As I thought this the mother almost died from a heart attack as she saw my scleras darken for a moment.
Not on my f*cking watch.
I clenched my jaw, shifting my gaze back to Lucilla.
"Tell me,"
I said, my voice calm but firm.
"When you look at me, what do you see? Tell me honestly."
The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the occasional crackling of the fireplace. I sat back in my armchair, one leg crossed over the other, swirling the dark amber liquid in my glass, waiting. The woman before me hesitated, her eyes flickering between the bandages covering my upper body and the untouched glass in my hand.
Her fingers twitched in her lap, clenching and unclenching the fabric of her dress. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke, her voice cautious, uncertain.
"I... I don't know what to say, Imperator,"
She admitted, her fingers gripping the hem of her dress tighter.
"When I look at you... I see something I don't quite understand."
I took a slow sip, raising an eyebrow in silent encouragement. She swallowed hard before continuing.
"I... I don't really believe that you're the reincarnation of the First Imperator."
That made me pause. Not because I was offended. I honestly couldn't blame her. I had expected that.
"But..."
She continued hesitantly, glancing down as if afraid of her own words.
"I cannot deny what I've seen with my own eyes. The g*ds themselves have given their approval, the Valkyries answer your summons, and the Iron Fenrir..."
Her eyes flickered toward Lupa, who was curled up in the corner of the room, her massive, bloodstained form barely moving as she rested.
"...no man but the Imperator could command a beast like that,"
she whispered.
I said nothing, merely watching her intently as she struggled to put her thoughts into words. Her lips trembled slightly, her gaze drifting back to my face.
"I... I have never seen a more brutal or cold blooded man than you, Imperator,"
She admitted at last, her voice quieter now.
"You wiped out your own family... followed by countless more executions. Traitors, criminals, even the innocent caught in between. I thought I understood what it meant to fear a ruler, but then..."
She hesitated, glancing down at her lap.
"But then you did... that."
She didn't need to elaborate. I already knew what she meant.
"I was certain I would be executed on the spot along with my daughter"
She admitted, her voice barely above a whisper now.
"But then... you lifted me. You put me on your beast like I was someone important, someone who mattered."
Her fingers clenched tighter around the fabric of her dress.
"It turned everything I thought I knew upside down."
She exhaled slowly, shaking her head.
"But now... I don't even know why I'm here. I'm not a noblewoman. I have no standing, no power. I'm not even particularly beautiful..."
"Enough."
She flinched at the sharpness in my tone, her head snapping up to meet my eyes. I leaned forward slightly, placing my glass on the side table.
"Do you think I care about any of that?"
I asked, my voice low, measured.
"Power? Standing? Beauty? You think any of that matters to me?"
She swallowed, shaking her head hesitantly. I sighed, rubbing my temple.
"I need a secretary."
She blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.
"Someone competent, someone I can rely on"
I continued.
"Someone to handle the tasks I don't have time for. Organizing reports, managing correspondence, ensuring the day to day operations of the palace run smoothly."
I gestured at her.
"If you want the job, it's yours."
She stared at me, her lips slightly parted, unable to hide the shock on her face.
"I... I don't understand, Imperator. Why me?"
"Why not?"
I countered, tilting my head.
"You're here, you need a stable future for yourself and your daughter, and I need someone trustworthy."
I leaned back in my chair. At that moment, the door creaked open, and Zero One stepped inside, moving with the same disciplined efficiency as always. In his gloved hands, he carried a silver tray with a single glass filled to the brim with fresh orange juice.
"The noble lady's juice, Imperator."
I nodded, waving him forward. He approached the mother and daughter, offering the drink with a perfectly practiced, military stiff posture.
The little girl, who had been quietly taking in everything around her with wide, curious eyes, immediately lit up.
"Orange juice!"
She squealed excitedly, reaching for the glass with both hands.
Her mother stiffened, but after a moment of hesitation, she gently helped guide the girl's hands to the drink.
