Never the twain shall meet [Complete]

[Ghant]

“A Glass of Milk”
Vyosubnyakayv Tzarskaya Gosudari, Palace of the Imperial Sovereigns
Vstrechakomnata, Meeting Room
Gholruka, Gholgothic Aldarminia

Lara observed King Ironwing as she waited for a response to her presentation. The was named king, though that title meant something different to the Skyans then it did to the Ghantish. He is a man who is king not because of blood but by deeds. Some among her people would scoff at such a notion, though not Lara. She knew that Ironwing was competent, unlike so many other men that called themselves king. And it is his competency that makes him dangerous…

"Emissary,” Ironwing called out. “Not only does the Skybound Republic not have any problems what-so-ever with a Golden Throne base in Ghant - but we'd propose to double-down on that sentiment." Then he stood up and added, “the Skybound Republic of Havensky would see a Southern Wall…with a Golden Throne base at anchoring the southern tip, up through Ghant, up through Jagada, with the Citadel at the center, and anchored up north by the Godsend Knights of Dephire! If the Gothic Lords can't guarantee our security we will create a zone of control that will ensure the security and liberty of all of our citizenry!"

Yes, that’s the spirit. Lara cracked a smirk in spite of herself, flashing the giddiness of a girl half her age. The room fell into silence after Ironwing spoke, but not the sort of awkward silence that Lara had witnessed before. For her it was a silence of triumph, a subtle victory that she could taste upon the air like a lizard. Uncle Henoor will be most pleased. Perhaps Lara just secured the future security of Gholghant with one single stroke of diplomatic genius…

It was then that the Aldarminian called Venkhzmr turned and spoke to Ironwing. “Your Majesty, if I am not mistaken, sir, this defensive line, or this ‘Southern Wall’ as you call it,” he gestured to the smartpads where a map had been drawn up, “although it appears to do just fine as far as projecting forces against slavers, it appears better suited to defending against Kraven Reich aggression. I think…

“Aye,” Dalikharl cut his countryman off, “and this certainly benefits all of Gholgoth. I am sure we can all agree that, even considering the recent events regarding Scandinvan hostility, that the Kraven Reich is the greatest source of instability and conflict in the region.”

That’s quite the understatement. Yet Venkhzmr seemed to miss the advantage that the Southern Wall offered in terms of defense from the east. “If I may point out,” Lara said gently, “This Southern Wall would prove an able defense from the east as well. We control the straits, and no slaver vessel can pass us without us noticing. With the strength of our northern neighbors to bear, we can prevent the movement of slavers. This is why it’s a wall in the truest sense of the term.”

Dalikharl turned and whispered into Venkhzmr’s ear, while the latter was grinning at Lara. Then Venkhzmr said, “Ladies and gentleman, pardon me, but I am no longer needed here, and I have a great many duties to fulfill. It was a pleasure to meet you all.” Venkhzmr saluted Dalikharl with a chest pump, and as he left the room he bowed to everyone. He continued to grin at Lara in addition to that, while Lara for her part sat still and quiet, merely staring blankly at the man as he made the rounds towards the exit.

After he was gone, Dalikharl continued the deliberations in earnest. “Well, in regards to the situation in Shen Almaru, I think it is wise that Ghantish forces join Aldarminian and Skyan in the peace-keeping operation, and if the Scandinvans do not leave willingly, all help will be needed in removing them. Mr. Stoyen, I understand that your superiors will be hesitant about this coalition’s intentions, especially considering the possibility that the Valgardian leaders of the occupation will force a war for the liberation of the islands. I believe your superiors’ concerns can be alleviated if they are given a timeline. I cannot guarantee when the Scandinvans will leave, but after they do, let’s say that the referendum takes place six months after the last one of their soldiers leaves Shen Almaru. Unlike them, though, this coalition will not over-stay its welcome.”

That is wise of you. Dalikharl seemed to be heeding Lara’s terms like a horse eating oats offered to it by hand. For now, anyway. She assumed that he would be a bit more difficult when it came to the question of land, as like any Lord of Gholgoth, Dalikharl was greedy for territorial acquisitions…something that the Ghantish didn’t like or trust, not even among their own kind.

Dalikharl turned to the Pudite Princess as he continued to address those present. “I would just like to say that I thank you for your acknowledgement of my and my people’s troubles, but I have to ask that you refrain from speaking on the matter. It’s a sensitive topic, and while I empathize with your struggles, I prefer not to have mine become a topic of discussion. I should say as well that your indifference towards the people of Shen Almaru is concerning. If they elect your House to rule them, your claim to the crown and throne of the Hollarum is further legitimized. At least it would be in Gholgoth…as for your Valgardian and Scandinvan protectors, they will reap what they have sewn. I can only hope you and your family distance yourselves from what seems to be inevitable bloodshed. If Mr. Stoyen’s allegations are true, though, I recommend that you cease all attacks on commercial vessels. Attacks on such targets will be treated with the same response that slaver-pirates endure.”

That’s sage advice. Lara sympathized with the girl but knew that Dalikharl spoke true words. Her position as a Lord of Gholgoth was dubious at best, and while the Ghantish recognized it, albeit in a highly secretive fashion, others in Gholgoth were less willing to do so given the lack of anything resembling a mandate. Indeed, her best play is to sit back and hang tight…and not authorize anymore attacks on maritime vessels. That just didn’t look good and did nothing to endear the Lords of Gholgoth to her cause.

”I believe it’s in Aldarminia’s best interests that it assists in the formation of the aforementioned defensive line. If the Republic so wishes, I believe there is a ‘Safe Passage Route’ that the Kosmokratium would be more than happy in extending to our corner of the region,” Dalikharl said to Ironwing and Profecta, before turning his gaze once more to Lara, cracking his knuckles as he did so. Oh, here we go…

“Lady Jarasa, I think it is to the benefit of Ghant and Aldarminia that our two nations enter into such partnerships of people and military, but I am weary of authorizing so. Not because I distrust the Ghantish people or their government, or you for that matter,” he smirked, while Lara looked on with a blank expression. “Rather, I believe you distrust me and my nation. Because you distrust Aldarminia, I must assume so does Ghant. As you will soon find out if you do not already know, I too believe there are some healthy amounts of paranoia, but I fear that fear itself has gripped the Ghantish people for far too long. Your fears are rational and wise, especially when Gholghant lies between Kravenites and Scandinvans at the southern periphery of the region, and considering the impotence of the Gothic Lords as of late, I absolutely understand why you have entangled yourselves with outsiders. All of this in mind, I do not understand how you can judge myself and my Empire by the standards of the slavers and the Capitol Police.”

Crocodile tears, how charming. It amused Lara that the Aldarminian Emperor tried to turn his territorial ambitions back on Lara so easily. I will not be allayed so easily…

Casually, Dalikharl sipped from his drink before adding, “So, I beg you to reconsider Ghant’s position on Aldarminia’s claim. If we acquire this territory, not only will we better suited to expand our operations in southern Gholgoth, but also we could be of more use to Ghant as a defender and ally if the Reich ever dared to strike against you. Same goes with Scandinvans or any other oath-breaking state in the region. Furthermore, the Aldarminian economy, and thus its people, would greatly benefit the inclusion of this territory into the Empire. New and old markets will flourish, and admittedly, there are ambitions of commerce I have for Greater Dienstad that this territory would be conducive to. Alas, I will also confess that the Aldarminian military will see a great boon in this as well. We shall have new training facilities, a new zone for research and deployment, and as I mentioned before, firm and sovereign ground for my troops to stand on when they conduct humanitarian operations during this conflict. More importantly, though, this southern domain could become a new bread basket for the Empire. One that it desperately needs for its growing population. I am not sure if anyone here is aware, but despite the economic success that reconstruction in Aldarminia has been thus far, there is an ongoing growth of the impoverished population. If I can give these people work and affordable homes and food, then these people will be less inclined to join themselves with nefarious entities.”

Maybe you should learn to better manage your population and your resources then. Lara offered Dalikharl a smile, and threw her long wavy blonde hair back as she puckered her lips. That’s how you want to play this, eh? She wanted to counter Dalikharl’s assertions, but she suspected that he wasn’t done speaking yet, and it would have been ill-advised to interrupt the Emperor at his own seat, so she kept quiet. For now…

“Before I go further in these matters, though,” Dalikharl said while Lara leaned back into her chair, “I must make all here aware of the most sensitive information to the Aldarminian Empire. I do not have a counter-offer to Ghant’s arrangements. Rather, I have an offer to ensure trust and solidarity between our people for generations to come. I also hope that what I am about to share with all of you properly displays the kinship I feel for all my Gothic brothers and sisters.” Dalikharl’s expression appeared more exhuberant now, like he was a ringmaster about to announce the next act. “Whether you like it or not, I consider you all to be friends and family. The spilling of your blood is the spilling of mine.”

How reassuring.

Dalikharl proceeded to place a hand on the masked man’s shoulder. What happened next was a most peculiar thing. There was a metallic sound that carried throughout the room as Dalkiharl proclaimed, “Moisimya!” Following this, several guards and servants brought multiple figures covered in black and gold robes, their faces concealed by hoods. The marched deliberately towards Dalikharl and the other man and the figure beside him, revealed to be a child. Of the five figures, one was a woman, and the rest were also children. They stood in a line for those seated at the table to see, and another line of servants behind them. This must be the royal family, Lara thought. I see your tricks, Dalikharl…

The hooded figures were disrobed and crowned by the servants, who afterwards left to leave the presumed royals in the chamber. There were guards around them, reinforcing Lara’s assumption that these were royals, and suspected as well that there were more that stood out of sight in hidden places. For the security of royal children is of the utmost importance.

Lara examined the woman standing beside Dalikharl. She had blonde hair and a matching color dress with the pattern of white eagles upon it. Keep that one away from Nathan, she thought, as the Emperor of Ghant was notorious for lusting after pretty consorts. The woman spoke after getting more comfortable. “I am Grand Empress Katya Doch’Makar, First of my name in the Blood Houses Azcheyko and Makar, Wife of His Imperial Majesty Tzarbolshoyar Dalikharl the Second of the Blood House Azcheyko, Hammer of the People’s Will as I am the Keeper of the People’s Hearth, and these beautiful little ones are our children.”

As I suspected. Lara turned her piercing lilac gaze to the children. The four of them took the knee, though the youngest one, a boy, required his older sister’s assistance in doing so. The little blonde boy shortly thereafter got up and scampered off out of sight, prompting the Empress to laugh softly and Dalikharl to appear embarrassed by his young son’s gaffe. “Well, this shy one here, my youngest, is usually talkative, but he’s not used to these sorts of things, and frankly, none of us are, but this is Prynz Dalikharl, Third of his name after his father and grandfather, may he rejoice in paradise,” the Empress said without shame.

The boy who wore metallic legs stood up from the table, revealing himself as wearing a purple suit with a golden tie and brown hair. “I am Prynz Zlobaskar, First of my name in the Blood House Azcheyko, Heir to the Throne of Grand Imperial Kosmokratium of Aldarminia!” he bellowed.

How clever to bring your heir but keep him concealed, Lara thought with a ginger expression on her face, grinning playfully at the boy. Another one, strongly resembling his older brother and father, introduced himself. “I am Prynz Hrothashki, Second in name after my uncle, may he rejoice in paradise, in the Blood House Azcheyko, twin brother to the Throne-Prince Zlobaskar. I am pleased to meet the friends of my father and allies of Aldarminia.”

Lara then gazed upon the little girl, who looked like a miniature version of her mother. The blond-haired girl next to Hrothashki looked like the younger version of her mother, even her dress looking the same. She curtsied, and with giddiness declared herself. “I am Prynzesha Sophyana, Second of my name after my grandmother in the Blood House Azcheyko.”

There was another little girl, younger then the other one and wearing a white dress. She seemed nervous, twiddling her thumbs as she stared at the floor. She mumbled, “I am Prynzesha Lucylla, First of my name in the Blood House Azcheyko.” Following her introduction, the Imperial family joined their hands together and bowed. There was a sudden flurry of servants as the children went to their seats, and an array of food and beverages were brought out.

“You will see that appears to be three entrees. This is a courtesy to any palates not inclined to meat or to the spice of the ghumbar stew, which is made with icecrab meat, khrauwyrm—Or crawfish or crayfish—frosseshrimp, chicken, and Andouille sausage. It is spiced with cayenne, black pepper, sea salt, and crab boil and file powder, and the vegetables within are celery, onion, bell peppers, and okra. The plate is graced with a less spicy shrimp Alfredo pasta, and the vegetarian option is a humble salad. In Aldarminia, people find it satisfying to dip the bread, but I am not going to tell you how to eat your food. I will, however, strongly recommend that you drink the pint of Gholvykh pale ale, brewed here in Anhavinjogr, with the ghumbar. The water would suffice, as it would for all three of the dishes. The Podyal’Rendja Vineyard’s Beliloza white wine pairs well with the Alfredo. I hope that all tastes and stomachs are satisfied by the meal,” explained Dalikharl.

Lara prodded at the food set out before her, waiting for her opportunity to respond to Dalikharl’s initial assertions about the land issue. I will not be distracted by children and cuisine...

The Empress turned to Lara after taking a seat beside her husband. “I believe my dear husband was about to make an offer to you and the ruling families of Ghant. While we do not necessarily force our children into marriages in Aldarminia, we do, how you would say, ‘arrange’ the affections of those we believe would make beneficial and happy partners.”

”Of course, your Majesty,” Lara smiled and inclined her head to the Empress. “We have traditionally conducted ourselves in a similar fashion as it concerns our Imperial family and royal houses. No one is forced into an arrangement that they do not want for themselves.”

Dalikharl replied, “Yes. I think if Steward Zaldua sees fit, who am I to judge his decision to marry his grandson to Fedor’s daughter? I would ask that you support Aldarminia’s acquisition of this territory as a sign of good faith in light of Gholghant’s bedding with the Golden Throne, but I also offer that the Ghantish and Aldarminian families seek an intertwining as well so that trust between our nations is affirmed.”

Yes, about that…

The Empress spoke, prompting Lara to refrain from speaking. “Indeed. To give some point of reference, Zlobaskar here, and his brother Hrothashki are both ten years young. Zlobaskar, always the more assertive and ambitious twin, is strong and well-versed in military and diplomatic affairs, and with the approval of his brother, he will make a marvelous Grand Emperor and a fine husband. Hrothashki, on the other hand, endeavors in the fields of science and the arts, and I am sure his bright mind will cast a warm glow on anyone so fortunate to gain his affections. Sophyana, nine years, is interested in becoming a diplomat like you, Lady Jarasa, and traveling the world. Lucylla, seven years, enjoys youth martial training with her father, but she also seems to be fond of reading and mathematics. We have not quite figured out what her childhood dreams are, and little Dalikh, five years, is far too young to have made up his mind at all, but he seems to be talk a lot about wanting to become a soldier and help his older brothers.”

“Of course, all my children will rise to positions of Imperial Regency over different territories in the empire where they will assist the Kosmokratic Congresses in governing the people there. So, any spouses they acquire will share in that power, as Katya shares mine. I hope this offer persuades you, Lady Jarasa, to trust that Aldarminian expansion engender no hostility towards the security and sovereignty of the Ghantish people. An agreement between us on these matters would be conducive to our military and social partnership with the Skybound Republic, which I believe we should extend to our Gothic brethren in Shen Almaru after their choice of leadership is made. With an Aldarminian presence in the south, cooperation between all our nations extending our projections of power into the east as well, and an amicable Dienstadi presence in Gholgoth, whatever monsters that haunt us, whether they be slavers or Reich soldiers, will be crushed and exorcised," Dalikharl insisted, his presentation complete.

Lara nibbled on her bottom lip as she sampled her food and looked over the Aldarminian Imperial Family. Once she was convinced that they were done, she began to explain her counter-offer. “My grandmother once gave me some good advice when I was a little girl, not much older than Sophyana. She said that ‘men naturally want what they don’t have.’ Whether they are slavers, capitol police, Ghantar, Skyans, Aldarminians or Kylarnatians, they are men all the same, are they not? Let’s not be coy, Dalikharl. If people didn’t stand in the way, then there’d be nothing stopping anyone that could from taking everything. For, as the old Ghantish saying goes, ‘if you give a mouse a cookie it will want a glass of milk.’ I know what the cookie is that you want…but the real question is, ‘what’s the milk?’”

Lara narrowed her eyes on Dalikharl, knowing that he gave away his cards to early. Now it’s time to twist his tits to make him bend the way I want. “Having said that, Dalikharl, we are not averse to the art of compromise. We know what you want, and you know what we want. Fortunately there’s a mutually-satisfactory solution that I can present. There is land on the continent due west across the sea from the Scandinvan Empire, and south of Brewdomia. Perhaps you’d find this land more to your liking…we have no particular concerns about it. It would allow you to better contain the Scandinvans and give you the continental presence that you yearn for. It’s also closer to your native lands. You wouldn’t find us in opposition to this slight alteration, though of course, we can be further assuaged in your favor given additional…arrangements.” Dalikharl, ever the dynast that he was, surely would know to what she was referring to. Nothing makes us more trusting than ties bound in blood.

“As far as any matches are concerned, let’s just say that we Ghantish have a tendency to aim high, as we say.” Lara glanced at Zlobaskar as she explained. “My cousin has a daughter of an age with you. She likes poetry and dancing and spending time in the forests and fields of Gaztelua. Maybe you’d like her, maybe not, though having a Ghantish Empress of Aldarminia in the wing would do a great deal to assuage any concerns that we have. After all, the best way to make us comfortable with Aldarminian gains would be to convince us that they are our gains as well. That’d be the best way of doing that.” Then she turned her gaze to Sophyana. “The Crown Prince of Ghant isn’t much older than you are, your Highness…maybe you’d like to be Empress of Ghant, and rule all of its realms from the great Obsidian Throne in far away Ghish?”

To all of the Aldarminian Imperials she said “there are plenty of opportunities that time will give us the opportunities to explore. The Emperor will be present at the Citadel, and I can personally convey such options to him. He has many children, far more than I could ever keep track of, and many of an age with all of you. Though for now, you know what our concerns are regarding this land claim, and I hope that you think about my proposition and give it careful thought.”

Indeed, while Ironwing was ginger in his dealings with the Aldarminians, speaking of candy and tours, Lara kept her eyes on the prize. Perhaps it was because Ironwing wasn’t born into a high station like Lara that he didn’t understand the game that was being played. Royals played games of chess with each other, moving their pieces across the board in an attempt to advance their families and the causes of their nations. She evaluated them all as such, as Kings and Queens and Rooks and Pawns.

“Enough of that though, let us enjoy the pleasantries of the evening, shall we? The food is exquisite, thank you.” Dalikharl would need time, no doubt, to consider Lara’s position. In the meantime, she was content to enjoy the fruits of Aldarminia, and the satisfaction that came with her diplomatic successes, or so they appeared thus far. Oh, what I wouldn’t do right now for a glass of milk…

[Havensky]

Welcome to Citadel City

Ironically, the first person to arrive at the Skyan Summit of the Gothic Lords was a Skyan himself. King Lucas Ironwing’s airship had arrived in the early morning hours. He had headed straight from the dinner at Gholruka back home to prepare for the Summit. He had arrived just before the break of day. Still dark enough that the lights were still on most of the skyscrapers in Citadel City. One could just barely see the twin pillars of light coming off the north tower of the White Citadel and the top of the Great Library of the Republic.

Ironwing looked out the window of the Iron Heart and watched as four Accipiters flew by in escort formation. The State Department had decided to use the opportunity of his return to drill the staff on how they would greet the arriving Gothic Lords. The first act of the show would be the the escort in by a squadron of Accipiter interceptors. The beefy twin-engine aircraft passed the airship with relative ease banking to the left of the airship as the next group of fighters came into place.

The airship began to bank left as it began it’s final approach to Emissary Airport. The city began to come into view and Ironwing peered down at his city. It had been five years since they had first broken ground on the pile of rocks that had been designated for the new city. Since that rainy winter day, the city had grown by such bounds that Ironwing sometimes didn’t believe it had really only been five years.

The morning fog was rolling in and so Ironwing was only able to see the tops of about half the skyscrapers. As the cold icy waters that dripped down from the ice caps of nearby Shugoshin Mountains hit the warm ocean waters of Rico Bay it created a dense fog that almost created a cloud like effect when one looked at Citadel City from the air. The island they had chosen for their new capital wasn't vast - and so builders had to build up to meet the density demands the city would need. In the mornings, only the tallest buildings would poke out above. While foggy, the bay weather did mean that it always stayed a few degrees within 65 degrees.

The airship banked again as it made it’s final approach to Emissay Airport. Ironwing could hear the engines of the airship rotate to halt its speed and the distinct sound of the wheels moving into landing position. And then, finally, the bump of the aircraft landing on the tarmac.

“Your majesty, ladies and gentlemen - welcome back to Citadel City”

Emissary Airport had been built to allow for easy access for diplomats to have easy access to the White Citadel. Most people without a diplomatic passport ended up flying into King Drake International which was about a half hour’s high speed train ride into the city. At the Emissary Airport, it was a ten minute drive through a VIP lane to the Citadel entrance.

Ironwing stepped off the exit ramp of the airship and landed on a bright red carpet leading to his motorcade. As he did, a band began to play the Skyan National Anthem. The band had been practicing the national anthem of all the Gothic nations and would play it upon each delegate that arrived. On right side of the carpet stood Legionaries from the Queen’s Red Guard standing at attention. Their red armor and white cloaks almost blended in with the sunrise. Their shields bore the distinctive red heart on a sky blue sheild that had come to represent the Skyan queen. On the left side stood Legionaries from his own Iron Guard. The steel plate of their unpainted armor reflecting just the slightest bit of daylight while their sky blue cloaks fluttered in the wind. Their shields displayed his own crest that he had obtained as a young soldier: A silver butcher's knife broken up by an iron wing on a blue shield.

Secretary of State Lance Atticus was their to greet him with an aide that carried a plate of bread with a salt cellar in the center. Another aide carried a flask of coffee as it was still fairly early in the day.

“King Ironwing! Welcome back to Citadel City. You must be hungry from your flight, please have some bread and refreshment.”

The aide offered the bread and Ironwing took a slice and dipped it in the salt and took a bite.

“You know Atticus, it is hard to beat fresh baked bread. My compliments to the baker. I could never get baking down at home. Too much… exactness with the ingredients.”

Atticus handed Ironwing the flask of coffee and thanked the aides.

“Well Lucas, the baker is quite cross with me at present timing the presentation of the bread to be still warm when each leader arrives. I had to build a kitchen right off the tarmac to make it work. However, people tend to remember having fresh warm bread when they arrive. A nice way to honor the tradition.”

A Legionary officer opened up the limousine for the two Skyans and Atticus slid in followed by Ironwing. The large town car had a the gold Skyan Winged Lion facing the front of the car emblazoned on the door. Police on motorcycles surrounded the the sixteen car motorcade with three police cars in front and back of the convoy. This motorcade would be ferrying Gothic Lords to the Citadel as soon as each one arrived. As Atticus and Ironwing buckled up, the motorcade began to move quickly taking a route that was only allowed by high ranking Skyan officials and those with diplomatic passports.

While he had been away, the residents of Citadel City had decked out the entire city in flags and banners. The week of the Summit had been declared a national holiday and many of the factories and shipyards had been closed. However, the shops, restaurants, theatres and bars were expecting packed crowds and almost had a carnival atmosphere. The screens at Grand Crossing had been set up to show the flags and faces of each Gothic Lord. Flags had been handed out to show unison with the region - or at the very least do their best to try to butter up the Lords to be on their side. When this many high ranking officials flew into town it almost always meant large numbers of staff and press would follow behind them. In the past five years, Citadel City had learned to be great hosts and had worked to make the city a tourist destination.

With it’s large immigrant population, almost any food that you could ever want could be found in Citadel City. The shipping lanes of the port meant the shops were always full of wares from around the world. And as with any city with a lot of people in it, there was always something to do. Theatre's had sent invitations and complimentary tickets to visiting staff hoping to entice them to their venues. A parade and fireworks show had been planned once all the Lords were gathered.

As they crossed Victory Bridge, Ironwing noticed for the first time that the left side of the bridge was now flying the Gothic Cobra flag instead of both sides flying the Skyan Winged Lion Banner. It annoyed him a bit, but he understood the purpose. They were to be as welcoming as possible and that meant flying the snake. Even as they entered into the Heart District and passed the rows of embassies the street signs all flew Gothic and Skyan flags side by side. The road to the Citadel had been blocked from all traffic to ensure a smooth ride for incoming VIPs. Granted, Victory Drive was one of the few roads that were at ground level and used often. All the other roads went underneath the city and were restricted to taxis, utility trucks, and delivery vehicles. However, diplomats were entitled to their own vehicles since it would seem odd to shuttle them around in taxis even if most people took the train.

As they turned the corner, Atticus and Ironwing could see the White Citadel in the morning light causing the white stone to show a slight shade of red. The north tower loomed large behind the thirty story bastion looking out over the rest of the city. They moved over the bridge and the motorcade pulled into the VIP entrance where the Diplomatic White Guard was waiting for them at attention.

“Now from here,” started Atticus, “Either you or the Queen would greet the guests. They’ll be escorted to their quarters in the north tower until they’re ready to enter the chamber. We’ll have food and drinks from both here and their home countries waiting in their suites. I’ve already been speaking with all the advance staff and they’re aware that their suites include office space for conducting business. They’ll also have the Visitor’s Guide sent to their staff as-”

“Atticus, please - I’m sure you’ve arranged everything to the utmost of their expectations. Get some rest, I imagine that everyone will be arriving shortly.”

"I promise, I'll take it easy - I just need to check the Gothic Chamber one more time."

"As you wish."

Atticus left the company of Ironwing and headed towards the bank of elevators. His footsteps echoed against the stone walls as he walked on the marble floor. The Citadel was well lit with Iron Guards stationed every few feet with instructions to help guide guests to their quarters. He reached the elevator a hospitality officer greeted him.

"What floor sir?'

"Top level please."

The elevator's golden art deco doors opened up and he stepped inside. A large metal rook symbolizing the Citadel was inlaid on the back of the elevator wall. As he stepped off the elevator he looked to his right towards the entrance of the guest quarters. He walked into the lobby area and waved.

"Everything good here Lilith?"

Lilith, the chief hospitality officer at the Citadel, flashed Atticus a smile and walked over with a plate of cookies. The pineapple label in on her suit coat catching a bit of sun coming from the skylight.

"Yes, we're all set. Want a cookie sir?"

"Y'all are going to make me gain weight with all these treats." remarked Atticus taking a cookie.

After checking in he headed in the opposite direction past the elevators again. This time walking down a long narrow hall with red carpet. The clear glass windows transitioning to stained glass as he walked further. In between each of the windows were water fountains built into the walls giving the hallway a calming effect. The large wooden doors were flanked by additional Iron Guards who opened the door to let him inside the chamber.

The Chamber of the Gothic Lords was a large rectangular room with stone walls and tall ceilings. Atticus took a few steps past the staff gallery seats and laid a hand on the marble table. It was mostly black, save for inlaid red marble that formed the 'Gothic Wheel' as one looked down at the table. The floor was also made of red marble that was the same tint as the Gothic flag. The chairs surrounding the table are thrones comprised of wood and cloth. Each throne had been topped with the national seal of their own nation. The cloth of each throne had been coordinated to match the national color of each Lord. At the front of the room are a series of large stone steps leading up to a white stone pulpit. The pulpit has been adorned with a onyx Gothic Cobra. Atticus was never a fan of the Cobra either, but it had featured prominently in the room anyway. Behind the pulpit was a large pipe organ whose gold pipes went all the way up to the ceiling.

Atticus looked on each side of the room to check the lighting. Embedded in the stone walls were thirteen stained glass windows on each side of the room. The windows on the east side showcase portraits of the original thirteen gothic lords. The windows to the west side depicted scenes of twelve Gothic Wars - with the last window solid black with the simple inscription - Ultima Bello. That window portrays the final war as the one that will destroy all life.

"I hope it doesn't come to that." Atticus remarked to himself.

Satisfied that everything that could be done had been done, Atticus stepped out of the chamber and headed back to the motorcade. He wanted to be there to greet the first Gothic Lord in person as they arrived.

[Kylarnatia]

Citadel City, Havensky
Gholgoth

The Fangthane Palace had seen the journey to Citadel City being inevitable ever since the first bomb was dropped a few weeks ago. The Imperium always made sure to make its presence known with it's closest friends, even internally with the Gothic Alliance itself, though those personal favourites were more Caesar's than the official line. The condemnation of the Scandinvans was released quickly, though admittedly wasn't too strongly worded, for at the same time the embassy in Valdra was in constant discussion with the Sons of Erid. Caesar had to understand their reasoning, as difficult as it continued to seem.

The Caesar, her Palace staff and government officials always followed developments closely, and the news that the Golden Throne from Dienstad had dispatched an invasion force to attack into the heart of the region itself put the Imperium in an increasingly difficult position. It could see from both sides; it deplored the institution of slavery and believed the attack on Citadel City was completely unprovoked, but no outside force could be allowed to sail into Gholgoth and enforce their will upon the ancient ones. That's just not how it worked.

Of course, it'd be easy to let it happen, and Grand Mother knows the Imperium would rather focus it's resources on the Kraven Reich. 'The greatest evil my people have ever faced...' Silvier had written privately to herself, and repeated to herself internally whenever she meditated, thinking about all that had to be done. But tradition was important, especially to a Kylarnatian. The entire fabric of their being was coloured by it, shaped over the mould of loyalty and heartfelt adoration for their own and humankind at large.

If the Golden Throne were allowed to invade the Scandinvans, the threat of them taking a land concession in order to exert future influence was too large - even if it wasn't in their plan at present - that it would upset the order that the region had always known. That wouldn't sit right with anyone in Kylarnatia, let alone the rest of Gholgoth. Something had to be done, which is why the Caesar was grateful that the Skyans had called the Council to order, albeit at what seemed to be close to the midnight hour.

Caesar's journey to Citadel City hadn't been a direct one. With the year close to it's end, Kylarnatia was in the process of going through a series of spiritual rituals symbolising the end and the beginning, and the cleansing of all things in preparation for the new year ahead. Caesar was not only the acting head of the Silvier Sacerdotium, she was also the physical embodiment of the Grand Mother on earth, so the most zealous of Kylarnatians and followers of the creed around the world looked to her especially at this time. So on the way she made a brief, intentionally unannounced stop to the front lines in Vetalia, giving comfort and blessing to the troops who could not be with their family and loved ones at this most sacred of times due to the need for constant vigilance against the threat of the Reich.

The stop was brief, however, and it wasn't long until the beast of an aircraft known as Caesar One had arrived in Citadel City. Coming down gracefully onto the tarmac at Emissary Airport, there was a short calm and moment of silence before the Caesar or any of her entourage emerged. Soon enough though the door opened, and the first to descend were two members of the Caesar's Guard - one man and one woman in full combat armour with ceremonial decorations, such as long saturn capes and plume helmets - who then took their places at either side of the stairs. A very light detail, which was highly irregular, but Krytopia did not want to give the Skyans any impression that it doubted their abilities. Next to descend was the giant, imposing figure of Lord Hyperion, who held many titles as well as many mysteries, but primarily acted as the Caesar's personal bodyguard and Dux Imperator of the Black Cobra, the Imperium's elite forces. At eight feet with a broad, muscular frame, Hyperion was also in full ceremonial attire and carrying his war axe Nightbane.

His helmet's glaring red eyes inspected the scene before him. Walking down the carpet and inspecting the members of the Queen's Red Guard and the Iron Guard on either side of him as he went, he eventually stood before the Skyan Secretary of State and the two aides that accompanied him. Doing his best to respectfully decline the bread and coffee that was offered to him, he spoke with his thunderous voice.

"Skyan Secretary of State Lance Atticus, loyal servant of your Sovereign and your people. I, Lord Hyperion, Aspect of the Night and Ninth Son of the Grand Mother, come before you today to announce the arrival of the Most Glorious and Holy Caesar of the Imperium, Silvier Catherina Silvanus, fourth of her name and the earthly embodiment of the Grand Mother herself, in these fair lands."

After that, he turned on his heels and lowered in a mighty thump to one knee. The Caesar's Guard did the same, after which saw the emergence of the Caesar herself from the aircraft, dressed in what could only be described as a suit of light armour, coloured gold and decorated with all sorts of small gems and religious idols. Flowing from her back was not only a long sanguine cape, but two artificial angel wings, not too large so as to not cause an obstruction but clearly visible and awe-inspiring. Upon her head of golden blonde hair sat a diamond band crown, which held in place a white veil which covered the face.

