The Celestial Empire

Between Kings
Outskirts of Nhasa
December 20, 1913 (AH 2) - Collaboration Post with Falkenberg

A lone figure broke from the line of Imperial troops that now stood closer to the Capital than any true patriot had in nearly a year. From atop his proud stallion the figure bore the invigorating banner of the Empire, its sunflower hues enough to make the weary soldiers shout across the plain. As he rode toward the damaged gates of the great city he raised his banner high before rotating it in his hand. In an instant the sunburst flag reversed to a moonlit cloth.

The figure grit his teeth at the banner, sneering at its universal intent: parley.

Waving it near the gates of the Empire’s greatest city he watched, alone, for any sign from the foreign occupiers.

The gates, scarred by fighting, slowly creaked open, the occasional glint of light off watching soldiers' helmets being seen dotting the walls. A lone soldier, by the looks of it no higher than a recruit, steps out from the gate, and it shuts behind him. He steps into audible range of the Celestial.

The lone Celestial sneered. No honor among thieves it would seem. Even in this, their most desperate hour, they willingly expend the weak and lowly. For a moment he regarded the soldier, almost pitying him for having been sent alone. He huffed, as if the foreigners deserved any better. "My good man," he finally said, his voice rising to the tops of the walls. "I am a representative of His Exalted Majesty's Imperial Government. He has, in his great benevolence, seen the predicament you have now found yourselves in. Conquerors cornered in a foreign land. Your government has abandoned you as your homeland ignites with the fires of revolution. Though, far be it from me to cast judgment given the state of this Empire." Biting his lip he turned away momentarily. If this worked he'd only need a few more months and none of that would be a problem anymore. "But I digress. I have come to speak to your exalted Kaiser, the occupier of this city, to seek terms that would grant you and your comrades safe travels home, and return this city to the Celestial Emperor."

The soldier straightened himself up. "The Kaiser will be informed... you be told if the meeting is granted." He managed to get out, keeping a strong face as silence befell the walls. After seconds that dragged on for hours, the gate swung wide open, casting towering shadows across the dirt. A runner went up to the Reichskrieger who had been sat around waiting before he spoke up again. "His Imperial Majesty, Kaiser Friedrich VI, will accept your delegation. You are to meet him in the Imperial Palace." The two Reichskriegers then shuffled through the gate.

The rider dismounted his horse with a sigh of relief. Tossing his hood over his head he then planted his spear bearing the two flags into the dirt near his horse. The Celestial Banner drifted lazily over the frosted grass as the banner of parley hung loosely from the other end. Gritting his teeth against his better judgment, the lone rider went forward into the city. Passing the defenders of the city it was clear to him why the government had lost. The Celestial army lacks the firepower, perhaps even the willpower, to contend with the Reichskrieg military. He smirked. For now.

"Tell me," he dared say to his escort. "How has Nhasa treated you?"

"The city? Its been fine... very..." The soldier paused as he searched for the word. "Oriental. Its charming." The group maneuvered through the pathways of the ancient city, twisting and turning as they approached the grand Palace, one of the few places which was relatively unscathed from the assault, most of its construction being the original with minimal patchwork. "I've had worse stations."

"I am glad to hear it," the rider said, gazing upon the palace. It was almost no different from the day he'd last seen it. A smile crept across his face. At least the city's people, its history and relics were safe even if the buildings needed work. "I pray that one day we might be friends so that I might learn of your 'worse' stations," he laughed.

The Reichskrieger shrugged. "Maybe in any other time or place..." He rounded a bend, the ornate gates of the Palace before them. "This is as far as I go." He motioned to the gates. "I do wish you luck."

Bidding the soldier adieu the stranger began his journey forward. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach as his pulse quickened. What was about to happen would shape the fate of both empires whether the Kaiser wanted to recognize that or not. He then considered, as he approached the gates, just what the Diet would say. Who among their number would call him traitor? He shrugged. It didn't matter. "Hail, soldier," he said to the guards atop the wall once he'd reached the foot of the gate. "I come on behalf of the Imperial Celestial Government to negotiate terms with your Kaiser."

He looked the Celestial up and down and shrugged, the gate opening before him for the second time that day. "Go on through." The outside light shone on the awaiting hallway, lined with more soldiers.

The stranger paused for but a moment before proceeding through the gate and into the first courtyard. Security had lessened since he was last here. Back then no one could enter without first presenting a seal proving that they had been summoned into the sacred space. Again he shrugged as he crossed the courtyard, his feet finding solace in the familiar steps that led to the palace's first great hall: the Hall of Earthly Unity. Perhaps, he pondered, slowly rising, the Valmere powers knew not of such security, protocol. Then the doors were before him, ram's head brass knockers glared at him; judged him for his departure.

Bowing his head he lifted the nearest knocker and slammed it against the door.

The doors swung open with seemingly no outside interference, casting long arcs of sunlight into the Hall of Earthly Unity. The Kaiser, his uniform as pristine as the day he had arrived in the Empire, stood at the base of the throne, surrounded by soldiers. The Reichskrieg Emperor turned and their gaze fell upon the Celestial.

"The Celestial delegation I presume."

"You would presume correctly," the man said, closing some of the space between himself and the Kaiser. "I have come on behalf of His Exalted Majesty to discuss terms of peace. My people tire of war, and your nation needs its leader. Yet you remain trapped here, winning one battle only to be defeated in another. I have come to offer a way out."

The Kaiser motioned and the soldiers vacated the hall. "It has been a long war. Too long. I will hear your offer, Celestial."

The man stood resolute, his eyes set on the Kaiser. In one swift motion he removed the long cloak that had concealed his unimpressive grey tweed suit. Withdrawing his glasses from his chest pocket he placed them squarely upon his brow. "First, let me introduce myself. I am Supreme Regent Jesse O'Rourke of the Celestial Empire. Our armies have met in combat over this city though we have yet to stand face to face." A grin crooked the corner of his mouth. "I am prepared to offer you a way out, a way back to Falkenburg, if you surrender this city to me forthwith."

"We finally meet..." The Kaiser clasped his hands behind his back. "O'Rourke, you are a statesman as well. You know I cannot simply surrender this city." He stepped away from the throne, having sat vacant since the flight of the imperial government. "I require something from this war. To return to Reichskrieg with some fashion of victory."

"Ah, yes," the Supreme Regent said, shrugging. "Reichskreig always wins, or so they say. I am prepared to make a small concession. You have been, very nearly, defeated after all."

"Reichskrieg is not defeated. This war is simply not worth the effort and attention. The fallen of Qanteng have been avenged blood for blood." Fredrich spoke, motioning at nothing in particular. "What is this concession you speak of, then?"

"Falkenburg." Jesse clasped his hands behind his straightened back. "His Exalted Majesty is prepared to recognize the city as the sovereign territory of the Kaiser of Reichskreig with the understanding that it shall not be used as a platform for further war against the Empire."

Herr Kaiser nodded for a moment. "It will have to suffice..."

"So it shall, because that is all I am willing to offer barring a full scale assault upon this city." Jesse's tongue flicked across his lips as his eyes surveyed the room. "I will send word to have the blockade lifted in the morning and arrange transport for you and your men to leave by the same port."

"Very well then. I will prepare the men to depart." He looked to the throne. "They will not miss this campaign, I imagine... perhaps medals are in order..." The Kaiser of Reichskrieg, would be conqueror, ended, trailing off as he thought aloud.

The smile that had earlier crooked Jesse's face deepened. There it was, a foreign devil defeated and on his way out. The Mandate had not yet been lost despite the trouble of its continued maintenance. Just one more hurdle to clear and the reign of Ren Osarrus XXV would be secure. "A wise decision, Frederick. Your men will welcome the chance to return home. May you do so under clear skies and upon calm seas."

Rebuilding Part 2/3
January 12, 1914
Lord Commander’s Office, Ahlen
In collaboration with Kushmire

Superintendent Zhon stared at the Lord Commander, his eyes pleading. Ianson stared back at him, a slight tremble in his voice, “Another delay, Superintendent?”

Zhon bowed, “I apologize sir. To be frank here, the Department hasn’t undergone a project of this magnitude… well, almost ever.”

Ianson stared at the report, he almost wanted to rip it up, if the Knights were the ones footing the bill there would be simply next to no way for them to afford it all. Finally though he spoke, “Do you have any idea how to fix it, Superintendent?”

Zhon nodded eagerly, “Send out the contract, allow aid from a group willing to work hard, ideally without all the nuisance that comes with using government workers.”

Ianson leaned back in his chair, seemingly contemplating the idea, “Fine, we’ll send out the call.”

The Superintendent bowed, “Thank you, Lord Commander sir.”

Ianson leaned forward, “However, if you fail me again after this, I will personally make sure you are fired and blacklisted from the industry. Do you understand me?”

The Superintendent nodded vigorously, “Of course sir.”

Ianson relaxed himself, “Good then, you’re dismissed.”
___

Clifford & Voss™ Headquarters - Zimford Kushmire

Jackson Carlisle threw the paperwork out. "Plenty of dam mail coming through. What the hell do they want with us these days?" He said.

Another voice echoed from the next room, "It's surprising if you think about it, considering it was our ship that went to the bottom of the ocean last year."

Jackson ignored the young man's crude attitude. He will learn, one day. "I'll have you know our finest went down with that ship, experts gave her an hour to float once her compartments were breached, she stayed afloat for two and a half, on an even keel at that." One of the office ladies entered carrying two handfuls of mail.

"What the f * * k is this?" Jackson said. "Is this what Bruce dealt with?"

"On the daily." The young man replied. The lady smiled and dropped the papers onto his desk before leaving again. Jackson sighed, "The world's going to war, raw materials are through the roof, the navy is demanding more ships than ever, what an absolute mess." Jackson stretched, nursing his tired old muscles. As he did, he knocked the stack of letters onto the ground scattering them everywhere.

"Well s * *t."

Finally, the young man revealed himself. Mason Morgan, the only child of Bruce Morgan and his widow joined the company after his father's death, to carry on his legacy. He had a different eye for design but carried his father's sense of engineering, and brute force efficiency. "What have you done?" He sighed, helping Jackson pick up the fallen letters.

"Dad always said you were a little bit of an oaf, despite your genius," Mason said. Jackson chuckled.

"Well-" he stopped as he noticed a letter that stood out. Its parchment was soft to the touch, unlike the coarse material of the others, it had an official seal that-

___

Central Hall, Teicherian Palace

A long table sat in the middle of the room, on one side of the table sat the top brass of the Department of Public Efficiency, along with the head of the reconstruction project, the Knight Overseer, and Lieutenant Lauren who was granted purview of all of them.

While waiting for the delegation from Clifford and Voss Lauren marveled at the Central Hall, only having been there once following the reconquest of the Seagate. Two beautiful chandeliers hung above, that seemed to dance in the light. Paintings of the history of the Knights, along with statues of the Celestial Pantheon adorned the walls of the Hall. On the far wall, opposed to the door at the top of it all the Coat of Arms of the Teicherian Knights hung. This one room singlehandedly most likely held more wealth then an entire year's worth of income for the Knights.

Mason and Jackson walked through the long corridor towards the Central Hall. Mason looked around at the extravagant fittings in the Teicheran Palace. "Hmm," he muttered to himself. "Don't let Al see this, I can imagine him asking us to put all this into a metal tub."

Jackson suppressed a smile, "Like father like son."

Behind them, a man in a military uniform followed. Rear Admiral Andrew Stirling, the Commander in Chief of the Engineering Division of the Grand Fleet and his staff followed in tow alongside Gustav Wilhelm Wolf, the lead of Clifford & Voss's™ draughting team. A guard saluted and left, letting the delegation into the Central Hall.

The team took their seats opposite their Teicharan counterparts. Mason was sat opposite the Knight Overseer. Mason looked him up and down. He turned to the man beside him, "Do you want to swap, I'm not particularly in the mood to sit opposite Field Marshal Stormcloud over here." He said, jerking his thumb at the overseer. The man shook his head and Mason returned his attention to the Overseer. He grinned a toothy smile but quickly hid it when the gesture wasn't returned.

