Evening light slid down the marble of the Solar Palace like oil.
Every column glowed honey-gold, every window caught fire.
The servants moved through it like disciplined ghosts—soft sandals, copper trays, eyes on the floor.
Aurelia Helios sat half-reclined on a low couch, a silver spoon dangling from her fingers. The air smelled of citrus, ink, and the faint metallic tang of the mirror resting beside her plate. She had eaten three olives, one slice of honeyed barley cake, and stopped. Control was half of godhood.
"Send the last scribe home," she said. Her voice carried easily in the room. "If he writes one more word about grain yields I'll have him ground into flour."
A page bowed and fled. The curtains swayed in the heat.
For a few seconds she enjoyed the silence—the rhythmic click of her own nails against the armrest, the pulse of light on the mirror's dented edge. Sometimes it caught her reflection a half-second late.
She didn't like that.
Focus, she told herself. One century down, the next waiting to kneel.
Outside, bells marked the sunset hour.
"Bring the council," she said, and wiped her fingers on a napkin stitched with the empire's sigil. "And coffee. The strong one. I need to remember why I still tolerate people."
The council chamber looked more like a vault than a hall—walls of brass maps, a floor of pale stone threaded with golden lines showing trade routes and troop paths. It smelled of parchment and sweat, not incense.
Aurelia walked in barefoot, coffee in hand, the mirror tucked under her arm.
The generals and ministers rose as one.
"Oh, sit down," she said. "If I wanted ceremony, I'd go to church."
Chairs creaked. She slid into hers at the head of the table and gestured toward the courier waiting in the corner. "Let's get the bad news first."
The courier placed a charred scroll-tube on the table. The wax bore the sun-sigil of the Pillar of Judgment.
Aurelia broke the seal with her thumb. Smoke drifted out, shaping faint words in gold before fading. She read while sipping.
Menari resistance broken. Temple destroyed. Divine residue detected. Three outsiders: male, one blond with lunar signature. Recommend capture alive for study.
"Lovely," Aurelia muttered. "So my little torch burned half a forest and still managed to lose three idiots with a god-complex. Typical."
General Septima cleared her throat. "The Pillar reports minimal legion losses, Lady. The locals scattered. She's begun a purification of the valley."
"Good. Let her burn it all. Just make sure she doesn't waste rations while she's at it." Aurelia set the scroll down and looked at the map. "How long until we have clean control lines through the Menari mountains?"
"Two weeks, maybe less."
"Make it one. Double the bread shipments. Soldiers fight better when they're not starving."
She tapped the map. Three small glass pins glimmered where the Pillar had marked the fugitives. "And these?"
"Still at large," said the High Lictor. "Possibly hiding with the remaining tribes."
Aurelia exhaled through her nose. "Find them. The blond one especially. Divine signatures mean valuable research material. I want him alive. The others can rot."
Her tone cooled further. "And remind the Pillar that she answers to me, not the sun in her head."
Marcia, the high priestess, inclined her head. "Shall I phrase that delicately?"
"God, no. Tell her straight: Aurelia says stop freelancing and finish the job." She paused, smirking. "You can add a 'please' if you think it'll help."
A few of the officials laughed nervously.
The mirror on the table caught her grin and reflected it too brightly, like a second sun.
They moved on. Reports about supply, wounded, and captured relics spilled across the table.
Aurelia half-listened, half-played with the mirror's edge.
When the map of the world expanded—rivers glowing faintly—her focus sharpened.
"Now," she said, voice suddenly crisp, "the Concord."
A murmur swept the table. Someone unrolled a silk chart showing the eastern territories: jade mountains, layered deltas, and the twin capitals built like mirrors along a river bend.
"The Jade-Lotus Concord," General Septima began carefully. "They've fortified the western passes. Scouts report new temples under construction along the border—likely military."
"Of course they are," Aurelia said. "They hide their spears behind poetry." She leaned back. "Remind me—what do they call their divine duo these days?"
"Lord Yuánshu and Lady Luòyín, Lady of the Rivers."
"Right. Mr. Rock-and-Mrs. Rain." Aurelia rolled her eyes. "Perfect pair. He builds walls, she floods them. Romantic."
No one dared smile.
"Anyway," she went on, "we'll hit them soon. The Jade Empire's sitting on more Zorya than anyone else on the continent, and I'm not letting that rot in the dirt."
The ministers exchanged quick looks.
Marcia ventured, "Lady, the Concord has not declared hostility. We have trade agreements—"
Aurelia cut her off with a lazy hand wave. "Trade is just war with better handwriting. Don't quote treaties at me. They're a resource. And resources don't get a vote."
She stood and walked toward the great window. Below, the city blazed in orderly lines, every street glowing with captured sunlight. "You think they care about peace? They worship jade and rivers. They'll drown us in taxes the moment we blink."
"Do we announce mobilization?" asked Septima.
"No," Aurelia said. "We prepare quietly. Stock grain. Move legions north under the pretext of helping with Menari suppression. Build bridges where no rivers are supposed to exist yet. And send envoys with smiles so bright they blind."
She sipped her coffee. "When we strike, I want them choking on kindness."
The mirror pulsed faintly against her hip—heat spreading through metal. For a moment she saw, in its reflection, not the council but herself surrounded by silver light, pale and cold. Something lunar. The image vanished when she blinked.
"Fantastic," she muttered under her breath. "Now I'm seeing ghosts."
The reports continued. Logistics, weapons, numbers. She let them talk until the words became noise, then cut through it.
"One more thing," she said. "The Pillar's front—Menari territory—isn't random. I need what's buried under those forests. Don't ask what; you wouldn't understand even if I told you. Just make sure the supply lines stay open."
The chamber fell silent. No one asked further.
She looked at their faces—devoted, frightened, obedient—and smirked.
