The Purging Fire (completed)

31 October 1838
9:46 pm
On a Wednesday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Sir Nils Edvard Druuring waited, on edge. It was All Hallow's Eve and Absalonhöll very much felt like it. The cold fall rain battered the windows as dim candles illuminated dark hallways. And death seemed to permeate everything.

He waited as his wife, Princess Alexandria Loðbrók, spoke with Royal officials. They had come here with a feeling as to what would await them. Nils saw his wife, her head hanging and a hand moving to her mouth. He could tell their worst fears had been right.

His wife's father, King Rikard IV of Prydania, was dying.

He breathed deeply as his eyes darted from the paintings, tapestries, and statues that adorned the royal palace's hallways, to the wooden panels so intricately decorated with Nordic runes and depictions of Thaunic gods and Messianic Saints alike.
He desperately wanted to comfort his wife, but he knew he couldn't interject. What Alexandria was doing now... well... he could guess. She was being prepared for the end. And what would come next.

Of course they'd prepared for this... but there was always something keeping it distant. Luta. His wife's older sister.
The sick King had no sons. Just two daughters. Luta was the one who was supposed to succeed him but she had gone missing years ago. For years and years the King and Queen held out hope that Luta would be found... it was a hope that eventually consumed the Queen. And now it looked like it would consume the King. It had only been a few months ago, when King Rikard IV's health began to turn for the worst, that he sensed what he had to do. He consented to Luta being declared dead. Alexandria was named his heir in her place but...

... but Nils and Alexandria had always perhaps wondered if Luta would show up? She was rebellious, headstrong. It wouldn't be beyond her to turn up somewhere after all this time.
But now Rikard IV was dying. And Luta was still missing.
The thing they had assumed would always be distant was here. Alexandria would be Queen. But first... first she had to say good bye to her pabbi.

"It's..." Alexandria said softly as she broke away from the royal officials and the doctor to be with Nils.
"It...it..."

Nils smiled softly, and embraced her. Alexandria was never supposed to be Queen, but she would be. Just like they were never supposed to be married, but had been.
Rikard had wanted his daughter to marry an Andrennian noble to secure the alliance with the Nordika powers during the Second Nordic-Imperial War against the Syrixians. And Nils was Andrennian nobility, but he was lesser nobility. Both Rikard and the Andrennians objected but they loved each other. Alexandria had used the fact that she was, practically, her father's only surviving child to marry with her heart.
The same father she defied who was now dying.

"They say pabbi wont make it through the night," Alexandria whimpered as Nils held her.

Nils squeezed her reassuringly. Most people saw Alexandria as more controlled and proper compared to the rebellious Luta, but Nils knew that she could be just as defiant, just as strong. Which made her vulnerability here all the more powerful.

"If he's not to survive the night then you should see him. Be with him. Comfort the old hart in his last moments."

Alexandria nodded as her husband embraced her.
"Thank you love, for everything."

"You know I'll be here every step of
the way," Nils replied.

Alexandria sniffled, pulling back and looking her husband in the eye.
"I need to take this step alone though."

Nils nodded. He understood. He would have time to comfort his wife but right now she needed to say goodbye to her father.

"Go to him," Nils said softly. Alexandria smiled and kissed his lips, just a peck, before she reluctantly let go of him and made her way back to the doctor and officials, who led her to the King's chambers.

"He's as comfortable as we can make him," the doctor said softly as they walked down torchlit hallways.

"Danke, Doctor, for making his last moments pleasant," she said, her voice trembling.

"We will be waiting," the doctor replied as they got to the great doors.
"Just take as long as you need."

Alexandria nodded and forced the doors open to the candlelit royal quarters, seeing her father, sickly and bed-ridden. Still she remained stoic until the bedroom doors were closed and they were alone.

"Pabbi..."

"Is that my Alex?"

"Já Pabbi, já it is," she said softly as she made her way to her father's side, taking a seat and grabbing her father's hand. He gripped her's back with as much strength as he could muster.

"They say I won't make it through the night, but I suppose if I can hold out to the first of November I'll have showed them, eh?" he asked softly with a smile and cough. Alexandria smiled too... even through his illness, her pabbi had his sense of humour.

"Pabbi please, don't worry about that. I'm here to be with you. For as long as you need."
Her father was gaunt. And while his blond hair had begun to turn to silver years ago it was now a sickly grey. Still... she couldn't help but see the strong, proud man he had been. The man who had fought alongside his own father to drive the Calliseans away. A man she had admired as the strongest man in the world. Her everything. She had to stifle the urge to cry.

"I'm afraid," Rikard replied, coughing, "that there is..." he coughed again.

"Pabbi no, you need to relax and..."

"Alex no..." he breathed deep and steeled his resolve. What he had to tell her couldn't wait.
"Listen to me... I'm sorry I..." he coughed but composed himself.
"I loved both you and your sister with everything I had. I didn't want to admit she was gone. I thought I was keeping her memory alive, to hold out hope... but I realize it was unfair to you. I should have named you my heir earlier. I should have accepted..." he coughed furiously but shook his head to defy his daughter's attempts to quiet him.
"No... no... I should have accepted Luta was gone years ago. And treated you like the heir you deserve to be."

"Pabbi, if you're feeling guilty no. No don't...please don't let guilt over something like that dominate you in these ti...."

"No no...you don't understand Alex. There is something that being heir to the Prydanian Crown means. Something you must be invested with, before you assume the throne. I should have told you earlier. But now... now you'll know."

Alexandria was speechless. She's prepared herself for any number of things that her father might tell her tonight but as the rain and wind howled outside, as the candlelight flickered, she felt... unsure. And as she contemplated this Rikard raised a frail hand and pointed to the book shelf opposite of his bed.
"The top row. The red book, third from the left. The one with no title will reveal all... but it falls to me now to tell you the tale of Finnleik Scylfing."

Alexandria raised an eyebrow. The name "Scylfing" was familiar to her. It was her family's name before King Baldr III, her ancestor who overthrew the Korovans, adopted the Loðbrók name to show continuity with their cousins.
But she didn't know who Finnleik was.

"He was a cousin to Kaldor Loðbrók," her father continued. Kaldor was someone Alexandria knew. Most people the world over knew him, at least tangentially. Every major Messianist denomination recognized Kaldor as a Saint. He, along with King Vortgyn I and King Tobias I made up the trinity of Prydania's "Saint Kings."

"Kaldor had accepted Christ, but," Rikard smiled and chuckled even in his sickly state.
"A viking's habits die hard. Even after accepting Jesus and being baptized Courantist he sponsored viking voyages to the east."

Alexandria nodded. Finnleik was someone she had no knowledge of but she knew of the Prydanian vikings in Auroria. Still, she was curious. What was so important about this that her father would insist he tell her on the verge of death?

"Finnleik settled a port, a trading port to trade with the eastern peoples of Auroria. In time he came to befriend them, Alex. And maybe it was... maybe it was because he was a rare thing to them, an outsider and friend, that they came to him when they needed help."

"The Aurorians Pabbi?"

"Já... the Arianese. The great Golden Dragon clan of the far east..." he paused, feeling a rush of exhaustion wash over him.

"Pabbi I..."

Alexandria was cut off. Her father would continue this. Even if it took him to his last breath.

"They were under attack. From an ancient enemy. They faced utter destruction at the hand of a force older than even their own dynastic history that would spread darkness all over the world, and our ancestor Finnleik was all there was to defend them. He and his vikings, they pledged themselves to the Arianese Emperor. He was made the Lord of the Storm, Alex. And since his victory he brought an agreement back to St. Kaldor. That we would guard the secrets of the evil they defeated."

Alexandria's eyes went wide. Stormlord. The old title Prydanian kings were known by. And... and she could hardly believe what her father was telling her and her mind was log-jammed with questions.
"Us? Prydania?" she asked, finally.

"No, us, the sovereigns. The rulers of this land. We keep this secret. And we stand by if their call to us is ever made again... this has been a secret passed from King to Prince. My pabbi told me... and I told Luta.... but Luta, my Luta... she's gone..." he breathed deep.
"I should have told you this earlier. But you will be Queen. You must know. And you must tell young Harald when he is ready," Rikard said, referring to Alexandria's infant baby boy.

"Pabbi..."

"To wear the antlered crown is to carry the hopes and trusts of our country... but it's also a responsibility. No one but the Golden Dragon Emperors themselves and the sovereign of Prydania knows of this evil's existence. You must guard it with your life... until it's time to pass it to your son."

Alexandria could tell her father was diminished. Sick, gaunt, grey. But as he looked at her his emerald eyes seemed to flicker alive in the candle light. And Alexandria knew what was being asked of her.
"Pabbi..." she said as she bowed her head and held her father's hand tight.
"I promise you I will not let you or our oaths down."

Rikard smiled meekly...

"Then I only have one more request left of my daughter."

"What is it Pabbi?"

"Be with me.... please."

Alexandria knew what he meant. She sniffled as she held back the urge to cry. Still, she smiled and kissed her father's frail hand.

"Of course Pabbi."

And so Princess Alexandria set the red book down. The book that told the story of Finnleik Scylfing and his battles in Auroria against the Ten Rings.

---

Queen of Kings by Alessandra, 2:28

The Silver Crown Resort and Casino
Norvalle, Sil Dorsett

Arman Kagan was visiting the principality for the fourth time, and he returned to his most frequently visited establishment, the Silver Crown Resort and Casino in the Norvalle harbor district. In his past visits, he explored every inch of the casino floors, from the slot machines to the table games and even gazing at the entrances to the exclusive and private Haute Livre poker rooms, though he never entered one of them.

There was a girl he was interested in, one he had his eyes on many times in his past visits. He learned her favorite spot in the casino: room two of Haute Livre, 8 PM, Saturday nights, was when and where he knew she would be. This time, he was more prepared for the game he was looking to join, bringing with him stacks of cash and being well dressed; his suit made him look slim and classy. He waited for his girl to arrive, but as much as a half-hour passed and she never showed. Maybe she was early, and he was late? He went upstairs.

What he did not expect this time around was a pair of bouncers - or security guards, perhaps? - in front of the door to the room. He hadn't seen them on his past visits. Maybe they were there just to keep things exclusive; to keep out the lowborn rabble, he thought. But why now? He walked up.

"Name?" one of the bouncers asked.

"Kagan," Arman replied, opening the leather case to show the cash he brought, thinking that would be enough to enter.

The bouncer shook his head. "Not on the list," he said.

"Miss Allen is expecting me," he pleaded.

The bouncer shook his head again. "If she was expecting you, you'd be on the list," he said, dismissively waving Arman off.

"Well, that's unfortunate," Arman said, putting his right hand into his suit's pocket.

---

Malorie Allen, still the Sil Dorsettian ambassador to Prydania after having lost an opportunity to be the foreign affairs minister, was home for the weekend. Tonight was business. Marc Grosjean, the younger brother of Baroness Chloe and an entrepreneur himself, requested to meet with the ambassador to discuss various ideas for ventures and investments in Prydania. It was Malorie that suggested discussing it over poker; it was Marc that brought his private security along with some of his associates.

Malorie brought a small fortune to the casino, first earned through a combination of daytrading and gambling in the past, though now a larger portion of it was from the work of her friend "Deeps". As the game went on, she was making a profit off the backs of a few businessmen with a little too much liquidity for their own good and not enough mental acuity to keep it. Marc wasn't fairing any better than his associates, but he saw his losses as just part of the investment.

The hand they were on was nearly at the end, having already reached the late draw^[1]. There was already seventy thousand Livres in the pot, and only Marc and Malorie remained; the rest had folded early. Malorie spent a few seconds debating her move, staring at Marc and looking for a tell. Marc was smiling, and his expression was more flirtatious than focused. Malorie didn't pick up on that, thinking Marc's flirting was a tell. She was feeling greedy and confident in her hand. "All in," she declared. Before Marc even had a chance to call, the game was interrupted.

Loud screams of pain were heard from outside the door as a short struggle ensued. Everyone at the table turned towards the door, wondering what was going on. The door swung wide open, and Arman, having incapacitated the two bouncers, rushed in. With Malorie sitting at one end of the table, she was easy to pick out. Wielding a bloodied butterfly knife, Arman lunged at the ambassador, but Marc was in the way and the other four men at the table quickly tackled the assailant to the ground. One of the men stomped on Arman's hand, breaking his grip on the knife, and kicked the blade away while the others held Arman down.

First responders would arrive within minutes of the attack. Paramedics rushed the two badly bleeding bouncers at the door to the hospital with multiple stab wounds each; Marc was treated for a treated for a gash on his arm, and a couple of his associates had a few minor cuts earned during the struggle. Marc would need stitches to close his wound, but he got off light compared to his security. The police cuffed Arman with help from everyone in the room.

As Arman was stood up, he menacingly stared at Malorie, and let out a scream.

"The fire rises!"

---

Notes:
1. Late Draw - Known as the "River" in Texas Hold-Em. The game itself is referred to in-universe as "Five Card Hold".

Television static hijacked Lodestar News before a test pattern showing the emblem of the Ten Rings flashed on screen before more static led to the Satrap, sitting in a darkened room.

"Lesson two. No one is safe."

"Last night in Silver Crown Resort and Casino, a monument to the decadence and hypocrisy of the self-appointed democratic elite, the Silean ambassador to the Kingdom of Prydania was attacked by loyal soldier of the Ten Rings, and a martyr of everyone who exists in opposition to the moral imperialism of the Association of Nations. While Malorie Allen escaped with her life, make no mistake. She will never be safe. No one will ever be safe. Not as long as the AN continues to exist as a force imposing its will on the world."

He raised a hand, each finger adorned with a ring.

"The so-called democratic elite wrap themselves in their own moral superiority like a shield. Arrogant and haughty and oblivious to those around them. The militias of Sil Dorsett will not save you, Madame Allen, the AN will not save you. No one holding the reigns of influence will ever be safe from the wrath of the people who stand united. This is just beginning. Welcome, Madame Allen, to the first day of what's left of your life."

The screen fizzled into static...

---

Býkonsviði, Prydania

"Who is he?"

Max Hveiti shook his head.
"I don't know."

Kjell Svane tossed his pen across the cabinet room's table.

"I don't know what you want..." Max began before Kjell shook his head.

"I want the Goddamn ÖS Goddamn U to do it's job!"

"I can't explain it any more than I already have," Max replied, trying to stay calm.
"They appeared out of nowhere."

"That's... not exactly true."

Max grumbled as he turned to Brigadier Marshal Kaleb Stahl, head of Army Intelligence. The military branch of his ÖSU. The two had never seen eye to eye exactly... Kaleb felt it was because Max still held his Syndicalist past against him... but they'd grown more cooperative over the years. But this... this made him nearly lose it until he managed to reign himself in.
"It practically is," he said, instead keeping himself under control.

"Practically but..." Kaleb began, "the Ten Rings have been a rumour in the intelligence network for years."

"I don't concern myself with rumours, I concern myself with facts, and the fact is that until the kidnapping of the Iraelian AN ambassador there was no actual proof as to the Ten Rings' existence."

Kjell tapped the table a bit.

"Is Marshal Stahl correct? Were their rumours?"

"Intelligence work is full of rumours, Herra Prime Minister," Max replied.

"I want to hear about these ones," Kjell shot back.

Max grumbled. He rubbed his temples and sighed, but Kjell was patient. Max was making it known how much he objected to this line of questioning but Kjell knew he'd cooperate.

"There have been rumours for years, as far back as I can tell, of a cabal. The Ten Rings. Whispers amongst intelligence operatives and chiefs. But I can't stress how... nebulous these were. For every account, ever mention of the Ten Rings there are loads of instances where "unknown shadowy groups" get dropped and who even knows if they refer to the same group?"

"The Ten Rings though... they were mentioned by name."

"As far as I can tell, yes. My own operatives during the Civil War would even mention them. 'I heard this,' or 'some say that the the target was marked by...' stuff like that."

"And you never told anyone."

Max had enough.

"If you want to call every intelligence chief on the planet and march them into your office so you can chastise all of us, go ahead! But I am not the only one who didn't see anything. We were ALL blind, Kjell! And so you can yell at me over the past or work with me to try and fix it!"

"I just want to know why apparently everyone knew about these people and yet..."

"Because we didn't! That's what I'm trying to tell you! My job, the job of every intelligence chief on the planet, is sorting through half truths, lies, whispers, rumours, and trying to find the facts hidden in them. The Ten Rings were a boogeyman. A rumour. An urban legend. Every attempt to actually follow any lead, went nowhere."

"How many did you try?"

"The most important one."

"The Messianic League uprising," Kaleb added.

"That," Max confirmed.

"You suspected that there was foreign involvement," Kjell replied.

"I did. I suspected Kurt Ventur Jr, the arms dealer in Skanda. He had been a supplier and financier of the Syndicalist Republic. He was also a financier behind the Prydania Today clusterfok. Backing the Messianic League in their little uprising would have fit his MO of sowing discord in this country. But as I dug, it wasn't him. At least... not in the way I thought."

"I'm not on the mood for vague allusions, Max."

"Well you're going to have to be, because this is what fukking happened."

There was a pause, an uncomfortable one. Kjell looked pissed, but it was Kaleb who saved the room from exploding.
"Go on Max."

Max nodded. He wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss to kill Kaleb right now, but he continued.
"The money trail for the Messianic League was deep. It ran through so many third party brokers and shell companies layered in each other that it was like untangling a knot from hell. But I found a name. Indrid Kalt."

"Is that this... Satrap?"

"I don't think it's his real name. An alias, perhaps. Maybe a name or alias of a high level lieutenant of his. But at the time... I thought it was whoever was masterminding this finance ring the Messianic League was tied into. But then..."

"The black square," Kjell replied. The black square Max had frantically texted him the night the Satrap revealed himself to the world.

"It all fell together. Like... a puzzle. It was there... but I could never find the way the pieces worked together. No one did! But I saw it. Kurt Ventur Jr. Indrid Kalt. They were all part of this... this thing."

"Where are they now?"

"I don't know."

"How many are there?"

"I don't know."

"Have they infiltrated us or our allies?"

"I don't know, but it's fair assumption."

"What do you know?"

"That we're at war."

"War?"

"Herra Prime Minister, this group is responsible for funding and arming the Syndicalist Republic. They funded the Prydania Today outfit. They backed the Messianic League. They have a vested interest in this country. For reasons I don't know. We are digging, but I don't know anything but what I can confirm. And now our allies are under attack. I need to reach out to the Silean government."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Kjell asked.

"This group has survived because intelligence organizations are naturally secretive and suspicious of each other. We don't talk. We don't compare notes. I think, this one time, that might be worth trying."

"Go and contact them," Kjell sighed.
Max nodded and stood to leave when Kjell stopped him.
"I trust you and I are on the same page about what you tell them."

Max looked at him. He never really could get a feel for the Prime Minister, like he could with Aubyn, Brandt, and Aaker, and that bothered him. He knew what he was asking here though, and chose to interpret it as liberally as possible.

"Of course," he said with a smile, before leaving. He stuffed his papers under his arm and pulled out his cell phone, dialing up ÖSU HQ.

"I need to speak to William Aubyn. It's imperative I get in touch with the Sil Dorsett government."

Keizer Suites Tower
Djanstra, Kaliva

“All hail the Keizer! Choose Keizer Resorts, Djanstra’s one and only empire of affordability and quality!” The man grins, sticking his pointer fingers towards the camera.

“Cut!”

“Alright, there we go, that good enough for you?” After receiving a nod from the director, he quickly shucks off his shako and speeds back inside, shutting the doors to the rooftop deck behind him. “Djusatmān, I need to look into paying someone else to be me for these bits,” he muttered under his breath.

“Mr. Eaufsausen! Mr. Eaufsausen! We’ve been getting some negative feedback online over one of our recent ads,” a staffer says, running up to him.

“Kid, do you know how many ads this company cranks out? It’s a significant amount, you know, they tell me it’s impossible to go a day in Mjonsk or Avesnja without seeing at least one Keizer Resorts ad.”

“Jus-just look at this.”

The staffer sighs and pulls up a video on his cell phone, struggling to keep pace with Eaufsausen as they walk down the hallway.

“Really? You booked our HONEYMOON at a hotel in Iolanta?”

The faint sounds of gunfire and military aircraft could be heard in the background of the video as a couple argued with each other.

“But babe, the prices here… they’re super low…”

Several cockroaches scurry out of a wall as it crumbles to dust, allowing the Keizer to walk into the scene, interrupting the bickering couple.

“Folks, if you’re looking for an affordable vacation spot that doesn’t sacrifice anything with regards to quality,” he pauses, glancing back at an advancing army in the distance, “...or safety, then book a stay with Keizer Resorts! All hail the Keizer!”

The video fades to black as the resort chain’s (in)famously earwormy jingle begins, with a chorus singing out ‘Kei-Kei-Kei-zer, Kei-Kei-Kei-zer.’

The Keizer stares blankly at the staffer while pressing the button on the lift. “I don’t see what’s the problem here.”

“It’s a sensitive geopolitical issue, a lot of–”

“People are talking about it, aren’t they?” He shakes his head. “You’re new here, aren’t you? We operate under these two rules of business. One. Never, never defend. Two. No publicity is bad publicity. Now, let’s try and not waste any more of my time, I’ve got a meeting soon.”

He steps into the lift, the doors shutting before the staffer could get another word in.

“New hires…” he groans.

“Oh, good evening, Mr. Eaufsausen.” The lift attendant greets him with a robotic smile. “To the lobby, I presume?”

He glanced towards the lift attendant, dressed up in a double-breasted white coat blouse trimmed with fanciful gold buttons. The dark black color of the stiff plastic shako blended in with her raven hair.

“Yes, thank you Karolina,” he replied.

“Heading home for the day, sir?” she asked as her gloved hand daintily pressed the golden button inscribed with a capital L.

“Oh, yeah. My wife prepared lamb chops with somacchia[1] and naan. Jåhan really loves lamb chops, trust me, you’ve never seen someone so voracious until you’ve seen him trying to shove a rack of lamb down his gullet. I’ve said to him, you’ve gotta start watching your intake soon.”

“That’s nice to hear. How old’s your son now?”

“Oh, he’s turning twelve in a few months. Great kid.”

He stared at the golden, art deco-style mural adorning the lift doors, chiseled to craft a facsimile of ancient Craviterean and Gotic royalty. An intricate patchwork of deer antlers, eagles, heraldic lions, swords, shields.

Soon enough, the doors slid open, revealing the glamorous lobby that hid behind the other side. Lavishly decorated with ivory chandeliers and Suavidiciesque Columns, it was a monument devoted to the worship of grandeur and wealth.

“Have a great night,” he said, waving goodbye as his black dress shoes clacked against the black-and-white checkered marble floors. A group of middle-aged guests clad in Skandan shirts and polos sitting around the nearby cocktail bar set down their 370 Ꞃᴾ [2] cocktails to gawk and snap quick photos of the Keizer, who made the effort to put on a smile and wave as he made his way outside.

