A slow day in the office, they said. As Prime Minister and head of government, there was no such thing as a truly "slow" day. Even on days when the Empire wasn’t in turmoil or actively engaged in battle, there were always fires to put out. Today was no exception, they were just quieter.
Earlier, she’d dispatched a diplomatic team to negotiate with the Aquileans. Viscount Adam Thorne was a relic of a bygone era and about to retire, but his his experience in dealing with the Aquileans were just too good to pass up.
Her attention shifted to Clarissa, who stood at her side, dutifully sorting through the endless tide of paperwork that seemed to multiply every time Ries dared look away. Clarissa’s expression was as composed as ever, her hands moving deftly as she stacked the latest pile of documents onto the already teetering tower on Ries’ desk.
“—These are the complaints from rural nobles who—”
“Boring,” Ries muttered, cutting her off mid-sentence. She waved a hand dismissively and leaned back in her chair. “What is it this time? Rising costs? Grain shortages? Another petition for me to reinstate their hunting privileges?”
Clarissa arched a brow but didn’t comment on the interruption. Instead, she handed over the top document to her. “Protests from rural nobles regarding rising costs due to the war and increased taxes on luxury goods. They’re demanding relief measures.”
“Relief measures?” Ries scoffed, snatching the document and giving it a cursory glance. “Half of them are hoarding wealth while the other half are throwing lavish parties. Maybe they should try spending less instead of begging the government for handouts.”
Clarissa’s lips twitched, a fleeting hint of amusement crossing her face. “I’ll make a note of your thoughts, Madam Prime Minister.”
“Don’t bother,” Ries sighed, tossing the document aside. “Just draft something that looks like a response and send it back. Tell them I’m ‘reviewing their concerns’ or whatever diplomatic nonsense you’re supposed to say.”
Clarissa, remained silent as she continued her task, sorting through the endless pile of paperwork. “And the economic proposals? There were...”
“Three, right?” Ries interrupted, resting her chin on her hand. “We’re going with the Central Bank’s solution, yes?”
“Correct,” Clarissa confirmed, pausing as she glanced at the papers in her hands. “But—”
“Right, right. I forgot. It's hard to keep track of all this, considering we’re still fighting a war,” Ries said, her tone more weary than frustrated. She sighed, rubbing her temples. “How’s the economy looking? It’s been months since we transitioned into a full war economy, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it has fully transitioned,” Clarissa answered, keeping her voice calm and steady. “Do you want a full report or just the—”
“Just the highlights,” Ries groaned, leaning back in her chair, her eyes scanning the ceiling. “I’ve got enough reports about bread shortages and noble complaints to last me a lifetime.”
Clarissa paused for a moment, flipping through the documents before beginning. “Production is up in war-related sectors. Weapons, munitions, and steel are being manufactured at full capacity. However, civilian production has been cut down significantly. The general populace is facing increasing shortages in basic goods like food and clothing. Unemployment is down, but that's largely because of the conscription efforts, so it's not an accurate measure of workforce health.”
Ries leaned forward, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Sounds like the populace is working, but living conditions are getting worse. People won’t be content for long if they’re struggling to feed their families.”
“It’s a delicate balance, Madam,” Clarissa replied. “The Central Bank’s measures are helping to curb inflation, but price controls and rationing are causing unrest in the lower classes. Public morale is low, but we’ve kept the unrest to a manageable level... for now.”
“For now…” Ries repeated, her voice laced with both annoyance and concern. She tapped her fingers against the desk. “How long can we keep this up before people start questioning whether it's worth it?”
Clarissa hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. She wasn’t sure how much to say or whether it would even make a difference. Everyone who had more than a passing understanding of the Empire’s war machine knew the truth, war is expensive. Cripplingly so.