"Good. See? Learning restraint already."
She flicked her fingers, and the mirror rose from the table, hovering. "Meeting's over. Leave the papers."
As they filed out, she turned the mirror toward herself again. The dented surface shimmered like liquid bronze.
"You'll have your Zorya," she murmured to her reflection. "Every damned drop."
The mirror hesitated—then gave her back her smile, slightly delayed, slightly warped.
She laughed softly. "Perfect. Even my reflection knows who's in charge."
The Hall of Renewal burned with quiet perfection.
No smoke, no cries — only the steady hiss of fire licking the edges of silk.
Hundreds of bodies lay in precise rings across the marble floor, each shrouded in pale cloth dusted with herbs. The scent of myrrh and cedar almost masked the truth beneath — the weight of flesh, the faint sweetness of rot. Golden braziers lined the walls, their light bending toward the dais where Aurelia Helios stood, veil loose, hair catching the glow like molten thread.
At her side, the Pillar of Dominion waited.
Lord Calion Varek rested his double axe against the stone, the weapon's edges humming with sealed strength. He looked freshly carved from the same marble he stood on — tall, bare-armed, eyes as bright and empty as a sun at noon. He'd gathered the dead himself: the sick from the hospitals, the old from the hospice wards, the condemned from the prisons. The people would wake tomorrow believing their loved ones purified and their ashes returned in glass urns. They would thank her.
"Efficient," Aurelia murmured, surveying the circles of silk. "You even stacked them by age."
Calion's gaze didn't move. "Weight distribution. The young burn slower."
Aurelia tilted her head, amused. "Practical as ever."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence around him carried discipline sharper than words.
She turned her attention to the pyres. "And the records?"
"Filed," he said. "Families notified. False ashes prepared. The mortuary priests have their script."
"Good." She touched the edge of the nearest shroud, tracing the faint outline of a hand beneath. "I've always liked honesty in my lies."
She stepped back and lifted her palm. The mirror on her wrist flared alive — bronze, breathing, whispering light. The braziers leaned toward her gesture, flames bending low as if bowing.
"Begin," she said.
Calion raised his hand. The axe, still upright beside him, trembled — and then the fire rose. It moved in waves, disciplined, silent, crawling across the bodies with the precision of a marching legion. The silk caught and curled, burning white before it turned red. The heat rolled outward, a steady pulse.
Aurelia inhaled deeply, eyes half-closed. "Beautiful."
Calion didn't look at her. "Necessary."
She smiled at that. The indifference always struck her — as if he wasn't impressed by divinity itself. "You make everything sound so dull, Lord Calion."
"Function isn't dull, Lady. It's survival."
She circled him slowly, veil dragging across the marble, the reflection of flame painting gold lines on her robe. "And yet you're surrounded by fire and gods, and still you speak like a blacksmith."
"Better than speaking like a priest," he said simply.
That earned a laugh from her — sharp, honest. "You'd last maybe a day in the temples."
"I wasn't built for worship."
"No," she said, gaze lingering on his profile. "You were built for use."
He finally turned his head then — not in defiance, not in reverence, but to meet her eyes. The gold in them didn't yield. "Then use me properly. Don't waste my time with performance."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then she smiled again — softer, quieter, like a blade sheathed just enough to hide its shine.
"Always direct. You know, most people bow when I speak to them."
"Then you should speak less," he said.
The fire roared behind them, eating the bodies in clean, even rhythm.
Aurelia's amusement faded into focus. "You've prepared the reports?"
Calion nodded. "The spies will leave for the Concord within the week. Merchant caravans, all traced to the outer ports. You'll have eyes in every major court by month's end."
"And the Pillars?"
"Summoned under sealed orders. They'll convene when you call. All except the Pillar of Judgment — she's still in the southern provinces."
"Let her stay." Aurelia waved a hand. "Her assignment's tied to my ascension. No interruptions."
Calion's expression didn't shift. "Then we move to phase two?"
"Yes." Her voice lowered. "By next moonrise, I want our armies positioned along the western ridges. Quietly. And send emissaries to the Concord. I want them smiling when they open our letters — right before they realize I've already crossed their borders."
Calion inclined his head. "Understood."
She studied him for a moment longer, the light of the burning dead reflected in her eyes. He didn't flinch. He didn't look impressed. He just stood — strong, unmoved, real.
That, more than devotion, fascinated her.
When the last of the silk turned to ash, Aurelia lifted her hand again. The flames stilled, suspended mid-motion, then flowed backward — their light folding into her palm. Threads of Zorya shimmered up from the corpses, pale gold and red, drawn into her like breath into lungs.
The air pulsed. The mirror on her wrist glowed, veins of light running up her arm and vanishing beneath her skin. She exhaled, steady, satisfied.
Calion only watched. "You're taking too much at once."
"I can handle it."
"It isn't about handling it," he said evenly. "It's about control."
That word — her word — hit something deep. Her lips parted into a slow grin.
"You almost sound like me."
"No," he said, turning away. "You sound like me."
She laughed under her breath. "That's new."
He lifted his axe and slung it across his back. "You have what you need. I'll see to the rest."
"Of course you will," she said softly, eyes following him as he strode toward the exit. "You always do."
When the door closed behind him, Aurelia stood alone in the glow of the dying fire. The air shimmered faintly, heavy with what she'd stolen. Her skin hummed.
"Indifferent bastard," she murmured, smiling faintly to herself. "That's why I like you."
She turned to the ashes — the remnants of her city's dead, the fuel of her ascent — and lifted the mirror once more.
"Prepare the front," she said to her reflection. "The Jade gods won't see the sunrise before I take their rivers."
The mirror delayed before answering — and then returned her smile, fractionally crooked, as if it almost disapproved.