House of the Spider- Chapter 1

The Pollux System. Orbit.

The capital ship Myrmidon sat alone in its orbit; a pleasure barge, lost in a sea of warships. At its sides clouds of debris– all bearing the sigils of Xhebes' fallen aristocracy– filled the empty space; scattering Pollux's light into a million crimson points. Were any soul to observe the display, it might have appeared plain that the barge was more hostage than royalty. But none in all the Imperium would dare imply as much out loud. 

Within the Myrmidon's hull, and draped beneath a canvas of onyx beads, the remaining Xheban court sat still as the grave. Each was clad in proper military attire, with ceremonial daggers bound tight at their belts. It had been agreed by the delegates that the crowd be arranged in concentric circles, so as to not imply rank or favor, and each member instructed to face the central Opticon, upon which the proceedings would be broadcast. The coronation, it had been agreed, would be broadcast live across the system, and recording held in the Imperial Archives for posterity. To celebrate the event, a public holiday had been declared for all civilians, whilst members of the Artist Guilds were instructed to witness the proceedings, in hopes of being blessed with divine inspiration. Every detail had been arranged to the letter. All that remained was the ceremony itself.

All was whispers when the royal retinue existed from their chambers, as though a funeral shroud hung over the hall. At its head, a procession of noble-born Handmaidens– their bodies wound lightly in skirts of black thread– stepped away to reveal the royal palanquin, bearing a seal of a black spider on purple. The transport was carried dutifully by six men, each broad of shoulder and steady in pace, who in a dozen strides brought their burden to the chamber's center, and then stood aside. No sooner had the valets completed their task then a figure emerged from behind the palanquin's lace curtain. Then, at once, the room for hers to command. 

Dorotheia Ur-Rachne was by all accounts an elegant woman, donning a mantle of mourning black laced with pearls white-as-snow. Her skin, an almost luminous silver hue, seemed to repel the red star's gaze, merely extenuating the lilac hue of her eyes. After only half a breath Dorotheia made her first step forward, her head held high, and starlight scattering across her hair. The chamber grew hushed with each movement, such that by the time the Imperial Counselor took his place opposite from her, it was though the entirety of the capital ship had been consumed by the Void.

Then, at last, the coronation commenced. It was the moment for which Dorotheia had planned her whole life around. She knew every detail by heart.

Line by line, oath by oath, the Imperial Counselor read from the Book of Vows. Each litany he uttered was echoed by the gathered clergy, prompting a whisper of approval from her lips. A whisper only, she knew, and never anything more until the rites were stated. A reckless heir may have dared raise their voice, or only nodded in defiance, but Dorothia was no fool. From their high seats, the court officials watched on in an endless, twisting, array; each one looking for the slightest imperfection in her performance. She knew full well the consequences of a mistake. Even a single mispronounced word could sow rumors and speculation from amongst the Empire's scholars, while a hair out of place had been the ruin of a thousand traditionalists who disappointed their followers. Yes, the coronation, for all its grandeur, was a test. One of patience, and grace. The pace had its purpose, and she knew that every second that the slow, torturous affair dragged on without incident was another potential shortfall avoided. And so, Dorotheia did not move. Not even for her own comfort. To do so would be to admit defeat.

In a moment of pause, the veiled figure adjusted her gaze, and glanced up at what kind of congregation this New Imperium had sent to observe her obedience. In total she counted a single counselor, two magistrates, twelve guards, and two dozen priests. Far more holy men than was necessary to bear witness to a simple oath, and likewise, far too few bureaucrats to record it. 

A theocracy, then, Dorotheia concluded. In all but name.

From his place across from her, the Counselor continued his speech, reading out a lineage of nobles, some favored and some despised. Each one was noted for the length of their rule, and the manner of their ascendance. Quickly, the list shifted from Kings to Queens, and then finally to Duchess. All the while the same ancient, eternal name echoed throughout entries.

Ar-Rakhne.

"-who reigned for fifteen years. She was followed by her second daughter, Penelopeia Ar-Rakhne the Seventh, who reigned for forty-six years, before  scandal collapsed her rule. She was followed then after by–"

For nearly four thousand years, predating even the Ascension, the people of Xhebes had been led by the House Ar-Rakhne. The direct blood of their planet's petty saint. And for nearly four thousand years their descendants had craved their crown. Even now, in the very midst of her own ascension, Dorotheia could hardly believe she had managed it.

"-was followed by Duchess Helpheneia the Third Ar-Rakhne, who reigned for thirty years, until she fell to a blade in the dark. Thus, she was followed by Xlymene the First Ar-Rakhne, who reigned for three years until sickness took her. Thereafter, she was followed by Aggripeia the Sixth Ar-Rakhne, who reigned for twenty-seven years-"

Here comes the shift, Dorotheia noted the counselor's shifting posture as he read the next lines. How will they phrase what comes next?

"-until she declared herself an enemy of the Imperium, and raised her banner in blasphemy against the Emperor. She fell three cycles later, in the siege of Xhebes."

Fell along with all of her city. All of her heirs too. The thought turned in Dorotheia's gut, but passed as quickly as it began. From an outsider's perspective, they would not have even noticed a hair out of place.