Lieutenant Lauren spoke first, "Gentleman an honor." He motioned to one of the Knights standing behind him to begin placing the folders in front of each of them, "I'm sure you know why you're here." The Knight placed a folder in front of him, which he opened revealing documents pertaining to the Seagate, "During the third battle for the Seagate it was quite sadly destroyed. An unfortunate, albeit acceptable loss. However, we do need it rebuilt ideally as soon as possible." He looked at Superintendent Zhon, "Quite sadly our friends at the Department of Public Efficiency have been awfully inefficient." He looked back at the opposing side of the table, "Which is why we've asked for you, we need an organization with more... experience. We can pay well, extremely well even."

Jackson stood, "Well, thank you for having us over, before we start I'd like to, just go over exactly what the new Seagate will look like, Clifford & Voss™ are a maritime engineering company, we've built ships for shipping lines, have naval contracts with the Kushmiran and Tasrtian navies, as well as building several sea features such as bridges, though we've never built a seagate of this scale, we have built larger structures. Before we start, I think it would be beneficial to know just how much we would have to do, are their any plans, blueprints or even an undersea survey done on dredging?"

Lauren nodded, “I’ll let our superintendent answer that.” He motioned for him to speak.

Zhon began, clearly a bit nervous as this is not what his job usually entails. He cleared his throat, “Construction has already begun of the Seagate. We have already removed the majority of debris from the seafloor, the main issue is the Department has been slower then the government likes. That’s where you come in, we believe your experience in this area will lead to more success then our own men can currently accomplish. If you’ll look in the folders we placed in front of you, you’ll see blueprints, future plans, and how far we’ve already gotten ourselves.”

Marlon studied the plans. A long canal, closed off on either end by large gates. The plan was crude, with few details, and only a few dimensions were given. Several red marks were made at the gates on either side. "What's the extent of the damage on the gates themselves?"

Zhon responded pointing out some specific parts of the design, "The gate facing the mouth of the Empire is completely destroyed, mostly rubble in the water now. And the surrounding parts of the canal have suffered the same fate. From there things begin looking up as besides those basically demolished areas only moderate to minor damage from there, with the other half of the Seagate being relatively untouched. Thank the gods."

Jackson revealed another blueprint that contained detailed drawings of the gates themselves. "Do you know if it's possible to drain the locks ?" He said, "It would make our job a lot easier."

Marlon nodded, "Yes, that would be beneficial. While you are at it, I'd like to know the resources we would be using: steel and aluminium. Will there be any electrical circuits? Do you have any cranes and cablelayers around?"

Zhon nodded, "You can drain the locks. In fact we have already drained most of the locks, however as this project is being handed over to you, it'll be left to your discretion. As for electrical circuits, yes. Decently large parts of our electrical systems are sadly damaged. And for your last question, again yes, all Department of Public Efficiency tools are at your disposal."

Jackson nodded. "Very well, if it is at our own discretion for the reconstruction, we are happy to take it from here. My team will now leave to discuss the final details, and perhaps make some changes to your plans if need be. If you do have any outstanding questions our offices are on the KMS *Carlisle*, our personal carrier, you can't miss it. Its the big white ship with the yellow funnel." Jackson looked around them room, "Alright, before we go, I just have one more thing to ask, who do we report to if any issues arise? The government or the..." Jackson looked at the military officer, "The, officer here."

Lauren nodded, "You can reach out to my office if needed however the average day to day issues that may need to be reported can be directed to Knight Overseer Zhao who will be able to report it directly to the Lord Commander if need be. If you need to get in contact with the Department of Public Efficiency reach out to the Superintendent. Lastly, we ask that you submit a monthly report to the Knight Overseer as well. I understand this may be a bit of an overreach but your pay will reflect any inconveniences you face. Obviously, the Seagate is why our Knights Order exists and as such we wish to make certain everything is proceeding well. I hope that's alright."

Marlon stood. "Well, this concludes our day of business gentlemen. Now, before we go. I myself and Admiral Stirling would like to raise the question of defense. The Seagate is naturally frequented by many seeking to access the heartlands of the Empire, as such, attackers and aggressors may target the Seagate as part of their strategy, while easy to predict, defending such a target, especially one so valuable may not be as easy. Clifford & Voss™ do have the capacity to install a cannons and heavy weaponry along the sea wall alongside other defense mechanisms. However, if you see it more fit, we will be more than happy to leave spaces for you to install your own weapons."

Lauren stood as well, “Of course, if possible that would be extremely useful. If we have learned anything from these recent… events… it is that the Seagate needs more defenses desperately.” He went silent for a moment then spoke again, “Well, if there’s anything else gentlemen?”

Jackson snapped shut his binder. "No Lieutenant, that would be all. Thank you for your time. We will take it from here."

"The Hess Intrigue"
Part I
Late 1914, Westernoste

"This is outrageous!" Marko von Steuben declared, slamming a fist down upon the table as the room filled with heated discussion and shouting. "You would have us tear down all of Hess to rebuild it?"

"Lord Protector," Lord Reyne, an Atrian noble, protested, "Great Tarst only just downgraded our credit rating two weeks ago. Such an expensive project would only spook their investors!"

"The treasury can afford it, Reyne. Being so prudish about money will get us nowhere." Cassius Vesta replied sharply; a relative of the royal house, he was technically Edren's brother. All eyes fell upon him.

"Bold words," Reyne sneered, "From someone who we passed over to be king. Why are you on this council again? Duke of Egrinberg you may be, but pray tell, what have you actually contributed in these past years?"

"I will not be insulted by a third-rate lord whose ancestor was a goat-herder!" Duke Cassius spat back, moving to draw his sword. "I will not! I will not stand being mocked by the descendant of a commoner who stepped off the ships three centuries and a half ago!" At the sight of the blade, the royal guards moved in to tackle him.

"-Enough, the both of you!" A third voice cut in. Achatius, the head of the so-called Southern Font, and heretic-turned-preacher of the new Cathosian faith. He was flanked by two of the newly-founded Knights of Cathos. The arguments in the room still raged, drowning out the speaker's efforts to restore order. "Have some respect, for once!"

Meanwhile, on the other end of the room, the highest-ranked members of the government were engrossed in their own spats.
"This is unthinkable," Admiral Goshawk said exasperatedly, "Why? Why would you cut funding to the armed forces at this time, when Dayan is bearing down on us?"

"And what has the military done? They could not take Arnon, or Falkenberg, or arrive in time to defend Nhasa," Minister Caldwell replied icily. "War was never our forte. We have poured billions into a military incapable of winning a single engagement."

"They have brought us order." Stafford Pryde narrowed his eyes. Though not in the habit of appearing often at meetings, the Privy Council lawmaker had only buried himself deeper within the government. The other nobles and ministers whispered of his shady activities in the government, of his connections in the military, and his unchallenged power over the nascent intelligence branch of the Atrian armed forces; the State Security Council, it was called. "Workers' strikes, union demonstrations, riots in the street. All of them came into Atris through those... subhuman Swarzians, and would have destroyed this Kingdom if it were not for my efforts, Sirius."

"Be that as it may," Caldwell sneered, "Remember who assigns you your funding."

"Is that a threat?" Pryde replied, though his eyes betrayed no emotion. "I believe you ought to remember, Minister, that the SSC treats all threats with the utmost caution. I suggest you be more in control of what you say."

General Charles Blackshaw glared at the two with thinly-veiled contempt. "I thought you above intimidating your fellow council members, Director Pryde," he observed.

"This is not intimidation," Pryde said cooly. "I am simply suggesting that the Minister for Commerce be more mindful of his words."
The three of them briefly turned to the Lord Protector. Arian Stirling himself. He was stood at the end of the room, a malignant scowl on his face.

As he watched the room bicker, Lord Stirling wiped a bead of sweat from his face as he repressed the frustration building within him.

Swarzia had barely spent a year under Atrian occupation, yet the partitioning of the former Duchy had already caused his ministers to turn on each other; Reyne against Vesta, Vesta against Blackshaw, Blackshaw against Pryde. The entire apparatus, the grand conspiracy, which, four years prior, had borne the Duke of Carran and Stirling patriarch to power, was beginning to collapse from under him, brought down by infighting.

These disgusting animals. Stirling shot a malevolent glare at Pryde, and Blackshaw, and Caldwell, as the three parted. The question was no longer when they would start fighting among themselves, for they already had. The question now was how best to manage the inevitable collapse of his own junta.

Caldwell was the least influential of the two, Stirling noted; the Commerce Minister would invariably be easy to purge. However, if he did that, he would let Stafford Pryde, the SSC and elements of the Royal Intelligence Agency gain more power over the country's day-to-day affairs, and all of the newspapers and subministries which were normally supervised by the Ministry of Commerce would be weakened, just long enough for their higher ranks to be opened up to SSC agents. That was too much power. Power which currently was only barely held in check by Blackshaw and Goshawk's loyal military, and the personal loyalty of the Royal Guard.

If he purged Pryde, however, Blackshaw would have nothing blocking him from directly initiating a coup. The general and he had long had their disagreements, and it was no secret that the General desired the throne for himself, and Goshawk, a ruthless careerist and ladder-climber, would be sure to follow.

Yet, if he was to dispose of Blackshaw, whilst Pryde and the intelligence services might remain loyal- if only for the moment, the entire army would turn against him, a catastrophe that not even Admiral Goshawk's marines and modern fleet could prevent.
To act was suicide; to remain complacent, doubly so. Yet if he moved one cornerstone, the entire structure would collapse in on itself.

Worse yet, the Oligarchs would swoop in to work their fingers into the Atrian government. The thought of the likes of Niels Moreau, or Marcus Aiglerouge, gathering more influence, particularly on the Crown Prince sickened him.

He cursed Remus Vesta, for fleeing the country. For fleeing his grasp. If his men had caught that wretched boy, it would have given him a tool with which to rally the entire country around long enough for him to turn on Pryde, Blackshaw and Caldwell all at once.
If only Prince Remus had been hanged at the gallows in 1910, Stirling thought, he would've had the time.

And if the economy took a turn for the worse, Stirling thought, the country itself would turn on him. Swarzia, the conquest of which was his crowning achievement, would slip from his grasp.

But enough of that. Now was the time to act.
"ENOUGH!" Stirling bellowed, compelling the entire room to fall silent. "All of you."

A hundred faces turned to peer at the Lord Protector, ranging from the swarthy, dark-haired Swarzians to the blonde-brunet haired and lithe Atrians, and all those in between.

"I have called you all here," Stirling said, his expression steely, "to discuss the rebuilding of the Swarzian capital, Hess. Not to bicker and spar over your own political grievances." He uttered the last part, while shooting a pointed glare at his three troublesome ministers. "I must remind you that, in a show of confidence, the court will soon relocate to Hess' outskirts so that we may personally supervise the reconstruction. I expect nothing short of cooperation from you all."

"This project is the largest infrastructural work ever undertaken in the Celestial Empire. If we succeed we will regain the trust of our Tarstic investors and win the prestige befitting of the Empire, along with bringing economic prosperity back to Swarzia. I ask that you go about the proceedings in a civil and organised manner. To the contractors-" he looked at the Aiglerouge, Moreau and Calwen families, all clustered on the side, "I expect no less. If anyone takes their politicking into this joint project, I will make sure that they are punished with extreme prejudice. This meeting is finished. Do not act this way ever again."

The room remained silent even after he had finished speaking. The Swarzian delegation stood, and left shortly after, followed by the Atrians.

-

As the court made their way outside, set to return to their residences, the oligarchs instead took their personal vehicles down, through the bustling streets of Westernoste, to the train station, the Aiglerouges among them.

"You are aware of the importance of this event, I trust?" Marcus Aiglerouge said, to his daughter Rosalyn. "It is imperative that you succeed, girl," he said, his grip tightening on the armrests of his seat. "I will not permit the Calwens to out-do us."

"I am aware," Rosalyn said stiffly. "I would be more concerned with Moreau."

"Moreau?" Aiglerouge replied, scoffing, "The man whose advances you rejected last year?"

"The one and the same," Rosalyn replied. "He's cruel, endlessly petty and not above killing to get his way. Or so I hear."

"Pathetic rumours," Lord Aiglerouge waved dismissively, as their car pulled into the parking bay of Westernoste's largest train station, aptly-named Regent's Cross. "There are worse rumours in circulation about you."

As the two moved to board a private train, which would carry them north to Hess (the result of a brigade of quick-working engineers) and greater Swarzia, Lord Aiglerouge grabbed his daughter's shoulder roughly, stopping her on the threshold of the carriage.

