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In many ways, this morning was like countless others. A nation as vast as the Empire of the Galactic Nucleus and the Spiral Arms demanded much from those who led it. Many days in Elegnon’s life started with an early morning call to some emergency or other. More often than not, these emergencies turned out to be petty squabbles between Burghers or some trivial matter well below his station that someone had elevated to his office for no reason other than incompetence or spite. When Elegnon was woken on this day, it brought with it the usual annoyance. He picked up his Lasian, praying that its vibrations hadn’t woken his wife beside him, but of course they had.
In a groggy sleep-intoxicated voice, Lady Shiva asked, “El? What’s going on?”
Elegnon yawned and stretched. “More of the usual, I presume,” he said.
“Aren’t you taking the call?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Marques will take it. I’ll get ready,” he said before rising from the bed. Shiva groaned behind him.
“I can’t sleep when you’re not here,” she said.
“I know,” said Elegnon. He stole a glance behind him with a tired smile, then pulled on the pants of his uniform.
“When will you finally learn to delegate?” she asked, her head resting softly on her pillow.
“I couldn’t pay Marques enough to take these early mornings for me,” he said, slipping on the dress shirt and coat bearing the Seneschal’s Cudgel. He leaned down to his wife and kissed her gently.
“With any luck, I’ll be back in an hour,” he said before leaving the bedroom. He shuffled down the stairs, trying to stay as quiet as possible so as to not wake his daughter or sister. To his surprise, the latter already sat at the kitchen table.
“Esper,” he said in a whisper, “What are you doing up?”
She looked at him sleepy-eyed. “Didn’t you get the call?” she asked.
Esper, whom Elegnon had raised like his own child, was the Chairwoman of the Imperial Board of Medicine. If she had gotten the same call he hadn’t taken, something more serious must have been going on. He shook his head.
“I got the call…” he began.
“But you didn’t take it, did you?” she finished his own confession.
“My sanity depends on ignoring the Burghership at this hour,” he said dryly. “No offense,” he added.
“Offense for what?” she asked, “You’re a Burgher as much as I am.”
“Yeah, fuck me,” he said, “So what’s the deal?”
She chuckled. Elegnon knew she humored his cynicism, even if she didn’t share it.
“They wouldn’t say,” she explained, “But the interim council is supposed to meet immediately at the palace.”
Elegnon sighed. The interim regent’s council had been the bane of his existence for weeks. Ever since the Emperor had left on his journey to the edge of the galaxy, Elegnon and a handful of other important Burghers and Clerics ruled over the Empire’s daily affairs. The High Cleric, the nameless head of the Clerisy, liked to convene this useless council for every ridiculous minutia.
“Does the old goat need his mustache twirled?” Elegnon asked derisively.
“He has adepts for that,” Esper said with a smile.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
Esper held up a cup of steaming liquid. “Tea?” she offered.
“Does it contain inordinate amounts of stimulants?” he asked.
“It wouldn’t be tea otherwise.”

The tea, laced with whatever medicinal concoction Esper had mixed this morning, spurned Elegnon’s head and after ten minutes, they both left the Moltiess estate, high up on Mount Majora. A hovercraft called a Brunswig waited for them on their driveway. It was the standard model used by the capital city’s Protection Service which was omnipresently focused on the welfare of the Burghers involved in governing the Empire. Their duty was of such import that not even their wards were allowed to know the names of the agents that accompanied them. Elegnon recognized the man holding the passenger door open for him. It was the same man who had been assigned to his personal security for the past seven years, ever since he had taken on the Office of the Seneschal. But even now, Elegnon did not know the man’s name. He nodded to him anyway.
“Good morning,” he said to the man. The agent nodded back and gestured for Elegnon and Esper to get into the passenger cabin of the Brunswig.
