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If he had to describe the lounge in a single word, Arne would call it ‘fluffy’.
‘What is it with Westerners and their foible for unreasonably soft armchairs?’ he thought idly while settling into the embrace of a particularly impressive specimen. On the opposite end of the low lounge table, Leonhardt shifted uncomfortably in his own chair, presumably a side effect of having one’s chest cut open.
“Why did you do this?” the heir of Westmark asked hesitantly after the uncomfortable silence had stretched on for a while. Confusion. Suppressed anger.
“I’m afraid you will have to be more specific. I did a lot of things today,” Arne replied neutrally.
“Your entrance. It’s… Do you realize what you have done?”
Arne shrugged. “Let me answer that with a return question: Do you realize what you have done?”
Leonhardt flinched as if he had taken a slap to the face. “I do.” Regret. Shame.
“No, I don’t think so,” Arne said darkly. “You forced me to make it abundantly clear that House Hohenfels is not to be trifled with. My… visit today serves that exact purpose.”
“I’d say you accomplished that, in addition to making my life very difficult,” his opponent grumbled. “Prince Ludwig will not take this well.”
“Good. And I can’t say I feel much sympathy for you given your actions,” he said, demonstratively running his fingers over the fresh scar on his face. The regret in Leonhardt’s aura intensified, but it didn’t feel personal. It was merely intense dissatisfaction with the outcome.
“I wouldn’t expect you to. So, what do you want from me?” he sighed. Resignation.
That question had been on Arne’s mind the entire afternoon. The insult against House Hohenfels had been immense, and required substantial restitution in addition to the already performed public apology.
Frankly, there weren’t many options. There were few points of conflict between Hohenfels and Westmark given the vast distance between the margraviates, and even fewer that could be resolved as a matter of honor between the heirs. Thus, he had decided to treat the matter like the first Klara situation, but with harsher terms, of course.
“First of all: I want you to stay neutral during any further conflicts between me and the Western princes.”
Leonhardt made a show of thinking it over, but the relief in his aura betrayed him. Arne suspected the Wessen heir had planned on doing so anyway.
“It will cause me further friction with Sonnenfeld, but my honor leaves me no choice but to accept.”
“Good. Secondly: You will address me as ‘Prince’.”
Again, Leonhardt was not surprised, but there was a smidgen of grim satisfaction mixed in with the resignation permeating his aura.
“So this is how you got Princess Klara to accept the title. Smart.”
“Well?” Arne demanded.
“...Fine. You really want to isolate me, don’t you?”
“Consider it a form of petty revenge. Now, on to my final point.”
Leonhardt visibly clenched his jaw, and a sharp spike of worry poked into Arne’s sore mind. He suppressed a wince and continued.
“I want to know how Ludwig and Maximilian got you to throw your honor away like that.”
A wave of anger and shame hit Arne as Leonhardt’s face contorted in fury.
“Come again?” he snarled.
“I refuse to believe that the future ‘Lion of the West’ would meekly go along with silkling schemes unless left with no other choice,” Arne continued, unimpressed.
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Leonhardt glowered at him for a while, but soon realized that it would get him nowhere as Arne simply stared back in silence. Finally, he took a deep breath and slumped into his armchair.
“...My younger sister is engaged to Prince Maximilian’s cousin,” he grumbled. Frustration.
Arne raised an eyebrow. His mother’s thorough briefing on Altengau’s marriage policy had not covered that arrangement, which meant that it either was a very recent development or had not been announced yet. Regardless of that, it would be a game changer for Westmark. So far, it only had close ties with Sonnenfeld and the northern Margraviate of Niederland.
“Since when?”
“That is none of your concern.” Hostility.
“Fair enough. I take it Maximilian threatened to ask the Emperor to dissolve it?“ ‘Sounds like that’s a common modus operandi among Westerners…’
Leonhardt ground his teeth. “...Not explicitly. But the implication was there,” he growled. “It’s unlikely he would have enough pull to change the Emperor’s mind in that regard, but I did not want to take the risk.” Self-recrimination.
Arne felt anger boil up in his chest. Hohenfels was neither feared nor respected in the West, to the point where people considered severely offending him a lesser problem than risking a childish tantrum from the third prince of Altengau.
That would have to change. Good thing he had already taken the first step today.
“Would you be willing to answer a question of my own?” Leonhardt asked, struggling to rein in his expression.
“That depends on the question.”
“Why are you trying so hard to oppose the West?” Irritation.
“Because I refuse to suffer the shackles the Emperor keeps forcing on us,” Arne snapped. “I don’t understand how you happily bleed in wars that serve no purpose other than trimming your claws.”
Leonhardt angrily rose from his chair. “The war against Gallovia was necessary! If you had seen what they–”
“What they have? Locomotives! Steamboats! Machines! Everything the Emperor tries to curtail!” Arne stood up as well, Leonhardt’s short-sightedness incensing him to no end.
“There is a reason for that, and you know it! We can’t let Logres dictate our policies, or we will end up just like them!”
“Prosperous and strong?!”
“DEAD! Like every single aristocrat over there!”
Arne snorted derisively. “That’s nonsense and you know it. They were already weakened from the Civil Wars! Besides, the ‘former’ Houses are the ones selling us the boats!”
“My point still stands. With locomotive-powered logistics, even an army of plebeians becomes a force to be reckoned with! They moved entire regiments from Flanda to the border within hours! And it’s only getting worse!” Rage. Frustration. Fear.
“So, your solution is to bury your head in a pillow and hide from reality until even Polania stands at our gates with breechloaders?!”
“We just have to wait until Logres inevitably collapses! A country without nobility is too volatile. There is no stability! No long-term thinking! Their ‘parliament’ is a pathetic joke!”
Leonhardt was not wrong there. The parliament was the very reason why it took months and years to buy a single boat, let alone three. Still, Arne could not let that stand.
“And how long is that supposed to take? It’s been two centuries, and they’re only growing stronger!”
“It won’t be much longer. The writing is already on the wall,” Leonhardt snarled. “Francia is preparing an invasion. The Logrian government won’t be able to react cohesively.”
“That’s the third invasion they have been ‘preparing’. I’m still waiting for it to actually happen.”
As Leonhardt wound up for an angry reply, the sounds of a commotion outside interrupted him.
“As much as I would like to continue this conversation, we should really deal with that,” he said, voice and aura still steeped in anger.
Arne concurred. While Leonhardt was still fixing his uniform, he pulled open the heavy door, putting on a neutral face and releasing a tiny waft of aura.
Out in the foyer, his provisional House Guard found itself beset by an old man with a powdered wig whom he assumed to be the Housemaster of Sonnenfeld Hall, as well as a servant who seemed on the verge of tears. Next to her stood a serving cart loaded with refreshments. Arne surmised that someone had sent her to gauge the contents of the conversation, only for her to be intercepted by a glowering Friedrich. Poor girl.
The Housemaster threw him a dirty look. “Lord Arnold. How dare you–”
“Spare me the tirade,” Arne cut him off, causing the old man’s already red face to take on an unhealthily dark shade. “Take it up with Prince Ludwig.”
While the Housemaster was still sputtering, Arne turned to Friedrich. “I’m done here.”
Friedrich, whose aura was radiating malicious glee despite his severe expression, saluted, and the Guard assumed an escort formation.
The sheer amount of curious bystanders was already taking a heavy toll on his mind, so he only spared Leonhardt the bare minimum of a goodbye.
“Farewell, Lord Leonhardt.”
“...Farewell, Prince Arnold.”
Arne did his best not to let the triumph show on his face as he left.
He could not, however, resist pilfering a particularly tasty-looking scone from the cart.
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