The Eagle's Fall (CLOSED, Tyran ONLY)

[Gylias]

ANARCHIST FEDERATION / FÉDÉRATION ANARCHISTE

Declaration concerning the struggle in Æsthurlavaj (English)
23 July 2019

The farce has finally ended after two months. The Æsthurlav state has shown its true colours, and it has come down squarely on the side of exploiters against the workers.

From the moment Monika Schefer announced the bad joke that was the "Share the Wealth Act" with fearmongering about socialism, this was bound to happen. Their proposal was openly an attempt to mitigate the worst excesses of Æsthurlav capitalism, co-opting the masses in revolt with cheap bribes. Not a word about expanding Æsthurlav social security, strengthening unions, or anything even a conventional state developmentalist would have naturally proposed in response. Just blind hubris that military power alone could crush both the poor and the rich — and even the commitment to the latter was a stretch.

Æsthurlavaj is far from an ideal situation for workers. Decades of Futurist repression and military chokehold have left it with a weakened left-wing, and an abiding fear of dissent that made it so easy in the first place to exploit workers. The AF/FA recognises the courageous work of Æsthurlav anarchists, seizing on the moment of mass dissatisfaction with the status quo to teach their fellow Æsthurlavs how to resist and that there are always alternatives to capitalism.

The regime may condemn the KSA as an "army" employing terror tactics and violence, but it can't acknowledge the infinitely worse terror tactics and violence inflicted by the ruling class and capitalists on the masses, leaving a centuries-long trail of social murder, repression, brutality, and inhuman degradation. When all other avenues of change have failed and the ruling class closes ranks against the workers, what resort have workers left but violence?

Power has never been given up voluntarily by the powerful to the powerless. It has always been wrestled away by the powerless.

The AF/FA stands in solidarity with our Æsthurlav siblings, as an injury to one is an injury to all. It will do whatever it can to support the anarcho-syndicalists of the KSA, and it calls on others, anarchists or concerned with justice in the world, to do the same.

Resolved after debates and votes returning majority support.

[Quen Minh]

---

The Imperial and Royal Office of International Affairs

Đức, Trí tuệ, Và thịnh vượng
(Virtue, Wisdom, Prosperity)

---

To: Chancellor Monika Schefer of the United Republic of Æsthurlavaj
From: Trần Liễng Tâm Han, Prime Minister of the Democratic Empire of Quenmin

---

Greetings, Chancellor,

the Imperial and Royal Government has observed the internal strife in the United Republic that has recently grown more tumultuous. At this moment on grounds of cordial relations, even though your government has imposed controversial decisions upon its citizenry, we once again express our sympathy and endorsement for you and your government in the efforts to completely extinguish the flames of violence. The KSA, despite showing good intentions, has devolved itself into a terrorist organization that will now seek to resort to extreme measures to get what they want. This is completely reprehensible, as it degrades their hopes and desires significantly and paints a more heinous reputation.

Furthermore, the Imperial and Royal Government is willing to initiate discussions on this turbulent matter. However, if I must say bluntly, we will not take on an interventionist stance. If, for some reasons we are unavailable, your government can take the concerns you are willing to express with us to Ambassador Vương Thiện Sinh.

Sincerely,
Trần Liễng Tâm Han, Prime Minister of Quenmin

[Shalum]

The Safehouse
10km South of Vanfald, Rautjok

Anton was the neighbor that no one paid much attention to. A few years away from turning forty, he had spent a decade in the half in the Krigsmarine as a security officer. Two tours on a destroyer tasked with anti-piracy had earned him a certain reputation, and more than a few medals which he kept tucked away in a drawer. From bootcamp, it had been apparent that he had the kind of reflexes and control that most could only dream of. Anyone who had ever served under him knew he was a hardass, but one who could be relied on without a moment’s hesitation when the rubber met the road.

No one would have suspected he served a foreign master.

Leaning against the balcony railing, he took a slow draw off his cigarette. Local tobacco, he hated to admit, was pretty low quality. Oh, sure, most people took it just fine, but they had never gotten to relish the taste of something from southern Nalaya. It was smooth as silk, and this was most definitely not. Flicking away the ash, he spared a glance over his shoulder as Vivian tugged the door open.

“Sweetie?” A mug of tea was clasped in her hand, still steamining. As the city in the distance closed in on itself, she looked utterly at ease, her lips pursed with what could have easily been concern. Reaching up, she ran a hand through her neat, reddish brown hair. “Why don’t you come inside? It’s getting late and you heard the radio.”

“Ah, yeah. Right, right.” The former marine nodded and flicked his half-consumed cigarette towards the ground below. “Coming, sweetie.” He was a quiet man, and for good reason. With the potential for so many neighbors around, one could never be too careful. Slipping into the room, he licked his lips. “Did you sweep while I was gone? The floor looks nice…”

‘Vivian’ rolled her eyes and took a sip of her tea, easing down onto the couch. “Twice, if you really must know. Not that we’ve had any visitors in two weeks.” She knew better than to grow complacent, but then again, the chances of them being suspected were awful slim. They were faceless, just like the agency wanted them to be. “We’re as secure as we can be, given the circumstances.”

“Secure,” her husband chuckled under his breath and slipped off to open the fridge door. Picking up a beer, he went to join her on the couch. “That word is being thrown around an awful lot these days. It doesn’t mean what it used to.” Twisting the cap off, he took a sip from the glass bottle. “So, what’s going on?” Anton asked quietly. While he had gone to work, she had spent her day off running ‘errands.’ Aside from stocking the fridge and picking up food for the dog, she had picked up a dead drop. It was two days behind schedule, but then again, half their teams across the country were up to their knees in trouble.

“We may be activated in the very near future.” Vivian replied, lips twisting into a grimace as she leaned back against the couch. She was an intelligence officer, through and through, fluent in several languages and good at getting into places she didn’t belong. She was not, however, a fighting; her ‘husband’ had survived SIU training by comparison, before being inserted into the local military. “They’re leaving it to our discretion, but there are several types of targets they would like us to hit.”

“Such as?” He spread his arms curiously, before taking another sip of water.

“Local infrastructure. Something that’ll throw things for a loop, at least long enough for our people to take action.” They weren’t the only members of their team. The other three were spread out across a ten mile radius, living otherwise normal lives. While Vivian was the brains, her husband and the rest of them were the muscle - the ones who would do the dirty work. “I’ve been looking at targets when I go for my runs. I’d really like to hit a power station.” She murmured, putting her head down on his shoulder so that they didn’t have to raise their voices above a whisper.

Anton stilled. “You want us to hit a power station?” He breathed, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “Sweetie, you know those things aren’t exactly easy to walk into.” Admittedly, few were guarded, aside from the ones that fed directly into government infrastructure. He knew she wasn’t talking about anything like that. Start cutting power to the general public, and they would grow unhappy. Quickly, at that. “That’s not exactly a milk run…”


She snorted and patted his chest. “Sweetie, right now there are a lot of our people gearing up for the real deal.” She’d heard whispers over the last few months. While her team had a rather passive assignment, all things considered, some of the more combat oriented team were going after high value targets. Server farms that fed to search engines and social media sites, along with cell phone towers were both high on the list. Sow confusion and chaos would follow, or so the idea went. “C’mon, sweetie, this is a cakewalk compared to that.”

“I suppose you have a plan to acquire something...explosive? I don’t think I can do much with a wrench, you know.” Anton muttered and took a sip of beer. He had trained extensively in demolitions, including targets just like this. The operative knew a thing or two about weak points, but at the moment he didn’t have anything heavier than a few assault rifles and a few hundred rounds tucked away in their cache.

Vivian nodded and set her tea aside. “Just leave that to me, sweetie. The note,” which she had destroyed, “mentioned that supplies for the mission would find their way to us eventually.” She reached up to twirl a few strands on her hair. “In the meantime? I really think you and your friends ought to have a boy’s night. Invite them over, have a few beers, play a round or two of cards, yeah?”

They didn’t have regular guests, but anyone in the complex knew that he enjoyed poker. His friends, otherwise known as their teammates, did as well. It had been a couple of weeks since they had all gotten together. Between work and the recent unrest, it was hard to find the time. “I’ll see what I can do. You just worry about finding us a way in, yeah?”

---

Frankfurt
Central Shalum

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Mmm, fuck, go away. Let me sleep, please.”

“C’mon, buddy, you really oughta wake up.” Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sam cursed under his breath and, reluctantly, forced his eyes open. Every damn joint from his neck down was stiff, and he wanted nothing more than to just go back to sleep. The fact that he was in his car, and not his own bed, barely seemed to register as he glowered at his co-worker through the tempered glass window. Twisting the key, which he had never turned in the first place, he powered up the mechanism and rolled it down. “What...what time is it? Is it morning already?”

Noah Graham, an analyst attached to his team, frowned. His entire expression was write with concern as he leaned against the car door. Dressed in a fresh suit, he clutched a cup of coffee towards his chest. “Yeah, buddy, yeah it is. It’s a little past,” he spared a glance at his watch, “seven or so.” Taking a sip of his drink, he pressed a little closer. “I left before you did, buddy. What happened?”

“I fell asleep, obviously.” Ignoring the way his head pounded, Sam groaned and rubbed his forehead before reaching for the door handle. Pushing it open, he slipped out into the morning air, still wearing casual clothes he had packed from the day before. “Sorry, it was just another one of those nights, you know?”

Over the course of the last year, the Special Tasks Group’s workload had increased tenfold. The Arzell incident had been, in many ways, a tipping point for public support of the current leadership of the Empire. Few actually wanted war, but the Ossorians were a rare exception to the rule. For thousands of years, the High Kingdom had come to blows with the Empire, and on some level the people wanted a win. The negotiations following the most recent conflict had done nothing but made them look weak, and fuel grassroots movements across the country.

There may have been a right to free speech, but men like Sam and Noah had to regulate things regardless. All it took were a few troublemakers in the right, or perhaps wrong, spot to turn a mere spark into a flame. There was dissent at all levels now, for that matter. The common man wasn’t just angry anymore. Now there were nobles who could see the kind of damage that Imperator Holland was doing, and that was concerning. They had power, the very real kind, and the recent disturbances were messing with the one thing they cared about most.

Their money.

“Hey, if you want to take the day off, I’d understand. If we can’t make it a day without you around, I’d say we’re a pretty sorry excuse, yeah?” Noah replied, bracing his hand against the door. His smile was easy, but the worry was impossible to miss.

“I’m alright, really.” Sam didn’t feel good at all, but he was already here, and the work would only pile up if he wasn’t around to tackle it. Thumbing the key fob, his car chimed twice and the trunk popped open. “I always have another change or two of clothes on me. I’ll have to home tonight to get more tonight, but until then…” He spread his hands in a what can you do? kind of way and went around to dig out his old seabag. “Come on, let’s go.”

The STG’s secondary headquarters, based out of Frankfurt, wasn’t nearly as large as the one in the capital. It was still, however, a massive complex that was kept under close scrutiny. Nearly fifteen-thousand clocked in every morning, most of who were office workers. The rest were a mixture of security, support, and the special operations types who kept more or less to themselves. It was towards those lower levels that the pair descended, flashing their cards more than once to bypass security.

Although the cafe was floors above them, it was not as if there wasn’t food around. Many of those who stayed in the lower levels could end up cooped there for days, going over data or overseeing missions. Needless to say, it was downright necessary for food services to deliver fresh food at all hours, and it only took Sam a few minutes to gather a to-go plate and a fresh cup of coffee.

The briefing room was like an auditorium, with seats arranged in a semi-circle around an inset podium and projection wall. The pair settled into their seats, murmuring greetings to those around them as they went. For the most part, everyone sat in the same place as the department head stepped forward, looking tired as they all felt. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Good morning, sir.” Two dozen voices replied, more or less at once.

The projection flickered and the department head turned towards it for a moment. “Alright, in regards to topics that we discussed yesterday…” Their line of work was fluid, especially now more than ever. Although the meetings may have occurred so often that it was practically nausea inducing, it was one of the few times when the various team leaders were actually all on the same page. The first ten minutes could usually be spent just catching up on the events of the last twenty-four hours, and today was apparently no different.

“In regards to the situation in Vanfald,” the presenter paused to take a sip of coffee. “While civilians have been evacuating the area, we’ve worked to deploy our own assets to the area. Reporters from the Empire are already embedded there and plan to be reporting the truth, or at least our version of it.” His lips quirked in amusement. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t an area that we placed the utmost priority on at the time. We only have around ten cells currently active in that area, and none of them are especially large. The most they have done in the last few days is minor sabotage, interface with surface KSA elements, and mark targets.”

The screen flickered, and maps appeared, many of which had been circled red. “The teams we managed to get into the area are going to be hitting major targets, which the KSA couldn’t otherwise hit with any sort of success. Major power utility stations like power and water, cell phone towers, and infrastructure in general. We’re trying to sow confusion here right now, and bog the city down. The more of a pain we can make it for the Republic here, the more we can feed into our news cycle and justify future military operations.”

“Do we have an idea of the kind of forces the Republic plans to deploy to the area, sir?” One agent asked, leaning back in his seat.

“We have rough numbers, all of which may not pertain exactly to Vanfeld. They are moving a lot of troops right now, upwards of thirty-thousand plus supporting elements. Considering the size of the city, and the forces already on the ground, I can only assume some of them won’t be deployed initially. If the KSA does their job, however, perhaps they will be forced to.” Getting supplies to their allies actually in the city would be another matter, but right now they were just moving one step at a time. “Other elements are being mobilized as we speak. I’ll inform you as the situation develops.”

The meeting progressed, and plans were laid out quickly. In the next week, many of them were going to be distributed throughout the southern half of the empire. The headquarters had plenty of analysts and pencil pushers, but the men and women here were operators, trained to get their hands dirty and do what needed to be done.

“Fontera?” Noah muttered unhappily as he flicked through his file. The lights had turned on minutes ago, but the room hadn’t really emptied yet. “That’s right across the border, in artillery range for that matter.”

Sam grunted and jabbed at the printout of the map. “And not far from Bredt Oye.” His mouth couldn’t quite form the proper pronunciation. “Even if they send us after Gryten instead, that’s only a hop-skip-and-a-jump away. It’s going to be at the center of the action.” There was a reason two divisions were posted in that area, made up of heavy armor and mechanized infantry brigades.

[Azurlavai]

Vanfald, Rautjok State
8 am, Far Western Time

It started when a pair of JF10 Svart Ørn K fighters flew overhead.

Many KSA militants knew (hoped) Chancellor Schefer was bluffing. There was no way she’d unleash a full military assault on a major civilian center, right? It all had to be a ploy to make them surrender.

But, at 7:30, a pair of Luftforsvaret fighters tore across the city, low enough that one in the street had to hold their ears but high enough to dance around the upper buildings. The militia on the ground began murmuring, concerned. Civilians in their homes fled for cellars or bathrooms, though many ran to the windows to watch what was about to happen.

All told, only 30,000 had managed to evacuate since the broadcast. On top of the people who’d fled in the weeks prior, the near million people in the city had been reduced to half. But that still left a lot of bystanders in the line of fire. As the jets screamed past, it seemed the whole city was holding its breath, waiting for the hammer blow to fall.

---

”Vanfald Faktisk, dette er Ivar 2-4. Vi flytter inn i byen, hvordan kopiere over.”

“Ivar 2-4, dette er faktisk. Godt å se deg, over.”

The first sign was from KSA observers on the edge of the city, at a little after 8 am. Despite their best efforts, they had failed to cut the Guard’s line of supply, and as a result several streets were suddenly filled with lines of forest-patterned armored vehicles. But whereas the Guard had equipment that was old, passed down and only occasionally maintained, this equipment was crisp, new and advanced. Kugar light tanks plowed ahead, followed by Korsfarerne IFVs and Muldyr APCs, all loaded with Stormtroopers and rank-and-file Hær mechanized soldiers, fresh and ready to fight. Escorting them were Pitbull LAVs, moving to scout and secure areas. The convoys swiftly moved towards friendly enclaves and holdouts, engaging in scattered fire with KSA fighters around them, though the actual presence of the Hær hadn’t been fully realized by either militia or civilians yet.

”Ragnar 4-1, mottatt målkoordinater. Standby for brannstøtte. Her kommer regnet, over.”

Artillery shells began falling on the city, targeting areas out in the open where the insurgents had gathered, whether in strongpoints or mobs, guided by State Guard recon or forward infiltrated observers. Despite orders, many of the KSA fighters hadn’t pulled back to cover. Most out in the open were mobs and reactionaries who had joined the KSA during the protests or just to cause chaos in the city, looting and vandalizing as they went. The more disciplined Rød Vakt finally gave up trying to organize them as the shells tore up streets, throwing cars around like toys and tearing massive craters in the asphalt and sidewalk. The SPGs were first, AS-155s raining 155mm shells away from their forward positions, firing in clustered brackets to maximize the impact. Behind them, armored Bandkanon-1s, older but modernized to extend their service life, boomed away, emptying their magazines swiftly.

Mortars popped from closer in, aiming to neutralize enemy positions and knock out barricades and fighting positions too close to friendly lines for the artillery to target. The crump of their shells blew out building facades, and more than a few landed on apartment roofs and houses, already shaken up by the heavier guns.

”Målsynt, solid. Skyting, Rev-2 Rev-2. Missil borte.”

