Page 50 of Punished and Trained
Viola
The next day, a transport from the Magisterian embassy came to fetch me.
I sat in the back seat with trembling hands, watching Euporia’s elegant cityscape blur past the tinted windows. The Academy uniform felt strange after yesterday’s revelations in the gymnasium, where my desperate confession to Mistress Nurana had apparently reached Prince Hendren’s ears within minutes. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, I was being summoned to the embassy for reasons that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.
The transport pulled through the embassy’s ornate gates, past guards who snapped to attention at the sight of the diplomatic vehicle. My stomach clenched with familiar dread as we approached the imposing structure where I had first been fully claimed by my master only two weeks ago, though it felt like a lifetime. The building’s facade, a strangely captivating mixture of neo-classical rigidity and galactic fluidity, seemed to loomover me like a judgment, its sinuous marble columns and carved details speaking of power and authority that dwarfed any influence I had once wielded.
Inside, I was escorted not to Prince Hendren’s familiar study, but to a different wing entirely. The corridors here carried a more formal atmosphere, lined with portraits of Federation dignitaries and ceremonial weapons that spoke of centuries of military tradition. My escort, a young aide in crisp diplomatic dress, maintained professional silence as we walked, though I caught him glancing at me with what might have been sympathy.
“Counselor Barber will see you now,” he announced, opening heavy wooden doors to reveal a chamber that looked more like a courtroom than an office.
The man behind the imposing desk was older than Prince Hendren, perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and the kind of weathered dignity that spoke of decades in legal service. His formal robes bore the Magisterian seal, and the way he studied me over wire-rimmed spectacles carried the weight of judicial authority.
“Miss Herranofar,” he said, his voice carrying the measured cadence of someone accustomed to weighing every word. “Please, be seated. His Royal Highness has informed me of your… request.”
I settled into the chair across from his desk, acutely aware of how my Academy uniform contrasted with the formal dignity of the chamber. The collar at my throat felt heavier under his scrutinizing gaze, a piquant reminder of my abasement.
“Before we proceed,” Counselor Barber continued, opening a leather portfolio filled with official documents, “I must ensureyou understand the gravity of what you’re asking. Public judicial punishment under Magisterian law is not a symbolic gesture. It carries real consequences, both legal and personal, that will follow you for the rest of your life.”
His words sent a chill through me, but I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “I understand, Counselor. I’ve given this considerable thought.”
“Have you?” He leaned back in his chair, his expression skeptical. “Miss Herranofar, you’re requesting to be brought before a formal tribunal where you will confess to crimes against your own people. You will then be sentenced to public caning—not the theatrical discipline of an Academy exercise, but genuine judicial punishment administered according to the full severity of Magisterian law.”
My mouth went dry as the implications sank in. “How… how severe?”
“Twenty-four strokes minimum for dereliction of duty causing civilian casualties. Administered with a judicial cane before a live audience and broadcast throughout the Federation. You will be restrained for your own safety, as the pain could cause you to lose control of your body and harm yourself.” His clinical tone made the description even more terrifying. “The physical marks will last a very long time. More important, your confession will be entered into the official record. There will be no taking it back.”
I felt my hands trembling in my lap as I processed his words. This wasn’t the heated fantasy I’d imagined in the gymnasium—this was real, brutal justice that would brand me as a failed leader for all eternity.
“Furthermore,” Counselor Barber continued, “once you submit to judicial punishment, you forfeit any claim to political rehabilitation. You will be legally classified as a penitent, unable to hold public office or represent any government in official capacity. Your status as His Royal Highness’s concubine will become your permanent legal identity.”
The finality of it struck me like a physical blow. I would be surrendering not just my body to punishment, but my entire future as anything other than Prince Hendren’s sexual property.
I knew that I should recoil with every fiber of my being, and certainly a large part of my mind—the part I’d accustomed myself to thinking of asViola Herranofarfor so long—did draw back. My lips parted, and a plea for some different kind of solution, or even a return of my master’s offer of freedom, nearly emerged.
But then I remembered the moment at the Presentation ceremony, two nights ago, when as a lowly concubine I had arguably wielded more power than I ever had as a president. I had exposed a Vionian agent and prevented a diplomatic crisis while kneeling nearly naked before Euporia’s elite. In that moment of complete submission, I had found a clarity and purpose that all my years of presidential authority had never provided. The memory sent a warm certainty through my chest, steadying my trembling hands.
“Counselor Barber,” I said, my voice growing stronger as I spoke, “when I was president, I commanded fleets and negotiated treaties, but I never truly served my people. I was too concerned with preserving my own position, too afraid of making the hard choices that leadership demanded. That’s why Artemisia fell.”
The older man’s expression shifted slightly, his skepticism giving way to something approaching interest. “You believe public punishment will somehow rectify those failures?”
“I believe it will demonstrate the truth,” I replied, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. “That the Federation’s methods work not through coercion, but through recognition. I need to show the galaxy that a woman can find greater purpose in submission than she ever did in power—because it’s true.”
Counselor Barber set down his stylus and studied me with renewed attention. “This isn’t just about guilt or self-punishment, then. You’re proposing to make yourself a symbol.”
“Yes.” The admission came out barely above a whisper, but it carried absolute certainty. “The Vionian remnant wants to use me as a martyr for resistance. Instead, I’ll become proof that the Federation offers something better than the hollow victories of egalitarian independence.”
“Even knowing the physical cost? Miss Herranofar, I’ve witnessed judicial canings. The pain is… considerable.”
Heat flooded my cheeks as I nodded. “I understand. But Counselor, I’ve discovered something about myself these past weeks. I need this correction, not just for Artemisia’s sake, but for my own.”
The admission hung between us like a confession. Counselor Barber’s weathered features remained impassive, but I caught something that might have been sympathy in his pale eyes.
“Very well,” he said finally, reaching for an official document. “If you’re determined to proceed, we must follow proper protocols. You’ll be returned to the Academy until the tribunal, which willconvene in three days. The proceedings will be broadcast live throughout the Federation.”
My breath caught. Three days. In seventy-two hours, I would be kneeling before judges, confessing my failures, and then… I tried to force myself not to think about what would follow.
A familiar voice, emerging from a hidden door that had just opened to the side of the room, broke the rising cycle of my anxiety.