Making her way ceremoniously, she was not alone either. Both directly in front and behind her were women in white robes with bands of various colours - saturn, gold, onyx - who sang hymns. These were members of the Priesthood, young acolytes and sisters who devoted their youth to the Sacerdotium and spiritual enlightenment. Further behind them was the more standard looking entourage; suited men and women who clearly formed part of the actual admin and diplomatic staff. When the band began to play the Imperium's anthem, the suits began to sing, though the priestesses chose to simply mouth their hymns and prayers while the Caesar's Guard, Hyperion and the Caesar herself stayed respectfully silent.

"Rise, Lord Hyperion." Caesar spoke softly as she reached the end of the carpet, and he did so, then choosing to stand by her side. Silvier glanced over at Lance and his aides, noticing the bread and the coffee.

"I shall accept these tokens." She said cheerfully, and upon doing so three of the priestesses moved into action. The first raised her veil, revealing her face. The second and third then respectfully took the bread and the coffee from the aides, and brought them before Caesar. She ate the bread first, dipping it in the salt, before she took a small sip of the coffee, the priestess still holding the vessel as she did so. Once she was done, the platter and the vessel were quickly returned to the respective aides, though by a hand gesture her veil was left upturned.

"My warmest complements to both the baker and the brewer, and my blessings to this great Citadel." The Caesar smiled warmly, for she spoke honestly, and upon giving her blessings the priestesses gave a louder verse for a short while before becoming quiet again.

When the time came for the motorcade to take off, Silvier was accompanied in the main car by Lord Hyperion and then only one of the priestesses, seemingly the youngest for she only wore plain white robes, who ultimately represented the pure, ever young essence of Kylarnatia which Caesar was sworn to preserve and protect. The suits followed the motorcade behind in staff vehicles that the Department of Foreign and Imperial Affairs had arranged with the Citadel and it's Embassy, while the rest of the priestesses had been arranged to go off into the city itself to pass blessings onto expat Kylarnatians and believers who lived in the city, some of whom congregated at the small chapels believers had established in the city so that they could meet in worship. It would be a pleasant and heart-lifting surprise for them, Silvier hoped, and also a positive image to everyone else who heard about it.

During the brief journey between Emissary Airport and the Citadel, the Caesar was heart-warmed to see how much the crowd swelled and cheered in excitement when the word quickly spread that she had been the first to arrive and was in the car that was driving past. The Imperium and its citizens had been incredibly supportive of Havensky ever since they first arrived in Gholgoth, not only because of their great show of strength and character but because they also presented an opportunity of hope against Kraven, and Silvier was glad to see it was having a lasting impact on more than just the mood of her own people back home. Of particular fondness to her was how Citadel City married many things from across the region together, and the most obvious thing from Kylarnatia that stood out thus far was the fashion: brightly coloured and extravagant, there seemed to be no shortage of three-piece suits or full-body dresses within the crowd that carried an Imperium label.

Finally, the motorcade came to a stop, and they were at the steps of the Citadel. Out first went Hyperion, and as the door opened the Caesar could still hear the roar of the crowds back down the street. In the brief few seconds she had before she had to emerge herself, Silvier took a few calm breaths, something she had got in the practice of doing over the years at moments like this. Unfamiliar to her however was the very light feeling of fingertips shyly stroking the back of her right gauntlet. Looking across she saw the young priestess, looking down, almost too overwhelmed to be willing to meet her gaze.

"It...will be alright, My Caesar." She murmured.

"How do you judge that, young sister?" her sovereign replied.

"You're here." She responded.

Before Silvier could respond, her door was opened and out she had to step, the priestess following closely behind and returning to her hymns and prayers. With one look up at the familiar figure of Lord Hyperion, who gave her a discreet nod, the Caesar turned her attention to the King and Queen - the Ironwings - themselves. Smiling warmly, she approached them with grace.

"It has been a long time, friends." She quipped. "My Secretary of the Interior, Domitius Aemilius, asked me to pass on his regards to you both. I apologise that he could not join us here now, I'm quite the hard task master. I know however that he has written a private letter for you both and passed on a gift which is with my staff, so I shall make sure both are passed onto you soon. It's just a shame that they couldn't be given to you under happier circumstances..."

She paused for a moment in solemn contemplation, before adding. "Although I would add that, despite how dire things may seem, I'm happy that today's proceedings will be taking place. Now is our chance to set things straight, and I give you my word that we will do that this day, in the name of our children and theirs."

"I swear it." She thought.

[Havensky]

To the theme of: This is Berk, John Powell

Citadel City
Parade Route

Above the parade route, several airships were taking live video of the proceedings and sending it off to various news outlets around the region. Other security airships were indiscreetly monitoring the situation. A few smaller airships were giving architectural tours of the city. Airspace around Citadel City was under limited access; so there was much less air traffic above the skies than usual.

The crowd was rambunctious, but in a festive mood. In addition to the fans of the Caesar, there were those who were just curious, those that wanted to show their kids a parade, and in small numbers plain clothes Citadel Police Officers keeping an eye on things.

The Caesar was an ally and her nation’s residence enjoyed many personal rights and freedoms; thus her welcome was enthusiastic. Any representative of Havensky’s allies would get a similar reception. Even if they hadn’t fought alongside their forces, a nation which promoted freedom and liberty would get a warm welcome. For the more tyrannical nations; they would be flown in by helicopter else they would see the protestors that would be lined up.

However, the Caesar was a welcome sight as were many of the visitors that would come in as part of the Summit. Champagne bottles would be popped open, kegs would be tapped, meat would be grilled, and many many selfies taken. The hospitality industry understood that their role would be to get as many people to leave Citadel City wanting to come back - which meant not letting Citadel City become a target again. Hospitality officers - wearing white naval style uniforms with pineapple pins would be all over the city helping people with directions or recommendations for food. Even the uniformed police officers had a visible - and friendly - presence at every major street corner. A few tourists from more democratized nations felt comfortable with asking them for directions, which the police gladly helped with.

It was a weird time in the city. The shock from the attacks had not worn off completely. Cranes were visible in the skyline helping to repair the damage the slaver attack had done. The public had grown sour on the Gothic Council and their faith in the institution was low. After many speeches by the Queen, Prime Minister, and even Atticus the message had come across to put on a happy face for the moment so that the government could get some reforms in and possibly end the war without bloodshed.

Gothic Lord and Queen Jessica Heart and Lucas Ironwing were waiting for the arrival of Caesar Silvier and her entourage. They had known Caesar personally ever since they had first arrived in Gholgoth. There were several Kylarnatian’s expat enclaves here dealing mostly in trade, fashion, and publishing industry. Relations were good with the Kylarnatians even if some in the Skyan government thought the religious aspect of her rule was a bit strange.

In contrast to the Caesar’s fantastical dress, Jessica Heart was wearing a Gothic red business suit and trousers with a sky blue blouse. She wore very little jewelry save for her golden winged lion lapel and wedding ring. The wedding ring, truth be told, was probably worth less than a single gem on Silvier’s armor. Ironwing had bought it when he was still a sergeant first class. It wasn’t much, but it was hers and it predated all of the spectacle that their lives now had.

Ironwing was wearing his power armor. It was unpainted iron, like his guard, but with a black cloak signalling his status as an instructor. He wasn’t holding his shield and his helmet was clipped to his belt.

Jessica smiled as the motorcade pulled up to the Citadel steps. Another band was present on the steps and played a Kylarnatian leitmotif to announce their arrival. Bells rang out in the Citadel’s tower and the Kylarnatian flag was raised on one the empty flagpole adorning the southern wall. It flew next to a Skyan and a flag from the Kraven Reich. The Kylarnatian young acolyte who accompanied the Caesar shivered in disdain. There were more empty flagpoles next to it - one for each Gothic Lord and room for one extra. While it had bothered the Skyans to fly a Reich flag, there was protocol to maintain as the host.

And gracious hosts they would be.

“Catherina, it is lovely to see you again. It’s been too long since we’ve seen you and you look fabulous as always. Welcome to the Citadel.”

Ironwing, who was only 5’8, looked up at Lord Hyperion who made everyone in the room feel short.

“Hyperion, it’s good to see you again.”, he said reaching his arm out to shake his hand.

The Ironwings accompanied the Kylarnatian delegation to the large wide elevator that would enable the bulk of the party to ride up at once. The gilded inlays of the elevator walls matching the golden winged lion of the Skyan flag. For such a large floor, the elevator ride was smooth stopping on the floor in which the guest quarters were located. The lobby of the guest quarters held a large bar where staff were waiting with an assortment of drinks and light snacks.

“Would you like something to eat or drink? Coffee? Water? Wine? We have everything you need.”, asked Jessica as a server brought forth a tray of appetizers.

The Ironwings made no comment on the religious aspect of the Caesar’s entrance. Religion was a very private matter in Havensky and one generally didn’t mention one’s own spirituality in public. Not that Caesar’s display had annoyed the Ironwings in any way. They had grown used to that aspect of Catherina’s personality.

“It’s too bad about Secretary Aemilius. As always, he’s always welcome to visit another time. I’m sure the Citadel College of Law would be interested in another one of his lectures.”

An aide bowed to the Caesar, taking the letter.

Upon hearing the Caesar’s oath, the Ironwing’s flashed a smile.

“Come,” said Jessica motioning to the bar. “An oath like that requires something a bit stronger than coffee.”

[Ghant]

“The snail may leave a trail of slime behind him, but a little slime will do a man no harm, while if you dance with dragons, you must expect to burn.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

---

Citadel City
Havensky, Gholgoth

Among the ancient ones of the land of Gholgoth there was discord the likes of which few had witnessed before. Where once there was solidarity between the Gothic races there was now mistrust and incontinence. There were those who recognized that there was a problem that had to be rectified, and there were those that believed a blank check had to be given to any among the nations of Gholgoth to inflict themselves upon those who dwelt beyond the pale of the Gothic realms.

For better or for worse, the days of impunity had come to an end. The Golden Throne of the Macabees made its way into Gholgoth in order to wage war against the Scandinvans, who so callously provoked them in Dienstad. Perhaps the Gothic Lords would have given the Scandinvans the benefit of the doubt and come to their defense against a foreign foe, but alas the Scandinvans in turn attacked Citadel City, the Gothic seat of a fellow nation of Gholgoth. With that great act of brazen aggression, the Gothic Pact lay in tatters, and the nations of Gholgoth scrambling to pick up the pieces.

None scrambled faster, or with greater zeal, then the Ghantish. Swift were the movements of Henoor Zaldua, High Steward of Gholghant, who acted on his own accord in order to secure Ghantish security not only from the predations of the Scandinvans to the east, but from the plots of the Kravenites to the west. Rumor had it that a Kraven Reich Resource Fleet had taken an interest in Gholghant, and the High Steward would stop at nothing in order to ensure that Gholghant didn’t suffer the same fate, or worse, then that of Vetalia, Citadel City or even the Jagites of old.

Far away in Zahaghant in his seat in Ghish, the Emperor of Ghant kept abreast of the developments in Gholgoth, keen to the details provided to him by Lara Jarasa, the High Steward’s niece and emissary to the Gothic gatherings in Automagfreek and Aldarminia. Lara was a crafty woman, who used her uncle’s dealings with the Golden Throne in order to both secure Ghantish safety and advance their interests in Gholgoth. It was safe to assume that she had put Ghant in a position to come out of this whole ordeal in a better condition then it had been in before.

Yet the Emperor himself was reluctant to commit himself to anything outright, because he himself lacked a personal understanding of the situation. He had yet to meet with anyone in Gholghant, with any Gothic leaders or even the Golden Emperor Feodor himself. Perhaps in his younger years he might have been more brash in his decision-making processes, but the now 39 year old Emperor was more cautious, more calculating then he had been in his youth. He had been Emperor of All Ghant for thirty years now, and if he were going to be emperor for thirty years more, he had to be as diligent as he had to be thorough, for much hanged in the balance.

Indeed, the Emperor of Ghant was a sad figure to most of his countrymen, who would have been better suited to another life then the one he was thrust into at a young age. He became Emperor at the age of nine due to the premature death of his father the Crown Prince John and the subsequent death of his grandfather Emperor Albert. Nathan endured a grueling nine year regency under his abusive uncle who inflicted great torment upon the boy, which even twenty years later left noticeable marks upon the Emperor’s psyche.

The man was prone to live in seclusion with his comforts, which mainly consisted of women that elected to be his companions for one reason or another, whether it was for power or because they simply loved his good nature and kind heart. He had many children that he adored, and often worked the gardens with his daughters and trained in the yard with his sons. He neither enjoyed nor felt suited to the power invested in him, though at the end of the day he tried to make the best of it, because it was his duty and he feared its abuse by more ambitious kin.

In his older age the Emperor still had his reddish-brown hair, though the sheen it once had began to dull. He still had his sad, dreary blue-grey eyes like a storm at sea, bleak and expressionless. He still favored simple garb consisting of colorful tunics and casual shoes to match, and he still preferred to be addressed by his first name, as opposed to any title meant to inflate his ego or satisfy some archaic court ritual. All in all, he left the tasks of ruling and representing the Empire to other individuals he regarded as trustworthy and competent, while he enjoyed the simple pleasures of life.

Lara Jarasa was enough to represent the Ghantish in the previous two regional gatherings of late, but this third one in Citadel City was one that would by all measures be well attended by the Lords of Gholgoth, of which the Emperor of Ghant was but one. His line had only ruled as such since the early 19th century, and it was through some obscure descent from an earlier King of Gholghant that that the Emperor’s line came into that throne, and the eventual seat on the council that it brought.

The interest of the Imperial House Gentry in Gothic affairs had been in the past rather lacking, to say the least. Though now, the stakes were too high for even the present Emperor to ignore. So it was that Emperor Nathan IV of Ghant stirred, committing himself to traveling to his lands in Gholgoth to meet with his Steward, and then on to Citadel City itself for this gathering of Gothic Lords, come what may from that.

Originally, the Emperor deigned only take his eldest son and heir, also named Nathan, with him on his excursion into Gholgoth. The Empress would not be joining them, as she was busy with her younger children and in ruling the country, which she had a certain aptitude for that the Emperor lacked. She insisted that the Emperor take their eldest son, so that he might gain some experience that would serve him well as emperor when that time came.

The Crown Prince, aged twelve, was already a more shrewd and strong-willed prince then his father had ever been. The Emperor was by all accounts a gentle and amiable man, but also weak willed and eager to please. His many lords mocked him behind his back and schemed to take advantage of him. This left an undeniable mark upon the young Crown Prince, who above all other things valued the power and prestige of the Imperial Seat over all aspects of Ghantish life.

The Crown Prince was not the only child of the Emperor, and the others soon became jealous that their father was taking him and not them. Soon the traveling party expanded to include the Crown Prince’s twin sister Sara, and then Prince John and Princess Valerie, and before long, so too did it include Prince Victor, Princess Valentina and Princess Blanche. That was the cutoff however, for the youngest among them was Valentina at ten, and the Emperor thought it inappropriate to bring children younger than that. He had too many children as it was between his wife the Empress and his Ohaides, or concubines as they were known in order lands, to include them all.

So it was that the Emperor and his seven children made the trip from Ghish in Zahaghant to Gaztelua in Gholghant by way of a private plane, with all the security personnel, advisors, retainers and servants that he could reasonably accommodate. By the time they had arrived at the White Palace in Gholghant, the children were exhausted, exasperated and restive, as was their father. The Emperor joined them in resting for a time, before meeting privately with both Henoor Zaldua and Lara Jarasa.

It was Lara herself that insisted that the Emperor come to Gaztelua and then accompany her to Citadel City, and it was for her that the Emperor had the sharpest words. For he is truly like the eagle that marks his house’s sigil, sharp of talon and with a pernicious beak. The Emperor was disappointed that Henoor and Lara made dealings with the Golden Throne and then used that as leverage against the other Gothic Lords, finding such a course to be reckless and damaging of Ghant’s trustworthiness and reputation for peace and neutrality.

Though of course, Lara was quick to point out that perhaps the Emperor would feel a greater sense of urgency if it were the lives of his children that would be put at risk by the ambitions of the Kravenites and Scandinvans, both of whom saw the Ghantish as vulnerable. She was right of course, that Nathan felt a lack of urgency in his far away seat, though like with most things, he had a tendency to be oblivious of potential dangers that necessitated his attention.

Despite that, Emperor Nathan, in spite of all of his faults, had something that made him uniquely fit to deal with the situation. Empathy. Unlike his counterparts at court in Gaztelua, he considered the situation in Gholgoth from the perspectives of others, Prince Fenric of the Sons of Erid in particular. Nathan was quick to point out that he didn’t believe that Fenric was himself a bad person, and that more than likely Fenric felt threatened and lashed out, like any creature would do when backed into a corner, man or beast.

In any event, they deliberated late into the night and into the following day, with breaks to tour the city and enjoy some leisure at the palace, before retiring to their respective chambers. There would be more discussions to follow after the sojourn to Citadel City was complete. Once again, the Emperor, his children and all their people packed up and headed out to their plane to travel to Havensky, joined by Lara Jarasa.

Gaztelua to Citadel City wasn’t nearly as long of a flight, with only the Strait of Jarasa and Jagada between them. As such the Emperor and his children prepared a change of dress that would be appropriate for reception in Citadel City. Lara Jarasa brought her own lilac silk gown that fit her snugly, though like the rest she didn’t change into it until the appropriate time.

Lara sat in a comfortable cabin with the young princesses of Ghant, where the Princess Imperial Sara was reading a book aloud to her sisters that had been given to her by Lara as a gift. It was an old book called Blood of the Dragons, which told the history of House Jarasa and how they came to dominate the lands of northern Gholghant along the Strait of Jarasa that separated Gholghant from the mainland to the north.

“Forged from the souls of the bravest of men
They are tempered in the flames of righteous war
Ever will they stand against the tides of evil
For the dark shall claim no more

In the burning mountains of the Dragonkin
It is Man who swore a sacred oath
For in exchange for the Dragon's blood
Man must now protect them both

I speak of the legends; these Gods of battle
Warriors clad in suits of steel
They come as champions of a grieving world
And all shall learn to kneel

But not in supplication, nor out of dominance
We kneel in reverence of the bringers of light
These warriors imbued with the Eternal Flame
Shall chase the shadows of night

No more will the creatures of the swirling Nether
Defile the stability of our hearts and our homes
Today we stand as men of freedom
For our lives are now our own

Yet this is also a somber day
One that is marked by the scar of grief
For some have not survived the change
But at least their pain was brief

But think not of those who have given their lives
For they have already gone in grace
Look instead toward our living champions
The hope for our race!

They are gifted in strength, with bodies of stone
They cannot be broken by weapon or threat
They wield the power of the Dragons themselves
It is an oath they do not regret

They are proud to call themselves 'Dragonkin'
In honor of the creatures they hold so dear
For these are the children of Herensuge
And they shall know no fear...”

The girls all listened carefully, sitting in a circle with their legs crossed upon the cushy mattress. The four of them were intelligent, and pretty for girls their age. Sara strongly resembled her mother, with the same smooth round face and deep blue eyes, though while the Empress had jet black hair, Sara’s was more of a dark brown. Her younger sister Valerie took after their father, with the same reddish-brown hair and grey-blue eyes, though she too resembled her mother the Empress about the face.

The other two girls were the Emperor’s children by different concubines, and it was rather obvious by looking at them. Blanche had an oval face and slightly curly brown hair with crystal blue eyes, and like her mother seemed to be wistful. The one that stood out the most was the youngest of the four, Princess Valentina. The ten year old girl strongly resembled her father, though unlike him she had long, fiery red hair and olive colored eyes and a look of mischief and guile about her. Supposedly, it was she that the Emperor adored the most out of all his children, due to her willful personality and warrior spirit.

The boys congregated amongst themselves in a separate cabin, and for good reason. The Crown Prince often picked on his sisters, especially the ones that weren’t his mother’s children. He did this because he thought he could get away with it, and because his mother wouldn’t reprimand him for toying with children not of her womb. The Crown Prince resembled his father to a decree, though like his twin sister had dark brown hair and a deep shade of blue eyes.

Prince John, among all the children, most strongly resembled the Empress, with the same black hair and deep blue eyes that came to characterize her family line. The second in line to the throne was everything his older brother was not- John was an academic, a keen thinker and scientific mind. This clashed with the Crown Prince of course, who was headstrong, preferred to train at arms instead of endeavoring to engage in academic pursuits and enjoyed tormenting those he had power over, whereas John couldn’t hurt an insect even if he was compelled to.

Victor, the youngest of the three boys, came from the same concubine mother as Valentina. Like his sister, he had red hair, though his was more of a copper color, and his eyes more hazel in their hue. He tended to spend most of his time around John, who treated him with kindness, whereas the Crown Prince treated Victor like a glorified servant, expecting him to cater to his every whim.

In order to distinguish their brother the Crown Prince from their father the Emperor, the girls called the former “Bebe,” which Blanche came up with as a clever reference to his tendency to act like a baby, as she would say. At that particular moment in time, that was who Blanche was talking about. Bebe. “Bebe thinks the Dragons are a myth, and that House Jarasa is treacherous,” she explained after Sara finished reading from the book about that house.

“Dragons aren’t real, and probably never were!” Valerie exclaimed. “That’s just something that the Jarasas came up with in order to feel special…no offense to you my lady,” she said bashfully to Lara.

“None taken,” Lady Jarasa told the girls. “The important point of the story is that House Jarasa has always taken its duties to defend the people seriously. Dragons are fierce and dangerous creatures, which is something we aspire to in order to protect the people we care about…”

Valentia jumped up from the mattress and threw her arms up in the air. She exclaimed, “I believe that dragons were real, and that like all the other great beasts of the world, went away when men became too powerful. I think when the days of men wane, that they will all come back. Then the Kravenites will surely be doomed, consigned to dragonfire!”

Sara was softspoken, but a natural leader even at the age of twelve, the eldest of all the Emperor’s children and by far the wisest. A shame she was born a girl, Lara thought sadly. What an Emperor she would have made. “It would take more than dragons to vanquish the Kravenites,” Sara told her younger sisters. “It will require principles. That the few will stand against the many, and that they will stand for freedom against those who would bring them to their knees. This will be the doom of the Scandinvans as well.”

“Bebe says that the Scandies are better than everyone thinks,” Blanche pointed out. “Bebe says that they are a true Gothic nation and people, while the Skyans are a race of foreign mongrels and bastards set upon Gholgoth like the Trojan Horse, meant to destroy it from within. He says that’s why they are such good friends with the Golden Throne!”

“That’s stupid,” Valentia stammered, the red apparent in her fair skin. “Twas the Scandies that broke the Gothic Pact, not the Skyans. If the Scandies were true they would have honored the Pact, like we’ve always done. The Scandies are stupid and they will get what’s coming to them.”

Lara found the would-be diplomacy of the little girls far too amusing to interrupt, and merely sat there at the edge of the mattress and watched them debate, round and round. Outside the cabin window were the skies above the continent, though the girls seemed to care little for their surroundings. The cabin itself was rather large, with a big door with guards on the outside of it, and a large comfortable mattress, dollhouse, tea party set and bookshelf within. The floor was even a fluffy carpet, which encouraged the girls to go about barefoot.

It was little Valentina who eventually changed the subject from dragons and Kravenites and Scandies to something else entirely. “Hey, stop it!” she yelled at her sisters. “It’s my turn to read a story!”

Lara didn’t have to interject. “What would you like to read?” Sara asked her gently.

“My eagle book,” the red head beamed right back. “The poem about the cage.”

The girls knew that Valentina was not one to be dissuaded, stubborn as she was. So they all nodded and turned silent while the red head reached for a little book on the bookshelf and opened it up, turning the pages until she arrived to the part that she wished to read aloud.

“You can never cage the eagle.
The eagle, it longs to be free.
You will never cage the eagle.
And neither will you cage me.

For the eagle it has no master.
No master to hold the key.
And as the eagle rides upon the wind,
It feels every breath of air.
And when it sores above the clouds,
No one can touch it there.

It flies over mountains and valleys.
It flies over oceans and seas.
The eagle, it only lives to be free.

It dwells upon a mountain.
Beneath an opaque sky.
For the eagle follows its heart.
It needs no reason why.

No, you can never cage an eagle.
The eagle will always stay free.
No one will ever cage the eagle.
Just as no one will ever cage me.”

I can see why you are your father’s favorite, Lara thought to herself as she listened to Valentina recite the poem from the page. They were both idealists with antiquated notions of their place in the world, of honor and virtue and mysticism. It was an interesting comparison, the eagle and the dragon in any event, and one could not deny the majesty of the eagles and the prestige that they carried.

It wasn’t too long after this that there was a message over the intercom regarding a timetable of arriving in Citadel City. It was now time to go and change, and the girls all jumped up and ran out of the room to their respective ladies-in-waiting in order to get changed into suitable garments. Lara followed their example, and went to her own cabin in order to put on her lilac gown and get her blonde hair done just right.

After what seemed like at least thirty minutes went by, Lara emerged, and found the children gathered with their entourage in tow. They all wore matching clothes of different shades to signify their rank within the Imperial Family. Sara wore a gown of white with a golden sash trimmed with black to mark her as the highest ranking female of the Imperial Court after her mother the Empress. Valerie wore a light blue gown with a white sash also trimmed with black. Blanche wore a silver gown with no sash, as the sash was only fitted to the children of the Empress. As such, Valentina then wore a red gown to compliment her hair, though unlike her sisters who all wore slippers she wore high brown leather boots.

Among the boys, Bebe wore a black court uniform, trimmed with gold as were the pauldrons and sash, though his cape and gloves were also black. John dressed in silver with gold trim and a matching sash, and wore no cape or gloves. Victor wore a grey outfit with black trim that resembled his brothers’, though his lacked a sash as befit his station.

As for the Emperor, he chose to dress in a white court uniform trimmed with black, though the pauldrons were gold. His cape was also white, and so long that it dragged on the floor behind him. His sash was a solid black, and affixed upon it and his left breast were various medals that not even he seemed to know what they represented, only doing so because it was the expectation that he wear them.

Nathan noticed Lara right away, and inclined his head towards her. “Lady Jarasa, you look lovely as always,” he said politely with a smile as he took her hand and kissed it gently upon the back. His compliments came easy, his words honeyed. No wonder the women like him so much. “Soon we shall be in Citadel City, and we can finally get to the heart of the matter. I just hope that the other Lords will listen to reason.”

“…I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” Lara told him plainly as she withdrew her hand from him politely. “Up to this point they’ve all been in the same boat as you. Hearing different things from different people…now they will have the chance to hear what’s going on right from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

“I suspect that some might be less receptive to Feodor then others. Sil comes to mind,” Nathan observed, referring to Empress Silvier of Kylarnatia. “The woman has an ego the size of a mountain. Though around here, who doesn’t?”

Good point. “Silvier is the least of your concerns, Nathan. The biggest concern is getting the Scandinvans to make amends for attacking Citadel City. Otherwise, the war will escalate. Let’s hope that Fenric is as malleable as you seem to believe he is.” Lara knew that Fenric and his Sons of Erid were widely considered to be a problem that had to be dealt with, given their rhetoric against other Gothic states.

“It won’t be as easy as all that,” the Emperor sighed, rubbing his forehead as his face winced. “Despite that he probably believes me to be a deplorable degenerate, I sympathize with the man, truly. I don’t believe us to be all that different…I plan on just trying to appeal to his better nature. That’s what’s worked for me with others in the past, no reason not to try that now with him.”

The Crown Prince interjected into Lara and Nathan’s conversation. “The reason why Citadel City was attacked was because they haven’t conducted themselves in good faith with their Gothic brethren,” Bebe explained pointedly. “They come out of nowhere and help themselves to land in the continent, and then jump in bed with the Golden Throne like eager whores. Their actions have undermined the Gothic Pact and now they mean to hide behind it?”

It went without saying that the relationship between the Emperor and the Crown Prince left much to be desired. The Emperor pointed at his son and said “that’s enough of that. I won’t have any such talk while we are here. The Skyans are our allies and our friends, and we will not offend nor insult them in any way while we are in their country. Do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand clearly enough, father.” The boy had acid in his voice, a clear and apparent contempt. The boy didn’t like his father, mostly due to the fact that he betrayed his marriage vows and kept the company of other women. This often made the Empress feel quite sad, and her son was aware of this and felt disdain for his father. He also viewed his father as being weak. Bebe just wants his father out of the way…

Everyone took their seats on the many couches and comfortable chairs throughout the plane as it made its descent, until finally it touched down upon the tarmac and came to a rolling stop near the airport. In rows of two the Ghantish entourage made their way out of the plane down to the pavement below, with several of the guards leading the way, and the Emperor before his children and Lara behind them.

Unlike some of the other great champions of the realm, the Emperor’s champion was a northern knight by the name of Rolli Ahateremu, the so called Knight of Ducks. He had scraggly brown hair atop his head and beneath his chin, and laughing blue-grey eyes that lit up his otherwise plain face. Lara judged him to be roughly six feet, six inches tall, and roughly the Emperor’s age though probably a bit younger. His ceremonial armor featured ducks in flight, and he kept a sword on his scabbard and an axe on his back. The various other guards maintained firearms, while Rolli’s armaments were more ceremonial in nature. It was Ser Rolli that led the way.

The Ghantish fanned out across the tarmac in order to be properly received and announced, and once the procession of Ghantar was complete, the Imperial herald, clad in a black uniform and by all measures a funny looking round hat, slammed the butt of his black staff nearly as big as he was against the tarmac, causing a loud thud to shudder against the air. Then he announced them.

“By the Grace of the Gods both Old and New, may I present his Imperial Majesty Nathan, the Fourth of His Name, Emperor of All Ghant, High King of the Ghantar, King of Low Ghant, King of Gholghant, King of Dienghant, Overlord of Zahaghant, Lord of Gholgoth, Lord of Ghish, Lord of Gaztelua, Lord of Degusa and Protector of the Realm.” Then the herald gestured with his staff to each of the others as he announced them in a rather routine fashion.

“His Imperial Majesty is joined by his Imperial Highness Nathan, Crown Prince of Ghant, Prince of Gholghant, Prince of Dienghant, Vicelord of Ghish, Vicelord of Gaztelua and Vicelord of Degusa. His Imperial Highness John, Prince Imperial. Her Imperial Highness Sara, Princess Imperial of Ghant. Her Imperial Highness Valerie, Princess of Ghant. His Highness Victor, Prince of Ghant. Her Highness Blanche, Princess of Ghant. Her Highness Valentina, Princess of Ghant. Lady Lara of the House Jarasa, daughter of Lady Anara Zaldua and Lord Amroth Jarasa, the Dragonlord, Warden of the North and Master of the Strait. Ser Rolli Ahateremu, Imperial Knight-Champion. Their respective knights and retainers, etc. etc. and etc.” Another slam of the butt of his staff against the tarmac, and the herald was done.

Both the eagle and the dragon looked out the Skyan welcoming party, and both seemed to wonder how they might receive them and bring them to the Citadel. Though, Lara estimated that the Emperor was chiefly concerned with Bebe and what the boy might say or do. You should worry less about the boy and worry more about what you are going to tell the other Gothic Lords, she thought. Many of them were more than likely peeved at how casually the Ghantish seemed to disregard Gothic integrity, though as Lara said to the Aldarminian Emperor, it would be better to assume we are unsafe then to assume otherwise…

[Havensky]

Emissary Airport
Gholgoth, Havensky
(Co-written with Ghant)

As the Gentry family stepped down from the plane unto the tarmac, the Skyan Royal Band began to play the fanfare of the Ghantish national anthem. The Red and White Guards snapped to attention and flags were raised to welcome the new arrivals.

Secretary of State Lance Atticus, dressed in his trademark white suit and sky blue vest, stood on the tarmac flanked by the Skyan ambassador to Ghant, Jenara Torrea the Ghantish ambassador to Havensky, Major Gavin Squall, the commanding officer of the Emissary Airport, and several hospitality officers.

Atticus smiled as the Ghantish delegation stepped onto the tarmac. As the herald finished announcing their names, Atticus stepped forward.

“On the behalf and the behest of the People of Havensky, it is my duty and pleasure to welcome your majesties and esteemed guests to Citadel City.”

The hospitality officers swept in and offered plates of salted bread and drink to each member of the royal family, Lady Jarasa, as well as the Ghantish knights.

“It is a pleasure to be here,” the Emperor of Ghant responded gingerly as he readily accepted the offering of salted bread and drink with a certain eagerness, and without hesitation he consumed the bread and washed it down with the drink. Upon seeing their father do that, his children did the same, though Bebe paused before partaking. Lara and then the other Ghantish guests followed suit shortly thereafter.

Atticus was glad to see Lady Jarasa as he admired her competence and sharp tongue. He was also interested to meet the Emperor’s children. He was relieved that the Ghantish emperor had brought his family. He had worried about the stories of his extramarital activities and had even concocted a plan to work around it as to avoid incident.

