The Kingdom of Altaras.

  The Kingdom of Altaras, with its fifteen million proud and hardworking people, once shone on the map of the Philades continent like a precious gem in the crown of an ancient civilization. Its land, blessed by the legacy of the high elves of old Al-Tar, carved by mighty rivers and covered in dense forests rich with game, had for centuries evoked the admiration of its neighbors and the ill-concealed envy of invaders. Now, shrouded in the acrid smoke of fires and soaked in the blood of innocents, it had become just another pathetic trophy for the insatiable Parpaldia Empire, a faceless line in the long list of its colonial acquisitions.

  The royal capital of Le Brias, which just a year ago had been bathed in the light of magical lanterns, filled with the sounds of music and the aroma of flowers from its famous hanging gardens, had turned into a silent, dark tomb. The bustling market squares, where the dialects of dozens of peoples once mingled, had been replaced by echoing, empty streets, where patrols of the Imperial Oversight Army now roamed lazily, with a sense of complete impunity. The dull, measured thud of their hobnailed boots on the ancient cobblestones was the only sound that broke the dead silence. The citizens, who had recently prided themselves on their heritage and rich history, now instinctively shrank into the shadows of doorways or lowered their gaze upon seeing the red-and-black uniform, fearing a neighbor's denunciation, a stray insult, or simply the bad mood of another drunken patrol.

  In the very heart of this dying city, in the damp and musty cellar of a bombed-out textile factory where the air was thick with the smell of mold, gun oil, and stale fear, beat the heart of the underground resistance. Here, in the dim, flickering light of an oil lamp, sat several people. Their faces were haggard from sleepless nights, with dark circles under their eyes, but in the depths of their gazes burned a cold, unquenchable fire of resolve. They were bent over a tattered map of the city, planning their next act of sabotage. At their head, straight and unyielding as an old oak, stood the resistance commander—Rial, a former captain of the elite Royal Guard, a man whose name had already become a legend and a symbol of unbreakable will.

  Rial's memory, like a wound that would not heal, kept returning him to that fateful day a year ago. The day the ambassador of the Parpaldia Empire, as cold and arrogant as death itself, had presented King Taara XIV with an ultimatum. The Siltras Mine, the kingdom's main source of wealth and magical energy, was to be transferred into the full ownership of the Empire. And the king's only daughter, Crown Princess Lumies, was to be sent to Esthirant as an "honored concubine" for Emperor Ludius. The price of peace. Taara XIV, an aging but wise and proud monarch, had tried to appeal to reason until the very end, offering negotiations, economic concessions, any form of compensation. But Parpaldia did not want to negotiate. It had come to command.

  The declaration of mobilization was an act of desperation. Rial remembered standing at the head of his guard, looking at the hastily assembled militia—peasants with pitchforks and hunting bows, craftsmen with the rusted swords of their grandfathers. They went into battle knowing they were doomed, but they could not do otherwise. The battle was short and predictably bloody. To save the capital from complete destruction and a senseless slaughter, Taara XIV was forced to sign a treaty of "protectorate." The quill in his hand trembled as he wrote his name on the parchment, which was, in essence, a death sentence for his kingdom and his people. Rial, standing behind his throne, had sworn to himself then that this sacrifice would not be in vain.

  But the Empire's "protection" turned into a nightmare that surpassed their worst fears. The new governor appointed from Esthirant, a depraved sadist named Cesac, turned the kingdom into his personal fiefdom for pleasure and profit. His soldiers from the Oversight Army, recruited from the dregs of the entire Empire, looted homes, raped women, and took the most beautiful girls to the governor's palace, from which they never returned, joining the sad list of those who had "gone missing on suspicion of treason." The red-and-black uniforms became a symbol of absolute, unpunished evil.

