Intro Interlude (Albin)

The Federation of Uvarth has fallen.

By the strength of the imperial armada and the cunning of its admirals, the squalid edifice of mob-rule has come crumbling down. You were ecstatic at the news, eager to partition the planets as befits those who took part. It was perhaps the most triumphant month of your life, matched only by the establishment of the planetary parks and the earliest broadcasts of the Interspecies Sports League.

In the midst of the triumph, there’s a deep sense of relief. Not for your sister, Angelica, you knew she would be fine, surrounded by layer upon layer of armour and thousands of loyal voidsmen, but your son, Otto, down where the warfighting is hardest. The boy is vicious and thinks himself invincible, like most boys, but he is particularly intransigent. He reminds you of yourself and your father, and not in the best of ways.

You sent him to House Arthen to see his worst excesses beaten out of him, but he’s only gotten bolder since! Otto’s self-image is that of a bloodsoaked reaver, archaic weapon of some kind or another blazing or thumping in hand, surrounded by some nameless, faceless enemy. He has the knack for it, surely, but such a mindset is unbefitting the general of a regional campaign, let alone the future Emperor!

Oh, you tried your best. Took him into court with you, to grow closer to your son and teach him to navigate the intrigues of the aristocracy. He isn’t a convincing liar, he smiles when expected to, goes through all the right motions, but the impending violence in his eyes is unmistakable. Otto asked to fight on Uvarth itself, UVARTH, and for all your misgivings you obliged him. Somehow, he survives.

He comes crawling back to the throne. You tell him he can have anything he wants. A governorship, a fleet, even ten billion credits, you’re hoping for, but he goes on and, as you feared, demands that the Empire be without its heir for twenty years. That you cannot give him. The stars are dark and full of dangers- you know better than most.

Your son will have twelve, given solely in recognition of your own reckless youth, for the promise that he’ll do what he can to keep his family informed of his whereabouts and won’t get himself killed. Your words go in one ear and out the other. You're starting to suspect this was a terrible decision.

>...

You sit hunched over a desk so finely-crafted its sale could purchase a small frontier colony. Your hands work a quill on parchment, an archaic throwback to a primitive age and more importantly, untraceable by technical means. It isn't anything unusual.

Merely orders for those members of House Nightshayd stationed in El-Yaniv.

For too long, the Houses of Rothsford and Ustong have flouted imperial authority. They must be brought to heel. Soon, while you're in command and can ensure a level-headed, proportionate response. Otto is far too bloodthirsty to put them down cleanly and far too high-minded, far too chivalric to ensure that all are punished accordingly.

The Economy isn't doing well. After the conquest and ongoing consolidation of the Federation of Uvarth, the Empire's civic funds have been stretched thin. Your creation, the Order of Erudition, now competing with the Astronomicon Academy for the same bold and brilliant minds, demands credits to see its duties fulfilled.

You are pleased to oblige them. You're confident their efforts will have an excellent return on investment in the generations to come, if not sooner. In a century's time, you may be seen as a visionary. Or- you cease the quill's scratching- a fool. As you press the coded missive into an envelope, to be smuggled within a cake, you try not to think of the consequences.

This punitive tax of yours... It is a bold move, the sort that can make or break a dynasty. The controversy will lead to civil war, of that you are certain. The only question that remains is the outcome. You've done your damnedest to stack the odds in the throne's favour, but in such a lofty and imperial gamble, there can be no guarantees.

Only a dark certainty that no matter which way the solar winds blow, the Eternal Empire will never be the same.

>...

You look down at your son. The two of you could not be more different. He's clad in battle armour, marked and scored by a dozen battlefields on forgotten worlds. His bulk is festooned with guns and blades, space only spared for the flag of House Heinrich and a tactical wrist-mounted holoprojector. You know for a fact that the frame beneath is no less imposing, of proportions that could be called wiry if not for the size and mass of muscle. Only his face is exposed and stares ahead in silence, the epitome of the discipline which has been drilled into him since the day he began to walk. It is a poor disguise of the cold brutality which you know simmers beneath, waiting to be unleashed.

