Partheneon: 3rd of October, Year 112 of the New Reign, Night.

“To be an empire requires conquest,” remarked Liard. He gazed beyond the balcony with empty eyes upon the cool evening fog settling on the cobblestone streets below. “Far beyond this city.”

“Or the illusion of it. You mean to tell me the Bovak wouldn’t have done just fine without going after the Heptapolis?,” came the voice behind him.

“It is a sweet regret, one that arises with talk of a romanticized past and opportunities lost, whether lost by action or inaction.” Liard’s eyes fell to his red robe as his hands fidgeted with the delicately-made sleeve, moving it up and down his wrist.

“Lost no longer, Liard…no one may see the knife before it is done.”

“None will see. All will feel…except. You perplex,” said Liard, turning towards the figure, “Even the meek have clandestine ambition.”

“Power over the people is something I never wanted, Liard. But, I’m certainly glad it exists.”

“And why is that?,” Liard asked.

“When cold steel only needs but one heart to call home, it is far too easy to doom an empire.”

Liard felt a chill at the words, rubbing his neck and staring once more at the street below, noticing the rush of evening worshipers stifle the fog, meandering to the temple with shouts of crude jokes and gossip. Their simple brown cloth seemed to meld together under the low cloud like a rigid mat one would clean his boots on after a rainy day. “What a beautiful catharsis,” he sighed, giving up on the sleeve. “A swift purge.”

“Whether it is a purge or not…depends on who is the filth.”