  And yet, despite this nightmare, in the darkest corners of the kingdom, in the forests and mountains, a spark of hope continued to smolder. Rial, gathering the remnants of the Royal Guard and loyal men around him, began his war. Their weapons were primitive, but their hearts burned with fury. They attacked small patrols, burned warehouses, derailed supply wagons filled with ore. For each of them, there were no compromises. Every red-and-black uniform represented a destroyed family, a burned home, a ruined life. The enemy deserved no mercy. But with each passing day, Rial understood more clearly: sabotage alone would not win this war. Hope was fading. He, like everyone else, was convinced that the king and princess were dead. And that thought, like poison, tainted his soul. The resistance was no longer a fight for independence. It was a battle for a worthy death. A battle to take as many enemies with them as possible before they were all finally exterminated. It was a battle for humanity, for ensuring that the evil personified by Parpaldia did not achieve a final, complete victory.

  Altaras Kingdom. Occupied capital of Le Brias.

  The Old Port Sewers.

  Time: Deep night.

  An atmosphere of sepulchral despair reigned in the depths of the branching catacombs that had been accumulating under the city for centuries. It was a place where even the imperial Oversight Army only ventured in squads of no less than fifty. The air here was heavy, stale, saturated with the stench of sewage ditches, mold, and that sickeningly sweet, metallic odor of dried blood and unwashed bodies that always accompanies guerrilla warfare.

  Light was a luxury. A few dim magical crystal lamps, set out in corners on overturned crates, struggled to disperse the gloom, snatching the gaunt faces of the people from the darkness. These weren't the gallant, statuesque guardsmen in polished cuirasses who had marched in the parades for King Taara's birthday a year ago. These were shadows. Ghosts of the past. Men in dusty cloaks hiding torn chainmail and a lack of insignia, with deep shadows under their eyes—the stamp of chronic malnutrition and a life lived in constant fear.

  In the middle of the damp stone hall, over a map of the city drawn with a piece of charcoal directly onto a tabletop of rough planks, stood the man who held this disparate handful of people together by sheer force of will alone.

  Captain Rial, former commander of the Elite Royal Guard of Altaras.

  A fresh scar now crossed his once-noble face, and hands accustomed to the hilt of a ceremonial saber were now black with grime.

  "…We can't move upwards, Commander," reported his deputy, Lieutenant Bordeau, in a hoarse whisper that sounded like grinding stones. He poked a dirty finger at the Merchant District. "The Parpaldians have reinforced the patrols. The 'Oversight Army' has posted guards at every intersection. They have new mana sensors, more sensitive ones. They're looking for the slightest surge of magic. My men… we're down to two fire crystals per brother and a dozen crossbow bolts. We won't break their formation. Their muskets mow us down before we can get within striking distance."

  Rial clenched a fist wrapped in worn leather. He knew the cost of this silent despair. His people weren't dying in glorious combat. They were dying like rats in a maze—hounded, hungry, unable to strike back.

  Governor Czesak had turned the city into a prison.

  Somewhere far above, in the labyrinth of narrow streets of nocturnal Le Brias, there was a dull thump, like a hammer hitting the earth. The vault of the cellar shuddered, and stone grit rained down.

  "It worked," Rial stated grimly, without a shadow of joy. "The Western collector. We sawed through the beams under the pavement. It was a 'Gravity Trap'—a simple weight rune. I hope at least one wyvern broke its legs falling into the pit."

  Bordeau just grimaced.

  "Minus one dragon. Tomorrow they'll bring in five more. And hang ten civilians as a lesson."

  It was a war of attrition they were losing every day. Pinpricks against an armored giant. Altaras was dying, and they were dying with it.

  Suddenly, the heavy wooden door creaked. In this tense silence, the sound seemed deafening. Everyone in the room, obeying reflex, grabbed the hilts of their swords and daggers.

  A figure wrapped in a gray, nondescript cloak appeared in the opening.

  "Easy! It's us!" a girl's voice said quietly, but it vibrated with the tension of a taut wire.

  The courier girl threw back her hood. Her face was as pale as linen, and her hands were trembling slightly. This wasn't the trembling of fear Rial had seen hundreds of times. This was the tremor of a person carrying a burning coal in their palms.

