The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 470: The rot beneath the snow

"If you execute Vetra by imperial decree alone," Magistrate Thorne said, his voice echoing in the vaulted Council Chamber, "it will appear tyrannical. Regardless of her crimes, she was the Empress for thirty years. She still has pockets of fierce loyalty in the Western Territories."

Soren sat at the head of the table, Eris at his right hand. Aldric, Ryse, and various senior officials sat in the shadows of the flickering torches. Caelen was there too, an observer representing the interests of Solmire.

"Then we convene a High Imperial Tribunal," Soren said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "I will not give her the satisfaction of being a martyr. She will face judgment by her peers. Every law she broke, every life she snuffed out, will be laid bare in the light."

"To do that," Aldric added, leaning forward, "we need the provincial authorities. The legitimacy of the verdict depends on the presence of the Great Dukes and the Temple."

The discussion turned to the roster of those to be summoned. Duke Konstantin from the West, a man as old and stubborn as the mountains he ruled. Duchess Maren from the South, whose new loyalty to Eris was one of the few things Vetra hadn’t managed to break.

"And the Border Territories?" Eris asked. "Since Viktor’s... departure, who holds the seat?"

"Klaus Sivrre," Soren answered. "He’s young, late thirties. He was a captain of the local militia who the people practically crowned themselves after the border skirmishes. I approved his appointment last month. He’s a commoner by birth, but his loyalty is to the crown, not the old bloodlines."

"We will also need High Priestess Serah," Soren continued. "The Temple’s blessing is required for a trial of this magnitude. And King Caelen will serve as an international witness. His presence ensures that the world knows this is justice, not a family feud."

Eris looked at the list. It was a powerful gathering. The very pillars of the empire. "How long to summon them all?" she asked. "The weather is improving, but the roads are still treacherous."

Soren did the mental math. "Messages can be sent by ice-mage courier immediately. Even with the thaw, travel will be slow. Three weeks for them to receive the word and travel to the capital. Minimum."

"Then we send the summons today," Eris said decisively. "Every hour we wait is an hour Vetra uses to sharpen her claws."

Later that evening, in the privacy of the study, the final documents were prepared. Eris watched as Soren wrote, his hand steady, his meticulous strokes forming the words that would decide the fate of his adoptive mother.

By Imperial Decree, Emperor Soren Nivarre summons the following to the High Imperial Tribunal... Vetra Nivarre, Former Regent Empress, stands accused of High Treason, Sabotage, and Crimes against the Crown...

Eris watched the flickering candlelight dance in Soren’s eyes. This was real. After years of shadow-dancing and whispered threats, the monster was being dragged into the light.

But a cold knot of worry tightened in her gut.

To bring the Dukes and the Priestess here meant leaving the provinces. It meant moving the highest authorities of the land into one room, leaving the rest of the empire in the hands of deputies and second-commanders.

The next morning, Aldric coordinated the dispatch. Scribes worked in feverish shifts, copying the proclamations that would be posted in every city square and guild hall.

"Your Majesty," Aldric said, catching Soren in the hallway. He looked troubled, his fingers stained with fresh ink. "Are you certain we should announce the trial so broadly? The provincial proclamations... they will reach everyone. Not just our allies, but Vetra’s hidden network as well."

Soren stopped, looking out a window at the grey sky. "Transparency is our shield, Aldric. If we do this in the dark, we are no better than she was. We must show the people that the law applies even to the Empress Mother."

Aldric nodded, though his brow remained furrowed. "As you wish, Sire."

The couriers departed within the hour. Ice mages accompanied them, using their power to freeze the slush into solid paths, creating temporary roads where the snow had turned to mud. Across the empire, the summons spread like ripples in a pond.

In the West, Duke Konstantin broke the imperial seal with a trembling hand. He read the charge, then looked at his advisors. "So it begins," he grunted. "Prepare my carriage. We leave at first light."

In the South, Duchess Maren offered a thin, triumphant smile. "About time. I thought the boy had lost his nerve."

In the Border Territories where Viktor once ruled with greed, Klaus Sivrre looked at the gold-embossed scroll with a mixture of pride and terror.

He was a simple man thrust into a world of giants, but he packed his bags with a grim determination to do right by the Emperor who had given him a chance.

But as the Great Dukes and the High Priestess began their exodus toward the capital, a different kind of message was being received in the shadows.

In the coastal city of the Southern Reaches, in the back of a salt storehouse, a man received a small, bone-white token from a hooded traveler. The token was marked with a single, jagged rune.

Summons issued. High officials departing. Window opening.

His stomach tightened. He had waited for this. He pulled out a small leather pouch containing three bone pieces, each carved with the same mark.

After the tribunal members leave, he thought, his eyes cold and fixed on the harbor. When the authority is gone. When the cat is away. Strike then.

The signal was mirrored across the empire. A temple official in the East received a coded prayer. A harbor master in the North found a manifest with altered numbers. A guild leader in the central plains received a token cracked in half.

The Invisible Network was breathing. They watched as the carriages of the Dukes rolled out of the provincial gates, accompanied by their best guards and most trusted advisors. They watched as a vacuum of authority began to form in the heart of every territory.

By the end of the week, the empire was a hollow shell. The brain was focused on the capital, on the trial of the century, while the limbs were left unguarded.

High above, unseen by the departing lords, the crack in the sky pulsed with a faint, sickly violet light. The architecture of reality was groaning, and beneath the snow, the rot was finally ready to bloom.