There's something wrong as those eighteen of Zai's staff shuffle out, something in the air that tenses as that far door is gently shut leaving these six staff members alone against Guardsman Mori Fushimi, that Ceramic Demon from the Imperium, and Sophia Elise the Eighth.

Like a weapon being drawn.

A bomb about to explode.

The room holds its breath.

A minute passes in silence, waiting for someone, anyone, to even move.

Guardsman Mori Fushimi has her left hand on the shortblade at her hip, staring down these six, daring these six, taunting these six with that fire in her eyes.

It's the lion with her claws sharpened on flint rock, eyeing rivals across a watering hole—waiting for them to walk into the arms of a bloody death.

The six almost make the first move, almost take their chances with this Guardsman; before they hear the singing song of ceramic at the edge of the room.

That Impericutta Legionary, that demon in its suit of armor and with its lethal power-blade in its sheath, shuffles with just enough movement that the sound of its suit's tiny plates resounds across this space like broken plates tossed together.

The lion has a monster with her.

They are the lost children of the Imperium.

They are the faceless, the humanless, the beginning and the end.

They are the Thousand Blades of the Emperor.

These things cut down armies once with ceramic blades and now heavy machine guns.

These inhuman monsters broke the back of the Ensolian Belt upon their suits of armor and suicidal ideation.

These were the ceramic demons of the Ensolian Imperium.

And one of them was here.

In this very room.

You wouldn't dare. That thing screams from presence alone. Our armor is bathed in the blood of dead nations. Come and add yours to the crucible.

So these six don't even tense a single muscle.

Not against the ceramic demon, not against this Guardsman, and especially not this Fourth Princess.

Sophia observes the awkward silence, watching as this stare down compresses the room to a point of implosion.

We picked wrong. Goddess damned it we picked the worst six possible.

There's something about that stance on each of them that raises warning in this Fourth Princess, goosebumps fluttering across her body as her hair stands on end. It's the lizard part of brains that scream for danger, the most basic instinct to run from an inferno, a charging bear, or a sharpened stone in the hands of a prehistoric barbarian.

What the hells is wrong right now?! Sophia freezes, tossing through her mind palace for answers. These are just regular ol' people aren't they?!

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Y-yeah?! Her committee has nothing, no answers for her as they themselves try and untangle this mess beneath the blaring of alarms. There's no reason why we should be afraid of them!

Beatrice once told her this years ago, that damned Third Sister of hers taking precious time out of what was a formal diplomatic meeting to track her younger sister into a hidden recess of the Imperial house just to give some comfort: "If you're afraid and don't know why, then don't act afraid. Fear is good, but not when it compromises your composure. Act like you own the world, even when it feels like it's about to crush you~"

Sophia can't even remember the actual context for why she said that to her, but still she does act on that advice.

Let's girlboss this.

The Fourth Princess of the Ensolian Imperium begins to walk, strolling between these two sides like some parting river of black silk and blonde hair. No eye contact with those blue irises of hers, instead holding her head straight forward like an officer on inspection march. "I require your services."

She keeps moving as she speaks, slow, deliberate, a practiced stride that paces back and forth from the misshapen line of six.

She commands ships, legions; the aerostatics that take to the skies like the gods, bringing fire from above like they once did.

A lie of competence and social grace so grand it almost, no, it does become true.

It's colder than glacial meltwater, each word tailored to be utterly inhuman. "I do not require skill. Skills can be learned. I do not require declarations of loyalty. Loyalty is earned. What I do require is fealty."

Sophia pauses, almost panicking. I don't know what that word means, but it sounds like something Mother would say…

This mask continues to speak to these assembled staff. "You are here because you are different from the rest. As of now, your service to your old master is annulled. Any oaths, any promises to him are forgotten. You serve me, my orders, my commands, my will."

There's no question for them to reply to as she lets this silence sit, continuing to bury them in the pressure that seems to creep out of the floor and onto their bodies like ivy vines.

"Do your work, and you will be rewarded for your service. Fail… and there will be no rewards for you."

We're starting to ramble. Recover. RECOVER!

The words out of her lips hang like execution orders: cold, cruel, and absolutely unearned. "Do not fail me."

She lets them process this threat in silence, leaving this place waiting for something more. Like a desert wanderer teased with a sip of salt water they need to have an order from her, need to have something to do in the aftermath of this threat.

Because once these six stood before that hollow man on that Black Throne, took their oaths to him and him alone.

To watch over that child born from his sacred essence; protectors, observers, murderers at worst.

Because they feared him.

But there's more to this girl.

Something primordial, something completely alien to this Court. Like the rage of a forest fire, or the pang of starvation through an empty ribcage—this fear brewing within them bends them towards it like the gravity of a dying star.

Sophia Elise the Eighth is feared by the six.

"You are never to enter my chambers, except for extenuating circumstances or invitation." She begins to order, begins to dictate her will to those beneath her. "I also require a box of twelve Ensolian donuts delivered every morning, placed in this antechamber. This is a non-negotiable requirement for your… employment."

She takes a breath so silent that one could hear a feather being dropped on the floor.

"Any other services or necessities are to be given at a later time."

And she asks the question, the final question. "Do you understand?"

Nobody dares speak up, each soul begging another to answer before the rest. To be a martyr for their people, to offer their neck to that Ceramic Demon that hovers over them like an executor's blade.

She stops in front of the brother and sister pair, these two northerners visibly flinching as she turns her head, stares them in the eyes, asks them the question:

"Do you understand?"

And both of them nod, shaking. "Y-yes…"

"Good." She inhales the dust and rot into her lungs, strolling back to the door to her chambers.

"You are dismissed."

And she doesn't turn, doesn't even watch them go.

As ordered.

As one.

In fear.

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