The assassin’s words, thin and ragged, echoed in the heavy air of Azarmêdh’s sanctum. Ninsianna’s hand tightened on the archway, the rough stone biting into her palm. Not incompetence, but calculated, cold-blooded culling. The scale of it set in, bitter as frost off the steppe. Ashur-Dan had deliberately unraveled the empire’s frontier garrisons, sacrificing his own in a calculated cull. “The riots in the outer wards,” Azarmêdh murmured, his voice a low thrum against the sudden silence. “The unrest among the merchants, the disquiet in the garrison. His actions have cultivated more than just rebellion. They have sown the seeds of total ruin.” Ninsianna pushed off the archway, her jaw set hard. “Ruin he will reap. We go to the dais. Now.” They crossed the palace grounds at a march. The capital city simmered with an uneasy calm, the previous night’s mutinous standoff having fractured the rigid loyalty of the Ashurban Guard. Whispers of the frontier commanders' defiance and Azarmêdh’s strange machinations had already reached the ears of the Royal Council. Across the vast audience hall, the usual obsequious murmurs had degraded into hushed, anxious consultations. Emperor Ashur-Dan sat upon the dais, his gilded seat adorned with the carved eyes of ancient gods. Dark blood rushed to his cheeks, his gaze sweeping over the assembled dignitaries, lingering with venom on Ninsianna, who stood flanked by Azarmêdh and the newly emboldened commanders. Warden Ishtar, his customary silk robes crisp and unblemished, stood a calculated distance from Ninsianna, his expression unreadable, a silent sentinel in the shifting political landscape. “So, the Gilded Cage’s newest pet dares to sully my court with her presence, and brings… this rabble,” Ashur-Dan sneered, gesturing toward the line of officers. “Have you come to beg for your lives, dogs? Or has this… *concubine*… convinced you that you are fit to stand before your Emperor?” Ninsianna met his gaze, unflinching. “I have come to expose your treachery, Ashur-Dan. To reveal the rot that festers beneath your golden mask. You allowed the Grey Creep to spread. You intentionally sacrificed the northern armies, not to defend the empire, but to purge what you deemed ‘disloyal’ bloodlines. You would let our world burn to retain your own corrupt power.” A gasp rippled through the Royal Council. Faces blanched, hands flew to mouths. This was not merely insubordination; it was a direct accusation of high treason, leveled by a woman of no apparent standing. Ashur-Dan threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that grated on the ears. “Treachery? From the lips of a chattel? What proof do you offer, girl? The rambling of a mad Diviner? The desperate pleas of condemned traitors? Your words are as worthless as your existence. I am Ashur-Dan, chosen of the Sky-God, divinely appointed ruler of the Ashurban Empire! My will is law, my judgment absolute! You and your dogs will face the executioner’s blade this very hour!” He pounded his fist on the armrest, the golden finial rattling. The officers stiffened, fingers dropping instinctively toward their sheathed pommels, but Ninsianna raised two fingers, holding them back. Her gaze flickered to Azarmêdh, who nodded, his brass astrolabe spinning with a low hum at his belt. Azarmêdh stepped forward, cutting a stark silhouette against the carved wall panels. He raised a hand, not toward the Emperor, but toward the stunned assassin, Zaqar, who had been dragged into the hall by two guards and forced to kneel, his face a swollen, bruised mess. A faint, shimmering aura emanated from Azarmêdh’s fingertips, weaving a complex pattern in the air. Then, a blinding flash. The air above Zaqar’s head rippled, twisting into a vibrant, ethereal projection. It was the assassin’s memory, ripped from his tormented mind, playing out for all to see. The image of Ashur-Dan, seated in a dimly lit chamber, his face cold and impassive, listening to a panicked report of the Grey Creep’s initial outbreak. The Emperor’s hand, dismissive, waving away pleas for fire-supplies and quarantine. Zaqar’s own face, younger, horrified, as he received the horrific order: “Let it fester. The border clans… they will eat each other, and we will rebuild from the ashes of their insolence.” The projection pulsed with Zaqar’s terror, his shame, his agony, displaying every agonizing detail of the Emperor’s deliberate betrayal. A collective gasp tore through the council. Horror, disbelief, and then, a cold, dawning fury etched itself on their faces. The whispers that had once been anxious became condemning. The Empress Dowager, seated near the dais, clutched her throat, her mouth open in horror. Ashur-Dan roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage. “Guards! Seize them! Seize them all! This is witchcraft! A lie! Strike them down!” His voice cracked, desperation tainting his fury. But the Imperial Guard, usually swift and unquestioning, hesitated. They looked from their Emperor’s contorted face to the shimmering truth of the projection, and then to the rigid line of Ninsianna and her escorts. Their loyalty, once absolute, fractured under the proof of the Emperor’s monstrous deceit. Seeing his own men falter, raw frenzy overtook Ashur-Dan. With a guttural snarl, he lunged from his seat, wrenching a ceremonial dagger from the nearby mount, its polished obsidian blade flashing black in the torches. His target was clear: Ninsianna, the source of his humiliation, the architect of his downfall. He moved with a speed born of pure, desperate hatred, the obsidian blade arcing towards her heart. Before he could strike, a blur of silk and steel. Warden Ishtar, moving with an impossible swiftness, appeared between Ninsianna and the Emperor. In one fluid motion, a slim, dark blade, previously hidden within his sleeve, flashed out. It sank deep into Ashur-Dan’s side, just beneath the ribs. The Emperor gasped, pupils dilating under the agony, the ceremonial dagger clattering uselessly to the floor. A trickle of dark, viscous fluid immediately began to seep from the wound. Ishtar, his hand still on the hilt of the poisoned blade, leaned in, whispering flatly for only the dying Emperor to hear. “The Gilded Cage has a new keeper.”

Tapestry of Lies