The White Palace stood silent and eternal, her ancient marble pillars aligned with the slow cascade of October snow. This Palace was, and had always been, the seat of Zironian power in Europe. Her sprawling grounds and manmade monuments carried magnificent representations of this truth.
Upon the west wall was a mural of solid, yet faded gold. The mighty Zironian eagle watched from this perch, its great wings unfurled, gaze resting upon the shimmering Baltic Sea. That greatest of prizes once desired by that first Zironian Monarch, Queen Aglaya Popov, whose reign had carved out the lasting legacy of those first Zironians. But she was long gone now, and that dynasty extinct.
In the courtyard, statues stood. Those not of marble and gold, but of rusted iron and crude stone. Comrades Adam Vines and Stegnov Petrovich, the socialist revolutionaries who had so toppled the once decrepit Empire, and lead the red wave of communism across Europe. But they too were gone now, and the Empire long restored.
Within the palace, a coronation was concluded, the ancient rituals done at long last. The Silver Crown Council made their way through the open doors, white robes fluttering in the winter wind. Each released a dove upon the porch of the palace, taking flight from their cradled hands. An ancient man in a crimson shroud followed these men, a simple laurel wreath upon his brow.
The Empire was old now. Russia-Scotland still stood independent, a lasting stain against national authority. The colonies of the Ivory Coast had since been swallowed by a resurgent Hidrodia, and the Empire had been unable to respond. Island territories in the east had been snapped up by the teal banner of Zara Pola, and the Zironian Pacific Navy sent to the bottom as a result. Plague had crippled the nation, and her economy was in the fifth year of recession. Sanctions, diplomatic isolation, corruption, decadence. All had brought the Empire into a tailspin from which she struggled even to slow.
Hail to the Emperor, Last of His Name.
