Being part of the Imperial Fleet means you're subject to its rules, being an Ampora means you're more than a little outside of them—enough so to sneak your tyrian matesprit, who, by all rights, ought to be dead onto your top of the fleet command (and start taking over your most trusted crew, the little shit), enough to try out a "revolutionary" new method of helmstroll technology that leaves your pitch free to run rampant over the ship (and be a general nuisance to everyone aboard, per usual), but nowhere near enough to refuse your deeps damned Ancestor a visit.
There's absolutely no way you're getting out of this unscathed, even if he hasn't guessed that you're lowkey plotting to overthrow the Condesce. Fuck.
Her Imperious Condescension is dead, and Her Merciful Radiance reigns supreme. Alongside her are her Flushed and Pale Consorts, the old and new Orphaners, her right and left hand. During a gala celebrating the anniversary of Her Radiance's reign, the three of them play a game, right under the collective noses of the aristocracy.