Die anderen Nationen

Elara Callen, daughter of diplomat Julian Callen, somewhere off the coast of Novera City:

Translated to English for future readers' conveniences.

The ship sways left and right, a slow, nauseating roll that's probably nothing to an experienced sailor. To me, though? Absolute hell. That's why I'm hunched over a bucket, dry-heaving for the hundredth time, even though my stomach ran out of things to throw up three minutes ago.

Footsteps. Then my dad's voice—light, casual, like I'm not currently dying. Typical.

"You okay, sweetie? Maybe this trip wasn't the best idea."

I lift my head just enough to glare at him. "And who was it that insisted I had to come? Something about 'broadening my worldview' and how 'the ship's not nauseating at all'?"

"Well, it's not… for me." He smiles like that makes it better. "But! We're only a few hours from port."

I groan. "You said that three days ago."

"This time it's true! I just saw the shore."

"Yeah, you also saw the shore of a random island yesterday."

Dad ignores that and gently pulls me up, grabbing my bucket along the way like he's done this before. He leads me to the bow of the ship, where—finally—I see it. A proper port. Not just any port, either. This one is huge—cranes towering over the docks, tall piers designed so ships can unload directly without tiny rowboats ferrying cargo back and forth. Actual civilization.

Most importantly? An ice cream shop.

Dad follows my gaze and chuckles. "I see where you're looking. I'll buy you some when we get off."

I sigh dramatically. "Thanks, Dad."

Much later than I'd hoped, the ship finally docks. The moment the chains are secured, Dad wastes no time ushering me onto the pier, his guards moving into formation around us. The air is thick with the scent of salt and oil, a mix of ocean breeze and industry.

Waiting for us on the pier is a small reception party—soldiers standing at attention and a well-dressed man who looks just important enough to be the one in charge. He steps forward with a bright, polished smile, the kind that feels practiced but not necessarily fake. His voice rings out with clear enthusiasm:

"Welcome to Novera, the finest port in this part of the world! I am Roderic Vynn, the mayor. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador."

Dad matches his energy instantly, wearing that same diplomatic cheerfulness I've seen him use a hundred times before—the kind that's just friendly enough to put people at ease, but careful enough not to give anything away.

"Likewise," Dad says smoothly. "Julian Callen, from the Velshar Republic, representing the Senere Alliance. And this little treasure—" he tugs me forward slightly "—is my daughter."

I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. Little treasure? Really?

The mayor studies me for a second, his gaze sharp but not unkind. He's wary, not judgmental, which means I should probably act like a shy, well-behaved diplomat's daughter instead of a miserable, seasick teenager.

I fumble my words just enough to sound awkward. "Hello, um, my name is, uh… Eleria—no, uh, Elara Callen."

The mayor's expression softens just a little. He probably isn't fooled, but at least he understands I won't be involved in any real negotiations.

The mayor's demeanor shifts abruptly. The polished, cheerful mask vanishes, replaced by something far more serious—his eyes sharpen, his posture stiffens.

"As much as I'd like to speak at length," he says, voice now clipped and urgent, "the Empire is moving fast. Too fast. The panel is being convened as soon as possible—today. Your attendance is required."

Dad's expression changes just as quickly. The easy charm drains from his face, replaced by quiet focus, though I catch the faintest flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

"I see," he says. "Then let's not waste time."

Without another word, the mayor gestures for us to follow. A sleek limousine waits at the edge of the pier, black and spotless, its tinted windows hiding whatever discussions are meant to stay unseen. Dad and I slide into the middle seats, his guards filling in around us like clockwork.

The door clicks shut. The moment we're sealed inside, Dad turns to me, lowering his voice.

"I was hoping for better," he mutters, rubbing his temple. "These nations outside the Alliance—so stubborn in their fight against the Empire, and yet, they still waste time scheming against each other. 'Too fast,' he says. When has the Empire not been that efficient? Either this is terrible planning… or they deliberately want certain nations absent from the convention."

His frown deepens, thoughts already running ahead. I try to follow along, but before I can think of anything to say, he suddenly straightens.

"Oh, wait! Stop here for a bit!"