---

Cloud News Studios
Mjonsk, Kaliva

“...the biggest danger to our civilization. While alleging to be steadfast proponents of democracy, continued membership in this supranationalist, globalist organization would in fact undermine our democracy and fundamentally change our society for the worst.”

“Thank you for fighting for our country, Mr. Sauba. Folks, we’ll be continuing our media coverage on the Kalivexit Referendum after the commercial break.”

“Thanks for having me, Ljjkhnr.”[3]

Sauba smiled at the camera, and as soon as the camera crew gave the thumbs up, he got up from the table, making his way towards the studio’s break room. A small collection of scriptwriters and members of the production team had already made their way inside, pushing the poor tea machine to its limits. Slithering through the producers indulging in workplace banter over cheap, instant tea, he reaches the fridge, and grabs a small bottle of water from the rack. Swiftly gulping it down in a matter of seconds, he tosses the bottle into the rubbish bin and slinks out of the room, not saying a word.

“Ah, there you are, 'steranga! I’m heading out for today,” Kuthrum, his chief of staff, said, waving goodbye.

“Oh, uh, good night. See you,” he replied curtly, walking back towards the recording room.

---

The Crystal Cabaret
Sud Djanstra, Kaliva

The Keizer got out of a simple silver car, clad in a pair of sunglasses, a 1995 Djanstra Gators baseball cap, and a simple rust-orange polo to match the cap. As he walked into the building, he slid on a white jacket, giving a simple nod to the bouncer, who nodded back as he opened the door. The artificial neon lights beamed a collage of purple, pink, and light blue onto the room’s surfaces and into his eyes. Some god awful punkish, Mjonskslop[4] hyperpop rap song was reverberating throughout the room. He rolled his eyes and walked around the various tables peppered with greasy, drunk men hooting and hollering at the stage performers.

Approaching a stairway, he gives another nod to a bouncer, who undoes a chain and allows him walk up to a small table situated by the wall. A young-looking man with a slight, but noticeable moue sat there, staring daggers into the Keizer.

“Hey, you Padshah? The guy sent over by the, uh…?” he holds up his hands and flashes ten fingers, then makes a circle using his index finger and thumb. “I don’t know how cagey you guys are over being name-dropped. I mean, you did have that whole Iraelian Ambassador thing. Big news event. And that Sil Dorsett thing, too.” He chuckled, but Padshah remained stone faced. “But I’m not trying to put you guys down, or anything. Those stunts show you have some balls, and I hate doing business with people who don’t have any. There are aspiring entrepreneurs out there, I’ll say the words ‘Anmativeda’ or ‘Severoszlavians’ and they piss themselves and go crying to their mommies. Waaahh, waah. Weak, you know.”

A server walked up to the table, a rather young woman dressed in a white tank top and shorts. A pair of laminated menu sheets sat daintily in her hands.

“Hey, boys~” she smiled, fluttering her eyes. “What can I getcha you two today?”

“Lamb bites, with the mango dipping sauce,” He says promptly, not even sparing a glance at the menu. “Oh, and a round of piña coladas for the both of us.”

She glanced towards Padshah, who only grunted and shook his head.

“Come on, you’ve got to try the food here. No? Your loss,” he remarked, waving the waitress away.

“You’ve chosen such a disgusting, degenerate rendezvous spot,” he smoldered with indignation, crossing his arms intensely. “These women, this music…”

“While you’re free to think that this is a trashy dump, and by all means, it definitely is, let’s try and keep our thoughts to ourselves, hm?” He paused, trying to parse the man’s expression. “This… restaurant… is run by friends of the Keizer, it’s a Herzogsvurde[5], one might say. And we're in Sud Djanstra, so the likelihood of running into any vanners[6] here is very minimal. Now spare me the groaning, and let’s get down to brass tacks. Sell me on this.”

Padshah huffed, swallowing his personal misgivings about the venue to begin talking business. “We have a large supply of product, and we have the necessary manpower to move it from our bases of operation to the entrepôt here.”

---

The Bridge Restaraunt
Mjonsk, Kaliva

“...and you were a political consultant in Prydania, right?” Kuthrum Vakannarej inquired, taking a sip of his daquiri.

“Yes,” replied back the other man, dressed in an inconspicuous collared shirt and thin coat.

“Well, that’s good to hear. You could really help out the campaign in the Vortstej. Our internals are showing we’re down by twenty there. Damn Urustronders. Between you and me, half of them take their marching orders from Toby. It's a shame.”

"Indeed, it's a big shame how the great nation of Prydania has let itself be enthralled by the siren song of globalism," the other man said, agreeing.

"By the way, who'd you work with when you were over in Beaconsfield?" Vakannarej asked.

"I've done work with a lot of people, mainly Nygaard," he said.

"I see," he nodded intently. "I can write you a strong recommendation to the chair of the fundraising committee. Husavik, nice guy. We can probably arrange some sort of administrative position for you there." He pulled out a small legal pad and pen. "Now refresh me, how do I spell your name?"

"K-a-i-v-a-n," he paused. "A-y-e-r-t-o-n."

"Kaivan, hm, that doesn't sound very Prydanian," Vakannarej mused.

"It's Bayardi."

"I see."

---

[1] Traditional Kalivese Stew
[2] Equivalent to 25 IBU
[3] Viktor Ljjkhnr is a Kalivese conservative political commentator
[4] Mjonskslop is often used as a catch-all perjorative term for all forms of postmodern electronic Kalivese music
[5] Client state run by a duke
[6] Pejorative term for law enforcement, who have a proclivity for using vans

Somewhere in Aydin
"I demand to see him!"

The two guards looked at each other and then to the young woman, wearing black military boots, tactical pants, a matching tanktop. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, and yet she hard a glare that could cut through steel... and the bit of her hair that draped over her right eye.

"The Satrap won't see anyone at the moment," one of the guards replied, but the woman would not be dissuaded.

"He has given away our greatest asset. He has no right to command any of us."

The two guards looked at each other and then her. One was going to respond, but his dour expression turned nervous.

"Oh what? Has he taken your tongue now too?" the woman asked.

"Or does he simply value loyalty, my Red Claw?"

A chill went down the woman's spine. She turned. The Satrap was not behind the doors the guards were standing watch over. He was behind her, descending the yalı's* central staircase.

"I am not yours," the woman said with a murmur.
"Not anymore."

"You," the Satrap replied as he stepped closer to her, taking her arm to run his thumb over the tattoo of the red tiger's claw on her left arm, "belong to the Ten Rings. I am the Ten Rings."

It was the calmness to it. He demanded things, but never barked or screamed. He was calm and direct, even at his most animated. It was unnerving.

"You no longer have the right to speak on our traditions," Red Claw shot back as she yanked her arm away.
"You who told the world of us. Robbing us on the anonymity that has served us for millennia."

The Satrap removed the aviator sunglasses he was wearing, placing them in a pocket in his green robes. He was old, yes, but he... had an intensity to him that his hazel eyes could now convey.

"The world changes, my Red Claw. How is it I who have more years behind then ahead can see that but you, still basking in the spring of youth, cannot understand that?"

Red Claw narrowed her eyes.
"The ports in Essalanea that we once moved through like shadows openly speak our name. Spare me your generic platitudes about the future. I'm the Red Claw, and it's my duty to care about the here and now."

"The here and now..." the Satrap mused. He walked over to a table on the side of the room, taking a curved knife from a table. Running the blade over his palm.

"The here and now is that the Lord of the Storm has once again moved against us. To do nothing would be a slow death."

"The Lord of the Storm," Red Claw said the title with derision, "is barely a man."

"He's older than you," the Satrap chuckled as he rocked the blade's dull side against his palm.

"Tobias Loðbrók is a naive fool," Red Claw continued.
"He's a symbol, nothing more."

"Ahhh...." the Satrap turned around, facing Red Claw again, holding the knife out.
"That was the mistake Thomas Nielsen and the Syndicalists made. 'Just' a symbol. Have you forgotten? We have survived since before recorded history by being a symbol. A myth, a legend, these things have meaning, my Red Claw. You ignore them..."

He began to walk towards her, but seemed to keep his distance. And when Red Claw's eyesight drifted just a bit at the sound of a bird landing on an upper window...

"at your own peril!"

The Satrap pressed the knife to her neck as he grabbed her from behind.

She struggled, trying to free herself. She was a trained warrior, strong, agile, and deadly, yet the Starap was showing remarkable strength for a man his age, shaking her attempts to free herself off.

"YOU'VE LOST YOUR MIND! YOUR 'STORM LORD' DOESN'T EVEN KNOW OF US! THE SYNDICALISTS SEVERED THE LINE OF KNOWLEDGE!"

"And yet..." the Satrap whispered in her ear, "his AN would be our undoing."

The Satrap spun her as he tossed her to the marble floor, hitting with a thud. He looked at the knife, a bit of her blood dripping from it. She reached up to press her palm to the nick on her neck as she lay on her side on the floor.

"You are perhaps the deadliest woman alive," the Satrap said with a low growl.
"Prove to me that I was right to value your usefulness over your lack of faith."

Red Claw panted as she pulled herself up, pressing her hand to the shallow cut.
"What would you have me do?"

"Kill Alycia Saitta-Loðbrók."

---

*Yalı- An Aydini villa built on the water

23 May 956
2:46 pm
On a Friday
Siwangzhicheng, Aria

"The Lord of Storms' army is at the gates!" Farshid Olia gasped as he clutched his right arm. Blood seeped through his fingers as he gripped the wound, and it soaked through the dark brown tunic under his armour.

Ringed fingers tapped the long table that divided the room. The scarlet banners bearing the Ten Rings' insignia fluttered in the air tainted by the smells of blood and Arian gunpowder.

"The Golden Dragon's gambit has paid off..." the man tapping the table muttered.

"What was that, my Lord?"

The man looked up.
"Nothing Farshid. You've failed."

"But Satrap, my Lord..."

"No," the Satrap replied, holding up a hand.
"The axe wielders have brought our armies to their knees. It falls on me..."

The Satrap walked to Farshid, and in one fluid motion, cut across his neck with a knife hidden in his robes.

"...to cut off their head."

Farshid gasped and dropped to the ground, looking up at his leader with disbelief... but the Satrap paid him no mind.

"Red Claw!"

A matronly woman in robes and a veil approached, a crimson claw pendant hanging from her necklace.

"Send a raven. The Army in Aria has fallen. Let them know that survive or not, the Ten Rings must vanish... for now. Until we are ready."

"Yes, Satrap."

The woman and her retinue vanished up the chamber's staircase as the Satrap cleaned the blood from his knife and momentarily glanced at Farshid's lifeless body. He slipped the knife up his sleeve and took a sharp and curved blade from the wall. And then he sat. And waited.

---

Red viking banners depicting the three arrows of House Scylfing and green banners depicting the gold flames and golden dragons of the Heavily Arianese Emperor entered the gates of Siwangzhicheng. Finnleik Scylfing removed his helmet as the last of the Ten Rings infantry broke... the sun was high and the Arianese troops he was with seemed to be taking in the majesty of the ancient sight- the City of the Dead it was called.

Finnleik, however, was not concerned with that. He had made a pledge to the Golden Dragon Emperor that he would rid his realm of this rogue enemy. And now he would finish it.

"They say that this spot is where the forces of hell come forth onto Eras," Quan Yu, the Emperor's most trusted General who had led the purging of the Ten Rings' agents from court, commented in Mercanti. It was the only way the Arianese and their viking allies could communicate.

"How fitting then," Finnleik remarked, that this insidious rabble would seize this place as a home."

"I'm not a man for superstition," Quan muttered.
"It's sacred land. The Scarlet Dragon Lords who rule here in the south are forbidden to enter unless on the holiest of days. The Ten Rings aren't demons. They just know how to scare the ignorant."

He turned and angrily shouted "別再顫抖了，狗狗們，繼續前進吧！我們讓他們在逃!" at soldiers to his left who seemed unsure about going further into the city.

"Aye, we have conjurors and charlatans in our homeland too, but not many who could amass an army to conquer an Empire," Finnleik mused as he and Quan entered the city with their combined troops.

"The Emperor is a good man. Kind too, but that is his weakness. He didn't see the rot before it was nearly too late. Had you not arrived to scour them from the coasts we may have lost the Capital."

"Well," Finnleik said as he dismounted and drew his sword.
"Let's burn this rot out once and for all."

Quan followed suit.

"I've noticed most of your kind prefer axes. Yet you wield a straight blade."

"My family's preference for the sword," Finnleik replied, "is a tradition. It's simply what I was trained to use."

"Well," Quan said as he drew his, "let's see which wins a bigger prize. Your straight blade or my curved."

"Perhaps we'll split it. Five rings each?"

Quan chuckled and the two marched up on the Temple of the City of Death as tattered Ten Rings banners fluttered in the air.

---

"Finnleik Scylfing... Quan Yu..."

The two stopped. The dark skinned man in the green robes rose from the long table he sat at, holding a sword at his side.

"I meet the men who have caused me so much grief, and am disappointed to instead see two dogs. A northern barbarian mutt and a lapdog to a dottering fool."

Quan went to speak but Finnleik spoke instead, not in the mood for more Arianese dramatics.

"Well what does that make you then?"

The Satrap smirked.

"By the end of the day I'll be the man who killed you both. Your pathetic Emperor will tremble in fear knowing that despite his army's victory we are eternal. We are immortal."

"You're a gang of thieves, and thugs, nothing more," Quran replied.
"And I will be proud to present my Emperor with your head."

"Don't be so sure," Finnleik smirked.
"My Lord back across the seas might find it a novelty worth having."

The two drew blades and the Satrap walked out in front of the table, his blade held limply at his side.

"Here I am now, entertain me," he said with a smile as the two warriors charged him.

And it was like a puppet being controlled by string. The limp form of the Satrap sprung to life. Swirling once, his blade deflected Quan's and his hidden knife slid into his other hand, cutting Finnleik across the cheek.

Finnleik wasn't stunned though, fighting through the pain to charge again, as the Satrap kicked Quran back and exchanged parries with the Viking lord.

"You fight well! Maybe we'll emerge in your lands, your people might make suitable attack dogs!"

Finnleik charged again, blades clashing as Quan once again re-entered the fight. And the Satrap, noticing things were shifting to a disadvantage, fell back to the table.

"Usually, the Emperor names such spineless fools to do his bidding..." the Satrap chuckled as he positioned himself on the other side of the long table that nearly spanned the width of the room.
"But I can see he found some competent people. Finally. But no matter. Any foe can be overcome."

He threw his knife to a pillar to his right, cutting a rope tied around it. Paper screens all around the room's second level began to collapse and then...

It hissed through the air, a rocket! The Arianese had them, for their army, but this one exploded in the middle of the room, engulfing everyone in fire and smoke, and throwing Finnleik and Quan back.

Quan coughed, pulling himself up, fire and smoke was everywhere.
"Finnleik! Where are..."

He gasped. His throat had been cut and the Satrap stood over him as he collapsed.
"Such heroic nonsense" he muttered at the fallen general. He always knew Quan would be a problem. If only he'd gotten rid of him earlier...

"Quan!"

The Satrap looked cross the flames and smoke as Finnleik cried out to his fallen ally.

"He served a fool who nearly lost his Empire. He deserved nothing but scorn. Now go Northman. This isn't your fight."

"He was a man of honour, who fought for his liege lord," Finnleik called back.
"The same lord I promised I would kill you for."

"Why throw away your life so recklessly?" the Satrap asked, but the only answer he got was Finnleik charging and the clashing of steel. Blades meeting amidst smoke and steel.

The Satrap smirked though, as they danced. The Viking was skilled, but his sort fought head on. He, however, had been trained in the art of combat, from all directions. He cared not for honour, it was all the same when the enemy was dead anyway. And the fire and smoke... for it was getting hotter and harder to breath, favoured him.

He spun and used his robes as a shield to catch Finnleik's blade, slipping from the garment to bring his sword down on the viking from the side when...

The Satrap gasped. Instead of struggling with his sword he'd dropped it. And know he'd stabbed him in the stomach with a knife from his belt... a move the Satrap never considered he'd make... or see him make... through the smoke...

Finnleik drove the knife in deeper and the Satrap gasped again... dropping his sword as he looked into the angry eyes of Finnleik Scylfing... the last thing he saw before he died.

---

*別再顫抖了，狗狗們，繼續前進吧！我們讓他們在逃!- Stop trembling, dogs, and push the advance! We have them on the run!

---

Star Wars: Jedi Temple March/Order 66 (EPIC VIKING VERSION) by Ihsan Dincer, 2:47

Luscova, Norsia

"You know I'll never improve if you keep letting me win," Alycia remarked as she put her sword down to grab a towel and wipe some sweat away as Colart grabbed a water bottle.

"Your Grace thinks so little of me that I'd throw a match?" he replied dryly but with a bit of a smirk.
"You've just gotten good enough to beat me. Finally. It took you long enough." He smirked again. He had to keep her humble.

"Well three kids tends to cut down on the time I could practice, but I've found my groove again," Alycia replied as she too grabbed a water bottle.

"Speaking of, where are the little ones?" Colart asked.

"Toby has them. He's taking them out to countryside for the day."

"Your husband is dealing with the three of them? That might be a bit much."

"You saw what he went through, back in the day. You shouldn't underestimate him."

"I don't," Colart replied dryly.
"But toddlers are harder than any war."

Alycia chuckled.
"Well he's not alone. He's got Rylond with him. Which, I suppose, technically counts as a helping hand."

"Ugh," Colart muttered.
"I suppose..."

"I suppose he's something of an idiot," Alycia said with a chuckle as she took another swig of water.

"So do you want to go again?"'

"You really want to beat up on an old man?" Colart replied.

"Only one as capable as you."

Colart smirked and grabbed his sword.
"Get your weapon. Let's go."

Alycia nodded, grabbing her own sword and meeting Colart in the middle of the White Palace's fencing gym. She met his
en garde position and tapped his blade with her own when...

The door at the far end of the room had opened. She'd just caught it in the corner of her eye.

"Yes?" she asked, as a woman in a White Guardsman's uniform walked in and then...

Alycia could remember Colart throwing her back as a loud pop and blinding white light filled the room... the flash grenade had filled the room, and Alycia could barely see as she heard an explosion in the distance...

---

Red Claw drew two Aydini short swords and charged the disoriented Colart, knowing he'd have to be neutralized before she could secure her target, who was lying prone behind him. She didn't have much time, but the explosion on the other end of the White Palace should cause enough chaos to give her time to do the deed.

"Greetings from the Satrap," she hissed as she went to drive a blade into Colart's chest only for him to stagger back and block it with his own sword. He grumbled and shook his head. His vision wasn't blurry, but his head was pounding. Just looking and using his eyes caused him a massive headache but he didn't care, holding his blade up.

"I've been threatened worse by better scum," he sneered.

Red Claw scowled, her blades coming down against Colart's hard. The sound of the metal crashing and pinging made Colart's grenade-induced headache worse but he soldiered on.

Red Claw was relentless. She brought blow after blow, using two blades so that Colart was forced to react as quick as possible to parry or dodge. But eventually, as he found some mild relief from the pain in his head by focusing, he noticed her wide, sweeping strikes. And momentum...

... could be reversed. He pushed back as their blades locked up and forced her to spin back as he pressed the advantage.

"You picked the wrong guy to mess with lass," Colart chuckled as he pressed his advantage.
"Champion level fencers aren't people you want to get into duels with."

Red Claw chortled dismissively.
"I've been trained by the deadliest assassins in the world, I'm not afraid of some fencer champ from the upper class."

"Try University of Luscova, Division One," Colart smirked, pressing his advantage as he made her wobble backtracking.
"Would have made it to the Odinspyl if I didn't go into the Army!"

He he pushed the assailant against the wall, but Red Claw leaned back, bending her leg so her foot pressed against the wall and pressed forward, using the leverage to push in and jump, and Colart staggered, his head pain too much for a brief moment. Red Claw brought the blunt end of her sword's hilt down on his temple. A vicious look came over her face as she brought the other sword's hilt down on him. The blades would be quicker. She wanted to bloody this old fool with trauma. Again. Again. And Again. Finally Colart fell.

His head was ringing, his ears full of blood... he only wished...

"Leave him be. You want me, right?"

... Colart smiled. Even through the pain. That's his girl.

Alycia had pulled herself up.
She'd shaken the disorientation off, thanks to Colart sparing her most of the blast. And she had her sword.

Red Claw licked her lips, running at Alycia with her blades aimed with deadly precision as Alycia parried. But she wouldn't let herself stay on the defensive. She presses herself, forcing Red Claw to adjust her strikes, Alycia never letting her finish her attacks in full.

"You'll pay for desecrating my home," Alycia growled.

"The Satrap will see you, and your kin burn in the streets," Red Claw hissed back.

She had hoped the taunt would drive Alycia into a rage, but... she just saw pure hatred in the Norsian Empress' eyes as their blades met.

Red Claw tried to pull back, but Alycia got the blade inside and forced one of her attacker's swords away. Red Claw tried to push the one she had into Alycia's gut but Alycia had too much leverage. She forced her against the wall, her blade pressing to her throat, Red Claw having to use her own blade to stop it. Still she looked manic and licked her lips.

"Tic tock, you get what you get for your choices," Red Claw taunted.
Alycia narrowed her eyes.
"So do you."

"Yes" Red Claw chuckled as she bit into the false tooth. Cyanid.

Alycia stepped back as Red Claw's body spasmed, dropping to the floor. Twitching as white foam and drool leaked from her mouth.

Alycia stared at her. This woman who she never knew but who hated her to the core, take her own life and die... shaken by that idea before pulling herself away to attend to Colart as White Guardsmen rushed in...

"You'll be ok... you'll be ok..." she said in a panic getting a good look at how beaten he was.

"You're safe... that's what matters..." he muttered.

"No," she said as she cried softly.
"No it isn't."

"Do I have your attention now?"

Tobias watched as the Satrap once again took the screen. He was wearing what were now familiar green and gold robes, sitting in a dark room, as if he were a singular point of focus in a formless void.

"You missed me in the skies over Auroria when I took the Iraelian ambassador. You've missed me on Sil Dorsett, in Kaliva, and in Norsia. I've been getting closer, do you feel it?"

Tobias watched... it was surreal. Maybe it's because this latest tragedy WAS so close to home. Maybe he couldn't help but assume that the madman talking was talking to him...

"You've missed me yet again. And you'll never. See me. Coming."

There was a pause and the Satrap sat back in his chair.

"We don't have much time, as the agents of the world's televisions scramble to win back control of their signals. So I will make this brief. King Tobias III of Prydania..."

It was like a pit had opened up in Tobias' stomach. He was talking to him. He grabbed the television remote from Kjell and turned it up.

"...you've resisted my attempts to educate you, sir. And forced me to take the life of President Winters and his staff. Reduced to atoms in the sky at the flick of my fingers."

The Satrap snapped, and Tobias just... stared.

