Royal Baker Emrick Vallis III Assassinated

February 14, 2332, Vermillion City, Consigahria | The quiet cobblestone streets of Ashgrave, a modest borough within Vermillion City’s Lower Fifth District in the district's south, had long been home to Emrick Vallis and his wife, Marianne. A humble neighborhood, known for its aging brickwork and the scent of fresh bread that often wafted from the small bakeries that dotted its streets, Ashgrave was a place of simple, hardworking people.

It was a place where husbands came home at night.

But Emrick Vallis did not.

At first, Marianne told herself there was a reasonable explanation.

She had waited at the dinner table long after the food had gone cold, expecting to hear his familiar steps in the corridor, the quiet rattle of the doorknob. Emrick had worked late before—perhaps he had been caught up in some sudden demand at the palace. Perhaps there had been an inspection.

She tried to be patient.

As the hours crawled past midnight, worry crept in. She lit a candle, paced the sitting room. By dawn, anxiety had hardened into dread.

Then, just as the first pale light of morning touched the streets of Ashgrave, she heard the soft thump of something being placed outside the door.

When she opened it, she saw the box.

A simple wooden crate, no larger than a bread loaf, sat upon her doorstep, slick with the morning’s chill. A folded note lay atop it, its edges damp from the dawn mist.

She swallowed hard, then carried the box to the kitchen table—the same table where she and her husband had shared hundreds of meals. With unsteady hands, she brewed a cup of tea, added sugar, and stirred, her mind racing.

What was in the box?

She knew—somehow, she knew—it had to be about Emrick.

She took a sip, then another, trying to steady herself. Her hands still trembled as she reached for the envelope taped to the lid.

And then, she opened it.

The handwriting of the note inside was crisp, deliberate—too neat to be anything but official.

It bore only six words.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid.

Inside, wrapped in a strip of bloodstained cloth, lay her husband's severed eyes, blue as the sky.

A single breath hitched in her throat—then from within her chest came the scream.

It was not just a cry of grief, nor even of horror. It was something deeper, something wrong, a sound that cut through the morning air like a blade.

The butcher’s apprentice, setting out for work, froze mid-step. The elderly woman next door, who had been tending to her morning tea, dropped her cup, porcelain shattering at her feet. Doors creaked open along the narrow street, cautious faces peering out.

Another scream followed—choked, desperate—before breaking into sobs so raw they seemed to shake the very bones of the neighborhood.

The people of Ashgrave were simple folk, but they were not fools. They had heard whispers of men who disappeared. Of justice without trial. Of orders sealed in blood.

They had all known Emrick Vallis.

They had all eaten his bread.

And now, they knew what happened to those who failed the Emperor.

Marianne Vallis' first screams were so sharp, so unnatural, that it sent a ripple of fear through the narrow alleys of Ashgrave. It was the kind of sound that curdled the stomach, that turned heads before the mind even registered why.

Then came the third scream, punctuated with a heavy sob.

And then the fourth.

She did not stop.

She wailed, she sobbed, her body convulsing as she clutched the box to her chest, as if trying to hold some part of her husband close. Neighbors emerged, hesitant, hovering on the edges of the street. Some backed away immediately, sensing the danger in knowing too much. Others remained, fixed in grim curiosity or silent horror.

Mrs. Lorette, the elderly woman from next door, was the first to move forward. She reached out, whispering, “Marianne—oh, my dear, what—”

The younger woman flinched, recoiling as if burned. She could not answer. Could not speak. Could not do anything but wail.

The butcher’s apprentice, a boy barely seventeen, turned and vomited in the gutter when he glimpsed what lay inside the box. Mrs. Lorette gasped sharply when she saw its contents, then had to step away for a few minutes to recollect herself.

The screams rang out for minutes. Then a quarter of an hour.

Then half an hour.

Somewhere between her sobs, Marianne's voice began to break. By the time a full hour had passed, the screams had become something else—hoarse, ragged gasps that punctuated long stretches of shaking silence.

A pair of city constables appeared, clad in the muted crimson of local law enforcement. They did not approach, merely stood at the edge of the crowd, eyes lingering on the box. One of them muttered something under his breath. The other only shook his head.

They did not intervene.

No arrests were made. No questions were asked.

By midmorning, the widow of Emrick Vallis had collapsed onto her knees, the box still in her lap, her cries reduced to broken sobs.

And still, no one spoke.

By midday, the initial horror had settled into something else. Something more insidious.

Whispers spread through Ashgrave like a slow-moving fire.

“They sent his eyes to her?”

“Gods, what did he do?”

“He cooked for the Emperor. You think it was poison?”

“No, no—he made a mistake, that's all.”

“They kill for mistakes now?”

“They always have. We just pretend they don’t.”

