The last Emperor of Sindal

The Emperor of Noricum, Last Heir to the Sindalian Empire, was weeding between the turnips when the crew of the Morrigan walked over the ridge.

He moved slowly, with the kind of patience that could outlast bad weather and worse company. A goat, clearly the brains of the operation, watched from atop a nearby crate, chewing something that might once have been diplomatic protocol.

Below the ridge, nestled among a patchwork of vegetable beds and cobbled irrigation lines, sat a modest hut. It leaned a little, like it was trying to eavesdrop on the carrots. Beyond it, dominating the horizon like a grudge made stone, stood a statue a hundred metres tall. The face was unmistakably Sindalian: high-cheekboned, sneering, and thoroughly unamused. It looked like it had conquered seven planets before breakfast and cancelled a wedding for sport.

Caitlin shaded her eyes and let out a low whistle. “Oh, that’s brilliant. Look at him, lads! Look at that bloody statue. That’s generational insecurity carved in granite.”

Quinn, standing beside her, had gone still. His optics clicked once, then again. A long pause. Then he made a noise not unlike a server rebooting during a religious experience.

“The Emperor,” he said softly. “My Emperor.”

Caitlin clapped a hand on his arm. “Easy now, mate. Deep breaths. Don’t fry your logic board.”

He turned to her with a look of childlike awe. “That man’s lineage once declared war on a gas giant because it looked at them funny.”

“I’m after noticing,” she said, “he’s doing a fair job on the weeds.”

They made their way down the slope. The air smelled of loam, old history, and cabbage.

The Emperor straightened as they approached, dusted his hands on his tunic, and smiled.

“Visitors,” he said, with the serene certainty of a man who hadn’t ruled anything in forty years but still carried the weight of empires in his knees. “You’re just in time. The beets are nearly ready.”

Caitlin beamed. “Emperor, is it? You’ve got a bit of a reputation.”

The goat bleated, unimpressed.

The Emperor gestured to a stone bench with a cracked dragon emblem carved into it. “You’ll stay for tea, of course. There’s bread. I traded for jam last season. And the goat’s mostly polite.”

Quinn was already bowing low enough to creak. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he intoned, voice catching slightly. “Model QN-312A, loyal servitor of House Sindal, at your service.”

The Emperor gave him a gentle look. “That sounds tiring. Are you any good with turnips?”

“I… yes?”

“Lovely. Rows are north-south. Try not to disrupt the beetroots. There’s a trowel over there”

Maltz picked a bean and looked at it suspiciously.

Scarred-Snout bowed slightly.

Morwen just sat, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the man who ruled a myth with pruning shears.

And Caitlin, grinning like a child let into the ambassador’s wine cabinet, said, “Wouldn’t miss this for all the turnips in the Reach.”

She turned to the old man. “Alright, gaffer. You mentioned tea?”

---

The Emperor’s hut smelled faintly of dried herbs, old paper, and the kind of quiet only achieved when nobody else thinks you’re important anymore. The crew of the Morrigan clustered awkwardly near the door, boots scraping on the threshold, while Caitlin accepted a cracked porcelain mug like it was a holy relic.

“This is feckin’ lovely,” she said, after a sip. “Tastes like dust and memories.”

The Emperor smiled. “It grows on you.”

Scarred-Snout sniffed the mug suspiciously. “This is not fermented.”

“No,” said the Emperor gently, “it’s chamomile.”

Caitlin tipped her mug toward a rusting irrigation line. “Anything we can do while we’re here, Your Highness? Water the lettuce or invade something?”

He shrugged. “Mostly dig. That bed’s going to need turning if you’re staying.”

She turned to the others. “You heard the man. Grab a spade, we’re building infrastructure.”

---

The sun on Noricum didn’t so much shine as peer suspiciously through a sky that had long since given up. The garden, though, was thriving in its stubborn way. Bed after bed of turnips, kale, and something leafy Quinn later identified as “aggressively bitter but nutritious.”

Morwen stood knee-deep in a patch of soil, hands muddy, eyes narrowed at a worm that didn’t seem biologically correct.

Scarred-Snout squinted at a row of beans. “These are not battle-worthy.”

“They’re for stew,” said the Emperor mildly.

Caitlin lounged nearby, mug in hand, watching the scene like it was the best theatre in the subsector. “This is better than court-martial transcripts and comes with snacks.”

Quinn was reverently cataloguing a watering system made from ancient fusion piping and rain catchers shaped like Imperial insignia. “This is a fascinating repurposing of pre-Collapse infrastructure.”

The Emperor dug in silence, turning the earth with slow, practiced motions. No ceremony. No title. Just a man and his turnips.

“You ever miss ruling?” Caitlin asked after a while.

The Emperor smiled faintly. “I miss the idea of it. But ideas don’t compost well.”

“You do realise you’ve got a hundred-metre statue out there looking like it’s about to annex the sky?”

He nodded. “My distant ancestor. Never smiled a day in his life. I’ve decided to be the disappointment he deserved.”

"Good man yourself!"

---

The light in the hut came from an old thermal lantern and the kind of stove that wheezed like it wanted a pension. Evening laid itself gently across the garden outside, turning the statue on the hill into a silhouette of forgotten grandeur and mildly disappointed stone.

Inside, the Morrigan crew hunched around a narrow table that had once, according to a faint carving, belonged to the Department of Imperial Taxation. It now held a mismatched spread of turnip stew, half a loaf of dense bread, and a large wedge of hard cheese Caitlin had brought from Drinax, wrapped in diplomatic documents. She cracked open several bottles of beer with a grin and passed one to the Emperor like she was toasting the fall of civilisation.

He accepted it with a nod. “It’s been a while since I had a proper drink.”

“Technically it’s contraband,” Caitlin said cheerfully. “But so’s half my ship.”

Morwen sipped the stew cautiously. “This is… edible.”

“High praise from her,” Maltz muttered, chasing a suspicious turnip chunk around his bowl.

Quinn stared at the beer like it might ask him questions about loyalty oaths. “This violates several protocols.”

Scarred-Snout tore a piece of bread with dignified savagery. “This is good. It has flavour. I will require the recipe.”

The Emperor smiled and ladled more stew into his own chipped bowl. “Food tastes better when there’s no one left to tax it.”

They ate in quiet companionship, the kind that grows between travellers and gardeners who’ve both outlived expectation. Outside, the wind stirred the leaves, and the goat thumped down from its crate and headbutted a spade for reasons known only to goats.

After the meal, Caitlin leaned back, hands behind her head.

“You know,” she said, “for a man who technically still rules a dead empire, you’re very hospitable.”

The Emperor chuckled. “All that’s left of power is how you treat strangers who don’t owe you anything.”

Quinn looked up from cataloguing spice ratios. “That would make an excellent epitaph.”

The Emperor raised his mug. “Let’s wait on the epitaphs, shall we?”

They drank to that. Even the goat.