“My Lord,” he said professionally. Elegnon allowed Esper to enter first and climbed in after her. The door closed behind him and shortly after, the Brunswig lurched into motion. Norfodl’s sun, a star called Mantus, was below the horizon, coloring the sky a cold, faint blue. The Empire’s capital city, Korslaw, came into view when they turned off of the estate. It sprawled from the foot of the mountain all the way to the horizon, dominated by monolithic towers of dark slate, adorned with golden and red details. Windows were small but numerous in the facades of the towers, each of which was at least several hundred paces high. Between them, Brunswig tracks snaked from building to building, with hundreds of vehicles buzzing back and forth even at this hour. But Elegnon and Esper would not dive into the city today. Their destination was just a little further up the mountain. The grand palace of the Empire towered over the city in stark contrast. Where the forest of towers was dark slate, the palace was a magnificent masterpiece carved entirely out of impeccable white marble. It marked the center of Korslaw’s sister city, Ormir, the true seat of power in this Empire of theirs.
Esper studied her Lasian as they drove. Elegnon felt a tinge of pride seeing her working. She was the youngest ressort-holder in the Empire. A brilliant woman who had obtained the academic title of Medicus when she was 21 years old and entrusted with the Board only four years later.
“What are you working on?” he asked her. She looked up from the device and eyed him questioningly.
“Are you actually interested?” she asked. She knew him too well.
“No. But tell me anyway,” he said.
She sighed. “I’m reviewing Great Scholar Hopok’s work on adaptive synaptic neurosymbiosis with synthetic microcellular machinery,” she explained.
“Yep,” Elegnon said, “That’s what I figured.”
She snorted and smiled. “Brain plus machine equals good,” she said.
“Hopok is one of yours?” Elegnon asked.
“Not if you ask him.”
“You need me to whip him in line?” he mimed swinging the cudgel that symbolized his ressort.
“By Majora, please do not go near him,” she raised her hands. He laughed. Esper did not always approve of his methods. While nonviolent, they often involved his less than generous patience.

The palace stood proud, resting magnificently against the mountainside. Once upon a long lost time, the sight of it had filled Elegnon with awe or reverence. Now, all its snow-white facade elicited was a sigh. Elegnon and Esper entered one of the grand gates on the back side of the palace, the one gate that was not preceded by an inordinate amount of stairs. Marques greeted them inside.
“You’re late,” said Elegnon’s steward and oldest friend. Elegnon smiled and hugged the old man.
“Good to see you, too, Citizen Dobrin,” he said. Marques shook free of the hug and raised an eyebrow at him. When he saw Esper, he nodded to her.
“Don’t let this ingrate infect you with laziness,” he said.
“You’re in a mood today,” Esper said, also forcing a hug on Marques. He accepted hers more graciously than he had Elegnon’s.
“Yes, I am in a mood,” said Marques as he beckoned them to follow him. “Because the people in that room hate me well enough for being a Citizen. Being late because you’re late doesn’t exactly set a great example.”
“You could have gone in without me,” Elegnon said.
“And done what? Numb my ass on the High Cleric’s stone chairs while he stairs daggers at me?” Marques spat the title of the nameless head of the Clerisy.
“You know the Burghership,” Elegnon said, laying a hand on Marques’ shoulder as they walked. “Numbing their asses on important chairs is their bread and gold-leafed butter.”
“If I were a Burgher, I would have gone in without you,” said Marques.
“Do you know what this is about?” Esper asked. Marques looked to her. He hesitated before he spoke.
“Bits and pieces. Nothing good.”
Elegnon’s eyes narrowed. “I figured this was another one of the High Cleric’s antics.”
“Not from what I hear,” said Marques. “Not that they tell me anything.”
“The good thing about being Seneschal,” Elegnon said, “is that people don’t need to tell you things for you to know them.”
“Reading people is your forté, Lord Elegnon,” Marques said.

The door before them was black and simple and quickly pushed open by Elegnon. A loud clang marked it hitting the door stop on the other side. The Chancel of the Clerisy, a room adjacent to the throne room itself, was adorned with a large table, several dozen paces in length. It and the chairs that surrounded it were carved out of the same continuous piece of slate, black as the night. The surface of the table had been cracked and inset with gold to create a magnificent marbled pattern that flowed toward the center where it formed the Shield of the Clerisy.
