Ries entered the meeting room, her shoulders squared but her steps unhurried. Waiting for her was the Borian ambassador, seated with the calculated poise of a seasoned diplomat. Unlike the Valkorian ambassador, who had promptly departed following their declaration of war, the Borians had chosen to keep their diplomatic channels open—a decision she couldn’t help but respect, if only grudgingly.
The man before her was the picture of Borian aristocracy. Petr Velkov—an Earl, or whatever equivalent title the Tsardom used—was dressed impeccably in a tailored coat adorned with subtle gold embroidery. His sharp, hawk-like features and meticulously groomed silver hair spoke of a man accustomed to control, power, and, above all, appearances.
“Madam Prime Minister,” Velkov said, rising to his feet as she approached. His voice was smooth, rich with the distinct accent of his homeland. “It is an honor to meet with you, even under such… challenging circumstances.”
“Ambassador Velkov,” Ries replied, her tone neutral as she extended her hand. “The honor is mutual, though I admit I’m curious about the purpose of this meeting.”
Velkov’s lips curled into a polite smile as he shook her hand briefly before gesturing for her to sit. “The Tsardom has always valued its ties to the Empire, strained though they may be at times. It is in that spirit that I have come to discuss matters of mutual concern.”
Ries raised an eyebrow as she took her seat, folding her hands on the table. “Mutual concern? That’s a broad term. Care to elaborate?”
She wasn’t blind to geopolitics. Well… not anymore, thanks to Clarissa’s whirlwind of a briefing session. Her assistant had gone into full turbo-mode, bombarding her with maps and summaries of the tangled web of alliances and rivalries that defined the continent.
The gist was simple enough, though. The Empire and the Tsardom were rivals—frenemies, to put it lightly. Both were imperialist powers, relentless in their expansionist ambitions. The key difference was geography. Valyra dominated the fertile southern expanse of the continent, rich in resources and trade routes. The Tsardom, by contrast, clung to the frozen wastelands beyond the Everfree Mountain Range—a desolate, frigid hellscape.
If not for the imposing mountains serving as a natural barrier, the two empires would have likely been locked in endless wars of attrition. As it stood, the peaks had forced them into an uneasy truce, punctuated by the occasional skirmish and diplomatic power play.
Velkov’s polished demeanor betrayed nothing, but Ries knew better than to assume altruism. The Borians weren’t here to play nice, they never do. They wanted something.
“Of course, Madam Prime Minister,” Velkov began smoothly, folding his hands on the table. “While our respective nations may not always see eye to eye, we are united by the realities of our time. The Daemon incursion to the west threatens all of us, and disruptions to trade and stability affect us equally. The Tsardom believes there is room for cooperation, even amidst rivalry.”
“Really now? Last I heard, you and your other rival, the Valkorians, are now allied with the Daemons and even sent troops to fight our soldiers.”
“A common misconception, Madam Prime Minister,” he replied, his tone carefully neutral. “The Tsardom’s engagement with the Daemons is one of necessity, not alignment. The situation is... complex, as I’m sure you understand.”
“Is it, now?” Ries leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as her tail flicked in irritation beneath the table. “That’s a creative way of justifying sleeping in the enemy’s bed.”
Velkov inclined his head slightly, as though conceding a point. “Your skepticism is expected and, perhaps, warranted. However, I did not come here to trade barbs but to discuss a very real crisis—one I believe you’ll want to hear about.”
Ries tilted her head, her feline ears twitching. “I’m listening. What is it?”
Velkov leaned forward slightly. “The public mood in Valkoria is... volatile, shall we say? Discontent with their monarchy has reached a boiling point. There are uprisings forming, disorganized but gaining traction. Revolutionary whispers are spreading among their populace, threatening to destabilize not only their kingdom but the entire region.”
Ries’s eyes narrowed as she processed his words. “And this is my problem how?”
Velkov leaned back, adopting a contemplative posture as if weighing his next words carefully. “The Daemons have conveyed to my Tsar their intentions to intervene. They claim their goal is to depose the Valkorian monarchy and establish… a republic,” he said, his voice curling with disdain on the last word.
“I see.” Ries leaned back as well. “So, they’re planning to betray the Valkorians. Let me guess—you’re here to switch sides before the tide turns.”
Velkov’s lips curled into a faint smile, his tone becoming both conciliatory and purposefully vague. “Switch sides, Madam Prime Minister? Such terminology is rather crude, don’t you think? What the Tsardom seeks is not a change of allegiance but a reevaluation of priorities in light of evolving circumstances. The complexities of geopolitics often demand that we adapt to the fluidity of the moment without losing sight of the enduring principles that guide us.”
“That’s a lot of words for someone coming to my house to beg for shelter. Let me make this simple. Depending on the length and clarity of your answer, I’ll decide how seriously to take this discussion. Is the Tsardom looking to join forces with the Empire against the Daemons, or not?”
Velkov maintained his smile, “If we do, there are a set of conditions that are to be… realized on the post-war world…”
“Already thinking that far ahead?”
Velkov leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers in a gesture of thoughtfulness. “Naturally, Madam Prime Minister, any commitment of resources or cooperation from the Tsardom must ensure our sovereignty and strategic interests are preserved in the post-war order.”
Ries mulled for a bit, thinking about it. Though the answer was already in her head, she just wanted to stretch the time. “Alright. I’ll coordinate with the Foreign Affairs Ministry.”
Velkov’s smile deepened, his expression one of carefully crafted diplomacy. “Ah, I see the Empire’s leadership retains its pragmatic approach. A refreshing quality in these turbulent times.”
“Don’t mistake pragmatism for blind agreement, Ambassador. I’ll coordinate with Foreign Affairs, but whether or not your ‘conditions’ are worth considering depends entirely on what you bring to the table.”
Velkov inclined his head graciously, though the glint in his eyes hinted at his satisfaction. “Of course, Madam Prime Minister. Rest assured, the Tsardom understands that actions speak louder than words. Our intelligence dossier on the Daemon movements, will be delivered posthaste. I trust you’ll find its contents most enlightening.”
Ries tilted her head slightly, her ears twitching in skepticism. “If that dossier doesn’t tell me something I don’t already know, you can bet the next meeting won’t be as cordial.”
“Understood,” Velkov replied smoothly, standing from his chair. “I look forward to fostering a productive dialogue between our nations, Madam Prime Minister. Until then, I bid you good day.”