"Can't you see it?" he hissed. "This entire country is ready to fall apart at the seams, Rosalyn. All it needs is a small push, and the so-called 'Lord Protector''s regime will collapse like a house of cards. When that day comes, all our friends- all our foes- will make their move. And I must ensure that you are ready to act, too."

"Father," Rosalyn sighed, "I have already said that I have no interest in these politics."

Lord Aiglerouge sighed in exasperation, and tightened his grip on her shoulder.
"What a fool you are," he snarled. "You may lack interest in these things, but Niels Moreau and Percy Calwen do. If you do not act I can assure you you will end up in prison, dead, or worse. We've made many an enemy, and the oligarchs are the least of them. You must be prepared to do whatever it takes to defend our family! You must-!"

The rest of his words were drowned out by a series of coughs as he straightened back up, and entered the carriage.

"I do not know when the collapse of the regency will come," Lord Aiglerouge said, panting slightly and leaning on his cane, after tucking a handkerchief back into his pocket, "But I'd be a fool if I said it would come within my lifetime, as limited as that may be. The powderkeg is building, Rosalyn, and when someone- anyone- applies that igniting spark, Lord Stirling will find himself utterly powerless to prevent the destruction that will follow."

More conspiracy theories from her father, Rosalyn thought, but she was slightly perturbed by these utterings. She knew, despite her denial, that his words carried an undercurrent of truth.

As the train blew its whistle, and pulled out of the station, she took her seat at a table, and the hours began to blur together as all the pieces began to fall into place.

Betryal of Your Nation
Sparticus

Richard and Lewis dismounted from their horses in front of the old Sparticus Parliament building. The structure, a large circular beehive-shaped dome with short, squat office buildings on either side. The street, once one of the few places paved in the city had been torn up and destroyed by the out of control populace.

A stone flew out of nowhere and hit Lewis’s horse. The animal whinnied in pain as Lewis withdrew his pistol and fired several shots in the air. A group of kids ran out from behind a wall and dashed across the street. Lewis raised his pistol and aimed at one of them. Richard extended his hand and lowered Lewis’s arm. “We didn’t come here to massacre the local population.” Richard sighed, “It seems the military may do it for us.”

Inside, Harry Montgomery sat in the office where the Governor of Ironwood once sat. The governments of the Eastern Districts, Maplewood and Ironwood, were laden with either corruption or bureaucracy that made them impossible to run. In their heyday, Sparticus and Halford, the seats of the two Eastern Districts were the centre of wealth and economic development as Kushmire began to industrialize. However, the factories that began numbering in their hundreds were being built faster than legislation could keep up, with the ever more powerful corporations forcing the hands of politicians through illicit campaigning and funding, to free them of legislation. The companies expanded unchecked as safety standards and quality of life for citizens began to drop.

This began the move West, and the construction of The Line began driving more stakes between citizens. The government managed to rein in companies, but the damage was already done. The peculiar constitutional nature of the province, coupled with the banding together of several companies to protect their profits saw the Eastern Districts be more loosely governed compared to their Western counterparts. The result was laden before Harry’s eyes. A city, whose history was still etched into the stones, and its future scattered into the winds.

The doors burst open, interrupting Harry from his thoughts. He turned to face Lewis and Richard as they entered. “Well now, what’s with the rush.” Richard ran up and slammed his hands on the table.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He asked. “Calling up Frederick to gloat, we had to make him doubt whether it was us, or his own armed forces, now you’ve doomed us all you stupid prick!”

Harry stood indignant. “What on earth are you talking about?! He’s with us, and besides, there is nothing he can do, his hands are tied. If he goes to the military, they’ll kill him for treason!”

“Or the Armed Forces get their act together, put their differences aside and turn every gun they have in our direction!” Lewis slapped a piece of paper down. The freshly developed image depicted the Sparticus-Halford highway, with a long military convoy of trucks and columns of soldiers alongside artillery and heavy machinery.

Harry leant forward towards the photo. “Lord streuth. Summon our rangers!” Harry said as he walked over to a map of the region.

“They are already on their way, several have had run-ins but were forced to withdraw. It seems they have mobilised the entire 7th Group. Sources in Fluritihia say the Coldstream Guards are also packing their bags, most likely they are on their way here as well.” Richard said. There was a loud droning noise overhead and Lewis leant out the window to check its source. High above, a powered aircraft was plodding slowly along as if it were a pigeon heading to its nest.

“Looks like they are making good progress, those aircraft can barely fly across the country.” Lewis said. “Sparticus has its own defences, some of them relics from the war but nonetheless capable.”

Harry ran a hand through his thinning hair. “We barely have enough soldiers. Richard, do you think you could muster the remaining Presidential Guard and bring them here?”

Richard’s eyes lit up. “Well, they'll have to cross The Line, no doubt our friend Mr President has already placed their names on blacklists, if they are caught, they will surely be executed on the spot.” Richard scratched his goatee, thinking about the possibilities, “There still remain a few of our loyalists within their ranks, we can order the most loyal to storm the parliament and kill those who refuse.”

“That will surely bring about their end.” Lewis said, “We could have more use for them.”

“The Western districts are lost, we have no hope of taking them back, those chances went with Frederick, the best we can hope for now is to repel the 7th, hold out in Sparticus and convince the populations of Halford and Sparticus to riot. A good start would be burning the symbol of Kushmiran power. The Keystone Chamber is admired across the Empire for its fine architecture and power consolidated within. Removing that, alongside immobilising the central government will help our cause greatly.” Richard mused.

Harry nodded, “It seems Richard is right, I don’t see any way to win Frederick back, and now with the Western Districts turned against us thanks to our bombings, Halford and Sparticus remain our only options.”

“Regardless, The Keystone Chamber is defended by The Royal Guard. Remember that our Presidential Guards have barely half the capabilities that they do, bloody hell some of our agents within their ranks haven’t even done any military training.” Lewis said, “They’d be slaughtered.”

Richard shook his head, “The Royal Guard are yet to return to The Keystone Chamber. If my sources are correct they are either deployed to The Line or are patrolling population centres, especially Halford, for our presence. The gates to the Keystone Chamber currently lay unguarded.”

The three men lay in silence for a few minutes. Pondering the events that had led them here. Only a few years ago, they had appeared to be winning. The Rebellion had agents deep within government departments, and had the military and intelligence services trailing far behind. Within two years the tables had been completely turned, with the Western Districts far out of reach and the military breathing down their necks. Each of the three men that brought The Rebellion to its knees blamed the others for it, their foolishness, recklessness and short sightedness, in each other’s eyes, led them to their downfall. “Call Troy, he can organise our defences, Richard, go out and join our Rangers, do what you do best. Lewis, I want you to stay in this city and control the population, for as long as possible, make it look like we are winning.” There was a long heavy pause. Richard and Lewis turned and left the room, Leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. “Dismissed," he said solemnly.

Zimford

Carlton read the final page of the binder that tallied the total deaths from the various bombings across the country. He held his head in his hands as he let his cap fall off his head. Jessica knocked on his door, then gently pushed it open when no reply came. Her husband looked up as she entered. The area around his eyes had darkened and sagged and his eyes were a deep red. “Can I help you?” He asked.

Jessica leant against the doorframe as she watched her husband. Normally, he would have stood and glided to her before taking her in his arms. Today, he folded his arms on the table and hung his head. Jessica glided over to him and placed her arms around his shoulders. “Carlton, what’s wrong?”

She looked at the papers strewn across his desk and closed her eyes. She placed her head on top of his and closed her eyes, running her hand through his silky smooth hair. Carlton closed his own eyes as he let the warmth of his wife wash over him. He held back the tears of guilt that tore at his heart. “The trouble of serving the nation is that sometimes you can’t help but feel you have let it down.” He traced his finger down the pages, willing Cathos to return each name to life.

Jessica gently massaged his shoulders as she thought of what to say. “Come to bed, it's getting late now.” She gently pulled her husband up from his chair and brought him to the master bedroom. Carlton spent several minutes letting the warm water wash over his body. When he finally shut off the pipes the moon had risen high into the night sky. Its brilliant glowing crescent casting a soft light onto the rolling landscapes around outer Zimford. He felt Jessica’s presence leaning against the doorframe and turned around to face her.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“For what?”

Carlton stayed silent as he mulled his reply. He was about to speak when the doorbell rang. Carlton looked forward in suspicion, he wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour. “Stay in the bedroom.” He said. Carlton grabbed his revolver and slid it into his waistcoat. Carlton peered through the peephole in the door and saw Ewen standing outside. He opened the door and let him in. “Jess! Prepare some refreshments please, it’s for Ewen!” Jess walked down the stairs and smiled when he saw her husband’s old boss.

“No thank you Jess, I’m not here for leisure.” He handed Carlton a piece of paper. “We intercepted a rebel radio message, they are launching an attack on The Keystone Chamber, they seem desperate, almost as if they know their demise is inevitable.”

Carlton swiped the paper from Ewen’s hand. “But, the Royal Guard are on standby are they not?”

“The minimum contingent required, only twenty are actually on site, we estimate that hundreds are on their way to attack right now.”

“How are they attacking?” Carlton said. Jessica watched as the regret left his eyes replaced with a burning fury.

“Remenants of the Presidential Guard, they were ordered to stand down by Frederick after the incidents at the Zimford Governor’s party and were legally dissolved recently. However, we think the rebels kept their contacts in place waiting for an opportunity such as this. Carlton, the military is occupied with recapturing Spartacus and minimizing their own losses in the process. The nearest military unit is miles away from responding, Field Marshal Manners is rounding up some Guard units left in Zimford, but they are not reaching the capital on time. The KFP is the only government branch in the way.”

Ewen turned to leave, “The Admiral’s standing orders are for all combat units, and the appropriate task forces attached to Operation Rolling Skies to head straight for The Keystone Chamber.” Ewen paused and looked his officer in the eye, “I’ll see you there.”

Ewen left the house leaving Carlton and Jessica alone. Carlton brushed past his wife as he ran up the stairs to ready his uniform. Jess watched her husband prepare, again leaning on a door frame. The earlier regret that had been replaced with a burning passion was now overcome by a sense of control. Jessica stared into his eyes through his reflection in the mirror, indeed, his eyes had dried and were filled with the focused, accurate and unwavering gaze of a predator on prey.

Carlton pivoted on one foot and turned to leave. He grabbed his wife and kissed her on the forehead before taking his revolver and sliding it into its holster. Jessica felt the worry that every wife, sister and mother of any soldier across the nation felt watching their men go off to serve. It was a feeling that she was getting far too familiar with. She accompanied him to the door as he waited, looking out towards the darkening sky.

Carlton looked over at his sword, it had been on display in its case at the entrance to their residence ever since he used it to save Jess’s life over two years ago. The sword had belonged to his father and Carlton rarely used it in any capacity.

“Carlton, wait.” She handed him the sword, still in its sheath. “Take this.”

Carlton looked at the sword, its memories swirling around in his head. “It’s bad luck.”

“It saved my life.”

Carlton closed his eyes. Jessica could sense him thinking. “Please.” She said, “I know everytime you look at it you are reminded of me, at least it will be something, anything, any reason for you to return.”

He sighed as he placed his hands on hers and slid the sword of her hands. Carlton attached it to his belt and hugged Jess one last time before leaving.

The Keystone Chamber

Frederick paced the halls of the grandiose buildings that formed the residence and offices of the government. The grand halls for the first time since their construction devoid of Royal Guard. Their absence reminded Frederick of the emptiness of the buildings. He sat alone in The Grand Hall, where Kushmire would host both Celestial and foreign royalty. He ate his dinner, a roast lamb, alone, normally he’d have his wife and children with him but for company. However, for security reasons they were under Royal Guard protection in his private residence.

He heard the door opening and Leon Allen entered. He looked around the spacious, grandiose hall filled with paintings of ancient Kushmiran heroes and events. A large, extravagant chandelier hung from the ceiling, its hundreds of light fittings illuminating the room with a dull glow. Leon took a seat beside Frederick as he ate his dinner.

Frederick heard his minister sitting beside him, he offered him a piece of his lamb but Leon refused, “No thank you, I’ve already had my feed.”

“Suit yourself.” Frederick said as he continued eating.