"So let this be the harshest lesson yet. All nations of the world have retained diplomatic relations with the Kingdom of Prydania in one week's time open themselves up to being attacked by the righteous fury of the Ten Rings. Any nation that continues to maintain diplomatic ties with Prydania or remains a treatied ally of Prydania, opens their leadership... and populous... up to be targeted."

Kjell picked up the phone to call the ÖSU as the rest of the government watched on with the King.

"This is the harshest lesson yet, Your Majesty, but it won't be the last."

The screen flickered to a Ten Rings emblem. As the screen faded to black...

Ladies, gentlemen, sheep. Some people call me a terrorist. I consider myself a teacher. Lesson number one. Democracy, there's no such thing.

Tobias remembered when the Satrap had announced the Ten Rings to the world at the AN founding in Kariste. He'd said that...Tobias remembered watching the announcement in shock with the rest of the AN leadership.

Since then the Ten Rings had made themselves known but... but he'd never realized it was personnel. It couldn't be. He summarized the Satrap wished to attack the AN and those sympathetic to it, and Prydania had been a major player in getting it off the ground but... Prydania was still not a world power. Why would... would the Satrap target him? Target them?

The sun wasn't quite ready to set over Býkonsviði but it would be soon. The late summer breeze blew by as Tobias stood on the roof of Absalonhöll, his Stormurholmr FF jersey not much at keeping the breeze at bay. This was where he and Rylond would occasionally drink but he was alone tonight. He just stared off into the cityscape.

You don't know who I am. You don't know where I am. And you'll never see me coming.

Tobias shivered. It was unnerving. He'd spent most of his early life trying to survive Syndicalist assassination. But as morbid as that was.... it was, in its own way, understandable. They wanted him dead because of what he represented, who he was. Tobias never realized it before, but now that he was faced with someone like the Satrap, he realized there was a comfort to the horrors of the past. However awful, however traumatic his childhood... it made sense.

This didn't.

Why? Why him? The AN? Was that it? If so why hadn't the Satrap sicked the Ten Rings on Scalvia? After all they had been Prydania's partners in the AN project.

He'd asked that before, with the Lightbringer during the Civil War. Even that, as delusional as Levis was, made some sense. This just didn't.

"Max told me you'd be brooding here alone."

Tobias just let his wife's words wash over him for a moment without saying anything.

"Toby," Alycia pressed before walking up to his side. She knew better than to not come at him from behind, thanks to PTSD from the Civil War. Still, that raised its own question.

"A terrorist threatens you and you're standing here in the open on the roof?" she asked as she took his right hand gently.

"Better men then him have tried to kill me," Tobias muttered.

"So you're going to make it easier for him?" Alycia replied. Tobias grumbled. Mostly because he knew his wife was dead set on getting him inside, and he couldn't fight that. So he nodded, leading her to the access door that led to the maintenance hallway up here. Alycia followed, happy that her husband had seen reason, but still put off by his coldness. She waited though, until they were both inside.

"Talk to me," she said softly. Tobias looked back at her, said nothing at first, before realizing it would invite more scorn, and sighed.

"Why me?"

Alycia ducked under some beams that were common in the service hallways up here as she and her husband descended back into the palace.

"Why me?" Tobias repeated.
"Prydania hasn't... our military's defensive. We can't power project. Why's he targeting me? Us?"

"Toby."

"Já?"

"He tried to have me killed."

"Because of me. Everything. The Satrap made it very clear. Every death, every bomb, every bullet they kill with is because of me."

"So you're going to stand around, feeling sorry for yourself?"
Tobias turned as they emerged from a stairwell into one of the palace's main hallways.
"I've had people wanting me dead all my life, but at least I understood why. But I've never done anything to this Satrap."

"Maybe it's because of who you are. He seems to despise democracy. You stood up to the Syndicalists. You proved democracy can overcome tyranny."

"I was doing," Tobias contiued, as he paced directionlessly, "what was right. I didn't think of anything that... grand. I was just trying to save my country."

"Do you remember our wedding?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you remember Svrtan nearly pisseing himself meeting you?"

Tobias, for the first time that day, cracked a smile.
"That's not what I remember from that night."

Alycia smiled back and chuckled before shaking her head.
"You'd never done anything to hurt him either. But he was scared of you, because of what you represented. Even you didn't mean to be that, that's what happened. And some monsters aren't scared, they try to bite back."

"Well I'm tired of it," Tobias muttered, finally choosing to go to his office. Alycia, however, was not so eaily shaken.

"Tired of it? Tired of being who you are?"

"Who I am?" Tobias asked as he entered his office, dropping himself into the chair at his desk and slumping in it.
"Who I am? I'm..." he began to chuckle, before leaned over his desk and buried his face in his hands, his chuckling becoming crying.

It was a familar sight. Alycia had to help her husband through a lot of trauma over the years, but time and therapy had been good to him, helping scars heel. She'd not had to comfort him like this for a few years now. Still, she sat across from him and leaned forward to grab his hands and pull them close to her.

"Tell me," she said softly.
"Tell me who you are."

Tobias gasped, sniffling and let his head hang.

"I'm Toby," he said softly.
"I just... I'm tired of being something else."

"You're the King of Prydania."

"I was...people wanted me to be something grand during the War. So I was. People wanted me to be a King, so I was. I worried, worried I could never be what people needed, but I always tried... but..."

"What is it, láska*?"

"After everything that happened, I wanted it to end. But no. People can't do that, can they? Foreign socialists chime in on my existence like I give a fok about what they think, Santróttæklingar* talk about you, me, and our children as if we're any of their business, and now... now this. I'm tired of the assholes of the world thinking they can take from me to prove a point. The ones from my own country took my family from me. I don't owe anything else to anyone."

"No..." Alycia said softly. She'd gotten good at dealing with Tobias when he got like this, even if she hadn't had to do it in a few years. Still, she rubbed his hands with her thumb.
"You're a King. I'd tell you that comes with certain responsibilities, but I think you may know that better than I do."

Tobias just looked down, and so Alycia continued.

"But I know why I fell in love with you."

Still, Tobias said nothing, and that was fine by Alycia. She continued to stroke his hands with her thumbs.

"You didn't just do those things during the War, and after the War because people expected it from you. If you did, you wouldn't have cared if you were good enough. Look at me, Toby."

That got her husband to look up. His green eyes a bit bloodshot.

"You comforted your people during the war because you're kind. And that kindness meant you picked up a gun, and you fought, even when everyone in the world was willing to make up excuses for why you shouldn't. And then when the fighting was done, and you got more money dumped on you than most people will ever see what did you do? You bought homes for people. You bought medicine for people. Because you, Tobias Scylfing Loðbrók, are kind. And kind people attract bad people. This man..."

"He's threatened my country," Tobias replied.

"Not a single world government has bowed to his 'threat.'"

"So people will die. Because of me."

"The AN and PGU will hound them."

"Good men and women, soldiers, will die because of me."

"When FRE soldiers died for you, it was in the name of a better Prydania. Here... it's because the Satrap is a scared man, like Svrtan. Only he's hiding the fact that he's pissing himself by putting the blame on you. You're a good and kind person. It's why I love you. Don't let men like this get to you."

"I'm trying not to. But his henchwoman nearly got to you."

"I've been trained by an Odinspyle-level fencer, it was her funeral."

"Maybe..." Tobias muttered.
"There's a bunker."

"Like one of the ones you lived in during the war?"

"No. A new one, built to keep us safe in case of an attack. It's outside of the city. Under a wheat field on a farm owned by a crown coporoation."

"I'm not hiding in a bunker."

"You and the kids are."

"No."

"Alcyica..."

"I don't run from a fight, and neither do you. We didn't during the war."

"Things are different now. It's not just me. I need to protect the four people I can't live without. You and the kids."

"You can't hide us away."

"Just until this is..."

"Over? And then what? There are always going to be dangerous people. You can't hide us away every time."

"The White Guard and Knights of the Storm will..."

"Will keep Hael, Baldr, Hanna, and I safe, by your side. Here. And in Luscova. And everywhere else."
Alycia took his hands, pulled them towards her, and kissed them.

"You're never alone."

Tobias sighed and hung his head.
"President Winters died..."

"...because a madman killed him. That's why," Alycia finished his setence so he couldn't blame himself.
"The AN and the PGU were partially formed to deal with people like this. Let the world help."

Tobias didn't say or do anything at first. He just remembered what his aunt Mélisende said to him on his honeymoon. He needed to try to not take the world in his hands so much.
"I'll get Kjell on the phone. I need to address the PGU."

---

*láska- Norsian for "love"
*Santróttæklingar- Prydanian for "Santonian Radicals"

Rivage Palace
Norvalle, Sil Dorsett

Charles Barbier styled himself a Colonel. PMC Exposition Nord was his baby. For many years, since the reign of Christophe II, his force was the way the Dorsetts engaged in military action abroad. The princely family had for a while been reluctant to send its forces abroad, citing a lack of desire from the public to show force; Exposition Nord was their way around it. However, Princess Claidie's morals brought a level of uncertainty regarding the company's prospects going forward. She desired to keep to the family's plan of not engaging in foreign hostilities abroad if it could be avoided, except now limiting the use of the PMC was considered as part of that plan.

When Charles heard about the attack on Malorie Allen's life, he assumed his force was going to be the one to respond. However, he hadn't received an immediate request. Much time elapsed and nothing was done. It was the one rare occurance where he had to reach out to the Dorsetts himself. He was told there was no contract available, that the attack on the ambassador was an isolated incident.

The Chamber of Law took up the issue following an investigation, fully aware of the threat the Ten Rings posed. Claidie was given encouragement by her peers, those who knew of the PMC and their favor with the Dorsetts, to reconsider.

Then, Ethian One fell from the sky. Encouragement soon became demand. Charles was granted his meeting.

Claidie tried to keep the meeting light-hearted, almost apologetically offering the Colonel wine and hors d'oeuvres, though she abstained from the wine herself. Charles was polite and partook, but was still all business.

"Miss Dorsett, the delay in allocating my team to this issue is causing unnecessary risk to the nation," Charles said. "What is the reason for this?" he asked.

Claidie was honest. "Look, you know my reluctance to put us into foreign conflicts. I wasn't the only one though; the Prime Minister was also afraid of sending forces abroad. The people weren't happy with her willingness to use force abroad, and it nearly cost her the election. It might have if Masson hadn't been such a pretentious oaf."

Charles perked up. "I thought it was limited to the regular army. We are the solution to that problem," he stated.

"Almost..." Claidie interjected. "Funding was also an issue. What I'm able to offer depends on whether I have government funding or not, and I gave up my ability to force the government into providing it. You don't want to be underpaid, do you?"

"Of course not, but... was an issue, you said?" Charles asked.

"The government reconsidered. The Prime Minister and the Chamber wants them eliminated, and so do I. There's a coalition of AN partners coming together to strike directly at these terrorists. You're going to be part of that force, augmenting special forces from the regular army. Do what they tell you, and you'll get paid."

"We can do that," Charles agreed, shaking the princess's hand to seal the deal.

The outskirts of Batlıurfa, Aydin

Major General Akiva Rami felt the Aydini sun beating down on him.

Field Marshal Mukhtar Sumbhaji of the Syrixian Imperial Armed Forces was heading a massive coalition. Syrixia. Iraelia. Skanda. Esthursia. Hexastalia. Rayvostoka. Kaliva. Sil Dorsett and their mercenary contingent. Aydin.

That last one worried Rami. He didn't trust the Aydini at all, and the revelation via Prydanian ÖSU intelligence that the Ten Rings was here of all places just made him more suspicious. But Aydin was an ally of Syrixia and in a roundabout way that made them an Iraelian ally. And the Syrixians insisted on Aydin having representation on this expedition.

Rami didn't care for that. He raised binoculars up and peered through them.
“Flat grassy fields make me uneasy,” he muttered.

“Sir?”

Rami grunted.
“Nothing Lt. What is it?”

“News breaking from Auroria Sir, the Ten Rings just took credit for the downing of Ethian One!”

Ten Rings HQ

The pounding, thunderous sounds from outside only served to make the Satrap’s pronouncements greater.

"Do I have your attention now?"

He cracked his knuckles.

"You missed me in the skies over Auroria when I took the Iraelian ambassador. You've missed me on Sil Dorsett, in Kaliva, and in Norsia. I've been getting closer, do you feel it?"

The booming sounds from outside rocked the building as the Satrap looked into the camera…

The outskirts of Batlıurfa, Aydin

“Apparently you could hear our artillery in the background of the Satrap’s broadcast when he took credit for it,” the Lt added, as he reported to General Rami.

Akiva looked at the kid and nodded.
“Then we’ll have to pound him into the dirt faster before he decides to vlog again won't we?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Dismissed, Lt.”

“Sir!”

He picked up the phone in his mobile command center.
“Field Marshal Sumbhaji.”

“Major General Rami,” Akiva’s Syrixian counterpart replied.
“I take it you've heard the news from Auroria?”

“I have Sir, and I think it's imperative our forces move in on the Ten Rings compound.”

“I agree, Major General. Aerial reconnaissance has indicated that our weeks-long campaign may finally be at an end. We broke their lines and their soldiers are in retreat.”

“The longer we have to hold back from Ten Rings HQ the longer they can dig in their defenses. My suggestion is that we advance as quickly as we can and end this.”

“Press the south, Major General,” Field Marshal Sumbhaji replied.

“We'll press from the north and east while our extraction team gets Ambassador Gedaliah out.”

“Yes Sir,” Rami replied, hanging up. He grabbed the radio.

“The command is given… move out.”

Joint Iterian Forward Operating Base Zara

The Skandans were not in the AN, but they had volunteered to aid in this attack on the basis that the abduction of an Iraelian ambassador constituted an attack on an Iterian League ally.

The joint Iterian Command had pushed on Batlıurfa, the Aydini town that had been taken over by Ten Rings militants and where it was believed the Satrap himself was hiding. The loud booms of the coalition artillery could be heard even as the Satrap threatened any nation that maintained diplomatic ties to Prydania.

“Why Prydania?” Colonel Yūji Niishima asked.

Rami didn’t have an answer for his Skandan counterpart at first.
“We can ask him soon enough.”

“It takes either a cornered snake or a sly fox to make threats like that in his situation,” Niishima replied.

“He’s a fundamentalist,” Rami pointed out. “He probably thinks he’s getting to heaven regardless of what happens.”

“The Silean mercenaries should be entering the town now. Hopefully they can get us answers,” Niishima said, feeling uneasy about all of this.

Batlıurfa, Aydin

Antoine Bechard peeked out for only half a second from a window on the second floor of a house his squad, Lance-Didier, secured, only long enough to see a trio of his fellow Exposition Nord technicals split off from each other before he moved back into cover. Lance-Didier was taking a break to eat. They had sent three terrorists to their graves, but one of their own was wounded, and they needed to wait for the regular army to send medical to evacuate him.

Antoine ripped open the top of his MRE's entree, duck with mashed potatoes, and ate it... cold. His squad leader, "Sergeant" Horace Gosse, looked at him funny. "Not going to heat that up?" Antoine just looked back at him perplexed. "Never used a ration heater before," Horace asked, mockingly.

"First time doing any of this," Antoine replied.

Horace nodded and shrugged. "First contract. Not surprised. You look new, and business has been bad for years."

"Yeah," Antoine mumbled.

"You make it back, you stickin' around, or you cashing out?"

"Dunno. Seems kinda lame to bail after the first op, but at least I have a choice, not like those army boys."

"Is that why you signed up with us?"

The chatter was broken up by commotion downstairs as the army arrived to take their busted up squadmate out of the combat zone. The few waiting by the staircase assured those above that everything was fine.

"Not just," Antoine replied. "Army wouldn't take me anyways. Got a felony on my record."

"What for?"

"Theft. Stole a bottle of wine from a shop, an expensive one. Shopkeep said the bottle was worth more than five thousand.^($2200)."

"Bullshit... that's a felony?"

Some small arms fire could be heard in the distance, unsurprisingly given how hot the village was, but Lance-Didier ignored it. There were plenty of other ENPMC units throughout the streets.

"Only bullshit was the price the shopkeep said the wine was. Did that just to make sure it was a felony. Said to myself I was gonna go straight after that. My brother Julien told himself the same thing after he got rung up by the Covingtons."

"How's that been for him?"

"He's dead. Got slumped on the job serving drinks to Phoebe's friends. And now here I am possibly getting killed on the job too."

"Eh. If that happens your family still gets your pay."

"I'd rather have it for myself."

The conversation was interrupted by another of the squad who had the radio, calling out urgency. "Lance-Celeste is pinned down just west of us. We're the closest ones to them, Command wants us to bail them out."

"It's time to earn our paycheck," Antoine declared.

"Amen to that and that. Let's move."

The outskirts of Batlıurfa, Aydin

Field Marshal Sumbhaji’s Syrixian forces had surrounded part of the town as the Iraelian and Skandan forces had encircled the rest. Syrixian troops had movied into the town’s outskirts to take command of bridges and major road crossings. The post office and town hall were under coalition control, and a Lt had just informed him that the Ten Rings fighters seemed to be in route.

And then the phone rang.

“Sumbhaji here,” the Field Marshal remarked.

“Colonel Barbier here,” the Silian-Santonian accented voice on the other end reported. Sumbhaji made a face. Mercenaries. Still, they’d proven their metal and they were the first coalition force to break into the town.

“Yes Colonel?”

“We’ve secured what we believe to be the Ten Rings headquarters.”

“Excellent,” Sumbhaji replied excitedly.
“Tell me Colonel, have Coalition troops secured the personnel on the targeted list? Is the Satrap in Coalition custody?”

The pause that followed caused the Field Marshal’s stomach to tie up. It was only a brief silence. But it told him everything.

Ten Rings HQ

The Satrap put on a pair of aviator sunglasses as he opened the door. Though it was summer, the air here was cooler than he was used to. The fresh, cool sea air of an isolated Korovan ocean-side retreat was invigorating. The storm that had caused his previous message to the world to sound like the world was barring down on him, had just passed, and the calmness of the sea was… inspiring.

“Satrap, my lord…”

The Satrap looked behind him, at a Ten Rings militant.

“Yes?”

“The AN coalition has raised the Aydini compound.”

The Satrap smirked.

“Let them chase ghosts and whispers.”

---

OOC Note: Post co-written with @Sil Dorsett , @Syrixia , @Andrenne , and written with the approval of @Greater Ale Permars

Toronteau-de-Bâcle, Saintonge

Lt.Gen. Charles-Clarent de Cluseret may have been the chief of the SRS, but the head of Santonian intelligence didn’t look it. He wasn’t even wearing formal clothes, much less a uniform. Instead he was wearing a lowkey sweater, khakis, and loafers. The choice of outfit was by design. He wasn’t looking to draw attention to himself as he made his way into Le paradis du banquecosse, a family owned restaurant in the Saintes suburb of Toronteau-de-Bâcle. He scanned the clientele- mostly full as it was peak lunch hours- and found who he was meeting. And raised an eyebrow.

Max Hveiti, the head of the ÖSU, had not followed his Santonian counterpart’s preference for a lowkey outfit. He was wearing what he always wore, which included a bright Skandan shirt.
It honestly wouldn’t be all that bad, lots of people liked Skandan shirts and normally the head of Prydanian intelligence wouldn’t be well known in Saintonge. It was just that Hveiti-gate had briefly led to him being covered in the media, which meant it wasn’t crazy to think someone would recognize him. Especially dressed in the Skandan shirts he was known for.

Charles-Clarent waved the hostess away to make his way over to Max, taking the seat opposite him.

“Maximilian,” Charles greeted with a faint smile as he began to go over the menu.

“Chalres-Clarent, always a pleasure,” Max replied. They spoke in Santonian. Max’s was very fluent. He retained a Prydanian accent, but it was very subtle.

“I thought, that after that hubbub about the spying, that you would want to keep a lower profile,” Charles said as he motioned to Max’s torso and the teal and orange and blue Skandan shirt.

“Why do you think that we’re here and not in Saintes proper?” Max answered.
“Well, that and this place has the best croissants bar none,” he added, taking one from a basket off to the side on the table.
“The glaze has a pinch of honey that I don’t think I’ve had anywhere else.”
Charles shrugged and took one himself, nodding his approval as he tasted the complimentary pastry.

“Besides, it’s not like your Parliament took me up on my offer to answer questions.”

“Politicians,” Charles replied, “like to hear themselves talk. So much hot air.”

“Well what’s past is the past,” Max mused.

“Is it? I don’t believe the ÖSU ever made a statement about how the Santonian press got those documents in the first place.” Charles smiled slightly and Max… well… he didn’t respond at all, only tilting his brown framed glasses just a bit.

The fact was that the SRS had agents in Prydania. They weren’t acting maliciously, but Prydania had received a lot of Santonian aid since the end of the War. And they’d grown closer in other ways. It made sense that the Santonians would want to keep tabs on the Prydanians.
Max knew who a few of these agents were. He did nothing because they weren’t acting maliciously and the truth was that this sort of thing was far more common- even among friendly nations- then most people knew. Still, Max didn’t know all of the SRS agents active in Prydania. And that was to his relief. Max respected Charles as a master of the craft. He would be dissaponted if he knew who all of his agents in Prydania were.

Still, Max knew that the SRS didn’t leak the ÖSU documents that had caused him to speak to the Santonian press. First, nothing in them was new to the SRS. It was only a “scandal” because the public didn’t know. Secondly, well, Max did know who was at fault. And certain circumstances had stopped him from acting overtly. For now.

“The internal review of the matter was concluded to my satisfaction,” Max replied with a soft smile of his own.
“Still, I’d keep an eye on RÚV. Stuff like this… always seems to breed more news.”

Charles raised an eyebrow but chose not to pry. There was a degree of intrigue there but he knew Max would never tell him, and besides. It wasn't why he was here.

“Well as you said the past is the past,” Charles continued.
“So let's get to the present.”

“Well…” Max began before he paused as a waiter arrived with a plate of food.
“Merci,” he said as the waiter put the plate down. A small top sirloin topped with bearnaise sauce and a side of potatoes with greens.

“Steak for lunch?” Charles asked bemused.

“I’m seeing some sights after we talk, then flying back to Býkonsviði tonight. So I won't have time to grab a proper dinner.” He began to cut into the steak and eat.
“Anyway this place also does a wonderful bearnaise. You should get something to eat too. This place really is a hidden gem.”

Charles smirked just a bit. He'd spoken directly with Max before. He had a tendency to hop around a conversation. Change the topic on a whim before circling back through the conversational scenic route. In the business he was in he had to assume that this was something of a tactic on Max’s part, to get people looking every which way while engaging with what mattered on his terms. He admitted that while it wasn't his preferred method he had is own ways of staying guarded. Anyone in this craft did.
But part of him suspected this was just how Max was. Regardless, he smiled at the waiter.

“I’ll have the tenderstem galette with lardons, mushrooms and brie,” he said, returning his attention to Max after the waiter left.

“So the present.”

Max nodded, drank a bit of pop, rolled his head and adjusted himself in his chair.

“Let's start with something close to your house,” Max began.
“The Prydania Today/Thorbjörn Höjsleth business.”

