His footsteps echoed through the Great Hall of Orvahn. They always sounded like several hands clapping in unison, not out of joy, but in a show of obedience and support. Grigori’s lips pursed as they bent into a slight grin. He liked the idea of several comrades rising to their feet to applaud the Czarian Guard. Not because they felt any affection for them personally, but because they had to, in a show of support for the state. Anything less would arouse the suspicion of the authorities and would be branded as unpatriotic. Even the dissidents knew to conform.
Grigori's grin disappeared as his lips tightened. Two guards passed him on his left, discussing the specifics of the night security detail. He nodded to them. They nodded back. Perfect, Grigori ruminated. Like a well-oiled machine. Everybody who steps into this hall knows their place.
Grigori was not unlike the other Guards who served in the Crimson Citadel. Hand-selected at age ten to enter one of the nation's military academies, Grigori quickly caught the attention of his scholars, and through hard work and some difficulty, rose through the ranks to graduate at the top of his class from the Crimson Citadel. After graduation, he longed for a foreign field assignment. Instead, he found himself commissioned to the Courier Office, a more domestic post. So Grigori had to resign himself to the fact that he had to pay his dues before being promoted. He served in the Courier Office at several port cities before his transfer back to the Citadel was processed, at which point he went on to enroll in morning detail for the Imperial Office. Now, as a Second Lieutenant and a captain-in-training, he awaited his first assignment out in the borderlands.
A note that had arrived earlier that morning gave Grigori reason to believe that his opportunity was not far off. It had come via express delivery, with the National Seal affixed to it, separate from the other mail. Grigori himself was selected to deliver it personally to Stalgrave.
As Grigori neared the Imperial Office his heart began to race. Unaccustomed to letting his nerves get the better of him, Grigori stopped his march to pause in the middle of the hall. What's wrong with me, he considered. This hasn't happened to me before. I have never been nervous about anything. I used to mock any boy in class who would so much as stutter. Now look at me.
Grigori began to imagine how Stalgrave would react to his anxiety. Stalgrave was not a man of sympathy. In the Old Czarian language of Zucmuche, his name literally meant "Forged from black steel." His many monikers included "Dragon Lord," "Eagle of Czaria," "Crimson Blade," and "The Great Leader." Even those one would think close to him kept their respectable distance. His wife and children remained estranged from him, settled in the far reaches of the empire and only brought in to visit during certain holidays and events of national prestige. As for the officials and military officers who served under him, those that failed at their tasks, however important or mediocre, faced draconian punishments that served as examples to the rest of the country. Grigori knew that there were no second chances from the man forged from black steel.
"Is that the letter?"
Grigori straightened upon hearing the loud booming voice. His adrenaline spiked as he clicked his feet together and spun around to face the Day Captain, who was usually stationed at a desk right outside the Imperial Office.
"He's been expecting that, you know."
"Yes, sir."
"He's waiting."
Grigori held out the letter.
"Is that letter for me?"
"Sir?"
"Is it addressed to me? Am I going to read it?"
"No, sir."
"Then do your job and deliver it to the recipient. Right now."
"Sir, yes, sir!"
Grigori straightened up before marching past the Day Captain. He resisted the urge to beat himself up inside. Now was not the time to focus on mistakes. Being chastised served as his first and only warning. Stalgrave needed his correspondence immediately. The moment called for action, not regret.
As Grigori entered the Imperial Office the door creaked. At the head of the office, before a large window that commanded an impressive view of the Citadel, sat Stalgrave. He raised his head at the sound of the door opening. Grigori studied him as he crossed the large office to his desk. He had seen his image a thousand times before on posters and murals in barracks, mess halls, artillery depots and conference halls. On the streets, his portrait hung from banners and billboards, proclaiming his tireless efforts to preserve the progress of his nation. Seeing him in person was no less gratifying. His face was strong and tan, as though he served years in the field. His collar could barely close over his thick, bulging neck, which only added to his persona as a strong, uncompromising leader. His uniform, the standard black and red of the Czarian Guard, held medals and badges from all branches of the military. Every description of Stalgrave that Grigori had heard from his comrades was proven in the few seconds that it took him to march to the desk. Even the legends of his desk were true: a single glass and a bottle of vodka, a pen and inkwell, stacks of clean white paper and a pile of memos and letters ready to be shipped to his cabinet members. Everything about him testified of his power and confidence. As Grigori marched the last few steps, all that rushed through his mind was the thought at how privileged he was to stand before the Great Leader.
Grigori stopped before Stalgrave to salute him. Stalgrave returned the gesture in kind.
"My Great Leader, this urgent message has arrived for you."
Grigori held the letter out to Stalgrave.
"At ease, comrade."
Grigori placed his hands behind his back as Stalgrave took the letter. He opened it passively, reading it with little concern, as if not caring for the letter's urgency.
Stalgrave set the letter down. He reached for a sheet of paper and wrote a few words, then grabbed another piece of paper to write a few more. He folded both before handing them over to Grigori.
"Comrade," Stalgrave said as he handed him the first paper. "Deliver this to the Day Captain outside."
"Yes, sir."
"And this one," he said as he held out the other letter. "I want you to personally deliver to Morgard."
"Morgard?"
Grigori paused. He had spoken out of turn. His simple slip up could be construed as a signal of weakness, or even worse, a lack of obedience.
Stalgrave studied Grigori for a moment.
"Yes, Morgard. Take two guards with you to deliver it to him, after which point you will transfer to a unit under his command. Can you handle that, comrade?"
"Sir, if you command it, it will be done."
"Good. Those are your orders."
Grigori saluted Stalgrave and turned to leave. As he marched out he could not help but wonder if his momentary outburst had sealed his fate. Was it Stalgrave's intention to send him and his comrades all along? Was the news for Morgard expected and part of a long-awaited plan? Such considerations swirled through Grigori's mind as he left the office.
Stalgrave waited until Grigori left before he moved out to the balcony that bordered his office. A cold breeze from the Rogan River swept his face as he stepped out into the late afternoon air. He gazed upon the Crimson Citadel with a renewed sense of self, taking in all that laid before him. In the square below, rows of Czarian Guards practiced marching drills in perfect unison. At the West Gate, three soldiers marched up to the sentry posts to change out the guards. Their dark red and black uniforms made the precise movements of their legs and arms stand out even more. They seemed less like men and more like machines churning in some factory. But they were not mechanical by any means. They were men, whose dedication and loyalty propelled them to act as they did, when they were told, all in the name of their Great Leader. This was their calling. These were his disciples.
Stalgrave strode back to his office. As he sat down he reached into his cigar box for a Tobacco Tusk, the finest cigar in the world, made only for the nobility and royal courts. As he lit it, he sat back, contemplating the orders he had just sent out with Grigori.
The plan was set. The orders given. Every detail was unfolding the way it was meant to be.
Grigori had no idea that the papers he held were to change history. The one paper he was to give to the Day Captain ordered two companies of the Czarian Guards to prepare to join Morgard on the Frontier. The other paper, addressed to Morgard himself, came with even larger consequences. It ordered an invasion.
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