"A victory," I mutter to myself, in triumphant disbelief. "Perhaps, a turning point..."
Princess Valeria, refined high-born lady, witty conversationalist, popular socialite, scourge of the downtrodden... and the public bearer of the Mandate. Next in line to the throne. Scion of the all-highest monarchy I've been fighting against my entire adult life. A crowned head to-be.
The heir to the Kingdom, captured at last, and in my hands.
"Has she been secured?" I ask my second in command, Lorena, quickly snapping out of the reverie, letting my old professionalism return. "Are you sure?"
"Affirmative, Supreme War Chief," Lorena says, her green eyes afire with the fierce pride of a people that refuses to be broken. "I've taken care of all the usual procedures, Irmgard. Trust me. We've got the bitch."
"And the Mandate?"
"Not yet," Lorena responds, her eyes narrowing discontently. "But wherever it is located, or however it looks like, she's in no position to use it. Still, best be careful, just in case."
I allow myself a moment of muted, grateful stupor -- and then a hysterical bout of laughter. We've done it. Our order, the Black Hand, will go down in the annals of history because of this feat. "Comrades," I say to the room full of guards, "the future of the revolution changes today. Our march to victory beckons."
The group around me nods in understanding. Some faces are barely able to contain their excitement, others are darkened with a terrible resolve. What they have in common -- they are all women. These are our ways in the Don, and always have been. Men till the soil and protect the homes, while women fight.
Most women, that is.
As I make my way down the hallways of our underground bunker, the ventilation fans spinning heavily overhead, I consider that Valeria hasn't had to fight once in her entire life. Some royal women of course do become army officers, in time -- usually in ceremonial positions only, with rare exceptions. But by no means all of them do, and Valeria has always preferred rubbing elbows with the nobility instead.
Gorging herself on decadence and fattening luxury, while the people starved. I rue how used I am to the cramps of a hungry stomach. I've come so far, from orphaned street urchin to legendary leader of a dreaded order and a nation-wide rebellion, but the pangs of cold and hunger... my oldest comrades... they've never left me.
I shake my head. I must clear my mind, stay focused. She might not be a trained fighter, but the princess is still dangerous. Only two people in the kingdom carry a physical token representing the Mandate of Heaven.
They call it that, but I doubt heaven has anything to do with it. The Mandate is some sort of... power. Manifestation of a king or queen's divine right to rule, the all-highest would have you believe. But the truth is far more horrifying. It is a blunt instrument of coercion and enthrallment, a vehicle of tyranny.
The bearers are not omnipotent, but when imbued into an object, the Mandate grants the wearer an aura of commanding charisma... and, in exceptionally gifted individuals, more worrying persuasive abilities. I've seen it happen myself.
One of the assassins we sent after the queen was begging her to be allowed to become her gardener halfway into her mission.
No one knows where the Mandate comes from, but it's the backbone of the monarchy. And if princess Valeria has one of only two specimens in the world, well... securing that might even be more valuable than securing the princess.
At last, with a sense of fateful anticipation and a nod to the two guards posted by the door, I make my way into the interrogation room, Lorena in tow.
I shoot her a furtive, private smile. We're going to win this war. I can feel it.
The door closes behind me with a thud. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimness, and before me, bound to a chair behind a desk, is the princess.
Valeria is beautiful, breath-takingly so. Most members of the royal family are. Her skin is unblemished -- she hasn't had to toil the fields endlessly under the sun, hasn't known the bite of the cold. I bet her hands and feet are uncallused and smooth. Her straight brown hair cascades over her shoulders with effortless beauty. Even in captivity, she looks better than I ever have a single day of my life.
I take note of her fur coat and shoes, thrown unceremoniously in a heap on the ground, by a corner of the room. The princess is shivering in her trousers and blouse, and her naked feet are pressed into the cold concrete underneath.
"All-Highest," I say, in a mocking bow that elicits a cruel fit of laughter out of Lorena. The princess doesn't look scared -- she contemplates me with cold, calculating blue eyes.
"Mmh," she says at last. "The Supreme War Chief, in the flesh. Good... I like redheads. And those combat boots certainly make you look all grown-up and fearsome. A scary monster, lurking the night?"
"I see my reputation precedes me," again mocking her with my parody of pathetic aristocratic affectations.
"I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you. In the stories, the monsters never win."
Lorena and I exchange an amused glance, then sit before the princess on the far side of the desk, plaintively cracking our knuckles.
"So," the princess says with uncharacteristic mirth. "Which one's the bad cop?"
Lorena slams a gloved hand on the table. "Both."
"What she said," I add, throwing a feral smirk at the princess. She may feign calm now, but by the time we're through with her, she'll learn how the real world works. What it's like to fight for the right to live another day.