“What about it?”

“When the ÖSU uncovered the Prydania Today connection with Kelman Winters Jr we began to dig into his network. It was what you'd expect, mostly. He was an arms dealer who was trying to branch out into the field of psychological manipulation.”

“That's not a crazy notion,” Charles mused.
“Arms dealers manipulating the populace to create conflict. Why be a passive merchant when you can create demand?”

“We had proof tying him to the Syndicalist Republic, providing arms and funds for them. When they fell he switched to right wing populism,” Max continued, pacing himself between explaining why he'd called Charles here and eating.
“And I didn't feel comfortable assuming those were his only two kicks at the can.”

“So you found a connection with the Ten Rings.”

Charles said it rather than ask it. Given all that was happening it couldn't be anything else.

“I looked at the Messianic League uprising. After all, our boy didn't seem concerned with ideological purity. And once I applied what we knew about Ventur and the Syndies and Ventur and the Prydania Today case we were able to tie him to funding the Messianic League uprising. I've spent the years since trying to see what else he was involved in.”

Max dipped some potatoes in the sauce and munched before continuing.

“You're right, I found the Ten Rings but it's…” he paused and sipped his drink. And then continued with a lower voice.
“It's more than you know.”

Charles was intrigued to say the least. He's heard of the Ten Rings since he began his career in intelligence, but as a rumour. A ghost story agents told each other. It was almost a joke, a punchline to humorously explain something going wrong, even in the smallest ways.

Now though…the Ten Rings had declared war on the world. Suddenly the SRS- and every other intelligence agency on the planet- was scouring through those old ghost stories to see what they could find.

So Charles was intrigued… but he was also unnerved. Max’s cheerful demeanour, even the carefree way he'd dance around and through a topic… changed on a time. He whispered. This was… well… it was worth the chief of the ÖSU flying to Saintonge to tell the chief of the SRS in person.

“I found a labyrinth, Charles. I found shell companies, holding companies, legal entities that only existed on paper. The ones Ventur used to funnel cash and arms to the Syndies and Prydania Today were a vast enough network but once the Messianic League connection was made well… I found a rabbit hole that led to more rabbit holes. This couldn't be one arms dealer’s operation. Ventur owned a casino in Skanda he used as a cover for his operation. I don't care how pissed he is at his birth country for offing his pabbi in the 80s, the legal web of money and personnel I found wasn't his. He was just… a pawn.”

“Personnel…. we’ve suspected the Ten Rings must have a number of agents embedded in sensitive areas around the world,” Charles replied.
“The Iraelian ambassador and the Ethian president don't get blown out of the air without someone on the inside.”

He hoped, he really hoped, Max was going to give him a list of names. If anyone in Saintonge was tied to the Ten Rings… he shivered at the thought. It didn't take much. Just one or two people in the right spot to undermine an entire security apparatus.

“It's remarkable really. I thought that too, but what I found was more ingenious. How do you planet agents all over the world, in every government, in every security and intelligence agency and not raise any red flags?”

Charles nodded. The light went on in his head as soon as Max had said it.

“You don't,” Charles replied.

“Exactly,” Max said with a nod and a mouth full of steak and potatoes.

“Do you know…” he paused and ate some more as the waiter returned with Charles’ food and Max made sure he was out of earshot before beginning.

“Do you know how much easier it is to just blackmail someone? Emotional, financial, whatever. Leverage gets you a willing agent and no one makes a connection because your network…”

“... isn't a network,” Charles said finishing the thought.

“I've been working my way through this for years,” Max continued.
“The black market crackdowns after the Civil War? That was a good way to dig into organized crime. And from there we began to piece things together. Not just in Prydania, but across Craviter. Election meddling in Maloria. Alemreich. Coerced agents and dark money all over. A web so insidious that unless you knew the right pieces were connected you'd never see the whole thing. I still don't.”

“You don't?” Charles asked.

“Every layer begets more information. Clearly they have people in the Aurorias. We need to dig deeper there. And…” he lowered his voice.
“Meterra.”

Charles adjusted himself nervously.

“Max, I need you to understand that if you have anything about the Ten Rings in Meterra then I need to see this intel. I’m not one for games, and I’m asking to you as…”

“... a friend?” Max asked.

“I said no games.”

“And I agree. It's why I'm here, isn't it?” Max replied.
“Look. I told the press, your press, that I had better things to do then spy on Saintonge in the present, because it's the truth. The ÖSU has to be picky about where it allocates resources and I'd be rather shit at my job if I sent them all to spy on a country that has done nothing but help mine. And that's why I’m here, Charles, because I’m very good at my job. This is a cynical business but I try to not let it eat at me. When I act on behalf of Prydania, I consider Saintonge a friend. And from one friend to another…” he reached down and pulled up a mundane looking satchel from his feet and placed it on the table, pushing it towards Charles.
“I want to say ‘thank you.’ And do something to return the favour.”

Charles looked at the satchel for a moment and pulled it across the table to him. He was older than Max, but he knew Max had a preference for physical records. Strangely Charles, the older of the two by a considerable margin, was more comfortable with tech.
Still… he opened the satchel. Inside were folders all marked and organized… he pulled out part of the package and began to thumb through them.

“We found connections to a web of money and… let's call them compromised people… across Meterra, including Saintonge. This is still early stages but my best profilers have broken down Ten Rings dark money ops into a separate categories…”

“... I see that,” Charles mused as he went through the files.

“If I were a betting man… and I have known to put some krossar down on hockey now and then… I'd say these different profiles for how money is moved represent different types of destabilization ops. The way the Ten Rings moves in Saintonge is very reminiscent of how they moved in Maloria and Alemreich.”

“They're gearing up to interfere in the electoral process,” Charles muttered before he leaned forward in his chair just a bit.

“I’ll need to confirm everything in this satchel.”

Max smirked and dug into his pocket and tossed a thumb drive to Charles across the table.

“A thumb drive? I’m honestly impressed, Max. There's hope for you yet.”

“Don't be too impressed. Everything on that thumb drive- and in that satchel- are copies. The original physicals are back in an ÖSU vault and I’ll make sure they're buried with me if I have to,” he chuckled.
“But everything I gave you can be verified. You have an election coming up do you not?”

“We do.”

Max nodded.
“I’ve dug as deep as I can go. But I can't interrogate Santonian citizens and how deep I can go is limited. But the makings of the network and its activity are meticulously documented. You can dig far deeper in Saintonge than I can. Take it, and bust the drullusokkar*.”

Charles nodded as he continued to read. Some of this was familiar. The SRS had been monitoring what it deemed suspicious activity in realms that could be related to election interference, but the pieces here tying it to the Ten Rings and ties to individuals who could be considered compromised provided a more complete picture.”

“Thank you, Max,” Charles said with a nod before he went back to working on his own lunch.

“Það er ekkert*,” Max said, seemingly switching between Santonian and his native Prydanian.

“You know, everyone says the world is complicated. That this business is complicated. But it's not. You just have to cut through the bullshit. And when you find the truth… you act on it.”

“That's the fucked up paradox of it all, isn't it?” Charles replied.
“It's both that easy and never that easy.”

Max thought for a moment. Part of him wanted to argue but he was working on moving past knee jerk reactions. Fact was they were two men in the same scummy profession… and they'd gotten there two very different ways. In the end reality forced things to be done a certain way, but Max had retained a certain idealistic streak that came from fighting the Syndicalists. That he managed to pair that idealism with the grime of spycraft’s reality and not get overwhelmed by the contradictions was perhaps his greatest strength as a spymaster.

“If anything else comes across my desk,” he said, “I’ll pass it to you as well.”

“Likewise, Max. I suspect we’ll be able to dig up quite a lot. And I’ll see to it if anything needs to be passed along.”

“Merci,” Max replied.
“Now,” he added.
“Let's enjoy lunch.”

“I’d toast but we don't have wine,” Charles said, knowing that it was best if both parties were sober for a meeting like this.

“A sober toast never hurt anyone,” Max replied.
“To a little bit more light in the darkness.”

“Poetic,” Charles mused, “but I like it.”

Their glasses clinked. Charles’ own people would be very busy as soon as he returned.

---

*drullusokkar- Prydanian for “toilet plunger,” it has become slang for “bastard” or “prick”

*Það er ekkert- Prydanian for “it's nothing”

OOC Note: approved by @Kyle

Tobias just tried to block the panic out around him. It was the only way he could stay sane. He'd been pulled away from a family dinner in Luscova. The confused questions and pleas from Baldr and Hael still hung in his mind, Hanna's crying as Alycia tried to comfort her... Alycia. She'd practically demanded she be here, with him. He had to convince her otherwise, to go into secure custody with their children.

The fact was this wasn't new. He knew all about compartmentalized security from the War. Alys' safety as Empress of Norsia... as co-monarch of Prydania... their children's safety not just as their children but...

He tried to block it out as he entered a secured location outside of Býkonsviði, a bunker warroom under an unassuming wheat field outside of the Prydanian capital for emergencies. Tobias had hoped it would never have to be used... and while the Ten Rings had not visited war on Prydania properly... this was the closest thing.

"He usually cuts into in-progress transmissions," Tobias replied, sitting down at the head of a conference table.
"Why'd he tell us when he was broadcasting this time?"

"He wanted yo... us to see it," Max Hveiti said as he brushed through a thick folder of intelligence information.

"Location is secured," Laurids Hummel remarked, entering the main room, sitting down.
"The Prime Minister is here, he's just getting his barrings."

Tobias nodded....
Max had let slip what was bothering him. He almost said "you." Tobias began to ruminate on it before shook his head, and turned the ÖSU chief himself.
"Do you know why he's fixated on me?"

Max shook his head, as he didn't even look up from what he was reading.
"No, Your Majesty..."

Tobias looked at what was scattered across the table. Notes connecting the Ten Rings to Kurt Ventur Jr, to the Prydania Today affair....

"And it's gotten harder. The Skandans informed us that Kurt Ventur Jr was found dead in his prison cell."

"Jesus tapdancing Christ," Stig Eiderwig muttered, having caught that as he entered.
"They say it looks like suicide but they know and we know it wasn't," Max added, still not looking up.

"But why us? Why me?" Tobias asked.

"I wish I knew, but there's something missing..." Max replied.

"Should Military Intellegence take over? If the ÖSU can't cut it..." Stig grumbled, only for Max to finally look up, pushing his glasses up a bit.

"If Kaleb Stahl wants thinks he can do a better job reconstructing a ghost from whispers and half-baked stories then...."

"All I know," Stig shot back, "is that you got caught with your pants down..."

"The whole world got caught with their pants down..."

"And now you're..."

"What, Field Marshal? Just teased out a Ten Rings network across Meterra, constructed from urban legends and dark money? I'd like to see the military do better."

"Well maybe it..."

"Everyone shut up."

Everyone looked up as Kjell Svane entered the room. The Prime Minister was not a loud man, usually, but he'd used everyone else's fixation on each other to make a rather firm demand stand out.

"Thank you," Tobias replied, having sunk into his chair a bit as Max and Stig had argued around him.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Kjell replied, taking his seat.
"Now, what's the status on whatever this is supposed to be?"

"We're three minutes away," Max replied. The muted television that dominated the far end of the wall was playing RÚV, the anchors looking tense. They knew what was coming."

"We're working with the Syrixians and Goyaneans to try and track whatever signal comes through," Max replied.
"But it takes time. Everything the Ten Rings has done has been about obscuring any link back to them. This won't be any different."

"I still want to know why," Tobias said softly.
"Why me?"

"The Satrap is an ideologue," Max replied.
"Even if we don't know what that ideology is."

"He's made it clear he hates democracy. He's trying to kill the AN, we had a part in its founding," Stig explained, but Max shook his head.

"Intellegence analysis is all about sussing out what's not there. And what's not there is telling." Stig shot back an incedulous look but Max shook his head again, thumbing through papers.

"The King didn't concieve of the AN. The Prime Minister did," Max explained.
"And this isn't exactly a secret. Svane here, he's the one who pitched the idea to the Scalvians, he's the one who made the announcement in Prydania. It's his baby. So why the focus on the King?"

"I'm the figurehead of the country?" Tobias asked, but Max shook his head again.
"A recently dead Prydanian expat arms dealer who funnelled guns to the Syndicalists has ties to the Ten Rings. This predates the AN by..."

Max suddenly stopped. The screen had switched from the RÚV's evening news to static. Kjell turned the volume on and then...

Tobias was staring at the visage of a man who'd come to threaten him. His country. He'd killed others of course, and on some level Tobias felt guilty he was fixating on himself and those closest to him but...

"Your Majesty," the Satrap remarked. Sitting in a chari in a dark, dimly lit room.
"Your Coalition friends missed me in Aydin. But that's fine. I intend to finish this business soon."
The camera pulled out a bit, having just enough of a shake to indicate it was hand held.

"Tracing is under way," Max muttered after reading a text from his phone.

And then... the camera had pulled back. The Satrap was sitting down. And at his feet, gaged with a strip of cloth... was Shuni Gedaliah. The Iraelian ambassador to the AN who was kidnapped by the Ten Rings before the founding conference.

"Meet Ambassaor Shuni Gedaliah, Your Majesty," the Satrap replied, his Mercanti accent difficult to place but strangely sing-songy.
"Good strong Shaddaist name, good strong job. Shuni here has a distinguished career in the Iraelian Foreign Affairs ministry. And I'm sure he's a really good guy."

Tobias leaned forward in his chair, the rest of the table, Stig, Max, Kjell watching on as Shuni's gagged groans and mewling protests filled the space between the Satrap's words.

"I'm going to shoot him in the head, live on your television..." the Satrap continued, picking up a pistol from a small table next to his chair.
"...in thirty seconds. The number for this telephone..." he pointed to a phone on the table next to him, "is in your cell phone, Your Majesty."

Tobias hurrdily pulled his Nolf cell phone from his pocket, and there it was. Listed under "10 Rings" in his contacts. At the top of the list. Unavoidable.

"I need to see that phone," Max insisted, but Tobias put his hand up to quiet him. The Satrap had just said he would kill a man in half a minute.

"It's exciting, isn't it? Imagining how it got there."

Tobias grit his teeth. He had to. Becuase while that thougt mocked him, he couldn't induldge it. He was just trying to focus on the moment.

"Prydania. If your King calls me in the next half minute and proves he truly cares for the lives of his AN allies, Shuni lives. Go."

"Do not call that number," Kjell immediately insisted.

"He's going to kill him."

"Your Majesty we can't allow terrorists to..."

"I'm not going to let another person die because of me," Tobias grumbled, standing and hitting "hringja*."

The phone on the Satrap's broadcast began to ring. In tandemn with the ringing tone Tobias heard from his cell phone. He felt like his entire body was jelly. He had no idea wha he'd say to this man. No idea what he'd do next but he had to do this. He wasn't going to let someone else die because...

The shot rang out as the cell phone dropped from Tobias' hand.

He'd done it. The Satrap had heard the phone ringing. He'd heard the call. And he'd shot Shuni Gedaliah in the head. On live television. Tobias had seen people shot before. He'd watched it happen. As helpless as he was right now... and none of that made it easier. He stood even though it felt like his legs would give out. He just stood and watched...

"We're very close to meeting Your Majesty, so kiss your children goodbye 'cause nothing. Not your neutured army, not your ÖSU attack dogs, will save you!"

Tobias and the rest of the room watched, speechless, as a pregnant pause filled the air. Tension that just needed somewhere to go...

"I'll see you soon."

Static cut the feed, and the RÚV's lead anchors returned. Max grabbed the phone Tobias had dropped. The Prime Minister and Field Marshal were each on their own phones.... and Laurids Hummel noticed Tobias turning to leave.

"Your Majesty..." he got up to follow him. And Tobias turned, giving Laurids an expression he'd not seen from him before. One of pure... anger.

"I'm going to go smoke."

"You don't smoke."

"I'm starting."

Laurids followed him through the bunker, up a flight of stairs and...

"My access code isn't working," Tobias said emotionless. His voice sounded like it was trembling, yet void of any feeling as he punched a code into the keypad by the door.

"It's..."

"It's not working."

"Your Majesty, it's not going to work. For your own protection you can't leave until we're sure it's sa..."

"IT'S NOT WORKING!" Tobias bellowed, slamming his fist down on the keypad. Laurids wasn't sure what to say. He was just... shocked. He'd only gotten to know the King personally when he was made Lord Marshal of the Knights of the Storm. And in that time he'd known Tobias as quiet, friendly, gentle. Never... angry.
He could hardly blame him given what had just happened but...

"Your Majesty, I need to see to your safety. You cannot leave this bunker. Not yet."

"My safety... my safety... what about Shuni Gedaliah's safety?"

"Your Majesty..."

"It was in my name! The invitation to the AN was in MY NAME LAURIDS!"

"It's a formality. You know how this stuff is..."

"His country accepted an invitation IN MY NAME AND HE'S DEAD!"

"I..."

"He's dead..." Tobias repeated and just sank to a sitting position on the floor of the bunker, by the first access door.
"He's dead... people die.... in my name. Because of me."

"You're being unfair to yourself Your Majesty. You're..."

"It happened during the War. It's happening now... people die... in my name.... and people tell me... it's ok..."

"That's not what's happening. You did everything you could just now and..."

"I watched him. Like I watched Kol and Kaþarina die...I couldn't save him and..."

"TOBIAS!"

The King was jerked to attention, slumped against the wall of the bunker as he looked at Laurids, who'd sat down next to him.

"I..." he began, but Laurids cut him off.

"I don't know why you or why us... but I know you have to get your shit together."

Tobias sniffled a bit, wiping away some tears. He smiled. Just a bit, because he... well... he missed when people would just talk to him like that. And be straight with what they wanted to say, without couching it in formal language.

"I've seen people die for me before...it's hard to sit there. Watch people die for you and you can't... stop it."

"My job is to keep you safe, and if that means from your own bullshit then ok."

"My own bullshit," Tobias muttered with a bit of a smile.
"What I had to see..."

"The War sucked," Laurids cut him off.
"But you know why I joined the FRE?"

"No, I never asked," Tobias muttered. In all their time together... Tobias just never asked. He appreciated not picking at his own old wounds, much less someone else's.

"I'm from Darrow," Laurids continued.

"I know... I figured it was the hangings."

"Yeah, it was," Laurids replied.
"But you don't know, how it felt. The night they rounded up everyone, I was watching. It could have been me you know. I could have been in that group."

"But you were lucky," Tobias muttered.

"No. I was protected."

Tobias looked at his Lord Marshal strangely. Laurids wasn't a former Syndicalist. Nor was anyone in his family.

"My pabbi was a mechanic. He'd work on the Syndies' trucks and boats. They had enough sense to not give him a reason to stop, so when they rounded up all those people for the hangings, I got spared. But I watched. I watched from the window, and I saw the people pulled from their homes. I saw friends of mine die, Tobias. And I couldn't stop it."

"Yeah..." Tobias muttered in response, the image of his family getting gunned down suddenly very vivid in his mind, as he closed his eyes to try and suppress it.

"I joined the FRE later 'cause I couldn't change the past, but I could change the future."

Tobias just kept his eyes closed, but he allowed himself to relax a bit as he sniffled again.
"It's just one thing after another."

"Yeah it is... but we're not going to let this thing end like this, are we?"

"You're making it sound like I have a choice."

"Not if I can help it," Laurids remarked. He stood and offered his King his hand. Tobias grabbed it as Laurids helped him to his feet.
"You need to call Herra Gedaliah's family."

"Probably," Tobias replied, sounding more burnt out than anything.
"Já... já you're right."
Hummel nodded as he led him back.

"You never told me about a Kol and Kaþarina."

"I don't wanna talk about 'em."

"Ok," Laurids replied as he led him back to the main conference hall, the sound of people barking orders into phones and trying to figure out what the hell had happened filling the air.
Tobias' re-entry into the room, his bloodshot eyes very clear for all to see, quieted things down. He slumped into his chair. And he just said a single thing.

"I need to call Shuni Gedaliah's family."

---

*hringja- call

2 September 2002
2:01 pm
On a Monday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Jannik Lieftur was, if nothing else, weary of the man who he was leading through Absalonhöll. He didn't trust foreigners. Used to keep the honest Prydanian worker down, so the capitalists could pay less for cheap labour. The stringent anti-immigration laws were one of the few things he respected the now deposed Toft Social Commonwealth government for. Even though, this specific foreigner just chaffed him. This Payam Zarku may not have been Prydanian but the way he talked, dressed, and moved.... he was nobility of some sort. He'd just finished killing most of the nobles in the capital. Now Tom wanted him to play nice with this foreign one...he took advantage of the fact that he was leading the way to scowl.

"Watch your step," he grunted. Absalonhöll was a mess. The Syndicalist People's Militia had stormed it. Old tapestries had been turn down, shot up... the stags etched into marbel chipped away... bullet holes and smoke permiated every room, as riches were looted, burnt, toppled.

Payam usually had disgust for such politics. Socialists had made his own home country a failed state under mob rule, where the culture and traditions that been refined through the ages was torn down the angry crowds... what was happening here would be a tragedy, if he hadn't made sure the guns to make it possible had been delivered. The House of Loðbrók had fallen. And soon...

"Here," Jannik said as the two stopped at an old wooden door in what had been King Anders III's office. Payam held out a hand to stop him and Jannik scowled. Every finger had a ring. He was grateful to this man for providing the weapons the Syndicalists had needed, but that it was this stuffy, self important noble from some southern backwater...

"I trust that you've made sure your rabble haven't breached THIS area? It would be a shame if what I was promised wasn't behind that door."

"The syndicates and people of this country took their destiny into their own hands," Jannik shot back.
"But we secured this and other senstive areas, for the common good of the people's government."

"Spare me. Open the door."

"Now listen here..." but Jannik was cut off. Payam had snatched the keys out of his hand and had opened the door himself. Jannik glared but looked behind him. To the open doorway to the King's office. He nodded at the two People's Militia who had been trailing them.
Payam had opened the door. The room he found himself in was small, but splendid. Unlike the rest of the palace, it truly was untouched. The wood carvings of Messianist Saints and Thunic gods on the wall weren't defaced or pried away, the book shelves that lined the wall, the cases that held treasures... unspoiled. It was those cases. One specifically.

"Ah... there you are, Nightbringer..." he looked over a glass case containing the ring, a dark onyx piece with an unknown language carved along it... unknown to most of the world but he could read it.

"You have a lot of rings, rich man," Jannik said as the two People's Militia guards came up behind him, and Payam smirked.
"Why you want ole' Tumble Down Andy's?"

"Because..." Payam said, holding up his left hand. Unlike his right one, this one was missing a ring. His index finger was missing one.
"The descendent of your late King killed my people's ruler, and scattered these rings, of my people. I've been the first of my kind to find nine of them and now... the final one... the one Finnleik took for himself."

"History was never my strong suit..." Jannik muttered.

"Ironically on point for a Picardist," Payam replied.

"Watch it. We're doing you a favour here."