  Clutched in her hand was an object that looked like an alien artifact here, among the torches and swords. A small, matte-black, angular box with a short antenna stub.

  "Commander…" she exhaled, approaching the table and placing the "black box" on the map, right on top of the enemy positions drawn in charcoal. "News from the 'Ghosts'. From that group of Russians from the Foreign Intelligence Service. The 'Contact' has initiated a session."

  Rial tensed his whole body, leaning forward. He remembered meeting these people a month ago. Faceless, in strange "spotted" clothes that made them invisible in the forest, armed with short, silent iron sticks that spat death. They spoke little but promised that the hour of reckoning would come. back then, it seemed like a fairytale.

  "What did they say?" his voice dropped to a whisper.

  "They didn't say, Commander. They sent a voice."

  The girl pressed a button on the black object. The device hissed, and then a polished voice, loud and clear, rang out from the speaker in perfect Altaras, drowning out the noise of the cellar:

  "…Attention. An official statement from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation. In connection with the aggression of the Empire of Parpaldia and the violation of the sovereignty of independent states, the Russian Federation announces the commencement of a Special Operation to force the aggressor to peace. The Kingdom of Fenn has entered the war on the side of the Union."

  Dead silence. So dense you could hear hearts beating. Bordeau opened his mouth but couldn't make a sound. War? That strange, distant, and frightening country, Russia, had challenged a Superpower?

  But that wasn't all. The speaker clicked again, and another voice broke through the digital noise—harsh, calm, with a slight, foreign accent. A voice addressed to them personally:

  "'Center' to cell 'Phoenix'. The time has come. Code signal: 'Prospekt' is approaching. Green light. King Taara and the Princess are safe, on our soil. We are bringing you home. Begin."

  Rial felt the ground go out from under his feet.

  The King is alive. The Princess is alive. These weren't rumors. This was the truth.

  "Prospekt." A code word meaning that Russian forces weren't just "expressing concern," but were already in strike positions. That an invasion fleet was already slicing through the waves somewhere near the horizon, and iron dragons of retribution hung in the sky above the clouds.

  "Green light…" Bordeau whispered, and in his eyes, for the first time in a year, instead of dull doom, a fanatical, terrifying fire flared up. The fire of a man who had been given back a reason to live. "Rial… they've come."

  The Captain slowly exhaled the air that seemed to have been trapped in his chest all these months of occupation.

  He looked over his men. Dirty, ragged, armed with rusty blades and primitive crossbows. But now this wasn't rabble. This was the vanguard of an army of liberation.

  "Listen to my order!" Rial's voice changed. It rang with the steel with which he commanded the Guard on parades. This wasn't the voice of an underground fighter; this was the roar of an officer. "Pass it down the chain. To all cells: 'General Assembly'. Activate protocol 'Retribution'. Open the caches."

  He slammed his fist onto the table, sending up a small cloud of coal dust.

  "We can't match their army in an open field. But the city is ours. Every gutter, every roof, every basement is ours. We will cut their tendons. We will blind their magic radars. We will create chaos in the rear while the Russians break their backs from the sea!"

  Rial drew himself up to his full height. The scar on his face filled with blood.

  "Prepare the 'Sleeping Potions' for the garrison. Overcharge the magi-stones. Tonight we won't hide like rats. Tonight we become their nightmare. We become their death!"

  The men in the basement stirred, grabbing their weapons. A predatory sharpness appeared in their movements. They no longer feared the gallows. Now they feared only one thing—being late for the start of the harvest.

  "Czesak, you thought you broke us?" Rial said quietly into the darkness of the stone corridor, already imagining the hated face of the governor. "You thought we were dead. No. We were just waiting for the storm. And the storm has come."