As the Borian ambassador left the room, Ries let out a quiet huff, her tail flicking in irritation as she turned to Clarissa, who stood nearby with a notebook in hand.
“Clarissa, get someone from Military Intelligence to review that dossier as soon as it arrives. I don’t trust him or his ‘enlightening’ information.”
“Yes, Madam Prime Minister,” Clarissa replied, scribbling a note. “Do you want me to inform the Foreign Affairs Ministry right away?”
Ries stood, stretching slightly as she adjusted her coat. “Do it, but tell them to tread carefully. Velkov’s not here to make friends—he’s here to secure whatever advantage he can. And I’m not about to hand him one on a silver platter. Make sure we list our own demands.”
She glanced at her watch. “When is the Central Bank’s director available?”
“Shall we go now, Madam Prime Minister?” Clarissa replied.
“Yes, yes we shall.”
----------------------------------------
The Central Bank’s main building was in one of the wealthiest districts of Valyra, its marble façade gleaming in the pale winter sunlight. The district itself exuded opulence, with broad streets lined by stately mansions and bustling luxury shops. Coincidentally—or perhaps not—the Central Bank was located just minutes from the stock exchange and the Chambers of Commerce.
As the Empire’s central bank, it shoulders the burden of an invisible war—economics. It issues currency, manages bonds, and steers monetary policy to stabilize the empire’s vast and often volatile economy. Despite the Empire’s centralized power, the Central Bank maintains a surprising degree of independence, shielded from most forms of government overreach.
Ries met the Central Bank’s director in an expansive conference room that felt empty with only the two of them plus Clarissa.
“Madam Prime Minister, it’s a pleasure to have you here,” Director Roylan began, his voice devoid of inflection as if reading from a script. Behind him, a pair of assistants busied themselves with setting up a white projection sheet.
Ries’s eyes gazed briefly to the preparations, a sinking feeling settling in her gut. This was going to be one of those meetings—dense, tedious, and guaranteed to leave her with a headache.
Director Roylan embodied everything she imagined of a career bureaucrat. Unremarkable in appearance, with thin-rimmed spectacles perched precariously on his nose and a face as expressive as a stone gargoyle, even then the stone gargoyle is more expressive than him. It occurred to her that if she stayed in civil service long enough, she might one day look and sound like him—a realization that sent an involuntary twitch of her ears.
“The feeling’s mutual, Director,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral but curt. “I’m informed the Central Bank has proposed economic reforms. I assume that’s what this meeting is about?”
Roylan nodded, his movements as precise and mechanical as the gears of a clock. “Indeed, Madam Prime Minister. The Central Bank has drafted a series of internal reforms aimed at reinforcing economic stability amidst the ongoing crises. These measures are intended to streamline our operations, safeguard monetary stability, and bolster our capacity to weather future financial challenges.”
Ries leaned back in her chair, her ears twitching in slight irritation at the monotony of his delivery. “I trust these reforms won’t result in further complications for my government. We have enough fires to put out as it is.”
Roylan adjusted his spectacles, the gesture practiced to the point of habit. “The reforms are structured to address inefficiencies within the Bank itself. However, certain elements will necessitate collaboration with your administration—most notably, modifications to our bond issuance policies and the development of a new framework for currency stabilization.”
Ries turned her gaze to Clarissa, who stood at her side with a notebook in hand, ever the reliable assistant. “What exactly did the Central Bank outline in their earlier communications?”
Clarissa cleared her throat, flipping to a page of neatly written notes. “They’ve suggested a multi-pronged approach. Increasing interest rates to control inflation, tightening regulations on currency circulation, and intervening in the financial markets to stabilize the Vir. Additionally,” she paused for emphasis, “there’s a controversial recommendation to phase out the dual Silver and Gold Virs system entirely, replacing it with a unified currency.”
Ries arched a brow, her tail stilling as she considered the implications. “Eliminating the Silver and Gold Virs? What’s the reasoning behind that?”
Roylan stepped forward, his measured movements mirroring the methodical tone of his voice. "Please, Madam Prime Minister, we shall approach this step-by-step," he said, gesturing toward the now-illuminated projection. "Let us begin with monetary policy."
The projection displayed a graph, its jagged lines charting the rise and fall of inflation rates over the past decade. Roylan pointed with a long, thin rod, his voice droning like a professor giving a lecture. "As you can see, inflation has been on an upward trajectory, exacerbated by external and internal conflicts. Our current interest rate, while adequate in periods of stability, has proven insufficient in curbing these pressures. We propose a gradual increase—incremental, yet firm enough to signal the Bank’s commitment to controlling inflation."
Ries glanced at the projection, her feline ears twitching as she struggled to focus on the dense charts and whatnot when the Director decided it was funny to hit her with even denser economic jargon.
"The proposed adjustments to the nominal interest rate," Roylan continued, "are designed to achieve a deceleration in aggregate demand while simultaneously reinforcing the value proposition of long-term government securities. By incrementally raising rates, we can introduce a deflationary bias to counteract the systemic liquidity oversaturation currently exacerbating our trade imbalances."
Ries nodded slowly, her expression neutral despite the mental effort required to parse his words. Deflationary bias? Liquidity oversaturation? She made a mental note to ask Clarissa about these terms later.
“And how,” she said carefully, “does that translate to people who are already struggling with rising costs?”
Roylan adjusted his spectacles. “The redistributive effect of higher interest rates will disproportionately benefit savers while tempering excessive speculative borrowing. However, to mitigate any regressive impacts on the lower-income demographics, we propose ancillary fiscal measures, including targeted subsidies and strategic capital reinvestment in labor-intensive sectors.”
Ries nodded again, her tail flicking subtly beneath the table. Redistributive effect? Ancillary fiscal measures? She decided not to press further. “Fine. What’s next?”
Roylan clicked to the next slide, which showed a flowchart of currency issuance and circulation. “Now, regarding our currency controls. The excessive minting of Silver Virs has led to an inflationary dissonance within the monetary base, undermining the fiduciary equilibrium we aim to maintain. By imposing quantitative restrictions on currency issuance, we can recalibrate the money supply to align more closely with macroeconomic indicators of productivity.”
Ries forced herself to keep nodding, though her ears betrayed her confusion, twitching ever so slightly. “And the oversight for these… recalibrations?”