“Frederick, I think you and I both know that your presidency is over after this. The military will not let you stick around. They wanted a public trial for your crimes, but I convinced them otherwise, citing your previous attempts and preserving the union. I tried my hardest to keep you until the end of your full term but they want you gone.” Leon said.

Frederick nodded. “I am not surprised by such information. I knew from the moment that our cities were attacked the sand in my hourglass had suddenly decreased.” He placed his knife and fork down. “Thank you for putting in a word for me in front of Albert. Some of the sand has now returned.”

Leon looked down at his lap and nervously cleared some non-existent dust. “Look, the constitution is being redrafted. The Electoral Commission wants to change the way the government operates, previously it was just a cabinet, selected by an elected president. Lord Charles Mackay doesn’t want another schism within our populace, especially considering that we are one of the more developed and influential regions amongst the empire. For the Diet to take us more seriously we can’t have situations like this one.”

Frederick nodded, “What are they proposing?”

Leon shook his head, “From what I understand, they want a full parliament and reduce the cabinet’s role to a merely advisory position with emergency powers declared during times of crisis. Laws and acts will be debated within a chamber, and passed on votes, members of the chambers are elected to their seats from respective districts.”

Frederick frowned, “So like a Tarstian system?”

“Similarly, which means that individuals can’t run for positions of power, to be eligible a political organisation must be formed which can then run their members for seats, the leader of the party will earn the presidency. The exact details are still being fleshed out. Though from what I understand, unlike in Tarst where the head of state holds a mostly ceremonial role, the president holds the title of head of state and all necessary executive powers.” Leon said.

Frederick nodded, “I presume that I will be barred from running?”

“Not explicitly, though I’m sure Jacob will be more than happy to block you from running behind closed doors.” Leon said.

Frederick grunted. “Well, what is your plan?”

“Tarstian politicians call their organisations that run for elected seats parties. I’m thinking the old cabinet forms one of our own, and then asks for membership from the rest of the public. The parliamentary system will most likely hold 120 seats, that means we need 61 for a governing majority.” Leon leant back as Frederick continued eating.

“Well, whatever it is I’m sure it's to keep people like myself and yourself in check.” Frederick said.

“I think it's more people like you, in check.” Leon said. “It was only your previous services to the nation as president that saved you face in front of me and the Military complex. Had Kushmire not faced unprecedented growth and development underneath you, I would too, would have left you to rot. The day I found out you were working with The Rebellion was the day I lost faith in our own system. No one else will ever know about your escape with the enemy, only a select few within the KFP, and the military leadership will ever know about what you did.” Leon paused as he stood, “I will never forgive you for the betrayal of your nation. You are a disgrace to the office!”

Frederick continued eating as Leon finished his speech and left the room. He wiped his mouth and looked across the courtyard through the towering arched windows. The sun had set, the stars were out. “Frankly. We are in the same boat.”

Feud of Gods
Tanjin, Republic of Kalquen
December 17, 1913 (AH 2) - Collaboration post with the Chief Rebel Kalquen

Deaglan Mac Maghnus shuddered as he drew near the outskirts of Tanjin, the traitorous stronghold of a million deceived souls. Surveying the largely flat landscape the wayward Temrisian nearly smiled, though thought better of it as Finn O’Daire rode up beside him. His horse stamped in protest as the rain began to fall from darkened skies.

“Ol’ Maeve here doesn’t like being wet,” he said proudly, patting the mare’s neck. “We’d best get a move on before she decides to toss me.”

Deaglan clutched the missive he’d been given by the Supreme Regent himself, his knuckles bearing white against the cylindrical jade case. As the pair trotted forward, through picturesque garden landscape, his mind turned to one gnawing question. “How will they know we’re really here on behalf of the Emperor?”

Finn turned, his face half visible beneath his hood as he cocked a grin at his companion. Then, after rummaging around in his coat pockets for several agonizing moments, he withdrew a small square object. “With this,” he said, presenting the object with an open palm. Five of the six sides were smooth pink jade, the corners each rubbed raw with age and persistent use. On the sixth side was etched the seal of the Emperor. “If they remember anything about Imperial authority it’s that this symbol grants those who bear it the ability to speak on behalf of the Empire.” He tossed it playfully in the air. “Trust me. This will do the trick.”

The halls of the Provincial Palace lay empty, rain hammering the red tiles of its many rooftops. Down one of its many hallways, the office of President Wei Lanceson Jr. lay. A broad, wood paneled study, flags of the Republic of Kalquen decorating the space behind an ornately carved dawn redwood desk. Wei Lanceson himself sat behind it, in a comfortable leather chair. The comfortable smell of incense filled the office space, a thin stream of smoke billowing up from a small shrine built into the opposite wall.

The scribbling of pen against paper filled the room, as Wei's hands flew over a white sheet coated in ornate characters. A memoir, of sorts. The faintest recollections of his father's lessons compressed into a handfull of pages. A sharp trill interrupted the President, just as he placed his pen back into its inkwell. It was the ringing of the ebony coloured telephone at his desk's corner.

With a laxed manner, Wei reached to the receiver, picking the device up and feeling its weight in his hand.

"How may I help you, friend?" he opened, his tone filled with as much pleasantry as a man on a rainy day could muster.

The voice which crackled back through the telephone was that of his secretary aide, Jun Hixei. The young boy seemed almost distressed as he spoke.

"Mr. Lanceson, Sir, the Western Gatehouse reports a group of men... They bear the mark of the Empire."

Wei's stomach churned. The Empire? What message could they be delivering? What now?

He cleared his throat and responded.

"Bid them enter, my friend. I will await them on the Palace's front steps".

Wei could only imagine what the future may hold, as he exited his office.

Deaglan and Finn eyed their escort suspiciously, each man sizing up the ones nearest to him in the event their guards got any ideas. Deaglan scoffed audibly at the idea as they were led toward the steps of the provincial palace. They were rebels. They'd already fallen victim to funny ideas.

Finn touched his shoulder, pulling him from his inward mocking. "There he is," he said, pointing ahead with a stubby finger. "The Chief Traitor himself."

Deaglan clutched the jade case once more, the contents unknown to him. Slowly he laid it bare, its case glinting in the rain. "Mr. Lanceson," he proclaimed at the foot of the steps, "I bring a message from Supreme Regent Jesse O'Rourke presented on behalf of His Exalted Majesty, Ren Osarrus XXV, Emperor of the Celestial Empire."

Wei looked down upon the men before him with a blank expression, containing his own inward feelings of curiosity. These men were not friends, merely pawns of the same empire who showed his people such pain. The time for talk would soon come, but not here. Not in this environment, with the missives of the enemy far beneath him. That would not be the Lanceson way.

"Mm. You show some nerve, showing yourselves here without any notification. The people do not take kindly to your cause. Come. Let us talk like gentlemen, face to face" ushered Wei, his hands placed neatly behind his back, feet planted on the foundations of his people's liberty.

The two Temrisians glanced at one another. Both men knew what the other was thinking. This was a crazy idea born of desperation, and what the Regent had planned for afterwards was crazier still. Deaglan sighed, daring for the first time since his departure from Bao Dai to open the jade case. Within was a single sheet of silken paper, its borders glittering with gold. "Mr. Wei Lanceson, President of the Republic of Kalquen," he read aloud, half-surprised at the Regent's recognition of the man's title. "I see no reason for our disagreements to turn into open warfare, nor for our fellow Celestials to suffer at the hands of their countrymen. Indeed, I have refused to acknowledge our nations as being in a state of war to avoid the bloodshed and horrors that have beset Nhasa and surrounding territory since Gong's usurpation some four years ago.

"But reminding you of such treachery is not why I have sent these two men. No. Another enemy threatens our gates, one that none of us will be able to withstand alone. So I ask, on behalf of the people we both serve and love, that you listen to the news they bring you from Bao Dai and consider in your heart if marching toward bloodshed is still worth the risk." Deaglan's eyes widened. Finn's brawny frame deflated. The news from Bao Dai... Deaglan's eyes rose to Lanceson. Could he already know?

Wei chuckled as Deaglan finished the note. His head raised to stare at the overcast heavens. His manner relaxed, the tension in his shoulders dissipating in an instant. The Dragon of the Empire was in a sickly state indeed. The United Front information of the Diet's vote was correct. After taking a brief moment to collect himself, allowing his gaze to drop down back to the two couriers, Wei spoke.

"My apologies, gentlemen. I do not mean to offend, I merely expected a more... brutish response. It's a shame I couldn't hear it from O'Rourke himself"

Wei stepped down onto the top step of the Palace's staircase, bringing the two men closer into view, puddles of rain lapping up against the President's leather shoes.

"Please, continue. I'd like to hear this news of Bao Dai" finished Wei, the cold visage having melted away, leaving a warm kindness in its place.

Finn stepped forward, his hands planting themselves in his pockets. The sudden turn made him weary. Perhaps the old traitor had another card to play and the news was about to force it. "The Diet has agreed to pass a series of reforms once a new time of peace has settled upon the land. Included is the formation of an elected body that will advise the Diet and the Emperor. The people," he paused, glancing uncomfortably at Deaglan, "will have a voice."

Wei paused, thinking of anything to say which could not be demmed too threatening. He knew deep down that if the need were to arise, Kalquen and its allies could easily take Nhasa and abolish the Empire entirely. However, memories of the United Front's tenets flashed back into his head, steeling his resolve. Peace in our time, and a voice for the people. No threat need be uttered, the battle was already won.

"There will be a new dawn, my friends. If your news is true... perhaps there may be peace. It was never our intention to spill blood, and I am glad the empire has seen the truth. But tell me, what is the catch? Why should we believe this deal will be honoured?" replied Wei, taking two more steps downwards toward Deaglan and Finn.

A flock of sparrows soared above the Palace, a black crowd amongst the rain.

"We cannot promise anything," Finn said, his eyes falling to the soaked ground. "The Supreme Regent cannot promise anything."

"His Excellency wishes there was some guarantee. A timeline, the signature of the Emperor, perhaps even foreign aid during the transition from authoritarian to democratic rule, but he cannot give any of that." Deaglan's fists balled, his gaze set upon Mr. Lanceson. For a moment he wished the Regent himself were here instead, to explain why nothing could be done. "All the Empire can offer is its solemn oath that the Diet's decision, made without the interference of the Regent, will be honored when the time is right."

Wei frowned in dismay. The Empire's word was wavering at best, and this proposal could not be taken seriously without further commitment. O'Rourke was smart, buying time for the Empire without the United Front would solve all its problems, but that was the issue.

"Disappointing news, gentlemen. You've made a sweetened deal without the dedication to back it up. A deal may be struck, but if all it relies on is the word of a man who has not even come to talk with me himself as an equal, I believe the situation remains tenuous" Wei said, his warmth dwindling in the face of this uncertainty.

"Do you think a solemn oath is sufficient to commit the lives of millions towards? Would it be worth the millions more which a truce may save?"

"We regret that we cannot give more," Deaglan said. "But you must understand the situation the Empire is in. It has been beset on three sides by powerful enemies. Mr. O'Rourke was thrust into a position he did not want and has given everything for the Empire and its people. We are here on his behalf while he negotiates with the Kaiser in the north to free the Empire from his yoke. When yourself and the Kaiser have agreed to terms then, and only then, can the Empire face an even greater threat in the east."

The fire in Wei's heart churned brightly, the situation no better, yet the pill slightly easier to swallow, yet he would not go gently.

"Fine, then. If the Kaiser is his first choice, I request a meeting with O'Rourke before any member of Kalquen or Hoydland's populace is brought up to fight alongside the Empire. Furthermore, I wish for two guarantees from you, and by proxy, the Emperor. The Empire will not send any military unit south of De La, without the express permission of the Kalquenan or Hoyd governments..." Wei paused, walking down the Palace steps until only five separated him from Deaglan.

"The Empire must begin its democratic reform, for a free and fair elected body. If neither term is met, the expectation of our non-aggression will be torn apart, and the Rebellion will drive into your lands with fury and zeal. The people will prevail. Do you understand, gentlemen?" Wei's heart was pounding rapidly as he finished speaking, his every fibre preventing a rage found within himself only four years ago from streaming back out. His words were collected, and fell like hammers.
_______________________________________________________________________

A few days later…

Deaglan and Finn rode fast and hard to the remains of Nhasa. To their astonishment the city had been returned to the Empire without a fight. “I suppose his idea worked,” Deaglan said as they strode through the palace gate. “One less enemy to worry about.”

