“There weren’t any conflicts. Why?”

“What do you mean?” Iarvahr asked him, uncertain.

“Your story. One bit doesn’t make sense to me - joint expedition of Glaeria and Citadel, and then a conflict - a violent conflict - between Glaeria, and us. Dead people. But there were no larger conflicts between our nations, no vendetta? Did the Triarchy and the holy cunt come to an agreement, or what happened?”

Iarvahr sighed. “The Triarchy doesn’t know what exactly happened. To them, the expedition ended catastrophically with plenty dead, and one survivor that won't speak of what happened.”

Suranihr stopped in his tracks so suddenly that the artifacts in his backpack clanged together. “You’re not serious. The Triarchy doesn’t know?”

***

Triarch Argyl Hanur did not relish in his current work. For the last ten minutes, he was looking at the pile of papers stacked atop one another on his large table made of dark wood. He couldn’t bring himself to take them in his hands, read through them, and do all the bureaucratic bullshit he was supposed to do with them. He wasn’t a politician, he wasn’t a bureaucrat, and he wasn’t a diplomat. But for some reason, unknown to him, the public voting designated him as the new triarch instead of the late Tira Gluun.

He struggled with it, and he had no idea how other two triarchs thrived on their posts. He was a man of invention, a man of technology. His life was dedicated to metal, oil and steam, not paper and diplomacy.

“You look terrible.” Triarch Ceryna Gordi walked into his workroom unannounced. Her chestnut colored hair, fashioned into a number of small, finger-thin braids, made her look much younger than she actually was. Combined with her ample bosom covered by a tight, gray blouse and dark brown breeches running down her legs, she was a sight to behold. Oh, and the boots… How Argyl loved the look of her knee high boots with high heels…

He had to admit that she was right. Large, dark rings under his eyes, combined with his long unbrushed black hair really couldn't be thought of as fashionable. Same went for his black mechanic coat. It was a piece of useful leather clothing that offered protection from machine oil and, at least to a degree, fire and steam, but it really wasn’t the hit of the current style.

“Look at this pile of shit I have to sieve through. Scout reports, army movements, calls for… I don’t know what. What am I supposed to do?”

She chuckled and sat in the chair in front of his desk. “You are supposed to read through them, and come up with a response, or with some solution.”

“No, Ceryna. I am supposed to have my hands covered by metal filings, oil, and dirt. Not ink and drying sand.”

“Stop it already and grow up, Argyl. You do this every week. You let the reports pile up in front of you, you are disgusted by them, you refuse to do what you were chosen to do… But eventually, you do it. Quickly and efficiently. So just do it.”

He sighed and leaned to grab the first document from the pile. “You’re right.”

She laughed. “Always.”

He opened the first document. “You’re welcome to help.”

She chuckled, grabbed the second document, and started to read loudly. “Scout L. Jaren, reporting from north Kryota. The Whispers started to gather in large numbers. So far, no aggression from their side was observed. Kryota doesn’t request any military help. Medical help and supplies are, however, very welcome. I enclose a list of needed equipment. I request trained personnel to arrive with the equipment.” She put the document aside. “I’ll send the document to the logistics officer. Of course, we will send them whatever they require. If you permit, Triarch of war. ”

Argyl did not listen to her. His eyes were buried in the document he read,his face pale, drained of blood. “What’s wrong, Argyl?”

He read aloud. ‘To High Triarchy of the Citadel. Glaerian borders are closed to any and every subject of the Lands of the Citadel. The trade between the Holy Glaeria and your faithless country is forbidden. All subjects of the Lands of the Citadel, that are currently located on our holy soil, are taken as prisoners of war. Your appeals for their release are not welcome. They will answer for the crimes of your nation, of your people. For far too long, we have suffered your heresy and your lack of faith. Expect no mercy from us, nor from our god. Signed, His Holiness, Victon Pios.’

Ceryna ripped the letter from his hands and read through it quickly. In the faintest voice, she said the words that would haunt her for the rest of her life. “This is a declaration of war.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He shook his head in thought. “You do not declare war, Ceryna. You start it. You send your armies, attack before the enemy can muster their defenses. You don’t announce your intentions.”

She was visibly confused. “I don’t understand then, why would they send this letter?”

He did not answer. Instead, he shuffled through the remaining papers. “Look here. Malorea, ending the trade relations with us. And here, the same message comes from Antigan, but… Remind me, Ceryna, who rules in Malorea?”

“High lord Heers.”

“Yet this was signed by high lord Xanwryn, not high lord Heers.”

***

“How much longer do you want to stay under their thumb? How much longer are you willing to suffer their tyranny?“

“Tyranny?” High Lord Heers straightened and crossed his arms on his breasts. “What tyranny would that be? The medicine that they sent to Malorea to battle the plagues and fevers of our common folk? Or their architects and engineers and mechanics, who rebuilt our war-torn cities and lands to their former glory? What tyranny would that be, Victon?” He almost spat out the name of the Glaerian holy ruler.

