"Those in control are often just afraid of falling from a greater height."
——•✧✦ Disgust IV ✧✦•——
¤ "The local duke, Rahlen, has started blocking caravans — merchants, mercenaries, even common folk."
The area he pointed to darkened.
¤ "After, allegedly, a series of attacks on these people — some of them in the Empire's service — he began halting incoming convoys."
Tiny red sparks lit up along the roads in the area, like signs of raiding or unrest.
A caravan made of ash disintegrated mid-journey, with a tiny silent explosion.
¤ "His territory is the fastest and most direct route to the capital.
The others are full of mountains and rivers, but this one — this is the Empire's neck, you could say."
≈ "A strategic point, then.
A vein that, if pinched, makes the Empire bleed?"
Ultimo nodded slowly, as a thin red line of ash began to snake its way between Darveth and the heart of the capital, pulsing with irregular interruptions.
¤ "He says it's for safety. Of our citizens, and of others.
That his roads are no longer safe for travelers...
That every delay is in the Emperor's best interest.
But he never asked for permission..."
≈ "Of course.
The best betrayals come with a mouth full of loyalty."
¤ "Some of those merchants hired mercenaries.
Not Imperial soldiers, but private companies, contracted to escort goods into the inner provinces.
Their employers are nobles, traders protected by the Imperial seal.
Not to mention people from other kingdoms.
And now, all of them are stuck in Darveth."
On the map, stylized figures made of ash were surrounded, encircled by invisible walls.
Any attempt to move them failed: the ash collapsed silently.
Mitchell tapped two fingers on the armrest, a slow rhythm.
≈ "No public statement, I assume. No one daring to speak up?"
Ultimo shook his back.
¤ "One advisor claimed Rahlen acts out of duty. That the funds are being reinvested.
That he's never denied his loyalty to the Emperor.
But he knows how to speak, that bastard.
The caravans are housed, the goods 'secured', and the travelers treated like rich guests... but subject to sudden taxes.
Lodging, food, storage, even the right to move between villages: everything has a cost, decided by Rahlen's officials."
Alex scoffed.
¶ "And the people call them nobles... those rats.
Velvet parasites."
Ultimo pretended not to hear.
¤ "The funds raised from these 'temporary taxes' don't go to public works.
They go to buying favor.
To finance banquets, political marriages, and small private armies.
Rahlen isn't preparing for war... he's preparing for what comes next.
He's speaking with those who hate the Emperor.
I'm sure he's backing another claimant.
And if I were to fall, that duke would turn the page with a perfect bow."
Mitchell paused. The tapping stopped.
≈ "And you? Are you ready to stop him... or are you just getting ready to fall with style?"
¤ "I wrote him. Three letters.
All unanswered.
But my messengers returned... with gifts.
Wine, silk, and a poem."
He spread his arms.
¤"A poem, Mitchell..."
Amused, the therapist began to laugh.
≈ "Well, I suppose those nobles are expecting you to set them free...
Not just for their own interests, but because the money must flow, or they'll all turn on you."
¶ "So what are you doing?"
¤ "The meeting was with the Inner Council. Six ministers and three generals.
And none — not one — is willing to act openly."
≈ "Why not?"
¤ "Because Rahlen is popular.
Even as a duke, he plays the philanthropist, pays for food at orphanages, offers 'protection' to fallen soldiers' families.
He's a snake wearing a saint's face.
If I strike without solid proof, half the court will cry: tyrant.
If I do nothing, his influence grows."
Mitchell nodded slowly, tracing an invisible circle on the armrest with one finger.
≈ "So you came to me... to decide whether you're still fit to rule?"
Ultimo looked him in the eyes for the first time.
¤ "I came to see if he..." he pointed to the head,
¤ "...has something to say that I can't put into words myself."
Alex, resting on the table among tea stains, ash, and the long shadows of afternoon, smiled slowly.
¶ "Oh, I've got plenty...
Your Majesty.
But the question is: do you actually want to hear it?"
Alex let out a sound like a cough, but it was pure, refined sarcasm.
¶ "Raw or sugar-coated, Emperor?"
Ultimo stared at him for a moment. Then nodded, wearily.
¤ "Raw."
Alex rolled his pupils like he was shaking off the suffering of success.
Then he spoke, in a voice sharper than usual — as if he was enjoying himself and suffering all at once.
¶ "The problem isn't Rahlen."
Mitchell stiffened slightly.
≈ "Oh no?"
¶ "No. The problem is who's using Rahlen."
Alex slowly turned his gaze toward Ultimo.
¶ "Do you really think a minor duke, okay...
Woke up one day
with a hard-on and balls big enough to challenge the very Empire that raised him?"
Ultimo didn't react.