  In the Second Civilized Zone, in the very heart of the superpower Mu, in its capital city of Otaheit, the air in the Oval Office of the Security Council was so thick with tension you could cut it with a knife. Seated at a long table of polished kai'ri wood, its dark, almost black surface reflecting the cold light of electrodeless lamps, were the most powerful people in the nation. The Prime Minister, admirals whose faces were etched with the wrinkles and salt of sea winds, heads of intelligence and counterintelligence whose eyes were accustomed to seeing what was hidden from others. The government of Mu, known for its millennia of caution and pursuit of strategic balance, now faced the most difficult choice in a hundred years. To the east, in the barbaric lands of the Third Civilized Zone, the fire of a great war was igniting. But this was not just a war. It was a clash of two worlds: the old, in the form of the predictable and understandable predator, the Parpaldia Empire, and the new, in the form of the Russian Federation—a force that was incomprehensible, alien, and frighteningly powerful. The decision to send a military observer into this conflict was not just necessary. It was vital. But it was also extremely risky.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "Gentlemen, we must make a choice," the Prime Minister, an elderly man with a tired but piercing gaze, began. He did not raise his voice, but his words instantly silenced everyone. "And this choice will define our strategy not for years, but for decades to come. Information is our primary weapon. And we must send our observer to where we can obtain the most valuable intelligence about the future."

  The head of the Foreign Office, a middle-aged man in a sharp European suit that fit him with impeccable elegance, rose from his seat. He slowly surveyed the room with his calm, analytical gaze.

  "Esteemed colleagues, my department and I have thoroughly studied all the reports received from our diplomatic missions, as well as from observers Myrus and Lassan, who personally witnessed Russian might off the coast of Fenn. My position is unequivocal: we must send our observer to the Russian Federation."

  The Fleet Admiral, a tall man with a stern, weather-beaten face, frowned, his thick gray eyebrows knitting together.

  "Allow me to clarify your position, Minister," his voice rumbled like the engines of a ship. "Parpaldia is our long-standing potential adversary. For years, we have built our doctrine based on the threat they pose. Knowledge of their real combat capabilities in an all-out war would be invaluable to us. Why take a risk and bet on a dark horse?"

  "It's quite simple, Admiral," the Foreign Minister calmly adjusted his thin-rimmed glasses. "We already know everything we need to know about Parpaldia. Their fleet is an improved, but still recognizable, version of our old steam-powered ships-of-the-line. Their air force is just flying, genetically enhanced lizards. Their tactics are linear. We can defeat them ourselves if the need arises. But Russia…" he paused, and a tense silence fell over the room. "Russia, gentlemen, has demonstrated a scientific and technological progress that, by the most conservative estimates of our best engineers from the Technical Department, is a century ahead of ours, if not more. It is vital for us to understand how they achieved this. And, more importantly, to understand if we can even attempt to close this gap."

  A murmur of agitated disbelief went through the room.

  "That sounds like a bold, almost fantastical, assumption," objected the representative of the military industry, the head of Mitsui Industries corporation. "Do we have any real, undeniable proof of this superiority? Or could this be a skillful, multi-layered disinformation campaign by the Russians to inspire awe in us? Let's not forget, our newest 'Marin' carrier-based biplane are the best in this part of the world!"

  The Foreign Minister sighed wearily.

  "You have all read the reports, gentlemen. Intelligence Report No. 734. Eyewitness testimonies. Their fighter jets, as Myrus reported, are capable of exceeding the speed of sound. The speed of sound! Our best engineers still consider this a theoretical limit, leading to the inevitable destruction of any aircraft known to us. Their artillery strikes targets at distances of dozens of kilometers with an absolute, almost magical, precision, thanks to machines they call 'ballistic computers' and fire correction from satellites. And their anti-ship missiles... that is a weapon from our ancient myths about a transferred civilization!"

  The head of the Foreign Intelligence Service, who had been silent until now, a thin, shadow-like man, gave a short nod.

  "The Minister is right. Our agents in Qua-Toyne confirm: the Russians are building roads, factories, and entire cities there with a speed that looks like magic. But it is not magic. It is technology. Technology that allows them to challenge not only Parpaldia. It allows them to challenge the horror that has awakened far to the west, and which has already wiped the superpower of Leifor from the face of the earth."

