The Candidate

Not long after the eunuch's shrill summons echoed through the vast hall, a series of steady, powerful footsteps approached from the distance.

The light at the hall entrance suddenly dimmed, and a figure appeared in the doorway. Backlit, he strode into the hall.

The newcomer was none other than Count Boles. Though he was already over sixty, with hair and beard turned completely white, his figure remained straight as a pine. His deputy official's robe from the Department of Public Welfare was somewhat old but had been washed and pressed until it was immaculate, and his steps still carried the sonorous steadiness unique to a soldier.

The years had carved deep wrinkles into his face, but they had never dulled the hawk-like sharpness in his eyes.

Clearly, the ice-water treatment he had endured during this period had not cooled the hot blood in the old general's chest.

His calm gaze swept over the uneasy, somewhat immature Sigmund, King, seated on the throne. Then it passed over the throne and landed on the beaded curtain symbolizing the highest authority. His eyes were deep, revealing nothing of his emotions.

He walked to the foot of the imperial steps, paused briefly, and ultimately knelt on one knee in accordance with a subject's etiquette. His voice rang out, neither servile nor overbearing:

"Your subject, Boles, has come by imperial decree to pay his respects to Your Majesty and Her Majesty the Empress Dowager!"

Behind the beaded curtain, Katerina, Empress Dowager studied the former pillar of the northwest through the gaps.

Her heart was filled with conflicting emotions: wariness, helplessness, and a trace of barely perceptible anticipation.

She collected herself and spoke in as calm a tone as possible. "Count, rise."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Boles rose as instructed, standing solemnly with his hands at