Markion's Road to War (MT/PMT, SIGN-UP/REGION & FRIENDS)

[Christbol]

Leinsig, near Auerstenian capital of Schwannsdorf, Republic of Auersten, Markion

07:48, Tuesday, March 27th, 2040.

The Auerstenian palace loomed like a fortress up on a short hill for all visiting delegations to see. Like many other palaces in Auersten that the government saw fit to repurpose, this one was once made to serve as a home away from home for the nobility to enjoy: the scenic views of nature and a small town not that far away in the distance (yet still under 30ish kilometers from the Auerstenian capital) gave away an impression of something where duties could briefly wither away while not really escaping the back of the homeowners mind, but just enough to focus on other, more pleasurable pursuits.

Today this gargantuan ex-living space serves, in some respect, a similar purpose. Any delegation that arrived looking around could feel content but they couldn’t feel calm. An unease washed over everyone, which included the Auerstenian staffers who made sure the palace, even if not being able to guarantee ‘calm’, contributed towards establishing the diplomatic illusion of ‘calm’. This slip-up was at its most visible with the overbuilt security: while not at a war footing yet, and by most intelligence analysts nowhere close to it for the remainder of the year, checkpoints stood staffed by personnel using both the Kingdom of ChristBol’s and the Arcadian Federation’s newest and best in threat detection technology - many devices being able to peer through what a person is made up of, what they are carrying, what liquids or materials if any certain delegates are carrying, even gauging where they were just days before they made it to the conference and who they are talking to on devices they carry with them to an Orwellian degree. If something couldn’t be identified from a person just walking through a checkpoint, the individual would be stopped and the item would be better reviewed, whether the person in question was MATO, KP, IA, TSSC, formally independent, or even in one instance Arcadian. It is obvious that what happened to Mr. Stöckler still shook both countries offering up security services for the event deeply. The delegations arriving were almost no less paranoid than the host parties and the host nation, with delegations like the Christbolian, Stallenbourgian and Tyrian to name just a few arriving far more protected than they appeared just a few weeks ago at the International Canal Zone, with security details just about being the only things the security checkpoints would investigate less than everything else. Notably, the Stallenbourgian security detail seemed to be missing someone that had been beside their head diplomat during the summit, where they were now was a mystery. The mismatch between the building’s old function and its newfound situation, even while trying to maintain the illusion of peace, simply felt rather unsettling.

The uncertainty was present in the minute things too. Some flags were sorted at half-mast or oddly arranged. The ones at half mast were set as such to commemorate the routine dead of the last two weeks - suicides, dead from public chaos, ‘accidents’ and similar. It was also extremely unusual (to some outright distasteful) seeing the Arcadian and the Christbolian flags side-by-side one after the other in a summit that was about discussing defense and mutual cooperation rather than trade; a show of unity and morale both parties chose to set up on purpose, but arriving delegations often chose instead to interpret it under the uncanny valley lens of the true beginning of the end times. Such other mismatched details graced the whole rest of the exterior and the interior: some countries which would normally send their head of state sent a deputy foreign minister instead, unofficially because the head of state had to stay dealing with domestic panic at home. The Christbolian Execrant was one such instance, with civility across multiple massive Christbolian cities severely degrading. Delegations from smaller states now also received the same five-star treatment as the great powers - not just out of generosity, but because everyone now grasped that those small states’ populations, brainpower, resources or coastlines might matter more strategically now than they did two weeks ago. Before even entering the conference room it often happened that a phone would go off, moving a delegate towards stepping into private to take a call and coming back pale, reminding everyone else around them that the crisis still exists within the confines of this carefully engineered and distanced diplomatic ideal, going off a timer that nobody, for once not Arcadia, the Iron Alliance, or MATO, controls.

Perhaps the one saving and morale lifting grace of the conference was that almost everybody from all walks of Markion attended. While the conference was meant to serve as a more one-on-one meeting with the Arcadian and MATO delegations to discuss cooperative action, the open invite nature of the event which proliferated had almost everyone declare intent to attend and subsequently arrive. With the fate of the known region at play against the Kravenites nobody dared to run late, with the odd exception of the Green Union delegation, though whether it is them trying to appear fashionable or if something more nefarious has occurred to their attendees remains to be heard.

Moving towards and entering the conference room, were it not for the impending sense of doom washing over everyone, the more socialist elements among all the delegates such as the Christbolian, Krastovian and Rhastovian ones, would have called the entire palace utterly corrupt at every step of it. All the rooms stretched with ceilings and walls encased in gold accents, paintings, pink marble and massive chandeliers. The floors, coated in fine grained marble rather than pink, were host to a no less equally opulent assortment of furniture and statues. To the smaller national delegations it was magnificent, to the established powers it was expected even if gaudy, but to the socialist delegates it went on into the near endless hallways as an undeniable testament to the greed they sought themselves to get rid of even if the concept of noblesse oblige in the time of great houses and rulers was as real as the daily men, women and children who died starving on the streets. Specific Christbolian and Krastovian delegates, and especially some of their security detail that were ex-military, looked on almost in shame. They thought to themselves that, if a few more years had passed, very different kind of socialists would’ve been entering this luxurious estate: not ones with pen, paper, laptops and speeches meant for their bourgeoisie oppressors to listen to prepared in their hands but the kind of socialists charging the front door down, storming the very conference chamber they were now being funneled into, with rifles, grenades and a vendetta, then getting to marvel around themselves in awe at what would have in that reality now become theirs by right of some great patriotic and revanchist conquest.

With them begrudgingly sitting down, and most others sitting down followed by degrees of emotions ranging from insecurity to total despair, talks and deals began. From this exact time going forward they have a year until the Kraven fleet arrives. ChristBol and Arcadia opened up by addressing the elephant in the room and the most major reason why the conference was opened up in the first place: a formal repeal of the MATO nuclear armament and development ban, a pledge to distribute any and all major technological developments along with funds to both the once rival side and coming allies through various industrial and military assistance funds, defensive planning, logistics improvement, naval command centralization (the Rhastovians were less enthusiastic and more unwilling about this), developing anti-Capper weapons, funding to have other states develop anti-Capper weapons and so on. These issues would be addressed first.

Where is that damned GU delegation?

OOC: Welcome to the Markion Road to War Thread for determining the course of events leading up to the coming Kraven Corporation invasion. Starting from March 27th 2040 Markion calendar, Markion has roughly a year of prep time (until roughly about March 2041) to prepare against a massive Kravenite harvest. Any topics, themes and developments discussed here are interpreted as advancements leading up to the war. Upon determining that March 2041 has arrived this thread will promptly be replaced by the Markion Kraven Harvest thread (linked here when the thread will be made) and this thread shelved.

Markion geopolitical blocs summary for those unfamiliar with Markion and requiring a crash course:

Geopolitically there is essentially 4 factions with real geopolitical pull. Some of them have had their position change and some have fallen, but for simplicity's sake I am going to cover up to the eve of 2040, listed by order of most geopolitically influential to least influential. They are as follows:

- Federated Arcadian States and Commonwealth, previously known as the Arcadian Empire. They are de facto the strongest superpower in the region. They are the most economically vast, have a wide geopolitical reach and it'd basically take everyone in the region put together to fight them militarily. Recently, in the past few decades, they have withdrawn from major affairs citing an unstable political situation at home and federalized to preserve the empire. Their sun is setting with the Kraven invasion.

- Iron Alliance headed by Sevevill. They are probably the biggest alliance by mass of members and Sevevill itself is something of a capitalist pariah state that is unfortunately too industrially influential in producing most basic consumer goods like China to really devest from. Compared to Arcadia, Sevevill is more geopolitically active in the region. They are also the main anti-communist faction ever since Arcadia moved away from geopolitics.

- MATO, or Markion Alcohol Treaty Organization, spearheaded by the Holy People's Kingdom of Christian Bolshevism/Socialism. ChristBol has experienced absolutely explosive growth in every avenue from economy to political influence to soft power to monolithic tech sector progress ever since they liberalized and transitioned from a dictatorship of the proletariat into a market socialist multi-party republic. MATO is officially an ideologically neutral defensive alliance that anyone can join, however most of the time their main military muscle like ChristBol swing very heavy handed into upholding Markion socialism. Socialism in Markion used to be a much wider phenomenon, however during the 1960s Arcadia just decided they needed to wipe out every state further left than the most easygoing centrists. This resulted in a war against Anavokya (previously the most powerful socialist state in Markion) and their communist bloc that, upon concluding, left ChristBol the only surviving member, making ChristBol, and by extent MATO, very fierce socialist irredentists against Arcadia. MATO has a sister alliance, called MALT, which effectively functions more like an anti-piracy trade union that doesn't require mutual defense agreements and includes even nations ChristBol otherwise wouldn't work with.

- The Kamooko Pact, with more decentralized leadership, is a neutrality movement style defensive alliance that is first and foremost composed out of very politically diverse nations (but need to have some form of liberal processes and power separation) who have the main interest of not being swallowed up by Arcadia or swallowed up by the Iron Alliance. They're nowhere close in military prowess to challenge Arcadia or the IA, and often times also very disorganized, however they are just strong enough to where neither side wants to mess with them, since actually doing that would offer enough leeway and weakness for the one that didn't to seriously crush the others influence.

- Kooplieden and its band of states were a major trade empire, now in decline, trying to balance themselves amidst the world pacing away from them. Some countries around Markion are legacy allies to Kooplieden so they often exert soft power similar that of a Commonwealth. Kooplieden today is part of the Kamooko Pact mentioned above, however they will sometimes pursue more independent foreign policy.

Most other countries not part of these factions typically swing in a specific direction or mix and match. The Union of Krastovian Socialist Republics for example, which is a state north of Arcadia, isn't a MATO member, however they are a member of the Markion Internationale which is headquartered in ChristBol and very attached to foreign socialist support policy.

Rules:
- Avoid one-liners
- There is no OOC thread; keep OOC chatter to a minimum, and use TG or Discord to resolve confusion
- Always quote the post or portion of a post you are responding to.
- This is a preparatory thread for a major war meant to destabilize the entire region it takes place in. Although cooperation is not enforced, any sort of doomsday geopolitical powerplay rendering the whole preparation phase obsolete is explicitly banned. This is to ensure that the eventual war and successful stalemate against Kraven forces in the future, which has been predetermined, occurs.
- Keep it semi-realistic. Posts expressing a pledge to donate equipment in a higher tech tier than MT or PMT, donating more money to one country than most real-life countries have a GDP, kidnapping the Arcadian chancellor, magically teleporting vast amounts of physical resources across just one post to Markion or similar will be ignored.

A player may qualify three ways to participate: being a Markion region member, being a long time extraregional partner of Markion or by admission. To sign up, communication by telegram to either ChristBol or the Green Union denoting your intention is required. Alternatively, an interested player may also join the Markion Discord server to communicate their intent.

An applicant must state either through telegrams or within the Markion Discord the name of the nation they are going to roleplay, a rough outline of the ideology that the nation they are going to roleplay operates under, who they have chosen to primarily support and briefly why.

[Allanea]

The Allanean delegation moved toward the former Leinsig castle at a pace that could be read, depending on one’s inclination, as either the measured confidence of men who knew exactly what they were doing -or the controlled haste of men who expected trouble.

There were five vehicles in the convoy. Their protection lay less in armor than in uncertainty. The doors carried only modest ballistic protection; the real defense was simpler and, in its way, more effective. No one outside the delegation knew which vehicle carried which member. Five identical cars moved toward the castle, and four possible targets moved with them.

Three of the cars carried only a driver and a bodyguard. The other two carried two representatives and two of their assistants. The formation never remained quite constant. One car would slow; another would accelerate to close the gap. Positions changed without apparent reason, then changed again. To anyone watching from the street, the movement was almost impossible to follow. Only a very careful observer -or someone with access to surveillance covering the entire city - could have kept track of who was where.

At last, the vehicles reached their destination. Four men emerged. The first wore an immaculate navy-blue blazer, a silver bolo tie, and carried a silver-headed walking stick. His blond hair was cropped short. His face held the easy, almost disarming smile of a man accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went. He was a diplomat’s diplomat, and famous across the world.

Grand Ambassador Peter Nizhinsky headed the Interministry Commission on Slavery and Sapient Rights. But that was not the title by which most people knew him. There was another.

Speaker to Slavers.

It was a title that had acquired a weight all of its own over the years.

[Palmyrion]

Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth Department of State Affairs Department of State Affairs, 3100 Macapagal Square Alexandria City, Metropolitan Alexandria Royal Palmyrian Commonwealth MAR-28-2040 MATO HEADQUARTERS Markion To whom it may concern: Greetings. The Royal Commonwealth has taken notice of Markion's predicament, particularly in the coming invasion and extermination of Markion's Ionis continent by the Kravenites. Make no mistake, the Royal Commonwealth stands with Markion in this hour of great peril. For decades, the world has been content with keeping the Kravenites contained in Gholgoth and Varathron, tying them down and preventing them from launching invasions into other regions. Recently, however, it seems that Kraven has grown strong enough to launch an invasion and break containment, so to speak, its sights trained on the continent of Ionis. This is a situation that Palmyrion cannot tolerate. We are aware that many other hyperpowers have pledged to defend Markion from the coming invasion by Kraven, with other nations pledging economic support for the imperiled nations of Markion. The Royal Commonwealth, having pledged economic support for Markion, wishes to extend a most generous offer: the sale of weaponry at steeply discounted prices. These weapons will range from small-arms munitions and tactical unmanned AI-powered combat systems to long-range strike assets, which will prove themselves useful for the coming war. We wish to negotiate with you the specifics of this arrangement at your soonest convenience. Thank you very much for your receipt and acknowledgement of this letter, and we look forward to your most esteemed response. Sincerely Yours, [signed] Leonardo Macadangdang Chief of Staff to the Vice-Chancellor for State Affairs Department of State Affairs

[Rhastov]

Leinsig train station, Auersten
11:03, Monday, March 26th, 2040.

The Presidential Express steamed into the modest station of Leinsig precisely on schedule, its blood red locomotive hissing steam into the cold morning air. It was the newest of its kind built in Rhastov, a high speed engine capable of pushing past 160 kilometers an hour, and even at rest it looked like something built to devour distance rather than simply cross it. Pulling twelve cars behind it, the train dwarfed the modest platform it rolled up to, an oversized guest in an undersized house.

The train eased to a stop alongside Platform 1. General Secretary Nicolae Stancu stepped down first, followed by Minister of National Defense Anton Dumitrescu and a handful of other senior officials, all of them flanked immediately by armed guards as they moved toward the waiting motorcade that would carry them to their hotel.

None of them had spoken a word since leaving the train, but none of them needed to. It was written plainly enough on their faces. Kraven's announcement, the unrest simmering back home, the sudden and crushing weight of responsibility now resting on all of their shoulders, it had aged them in a matter of days. Barely a week had passed since the assassination of Mr. Stöckler, and already it felt like years. This meeting promised no relief either. The stakes had climbed high enough that ChristBol and Arcadia were now willing to discuss lifting the ban on MATO, and in practice Rhastov, developing nuclear weapons of its own. It didn't feel real. It felt like a bad dream nobody could wake from.

Hotel Schwarzwald, Leinsig, Auersten
13:00, Monday, March 26th, 2040.

Once check-in was done, the Rhastovian delegation dispersed to their rooms, and almost as one, as though moved by some shared instinct, made straight for the minibars in search of whatever carried the highest proof.

Nicolae Stancu, General Secretary of the Rhastovian Communist Party and by extension the country's president, wore his tension openly. He was young for the office, still in his mid-thirties, with short black hair, and had traded his usual black suit and red tie for a plain t-shirt and shorts the moment the door closed behind him. An honors graduate of Ranov Polytechnic University, he had climbed the party ranks quickly on the strength of his pragmatism and his knack for measured, calculated decisions. But nothing in his career had prepared him for a problem shaped quite like this one. He poured himself a glass of obstler, a local fruit spirit, and switched on the television, only to switch it off again minutes later once he realized half the channels were still talking about nothing but the Kraven Corporation.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Everyone seemed to silently agree to treat what remained of it as a small vacation, however brief. The calm sitting just ahead of the storm.

March 27th, 07:45, outside the hotel

The delegation loaded into the motorcade for the short drive to the palace.

Anton glanced over at Nicolae, whose forehead rested against the window, his gaze fixed somewhere past the glass.

"Did you sleep at all last night? You look like you spent twelve hours shoveling sand."

"On and off. Kept waking up for some reason." Nicolae's voice came out flat, distant. "You?"

"Up at five. So, not much better."

March 27th, 08:00, outside the palace entrance

The delegation arrived early enough to wander the palace's halls and open rooms before the day's business began, drifting through them with the same restless curiosity of a mother-in-law inspecting a newlywed couple's first house.

"God, could this look any more 'medieval noble's summer home'?" one of them muttered, careful not to be overheard.

"There's gold on everything. You think that's gold foil, or just pyrite?"

"Why this palace, specifically? Auersten's got half a dozen prettier ones. Is it really just because it's closest to the capital?"

"Probably. Or someone liked the view." Another aide trailed a hand along a gilded bannister, unimpressed. "Either way, I give it a few hours before some minister starts a rant about false consciousness in here."

"Please don't repeat that near the Christbolians. They'll take it as an invitation."

Anton said nothing, just took in the gold and the marble with the flat expression of a man doing math he didn't like the answer to. Nicolae fell in a step behind the rest, quiet, letting the small talk wash past him without really hearing it.

[Emerstari]

Naysayers argue that His Majesty's Diplomatic Services needs culling. Countless officials hold do-nothing posts, spending workless days hobnobbing with Markion's elite, writing philosophical treatises in nobler cases or, in the ignobler, chasing local women. Others suggest all these posts are quite necessary in the mission of spreading Emerstarian culture.

None of those spare diplomats would find his purpose at this meeting, however. It was rare, indeed, for the Emerstarian government to deploy cabinet-level officials, but such was Pers-Andres Boswicke, His Majesty's Foreign Minister. The government supposed a threat of this magnitude warranted something more.

Boswicke was joined by Martha Abraham, an Asurian and the Minister-General of the Commonwealth of Friends, the so-called “Emerstarian Commonwealth,” and attended by Ambrosie af Hemborge, as it happened, the young sister-in-law of King Thomes's nephew. One of the minister's secretaries, Ambrosie, who graduated summa cum laude from Opsel, was a pioneer in an old boys’ club.

Outside the palace in Leinsig, Auersten

“The Rhastovians,” Ambrosie whispered. As part of her job, she had studied everyone who would be attending. She recognized them from the back of their heads, she had looked at so many photos. “The Hayerkians are behind us,” she added after hearing what she recognized to be their language, again in a low voice.

Though, she spoke to Boswicke and Abraham in Emerstarian, anyway. As it is, Emerstarian words all sound the same. Discerning it in a whisper would be a difficult task for those not very familiar. Granted, pointing others out is not a vicious pursuit, but it is not one that a polite Emerstarian would be caught doing.

In contrast to Hemborge, a young person eager to progress in her chosen career, with a rested face—she had a disciplined sleep regimen—Boswicke was effectively her grandfather, a tired-looking septuagenarian with an ample diet, consisting mostly of fine cuts of meat (in large quantities), gray-haired (stricken by male pattern baldness), and a gentle smile, when he did offer a grin. In fact, Boswicke had briefly served as the Acting Foreign Minister during an incident in 1994, before Hemborge was born. He truly assumed office in 2030. He had a cigar habit, besides.

He saw that he was in the Rhastovians’ peripheral vision. So, he threw up a hand, greeting them from afar. Compared to his secretary's discretion, he was a forward man, sometimes a shmoozer, like some of the diplomats he posted across Markion.

If he came within speaking range, he thought he'd say, “Nice view, huh,” in Rhastovian. He picked up the language in Markion in the ‘80s. It bore a heavy Emerstarian accent. He probably had not spoken it since the ‘80s, either.