“We propose establishing a multisectoral oversight framework,” Roylan said, his voice devoid of any inflection that might indicate excitement or doubt. “This would involve representatives from the Central Bank, the Ministry of Economic affairs, and independent economic auditors, ensuring adherence to best practices in fiduciary governance.”
“Right,” Ries said, glancing at Clarissa, who was furiously jotting notes. She decided to let that point lie for now. “Now, about this unified currency proposal.”
Roylan’s assistants quickly switched the slide to display a mock-up of the new currency, a sleek, modern design that still bore the Empire’s emblem. “The bifurcation of the Silver and Gold Virs, while historically significant, has resulted in an inefficient dual-monetary system. Market actors frequently exploit the valuation disparity, leading to transactional asymmetries and speculative distortions.”
Ries raised a hand, cutting through the fog of jargon. “You mean people take advantage of the system to make money at the expense of everyone else?”
Roylan blinked, momentarily thrown off by the simplification. “In essence, yes. The unification would eliminate such arbitrage opportunities, fostering a more stable and efficient economic environment. Transition mechanisms, such as phased withdrawals and incentivized exchanges, will ensure public confidence and minimize disruption.”
“Okay, hold on. You’re asking the Empire to scrap a system people have relied on for generations. If public confidence drops, this plan crashes and burns. How do you address that?”
"We will institute a two-year window for the public to exchange their old currencies for the new one. The transition period will include rigorous public awareness campaigns, ensuring that citizens and businesses alike are informed of the process well in advance."
He gestured toward the projection. "The unified currency will feature denominations of 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 50, and 100, alongside fractional coins of 0.25 and 0.50 for smaller transactions. This simplification will not only reduce confusion but also streamline trade and commerce across the Empire."
Ries tilted her head slightly, her ears flicking in a sign of skepticism. "And you think the public will just… embrace this? What about those who resist? The ones who hoard their wealth in Silver and Gold Virs? Or those who don't trust the government to honor their savings?"
He shrugged. “Madam Prime Minister, societal evolution is rarely without resistance. Those clinging to outdated systems—be it out of fear, ignorance, or obstinance—must either adapt or be left behind. It’s the natural order of progress.”
“Really? That’s your answer? You’re talking about people’s livelihoods, their entire sense of financial security. This isn’t some academic exercise, Director.”
Roylan maintained his stoic expression, though his tone grew sharper. “Madam Prime Minister, I do not make these statements lightly. Economic progress often necessitates difficult transitions. Those who resist modernization—be it through fear, mistrust, or stubborn adherence to outdated practices—inevitably fall behind. It is not my role to shield them from that reality but to ensure that the broader economy benefits.”
Ries’ eyes narrowed as she leaned forward. “Say, Director, what do you think of Dr. Breck and Professor Malreych?”
A flicker of something—interest, perhaps—passed behind Roylan’s otherwise deadpan expression. “Ah, yes, I have read their works. Both are thought-provoking in their own ways, though their approaches are markedly divergent.”
“I see,” Ries replied, noting the faint change in his tone. “Both have provided their versions of economic reform, and now it’s on me to decide which path the Empire should follow. As an expert, I want your assessment. What are the positives and negatives of their proposals?”
Roylan straightened slightly, his hands clasping behind his back as he began his dissection of the two theories. “Dr. Breck’s proposal, to put it plainly, is a monetarist strategy rooted in Keynesian principles. His emphasis on aggressive liquidity injection into the economy is intended to stimulate immediate consumption and investment. By flooding the market with currency and loosening monetary policy, he aims to counteract stagnation and encourage private sector growth. In theory, this approach would spur a short-term boom in economic activity.”
He paused, his tone growing colder. “However, the risks are manifold. Excessive liquidity without corresponding production capacity leads to inflationary spirals, devaluation of currency, and speculative bubbles in key sectors. The economic vitality gained could be short-lived, followed by severe contractions once the artificial stimulation wears off. Furthermore, this approach heavily relies on trust in the government’s monetary authority—a trust that, as we’ve discussed, is far from absolute.”
Ries tilted her head, her tail slowing as she absorbed his analysis. “And Malreych?”
Roylan adjusted his glasses, his voice taking on a measured cadence. “Professor Malreych’s economic philosophy is grounded in austerity and rigorous fiscal discipline. He advocates for a drastic reduction in government expenditures, an aggressive focus on eliminating deficits, and a commitment to a balanced budget. At its core, his belief is that economic stability is achieved not by stimulating demand but by curtailing unnecessary spending and fostering self-reliance among the populace.”
He paused, allowing his words to settle before continuing. “Under Malreych’s model, the government would withdraw from many facets of the economy, placing the burden of financial responsibility squarely on the shoulders of private entities and citizens. Taxes on wealth would increase significantly in an effort to address inequality, yet this would be counterbalanced by the near-total elimination of social safety nets and subsidies. He envisions a society governed by what he calls ‘natural economic order,’ where only the strongest and most efficient enterprises survive, resulting in what he describes as a ‘purified’ economy.”
“The immediate impact would be catastrophic for those already vulnerable. Mass layoffs in government-dependent industries, the collapse of welfare systems, and widespread insolvencies are all likely outcomes in the short term. While Malreych argues this pain is a necessary corrective to decades of fiscal mismanagement, the social and political consequences—protests, unrest, possibly even rebellion—cannot be understated.”
Ries’s tail lashed slightly. “So, his plan is to tear everything down and hope what’s left standing is strong enough to survive?”
“That is a fair simplification,” Roylan admitted. “While the long-term goal is a leaner, more efficient economic system, the immediate transition would be ruthless. It is, in essence, an economic purging—a baptism by fire, if you will.”
Ries leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing as she mulled over his words. “So I presume the Central Bank has a better alternative?”
“Indeed,” Roylan replied, his tone sharpening. “The Central Bank’s approach is designed to balance stability with gradual reform. We neither indulge in excessive stimulus nor resort to draconian austerity. Instead, we aim to implement steady, sustainable measures that prioritize monetary stability and economic growth.”
Ries leaned back. “Clarissa?”
“Your call, Madam.”
Ries sighed, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. Her tail curled around the leg of her chair as she leaned her head back, staring at the ornate ceiling of her office.
Each proposal felt like choosing a path through a forest riddled with traps.
