Chapter 237 – Lit Fuse (2)

Chapter 237 – Lit Fuse (2)

The scent of the summer fields, once a source of pride, carried a different meaning for Marquess Valtor on that particular day. It created a bitter tang in the back of his throat as he stood in his castle's highest tower, leaning forward through the open window and watching the sweltering heat and the city under his rule. The once-loyal hands that upturned the soil of Valtor's lands were constantly muttering under their breath as they worked, and he swore he could hear them from there. Discontent was gathering above their heads like tiny, black storm clouds, yet his fingers were powerless to stop or disperse them. The Empress... And her damned reforms! The balance of power has shifted since the end of winter when she stripped away his rightful power over his region. These peasants now dared to think they were free and that their voices mattered... An unbelievable notion! Why? How? This was madness, especially because they were right on the border of the Sar Empire. There could be only one voice here: His! Otherwise, they risk that their rival thinks it's time to launch an assault against them...

"This can't go on!" Valtor snorted, spitting far, watching it fall down on the inner gardens of his castle.

It was but a few months away when he could have these peasants' backs broken with a word, should they forget their place. Now, judges, these so-called independent judges, lowly clerks without a proper rank, began meddling in affairs that were his by birthright. Her Majesty's reforms have allowed the common folk to stand before him as near equals in the eyes of this new court... demanding justice for grievances that should never have been heard. Worse still, those loyal to her—sniveling bureaucrats—treat his lands as if they belong to them rather than his family, the Valtors! His bloodline has ruled them for generations with iron and blood while also standing up against the Sar Empire multiple times.

He knew it wasn't only his region that was treated unjustly, and there was a rumor of a rebellion brewing in the wind. The other nobles neighboring his territory constantly whispered about it. Even within his own court, seeing how their Lord Valtor wasn't stopping their gossip, voices began appearing, going against Empress Mirian and her edicts. They were restless, just as he, for they all knew what these changes meant. The Empress sought to unravel their power, thread by thread, until all that would be replaced by her word alone. Every noble would be nothing but equal to the same kind of people they were governing! Peasants... Easily replaceable and discardable. Preposterous! The people need guidance, control, and discipline. They were like wild dogs, easily swayed by promises of freedom but bound to chaos the moment the leash loosened. Family Valtor can't let that come to pass.

These lowly peasants were growing bolder every day, emboldened by the Empress's supposed protection. They thought that just because they were learning to read and write, they became nobles... Nobles! They spoke out against the old ways, the ways that kept this land prosperous. They forgot that it was the Valtor family who protected them from marauders, managed the harvests, and ensured their lives, however meager they may be. Thanks to their Lord, they continued existing, and now they bite the hand that feeds them?!

"Bastards..." He grunted again, closing the windows, holding his hand behind his back, heading down from his tower, and taking the narrow steps slowly within his spiral staircase.

No matter how much he despised their newfound voice, they were not fools. They could see the Empress's new laws being ignored by the nobility, throwing out her newest decrees and slowly returning to the old order, to the one they believed to be right. And so unrest grows in the streets of the city, and Valtor was getting ready to put it down before it could spread. On that day, the farmers from the fields dared to gather in protest, occupying the biggest square and creating a perfect trap without him having to do anything. He knew these lowly peasants could see the nobles' growing defiance and were torn between hope and fear. They hope for the freedom the Empress began giving them but fear the retaliation the nobles may be preparing. Rightfully so! Still... the marquees could see it in their eyes every time he rode through the city in his carriage—defiance and uncertainty. It was like a plague spreading in the wind. They no longer cower as they once did... Which was what made him decide to be the first to put an end to his madness.

His steward informed him of the growing daily skirmishes between the guards and the rabble the moment he came down from the tower. By his words, a warehouse was burned down just last night, and rumors spread that it was no accident but the work of discontented farmers, the same people protesting for their rights. The people demand bread and, the most hilarious thing of all, fair wages as if they understand what is needed to keep such a region running! He couldn't indulge these demands anymore, not when the other nobles he knew also spoke of rebellion of their own. They cannot afford to lose face now, not when everything is on the line.

He knew what had to be done. The Empress had made a grave mistake in underestimating the power of the old families. They ARE the Empire. The bloodline may be sacred, but without them, she is nothing. She can't think she could oversee the Empire without them!

"We will proceed, " he said simply, ending the report of his steward, walking past him, thinking of his future.

The people are tools that can be forged or broken as needed. If the other lords stand with him—and they would—they can restore the natural order. But the timing had to be right, lest the peasants rise in full revolt before they were ready to crush them. So he waited until today.

"This land is mine. I will not see it fall to chaos or to the whims of a misguided Empress. I will not let the rabble rule me! No, this summer will be the turning point, and when winter comes again, Valtor will stand above the ashes of this so-called reform!"

"That would be the case if we both knew what we were going to do next. To fan the flames perfectly, we need to work flawlessly in synchronization. I can no longer let you travel around willy-nilly, Mirian."

"As far as I know, My Ancestor, you can't leave the city."

"I can't. Not in my body, that is."

“...”

"Time to sit back and let me handle the rest." He added with a smile that almost made Mirian feel like Pascal's ancient face was filled with insatiable greed, one that trumped even her predecessor's.

The moment he took a step forward, a completed, expertly crafted formation began slowly materializing behind him. Some of its parts appeared to be so black that it began distorting light around it. No matter what it was, Mirian knew that she couldn't be touched by its 'light,' or it would be over for her.

With a swish of her hand, two of her bracelets lit up in a golden light, using the multiple artifacts she was wearing as her magic was nowhere near Pascal's. A colorless shockwave burst forth at once, one that would be perfect for jumbling any spells Pascal was using, saving its wearer from a horrible fate. Yet the moment it met with the black runes floating behind him, it vanished from existence.

"Are you attacking me?" Pascal chuckled, beginning to walk again, taking firm steps as more of the formation materialized behind him, siphoning the colors from the chamber. "It is futile. You are but a fledgling, Mirian. You could have become a great witch, but... oh well. You will become a great puppet."

Listening to him, Mirian didn't flinch; she just used another spell, using her earrings as a conduit by summoning two blue lightning bolts. They appeared faster than any human could react, striking out at Pascal, yet it was as if he was surrounded by an invisible aura that consumed all magic heading toward him. Once again, Mirian's attacks failed as they dissipated the moment they got near him. By then, Pascal was only a few meters from her, and the more steps he took, the more visible his magic became.

Although Mirian didn't know what it was, she knew it was horrifying to look at. The more she gazed at the void-like spell, the stronger the feeling became that her personality and mind were slipping away, giving way to a subservient and pious persona. One that wanted nothing more than to serve her Emperor.

“Fuck... you...” She grunted, biting her lips, yet no magic would answer her call, stopping her from casting altogether.

"It's okay. You will be a good puppet." Pascal smiled, raising his hand as if wanting to touch Mirian's head to stroke her hair.

Yet, before he could do it, the whole palace—no, the entire capital city—shook. Before he could react, a black light flashed between the two, and Pascal could see his outstretched hand being severed at the elbow and withering away before it could touch the ground, turning into ash...