Kravan was many things.
Born to a lesser subrace of Daemons—physically weaker than their kin but gifted with an uncommon intellect—his tribe was an anomaly to his own race. Among the Daemons, strength was the only currency of worth, and those who lacked it were destined to serve. His people became slaves to the mightier tribes, shackled by a brutal hierarchy that saw them as little more than expendable chattel.
But Kravan was not meant to be bound. He escaped, of course. He always did.
From nothing, he clawed his way up. He endured hunger, humiliation, and the constant threat of death. He did what no other of his kind had ever done. He studied.
At Lichden University, deep in the heart of the Valkorian Herzlands, he became the first of his race to receive a formal education. There, he learned the languages of men, the sciences, the arts of war, and, most importantly, the truths that had been denied to him.
He saw his people for what they truly were, savage. Not just in the way the world already perceived them but in their very essence. They did not conquer with purpose, nor did they build civilizations. They lived and died by the cycle of slaughter—raiding, enslaving, pillaging—because they believed it was the natural order of things.
So when whispers reached him of a self-proclaimed Ruler of Daemons, a warlord seeking to unite the scattered tribes, he sought her out.
He traveled deep into the wastelands his race called home, through fields soaked in the blood of the conquered, until he reached the encampment of the Imperatrice. At the time, it was little more than a collection of war tents and scavenged banners, a kingdom built from ambition rather than stone.
He approached her, offering his services.
The Imperatrice, young but brimming with arrogance, laughed at the sight of him, a frail-looking Daemon standing before her, daring to ask for a place in her army. She did not see a warrior, only weakness wrapped in flesh.
"If you wish to serve me," she declared, "then prove you are worth more than the dirt beneath my feet. Defeat one of my generals, and you shall earn your place."
A duel.
Kravan never favored duels. Strength for strength, power for power, these were the laws of his kind, and they were laws he despised. But if it must come to this, so be it.
His opponent was a Greater Daemon clad in black diamond armor, its four muscular arms gripping curved blades forged from the same dark metal. It was a beast, a towering executioner molded for war.
And Kravan? He had no armor. No sword. No strength to match this monster in open combat.
But he had something else.
Something foreign to Daemonkind.
A rifle.
The Imperatrice raised her hand, and the duel began.
The Greater Daemon roared, its four blades glinting under the sun as it thundered forward. The gathered warriors expected a spectacle of blood, broken bones, and a slow, agonizing death.
Kravan gave them none of that.
He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger.
Thunder cracked across the camp. The gunshot shattered the silence, sending even battle-hardened warriors recoiling in shock.
The Greater Daemon halted mid-step, its charge frozen in time.
Then, slowly, its legs buckled. Its body trembled. And before its blades could even taste blood, it collapsed into the dirt, black blood pooling beneath it.
A single shot. A single moment.
Kravan lowered his rifle. His face betrayed no emotion as he looked at the Imperatrice, whose smirk had faded into something colder, something thoughtful.
He had her attention now.
The war camp remained eerily silent. Dozens of Daemon warriors, all creatures who had known only the ways of the blade and fists, stared at Kravan as if he were something unnatural.
Because to them, he was.
One of them finally spoke. "Witchcraft." Another snarled. "Cowardice!"
The Imperatrice raised a hand, and the murmurs died. Her red eyes locked onto Kravan.
"You fight like no Daemon I have ever seen," she said. There was no longer disdain in her voice, only curiosity. "What is that weapon?"
Kravan glanced at his rifle, then back at her.
"This," he said, "is a Valkorian Gewehr 35. First produced in 1235 by the Royal Valkorian Army."
His fingers traced the polished wood of the stock, the cold steel of the barrel. The weapon was a masterpiece of human ingenuity, the very thing that separated the civilized from the savage.
"It fires a .30-caliber round," he continued. "Effective up to five hundred meters. Accurate and lethal. Unlike your swords, it does not care for strength nor Arcane abilities. A weakling, a cripple, anyone can wield it and kill a man just the same."
A hush settled over the camp.
Now, he saw it. The spark in her eyes. The ambition. The understanding.
The Imperatrice rose from her seat, stepping down toward him.
Finally, she spoke.
"Then welcome to my war, what is your name?”
He met her gaze without hesitation.
"Kravan, Your Majesty."
A slow smile spread across her lips.
"Maréchal Kravan. That is who you are now."
----------------------------------------
Five years since he became Maréchal.
Three years since Daemonkind united.
One year since their invasion of the Western Kingdoms.
Five months since their war with the Valerian Empire.
Everything was moving too fast. It had to. The Daemon Empire was a machine held together by nothing but force of will. Stopgap measures upon stopgap measures designed for war. A reckless beast charging forward, ignoring the cracks forming beneath its feet.
Kravan stood over the war table, his amber eyes locked onto the Imperial front. The map was littered with markers. Red for Daemon forces, blue for the enemy. The red had surged forward in the first months, but now, they bled into a stalemate.
The ‘blitz’ into Rozafir had been a total disaster.
He had known it before it even began. The Imperatrice, however, saw every invasion as progress—every battlefield, another step toward victory. But Kravan understood the truth.
The plan had been simple. Take Starfell within three months, at worst. A region that can be exploited for its grains and a gateway to the Valerian Empire. Their foothold in enemy territory. But the Valerian Empire’s intervention had shattered that timeline. The Imperials struck like a hammer upon an anvil, and now the primary invasion force was in shambles.
And yet, Eras, that hot-headed fool, refused to retreat.
The Daemon general had thrown wave after wave at the dug-in Valerian positions, believing brute force would carry the day. But the enemy had made Starfell into a fortress. The streets had turned into kill zones, the buildings into barricades, and every alley hid Imperial sharpshooters.