[Haejinara]

NEARLEINSIG,REPUBLIC OFAUERSTEN,MARKION
—TUESDAY,MARCH27TH,2040—

For the longest time, he sat in utter silence in the rail carriage, staring out the window as the countryside of the Republic of Auersten flood past beyond the capital of Schwannsdorf. Lim Sang-Hyeon was not an impolite man, nor was he cursed with the burden of lacking the gift of speechcraft. He simply had no mind for aimless discussion like his compatriots were engaging in, so he was sitting out the discussion on matters of business affairs and geopolitical soup. They would be arriving in Leinsig shortly, where they would disembark and travel to what was a majestic palace set upon a hill, repurposed from ancient days apparently into a realm of modern splendor and fanciful taste. Auersten was a far cry from the cramped cityscape of Haejinara; here the land was almost bucolic on the outskirts of the capital. He had never traveled to Leinsig before – he had never set foot in Auersten before this day, for that matter – but he had heard some impressive things. He was an adventurer at heart, and eagerly yearend to seek out brand new locations and explore strange new lands.

The four members of the Haejin delegation to Leinsig were a motley crew of individuals who each shared one major goal: the socioeconomic development of Haejinara and its general defense against the enemies of order. As the Foreign Minister of the Concordant Order of Jinhwa in Nova Minor, he had came to Markion with the intent of preserving the territorial dignity of the Overseas Concordance, better known as Haejinara to the local population, as well as to espouse the ideals of commerce and trade with the fellow attendees of the summit meeting. Crossing the Durranese Ocean by ocean liner, he had arrived in Haejinara to rendezvous with the diplomatic team the city-state had assembled. With him were Mr. Kyong Hyun-Su, the Mayor of Haejinara; General Nam Sang-Chul of the Haejin Defense Corps, and Ms. Ra So-Yun of the Haejin Commerce Association. All three were well versed in diplomacy, having stood to post for a number of years now. Ra So-Yun was the youngest of the quartet at age 40, but she brought much economic know-how to the group at large.

Sang-Hyeon adjusted in his seat, feeling a tense pain in his bad back flare up; the longer he sat still, the worse his back began to feel. General Nam noticed this, leaning across the small space between carriage seats to offer him his pillow, but Sang-Hyeon refused. No sense in appearing as a weakling before his entourage, especially since he was (allegedly) leading this cadre in Leinsig. In truth, Mayor Kyong was very much in the lead, seeing as Haejin affairs tied more directly to Markion than they did to Nova Minor and the Jinh homeland. Haejinara was the glittering jewel in the Jinh crown, but it had a level of civic authority and autonomy that made it more akin to a protectorate than a true colony. Still, the fears of an advancing war machine in the Kraven Reich was enough to get Jinhwa to sit up and take notice of the danger, hence their presence in Leinsig. Jinhwa was not immune to the threats of a rogue actor; it was forced to watch Sangravia enslave millions closer to home, always wary that their wayward eyes would turn to the south. Kraven, though...

Lim took stock of his compatriots in the train carriage, each holding onto a briefcase full of relevant paperwork to the forthcoming summit. Kyong Hyun-Su was the known quantity of the foursome; he had direct ties back to the Foreign Ministry of Jinhwa owing to his position as Mayor of Haejinara, and was essentially Jin-Hwan’s right hand man in the Haejin operation. He was partially balding, a fact that must not have sat well with the 56-year-old as he was desperately trying to obscure his fading crop of hair with the world’s most egregious combover. His face was unnaturally weathered for his age, a symptom of his alleged chain-smoking through the years. Even now, he would periodically give out a smoker’s cough while conversing with his Haejin companions. He wore a freshly tailored black suit with a charcoal gray vest and white button-up dress shirt. His tie was something to behold though; a long blue affair with small piglets on it – his idea of a sight gag, apparently. It matched his eccentric, easy-going personality that made him oh so electable back in Haejinara.

Sitting beside Kyong Hyun-Su was General Nam Sang-Chul, the Iron Hand of the Haejin. Sang-Chul was the key defensive specialist in the hierarchy of Haejinara, formally heading up the colonial Haejin Defense Corps that coordinated directly with the Concordant Defense Forces in Jinhwa. General Nam was a bitter, hardboiled character that ate lug nuts and shat out razor blades – the kind of military man you always saw in the movies, the hard cases. His uniform was full of spit polish and bravado, matching his brawny, brick shithouse build. Barrel chested and wide at the shoulders, he was around 6’ 4” tall and looked like a mountain of a man. The dress uniform he wore was covered in medals owing to his years of service in the Haejin Defense Corps; he even had a few expeditionary medals from Jinhwa adorning his crisp navy blue overcoat. His silver epaulettes really cut an imposing figure; Nam was decked in his best attire for the summit and intended to convey the seriousness of purpose that Haejinara was arriving with. Ryu would not want to meet Nam in a back alley.

Ra So-Yun was the wild card of the group; not only was she the youngest official in the group by a factor of a decade, but she was also the only private sector official represented by the Haejin delegation. She was quite easy on the eyes, Ryu thought to himself, feeling a bit of shame at measuring her beauty against that of his wife’s back home. Her shapely-figure was concealed by a dark blue jacket and white blouse, with a blue neckerchief tied around her throat like a cloth choker. She wore pearls that had been polished to a high sheen and had on diamond earrings that sparkled in the low light of the carriage. Despite her aesthetically pleasing demeanor, she might have been as much of a bulldog about her work as General Nam was about his military service. She was known as a cutthroat businesswoman in the financial district of Haejinara, weaving in and out of traffic like a madwoman making huge sums of capital for her employers. She had effectively taken control of the Haejin Commerce Association NGO because there were barely any challenges left for her to beat.

Sang-Hyeon adjusted in his seat again, wishing he had remembered to take his pain medicine before boarding the train in Schwannsdorf. The three compatriots in his small section took notice at his discomfort, the result of a long-suffering back injury he sustained in a helicopter crash while on deployment in the Concordant Army of Jinhwa. He had been in traction for six months recuperating, was mustered out of service honorably and forced into a political tract in civilian life. His maneuverings had earned him a cherished presence in the Foreign Ministry, though when the state claimed him for its own in one in the same, he was utterly flabbergasted. To be selected as the Foreign Minister, heading up the diplomatic corps of Jinhwa was an honor he could not begin to comprehend having received. It was that honor that kept him sane during long hours in his office, hoping to receive the summons to attend the matters of state in Haejinara. The city was truly a showcase for Jinhwan technology. He got away to the far eastern city-state as often as he reasonably could.

Nam Sang-Chul was busy arguing with Ra So-Yun about something or other; Jin-Hwan came in late to the conversation as the General boisterously cried out: “I will not consent to this malady! You stockjobbers ought to know when to fold your hand quietly!”

So-Yun fired back in retort, pointing a finger down at her briefcase. “This stockjobber is going to make a lot of money for Haejinara, which includes getting you military jocks your toys that you crave so much. As soon as you recognize that we are vulnerable to attack.”

”The colonial militia and the Concordant Defense Force combined will protect the city, mark my words!” General Nam was growing red in the face, veins beginning to bulge in his neck. “We have no need of foreign entanglements to weigh us down in bureaucracy!”

”General, Ms. Ra, please!” Kyong interjected, trying to play the peacemaker as he was often wont to do. “We know that the militia and our colonial defenders can bring enormous firepower down on any threat. But having friends in high places cannot hurt us, either!”

”Pfft,” the General snorted. “I will defer to Your Honour on this matter, but that does not mean I have to like it. I still say Haejinara can fend for itself without need of allies. With Jinhwa and its allies at our back, we can stand up to any threat that crosses paths.”

”With respect, General,” Ra said with a curt smile, “I think you underestimate the threats posed to our fair city-state from the threats our world faces Militant nations are on the warpath; even Jinhwa is vastly outnumbered in their own backyard by the Sangravians.”

”Let us worry about the Sangravians; you need not trouble yourself with factors that are outside of your control,” Sang-Hyeon said coldly, interjecting his voice into the conversation finally. “The Concordant Order will be here when the time comes, if it comes.”

”The Foreign Minister is right! We’re all getting ahead of ourselves,” Mayor Kyong replied, holding out his hands as if to encourage some group hug or something. “Right now we don’t even know what the threat we face is, let alone how to contend with its coming.”

”Besides,” Sang-Hyeon continued without even referencing the Mayor’s plea, “I would be remiss in mentioning that Haejinara’s commercial clout is dependent on international finance and trade, in that order. Shouldn’t you lot be focusing on that in Leinsig?”

General Nam threw up his hands in faux-defeat, wondering if there was any reasoning with this particular posse. “Mark my words, we will defend our homeland to the last and ensure that our flag never falters under the sun. We need nothing from the region at large.”

Ra So-Yun sighed, turning towards the Foreign Minister. “I suppose it would not hurt if we shifted subjects to business matters. That is the primary goal we hope to discuss here, among more pressing matters. Having a few trade deals in our back pocket would not hur.”

”Thank you, I felt like I was taking crazy pills at first,” the Foreign Minister mused caustically, drawing a scoff from General Nam. “Discussing the plans of Haejinara in Leinsig would be most apropos right now, since we’re practically on top of the damn town here.”

”As the Mayor of Haejinara, I advocate that we focus on retaining an independent stance while working out individual deals with the members of this summit gathering. But, we should do this under the table; talking business at a defensive summit is–“

”–Bad policy, yes,” So-Yun said cooly, nodding her head. “If we come out guns blazing for trade agreements while the rest of the region debates what to do about the Kravenites, we could be at risk of alienating our neighbors at the precise wrong moment in time.”

”Subterfuge is it, then? Perish the thought!” General Nam was growing more animated with each passing moment, the redness in his face turning violet purple. “If we have to act underboard, what the Hell are we even doing here? I advocate a head-on approach!”

”Of course you would, General – you have no sense of political finesse,” So-Yun chided him, shaking her head in the negative. “Going full bore is a great way to fuck us over something fierce. You of all people should know when to attack an issue and when to feint.”

”I will not be lectured by a woman on military matters or business affairs,” Nam said harshly, lowering his voice but keeping his words full of venomous anger. The misogynistic comment did not go unnoticed by So-Yun, or the Foreign Minister for that matter.

”General, this is the 21st century, I think such outmoded ideas of gender normativism are beneath us. Besides, So-Yun is right, there is a definite gentle touch needed to grease the wheels of diplomacy and foster new trading opportunities. Learn your place, General!”

Nam frothed at the mouth but said nothing, choosing to sit and seethe in his seat. The opening gave the Mayor a chance to interject: “All of you must know that I am dedicated to doing what is right for Haejinara and the Haejin people. Whatever may come of it all.”

”As the Foreign Minister of the Concordant Order, I have the utmost faith in your ability to scheme with the best of them,” Sang-Hyeon jokingly complimented the smooth operator, feigning deference to the man that had aged beyond his years. “Hail, Mayor Kyong!”

”Yes, yes, we know, we know, I’m a snake oil salesman at heart like any good politician,” Kyong said sarcastically, turning to face So-Yun sitting across from him. “You and I, we have the best interests of Haejinara at heart. We can take solace in that much, at least!”

”The hell you say!” General Nam finally blurted out, drawing conspicuous looks from the people seated around them. “And I don’t have Haejinara’s best interests at heart? I took an oath to defend the damn city from threats big and small, Your Honour.”

”We all took oaths to the Concordance and its satellite city,” Sang-Hyeon said neutrally, already feeling bored by the musings going on in their little section of the carriage. “I’m sure the Mayor meant no offense to you or any of the proud servicemembers defending Haejinara.”

”I of course meant no disrespect to a fine fighting man such as yourself,” the Mayor schmoozed with dripping condescension. “Just remember that Your Honour serves at the pleasure of my office, and we shall have no further conflict between you and I.”

Once more, Nam nodded but said nothing. So-Yun looked at Mayor Kyong with eyes as wide as saucers. “You are one to speak, Your Honour = just as General Nam owes his allegiance to you, your allegiance is owed to the Foreign Minister. You should remember that!”

”I am owed absolutely nothing from you people; I don’t even know what to do with the lot of you,” Sang-Hyeon laughed, covering the truth of the statement with a fake laughter that implied he was joking. The Mayor had caught on, but wisely said nothing else.”

”Well, I guess we can all take solace in the fact that Haejinara is our primary concern,” General Nam said finally, his natural skin color beginning to return as he calmed down. “I should not have disrespected the lot of you as I had, and for that, I do apologize profusely.”

”Apology accepted, General; we know your credentials, and your eagerness to defend Haejinara. That fact is not lost on us,” So-Yun sought to smooth out the General’s ruffled feathers by resorting to the oldest political trick in the damned book: outright flattery.

”Great, now it’s a great big circle-jerk,” the Foreign Minister cooed again, once more couching his true feelings of disdain in faux-laughter. “Look, I think we all need to heed the reminder of the Concordance in matters such as this: we serve only when called to serve.”

”Well, that much is true,” Mayor Kyong said resolutely. “If it were not for our great sacrifices, none of us would be able to sit here on the way to Leinsig. In all honesty, we should be thankful right now for the opportunity to serve our respective countries at all!!”

That much was true, at least; Lim could jive with that. He looked over at So-Yun, then and Hyun-Su and nodded. “I am pleased to represent the Concordant Order and the Overseas Concordance in Leinsig. It is a tremendous honor to be called to service, after all.”

”I hope to receive the call one day myself,” So-Yun said whimsically and wistfully, looking down at her briefcase knowing that her political ambitions would only be satiated with more and more authority in the hierarchy of the Haejinara city-state edifices.

”Your time will come; you have, what, thirty-two certificates now to your name?” Mayor Kyong said politely, but with a bit of reservation in his voice; he knew she was a potential threat to his power one day. “That is more than enough to qualify for political service.”

”Politics, blah,” General Nam blurted, fiercely shaking his head from side to side. “Stay in the financial private sector, Miss – you don’t want the headaches of the service sector. I’m staying in my lane for the long haul and all the more better as a result of it. Huzzah!”

”Some of us have ambitions that cannot be quenched or satiated by staying in our lanes,” So-Yun explained curtly, trying not to rile up the General any more than need be. “I have long desired to serve Haejinara however I could; my certifications speak for themselves.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a train conductor bellowing out a warning to the passengers. “Now approaching Leinsig, two minutes! I repeat, two minutes to Leinsig! Please have all your personal belongings with you when you disembark!”

Sang-Hyeon watched as the train conductor walked past their row of seating, heading towards the front of the train carriage. He turned back to the woman sitting beside him, deciding to play nice for now. “I’m sure you will have your chance; if there’s anything I can do…”

”You will be the first person I contact, Foreign Minister. I know who butters the bread in political circles. Your friendship means more to me for my career and my personal feelings than most. Should I be selected to serve, yours is the name at the top of my to-do list.”

The nature of that statement was not lost on Lim; it was as much a threat to lop the head off the snake as it was to coil up with it. He was not stupid, he knew a threat when he heard one. Still, he played along for now. “I’m sure you will, So-Yun. I’m sure you will.”

”I just hope the food is good where we’re going,” Mayor Kyong interjected all of a sudden, completely changing the subject before things got tense again – he too knew how the game was played, it seemed. “I haven’t eaten since we left on the plane this morning!”

”Famished, are we? Here, take this,” General Nam said quietly, reaching into his pants pocket and handing over a small chocolate bar wrapped in cellophane. “I bought it from the PX before leaving for the airport this morning. It’s a field snack, high in protein.”

”Does it look like I need more protein?” Kyong laughed, patting his pot belly in a bit of self-deferential humor. After a chuckle, he gratefully reached beside him to acquire the glorified candy bar from the Genera, smiling. “Thank you, General Nam, you’re a lifesaver!”

”Hey, sharing is caring, asshole,” Sang-Hyeon blurted out involuntarily, not even managing to keep his tongue in check. He quickly decided to play it off as a joke, but the Mayor was understandably taken aback. “Maybe you would be so inclined to let us try it, too?”

”Oh, uh, yes, of course,” the Mayor mumbled, still crestfallen a bit. It was obvious he was trying to suck up to the Foreign Minister to gain his favor, and Jin-Hwan’s comment demonstrably proved he was failing in the endeavor. “Here, you two have this one.”

So-Yun waved him off, leaving the Mayor to hand the chocolate field snack over to Sang-Hyeon. He received it gratefully, nodding: “I believe you are a man of great honor and conviction, Mayor Kyong. This gift shall not go unrewarded by yours truly, I assure you!”

”Of course, Foreign Minister; I serve at the pleasure of Yeonhwa and the Concordance.” The poor man was so defeated in his chair that Sang-Hyeon almost wanted to give the bastard a hug. Almost. “It does my heart good to extend my hand in friendship to you.”

Sang-Hyeon tried to put his finger back in the dike before the whole levee caved in. “You’re a good man, Mayor Kyong. A politician is a slippery one at the best of times, but I still believe you to be a man of integrity at heart. Yeonhwa is proud to work along side you.”

”Besides,” So-Yun added, trying to help the Foreign Minister rescue the situation, “there is no more famous Haejin than you right now. Our city needs its leaders to represent us well here in Leinsig. There’s no one I would trust more fully to do this than yourself.”

General Nam audibly sighed, deciding whether to give the group a hard time or not, or to play along with the ass-kissing. Kissing ass was beneath his station, but for once, he felt it was apropos to help build up the confidence of his boss. “I second all of that, sir.”

”Thank you, gentlemen, Ms. Ra – I will endeavor not to let you all down here in Leinsig,” Kyong said politely, feigning his own smile. For now, the Foreign Minister would take fake smiles over outward expressions of disappointment; the dike would hold on for the moment.

”We all have our part to play here, that’s why we’re together,” the Foreign Minister said resolutely, trying to tap into the politician inside himself for this rah-rah bullshit. “We are all that Haejinara needs to succeed geopolitically and socioeconomically.”

”And militarily,” the General added in at the last. “Don’t forget our ability to defend ourselves, with the help from our allies, of course.” The Foreign Minister nodded in his direction, curtly but alertly. He needed Nam’s support on this endeavor too, it would seem.”

”Yes, well, it’s just about time to disembark, it seems,” Sang-Hyeon made mention as the train’s momentum began to slow. The conductor was shouting again, but was barely audible over the hum of noise in the carriage. “I suppose we should get to it, then.”

”I for one am eager to see Leinsig in person; I have heard some wonderful things about Auersten and its lovely countryside,” So-Yun said amicably, gathering her belongings from at her feet. “I hope to have some time to take a guided tour of the city while here.”

”I’m eager to hit the buffet; I’m a bit peckish myself,” General Nam exclaimed, rubbing his stomach over his uniform. Need to fuel up the ol’ war wagon, you know, get the energy I need to lay down the law and let people know what’s up with our great city-state Haejinara!”

”You all can do what you please, I’m going straight to the bar and tying one on before getting into diplomatic conference,” Sang-Hyeon said comically, suddenly wondering whether there was even a bar at this particular diplomatic function. “God, I need alcohol…”

Sang-Hyeon was already stirring to stand as the wheels on the carriage began gently squealing with the application of the brakes. The train carriage’s momentum began to slow as they approached the station in Leinsig, but Jin-Hwan was not waiting for the carriage to come to a full stop. Collecting his personal effects, the Foreign Minister drew some looks from the other denizens of the train car, but he paid them no mind. General Nam rose from his seat across him, drawing So-Yun up so as to not be outdone by her military counterpart. Mayor Kyong sighed, gathering his own suitcase and rising to his feet, wobbling a bit as the train car lurched to a stop right outside the station, precisely on time. Sang-Hyeon took the lead of the foursome, moving into the aisle to walk towards the carriage exit, wincing slightly at the sound of the train whistle blaring as it finished its push into Leinsig. The Foreign Minister walked past the rows of carriage passengers who were now beginning to stir to life, wondering what the future was going to bring to the quartet from the east.

