“Lady Vreshna Kaeldar,” Zhurakh’s voice boomed, deep and resonant, a roar that silenced all doubt. “You are my ultimate political rival.” I blinked. An adversary? Was this the cue to wilt into the marble like a fainting heroine? My first thought, predictably, was about paperwork. This was going to delay my resignation. I’d spent the last five years meticulously crafting an exit strategy from this entire blood-soaked, sand-swept continent, and now *this*. Zhurakh stood there, a colossal shadow in the gilded hall, his sword still aimed at my sternum. The hilt was a grim, unpolished thing, unlike the bejeweled trinkets the court fops carried. His irises, charcoal beneath the bronze of his forehead, fixed on me with flat, predatory focus. Or, perhaps, a more emotionally invested person. To me, it just felt like a particularly aggressive performance review. “My Lord Warlord,” I said, projecting a calm I absolutely did not feel—mostly because I was mentally calculating how many more forms I’d need to fill out. “With all due respect to your newfound… declaration of intent, I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. I have zero statecraft ambitions. My current goal is a small, quiet villa, preferably without any nearby arenas or, indeed, warlords.” I gestured vaguely towards the ornate ceiling. “Perhaps a property in the Serpentine Peaks? The air is quite dry, excellent for my sinuses.” A dry rustle passed through the gathered courtiers. Several of them looked like they were trying to decide whether to faint, flee, or simply spontaneously combust. Zhurakh didn’t move. His face, etched with a severity that seemed to have been carved from the very rock of the Veshnogar mountains, remained impassive. “You intend to abandon your position as High Regent of the Inner Council?” he rumbled, his voice a low growl now, like distant thunder. “To shirk your duties to the realm?” “Oh, absolutely,” I confirmed cheerfully. “My current duties primarily involve approving budgets for gladiatorial games and attending interminable banquets where the main entertainment is watching magistrates try to poison each other. It’s not quite what I envisioned for my post-academic career. Besides, the paperwork is dreadful. You wouldn’t believe the auditing process for arena sand.” A knot twitched beside his scarred cheekbone. “You raised me, Lady Vreshna,” he said, the words cutting through the air like thrown daggers. “You pulled me from the dust of the pit. Did you think I would simply… forget?” Ah. He remembered the gruel. I knew it. That cheap, nutrient-deficient gruel I’d bought with the last of my silver. He was probably still holding a grudge about the lack of seasoning. The stingy portions. I should have sprung for the spiced meat, but my budget for rescuing feral children was, at the time, extremely limited. “My Lord, I assure you, my intentions were purely… philanthropic, in a highly constrained, resource-efficient manner,” I said, trying to sound apologetic without actually apologizing for fiscal prudence. “I believe the correct term is a ‘severance package.’ You’ve clearly ascended beyond any need for my continued… tutelage. Consider it a job well done, and my services rendered. I have my official letter of resignation right here.” I fumbled inside the voluminous sleeve of my court robes, pulling out a crisply folded parchment. Zhurakh’s gaze flickered to the letter, then back to my face. A strange, almost predatory light sparked in his dark eyes. “Resignation?” he scoffed, the word dripping with disdain. “There is an ancient imperial decree, Lady Vreshna, known as the Oath of the Bonded. It states that one who raises a champion of the pits to a position of power is inextricably bound to their destiny. They are obligated to face their champion’s wrath, their glory, and their challenges, until one of them lies cold beneath the sand.” My lungs locked. An ancient imperial decree? Of course there was. There was always some obscure, violently inconvenient ancient rule. I should have checked the archaic legal codes before adopting an abused child. This was what I got for my momentary lapse in cynical foresight. “That sounds… legally dubious,” I managed, my voice a little thin. “And wildly inconvenient for retirement planning.” Zhurakh lowered his sword, the tip thudding softly against the polished stone floor, but the gesture offered no comfort. “You will remain, Lady Vreshna Kaeldar. You will face my wrath. And you will watch, from the closest possible proximity, as I dismantle this rotting court, stone by bloody stone.