It also meant that the Ironwing children would be at the state dinner - one of their first events of this nature. The Ironwings had been extremely protective of their children’s privacy. Unlike most royal families, the Ironwings had been elected to their position and their titles didn’t extend to their children. Their teenage twins, Ezekiel and Victoria, were given courtesy titles during official functions. However, the Ironwings had forbade any special treatment. The kids would have as much of a normal childhood as possible. That meant they went to public school, did chores around their residence, and were involved in extracurricular activities. Although, Lucas wasn’t above sending a massive security detail anytime his daughter or son went out.

Ezekiel, who went by Zeke, had a wiry frame much like his father. His dark hair was cut into a mohawk He wore a leather bomber jacket with a dress shirt and tie. He’d dressed up for the event, but one got the impression that he was more of a t-shirt kind of guy. He held his arms behind his back at a parade rest stance.

His sister, who went by Tori, had bright red hair like her mother. She also wore Gothic Red like her mother, but opted for a simple long dress. She wore her long hair in ringlets with a simple charm necklace. She was more comfortable in public than Zeke was and smiled as the cameras panned their way.

Atticus gestured to the Ghantish delegation and said, “We’re honored that you’ve come. Please, the motorcade is this way.”

The Emperor of Ghant nodded politely, and took the first step forward among his entourage. “Of course, thank you.” the rest followed suit, although it was worth noting that Bebe glared at Ezekiel with a look of disdain, while his brother John glanced bashfully at Victoria when he thought she wasn’t noticing. The rest of the children paid little mind to their Skyan counterparts, merely following their father’s lead to the motorcade.

Because of the large party, the Skyans had arranged a large armored limousine for the royal family and the ambassadors. Lara and Atticus would ride in the armored town call which had been used to transport most of the other VIPs. Major Squall would ride with the Ghantish Knights. Everyone else would ride in various other SUVs for the short trip.

It was for the sake of peer bonding that the Emperor decided that he would send his sons with Ezekiel, and his daughters with Victoria. The Emperor on the other hand elected to ride with his knights and Major Squall, being something of an admirer of his. He apparently trusted his eldest son and heir to ride with Ezekiel, though perhaps that was a misguided notion.

“What languages do you speak?” John asked Ezekiel in their car, while Victor looked out the window and Bebe continued to scowl.

“I speak Common, Spanish and I'm getting better at Japanese - but I wouldn't consider myself fluent. My sister is much better at the languages. What about y’all?”

“Ohikoa (Common),” Bebe snorted in Ghantish to his brothers. “Ez bakarrik ez du itxura baserritar bat bezala zuen, baina hitz egiten du bat ere atsegin zuen (Not only does he look like a peasant, but he speaks like one too),” he added with a laugh.

John turned his head to address his brother. “Hori ez da polita (That’s not nice).”

“Eta zer? Ezin zuen ulertu digu, hala ere (So what? He can’t understand us anyway).” The Crown Prince sniggered once more, casting a smirk towards Ezekiel.

Zeke was annoyed. In a multilingual society like Havensky it was considered very rude to speak in a language that wasn't common to both parties. His temper flared up, but he was part of the hosting party and he had ‘responsibilities.’

“Just so you know, most people here can tell when they’re being spoke ill of. We have over fifty spoken languages here. It's a more common scenario than you think.”

It was the young Prince Victor that came to the proverbial rescue. “Ghantish is one of, if not the hardest language in all the world to learn. An old story tells how the Devil came to Ghant, to learn Ghantish and tempt the Ghantish people, but could only manage to learn ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ which in Ghantish are ‘bai’ and ez.’ Eventually he gave up and returned to hell, finding learning Ghantish to be too much trouble in the end.”

“That is a fun story. You should tell it to Tori - she loves those kinds of stories. She also is trying to learn Ghantish on top of everything else.”

“I pity your sister then,” Victor teased. “Though there’s no greater way to impress the Ghantish then to have learned their language.”

“That's understandable. We collect languages and loan words here. So, it helps to know a little bit of everything.”

The conversation was mostly polite, with Bebe keeping his mouth shut for the duration of the drive to the Citadel, lest something unfortunate transpire. Meanwhile, in the girls’ car, the four Ghantish princess looked out the windows, and it was Valentina that spoke first. “What’s wrong with your brother’s hair?” she asked benignly. “It looks funny. I’ve never seen a prince with hair that looked like that!”

“Valentina!” Valerie scolded her little sister, before turning her head to address Victoria. “Forgive my sister, she doesn’t know her manners quite yet…”

“I do too!” the younger princess countered. “Is he one of those street ruffians like the ones on TV? Like the ones that ride motorcycles in the desert?” Her questions caused a collective sigh among her older sisters.

Toni laughed out loud, she didn’t have any sisters and enjoyed the back and forth between the princesses.

“There’s nothing wrong with it - he just likes it that way. He’s not a punk or anything. If anything, he takes himself much too seriously sometimes.”

“Oh?” Sara wondered aloud curiously. “How so?”

“Oh, I imagine it’s a bit like your older brother. He… I mean we.. are the children of Jessica Heart and Lucas Ironwing and it’s a lot to live up to. Zeke works too hard at everything. Mom insists that he can do what he wants with his life, but I think he’d feel embarrassed if he was anything other than a knighted Legionary officer. I’m sure you and your brothers face similar pressures being royals and all that.”

“Won’t he be the King someday?” Blanche asked with a puzzled expression. “He is the son of the King, after all.”

“No, it doesn’t work that way here. We elect our King and Queen. We’re not even officially prince and princesses. We’re given courtesy titles during formal functions, but we don’t get any special privileges. Well, other than living in the Royal Residence and the guards and all that. Zeke won’t be King unless he runs for it. I don’t even think Mom and Dad expected to be royals until the Milograd War happened.”

Valerie practically jumped in her seat. “Elected? So your monarchy is a public office, like our Prime Minister?”

“That’s right. And, to be honest, the monarchy is just the head of state. Prime Minister Artemis is head of government. Sir Vincent is the head of the civil service as the High Executor. Together with the Secretary of State, Defence, Treasury, Education, Welfare and the Secretary of Justice they form the High Council.”

Sara was quick to point out to her sisters that “In Havensky, only those trusted to lead the people are granted such power.”

“...It’s too bad Bebe doesn’t have to get elected,” Valentina giggled, causing her sisters to snigger.

Tori smiled at the compliment but politely ignored the jab at Bebe. She didn’t know much about Bebe at present, but she was too polite to press the issue. She’d have to ask Zeke how his ride went.

The motorcade finally arrived at the Citadel. At the Citadel steps, the band played the Ghantish national anthem as they arrived. The Ghantish flag raised alongside the Caesar’s on the Citadel’s bastion wall.

At the lobby, the Ghantish delegation would see that they were not the first to arrive. Queen Jessica and King Lucas Ironwing were engaged in conversation with the Caesar.

The Emperor of Ghant entered the room flanked by his guards, though they shuffled back so that the Emperor’s children could come forth. Once again, the Imperial herald announced them verbatim, as though it were his own name.

“By the Grace of the Gods both Old and New, may I present his Imperial Majesty Nathan, the Fourth of His Name, Emperor of All Ghant, High King of the Ghantar, King of Low Ghant, King of Gholghant, King of Dienghant, Overlord of Zahaghant, Lord of Gholgoth, Lord of Ghish, Lord of Gaztelua, Lord of Degusa and Protector of the Realm.” On cue, he pointed with his staff to each of the others that he intended on announcing.”

“His Imperial Majesty is joined by his Imperial Highness Nathan, Crown Prince of Ghant, Prince of Gholghant, Prince of Dienghant, Vicelord of Ghish, Vicelord of Gaztelua and Vicelord of Degusa. His Imperial Highness John, Prince Imperial. Her Imperial Highness Sara, Princess Imperial of Ghant. Her Imperial Highness Valerie, Princess of Ghant. His Highness Victor, Prince of Ghant. Her Highness Blanche, Princess of Ghant. Her Highness Valentina, Princess of Ghant. Lady Lara of the House Jarasa, daughter of Lady Anara Zaldua and Lord Amroth Jarasa, the Dragonlord, Warden of the North and Master of the Strait. Ser Rolli Ahateremu, Imperial Knight-Champion. Their respective knights and retainers, etc. etc. and etc.”

[The Scandinvans]

Gone were the days of mighty Emperors leading their hosts in glorious conquests abroad. Forgotten was the ancient greatness of the parades of triumph in the land of Valgard. Abandoned were the ways which once compelled generation after generations of Scandin to go overseas to conquer new lands for the honor of the Empire. Things which still crept in the collective consciousness of the Scandin people. Dreams which still stirred powerful emotions within those who longed for better days or a new golden age.

The Sons of Erid had stood by for a century only to see what they believed to be a decline of the Glorious Empire of the Scandinvans. They had come to the conclusion that the only manner in which they could restore what was lost was for them to forsake their role as a body of academics whose sole aim was the preservation of the ways of Erid, thus earning the name the Sons of Erid some centuries ago. Their role over the last few generations had become on in which they served as a sorta of cabal which actively lobbied for imperial enterprises and against any attempts to reform the social order.

This had over time allowed them to gain a number of key allies in the clergy, nobility, and military. Thereby giving them the capacity to intertwine themselves with the apparatus of the state. Something which ended up feeding into their cycle of growth as they used their position of power to promote those who were loyal to their goals or full on members of the Sons of Erid. Over the decades they had become an embedded force with the Scandinvan Empire capable of obstructing legislation and nudging along initiatives that they liked.

That all changed however with the de fato establishment of a Scandinvan protectorate over the Pudite Shen Almaru islands. For the first time had the Sons of Erid acted outside of the official channels of the pro-status quo imperial administration so overtly. The action was specifically designed to incite a renewed desire for empire among the commoners who had seen a population explosion as of late. Something which was only beginning to be felt.

The protectorate over the Shen islands would give them the means to begin to establish a form of colonial rule over the locality designed to provide a population outlet of only a hundred million or so Scandin. Nonetheless, it would be a morale victory for the Sons of Erid as it would allow them to show that they were capable of building a brighter tomorrow. Though it would come at the expense of the lives lost fighting wars of expansion and cultural destruction for whatever peoples that they would conquer.

Therefore when they were able to attain control of the archipelago, the Scandinvan protectorate government was given fiarly strict rules to follow so that they could properly prepare to soon become an extension of the Scandinvan Empire. Their first gambit was to gain the tacit compliance of the local powers via concessions and key guarantees to their ongoing autonomy. Such a step would require that the Scandinvans fully accept that they would not be the immediate controllers of local affairs for a good period of time. Yet this was certainly to be the path of least resistance.

These steps however would have to be delayed for at least a bit due to the expanding conflicts facing the Scandinvan Empire as a deliberate byproduct of the machinations of the Sons of Erid. An alteration to their plans had to occur, but one that was well within their projected potential variations. Thus allowing the Sons of Erid some breathing room in preparing the response to the growing probability of a full on invasion of Shen. The first requirement of this was the activation of the defensive fortifications and the military forces of Vismer. A point which was seen as a critical supply point to the efforts to protect Shen Alamuru from any attack that would either come form Havensky or the more liberal Gothic states.

The order was thus sent to begin the mustering of relief forces to be immediately dispatched to fortify the standing five million soldiers who had already been dispatched by the Scandinvan Martial Command to Shen Alamuru. The general directive was also issued to begin to organize labor brigades from the locals so that the islands could begin to be correctly fitted for the oncoming war or at the least prepared for one. The ideal plan being to drain in sufficient enemy resources to bog down enemy forces so that they could not be deployed against the Scandinvan homeland. They also predicted that they would be able to hold onto the majority of the land area of Shen Alamuru and a super majority of the population. An outcome would only serve to help reinforce the claim that the Scandinvans held proper sovereignty over the isles. Regardless, though the islands would become a meat grinder for whatever enemy landed on them.

Due to the threat of the Golden Throne, the lion's share of the imperial fleet was being held in reserve by orders of the Martial Command. This in turn prohibited them from being used to help the islands to any truly decisive extent. At the same time, a few choice counters to the expanded use of power armor had already arrived on the islands thus ensuring a few surprises for any force which deemed it prudent to use powered exo-skeletons against the Scandinvan forces.

[The Macabees]

"To dance with Gholgoth is to dance the día'bolé with fire."

— J.S. Kuboka, War for War's Sake (In'Kalab Publishing [2043])

These were busy days. War raged in all quarters: in Holy Panooly; Kashubia; Gholgoth. Insurgency raged in Indras and Zarbia, and now terror had come to grip the shores of eastern Theohuanacu and western Levante. The empire was in flames. Fedor sighed. He had been here before; he knew this place all too well. It was treacherous terrain, but a mountain he had climbed before and looked forward to surmounting again. Conflict is opportunity. A chance to grow, evolve, and progress. Embrace and live it, and you will be unstoppable. Turn from it and you shall wither. His grandfather, the great Jonak I had said that.

Fedor reclined on a broad leather couch, near Kíerlord Garus Letev who lay sprawled on a settee of his own, the two separated by a low table made of vojinga. The Macabean emperor gazed at it, lost in his own thoughts. His mind wandered and he mused about one day returning the vojinga tree to the world. It would require cleaning the surface of New Empire first, and that was yet another responsibility on a list that had no end. He obliged the ornate carvings which crawled up the table's legs to blend with a frieze that ran as a strip around its side, depicting bloody scenes of an ancient war. The table had been delivered to Emperor Klíos sometime in the 11th century C.E. It was a miracle that it had survived the centuries in the condition it had, and even more of one that it had survived the Kríerstat Epok. Fedor wondered whether it would survive his rule.

Any other man's shoulders would have sagged under the pressure, and Fedor would be a liar if he did not admit to himself that some days he wished he could abandon it all. Perhaps one day he would, when he knew there was a worthy successor. But, not today. Today, duty beckoned. And it was in response that duty that he found himself on a flight to the Skyan Republic.

Calling it flight was perhaps disingenuous. The nearly forty thousand kilometers between Fedala and Citadel City had been covered as if the Skyan capital hadn't been in a far-off region all along. It was a marvel, in all honesty. GATA, to which the two countries were partners in, had bridged a once insurmountable distance between Gholgoth and Greater Díenstad. Now a river skimmed Earth's orbit in a seemingly constant flow of cargo craft, passenger pods, and other spacecraft designed for orbital flight. But, GATA had done more than just open up opportunities for trade that their ancestors had only dreamed of — it was rumored that many of the eastern díenstadi nations of centuries past had lost brave explorers to that vast expanse of ocean between the two regions —, the trade association had brought the Skyans and the Macabeans together politically as well.

A fortunate, if unintended, turn of events, for the Skyan Republic was now the Golden Throne's most important ally in Gholgoth. And it was thanks to the Skyans that Fedor had now been granted an audience with the Gothic Lords, putatively amongst equals, although the Macabean emperor was under no illusion that all would withold their vitriol. Gholgoth was a string pulled tight, held so tense that at any moment it could snap.

But, he had learned a lot during the first ten years of his rule. He had been caught weak and unawares at the birth of his reign, but that injustice was now avenged and since then he had built an empire perhaps three or four times as large as that left to him by his grandfather. It wasn't just the empire's military might that he had sharpened and refined, but his understanding of the art of diplomacy. Fedor had come to understand the value of balancing on the razor's edge, a balance that had to be kept with a sword in one hand and a pen in the other. If the sword was too heavy, the balance would tip and the effort would collapse.

With so much war, there was indeed an emerging disequilibrium. The empire was stretching itself thin. With stability in Greater Díenstad events might have transpired differently, but one wondered when the region had ever been stable. One might as well wish for ice in the scorching desert. Fedor understood that it behooved him to strike a compromise with the Gothic Lords.

Indeed, he came with a proposal in mind.

Fedor's eyes lifted from the empty distance of thought. He caught Lord Letev's gaze, which seemed none too amused. Fedor wasn't sure he liked the kríerlord, which was something that had always been true. Letev had been chosen for the position during the war of succession, the decision made more out of necessity than out of luxury. There was no time then to worry about what one liked and what one did not. The majority of the Weigari houses were in revolt, and with them had gone important Díenstadi lords, as well. Letev's position was a result of being at the right place, at the right time; by virtue of being loyal he had earned his rise to the coveted circle of imperial advisors. But, loyalty did not mean Fedor had to like him. There was something about the man, something about the way his eyes sparkled that made Fedor uneasy. Then again, many things made the emperor uneasy these days. "Speak your mind," he said.

That seemed to startle Letev, although any surprise that seeped to the surface was quickly quenched. Kríerlords did not allow themselves to be caught off-guard, even if it was His Imperial Majesty they were speaking to — perhaps less so if it was him. The man, extended as he was on the recliner, had surely taken to comfort. Against the sofa lay an armored cuirass, its thin black cloth wrapped tightly around composite plates with muscular etching protruding through the material like ripples. Red scrollwork in the shape of two dragons with gilded scales ran up its flanks and in the center, over the sternum, radiated House Letev's coat of arms, three crescent moons each as red as blood.

The man opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. "I cannot but think that your...proposal...is unnecessary," he started, finally. Fedor nodded for him to continue. "Why should we not concern ourselves with Gothic politics where it concerns us? Handicapping ourselves does not seem the Macabean way. Neither does making ourselves seem weaker than we really are. The Senatorial Government will surely see it that way."

"The Senatorial Government? Let them think what they will," dismissed Fedor. "They will have their own war to fight soon enough."

At that, Lord Letev laughed. "Yes, you are certainly right about that."

"In any case," he continued, almost as if the other man had never spoken, "You mistake humility for vulnerability. Besides, the Gothic Lords can think as they will as well. Their business is none my concern regardless and they will have other matters to pull their attention away from me and the war soon enough." The impending Skyan liberation of occupied Shen Alamuru was one of those matters.

The kríerlord nodded, but he raised a finger before responding. A servant who had been sitting in the corner rose and moved quickly to attend to him, gaze held low. Servants were of course paid, and they were never mistreated, but they were to be silent and inconspicuous in the presence of high-born men. "Bring me a glass of the 1978 Mosinau, will you darling?" She nodded and scurried away, but not before he had already turned his attention to the emperor. "I have heard it is exquisite. The riches we have found in the Cerfonlande vineyards are beyond all amazement, Fedor."

"So you agree?" was all Fedor said in response.

Lord Letev turned his head one way and then the other, as if taking two sides. "The Goths have never seemed too interested in their own problems. Decay, really. Internal decay. How many nations have fallen to the Kraven Reich? They allowed the fall of Shen Alamuru! How else could you describe it!? Any decent coalition could have stopped it. Yet, no matter how much we parade our good intentions, our invasion of Drana has become the focus of all Gothic nations."

"Some of them are afraid. They interpret us as conquerors." He paused a second as the servant came back a glass of white wine for the kríerlord. He went on when her back was turned and she walked quickly back to her chair. "Not all do, though. Gholgoth lacks leadership, but there are those who intend to seize it. The Skyans, for one, and they are our allies. I trust that they will be able to rally their region around a new beacon, just as I know that the road ahead for them will not be an easy one. Gholgoth is not an easy beast to tame, after all. There are too many forces of evil that promote discord and disharmony. The liberation of Shen Alamuru will be a good symbol of new hope, and with the Scandinvan army pinned down in their mainland the Skyans are likely to win that war. Most of the blood spilled will surely be our own, to boot. The terms could not be better for the Goths. If they are strong, they will accept my proposal."

"Let us hope they do then, Your Majesty. May what's willed be in our favor, in any case."

"Indeed," said Fedor.

They fell into silence for the remainder of the flight, until the two men rose to don their cuirasses before the imperial craft descended from orbit down into Citadel City. One servant helped secure the kríerlord's breastplate while another helped Fedor. The emperor's own cuirass was white, its ballistic fiber tinted the color of the imperial coat of arms. In its center, with wings extending to his breasts and claws growing into his abdomen, was displayed the black double-headed eagle of the Golden Throne. From his shoulders draped a golden cloak over his back down almost to the heels of his tall boots. On either side of the pelvis, molded in gold, were memorials to the conquests of the Havenic territories and of Theohuanacu. One depicted the beheading of a line of Havenic soldiers, after they were told that no mercy would be shown to the murderers of Aurillac. The other showed the torching of Tiwanaku, when the pirate cities had finally begged to enter into an agreement with new imperial authority over the the island. There was no plaque for Guffingford. They had been allies and its occupation had not been a conquest. It had been a liberation from the alternative, Stevidian rule. As for the most recent annexations, there had not been time to add them.

As they came into Skyan skies, two Lu-45 air superiority fighters emerged from the fog below to escort the imperial craft down towards Emissary Airport. On their tails was painted the white, blue, and gold flag of the empire and through a broad screen, fed by an external camera, Fedor and Lord Letev could see the pilots saluting from inside their canopies. The cameras — as there were no natural windows — surveyed as much as the city as they could before the aircraft fully descended.

Fedor saw the Legion Base and he made a mental note to inspect Macabean troops deployed to the city. They were the first to see action against the Scandinvan enemy and they would know their emperor had recognized, and would reward, their sacrifice. The city was truly impressive, although he was not sure whether he could call it beautiful. Apart from the subterranean fortresses of New Empire, he had seen nothing like Citadel City before, not in Greater Díenstad at least. The concrete-reinforced glass buildings — one way to describe them — were made as if to withstand a siege, and indeed he knew they had, and he could see even from his great heights where modernity met the archaic utility of the air raid bunkers.

It reminded him of Aurillac, on the banks of the River Styx. Had it been built like this perhaps then the Havenic carpet bombing would not have been as disastrous. Over twenty-seven million people might not have burned or suffocated to death. That was how Fate had welcomed Fedor to his thrown. He had delivered justice to his enemies, though. Fedor unconsciously felt the right plaque on his armor, the line of executed prisoners. A third of all their prisoners had been. It had been just punishment.

The thought was a reminder that he was not in Gholgoth for sightseeing. He had come as a warlord, as the emperor of the Second Empire of the Golden Throne, and as the man who had ordered and now commanded the staggering one-billion-man invasion of the mighty and treacherous Scandinvan Empire.

They landed to no fanfare. They had requested a minimal reception over fears that the Scandinvans were sufficiently dishonorable to assassinate the Macabean emperor while in flight or upon arrival. Overhead, grey-blue Macabean jets screeched as they accelerated beyond sound and sped off into distant skies once again. For a second they overwhelmed a sound of celebration coming from the city itself. Its people must have readied themselves for the parade already. A servant placed a golden crown that fitted Fedor's head much like a laurel wreath, but with the wings of eagles rather than laurel leaves. The Kríerlord fell in line, clearly behind his emperor and not beside — they were not equals, whatever Fedor allowed him to get away with when in private — as they stepped onto the tarmac. Fedor smiled as he greeted the Skyan security delegation that had met him there to escort him to the parade grounds and his long golden cape fluttered in the wind behind him as he walked.

[Havensky]

Emissary Airport

It was a very small affair. The press availability had been limited and they had only told the press that a Maccabean official was coming in and would be arriving to the Citadel with the Pudu delegation. As such, there was no press at the airport. They were instead sending crews to the parade route to get better angles.

This time, Secretary of State Lance Atticus was flanked the Skyan Ambassador to Macabees and Commander Gavin Squall. Squall was dressed in white power armor of the Diplomatic Guard. His red sword marking his as a member of the Guardian Chapter of the Heartknights. The shield of his power armor held his own personal crest - a slingshot loaded with a broken heart.

Personally, Squall hated being part of a dog and pony show. Sure, he understood that it was important to have facetime with various leaders of nations that were committing forces to the war effort. As Atticus' military attache, he was there to advise him on military matters and to help coordinate the allied militaries. It was a far different job than commanding an infantry company. He had no direct reports, a boss that wasn't military, and worst of all it was a desk job.

It was unavoidable at this point. Nobody dodged the desk forever, not even a Heartknight. Given his war record and experience working with other militaries, Atticus had asked Legion HQ to place him as the new attache. Some of Squall's war record was still classified, but his work in Hab Centre 06 was not. It was also assumed that most competent intelligence services would deduce his role in the rescue of both Queen Heart and Lt. Onyx.

As Emperor Fedor stepped out onto the tarmac, there was no band. Atticus himself gave the offering of bread and drink. This was one bit of custom that the Skyans had insisted on. While the tradition of bread and salt was purely traditional, it had been important for Havensky to establish Fedor as a guest and under their protection in both the old ways as well as the modern legal ones. Security would be extremely tight, but so far they had seen no intelligence that there was an active threat.

Atticus gave a small bow and spoke, "Your majesty, it is an honor to welcome you to Citadel City. Please, this way."

Atticus motioned to the limo emblazoned with the seal of the Skyan Diplomatic Guard. The window was heavily tinted - and bulletproof - so that Fedor could observe the drive to the city in relative privacy. The limo could also hold the entire party so that they could have a conversation. The bar inside the limo was also stocked with appetizers and drinks. The Emperor of Pudu was due to arrive soon and so they could take a small break before the parade for the Pudites started.

[Kylarnatia]

Citadel City, Havensky
Gholgoth
(with contributions from Havensky)

If she could, the Caesar would have chuckled slightly at the sight of the Reich’s flag flying next to the Imperium’s at such an official function. It was amusing to her, as if fated, that the two would be symbolically shown next to each other at an important diplomatic event, almost purposefully ignoring the fact the two were constantly poised on the brink of war. She understood why the Skyans went through with it, as it wasn't as if they were the best of friends with the Reich either. She noticed that the young sister who accompanied her almost full-on recoiled in disgust, but Caesar calmed her with a calm glance. The acolyte bowed her head in an apologetic manner, then continued her prayers.

Silvier - or Catherina as she was referred to, for the Ironwings had learnt that it was actually against Kylarnatian custom to speak the Grand Mother's name in casual conversation - smiled upon receiving Jessica's compliment. It was true that the two hadn't seen each other in a while, not since the last time their states were in full war with the Reich over Vetalia, and that made the Caesar a little sad. Jessica reminded her of her own mother, the late Imperatrix Éadaoin (known as Éadaoin the Fair posthumously), so she enjoyed spending time with her. The loss of her mother had hit her hard, especially as she had lost her father at the same time as well, so she had no emotional shoulder to really lean on during the difficult ascension period. While Silvier had grown a lot since then, and had learnt how to manage the pain and the responsibility of her position, it was still a scar that needed itching every so often. Jessica was that itch in a manner of speaking, though Silvier never admitted that to her, as close as she felt.

"Tehee, my dear Jessica, I would say it’s you who looks the most beautiful. I'm just a walking jewellery box with wings!” Silvier was always very modest about herself, mostly because she had a huge entourage and countless world dignitaries who were prepared to sing her praises instead. The crowd swelled and cheered again as the airships broadcast images of the two speaking together on the steps, and that proved it. She knew how grand and impressive she looked, but she didn't need to say anything, for the world always took notice.

Meanwhile, Hyperion clasped Lucas' arm and gave it a firm shake. The Dux Imperator was fond of the man, which was saying something considering that Hyperion was very rarely fond of anyone. “It is good to see you again as well, Lord Ironwing. My Caesar and I are glad to see that you’re still being kept busy. You always seem to find yourself in the centre of this region’s maelstroms; a true testament to the character of you and your people.”

Lucas responded, "No rest for the weary, but most days I’m just in my classroom. It’s good to get out every once in awhile though - despite my desire to be under better circumstances."

The Caesar, Hyperion, the acolyte and her staff then followed the Ironwing's into the Citadel where she and Jessica continued talking. "You’re being too kind as always. You are the only one who could pull off a dress like that. How is Calixte?"

Jessica asked after the Imperatrix Calixte, whom Silvier had married a few months back, to much fanfare and adoration both at home and around the world. Silvier adored her more than anyone else in the world, and when she was home spent almost every moment with her. Sadly, however, matters of state or world importance would separate them, and the Caesar detested those moments. Calixte would have undoubtedly accompanied her, was she not under orders from the Fangthane Palace doctors to rest. “She is well. Resting still after the most recent health scare, but I have faith that my doctors and the Grand Mother herself will keep her safe.”

“Well, Lucas and I will hope for a speedy recovery.”

Silvier nodded firmly with a warm smile, and upon overhearing the blessing the acolyte spoke a louder chant; expressing the blessing in the holy tongue so as to give it a greater effect. The Caesar did worry that the acolyte could potentially make her hosts uncomfortable, due to how private they were regarding religious matters, but as the head of the Silvier Sacerdotium and living embodiment of the Grand Mother she couldn't take a 'back seat' on it, particularly at this time of year. She knew the Ironwing's understood, but she also knew there were a small number of people in the Skyan government who found it strange and criticised it. "Some people will just never understand." She conceded in thought, resolving that it was pointless to worry about the thoughts of a few when she needed to tend to the needs of the many.

When the party reached the guest bar, Silvier breathed a relaxed and warm breath as she observed the setting. She loved the aged and studied look that it had, and it made her feel cozy, almost as if she was back home. The diplomatic and admin staff also reacted positively, with a lot of happy chatter starting amongst them as they were granted a chance to break from their duties and mingle with the Skyans. The Caesar went with Jessica, Lucas and Hyperion to the bar, the acolyte following closely behind.

“Yes, something a bit stronger than coffee would go down well. Brandy should do the trick.” Brandy had been a favourite of the Silvanus family for generations, and each succeeding heir had taken a liking to it. Silvier could not wait to get her heir Julianus to try, though he was still a few years under the drinking age. Once she received her glass from the barman, the Caesar proceeded to one of the seating areas and the others followed. Along the way, Caesar grabbed a glass of water from one of the Skyan aides and passed it to her acolyte, who mouthed a silent thanks to her sovereign.

Once seated, with Jessica on one side and with the acolyte close on the other while both Hyperion and Lucas remained standing, Caesar took a mouthful of brandy and then swallowed it gently, letting out a large breath and relaxing her posture. “You know, Jess, I really can’t blame your government and your people for being frustrated with the Gothic Council."

Jessica responded. "The government understands it’s complicated. However, the voting public are the ones that are impatient for change. There’s a lot of anger out there. Artemis is approaching her term limit and the public may express its displeasure if the situation isn’t remedied. The government is under immense pressure to secure the safety of the region and is willing to take extreme measures to do so."

"As the Imperium is willing to take any measure to deal with the Reich." Hyperion unexpectedly jumped into the conversation, which immediately drew Silvier's eyes to his. While she kept a calm body expression, her eyes breathed fire at him, though the Dux Imperator remained unshaken. While he was undoubtedly the most loyal servant of Caesar, he was also - due to all of his years of experience and presence - the most willing to be outspoken, much to the Caesar's annoyance, both past and present.

Silvier noticed that Jessica shook her head in displeasure with the comment. "Hyperion."

"We are amongst friends, my Caesar. Might as well address the shark in the room." The Dux Imperator remained unapologetic.

Jessica then chose to humour the giant. "Well, at present the Reich isn’t who we’re at war with. It’s the Slavers. It’s not that I don’t doubt you, but I would like to avoid getting into a fight with more than one superpower at a time. And - to be honest - it’s the same symptom either way. There is no disincentive not to attack other Gothic nations. Something else must be done."

"The Reich exists in a perpetual state of war with everyone, you are just as much at war with it as you are with any of the slavers, who follow in their example. I do accept that they are indeed not the pressuring matter right this moment, but I was under the impression that this meeting was also intended to address the long-term future of the region, though the impending invasion from the Golden Throne is the most pressing matter."

Only willing to be an observer for a short while, the Caesar then jumped in. "To bring fruit to this discussion, it’s like I told you both back when we first met: we Goths have seen countless civilisations rise and fall, burn and suffer. War is ingrained into our very being, as horrible as it is. The funny thing is that we like to do it our own way; we’ve always found outside interference to be detestable at best. Though I will be the first to admit the Golden Throne has every reason to retaliate."

Jessica spoke at almost the same time as Caesar, their words inter-lapping, which was a sign of how close their friendship was due to the fact they were willing to speak over each other. The acolyte was appalled by this, but kept her head down. "I was ‘outside interference’ at one time. What recourse did I have when the Reich attacked us the first time? Or the second? The Council is too slow to react to events. It left Vetalia in ruins. Milograd destroyed. When Vetalia was sacked, every Gothic Lord should have sent armies to put down the attack. There’s no unity of action. If there was, the Slaver Lord would never had dared to attack us. And now, we do things the hard way."

Silvier could not really fault Jessica's frustration at the situation. Her people had bled, and bled hard, due to the wars that had been caused from the decadence of the alliance. Yet the Caesar felt it her responsibility, as she had felt when the Skyans first arrived, to not coddle them and instead prepare them for the harsh truths that Gholgoth operated by. "The Council at present reacts to what it believes is most important. You and I fought the cause of the Vetalians because we deemed it so, though the rest either did not or were indeed slow. That is the point I’m making; this isn’t just a fault of an institution, but the very nature of the region itself. That will take a lot longer to change then the statutes of the Alliance, though we can certainly be the start.

As for the battles you fought, truth be told, that was a test of character. Look back at every other nation that has existed here and you’ll see in their histories that they’ve faced the same in some shape or form. My people had to go toe to toe with both the Sambizie and the Crimm, several times over. It’s archaic, barbaric, but all we’ve ever known. Would that be better changed? Absolutely. Is it ever going to change? Not without peace for several generations, and even then. It's the nature of the beast..."

