"Down with the tyrants!"
"Put the Empresses on trial!"
"Leithanien belongs to the people!"
Trullinczentyr, the Twin Towers, within the Throne Room.
Lizelotte Iwegnade gripped the armrests of her throne, her knuckles white.
Every shout from outside frayed her already shattered nerves.
"The guards? Where is the Voice of the Empress!" she shrieked, her voice slightly distorted by agitation.
"Activate the Twin Towers! Blast those insolent curs to smithereens!"
She looked around, searching for support.
However, the court ministers who were usually so sycophantic now all had their heads bowed, trembling. Not one dared to respond.
"Lizelotte, that's enough."
A weary voice spoke up.
Herlinmarte Hildegard was leaning against a window, quietly observing the populace below the tower.
"Herlinmarte, have you lost your mind?"
Lizelotte couldn't believe her ears. Her own sister, who had always advocated for solving all problems with iron and blood, had just uttered the words "that's enough."
"We still have the Voice of the Empress, and the elite Golden Law Guard! The Twin Towers can withstand an army of a hundred thousand! We haven't lost yet!"
"We have already lost." Herlinmarte turned around.
"From the moment you signed that decree and let it fall into Lacey's hands, we lost."
"Those people outside right now are not the enemy. They are the people of Leithanien. What are we supposed to use to suppress them?"
"Use our guards to slaughter the very subjects we are meant to protect?"
"Even if we killed everyone below the tower, Lacey's allied army of seven Grand Regions is waiting outside the city!"
"That would be a civil war with rivers of blood. All of Leithanien would be torn apart!"
"By then, even if we held the Twin Towers and the crowns upon our heads, we would only be sinners of the nation."
Pausing here, she added with a self-deprecating tone, "Lizelotte, we are the monarchs of Leithanien. Even in our exit, we should retain our final shred of dignity."
"We were crowned with honor; we should step down with dignity."
"Pointless resistance, aside from making Leithanien bleed more and weakening what little vitality this nation has left, is utterly meaningless."
"I do not wish for us to be recorded in the annals of history as butchers and madwomen."
"Dignity? The annals of history?" Lizelotte let out a shrill, neurotic laugh.
"You still care about such things?"
"We are the Empresses of Leithanien! The supreme rulers of this nation!"
"Only the victors get to write history!"
"As long as I can win, I don't care about the cost!"
Lizelotte was like a madwoman, her eyes bloodshot, completely deaf to any counsel.
"Herlinmarte, have you forgotten what we are? We are weapons! Weapons forged for victory!"
"How can a weapon surrender without a fight? You coward!"
In her eyes, Herlinmarte's calmness at this moment was a complete betrayal.
She had not lost yet. She absolutely could not lose!
She was a weapon created to defeat the Witch King. She had already vanquished that man; how could she possibly lose to a rabble-rouser who came from the mud!
"I am not a coward," Herlinmarte said, meeting her sister's gaze, enunciating every word.
"I have simply recognized reality a step ahead of you, Lizelotte."
"Our era is over."
The reversal of their roles happened so suddenly.
The Black Empress, who had always advocated for force and believed in iron and blood, had now become the most clear-headed one.
And the White Empress, who had always presented a gentle and elegant facade, had torn off all pretense, revealing her most paranoid and reckless side.
Just as the two faced off and the atmosphere grew unbearably tense, a voice—ancient but majestic—echoed without warning in the Throne Room.
"Well said, Herlinmarte Hildegard."
"At least you've retained some measure of clarity."
Lizelotte and Herlinmarte were startled and immediately turned toward the sound.
From the shadows behind the throne, a figure slowly emerged.
He wore the simple robes of a scholar, his face ancient, his eyes deep-set.
It was the master of the Sarkaz Witch King's Court, a professor of magic in Leithanien, their "Creator"—Flemont.
His appearance was completely silent.
"Flemont… Professor?" Lizelotte called out, her voice trembling.
Flemont did not even look at her.
"I forged you to sever the rotten roots of Leithanien, to end an old era and begin a new one."
He recalled a night many years ago, describing the future under the stars with his dear friend, Herzog.
They had both dreamed of building a Leithanien that was strong, unified, and where the people lived in peace and prosperity.
However, an obsession with exploring the wastelands ultimately consumed his friend's mind, turning him into an isolated and cruel monarch.
To end that mistake, he, Flemont, had personally forged these two most perfect anti-Witch King weapons.
He gave them wisdom and power. He had hoped that the two of them could complete the dream he and Herzog had failed to achieve, to build a truly strong Leithanien.
"But I was wrong."
Flemont turned, his gaze falling upon Lizelotte, his eyes filled with undisguised disappointment.
"You severed Herzog, the dead main trunk, only to quickly have your limbs entangled by the putrid vines of the old nobles."
"You learned their political machinations, their checks and balances, their arrogance and prejudice, but you forgot the very reason for your creation."
His gaze swept across Lizelotte's pale face.
"You are indifferent to the suffering of the people, you turn a blind eye to the empire's chronic illnesses, focusing only on maintaining your own fragile rule."
"In fact, it is the young man you see as a grave threat, the 'mud-leg' who came from the common folk and whom you've tried to suppress by every means, who is doing what you were supposed to do."
Flemont's voice grew cold. "You are no longer fit to lead this country."
He had delivered his final judgment.
"No!"
Lizelotte let out an unwilling shriek. The long-suppressed pressure and the despair of this moment made her lose her sanity completely.
She abruptly drew the ceremonial sword from her waist, the blade symbolizing "Eternal Grace," and pointed its tip directly at her creator.
"I am the Empress of Leithanien! You cannot…"
Her words stopped short.
Flemont merely glanced at her.
An invisible force instantly enveloped Lizelotte.
She felt as if a mountain were crashing down upon her, and even her breathing ceased.
The longsword in her hand let out a mournful cry as if under unbearable strain. Starting from the tip, it shattered inch by inch, turning to dust that slipped through her trembling fingers.
The immense force buckled her knees, and she fell heavily to the ground.
She wanted to struggle, only to find she could not move even a single finger.
"A weapon should know its place."
There was not a shred of pity in Flemont's voice.
"When you can no longer fulfill your purpose, you are nothing but a pile of useless scrap iron."
Herlinmarte closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of her sister's miserable state.
Flemont paid no more attention to the kneeling Lizelotte, turning instead to the silent Herlinmarte, a rare hint of approval in his eyes.
"At least you know how to cut your losses. You are not a complete failure."
Herlinmarte clenched her fists, then slowly relaxed them.
She did not argue, only offered a bitter smile.
Cut losses?
When everything has already been lost, what does that even count for?
________________________________________
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