Overhead, the first precision strikes let loose, Svart Ørn K fighters and Rød Hai strike craft letting loose Snøskred missiles into occupied buildings, collapsing multi-story structures onto the militia inside. But they had left behind the extremely destructive munitions, the ones that could level whole city blocks, preferring instead to try and limit collateral damage to the city and its civilian population.

Then the Kortsverd bombers came next. While true that they could also carry missiles, these craft had been ordered to leave their anti-tank munitions on safe. HIGHKOM only brought these aircraft for one reason.

“Jeger-4, satt opp for pistoloppkjøring. Rev-1, skyter.”

BRRRRRRRRRRRT

The massive JTU-8 Hevner cannon spat 30mm lead, the recoil so great that the bomber’s airframe shuddered, almost stalling the craft before it continued on its course.

Then another plane struck, geysers of shattered concrete and asphalt being thrown up. Then a third, pelting the same KSA position until it resembled little more than a ravaged, concrete and steel husk, rubble and ruin tumbling off, torn and bloody corpses visible from the street, though whether they were insurgents or civilians was impossible to say.

“Dette er FSV Jormungandr. Stå ved for offshore bombardement. Missiler inngående.”

From offshore, destroyers let loose missiles and shells, aiming for targets close to the locked down harbor. A cargo ship, late to try and leave, attempted to slip her mooring and escape the apocalypse. She was brought down outside of the harbor by a Krigsmarine submarine hidden beneath the waves, just when she seemed free of the onslaught. The burning hulk slipped beneath the sea, panicked crewmen throwing themselves over the rail. Even as this tragedy took place, two more smaller boats attempted to escape, much quicker than the tanker. These were destroyed by the Rød Hai dispatched via Jormungandr with a missile chasing down one and a quick cannon burst on the other. The Kystvakt would later pick through the wreckage and discover that, while the freighter was mostly full of unaffiliated civilians who had panicked, the two smaller boats were definitely KSA runners.

For two hours, this pattern continued. The Luftforsvar and offshore Krigsmarine vessels laid down a barrage of ordnance while the artillery regiment stationed outside the city plastered anything a spotter suspected was enemy movement. Once the howitzers joined their motorized counterparts, the rain of shells turned into something resembling a Great War style creeping barrage, obliterating entire avenues and collapsing structures under the strain.

Finally, the fire relaxed. And that was when the infantry, dismounted from their vehicles and moved up behind the light tanks, rifles, shotguns, grenade launchers and flamethrowers at the ready to sweep the avenues. The Stormtroopers of the infamous 109th ‘Svart Hatter’ regiment went first, hardened veterans marching as the spearhead behind their own Mammut tanks. They faced sporadic but determined opposition after the bombardment, but where they took fire they returned it twofold, assaulting apartments and office buildings to engage in CQC while their fellows and vehicles suppressed from the streets. More than one structure, too hard to attack, was torched by flamethrowers, destroyed by cannon shells or cleared by deploying the most destructive urban terrain weapon the troopers had available; white phosphorus grenades. Anyone who staggered out of there, burning and screaming, was instantly cut down by bursts of fire. Syndicalist or civilian, there was no recovering from that.

Near the harbor, out to sea, the Jormungandr collected her chalk, clearing the way for the next party to take off. A squadron of Pelikan helicopters, carrying a company of Fallskermjeger from the 79th Luftangrep Bataljon, lifted off from the carrier, turning towards the port.

---

Hotel Continental

It was hell on the surface.

Between the vehicles, artillery, air strikes and infantry offensives, the KSA militia were being swept away. The better armed and more determined Rød Vakt fighters held their ground better, but were still no match for fully armed and supported Stormtroopers. But for the most part, that wasn’t so bad. Petri didn’t need to win this battle. He only needed to drag it out long enough to make sure the world’s attention was on the fight for as long as possible.

“We’re not doing so good,” Adelis pointed out, glancing at one of the screens connected into the hijacked city CCTV network. Many had been knocked out by the bombardment, and now with the URA columns advancing they were only getting a patchwork picture of the battle and where their troops had pulled back to.

“It’s time,” Petri muttered, fingers tapping for a second on the arm of the chair before he stood. “It’s time,” he declared firmly. Adelis watched him carefully, not saying anything as she took in his words.

The door behind them abruptly swung open, as a Rød Vaktsman burst in, looking their way as he unslung his TR55.

“Kamarater! We’ve been breached!”

“What? How? When?” Adelis snapped, spinning as her hand went to touch the pistol in its shoulder sling. By odd contrast, Petri smiled serenely, appearing to suddenly regain some clarity upon hearing the news.

“Kommandos! They breached the lobby, and have secured the lower floors!”

“No one heard them?”

It was a stupid question, of course. If SKO wanted in, they could ghost their way through a whole army. That they’d detected the operatives after only a few floors was a credit to the Rød Vakt’s vigilance.

“We much not let them sacrifice themselves in vain,” Petri declared, striding past her. “Let us evacuate who is left now, while our kamerater keep the Kommandos occupied.”

Without further ado, they swiftly moved for the parking garage, collecting the scattered survivors of the SKO raid. The kommandos naturally assumed Petri had made his ops center at the top floor, which was one reason he had chosen the basement instead and made himself lightly guard. His militia commander, Oberst Soren Mikkelson, hadn’t been happy about that, but the ex-Revenant officer was currently out fighting against the URA forces, and thus couldn’t see how right Petri had been.

Well, that was a topic for another time, then.

---

While the KSA was focused on the URA assault on the city outskirts, squads of black-clad soldiers silently moved through the harbor facilities, accurate and silenced rifle fire taking down any patrols they came across as they advanced through the port district.

These silent killers were the Fianna, the elite commandos of the Royal Ossorian Army, tasked with securing the harbor and scouting landing sites before the Royal Marines and paratroopers made landfall. They had been inserted into the harbor well before dawn by the FRO Carvetii and FRO Demetae, two experimental submarines designed for covert amphibious operations.

[Syara]

Co-written with Azurlavai

The Citadel,
Zovahr

In of the upper lobbies of the Citadel, the seat of the Executive Branch of the Syaran government, a cluster of Syaran government officials watched the news feed coming in straight from Æsthurlavaj. Most of them only stayed briefly, catching bits and glimpses of the translated text at the bottom of the screen before they moved on, resuming tasks and returning to their offices. The only two who remained constant were a handful of ministers and officials, chief among them Executive Radovan Kostović and Foreign Minister Dubravko Lenković. The two men stood next to each other largely in silence for some time, content to hear Supreme Chancellor Monika Schefer reveal what she had planned for the United Republic. On the screen the two men could see the Assembly Chamber break out in chaos as Schefer departed.

“She’s losing control.” Lenković said simply. “Martial law was one thing, but now she’s turning the country to war; against an enemy the United Republic isn’t ready to handle. If these reports of foreign weapons are true, its likely people are just waiting in the wings to strike. Frankly, the whole thing seems like it’s coming apart.”

Radovan said nothing, raising his hands up to his face to rub his eyes thoroughly. It did seem like everything was falling apart, not just abroad, but in his own backyard.

The Wardens were restless. A decade after their defeat in the forests and mountains of Ruvelka they had developed their own excuses. “We weren’t ready for it; the civilian leadership lacked the will; our society was not prepared enough to accept the burden of total war.” Radovan had marked the ten-year anniversary with a message of hope and peace, remembering the million Syarans who had been killed, wounded, or simply disappeared in the year long conflict. Many listened, but many others did not. Kostović could feel his handle on things slipping. His urges for peace with Ruvelka and enraged a lot of people. His own party was starting to fracture, the coalition coming undone as infighting spread.

A lot of what he had done as Executive was starting to come back to haunt him. He had never liked the idea of being a full member of the Commonwealth of Sovereign Nations. It was too Eracuran focused, and it tied Syaran fortunes to the whims and desires of foreign leaders he didn’t entirely trust. At home he had to juggle competing demands for his attention. The military wanted more and more funding, more units, more equipment, more weapons, more bases. The Public Works Ministry wanted renovations to Syara’s infrastructures. Just last week he had sat through hours of briefings about the possibilities of new high-speed rails and upgraded power grids. Syaran farmers were in a fit, concerned that they were being faced with stiff commercial competition from overseas. And Syara’s major enterprises and corporations were complaining they were too heavily taxed to remain competitive with their Acrean and Cacertian counterparts.

Radovan dropped his hands to his side. There were so many problems to deal with, and each time he dealt with one another rose up.

Thus as he rode the limousine to the airport and boarded his private plane bound for Æsthurlavaj, his mind was muddled and ill at ease. With him were various staff, key amongst them the Foreign Minister and the Minister of Defense Dragan Anastasiadis. They talked a lot about what would be expected of them, whom they could afford to send to assist their allies, and how they would do it, but before long Radovan drifted off into his own little corner of the world, folding his arms on the table in front of him and resting his chin on them. He pushed his troubled thoughts from his mind and settled on the one thing he was actually looking forward to; seeing Monika.

Her disheveled state before the Assembly had done nothing to put his mind at ease, or quell the myriad of concerns he had for her. He wanted to hold her, to take her in his arms and assure her everything was going to be okay. Then they could retire to some safe place away from all the troubles and chaos of the world, and just be together. He groaned into the table; they both had made a choice to place their jobs first. He hated it.

The trip, as always, was short. Security, as expected, was extremely heightened. The Beserkers had always had a penchant for security, but this time Radovan didn’t think he caught a single glimpse of the city beyond the tinted windows of the up-armored SUV that took him to the meeting point for the Commonwealth of Sovereign Nations. He had been there only once before, and while at any other time he wouldn’t admired the design and scope of the building, he left that all behind with the clattering of shoes on the tiled floor. He could feel his heart beating faster and faster as the Syaran delegation drew nearer and nearer.

---

The summit wasn’t supposed to take place until the next day, which only left her more time to stress out about the coming event on top of the current crisis wracking the country. She had faith in her generals to get the job done in Vanfald, but the fallout would be terrifying. Collateral damage, reconstruction, her allies’ faith in her leadership. It was just more problems that kept her awake at night, to the point where she usually only passed out for an hour or two after a frantic day and restlessly laying around trying to ponder the nightmare she faced.

She caught a bit of a break here. Knowing the summit was happening, she had finally dozed off for five hours, coming out of bed this morning a bit fresher than she had the past few weeks. And so she’d showered, done her hair and slipped into a fresh uniform, mindful this time to check the pins and patches.

He was coming. After weeks of separation and one or two short phone calls, she was going to see Radovan again. If she was being honest with herself, that was the real reason she was so motivated. The knowledge he was on the way has finally let her relax a bit, and now waiting for him at the CSN building was the highlight of her day, short of actually seeing him. Her office, being the host, was right next to the Ossorian one, and she busied herself with pointless paperwork, Major Vahlen standing behind her quietly.

He hadn’t spoken much since the broadcast, and she couldn’t blame him. He had warned her not to go out there until after the operation was concluded, and now she saw he was right. She’d looked a mess, like a caged tiger ready to maul whoever stepped close next. Her own lindsman had barely escaped the same snappy response, and she felt an overwhelming wave of shame, regret...and humiliation wash over her.

Finally, she stopped, staring at the latest report of munitions dispersal (they were still short on the next-gen equipment since Æthurlavaj’s factories had been so busy pumping out updated gear for the whole CSN) and tapped the desk with her pen.

“Tor?” she said quietly, to get his attention. Behind her, she heard the Major shift slightly, his coat and body armor rustling. He was apprehensive, but still stood at his station, alert.

“Yes, Chancellor?” He replied, equally quiet.

“...I’m sorry.”

He didn’t reply at first. But she knew he could hear the regret in her voice, for not taking his advice, the wear she’d been running on herself the risks she’d taken and for turning on him like she had.

Finally, he answered. “Thank you, ma’am.”

That was all she needed to hear. All was forgiven.

The silence reigned for a few minutes more before, with a light knock, Astella quietly opened the door, looking into the office like she might be shot for trespassing.

“Madame Chancellor?”

“Ah, Astella. What is it?”

The aide looked flustered a moment before she gulped, pushing the door a little wider.

“I’ve just received word. The Syaran Executive and his party should be here any minute.”

Normally, Supreme Chancellor Schefer would school her features with the experience of a career in politics. It wouldn’t do to show preference or favor at the news of a particular individual. But today, Monika grinned from ear to ear, slapping her report closed as she stood, straightening her coat and striding for the door at once, Vahlen wordlessly gluing to her side as they marched past a very astonished Astella, through the office towards the first floor, Huskarls moving from the wings to join her.

When he finally arrived, he’d find her in the lobby of the building, before the large statue in the center with a dozen Huskarls surrounding her and Vahlen. Foot traffic moved as best they could around the armed party, Huskarls and building security (provided by the 227th “Slakteren” Stormtrooper regiment), who did their best to keep a gentle perimeter around their leader. But she ignored all that, her eyes locked on the door, waiting to see her beloved with a massive grin on her face.

---

Radovan tried to remind himself he had important things to attend to. He had two hours set aside specifically for a discussion with Syara’s delegate to the CSN, then a press statement, and then series of briefings to go over the developments in the political and economic spheres. There were pressing matters he had to attend do that could very well decide the fate of everyone involved, and the world at large.

But as he walked through the tiled hallways, flanked by his entourage and reminded of the significance of his actions with every step and sidewards glance, his mind remained solely focused on Monika. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest at the thought of finally seeing her again after all this time, and despite his efforts to calm himself as the door opened before him, he felt one final kick before he stepped inside and saw her. Like a small pillar she stood surrounded by her guards, her smile in sharp contrast to the stoic faces around her.

Radovan felt his heart leap into this throat as he saw her grin. She looked so happy, as though he was the cavalry she had been expecting, which in a way wasn’t entirely inaccurate. Every fiber and muscle in his heart urged him to charge forward, sweep her off her feet and into his arms, to kiss her and never let go again. Against all odds his willpower won out, and he steadily made his way towards her, trying to keep a measured pace and allowing himself a small smile.

“Supreme Chancellor, an honor as always to meet you.” He said in a pleasant, friendly tone, with only his eyes and the way he clasped her hand as he shook hers giving any indication of the warmth and yearning he felt. Radovan wasn’t an imposing figure by any means, he was of average height and an almost wiry build, and his suit and tie seemed pale in contrast to the impressive display of Monika’s uniform. To anyone else, the scene would seem rather nonchalant in terms of display, two national leaders shaking hands and explaining pleasantries, the only indication that something was different was how Radovan held her handshake for a bit longer than normal, the gentle squeeze he gave her fingers, and the eye contact that spoke a thousand words, most of them “I”, “Love”, and “You”.

“Likewise, Herr Executive,” she replied, finally slipping into her facade of formality. Still, with his hand gripping hers she felt a hot buzz under her skin, and like she suspected he had to she was forced to resist throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his chest (at the very least).

“I hope you had an uneventful flight. Things are a touch energetic here.”

While the flight itself was unlikely to have gone wrong, the city itself was balanced on a knife's edge. Salamander mercenaries and State Vakt troopers patrolled nearly every major building in the city, watching each other carefully down gunsights. With the operation in Vanfald ongoing even now, KSA supporters had either gone to ground or been rounded up, but that didn’t stop their civilian supporters from spray painting graffiti on walls, holding protests outside their designated zones (well, that right had been suspended anyway due to the crisis) and occasionally doing battle with the Civic Patrol before the Guard or Salamander showed up. The 227th, stationed in the city with two mechanized regiments, were on standby, hoping to avoid turning Tritonsberg into a warzone like Vanfald. He couldn’t have failed to notice all of that.

Which was why she looked up at him with such relief. She had missed him, but that warred with the relief that she wasn’t alone in this. She had Syara, Ossoria, Svinia and all the other members of the CSN to call on for aid.

She squeezed his hand one last time before releasing, gesturing to a hallway. Already, Huscarls and Stormtroopers were following her sweeping hand, clearing the way and ensuring no instruction.

“I assume you’ll want to step towards the meeting room? We have a lot to talk about before the other delegates arrive, and I have a press conference later tonight.”

“Of course, lead the way.” He said, letting his hand slip from her slender fingers for what would hopefully be an only temporary displacement. He fell in alongside her, fighting the urge to take her hand again as they walked. In a low but casual voice he continued the charade of formality as if they were just two politicians discussing current events. “I couldn’t help but notice the security around here. I take the seeds of discontent have taken roots even here.”

With a sideways glance, and a slightly lower drop in his voice, he asked “How have you been?”

“Same as before. But better, now you’re here.” She flashed him a quick smile, knowing that the tight hallway made it easy for passers-by to hear and see. Then she got serious, hands clasped behind her back as they walked. “Little sleep, little appetite. Safe to say if an assassin doesn’t get me, my own behavior will.”

The little twinges of affection, the glances, the half smiles, the small sayings and phrases that so often mean more to a couple than most people realize were what Radovan lived for. “Have there been any attempts that I should know about?”

“Nothing serious,” she relied, not bothered. “A few death threats, a couple amateurs apprehended. I think the ones actually dedicated to it are either waiting or joined the KSA.” She left Horst’s rebellion unsaid. Those traitors in Goromandy were content to shield the Jarl, and they hadn’t yet actually made a move. She could deal with him later. “It's nothing to worry over,” she finished, giving him another look before smiling again. “Did you do something with your hair? It's looks...different.”

He tried and failed to stop his hand from raising to his head, where he ran his fingers through. “I got a haircut. Figured it was time to ditch the skin fades. Makes my head too cold, and I learned that the hard way in Ruvelka.” He smiled back at her. “Do you like it?”

