The Parpaldia Empire. The capital city of Esthirant. The Imperial Palace. The Throne Room.

  The majestic vaults of the throne room, usually gleaming with gilded bas-reliefs and the light of hundreds of magical lamps, seemed to press down with their weight today. Heavy brocade draperies on the windows were drawn shut, plunging the hall into an oppressive gloom where dancing shadows made the faces of those present look like masks from a Greek tragedy. The air was heavy, almost tangible, thick with the smell of cold stone, wax, and the faint, almost metallic, taste of power. All the highest officials of the Empire were here, and their faces, usually arrogant and self-assured, were now as grim as storm clouds before a tempest.

  Remille entered the hall silently, like a ghost. Emperor Ludius I sat on his throne, motionless as a statue. His gaze, fixed on nothing, was as heavy as the weight of all the defeats that had befallen his Empire. Bowing deeply to the throne, not to the man upon it, Remille took her place at the large oval table. Her heart clenched, and a lump formed in her throat, but her face remained cold and inscrutable.

  All the key figures were present: the Supreme Commander Arde, the heads of the three foreign policy departments—Elto, Rius, and Kaios—as well as the head of the Office of Economic Development, Myuri. They were all silent, afraid to be the first to break the deathly silence. Finally, Arde spoke. The Emperor gave a barely perceptible, almost detached, nod, granting him permission to speak.

  "According to the data received," Arde's voice was hollow and devoid of emotion, like a surgeon pronouncing a death, "our army has suffered… catastrophic losses."

  He paused, letting the weight of those words sink in for everyone in the hall.

  "The main fleet defending the capital has ceased to exist. Our primary naval formations in the east—also destroyed. The enemy surpasses us in every conceivable parameter: range, rate of fire, accuracy, detection capabilities…" he fell silent, searching for the words. "The largest garrison of the capital's defense, our main land fortress, has been completely wiped from the face of the earth by massive bombardments. The industrial center in Duro has also been neutralized. The capital, Your Imperial Majesty, is now virtually defenseless."

  He finished, and a dead, deafening silence filled the hall. No one uttered a word. The truth was too terrible.

  "I have already given the order to urgently recall the nearest legions from the vassal states for the defense of the capital. However, it should be noted that their level of training and equipment is incomparable to the elite units we have lost," Arde concluded, and his words hung in the air like a death sentence.

  Perlas, the supervisor of colonial administrations, a fat, well-groomed man whose face usually shone with self-satisfaction, leaped to his feet. His face was flushed with panicked indignation.

  "Recall troops from the colonies?!" he cried out. "That's madness! It will immediately provoke unrest and full-scale rebellions! Why can't you recall units from the other continental bases?!"

  Arde slowly turned his head towards him. His gaze was full of an icy, almost contemptuous calm of a professional forced to explain the obvious to an amateur.

  "Mister Perlas, the strategic importance of our continental bases is absolute. If we weaken them, we will create a power vacuum that our competitors—Riem, Sios, and perhaps even Mirishial itself—will instantly fill. Besides," he tilted his head slightly, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm, "suppressing internal unrest in the colonies, as far as I recall, falls under your direct responsibility, does it not? Or are your governors so incompetent that they cannot maintain control over unarmed slaves without the support of the regular army?"

  Perlas flushed, turned purple, and opened his mouth to reply, but only managed to mutter an incoherent curse and collapsed back into his chair. A sudden, sharp knock on the massive doors made everyone fall silent.

  "Enter!" Arde barked, glancing fleetingly at the Emperor's impassive face.

  A communications officer stumbled into the throne room. His formal uniform was in disarray, and his face was as white as chalk. He staggered towards Arde and quickly whispered something in his ear. Arde grew even paler, if that was even possible. He froze, as if struck by lightning, his eyes wide open. He forgot where he was, and for a moment, his self-control, forged in dozens of battles, cracked.

  "What happened, Arde?! Speak!" Emperor Ludius's voice was harsh, like the strike of a sword. There was no panic in it. Only the icy impatience of a monarch demanding a report.

  "Y-Your Imperial Majesty," Arde began, but the words stuck in his throat.

  "SPEAK! NOW!" Ludius roared.

  "The industrial city of Duro… has been subjected to a total airstrike. The city… its industrial sector… has ceased to exist. All the manufactories, all the factories… everything that forged our weapons… has been razed to the ground. The military garrison… annihilated," Arde's voice trembled.

  The hall plunged into a deafening, dead silence. It was broken by a second officer who ran in after the first. He looked no better.

  "Speak," the Emperor commanded in an icy tone.

  "Your Imperial Majes—!" the officer from the colonial department fell to his knees. "The vassal states of Kuze, Aluke, and Martha… have risen in full-scale rebellion. Our governors have been killed, their residences burned!"