The driver barely has time to react before the limousine screeches to a halt. Dad hops out, two of his guards immediately following.

It takes me a second to process what just happened. Then I see where he's heading.

Oh. Right. The ice cream.

I'd completely forgotten.

A minute later, Dad returns, holding a small cup in one hand. He hands it to me with a small smile.

"Here," he says. "As I promised."

I take it, the coolness of the chocolate ice cream already seeping through the cup.

Even in the middle of diplomatic chaos, Dad doesn't forget the little things.

The limousine glides smoothly through the streets, barely slowing as it weaves past sparse traffic. Unlike the bustling cities back home, there's an eerie efficiency here—clean roads, polished sidewalks, and an air of quiet order that feels almost… unnatural.

I press my forehead against the cool window, watching the pedestrians. They're all neatly dressed, walking with a practiced sense of purpose. Not a single beggar or loiterer in sight—until Dad leans over and subtly points toward a shadowed corner of a nearby building.

There, half-hidden in the alley's gloom, a ragged-looking man is being dragged away by two uniformed enforcers.

Dad shakes his head. "In diplomacy," he murmurs, voice low but firm, "it matters little what you actually are. Only how others perceive you."

The limousine slows, pulling up in front of a grand building carved from dark granite. Towering statues of great predators stand as silent sentinels along the facade, their stone eyes gazing down in eternal judgment.

Dad steps out first, adjusting his suit as he retrieves an unusually large, heavy-looking suitcase. He doesn't explain what's inside. He never does. Most of his guards follow, their movements crisp and rehearsed, but a few remain by the limousine.

The driver pulls away from the main entrance, navigating toward a side lot. But instead of leaving, the guards motion for me to follow.

I hesitate. "Uh… what exactly are we doing?"

They don't answer. Instead, they pop open a wide compartment at the back of the vehicle and start unloading a crate—one filled with mechanical parts.

The guards work fast, assembling the scattered components into something that definitely isn't just a pile of spare parts. I watch as wires are connected, panels are slotted into place, and a small antenna extends upward with a faint click. Within moments, the machine hums to life with a low, steady buzz.

One of the guards, a gruff-looking man with a permanent five o'clock shadow, smirks at me. "Hey, kid, ever wonder what your dad is really doing in there?"

Before I can answer, he presses a button. A faint crackle fills the air, followed by a distorted but familiar voice.

"Hello, can you guys listen, over?"

The guard presses another button. "Loud and clear, over."

"Good. We're going in. Over."

"Copy that. Over."

I blink. What.

I glance between the machine and the guard, my mind struggling to piece it together. The only devices I know that can do something like this are the bulky mobile phones back home—the ones that require signal towers to function.

The guard chuckles at my expression. "Government limits the tech civilians get their hands on," he says, tapping the side of the machine. "We've got the good stuff."

While half of the guards keep watch, the rest of us lean in, listening closely as the device continues to transmit.

A deep creak echoes through the speakers as heavy doors swing open, followed by the sharp clack of shoes on polished floors. Then, a voice—smooth, practiced, and carrying the weight of authority.

"Ah, welcome, Ambassador. With the arrival of the esteemed Sir Julian Callen, we can begin the convention."

Another voice cuts in, sharper and more impatient. "What about the ambassadors from the absent nations?"

"We can't afford to wait for them," the first voice replies, now tinged with urgency. "The Empire has nearly completed its withdrawal of conventional forces into garrisons. Meanwhile, their Rangers are already being deployed. In short the current state of the Free State Army is"

Before he can continue, a different voice interjects with a dry, almost amused tone: "free to use?"

A few muffled chuckles ripple through the room.

The speaker's composure cracks. "Goddamnit, this is an international convention discussing the Vareshin Empire's expansionism, not a classroom full of teenagers!"

The laughter dies down instantly.

A pause, then a weary sigh. "Anyway… where was I? Right. The Free State Army is still in development. It isn't fully prepared to face the Empire's elite forces…"

I mutter under my breath, "The Ranger?"

