The only comparable architectural marvel that Sophia could muster against this 'Minor Council Room' within the Palatial Temple was perhaps the old Montglace Seat of Power.

Carved directly into the granite bedrock of the "Mountain of Ice," that half-fortified bunker half-temple of a pre-imperial site was, for that extremely impatient five year old Sophia Elise, nothing but a touristy stop on the way to her much warmer, much quieter, and much more comfortable room back in her paternal grandparents' mansion.

It was considered one of the seven marvels of the imperium (and one of two she had visited in her life, including her own home on immortal hill…). But still, that tourist trap was barely comparable to the detailing, the craftsmanship, the beauty of these arching ceilings, walls of sculpted starscapes, and those massive glass windows that filtered in the pale blue light of Unudo into this space.

Rectangular but slightly sunken, something akin to a ceremonial cistern—with the center of this most holy chamber dominated by a raised dais of obsidian black marble festooned with a single chair. Mostly a throne, yet within its cold stone Sophia could somehow see the innate, stylized "listening seat," backed by a massive pale blue circle mounted on the far wall.

The iconography of Unudo?

Or was it an eye?

Or maybe something else…

Not as overwhelming as the actual Throne Room of the Dominion, but enough that Sophia still needs to take a breath.

Ok you got this girl. She almost slaps herself on the cheeks as she walks in. Just be yourself like Zai said and we'll just breeze our way through this.

They're here.

All seven of them uncomfortably, discouragingly here.

Left without seats, forced to stand before the chair as this final, late arrival walks through the space like a spectre.

Seven split unevenly, three sharp and ironed military uniforms and four dully dressed Magistrates in their court robes—all immediately bowing, prostrating before this Princess-Consort of the Dominion.

Slowly, carefully going onto their knees, their faces kissing this polished obsidian black floor as they all give reverence to her.

Perfect, practiced… guided by fear. The demon on Sophia's shoulder whispers.

And each one listens as that liege silently takes each of her steps, followed closely by the entourage—from the shuffled whispers from that stolen assassin of their Crown Prince, to the slow thunderfalls of crashing porcelain from that faceless demon encased in ceramic alloy.

Not a single one dares to peek between their interlaced fingers, keeping their postures glued to the ground as that monster approaches the seat of power upon that dais and sits.

Its cold and unyielding, wrought in steel and plated in scented cedar with edges that dig into the back of this outsider. Each edge crafted with mathematical precision, the very frame reeking of age—this masterwork of royal furnishing placed in these vast depths waiting for a master to come and place their rear atop it.

And maybe this girl, this choir of power who commands through her blood, whose Imperium has mined the dead bodies of the ancient ones and broke the covenant they all promised to follow; a girl whose armies are spoken of in fear amongst the greatest of their houses, whose very name forces hurried glances towards the dark corners of the room, could be worthy.

Oh my Goddess this chair is awful. Sophia hides a loud scream of pain, feeling as her lower spine metaphorically crumbles to dust.

Her mind slaps her. Get it together girl!

Sophia Elise the Eighth, Princess-Consort of the Dominion, sits straighter than the trunk of a pine tree, places both hands upon the arm rests of this space, narrows her eyes, and draws a cold, empty scowl towards these seven prostrating members of the Court.

And makes them wait.

Sophia Elise the Eighth makes them lie there in that position of humiliation, forcing them to give reverence to her like a god. Upon that perch she feels the nerves being frayed, the jolts of movement from burning muscles; these bodies suffering, writhing upon the floor in minutes of torture.

Uh… as the highest ranking royal you're supposed to actually bid them to rise. Some part of Sophia reminds her. Remember? Even our home court, mom herself, does this…

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Uh oh. She tenses her shoulders. AW CRAP!

"R-rise." Sophia hides the panic beneath a frosted, deadly command that seems to echo through this vast, and far too empty council room.

Each of the seven rise from their place, as ordered. Slowly as if pulling themselves out of mud, their legs wobbling as blood flows back into those once constricted limbs.

And yet, even standing, they're still dwarfed against the royal sitting in the raised chair above that obsidian dais.

They have to look up at her, to face her.