The conversation would have certainly continued, had it not then been interrupted by the arrival of the Ghantish. Turning her attention towards them, Silvier felt it more productive at that stage to continue with pleasantries rather than getting into too heavy a discussion before the Council officially convened. Placing her glass of brandy down on the table in front of her and then standing, she looked to both Jessica and Lucas and smiled, "It seems you have some new guests to greet. I look forward to continuing this discussion in the chamber more formally, and again, it is lovely to see you both again."

Allowing Jessica and Lucas to go and talk to the Ghantish, the Caesar and her entourage were close behind. Once the Skyans were done, she stepped forward, with Hyperion by her side and the acolyte close behind. Several members of her staff had also come forward and snapped to attention, carrying boxes and crates of various sizes.

"Your Imperial Majesty, it is a pleasure to see you again." Silvier acknowledged Emperor Nathan first, speaking gleefully, though both of them knew that there was no love lost between them both. Silvier had gotten along well enough with Empress Sophia to know that Nathan didn't have the highest opinion of her, and the feeling was decidedly mutual, though they also both knew that there was nothing to gain by bringing their dislike of each other into national policy. Kylarnatians and Ghantish people got on well together, so studies showed, and there was a mutual benefit in both nations getting along together, especially with the threat of the Reich being ever present against the two of them.

"I see that the Empress has not joined you this day, that is a shame. However, I'm glad to finally make the acquaintance of the Lady Lara of House Jarasa; I've heard many great things about you." She spoke truth then, as the name of Lady Lara had spread to ever corner of the region after her actions at the previous two gatherings in both Automagfreek and Aldarminia. The Imperium merely observed then, as it wished to analyse the mood of the region before tabling it's own proposals, but now it felt prepared to do so here in the Citadel. Caesar was curious as to what role Lara would play, especially with her Emperor present. No doubt she would be the strongest negotiator for Ghant, but would her sovereign's ignorance undermine her efforts? They would know soon enough.

"...and I've heard even greater things about you..." Silvier then turned her attention to all of the children, kneeling down slightly so that she could look at them all face-to-face. This was the mother inside of her kicking in, as her eyes glistened when she looked to each of them. She adored children, even if they weren't her own. First, she looked to the Crown Prince. "The Crown Prince, what a handsome young man you're becoming. You remind me a lot of my own boy, Julianus. I'm sure the two of you would get along splendidly. I can also see now why your mother adores you."

Then, the Princes John and Victor. "Ah, but let us not forget about the other men in the room. The one who is wise and the one who is brave, both admirable in their own right. And then we have all these beautiful young women..." The Caesar turned to the princesses, Sara catching her eye the most. "Sophia tells me she's the brightest, and she certainly has the appearance of someone who has their wits about them. Maybe I should talk to Sophia about getting her introduced to Julianus..."

"My, I wish I could have looked as pretty as all of you when I was that young. So graceful and full of presence." Silvier looked over to Valentina. "I've heard you have quite the fire inside of you, which I can't help but admire." She winked.

"For all of you, I've brought gifts!" She exclaimed gleefully, standing once again and gesturing for the staff to come forward. They did so, and handed gifts to every child. "I hope you like them. I chose them all specifically for each one of you, though admittedly I had a little bit of help..." She winked again, referring to Sophia.

Each gift came with a note which explained what they were. The first, for the Crown Prince, was a traditional Kylarnatian scimitar that was used by the Fangthane Palace Guards, forged especially for him and adorned on both the hilt and the scabbard with both Kylarnatian and Ghantish idols. Next was John, who received a small crate full of books, which included some of the best books on both Imperium as well as Gothic history from Kylarnatian authors, as well as an exquisite copy of the scriptures of the Silvier Sacerdotium for study and other treatise of Kylarnatian philosophy, and a selection of Kylarnatia's most popular young adult fiction. Victor received a cape with the colours of the Imperium and a shiny medal, known as "the Caesar's Favour", which carried the image of the Grand Mother in her angelic form: this made him one of Caesar's "favourite warriors", as the note described.

Then, the princesses: Sara, Valerie and Blanche all received unique sets of traditional Kylarnatian jewellery and clothing made in their favourite colours. Sara received a broach, Valerie and necklace and Blanche a ring, all of them encrusted with the finest jewels and gems like the ones on Silvier's armour. Lastly, Valentina also received a sword like her older brother. Her's was a training sabre, also finely decorated and made in the style of those that were used to train the heirs of the Imperium's throne in sword combat. It also came with the guarantee that once she was older, she would receive a real sabre, designed to her likening and forged by the masters at the Fangthane Palace armoury.

The Caesar and her Imperium were sparring no expense in making an impression, and one thing that Caesar knew for certain was that if you couldn't win over the seniors - as she knew there was little she could do to change Nathan's mind about her - you can always win over their children.

[Temnorus]

The Utopian Line
Temnorus, Gholgoth

The rail line linking Utopia to Havensky was a relatively recent development. Wasteland seldom was conducive to the construction of infrastructure but the rich ore seams of the northern mountains were another matter entirely. To facilitate the transfer of high grade minerals and the industrial products of the Utopian forges into the Skybound Republic’s market both states had cooperated to construct the Utopian line, the only high-speed rail line in Temnorus. Daily trains ferried not only the metallic bounty of the wasteland but also a small number of tourists and dignitaries back and forth between Temnorus and Havensky. Despite the staunch ideological opposition to liberalism that was inherent in the fundamental laws of Shigalyovism, realpolitik demanded at least cordial relations. Relations could only be maintained by an incessant stream of paperwork and communication and as always the indefatigable bureaucrats of the Party were responsible.

The Utopian line was heavily guarded by the Black Army for obvious reasons. Today due to the unique diplomatic cargo, there were even more layers of security heaped upon the usual compliment from the Rail-Way Troops. Commissar Sofia Krateros-Uvic sat leisurely in one of the compartments of the high-speed train, sipping espresso and idly reading the dossier assembled by her Commissariat. Temnorus had for decades sat silently as the region and the world burned, content to mount periodic campaigns against the barbarian remnants until now. With the creation of a relatively large and stable habitable territory within the Republic’s assumed boundaries, it was again necessary for the Temnori to pursue an active role in international affairs. Her intrepid husband, Miros Uvic at least was not joining her on this trip occupied as he was with trying to forge relations with some of the more civilized wasteland tribes. He was sweet but his rigidity when applying the ideological laws of Shigalyovism was tiring.

Outside of the window passed the austere landscape of her fatherland, punctuated by occasional ruins that were more often than not occupied by stupefied savages who thought the train a god or perhaps some sort of supernatural snake. While Temnorus did in theory control all of the land within her boundaries, the unregistered and the savage remnants existed in places deemed not strategically relevant by the Republic. The rail-line was perfectly safe however, the Rail-Way Troops were as zealous as their comrades in the proper army and preserved a kilometer corridor on either side of the line that prevented sabotage.

Sofia sighed, savoring the last drops of her espresso before handing it to a waiting aide. The Party member quickly took the cup and left, leaving the Commissar alone with her traveling companion. Due to the importance of this meeting her companion was none other than the Commissar of Contentment, Roman Rogozhin. Two Commissars traveling together was a nearly unheard of situation and suggested the importance that the Temnori Republic placed upon this summit of the Gothic Lords.

Sofia flashed Roman a smile and said,

“Comrade, what do you think it will be like? There hasn’t been any kind of contact with the Gothic Lords since before the December Revolution and there is really no way to know whether they will grant us the rights and privileges that were associated with our precursors.”

The Commissar was a physically unremarkable man save for his blazing eyes which after a moment’s pause shifted from the bleak landscape to Sofia’s radiant face. She was gorgeous and from even a cursory glance it was possible to see that she was ferociously intelligent. A lifetime of scheming before being elevated to the highest echelons of state-power meant that more often than not her schemes were as successful as they were ruthless, a fact not lost on the chief of the security services. The Commissar was not interested in her beauty however and her intelligence while surely considerable and perhaps superior to his own, meant nothing.

Finally, Roman replied,

“They will be forced to recognize us as heirs to the Abruzian seat. Failure to recognize the legitimacy of the December Revolution and our claims will create a dangerous situation for the region at large. If left in the cold, we will extend our hands to the foreigners. The Skybound Republic would suddenly find that the previously secure frontier was subject to all sorts of barbarian raids. While it’d be unpleasant I’m certain that we could weather another period of isolation.”

Commissar Krateros-Uvic leaned back into her seat and smiled at the naked logic of the Commissar of Contentment’s statement. While Temnorus had not participated in the pre-meeting assembly that had already occurred, the Cadre had seen the statements made by Atticus. A reformation of the Gothic Lords was interesting but the primary motivation for the Republic was not regional security. Instead the recognition of Temnorus as not only an actual Gothic Nation but also ensuring that connections could be made or re-established with other Gothic Lords was of paramount importance. Warfare was always profitable for the Temnori, there was no shortage of unregistered they could herd into combat and the Black Army was always capable of expendable. Plunder in the form of captured technology and genetic material was enticing and while the Republic would take care not to openly advocate for combat, it would also not advocate for peace. Sofia knew that this position was a dangerous one to hold, if neither side of the widening fissure actively courted the Republic it was conceivable that Utopia would be diplomatically isolated and doomed to forever watch regional affairs from the sidelines.

Sofia turned her attention back to the dossier and Roman resumed his position of staring out at the featureless plains. Flipping through the information laden pages, Sofia was gradually constructing her perception of Temnori interests in relation to the Havensky-Scandinvan divide. The question of the Kraven Reich was another matter entirely and for the moment one that Utopia was content to ignore, quite simply because it had no answer. The Skybound Republic was a profitable trading partner and the rail-line that the delegation now rode upon was immensely useful in that it allowed power projection from Utopia into the western steppe. However, history hung over the Temnori, blood ties between the Commissar of Nourishment, Antonio Eridescu, and the Erids could not be ignored. The closed nature of the Cadre meant that the same blood ran also in Sofia’s veins though it was significantly more diluted. Regardless, there was an element of racial duty that could not be outright denied.

Sighing, Sofia flipped the dossier closed and motioned for an aide outside of the compartment to fetch her a drink. It appeared that the best course of action would be to arrive and see which faction more aggressively courted the Republic and should neither desire relations with Utopia, as Sofia feared, she would re-evaluate her hierarchy of loyalties. A muffled voice came over the intercom and announced that train was approaching the frontier. Commissar Roman stood and softly said,

“Excuse me Comrade, I must oversee the final security checks.”

Sofia waved a hand and produced her passport, receiving a brief check from Roman who in the name of protocol had to ensure his Commissariat checked every passenger’s documents. Masked figures in each train-car performed the same check with time practiced precision. Soon enough their train would pass through the frontier. Closing her eyes momentarily, Sofia reached out and received the drink she had requested. Exhausted by the assumed difficulty of her coming task, she watched the bubbles of the carbonated water for a moment before taking a long drink. This meeting could decide the fate of Temnorus for decades and the responsibility fell to her. While it was not often that a scion of one of the primary houses of the Cadre was liquidated, she knew that Roman would carry out his function in the event of failure with the same passionless effectiveness that his Commissariat was famous for.

[Havensky]

Grand Crossing Station
Citiade City, Havensky

Grand Crossing was Havensky's largest train station and the center of the city. From here, one could hop on a train to any of the districts inside Citadel City or to any city in Gothic Havensky for that matter. You can even hop a train and go as far south as Jagada or as far north as Utopia or the ports in the Drakonian Imperium.

Grand Crossing was also the location of the central shopping district. A gigantic eight-way crossing way featured prominently in the center with skyscrapers overlooking the dance of pedestrians as they walked to and fro.

This day, was different, in that a large section had been cordoned off and in it's place stood a military band at attention. There were media cameras everywhere and large numbers of tourists gathered to see all the history being made. On the digital screens that adorned each skyscraper in the Grand Crossing pictures of different Gothic Lords behind their representative flags were shown with the subtitle "THE PEOPLE of HAVENSKY WELCOME...EMPEROR NATHAN GENTRY...of GHANT!"

As the two Commissars disembarked the train, the White Guard was lined up alongside the platform to the street and stoop at attention. The Skyan Ambassador to Temnori greeted them and escorted them to street level. As they stepped up and out unto the street, the band began to play the Temnori national anthem and High Executor Profecta greeted them with a plate of salted bread and brandy.

"At the behest and on the behalf of the People of Havensky, It is my honor to welcome you to Citadel City. Please, this way Commissars."

High Executor Vincent Profecta guided them to a nearby towncar so that they could make their way to the Citadel. The High Executor was getting old now well into his late seventies. Profecta had served since the days of the First Kraven War and the years had begun to show on his face. Always a serious man, the High Executor looked like a seasoned man of the sea with his white beard. This would be his last event, the High Executor had told himself. After all these years, he had earned a retirement. He was hearted that so many Lords had come. This boded well for possible peace. Given the recent change in Temnori, it was important to extend the warmest of welcomes to their new representatives. They needed to feel at ease.

As they settled in, Profecta raised a glass and said "Cheers, to peace!"

If the Commissars had looked outside, they would have seen people waving both Temnori and Skyan flags. They might not have caught the extra security that was all around them. A pair of Accipiter fighter jets buzzed overhead to the excitement of the crowd below.

Given that they were coming in from Grand Crossing instead of the Emissary Airport, the Commissars would end up seeing more of the city than the other Lords. The drive was a bit longer, but the path they took wound along the Salam River which boasted a large park. It was a particularly windy day, and so children were out flying kites amidst the carnival atmosphere. The children played in the shadow of tall skyscrapers that bent ever so slightly towards one another to reflect the light back onto it's neighbor to avoid casting a shadow. Greenery grew out of the curves of the skyscrapers as they drove by. Up ahead, the large frame of the White Citadel stood against the afternoon sky with flags from every Lord flying.

[Temnorus]

Grand Crossing Station
Citiade City, Havensky

Sofia and Roman smiled and returned the toast proposed by High Executor Profecta. She happily consumed the ritual offering and sipped her drink, taking in the sights and sounds of Grand Crossing Station while trying to subtly observe Profecta. The bread was satisfyingly warm and filled the growing hole in Sofia’s stomach conjuring an optimistic mood. Between bites of bread and sips of brandy, she focused on Profecta just long enough to draw an obvious conclusion. Gifted with the powers of observation she was able to deduce that his best years were likely behind him. Smiling internally at her childishly simple observation she turned her attention to away from their host and to the city that was so unlike any she had seen before.

Roman meanwhile had hardly touched his bread, preferring to quietly sip his brandy. Upon their first steps off of the train he had sized up the White Guard and found them suitably impressive. While they did not move with the inhuman and subtly disturbing unity of his own Liquidation Detachments they were obviously very well trained. It was curious to him amount of fanfare, and while the Commissar of Contentment thought it refreshing, he was also perturbed by the amount of wasted surplus value that the milling hordes of tourists and other onlookers represented. It was strange and slightly disconcerting to hear the anthem of Temnorus in a foreign land. While the Temnori were not supremacists, it was somehow wrong that an alien people were playing their proud tune.

The Commissar dismissed the notion, there was no firm line within Shigalyovism in relation to anthems of any kind and so it was obviously a concern that should remain beneath his notice. The roar of a passing jet punctuated his transition in thought as his blazing eyes swept over the crowds while he and Sofia approached the town car, guided by Profecta. Havensky was an impressive land, he concluded, but it was already apparent to him that the people were not truly ready for a war of extermination. None could question the fact that the Skybound Republic was no stranger to conflict. However, the existence of such trite phenomenon as tourism suggested to Roman that they were still far from mentally prepared to defeat Scandinvan should it be necessary, heaven forbid the Kraven Reich.

Again Roman dismissed the notion almost immediately, the observation was superfluous in that had Havensky been able to simply crush either state the summit would’ve been unnecessary. The Commissar of Contentment internally chuckled and got into the waiting vehicle. As the town car lurched into motion he turned his attention away from his banal observations to their host. Smiling in what he hoped was a friendly manner, Roman leaned forward and attempted to engage the High Executor in small talk. Almost immediately he had decided that the city, while surely impressive, was fundamentally the same as cities the world over.

Sofia on the other hand was immensely happy that she was allowing Roman to handle the human side of international relations, despite that being her responsibility. Utopia was a mighty network of factories and government buildings but Citadel City was a work of art. Most different from her fatherland was the fact that the city was properly alive. Unlike Utopia which was dominated by mobs of workers and Party bureaucrats moving from one task to the next, Citadel City had actually autonomous people as a rule instead of an exception. The sights were fascinating to one who had known only the cold automation and ant-like predictability of Utopia. It took all of her mental power not to press her face against the glass though even she, with her years of training and talents at manipulation, couldn’t even try to keep her look of wonder hidden.

[Havensky]

Like the other Lords, the electric town car pulled up to the steps of the White Citadel to the same fanfare that had greeted the other Gothic Lords. The black flag of Temnorus rising next to the Ghantish flag as the band played the Gothic Regional Anthem. Another company of White Guards saluted them as they stepped out of the car and escorted them through the VIP entrance.

An airship overhead flew past the Citadel and deeper into the city sporting a large digital screen showing the flags of the region. It ran video of the Temnorian flag rising next to the others so the crowds could see off hand who had arrived.

The Commissars had not brought the large entourage of the other Lords. (Which, truth be told had been a bit of a relief to Atticus who had been up to his eyeballs in logistical matters.) So, as the two walked through the entrance of the guest lobby, a Skyan herald in an officer's uniform announced them.

"Ladies and gentleman, the Gothic Lords of Temnorus: Commissar of Foreign Affairs Sofia Krateros-Uvic and the Commissar of Contentment, Roman Rogozhin!"

Two aides took care of their bags, while another two members of the wait staff offered them food and refreshments. King Lucas Ironwing politely broke off his conversation with the Ghantish delegation to greet them.

"Good afternoon Commissars; welcome to the Citadel. I don't believe we've met before. I'm Lucas Ironwing. It is an honor to have our northern neighbors here. Please, have something to eat."

[Temnorus]

The Citadel was massive and impressive in that it was beautiful as well as functional. The marriage of aesthetic and functionality was something that still alluded the architects of Temnorus, either by choice or ignorance. Sofia immediately recognized the King, Lucas Ironwing, even as he broke off his conversation to greet them. In answer to his greeting she inclined her head respectfully and replied,

“Thank you, your majesty, for your hospitality. Your city and citadel are both magnificent and I hope one day that you may visit Utopia so we may show you similar kindness.”

Roman smiled along with Sofia and added a simple but respectful, “Your Majesty” before taking his leave.

Sofia attempted to make up for her companion’s lack of gravitas by swiftly engaging the monarch in polite small talk. After several rounds of trite remarks, she suggested that after the summit is concluded it may be prudent to discuss bilateral relations in detail. The Commissar of Foreign Affairs hoped that the slight breach of etiquette by Roman would pass unnoticed. Dressed as they were in utilitarian olive tunics decorated spartanly with simple rank pins, Roman was nearly indistinguishable from some of the wait staff as he made his way across the room.

While it was possible that some of the bluebloods mistook him for a plebeian, his esoteric knowledge of alcohol which he promptly demonstrated to the barkeep, proved his aristocratic pedigree.

After several moments of consideration, the Commissar inquired,

“Do you have a bottle of Romanée-Conti Grand Cru? No? Could you then by chance whip me up a vesper? Thank you Comrade.”

With drink in hand the Commissar turned to regard the room, while Sofia would be tasked with meeting the various heads of state it was his job to establish relations with any hangers on. When the summit properly began it was assumed that the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs would offer the overt position of the Temnori Republic while the Commissariat of Contentment would offer a somewhat more "nuanced" position. Sipping his cocktail and admiring the fine craftsmanship of both the drink and the citadel, he casually returned to Sofia.

[Aldarminia]

Shortly after the Summit in Anhavirnjogr
Gholgoth
Yugostrana, the Aldarminian Claim

Today was a historic day. For the first time, Aldarminia would be utilizing a orbspatial means of transporting and deploying troops outside of training and exercise. History, though, is not made by nations or states; rather, it is made by men and women (And whatever in between). The author of this particular page? Kindred and conflicted human souls. Their pens? The machinations of their minds and the machines made by their many hands. The gods, alive and dead and dreaming and waking, hovered over the sixty or so Imperial Guards in the main cabins of a flock of Aizptytsa NoPk-2’s.

The suborbital dropships were the first (Second, if you count their failed-to-get-off-the-ground predecessor, the Nyzhkozmonavt) of their kind. They moved in a seemingly erratic pattern that was utilized to confuse hostiles, but this formation also made it so that their troop drop trajectories did not cross each other, which would inevitably lead to the involved soldiers’ deaths. Escorting the NoPk’s were a dozen squadrons of Ohrlkrov VVV-8’s. The high-altitude fighter jets prowled a strict, semi-spherical perimeter around the flock of dropships. Taking care not to cross any potential drop vectors unless absolutely necessary, they meticulously performed their duties of patrolling the space and skies around the Aizptytsa flock.

As the suborbital fleet made its way over the land promised to the Aldarminian Empire by allies in the region, the NoPk’s began unloading their precious-and-almost-expendable cargo: Imperial Army soldiers equipped with the Voinkholossar Oa.III power armor. Via multi-layered pod vessels blasting forth from the belly of the Aizptytsa craft, the legionaries made their violent descents back to the earth below whereupon their arrival they were greeted by the local and unorganized inhabitants and/or their fellow Guardsmen.

The first soldier on the ground, Obirstnik (Colonel) Etsyan Bjirkrovic, rallied with a platoon that arrived a few seconds after him. Together, they made their way to the top of a large hill. As they climbed, two or three Guardsmen released unmanned aerial vehicles to recon the surrounding area. Following the platoon, a pair of Borskhapnyng P/ZTM-3’s used their highly maneuverable six wheels to traverse the moderately difficult terrain with ease.

The P/ZTM’s were part of a fundamental tenet of the Zygostratium’s doctrine: Logistic sustainability to facilitate surgical suppression and elimination of the enemy. Not only did the Borskhapnyng carry the bulk of the soldiers’ supplies, such as food rations and extra ammunition, but also, the unmanned ground vehicles housed in their chassis a series of hybrid electrokinetic generators and electro-nucleic micro-fusion cells; these would allow the Aldarminian troops to operate in their power armor for drastically more extensive durations of time.

Once atop the hill, Bjirkrovic and a few volunteers assembled a large flagstaff and unfurled an equally-large banner. The banner was a vertical styling of the Aldarminian Empire’s flag, and the legionaries treated it with the respect worthy of such a symbol. Taking care not to let it touch ground, the troops attached it to the pole. After doing so and bickering over who would have the honor, the Colonel and the platoon’s officers and sergeants dug the flagstaff into the hilltop and raised the banner to a zero degree angle--Their power armor afforded them a great deal of precision and accuracy. Bjirkrovic selected a silver-tongued private to press a small, black button on the pole.

The Aldarminian standard, caressed by a gentle wind, now firmly planted in the soil of the territory to be known as Yugostrana, the “South Country,” began emitting an unencrypted transmission on all channels from the communications beacon in its pole.

“This land, hitherto be known as Yugostrana, is hereby claimed by the Grand Imperial Kosmokratium of Aldarminia, its Empire, and its associated Panaldarminium via the lawful and sovereign Imperium of Grand Emperor Dalikharl II. In accordance with the Anhavirnjogr Treaty, the Gholgothic Blood Pact, the Southern Wall Coalition, and the Imperial Edict on the Acquisition and Establishment of Yugostrana, all trespassers will be fired upon. Any coordinated attempts to illegally lay conflicting claims on this land will be challenged and rectified via the total wrath and force of the Aldarminian Zygostratium. Peace, love, unity, and respect to all friends of the Empire and its new subjects. From seas to mountains, from mountains to skies, from skies to stars, we march! Glory to the Hammer! Glory to Gholgoth! Glory to Aldarminia!”

Years Before
Dalekogoradom, West of Gholgoth
Dalikhara, Aldarminia
Kroydvora’Azcheyko (Imperial Palace)
(This Section was co-written with Kylarnatia)

Once, Dalikharl had gone out to meet the Kylarnatian sovereign as she arrived, welcoming her with all the formality that usually came with meetings of foreign leaders. In these days, though, the two were not mere colleagues in leadership. No, they had become friends, and so, the Hammer’s welcome to Silvier came as a broad smile and a hug after she was escorted by servants and guards into one of the many lounges where the Grand Emperor could leisure or work at any given moment. After all but one servant had disappeared into a hidden corridor, Dalikharl took a seat on a cushioned mat that depicted the ancient Siege of Thriald while he gestured for Silvier to sit opposite of him. Glancing from the servant to Silvier, he asked politely, maintaining some degree of tradition, “Care for a drink, or a toke?”

“You know me well enough by now, Dal. I’ll stick with a good ol’ glass of brandy.” Silvier smirked, finding it amusing that Dalikharl always offered her a smoke despite knowing full well that she would never partake.

Dalikharl sighed in playful disappointment before nodding to the servant who left the room and returned with a glass of Madukhsvar Brandy which was promptly handed to Silvier before a second servant arrived with a plate of oddly shaped and pungent pastries. Toying with a necklace of small golden chain-links and runes, the Aldarminian sovereign explicated trivially, “You know I have to ask,” glancing down at the religious accessory, “Besides, maybe one of these days I will get lucky.”

“Persistence can pay off with a girl, although it does require certain...assets.” Silvier teased, like she always did.

Laughing, Dalikharl removed two precisely chosen edible delicacies from the plate and silently ordered the servants away with a flick of his wrist. Nibbling on one of the pastries, a brownie that reeked of some herbal additive, the Hammer handed a smartpad to Silvier. A serious tone invaded his voice and the informal airs, “As you can see, I have been busy weeding out the remainder of the Usurper’s supporters from hiding, but these damned ‘Dreads’ are giving me more headaches than I can even begin to imagine. I cannot believe I was so naive to think I could have exterminated these fanatic pests in a year, like I said when we first met.”

Silvier studied the smartpad for a moment, musing over it while taking a sip of her brandy here and there, savouring the taste. “You say these individuals are fanatics, right? You’re obviously not going to be able to reason with them in any way. They have their ultimate goals and they’ll do anything to achieve them, so what you need to do is twist their goals. Spread confusion amongst them; infiltrate them and send them on errands that bare them no fruit, waste their resources to the point that they won’t be able to fight back once they realise what is going on.”

Solemnity souring his expression, a sign of stresses told and untold bearing down on the young ruler, Dalikharl replied with an appreciative nod and a grain of salt to add to his wounds, “If only it were so easy. My father, for being the liberator and man of freedom he was, spared no rod when it came to dealing with the Aldamer'Ikhana, but this Strakhnatsiya seems to be an evolution of it. An evolution capable of turning our infiltrators against us. Is this what I obliterated half of his empire for? So I could spend my reign fighting for every inch of the remainder?”

A moment to breathe and finish the brownie, “And now, if you tap that compass icon, you can see a map of Gholgoth. Those black dots are where my intelligence believes and I fear that this second evolution is occurring. Strakhnatsiya and its Dread foot-soldiers are leaving Aldarminian territory by the hundreds and thousands, setting up-”

From a room that could not have been too far from the lounge, there came an echo of a female voice, “Ok! I think I have had just about enough!”

Dalikharl’s face suddenly became flooded with an awkward combination of amusement and concern. He rose quickly from his seat, as if he had to ward off some invisible invader, and the Hammer did something between a dash and a stroll towards a pair of doors opposite of the ones Siliver had entered through, but he was too late. As they were swung open, one could hear the sounds of a baby crying coming from possibly the same room that the voice had been originated in. The voice incarnate, though, was standing in the doorway, holding an infant whose wailing became an extension of the distant cry.

Before he could say anything, the voice-in-the-flesh, a female of equivalent age to Dalikharl’s, handed the infant over to the Hammer and ordered, “Go! The playroom by the aquarium, Zlobo and Sophy have not stopped crying. Hroth, here, is a damn angel, but as soon as the others get close to me, he gets all rough with them. I need a break and you need to spend more time with them any-”

“Enough!” yelled Dalikharl.

The woman stepped back, clearly caught off-guard by the response she had garnered, and the child in Dalikharl’s arms began to whimper. She rolled her eyes and breathed to calm herself. The Grand Emperor swallowed his words, realizing he had made a grave mistake on impulse. He opened his mouth to apologize and explain, but the woman was already looking over his shoulder at Silvier, so she spoke at almost a whisper but with an excitement bubbling, “That’s not one of our girls, so that has to be…”

All it took was a nod from Dalikharl, and the woman lit up with a smile and a small, child-like hop in the air. “By Aldaric! Let me meet her!”

Dalikharl, baby in arms, turned back to Silvier, “You have to forgive me, but there are some… Personal matters I have to attend to. But, please, stay here and enjoy the best company Aldarminia has to offer,” gesturing to the woman, “This is Katya Doch’Makar, my-”
“His friend. His very good friend,” she interjected, “And it is quite a pleasure to meet another of his friends, though I hope you two are not too close. I would just like to say, Your Highness, that I love everything you do, and this palace might be in Aldarminia, but my closet and wardrobe are subject to Kylarnatian rule. Now, Dalikh, go and help out the servants in the playroom.”

Silvier had observed the spectacle at first with some surprise, but was quickly flooded with fond memories of when she had just started being a mother for the first time. Furthermore, it was clear to her from the get-go that this lady Katya and Dalikharl were more than just ‘friends’. “Fret not, Katya, we are very good friends and that is how it shall remain. I may tease him on occasion, but with Dalikh, how can you not?”

She laughed, locking the smartpad and placing it down gently while gesturing for Katya to join her on the pillows. “Children are wonderful, despite the mischief they can get up to. I have a son back at home, he’s growing up so fast...enjoy their childhood while you can!”

Katya dove into the pillows and cushions where Dalikharl had been sitting, replacing him as he departed. She laughed at Silvier’s remark about Dalikharl as she got comfortable. She was relieved to know that the Hammer and Silvier had not been having any “fun” without her, but Katya was flabbergasted to find out that she could actually relate to Silvier, “Oh, I will, but that’s wonderful! Right now, I have two twin boys and a daughter, all infants. I love them dearly, of course, but I just wish I could take them out this house for once. Or, if anything, I wish I were free to just go out for a night without sec-”

Realizing she may have been saying too much, Katya stopped herself. She twisted the seemingly diamond orb of a ring on her right hand. With a click, the ring’s true purpose as a vessel for a white powder was revealed. Bringing the ring to her nose, the finger-clasped contraption dosed a considerable amount of the powder to Katya, who snorted to welcome the substance into her body.

“Apologies, but I’m sure Dalikharl has made it clear to you how lax we are around here when it comes to these things, and if I did not have this kocayya right now, you would be talking to a coma patient,” she took another dose before continuing her not-so-careful or effective diversion of the expansive palace’s secrets, “How old is your son? Dalikh only tells me about the business stuff, never anything personal. So boring, sometimes.”

“Please, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Believe me, I’ve seen some crazier things…” Silvier chuckled to herself, thinking of the Unilisians of Dienstad, who had feasted on human flesh - sometimes still living - while in discussions with her. Needless to say, it was quite the experience, so taking drugs was quite tame in comparison.

Drinking some more of her brandy, she answered. “Julianus? He’s coming close to his eighth birthday, already a natural leader! The boy has always insisted on inspecting the Palace Guard every morning without fail since he started talking. I can’t wait to see what sort of man he will become…” She mused for a bit. “I must say, three kids at your age is quite the achievement! You and Dalikh must have wasted no time at all. Knowing him that’s hardly surprising…”

Well, so much for hiding it. Shifting around nervously, Katya scanned Silvier, weighing what was seen against what was heard. There was hardly any discrepancy. Dalikharl had been right: This was a woman of beauty, character, and perception. Silvier did not disappoint, so Katya was certain in her insecurity that she, a Grand Empress-in-secret, surely must have seemed lacking. Velvet eyes tried to open doors to compassion, “No, he wasted no time at all, and he never does… Miss Silvier, I guess there is nothing we can do now that you have gone and said it, but could you please keep these matters to yourself? Our ‘situation’ here is something of a matter of national security.”

Katya let her words settle in the air for a moment before she added, “Rather, dynastic security, but considering the events which brought my Dalikh to his position, I think it might as well all be the same.”

Silvier listened to Katya carefully, her eyes focused intently on the girl’s body language. When she finished speaking, the Caesar downed the rest of her drink in one. “I tell you another thing about ‘your’ Dalikh: he can be quite the heartbreaker. I always made him promise me that I’d be there to see him get hitched…”

She let the words hang for a moment, before a smile slowly developed across her face and she started to laugh. Moving over the pillows to sit next to Katya, Silvier placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. “Don’t you worry, my dear, these meetings and the matters discussed within have always been kept secret and they will continue to remain so, and please, call me Catherina.” She then embraced the girl in a hug for a brief moment, before immediately pulling back and returning to a serious face.