She smiled, nodding as she looked away, making sure not to keep eye contact as a group of dignitaries walked past.

She had changed as well. She looked thinner, but not really in a good way- the kind you got from not eating enough or being able to keep it down. Her light application of makeup didn’t completely conceal her weary features. He still wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss her. “How has the KSA reacted to your speech thus far?”

“We had a few surrenders. People who realized things had gone too far. Quite a few others trying to sneak out of the cordon. I think it's down to the determined ones now. A lot of workers in Vanfald feel screwed over, and here’s their chance for revenge.” Her expression hardened again. “I launched the counterattack this morning. You were probably in the air when it rolled out.” She didn’t say anymore. He’d pick up on her intent, and she’d rather not spoil the mood further.

He nodded, following her as they turned a corridor, keeping pace with her movements. He had known Monika long enough to pick up on the subtleties of her mannerisms and speech. A lock of hair came slightly loose from her bun. He resisted the urge to fix it, so accustomed he was to gently pushing strands out of her face while leaning in for a kiss. “Anything new happening on the border?”

The meeting room was coming up. Their time together, even so limited as this, was over. She quickly ran through a few choice curses in her head, deciding what to say with the little time left.

“Mechanized activity, and the number of Dominion troops looks to have increased. High Marshal Vekt is in the room with Councilor Magnus. They’ll fill you in on the full situation.”

This was it. The double door loomed, closing in on their privacy. She glanced back at Vahlen, who nodded back before he turned to Radovan’s military advisor.

“Sir, just a quick aside; I’m certain you’d like to see some of the new upgrades we’ve attached to the Mammuts. They’ve been developed to fit to any CSN main battle tank-”

Quickly, Monika leaned in, as if about to open the door for the party, then glanced up and, in a whisper so soft no one but he could hear, said “I love you…”

Then, with a final smile, she turned the handle.

“I love you too.”

And as though nothing had happened, he stepped forward with his associates and entered in the conference room. He took his seat where appropriate, alongside the Defense Minister Anastasiadis to his right and Foreign Minister Lenković to his right. A number of aides milled around, handing out folders and papers relevant to the discussion at hand.

Radovan leaned forward in his chair. “So, what’s priority for us to discuss?”

High Marshal Elsa Vek, commander of the Luftforsvar, stood at the Executives words, gesturing to the projection on the wall, waiting a moment for everyone to be seated before, with a nod from Monika, she began.

“At eight AM, Operation Se På Kysten was launched. So far, the ongoing fight has made good progress. Casualties are low, resistance is determined but ineffective and there seems to be no further civilian rioting. Collusion is a different story, and we’ve also received no word from the KSA’s leadership about surrender. Aadrovak’s going to fight to the death on this one. Kommandos are attempting to apprehend or eliminate him, but we’d prefer not to martyr him at this point.”

Here, Councilor Isaak Magnus spoke up.

“We believe the KSA Militia are being supplied by foreign backers. At the very least, Shalumite and Gylian volunteers and weapons are winding up in the Rød Vakt’s ranks. Whether these are mercenaries, socialists traveling on their own or actual espionage agents under orders, we can’t say. Prisoners for interrogation would help, as well as make us look the better in the aftermath.”

Here, Magnus looked extremely pointedly at Monika, who seemed nonplussed to be getting a death glare from her Foreign Minister.

Defense Minister Anastasiadis listened intently to Vek as she spoke, stroking his chin as he took in the presentation that shined on the wall. “What are the dispositions and strength of these hostile forces?”

“Mostly scattered militia. Civilians with either acquired low-grade weapons such as shotguns, handguns and hunting rifles or assault weapons. The…” Vek paused, thinking over the term she wanted. “Insurgents are not very capable. They attack from cover that is usually well fortified, but they’re over eager and not very well coordinated. They’re the ones were plowing through, for lack of a better term. But their ‘regular’ troops in the Rød Vakt are much better organized. Their equipment isn’t much better, but they’re better organized and coordinated, and every building they take has to be cleared to the last man. Often, our troops are simply using flamethrower or gas canisters and moving on than deal with them. As for the disposition, we predict no more than maybe eight-thousand at the start of the fight. We’ve maybe wiped out a quarter of that, mostly militia.”

Lenković took note of Magnus’s glare at Monika but said nothing. “What evidence could you offer to the Organization of Tyrannic States to prove that foreign involvement has been supporting these terrorists?”

“Nothing significant,” Monika replied bitterly. “We have obviously foreign POWs in custody, but they're all insisting to be volunteers. We have plenty of foreign weapons captured, but those could be claimed to have been acquired from the black market. And finally, there was some definite sabotage on city power stations and infrastructure. That may not seem much, but no one was caught, and there were no witnesses. Agent Haug says it has the markings of a covert op, and I agree.”

“How many troops do you have committed to fighting the KSA?” Anastasiadis asked. “I understand the Ossorians have also deployed their own forces to assist you. What about naval assets?”

“Estimates of our troop commitment against the city sits at around 26,000 regular Hær soldiers, plus attached air assets. The Stat Vakt has around 6,000 soldiers in and around the city, and the Civic Patrol has 5,000 patrolmen in the streets,” Vek replied without even looking at her notes. She’d been down this road plenty the past few days. She knew the numbers off the top of her head. “The Krigsmarine dedicated the Jormungandr and her task group to the operation as well, and the Ossorians committed an equal number of ships, though they have yet to land their amphibious assets. Needless to say, there’s far fewer Marines coming ashore, and not much further than the harbor.” Vek placed the folder on the table, still closed as she rattled the numbers off her head. “Needless to say, it's only a matter of time. They’re dug in, but massively outnumbered and outgunned. We’re about to dedicate the heavy bombers, too.”

Anastasiadis seemed perfectly pleased with that sentiment, though Radovan shifted uneasily in his seat. “What other forces have you raised to operational readiness? This kind of mobilization could spur unwanted attention.”

Vek blinked, turning to Schaefer, who simply shook her head and gestured, allowing her Air Force commander to take her seat.

“Has there been any activity on the diplomatic front by the Imperator or the Empire?” Lenković asked. “Any demands placed forward, or any action from their embassy or ambassador?”

“None,” Magnus said, crossing his arms over his chest as his frustration took on a new target. “In fact, the Imperator has been awfully quiet about the goings-on lately. Funny, when we threatened to intervene in the Arzells, he and his allies had plenty to say.”

“If I had to guess,” Lenković ventured, “They might be biding their time to see how the situation develops. If this got out of hand they might see it as an opportunity to do something, especially among the disputed zones.”

“Speaking of which,” Radovan interjected. “Have any forces been deployed to the border?”

“Yes,” Monika replied, now she’d quieted her military representative. What she was about to say was going to quickly turn from defense to political, and she would rather be the target of Radovan’s questions for that. “The Gallagher and Liam State Guard were both called up for readiness. When we reinforced the border during the Arzell Crisis, we left many of them in position, if unmanned. Now, we’re remanning them. Every active unit in Gallagher has been put on potential orders, and we’re mobilizing the units near Liam now.”

She didn't have to mention of course that just these two states alone held a majority of the active military. While coastal issues had been a concern for some time, the presence of the Svinian and Ossorian navies so close to home had allowed them to send more and more divisions east, until it was but military bases as far as the eye could see. That meant hundreds of thousands of soldiers and airmen were moving to combat readiness positions in the east. While many regiments were being sent back west to fight the KSA, this still was a truly stupefying number of troops.

“I meant it when I said ‘war footing’,” she replied, softly but firmly, awaiting his judgment.

“Has there been any communication with the Shalumnites regarding these mobilizations? I would imagine any major deployments on your part would be answered by their own actions. Have they even said anything at all?” Radovan rubbed the back of his neck. “The Hollanders are being...uncharacteristically quiet about this.”

“No. Not a word regarding border tensions, armament programs, flights. What we -have- noticed-” and here the projector switched to a satellite map of the Æsthurlav peninsula, focusing mostly on the shared border, in which several areas were highlighted in red. “Thank you, High Marshal. What we’re noticing is a recall of several divisions from bases in Nalaya and Mubata, as well as an increase in troop movement transferring from Acrea and the Dominion. Heading North. The number of training exercises has increased and from what my ISK agents tell me, an increase in covert traffic into the United Republic.”

Monika huffed, scratching at the table. Her face was drawn together, eyebrows practically joined. Her officers, aides and representatives had gotten quiet, watching her carefully in case of another...episode.

But all the Chancellor did was huff and, leaning forward, rub her eyes a moment.

“I’d honestly feel better if Tyler was throwing around threats and appealing to the international court. But he hasn’t even lodged a single protest. Frankly...I'm especially concerned because of that.”

When two people spend a lot of time together, or at the very least, a lot of intimate moments, they tend to inevitably develop a deep understanding of the other person’s mannerisms, feelings, and behaviors. Radovan knew Monika Schefer better than probably anyone else in the world, but even he didn’t pretend that he knew everything about her. What he did know is that Monika, for all her power, prestige, influence, and ability, was still just a person. A person vulnerable to fatigue, anguish, and fury. Watching from across the conference table he could tell that these past few weeks had been harder, harder than any other time for her. Every instinct in him wanted to comfort her, but he couldn’t do that right now, not in the way he would have wanted to at least. So he resolved himself to maintain his demeanor for the time being, hoping that soon enough he could fully express his feelings.

For now, he had to discuss policy. “That is disturbing. The movements of Acreans and Dominion troops can’t be a coincidence. But until we get more confirmation, we’re stuck playing the guessing game. We need to be prepared for anything.”

“So what can we do to help?”

Monika smiled, big and genuine. She could have kissed him right there, in front of everyone if her own sense of propriety and discretion hadn’t held her back. Without even a pause, he had laid his country to her aide, and she was so happy to take him up on his offer.

“Practically speaking, you’re the most secure of us. Kaledaria doesn’t have the land force to commit an invasion, and Acrea’s too far from you. So, anything you feel like sparing for us would ease the load. Vek?”

The High Marshal stood again, as a map of Æsthurlavaj was pulled into the projector. It was covered in ugly red splotches in several areas, with a blue line around Goromandy and several green arrows arcing down southwest from the Shalumite border.

“This is the kind of action we’re expecting. Jarl Horst has been making some borderline treasonous talk in Goromandy while building his own private army. He’s friends with General Goffard, commander of the Goromandy State Guard, so we anticipate them siding with Horst. Not an army they can march on Lowellsburg with, but it’ll cause problems.” She pointed to one of the red areas. “These are anticipated KSA hotspots. Places where insurgent activity is increasing or conditions look right for another insurrection. So far, nothing more than minor sabotage, protesting and a few armory break-ins. But they’re all large population centers with significant industry, and we’ll need all the resources we can hold onto.” Next, she indicated the green arrows, curving down. “Shalum can be expected to go through Liam. We’ll likely lose Gryten in the first week, at most. But Gallagher can hold until we rush Republic forces northeast to reinforce. Liam state is the likely battleground in that case, and we’ve received assistance from the Ossorians already to keep the border with Svinia open.” Vek turned towards Anastasiadis. “We’ve got room for a bit of everything. Urban combat, mountain combat, conventional battle, guerilla suppression. At this point, whatever the Commonality can spare, we will gladly take.”

Defense Minister Anastasiadis drummed his fingers along the conference table, eyeing the map on the projection and working out possible answers in his mind. After a few moments he spoke up. “Our strategic reserve consists of three divisions, one mechanized infantry, one armored cavalry, and one light infantry division. If we were to issue mobilization orders to our reserve components we could field another four divisions, three mechanized and one armored, but anything more would require digging deep into our manpower pool and would need political considerations to be taken into account. Assuming uninterrupted sealift ability, we could move two divisions into your borders within four days, and four divisions within two weeks.”

He examined the map in closer detail. “I can’t say our forces would be perfect for this; since 2009 our armed forces have been geared almost explicitly towards another potential conflict with Ruvelka.” At the mention of Ruvelka, Radovan twitched almost imperceptibly and suddenly became very interested in the conference table.

“Nevertheless, significant mechanized and armored forces positioned in Liam could prove a formidable stopgap measure in the event of a Shalumnite invasion. We have less to offer in terms of airpower, I’m afraid, but I believe we could spare a wing of fighters and several squadrons of attack helicopters. Would this be acceptable?”

“Perfect,” Vek replied. “Gryten has a rail hub feeding into it from Tritonsberg, and several airbases where we’ve prepared as fallback points from Imperial attack. With all the shuffling around, we’ve had to make room. Every Hær regiment we pull back from the border is another we can dedicate to stamping out the KSA and containing Goromandy, and filling their place with your units means there's no gap to exploit. Hopefully, the Empire continues biding their time…”

---

The meeting dragged on for another hour, reports from Vanfald continuing to stream in as they went. The fighting was starting to sound brutal, and between that and the prospect of Shalum invading, the topic of war was getting to wear on everyone. So it was that, with the framework of an agreement in place and still waiting on the CSN delegation in order for Monika to make a full request for aid, the meeting adjourned for the day.

But, on the way out, however.

“Mister Executive? Perhaps I could invite you up to office for a quick chat?”

Monika's eyes, though tired again, were bright and hopeful. Behind her, Vahlen kept his composure, but an almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth conveyed either annoyance or amusement.

Radovan closed up the folder he was holding and handed it back to Anastasiadis. His small smile gave the impression he was looking forward to a cup of tea, but the twinkle in his eyes and the eye contact he made with her seemed to say a lot more. “Of course Supreme Chancellor. Please, lead the way.”

The walk to her office wasn’t far. A quick elevator ride up deposited them in the Æsthurlav section, where her aides and other employees tasked to the CSN were doing daily business and other duties. They barely glanced up, most of them having seen her a dozen times in the past day, and she honestly had little desire to gain their attention. Her office doors, like the ones back in the Rad Hus, were at the end of a hallway, but these were made of ultra- modern materials, to match the slate gray tiles of the building. Not quite as comfortable as her wooden doors back home, but there was sacrifice to make for unity.

The modern style of the building seemed so out of place to Radovan, or at least according to what he understood of Æsthurlavaj. Tradition was strong here; their Gods lived in their trees, their towns, their hearths. To see something so modern, so much glass and steel and not wood and stone seemed so out of place. But maybe it was inevitable. How many red tile roofs and Doric columns in Syara had given way to the new?

At the doors, Monika stepped through as her lindsman opened it for her, glancing inside to ensure no threat before standing aside to let her in.

“Tor? Would you mind giving us a minute? It’s been a long day, and I'd rather we were not bothered.”

Again, Vahlen made that peculiar expression, but merely nodded, allowing her and Radovan inside before closing the door behind them, taking position just outside it.

Radovan watched Vahlen leave, face expressionless. He had, for months now, refrained from any outward expression of overwhelming emotion that was boiling within him. There was a point in time where Radovan had kept his emotions completely underwraps, saving all his passion and love for the All Mother had sworn to serve over a decade ago. And now this small, fiery young Æsthurlav woman had completely nestled herself within his heart.

Monika’s CSN office almost resembled the cold, soulless corporate skyscraper offices the building had been based on, but had a few reminders of home. A blue rug stretched over the flat gray carpet, with Nordic patterns in red and gold. On the wall was a painting of an Æsthurlav general from times of antiquity, dressed in formal uniform astride a charger and impressive on top of a cliff. And, of course, books. Books littered the office, from legal books and history to basic military tactics and agriculture. The shelves were almost empty as the thick tomes were stacked around the desk. It was her place, alright.

The second Radovan stepped through, Monika swiftly locked the doors behind him and leapt at her boyfriend, grabbing his shoulders and balling her fists in his coat, practically crashing her lips into his.

Oh yes. It had been too damn long.

Radovan had been expecting it, preparing for, yearning for it, but it still caught him off guard, a testament to the strength she hid underneath that uniform and professional face. He nearly lost his balance, but threw himself against her as well, arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her off the ground, inviting her to wrap her legs around him. He pressed his lips into hers like they were wrestling for dominance with their tongues, occasionally breaking away to snip at her neck and jawline with a hot breath in each effort. “Mother Almighty, I’ve missed you.” His voice was low and rough.

“Talk too much,” she replied, breathless as her legs wrapped around his hips, lifting her up so she could reposition her arms around his neck. Her weight tipped him over to lean against her desk, and she heard a stack of books tip over. But in that current moment, Monika the academic had checked out.

“How long...can you...stay?” She gasped in between kisses, hardly bothering to clear enough space to say that little. If she had it her way, they’d figure a way to have him for as long as she could. His delegation would be staying in a nearby hotel, which meant for as long as he was in the country, he’d never be far from her.

“Tw-. T-. Two-. Two days.” It was hard to get anything out with Monika lips constantly pressing against his, the feel of her breath and the warmth of her body pressing against him and raising his own temperature in the process. He raised on hand to grasp the back of her head and push her further into a kiss, while his other hand squeezed a handful of flesh. After a few moments he started yanking at his tie, suddenly feeling like his clothes were too tight and too heavy. When they finally had a moment as both tried to catch a breath, he pressed his forehead against hers just long enough to mutter “I love you so fucking much Monika. I love you so much.”

She chuckled at that, grinning from ear to ear.

“Gods, I love hearing you say that,” she declared, going in for another kiss as she swiftly tugged off her own jacket. Two days? Two days was barely enough time to handle business. She couldn't see him here and there for two days and then take off and leave her here for months alone again.