“It’s the enemy within that I’m concerned about,” Finn replied, his gaze set forward. He grasped the air where the pommel of his sword would have been, their weapons having been forfeited only moments before. “The Wei government… they will be a tricky lot to deal with.”

Deaglan swallowed as a chill snaked its way down his spine. The pair promised Mr. Lanceson nothing, for they could not adequately speak on behalf of the Imperial Government, not in the way he wanted them to. They were there to give news of victory, of possible defeat, and to offer an olive branch to a rogue group of provinces. Now, as the pair stood to attention before the empty throne of the Celestial Empire, Deaglan wondered if their trip was worth it.

“I trust,” Jesse’s voice boomed from the other side of the hall. He entered alone, his drab gray suit in sharp contrast to the ornate decorations of the palace hall. “That all went well with our wayward friends in the south?” He ambled his way around the throne, navigated a complicated system of ceremonial instruments lined up behind it with ease. His hands clasped behind his back as soon as he stood center-stage, in front of the throne himself.

Deaglan had only met the man once before, on the day he and Finn had been entrusted with this sacred mission. At the time he appeared beleaguered, nearly beaten. Now, as he stood to his full height several steps above them he appeared determined, hardened. Deaglan’s teeth clamped shut as Finn took a sharp breath. “Wei Lanceson,” Deaglan finally said after a lengthy silence, “agreed to nothing. He wants to meet you in person to discuss terms.”

Jesse didn’t move, his face a wall of stone. “So the mission was a failure.”

“He’s requesting guarantees as though he were an independent nation, Your Excellency,” Finn said quickly. “We were an inconvenience to him. Foreign enemies to be treated with contempt.”

Jesse set his jaw, his hands moving in unison to his sides. He took a deep, slow breath as he regarded his fellow Temrisians. Darkness crept into the corner of the man’s eyes, a fiery anger that consumed more than it gave. Deaglan finally broke from the Supreme Regent’s stare, averting his gaze to the wooden slats beneath his feet as Jesse spoke.

“I will issue an invitation to meet with him here. I will entertain him as an equal and introduce him personally to His Exalted Majesty. Then, when he is drunk off his hubris, I will arrest him like the traitor he is, and put an end to this bloody game he so desires to win.”

The Father
Chasewater, Democratic Republic of Temris
February 3, 1913

Gavin nearly ran head-first into his poor Uncle Tom as he raced down the drive of his father’s estate. Behind him shouted the very man who’d brought him the news, oh such wretched news, only moments before. “You won’t make it in time,” called the shrill voice of someone who was far too happy to deliver something Gavin wished he’d never hear. As he turned sharply down the tree-lined boulevard, each one bare except for a thin coating of frost, his mind threw itself and his speed at the mercy of the gods. Please, he begged, please let me get there in time.

Spencer surveyed all that he had worked to build these last few years. Five barges, each laden with mechanical wonders and the necessary materials to reproduce them in a new land, sat idle in the harbour, awaiting his command to sail to a forbidden nation. His own vessel, The Despondent, was still receiving the last of her Celestial goods and passengers as he watched from the pier. His top hat sat askew atop his head as he withdrew his pocket watch, the very same he’d promised to give to Kayden one day. Its hands had frozen in place the moment he’d hit the water when the Aftalia went down, and though he’d considered having the watch fixed he found that he couldn’t bear the thought of destroying such a memento.

“The last of the engineers are boarding, sir,” Urbanilla said, her hands clasped gently in front of her. “Captain Kelly is prepared to depart Chasewater on schedule.” Spencer nodded his head as he slipped the watch back into his pocket.

“Where are the Gemini and Howard?” Spencer clicked his tongue. “We could run into trouble and an armed escort is always welcome.”

“Their captains agreed to meet the expedition just south of Port Arthur, sir,” Urbanilla said. “We will also be joined by the Orynx just beyond Rutgers’ Point. She’s a destroyer, sir, and her sailors are eager to see Mira Cal.”

“Eagerness is an unwelcome trait. We are refugees fleeing an empire that no longer has a place for us. They will go as far as the wreck of the Aftalia and then will be sent back.” Spencer turned sharply, his eyes narrowed. Stepping forward he brushed past Urbanilla without another word.

Gavin took in a sharp breath, relief flooding his chest as his lungs gasped for more air. His cheeks were red, his body slick with sweat. Every muscle in his legs begged him to stop but there, in the distance, was everything he’d hoped for. The Despondent, he knew, had been commissioned by Spencer in the weeks following Kayden’s ascension to the throne. It was a massive iron-hulled steamer with two smokestacks, four masts and two large paddlewheels, one on each side of its gleaming white hull. Atop its deck stood dozens, no, Gavin squinted, perhaps hundreds of people giving their homeland one final glance. Upon the pier, drawing near to the gangway, was Spencer.

Racing down the final street before the main pier where the hulking behemoth lay Gavin sprinted on toward his quarry. Top hat, tailored black suit, Spencer looked nearly identical to his father save for the monocle and cane. “Spence!” He cried, as his friend stepped upon the gangway.

Spencer grit his teeth. His plans of escape had gone so well until this final moment. There was nothing, no one, to hold him back in this wasteland of broken dreams. Well, he slowly came to a standstill, almost no one. Gavin’s hard and fast footsteps echoed down the pier until, at last, he came to a heaving halt. Spencer hadn’t moved, had yet to turn. He pursed his lips as his friend heaved, and heaved, and heaved.

“Spence,” Gavin said when he’d finally caught his breath enough to speak. “How could ya leave wit’out me? Wit’out tellin’ me? Where ya goin’?”

“Mira Cal,” Spencer said. His head drooped; his top hat threatened to fall. “I am taking these people to Mira Cal.”

Gavin took his friend’s arm. “Mira Cal is dangerous from w’at ya told me, Spence. Why go back?”

Spencer bit his lip as his hat finally fell from his head. As it hit the pier he turned to meet Gavin’s despondent gaze. “There is nothing for me here, Gav.”

Gavin’s heart wretched within his chest. Tightening his grip on Spencer’s arm he cupped the man’s cheek with his free hand. “W’at ‘bout me? I’m ‘ere. By all t’e gods below I went ‘cross t’is damn empire fo’ ya. Least ya coulda done is say goodbye.”

It felt dramatic now, Spencer realized, to run so far and so fast. His gaze drifted up at the gleaming steamer, to the barges in the harbour, to the vast sea beyond. Finally, it came to rest on Gavin’s own tearful gaze. Had he been too harsh? Too cold? To cast aside such a loyal friend when anyone else would have leaned on him?

“Alright,” Gavin dipped his head as he took a breath to keep from sobbing. “Since ya won’t, I will, ‘cause I imagine t’at I can’t go wit’cha.” Spencer shook his head. There were no plans for Gavin to follow, no contingencies in case he was killed in the far away empire, and Spencer, well, somehow Spencer knew that was a loss he couldn’t bear. After a moment, Gavin threw his arms around Spencer and held him tight. “Just be sure ta come back one day.”

Spencer slowly withdrew from the embrace. “I will.” But he knew that he had no plans to come back at all.
______________________________________________________________________________

Nhasa, Celestial Empire
September 8, 1942
29 and a half years later…

Emperor Ren Osarrus XXV had ruled the Celestial Empire for thirty years with the era name of Auspicious Harmony. Yet, he snickered as he donned a common man’s cloak, never once had harmony reigned throughout the Empire as long as he had sat on the throne. Reforms had ended rebellion, though only briefly. Further rebellions would see the mighty emperor reduced to a figurehead and Jesse O’Rourke cast back into the green bosom of Temris. Temris. . . His Exalted Majesty had been told once that his mortal body had hailed from that far green country in the south. A land of crystal rivers, snow-capped peaks, and mighty industry.

But Temris was not where he was headed. For the third time since he had ascended the throne, Ren Osarrus XXV was retreating to the thick, humid jungles that surrounded the secondary capital of Bao Dai. Where vines and vibrant flowers, trees and their twisting roots had overtaken the ancient stone palace that he would have to call home until the current crisis had been abated. Ren scoffed. The last rebellion had seen fit to cast Jesse aside, the man who had saved the Empire on more than one occasion, and thus doomed them all. He had no faith in the democracy that replaced Jesse’s guiding hand, and endeavored at every turn to frustrate the prime minister’s efforts.

At least until the Empire of Mira Cal invaded.

Helpless to stem the rising tide, Emperor Ren watched as the provinces, the empire, and the government which ruled in his name failed time and again to keep these new enemies at bay. Failure followed failure until, caught completely by surprise, Nhasa was surrounded practically overnight by Mira Cal’s troops. There was still, he was told, one avenue of escape: to leave as a commoner in the dead of night through a hole in the enemy’s encirclement.

“This way, Your Majesty,” the servant girl in front of him said as she beckoned him on. Ren twisted his mouth. She’d forgotten to add exalted to his honorific. Cataloging the slight in his mind he made a note to have her punished later. The palace was still his to rule after all. They were among the last to depart the palace; a defiant last stand that mirrored Jesse’s own in the early years of Ren’s reign. Ren’s personal guard had gone ahead only an hour before to secure the way, but as they walked Ren began to question if that was a good idea. They hadn’t gone far from the emperor’s bedchamber when they were struck frozen in place by the sound of gunfire echoing down the palace halls. “They’re here,” the servant girl breathed. Everyone knew time was short but no one had expected the attack to happen so soon.

Ren pursed his lips. His heartbeat quickened as sweat accumulated in the small of his back. He couldn’t be afraid, not here, not now in front of this little wretch. “They must have dug beneath the city,” he said, his voice steady. “Come, I know another way.”

It was a brilliant plan, Ren thought as he darted through the colorful pillars of the Heavenly Pavillion on the northern side of the palace. Surround the city, then dig beneath it to reach some of the older caverns and grottos used in eras past. Many led to the heart of the city, to the palace itself. Ren grit his teeth. Whoever conceived it knew their history. The girl’s hand darted from the dark to seize his own. Ren quickly withdrew his hand and raised it to retaliate. No one touched the God of Man. She flinched, though something in her eyes spoke to a fear greater than that of her emperor. Ren lowered his hand. “What is it?”

The girl pointed to a group of soldiers emerging like daisies from the ground. Ren knew that spot. It was sacred, said to be the burial site of the first incarnations of Ren beneath the palace itself. The men who emerged all wore strange masks, each one different from the last. Some began to light lanterns as they continued to file out of the hole in the ground. The final man to emerge wore a solid green mask with a crude harp drawn over the right side. Ren bit his lip as he cursed at the man. A Temrisian. Jesse must have been getting his revenge.

Ren huffed as he turned to continue on. Ducking below bushes and weaving through trees he navigated the palace gardens with little effort. The girl, however, had begun to whimper. “Hush,” Ren hissed. “If they hear you we are both dead.” The girl cusped her mouth with her hand, her attention ever shifting backward toward the soldiers who’d begun to spread out over the grounds.

It was only when he’d contented himself with his plan of escape that a twig snapped beneath his foot.

“Hey!” Shouted one of the soldiers.

“Run!” Ren sprinted forward; his long legs carrying him to the edge of the garden where the North Axial Gate sat. Then, to his horror, gunfire rang out in the sacred garden. The girl behind him screamed something terrible before a chilling thud echoed in the darkness behind him. Ren grit his teeth as he uttered curse after curse at these monsters. How dare they invade his home! His! A god’s!

Ren darted into the gatehouse. The soldiers had quit firing, though shouting ensued in the silence. Taking several deep breaths Ren dared a glance at his body to ensure he hadn’t been hit.

His stomach dropped. Blood pooled near a hole on his abdomen.

The door to the gatehouse opened. Fear and panic gripped him, rode like a specter across his face as he put a hand to the bloodied spot. He wanted to run, to scream, to shout, but there was no more energy left to do so. He collapsed in a heap at the newcomer’s feet.

He couldn’t remember what happened next, only that the man had removed his mask and cradled him in his arms. “My boy,” the stranger said over and over again. “My boy, what have they done to you?”

Ren gazed at the man’s face. Anger, grief, fear, desperation, they were written across this man’s face, but why? Why would this stranger feel those things toward him?

“Kayden,” the man said as tears fell in a mighty deluge, “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I’m so sorry.”

