry of nature. The Emperor didn't linger on the view. He didn't love nature. It was unpredictable, inefficient, and grew wildly on its own whims.
Levan de Lowern loved the Empire. Or more precisely, the structure that sustained it. People lied. Nobles were greedy, soldiers weak to fear, commoners easily swayed. But structure was different. Structure didn't lie. Numbers and deployments, taxes and provisions, fear and rewards—they were far more honest than humans.
The Emperor trusted that honesty. That's why Philia was useful. She was the human closest to structure itself: minimal hesitation, minimal emotion, clear results. Give an order, and she executed. Kill if needed; pass by if not. She was simple. And simplicity made her strong.
Yet.
A day late.
His finger tapped the document again. Tap. A tiny sound. The prostrated attendant's shoulder twitched faintly. The Emperor didn't notice.
"Sepir de Hwan."
He murmured the name lowly. It wasn't a question, so the attendant stayed silent. The Emperor rolled it slowly in his mouth. Sepir. The pirate who plundered wealth between river and sea, then scattered it back. No army, no territory, no claim to kingship. Yet dangerous. The reason was simple: he posed questions to people.
A starving man doesn't resent order; he lacks the leisure. But fill his belly, and he looks up. Why are those above always full? Why is my life like this? Why accept this order as given? Questions always begin that way.
Humans like Sepir were more dangerous than swords. Swords could be seen and avoided; questions were invisible.
The Emperor's lips curved faintly. "An intriguing man."
He spoke softly, as if to himself. The attendant held his breath tighter. The Emperor didn't glance down; his eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond the window.
"Killing him isn't hard."
He continued. "But what lingers afterward..."
Not directed at the attendant—a monologue organizing his thoughts. For once, Levan de Lowern felt a faint fatigue. Not from workload. The result hadn't arrived yet. He hated incompletion more than failure. Failure could be analyzed; incompletion demanded waiting. Waiting was inefficient.
He lifted the tea slowly. It had gone cold. He sipped once and set it down.
"The execution is done, I assume."
Calmly. Then silence.
His eyes narrowed ever so slowly.
"The question is what returned."
The attendant didn't understand. Nor was he meant to. The Emperor often spoke this way: short, clear sentences layered with deeper meaning. Philia was returning—that was the surface. But what mattered to him wasn't her body, but her state. Had the blade returned as a blade? Or had it changed, even slightly?
Footsteps echoed faintly from afar. Soft on the thick carpet, nearly silent, but their steady rhythm betrayed them. The guards at the door shifted. The Emperor's gaze turned to it. For the first time, faint interest flickered across his face.
"Let her in."
A curt command. The attendant bowed swiftly and withdrew. Just before the door opened, the Emperor murmured softly, almost inaudibly.
"Please."
Don't have changed.
The door to the Imperial Palace study opened quietly as always, its heavy hinges silent. Thick wood and iron fittings pushed inward slowly, spilling the room's air outward.
Philia stepped inside. The red carpet sank slightly underfoot. Its thick weave absorbed her boot soles, swallowing nearly all sound. That's why the study was always so quiet—a hub of the palace, yet eerily soundless.
She advanced a few more steps. The room's layout was unchanged: vast windows, black wooden desk beneath, bookshelves flanking, and at the center—the man seated.
Levan de Lowern. The Emperor.
Philia stopped. A few paces from his desk—her permitted position. No kneeling. No prostrating. An Executioner needed no such rites. A blade didn't bow.
She spoke quietly. "Executioner Philia."
Her voice was as ever. "I have carried out the order and returned."
The Emperor didn't reply immediately. He sat at the desk—neither deeply reclined nor leaning forward. Comfortable, yet impenetrable.
Philia's eyes naturally met his face. The Emperor's lips were pressed tight. A fleeting moment—most wouldn't notice. But Philia saw.
Her eyes shifted minutely. She knew why. What he was seeing.
His gaze wasn't on her sword. Nor her hands. Only.
Her eyes.
Philia drew a shallow breath. Her own eyes. Had they changed? She couldn't tell herself. But the Emperor knew.
Levan de Lowern wasn't one who understood humans.
The Emperor slowly leaned back. The chair creaked faintly. His hand rose to his chin. And he looked down at Philia.
Long. Very long. The gaze held no aggression. No anger.
The Emperor slowly leaned back. The chair creaked faintly. His hand rose to his chin. And he looked down at Philia.
Long. Very long. The gaze held no aggression.
"That stupid whore's spawn dirtied my cherished sword."
The words were low, but heavy enough to sink the room's air. Not a shout, not mockery—just a gloved hand lightly brushing off filth.
Philia rarely knew anger. She understood displeasure. Irritation. Resistance to orders or annoyance at inefficiency—she'd felt those in life. But what now grazed her chest depths was different. Far stranger. Far deeper. From the very core. Something truly profound quivered faintly.
An insult to Sepir. To the dead. And to herself, who killed him. As that thought flashed, her breath hitched briefly. Her inhale lagged half a beat. Invisible to others, but a clear dissonance to her.
Philia swallowed sharply. Something rose. From her chest's depths. Like scraping up from ancient sediment. The sensation was alien. Yet somehow familiar, from memory's recesses.
Anger.
The word surfaced in her mind. Long unused. So forgotten she'd briefly forgotten its meaning.
Her eyes quivered minutely—too subtle even for her to notice. The heat blooming in her chest. The hand itching toward her sword. Anger was useless. Unneeded for an Executioner. It clouded judgment. Made the blade tremble. So she'd discarded it. Or believed she had.
But now. One word from the Emperor. Raked it back from the depths.
Philia stood still. Body unmoving. Hands still. Yet inside her chest, something trembled faintly. Like a long-dormant thing stirring awake in the dark.
She observed the sensation quietly. And for the first time. Truly the first. She recognized the emotion precisely.
"Please refrain from insulting Sepir."
A cold gaze shot toward the Emperor.
"...What?"
A look no ruler should receive.
"Vile words that reveal your own level. I said stop."
Eyes of contempt.