As she tossed her jacket backwards, she was the one who pulled back this time, staring down at him with a warmth and intensity she wasn’t expecting. If things were different, if they weren’t the people they were, they could be happy together wherever they went, without having to be separated again. But then, they might not be the people they each fell in love with.

“I love you, Rad. Can’t stand being away from you. Not for two months, not for two hours.”

She kissed him again, hands sliding up to start unbuttoning his shirt. Whatever time they had, she intended to make the damn most of it.

“I can’t stand it either.” He managed to make out somewhere between kissing her neck, trying to touch as much of her skin as possible with his lips. His fingers fell to her sides and dug into her waist, pulling her torso closer to his, feeling their bodies rub up against one another. He brought one hand up to slip the buttons of his shirt out of their place, discarding his jacket and shirt shortly there after. He returned his attention to the increasingly visible flesh of her chest that he took to with more vigor.

“You’re so beautiful Monika. I can’t count the number of times I’ve dreamt about you these past weeks.” He brought his face up to her level, kissing again, but this time without the pressure of before, choosing a soft and gentle touch on her lips. His hands slipped under her shirt, massaging the flesh underneath.

“Aww, you dream about me?” She teased, her lips running along her neck, smirking just before she gasped at his hands clasping her sides and hips. She knew exactly what he wanted, and rather than waste time undoing more buttons, she simply popped the top two, then rolled the shirt up and over her head, tossing it aside. Underneath, she wore a Burgundy lace bra, and she grinned at his face.

“Just. For. You.” She said, walking her fingers up to his lips wit every word before she leaned in, kissing him again and humming in satisfaction. Here and now, even with the meeting, she had uncoiled and relaxed after his arrival for the first time in weeks. It was amazing how he did this to her, just immediately made her forget all her problems in life and drift away on a cloud of love and happiness.

“Gods, Rad. I wish I could marry you,” she muttered, before she realized what she was saying. In the next moment, however, her words rang in her ears and Monika froze, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights as she stared down at her lover, trying desperately to figure out how to manipulate time.

“I...I mean…”

Radovan’s face shot up from his exploration of her skin, leveling his gaze with her own, the exploring fingers on each hand suddenly motionless, still gripping her waist. Suddenly they relaxed, and Radovan fell silent. He stared at her in silence for a moment, enough for them both to notice the passage of time, before he sighed and brought both hands up to cup her face. “Me too.”

“Me too, Monika. I wanna spend the rest of my life with you.”

She huffed in astonishment, not believing what she’d heard before leaning forward, forehead to forehead, kissing him again before groaning in exasperation.

“This sucks…” She muttered, very much sounding like a fussy teenager and not caring in the slightest. “I blame you for putting me in this situation. Making me fall for you and not having you...dastardly plan.”


Though a joke, the tone fell flat as she contemplated their shared confessions, just short of proposal. But alas, it couldn’t be. Forget the scandal, forget the international fallout. They could never marry while they were both national leaders and separated by such distance. Old royalty marriages didn’t even account for that.

“It’s your fault,” He said, managing a small crooked smile, “For being so perfect and weaving your way into my heart

If he wasn’t at her side, she couldn't live with calling herself his wife and not being able to touch him.

Finally, she leaned up again, another kiss.

“...rain check?” She asked, attempting to use the mirth in her voice to hide the fact she was on the verge of tears.

He met her kiss, gentle and softly pressing against her lips. He pulled her body close, not in the heat of passion but wanting so badly for her to be close to him, as though he could make up for all the distance and separation they had been through in this one moment.

He reached up to brush a lock of hair out of her face. “I don’t know how, but I feel like the luckiest, and the unluckiest man in the world right now.” Less than an inch of space divided their faces. “So close, but so far.”

“Yeah,” she replied, reaching up to clasp his fingers in hers, pressed against her cheek. “Lucky enough to find each other, but knowing we’re never around often enough.”

She eased down off him, leaning forward and burying her face in his chest, snuggling close. Her little slip might have slowed their passion for now, but she was happy enough at the moment, just skin to skin as she listened to his heart hammer in his chest.

“You know, Kinischa has some amazing beaches. No busy ports either. We could have a cabin down near the shore, watch the sun rise every morning over the sea.”

She could almost see it now, that nice little life together. She snuggled ever tighter to him, until her head was under his chin.

“It sounds lovely.” He said with a small smile, tilting her head back just enough to kiss her forehead before resting his cheek against her head. His arms squeezed her tightly, thumbs tracing repetitive patterns on her skin.

“...I love you.” She said again.

“I love you too.”

They stayed that way for a while.

[Shalum]

Imperial Army High Command
Aragon, Shalum

Officially speaking, smoking was only permitted at designated areas on the property, usually in small gazebos or at least under cover not far from an entrance. Under normal circumstances, even the Field Marshal himself was a stickler for those rules. It was perhaps one of the unhealthiest things one could do to their body, aside from drinking in excess, and summarily improper for a soldier to partake in. It soothed Urban’s nerves, however, and that was more than one could even ask for given the circumstances as of late.

He dug into his pocket for a moment and fumbled before pulling out a small, silver looking case that he had filled before he had left work for the morning. It had been a gift from his wife, engraved with his initials, and he couldn’t help but smile wearily before he scrounged up the matching zippo. Most of those on his general staff had been with him for years, and no one so much as batted an eye when he lit the cigarette and exhaled.

“-additionally, Army Group Center is going to be supplying the assault with several divisions of their own.” Colonel Riley Price explained as he motioned to the digital table in front of him. It was very expensive, and gave perfect examples of both terrain and expected unit positions. At times, it almost felt too much like a game to be real, especially as he used his fingers to draw several arrows that indicated the routes units were expected to take. “The 12th and 13th Panzergrenadier divisions will be supporting the assault on Gryten. Covering their flanks will be supporting elements of Dragoons.”

Field Marshal Holland took a long drag of his cigarette and flicked the ashes into a nearby metal trash can, his keen blue eyes locked on the proceedings in front of him. For years, he and his people had planned for this very moment, or so they said at least. Their had always been action plans, of course, on the off chance they had needed to move quickly. Now, however, things were different and they had to adjust. For once, they were actually going to warm, not just speaking as if it was some theoretical conflict that the diplomats would pull from the fire at the last moment - as they usually did.

The logistics behind such an operation were an enormous, on the sort of scale none of them had really experienced before. In the past, be it Arzell or Iron Island, they had never really had to worry about such things. They were either on the defensive, or unable to really push too hard in the first place. Supply had never really been an issue, and the fighting had been so short lived that even the lesser prepared units hadn’t run out of fuel or ammunition by the time it was all over.

This was much different.

They had been warned, months ago, that the Empire was working to subvert their neighbors to the south. That in itself was nothing new, really. They had done that without fail since the end of the Great War. There had been no plan to try and kick off a conflict any time soon, perhaps even in his own lifetime. A stable Æsthurlavaj with antagonistic leadership wasn’t exactly preferable, but it was much better than if they fell into anarchy and ruin. Easier to control, easier to predict. Really, it was all the same stuff that got economists hot and bothered. If Monika had just taken a slower approach, she could have created a true powerhouse in ten years time, or perhaps even less.

Of course, Urban wasn’t about to complain. The rivalry between the two nations went back generations, as if the two countries had been destined for an eternity of conflict before they had even been founded. He wasn’t naive enough to think that he could truly vanquish the beast here either, for that matter. The Field Marshal knew it, the Imperator knew it, and anyone with half a military brain did as well. It wasn’t the goal of what he had in mind, either.

Even on a total war footing, without foreign intervention from Ossoria or Svina (which seemed rather unlikely), the Empire lacked the sheer muscle required to beat the southerners at their own game, much less feasibly occupy even half of their nation. Instead, he hoped to tear a bloody pound of flesh from them, and perhaps even strip away a few of their states. Gallagher was the biggest bump in the road, bloodied and tempered by generations of conflict with his own people.

Now, Liam state by comparison made him want to rub his hands together, and eagerly at that. Historically speaking, it was already a rather contested piece of real estate. Shalum owned a good chunk of it, and if he had anything to say about it, they would soon secure the rest. Beyond that? His sights were set on Fjelldende, Radik, and northern Kaeshattr. Elements of two army groups would descend on those states and sweep the defenses away, even if that meant paying in blood.

Monika had brought this on herself. While her country tore itself apart, his own would do what needed to be done.

“Now, as for Valkensvaard.” The good colonel sounded a touch more grim, and spared a glance towards Urban. The Imperator and politicians had stated an interest in stealing away major shipyards away from their neighbors in order to neuter the Krigsmarine. They had wanted to take Tritonsberg itself, and while their initiative was admirable, it was also misguided at best. Without throwing everything they had into it, there was no way he could fight a two front conflict such as that. Even the one they spoke of now wasn’t exactly optimal. “Armored elements will advance where possible, while missile batteries from Niece and Iron Island provide supporting fire.”

It wasn’t quite a suicide mission, but it was close. A few divisions were going to take the fight to Gallagher, but not much more than that. The overall goal was to keep them occupied while the brought Liam into submission. Already, they had infantry entrenched all along the border, with QRF forces further back to respond to breaches as they happened. He had no idea if the locals would try and take the fight into Shalum if given the chance, but if they did, he wanted to be ready. Still, as he looked down at the screen, his eyes pinched tightly in sympathy for the men and women he was sending into harm’s way.

“Before we get into the logistics of redistributing units, ladies and gentlemen.” Very shortly, their neighbors would realize that the trains heading south now were loaded down with not only supplies, but vehicles as well. They would arrive soon, and then the soldiers would come shortly thereafter. A surge was coming, and it would be impossible to miss. “I suggest we break for lunch, agreed?”

[Shalum]

Combat Sector Quebec
Central Maldoria

“First company on your feet! It’s our turn in the barrel!”

Captain Erin Rikker’s bark cut through the cold air like a hot knife through butter, carrying over the constant thrum of activity that permeated the atmosphere of the forward operating base. In the pre-dawn hours of the morning, every exhalation brought a thick cloud of condensation with it. Maldoria had never been known to be hospitable, but what most didn’t consider were its winter months. The oppressive heat had passed, only to be replaced by temperatures just barely above freezing at best. It was hard on everything, especially the soldiers.

To make matters worse, the forward operating base had only existed for the better part of two weeks. Until rather recently, the lines of battle had been constantly shifting - rarely in Imperial favor, at that. Whenever they took down one enemy position, two more formations seemed to pop out and counter attack elsewhere. The insurgents had the home field advantage, and no shortage of manpower. The Shalumite garrison by comparison had been large but stretched out, relying on local forces to do a lot of the daily patrols, and it had certainly bitten them back. Imperial forces in the region had tripled in number, but the support infrastructure was racing to catch up as the threat of winter storms loomed closer with each passing day.

Until a few days ago, the majority of the unit had actually slept outside, huddled together in rapidly deployed bivouac and large tents. Being on the move had actually been preferable to that - at least their ground transports and helicopters had onboard heaters. In the last few days, however, their support units had finally caught up enough to deploy proper quonset huts. The corrugated metal wasn’t much better, but it kept the worst of the cold out. Mobile heaters were to arrive shortly thereafter, but the troops were stuck with blankets until then.

In front of him, nearly a hundred men had already mustered out while the stragglers quickly went to join their squads. The initial call to ready up had been given nearly a half hour ago and it hadn’t taken his troops long at all to get their gear together. Heliborne troops like them usually packed lighter anyways, considering the heavy hitters were never far behind.

“That looks like everyone, sir. We should be good to go.” In the field opposite to their encampment, dozens of gunships were being attended to by their flight crews. They swarmed like ants, working hand carts laden with munitions while fuel trucks moved along the ad hoc lanes that ran between the landing pads. “What is the situation?”

Most units needed to know that in advance, but their brigade combat team layout was different from the rest of the army. Biting down on the end of a cigar, Major Mason Lewis grunted and motioned to a map of their sector. “As you know, gentlemen, elements from the 32nd Panzergrenadiers arrived at the village of Wullemn two days ago to relieve elements of the 51st Dragoons that had originally been stationed there.” He took a short pause to light up his cigar. “At approximately 0300 hours, our forward scouts detected a large formation of insurgent forces converging on the location from the south. They engaged about an hour after our vanguard detected them and was forced to pull back.”

The assembled officers grimaced. The village in itself had never been anything more than a wide spot in the road for mining convoys to stop and stretch their legs. It was all rubble now thanks to weeks of heavy fighting. The population had long since evacuated to refugee camps further north, and several different infantry units had been tasked with holding it, usually with the help of local guard troops. “Another push already? I thought they learned after the last time we kicked them out of there.” Insurgents had actually taken the city at one point, but infantry supported by aircraft had pushed them out again.

“It certainly appears that way.” The major confirmed as a thick cloud of smoke rolled out from his lips. “Command is actually preparing something of a counter push. Our mechanized assets and artillery are being brought in to push them back into the areas we had them contained to last month, but that is going to take some time. Until then, our job is to move in and support our forces already on the ground until reinforcements from the 34th Panzergrenadier arrive.”

As a quick reaction force, the entire mission in itself was nothing new to them. Since their arrival in the sector, they had flown a dozen such operations just like it. “We already have some gunships in the area providing support, but they were conducting patrol operations when the shooting started. It is my understanding that they’ve got maybe another fifteen minutes left of fuel left before they need to turn back and head our way. There’s not much time we can waste here, people. I’ll see you all on the ground once we get there, alright?” Major Lewis said as he looked around at his boys.

By the time Captain Rikker arrived at his gunship, Lucky 13 as the squad liked to call her, the first of their units’ birds had already begun to dust off. “Keep your heads low and we’ll be just fine, alright?” He shouted to his men as they passed, piling into the smaller troop compartment of the Mi-24. The standard Imperial squad was ten men, but the airborne assault teams were the exception to the rule. The gunship only had room for eight men and their gear and there was no way around it. The newer models were bigger to account for it, but most of their birds were older than the crews who manned them.

It wasn’t an issue, in truth. The cult may have had a fire in their hearts, but that only went so far in the face of technology. As the door closed, he unstrapped his helmet and leaned back, letting his eyes close and the exhaustion of constant deployments wash over them. Wullem was in a rather open spot and they all knew it - a saving grace as far as he was concerned. Unless the cult got their hands on manpads...they didn’t have a lot that could counter autocannons and rocket pods.

[Azurlavai]

FRÆ Embassy
932 Sofia Westergaard St., Mişeyáke, Gylias

To say relations between Æsthurlavaj and Gylias were strained was oversimplification. To say they were hostile was outright false. Indeed, with the new diplomatic and economic reforms Monika Schefer had been introducing the past few years, some tensions had smoothed over, and talk of further relation improvements had been suggested, though never fully acted upon.

Now, however, the FRÆ Embassy to Gylias may as well have been an outpost of a hostile power, from the look of it. Just beyond the wrought iron gates and brick walls of the compound, a sea of protestors sat beyond, waving signs decrying the response to Vanfald, black and red flags with gears, torches or fists on them, and banners declaring many Gylian peoples’ support for the Syndicalist struggle overseas. Before now, this had been met mostly by a doubling of security patrols from the compound’s Stormtrooper detachment, who walked the perimeter with shotguns at the ready, having swapped out their beanbag shells for buckshot.

But when the violence in Vanfald had moved from protests and police action to the Stat Vakt intervening, things had started getting hostile. More and more Gylian protestors had joined the throng, for the most part nonthreatening and unarmed, but still hostile, and actively booing the Norse soldiers who passed by. The Regional Security Commander had issued the order for full combat armor to be worn, instead of just caps and vests.

Now, air strikes and artillery were falling on Vanfald. And the protesters' mood turned really ugly.

Ambassador to Gylias Matthuis Ellingboe sat in his office, looking out the window at the crowd beyond, quietly tugging at his red beard as he tried to see past the banners and raised fists, wondering how it had all gone wrong. Fifteen years, he’d worked in the Utenlandstjeneste (Foreign Service), seven of those here in Gylias first as diplomatic aide, then as ambassador. He’d taken the office with the experience of someone connected to both cultures. He listened to the Seatbelts, carefully read pamphlets handed out by ARENA and LSDP, and ate at local restaurants, all while praying to Odin and Loki in the shrine downstairs and putting his own money to work importing both Æsthurlav beer and clothes. He was meant to be a bridge, not an outsider, and he had carefully walked that tightrope.

But today, he floundered in the deep end.

The crowd was by now a diverse mix of attendees all united by revulsion at Vanfald. The AF/FA had lent its support and showed up in force, as befitting one of Tyran’s largest anarchist organisations. GCWUA workers were there, with banners calling for a boycott of Æsthurlavaj in solidarity. Teenagers from the RYU, wearing their uniforms and waving red and black flags, chanting slogans with almost intimidating intensity. Even curious onlookers from the nearby Delkoran embassy had wandered in to work out what was happening.

By now, the crowd had overspilled the leafy Sofia Westergaard Street and reached across the road, to the point that Gylian Police had closed off the street entirely to traffic as a spur-of-the-moment solution. It was a small street, ideal for bicycles rather than cars, and opposite the FRÆ embassy was a large park and green space, and further away families and friends having a picnic in the lovely day, largely unaware what was going on or simply figuring it was another protest/rally.

A person ran out of the embassy, almost bumping into the guards in their hurry and drawing an annoyed “Oj, se på det, drittsekk!” from one of the Stormtroopers. They ran right into the crowd and spoke briefly to nearby protesters in Aréş, just enough to make it clear they were a local employee of the embassy, and they were then on their way.

