Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Counselor Barber will see you now,” he announced, opening heavy wooden doors to reveal a chamber that looked more like a courtroom than an office.
The man behind the imposing desk was older than Prince Hendren, perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and the kind of weathered dignity that spoke of decades in legal service. His formal robes bore the Magisterian seal, and the way he studied me over wire-rimmed spectacles carried the weight of judicial authority.
“Miss Herranofar,” he said, his voice carrying the measured cadence of someone accustomed to weighing every word. “Please, be seated. His Royal Highness has informed me of your… request.”
I settled into the chair across from his desk, acutely aware of how my Academy uniform contrasted with the formal dignity of the chamber. The collar at my throat felt heavier under his scrutinizing gaze, a piquant reminder of my abasement.
“Before we proceed,” Counselor Barber continued, opening a leather portfolio filled with official documents, “I must ensure you understand the gravity of what you’re asking. Public judicial punishment under Magisterian law is not a symbolic gesture. It carries real consequences, both legal and personal, that will follow you for the rest of your life.”
His words sent a chill through me, but I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “I understand, Counselor. I’ve given this considerable thought.”
“Have you?” He leaned back in his chair, his expression skeptical. “Miss Herranofar, you’re requesting to be brought before a formal tribunal where you will confess to crimes against your own people. You will then be sentenced to public caning—not the theatrical discipline of an Academy exercise, but genuine judicial punishment administered according to the full severity of Magisterian law.”
My mouth went dry as the implications sank in. “How… how severe?”
“Twenty-four strokes minimum for dereliction of duty causing civilian casualties. Administered with a judicial cane before a live audience and broadcast throughout the Federation. You will be restrained for your own safety, as the pain could cause you to lose control of your body and harm yourself.” His clinical tone made the description even more terrifying. “The physical marks will last a very long time. More important, your confession will be entered into the official record. There will be no taking it back.”
I felt my hands trembling in my lap as I processed his words. This wasn’t the heated fantasy I’d imagined in the gymnasium—this was real, brutal justice that would brand me as a failed leader for all eternity.
“Furthermore,” Counselor Barber continued, “once you submit to judicial punishment, you forfeit any claim to political rehabilitation. You will be legally classified as a penitent, unable to hold public office or represent any government in official capacity. Your status as His Royal Highness’s concubine will become your permanent legal identity.”
The finality of it struck me like a physical blow. I would be surrendering not just my body to punishment, but my entire future as anything other than Prince Hendren’s sexual property.
I knew that I should recoil with every fiber of my being, and certainly a large part of my mind—the part I’d accustomed myself to thinking of as Viola Herranofar for so long—did draw back. My lips parted, and a plea for some different kind of solution, or even a return of my master’s offer of freedom, nearly emerged.
But then I remembered the moment at the Presentation ceremony, two nights ago, when as a lowly concubine I had arguably wielded more power than I ever had as a president. I had exposed a Vionian agent and prevented a diplomatic crisis while kneeling nearly naked before Euporia’s elite. In that moment of complete submission, I had found a clarity and purpose that all my years of presidential authority had never provided. The memory sent a warm certainty through my chest, steadying my trembling hands.
“Counselor Barber,” I said, my voice growing stronger as I spoke, “when I was president, I commanded fleets and negotiated treaties, but I never truly served my people. I was too concerned with preserving my own position, too afraid of making the hard choices that leadership demanded. That’s why Artemisia fell.”
The older man’s expression shifted slightly, his skepticism giving way to something approaching interest. “You believe public punishment will somehow rectify those failures?”
“I believe it will demonstrate the truth,” I replied, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. “That the Federation’s methods work not through coercion, but through recognition. I need to show the galaxy that a woman can find greater purpose in submission than she ever did in power—because it’s true.”
Counselor Barber set down his stylus and studied me with renewed attention. “This isn’t just about guilt or self-punishment, then. You’re proposing to make yourself a symbol.”
“Yes.” The admission came out barely above a whisper, but it carried absolute certainty. “The Vionian remnant wants to use me as a martyr for resistance. Instead, I’ll become proof that the Federation offers something better than the hollow victories of egalitarian independence.”