Yes, the Empire could theoretically mobilize tens of millions of men. Yes, it had the industrial capacity to churn out weapons, munitions, and vehicles at a near-limitless pace. Yes, its sheer size, modern infrastructure, and industrial might made it a near-impossible foe to defeat. Any enemy would be a fool to underestimate the risk of facing the Empire in open war. But…
Ries exhaled, the sigh barely audible as she leaned back in her chair. It wasn’t about whether they could win, it was about the price they’d pay to do so, and how much the people would tolerate before they decided it wasn’t worth the cost. How much longer would they endure before they decided it simply wasn’t worth it? And when the war was won—if it could be called winning—what then?
Her mind drifted back to her tribe. When her people won a battle, they celebrated with unbridled fervor. Feasts stretched into the night, warriors claimed their rewards, and the dead were honored with joyous song and fiery ritual. It was a catharsis, a way to acknowledge both the victory and the sacrifices that came with it.
Human culture, however, was different. There might be celebrations, such as parades through the capital, medals pinned on the uniforms of the lucky few who survived unscathed, but it never carried the same weight. The victories were hollowed by the empty chairs at family tables, the widows and orphans left behind, and the lingering scars that no amount of ceremony could heal. After the confetti was swept away and the speeches faded into history, what came next?
When the war ended, Ries knew the Empire would not emerge unscathed. There would be broken families mourning the dead, a generation of maimed soldiers struggling to find their place in a society that had no need for them anymore, and a nation crippled by the staggering cost of sustaining the conflict. And even if the Empire itself stood unbroken, would its people feel the same? Would they still believe in what the war had been fought for?
Leaning forward, she propped her elbows on the desk and buried her face in her hands.
This is why I hate being here.
A soft knock at the door broke the silence. Clarissa, moved to answer it. She cracked the door open, exchanged a few hushed words with whoever was on the other side, and then returned with a folder in her hands.
“Madam Prime Minister,” she said, her tone both cautious and formal, “this is a royal decree from Her Majesty.”
Ries barely lifted her head from her hands, her feline ears twitching as she groaned. “A royal decree? Great. What does she want now?”
Clarissa handed over the folder, and Ries took it begrudgingly, flipping it open to the first page.
SOVEREIGN IMPERIAL PROCLAMATION ON THE CONSTITUTIONAL REVISION GOVERNING PARLIAMENTARY INSTITUTIONAL ARRANGEMENTS
Ries blinked. “This is…” Her voice trailed off as she began flipping through the pages, her expression shifting from annoyance to alarm.
When she finally reached the last page, she counted fifty in total. Fifty meticulously written pages of legal jargon and reform proposals.
She slammed the folder shut, her eyes locking onto Clarissa. “She wants to change the constitution!”
----------------------------------------
Diplomacy is anything but a fool’s game. It is a necessity in shaping the past, defining the present, and determining the future. Yet, it is also fragile. A single misstep, a shift in power, or even a careless word can shatter years of careful negotiation.
Promises. People make them all the time. Treaties, agreements, pacts... they are all written, signed, and sealed with conviction. But what truly binds them? What stops a nation from discarding a non-aggression pact, breaking a trade agreement, or abandoning peace when it becomes inconvenient?
For Adam Thorne, the Empire’s seasoned diplomat and its chosen envoy to the Aquileans, diplomacy is not about honor nor sentiment. It is about pragmatism. In his sixty years of service, he has seen treaties built on grand ideals crumble under the weight of ambition and self-interest. He has watched allies turn to enemies and enemies extend a hand in friendship when necessity demanded it.
They say, "To know your enemy, you must know yourself." A fair assessment.
Diplomacy is not merely the art of words. It is the recognition of strength, the balance of power, and the unspoken understanding that both sides must see each other as equals. Without that, there is no negotiation, only submission or defiance.
Thorne knew this better than most. Decades of diplomacy had taught him that treaties were not built on goodwill alone, but on the careful calculation of risk and reward. Two nations could only come to the table as equals if both believed they had something to gain and something to lose.
Thorne exhaled slowly, staring out at the vast ocean beyond the ship’s deck. The Aquileans had always been a mystery, an empire that thrived not on land, but in the depths of the sea. Their fleets were not built but grown, living organisms molded into warships, undying and self-repairing so long as the ocean itself endured.