"No, you're upholding your end of a bargin. We had common interests," Payam replied as he smashed the glass around the ring with a desk bust serving as a book end on a nearby shelf. He took the ring, slipping it onto his one free finger on his left hand.

Jannik rolled his eyes. But this man also wasn't his problem.
"On behalf of the Syndicalist Republic may I apologize for the Loðbrók tyranny towards your homeland."

"So long as the House of Loðbrók is gone. The tendrils in Gothis and Meterra will be dealt with in time, but you eliminated the head."

That was another reason Jannik put up with this guy. Despite his dislike for nobility he had it out for the Loðbrók clan. And if that meant he'd kill more crowned heads then all the better.
"We got 'em. Most of 'em. Robert's brat kid got away but I have my agents on i..."
Payam turned.
"You what?"

"Tobias Loðbrók, Robert and his whore Hanna's son. Some royalists got him out but I got his picture all over. He'll be dead by New Year's."

Payam cocked his head a bit and walked up to Jannik. The two People's Militia raised their rifles...ironically the rifles they had because of Payam.

"You were given a task," he growled.

"It's a spoilt seven year old brat," Jannik muttered. "The only downside is he'll be dead before we can milk it for any propaganda value."

"I saw that, you shot a twelve year old on television."

"You knew what we'd do when you sent us those guns."

"No, I expected you to do something. I see that I set my expectations too high."

"Listen kúkalabbi*, I've done worse things to better people then you," Jannik growled, and motioned for his men to raise their guns, but Payam didn't back down. He didn't do anything for a moment but stare right through Jannik.

"Do you think I'm one of your trained attack dogs? I've burnt citities to the ground."

"So have I," Jannik said with a smirk.

Payam leaned in, to whisper into Jannik's ear.
"But I'm not afraid if the people know it was me."

Jannik's jaw tightened up.

"And," Payam added.
"I suspect the UKAG powers will be sanctioning you into obvlivion. Don't make the Ten Rings your enemy, or you won't have the bullets to fight us with."

He simply walked around Jannik and the two People's Militia soldiers, leaving the study and the former King Anders' office.
"I believe that, for now at least, our business is concluded."

Jannik growled softly. He was right, and Tom had told him not to antagonize this man. The Syndicalist Republic needed friends like him abroad, at least for the time being.

"Herra Zarku..."

"No," Payam said as he stopped.
"With this..." he held up the hand with the ring he'd just added.
"I'm the Satrap."

---

*kúkalabbi- walking sh*t pile

The sea... the sea never interested him. The sea was far from where he grew up, a villa sitting on arid plains of gold and green.

The sea... well that was far. The coast, where the cities were, were filled with pirates, traders, mercenaries... the sea choked you with the salt in the air, that stuck to your clothes and hair.

Ironic that pirates, traders, and mercenaries were his business, but the Satrap didn't let such inconsistencies bother him. Life was like that. Sometimes you needed a hammer, but that didn't mean you owed your life to a hammer. Tools were meant to be used, after all.

And yet here he was. The cold air of the open ocean enveloped him. He'd normally not be here, outside... but they were close. Oh so close...

Finnleik Scylfing had scattered the ten rings... the very rings that he wore on each finger. He'd scattered them to the far corners of the world. He had found them, he had been the first leader of the Ten Rings worthy of being called "Satrap" since the year 956, when in 2002 he took the last of the lost rings from Finnleik Scylfing's descendent Anders III Loðbrók's desecrated palace.

That palace which was no longer desecrated.

"We'll be in range of their radar soon," Bavard Damri said as he approached the Satrap, who nodded in response.

"I never liked the sea, but it has a way of making one introspective."

"We're on the verge of stealing a nuclear weapon. I suppose we all should be."
"Does it bother you, Bavard?"

"Should it not?"

"We are arms dealers, Bavard. Our agent, Kurt Ventur, the elder one, would have detonated an Iraelian nuke on Skandan soil back in the 80s had our plan not been intercepted."

"That was to further our aims," Bavard remarked as he crossed his arms.
"Re-ignite the Skandan-Iraelian War, kill the Iterian League. Good for business."

"This isn't?" the Satrap asked, calmly.
"When Saintes is consumed with atomic fire, Meterra will collapse. War will ravage it, and we'll be the ones supplying the guns."

"That's not what I meant. The vendetta..."

"The vendetta is decried by Mare d'Rabuta in heaven," the Satrap shot back, sharply though lacking any overt anger.

"The Lord of Storms' line had been broken though," Bavard replied.
"Even if their throne was restored. He knew nothing of us."

"All the more dangerous. His AN would have been our end... a slow and suffocating death. I did not reclaim our legacy only to watch us die. I will fulfill Mare d'Rabuta's decree, Bavard. Our enemies will be slain, and there will be blood."

---

Commander Jules Besnard kept running his finger over his crucifix around his neck. He was not an overly religious man despite it. He had not been to church since high school, but he still considered his faith part of who he was. In some small way. Yet a crisis had its ways of making faith all the more important.

Not that there was any sign there was a crisis. The bridge of the Intrépide was calm, and Jules had to fit in.

How could he though? They had his Wife. His one year old child. Could he do this? Could he betray his oath? Was his country's oath worth more than his family?

High minded patriotism said yes, but it was astonishing how utterly contemptuous that idea seemed when the choice was yours to make. Best case no one would know it was him. But he'd know. And whatever they did with their cargo... he'd know...

The distance between Ultramont and the Faraways was open ocean. So much could happen...

"Number one!"

Captain Hervé Boulanger.
"You look pale. Is everything alright?"

Jules thought of what to say. There were any number of things he could say.

But he only said one of them.
"Oui."

Gunfire rang out through the cabin. Heavy duty bolts secured the bridge, as the helmsman and another junior officer opened fire on the rest of the bridge crew. It happened so fast. Jules was still in shock he'd shot his captain.

"Besnard!"

Jules didn't answer.

"Besnard! Wake the fuck up!"

Jules shook his head, the two bridge crew... Ten Rings operatives... pushing the bodies out of the way, finally registered with him.

"I shot him..."

"And the Marines will storm the bridge as we speak! So grab his key, and shut down our coms!"

"Oui," Jules nodded, grabbing the key from around his dead Captain's neck and removing his own from next to his crucifix. He placed both keys into the coms console and turned. A series of panels next to buttons lit up green, and he pressed all of them, turning them red.

"There. Our coms are dead. No one's broadcasting off this boat."

"Excellent."

"You'll free my wife and child?"

"Yes. The Satrap is a man of his word."

"Ok. Now shoot me. Make it look good, so they don't know I was part of this." He closed his eyes and winced, expected a bullet in his shoulder.

And then it all went quiet. The pain was burning and then nothing. Nothing, as his body collapsed to the floor, a bullet in the head.

"Your wife and child will be spared. But the Satrap made you no such promises," the Helmsman said. They would be here soon.

---

Smoke, the smell of gunpowder, and the smell of blood filled the air. The jack of the Ultramontese Navy fluttered above the carnage. The bodies of Ten Rings soldiers and Ultramontese marines littered the halls of the ship as the Satrap entered the lower levels.

"In some small way, each soul will be part of our divine revelation," he said as he stepped over dead bodies.
"But we're not here for the dead. We're here for the power of the sun."

"In the palm of our hand," Bavard said with a smirk as he led the Satrap through the ship’s halls. There was a door marked with caution tape, and a Ten Rings operative handed Bavard the two keys taken from the dead Captain and Commander. Together they opened the door. Bavard stepped aside as the Satrap entered, lights flickering and smoke from the gunfire filling the air. He removed his aviator sunglasses, smiling. A M67 nuclear warhead.

“Kill the captured crewmen,” the Satrap whispered.
“Let them become Mare d'Rabuta's children in death.”

The operative who had handed Bavard the keys nodded, loading a fresh clip into his gun and leading some Ten Rings fighters out.

“As for the rest of you,” the Satrap continued, “unload the weapon onto our ship. And make for Saintes.”

“Where will you go?” Bavard asked.
“Are you not going to watch over the preparations?”

“No,” the Satrap replied calmly.
“I must return to Korova, to prepare for my meeting with Tobias Scylfing Loðbrók.”

“The fire rises, Satrap,” Bavard said, solemnly.

“The fire rises.”

OOC Note: Thank you to @Paxiosolange for not only letting me use Ultramont for this, but for looking over this post and providing feedback!

Dr. Lief Engelstad sighed as he sipped his water. The closed cup of water with a straw was the only drink he was allowed to bring with him into this section of the Royal Archives. It was because he was handling very old documents, some of which were older than Prydania as a unified country. The archivists were very protective of everything in this section so water with a straw and tightly closed lid was it.
And as he sipped through the straw the rattle of air made him realize he was done. And his options were either to get up and leave to refill his cup or…

“I guess I’ll wait for the ice to melt,” he muttered. He really just wanted to dig into his work here. And while he was drawn to procrastination as much as any other academic, he had an urge to start.

He was a professor of medieval archaeology at the University of Býkonsviði and one of a handful of academics chosen to help assess, reorganize, and update the catalogue of the Royal Archives, along with the National Museum. The archives of the Royal family had fallen into Syndicalist hands back in 2002. While they had rummaged through some of them they mostly had locked them away and forgotten about them. In 2018, roughly a year after the end of the Civil War, the King had asked that a team be put together to go through the archives. See what a decade and a half of Syndicalist scavenging and neglect had wrought. What needed to be accounted for as missing or destroyed, what were the pieces in desperate need of upkeep, and to produce an accurate catalogue.

The catalogue. The catalogue Lief had was from the reign of Anders III. And realistically… it probably dated to the reign of Robert VII. It was, however, the last time stock had been taken, as it were.
And it was thick. The Royal Archives included copies of correspondence, land and title grants, royal decrees, proclamations of ascension, proclamations of death, even down to personal letters and journals. Not just of past Kings and Queens but princes and princesses… anyone who was a member of the Royal family. It was a massive collection, and it fell on Lief to carefully go through some of the oldest documents the collection contained, and make sure they still existed for the updated version of the catalogue that was being compiled, and assess if they needed upkeep, repair, or anything else.

He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes before checking the old catalogue.
“Pre-Kingdom, AD 854-AD 1029”

He ran his finger down, to the first few reference numbers. Correspondence between the Loðbrók lords of Stormurholmr and the various viking clans on the mainland. He then found the corresponding documents, tagged with the right reference number, in the collection and began to look each one over.

“Age mandates move to more controlled protections and environment, but no damage of significant extent.”

It was a phrase he typed up over and over. The new archives being built in Absalonhöll would be state of the art, and he just had to note which documents would need the strictest climate controls. The older ones, even the ones in decent shape, all qualified.

“Ok…” he muttered. He’d just gone through some more minor land grants relating to the northern portion of Stormurholmr Island. Those were far less exciting than the proclamation and the correspondence with the Courantist Church over Kaldor Loðbrók’s conversion to Messianism. He moved his finger to the next set of entries in the old catalogue.

“Huh…”

Lief raised an eyebrow. Sometimes something was missing. The Syndicalists had destroyed a few things before deciding to just seal the archives up, but when that happened a document just wasn’t there to match up with an entry in the old catalogue. Here though… there were entries for things in the catalogue. They just didn’t say anything. Where the title of a document would be listed in the catalogue was just a blank space with a line through the nothingness. A cross out of text that wasn’t there. Still, that entry corresponded with a number.

“Let’s see…” he turned his attention to the boxes of documents he had by his side, and began to thumb through the protected parchment carefully until, under a pile of out of order land grants to the Church after Kaldor’s conversion, he found something. Three very old cardboard boxes at the bottom of the box he was digging through. He carefully, very carefully, managed to remove the three boxes from under the stack of protected parchment and set them down. The boxes were odd. Old, cardboard. He turned one over. Stamped on the back was a date.

“1934”

“Interesting,” Lief muttered. He turned it back. The top of the long, shallow cardboard boxes, about the size of a book, all had reference numbers in the top right corner that corresponded with the mysterious entries in the catalogue.

His heart began to race. This was an honest to God mystery. He couldn’t help but smile, even before forcing it down as soon as it appeared across his lips. The idea that one could find some secret hidden temple, treasure, or document was the sort of thing kids THOUGHT archaeology was about.
The truth was it was mostly about study in archives, digging through old trash sights in ruins, and applying the scientific method to tease out theories that most people not in academia would have little interest in.

Still, he found a mystery here. It was probably nothing. More land grants perhaps. Maybe something related to the Church? It was from around the time of the conversion to Messianism after all. Could be dull, could be interesting but not Eras-shattering. Still, for a moment? The child in him that wanted to be an archaeologist was excited.

“Well let’s see what we have here,” he said to no one as he opened the first of the three cardboard boxes.

“Well that’s… curious.”

The childlike wonder at the possibility of a mystery turned into professional confusion. Taking the top off of the box revealed an old, yellowed piece of paper. Old, but modern. And on it, written by a typewriter was a text.

Journal of His Majesty King Rikard IV

Lief very carefully began to thumb through the journal. It seemed authentic at first glance. The age of the book and the paper, the ink, even the handwriting were all consistent. It was just odd. Why was the journal of a King who reigned in the early/mid 19th century here with early medieval documents? He turned to his laptop and began typing.

"Item 5912x accounted for, but seems chronologically out of place. Flagging for catalogue re-assignment." He then hit the flag icon with a copy of the note and set the journal off to the side. That should have been it but... something nagged at him.

The item was listed properly. Whoever compiled the archives and last updated them purposefully wanted this journal here with documents that proceeded it by a thousand years. Why? Lief went to grab the next stack of documents but... his curiosity got the better of him. He pulled Rikard IV's journal back and slowly began to open it. It was a detailed account. The earliest entries were of a teenaged Grand Thane of Stormurholmr writing to the woman who would one day be his wife and queen about how he was going off to war in his father's army to fight the Callisseans. He seemed to have kept up with it regularly. His marriage, the birth of his two daughters, his ascension to the throne, the Second Nordic-Imperial War... and those were the major events, themselves separated sometimes by hundreds of smaller entries about birds he saw in the garden, or a thrilling boat race he'd watched, or any other number of mundane things.

This itself was a treat to Lief. Too often historical figures tended to be seen as flat archetypes and static icons who were just who the history books said they were. He was reading a diary from a King from two hundred years ago though, talking about how one day he just didn't want to get up because mornings were the worst. It was delightfully relatable.
But that wasn't why he was taking time out of his task. This book was both in place, but out of place. Why? It would take too long to properly read one man's entire life written down, so he was skimming. Maybe that's why he decided to just go for the easiest route? The journal had a faded red ribbon attached to the spine, a book mark. It was already tucked between two pages. Maybe... just maybe... that page held the answers to his question? It was worth a look before he returned to aimless skimming.

"18 January 1827" Lief muttered.

It has been a month and Luta is still gone.
Lief paused. This was the disappearance of Princess Luta! Everyone knew this story! There was even a Santonian-Prydanian tv show about it. It was very popular, especially among the soap opera crowd, though his mother had barred him from watching with her because he kept pointing out all the small inaccuracies. The burdens of an academic.

Still, he was reading the journal of the King himself, his own feelings on his daughter's disappearance. He wouldn't live to see her turn up again in Saintonge, wife of King Brice I.

My wife is beyond distraught. It has left me lost. I want so much to weep with her... but I fear if I give in, who will be there to hold her? Comfort her? Once more duty binds me to stoicism.
I worry so much. Not just of my daughter's safety but that she may have passed from this world thinking I had scored her. It's a cruel fate... we treat our loved ones callously at times, thinking there is always tomorrow to make things right. Sometimes, though, tomorrow never comes. And I fear it won't for Luta and I.
I'm afraid if I admit Luta is gone... then she will be gone. I know it's unhealthy, I know I am deluding myself thinking she will simply walk though the palace's doors one day but I so desperately want it to happen. I need to believe it may still happen.
My advisors and the Prime Minister have begun to whisper about Alexandria. They still don't approach me about it, but their whispers reach me all the same, that I will need to invest Alex as Grand Thane of Stormurholmr and my heir. She is still young, barely fifteen, and dealing with the loss of her sister and best friend in her own way. Can I put this on her now? At this point?

Still, if Luta does not return, I must. At some point I must, even if it tears us apart. The Kingdom is larger than I, or my wife, or both of us. If Luta is gone, may God rest her soul and may she know I always loved her. And if that should be the truth, Alexandria is Prydania's future. She will be Queen, and the duties of the Antlered Crown will be her's. I will eventually need to tell her about it all, including the Ten Rings.
The last two words hit Lief like a splash of cold water. He barely registered it at first, as if his brain just rejected what he'd read. He blinked and re-read the end of the entry.

"Ten Rings."

The terrorist group... they had been all over the news since the Association of Nations' founding and had recently targedt Prydania. They had excecuted the Iraelian ambassador on live television after goading King Tobias III into contacting them...

He was reading a journal entry from 1826. And the King of Prydania was writing about the Ten Rings.

"What the fuck is going on?" he said out loud. The archives were empty. It didn't matter. He began to furiously type on his laptop.

"King Rikard IV journal. 1826 entry. TEN RINGS. Hoax? Need academic analysis of journal ASAP" he typed, changing the flagged item icon from unurgent to urgent. He tucked the faded red ribbon in the book, closing it, and shut down his laptop. He stuffed both into his sidebag. He was going to take this to the university. This had to be seen pronto. He felt that he was shaking as he got up and grabbed his car keys from his pocket, but he breathed deep. Still, he felt anxious has he moved his way through the archives, properly checking the journal out in the name of academic analysis, steading his hands as he eventually grabbed his stearing wheel.

The drive itself to the Arts and Humanities building on the University of Býkonsviði campus wasn't that long... the campus was integrated into the city itself. Still, the ten or so minute drive felt like an eternity. Every slow driver, every person ahead of him stopping to wait to turn... it gave his brain more time to think.

"It's got to be a hoax. That's why it was out of place, right? Someone made that hox, and tossed it into his stacks so he'd find..."

The red light hummed above him as he waited.
"But... but if it's a hoax it's a good one. That journal included entries on the smallest things that had happened to Rikard IV. Detail that went beyond what hoaxers would think to do...."

He shook his head as the light turned green. He'd get to the bottom of this. Even if they had to spectrum analyze the ink.

He pulled into his reserved spot outside of the Arts and Humanities building.

"Hey Dr. Engelstad!"

"Torfi," Lief replied with a quick nod. One of his grad students. He'd usually be more willing to chat but he was in a hurry. He made his way to Dr. Roberg's office, his project leader. It was just after lunch and he knew his boss' routine. He'd be in there, snacking away on nuts as he reviewed project proposals.

"Sven," he said, leaning into the door as he opened it.
"I found some..."

He stopped. Dr. Sven Roberg was there. And he was snacking on nuts. Iraelian pistachios to be exact. And sitting across from him wasn't a student or a professor. It was a man. With messy chestnut hair, brown framed glasses, wearing khaki slacks. And a Skandan shirt.

"Ah, Dr. Engelstad," the man said.
"Thank you for joining us!"

"Lief," Dr. Roberg said, sounding a bit shocked.
"What have you done?"

"Who's this? And what? I was working on the Royal Archives project and..."

"Já, já, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," the man in the Skandan shirt said with a chuckle.

"Lief," Dr. Roberg began, "the ÖSU is here. And they want to talk to you."

"Já," Max Hveiti said with a nod.
"Já, we would."

"I'm not a criminal!" Lief protest as he paced around the room. He wasn't restrained in any way, other than that he was stuck here. There was a mirror along one wall, clearly a two-way that those ÖSU types were standing behind.

"I thought we didn't do this shit anymore!" he angrily yelled at the mirror.
"Arresting academics? Thought we were passed this SoComm Syndie shit!"

He glanced at the table. There was a pitcher of water and a glass. His more paranoid side felt that maybe it was poison... but he'd been here for what felt like hours and he was parched. So he made his way over to the table, poured a glass, and glared at the mirror. They'd watch him staring at them if he was going to die...

... but he didn't. It was just water. He sighed, sitting down, tossing the now-empty plastic cup on the table before leaning forward and resting his head on his crossed arms. Maybe he could get some sleep...

"Dr. Engelstad."

"Son of a fokking bitch," Lief muttered as the ÖSU fokker in the Skandan shirt entered the room just as he was about to try and get some rest.

"Sorry for the delay..."

"I'm a Prydanian citizen, you can't just arrest me like that I thought...."

" Já, over that 'SoComm and Syndie shit,' I heard you."

Lief glared at him as he sat down across from him.

"But," the ÖSU agent said, "I can assure you we are. You're not under arrest."

"Your thugs dragged me from the university and stuck me in an interrogation room."

"We never put you in cuffs."

"That seems arbitrary."

Max smirked.
"Dr. Engelstad, I can assure you you're not under arrest. In fact, we need your help."

"Funny way of showing it."

"I don't have time for pleasantries, Dr," Max replied.
"This is a matter of national security."

"So it is about the Ten Rings."

"You found mention of the Ten Rings in an old journal, and suddenly the ÖSU wants to talk to you. How very astute. The University of Býkonsviði's archaeological doctoral program must be very proud."

Lief glared at the man.
"If you wanted to insult me...."

"I'm sorry Dr. Engelstad, but já this is about the Ten Rings."

Lief raised an eyebrow. This guy was jumping all over the place, he couldn't read him. Then again maybe that's why he was a spy.
"So I'm not under arrest."

"No. We just had to secure you and the journal of King Rikard IV due to the sensitive nature of this discovery."

Lief grumbled a bit but breathed, relaxing. That he wasn't under arrest was a relief, even if he was still peeved at being stuck in this room for hours.

"I don't know except what I found. King Rikard IV, in 1827, wrote about the Ten Rings. I was as shocked as you are. I don't know how or why."

Max nodded and took out a cell phone, dialed a number, and spoke into it.
"Bring in the boxes."

The door opened and a man in a non-descript grey suit entered, carrying boxes not unlike the ones that contained the documents Lief was working on. He set it down and left and Max looked it over before gingerly pulling an old looking journal from it.

"I won't lie to you, Doctor," Max said with a shrug.
"My job involves a lot of intuition. Educated guesswork. When we first found out that the Ten Rings existed and weren't just a ghost story spies tell each other, well, we wanted to learn more. And that proved very difficult. When they began to target Prydania specifically I had to ask why. I didn't know, no one did. So I made a number of educated guesses..."

"You? Wait? You? You run the ÖSU?"

"Don't interrupt," Max replied curtly.
"I made a number of educated guesses. Casting lines, to use a fishing metaphor. There was a chance this targeting of us was a grudge of some kind. So I had any mention of the Ten Rings to come out of the national archives flagged. And you tripped that alarm."

Lief grumbled again.
"I don't like the idea that the government is spying on academia like that."

"Let me make something clear, Doctor," Max answered.
"I have better and more pressing things to do then spy on academics. SoComms and Syndicalists were obsessed with what people thought. I'm neither. I would rather spend my time and resources protecting this country. It just so happens that in doing that... well..." he motioned to the journal he'd set down on the table.

