The R̂oldavus and the Tola

Qupinor Eppova Qulia Ativia, Tola of the Calpian Empire, stands in her private chambers in Atesi, having just returned from Saercumar mere days ago. The scent of smoke still lingers in her hair despite multiple baths. Blood—so much blood—stains her memory more vividly than it ever marked her armor. Every. Single. One. The order from R̂oldavus Etpimcemus was clear: stand down, preserve the territory. She disobeyed.

And she would do it again.

Now she awaits him. Her adoptive father. The R̂oldavus who elevated her to Tola of the Empire. The man whose direct command she ignored. The authority she has defied in the name of a higher power—Asedisus, the remaking of Stronus. A new Sun-God, one who burns away weakness and compromise.

She stands near the window overlooking Lake Wagalpan, her posture rigid, imperial. When word comes that Etpimcemus has arrived with only a century of legionnaires—a calculated risk that speaks of desperation—her expression doesn't change. Cold. Controlled.

Etpimcemus encamps outside the walls. His century - a token force, and certainly insufficient to protect him should this go sour - sets about preparing their encampment. He selects a small retinue of five legionnaires, a scribe, and a priest of Stronus. He strides through the gates of Atesi, making his way where he knows Eppova will be waiting.

Eppova watches from the window as the small procession enters Atesi. Her jaw tightens. A century as an escort. Five guards to protect him in a city led by an open traitor. He comes to her seat of power with barely enough men to maintain dignity, let alone security. It's either breathtaking confidence or breathtaking foolishness—and Etpimcemus has never been a fool.

That makes this dangerous.

She turns from the window, her hands clasped behind her back. The light streaming through catches the red of her hair, turns it to flame. Appropriate. Asedisus burns within her now, has burned within her since that moment of divine revelation. The other gods are weak, compromising, bound by sentiment and tradition. The Dark Sun demands purity. Strength. The willingness to do what must be done.

Saercumar had to burn. Every man, woman, and child slain. The entire aristocracy slain by her, personally, in a public, sorcerous execution.

When Etpimcemus enters the room, she doesn't bow. Doesn't kneel. She stands, and after a measured pause—just long enough to be noticed—inclines her head. Not submission. Acknowledgment.

"R̂oldavus." Her voice is cold, controlled. "You've traveled far with... minimal escort. Bold, given the circumstances." Her eyes meet his without flinching. She knows what he sees: the daughter he elevated, yes. But also something new. Something harder. The girl who might have been moved by sentiment died sometime in the last two years. "I assume this is not a social visit."

"Tola," the monarch responds curtly.

The single word hangs in the air between them like a blade. Not "daughter." Not "Eppova." Tola. Title only. Distance. She recognizes the warning immediately—this is R̂oldavus speaking to his subordinate, not father to adopted child.

Good. That makes this cleaner.

She gestures to the chairs arranged near a table—not a position of overt dominance, but neither is she offering the deference of his palace in Calpi. This is her principality now. Atesi. Won not through his will, but through her decisive action when Dacciia rebelled. Held through strength when Rogiq's agents tried to corrupt it.

And yes, expanded through disobedience. "Please, sit." She moves to pour wine herself—a gesture that could be read as courtesy or as pointed reminder that she needs no servants present for this conversation. "I imagine the journey was uncomfortable. The roads between here and the capital have seen better days, what with the... recent reorganization of territorial boundaries."

She sets a cup before him, takes one for herself but doesn't drink. Her eyes remain locked on his.

"You ordered me to stand down at Saercumar. To negotiate. To preserve Imperial holdings through diplomacy." Her voice is flat, factual. No apology. No justification yet. "I disobeyed that direct command. I took The Silent from your authority and relocated it here. I put every citizen of Saercumar to the sword."

A pause. Then, colder still. "Except one. Inus Telvus Thelarius serves in The Silent now. He was... salvageable."

"You disobeyed me. " Etpimcemus says flatly, before turning to his scribe and guards. "You may go. This is between the Tola and the R̂oldavus." Turning back to Eppova, after they leave, he sits and accepts the wine. "Daughter, you've put me in an impossible position." The word "daughter" lands differently than "Tola" did. She feels something flicker—not quite warmth, not quite guilt, but recognition of what once was. What she has burned away in service to something greater.

She sits across from him, finally. Straight-backed. Unyielding."You face an impossible situation regardless of my actions." Her voice loses none of its coldness, but there's pragmatism there now. "Rogiq expands daily. She took Rozga through mental manipulation. She destroyed Bekt—an entire dwarven realm, gone. Her forces probe our borders while we scramble to understand how to fight a goddess who walks among mortals." She sets her wine down untouched. "And you gave me an order to negotiate with Saercumar. To preserve territory we were already losing grip on." Now there's heat beneath the ice. "Father, that city was rotting from within. The Mist had already staged a coup. Vampires controlled it for days before we reclaimed it. The territory was compromised—not by Rogiq, but by forces we couldn't even see until they'd already struck. And Lâinus's former family...."