A General opens her mouth but finds no words. A Magistrate tries to speak but can't beneath the gaze of those pale blue, empty eyes. No one dares to raise their voice against her, to push against the pressure crushing their lungs, to bring their demands to this usurper of their holy nation.

So instead they leave it to silence, trying not to make complete eye contact with this silver monster from beyond the Wailing Fang.

… kinda awkward. Sophia bites her inner cheek, trying not to cry. … Why is nobody speaking up like they're supposed to???

Fear. That concept from the pale light of Unudo speaks to this girl. Fear silences EVERYTHING.

And she watches as the beads of sweat fall from their foreheads and onto their cheeks, watches as each breath from their lungs come forth in ragged sighs.

Ok. Sophia plans, plots the way out. The faster we finish this up the faster we're out of here. So all we gotta do is give these seven a small gentle nudge. We need to let them know we're not some monster like they think we are, let them speak their minds as quickly as possible so that we can go back to bed and maybe start going through that half-stocked bookshelf in our room.

Words spill from the heretical lungs of this Princess, a Judge speaking the details of a death sentence. "Hurry up. I don't have all night to sit here idly. Magistrate Yun Zhexian, bring your case."

Sophia beams with pride on this choice of first speaker. He's probably the most direct and easy to work with: something along the lines of Imperial foreign policy clarifications!

One steps forward, with all six pairs of eyes focusing on him as he walks through this bushel of politics to the front of the threshing floor.

Middle aged yet so much older, strands of dark-black hair eaten away by gray and eyes sunken from sleeplessness. A sharpness to him, however—in those tired irises even this Princess can see the plans within him, those sheathed blades in the dark shattered by the command to openness, to bring forth his words into the cold blue light of Unudo.

"Your grace." Magistrate Yun Zhexian's words come measured, yet with just the slightest wobble. "It is a great honor to come before you in this matter. I am certain you've considered my plea with the highest degree of attention."

Sophia Elise just stares him down like a hawk, waiting for him to continue.

"This group has come to a consensus in regards to our request regarding specification on the Foreign Policy of Imperial Ensolia. I will speak for our number, as is chosen by you, on this matter."

There's enough obfuscation there that Sophia almost misses his point.

Almost.

A rat sipping on the honey from a cracked hive, filling its belly with illicit glory—these watching bees waiting to sink their stingers into its fur.

The man's sharp, taking credit for himself. A thought process whistles, half in admiration for the audacity and half in bureaucratic horror. But look at how those other Magistrates and Military Officers stare daggers into his back, look how they're shifting—he's lost their loyalty in exchange for good credit in your eyes.

The entire Consciousness Committee claps in glorious celebration. Political analysis complete. Amazing job! 5 stars!

Sophia Elise tries not to gleefully smirk as she continues to listen.

"We represent certain political entities that are… aligned with the interests that the Imperium offers the Dominion. In accordance with the Landfall Treaty, our parties have come to the conclusion that… an alignment with your values is certain to benefit us all mutually. If allowed, this group and those we represent are willing to pursue a deeper relationship. With you, as our focal point, of course."

The Fourth Princess of the Imperium narrows her eyes at this statement. "Huh?"

This magistrate clears his throat, forcing himself to simplify his evasive tirade to something much more direct. "We, as the collective, selected, northern states of the Dominion, seek closer ties with the Imperium."

Sophia can feel the politics shuffling behind him, each of those Generals and fellow Magistrates of their haphazard group waiting for each other to raise an objection to this half-defiance to their Lord of the Dominion.

No, it's more than just a defiance.

It's treason.

Look at him, keeping his deck of cards close to his chest. Sophia's political education plays this game, scheming from deep inside her thoughts. It's treason, then. Treason for us: and we can start here—play the Dominion's northern states into the hands of our home country.

Start with the promise: give these savages silver and grain from your coffers. Fatten them up like the holiday duck, let them gorge so much upon our prosperity they can't even raise a wing when we come to snap their necks.

"I-Is that so?" This princess asks, buying time for her to come up with a response to this insanity.

She holds the game in the palm of her hands, as for the first time in her entire life Sophia Elise the Eighth holds true power.

And she has no idea what to do with it.

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