The air was crisp outside the climate-controlled train carriage, but Sang-Hyeon paid it no mind; he enjoyed the cool of the late winter and early spring period. The freshness of the air was a godsend after being stuck on the train for, what, thirty minutes or so? He nearly laughed out loud, wondering why the short train ride from the capital had felt so long in the moment. No matter, they were in Leinsig now, and it was time to put his game face on. The Haejin-Jinh delegation had arranged for a sedan to bring them to their lodgings for the duration of the diplomatic function. His mind was already racing with thoughts about keeping Haejinara safe from extant threats, imploring renewed military cooperation from the disparate blocs that marked the geography of Markion. He hoped to discuss matters of commerce with Ra So-Yun by his side, opening doors for trade with new partners while they were there. But the threat of the Kraven Reich looming over everything was central to their purpose in Leinsig. If the Kravenites were indeed on their way to fight it out...

Haejinara owed it to Markon to be ready to answer the call to fight back.

”Ah, nothing like fresh air for the lungs to rejuvenate your spirits!” Hyun-Su said politely, patting General Nam on the shoulder. “You should take the lead, as the formal military adjutant of our party. Let people know that Haejinara is here to do business the right way.”

”As you command, Mayor Kyong,” Sang-Chul said forcefully, moving with his briefcase to step past the Mayor, the Foreign Minister and Miss Ra. “I would be happy to lead the way in Leinsig, just point me where to go and we will get going. Where is the damned car?”

”Probably waiting outside the station, General,” Sang-Hyeon said over the sound of the train’s brakes releasing compressed air. “We have a black sedan from the Republican government to convey us to the palace. Should be waiting for us right outside.”

Nam nodded, leading the way as the foursome walked off the platform into the terminal itself, noting the grandeur with which the architecture had been designed. It was completely against type compared to Haejinara or Yeonhwa for that matter, but no less beautiful.

”I love train stations,” So-Yun said quietly behind Nam, second in line ahead of Mayor Kyong, whilst Jin-Hwan trailed in the rear. “So much aesthetic beauty, so much purpose to their designs. People could learn a thing or two about Haejin efficiency with its public transport.”

”I’m pretty indifferent to it all,” Sang-Hyeon admitted, walking deliberately slow enough to start lagging behind the others. He spoke to no one but himself, quietly enough that none could hear him in front of him. “I just want this damned meeting to get on with it…”

[Auersten]

Schwannsdorf, Bundesrepublik Auersten

Chancellor Augustin Bastian, Federation of Arcadian States and Commonwealths

Chancellor Augustin Bastian had discharged the duties of his office for almost a year now; it was shaping up to be a good term; however, with the introduction of Kraven and their goals, many things were thrown onto their head. Before this, his concern was balancing the national budget and preventing the recession from becoming a much worse problem. Alas, none of that mattered anymore; they were on a war footing, a war not for political gain, a war not for land but a war for their civilization.

Chancellor Bastian sat at the center of the Arcadian delegation, with four senior ambassadors accompanying him for the journey. They, along with everyone from the delegations, would be housed at the palace's guest quarters. The furniture inside was as old as the castle, carefully engraved and maintained, keeping such a relic in pristine condition. Outside his window, all he saw was the gardens from the inner wall. Much of his mind was occupied with the coming conference. They had a gambit planned, and if it worked, it would bring once-bitter enemies close together to face this threat as a united force.

He looked over his papers before the other delegates arrived; he was given carte blanche to do whatever was needed to form this coalition. This included declaring known spies and offering amnesty. Fully shared intelligence, joint R&D departments, and the riskiest of them all: not just giving the Reds permission to build nuclear arms but to facilitate it. If this were any other circumstance, they would all be tried for treason, but these were no ordinary circumstances.

Schwannsdorf, Bundesrepublik Auersten

Vizemarschall Wilhelm Siegel, Fieldpolizei Vice Chief

The castle sat atop a hill in the center of the old town; what began as the residence for the Kaiser grew to an expansive and yet refined complex. Inside the interior walls sat the main residence of the imperial Kaiser before his abdication; the residence held a museum, banquet halls, and ballrooms often used for conferences like the one underway. Outside the inner walls lay the diplomatic residences, a receiving hall, servants' quarters, and a security office, once the site of the Common Army high command. Gardens were added atop the inner and outer walls after the fall of the empire, when the palace was opened to tourists, and have stayed ever since. Outside the outer walls sat the old town of Schwannsdorf, a bustling metropolitan capital still living up to its old reputation as the crown jewel of southern Hasphalia.

Security of this conference was his utmost concern; 3 battalions from the local Feldpolizei garrison were activated and placed on on-site security missions. 2 companies from the local Army garrison were situated along the old town, quietly securing the outer perimeter, with SOF elements on standby if things went south. Nearly every inch of the palace was manned by guards and monitored via CCTV cameras, making the palace a vault.

As delegations arrived slowly, the Vizemarschall was locked in the reception hall. There would be a small reception event, with food being served, allowing for some common ground to be built before negotiations. Vendors were rigorously vetted, with some long-time contractors being exluded form the event over security concerns. If any Kraven agent was to infiltrate the event, it would be here, people moving with no rhyme or rhythm in a crowded room, and the other at the conference itself if the Krave still had an appetite for dramatic flair.

The Vizmarschall turned his attention to the guest security team, and he asked, "What delegations have arrived thus far?" The young lieutenant looked up and spoke: "The Arcadians have been seen to their rooms, the Christboleans and the Rhastovians have just arrived and are being sorted as we speak. Then we have the Allaneans and Emerstarians, who have also arrived and are waiting to be sorted, just like the reds, sir."

It's been years since the Vizmarschall had been out of the office, while many others were uneasy about the whole affair; he was, in truth, happy to be out on the line once again. The Feldpolizei was the national gendarmere of the republic. Since Kravens incursion into the region, they have been transferred under the Defense Department and have now been assigned to their wartime roles. Asset protection, civil defense, and keeping civil order were the name of the game.

[Tiami]

"To Stem the Tide of Chaos, One Must Be Willing To Sacrifice Everything…"

Few words invoke fear within the numerous populations spread throughout the world such as 'Kraven'. Fear - despair, to resign one's fate to inexplicable conquest was about all that most nations could do should they ever fall within Kraven's ever lingering gaze. Within Gholgoth, the memories of past Kravenite wars linger, while current wars are bogged down in Varathron. The Cappers dealt in infernal aims - of death and destruction beneath its boot. Markion had now suffered numerous blows from Kraven as it once again stirred from its ancient slumber. The death of a Green Union Ambassador, several other disappearances, and now the reveal by Kraven itself that the Markish people would soon face invasion from its naval arm... it all culminated in panic and despair at the impending arrival of the world's most feared forces.

This had not gone unnoticed in Amador, who itself had long feuded with Kraven in Gholgoth. Amador's territories in Markion, Virmoira, were now in danger, as were the people of Markion. In the immediate aftermath of the assassination of the Green Union's Josef Stöckler, the elven nation had even signaled its willingness to assist in whatever means necessary - even willing to wage war against Kraven should such a need be required. Now, with delegations across Markion gathering at Leinsig near the Austernian capital of Schwannsdorf, Amador too found itself sending its own delegation in order to ascertain the region's intentions for defense, as well as to weigh how far Amador would involve itself in defense of Markion from Kraven.

The Amabassade 800 ”Hermes, an electrically-powered Marquesan designed vehicle, had long remained a popular choice for the myriad imperial delegations Amador had sent across the world since its introduction in the 2020s. Its bathtub frame construction around the use of kevlar and nomex fibers, nickel, iron, and molybdenum insulate, gave it extensive protection while remaining a comfortable, if luxurious ride. In Markion, that remained the case for Ser Allaen Byrfiel, Archo of Virmoira and ambassador to Markion for the Imperium At the behest of the Empress, Aleriel Saelihn, the Half-Alfar had been sent from the Imperium’s Markish territories, Virmoira, to ascertain Markion’s willingness to defend itself from the impending Kravenite invasion.

Allaen was a tall man, encroaching nearly 2.1 meters in height. He retained a burly build, a product of his service in the Scandin wars and the First Blood War, sky-blue eyes, and dark-brown straight hair pulled into a ponytail. He wore a simple black suit and tie, though his cuff-links sporting motifs representative of nature, a commonplace tradition among Alfar citizens. Upon his retirement from active duty service, he was appointed by the Crown to serve as an ambassador to Markion given his familiarities with the region and having been born in Virmoira. Attending with him, if one could call it a delegation, was his wife, Maeria, a fair-skinned Alfar of comparatively diminutive height to her husband, but nonetheless wielding a radiant beauty that all Alfar wore. Her silver shoulder-length hair sparkled in all weathers, while her piercing green eyes shone like emeralds, and her silk-white knee-length dress offered a modest and approachable front. The two had married centuries prior, and in the early 2000s, were entrusted with Virmoira when then-Empress Maeralya appointed Allaen to the Archonship.

Their arrival to the Austernian palace would receive little fanfare as the Hermes rolled to a stop at the palace. Their driver, as if having repeated the process a thousand times, immediately exited the driver’s side, proceeding to the right-side back-seat passenger door and quickly opening it to allow Lady Maeria and then Ser Allaen to quickly exit.

“Pompous… too much,” spoke the lady, her eyes gazing on the many golden accents and supposedly ‘grand’ construction of the building. “Are they compensating for something?”

“Materialistic ideation was never our own preference,” Allaen continued, his voice a hushed tone though with a poorly concealed chuckle coming out. “Man often places value in such extravagance. Nonetheless, we must move forward. This party has only just begun.”

Maeria sighed, her disgust for gaudy opulence forming on her face, accepting her husband’s arm as the two began their brief trek through the palace and into the conference room.

Allaen was not wrong. To the Alfar, this was a party, even if the tensions were palpable and the atmosphere around them remained afoul with despair. In truth, Amador had long taken little interest in a region they considered a backwater realm; however, these interests were renewed the week prior when Kraven had awoken from its slumber. If only because it desired to protect its territories in Markion, Amador had ‘selflessly’ announced it would aid those who fought against Kraven. Allaean, as did Maeria, knew this to be a farce. Amador welcomed senseless slaughter so long as its scheming came to fruition. It never truly cared for the region of Markion, save for Virmoira, which it needed to defend to continue the many experiments that took place in its sweltering lands.

Their arrival within the conference room yielded varying results. A sense of calm perforated from the two Alfars, their demeanors starkly different from the myriad humans that populated the room. Despair, stress, fear… many attempted to project an aura of calmness, yet it was clear that the cracks were widening. The awakening of Kraven was never a positive boon for the world and its inhabitants. Millions, if not billions, would die. The Kraven boot would prevail over many even if it were to be pushed back in time. The tides of swarming Cappers were among the greatest fears of hundreds of nations. For Amador itself, even with its magics, dragons, and superior physical abilities, would struggle to turn back the Kraven jackboot. In Virmoira, where few Amadorian military assets exist, there was real concern that the territory would suffer near total destruction, if not outright be conquered.

Within the time they arrived, Allaen and Maeria would stand in solace, still as stone as they awaited who would approach the ancient elves first, for no Alfar would ever dare to approach a lesser being than they. Though, of course, there remained a few interesting humans present.

“I see the Speaker of Slaves, our lovely Nizhinsky, is here, my husband…”Maeria spoke softly, her whispered voice heard only by her husband. “I should hope he approaches. I have heard a great many things about the man.”

Allaen spoke in response. “Pray he does, as I would deign to affirm his complete reasoning to be here. Even the Allaneans should have reason to fear what shall soon come to fruition.”

“Reason enough, my dear, as I would argue that Kraven alone warrants the full attention of the great powers of the world.

“I suppose you’re right, Maeria,” Allaen continued as he offered a slight peck of his wife’s left check. “Shall we see what this party has to offer?”

They both smiled, stepping forward to take further stock of those present. The part was now afoot.

What would be in store for the many parties present?

[Holy Marsh]

First Cathedral, Mar'si Sahira
Deep Chamber D4- 'Voice Now My Fury'
The Day After the Assassination

The meeting was held deep within the First Cathedral, in secured chambers long ago set aside for the Arsi'Elkon's most important security briefings. The chamber had been renovated repeatedly over the years with the latest technology by specialists from M-SAD working with the First Cathedral's Deep Staffing. All the same it was a reliec of ages past and they ensured the artwork and the stones of the deep cathedral were kept prominent and secure. The carved stone walls were a canvas that a mural, updated over the eons, was displayed. It went from the ground to the towering ceiling thirty feet up, interwoven with the various pillars and ancient walkways that were also drawn into the art piece. It was a mural dedicated to the military history of the Mar'si, glorifying the endless sacrifices made in the name of the Faith. Smaller carvings along the side walls told interwoven tales from scriptures. Married to this display of ancient history was modern necessities, with numerous closed terminals and displays built in. A long conference table whose surface could display whatever was needed was set in the middle where once a stone lectern had been placed.

Most of the officials involved in the meeting had arrived early, spending their time going over intelligence reports and holding smaller meetings with their own staff. Food and drink had been brought in and by the time the meeting formally began it had been well trafficked. The atmosphere was serious but it lacked fear, for Kraven did not inspire in the Mar’si fear. Hate and hate alone was the child of Kraven in the Mar'si heart.
At the head of the table stood Director Ashkar Ruedas Maagad, head of the Mar’si Strategic Analysis Department, or M-SAD. A pragmatic man who had never been taken by surprise (save for his wife), he often took the lead here. There were a dozen intelligence services at play but in the end M-SAD brought the pertinent information that was necessary for the Arsi’Elkon to make her decisions. He looked drawn but alert, decades of service evidenced by the dark circles under his eyes.

“The awaited movements have begun, Your Holiness. There exists now a certainty that the D’aru Intaka is going to strike Markion en masse. We had four major predictions, and we have come to some conclusions based on the situation.”
The display showed Markion, both physical and political maps. Ionis was highlighted, with expected advances from the Authority mapped out. The powers of Markion and the powers expected to appear were given their own lanes. The limits of intelligence were visible. He did not like to hide such gaps. Such activity helped no one.

Marshal-Sister Adela Varn, the senior representative from Strategic Crusade Command, glanced over the projected estimates before speaking. “When you say certainty, Director, I think we all understand that. Hell, the Authority made that clear. So just what are you saying?

“The exact nature of the Authority’s engagement remains unknown, but evidence points to it being larger than many may realize,” he replied. Varn nodded once and returned her attention to the display. Maagad continued.

“The Authority will often communicate once with its target, yes. But it is rare for the communication to come so far ahead of the invasion. Their current action indicates three things. First, they need the fear of their invasion to marinate since they are striking at a whole region. Secondly, they need time themselves to prepare. And third, they do not fear giving their enemies time.”

Grand Matron Raalka Veys, of the Inquisition’s Inner Council, considered the words of the Director. “This would be a fool’s errand for most, no? As powerful as the Authority is, it could not hope to harvest Markion with such resistance locally and with allies called to her aid. Yes they have potential allies or at least those willing to work on the fringes, but the cost of such an operation would outweigh the benefits gained from success. This is unlike the Authority.”

“It is. Assuming this is a simple harvest, it is. But we have reason to believe this is not a normal harvest.”

Grand Admirtal Keshara Tol, the navy’s main representative, had spent much of the briefing going over the naval estimations. He inclined his head to Maagad. “Your estimates for the Authority’s expected naval deployments are rather shocking,” he said, allowing Magaad to build.

“It is,” Maagad said. “Ionis may be cut off in time, if we are right. Our difficulty is that intelligence is difficult at best in terms of the Authority. Do they consider Ionis alone strategically important enough to sustain the losses that will occur? Perhaps they believe regional fractures can be introduced. That is their bread and butter, and Markion is as vulnerable to this tactic as any other. Objectives beyond mere territorial occupation seem likely.”

Veys looked down at the report in front of her. “You refer to the possibility that they intend to foment a coalition so they may bloodlet it now?”

“That is one possibility. If powerful enemies can be brought together at once and given a severe hammerblow, that would strengthen their position for some time. Still, that seems shortsighed all the same, for its enemies remain too numerous.”

Foreign Affairs Matron Eila Varik raised her eyes from her own reports. "Still, we must discuss this with our allies correctly. We don't want our friends or the brave nations of Markion to think they are walking into a trap set by the Authority."

“Agreed. It should be presented carefully,” Maagad replied.

The Arsi’Elkon raised her hand to interrupt the others, and all grew silent. “I read the report, Director. How much do you truly believe they will throw into Markion?”

“Everything they can. Intelligence on Norska is difficult to say the least, but we can use the context. A normal harvest would be difficult to pull off under normal circumstances against a united Markion. With as much time as the region has, it could attract very powerful allies. The Authority knows this, which means it must use a military force that it thinks can defeat an extraregional coalition that is highly motivated to engage it. It must calculate that conventional victory may cost it billions in manpower and be just the first in a series of wars it will have to wage. The cost, even for the Authority, will be crippling.”

Officials returned to their reports. The numbers were tossed about liberally, because it was Kraven and nothing with them came without slaughter. The victors would be the ones willing to bathe in it most joyfully.

Sister-Militant Corva Thal, head of the Joint Readiness Secretariat, adjusted the report in front of her and spoke next. “What of their allies? Neither needs to win a conventional campaign to make the larger invasion easier, but no doubt they will serve the designs of chaos. What of Tottenhoff? The Lirvittians?”

"Conventional warfare will not be a major concern from them- at least, rising to the scale of the conflict. However, all pawns of the Authority have their part to play and as such we can expect them to commit to actions long before the conflict begins. They will be a counter-intelligence problem. And, frankly, mostly a Markion affair. We can aid them, but our capabilities outside of the Hive and Magic Sardas are limited. As for the Slaver Empire of Lirv, they believe they are using the Authority to advance their agenda. I doubt they are willing to throw forces behind this operation- it would put their whole empire at risk."

Nods across the table. The Lirvittian Empire was rising as a possible threat. Their actions inside of Dienstad were better known to M-SAD than to the other agencies, but that did not mean that they were easy to deal with. Every enemy presented unique difficulties and the abilities of the Imperial Service of Intelligence was impressive. M-SAD would conquer them in time, but the Mar'si measured that so broadly it offered no great advantage now.

Grand Matron Veys added. "Indeed. They will possess potent allies in the field of counter-intelligence, which is to say nothing of what the Authority can already do. The wave of assassinations Markion is likely to undergo will be less insidious than the infiltration of Markion command and control regionwide. This could make it difficult to effectively coordinate."

"More than that," Maagad replied. "Markion is home to many bickering political alliances and internal power structures. They may throw off those concerns for now if faced with the threat of the Authority, but it remains a point of tension. The Authority will pluck at those joints, newly welded, until they come apart."

"True. Though you have not answered my question, Director," the Arsi'Elkon said, her normally calm voice growling lower as the talkabout vexed her. "How much do you think they will throw into Markion?"

Maagad waited a second before he allowed the display to change. All routes that were advertised earlier as being possible were activated.
"Enough to cut Ionis off. Our analysis is this, Your Holiness: The Authority wants Ionis and it will be a primary strategic and existential operation for it. Perhaps Norska is finally tapped out? We can't know. Over the coming year we expect to grow our capability, but for now we have this. We have every reason to believe it will attack Ionis no matter who arrives, no matter who is summoned and in any number. It will bring Markion to its knees or be destroyed in the attempt. The time has come for FIREWALL."

