In the gardens of the palace grounds, the Sun King and his Fire Marshal walked side-by-side among exotic trees and shrubs from across the land. The Fire Marshal had recently been summoned from the front lines for the sole purpose of updating the new Clerk with the military status of their fledgling nation, but now he sought to protest this command.

“My King, your wisdom is infinite. Surely, in your farsightedness, you understand the enormous security risk in employing a random Clerk from a city that has only just surrendered. Anyone serving as the royal secretary would have access to transcripts of every report, audience, and meeting to which you, yourself, are privy. With such information at hand, a spy could easily destabilize your hard-earned peace.”

“Well, if you put it like that, it definitely sounds unwise,” the Sun King agreed. “But this Clerk is far from random. She is my daughter. That is why we can trust her with this vital role.”

“Far be it for me to question your thought process, my King, but... are you certain that the Clerk is your daughter? After all, outward appearance changes quite significantly between the ages of five and twenty. Anyone can bleach their hair and act familiar; if the actor is skilled enough, she might even convince you that she is a long-dead relative.”

A shadow passed over the Sun King’s face. He shook his head in denial.

“How could my daughter be dead when I have seen her just now, alive and well?” The Sun King laughed softly. “Do not try to confuse me with your riddles, Fire Marshal. The Clerk knows details about my daughter’s childhood: that she never spoke, never went outside. Were she not my own flesh and blood, how could she know these things?”

Now it was the Marshal’s turn to shake his head. Such simple proofs could be falsified just as easily.

As the Sun King and Marshal strolled through the gardens, they came across a Gardener with dark hair and the grey uniform of the low-ranking palace staff. This young fellow held a hand-rake like a knife, and he viciously stabbed at the roots of a common weed sprouting between the neat rows of cultivated herbs.

“You—Gardener.” The Marshal snapped his fingers. With the thin leather glove of a court uniform, the motion produced a clicking sound instead of sparks. “Recite the origins of the Sun King, beginning at the First Day of the Archives.”

The Gardener set aside the rake. Head drooping, he did as requested with the tired cadence of someone reciting a memorized passage. He covered all of the important details; when he came to the first mention of a pale, sickly child who never spoke or went into the outdoors, the Marshal stopped him with a wave.

“Quite right.” The Marshal turned back to the Sun King. “If even a mere Gardener can recite your tragic tale of a lost family, then just about anyone might know it well enough to impersonate your poor, dear daughter who never spoke a word before you left.”

“Well, of course he knows the tale. You personally screened many of the inner palace staff, and I’ve heard about your selection criteria. Every single one of your employees can recite my history. That doesn’t mean you are right, since—wait a moment... look at me, lad.” The Sun King frowned at the Gardener. “You seem familiar. Fire Marshal, why is my Sheriff holding a rake instead of a sword? Sheriff, get yourself a real weapon and get back to work. The City Guard will not run itself.”

The Gardener, now restored to his former rank of Sheriff, smirked at the Marshal. Despite the Marshal’s threats, this punishment duty had not outlasted the Sheriff’s willpower. He still sought the powers beyond with the same fervor as before—although, when he first set out to learn the ways of cultivating the mystical arts, he hadn’t intended to learn the ways of garden cultivation.

The Sheriff turned to the Sun King with an enthusiastic salute.

“Right away, my King.” In a heartbeat, the Sheriff had dusted himself off and disappeared into the distance, rake and garden long forgotten.

The Marshal’s brows pinched together, and he projected an air of vague disapproval in the Sheriff’s direction. The Sun King placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“Please, my old friend, do not look for flaws where none exist. To unite the world, we must first establish a united front in our own court. Let us join together to forge a new dawn.”

The Marshal recognized the words of that old speech, repeated a hundred times over until the very words became a symbol of the Sun Revolution, the upheaval of the masses and all that it promised for a bold new world. The protests died in his throat.

“I will abide by your command, my King.” The Marshal stepped back and knelt. The Sun King was wise in times of conquest, but evidently he was weak in matters of the heart. Perhaps it was too much to ask that the Sun King listen rather than command. If the Sun King grew blind, the Marshal would simply have to be ever more vigilant in turn.

In the court of the Sun King, various civil and military officials had gathered for the annual status reports. The Sun King sat upon his throne, as always. Besides him, the Clerk sat at a wooden desk with pen and paper in hand, noting every word spoken.

The Treasurer finished an account of national finances and bowed with a flourish, earning a smattering of applause from various directions. The Treasurer’s optimism truly was infectious, and even the Sun King had a gleam of joy in his eyes as he summoned the next official in line.