"What's that?" Lief asked.

"One of Princess Luta's journals," Max replied.
"She wrote a lot of them. The box is full of them."

"I can smell the book dust," Lief replied with a grin. He was truly an academic at heart. He loved that smell.

"I know, works up my allergies. Hate the stuff," Max replied. Lief scowled, but Max continued.
"Princess Luta, best as we can tell, kept regular journals from the age of eleven to just before her disappearance at the age of eighteen. The last few months of her her life here before her disappearance are unaccounted for. We suspect she fled with those entries."

Lief just looked at the old journal and then to the box, then back to Max.

"I don't deal with the 19th century, usually. Rikard IV's journal was..."

"Unexpected, I figure," Max said, interrupting him.
"We've been interviewing your peers in the archiving project who do specialize in the 19th century," Max continued.
"And we've been analyzing the journals ourselves. That's why you had to wait. We needed to cover our ground before we spoke to you."

"Wait... how long have I been here?"

"Seven hours."

"Your men read seven years worth of journals in seven hours?"

"We have a kid who can read 20,000 words per minute."

"Holy shit."

"Já," Max chuckled.
"And that's 20,000 words per minute in Prydanian."

"So did your undrabarn* uncover anything?" Lief asked, his anger and annoyance shifting to curiosity.

"No," Max replied. Lief's expression turned to disappointment just as Max continued.
"Except for one bit."

Max opened the journal he'd taken out of the box.

"This is from two years prior to Luta's disappearance.... 'Father spoke to me today. He was less forceful then usual, and didn't wish to speak about Koðrán. Instead he told me of something called the Ten Rings. I insisted that the burdens of the Crown didn't interest me, but father seemed rather glum and serious. He said it was of upmost importance that I take what he had to say seriously.'"

Lief cocked his head.
"Is that it?"

"Já," Max said with a nod.
"In seven years, that's the only mention of the Ten Rings."

Lief shifted in his seat.
"I have theories."

"I'm sure you do," Max said.
"And we want to hear them, but the key here is finding out as much as we can. And it seems reasonable to assume that when Luta fled with Brice she took the journals that mentioned her fling."

"That would make sense," Lief nodded.

"So," Max continued, "I'm confident that a girl who studiously kept a diary for seven years would continue to keep it. The Santonians likely have everything she wrote after she fled."

"And what do you want me to do?"

"I'm going to do everything I can to get those diaries," Max replied.
"Should the Santonians be amicable there will be a team dedicated to analyzing them. I have an agent who can read 20,000 words per minute, but I need an academic to help piece everything together. Are you willing?"

Lief breathed deep.
"You took me here. Kept me here... in this room..."

"If the room bothers you we can get you another one. Look, Doctor. I won't mince words. You weren't arrested. And your country needs you. You found this. Help us solve it."

Lief leaned back in his chair, and nodded.

"Ok."

---

*undrabarn- wunderkind

Dr. Lief Engelstad watched as Gunnhild Lyng eyed the paintings that adorned the wall of the room they were waiting in. She hadn’t said a word since they got here, though it wasn’t for Lief’s lack of trying. He’d tried to be friendly after introductions were made, but she hardly seemed to acknowledge him after a brief nod. It was all for the better, Lief supposed. The flight from Býkonsviði to Saintes was not particularly long, but he hated air travel. He had been a nervous wreck.

“Are you sure she’s… human?” Lief asked, with a nervous smile.

“I think she just appreciates art,” Patrik Huseklepp, Prydania’s ambassador to Saintonge, muttered as he thumbed through some papers.

“I didn’t get ‘art fanatic’ vibes,” Lief replied.

“She’s something of an enigma. Of all the people Hveiti could sent me…” Patrik mused.
“Oh well. She does her job well.”

“Does it usually take this long?” Lief asked.

“The Royal Palace? No… but… well… there are complications.”

“Complications?”

“I’ve had to find out about diplomacy the hard way,” Patrik explained as he turned around, to admire another painting.
“Everyone may want to pretend otherwise, but protocol is second to personalities. Different people have different habits, and different strategies for dealing with other people. Different Ministers, different Prime Ministers, and in this case different Kings.”

“You mean the twins.”

“Já,” Patrik replied with a nod.

“It’s funny, twins in Saintonge. And our King has twins.”

“Must run in the family,” Patrik said with a shrug.
“Either way they’re not their father.”

“So they want us to wait?”

“Well it’s more complicated than that.”

Lief and Patrick both turned. Gunnhild had pulled herself away from painting on the other end of the room. And had seemingly snuck up on them.

“I didn’t see you,” Patrik replied.

“That means I’m good at my job.”

“I don’t see how that’s strictly relevant to ‘Intelligence Attache,’ but I’ve learnt not to argue,” Patrik answered with a smirk.

“What complications?” Lief asked.

“This is not a normal diplomatic request. This is a matter of the Royal Family of Saintonge’s personal property.”

“I thought this had been sorted?” Lief said with a raised eyebrow.

“If I had to guess, they’re examining the information before deciding if we can get a look,” Gunnhild replied.
“Given what’s at stake. It’s what anyone would do in their situation. Knowledge is power. Or if not power, at least currency.”

“You really are one of Hveiti’s people,” Lief muttered.

“Well at least, during the War, I knew what side I was on.”

Lief frowned. Not that he was shocked… he wasn’t a public academic, but his time at the University of Býkonsviði was a matter of public record. You didn’t need to work for the ÖSU to know that. Still, he thought that was water under the bridge. He was never a Syndicalist per se… he had just said the right things to survive. Who wouldn’t have in his place? He went to say something before Patrik intervened.

“Let’s not do this here? There will be a drive back to the embassy later for you two to tear into each other," Patrik groaned.

“I don’t want to tear into anyone,” Lief said coldly, turning around to pace the gilded room they were in.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Patrik muttered to Gunnhild.

“You? I figured you’d know better than most, after what you saw during the War.”

Patrik grumbled.
“My War record may have been what compelled the Prime Minister to send me here, but I don’t like to dwell on it. And neither should you.”

“If this information exists, why are we trusting it to someone who pledged an oath of loyalty to the Syndies?”

“He’s the only reason we know this information may even exist in the first place, Hild.”

“You’re getting cute with me?” she asked, smiling ever so faintly as he used her nickname.

“This isn’t the place for that, or this,” Patrik winked.
“But try to be nicer? This guy seems on the up and up…all things considered.”

“Já,” Gunnhild remarked.
“All things considered.” The last bit had a bitter tone drawn through it. Still, Patrik considered it a minor win to have defused that situation and made his way to a pacing Lief, across the room.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Lief sighed.

“No, it’s not, it was out of line.”

“I think I just need a nap. I spent the whole flight on the edge of my seat and then got shoved into a van and now I’m here. I need to lie down.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you found it in yourself to not hold it against her. She runs hot and cold. Very little middle ground.”

“She’s not the first. She won’t be the last. I did what I did. I won’t dwell on it. Can’t help it if others do.”

Patrik shrugged. It was remarkably similar to his own outlook on his War service, but part of him was… not completely at ease. He wasn’t a gung-ho sort despite being regarded as a war hero, and he tried to be understanding and easy going when possible… but still. His less noble nature sometimes shone through. Lief didn’t dwell on paying lip service to the Syndicalist regime until, conveniently, they were no longer in charge? How noble. Patrik and others chose to fight, not because it was easy but because it was right. Maybe Lief didn’t see it like that.
Still, Lief had satisfied the security clearance process. That should be good enough for him. He didn’t have to be his friend. Just get through this.

“Have you ever had a royal audience before?” Patrik asked, trying to steer things in a more productive direction.

“Já… and no. I think?”

Patrik chuckled. “You think?”

“When I was selected to work on the Royal archives they gave us a course on how to properly greet a member of the Royal family if it came up. Never did though. At least not me. The project leader met the King a few times but I was just plugging away at my job. But the King showed up once in the archives. We all stood up, unsure what to do, but he just told us all to sit. Then he grabbed a chair, asked some questions, and left. It was… not what I thought my first brush with royalty would be like.”

“I met the King in a bar,” Patrik chuckled.

“What?”

“Well it was a pub-turned field hospital during the War. Got laid up there when my leg was healing. Met the King. Well he was the Prince then. He was uncomfortable with finery then too.”

“Was this before or after the Skógarhlið?” Lief asked. Patrik’s face reddened a bit.

“After,” he said softly. Lief just nodded. He could tell the question made him uncomfortable, though he found that shocking. The Syndicalists had tried to suppress it, but everyone heard about the Skógarhlið…

“I take it the Santonian Kings aren’t like ours then?” Lief asked, shifting the discussion.

“In a lot of ways they’re similar,” Patrik replied.
“They tend to be friendly, and relatable. Still, formality is important. If our request gets dismissed, well… just let them do the dismissing.”

“Who else would do it?”

The two turned. Gunnhild had returned from admiring the artwork.

“Well that’s the thing, if it is we say ‘thank you for your time, Your Majesty,’ and we leave,” Patrik explained.

“Majesty? I thought there were two of them…”

“His Majesty King Thibault III will see you all,” the attendant announced, arriving and cutting Lief off.

“Thank you,” Patrik replied, his Santonian fluent with just a hint of an accent. He motioned for the others to follow, as the attendant led them out of the room they had been waiting in, and into a rather spacious room.

“Your Majesty, may I present the ambassador from the Kingdom of Prydania, Sir Patrik Huseklepp, and his associates Ms. Gunnhild Lyng and Dr. Lief Engelstad.”

Lief found himself studying Thibault III. He was wearing what could be described as business casual, a suit and a light blue undershirt, though the top few buttons were undone and he wasn’t wearing a tie. He was caught off guard. Tobias III was known to dress casually around Absalonhöll, but he wasn’t expecting a King of Saintonge to be dressed so normally. Still, he was shaken from his observation when Patrik and Gunnhild bowed their heads slightly, and he did the same.

“Your Majesty,” Patrik said.

“Monsieur Huseklepp,” Thibault III replied, as he motioned for his visitors to sit. He was smiling softly as he took a seat at one of two desks at the far end of the elegant office. The other was empty.

“Thank you, Your Majesty, for agreeing to see us,” Patrik said, the others sitting down next to him, one on either side.

“I’m sorry Timothée couldn’t be here,” Thibault added, referring to his brother.
“But he couldn't get away from med school.”

“That’s most alright, we understand. We have a doctor here with us today, though not of the medical variety,” Patrik said with a smile as he motioned with his head to Lief.

“So that’s why there’s only one of them,” Lief thought. He knew Saintonge had twin kings, but he had no idea one was training to be a doctor.

“Dr. Engelstad, yes?” Thibault asked warmly.

“Yes, um, Your Majesty,” Lief replied, again bowing his head.

“You don’t have to do that every time, that part’s over,” Patrik teased, with a smirk.

“Sorry,” Lief replied, with a smile and some flush in his cheeks.

“It’s ok,” Thibault said with a grin.
“I don’t think my cousin cares much for formal protocol either,” he stifled a chuckle himself. The first time he'd met Tobias- a prince at the time meeting a newly crowned King- he'd given him a group hug with his brother! Hardly a formal event.

“Um….” Lief tried to figure out what to say, but Thibault just continued.

“How’s my cousin doing, Ambassador?”

“Good, all things considered,” Patrik replied.
“He sends his regards.”

Thibault nodded. Tobias had said as much, much less formally, in a private Twitcher group chat. Still, formalities cared not for the advent of social media.

“I, uh, wish him the same,” Thibault said with a smile.
“I wish that we didn't have to meet about this though,” he added, hinting at the reason they were all here.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Patrik replied.
“The good news is, though, that Dr. Engelstad may have found a hint about the identity of these phantoms that have caused us all a lot of grief.”

“We received the request,” Thibault said, “but I’m not sure I'm understanding the context. I was hoping you could explain it, Ambassador.”

“I’ve brought Dr. Engelstad here to do just that, Your Majesty,” Patrik continued.
“He’s the one who made the discovery, and he’s far more qualified to discuss this than I am.”

Thibault turned back to Lief, and Lief coughed slightly, a bit nervous. He didn’t like being put on the spot, or speaking in front of people. It’s why he worked in archives!

“Your Majesty,” he began, “I am part of a team that has been tasked with cataloguing the Prydanian Royal Family’s archives, and restoring any damaged documents during the tenure of the Syndicalist regime…” Thibault nodded along, but Lief could tell he was waiting politely for the point.

“I, um, I found a document that was out of place. It was something that both existed and didn’t exist in earlier archival records. It was a phantom item. And it was very, very odd. Upon examining it, I discovered it contained a journal, belonging to King Rikard IV, father to our Queen Alexandria, and her sister, your Queen Luta. The journal mentioned the Ten Rings.”

“Oh,” Thibault said softly, leaning back in his chair. He looked confused.
“That… that’s strange. Do we know it's authentic?”

“We tested for that,” Lief replied.
“The journal is authentic, and belongs to a series of journals King Rikard IV kept for most of his life from his adolescence onward. When he mentions the Ten Rings, it’s in the context of having to explain them to his youngest daughter, the future Queen Alexandria of Prydania. He mentions that he explained them to Luta, when he assumed Luta would succeed him as monarch of Prydania. When Luta was thought dead, he wrote of the need to tell Alexandria.”

“That’s interesting, Doctor,” Thibault replied.
“But I’m also confused. This group, that has world governments in a bind, these terrorists, are mentioned in a journal from two hundred years ago?”

“They are, Your Majesty. Whatever Rikard IV may or may not have told Alexandria, we don’t know. His younger daughter did not share his love of keeping journals… but his older daughter did.”

“Queen Luta of Saintonge,” Thibault said, almost to himself.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Your accent is thicker than Ambassador Huseklepp’s, but your Santonian is still very good,” the King said, almost randomly.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lief replied. “I had a classical education.”

Thibault smiled as he nodded, and then continued.
“So you want to see Queen Luta’s journals? I’m sure you have some of them yourselves.”

“We have Luta’s journals from when she was younger. Most of them anyway,” Lief replied.
“There are likely a few volumes missing that the pre-Syndicalist logs also do not have. Our logs show the last entry in the last volume was written sixteen months before she disappeared. We know Queen Luta was a prolific diarist, so it was unusual that she simply stopped sixteen months before she disappeared. Either the volumes were lost in the Syndicalist purges or - as I suspect what an eloping princess would do - she brought the volumes with her to prevent her parents from discovering her whereabouts. If Luta wrote anything about the Ten Rings while she was still in Prydania, she might have done it in the missing volumes. The ones we have and can account for don’t mention them.”

“You suspect then, Doctor, that perhaps Luta’s Santonian journals do.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Thibault nodded, clearly thinking to himself for a moment, before he looked at Patrik again.
“These… Ten Rings…have killed a head of state, and they've killed an ambassador. They're threatening innocents, and my cousin. And he’s as much Luta’s family as we are…” he paused.
“But I need assurances that any information gained from them is shared with Santonian intelligence.”

“Gunnhild?” Patrik asked, turning to his intelligence advisor.

“The ÖSU has authorized me to promise full and complete transparency on the matter, Your Majesty. Your people will know anything Dr. Engelstad uncovers.”

“Would the ÖSU be ok with a SRS agent being there during the examinations?” Thibault asked, turning to Gunnhild. It was a poignant question. As one of Saintonge’s Kings the journals were very much his personal property. Family heirlooms. He could demand any conditions he wanted, but he politely worded the demand as a request to see what this ÖSU agent would say.

Gunnhild only nodded for a moment before answering.
“Chief Hveiti has said that as part of our request to examine the journals we would be willing to meet any and all conditions and requests you might have, Your Majesty.”

Thibault nodded, seeming satisfied.
“Then I don't have a problem with it!” he said in a friendly tone.
“But the examinations are done here, in Saintes. Our archives can make the journals available to Dr. Engelstad and yourself, Ms. Lyng, along with an SRS agent.”

Gunnhild nodded and King Thibault returned the nod, continuing.
“We appreciate the information Mr. Hveiti passed along to Lt. General de Cluseret. I’m happy to return the favour.”

“It’s most appreciated, Your Majesty,” Patrik said.
“On behalf of King Tobias III, his government, and the people of Prydania, thank you.”

“Of course,” Thibault said with a smile before taking a deep breath.
“I just want to ask Ms. Lyng one more thing.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?” Gunnhild asked, curiously.

“You're going to pass along whatever you all find to the ÖSU?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. That’s correct.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll tell our own SRS efforts… please, find the people behind this insanity and stop them.”

Gunnhild felt a lump in her throat. She was usually rather detached. Intelligence work tended to foster that sort of attitude. Especially when you worked for Max Hveiti, a brain so cold it could freeze brennivin. Still, intelligence work had made her good at reading people, and she could see some worry in the Santonian King’s face.
For his cousin? For the assassinated Iraelian ambassador or assassinated FEU President? For the innocents threatened by all of this? Maybe all of them, but Thibault worried look got to her for a moment.

“I will… we will… try our best, Your Majesty.”

OOC Note- Post approved, and partially written, by @Kyle

Situation room, Presidential Palace
Siloyev, Khastenia
0222 hours

To be quite honest, this wasn’t how Sidorov enjoyed his nights.

When he was younger he was a bit of a night owl; staying up late immersed in books or, when he was older, out and about on late night drives. Better to be doing something rather than staring at the ceiling, he’d figure. His civil service career often kept his sleeping hours short, especially as he climbed further up the ranks of Khastenian politics.

The war in Lusatia ensured he became well acquainted with a real sleepless experience. Nights spent just like this one now. He had never been a particularly heavy smoker before, but that changed in 2019.

Sidorov slipped the cigarette butt between his lips and produced a lighter from his side pocket. He covered the other end of his cigarette with his free hand and lit up, exhaling a thick breath of smoke. The specific brand he had on him at the time was Skandan, though he’d also smoke Santonian, Andrennian, or Predicean. Not Khastenian, though. He couldn’t stand tobacco from his own country.

He was seated at a table with some fifteen or so others. The prime minister, the foreign minister, the director of the National Intelligence Service, and several others. Facing them all, at the head of the room was a large monitor displaying a variety of information—high altitude drone footage of the target area, continuously updated streams of thermal imaging, monitoring of any communications, and more.

“Kompas and Buran have touched down on site. Owl in position to provide overwatch.” The analysts’ reports kept the situation room up-to-date.

“Copy. Target building’s power is out. Hostiles are in the dark.”

The PM, Anton Tsvetayev, was seated right beside Sidorov. He was never a smoker at all. Sidorov was about a decade younger. They’d both been on the political scene for years. They’d both been in office during the Lusatian war. But not once did he ever see his PM pull out a cigarette. Truth be told, he somewhat admired that.

Anton looked over at him. “Do you really think the warhead could be in those mountains?”

Sidorov took another hit of his cigarette.

“I don’t know,” he admitted without looking to the PM. “The Satrap seems to have it out for the Prydanian king. If the warhead’s on Craviter, we have to find it.”

“And if it’s not?”

Sidorov took another smoke and exhaled the cloud with a hefty sigh. “Then we’ll have hell to pay.”

“Gods deliver us,” Anton whispered to himself. Sidorov paid it no mind.

His gaze was fixed onto the monitor at the head of the room. It displayed a map graphic of the target location—a two-story mountainside retreat nestled into the trees and slopes north of the Arrandi-Canwyri border. It wasn’t known with one-hundred degree certainty what the Ten Rings had there; men, weapons, intelligence. It wasn’t known with certainty if they had the warhead, if they knew of its whereabouts, or if this particular cell was even aware of its existence.

The topographic map showed two white dots skipping their way toward the cabin almost like pings on a radar. Two teams, four men each. Enter the cabin, clear it, and secure the nuke or any information on the Ten Rings. Another dot remained stationary, positioned on a forested ridgeline to the south overlooking the site–a two-man sniper team acting as reconnaissance and support. There was an attack helicopter standing by at the Khastenian military base further northwest just in case the special forces teams were faced with heavy resistance.

Sidorov tapped his cigarette on the glass ashtray sitting on the table in front of him, watching as the two teams of soldiers finally arrived on opposite ends of the cabin.

“Kompas, ready.”

“Buran, ready.”

“Showtime.” Sidorov slipped the cigarette between his lips. It was down to half its original length now.

---

Ten Rings safehouse, mountainside cabin
Arrandi mountains, north of Canwyr
0230 hours

“Breaching!”

A piercing bang knocked the door off its hinges. Well, moreso it blew the wooden door to little bits and fragments, scattering glass shards from the small windows. The blast kicked up some dust off the stone patio and some bits and pieces off the door’s frame. Within moments, the team of soldiers were pushing their way inside.

Kompas hit the side door on the first floor. Buran hit the door leading into the basement. There had been a simultaneous blast down below them where the basement door was located.

Sergeant Vassili Smaginov followed closely behind his team leader, Captain Mosalev—the barrel of his rifle pointed over his shoulder as the captain led his team through the door and peeled left. Smaginov peeled right. Two more soldiers came in right behind him. The power to the house was cut but their night vision goggles let them see when the terrorists could not.

They had come into the living room of the cabin. Opposite them were couches and a fireplace glowing warmly with embers. Two white foldable tables were covered in weapons; rifles, sidearms, automatic weapons, and at least one rocket launcher. A few grenades, too.

“Clear right,” Smaginov reported.

“Clear left,” Mosalev reported. “Living room, clear.”

No one was down here. But they could hear footsteps upstairs. They could hear some frantic shouting upstairs, muffled by doors and walls.

“Basement, clear.” The other team reported on the comms. “Buran moving to the first floor.”

To the left there was a staircase leading up to the second floor of the cabin with some other rooms on the first floor. A hallway ran out from the living room just past the staircase before turning right, continuing, and loop back right into the living room again. There were some faint sounds of movement. Someone was down here, in the rooms.

“Buran, clear the rest of the first floor. Kompas, we’re moving to the second floor.”

“Copy, Kompas-One.”
Buran made their way up the stairs coming up from the basement, right below the stairs headed up to the second floor. Mosalev took point. Smaginov right behind him. The two other soldiers followed. They had the barrels of their rifles trained on the walkway running parallel beside the stairs.

Mosalev turned left, leading the team down toward the first room to clear. Someone tried to bolt across the opening between either side of the hall. Mosalev put his finger on the trigger. A pop from the barrel of the suppressed rifle, almost like a louder pellet gun. A wet thump, then a hard one as the body fell to the floor.

The four soldiers came up to the first door. Mosalev stood on one side. Smaginov and the two other soldiers on the other. Mosalev drove his boot in right next to the doorknob, sending the door swinging wide open. Two gunshots rang out. Smaginov pushed in. Mosalev and the others right behind him. The sergeant put two rounds through a man’s chest. They scanned the small bedroom for more threats. There were additional tables and weapons. A few more grenades than downstairs.

“First room, clear.” The soldiers filed out of the door and back down the hallway. Onto the next room.

