Part 3. The Speech

  "In eighteen forty-seven," Radimir continued, "a treaty was signed for the joint use of these lands. Monolith and Citadel agreed to maintain neutrality, not to interfere in the internal affairs of the local population, and to coordinate any economic activity."

  Lelya listened, following every word. Facts. A calm tone. Logical structure. Everything correct.

  "Over the past five years, Citadel has systematically violated this treaty." Radimir opened his folder, pulled out a document, and held it up for the hall to see. "Here is the report from independent observers. Illegal extraction of natural resources. Here are testimonies from local residents about pressure from Citadel representatives. Here—"

  "Objection," The voice of Wulf, Chief Mage of Citadel, cut through the hall. He rose from his seat—didn't approach the podium, just stood. A soft, almost friendly tone. "The minister refers to 'independent observers.' Who are they? Who hired them? And most importantly—why should we believe documents that were clearly prepared by one of the parties to the conflict?"

  Lelya froze. This was the first strike, and she knew—everything would be decided now. If Radimir found the right answer, he would keep the initiative. If not...

  On screen, Radimir was silent for a second. Two. Three. Too long.

  "The observers were approved by the Council three years ago," he finally said. "Their independence—"

  "Was approved three years ago," Wulf interrupted, still soft. "But who guarantees that over these three years their independence has been preserved? Perhaps they were bribed? Or intimidated?"

  Lelya gripped her pen so hard her knuckles went white. No. Don't defend. Move on. To the next argument. Don't let him drag you into a debate about observers.

  But Radimir had already taken the bait.

  "We have no evidence of bribery," he said.

  "Just as you have no evidence they weren't bribed," Wulf spread his hands slightly and sat back down.

  Muffled laughter rippled through the hall. Someone from the Citadel delegation commented something to a neighbor. On screen, Monolith's bench was visible—Varvara sat motionless, only her fingers barely tapping her knee. Svarog's expression hadn't changed.

  Lelya wrote: "2:15—lost initiative. Went defensive instead of attacking."

  Radimir was flipping through papers. The pause dragged on. Every second of silence worked against him.

  "In addition to the observers' report," he finally continued, "we have economic data. Over the past five years, Citadel's revenues from the northwestern region have grown by three hundred and twenty percent. Even though the treaty assumed equal distribution of profits."

  Better, Lelya thought. Numbers—that's your territory. Stay there.

  "An interesting figure," Wulf rose again. Now he moved closer to the aisle, where the entire hall could see him better. "But allow me to clarify. Is this three hundred and twenty percent absolute growth or relative?"

  "Relative," Radimir answered.

  "Relative." Wulf nodded as if that explained everything. "So, if five years ago the income was, say, a thousand coins, and now it's four thousand—technically that's three hundred percent growth. Impressive. But what if we compare absolute figures with Citadel's total budget?"

  He paused—dramatic, calculated.

  "It turns out these 'enormous revenues' constitute less than one percent of our economy." He spread his hands. "Is it worth accusing an entire country of treaty violations over such a trifle?"

  Lelya wrote: "2:18—counterattack. Radimir didn't anticipate this turn."

  On screen, Radimir opened his mouth. Closed it. She could see him frantically searching for an answer.

  "It's not about the size of revenues," he said after too long a pause. "It's about principle. A treaty is a treaty."

  "Principle," Wulf repeated thoughtfully. He returned to his seat but didn't sit—remained standing, one hand resting on the back of the bench. His posture relaxed, almost casual. "Let's talk about principles. Monolith cites the treaty of 1847. But let's recall under what circumstances that treaty was signed."

  Lelya felt something cold clench in her chest. She knew what was coming. They had calculated this argument, prepared a response. But Radimir had already lost his rhythm, lost the thread.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Citadel had just emerged from war," Wulf was saying. "We were weakened. And Monolith took advantage of this to impose unfavorable conditions on us. Not partnership—dictation. Not a treaty—an ultimatum."

  "That's not true," Radimir objected. His voice sounded sharper than necessary.

  "It's a fact," Wulf replied calmly. "Recorded in the protocols of that time. And if Monolith is so fond of talking about principles—let's remember the main principle: treaties must be fair. And this one wasn't. It was the dictate of the strong over the weak."

  Lelya watched Radimir try to regain control of his speech. He spoke about the local population, about specific violations, about documents. His voice grew faster, words beginning to blur together.

  She watched Varvara on Monolith's bench barely shake her head. Roslava close her eyes. Svarog stare at the floor.

  Wulf found a way to seize the initiative every time. With a reference to other precedents, with a question that had no ready answer, or simply with his tone—doubting, ironic, undermining trust in every word Radimir spoke.

  By the end of the speech, Lelya had filled three pages with notes. Each notation was a diagnosis: "lost pace," "went defensive," "couldn't find an answer," "too emotional."

  Radimir finished his speech and returned to his seat. The camera caught his face in close-up—pale, lips pressed tight. He sat down next to Varvara, and she said something brief to him. Radimir nodded without looking up.

