Chapter 52: Chapter-52

She rested her chin on her hand.

“I don’t believe four people require seven carriages. Unless”—her eyes sparkled—”your wife has become seven, yes? Did she split herself into clones while I was busy working?”

The marquis let out a strained laugh, lips twitching. “You jest, Your Majesty. Of course my wife is my one and only. I love her deeply.” He straightened, trying to regain his rhythm. “She is a virtuous woman, devoted to our house—”

“Mm.” Heena’s smile sharpened. “So virtuous that she nearly ate eight slaves’ worth of food at that little ’contest’ seven months ago, right?”

His smile froze.

“Oh? You thought I’d forgotten?” Heena went on pleasantly. “That charming underground ’slave tournament’ your estate so kindly hosted. The one where servants and slaves fought, and the winner was promised prize money ’and’ freedom.” She tapped the desk with one finger. “A lovely idea. Very motivational. Very illegal in ’my’ empire, where slavery itself is illegal—though nobles like you do so love your little secrets.”

The study went silent. Even the scribes stopped pretending not to listen.

“It was… unfortunate,” Heena continued, “that a raid just so happened to fall on the last day of the tournament. Unfortunate for your wife, at least, when she was found with the prize money and all the victorious slaves locked away. None released. Not that year. Not the year before. Or the five years before that.” She smiled sweetly. “Seven tournaments. Seven sets of winners. Not a single freed slave. No prize money ever paid.”

The marquis’s jaw clenched. “Your Majesty, it is not as if my wife is the only one. Other nobles do similar—”

“And there we have it,” Heena said lightly. “The classic defense: ’everyone else is doing it too.’”

He pushed on desperately. “And if we are speaking of appetites, how could we possibly ignore your consorts’ appetites, Your Majesty? After all, they have nearly eaten half the empire already.”

Heena’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. ’This bastard’s tongue is really too sharp.’

Then she smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Of course they’ve eaten half the empire,” she agreed calmly. “But perhaps you have forgotten—if not for them, even the land you are standing on would have been eaten by an enemy kingdom.” Her voice cooled, iron under silk. “Men who saved this empire may eat half of it if they wish. They earned the right.”

She leaned forward, gaze pinning him in place.

“And as for them ’eating half the empire’…” Her lips curved. “Considering how fertile your lands are, Marquis, I think what they ’shit’ out is proving quite useful for ’you’, isn’t it? Otherwise, why,” her tone turned viciously sweet, “would you be so eager to drag my consorts’ names into this?”

The marquis actually choked. A clerk at the side coughed violently into his sleeve to hide a laugh.

Heena’s eyes went flat and cold.

“Tell me, Marquis,” she asked softly, “are you planning to add a treason charge to today’s little discussion? Because openly slandering the Empress’s husbands in her own study…” She tilted her head. “That sounds very much like you’re questioning my judgment. Questioning the very men who defend this empire’s borders. Questioning ’me’.”

Silence weighed heavy between them.

Her smile never wavered. “Shall I have someone bring the treason documents now, or will you correct your statement?”

Marcus Damon swallowed hard, every trace of smugness finally wiped from his face.

The marquis recovered quickly—too quickly, really. His face smoothed back into that practiced mask of deference, though sweat gleamed at his temples now. He spread his hands wide, palms up, the picture of a reasonable man.

“Your Majesty misunderstands,” he said, voice honeyed and measured. “I would ’never’ slander your noble consorts. They are the empire’s greatest defenders, beyond question. I merely meant to highlight the… extraordinary demands on ’all’ noble households. My own included.”

He straightened his brocade jacket, regaining his footing. “As for the roads, Your Majesty—those reports are exaggerated. Minor wear from heavy carts, nothing more. The people are fed, housed, content. And the carriages? A prudent investment. My daughter requires them for diplomatic visits to neighboring domains. Surely you understand the importance of appearances?”

Hina watched him with the calm patience of a cat toying with a cornered rat. ’He’s pivoting. Good. Let’s see how long his tongue holds out.’

“Diplomatic visits,” she repeated, nodding slowly. “Fascinating. And these ’visits’—do they perhaps coincide with the sudden spike in your personal wine imports? Three times the average for a marquis of your standing.” She slid another ledger across the desk, open to the damning figures. “Or the silks from the eastern trade routes, routed directly to your estate rather than the imperial storehouses?”

The marquis’s smile flickered. “Wine preserves well, Your Majesty. For guests. And silks—merely to uphold Kayis’s reputation as a cultural hub.”

“Cultural hub.” Hina let out a soft laugh, genuine amusement lacing it. “Is that what you call it now? Last I checked, your ’cultural hub’ had a literacy rate half the empire’s average. And your ’guests’—were they the ones attending that slave tournament your wife so generously hosted?”

His composure cracked—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That matter was investigated and resolved. No slaves were harmed, and—”

“Resolved?” Hina’s voice sharpened like a blade. “Seven years of rigged contests. Prize money pocketed. Winners re-enslaved. And you call that ’resolved’?” She leaned forward, eyes locking onto his. “The investigators found your wife with the ’winners’ chained in your cellars, Marquis. Fed scraps while she dined on delicacies. Eight slaves’ rations vanishing into her belly at one sitting. Shall I summon the witness statements?”

The scribes in the corner shifted uncomfortably, quills hovering.

Marcus Damon’s hands clenched at his sides. “Your Majesty treads dangerous ground, dredging up old scandals. My wife is a pillar of virtue. Those were… unfortunate misunderstandings. Slaves are property—noble business. If every lord’s household were scrutinized so harshly—”

“Then every lord would be in ’this’ chair, explaining themselves.” Hina cut him off cleanly. “But they aren’t, are they? Because most nobles at least pretend to follow imperial law. Slavery is ’banned’. Tournaments promising freedom? ’Illegal’. And yet your wife enters seven in a row, wins every time with her ’chosen fighters,’ and not one sees daylight as a free man.”

She tapped the desk rhythmically. “Coincidence? Or perhaps your household has a talent for… selecting victors.”

The marquis drew himself up, voice rising in indignation. “This is persecution! If Your Majesty insists on punishing my family for ancient customs, what of the ’consorts’? They feast while borders bleed gold! Lucian’s armies consume triple rations. Kieran’s northern campaigns—endless. Even Raphael’s temples hoard tithes meant for the poor. Is that not excess?”

’There it is,’ Hina thought. ’Back to my husbands. Desperate.’

Her smile vanished entirely. She rose from her chair in one fluid motion, the study seeming to shrink around her presence.

“Persecution?” she echoed, voice low and deadly. “You dare equate your illegal slave pits with men who ’bled’ to secure those borders you tax so heavily?”

She circled the desk slowly, documents forgotten. The marquis held his ground, but his eyes darted.

“General Lucian’s ’triple rations’? They feed fifty thousand soldiers who held the western front while your roads crumbled under merchant carts alone.” She stopped inches from him, voice a silken whip. “Prince Kieran’s campaigns? They reclaimed the northern mines—mines that now fill ’your’ treasury with silver for those seven carriages.”

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