To slow her heartbeat, Dorotheia looked down at her reflection staring back at her across the black marble floor. By the Weave she was beautiful. Her silver-white hair had been freshly dressed for the occasion, and her skin massaged with oils to accentuate the soft, moon-touched hue that her bloodline was known for. Even her eyes– two points of lilac in the dark– seemed to flirt with her, drawing her ever further into their depths even as she pulled away. 

Not a soul in the Imperium, old or new, could say I do not look the part. She considered just how many noble's sons were gazing at her now, just out of view. With desire filling their hearts and loins. They will fall asleep tonight with me in their thoughts. 

That, she knew, was power.

"From these ashes, new leadership is needed," the counselor continued. "To retain order in our grand Imperium, and guarantee stability across the stars"

Yes, Emperor, I will hold this poisoned chalice for you. Dorotheia let the thought pass through her quickly, before its wickedness could reflect on her face. To state anything but love for the Imperium, old or new, was a killing offense these days, and she had come too far to risk anything now, mere moments before her triumph. 

"Do you, Dorotheia Ur-Rachne, youngest daughter of Countess Tisiphone the Second Ur-Rachne, accept the duty of your bloodline? To hold in your hands the fate of your house, the safety of your people, and the brilliance of our Empire?"

Dorotheia took a moment, a heartbeat, to remain in place. Just long enough that all who watched might hold their breath, and take in the fullness of her figure.

Let their hearts beat for a moment. She thought. Let them see me, adore me. Let them beg for me to speak.

And then she rose, and let the light capture her fully. Her slim waist was wrapped in a web of dyed silks, woven in a light, complex array that seemed to just barely cling to her flesh. The result was ethereal. A lithe, flowing thing, that clung to every curve of her body like a lover. It was in this gown that Dorotheia moved forward two paces– just enough to let its train flow behind her, before letting her voice– as smooth as silk across skin– penetrate the silence.

"Ur-Rachne, Ar-Rakhne, Duchesses all," she began. "Our people have been friends of the Imperium since the first threads were laid upon the water, back when the Weave was a question pondered by holy men and consorts, standing beside the Golden Sun in harmony."

A sprinkle of religion will quicken their blood. Dorotheia applauded herself for taking the time to practice such an addition, should it become necessary. As she spoke, she could see the priests at the far end of the podium perk up. She was sure that within the hour one of them would begin sketching out a sermon echoing her call for unity.

"I stand before you now a humble servant of the Emperor," Dorotheia watched as relief spread across the counselor's face. "House Ur-Rachne is no less of Saint Xheia's blood than our predecessors. No less of the spider's covenant. We of Ur-Rachne have not forgotten our oath. Sworn back when the universe was young and the stars burned bright. I accept your call now, and swear loyalty to the Imperium, from now until the passing of my kin. Let our friendship endure until the final star burns, and all the universe is dust."

Applause rose from the crowd as Dorotheia clasped her chest in triumph. The gesture was the one universal show of loyalty that had survived the New Imperium's holy war, and as her eyes dared drift to the crowd she saw all figures in attendance return the gesture in silent solidarity. Pride swept through her chest at the recognition of her power, now at last in hand. No sooner had she begun to feel the reality that one of the Imperial Priests stepped down from his seat, and trod forward, carrying a box of polished, black stone. Where he went, the threads of Mercurium that wove together the ship's inter chambers moved unprompted into place, forming a simple, angled walkway between the podium and central column. Dorotheia's breathing was slow and careful as the priest approached, her eyes begging her to glance down at the treasure hidden behind the old man's hands. Yet, despite her yearning she remained still as stone. Composed. Until at last the priest was mere inches away from her frame.

Carefully, the top lid of the box was opened, revealing a familiar signet ring, inlaid with opal and amethyst on a band of silver. Its design held the likeness of a spider, its legs sprawled across a massive web. Where once its metal shone bright, however, it was now stained a deep, tarnished hue. Regardless, the priest took out the ring, and held it above his head for all to see. From her place in the chamber's center, Dorotheia witnessed all in attendance shift uncomfortably at the sight of the darkened metal.

Yes, she fought the urge to nod. Let its wounds be proof of its legitimacy. Forevermore.

"This ring," the priest began. "Was forged in the fires of a dying star, in the first days of the Imperium. It has been in the hands of House Ar-Rakhne for generations, and acts as proof of the bond between the rulers of Xhebes and the Emperor. Though its silver has been stained black by the fires of betrayal, it has nonetheless returned to our hands, so that the Imperium may choose a successor."

The priest turned his attention to Dorotheia. Even under the old man's careful glare her features remained poised. Perfect. For less than a heartbeat she considered snatching the ring for herself, and putting an end to this charade, but she held herself firm.

Power, after all, was useless without its theatrics.

"Under the light of the star Pollux, and with witnesses from all of the Imperium," the priest at last continued. "I bestow this ring now upon you-"

Carefully, Dorotheia lifted her hand, such that the old man could slide the jewelry onto her finger. As she had always known, the piece fit perfectly into place. 

"You are now Lady Dorotheia Ur-Rachne the First. Duchess of Xhebes. Until your dying day."

Until my dying day. The thought weighed down on her for a second more, and then no longer. Instead she raised her hand to the stars, and listened as the audience erupted in applause. 

Enough, she prayed, to wake the dead.