It was no wonder they saw themselves as equals to the Valyryan Empire, despite centuries of war. They did not fear occupation, nor did they worry about the devastation of their homeland. The sea was their domain, one that no army could march upon, and no siege could break.
And yet, they could not break the Empire either. For every living warship they unleashed, Valyrya had built steel dreadnoughts to counter them. For every sunken vessel, more were forged in the Empire’s shipyards, churning out leviathans of iron and firepower at an unrelenting pace.
This war—whether it was truly the hundredth or simply felt that way—had settled into an eternal deadlock. A cycle of destruction and renewal, fought over and over again with no true victor.
“Sir, we are approaching Shallow Island,” a sailor informed.
Thorne gave a small nod, his gaze never leaving the horizon. Shallow Island… one of the few patches of land where both Empires could meet without the interference of warships or the ever-watchful eyes of their respective admiralties. A neutral ground, if such a thing truly existed between two nations locked in perpetual rivalry.
The Empire could have continued this war indefinitely, grinding away at the Aquileans just as it had for centuries. But this was not just any war. The looming campaign against the Daemons demanded full Imperial might. The navy, stretched thin from its endless engagements against the Aquilean fleets, had been ordered to shift its focus to encircle and blockade Daemon-controlled ports, cutting off whatever supply lines those wretched creatures relied upon.
And so, an uneasy necessity had been born. Valyrya could no longer afford to fight a war on two fronts, not if it hoped to crush the Daemons once and for all. The Aquileans had to be dealt with. Through diplomacy, if possible.
Thorne adjusted his coat once again, straightening the medals pinned to his chest. The Aquileans respected strength, and strength was what he would offer.
“Signal the delegation,” Thorne ordered coolly. “Tell them we’ll be making landfall shortly.”
As the island loomed into view, he could already discern shifting shadows beneath the waves, monstrous shapes gliding through the water. The Aquilean envoys were waiting.
He was escorted into a rowboat that was carefully lowered and rowed by several sailors. The rhythmic splash of oars were the only sound punctuating the quiet tension of the moment. Thorne maintained a composed, neutral expression, his hands folded calmly in his lap as they neared the shore.
When the boat finally scraped against the damp sand, Thorne stepped out, his boots sinking slightly into the soft ground. There, standing in a semicircle on the beach, were the Aquilean envoys. Tall, imposing figures clad in organic carapace armor unique to their kind. Their skin, slick and faintly iridescent, shimmered under the overcast sky, reminiscent of living sculpture carved by the tides.
They brought to mind the ruling class of the Xia Empire from the southern continent. Where the Xiaese were dragons, the Aquileans were their aquatic counterparts, sea serpents of regal bearing. Ancient, very ancient races, both of them.
One envoy, clearly the highest-ranking among them, stepped forward. His voice boomed, like what you’d expect from a normal diplomat. Indeed, even though they are races of the deep, they still speak using their mouths.
"Thorne of Valyrya," the envoy intoned. "I must admit, I never thought it has been more than fifty years, no? I remembered you being the junior diplomat in our first ceasefire."
"Indeed. Though, you haven’t aged one bit, Silias." Thorne remarked, a hint of amusement flickering across his otherwise composed expression.
The Aquilean diplomat bared something between a grin and a grimace, revealing rows of sharp, needle-like teeth. “We of the deep do not wither as quickly as land-dwellers. Time is a current that moves differently for us.” His dark, unblinking eyes studied Thorne with a gaze as steady as the tides. “But you… You have changed.”
Thorne adjusted the cuffs of his coat, allowing himself a small chuckle. “Time does that to men. We wear our years on our shoulders, and in our bones.”
Silias inclined his head slightly. “And yet, you still return. Again and again. Does Valyrya truly seek peace, or is this merely another lull before the next storm?”
Thorne exhaled slowly, watching the tide lap at the shore. “If it were just another lull, I wouldn’t be here myself.” He took a measured step forward, hands folded neatly behind his back. “You and I both know what this war has become… an endless cycle. Broken ceasefires. Fleets built to replace those lost. Borders shifting like the tides, yet never truly changing.”
