Long live the Emperor! The crowd is shouting in front of the palace.
The handmaid helps me put on my fur jacket, then checks if my hairstyle is secure enough for the crown and these dreadful winds. We had barely arrived the day before yesterday when Noctemar wasted no time reminding us how relentlessly windy and snowy it is here all year round.
You watch through the mirror from your chair, already dressed in the Empire's uniform, the fur trim framing your face, the insignia of the Inevitable pinned to your lapel. The sight of you makes heat rush through me despite the cold. Your chest is adorned with medals earned for bravery during the winter raid against the Temperuns, who tried to seize the port and delay the unloading of chronobags for the Imperial army at the satellite station of the Union. The perfect attire for today's coronation.
You love watching me dress, in all our lives. At the dawn of the Empire, I remember you were crowned at just sixteen, a young boy peeking at me—your former regent—through the gaps in the curtains of the Emperor's Tower. I would take my time pulling on my stockings, baring more skin than necessary, spreading my legs just a little wider for your view despite the cold and the goosebumps on my skin. Back then, we were already conserving energy in the Tower. I'd pretend to search for my jewelry. That was on another planet, in another of our lives.
Later, you watched me as I arranged my then-black, glossy hair in the style of 4362, weaving into my braids the star of the Union—when, before the Great Shift, it still had six planets. I even remember your eyes set in a strikingly beautiful woman's face, a thin red scar cutting across your left brow, when we had the fortune of ruling in the midst of the war for the mines on Fortiscule.
Now, you gaze at me with remarkable intensity, pensive, almost melancholic. In moments like these, I feel as if you remember, too. But I know—you do not. And in this life, I have not yet told you.
To remember is my curse. To forget is yours. And so we live, in our eleventh life together. I decided I would tell you after the coronation. Maybe even a little later—there is something I must do first.
Do you think, my Emperor, that I am not trying to free us from this curse? I have been trying for over three hundred years. I have tried as the Emperor's lover and the Empress's lover, concubine, wife—whatever roles we were born into, we are always fated to be together, as the Inevitable Council chooses you, time and time again, to be Emperor of the Unyielding Union.
The handmaid finally leaves. We are alone.
You rise, and the familiar, reckless smile appears on your face—the same one I would recognize on any of your faces. You do not glance once toward the window, where your loyal subjects cheer your name. Instead, you offer me your hand.
We walk toward your coronation.
Long live the Emperor!
The crowd roars, the orchestras thunder, and supersonic shuttles arrive one after another, bringing high-ranking guests to the palace. As we march with the ceremonial convoy toward the Temple, I see the purple colors of the Order of the Irreversible, the crests of the Great Houses, and the banners of the Imperial Army.
"I hope my uncle doesn't give a three-hour speech," you murmur. "Once I'm Emperor, would you like me to issue a decree to abolish this dreadful coronation procedure?"
"What's the point, if you have to endure it first?"
You laugh, too pleased with yourself to mask the joy of this day with sarcasm.
"Besides, you know how important ceremonies are for the Empire's stability."
Ha. What do you, my dear, know about the stability of the Empire? In this Empire, the only stable things are you and me—prisoners of the crown—and the constant catastrophe that you cannot prevent, no matter what you do. Fate drags you to the throne, and there is no escaping its pull.
"Mira, you talk as if you've been preparing to be my Empress all your life. I hope you took classes in royal court intrigue and Rebellion Suppression 101 at the academy."
I snort with laughter—partly because, well, I did.
Your uncle, the newly appointed member of the Council of the Inevitable, shoots us a reproachful look. He is immensely proud that it was his nephew from Retgaron whom the Law selected as Emperor, and he will not let us disgrace ourselves at the coronation. He even forced you to wear those ridiculous tassels on your uniform.
"I have been preparing to be Empress from the day I met you."
You smirk, taking it as a compliment, but it is the simple truth.
In this life, my memories returned in waves. I began to understand who I was in dreams, long before the Emperor's name appeared in the Book of Law.
Indeed, this time, I am more prepared for our fate than ever before—after all, I did not waste my past life. Moreover, my memories began returning unusually early in this reincarnation (I call them iterations, though I am unsure what this is, what I am).
At ten years old, I began dreaming of Theo—back on Zios, in the golden cornfields, where we played as children in one of our first iterations. Then I realized not all my friends dreamed of their future. For a time, I thought I was having prophetic visions of my destiny as a queen consort. Later, I understood that these memories were too coherent, too structured—and in some of them, I was a man, a king consort. But more often, I was a woman, a consort, and sometimes a regent. But always, I was me.
The Order gets the next Emperor chosen upon the death of the last and waits for him to grow. During those years, the Council of the Inevitable rules, and this system is meant to prevent wars and bloodshed among the planets and Houses, who know they cannot seize power immediately.