Breck’s Stimulus Plan would allow a flood of capital to jumpstart the economy. It sounded tempting on paper: an immediate surge of activity, jobs, and optimism. But the cost was staggering. The empire’s coffers were not bottomless, and printing more Virs—if they even should do it—could spiral into hyperinflation if mishandled. Breck’s optimism bordered on recklessness, and her gut told her that such a gamble could backfire catastrophically.
The people might love it at first, but what happens when the illusion of wealth fades, leaving behind a hollowed economy?
Malreych's plan on the other hand… well, let’s keep it this way. You steal from a man of his food, clothes, shelter, and work. Then what?
Austerity would mean tearing apart the Empire piece by piece. Taxes would crush the wealthy, and social programs—the lifeline of the vulnerable—would be severed entirely. Slashes to the budget would put millions of government workers on the streets.
The government is already massive as it is, and on a good day, they’ll be only moderately losing money, instead of just losing money. Governments are not corporations, they couldn’t simply slash expenses to turn a profit. A strong, well-funded government was the backbone of stability, not an enemy to be dismantled.
The Central Bank’s plan, while unremarkable, offered a glimmer of sanity. It wasn’t flashy or revolutionary, but it also didn’t gamble the Empire’s future. Gradual reforms, fiscal prudence, and a focus on stability might not win headlines, but they could steady the ship. It wouldn’t solve everything—not immediately—but it wouldn’t set the Empire ablaze either.
Her voice broke the silence. “We’re going with the Central Bank’s plan.”
Clarissa looked up and nodded quickly. “Understood, Madam Prime Minister.”
“I know it won’t bring immediate relief. People will still suffer, and the economy won’t bloom overnight. But stability is what we need.”
Roylan adjusted his glasses. “A wise choice, Madam. Stability might not be glamorous, but it is the foundation upon which progress is built.”
Ries stood, her tail swishing slowly behind her. “Director, I appoint you as temporary Economic Affairs Minister.”
With that, she left the conference room, with Clarissa following suit. Leaving behind a rather startled Royland at the announcement.
----------------------------------------
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That has been Ries’ daily life ever since the war, especially after the war started. The rebellions only added more burden to her already burdened shoulders. Who knew running a nation could be so... draining? She had voiced that sentiment countless times, but the reality of it never ceased to astonish her.
Why couldn’t she delegate everything to her subordinates and live the life of a lazy, decadent noble? It was an appealing thought. Lounging idly, indulging in luxury while others handled the tedium of governance. But of course, that was a fantasy. Even the laziest of nobles, hidden behind their titles, had to work tirelessly to maintain their status in the cutthroat world of aristocratic politics.
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown?” She muttered under her breath, reaching for yet another stack of documents that demanded her review and signature. This time, it was a proposal to cut public school funding by one-and-a-half percent. A tiny figure on paper—until you realized that one-and-a-half percent amounted to three hundred million Virs.
The phrase, usually reserved for sovereigns like the Empress, resonated with her more and more these days. As Prime Minister, the weight of running the government—and by extension, the Empire—felt no less daunting than wearing a crown.
What does the Empress even do nowadays? Watch and do nothing? Even as her realm is being torn apart from the inside?
The thought was bitter, but Ries quickly dismissed it. No… The Empress was not idle. If anything, she was the only legitimacy holding this empire together. Her presence was a living embodiment of order in chaos, the pillar that kept the Empire from splintering into irreparable pieces.
She knew the truth, though it was hard to admit sometimes. The Empress wasn’t oblivious to the turmoil. She was carefully orchestrating a delicate balance, her hand guiding from behind the veil of courtly grandeur. Every decree, every appearance, was calculated to preserve stability.
And yet, it often felt like the real burden of action—the endless drudgery of governance—fell squarely on Ries' shoulders.
Now she knew why she never fully abolished the office of Prime Minister…
The Empress didn’t want to govern; she wanted to advise. It made her less of a ruler and more of an omnipotent consultant—one who could remove you at will if you misstepped.
Ries stamped the document regarding the reduction of public school funding with a decisive "DENIED." She stared at the bold letters for a moment before setting it aside and pulling the next paper into view.
“Deregulation of the Pharmaceutical Industry.” Lovely.
She checked her wristwatch. Almost 3 p.m. Lord-Marshal Fountainne had invited her to the outskirts for weapon testing. The army had apparently captured a handful of Daemon landships and had begun reverse-engineering them.
Ries stood, stretched, and slipped on her coat. Clarissa wasn’t around to accompany her—off overseeing yet another meeting that, thankfully, Ries didn’t have to attend.
“Where to, Madam?” the chauffeur asked, opening the automobile’s door.
“The military base on the outskirts,” Ries said as she stepped into the automobile. The soft leather of the seat felt welcoming after hours hunched over her desk. She adjusted her coat and leaned back, letting her thoughts drift as the vehicle pulled away from the Prime Minister’s residence.
She had practically moved into the residence now, though the thought of her own home nagged at her. Who was that Siren again? Ilya, right? Her maid. Ries couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her.
The streets of Valyra were a mixture of old and new, a mosaic of the Empire’s identity. Trams rattled alongside horse-drawn carriages, while the occasional automobile zipped past, their engines breaking the ambient noise of the bustling city. The winter chill seeped through the glass, fogging the edges of the windows as Ries stared outside.
One sight, however, pulled Ries from her reverie. Soup kitchens. Lines of people—Humans and non-humans alike—snaked around the buildings, waiting for a warm meal.
The rebellions had disrupted food supply routes from the central provinces, leaving parts of the Empire teetering on the edge of famine. Provincial authorities were scrambling to restore order, but logistics remained a nightmare. As if that weren’t enough, reports of Beastmen tribal raids had begun trickling in. While provincial forces did their best to contain the situation, the resurgence was another problem demanding attention.
The car bumped slightly as it transitioned from cobblestone streets to smoother asphalt. Ries glanced at her wristwatch again. Almost there.
When the automobile rolled to a stop, a soldier approached and saluted. “Madam Prime Minister, welcome. Lord-Marshal Fountainne is waiting at the testing grounds.”
Ries stepped out, pulling her coat tighter against the wind. “Lead the way.”