Her forces bled for every inch they took. And still, she pressed on.
And as if that wasn’t catastrophic enough, Eras had convinced the Imperatrice to support the Valkorian revolutionaries by marching an entire army through the Blackmist Great Forest.
Three hundred thousand Daemons. Into a cursed, uncharted nightmare.
How absurd.
Never mind the fact that their supply lines would be stretched to the breaking point, if they could even get supplies through at all.
Never mind the fact that they would lose tens of thousands to the terrain alone.
Never mind the fact that—
A hand slammed down on the table, snapping Kravan from his thoughts.
He looked up. Eras.
The general loomed over him, wings folded behind her back, her black-diamond armor still streaked with blood and soot. She belonged to one of the aerial tribes, her kind was built for speed and maneuverability. But not much in the way of critical thinking. Birds have small brains, their Daemon counterpart are no different.
She pulled off her helmet, shaking out her short, dark hair. Her predatory grin was already in place.
"You have something to say, Kravan?" she asked, her voice dripping with amusement. She could already see the frustration burning behind his eyes, and she enjoyed it.
Kravan exhaled slowly, forcing his expression into something cold and impassive. "Just wondering," he said, "how much longer you plan to throw away our forces in Starfell."
Eras snorted. "Throw away? We're winning."
Kravan raised an eyebrow. "Are we?" He tapped a gloved finger against the war table. "Because from where I'm standing, the Imperials have turned Starfell into our grave, and no matter how many bodies you throw at their trenches, it hasn’t moved the line."
"Tch." Her smirk widened. "Coward."
"And you’re an idiot." Kravan shot back without hesitation.
Her eyes flared. "You think you know better than me?"
"I think you're gambling with Daemon lives like they're worth nothing."
Eras scoffed. "You don’t get it. Have you never heard of keeping an enemy off balance? They can’t rest if we keep attacking. If we keep pressing, they'll break."
Kravan slammed his hand onto the table. "And our soldiers? They’re the ones breaking! Dying for nothing. If we keep this up, we won’t have an army left to fight! And I do know better than you!"
Eras let out a loud, exaggerated yawn. "Blah, blah, blah. Why don’t you lead the army yourself, then?"
Kravan’s face darkened, his patience snapping. "With what army?! The ones you’re dragging into that cursed forest?! The airborne Daemons you’ve wasted in meat-grinder assaults?! This disaster happened because you didn’t follow my orders!"
Eras scoffed, unimpressed. "Orders? What, you mean waiting months before attacking?"
"IT’S WINTER, YOU IMBECILE!" Kravan roared, slamming his fist down hard enough to rattle the war table. "Do you have the slightest understanding of logistics, or has your skull turned to mush from the savage you are?!"
The air in the command tent turned deadly.
Eras’ smirk vanished.
Her wings flared slightly, her fingers twitching toward the hilt of her sword.
Kravan’s own hand drifted, slow and deliberate, toward his sidearm.
He knew the insult had struck deep. Among Daemon tribes, calling someone a savage was as good as challenging them to a duel to the death.
Tension crackled between them.
Then—
"Sorry, Maréchal, I was—"
An oblivious voice cut through the charged silence like a dull blade.
A man stepped inside, clad in a crisp Daemon officer’s uniform, frost still clinging to his cloak. He stopped mid-step, his eyes darting between Eras’ flared wings and Kravan’s half-drawn pistol.
"Am I interrupting something?"
Kravan exhaled, forcing his fingers to relax off his gun. He turned to him calmly, smoothing the anger from his expression.
"Not at all, Lieutenant Jacques." His voice was level. "You were saying?"
Jacques hesitated, clearly wondering if he should pretend he hadn’t walked in on two high-ranking officers seconds away from murder. Then, deciding ignorance was the safest course, he cleared his throat.
"The audit, sir. It’s finished."
Kravan straightened, taking the opportunity to fully step away from the war table, and from Eras. "And?"
Jacques shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, well… Ahem.”
He pulled a leather-bound ledger from under his arm and flipped it open, eyes scanning the pages. "We’ve suffered over a hundred thousand casualties since the invasion began. Nearly half of our battalions are under half strength. Supplies are dwindling, particularly rations and winter gear. Most of our troops aren’t properly equipped for this weather." He glanced up. "And if we keep this pace, our logistics officers estimate we’ll run out of essential provisions within two months."
Kravan felt his jaw tighten. He already knew the situation was bad, but hearing the hard numbers made it feel worse.
Eras, however, merely scoffed.
"Soldiers fight. Soldiers die." She waved a hand dismissively. "That’s war."
Jacques hesitated. "Yes, General, but we—"
"Ignore her," Kravan cut in, his patience snapping. His glared at Eras. "General, if you would so kindly get out. A very important strategic meeting is about to take place."
Eras raised a brow. "But I am a General."
Kravan didn’t blink.
"I said—get out."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Eras stared at him for a long moment, her red eyes gleaming with a predator’s amusement, or was it something else?
Then, slowly, she grinned.
"As you wish, Maréchal..."
She stepped back, her wings tucking in close, and strode out of the room without another word. But Kravan didn’t relax. Not yet. Not until the door finally closed behind her.
Only then did Jacques let out a breath. "That... was risky."
Kravan exhaled, running a hand down his face. "That woman is going to get us all killed."
Jacques hesitated. "Sir, if I may... she is using our acquired laborers as her playthings.”
Kravan’s fingers curled into a fist, his eyes twitched. He already knew Eras had no regard for discipline, but this?
"Explain," he said, his voice low.
Jacques shifted uncomfortably. "The laborers we conscripted from the occupied territories, they’re being worked to death, Maréchal. Literally."