Several anarchist protesters that had gotten close to the embassy gates made a show of setting an Æsthurlav flag on fire and letting it burn on the pavement while waving KSA flags, to taunt the Stormtroopers.

One of the Troopers, a new transfer before the crisis back home, stepped towards the gate, about to start yelling her head off, before her partner, a balaclava masking his face, took her arm, talking to her quietly and giving her a light shove towards the door. To his credit, he turned to reply to the crowd’s taunt with quiet stoicism, able to conceal his fury behind the mask. But he wasn’t the only one. It wasn’t long before he was joined by another Stormtrooper, this one an Ærickean with olive skin, who watched with barely concealed disgust, and finally by a third and fourth, both of them Æsthurlav-Mansuris. When Ellingboe had taken his position years ago, he had made sure to lodge his request with the former RSO for as diverse a staff and security as possible. With the inclusion of Gylian interns and Foreign Service Specialists (linguists, cultural advisors, agricultural and educational experts etc.) he had hoped to build as open and welcoming an image as possible.

Today, however, their Gylian associates had either quietly departed or fled the embassy in panic, foreseeing the storm. Tensions weren’t high enough for them to be called traitors by their countrymen, but no one wanted to take the risk. Now, no matter where in the country they had come from, the walls only held Æsthurlavs. It didn’t matter their skin or hair color. Gylians were educated enough to know. As a further sign of their own solidarity, the two Mansuris, though both Muslim, had pained runes on their cheeks or Tyr and Thor, solidly planting their feet.

Ellingboe knew this new factionalism and taunting would go nowhere safe. He watched the crowd from the window, praying the Stormtroopers had more sense than their commander.

Farther in the distance, he saw something indistinct - the picnickers packing up and heading home.

Major Grete Krum was an excellent soldier, no doubt. Over a decade in command, numerous decorations for valor under fire, and the troops in the security detachment loved her. But with only a year in command, Krum still saw this as an outpost assignment, and the fortress mentality of the vaterland was still strong in her mind. She had been the one to request the armory be respecced to its recommended loadout, replacing riot gear and SMGs with combat armor and heavy machine guns. Ellingboe has stopped her from making things worse by insisting the worst measures be held back, but there was no doubt she saw the embassy as a bastion of Norse military representation. It took a while for the usual mentality of preserving the image of strength to fade from the minds of those Æsthurlavs stationed here. But with Krum in command, Ellingboe had lost most of the progress he’d made with keeping the Stormtroopers, normally so disciplined and openly friendly with the local visitors and civilians, from being little more than site guards. Matthuis had tried to create an air and mentality of openness. Several local Gylians has visited the embassy asking the soldiers about their experiences back home, and he tried to make time for many interviews with press and government workers. He had taken this place from the fortress it had been built as into a gateway, a small look into the Æsthurlav world.

But with both Krum in her military mindset and the events back home, they were no longer a gateway. They were an island in the storm.

Up on top of the embassy, a door opened onto the roof, allowing several Stormtroopers to emerge, looking out over the crowd. They weren’t like the ones at the gate, stoic and carrying shotguns loosely over their chests. These soldiers held their service rifles at the low ready, scanning the crowd before calling down the stairs. Two more troopers emerged, sandbags in their arms as they began building a small wall on the roof.

Down below, Ellingboe’s phone abruptly rang, and he spun. That number was only used for one purpose. With that, he cleared his throat, carefully lifting the receiver.

“Ellingboe,” he said simply. All manner of ceremony had abandoned him, replaced by weary professionalism as he kept an eye on the gathering crowd.

It started to rain.

“Matthuis?”

The concerned voice on the other end of the line belonged to Anne Giraud, Gylias’ foreign minister. “What’s going on there? Cabinet’s worried. Şarŋa in particular.”

Şarŋa was Gylias’ interior minister. Matthuis got the question right away - Anne didn’t need to say anything else.

“Anne,” Matthuis replied, shifting in his seat. “So far, nothing. Protestors waving banners and yelling insults. A flag burning from what I can see. But no stones thrown or shots fired yet. I only hope it stays that way.”

Anne Giraud and he had worked together before in the past, while she was still a diplomat. Gylias had a small minority of Æsthurlav descended immigrants, those who had fled the Futurist regime of the past few decades and become expats, socialist sympathizers running from the death squads and simple travelers who had appreciated a quieter, calmer life. As representative of the United Republic, it had been his job to try and mend relations with this minority, at least to allow families to reunite. As representative of Gylias, it was Anne’s official job to make sure the NSB weren’t trying to snatch them up for treason, or so the joke had gone.

Over his tenure at the embassy, Matthuis had managed to duck the mud-slinging between their two nations, and establish a good working relationship with several governments and foreign ministers, of which Anne was the latest. In some ways, he might’ve even preferred the urbane French foreign minister to her predecessors. The embassy had enjoyed peaceful relations with the neighborhood and Gylian locals had learned that maybe there was more to these strange northerners than what some of the more extreme anarchists claimed. Without this, Ellingboe’s interest in non-inscrits like ARENA would have been met with puzzlement or deep distrust, and Şarŋa likely would never have allowed the freedoms they had enjoyed, such as employing Gylians in the embassy itself.

But Anne wasn’t here. And she likely could do little but report to Şarŋa about the situation, since a protest stand-off fell under Şarŋa’s portfolio anyways.

Ellingboe continued.

“This could get worse. The police closed down the street, and I think the park may be about to empty out from what I can see. Krum’s in here every hour demanding we break out the gas masks and deploy the storm shutters. What’s the word like on your end?”

If they could just get the Gylian government to keep things from getting worse, in both media and official narrative, the embassy might survive despite the chaos in Æsthurlavaj.

“Quite the same as yours - tense.” Anne spoke with concern in her voice, and sympathy for the tough situation Matthius landed himself in. “It’s on the news already. Lena is debating whether to convoke an emergency cabinet meeting for it. Ravy’s called for updates. Şarŋa wants to move in constables to try to keep it all from blowing up, y’know? But we can’t look like we’re trying to restrain it too obviously or the PP-CM is gonna throw a fit.”

Anne saw Lena looking at a TV screen with her fist held up to her mouth, and pacing around slightly. Lena’s government was the kind of mishmash that would explode the minds of lesser Tyranian analysts: a centre-right minority government propped up by conditional support for the anarchist parties, the condition being a stronger pro-KSA line in foreign policy.

It was quite the emotionally resonant issue, since Gylias and Megelan stood essentially alone as Tyran’s most anarchist-influenced countries. Trying to thread the needle of supporting the KSA and keeping the traditional foreign policy approach of striving to be an honest broker had sunk Toni Vallas’ government as the civil war ratcheted up during the campaign period. Lena could easily share that fate, especially now that Vanfald had turned it into a political grenade.

Indistinctly in the back, Anne could vaguely make out a loud chorus of “The Internationale” coming from the protesters.

“Well get ready for a long session,” Matthuis replied, sighing as he leaned back, removing the glasses from his face. “I’ve been on the phone with Lowellsburg. If this doesn’t get better, it’s about to be a lot worse. Between Vanfald, the KSA actions in other cities, Shalum moving on the border and Horst publicly denouncing the government, Chancellor Schefer is set to move on a lot of circumstance. If the military can’t solve Vanfald in the next 72 hours, the Rad Hus declares martial law. If Goromandy moves towards secession or revolt, martial law. If Shalum invades, martial law. And I can’t imagine the people here will like any of the repercussions on the Syndicalist Party.”

He glanced out the window again. There was no doubt the KSA had both presence and sympathies out there. As the closest comparison to anarchy and socialism in Æsthurlavaj, and the connection their countries had started to develop, KSA speakers had found a huge amount of sympathy overseas from Gylias. Other countries were either dominated by monarchies or tightly held autocratic republics, and given that Gylias was the most internationally aware, it was only natural that this left-leaning population found common cause.

Sighing, Ellingboe snapped his blinds shut as the rain made it harder to see, turning back as the door to his office flew open again, Major Krum and two of her Stormtroopers, in full combat load with assault rifles (despite his express orders not to start handing out automatic weapons) strode in, her blond hair shot with streaks of grey, scarred face set in an expression of calm fury.

Ellingboe sighed. “One second, if you please Anne.” In Æsthurlav Norse, he grumbled “What is it now, Major?”

“Are you going to just sit there and let those hooligans storm the gates?” she barked, eyes flinty as she glared him down. “They’re burning flags, Matthuis!”

“And so far that’s -all- they’re doing, Grete.”

“What about tagging the walls? Singing the Internationale?”

“You want to start a diplomatic incident over paint and singing?”

“I WANT to protect the people in this compound!” Krum snapped back, her hand clenching the helmet held under her arm. “And preserve our national image!”

“I don’t know if you haven’t noticed, Major! But our national image is already pretty shot!” Ellingboe retorted. “What are going to do? Invade Gylias to ‘enforce security?’ This isn’t Ærick, or Gallagher, or Liam! They’re already calling us savages out there. Why don’t you pop a few gas grenades and prove them right?”

Like the other times, Krum merely snorted in disgust, storming out of the office with her men in tow, likely to go yell at her løytnants. But she’d be back, like she had been.

Matthuis sighed, returning to the phone, restrained tears in his eyes and his voice shaky.

“Anne...if it gets any worse, out there or back west, I don’t know what I can do.”

Anne listened carefully, her spirits sinking as Matthuis went on. “I’m sorry, Matthuis.”, she said. “I wish I knew what I could do to help.” She paused to collect her thoughts, seeing Lena on the phone herself in another room, and moving briefly to have a better view of the screen.

“It’s… looking grim…”, she said, almost not really thinking about anything more than filling the silence.

She could see a protester being interviewed by a reporter, with subtitles Lena had left for Rezakan. It read, “—we’re here because we gotta let those Futurist scum know they won’t get away with this! Æsthurlavaj’s suffered under Tyran’s worst and longest Futurist regime, and now it’s, it’s becoming clear that the government is still the same old shit, right? It’s still a military dictatorship and they’re repressing the people, and now the people have risen! And we have a duty as the heirs to the Free Territories to stand by the KSA, because—”

A defiant chant arose among the crowd: “K-S-A, K-S-A, Schefer’s gonna pay!”. Their contempt was obvious in the way they referred to Monika by her last name alone. Ironically some of them might even a year ago had either not heard, given much thought to her, or at least thought she was doing what she could to push Æsthurlavaj on a better path. They’d hardly care at this point that she was even a bulwark against the more extreme parts of the military establishment pushing for an outright massacre.

“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.” She drank from a glass. “I’ll try to get to Şarŋa. Maybe at this point we do need constables to stop everything from getting worse.”

The rain pounded the roof of the embassy. The crowd outside turned from a tide of people to a shapeless menace, some massive thing threatening to swallow up the compound and all within. The Stormtroopers shivered at the comparison, old stories of jotunn and forest spirits crawling out of the trees to swallow them up coming back to their minds. They moved faster.

The rooftop sandbags were in place. Despite orders, several of the windows on the ground floor had deployed their storm shutters, rolling thick sheets of steel with vision slits down over the ballistic glass. The front doors and their security checkpoint were manned by soldiers with rifles and riot shields, watching the chaos at the gate. Behind them, a harsh order barked out, and a line of fifteen Stormtroopers, wearing combat armor, carrying riot shields and having upgraded to automatic shotguns filed past, storming out the door as the sersjant in charge led the relief. Once outside, the riot force swiftly pulled up their shields, the ugly muzzles of their guns pointing out of the slits. It was a hundred meters to the gates from the front doors, and the line finally stopped halfway. Relieved and slightly confused, the gate guards got the message, swiftly abandoning the gates and hustling back.

It was at this point that the rooftop soldiers hauled up their final piece of preparation; wrapped in a tarp, hardly used since it had arrived and been fired to test its functions two years ago. It came with a tripod, which they deployed into the roof and spread to absorb the recoil. Then the tarp was pulled away to reveal the Miltraljøse 12.7T, the modernized version of the Hær’s heavy workhorse machine gun, used and perfected since the 1940s, when Æsthurlavaj had gotten much experience in weapons development. Boxes of 12.7mm ammunition were laid out, practically shells instead of bullets, the lids pulled open to reveal gleaming belts with dark, fat cartridges inside, shimmering with the rain bouncing off their brass casings.

On the yard, the riot line had advanced until they were only thirty meters from the gate, masks on and shields up. Fifteen Stormtroopers was a significant portion of the forty that were the embassy’s security detachment, but Krum had placed her best on this line, veterans of the Iron Island Incident and the disaster in Nalaya. Disciplined, yes. But they had enough close quarters experience to know that once you start firing, you don’t stop until nothing is moving.

Up in his office, Matthuis paled as he peered through the blinds. No going back from here, he knew. He had no service weapon in his desk, many FRÆ diplomats usually did. But not him. Not in Gylias.

“Anne…” he said carefully over the phone. “It’s been an honor. Really, it has.”

The first rock sailed over the fence, bouncing off a riot shield. For a moment, there was no response, almost as if everyone was surprised by the action and trying to figure out what had happened, where it had come from what what to do now.

More rocks sailed over the gate, along with shouts of hate, mockery. Savages, the crowd yelled. Jackboots! FPists! K-S-A! K-S-A! Break the chains!

Finally, in an action that would write history for decades to come, the first canister of tear gas answered back.

It didn’t go as far as the stones. Thirty meters would be quite a feat one handed while toting a riot shield. But the canister bounced, rolling to the iron bars before a loud pop sounded, white clouds beginning to billow out.

“Gas!” came a shout from the crowd. Protesters scrambled to cover their eyes and nose, improvise masks, and get away from the canister.

“Lemons!” shouted another. Some in the crowd hastened to retrieve any lemons nearby to suck on.

The canister bought the embassy some respite, but not much. Those near it might’ve hurried to safety, but the protesters in the back let out a fierce collective shout, and proceeded with more determination.

Towards the right hand side of the stormtroopers, another mocking chant could be heard: “Take your gas and shove it up your ass!”

Meanwhile, a local police station received a call from a constable. “Requesting backup. Code A-236.”

The first canister was joined by two, then three, four, eight, a dozen, all of them popping either by the gate or at the wall, billowing plumes of tear gas filling the air in an attempt to hold the perimeter.

“Skjermvegg! Låse og laste!” the line serajant hollered above the noise. As one, the Stormtroopers holding their riot shields reached down, hands grasping the charging handles of their weapons, pausing only a second before a chorus of sharp, metallic clacking rang out. The actions closed, shells were chambered and the weapons were braced against the shields, just waiting for the first protestor to cross that line...

[Aethurheim]

RKV Manta, Ismann-class Patrol Cutter
Vanfald Harbor, Rautjok
0417 hours (Military)
17 months after the Vanfald Incident

Thirty-six hours on this shift. The Kystvakt sailor didn’t even bother trying to suppress a yawn as she fought to stay away, leaning over the rail and staring off at the ships clustering through the harbor. The docks had been one of the first projects to be repaired along with roads, power and train tracks, and yet despite their restored nature and the excessive amount of security the Stat Vakt gave them, half of the piers were closed down, limiting cargo ships to a select few. These days, not a lot of naval traffic that wasn’t from the new Krigsmarine HQ was building materials and aide supplies from overseas as the Korps of Engineers worked to restore the city. Construction companies had sprung up overnight, hired by the property holders who could afford them to rebuild skyscrapers, warehouses and stores, while the Korps went through the process of fixing homes, apartments and buildings vital to the city. Half of the population had fled during the Battle, but the evacuations afterwards had driven that number even lower. Now, aside from vagrants, stubborn diehards and people who wanted to hide like KSA remnants, the city proper was empty, its residents evacuated to the suburbs on the outskirts while the workers and soldiers bunkered up in heavily fortified compounds overnight. From here, the sailor didn’t even see much human activity anyways, though that was no surprise at this early hour. Oldies music drifted up from a speaker below decks, probably from some other clump of sailors trying to attend their duties while overworked and sleep deprived.

She glanced over her shoulder at her comrade, who stood at the railing in his service blacks, yellow jacket marking him out from the misty dawn air, reflective strips shining in the low light. He was looking in the opposite direction from the rebuilding city, binoculars scanning the dark sea, teeth dug into his lip, cap facing backwards to keep out of the way. Finally, out of exhaustion and irritation, she turned towards him.

“Ostenson, you’re not gonna find them this close to port. Give it up.”

Visekonstabel Viktor Ostenson didn’t even spare her a glance, just quietly adjusting the wheel on the binoculars.

“Says you, Wollen. Documentary says this is their time for coming north to feed. They’ll look for schools of plankton around Ossoria and Shalum.”

“Not here, they won’t,” Visekonstabel Laila Wollen, bored out of her skull and tired beyond trying to find her own entertainment, stepped to the railing herself. “This place still has enough ships coming in to scare them off. We’re too close to land.”

Behind them, the distant echoes of automatic gunfire rang out, and the sailors paused, looking out at the shore. After a few seconds, and a handful of return single shots, silence returned. No explosions, no sirens. Someone must have fallen afoul of a compound guard. If it was close enough to the harbor for them to hear it, then it was one of the port facilities, which had intense security. After the sounds had settled, the two turned back to looking for whales, as Ostenson was an amatuer whale watcher and marine life nerd and insisted this was the time to look out for humpback whales. While they’d seen some dolphins playing near the boats as they were prone to do and sharks hunting for seals (a sight only spotted here on the northern coastline), so far they had yet to spot whales. Ostensons’ enthusiasm had yet to waver, however.

Abruptly, the loudspeaker rang out.