  At the mention of the Gra Valkas Empire, the faces of everyone in the room darkened. This was their main, existential threat.

  "And that is another, most important, argument," the Foreign Minister concluded decisively. "We must understand if Russian technology can stand against the technology of Gra Valkas. And if our technology can stand against even one of them. For us, this is not a question of curiosity or political ambition. This, gentlemen, is a question of the survival of our people and our state."

  After these words, the arguments died down. The points were irrefutable. The decision was made unanimously. An observer would be sent to the Russian Federation. He was to become their eyes and ears in the coming battle of titans. And, perhaps, their only hope of understanding what new, terrifying, and unpredictable world they now lived in.

  The Holy Mirishial Empire. The Port City of Cartalpas, the Pearl of the Central Continent.

  The evening air of Cartalpas, the jewel and main seaport of the Central Continent, hummed with the energy of an industrial, magical era. The bright light of magical gas-discharge lamps, styled to resemble elegant Art Deco lanterns, flooded the wide avenues paved with perfect cobblestones. Along them, mingling with more traditional carriages, moved the first luxurious and expensive automobiles of the aristocracy, their engines powered not by gasoline, but by magic crystals, emitting a quiet, melodic hum.

  In the gigantic port, next to the sailing ships of traders from backward lands, stood true steel giants at the concrete piers: destroyers bristling with anti-aircraft guns, massive cruisers, and even an aircraft carrier, on whose deck technicians in blue robes prepared magical fighter jets for takeoff, strongly resembling Earth's aircraft from the 1940s.

  In one of the monumental buildings on the waterfront, constructed of white marble and dark granite, the "Golden Gryphon" bar was located on the second floor. It was a respectable establishment where the city's elite gathered.

  Inside, in a hall with a high ceiling finished with dark wood and brass fixtures, reigned the atmosphere of an expensive jazz club or a 1930s restaurant. The air was saturated with the aroma of expensive cigars, quality alcohol, and fine perfume. At tables covered with snow-white tablecloths sat officers of the imperial fleet in their elegant white and black uniforms; industrialists discussing contracts for the supply of magic crystals for new battleships; diplomats from Mu in sharp European-style suits; and well-dressed mercenaries, whose magical pistols in holsters under their jackets spoke of their status.

  Here, in the fumes not of cheap rum, but of aged whiskey and exotic magical liqueurs, to the quiet, unobtrusive music played by a small orchestra, deals were made, intrigues were born, and priceless grains of information were mixed with tons of skillful disinformation. This was the nerve center of the world, and everyone present was either a player in the great game of politics or a piece on its board.

  "Hear the latest, boys?" rumbled a massive boatswain with a thick, tow-like red beard that stank of booze and saltwater from a league away. He slammed a heavy clay mug onto the table. "Those Parpaldian jackals have started another war! This time with some savages across the Eastern Ocean."

  "Hic…" his drinking buddy, a skinny skipper who looked like a herring, hiccuped and giggled. "That's old news! Parpaldia and war are like the sea and salt. Can't have one without the other. Shame about those savages, though… although, who am I kidding? What difference does it make if they're ruled by their own broke-ass king or by an imperial boot?"

  "Ever wonder why they do it?" a third man chimed in. He wasn't a sailor. His hands were too clean, and his clothes, though simple, were too well-made. He was a merchant, whose trading ship had recently returned from Shios with a cargo of rare spices. "I think they fight just for the sake of fighting. The Empire's already swallowed up almost the entire Third Civilized Zone, and now they're gunning for the rest."

  "That's the nature of the strong," the boatswain remarked philosophically, wiping foam from his beard. "The weak disappear, and the strong take what they want. It's the law of the world."

  In the far, darkest corner of the tavern, at an inconspicuous table, sat a man who until now had only been listening silently, sipping from a small cup of some strange, herbal-scented drink. His face was hidden in the shadow of the hood of his simple traveler's cloak. He smirked under his breath, a smirk that held more knowledge than all the drunken arguments in this tavern combined. This was Lydolka, a senior officer of Mirishial's Intelligence Bureau, who had just returned from a dangerous journey to Tormeus. His official mission was to "study trade routes." His unofficial mission was to gather any and all information about the new, mysterious power that had appeared in the east.

