The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) by Igor Ljubuncic

she was every bit as stubborn as the late emperor.
    “Please, Amalia. Please reconsider it,” he pleaded.
    He was not really sure what to think about her daring international scandal. It was something her father would have done, and he could not help but wonder if she may have done it out of childish spite, just to prove she had the same nerve and acumen.
    For him and the thousands of troops stationed around Roalas, it was a nightmare. The city roads were clogged with checkpoints. The roads were crammed with slow-moving caravans, each undergoing thorough checks. There was nothing left to chance. Gerald could not afford it. They had already unearthed half a dozen minor Eracian spies and possibly one assassin. He could only wonder how many others remained at large, roaming the streets of the capital, laying out the details of the upcoming war.
    It would be his first, Gerald thought. His first real war. He had tasted blood and killed men in minor skirmishes with bandits and rebels and pockets of religious fanatics that still could be found in secluded villages now and then.
    But he had never seen a press of ten thousand soldiers hurtling into a cauldron of death. There were only the stories, his father’s, one of Adam’s men. His father had been wounded in the Second Battle of Bakler Hills. After the war, he’d gone back to Eracia and smuggled his wife and baby son to Roalas. Gerald had never seen the country of his birth. But in his heart, he was an Athesian. Eracia was just a foreign place, far away.
    Forever maimed by the arrow wound to his leg, Adam had appointed his trusted officer Beno as the commander of the City Guard. And like father, like son, Gerald had taken his place after the old man had retired. But he could not shrug the uneasy feeling of not really being worth his father’s legacy. He could not dismiss the same notion he felt for Amalia. They were children, playing on the shoulders of giants.
    She was talking to him. He waited for her to repeat the question, too embarrassed to admit he had not listened to his empress.
    “I said, how many men? For the security detail?”
    He rubbed his forehead. “Three women at all times, Your Highness. I beg you.”
    “I’ll think about it,” she ceded grudgingly. “Stay with me while I meet this Caytorean.”
    They chose her private office for the meeting. It was a small study, small but useful. People focused on the business at hand rather than wallow in awe of great halls and ancient statues. Not that Roalas had any of those. The city had suffered a turbulent past in the last several decades. First, there were the old gods, for many generations. Then, the Feorans came and took their hammers to the temples and shrines, burning in the name of their one deity. Then, her father came and made the city a place without religion. Old tapestries were taken down, replaced with new motifs and new ideas. There was a whole cellar somewhere, crammed to bursting with dirt, bird droppings, and tons of rusted metal idols, icons, and books embodying the teachings of the false gods.
    Gods or no, Roalas was first a trade city, then a war city, and least of all a seat of royalty. Its chambers were austere and functional. Its walls were barren and scarred. If you wanted your guests to listen, it was a perfect place, without distractions.
    The only token of resplendence was a large oil painting dominating the wall behind Amalia. It was called
The Second Battle of Bakler Hills
, like a thousand other works that marked the birth of Athesia’s history. Adam had always complained the art piece was inaccurate. His men had worn Eracian uniforms back then. And they sure hadn’t looked so valiant, supposedly a bunch of fair noblemen with crossbows, surrounded by an angry horde of Caytoreans wielding lance and sword.
    Theodore was already waiting patiently for her when she returned, standing rigidly in one corner, as severe as his imperial duty. A servant was laying down fruit and drinks.