“Seriously though, Dalikh and I are going to have some stern words. That man needs to learn that he can’t make promises to women and not keep them!”

Katya welcomed the warmth of Silvier’s embraces, but she blushed, realizing that Dalikharl had gone so far in his subterfuge to promise the Kylarnatian sovereign an invitation to a wedding that very few even knew had happened already. Caressing Silvier’s hands, as if to comfort her, Katya smiled dimly and ripped the kind woman’s heart out, “Well, you see, Catherina, there’s actually a funny story to that, but I think we might need another drink.”

“Well, what are we waiting for, lets drink!”

Katya clapped her hands, and a pair of servants arrived from a false wall. The Grand Empress reluctantly--Katya had always preferred vodka, but she figured brandy would work for now--ordered for two more glasses of brandy. The servants departed, returned with the drinks, left again after Katya requested the bottle be brought out just in case, returned with the bottle, and then finally departed again.

After a healthy gulp from her glass and a relaxing sigh, Katya explained, “I am so sorry Catherina, but you never had a chance, and apparently Dalikh is a better liar than either of us thought. He and I were married even before he took back the throne. Even before he met you. You would not have wanted to be there anyway. Dalikh only agreed to it because he thought he was going to die the next day. He had just been shot, so his leg was a bloody mess. The only people that were present were me, him, and a priest who did not live to see us after our ‘honeymoon.’ I was carrying a rifle, and we exchanged our vows on the fly by trading bullet casings.”

She paused to take another sip from her drink, and then she continued, “The ring was a piece of twine that he tied around my finger, so I guess that was pretty romantic. Only music we had was the artillery shelling the bunker. Those were the rough years, I guess, but we made the most of them.”

“Oh. I see…” Silvier looked away momentarily, swirling her glass for a while, sorrow audibly in her voice. Then in a flash she downed her drink in one and put the glass down, quite literally jumping on Katya and pinning her to the pillows, like a cat pouncing on a helpless mouse. “But that’s okay…” she spoke with a hushed, feisty tone, leaning in so that their lips were inches apart.

“I’ve always liked girls more anyway.” She let those words hang for a few seconds while staring directly into Katya’s eyes, showing a flare of intensity as she did so. Then in another flash she sat back up and pulled Katya with her, “So be a good girl, or your wardrobe might not be the only thing under Kylarnatian rule.” she winked. “I would hate to have to revoke your right to call me Catherina so soon, although it would be satisfying to hear you refer to me as Caesar…”

Silvier felt that, if she put in all the effort to win over Dalikharl, she might as well win over his Empress as well. Katya, on the other hand, had no thoughts about politics. Three children and the necessity of secrecy had been a heavy burden, but like many mothers before, Katya had never fully realized that the greatest products of intercourse could become the obstacles against it. She had learned this the hard way after the births of Zlobaskar and Hrothashki II, but she had come to accept it, at least tolerate it, after Sophyana’s. Yes, Emperor and Empress made time for each other, but when two are so foolishly in love, even after so long--Short, some with greater experience may say--a time, some desires never seem fully satisfied.

So, when Silvier made her move, spilling Katya’s drink in the process, the Aldarminian Grand Empress welcomed it. Disappointment overwhelmed Katya when Silvier drew back, and at this she mused in her head, So this is why he calls you ‘Silvier the Tease.’

Katya flashed a mischievous smile after she was pulled back to her upright position. After swigging straight from the bottle, she pressed an advance of her own, “Well, Caesar,” she said the title with a slow sensuality, “I think there are parts of me seeking annexation at your hands.”

Present Day
Yugostrana
Northern Coastline

The earth shook precariously as the mortar made its explosive collision with the beach. The slaver-pirate guerrillas were making a valiant effort to stop the Aldarminian infantry’s advance, but if the last few days were any indicators, there was no hope. The Aldarminians enjoyed the benefits of power armor, advanced drone technology, aerial dominance, and superior artillery. The defenders, a confederation of Austrogothic regionalists and nationalists and Gholgothic pirate crews, had lost a kilometer a day since their initial contact with the Aldarminian “Pacifiers.”
Now, the guerrillas’ backs were up against the wall that was the ocean.

The ocean was the only safe haven for the rebels, but the pirate units were cruel in their cowardice. As deserter sentiments took hold, the pirates usurped the authority of the Austrogothic rebel leader via assassination, and then the pirates “requisitioned” several caches of ammunition and stockpiles of food. Next, the pirates boarded boats that brought them to their vessels anchored not too far from the beach. As they abandoned their more idealist comrades, the slaver-pirates deployed sea mines in case an Aldarminian navy suddenly appeared from nowhere and poured sporadic salvos of mortar shells over the beach, hitting not only the Aldarminian legionaries but also the Austrogoth “freedom-fighters.”

Another shell shaking the ground under his feet, a first private named Nykoli Volshnistrakt dashed across the grey and black sand of the Yugostranan shore. Somewhere along the firing line behind him, someone was reloading, so Nykoli’s cover-fire was gapped for just a moment, allowing an enemy machine-gunner time to lift his head and train a barrage of 50 caliber rounds on Nykoli and his fellow chargers. As he approached a concrete slab jutting out from the sand--possibly a remnant of some attempt to develop the area--Nykoli dropped his body and slid next to another Aldarminian soldier.

Laughing because he felt a nootropic injection tickle his arm, Nykoli turned to his comrade to see the rank marks on the legionary’s arm. Nykoli could not resist an opportunity to pester such a high-ranking officer, “Trying not to get your boots too dirty, sir?”

Though Nykoli could not see behind the helmet’s faceplate, the private knew that Colonel Bjirkrovic was smiling because the officer quipped almost immediately with the two men’s helmet’s internal comms relaying the passive comeback, “Well, you know me, Nyk, always wanting a leisurely stroll along the promenade, but never wanting to step into the garden to smell the roses.”

Their laughs were interrupted by a mortar’s impact just ahead of their position, but a little too close for comfort. Nykoli swore by the gods and griped, “Don’t the Gotyugai realize they’re killing their own fucking guys?!... Sir?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Bjirkrovic answered bluntly, “Doesn’t matter, Private. What matters is that we get across this strip of beach and on top of their faces either before or at the same time as our buddies on the other side, so…”

The “so” lingered in the radio waves for a while, waiting for the rest of the line to move up so that suppressive fire could be laid down upon the rebels’ positions. When two platoons were aligned perpendicular to the beach, the Colonel finished barking his order, “Stagger march, forward charge!”

First platoon charged first, sprinting and gunning their way to the last cover-stop before the Aldarminian advance was on top of the rebel “base,” a glorified construction site for an international resort condominium. Behind and/or alongside them, second platoon suppressed the hostile retort. Rockets streaked towards the attackers, incapacitating and killing some of them but not enough. Somewhere in the guerrilla ranks, a new authority was asserted and issued its first and final order, “Charge!”

The foolish braves met the brutal foreigners in melee all around the construction site. Rifle butts bounced helplessly off of plated armor, and bayonets and other blades were broken or bodily parried by the Aldarminian power armor. Grenades were used by the guerrillas with some efficiency, but armored fists and machine-accelerated kicks pulverized the ragged rebels. Towards the end of the melee, Nykoli found himself catching the swing of a rifle-club by an Austrogoth’s arm which was promptly torn from its body. The private finished and confirmed his kill by quieting the poor soul’s screaming via a bone-breaking, muscle-marring-and-meshing squeeze of the upper jaw and lower cranium. After this, the battle’s cacophony was silenced.

Poring over their work, the Aldarminian conquerors raised their arms and fired their guns into the air in victory, calling out to the God Above, “Glory to the Empire! Long live the Emperor!”

Meanwhile, the bulk of the enforcement of Aldarminian sovereignty over Yugostrana was going even more smoothly. Resistance to Aldarminian rule had been light in most of the territory, and the most violent of the defiant seemed to be isolated incidents spurred on by any number of factors. Possibly the natives were aware of the impending relocation of millions of Aldarminian subjects. Those who did raise arms seemed motivated, for the most part, by a knee-jerk instinct to repel foreign invasion, especially when a punic war brewed just over the eastern horizon. Otherwise, the locals mostly accepted their fate and worked alongside the Zygostratic forces in preparing defensive fortifications in the event of an attack from either the Scandinvans or the Brewdomian neighbors.

While this was done, government officials and business persons were being dispatched to the country ahead of an Imperial Navy Expeditionary Fleet to begin the tedious work of organizing Yugostrana into its administrative districts and developing the land into a productive asset of the Aldarminian empire. Along the tentatively drawn lines on maps and blueprints and the fortified perimeters of temporary military outposts, the next generation of Aldarminian urban sprawls and the makings of the new “Yugostrana Breadbasket” were beginning to coalesce into being.

Though the Hammer’s reach into southern Gholgoth and the permanence of Aldarminia’s presence there seemed irreversibly certain, a sour truth lingered on the Kosmokratium's upper echelon's tongues: The Expeditionary Fleet had to sail between Vismer and Shen Almaru and then around the Scandinvan home island.

Havensky
Citadel City

As the Aldarminian Empire’s war machines and bureaucratic bodies secured Yugostrana, most of its familial sovereigns descended down stairs onto the tarmac of Emissary Airport. Flanked by servants and guards, Grand Empress Katya Doch’Makar Azcheyko, Hearthkeeper, led her children outside of the plane and towards the Skyan Secretary.

The Hearthkeeper’s regalia exhibited a hearkening to Alngothic aesthetics. If she had been born to any other house, one could argue that Katya was only a Gothic Lord by marriage, but this was far from the case, so the Aldar-Gothic Crown, or Gholgotkron, rested naturally and comfortably on her head because she was a daughter of the Makar family, the ancient rulers of the Gothic arm of Aldarminia.

The black and gold crown matched well with her fair hair and onyx dress and headscarf. Hanging from her neck was a possibly-gaudy, large chain, wrapped around several times over, of platinum and gold encrusted with precious gems of innumerable variety. Where the two ends of the chain locked together, an amethyst swung in an uncanny rhythm with the bouncing of Katya’s hair. Over each shoulder and tied loosely into an “x” over her stomach, two golden sashes, adorned with obsidian runestones, sunk along her sides and waist, masking ever-so-slightly the empress’s blossoming figure.

Behind the Grand Empress, marching in sync with their guards, were the twin brothers Zlobaskar and Hrothashki II. Unlike their mother, they displayed a more Aldarminian sense of color and fashion. Though Citadel was nowhere near as cold as Anhavirnjogr, where the family had been staying for the previous summit and the announcement of the dynasty there, both the Synoktron and his twin wore heavy, velvet-trimmed fur coats that owed their predominant material to a great white bear. Atop each prince’s raw umber scalps, a pale ushanka made from elder rams’ fleece and ghost mink fur was flourished with more velvet trimming and a dark purple tiger silhouette on the front flap. Below the furs, the brothers wore pale, loose-fitting silk tunics under purple cherkesska coats with white ornamental cartridge loops and epaulettes. Wide, colorless trousers barely visible under the rest of the customary attire gifted the young sovereigns further comfort. White kerchiefs, with some velvet sewn-in to depict a tiger’s maw, were wrapped around their necks so that everything below the base of the bridge of nose was unseen.

Behind Zlobaskar and Hrothashki II, Sophyana, braided and brightly blonde, glided alongside her sister Lucylla, brunette hair dancing in curls. Like their elder brothers, they wore identical clothes, but each had their own choices of jewelry. Each princess wore a purple satin arkhalig and skirt. Golden embroidery stretched in a paisley manner from where their sleeves widened along the wrist to their wastes down the lengths and finally to the bottom trim of the skirts. For jewelry, Sophyana chose a chain necklace similar in basic design to her mother’s. The chain-links, though were fashioned into eagle wing pairs, and the front locket was an opal heart set in a platinum and gold tiger’s claw. Lucylla had a more natural taste for accessories. She bore a crown of goldsprite flowers and sported a necklace of velvet tulips woven into a string of snow-vine.

Following closely was a curious pair. Dalikharl III had demanded to be dressed exactly like his brothers, and the little emperor was rarely refused, so it was so. As he walked, he used his free hand to play with the flaps of his ushanka which was clumsily slacking to one side of his fair-topped head. The other hand, though, was clasped tightly to a boy who appeared of similar, if not older, age to the twins. Apart from the lack of a fur overcoat, his outfit mostly mimicked the traditional style of the Azcheyko sons’, but there were many differences, most notably color. Instead of an ushanka, he wore a red-dyed fleece round-top hat with topped with black silk and emblazoned with a black cobra which coiled around the stout, cylindrical shape of the headpiece. His cherkesska was sable with carmine epaulettes and cartridge loops. His tunic was burgundy satin with black cobra and floral flourishes along the collar. His hair, as sable as the cherkesska, was knotted into dreadlocks of length rivalling Sophyana’s.

On either side of the family marched the servant-and-security entourage whose arrival had preceded the Imperial family’s by two hours, as was requested of the Skyan government. The guards were some of the finest soldiers to gift the Empire with their service. In Tiger North ceremonial paint Oa.IV Voinkholossar armor, these troops belonged to the special forces branch of the Zygostratium, the Imperial Vanguard, but they were members of an elite sub-branch, the Kroivakt, or “Blood Guard.” Whether one called them Tzarokhranjha, as all Vanguardsmen were known, or Trokhrai, which was just one of many names for the Blood Guard, did not matter though. What did matter was that not a single soul could break their resolve to shield the Imperial Family. Not even the servants, who were dressed in velvet tuxedos with white undershirts and yellow bow ties, could find space between the rigid steps of the Blood Guards' march to get near their masters, so the gift-bearers became a loose bubble that surrounded the formation of sovereign, imperial spawn, and security.

As this diplomatic mob neared the Skyan Secretary, a gap in the formation allowed Katya to greet Atticus. Simpering, she began the introductions, “Secretary of State of the Skybound Republic of Havensky, I am…”

After Katya introduced herself, the children did the same as they had in Anhavirnjogr, but this time, the younger Dalikharl manage to handle his own. After this though, there was a drawn-out silence, an awkward indicator that Katya and everyone else were unsure how to go about the mysterious boy. Before dead air choked them all, he proudly stepped forth to shake the Skyan’s hand and present his identity, “I am Prynz Ryslander, First of my name in the Blood House Azcheyko, and second of my name after my great-grandfather in the Veiled House Makar, may he rejoice in paradise, adopted son of the Hammer of People’s Will and the Keeper of the People’s Hearth, son-survivor to Ilyar Makar and Milanya Doch’Imran Makar. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

After meeting Atticus, the Aldarminian diplomatic cluster was scattered into limousines and armored vehicles so they could be transported to the White Citadel. From their very first flight to Anhavirnjogr to this car ride through Citadel City, the Azcheyko children, Ryslander evidently included, had been in constant state of blissful wonder. They marveled at the crowds and the metropolis that seemed to lack the minimalistic grunge of most Aldarminian cities. Lucylla squeaked in surprise as she saw the Aldar-Skyan parade watchers, “Mommy! Sissy! Look! They have eyes like us! And green and yellow too! Are they Aldarminian?”

Sophyana and Katya shared a laugh before the Grand Empress answered her youngest daughter. Caressing Lucylla’s cheek, Katya explained to the child, “Yes, my joy. They are all Aldarminian, just like us.”

The youngest princess scratched her head in confusion, and then she asked with squinted eyes, “But why are they all here and not back home in our country?”

The Grand Empress kissed her daughter on the forehead as she answered, “Well, they are all here because they have been here. Most probably moved to Havensky before you and your brothers and sisters brightened the world, when mommy and daddy were busy fighting that mean old monster. They had to move here because they lost their homes, and our country was a very scary place back then, but now mommy and daddy having been making it safer and stronger.”

Lucylla was not satisfied quite yet, “So these people can come back to Aldarminia, and we can give them new homes?!”

Katya smiled and pushed a curl away from Lucylla’s eye. “Yes, my joy, something like that.”

The motorcade arrived at the White Citadel safely and promptly, to Katya’s relief. Greeting the Ironwings, the Imperial Family repeated their introductory monologues to Queen Jessica’s benefit, and on this occasion, Ryslander’s portion was spared the awkward pause. Katya noticed a puzzled Lucas’s expression, so she said with a mild tickle of embarrassment, “Forgive me, King Lucas, but you did not meet Ryslander at our little dinner because he was visiting his grandfather.”

The Grand Empress turned to a gathering cadre of servants before she continued with the greeting ceremonies, “And it is of course a pleasure to see you again, especially so soon. And with your wife at that! It is an honor to finally meet you, Queen Jessica. Dalikharl sends his love and regards as well as his prayers that all goes well here. He wanted so badly to come here, but there is much work to be done now that we have begun organizing our new territory. In accordance with my husband’s strict orders, my children and I, as envoys of the Aldarminian Empire to this Council of Gothic Lords, come bearing gifts for one and for all.”

The servants dispersed as they began to distribute the parcels of friendship to the various dignitaries and cohorts. To each adult, a korobkatrava, a traditional and ornate box of herbs, was presented with a dozen aldgrass paper joints, another dozen cannabis and tobacco leaf blunts, and yet another dozen chocolate and vanilla cannabinoid-infused candies piled neatly inside. The children and youths received similar boxes that contained less traditional offerings--Katya was not so foolish and inappropriate to give stashes of recreational herbs to the progeny of Gothic Lords without their consent--of baked goods, candy, jewelry, and tokens of friendship supplied by the Azcheyko children themselves.

For those who did not partake in the herbal delights, there was a wide variety of alternative offerings such as a platinum, amethyst-encrusted flask of Imperial Spirit Number Nine savich. Small barrels of the vodquilla and/or Gholvykh pale ale made their way around the White Citadel to those who sought higher levels of inebriation or beverage stocks for late night antics. Many found the gold-engraved and purple-painted wooden hilts and horsehead pommels of the Aldarminian shashka, a sabre of specific and traditionally Kasak or “cossack” design and use, to be too unique not to have one. An eclectic selection of furs of creatures from throughout the Empire’s spheres of influence was also presented, allowing the Gothic Lords and their compatriots to add an Aldarminian’s severe touch to their closets via the Nuvansian kingsmane lion, the Albantigon hillhound, the Razulican elder ram, the Lostrovoan sablemarten, the Western field tiger, the Aldarminian great white bear, the Vykhan direwolf, the Gholgothic ghost mink, and/or the Northern dread-lynx.

As she watched her children acquaint themselves with their peers, Katya could not help but feel an odd mixture of calm and anxiety. She was happy and comfortable here in the White Citadel because the ironically pleasant socializing reminded her of her early childhood spent under the veil at the Blood Soviet parties, but as the Grand Empress, Katya was here to act as a Gothic Lord and assist her colleagues in steering the region away from its path of decadent silence and implosive violence. She was here in solidarity for the regional alliance, but she also had to cultivate more intimate alliances and friendships between the Imperial Kosmokratium and the other Gholgothic nation-states. There was also the matter of engineering successful relationships between some of her children and their Ghantish counterparts. The burden of secrecy had been so easily whisked away from her shoulders, only to be replaced by the burden of sovereign and imperial duty to her people. The Hearthkeeper nervously mused on the whereabouts of a fellow leader who held a special place in Katya’s heart, Where does an Aldarminian Grand Empress find a Kylarnatian Grand Mother in a Skyan castle?

[Kylarnatia]

Citadel City, Havensky
Gholgoth
(Co-written with Aldarminia)

Searching for Silvier, Katya's eyes sifted through the countless faces inhabiting the Citadel's social area. She knew she had to begin wining-and-dining the Ghantish and any other prospective allies to the Empire, but she so desperately had to and wanted to see her friend before going about the political motions. Finally, her purple eyes locked with Silvier's who was surprisingly not too far behind the Ironwings. After waving her hand to attract the Kylarnatian's attention, the Grand Empress beckoned her comrade to her with a beaming smile.

Silvier noticed Katya’s waving and warm smile. Politely pardoning herself from the company of the Ironwings and the Ghantar, she made her way over to the Grand Empress, her acolyte close behind as always while Hyperion decided to keep hovering around and occasionally mingle, just so that everyone else present was still constantly aware of the Imperium Antiquum’s presence.

“I could recognise that beautiful smile anywhere, my darling Katya.”

A moment of hesitation was overrun by emotion, so Katya lunged toward Silvier, meaning to pull her into a passionate embrace, “Catherina! It’s been too long since your last visit. Though, finally getting to see you all dolled up like this in your holiness is quite the delight.”

The acolyte glared at Katya for a brief second, not taking kindly to her revered sovereign being referred to as a “doll” in her holy attire, even if they were on personal terms. Silvier quickly caught her though and with a stern look caused the acolyte to back down, with a body language that begged forgiveness. Turning her attention back to Katya, she smiled again, “Oh please, I should be the one who is flattering you. You look simply divine in that dress!”

Silvier then leaned in and whispered, “Though I must admit, what lies underneath is--”

“Auntie Cathie!” squealed a clearly buoyant Lucylla, whose outburst drew the attentions of her fellow Hammerspawn.

Katya could hardly contain her amusement, giggling at Silvier’s tapered remark and the “jig” that Lucylla and Dalikharl seemed to do around her. Sophyana blushed and curtsied with soft spoken, “So nice to see you again, Aunt Catherina. You are very beautiful. I really like the angel wings.”

Zlobaskar was stunned by Silvier’s clothing, having never imagined an aesthetic quite like it outside of his mythological studies, but Hrothashki and Ryslander, both more studious of the various Gothic cultures, were only mildly surprised to see the religious attire in person. Each of the older boys bowed to Silvier with flushed cheeks and small smiles. In almost perfect and uncanny unison, they said fondly, “Aunt Catherina, good to see you.”

Silvier was quickly taken aback by the sudden appearance of the children, worried for a split-second that one of them may have overheard what she was whispering to their mother. “That’ll teach me for trying to be a tease again.” she thought smugly to herself, before immediately regaining her composure and entertaining the excitement of the children as she saw them, her heart warming at the referral to her as ‘Auntie’.


“My darlings! Oh how my heart sings at seeing all of you again!” She knelt down, just as she had done so for the Ghantish children, and embraced each Aldarminian child in turn, giving them a kiss on the cheek each. When it came to Ryslander, she held his face for a while, looking into his eyes as if trying to read him. In all honesty, he was probably the child she preferred the least out of all of them, although on the surface she showed him no less affection. Though mostly no fault of his own, the way he acted always threw Silvier a little off-guard, and every time she saw him she tried as best she could to read him and try to understand.

Still, no luck.

“Sophyana, you sweetie, I should give you these wings! Lucylla and Dalikharl, you adorable cherubs, you honor me with your dancing! Zlobaskar, Hrothashki and Ryslander, you’re all growing into fine Aldarminians! You make your country proud!”

It lightened her soul for Katya to see her children so joyous and excited to be out in the world, and the Hammerspawn’s exuberance over their “aunt” Silvier only compounded the Grand Empress’s happiness. She pulled Silvier close to her as the children bowed or curtsied their appreciation for the Kylarnatian’s kind words, and Katya beckoned for a servant to come to her. The servant obliged and carried a large, glass bottle towards Katya and Catherina. The servant bowed to the two sovereigns and then offered the bottle to Silvier. The Hearthkeeper announced, “A special gift for you, Catherina! A bottle of the Madukhsvar Brandy you enjoy so much at the palace in Dalekogoradom.”

As the gift was presented, an odd situation stirred on the perimeter of the social circle. Lucylla and Dalikharl had become enthralled by the acolyte’s recitations, so they tentatively approached the worshipper with curious ears and hands.

Silvier gave an audible gasp of delight, taking the bottle and licking her lips. “Katya, you shouldn’t have!” She then proceeded to give the Grand Empress a kiss on the cheek, which lasted a few seconds, before whispering in her ear with a sly grin, “Maybe we can share this later once the important business of today is concluded…”

Meanwhile the acolyte noticed the approach of the young Lucylla and Dalikharl, their hands beginning to tug gently at her robes as they tried to listen to her prayers. At first she became a bit tense, but she thought of how the Caesar had embraced them so warmly. Still wishing to make it up to her after seemingly doing wrong by shooting daggers at Katya for her “doll” comment, the acolyte proceeded to give the young children a short blessing, placing her hand gently on their heads individually as she recited the right prayer for them both.

The atmosphere in the room changed very quickly as a Blood Guard rushed to the youngest Hammerspawn’s “aid” by sweeping them off the ground. Another wedged himself between the held children and the acolyte; the Blood Guard’s rifle barrel and banshee skull faceplate staring down the acolyte and barking orders in Aldarmininan dialects incomprehensible to the worshipper and the rest of the non-Aldarminian populace of the social room. The two Trokhrai had moved with blinding speed, so Katya could only manage a helpless “No!” to calm the situation after their rapid maneuvers had culminated into a one-sided stand-off. If the acolyte had made a single move there, she might have become the victim of a bloody misunderstanding.

The acolyte was petrified, as if she was made of stone, clutching her chest and almost unable to breath. She dared not move out of fear for her life, but was quickly rescued when a giant gauntlet tugged at her robes and pulled her back. She soon realised she had been rescued by the eight foot behemoth Lord Hyperion, who now stared down the Blood Guard with burning red eyes. Clutching to him for dear life, the acolyte released a few tears and began breathing in a panic, which only increased the ferocity in the Lord’s eyes.

His ferocity, however, had nothing on the stern composure that the Caesar now adopted. Placing herself between the Blood Guard and Hyperion with no fear of the consequences, she looked directly into the skull faceplate and spoke in a low, stern tone. “I have no idea whether you can understand my exact words, though quite frankly I don’t care, for I know you’ll be able to understand my expression. She meant no harm. No. Harm. I understand that those children are important for the continuation of the Aldarminian Empire, and that you’re taking a big risk in bringing them to these lands unknown, but you would do well to remember who your allies are here. It would be a shame if, during a pissing contest such as this, one of the other children was snatched by the Reich while you had your backs turned. That’d look bad on your service record, don’t you think? Votrushekaya!”

Her voice level was still soft, but each word was full of venom, with her taking particular care to keep the swears hushed so that the children would not hear. Turning on her heels, she then took hold of the acolyte, prying her away from Hyperion as he kept his stance. Looking under the hood of her robes and drying her tears, the acolyte spoke in a rushed Latin tongue for a few seconds, the Caesar responding also in Latin more calmly and encouraging her to take deep breaths. Eventually the acolyte did so, and regained her composure.

“Come here, my darlings, I want you to come and show those silly Blood Guard of yours that this woman means you no harm.” Silvier beckoned the children forward. “This woman is called an acolyte; this means that she helps your Auntie with important things like worship and ceremony. She repeats prayers to keep me safe. She wanted to say prayers for you too, to keep you safe, before she was so rudely interrupted…”

Silvier gave another stern stare to the Blood Guard, while Hyperion spoke to Katya without taking his eyes off the soldiers in front of him. “You’d do well to have these men disciplined upon your return home, Grand Empress.”

Until the acolyte started panicking and the Caesar started scolding, Dalikharl and Lucylla had thought they were just playing a game with the Blood Guards, as they often did with the off-duty officers at the palace. They had been giggling, but when the situation escalated, they quieted in fear of whatever repercussions the adults’ actions would entail. When Silvier had taken the reins, though, Lucylla and Dalikharl were calmed and delighted to be blessed by the improperly-treated acolyte. They clawed their way from the Blood Guard’s arms ran to their “aunt” Catherina and her follower. Meanwhile, despite Hyperion’s imposing stature, the Blood Guards were undaunted in their resolve to defend the Imperial progeny.

Katya squeezed the bridge of her nose, feeling the stress of the recent fiasco amplify her cravings for a cigarette, but she knew all too well that she could not satisfy them. Instead, she occupied her mind with trying to assuage Lord Hyperion’s concerns, to little avail, “I can discipline them here, my Lord, and I certainly will,” she turned to the Blood Guards’ commanding officer, a commissar or “captain,” who was now ordering his subordinates to stand down, “Shift these two to off-duty and send them to their quarters until I can deal with them, Khommyssar Doshsvyn. And while you are at it, coordinate with the White Guard so the rest of your men do not have the opportunity to turn this gathering for peace into a spilling of blood.”

The commissar bowed his affirmative and obediently did as he was told. Gradually, every Trokhrajh in the social room, besides Doshsvyn and two others, marched in rank-and-file out of the area, linking up with their White Guard counterparts who directed the Blood Guards to positions where they could be useful in the event of an actual crisis. Returning her attention to Hyperion, Katya continued, “But unfortunately, I must admit, I believe they will only receive praise when we are all returned to Aldarminia. Inappropriate behavior or not, my men simply did as they were trained, and they did so perfectly at that. You have my deepest apologies, though. Everyone in the Kosmokratium from here to Anhavinjogr to Dalikhara to the Far West will be on edge until my family and I make our way back to the capitol.”

Hyperion looked down to Katya, listening to her attempt at defending the Blood Guard’s actions while also apologising for what happened. He would have given her credit for it, but that just wasn’t Hyperion’s way. Turning on his heel and heading back to mingling as he had been originally directed, the Lord muttered as he left, “I wonder if the Hammer would allow such praise if he knew how much it almost cost him.”

With the acolyte now calm and happily preoccupied with blessing the children and singing them hymns to their wonder and amusement, Silvier returned to Katya. “Don’t let Hyperion get to you. If anything, that’s quite a compliment, coming from him.”

The Caesar laughed briefly, before placing a gauntlet on the Grand Empress’ shoulder and speaking softly so only she could hear. “You’re doing alright, Katya, but you need to keep your head up and your voice loud. Once we’re in that chamber it’ll be even more gruelling and unforgiving, and Dalikharl needs you to be strong. I need you to be strong. Just remember that I’m there with you every step of the way. Then, once this is all said and done, we can put the kids and Hyperion to bed and enjoy that brandy, no?”

Katya blushed, and her eyes suddenly dashed all over the room, looking side-to-side as if hunting for some unknown spy. The Grand Empress pulled the Caesar close to her so that Katya could whisper, “Actually, no, and I cannot tell you how badly I want to just have a glass of brandy, smoke a cigarette and a blunt, and then enjoy your company, but there is some news that I must tell that impedes these pleasures,” pulling back for just a moment to smile into Silvier’s eyes before leaning in again, “I’m pregnant.”

It took only a split second for the news to sink in. “Grand Mother preserve us, that boy just doesn’t know when to quit, does he?”

[Ghant]

The Citadel
Citadel City, Havensky, Gholgoth

She was a ghost, clad in gold. Her hair was likewise gold, a band of diamonds amongst it. To most, Caesar Silvier of the Imperium Antiquum was an enchanting embodiment of elegance, grace and charm that few could ever hope to match. To Emperor Nathan of Ghant, she was just another pretty faced woman that knew how to use what she had to get what she wanted, and in a place like Gholgoth, those that had plenty enough already only seemed to want more. Such is the curse of the Lords of Gholgoth…

As he, his children, Lara Jarasa and their entourage were ushered into the Citadel, the Emperor noticed Silvier engaged in conversation with Jessica and Lucas Ironwing, and despite his reservations, such was the direction they were headed in. It was as unavoidable as struggling against a fierce river current. The Emperor kept a neutral expression on his face as he took lumbering steps towards his northern counterpart, as opposite of sovereigns as sovereigns could be.

Silvier noticed the Ghantish approach, and she prepared herself to receive them. Lucas and Jessica spoke to Nathan and his party, though the Emperor merely went through the motions. The Skyans were polite and courteous as could be expected, but the Emperor was far too distracted by the fair-haired harpy that lurked behind them like a specter, waiting to cast its haunt upon a weary middle-aged man with an heir waiting for him to die.

"Your Imperial Majesty, it is a pleasure to see you again," Silvier said to the Emperor in a most ginger tone, though that was of course to be expected. She’s good at playing the part, Nathan thought as he inclined his head to his colleague, such as she was.

“The pleasure is likewise, Caesar.” Nathan wasn’t impolite, but by no means did he feign the same sort of eagerness that Silvier did. “You seem well. Please send Callixte my regards.” There was too much riding on them being at least polite to disregard convention. Their peoples got along well enough, they shared common national interests and opposed common foes. Their people had shed blood together in Vetalia, and any wars to come would see them on the same side. Nathan knew this, and wanted to keep it that way. “These are my children, Crown Prince Nathan, John, Sara and Valerie by the Empress, and my other children Victor, Valentina and Blanche. This is Lady Lara of House Jarasa, and my faithful champion Rolli Ahateremu.” The boys bowed courteously and the girls curtsied as they were introduced. Lara bowed low as a show of respect, and Rolli inclined his head.

"I see that the Empress has not joined you this day, that is a shame. However, I'm glad to finally make the acquaintance of the Lady Lara of House Jarasa; I've heard many great things about you."

Lara nodded deeply and replied, “you do me a great honor, Caesar. It is my hope to be as true a servant of the public good as you have been many times over, and no doubt will continue to be.”