One of the guards glances at me and leans in. "Pride of the Empire's army. Light infantry, trained for independent operations in jungles and forests—"

Another guard cuts him off. "Talk faster, nerd. They're getting to the interesting parts."

The first guard huffs and rushes his words in a single breath, "They'retrainedfromthemomenttheyjoinforoverayeartobethebestintheirworkasasharpbladeoftheEmpire."

Then he wheezes, coughing as he tries to catch his breath.

A furious voice cuts through the discussion. "Are you even listening?! We don't need an escape route—we'll stand and fight! Our people are strong, they will resist the Empire!"

A thinly veiled mocking voice responds, smooth and biting. "Until the Empire treats them well enough, that is." A pause, then a smirk in their tone. "We all know the Empire isn't after land or resources—they have those in abundance. What they do need are talented, skilled individuals. And unlike the general populace, those people aren't so indoctrinated. Offer them a better life, a few privileges, and there goes your entire leadership."

"You're accusing us of indoctrinating our citizens?!"

"No. I'm stating a fact." The speaker doesn't even try to hide their contempt. "The fact that most of your government and top businessmen are conveniently sitting in exile rather than fighting with their people says plenty. You're sacrificing them just to gain better leverage when negotiating with the Empire."

Then my dad's voice cuts through the bickering, firm and unimpressed.

"Alright, enough of this pointless banter! What exactly did you call me here for? The Senere Alliance has deals to maintain and renegotiate. I'm here to represent our shared interests, and you're wasting my time."

The room falls into uneasy silence. A few crackles of static buzz through the machine. One of the guards twists some knobs, then gives the device a solid smack. The voices become clearer—murmurs of discontent, some irritated grumbling.

Then I hear the scrape of a chair. A sharp intake of breath. Dad has stood up.

Immediately, the grumbling dissolves into a storm of apologies and carefully worded requests for patience.

He lets them squirm for a moment before sitting back down.

Finally, someone speaks. Their voice is measured, almost pleading. "The situation is dire. You see, we are… not as developed as the Alliance. We lack the means to resist the Empire properly, so we have no choice but to ask for help. Any military assistance would be welcome."

Dad doesn't hesitate. "How about none?" His tone is flat, almost bored. "You do realize the Alliance has to maintain the illusion of loyalty to the Empire. Even the smallest task force is enough reason for us to be 'dealt with.'"

A tense silence follows. The kind that suggests no one wants to say what comes next.

Dad doesn't let up. "What about your forces? You've spent decades, if not centuries, preparing for this. Surely, they're capable of fighting the Empire."

A new voice responds, measured but edged with frustration. "Yes, but we lack both the quantity and—more significantly—the quality of the Empire's military. Most importantly, we're in the same delicate position as you. None of us can stand against them alone, and if we openly send military aid, that's enough justification for the Empire to declare war on us as well."

Dad scoffs. "Hmph. Don't tell me you haven't considered using mercenaries."

A pause. Then, an awkward cough. "Well… most mercenaries are expensive and unreliable. And none of them are foolish enough to go against the Empire."

Dad doesn't buy it for a second. His voice sharpens. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Yeah. I know what he means, too.

He's not talking about hiring mercenaries—he's talking about creating a mercenary force. A group made up of soldiers discreetly supplied by these nations. That way, there's plausible deniability. Even if the Empire—or anyone else—sees through it, it won't technically count as direct military intervention.

The problem? No sane soldier would willingly fight in another country, especially against the Empire. Only the most elite, fanatically loyal troops could be deployed for something like this.

And those kinds of soldiers don't come cheap. They require time, training, and resources—things these guys clearly want to avoid spending.

A moment of silence follows—one moment too long.

Then, another voice speaks up, carefully measured. "So… military aid is out of the question. What about economic and political support? The Alliance still has considerable GDP and influence within the Empire."

Oh. I see what they're doing. Offer something unreasonable first, then negotiate downward to something more realistic. Classic.

Dad doesn't miss a beat. "Political influence? The same influence that keeps the Empire from wiping us off the map?" His tone is sharp, unimpressed. "We exist because we're useful. If we push too far, that changes. The Empire doesn't want to invade us, but that doesn't mean they won't."

