In all of human history, the pinnacle of power has been the Empire.

With but one leader on the throne, their hand can reach to the darkest corners of the world to build a beacon, or to the most brightly-lit havens to snuff out the flame. They can build a new nation, whilst choking the life out of the old ones. In regards to consequences of actions, to enforcement of will, an emperor is like a God. So, we are thrust into a world, into an empire… And we are given a knife. What do we choose to do with it?

There is the raving madman, rabidly frothing at the mouth while spewing vitriol about His love, cursing about His blessings and killing for His peace. He knows knives well. Be it his sacraments or the dispatching of his enemies, he wields a blade, decrying the heresy of false Gods. He decries the empire of Man. So, what does a man with a knife clasped firmly in his hand do?

Then there is the ordered chaos, the one who straddles the line. He who seeks not to be put in a box, but to build boxes and flit freely between them, whilst others must remain in place. He creates a spectacle that blurs the lines between fantasy and reality, where only uncertainty is certain. He too knows knives well. He can pop a balloon from twenty feet, steel penetrating through the rubber and embedding itself in the wooden board behind. Against an empire, what does a man with a knife between his thumb and index do?

There is also the driven, the obsessed. He uses his knife with both composure and passion, as a tool with which great works are created. The knife is the start of the means, not the whole means nor the end. Be it harvesting ingredients or chopping them on the board, he knows knives well. When faced by overwhelming power, what does the man with his forefinger on the back of the knife do?

The first man marches up to the palace gates. A panicking pedestrian freezes, unable to get out of the way. He is met with a blade to the gut, at which point the guards and their longarms smite him down. The second man approaches surreptitiously, hand in his pocket. when close enough, he hurls a knife between the eyes of one guard, maybe even two, before he is dispatched. The third man… Brings an offering. A succulent meal in tribute of the God of man, and he finds favour. He may not be Emperor, but he himself gets to taste something – a little bit of power. My partner knows better.

But what of the concubine? The innocuous whore, smuggled into the Emperor’s bedchambers? The latest conquest of his lordship? She knows the hidden blade stowed in her garter. As she rakes her nails across his back, she picks her spot – where the brain stem meets the spinal cord. Her knife does not kill a man. Her knife kills a God.

Long live the Empress of knives.