The indignant desert birds

[Knootoss]

((With contributions from Excalbia, Ernestria, The Resurgent Dream, Snefaldia, Pantocratoria, and Xirnium))

No bullshit. Just KNN.

---

Nova Rotsenberg stood behind the lectern of the Knootian parliament, wearing a single-breasted trouser suit of deep charcoal and emeralds at her throat and ears. Her grey hair was drawn back, and a surgical application of make-up to a minimalist effect.

"Honourable members of the States-General, Madame Prime Minister, members of the cabinet, distinguished guests, citizens and friends of the Free Republic,

I accept the office of Grand Pensionary with gratitude and humility. This parliament has chosen me to serve our Republic by representing it at home and abroad.

I will do so.

Let me begin by speaking of this moment in the wider sweep of history. The Republic is older than any of us. It has known more difficult years, and it has known better ones. It is, at present, recovering its composure.

The events of the last decade have unsettled many families, who just want life to feel normal again. Knootians are tired of divisiveness, and of politics as entertainment.

I intend to hold this office with confidence, not arrogance. With principles, not posturing. With strength, not cruelty.

I am a physician by training. In medicine we learn that convalescence is not simply administering the cure and then waiting for the absence of illness. It is about doing the hard work that follows. I believe the same is true of public life. We must be patient with one another, and patient with our institutions, and place our trust in the people that hold them together: our judges, our civil servants, our teachers, our doctors, and all the people who work, tirelessly, day by day, to carry out their chosen vocations.

I want to reassure our friends and partners abroad that our international commitments remain firm. Our alliances matter to us. Our obligations under international law matter to us. We seek cooperation, not estrangement; stability, not theatrical confrontation; a world in which states remain capable of working together even when, and especially when, they disagree."

As she spoke, the camera panned to the visitors' gallery, and the invited ambassadors from the region, lingering on each of their faces in turn. Dr. Arturs Anders, Excalbia's former Defence Minister and current Ambassador to Knootoss, dressed in a dark grey suit with a pale yellow shirt and blue tie, sat calmly, listening intently. Clemens von Langenfeld, The Most Honourable The Margrave of Gladen and Ernestrian Ambassador to Knootoss, wore a grey suit matched with a regimental tie, his glasses briefly catching the light as the cameras passed and he looked up from reading emails on his phone. William Seymour, the Ambassador of the Caldan Union, a tall man with greying hair, wore a look of deep concern. Snefaldian Ambassador Arkiya, with his neatly-clipped salt-and-pepper beard and a pair of almost-too-fashionable acetate spectacles. Pantocratorian Ambassador Sir François d'Umberville, with his wrinkled face a frozen mask of contemptuous superiority, known to those who knew him as his default expression. Florian z’Auvêron, the ambassador from Xirnium, sat very upright in a dark bird’s-eye wool suit with wide peak lapels, his handsome, heavy-lidded face arranged in an expression of diplomatic gravity.

While the camera kept on the ambassadors, Nova continued: "You will find in me a calm and cooperative representative of the Republic. I believe in dialogue. I believe in the value of institutions, and the need for serious and reliable Knootian leadership. I ask you to judge me by my actions, not my surname. I intend to give no one cause for anxiety, and everyone reason for confidence.

My father served this country in a different age, and history will continue to weigh him as it sees fit. I do not ask anyone here to revise their judgements, but to recognise that we do not live in the past. We live in the present, and together we must build for the future."

As Juliaan Rotsenberg was brought up, the camera cut to another section of the visitors' gallery. Eleonora Rotsenberg-Zwartveldt, the Black Widow, sat in her wheelchair in a corridor between seats. For the first time since her husband's death in 1987, she was not dressed in all-black. Instead she wore a crimson dress in the shade of arterial blood, her ears studded with rubies, and the golden torch of the Second Enlightenment displayed above her heart. She sat watching. A single tear rolled down her hollow cheek, escaping an otherwise composed expression.

The camera cut back to Nova: "The work to build that future is, first, the work of healing. Of restoring trust where trust has been spent. Of returning to the ordinary Knootian virtues that are also, in their way, the most demanding ones: hard work, diligence, honesty, courtesy in disagreement, and a sense of proportion about ourselves.

A good state, in the end, is one that protects the conditions in which liberty, positive liberty, can be enhanced. It improves schools and hospitals, passes just laws, and cultivates a public sphere in which truth matters. The good state also upholds common standards and builds a shared sense of purpose without which rights become fragile and trust dissolves.

We are, and always have been, a country that knows how to do difficult things. A country of engineers and technicians, of physicians and teachers, of researchers and builders.

We have weathered worse seasons than this one.

We have been at our best whenever we have worked to ascend beyond ourselves. That inheritance, too, is part of who we are. Let us use it well.

I will close with a word to our young people and our children. You are not condemned to inherit a dying earth. The future is still yours to shape. This world, and the other worlds we have already reached, belong to the generations that will reach even further."

The camera cut to a close up of two of the younger people in the audience. Elizabeth Mordaunt's dark hair spilled down to her shoulders. She wore a fitted deep navy blue blazer over a matching calf-length navy blue dress. The fit was loose enough not to call attention to her baby bump but not so loose as to hide it entirely. For those familiar with her, it was almost surreal to see her in something other than black. However, for this moment, she had wanted to avoid any implication of mourning. Her smile, in fact, was absolutely radiant. Dorian sat motionless beside Elizabeth in a Prince of Wales check suit, his fine-boned features almost clinically calm.

"The work of the present is the patient preparation of the ground from which you will set out. We owe you a Republic that does not leave every important question to the whims of the next election, or the next quarterly earnings report. We owe you a Republic that can build, research, heal, teach, and decide on questions we cannot yet even imagine."

Again the camera cut back to Nova as she closed: "We will travel on this journey to the future together, and with purpose. The tomorrow we build together must be a tomorrow that belongs to all of us.
Thank you."

The chamber broke into applause, and the camera swept across the half-circle, past the empty purple seats on the far left, to rest on the standing ovations in the centre. Cécile Prisse-d'Yvoy was smiling.

[The Resurgent Dream]

((Joint post with Xirnium))

Dorian found Elizabeth at the piano, the lid half-open. She was barefoot, shoulders loose, playing quietly as if she were checking something. He stopped in the doorway to listen.

He looked at Elizabeth as though he were looking through the side of her skull.

Elizabeth turned her head. “Admiring the view?” she asked.

“I am,” Dorian said. He gave her a small bloodless smile. “Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” Elizabeth said.

He came over to the piano. “I like to watch you play,” he said.

“I know,” she said with a playful smirk.

He placed his fingers over hers on the keys.

She smiled and looked up at him.

He held her hand.

“Come and sit with me, Elizabeth,” Dorian said.

“Okay,” she kept her hand in his and rose.

He led her to the sofa and they took a seat together.

“Listen, Elizabeth,” Dorian said gently. “I’ve seen the latest screen. It’s likely the child will be albino.”

“Wait…What?” Elizabeth said, seeming stunned by the news.

His fingers tightened around her hand.

“Elizabeth,” Dorian said evenly, “albinism isn’t part of standard aneuploidy screening. It shows up on whole-genome sequencing, which we ran at ten weeks.”

He watched her face. “The report identified pathogenic variants in an oculocutaneous albinism gene. A lack of pigment in the skin, hair, and eyes. Does that make sense?”

“I know what albinism is,” she said. “Nova is going to be crushed. She was, we were all, so looking forward to bringing a new life into the world. This was supposed to be the next generation.”

Dorian paused.

“Nova will adjust,” he said. “Setbacks happen. Plans fail. She knows this.”

Elizabeth looked at him skeptically, almost sullenly. “You seem calm.”

Dorian kissed her fingers. “Being upset won’t help.”

“It’ll help me,” Elizabeth insisted.

Dorian leaned in and pressed his head briefly to hers. “I am upset,” he said quietly.

She sighed and kissed him softly. “Does she know yet?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to tell you first, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth just sort of slumped. Dorian held her against his chest. His fingers went once through her hair.

[The Resurgent Dream]

ATLANTIC NEWS CHANNEL SIGNAL AND NOISE, SERIES 2, EPISODE 1 "The Rotsenberg Speech: What Nova Said and What It Means"
Host: Ellen Vuolo. Guests: Sophie Reyes (actress), Bianca Ferrera (actress and singer), Professor Arnaud Leroux (economist, University of Narich), Dr. Anneliese Vanden (political philosopher, University of Merotte), Natalie Voss (filmmaker and essayist), Márton Fekete-Vásárhelyi (political analyst, University of Mara).

[Studio four. Six chairs. The episode is going out the same evening as Nova Rotsenberg's inauguration speech — unusual for a programme that typically works with more preparation time. The producer's decision to convene this panel on the day reflects a specific judgment about the speech's significance.

Sophie Reyes is in a dark jacket, hair loose. She has the particular quality of someone who has been thinking about a specific person for months and has just watched that person's daughter take a major public office. She arrived with notes she has not looked at since.

Bianca Ferrera is in a deep green top, gold hoops, notebook open. She is here because she has a public profile and a public position on the Viljoen situation and the programme wanted her response to what came next. She looks like someone who is not entirely sure what she thinks yet.

Professor Arnaud Leroux is sixty-two, close-cropped grey hair, dark jacket over grey shirt, a folder of printed material he has memorised. He arrived first and has been sitting with his arms folded.

Dr. Anneliese Vanden is fifty-one, light brown hair, reading glasses pushed up on her head, navy blazer. She has Nova's speech printed out with annotations in two colours of ink.

Natalie Voss is a transwoman, thirty-seven, dark hair, a dark grey dress. She watched the speech on her phone on the way to the studio and has been quiet since.
Márton Fekete-Vásárhelyi is forty-four, his notebook open, something in the speech underlined and boxed. His coffee is untouched.]


VUOLO: Good evening. Nova Rotsenberg was recently elected Grand Pensionary of Knootoss by a margin of three votes. This evening she gave her inauguration speech. We've all watched it. Simple question to start: what did you hear? Arnaud.

LEROUX: I heard the daughter of a dictator invoke positive liberty and the good state and ask to be trusted to build institutions that enhance it. (a beat) The speech is well-written. The convalescence metaphor is effective. The physician's register is well-chosen. (another beat) And none of that changes who her father was, what he built, and what the family that bears his name controls. The Rotsenberg media network shapes what most Knootians read and watch and quite a few people in other Western Atlantic nations. The family's financial interests are intertwined with the major industrial sectors the state regulates. "The good state improves schools and hospitals" sounds rather different when said by someone whose family has spent two generations shaping what those schools teach and what those hospitals' procurement contracts look like. (directly) I am not saying she is insincere. I am saying sincerity is not the relevant variable.

VANDEN: I want to engage with the speech philosophically before the structural questions, because something needs to be specifically addressed. (she looks at her annotated copy) She said "we have been at our best whenever we have worked to ascend beyond ourselves." She closed with "the other worlds we have already reached" and the generations that "will reach even further." This is the National Humanist telos. The idea that history has a direction, that reason properly applied leads humanity toward a specific destination, that the role of the state is to accelerate this progress. (a beat) Philosophers like Karl Popper and Jules Stanford spent his career explaining why this kind of thinking — historicism — is incompatible with a free society. Not because progress is bad, certainly, but because claiming to know history's direction licenses suppressing everything that doesn't fit. This is as true whether the laws of history are traced to the World Spirit or the class struggle or to National Humanism’s very specific and very unconvincing account of reason. Her father's regime was a tragic demonstration of historicism at its worst. The speech invokes the telos that licensed the regime and asks us to receive it anew

FEKETE-VÁSÁRHELYI: Can I add something immediately, because I think it's the most precise observation so far. (to Vanden) The specific move Nova Rotsenberg made is to claim the NH inheritance while distancing herself from its worst applications. "My father served this country in a different age, history will continue to weigh him as it sees fit." She acknowledges Juliaan Rotsenberg's record without defending it. She invokes the Second Enlightenment torch without naming what was done in its name. (a beat) In information environment terms, this is the reclamation operation. You take a contaminated symbol, present it in a new register — calm, healing, institutional, forward-looking — and invite the audience to receive it in its new form. Whether the audience takes the invitation depends on whether they remember what the symbol meant before.

REYES: Can I say something more observational. I've been preparing to play Eleonora Rotsenberg-Zwartveldt in The Ascent. I've spent months reading about her, reading what she wrote, reading what was written about her, trying to understand who she is. And I watched her daughter’s speech and I kept thinking about the mother. Because the daughter is very careful to distance herself from the father — "my father served this country in a different age" — but the mother is still alive. The mother was in the gallery. The camera found her. And the mother is — (she chooses her words carefully) — the mother is not a figure who belongs to a different age. The mother is a figure of the present. And the speech does not mention her.

FERRERA: (looking up from her notebook) Wait — she was there?

REYES: Eleonora Rotsenberg-Zwartveldt. Yes.

FERRERA: Where?

REYES: In the gallery. In the red dress.

FERRERA: (a beat) I didn't — I was watching the speech, I didn't clock who that was. (a pause) That changes something.

VUOLO: What does it change?

FERRERA: (slowly) I Verved for Viljoen. I said publicly that the attack on him was wrong, that it was also an attack on me, and it was. It was my body in that nasty deepfake. I said people should support him because, whatever criticisms they might have, it was something horrible coming for him. And now I'm watching the person who replaced him give this speech about healing and institutions with the woman who — (she stops) — I don't actually know enough about Eleonora Rotsenberg to say what I was about to say. But I do hear what everyone says and she makes me shudder.

LEROUX: What rough beast…

FERRERA: (to Leroux) You heard that, huh?

VOSS: The red dress. Did you notice what was on it?

REYES: The torch of the Second Enlightenment.

VOSS: The torch of the Second Enlightenment. The mother wore it on her dress to her daughter's inauguration. The distancing from the father and the continuity through the mother are happening simultaneously in the same ceremony and most of the coverage is not going to mention that.

LEROUX: (to Voss) Which is the information environment point precisely. The camera found Eleonora Rotsenberg-Zwartveldt for — how long? Four seconds? Five? If you knew who she was, that image is the most significant image in the broadcast. If you didn't know who she was, it is an elderly woman in a wheelchair crying at an inauguration. The same image means entirely different things depending on what you bring to it. And who controls what the audience brings to it?

FEKETE-VÁSÁRHELYI: (to Leroux) The network that broadcast the ceremony. Yes. I want to be careful here because the claim that the broadcast was managed to show Eleonora strategically requires evidence I don't have. What I can say is that the camera choice — however it was made — produces the effect you're describing. The image of Eleonora is either a moment of genuine human feeling or a political signal or both simultaneously. The information environment processes it differently depending on the audience's prior knowledge. And the prior knowledge of most of the audience has been shaped by the Rotsenberg media network.

VANDEN: I want to return to the institutional language, because the Popperian problem with the speech is specific. Rotsenberg, Nova Rotsenberg, said "place your trust in the people who hold the institutions together: our judges, our civil servants, our teachers, our doctors." Popper's argument — and this is his central point — is that the open society does not depend on trusting the right people. It depends on building institutions accountable regardless of who holds them. The NH period produced competent, well-intentioned people in institutions that could not be corrected because they were not designed to be. The speech asks for trust in people. It says almost nothing about the mechanisms that make people in institutions accountable when they get things wrong. The word "accountability" does not appear. The word "oversight" does not appear.

REYES: There's a line in the speech — "we are a country of engineers and technicians, of physicians and teachers, of researchers and builders." I've spent months inside Eleonora Rotsenberg-Zwartveldt's world, thinking about what she valued and what she dismissed. And that list — engineers, technicians, physicians, teachers, researchers, builders — that is the Republic of Merit's list. The list of contributors. The people the NH programme designated as worth preserving and advancing. The people who didn't make the list — the artists, the people who are not productive in that sense, the people the programme designated as not contributing — they're absent. I don't know if her daughter intended that. But I know where that list comes from. I've been reading the source material.

VUOLO: National Humanism did have some artists. I wouldn’t say they greatly valued art per se but they used it to express their values.There are entire books about National Humanist art and both Rotsenbergs are associated with a controversial composer…

REYES: Fine. Fine.

VANDEN: (to Reyes) But there is something there. The closed society defines its members by their contribution to an already defined destiny. The open society has to include people who don't contribute to any particular direction — who simply exist and have rights by virtue of existing. That list is a list of contributors. The speech doesn't have a place for anyone else.

VUOLO: But Popper of all people certainly valued scientists, as did Stanford.

VANDEN: He didn’t think they had a privileged position as people.

FERRERA: (to Reyes) You're playing Eleonora.What is she like? I mean — having spent that time with her. What is she?

REYES: (a long pause) I haven’t spent time with her. I’ve studied her, kinda. But the musical isn’t really super accurate. I guess she’s — (she thinks about how to say this accurately) — she is completely certain. About everything. About what history requires and who is fit to lead and what the state is for. And the certainty is not stupidity — she is very intelligent — and it is not cruelty exactly.

VOSS: Oh?

REYES: Ok. Not only cruelty. It is the certainty of someone who has decided she has done the work and arrived at the correct answer and the correct answer is not subject to revision. And I watch her daughter's speech and I think — the daughter is not the mother. The tone is completely different. Nova Rotsenberg is measured and careful and she talks about patience and institutions and the long work of repair. She wouldn’t want to see you digging peat if she didn’t like what you said. At least she wouldn’t say it out loud. But the torch is the same torch. And Eleonora was in the gallery in the red dress, crying tears of joy and pride, and I can’t help thinking about what the mother thinks she is watching.

(A silence.)

VOSS: Let’s talk about the vote. She won by three votes. Taelman's caucus gave her those votes. The Greens and the Socialists — her own coalition's partners — backed her opponent. I remember when Taelman was in power before. Things that happened to people I know, in schools, in families, were not unconnected to his policies in Epheron. So I hear "judge me by my actions not my surname" and I think — yes, I will, I genuinely will. And I also think: the vote that put her there was cast by people whose political project is not healing. The speech asks me to look at the speech. The vote count is still there if I look at the vote.

LEROUX: The economic silence in the speech is significant. "Convalescence" is a mood, not a programme. "The good state improves schools and hospitals" — fine, I agree philosophically. The speech does not mention taxation. Does not mention capital distribution. Does not mention media ownership.

VOSS: Media owners rarely do.

LEROUX: In a country where capital concentration is as significant as it is in Knootoss, this silence is a choice. The gap between the aspirational language and the structural silence is very wide. I notice that the person best positioned to address that structural silence is the person whose family's capital concentration, whose family’s media concentration ,si overwhelming. The speech asks for patience. Patience for what?

FEKETE-VÁSÁRHELYI: "A public sphere in which truth matters." She said it as a goal of the good state. The Rotsenberg network is the largest single shaper of the public sphere in Knootoss. The family that owns that network has just installed one of its own — by three votes — in the Grand Pensionary's office. And the speech includes "a public sphere in which truth matters" as an aspiration. The person best positioned to shape whether the public sphere is one in which truth matters is the person who controls the largest media apparatus in the country. The relationship between the stated aspiration and the existing mechanism is unaddressed. The speech does not address it. It asks us to trust that the goal will eventually engage with the fact. I have written this down. I will be watching.

VOSS: KNN is not a voice for truth?

LEROUX: (sarcastically) She was certainly fearless in facing historical truth about her father’s regime.

FEKETE-VÁSÁRHELYI: She left it to the judgment of historians, which allows her to say it will still be addressed, no mines have to change, but also renders the truth irrelevant. Everyone is entitled to their own judgment of her father, but it’s no longer part of the public conversation.

FERRERA: (slowly) The thing that doesn't add up for me, I mean, I think… (hesitant) The speech is about healing and trust and patience and the long work of repair. And the way she got into office is — it doesn't look like that. Three votes. Taelman's votes. Her own side voting against her I Verved for Viljoen because I thought what happened to him was wrong. I get why some people weren’t fans. I do. But I think I was looking at what happened to him instead of what it was for. I don't know what it was for. But I know Rotsenberg doesn’t want to ask.

VUOLO: (carefully) That is a significant thing to say publicly.

FERRERA: Yeah. I know.

VANDEN: (to Ferrera, and not unkindly) I would say the question you should be asking is not what the installation was for — which you may never know — but whether the institutions that allowed it are structured to correct themselves if it was for something bad. That is the question the speech does not answer. It asks for trust. The point is that the open society does not run on trust. It runs on accountability. Those are different things.

VUOLO: Knootian democratic institutions didn’t vanish because they got a new Grand Pensionary. The same institutions capable of restraining Viljoen are capable of restraining Rotsenberg.

VOSS: Viljoen was restrained?

VUOLO: Knootians would say that’s exactly what just happened.

REYES: I've been preparing to play someone who believes completely in a specific vision of what history requires and who is completely certain she is right about it and I watched her daughter give this speech. And the daughter is not the mother — I want to say that clearly, because having spent this time in the source material I can see the differences as well as the continuities. But I keep thinking about a specific thing. Eleonora Rotsenberg-Zwartveldt was in that gallery. She watched her daughter's speech. She was wearing the torch. (a beat) And I keep thinking about what she thinks the speech means. Because I don't think she heard the same speech we did.

FERRERA: I’m terrified she did hear the same speech I did.

VUOLO: Thank you all. We'll be back after the break.

[End of segment.]

Production note: The episode generated more correspondence in its first twenty-four hours than any previous episode in either series. The most discussed moment was not any single clip but the accumulation — Reyes's observation about the mother, Voss's observation about the torch on the dress, Ferrera working out in real time what she was sitting with. Arnaud Leroux published a column titled "Positive Liberty and Capital Concentration: A Note on the New Grand Pensionary's Inauguration." It was the most downloaded piece in the Narich Economic Review's history. Anneliese Vanden was asked whether she thought Nova Rotsenberg was an authoritarian. She said: "I think she is someone who believes history has a direction and that she knows what it is. Whether that makes her an authoritarian depends entirely on what she does when people disagree with her." A pause. "I will be watching that very carefully." Bianca Ferrera posted nothing about the episode. She deleted a draft post three times. Sophie Reyes, asked in a subsequent interview about The Ascent, said: "I understand her better now than I did before the speech. I'm not sure that makes the role easier." Natalie Voss posted a photograph of a torch. No caption. Fekete-Vásárhelyi wrote nothing publicly. Ellen Vuolo, asked what she remembered most, said: "Sophie saying she doesn't think Eleonora heard the same speech we did." A pause. "I keep thinking about what that means."

[Pantocratoria]

From the Opinion page of the Imperial Monitor
MonitorBlog:
Editor Charles Gutennes
The Knootian Parliament’s election of Nova Rotsenberg to the office of Grand Pensionary was presented, in her own words, as a moment of composure: a nation recovering itself, a people tired of division, a state ready to move forward. It was a calm speech, carefully measured, almost deliberately unprovocative. Yet its restraint concealed a more troubling premise. When Rotsenberg spoke of “convalescence,” she did not refer to a recovery from the long shadow of National Humanism, but to the democratic years that followed it. The implication was unmistakable: that the Knootian Republic’s recent pluralism, debate, and moral scrutiny were themselves a kind of illness. What was offered, then, was not healing through truth, but relief purchased at the cost of refusing it.

This inversion placed her request to be judged “not by my surname” in a harsher light. It was a claim that the burdens of inheritance might be set aside, even as the political culture that had sought to examine that inheritance was quietly pathologised. Rotsenberg did not repudiate the system that elevated her family, nor did she name its abuses. Instead, she asked that they be bracketed, while casting the subsequent democratic period as a time of instability from which Knootoss must now recover. Despite apparently not wanting to be associated with the human rights abuses of the reign of her father, Juliaan Rotsenberg, she also declined to address them directly: “history will weigh him as it sees fit”. In doing so, she did not accept the burden of inheritance, but sought to set it aside without ever having borne it.

More subtle, and more revealing, was the continuity of language. The appeal to ascent, to technical virtue, to Knootoss being at its best when it rose beyond itself was not simply civic rhetoric. It was the elder Rotsenberg’s vocabulary, the language of National Humanism, built on its underlying assumptions even as the speaker tried to close the book on the past. In a speech that treated recent democratic life as malaise, these echoes did not reassure. They suggest that what Nova Rotsenberg seeks to restore is not merely stability after the buffoonery of Maurits Viljoen, but a way of thinking about the state and its purposes that sit uneasily with the discipline of democratic judgement.