  The officer took a deep, shuddering breath.

  "These states have already been completely taken over by the rebels. Furthermore, riots have broken out in fifteen other vassal states. Our garrisons are surrounded. They are holding out, but all are requesting immediate aid. They say… they say that the King of Altaras is broadcasting from Russia on all magical channels, calling for a general uprising!"

  And at that moment, in the throne room where the elite of the greatest superpower had gathered, the unthinkable happened. Perlas, the supervisor of the colonies, let out a low, strangled groan and, his eyes rolling back, collapsed unconscious onto the marble floor. His nerves had given out. But no one even turned in his direction. All eyes were on the emperor. And he, in turn, slowly shifted his gaze to the one man in the hall who showed neither fear nor surprise. To Lord Kaios.

  The heavy, almost tangible silence, filled with the smell of fear, was shattered by measured, sarcastic, almost theatrical clapping. Lord Kaios, head of the Third Department, slowly rose from his seat. His face, usually inscrutable, was twisted into an icy smirk. He clapped. Loudly. Slowly. As if applauding a brilliantly staged farce.

  "Well then, gentlemen. Now that everything is finally and irrevocably obvious, we can officially admit: we have lost. We have lost everything," his voice, cold as steel, was filled with undisguised mockery. "Our invincible army is shattered. Our unbeatable fleet is at the bottom of the sea. Our industrial centers are reduced to ruins. Our breadbaskets are in the flames of rebellion. Without their food, in six months, we will all be facing starvation. The rebels are almost certainly conducting secret negotiations with the Kingdom of Riem, which is just waiting for the moment to stab us in the back. It is only a matter of time before they form a coalition. And then, all that will be left of our Great Empire will be charred, useless ruins."

  Kaios paused, sweeping them all with his heavy, contemptuous gaze—from the pale Elto to the trembling Myuri. Then he slowly turned to the throne.

  "And you, Your Imperial Majesty, with your criminal, almost childish incompetence and your blind, boundless pride, have personally led the Great Empire to this shameful collapse."

  "YOU DARE SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT?!" Ludius roared, leaping from his throne. His face, usually pale and aristocratic, turned crimson.

  But Kaios only smirked coldly. He took a small, inconspicuous artifact from the inner pocket of his uniform, something that looked like a smooth black crystal, and spoke a single word into it: "Now."

  In that same instant, the massive bronze doors of the throne room burst open with a deafening crash. Soldiers poured into the hall, their steps echoing on the marble floor like a single, soulless mechanism. They were dressed in plain black uniforms with no insignia. The personal guard of the Third Department, loyal to only one man. Their magic arquebuses were aimed at everyone present.

  "WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?! TRAITORS! GUARDS, TO ME!" Ludius bellowed. But his personal bodyguards, who stood by the throne in their red uniforms, did not even flinch. They merely, silently, in sync, lowered the muzzles of their arquebuses. The betrayal was total.

  The commander of Kaios's guards, a captain with eyes as cold as ice, stepped forward.

  "By order of the new Lord Regent, Kaios, you, Ludius, and you, Lady Remille, are under arrest for high treason," his voice was cold and merciless. "The Empire will live. But without you."

  The dry, metallic click of a magic arquebus being cocked sounded in the dead silence of the throne room like the toll of a funeral bell. Ludius froze. He understood. He had lost. With great difficulty, restraining the fury that boiled within him, he slowly, with offended majesty, sank back onto his throne. It was no longer a throne. It was the defendant's dock.

  "While the Empire is experiencing its greatest tragedy, you decide to stage a coup d'état?!" Ludius snarled.

  "You caused this tragedy," Kaios interrupted him, his voice cold, almost indifferent.

  Remille, sitting nearby, grew even paler.

  "This is insanity!" she cried out, jumping to her feet. "You have no right! I am—"

  Two guards, without a word, stepped towards her and roughly twisted her arms behind her back.

  "Don't make this difficult, my lady," the captain said quietly, almost politely.

  Kaios turned to Rume. "Enough sitting among these idiots. Time to get to work."

  Rume, also known as Roman, who had grown up under the wardship of Lord Kaios, casually stood up, smirked, and stood beside Kaios.

  "Bastards! Traitors!" Arde hissed. "If you kill us, who will rule the Empire?! The enemy is at the gates, and you are decapitating the state!"

  "Nature abhors a vacuum, General," Kaios replied with a slight smile.

  "INSOLENCE!" Ludius roared. "My personal guard will be here soon, and then you will all answer for this!"

  "I'm afraid there will be a slight problem with that, Your Former Majesty," Rume remarked with a smug grin.

