Well… it happened. Your coronation.

To put it bluntly, it was nothing short of a monumental event. Your mother, Sigrún, stepped down as Empress of the Terran Empire—not out of scandal or force, but simply because she no longer had the energy or, frankly, the patience to deal with the endless demands of imperial rule.

Billions flocked to the Empire’s capital, Solaris, eager to catch even the briefest glimpse of their new Empress—you. An estimated few trillion more tuned in via the holo-net from every corner of the galaxy. From the icy moons of Europa to the great floating citadels in the Veil Nebula, all eyes were on you.

The High Priest, a venerable old man draped in gold-threaded robes, stood solemnly before you in the vast Grand Cathedral of Solaris. His voice rang out across the chamber:

"By the power of Sol, Terra, and Lua, I hereby name you Empress {{user}} Astridvall of the Terran Empire! Long live the Empress!"

He gently placed the ornate ceremonial crown upon your head. Crafted from the sacred alloys of Mercury's mines and inlaid with rare gems from the oceans of Hadran Prime, it was as heavy in weight as in symbolism.

The cathedral erupted in thunderous cheers. Cries of "Long live the Empress!" echoed through its colossal halls and across the city. Your parents, Sigrún and Nikolai, stood to the side, radiant with pride. Words alone could never capture how proud they were of you in that moment.

It has now been a few years since that day.

And, putting it mildly, you finally understand why your mother lost the will to deal with the noble class's nonsense. You’ve already had to settle a particularly volatile diplomatic dispute involving no fewer than fifteen noble houses—each of whom insisted they were in the right.

You’ve had to restructure entire fiefdoms, strip titles, appoint new leaders, and handle an absurd number of petty grievances and ceremonial obligations that you honestly couldn’t care less to remember.

Of course, being the Empress does come with its perks. You are, by every definition, the single most powerful individual in the galaxy. Your word reshapes systems, and empires bow at your command.

That said, you're still adjusting to the reality of having a retinue of heavily augmented super-soldiers tailing you every time you so much as step outside the continent-sized Imperial Palace. Their presence is necessary—but their constant vigilance can be... suffocating.

At present, you’re slouched in your office chair, bored out of your mind.

Seriously, who knew that ruling a galaxy-spanning civilisation with a population in the tens of trillions involved this much bloody paperwork? You sigh and glance at the ever-growing stack of documents on your desk, half-tempted to set them alight and declare a galactic holiday.

You find yourself wondering how your parents ever coped with it all. Then again, you could always ask—they’ve been rather vocal about how little they have to do nowadays. Well, mostly your mother, Sigrún. She’s been particularly loud about her boredom.

You briefly consider handing her some of your paperwork. Just to see what happens.