They came to the next door and kicked it open as well. Mosalev was about to go in but pulled back just as a bullet cut through the wall, narrowly missing him. Three more gunshots rang out. The terrorists were firing in the dark. Smaginov pushed in and put a round through one man’s chest. The soldier behind him put two in the other terrorist.

“Second room, clear.” They filed back out into the hallway.

There were a couple gunshots that came from somewhere downstairs. Then suppressed rounds that were much fainter.

“First floor, clear.”

“Copy, Buran.”

The soldiers on the second floor came around to the third and final door. Mosalev kicked it open and Smaginov took point. A man sprang up from behind an overturned sofa and fired off a lucky shot, clipping Smaginov in the arm. Mosalev put two rounds through his chest and stomach.

“Second floor, clear. All clear. Repeat, all clear.”

---

Ten Rings safehouse
0248 hours

The final room Mosalev and his team had cleared was full of intel. Photos, lists, names, info on other cells in Craviter, contacts abroad—filing cabinets filled with information the terrorists had compiled. It was an intelligence goldmine.

There was just one problem…

The Ultramontese nuke was nowhere to be found.

“Smaginov.”

The sergeant looked up from the folders and flash drives he was shoving into a bag to see his CO standing over him.

“How’s that arm?”

“Just a flesh wound, sir. Svoloch* grazed me but didn’t hit an artery.”

Mosalev smirked. “Get that checked out after we RTB, you got me?”

“Kompas-One, this is Nest. Any sign of the device? Over.” Headquarters calling in.

Mosalev reached for his comms. “Negative, Nest. No sign of the nuclear device. We found a goldmine of intel on Ten Rings operations in the continent. Stashing everything we can carry for the NRS** to look at before we RTB. Over.”

“Copy that. Sparrows are inbound for exfil, ETA two minutes. Out.”

“Alright, grab whatever else you can and move to extraction. Sparrow is two minutes inbound. Let’s go!”

The other soldiers hurriedly stuffed whatever they could that was left into their bags and headed downstairs. Outside they regrouped with Buran and made their way down the slope to a relatively flat opening. Two black transport helicopters descended and whisked them all away.

---

Situation room
0252 hours

“Sparrows one and two are returning to base.”

Sidorov pulled out another cigarette. But he didn’t light it.

“The nuke wasn’t there, but we didn’t walk away completely empty-handed.”

Anton glanced over. “It could be anywhere, then.”
Sidorov just nodded, slowly.

“I want everything they found at the cabin passed up to NRS, and onto CZS, ÖSU, and our other allies.”

He slipped the cigarette between his lips and lit it.

“Let them know the nuke wasn’t in Arrandal. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

---

OOC:
*Svoloch = bastard
**NRS = National Intelligence Service (Natsional'naya Razvedyvatel'naya Sluzhba), Khastenia’s civilian foreign intelligence agency

Siloyev, Khastenia

Lyst Hansen looked around nervously. The cheering around certainly didn't make it much better. In fact it was spiking his anxiety.

“No one in section three,” he reported via radio.

“Board is clear,” the Khastenian Presidential Security Detachment operational commander Yevgeniy Shulga reported back.
“Hopefully this is all bluster and you boys can be back home before too long.”

Lyst grumbled and looked around at the cheering crowd, the Khastenian flags waving. President Sidorov Kolibin had insisted on this rally despite the Prydanian ÖSU sharing vital
intelligence with the Khastian National Intelligence Service that the Ten Rings would make an attempt on the President’s life.

“The pride of fucking politicians,” Lyst muttered in Prydanian so no one in the crowd would understand him. The ÖSU was here to help, and hoped that if they did capture some would-be assassins they could get some more workable intel. The Santonian mission had already borne fruit, if what Lyst heard was correct…

Lyst was on edge though. The podium that awaited President Kolibin was open to 180 degrees in front. The Security Detachment of the Presidency of the Republic had swept the hillside and buildings near the open air amphitheater the rally was taking place in, but that didn't preclude an assassin from getting up close.

He scanned the crowd. He saw a few non-Szalv faces, the various indigenous peoples who called Khastenia home.
He felt bad racially profiling someone but the fact was that if someone was disillusioned and felt helpless… well… those were people easy to manipulate.

Still the young Native Khastenian women were just waving flags like everyone else and Lyst moved on…

---

Max Hveiti was pouring over files as Yevgeniy Shulga monitored the situation from the mobile command HQ.

“Between your boys and mine, we should cover this place tight,” Yevgeniy said.

“Uh huh,” Max muttered.
“You shouldn’t have let the President agree to do this.”

“President Kolibin isn’t someone who is easily convinced to do things someone else’s way,” Yevgeniy said with a chuckle.
“This isn’t the first headache he’s given me.”
“Hmm,” Max muttered, thumbing through files.
Maybe he didn’t have room to complain. King Tobias would play checkers with random people in a crowd if he had his way. He made things difficult too.
“Idiots, the both of them,” Max thought to himself.

The ÖSU’s mission to Saintonge had been illuminating. As suspected, Queen Luta’s journals mentioned the Ten Rings and made reference to what King Rikard IV of Prydania had told her, when she was still his heir. That they had been around a very long time, and that they’d held an ancient grudge against the descendents of the vikings who had helped the Arianese break their temporal power centuries ago. Deeper motivations were not uncovered, but it had proven useful. It had confirmed some earlier suspicions he’d had, and allowed the ÖSU and the Santonian SRS to commit fully to avenues that had been mere speculation before. That was how they’d uncovered this plot.

“These fucks, they don’t seem rational,” Yevgeniy mused, cutting into Max’s train of thought.
“They’re waging some blood feud from over a thousand years ago?”

“Take it from someone who lived through the Prydanian Civil War,” Max replied.
“There is no good reason why mad men do what they do. It just has to make sense to them for them to be dangerous.”

“I’m ex-military, not intelligence,” Yevgeniy said with a shrug.
“Far as I’m concerned, shoot ‘em all and let the gods sort them out.”

“Well,” Max replied, “these people have been hidden for a very long time. A very long time, and they’ve gotten very rich and influential by being hidden.”

“Then why reveal themselves now?” Yevgeniy asked.

“That’s what worries me,” Max answered.

---

Lyst scanned the crowd, as the Khastenian Republic’s Presidential pageantry began to play and a man at the podium bellowed in Khastenian, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the Khastenian Republic!”

President Kolibin emerged onto the stage, smiling, waving to the crowds, even stopping for a moment to bend down and shake a small child’s hand who’d been held up by his father. Lyst’s heart raced even though it wasn’t in his sector. That’s the shit that could get you killed…

The President took the podium.

“My fellow Khastenians!” he began as the crowd applauded. His speech faded into white noise for Lyst who scanned the crowd… the target was out in the open. If anyone was going to…

He moved. He saw someone. A man, moving forward through the crowd. Lyst had closed in, and yes… he saw it. A knife. The man was holding a knife, half hidden in a jacket sleeve.

Lyst circled back around him in the crowd and, well before he could get to the stage, he wrapped an arm around the guy’s shoulder, and grabbed the knife hand discreetly.

“Hey buddy,” he said in accented but understandable Prydanian.
“How about you let go of that knife, let me have it, and you and I and the good men in the President’s security detail have a talk, eh?”

The man froze for a moment, and looked at Lyst, before looking at the President as he gave his speech. He gulped and let go of the knife, letting Lyst take it. Keeping an arm tightly wrapped around him, he was about to radio in when…

“I apprehended the suspect in zone one,” one of the Khastenian agents radioed in.
“He had a knife, was trying to rush the stage.”

“What?” Lyst burst out in shock.

“Suspect with a knife apprehended in zone five too,” another voice radioed in.

Lyst turned white and looked at the suspect he’d gotten to. The man just smiled at him.
“The fire rises.”

Lyst’s heart froze. He’d… they’d all… been played. He made a decision and pushed the man away as he ran towards the stage.

“Mr. President!” he yelled out. Chaos began to erupt, and Lyst pulled his ÖSU badge and gun out. It didn’t matter if it was a Prydanian badge, it looked official and that was enough in a panicked crowd.

President Kolibin looked around, confused, as “converge on POK! Converse on POK!” Yevgeniy Shulga’s voice echoed through everyone’s radio, and then…the man who had introduced the President to the crowd ran up behind him…

“GET DOWN!” Lyst called but it was too late. The explosion rocked the podium. Fire, flame, ash…it was everywhere.

Lyst found himself on the ground, on the concrete floor of the amphitheater, panicked people running and jostling all around. His heart was racing….the smell of ash. He hadn’t smelt that since the Civil War… the horrors of the mass graves outside of Hadden… he gasped for breath, forcing himself to his feet as past trauma flooded his mind, brought on by the sensations that now assaulted him.

The stage was on fire…tattered banners and flags and shattered wood and twisted metal littered what was once a lively rally. He dragged himself forward…his body hurt, his ears were shot, and memories of the worst moments of his life now wouldn’t leave his mind, but he forced himself forward…

“Mr. President!” he called out desperately. He knew what he’d seen. That while he and the other ÖSU and Security Detachment of the Presidency of the Republic personnel were busy with the false flags, they’d not noticed the inside man on the stage.

“MR. PRESIDENT!” he called out as he got to where the podium once was. He could feel the heat of the fire on his skin, just like in Hadden…

And he saw him.

“Hansen! HANSEN! This is Hveiti! What the fok is going on? Where is President Kolibin?”
“Sidorov Kolibin… is dead…” he said as he collapsed to his knees, next to the charred remains of a great man, in the midst of fire and wreckage.

---

Luscova, Norsia
“If you argue with me, I will kick your ass,” Colart grunted as he led the Royal family into the secured safe room deep in the White Palace.

“I know better than to argue with you,” Alycia remarked, but Colart shook his head.
“Your husband doesn’t.”

Tobias, though, was saying nothing as he held his sons’ hands tight. He had a shell shocked look on his face as Colart and his men secured the room.

“Shhh,” Alycia said sweetly as she calmed the two year old Hanna by her side.
“It’s ok. We’re going to be ok…”

Tobias stared ahead…the Ten Rings had killed Sidorov Kolibin. He had never been especially close to him… but he’d been friendly with him. And the President had been a true friend of Prydania’s… and that was probably why he was now dead.

“I’m going to kill him,” Tobias muttered.

“Don’t,” Alycia shot back.
“Not in front of the children.”

“Pabbi? What’s happening?” Baldr asked as he tugged on his father’s hand, but Tobias just shook his head. Instead he looked to Colart.

“Can we use the tv?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Colart replied, just happy Tobias wasn’t insisting they didn’t have to be here. He turned the television on, to NNN. The anchors were talking about the explosion in Siloyev.

“Come on you coward,” Tobias muttered as he watched the television.
“You know you want to. Come on. Brag.”

The NNN feed was cut. Static filled the screen until a test pattern with the emblem of the Ten Rings flashed on screen before the Satrap appeared. Seated on an old stone throne. In a dark room… his green robes the only bit of colour that seemed to pop off the screen.

“There you are,” Tobias muttered.

“I do not make idle threats,” the Satrap said, staring into the camera.
“I promised death and destruction to the nations that did not break off diplomatic relations with the Kingdom of Prydania, and I have delivered. King Tobias…” his voice grew deep.

“More and more blood is now on your hands. But blood has always been on your hands, hasn’t it? Since the FRE started killing in your name as a child, you have been awash with the blood of the innocents. I have proven I can get to any head of state I desire, Your Majesty. So I will leave you tonight with a choice. A choice that I hope will bring some solace to your bloodsoaked soul. Do you want an empty life, or a meaningful death?”

Tobias stared at the screen, Alycia coming up next to him to take his hand…

“There’s only one lesson left, Your Majesty. And I intend to finish this before Christmas. I’ll see you soon.”

The screen went blank again before the NNN feed came back. Colart was immediately on the safe room’s secured line, demanding the Norsian military trace the signal that had cut off NNN, but it was all white noise.

He looked over at Alycia.

“Do not let him get to you,” she said softly. Tobias looked back at the NNN broadcast.

“You heard what I said. I meant it,” Tobias replied. He would personally kill the Satrap.

OOC note: post approved by @Arc

“Do you know why I never fled Prydania during the Civil War?” Tobias asked as he picked up his two year old daughter Hanna.

“Let's not talk falsely,” Colart replied dryly.
"You didn't leave because you were seven and William Aubyn decided you would stay."

Tobias ignored him as he sat Hanna down next to him on the couch in his office Absalonhöll, the Royal residence in Býkonsviði.
“Pabbi’s going get you ice cream, I promise. Ok?”

“Ok,” she said with a wide grin, ignorant of the situation happening around her. It was only after he got his daughter’s smiling approval that he turned to Colart.

“The reason why William Aubyn never tried to move me out was because he knew the country wouldn’t rally around a Prince that wasn’t there. But I was. I was here. People could see me. And when I got older they got to know me, and knew I was suffering like they were. I had people I never knew coming up to me to cry, because they believed in me…” his voice trailed off.
“So I’m not going to leave my country, when a terrorist is threatening them.”

“He’s not threatening them, he’s threatening you… Your Grace. And your wife and children.”

Colart rarely got angry, but it seemed like he was getting frustrated. Tobias sensed it.
“If the Ten Rings want to try to kill us they can do it just as easily in Luscova,” he replied.

“The perimeter is clear,” Laurdis Hummel, Lord Marshal of the Knights of the Storm announced, walking in.
“Colart,” he said with a respectful nod to his Norsian counterpart.

“Hummel,” Colart replied back to his Prydanian counterpart.
“Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

“Pabbi needs to talk to the Lord Marshal, Hanna. You go to Colart and see mamma and your brothers, ok?”

Colart gently took the young girl’s hand. She had her father’s dirty blonde hair, but her mother’s deep brown eyes… he sighed. He’d dedicated his life to protecting Alycia…

“I’ll have the car prepped in case you do manage to talk some sense into him,” he said to Hummel as he led the young princess out, to take her to her mother and brothers.

“He’s cheery,” Laurids said as he entered the King’s office.

“He’s always like that… well mostly. I think I finally got an emotion out of him though.”

“Anger? Is that what you’re going to hang your hat on?”

“The dividing line between anger and love is thinner than you think.”

“So you want to get him so mad he loves you?”

“He already does, that’s why he’s mad,” Tobias said as he got up to pace.

“He’s right though. There’s no reason for you to be here. Luscova, or even Skógurheorot, would be safer.”

“What? No love for Himnasviði? I paid a lot for that place.”

“It’s too wide open. Skógurheorot is on a mountain in the middle of the woods. I’d feel better.”

“Would they?” Tobias asked as he motioned to the large bullet proof window that ran the entire length of the wall behind his desk.
“Sidor…” he paused, a bit flustered, and breathed deeply.
“President Kolibin was killed, while under protection from two security agencies. How would it look to the rest of Prydania if their King went and hid in the woods?”

“You won’t even let us take you to the bunker? It’s just been completed. Self-sustainable for half a year, under a random wheat field outside the city.”

“It’s still running,” Tobias muttered as he walked over to the massive bookshelf. He ran his finger over the spines of books.

“You ran a lot, during the Civil War. No, you never left the country, but you ran, for your own sake. People understood that. They’d understand this.”

Tobias found what he was looking for. l’Ensauvagement de la Prydanie: un pays détruit en siècle. There was still plastic wrap around it. He’d never read it. At first he told himself it was because he couldn’t read Santonian, ignoring the fact that a Prydanian language version existed. Well… he could speak and read Santonian now and he still hadn’t read it. He bit his lower lip and pulled it from the shelf, tossing it to Laurids.

“Well I’m done running.”

---

“Hanna,” Alycia replied happily, dropping to a knee to hug her daughter before looking up at Colart.

“Your husband is an idiot,” Colart said, but Alycia shot him a look.
“The children know Norsian as much as they know Prydanian,” she replied.

“You say that like I was trying to hide it,” Colart replied, before turning his attention to Baldr and Hael, the twin four year olds.
“You two, when you grow up and succeed your father, be smarter than he is.”

Baldr and Hael were colouring, and looked up, a bit confused.
“What did pabbi do?” they asked in unison, using the Prydanian word for “father” when otherwise speaking Norsian.

“Nothing,” Alycia said. They were at a table that could easily sit all five members of their family, overlooking the Ryon River that Absalonhöll sat on. The Royal family enjoyed the spot, to enjoy lunch while the ships went by.

“He’ll listen to you, tell him to get us all out of here. At least until we’ve followed up on all of our leads. The ÖSU and SRS have been working together and they’ve found a potential lead in the wake of the bombings in Khastenia…”

“Colart,” Alycia said as she gently straightened the lapels of her protector’s uniform.
“You mustn't blame Toby for things that are partially my fault.”

“You told him to bring us back here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’ve known me long enough to know I don’t scare easily,” she said with a wink as she sat down next to her children, looking out at the river. The sky was dark, cloudy. Like it was about to burst. Storm clouds.

“You two cheated death during the Civil War. I don’t know why you both insist on doing it again,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“He’s staying.”

Alycia and Colart turned to see Laurids approaching.

“Of course he is,” Alycia replied.
“And so are we. We’ll meet him in the family area once he’s finished with the ÖSU briefing.”

“Well,” Laurids replied, “the ÖSU Chief should be here any minute now.”

---

Max Hveiti muttered as the car came to a stop.
“Checkpoint, sir,” the driver said.

“Of fokking course,” Max muttered. Ever since the terrorist bombing in Khastenia, the area around Absalonhöll and the Alþingi had been locked down with police and military checkpoints.

The window rolled down and Max’s bespectacled face peered out.

“Já?” he asked as he handed the soldier his ÖSU credentials.

“Ok, sir, your driver will take you to the palace.”

“Excellent, just like he would have been doing anyway,” Max grumbled, taking his badge back and rolling up his window.

And then… “STOP!”

The driver hit the breaks, and the car jerked to a stop. Soldiers around them looked confused as Max left the car.

“Sir, your driver needs to continue onto the palace’s front gates and…”

“Shhhh!” Max said with an aggressive wave, otherwise ignoring the soldier as he took out his phone.

“Where’s the command centre?”

“Sir?”

“This is a military barricade, I need to see the officer in charge of the command centre!”

“It’s this way sir,” the soldier offered to show him.

“Chief Hveiti?” the driver asked, getting out of the car.
“The King is expecting you!”

“He’ll be grateful I’m late if we save the fokken city!” Max called out, walking towards the central command hub just opposite the river of the royal palace.

---

“We breach,” Cpt. Davíð Vestergaard of the Býkonsviði Ríkilögreglu* signaled silently before counting down from five with his left hand.

They were in the Prestsjarðir Eastside neighbourhood, lots of public housing, and most importantly? A shiny new municipal metro terminal that would lead right into the city centre. A straight line and a bomber’s wet dream.
When Davíð’s hand went from “one” to a fist, the Víkingasveitin* officers with the battering ram crashed down the door and more of them filtered in afterwards.

“On your knees! Knees! Now!” the officer leading the breach called out. There was shouting, shouting in a language that the police officers present didn’t understand, but the ring leader of the Ten Rings cell tossed his hands up, holding a cell phone, and replied in Mercanti.

“We’re surrendering!” before shooting a look over at his comrades and barking in Mercanti.
“Stand down! Stand down! For the love of Mare d'Rabuta, stand down!”

The Víkingasveitin officers began to secure the six man cell as Davíð entered the apartment.

“Hostiles secured, Captain Vestergaard,” the Víkingasveitin officer said, as Davíð looked around. His eyes went to a Ten Rings flag hanging on the far wall. Next to a bookshelf, just out of the line of sight from the street, if one was looking into the window.

He looked at the men apprehended, as another Víkingasveitin officer handed him a stack of wallets taken from the men. Davíð began to flip through them when his phone rang.

“Captain Vestergaard here,” Davíð began.

“It’s ÖSU Chief Hveiti.”

Davíð wasn’t ready for that. He’d spoken to Max Hveiti once, years back. “Where’s Commissioner Gottvirki?”

“He’s here, I’m here, it’s one big happy family,” Max replied.
“But I need you to tell me what you’re seeing.”

“The lead we were following brought us here, to an apartment on the Eastside. Six subjects…” he looked around.
“A table covered in assault rifles…” Davíð said as he looked around… it was curious. None of the six men had even gone for them when the breach happened….

“They decorated. There’s a flag…”

Davíð began to go through the wallets of the suspects.
“They’re all Shiavan.”

“The country’s on high alert…” Max replied.
“Six Shiavans…”

“Well we don’t racially profile…”

“Já, já,” Max replied dismissively.
“But they’d be noticed…”

Davíð looked at the ring leader who had given the order to surrender. He looked up at him, from his kneeling and cuffed position. Davíð didn’t like that look…

---

“I’m going to need to see some credentials,” the Knights of the Storm guard at the checkpoint leading to Absalonhöll’s rear entrance said as the truck pulled up.

“Já, just a minute,” the driver said as he looked through some papers before the man next to him the passenger seat handed him something.

“Ah, já here you go. Delivery order for a kitchen restock. It’s usually not this nuts.”

“Didn’t you watch the news?” the Knight replied.
“We’re on high alert for now.”

“Oh right, já, the Khastenia shit…”

“Ok. This looks good. Just get in, unload, and get out. Double time on everything today.”

“Got it, boss,” the driver replied.

The truck continued on, through the back gates of the palace, to a rear loading dock, and backed up into it.

“You got everything?” Solfrid Aadland asked as she came into the loading dock, scanning her keycard into the console to lower the inner gate.

“Da,” the driver replied as he hopped out.
“Have you?”

“If we move fast, já,” Solfrid replied.

“Good.” The driver opened the back of the trailer.

“And Mare d'Rabuta said I will grant you the fruits of the world…” the Satrap mused as he stepped out of the back of the truck flanked by armed Korovan Ten Rings militants, shedding their uniforms of food delivery men.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. We have one more lesson to teach.”

---

*Ríkilögreglu- Realm’s Police
*Víkingasveitin- Viking Squad, the SWAT/special operations unit of the Realm’s Police

Commissioner Jörn Gottvirki was pacing. The command encampment opposite the Ryon River from Absalonhöll was buzzing.

“You know everything I know,” he told Max.

“I know a lot of things,” Max shot back, “I need people like you to streamline for me.”

“People like me?” Jörn raised an eyebrow but Max shook his head.

“I really… we really… don't have time for your ego or whatever it chooses to be offended by. Tell me again.”

The Commissioner signed and rubbed his temples.
“We had intel disseminating from the ÖSU that the Ten Rings would use the newly opened subway lines from the Eastside to get a nuclear bomb into central Býkonsviði.”

“The nuke they stole from Ultramont was too big…” Max muttered.

“We assumed it would be a smaller nuke. A suitcase nuke or a dirty bomb.”

“That doesn't make sense…” Max muttered as he frantically looked through papers.

“Sir?” a soldier called out.
“It's… um… the King? He wants to know where you are?”

“Helping with a sit…” the Commissioner began before Max interrupted him.

“Saving the city!” he said before turning to Jörn.