Kravan scoffed.
"She’s wasting them," Jacques continued. "Throwing them into forced labor projects without food, without rest. Some officers report she’s using them for target practice."
Kravan already knew Eras was reckless, but this was stupid. Slaughtering their workforce wasn’t just cruel, it was shortsighted. Even for her.
"Who else knows?" he asked.
Jacques hesitated. "The officers under her command. Some are loyal. Some... are afraid to speak."
"Prepare a full report," he ordered. "Every officer who’s seen it. Every witness. Every detail."
Jacques nodded. "Yes, Maréchal. But... what will you do?"
Kravan scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What else can I do? I’ll write a very strongly worded letter to Her Majesty, begging her to replace Eras with someone more capable."
"And if she refuses?"
Kravan huffed, stepping back to the war table. "Then we pray we don’t all die because of that woman’s incompetence. Eras, I mean."
Kravan's eyes swept over the war table, each piece a grim reminder of their predicament. The lands of Rozafir had been carved into an endless labyrinth of trenches—snaking, intersecting lines dug in by both sides—making any breakthrough seem all but impossible.
And yet, the bulk of their forces—commanded by Eras—were slated to plunge into the Blackmist Great Forest.
Kravan scowled. He dismissed superstition in theory, but even he had heard the old wives’ tales about that cursed woodland, where strange, nocturnal creatures skulked in the shadows. A place where legends whispered of certain doom.
As winter’s icy grip began to thaw, a new window of opportunity—and peril—opened. The season’s end heralded not only the promise of renewal but also the inevitable launch of a fresh Imperial offensive.
He had to devise a new plan, a strategy to counter the looming Imperial strike and salvage what remained of his beleaguered force. In his experience, any rational military command would seize the moment at winter's end. The enemy was no different.
Leaning in close to the sprawling map, his gloved finger traced the intricate network of trenches and supply lines, searching for any exploitable weakness, every potential blind spot. Then he looked up towards Jacques.
“Lieutenant, status on our landships?” he demanded.
“Landships… ah, those metal carriages?” replied Lieutenant Jacques with a wry inflection. “They’re stowed safely in the sheds, as you ordered, and the fuel is being stored in specially insulated compartments to prevent freezing.”
Kravan gave a curt nod, though a deep concern gnawed at him. Even this was a problem, a ticking clock that could cost them dearly if the machines didn’t spring to life when needed.
Pausing, he considered the stakes. The Imperial offensive was advancing like a relentless tide, unlike them, the Imperials have all the times in the world, and every miscalculation now could be fatal. “We must ensure our mechanized units are primed to roll at the first sign of thaw. Any delay, any failure, and our momentum will evaporate, leaving us exposed.”
Jacques stepped closer, urgency tinting his words. “Marshal, I’ve coordinated with the engineers. They’re retrofitting extra insulation on the fuel tanks and even rigging temporary heating systems for the sheds. It should buy us some precious time.”
Kravan didn’t spare him a glance. Instead, he turned his full attention back to the map, lost in planning the defense. The Kingdom of Rozafir lay on vast, arable flatlands. Lands that had once earned it the title of the Empire’s breadbasket before it claimed its independence at the end of the last crusade. That very geography, however, now presented both an advantage and a curse.
The open plains, ideal for cultivation and trade, also offered little natural cover. Imperial forces could maneuver across the fields with ease, setting up wide flanking maneuvers and exploiting any gaps in their defensive line. Every road, every river, and even the scattered villages could either serve as a strategic chokepoint or a deadly trap.
Kravan’s eyes flicked over the map as he envisioned the unfolding battle. He began to mark potential fallback positions and narrow corridors where his troops might hold the enemy at bay. “If we can turn these open fields into a network of controlled avenues,” he murmured to himself, “we might just level the playing field.”
He reached for a piece of charcoal and started drawing tentative lines across the parchment. His mind raced with ideas: rapid counterattacks, feints to misdirect the enemy, and the calculated use of natural obstacles to force them into disadvantageous positions. Every detail—the course of the irrigation channels, the placement of the old stone windmills, even the rise of a distant hill—was a potential asset in his plan.
Jacques, still lingering near the war table that Kravan had almost forgotten amid his intense strategizing, cleared his throat. “Marshal, if we can hold them off until the landships are fully operational, we might just reverse the tide. Our mechanized units could transform these open plains into death traps for the invaders.”
Kravan’s gaze sharpened as he tapped a specific sector on the map. “Exactly,” he replied. “We’ll use the very openness of Rozafir against them. We’ll set up ambushes along these routes and force them into confined spaces where their numbers become a liability. Every farmstead, every roadside, will serve as part of our defense.”
He paused, studying the terrain once more. The Daemon trenches and the Imperial fortifications lay miles apart, but on these flat plains, both sides had perfect visibility. It was a double-edged sword: while the enemy could observe their movements, so too could he exploit every advance they made.
A heavy silence fell over the room as the gravity of the plan sank in. The strategy was audacious—transforming an open battlefield into a labyrinth of ambushes and counterattacks—but it was their best chance at stalling the Imperial assault.
“Lieutenant, inform the commanders of an upcoming meeting. You are dismissed,” Kravan ordered.
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Jacques saluted crisply. “Yes, sir.”
Once Jacques had departed, Kravan turned his attention to drafting the second phase of his plan. The first phase, nicknamed Opération Citadelle, had been designed to bolster their defenses and hold the enemy at bay. Now, he would outline Opération Tempête; a coordinated, all-out offensive that would integrate his new armored divisions with regular infantry.