What makes the appointment more striking is not only who Nova Rotsenberg is, but how she came to be nominated and elected to be the Knootian Grand Pensionary. Nova Rotsenberg has not been a participant in public life. She had not held office, built a constituency, or submitted herself to the ordinary disciplines of public service. Her private sector career, largely facilitated by her familial technocratic connections, never gave cause for significant public scrutiny, and puts her at odds with past Grand Pensionaries like Maurits Viljoen or Jan-Willem Daatman. That such a person from such a controversial political dynasty should be elevated, abruptly and without evident public mandate, to the symbolic apex of the Knootian Republic speaks less to renewal than to selection. It is the sort of selection which astonishes those who have become accustomed to modern Knootian democratic norms, and gives credence to the hitherto dismissed online ravings of conspiracy theorists.

For the new Orange Coalition Government in Pantocratoria, this moment demands particular care. The office of Grand Pensionary may be largely ceremonial, but the choice of Nova Rotsenberg is not. Rotsenberg has been elevated by the always-in-government Social Liberal Party, the party of the political establishment most linked by the aforementioned conspiracy theorists with the Knootian deep state. In that act the SLP and the Knootian political establishment revealed something of its present disposition: not only a willingness to soften the legacy of National Humanism, but a readiness to cast the period of liberal democracy which has followed as a something requiring correction. Prime Minister Charlotte van Jonkervelde has entrusted the symbolic leadership of the Knootian Republic to a figure formed outside its modern democratic traditions. This is not simply a question of historical memory: it brings into question the direction in which the Knootian political establishment is moving.

The new Pantocratorian Government does not need to respond with alarm, but neither should it mistake the moment as normal. The Orange Coalition, under Chancellor Pagonis, would do well to treat this not as a passing curiosity, but as an early indication that a close partner might be turning toward a more selective relationship with its own past. Selective amnesia, if you will, in which the demands of accountability and democratic legitimacy are set aside in favour of an unexamined self-confidence, and the comfort of forgetting is allowed to pass for renewal.

[Excalbia]

Sunday Morning on EBC
Hosted by Amanda Daugvina

Veteran EBC journalist Amanda Daugvina sat in front of a colourful backdrop, resting her arms on a small table. Across from her sat a trim woman dressed in a flattering suit jacket, skirt and heels, who looked much younger than her 60 years.

“Good morning,” Daugvina said pleasantly. ‘It’s Sunday Morning here on EBC, and I’m Amada Daugvina.”

She turned to face a different camera. “With us today is one of our favourite guests: former Imperial Chancellor, former Minister of Defence, and former Minister of State Lady Christina Freedman.

“Thank you for joining us this morning, Lady Christina.”

“Thank you for having me back, Amanda,” Freedman said, smiling, “and for giving me a swelled head with that introduction.”

Daugvina smiled. “Hardly,” she said. “That was just a partial list.”

She paused, then continued. “We have a lot to talk about today, but let’s start with Nova Rotsenberg.”

“Yes,” Freedman said, “let’s.”

“Well then,” Daugvina said, “let’s start with the speech. Did you watch it?”

“Of course.”

“What did you think of it?”

Freedman leaned back and crossed her legs. “It was well written,” she said, “and well delivered. Frankly, Nova, or should I say Grand Prensionary Rotsenberg, surprised me.”

“Oh?” Daugvina asked. “How so?”

“I didn’t realize she was so… polished.” Freedman smiled. “Of course, with her mother owning KNN I’m sure she had good coaching.”

“And the substance?”

“Well,” Freedman leaned forward, “let me start by saying that I’m biased in favour of tough women in power. All too often they - we - are unfairly criticized for the same things for which men are praised.

“However, in this case, I think there is some fair criticism.” Freedman leaned back. “I’ve read a lot about how Rotsenberg distanced herself from her father’s policies and the excesses of National Humanism. But I don’t think she did.”

Daugvina raised an eyebrow. “Really? But she said…”

“She said,” Freedman said, “that times are different now, with the implication being that old approaches don’t work anymore, and that history would judge her father.” She shook her head. “That’s classic political weak tea.

“I could say that about any of my predecessors. Chancellor Akoak could say that about me. It’s a simple statement of fact. Not a repudiation. Not distancing. It’s wrapped up, massaged, and delivered to create the illusion of a distancing, if not repudiation. But it’s neither.

“Nova Rotsenberg said nothing contrary to the old authoritarian tenets of National Humanism.

“And a second point, even if her speech put some distance between her and her father, which I don't think it did, it did nothing to put any distance between her and her mother.

“If Nova Rosenberg really wants to turn the page on National Humanism, and put its ghost behind her, she needs to state clearly that she rejects its universal and totalitarian claims, and that she repudiates both her father’s and mother’s actions during the dictatorship.”

Daugvina turned to the camera. “We’ll be back with more from Lady Christina after the break.”

[Excalbia]

Paul Akoak (He/Him)
@ChancellorOfficial

Congratulations to Nova Rotsenberg on her election as Grand Pensionary of Knootoss. We look forward to continuing our friendly relations with Knootoss under her tenure. #PeaceandProsperity #Democracy

↷5109❤15867∂356

RAISE UP THIS VOICE:
⚭Married
✝Church of Excalbia

[Snefaldia]

Passili Palace, Sargedain

Even though it was springtime, the feet of Zannanza, High King of Snefaldia, still felt cold, and in the lengthening shadows of the evening that were filling his study he restlessly shifted his toes in their slippers as he tried to focus on the papers in front of him. He had still not gotten used to tablets, or even computers, despite their commanding domination of the current world of state communication and information. Important things - letters, reports, itineraries - were still brought to him in the King's despatch box of green morocco leather. Putting aside the piece in front of him (the draft of a congratulatory message to the new Knootian Grand Pensionary), he put fingers under his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes, then snapped the reading lamp at his desk on to counteract the growing dark of evening, which otherwise was giving a gloomy feel to the high-walled study, paneled in dark polished mahogany and filled with books and papers. A glance at the clock told him him it was only 7:30. He felt it was much later.

There was a soft tap at the door, and in came Shamash, his private secretary, a pudgy man in a three-piece suit whose carefully-trimmed mustache and bald-shaved head conveyed the hints of his former military life. "Your Majesty. The Lord Chancellor is here."

A visit from the Chancellor was not expected. The king perked up. "What? He didn't telephone." Shamash shook his head in response. "No, sir. He said it was urgent."

The monarch paused, then nodded. "Well, better show him in." He briefly looked around, straightening some of the papers and buttoning his collar. When at home, casually, he still out of habit wore a casual army officer's tunic, four-pocketed, with the higher collar. He felt suddenly undressed, though, without his boots and his slippered feet under the desk. What could this be about? Was it about the Succession Law legislation that kept getting held up? After a moment, Shamash returned with the Lord Chancellor Zylván Hossä, barrel-chested and bearded in a finely cut grey suit. He gave a sharp bow at the neck, and waited. "Your Majesty."

The king gestured for a seat, not rising himself. "Have a seat. What's all this that you come to the Palace in a hurry for?" He regarded the Chancellor carefully. Hossá had been Chancellor for nearly six years, and his National Unity Party had fought off contenders in the last election. No matter the situation, he always felt the man had a strong sense of energy and drive. You could see it in his eyes.

Hossä nodded, taking his seat. "Thank you, sir. I'm afraid it is a sensitive subject. I have come directly from an emergency cabinet meeting where it was brought up. And..."

The King leaned back, regarding his Chancellor. This was unlike him. Generally completely unflappable, a master of handling the media, policy, everything. He'd been a powerhouse since the end of the civil conflict, safe to say he was even a linchpin of the restoration of trust in government and democratic ideals. In fact in the past five years Zannanza had not known him to be hesitant or nervous about anything, even at the height of the Aerion Crisis. "Go on, let's have it."

Hossä cleared his through. "Well, uh, sir. As you know, since I entered politics my shares of the Hossä Media Group have been held in a blind trust and I have had no, ah, day to day dealings in the business and officially resigned from leadership positions in the corporation. And, well. When I was abroad running the business I had worked closely with many regional partners and industry peers, did business with many of them. As I say, since I became Lord Chancellor I have not had anything to do with the business. But, well."

The monarch listened quietly. He could feel what this was building toward and he didn't like it. "Well?"

"I have been informed that sources within the Democratic Liberal Party have received... evidence, well, there are claims of evidence of improper business dealings between the Hossä Media Group and the business entities controlled by the Rotsenbergs in several Western Atlantic countries. And I am told that there are plans plans to attack myself and the government as soon as the Bel sit again next week. That they have not leaked this to the press suggests something is being planned."

The King thought while the Chancellor talked and in the silence, he thought a bit more. "What sort of "improper business dealings?"

"The nature of the claims are still being worked out from my sources."

The King shook his head. "That is not what I mean. What sort of improper business dealings did you have, Zylvan?"

He watched the Chancellor's face, the emotions shifting in him as he realized that what the King was really asking wasn't "are the allegations true" but rather "what exactly did you do wrong?" He went from confusion to understanding to brief anger, then resignation, then his face was composed and serious again.

"Well, I can't lay everything out for you at the moment. But the things that I am likely to be hit with have to do with illegal pay-to-play payments, collusion to fix advertising rates, and illicit noncompete agreements in some regional media sectors." He paused, as if he was considering something, then his face said he'd decided and spoke again. "There will also be an accusation that, while serving as Chancellor, I illegally instructed the Hossä Media Group to promote narratives in print and broadcast media that targeted the van Jonkerveld government and its policies with regard to Snefaldia after the efforts to normalize relations with Anahuac."

There was a long silence between them and the King watched, with interest, the shadow of his desk lamp lengthening. Without leaning forward, he looked back up at Hossä. "...And?"

Again, there was procession of emotions over the Chancellor's normally unflappable face. "...And, your Majesty, with all the recent discussions of early elections for the past month, I expect that the DLP will ultimately succeed in gathering enough support to win a motion of no confidence. And I am informed by the NUP members of my cabinet that, if there is indeed some proof that the DLP can provide, I will face a serious revolt from within my own party and will not be able to contest the election as party chairman."

Now the King leaned forward. He formed his words carefully. "So. What then?"

The Chancellor did not show his feelings on his face this time. "If I am able to confirm the information that is in the DLP's possession, then..."

The King stared at him in such a way that he stopped speaking. It was penetrating, transfixing. He blinked, then continued. "That is. I. I intend to hold a press conference on the matter. And to offer my resignation as Lord Chancellor and step down as National Unity Party Chairman after dissolving Parliament."

The High King stared as him some more, but the gaze was lessened a bit. He slowly stood up, no longer anxious about his slippers, and went over to fill two crystal glasses with bourbon whiskey from a sideboard in the study's corner. He glanced up at the portrait on the wall - one of the great 19th century militant reformer Sonel Tausoll, done during his exile in Excalbia after his revolution failed. He turned and handed the glass to Hossä, who was now standing.

"Well. Alright then. You have my trust, Zylvan," he said, and the words fell with the same purpose as a headman's axe. He drained the glass. Hossä did the same. The two men regarded each other briefly, the Lord Chancellor matching the eyes of the sovereign he helped put on the throne. Without another word, he gave a curt formal bow at the neck, turned, and exited the study. The High King watched the door for a moment, then filled his glass again and went back to the desk.

Of course, there was no other way around it. Illegal payments and backroom deals were nothing, in the end, especially when it was with the money-grubbing scum of the Knootian business establishment. And in any case, that had been when Hossä was in exile, rebuilding his media empire and preparing for the return of democracy to Snefaldia. They'd been on different sides, then. The Snefaldian public would only need to hear from him how he had made deals he wasn't proud of to free his homeland and they'd forgive him. But, illegal collusion while in office, with his former company, to achieve a foreign policy goal? One that seemed to benefit the ideological allies of the new Knootian Grand Pensionary? Even if it were false, the accusation would blow the NUP apart.

Inwardly, Zannanza cursed. Rotsenberg! Rotsenberg! That decaying old witch still had her fingers in everything! And her daughter, the fake doctor with a vision of the future that glowed like nuclear fire. They were a revolutionary party that could never realize that revolutions need to end, radical true believers for whom "no, we are now at peace" meant nothing. He refilled his glass, then slumped back in his chair. He figured there was about a 50/50 chance the NUP could hold onto the government if Hossä fell on his sword, like he said he would. The majority would be thin, only the Constituent Social Group seats would likely hold it for the National Unionists facing a massive scandal. If he didn't do the right thing... it would definitely be a Democratic Liberal Government, and then things would get interesting.

The king drained his glass and massaged his cold toes, trying to get the warmth of the liquor to them. He suddenly realized he would be seventy years old next year. His last birthday had just been in March. A glance around the room, and at his despatch box, and he was surprised by how dark it was, how much there was left to do. He looked up at the portrait of Tausoll, another visionary revolutionary -- but one who had failed, dying disappointed in a foreign lang nearly two hundred years ago.

Suddenly, High King Zannanza felt very old.

[Knootoss]

Context: Samuel Westerveldt was born in 1954 into a family of civil servants and academics. He entered the New University of Haag in 1972 and studied political philosophy and history. By the time he pursued his doctoral studies in the late 1970s, the reformists within the SOV were loosening restrictions on academic discourse. Westerveldt took full advantage of this, crafting a dissertation on the ideological decay of socialist states. The topic was, at the time, seen as a clever analysis of foreign regimes rather than a veiled critique of Knootoss itself.

His first book, The Fragile Consensus (1982), found an audience among reformist intellectuals. Officially, the book was about historical case studies in other countries. Unofficially, it was about Knootoss. By the mid-1980s, Westerveldt had secured a position as a lecturer at his alma mater. After 1987, he became one of the faculty's key voices. Unlike some of his colleagues, he had never been overtly compromised by the old system, and unlike the younger reformers, he had lived long enough under National Humanism to understand its internal logic.

In 1996 he published Belief is Weakness, Knowledge is Strength - A Retrospective on Late National Humanism arguing that the late regime had survived not through terror or conviction but through pure inertia. The transition to democracy, he wrote, had been a rebranding rather than a reckoning. The essay closed on a warning about what happens when a system sustained by performance encounters a figure willing to take the performance to its logical conclusion.

He retired from teaching in 2023 but has continued to write. In 2024 he published A Lack Of Imagination: National Humanism, Trinh, and the Tyranny of Inevitability, arguing that Knootian grievance politics and Caldan managerial liberalism are two faces of the same condition. Both had lost the capacity to imagine alternatives to themselves. The deeper crisis of regional democracy, he suggested, was no longer overthrow but exhaustion: a politics that endured because it was easier to maintain than to dismantle, and which would fade not in fire but in indifference unless the imagination to demand something else was recovered.

Three Merchants and a Minister
By Dr. Samuel Westerveldt (2026)

I have never watched this much television.

The reason, since you ask, is prostate cancer. The scan was a precaution. The doctor used the word "indolent" three times. It is a word I had previously only associated with graduate students.

The treatment involves a precise beam from a machine the size of a small car, guided by Artificial Intelligence and high resolution imaging, delivered in sessions of fifteen minutes, five days a week, for seven weeks. There are also hormone injections, which are their own small humiliation, and a growing catalogue of indignities. Among them is fatigue that does not yield to rest.

So. I am watching television on the sofa with the curtains half-drawn, sipping a cup of lukewarm tea. The Atlantic News Channel's Signal and Noise is a programme of a kind we no longer quite produce in Knootoss, and I have been grateful for it. To watch a panel of thoughtful Caldans discuss one's country as it enthrones a new Grand Pensionary is not unpleasant. It is also not quite comfortable.

The panel were correctly alarmed by the grand metaphysical register and attentive to the lists of who counts. They were rightly worried about the Crimson Widow in the gallery. And yet they drew a cordon around what was strange, and treated what was not strange, the civic language of patience and diligence and courtesy and vocations and sense of proportion, as decent ceremonial filler.

To watch foreigners read one's nation carefully is to watch them make observations only an outsider could make, and miss things that are difficult to see from outside.

The merchants and the minister

In the Knootian public tradition we speak of the merchant and the minister. Every Knootian schoolchild is introduced to the pair first as metaphor and only later, if at all, as history. The merchant is worldly, ironic, transactional, tolerant because intolerance is bad for business, and patient with contradiction. The minister is moralising, doctrinally certain, intolerant of contradiction on principle, and eager to assign moral responsibility. Knootian politics work when the two restrain one another. The merchant without the minister becomes a swindler; the minister without the merchant, an inquisitor.

The two voices coexist, but usually unequally. For the last fifty years the merchant has been ascendant. In our domestic politics: managed inevitability, careful reform, and mild irony about oneself. In our foreign policy: pragmatic dealmaking, most prominently through the Nivelet framework, whose human-rights commitments, as one of the Caldan panellists correctly observed in a subsequent episode, are a very low bar in a treaty full of very low bars. Hendrik de Lange is a foreign policy salesman hawking the interests of the well-connected without any discernible underlying principles.

The minister has been audible throughout, but only as commentary. Our editorialists scold Pantocratoria about its treatment of women, scold Anahuac about communist repression, and scold the Excalbians, usually more gently, about their constitutional peculiarities. They also scold us, in the domestic pages, for our various failings of the week. None of it has the slightest purchase on policy. The merchant reads the columns over breakfast, and goes on to write the laws.

The merchant's half century is now ending in three simultaneous failures. The first is the merchant as scoundrel. It was personified by Maurits Viljoen: a man who would trade anything and believed nothing, a showman and self-promoter who nevertheless wanted to be inside the tent, pissing out. He humiliated the office and, by extension, the merchant's voice he was speaking in. Viljoen was the merchant in a debased form, bad for the country in the ways that embarrassment is bad, but not a threat to democracy's continued existence.

The second failure is the merchant as technocrat. Charlotte van Jonkervelde is still Prime Minister. I wrote two years ago that the deeper crisis of democracy in our region was exhaustion, and that exhaustion was the corrosive condition that would eventually make something worse possible. Van Jonkervelde is that condition made flesh. She is competent without being inspiring. She is adequate without being directional. A merchant is not supposed to preach. Van Jonkervelde does not preach. She also does not, because she cannot, offer anything that addresses the hunger her country has for something more than management.

The third failure is the merchant as demagogue, and here we come to Steven Taelman, or Staalman, currently leading the polls and very likely to be our next Prime Minister. Staalman is also a merchant. He has no telos, no faith, no secular project for the betterment of all mankind. His followers will tell you otherwise. They experience what he does as ministry, not merchandise. They may be right about what they experience. They are wrong about what he is. What he has is the merchant's instinct for what the market will buy. And the market is buying anger. He has turned against the system that formed him, not out of principle but because there is a clear opportunity in the anti-system position. The panellists in the second Caldan episode named him correctly as the most immediate threat to democracy. A Staalman premiership will be ugly. It will involve the suspension of ordinary decencies, attacks on minorities, and the degradation of institutions. These are real harms and they are authoritarian in the classical sense: the concentration of power in the hands of a figure who wants to rule and who is prepared to dispense with the inconvenient protections that might limit his ruling.

Three merchants, then, three failures. The scoundrel has been retired. The technocrat lingers. The demagogue waits in the wings. Into this configuration walks the minister, in the person of Nova Rotsenberg.

There is a certain resemblance between the Rotsenbergs and the Jesus of the Gospels who drove the merchants and money changers from the temple. Eleonora in her prime did something very like this. The 1950s and 1960s saw the Omsterdam trading floor repurposed as a Temple of Reason. The merchants crept back in through the side entrance once the minister grew tired. It would be characteristic of the Rotsenbergs, mother and daughter, to attempt the cleansing a second time. The merchants to be driven out have grown fat and complacent, and the temple cleansing on offer is therefore presented, quite plausibly, as a service to the Republic.

The sermon

Nova Rotsenberg's speech is, from first line to last, a sermon in the specific secular register of Knootian moral exhortation. The language is not overtly religious or even consistently metaphysical. It is continuously pastoral. It tells the listener to be patient, diligent, courteous in disagreement, possessed of a sense of proportion, and willing to place trust in the right people. These make disagreement feel not like politics but like moral failure.

Mr. Fekete-Vásárhelyi's observation about the reclamation operation was correct, but I want to sharpen it. His point, that the speech takes a contaminated symbol and presents it in a new register so that the audience may be induced to receive it again, is right as far as it goes. But the contaminated symbol being reclaimed is not just the torch of the Second Enlightenment on Eleonora's dress, though that was the image of the evening. It is the ministerial voice in its assertive mode: the voice that proposes to lead rather than merely to comment. For five decades that voice has been the voice of editorialists and conscience-keepers. It has not been the voice of power. Nova Rotsenberg has scrubbed it of its most obviously compromised language but delivered its emotional architecture intact.

The mother wept in the gallery because her daughter had delivered, in a register of perfect respectability, the sermon she might have delivered in a register of perfect provocation. The content was dilute. The form was undiminished. That was worth a tear.

The medical metaphor should now be placed where it belongs. The Caldan panel noticed it, called it effective, and set it aside as atmosphere. It is not atmosphere. It is the ministerial mode in its most current secular disguise. The physician is the minister of bodies. The body is what we have left to minister to, in a country that no longer admits the soul. The metaphor of convalescence converts political disagreement into pathology, pathology into technical questions, and technical questions into a matter for experts who are not taking questions from the congregation.

Professor Leroux, the economist, correctly noted that the speech made no mention of taxation, capital distribution, or media ownership. The absences are the things the merchant would have raised, and the merchant is not in the room. In a healthy Knootian register, a speech at this level of ambition would be answered, in the same voice or the next, by a speech about what is being proposed, exactly, and who is to pay for it. None of that is present. The speech is not in the tradition that sullies itself with such things. The minister does not peek into the donation box on the way into the sanctuary.

The panel's observation about the list of contributors in the speech (engineers, technicians, physicians, teachers, researchers, builders) belongs in the same analysis. It is not only the closed society's anthropology of the contributor. It is also the ministerial anthropology of the worthy soul: the Elect one who works and studies and teaches and heals, against the one who merely exists. Note also the absence of the businessman or the entrepreneur, whom any of the merchant-politicians would have given pride of place.

The question now is whether anyone in Knootian public life is still capable of speaking the merchant's voice respectably. The party that should now be answering in the merchant's register are the bread-and-butter wing of the left, the tendency of Hugo van Druten and Ayanda Ndlovu. I wish them well, but I am not optimistic.

Two projects

There are now two projects visible in our politics. The first project is Staalman. He is the merchant in his demagogic form, and what he threatens is classical authoritarianism. He would concentrate power in his own office and around it. He would harass, imprison, or kill people he dislikes and muzzle or discredit the press that reports on him.

The second project is that of the Rotsenberg dynasty, which has never been satisfied with merely ruling. The National Humanism of Nova's parents was not ordinary authoritarianism, but a project for the transformation of human nature. This is the distinction the twentieth century taught us to make between ordinary dictatorship and totalitarianism. The dictator is content to rule; the totalitarian is not. The totalitarian project has a direction and a teleology, and the human material in front of it is understood as something to be worked upon rather than merely ruled over.

I do not know, and Nova Rotsenberg may not yet know, whether she is a merchant in the minister's wardrobe or the minister in full. The Caldan philosopher Dr. Vanden, at the end of the programme, said that whether Nova Rotsenberg is an authoritarian depends on what she does when people disagree with her. An authoritarian is a figure our liberal tradition knows how to resist. Someone who has inherited the Rotsenberg tradition, and who decides to act on it, is a figure our liberal tradition has historically resisted only after a great deal of damage has been done.

The cancer and the cure

In 1996 I wrote that the late National Humanist system was sustained not by belief or terror but by the sheer grinding weight of inertia, and that something similar was happening to our democratic ideals. Within a year of its publication, the crisis of 1997 saw the abortive rise of Dick Tator. The current incarnation is Staalman. In 2024 I wrote that the deeper crisis of democracy was no longer overthrow but exhaustion. What I failed to imagine in either essay, and what I now think is the more serious danger, is the Minister of Bodies who arrives with an answer to the exhaustion.

The medical metaphor was never only a metaphor and Nova Rotsenberg did not choose it by accident.