A brief pause, then he continues. "As for economic aid… we could disguise it as humanitarian assistance. That part's easy. But you're underestimating the Empire." His voice drops, serious. "They've been at war for millennia. They understand the value of popular support. They won't block food shipments or medical relief—they'll match it. They'll send their own 'humanitarian' teams, their own aid programs, making it impossible for us to smuggle in weapons or money. If anything, they'll use it as an opportunity to root out resistance cells before they can even form."

A few shuffles, a cough—signs of discomfort. No one speaks immediately.

Yeah. This negotiation isn't going to be easy.

A familiar voice speaks up—though at this point, with so many voices arguing back and forth, it's impossible to tell who it belongs to.

"So… can you help us at all? Please?"

Dad sighs, his patience running thin. "Information and economic supplies—mostly food, to keep your populace from starving. Just be careful how much you take. If your people start suffering too much, the Empire will notice."

A relieved voice, probably the diplomat from the Free State Army, jumps in. "Thank you, great sir, we will not for—"

"Hold on," Dad interrupts sharply. "I wasn't finished."

Silence.

"First," he continues, voice firm, "you handle the entire transport fee. We bill you before each delivery—no exceptions. Second, we get all information on the war, confidential or not. Every battle, every casualty, every move the Empire makes. Third, we have the right to pull out of this agreement whenever we want, without notice, without explanation." He leans back in his chair, and I can practically hear the weight of his final words settle over the room.

"Is that a deal?"

I brace myself for the inevitable backlash—complaints, demands, maybe even a desperate counteroffer. But… nothing.

No protests. No resistance.

Looks like they've already learned their lesson.

Finally, the first speaker clears their throat. "We will hold a vote."

It takes a while, but the results finally come in—a unanimous agreement. Well, among those present, at least.

A guard from Novera City walks in, probably wondering why we're still here. His eyes land on us huddled around the strange machine, listening intently. He blinks, then makes the intelligent decision to walk right back out.

The speaker's voice crackles back to life. "We are pleased to reach an agreement with you and the Alliance, Sir Callen."

Dad replies smoothly, "Likewise, my friend, likewise. Now, I wish for my daughter to have a tour of the city, so let's not waste time—give me a quick rundown of the situation so I can leave."

The Free State Army diplomat clears his throat. "Yes, if I may. The current state of the anti-imperial resistance is… stable, for now. The Empire maintains control over the major cities, but that's a problem—those cities generate half of our GDP. Worse still, we only control about a third of the resistance forces. The rest?" He sighs. "A fractured mess—former enemies turned reluctant allies. Criminal syndicates, terrorist cells, escaped prisoners, even ethnic minority tribes. They fight the Empire, but not with us. At least… not yet."

Dad immediately picks up on the key flaw in their plan. His voice sharpens. "And what gives you the confidence to say they'll join the Free State Army?"

The diplomat doesn't hesitate. "First of all, none of them have popular support. Thanks to our… education, we have the people on our side—crowds flock to join us. But those other groups? They were unpopular even before the war. The second reason is materiel. We have international backing, while they're stuck scavenging from the Empire and the black market. Both options are costly—one in lives, the other in money. So with your support, and the support of others, we believe that while we may not be able to drive the Empire out entirely, we can at least make them bleed for every inch they take."

Dad exhales, mulling it over for only a second. Then, with finality, he says, "I see. Send me the details later. I have no reason to stay here any longer."

He stands, and the speaker's voice follows, respectful and measured. "Thank you, Sir Callen, for your time, understanding, and patience. We appreciate it. Goodbye, and we hope you have a great day."

Dad gives a short nod. "You too."

And with that, he strides out.

Dad speaks into the machine. "Shutting down on this side, over."

"Roger, over."

The guards immediately get to work, disassembling the machine with practiced efficiency. Each of them pockets a small part, likely a precaution against reverse engineering. Even if someone managed to steal the crate and reassemble it, the end result would be useless—just an incomplete pile of components.

Once everything is secured, they return the crate to its original position and settle back into their seats. I do the same.

The limousine rumbles to life, smoothly pulling forward toward the entrance. Through the window, I see Dad walking out of the building, the mayor beside him. Their conversation carries through the glass in muffled snippets.