Around the table, on the immensely uncomfortable chairs, sat the interim council. At the head of the table, the High Cleric swiveled his head towards Elegnon, an expression that betrayed no emotion on his face. He wore the ceremonial robes that were his uniform. White, like the palace walls and adorned with the same golden marbled pattern as the table. A tall miter made his head look like one of Korslaw’s towers.
To his left and right, select Lords and Ladies of the Burghership all followed his lead, turning their heads towards Elegnon, Esper and Marques who stood in the doorway together. A herald who had already sat down because of the wait, jumped to his feet and assumed his ceremonial position before announcing them.
“It is my pleasure to announce the presence of the honorable Lady and Medicus Esper of the esteemed House Moltiess, Chairwoman of the Imperial Board of Medicine!”
Esper nodded to the man in appreciation and strode forward toward the table. She sat as the herald continued.
“In her company, I announce with reverence Lord Elegnon of the House Moltiess, Duke of Chorus and Song, and Seneschal of the Empire!”
Elegnon walked forward some paces but paused halfway to the table. He turned regally to the herald and raised an eyebrow, motioning to Marques who still waited at the door. The herald stammered half an apology before he proceeded.
“A-and in attendance as well, the… honorable Steward of the Seneschal’s Office, Citizen Marques Dobrin.”
Marques nodded and produced a self-satisfied smile. Elegnon sat beside Esper, Marques on his right. He surveyed the Burgers around the table.

On the opposite side of the table from Elegnon sat Lord Mantil Olgrin Joster-Callum, the High Commodore of the Nuclear Navy. An obscene man, bloated from his indulgences, who had started the most recent war with border regions of the Aldebaran Empire and ended it decisively with a genocidal strike against the Duchy of Saldep. This planet-annihilating event had ended the war and eradicated the House Acaster from the Empire, decades prior.
Opposite him, both in position and in conviction, sat Lady Alyssa Moreau of the House Kitsuragi. In her role as the Marchioness of the Empire’s feared Legionnaire Corps, she had reluctantly commanded the Epihirate Legion in planetside assaults for Olgrin’s pet war and paid a significant physical price for it. Her prosthetic leg hummed as she adjusted her seating position in the horrible chair.
To Olgrin’s right, the houseless Lady Elaine Morrigan leaned forward over the table. She commanded the Korslaw Royal Defense Force, the army of the planet Norfodl. Elegnon counted her among his friends, not least because of a shared disdain for the Burghership. Her House had been dissolved dishonorably almost a decade prior by the previous Seneschal who had lacked in competence as much as the Emperor did. Elaine was not one to lie down and die, though. So here she was, still holding on to her ressort, and doing so with a fervor and drive that many admired, and many others feared.
The Lieutenant Prince of Korslaw and Ormir, Teril Korslaw, sat opposite her, fussing over his fingernails. His title, while grandiose, was largely ceremonial these days. On paper, Teril had ultimate authority over the sister cities but in practice, they were self-governed by their landlords who had formed a distasteful union. Teril was all the happier for it. He still had full authority over any and all festivities held within the cities and he relished the Burgher lifestyle. While conceited, slightly arrogant and snooty, he was good-hearted and gentle when it counted.
Next to Teril sat a stern-faced brown-skinned man with a mustache thicker than a Parishioner’s pubes. He was the Sofer dispatched a year ago by the Aldebaran Empire to attend the Imperial Court. Makdil Al-Hralan was on this council because, in the High Cleric’s own words, transparency was the vehicle of peace. If there was one thing Olgrin and Elegnon agreed on, it was the foolishness of that notion.
Lastly, opposite the Sofer, there sat a scrawny, balding man whose head seemed permanently covered in sweat, no matter the temperature. Lord Ulm of the House Opiioris was the Overseer of the Nuclear Dissemination Service. Despite his appearance, the man was a genius propagandist and a fierce loyalist. Elegnon, whose job was to keep these people in line, had never had difficulty making Ulm do and say things he ought to.