Nonetheless, this man is the imperial heir set to inherit the throne on Mars, and your son.

You wait for him to break the silence. You watch as he bows his head, forgoing the usual knee. Good, he's the future Emperor and ought to act like it. Otto begins to speak, his tone calm and measured, as it always has been. "Father, it has been a long time-"

You interrupt, filled with the noblest form of indignation. "Too long! Four years, boy! The whole of the Eternal Empire has sat, waiting for the return of its beloved heir, and what has it gotten?" The boy tries to ignore you, staring into the distance and shifting into protocol, so you force him to look you in the eyes. "FOUR YEARS! You gave me your word, Otto, that you would return safely, and instead, I get a courier who tells me you've gotten yourself into a pitched underwater war!"

Otto gets that look on his face, searching for an excuse. "A war for the relics of old Earth. An entire hull full of them. I fought for Mankind-"

Fought for Mankind? Fought for Mankind!? The symbol of noble rule, putting his life at the mercy of feral scum, fighting for Mankind!?! The recklessness drives you over the edge. "YOU SHOULD LIVE FOR MANKIND! Damn you, boy! Your hunger for war will be the death of us all!"

This impacts the boy, you can tell. Drags the irresponsibility of his actions to the forefront of your minds. He's no longer a rebellious youth, but a grown man who's spent his entire life guiding a rigid hierarchy! There's no excuse for this behaviour, and he of all men should know better! Your son's frown deepens, engraved in the lines of his face as a pulsing anger you've never before seen reaches his eyes. The boy speaks with all the solemn finality of commanding an orbital strike.

"Better I be a warmonger than fondling squids and plucking flowers."

Your blood runs cold. Such an insult is treasonous, from the heir or no, and by the look on his face he knows it, too. An unfamiliar feeling- pure, violent rage- takes hold and your hand moves of its own accord.

>*SMACK*

You strike with such swiftness and fury, your son, armour and all, is thrown to the floor. He instinctively touches his cheek, cradling it in his gauntlet. The boy is stunned, and so are you. Otto lifts his eyes to look on you in disbelief. "...Father?"

You look down in scorn you haven't felt since the last time you toured a stripmine. Your voice comes unbidden, strict and taciturn, the same you use for speeches.

"Son. Never speak to me that way again."

There’s a stillness in the atmosphere, a silence of the type technical instruments can’t record. It holds you like a vise, ebbing and flowing, waxing and waning, inscrutable and implacable. Some might’ve been cowed into inaction, but you are the Emperor, and you are undeterred. You crouch, breaking it in a single motion, and hold out your hand. Otto takes it in his gauntlet and working together, you lift him up.

You stare at the boy, trying to parse the interplay of emotions. He begins to speak. “Father, I…” You preempt the man, still a boy to your sight, and take him into your embrace. He hangs his head and returns the gesture. The two of you stand together, like you haven’t in many years.

As you speak into your son’s ear, you find your voice choked. “Otto, you are the greatest treasure this Empire has- Its living and breathing future! We can’t risk losing you… Not like my father, not like Alphonse!”

Your son responds, voice resolute, yet on the brink of collapse. “All I’ve ever wanted… was to serve the Empire.” There’s a sincerity in his words even the best of Nightshayd would be hard-pressed to fake.

You stand proud, for once, proud of your son. “Serve, you have. Serve, you shall. The Tripartite-”

He interjects, tongue dripping with hate. “Traitors to all Mankind.” Commendable.

You continue. “-They must die.”  You can feel his armour brace. You release the boy, who steps back with a martial salute.

“Your will will be done, Emperor!”

You acknowledge him with a tilt of the head. “Prince.”
At that, he turns and marches off.

Little did you know, this would be the last time you ever saw your son’s face.