"Is there any issue?" the mayor asks.

"No, none," Dad replies. "We reached an agreement beneficial for both sides. My presence there is no longer needed. Is there any touring service around here?"

"Yes, but if you'd like, I can personally show you the best spots in the city."

Dad nods. "That would be great. Thank you."

He steps into the limousine, settling into his seat with a sigh before turning to me.

"The guards let you listen in?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He leans back. "And that is why, despite sharing a common enemy, the Alliance doesn't work with them. We're on our own."

I nod as the limousine glides forward, beginning its tour of the city.

————————————————————

The limousine glides through the city streets, passing towering buildings, well-manicured parks, and spotless sidewalks. Clean, orderly—almost pristine. But beneath that surface, the cracks are obvious. I spot beggars being dragged away by uniformed enforcers, their struggles ignored by the neatly dressed pedestrians who continue on with their day as if nothing happened.

Inside the limousine, the tour guide speaks with unshaken enthusiasm, rattling off historical facts and architectural highlights. I don't listen. My mind drifts elsewhere.

A thought surfaces, cutting through the noise. I turn to Dad.

"What about the Kovask?" I ask. "They seem… very competent when it comes to fighting the empire. Or any invaders, really."

Dad stiffens. His posture straightens ever so slightly, and his voice, when he finally speaks, is slow and deliberate.

"Sweetie, things that are known can be dealt with. You can study them, predict them, counter them. But the scariest thing out there is the unknown. And by that logic, the scariest nation in the world is the Kovask. That's why we're here, in the East, and not anywhere near them in the West. I wouldn't dare go anywhere close to that place."

"It's that bad?"

"Yes." He exhales, like he's recalling something he'd rather forget. "The first recorded contact with them was when they sent a ship, crewed by lost and stranded sailors who'd crashed near their territory. The second time? They sent a ship filled with the corpses of their invaders—manned only by prisoners of war, chained to the deck."

I shudder.

"Has anyone ever seen them?"

Dad shakes his head. "No one knows what they even look like. The only thing we know is that they call themselves the Kovask… and that they are Avarin."

—————————————————————

Lucian Roth, spy in training, about 200 meters under the ocean floor and 2 kilometers below sea level:

Translated to English for future readers' conveniences.

I barely have time to register the loud bang before I'm launched off my seat, my ears ringing from the impact. The submarine groans around us.

Then, the intercom crackles to life, and the captain's voice—too calm for someone who just rammed a whole submarine into a cave ceiling—comes through:

"Apologies for that. Minor mistake in control. Ship ended up hitting the ceiling. It'll happen again—" A brief pause, then "What? Y'all are spies. Consider this extra training."

A collective groan fills the cabin. Once or twice, sure, mistakes happen. But this is the thirtieth time. At this point, they're probably doing it on purpose.

Still, I remind myself, I'm luckier than the guy who was unfortunate enough to be in the toilet when it happened. Judging by the stream of increasingly creative curses coming from that direction, he's not taking it well.

Someone in my squad snickers. "Hey, doesn't he still not have a callsign?"

Another voice chimes in. "Yeah, any ideas?"

A moment of silence. Then, from the back, a voice full of barely-contained laughter:

"Flyboy. The only guy to take a dump while airborne."

The cabin erupts in laughter.

"The only guy?" the poor victim shouts back. "Y'all think you can hold it in for that long?"

Someone yells back, "Nah, we can. We're not as weak as you."

He's lying. None of us can. I'm already near my limit.

The guy stumbles out of the bathroom, looking at us expectantly. I see where this is going and quickly come up with a solution. Grabbing a length of rope on the way, I step inside and tie myself to the toilet.

A second later, the door shakes violently as someone outside shoves against it. Bang. Then again. Bang bang.

The pushing grows stronger. "The door's stuck! What the hell did you do, Flyboy?"

"Nothing. It was perfectly fine when I used it."

I brace myself and shout, "It's locked."

A pause. Then laughter erupts outside.

"Oh right," someone snickers. "This is your specialty, isn't it? Invisible."