Tempête was conceived as a sudden, overwhelming strike aimed at shattering the Imperial lines at their weakest points. His vision was clear, while the armored divisions would spearhead a direct thrust into enemy territory, specialized flanking units would circle behind, targeting supply lines and command posts. The goal was to disorient and fracture the enemy formation, leaving them vulnerable to decisive blows.
And… though it irked him deeply to rely on Eras’ airborne Daemons, he had no choice. Their reckless flyers, as unpredictable as they were, were indispensable for delivering explosive payloads onto the advancing Imperial soldiers.
For a moment, Kravan lit a cigarette and pinched the bridge of his nose, the weight of responsibility bearing down on him. In his eyes, he was the only one with a keen mind in the room, while the other generals were nothing more than brutes with muscles for brains, constantly in need of guidance. Naturally, it fell to him to shepherd them through the intricacies of war.
Even as the acrid smoke curled upward into the dim light of the command tent, his thoughts churned with tactical possibilities. He mentally rehearsed the next phase of Opération Tempête, the armored divisions would smash through enemy fortifications along carefully chosen routes, while specialized infantry units, likely shoch troopers—positioned in ambush along the flanks—would circle in to dismantle the enemy’s rear and supply lines.
His mind raced as he plotted every contingency, every potential vulnerability that might be exploited. The survival of his people hinged on his ability to control every variable in this unfolding chaos. While the other generals charged forward with brute force, it was his intellect that would decide the outcome of this battle.
With the plan for Tempête now etched clearly in his mind and on the parchment before him, Kravan straightened his shoulders. The day was coming when the clash of armored titans and the stealth of well-positioned infantry would turn the open plains into a crucible of victory or defeat.
He reached for his pen and began detailing the final adjustments to his strategy, already envisioning the moment when the roaring engines of his landships and the thunder of mechanized columns would herald a new chapter in the war.
And as the early light of dawn grew brighter, Kravan silently vowed: no matter the cost, he would see his people through the tempest and emerge victorious.
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General Pride’s war doctrine is simple.
If it moves, shell it.
If it’s intact, shell it.
If it surrenders, pretend you didn’t see it, and shell it anyway.
After all, bullets and artillery shells are cheap. Men are not.
"Artillery is King!" they said. And they were right.
For over three centuries, the Empire’s military doctrine has revolved around massed artillery barrages to tear through enemy walls, shatter formations, and grind entire cities into submission before the infantry ever set foot on the battlefield. Where others relied on cavalry charges or complex maneuvers, the Empire trusted in sheer, overwhelming firepower.
And for the most part, it worked.
It worked against the fortresses of the western kingdoms, reducing their proud stone bulwarks to rubble-strewn graves. It worked against the nomadic tribes of the steppe, forcing them to flee before the ground beneath them turned to a cratered wasteland. It worked against the rebels, the secessionists, and the opportunists who mistook mercy for weakness.
Of course, these methods hadn’t delivered the same results against the Elves or the Dwarves, but the principle held.
General Pride turned his gaze toward the window of his office. Outside, Goodhaven spread along the shores of the Bay of Wisteria. A city born of enterprising merchants long before the kingdom it lent its name to had been swallowed by the Imperial fold. Even now, Goodhaven remained vital, serving as Rozafir’s gateway to the lucrative Valerian markets.
His eyes shifted to the document on his desk. At last, Valyrya had sent the reinforcements he’d been practically begging for over the past weeks.
He then glanced at the document on his desk.
A bitter scoff escaped him. In another age, a simple letter to the General Staff would have sufficed. But with that body effectively dissolved, he now had to address both the Lord-Marshal and the Prime Minister, two figures he despised.
The Lord-Marshal was nothing more than a relic of a bygone era. Though he still wore the uniform and commanded respect in ceremonial parades, his title was inherited more through lineage than earned through valor or competence. The same could be said for the old General Staff, whose members had recently been purged for incompetence. Good riddance. Their erasure, however, left behind an administrative void now filled with even less desirable elements.
Hence… like all good military generals, the vacuum reeked of opportunity. If he could seize the initiative, launch an offensive, and defeat the Daemons, there would be no escaping the inevitability of recognition from those who truly held power at the top.
And then there was the Prime Minister…
Why should the military—the very force that built this very empire—be subservient to civil functionaries?
He who wields the sword holds the power, does he not?
Or has the world turned so upside-down that they now take orders from men who measure their courage in tax quotas and trade tariffs?
The bureaucrats scribble their edicts from gilded chairs funded from tax Virs, feasting on banquets while the soldiers ration moldy bread at the expense of tax money. They speak of “stability” as they slash our budgets, as if a nation can be sustained on papers and platitudes! Stability? You cannot eat stability. You cannot arm armies with it, or stop any enemy army at the gates by waving a balance sheet. Their “stability” is a noose, slowly tightening around the throat of every man who’s ever held a rifle for this damned empire.
Look at them, parasites, all of them. They funnel our slashed budget into their pet projects of marble monuments to their own vanity, sprawling bureaus staffed by their nephews and mistresses, while the army gets hand-me-downs for equipment. This winter alone we had to wait over six months because some comptroller “misplaced” the requisition forms. SIx months! Men froze to death on watch, while the clerks deliver a positive report to the Prime Minister about their fiscal responsibility.
And the arrogance of it! These functionaries, who’ve never bled for anything beyond a papercut, dare lecture us on sacrifice. They prattle about “efficiency” as they drown us in triplicate forms and inspections. Want ammunitions? Fill out a petition in triplicate, wait for six committees to approve the fletching budget, then pray the shipment isn’t pilfered by their crony corporations selling us two hundred year old musket balls. Meanwhile, the Daemons doesn’t wait for permits! They don’t debate supply chains over brandy, they strike. And when they do, who answers? Not the fattened magistrates. Not the silk-robed chamberlains. We do. With bodies piled as the last line between order and oblivion.