She leans forward slightly. "So yes. I disobeyed you. Because the old ways—negotiation, preservation, measured response—they don't work anymore. The world has changed. Gods walk Tunsaccia again. Not as distant patrons, but as rulers. Rogiq proves this daily." A pause. Then, quieter but no less intense. "Asedisus showed me the truth. Weakness invites destruction. Compromise invites infiltration. Saercumar had to burn so that what rises from its ashes serves the Empire without question or corruption." Her eyes bore into his. "You're right. I've put you in an impossible position. But the position was already impossible. I simply chose action over slow decay."

Etpimcemus grunts, "You're right. The Empire is pressed, though I think the Telvum Thelarii could have been punished without razing the entire city. But you committed treason. That means that now we are in a civil war, in fact, even if without fighting. Your forces against mine. I came here with but a century, entered your city with but a token guard, to signal that I don't want that."

"Still, you openly defied a direct order of the R̂oldavus. A member of the Imperial family openly flouted a command from the throne."

Eppova watches him, something flashing across her face—briefly, like lightning through storm clouds. Then it's gone, replaced by that same cold mask. "Civil war." She tastes the words. "Is that what the priesthood of Stronus whispers in your ear? That your adopted daughter has become a rebel?" She stands abruptly, turning toward the window again. Her hands clench behind her back. She pauses, "No, that's not fair of me. You're right; openly defying your order was an act of treason. You're right.

"But you speak of my defiance as though it were born of ambition. Of some calculated play for power." Her voice drops, becomes almost venomous. "It was not." She turns back to face him, and now there's something raw beneath the ice. Fury, barely contained. "Iahanus Telvus Thelarius Ip. That noble fool. That traitor who orchestrated the assassination attempt on Lâinus—on your Banbimum Tolusat, on the man I was to marry—and you would have had me negotiate with his city? Preserve his people? Allow his legacy to continue as though his betrayal meant nothing?"

Her voice rises slightly, the first crack in her control.

"He ordered Lâinus killed, Father. He ended the life of someone under your direct protection, someone you elevated to Banbimum Tolusat. And when I learned this—when I stood in Saercumar and understood the depth of that treachery—you expected me to show restraint?" She moves closer, her eyes blazing. "So yes. I defied you. Because Saercumar was complicit. Every man, woman, and child who sheltered under Iahanus Ip's rule benefited from his authority. They lived on land irrigated with his betrayal."

Her voice drops to something colder, harder. "Asedisus taught me that weakness cannot be tolerated. That betrayal demands absolute response. I gave Saercumar what it earned."

Etpimcemus snaps back, "I don't know this Asedisus. Is that the cult you've founded? He takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself. In any case, I do not want, nor can I afford, to fight you. You've set your mind about the rightness or wrongness of your actions, and it's clear you won't see my perspective, so I'll not waste my breath our our time with it."

She stiffens at the word "cult." Her jaw works for a moment before she responds. "My veneration of Asedisus is not a cult. He is truth manifest. The Dark Sun who burns away weakness and compromise." There's fervor there now, the first real passion breaking through her cold facade. "He came to me in revelation, Father. Showed me that the other gods—Stronus, Provimus, all of them—they bind us with sentiment. With mercy that our enemies exploit. With rules that only the righteous follow while the wicked prosper."

She too takes a breath, forces herself back under control. "But you're right. We could argue theology until the sun sets and rise no closer to accord." A bitter smile. "You came here to prevent civil war. I respect that, at least. The pragmatism of it."

She returns to her seat, regarding him steadily. "You cannot afford to fight me—not with Rogiq expanding, not with the Divinity threatening everything you've built. Nor can you ignore my defiance. And I..." A pause, something almost like pain crossing her features before vanishing. "I have no desire to see Imperial legions clash. Whatever else I am, I remain Tola of this Empire. That title still means something."

She picks up her wine now, finally takes a small sip. "So. You came to negotiate terms. To find some arrangement that allows you to save face before the Catbalus and the priesthood, while accepting that Dacciia—and Saercumar's ashes—are mine to rule." Her eyes meet his. "Tell me what you need from me, R̂oldavus. What price must I pay to prevent the blood of legionnaires spilling on both sides?"

The Emperor's eyes take on a sad cast. "Must it be 'R̂oldavus'? Not 'Father' or even 'Cousin'? I used your title in front of the servants for appearances. You must know I still love you. I even understand your pain. If the same had been done to my dear Teccalar̂us, I might act as rashly as I believe that you have." He holds up his palm, shaking his head sadly to forestall Eppova's objection to the word 'rashly.' "Not only do I not wish war, I don't want to fight with you, Daughter. That's not why I'm here."

