Viola von Wehrfurt did not dare scratch the bandages covering her arms. The wounds were fresh. The creatures that the necromancers had unleashed on the country had slaughtered all with orcish blood, including her five children. She was sure that none had survived the purge—she had seen the monsters tearing apart her youngest three. Her husband, and the elder sons… they must have died somewhere in the battle for the city. Lita, her youngest…

  Her hands curled into fists, and searing pain shot down her forearms. This was where the creature—the ghoul—had ripped her seven-year-old out of her arms as they had broken into her home. She had merely been sniffed, licked, and then abandoned as the monsters left the city for the countryside, continuing the genocidal slaughter.

  Cautiously, she looked up a bit. Surrounded as she was, she wasn't sure if that was wise or safe. The once-opulent corridors she remembered seeing as a child visiting court with her parents had suffered under orcish occupation. The Church’s love of wall paintings and tapestries had not been shared by the new overlords. And thirty years had not been kind to the architecture.

  She studied the lower body of the man whose soldiers had dragged her from her townhouse, who had jubilated seeing the torn-apart corpses of her children transforming into monsters. Marquardt of Hohenfels—the leader of the rebels in Portguard. The man who had committed atrocity after atrocity against anyone even suspected of collaboration. The man whose soldiers had incinerated entire villages. Anyone who had dared let an orc live in their midst had been dragged off into a central longhouse and burned with all of them inside.

  In a way… he’s my dark mirror. I sought peace and accommodation. Understanding. And he clung to the old ways. Clung to violence.

  A dark giggle broke from her lips. I’d been so sure that what I did was the only way. And now it turns out the rebels were right all along.

  She knew what was coming—that she was being dragged before the dark mage, the terrible overlord of Portguard. The monster that had released the creatures on the city. Had broken all she had worked for.

  Marquardt sniffed and took a step toward her.

  “What is there to laugh about, traitor?”

  Viola bit her teeth together as hard as she could until she felt the pain hit her. A single tear ran down her cheek.

  “You must be oh so happy with what has happened. Your darkest dreams have come true, haven’t they?”

  The Count chuckled and played with his finally clean-shaven chin.

  “I must admit—apart from the…” He hesitated, his eyes glancing from side to side. “Nature of our new overlords… this was the gift that made missing all the birthdays of the last thirty years worth it.” His voice rose and he gestured to his followers. “You will finally meet justice. For betraying your own people. For prostituting humans to the greenskins for your own gain. I hope the Margrave chooses me to swing the executioner’s blade. It would be poetic, wouldn’t it?”

  The moment she moved, she knew she had made a terrible mistake. But she couldn’t do anything else. She hissed like a cat and jumped—and was yanked backward. The back of a pike bit into her lower back, while the butt of a gun painfully crashed against her hip.

  Count Marquardt whistled. “Good to see that you still have fire. I think the Margrave will appreciate that. Despite all you’ve done, I must thank you. I am sure he will reward me richly for this final present.”

  His face twisted in anger and he leaned in close, letting her smell the oily metal of his armor.

  “There is much cleanup of your kind left to be done in the lands conquered by the Order. A duty I will gladly take on myself. To make this land hale and healthy again.”

  Viola required all her self-control to stay conscious through the pain. The hip was burning as if it had been shattered by the loose gunstock. The soldier had enjoyed the strike far too much.

  I am a bound woman. Fucking bastards. A noble lady… those dirty commoners.

  She was about to spit something vile back at the Count, yet he nodded to his escort.

  “It’s time. Let us present our little present.”

  The door creaked open with a sound that even the cans of oil clearly spent on the hinges couldn't mask—age and decay made their presence known. At the prodding of a gun barrel, Viola put one foot in front of the other. Tears began running down her cheeks, knowing what was happening.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  This can’t—why am I crying? I can’t be seen like this, not at the end.

  For she knew how the rebels would interpret it. An admission of guilt. Yet it was nothing of the sort. It was rage, plain and simple. Rage at the opulent display of militarism and elegance in front of her—at the soldiers standing smartly in uniforms that were so unlike those of the knights and commoners. Browns and greens dominated where there should have been vibrant colors proclaiming the glory of their house. No, they dressed like common brigands.