  At that moment, another soldier in a black uniform ran into the hall.

  "Lord Regent!" the breathless soldier shouted, running into the hall. "A report from the Southern Gate! Russian forces have begun a marine landing in the port! Their advance units… some strange, clanking, horseless carriages… they are already in the city and will be here within the hour!"

  This news, like the final nail, was driven into the coffin of the old regime. A primal, animalistic terror flashed in the eyes of Ludius and Remille. They understood. This was not just a coup. This was the end of an era.

  Kaios, who had already seated himself on the imperial throne without waiting for an invitation, slowly raised his head. His calm, cold gaze settled on the breathless soldier. He was silent, weighing what he had heard. Finally, he spoke, almost in a whisper, in his old, almost forgotten Russian:

  "Here we go…"

  Sighing heavily, he added, now in Imperial, loudly and commandingly:

  "Under no circumstances are you to open fire on them. Provide a 'green corridor.' Escort them to the palace. We will sort it out here. That is all. You may go."

  The soldier, stunned by the new ruler's composure, froze for a moment, then, touching a hand to his shako, snapped:

  "Yes, sir!"

  Turning on his heel, he ran out of the throne room.

  Kaios shifted his gaze to the commander of his guard, Captain Morte. His voice became hard and unambiguous.

  "Captain!"

  "At your service, Lord Regent!" Captain Morte responded instantly.

  "Take these," Kaios gestured with contempt towards the terror-stricken aristocrats and generals, "out of my sight. To the dungeons. If anyone resists—fire to kill. Lady Remille—to a separate cell."

  The captain gave a short, military nod.

  "Yes, my lord!"

  At his gesture, the guards moved forward. The crowd of the Empire's highest dignitaries, surrounded by the muzzles of magic arquebuses, reluctantly began their humiliating march towards the exit, like a herd to the slaughterhouse.

  When the hall was empty and the heavy doors had clanged shut behind the last prisoner, Kaios once again slowly sank onto the throne. He ran his palm over the cold, carved armrests with relish, feeling the power he had dreamed of for decades finally fill him with strength. His face was a mixture of infinite, almost mortal weariness and a quiet, grim triumph.

  "Well then, Roman," he said without turning to Rume, who had remained in the hall. "Let's go meet… our new masters."

  The night after the arrest was dark and grim. In the provisional prison, hastily set up in the damp, abandoned wine cellars beneath the imperial palace, Remille sat motionless on a rough, wet wooden bench. The air was heavy, saturated with the stale smell of wine, mold, and despair. Her wrists were bound in heavy, rust-covered chains. The same shackles cinched her ankles, and a short but thick chain, welded to them, was fixed to a massive iron ring in the stone floor, granting her no more than five feet of humiliating freedom. A thick, almost palpable silence pressed on her ears, broken only by the steady, maddening drip of water from the ceiling.

  Her mind, purged of wine fumes over the last few days, had become a cold, perfectly honed mechanism. She knew: if she did nothing, she would be handed over to the Russians like a prize mare. And there, a disgraceful, public execution awaited her, under the mocking gaze of the barbarians. This outcome was unacceptable. She was Lady Remille, blood of the imperial dynasty. She would not end her life in a filthy cell.

  For several days, pretending to be broken, she observed. Her gaze, hidden behind a curtain of disheveled hair, studied the guards. The sergeant—a veteran, cynical and cruel, but afraid of his new superiors. And the second one—a young, inexperienced country boy who shifted uneasily from foot to foot and looked away whenever their eyes met. In his eyes, she saw not hatred, but a foolish, puppy-like sympathy. He would be her key to freedom.

  When it was time for dinner—a meager bowl of gray, tasteless oat gruel—she was ready. She slowly raised her head, her breathing heavy and ragged, her voice barely a whisper.

  "Please… water… I'm very ill…" she whispered.

  "Cut the aristocratic tricks," the senior guard, a sergeant with a grizzled and scarred face, grumbled, pushing the bowl of gruel through the bars.

  "Wait, Sergeant. What if she's really sick?" the young guard said uncertainly. "If she dies on our watch, the Lord Regent Kaios will have our heads. They're supposed to be handing her over to the Russians."

  The senior guard spat angrily. The rookie was right. Fear of the new, ruthless ruler was stronger than his hatred for the prisoner.

  "Idiot! She's playing you!" he snapped. "Fine. Give her some water. But through the bars! And keep your musket ready!"

  But Remille was ready for this too. As soon as the young guard held out the flask to her, she, pretending to reach for the water, let out a low, guttural moan and, as if on a theater stage, began to theatrically slump to the side, her eyes slowly rolling back.

  "She's… she's unconscious! Sergeant, what do we do?!" the young guard cried out in a panic.