The soldier guided her through the base. Rows of soldiers drilled in the snow, their breath misting in the cold air. Mechanics swarmed over machines that glinted faintly in the pale light. At the center of the testing grounds was a hulking monstrosity of metal—clearly a Daemon landship, though altered in ways that made it seem even more menacing.
“Prime Minister,” Fountainne greeted. “You’re just in time. We’re about to begin the demonstration.”
“What exactly have you done to it?” Ries asked, eyeing the landship.
“Well, we have figured out how it works and what it’s made of,” Fountainne said, gesturing towards the machine. “This one is a prototype of a landship of our own.”
Ries raised an eyebrow. “Really now?”
“Please, Lord-Marshal,” a voice interjected, cutting through the conversation, “leave the technical details to those of us who actually do the work. No offense meant, of course.”
Both Ries and Fountainne turned to see a mechanic stepping forward, a grease-stained wrench in one hand and a confident smirk on his face.
The nametag on his uniform read, Sergeant Lyle Covar.
Ries folded her arms. “Alright, Sergeant Covar, enlighten me. What makes this prototype ours, rather than just a Daemon scrap heap with a fresh coat of paint?”
Covar smirked, tucking the cloth into his belt. “For starters, ma’am, we’ve ripped out their rather outdated engine with more modern diesel-based engine. As for the armor, the original was mostly plated with Mithril—a great material, sure, but one we don’t have in abundance. We’ve swapped it for a composite steel alloy. Easier to produce and repair in the field.”
Ries tilted her head slightly. “Won’t that reduce its overall durability?”
“Marginally, yes,” Covar admitted, “but we’ve layered the plating to compensate. It’s still tough as nails, and it’s a hell of a lot lighter. That weight reduction improves maneuverability, which is something the original model lacked.”
Ries arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“Gladly,” Covar said, his smirk widening. “We’ve also upgraded the weapon systems. The original cannons were 75mm, decent firepower, but their secondary weapons were just two 8mm machine guns. That’s fine for suppressing infantry, but not much else. Our prototype has a redesigned turret housing an 88mm cannon with better range and armor-piercing capabilities. The secondary armaments? Twin-mounted 12.7mm heavy machine guns for infantry suppression.”
Ries glanced at the prototype, then to the original design.
… what?
“I’m sorry, but that looks like a monstrosity.”
“What do you mean?” Covar looked to the prototype.
“I mean, the original one had those two cannons on both side of the landship, but… our redesign is a bulky, top-heavy behemoth,” Ries said, gesturing emphatically toward the prototype. “It looks like someone just slapped a massive turret on top and called it a day.”
Covar chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. “Function over form, ma’am. The turret allows for a full 360-degree rotation and significantly improved firing angles. The original design’s side-mounted cannons were limited in their range of motion. This setup is far more versatile.”
Ries raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Versatile? Sure. Stable? I’m not so convinced. Have you tested how this thing handles uneven terrain with all that weight up top?”
Covar winced slightly. “We’ve reinforced the suspension system and lowered the center of gravity as much as possible. It’s... still a work in progress.”
Fountainne cleared his throat. “Madam Prime Minister, I assure you that any structural issues will be addressed in the final design. The prototype is meant to push boundaries, not necessarily to look pretty. Think of it as… a wonder weapon.”
“Seriously? A wonder weapon?” Ries pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. “I’m not asking for pretty, Lord-Marshall. I’m asking for practicality. If this thing tips over in the heat of battle, its firepower won’t mean a damn thing.”
Covar straightened up, his tone more resolute. “Understood, ma’am. We’ll run additional stability tests and adjust the design as needed. But I think you’ll find its firepower more than makes up for any aesthetic concerns.”
“Firepower isn’t everything,” Ries muttered, glancing back at the machine. “But fine. Let’s see it in action.”
Covar and Fountainne escorted her to a viewing platform overlooking the testing grounds. Below, the crew entered the prototype landship, its engine roaring to life. The hulking vehicle began to move, its treads grinding against the earth as it turned to face a distant target, a decommissioned Daemon landship set up for testing.
The platform vibrated slightly under the engine’s power. Ries crossed her arms, her gaze locked on the scene unfolding below. “What’s the range to that Daemon landship?” she asked.
Covar consulted a rangefinder operator stationed nearby, who quickly relayed the information. “Approximately 1,200 meters, Madam Prime Minister. Well within the effective range of the 88mm cannon.”
Ries hummed.
Covar spoke into the radio to the crew inside the landship. “This is Covar. Target is set at 1,200 meters. Prepare to fire the main cannon. Let’s show the Prime Minister what this beast can do.”
A crackling response came through the radio. “Acknowledged, Sergeant. Adjusting turret and calibrating for distance.”
The turret of the landship rotated slowly to align with the distant Daemon landship. Ries observed in silence, her feline ears flicking slightly at the sound. She caught every detail, the precision of the turret’s movement, the steady hum of the engine, and the faint chatter of the crew inside. “It’s steady enough,” she remarked, “but let’s see if it hits anything.”
Covar glanced at her, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You won’t be disappointed, ma’am.”
The operator inside called out through the radio. “Target locked. Firing in three... two... one...”
The cannon roared, the force of the blast shaking the ground and sending a plume of smoke and dust billowing from the landship’s barrel. The projectile tore through the air, a streak of fire and fury that struck the target with pinpoint accuracy.
The decommissioned Daemon landship exploded in a deafening boom, its shattered remnants raining down onto the field in a cascade of fire and twisted metal.
“Direct hit!” the radio crackled with a cheer from the crew.
Ries raised an eyebrow, her tail flicking thoughtfully behind her.
Covar turned to her, a triumphant grin on his face. “How’s that, Madam Prime Minister? Quite the show, huh?”
“Mhm…” Ries’ eyes shifted to him, her expression skeptical despite the display. “What kind of ammunition does it use? Because from where I’m standing, this looks less like the moving fortress the Daemons designed and more like a glorified mobile heavy artillery piece.”
Covar opened his mouth to respond, but Ries cut him off. “While we’re on the subject, let’s talk logistics. How much does this thing weigh? How expensive is it to produce? How safe is it for the crew? And most importantly, how does it perform in actual combat conditions?”
The sergeant’s grin was replaced by a more serious demeanor. “Currently, we use a modified artillery shell as its ammunition. As—”
“What artillery? What model?”