He paused, letting the words settle. It was more than that, of course. The so-called ‘peace’ they had shared before was never peace at all. Merely ceasefires, pauses in the bloodshed to rearm and rebuild, waiting for the next inevitable clash. No true treaties had ever been signed, and no lasting agreements forged.
Silias let out a low chuckle, a gesture somewhere between skepticism and amusement. “You speak as though you seek to break the cycle.”
Thorne met his gaze squarely. “I do.”
Another ripple of murmurs passed through the gathered Aquilean envoys, their slick, scaled hands shifting subtly in the mist-laden air. Silias remained still, his eyes locked into Thorne’s
“Bold words,” Silias mused. “Valyrya has made countless promises over the years, each one followed by its share of betrayals. Why should we believe that this time is any different?”
Thorne allowed himself a faint smile. “Because this time, you stand to gain something substantial.”
Silias’ gills flared, unmistakably signaling interest. “Go on,” he prompted.
“The Empire is redirecting its focus,” Thorne said steadily. “You know as well as I do that the Daemons are not a threat that can be ignored. Valyrya cannot afford to fight on two fronts indefinitely.”
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“The Daemons… fascinating. And here I believed they had kept their promise,” Silias remarked.
Thorne’s eyebrow arched in quiet curiosity. “They came to you?”
Silias chuckled. “Oh, indeed. Your Admiral—the one stationed in the Coroner Islands—was targeted. We were advised to capture him, to ignite yet another conflict with you.”
“And you’re revealing this now. To what end?” Thorne asked.
“Because the Daemons failed in their promise,” Silias replied, his voice even but laden with quiet reproach. “They swore they would crush you swiftly on land. Yet here you stand, unbowed before us.”
Thorne let the silence hang between them for a moment, the sound of the waves punctuating the tension. “That failure speaks volumes. It proves that neither side can continue this endless cycle of empty pacts and renewed hostilities. The Daemons have shown us that promises, like the shifting tides, are fickle.”
Silias’ gills fluttered as he mused, “Indeed, as they say: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. And you, Thorne, have something very dear to us.”
Thorne inclined his head. “The Crown Prince of the Aquilean Empire.”
A subtle smile tugged at Silias’ features. “Indeed. It has been... quite some time since I last saw my niece. How is he faring?”
Thorne shook his head. “He was detained by our secret police on charges of espionage.”
Silias snorted, a sound both incredulous and amused. “I’m well aware that you lack authority over your own soldiers in such matters. And what became of him?”
“He escaped. Assisted by friends,” Thorne replied tersely.
Silias exhaled sharply, his gills flaring in mild amusement. “Friends… good for him,” he murmured, his tone lightening. “But let us set aside these diversions and return to the matter at hand.”
Thorne inclined his head. This was merely the opening volley, and the game has yet to be played.
The question was, who would play their hand first?
Silias dismissed the other envoys with a flick of his hand, sending them back into the depths to conduct the finer details of negotiation elsewhere. He remained behind, fixing Thorne with a piercing gaze.
"Do you know how many of my people have perished in this war?" Silias asked, his voice calm, but was edged with something dangerous.
Thorne tilted his head slightly, his practiced poker face betraying nothing. "Care to enlighten me?"
Silias did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, the faint shimmer of his robes trailing like flowing water, his presence exuding an air of restrained fury. He let the silence stretch between them, like the stillness of the ocean before a coming storm.
"One hundred and ninety-seven thousand," he finally said, his voice almost too even, too controlled. "That is the number of Aquileans who will never return to their families. Warriors, scholars, artisans. Some perished to cannon fire, some were torn apart by your depth charges, and some… suffered far worse fates at your hands.”
Thorne absorbed the words, though he did not allow them to sink into his bones just yet. Numbers, no matter how staggering, were weapons in their own right, wielded to shape the battlefield of diplomacy.
"A tragedy," he said at last, his tone carefully calibrated to be neither dismissive nor overly sympathetic. "One that Valyrya does not take lightly, despite what you may believe. But tell me, Silias, how many Valyryans have fallen in this war? Do you think our dead rest any easier?"