  "Shit…" the sergeant hissed. "A trap. It's a trap. But if she dies… Kaios won't care about the details. He'll just hang us both." Panic began to grip him too. "Quick, open the door! We have to check! You," he jabbed a finger at the rookie, "stay at the entrance. Musket to your shoulder! Finger on the trigger! Aim for her center mass! If she so much as twitches—shoot without warning! Clear?!"

  "Yes, Sergeant!"

  While the sergeant, setting aside his musket and drawing a short infantry cutlass from its sheath, entered the cell and bent over Remille to check if she was breathing, the rookie, as ordered, remained at the door, aiming his musket at the motionless body. This was his fatal mistake.

  The moment the sergeant touched her neck, Remille, with a strength and speed no one expected, shot up. Her hands, bound in heavy chains, swung like a battle flail, crashing down on the head of the stooped sergeant. There was a dull, wet crack. He collapsed on top of her without a sound.

  "ALARM! ESCA—" the young guard screamed, but it was too late.

  Remille, using the sergeant's body as a shield, was already at the bars, snatching the keys from his belt. Before the rookie could fire, she flung the heavy key ring at his face. He howled in pain, dropping his musket, and in the next instant, she was outside, plunging the sergeant's just-acquired cutlass into his throat.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  With fingers trembling from adrenaline, she jammed the tip of the cutlass into the crude keyhole of the shackles on her feet. The metal wouldn't give. She snarled in frustration, again and again scratching and gouging at the mechanism, tearing the skin from her fingers. After several agonizing, endless minutes filled with the sound of grinding metal, there came a saving, loud click. Free.

  She ran. Through narrow, slimy corridors that stank of dampness, despair, and death. Behind her, she could already hear furious shouts and the tramp of many boots.

  "SHE'S HEADING FOR THE MAIN EXIT! SEAL THE GATES! ALARM!"

  Remille burst out into an open, rain-soaked prison yard. Spotting an old cart, filled to the brim with rotting hay, she dove behind it without a second thought, hiding in the foul sludge. Her heart pounded in her chest, echoing in her ears like a funeral drum. When a squad of guards ran past, clattering their boots and waving lanterns, she seized the moment. Darting to the wall, she threw a grappling hook and rope that she had ripped from the wall in the armory. Her delicate hands, accustomed to silk and wine, were burned by the rough, wet fibers. But she climbed, feeling no pain, spurred on by a pure, animalistic will to live.

  Finding herself free, in a dark, garbage-strewn alley, she froze for a moment. But fate was preparing another ironic blow for her. Her path was blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered man with an ugly scar on his forehead, dressed in the worn-out robes of a street sweeper.

  "Where's a pretty lady like you off to in such a hurry?" he said with an insolent, commoner's smirk that made her teeth grind.

  Remille, without a word, drew the cutlass in a swift, serpentine motion. The attack was lightning-fast, calculated to slit his throat. But the man was faster. His reaction was not that of a commoner, but of a seasoned fighter. He dodged, and his calloused hand, like a steel vise, clamped down on her wrist. His other hand, with incredible speed, grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back with force.

  Their struggle was short, brutal, and humiliating. Remille fought back with the fury of a cornered wolf. She bit, she scratched, she tried to knee him. But Selgaya was stronger, heavier, and used to dirty street brawling. She managed to leave several deep, bloody scratches on his arm, but he only winced. In the end, with one powerful, sobering punch to the face, he knocked the cutlass from her weakened hand and threw her violently onto the wet, grimy cobblestones.

  The noise of the struggle attracted the attention of a patrol of Kaios's guards, who were sweeping the quarter. The light from their magic lanterns caught two figures in the darkness: a man wiping blood from his arm, and a woman trying to get up from the filth.

  "That's her! Get her! Report to the Lord Regent immediately!" an officer yelled.

  The soldiers roughly seized Remille, once again wrenching her arms behind her back.

  "Didn't run far, did you, sweet thing," one of them muttered, pulling a rope tight around her bloodied wrists.

  She was taken into custody again. This time, she knew there were no more chances. She stared in silent, empty hatred at the "street sweeper" who had cost her her freedom.

  The officer approached Selgaya.

  "Thank you for your assistance, citizen. You have rendered the Empire an invaluable service. Report to the palace tomorrow. The Lord Regent Kaios himself wishes to see you. He will undoubtedly reward you generously."

  "From… the Lord Regent himself?" Selgaya asked again, disbelievingly, almost with reverent awe.

  "That is correct."