And to add insult to injury, the Prime Minister herself—a Beastmen—held the post, making him wonder why influential positions were so cavalierly awarded to those society deemed second-class. Her damaging reforms had only destabilized the existing Imperial social, economic, and political order.
He exhaled a dense plume of smoke from his cigarette, letting the bitter thought dissolve into the night. Now was not the time for political squabbles, calm yourself... deep breaths... His focus had to be on the war. He needed to check with his adjutant to confirm that the supplies and troops were in order. Rumor had it that a new type of weapon—the so-called landships—was slated to arrive by train.
General Pride flicked the ash from his cigarette into an unlit tray and strode toward the corridor, where his adjutant awaited him.
“General,” the adjutant began, “the latest dispatch confirms the landships will arrive at dawn. The infantry and artillery are positioned as instructed, and our engineers are finalizing the last details.”
A curt nod was all the General afforded, though his mind raced with the implications. The landships were colossal constructs engineered to traverse the most rugged terrain with unexpected agility, essentially mobile fortresses as described by those higher up. Which could either be a masterstroke or yet another extravagant drain on the Empire's coffers.
"There's more," the adjutant continued. "Along with the landships, we are expecting a fresh influx of reinforcements. Under the new law, Beastmen are now conscripted into the army, so additional Beastmen units will be joining us."
"Really? And why would that be?" General Pride asked, his tone edged with skepticism.
"Officially, it is to strengthen our forces in anticipation of the coming conflict, sir. The bureaucrats argue that integrating Beastmen will infuse our ranks with a unique blend of versatility and ferocity, qualities they claim our traditional forces lack."
Pride's eyes narrowed as he considered the notion. "Versatility and ferocity? Hah," he sneered. "We both know the real reason is to throw more bodies onto the battlefield. They're less disciplined, yes, but expendable fodder and sacrificial lambs so that our best soldiers can fight on."
The adjutant shifted uncomfortably. "Ahem, well they are said to bring a different kind of strength to the field, General. And the Prime Minister insists that this measure is essential to offset our dwindling numbers."
Pride's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Then why not conscript more humans? Lower the age if necessary, and even draft from the noble families. At least we’d have a fighting force that understands discipline."
Before he could continue, the adjutant interjected, "On another note, sir. The airfields are now fully operational. Airships are scheduled to begin arriving over the course of this week, accompanied by a fleet of smaller fighter planes."
"Ah, finally! Took long enough," Pride replied, his tone brightening. "How many are we getting?"
“We should see approximately six full-sized airships and about three hundred fighter planes, General. Moreover, those airships are laden with several tons of bombs, allocated for multiple bombing runs.”
“Fantastic! Get me in touch with the air commanders as soon as they arrive.” General Pride patted his adjutant’s shoulder approvingly before dismissing him.
With a salute, the adjutant departed, leaving General Pride alone with his thoughts. He sighed deeply and began to stride away… only to catch the gaze of someone he utterly despised.
Standing squarely before him was Lieutenant-General Frorence, his immediate subordinate and Deputy Chief of Staff. A woman of noble lineage, she embodied every trait he loathed of them; loud, arrogant, imperious, and infuriatingly obnoxious, if that were possible. Her youth only deepened his contempt; how she had ascended to such a high rank was beyond him. It must have been connections. And, of all people, a woman in the military? In an arena that ought to be reserved for those of proven mettle? Preposterous!
Though on the upside, her presence does serve as eye candy for him.
"General," Frorence intoned, her tone imbued with the refined cadence of nobility as she crossed her arms with measured grace.
Pride’s eyes narrowed, his tone icily measured. “What is it now, Frorence?”
Stepping forward with regal bearing, she replied, "General, if I might be so bold, I have perused the latest deployment orders and noted certain discrepancies concerning our new assets. While our air units indeed hold considerable promise, they remain largely untested under genuine combat. I should counsel that we undertake additional joint drills with our ground forces to ensure flawless coordination before their full deployment."
Pride scoffed. “Joint drills? We have no time for that, Lieutenant-General. Every moment we delay, the enemy fortifies their position. Our airships and fighter planes are our decisive edge, and any hesitation now would be a luxury we can’t afford.”
Her eyes flashed with indignation, yet her tone remained refined. "With all due respect, General, caution is not synonymous with delay. These newly conscripted Beastmen, together with our raw air support, require proper integration. An impulsive assault might, I fear—particularly given your exalted station—end in disastrous consequence, leaving us perilously exposed when the stakes are at their zenith.”
She allowed a slight, measured pause before continuing in her mellifluous, aristocratic manner, "Furthermore, I have taken the liberty of compiling a detailed ranking of the various subraces among the Beastmen conscripts. It is my considered opinion that we might form specialized units from those demonstrating superior aptitude, relegating the remainder to the ranks of regulars—those, alas, not quite worthy of distinction."
General Pride rolled his eyes dismissively. “Cease your cryptic prattle, or I’ll have you demoted,” he snapped, turning to stride away.
Before he could leave, Frorence’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “Not so fast, General,” she declared. “We have the entirety of this night to review my notes. It would be most unfortunate to disregard them, would it not? Besides, you might not secure that promotion if you continue to ignore sound counsel.”
Pride paused, his back stiffening as he regarded her. Though his pride bristled at the implication, he could not entirely dismiss the possibility that her insights, however couched in lofty terms, might prove indispensable in the days ahead.
“Very well, Frorence,” he conceded with a sigh. “We shall convene in my private quarters in one hour. I will review your notes, if only to prevent further indignity from this endless bickering.”