Staalman is a cancer. This is the language our polity will reach for when he wins, and it is not the wrong language. The politics he represents have been growing for decades, concealed for most of that time and visibly metastasising now. It will kill the patient if it is not treated. It is also the sort of condition a healthy body politic knows how to recognise and has some experience of treating.

Nova Rotsenberg is presented as holding the cure. This is the frame her installation is designed to create, and the frame a large part of the country, relieved at last to be ministered to, will be inclined to accept. If there is a new crisis in the mould of 1997, she will have been handed the patient at the moment when they are most frightened. If so, she may be given very considerable latitude to administer whatever treatment she judges necessary.

Will she reach for a cure that belongs to the pharmacopoeia of ordinary liberal medicine, or to the heroic pharmacopoeia of the old regime?

The cancer bomb, as it was called in the 1950s and 1960s, was a marvel of its age. A cobalt-60 source in a lead-shielded head suspended over a treatment table, the whole apparatus housed in a reinforced underground chamber, the technician in a separate chamber manipulating the dials. The patient was alone on the table. The dose was vast. The targeting was approximate.

The machine cured cancers that had previously been untreatable, and in doing so it destroyed a great deal of the patient that was not cancer. Nerves. Connective tissue. The capacity to swallow, in some cases. Fertility, almost always. The skin at the treatment site became something alien: fragile, hairless, darker, and forever threaded with visible capillaries. The patient usually survived but was never the same.

This is the treatment the Rotsenberg inheritance has on offer. Not the cautious, piecemeal, compromising medicine of the open society, which accepts that cancers sometimes recur and that the body's tolerance for intervention has limits. The heroic medicine of the old regime. The massive dose. The acceptable collateral damage. Absolute confidence that the patient, after the treatment, will have ascended beyond the limitations of his own flawed nature. My country has been an experimental subject for this kind of treatment before. The memory of it is still present, though less remembered with every passing year.

The machinery of the old regime was never dismantled. It was switched off. It was left in its reinforced underground chamber, quietly decaying to a less active half-life but still perfectly capable of being switched back on by anyone who knows where the dials are.

The Rotsenbergs know where the dials are.

I do not know whether Nova Rotsenberg intends to administer the full dose. It is possible that she is what some will want her to be: a minister constrained by merchants, or a merchant in the minister's wardrobe, borrowing the aesthetic of her dynasty, resulting in a period of preachy leadership dressed up in her mother's vocabulary. It is possible that she has taken up the ministerial voice without intending to take up the ministerial project. This is the hopeful reading and it is not impossible. It would require her to be considerably less serious than she appears.

The alternative reading is that she is the real thing. That she has inherited not only the voice but the project, and that Knootoss is about to receive, at a dose to be determined by the severity of the cancer in the judgement of the physician, the old regime's characteristic cure. The patient on the table will be told, calmly, that the treatment will be uncomfortable but necessary, that the body it produces at the other end will be a healthier body, and that the work of convalescence requires patience with those who administer it.

[Xirnium]

House of National Assembly of the High Court of Parliament

HANSARD

22nd day of Blêthanyth, MMMDCCCVI Bright Era

QUESTIONS WITHOUT NOTICE

Mrs. ARDÊMAL, Daphne (Faurêryth—Leader of the Opposition) (5:50): My question is to the Prime Minister.

Nova Rotsenberg did not come to office in ordinary circumstances. Her appointment came after a deadly attack inside the KNN Central Studio, in which three men were shot dead during Grand Pensionary Viljoen’s visit, after public suggestions of possible MBI involvement, after official silence, after the collapse of confidence between Mr. Viljoen and National Security Coordinator Enck, after Mr. Enck’s suspicious death, and after Mr. Viljoen resigned suddenly in a public spectacle unworthy of his office.

Dr. Rotsenberg then took office by three votes, with the decisive support of Mr. Taelman’s caucus, and delivered a speech in which she dressed an old and discredited inheritance in the language of healing and patience, while Eleonora Rotsenberg, called the Black Widow, watched from the gallery wearing the torch of the Second Enlightenment for all the world to see.

Why is the Government not responding to Dr. Rotsenberg’s assumption of office with greater concern? Why is it speaking of engagement?

Countess ZY NELYÂMNAR, Eléanor Sabelina (Vardêmyra—Prime Minister): I thank the Leader of the Opposition for the question.

When I became Prime Minister, the relationship with Knootoss was the worst it had ever been. Diplomatic contact was non-existent. The Newly-Modelled Navy was an inch from battle with the fleet of the greatest industrial power in the Western Atlantic.

For fourteen years there was no ministerial-level contact between Xirnium and Knootoss. This Government changed that. It did not happen quickly and it did not happen by grand gesture. It took time, patience, and work.

Government members: Hear, hear!

Countess ZY NELYÂMNAR (Vardêmyra—Prime Minister): It took a great deal of work, My Lord Speaker.

It was this Government that sent the Foreign Minister to Haag for the first ministerial-level visit since MMMDCCXCII. It was this Government that put the relationship back onto a solid footing—in trade, regional security, and multilateral co-operation.

Mrs. Ardêmal interjecting—

I will come to that.

Opposition members interjecting—

The LORD SPEAKER: Order! When the House comes to order, the Prime Minister will resume.

Countess ZY NELYÂMNAR (Vardêmyra—Prime Minister): Thank you, My Lord Speaker.

The Government regards the circumstances in Knootoss as serious. We have said so. We do not regard them as normal. We do not regard them as resolved. And we are not conducting ourselves as though they were.

A major broadcaster was attacked. There are unanswered questions about the role of the security apparatus. There was an apparent breakdown at the apex of the Knootian state. And a senior security official is now dead in suspicious circumstances. All of that is troubling.

To many people, so too is the old National Humanist inheritance, even clothed in a gentler style. We recognise that as well.

But the Leader of the Opposition makes a further leap. She assumes that because the circumstances give rise to concern, the appropriate response must be an elegant disengagement.

Mrs. Ardêmal interjecting—

Well, that was the implication.

But I do not accept that.

Distance may sometimes be useful. It is not automatically wise.

What we will judge now is what follows. How the Free Republic conducts herself after this transition. How the Prime Minister and Cabinet govern. How the institutions around the Grand Pensionary behave. Whether scrutiny is handled openly. Whether political opposition is treated fairly. Whether institutions become more accountable in practice, or merely more respectable in language. And whether the unanswered questions surrounding this transition are addressed, or quietly buried.

The Leader of the Opposition should not confuse engagement with trust. It is not trust. It is not approval. And it is not a decision to pretend that recent events have somehow become less troubling than they are.

It is a judgment that the Bright Republic should remain in the room.

Our relationship is not with one office holder, however important her office may be. It is with a state, with institutions, and with a society with which we will still have to deal next month, next year, and five years from now. Those realities will not disappear because we choose to stand further away. (Time expired.)

[Knootoss]

Grand Pensionary Nova Rotsenberg (She/Her)
@Nova58

Being a public figure means having a thick skin. Not a day goes by when I am not attacked as a daughter, as a physician, or as a woman. Being a public figure also means living under the constant threat of violence. I have needed personal protection all my life.

When I was an executive at @KNN, our building was attacked.

Yesterday, someone attacked my home.



When politicians, intellectuals and celebrities - at home and abroad - describe me as an existential danger, or peddle misinformation and conspiracy theories, some people will believe them. Extreme personal attacks, misinformation and conspiracy theories do not just poison the well of public discourse. They give some people a licence for violence. When it becomes systematic, we call it stochastic terrorism.

When I addressed parliament, I spoke of returning to the Knootian virtues of honesty, courtesy in disagreement, and a sense of proportion about ourselves. I still believe these virtues are essential if we are to cultivate a public sphere in which #Truth matters. I hope that @SamKatz and @VerveModeration will join me in making sure that Verve can continue to be an important part of that public sphere.

↷3.630❤8.080∂181

RAISE UP THIS VOICE:♀Cis Female⚛Humanist∂Knootian∂Physician

[Knootoss]

((Response to this post and this post in the Western Wire.))

Wexalië Water Management Control Centre
Free Republic of Knootoss

The barrier island of Wexalië was a lonely place. The main building of its new Water Management Control Centre looked like a slab of grey concrete with ribbed steel cladding, from which a satellite dish, a radio mast and a slanted solar panel protruded. The gulls that nested on these protrusions had already begun painting them off-white. The structures sat precisely a kilometre inland, on a raised berm that had been covered by regimented rows of yellow-green beach grass. The slight elevation provided an excellent view of the utterly featureless landscape, beyond which the choppy, grey-foamed waves of the Sea of Insolence battered into a new sea wall.

A temporary platform and a lectern had been erected in the lee of the building, which was further shielded by a windscreen that bulged inward on each gust. It did little to stop the rain from falling in slanting sheets. The assembled press consisted of seven journalists, three cameras, and two boom microphones in fur windshields. A wire reporter sat on a folding stool, digital notepad balanced on her knee. A photographer had climbed halfway onto a man-sized concrete cube of no obvious purpose that sat near the entrance of the building.

Prime Minister Charlotte van Jonkervelde stood at the lectern in an oversized yellow hi-vis vest that had been draped over a fashionable black winter coat. A Personal Assistant held an umbrella over her head, but water still beaded on the lenses of her glasses. Behind her, five officials stood in identical vests. Rain streaked the matte surface of the tablet mounted on the lectern. Charlotte wiped it once with her cuff, then continued her address: “… represents the most significant extension of the Greater Haag Perimeter since the 1993 programme. The crest of the new revetment is set at Haag Ordnance Datum plus six point eight metres. Sheet piling extends to minus twenty-two metres through the lower marine clay. The armour layer comprises twelve-tonne interlocking concrete units, with graded rock toe protection. The units are rated to absorb direct wave impact under ten thousand year storm conditions, inclusive of the 2022 KMI high-emissions climate allowance, with a scheduled reassessment in 2050.”

A gull dropped a streak of white and grey down the back of the wire reporter's raincoat. She jerked upright on her stool. “Oh, for fuck's sake.”

The photographer on the cube half-stood, mouth open. A camera operator made a small involuntary sound. Charlotte frowned but then continued: “The facility behind me receives real-time telemetry from 270 Wexalian sensor stations, comprising wave buoys, tide gauges, wind profilers, and subsidence monitors. It has redundant power sources and transmits consolidated data streams to the Knootian Meteorological Institute and the State Water Service over redundant fibre and satellite links. The contracted operational life of the installation runs through 2058, with a projected extension to 2075. The adjacent pump station, commissioned through my government's Green-Blue Progress Programme, gives us a discharge capacity of two hundred sixty cubic metres per second. That is sufficient to clear the area of control within a seventy-two-hour window under worst-case inundation scenarios.”

Her gaze crossed the seven journalists each, showing a terse smile that betrayed appreciation for their attendance and frustration with the underwhelming turnout: “I would like to thank you for travelling out here today, despite the weather and the earlier issues with the second ferry. It is important to cover innovative projects like these which, in conjunction with other adaptive measures, will allow us to keep our feet dry, despite accelerating climate change.”

The wire reporter had crouched behind her stool and was dabbing at her shoulder with a tissue. A colleague handed her a second one.

“Before I take questions on the project, I will address one further matter.” She rested her palm flat on the lectern. “Earlier today, Lord Chancellor Zylván Hossä of Snefaldia announced his resignation. He has admitted directing his media group to provide negative coverage of my government, in order to put political pressure on me, and on the Social-Liberal-Green-Independent coalition.” She continued at the same pace: “Let me be clear. Lord Chancellor Hossä's efforts to pressure my government failed. The negative coverage did not affect our policy for the Transmontana region. In fact, our position was strengthened and validated by the independent findings of the Multinational Human Rights Committee, and the decision of our Nivelet treaty allies to sanction the regime in the temporarily occupied areas of the Forellenrivier Republic.”

She exhaled from her nose after saying the phrase the Knootian government used to describe Anahuac, then continued: “Knootoss and Snefaldia have been partners and allies for more than a century. Any perceived friction was not, as some have suggested, evidence of a drift between our peoples but the product of one man's misconduct. Going forward, there is no obstacle to our relationship resuming on its long-standing basis. I look forward to working with the next Snefaldian Lord Chancellor.”

Water suddenly gushed from the brim of the canvas and hit the ground behind the platform with a loud splash.

“The regime in the temporarily occupied areas of the Forellenrivier Republic...” She rolled her eyes slightly. “... is now more isolated than at any point in history. Trade across the entire Nivelet Treaty Area is closed to it. The Powers have drawn, and are holding, a consistent line. The atrocities must stop and the people responsible held accountable. It is the view of this government that a future Snefaldian government would do well to join that regional consensus.” She cleared the screen. “I will now take questions.”

A hand went up. A KNN journalist in a beige trench coat, her hair pulled into a wet knot, asked: “With the death of the tyrant Uncle Noel and the disgrace of his fellow traveller Hossä, do you expect a new Snefaldian government to be more pro-Knootian? And to fully reverse the pro-communist drift in its foreign policy?”

Charlotte looked at her with barely disguised contempt, though her voice was neutral: “I just told you that I hoped for what we would consider a positive change. My hand is extended in friendship. But it is up to the Snefaldian people to choose their government.”

The KNN journalist opened her mouth for a follow-up, but Charlotte lifted her hand, palm down, half a centimetre off the lectern. Another hand was raised then, by a bespectacled young man in a dripping cyclist's rain jacket: “Prime Minister. On the crest specification. The 2022 KMI high-emissions scenario was built on the older WACC SSP5-8.5 track. The 2025 revised update shifted the ninety-fifth percentile sea-level-rise figure for the Sea of Insolence upward, particularly for the central basin. Is the HOD plus six point eight figure going to hold at the 2050 reassessment, or are we looking at a retrofit?”

One of the officials looked like he wanted to step in. Charlotte considered him, then decided to field the question herself with a slight smile: “The HOD plus six point eight figure includes zero point four metres of operational headroom above the 2022 central estimate. The 2025 update moves the ninety-fifth percentile to within that headroom but does not exceed it. A retrofit is not, on current data, anticipated. The 2050 reassessment will address the 2045-projected update rather than the 2025 one. The crest can be raised by a further zero point six metres within the existing sheet pile envelope without a full rebuild of the revetment. The structure was designed with that margin deliberately.” She paused. “Do you have a follow-up?”

“No, Prime Minister. Thank you.”

A portly, red-faced journalist in a blue rain coat spoke up with a heavy Boer accent: “Prime Minister, I am asking a question for the True Christian Monitor. A significant group within the General Synod of the Reformed Church of Epheron is saying that your new Grand Pensionary, Rotsenberg, is the Antichrist. As a True Christian yourself, are you concerned?”

“Concerned about what?” Charlotte asked, sharply.

The journalist faltered. “About the rise of the Beast. Or the autocephalous status of the South Epheronian church. Or the impact this controversial election of a radical anti-Christian zealot may have on relations with your friends in South Epheron.”

“No”, she said flatly. A few of the Knootian journalists laughed. She considered leaving that as her answer, then continued, with a small sigh: “I do not believe the Grand Pensionary is the Antichrist. And I am confident that the South Epheronian government knows how important our continued friendship is to them.” She paused a little too long before adding, less credibly: “And us.”

Charlotte saw no more hands. “The project director will remain available for technical questions about the project. But I suggest we head back to Haag and get a change of clothes. And perhaps a cup of hot tea. Thank you all for coming out.”

She nodded once and turned to walk back to the clump of All-Terrain Vehicles, the staffer with the umbrella falling in behind her. Above the roofline, a gull settled on the edge of the surge monitoring array and folded its wings against the wind.

[Ghant]

“We're naught but shadows and dust, suffused awhile with life and energy, forever dancing in the path to infinite disorder.” ― Rian Nejar

---

The Corner Building
Ghish, Ghant

At the corner of the Imperial Square between the Imperial Palace and the Government Palace sat a small building casually known as the Corner Building. Like the other, more famous two buildings in the Imperial Square, it was an ornate building made of black marble and white stone, with tall swirling columns featuring the guises and eagles and gargoyles. The building’s superficial similarities with the larger palaces were limited to its material design. Otherwise, it was far smaller, but still stood three stories tall.

It leaned ever so slightly, as if bowing to the grander structures around it—the marble ministries, the towering spires of the palace, the vast colonnades where nobles drifted like perfumed ghosts. Its stone was older, its façade worn smooth by years of wind and quiet neglect. A clerk’s building, most would say. A place for ledgers, permits, and the dull machinery of governance.

Its origins lay in the late 19th century, when the first Prime Minister Irat Ismos and Emperor Nathan II of Ghant endeavored for a building between the two palaces where government ministers and Imperial officials could meet and discuss affairs of state. However, the building fell out of favor after Nathan II’s death, with subsequent emperors preferring to summon ministers to the palace directly. The building continued to serve as a meeting ground for lesser imperial minions and government lackeys, though its prestige certainly took a hit once it fell from more prominent purposes.

The interior of the building was well furnished with tables and chairs, old paintings and decor, though there were cobwebs and spiderwebs in various dark corners. Since it lacked the bombastic nature of the palaces, it was more efficient in its uses, featuring a dining room and large rear kitchen on the main floor, with a few meeting rooms, storage rooms and bedrooms on the upper levels. There was also a well-furnished library in the basement filled with old books and even some dusty tomes, though it was so seldom frequented that spiders and rats were known to have infested it in times past.

Imperial Spymaster Saturno Descarga sat at the table of the dining room and cut into a piece of steak with a long, sharp knife not designed for that purpose. He did not look like a spy in the slightest. He was a tall, imposing figure, with large light blue eyes resembling a dog’s begging for food. Likewise, unlike past spymasters, Descarga eschewed dark-colored cloaks and hoods in favor of brightly colored clothes, usually blue and white. He was almost seven feet tall and weighing around two-hundred fifty pounds. His hair was a soft, wispy blonde and on account of being in his late thirties still cut a striking figure. Clean-shaven, his face was gentle with a warm smile. Few people in Ghant who gave the impression of a gentle giant possessed such a sharp mind and as ruthless a demeanor as Descarga.

O creeping dark, thou truer court than light,
Where whispered sins outweigh the trumpet’s lie,
Here do I stand—no lord by birth or right,
Yet crowned in all the arts men fear to spy.

They name me Spymaster, a title grim,
Bestowed by hands that never bled nor toiled;
A mongrel raised where gutter lamps burn dim,
Now set to rule what silken fools have spoiled.

I know them well—the highborn, perfumed breed,
Whose tongues drip honey, masking rot beneath;
They feast on words, yet starve the realm of deed,
And dress their cowardice in velvet wreath.

What know they of the knife, the night, the street?
Of hunger’s bite, or loyalty for bread?
Their wars are waged with ink and idle heat,
While truer kingdoms rise among the dead.

I learned my truths where mercy could not live,
Where trust was coin no beggar dared to spend;
A glance could kill, a silence could forgive,
And every ally wore the mask of friend.

Yet here I stand, beneath the empire’s bones,
A watcher in the marrow of its lies;
The throne above, a relic built of groans,
The crown—a bauble for unseeing eyes.

Let princes dream their destinies in gold,
Let nobles prattle of their ancient claim—
I carve my will in secrets left untold,
And shape the world that dare not speak my name.

For power is not the scepter nor the throne,
Nor bloodline traced through dust of perished kings;
It lives where truth is bartered, bought, and known,
In silent steps and dark, unfolding things.

And Ghant—sweet Ghant, thou fractured, slumbering beast—
Shalt wake not to the lords that feigned thy care,
But to a colder hand, a sterner feast,
Where strength is weighed by what men dare to bear.

No gilded age shall rise from noble breath,
No savior born of silk shall set thee free;
But from the shade, where whispers sharpen death,
A truer order yet shall come—from me.

A knock came upon the dining room door. Without looking up, Descarga yelled “come in.”

Secretary Maria Velez was not a woman one noticed at first glance—by design, Saturno suspected. She wore her office like a uniform of restraint: a fitted coat of slate-gray wool, unadorned save for a narrow clasp at the throat, and a long skirt that fell in clean, practical lines. No jewels. No color. Even her dark hair, drawn back into a severe knot, seemed to resist ornament. It was the fashion of the new government—of Sara Haribec and her Labor circle—to dress austerity as virtue, to wear simplicity like a badge of moral superiority.

Saturno had seen the same trick played in poorer streets, where men called their hunger “discipline” and their desperation “principle.” Velez stood somewhere between worlds. Not highborn—no, he would have smelled that on her at once—but neither of the gutter. There was ink in her fingers, not blood. She had climbed, then. Carefully, quietly. The sort who learned early that survival lay not in strength, but in placement.

Her face was narrow, her features sharp without being striking. Pale from too many hours indoors, though not sickly—there was a tension in her, a coiled alertness that spoke of a mind always turning, always measuring. Her eyes were her only betrayal: dark, quick, and never still. They moved constantly, cataloging exits, distances, the angle of Saturno’s face, the shadows between them.

Not fear, precisely. Awareness. That interested him. Most, when brought to the Corner Building, lost something of themselves. The air did it—the weight of stone overhead, the sense of burial before death. Their shoulders sagged, their voices shrank, their eyes darted like trapped things. Even the proud ones, the silk-wrapped sons of old families, learned humility quickly enough when they realized no one would hear them scream.

Velez did not sag. She was nervous, yes—he could see it in the way her hands clasped too tightly at her waist, in the slight stiffness of her posture—but she held herself together with a discipline that bordered on defiance. Like a lamb that knew the butcher’s block awaited, and yet chose to walk rather than be dragged. Saturno found that… amusing.

“You don’t tremble as much as the others,” he said, watching her. “Please, sit down.”

Velez did not look away. “I’ve learned that trembling rarely improves outcomes.” She took a seat at the opposite end of the table.

A careful answer.. measured. Not submissive. He shifted his weight, the knife scraping softly against porcelain as he looked up at her, slow and deliberate. The lamplight caught her profile in fragments—sharp cheekbone, the tight line of her mouth, the faint sheen of sweat at her temple she could not quite hide.

“And yet,” he said, “you know what this place is.”

“I can infer,” she replied.

“Can you?” His voice dipped, almost conversational. “Most cannot. They think this is an office. A department. A function of the state.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “It is not.”

Her jaw tightened, but she held her ground. “It is where the state stops pretending,” she said. That earned her a pause.

Then, slowly, a thin smile crept across Saturno’s face. “Good,” he murmured. “You are paying attention.”

He impaled a piece of steak with his fork and brought it to his mouth, savoring the smell of it. “Tell me, Secretary,” he continued, “how fares your Prime Minister?” he asked before putting it in his mouth.

There was the slightest shift then—not fear, but something more guarded. “Prime Minister Haribec is… resolute,” Velez said. “The situation demands it.”

“Resolute,” Saturno echoed. “A fine word. Means she hasn’t broken yet.” He looked up, fixing her again with that sharp, assessing gaze. “You serve her well,” he said. “That much is clear.”

“I serve the government of Ghant,” Velez replied.

Another careful answer. He chuckled, low and humorless. “Yes,” he said. “That is what you tell yourself.” He studied her for a long moment, then tilted his head slightly, as if considering a curiosity. “You’re not like the others she keeps,” he said. “Not one of the true believers. Not one of those wide-eyed idealists who think they’re building a better world with clean hands.”

Her eyes flickered, just briefly. “No,” she said.

“No,” Saturno agreed softly. “You’re something else.” He considered her carefully before continuing. “You’re a sheep,” he said. “But not the bleating kind.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “The quiet ones. The ones that walk when they’re led. That watch the knife and understand it… and still take the next step.”

The words hung between them, heavy as the stone overhead. Velez’s fingers tightened once, then stilled. “And what does that make you?” she asked.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Saturno’s smile returned, colder than before. “The man holding the knife,” he said. He straightened, leaning back just enough to release her from the press of his presence—but not from his gaze. “Do not mistake me, Secretary,” he went on. “I respect that. More than I respect your betters in their silks and titles.” His lip curled faintly. “At least you know what world you live in.”

Velez drew a slow breath, steadying herself. “And you believe you do?” she asked.

Saturno tapped his foot against the floor. “I know it,” he said. His eyes flicked briefly upward, as if he could see through layers of stone to the palace above—to the absent Emperor, to the circling Prince, to the fragile machinery of a state on the verge of something new.