"As for official punishment, the Empire will withdraw its protection from Dacciia, which, from this day forward is a independent state of whatever name you choose. Your claim to the Imperial Throne is annulled. Dacciia is free and independent of the Empire. You and yours live free, without war. The Empire isn't drained further by a civil war neither side wants. But my line is broken. I don't know if I can bring myself to adopt again."

"It's a harsh punishment, but far less than the execution your defiance has earned. What do you say to those terms? Please accept, if not for me or your life, then for the Empire." The shift in his tone—from R̂oldavus to father—hits her like a physical blow. She looks away, her control wavering.

"I..." She stops. Starts again. "You speak of your Teccalar̂us. Of understanding. Of love." Her hand trembles slightly around the wine cup. She sets it down before he can notice. "I called you R̂oldavus because it was easier. Because Father implies..." Her voice catches, and for the first time since he entered, she sounds almost young again. "It implies I might care what you think of my choices. That your disappointment might matter more than—" She cuts herself off sharply. Stands again, paces to the window. When she speaks next, her voice is strained.

"You offer me independence. Freedom from Imperial authority. You would sever me from the succession, from your house, and call it mercy." A bitter laugh. "And it is mercy. More than I deserve, according to the law. More than any other R̂oldavus in history would offer."

She turns back to him, and there are tears threatening at the edges of her eyes—the first crack in the ice. "And you say your line is broken. That you cannot adopt again. That I've..." Her voice breaks slightly. "That I've destroyed your legacy along with Saercumar." She's silent for a long moment.

"Father, I—" She stops, shakes her head violently as if trying to clear it. "No. No, Asedisus teaches that sentiment is weakness. That pain must be burned away in the purifying flame of—" But she can't finish the sentence. Can't maintain the facade when he's looking at her like that. "What do I say to those terms?" Her voice is barely a whisper now. "I say... I accept them. The Tolusaux of Atesi. Independent. Severed from your line."

A pause.

"I say that I'm sorry. Not for Saercumar—I would burn it again. But for... for this. For what it costs you."

Etpimcemus exhales loudly and slumps. "These are dark times. I'll order the scribe to record my 'chastisement' of you. I think it would be best that I away before nightfall. You and I have an accord, but my troops and your people may not be as keen to settle things without blood." She watches him slump, sees the weight of empire and loss settling on his shoulders, and something in her chest constricts painfully. For a moment—just a moment—she almost reaches out.

But she doesn't.

"Before nightfall, yes." Her voice is steadier now, though something has shifted. Less cold. More... hollow. "I'll ensure your century faces no interference. My guards will escort you to the gates with full honors due the R̂oldavus."

She moves to the door, pauses with her hand on it.

"The scribe should record that you came to Atesi, confronted your wayward Tola, and pronounced judgment. That the Tolusaux of Atesi—" She tests the name, finding it strange on her tongue. "—exists as consequence of my disobedience. Let the Catbalus and the priesthood see that justice was served without weakening the Empire further."

She looks back at him, and her expression is complex—grief, defiance, determination, and something that might be regret all warring beneath the surface. "You're right about the times. Rogiq expands. Gods walk as tyrants. The old order crumbles." A pause. "Perhaps... perhaps it's better that I'm outside the Empire proper now. Free to do what must be done without compromise. Without dragging your legacy down with mine."

She opens the door, then stops once more.

"Father." The word comes with difficulty. "When you think of me... try not to remember only this. Remember that I was yours once. Before Asedisus. Before..." She trails off, unable or unwilling to finish. Then, firmer. "Travel safely. The roads are dangerous these days."

Softly, Etpimcemus croaks, "Can I not tarry long enough to dine a last time with my adopted daughter?" Her hand freezes on the door. She stands there, back to him, perfectly still for several heartbeats. When she turns, the mask has cracked further. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears she refuses to let fall.

"You would..." She swallows hard. "After everything. After Saercumar. After defying your direct command and severing your line, you would break bread with me?" She closes the door again, leaning against it as though she needs the support. "I thought—" Her voice wavers. "I thought you came here to pronounce judgment and leave. To wash your hands of the daughter who chose fire over loyalty. Who chose a new god over—" She stops herself, pressing her palm against her eyes briefly. When she lowers it, her expression is raw in a way it hasn't been since he arrived.

"Yes." Quietly. "Yes, Father. I would... I would like that. One last meal together." She straightens, trying to regain some composure but not quite managing the cold facade anymore. "I'll have the kitchens prepare something. Nothing elaborate—we both know the circumstances don't call for celebration. But..." A ghost of something that might once have been warmth. "But yes. We should eat together. Before you return to Calpi and I remain here in my... independence."

She moves toward him, stops a few feet away, uncertain.

"Thank you. For this, at least."