All that time, in the Book of Law in the Temple of Noctemar, there remains a colon after the word "Emperor," signifying that the Law has chosen the ruler, but it is not yet time for us to know. A sentinel from the Irreversible Order stands guard there day and night.
How exactly the Law selects an Emperor and how, damn (pardon me, in the name of the sacred law, as every child of the Empire knows!), new decrees and rulers' names appear in that accursed book remains the greatest mystery of my world. If I could understand it, I might uncover why we are trapped in this cycle.
The only thing known for certain is that should the laws of the Book be broken, the Ruby Oil mines on Orbiscarne are depleted instantly, plunging the Empire into darkness. And so, like obedient little rabbits, we follow the will of the Law.
Is this truly how it should be? Could this be the grand design of the Inevitable and Irreversible, two pillars of the empire?
But what is the point if you—you, Emperor!—remember nothing, and whenever I try to tell you, the consequences are always unpredictable?
In past lives, I sought contact with the Order, hoping they could explain my history to me. At first, I believed they might provide answers. Later, I hoped they would recognize me and help me understand my purpose and a way out.
Yes, I want out.
I am tired of these iterations. I am both young and ancient at once.
This time, I am young—twenty years old. So are you. We studied together at the academy on Retgaron. The Council typically avoids coronating an Emperor so young. They prefer to let him mature. The previous Emperor and consort died ten years ago—the same year my memories began returning, the same year you were chosen.
But you were crowned at twenty.
On your birthday, a messenger from the Order arrived at your father's estate and read the decree summoning you to imperial rule. I, your betrothed, along with the rest of the family, remained in the living room, while your father, you, and the messenger went to the study. In honor of the messenger's arrival and the news, your father ordered the corridor lights to be lit—an unacceptable luxury and a waste of resources in these difficult times. You, however, told them to be extinguished. If your people were saving, so should you. My people, you said. Sometimes it seems to me that you simply cannot, just cannot, forget.
The next day, we went and got married, inviting only my mother and your parents, sister, and brother. The ceremony was quiet. If I had doubts before that kept me awake at night, that day they disappeared—you were the Emperor, and I was the Consort. My doubts were also dispelled by our amazing sex in the storage room of the academy where you had done your internship. When I clutched your shoulders in orgasm, pressed against the metal locker with you inside me, I felt guilty for my previous thoughts and realized—you were definitely the one.
The Council's rule was never known for its stability—if they hastily crowned a twenty-year-old boy just to shift the responsibility for military failures onto you, that was telling. This conflict has always defined the beginning of our reign—the Council seeks to hold on to power, while the Irreversibles insist on the Emperor's authority because that is what the Law demands. But the Council loves intrigue, maneuvering things so that you inherit power at the lowest point the Empire has seen in a decade.
Being your wife is a slightly lesser catastrophe than trying to escape this fate—like I did, for example, a few centuries ago when I joined the Rebel Guard just to be as far away from you as possible. Back then, the Emperor betrayed the Law in favor of the rebels, and the entire Empire nearly drowned in nuclear fire. And before that, I was young and foolish and didn't recognize you in your female form, accidentally marrying your brother instead—your similar mannerisms played a cruel joke on me, and the Empress burned her entire fleet trying to seize Tenebris.
You squeeze my hand at the entrance to the Temple, as if you can sense what I'm thinking.
In the end, even my attempts to distance myself from the world in a monastery resulted in failures that risked the Empire. (Who could have known that in that life, you, Emperor, would believe a fortune teller and head to the Near East of Zios in search of your destiny, nearly losing the war against the Temporans in the process?) But after all those failures, I understood—I have to stay by your side. And I must try to understand as much as possible about our curse.
In this iteration, we were both born and raised on Retgaron—an engineering hub of the Empire that produces neither food nor profit, let alone Ruby Oil. But we do produce technology—weaponry that keeps our Empire's borders secure from the Temporans, energy solutions that allow us to survive even in bad years, genetic engineering that enables Ziosian farmers to grow enough food to sustain the population, and navigation systems that keep the Empire functioning, even if the era of expansion is long past and has become nothing but a distant dream.
In these conditions of limited resources, the Empire considers itself lucky to simply survive—because They come every night, and only Retgaron's shielding systems filter out at least ninety percent of their drones.
The blueish sun, a rare guest on this wretched planet, highlights your profile. You squint slightly; the fur-lined collar suits you. The crown lowers onto your head.
And I, meanwhile, am thinking that imperial power is a dangerous situation for anyone—and that holding on to it in the first few weeks is the hardest part.
It's a good thing I'll be by your side. After ten lifetimes, I have made some progress. I know where to start, I know who I need to talk to first. If she's still alive, of course.