Silias's lips pressed into a thin line. "You think this is a contest of suffering?"
"I think," Thorne said, stepping forward, "that war spares no one. And I think that if we sit here counting the dead, we will condemn the living to join them."
A quiet tension settled over them, the distant hum of the ocean being only sound between them.
Silias regarded him for a long moment before speaking again. "Your words are well-rehearsed. Expected for a senior diplomat. But I did not ask for hollow sympathies."
"Then tell me what you do want."
Silias exhaled sharply, as if weighing the cost of his next words. "We want assurance. We want guarantees. You say Valyrya seeks peace, yet for centuries your empire has bled the seas and treated my people as little more than obstacles. Tell me, Thorne, why should we trust you?"
At that, Thorne allowed a small, knowing smile to creep onto his lips. And there it is.
The first real move.
He clasped his hands behind his back, deliberate in his poise. "Trust is not built in a single meeting, nor won through a single treaty. It is forged in action." He tilted his head slightly. "So, let us dispense with pretense. What does Aquilea require in order to believe Valyrya’s intentions are true? What would convince your people that this war must end? Because if I recall correctly, of the sixty ceasefires we’ve brokered in the past, it was Aquilea that broke forty-seven of them first."
"You would dredge up the past to justify your empire's crimes?" Silias’s voice had sharpened, but it remained quiet. "The circumstances of those ceasefires were far different, and you know it. We did what was necessary. Survival demanded it. It was never Aquilea that sought war, only that we refused to kneel when war was forced upon us."
Thorne remained unmoved. He understood that, like all civilizations, no society—no matter how united or seemingly invincible—was immune to internal division. Factionalism was a curse, a blight that reminded the world of its inherent imperfection.
In Aquilea, that divide ran deep between the so-called hardliners and the pragmatists.
The hardliners were the traditionalists, fervent believers in aquatic exceptionalism. They had long dismissed any notion of peace with Valyrya—or any land-dwelling civilization, for that matter. To them, every treaty was merely a temporary lull before inevitable betrayal, every concession a step toward subjugation. Burdened by centuries of resentment, they were convinced that Valyrya would never honor its word. For them, survival meant perpetual vigilance, and that vigilance necessitated never lowering their guard.
The pragmatists, however, saw the war for what it had become, a constant drain on Aquilea’s strength. Their fleets were battered, their economy strained, their people weary of bloodshed. They did not trust Valyrya, but they understood that clinging to old wounds would only lead to ruin. They wanted guarantees, not just words, but something real. Something that would prove this peace was more than another fleeting illusion.
Thorne understood this divide well. He had seen its reflection within his own empire, where nobles, generals, and ministers argued over the path forward.
The difference was that Valyrya had the upper hand, despite its internal struggles. Aquilea, for all its defiance, was the side that needed peace more.
Thorne let the silence stretch, watching Silias with a practiced gaze. The Aquilean envoy was many things—proud, bitter, perhaps even desperate—but he was no fool. He had to know that their position was untenable. Yet pride was a powerful thing, and Thorne had no doubt that the hardliners would sooner see their cities reduced to ruin than accept what they perceived as surrender.
"You speak of necessity," Thorne said at last. "That Aquilea never sought war, only refused to kneel. But necessity, like war, is a matter of perspective. Valyrya’s necessity demanded expansion. Yours demanded resistance. And now, here we stand, staring at the cost of both."
Silias’s jaw tightened. "Is that how you justify it? That your hunger was simply a force of nature? That we were nothing more than stones in the river’s path?"
Thorne tilted his head slightly. "You mistake my meaning. This is not about justification, it never was. It is about reality. Aquilea has fought because it believed it must. Valyrya has conquered because it could. Now the war has bled both our nations dry, and the only question that remains is whether you will keep bleeding out of principle."
A silence settled between them, heavy with unsaid truths.
Silias let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Hah… you speak grandly, Thorne. But let me tell you something. Even if you were to outline a treaty fair enough to mend our wounds, why should Aquilea sign it? Why not continue to collude with the Daemons, using their distractions to keep your fleet off balance? From where I stand, it seems your empire's stronghold is nothing more than a sandcastle, slowly eroded by the relentless tides."