FIREWALL had existed in some form for decades. Its earliest drafts had been written when the thought of a Major Kravenite campaign against an ally had been used as a test run for anti-Cult operations in the post-Long War era. The Victory Era, the calendars now called it. Successive teams of analysts, officers, diplomats, El'kon and Kerdan from every applicable Sarda, the Inquisition and Pavrita themselves had their say. It had evolved and chanegd with dedicated teams buried deep within M-SAD and the Inquisition constantly changing it. It stood as one of the more comprehensive action plans in the entire Theocracy.

Sister-Militant Thal looked toward the Arsi'Elkon Luboski. “Your Holiness, if Firewall is authorized, we will have to pare back some operations planned to deal with the State."

“I am aware.”

The Arsi’Elkon sat quietly for several seconds, reading a line from the paper in front of her before closing the report. When she finally spoke, there was a lightness in her voice that gave power to the joy that stirred within them all.
“We are burdened with a happy and bloody duty, the defeat of evil. By our blood as it flows in streams and rivers into the lakes and the oceans. By fire and shell as it burns the world. In exchange, we are given the gift of martydom, and how sincerely grateful are we that she has not forsaken us with a love of material good or obsessions with petty humanities. Sometimes I wonder how lucky I have been in my life, and once more I give humbled thanks to the Goddess that I get to give the command.”

Luboski opened the black folder and looked briefly at it before affixing her signature.
“I authorize Firewall in Markion. May the Martyrs be praised, and may we be lucky to join them.”

Leinsig, Republic of Auersten, Markion

The Mar'si delegation arrived with very little ceremony, as befit the diplomatic efforts of the Theocracy which was routinely far more understated than many expected. They passed through the checkpoints at the same pace as other diplomatic convoys, not taking umbrage at the intensity and stringent nature of the Auerstenian authorities. Aides discussed some affairs with security while the delegation proceeded, the convoy ending and the delegation making their way inside. The palace itself drew some fine appraisals from the delegation, and it was suitably impressive. The Mar'si were otherwise impassive regarding it or any symbolism it might represent, or how it may offend the socialists in attendance. None of the Mar'si lingered long on them, for they had dealt with splendor of some form their whole lives. It wasn't given over to the needs of the soul nor to the needs of the military so it perplexed them to some degree, but it was of no concern. Material grandeur had little ability to hold their attention for long.

Anchala Stav’pro emerged first and immediately appeared smaller than most of the officials and delegates being sent here. She possessed a slight build and energetic features that frequently led foreigners to consider her significantly younger than she was- not that she disliked being confused for someone in her early twenties as opposed to the mid-forties she actually was. The impression was fortified by modest spectacles resting low on her nose and the careful manner in which she carried herself. Her clothing suited a Mar'si diplomat and contained little ornamentation beyond the insignia identifying her office as Ambassadress to the Free Markion Nations. The position was new, for the Free Markion Nations would be the name the Mar'si gave to the coalition forming against the Authority's intrusion. She greeted the staff with a quiet voice and listened closely to their instructions, then thanked them wit mild sincerity. Very few knew she once worked with the Inquisition, and of those even a smaller subsect knew the nature of that service. Anchala had spent years studying the Authority- namely, the people and creatures who had been touched by them. She had examined the effects of its technologies and tactics on the bodies and minds of their victims and had participated in experiments to better understand them. The work had been creatively fulfilling for her and positioned her well for the work in Markion.

Brother-Commander Kyvik Jhanga followed her with an energy that was considerably easier to read. He was tall among the Mar'si with a statuesque beauty that was strikingly vexing considering how little attention he paid to it. His dress uniform was heavy with the medals of his service history but frankly the one that excited him most was the newest- a small badge in the image of Markion. Jhanga had been blessed to command the Matriarchy's military deployment into Markion, a vast and terrible force if it was all brought to bear. The responsibility had few direct comparisons in modern Mar'si history due to its extraregional nature when married with size and potential for martyrdom. He was delighted with the opportunity. His mind had been trapped in endless thoughts about the military factors that would go into his efforts and each thought brought him further joy. The prospect of fighting the cruel Authority had given him the particular and unique excitement of a professional receiving the assignment destined to make his peers perish in jealousy.

The final member of the delegation attracted considerably more attention than their fellows. A dark-furred Panthera whose sheen reflected the lights of the palace, the figure could scarcely hide its cheshire smile. The robes which flowed around it settled unnaturally whenever it stopped moving as if in water, while small markings had been worked into the collar of sleeves. Some were from the Magic Sarda and still others were stranger still. A sensation was betrothed to their presence, slight enough to remain beneath the threshold of one's consciousness yet persistent enough to ping off of magical detectors. They spoke to no one upon arrival as their attention drifted to seemingly mundate parts of their environment- and their name, spoken and read by themselves and security, seemed to immediately fall out of memory once spoken. All was well, for the smile spoke nothing of horrors.

Once inside the palace Jhanga looked back towards the scanning arches. "I see they have learned the lesson, painful as it was. They have certainly improved security. Some of that equipment is Arcadian I believe? Unless I have mistaken the manufacturer."
"You have not," Stav'pro answered, keeping her voice low. "The Christbolians supplied part of the security system themselves. Markians have been sharing data to some degree since the attack."

Jhanga continued forward. “A year gives us useful time. Forces shall be marshalled and we shall help them harden their hearts to the sacrifices necessary."

Stav’pro adjusted her spectacles. “The Authority will use that time to further whatever operations it already has in their governments. No doubt a number of them will be compromised and this problem will grow. We will need to be careful about who we work with."

Jhanga nodded. “I have read your assessments. We are building that assumption into our plans," Jhanga smiled and adjusted the cuff of his uniform as they entered the palace proper. “Still, don't you find this encouraging? Every delegation that arrives means another government has decided to participate in its own survival. That is rarer than either one of us would care to admit, no?”

The closer they came to the conference, the more clear the emotional undercurrent came through. Security spoke into radios at every intersection and tight, pale expressions seemed all too common. The Mar'si moved through it absent these feelings. An aide jogged forward as they reached the doors to the conference and quietly informed Stav’pro that the Arsi'Elkon had cleared her for whatever was needed following a last minute appeal from those preparing for war with Ordena.

“Very good,” she said. “Please inform our staff outside that I want the latest security memorandum brought to me once it arrives. Brother-Commander Jhanga will need the updated force-access notes as well.”

The aide inclined his head. “Yes, Ambassadress.”

Jhanga watched her leave and looked toward the doors with open anticipation. “I have been looking forward to this.”

[Soveiniesberg]

The Unorganized External Territory of the Aneilopastiv-Adurmann Islands, Soveinian Markion
Monday, March 26th, 2040. The evening before the conference.

Mikita just stared at the mirror in his condominium's half bathroom, blank-facedly, for a moment. He had just hurriedly awoke from a strangely timed nap, just in time to catch his string of flights to Auersten. He adjusted his striped orange, white, and blue tie for several minutes, before exhaling sharply, and washing his face again. He then exited the bathroom, sliding on a pair of strangely worn black dress boots, before clomping around for a minute, with them unlaced.

Minutes pass. Him running around his condominium, trying to find his misplaced passport that was just on the kitchen countertop. Making sure he packed enough socks. Watering the few plants that exist in his home. All stupid things, in his opinion. But important things.

He says goodbye to his family, sighing as he closes the door behind him.

He lights up some foreign cigarette using a match as soon as he gets onto his front porch. As he carries his suitcase down the several rickety flights of metal stairs, the wind begins to catch his tie. He makes his way onto the sidewalk, rubbing his eyes as he goes to the nearest taxi stand.

---

Mikita Churygovich is not the most civilized, smartest, kind, or the most experienced backup representative the Soveinians could have sent, often characterized by political commentators as being merely a grimacing face that shows up to Ternyiev only when absolutely necessary.

His political resume starts with being a representative to the Union of Markish Soveinian States, from his home territory of the Aneilopastiv-Adurmann Islands, a set of islands now immediately in the crosshairs of the looming Kraven invasion.

He is mostly hopeful, but deep down his nightly worries eat away at his heart. Today, maybe things will change for him, and his tiny islands he's been elected to represent, for today he represents the entirety of Soveinian Markion on the world stage.

---

Leinsig, Republic of Auersten
Tuesday, March 27th, 6:59 AM.

Mikitia's worn boots clacked along as he came up the hill, coming around on the cobbled sidewalk. He refused to look at anyone as he near-hurriedly shuffled up the stairs, going inside the Auerstinian palace after being hassled by security. His hands and brain itched for a smoke, and he managed to fight the urge off, stepping inside the gloomy conference room, and taking it all in.

Wearing a black suit, black pants, black boots, and no watch makes him look like he's almost at a funeral.

Very quickly he realized that there were more than just Markish faces in this very room, now tugging at his tie, as if to adjust it again.

His phone rang, and he looked at it for a moment, letting it ring a bit, before pressing the 'answer' button, and sliding the phone up to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Hey. This is Josef. You make it there alive?"

"I did."

"If you mess this up, I swear to God... No one will ever forgive you. So you have to be smart about this. Okay?"

"I won't."

"Okay, see you later then. Goodbye."

"Bye."

The click from a real telephone sounds, and Mikita just looks at his phone, sighing hard, then looking around, before going to get some food and ease his mind.

[Christbol]

OOC: This post takes place in the IC future based off a post that is going to be made and linked later in an edit. Made in partnership with Rhastov, additionally some recommended listening.

Samisvario Valley, Somewhere in the Christbolian desert, ChristBol, Markion

13:20, Tuesday, March 27th, 2040

With no clouds on the horizon, the old Christbolian nuclear facility was easy to spot, even if it was situated smack-dab in the middle of some +40 degree desert adequately named “Burning Hell Valley” in the literal translation from Christbolian to Markish. The windows on the arriving Christbolian NH-90 the entire Rhastovian staff was sent on for this mission were nothing to talk home about, but offered a good enough viewpoint to finally see it all for themselves, even if the helicopter was a little bit crowded flying together with two MSI officials and a handful of RED soldiers. The facility had some stationed guards and checkpoints several hundred meters out in all directions, although from a distance looked unguarded from the inside or close-by. Most of the buildings looking from the sky haven’t seen repairs or maintenance since the 1970s, maybe even the late 1960s.

The helicopter touched down onto a helipad a small distance away from where the MSI wants to take the Rhastovian researchers, although calling it a helipad doesn’t quite suffice explaining it: where the helipad hasn’t been covered in sand for what looks to be the dawn of time given the endless layers, exposed concrete shows up as small surfaces of grey, cracked and with the painted on “H” sign disappearing decades ago. The helicopter door on the side opens and, stepping out after having air conditioning blasting all the time for their own comfort, the Rhastovians are greeted with a scorching heat apocalypse they wouldn’t want their worst enemies to end up in instead of the pits of sulfur and brimstone found in Hell as the Christbolians exit calm and neutral about the temperature difference.

One of the Rhastovian scientists, a man in his mid 50s with visible gray hair, stepped out and immediately let off a heavy sigh.

“Sweet mother of God! Did we end up in Hell? I don't remember the heat being this bad last time I went to ChristBol.” he said, trying to walk to the nearest piece of shade, already starting to sweat.
“Didn’t you go to Anokoomi for that science convention three years ago?” another one asked, stepping right behind him.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“That whole area is temperate and normal you dingus, not a scorching oven like this. Didn’t you read the briefing before the flight?”
“I… may have fallen asleep. You know, the sound of the rotors and all that-”

“Changing the world is seldom going to make you travel to the most comforting of places, Mr. Rusu.” - One of the two MSI agents speaks up in Rhastovian, trying to cut the ensuing conversation quick. - “And I cannot imagine a protected place that brings more discomfort to us on our own soil than this.”

The facility is a glorified assortment of bunkers, placed in random order, however the piling sand may have had an influence in that impression. The distance offered a clear view to some nuclear bomb testing site on the surface, evident by the fact that a few sparkles of glass shards emerged shining between onslaughts of new sand everywhere across. Visibility of the sparkling was poor, but still there even after decades. - “1967. That is where we dropped the first successful domestic one. The first and only successful domestic one.” - Mentions the second agent seeing the Rhastovians take peeks at the location, but in Markish, not having a knack for Rhastovian. It made for decent alternative conversation until they arrived where the MSI agents wanted to take all of them - a sizable bunker-like structure a little ways away from their landing spot, held together at the front by a rusty gate still working off of a punch card reader. The non-Rhastovian speaking agent proceeds to unearth a punch card from his pocket that appears to have survived the Arcadian War on Communism by the looks of it, and slots it into the reader that had power revived to it just this morning in expectation of their arrival.

An old, analog alarm rings for the first time in decades as the massive steel door opens with a deep rumble. Inside, a security checkpoint, abandoned for god knows how long, followed by a slightly smaller armored door. The lights on the ceilings lit up with loud clangs one by one, revealing a maze of concrete walls that had seen better days, more metal doors, various warning signs, and shelves stocked up with all sorts of documents, folders, and scale models covered in thick dust. A valuable treasure trove for nuclear scientists or terrorists alike.

Before the Rhastovians get to step a foot through the door, the Markish-speaking agent stops them, holding the wrist with his watch up to his face. Seeing the confusion on their face, the agent decides to clarify. - “Just give it a few minutes. I am making sure we are not committing an international crime which has stood for nearly 80 years by letting you cross this threshold yet.” - He says, still checking his watch and waiting for the dials to cross 13:30 exactly.

Only a minute of lounging around and trying to pick up as much shade from the outer walls of the bunker passes before the agent speaks up again. - “Mr. Rusu, you are going to be assigned as acting director of the Rhastovian nuclear program, correct?”

“Me? Oh no no, I won’t. But I will be in contact with the woman who will be, a lot.”

“Well in that case…” - The agent leans more into the wall of the bunker with a relaxed pose. - “Would you care to pass the time by me telling you how my grandfather died?”

“Of course. I don’t see why not.”

The agent looks off into the distance at the bomb detonation site for a brief moment. - “After the Arcadian war against Anavokya, and most of the other socialist states, the Earthly Voice at the time, Execrant Annor’s own grandfather, wanted a nuclear weapon arsenal. This was deeply unpopular, even for all the endless hate Arcadia created for the Christbolian people to feel, and the Christbolian government to utilize. A nuclear weapon was too much of a step forward - people thought. Using Anavokyan refugee scientists helped accelerate our process by a tremendous amount, and we secured research in secret all the way up to 1967, which resulted in the detonation you see away from us, that Arcadia detected through seismic readouts and threatened all of ChristBol with total annihilation over. I believe the phrase the Arcadian Chancellor at the time used in specific was ‘Straight to the confines of purgatory, whether they are godless communists or communists with a god’. This is common knowledge, they broadcasted it on national news and still keep the recordings. I am almost certain anyone looking into the last days of the old Anavokyan socialist system is familiar with the story.”

He takes a look back into Rusu, who still seems quite unsure of where this topic is going, but soon won’t be. - “ChristBol at the time was a state slowly falling off its old axis of power. From the loss of its allies, to the loss of its standing in the world, even many people just leaving due to the threat of nuclear obliteration itself, nothing was going right… but we still boasted equipment and resources that could have resisted an Arcadian attack. Maybe not intercepting nuclear missiles en masse, but we had some of the best anti-air equipment in the world at the time, courtesy of Anavokya. If they shot a limited exchange at us, perhaps a few tactical nukes using bombers like in Anavokya itself, we could have stopped it.” - He delays talking for a solitary few seconds before sulking back and looking at the ground beneath him. - “Political opinion on a government level shifted when a Christbolian, not an Arcadian, killed my grandfather, one of the heads of the program. He was attacked and killed by just a man with a gun, who worked under him and didn’t like nuclear weapons. Try as I might working at the MSI I never discovered a single paper to suggest otherwise, and I don't believe the assassination orchestrated rather than spontaneous based on other sources either.”

It is by this point that the watch on the agent’s wrist reads 13:30, but he still keeps going, not giving any indication that time has passed for long enough despite receiving a ping from the watch to indicate the treaty at the conference in Auersten for lifting the nuclear weapon ban has been signed, ratified and gone into force immediately. - “After that moment the original Earthly Voice flipped on the issue. Execrant Hakka, along with much of the government, used the death as their way out by aligning with the anti-nuclear movement for political capital and, although never admitting the man did something right because the Church is against any killing but in self defense, he quietly never saw even the outline of a real jail cell. He even had a couch and television. The Arcadian-Christbolian nuclear non-proliferation treaty was in talks the next day and we never moved the documents or the equipment for building the bomb from this place since. The Arcadians knew we had a rough draft of ideas, and figured that demanding what we had wouldn’t have mattered if we could just copy the originals before giving them, so instead they forced us to extradite many involved with the program instead."

Turning to Rusu he makes one last bit of passive-aggressive smalltalk, taking off the sunglasses he had on him for much of the trip and revealing a man who wholly looked in his 40s, possibly 50s. - “Execrant Annor is a powerful man. Much of the Christbolian government today is also very powerful. With a stack of papers unlike the Earthly Voice of yesteryear, ours can instruct us to make several modern Arcadian fighters jam and crash from the sky with little to no effort: sabotaging the planes while they are still in Arcadia, targeted cyberwarfare, missiles and agents hidden in places they'd never think about looking - these are all options... but it is public opinion, how to achieve it, and the way out of a situation that matters to the Execrant and every member of government on what they choose to burn down and when.” - He stares down Rusu with a piercing, inquisitorial expression. - “Do you know why I am telling you this?”

“No, why is that?”

The agent has a smirk on him for Rusu saying so, almost even a grin. - “Because you and your team must be careful that at one point you don’t upset the public in ChristBol enough to where some politicians and bean counters in Weltholm don’t finally decide that dropping you wouldn’t be easier than dropping the planes.”

With no comment back, the weight and mood of the whole group becomes heavier. It isn’t until the agent checks his watch one more time, although knowing that the paper has already been signed, that the situation shifts back to normal. - “It is time. We enter and recover the plans.” - He makes the first step, the others soon follow.

Entering the bunker, it felt as if the temperature dropped drastically. Everyone started looking at various paper documents or baskets filled with all sorts of folders - theoretical designs for a gun-type atomic bomb, implosion bomb designs, test data sheets marked with Anavokyan communist seals, thermonuclear designs, the whole nine yards - and started bringing them out one by one to load in the helicopter. To the Rhastovian scientists, they had essentially hit the El Dorado of nuclear weapons development (without having to visit Arcadia at least), and were planning to use it to their fullest capabilities.

Ministry of Finance, Ranov, Socialist Republic of Rhastov
March 27, 13:30

The ministry of finance was buzzing with activity, people running all over the building with financial reports, budget adjustments, key sectors prioritization papers, calls to and from other ministries, and much more. In the midst of all this chaos sat the quiet office of the minister of finance, Catalin Popescu, a tall and thin man approaching his 40s already, though he appears much older thanks to his wrinkles and gray hair - a clear sign he spent countless nights trying to ensure the Rhastovian economy doesn't accidentally bankrupt itself. He specifically asked to not be disturbed today of all days, trying to prepare his nerves for what requests were about to follow the emergency meeting in Schwannsdorf. His laptop was open on his desk, playing a live broadcast of the meeting from the Auerstenian capital.

The moment he saw the document be signed by all parties, he received a text message - it was from the minister of national defense.

“Hey. It's me. Could you please add another seven zeroes to the national defense budget? Thanks in advance.”

Reading the text, Catalin brought his hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew it wasn't a joke, and that’s what annoyed and terrified him the most. He opened the Calculator app on his laptop, and inputted the number for the 2040’s defense budget, and then started adding zeroes. Zero… Zero… and after just a few inputs the calculator reached its maximum character limit for individual numbers.

“Jesus fucking Christ… Not this again.”