  "Ha! The strong?" suddenly, the merchant from Shios leaned forward and said loudly. "Parpaldia's biting off more than it can chew. What if these savages turn out to be not so weak after all?"

  "Oh, come on," the bearded man scoffed. "You seriously think someone from the Uncivilized Lands can stand against an entire superpower?"

  "I think they can," the merchant's voice took on a strange, almost fanatical certainty. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and everyone at the table involuntarily leaned in. "My people in Shios spoke with refugees from Louria. And with traders from Qua-Toyne. They say one of those countries, this… Russia…" he pronounced the name with almost reverent awe, "…they have technology that not even we, in the Holy Empire, possess. They say their ships don't sail, they fly across the water, without sails. They say they can burn cities with fire from the sky, from heights where not even wind drakes can fly."

  "Fairy tales for children!" the bearded man snorted, downing another mug, but his voice no longer held the same confidence. "Flying on water… yeah, right!"

  "They aren't fairy tales," the man in the hood suddenly spoke, breaking his silence. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the din so clearly that everyone at the neighboring tables turned. He slowly lowered his hood. A middle-aged man with a tired but piercing gaze and a scar bisecting his left eyebrow looked at them. He looked like neither a sailor nor a merchant.

  "I've seen these 'wild orcs' the Russians were fighting. In Tormeus. I've seen their 'Demon Lord.' And I've seen how these Russians, whom you call barbarians, destroyed them. They brought iron golems with them that spat fire. They flew in on gigantic, buzzing, iron dragonflies. They… they're different."

  Lydolka was telling the truth. But he was mixing it with fiction, testing how this information would spread, what rumors it would spawn. It was part of his job.

  The tavern fell silent. The stranger's story was so wild, so far beyond the scope of their world, that they didn't believe him. But they couldn't just dismiss it either. He spoke with too much confidence.

  "Well," the bearded sailor finally broke the silence, much more quietly now, "even if that's true, Parpaldia is not a horde of demons. They have discipline, a fleet, a strategy. I think they'll handle it."

  Most in the bar, wanting to return to their familiar and understandable worldview, nodded in agreement. Yes, Parpaldia, despite everything, would win. Because it had always been that way.

  But Lydolka, pulling his hood back up and finishing his tea, already knew the truth. They were wrong. All of them were dead wrong. And very soon, this world that seemed so unshakable to them would be shaken to its very foundations. He left a few copper coins on the table and, like a shadow, slipped out of the tavern to send his first, and most alarming, report of his entire career to the capital.

  The Parpaldia Empire. The Capital City of Esthirant. The Imperial Palace of Paradis. The Emperor's Private Quarters.

  Emperor Ludius, young, handsome, and as cold as the marble statues in his private chambers, sat in a spacious hall finished with imperial grandeur. The high, vaulted ceilings were painted with scenes of his ancestors' triumphal victories, and exquisite tapestries, woven by the finest Parpaldian masters, depicted maps of conquered lands. A faint, subtle scent of rare incense hung in the air, designed to underscore the atmosphere of majestic, almost divine, austerity. On the hide of a giant white garakk at his feet, her head resting on his lap, lay Remille. Her silver hair, like liquid moonlight, spilled over the dark velvet of his trousers, and she herself, in an elegant black dress with a provocatively deep neckline, resembled a tame but deadly panther. Ludius gently, almost absently, ran his fingers through her hair, but his face remained serene and cold, like that of a statue of the god of war, his gaze fixed on nothing.

  "Remille, what are your thoughts on our empire and this world?" his voice was soft, almost intimate, but within this softness lay a steely, inhuman note that could make the blood of the most hardened generals run cold.

  Remille slowly raised her head. Her eyes, the color of a stormy sky, met his gaze, in which titanic ambitions lurked, as if at the bottom of a frozen lake.