Covar hesitated for a moment before replying. “It’s based on the 88mm shells used by our standard heavy field artillery, Madam Prime Minister. We’ve adapted them for the landship’s cannon, tweaking the propellant and casing to optimize the range.”
“So, you’re relying on existing designs. I suppose that’s cost-effective, but doesn’t it limit the potential of this so-called prototype? How does it compare to Daemon-grade firepower?”
“It’s not a perfect match for their enchanted ammunition, but what it lacks in magical augmentation, it makes up for with reliability and ease of production. A steady supply of shells is better than a few superior ones we can’t replace.”
Ries crossed her arms, her eyes flicking to the landship again. “And the cost? How much does each shell set us back? How does that compare to what we’d lose if this thing is taken out?”
Covar glanced at Fountainne, who stepped forward. “The shells are roughly 15% more expensive than standard 88mm artillery rounds due to the modifications. The landship itself is a significant investment, but its modular design means we can repair and refit it in the field with minimal downtime. Losses are always a concern, but the idea is that its firepower and durability will more than compensate.”
Ries tapped a finger against her arm, her skepticism softening slightly. “Alright. You’ve justified the ammo and design for now. But if this thing doesn’t prove itself in live combat, I’ll consider it a very expensive failure. How much does it weigh?”
Covar’s posture stiffened, and he cleared his throat before speaking. “Currently, it weighs just under 50 tons, Madam Prime Minister. The composite steel armor and enhanced turret systems contribute significantly to that.”
“just under 50 tons? Just? And you’re telling me this thing won’t sink into soft ground or crush every bridge it crosses?”
“Uh well… the suspension system has been reinforced to handle soft ground and uneven terrain. As for bridges… we’ve accounted for that in our logistical planning. The engineering corps is already working on identifying structurally sound crossing points and, where necessary, constructing temporary reinforcements.”
Ries raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “So, we’re not just designing landships but also reworking infrastructure to accommodate them? That doesn’t exactly scream ‘cost-effective’ to me.”
Fountainne stepped in smoothly, his voice measured. “Madam Prime Minister, I understand your concerns, but this prototype isn’t meant to be a one-size-fits-all solution. It’s a breakthrough in battlefield dominance. The logistical challenges are an investment, not a flaw. The—”
Ries met the Lord-Marshall’s gaze. “Here’s what you’re gonna do, make another prototype that isn’t an over the top wonder weapon. At least similar to the Daemon landships, but better.”
Fountainne blinked, momentarily thrown off by Ries’ blunt directive, but quickly regained his composure. “A more practical prototype, you mean? One that prioritizes cost-effectiveness and versatility over sheer firepower?”
Ries nodded. “Exactly. Something we can mass-produce without bankrupting the treasury or rebuilding half the Empire’s infrastructure. The Daemons' landships are a nightmare, but they’re practical nightmares. If we can outmatch them without reinventing the wheel, we’ll have the upper hand.”
Covar hesitated, glancing at Fountainne before speaking. “Madam Prime Minister, scaling down the design would mean sacrificing some of the advanced features we’ve developed—”
“I didn’t ask you to scrap the whole damn thing,” Ries interrupted. “Build five of these landships, but no more. After that, focus on something we can actually afford to mass-produce. Speaking of which, how much does one of these cost?”
Covar visibly tensed. “The current prototype’s production cost is approximately 1.2 million Golden Virs per unit, Madam Prime Minister.”
“1.2 million? That’s more than enough to fund an entire battalion for a year. You’re telling me we could lose one of these in a single engagement and be out that much?”
Fountainne stepped in, his tone diplomatic. “It’s true that the cost is high, but you must consider the strategic advantage it offers. The firepower and survivability of this landship could tip the scales in a decisive battle, potentially saving countless lives and resources in the long term.”
Ries let out a long breath, rubbing her temples. “Lord-Marshall, I appreciate your optimism, but wars aren’t won with single pieces of equipment. They’re won by armies that can adapt, endure, and outlast the enemy. Five of these? Fine. They’ll serve as specialized units. But after that, we focus on something practical, scalable, and sustainable. Is that clear?”
Covar and Fountainne exchanged a glance before nodding. “Understood, Madam Prime Minister,” Fountainne said.
Ries let out a sigh, her ears twitching slightly. “Alright. I’ll approve a 500 million Virs budget for a fleet of landships. How long will it take to produce those five heavy models?”
“At our current pace, we can complete them within three months,” Covar replied. “As for the lighter landships, we’ll need time to finalize their redesign first.”
“Fine,” Ries said, her tone curt as she turned to the Lord-Marshall. “Is there anything else in the pipeline? Any more ‘prototypes’ you wanted me to evaluate?”
Fountainne’s face brightened slightly as he gestured to a nearby table. “Yes, actually. We’ve been working on a new rifle model, one we aim to begin mass-producing by the start of next month.”
He picked up a sleek wooden-stocked rifle, holding it with practiced ease as he aimed down the sights. “This is the Alfryn rifle, named after its inventor, Major-General Varvik Alfryn. It’s commonly referred to as the AR-1258. A bolt-action firearm designed with improved accuracy and reliability—”
“And what sets it apart from the rifles we’re already using?” Ries interrupted, her arms crossed as she scrutinized the weapon.
Fountainne nodded, prepared for the question. “Its primary advantage lies in its simplified design, which makes it easier and cheaper to mass-produce. It also uses a five-round internal magazine and features an enhanced bolt mechanism, allowing for quicker cycling between shots. In field tests, it’s shown a significant improvement in accuracy at ranges up to 800 meters.”
Covar added, “It’s chambered for a new round—the 7.62mm cartridge—which offers better penetration against Daemon armor.”
Ries raised an eyebrow. “Better penetration is nice, but how does it handle in real conditions? Mud, rain, snow, and all the other charming features of a battlefield?”
Fountainne chuckled lightly. “We’ve put it through stress tests in a variety of environments, and it’s performed admirably. Of course, field performance during actual combat will be the ultimate test, but the AR-1258 has exceeded expectations so far.”
“Good. The last thing we need is an overhyped weapon that jams at the first sign of trouble.” Ries stepped closer, examining the rifle herself. “What’s the estimated cost per unit?”
“Approximately 175 Silver Virs per rifle,” Covar answered.
Ries hummed thoughtfully. “Affordable, at least. Fine. I’ll authorize the production of these, but I want regular reports on their performance once they hit the field. Anything else you’re eager to show off?”