"Say thank you, Flavia,"
She whispered.
"Thank you big scary uncle!"
The girl beamed up at Zero One, who, despite his terrifying presence, simply gave a curt nod before stepping back. I watched the small interaction, then turned my gaze back to the mother.
"If you won't take the job for yourself, then take it for her."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Imperator..."
"That child deserves a future,"
I stated firmly.
"One where she doesn't have to worry about where her next meal comes from. One where she isn't forced into the same life you had to endure."
Her hands tightened around her daughter's shoulders, her lips pressing into a thin line. I could see the storm of emotions in her eyes. Conflict. Fear. Hope.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees.
"You don't have to decide right now,"
I told her.
"But if you're willing to serve, then I will ensure that both you and your daughter never have to struggle again."
She exhaled shakily, nodding slowly, though uncertainty still lingered in her expression. I wasn't going to pressure her. She'd make the right choice.
I sat back, watching as the little girl sipped at her juice happily, completely oblivious to the weight of the decision her mother was making.
And I wondered if, just maybe, in a world as cruel as this one that I wrote, I could actually make a difference. Even if it was only for two lives. A sort of try of redemption I guess.
...
January 14th Outside Nova Roma
The training fields stretched far beyond the eye could see, a vast expanse of churned-up mud, frostbitten dirt, and trenches half dug by exhausted recruits.
The cold winter air bit at exposed skin like a rabid animal, turning sweat into ice, breath into mist. The sun, weak and pale, offered no warmth, only the promise of another day of suffering.
The legioneers in training, most of them former legioneers, freshly conscripted criminals, former nobles stripped of their old power, or terrified young men who had never held a rifle before, were in the process of being broken apart and rebuilt from the ground up.
Everywhere, men were screaming not in pain, not yet but in sheer agony as their bodies collapsed under the relentless physical torment.
"MOVE, YOU MISERABLE SONS OF WH*RES!"
The drill instructors aka the summoned paratroopers, barked like rabid dogs, their voices carrying over the fields like the tolling of war drums.
A group of recruits were crawling through a freezing, sludge filled trench, their fingers stiff and trembling from the cold. One lagged behind, his body weak, his muscles screaming for rest.
A paratrooper NCO one of the elite warriors embedded to replace the incompetent NCOs and officers of old strode over and planted his combat boot with small metal spikes fixed to his sole onto the man's back, slamming him face first into the mud.
"Are you waiting for your ancestors to come drag you to the underworld? MOVE IT, MAGGOT!"
The recruit gagged on the frozen sludge, but he scrambled forward, clawing at the dirt as his legs shook violently.
Elsewhere, another group was performing endless push ups in the snow, their arms quivering, their breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
"DOWN! HOLD IT!"
A hulking paratrooper drill instructor walked between them, his dark skinned face twisted in disgust.
"You weak bastards think this is hard?!"
A man faltered, collapsing onto the frozen ground.
The instructor didn't hesitate. He grabbed the recruit by the collar, yanked him up, and threw him back into the dirt.
"GET UP! YOU DIE WHEN I TELL YOU TO DIE!"
Somewhere else on the field, another cohort was running through bayonet drills, stabbing straw dummies with fixed blades while shouting at the top of their lungs. Their screams were hoarse, their voices raw from days of shouting, but they did not stop.
"AGAIN! STAB! RIP! TEAR! IF YOUR ENEMY STILL BREATHES, YOU HAVE FAILED!"
One recruit hesitated, his movements sloppy, his form weak. A paratrooper officer grabbed him by the wrist and twisted it, making the young man yelp in pain.
"THIS IS NOT A DANCE, YOU WORTHLESS SACK OF S*IT! THIS IS WAR!"
He kicked the recruit's legs apart, forcing him into a proper stance.
"AGAIN!"
The recruit, shaking, slammed his bayonet forward with all his might, tearing into the dummy's throat. The officer let him go with a nod.