  And Selgaya, that very same street sweeper, was indeed elevated to a new height. For his "valiant contribution to the capture of a dangerous state criminal," he was transferred with great fanfare to a comfortable position in the quartermaster service of the General Staff. It certainly didn't grant him the same honors his late friend Bart had worn. But for him, a man who had lived his entire life in the gutter, this was a true ascent. Later, in his famous memoirs titled "Life is Luck," he would write that on that fateful evening, he had simply stepped out to take out the trash.

  In a matter of days, with almost no resistance, the motley, righteous-fury-filled army of the "Alliance-73" reached the walls of the imperial city of Aruni. Sunlight barely penetrated the thick, acrid smoke from the burning suburbs. The air was heavy with the smell of scorch, blood, and fear.

  Five thousand Coalition soldiers—former slaves, peasants with pitchforks, and a handful of professional military men from Altaras—advanced on the city in a broad front, as uncontrollable as a mountain avalanche. They were opposed by only two thousand imperial soldiers, but behind them stood the elite: twenty-one wyvern lords and three armored land dragons.

  The battle began at the first light of dawn. The Parpaldians methodically repelled one wave of attackers after another. One of the land dragons spewed a wide stream of sticky, viscous flame, turning an entire line of militia from Kuze into screaming, burning torches. From the smoke-blackened sky, like demons, the wyvern lords dove with a howl, their fireballs leaving bloody craters in their wake.

  Atop the main tower, the garrison commander, Captain Vallen, watched the slaughter with a cold smirk.

  "Pathetic insects," he spat. "They thought they could take us with numbers. By evening, not even half of them will be left."

  He was absolutely certain of his victory. But he was dead wrong.

  At the height of the battle, when it seemed the assault was about to drown in blood, the unforeseen happened. From the direction of the hills came strange, dull, cough-like thumps.

  "AIR! TARGETS IN THE AIR!" a sharp, guttural cry rang out.

  And immediately, from the depths of the rebel ranks, several dozen figures in dark uniforms emerged. The first "Verba" MANPADS missile, fired from the shoulder of a soldier from a covertly inserted special forces team from Kuze, hissed into the sky. Guided by its thermal homing head, it shot straight into the chest of one of the diving wyvern lords. The mighty creature exploded from within, disintegrating into bloody shreds.

  The stunned riders didn't even have time to process what had happened before several dozen more "fiery arrows" struck from the attackers' ranks. The sky, just a minute ago their undisputed domain, had turned into a death trap. Panic seized the elite squadron; the knight-riders tried in terror to gain altitude, but it was too late.

  And as soon as the sky was clear, hell began on the ground.

  "ANTI-ARMOR! FIRE!"

  New groups with green tubes on their shoulders—RPG-7 teams—moved into direct fire positions. The garrison commander instinctively raised his Mirishial spyglass. He saw fiery trails erupting from these tubes with a sharp, hissing sound. These "arrows," unlike the clumsy bolts of a ballista, flew straight and with incredible speed.

  The first land dragon, the very one that had incinerated hundreds of militiamen, suddenly jerked and roared in pain. A PG-7VL "Luch" HEAT round, designed to burn through tank armor, easily pierced its thick scales, turning its insides into a boiling mush.

  "SECOND DRAGON HIT! EXPLOSION IN ITS MOUTH!" a spotter on the wall screamed.

  Another fiery trail struck the second monster right in its open maw. A monstrous internal explosion occurred, tearing the beast's head apart from the inside.

  The rebels, frozen in shock for a moment, erupted in a wild roar of ecstasy. And the Parpaldians fell into a panic. Their "invincible" living tanks and flying demons were being turned into bloody mincemeat before their eyes.

  Captain Vallen stared in horror through his spyglass. He saw the groups with the "tubes," acting with coordinated, professional precision like a single mechanism, methodically destroying his most powerful units. This wasn't magic. He had fought against magic his entire life, and he knew it. This was something else. Cold, precise, soulless, and absolutely lethal.

  "The end," he realized, with the icy calm that only comes in the face of certain death. "This is the end. But who… who, in the name of all the demons, gave them these weapons…?"

  When the last land dragon, pierced by rocket-propelled grenades, collapsed in flames with a death roar, and the remnants of the elite wyvern-lord squadron fled the battlefield in panic, the overall morale of the rebels reached a boiling point. The furious, victorious cry of thousands of throats seemed to shake the very foundations of the world. At that moment, as if fulfilling their role in an ancient epic, wyverns from the Kingdom of Riem entered the fray from the flank. The aerial battle turned the sky over Aruni into a chaotic, deadly dance. By the end of the day, the outcome of the battle was clear. The imperial garrison, stripped of its main trump cards, was crushed and trampled. The city of Aruni had fallen.