“Nothing else, Madam,” Fountainne replied.
“Good. Report back to me after you’ve made progress on both the heavy and light landship designs,” Ries said, handing the rifle back to Fountainne. Her tail flicked behind her as she added, “And keep me informed on how the ML Rifles are performing during the first deployments. I’m expecting efficiency, not excuses.”
“Understood, Madam Prime Minister,” Fountainne replied, bowing slightly before stepping back. Covar followed suit, his expression were one of relief.
Ries turned on her heel, her boots crunching against the gravel as she walked away from the testing grounds.
Another money sunk on another gamble…
She was surprised the treasury could stomach all these beatings. Thankfully, the economy had already transitioned to a war footing, channeling resources and production capacity into the military machine. Civilian industries had been repurposed, luxury goods sidelined in favor of armaments, and labor conscripted into war work.
Still, it wasn’t a limitless pool.
Although Professor Mayreich’s austerity plan wasn’t what she envisioned, she acknowledged the uncomfortable truth, that the fact the state needed every bit of money for the war effort. Simply handing out funds through government intervention wouldn’t solve the underlying problem. The treasury couldn’t keep bleeding resources without risking collapse.
But instead of slashing budgets indiscriminately, why not raise funds from existing channels more strategically?
Why not benefit more from a big government?
She glanced at her wristwatch. 5 p.m.
The day had dragged on, filled with arguments over prototypes, budget reports, and a growing sense that the Empire was teetering on the edge of an unsustainable spiral. Yet, the solution might lie not in cutting back but in expanding the state’s reach.
A centralized, war-driven government could wield immense power—not just for waging war but for ensuring efficiency and unity in the effort. Civilian industries had already been co-opted into the war economy. Why not extend that principle further?
“Where to, Madam?” the chauffeur asked as she approached the automobile.
“The Chambers of Commerce,” Ries replied as she slid inside.
Yes, the government must reel in the Empire’s vast private sector. By persuasion if possible—by force if necessary.
Ries leaned back in her seat as the automobile rumbled steadily through the city. The Chambers of Commerce were a bastion of wealth and influence, a collection of the Empire’s most powerful merchants, industrialists, and financiers. his group of so-called "new men" were largely commoners who had climbed their way to the top and were the ones responsible to dethrone the aristocracy’s deep-seated influence.
They thrived on the Empire’s success but balked at the sacrifices the war demanded. It was time to remind them that their fortunes were tied to the Empire’s survival.
When the automobile pulled up to the imposing structure that housed the Chambers of Commerce, Ries stepped out, her boots clicking against the cobblestones. The building’s grandeur reflected its occupants’ wealth—a polished stone facade, intricate carvings, and gilded accents that gleamed in the evening light.
Situated in the commercial heart of the city, it stood near the stock exchange, the central bank, and rows of luxury storefronts. This district, where high-stakes deals were brokered and fortunes made, was the wealthiest part of Valyra. Yet, it was curiously distant from the government district.
Anyone with a discerning eye would notice the contrast of the city’s center of commerce, where the lifeblood of the economy flowed, was conspicuously detached from the seat of governance. It was as if the elite sought to emphasize their independence—or superiority—over the state.
Ries took in the sight with a flick of her tail, her expression betraying nothing. She adjusted her coat, the brisk evening air nipping at her skin, and strode confidently toward the grand entrance.
Inside, the atmosphere was just as opulent as the exterior, with marble floors, soaring ceilings, and glittering chandeliers. The murmurs of conversation halted as she entered, her presence commanding immediate attention.
If she weren’t the Prime Minister, she knew exactly how this crowd would have reacted to her presence. She would have been dismissed as a "stray Beastman," lost in a human's world—or worse, assumed to be a penniless denizen, unworthy of acknowledgment.
The crowd was diverse, a surprising mix of humans, dwarves, elves, Beastmen races, Aquis, some faeries, and Dracos. Here, wealth had erased the usual boundaries of race and class, at least among the attendees.
After all, riches didn’t discriminate, and neither did poverty.
She was led through the sea of finely dressed figures to a raised podium at the far end of the room. The path seemed designed to emphasize her presence, to ensure that every eye in the chamber was fixed squarely on her by the time she reached her destination.
Ries stepped up to the podium. She let her gaze sweep across the room, meeting the stares of the assembled merchants, industrialists, and financiers.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “I thank you for your time this evening. I stand before you not as a guest but as a steward of this Empire—an Empire that now finds itself at a critical juncture.”
She paused, allowing her words to sink in. “This war is not just a conflict of arms but a test of our collective strength and resolve. The choices we make here and now will determine the future of our nation—and your fortunes.”
Ries’s tail swayed subtly as she continued. “Many of you have thrived under the stability this Empire provides. Your businesses, your wealth, your influence—they are all products of an environment carefully maintained by the state. But stability is not self-sustaining. It requires effort, sacrifice, and, above all, unity.”
She let her gaze linger on the crowd, gauging their reactions. Some nodded in agreement, others remained stoic, their expressions unreadable.
“The war has pushed us into unprecedented times,” she continued. “The state has made significant investments to ensure our survival—investments that benefit us all. Now, I ask for your cooperation to ensure those investments bear fruit. This is not merely a request; it is a necessity. We stand or fall together.”
“Hah!”
A loud scoff shattered the silence, drawing every eye in the room. Ries’s ears flicked at the sound, her gaze narrowing as a man stepped forward from the crowd.
He was portly, with a self-assured gait that spoke of wealth and influence. His suit were meticulously tailored and adorned with a pocket watch chain of gleaming gold. His round face bore an expression of smug disdain as he moved closer to the podium, each step were intentionally heavy, as if to challenge her authority with his very presence.
“Well, well,” he began. “The Prime Minister graces us with a lecture on unity and sacrifice. How touching.” He stopped a few paces from the podium, clasping his hands over his stomach.
Ries’ eyes remained fixed on him, her expression calm but her tail twitching in annoyance. She waited, letting the man speak, knowing it would be better to let him expose his intentions before responding.
“Madam Prime Minister,” he continued, emphasizing her title with a hint of mockery, “we are not soldiers to be commanded or pawns to be manipulated. We are the lifeblood of this Empire’s economy. Our enterprises fund your ambitions, our ingenuity drives progress, and our risk-taking creates the wealth you so generously spend.”