“You serve a woman who thinks she can change Ghant,” he continued. “Perhaps she can. Perhaps she cannot.” He shrugged slightly. “It will not matter if she does not understand the forces she is dealing with.”

“And you do,” Velez said. It was not a question.

Saturno’s gaze returned to her, sharp and certain. “I understand this,” he said. “Power does not belong to those who claim it. It belongs to those who can keep it. My friend Diederik Enck learned that lesson the hard way, it would seem.” He paused, then added, almost idly: “Stay useful, Secretary Velez. Sheep that walk willingly sometimes live longer than those that run.”

“That’s why I’m here then, to talk about what happened in Knootoss,” she said, focused on the subject at hand.

Descarga wasted no time. “They found his body in a private room at De Schuilkerk, a private club in Haag's Oosterhout area. He was murdered, apparently, I suspect likely the work of an assassin or at the very least someone with some training in the art of killing. We don’t know the manner of his death just yet as that’s police records, but I intend on finding out. I know the Prime Minister is very concerned about this development, and the newly elected government in Knootoss, who she is keen on currying favor with.”

“It is true that the Prime Minister is interested in exploring building stronger ties with the Western Atlantic, Knootoss in particular. She admires their…way of governance.”

“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.” Descarga carved into his steak once more. “It would seem as though our interests are aligned then. I want intelligence related to Enck’s demise, and you and your patron want to build a rapport with Knootoss.”

“Surely the Emperor would like to build stronger ties with his relatives in Excalbia, however distant…” she was cut off before she could continue.

A weak male voice came in past the door. “Sir…the agent has arrived.”

Descarga smiled at Velez. “Rest assured, Secretary, I am developing a plan of action and setting that plan into motion. You can inform the Prime Minister that I am working on gathering intelligence. Now if you’d excuse me, I have another meeting I must attend to.”

“Of course, Spymaster, thank you for your time.” Secretary Velez stood up and inclined her head to Descarga before promptly leaving. Descarga stood up as she left, finished with his dinner while he awaited his new guest.

He heard the agent’s voice before he saw her. “You’ve been busy,” came a voice from the dark. Female. Smooth. Amused.

Saturno did not turn. “Imperial Agent Izena,” he said. “You took your time.”

A figure stepped into the half-light, and with her came the faint scent of smoke and spiced liquor. She moved like she belonged nowhere and everywhere at once—fluid, unhurried, each step placed with quiet certainty. Her attire was neither courtly nor crude: dark leathers layered beneath a long coat of deep midnight blue, cut for movement rather than display. A dagger rested openly at her hip, another hidden by the fall of fabric—Saturno spotted it anyway. Her hair fell loose about her shoulders, black as the crypts themselves, framing a face that carried both sharpness and warmth in equal measure. Her eyes were the true danger—bright, blue, calculating, alive with a kind of humor that never quite reached kindness.

“Busy?” she echoed, smiling faintly. “I prefer useful.”

Saturno gave a low grunt. “Of course, please follow me,” he said before leading her through another door, this one leading deeper into the building down a dimly lit hallway. He turned then, slowly, studying her. He knew her type. Not noble. Not truly. But not gutter-born either. Something forged in between—like a blade tempered twice. She had the look of one who had chosen her life, rather than been crushed into it. More dangerous than most. “You operate out of Gauekoizarra,” he said. “Underground networks. Smugglers. Cutthroats with a sense of poetry.” His lip curled. “And yet here you stand, answering to the Empire.”

Izena shrugged lightly. “Everyone answers to something,” she said. “Gold. Faith. Survival.” She tapped her chin. “Or opportunity.”

Saturno’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Which is it for you?” Her smile deepened, just a fraction.

“Today?” she said. “You.”

That drew a short, humorless chuckle from him. “Careful,” Saturno said. “Flattery is wasted on me.”

“I’m not flattering you,” Izena replied. “I’m acknowledging reality.” She stepped closer, her boots making almost no sound against the stone. The lamplight caught the edge of her profile, the faint scar along her jaw, the glint of something unreadable in her eyes.

“I’ve heard about you,” she continued. “What happened to your predecessor. Your rise. The Emperor’s favor.” She tilted her head. “A man who clawed his way into power and decided not to let go.”

Saturno tapped his foot. “They tell stories,” he said. “I’ve heard about you too. That’s why you’re here. Peregrino, New Edom…very tricky situations you’ve maneuvered through. And then there’s the Abyss…where nobody has ever escaped. Except for you. They tell stories about you that make you seem more myth than woman.”

“…I’ve been through a lot, more than most. I suppose that makes a story people wish to tell,” Izena agreed. “And when they do, I listen.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn wire. Then Saturno spoke. “Diederik Enck is dead.”

Izena did not feign surprise. “That means nothing to me.”

Descarga smiled. “Good, that’s why you’re the right person for the job.” At the end of the hall was an old wooden door, and behind it was a staircase, leading down to the basement. Hidden behind a false wall in a storage cellar that smelled of mildew and old paper, a narrow stair wound down into darkness. The steps were uneven, carved long ago and worn by no official foot. The air grew colder as one descended, thicker, as though the earth itself resented intrusion.

At the bottom lay Saturno’s true domain. The chamber was low-ceilinged and broad, its walls hewn from rough stone veined with age. Iron brackets held flickering lamps that painted the room in restless gold and shadow. Tables stood scattered throughout, cluttered with maps, coded reports, sealed letters, and the quiet detritus of secrets collected and kept. One wall bore a great map of Ghant and its surrounding territories, stabbed through with pins and threads like veins in a living body.

Another held nothing at all, other than a map of the Western Atlantic, with a slender dagger on Knootoss. Otherwise it was an empty wall, bare stone—save for the faint stains that did not quite scrub away. The room smelled of ink, oil, and damp earth… and beneath it, something sharper. Something metallic. Saturno stood in the half-light near the central table, a looming shape of shadow and solidity. His coat hung heavy on his slight frame, dark as the stone around him.

“Knootoss,” he said.

Izena’s gaze followed the lines, taking in the map not as a whole but in pieces—entry points, chokeholds, shadows between the streets.

“Open city,” she said. “Too open.”

“Nothing is too open,” Saturno replied. “It only means the doors are not where you expect them.”

He tapped a section near the outer districts. “Entry is simple,” he continued. “Borders that welcome trade welcome strangers. Papers will be arranged. Ghant issues the identity—you wear it.”

“A mask,” Izena said.

“A name,” Saturno corrected. “Masks slip. Names endure long enough to matter.”

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, pointing now to a cluster nearer the center. “They use chips,” he said. “Wrist implants. Payment. Identification. Convenience dressed as necessity.” His lip curled faintly. “Most take them without question.”

Izena folded her arms, considering. “And those who don’t?”

“Stand out,” Saturno said. “Immediately. Every gate, every transaction, every idle glance becomes a question.” He looked at her. “You don’t survive long by asking to be noticed.”

She gave a small, humorless smile. “No.”

He tapped the map again, this time a smaller notation scrawled near the margins. “There are alternatives,” he said. “Anonymous SIN chips. Bought, traded. They carry coin, not identity.” His eyes flicked toward her. “Useful for shadows. Dangerous for patterns.”

Izena tilted her head slightly. “Explain.”

Saturno turned from the map, facing her fully. “A person who enters a country and never spends,” he said, “is as visible as one who refuses the system outright. Absence is a shape, Agent. Men notice shapes.” He stepped closer. “You will live as the identity you carry. Spend as they spend. Move as they move. Breathe their air.”

“And the SIN?” she asked.

“Used sparingly,” Saturno said. “For what must not be traced. Not as a habit.” His voice lowered. “Balance is survival.”

Izena’s eyes lingered on the map, on the threads, on the careful logic beneath it all. “You’ve thought this through,” she said.

“I’ve lived it,” Saturno replied. He turned back to the wall, his index finger tracing a slow path inward, toward a section marked in darker ink. “The Zone,” he said. The word seemed to settle differently in the room.

Izena’s gaze sharpened. “The SINless.”

“Yes.” A cluster of pins marked the district—fewer threads, but thicker ones. Heavy with implication.

“No registration,” Saturno went on. “No oversight worth naming. A place where identities dissolve and reform as needed.” He glanced at her. “Dangerous. But honest in its way.”

“Other nations have people there,” Izena said. “Or did.”

“Had,” Saturno said. “Safe houses. Contacts. Half-finished plans abandoned when their interest waned.” His mouth twitched. “Others will have moved in since. They always do.”

Izena stepped closer to the map, studying the marked streets. “A place to disappear,” she murmured.

“A place to begin,” Saturno corrected.

Silence settled between them, thick with calculation. At length, she spoke. “You want me inside,” she said. “Under a Ghantish-issued identity. Chip registered, behavior consistent. Spend enough to exist, not enough to be seen.” Her eyes flicked to the Zone. “And operate from the margins when it matters.”

Saturno nodded once. “Yes.”

“And what am I looking for?” she asked.

He smiled then, slow and thin. “Structure,” he said. “The same thing I look for everywhere.” He tapped the map lightly. “Who moves the coin. Who watches the watchers. Who builds systems beneath systems and thinks no one sees them.” His gaze hardened. “Knootoss is open,” he continued. “Which means it is full of men who believe themselves safe. Men who think transparency is protection.” A soft scoff. “It is not.”
Izena’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes sharpened.

“And if I find them?” she asked.

Saturno’s grip tightened on the table. “Then you listen,” he said. “You learn. You become part of the pattern.” A beat. “And when the time comes,” he added quietly, “you show me where to cut.”

The words hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall. Izena met his gaze, unflinching. “You’re not sending me to watch,” she said.

“No,” Saturno replied. “I am sending you to understand.”

Another silence, longer this time. Then she nodded. “Very well,” she said.

She turned from the map, already shifting, already shedding the shape she had worn in this place for the one she would need there. It was subtle, almost imperceptible—but Saturno saw it. The loosening of posture, the recalibration of presence. A woman becoming someone else.

“The papers?” she asked.

“They will be ready by morning,” Saturno said. “A citizen of convenience. History just deep enough to pass a glance.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not waste it.”

“I never waste anything,” Izena replied. She moved toward the door, then paused. “And you?” she asked without turning. “What will you be doing while I play my part in your design?”

Saturno looked once more at the map—at the threads stretching outward, at the unseen connections waiting to be pulled taut. “Building the rest of it,” he said.

A faint smile touched her lips. “Try not to let it collapse before I return,” she said.

“No promises,” Saturno replied. His’s gaze lingered on the map, though his voice drifted somewhere beyond it, quieter, almost reflective. “Remember this, Izena—power is not forged in the light where men boast and preen. It lives in the shadows, in the things unseen, in the truths no one dares speak aloud. That is where we work, where we shape what others only feel. And in the end… all of it—kings, empires, their grand designs—turns to dust. Titles crumble, names fade, bones sink into the earth the same as any beggar’s. Shadows and dust—that is all there is, in the end. The only question is whether we rule from the shadows… or become the dust.”

Nodding at that, Izena slipped through the door and was gone, her presence fading into the deeper dark of the tunnels. Saturno remained where he was. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he raised the hand and gripped a pin, and drove its tip against the map—once, twice—fixing a new point in place.

Knootoss. Open. Watching. Unaware.

“Let them keep their chips,” he murmured. “Their systems. Their illusions of control.” His shadow loomed large against the wall, swallowing cities whole. “We will see how well they hold… when someone who understands them begins to pull.” The lamp beside him flickered. And beneath the quiet, unassuming Corner Building of Imperial Square, the game widened—spreading beyond Ghant, into a world that did not yet know it had been marked. Shadows and Dust

[Breucia]

Ale-Yarok City, The Protectorate of Ale-Yarok

It was in a hotel room not far from where she sat that the events that would lead Henda Hartendief’s next album took place. Or she suffered the terrible heartbreak of the loss of her one true love, it was really a question of perspective and ticket sales.

She was dressed in a tracksuit, the sort of everyday wear of normal people doing normal things if they sold all their organs, and their children, to buy it. She was in Ale-Yarok for reasons, those reasons being a need to display authenticity by going back to her roots, Kemetia, but without subjecting herself to actual warzones. Ale-Yarok was close enough, and the WiFi was better.

“Okay,” said the make-up artist, “Just a little more.” She blotted the skin around her eyes with mascara, just enough to convey the great personal distress she was undergoing. “No,” said the artist after a moment, “Too much, we’re going for wounded lioness, not the Madonna at the foot of the Cross.” Henda had no idea why she would look like an 80s popstar but it was important to delegate these things to those who knew what they were doing. All the more time, she thought, to channel her voice and to pick the appropriate shade of hotpants.

The make-up artist took some clean cotton wool and wiped away the excess. She gave a satisfied nod. “Good,” she said standing back, “Perfect.”

Henda blinked. Behind her lay an empty white wall. This was good, this showed that she had not lost sight of who she was, that she was true to herself. Material success had not changed Sephnalyn Alawi, and nothing said this more than a plain, white wall. They’d moved the Rembrandt, of course.

The director looked up. “Ready?” he asked. In front of her was a camera with a rectangular aperture with rounded edges, all the better to give the impression that this cry of anguish was being filmed on a smartphone. It was angled up slightly, not enough to look up Henda’s nose, but sufficiently to suggest that it had been propped up on something. A book, perhaps? Or a can of Pink Bunny. The possibilities were endless.

She nodded and composed herself. The director nodded and the show began.

She gave a sad sort of wave. “Hi guys,” she said, her voice displaying a muffled, melancholic tone to it that she had practised all yesterday. “I just thought I’d jump on here,” the ‘here’ in question was left unsaid since it would go out on multiple platforms, “Because I know y’all have been wondering about me and Maurits.” She inhaled sharply as though stifling a sob, or a burp, it wasn’t particularly clear either way. “Now Maurits is a wonderful guy, he’s done so much in his life, like punching a crocodile and curing rickets and shit.” In the background the Director sighed that his oft-repeated injunctions against swearing had gone unheeded. “But I know that there’s been a bunch of stuff in the news about these so-called AI scenes of him with another woman, or women, or even one with a polar bear which I know wasn’t real because bears don’t walk like that. Anyway, there’s been a lot of heavy shit recently and I think it’s only fair to tell y’all that we have separated. It was mutual,” she lied, “And it was cordial.” Another lie but only partly because Henda was still convinced that cordial was something you used to make orange squash. “And I know the haters have been saying ‘oh well it’s only because he ain’t Grand Pensioner anymore but, girl, you think I liked meeting all those stuck up bitches? But no, it just felt like the right time because I want to focus on myself and my music and he’s gonna be Sultan or something, or hire some guys and retake Saxmere for the CIS.” Remembering all these countries was hard. “And I LOVE him enough to allow him to go do his own thing. So that’s how it is and I ask that you all respect my privacy during this difficult time. I’m using this time to focus on me and on actualising my dreams and my aspirations.” She had no idea what any of that meant. “But I can tell y’all that I will still be making music and giving y’all pieces of my soul in the form of, you know, music. And the tour will still go ahead and you find a link for tickets below. As someone once said,” that someone being a production assistant twenty minutes ago, “Sometimes the greatest love you can show someone is by being true to yourself and letting the other person be true to themself. Anyway, I love y’all and I will hopefully see you all soon. On my tour.”

The Director nodded. “And cut.”

“How was it?” she asked. The Director inhaled deeply through his teeth. “Maybe just one more.”

She nodded and composed herself again. ““Hi guys…”

[Knootoss]

Maurits Viljoen (He/Him)
@ThePurpleAdventurer

You've seen @heartbreaker2000's viral message by now. First things first, I want to THANK her for setting the record straight! #bearsdontwalklikethat #notafurry

Unlike many others we are MATURE ADULTS and I understand that this is heartbreaking for the #Mauda shippers but don't take out the hate on us. Hate the system. In some place in my heart, Henda will always be my Sultana and I wish her all the best and great success in her music career. But I'm also BACK ON THE MARKET! So feel free to slide into my DMs with a pic if you're a 10 and a lady.

I'm going to be in Jefferson, CSS soon in a FULL STADIUM (usual ticket links, may be sold out but you can always check resales!) to speak to tens of thousands of Confederates about my adventures ahead of the planned @KNN tour. I'll also be shooting the breeze in private with Prez @RealTomCaine. Maybe we'll be hitting the clubs after. Any ladies want to dance?

↷15.010❤46.420∂1.300

RAISE UP THIS VOICE:♂Cis Male⚤Heterosexual⚮Available⚛No Religion∂Knootian∂Frontenaar∂SLP∂Redhead

[Soveriegn States]

((Joint Post between Knootoss and the Soveriegn States))

Tom Caine's Penthouse Apartment
Jefferson, New Virginia, CSS

Liberty Tower was one of tallest buildings in the Confederation, and, indeed, in all of the Excalbian Isles. The building was a glass and steel monument to modern architecture and the penthouse’s minimalist modern furnishings matched the building's style. Despite the price tag of those minimalist furnishings, the unobstructed panoramic view of the city was the real star off the show. The owner considered the view more than worth the price of the penthouse.

Tom Caine, dressed in his signature blue sports coat and open collared shirt, stood in his living room admiring the view while waiting for his guest. He lifted a crystal glass to his lips and took a sip of whiskey. In the middle distance, he could see one of the city's many sports arenas where he had arranged for an enthusiastic crowd to attend Maurits Viljoen's appearance in Jefferson. He knew the former Grand Pensionary would relish the excitement and spectacle of his reception.

Caine, of course, had not attended. Viljoen could be a useful ally, but he was, in the end, a clown. And Caine had never been fond of circuses.

The intercom buzzed, and the doorman informed Caine that Viljoen was on his way up in the private elevator.

He acknowledged the doorman, set his drink down and walked to the reception hall to welcome his guest.

“Maurits,” he said, extending his hand as the elevator opened, “welcome. It's good to see you again.”

Maurits Viljoen was wearing an extra-shiny version of his trademark purple suit, the better to shine in the light of the arena. He grinned, dried perspiration still on his brow. He shook Caine’s hand with his own right hand even as his left drew the former president into a hug. “Tom! Good to see you again.” Caine accepted the hug with good grace, and patted Viljoen on the back before pulling away.

“I knew so many Confederates loved me from the vote. But seeing them in person? That’s great. I bet I’ll have more people than when Rotsenberg visits. Don’t you think?” Viljoen looked around as he wandered into the apartment. “You got any PBC?”

“I'm sure,” he said, smiling. “You have quite the following here. The Rotsenbergs are too dour and gloomy to ever be very popular here.” His smile broadened. “The Confederal mindset is nothing if not positive and forward-looking.” He turned and looked towards the bar. “I'm sure I have some PBC here somewhere.”

He walked over to the bar and opened the fridge. After moving some things around, he retrieved a bottle. “Here we go,” he said, turning to his guest. “Original flavour. I'm afraid that's all I have.” He offered it to Viljoen. “I hope that's ok.”

“Can’t go wrong with the classics”, Viljoen said, fingergunning Caine as he took the bottle.

He took Viljoen by the elbow and walked towards the balcony, retrieving his drink song the way. “Let's have a seat on the balcony and enjoy this wonderful view.” He paused. “I hope you're enjoying your return to private life. Though I've found that being out of office is not exactly the same as a ‘private life’.”

“I can’t wait for my tour to begin. KNN is slow-rolling the signing of the final contracts. The lawyers keep bringing up new issues”, Viljoen complained as he followed.

“I hope that's not a sign they're reneging on the deal,” Caine said, as he gestured for Viljoen to take a seat on one of chairs arranged around a gas-fueled firepit on the spacious balcony. “I know they must have offered you quite a bit - or employed some leverage - to get you to accept the deal.”

He sipped his whiskey. “I still think it was a damn shame to lose you as Grand Pensionary. Especially with Rotsenberg coming in behind you. It's almost as if they'd planned it.”

“They better not renege. Promises were made”, Viljoen said as he sank into the chair. It creaked as it held his weight, and he took some time to admire the view. “Love this place. Maybe I should get something here. I’ve been thinking, I should get a place here, and maybe also a place in Tarana. The Caldans love me too, you know. Even Bianca.” He looked at Caine: “Nothing happened, you know. So whatever Henda’s going to say now, she’s always been a golddigger. I’m sure you’ve had girls like that.”

“The view is glorious,” Caine said. “And, yes, you should definitely look for a place here.”

He paused, and sipped his whiskey. “It is hard to know who to trust,” he said. He turned towards Viljoen. “For instance, I know you, Maurits, and trust you. When you say nothing happened with Bianca, I trust you implicitly.” He paused again.

“But I've never trusted the Rotsenbergs,” he said. “They're not like us, Maurits. They're… like vampires. Evil. Dried up. Craving power for the sake of power.” He shook his head. “That's why I do worry that they'll renege on their commitments.”

He leaned towards Viljoen. “I've had the feeling, ever since that attempt on your life, that someone wanted you out of the way. Out of the Grand Pensionary's office. For their own nefarious purposes.” He drew in a breath. “Do you think that's possible, Maurits?”

“It’s more than possible”, Viljoen said, giving Caine a dour look as he nursed the pink bottle. “The old bitch just wanted her daughter in place. It was a stitch-up by the deep state and the media.” He finally took a sip, staring out over the city. “There really was nothing else I could do. But that’s how they get you, right? Cake or death.”

Caine nodded sympathetically. “Bastards,” he said, as he sipped his whiskey.

He looked over the skyline, then turned to Viljoen. “You know, Maurits,” he said after a time, “if we work together we might just be able to put that old witch in her place.”

“Really?” Viljoen asked. He finally took a sip from the bottle. “Like how? She’s going to get me the tour, the book, the movie, and everything you know. Maybe after I recover my image from that. Or at least get the contracts signed.” He thought about it. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” Caine leaned forward, “I think she's counting on you to do your usual excellent recounting of your adventures - you have a real knack for holding the audience spellbound. But they are counting on you not using this as a platform to talk about the serious political issues in Knootoss.

“But we could turn the tables on them by having you speak out. Not directly challenge them, but comment on developments and offer solid alternatives to the nonsense policies they're pushing.” He reached out and touched Viljoen on the arm. “I have still have a staff of policy experts - and I'm a bit of a wonk myself - and I do have a certain amount of influence over the Liberty Media empire, so I'm sure we could come up with some good sound bites to work into your appearances that would upset Rotsenbergs’ little apple cart.”

“Ah, I usually like to speak off the cuff. Worked out best for me, you know?” Viljoen said, though he was still thinking about it. “I wouldn’t mind some pointers. But you’re mistaken if you think you can bring down the witch with ‘policy’. What you need is an image. And money. Lots and lots of money. And before you ask: PBC isn’t going to dip its dick into a fight against KNN, or the Rotsenbergs. They’re a family brand, you know. Something for all Knootians. Classy.”

He slurped more from the sugary, caffeinated beverage.

Caine nodded and sipped his whiskey. “I think a combination of our policy points and your image and pizzazz will help,” he said. “As for sponsorship,” he grinned, “you don't need PBC; you can have Confederated Enterprises.” He paused. “We might not be PBC, but we have a hand in media companies from here to Kemetia, and we can have you in every Liberty Market - and subsidiary - from here to Kemetia.

“The bottom line is that I can get you the financial resources you need,” he said.

“Now now”, Viljoen protested amiably. “Trying to separate me from KNN is one thing. Separating me from Pink Bunny Cola is not going to happen. What am I going to drink? Water?” He laughed.

Sagging in the chair, he looked out over the skyline. “I’ll take a look at those contracts, sure. But I don’t think Liberty Media can really do KNN. It’s a Plan B. Not a replacement. Plus, and don’t tell anyone, but if all goes well, they’re making me the Sultan of Qubti.”

Caine looked at Viljoen and smiled. What he was thinking, he kept to himself as he stopped his whiskey.

[Knootoss]

((Joint Post between Knootoss and the Soveriegn States))

Ministry of General Affairs
Haag, Free Republic of Knootoss

High in a tower that rose beside the parliamentary complex, Prime Minister Charlotte van Jonkervelde was reading on her computer. The office was an octagonal recreation of a 14th century tower, panelled in plain wood and carpeted in grey, with green-grey drapery. Each piece of furniture was an antique, and each smaller object had been chosen to reinforce the atmosphere: a leather-bound copy of the Constitution, a sixteenth-century painting of the first of the Dukes of Chamaven to convert to Kommerdijker Christianity, a framed photograph of the larger Jonkervelde family gathered before their estate, and a particularly comfortable fountain pen capped and set at the edge of the blotter.