  On its streets, littered with the bodies of those in red-and-black imperial uniforms and the colorful clothes of the militiamen, spontaneous celebrations began. People who, just an hour ago, had been saying their goodbyes to life, wept with happiness, laughed, and embraced each other and the liberating soldiers. This victory, which had seemed impossible just this morning, had become a reality.

  However, the victors' euphoria was short-lived. A few hours later, a breathless messenger burst into the temporary headquarters of the "Alliance-73," set up in the former residence of the imperial governor. He handed a scroll to Haki, one of the rebellion's leaders. Haki unrolled it, scanned the text, and his face, which just a minute ago had been shining with triumph, turned to stone.

  "What is it?" the Altarasian commander, sitting beside him, asked.

  Haki silently handed him the scroll. The commander read it, reread it, and looked up in disbelief.

  "Is… is this a joke?"

  In the tent, where just a moment ago victorious toasts were being made and plans for the further liberation of lands were being drawn, a deathly, almost unnatural silence fell. In Esthirant, the capital of the hated Empire, a coup d'état had occurred. A new provisional government, led by a certain Lord Kaios, had immediately entered into negotiations with the Russian Federation and announced an unconditional surrender.

  The war they had dedicated their lives to, for which they had paid with thousands of lives, was over. Without them. It had simply… been canceled. Somewhere far away, in shining palaces, the powers that be, old and new, had redrawn the map without asking their opinion. Their great, sacred war for freedom had, overnight, become an insignificant episode in someone else's much larger game. The leaders of the rebellion, drunk on their great, bloody victory, stared at each other in utter bewilderment. Joy gave way to confusion, and triumph to anxiety. They would have to live in a new world. A world whose rules were dictated not by their old, hated enemy. But by their new, unknown, and perhaps even more powerful, savior.

  The next day, in accordance with the Esthirant Peace Treaty, a quiet but all the more chilling demonstration of power began to unfold along the entire border of the former Empire. Russian "peacekeeping" contingents, redeployed overnight by military transport aircraft, began to occupy key areas. Their armored vehicles—columns of BTR-82As and "Tigr" armored cars with white circles painted on their sides—occupied roads, bridges, and passes without a single shot. Heavy Mi-26 transport helicopters, carrying entire checkpoints and field hospitals, rumbled over the heads of the stunned locals and the armies of neighboring states. This wasn't an occupation. It was something else, something more terrifying—a calm, methodical, and absolutely inexorable statement of a new order.

  For most of the neighboring states, which, like vultures, had already been circling the weakened body of Parpaldia, preparing to tear off their piece, this was the signal to cease hostilities. The King of Riem, whose army was already preparing to storm a city in the south, listened with fury to his general's report: "Your Majesty, they are there. The Russians. They are just standing on the road. They are not threatening. They are just… standing." Even Parpaldia's most bitter enemies did not dare to enter into a conflict with the force that had turned the imperial fleet to ash. With poorly concealed indignation and cold fear, they withdrew their armies.

  The war that everyone had considered the beginning of the end for the Parpaldia Empire had suddenly, almost absurdly, ended. The rebel combat groups, who just yesterday had stormed Aruni, received an official order, confirmed by their own command:

  "Cease all hostilities. The war is over. Await further orders."

  In the camp of "Alliance-73," which still smelled of blood and gunpowder, a deathly silence fell. Haki stood on the fortress wall, looking at the smoking ruins, and felt not triumph, but emptiness. They had won. They had paid for this victory with thousands of lives. But their victory had been stolen from them. It had simply been annulled, like an insignificant detail in someone else's grand game.

  And now, all of them—the victors and the vanquished, kings and slaves—would have to learn to live in a new world. A world where the old, understandable, and honest rules, based on valor, vengeance, and the right of the strong, no longer applied. A world where the rules were now dictated by a single, all-seeing, and all-powerful force, capable of starting and stopping wars with a stroke of a pen on a map. Pax Russica—the "Russian World"—had arrived. But no one yet knew what its price would be.

  Parpaldia Empire. Capital City of Esthirant.

  Much water had flowed under the bridge since a Russian diplomat last set foot on this land. Esthirant greeted them not with triumphal arches, but with an oppressive silence. The remnants of its former imperial splendor were covered in dust, and the few passersby who caught sight of the armored Aurus bearing Russian flags hurried to hide behind tightly closed doors.

  The Russian diplomats, Alexei Vishnevsky and Colonel Gruzdev, had returned to Parpaldia on a special mission. Their task was not only to finalize the terms of surrender with the new government of Lord Kaios, but also to retrieve Remille. This woman, who not long ago was surrounded by luxury, was now in a dark dungeon where an eternal cold and dampness reigned.