Thorne's eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the retort, but he kept his voice calm and deliberate. "You would rather see your people squander their strength chasing illusions, than forge a lasting peace? A sandcastle, you say? Yet even a castle built of sand can be rebuilt when the tide recedes, if only the builders have the will to do so."
Silias smiled. A slow, knowing expression, more akin to a predator baring its teeth than an act of amusement. "A poetic sentiment, Thorne. But tell me this, if Valyrya is so willing to rebuild after every tide, why did you salt the earth where our cities once stood?"
Thorne’s composure faltered, just for a fraction of a second. It was the smallest of pauses, the briefest tightening of his jaw, but Silias saw it.
"Ah," Silias murmured, leaning back with a quiet chuckle. "You speak of pragmatism. Of necessity. Yet your empire did not merely conquer, it made sure we could not rise again. When Valyrya took our outer colonies on shallower lands, it did not just occupy them; it razed them, drowned them in fire, made sure no Aquilean child could ever call those waters home again. Do not mistake me, Thorne, I understand war. I understand cruelty. But do not stand before me and pretend this was just the natural order of things."
Thorne’s fingers curled slightly at his side, though his face betrayed nothing.
Silias continued, his tone deceptively light. "So tell me, Valyryan. If your empire truly desires peace, if you wish for Aquilea to believe your words, will you return to us what you have stolen?"
The silence that followed was different from before. Heavier.
Thorne spoke at last, his voice measured but lacking its usual certainty. “I… cannot guarantee that.”
Silias exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a scoff and a sigh. “Then what guarantee do you offer, Thorne? What promise can Valyrya make that is not just another illusion?” He leaned forward. “Or is this peace merely another tactic? A pause until your empire finds the strength to finish what it started?”
Thorne straightened, regaining his composure, but Silias had already seen the moment of hesitation. And hesitation, in negotiations like these, was blood in the water.
“I do not deal in illusions,” Thorne said finally. “Nor do I offer empty assurances. What was taken cannot be undone overnight. But peace—true peace—demands compromise.” He met Silias’s gaze. “So I ask again, what would it take for Aquilea to believe in this peace? If not the return of outposts, then what?”
Silias considered him for a long moment, then leaned back. “Reparations,” he said at last. “For every city razed, every life taken, every future stolen. If you will not return the outposts, then you will pay for what was lost.”
Thorne did not react immediately. Such demands were expected, though expected did not make them any less formidable. "That will not be an easy demand to meet," he conceded. "But how much are you seeking?"
Silias leaned back as if to ponder.
Conversion rates between the Valyryan Virs and the Aquilean Lumen were notoriously complex. A twisted arithmetic where the Virs, a paper currency backed by gold, had little in common with the Lumen, the rare metals mined from the depths of the seas. Add to that the tangled history of both empires—a ledger of grudges, betrayals, and bloodshed—and the sum became a battleground in its own right.
“Six hundred million Virs.” Silisa finally said.
Silence followed. A beat. Two. Thorne did not flinch.
“Six hundred million,” he repeated. Not a question, nor quite a challenge.
“And,” Silias continued, “a reduction of your naval presence in the Swirling Ocean. As well as unrestricted movement for my people through your territories there.”
There it was. The full demand laid bare.
Thorne was not a career bureaucrat. He was a diplomat, a messenger, not a decision-maker. The authority to accept or reject such terms lay far beyond him. But that did not mean he was powerless.
Six hundred million Virs. A staggering amount to the common citizen, but to an empire? It was a year's worth of subsidies, meaning it was manageable in theory. But with a war raging on land, resources stretched thin, such a request would be anything but simple.
For now, he needed to buy time.
“I see…” Thorne exhaled, measuring his words. “Very well. I will relay your terms to my superiors.”
Silias studied him, as if weighing the sincerity of that promise. Then, with a slight incline of his head, he spoke.
“Do that. And tell them this.” His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “The tides will not wait forever.”