Beyond the double-glazed windows, central Haag lay under the pale damp of an early spring overcast, softening the skyline without quite committing to rain. The view over the surrounding buildings was eclipsed only by the boxy postmodern superstructure housing parliament. The sounds of the morning reached the office only as a hush: the echo of a distant tram bell, a horn further off, the muffled drone of traffic.

The double doors opened, and Drs. Cilicia de Graaf, the Prime Minister's Senior Foreign Policy Advisor, led Tom Caine, the former President of the Confederation of Sovereign States, into the space.

“President Caine, the Prime Minister,” she said before moving to the side of the room.

Charlotte van Jonkervelde rose and crossed the space to shake his hand.

"Tom. Good to see you again."

"And it's good to see, Charlie," Caine said as he shook her hand.

She then gestured to a pair of couches that held a low table between them. "Would you like coffee? Tea?"

"Coffee, please," Caine said as he took a seat on one of the couches. "Thank you for taking time to see me today. I remember how busy I was when I was in office, so I know it's no small sacrifice."

"Cilicia? Could you?" Charlotte asked. The Senior Policy Advisor went to go pour coffee for them, getting a cup for herself as well. It seemed there was nobody else there to pour it for them. "You're right that things are busy", the Knootian Prime Minister agreed. "So I wouldn't mind if we skip the usual pleasantries and get to the point. You requested this meeting." She looked at him expectantly.

"I've always appreciated your directness," Caine said. "I wanted to meet with you because many of us in the CSS have grown... concerned about recent developments." He leaned forward slightly. "The re-emergence of Taelman and the surge in his popularity is... concerning enough, but now with the re-emergence of the Rotsenbergs after the murder of Enck and the sudden ouster of Viljoen..." He held up a hand. "And I don't believe, and I don't think anyone paying attention believes he resigned of his own accord to pursue this vanishing sand of a deal with KNN." He paused. "It's obviously a carrot to go with whatever stick they used. And as for Enck - I can't believe that anyone that cold and calculated would die of... an overdose of pleasure. No, it was murder."

He levelled his gaze at the Prime Minister. "You may disagree with me, and I may be wrong, but I don't think I am. And if I'm right, then someone is looking to take you, and possibly the whole Republic as we know it down."

Charlotte van Jonkervelde listened, looking increasingly sour as he spoke. She accepted her cup of coffee from Cilicia. "I have been following the news", she said. "And I realise that some of your... old friends... may have recently left or been fired from their jobs. But Magister Dessart is a professional career officer with a record of decades of service before I appointed her as National Security Coordinator. She's not a killer."

She took a sip from her coffee. "I will, of course, miss Maurits terribly", she said, deadpan. Her stare implied the exact opposite, before she softened slightly: "And look, I won't even rule out that the older Rotsenberg had a hand in replacing him. But have you considered that they might have pressured him with something that he's actually done?" She shook her head. "All of which amounts to dirty politics as usual, not the End of the Republic. Just an inconvenience for my government, not to mention the party."

Caine nodded. "I wouldn't suggest," he said, "that Magister Dessart is a killer, though I believe Enck was more likely than not murdered. And it may we'll be that Viljoen was forced out over a real scandal, he's certainly no one's idea of a principled politician, but murder and blackmail on the heels of a disruptive political crisis just send to stretch credibility as a series of unrelated events. I do fear that it is possible, if not likely, that the Rotsenberg's dream of restoring their National Humanist dictatorship, and are manuvering to create a crisis for which Grand Pensionary Rotsenberg taking direct control of the government will be the only solution."

He drew in a breath. "I am not deluded enough to think there is anything you can do directly to counter any scheme on the party of the Grand Pensionary and her mother," he gave a thin smile, "but I did feel an obligation to the friendship between Knootoss and the Confederation to share my analysis with you in hopes that there might yet be time to counter the Rotsenberg's machinations. The surest counter, I believe, would be for you to remain in office and prevent a Taelman government from emerging."

"I don't doubt that Eleonora Rotsenberg wants to rehabilitate her late husband's form of government", Charlotte van Jonkervelde answered. "She's more or less said so. On multiple occasions. And she is powerful. Speaking between just us, I won't lie and pretend that the party doesn't depend on her for donations and media coverage."

She then pivoted: "But it isn't her party. Not any more. A half-century has passed. The world has moved on. We have democratic institutions, and those are threatened by Taelman. Not by the dreams of an old and sickly widow." She smiled faintly, a little ruefully: "So if you believe my remaining in office prevents that looming catastrophe, you will find me agreeing completely."

Caine smiled. "And if there is anything, anything at all I can do to support that effort," he said, "I am happy to do so."

"I'm not going to solicit donations while sitting in the tower", van Jonkervelde said with with a wry twitch of her lips. "But you are still influential in the Confederation. If there is anything you can do to avoid a messy election where the Knootian alliance is on the ballot, it would be appreciated. The Liberty Party primary isn't winning any beauty prizes right now."

Caine nodded. "No," he said, "it isn't. That... podcaster would be an even greater... liability that Maurits was. Sadly, it's all the work of a former friend who feels he was denied his chance at the presidency." He leaned forward. "But I can assure you that Janice will win reelection. The polls clearly favour her, and she's running on a strong economy, despite the secession of Southland and Deandra. Liberal-Labour will likely pick up seats in Congress; they may even get to a plurality, but the Confederation's commitment to our alliance will not change."

"That's good news", van Jonkervelde answered. "The Confederation could use a period of stability and consolidation. And Janice has been doing the best possible job under difficult circumstances. The base is certainly a huge asset. And the last thing we need is renewed tension between the Confederation and the Excalbians."

Cilicia de Graaf[ and exchanged a look that Caine knew from experience meant 'time'. The Prime Minister leaned forward, mirroring Caine's posture. "Have I been able to allay some of your concerns?"

"You've been very forthright, and direct," Caine said, smiling, "I appreciate it. Thank you."

[Soveriegn States]

La Providencia, United Kingdom of Providencia y San Andres

Frank Pugh had worked for Confederated Enterprises for over 20 years. He was responsible for doing security surveys of the company's current and prospective properties. He worked mostly independently and traveled extensively. Despite his years of service, there were absolutely no direct connections between him and any executive of the or board member, including former President Tom Caine. Nor were there any connections between him and any of Caine's staff or advisors.

He had no immediate family, just a widowed sister-in-law, nieces and nephews, and a few cousins. The few people who knew him sometimes called him the Chameleon for his uncanny ability to blend in anywhere. When in Jefferson, he looked like any other middle-aged businessman. When in the country with his relatives, he seemed like any other farmer. And in Providencia, he seemed to be like any other tourist on vacation.

Like many other tourists, Pugh sat at a busy outdoor cafe beneath the shade of an umbrella sipping an iced coffee, and reading a paper.

An attractive middle-aged woman with long blonde hair dressed in a big hat and a lightweight breezy dress of the kind favored by tourists from more northerly climates walked up to Pugh's table and sat down. “Mr. Smith, I presume,” she said, smiling.

“Ms. Jones,” Pugh said.

“I understand you have a pest problem,” the woman said.

“A bad infestation,” he said. He folded his paper and laid it on the table with a photo of Steven Taelman facing the woman.

“That is a nasty infestation,” she said. “You know our standard fee?”

Pugh nodded.

“Triple for this job.”

“Double,” Pugh said.

The woman smiled. “Two and a half. With half now and half when it's done.”

Pugh took out his phone, swiped a couple of times, and transferred the amount in cryptocurrency from one numbered Providencian bank account to another.

The woman took out her own phone, checked something, then smiled. “Any preference?” She asked.

“Ideally,” Pugh said, “something untraceable that makes the vermin look as bad as it really is.”

The woman nodded. She reached into her bag, withdrew a pair of sunglasses, and put them on. She stood, and said, “See you later, dear.”

Pugh stayed at the table for a while after the woman left to finish his coffee. Then, he left some money on the table, took his paper, and walked off into the crowd.

[Soveriegn States]

Port Freimanis, Zamimbia

Although Zamimbia was finally at peace with its neighbor South Epheron, it still faced many problems. Ethnic tensions between its indigenous ethnic, which had ignited a civil war and several insurgencies and coups, had been mitigated by the news federal system, but not altogether eliminated. While racial tensions had virtually disappeared in the southwest, after it had ceded the majority white territory to its neighbor, they persisted in the east, where persistent Boers had chosen to remain on their farms in the territory it had acquired from its neighbor. And economic inequalities remained, especially between the inherited Boers and their tenant farmers, and, perhaps of even greater long-term concern, between the coast and the Interior.

Despite all this, there was no doubt that there was an economic boom in the nation's coastal cities. The ports were humming with agricultural exports, there were new businesses attracted by favorable taxes and subsidies, and lots of tourists drawn by heavily promoted beaches and ecotourism excursions.

Nowhere was the economic progress more visible than the old market district of Port Freimanis, where glass and steel highrises were rapidly replacing old colonial era concrete and plaster open-window storefronts. Aspire Tower was one of those gleaming new buildings. While it had no particular architectural merit, it was well built and included all the most modern bells and whistles. The two lowest floors featured storefronts for trendy boutiques and restaurants and an interior shopping arcade. The rest of the building featured various offices, with its owner - Aspire International Security Group - occupying the top two floors.

Aspire International Security Group presented the profile of a completely respectable company, privately owned by George Davies, a retired Confederal soldier and law enforcement officer. The President and CEO of the company was Alice Richards, a middle-aged woman and logistics expert from the Tartevs Islands. Nothing could link Aspire to the disbanded and discredited rogue private security firm known as Blackfire.

In one of Aspire’s secure conference rooms, a small windowless room, Richards was sitting at a polished wooden table, leaning back in her ergonomic chair. “And the Knootoss contact?” She asked, moving down her mental agenda.

“We've completed our review,” Sara Kent, one of Aspire's project managers said.

“And?” Richards asked, tapping one high-heeled foot on the carpeted floor.

“Unfortunately,” Kent said, “the target has no vulnerabilities that could be exploited to yield the results the client wants. And there's no evidence of any useful wedges between him and his core supporters.”

“Damn,” Richards muttered.

“There is one angle,” Kent said. “Many of his followers fit the profile of a lonely young male who is angry and looking for connection.”

“Hmmm.” Richards leaned forward. “So, honeypot one of these incels and use him as a patsy?”

Kent nodded.

“Who do you have in mind?” Richards leaned forward.

“Ms. Meijers,” she replied. “Attractive. Blonde. Fluent Dutch.”

Richards nodded. “Who else on the team?”

“Jenkins as field manager, Petrauskas on tech, and Finley for the shot.”

Richards stood. “Ok. You may proceed, Sara.”

“Thank you, Ms. Richards.”

[Knootoss]

Leegkerk, Rederland
Free Republic of Knootoss

I try to sleep at one AM. I really try. I lie there with my eyes shut and do the breathing thing the chatbot told me to do. Four in, hold for seven, eight out. I do it for about twenty rounds, but I just keep thinking about her. About tomorrow. About today, I guess, because it is already past midnight. Today's the first time she will see my face in meatspace.

I give up at two AM. I boot up the game and queue. I die. I queue again. I go on a run, twelve kills, no deaths, top of the board, and for about ninety seconds I feel like a god. Then the next game I am dogshit again. Somewhere around half past four the edges of my vision go soft and the muzzle flashes leave little ghosts behind. I put the headset down on the desk, crawl into bed, and sleep.

The phone goes at half ten and it is a fucking war crime. I keep the duvet over my face for a few minutes just hating the sound of it.

Today.

Today.

Oh fuck. It's today!

I sit up too fast and the room does a slow lap around my head. I reach for the can of Voui! Gamer Energy Drink I put on the floor last night. Tropical Surge. The first swallow is so sweet it makes my back teeth ring. When I've drained the can I can feel the little electric hum running down my limbs.

I look up at the ceiling while I drink. The patch of mould has been spreading from the corner above the door since I moved in. It looks like Vanta in her pose from the loading screen, with her back arched and her legs pulled in. It has the same hip line as the Vanta on the crusty body pillow next to me. I look at it for a while. Then I sit up properly because I am not doing this. I need to save myself for the actual, real girl I'm meeting today.

The bathroom mirror has splatters of dried toothpaste at the bottom and a weird smear at the top. My eyes are pink at the rims, and under them are skin-bags the colour of cooked mushrooms.

I stand the way Vance Holloway showed. Feet under shoulders. Chest up. Chin in, not out, the chin out is a tell. The chemistry is already happening in my brain just from the posture. I hold it for a count of thirty. The man in the mirror looks constipated. I drop the pose.

My hair is fine. My hair is great, actually, because yesterday I went to a barber for real men and let a guy with an epic beard run clippers up the sides while leaving the top alone. When I run my fingers up the back of my neck, I get the little prickle of the new growth and it feels good, actually, it feels like progress, like the start of something.

I brush my teeth. Holloway says teeth are one of the top three things girls look for. The others being smell and hands. I go to the dentist because Mum nags me about it and I am, on this one count, ahead. I brush my tongue as well, because I saw a video about that. The taste of the toothpaste comes up clean. I smile at the mirror. The smile is fine.

Then there's my hands. I put them on the rim of the sink and look at them. I cut the nails yesterday after the barber and they are short and even. The skin on the knuckles is a little dry but it is fine. I turn them over and look at the palms. I have small hands. Women clock hand size in the first second and small hands read as soft, as weak. Women say no to small hands. There's nothing I can do about my puny little hands.

The Stoer - Black Forest deodorant is new on the shelf. The can is black and the label has a fist on it. I spray it under my pits and across my chest. Too much. The whole bathroom is Black Forest. I cough, open my mouth, breathe out, and taste deodorant on my tongue. Fuck. I run the tap and splash water on my pits and now the smell is worse, now it is wet Black Forest. I tell myself it will fade on the walk and I move on because if I keep thinking about it I will spiral.

I go to the wardrobe. The black jeans are the best I have. They are jeans but they are black and they are clean. I put them on. They still fit. They are fine. They are fine.

I look at the shirts. There is the one with the game decal across the chest, which is not happening. There is the hoodie with the patch, which is not happening. There is the grey t-shirt with the wash-stain on the front. Nope. There is the black t-shirt that has gone a bit grey from the wash. No. There is the white shirt with a collar that my mum bought me and which I have worn maybe twice.

I pull the white shirt off the hanger. It has a crease across the chest and a crease down each sleeve where it has been on the hanger for two years and the fabric has set. I hold it up. The collar is fine. The buttons are fine. The creases are a fucking disaster.

I put it on the bed and I run my palm hard across the chest. The crease stays. I get a hot, damp wash cloth from the bathroom and I press it on the crease and hold it there because I think you can do this with steam, but when I lift the cloth the crease is still there and now there is a wet circle around it. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

I put it on anyway. The wet patch will dry. The wet patch will have to dry before I get there.

I put on my old trainers because the shoes that are not trainers do not fit any more. I am twenty years old and the only proper shoes I own do not fit. Pathetic.

I sit on the edge of the bed and I look around the room. The stack of empty cans next to the headset. The bulge of the Vanta body pillow under the duvet.

She might come back here.

Fuck.

She might come back here.

I stand up and the Voui! is sloshing around in my stomach now.

I start with the trash. There are three bulging grey bags by the door already, tied off, from the last two weeks when I kept meaning to take them down. There is a fourth that is open with the pizza boxes in it because the pizza boxes will not fit in the kitchen bin. I try to tie the fourth bag and the corner of a pizza box punches through the grey plastic and the rip opens up the side of the bag like a wound. Fuck. I get a new bag and I try to put the old bag inside the new bag, but I cannot get a knot in the top because the new bag is too full of the old bag, so I just twist the top and hold it twisted. I drag them into the bedroom and put them by the wardrobe because she will not see the bedroom, and then I realise that the bedroom is the entire fucking point.

I drag the bags back out of the bedroom, stack them in the shower stall and pull the shower curtain across. You can see the grey through the gap. I pull the curtain harder. The gap is smaller. It is fine.

I move through the kitchen, open the oven, put the dishes in and shut the door. I rinse my hands and I move on.

The desk is next. The baby lotion and a pack of tissues sit next to the keyboard. I put them in the sock drawer and I push the drawer hard until it shuts. I come back and look at the desk. The desk now looks like a desk where a man works.

I put the Vanta pillow in the wardrobe behind the coats and shut the door. The door does not shut. The pillow is too thick. I take it out and try to stuff it under the bed but the bed is too low. I stuff it back into the wardrobe, the door wobbly on its hinge.

I stand in the middle of the living room and I sniff. It smells of me, probably. Sweet at the edges, stale in the middle. I open the window onto the parking lot. The air that comes in is warm and damp and underneath it there is the skunky smell of weed coming up from somewhere below me, which means the black guy on the second floor is at it again. If it is the black guy on the second floor, I am not actually sure it is him, but somebody on that floor is smoking weed every other afternoon and he is the only person I have ever seen on that floor, so I have decided it is him. The flat smell is stronger than the weed smell, so I leave the window open.

I check my SIN balance on my phone. Forty-two ducats and change. For a second I think about messaging Mum. 'Hi mum, can you send me a hundred?', the usual line, she would send fifty and tell me to make it last. She would do it, too. She always does it.

Then I remember three weeks ago and my dad standing in their kitchen and the way he just crashed out about how I was an adult now and what was I doing with my life and how when he was my age he was already on his second job. I said the job market is not the same because they only hire women, but he did not even let me finish, he never lets me finish, he just ignored me, going on about 'what about the trade school then', 'you walked out of that after eight months, eight months while I pay your rent', and what I should have said is that the trade school was a shithole, that the lecturers had it in for me from week one, that the other students were a bunch of mongoloids, that I would have finished if the place had been worth finishing, that the certificate at the end of it would not have got me a job either because white men don't even get a look in due to DEI. What I should have said is that he has not had to apply for a job in thirty years and that's why he thinks you can just walk in somewhere and ask. What I should have said is that he was the one who told me to go to that school in the first place, that I never wanted to, that I went because he kept on about it, and now he wants to use the leaving of it as proof of what I am.

What I actually said was that he had no idea what it was like, and he said I was lazy, to my face, with this look of smug hate, and Mum just stood there and did not say anything, she did not say anything, she just looked at the tiles, and I left and slammed the door.

I have not been back. I am not going to text Mum after my dad called me lazy and ask her for a hundred ducats so I can take a girl out. I am not.

I close the app. This is what the overdraft is for. She is, from the way she writes, the kind of girl who understands that the man pays to show that he is the provider. She would not offer to split, or get out her own chip at all. She would let me because, when she pictures her life, she pictures a man paying for her meal in a bar, because that is what a man does for his woman. She would let me do that and she would say thank you and she would mean it.

I cannot put it off any longer. I have to go to the Hamster because I have to go buy condoms.

---

Outside it is too warm. The air has that close, used feeling, like it has already been breathed by everyone else before it got to me. Apart from the barber visit, I have not really been out in the middle of the day for three weeks, and the world feels turned up too loud. A tram goes past and the noise of it goes through my chest. A delivery rider on an e-bike almost clips my elbow. I flinch. The white shirt is already sticking to my skin and I can feel a single bead of sweat going down between my shoulder blades.

Inside the Hamster there is a girl my age in a Hamster shirt. She is restocking. I avoid looking directly at her.

The aisle I need is at the back, in the pharmacy section. There is a woman with a big cart there, so I walk past it once. I go to the drinks fridge and get a can of Pink Bunny Cola, because I cannot turn up at the check-out with nothing else anyway.

Finally I get to the shelf with the condoms. Small, medium and large. I know I'm not large. Only a pathetic man would buy small. No girl would have a man who buys small. Medium. Obviously medium. Each of the boxes has a number on the front, saying how many are in the box. 3, 12 or 24. I guess the 24 is for someone who is doing this all the time. The 12 is for someone who knows where his life is going. The 3 is for someone who does not believe in himself. I feel my face heating up further, prickling. I check, and there is no one else in the aisle, so I take the Medium 12 off the shelf, pulling it under the can of Pink Bunny Cola in my hand. The box still shows around the edges of the can because my hand is too fucking small. I hold them both close to my chest as I walk to the self-checkout.

I put the can on the platform. It scans. I put the box on the platform. It scans. The little screen flashes the price up and I wave my wrist past the reader. The screen says PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE in red and the little light on top of the till starts flashing.

No.

No no no.

I want to walk away. I want to leave the box on the platform and walk out of the shop and never come back.

The girl in the Hamster shirt comes over. The same girl who was stocking. She is my age, maybe younger, red-brown hair tied back, scanner on her belt. She is pretty. Round face. Nice curves. Freckles. She obviously has a boyfriend, a lad two years older than me with shoulders like a barn door and hands the right size. She looks at her scanner and then looks at me. “You have been selected for a random check,” she says. She smiles, but I don't think it's sincere.

“Y-yeah,” I say. “Yeah, no, that's, yeah.”

She takes the scanner off her belt and taps it against the platform. The screen on her scanner lights up. I can see my SIN on it sideways, and below that a picture of the box, and the word condoms.

I can feel the heat on my face. Sweat everywhere. The Black Forest is coming back off me in a wave because of it. She is going to look up and see the wet patch on my shirt, and she is going to think, this guy, look at this guy, look at what this guy is buying and look at the state of him, and her face is going to do the small disgust thing women do, and then she is going to go home and tell her boyfriend, and they are going to laugh about it together in his car, and she is going to be right to laugh because look at me, this box is not getting used, this box is going to sit in a drawer until it expires and then it is going to the bin, this box is a fantasy.

“S-sorry,” I say, because she has not said anything and I cannot bear the silence. “Sorry. I, sorry.”

She does not look up. “Mm,” she says.

She taps the scanner one more time. The screen on the till goes green.

“You're good,” she says, already turning away. “Have a nice day.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, you, you too.”

She is gone. She did not look at me after that fake smile. I do not know if she did not look because she did not care or because she did not want to look. I cannot tell, and now I am going to be thinking about it for the entire tram ride. Fuck.

I shove the box in my pocket and hold the can of PBC in my hand as I walk out of the Hamster.

---

Line 14 goes to Zuiderkade in twenty minutes. I take the seat by the window and can see myself in the dirty glass. The man in the glass has a new haircut and a white shirt and a wet patch you cannot really see from this angle. He looks young. He looks all right, actually.

My phone buzzes. Four notifications from Braakland. There is a reply to my Vuilendam comment, the one that went sort-of viral, and the reply has twenty-eight upvotes already. I open the chat with the girl instead. The grey circle next to her name means she is offline. Or hiding from me.

I had written, under a Braaksel about the blackaroon who killed Sanne in Vuilendam, that what Taelman had said did not go nearly far enough. I had destroyed, with facts and logic, any idea that we Knootians could ever out-breed these Zoners. I had written it at two in the morning and gone to bed and woken up to three hundred upvotes and her message in my otherwise empty inbox. I read the message again. The first time I read it I sat on the edge of the bed for about ten minutes just looking at it. It is still doing something to my chest now.

I type: 'on my way' and send it. I look at the little tick. I wait. The little tick stays grey.

I type: 'you still coming?' and send that too.

I immediately regret it. Those three little words make me sound like a pathetic cuck. They mean 'please please please please please'. I quickly delete them. She hasn't seen them. Probably.

I put the phone face down on my thigh and I look out of the grimy window and there is nothing to see except myself.

I get off one stop early, because I am too early and maybe the walk will calm me down. The walk does not calm me down. I can feel the box in my pocket, knocking against my hip with every step. I realise that I have never been to this part of the city by myself before. I have never been to any bar by myself. I have been to bars with cousins, at weddings, at the back of the room with my phone, and that is it. The bar has its door propped open. There are people in there.

I stop.

What if there is no one? What if there is never going to be anyone, and the whole thing is a troll? Someone on Braakland having a laugh, a fucking video for someone's channel, and I am the punchline. There could be a camera somewhere, and tonight there will be a Braaksel up with my face in it and a title like SAD INCEL WAITS THREE HOURS FOR A WOMAN THAT DOES NOT EXIST, and the upvotes will be in the thousands, and the people who upvoted my Vuilendam comment will upvote this one too. And I will just be a face in a Braaksel about a loser who fell for it.