“Now hear this, now hear this. This is the First Officer. All hands, secure for return trip. Say again, return to port. We’re done here.”

“Aw, dammit!” Ostenson groaned as he furtively scanned the dim horizon once more, searching for a glimpse of his prize. “This is the perfect time!”

“Don’t sweat it, Vik,” Wollen replied, flicking her cigarette butt over the side (to which Ostenson, also an environmentalist, gave her a dark look). "We’ll be back out on patrol before you know it. I for one am ready to sleep the next two days…”

[Aethurheim]

Nordøst-Sjekkpunkt “Curling”
Liamite Stat Vakt 12th Infanterie Brigade, Alfa Kompanie
Gryten, Liam

The border between Æþurheim and Shalum was complicated, the result of centuries of skirmish, conquest, compromise and treaty obligations. Especially in Liam state, beyond which stretched the wildlands of Imperial Maldoria. Elsewhere, segments of border wall had been erected, one of the few things both sides could agree on. Elsewhere, military bases and fighting positions guarded one side from the other, facing the open ground between them over gunsights. Landmines, drones, attack dogs, radar towers, barbed wire, heavy MG nests and deforested ground ensured there could be no ‘accidental’ crossings. At the few places where the roads connected, trade and travel were both allowed, though any cargo was limited and insubstantial and travelers were closely monitored, vehicles that ventured over extensively searched by one side or the other. Guard posts thick with soldiers and stationed heavy weapons had grown into fortified bunkers and pillboxes, drone facilities and airpads. Not far from Gryten on the Æþurian side, for example, a joint CSN base housing troops from Svinia and Ossoria sat, ready and waiting for the call to arms. On the Imperial side, QRF bases backed by Acrean grenadiers and powerful air wings patrolled, watching for the first instance to pounce and unload.

Gryten was an exemption to the rest of the border, a city built square on the dividing line, a refusal by the PRÆ and the URÆ after then to back off even an inch of what they perceived as Æþurian territory, even as the barrier was laid down. While the deathstrips, killzones, machine gun nests and barbed wire were still erected here, the distance from the wall was exact; twenty meters of space cleared, minimum. And right there, set up on that border barrier, were houses, stores and even a park at one point. And so, the city became the gateway between the two nations, use the area to watch each other, probe the border and even witness tragedy as civilians occasionally attempted to cross from one side to the other. Eventually, to their heartbreak, the Liam Stat Vakt had to fire mortars loaded with pamphlets over the wall to the Maldorian side, written in Norse and warning civilians to stay away from the extensive dangers of the Wall. Some listened. Many did not.

Visekorporal Kent Kittleson shut the car door, sighing as he tugged his service beret on, making sure the badge on the blue headpiece lined up with his eye appropriately as he stepped towards the kompanie armory, more on his mind than just his overnight duty shift. Like the Patrulje, the Stat Vakt had to put up with unpredictable schedules and abrupt graveyard shifts. Before last week, he had grown accustomed to daytime patrols, going back to his house like a 9 to 5 worker. But ever since Vanfald and the border incidents that had arisen, the rotations had gotten unreasonable, especially with the addition of more checkpoint defenses and watchposts. Every crossing was practically its own base, Vaktsmen watching carefully for signs of infiltration or illegal crossing. The vehicles looking to cross were rare, and most would take the road heading north towards the Empire proper. The people trying to escape Maldoria, those not halted by the Imperial Army, were often regretfully turned away, unable to conjure the documentation needed to escape the warzone their land had become. The pressure was mounting, and every day at post seemed to just get worse. Kent had been able to escape home. But now, he slept when his family was awake, and was here when they were asleep.

“Elane said to get diapers and formula,” he muttered, attempting to ingrain it into memory so he wouldn’t forget to stop by the Merke Butikk on his way home in the morning. It was the least he could do to make it up to her, with Jan teething and causing a fuss all day. “Maybe some baby food jars too…”

The door to the armory loomed before him, and he automatically scanned his ID card over the reader, waiting for the light to turn green before he hauled it open, quickly doffing the beret as he did. Normal duty in the Vakt wore the same caps as the regular Hær, but border patrol was all about being -seen-. Inside, the overnight patrol kompanie was already forming up, Kaptein Boler taking the head of the formation and looking just as worn out and sleep deprived as the rest of them, checking a folio of papers in his hand. The rest of the kompanie fell in after that for the formation, Stabsserjant Asper giving her usual routine to start; roll call, special issues, new paperwork they had to fill out when they had a chance before next week and a new regulation regarding the armory and signout procedure. Kittleson listened with half an ear, in his head miles away with his wife and son as they settled in for the evening without him again. Elane had packed him a dinner of hot fish soup, which wouldn’t stay hot in the break room but she made it so damned good it was delicious microwaved, and some crisp bread to go with it. A few hot cups of coffee and some Riv Det! energy drinks would help him get through what would hopefully be an uneventful night. But then again, things were tense lately.

“Tonight, we have special warning,” said Kaptein Boler, snapping Kittleson back to reality as he realized the officer had taken the head without him being aware. “Apparently, we’re getting a diplomatic convoy from the Empire tonight, estimated time unknown. There’s a new no-fly zone over the border, so the representative will come through in vehicles. Expect one luxury car with escorts flying Shalumite flags. This just came up, so we’re going to have to be extra alert tonight. This is what we train for people. Remember to treat these dignitaries with respect, but be on the lookout for infiltrators and phony papers. If there’s anything more perfect to sneak our friends the STG in country, it's in a convoy with legal protection. Stay vigilant. Double check everything, and when in doubt remember to check the VIP database. Expect more information as we get it.”

With that, the Kaptein came to attention, facing the kompanie who did the same as the snap of bootheels rang out, the rasp of fabric as they copied their kommandant’s salute.

Kittleson wasn’t feeling too good as he collected his kit, the ATR-90 rifle inspected by the armorer before handed over to him. As Stat Vakt, they got the hand me downs and surplus, this rifle still chambered in the old ammunition before the CSN standardized the 6.5mm, his sidearm a trusty old Kalt. As he tugged the rest of his gear out of the locker and shrugged into his plate carrier and webbing, the faces of Elane and Jan came back to him again. If war was to break out, they were here. Gryten was on the front, a valuable city. Would there be time to evacuate? Or would they be wiped out in the first few hours?

“Kittleson!” said a voice as a slap resonated across the back of his neck, making him blink sharply as he came back to focus on Sersjant Eiker, her stern and scarred face glaring at him reproachfully. “On the line, we’re up!”

Indeed, around the two soldiers, the rest of the locker room’s occupants were moving towards the door at speed, the sound of Pitbulls starting up in the yard audible even from here. Embarrassed, the soldier quickly grabbed the last of what he needed from the locker, pausing to give the photo of Elane and a newborn Jan taped to the door one last glance, considering all the trials and tribulations roiling in his head and gut.

Then he sighed, slamming the door shut, tucking the beret on and hustling into line behind his platoon, prepared to take on the night.

---

Although they were supposed to keep their heads low and not draw attention, it wasn’t hard to pick out the convoy if one was paying attention. With a no-fly zone declared on either side of the border by the respective governments, overland was the only acceptable means of getting across. Even a small delegation like theirs was made up of a team of diplomats, a handful of assistants, a security team, and of course the Crown Prince himself. While he might have preferred a sportier vehicle in his off time, the ministry had chosen to send him in a much more regal state car, while the rest of the party was split up between several blacked out SUVs.

“Gods above…” Reaching up, Matthew couldn’t help but sit his tablet down for a moment and glance out a window at the passing countryside. This far out from the safety of the Empire’s interior, there were more military outposts than there were towns. Some still called it home, of course, but it was nothing like up north. “What I wouldn’t give for another cup of coffee.”

“Sorry boss, we’re on final approach till we hit the border, I’m afraid.” There weren’t many who could speak so casually to the prince, but the bodyguard in the front passenger seat was one of them. Alexander Blackburn, the heir to the second most powerful family in the country, smiled wryly as he shifted in his seat. For the last leg of the journey, or first if one wanted to look at it that way, they had exchanged their street clothes for their formal wear. “I’ve got something that may work though,” he rummaged around up front and produced a tall aluminum can, “what about this?”

“Damn, they still make this stuff?” The crown prince blinked, his lips curled in surprise, as he reached out to accept it from the man. It was an all too familiar weight in his hand, and he took a moment to roll it over. “Man, I remember when we used to drink like two or three of these a night when we were on exercises. It really hasn’t changed, has it?”

Alexander chuckled and ran a hand through his blonde hair. Although he might have looked relaxed, his eyes were still scanning their surroundings as they passed through a checkpoint without stopping. Perhaps it was just for them, but it felt like the army was out in force tonight. The road was clear, and they had passed at least two idling light armor units already. “That’s the new black raspberry flavor. It’s less shit than they used to be.”

“But it’ll still melt your guts, right?” Matthew grinned as he reached down to pop the top of the can. The mere hiss took him back to a simpler time, when he’d been a lot younger and ruling the nation had been the last thing on his mind. Every member of the royal family was expected to serve, and he’d spent most of his time watching the capital alongside much better soldiers. “It wouldn’t be otherwise…” He mused before he took a deep sip. Oh yeah. Just like I remember. Terrible in the best way.

The radio in their car crackled. “Heads up everyone.” It was the driver for the lead vehicle. They had traded their security guy for an extra diplomat, so that the border guards would be greeted by a friendly face. Their attache from the STG was further down the line of vehicles, but not towards the back, so that she didn’t draw any attention. “We’re approaching now, look sharp.”

They had people on their side already waiting, of course. The border guards weren’t army, nor where they state troops. Instead, it was manned by the Ministry of Interior’s security forces. Although they weren’t much different from the army in practice, they were much better trained for this sort of work. As the convoy rolled through, much slower, it was as if the whole unit had turned out to give them an honor guard if only for a moment.

“So what are the chances Monika is anything like your dad described, eh?” Alexander chuckled softly as they crossed over the threshold, the next checkpoint dead ahead.

“Considering how their relationship started?” Matthew’s lips quirked into a humorless smile. Beneath his suit, his heart had begun to beat a little faster. Foreign visits like this weren’t anything new to him, but the threat of war hanging over it was. “I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now, at least.”

He took another sip of the energy drink.

---

“Papers please.”

Trained to speak Norse, Svinian and Shalumite, Kaptein Boler was the obvious choice to man the guard post. Regulations stated an officer capable of speaking multiple languages had to, and Boler cut the most impressive figure, speaking to applicants and running them through the system. Passports, ID cards, visa papers, vaccine certifications. Treaties and compromises had narrowed down the required paperwork as narrowly as possible, the Æþurians attempting to make it easier for Maldorians refugees to come to asylum, the Imperials attempting to complicate the process. Most applicants who could legally get through the Imperial screen to the checkpoints lacked at least one or two items. By law, they had to be turned away.

Kittleson stood at the gate, listening to the process as the woman attempted to find the stack of paperwork in her bag, finally pulling out a battered passport and a few dirty sheets of paper. With all the reverence he could manage, the kaptein laid them out, separating the sheets to inspect them. The seconds dragged on, to which Kittleson glanced nervously over, trying to focus on the headlights approaching the Shalumite side. Was this the convoy they’d been told to expect? Already? They’d only been on post an hour.

In the booth, Kaptein Boler sighed, checked the paperwork again, then shook his head, taking the woman’s passport and lifting the archaic stamp from the desk. Normally, this duty would be handled by specially trained agents. But now, in this time of high tension? This desperate refugee had to watch in despair as the stamp pressed down, making the fateful metallic crunching as the mechanism worked and then lifted, leaving behind the red inked letters on her passport; NEKTET.

“I’m sorry,” Boler said remorsefully, though that was all he could spare her. “Your visa is out of date. It expired three days ago.”

The woman persisted. In broken Norse, she attempted to beg, insisting she had to walk the whole way, and that it had taken a month to get through the Cult and Imperials skirmishing in the hills, to escape from bandits and wildlife. But the kaptein waved his hand, and Kittleson braced before he stepped over to the door.

“Ma’am, you have to come with me.”

The woman was practically hysterical now, as the soldier with the rifle approached her. She offered everything she had to the kaptein, her money, her body. But Boler remained mournfully stone faced, and Kittleson was in fit shape and well rested, taking her by the arm and pulling her out with little trouble. She struggled, but it was feeble, and he pushed her towards the Imperial booth, wincing at the bright headlights of the front SUV pulling in.

He always hated doing that.

As Kittleson resumed his post, Kaptein Boler, flanked by two other Vaktsmen, stepped out from the booth, flashlight in hand and his hand purposely away from the holstered pistol. He held up a hand to the approaching SUV, signaling the driver to stop so the dogs could start sniffing and the sensors could look for explosive residue and electronic signatures. He approached the passenger’s door, waiting patiently for the window to roll down.

In crisp Shalumite, Kaptein Boler, blue beret adjusted perfectly, officer’s pins shining in the floodlights, calmly asked “Papers please.”

---

In the lead vehicle, Liam Mayer flashed the soldier a polite smile as he carefully reached down to extract his papers. Although he was more accustomed to flying down south, this wasn’t the first time he’d passed through a checkpoint. Gryten was an all too familiar sight, even if it was just down one of the three usual routes the ministry planned for them. “Here you go, kaptein.” The rest of the vehicle was doing the same, careful to make no sudden movements. Border guards were always such an uptight lot. “I assure you everything is in order.”

Further back, Matthew took another sip as he peered ahead towards the checkpoint. Even if their arrival had been warned of ahead of time, the security teams didn’t seem to be in a hurry. “Is it usually this strict? I know we’re kind of important and all but it’s nothing like Svinia, or even Silua for that matter.”

Alexander chuckled, but it was a hoarse sound that lacked any real humor. The lead vehicle passed without much of a fuss, just as he figured it might. I really hope that STG lass got all her shit sorted out. I’m too busy to deal with her trouble tonight. His fingers gripped the side handle of the door a little tighter as he sat ramrod straight. “To be fair, we’re not shooting it out with either of those guys.” His lips pulled tight as he glanced over his shoulder. “Not yet anyways.”

In another truck, Nora Tanberg exhaled softly as she eased her water bottle into the cupholder of the truck. It had taken a lot to even get her in this convoy in the first place. While sneaking agents into the country had never been easy, things had really tightened up in the last few years. Some agents had gone offline, presumably dead or captured, while others had been transferred out of positions where they could assist new arrivals. Ever since things had really heated up in Maldoria, it had really been hard to get anyone across.

I wish Isaak was here. He always could talk himself out of trouble. She thought as she glanced out the window, and towards a distant security wall. The big idiot.

“Relax.” A hand reached out to gently rest over her own. At her side, Sebastian smiled in a fatherly way as he patted her a few times and pulled away. Thirty years her senior, with hair that had long since greyed, he’d made his career in the ministry. “There’s nothing to be concerned about, yes? I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Nora smiled, but it was hard to feel confident when staring down the enemy. She hadn’t been a field agent for long. She’d spent plenty of time in field offices or the capital, and was fluent in multiple languages, but she wasn’t trained to handle trouble like their security team was. “I just want to get this over with.” They weren’t going to risk actually infiltrating her this time, but the Director wanted someone he could trust at the meeting. The situation in Maldoria was getting worse with each passing day, and if something didn’t change soon, there was only one inevitable outcome that the nobility would accept.

“You best get your papers ready then.” Sebastian murmured as he reached for her own. “It’s almost our turn.”

---

Kaptein Boler was the face of the border guards. Stern, stoic and a commissioned officer, his spectacles only adding to the impression. The wolfhound sniffing for explosives and the ring of armed soldiers added to the sensation they wanted to present; an iron fence, imposing and surrounding. Kittleson understood this illusion, as Stat Vakt they needed to show the strength of the defense. As such, Boler stood at the gate as the vehicles rolled through, one after another. Taking his place, Kittleson knew how to operate the database, and he moved behind the desk where his CO had been, taking the packets of papers as they were passed from the kaptein to Sersjant Eiker at the door over to him. The lead vehicle passed just fine. These Imperials looked to have refreshed their seals and clearances recently, and they matched the data uploaded with each scan. Date, number, name, issuing city center, all legally recognized.

But he was passed another packet, already spacing out from the repetitive nature of the task as he compared the information to the monitor. His mind was back home with Elane and Jan. Was he giving her trouble still? All that screaming. He worried about the baby certainly, but he worried for Elane too. Up all night everytime the baby woke her, and she still had to clean the house and be alert in the day. Maybe he could put in a word with the kaptein, appeal to him for a transfer to a day shift again. There had to be some openings. Diapers, formula and baby food, couldn’t forget. Some more caffeine too, she would be grateful to come down to a hot pot of coffee and he knew they were low.

He almost missed it. Almost scanned and passed it on as clear, the same as all the others. But that single line caught his eye, and he brought the paperwork back again, frowning. Something was wrong here. Sersjant Eiker turned, realizing he hadn’t passed her the packet back yet. Kittleson checked again. Tanberg, Nora. Female, age 31. Numbers matched up, ID Card matched up, visa, vaccinations. But her passport.

He checked a third time, suddenly feeling a bolt of cold sweat across his forehead, eyes wide in the dark booth as he narrowed in on the screen. A list of Imperial issuing cities that were allowed to make passports legal was before him.