A polite dismissal. The negotiations was over.
Thorne dipped his head in acknowledgment, then turned, his gaze drifting momentarily toward the horizon. The ocean stretched vast and serene before him, belying the storm brewing beneath its surface. Then, without another word, he strode toward the waiting rowboat, where a sailor stood ready.
The moment he sat down, the boat rocked gently with the waves. He let out a slow breath.
Now came the hard part.
He needed to convince those above him that six hundred million Virs and a strategic naval retreat were not concessions, but investments. Pawns traded for something far greater down the line.
“Hah… so much for retirement.”
----------------------------------------
“But Your Majesty, that’s—”
Ries barely managed to protest before the Empress’ voice, refined and effortlessly commanding, cut through the telephone line.
“Ohoho, Lady Katzennia, pray do not burden thy mind with undue consternation,” the Empress chuckled, a silken amusement laced in her tone. “As I have said, Democratic Centralism, at its core, is a most fitting structure for my empire.”
Ries clenched her jaw. “But—”
“Ah, let me remind you,” the Empress interjected, her voice never losing its elegance, “that the present constitution, though enshrined with noble intent, is but a vessel, subject to the tides of necessity and wisdom, or the betrayal of its constituents. It was not writ upon stone, no, it was penned by men, and what men have wrought, men may amend.”
Ries’s tail flicked in irritation, her ears flattening slightly. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, this isn't just an amendment. This is a complete restructuring of governance. If you centralize all authority under the Crown while keeping the illusion of representation, people will see through it.”
The Empress let out a soft, knowing hum. “Shall they? Or shall they see what is placed before them? The semblance of choice oft placates even the most unruly of spirits. A council may debate, a chamber may bicker, but who, pray, shall hold the pen when the final decree is writ?”
Ries exhaled sharply through her nose. “And what of the aristocracy? The ones who will see this for what it is, an erosion of their influence?”
A delicate laugh, rich with amusement. “My dear, thou dost assume they are blind to their own irrelevance. The wise among them have long since learned that true power does not reside in titles nor ancient bloodlines, but in proximity to the throne.” The Empress’s voice lowered, growing ever so slightly more serious. “And those who fail to see this… shall be reminded. Like they always do.”
Ries hesitated. She knew what that meant. A reminder from the Empress was seldom gentle.
Yet, the sheer audacity of it all gnawed at her. “Your Majesty,” she said carefully, “there are already voices—socialists, republicans, liberals, even conservatives—calling for a real parliamentary democracy. The current constitution is structured well enough to maintain the Crown’s influence while keeping Parliament in check.”
The Empress exhaled a soft chuckle, the kind that sent a chill down Ries’s spine. “Ah, mine dear Lady Katzennia, do you truly believe these disparate factions to be aught but quarrelsome children grasping at the illusion of power?”
Ries’s tail twitched. “They won’t stay quarrelsome forever.”
“Indeed not,” the Empress mused, “but unity does not always herald strength. A beast with many heads oft tears itself asunder ere it may take a single step forward. Tell me, who among these factions dost thou believe capable of seizing power without fracturing upon the first blow?”
Ries already knew the answer. Of the many factions poised to dominate the future Parliament, two stood above the rest. The Socialists and the Conservatives. Naturally opposed, yet destined to shape the coming political order.
But even with them at the forefront, a thousand and five hundred seats spread across both chambers would inevitably breed factionalism. Divisions would form, alliances would shift, and infighting would weaken any true push for reform.
The most obvious example was the CDLWP, the Coalition of Democratic Liberals and Workers Party. On paper, it was a united front, a shared banner under which liberals and socialists rallied. In reality, it was a precarious alliance, held together not by ideology, but by necessity, and by the force of a single leader.
Anya.
She was the keystone holding it all together. Without her, the coalition could shatter overnight. The liberals, wary of the radical socialists, might ally themselves with more moderate factions, while the workers—disillusioned by half-measures—could swing toward extremism. The CDLWP’s strength lay in its sheer numbers, but numbers alone could never ensure stability.