A sly, knowing smile played upon Frorence’s lips as she released his shoulder. “Not later, General. Now. Come, let us walk to your quarters,” she replied in a tone that blended imperious command with an unmistakable hint of playfulness.
With a reluctant sigh, General Pride fell into step beside her, their footsteps echoing in the hushed corridors of the requisitioned Adventurer’s Guild building turned to military command center. As they moved away from the hubbub of urgent military activity, the din of preparations faded into a distant murmur, leaving only the quiet cadence of their conversation and the soft glow of lantern light to mark the passage of time.
“You know, General, we have a saying,” Florence began.
General Pride arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And what is it? Perhaps something about being annoyingly obstinate?”
“Non, it is a cherished proverb from pre-imperial Romanza,” she replied, humming softly as if recalling a long-forgotten melody. “In our tongue, we say, ‘La forza è nell'unità, non nel numero’—strength lies in unity, not in numbers.”
A dismissive snort escaped him. Figures, a noble from a conquered kingdom. He noted, with quiet scorn, that her accent was markedly different from the standard Valyryan tones. Why would the Empire allow Romanza’s decadence into its ranks, let alone Beastmen? His thoughts were bitter, though his words remained curt.
Noticing his obvious contempt, Florence’s smile softened into something wry. “We also have another saying, General,” she declared, her eyes glinting with mischief. She paused deliberately before adding, “In Romanza, we say, ‘Il cervello è piccolo quando il cuore si gonfia d’orgoglio’—one’s mind shrinks when the heart swells with pride. In this case, Pride's pride.”
“Perhaps we should focus on strategy rather than ancient aphorisms,” he immediately said.
Florence inclined her head. “Ah, but wisdom, General, often comes wrapped in allegory. Besides, a little self-reflection might serve even the proudest of us well, no?”
Reaching his private quarters—a modest chamber adorned with maps, books, and stacks of documents—General Pride paused at the door and turned to face Florence. “Now, explain how you propose we integrate these disparate elements into a force capable of reshaping the battlefield.”
Florence offered a graceful nod. “Of course, General. But before we descend into such particulars, might we procure some wine to ease our discourse? After all, a clear mind requires both strategy and a touch of pleasure.”
“Wine?” he retorted, a hint of incredulity in his tone. “Do you take this for a luxury hotel, Florence?”
With a self-assured smile, she strolled over to a modest side cabinet beneath the bed, her delicate fingers retrieving a discreetly hidden bottle of wine. “Indeed I do,” she replied with a playful lilt. “It appears someone has been smuggling alcohol into these quarters. A most blatant abuse of power, wouldn’t you agree, Ge-ne-ral?”
General Pride grunted. “Just go ahead,” he commanded.
With a flourish, Florence uncorked the bottle and poured a modest measure into two crystal glasses. The rich, ruby liquid caught the lantern light, casting a warm, inviting glow across the room. She then returned to the table, setting one glass before him. “Now, as we savor this wine, allow me to elucidate the finer points of our Beastmen contingents.”
General Pride scoffed, crossing his arms.
“Firstly, what defines a Beastman? What is it, General?”
“I'm not here for a damn history lesson—” he began.
“Ah, ah, ah…” Florence interjected, placing a finger against his lips. “Answer the question, please.”
“They are animals,” he grumbled.
Florence chuckled softly. “Indeed, they share many traits with animals, such as extra appendages like tails, horns, or pointed ears, and, regrettably, their antics often resemble those of wild beasts.” She sipped her wine before continuing, her eyes alight with a mixture of mischief and earnestness. “Now, do you know how many Beastmen subraces are found within this Empire?”
“Just get to the damn thing—” he snapped impatiently.
“Shh…” she hushed him gently. “There are five hundred and seventy-six distinct subraces of Beastmen living in our Empire. Combined, they—if I may be so bold—outnumber us humans.”
He set his glass down, his skepticism warring with reluctant curiosity. “And you expect me to believe that all these… subraces can be trained to fight as one cohesive unit?”
“They are people too, General, each with unique gifts and temperaments. Let’s begin with the Feline Beastmen, the very subrace to which our Prime Minister belongs.”
“Tch. Right, her,” he grumbled, his tone laced with disdain.
Florence arched a delicate eyebrow and allowed a wry smile to play upon her lips. “Ah, but consider this, General, the feline Beastmen are renowned for their agility, sharp instincts, and an uncanny aptitude for stealth. Their lithe forms and reflexes make them superb scouts and skirmishers.”
General Pride snorted dismissively. “So? They’re just moderately better than their human counterparts, aren’t they? Why meddle with something new when the old methods work perfectly well?”
Florence’s eyes danced with a mixture of amusement and exasperation as she inclined her head. “General, it is not a matter of being ‘better’ in a pedestrian sense, but rather of complementing our existing forces with attributes that human training cannot impart. Our human scouts, for all their discipline, are bound by convention and methodical routines. The feline Beastmen, by contrast, possess an innate, almost instinctual flair that is unencumbered by the rigidity of learned behavior. Their natural prowess in evasion and rapid maneuvering affords us a tactical versatility that is simply unattainable through traditional means.”
General Pride folded his arms. “So you’re saying that by harnessing their wild talents, we can outflank our enemies with moves even our best-trained men wouldn’t dare attempt?”
“Precisely, General. Our strategy is to forge unity from diversity. The Beastmen are not simply wild brutes; they are assets whose inherent differences—whether the stealth of the feline, the brute force of the Ursine, or the aerial prowess of the Avian subraces—allow us to adapt to a multitude of battlefield scenarios. When properly integrated, they form a force that is far greater than the sum of its parts, providing tactical versatility that traditional human formations simply cannot match.”
