The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 473: Imperial bloodshed

A few days later, those weapons reappeared on the black market. City watches found them in the hands of "protection militias", groups of civilians arming themselves against the "Imperial threat."

The sellers claimed to be acting for the people, telling the miners that the Empire had abandoned them to die in the shafts.

Soon, random conflicts erupted in the streets. Neighbor fought neighbor over scraps of steel, and the fragmentation of the province was complete.

But the most masterful stroke of Vetra’s design was the imported chaos at the border. Kael, a leader of the northern border clans, had always maintained a fragile peace with the Empire.

That peace died quickly.

A troop of soldiers in full imperial regalia, banners of the Nivarre house flying high, rode into a peaceful border village.

The people welcomed them with bread and salt, trusting the uniform. The betrayal was absolute. Without a word of warning, the soldiers drew their blades and began a systematic slaughter.

It was a massacre designed for visibility.

Men were cut down in the streets; the screams of women echoed in the hills.

Crucially, survivors were allowed to flee, intentional witnesses who would carry the story of "Imperial atrocities" back to the clan lands. "By Imperial command!" the soldiers shouted. "Traitors are punished!"

On the fourth day, the refugees reached Kael. He saw the wounds, the imperial weapons, and the uniforms.

The evidence was undeniable. To Kael, the Empire had declared war on the clans.

"Mobilize," he ordered, his voice cold with a lust for vengeance. "We strike the garrisons."

Two days later, the clans retaliated. They descended on a real imperial outpost, a garrison of confused, loyal soldiers who had received no orders and had no idea why they were being attacked.

The battle was a bloodbath. Both sides fought with the conviction that they were defending themselves against a treacherous enemy. As the garrison fell, the truth died with the men.

Two more days followed and a massive refugee crisis was flowing inward.

Thousands of villagers, fleeing the "Border War," moved into the inner provinces, overwhelming the already strained resources of the heartland.

Fear spread like a plague: "The North is lost. The clans are coming. The Emperor has triggered a war he cannot win."

Across the vast map of Nevareth, the pattern was finally visible to anyone standing high enough to see it. It was a synchronized, simultaneous collapse.

The North was decapitated, its protection stripped away. The Southern Heartland was starving, its people radicalized by artificial hunger. The West Coast was isolated, its foreign allies fleeing in terror. The Forges were a cauldron of uncontrolled violence, and the Borders were ablaze with a war imported by the Empire’s own uniforms.

It was a masterpiece of political and social engineering. To the common eye, this wasn’t an external attack; it was a total internal failure of the new regime.

It looked like Soren’s incompetence and Eris’s cruelty had finally broken the back of the world. Vetra hadn’t just built a network; she had built a mirror that reflected the Empire’s own weaknesses back at itself.

Decades of preparation, of planting clerks and harboring masters and "loyal" captains, were paying off in a single, coordinated heartbeat. The masterpiece was complete. The Empire was no longer falling; it had already fallen.

~Meanwhile~

The heavy gates of the Imperial Palace groaned under the weight of history as the first of the Great Carriages rolled into the courtyard.

The Long Dark still clung to the stone walls, but the flickering torches of the welcoming party illuminated a scene of forced pageantry and mounting dread.

Duke Konstantin was the first to arrive, his western entourage appearing like a line of dark ghosts against the snow. He emerged from his carriage, a man of iron and silver, his face a map of the harsh territories he governed.

Even after the days of travel, his back was straight as a pike. He moved toward the welcoming platform where Soren and Eris stood, the crisp snap of his boots on the frost-dusted stone the only sound in the courtyard.

He knelt, a slow and deliberate movement of old-world respect. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. He looked at Soren with a mixture of pride and appraisal, then turned his gaze to Eris.

It was a curious, heavy look, one that assessed her not as an empress, but as the woman who has managed to soften the iceborne emperor standing before him. "Your Majesty," he added to her, his tone neutral but observant. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

Duchess Maren arrived the following day, her southern route having been slightly easier, though her face was no less grave. When she approached Eris, the formality of the court slipped for a fleeting second.

She caught Eris’s hand, her grip expectedly strong. "Thank you," she whispered, a private acknowledgment of the evidence Eris had uncovered months ago to clear her name of treasonous framing. "For saving me."

Eris offered a small, modest nod. "It was nothing, Duchess. Justice was simply overdue."

The last to arrive was the new Duke of the Border Territories, Klaus Sivrre.

He looked like a man who had been chewed up by the road and spat out. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, his simple travel furs caked in salt and grime.

When he reached the Emperor, he didn’t just bow; he folded, a deep, humble gesture of a man who still felt the weight of his commoner roots despite being older than the emperor.

"Emperor Soren," he panted, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I am honored. My apologies for the delay; the mountain passes are becoming... difficult."

"Thank you for coming, Klaus," Soren said, his voice warm, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. "Your presence is vital. Rest. The empire needs your eyes in the days to come."

The palace filled to bursting. It was no longer a fairly quiet tomb, but a hive of whispers. Nobles, advisors, personal guards, and hundreds of servants crowded the hallways.

Old grudges, some decades old, began to surface in the form of sharp barbs disguised as pleasantries.

Alliances were tested; men and women who hadn’t seen each other in months stood in alcoves, their voices low, eyes darting to the imperial guards.

The air was thick, suffocating with the knowledge of what was coming. The trial was no longer a distant threat; it was a physical weight pressing down on the rafters.