Chapter 73: Chapter-73

Usually, there was a low buzz before court—rustling silk, quiet gossip, last-minute rehearsing of speeches. Today, nothing. Just rows of bowed heads and the sound of her boots on stone.The herald drew breath to announce her.

“Spare me,” Heena said. “If they can’t recognize the Empress when she walks in, they can go home.”

She sat, one leg crossed over the other, elbow on the armrest, cheek resting on her knuckles. Not the delicate, “elegant” pose Celeste used to practice in front of the mirror, but the posture of someone who knew this hall belonged to her and didn’t feel like pretending otherwise. [1]

“Begin,” she said.

The Minister of Finance stepped forward with a scroll, hands shaking. “Y-Your Majesty, regarding this year’s tax—”

“Stop.” Heena flicked a glance at another file held by a eunuch. “Three months ago the border garrisons reported shortages. Yet this report claims all supplies are full. Did the gods drop food from the sky?”

Cold sweat broke out across multiple backs.

“Your Majesty, that must be a clerical—”

“No.” Her voice cut cleanly through his excuse. “That must be someone thinking I’m stupid.”

She lifted her hand. “New rule. For the next seven days, every department head comes to court with their full ledgers. The ’real’ ones. If your numbers don’t match the palace archive, you lose one rank and three months’ salary. Second mismatch—you can skip rank and salary. You’ll be busy in the Nether Dungeons.”

A visible shiver ran through the left row of officials.

“Next,” she said.

A border minister tried to present a request for more troops.

Heena let him talk, then asked, “And which cousin of yours sells armor in that province?”

He choked.

“Save your breath,” she said. “I’m too tired for amateur scams. Request denied. Submit a clean one tomorrow, or submit your resignation.”

Case after case came up. Normally, Celeste had signed whatever was “suggested” to her, half-drunk, half-broken. Heena, running on anger instead of sleep, sliced through every lie she saw.

By the time morning court ended, several petitions were burned on the spot, three promotions were frozen, and half the hall looked like they’d aged ten years.

’’’

### Late morning: training the knights

Heena walked out to the training grounds.

The knights snapped to attention the second they saw her. No one dared meet her eyes. The memory of the Knight Commander’s stripped medals and shredded uniform was still fresh enough to sting.

The temporary commander—a hard-faced woman with cropped hair—was already running them through brutal drills. Shields up, formation changes, reaction training until their arms shook.

Heena stood at the edge of the grounds, arms folded, just watching.

“Again!” the commander roared. “If a smiling woman asks to see the Empress, are you going to open the bedchamber door for her too?!”

One young knight dropped his shield a fraction of a second late and got knocked flat on his back. He scrambled up, red-faced, and nearly tripped over his own feet.

Heena’s voice drifted over, calm and clear. “Name.”

He jolted and snapped to attention. “G-Gareth, Your Majesty!”

Heena looked him over. “Gareth. If a pretty face can make you forget an imperial order, then you’re useless as a knight. Either fix that, or quit and become a brothel bouncer. At least then your weakness would be part of the job description.”

A few knights around him went rigid, eyes front.

“Yes, Your Majesty!” Gareth yelped, nearly choking on the words.

Heena said nothing more.

But every time someone slipped, hesitated, or glanced around instead of focusing, they felt her gaze like a blade pressed to the back of their neck. No shouting was needed; the fear of attracting her attention did more than any scream.

’’’

### Midday: servants on tiptoe

Inside, the palace servants moved like ghosts.

In the kitchens, a maid whispered, “Did you hear? She demoted a Marquis to Count for one night’s mistake—”

The head cook smacked her shoulder with a ladle. “Watch your mouth! That’s not a mistake, that’s ’trespassing in the imperial residence’.”

“But Lady Serafina always came and—”

“That was before,” the cook said tightly. “There is a new ’before’ and ’after’ now, girl. Remember which side you’re on.”

Down another corridor, two maids saw Heena at the far end and instantly spun to face the wall, bowing so low their hair brushed the floor.

Heena walked past without a glance.

They didn’t straighten until she had turned the corner.

’’’

### Afternoon: cutting out rot

The administrative wing tried to look busy and invisible at the same time.

It failed.

Heena walked in with a stack of complaints and reports held by a eunuch at her side.

“You,” she said, stopping at a desk where a steward nearly jumped out of his skin. “Explain why the petition from the southern famine district was delayed two months.”

He dropped his brush. Ink splattered across the page. “Y-Your Majesty, it was a sorting error, I—”

“Your cousin holds a grain transport contract, doesn’t he?” Heena asked mildly. “Keep lying. I’m curious how deep the stupidity goes.”

His face drained of color.

Within half an hour, three men were kneeling in the courtyard: the steward, his superior, and the smiling “businessman” cousin whose contracts had been choking the famine district.

Heena stood before them, scroll in hand.

“Delayed petitions,” she read, “redirected supplies, inflated prices, ’lost’ shipments that just happen to reappear when your people arrive to ’save’ the starving. Creative.”

They shook, foreheads pressed to stone.

“Here is your mercy,” she said. “The cousin goes to the Nether Dungeons. All his assets go to the crown. You two will personally oversee rebuilding the granaries in that district for the next year. You will live there. Eat what they eat. If a single village starves, I will send you to join your cousin downstairs.”

They slammed their heads into the ground again, leaving small smears of blood.

By the time she left that wing, every clerk and steward was suddenly obsessed with correcting their ledgers.

’’’

### Late afternoon: new rules

By the time the sun leaned toward the horizon, Heena’s voice was hoarse and the ache between her eyebrows had gone from background noise to a steady throb.

“Last matter,” her secretary said, still unreasonably enthusiastic for someone who’d been writing nonstop.

“The new entry protocols, Your Majesty.”

Heena straightened a bit on the smaller audience chair in her study.

“Write,” she said.

He dipped his brush.

“From today onward,” Heena dictated, “no noble, regardless of rank, may enter the inner palace without three layers of verification and a written request submitted before sundown of the previous day. Any violation will be treated as illegal entry into the imperial residence and punished under that law.”

The brush moved quickly.

“Second,” she continued, “no one may request a private audience with any imperial consort without imperial approval. All requests and messages to them come through me. They are the Empress’s husbands first, and whatever anyone else thinks they are comes afterward.”

The secretary’s lip twitched; his pen did not.

“And third,” Heena said, eyes narrowing, “any attempt to enter the palace at night without my permission—no matter the excuse, no matter the ’halo’—will be considered an assassination attempt. And I will answer it the way it deserves.”

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