Kayden. Ren knew that name. From some time, some place, locked far away in a memory he could barely recall. A face plastered across a window had spoken it once, anger, grief, fear, desperation held solemnly within. "You be good now," he said. "You'll be a great man. I know it." Ren’s face twisted as he caught a glimpse at the green mask with golden harp sitting nearby. The Temrisian. He looked back at the man and noticed something about his face. It was as if he were looking in a twisted mirror that aged and distorted his own countenance. “Father?”

The man jolted. “Yes! Yes, it’s me, Kayden.” He looked up and shouted something in Mira Cal at the soldiers outside. But by the desperation in his voice Kayden doubted they’d listen.

Ren’s mind swirled with questions he knew he couldn’t ask. Each heartbeat brought with it a new emotion: confusion, anger, love, grief, and the list went on. This man had betrayed his Empire, broke into the palace, and was touching Ren, the God of Man! He brought his arms up to push his father away, but there was nothing left in him. His left arm fell to the floor, his sleeve quickly drenched in a pool of his own blood. Ren took a quick, painful breath. It wouldn’t be long now.

“Kayden,” his father’s voice came softly. A resigned love that masked decades of regret. He brushed a few loose strands of hair from Kayden’s forehead as tears ran in heavy streams down his cheeks. “I cannot take back thirty years, nor can I take back the decision that was made to cause this, but will you let me take back the godhood they gave you?”

Ren’s brow twisted. Remove godhood? “Impossible.”

“There is a God greater than you, than I, than all of us,” his father said. Ren nearly sneered. Cathos must be who he’s thinking of. “Greater than the pantheon of false idols the Celestial Empire worships. Please, Kayden, listen.” His father spoke rapidly. Instead of trying to explain himself, why his own son now lay dying, why he never fought for him, why he was invading with the Mira Cala, he explained the wonders and mysteries of a religion born in a far away land. Ren hardly heard most of it as his breathing grew faint.

“Pray with me,” his father finally said. “Renounce the idols you were born into and accept the light and life of Christ, and I promise you that we will have an eternity to spend together when my life is forfeit.”

Ren couldn’t explain it, but soon he was muttering along with his father, praying the same prayer his father had decades prior. His heart, weighed heavy by the burdens of a life that was never meant to be his, finally felt light. His spirit free from the cage he’d been trapped in. “Father,” Kayden uttered at the last as he sank into his father’s embrace.
______________________________________________________________________________

Pope Saint Benjamin XIII Cathedral, Chasewater, Democratic Republic of Temris
April 13, 1952
Ten years later…

The death of the emperor and the subsequent defeat of the Empire of Mira Cal following the assassination of its own empress a few short years later shook the Celestial Empire in ways many had yet to understand. Nhasa’s occupation and the announcement that the emperor had died led many to abandon the cause of the Empire. Temris was among the first to defect, and when Mira Cal was cast back into the sea its status as a province of the Empire became uncertain. Post-war treaties would have one believe that the Celestial Empire had returned in full, but many knew that wasn’t true.

Rumors circulated that the divine influence had died with the last emperor. The democratic regime long opposed to the emperor’s very existence thus seized the reins of power and broke the chain of Rens that had spanned centuries. No reincarnation was sought, and the figurehead powers Ren Osarrus XXV had possessed were disseminated throughout the government. Yet life went on within the Temrisian countryside with one new peculiar addition.

Church bells tolled throughout the small autonomous republic. Chief among them were the great bells of the Pope Saint Benjamin XIII Cathedral in the heart of Chasewater. Great Luke and Great Isaac sounded with glee while Great Caleb responded from the outskirts in the belltower of the St. Mary of Derry Basilica. Yet despite the joyous music ringing in majestic harmony throughout the republic, Spencer MacDarcy knelt alone by the altar of the great cathedral.

He’d clasped his hands in prayer, his silver pectoral cross cusped between his palms. He bowed his head as his lips moved quickly to plead with the Lord that his son might be waiting for him in heaven. Footsteps coming down the marbled knave stirred him, though only temporarily.

“Y’er Excellency,” came an all too familiar voice. “It’s Easter Mornin’. W’at are ya doin’ cooped up in ‘ere?”

Spencer held his breath, kept his thoughts tucked in the precious silence he’d had with God. Exhaling a swift and silent “amen,” he drew himself up from the kneeler and turned to greet his friend. “Doing what I do everyday, Gavin. Praying that God might grant remission of sin through Christ Jesus Our Lord for a sinner that’s ten years dead.”

Gavin withdrew his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry, you know. Everyone knew how much he meant to you.”

Spencer adjusted his fascia, its purple glimmer all the brighter in the pale light of the dawn. “I lived my life for him. Traversed the seas thrice, the Empire twice… When he died I, well, I devoted my life to something else it seems.”

“A higher power.” Gavin crossed himself then bowed reverently before the altar.

“There is no greater reason for a man to live than to live and die for Christ.” Spencer patted his friend on his shoulder as he began for the door. “How long have we been friends now?”

Gavin whistled. “Gee, Spence,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I don’t know. A t’ousand years.”

Spencer laughed, his joy filling the bright knave. “And I kept my promise to come back.”

“Y’er lucky I believed ya and stuck ‘round ‘till ya proved it. By t’e time ya came back I’d been married twenty odd years and had chil’ren o’ me own. Came to find out ya never had anymore kids y’erself.”

Spencer sighed. His hand drifted to the cross around his neck while his other grasped the door to the world outside. “God had other plans.” Swinging the door open the pair were met with a large crowd. Upon the Archbishop of Chasewater’s appearance the mob that had appeared burst into cheers and shouts of exclamation.

“God save Father Spencer!” They cried in unison.

Spencer stood in place, his mouth agape. God had other plans, echoed in his mind as he gazed lovingly, tearfully, upon his children.

"The Prince Returns"
Pt. I- 'Upon Familiar Shores'
Camber, September 29, 1923

Ever since the truth about the death of King Edren had been released to the unwitting public, the Kingdom of Atris had started a rapid, uncontrollable collapse. Nowhere was it more apparent than the city of Camber, where the inky black shapes of a faraway fleet were spotted on September twenty-ninth.

It was, coincidentally, the very day that Maurisard and Tarstic Protestant exiles from Valmere had set foot upon Camber's sandy shores, three hundred and seventy years prior.

"Lord Mayor!" came the desperate cry. Ernest Shaulley, the bumbling Lord Mayor's assistant, came stumbling down the steps of Fort Domus, telescope in hand. "Warships, my lord! Too many to count! It must be the Prince!"

Lord Mayor Franklin Gambier's walrus moustache twitched, betraying a hint of emotion as he gave the soldiers around him an appraising glance.
Many of them were scared conscripts, too scared of the consequences to desert; those of less fervent dispositions had abandoned their posts days ago, taking nine-tenths of the city garrison with it. The military police, too, had put down their arms and returned to their families, upon the news of Lord Stirling's great betrayal.

"All, with me," Gambier declared, in a stentorian tone, "We will put down the traitor, like the dog he is. To arms, on the double!"
What soldiers remained in Fort Domus seized their weapons, and hurried down to the docks. Behind them, the citizens of Camber began emerging from their houses in curiosity, following the soldiers down to the waterfront.

At the same time, Jonas Reinhart, traitor-admiral of the Royal Atrian Navy, lowered his spyglass. He returned to the wheelhouse of the Centaur, the dreadnought flagship of the rag-tag Restorationist fleet.
"Your majesty," he reported, delivering a crisp salute, "the loyalist military presence within Camber seems to have dispersed. Fort Domus appears to be unmanned, or under-manned. Exactly as our agents in the city reported."

"Good," Prince Remus said, looking out at Atris' familiar shores. "Prepare to pull into one of the quays. You'll accompany me onto shore."

Admiral Reinhart shot the other ships a glance. They numbered seven in all, most of them Royal Navy defectors helmed by Atrian political exiles, their decks crowded with their turncoat sailors and the prince's supporters he'd gathered back in Valmere- almost all of them people who had fled Lord Stirling's regime a decade- or decades- prior.

The city of Camber came into their sights, as the HMAS Centaur let out a powerful blast of its horn, and stopped its engines as it drifted to one of the larger piers in the port. Shortly thereafter, a gangway was lowered from the Centaur, and a small delegation of sailors, officers and restorationist officials disembarked, eyeing the coastal guns lining the sides of Fort Domus with unease.

For the first time in thirteen years, Remus Vesta, crown prince of Atris, stepped foot onto Atrian soil, taking in the smell of saltwater and flowers and smoke that were endemic to the coast.

He glanced around the quay, lined with his followers, then the metal gate at the end of the wharf, before he knelt, and kissed the flagstones underfoot, before he slowly rose.
"Let's go," Remus said quietly, after a moment of silence. As they reached the end of the wharf, he gave the metal gate a small push.

It swung open with a low creak, and he stepped forward into the light.

"Stop right there!" a voice boomed; Lord Mayor Gambier blocked their passage, positioned in the middle of the road, facing down the restorationists, a small pistol in his hand. Behind him stood the remnants of Camber's city garrison- a few hundred conscripts.

Behind the Lord Mayor's ragtag militia stood a large crowd of Camber's citizens. They did not react to the arrival of the prince; all of them were silent.

"You've made it quite far," Gambier declared, brandishing his gun, "But this is the end of the road for you, traitor. By order of the Lord Protector, you are under arrest!"

Remus raised both his hands in the air. The mayor raised an eyebrow.
"I mean no harm, Lord Mayor," he replied, measuredly, "Only to remove Lord Stirling from power. You read the reports. My father was murdered by him."

"Ha!" the Lord Mayor sneered, gesturing to his men. "Men... seize him!"

A long period of silence followed. Not a single soldier moved.
The Lord Mayor's face turned sour, as he looked at his soldiers with an expression of fury. Then, he cursed, bringing his pistol down, and pointing it at Remus' torso. The prince's guards scrambled to raise their guns in turn.
"Damn you all!" he declared, as he did so, "I'll kill the traitor myself!"

Remus closed his eyes, as he stared down the barrel. There were a series of gunshots and a loud gasp.

Still, nothing happened; he did not feel the impact of bullets slamming into his torso, nor the familiar throbbing pain that came with such a wound.
He opened his eyes again. Lord Mayor Gambier was laid spread-eagle on the ground, a look of indignation on his face; blood pooled from several holes in his torso.
His guards looked dumbfounded- the Lord Mayor's soldiers stood behind his corpse, pistols pointed down, barrels smoking.

Some of them had turned their guns on their loyalist comrades, holding the surprised men captive.

The oldest among them, a lieutenant, stepped forward, and removed his cap; using his bayonet knife, he sliced off the royal griffin and let the insignia fall to the ground.

"All hail the King!" he declared, kneeling before the prince.

"All hail the King!" the soldiers echoed, kneeling; the cry was taken up by some civilians in the crowd, then more of them, until all the people of Camber present were shouting, cheering, roaring, in one tremendous cacophony of noise. They surged forward, sidestepping the Lord Mayor's corpse, lifting their new king up into the air and surfing Remus on the crowd.

Freedom had come to Camber at last. Parts of the mob, seeking revenge for years of oppression, split off, to storm the headquarters of the Royal Intelligence Agency and the municipal constabulary; others raced down the streets in cars, trams, and on foot, shouting the news to the other residents.

More of his sailors arrived, and they wasted no time in hurrying up to Fort Domus to access its armoury. The crowd watched with bated breath as a marine scaled the fort's walls and lowered the royal banner, letting it fall to the ground.

In its place, they raised the tricolour flown by the restorationists, and the crowd let out a raucous cheer as they did so.

Many, it turned out, were willing to join his cause, but only a small fraction of them had the expertise to do so. Out of the thousands of people in Camber who stepped forth, only about a hundred left with him that evening; the remainder stayed, and promised to defend the city against the Lord Protector's troops.

As they journeyed north, they ventured across a most morbid sight; a row of three dozen bodies, hanging from makeshift gallows. Each of them had signs hanging from their chests, reading 'I was an anti-monarchist", or "I supported the terrorist Crown Prince".
As his men buried the bodies, he lingered beside the graves a moment longer, and prayed for some minutes before returning to the road.

Late that night, as they made camp, they were joined by a group of nearly a thousand men, clad in worn metal plate and faded surcoats with the Papal tiara; it was a sight that Remus hadn't seen since his departure from Valmere two months ago.