The people did not linger long outside Marianne’s door. The sight of her, slumped on the cold stone, the box still in her trembling grasp, was too much. Some left in quiet mourning. Others, in fear.

But none knocked. None asked if she needed help.

To involve oneself in a matter of Imperial judgment was to invite fate’s hand upon one's own throat.

So they left her there.

By late afternoon, Marianne had stopped crying.

She had not moved from her doorstep. The sunlight shifted across the cobblestones, stretching shadows long, but still, she sat.

She did not eat. She did not drink.

She only stared.

The box, once clutched to her chest, now sat beside her feet, the bloodstained cloth still folded within. A fly buzzed near the edge of the crate. She did not brush it away.

It was Mrs. Lorette who finally intervened, just as the sun began its descent.

The old woman returned with a damp cloth, kneeling beside her in silence. She pressed the cool fabric to the younger woman’s face, wiping the dried tears and sweat from her skin. Marianne did not resist.

Beyond moving to sit beside the box outside on the front porch, she did not react at all.

Lorette murmured something—a prayer, maybe, or simply a meaningless comfort. She coaxed Marianne inside, away from the eyes of the street. Away from the thing in the box.

The old woman closed the door behind them.

The crate remained outside.

No one touched it.

As night fell, the streets of Ashgrave fell quiet once more. The markets closed. Lanterns flickered to life. The city exhaled.

Inside her home, Marianne sat at the table where she had waited for Emrick the night before. The same untouched meal still sat upon the plates.

She did not touch it.

She did not touch anything.

Mrs. Lorette stayed with her, setting tea upon the table. Marianne did not drink it.

She simply sat.

The only indication that she still had breath in her body was the slow, methodical motion of her fingers tracing circles into the wooden surface of the table. Over and over and over.

Somewhere, far beyond the borough of Ashgrave, the Emperor’s city carried on as it always did.

But in this quiet house, within these four walls, the world had ended.

And Emrick Vallis was dead.

Marianne would continue to sit in the corner abreast the sink, inconsolable, holding the box close, repeatedly muttering her late husband's name.

A shocking tragedy unfolded last night when Vallis, 48, a long-time baker of the Imperial Household, was discovered dead in a secluded alleyway just outside the capital’s third district. Official reports confirm that Vallis, who had served the Imperial Palace for over a decade, was executed with a single high-caliber shot to the skull—an act widely believed to be an extrajudicial punishment ordered from the highest echelons of the Imperial Court.

While the Office of the High Mortician of Bedford-Stuyvesant has refrained from commenting on the political nature of Vallis' death, their official statement confirms the remains arrived at their facility in the early hours of the morning, categorized as an "extrajudicial termination of state interest." The report notes the absence of Vallis’ eyes upon arrival, a detail that has sparked whispers of deliberate mutilation.

Just days prior, Vallis was allegedly involved in a culinary disaster of unprecedented scale—one that resulted in the 40-hour hospitalization of none other than His Imperial Majesty himself. Sources within the Imperial Palace suggest that a psilocybin-laced soufflé found its way onto the Emperor’s plate, leading to a critical breach of Imperial security. The Throne has refused to confirm or deny any connection between the two events, but political analysts claim that Vallis’ fate was sealed the moment the Emperor fell ill.

Some reports claim Vallis was negligent, while others whisper of a deeper conspiracy—was this an accident, or an attempted assassination? Regardless of intent, Vallis was afforded no trial, no defense, no appeal.

Most chilling of all, however, are reports emerging from within Vallis’ household. According to sources close to his widow, an anonymous package was delivered to her doorstep mere hours after his death. While its exact contents remain undisclosed, witnesses claim that the woman’s anguished cries "pierced the heavens."

Independent sources allege the package contained her husband’s severed eyes. If true, this act would mark a dramatic escalation in state intimidation tactics.

The Imperial Gazette, the primary state-approved news source, issued a firm statement reinforcing the Emperor’s absolute intolerance for failure.

"Trust is the foundation of the Empire," read the official memorandum. "Let this be a lesson to all who would compromise it. Loyalty must be upheld. The Emperor’s mercy is vast, but so is his wrath against betrayal."

Chancellor Harlan Desrosiers, speaking from the Imperial Court, added:

"The Imperial authorities have carried out the necessary and decisive termination of Emrick Vallis. His reckless misconduct nearly imperiled the stability of the Empire. This action ensures that all in service to His Majesty understand that their duty is sacred and absolute."

However, not all voices remain in line.

The Vermillion Free Press, an independent publication, paints a far grimmer picture:

"Though no public trial was ever held, sources within the Imperial Seat confirm that the order came directly from the top, marking this as a state-sanctioned assassination rather than an act of formal justice. However, what has shaken even hardened political observers is what followed: the gruesome delivery of his severed eyes to his widow, an apparent demonstration of power designed to invoke sheer terror."