And the city she had gotten this issued from was wrong. Otherwise it was absolutely flawless, down to the approval seal from her ministry. But that city…

Elane and Jan swam into his head again. He could let it go. Let this convoy get on its way. Surely it was just an error, a quirk of a typograph, a careless aide. But what if it wasn’t? What if she was an STG agent, trying to slip into the country so she could uncover their secrets, sabotage power supplies, assassinate officers. What if she was there to bomb bases and cities?

“Visekorporal!”

Kittleson abruptly straightened up, almost gasping. Eiker, who had been trying to get his attention for a minute, frowned at the soldier’s face, glancing out the one-way window at the vehicle beyond. While the kaptein was the picture of stoicism, a few of the other troopers were starting to get a bit nervous, and the Imperial driver frowned, clearly wondering what was taking so long. Eiker turned back, now quietly asking her soldier.

“Is something wrong?”

He could just let it go. Just say it was all fine.

But he didn’t.

After swallowing, Kittleson quietly held the passport out.

“Sersjant...this says here the issuing city for this passport is Poznan.”

Eiker considered the words carefully. She knew the recorded issuing cities as well as he did, better even. But there could be absolutely no room for mistakes here. Carefully, she reached a gloved hand out, taking the passport off Kittleson’s shaking hands. The noncom inspected the document herself, then stepped behind the desk, checking the computer.

After a moment, she cursed.

“Any other time, any other time…”

And then she looked at Kittleson with hard, flinty eyes. That was the gaze of an Iron Island veteran, a Vanfald veteran.

“Kittleson, with me. Moros, Lillegard, get outside and behind the vehicle.”

With that, the troopers stepped outside, not running but certainly more urgently than just a walk. Boler kept his gaze on the Imperial passenger, but he leant over to Eiker as she stepped up and muttered into his ear. After a moment, he held out his hand, and the faulty passport slipped into his glove.

One of the hounds nearby sensed the tension in the air, and barked, low and deep, hackles raised. Other troopers suddenly caught on, fingers gripping their weapons close. Another bark, growling accompanying it, the handler’s grip tightening on the leash.

Boler carefully turned back to the door and asked, as politely as he could “Might you tell me, sir. When did the city of Poznan become recognized as a legal office to issue passports?”

And he turned the document around for the passengers to see.

---

“I’m pretty sure Anna is mad at you, dude.”

Matthew was used to waiting. After spending his entire childhood in the palace, where the nobility moved about as quickly and efficiently as any other government in the region, he developed a good sense of patience. After the first car had passed through, and then the second, the prince found himself reaching for his tablet again without even realizing it. The camera scanned his face for a moment before it automatically unlocked, and his fingers quickly tapped over to the email application. Even at this hour, it was already filling up again with important documents, reminders, and whatever else his team back home considered to be important. Now more than ever, with more major houses affirming their support for his fast approaching ascension to the throne, there was even more that he needed to keep tabs on.

“Huh?” He barely glanced up at his friend. Instead he reached for his drink and took a sip, before he flexed his fingers and wiped the condensation off into the dark black wool of his suit. Rather than dedicate much thought to his replies, this close to enemy eyes, he instead tabbed over to social media. Even a prince was guilty of aimlessly browsing whenever he had the time. “What is she mad about? Her birthday isn’t for a few more months.”

Alexander chuckled as he leaned back in his seat and read over the text message again. “Well you do have an honored guest arriving in the morning. Don’t you remember?” His lips curled into a grin as he glanced over his shoulder. “Lena is finally coming to visit. Gods above it’s been too long since I saw that girl.”

“Well shit.” Matthew sighed as he glanced up again. The fact that she of all people had slipped his mind made him hesitate for a moment. Although he was guilty of not paying the closest attention to his schedule, he could still remember that pang of excitement when she said that she was going to be staying in the capital for a few weeks. When duty called, however, it wasn’t as if he could simply turn away from. “Well...she’s the one who decided to wait ten years to see me. A few more days isn’t going to be the end of the world.”

“You know, no one ever told me why she didn’t come back. I always thought she was like another Holland considering how much time she spent around you guys. Why didn’t she-” The count stopped mid sentence as his blue eyes widened in shock and adrenaline flooded through his veins. Ahead of them, something was happening. Border guards weren’t quite swarming yet, but they had broken their inspection formation to surround the lead vehicle. “That isn’t good.”

“You’re telling me.” The royal lifeguard, who’d spent years training in driving schools and vehicle engagements, grimaced as he reached down. Tucked close was his trusty P16, a weapon he’d fired and maintained so many times that he could have taken it apart and rebuilt it with his eyes closed. “I told you that STG girl was bad news, sir. This is supposed to be a diplomatic convoy…” He wanted to reach for the radio, but that would only give them away. The driver doubted that his comrade had thought to switch it off before their papers were inspected.

“You know how it is. Intelligence doesn’t give a damn about anything but their own interests.” Alexander muttered as he flicked the safety off his own pistol. They weren’t here for trouble, and they had all the proper paperwork that allowed them to carry. Compared to what the guards were packing, however, they were better off sitting tight in their armored car. “C’mon guys, don’t do anything stupid.” He added as he stared at the officer who’d been paying too close attention.

Ahead of them, Sebastian frowned ever so slightly as his eyes studied the paperwork. The man had been in his fair share of hostile situations over the years. It came with the territory when you worked for the Foreign Ministry. “Let’s see, what do we have here…” He murmured as he peered at the document. It was flawless because their own people had made it. “Poznan? Well that is a bit strange, I must admit.” The grey haired man noted as he licked his lips. Everyone knew where the processing centers were, except for the lovely lady in the image that stared back at him. “I can assure you that it’s a mistake. The office in Verona must have made a clerical error.”

Nora’s head swung back and forth between the lead diplomat and the guards. She had seen soldiers like them before, albeit they were usually on her side. Tense and wired, they reminded her of the security detail at the Palomar field office when she had last visited. “Gentlemen, errors happen all the time, don’t they?” Her voice was soft and innocent. They hadn’t seen a more burly or aggressive agent for a reason. She could have easily been any guard’s wife, or perhaps a younger sister/ “I know security is tight, but I’ve been with the ministry for a bit now and it wasn’t an issue when I went to Svinia last.”

It was a hopeful play towards their neighbors. Although security was obviously much more lax at those checkpoints, hopefully they would take the bait and leave it be. This was no time for an incident...and she didn’t want to find out how different Azzie holding cells were like compared to back home.

---

Normally, the excuse ‘clerical error’ meant nothing here. When the choice to relax standards under such careful watch could lead to an international incident, there could be no chance taken, or exemptions. This was a diplomatic convoy, on their way to Lowellsburg so their delegate could attempt to smooth things over. The fact the Imperials had come to them meant several things, Kaptain Bolger knew. This was important.

He fixed the vehicle’s occupants with the same level gaze he reserved for his worst offenders, the other applicants who tried to come through and bribed him, threatened him, cursed his existence as they were denied and hauled away. He glanced over to Sersjant Eiker, brow furrowed, and the noncom instantly knew what her CO was about to do.

He reached up, clicking the radio handset strapped to his shoulder.

“Aktual, er dette Curling, over.”

The response from Oberstløytnant Veronika Sorem’s radio operator was almost instant, alert and ready for anything from these entry gates. Keeping the booths running 24/7 to allow whoever could get through the chance to get in was critical, and the night staff needed to be sharp.

“Curling, Aktual. Gå videre.”

“Aktual, jeg har feil papirarbeid på en diplomatisk søker. Rådgi, over?”

A pause. The radio stayed silent but for some static that rose and fell a bit, heightening the tension. Boler stared down the woman in question, pinning her in place, his eyes seeming to say ‘don’t you move, and pray we figure this out.’

The response came back, the rasping voice of the oberstløytnant herself.

”Boler, hva hører jeg om defekt diplomatisk papirarbeid?”

He winced at the lack of formality or protocol, but then again Sorem was old fashioned and not really given to rules. She was only in the Stat Vakt because a missing leg kept her out of active service, but HIGHKOM refused to waste as experienced an officer as her. He sighed before he replied back.

“Å utstede by er feil. De stemmer alle for henne, og det er en diplomatisk konvoi.” A pause, then he finished it with “Over.” One of them needed to be professional.

Another pause, but this one much shorter.

”Axel, ser hun ut som den ærverdige?”

He glanced at her again. Certainly not, he decided. While she was dressed formally as befit this assignment, she could have been anyone, a guard’s wife, an aide.

“Negativ.”

”Så arresterer du konvoien og sender passet til meg. Vi får svar på en eller annen måte.”

Boler braced himself, taking a deep breath. It was exactly as he’d feared. Sorem was assertive, never one to give in to doubt. If a solution presented itself, but it was the only one, it didn’t matter if it was bad or complicated things. To her, it was a solution. And now, he had his orders.

“Forstått. Vil overholde. Curling, ute.”

And with that, Kaptein Boler drew his sidearm, racked a round and said, aloud “Detain this vehicle and the two ahead! Park them in the secure yard! If they do not comply, take them to the holding cells!”

Immediately, the checkpoint burst into activity. Vaktsmen racked their rifles, safeties off as they moved to surround the suspicious vehicles, in front and behind. With the roar of an engine, the wide bulk of a Pitbull drove into the road to keep the others from bolting into the city, the gunner standing to man the 12.7mm machine gun and swing it around to face down the black Shalumite vehicles, as if daring them to try it. Hounds began braying, responding to their masters as a few even jumped at the windows, teeth gnashing at the occupants.

To the passengers, Kaptein Boler simply said “There’s an issue. Please, if you comply, we’ll make some calls and clear this up. But she goes no further.”

---

“Fuck!” The count hissed as he chambered a round for his pistol, while their driver did the same. This was perhaps the worst way the situation could have gone. The detail was equipped for protective duties only, and only the guys in the lead and rear vehicles were actually wearing body armor. There were two different groups of guards. Men like Alexander stayed close to the prince and looked the part for the cameras, while the others were kitted out for a more proper fight. Even then, the heaviest weapons they packed were underslung grenade launchers. “And I thought our people were bad!”

“We’ve got heavy weapons up ahead, sir.” The driver grimaced as the heavy truck moved into a blocking position. Their vehicle was well armored, built to even take hits from a rocket propelled grenade. Even with that in mind, he didn’t want to figure out how it would actually fare in combat, much less a heavy machine gun like that. “Orders, sir?”

”This is Vanguard! They’ve got us locked in.” The lead car finally came in over the radio, the windows rolled up as the four men inside scrambled. Their very job was to keep their weapons close at hand. As they undid weapon safeties and racked slides, however, it was hard to feel confident when staring down the enemy like this. ”Be advised, we’ve got more of them coming out of the woodwork now.”

“Alex!” The prince hissed as he slumped down in his seat on instinct. He had gone over the vehicle’s specifications before the trip. While the windows were thick and solid, there was only so much that science could do. The real armor was tucked between the doorframe, and was rated to be STANAG level four. “I thought everyone’s papers were legit? Even the ones for Graham’s girl!”

“You and me both, man. I looked them over before we left.” As head of security, keeping the principal safe was his first priority, and then the rest of the team second. His blue eyes were frantic as they swept over their surroundings. There wasn’t any easy way out of this one, not by going forward at least. “Get ready to reverse, alright?” He glanced over at his friend in the driver’s seat before he reached for the radio. “All teams, be advised, we are not moving the crown prince to a secondary location. Say again, we’re not moving the crown prince to a secondary location until these guys settle down.”

“Vanguard acknowledges.” The lead car’s response was tense, but they didn’t move to shift into reverse just yet. The way forward was an obvious no-go, but even their opposition would have a hard time keeping them put. The cruiser's diesel engines may have been quiet, but they still had plenty of heft. “Everyone keep low, if anyone is gonna take a hit, it’ll be me. Understand?” The driver added as he set down the radio, hands shaking as he glanced over his shoulder.

Nora, an already pale girl, had turned a shade of white similar to the papers she carried. The last time she had stared down someone like this, at least she’d been in tactical gear herself, a submachine gun in hand while they tried to resolve matters peacefully. “Gentlemen? Please, can we remain calm? There’s no need for violence or intimidation.” She had heard the radio callout like everyone else, and she knew the kaptein had as well. They would sooner abandon her and everyone else if it meant keeping the prince safe.

She had seen what the NSB could do to people.

Sebastian exhaled sharply as a shiver ran down his body. Carefully, he reached up to show both hands. “Kaptein? Sergeant?” His tongue didn’t quite roll right for the proper pronunciation. “In the vehicle behind us is the Crown Prince of Shalum. I may be the head diplomat here, but he’s the face of this. He’s here to see the Supreme Chancellor herself.” His fingers twitched. “I think it would do us all good to avoid an incident right now, don’t you agree? Perhaps we can remain right here while we get all this paperwork settled out?”

At the rear of the convoy, the last cruiser crept up a hair. The quick response team inside, with assault rifles at the ready, began to shift. As far back as they were, the team could promptly dismount to provide covering fire for the rest of the convoy while they retreated. It wasn’t something any of them wanted to do, but it was their duty. Everyone onboard was either a former kasrkin or marine, and it was careful hands that loaded a grenade into the underslung tube.

In his seat, Sebastian hesitated again. “Perhaps it would be wise to speak to the Crown Prince, yes?”

---

They had stopped vehicles before, trucks full of smugglers and illegal entrants trying to force through the gates. If necessary, they had a set of steel barriers embedded into the ground that could be deployed to instantly cave in the front of a speeding car or truck, revolutionary new traffic control use in the big cities to stop high speed chases or block off lanes where needed. The soldiers of Alfa kompanie knew what they were doing, moving to surround each vehicle with a team of six, assault rifles up. Were these vehicles armored? Had to be, for the importance, and none of the Vaktsmen were issued armor piercing ammunition, but they had numbers here, and if they waited they could get more heavy weapons on station, including mortars and even rocket launchers.

At the rear, as the tail vehicle inched its way forwards, the team sent to contain them were still on the way when the headlights swayed, and one Vaktsmen hollered, putting her hand up and spitting insults at the driver (who likely understood them) which all ended in the same sentiment of “don’t move you fucking moron.” The team spread out, surrounding said vehicle as they squinted through the lights, trying to determine the passengers while glancing towards the Imperial checkpoint. How long until they realized something had gone wrong? The Interior agents didn’t have the same numbers or heavy armor here the Vakt did, but they had drones, a terrifying substitute. They’d be able to react quickly.

Kaptein Boler paused, pursing his lips as he considered the words of the diplomat, chewing them carefully as he considered the statement made by the Imperial representative. If what he had said was true, this was a severe development, and a lapse by HIGHKOM to inform them of the level of VIP they had just potentially threatened to throw in a cell. While nobility and royalty didn’t mean much to most citizens of the Republikk, it did to the Imperials. There would likely be nothing they wouldn’t do to retrieve him, from Special Forces to armor to a full on assault.

“Eiker, take a team,” the kaptein finally said, not breaking his gaze from the occupants of the suspicious vehicle, flitting between the pale woman and the deadset man. “We’ll get this reasoned out.” He pointed directly at her. “You stay right there. Don’t give me a reason to carve this thing open.”

Sersjant Eiker turned, gesturing to Kittleson, Moros, Lillegard and Voltsir, who immediately moved to follow her. The vehicle directly behind the suspect one was surrounded by the same measures, riflemen at each point to keep anyone from doing something stupid and a dog by the driver’s door, growling and snapping and barely held back by their handler.

Eiker didn’t waste any time, smacking a fist on the window.

“Open up!” she hollered, not bothering with honorifics or manners. They needed to confirm this beyond a shadow of a doubt. “We need to verify the VIP!”

She glanced to Kittleson.

“Get your phone.”

“Sersjant?”

“Look for a picture of this asshat on the web, idiot!”

With that, the Visekorporal quickly shifted his rifle to one hand, slipping his phone out awkwardly and tugging a glove off to operate the touchscreen, quickly accessing the browser and searching for ‘Crown Prince Matthew’.

---

“I don’t think she likes you very much.” In the passenger seat of the rear vehicle, one of the bodyguards chuckled softly as he gripped his assault rifle. Compared to their company outside, they had all been issued the best on the market. Most of their weapons had been made by their allies to the east, and had been issued with high quality, armor piercing rounds. Although it would have made quick work of the guard’s body armor, it didn’t negate the fact that they were heavily outnumbered.

“Believe it or not, I don’t much care what she thinks.” The driver muttered as her fingers flexed against her personal defense weapon. With one hand on the wheel, it was a much more compact, easy to handle weapon. “C’mon, try and open the door.” The windows were tinted, but she couldn’t help and shoot the Vaktsman a taunting smile as she kept her weapon close. “I’ve got fifty rounds with her pretty little name on it.”

“I knew you were a man of reason, kaptein. They don’t just give a rank like yours out, now do they?” Sebastian gave a shaky smile as his hands wavered. “Let’s just be calm and reasonable, yes? No need to ‘carve the door open’ as you said.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Nora glanced over at the older man at her side. “Are you sure you were supposed to tell them that? The foreign ministry and chairwoman both wanted this to be a lowkey rendezvous.” Her brown eyes flickered over to the guardsmen again. “This isn’t exactly under the radar anymore.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that now. Perhaps the foreign ministry should have doubled checked their paperwork like they were supposed to.” Sebastian muttered without batting an eye.

In the state car, the crown prince squirmed, but didn’t dare look back just yet. He knew for a fact that they were in sight of their own border guards. Judging by some of the new calls over the radio? The Shalumite side was starting to stir as observers reported the situation all across the line. “I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I had a pistol of my own right about now.”

