The chamber doors creaked open with urgency, echoing through the grand hall like the crack of a whip. Several armored guards stepped inside, their footsteps uneven, their formation scattered—not the display of discipline one would expect before a throne.
The empress, seated in still, burning elegance, did not move. Her fan remained half-open before her lips, her eyes slow to lift, but sharp as a blade once they did. She did not speak. She didn't need to.
One of the soldiers stumbled forward, breathless. "Your Grace… we… we regret to inform you—"
Another guard cut in, unable to maintain protocol. "The Yasuda girl—Chiaki—and her companions… they've escaped."
A flick of the empress's fan was the only reaction they received. The room became suffocatingly quiet.
"They were last seen in the lower courtyard before vanishing into the alleyways. The female soldier assigned to escort them—she's gone as well. We suspect betrayal."
Another voice added, quieter, "It seems… she may have been one of them all along."
A long silence followed. The empress rose from her throne with deliberate grace, the golden sigil on her fan gleaming like a brand of judgment. Her voice, when it came, was smooth as silk—and cold as ice.
"Three prisoners escape a gilded cage in my domain. And you return to me with excuses?"
None of the soldiers dared respond.
The empress turned slightly toward her left. "Summon the Inquisitors. Discretion is no longer necessary. I want the girl and her allies brought back. Alive... if possible."
She paused, then added with a chilling softness, "But I'm not opposed to pieces."
Her voice vanished into the vastness of the chamber as the guards scrambled out, leaving only the rustle of her gown and the distant sound of war drums, growing louder by the second.
From behind the crimson pillars of the grand chamber, the heavy steps of worn boots echoed toward the empress's throne. The court had fallen quiet once more, all present holding their breath as the figure emerged from the shadows—a tall man clad in faded officer's garb, his coat draped like a burden on his hunched frame. His eyes were dull as dead coals, and his posture resembled that of a man long since done with life.
He halted several paces from the throne, shoulders slouched, arms limp at his sides.
"You summoned me... I guess," he muttered, his tone so devoid of energy it almost evaporated in the air. "If it's about the prisoners... yeah. I figured something bad happened. It always does."
The empress stared down at him, unblinking.
"Commander," she said, voice firm and final. "I am placing the retrieval of the Yasuda girl and her companions under your authority. Personally."
He blinked once. Slowly.
"Wonderful... more responsibility. That's just what I needed. My bones already feel like they've declared war on me." He rubbed his neck with a hand that moved as if underwater. "Should I drag myself into the sewers, too? Wouldn't be the worst place I've been."
The empress did not flinch. "You are not required to return them unharmed. But they are to be returned. And the traitor among my soldiers… remove her head. I want it on display."
The man let out a dry, humorless laugh—barely a wheeze. "Sure... decapitations. Love those. Great for morale. Guess I'll just stumble out there and maybe collapse dramatically while I'm at it."
He turned away from the throne, dragging his feet with a dreadful lack of urgency.
"I'll go round up the rest of the exhausted souls who haven't given up yet… see if I can't ruin what's left of their day too." Then, under his breath, "Or maybe I'll trip over a sword and call it destiny…"
And with that, the commander exited the hall like a man shuffling toward a long-overdue nap—except this one ended in orders, blood, and broken spirits.
The empress exhaled softly through her nose, one brow arching ever so slightly as she watched the commander's trudging retreat. Her gloved fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest of her throne, the golden fan at her side swaying faintly with her composed poise.
"Is there anything in this empire that man enjoys?" she muttered, her voice just loud enough for the nearest attendants to hear—sharp, dry, and laced with unshaken elegance. "Even a beheading sounds like a rainstorm to his picnic."
One of her advisors nervously glanced toward her for a reaction, but the empress didn't lose her regal bearing. Her eyes stayed locked forward, and her lips curled just enough to betray a flicker of amusement.
"Remind me to assign him a vacation after this," she added coolly, her tone professional—yet the faintest smirk tugged at her mouth. "Somewhere tragic, perhaps. A haunted volcano, or a battlefield with no winners."
Another servant dared a soft chuckle. The empress silenced it with a tilt of her head and a faint hum of a warning.
"Still," she continued, folding her fan closed with a satisfying snap, "that dreary man is remarkably effective. Like mold in an ancient tome—unpleasant, but unshakably persistent."
She rose from her throne in one smooth motion, crimson gown cascading like fire over polished marble.
"Let him go grumble his way to glory. I expect the Yasuda girl returned before the bells ring tomorrow. And if not… well." Her gaze grew razor sharp. "We'll just find someone even more miserable to replace him."
With that, she strode past her court like a storm in silk—regal, unbothered, and completely in control.