  Lelya leaned back in her chair and exhaled.

  He had lost.

  Not completely—he had conveyed the main arguments. But he hadn't convinced. Hadn't inspired. Hadn't made the hall believe.

  "The floor is given to Citadel's Chief Mage," the chairman announced.

  Wulf rose to the podium. Easily, confidently. He didn't even take a folder of documents with him.

  And began to speak.

  Part 4. Citadel's Response

  Wulf spoke for twenty minutes. And those twenty minutes were a master class.

  Lelya watched, recorded, analyzed. Every gesture, every pause, every shift in intonation. It was like a surgical operation—precise, calculated, merciless.

  He didn't shout. Didn't wave his arms. Didn't pound the podium. He simply told a story.

  "For centuries, Citadel was the jewel of Alma," he said, his voice warm, almost intimate. "We created art, advanced science, built cities that the whole world envied. But we also endured wars. Crises. Betrayals. And every time, we rose from our knees."

  A pause. A gaze sweeping the hall.

  "And Monolith always looked down on us. They're richer. They're stronger. And they've grown accustomed to dictating terms."

  Lelya wrote: "Flipping the narrative. Monolith—aggressor, Citadel—victim."

  "But we didn't give up," Wulf continued. "We worked. Invested our strength in development. And when we were permitted—within the framework of that very treaty—to develop the northwestern territories, we did exactly that. We transformed abandoned land into a thriving region."

  He took a step forward, approaching the edge of the podium.

  "We built roads. Schools. Hospitals. We gave local residents jobs, education, a future. And now Monolith accuses us of doing what they themselves couldn't. Or wouldn't."

  Lelya heard murmurs of approval beginning in the hall. Some were nodding. Others exchanging glances with neighbors.

  Wulf spoke simply, without complex constructions. He painted a picture—vivid, clear, convincing. Citadel—a nation that had worked honestly and achieved results. Monolith—the envious one who now wanted to steal the fruits of others' labor.

  "Monolith speaks of violations," Wulf spread his hands. "But where is the evidence? Reports from 'independent observers' they hired themselves? Testimonies from 'local residents' that no one can verify? Economic statistics taken out of context?"

  He leaned forward—a gesture of confidentiality, as if sharing a secret.

  "I don't deny that Monolith sincerely believes in its righteousness. Belief is a powerful thing. But belief is not fact. And the fact is this: Citadel honored the treaty. Every letter. Every paragraph. And if Monolith is unhappy with the results—perhaps the problem isn't with us?"

  The hall buzzed. Lelya watched delegates conferring among themselves, some nodding approvingly.

  On Monolith's bench, Varvara sat motionless. Only her eyes narrowed—barely perceptibly.

  Wulf held the pause, letting his words settle. Then he continued—softer now, almost conciliatory:

  "We don't want conflict with Monolith. We respect their history, their achievements. But we also ask to be respected. Our labor. Our right to justice."

  He straightened, his gaze sweeping the hall.

  "Citadel did not violate the treaty. We fulfilled it—better than anyone expected. And now we're being punished for it." A slight smile. "Forgive me, but that's not justice. That's envy."

  He spoke those last words quietly, almost regretfully. As if it pained him to have to say such a thing.

  Lelya wrote: "Final blow. Soft tone + hard accusation = maximum effect."

  Wulf gave a slight bow and returned to his seat. The hall erupted in applause—not formal, but genuine.

  Lelya stared at the screen and felt something hot and angry growing inside her. This was unfair. They had worked for months. Gathered evidence, met with people, built a strategy.

  And it was all crumbling because one man knew how to speak beautifully.

  "The Council moves to debate," the chairman announced. "The floor is given to the representative of the House of All Winds."

  Elin rose. Lelya leaned forward. He had promised to support Monolith. But a promise was one thing, and speaking before three hundred mages was another entirely.

  Elin reached the podium. He was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

  "The House of All Winds has carefully studied the materials from both sides," he began. His voice trembled. "And we believe Monolith has grounds for concern. Citadel's actions in the region do indeed appear... ambiguous."

  Lelya wrote one word: "Ambiguous."

  Not "illegal." Not "unacceptable." "Ambiguous."

  This was support. But weak. Very weak.

  "However," Elin continued, and Lelya felt something sink inside her, "we also understand Citadel's position. Developing territories requires investment. And it's fair that those who invest receive greater benefit."

  He spoke for another minute. About the need for dialogue. About seeking compromise. About both sides needing to show flexibility.

  Lelya stopped writing. Elin was retreating. Giving Citadel an alibi. Turning the conflict into "a misunderstanding requiring discussion."

  He sat down. The hall was silent—awkwardly, uncertainly.

  Others spoke after him. The Freeport League cautiously hinted at concern but didn't demand sanctions. The Coastal Union proposed creating a commission to study the matter.

  One by one, Monolith's potential allies gave ground.

  Lelya watched the screen and understood she was watching defeat.

  Slow. Polite. Wrapped in beautiful words.

  But defeat.