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the terrified nobles. “Starting with every cur who dared insult you.” Just then, a saccharine voice cut through the stunned silence. “Oh, Zhurakh, my darling, you truly are magnificent!” My head snapped around. It was Chayaz, in my old body, sashaying towards Zhurakh with the practiced grace of a particularly venomous viper. Her silk robes, in the soft peach hues that once suited my complexion, shimmered with every calculated sway of her hips. Her eyes, formerly my own, batted at him with an affected innocence that curdled my stomach. “I knew you would return for me,” she purred, reaching a hand out, her manicured fingers poised to stroke his bicep. “After all, I am the one destined to stand by your side. Remember all those tender moments we shared, my warlord? The ones where I nurtured your ambition, where I saw your true potential?” I stared at her, then at Zhurakh. *She* was the one who was supposed to tame him in the original novel. *She* was the one who was supposed to be the righteous heroine. My cynical brain already knew this was going to be a disaster for her, but I braced for the inevitable cringe-fest. Zhurakh’s expression, previously a mask of stone, twisted into something akin to disgusted amusement. He glanced at her outstretched hand, then back at her face, his gaze cold and dismissive. “You, ‘nurtured my ambition’?” he scoffed, the sound like gravel grinding underfoot. “You, whose hands never touched anything dirtier than a freshly laundered silk handkerchief? You, who once sneered at the very mention of the fighting pits?” Chayaz’s smile wavered, a hairline crack appearing in her carefully constructed facade. “The only ‘tender moments’ we shared, Lady Chayaz,” Zhurakh continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that echoed through the silent hall, “were those where you would sidle up to me in the gardens, attempting to ply me with watered-down wine and insipid flattery, all while keeping a safe distance, lest my ‘unrefined’ presence stain your pristine robes. You saw my potential? You saw a tool, nothing more. A stepping stone to your own pathetic, petty power games.” He retreated half a pace, a blunt recoil that left her swaying. “The only thing you nurtured in me was a profound contempt for your kind of feigned virtue. And now, you dare to claim a place at my side?” He swept his arm out, a grand, theatrical gesture that encompassed the entire, terrified assembly. “You are a parasite, Lady Chayaz. A simpering, manipulative pretender, whose only talent is cloaking avarice in false sweetness.” Chayaz’s face, my old face, flushed a furious crimson. Her carefully applied makeup seemed to crack under the pressure of her humiliation. “How dare you!” she shrieked, her voice losing its manufactured sweetness. “I am the Lady Chayaz! I am the Emperor’s chosen!” “You are a distraction,” Zhurakh said, utterly unmoved. He raised a hand, pointing a single, massive finger towards the high gallery, where commoners and minor officials were usually relegated. “Take her. See that she is seated in the lowest, cheapest section of the public gallery. Let her watch, from a distance befitting her true stature, as I rule this Empire.” Two of his scarred retainers, plates of black iron strapped to their chests, seized her elbows. She struggled, but they were immovable, dragging her, kicking and cursing, towards the gallery stairs. The silk-robed aristocrats exchanged furtive smirks, glad to see her dragged low. I, however, was just bewildered. This was not how the novel went. At all. Zhurakh was supposed to be charmed by her delicate beauty, by her *inner light*. He was meant to fall for her practiced innocence. Instead, he’d just verbally eviscerated her and sentenced her to the equivalent of bureaucratic oblivion. He pivoted toward me once more, dark irises locking onto my face. “As for you, Lady Vreshna,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less firm, “you will return to your chambers. You will pack nothing. You will await my instructions. And you will reflect on what it means to be my rival.” My rival. His wrath. The cheap gruel. It all clicked into place. This was his petty revenge. He was still mad about the unsalted portions. He was forcing me to stay here, in this dreadful court, just to make me suffer for past culinary transgressions. Typical male ego, blown utterly out of proportion. “Right,” I muttered under the clatter of retreating boots. “Petty. Vengeful. Unprofessional.” I was not, however, one to be dictated to by an overgrown pit-fighter with a grudge and an obscure decree. My villa in the Serpentine Peaks awaited. I would simply pack my essential research notes, my most comfortable lounging robes, and slip out of the city at dawn. Let him try to find me then. I gave him a curt, sarcastic nod, turned, and swept out of the hall, ignoring the stunned murmurs of the court. My chambers were a lavish affair, all silken hangings and polished darkwood, but I barely registered them. My mind was already on escape routes. I strode towards my bed, intending to begin my strategic packing. Then I reached the mattress and stopped short. Resting squarely on the embroidered silk, glazed stare fixed on the ceiling, sat the severed head of Lord Zaltan. The very noble who had, earlier that morning, loudly remarked on my ‘wan and sickly complexion’ and questioned my ‘suitability for courtly life’.

Severance Packages and Severed Heads