  Vishnevsky, known here as "First," decided to conduct the initial interrogation personally. Accompanied by a team of "Zaslon" Spetsnaz operators, he descended into a prison built specifically for traitors. The irony of the situation did not escape him: while they walked through these grim corridors, upstairs in the palace, the former Emperor Ludius was signing his abdication. The Empire, which had held itself together through fear for centuries, was devouring itself.

  The nondescript building, hidden in the greenery of the palace garden, looked like a forgotten chapel. Two of Kaios's guards at the entrance silently let the delegation pass. Inside, it smelled of rot and decay. Dim torches barely illuminated walls covered in black mold. The silence was broken only by the sound of dripping water and the dull echo of their footsteps. Along the way, they passed cells containing dried up, blackened corpses.

  "Creepy place," one of the operators muttered quietly.

  The dungeon where Remille was being held was at the very end of the corridor. The cell was locked with a massive, rusted grate. Inside, in the semi-darkness, sat a woman, her figure almost indiscernible. A dull metal collar glinted on her neck, and her hands and feet were shackled in heavy chains.

  Vishnevsky stopped before the bars. The woman suddenly raised her head. Her gaze, piercing and full of untamable hatred, locked onto his eyes. She said not a word.

  "Well, hello, Lady Remille," "First" said with a light, venomous smirk. "How long has it been? I must confess, I'm very glad to see you. Just… glad to see you."

  Remille slowly, with offended dignity, turned her head away. Her shoulders tensed. In her silence, there was more contempt than in the loudest curse.

  "You've become truly pathetic…" Vishnevsky continued, not taking his eyes off her. His voice held no sympathy, only a cold, almost surgical disdain.

  "SHUT UP!" she shrieked, snapping her head up. Her voice, broken and hoarse, trembled with rage. "I am Lady Remille, of the imperial line! You would have been gutted and hung on the palace gates for a single sideways glance in my direction, you nothing!"

  "First" smirked coldly.

  "'Imperial line'?" he repeated, drawing out the words with poisonous mockery. "Your 'emperor' is, at this very moment, signing an act of unconditional surrender, humbling himself before those whom you and he considered trash. You know what the funniest part is? In exchange for his miserable life and the preservation of a decorative title, he is ready to give up everything. And first and foremost—you."

  Remille stared at him, her lips trembling slightly, and for the first time, a shadow of animalistic fear flickered in the depths of her eyes.

  "You're lying…" she whispered.

  "I never lie, my lady," he said quietly, almost confidentially, pausing. "It's part of the deal he is making right now with Lord Kaios. A deal that will save his skin. But not yours."

  Her face turned as white as chalk. She tried to say something, but the words stuck in her throat.

  "TELL ME, YOU BASTARD!" "First" suddenly roared, kicking the bars with force. The steel boomed, and the echo of the blow rolled through the dungeon like a clap of thunder. "Doesn't your conscience bother you?! AT ALL?!"

  He stared with undisguised hatred at the woman behind the bars. Her face remained impassive, but for a moment, something flickered in her eyes—not fear, but only an infinite, all-consuming weariness. The weariness of a world that had dared not to bend to her will.

  "You think that just because your empire is strong, you have the right to torture the weak?!" Vishnevsky continued, his voice now trembling with poorly restrained fury. "You think your gods will forgive you for your crimes?! Those people you killed in the name of your pathetic, second-rate empire were just like you and me! They had families! Friends! Dreams! And how much pain have you caused?! How many innocent tears and how much blood has been shed?! Can you even imagine it?!"

  His voice rose in intensity. He kicked the bars again, so hard that they rang like a funeral bell. "LOOK AT ME, YOU BITCH!"

  But Remille stubbornly stared at the floor.

  "You didn't even spare the children," he snarled, grinding his teeth. "You and your completely brain-dead emperor!" His face contorted with disgust. "What did you even imagine in that empty head of yours, you creature?! That just because someone wasn't born in your 'civilized zone,' you can treat them like an object?! I can see it in your eyes: there is no regret. Not a single drop. Not then, and not now."

  He drew his pistol with such suddenness that his own men instinctively flinched. The dry click of a round being chambered sounded in the silence of the dungeon like a death sentence. And then, not aiming at her, he emptied the entire magazine into the stone wall beside her head.

  The deafening roar of the gunshots forced Remille to press herself against the wall, her body wracked with uncontrollable tremors. But she did not scream.

  He slowly lowered the pistol. In the echoing silence, broken only by the ringing in his ears and the smell of gunpowder, he breathed heavily, raggedly.

  "If it were up to me, I'd finish you right here. Without a trial. Because you are not human. You are demons in the flesh, who deserve not an ounce of mercy. But I have my orders. Moscow needs you. Alive."