It was then that Silvier turned her attention to the children, who stood properly and quietly…some more easily than others. "...and I've heard even greater things about you..." Silvier said to them, kneeling just enough to be eye level with them. Firstly she addressed Bebe, who admired her with careful eyes. "The Crown Prince, what a handsome young man you're becoming. You remind me a lot of my own boy, Julianus. I'm sure the two of you would get along splendidly. I can also see now why your mother adores you."

“It is my hope that such would be the case,” Bebe said firmly, though politely. “I appreciate your kind words. Rest assured, within me burns the desire to rule well and good on the side of order and justice.”

Silvier then turned to John and Victor and said, "Ah, but let us not forget about the other men in the room. The one who is wise and the one who is brave, both admirable in their own right.”

“Thank you, Caesar,” John and Victor said in unison with faces of gratitude. Though John was wise and Victor was brave, both were bashful, so their words were few.

“And then we have all these beautiful young women," the Caesar said as she turned to the princesses, who stood side by side and looked on with smiles and grins, even Valentina, though her grin seemed more a smirk to her father. "My, I wish I could have looked as pretty as all of you when I was that young. So graceful and full of presence."

Sara smiled brightly, and though a girl of twelve already had a mouth full of straight, pearly white teeth. “You honor me, Caesar. If I become even a fraction as radiant as you, then I shall consider myself fortunate.” Valerie and Blanche blushed as they seemed to shrink before Silvier, though Valentina, like her father, was unfazed, though not appearing impolite.

Silvier looked over to Valentina. "I've heard you have quite the fire inside of you, which I can't help but admire." She winked.

“Fire to protect the good and fire to burn the wicked,” she said back teasingly, looking to her father for approval. That’s my girl, he thought with a nod of approval.

"For all of you, I've brought gifts!" She exclaimed gleefully, standing once again and gesturing for the staff to come forward. The children’s faces all lit up to varying degrees, while the staff proceeded to hand out gifts. "I hope you like them. I chose them all specifically for each one of you, though admittedly I had a little bit of help..."

The first gift was for Bebe, and the Crown Prince, ever hard to please, was not disappointed. He received a castle-forged Kylarnatian Scimitar, adorned with symbols from both Kylarnatia and Ghant. The normally prudish Crown Prince fawned over his gift, no doubt eager to use it. And will no doubt fantasize about cutting my head off with it…

John received a rather generous crate of books, covering the history of the Imperium and Gholgoth at-large as told by Kylarnatian scholars, in addition to an ornate copy of the Silvier Sacerdotium and some young adult fiction that his sisters would no doubt try to swipe from him. Silvier certainly took great care to please my children, the Emperor thought with a grin creeping across his face. The best way to win him over was to treat his children with kindness and respect, after all.

Victor was given a cape of Kylarnatian colors and a medal called “the Caesar’s Favour.” As the son of a concubine rather than the Empress, he was not used to such lavish gifts, and the prince was deeply honored, his father could tell. The boy was practically shaking in his gratitude at receiving such great boons.

Sara, Valerie and Blanche each received a unique set of Kylarnatian jewelry and clothing made in each of their favorite colors, which were dark blue for Sara, green for Valerie and light blue for Blanche. Sara received a broach, Valerie a necklace and Blanche a ring, all of them encrusted with gems like the ones in Silvier’s armor. Blanche, like Victor, was born of a concubine, and was not accustomed to such treatment, prompting the girl to nearly be moved to tears. Had the Emperor not been so concerned about appearing weak, he might have had wet eyes himself at his daughter’s happiness.

Valentina came last, and unlike her sisters, was the most stoic in her attitude. The youngest of the Emperor’s children present was one that had few expectations, and thus was seldom disappointed. She received a training saber, like the ones that the heirs of the Imperium used to train and hone their skills. She inclined her head gracefully as she accepted the gift, and tucked it in her dress belt, loathe as she was to part with it.

“As it happens, we have a gift for you as well,” Sara said as she snapped her fingers. Rolli took a step forward and brought forth a small decorated box, which Sara then opened and presented to Silvier. The contents of the box consisted of a pendant with a round cut ruby, sapphire, emerald, opal and jet with a similarly cut diamond between them, framed by white gold on a necklace of diamonds.

“Each of these gems was collected from every corner of the Empire, from northern and southern Zahaghant, Gholghant and Dienghant and cut by the finest jeweler in the Empire just for you. I hope it pleases you, Caesar,” Sara said with humility as she offered it to her with lowered eyes.

That’s quite the gift, the Emperor thought as he observed it. A truly majestic piece of jewelry…Sophia probably made that happen. “You are far too generous, Caesar, though my children, as it seems, are not without their own sense of generosity,” he smiled. It was long after that the Aldarminians made their entrance, and as Nathan knew, Empress Katya and Silvier were friends. A perfect polite opportunity to break.

“Thank you Catherina,” Nathan said to Silvier informally. “We won’t keep up too much more of your time.” The children echoed their father’s ‘thank you,’ and as Katya and her children approached, Nathan began shooing off his children like well-fed pigeons in the park, though naturally they wanted to mingle with the Aldarminian children who were mostly of an age with them. But that can wait, the Emperor thought to himself as he and his great entourage walked away from the Caesar, and further along into the Citadel.

[Emporer Pudu]

Citadel City, Havensky
Gholgoth

The flight from the capital of the empire, Hollarum, to Citadel City took more than 44 hours. The Imperial Crane, the Emperor’s personal aircraft, was a nuclear-powered giant however, and it could have turned around and flown right back again just as easily. Another two days in the air wasn’t on the schedule though, as Dengmu’s personal secretary reminded him when he popped into the cabin to alert the Pantokrat that they were landing at the Skyan diplomatic airfield. Upon landing Jilang Dengmu, more widely known of late as Emperor Pudu Jilang Dengmu VII, stood up from the overstuffed armchair with a weary sigh. He was only forty-nine years old but he felt like the previous two years had aged him beyond that. It was two years ago that Dengmu had been third in line to a throne held by a man, his father Shangjun, who seemed unwilling to ever die. Then his older brother Loshan had died suddenly; then came the abolitionist invasion which claimed the lives of their eldest sister, her husband and ultimately Emperor Shangjun himself. In short, Dengmu had never expected to be thrust into this role.

The Emperor had dressed for the arrival an hour or so before and so when he stood the medals and badges on his uniformed chest rattled along with his breath. Dengmu was a man of large frame, perfectly bald except for a thick black mustache that was just wider than his mouth. His uniform was the dark blue of the Hollarum Municipal Horseguard, an elite gendarme unit comprised of noble and wealthy young men, which Dengmu had served in as a young man. He had been only 17 when the Autumn Rain began and against the wishes of his young wife as well as his father Dengmu had volunteered for the Horseguard the next year. For three years he worked with the regiment in the mandatory relocation of whole segments of the capital’s population and ultimately in battling an insurgency of the resettlement’s opponents and victims. Though he was never wounded in any of his few live fire encounters his experiences left Dengmu with a thoroughly negative opinion of his father’s policy. When it all became too much for him Dengmu retired from the Guard and took up various ministerial positions in Shangjun’s government. It was in this role that Dengmu earned a reputation as a canny politician and in the last decade of his fathers reign was respected as an elder statesmen among the Ten Ministries of the Shizheng, the vast bureaucracy that administered the Pudite Empire.

As he prepared to disembark the plane Dengmu attached the last piece of his wardrobe: a cavalry sabre, which he buckled on to his belt. It was one of two swords he had been issued with the Horseguard; it was his dress sword, lighter and designed for aesthetics, not the austere battle-ready blade he had carried on the streets of the capital during the Rain. Even still, the familiar act of clasping the sword to his hip brought back memories of that weightier blade, and the consequences associated with carrying one such as that. With his ensemble complete the Emperor gathered with the select officials and aides who had accompanied him on this journey. Two were high ministers, Xian Longji the Imperial Academian as well as Zhao Chen the Chancellor of State. The three had had a meeting together the day before while in flight; Zhao Chen was an opponent of the Emperor’s proposed Five Points for National Advancement and Dengmu had hoped that he and Xian Longji would be able to change his mind. Although their talks had been genial, Dengmu still knew the old guard political elite opposed his policy of Emergence, which would return billions of so-called ‘Citizens’ from the Citizens Industrial Communities, colloquially known as the compounds, that Dengmu had helped to force them into some three decades earlier.

The rest of the party disembarking the Imperial Crane would be the staff, aides and a few security personnel for the two ministers and the Pantokrat. When the staircase was lowered from the port side of the hulking white and red painted airliner Dengmu was the first to appear. As he stepped out onto the stairs a Skyan band struck up the Pudite anthem, a soaring two-minute orchestral melody, and Dengmu paused a moment. It could have been a second or a week or a month he stood frozen there with one hand on the rail and the other resting on the hilt of his sabre; a thousand-yard stare was in his eye as he weighed full the gravity of his situation. This was the Emperor Dengmu’s first foreign visit and it was the man Dengmu’s first visit to Gholgoth proper in any case. He had reason to be awed. From here on, however, it would be his responsibility to suppress that urge. It would become easier for him when they arrived at the parade.

Of course, there was one final person traveling aboard the Crane that day. Chai Sang stepped out of the plane directly behind Dengmu, and he wouldn’t be seen beyond arm’s reach of his Emperor for the rest of their time here. He was a man in his early forties, slender and sharp-eyed, with close cut hair and beard which were both greying. He wore a white cloth triple robe fastened with a heavy buckled belt of ornamental design. He was the Emperor’s personal footman and never during his service at that post would leave his master’s side.

The Skyans had prepared for the Imperial delegation’s transport and security at the airfield and so as Dengmu descended the plane’s staircase he passed among the ranks of one or another Skyan ceremonial guard unit.

Secretary of State Lance Atticus, flanked by Ambassador Otho and the Skyan Ambassador to Pudu, walked out to greet the Emperor. An aide next to Atticus offered the Emperor’s delegation trays of salted bread and wine.

“Emperor Dengmu, on behalf and the behest of the People of Havensky, it is my pleasure and honor to welcome you to Havensky!”

The Pudite Emperor took the bread and salt first, before sharing a warm smile with Otho, a man he had known in Daram many years before. Otho would rejoin the delegation when it arrived at the White Citadel and would participate in the summit, acting as he did as the Special Representative to Gholgoth, a permanent ambassador to the alliance.

The rank of Emperor in Pudite ceremonial tradition was a distant and austere figure and to speak directly, let alone personally greet, a foreign dignitary would have been unheard of a generation ago. Dengmu was a man who respected the long history of his office, but also one who knew the world wasn’t as large as the walls around his palace anymore. He had, in private situations like this, a genuine smile and an earnest look in his eye. He would stop short of shaking hands with Atticus, but he would reply, “It is our great honor to be received by your nation so warmly,” in slow and deliberate English.

Atticus then made a motion to the other monarch standing just off to the side of the Skyan delegation.

“Your Majesty, may I present Emperor Fedor of The Second Empire of the Golden Throne.”

Atticus took a step back, allowing the two men to step forward to greet one another.

A meeting of two individuals of such high rank is a complicated matter in any time, and when both in question have warfleets sailing toward certain battle and a whole swathe of diplomatic crises inflaming their neighbors and allies it becomes more complicated still. For Dengmu, whose staff had briefed him at length about Fedor prior to this occasion, for the two men had never met before, this would be his first meeting with a foreign head of state with which his nation was not already intimately tied to.

Chancellor of State Zhao Chen would introduce the Pudite Emperor, “His Imperial Majesty, the Pantokrat, Emperor Pudu Jilang Dengmu of Shulim.” At this point, formally introduced, the Pudite delegation had a surprise for Fedor. An aide to Chancellor Zhao produced an intricately carved wooden box and handed it to Dengmu, who presented it to his fellow Emperor personally. “A gift to seal our meeting. The box is carved of hardwoods from the Shen Almaru archipelago and contains some of their more remarkable products; all these and more will constitute the bounty made available to the Golden Throne at the close of this dark chapter.” As he said this he lifted the box lid open to reveal a half-dozen hand-rolled cigars, a bottle of brown liquor and a packet of tightly rolled cigarettes. “Tobacco, rum and cannabis are three of the premier exports of the archipelago that even now Scandian forces run roughshod across. Certainly,” Dengmu said with a twinkle in his eye, “this cannot be allowed to stand.”

Kríerlord Letev stood back with Atticus as Fedor approached Emperor Dengmu. The Macabean emperor tilted his head slightly in a nod when the Pudite ruler was introduced. His sharp blue eyes passed first from Dengmu to the gift, which Fedor found beautiful when still closed and intriguing when opened. The rum, a liquor he found similar to the corsair Kaziq, was something much to his liking and the cigars more so. The marijuana, on the other hand, was not something he was accustomed to receiving as a gift. It did not take him aback as much as it made him want to chuckle lightly out of refreshment, but whatever he thought he hid behind a stone-hard face. He appraised the gift for some time, and although he did not betray excitement, it was nevertheless clear that he was pleased. “Such beauty, it is rare in our world. I thank you,” he said finally, dipping his head slightly again. Dipping it enough to show respect, but not so much to show deference. Dengmu could be a valuable ally one day, perhaps one day soon even, but for now Fedor knew him only as a Gothic Lord.

“It is an honor, Emperor Dengmu, rightful ruler of Shen Almaru. I am truly moved by your gift.” He looked again at the marijuana, before being passed the beautiful wooden box by the Pudite emperor. “Cannabis is popular amongst my people. They grow it almost everywhere — they say every man is a farmer in his own home now,” he said, with an abrupt laugh. “Alas, I have never consumed it myself, but I shall make an exception. I very much look forward to enjoying the fruits of your people, and not just these that you have gifted me, but those that I and my people shall undoubtedly procure when we liberate your people from Scandinvan oppression.”

His piercing blue eyes looked into Dengmu’s then and, his tone grave, he said, “We shall liberate Shen Almaru, even if I have to burn half of the Scandinvan Empire down.” His gaze was unwavering, until finally the strain around his eyes broke and in a much lighter tone he said, “I bring you a gift as well, great emperor.”

He looked to Letev, who in turn snapped his fingers behind his back. A servant, who was waiting with the other common staff with a large box carried across both arms, saw this and brought it to Lord Letev in a hurry. The kríerlord then approached the two emperors with all the grace of Macabean aristocracy. He bowed, with a deepness proper of a vassal to his lord, at Fedor first, and then just as deeply at Dengmu. The box was made of wood and of simple ornamentation, with merely the Golden Throne’s coat of arms centered near the top. It was meant not to distract from its contents. Letev opened it then, slowly pulling the lid back toward him. It was a sword of a steel so smooth and so fine that it seemed to shine from everyone at once, with a blade so sharp that with even a slight shift it looked as if it could slice its own way out of its container. The hilt was made of a dark wood, coming up in ivory-lined ridges at intervals fitting of Dengmu’s grip. The pommel, crossguard, and chappe were made of brilliant gold, with sockets that were meant to carry jewels of many kinds. They were empty now, though.

“It is only part of my gift,” said Fedor. “It shall be completed when Shen Almaru is liberated.”

Dengmu picked up the sword, gingerly at first, but with his grip tightening as he felt its heft in his arm. For a moment he stood, weighing the gift in his hand. A broad grin took over his face thereafter, as he passed the beautiful weapon to a secretary standing by. Immediately the Pudite emperor unclasped the ceremonial officer’s sabre which hung from his belt and, exchanging it with his aide, replaced it with the Macabean blade. “It is a fine symbol of our purpose, and I should think it good that such a symbolic weapon be shown openly in times as heavy with imagery and portent as these,” he replied to his counterpart, “And it seems a fine weapon in its own right!” Dengmu beamed, replacing his hand on the pommel of the new sword hanging from his hip.

“I do not know whether it was good fortune or bad that has given us common cause today, but know that we are truly grateful for the company. On that subject, shall we decamp to the staging area? I expect there are some band leaders and acrobats who might be kept waiting by my continued absence.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Fedor, who was quite visibly honored by Dengmu’s appreciation of the gifted sword. It had been forged at the feet of the Sarcanza Mountains, outside of Quintanar de Don Fernando, a town rumored to be more ancient than humanity itself and one that once supplied the empire with almost all its steel weapons, for no others were ever able to replicate the hardness, and legendary resilience, of its masters’ blades. “Let us proceed.”

It was a short distance from the diplomatic airfield to the area the Skyans had set aside for the Pudite procession to begin. The area chosen for the parade assembly had been steadily filling with uninformed Pudites of all stripes all morning. Monks in loose-fitting cloth robes weaved between lines of towering, power-armored soldiers of various elite guard units of the empire; horses whinnied intermittently as the cavalry squadrons drilled in ranks cutting through the densely packed throngs. Ever-present in the scene were the dark-suited and long-eyed agents of the First Cavalry Horseguard, the most recognizable close protection unit tasked with Dengmu’s security. Although they wouldn’t join the parade itself they would be well represented in the crowd, both conspicuously and less than so, in close cooperation with the Skyan police and security services already in place securing the parade route toward the White Citadel. A great deal of security, both of the ceremonial and starkly practical sort, had been moved ahead of the Imperial visit and were already in place around Citadel City.

At the center of the hive of activity lay the Imperial palanquin, flanked by a half dozen of her bearers, awaiting their distinguished passengers. As the various units of the procession formed into prescribed ranks and echelons and the parade set off in earnest Dengmu sat absorbed by Fedor’s romantic descriptions of the gifted blade’s semi-mythological origin place. This sword would hold a place of tremendous honor, the Pudite Emperor decided then, among his dynasties collection of state treasures.

Crowds had gathered along the recently announced parade route as much as an hour in advance; flags and other patriotic ephemera were being distributed freely, Pudite, Skyan and Gholgothic heraldry all on display. Although most of the crowd would be Citadel City locals there was a visible Pudite minority among the celebratory masses. Some would be émigrés from Shulim, the homeland, or even Jagite Pudites, from one of the largest and oldest overseas populations. Others on the streets were those engaged in business or government work here in the city; the embassy staff in particular had grown recently when they moved into their new seven-story office building. Additionally, the large Imperial Navy, Air Force and Army contingents that were currently based in and around the city had suspended training and other non-essential operations for the day and released a large number of soldiers, sailors and airmen into Citadel City on leave. The parade had seemed the best party in town, and so most of those Pudites ended up here too.

It was a festive atmosphere, to be sure. Street food was a tradition the Pudites and the residents of Citadel City shared and bar carts were out alongside selling all sorts of patriotic and uplifting spirits, as well as cheap beer. At the first sounds of a distant band starting to tune up the crowds nearest the parade’s starting point began a cheer. Pudites sang songs the tune of which Skyans might have picked up on, or perhaps just wailed away on whatever noisemaker toy or whistle they had been handed by the jovial embassy-sponsored gift carts. The toys also came with drink tickets.

It was this cacophony that the Skyan Legionary marching band at the head of the parade column waded in to, instruments pounding the din into a recognizable melody, and the parade had begun. The first to pass behind the crisply-uniformed Skyan band was a company of Imperial Army with a colorguard in the lead, all in dress uniform and marching proudly, though some no doubt looking with envy at their companions swilling beer and singing off-key in the crowd.

Behind the regular soldiers came the first of the Emperor’s own ceremonial guard. Mounted on local horses, as the troopers themselves had only arrived a day or so before, came the Personal Cavalry of the Emperor. They wore heavy plated armor gilded with gold and draped with purple cloth, wielding tall lances on barded steeds. Five ranks of five passed down the street, their riders moving only to control the mounts which performed admirably considering how many half-drunk screaming strangers were throwing things around in their periphery.

Behind the cavalry squadron came a unit of foot troops. Outfitted in what any Skyan would recognize to be power armor, these troops and their suits were larger and bulkier than the average Skyan Legionnaire, and more ornately decorated as well. The armor seemed mostly ceremonial, though the armor plating likely wasn’t entirely for show. They too were gilded in gold, though these troops wore red sashes as opposed to the purple of the cavalry. They were armed with halberds decorated with red pennants and carried heavy shields of gold. These were the Palace Scholars and they formed the most visible security component of the Emperor’s extensive palace complex at home in the capital.

After these heavily armored and lavishly decorated troops came another sight entirely; a troupe of dancing acrobats, twenty in all, come leaping and tumbling down the street. Occasionally one would pull up to an onlooker, especially children, and produce a trinket from their robe and hand it out. These were small ornamental objects like gold-colored coins, carved statues, music boxes and that sort of thing. At home these acrobats would have handed out real ivory and gold coins but the embassy staff didn’t think it would be prudent, not knowing how the foreign crowds would react. Another point of behavior that would be noted by this point was that none of the Pudite parade-goers carried cameras and none took pictures on their phones. While the Skyans had distributed pamphlets about picture taking it happened anyway. Although there was no expectation that they’d be able to stop the foreign tourists from doing it, it was considered by Pudites to be in bad taste to take a photo without personal permission of the subject. The acrobats would however pose for photos with any who asked.

Within the throngs of dancers came the main event. A golden palanquin with red silk robes tied back by cloth-of-gold rope carried aloft by six men in bejeweled red turbans and wearing multicolored courtly robes and with large two-handed broadswords strapped to their side. Riding aloft, seated on a wooden bench beneath which a small furnace heats the seat, nestled among the pillows and cloth draped around the cabin of the ceremonial platform was the Pantokrat Emperor Pudu Jilang Dengmu and his guest of honor, the Macabean Emperor Fedor. Dengmu had earlier presented Fedor with a sash in the regalia of the Imperial Order of Merit whose colors were maroon and burnished gold to commemorate the occasion. Seated just behind Dengmu, of course, was ever-present Chai Song.

The Pudite Emperor waved to the crowd, catching the eyes of some and generally giving off a jovial air. Magnanimous in character was his presentation to the people of Citadel City, surrounded by his troupe of acrobats giving gifts, sitting in the open air here among them shielded by no glass or steel. It was both a gesture of faith and one of confidence; an assertion that these streets were safe and that he himself was beyond harm.

Behind the Imperial palanquin the spectacle repeated itself in reverse; the Palace Scholars, Personal Cavalry and a second company of Imperial Army all marched in proud, solemn ranks. Beyond them came the final component of the piece of theater the Pudites had assembled here. Some three dozen men and women, all in courtly attire and well bejeweled, went throughout the street and up and down the rows of onlookers. These courtiers too handed out gifts, though this time they were less ornamental. Bottles of wine and liquor were poured into waiting cups, cookies and other sweets were tossed into the crowds and, a local favorite that may or may not translate well to the Citadel City audience, boiled dried and heavily salted fish on skewers were passed out by the handful. Meant to be dipped in butter, as any less than half-drunk Pudite would inform recipients of the treat. Many of the Skyans, who considered it rude not to try something at least once, gave the salted fish a nibble or two before chowing down.

As the parade approached the Citadel, the Pudite flag was raised in unison with the flag of the Golden Throne to wild cheers of the crowd below. Skyan media raved at the historic significance of having not only a vast array of Gothic Lords but Emperor Fedor as well.

The Skyan band began to play, not the Pudu or Maccabean theme, but a composition which wove both national anthems together in unity. It sampled leitmotifs from each nation. It had been specially composed for the occasion.

The battlements of the Citadel were lined with the White Guard who went to attention as the parade pulled in.

Other elements of the White Guard met the two Emperors and their staff to the Citadel steps. The Ironwings had come down from to greet them along with Prime Minister Artemis and High Executor Profecta.

Queen Ironwing spoke first as two young girl handed each Emperor a bouquet of flowers.

“On behalf of the People of Havensky…we welcome you to The White Citadel.”

Dengmu took the flowers from the girl and offered an embellished bow to her in return, his infectious smile in full bloom. Following the Pudite Emperor was Chai Sang as well as the Chancellor of State and Academian who had accompanied the delegation. As Dengmu approached the Ironwings one of that delegation produced from somewhere or another a trio of items.

“It is truly magnificent, what your people have done to create this city.” Dengmu replied to the Queen. “To think that so recently this was little more than an empty hinterland and now it is a center of power in Gholgoth, playing host to so many mighty guests. It speaks volumes of good about your people, and about your will. Both will continue to be tested here, but,” Dengmu arched his neck and took in the grandeur of the spectacle that was the White Citadel, bedecked for the summit, White Guards projecting in him an aura of dignity and calm, “I expect both will measure up satisfactorily.”

“The generosity of the Skyan people is already well known to us, of course,” Dengmu continued, “and for the rescue of our ambassador, the safe keeping of our ships and soldiers and for the unerring support you have given us in the cause of liberating Shen Almaru we have three gifts we would present you with, Majesties.” With that the first of the three gifts Dengmu’s attendants had retrieved was presented.

It was a book, hefty and well bound in dark leather with a gold filigree filling in the letters on the spine, ‘Shenzi : 1’. It was Xian Longji who handed it over, and also explained “This is the first book of a set, called the Great Books of Master Shen. Written by my predecessor at this post by more than two millennia, the first recorded Grand Academian in the court of the Pudite Emperors, Master Shen’s set of encyclopedias covered every conceivable topic known to the thinking people of his day; history, science, alchemy, astronomy, botany, geneologies of important families, metallurgy, military strategy, and the production of many goods such as paper, oil, and ceramics. A complete set of the Great Books, also called the Shenzi, will be donated to the library here in Citadel City.” Academian Xian gave both the Skyan monarchs a deep bow.

High Executor Vincent Profecta stepped forward to take the books.

“As a learned people, we place tremendous value on the knowledge that others have learned and are willing to share. We will treasure these books in the Grand Library of the Republic and share them with the world. On behalf of the Skyan people, we thank you for your gracious gift.”    

The next to step forward was an aide carrying a long white-shrouded bundle, more than a yard long. Passing it to his Emperor, Dengmu unwrapped what was revealed to be a blade. It was sheathed when Dengmu offered it up, though one could still plainly see the grip, shaped like a saguaro cactus clutching a crescent moon of quartz and jade, just above the hilt was set in copper wire a phoenix rising up out of a fire within which a star was laid and radiated out copper cords. “We have taken to calling her the Texas Sword, though you may of course lay any name you please upon it,” Dengmu began, “She was commissioned of our finest artisans to be a thing of beauty, though you’ll find the steel is strong and the edge is sharp. The runes you’ll find on the blade are written in what is called the Tortoise Shell Script. In fact, in the books of the Shenzi you’ll find these early runes deciphered. They represent some of the earliest written language in the Pudite script and they have survived millennia as tools of divination and other traditional magics. The writing on your blade is translated to: I serve but the good.”

This time King Lucas Ironwing picked up the gift to inspect it. He felt the weight of the blade in his hands. It felt heavy like the moral imperative that the High Council so often felt when dealing with issues of life or death. He didn’t understand the script at first glance, but he instinctively knew the blade’s meaning and appreciated it all the more. This was a blade that was both powerful and reluctant to be wielded - a fine blade for any Skyan Heartknight.  

“Your majesty, the Texas Sword is a fine blade and it’s craftsmanship is unquestionable. The Skyan people are averse to violence, but when we do wield the sword we pledge to strike quick and true. We wield the scalpel and not the hammer. This sword will be a reminder of that pledge. For that, your majesty, we thank you.”

Dengmu accepted the Skyan’s thanks graciously, adding, “I expect that by the end of all this business it will be we who are thanking you. Finally, I have a third gift for you.” At this point Chancellor Zhao stepped forward bearing a framed document, which he presented to the Skyan Prime Minister. Dengmu introduced the gift, “Here we present you with what I hope will be the legacy of my reign. These are the Five Points for National Advancement. Five policies rooted in the traditional ideals of the state, and what I believe is needed to carry my nation and my people into the future.” The document would list the five points as being the abolition of the caste system, including slavery, in the empire; the establishment of a basic income for all citizens; the reintegration of the compound populations; the unification of the two parallel governing structures that were the Ten Ministries and the Five Dignities and finally the creation of the New Standard Army, an army conscripted of citizens, and the subsequent demobilization of the Imperial Armed Forces whose soldiers, including those cheering on the parade route today, were the product of unnumbered in-vitro fertilization and gene-manipulation labs deep beneath Shulim whose purpose for the last four decades has been the production of the class of Pudites known colloquially as Citizens. Those who were born to the fertility labs arrived in kiths of more than a hundred identical individuals created from a common genome and raised in the environment of total control that was the depths of the compound network Dengmu had pledged to end. His plan was an ambitious one and it faced opposition from many, including Chancellor Zhao himself, but Dengmu knew it’s sentiment would be warmly received by the Skyans and couldn’t help but relish in the moment Zhao offered them the document. If he could not win political allies at home there were certainly some abroad he could enlist.

It was at the White Citadel that the Pudite delegation would part ways. Only the Pantokrat and his footman Chai Sang would continue on to the summit inside, though Special Representative to Gholgoth Lucius Salvias Otho who had taken a more discrete route from his meeting with Dengmu on the airfield would arrive to join the pair shortly. The remainder of the delegation, consisting of Chancellor Zhao and Academian Xian, would be handing parallel business from the newly completed offices of the Pudite Embassy in the diplomatic district of the city. Xian had engaged some academic venues to present guest lectures on Dengmu’s proposed Five Points for National Advancement while also hosting prominent Skyan theorists on the relevant subjects for private meetings, meanwhile, Zhao was holding a series of mid-level talks with their Skyan hosts to both facilitate more direct military-to-military contacts and communication channels as well as to formalize certain agreements about facilities sharing and co-basing that was already the norm in and around Citadel City.

Dengmu, for his part, would retire to the rooms provided him in the Citadel for a few precious moments of calm before the summit well and truly began.

[Lamehk]

The Pit, Blackspine Fortress
The City of Vaulkhar, Lamehk

Think and crimson, flowing slowly but relentlessly, the blood ran down his leg from a long gash on his upper thigh. Searing pain lanced down the limb with every movement and his hands began to tremble ever so slightly, the heavy blood loss quickly beginning to take its toll. He knew this was his end. His opponent knew it too and she was merely toying with him now for the amusement of the crowd, the thousands of jeering, cheering psychopaths who packed the stands of the great gladiatorial arena that would be his grave.

The woman's blades flashed out again. Through vision blurred by blood and sweat, he clumsily deflected the first jab with the segmented steel armour that covered the length of his left arm and then blocked the second, a downward chop, using a small, dented buckler. The woman broke off again, like a snake, recoiling as quickly as she had struck. He charged after her, knowing that he was growing weaker by the moment, and mustering the last of his strength reserves, thrust his spear with deadly precision. The woman pirouetted sideways, lithely dodging the weapon point as easily as if it sailed by in slow motion, before lashing out again with her twin swords.

The first blow came from her left hand, the razor edge slicing down across his bare chest from the left shoulder to the upper abdomen and was followed quickly by another cut from the right hand as she completed her pirouette. A final back-swing finished the flourish and he was sent staggering backwards, blood dripping down his chest like rain on a window. His buckler fell from weakening, numb fingers onto the red spattered sand with a muffled thud.

Again, the rapacious crowd filled the arena with a booming roar of approval. The very ground trembled beneath him. With breathing ragged, he used his now free hand to grasp one of the curved horns that adorned his helm and yanked it off, letting it fall to the ground beside his shield. He blinked hard several times until he had cleared his vision and took one last look at his surroundings. He stood in a deep sandy pit which had been hewn out of a mountain side leaving it enclosed by solid rock walls, all of which were covered with iron spikes, hooks and chains, undoubtedly ready to fulfil all manner of nefarious and unseemly acts. Around the edges of the pit rose tier upon tier of stepped seating, which on this day was almost filled to capacity. He couldn’t be sure whether the people moving about the crowds selling snacks and taking wagers were hallucinated or not. How to all the gods he hoped they were. Beyond the pulsating crowds, beneath a dank grey sky and gathering storm clouds, the mountain peak towered over all, upon which an ominous castle keep, complete with solid crenelated walls, thick jagged towers and dark fluttering banners, had been constructed into the side.

Directly ahead of him, his executioner approached again. Even at his best he had not been able to match her skill in melee, nor had the other six men he had entered the arena with. She had carved them apart and though he could not, thankfully, see her face behind the menacing blackened steel helmet she wore, he had felt the delight she had taken in the act. Their murdered bodies lay scattered around; stabbed, eviscerated or in one case decapitated. And thus, would be his fate. Though he had no wish to die and the thought of what was to come terrified him, he had no real fight left in him. He had lost so much blood already from his many wounds and felt a chill gripping him, not the kind brought on by icy temperatures but that which only an overwhelming sense of dread and impotence could create.

In one last act of pointless defiance he willed his spear up, grasping it in both hands. A blade came down hard and clashed against the weapon with a mighty crack, splintering the wood and splitting the shaft in two. The woman had finished playing with him now. She slashed her blades back and forth with great speed and finesse, hacking into his body again and again. She stopped only when his mutilated corpse fell away and splattered onto the ground. Dripping in the gore of those she had slain, the woman raised her blades into the air and the throng of onlookers erupted once again into cheering ovation.