Ah. That. Right. How could I forget how I got this callsign?

It was back at the start of training. Our instructor decided to kick things off with a simple game of hide and seek. The twist? He had a paintball gun. One of my teammates made the mistake of laughing at it—until he got shot in the leg. Then he stopped laughing.

We all scattered, and one by one, he found everyone. Except me.

I don't know how long he searched, but by the time he gave up, everyone else had been rounded up. He sighed, called my name, and told me to come out.

I stepped up right next to him.

He didn't notice and sent everyone to search for me. 

When I tried to speak to him, he waved me off and told me to help search for… well, me.

I went along with it. It wasn't until noon, when he was seriously considering calling in search helicopters, that he finally turned—only to see me standing there the whole time.

He just blinked and muttered, "Boy, you'll make a damn fine spy."

And that was that.

Luckily, the submarine doesn't jolt while I'm in the bathroom, so I make it out in one piece.

The guy who was banging on the door earlier practically dives for the toilet the moment I step out—only for the instructor to walk in and grab him by the collar. "Nope. Sit." He drags the poor guy back to his seat, ignoring the groan of frustration.

Once we're all settled, the instructor claps his hands. "Alright, boys and girls, we're almost at our destination. So, good news for everyone who's still holding it in."

A visible wave of relief washes over half the squad.

"Anyway," he continues, "the job's simple: get in, kill the guy, get out. If you're smart, you won't even need the 'get in' part."

He tosses a folder toward us—right as the submarine smacks into something again, lurching violently to the right.

I'm seated on the left, which means I get shoved into the wall. The poor bastards on the right nearly go flying, but they're trained enough to brace themselves. The folder, however, isn't. It spins midair and smacks me right in the face.

I peel it off as the instructor mutters, "I swear, every damn time I take this route, we hit this exact turn. Either it's a necessity… or the longest-running joke I've ever seen."

I skim through the folder and pass it to my right. Standard procedure—get a quick overview, then let the others dissect the details.

The instructor stretches, letting out a sigh. "Well, I'll be taking my leave. If you've got any issues, drop by my office. I'll help… unless I'm drunk. And boy, do I want a good drink right now." Without waiting for a response, he steps out, leaving us to our work.

I lean back, letting my mind process the man I'm about to kill.

He's a bit more handsome than average, slightly taller, fit, and missing his middle finger—courtesy of an 'accident.' That accident, of course, was another team's last assassination attempt. The good news? No one figured out it was an actual hit job. The bad news? He's paranoid as hell, but since no one else believes him, his security hasn't improved.

That paranoia, however, is precisely why he needs to go. He came too close to uncovering one of our assets—a particularly valuable one. The asset in question has been crucial to another veteran spy team's infiltration of their so-called "spaceport." Whatever that means.

The Kovask Holy Kingdom—our great nation—lacks the sheer manpower and specialized talents of the Empire. So, we do what we do best: steal their tech and mass-produce it using the real advantage we have—an obscene amount of resources.

This guy? He's a loose end. And loose ends get cut.

One of my teammates leans back and asks, "Hey, Flyboy, aren't your parents senators or something? You got any insider info on this 'spaceport'?"

Flyboy shrugs. "Yeah, but only my mom's a senator. My dad's job is classified or something. Why ask me? Invisible has a noble family name."

I sigh. "Just the name. My dad's a chef, and so is my mom."

There's a beat of silence before Flyboy continues, "Huh. Anyway, Imperials have been launching stuff into space, and these 'spaceports' are where they fire their rockets from."

"Wait," someone else interjects, "doesn't that mean our secrecy is compromised?"

Flyboy grins. "Nah. These satellites follow predictable orbits, and the king and senate just approved missiles with enough range to take them out. We'll just shoot down any satellite that can spy on us."

A satisfied nod. "Good, good. Gotta keep the foreigners out."

Before the conversation can go further, a deafening bang shakes the submarine. Again. We're launched off our seats for the thirty-oneth time. After a round of swearing at the captain—who is most definitely doing this on purpose—we finally get back to business.

"Alright," I say, cracking my knuckles. "Let's talk assassination."