He would not tolerate imperfections.
The thought was as cold and hard as the marble floor beneath his feet. Aaron stared down at the kneeling form of Empress Isabella. Her golden hair spilled over her shoulders, a river of light in the dim study. The flicker he had seen in her eyes, that ghost of her former self, was a loose thread in his perfect tapestry.
But as he watched her, placid and still, another thought began to form. A more interesting one. A loose thread could be pulled. It could unravel things. Or it could lead to something hidden deep within the weave.
He had hollowed out her soul, yes. But the memories, the knowledge, the secrets of an ancient imperial line… they were not stored in the soul. They were etched into the very fabric of the mind, into the blood. He hadn't destroyed the library. He had just locked the doors and thrown away the key.
That flicker was a sign. A sign that a key might still exist. It wasn't a flaw. It was an opportunity.
The Empress knew things. Things forgotten for centuries. Secrets whispered from ruler to heir, knowledge locked away in archives no one else could access. To truly secure the empire against threats like Reynolds and Akemonde, he needed more than just political power. He needed the forgotten weapons of the old emperors.
He needed to get inside her mind. Not as a puppeteer, pulling the strings of a thing he had made. But as an archaeologist. An excavator, digging through the ruins of the personality he had so carefully demolished.
This would require a new kind of magic. A delicate, dangerous perversion of his Puppet Master talent.
Controlling her was like holding a leash. This would be like performing surgery on her spirit with a scalpel made of pure magic. One slip, and he could shatter what was left, turning his perfect puppet into a drooling imbecile. Or worse, the psychic backlash could scar his own mind.
He smiled faintly. Risk was a currency he was very familiar with.
To perform such a delicate operation, he would need the finest tools. Not just raw power, but catalysts. Things that could resonate with the buried fragments of her consciousness and coax them to the surface. He ran a mental list.
A Tear of the First Queen, crystallized grief said to hold the memory of the founding of the empire. A Whisper-Stone, an arcane mineral that could record and amplify subconscious thoughts. And the most dangerous component: a vial of Sanctified Quicksilver, a substance that could temporarily render a mind fluid, open to suggestion and exploration.
These were not items you could buy at the market. They were treasures, hidden in the deepest vaults of the Imperial Palace. Vaults that were sealed not just by locks, but by ancient rites and the will of the Imperial Council.
The cost would be immense. Not just in gold, but in political capital. Taking these items would be a declaration. It would show the old guard that he was not just a regent, but a plunderer.
Good. Let them see.
He turned away from the Empress and walked to the bell pull. He gave it a single, sharp tug.
Moments later, the heavy oak door creaked open. His steward, Marcus, shuffled in, his head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest. The man's fear was a scent in the air, thick and cloying.
"Your Grace," Marcus whispered, not daring to look up.
"Prepare the Crimson Archive," Aaron said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of absolute command. The Crimson Archive was the ledger of the empire's most secret and valuable possessions.
Marcus flinched as if struck. "The… the Crimson Archive, Your Grace?"
"And I require a loan from the Imperial Treasury," Aaron continued, ignoring the steward's shock. "A significant one."
This time, Marcus actually took a half-step back. He finally looked up, his face pale, slick with sweat. "Your Grace, that… that is not possible. Access to the deep vaults and the treasury requires the consent of the council. Specifically, the seal of the Lord Treasurer, Duke Valerius."
Aaron's eyes narrowed slightly. Duke Valerius. A stubborn old man, fiercely loyal to the memory of the old emperor. He was a pillar of the traditionalist faction, a man who saw Aaron not as a savior but as a usurper. A man who would sooner die than allow the regent to pillage the empire's heritage.
This was the first real challenge to his authority since he took the throne. A test.
"The council's consent?" Aaron repeated softly. He walked slowly toward the trembling steward. "Marcus, when the old emperor was alive, did he require the council's consent to breathe? To eat? To rule?"
"No, Your Grace, but…"
"I am the regent. I am the power behind the throne. My will is the will of the empire," Aaron said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. He stopped directly in front of Marcus. "My consent is the only one that matters."