And the Empress knew this all too well.
Ries never considered herself a politician, even after assuming the mantle of Prime Minister. Yet her heritage inclined her to sympathize with the Socialists.
When the Empress had earlier declared her intentions over the telephone, Ries had replied with measured resignation, “I will discuss this with my advisors.”
The Empress had chuckled in refined amusement, “Naturally. Very well, I shall continue my bath,” and with that, the line had gone dead.
Ries slowly set the receiver aside and sighed heavily. Great, another job added to her ever-growing list.
Moments later, Clarissa entered, placing a folder on her desk. “Madam Prime Minister, a document from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
Ries brightened. “Ah! Is it the update on the Aquilean peace negotiations?” She swept the rather thin document across her desk and flipped it open, scanning its contents.
“Fancy yourself excited over foreign affairs, Madam?” Clarissa teased.
Ries’s feline ears twitched, but she ignored the jab. “No mention of any counteroffers… Thorne must still be stalling.”
“Buying time,” Clarissa agreed. “Standard diplomacy.”
Ries clicked her tongue. Six hundred million Virs was hardly an insurmountable sum on paper. The real sticking point was the naval retreat. The Swirling Ocean was the strategic artery, the lifeline of Imperial trade and influence. Any concession there would be met with fierce resistance, not only from the military but also from the aristocracy, the industrialists, and every bureaucrat invested in maintaining Imperial dominance.
“Clarissa, help me tone these terms down,” she instructed, picking up a red pen. As she scribbled annotations on the document.
“Six hundred million? No, that must be reduced. Reduction of capital ships? Allow, at most, two battleships, those with eight batteries remain indispensable. Reduction of support vessels by seventy-five percent? Better scale it back to fifty. Extend the reduction period. Narrow the DMZ’s radius. And ‘no aviation vehicles’? Nonsense.”
Clarissa leaned over, watching as Ries methodically sliced through line after line with ruthless efficiency. “You’re gutting their demands,” Clarissa remarked, a trace of admiration in her tone.
“I’m making them realistic,” Ries corrected coolly. “If we hand them everything on a silver platter, we might as well paint a target on our backs for the next opportunist waiting to pounce.”
Clarissa nodded, crossing her arms. "They’ll push back, you know."
"Of course," Ries muttered, circling another section aggressively. "But that's the point. We let them believe they’ve forced us to negotiate, make them fight for every concession, and by the time we reach an agreement, they'll think they’ve won something."
Clarissa smirked. "Classic compromise. Give them just enough to save face."
Ries set the pen down and cracked her knuckles. “Exactly. Now, let’s see how much they’re willing to bleed for it.”
Clarissa picked up the revised document and gave it a careful once-over. “I’ll have this drafted formally and sent back through the proper channels. Expect Thorne to respond with his usual complaints from the Aquileans.”
Ries stretched languidly. “Let them complain. If they truly desire peace, they’ll take what they can get. It’s a matter of attrition, after all. Who can bleed themselves dry first?”
"Yes, though I think we are forgetting something, or someone..."
Ries shrugged. “By the way, I’m taking a quick nap.”
Clarissa raised an eyebrow but only managed a nod before the office door clicked shut.
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To be fair to Lord-Admiral Montague, never in his illustrious career had he envisioned himself adrift in the middle of the ocean, alone in a rowboat, left to the mercy of the waves. He had attempted to row, of course—if only for the sake of his pride—but after thirty grueling minutes, he had abandoned the effort with a heavy sigh. Instead, he had settled into the boat’s creaking hull, propping his hat over his face, and resigned himself to a well-earned nap.
At least the Aquileans had been generous enough to provide food and water. For how long? Who could say? Perhaps until they figured out what to do with a high-ranking Imperial officer stranded in their waters or when an Imperial patrol finds him.
Montague exhaled slowly, staring up at the endless blue sky.
Welp... perhaps retirement isn’t such a bad idea after all.
image [https://imgur.com/a/eA9Wfsd]image [https://i.imgur.com/JeEhoGI.png]image [https://imgur.com/a/eA9Wfsd]