Or what if she is in there? What if she takes one look at me and her face does the thing? When she understands that the man in the photo I sent her was heavily filtered and shopped? That it was fake? That the loser walking across the bar towards her is what she actually agreed to meet? What if she says 'hi' politely and finishes her drink and tells me she has to go?

I linger outside the door. Inside there is music with a slow drum.

I take a breath.

I step inside.

[Soveriegn States]

Leegkerk, Rederland
Free Republic of Knootoss

Evy Meijers gave every appearance of being a young, working class girl with a hard edge. She wore well-worn jeans that fit tightly about the hips that sagged a bit below the knees, heeled pink sneakers, a clean white t-shirt with the logo of a metal band known for its dalliance with far right politics, and a pink open zippered hoodie. Her blonde hair was tired up in a messy ponytail and she wore glasses with thick black plastic frames of the sort one could get on the cheap.

She was sitting at the bar nursing a beer when her target walked in. She had been lurking in far right social media groups for a while, when she started posting memes mocking woke lefties, immigrants and ineffective, weak politicians. Eventually, she selected several targets and DMed them. Then came the replies,and she cultivated several young men, feeding them the notion that Staalman was not the saviour they thought he was, but instead just another weak politician.

Only a few stuck around after that. Out of all of them, her target was the most promising. He had quickly repeated her suggestions back to her as if they were his own realizations, and she had heaped praise on him. He ate it up. Then, he began posting the notion publicly. She was careful to like every post, and DM to tell him how smart and brave he was.

She raised her hand and smiled. “Over here,” she said. Then, as he approached, she added, “I'm so glad you came. I was worried you wouldn't.” She bit her lip and played with a loose lock of hair. “I mean, I couldn't believe an alpha like you would actually want to meet up with me.”

[Ghant]

“Friends With Benefits”
De Schuilkerk
Haag, Free Republic of Knootoss
(Co-written with Knootoss and Xirnium)

Oosterhout owed its name to being located east of the old hunting forest, now a park, established by Lodewijk the God-fearing and his wife, the Pantocratorian Princess Helena Comnena, Porphyrogenita. Many of its streets were named after the Governor-Generals of Knootian Trading companies, including the Epheronian Company and Ambaran Company. Its oldest buildings were inns and country estates that dated back to the Middle Ages, long before the city had swallowed all around it. The quiet streets saw residences mix with the offices of legal firms, consultancies, and a discreet women's health clinic. It was also home, more infamously, to the private club where Diederik Enck, Knootoss' National Security Coordinator, had been found dead under suspicious circumstances.

Izena paused across the street, blending effortlessly into the rhythm of passers-by who did not look too closely at one another. She was unrecognizable. Where once she had moved like a blade drawn in shadow, now she carried herself with the careful precision of a woman accustomed to being seen, but not noticed. Her posture was upright, measured, each step placed with professional intent rather than predatory ease.

Her dress was immaculate...a fitted business sheath of deep charcoal, tailored close to her frame, its lines severe and deliberate. The fabric was fine wool, understated but unmistakably expensive to the rained eye, catching the light only in the faintest suggestion of texture. It fell just below the knee, modest without being dowdy, practical without sacrificing authority. The collar was the most striking feature...a high, structured thing of layered white silk, puffed and gathered in soft folds that framed her neck and jaw like a cloud of controlled excess. It softened her silhouette while simultaneously drawing the eye upward, toward her face, where the true disguise lay.

Thick black glasses...not the delicate, ornamental kind favored by the vain, but solid, functional frames- heavy at the bridge, slightly oversized, the sort worn by professionals who spent long hours buried in documents and longer ones justifying them. Behind the lenses, her eyes seemed slightly magnified, lending her an air of studious intensity, of someone more comfortable with data than people.

Her hair was drawn back into a neat, conservative bun, not a strand out of place. A leather satchel hung at her side, worn just enough to suggest constant use, filled with carefully prepared documents bearing the name she now wore. A citizen of convenience...a woman who belonged here, or close enough.

The outer door of De Schuilkerk had not changed since appearing on television a month ago. It was still numberless, a small camera hovering above the doorbell. Pressing the bell yielded a gurgle of static, and then the cautious words of the concierge: “Who is this?” And then, more warily: “We only accept referrals.”

Of course you do, Izena thought to herself. She adjusted the satchel at her side, her expression settling into one of mild impatience, the sort of irritation born from bureaucracy, not danger. “Laia Lurta,” she said smoothly, her voice measured, professional. “I come on behalf of a prospective patron who has a taste for the sorts of wares you offer, and I was told to expect discretion, not interrogation.”

Behind the thick glasses, her eyes flicked briefly to the camera, calculating angles, timing, response. Saturno's voice lingered in her mind. You will live as the identity you carry. So she did. “I'm with the Ghantish embassy.” A slight sigh, perfectly placed. “If this is inconvenient, I can take my patron's business elsewhere. I was under the impression your establishment valued privacy.”

After a few moments' delay, the door was buzzed open. A white man with leathery skin and hair that was greying at the temples looked at her from behind a barrier that came up to her neck. He looked unimpressed, but not dismissive. “Alright”, he said, speaking English with a noticeable Dutch accent: “This is a private members' club. Your 'patron' needs a referral. Someone who can vouch for them. Do you understand?” He looked at her as though she might be slow.

Izena did not bristle. She let a beat pass...just long enough to suggest that the question had been beneath her, not beyond her. Behind the thick black frames, her eyes lifted to meet his, steady and faintly unimpressed. “I understand perfectly,” she said. Her voice carried the faintest edge now...not irritation, but expectation. The tone of someone accustomed to doors opening without friction.

She set her satchel down on a nearby ledge and opened it with deliberate care. Inside, the papers were arranged with almost ritual precision- heavy stock embossed seals, ink that caught the light in quiet authority. She selected one...not the first, not the most obvious. The right one. Sliding it across to the man in the doorway, she did not release it immediately. “My patron,” she said, “is not in the habit of seeking referrals.”

She waited a few moments for him to see the papers she handed to him, bearing the seal of the Ghantish Imperial Crown. “The Emperor of Ghant,” she continued, as if clarifying something obvious. “Though I imagine you are familiar with the title, if not the man.”

The concierge looked befuddled as he was handed physical papers, reaching out from beyond the high barrier to take them. “The Emperor of Ghant”, he repeated. “Look, if this one of those hidden camera shows, and you have a set of funny teeth, you can just stop right here” he said. Even so, he took the time to study the seal. He pulled his own Synthexis smart phone and photographed the seals, letting the devices' AI check it out.

Izena waited a moment, and then she continued. “He does not travel much,” Izena went on, adjusting her glasses with a small, precise motion. “But his interests...do.” Her tone softened just slightly, not into warmth, but into something more conspiratorial. “As do his...tastes.”

“I just do the door, ma'am”, the Concierge said, scrolling through his phone as he compared pictures. He seemed somewhat surprised that the whole thing didn't immediately fall apart. “I don't really need to know. Though I'd expect him to have a court full of concubines or the like. Ladies fawning over him. Or men, or whatever, no judgement.”

She let that hang. Not vulgar. Not explicit...but understood. “A man of his position,” she added, “requires discretion above all things. And accommodation that reflects both his...resources and his expectations.” Izena gave the man a little more time to consider what he saw and what she said before continuing. “He is,” she continued, almost as an afterthought, “a man of considerable means. I trust I need not elaborate on the extent.”

“Right. That's how the Epheronian Prince scam starts too. Ma'am.” He sighed. “Look, the deal is that you need referrals to get in. No exceptions. But I'll ring up the boss and see if she wants to talk to you.” He moved back and rolled his chair to the side and retrieved a key, handing it to her, along with the documents. “Use tray number 17”, he said, pointing towards a cabinet of numbered wooden trays. “Put all electronic devices in there. Phones. Smart watches. Smart glasses.” He looked pointedly at her heavy, oversized frames. “Those are the rules.”

Izena inclined her head, just enough to acknowledge the instruction without conceding ground. “Of course,” she said. She moved toward the cabinet, her heels soft against the polished floor, each step measured. Tray seventeen slid open with a faint rasp of wood on wood, revealing a shallow velvet-lined interior...clean, empty, expectant.

For a moment, she simply stood there. Then, with careful deliberation, she reached up and removed the glasses. The effect was subtle, but immediate. Without the thick black frames, her face sharpened- lines more defined, eyes no longer softened by magnified lenses. The persona shifted, just slightly. Less bureaucrat, something else beneath...but not enough to break the illusion. Not yet anyway...

She folded the glasses with practiced care and set them into the tray. Next came the phone- a slim, unremarkable device issued for the identity she wore. It followed the glasses into the tray. A watch- functional, understated, joined them. She paused, considering, then closed the tray.

At the same time he picked up his phone again and rang. Someone on the other end answered. “Elfriede? There's someone at the door for you. Unusual case. Claims to represent someone important. You want to take it?”

Izena did not turn. She stood with her back straight, her hands lightly clasped before her, every inch the patient professional. But her attention sharpened, reaching outward, listening nont just to the words, but to the tone, the rhythm, the silence between them.

He ended the call. “She'll be right up.”

Izena gave a small nod. “Thank you.” Without her glasses, the light felt harsher, more direct. Izena let her gaze drift- not obviously, not enough to draw attention, but just enough to take in the details she had missed upon entry. The seams in the walls. The slight misalignment in one of the panels. The faint scent beneath the polished air- something chemical, something clean, but not entirely sterile. A place that curated itself carefully...a place where nothing was accidental. Enck had passed this threshold...had stood where she stood. Had been measured, weighed, and admitted. And then... she stilled the thought.

“All right, Bert?” asked Elfriede. The concierge nodded.

Elfriede Vezhâlryn had something of the air of an actress come off the stage and not yet changed from her costume, which, in a sense, was true. Her make-up was too heavy. Dark lipstick, dark nail polish, ice-blonde hair. Her heels were extreme. Over the rest of it she wore a translucent black nylon trench coat with a buckled lavallière collar and exaggerated gathered shoulders. She could pass easily for mid-thirties, with an across-the-room attractiveness. “Good evening, ma’am,” she said pleasantly.

Izena turned then, smooth and unhurried, as though she had been expecting precisely this entrance. Her gaze took in Elfriede in a single, measured sweep...not lingering, not gawking, but assessing. The theatricality of the woman was impossible to miss...the deliberate excess, the curated presence, the kind of beauty that announced itself before a word was spoken. It was armor of a different sort.

Good, Izena thought. A place like this would not be run by the timid. “Good evening,” Izena replied, her voice even, professional, but carrying just enough weight to suggest she was accustomed to being received, not screened. She inclined her head slightly- not deference, but acknowledgement between two women who understood presentation as currency. “My name is Laia Lurta, and I'm here from the Ghantish embassy. I appreciate you taking the time to see me on such short notice, Elfriede,” she continued, letting the name land cleanly, deliberately. “I was informed that discretion is one of your establishment's...defining qualities.”

There was a faint pause. “My patron places a high value on that.” She let her hands rest lightly together, composed, giving Elfriede space to observe her in turn- the absence of the glasses now, the sharper lines of her face, the quiet confidence that did not quite match the bureaucratic costume she wore. “I represent interests that do not often announce themselves publicly,” Izena went on, her tone softening just slightly, threading that careful line between implication and restraint. “And when they do seek accommodation, it is...with the expectation that certain standards are understood without needing to be explained.”

Her eyes met Elfriede's directly now...calm, certain. “A man of considerable means,” she added, echoing her earlier words but refining them now for a more discerning audience, “and equally considerable appetites. He does not require spectacle. Only privacy...and quality.” Izena added after a beat, “and I was led to believe,” she finished, “that this is a place capable of providing both.”

“She said she's here for the Ghantish Emperor”, Bert, the concierge, cut in, perhaps lessening the mystique. “I thought you might want to take it in the back. There's going to be people coming through here.”

Elfriede looked from Bert to Izena. “The Ghantish Emperor,” she said gravely. “Goodness.” The ghost of a smile came and went. “All right. The back, then.” She considered Izena. “Miss Lurta,” she said. “Come through.”

“Thank you,” Izena nodded to Elfriede before turning her head slightly and doing the same to Bert, though perhaps less enthusiastically. She proceeded to follow Eldriede into the building.

Elfriede led her through a door. The room beyond was warm and dimly lit, with leather chairs, a bar, and conversations in progress. A few members looked up, registered Elfriede, then returned to their drinks. At the rear, beside a corridor, Elfriede opened a narrow door. The office beyond was small but comfortable, with dark paneling, a muted paisley carpet, and two green leather chairs before a walnut writing desk. A shaded brass lamp cast a neat circle of light over the blotter. On the sideboard, beneath two lithographs of Närväryn the Beautiful in autumn, stood a drinks tray and a mahogany humidor.

Elfriede went to the sideboard. “May I offer you something to drink, Miss Lurta?” she asked.

Izena allowed herself a moment before answering, as though considering it from habit rather than caution. “Something dry, if you have it.”

Elfriede set out two stemmed glasses. She opened the bottles with a soft crack, poured gin and dry vermouth over ice, stirred, then strained the martinis, and twisted lemon peel over each. She did it like someone who had done it often, though not lately. “Now then,” she said, handing one to Izena. “What may I do for the Empire of Ghant, Miss Lurta?”

Izena accepted the drink and took a seat in one of the green leather chairs, settling into it with controlled ease, neither sprawling nor perching. Her charcoal dress remained immaculate, the gathered white collar framing her face in sharp contrast against the dark room. Without the glasses, there was less distance between her and scrutiny now, but she wore the exposure like intention.

She took a moment to drink before answering. “The Ghantish Emperor,” Izena said at last, allowing the words to settle between them like the first move in a slower game. “I realize how improbable that must sound.”

Her tone held neither apology nor defensiveness...only fact. “When one speaks for men whose names rarely leave private channels, skepticism is not unexpected.”

Izena took another drink, and then she looked up at Elfriede, meeting her gaze directly. “My employer is a man of unusual habits,” she said. “Isolation tends to produce them.” A careful truth...close enough to reality to wear conviction. “He values privacy above almost all things. Discretion, refinement...and environments capable of accommodating taste not easily entrusted to ordinary arrangements.”

She lifted the glass then, taking a measured sip. Good martini. Better than she'd expected. “He has heard favorable things about this establishment,” she continued, setting the glass down lightly on the side table. “From circles that do not often offer praise lightly.”

That much, at least, was entirely fabricated. But fabrication worked best when spoken as if it bored the speaker. Izena crossed one leg over the other, posture still exact. “The purpose of my visit is simple,” she said. Another lie...to simplify was to conceal. “My patron is considering a private arrangement while certain interests of his are conducted in this part of the world.” Her expression remained calm, professional. “Naturally, before any such understanding is reached, one must ensure compatibility.”

Her eyes held Elfriede's. “And given recent...events involving one of your former guests, I imagine you understand why due diligence matters.” There it was, softly placed. Not accusation, not pressure. Just enough. The faintest thread tugged loose from the knot. And now she waited to see whether Elfriede would tighten it- or begin, ever so slightly, to unravel.

Elfriede’s smile did not change. “We run a reputable establishment, Miss Lurta,” she said, careful by long habit. “We hold all the proper business and tax registrations from the Chamber of Commerce.”

She tasted her martini. “And we are assisting the authorities fully with their investigation.”

“Of course you are,” Izena said, her tone neither challenging nor convinced...merely accepting. 'I would expect nothing less.” She took another measured sip of her martini, letting the silence stretch just enough to suggest she had heard more than what was said. “And are you prepared to assist me fully with my investigation in the interests of lucrative future business opportunities?”

“While I would love to help you in any way I can,” Elfriede said, “you can imagine there's only so much I can share about an ongoing criminal investigation.” She gave a tiny shrug. “And we are scrupulous about keeping the confidences of our clients, Miss Lurta, even if those clients are no longer living.”

“...Fortunately, my investigation doesn't pertain to criminal matters.” Izena set down her glass on the table and leaned back in her chair. “All I want to do is take a tour of your establishment and see what it has to offer. I would then provide a report to the Emperor, and then the next time he's in this country, he may seek your patronage.”

Elfriede smiled thinly. “Well,” she said, placing her martini on her desk. “I'd be happy to show you around.” They passed back through the club rooms. Amber light, leather chairs, careful conversations. A few members glanced at Elfriede. “The ground floor is for members and guests,” Elfriede said.

At the rear of the room she opened a narrow door and started down a stone staircase. The steps were old, worn smooth in the centre. “Seventeenth century, I believe,” Elfriede said lightly. Her stiletto heels sounded sharply on the stone. Below, the corridor was narrow and lit from ankle height. It smelled faintly of leather, waxed wood, and old stone. Between the low lamps hung small etchings. Classical ruins, pastoral scenes, a judgment of some kind. Somewhere behind a closed door, a young woman gave a short laugh and then stopped. From another room came the slow creak of hardware, followed by a man’s voice speaking very calmly.

Elfriede did not pause. “The original owners were devout,” she said. The corridor opened into the old chapel.

Izena stopped and stood at the entrance to the old chapel. “I bet some people get really into the kinky stuff in there huh?” she asked, pointing at the chapel entrance with a grin. Not a Christian herself, she was aware of the repressed sexual deviancy that Christians often possessed.

Elfriede gave her a small, tolerant smile. “You would be surprised, Miss Lurta. After you.”

The old chapel was larger than the passage had suggested, a low vaulted room of pale stone and old plaster. The ribs of the ceiling disappeared into shadow. Modern lamps sat low along the walls and at the base of the columns, washing the stone upward in amber light. In the centre of the nave stood a St Andrew’s cross of oiled walnut. Where the altar had once stood, a brushed-steel suspension frame rose from the old platform, polished to an almost ceremonial finish.

“Speaking of...perhaps you wouldn't mind showing me the room where Enck died?” Izena asked with a smile. “Seems like it would make for a good story to tell someday.'

Elfriede looked at her for a moment, the smile still in place. “I don’t think that room's on the tour, Miss Lurta,” she said.

Izena frowned. “I know I've spoken on behalf of the Emperor often this evening, but I'm the sort of woman who likes to see things I'm not supposed to. Certainly a woman of your esteem can appreciate that,” she explained with a smirk at the end.

Something in Elfriede’s expression sharpened. “Curiosity is not a vice we discourage here,” she said. “But like the others, Miss Lurta, it comes at a price.” She looked at her levelly. “Will you be SINing, or shall I open an account?”

“Oh, don't worry madam, I'm playing with house money today,” Izena smirked as she produced a bag. “How do you like it? I aim to please, after all...”

Elfriede glanced at the bag, then at Izena. “Let’s call that a retainer,” she said. She led Izena to a curtained alcove at the end of the chapel, past the polished steel frame. Inside, a padded bench stood against one wall. Opposite it, a St Andrew’s cross in dark oiled wood had been fitted with leather cuffs on brass D-rings. Against the far wall, a glass-fronted cabinet displayed its contents. Floggers, crops, a coiled single-tail, lengths of rope in black and oxblood, and braided ligatures hanging neatly from polished hooks.

Izena stepped into the alcove without hesitation, though her eyes moved carefully over every detail. The room seemed theatrical...intimate...controlled. Izena's gaze settled briefly upon the cross, the leather restraints hanging with meticulous symmetry, then drifted to teh cabinet beyond. Each instrument had been arranged with almost ceremonial care, less like tools and more like relics displayed in a chapel.

How fitting, she thought. De Schuilkerk. A hidden church, only the manner of worship had changed. “Well,” Izena murmured softly, stepping closer to the glass cabinet, “your patrons certainly value presentation.” Her reflection stared back faintly in the pane...sharp-eyed, composed, the severe business attire now oddly at odds with the room surrounding her. Deliberately so.

She let her fingers trail lightly along the edge of the cabinet, never touching the glass itself. “The Emperor appreciates refinement,” she said casually, as though discussing architecture rather than appetites. “Power and pleasure are not so different. Both depend heavily on ritual.” A faint smile touched her lips. “And on trust. I think we can trust each other, don't you, Lady Elfriede?” Her eyes flicked toward Elfriede then.

Elfriede gave a soft laugh. “You only need to call me ‘my lady’ when we’re playing, Miss Lurta.” She glanced at the cabinet, then back at Izena. “And I only need to trust that you’ll keep your account from falling into arrears, and respect the house rules. We try not to ask more of our guests than that.”

“You have my word, on my honor as a Ghantar,” Izena answered, suddenly feigning seriousness. “Is this where it happened?”

Elfriede glanced at the padded bench, then at the cross. “Among other things, I imagine.”

Izena allowed the silence after Elfriede's answer to linger. The words settled into the warm dimness like smoke. Izena's eyes drifted once more across the room, though now the movement felt slower, more deliberate. She stepped nearer to the padded bench, fingertips brushing lightly across the leather surface- not provocatively, but thoughtfully, as though tracing the outline of an unseen story.

Elfriede watched her with mild curiosity.

“Such an ugly thing,” Izena said quietly. “Death.” A faint smile ghosted across her lips. “Particularly when it interrupts pleasure, which it often does.” She glanced back over her shoulder toward Elfriede, the lamplight catching softly against her dark hair and sharp cheekbones.

Elfriede's expression did not change.

“You know,” Izena continued, her voice lowering just slightly, “in Ghant, there's an old saying. That men reveal themselves most honestly in prayer, pain, and bed.” She gave a small shrug. “Usually all three at once.”

Elfriede smiled slightly. “I should point out that this building has been deconsecrated, Miss Lurta.”

A flicker of amusement touched Izena's expression. “And from what I've seen tonight, this establishment seems rather devoted to honesty.” She took another slow step, closing some of the distance between them- not invading...merely inviting.

Elfriede was beautiful in the careful, constructed way of actresses and predators. Izena recognized the type instantly. Women like her lived surrounded by masks for so long that they grew hungry for moments where someone looked at them and saw the machinery beneath.

So Izena did. Not her clothing, not the performance. Her. “You're very calm about all this,” Izena observed softly. “Most people would be rattled. A dead government official. Investigators. Journalists.” Her lips curved faintly. “Fear.”

Elfride accepted this with guarded interest.

Izena's gaze held Elfriede's now, steady and intent behind the veil of practiced professionalism. “But you don't strike me as someone who frightens easily.” The compliment was subtle...sharper for it. Izena moved closer to the cabinet, turning slightly so that her shoulder faced Elfriede rather than her full posture- a quieter intimacy, less confrontational.

“I imagine men tell you things here,” she said. “Important men, especially.” Her tone became almost conversational. “Men with secrets tend to mistake desire for trust.” A pause, and then Izena added, “and Diederick Enck seems like precisely the sort of man who would believe himself irresistible.”

She smiled faintly then, as though the thought amused her. “Who was with him when he died?” The question came gently, not as an interrogation. Merely as curiosity shared between equals.

Izena let the silence breathe afterward, her fingers idly tracing the rim of an untouched crystal glass on the nearby tray.

“If I knew, I could not tell you, Miss Lurta,” Elfriede said patiently.

“You needn't protect them,” Izena added quietly. “Guests rarely return favors.” Her eyes flicked toward Elfriede again, softer now...warmer. “But friends...sometimes do.”

Elfriede laughed. “And how do you know what I need?” she asked. “Or what favors I'm owed?”

She looked at Izena flatly. “Tell me how much you've got, and I'll tell you what you can afford.”

For the first time that day, Izena laughed giddily. “Elfriede, please, allow me to help you rephrase that. Tell me how much you need for whatever it is that you can tell me, and I will give it to you right here and now, as we stand and talk.” Izena smiled again, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “There's nothing I can't afford. The only real question is, how much money do you want for everything you know? Come on now, don't be shy. We're both grown women here.”

Elfriede looked at her for a long moment.

“Everything I know is not for sale, Miss Lurta,” she said. “But I may be willing to part with a name. Someone who may know more than I do. No explanation. No guarantee that he will speak to you. No refund if you're disappointed.”

She added: “Two hundred and fifty thousand ducats. Paid upfront. For one name.”