Professor Iliana Rook of the Vermillion Institute of Political Studies warned that this represents a new era of "governance by spectacle."

"It’s not just about control. It’s about fear as performance. This wasn’t just an execution—it was a message, meant to be seen, heard, and felt."

Meanwhile, The Underground Bulletin, a forbidden publication circulating in secret, condemned the act outright:

"The butcher’s work continues. Emrick Vallis, a man whose only crime was an accident in the imperial kitchens, has been gunned down in the streets like an animal. His death was not enough. No, the Emperor wanted more. He wanted screams. He wanted suffering. He wanted fear. And so, he ordered that the baker’s wife be presented with the last thing her husband ever saw. What does this tell us? That no one is safe. That even the most minor mistake is now cause for execution. That the Empire will spill blood for sport and call it justice. We do not forget. We do not forgive. And most of all—we do not stop."

The streets of Vermillion City are rife with whispers. The people talk—some in hushed horror, some in solemn approval. The Empire has made its position clear:

To endanger the Emperor is to invite ruination upon oneself.

Failure is not an option. Mercy is not a guarantee. The punishment is neither excessive nor unjust. It is a lesson.

But as the blood dries and the whispers grow louder, one question lingers in the minds of Consigahrians:

Will fear keep the Empire in line… or will it one day push the people too far?

A statement from the Imperial Seat reinforced the administration’s stance on absolute accountability for those in positions of service to the Crown. "Trust is the foundation of the Empire," read the official memorandum. "Let this be a lesson to all who would compromise it."

Sources close to the matter confirm that the wife of the deceased was formally presented with proof of her husband's fate, underscoring the Empire’s unwavering commitment to justice.

Across the capital, the news has been met with solemn approval. "Loyalty must be upheld," said Chancellor Harlan Desrosiers. "The Emperor’s mercy is vast, but so is his wrath against betrayal. Let this serve as an everlasting reminder."

This morning, there was a live televised broadcast that began with the nation's national anthem, Lilium, underscoring photos and video clips of the late baker, before the High Mortician's Office and the Imperial Seat released their respective statements. This is what they said:

"It is with a solemn and impartial duty that the Office of the High Mortician of Bedford-Stuyvesant confirms the receipt and processing of the remains of one Emrick Vallis, former royal baker of the Imperial Household. Mr. Vallis’ remains arrived at our facility in the early hours yesterday morning, following an incident classified as an extrajudicial termination of state interest.

Upon examination, Mr. Vallis’ passing was determined to have been the result of a single high-caliber gunshot wound to the skull, indicative of long-range precision elimination. Postmortem analysis revealed no signs of struggle, suggesting an execution carried out with deliberate efficiency. His eyes were notably absent upon arrival, a detail not within the purview of this office to speculate upon.

As always, the Office of the High Mortician upholds its duty to treat the deceased with the dignity afforded to all subjects of the Empire, regardless of their final circumstances. Mr. Vallis’ body will be prepared for interment in accordance with the legal requirements of Vermillion City. His next of kin has been notified.

While this office does not involve itself in the political or legal implications of state actions, it is our responsibility to bear witness to the reality of power and its consequences. The echoes of such events do not fade quickly.

Signed,
Elias Greaves
High Mortician of Bedford-Stuyvesant, Vermillion City"

OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY
Issued by Lord Chancellor Oliver Veritas Sneedley & High Vizier Shen Xiyang
February 14, 2332
“The foundation of an Empire is trust. Without it, there is nothing. Os iusti meditabitur sapientiam, et lingua eius loquitur indicium.”
In light of recent events, the Imperial Seat now formally acknowledges the termination of Emrick Vallis, formerly of the Royal Kitchens, whose irresponsible actions endangered the stability of the Throne itself.
His Majesty does not act out of impulse, nor does he mete out judgment lightly. However, treachery—be it deliberate or negligent—demands consequence. In serving a sovereign, one does not merely cook meals, or write ledgers, or carry messages. One bears a duty greater than oneself. A duty to serve with absolute precision, absolute loyalty, and absolute care.
Vallis failed.
The punishment delivered upon him is neither excessive nor unjust. It is a lesson—one written in finality, that all who serve the Empire might understand:
To endanger the Emperor is to invite ruination upon oneself.
As for the matter of the widow, Marianne Vallis, His Majesty extends no formal apology, only the following wisdom:
"A wife is owed grief. A ruler is owed justice. And justice, in its purest form, is neither merciful nor cruel—it is merely inevitable."
This chapter is now closed. The Empire shall move forward.
Let this be understood. Let this be remembered.
Signed,
Oliver Veritas Sneedley
Lord Chancellor of the Imperial Seat
Shen Xiyang
High Vizier to His Imperial Majesty

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