[Salomeia]

Yeinika had already sent its answer to Leinsig: Salomeia would attend. The difficulty was getting there without leaving unfinished work behind. By the morning of departure, Prime Minister Iska Osimai, Executive Secretary Retai Syani, and General Kaikai nuya Syahari were still moving between offices, briefing rooms, secure calls, and stacks of documents that had very little to do with foreign diplomacy. Salomeia had its own problems, its own schedules, its own people waiting on decisions. Whatever was happening beyond its borders might soon become the most important problem the Federation had ever faced, but that did not make everything already happening at home disappear. If anything, it made finishing what could be finished more urgent.

They had hoped to leave earlier. Retai had spent much of the previous evening clearing decisions that could not simply sit unanswered for several days, while Kaikai had been pulled back into military headquarters by questions she refused to delegate without first seeing the reports herself.

Iska, meanwhile, had insisted that the government continue operating normally. There would be no sudden cancellation of meetings, no conspicuous convoy movements, and certainly no announcement that three of the country's most senior civilian and military officials were preparing to discuss a possible catastrophe abroad. A small circle knew why they were going. Everyone else knew only what they needed to know: the Prime Minister and two senior officials had regional business to attend to. There was no deception in that. There was simply no reason yet to frighten sixty-eight million people with conclusions their government had not reached.

What little Salomeia knew about Kraven had come almost entirely from others. That alone bothered all three of them. The Federation had spent most of its history concerned with itself: building its provinces, maintaining the institutions holding them together, improving infrastructure, defending its territory, arguing over budgets, handling disasters, and solving the endless ordinary problems of government.

Kraven belonged to somebody else's history. Other countries had fought them, studied them, feared them, and built entire doctrines around the possibility of meeting them again. Salomeia had not. Now those same foreigners were saying that something vast was coming for Ionis, and Iska was unwilling to gamble the country on either disbelief or blind acceptance. They would go to Leinsig, hear what everyone knew, ask what nobody seemed to be asking, and return with something more useful than fear.

By the time their baggage was finally taken downstairs, Retai had checked the departure time twice and Kaikai three times.

Iska looked at the clock, then at the last folder still sitting open on her desk. “We are going to be late,”

Retai said, although not quite accusing anyone. “We told them we were coming,”

Iska replied, signing the final page and closing the folder. “They can survive another few hours without us.”

Kaikai gave the Prime Minister a look suggesting that this was probably not how one spoke about a conference preparing for the possible end of half the region. Iska stood, took her coat, and headed for the door anyway. Salomeia was going to Leinsig. It simply needed to finish being Salomeia first.

---

Just before they finally left the building, Retai’s phone buzzed with confirmation that the Flight 117 investigation team had begun moving out. She read the message while walking, one hand buried in the pocket of a dark brown coat that was practical enough to survive railway platforms, construction sites, ministry corridors, and whatever else her work threw at her.

Retai, the youngest of the three, looked at it, though there was very little youthful uncertainty left in the way she carried herself. Her black hair had been cut short enough to stay out of her face and was already slightly untidy from the morning. Beneath the coat she wore a plain cream shirt, dark trousers, and sturdy low boots instead of anything particularly diplomatic. There was something about her clothes, and especially the way she rolled her sleeves whenever she expected actual work, that looked more at home around freight yards, engineers, and people discussing whether a bridge could hold another twenty tonnes than around a ceremonial reception.

“They’re on their way. Kosen’s people made it out.”

Iska glanced at the message and gave a small nod. She looked much more like someone foreigners would expect to find at the head of a government, although even that was mostly the result of long practice rather than vanity. She wore a dark blue suit cut comfortably rather than tightly, a pale blouse beneath it, and a long coat folded over one arm for the journey. Her hair, darker at the ends and increasingly silver nearer the roots, was kept just past her shoulders and had been brushed carefully that morning even if she had already begun running a hand through it whenever she became irritated.

The capital had left its mark on her. She moved through government buildings without looking around for directions, slipped around staff and doorways before anyone needed to make room for her, and carried the quiet awareness of someone who had spent much of her adult life inside one of the largest, busiest cities in the federation.

“Good. Let them work.”

Retai slipped the phone back into her coat.

“That’s the idea. Same with everyone we’re leaving here. I picked the people staying behind myself. Ministries, emergency coordination, the parliamentary people who actually answer their phones, the provincial contacts. They know what they’re doing.”

She adjusted the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder, then added, “Basically, their job is to stop anything big from rocking the fucking boat while we’re gone.”

Kaikai walked beside her with the easy, economical stride of someone who had spent so much of her life in uniform that even the way she moved had inherited something from marching. She was the tallest of the three, broad through the shoulders without being particularly bulky, with dark hair tied tightly behind her head and a face that tended toward seriousness until Retai said or did something capable of breaking it.

Her travelling uniform was deliberately restrained: dark service trousers, polished but well-worn boots, a high-collared field-gray jacket, and very little decoration beyond the insignia she actually needed. There was something western in the severity of it, but not entirely. The jacket had been altered years ago by a tailor who understood that a good uniform should let someone move, crouch, climb, and work rather than merely stand beautifully for photographs. Even her accent carried two different provincial inheritances if one knew Salomeia well enough to hear them: one harder and clipped, the other warmer around certain words associated with work, favors, and obligations.

“I believe you.”

Her hand slipped against Retai’s thigh as they walked. It was not accidental, and the slow pressure of her fingers made that perfectly obvious. Kaikai let them remain there for several steps, looking ahead with an expression of professional innocence that fooled nobody who knew her.

Retai looked sideways at her wife. The corner of her mouth lifted and she made absolutely no effort to move away.

Iska noticed the exchange and decided it was nowhere near the top of the list of things she intended to worry about that morning. “I don’t.”

Retai looked back over her shoulder. “You don’t trust the people I chose?”

“No, I trust them. That’s not what I mean.”

Iska’s brow tightened. Her pace had become a little slower without her noticing, while Retai seemed physically incapable of walking anywhere without looking as though she had somewhere else to be immediately afterward.

“It’s the coalition. Some of the parties in it are doing something. Or thinking about doing something. I just can’t figure out what the fuck exactly they’re doing or thinking or—”

“Iska,” Retai interrupted, but softly. She slowed for half a step so the Prime Minister could come closer. “We’re really just going out for a short period. It’s not something to really, really worry about.”

Iska shook her head. “That’s exactly when people try things. When they think you’re distracted.”

She tucked a loose strand of gray-dark hair behind one ear. “And that one provincial governor—don’t give me that look, Retai, you know exactly which one I mean—has been far too quiet lately.”

Retai did, in fact, give her that look.

Iska continued anyway. “I don’t like quiet from people who normally make noise for a living.”

There was something very old-capital about the suspicion, too. Iska had spent enough years watching coalition governments, provincial delegations, parliamentary factions, ministry bureaucracies, publishers, unions, lobbyists, and half the federation pass through Yeinika that silence had become just another kind of political language to her. People who were genuinely doing nothing rarely worked so hard to appear as though they were doing nothing.

She continued talking for another few seconds before realizing nobody had answered.

Retai and Kaikai were both several paces ahead.

Kaikai had taken her hand away from Retai’s thigh at some point and was now saying something quietly into her wife’s ear, while Retai answered without breaking stride. Together they moved with an almost unfair efficiency. After all, Retai was the government workhorse from a province that treated logistics like a natural resource, and she was the wife of a soldier carrying both that same practical inheritance and something much harder from the western end of the country.

Iska stared after them.

“Oh, fuck me.”

She adjusted the strap of her bag and started after them.

For the first several steps she tried to match their pace. Then she stopped pretending and slowed again. She could still walk perfectly well. She could still work, still travel, still speak for the government, still argue for hours, still make the top level decisions, and still outlast people younger than herself when something actually mattered.

But the years were starting to collect, and the way they collected up and up were coming after her with a very special kind of ruthlessness which she easily understood. Because she fucked herself.

The drinking had not helped. Neither had the nights when one drink became three because three finally made her stop thinking about tomorrow. Or was that four? Five? Fuck.

And if she allowed herself to remember her own exhaustion, her own years of work in the never ending political world of Salomeia, well….. Iska was always trying to convince herself that exhaustion could always be dealt with after the next meeting, the next crisis, the next government, the next election.

But, really, where did that bring her? Nowhere? Somewhere? Iska had to stop thinking about that. She was moving way too slow that Retai glanced back eventually and noticed the growing distance between them.

She also started slowing down for Iska. Kaikai noticed a moment later and matched her without needing to ask why.

Iska saw them doing it. Inside, she felt bad about it. But what did she do? She just said nothing about that either.

[Enteres]

Quinte East Air and Space Port, Ontario, Enteres | March 27, 2040 | 11:17 Enteres Standard Time

“Quinte West Information Bravo, weather at 1500z winds 150 at 13 gusting 22, ceiling 2500 broken; temperature 19, dewpoint 14. Primary IFR approach GLS runway 24R and secondary approach RNAV Y runway 24L; simultaneous parallel approaches in effect. Landing runway 24R and 24L, departing runway 24C. Non-RNAV Y-equipped aircraft expect ILS or GLS. NOTAMs: due to military activity, flow control on southbound oceanic routes in effect, expect delay of up to 2 hours. Goose and Small Bird activity reported in the ENQW area. There are no voice advisories on the secondary frequency. Inform ATC you have information Bravo. Quinte West Informati-”

“Dude, we’ve been sitting here for 3 hours, and we don't even have a flow time yet.” Captain Trevor Morris says, slumping back in his seat. “Call ops and tell them if they don't get us out in an hour, we’re taxiing back to the gate, and they can pay for another night of crew hotels or a new crew that isn't going to time out over the central ocean.” With the news that a whole airliner had gone missing over the Central Ocean, most of the flight crews waiting for a flow time out of Quinte East were slightly anxious- mechanical issues? Hijacking? French separatists? Again? But Morris and his crew were even more so; like the missing aircraft, they carried 15 Government officials on their way to Auersten, and someone somewhere in the Government had decided that all southbound oceanic flights should be delayed or rerouted, and somewhere in the NavEnteres computers it was decided that ENT1121, a flight operated by Air Enteres’ charter division, would be put all the way at the back of the list.

Quinte East Air and Space Port, Ontario, Enteres | March 27, 2040 | 12:21

“Aaaaand there it is, we’ve timed out, im starting 1 and we’re taxiing back to the gate” Morris reaches down and starts the number 1 engine and switches the active frequency on the radio panel, “Ground Enteres Eleven Twenty One, we’ve timed out, we need to taxi back to terminal 3” “Enteres Eleven Two One, roger taxi Echo November, Hold short of runway 24R” “Echo November, short of the Right for eleven twenty one”

Almost five hours after pulling out of its gate, the airliner full of travellers and government officials pulls right back into it.

[Auersten]

Schwannsdorf, Bundesrepublik Auersten

The Special Election

Chancellor Lorenz Rudner had a tenuous term as the Auersten head of state, which many described as uneventful, unassuming, and certainly not enough- more so now than ever with the crisis at the region's feet. Chancellor Rudner sat diagonally from the Speaker of the Bundesenat. The Volkshalle had passed the measures for a special election by a margin of two votes. Only an arm's reach away, the Speaker stood up and began to speak as his voice echoed through the chambers like thunder: "As of today, the Volkshalle has invoked the procedures for a special election, one which will conclude at the end of the month on the thirty-first of September. Here we convene to certify the decision of the lower house."

One by one, senators stood up in a neat and orderly fashion with a card, dropping them inside a box at the foot of the Speaker's podium. Forty minutes slunk by in silence with the only sound of shoes on the marble floor squeaking as the senators left their seats and returned. The box was brought to the Speaker, and the count began. While this practice could easily be completed via normal means with the tablets at their seats, something like this was always done in the traditional way.

After an hour of the Speaker calling out the votes, with the secretaries transcribing and rechecking the count as soon as the card was handed to them, it was over. 13 votes approved the special election. After this, the Volkshalle and Bundessenat would select a leader from the parties; they would be voted down to one, and on the 30th of September he and whoever Congress had chosen would be voted on by the houses. This was often the death of the Chancellor, or the policies of the leading party. Often, the leading party accepts the defeat; however, it does happen that the ruling party shifts policy in order to survive.

Schwannsdorf, Bundesrepublik Auersten

Vizemarschall Schlendenfeld, Chief of Staff of the Auersten Defense Forces

The Vizemarschall received word that the special election had been approved well before the news broke; many in the government sought to reinforce the nation. Across the former empire, many of the governments have declared their intent to move closer as one united bloc. The reformation of the common army and navy. One free from the Arcadians. It was clear that if Auersten or any of the republics that made up our former colonies went into this fight alone, we would all be under the Arcadian thumb with no say in how the war is run- just bodies for the fight instead of a force that would be able to affect larger operations united under one banner.

The question of who will be selected to run against Rudner was already solved, and the vote to bring him into the election was simply a formality. Times were changing, and the nation will survive.

[Salomeia]

Tuesday, March 27th, 2040


Five Salomeian fighters kept company with the larger transport in the center, holding a wide, disciplined box that left plenty of sky between wingtips. No crowding. The pilots had spent enough years patrolling the maritime frontiers that holding station required steady attention rather than strained effort, small corrections traveling through flight sticks, rudders, and trim tabs while the ocean moved beneath them in long, slate-colored swells.

Two of the fighters held forward and split wide from the transport’s nose. Another pair flew flanked well out on either beam. The fifth held the high trailing slot, positioned where her pilot could sweep the entire formation while covering the transport carrying three of the most important women in the Federation.

Every pilot in the escort was a woman. So were the flight crew on the transport’s flight deck, the flight engineers monitoring turbine pressures, the communications officers watching foreign air frequencies, and the cabin attendants securing tea glasses against the high-altitude chop. None of it had been staged as a political demonstration. No executive order had been drafted in Yeinika demanding an all-female escort for the Prime Minister. The manifest had simply come together out of a service where women had spent generations flying fighters, maritime patrol craft, heavy transports, and helicopters across every province.

Before leaving the runway, the transport’s flight commander had received an order that superseded all ceremonial protocol: bring them there alive. The escort pilots had received the exact same mandate. Protect the transport. Follow the filed route. Maintain communications. Do nothing stupid.

Especially the last.

Salomeia had no interest in triggering an air-defense scramble in a foreign state by sending six unidentified aircraft, five of them carrying live ordnance, toward a diplomatic conference already operating under severe paranoia.

Josef Stöckler had been murdered barely a week prior, an airliner had gone missing over the central ocean, and regional skies were choked with delays, suspicion, and military alert. The Salomeian Foreign Ministry had transmitted full flight notifications to Auersten well before departure, confirming that Prime Minister Iska Osimai would arrive alongside Executive Secretary Retai Syani and General Kaikai nuya Syahari. The diplomatic dispatch had itemized the transport’s registration, arrival window, route coordinates, and the presence of five armed fighters. The notification had been repeated before takeoff, duplicated through military backchannels, and monitored by Salomeian personnel on the ground to ensure it did not simply sit unread in a terminal.

Nobody in Yeinika considered that manner of persistence mistrust. Putting three senior leaders into a single cabin during an international crisis marked by assassinations, disappearances, and troop movements was an extraordinary operational risk. Flying unarmed to save fuel would have accomplished nothing except vulnerability. Until another state formally assumed responsibility for their safety, Salomeia guarded its own.

The aircraft themselves were evidence of another enduring Federation habit: Salomeians preferred building what they flew. The government transport came from a domestic airframe program tailored to national requirements, and those were things like long range, rough-field tolerance, simplified maintenance, and the versatility to carry either ministerial delegations or cargo pallets without grounded airframes waiting on foreign components. The fighters flanking it reflected the exact same industrial doctrine, assembled across Salomeian factories and engineering bureaus that the state spent years pulling inland. They were not autarkic miracles where every bolt and transistor had grown independently from provincial soil. Far from it. The Salomeians were wise enough to appreciate foreign assistance. They benefited from Solisian technical sharing and commercial trade, because all of that contributed to avionics, composite materials, and production techniques. A very good relationship for both of them.

But Salomeia took what was shared, modified it, manufactured what it could within its own borders, and made certain the survival of an operational squadron never depended on a foreign official remembering to answer the telephone.

And inside the cabin, Retai Syani was using a telephone anyway.

She had a briefing folder open across her knees, another document balanced on the armrest, and a secure receiver wedged between cheek and shoulder while her pen scratched notes across the margin.

Kaikai watched her from the adjoining seat, arms crossed over her high-collared field-gray traveling jacket. Taking in Retai’s untidy short hair and the dark coat that looked far more suited to freight terminals and railway works than a diplomatic reception, Kaikai spoke quietly: “You know there are people in Yeinika whose entire jobs are doing that for you.”

Retai held up a single finger without lifting her eyes from the paper.

Kaikai leaned back and waited.

Across the aisle, Iska looked up over the top of her folder, her reading glasses catching the cabin light. “She is going to ignore you until the line disconnects.”

“I know,” Kaikai said.

“You said it anyway.”

“I am her wife. I have obligations.”

Retai finally clicked the receiver into its cradle and capped her pen. “Thank you both for contributing to national policy.”

Iska watched her with the slow, heavy fatigue of someone who had spent decades managing the capital. The years of detailed administrative work and the late-night drinks she used to shut her mind down were exacting a quiet price, though her political instincts remained sharp. “How is home?” Iska asked.

“Still there,” Retai answered. “Kosen’s team made it out to investigate the Flight 117 disappearance, and the ministries are locked down. For now.” She smoothed the memorandum on her lap. Through the small cabin window, the sky was a hard, pale blue, broken only by the sharp silhouette of an escort fighter banking gently to match their heading. “We finally heard back through Solisia.”

Kaikai shifted in her seat, and Iska closed her folder.

“From the government?” Iska asked.

“Both channels,” Retai said, pulling another memorandum from the stack. “Diplomatic traffic arrived first, and our liaisons inside Solisia followed right after because I explicitly ordered them not to hand me the official communique twice and pretend it was independent confirmation. They spoke directly with their contacts. Solisia is taking us seriously.”

Kaikai adjusted her collar, her expression narrowing. “Taking us seriously is not the same thing as being able to help.”

“No. They said that too,” Retai replied. Retai scanned the page again. Had to. She continued to speak. “They have commitments across Greater Dienstad, and… there's far too many of them. Sishia, the KNR, Magdara, Tupenga, Xofrautan. They are not promising divisions they don’t have available, and nobody on our staff was foolish enough to ask for them.”

“Good,” Kaikai said flatly. “I have no use for a field army that exists only in a banquet speech.”

“They are offering what they can actually sustain,” Retai continued, reading down the margin notes. “Intelligence liaison. Technical exchange. Logistics planning. Access to their research where export controls permit. Industrial coordination where production requirements overlap. Shipping assistance if sea lanes deteriorate and priority cargo needs to move under their flags. Credit facilities and deferred procurement terms. Communications interoperability. And direct staff contact, so our technical personnel don’t have to route every question through six ministries and three embassies.”

Iska held out her hand, and Retai passed the memo across the table.

For several minutes, the only sound in the cabin was the low vibration of the turbofans and the rustle of paper. Iska read carefully, her eyes tracing back up whenever a specific clause required double scrutiny.

The writing was genuine. No grand declarations that Queen Wessa’s battle fleets would sweep across the ocean to shield Ionis. No promises that foreign soldiers would solve problems Salomeia had not yet understood for itself. Instead, there were names, ministerial desks, direct contacts, port allocations, credit figures, and technical teams, all of it making up the unglamorous, grinding machinery by which one state genuinely aided another.

“This I believe,” Iska said, handing the pages to Kaikai.

Retai nodded. “So do I.”

Kaikai scanned the sheets quickly, her practical military eye searching for the maritime link. “What did they say about Nannasia?”

Retai allowed herself a faint, dry smile. “That part took longer.”

“Naturally.”

“Our people were told Solisia was coordinating directly with them rather than treating this as two separate conversations. Then Nannasia confirmed it through naval channels. The Solisians are working alongside them.”