"Brother Vesta," one of them acknowledged. "I trust your travels were safe so far?"

"For the most part, Brother Sol," he replied, remembering the debacle with Camber's Lord Mayor. The Graekian Knights, or, at least, the Vrescia Chapter, all bowed. "It's been quite a while since we last convened, and I hope you'll forgive me for shirking my duties as Chapter Leader for so long."

Sol smirked, somewhat enigmatically, and the Knights chuckled. Remus' Atrian followers shifted uneasily, still unsure of what to make of the Valmerian titans in steel plate.

"Regardless," Sol said, "It's time we got some rest. My men have been on the road for the past twenty hours."

"As should we," Remus replied. He gave the rest of his supporters a reassuring nod, before retiring to his tent.
The canvas cloth of the tent snapped and fluttered in the evening breeze. Remus set himself down on his bedroll, staring out at the rolling grasslands and woods that made up Southern Atris.

The people yearned for change, and, perhaps, he would have to relinquish some of the monarchy's powers. But, invariably, what they demanded would almost surely be for the greater good.
Thirteen years ago, he had fancied himself an absolute monarch, and couldn't stomach the thought of losing power.

But perhaps the world, and his country, was prepared to move past the era of absolutism, and he, Remus Vesta, was obligated to serve his people.

-

But when Remus awoke next morning, it was to panicked shouting. He'd barely risen when Brother Sol burst in, a rifle in hand.
"Brother Vesta," he panted, "We're surrounded by enemies. Come quickly."

As Remus threw on a pair of Army fatigues, he left his tent, only to find the hills around them swarming with the khaki uniforms of the Royal Atrian Army. Machine-guns, cannons, tanks, armoured vehicles, and thousands upon thousands of soldiers surrounded them on all sides.
His men were clustered around the camp's perimeter, looking fearful but resolute.

If a fight were to break out, they would stand no chance; the nascent restorationist army had no heavy weaponry of its own.

"Prince Remus Vesta!" their leader bellowed through a megaphone. "Make yourself known at this instant, and surrender, or we shall open fire!"

"My lord," Admiral Reinhart pushed his way through the crowd, pale as a sheet, "Do not surrender. We'll buy you time so you can escape."

"Escape to where?" Remus hissed, "We're surrounded on all sides, Jonas, and if I were to run like a coward there'd probably be another division blocking my path. But... I have an idea."

Remus slid a Mauser into his waist holster, and donned an officer's cap, before emerging from the camp, slowly walking up to the enemy general; before he could reach him, however, a group of soldiers ran out from their positions, blocking his path.

He could see the Atrian general now; a tall, bearded man with a helmet too large for his head. The general, in turn, locked eyes with the prince, and raised an arm, as the soldiers raised their rifles.
Brother Sol and the rest of Remus' supporters looked on dejectedly as this occurred.

Remus said nothing; his hands went to his belt, and unbuckled his holster. He took his pistol, held it out in front of him, and let it fall to the ground. Then, he held his arms out to either side.
"Soldiers, you recognise me," he said, slowly, deliberately, "If... you want to kill your king..."
The next words barely came out, and he let out a chuckle instead. "...Here I am."
Despite the overpowering fear of being riddled with bullets, he flashed the soldiers a strained smile.

A long silence ensued, and all there was to be heard was the rustling of the grass in the wind, and the low thrums from the engines of the army's vehicles. A nearby machine-gun turned its barrel to face him, its gunners glaring down the sights.

"Fire!" The general barked suddenly. Remus flinched for a moment, but, contrary to his expectations, no shots were fired.
Then, a front-rank recruit scarcely older than seventeen let out a low groan, and dropped his rifle. The gun clattered to the ground before, overwhelmed by nerve, the recruit collapsed.

"Long live the King!" someone shouted from the back of the army, "Long may he reign!"
To Brother Sol's amazement, the soldiers all around them relaxed, as if a colossal weight had been lifted from their shoulders. "Long live the King!" they were cheering, abandoning their positions, rushing to Remus.

The entire army seemed to erupt in cheers, as a path was cleared for Remus to approach the general. The man looked on in disbelief, sat upon his horse, as his men defected to the enemy in a matter of seconds.

He turned his gaze to Remus, sizing the prince up for a long moment, before dismounting, kneeling before the prince and offering him his sabre. This singular motion elicited another deafening roar of approval from the army.

"Thank you for making the right choice, general," Remus said, helping the man to his feet, "Your name?"

"...Napier," the general said, climbing back onto his horse, "Edwin Napier."

"General Napier," Remus replied, "Will you march with me to Westernoste?"

At that, the general nodded.
"Of course, your highness."

"The Prince Returns"
Pt. II- 'All Hail the King'
Westernoste City Outskirts, October 16, 1923

The Kingdom of Atris had collapsed into chaos; that much was evident. Here at the beating heart of the Kingdom, Westernoste- the Jewel of the South, the seat of Atrian power, its final act was playing out in real time.

Smoke rose from a hundred different parts of the city, as Prince Remus' restorationist forces, bolstered by tens of thousands of defected Royal Army personnel, pierced into the city's heart, slowly overwhelming the last vestiges of loyalist resistance. The air was pierced by gunshots and explosions, while tens of thousands of papers and leaflets belched from the city's many ministry buildings, all aflame.

"There is no more help coming from the north," Stafford Pryde said, as he and the Lord Protector observed the battle from the Burgundy Palace's topmost gallery. "Swarzia has declared for the Crown Prince, and your house levies are too far to reach the capital in time. I would recommend we escape over the border."

"Evacuate? I think not," Stirling retorted, pivoting to face the director of the intelligence agency. "The Crown Prince's forces will bleed themselves dry before they reach the palace, and the relief force will break what reserves they have outside the city."

Pryde shook his head, as the two turned away from the arched stained-glass windows. In the halls of the palace, the most dedicated elements of the Royal Guard, and the religious zealots of the Knights of Cathos, armed themselves, barking orders, loading weapons, frantically scurrying about in a frenzy of desperation- like caged animals.

-

The sound of gunfire in Westernoste's streets only escalated. Private James Fairfax, age twenty-nine, cowered behind an overturned truck as enemy bullets tore past him. Several bodies, friend and foe alike, lay sprawled on the pavement where they'd been struck.
He'd been a teacher at Saint Soranus, a prestigious university, before he'd heeded the crown prince's call.

He never quite thought he'd be killed in the process, just that it was the right thing to do. Another Restorationist soldier leaned out of a second-floor window, firing a submachine gun, but an enemy rifleman shot them in the chest, and they fell backwards.

A tank ploughed through the road, knocking vehicles out of its way; James himself scarcely had time to throw himself to the side as it rammed the toppled truck to the side, tearing towards the enemy line.
There was the sound of a hoarse scream, and the loyalists' gunfire intensified in a deafening cacophony of clatters and cracks, answered by a long, drawn rat-tat-tat-tat from the tank's machine guns, and more screams and curses.

"Advance!" Someone else bellowed, and a few of the restorationists sprang out from their cover, scaling the enemy barricade with pistols and clubs. James followed them soon after. All the defenders on this street had been overwhelmed.

He breathed a sigh of relief, as his fellow soldiers celebrated, and the tank tore down the barricade.
But, as soon as the restorationists had started celebrating, a deafening roar drowned out their cheers. Further down the street came a great mass of loyalists, shouting and bellowing their war cries.
The first volley of gunshots dropped half the restorationists; James was flung backwards, feeling a burning sensation in his chest. It was then that he began drifting away from life, slowly dying on the road.
A fresh wave of men clad in steel plate surged over the broken barricades, wielding longswords that glimmered in the sun, shouting a phrase he could only partially make out.

"Saint Petrus, Great Graekia," they were roaring, as they collided with the enemy lines, swords swinging in deadly arcs that cleaved head from shoulder, limb from socket and torso from waist, "And our Father in Heaven!"

-

The battle for Westernoste itself still raged, but the fighting had subsided as more and more of the loyalists' defences were overwhelmed around the city. What had started as a slow, fighting withdrawal into the inner districts turned into a general rout as sector commanders began to panic and pull their men back, anticipating an attack from behind that never materialised.

Prince Remus and his own small brigade of warriors, consisting of the finest of the Graekian Knights, Atrian Marines and resistance fighters found that their journey to the gate of the Burgundy Palace was uneventful. They encountered no resistance along the way.

Finally, they approached the wrought-iron gates, none of which had been locked. They swung open noiselessly at the slightest touch. The walk uphill through the palace gardens, too, was remarkably simple. No mines were set off, no enemy sprang up from behind a rosebush to spray the party with bullets, no alarms were triggered.

They were able to enter the palace through the front door before an alarm was raised, by a pair of Royal Guardsmen who seemed wholly surprised to see them there.
"Where to?" Brother Sol demanded, as the halls began to ring with gunshots and alarm-bells. Someone had brought a light machine gun into the firefight, and rounds tore through the wood-panelled walls and carpeted floor, shooting shards of wood and cloth and marble high into the air.

Remus took himself back to the days of his childhood, the various occasions he'd stayed at the palace.
"Down the hall, to the right," he said, "Up the stairwell, to the left and through a hall, to the left again, down the hall... that would be the throne room."

Brother Sol looked at him incredulously, then shook his head. "Just take us there," he said, ducking out of cover to return a volley of buckshot at a Royal Guardsman.
A series of explosions shook the building as they advanced through the halls.
Remus looked at the tatters of the palace's finery somewhat-mournfully as they marched down one of the long corridors on the palace's second floor, its priceless marble busts, ceramic vases and oil-paintings riddled by bullets and in pieces across the ground. On and on the firefights continued, until one final wave of defenders, hearts hardened by resolve, burst forth from their positions. Knights in black armour and green capes were among them, wielding longswords and hammers, along with the last of the red-uniformed royal guardsmen, swinging their hwandos.

"Charge!" one of them was shouting, a tall man in a brilliant green robe, decorated with Cathos' motifs and wearing a silver face mask. "For the Earthfather!"
Justiciar Achatius himself, the heretic of Nhasa, met the Graekian knights in one-on-one combat, swinging a long poleaxe. As Remus drew his sword and crossed blades with a royal guardsman, he saw another Knight, Brother Matassa, be struck over the head with a hammer and fall to the ground.
Two Atrian marines dragged down one of the Knights of Cathos; a royal guardsman toppled backwards, blood spurting from a bullet wound in their chest; one of the resistance fighters unfolded a shotgun and let loose a storm of bullets into the mob, before Achatius' poleaxe separated his head from his shoulders.

All the while, the melee continued to rage. Achatius turned in time for Brother Sol's blade to pierce through his chest, but, at the same time, he unsheathed a dagger and drove it upwards into Sol's head. The two stood there in a fatal embrace for a moment, before toppling over to the ground together, with nary a sound.

As soon as the melee had subsided, Remus rushed to Brother Sol's side, turning him over. Unfortunately, the man was stone cold. The fighting was beginning to pick up once more as the restorationists turned to exchange shots with loyalist guards down the hall. As bullets zipped past them, Remus whispered a prayer, for the man who'd fought at his side since the Great War itself, and hoped that he would eventually join the man in the Lord's kingdom.

That was all he could do, and he soon ducked behind cover as the gunfire intensified. Their advance could not be stopped, though, and soon they'd overwhelmed the last guards outside of the throne room itself.

The great chamber was locked, sealed by a pair of thick steel doors that would not budge. When Remus pressed his ear to it, he could very faintly hear muffled chatter and the cocking of guns within.

It took an hour for purpose-made explosives to arrive; they'd been used on Westernoste's more secure installations, particularly the headquarters of the Gendarmerie, to crack stubborn enemy redoubts. They planted the charges, and took cover in adjacent rooms.

When they detonated, the earth shook and the air filled with a deafening roar, and the sound of warping metal. No sooner had the explosion subsided did the Graekian Knights and marines pour in through the smoke-filled breach, firing guns and swinging swords in the general confusion. Remus was carried into the room by the surging mob, barely able to see what was going on, as smoke filled the chamber. There was the sound of shattering glass, shouts, and the curses of a dozen dying men.

Finally, the fighting stopped, the dust settled, and the mob dispersed. The last of the Royal Guard, the Kingdom's finest, stood in fighting stances around the base of the throne, their swords levelled. There weren't more than two dozen of them left, for there was a similar number lying dead on the floor.