Izena considered the offer carefully. Sure, it was a lot, but she had the backing of the Imperial Spymaster and access to Imperial coin. Fortunately, she was able to convert Ghantmarks into Ghantboymarks at the Ghantish embassy. She had an exorbitant amount of them all conveniently loaded onto a thumb drive just in case she needed to bribe someone. Fuck it, that's what it's there for... “Alright, I think I can do that,” Izena said as she reopened her bag and produced a black thumb drive. “There's two hundred and fifty thousand ducats worth of Ghantboymarks on here, and then some. By all means, help yourself to it.”

“Lovely,” Elfriede said.

[Knootoss]

((Joint Post between Knootoss and the Soveriegn States))

Sportcafé De Treffer, Leegkerk
Free Republic of Knootoss

Midday trade at De Treffer was limited to Evy Meijers and a single old man nursing a small beer, feet planted on the brass rail that ran the foot of the counter. The barman, a balding figure in his fifties, was working a cloth round the same glass, looking bored across the empty tables. A long row of spirit bottles stood over a short row of beer taps, against a clouded mirror. Two fruit machines waited against the side wall, throwing coloured light at no one and chiming to themselves, unfed. The air held notes of fried fat, old beer, and the thin sweetness of spilt spirits.

Much of the tea-brown wall panelling was obscured by the one new thing in the establishment: a flat television screen, too large for the room, screaming into the quiet afternoon. A football match ran across it, Orion Omsterdam's black shirts against the Chamavic team in purple. The narration was excited. The barman and the old man ignored it.

A young man stepped inside, blinking the dark into focus. He came in on a cloud of Stoer - Black Forest deodorant. The sides of his head were clippered to stubble, the top left long and combed up, the cut new enough to show its line. His white shirt was folded over on itself in set creases, across the chest and down both arms. A darker patch on one of the creases had not finished drying. His jeans were black and clean, but the trainers he wore were not. A can of Pink Bunny Cola was gripped tightly in his left hand.

When Evy waved, he crossed to her. Halfway over, his eyes caught the band on her shirt, read it, and his pace picked up. The colour was climbing out of his collar, and his cheeks were red before he reached her. He set the pink can on the bar beside her glass and squared himself to the stool, shoulders back, chin dropping in, the whole arrangement a bit stiff. A smile broke loose and went too wide before he hauled it back. He put out his hand to shake.

"I'm Leegkerkselandsknecht," he said, pitching the name down into his chest, a borrowed bass that seemed to startle him. It broke at the seam and ran back up to the lighter voice, a high baritone, that was his own. "Kevin. I'm Kevin." The handshake went on slightly too long. His hand was a little clammy. "Of course I came. I said I would."

"Hi, Kevin," Evy said,, shaking his hand, "I should have known you'd come. You're a real man. And you keep your word."

"You can't drink that in here." The barman cut in, nodding at the pink can on the counter. "No outside drinks."

Kevin looked at the can as though it had been set there by someone else. The colour went up his neck again. "Right. No. Yeah." He took it off the bar. He had nowhere to put it and held it down at his side. "I was going to get a proper drink anyway, so." He swallowed and turned to the barman. "Get me a beer."

"What kind?" asked the older man.

The question stopped him. Behind the man stood the long line of bottles and the short row of taps, none of which meant anything to him, and the only beer he could have named under pressure was the one off the adverts. "A Heeneveen," he said. "Yeah. Heeneveen."

The barman drew it without comment. Kevin set the cola on the floor by his foot, where it could not be seen, then turned back to her, and remembered to put his shoulders back and breathe slowly.


"I've been dreaming about this moment," Evy said, leaning forward. "You're exactly as I imagined you to be." She pulled her shoulders back slightly, looked up and smiled. "And how about me? I hope I live up to your expectations."

"Really?" Kevin asked. he looked unsure, wondering if she was messing with him. He then bit his lip, determined not to ruin his 'shot'. "You look really good. Didn't fake your picture either. An eight plus, easy." He smiled at her, like he'd seen Vance Holloway do. "And not a woke bitch with blue hair like most other girls, either. You don't see that a lot."

"Thank you," Evy said with a shy smile, as she played with a loose stand of hair. She picked up her beer and took a sip.

"I love the way to really destroyed that guy the other day who was prattling on about Staalman saving us," she said. "I've learned so much from you." She subtly edged closer to Kevin. "What we need is someone like you."

Kevin's breathing quickened. "Yeah?" he asked. Then seemed to think better of it: "I mean. Yeah." The barman set down a beer in front of him. Kevin picked it up and drank down, wincing a little from the bitter taste. When he set it down, though, he looked a little more relaxed, even as a little flush came to his cheeks. "Staalman's good at raising issues. But he doesn't look at the big picture."

Evy nodded, and sipped her beer. "You're right," she said. "About everything." Her hand briefly brushed his knee, then returned it to her lap.

Kevin swallowed, gathered his courage, and reached out to take her hand. "I'm glad we've finally met", he said. His hand was a little clammy as it squeezed. The barman rolled his eyes.

"Should we get out of here?" Evy asked, smiling and holding his hand. "I'd love too take a walk with you. Maybe see where you live."

His eyes widened. "... uh. Yeah! I'd like that." He looked at the bartender. "I'm paying for us both", he asserted.

The barman looked at Evy.

Evy smiled. "Thanks, Kevin," she said, squeezing his hand.

[South Epheron]

Droëfontein
Prinsehoek, Republic of South Epheron

The farmhouse had been built to keep the heat out, and now it would not let the cold go. Wouter Daalder had stopped fighting it. He lay along the sagging couch in shorts and a vest with a gas heater roaring blue in the corner. Past the burglar bars, the country ran flat and pale to the hills, frozen bright under a sun that gave light but not warmth. An iron windmill stood dead above a dry trough. The television was still droning on. He had stopped watching the local news days ago but could not bring himself to switch it off.

"...end so here in Kareehof, a community thet hes always prided itself on being a friendly one, there is a new word in every mouth tonight. Fear."

A bottle of Generaal Witkrans stood open among its dead brothers on the table, the general himself glaring out from under his hat, a fat ugly white man with a stubble printed in three colours of cheap ink. Wouter reached for it without looking, drank, and put it back. The brandy tasted of solvent and burnt sugar. It was, he had decided, the most honest product this country manufactured.

"Kareehof says it hes opened its arms to all who came in good faith. But the femily thet took the old Pretorius place last month is, in the words of more then one neighbour, simply not from heah."

He did not like the man he was becoming. The grey-blond stubble thickening into a beard. The new softness at the waist that had not been there two months ago. He had not washed in a couple of days as there was no one to be clean for. There had never been anyone, in the sense that counted. There had been the work. The EIVD. Then the Order. Then the MBI. Enck had been the nearest thing to family, and Enck was dead, strangled in a private room in Haag.

He thumbed his phone awake to escape the grating voice. It was a mistake.

The feed opened on a short video of former Grand Pensionary Maurits Viljoen beaming into the screen. "First day on the KNN documentary set and, wow. Just wow. Full crew. The best equipment. All of it to tell the real Maurits Viljoen story. And the director tells me he has never worked with anyone so natural in front of a lens. I said to him, I said: that is because I'm not acting! Today we did the warlord story, updated from the book to let you know how it actually happened. One of the makeup girls, a pretty blonde, was actually crying. So like and subscribe!"

Wouter watched it to the end with no expression at all, then stared at the KNN logo that had swished into view.

KNN. Rotsenberg's network. The same family that he was sure had put Enck in the ground. Dessart, their patsy bitch made National Security Coordinator, was now combing the firm's files line by line. And they had evidently bought off this purple clown with a movie set. The Rotsenbergs. Statists to the marrow. They represented everything the Order of the Invisible Hand had been raised up to burn away.

He dropped the phone onto the cushion.

"Look, I'm not a racist, hey, I want to be very clear on thet," said the woman being interviewed on the television. "We've got a lovely coloured femily two doors down, the Adamses. They are barely a quarter, if thet. You would never even pick it up. Three generations in this street. End across the street there's a retired oil driller with a brownish wife from one of the Gulf islands, and she's charming, jus charming. We hev never hed a problem with a soul. But these new ones came straight out of the township. You can see it on them. Especially the boys. End I've got a young daughter at home."

Wouter had spent his life working among the worst men of his own country and thought himself past being shocked. The South Epheronians managed it anyway. Not with cruelty. He could respect cruelty. But not the bottomless, sweating, sincere self-pity of people who had erased apartheid from their law books in 2018 but kept every last single drop of it in their hearts. He found it more obscene than the old, honest cruelty had been.

"End nobody wants to say it, but what about house prices? We gave our whole lives to this street. My husband breaks his beck for what we hev. End every year you expect a little more for thet. Now who is going to pay what this street is worth, with thet living next door? It is our future they are taking from us, end nobody, nobody thinks about us."

Wouter rolled his eyes as the television cut back to the anchor.

"Up north, in what was until lately South Epheron, the question hes already been answered. Only Caldan end Excalbian guns stend between decent farming families end the baying mobs at their gates, where femilies are barricaded inside their own homes while crowds of hundreds..."

The buzzer went off like a fire alarm.

Wouter was off the couch before he had decided to move, the old training surviving the brandy intact. He crossed to the bedroom in three strides. The sawn-off lay next to the bed. It was a crude ugly thing, a hunting gun butchered down with a hacksaw, the stock bound in friction tape gone grey and tacky. He broke it, confirmed the two brass rounds seated, and snapped it shut.

The security station was screwed to the wall by the front door. A cheap tablet cable-tied above the old alarm panel, a nest of camera leads taped down the plaster and run through a hole knocked in the wall to a car battery on the floor, for the days the power failed. The whole thing hummed. Six grey rectangles on the screen.

The electric fence ran the yard in the first three. The warning boards at regular intervals had faded to the colour of the dust around them, the crude skulls and the words TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT / SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN gone soft and orange. Beyond it the land ran out empty to the hills. Eight years with no one to work it had given the grazing back to the scrub. The stock pens stood open and full of nothing.

In the fourth rectangle, the big tan mastiff had its paws up on the gate and its head thrown back. He could see it barking, its breath smoking in the cold. On the far side of the gate, a vehicle was parked, its windows rusty orange from the road dust. A woman stood beside it, dark hair drawn back, something in her clothes and posture telling him that he wasn't dealing with a lost local. He thumbed the intercom. The speaker out at the gate popped and hissed.

"You're a long way from anywhere," he said into it. "Tell me what you want, and be quick about it."

[Ghant]

“Southern Hospitality”
Droëfontein
Prinsehoek, South Epheron
(Co-written with Knootoss)

…How the fuck did I end up here? A reasonable question, Izena thought as she drove a luxury sports car down the road. This part of South Epheron seemed flat and light-colored, and though the sun was out, it wasn’t warm. Izena caught sight of an iron windmill in the distance.

The run-down farmhouse Izena was driving towards had a fence that ran across the yard. There were warning boards throughout the stretch, old and faded in color that said “TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT / SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN.” Izena laughed when she saw the signs, and began to wonder what sort of person this Wouter Daalder was.

Izena’s charcoal wool coat fell to just below the knee in clean, expensive lines, tailored enough to suggest old money rather than new. Beneath it was a cream silk blouse fastened with mother-of-pearl buttons and a fitted black skirt practical enough for business yet unmistakably elegant. Dark leather gloves covered her hands. Her shoes were polished black calfskin, low-heeled and costly enough that any local farmer would immediately recognize they had never been purchased from a chain store. Oversized sunglasses concealed much of her face, while her dark hair had been drawn back into a neat knot that had somehow survived several hours of driving over roads that barely deserved the name. Everything about her projected competence, education, and money. Not flashy money. Serious money.

Unfortunately, the South Epheronian countryside had declared war upon that image. The luxury sedan parked behind her had once been a tasteful metallic silver. Now it was almost entirely hidden beneath a crust of reddish-brown dust and dried mud. The lower panels looked as though they had been dredged from a riverbed. The wheel wells were packed with dirt. One side carried a streak of clay from where the vehicle had slipped sideways through a pothole large enough to qualify as a geological feature. Dust coated the windows, the mirrors, and even the chrome trim. Only the windshield remained relatively clean, courtesy of wipers that had spent the last hundred kilometers fighting a losing battle against the roads of Prinsehoek. The contrast was almost comical: Izena herself remained immaculate, while her vehicle looked as though it had survived a military campaign.

Izena secretly considered the filth an advantage. Wealthy businesswomen were expected to arrive in expensive cars. Wealthy businesswomen who had genuinely spent all day driving through the back country were expected to arrive in dirty ones.

Then the speaker out at the gate popped and hissed. “You're a long way from anywhere,” he said through the speaker. “Tell me what you want, and be quick about it.”

Izena did not immediately answer. She stood beside the dust-coated vehicle with one hand resting lightly atop the driver's door, studying the cameras she knew were studying her. The cool wind tugged at the hem of her charcoal coat. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes despite the fading afternoon light. She looked expensive. That was the point. The wealthy often believed themselves invisible.

“Wouter Daalder,” she said at last. Not loudly. Not timidly. Like someone accustomed to having doors opened for her.

“My name is Ira Biscay. My family owns Biscay Consolidated Shipping and Logistics, based out of Ghant. I’m in this country on safari, and I guess you can tell how much fun I’ve been having,” she laughed. A lie…a good one. The sort built upon enough truth to survive casual inspection.

“We have mutual acquaintances.” She watched the camera. Nothing moved. Only the dog barking at the gate. “I've driven a long way to get here. The roads are terrible. The weather is worse.” Her voice softened slightly. “The least you could do is offer a guest a cup of coffee, tea or even a beer.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. Hold on a moment and I’ll come out. Just stay right where you are,” he said. The intercom went dead with a sharp click.

Izena said nothing, but nodded as she leaned back against her car and drew her cigar to her lips. She took a long, deep drag, and exhaled slowly, the smoke filling the air around her. For a moment, she felt a state of tranquility, for the first time in what felt like a while.

A few minutes later, the sound of a light chainsaw arose from behind the rusted zinc roof of the farmhouse. A shape cleared the roofline and instantly pitched forward towards the front gate.

On approach, it turned out to be an X-framed UAV of bolted together carbon fiber plates and exposed wiring, no bigger than a dinner plate, bound together with layers of grey electrical tape and fielding a tiny nose camera. A dark green bulky thing, three times its size and shaped like a bottle, was slung under it. Izena was quickly able to identify it as a high-explosive anti-tank round as it stayed just above the electric fence line and barreled towards her and her vehicle.

Years of training saved her life. The instant Izena saw the object hanging beneath the drone, every pleasant thought vanished from her mind. The world seemed to slow. The buzzing machine skimmed over the fence line like some mechanical hornet, its exposed wiring vibrating, the taped-together frame rattling in the cold air. Beneath it swung the dark green warhead.

Not a warning. Not intimidation. A kill shot. “Oh, you son of a bitch.” The words escaped her lips before conscious thought could catch them. Then she moved.

The expensive shoes left the ground as Izena hurled herself sideways. Her coat snapped violently in the wind as she dove across the dirt road, one shoulder striking first. The impact drove the breath from her lungs. Dust exploded around her.

A heartbeat later the world ended. The detonation slammed into the afternoon with a deafening crack. Heat washed over her back. Metal screamed. The luxury sedan ceased being a car and became a cloud of fire, dirt, and spinning fragments. One door cartwheeled through the air. Glass burst outward in a glittering storm. The shockwave hammered into her like a giant's fist, rolling her across the ground. The front gate was blown out of its hinges and now hung open, limply.

For several seconds there was only ringing. Dust, smoke, pain. Izena lay half-sprawled in the dirt, blinking grit from her eyes. Then instinct reasserted itself. Move…fight…survive…

Her hand disappeared beneath her coat. The compact submachine gun emerged in a single fluid motion. The weapon felt reassuringly familiar. Real. Unlike Ira Biscay. Unlike the expensive clothes. Unlike the ruined car still burning behind her.

Izena rolled onto one knee, bringing the weapon to her shoulder as her eyes searched the farmhouse, the fence line, the roof, the windows. Anywhere, everywhere. She thought she saw a figure moving behind one of the windows, but then it was gone.

The drone had been a greeting. A man who greeted visitors with anti-tank rounds rarely stopped at one surprise. Smoke drifted across the property. The mastiff had retreated in terror. Somewhere beyond the cameras and the walls and the ruined fields, Wouter Daalder was watching. Waiting, calculating.

Izena spat dust from her mouth. The refined businesswoman named Ira Biscay was gone. What remained was an Imperial agent of Ghant. And she was very, very angry.

“What the fuck, man!” Izena exclaimed incredulously. “You blew up my car! Are you ready to talk or do you want to go to war?” She asked as she looked for him with her gun in firing position. “I’m serious…no more of this trigger-happy bullshit, alright?”

The speaker at the gate buzzed to life. It sounded tinny, damaged. “You want to talk? Drop the weapon and approach the main building with your hands where I can see them.”

“Ok,” Izena exhaled deeply as she proceeded to move slowly, cautiously. She lowered her weapon down to the ground and then raised both of her hands up in the air before she began to approach the main building. “I’m trusting you not to shoot me, man, alright?”

As Izena approached the main building, Wouter came out of the front door. He was carrying the readied sawed-off shotgun in both hands, staring hard. He came to a stop when they were close enough to talk but still well out of reach. He looked rattled, with red-rimmed eyes and a vest that hung awkwardly over his shorts.

“You wanted to talk? You can start by saying who really sent you, and why.”

Izena approached with her hands up, and tried to appear as non-threatening as she possibly could. She looked more closely at the man and realized that he might be a little…paranoid. “My name is Izena, and I’m from Ghant. I represent the interests of the Ghantish Imperial Family, and one of their high-ranking officials has been concerned about the death of Diederik Enck. I traveled to the…establishment where he died, and whilst there I was given a name I could follow up with…Wouter Daalder. So now I’m here.”

She spread her hands out and laughed. “Look, I get that you’re alarmed, but I’m not here to hurt you or anything. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to him and what I can do about it. I don’t know how you’re tied into all this, but my guess from taking a look around here is that you’re hiding. Maybe the people that killed him will kill you too if they find you. If you help me, maybe I can help you.”

Then she looked around one more time before continuing. “That being said, my location is known to my handlers. The Ghantish don’t take kindly to killing Imperial agents, though I should tell you, I don’t particularly value my own life as much as I should,” she laughed nervously. “Call me crazy but I care a little more about yours now, it looks like you’ve been living…rough. I have too,” she finished, trying to appear relatable. It wasn’t a lie though. “So yeah, there’s your answer.”

Wouter kept his shotgun on the level, considering her words. “Cut the ‘building a rapport’ crap”, he said. “I was doing that when you were still in middle school. I’m not your buddy. And I know your game. I give you the information, and after that I become a ‘loose end’.”

He squinted as he thought about the rest of what she’d said. “Why would the GIS want to know what happened to Diederik?” He paused. “Or are you a Private Investigator?”

“I don’t know, but if I did I’d tell you,” Izena confessed. “Whatever it is, it’s clearly big, and it runs a lot deeper than most people probably realize. “Truthfully, I’m not exactly a GIS agent. I was sent out here by a man named Saturno Descarga, the Imperial Spymaster of the Emperor of Ghant. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but what I do know is that it’s important to the Imperial Court that I’m out here…and hey, maybe something good can come out of this.”

Sighing, Izena added, “I sort of owe them…ever since I escaped from a pit that people aren’t supposed to get out of. I sort of think that’s an allegory for life…that we just move from one pit to the next, while people sit up on high and laugh at us while they watch. I don’t know about you but I’m a little tired of it. If there is something going on, something big…fuck it, I want to expose it and quite possibly bring it down. Little people making a big difference in a cruel and indifferent world. That sounds like justice to me, how about you?”

“If you’re not GIS, then I doubt that you’ve got a Ghantish wet team backing you,” he said, adding dryly: “And your car appears to have broken down.”

He watched the burning wreck behind her. “... that’s going to be hell to clean up,” he admitted. He let out a small sigh. “I’ll have to blame the blacks, or something. The locals won’t ask questions, then.”

His gaze returned to her. “More to the point, I doubt that the Imperial Spymaster of Ghant is very much interested in justice for a Knootian National Security Coordinator. Even if they have essentially the same job.”

He paused a beat. Considering.

“But you are right that something big is going on.” His hands briefly tightened their grip around the rifle. “But I’m not going to commit treason, just so that a Ghantish spymaster can put a report in a drawer somewhere. And I don’t think you are senior enough to determine what happens with the information you gather.”

“...Treason was already committed, man,” Izena laughed, “when somebody whacked Enck. You really think it’ll stop there? Maybe I’m not senior enough to determine what happens, but I’m certainly determined. The cat’s already out of the bag, so why not help me? I’m going to continue with or without you, but at least with you I have a better chance of succeeding at whatever the fuck it is that this all leads to.”

“What do you already know?” he asked.

“Well, I know he was murdered in a sex club, and my money is on it being a woman who did it. Someone he was meeting there, I don’t think a…resident would’ve been capable of that. Bad business for employees to kill their customers,” she laughed. “And if it was a woman, she had enough skill to be able to kill him efficiently. Which means that someone with money and resources must’ve been behind it. Someone powerful, with an agenda that wanted Enck out of the way. Personally, I think you’d be a lot safer if whoever’s responsible for this is…dealt with.”

“This place is clearly compromised. I’ll need something else,” he admitted. “But you’re not seeing the bigger picture. Diederik’s death’s downstream from two of our guys being gunned down by the Grand Pensionary’s security at the KNN building. We were investigating that attack. There was a Daytan national involved. A patsy, probably. She fled the country. Someone who had access to the KNN building helped her escape.”

He paused again. Then added: “Then after that, the GP resigns, and Diederik gets killed in his own club by a woman - or possibly a man, but most likely a woman - and his replacement begins to purge all of his loyalists. And the KNN investigation gets quietly shoved to the side.”

“...Who stands to benefit the most from all of these things transpiring in that order?” Izena asked, somewhat confused as to the implications of events she wasn’t entirely familiar with. “So you’re some kind of an agent too then, huh? If you and some of your friends were investigating these other goings-on. What’s stopping you from carrying on, instead of hiding out in the safari like some crocodile hunter?”

“Are you slow? Do I need to hold your hand through this?” he spat.

Izena laughed, and then she shrugged. “Man, I’m from Northern Ghant. I never went to school and I didn’t learn how to read until I was an adult. Yeah, maybe they could’ve sent someone a little smarter, a little better educated, but there’s one thing I’m better at than most people, and that’s crawling through the mud. So yeah, asshole, if you could draw a picture for me or something, that would help alot.”

He grinned at that, but it did not carry any mirth. He took a few steps towards her. “Alright. Let me put it to you like this. There’s a collection of skulls in the collection of a museum I visited in high school. It had this … weird collection. Vats with misshapen babies floating in some kind of fluid. And row after row of skulls. Some of the older ones had the phrenological annotations still on them. Some kind of North Ghantish tribe was marked as especially ‘inhuman’.”

The Ghantish agent laughed at that and said, “yeah no shit, if I disagreed with you I’d still be in northern Ghant.”

“The point is,” he said, “That the people who benefit from what is going on now are not your friends. The KNN building is owned by the Rotsenbergs. The new National Security Coordinator is close to one of their politicians. Nova Rotsenberg is the new Grand Pensionary.”

“Good, I don’t want to be friends with people like that anyway,” Izena nodded assuredly. “I guess that means I’m going to be paying a visit to this Nova Rotsenberg then, huh? Also, is that really her name, Nova?” Izena laughed.

“Their ‘ascended humanity’ would have no need for old names, or old anything” Wouter sneered. “It was a mad statist project. And you’re just as mad if you think you can just talk to her. Or get her to say anything. She’s not Viljoen.”

“Watch me, man,” laughed Izena amusedly. “I’m pretty persuasive…and good at getting people to talk. I got you to talk, after all. Besides, I’ve gotten closer to bigger, badder people than this fucking Nova woman. If you’d like, I’ll send you a postcard after this is all said and done, how does that sound?”

He squinted again. “It sounds like you’re running a slapdash operation,” he said, openly sceptical. “What did you do? Kill Bridgette Iesus and replace her with a Ghantish body double?”

