The Portrait of a Tyrant

Veron Gerrick scrolled through the palace alerts looking for anything that demanded his personal attention. Much of his staff had been inherited from his mother and their loyalty had transferred to him when he had assumed the position of High Lord. They were loyal and well suited to their jobs which let him stay focused on the bigger picture. Mother had always had a keen sense of who belonged where. He had inherited that too though it wasn't as strong or clear-sighted as hers. She had been able to cut to the bone, peeling back secrets with little more than a pointedly raised eyebrow.

He slowed as he came across news that a trio of saboteurs had been caught tampering with one of his cars. The insurrectionists were growing desperate. That was good. Desperate people made mistakes. With enough manpower his spymaster should be able to put their whole treasonous cult to bed. With quick presses of his thumb he sentenced each of the three to death. Martyrs would only matter to the faithful. No one else gave a damn.