General Pride’s tone turned brusque as he crossed his arms tighter. “Very well, do as you will. But if your plan fails—and I don’t care to hear the specifics—what then? Have you prepared a contingency for tomorrow?”
A sly smile curved Florence’s lips as she inclined her head. “Ah, but of course, General. We shall revert to our tried-and-true doctrine. Unleashing relentless artillery barrages upon our foes, raining destruction from dusk till dawn, twenty-four hours a day, for weeks on end, until the enemy breaks. That way, if our innovative maneuvers falter, we can always rely on our Grand Battleplan.”
General Pride’s expression remained stern. “So it’s settled, then. You have your way with the Beastmen, and your fallback plan is our conventional artillery assault. I expect every detail to be laid out by sunrise, and don't forget, you're in charge of it. I'm not going to take the blame if it fails.”
“Rest assured, General. By tomorrow morning, you shall have a complete briefing detailing integration protocols, training regimens, and every contingency required…” Her voice trailed off as she set her wine glass on the desk with deliberate care and rose from her seat.
“Hm? Is there any more—?!” he began, but before he could utter another word, Florence moved with unexpected swiftness. Without a further word, she advanced, gently but firmly pushing him toward the bed.
Her voice dropped to a husky whisper in his ear. “Consider this a… form of revenge.” She let the words linger as she pressed close, her warm breath sending a shiver along his skin.
“After all, caro Generale, you do have a knack for breaking disciplinary rules… and all this planning is making me feel stressed.”
----------------------------------------
Ries eased into the high-backed leather chair with a confident sigh. “Alright,” she said, settling in. “Let’s dissect this thing one by one.”
The senior official—an austere man whose lined face hinted at decades of state service—cleared his throat before unrolling a yellowed document with care. “If you could please open the document to page one,” he instructed in a measured tone.
The document’s title leapt from the page in bold, stately type:
> SOVEREIGN IMPERIAL PROCLAMATION ON THE CONSTITUTIONAL REVISION GOVERNING PARLIAMENTARY INSTITUTIONAL ARRANGEMENTS
“This is Her Majesty’s proposal for a reform on the current lackluster constitution. Let me explain this one by one.”
> PREAMBLE
>
> Promulgated Under the Auspices of Her Imperial Majesty’s Supreme Constitutional Authority
>
> Whereas the Imperial Crown, in exercise of its sovereign prerogative under Article IX of the Imperial Charter, undertakes a comprehensive statutory recalibration of the parliamentary governance structures to ensure jurisdictional coherence, procedural codification, and hierarchical alignment with the sacrosanct principles of federal subsidiarity;
>
> And whereas this revision is necessitated by the exigencies of administrative modernization, interprovincial concordats, and the imperative to codify constitutional conventions emergent from the sui generis federal compact binding the Empire’s constituent polities;
>
> Now, therefore, by virtue of the plenary constitutional authority vested in the Crown per Divine Right, and in consultation with the Council of Magisters and the High Tribunal of Juridical Review, the following provisions are hereby promulgated as inviolable amendments to the Constitution of the Valyryan Empire:
“Observe how the preamble lays the foundation,” he said. “It is not merely ceremonial verbiage. The text invokes Her Imperial Majesty’s Supreme Constitutional Authority, underscoring that these revisions are not made lightly but are an exercise of the Crown’s ancient and inviolable powers. When it speaks of ‘statutory recalibration’ and ‘hierarchical alignment with the sacrosanct principles of federal subsidiarity,’ it means that the constitution is being updated to reflect modern administrative needs and to ensure that each state or province retains its rightful voice under an overarching imperial unity. Essentially, it’s saying: ‘We’re modernizing our laws while keeping our traditions intact, because this is our divine right and duty.’”
> ARTICLE I: PRINCIPIA IMPERIALIS
>
> Section 1. Federal Supremacy and Coequal Sovereignty
>
> 1.1. The Empire of Valyryra constitutes an indissoluble federal union (foedus perpetuum), wherein constituent states, principalities, and protectorates retain constitutionally enshrined coequal sovereignty under the Crown’s paramount suzerainty, subject to the doctrine of preemptive federal jurisdiction in matters enumerated under Schedule II of this Constitution.
“The first section establishes the Empire of Valyryra as an unbreakable union,” the official explained. “Every state, principality, or protectorate under our banner is recognized as sovereign in its own right, but this is always within the framework of the imperial order. Even though these entities have their independence, they are all ultimately subject to the Crown’s paramount authority, especially in matters that we, by necessity, have reserved for federal oversight.”
> Section 2. Executive Primacy and Delegated Authority
>
> 2.1. The Sovereign, as Fons Honorum and Caput Imperii, embodies the indivisible executive authority (potestas executoria) of the Crown, exercising supreme governance over civil, military, and ecclesiastical estates.
>
> 2.2. Pursuant to the Imperial Prerogative (Art. VII, §3), Her Imperial Majesty may, via instrument of devolution (Edictum Delegatio), confer operational executive functions upon a Minister-President, who shall be elected by universal suffrage under protocols established by the Electoral Committee and confirmed by Imperial Assent.
“Here we see a clear statement of where power truly resides,” he continued. “The Sovereign is described as the source of all executive power, what the text refers to as ‘Fons Honorum’ and ‘Caput Imperii.’ This language reinforces that ultimate authority. Yet, recognizing the practical needs of governance, the constitution allows Her Majesty to delegate certain functions. That’s where the Minister-President comes in as an official chosen through universal suffrage, yet operating under the direct sanction of the Crown.”
