Chapter 544: The courtyard of Ash

The mechanisms of the Imperial gates did not glide; they fought. For the first time since the Syvrak had clawed its way through the city’s foundations, the great iron slabs groaned against the stone, a sound of tectonic industry that echoed across the desolate square. They did not stop at a ceremonial sliver. They swung wide, exposing the throat of the palace to the city it ruled.

Behind the threshold, the outer courtyard had been transformed. Under the meticulous, if harried, direction of the remaining stewards, long wooden tables had been arranged in orderly rows. They were laden with the heavy scent of fresh bread, crates of preserved meats, barrels of clean water, and bundles of linen for bandages.

The backdrop, however, was not one of comfort. Eris had forbidden the servants from hanging banners to hide the damage.

Behind the distribution point, the palace walls stood fractured, great zigzagging fissures climbing the marble like black lightning.

The stone was scorched, stained with the soot of fires that had burned for days. In the corners of the courtyard, where the wind pooled, heaps of grey ash remained… the pulverized remains of the city’s bones and the things that had lived within them.

Eris stood at the center of it. She was not on a dais. She was not behind a line of shields. She stood at the lead table, her hands resting on the rough-hewn wood, her presence a silent anchor in the wreckage.

The first people appeared at the gate like shadows. They moved with a devastating caution, the way a beaten dog approaches a hand that might hold food or a lash.

They were exhausted families draped in tattered blankets, people with their limbs bound in greyed wool, and widows whose eyes held the vacant, glassed-over stare of the newly broken.

There were workers, too… men with thick calluses and empty hands, the particular hollow look of those who had spent a lifetime building things only to watch them vanish in an afternoon.

They had expected the distance of the Empire. They expected a phalanx of guards to keep them at bay while nameless clerks tossed bread from the safety of a wagon.

What they found was the Empress. She was standing in the ash, her gaze level, her posture as unyielding as the scorched stone behind her.

The word spread with the frantic energy of a gutter fire. The gates are open. There is bread. The Queen is there.

The crowd grew, spilling into the courtyard in a slow, tided surge. The reactions were a fractured mirror of the city’s soul. Some bowed automatically, a reflex of ancient deference that even starvation couldn’t strip away. Others did not.

They walked past her with their heads down, refusing to acknowledge the woman who represented the power that had failed to protect them.

And then there were those who looked directly at her… eyes hard, mouths set in thin, bitter lines.

Eris met every gaze. She did not perform a warmth she did not feel; she was not a creature of soft smiles and easy platitudes.

Nor did she retreat into the cold, regal distance of her rank. She was simply present. She was the witness to their hunger, a living lightning rod for the static of their grief.

The silence was broken by an older man. He did not go for the bread. He did not reach for the water. He walked straight to the table where Eris stood, his boots crunching on the grit.

His voice was hoarse… the specific, raw rasp of a man who had spent days screaming into the wind. “My son,” he began, the words catching in his throat. “He died in the eastern district. When the ground opened.”

The courtyard went still. The frantic clatter of distribution died away as the crowd began to pull inward, drawn by the gravity of a real, articulated grief.

Eris did not interrupt. She did not offer a hollow “I am sorry.” She stood still and listened, her eyes locked on his.

“They say,” the man continued, his hands trembling against his sides, “that the Emperor is in the north. They say he is executing soldiers without trial. Men who were just trying to survive.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a dangerous, jagged register. “They say he did it for you. That he is spilling blood to prove his devotion to a wife who doesn’t belong here.”

A whisper rippled through the crowd. It was the story Soren had encountered in the provinces, arriving here in the capital, carried on the breath of the bereaved. The lie had traveled faster than any horse.

Eris did not blink. She waited until the man’s accusation had fully settled into the air before she spoke. “Your son died,” she said, her voice even and carrying, “because something ancient and hungry woke beneath this city. It did not care for names or titles. It only cared for destruction.”

She paused, ensuring the man didn’t look away. “The Emperor executes traitors because they were the ones who greased the wheels for that awakening. They fed the Syvrak so they could rule the ruins. Those two things… the death of your son and the blood on the Emperor’s sword… are connected to each other. They are not connected to me.”

The logic was cold, surgical. Some in the crowd nodded slowly, the pragmatism of the statement finding purchase in their weary minds. But others remained unconvinced, the tension in the air thickening like smoke. Truth was a hard sell to a man who had buried his child in a shallow grave.

“That’s not what the villages are saying!”

The voice cut through the space Eris’s words had left. It was younger, fueled by the volatile energy of a man who had been afraid for too long and had finally found something solid to strike.

A small group pushed forward, led by a youth with a soot-stained face. They moved with the aggressive momentum of people who had found safety in a shared grievance.

“They say you control him!” the youth shouted, stopping a few feet from the table. “They say you brought the fire and the monsters with you. That you came here from the south and everything started burning!”

Eris remained motionless. There it is, she thought.

It was the story in its purest form, stripped of the Duke’s polish. It was the legend of the Witch Queen, the parasite who had hollowed out their Emperor and replaced his heart with her own ambition.

She chose not to answer immediately. She wanted to see how deep the rot went. She wanted the crowd to show her exactly how much they hated her.

The violence came without announcement. It was a small stone, not much larger than a walnut, thrown with the frantic, uncoordinated motion of someone whose body had acted before their mind had caught up.

It struck the wooden table near Eris’s hand with a sharp crack.

The reaction was instantaneous. The guards, who had been hovering at the periphery with their hands on their hilts, surged forward. Swords cleared scabbards with a hiss of steel; shields were raised in a wall of polished iron. Their training was a reflex, a machine designed to protect the crown at the cost of the commoner.

Eris threw her hand up. “Hold!”

The command was a whip-crack. The guards froze, their blades half-drawn, their eyes darting toward the Empress in disbelief. They were standing in a courtyard full of desperate people, and they had just been told to remain defenseless.

The crowd watched this exchange with a shifting, uncertain energy. Some saw her stop the guards and felt a flicker of respect, an acknowledgment that she would not meet a stone with a sword.

But to others, her confidence was an insult. It was the arrogance of an immortal looking down at the ants. To them, her refusal to be guarded was the ultimate expression of contempt.

Encouraged by the lack of blood, a second stone was thrown. This one was better aimed. It caught Eris squarely on the shoulder, the impact dull and heavy.

She did not flinch. She did not step back. She simply stood there, absorbing the blow as if it were nothing more than a raindrop.

The crowd began to fracture. A woman nearby gasped, horrified that someone had actually struck the Empress, but the momentum of the mob was already rolling. The permission had been given. The first stone had broken the taboo; the second had proven her vulnerability.

More stones followed. They were small, mostly gravel and debris from the ruined walls, but they came in a stuttering hail. One hurled her across the temple.

It was a sharp, stinging contact.

Eris felt the heat of it immediately. A thin trickle of crimson began to snake down her cheek, stark against the pallor of her skin. It was the first blood shed in the courtyard, and it was hers.

“Protect the Empress!” Ryse roared from behind her, his instinct finally overriding his orders.

The guards surged again, a wave of steel intended to crush the dissent before it became a riot. They didn’t see people; they saw targets.

Eris stepped out from behind the table. She moved with a sudden, jarring speed, placing herself directly between the line of advancing shields and the shrinking crowd. She turned her back on the people who had just stoned her to face her own men.

“Stand down!” she shouted. Her voice was absolute, carrying the authority of a woman who had ruled a desert with iron and flame.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep