At the Palace

20 December 1753.

I saw it. The Main District, which includes the Church District, is being renovated. It is impossible for this not to cause a post-war crisis. That much is certain. Prices for certain goods in Clockthon have already surged.

Today, I want to sneak into the clown circus. Of course, I will need a potion to imitate it. I have to go to the under-market today, but it feels so tedious if every day is only about errands like this. It seems I need to do something more interesting.

...

Inside the magnificent Heavenly Sword Palace gilded in gold, the king's throne stood atop a stepped stone platform. Made from heavy, dark metal, the chair had a symmetrical design with intricate details. The right armrest was shaped like a dragon's head, complete with scales and sharp fangs. On the left side, the armrest was carved into a human head with a blank expression and empty eyes.

Directly behind the throne, a sword three meters long was driven vertically into the floor. Its blade was broad, dark gray, and looked tremendously heavy.

The king sat upright. He wore full armor from his shoulders to his feet, suggesting he had just finished training or fighting. There was no royal cloak or ornament that day. His long hair fell to his shoulders, slightly damp with sweat. His dark eyes stared straight ahead with an unreadable expression.

"Your Majesty, we must find ways to cut the budget by any means necessary. There is no way our capital will survive otherwise," said Count Bestine Laurevant. His voice, normally calm like an accountant's, now trembled with tension. Laurevant, a middle-aged man with weary lines under his eyes, held a scroll packed with figures. His northern territory, Laurevant, was the kingdom's center of trade and banking, and he was the first to feel the brunt of the economic crisis.

King Theodemar I did not move. His pitch-black eyes stayed fixed, unreadable.

To Count Laurevant's right, Marshal Elric Montrevaux cleared his throat quietly. It was not the sound of clearing phlegm. Montrevaux embodied the military might of the realm. He was a large man, clad in the Headquarters uniform of Raufberg's army. His scarred face and neatly trimmed thick beard gave him a grim authority.

"Efficiency is just another word for weakness, Count," Marshal Montrevaux interjected in a hoarse, weighty voice. "You speak of budgets, while I speak of borders. Will the figures on your parchment stop legions from the Nashgal Theocracy if they choose to march north?"

Duke Rothenmaar, whose southern lands bordered Nashgal directly, nodded in agreement. He was a lean man with ever-watchful eyes. "The Marshal is right. Nashgal never sleeps. Their fanatical priests preach holy war daily. They see chaos in our capital as a sign from their god. Cutting the military budget now is like sending them an invitation."

Count Laurevant turned sharply toward Montrevaux, the scroll trembling slightly in his hands. "I am not suggesting we disband the army, Marshal. I am suggesting we stop funding grandiose projects that do nothing for our defense. Do we truly need three new fortresses in the Dragon Mountains when the existing garrisons are already undersupplied?"

"Those fortresses are deterrents," Montrevaux shot back, his voice rising. "They project power. They force Nashgal or any mercenary band to think twice. Strength is not just measured by the number of soldiers; we need that projection of force. This kingdom covers nine million square kilometers. Without it, the outer territories will start questioning the crown's authority."

Silence returned to the chamber. Managing a realm of that size required more than an army. It demanded flawless logistics, swift communication, and a robust economy to fund it all. The attack on the capital had crippled the economic arteries of the kingdom, and now they were feeling the aftershocks.

Grand Duke Albrecht Reingardt, ruler of Clockthon, finally spoke. His calm voice cut through the heated debate. Reingardt was the most imposing figure in the room besides the king. He stood nearly two meters tall, with silver hair slicked back and sharp blue eyes that seemed to pierce through thoughts. His domain, Clockthon, was the industrial heart of the realm, home to foundries, factories, and technical innovation.

"You are both right, and at the same time, you are both wrong," said Reingardt, his gaze shifting from Laurevant to Montrevaux. "Count Laurevant is right that we are headed for bankruptcy. Inflation in Clockthon has reached twenty percent. The price of steel and coal is skyrocketing. Guild leaders come to me daily complaining they cannot fulfill orders because raw material costs are suffocating them. If industry stalls, where will the Marshal get swords and armor for his soldiers?"

He paused, letting his words settle in the hall. "But the Marshal is right too. Weakness invites aggression. History repeats that lesson endlessly. Yet the true source of power is not fortresses or legions. We need internal stability. If our people starve, they will become a threat far more dangerous than the Nashgal Theocracy."

Duke Edmund Godfrey, who ruled the fertile northern plains, exhaled heavily. He was a big man with a ruddy face, more like a wealthy farmer than a duke. His lands were the kingdom's granary, and he felt the pressure from a different angle.

"The Grand Duke is right," Godfrey said in his deep voice. "This year's harvest was poor because of the long winter. Grain reserves are low. I have to raise taxes to meet the crown's quotas, and my people are growing restless. They hear about the capital's lavish reconstruction, about the Marshal's new forts, and they ask why gold is being wasted on stone while their stomachs are empty. This could become the seed of rebellion."

The debate circled endlessly. Laurevant demanded cuts to the military budget. Montrevaux and Rothenmaar demanded increased defense spending. Godfrey asked for food subsidies. Reingardt warned of industrial collapse. Each man defended his lands, his convictions, and his vision for saving the kingdom. They were all sincere, but their solutions clashed. The problem had no easy answer. Every choice carried heavy consequences.

Throughout it all, King Theodemar remained silent. His dark eyes drifted slowly from speaker to speaker, listening to every word, every argument, every emotion that surfaced. He had taken the throne through war, not inheritance. He had unified a fractured realm with a sword, not diplomacy. He knew that peace was a fragile lie, upheld only by the constant threat of violence.

Finally, after a long silence following Duke Godfrey's plea, the king moved.

He did not speak immediately. He simply raised one hand, his index finger pointing at Marshal Montrevaux.

The entire chamber held its breath.

"Marshal," the king's voice rang out for the first time. It was hoarse, deep, and carried the weight of command. "How many of our spies are active inside Nashgal right now?"

The question took everyone by surprise. They had expected the king to side with one faction, to make a ruling on the budget. Instead, he had changed the entire direction of the discussion.

Marshal Montrevaux looked momentarily startled. "Your Majesty, our intelligence network has suffered several setbacks since the incident in the capital. We have lost contact with a few key assets. At this point, I would say fewer than a dozen reliable agents remain."

The king nodded slowly, as if the answer had already been expected. His gaze shifted to Duke Rothenmaar. "Duke, your last report mentioned troop movements near the border. What is the nature of these movements? Are they combat legions or merely reinforced patrols?"

Rothenmaar hesitated. "My scouts report light cavalry and infantry units, Your Majesty. They are moving along main supply roads. It could be preparations for an invasion, or just routine drills meant to intimidate us."

"So we do not know," the king concluded flatly. "We are blind to our enemy's intentions and reacting to shadows."

He then turned his attention to Count Laurevant. "Count. Your revenue projections for next year. Do they factor in the possible reopening of the western trade route through Mossmere in Shur?"

Laurevant frowned. "Your Majesty, that route has been closed for a decade because of bandits and wild tribes. Reopening it would require an expensive military expedition. I did not include it because it seemed too speculative."

"Of course," the king said. His eyes swept over each of them, one by one. "We are arguing over how to divide an ever-shrinking pie while ignoring the possibility of baking a larger one."

The silence that followed felt different.

"We lack information, we lack initiative, and we lack imagination," King Theodemar continued, his voice sharper now. "Marshal, you want more fortresses. For what? To hide behind them like a tortoise? Duke Rothenmaar, you fear Nashgal. Fear is a poor advisor. Count Laurevant, you want balanced ledgers. Balanced ledgers mean nothing if this realm collapses."

He rose from his throne. His armor creaked softly. His footsteps were heavy as he descended the stone steps, the massive sword behind him towering like a dark monolith. He stopped among them.

"This is my command," he said, and none of them dared meet his eyes directly. "Marshal Montrevaux. I will not give you funds for new fortresses. Instead, the entire project budget will be redirected to one goal: rebuilding our intelligence network inside Nashgal. I want to know what their High Priest eats for breakfast. I want the name of every legion commander and their weaknesses. And I want forecasts, not reactions. You have six months."

Montrevaux's eyes widened, but he gave a stiff nod. "Yes, Your Majesty." This would be far harder than building forts, but an order was an order.

The king then turned to Grand Duke Reingardt and Count Laurevant. "Grand Duke, your industry needs resources. Count, you need new revenue. The two of you will work together to plan and fund an expedition to reopen Mossmere. I do not care how you do it — whether by hiring mercenaries, negotiating with the tribes, or sending your own soldiers, Reingardt. That trade route must be open within a year. The security of the expedition will be your responsibility, Marshal," he added, glancing at Montrevaux.

Laurevant and Reingardt exchanged looks. This was an unexpected solution.

Finally, Theodemar looked at Duke Godfrey. "Duke, your people must not starve. Submit a formal request for grain from the kingdom's strategic reserves. I will approve it. But under one condition. I want your strongest and healthiest farmers and laborers recruited for the Mossmere expedition. They will be well paid, and their families will receive double rations. We will turn a burden into an asset."

Godfrey bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Majesty. This is a wise solution."

The king returned to his throne but did not sit. He stood before it, his hands resting on the hilt of the sword mounted to his armor.

"You came to me with separate problems, demanding separate solutions. You failed to see that they are all connected. Our security depends on our economy. Our economy depends on our stability. And our stability depends on our strength to act, not just react. Stop thinking only about your own lands. Start thinking about the kingdom."

He paused, letting the final silence weigh the heaviest of all. "I have given you difficult tasks. Failure will bring consequences far worse than just budget cuts."

With that, he gave a signal with his hand, and the meeting was over.

The nobles bowed in unison. They had come for a political debate. They left with a military campaign, a massive economic project, and a dangerous intelligence operation.

As they departed one by one, only King Theodemar remained. He walked back to his throne and finally sat. For a moment, deep exhaustion showed on his face before his calm mask returned.

He looked at the dragon head on his right armrest, then at the human head on his left. Strength and Humanity. Conquest and Governance.

He had given his nobles a shared goal, an external enemy and an internal challenge to bind them together. It was a necessary step.

His spy network in Nashgal had been withering and wiped out piece by piece.

And Mossmere was not only infested with bandits. The last report to escape before his agent was killed spoke of assassins who had quietly taken control of several trade routes there.