Only a vein began to pulse on his neck, just below where the head had once been severed.
Alex went on.
¶ "The one behind it all...
He knows you better than you know yourself.
He knows you hesitate, that you wait, that you want to be 'just'...
Meanwhile he builds a kingdom inside yours.
He's doing what you don't have the guts to do: he decides."
Mitchell clasped his fingers together, resting them beneath his chin.
The body grew tense.
≈ "So what's your advice, Alex?"
¶ "Cut him."
Taken aback.
≈ "Excuse me?"
¶ "Cut the snake. Now.
No need for proof. No need for explanations.
You need fear and resolve.
You want to rule? Rule.
But if you want to sleep at night...
Then keep talking to me while we lose everything."
Ultimo clenched his fists.
¤ "It's not that simple...
And if a second head appears?
What's the point in striking a puppet that'll only cause me more trouble?
If I attacked the puppeteer, he would have to stop — out of sheer fear, right?"
¶ "No, it is that simple," Alex snapped, nearly shouting.
¶ "Whether we like it or not, we're ruling together now.
You want to be loved. You want applause.
Then you'll have to dirty your hands...
There's no secret book with all the right answers.
You write it over time, with the mistakes you learn to keep.
And this is a necessary mistake!"
Silence.
Trrr-ka-ka-KHRR-tiiich!
Skreel-skreeee—tok tok tok.
On top of a crooked cabinet, crushed between piles of books and old parchments swollen with humidity, a metal cage hung from a rusty hook.
It was near a dusty little window, and a small bird had just now returned inside.
It swayed slightly, with a faint creak that blended with the distant rustling of windblown trees.
The feathered bird — with a chest the color of imperial purple and feathers streaked with antique gold — rocked on a wooden swing, nervously pecking at the air.
Fripp-frapp-frrrrrrr—tchàààà!
↯ "His Majesty is never wrong. He did well not to turn around."
A sharp flap of wings followed, like a sarcastic applause.
↯ "The duchess laughs naked. For the first time. In front of the small mirror. Alone."
Mitchell slowly bent down, lifting a slipper with two fingers.
≈ "Shut up, you old crow…" he hissed.
He raised the slipper above his head like a priest with a sacred object, then flung it in an awkward arc.
Paff.
It hit the side of the cage, making it swing with an even longer, more pathetic creak.
A feather detached and drifted lazily down, landing on Alex's shoulder.
Kreeek… kreeek… kweh-PAH!
↯ "The rats said so! They're crying!" the bird trilled, undisturbed, flapping its wings as if to applaud its own melodrama.
Alex slowly turned toward the bird, and with theatrical slowness, stuck out his tongue at it.
¤ "Since when do you have a talking bird, Mitch?" Ultimo asked, rubbing his chin.
Mitchell sighed and adjusted his glasses with a quick gesture.
≈ "I got it as an apology gift from an ambassador. I'm starting to think it was a passive-aggressive threat."
He moved to put the slipper back on, but got the wrong foot.
Alex coughed.
¶ "I can't tell what's sadder: the wrong foot or your face while you tried."
Mitchell ignored him and tried again.
This time he got it right.
≈ "I can tell you one thing about him," he said.
≈ "He always lies."
The bird flapped its wings once more, tilting its head.
Its glassy eyes reflected the starlight that was beginning to shine more and more on the ceiling.
≈ "But that's exactly why he's useful."
Mitchell turned to Ultimo and then to Alex.
≈ "If he always lies… then you just have to flip what he says."
He gave a small, tired smile.
≈ "And from there, you find the truth. The kind only someone like him could grasp."
Alex snorted, but this time without sarcasm.
¶ "Wise. Suspicious. A touch theatrical.
You're definitely back."
Turning serious again, the therapist asked:
≈ "We don't have much time, let's go back for a second to the previous topic.
Tell me, Alex, what do you want? Do you want power?"
¶ "I… I want to survive.
And those who don't command, die."
Silence again.
Without changing tone, he asked:
≈ "And you, Ultimo. What do you want?"
¤ "I want to survive too."
He leaned in.
¤ "And those who don't command..."
A distant chime echoed through the silence.
¤ "...Die."
Three more followed, deep and far away.
The decapitated body stood up.
He picked up the head, ready to place it back — this time without stitching it on.
After putting on the crown again, he turned toward Mitchell.
¤ "I've decided.I'll go meet Rahlen in person!"
Mitchell stood as well.
≈ "Then good. I'll support that.
But know this — one head won't be enough. So come to me before you leave."
Behind him, on a shelf in the dark, more heads appeared on the tiers.
Eyes opening. Smiles flickering to life.
Alex chuckled softly.
¶ "Welcome to the club."