A head of agriculture stepped to the center of the hall. He quoted the annual harvest reports: somewhere around a few thousand bushels of grain had been produced in the southwestern farmlands, about the same amount to the northwest, and twice as much by the southern plains. Meanwhile, the northern lands yielded more than the southwest but less than the south.

“How many thousand bushels of grain?” the Sun King asked, a displeased note to his voice.

The head of agriculture frowned, glancing around the hall for help. As the seconds ticked by, he began to fidget in place. “Well, it’s hard to quantify such things...”

The Clerk leaned forward in her seat, whispering in the King’s ear, “Southwest: 2315, northwest: 2051, southern plains: 3826, and north: 2904 bushels of grain.”

The Sun King nodded and waved to summon the next report.

The Fire Marshal now stepped forth, presenting a report of success against the last western rebel province. All lands west of the Capital had now bowed to the Sun King’s command.

At the front of the dais, the Sun King was most pleased to hear of the victory. To his side, the Clerk’s pen scratched across paper, documenting the success in the annals of history.

A junior commander now stepped forward with a report from the eastern front. The commander walked with a slight limp, and his arm hung in a sling; from the prominence of his injuries, his report came as little surprise to the onlookers. The Sun Army had encountered heavy resistance from rebel forces in the East: several powerful provinces refused to acknowledge the Sun King’s legitimacy, as he had seized power from the old Empire by force. The provinces had banded together under the flag of the Eastern True Empire, proclaiming themselves the only rightful governance in the land.

The Sun King leaned forward in his throne. “Tell me more.”

The junior commander presented some of their recent scouting intelligence. The Eastern True Empire’s new Capital had been founded in an extremely defensible location deep in forested enemy territory, with several large garrisons of Imperial troops numbering in the tens of thousands; the total civilian population was close to a hundred thousand.

A troubled look came over the Sun King then, and he ordered everyone save the Marshal from the audience chambers. The assembled officers and guards respectfully made their exit. Soon, the hall was empty aside from the Marshal, who stayed by the Sun King’s command, and the Clerk, who presumably remained to document any further conversation. The Clerk carried pen and paper atop a thin wooden writing board.

The Sun King walked to the palace gardens, followed by the Marshal at his right hand and the Clerk a step behind. Once isolated amid the stalks of green, he told them of what troubled him. The Sun King was most disheartened by the news of the Eastern True Empire. In the western expanse, and even now in the Capital, people had flocked to his cause because they thought that he would bring a better world. If the Eastern people were content with the old laws of the Empire, would it truly be the right thing to attempt takeover?

“Certainly it is right. Such fundamental truth is beyond debate,” said the Marshal, and in his eyes burned the embers of belief. He could not fathom why the Sun King doubted such an incontestable fact. “Remember the founding principles of the Sun Revolution: to turn the people’s eyes from petty self-centered aims to the joint pursuit of a greater cause. Unity under the Sun King’s vision will bring them better lives than perpetual blindness under the facades of the Empire.”

“I remember, yet... if they already believe that their lives are fine...” The Sun King trailed off, taking a sudden interest in a flowerbed near the main path. He crouched to run his fingers along the velvety surface of a pale green herb.

The Marshal averted his gaze from the sight of his King crouching in the dirt like a common peasant. Such was the job of the palace gardener, yet the squirrely new fellow had vanished soon after the Sun King entered the gardens. At least the Sheriff had possessed a strong work ethic, back during his brief time as Gardener. Gaze thus fixed in the distance, the Marshal tried once again to reassure his leader.

“My King, have past conquests not proven that the peoples’ hearts are with you, whether they show it openly or not? Some defy us at first, but in the end they always see that your leadership is better than the alternative. To win the hearts of the East, first we must win over their armies.”

“I appreciate your support, old friend,” said the Sun King to a shrub. His fingers trailed over the leaves, tracing each oval outline. “But suppose they truly do not need our aid. Would it not be wrong to impose?”

The Sun King’s fingers paused on a patch of wilted yellow amid the green. A small frown came across his face, and the Marshal’s eyes narrowed. Come nightfall, a more competent palace gardener would replace the current one.

The Clerk stepped forward.

“If dissent is permitted to linger, then those within our borders whose loyalties are not set will think defiance is an option. We should not encourage our own people to turn away from our rule.” Her voice was soft yet confident.

Surprise lifted the Marshal’s brows, but he nodded in agreement. Despite himself, he glanced down at the Sun King.

Yellow leaves crumpled inside a fist. The Sun King stood with a tearing sound, and shredded plant matter fluttered from his palm to the ground.

“I recognize no authority but that of the Sun Crown. If the Rebel Empire of the East does not bow, then they shall burn,” the Sun King decreed. “Fire Marshal, see that the Rebel Empire troubles our borders no more.”

The Marshal saluted. “With gladness, my King.”