XII

70 11 6
                                    

The faded wallpaper was peeling at the corners. What had once been a fancy, crested pattern, was now only golden splotches, scrubbed clean of ancient mold. Amelia remembered when she'd first arrived on the mountain, pregnant and terrified. She'd remembered how filthy it had all looked, how decrepit and ramshackle everything was. The lodges, the houses, the great towering buildings -- centuries-old relics that she scarcely believed were still standing. The people smelled of the earth, of smoke, of blood and sweat.

The Imperium had been an ivory fantasy, carved with delicate care. The waters were crystal, the weather hot and heavy. She remembered the sickly-sweet incense, the white flowing curtains, the gold-gilded plates, the silks and satins. Pheros and Memphis and Capua and Kotal and Alexandria and Delphi and so many more... so many oasis cities, along the sea, nestled in the sand, and as high as the Rocky Mountains.

But Amelia would take the world of peeling wallpaper any day. She'd take the stink of dirt over the perfume, the boiled leather over the softest silk. Anything but that world of lies, of beautiful torture. The world she had helped create.

Caesaria, they had called her. The Empress of Fire.

CaesariaWhere stories live. Discover now