> “Two Archons assemble before us. Let’s raise Hell.”

* Rasp Swift, , during the Riots of Gold and Glass

“The has declared war, Your Eloquence!” The , only slightly winded after running through the Palace of Paragraphs for several minutes, spoke with the urgency her message required.

“Then Diren’s assembled military and Diplomatic Corps will defend our shores, as is our right.” The , directly below the in hierarchy, spoke concisely and simply, sending orders as he breathed, though not in the way of Esultaran and , but more like a professor diagnosing logical faults.

“You don’t understand, my lord-- they’re declaring war on both Diren and Kandrev, and launching a dual offensive. And Zade the Merciless is heading the legions that are attacking us!”

“Get me and the rest of Command data. Level report, if you please.”

“He’s a level 31 , with twenty years of experience. At 45 years old, he’s the youngest general to achieve such a level on any continent in more than six hundred years. He’s known primarily for his fast, brutal tactics, lack of care for his men, and obsessive, bloodthirsty dedication to victory, even if it overextends his resources. He has pretty obvious buttons to push, if I may be candid. Additionally, his skill at naval warfare is minimal, so catching him before he can land and establish a firm front will likely disrupt his concentration and ability to fully exercise the power of his class.”

“A solid report. Make sure all the necessary individuals have it in triplicate. .” The used his most powerful Talent without blinking, and the felt her heart beat faster, and her mind and body flooded with power. She’d just seen a level 30 Talent, one that would take more than a week to regenerate, used as casually as could be. If anything declared the transition from peacetime to wartime, it was that.

The commanding man turned to the door not too far away from him as his messengers scattered. Behind it, a very old, contemplative man, the second-highest level living man on Esun (perhaps third if you counted Vainen, but the Speaker didn’t know that) was, as always nowadays, silent. He went forward to knock, hesitated, then did so anyway. Three wraps, proper and sharp, each one.

There was silence, perhaps a quiet shuffling, then the heavy old wooden door, dusty from lack of usage, hinges in need of an oiling, opened. A one hundred and three year old gentleman, clad in the robes of his station, stood there, expectant.

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“I-- I just wanted you to know that we’re at war, Your Grace.” The ever-commanding, ever-well spoken sixtyish man spoke as if he was a nervous schoolchild.

“I know, Atradius.” The man spoke softly, familiarly, using the man’s first name, as if a father speaking to a son, or a teacher to a student. Every statement he made had an air of totality to it, as if he needn't say anything more to explain his point.

“I-I just meant, I thought it was about time you give a grand proclamation, o-or some such.” He didn’t know what had gotten into him.

“.” Quaed Aquarius, , was the second currently living person on Esun to have achieved level 40, or “the other one”, as many history books detailing his era would likely think of him. His voice was soft, but carried to all ears who would stop to listen, and many who would not.

“You know, I wished, in my youth, to be a simple , a bleeding heart content to whittle away at meaning in my little corner of this land. But a higher calling was asked of me, and I could in no good conscience refuse it. And here I am, three-quarters of a century later and thirty levels higher, and you ask for a grand speech. My class yearns to give it, but I have no stomach for such hollow theatrics any more. What I will give is life, and power. . Two hundred new soldiers were just created for your grist will, Atradius. Hurrah.” He spoke dryly, almost bitterly. “. That should put a few enemy ships at least on the backfoot, staring at the ceiling in the dead of night, wondering if they’re truly doing the right thing. . Something for the on-the-fence bastards, too.”

He listed off Talent after Talent, but there was something half-hearted, rote, and weary about the epic power the intellectual centurion was bringing to bear. It was a full three minutes later that he accepted a goblet of water and drank greedily, then said, without much fanfare: “There. I have contributed what five level 30 could to the proceedings, or perhaps ten . A century of life, a century of knowledge, dozens of Talents, all spent in minutes. Is that the grand last stand against the invaders you wanted? Or should I pontificate on the soul of man too while I’m at it?”

“When did you break, Your Grace?” A lowly , from nowhere, asked the question that people thrice his level would never dare to. Atradius turned to berate him, but the Archspeaker raised a pacifying hand and spoke after a moment of tense quiet.

“I broke in the Autumn, some twelve years past. I gazed upon the foulness of those that we worship, and my will broke, young man. I’m done with the theater, the trivialities of power rivaled by a handful, of the puppetry. I’m done with all of it. Oh, and one more thing: . I love that Talent.”

Like a shockwave, his greatest ability traveled across air and over water, igniting the hearts of every Direnian on the continent. And when the Continent of Diplomacy went to war, they did so with hope alight within them and the half-hearted force of one of the greatest leaders in all of history at their back.