the era of calamities

The grand square of Astoria was vast enough to accommodate more than a thousand people. The execution poles had been erected in front of the town hall, on an improvised platform. Ordinarily, this place served as an administrative center, with most of its buildings belonging to businesses or municipal organizations. It was not known for its liveliness.

However, that day, the usual atmosphere—marked by the hurried comings and goings of officials—had given way to a motley crowd, composed of people from all social backgrounds, most of whom had been drawn in by the siren song. The spectacle unfolding before them was being broadcast by projectors in every gathering place across the city. In every district, the crowd roared its indignation, demanding the death of the traitors to the emperor.

As the cacophony reached its peak and the executioners prepared to strike down the condemned, a young woman with delicate features, her face framed by violet hair cascading over her shoulders and dressed in rags, burst onto the platform before everyone’s eyes. At first glance, the audience was struck by her bewitching beauty and her skin of immaculate whiteness. She was one of those women whose eyes, like magnificent violet sapphires, could shake the hearts of even the most hardened tyrants with a single glance—one for whom two brothers would kill each other over a mere kiss. She could have been mistaken for a work of art painted by the devil himself, so much did her mere presence fill the eyes and soul. Undoubtedly, if beauty had a price, hers would have been beyond measure.

The sight of this weeping goddess, her breath ragged, her hands trembling as she fell to her knees before the execution poles, shook the hearts of the men present. Even a eunuch would not have remained insensitive to the temptation to console her, to promise her the world and more, to question his own faith.

As soon as she appeared, she began to cry, then, in a voice as soft and fluid as it was sorrowful—yet strong enough to be heard throughout the city thanks to the megaphones—she cried out, "These men..." before kneeling before the executioner Grégoire.

As expected from Iris, her entrance was spectacular. She had an innate talent, bordering on the theatrical, for bending others to her will—sometimes without even realizing it. When she gave her all, I could almost feel pity for her victims.

Grégoire, ever the gentleman, helped her to her feet, albeit hesitantly. I wasn’t sure if it was to maintain a favorable image or if he was simply weak in the face of her charm.

Before he could utter a word, she continued, "Envoy of the emperor, I give thanks to the emperor for delivering us from these odious men who, instead of defending our rights, have mistreated the people of the Empire. This man," she said, pointing at the half-conscious mayor and drawing all eyes to him, "abused my mother, leaving her pregnant before abandoning her for years, without resources. He used his influence to oppress us constantly, ensuring that no one knew of our existence, so he could preserve his public image and secure his re-election as the head of this city. My mother and I lived in conditions so miserable that we envied even household pets," she said, trembling, before pausing, overwhelmed by pain and tears.