One of the golden-cloaked Iseeth drew his sword. “Do not dare to address his holiness with such arrogance you blasphemous swine!”

“Shut your mouth and put away that excuse for a weapon you hold.” Heers spat on the floor in front of the warrior. “And you, Victon. Answer.”

“My honor-guard is right, High Lord Heers. You could use some… piety in your words. It is Malorea that is the vassal of Glaeria, not the other way around.”

Heers laughed heartily. “You know, Victon, I have been thinking about that a lot recently. Why exactly is Malorea your vassal?” He grabbed the goblet of wine from the large wooden table with carved, gold-inlaid leaf ornaments. He drank a mouthful before he continued. “Your protection? From whom, exactly?”

Victon answered calmly. “From the heresy. From the eternal torment that awaits you after you are laid to rest, eight feet under the ground.” A smirk blinked across his face. “From us.”

“I’m not planning to die anytime soon. But I…” His words ended in a violent cough, his face turned red. “I…” Heers looked at the wine cup in his hand. “Pois…” He fell on his knees, coughing violently, drooling foam and saliva. He tried to raise his shaking hand to point at his own companions, but to no avail. His eyes turned to Lord Xanwryn, his personal advisor. His closest confidant. His friend.

Xanwryn smiled at dying Heers. “I believe that this seals our deal, your holiness.” He turned his head towards Victon, and bowed deeply. “Malorea stands behind you. Malorea stands behind Glaeria.”

“As do we.” Queen Anaid said softly. Xanwryn shifted his eyes towards the Antigan queen. Her chubby, well endowed figure sitting comfortably in a large chair with heeled feet stretched and put atop one of the kneeling servants made his manhood almost instantly erect with desire.

Victon Pios, holy ruler of Glaeria, smiled. He looked at Heers shivering on the ground, his breath sounding as sand falling through hourglass. “Dispose of him.”

***

Triarch Argyl drank a small cup of strong alcohol distilled from a mixture of apples and apricots. “Something is coming. Something will happen, soon. We need to get ready.”

Ceryna was visibly upset and frightened. “Ready how?”

“Supplies. Food, medicine, weaponry and armor. Arrows, bullets, gunpowder.” He raised his eyes and met Ceryna’s. “Ready for war.”

“We shouldn’t panic. This letter… it’s written strangely.”

Argyl turned to the third Triarch. “Strangely how, Jerlan?”

“Stupidly. The wording. It’s meaning. The paper used, the ink used. It doesn’t seem… Official. And look, a signature of High Lord Xanwryn. I didn’t know that Heers died.”

Argyl looked at Jerlan with confusion radiating from his eyes. “It doesn’t seem official? Jerlan, for fuck’s sake, how would you want it written? On what paper? What are you, an imbecile? And yes, Xanwryn. Obviously, Heers is dead. Heers would not declare war on us!” He shouted the last sentence, but Jerlan was unmoved.

“Of course not. Not while his daughter still studies here. Maybe we can use her as a ransom…”

Argyl rolled his eyes. “Why the fuck did Triarch Gluun have to die instead of this senile fool?” he asked Ceryna silently, so that the old Triarch did not overhear him. She did not answer that question and instead asked one herself. “If this means war… Do you assume direct command?”

Argyl thought for a minute while Jerlan still muttered something unimportant. “No. But we need a competent Triarch of welfare, or at least someone acting in his stead. A trained medic would be best suited for this task. A medic that lived through a conflict or two.”

“Jerlan is a medic.”

“A senile one.”

Who is on your mind?” Ceryna asked.

“Iarvahr.” Replied Argyl without hesitation.

Ceryna shook her head. “Gone. His daughter however… Talented, well liked, lived through multiple hellish experiences in the world… She was decorated multiple times, as a war hero, as a people’s hero… ”

He stopped her. “I know Auria. No. Although she is an exceptional medic - and a person while we’re at it - I doubt that she would have the guts and the patience for the management of large scale conflict. Logistics, supplies, manpower, papers and transport, numbers… No.” He turned towards Ceryna’s assistant. “Get me Larais. Now.”

***

It felt like it lasted for a better part of the day, but when they finally found their way out of the tunnels, the sun was still high in the sky. “I can’t believe that we’re finally out.” Iarvahr muttered.

Suranihr just nodded. “I can’t believe that we haven’t encountered a single shriek on our way out.”

Iarvahr looked around them at the amassed fleet. “Maybe one of the things we’ve grabbed from that room somehow repels them.”

Suranihr chuckled dryly. “There isn’t enough strength in me to doubt that, Iarvahr.”