Kaikai nodded slowly. That made strategic sense. Solisia and Nannasia were bound by history and the blood spilled at Magdara, but Nannasia was an independent republic with its own cabinet, admiralty, and oceanic interests. Its deep-water logistical endurance and merchant marine made its cooperation vital for a mainland state facing east across the Durranese.

“What are the Nannasians prepared to do?” Iska asked.

“Everything we have is preliminary,” Retai said firmly, looking directly at Kaikai. “And I want that word remembered: preliminary.”

“I heard you,” Iska said.

“I know. I am saying it for her.”

Kaikai did not look up from the paper. “Fuck you.”

Retai smirked. “Maritime logistics. Shipping access. Industrial support. Credit. Technical assistance. Intelligence where their ocean patrols have useful data. And joint transport planning. Their practical experience with long-distance sustainment is one of the specific things Solisia told us to consult them on.”

Kaikai lowered the report to the table. “No ground troops?”

“None offered.”

“Good. I mean it—good. I would rather know what actually exists than find out months from now that somebody pledged fifty thousand soldiers just because it sounded heroic at a press conference.”

Iska leaned back against her headrest. “And Solisia?”

“Same principle,” Retai said. “They help where their domestic industry can sustain it. Nannasia helps where its fleets can sustain it. We keep talking to both, and they keep talking to each other.”

Iska turned her gaze toward the window. The Federation’s relationship with Solisia had always resisted easy summary. Centuries of trade, migration, shared shipping, broken ties, and Queen Wessa’s deliberate rebuilding had produced a partnership based on practical necessity rather than romantic nostalgia. Salomeia kept personnel inside Solisia because diplomacy was far more reliable when people were physically present to read faces, note hesitation, and call home afterward. Today, those representatives had proven their worth. And beyond them, the sister-republic in Varathron was moving in parallel.

Iska tapped one finger against the armrest. “What did our people say about how the Solisians acted? Not the text. Their demeanors.”

Retai leaned in slightly. “One of our attachés said the entire room changed tone the moment Markion came up. They stopped talking like diplomats offering polite condolences. They asked what Salomeia could move with its own railway stock, what our ports could handle under wartime blackout, what our secondary airfields could take, how much industrial capacity we could redirect without starving the civilian economy, what secure communications systems we use, and what we might need from Nannasia that Solisia couldn’t provide efficiently.”

Iska listened closely, her expression hardening. “Did she answer?”

“She gave what she was authorized to give and refused what she wasn’t. And she told them detailed requests would follow after Leinsig.”

“Better,” Iska said.

Kaikai passed the report back to Retai. “They are doing what I would do. If they were offering us crates of advanced weapons before asking whether we had the depots to maintain them, I would distrust them. If they are asking about ports and railways, they are thinking about throughput. And if Nannasia is talking shipping, I want our transport planners speaking with theirs before we sign anything.”

“I already sent that directive to Yeinika,” Retai noted.

Kaikai looked at her wife, her stern expression breaking with subtle warmth.

Retai shrugged. “You are predictable.”

“Useful.”

“Sometimes.”

Iska laid her hand flat over her closed folder. “This still does not answer the essential question.”

Retai’s face settled. “No.”

Kaikai knew exactly what lay behind the words. None of the messages from Solisia confirmed whether the terrifying reports about Kraven were accurate in every detail, how many hulls were crossing the sea, where they would strike, how their doctrine operated under fire, or whether the foreign powers gathering in Auersten understood the threat as well as they claimed. Useful friends were still not omniscient friends. That gap was the only reason they were flying to Leinsig.

“I want verified records,” Iska said, the quiet authority in her voice cutting through the cabin noise. “Not confidence. Not reputation. Not a room full of foreign ministers telling me that everybody already knows what Kraven does. If someone has fought them, I want after-action reports. And losses.”

Kaikai nodded in agreement. “Losses, orders, what failed. What actually worked rather than what was credited with working after the fact. Logistics. Ammunition consumption rates. How their electronic warfare affects communications networks. Whether conventional air defense holds its ground, and whether standard armor can survive contact.”

Retai looked between the Prime Minister and the General. “I also want to know what treaties they expect us to sign, and what share of the bill they expect Salomeia to pay.”

“Especially that,” Iska said, a brief, cynical smile touching her lips.

They were flying into a summit that had already descended into organized dread. The reports from Auersten described a former imperial palace outside Schwannsdorf choked with checkpoints, where Arcadian and Christbolian scanners probed delegates down to the composition of their luggage and the data in their phones. Bitter ideological rivals like ChristBol and Arcadia were frantically lifting nuclear armament bans and pledging industrial funds, socialist and monarchist delegations were eyeing each other across gilded hallways, and diplomats were stepping into side rooms to take panic-stricken calls from home.

Salomeia had no interest in joining an ideological circus. With sixty-eight million citizens living on an exposed mainland coast with no island buffer, the Federation could not afford to gamble its survival on theater.

A knock at the forward partition broke the silence.

A communications officer stepped into the aisle, her headset resting partly off one ear. She was young, her uniform immaculate, but her posture was entirely steady. “Prime Minister.”

Iska looked up. “Yes?”

“We are nearing the reporting coordinate. The flight deck has the diplomatic packet ready for transmission. Our escort remains in position.”

“Any traffic from Auersten control?” Iska asked.

“Monitoring their sector frequencies now, ma’am. Nothing directed to our callsign yet.”

“Send the reminder,” Iska said.

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

The officer turned and vanished back through the hatch.

Kaikai checked her watch. “About time.”

Retai glanced at her wife with an exhausted, affectionate smirk. “You checked that five minutes ago.”

“I know.”

“And ten minutes before that.”

“I know that too.”

“Are you going to keep doing it?”

“Yes.”

Retai leaned sideways, resting her head against Kaikai’s shoulder for several seconds, letting out a breath that was more comfort than fatigue. Kaikai’s hand rested lightly against Retai’s arm, holding her close while Iska looked out the window, choosing to say nothing.

Ahead on the flight deck, the pilots began trimming the airframe for the initial descent corridor. Across the escort box, five fighter pilots received the navigation update in near unison. Waypoints were checked. Fuel states were cross-referenced against diversion fields. Communications remained open, and radar suites stayed in passive search. Nobody accelerated, nobody drifted out of position, and no fire-control radars illuminated foreign airspace. They had been given a route, an escort mission, and strict instructions concerning the approaching controlled airspace.

In the forward compartment, the communications officer selected the designated approach channel and keyed the transmitter. This was not the first message Auersten had received from Salomeia. That was the point: critical information was repeated precisely so nobody could claim surprise.

She transmitted the aircraft’s registration, diplomatic classification, position, altitude, and intended flight path. She identified the five Salomeian Air Force fighters flanking them, repeated that they served strictly as a defensive escort for the Prime Minister’s flight, and confirmed that the formation would comply with all established instructions for their entry and approach.

She paused for a brief beat, the carrier hum alive in her headset.

Six Salomeian aircraft flew onward through the cold coastal air. Five fighter pilots kept their eyes locked on the transport they were sworn to protect. Inside the cabin, Iska reopened her folder, Retai picked up her pen, and Kaikai watched through the glass as the escort fighter held its unwavering line against the distance.

The communications officer pressed the switch once more.

“Salomeian government flight and accompanying protective escort approaching as previously notified. Federation of Salomeia requests further instructions.”

She released the button, and the Salomeians waited for the controllers ahead to answer.

[Solisian Union]

The Long Water Between Sisters

The Old Country

Solisia and Nannasia

The distance between La Victoria and Nannasia was great enough that the meeting had to be assembled twice.

In Solisia, Field Marshal Esstez Carmona sat in a secured communications room beneath one of the older administrative wings of the Royal Palace, where the walls were thick, windowless, and completely uninteresting. An encrypted projection unit occupied almost half the room. Three military communications officers worked quietly behind him, one watching the Varathron relay chain, another monitoring authentication, the third doing nothing Carmona understood beyond periodically muttering at a diagnostic screen and hitting keys harder whenever the signal delayed.

Carmona had taken off his formal jacket twenty minutes ago. He wore a dark gray service shirt beneath it, sleeves folded once below his elbows, his heavy shoulders filling the chair more than the tailor who designed it probably intended. His hair had gone grayer since Magdara, especially around the temples. There was a thin scar beginning near his jaw and disappearing beneath one ear, old enough that he rarely remembered it until somebody stared at it.

Rafael Emilio Morales sat to his left.

The Foreign Minister looked much more appropriate for diplomacy. Dark suit. Yellow Star pin. Brown skin. Hair combed back carefully enough to survive a long day but not carefully enough to suggest vanity. His left hand still moved more slowly than his right after the injuries that had kept him out of full work for a time, and whenever he became annoyed he rubbed two fingers against the base of his thumb as though testing whether the nerves were still there.

Across Greater Dienstad, across ocean and continent, the Nannasians occupied another room.

The connection resolved gradually.

First came the table.

Then chairs.

Then Prime Minister Siranana ras Ones, seated under the federal seal.

Then the people around her sharpened into view.

Siranana was not physically imposing. She was a medium-height woman in her late middle years, narrow in the shoulders, wearing a dark blue wool jacket over a high-necked cream shirt. Her black hair had turned almost completely silver along the front and was braided loosely behind her head instead of arranged in the more elaborate style seen in official portraits. She had the weathered complexion Carmona associated with Nannasians who spent enough time near their own coast to stop caring what cold wind did to their faces.

Head Admiral Casene con Sainaga sat two chairs away.

Carmona recognized her immediately.

Casene had become thinner.

She had also become older in exactly the unfair way some officers did, where the wrinkles around her eyes somehow made her look more dangerous rather than less. Her uniform was deep maritime blue, almost black through the relay, with very little decoration beyond her rank, a narrow Tsetema ribbon, and one old service badge Carmona remembered seeing in Magdara. Her hair was cut short now. Completely white.

Field Marshal Nitra faci Netuwa sat beside her, broad-faced, compact, and heavy through the arms and chest despite her age. She wore no medals at all. Minister of War Furuna sil Sunnes had chosen civilian clothes instead, a thick rust-colored jacket with dark embroidery along the cuffs. Foreign Minister Unarana eon Wirrin was taller than Siranana and considerably younger, with long black hair tied low against her back and small rectangular spectacles balanced close to the end of her nose.

Trade and Development Minister Inere aia Aukun was still settling into her chair when the image stabilized.

Federal Security Minister Lullina ras Munu was already watching the Solisians.

Of course she was.

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

The delay was small.

Still noticeable.

Casene raised one eyebrow.

“Esstez.”

Carmona smiled.

“Casene.”

She leaned toward the camera.

“You got uglier.”

“Signal degradation.”

“No. I have excellent signal.”

“That is what your Navy says about everything.”

Casene laughed, low and rough, and dropped briefly into Nannasian. “Tsetema sai, old bull. Still arguing before greeting.”

Carmona understood the old shared phrase even without needing the interpreter. Two suns, two moons. Among veterans it had long since stopped sounding like the formal name of an alliance and become something closer to you are still one of ours.

He answered in Solsta.

“Valai, old wave. I am still here.”

That quieted Casene for a moment.

Then she nodded.

“Good.”

Siranana looked between them and gave a small sigh. “You two can continue pretending Magdara was a social gathering later. Good evening, Field Marshal. Minister Morales.”

“Prime Minister,” Morales said. “It is very good to see you again.”

“Likewise. Though I admit, Rafael, when La Victoria asks for an emergency strategic consultation and puts Esstez Carmona beside you, we begin wondering which part of the world has caught fire.”

Morales smiled slightly.

“Several.”

Siranana did not.

“That was not really a joke.”

“No.”

Her eyes shifted to Carmona.

“How is Solisia?”

Carmona had expected Salomeia to be the first subject.

Morales had warned him otherwise.

Even then, he almost gave the standard answer.

“We remain secure.”

Siranana stared at him.

Casene put one hand against her mouth.

Carmona looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are laughing.”

“I am waiting.”

Siranana leaned back. Her Nannasian accent thickened when she stopped speaking diplomatically. The vowels lengthened in places where Solsta shortened them, while hard consonants remained where metropolitan Solisians tended to smooth them away.

“Esstez, nai varra, don't give me ministry language. How is the Old Country?”

There it was.

Not the Union.

Not your government.

The Old Country.

Carmona rested both arms on the table.

“We are winning some places.”

Casene's eyes narrowed.

“And?”

“We are being hurt in others.”

“That sounds closer.”

Carmona looked toward the communications officers behind him before returning his attention to the projection.

“Ashoned fell.”

Several Nannasians shifted.

Unarana had clearly been reading. “Eastern Kebab. The business tower?”

“Yes.”

“We saw the footage.”

Carmona knew which footage.

Solisian troops on the roof. The Yellow Star above the city. Soldiers shouting Valai into the smoke until whole streets answered.

“Ashoned is ours,” he said. “Or ours enough that Sishian and KNR organized forces could no longer hold it. Their eastern command is pulling west toward the Zamar Hills. Delacroix is consolidating what she can around the approaches to Bir Marzan. She is moving armor, artillery, engineers, air defense and whatever surviving formations can still be made useful. Civilian columns are moving with them.”

Casene rubbed her lower lip.

“So the road toward Zafarkand opens.”

“It opens more than before. Not freely.”

“Nothing ever opens freely.”

“No.”

Carmona continued.

“The SNLF has been pressing from the coast. FAK formations are moving through the city behind and beside us. Some KNR units broke west. Others stayed. Some Sishian units were cut apart getting out.”

He hesitated.

“There have also been atrocities.”

Nobody moved.

Morales looked toward him.

Carmona did not soften it.

“Prisoners shot after surrender. KNR personnel identified by FAK fighters and executed. Hangings reported near the eastern market. Civilians taken. Some Solisian personnel appear to have participated, some tried to stop things, and some reports are still contradictory. Cherenya has people looking at it.”

Siranana's face hardened.

“Good.”

Carmona looked at her.

“Good that she is looking. Not good that it happened.”

“I understood.”

Nitra spoke for the first time.

“And the west?”

Carmona's jaw tightened.

“Worse.”

Casene already knew.

“I heard about Velez.”

Carmona nodded.

“Isadora is dead.”

Carmona looked down briefly.

“Sishian aircraft got through low. Two Rafales. Drone guidance. Four bunker-busters into her forward command position. Isadora, her brigadiers, intelligence staff, most of the central command element. Gone before they could relocate.”

Casene closed her eyes.

“Asea nann.”

The Nannasian words came out almost under her breath. An old expression of grief whose literal translation was something like carry them over the cold water, though Carmona had never heard two Nannasians agree on the exact meaning.

He nodded.

“Operation Guillotine came immediately after.”

Nitra leaned closer.

“Hauet?”

“Yes. Marie-Pierre Hauet. She hit the gap before we could restore command. Heavy mechanized formations straight into the flanks. KNR down the highway. They pushed ten kilometers in the first hours.”

Furuna looked at Carmona sharply.

“Ten?”

“Ten.”

“Your 5th Army Group?”

“Nearly came apart.”

That answer cost him something.

He let it.

“Then Carmen Olena arrived.”

Casene's mouth moved slightly.

“Ah. From Magdara and the War Between Sun and Moon.”

Carmona looked at her.

“You remember her.”

“I remember everyone who yelled at our quartermasters.”

“She did more than yell. The Monarchist did far more.”

“She threatened to steal our trucks.”

“She did steal your trucks.”

“They were returned.”

“Most.”

Casene shook her head.

“That woman.”

“That woman saved the western front.”

Carmona sat straighter.

“She took direct control of the 5th Army Group. Ordered battalions to abandon positions that were already lost instead of dying around them. Used the Doreth chokepoints. Rebuilt artillery control through surviving networks. The Sishian breakthrough stopped.”

Nitra nodded slowly.

“Olena knows retreat.”

“She knows when retreat becomes survival.”

“And Babassar?”

Carmona did not answer immediately.

Siranana noticed.

“What happened at Babassar?”

“Half of the 44th Mechanized is trapped.”

Casene swore in Nannasian.

Carmona continued.

“Major Persai is commanding the pocket. Sishian and KNR forces have closed around the city. They are critically short on medical supplies and heavy ordnance. High Command authorized a relief column from the central reserve.”

“How far?”

“Thirty kilometers of enemy-held ground.”

Nitra sat back.

“How long?”

“Olena told Persai forty-eight hours minimum.”

“Forty-eight hours in a pocket like that.”

“Yes.”

Nitra looked toward Furuna.

Something passed between them that did not require translation.

Magdara had given both women enough examples.

Siranana folded her hands.

“And Persai?”

Carmona almost smiled.

“She asked the relief column to bring ammunition.”

Casene laughed once.

Not because it was funny.

Because she understood the kind of soldier who said something like that.

“Very Solisian.”

“Very.”

Siranana's expression remained troubled.

“You have Ashoned. You are stalled in the west. You have half a division surrounded in Babassar. Velez is dead. Sishia is still fighting. The KNR is still functioning enough to kill you.”

“Yes.”

“And yet La Victoria has found time to call Varathron about Salomeia.”

Morales answered this time.

“Because Salomeia cannot wait for us to finish Kebab.”

That made the room quiet.

Siranana nodded after a moment.

“No. Of course not.”

Then Unarana spoke.

“Before Salomeia.”

Morales looked at her.

She hesitated, then said something to Siranana in Nannasian too quickly for Carmona to follow.

Siranana answered softly.

Casene looked down.

Carmona waited.

Finally Unarana returned to the shared language.

“I need to ask something that has nothing to do with current strategy.”

“Ask.”

“The old Nannan lands.”

Carmona understood immediately.

Unarana pushed her glasses back up.

“All six provinces.”

Her voice changed when she said it.

Not diplomatic concern.

Family concern.

“Our schools still teach the old maps. Children still trace the Nanna border before they learn the modern provincial boundaries. Some families in Vorlund and Nannadal still keep copies of migration ledgers from before the first colonial departures. My grandmother used to say Nannai vera Solsi whenever somebody asked where our people began.”

Carmona knew the old construction.

Nanna is within Solisia.

Or perhaps Nanna lives inside Solisia.

Old grammar allowed both.

Unarana continued.

“Are they all right?”

Nobody on the Solisian side laughed at the question.

Morales looked toward Carmona.

Carmona answered.

“Yes.”

Unarana watched him carefully.

“All six?”

“All six.”

“Not newspaper all right.”

“No.”

He leaned closer to the transmitter.

“There is no active combat in any of the six former Nannan provinces. Their rail lines are functioning. Provincial administrations are operating normally. Schools are open. Farms are working. Military movements pass through some transport networks because the Union is at war, but there is no mobilization emergency specific to the Nannan heartland.”

Casene's face softened.

Carmona continued because he knew fine would not be enough.

“The war has taken people from there. Soldiers. Sailors. Air crews. Families have casualties. Some factories are on expanded war shifts. There are shortages in particular imported goods because shipping is being redirected. But the provinces themselves are intact.”

Unarana looked down.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

Siranana asked, “And the old sites?”

Carmona knew what she meant.

“The main Warring Kingdoms sites are safe. The protected ruins are safe. The Nannan royal burial grounds are safe. The old departure ports used by the first colonial expeditions are still open.”

Casene quietly said, “Nannai sai.”

This time Morales understood without help.

Nanna remains.

Carmona nodded.

“Valai.”

Unarana smiled at that.

The Solisian word sounded different coming after Nannasian.

Not victory.

Not conquest.

Still there.

Still standing.

Siranana let the silence remain a little longer before she shifted in her chair.

“All right. Now Salomeia.”

Inere opened her folder.

Furuna drew a tablet closer.

Lullina had probably opened three files before anyone else noticed.

Morales began.

“Salomeia is an old commercial partner of Solisia. The relationship predates the current Union, the current monarchy and most of our modern strategic arrangements. Ships first. Merchants after. Families after them.”

Inere interrupted gently.