The commander—his eyes duller than a stormless sea—stood just outside the palace gates, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the entire empire was stapled to his spine. His crimson-trimmed robes dragged along the ground with each lethargic step, flowing more like a funeral shroud than a uniform of authority. His posture suggested he'd rather melt into the cobblestones than give another order.
He pulled out a small scroll from his sleeve, unrolling it with the same enthusiasm as someone reading their own execution notice. His voice was low, scratchy, and dragged out like he'd just woken from a nap he didn't want to survive.
"Alright… listen up or whatever. Orders from... her radiance..." he blinked slowly, holding in a sigh. "Yasuda girl... escaped... probably with the others. We're supposed to go... find them... bring them back alive."
He paused, glancing at the scroll as if hoping the orders would vanish if he stared long enough.
"If they resist... don't kill them. Just... subdue. That means... don't stab anything important." He rubbed his eyes with one hand and let the scroll droop in the other. "I know. Boring."
A nearby soldier raised a hand. "Sir, do we know their last known direction?"
"Some alley... maybe a rooftop... or a sewer. Could be... anywhere. Try not to fall into anything disgusting." He glanced at the soldier like he had just asked about the meaning of life. "Just spread out... ask around. I don't know. Pretend you care."
Another soldier, more energetic, attempted a salute. "Sir! Do we apprehend any civilians helping them?"
The commander sighed—deeply, painfully—and muttered, "If they help the fugitives... then yes. Detain them. Kindly. Not that anyone listens to me."
Then, deadpan, he added under his breath, "And if any of you find them before I do... just make sure the fish tentacle doesn't bite off anyone's face this time."
The troops collectively straightened, though a few visibly struggled to hold back laughter.
"Alright. Move. Go be heroes or something."
And with that, the commander turned on his heel—slowly—and trudged away, robes sweeping the floor behind him like a banner of exhausted despair, muttering something inaudible about headaches, traitors, and possibly retiring to a cave in the mountains.
Just as the troops were about to scatter like startled pigeons, the commander came to a dead stop, his worn-down sandals squeaking softly beneath the hem of his droopy robe. He stared blankly ahead—eyes wide, as if a very old, very forgotten ghost had just whispered in his ear.
"…Ah. Great. Amazing. Absolutely phenomenal," he mumbled in a tone so dry it could crack stone. "I forgot my notebook. Again."
A collective blink swept through the soldiers.
He let out a long, tortured sigh, one that sounded like it had taken several years to form. "That's the fourth time this week. It had... everything in it. Strategy. Map sketches. My lunch list. Even a reminder not to forget it. And yet. Here we are."
One of the younger soldiers, clearly trying not to laugh, stepped forward. "Sir... should we pause the search?"
The commander dramatically shook his head—slowly, mournfully—his robe sleeves flopping like wilted leaves. "No... no. That would imply I'm worth waiting for. And we both know that ship sank a long time ago."
Then, quieter, almost like a defeated bard writing his final verse:
"It had a drawing of a sad duck in the margin... I liked that duck..."
Another soldier coughed awkwardly. "Sir...?"
He waved them off like a ghost giving up on haunting. "Go. Chase the fugitives. Uphold honor. I'll just wander the halls, empty-handed... directionless... like always."
And with that, he slumped away, mumbling to himself as his robe dragged behind like a forgotten curtain.
"Notebook, notebook, wherefore art thou, my crinkled parchment of purpose...?"
The soldiers stood frozen for a moment, watching their commander as he mournfully shuffled around in a slow circle, still murmuring about his missing notebook. His robe dragged along the marble floor like a soggy curtain, sleeve flopping as he checked inside the same pocket for the fifth time.
One soldier leaned toward the others, whispering under his breath, "Is it just me or is he getting weirder by the day?"
"Dude's been weird since we got assigned to him," another replied. "Last week he gave orders to a broom for twenty minutes. Said it had better posture than half the squad."
A third soldier, the youngest of the bunch, frowned. "He mentioned something about a duck wearing sunglasses. Was that real, or do you think he's just, y'know… gone?"
"Oh no, that duck notebook was real," the first soldier confirmed. "He showed it to me once. Drew little faces on all of us inside. Gave the Empress bunny ears."
"Explains why he's still alive," someone muttered.
There was a pause. The commander slowly knelt down and checked under a rock, sighed, and stayed kneeling like he might just sink into the earth from despair.
"Do we help him?" one soldier asked quietly.
The eldest shook his head. "Nope. That man's soul is on a personal side quest. We've got our orders."
"Yeah…" another mumbled, looking on as the commander laid face-first into a patch of grass. "Let's just pretend this is all part of his... process."
"Godspeed, Commander," one whispered reverently.
And with that, the troop moved on, their boots echoing down the corridor, leaving behind a very slow, very robe-covered existential crisis.
To be continued...