‘Quite an amazing specimen, your daughter,' mused one of a score of guests reclining in the luxury of Lord Lorkahn Malus’ private box. Built into the top of the curving arena wall, it provided its occupants not just first-class comfort and a private bar, but also extremely close and unobstructed views of the combatants upon the sand. ‘She brings great honour to your House, my Lord.’

Lorkahn cast a sidelong glance toward the speaker, expecting to find that the voice belonged to one of his subordinate lackeys. As the most powerful noble in Laemhk and one of nine recognised Archons, he had a great many other noble Houses and their Exarchs sworn to his service. And they did so love to ply him with praises, as if such falsities would cause him to forget they were but sharks circling in the ocean current, waiting for even the smallest moment of weakness which they could exploit, preferably to his death. That the voice turned out to be that of one of his greatest enemies, a fellow Archon, Lord Urden Nurekh, came as quite a surprise. Gah, a thousand curses upon his house.

Hiding behind an expression of pure stone, Lord Malus gave a shallow nod in acknowledgement of the compliment, acutely aware that, although being done subtly, every noble in the room was watching the exchange closely. Someone was always watching, always listening. For him to receive praise from an enemy meekly would tarnish his image for some time to come, and that was not acceptable. Such trivialities could in fact be quite politically dangerous. Maybe I could just stab him? If only it was that easy. As he considered how to best turn the situation to his advantage, he took a fleeting moment to study his old rival. Lord Nurekh appeared far older than the last time they had met, one could even say desiccated. He sat slightly hunched, his dark hair now largely grey, though a youthful energy still blazed in his eyes, above an ever-smug sneer. Like many of his guests, Urden had been invited to attend his son’s birthday celebrations because social convention dictated as much. To exclude a particular noble house from invitation would have been a grave insult and provocation, which undoubtedly amusing as it would have been, was simply not worth the trouble.

‘You aren’t going to propose a marriage, now are you?’ asked Lorkahn rhetorically, the corners of his mouth pulling into the faintest of grins. ‘My daughter has, well, greater prospects.’

As the other guests broke out into laughter, Urden flashed with outrage for the briefest moment before recovering his poise. He said nothing, turning back to the viewing window where the last of the corpses were being dragged out of the great pit, and began imagining the day, hopefully not too long off, when he would get to humiliate and destroy Lorkahn before all the Houses of Lamehk, preferably by choking the life out of him with his own hands.

Leaving his rival to seethe in shame, Lord Malus turned to his youngest son, Zazikel, seated to his right, who had just turned sixteen. He smiled as he watched the boy. No, he’s a man now, Lorkahn corrected himself. His son exuded excitement as he watched the arena gates below opening once again. On one side, a trio of wretched, frightened slaves, clad in simple cloth tunics and carrying rusty short swords, were herded into the arena with electric shock poles by two of Malus’ guards while on other side a pair of aggravated and hungry lions were carefully coerced into place by the arena’s beast-masters. Lorkahn leant in and spoke so that only his son could hear. ‘You will remember to thank your sister for her gift later, yes Zazikel? The gift of blood is a sacred tradition.’

‘Yes, father. Of course. I know’. The boy did not look away as the guards withdrew from the sands and the gates clattered back into place.

Lorkahn frowned, entirely unconvinced that his son comprehended the significance. Equally unaware, the lions stalked off in opposite directions, circling their quarry and growling in delight as their prey’s panic level rose to new heights. A sharp increase to the murmured conversations of Lorkahn’s guests revealed that anticipation for the kills was not limited to the lions alone.

‘Come Zazikel,’ ordered Lord Malus to his son, ‘I’m afraid I can't wait any longer to give you your gift.'

This time the boy did turn away from the arena spectacle, facing Lorkahn with a look that was equals parts anger and confusion. Like his father, and indeed most Lamehkens, Zazikel had skin of an almost deathly pallor, his hair was thick and long, the colour of charcoal and just slightly wavy, while his eyes were a piercing sky-blue and they glared coldly now in surprised outrage. ‘But father!’

Lorkahn's frown sharpened and he met the gaze with one backed by far more threat. ‘You have plenty of years ahead where you can waste time feeding slaves to animals if such appeals. Come.’

The boy's mouth opened slightly as if about to protest, before closing again sullenly. Finally, he reluctantly agreed, ‘Yes, Father’.

Lorkahn rose. A pair of slaves rushed to attend him but he shooed them away with a brisk wave of his hand and led the boy out of the private box and into the mountain side tunnel that connected to the arena’s accommodation and staff quarters. His guests would gossip and scheme behind his back, as was expected, but with the sound of exaggerated cries of empathetic pain following shortly after them Lorkahn knew the lions had just made their first kill and that the gathering would be suitably entertained.

The passageway emerged into a lavish, cavernous foyer. The floors were tilled in blood red and the walls painted with artistic remembrances of famous arena battles, each one illuminated by its own ceiling mounted spotlight while a pendant bowl brazier, hung centrally, covered all in a flickering, fiery glow. Statues, art works and artefacts of celebrated champions also ringed the room, standing on pedestals or secured within display cases. Lorkahn did not stop to admire anything, having seen it all many times over, instead heading down one of the tunnels that branched off the foyer.

The pair stopped outside one of the private accommodations, a moderately sized room with fine polished flooring, hand-crafted furniture, oil paintings hanging on the walls and which had a vibrant blue-crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling that bathed the whole area with a cool light. A large bed lay directly opposite the doorway and upon its silken sheets huddled a young girl of about the same age as Zazikel, naked, knees clenched tightly to her chest. Her hair was a rare coppery red, long and un-brushed, her skin bore bruises and the odd cut and her eyes, the eyes were dark and filled with despair and terror that could have rivalled any of the wretches facing death in the arena. She looked away, hiding her face but could not mask the evidence of the tears that coated her cheeks. A single guard in the black and red armour and uniform of House Malus stood sentinel over the doorway and slammed his fist to his chest upon his Lord's arrival.

Lorkahn only acknowledged the guard in order to instruct him with an errand. ‘Inform my daughter to await my arrival, I shall be along shortly. Oh, and she’s to leave that brute of hers behind, he’ll serve no use where we are going.’ The guard saluted again and then departed.

‘Zazikel,’ Lorkahn said leading his son into the room, ‘You are a child no longer, though perhaps it may not feel any different just yet, you are now a man of House Malus. The gift of blood, it binds you in life and death to our family’s name and honour. You must learn to bend your every bit of will to enhancing the status of our House. It is quite the responsibility, but it does come with great power and pleasure. That is my gift to you. I name you Hierarch of Nagaraan, to be held in regency until you complete your education. As befits such a rank, I also give you this girl to serve as your kaltor, your body slave.’

The boy thanked his father, enthusiastically hugging him, the lions forgotten. Lorkahn gave a rare smile. ‘Never forget, everything you do reflects upon our House. Show no weakness or they will destroy you.’ It went unsaid who exactly they were, they, of course, being anyone and everyone not in the family. ‘Happy birthday, my son.’

‘Now,’ said Lorkahn, pulling away and regaining his stone countenance. ‘I’m afraid I must depart. There has been a summons, and though I loathe to go running at a whim, this is something that I must see to personally. Take the girl, enjoy the rest of the games and, in my absence, do as your brother instructs as if it were I asking. Oh, and stay away from Lord Nurekh, he is…. a little upset with me.’ Do not shame me by allowing yourself to be murdered’

Lorkahn did not wait for an answer, compliance was expected and consequences for disobedience were never pleasant. He turned briskly and strode from the room. A new guard had replaced the man previously dispatched from his post and he saluted as Lorkahn passed. The low whimpering cries of a girl echoed down the passageway behind him.

---

Soaring into the skies over Lamehk, the aircraft shuddered once again. A storm was approaching. Sitting quietly by a window, Aliyah marvelled at the beauty and power of the unfolding tempest. She felt each tremor as the gusting winds clawed at the plane, as if the very air defied them, considered their presence an unseemly blotch amidst perfection. She watched the patterns of water forming and then reforming endlessly on the window as rain pelted against it before quickly sloughing away. She looked out at the expanding horizon and saw the darkness that consumed it, growing and boiling, turning an already grey sky pitch black, stealing what little sun was available to Lamehk until the only light left in the world was that which the storm itself provided; bolts of incandescent energy, streaking across the black void, leaving bright purple after-glows in her vision that took many seconds to fade. A storm is always approaching.

She looked down. Lamehk. The Nine Kingdoms. The Sorrow Lands. Her home, such as it was. It was diminishing rapidly in size as the aircraft ascended while the torrential rains closed in upon it, quickly masking the land from view. The long, rocky, jagged coastline was the first to disappear into blurred obscurity. The plains, foothills and riverlands that dominated the bulk of the inland territories went next. The last to fall to the shadowy haze were the central mountains, the craggy and barren rock monstrosities upon which she had spent most of her days. Such weather might be considered quite bad in many places but not here. The average day in Lamehk was typically overcast at best and storms were frequent, moving in from the southern oceans and releasing their fury over the nation. What would it feel like to be that wild and indomitable. Unleashed.

The shudders stopped. The storm was left behind and the sleek jet burst out into the warmth of the sun. Golden rays reached out causing the water that rolled off the wings to glisten and sparkle. It should have been glorious, but Aliyah felt only a rising anxiety, a fear. Light footsteps, barely audible, paused directly behind her, casting a shadow upon her that the sun could never protect her from. Oh gods. Aliyah knew well who it was. Only one person sent chills of such immobilising fear through her body. It took all her inner strength but Aliyah willed herself to turn from the wonders of nature and face her fear.

Serana, daughter and heir of Lorkahn, Autarch of House Malus, stood over her, oppressive in presence. Only thirty years old, just a couple of years older than Aliyah herself, Serana was beautiful and enticing, even to other women, and she bore herself with such grace and elegance that one could easily be foolish enough to think her an innocent and well-kept princess. It’s almost sickening. Nothing was further from the truth. Serana was cut-throat to an almost sadistic level, utterly bereft of compassion and empathy and well-schooled in the techniques of combat and other less savoury endeavours. If Lorkahn needed a problem taken care of, he had but name them to his daughter to ensure the outcome. The things I’ve seen her do to other people… no, don’t think about it.

‘Bring drinks, slave’ commanded Serana, ensuring the final word, though delivered in the sweetest tone, carried across as demeaning as possible. ‘Something with rum.’

‘Yes, Mistress.’ Eager to be out from under Serana’s gaze, Aliyah hurried away into the bar area and pulled the curtain closed behind her. As she prepared three blackberry mojitos, the thin barrier allowed for easy eavesdropping.

‘Really, father,' said Serana, faint footsteps indicating she was pacing slowly around the cabin, 'was it not enough that you dragged me along to this farce, but I must be deprived of my servant as well? Is my annoyance to be your entertainment?'

The sound of Lorkahn's deep, dry laugh came in response. ‘Of course. We are going to meet every major ruler in the region, some potential allies, others future enemies and all of them tools we might manipulate one day to our benefit, but I did not bring you to watch, learn and prepare you, my heir, to rule our House one day. You are, of course, here to provide me petty amusement.'

Even behind the curtain Aliyah could feel Serana seethe at the ridicule and this brought her some perverse joy. Why not? That is the Lamehken way after all.

'And your servant?' continued Lorkahn. 'That should not come as a surprise, he is hardly refined enough to parade before the Gothic Lords and you certainly won't require a gladiator at a diplomatic summit.'

‘We are going for refinement are we, oh I see.’ Venomous sarcasm dripped from Serana’s words. ‘A good thing then, that you brought your fairest whore.’

Whore?! Bitch! It was true that Aliyah often shared Lorkahn's bed, as a slave she hardly had much choice and certainly didn’t get paid. Would I if I had a say? The idea was abhorrent once, a long time ago. Hmm, don’t know. All things considered, Aliyah knew she could do far worse. Lorkahn was, as his position as Archon testified to, full of cunning and vision, more so than most. Though she had witnessed him order or commit some nigh unspeakable acts, she knew that he was not a cruel person at heart. As slaves had no more rights than animals in Lamehk, in most cases far less, if any, Aliyah was in essence one of Lorkahn’s pets. She knew that should be insulting but Lorkahn had always treated her well and more importantly as an actual person. She was likely the most privileged slave in the Nine Kingdoms. Oh my, do I threaten her? Is she jealous?

‘Enough, daughter.’ Lorkahn’s voice was dead serious now, but remained calm and level, he rarely ever raised it. ‘It will be a long flight and I would have it be restful. If you don’t like my decisions, murder me in my sleep and be done with it, but don’t harp.’

Silence reigned. Uh oh, taking too long. Aliyah hurriedly completed the drinks and bore them back into the main suite. Serana took hers without thanks, her silver eyes simmered with a cold fury that left no trace of their typical seductive veneer as she made herself comfortable at the opposite end of the cabin to her father. Aliyah hastened away to deliver the second drink to the Yallakian that accompanied them, who sat reading, pretending he was oblivious to the previous debate. Aliyah liked him. He had an otherworldliness about him. His face had the strong, noble features that were worthy of any ancient marble statue. Always polite, she had spoken with him numerous times over the years and learned much of the outside world, of Yallak and the other nations joined in its empire. She had wondered many times why he tolerated her incessant questions, though never had the courage to ask directly. When she was much younger, and far more foolish, she had asked him about slavery ago though and learned that the Yallakians had abolished it, excepting criminal labour prisons, but to her disappointment discovered that they didn’t care less about the practices of others countries.

The final drink went to Lord Malus, who took the glass with thanks but immediately put it aside. Aliyah was about to take the serving tray back to the bar when Lorkahn called her back. ‘Aliyah, come, sit with me.’

She did as commanded. When Lorkahn offered her the drink she had brought, she hesitated for a moment, before accepting it with a gracious bow of her head. As if sensing her thoughts, Lorkahn looked toward his daughter.

‘Don't let her trouble you,' he stated in a consolatory tone, 'she’s never had a lot of patience.... and that I made her leave her favourite plaything behind is just…well, never mind.'

Aliyah laughed softly, despite herself, though the reassuring words did nothing to lessen the deadly glare she felt boring into her back. Nor was the fact that she could be considered Lorkahn’s favourite plaything entirely forgotten.

‘Now,’ said Lorkahn, moving on to a new matter, ‘perhaps my lovely kaltor will provide me her opinion on something of significant import?’

Aliyah nodded her ascent to provide one, not that any other response would have been acceptable. A compliment. Someone is in a surprisingly good mood for having been dragged away mid-party. ‘Your will, my Lord.’

‘As you know, it has been centuries since a leader has been chosen by the Archons. That scum Nurekh came close, but I can’t think of a more appalling choice and how I regret not finishing him off for good at the time. I digress though, the alliance of House Malus to the Infinite Empire has given us the influence to enforce a loose state of order, but the stagnant status quo remains relatively unchanged. For a people that value only strength, we squander our greatest. We have the might to match any of the great empire’s and yet it takes the most severe crisis or wondrous miracle to unite us, and even then, it’s a dubious proposition. Today I hope to start changing that.’

A unified Lamehk? Aliyah pondered the notion. It was hard to envision. Lamehkens thrived on conflict and it was improbable at best to expect that the Houses could set aside hundreds of years of rivalry. If they did though…the world should fear the thought of it.

Aliyah sipped at the blood red mojito while Lorkahn continued. ‘When we arrive at Havenshy, all of Gholgoth will be watching and we must present a particular image. When I sit in the council for the first time, there can be no doubt as to the strength of our nation and people.’

Bold thought Aliyah, figuring out where her master was going. Dangerous. ‘You would claim leadership of all Lamehk before the entire region without confirmation by the Council of Archons?’

A nod from Lorkahn confirmed the statement. ‘You don’t agree?’

‘It is not my place to agree or not, my Lord.’

‘Bah,’ Lorkahn snorted, dismissing the notion away with a wave of his hand. ‘It is your place to be useful. You have a sharp mind and let neither of us waste time pretending otherwise. I might be insulted if you imply that I would seek your council simply because you have a pretty face. Now speak, you have not disappointed me yet, try not to start now…’

And now high praise? Someone is in a very good mood indeed. ‘The others will quickly hear of it through the media and their rage will be great. Doubly so, as they simultaneously discover that you alone have taken the mantle of Gothic Lord.’

Lorkahn’s gaze was penetrating as his mind swirled with schemes and plots for the future. ‘Rage enough to join against me?’

‘I couldn’t say,’ stated Aliyah after placing her drink aside and pausing for consideration. ‘They fear you of course, but this is the first time you have ever given them all such a singular cause to oppose you.’

Smirking, Lorkahn lent forward in his chair. ‘Well, that is true. Tell me, what’s that stupid saying about pennies and pounds?’

---

Emissary Airport
Citadel City, Havensky

The aircraft that taxied to a stop on the tarmac at Emissary airport looked more beast than machine. Since the dawn of Lamehk, the Manticore had been the symbol of House Malus and Lorkahn’s private plane had been crafted to resemble one of those fearsome legendary creatures. The nose, embossed with razor teeth was painted like a great lion’s maw, with such skill that one could easily envision the saliva dripping onto the runway from the snarling jaw. Behind that, the body was coated in rough scales of a deep, dark red while black wings stretched out to either side, great bone talons attached to the leading edges above the engines. At the rear, the vertical stabilizer was not a fin but a scaly scorpion’s tail which curved up to end with a vicious looking two-pronged stinger.

Not one to stand on ceremony, Lord Malus was the first to disembark once the aircrew had lowered the side stairway. His outfit, all in black, was of a simple design that carried an almost medieval feel to it. He wore plain dress pants, military style leather boots and a short tunic with silver trimming that was fastened around the waste by a thick belt. Two straps crossed his chest fixing a great cloak of very dark red and a mantle of magnificent black fur across his broad shoulders. Around his neck lay a fine iron chain adorned with a silver manticore medallion. The cloak and his wavy, shoulder length black hair fluttered weakly as Lorkahn strode onto the tarmac.

One step behind, Aliyah flanked her master. As Lorkahn’s kaltor she would be at his side at all times, ready to attend any need, unless ordered away. More than that though, she was a useful tool in political or social situations, capable of moving around relatively unnoticed, gathering or even spreading information, or conversely making herself very noticed if a particular individual needed to be distracted at an opportune point in a discussion or negotiation. For the occasion, she had been provided an above-knee length slip dress made from a luxurious dark red velvet, which though not immodest left little of her figure to the imagination. She also wore a choker of matching material around her neck from which hung a small emerald pendant, of a hue that perfectly matched her eyes. Her long, straight, naturally golden hair, which readily identified that she was not of Lamehken nationality, draped around over her right shoulder.

The pair stopped a few meters from the stairway to await the others. Aliyah fiddled pensively with the jewel at her throat, taking in the view of the city skyscrappers towering in the distance, while not far off a band rhythmically beat out a drum cadence. She didn't notice Lorkahn turn to her.

'You look quite lovely,' he said, startling her.

'Oh, thank you, my Lord.' Her hand dropped away from the emerald and instead took up twisting the end of her hair.

'Are you ready?' he asked.

'I am, my Lord.' Her voice was not overly confident but she held her masters gaze without flinching.

Lorkahn nodded, satisfied. 'Good. These Skyan's think themselves morally superior, their embassy was not subtle in reminding me that the presence of slaves would be insulting to them, but I will neither leave you behind nor hide who we are. That said, I didn't fly half a world to antagonise them so outside our accommodations your only duty is to accompany me. If anyone asks, tell them you're...ah..'

'The Director of Domestic Affairs,' offered Aliyah.

'Perfect,' laughed Lorkahn.

At that point, they were joined by the Yallakian. Technically no longer a soldier in the legions but now a member of the Imperial Government of Yallak, it was impossible to tell from appearance. Tall and muscular, his brown hair all but shaved away by a buzz-cut, he made an imposing figure while wearing the full, blue-grey dress uniform of the Legiones Imperatorius, the only obvious clue to his changed occupation was an absence of any rank insignia, unit designations or medals. His appointment to House Malus had been rather tense at first, his role to ensure Lamehk abided by the terms of their membership in the Empire, and vice versa, but realistically nothing more than an advisor held on the fringe as an outsider. Things had changed quite drastically though when the Lamehkens had learned that he had been the commander of the Imperial forces fighting in Scant during the Waldenburger war of succession. Attempting to end the war quickly, the Empire had deprived the Waldenburger capital of water until thousands were dropping dead from dehydration, then when the Waldenburgers counter-attacked they had burst all the dams, washing away the attacking army, but not before poisoning the water supply. The death toll had been beyond staggering. Oddly enough though, what much of the world would consider heinous war crimes, turned out to be an ideal relationship building experience in Lamehk.

Immediately behind, came four of Lorkahn's Corsairs. Like the offspring of the plane they came from, they were adorned in the colours of House Malus, wearing full length, layered, black tunics under armour of a dark red hue. A single smooth plate covered their chests, the Manticore sigil emblazoned upon it, with a gorget from which were attached brass trimmed shoulder guards. Scale mail of diamond shaped plates hung from the the guards to cover the upper arms, as well as from the front and sides of the chest-plate. Upon their heads were full faced helms in the same dark red with beastial wings rivetted to each side and scale mail hanging down over their necks. More for show than any need for protection, the Corsairs carried exotic and vicious looking glaives, however they also had sidearms attached to their thigh armour.

It was a good minute before Serana decided to grace them with her presence, the Skyan delegation already moving out to meet them on the tarmac. She had abandoned her typical functional and leather look in favour of a high-formal dress. Entirely gold, the upper body was form fitting and fashioned from small, fishlike scales made of metal fabric, with a plunging neckline and a halterneck of gold chain. The scales transformed just below the waist into a flowing floor length dress of fine silk that shimmered as it moved in ways that made it look as if it was fashioned from molten gold. Her lustrous black hair cascaded down around her shoulders and was decorated by a headdress of small gold chains that also dangled a fiery ruby over her forehead.

Drawn by the glimmer of gold and the faint tinkling noise the scales made as she walked, all eyes turned to Serana as she walked off the stairway. All excepted Aliyah, who only turned enough to place her in peripheral vision. A thin smile creased Serana's lips. Mmm, I do so enjoy when you squirm.

'Did the dress fight back, daughter?' queried Lorkahn sarcastically, interrupting her perverted amusement.

Abandoning their prey, Serana turned her bright silver eyes to face Lorkahn, and responded with a sweet, playful smile. 'Perfection takes time, dear father.'

'So it seems,' said Lorkahn, appraising her outfit, 'Now I look under-dressed.'

'Don't fret,' she answered in a slightly patronising tone, 'You look like an Archon. Do remember to talk like one too. Now, shall we go and get this over with.'

Lorkahn frowned, but ignored the comment. 'Let them come to us.'

She smiled deviously in response. 'That's more like it.'

As the Skyan's arrived, Serana moved to stand beside her father. Lorkahn whispered to her as Aliyah stepped out toward the Skyan party. 'How many weapons are you carrying?'

'Only three, father,' answered Serana, though she did not say what or where despite Lorkahn's raised eyebrow reaction of disbelief. A lady must have her secrets.

'Oh, good, only three, wouldn't want to go overboard would we?' Lorkahn changed tone, dropping sarcasm for serious. 'Remember where we are and please try not to stab anyone while we are here.'

Serana flashed an annoyed look, but refrained from comment as the sound of Aliyah's voice reached them.

'My Lord, Lorkahn,' announced the slave, indicating toward the man himself, 'Archon of House Malus and Primarch of Lamehk.'

Serana hid her surprise well as she heard the last title announced. Her eyes scanned Lorkahn for any sign of his thoughts but he had already raised his emotionless stone countenance.

'Mistress Serana,' said Aliyah, moving on without pause, almost as if she was unaware that those last few words could start the biggest civil war in Lamehk in generations. Almost. 'Autarch of House Malus.'

Lastly, Aliyah indicated the Yallakian. 'Kaiden Valorus, Governor-Consul of Lamehk, Emissary of the Infinite Empire and her Highness, Empress Myrcella Saraer.'

Serana sighed quietly to herself. Let diplomacy...and boredom... begin.

[Havensky]

Emissary Airport

The drummers stopped their drumming as Atticus, flanked by both World Assembly Ambassador Lamula Hagane and Major Gavin Squall, passed a plate of salt and bread to the Lamehkens. An aide followed him passing cups of wine. A simple gesture, but one that conveyed the rights and protections of hospitality to those whom the Skyans had serious differences with.

Squall watched as Atticus did his dance with the words that he had become accustomed to hearing. Each phrase that left Atticus’ lips had been weighed and measured in both tone, prose and warmth. Passing the plate to an aide he bowed, every so slightly, and opened up his arms just shoulder width apart.

“Lords and Ladies, I am pleased to welcome you to Citadel City and am honored you have come. Please, this way. We have one of our royal helijets waiting to take you to the Citadel itself.”

As Atticus finished, the honor guard stood to attention and the band began to play a Skyan marching tune.

Squall and Hagane stayed behind as the delegation boarded the helijet and the rear door began to close behind them. As a slaver state, the Lamehkens were detested and their arrival had prompted large vocal protests in the streets. Skyan law dictated that any slave who sought asylum on Skyan territory, which included vessels of the land and sea, would be granted the immediate protections of Skyan citizenship. The protests included the handful of people who had escaped Lamehkenian servitude. The helijet was meant to spare their guests the indignity of the dressing down they would receive if they took a motorcade. Instead, they would be treated to a grand view of the skyline.

Squall was aware of the change in tone that Atticus had used. The phrase “at the behest of” had been dropped and it was ‘I am pleased and honored’ and not ‘we are pleased and honored.’ This way there would be no duplicity as the people of Havensky wouldn’t feel pleased and honored at their arrival. In his head he knew this, but his sea blue eyes were like tempests.

“Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve; I know you don’t like slavers.”

“I went to combat with Heartbreak Company; I literally have one painted on my shoulder.”

“You know what I meant Major, but they’re our guests and we need them to vote on our side.”

“They bring slaves!”, protested Squall. “The blonde girl… you saw how she walked. How she kept just a half-step behind the Lord. How she’s a different nationality than the rest of them. How she keeps her face ever so still. She’s-”

“-listed as domestic staff.”

“You knew didn’t you?”

“I see your diplomatic training is helping to turn your martial observational skills to more peaceful pursuits. Yes, we suspected that they’d bring a slave regardless of our feelings on the matter. They’re being subtle about it and we mustn't press lest we make more enemies than we already have. If this becomes us against the slavers it’ll only mean more bloodshed.”

Squall exhaled in a puff. He put aside his feelings for a moment and soldiered on.

“HONOR GUARD, AT EASE!”

The White Citadel

The helijet slowed down to a hover and gently landed in one of the hangar bays of the Citadel’s North Tower. As it did, the flag of Lamehk rose next to the other Gothic flags on the battlements much to the annoyance of the crowd that had gathered near the Citadel bridges.

The White Guard, wearing pearl white power armor with blue cloaks, stood to attention as the Lamehkens stepped off the royal helijet. A captain guided them to the lobby where the rest of the Gothic Lords were gathered. As the guard opened the door, the captain spoke loudly to announce the presence of their guests.

They were greeted immediately by King Ironwing and servers carrying appetizers and their favored drinks soon followed.

“My Lords and Ladies, thank you for coming. I’d like to welcome you to the Citadel and look forward to our discussions.”

[The Scandinvans]

Patriarchal Bull on the Condition of the Gothic City-States of Havensky

To the noble Lords of Gholgoth,

The condition that we see the state of the Gothic region within recent years has forced us to thoroughly consider the state of affairs that has emerged as a direct consequence of the intrusion of the newly created the Gothic City-States of Havensky. The creation of this new holding has been connected to the intervention of foreign forces, namely Kahanistan and the Maccabees, underneath the auspices of a variety of different treaties that the Skybound Republic has signed. Allegiances which innately compel Havensky to directly ignore ancient precedents that have largely forbidden the garrisoning or operations of alien forces in Gholgoth. Forces which are solely in the region to combat the interests of other Gothic nations and therefore makes it all the more disturbing that they are in the region regardless of the conflicts which might be occurring. Whilst, the Glorious Empire of the Scandinvan Empire would not be particularity concerned about things like war games we must acknowledge the basic fact that Havensky has forsaken their duties to their fellow Gothic nations by being the party responsible for the presence of the aforementioned powers.

Therein creating a situation in which the Skybound Republic's loyalties must be deeply questioned. Their continued actions suggest that they have operated in a purely self-centered manner and have actively sought to destabilize the region with their long term goals of spreading the anarchic systems of democracy throughout the entire region. The aggressive actions of the Scandinvan Empire towards Havensky were a direct byproduct of this agenda. His most blessed, enlightened, and honored imperial majesty Crown Prince Fernic ap Erid ao Erid suffered an attempted assassination attempt at the hands of traitorous forces which Havensky employed in an effort to tear asunder the pillars holding together the Glorious Empire of the Scandinvans. This attempt, whilst thankfully not wholly successful, still claimed the one of the princes the House of Erid (a close brother to the Crown Prince no less). These efforts to do harm to our nation were the provocation for our recent attack upon Citadel City. We wanted to remind Havensky that regardless of where they hid justice would come down upon those who betrayed the region and sought to overthrow reigning Gothic Lords.

They will certainly claimed that our participation in conflicts against their allies provoked them first, but their loyalty to extra-regional nations before fellow Gothic states is a telling sign. In many ways it condemns them as unworthy of the trust of any true citizen of Gholgoth. For even now they seek to hamper the traditional rights enjoyed by Gothic Lords in their efforts to reform the region in their favor. In their greed they would destroy the individual identities of every nation in the region. They aim to undermine every aspect which has allowed the region of Gholgoth to stand as one great places in the world. A force of unrivaled power when united. Instead, they would turn us into crusaders seek to spread their devil inspired progressive ideals to the world. They would have us guard pitiable notions such as human rights. They would have us throw away the institutions which bind each of our individual nations together.

The only logical conclusion that the Scandinvan Empire can make from these activities is that the Skybound Republic of Havensky has chosen to abandon its status as a nation holding a Gothic lordship. Therefore Havensky has abandoned any of the privileges and rights enjoyed by those nations which have remained loyal to the ancient tenants of Gholgoth. This in turn forfeits their rights to claim any holdings within the region. Thus the Glorious Empire has chosen to insist upon the return of the lands that the Gothic City-States of Havensky to the Scandinvan throne underneath a doctrine of lapse as we are the last Gothic power to lay claim (and exercise control of) to those lands during a struggle in which our people successfully destroyed a dominion of the crazed soothsayer. Though we would certainly recognize the right of Havensky' s people to leave the region peaceable if their nation's land claims are rendered void. We additionally, if the principle of lapse is applied, would not actively seek to settle the land by ourselves solely and would be more than happy to give control over the future of nearly all the territory to the Gothic Council to do with as they deem fit.

This is certainly not an issue that we Scandinvans take lightly nor would we insist upon such a principle in application to those nations whose ancestral homelands are in Gholgoth. Yet, in these trying times we must set understand that those who would betray our region in pursuit of liberal idealism and outlander alliances must be punished. Without us acting now to curb the Utopian dream of the Skybound Republic we risk allowing their cancer to spread to other nations. They eventually will provoke a civil war if the democratic infection is allowed to gain momentum. That is why we must act soon.

May this message find the Lords of Gholgoth in good fortune and health. May the Almighty bless Gholgoth with bountiful harvests for years to come.

Signed on behalf of his most blessed, enlightened, and honored imperial majesty Crown Prince Fernic ap Erid ao Erid,
Thomas III,
Patriarch of the True Church,
Servant of Erid,
Voice of the Faithful,
Defender of the Word,
Holy Peter's Appointed Successor

[Dephire]

Operation Wilhelm
Hilem Estate, Northern Dephire
One week since ULE City

The convoy consisted of five armored infantry transport vehicles, six high mobility vehicles, four attack helicopters, one hundred soldiers, and one Inquisitor Dramman. It snaked along the imperial highway and made a hard turn onto a private road heading towards a structure in the distance. Everyone was heavily armed with assault rifles and thick riot armor. Twenty soldiers carried Havensky-inspired combat shields and were larger than the rest, his majesty's paladins.

"Hmm," the Inquisitor was examining a massive book, "The triumvirate has declared that ninety percent of this facility's occupants are guilty to some degree for actions against the crown. Most are of grade three and four, who will receive quite lenient sentences. We are here for the grades one and two. They have been given execution sentences that will be carried out as soon as we arrive."

"If the Emperor wills it, then it shall be done," said one of the paladins.

The Inquisitor set down the book and looked out the window, "This will be a long day. At least we have arrived." The convoy stopped inside the estate's parking lot and the helicopters made a quick sweep of the grounds before returning. A soldier rushed to Dramman's door, opening it for the Inquisitor. Dramman, with his legs augmented with the latest technology to restore his ability to walk, stepped out of the vehicle with a small walkie talkie in hand and wore a formal uniform. Two more soldiers rushed over with a speaker system. A loud whine from the speakers made it clear they were on and ready to project.