"So the man who stands before me is Remus Vesta," a voice sneered, "Traitor to the Kingdom, and the disgraced heir himself."

Lord Protector Stirling levelled a cold, but cautious gaze at him from behind his guards. He had his own sword drawn, and a pistol was held in his other hand.

"Traitor to the Kingdom?" Remus echoed, taking a step forward in anger. "How can you accuse me of that, when you murdered my father with your own hands? How can you accuse me of treason, if you have betrayed the Atrian state and people for your own gain?"

Stirling did not break his gaze.
"Your father was a weak man," he said slowly. "He ruled with his heart. He did what was 'right' to him, not what the nation needed. You, you, Remus Vesta, a lowborn, half-blooded mutt- took after him. Now, you return to Atris as the whore of a faith we renounced, to subjugate this kingdom for your Catholic overlords.

We fled the Catholics! We fled Cardinal Rigaud and his wretched lackeys in Morsain five centuries ago," Stirling continued, voice rising, "Only for you to bring it back to us. Even if this battle is lost, I will die on the steps of the throne before I ever let you, or your masters, turn Atris into a plaything of the Reeman Mother Church."

"If," Remus said, moving to draw his sword, "You believe that to be the case, then I do not know what I should, or can, tell you. We have strayed far from the Lord," he gestured to the murals of Cathos upon the vaulted roof of the throne room, "But, irrespective of denomination, we may all find our way back to him.

I will give you one more chance to abdicate the throne," he said, levelling the polished steel of the Princeblade at Stirling. "Step down, and we need not spill blood."

"I will die standing," Stirling spat. "Have it your way. Pryde!" he barked, as his shadowy Minister of Intelligence stepped forward. "Kill him, and let us be done with this charade."

Minister Pryde was handed a sword by one of the Royal Guardsmen. A knight by the name of Amundsen seized Remus' arm.
"Brother," he hissed, "Please. Allow me to handle him. He means to wear you down before he duels you."

"No," Remus replied, "This burden... this duty is mine to shoulder."

Brother Amundsen stepped back uncertainly. The crowd parted, and Remus and Pryde circled each other.

Pryde was the first to make a move. He lunged forward, thrusting and stabbing, but his method of fighting was much more suited to Swarzian rapier-play and not at all effective against the Knights' martial techniques.

Remus retreated and parried and deflected, and, as Pryde began to lose his balance, he darted to the side and brought his sword down on the man's neck. The Minister of Intelligence toppled back onto the ground, his head rolling across the carpet.
An awed murmur came from the restorationists, and looks of shock from the observing Royal Guardsmen.

"Lord Stirling," Remus declared, in a voice he barely recognised as his own; it was loud, thunderous, authoritative. "Stand. Or pick another champion."

"It would be my pleasure," the Lord Protector snarled. "Let us settle this, like gentlemen." He drew his own sword, then began to circle in towards the prince, stepping over Pryde's body.

Their fight was much slower, much more calculated. A series of parried and deflected blows, followed by more positioning. The throne room was dead silent.

"You look just like your mother," Stirling taunted, as the two broke off from another exchange of strikes. "Tell me, when I split you from head to toe, will you bleed royal or whore blood?"

Remus bit his lip in response; the Lord Protector, he decided, would not have the pleasure of eliciting an outburst from him. He crossed blades with Stirling once more.
"Getting sloppy?" Stirling leered, as the two once again failed to land any blows. "I wonder just how poor House Vesta's instructors were. Tell me, what will you say in your final moments as I gut you?"

Silence, again. Then, Remus made a mistake; he reacted just a fraction of a second too late to an inbound strike, and it slashed him across the shoulder. He stumbled back, and then Lord Stirling charged forward, knocking him over and pinning him to the ground with a strength unlike a man of his age.
Now, Stirling's blade was mere centimetres from his heart.

"I'll hang your body from the gates for all to see," Stirling snarled, as the two struggled. "I'll serve your heart to the pigs!"
Remus let out a strained obscenity. The blade dropped closer to his chest, prompting gasps of horror and fear from his loyal followers. Then, with the last of his strength, he shifted his weight ever so slightly.

It was a move he'd been taught by Brother Clemens, his knightly mentor. And the result was as lethal as the consequences of improperly executing it were. Lord Stirling's blade sank into the floor beside Remus, as he himself fell upon the point of Remus' sword.

Stirling let out a choked gasp and curse as he did so. His hold on Remus loosened, and the two were separated. As Remus climbed to his feet, he witnessed the Lord Protector's final moments.

The Princeblade was buried up to its hilt in Stirling's torso, caked dark red with blood. The mighty Lord Protector attempted to rise, but, already expiring, collapsed backwards onto the floor with a terrible final wheeze.

In life he had been an imposing strongman; a political mastermind, the sole reason behind Remus' banishment. Yet, in death, he was but another corpse. Those vacant eyes no longer held their former wit, or calculated cruelty.

For all the Lord Protector was, Remus reminded himself, he did what he judged to be right, and he resolved to forgive Stirling of his trespasses sometime, when his mind was clearer.
Reluctantly, the Royal Guardsmen surrounding the throne looked from Stirling's body, to the triumphant but battered Remus, and as one, knelt before their new king.

As Remus approached their commander, a thin, wiry man with an even thinner moustache, he could see the fear in the man's eyes. Just moments ago, the commander would have been preparing to lay down his life for his liege. But with the unexpected outcome of the duel came a new master to serve- a master who seemed unlikely to forgive them.

To everyone's surprise, Remus embraced the commander.
"I commend you for your unwavering loyalty to the Crown," he said, helping the man to his feet. "And I forgive you for taking up arms against me. You, and your men, have proven yourselves today, and I will let you continue to serve, if you will serve me as faithfully as you served Lord Stirling."

The commander, too dumbfounded to speak, prostrated himself in gratitude, and the shocked Royal Guardsmen hurriedly did the same, giving assurances of loyalty and apologies for the prior battle.

With the way cleared, Remus strode up the steps to the throne, and looked at it.
When he was young, it had held an otherworldly power to it. The seat, fashioned in the Morsainian design, was a simple one, a blue cushioned chair with ornate golden furnishings, and a drapery of blue and gold silk hanging behind it, in its little alcove at the end of the hall.

It had been the governor's seat before this, and the Prince of Camber's before that; now, it was his.
For the first time, Remus Vesta took his rightful seat upon the throne of Atris. The room erupted in cheers, shouts, and jubilant screaming. His Atrian followers began to chant 'All hail the King', and, overcome with joy, the Graekian Knights followed shortly after.

At the same time outside, the last of the fighting in Westernoste had died down. A pair of soldiers scaled the soot-stained dome of St. Vincent's Sanctuarium, the great temple of Cathos across the river from the palace, and, with joyous tears in their eyes, raised the restorationist tricolour in the royal banner's place, prompting a deafening roar that arose and could be heard all around the city.

"All hail the King!" the people and soldiers were cheering as one, "All hail the King!"

Unfinished Posts from Tangwen:

"The End"
Pt. III- Shepherd of a Free People, 1948

The invasion of Mira Cal had ended, their armies thrown back into the ocean, but the Empire was shattered. Nowhere was this more apparent than Atris, one of the very first provinces to informally break away from the floundering central government. Tithes to Nhasa had stopped, its Imperial Diet membership withdrawn, and all Atrian diplomatic presence in the capital removed.

The war had taken its toll on the kingdom. Its navy, the finest in the Empire, had been almost totally annihilated, its coastal cities occupied, Westernoste almost falling to the fate of Nhasa before a determined counter-attack had driven the Mira Calese back away from its gates.

The cities were in ruins, waterways clogged with the dead and rotting; the fields littered with the burnt husks of tanks and armoured vehicles. Yet nowhere was the cost more apparent than in the city of Westernoste; called the 'Pearl of Soralla' before the war, it now lay half in ruins, bombed, shelled and burnt buildings littering its grand city blocks, trains of abandoned or destroyed vehicles and military equipment clogging its streets, and machine-gun nests, mortar emplacements and defensive works carved into the opulent townhouses. A clear, jagged line of flattened buildings marked the exact spot where the Mira Calese had been turned back and driven from the city limits.

But the Atrians had one thing still, despite the destruction; hope.

It was summer again, and the sunlight and clear skies made the ruined city look just slightly more beautiful. Scaffolding was already rising all around the city, crews of builders leading the effort to restore Atris to its former glory.

Indeed, by the riverbank the grass shone a verdant green and the Atrian snow-roses blossoming from the soil there were a deep, rich midnight blue. King Remus watched with the faintest trace of a smile as a group of schoolchildren dashed past on the other bank, giggling and laughing despite the hardship they had been raised in.
They were no older then thirteen. The oldest among them would have known some semblance of life before the war; the youngest would've entered school amidst the falling bombs and rations and famine that marked the desperate, bitter, final years of the invasion.

Now, he thought, they would finally know peace. Remus yawned deeply and rubbed his aching eyes; the negotiations for formal secession from the Celestial Empire had left him utterly spent, and he found that he grew frailer and less energetic each year, something he attributed to the exhaustion and despair of the previous years. It was only by the efforts of the genius Von Trapp, his most adept diplomat, that he could still stand after each round of negotiations, each gruelling conference, each flurry of demands levied by Nhasa's ambassadors.

His fifty-second birthday was this year, he thought. How much longer did he have left?

A tug on his arm drew his attention back to the present. Jeanne- the same girl who he'd studied alongside in Morsain and who had, somehow, become one of his most loyal followers in the years after he'd returned from the war in Valmere, curled her arm around his, leaning into him. The two had been 'dating' for close to three decades now, but neither had really had the time or courage to tie a bow on their relationship.

And it was something which Remus deeply regretted; perhaps even more than all his mistakes, his killing of his best friend Marcel, and all the horrid things he'd said to his inner circle during the most desperate of days. When Atris seemed to be on the precipice of collapsing, and when his despair pushed him to near madness.

He'd rectified his mistakes, made amends with those he'd hurt, and accepted that Marcel's death was an unfortunately result of the war that raged around them and the extraordinary circumstances the two had been forced into.
But nothing would return to him thirty years of uncertainty.

That mattered nothing to him now. In exactly a month, the two were to become King and Queen Consort and thirty years of doubt would be put to an end.

He'd been King of Atris for thirty-three years now. Hardly an impressive reign, but compared to the three other kings of Atris, it was already the longest such reign in the Kingdom's near sixty-year history.
At times, the challenges put forth to Atris made him feel utterly defeated, but, thanks to Jeanne, he could wake up each day with a renewed sense of purpose.

"It was worth it all in the end, wasn't it?" he remarked, watching a barge laden with construction materials drift down the river past them. "I wish we could've done things differently... but there's nothing we can do about that."

"C'est la vie," Jeanne replied, resting her head on his shoulder and curling her arm around his waist. "There's plenty of things I still regret. Leaving Morsain... not coming clean to you earlier... there are too many to count. But we can always make sure the future is better."

Remus smiled, "Spoken like a true valedictorian."
At the mention of the event three-decades past, Jeanne snickered, kicking him in the leg slightly. "Oh, shut up," she said, before calming and returning her gaze to the river. After the schoolchildren came a gaggle of young women, fresh out of university, and the sight of them filled her body with a sense of youth too. It reminded her of her own days, those last weeks in Morsain.

She regretted leaving; but now, she knew that it was the right decision. She'd left a country ravaged by the last great war, and fraught with political upheaval over the deposition of its last emperor, and now... her entire life waited for her here.

"It's getting late... we should go," she said suddenly, "I should hope the cook's finished that stew of his now."

"He likely has," Remus remarked. "But won't you stay a moment longer?"
The two turned to each other, and Remus could see his own tired reflection in Jeanne's eyes. He now understood why so many said he looked just like his father; the stubble, the grey eyes with decades of wisdom in them; even the charm. King Edren was a heavily flawed man, he thought, and a horrid father at that. But he still carried love for the man that was his father, even nearly forty years after his murder.

Without you, he thought, I would never have met the woman I love. And I would never have gotten to where I am today.

Without further words- merely a mutual look of understanding- he pulled Jeanne in, and the two shared a long, passionate kiss in the afternoon sunlight.

END

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What Happened to Everyone In Atris?
A Post-RP Recap of All that Never Happened: The Fates of Each Character

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