He gestured grandly to the room, as if expecting applause. A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, but most attendees remained silent, their eyes darting between the man and Ries.
“And now,” he went on, “you stand here, demanding more from us? More labor, more resources, more compliance? All while you tighten your grip on the market and stifle the very freedoms that allow us to thrive? Tell me, Madam Prime Minister, how do you expect us to prosper under such oppressive conditions?”
He paused, his chest puffed out as if he had just delivered a devastating blow. The room held its breath, waiting for Ries’ response.
She let the silence stretch for a little while longer before formulating a response. Beginning it with a slight dusting of imaginary dust from her shoulders and clearing her throat.
“You’ve made your position quite clear,” she said calmly. “But allow me to clarify mine.”
Her gaze swept through the room. “All businesses producing essential goods—food, clothing, medicines—will immediately have their prices fixed to ensure affordability for the war effort. Any attempts at profiteering will be met with swift consequences.”
A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd, but Ries continued regardless.
“In addition, industries critical to the war—steel, coal, arms, and transportation—will come under state oversight. This is non-negotiable. The survival of the Empire takes precedence over individual fortunes.”
She leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the podium, her voice dropping to a chilling calm. “Failure to comply with these measures will result in nationalization and charges of treason. If you refuse to act in the Empire’s interest, then the Empire will act in yours. Your factories, your assets, your businesses—they will be seized, and you will be compensated only what the state deems fair.”
Gasps echoed through the chamber, some in outrage, others in disbelief. The man who had spoken earlier stepped forward again, his face flushed with fury. “This is tyranny!” he bellowed. “You can’t simply—”
Ries raised a hand, cutting him off with an almost casual gesture. “Mr. Gelre, wasn’t it?” she asked, her tone deceptively polite.
The man hesitated. “Y-yes,” he stammered.
She offered him a thin, predatory smile. “I’m sure your petroleum company would appreciate a thorough audit by the Regulatory and Tax Office, wouldn’t it? Perhaps a full inspection of your supply chains, pricing strategies, and employee contracts?”
Gelre’s face turned ashen, the implications of her words crashing down on him.
“Or,” she continued smoothly, “we could dig into your government contracts. Ensure everything is in perfect order. After all, in wartime, any hint of inefficiency or profiteering could be construed as treason.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“I… that won’t be necessary,” Gelre muttered, his earlier bravado crumbling under her gaze.
“Good,” Ries said briskly, as if the matter were already settled. “Because the Empire has no time for petty obstructionists. This is not a moment for personal gain—it is a moment for survival. You would do well to remember that. She paused, letting her words sink in before adding with a faint smirk, “as the saying goes, ‘You scratch my back, I scratch yours.’”
A ripple of nervous snickers spread through the room, though whether from genuine amusement or tension was unclear.
Ries leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the podium. “Now then,” she continued. “I will open the floor to questions. But let me make one thing clear—this is not an invitation for debate. Ask for clarification, offer constructive suggestions, or voice your willingness to cooperate. Anything else will be treated as a waste of time, and believe me, I value my time.”
The room shifted uneasily, eyes darting to one another as the attendees weighed their options. Finally, a hand rose near the back.
“Madam Prime Minister,” the voice began, belonging to a silver-haired man in a tailored suit. “What guarantees can you provide that these measures will be temporary? That the government won’t maintain this level of control after the war ends?”
“An excellent question,” she answered. “The answer is simple; necessity dictates policy. The Empire has no interest in stifling its private sector once the war is won. But rest assured, this war must be won first. Stability breeds opportunity, and once peace is restored, so too will the balance of power.”
Another hand shot up, this time from a younger woman near the front. “Madam, will there be compensation for businesses forced to cap prices or repurpose operations for the war effort?”
Ries gave a short nod. “Reasonable compensation will be considered where appropriate, particularly for those who show initiative in supporting the Empire’s goals. But make no mistake, this is not a charity. Cooperation is expected, and those who willingly contribute will find themselves better positioned in the post-war economy.”
She spent another half an hour fielding questions from individuals she could only describe as insatiably self-serving.
In more diplomatic terms? Representatives of the Empire’s most industrious and “ambitious” minds.
Every question posed seemed to orbit around one central concern: their wealth. Not the survival of the Empire, not the lives of its people, but how their personal fortunes might be safeguarded during these turbulent times.
By the time the session drew to a close, she could feel her patience getting to its limit. She forced a measured tone as she addressed the room one last time. “I appreciate your concerns and your… candor,” she said, her tail flicking in irritation despite her composed demeanor. “But let me remind you once more, the success of this war effort depends on unified cooperation. Those who support the Empire now will find themselves invaluable partners in its future prosperity. Those who don’t…” She let the sentence trail off, the unspoken consequence hanging heavily in the air.
A wave of polite applause rippled through the room as she stepped away from the podium, though she could sense the mixture of resentment and unease simmering beneath the surface. It didn’t matter. They would comply, either out of self-interest or fear.
As she exited the chamber and descended the marble steps, Clarissa had appeared and waited near the automobile.
“You’re back,” Ries said as she approached her.
“How did it go, Madam Prime Minister?” Clarissa asked cautiously, stepping aside as Ries climbed into the car.
“About as well as herding stray cats,” Ries muttered. “They’ll fall in line, though. They don’t have much of a choice.”
Clarissa slid in beside her and handed over the folder. “Speaking of choices, these are the priority reports for tonight—labor statistics, supply chain bottlenecks, and the latest casualty figures from the front.”
Ries opened the folder and scanned the first page, her brow furrowing. The numbers painted a grim picture.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Yes,” Clarissa replied hesitantly. “The Empress requests your presence in the Elysium palace.”
Ries sighed, closing the folder with a snap. “Tell the Empress I’ll go over there right away.”
Clarissa nodded, scribbling a note. The automobile rumbled to life, carrying them away from the wealth-drenched heart of the city and toward the more utilitarian government quarter, and soon enough, the baroque-styled district of the Empress’ palace.
As the city lights blurred past, Ries stared out the window, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. She had delivered her ultimatums, but the real battle was just beginning. Aligning the private sector, maintaining public morale, and ensuring the war machine didn’t collapse under its own weight would require more than just words.
Hopefully, if everything goes well, she could resolve the internal problems within the Empire and focus solely on the Daemons.
Hopefully.