"Citizens of Dephire, I command your attention. This estate has been found to be conspiring against the Empire. Surrender peacefully and you will find leniency in your sentences. You have five minutes to comply." Dramman spoke with the same ironic tone he used in ULE City. He pulled out a pocket watch and watched as the five minutes ticked down. As he waited, the soldiers exited their vehicles and got into formation. "I repeat, come out peacefully and the emperor shall grant leniency to your sentences. You now have four minutes to comply."

A few people began exiting the massive building. They ran to the convoy and were intercepted by a few of the soldiers. One of the paladins walked up to them, verified who they were, and let them walk. "No grade, Inquisitor. They said there are a few thousand in the building. Dozens of children are also in the building."

"Ah, thank you, Paladin Maiz," Dramman whispered. He turned his attention back to the building, "You now have two minutes to comply. Exit the building immediately or we will use force."

A window on one of the middle floors shattered, "Fuck you!" A man shouted and fired several shots towards what the Inquisitor thought were him, but the man was an extremely poor shot as puffs of dirt popped up in various areas of the grounds. The man disappeared as another came from behind him and pulled him away from the window.

"Well, I guess their time is up. Proceed." Dramman gestured for the soldiers to file into the building. He waited outside, sitting on a small wooden box while drinking tea and reading a newspaper, and listened to the shouts, cries, and short spats of gunfire from inside. Within ten minutes, several dozen people were walking outside towards the waiting paladins. The paladins processed the people and put them in their respective grades. More gunfire and shouting. The Inquisitor examined each person and noticed many had several wounds, as if being held captive and tortured by the occupants of the estate. He made mental notes of each individual and waited.

"Floors one through four cleared. One hundred casualties to report. No friendlies KIA." A soldier reported through his comm. "More people heading your way for processing."

"Very good, proceed." Dramman saw a much larger group was exiting the building, most were bound by their hands and all were being escorted by at least half a dozen soldiers. The paladins rushed up and intercepted the group.

"Hold up! This door is rigged. Back out."

"This doors is as well. Check the stairwell."

"Stairwell is clear. Moving up."

"Wait! Stop!" A soldier shouted in the comms. The Inquisitor only had a moment to look up at the building before a massive explosion erupted from the east side of the building.

"Report!" Dramman shouted in his microphone.

"Multiple squads down. Orders?"

Dramman heard intense gunfire and looked to his paladins, and then he picked up a phone.

Aboard the HMA Defiance

Beep... Beep...

Tristan stood in a bright room holding his beloved's hand. They were both severely injured during the Galva incident, but Tynsei remained in intensive care. Tears rolled down one of his cheeks, as the other had to be removed and was replaced with a prototype cybernetic eye. Tynsei lay on a bed, hooked up to a heart monitor. Her pulse was weakening with each beat of her heart.

Knock! Knock!

"Enter."

"I apologize for the disturbance, my lord. Inquisitor Dramman is asking for you."

Hilem Estate

"What is it, Dramman?"

"My lord, we have met much heavier resistance than expected at Himel. I-" A loud screeching boomed forth from the speakers. The gunfire ceased immediately.

"This is Emperor Tristan Skragg!" The man's voice boomed out loud and clear for all at Hilem to hear. His voice in the room on the Defiance was, however, soft. The beeps from the heart monitor were becoming further and further apart. "Your devotion to a cause that created much grief for this nation has pulled at my heartstrings. I, Tristan Skragg, pardon you all for such insolence. May the gods show you mercy." The heart monitor produced a long beep. Tristan unplugged the machine and gave the phone back to the soldier.

"Rest in peace, Empress Tynsei. I will notify all personnel to leave you alone, my lord." He bowed and walked away.

"Thank you," Tristan turned to his wife and kissed her forehead. "Rest well." He left the room and looked outside to see Havensky in the distance.

Hilem Estate

"Paladins, we are leaving!" Inquisitor Dramman shouted. "Hurry!"

"What of the citizens? We haven't finished processing them!"

"You are welcome to stay with them, Paladin. However, their processing has been completed for us!"

The paladin's eyes widened as he understood what his boss was implying and picked up the pace. They all boarded the vehicles and began driving away from the estate as quickly as possible.

"Orders, Inquisitor?" A pilot from one of the helicopters inquired.

"Grade Zero. Neutralize everything."

"As the Emperor wills." The pilot confirmed moments before all four of the aircraft open fired on the entire estate. The building collapsed after several rocket were launched into it, burying anyone within the grounds. A few more minutes passed before the helicopters returned to the retreating convoy to provide support.

Dramman noticed the group of people that Paladin Maiz had let go. "Driver, pull over."

"Aye, sir."

The vehicle pulled over onto the shoulder and Dramman exited and opened fire on the group. "For the Emperor," he said before calmly returning to his seat and closing the vehicle door. "Proceed, driver. Onward to the next location."

Citadel City

The trip was a difficult one for Tristan and his Godsend. Their brief visit to ULE City only further proved the dissatisfaction many of the Gothic Lords had with each other. He was frustrated how much they would talk but never act on their own words. If broken promises were bricks he could build a tower to the moon, figuratively. His airship began its long descent into the Dephirian assigned area of Citadel City where the Templar Knights held a remote branch. This new Defiance was black and used only in show, and it is protected by ten fighters of the Belka'vek division.

"Emperor Tristan, we will be landing in two minutes. A small group of local fans have gathered together to meet us. Our motorcade is also here to take us through downtown to the summit. No one knows about Tynsei's passing. I knew you would want to address everyone when you were ready." Godsend General Minera Volthe hugged her emperor then stepped back to bow. "I apologize, Tristan... I shouldn't have done that."

Tristan smiled, "Thank you for the briefing and your console, Minera. Remember, we are friends first." Minera smiled and bowed again before excusing herself. Tristan closed his bedroom door and changed into more appropriate attire. His casual clothing replaced with formal clothes. Everything was more difficult to accomplish ever since his battle with Ki'lan. The technology Wilhelm and Lady Raven had bestowed to him helped, but he will never be the same man. His eye was linked to the Triumvirate, the three artificial intelligence programs Colossus, Leviathan, and Ragnarok. They provide him with advice and help him manage the nation. Though, right now, they are helping him with diminished depth perception and bad taste for fashion.

Fifteen minutes since touching down, Tristan, accompanied by his Godsend Generals and two dozen knights, finally descended the ramp to meet the Skyans awaiting him. He chose to wear armored clothing, which was both stylish and protective.

"Hello and thank you for having us!" Tristan shouted out, smiling to the Skyans. Though, it was difficult to accept his enthusiasm with the heavily armored escorts and his scarred face. "Well, let us get started with the tour. Shall we?" He whispered to Minera.

[Havensky]

Cameras from Skyan journalists were rolling as the Emperor Skragg’s airship touched down at Emissary Airport and were met with cheers from the Citadel City residents who were watching on their screens.

The one camera that didn’t instantly upload their photos for the whole world to see was that of Kyle Boshi. His big heavy camera make a mechanical click as the image of Emperor Tristan Skragg stepping off the tarmac against the backdrop of the afternoon was captured. Boshi was a photojournalist. His images were not the quick snapping of people’s mobile devices, but the patient and steady hand of somebody with an underappreciated skill.

Boshi’s process was careful. There were things to consider when taking the photos. The lighting, the framing, the actual moment that he needed to snap the camera. He didn’t always produce the greatest number of pictures - but they were better.

While Briska was the most authoritarian of the Skyan allies, the reforms they had made and their steadfast contributions to the military efforts of the Legion had endeared them to the Skyan people.

As the Emperor stepped onto the tarmac, the honor guard snapped to attention as the band began to play the Dephirian national anthem. A pair of fighter jets swooped low and performed a flyby and the crowds cheered again. Across the route from the airport to the Citadel, crowds had gathered to greet the Emperor and were waving Skyan and Briskan flags.

A few more careful clicks of Boshi’s camera.

Secretary of State Atticus, flanked by the Skyan Ambassador to Dephire, the Briskan Ambassador to Havensky, and Major Gavin Squall marched up to greet him with a plate of salted bread and bourbon. As the Emperor finished his bread, Squall shook his arm and that of his fellow military brethren.

“Emperor Skragg, welcome back to Citadel City. I am pleased to find you in good health. Please, this way you majesty.”

Despite the Emperor’s brave face, Atticus could discern something was amiss. Atticus could not have known what had just transpired. The Skyan High Council had been given information about the attack and had known that both Tristian and Tynsi had been injured. As the crowds cheered louder as the convoy moved onto the main streets of Citadel City; they could not have known what had just happened either. If they had, the crowd would have been silent and respectful for a man in mourning. Boshi noticed, but it wasn’t his job to pry - just to get the shot.

The convoy took a different route than the other Lords. This time, the convoy routed to the south through the Portside District and towards the Great Library. Before reaching the Great Library the convoy slowed down as it reached a bronze and stone statue across from Glitch Labs. There were many like this in the city recognizing fallen warriors. This particular one was special.

This statue depicted an image of Godsend General Wilhelm who had served alongside Squall and other Legionaries during the Milograd Conflict and had taken part in the rescue of Queen Heart. He had been named a Heartknight Gaurdian for his action, but upon his request had been allowed to caucus with the Astrals. It had been just like the General to be recognized for his skills as a warrior, but want to be treated as a scientist.

The statue’s shield and armor were made in the Skyan manner, but with the cloth cape in the color’s of Dephire. His shield bore Wilhelm’s crest and his sword was split between the red blade of a Guardian and the Purple hue of the Astrals. On the pedestal, the words “The Godsend Knight Wilhelm of Dephire & the Warrior Scholar of Havensky”

The crowd sat silent for a moment as the car stopped in front of the statue. The only noise the sound of the car’s electric engine and the flags flapping in the breeze behind the statue. The car moved on.

Boshi had been traveling in a different car. He couldn’t hear the conversation. He only knew that the faces of the leaders were more somber than they should have been.

The convoy moved through jubilant crowds along the main route towards the Citadel. The band stood to attention and began to play the anthem as the black phoenix of the Dephire rose to take it’s place alongside the flags of the other Lords.

The Ironwings were the only officials to meet him on the Citadel steps as the convoy pulled in. The media, which normally would have been there to capture the moment, had been ushered away. Only Boshi remained. The band had marched out into the street away from the entry tunnel blocking the view from the crowd looking in. The honor guard had been reduced to just a platoon of Heartbreak Company. As Tristan stepped out of the car, it was Lucas who reached out first to greet him. Not with a bow, or a handshake, but with a bear hug.

Boshi could hear the voice of the King. He had been allowed to take pictures, but not video.

“Tristian, we are so sorry for your loss. You know that you don’t have to be here. We understand - frankly everyone will understand. I’ll have a high speed transport waiting for you if you change your mind. You should be with your children. I know you want to see this through; but have faith in your people.”

Lucas released him and Tristan was immediately hugged by Jessica.

“Are you ok?”

Alone in the entry tunnel over the brick and mortar of the Citadel stood three friends for a spell as they remembered those who had gone before.

[Ghant]

“Grasp of Steel”
The White Citadel
Citadel City, Havensky
(Co-written with Aldarminia and Havensky)

After relaying the news of the new Azcheyko’s pending arrival to the world, Katya realized she had committed a gross injustice to her hosts. Blushing, she hurriedly hugged Silvier and whispered her temporary goodbye. The Hearthkeeper then made her way to the Ironwings, parting ways with her children who sought after the attentions of the Ghantish. Approaching the Ironwings, Katya bowed her head slightly in respect to the Skyan royals, regardless of the sort of royals they were. Simpering with a red-flushed face, “Forgive me, my hosts, but the faces of close friends can be so distracting and alluring.”

The Grand Empress nodded in a pause to the king before continuing, “You Majesty, Lucas, it is a great pleasure to see you again, so soon at that. But, I have to say the greatest pleasure to me here and now is that I can finally meet the renowned Jessica Heart.”

Katya bowed her body at her hip in a show of admiration for the Skyan Queen and proceeded with her formal introduction.

“Ah, Grand Empress Katya we meet at last!”, remarked Jessica as she turned towards the Aldarminian. Lucas Ironwing followed shortly behind her and returned the bow.

“We’re so glad to have you in Citadel City. Lucas was just telling me how much he enjoyed his visit to your palace.”

A server walked by with a tray and offered the Empress an iced glass of vodka, which she happily accepted. She laughed in surprise before she sipped it, wondering if Lucas had remembered or if the Skyans were excellent at doing their homework. Her laughter had a subtle air of nervousness. A decade or so ago, it would have been unfathomable to Katya to meet the Kylarnatian Caesar, and when the tales of the Skyan incursion and Jessica’s escapades had reached the beleaguered Aldarminian state, the Hearthkeeper was sure that the tense security situation of the Empire would never allow her to meet the Hero.

Yet here she was, not just among her greatest idols, but among them as an equal. The Makars had been Gothic Lords centuries before, but with the Azcheyko Uprising in the mid-twentieth century, that hegemony came tumbling down until finally the orphaned and alone Azcheyko fell in love with the Makar princess. Katya had never been so thankful to have been ambushed during the Usurper’s War. To Jessica, she barely managed to hold back her nervous and giggly response, “Oh, that old place? The fall house is quite nice, but you two have to come see the real house in the homeland. It’s much larger, and there are all sorts of castles and gardens to explore. The Arannalsk is extremely beautiful this time of year, as well, if you two would like to visit after these affairs are settled. The snow has just started its first waver so everything is capped in white.”

“Oh, I’ve never been a fan of the cold… but maybe I’ll try it just once.”, replied Jessica. While the Citadel was an enormous fortress, the actual royal residence was quite modest by Gothic standards. It was only three stories with a small garden that buffered it from the larger city. Indeed, everything about the Skyan royals seem to portray modesty. Their clothes were nice, but simple. Jessica’s crown was in fact a simple iron band without any decoration or engraving.

Nodding in understanding, Katya replied, “Oh yes, believe me, when you live in the Eternal Winter, the cold gets quite tiresome. Though I am sure we could cook something up to warm the body and spirit. If you do not like the cold though, I suppose Dalikh and I could turn on all the heaters in the Arannalsk. The gardens would probably love that.”

As the Hearthkeeper spoke, she scanned the Skyans and their regalia. Compared to her and her children, the Skyans appeared to be some class of humble servants who had been given the freedom of their own uniform choice. Katya understood it to be the Skyans’ tendency to play down their royal status, but it still disturbed her. When actually given the chance to act like one, even in the middle of a civil war, the then-teenager had adored playing princess and later Empress.

Two servants appeared behind Katya, bearing gifts from the Empire to the Skybound Republic. The Aldarminian Grand Empress turned to gesture to and present the gifts. “Dear friends, it is my honor to present these tokens of our national affections…”

One of the servants stepped forward holding two bottles wrapped in furs, “...For you King Lucas, there is Faratovish Bourbon…”

The servant bowed to Lucas and handed him the bottle wrapped in field tiger’s fur, “...And for you Queen Jessica, there is some Crasnipol Red Wine…”

The same servant did the same bow and the same hand-off before retreating to their original position behind Katya, cueing the other servant to advance. This one held a long wooden box decorated in animal bone shards and Mralic runiform engravings. The engravings themselves were a friendly challenge to any willing Skyan, which Katya explained as the box was presented to both the Ironwings, “The box you see has been carved into it an ancient poem which has been ciphered with Mralic grammar and ancient Aldarminian runiforms. I am sure someone will be entertained by such a puzzle and its solution, but the real prize lies inside…”

The servant opened the box, revealing two shashkas, or Cossack sabers, of the highest quality, which the Grand Empress buoyantly elaborated upon, “Theseto shashkas were specifically crafted to your ergonomic appeal,” with the drinks and the blades, it appeared as if both Aldarminia and Havensky were good students of each other’s preferences, “The hilts and pommels are crafted from tiger bone, while the blades are forged from Polar steel. The sheaths are oaken with a field tiger’s coat as theirs. Consider these gifts to not only come from the Aldarminian Empire, but also directly from the Hearth of the Cossack and the Tige. The Azcheyko family is graced to have new friends such as you two.”

“Ah, these are wonderful! Thank you so much!”, remarked Jessica as an aide took the bottles for safekeeping as Lucas studied the box.

“Is it cheating for me to phone a friend?”, asked Lucas studying the runes and eyeing the two swords.

The Grand Empress laughed, “Well, you could do that, or use it as an excuse to convince Jessica here to come to the homeland. We have a saying in Aldarminia that I think fits neatly here: ‘The only cheater is the one who does not claim to be king.’”

Lucas laughed, “Well, we will work on that.” He handed the box to an aide to keep it safe as he took out one of the swords and tested its weight. He peered along the edge of the blade moving his hand ever so slightly to feel how sturdy the blade was within the hilt. This did not go unnoticed, as the young Crown Prince of Ghant, who was with his father and siblings, turned to admire the blade.

“These are very fine swords. I thank you very much.”, Lucas said carefully placing the sword back in it’s box as an aide took it away.

“I understand that young Zlobaskar is becoming quite a duelist himself. If he has time while he’s here; I’d love to test him. My day job is a professor at the Citadel Military Academy and I coach the dueling team as part of my course offerings.” By now, Bebe’s attention was wholly upon the conversation at hand.

Katya and the Ironwings had been unaware of a lingering eavesdropper. Upon hearing mention of a duel, though, the spy of the conversation blew his cover, “It would be my honor, sir.”

A mischievous smile stretched Zlobaskar’s lips as he snapped a servant to him. The other Azcheyko children had wanted to make their way to the Ghantish royal spawn, but the possibility of a duel was too enticing, so the youthful entourage turned around and began forming the beginnings of a circular audience around the Synoktron and the Skyan King. The Ghantish, taking notice of this, joined them in forming a circle around the prospective duelists. Zlobaskar handed his fur coat to the servant he had beckoned, relieving him of the warm weight. Another servant came to him holding a sheathed shashka.

The sheath was similar to the ones that the Ironwings had received, but as Zlobaskar drew the blade, it became clear that that is where the similarities ended. Because Zlobaskar was younger and smaller, his blade was shorter and smaller to compensate for the difference in weight and balance. The blade was slightly more curved at the tip, and the hilt and pommel were deeply encrusted with jewels, and the tassel which hanged from the pommel was a length of tiger’s tale. There also appeared to be small runiforms beveled into the lower section of blade.

The children were giggling, but the mother was mortified. Katya’s face had now become entirely red. She felt her heart drop as the razor sharp Tiger’s Claw--The Syknotron had little originality when it came to naming his weapons--was drawn and as the remaining Blood Guard in the social area made a tense march towards the circle. Katya almost screamed, “No! Zloba! This is not-”

A sly smile emerged from Ironwing’s lips as the young lordling drew his sword. He reached out with one hand and shouted, “BUCK” and one of the Captain of the Iron Guard tossed one of the ceremonial staffs that he had been carrying. The staff was already in the air even before Ironwing had spoken.

Time slowed. The moment that the staff reached Ironwing’s hands it slide wide and struck the young lordling’s wrist causing him to drop the sword. In the next instance, Ironwing swung the staff back then thrust it towards the Zlobaskar’s chest pushing him back. He then reversed the staff downwards catching Tiger’s Claw and bringing it towards him. As he did, he watch the lordling dash towards the sword. He extended the staff again and tripped Zlobaskar.

The duel was over.

Ironwing bent down to pick up Tiger’s Claw inspecting it. At the result, Bebe roared with laughter. “I thought young Zlobaskar was something of an aspiring duelist. What I saw instead was pathetic, any of my sisters could wield a blade with more skill,” he laughed.

“Silence,” the Emperor of Ghant reprimanded his son. “Such mockery is unbefitting of a Crown Prince towards a Prince of another nation.”

“Nonsense,” Bebe said defiantly to his father. “If the boy wishes to play a men’s game, then he should learn not to fight like a girl,” he continued to snigger.

Ironwing was speaking to Zlobaskar quietly so that the other children wouldn’t hear the lecture.

“This, young lord, is a very fine sword. A treasure fit for such a brave young man like yourself. That said, it’s not a dueling sword and this really isn’t the place for horseplay. I imagine both of our guards would be quite nervous if we both dueled with the sharp swords. I will have Captain Buck give you one of my practice swords so you get familiar with it and later on we can have a real lesson at the Legionary Training Ground. If that’s ok with your mother?”

Ironwing’s tone was stern, but friendly. It was clear that he hadn’t wanted to embarrass him too much and had admired the lordling’s bravado.

Katya never wanted the duel to happen in the first place, but when all was said and done, she was thankful it had happened and ecstatic that it had not ended with Zlobaskar trying to cut the Skyan King’s head off. Zlobaskar was annoyed and disgraced, but the Grand Empress knew he would get over it. To her genuine surprise, the Synoktron was unusually gracious in his defeat. Zlobaskar, uncued by his mother or a servant, bowed himself to a near-ninety-degree in front of the Skyan King, and almost mumbled his surrender, “Thank you for the duel, Your Majesty, but I would certainly enjoy a rematch. Please forgive my foolish haste…”

This show of graciousness impressed Ironwing far more than the bravado he had shown earlier.

“It’s perfectly alright, you’re not the first hot headed student I’ve had nor shall you be the last.”

Zlobaskar turned to his mother to acquire an approval of the invitation and a sanction of the rematch, which she did give with a slight nod. So, Zlobaskar accepted, “It would be my privilege to have a more proper duel, Your Majesty, so please call on me when the convenient time has arrived.”

Ironwing smiled as Captain Buck handed the young lordling a sheathed practice blade. The blade was in the same tanto shape as the standard Skyan sword.

“You best be ready sir, the Butcher’s End don’t play.”

After this, Zlobaskar regrouped with the rest of the Hammerspawn who were now fully resolved to introduce themselves to the Gentry children. Meanwhile, Katya, some of her paleness returning to her expression despite all the near-misses (Near-deaths might be a better choice of phrasing) diplomacy-wise, spoke to Lucas with a mother’s grace lining her voice, “Thank you, Lucas. Zlobaskar gets a little too excited when it comes to fighting. But as I am sure you know, boys will be boys.”

“No need for thanks, I raised a boy myself and they can get rowdy at times. He’s got guts that’s for sure. Your son handled his lesson far better than most. He’s got a bright future ahead.”

“The guts of a girl, maybe,” Bebe said jeeringly towards Zlobaskar. “He’s had his chance, now he can wait his turn, and watch a proper swordsman in action. I won’t be subdued so easily.” Turning to Ironwing, Bebe closed his fist over his heart and said, “I would challenge thee, King Lucas, if you’re willing to accept a challenge from someone who is actually skilled in the use of a blade.”

Zlobaskar, sheathing his blade, and mumbled something in Alnardic to the effect of, “I have watched enough proper swordsmen to know you are not one.”

The Synoktron humbly walked past his Ghantish counterpart, saying an insult in Mralic loud enough for his siblings to laugh and his mother to grimace at but only them and the Blood Guards understand, “The Gentry prince speaks of girl guts like he doesn’t like them. Maybe he’d prefer to be at a boyhouse than a citadel!”

The Blood Guard erupted in a chuckle, knowing that the Grand Empress was petrified that her son had just insinuated that Bebe was a pederast. After giggling for a few moments, Sophyana and Lucylla exchanged whispers and took turns glancing at the Ghantish Crown-Prince as he made his challenge. The younger sister plucked a flower from her necklace and gave it to her elder. Ryslander handed a platinum coin to a smug Hrothashki, who deposited it into a small black bag hanging from his tunic hidden by his cherkesska. The youngest Dalikharl pulled gently on Ryslander’s cherkesska and Hrothashki’s coats, using the two’s garments to swing his small body back and forth.

“...You know who that is, right?” the Emperor said to his son. “King Lucas Ironwing is a master of his craft.”

Bebe yawned and batted the air with his hand. “With all due respect, father, I’d like to be the judge of that myself.” Having said that, Bebe called out to Ser Rolli. “My sword, please.” Nodding, the Knight Champion withdrew Bebe’s sword, and handed it to him. Drawing it from it’s scabbard, the sword was castle-forged steel, a narrow shortsword with a keen edge and a hilt of black and gold with a large piece of onyx embedded in the pommel. The Crown Prince was old and strong enough to wield the blade with one or two hands, depending on the circumstances.

“Considering that you’re the host, your Majesty, what shall be the terms of the spar?” he asked the Skyan king in a more dignified manner as he raised his blade.

Behind Bebe, the tall frame of Jessica Heart reached out and grabbed Bebe’s sword by the edge much to the surprise of Bebe. Her voice had switched from that of a diplomat to that of a Gothic Lord whose word was law and did not suffer fools. “There will be no more swordplay in the lobby. You can all take your dueling lessons on the training ground like everyone else. Understood?

Bebe was as surprised as he was jarred, and unwilling to shift the blade for fear that it would cut the Queen’s hand. “Are you mad, your Majesty? You’ll cut your hand…” Bebe’s voice trailed off as he turned his head and examined the Queen’s arm, and upon noticing that it was artificial, his jaw was left agape. “Oh my...wow…”

Prince Victor looked at the spectacle as though the boy had never seen anything more wondrous in his entire life. “You’re arm is...steel…”

Rubbing his forehead as he glanced at the queen, he quipped “it would appear as though Her Majesty has a grasp of steel…”

“Y’all are all too quick to brandish the blade,” remarked Jessica. When Bebe had the chance, he sheathed his sword and handed it back to Ser Rolli.

“I allowed him to bear steel, Jessica,” the Emperor of Ghant explained himself to his colleague. “Prince Zlobaskar was permitted to do the same against your husband, so I expected my son would be allowed a similar opportunity.”

“And my husband is going to get a lecture for encouraging the boy! Seriously, dueling in the lobby with sharp objects and people all around. Your son will get his chance, just not in the lobby! Perhaps, Ironwing can take those interested in a little lesson to the Training Ground during our Summit?”

Valentina crossed her arms and squeaked, “I could probably beat Zlobaskar too, and I’m a girl. Men think they’re better but that’s just because of pride!”

“Well, then you’d be more than welcome to go with them then. But please, put those things away!”

While making a mental note to discuss the behavior of the children, Katya ordered the Blood Guard to seize Tiger’s Claw. Sophyana, seeing an opportunity to advance relations in a more positive manner, scurried towards the Ghantish princess and curtsied. Lucylla and the youngest Hammerspawn followed closely behind their sister, but the eldest trio of Azcheyko boys remained near the scene of the dueling gaffes. Here, their expressions had shifted from jaw-agape awe at Jessica’s arm to a proud troop of sneers aimed at Bebe.

Sophyana saw this and decided that pleasantries should come before hostilities, “I think I could beat him too, but he never practices with me. It is an honor to meet you, I’m Sophyana,” she leaned in closely with a whisper, “But you can call me Sophy.”

“You can use a sword?” Valentina asked Sophy. “Maybe he won’t fight you because he’s scared you’d beat him,” she giggled.

Lucylla ducked her head under Sophyana’s chin, and her teeth glistened behind a dimpling grin. Fixing her floral crown, she introduced herself through a snicker, “I am Prynzesha Lucylla, but I’d like it if you called me Flower,” she pulled her younger brother to in front of her, “And this is Troi,” pausing to realize her mistake before correcting, “I mean this is Dalikharl the third of his name, after our father and grand-father.”

“...How can he be the third of his name if he’s not Emperor?” Valentina asked, seeming confused. “One only acquires a regal title upon their ascension. For instance, Bebe isn’t Nathan the Fifth because that’s a regal name, and he’s not Emperor, so he’s just ‘Prince Nathan.’”

Sophy tilted her head in befuddlement, “Well, in Aldarminia, you are second or third after your name whether or not your royalty, so long as you’re named after someone, but,” the Aldarminian princess paused to consider her question before asking, “But what did you just call your brother? ‘Bebe?’ What is that?”

“So if there was a Dalikharl the second who wasn’t Emperor, then there would have been an Emperor Dalikharl I and an Emperor Dalkiharl III, but no Emperor Dalikharl II?” Valerie asked with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow. “That would be stupid.”

“Bebe is French for baby,” Blanche began to explain to the Aldarminians. “Father’s name is also Nathan, so people called Bebe ‘Baby Nathan.’ That’s where Bebe comes from, besides the fact that he acts like a baby, so he’s earned his nickname well and good,” the princess giggled.

Whilst the girls exchanged greetings, the gang of elder Azcheyko’s approached Bebe with devilish smiles. Hrothashki had realized himself of his coat as well now, and he offered his hand first to the Ghantish Crown-Prince, and in almost perfect common tongue said, “If you want to spar at the training grounds, I would suggest placing a wager on your victory. Assuming you win, you and I could gain a small but satisfactory profit. Prince Hrothashki, second of my name after my uncle, may he rejoice in paradise. It is an honor to meet you, sir.”

Bebe looked over the Prince, and nodded curtly. “My uncle warned me not to accept wagers from eager foes, since no sane man would place such a bet unless he was sure of his victory. Well met Hrothashki, I am Nathan, Crown Prince of Ghant. Pray tell my prince, are you a better swordsman than your brother?” he asked with a grin.

Hrothashki chuckled, “Your uncle is a wise man, and I am sure his cup sits comfortably filled to the brim. As for swordsmanship, I would wager that you would be an unsuitable match for me, but my brother, on the other hand, well…”

“Your brother got his sword knocked from his hand like an amateur,” Bebe laughed as he waved a hand dismissively. “Speed is more important than strength. Had that been me, I would have anticipated such a strike and appropriately shifted my swordhand so as to not have been disarmed so easily.”

Hrothashki looked at Ryslander and Zlobaskar who were exchanging whispered ideas for some devious plot. “I was betting on you because you are the long shot. I can afford the loss, but I would like to see the Tiger lose his claw again,” he finished as his twin and adopted brother neared within earshot.

Zlobaskar appeared as smug as ever, as if every insult Bebe had thrown and any shame from the dueling fiasco had bounced right off his chest. Ryslander’s sneer was fading to either some cold indifference or fiery vehemence towards the Ghantish Crown Prince. The Aldarminian Synoktron was the first to formally introduce himself of the two, “It would appear that the guts and the iron arms of a girl are all that is needed to defeat the great Nathan of Ghant,” Zlobaskar’s chuckle was similar to his twin’s but it had the hint of a rumbling and boiling confidence, “Throne-Prince Zlobaskar, first of my name in the Blood House Azcheyko, it is an honor to meet you, my Ghantish friend and fellow heir. You can call me Zloba, comrade.”

Ryslander reluctantly shifted his lips into a smile and extended a courteous greeting, “Ryslander, first of my name in the Blood House Azcheyko, second of my name after my great-grandfather in the Veiled House Makar. I am the adopted son of the Grand Emperor. Honored to meet you, Ghantar.”

Bebe scowled at the two Aldarminians incredulously. “Ghantar? Your Highness would be appropriate, Aldarminians. Or did your mother not teach you proper etiquette? That wouldn’t surprise me all that much, considering they didn’t bother to teach you how to fight properly either. No worries though, I’d be pleased to train your myself,” Bebe did an about face and began speaking nobley. “My mother has expressed an interest in a match between our respective houses, and if we are to be bound, then we must train together as warriors, must we not?”

Not far away from them was Prince John, who scratched his scalp and tilted his head. “First and Second of your name? How do you bear regal enumerations when you do not rule anything yourselves? For instance, my brother here is just ‘Crown Prince Nathan,’ but if we were to follow Aldarminian customs, He’d be…” thinking for a moment, John pursed his lips and squinted his eyes. “Nathan, the sixth of his name, because only the first, second, fourth and fifth Nathans were Emperor, while the third one died while he was Crown Prince, and didn’t beget any children.”

“...Thank you for that knowledge, John,” the Ghantish Crown Prince replied sarcastically.

Katya made her way through the crowd to greet Nathan. Bowing her head both in respect and apology, she spoke softly, “Forgive me but I did not expect that my children would get this excited and start duels with our hosts,” repeating the formal greeting, then, “I look forward to working with you, though. Hopefully, alongside our fellow Goths, our two empires could enjoy a-” Katya took a moment to glance back at the children to make sure they were not stirring up anymore trouble, “Very prosperous relationship.”

The Emperor took Katya’s hand and gently kissed it upon the back. “I would like that, Katya. In times of uncertainty, friends are the greatest treasure, and I agree that there is much our nations can gain from working together in a...mutually beneficial fashion.”

The Hearthkeeper blushed, but she saw the warm gesture as a good sign, so she kissed the air beside the Ghantish Emperor’s cheek. Katya inquired delicately as she reared back, “Have you considered the suggestions that my husband and I made through Lady Jarasa?”

“My wife and I have,” the Emperor replied as he offered Katya his arm. “There’s certainly a great deal of potential there...much to consider indeed. Come, let us walk together, and we can discuss these matters in greater detail where there will be less prying ears.” the Emperor was worried that his children would eavesdrop on the conversation, and so he firmly, though gently, made his best effort to escort the Aldarminian Empress away from the crowds of guests, many of which were family, into more secluded areas of the building’s accessible areas.