[Democratic Republic Of Eiria]

Yüretokh, Karakhtan

*“Hemikzeny korgranüm menan hemiküz küzüm.”

The servants of the Presidential Palace silently hustled from table to table, setting up each placesetting and piece of table decor with precision and care. The Palace’s Akmatov Ballroom was dressed from ceiling to floor in ornaments of red and green, the national colors of Karakhtan, and filled almost entirely with large tables. Palace staff quickly attended to each seat individually, placing a vertical card with the name of a parliamentarian, entrepreneur, military officer, or foreign dignitary behind each empty plate. The names, written in both Karakhtani and English, represented practically every important figure in Karakhtani society. This veritable who's-who of influential people was carefully selected to ensure that the next day’s party would be both a major cultural event and politically productive.

*“Respublikane jetekranam ja korgranüm shonsa alum.”

President Nurasil yul-Bermet Seytbedin watched from the edge of the room as the gala staff ensured that everything was up to his high standards. Seytbedin had insisted on taking time away from his duties to help coordinate this event. Some may think that this decision was out of vanity or self-obsession, but the truth is that the president was afraid. The most powerful man in the country, who was a former soldier, trial lawyer, and imprisoned dissident, was afraid of a party thrown in his honor.

In Karakhtan, anniversaries aren't always happy occasions.

*“Peket hemikzeny beram iyranüd ja kizmet kilud.”

The political history of the Karakhtani Republic was not exactly one marked by stability or long-standing reverence for its executive leaders. For the past three decades, each president had been forced out of office by scandal or unrest like clockwork during their third, sixth, or ninth year in office. The cyclical nature of these resignations even led to some of the administrations before Seytbedin attempting to banish any mention of the number three from the Palace (not that it helped them much in the end). While the superstition felt much too ludicrous to put much faith in, the President couldn't help but feel unnerved.

A quartet of servants moved towards the grand double doors with rolled-up tapestries and ladders, carefully pinning the top of each banner to the wall before letting it unfurl. The words “Second Presidential Inauguration Anniversary Gala” shimmered in the soft light of the chandeliers, the gold-embossed words written in the vertical Karakhtani script. While all of the golden decorations and flatware may have been much more expensive than the humble lifestyle that Seytbedin had been accustomed to for most of his life, these luxuries were one of the few comforts the President was able to find in his current position.

After all, why spare any expenses celebrating the beginning of a president’s third year in office?

*“Meni küzy beram fodalad menan danalik ja rehymdik.”

“You know you don't have to watch them do their jobs, Nury. Your party will be fine with or without your supervision.”

The light alto voice of Cholpon, the Karakhtani first lady, caused her husband to glance away from the ballroom setup. “I know, meni yuldyz. I just wanted a break from all of the bickering that Maksat and his staff seem to love. They'll decry each other and our own economic policies just to try to convince me to fund a project owned by one of their family members, like that has gone well in the past.” Seytbedin sighed. “This seemed to be a better use of my time then having to tell them no over and over again.”

“While that must be insufferable, don't pretend like it's clan politics that's on your mind. You've been more and more distant for the past few months, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why,” Cholpon said, putting a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “The economy is fine, the people are placated, and the local bosses couldn't care less about what you are doing. You have nothing to worry about, my love.”

With a nod and a smile, the president showed his appreciation for his wife's reassurances. “Thank you. I don't know what I would get done without you.”

“Let us hope that you never have to work without me, because not even the Seven Chiefs could help you get anything done,” the first lady quipped. “Now, come on, you should get back to your meeting. If it goes longer than an hour, I promise to swing by and rescue you.”

Seytbedin took his wife's hand and left the ballroom, sparing a single final glance at the ongoing preparations for his presidential anniversary.

Or, as he feared, his funeral.

— 

Excerpts from the Fourteen Oaths, a list of promises that the Karakhtani President must make upon their inauguration.

[Democratic Republic Of Eiria]

Deryasman, Karakhtan

“I will ask you one more time: Where did you get this information? Who gave it to you?”

The harsh voice of the local police commandant cut through the journalist’s exhaustion, making him rub his eyes with his shackled hands. Seventeen hours in police custody had not done Aibek Yul-Aynur Serdarovu well, as his ratty clothes and glaring expression would indicate.

“As I told you each time before, no one had to give the information to me. The acquisition documents, which are public record, speak for themselves.” Serdarovu sighed through gritted teeth, his intonation that of an exasperated parent speaking to a particularly stubborn child.

“And as I told you each time before, no one writes an article like this, a blatant piece of political propaganda, without cooperating with the governor’s political opponents or some insurgency movement. So I will ask you again: Where did you get this information?”

Serdarovu met the commandant’s gaze, but remained silent, his exhausted expression remaining unchanged.

Without hesitation, the officer struck him with the back of his hand, nearly sending the journalist out of the chair he was shackled to.

“Alright, then. You want to stay here for days on end to save some traitor the justice they deserve? That's fine by me.”

The rusted metal door swung shut behind the officer, leaving the journalist alone with the darkness and his thoughts.

—

“Please, keep him safe. I beg of you, please keep him safe…”

The cold stone floor did little to soothe Sezim kiz-Maksat Ataeva’s emotions as she prayed through tears, trying not to wrinkle or tear a picture of her friend she clutched in her hand.

Yesterday’s events flooded her thoughts yet again, and the image of Aibek being snatched from his chair by armed officers and beaten right in the middle of their quaint newsroom felt like it was branded on her eyelids.

He writes an article exposing political corruption and, instead of an award or commendation, he gets arrested and assaulted. What kind of society do we live in? Is this the Republic anymore? Where is the justice?

“Where is the justice?” She repeated aloud, her voice a hushed whisper as to not echo through the temple around her.

The ornate statue of Perdebil, the god of secrets, truth, and justice, declined to answer Ataeva’s inquiry, instead staring down at the journalist with a smile that indicated they possessed hidden wisdom that the latter had yet to discover.

“True justice is rarely found outside of our hearts and minds, my dear.”

The soft and unassuming voice of a priest shook Ataeva out of her desperation, and she stood quickly, recomposing herself.

“My apologies if I was being too loud, Dano. I don't mean to disrupt…”

“My dear, you are far from the first person who has cried in this temple, and you will not be the last. You weren't being disruptive at all.” The priest’s customary veil and purple robes swayed lightly as they spoke, their jewelry occasionally clinking. “May I ask what troubles you?”

Ataeva hesitated to reply. “I… it's quite complicated, you see.” She thought a moment about the priest's words. “If justice is rarely found in the real world, how do we approach the idea of justice in our society, or government, or world?”

“Our hearts and minds are part of the real world, so we are not entirely helpless. Humans inherently want justice, and so I have found that justice may be achieved in the end through the sincere acts of a multitude of people,” the priest said, only pausing a moment to consider Ataeva’s question. “If justice is not achievable yet, the next closest thing is the truth revealed. Revealing the truth goes a long way in building the sincerity needed for societal justice.”

With a pat on the shoulder and a knowing nod, the veiled priest disappeared back into the temple, leaving the young woman alone with her thoughts.