“I’m sure you would, man, but you’re not supposed to be armed. Diplomat this time, remember?” Alexander muttered as his fingers flexed around his pistol. He dared to glance over his shoulder, and his lips pulled tight. There were heavy trucks in the distance, their lights coming to life as their own people got into position. None of them were coming their way, thankfully, but how long that would last was still up in the air. When he looked back, he grimaced. “Shit, they’re coming our way.”

“Seriously?” Alexander didn’t quite jump, but his eyebrows certainly furrowed in distaste as he peered out the armored window. There were likely better ways to approach them, but it was too late now. Tentatively, he reached over to roll the window down. “Good evening, ma’am.” He didn’t bother to hide the fact that he had a weapon in hand, not anymore as he gave her a hard stare. “Count Alexander Blackburn, head of the convoy security detail.” The blonde turned towards her, giving her full attention. “While I would love to verify the VIP right now, we can’t lower his window more than four inches right now. And quite frankly? I don’t believe even that would be wise with all these guns drawn. Don’t you agree?”

[/hr]

Gryten was guarded primarily by Liamite Stat Vakt, several brigades of them. As reservists, the personnel rotated through critical posts, the rest reporting for duty a few days a week. Oberstløytnant Sorem’s post was a mix of personnel and officers both active and reserve, and as so often happens, the late night shift caught them at a low level of readiness, not helping the fact their reservists were not on duty tonight. The room, filled with cigarette smoke, only had a handful of operators monitoring their screens, watching over by a trio of løytnants who had been lounging in the break room, watching the latest hit criminal detective thriller and laughing at how inaccurate it was. There was, for now, no need for crisis.

Standing behind the camera operator, Oberstløytnant Sorem carefully watched the screen. She had squared up the situation between the various views, but she waited for the young man to tell her his determination himself. These were the moments that made soldiers, knowing this was the real world and the pressure was real.

“I count five cars frue,” the operator finally said, having rotated through all the cameras. “That one in the rear probably has the heavy hitters.”

“Kaptein Boler said the one at the booth is the suspect,” Sorem replied, straightening up. The call she had placed to Lowellsburg had yet to be responded to, and she had no doubt some poor bastard clerk was being awoken to go check on this information. If this had been in the day, they likely would have an answer by now. “What do you make of it, Korporal?”

“Luxury car, black paneling, mud on the tires,” the soldier reeled off immediately, to Sorem’s quiet delight. The profiling drills were having an effect. “For a convoy like this, likely armored panels, bullet resistant glass windows, onboard pistol lockers for the guards. Probably adds another ton to the vehicle’s weight.”

“Very good, trooper.” Sorem straightened up, glancing over at the other stations and sighing. It wasn’t like the old days. All computers and networking now. Back in her time, you confirmed an identity by walking up and bashing a window in. Now there were all these regulations and rules to follow. Technology had made the world soft.

Her radio buzzed twice, and she turned away, clicking the handset.

“Go ahead.”

”Oberst, we’ve got a new development to the situation.” Kaptein Boler, an unremarkable fellow aside from his dedication to his work. The man was unmarried and kept few friends, seeming to only live for the service. He was one of her best officers, to be certain, but his antisocial and unambitious nature made her suspect him as an NSB plant, even all these years later. Medical had diagnosed him with something she couldn’t pronounce, some kind of condition that made him think laterally, differently to everyone, but he still got the scores and the results. Maybe that was all she really needed.

“Go ahead, Kaptein. Tell me how fucked this is.”

”Suspect convoy confirms this as diplomatic in nature, the man named Sebastian has informed us the Crown Prince Matthew is part of this convoy, over.”

A prince? Sorem raised an eyebrow, stepping out of earshot of her operators. No need to add a layer of panic to what was quickly turning into a sticky situation. It looked like this wouldn’t be a simple detain and return after all.

“Axel, I need a no bullshit assessment. Can you confirm the Prince’s presence?”

”I have a team checking the vehicle in question, but they’re being a bit resistant. More on that in a moment. What do we do about this, over?”

Sorem’s boots squeaked off the flooring (damned rubber, what was wrong with leather?) as she moved over to the comms room, her decision already made. If even the chance of a royal family member was true, they needed to prepare for a rescue attempt. Protocol and national face couldn’t let them just admit the convoy now they had a supposed noble along, even one as important as Prince Matthew. It would be embarrassing, and set a bad precedent.

“Just get me that confirmation, Axel. I need to be sure. Leave the response to me on this end.”

The door to the radio room flew open, and several radiomen and women, bored out of their minds and slumped over at their stations, looking at their phones, reading a magazine or one even building a house of cards, snapped alert immediately as Sorem entered, unannounced and unaccompanied.

“Frue!” the closest said, about to rise and bring the room to attention before Sorem irritably gestured him back down.

“Get me Lyngstad, 1st Panser. We’ve got a situation at Curling and I need whatever armor he’s got ready and on the pad, now. Tell him to wake those tankers up, I need backup yesterday.”

Kaptein Boler let go of the radio handset, sighing as he could imagine the hell his superior was already raising. In that idea, he glanced towards the Imperial line, already spotting headlights swinging up and figures moving around. He couldn’t redirect the floodlights without making things worse, so he had to estimate the silhouettes.

“How long until they try to rescue you?” he asked Sebastion quietly, both to pass the time and ease the tension a little, aware of the pistol still in his hand, heavier than a lead weight and burning hotter than the sun in his grip. He needed to know what the reaction time of the Interior agents would be in this case, with a supposed heir to the throne in peril. If this was a shoot first, shoot some more and ask a question when everyone’s dead situation, they needed to be ready.

At the state car, Sersjant Eiker narrowed her eyes at the Blackburn, chewing the inside of her lip as she considered the statement. If there -was- such a person of interest in the car, she wouldn’t doubt they’d be this cagey about keeping him out of danger. If there wasn’t, she had no doubt they’d try to conceal him and keep up the ruse. Then, she backed off.

“Kittleson, rifle.” Without a word, the soldier reached up and detached the rifle from his harness, extending it to Moros after checking the safety. “Get up here, bring that picture.”

And with that, Visekorporal Kittleson took his sersjant’s place, his Shalumite bumbling as he tried to communicate with the bodyguard.

“Hello? I am to be trying to identify the Crown Prince man.” He held up the phone, which had an image pulled from the internet of Matthew, smiling and in a suit at a charity event, clearly visible and detailed. “Please be letting me see him now.”

---

“Huh?” Sebastian had been so focused on the soldiers surrounding them that he hadn’t even really paid attention to what was beyond them. Tentatively, he turned to peer over his shoulder towards their own border, which was much brighter than it had been a few minutes ago when they had passed through. “Well that certainly doesn’t look good…”

“Would it be alright if an old man took a sip of water, soldier?” His smile was soft and innocent, or so he hoped as he slowly reached for the plastic bottle at his side. Diplomats didn’t carry guns, at least not yet. “If I had to guess? It won’t take very long at all. The head of security has a panic button, but I don’t think he’s hit it yet.” Sebastian swallowed thickly. “We’re just pawns on the table when you compare us to the prince. They’d send everything to get him back, and I don’t just mean the army. We’re talking about the Acreans and Cacertians too.” He gave the soldier a look. “He’s the next one to sit on the throne, after all.”

“Thank you, Sersjant. We really do appreciate it.” Alexander let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. In the grand scheme of things? It didn’t make much of a difference if a few of them were unarmed. It was the intent that really mattered. Glancing over at the driver, he nodded slowly before he looked back out the open window. “There? We can be nice and diplomatic about this now. Mind if I put mine away?” He made a careful show of slipping the pistol, now safetied, back into his own holster. “Go ahead and roll down the back window, your highness.”

They hadn’t been lying when they said the back window didn’t roll down all the way. While one could have blamed it on safety, the truth of the matter was that there was only so much wiggle room between the armored plates that Thoroughbred had carefully packed into the door. The specialized motor quietly whined as the thick, resistant glass slowly lowered until only a quarter of it remained. Anymore would have required a substantial redesign.

The prince inside was certainly of high birth and good breeding. Over the years, his face had been on the cover of plenty of magazines and news articles across the continent. His suit, hand tailored in the best fashion houses of the Acrean capital, hugged his frame as he turned to face the poor corporal.

“Good evening, soldier.” He did his best to smile as he reached up to turn on the cabin light. The LEDs were brighter than expected, especially when it was so dark, and he couldn’t help but squint for a moment. “I believe you’re looking for me? The Crown Prince, yes?” For both of their sakes, he did his best to look reassuring as he met the man’s eyes. It was the least he could do considering the situation. “Do you, uh, need to see my paperwork?”

---

That was it. That was him, the picture on his phone and the man in the car were one and the same! Kittleson gulped, the reality and enormity of the situation having not really hit him until this very moment, and he took an involuntary step back. What was he supposed to say or do in this situation? Æþurheim hadn’t had their own nobles since the end of the 19th century, and those who came from Ossoria or Svinia as dignitaries were always surrounded by politicians on TV. But this wasn’t something he was trained in. Did he bow, or salute? What did he call him?

In a bit of a brainlock, he did the first thing that occurred to him, snapping to attention and affixing his best parade ground salute, the phone clutched in his other hand.

“Please to be apologizing, sir! I hope you are to be having a good night!” he stammered out, glancing out the corner of his eye towards Sersjant Eiker, who had lifted her radio handset the second Kittleson had started talking, gesturing the other soldiers to immediately take steps away from the vehicle in question.

“Kaptein, confirm VIP in the vehicle, giving him a wide berth now.”

Boler sighed, taking the handset as he gave a nod to Sebastian, stepping away to peer down the convoy. Those headlights worried him, but Sorem’s response to this situation worried him even more. What would the old-school Oberst do to ‘respond’ to this situation? He hoped it wouldn’t cause an even greater problem, her bombastic approach tended to leave a lot of shell craters.

“Oberst Sorem, Boler. Can confirm, the Shalumite Crown Prince is the VIP in the vehicle, over.”

”A shame we’re not looking to play hardball tonight, this would be the perfect opportunity to get a few favours out of the Imps.” It sounded like she was surrounded by some kind of noise, a chatter of voice in her background. She must have moved to the radio center, but who was she calling? ”Axel, you’ve done your job. Now just hold the line while I keep kicking those idiots in Lowellsburg for answers. We still need to get that woman’s faulty ID addressed. But don’t worry about our friends. I’ve got some regular Hær armor inbound to your station now. Just to keep them from trying anything stupid while we get this sorted out.” Boler’s eyes went wide at the mention of armor, and he quickly turned away from the car, doing his best to cover up the radio and turn down the volume.

“Frue, what in Odin’s best judgement made you call in tanks?” he hissed, aware he was snapping at a superior officer. The last thing that seemed to make sense to him was to counter the revelation of the prince’s presence by sending in heavy units. “They’re going to see this as an act of war!”

”No Axel, this is going to -prevent- war,” Sorem snipped back, and Boler felt himself pull up short at her curt tone, suddenly self-aware of his outburst. ”If they think they can come get him, they’ll try it. Those tanks will keep them from rushing the checkpoint, at least a while longer. Or do you want to try and reason with the Interior agents when they’re gunning for their heir to the throne?”

Boler sighed, recognizing that his part in this argument was most certainly over, shaking his head as he moved back to the car in question, glancing over at the pale woman, but his words were for the older man Sebastian.

“They’re sending tanks,” he said bluntly. “To keep your side from shooting their way in. It’s out of my hands now.”

Not far away, tankers from the 1st Panser Divisjon were being rudely shaken from their beds, kicked and hollered at, sent running as noncoms and officers screamed through the panic alerts. Within the next twenty minutes, they’d all be kitted up and clambering into their armor, a quick selection made by officers over their heads. For the 1st Panser Divisjon were not Stat Vakt at all, but regular Hær forces. As such, the vehicles that rumbled as their engines turned over were not the aged Neshorn, from a time before drones or even missile dominance, but the modern Mammut tanks, treads rattling as they were followed up by a trio of armored personnel carriers.

They had yet to leave the yard, but the sounds of their diesel engines starting up and the infantry mounting into their rides, thirty in all, could be heard from blocks away, the rumbling and yelling more than familiar to the locals who lived near the yard.

[Shalum]

To: Crown Prince Matthew Holland
From: Governor-General Dietrich Malcolmson
Subject: Maldoria Situational Report - 5/2/2021
Encryption: Scarlet (Delivered by courier)

Your Highness,

I’m afraid to report that the situation in my sector has greatly deteriorated since we last spoke. While I am certain you have been briefed on the incident by now, it appears that our forces stationed on the line south of Palomar were ambushed by a well prepared enemy strike team. The outpost in question lost over half of their number, and several survivors will be laid up in Concordia’s field hospital for some time, but what happened in the following minutes is much more concerning. The quick reaction force, which had been conducting a routine patrol through the area, reported engaging a group of foot mobiles. We lost all contact with them after approximately a minute.

According to one of the sergeants from the outpost who survived the ordeal, the enemy forces who assaulted the base were unlike anything they’d experienced so far. The forensics team we dispatched found casings belonging to 6.5mm rounds, a weapon that we don’t often see in the hands of Cult members due to the scarcity of available ammunition this side of the border. On top of that? Our people reported hearing the sounds of helicopters in the area moments before the QRF was wiped out. After speaking with my command and control teams, it appears that the only aircraft we had in the area were fixed wings and a surveillance drone that did not arrive until after combat had ceased.

I’m attaching some notes that Director Graham sent me earlier this morning. While I’m sure you could get the same things from him in person, I know his schedule can be rather full, especially when the nation is facing the sort of crises that we currently find ourselves in. If his hypothesis are correct, and I am loath to admit that they most likely are, we could very well find ourselves in an uncomfortable position in the coming weeks. We nearly lost Concordia once, and that was without foreigners playing at the Cult’s puppet strings. If the Azzies have decided to cross the border and play like they did a few years ago, we’re going to have to do a lot more than send a few divisions in to snuff this thing out.

Talk to your mother about it, and discuss it with the Field Marshall of the Imperial Army when you get the chance. I understand wanting to tread carefully, but this sort of thing isn’t going to wait for us.

In regards to troop movements, the situation remains more or less the same for the moment. Right now, the 34th Panzergrenadier BCT is holding down most of the frontline outposts and checkpoints. The 3rd Armored Division began to arrive this afternoon to reinforce my troops already in Palomar, but I’m afraid it’s going to be a few more days at least until they’re ready for any sort of proper deployment. In the meantime, I’ve got assets from the 312th Airborne ready to provide support if further incidents arise. Going forward, we’re going to be keeping continuous combat air patrols going across the Duchy, and we’ve raised alert levels at all radar installations.

If you ask me? I think our boys were getting a little too comfortable with nothing to do.

Regarding the state troops loyal to the duchy, I’m pleased to report some good news for once. While we’re nowhere close to rebuilding their numbers to what they were prior to the Cult’s first strike, thanks to your father’s emergency personnel transfer authorization, we’ve been able to restore two additional motorized regiments to fighting strength. While one is going to remain here in Concordia to provide support to the garrison, we hope to dispatch the other to Palomar to help protect some of the roads leading in and out of the city.

I will contact you with further information as the situation develops.

With regards,
Governor-General Dietrich Malcolmson
Imperial Shalumite Army, Maldoria

[Attached is a 57 pages of additional information regarding Shalumite positions in the sector.]

To: Imperatrix Laila Holland
From: Interior Minister Soren Lovik
Encryption: Scarlet (Delivered by courier)

Laila,

I had been hoping to talk to you about this person when we met earlier, but your husband was rather insistent about keeping us all there for a little while longer after the briefing had ended. I tried to get away, I really did, but by the time I was finally able to swing it, my next appointment was already waiting for me back at the office. I’m sorry, but I’m going to be late for our meeting tonight because of it. Please don’t be too mad at me, okay?

As I’m sure you know, the STG isn’t the only group who keeps feelers out there in the general public. My people have been a lot more active lately, this time of year is always rife with protests. Normally, we’re on the lookout for the usual anti-conscription crowd and the anti-nobility fringe groups. You know, the ones who gather at the capitol every year to spew the same bullshit that they always do. Let’s just say that this Maldoria stuff is really feeding into their platform right now.

Against my recommendation, the mayor of Aragon went ahead and approved their permits for this year. He assured me that the capital police are going to be out in full force like always, but I’ve gone ahead and sent marching orders to a couple internal security units too. Word is that the organizers are going to be bringing in a widow of one of the soldiers who was killed last week as some sort of keynote speaker, and a couple of families who have lost people.

I know this sort of thing comes with the territory, but I think we need to keep as tight a lid on the public as we can. My agency can manage things on the ground just fine, that’s what we’re here for, but there’s only so much we can do on social media. It’s bigger than it ever has been, and once the fire gets going, it can burn out of control before we even realize what’s happening. All it takes is that one big post to get the ball rolling. The algorithms and bots stop most of them, but sooner or later one is going to slip through.

If I double your guard detail, don’t even try and act surprised. It’s what’s best for you. Okay?

On a side note, if you manage to see Matthew anytime soon, please tell him to reconsider going to Lowellsburg. I’ve been reading the reports from along the border, and things are starting to get a bit tense down there. It’s not like we’ve ever done a lot of business with Aethurheim in the first place, but things have been awfully quiet lately. With the no-fly zone in effect, I just don’t think that an overland trip is a wise idea.

I’m afraid I need to run, I have an appointment in a few minutes. I’ll call you as soon as I get off work. I promise.

See you soon,
Soren