Imperial Domain
Imperial Domain
The talisman pulsed with a serpentine mana, slick and violet against his palm. Aslan trudged onward, the talisman clutched in his hand.
His steps toward the Imperial Palace felt aimless, and he knew they were. He walked in silence, turning over what had just happened.
Rowena had appeared.
She had come to him.
And she had left something behind.
There was no logic in any of it.
Aslan knew that perfectly well.
Yet he also knew exactly why she had chosen to act as she did.
How could he not?
It was love.
Rowena loved him. That was why she had shown herself, left him the talisman, and vanished.
But understanding the reason did not mean he could simply file it away and ignore it.
Aslan looked down at the talisman.
Wrought from black cloth, it resembled a figure shrouded in dark veils. An ominous shape. He found its presence here and now deeply unwelcome.
Because this talisman was meant to protect Aslan from Rowena's own magic.
It was a sign that she intended to act.
...Or is it a feint, meant to make me think exactly that?
He could not tell. Rowena had revealed herself for the first time in ages, and he could not read her.
She might not be acting as her usual self, placed under the Flock's total control. Or perhaps having her throat cut had twisted something in her very personhood.
Rarely did Aslan find himself this uncertain.
The more he thought, the more he realized how little he truly knew about Rowena.
His head grew heavy. He did not want to think any further. A thin nausea coiled in his gut, and he wiped at his mouth with low, sour displeasure.
By the time he reached the palace gates, he had found no certainty. He let out a sigh and stepped inside.
He declared his identity to the guards, weathered their stares, and passed through. Familiar faces awaited him within.
Frida, the sister whose blank expression always reminded him of their master's indifferent countenance. The white-scaled President of the Council, his hands mottled with shedding scales. And the Duke of Hilsinger, lord of Kardi and peer to the neighboring Kingdom of Bida.
The allies Aslan had asked the Emperor to summon were waiting for him in the corridor just before the audience chamber.
Frida approached first, her face unreadable, and squinted one eye at him.
"Why does your face look rotten again?"
She tossed the words at him the moment she saw him. Aslan opened his mouth to answer, realized no explanation would come easily, and simply gave a quiet, weary smile.
At the faint emotion behind that smile, Frida frowned, folding her arms.
"You're not the type to get beaten up walking around, so... what happened?"
"...It's nothing."
"'Nothing'—your face right now is..."
"Now, now. If the man does not wish to speak of it, let us not press him."
The President of the Council stepped in to mediate.
Aslan acknowledged him with a brief nod. Frida did not back down, despite the Dragon-kin elder's sudden interjection.
"...If you have something you need to say, come find me."
Frida delivered that line and withdrew. The Council President retreated as well, leaving only a formal greeting.
Aslan watched their backs for a moment before noticing that the Duke of Hilsinger had approached and was studying him quietly.
The Duke spoke the instant Aslan seemed to register his presence.
"I will say this beforehand—I have yet to agree to join this alliance."
"Is that so? Then..."
The sudden declaration made Aslan's eyes widen. The Duke kept his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on empty air.
Embarrassment flickered through his eyes.
"But neither have I refused. For now... it remains pending. If you wish to draw Hilsinger into your plan, come to Kardi after this banquet concludes. I would ask a favor..."
"Is that a threat, outsider?"
At the growled words, Aslan and the Duke both turned. Frida stood there, a wooden cup in one hand, glaring at the Duke.
She had clearly brought the drink for Aslan, who looked exhausted to anyone with eyes.
"No, not at all. I merely... find myself in need of assistance."
Frida gave him a dubious look at that awkward reply, then pressed the cup into Aslan's hand, turned, and strode away. Her cloak billowed with every step.
The Duke watched her go for a long moment, then sighed.
"I shall do so. Provided I finish what must be done first."
"You have my thanks. Then..."
Relief flickered across the Duke's face as he withdrew. As if on cue, a young woman emerged from the audience chamber.
Vivid platinum hair cropped just above the nape, and sharp, brilliant blue eyes.
It was Ileina of Ma'kel.
Aslan inclined his body to offer the young Emperor a proper bow, but she closed the distance without hesitation. She stopped before him, looking down at his rigid, awkward posture.
"Raise your head."
In the brief moment it took Aslan to straighten, a flurry of thoughts raced through the Emperor's mind.
She had wanted to see Aslan without fail, and she could certainly wait. But to be kept standing here like this—was that not too much?
Thus, the Emperor intended to reprimand him sternly. Chastise him for keeping royalty waiting, Aslan or not.
She had even considered delivering a rebuke she did not truly feel, if the words failed to land.
That had been the plan, at least, until the moment Aslan lifted his head and met her eyes.
The instant their gazes locked, Ileina shoved every word she had prepared into oblivion.
Those deep, lucid teal eyes. The profound weariness swimming within them. And the fire that refused to dim despite that weariness.
She closed the mouth she had opened to scold him and fell silent. Pressed her lips shut. Had to remind herself what she had meant to say.
The process was sluggish and imprecise. The young Emperor could not summon the words—the dignified, imperially appropriate reprimand—she had rehearsed.