“How much trade now?”

“Substantial enough to matter. Not large enough to distort either economy.”

“Good.”

Morales nodded.

“The civil war badly damaged it. Queen Wessa made restoration a priority afterward. Salomeia agreed, with limits.”

“Religious outreach,” Unarana said.

“Yes.”

She nodded.

“We have the briefing.”

Carmona watched the Nannasian side while Morales spoke.

This was where their difference from Solisians became clearer.

Solisian meetings accumulated interruptions. People spoke over one another when they believed speed mattered. Officers argued through sentences. Ministers cursed when a number looked ridiculous. Even formal Solsta carried a rolling, connective quality, clauses piling behind one another until the speaker finally reached the point.

Nannasians did something else.

A Nannasian interruption was rare enough to mean something.

Their language carried the habit of a maritime country accustomed to orders being repeated across wind, radios, ships and distances. Fewer verbal flourishes. More complete thoughts. Harder endings. When they switched into Nannasian among themselves, Carmona heard consonants that old Solsta had lost centuries ago.

Furuna finally spoke.

“What does Salomeia know about Kraven?”

“Very little,” Morales said.

Casene stopped moving.

“Very little?”

“They have been inward-looking for much of their modern strategic history. Kraven belongs to other countries' nightmares, not theirs.”

Casene's fingers curled against the table.

“That is going to change.”

“Yes.”

“Do they believe the warnings?”

“They believe enough to investigate.”

“Better than believing everything.”

Morales nodded.

“They want evidence. After-action records. Known capabilities. Demonstrated behavior. They are not reorganizing the entire country because somebody arrives at a conference and says apocalypse.”

Siranana almost smiled.

“I like them.”

Carmona said, “You will like them more when they argue with you.”

“I am Nannasian. Argument is how we discover whether somebody deserves another meeting.”

“That explains Casene.”

“Nothing explains Casene.”

The admiral looked offended.

“You invited me.”

Morales continued.

“The immediate question is what we can give Salomeia without lying about our own capacity.”

Furuna nodded toward Carmona.

“And Solisia cannot send major forces.”

“No.”

Carmona did not decorate the answer.

“Our 3rd Army Group is committed. Our 5th has just taken a major shock. The eastern campaign is consuming naval landing forces and air assets. Babassar needs relief. We still have northern requirements. Tupenga. Tarao. Xofrautan. Magdaran commitments have not evaporated because another war started.”

Inere flipped several pages.

“So money.”

Morales smiled.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

Carmona and Morales looked at one another.

Morales gestured toward him.

Carmona sighed.

“Her Majesty's exact phrase was ‘an offensive amount.’”

Inere laughed.

Siranana closed her eyes.

“I swear the woman becomes stranger every year.”

“She means it.”

“That is what worries me.”

Morales continued.

“Solisian credit. Direct grants where repayment serves no useful purpose. Contracts with Salomeian firms. Financing to expand Salomeian ammunition production, vehicle production, communications systems, medical stockpiles, fortifications and strategic reserves.”

Inere's expression sharpened.

“Not dumping Solisian finished goods into their economy.”

“No.”

“Good. If Salomeian factories can build the item, finance Salomeian factories. If they cannot, identify why. Tooling? Components? Skilled labor? Energy? Shipping? Solve the actual bottleneck.”

Morales nodded.

“That is our position.”

Inere began making notes.

“Then Trade and Development can work with you.”

Casene said, “Shipping will be worse.”

Carmona smiled faintly.

“There she is.”

“No, listen to me, Esstez. Solisia thinks distance is a number on a map until your first tanker arrives late.”

“Magdara again.”

“Magdara forever, apparently.”

Casene leaned toward the display.

“Varathron to Markion is not a patriotic speech. It is fuel calculation. Crew rotation. Port clearance. Weather. Maintenance cycles. Escort capacity. Container handling. Refrigeration if medicine is involved. Secure manifests. Spare engines. Insurance if civilians are moving the cargo. Who owns the cranes when the port is under warning? Who has priority when military cargo and food arrive together?”

Casene continued.

“If Salomeia needs ten thousand tons of something, the question is not whether somebody owns ten thousand tons. The question is whether it can arrive where they need it before Kraven makes the question irrelevant.”

“Yes.”

“That we can help with.”

Nitra spoke next.

“We can also help them think about reserve movement before somebody begins shooting. Not fight for them. Teach them what failed for us. Magdara exposed every bad assumption we had about moving units through damaged infrastructure.”

Creanah nodded.

“Air defense dispersal too. They should not wait until the first airfield is hit before asking where aircraft go when the runway is unusable.”

Lullina finally spoke. “We still possess the old Kraven archive.”

Casene glanced toward her.

“All of it?”

“No archive contains all of anything.”

Very Lullina.

“But we have the patrol reports, fleet observations, surviving intelligence summaries, and material concerning the approach toward Nannasia. Federal Security began retrieval before this meeting.”

Siranana looked at her.

“You knew we would agree.”

“I knew we would need to know what we were agreeing about.”

Carmona liked her immediately.

Siranana turned back toward the Solisian projection.

“Nannasia will prepare.”

Morales nodded once.

“We appreciate that.”

“Do not appreciate too early.”

Her voice became firmer.

“We are not going to war.”

Carmona said nothing.

Siranana continued.

“Not now. Nannasian sailors are not being sent to another sea to fight another country's war. Nannasian soldiers are not joining Salomeian formations. We are not assembling an expeditionary corps because La Victoria asks politely.”

“We are not asking.”

“I know.”

That mattered.

Siranana breathed out.

“We went to Magdara.”

Her gaze moved briefly toward Casene.

“We sent our ships. We sent the Guard Corps. Doctors went. Nurses went. Engineers went. Young people who had never seen Solisia except in photographs went because they were told the Old Country needed us and because we believed the war mattered.”

Her accent thickened again.

“We buried them.”

No one interrupted.

“We still have Elishia Nova in Lier. We still have people who will not speak about Dedufi. We still have veterans who smell diesel in a harbor and find themselves back on a Magdaran road.”

Carmona lowered his head slightly.

Siranana continued.

“Nannasia has been quiet recently.”

She smiled a little.

“I like quiet.”

Casene murmured something in Nannasian.

Siranana heard her.

“No, Casene. I mean it. I like that our biggest naval argument this month was maintenance allocations. I like complaining about fisheries. I like ministers fighting about rail budgets. Sai ama. Let ordinary problems be ordinary.”

Carmona understood the meaning from her tone even without knowing the exact phrase.

Let peace remain boring.

Then she looked directly at him.

“But we watch Solisia.”

Carmona met her eyes.

“All the time.”

The Prime Minister's expression became sad.

“You finish your civil war and go into Magdara. You come out of Magdara and rebuild while watching Ordena. Then Xofrautan. Tarao. Tupenga. Kebab. Sishia.”

She gestured toward him.

“Now Isadora Velez is dead. Half the 44th is surrounded in Babassar. Ashoned is burning behind your advance. Your eastern soldiers are shouting Valai from rooftops while your western soldiers are waiting forty-eight hours for somebody to break through to them.”

Carmona said nothing.

“And you are here.”

“Yes.”

“Planning another country's survival.”

“Yes.”

Siranana leaned forward.

“Esstez.”

Her voice was no longer the voice of a head of government.

It was a younger sister talking to somebody she loved enough to be impolite with.

“Are you people tired?”

Carmona almost laughed.

Not because the question was funny.

Because the answer had become ridiculous.

“Yes.”

Casene watched him.

“How tired?”

Carmona thought about Wessa.

Carmen Olena taking command of a broken western front.

Sofia Velez learning her sister had been vaporized and choosing not to abandon the central attack.

Persai in Babassar asking for ammunition.

Delacroix abandoning Ashoned because saving the east meant accepting that some people behind her would die. He never thought the Sishian would do that.

“We are tired enough that we have become good at it.”

Casene's mouth tightened.

“That is not good.”

“I know.”

“No. I don't think you do.”

Carmona looked at her.

Casene spoke slowly, her Nannasian accent heavier now.

“During Magdara, you told me you would rest after Tamurgos.”

“I remember.”

“You did not.”

“No.”

“After Vesta?”

“No.”

“After reconstruction stabilized?”

Carmona gave her a look.

Casene leaned closer.

“Nai, Esstez. Does the Old Country remember that endurance and movement are different things?”

There was no good military answer.

So Carmona did not give one.

“I don't know.”

Siranana watched him.

That seemed to satisfy her more than another statement about necessity would have.

Carmona rubbed both hands over his face.

“I still support the war.”

“We know.”

“I support Mount Ranyas. I support relieving Babassar. I support breaking the KNR. I support what Carmen is doing in the west.”

“We know.”

“If Sishia keeps fighting us, I support fighting Sishia.”

Casene nodded.

“I know you, old bull.”

Carmona looked toward the Nannasian screen.

“But yes.”

He stopped.

The words took longer than he expected.

“Yes, I wonder how long we can keep deciding that every necessary thing must also be done by us.”

Nobody answered immediately.

The relay inserted half a heartbeat of electronic delay between the two worlds.

Then Siranana nodded.

“That is all I wanted you to think about.”

Carmona exhaled through his nose.

“You invite me to a strategic meeting and give me philosophy.”

“We are descendants of Nanna. You are lucky we did not give you a four-hour family history.”

Casene said something in Nannasian.

Unarana laughed.

Carmona looked toward Morales.

“What did she say?”

Morales shook his head.

“I have no idea.”

Casene translated herself.

“I said we can still arrange four hours.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

“Admiral.”

“Old bull.”

The tension finally loosened.

Siranana closed the folder in front of her.

“Nannasia will open direct talks with Salomeia. Foreign Affairs handles that with La Victoria making the introduction. Inere can begin financial and industrial coordination. Lullina gives us the Kraven archive after security review. The military prepares planning material and determines which technical personnel can be spared.”

She looked toward Furuna.

“No combat forces.”

“Agreed.”

At Casene.

“No battle fleet.”

Casene gave a small nod.

“Agreed.”

At Nitra.

“No clever interpretation of ‘advisers’ that somehow produces a brigade.”

Nitra looked almost insulted.

“I am not Solisian.”

Carmona laughed.

“Fair.”

Siranana looked back at the two Solisians.

“We will help Salomeia.”

Morales smiled.

“Thank you.”

“We will help Solisia help Salomeia.”

Then her expression changed.

“And we will also keep asking whether Solisia needs help with Solisia.”

Carmona had no joke for that.

He nodded.

“Fair.”

The meeting did not end with mobilization.

No Nannasian carrier received orders for Ionis. No Guard Corps began loading vehicles. No mothers received letters telling them their children were crossing another ocean.

Instead, Federal Security officers in Nannasia began retrieving files from the last Kraven encounter. Naval logisticians were ordered to review routes toward Markion. Trade officials began building financing models that included both Solisian and Nannasian credit. Foreign Affairs prepared a direct channel to Salomeia. Military planners began pulling old Magdaran lessons apart, separating what could actually help another country from what merely made good veteran stories.

In La Victoria, Carmona remained seated after the transmission ended.

The screen went black.

For several seconds his reflection remained there instead.

Older, more tired, yet still loyal, yet still the closest military officer to Her Majesty.

Morales gathered his folders beside him.

“You all right?”

Carmona looked at the dead screen.

Then he thought about the six provinces of old Nanna, still intact behind him somewhere in the enormous country he had spent most of his life defending.

He thought about Ashoned.

Babassar.

Isadora.

Salomeia.

And Nannasia, far across all that water, asking the Old Country whether it remembered how to stop.

[Nannasian Union]

The Mothers of Our Mothers

The Federal Republic of Nannasia. Varathron.

The Solisian transmission had ended nearly half an hour ago, but Prime Minister Siranana ras Ones had not dismissed anyone, and nobody around the long table seemed particularly eager to leave. The central terminal had gone dark, reduced to a single green encryption light pulsing against the bezel, while the side screens still carried the debris of the briefing: shipping lanes through the western approaches, intelligence headers under red security banners, and the cluttered operational map of Kebab. Ashoned had fallen to the Solisians. Babassar was circled in grease pencil where Major Persai was holding her pocket with the remnants of the 44th Mechanized. The western lines had been redrawn so often the glass looked smeared, showing where Marie-Pierre Hauet’s mechanized thrust had punched through after Field Marshal Isadora Velez died in her bunker. On the mahogany between the dispatch boxes, the tea from the start of the call had gone cold and oily.

General Sua Kinley had been gripping the same porcelain mug for so long that Head Admiral Casene con Sainaga finally reached across, took it out of her fingers, sniffed it, grimaced, and slid her own cup over instead.

“You drank from that,” Sua said, glaring down at it.

“One mouthful,” Casene said, planting both elbows on the table. “A recent naval development. We’re quite proud of it.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You spent twenty years crammed inside command vehicles with four other women who didn't wash.”

“I had standards.”

“Nobody who slept on a transmission casing has standards.”

Sua took a swallow anyway, wincing at the sugar. At seventy, her frame only showed its mileage when she remained seated. On her feet she still carried the broad, deliberate balance of an armor officer accustomed to hauling herself through turret rings, and the thick scar vanished under her collar where a splinter had taken a bite out of her neck at Sibulangon. Her left knee had been aching since sunrise; the Nannasian coast had spent all morning threatening rain, and the government compound smelled of damp wool and ozone.

Beside her, General Daan Anxing leaned her chin on her hand, her gray eyes amused. “You two were marginally more pleasant when people were mortaring us.”

“We were younger,” Casene replied. “It took the edge off.”

Siranana walked back from the doorway where she had been conferring in low whispers with Foreign Minister Unarana eon Wirrin. Her dark wool coat was still buttoned to the collar, though black-and-silver hair was coming loose from the pins behind one ear. She carried a thick file under her arm, looked around at the five women who had not shifted an inch since the Solisian screens went dead, and tossed the folder onto the blotter. “Are we still working?”

“Technically,” Casene said. “It means we are digesting.”

“She means running her mouth,” Sua muttered into the sweetened tea.

“I am Head Admiral of the Federal Navy. When I run my mouth, it’s maritime intelligence.”

“Stars preserve the fleet.”

The raspy laugh came from the far corner. Doctor Saraya ras Inyara sat wrapped in a heavy green shawl over a maroon gown with silver embroidery at the throat. At ninety-one, her spare Azynian frame made no apologies for itself. She had spent her middle decades teaching, fifteen years fighting archivists who were too polite to dead ministers, and then returned to the university because she preferred arguing with twenty-year-olds. Her ash walking stick leaned against her chair, forgotten for the moment while both her spotted, dry hands rested flat on an old paper map spread across the wood. It was not the operational chart of Salomeia. It was Nanna: the six provinces of the modern Union lying over the old kingdom from which generations of Nannasian families still traced people, stories and departure records, far away from the present fighting in the south.

Siranana pulled out the empty chair beside the old woman. “You haven't looked away from that sheet since Carmona told us the provinces were quiet.”

“I know.”

“You had tears on your face, Saraya.”

“I am ninety-one, Siranana. Allow an old teacher to leak out of her eyes without turning it into cabinet business.”

“You told the education committee last year that sentimentality was a disease invented by lazy clerks.”

“That was before my hip gave out and you started hovering over my shoulder.”

Sua smothered a smile in her cup. Casene looked politely at the light fixtures.

Saraya’s fingers smoothed the paper seam where the old kingdom met modern borders. “I knew the answer before we asked. If anything serious had happened in the six provinces, our embassy in La Victoria would have known, and half the consulates we keep scattered through that enormous Union would have started shouting over one another before the Foreign Ministry finished its first memorandum. Our students are there. Our trade people are there. Families still go back and forth. I knew the provinces were nowhere near this war. Then that Solisian bull said the towns were intact anyway, and my ribs went loose.”

Daan folded her small hands over her knee. “My father’s side always claimed we were from the eastern hills.”

“Claimed?” Saraya asked.

“My grandmother liked the pedigree,” Daan said with a dry shrug. “The old temple registers placed them fifty miles south in the irrigation country, but she destroyed a cousin’s copy because she insisted the priestesses in the Old Country had written the family name wrong during a Dusk registration.”

Casene snorted. “That’s half the Republic. Old women insisting the Stars themselves would support their genealogy if only somebody checked the correct record.”

Sua pointed across the table. “Her family, especially.”

“The con Sainaga line has documented commissions back to the coastal treaties,” Casene retorted.

“One grandmother.”

“Two.”

“One and a half.”

Siranana rubbed her temples. “We are not recalculating grandmothers this afternoon.”

Saraya’s shoulders shook with a wheezing laugh that drew an uneasy look from the junior communications aides behind the glass partition. She tapped the parchment with a gnarled knuckle. “My mother’s people came out of the old railway cut near Aunara. Her grandmother met a Nannan engineer who broke both ankles falling off a gravel wagon. She splinted him, told him any man who couldn't stay upright on a cart had picked the wrong trade, and married him three months later. He loved Solisia. Not the crown and not the flags, the track. He spent twelve years laying ties through black mud, married an Azynian girl, fought with his cousins every Sunday because he thought the old kingdoms were dead meat that needed burying, and then packed four iron trunks and boarded a government transport west.”

“Why did he cross, then?” Daan asked.

“Because he hated his supervisor,” Saraya said simply. “Because his younger brother had already gone. Because the colonial works office offered better pay and his wife wanted to see open salt water. He had thirty reasons to go and twenty to stay, and half of them contradicted the rest. That’s how people actually cross oceans. Not the neat arrows they put in school atlases.”

Siranana looked down at the map. “The schoolbooks make it sound like an argument between two clean factions.”

“Schoolbooks are written by people who want history to look tidy,” Saraya said. “Nobody planned this Republic. People just kept tumbling down the gangways: dockhands wanting flour, second daughters escaping bad households, Triad priestesses carrying ritual mirrors and bundles of temple books, miners, engineers, clerks, soldiers who finished their postings and kept finding reasons not to buy passage home. My great-aunt spent her first month in harbor vomiting over the seawall from homesickness. She didn’t want an empire; she wanted her mother’s kitchen garden. But she stayed, raised four children who only knew coastal pine and sea fog, and when she finally crossed back to Solisia forty years later, she complained that the tea tasted of copper and couldn't wait to leave again.”

Sua turned her empty cup around in her scarred hands. “One of mine came over pregnant and unwed. Her brothers were trying to shove her into a temple dormitory under three old priestesses who believed embarrassment could be cured by Dawn prayers and hard work, so she emptied part of the household strongbox and got herself onto the next transport west. Married a crane driver three weeks after she reached the quays. By the time she had grandchildren, she cooked northern mutton with southern chilis and cursed in four dialects.”

“That’s the bloodline,” Casene said, slapping the table lightly. “Messy and stubborn, half homesick, half ambitious, always convinced somebody else’s grandmother lied first.”

Sua immediately pointed at her. “Yours did.”

“My grandmother could read.”

“She could forge.”

“She corrected incompetent clerks.”

“She added an officer to the family tree.”

“He was already there.”

“Because she drew him in.”

Casene leaned over the table. “You armored people think every document you cannot understand is forged.”

“And sailors think every lie becomes true if you stamp it twice.”

Siranana slapped her folder flat against the blotter. “If either of you begins litigating your grandmothers before the Federal Assembly, I will have Federal Security classify both family trees and spare the Republic.”

Sua settled back into her chair, satisfied. Casene muttered something about executive overreach and took her tea back.

“Yes,” Saraya murmured, still smiling. “That. That is Nannasia.”

Siranana watched the dark screen where Carmona’s image had been. “Foreign envoys still look sideways when we call them the Old Country. They think it means we're waiting for orders from the crown.”

“They think like lawyers,” Daan said. “They don’t understand how a country can be completely separate and still feel like a household.”

“Solisia doesn’t act like an empire to us,” Casene said, leaning back. “She acts like an older sister who used to scrub the soot off your face and still thinks your house will fall down if she doesn't check the joists.”