  And at that moment, Remille broke. Completely and irrevocably. As if a dam she had so desperately tried to hold back had burst, her body was wracked with wild, hysterical sobs. She buried her face in her grimy knees, and her shoulders convulsed. Pain, humiliation, loneliness, primal fear—it all came crashing down on her at once.

  "Gag her, cuff her, and get her out," Vishnevsky threw curtly to his men, without turning around.

  He walked out of the cell, leaving behind a heavy, hate-charged atmosphere and the weeping ruins of the woman who just yesterday had considered herself the mistress of this world. For him, the job was done. For her, everything was just beginning.

  The journey into the heart of the enemy power was a hell woven from humiliation, fear, and disorientation. She was locked in a small, cramped, windowless cabin somewhere in the bowels of a gray warship. The walls, covered in cold-to-the-touch paint and scrawled with unfamiliar technical symbols, seemed to be slowly closing in, trying to crush her. The air was stale, smelling of machine oil, ozone from the humming electronics, and the foreign, unfamiliar sweat of others. Time had frozen here, turning into a viscous, agonizing torture, measured only by the changing of the guard outside the door and the tasteless food brought twice a day. Sleep descended like a heavy, suffocating shroud, but Remille desperately clung to consciousness. She was afraid that if she closed her eyes, the nightmares that had tormented her in Esthirant would return with new force, and she would never wake up again.

  When the ship finally docked in the port of Sevastopol, she was roughly brought out onto the deck. The cold, damp sea wind whipped across her face, momentarily bringing her back to life. But just as she began to look around, trying to discern her location from the architecture of the port buildings and the outlines of distant hills, someone from behind unceremoniously pulled a black, dense bag smelling of chemicals over her head. Darkness and suffocation. She was led silently, like cattle, down a reverberating metal gangway, then shoved into the echoing, kerosene-and-metal-scented cabin of a transport plane and roughly strapped into a hard, uncomfortable seat. As soon as she felt the monstrous vibration and the rising howl of the aircraft taking off, her consciousness, exhausted by days of fear and insomnia, shut down.

  She awoke with a sharp jolt as the bag was ripped from her head. Bright, merciless light stabbed at her eyes, forcing her to squint. Before her, on the concrete tarmac of the Chkalovsky military airfield near Moscow, stood a black, angular armored SUV, a "Tigr," covered in a layer of road grime. A man in a military police uniform, his face expressing nothing but boredom and fatigue, ordered curtly:

  "Out. Get in the car."

  The vehicle was an astounding piece of technology. It moved with incredible speed, yet Remille, accustomed to the jolting of even the imperial carriage, barely felt the unevenness of the road. She stared in disbelief at the city flying past the thick armored glass. And what she saw made her forget both the humiliation and the fear. She was shaken to her very core.

  On the horizon, like the spires of ancient gods, colossal skyscrapers of glass and steel pierced the sky, their peaks lost in the low gray clouds. The streets, as wide as the main square of Esthirant, were filled with an endless, churning river of people. Their clothing was astonishing in its incredible variety and the quality of fabrics she had only ever seen in her emperor's treasury. Along the perfectly smooth roads, black as obsidian, thousands of self-propelled carriages of all colors and shapes glided silently, their lacquered sides reflecting the lights of giant, glowing signs.

  Remille watched the inhabitants of the capital. They looked calm, confident, even a little tired. There was no fear in their faces, no sycophantic deference to authority that she was used to seeing in her own subjects. They walked quickly, purposefully, with the posture of free people. The sight evoked a strange, tormenting mixture of envy, admiration, and powerless hatred in her. She remembered Esthirant. Her native city, which she had considered the pinnacle of civilization, the most magnificent place in the world.

  But now, the comparison was unbearable. Even in its best, pre-war state, Esthirant, next to this monstrous metropolis, seemed like a pathetic, provincial village built of mud and sticks. A sharp, physical pain clenched Remille's heart. Her homeland would never reach this level. Not in a century. Not in a thousand years. They were hopelessly behind.

  Despair and a bitter, suffocating bile began to boil in her chest. She was overwhelmed by the sense of a final, total defeat—not just in battle, but in the very right to exist, in the very essence of civilization. She sat, her fingers digging into the leather seat, trying to hide her trembling. But most terrifying of all was the realization: these people, who had created such cities, such machines, and such a life—they looked at her world not even with contempt. But with a complete, absolute, almost scientific indifference. As if her Great Empire, with all its legions, fleets, and ancient traditions, was not a worthy enemy to them, but simply an annoying, minor anomaly on the map that needed to be eliminated.

  Remille turned away from the window. Her world had not just been defeated. It had been deemed insignificant. And that realization was worse than the most agonizing death.