“I think people overthink this sort of stuff, and that gets them killed,” Izena confessed with a shake of her head. “Yeah sure maybe to a professional like you I’m slapdash, but it’s always worked for me, and if I was going to die, I would’ve been dead already, years ago. The way I see it, I’m living on free time with the hands of the gods upon me. And anyway, I don’t know who Bridgette Iesus is, but I don’t kill anyone that I don’t have to. I actually don’t really care for violence, if you can believe that. I’m more of a lover than a fighter.”

His eyes bulged slightly. “... I’m still pointing a gun at you”, he said. “The day is young. And if you immediately put yourself in my enemies’ hands, they’ll have a trail on me.”

“Sounds like it might behoove you to come with me and help ensure my success then, “Izena laughed. “Either way, I’m charting a new course for Nova Rotsenberg. It’s been nice chatting, and I did mean what I said about that postcard.” Unconcerned, Izena her arms, and half turned to leave. “Oh and you can keep the gun too,” she pointed at the gun on the ground. “It’s actually quite nice.”

“... are you going to walk back?” he asked.

“I guess so, since you blew up my fucking car,” Izena said unseriously despite herself. “Unfortunately I left my giant eagle horn in Northern Ghant, so I guess on foot it is for me then…unless you want to be a gentleman and drive me. Which I doubt because you didn’t even invite me in for tea before you shot at me.”

He sighed. “You can come in,” he said. “And I’ll drive you back to the nearest town. It’s too far to walk, and it’d be a shame you died on the road before getting to carry out your insane plan.”

Izena smiled cheekily and put her hands out in a grateful expression. “Ah, not there’s that South Epheron hospitality I’d heard so much about,” she exclaimed as she began walking towards the building. “And don’t forget that gun is there, it would be a real shame if some vagrant found it and carjacked somebody with it,” she sniggered.

“There’s nobody around. I’ll pick it up when I get back,” he said. “I’m choosing to trust you not to kill me immediately. I still like you better without a gun in your hands.” He lowered his own weapon, then. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up before I drive you to town.”

“Wouter, the only thing I intend on killing today is a warm cup of tea,” she answered as she walked past the gun and up towards the building. She whistled as she walked forward and wiped dirt, debris, sweat and even a little blood off her clothes. Fuck, my outfit is ruined too…

[Ghant]

“The Rock”
Castle of Seven Towers
Ghish, Ghant

As Izena entered the Imperial capital, the bustling streets and elegant avenues gradually gave way to older quarters where the city's history lingered in every weathered stone. There, upon a squat hill overlooking the northern districts of the city, stood the Castle of Seven Towers.

No fortress in the Empire possessed a history so long or a reputation so grim. Raised nearly a thousand years before by King Edward the Builder as a secondary keep, it had served, at one time or another, as royal palace, military headquarters, treasury, arsenal, mint, prison, and execution ground. Long before the grand splendor of the Imperial Palace, the Castle stood empty unless a daring prince choose to make it his seat, and presume to rule from within these forbidding walls. Here princes now lost to history made their designs. Here treaties had been signed, dynasties secured, and rebellions extinguished. Here disgraced princes, ambitious nobles, foreign spies, and traitors to the Empire had all awaited judgment.

Among ordinary Ghantish folk, the Castle inspired the same uneasy reverence reserved for places where history had become inseparable from legend. Parents warned unruly children that the Black Wardens of Seven Towers would carry them away if they strayed too far from goodness. Ballads spoke of imprisoned princes driven to madness within its towers, of conspirators who entered through the River Gate only to vanish forever, and of executioners whose names had long since been forgotten while their chambers remained preserved beneath the ancient stone. Whether these tales were wholly true mattered little. Centuries had transformed the fortress into something beyond mere architecture. It had become the physical embodiment of Imperial justice, ancient, impartial, and utterly without sentiment.

Few nobles lingered there willingly. Even in daylight, the corridors carried an oppressive stillness, as though the stones themselves remembered every confession whispered within them, every sentence pronounced, every ambition broken against the will of the Crown. It was said that a man entered the Castle of Seven Towers believing himself important, and departed remembering that Ghant had outlived greater men than he.

Prince Albert, unsurprisingly, preferred it to the grand comforts of the Imperial Palace. The First Prince received no one in an ornate audience chamber but in an austere hall paneled with dark oak, where faded ranger standards hung beside battered shields, hunting trophies, and relics from forgotten northern campaigns. A great fire crackled beneath an immense stone hearth, throwing long shadows across the chamber but doing little to dispel its solemn atmosphere. Standing before the flames, broad-shouldered and weathered with age, Prince Albert seemed almost another fixture of the ancient fortress itself—unyielding, enduring, and as much a part of the Castle of Seven Towers as the black stone from which it had been built.

Izena was shown the way to Albert’s hall by his chamberlain by the name of Ivar, an old hunchbacked man with black hair and beady brown eyes who leaned on a walking stick as tall as he was. Despite his twisted body, he was richly dressed in black imperial garb. He spoke little, which Izena was ok with…this wasn’t the sort of place she wanted to make smalltalk in.

Ivar led Izena right to Albert, who stood in front of the fire. Without looking, he said “leave us,” to Ivar, who bowed and took his leave.

Izena stood a few feet away from Albert, who didn’t move. For a time neither of them spoke. The fire cracked softly beneath the great stone hearth, filling the silence with the scent of burning pine. Beyond the narrow windows, evening settled over the northern quarter of the Imperial capital, and the ancient walls of the Castle of Seven Towers seemed to draw the darkness toward them.

It was Albert who broke the silence. “So,” he said gruffly, turning the old iron cup between his scarred hands. “You seek an audience with me.”

“I do,” Izena answered. “Saturno Descarga tells me that you’re traveling to Qubti to attend the Coronation Ball, where a certain Doctor Nova Rotsenberg will also be in attendance. I would have you take me with you so that I might meet with her.”

Albert gave a low, throaty laugh that ended as quickly as it began. “I don’t work for Saturno Descarga. And neither should you.”

“…I need to meet Nova Rotsenberg,” Izena insisted, taking a step closer to Albert. “I have to see this through.”

Albert finally turned to face Izena. He possessed the sort of presence that age had only sharpened rather than diminished. Well into his sixties, he remained tall and broad-shouldered, his frame still carrying the powerful build of a man who had spent more years in the saddle than upon a throne. His thick black hair, now generously streaked with iron-grey, was kept cropped short without regard for fashion. His piercing dark brown eyes were perhaps his most striking feature—steady, penetrating, and seldom betraying emotion, though capable of conveying quiet compassion as readily as stern judgment. A crooked nose, broken long ago and never properly set, lent him a rough-hewn appearance that contrasted sharply with the polished elegance of the Imperial court. His hands were broad and scarred, bearing the calluses of a warrior rather than a courtier, and he dressed accordingly: plain woolens beneath a heavy fur-lined cloak clasped with aged bronze, stout leather boots worn smooth by countless journeys, and only a simple signet ring and the silver badge of the First Prince hinting at his rank. There was little outward splendor about Albert of Ghant, yet few who met him failed to recognize the quiet authority of a man who had devoted a lifetime to duty before privilege, earning respect not through ceremony but through unwavering constancy.

“…Why should I help you?” Albert asked Izena pointedly.

Izena looked at him with a cocked head. “Because you knew my father, and he lived, and died for honor. I heard you were an honorable man, your Highness.”

Albert looked her up and down before responding. “Tell me what you think happened.”

Izena hesitated. “I only know the story that was given to me.”

“Then tell it,” Albert replied dryly.

She drew a slow breath. “My father was Irulan. A Ranger of the North.”

Albert nodded once. “He was.”

“He rode beside you,” Izena recalled.

Albert nodded again. “He did.”

Shaking her head, Izena sighed softly. “They say you were never friends.”

“We weren't.” Another pause, and then Albert added, “but I respected him.”

Izena continued. “They say you were ranging north on your grandfather's orders.”

“My grandfather's,” Albert corrected. “The Emperor's. Those were different things.”

She inclined her head. “You came to the Lands of Black Ice... where my father met my mother.”

“Izarra.” Albert spoke her name before she could. “The mountain girl with the violet eyes.” His weathered face softened ever so slightly. “I'd forgotten her name.”

Izena smiled at the mention of her mother’s name. “They say he loved her immediately.”

“He did,” Albert grunted, as though he were displeased with the words.

“And that she loved him.” Izena insisted.

Albert let out a quiet breath through his nose. “That took longer.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “She thought he talked too much. You must’ve inherited that from him.”

Izena smiled faintly. “I've never heard that part.”

“Because stories polish the rough edges.” Albert leaned back. “The first week she barely acknowledged him. The second she laughed at him. The third she was correcting his northern dialect. The fourth...” He shrugged. “I knew I'd lost him.”

“You disapproved?” Izena asked with a raised eyebrow.

Albert narrowed his eyes. “I was furious.”

“Why?” Izena’s tone softened as she listened to this old prince tell her about her father.

“Because he forgot why we'd come.” Albert's voice hardened. “We were Rangers. We had villages depending upon us. Patrols waiting for reports. Men who trusted us.”

Izena closed her eyes and sighed. “My father wished to stay.”

“He did,” Albert said dryly.

Izena looked into the fire. “They say you left him.”

Albert looked into the fire. “I did.”

“You abandoned him.” Izena’s tone was now accusatory.

Albert's jaw tightened. “I obeyed my orders.” He let those words linger. “When I rode away, I believed I was doing the honorable thing.”

Izena narrowed her eyes. “And now?”

The old prince stared into the flames. “Now I know that honor and duty are not always the same.”

Silence returned. After several moments Izena spoke again. “I was born that following spring.”

Albert nodded. “I heard.”

“They say I was small,” she laughed.

Albert nodded again. “You were.”

“You saw me?” she asked, curious.

He shook his head. “Not then. I only heard the stories.”

“They said the child would never survive the winter.” Izena smiled sadly. “The chieftain said the Gods would have to favor me.”

Albert snorted. “Northerners blame the Gods for everything.”

Izena laughed. “They were right.”

“Were they?” Albert’s sarcasm cut like a knife.

Izena shrugged. “I'm here, despite various efforts to kill me.”

The prince considered that. “I suppose they were right, then.”

Izena's smile slowly disappeared. “I remember almost nothing.” Albert listened as Izena continued to recall her life. “I remember cold. I remember my mother's songs. My father's arms…I cannot even remember their faces.”

Her voice had become quieter. “But I remember...” She stopped. “The Long Night.”

Albert closed his eyes. “I wondered if you would.”

“I remember the sun disappearing,” Izena recalled the story with a dread look in her eyes. “I remember everyone watching it. I remember being afraid before anything even happened.”

“You heard them.” Albert grimaced.

Izena hesitated before saying, “the Bestebatzuk.” Among the northern tribes, the Bestebatzuk occupied the uneasy boundary between history and nightmare. Elders spoke of them not as a nation, but as a curse—wild mountain clans said to dwell within the frozen caverns of the Lands of Black Ice, where sunlight scarcely reached and the wind itself seemed to howl with hungry voices. According to legend, they descended from men who had abandoned the Old Laws during the Age of Darkness and, in doing so, surrendered their humanity to the long winter. Draped in the pelts of bears and wolves, adorning themselves with the bones of their victims, they were said to emerge only during the deepest nights of winter, when the sun vanished beneath the horizon for weeks on end. Whether they were truly monsters or merely savage men mattered little to those who lived beneath the northern mountains. Wherever the Bestebatzuk appeared, villages were abandoned, campfires extinguished, and mothers whispered hurried prayers to the Gods, for the old saying warned that when the mountains began to howl, death was already walking down the slopes.

Albert's expression darkened. “We heard them too.”

“I remember the howling.” Izena clasped her hands together. “My parents told me to hide. They put me beneath a rock. They kissed me. They told me not to make a sound.”

Albert nodded almost imperceptibly. “That sounds like Irulan.”

“I heard everyone dying.” Her voice faltered. “I saw one of them. I only saw his legs. There was blood…so much blood.” She swallowed. “I stayed there. I don't know how long. I thought if I breathed too loudly...they would get me.”

Albert lowered his eyes. “They would have.” The room became still once more. “And then?” Albert asked gently.

“I heard horses,” Izena continued. “I thought they had returned. The rock moved. I tried to scream. But a man covered my mouth. It was a ranger…I never got his name. He carried me. He told me not to look. But I looked anyway. I saw...” she stopped.

Albert finished the sentence for her. “The snow.”

She nodded. “It was red.”

The old prince stared into the fire. “When we found the village...” He shook his head. “I've seen battlefields. I've seen plague. I've seen cities burn. I have never seen another place like that.”

Izena looked at Albert more closely then. “You were there.”

“I was,” Albert nodded slowly.

“You found me?” Izena asked.

“Yes…I’m the ranger who pulled you from that rock.” Albert answered quietly. “I heard something. A child trying not to cry.” The prince smiled to himself. “I told myself I was imagining it.” Albert looked at her. “But I lifted the rock anyway. You were barely alive. You didn't scream. You couldn't…you only stared.”

Izena's blue eyes searched his face. “I don't remember you.”

Albert laughed. “I know. You never looked at me. You buried your face in my cloak and refused to let go.” Albert laughed softly. “I carried you all the way to Gauekoizarra. The other rangers offered to take turns. I refused every time. I said, 'She's frightened enough. She'll wake if someone else carries her.'”

Albert's smile faded. “I buried your parents.”

Izena looked down. “I never knew where.”

“They rest together.” He spoke with quiet certainty. “On a hill overlooking the valley. I planted two mountain ash trees. They'll be enormous by now.”

Neither spoke. At last Albert began to walk around by the fire, pacing by the window. “I was wrong about your father.” Izena looked up and Albert continued. “I thought he'd abandoned his duty.” The First Prince gave a weary smile. “The truth is...he chose another. He died protecting his family.”

Albert walked to the window overlooking the capital. “I've spent forty years wondering whether I should have stayed.” He rested one hand upon the cold stone. “I don't know whether I could have saved them. I do know one thing.”

He turned back toward her. “Irulan saved you. And because he did...” Albert's stern face softened. “...you're here. And tomorrow, you and I shall travel to Qubti together.” He gave a single nod. “I think he'd have liked that…”

---

۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞ ۞

---

Sultana Liene's Garden
Sultan's Palace
Iskandariya, Qubti
(Co-written with Knootoss and Qubti. Original cut in Coronation in Iskandariya)

The Sultan's Palace was widely known for its many magnificent gardens. This particular garden, not far from there Ceremonial Hall, was contained in a courtyard between the Hall and the so-called House of Felicity - also known as the Royal Harem.

At the center of the garden was a tiled pool fed by an elaborate fountain. Roses, tulips, hyacinths and carnations filled the air with floral scents. A few marble benches faced the pool, and trees offered shade during the day, and privacy at night. Traditionally, the garden was said to have been created for Sultana Liene after she had become the favorite of Yusuf IV.

Izena moved through the palace gardens with the quiet assurance of a woman born to courtly ritual, though every graceful step concealed the instincts of an intelligence operative. She was attired in the formal fashion of the Ghantish Imperial Court, her gown of deep midnight blue velvet falling in immaculate folds to the flagstones, the fitted bodice embroidered with delicate silver thread in the pattern of intertwining mountain laurels. A high standing collar framed her pale face, while long, tapered sleeves ended in embroidered cuffs that rested just above a pair of immaculate white gloves. Around her shoulders hung a short sable mantle fastened with an obsidian brooch bearing the Imperial crest, and a narrow silver sash crossed from shoulder to waist, denoting her place among the Imperial household. Her dark hair had been swept into an elegant knot beneath a modest fascinator adorned with black feathers and a single polished moonstone.

Against the lush greenery, flowering palms, and glittering fountains of Qubti's palace gardens, she appeared every inch the refined Ghantish courtier—poised, cultured, and perfectly at ease amid royalty. Only the sharp, constantly searching movement of her blue eyes betrayed that beneath the layers of velvet, silk, and ceremony stood a woman silently cataloguing every face, every entrance, every guard rotation, and every whispered conversation that drifted upon the warm desert breeze. When she saw Nova Rotsenberg, she stopped and stared, studying her...sizing her up...

Dr. Nova Rotsenberg found the woman staring at her, and turned her head. Her eyes moved down as she sized up the arrangement of furs and feathers, the stone brooch, and the medieval cut of the woman's sleeves. Her own flowing emerald silks, patterned with interlocking stars, seemed breezy by comparison. Finally, she looked up again into those staring eyes. “Were you looking for me?” she asked.

“Dr. Rotsenberg, I presume,” Izena said wirh a poorly executed curtsy. “I was...I've been through a lot to arrive at this moment.” Izena walked towards her, slowly...carefully, her hands at her sides.

“Perhaps you should stay where you are,” Nova said. Her body tensed, and she was reaching for a panic button, even as she stepped backwards.

Izena stopped, and put her hands up. “Relax, doctor...one of the conditions of our meeting was that no harm shall come to you. Otherwise, Prince Albert and his minions would cut me down before I'd have a chance to flee,” she laughed. “My name is Izena, and I'm an...agent of sorts. Supposedly I work for the Imperial Family, but to be honest, I've always sort of worked for myself. They've just tolerated that from me...for whatever reason,” she laughed again.

“Your words are not as reassuring as you think they are,” Nova said. She was now holding the device between her fingers, a cautious glance drawn towards the door, then sweeping around the gardens. She could always scream. “Say what you have to say, then leave.”

Izena grinned. “I know...if I was in your position, I'd feel the same way.” Izena produced a cigar. “Do you smoke, Doctor? Maybe you'd care to listen to what I have to say before you push that button. I promise I'll leave afterwards.”

“I would rather press the button”, Nova said stiffly. “So I suggest you hurry this along. If not, I will just leave, and all your efforts to worm your way into the Ghantish delegation will have been for naught.”

“Fine, fine,” Izena said as she lit her cigar and began smoking it. “I've been following the trail that led me to you. I know about Enck. I know about the KNN. I know about National Whichamacallitism. I know you're being all of it.” Izena took another smoke, casually and indifferently. “I guess all I want to know is why? What's your endgame here? I can't help but wonder if whatever it is you're trying to do is...worthwhile.”

“I don't know what you think you know,” Nova said. “You've given me the name of a dead man, a media organisation, and a nonsensical word. For all I know, you are just mad.” Her fingers gripped the device more tightly. “If you have any questions, I would direct you to my office.”

“I don't think I'd have gotten this far if I wasn't mad,” Izena shrugged before chuckling and smoking her cigar. “If you want to play dumb, that's alright. You should know though that I'm in a position to help you...and I'd rather tell you that directly than go through a receptionist.”

“Then tell me directly,” Nova said, lifting her chin. “So far, this sounds like a poor attempt at intimidation by your First Prince. And a waste of my time.”

“Oh please,” Izena laughed. “Albert is a hardass...but he's not a liar. Whatever he told you, I am completely convinced of his sincerity. But that's not my business. Let me tell you what I think, since you're so concerned about me wasting your time.”

Izena sighed and smoked again before continuing. “I am a Jendebasa from northern Ghant. We eat at the floor of the great lords and princes of the realm, feeding off their scraps. Even now, they think I'm some sort of a fucking pet, that I'll play tricks at their beck and call. Fuck all that, Doctor. I'm in this for me, and the people like me. And here's why...because no one else is.”

The Ghantish woman pointed to the party. “Those people in there, those kings, princes, lords...the lot of them. They don't give a fuck about people like me or my kind. We could drop dead and they'd just step over us. Tell me true, Doctor, do you think they care about you, or the people you represent?” For the first time there was passion in her voice. “I have half a mind to bring it all down on their lofty fucking heads and give this world back to the people who actually want to do some good in the world.” Izena puffed her cigar again and then she threw it down on the ground and smashed it beneath her boot.

“Of course they don't,” Nova said. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the woman again. The slant of her eyes. The shape of her skull. It seemed to her, now, that there was something not quite human about it. “My views on monarchy are no secret. But I am here to represent my nation, not to blow up a palace. Why you are here is not yet clear to me. If it is not to advance Ghantish interests, or the interests of your Imperial Family, then what?”

“Call me an idealist, Doctor, but maybe the interests I'm interested in advancing are the interests of those who's interests don't get advanced,” Izena laughed. “So I guess that starts with myself.”

“So you want money,” Nova said, flatly. It was a statement, not a question.

“No...fuck money,” Izena shrugged. “Justice is worth more to me than money. Can you offer me that, Doctor?”

“That depends on what 'justice' entails,” she answered, shortly.

“What do you think it entails?” The Ghantish woman asked, curious.

Nova sighed. Her free hand reached to the bridge of her nose, pinching it. “I think you don't really have a plan,” she said. “You're just feeling it out as you go along.” She looked back at Izena. “If you want to talk about politics, I suggest you do reach out to my personal secretary. If you give me your name, I'll make sure to arrange an appointment to hear you out. Bring whatever it is you think you have.”

“...And how do I know you won't just kill me?” Izena asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Because I am the Grand Pensionary of the Free Republic of Knootoss,” she said, with rising anger. “I don't ... I can't just have people killed. If you think otherwise, I don't know what to tell you. Knootoss is not Ghant. There are rules and procedures for these things.” She paused. “And more to the point, I am not going to talk about any of the things you seem to want to talk about here. In public.”

Izena nodded and smirked. “Alright, I see your point. Here's what I'm going to do. I'll leave you my card, and then I'll leave before the wrong people get the wrong idea about what's going on out here.”

The Ghantish woman pulled out a small, thick card that had the name “Izena” on it with a phone number below the name. She set it down on the ground and took a step back. “The next time we see each other, I'm sure we'll have more to talk about. Doctor.”

Nova offered a curt nod. “Until next time then,” she said, clocking the card but not yet reaching for it. She waited to see how she would make her exit.

Izena did a little curtsy and said, “enjoy the rest of your evening, Doctor...oh and please don't tell Albert what I said. He'd string me up for sedition.” Having said that, she turned on the balls of her feet and began walking away, whistling as she faded into the darkness.

The whistle lingered for only a few moments before dissolving into the warm Qubti night. Izena did not look back. She counted her steps instead. Five…ten…fifteen. By the twentieth she had already begun quietly shedding the mannerisms of the cheerful Ghantish courtier she had so carefully constructed for Dr. Rotsenberg. Her shoulders settled lower. The playful sway in her stride disappeared. The smile evaporated from her face as though it had never existed. Every movement became economical, measured, and deliberate.

Only once she had rounded two corners did she allow herself the briefest glance over her shoulder. Nobody. That meant very little. The finest surveillance was the kind one never noticed. She slipped into a nearby alley, the music of the ball faded behind her, replaced by the hum of insects. Ahead, the alley ended in a wall nearly twice her height.

She never slowed. One foot struck the stone. Then the other. Her momentum carried her upward as both hands caught the lip of the wall. With practiced efficiency she swung herself onto the top, balancing effortlessly upon the narrow parapet before dropping silently into the adjoining area.

The landing scarcely made a sound. Her father would have approved. The thought arrived unexpectedly. Not because he had ever taught her such movements—he had not—but because he had taught her the principle behind them. The fastest path is seldom the safest. The safest path is never the one your enemy expects.

She crossed the area in three quick strides before vaulting over another wall. The city unfolded beneath her. Moonlight shimmered across domes of strange buildings. She observed various buildings in the city. Izena moved above it all.

From rooftop to rooftop she flowed with effortless precision, clearing narrow alleys in long, confident leaps and using protruding balconies, drainage spouts, and decorative arches as handholds. Years spent climbing the cliffs of northern Ghant and traversing the dense streets of cities alike had taught her to trust her body completely. To anyone watching from below, she would have been little more than a fleeting silhouette crossing the moon.

After a few minutes she stopped. Not because she was tired, but because she wished to know whether she had acquired company. She crouched behind the carved dome of a rooftop pavilion and listened. Nothing. She waited another full minute. Still nothing.

Only then did she allow herself a slow breath. The meeting had gone better than she had dared hope. Dr. Rotsenberg had revealed little directly, but intelligence work was rarely about what people volunteered. It was about hesitation, emphasis, omission, and the questions they declined to answer. Every conversation left fingerprints upon the truth.

Descarga would find the evening... useful. Prince Albert would undoubtedly find it reckless. She smiled to herself. “Good thing he wasn't there.” With that, Izena rose once more, crossing the final rooftop in three silent bounds, and disappeared into the sleeping city, leaving behind only the whisper of leather against stone and the certainty that by dawn she would have become someone else entirely.