Marcus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "But Duke Valerius… he is… unbending. He guards the treasury as if it were his own soul. He will rally the other lords. He will say you are weakening the empire for your own gain."
"Let him," Aaron said with a dismissive wave. He already had a counter-move forming in his mind. A more elegant solution than simple brute force. His conflict wasn't with a man, but with the idea of the old ways. And you couldn't kill an idea with a sword.
He glanced back at the kneeling Empress, a beautiful, silent statue in silk. Her compliance was absolute. Her body, her will, her voice… they were his to command. An idea struck him, so perfect, so viciously appropriate, that a genuine smile touched his lips.
He would not fight the old ways. he would use them.
"Leave me," he commanded Marcus. The steward practically scrambled out of the room, shutting the door with a quiet click.
Aaron was alone with the Empress again. He walked back to her, the silence of the room amplifying the sound of his footsteps on the polished stone.
He knelt before her, bringing his face level with hers. He reached out, his fingers tracing the perfect line of her jaw. Her skin was like cool porcelain. He thought of the magic he was about to perform, of peeling back the layers of her mind, sifting through the wreckage of her identity. The thought was more than intoxicating. It was a promise of ultimate discovery, of claiming knowledge no other man had ever touched.
As his thumb brushed her lips, he felt it again. A tiny, almost imperceptible tremor that ran through her. And then he saw it. A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye and traced a silver path down her cheek. Her face remained a blank, beautiful mask, but the tear was real. It was a testament to the ghost trapped within.
The woman he had broken was still in there. And she was fighting back.
This changed things. It made the procedure infinitely more dangerous. The subconscious resistance could create a psychic storm, a tempest in her mind that could destroy them both. His initial confidence gave way to a cold, thrilling calculation. The prize was greater than he'd imagined, and so was the risk.
His smile widened. This was no longer just an excavation. It was a conquest.
He stood up, his mind racing. He couldn't afford a direct confrontation with Duke Valerius. It would be messy and give his other enemies, like Reynolds, an opening. A divided court was a weak court. No, the Duke had to be outmaneuvered. He had to be made to give Aaron exactly what he wanted, and believe it was his own idea.
His gaze fell upon Isabella again. His puppet. His weapon.
"You will call a meeting of the council," Aaron murmured, his voice soft but firm. He began to pace, the plan crystallizing with every step. "You will do it tomorrow. You will wear the Imperial mourning silks, the black ones with the silver embroidery."
He stopped and looked at her. Her vacant blue eyes stared at the spot on the floor where he had been kneeling.
"You will tell them," he continued, planting the instructions deep within her pliable mind, "that in your grief for your late husband, you had a vision. A divine message. The empire's soul is in peril, and it must be shored up by restoring the most ancient symbols of its power."
He walked over to the grand window, looking out over the sleeping city. "You will request funds and access to the vaults to begin the 'Sacred Restoration Project.' You will ask for the Tear of the First Queen to bless the new cornerstone of the Grand Cathedral. You will ask for the Whisper-Stone to record the prayers of the faithful. And you will demand a king's ransom from the treasury to fund this holy work."
He turned back, a look of grim satisfaction on his face.
"Duke Valerius is a traditionalist. A patriot. He venerates the symbols of the empire. How could he, the most loyal of the old emperor's men, refuse the pious, grieving Empress her sacred duty? To do so would be to spit on the very traditions he claims to defend."
It was perfect. He would use their reverence against them. He would make them willingly hand him the keys to their own history.
He walked back to Isabella and gently wiped the single tear from her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was still cool. The ghost within was quiet now, subdued by his will.
"He will give you everything I need," Aaron whispered, more to himself than to her. "And I will take it."
He looked at the beautiful, broken woman before him. She was not a flawed tool. She was his most exquisite weapon, perfectly aimed at the heart of his enemies. He was not just a regent. He was a master artist, and the entire empire was his canvas.