And at the same time, she felt it in her bones: right now, whatever words she spoke, she would not sound like the Emperor. She would sound like Ileina.
Faced with that melancholy countenance so close before her, Ileina found she lacked the nerve to scold him. She held her silence.
Aslan simply looked at the Emperor, waiting.
"Your Majesty...?"
His puzzled tone filled the quiet. The Emperor shut her eyes tightly.
"You are... slightly late. The banquet will begin now. So... dress yourself properly and come. Next time... do not be late, and..."
She could not preserve her dignity. Aslan did not mind in the slightest.
*
Fine aristocratic garments, wholly unlike his usual attire. Gaudy clothes that even called to mind Kornil Ashud, the man who had already become a priest and died.
These were the clothes Aslan now wore—the clothes required for the banquet.
The one consolation was that he had been permitted to drape the Wings of Stymphalos over them. Even so, deep unease coiled in his chest.
Rowena, just what are you planning to do?
The talisman in his hand was the cause.
A talisman was an object that provided protection against magical workings or physical harm—a charm, in effect. Aslan had sensed the nature of the magic imbued within it, his overflowing mana and arcane perception leaving no room for doubt.
So Rowena could not commit some catastrophic act with a talisman alone. Yet the unease would not leave him.
Because this talisman was proof that Rowena was absolutely going to do something. And it was a testament to her will that she hoped Aslan would not be swept up in it.
That was the part that gnawed at him most.
Rowena, and the rest of the Flock's priests, knew about Aslan's plan.
If Rowena was going to make a move, it meant they knew beyond any doubt.
Even this banquet, seemingly innocent, was part of his design.
That was the shape of his plan. Host a banquet that appeared to have little purpose. Once it was in full swing, gather the allies, discuss the path forward, and issue the formal directives.
It was a scheme devised with the knowledge that the priests would be focused on his movements. A measure to keep them from interfering with the finer details.
Should he halt the banquet right now, or press ahead? After a long deliberation, Aslan opened his eyes.
...But I can't act rashly. They might only suspect. I must not move prematurely.
He stared at the talisman for a long while, then tucked it into his chest. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he turned.
Beyond the mountains of food and drink, his companions were making their way toward him.
"Aslan..."
The one at the front was Angie.
She was wearing a dress.
And she walked as though the garment were a cursed thing that did not fit her body. Each faltering step sent the hem fluttering. Her face was flushed, her pupils trembling.
A cat stuffed into clothing.
Fay, close behind her, wore a similar expression, though her face was noticeably paler.
If Angie was a cat in a dress, Fay was a puppy in one. She strode up in an awkward, loping gait and aimed a flat, reproachful look at Aslan.
"I... want to change..."
"Sorry. Just bear with it until the banquet is over."
"Don't like it... fine..."
Fay seemed to know she would get the same answer. She shot Aslan a look of pure discontent, then dragged Angie off toward the tables piled with food.
Aslan watched the two girls retreat. A moment later, he felt someone take his hand and lace their fingers through his. He turned his head.
"Aslan, what do you think? Beautiful?"
Predictably, it was the person now holding up their clasped hands as if for display, her manner coy. He smiled faintly.
Ereta wore a deep crimson dress—not her usual black—the shoulders left bare. The fabric was of fine quality, a soft sheen rippling through it with every movement. The play of light followed her supple gestures, flowing without pause, like an aurora dancing along the ground.
A red aurora walking the earth. Aslan studied her for a moment, then nodded.
"Yes. Beautiful. It suits you."
"I think so too. It seems red suits me. Perhaps my next clothes should be red."
"We'll do that."
"You're not just brushing me off, are you?"
Ereta pretended to sulk, kneading his hand. Aslan looked down at her working fingers with a strange expression.
"Where are Tiyamal and Rumel?"
Ereta shot him a sidelong glare for changing the subject, her lips pursing. But the moment their eyes met, her pout melted into a beaming smile, as if the sulking had never happened.
"Tiyamal threw a tantrum about not wanting to dress up and is currently fighting with the Council President—is that his title? Rumel is..."
For an instant, something like defeat flickered across Ereta's face. Aslan read it and tilted his head. Just then, the banquet hall doors opened, and one more figure entered.
A strikingly large bust, with the daring cut of the gown revealing the upper swell of her chest. A woman wrapped in a black dress embroidered with gold thread.
Rumel.
The moment she appeared, half the eyes in the banquet hall turned toward her.
Her face colored faintly—from embarrassment, perhaps—as she approached Aslan.
"Sir Aslan... Lady Ereta."
To have drawn every gaze in the hall, yet her greeting was modest. She took the hem of her dress in both hands and bowed with elegant grace.
The gesture was natural, yet it blended with her current attire to create a distinctive atmosphere. Even Ereta, a woman herself, found herself staring blankly for a moment.
Come to think of it... Lady Rumel was originally a noble.
Aslan was refreshing himself on that fact when Rumel straightened and half-hid her flushed face behind her braided hair. The effort only managed to conceal her nose, her eyes, the corners of her mouth.
A flicker of quiet defeat crossed Ereta's face.
"Irritatingly adorable."
At the blunt remark, Rumel flustered, and Ereta's expression softened at last.