  Hundreds of mages stood in the hall. She had always had a little bit of talent and felt it: the current running through the air, how it was charged with the power of the dark mages.

  At least they had the good taste not to bring anything undead into this holy place.

  She studied the shimmering city crystal standing there in opposition to the dark, sharp-cornered obsidian obelisk.

  What’s the meaning of that? Some sort of ritual?

  And then Count Marquardt bowed, addressing the dark wizard overlord—who, she frowned for a second as her tears dried up, was wearing white angelic robes and a crown of oak leaves. The symbol of the old wandering human kings. That of the Elven Emperors. The blessing of the forest. The claim to the land.

  Her face tightened into a sneer.

  So that is what this is? Trying to claim legitimacy for your horrid occupation?

  Count Marquardt spoke up.

  “Margrave.”

  He bowed deeply—probably deeper than he had bowed for anyone but his father in the past.

  “At this most auspicious hour, I present to you a traitor. For at the time of a nation’s founding, for the sapling of a nation to grow, it not only needs to be watered with the blood of patriots—”

  He stepped to the side, making a grand gesture and glaring at her, smug triumph in his eyes.

  “—but also with that of traitors.”

  Silence fell over the hall.

  The dark wizard merely floated in the air and tilted his head to the side, considering the situation.

  So I’m really a surprise gift? I would have thought all of this was just theater.

  To her surprise, instead of anger or loud praise, the Margrave of the Order of the Invisible Hand floated over and landed in front of her on his feet.

  “I think I remember your name from the intelligence reports. Duchess Viola von Wehrfurt, is it not?”

  She swallowed, praying to the One that she’d have her hands free to wipe the embarrassing tears off her face.

  “Yes. Feels good that before my end I get to meet the murderer of my children.”

  Rüdiger tilted his head.

  “Well, you do have spirit—though maybe lack something in wisdom.”

  Many of the mages gave polite chuckles, whereas officers and bureaucrats stood still. She noticed a strange creature among them, a many-legged wooden spider tilting its head like a dog, studying her.

  One of his foul creations, no doubt.

  Rüdiger looked at her, lifted his brows as he saw the chains.

  “Tell me, Duchess, why have you done what you have done?”

  She hissed at him.

  “You wouldn’t understand. Your kind of—”

  The Archmagister’s voice turned from kind inquiry to a notched blade wrapped in steel within a split second.

  “You should consider your position here and address me with courtesy due my standing. Remember where we are, Duchess.”

  Then his voice suddenly softened, and his eyes flickered to the side.

  Viola froze for a second.

  Was that a glance of disapproval at Count Marquardt? He’s probably just annoyed his ceremony—his show of grandiosity—has been disrupted.

  “I… it was the best way to preserve lives. I did not think the Reconquista would ever succeed, nor thought that what you did with the ghouls was even possible.”

  Her voice broke, and she tried to lift her bound arms. The Margrave studied the bloody bandages. Poorly done, and her actions and movements had made the blood leak out again.

  “You married an orcish chieftain, did you not? And with the targeting parameters of my ritual…”

  To her surprise, the dark mage swallowed.

  “I am so sorry for your loss, Lady von Wehrfurt.”

  Marquardt cleared his throat.

  “Honored Margrave. She’s a traitor. She does not deserve—”

  With the inevitability of a cannon, Rüdiger’s head turned.

  “Count.”

  He said the word as if it were something disgusting.

  “I believe, both in terms of noble propriety and military order, you shall speak when I address you. Is that not so? Or has my understanding of proper proprieties gone awry with the years?”

  Viola’s eyes widened slightly as she saw Count Marquardt grind his teeth in anger.

  The Archmagister looked her straight in the eyes—for a time that lost all meaning.

  Then he said words.

  Countess Viola gasped in shock.

  It took Marquardt a few moments to register.

  She shook her head, trying to clear the confusion away. With a confused frown, the Margrave repeated the question.

  “Would you serve me as one of my dual consuls of economics?”

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