  "Your Imperial Majesty," her voice trembled, not with fear, but with a reverent, almost religious awe. "While these wretched barbarians continue to wallow in their filth, our great empire rises above them like the sun over an anthill, giving their insignificant existence a higher purpose. For these creatures, it is the highest honor to be the shadow of our greatness. And fear…" she paused, her lips curling into a predatory, cruel smirk, "…fear is not merely the perfect tool for managing this herd. It is a gift we bring them. The only language they are capable of understanding."

  Ludius smiled. It was not the smile of a man. It was the smile of an artist appreciating the flawless work of his best student.

  "Well done, Remille," he said softly. "Precisely. We are not tyrants. We are shepherds. We guide these lost flocks to a great, bright future that they themselves are incapable of either seeing or building. It is our duty, our burden, and our path. As my great father decreed, this world must be brought to harmony through our unbreakable will. The Holy Mirishial Empire and Mu are too soft. Their compromises with these insects, their negotiations, their trade alliances—all of it only demeans them, showing their weakness."

  He leaned closer, and for a moment, a mad, fanatical fire flashed in his eyes.

  "But Parpaldia will not repeat their mistakes. We will conquer the entire Third World, and that will be only the beginning. Then our descendants will bring our order to the Second, and even the Central worlds. We will unite them all, we will end all their senseless wars, for there will be only one war left—ours, for eternal peace. And only one will—ours. Do you understand, Remille, the sacred mission we are carrying out?"

  The Emperor's words sounded like verses from an epic, but behind this grandeur lay a cruel, unshakeable resolve.

  Remille shivered. Her eyes filled with tears—not of pity, but of ecstatic rapture. She, more than anyone, shared this vision.

  "Yes, Your Imperial Majesty," she whispered, her voice trembling with the emotions overwhelming her. "You are so magnanimous. Your compassion for these… barbarians… is boundless. You grant them not just a purpose. You grant them salvation from themselves."

  Ludius straightened up, his face once again stern and business-like, as if he had flipped an invisible switch.

  "Great goals always require sacrifices. Those who stand in our way must be destroyed. Like weeds in the imperial garden."

  "You are absolutely right, Your Imperial Majesty," Remille nodded submissively.

  "Now, report. What is the situation with the Kingdom of Fenn and these… Russians?"

  Remille tensed, her face darkening for a moment.

  "As you commanded, the operation is proceeding according to plan. The city of Nishinomiya-ko has been captured. The barbarians are offering sporadic resistance, but General Sius reports that it is insignificant. Their army is broken and retreating towards their capital, Amanoki. Our legions are preparing for the final push."

  Ludius looked at her grimly, his fingers, which had been gently stroking her hair, froze.

  "You're holding something back, Remille. I can feel it," he said quietly, and this quiet was more terrifying than a shout.

  She opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment, the bracelet on her wrist—an elegant piece of platinum interwoven with magical crystals, a high-ranking manacomm—began to flash with a bright, alarming ruby light. An emergency call. Remille barely managed to suppress a grimace of irritation.

  "Your Imperial Majesty, my apologies…"

  "It's nothing. Answer it," Ludius said curtly, letting her go.

  She touched the crystal, and from the bracelet came the slightly magically-distorted but recognizable voice of her deputy, Hans:

  "Your Imperial Highness, the Russian diplomats are demanding an urgent meeting. They have delivered an official note. The content… is extremely audacious."

  Remille frowned. Her gaze grew even colder.

  "Excellent," she replied dryly. "Prepare the reception hall in the First Department. I'll be there shortly."

  She cut the connection, rose, and, bowing low, said:

  "I will handle this matter immediately, Your Imperial Majesty. I will put these upstarts in their place."

  Ludius gave a short nod, dismissing her. Remille walked towards the exit with a confident, predatory stride. She was anticipating how she would personally, and with pleasure, humiliate their envoys before giving the order for their execution. She did not yet know that she was walking not to a triumph, but to her own political Calvary, and that these "barbarians" had a surprise in store for her that would change everything.