> Section 3. Ministerial Appointments and Non-Derogable Reserve Powers
>
> 3.1. The office of Prime Minister constitutes an extraordinary commission of statecraft, appointed motu proprio by Her Imperial Majesty as a non-derogable reserve power (ius exclusivum), exempt from parliamentary confirmation or legislative oversight.
>
> 3.2. The Prime Minister serves at Her Imperial Majesty’s pleasure durante bene placito and functions as the principal executor of Crown policy within the Imperial Cabinet, subject to recall ad nutum by sovereign decree.
“Now, note the special status accorded to the Prime Minister,” the official said, leaning forward. “Unlike typical parliamentary systems found in other nations, here the Prime Minister is appointed directly by the Sovereign—motu proprio—and does not require the usual parliamentary confirmation. This is what we mean by ‘non-derogable reserve power.’ The Prime Minister’s loyalty and function are primarily to execute Crown policy, and their tenure is as flexible as it needs to be: they serve ‘at Her Imperial Majesty’s pleasure.’ In simpler terms, if the Crown loses confidence in them, they can be dismissed without the usual bureaucratic fuss.”
> ARTICLE II: PARLIAMENTARY INSTITUTIONAL REFORM
>
> Clause 1. Bicameral Harmonization Protocol
>
> 1.1. The House of Commons (Conventus Populi) and House of Lords (Conventus Patricii) shall operate under a harmonized legislative codex, subject to the Crown’s suspensive vetum moratorium and the High Tribunal's authority for ex post constitutional review.
>
> 1.2. All legislative initiatives require dual-majority ratification (50%+1 in both chambers) and subsequent Imperial Promulgation (Sanctio Regia) to attain statutory force.
“Moving on to the reform of our parliamentary institutions,” the official said. “This clause mandates that both houses—the House of Commons and the House of Lords—must work in a coordinated fashion under a harmonized legislative framework. Every piece of legislation must pass both houses, receiving at least a 50%+1 majority, before it is finally sanctioned by the Crown. This dual ratification ensures that laws are balanced and have broad support, preventing hasty or unilateral decisions.”
> Clause 2. Delineation of Executive-Legislative Interfaces
>
> 2.1. Prime Ministerial Mandate
>
> 2.1.1. The Prime Minister, appointed exclusivamente by Her Imperial Majesty under the Crown’s non-derogable reserve powers, shall function as the paramount intermediary between the Sovereign’s prerogative authority and the parliamentary apparatus.
>
> 2.1.2. The Prime Minister’s competencies include, but are not limited to:
>
> A. Formulating and implementing Crown-sanctioned policy directives (directiva imperialis);
>
> B. Chairing the Imperial Privy Council (Consilium Secretum), with ex officio oversight of national security, fiscal sovereignty, and interstate diplomacy;
>
> C. Exercising superseding authority (auctoritas praeeminentis) to suspend or amend legislative proceedings deemed incompatible with the Imperial Charter.
>
> 2.1.3. The Prime Minister serves durante bene placito (at the Crown’s pleasure) and may be recalled via Sovereign Rescript (Rescriptum Principis) without parliamentary consultation.
“The text here clarifies the role of the Prime Minister as the vital link between the sovereign’s will and the workings of parliament,” he explained. “Not only is the Prime Minister responsible for drafting and implementing policies—what we term the ‘directiva imperialis’—but he also chairs the Imperial Privy Council, overseeing critical matters like national security and fiscal policies. Moreover, he wields the power to suspend or adjust legislative proceedings if they conflict with our imperial principles. This is not done arbitrarily, of course, but serves as a safeguard for the state’s foundational values.”
> 2.2. Elected Minister-President
>
> 2.2.1. The Minister-President, elected triennially by universal suffrage under the Electoral Committee's regulatory framework, shall exercise delegated executive authority over domestic governance, subject to Imperial Assent.
>
> 2.2.2. The Minister-President’s administrative purview encompasses:
>
> A. Day-to-day stewardship of the Civil Bureaucracy (Administratio Publica);
>
> B. Proposing legislation to the House of Commons under Crown-mandated policy parameters (limitationes imperiales);
>
> C. Coordinating with subnational executives through the Federal Chamber of Provinces (Consortium Foederalis) to ensure subsidiarity compliance.
>
> 2.2.3. The Minister-President’s tenure may be terminated via No-Confidence Motion approved by two-thirds of the House of Commons, pending ratification by the High Tribunal of Juridical Review to ensure constitutional conformity.
“Finally, we come to the role of the Minister-President,” the official said. “Unlike the Prime Minister, the Minister-President is elected triennially through universal suffrage. Their duties are more focused on domestic governance, such as running the day-to-day operations of our civil administration, proposing laws within the limits set by the Crown, and coordinating with subnational leaders to ensure that each region’s interests are respected. However, their position is not inviolable; they can be removed by a no-confidence vote of two-thirds of the House of Commons, with the High Tribunal ensuring that such a removal adheres strictly to constitutional norms.”
Ries forced a nod as the official droned on, his measured tone blending in with the stillness of the room, or maybe the ringing in her head? Grateful for the earlier coffee that now bolstered her waning attention, she masked her disinterest with a polite smile.
“I see…” she offered, her tone coolly diplomatic. “You may leave now.”
The senior official inclined his head in acknowledgment, murmuring a subdued “Thank you,” before quietly departing the room, leaving a trail of formal courtesy in his wake.
Ries exhaled sharply and turned to Clarissa, whose pen hovered eagerly over her notepad. “Did you get all that?” she inquired, her eyes searching for affirmation.
“Of course, do you want—” she was promptly interrupted by Ries’s firm interjection.
“Yes, compile it into concise notes and leave them on my office desk.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, the gesture betraying both fatigue and mounting frustration. “And by the way, are there any headache medicine?”