Sua grunted. “Then she buys the lumber.”

“And yells at you for using the wrong hammer.”

Saraya laughed quietly. “They don’t know how to worry without kicking the front gate off its hinges. They ripped their own guts out in the civil war, and the week we landed in Magdara, their supply sergeants were already trying to show our drivers how to lash a crate.”

“They were doing it wrong,” Casene said firmly.

“They were moving faster than you,” Sua said.

“Speed means nothing when your axles shatter ten leagues into the salt flats.”

Daan’s face darkened with older memories. “Artigas was an arrogant old hawk, but she knew an army. Solisian to the bone, gloves on in forty-degree heat, posture like a lance. And young Carmen Olena snapping at her heels the entire first month.”

“You hated Carmen,” Sua remarked.

“She was thirty years old and acted like terrain was a personal insult to her armored regiments,” Daan said, though the sharpness in her voice had long since turned into affection. “I wanted to lock her in a signals shack. But she wasn’t blind. She watched Artigas like a bird, and Artigas gave her room to make mistakes that didn't leave corpses behind. When Carmen said no to a frontal assault because the riverbed would swallow the second echelon, Artigas didn't shoot her. She glared, adjusted her glasses, and asked for another route. Carmen made the old woman curious again, and the old woman taught the girl how to wait for an entire theater to turn instead of winning a ditch today.”

Saraya watched them. “You three came home from that dust and told the Federal Assembly that the Queendom wasn't going to collapse.”

“Because they survived it,” Sua said, rubbing the scarred knuckle of her thumb. “When I was thirty, I thought Solisia was going to break into five bleeding pieces and drown. Now... now I look at that western front, with Isadora dead and half a division surrounded in Babassar, and I wonder if anything in this world can actually make them stop.”

The room settled into the heavy silence of veterans who understood the cost of that kind of endurance.

Saraya didn’t argue. Her spotted fingers remained pinned to the map. “We pay our own taxes here. We vote for our own Federal Assembly, curse our own ministries, send our own children into our own services, and bury our dead in this coastal mud under names La Victoria does not need to approve. We were happier when independence came without a war for it. By then Nannasia had grown too large in itself to be governed forever as somebody’s colony, and Solisia had become too large, too changed, too burdened with its own Union to pretend that holding a country across an ocean by old colonial habit was sensible administration. Both governments could count ships, money, officials and distance; eventually even pride had to admit what the arithmetic had been saying for years. We separated because neither people needed another generation killed merely to prove an arrangement had already stopped working.”

She shifted one hand on the paper.

“And I think that made the love easier afterward. We did not have to build the Republic around a war of liberation and teach every child that independence required hating the people on the other shore. We could be relieved. Proud. A little smug. Solisia could complain that we had become impossible, and we could complain that Solisia had finally learned to knock before entering. That is a much better inheritance than graves.”

Her breath slowed.

“La Victoria doesn't govern us, and heaven help any minister who forgets it. But when Carmona said the ancestral provinces were well, something in the chest loosened. You can cut an umbilical cord, Siranana, but you don't grow a whole new skeleton.”

Her breath hitched. Her throat simply dried out, her mouth pulling tight as she pressed two fingers hard against the bridge of her nose.

Siranana reached over and laid her hand quietly over the old woman’s cold knuckles. Sua turned her eyes to the rain outside. Casene pulled off her spectacles and cleaned the lenses on her dark sleeve. Daan kept her gaze fixed on the table.

After a moment, Saraya drew a long, rattling breath, steadied herself, and touched the walking stick. “Well. The old words.”

“Asieta unani Nanna solida,” she said.

Sua bowed her head. “Asieta unani Nanna solida.”

Daan spoke it with the thick inland vowel she had inherited from her family; Casene gave it the clipped bite of the quarterdeck; Siranana murmured it last, low and steady.

Siranana didn't linger. She flipped open her folder with a sharp snap. “All right. We help Salomeia, but we do it our way. Casene, civilian charters and emergency sealift. Find out what tonnage we can push through the straits before we promise a single crate. Sua, you and Daan take the junior staff into the basement. Skip the victory parades. Give them the mud. Walk them through Dedufi, through the rail failures, through every time an axle broke and soldiers froze because the manifests were wrong.”

Casene nodded, the administrative mask falling over her features. Sua pushed back her chair with a heavy groan from her knee. They moved toward the corridor, their voices already rising in an argument over dry-dock priorities that faded down the carpeted hall.

Saraya did not follow them immediately.

She used the table edge to lever her weight off the chair, gathered her rolled map under one arm, and leaned onto her ash stick. The rubber tip sank into the wool rug as she shuffled past the dead Solisian screen and stopped beneath the high wall at the end of the room.

Above her hung the two flags, completely still in the dry air of the ventilation system. The Nannasian colors fell sharp and severe, republican blue and crimson, the white moon, sun and descending stars clean against the cloth. Solisia’s banner hung beside it, warmer and heavier in crimson, orange and brown, its great yellow sun surrounding the dark center and white crescent, a flag that seemed to have dragged the old celestial language of the country into the modern Union without bothering to make it tidy.

Beneath them was the Magdara frame.

The brass was dull along the lower molding. Inside the glass, well over a hundred Solisian and Nannasian soldiers, sailors, officers, medics, drivers, engineers and signals people had been forced together against a backdrop of damaged sheet metal, field tents, stacked supply crates and rain-churned clay. There were many women, enough that any foreign observer unfamiliar with Solisia might have noticed it first, but plenty of men stood among them too, especially in the Nannasian uniforms, and there were others whose gender could not be guessed from a mud-caked face, cropped hair, body shape or field jacket and was nobody’s business anyway.

The difference between the two countries was visible if one knew where to look. Nannasia had inherited much of Solisia’s old matriarchal social architecture but had not undergone the Shift on anything like the same scale. Men remained ordinary and numerically familiar in its streets, assemblies, ships and military formations, argued with, promoted, loved, mocked and ordered around without carrying quite the same historical strangeness they sometimes acquired in the Old Country. Solisia had changed far more violently. The Shift had remade entire generations; the medical systems and Marshite knowledge that came through the long relationship with Holy Marsh had given many people who had been born male paths into womanhood that earlier Solisian generations could scarcely have imagined, while other Shifted bodies had changed in ways that made old assumptions about sex and appearance increasingly useless. The result was not simply “more women.” It was a country in which the categories themselves had been pushed, mixed and lived through until foreigners often noticed the difference before Solisians did.

The Shifted were everywhere in the photograph. Some changes were subtle enough to disappear under wet uniforms until the light caught unusually reflective eyes or a pair of ears rising through flattened hair. Others were impossible to miss. An Azynian Panthera Mar’si woman near the center had broad feline ears, a heavy tail curled protectively around one boot and slit-pupil eyes that caught the camera flash. Two Azen-Mar’si stood farther back looking disconcertingly young beside officers whose ribbons suggested decades of service. A pale Shifted signals specialist had the luminous eyes associated in Solisian religious language with Lunar expression; nearby, another wore the hard ceremonial markings of a Solar military lineage, though Saraya knew perfectly well that celestial categories were the language Solisians used to interpret the Shift, not boxes bodies politely stayed inside. There were Soli, Luna and Exilei faces among the core Solisians, Azynians, Airakanite-Sao soldiers from the northern islands, darker westerners, Elizaran-descended sailors, Rasurrian personnel and people whose families had crossed so many internal boundaries that no single label would have explained them honestly. The Union’s own files treated Shifted Solisians as a post-human demographic baseline while preserving that older ethnic diversity beneath it.

Not all the Shifted were Mar’si in faith. Some had small Triad beads wound around wrists or tucked beneath collars. A few wore Mar’si devotional markings. Others wore neither. One man with long ears and a tail had a tiny Sun disk pinned inside his jacket; beside him a Shifted woman carried nothing religious at all except the old Stars tattooed across one hand. A Nannasian sergeant whose ancestry could easily have been Solisian two centuries earlier stood between them laughing at something outside the frame.

An infantrywoman with one ear torn ragged leaned her shoulder hard into a Nannasian naval rating who was missing two front teeth. A male Solisian engineer crouched in front because there had been no room left in the rear ranks, one hand still black with grease. Someone of uncertain gender had been caught half-turning toward a joke, mouth open, tail lifting behind them just as the shutter went. An older Nannasian colonel near the center had the hollow stare of somebody who had not slept since the artillery started, while a young Solisian Mar’si medic beside her was grinning so widely that the camera had blurred her face.

Their uniforms were soaked with rain and clay. Solisian gray, Nannasian blue, medical whites already ruined, naval work clothes, field jackets borrowed from somebody else. At several points the colors ran together so thoroughly that only cap badges and shoulder patches told the countries apart.

Saraya raised her hand, her knobby fingers hovering an inch from the cold glass.

Siranana came up beside her, coat open now, hands shoved into her pockets. She stood in silence.

“Look at them,” Saraya whispered, her voice rough and dry as parchment. “Not a single one thinking about the textbooks. Just cold, and tired, and glad the guns stopped firing long enough to take a picture.”

Her eyes moved slowly across the frame.

“A lot of women. A lot of men. Some I would not know what to call unless I asked them, and I hope I had better manners than to ask before introducing myself. Shifted everywhere because of course they are. Solisia made that part of itself so completely that sometimes I think the younger people there forget how strange the country would look to their own ancestors.” She gave a faint, tired laugh. “And then our people beside them. Fewer Shifted. More men. Different habits. Different jokes. Still enough familiar faces that if you covered the uniforms, half the Federal Assembly would start another argument over whose grandmother came from where.”

Siranana smiled. “Only half?”

“Give them time.”

Saraya lowered her hand back to the grip of her stick. Her shoulders curled inward under the green shawl, the wood trembling once against the floor until she found her balance.

Siranana bent slightly and offered her arm.

Saraya looked at the wool sleeve with the sharp, squinting suspicion of an old woman who spent seventy years treating charity like an insult. Then she took it, leaning her thin weight into the Prime Minister’s forearm.

She didn't glance back at the empty conference room. She kept her eyes on the floor ahead, setting the ash stick down with every measured step, until the heavy doors swung shut behind them.

[Rhastov]

Constanța Naval Military Museum, Rhastov, April 13 2040

It was early morning, yet the Constanța Naval Military Museum was bustling with activity, though a much more unusual kind. Besides the thousands of visitors cramming in to see exhibits of Rhastovian ships and submarines of all eras, as well as various weapons, uniforms, vehicles and other equipment, loads of workers, soldiers, and sailors were present on site despite no special event taking place or being planned.

The exhibit of the two Kreskova class battleships present in the museum was closed to all visitors, as all sorts of people walked on and around the ships, much to the confusion of everyone else. It couldn't have been a restoration or maintenance project, as those are typically planned and announced well in advance, nor a relocation for the same reasons.

The situation became more apparent as footage from the museum spread across Rhastovian social media, followed up by users reporting the same thing happening at the other museums holding these ships: Mangalia, Chilia and Cerna. These battleships were not being relocated or renovated, but reactivated for the first time since they were built in the mid 1940s, and since they were decommissioned in 1988-89.

Inside the two ships: Maria and Kreskova, inspections of all systems were being done. Engines and gearboxes were emptied of preservation grease, boilers were inspected, electrical circuitry, mechanical systems, fire suppression systems, and many, many more redundant systems. The ships had been preserved incredibly well thanks to the fact the navy gave them a massive overhaul and turned them into museum pieces when they were forced to decommission the at the time 40 year old boats.

For the next several days the ships continued to stay moored in their museums, but eventually, it was time to leave. Several tugboats made their way calmly through the museum’s waters before finally reaching the two ships. One of the tugs, simply marked by the number 27 in bold white letters, stopped at the pier, just in front of Maria. A man dressed in a gray overall steps onto the pier holding a clipboard and approaches one of the naval officers on site.

“Good morning,” the man said, shaking the officer's hand. “Gheorghe Ilie, harbor towage. We're ready to take the ships whenever you are.”

“Morning. Commander Sorin Vasilescu. Give us about an hour, maybe a little more. The engineers are finishing the last checks on the rudder linkage and the mooring lines, and I would rather find out about a problem now than when you have her halfway out of the basin.”

“Makes sense. When did she last move?”

“Nineteen eighty-nine, the day she was towed in here. The rudders and the shafts have sat locked for over fifty years. We freed them this week, by hand, with jacks. Slowly.”

Ilie whistled and flipped a page on his clipboard. “Then I will feel better about my plan. Two tugs on the bow, two on the stern and two on the beam for the turn at the basin mouth. Six per ship. Twenty-seven takes Maria's bow line.”

“Six per ship. Is that enough for a hull this size?”

“On still water, plenty. The basin mouth is what worries me. Whoever laid out this museum never planned on anyone leaving.”

“The channel was dredged over two nights and a survey boat swept it on Tuesday. Nobody noticed the dredger, everyone was too busy filming us.” The commander nodded toward the gates, where a small crowd of visitors had gathered behind the fence, phones raised. “You will get your course from the harbor master. The yard takes over once they are clear of the basin, and anything past that is above both our pay grades.”

“Understood. With the wind like this, I would say a few hours to get both of them out.” Ilie looked up at the massive forward turret towering over the pier, its barrels pointing at the sky. “Strange, seeing her without a line of schoolchildren climbing over the guns. My grandmother is eighty and would have a hard time being woken up for a war. I don't know how these two feel about it.”

Vasilescu allowed himself a short laugh. “The crews have been calling them the old ladies since Monday. Built in the forties, retired at forty, and now, at almost a hundred, they are getting called back to work.”

“Then let's not keep them waiting.” Ilie tucked the clipboard under his arm. “I will go tell my crews. One hour.”

“One hour,” the commander confirmed, and watched him walk back toward tug 27 before turning to look up at Maria's turret once more.

The hour passes without incident, and the mooring lines finally come loose. The tugs position themselves around the battleships and slowly, carefully, the ships finally move. First it was Kreskova, moving slowly past Maria and about a dozen different other warships, before slipping past the opening of the basin. Maria followed soon, exiting the basin by noon. The bays where the two mighty battleships rested for the past 51 years now sat empty.

They were moved to the Constanța Shipyard to have new guns, radars, and close-in weapon systems installed. For ships built between 1942 and 1946, they did not look any bit old or used, despite serving the navy for over 40 years, and then sat in museums for another 60.



Mogoșoaia Testing Range, Rhastov, April 15 2040

With both Arcadia and ChristBol having greenlit nuclear proliferation, the Ministry of National Defense wasted no time. The race for the bomb was on, and Operation Keres was its first step: manufacture the explosive lenses, then prove they could detonate as one.

A thin April fog still clung to the range when the first set was carried out to the firing pit. The technicians worked slowly and spoke little, setting the faceted sphere on its stand and unrolling the thick bundle of cables that trailed from it toward the bunkers. Behind low concrete walls and narrow viewing ports, the flash radiography equipment stood waiting, every head aimed at the single point in the middle. At the center of the sphere sat a dense metal stand-in, a placeholder for what would one day take its place. Nobody mentioned it, because nobody had to.

Mihai Anghelescu, lead engineer of the range, stood in the main bunker with his clipboard, running the last checks.

"Explosives are in the pit. Cabling verified." He ticked a box. "Camelia, radiography?"

"Calibrated and functioning, sir. All heads report ready."

"Timing units?"

"Synchronized."

"Everything in order, then..." He ticked the final box and stared at it a moment longer than he needed to. Beside him, Dorin Stanciu, the youngest technician on shift, cleared his throat.

"It's only a big firecracker, right? We've done a thousand of these."

"We have," Mihai said quietly. "Begin test."

A lever was pulled. Alarms blared across the range for several long seconds, and then a BANG rolled over the facility and up through the concrete under their boots. All 32 explosive lenses had detonated simultaneously, and every instrument had caught it.

When the first radiographs came up on the screens, the room went still. The stand-in had been squeezed into a small, near-perfect sphere. Nobody cheered.

Tests like this were nothing unusual at Mogoșoaia. Testing explosives was the whole reason the range existed, and a clean shot normally earned a joke or two and someone sent to fetch coffee. Today, no one joked. Everyone in that bunker knew what the device was for, and what lay ahead of them.

"Good shot," Camelia said at last, to no one in particular.

"Yes," Mihai answered, still watching the screen. "That's what worries me."

Eighteen tests were carried out in total, six a day. Across all of them, only a single lens failed, well within the margin of error required for approval. The report was sent further up.

Far larger, far more destructive tests would follow soon enough.

[Stallenbourg]

Arrivals

Leinsig, Republic of Auersten, Markion

March 27th, 08:23 AM

David T. Aurellianus, chief diplomat to the ill-fated GMAN summit seven days prior, and officially Stallenbourg’s head representative to the region, leaned against a hall column and watched the stream of delegates flood the palace. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a stainless steel flask bearing the Christbolian globus, and unthreaded the cap. A heavy swig burned down his throat. The flask had been a parting gift from his visit to Weltholm, and he needed every drop before stepping into this theater. The two junior members of his cadre were already mingling. He wanted them to gain field experience, but this room was hardly a place for novices.

To his left stood a variable he had not expected. He had been waiting for him at the bottom of the ramp of his Bizjet when he landed in Auersten. A Stallenbourgian like himself, but an Oostlander, and if the files on his phone spoke true, a cousin to Josephine Belmont. David's newly assigned, diminutive bodyguard. A temporary assignment, just like she had been.

“So. Thomas. How old did you say you were?”

“Achttien, meneer.” The boy’s tone carried a cheerful bounce that was out of step with the room.

“Thomas. English, please.” David spoke with the weary patience of a father correcting a stubborn son.

“Prima, oude man. I am eighteen, sir.” Thomas tilted his head up, his reddish-orange eyes casting a faint glow from beneath the brim of his orange-topped kepi. Belvere organizational patches adorned his chest and upper left sleeve of his olive green jacket. His uniform differed from Josephine's by having bright orange cuffs and matching trousers, he looked like a pre-first world war Oostland infantryman stripped of camouflage and fitted with polished brass buttons. It was like he wanted every eye in the palace on him.

David gestured toward the boy’s collar. “And when did… well. The change?”

“Ah. When I was sixteen, sir.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Nee, meneer.” Thomas grinned.

David turned his gaze back to the floor, wondering how on earth this young man was related to that woman. He tried to focus on the endless gauntlet of meetings, pledges, and posturing ahead. To most delegates, the affair was hot air. To David, everything rested on the line. His government had committed. Soon, a force would arrive in these waters unlike anything the region had anticipated. In his mind’s eye, he saw them: sleek gray hulls cutting through dark swells, radars spinning, towed arrays deployed, jets screaming off flight decks into overcast skies.
He could almost smell the salt spray on the wind. But no longer were the enemies under a red flag with a hammer and sickle, but a black banner bearing a skull.

He took a deep breath, but the smell of salt remained lodged in his nose.

“Hé, oude man. Do you want one or not?”

David opened his eyes to find a salted caramel stroopwafel hovering inches from his face.

“Where did you get that?” David took the waffle, watching Thomas already working his way through another.

“Brought them from home. Moeder insisted.”

“I thought your kind didn’t consume normal food,” David said, eyeing the pastry.

“Oh, Moeder says I am a little different. Still have my taste buds and all that.” Thomas pulled a smartphone from his jacket and began thumbing across a chat room. “I just hope this meeting wraps up fast. I’ve got a voetbal match streaming in a few hours, and I need the Oranje Tijgers to take a victory today.”

David stared at the teenage vampire scrolling through memes and stuff he barely understood, then unthreaded his flask for another swig. Those Christbolians truly knew how to make some fine whisky. And he was going to need more of it no doubt.

OOC: I have been meaning to make a post in this thread for a while now so I apologize for my late arrival. Life stuff and all that.