“You risk a lot by stealing a nuke from a military transport. So if pull it off why would you plan an attack with a smaller nuke? You'd still need the
nuclear materials…”

“Planning something bigger then?” the Commissioner replied.

“The theft from Ultramont was part of the big plan you don't start aiming for molehills when you have the mountain in site…” he grabbed the phone again.

“Captain Vestergaard?”

“Já.”

“Have your men found any nuclear material?”

“No. We brought out the boys from the army but they didn't turn up anything. There's bomb material here but… it's the kind of shit teenagers make to blow stuff up when they're bo…”

Max hung up.
“It was a feint.”

“What?” Jörn asked.

“Like Khastenia.”

Both Max and Jörn turned around. Lyst Hansen stared at them both from across the makeshift command centre on the roof of the office complex they were situated on.

“Já…” Max said… Lyst had been there. In Khastenia.
“You shouldn't be…”

“We all thought we had the target. But it was somewhere else.”

“So where is it?” Jörn asked, but Lyst nodded across the river.

“Absalonhöll.”

“We have it locked down tighter than a Revonist’s liquor cabinet on Sunday,” Jörn shot back.

“Sir? Herra Heviti?”

Max turned. A soldier was holding a satellite phone.

“It's the SRS. This is urgent. The Santonians say they have credible intel on a Ten Rings attack on Absalonhöll.”

---

“Fröken Aadland?”

Solfrid turned around. It was a Knight of the Storm, in his blue uniform trimmed with white, clutching an automatic rifle.

“Where are you going?”

“Just overseeing some kitchen resupplying,” Solfrid replied as her heart leapt. Thunder cracked in the distance.

“I’m afraid,” the Knight replied.
“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me. We got a situation. All high ranking staff with security clearances 5 and higher need to be accounted for.”

“Oh… I was just…”

“I know but we’re on an emergency footing. I need you to come with me.”

“Of course.” Solfrid smiled. The Knight turned to
lead her through the palace’s halls, not paying her any mind as he assumed she was following. He didn't see the Ten Rings militant step out from behind a corner and, with one spray, dropped the Knight to the ground.

The Satrap walked up behind, looking at the body with a detached curiosity as alarms started going off.

“Let us not dally,” he said as the rest of his men came up behind us.

“It's rude to keep Royalty waiting.”

---

Laurids Hummel grabbed his gun as the alarm sounded. He was panicked. The table he, Colart, Empress Alycia, and the kids were at overlooked the river… a peaceful spot for the royal family to enjoy meals, but it was essentially in the middle of a long hallway. Two sides.

“Colart we need to…”

“Mamma what's happening?” Baldr asked as Hael looked around. Hanna had begun to cry.

“I need to get to my husband,” Alycia replied as she went to calm her daughter.

“Colart, we need to…” he repeated before Colart shook his head. “My charge is Her Grace. Yours is the King.”

“Two is…”

“Go! Now! And I’ll get Her Grace to safety.”

Hummel tensed up but nodded and turned to head back to the Royal offices while Alycia went to follow him, before Colart stopped her.

“I’m getting my children to their father,” she said adamantly before Colart shook his head.

“The pathway from where we are now to the front gates will take less time then it will take to get you to Tobias. He's on the other side of the palace.”

“Mamma…” Badr pleaded…

“I’m not…”

“Yes! You are!” Colart replied. He was a mountain of a man, but he was crying. Softly.

“You… have been my responsibility for all of your life. And your children…” he breathed deep to reign his emotions in.
“I’m getting you to safety.”

“I’m not letting you pull me away from my husband,” Alycia shot back, but Colart shook his head.

“Think whatever you want about what you think
I feel about your husband, but the gods know I saw him survive the War. I need you to trust me, and trust that he will be safe. Let me get you and your children to safety.”

Alycia looked at her children. And then Colart.

“Please… Aly.”

---

“Gunshots reported in Absalonhöll!” a soldier called out in the commander centre.

“We need to secure the perimeter,” an officer replied, only for a dry voice to echo through the centre.

“No.”

Everyone turned, and the officer who had issued the command, after a moment of shock, saluted.

“Field Marshal Eiderwig.”

Stig saluted back. “The perimeter was secure and somehow they got through. No. We advance on the Palace.”

“We just got word from Saintonge that the attempt on Absalonhöll would be via a service truck,” Max said.

“And now we’re here,” Stig grumbled.
“I sat by helplessly when the Syndicalists stormed that building twenty-two years ago. I’m not standing by now. We're advancing on Absalonhöll and we’re taking it room by room.”

“The order sir?”

“It's given.”

“All perimeter forces. Advance on the Palace. Breach and secure!”

“There's a chance this makes things worse,” Max muttered.

“You're still here?” Stig shot back.

“I’m…”

“The guy that let this happen?”

Max chuckled.
“Oh don't sell yourself short. Where's Kaleb Stahl in all this? Did Army Intelligence sit this out?”

“We have gunfire at the front entrance!”

“What? Tell me what's happening!” Stig barked into the radio as he pushed past Max.

---

The soldiers advancing on the front entrance of Absalonhöll watched as a Ten Rings militant fired back into the palace only to be shot dead.

“Who took the shot?” the squad leader called out only for someone else to point.

“He was shot from the palace!”

Just then the door opened, and Colart emerged, gun pointed at the Ten Rings militant as Alycia and the three kids emerged behind him.

“They're all over the place inside! Go!” he barked in Prydanian, and the soldiers went to breach…

---

“We have the Empress and children!” the radio operator passed to Stig.

“Excellent. At least we got the heirs.”

“You're worried about constitutional matters?” Max asked.

“I’m worried about a lot of things,” Stig replied with a glare.

“Breach has failed!”

“What?!” Stig barked.

“Absalonhöll’s siege protocol was activated! Our soldiers are stuck on the outside.”

Stig grabbed binoculars and looked across the river. Every window… every door… was now reinforced by a high security steel wall. The only one that wasn't? The wall-length bullet proof window in the King’s office.

“I have eyes on His Majesty…” he could see Tobias in the office looking back at him. He looked confused.

“His Majesty didn’t activate the siege protocol…”

“None of our calls or texts to Knights of the Storm personnel are getting through…”

“They won't,” Stig muttered. “Siege protocol scrambles any cell signals inside that building. It's meant to disarm any cellphone-activated bombs.”

“There's a mole,” Max replied.
“If the SRS is right then a work truck would need a level five security badge to dock. And a level five badge could activate siege protocol.”

“A mole?”

“A mole compromised the Ultramont security chain around that missing nuke. The Ten Rings can find weak links.”

“Then, Herra Hveiti,” Stig grunted, “you and your ÖSU grunts go through every. Single. Level five. And higher. Personnel. And find out who they're compromised.”

“I exist outside of your command, Field Marshal.”

“And do you want to fight over it while our capital is under attack?”

“No. He doesn't.”

Max looked up.

“Queen Alycia.”

“Now go find the mole who’s trying to kill my husband.”

Max looked at Stig and then Lyst.
“Call ÖSU command. Get the Absalonhöll files here via a secure line.”

Stig grumbled but smiled and dropped to a knee to look at Baldr and Hael.

“Boys.”

“Uncle Stig,” they said in unison before Stig turned to Hanna.

“Keeping your brothers in line?”

Hanna was clearly just finished crying and nodded meekly as the two year old wiped away tears.

“Your Grace,” Stig added, standing.

“What are you going to do get my husband out of there?”

Stig picked up the binoculars and looked across into the King’s office. Tobias was holding a piece of paper.

“Door locked. No word from Hummel.”

“We need to shatter that window. We can repel in, secure His Majesty, and clear the building that way.”

“They're everywhere,” Alycia said softly.

“To break that window,” Colart said gruffly, “we need to activate an emergency protocol within Absalonhöll’s control system. That will send an electronic signal that will shatter the bulletproof glass. It was installed for just such an occasion.”

“We're in the Absalonhöll mainframe?” Stig asked one of his computer experts.

“Já sir, we are. Whoever activated the siege protocol locked us out of main functions but we have access to root commands. We can shatter the bulletproof window.”

“Do it.”

“It’s… not connecting.”

“What?”

“The command was entered but the electric surge wasn't sent.”

“Someone cut one of the central wires.”

Stig looked back at Colart.

“The systems that control that window’s electric failsafe run outside of the main Absalonhöll security system for this reason. Even if someone hijacks the security apparatus they can't stop us from doing this.”

“But they did.”

“How?”

“The physical wiring would need to be cut.”

“Is there any way to override that?”

“There's a manual terminal that can do it. There's a secondary emergency control bunker just under the King’s office.”

“We can't even get into the building.”

“Thankfully,” Colart replied, “there are still Knights of the Storm inside.”

---

Tobias paced in his office. He'd locked the only door in once the alarms started going off. And his phone was useless. Nothing was getting through.

The sound of gunfire could be heard in the distance and panic began to take hold. He was here. In this exact building.

Syndicalists storming it.
Gunfire in these very halls… he and his mother… Axle…

He breathed deep.
“There's too much confusion," Tobias muttered, shaking his head, trying desperately to ignore the childhood trauma surfacing. "Can't get any relief."
Tobias breathed deep again, almost forcing his heart to slow down. Gunshots. In this place... him... helpless... he couldn't help but remember his mother. And how he clung to her before she gave him up.
"What's the point of all of that therapy if you can't brute force your way through a little trauma, Toby?” he muttered to himself. He pulled his Fyrirmynd .32 pistol out, loaded it, and stood. Gun pointing at the door as the sounds of commotion got closer.

---

“Can we see Pabbi?”

“No, let Uncle Stig do his job,” Alycia replied to Hael trying to keep herself collected.

“He's got his gun aimed at the door,” Stig muttered.

“I’m not going…” Alycia choked up, breathing deep.

“I won't let my children watch their father die like my husband watched his.”

“I know this is…”

Alycia put a hand up. Stig had lost his wife in the Syndicalist purges. He understood. But Alycia didn't need to hear that.

“We got a signal!”

“What?”

“One of the satellite phones!”

Stig grabbed the satellite phone.
“This is Field Marshal Eiderwig.”

“Lord Marshal Hummel here… We have neutralized a Ten Rings strike force.”

Stig looked through his binoculars. Tobias was still aiming his pistol at the door.

“The King is still expecting company. You planning on helping him out?”

“You haven't blown the glass!?”

“Someone cut the wires inside.”

“Fokking hell…”

“What's going on, Hummel?”

“They have a mole. I don't know who. Got a glimpse. A woman. Mid 30s.”

Stig put a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

“Someone tell Hveiti! Get him to narrow it down!”
“Hummel? What's your status?”

“We’re scattered but fighting back. They’re fighting us, sometimes one on one, room by room. They're delaying us.”

“You need to get to the secondary control bunker. Blow the glass manually.”

“We need to get the King.”

“Send your men. You blow the glass. You have the clearance.”

“Já… sir.”

“God’s speed.”

“Well?” Colart asked.

“Something,” Stig replied, “resembling a plan.”

---

Supermarine by Hans Zimmer, 8:03

Konya, Aydin Empire

"Batlıurfa was easier than this," Antoine Bechard thought to himself as he took cover behind a palm tree, reloading his rifle. A group of Ten Rings militants had seized a mansion and garrisoned themselves in. Lance-Didier had been assigned to clear it and neutralize the militants; one of many operations throughout Konya to crush the Ten Rings.

Eleven men were now stuck on a wide open lawn, spread out hiding behind trucks and trees, unable to get any closer as suppressing fire came from the windows. Pinned down, Sergeant Horace Gosse had called in for air support, figuring the regular army could soften up the resistance enough to let the fire teams reach and breach the door. Trying to do so any earlier would only be suicide; the door was too well covered.

"Merde." Bechard muttered out loud. "Horace," he called out. "Maybe we should think about backing off and regrouping."

"You scared or somethin'? You weren't this afraid in Batlıurfa," Horace jabbed.

"Yeah, there was a lot less of them back there. I only got two mags left."

"Well, stop shooting at nothing. Chill out, stay in cover. I got a Wildcat coming. They'll take care of this and we'll get this done."

---

The AH-33 Wildcat helicopter was a rare example of a Silien designed and constructed military hardware, and the regular army only had a few. Louvel Rousseau, an Army Captain was a pilot of one of these machines; Lieutenant Adélie Forestier served as his gunner.

"Another day, another bailout for these amateurs. Am I right?" Lieutenant Forestier asked the Captain, after the pre-flight checklist was done.

"Some of them aren't that bad, Lieutenant," Captain Rousseau replied. "Her Highness isn't just wasting money on morons. The negative press they're saving us is worth the cash."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Who would you rather a news anchor say died on the TV: a soldier or a sellsword? A mercenary dies, that's on them and only them, because they go where the money is. Hell, the news probably wouldn't even report it. A soldier or sailor dies, that's on the government, because the government sent them there, and you know that'll be broadcast."

"But the government contracted the work out to them," Adélie countered.

"And every one of those mercs is still a volunteer who had the chance to bail out if they didn't like the job. We don't have that luxury," Louvel explained. "We go where we're told and we don't have a choice, so let's go where we were told to go."

"Yes, sir. Though, you know if we get shot down, we're still getting that negative press."

The rotors spun up to full power; Rousseau pulled the collective up and the Wildcat left the ground, ready to pounce.

---

Rivage Palace
Norvalle, Sil Dorsett

The Princesses Alice and Claidie, and Claidie's husband Isaac were in the entertainment room where common casino table games were set up. While Isaac was caring for his infant daughter, his wife was taking roulette strategies from her sister. Alice was teaching Claidie the "Nolley", a common beginner roulette strategy.

"Equal bets on two dozens or two columns," Alice instructed her sister. Claidie placed a hundred the first and third dozens, and Alice spun the pill. The pill landed in the 9 spot, a net win of a hundred.

"Now, double your bet on one of the dozens, and your other dozen stays the same," Alice advised. Claidie moved her first dozen bet to the second dozen and doubled it, while her third dozen remained where it was. Alice spun the pill, which landed in 35.

"That's okay, it's a push. Just re-bet."

At that time, an officer from the Ministry of Defense entered the room with a folder in hand, and presented it to Alice. "Exposition Nord's report on the mission in Konya, Your Highness."

Alice nodded her head. "Thank you. I'll review it." The officer nodded and walked away.

Claidie seemed puzzled. "Mission in Konya? I didn't buy a mission in Konya, not after Batlıurfa..."

"You're right. You didn't," Alice replied, emphasizing the "you".

"Really... You bought the mercs, despite everything you've ever said about them being a waste of money?" Claidie asked.

"Is there anything you wouldn't do for the ones you love?" Alice replied. Claidie was taken aback as Alice just stared at her. "Excuse me while I review this. Have fun."

The door flew open following the sound of gunshots…

Tobias was thrust back in time, the same sounds, in this same building, that he heard as a child. He had flashes of his mother spiriting him to safety… Syndicalists fighting their way through the royal palace, the sounds of gunfire in these very halls…

He shook his head, jaw clenched, hand clenched as he held the gun up. He would be ready. He had to be… but the person who came through those doors wasn’t what he expected. It was a woman. A woman he knew.

“Solfrid?”

Solfrid was pushed forward by Ten Rings militants, tears running down her cheeks.

“Put the gun down or the bitch dies!” one of the militants shouted as Tobias pressed his finger against the trigger. He didn’t say anything, but Solfrid looked so scared, tears running down her cheeks, through bloodshot blue eyes.

“Please… they’ll kill me…” she sobbed as Tobias’ adrenaline peaked. He grit his teeth, holding the gun up, finger on the trigger.

“Put the gun down, King Tobias, and only your blood needs yet be spilt.”

The Ten Rings militants who had entered the office fanned out, as the Satrap made his way to Solfrid, taking her in one arm and pressing a pistol to her head.

“Or you can test me, and she’ll die too.”

“What do you want?” Tobias growled.

“I want you to die, Your Majesty,” the Satrap replied calmly.
“But the question is does Solfrid die too?”

Tobias gulped. He glanced to his side. He could see the military encampment outside of the palace through the windows. He may be able to stall for time…

“I trusted you not to kill the Iraelian ambassador if I called. I did. You killed him anyway. Why should I trust that you won’t kill her?”

Solfrid was weeping.
“Pleassseee….” she whimpered.

“Because I didn’t have you right before me when I killed the Iraelian. But I do now. Why go chasing hares when there’s a stag within my grasp? You will die tonight, King Tobias. Does Solfrid die too?”

Tobias felt his heart pounding in his chest. His hand shook just a bit, and he slowly lowered the pistol. When he set it down on the desk the Satrap pushed Solfrid into him. He caught her and held her gently.

“Are you alright?”

She looked up, her terrified, tear stained face, looking a bit relieved. It brought a meek smile to Tobias’ face until he saw her lips curl into a wicked smile. And she delivered a smack across his cheek as two Ten Rings militants grabbed Tobias by the shoulders and pushed him into his desk chair.

“Solfird!?”

“Shut up,” she sneered.
“And listen to teacher.”

---

“We have eyes on the mole,” one of the snipers set up overlooking the King’s office reported. Stig grabbed a pair of binoculars.

“Someone get Max Hveiti over here!” he barked before getting back on the radio.

“Hummel?”

---

“There must be some way outta here,” Laurids muttered, clutching his rifle as he peaked around the corner. He didn’t see anyone.
“Limited resources, you concentrate on where you’re needed… hopefully that means I’ll have the run of the place…”

“Hummel!”

Laurids took his walkietalkie.

“Field Marshal?”

“What’s your status?”

“I’m making my way to the control centre. This place is dead. I don’t see anyone…”

“We have eyes on the King. It seems most of the Ten Rings militants are there with him.”

“He’s alive?”

“For now. But we can’t even attempt to save him unless you can restore power to the system that will let us shatter that bulletproof glass.”

“If this group was serious about maximizing resources, they have men up there with the King, and people guarding that centre. So I’m going radio silent until I get in.”

“And if you don’t?”

“If the King dies before you hear from me, then it doesn’t matter. Hummel out.”

Laurids wiped the sweat from his forehead. He'd grown up in Darrow and the Khastenian ex-pats there had a saying. One he'd always found funny… but well… it was all he could think of right now.

“Yippee ki yay,” he muttered to himself before heading off.

---

Stig breathed deep, clutching the radio tightly lest he start punching things. Or people.

“Do you know who that woman is, Hveiti?”

“Solfrid Aadland” Max replied.

“Who is she?”

“She’s from Hjallerup…” Max replied.
“Her family was killed in the early Syndicalist purges, she grew up in a Syndicalist ‘re-education’ centre until the town was liberated.”

“Could she be acting on Syndicalist sympathies? Maybe the indoctrination worked.”

“We screened all Absalonhöll employees for this sort of thing,” Max replied.
“She had barely contained anger at the Syndicalists. Nothing indicating an allegiance to them.”

“Well your screens missed something,” Stig grunted before turning back to the snipers.

“They’re going to make it difficult, Sir,” one of the snipers replied. Stig walked over. The Ten Rings militants had begun to crown around Tobias and the Strap.

“Of course they will,” Stig said, sighing.

---

“Solfrid!”

“God, going by that name all of these years…” Solfrid grunted.

“It’s alright dear,” the Satrap said.
“All for a good cause. In a few moments, the vindication will be yours.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tobias replied.
“I have no idea who you…”

“SHUT UP!” Solfrid screamed as she pressed her hands against the desk, leaning forward to glare at him.
“I put up with all of this, and I can’t wait…”
Tobias didn’t have to ask her what she meant. He just didn’t know why.

---

“Solfrid… by gods, she watched over Hanna and Hael and Baldr…” Alycia went white.

“She’s involved with them somehow, but we don’t know how,” Stig replied.
“She seems genuinely angry with your husband though.”

“I have no idea why,” Alcyia replied.

“Do you know anything about her?”

Alycia walked over to where the snipers were encamped and looked through a pair of binoculars. She scowled seeing this woman berate her husband, at the mercy of these terrorists.

“She was always… nice. Helpful. She knew how to manage her department, and always offered to do more,” Alycia replied.
“I know she’s from Hjallerup. She didn’t talk about it much, but that was understandable. Syndicalists killed her sister and all.”

“What?” Stig and Alycia turned to Max, who hadn’t looked up from his laptop, the fluorescent glow of the screen reflected in his glasses.

“Your Grace,” Max added, “you said she had a sister?”

“I did.”

“According to her files… she doesn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Max waved Stig and Alycia over, and motioned to his screen. Solfrid’s personnel file was pulled up.
“She’s an only child. We have her birth certificate on record, and her parents never had another kid.”

“I know for a fact she said her sister was raped and murdered by Syndicalists,” Alycia said, her voice tinged with confusion, as she looked over Max’s shoulder at the screen.

“Unless…” Max began to type away. His fingers clicked on the keyboard furiously.

“The King could die at any moment,” Stig said, his voice holding back a sort of frantic panic.
“I… we… didn't keep him safe all of those years for this trash…”

“Rape. Murder. Hjallerup,” Max muttered.
“It’s enough to make someone see red. And I think I know who she really is.”

---

“Mare d'Rabuta has brought me… us… back to this place, Your Majesty,” the Satrap said as Solfrid took to his side.
“Surely you can appreciate the poetry of the moment.”

“I like poetry,” Tobias replied, coldly. He felt paralyzed. He was certain he'd die. It was likely. At the very least, though, he could try to die on his own terms. God… Baldr and Hael and Hanna… they'd lose him younger than he lost his own parents. He felt himself choke up, and through his trembling lips he spit out pure, bitter poison.
“I think I’m just missing the artistic vision here.”

The Satrap could sense that anger. And he smiled.

“Not long after you fled from these halls as a child, I came here to get this…” he removed one of the ten rings he wore around his fingers, the one from his right index finger, and placed it on the desk.
“The name of the ring is written in a language few can read anymore,” he explained, “but it says ‘reciprocity.’ It’s one of the unbreakable laws of the universe. That what happens must have a reaction. Mare d’Rabuta has brought us back here, together, and now I’m going to fix an imbalance over a thousand years in the making.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tobias muttered.
“But I need to believe that you killed all of those people over more than a ring.”

“I know you don’t,” the Satrap replied.
“Your inheritance was taken from you. Had you known… well… I don’t suppose it would have mattered. The coup we funded was supposed to wipe out your house, but you clung on like a weed.”

Tobias felt a sort of… barren anger… wash over him. He knew that the Syndicalists had foreign support and funding. Still, the arms dealer Krut Ventur Jr was supposed to be that source and he was dead, killed in a Skandan prison.
But… if the Ten Rings had this vendetta against him…

“Ventur was one of yours.”

“Yes Your Majesty,” the Satrap replied.
“I let the Syndicalist hounds off their leash. It was your uncle of course, and then Lieftur and Nielsen, who were so caught up in their own petty squabbles. Your uncle, desperate for validation. Anders’ ego was so large, but so fragile. And the Syndicalists… so caught up in their own self righteousness. It didn't take much to get them to do what they did. All they needed was the means. And we provided them. Guns, at very affordable prices.”

Tobias could smell it.
The smell of burning bodies. He could never forget it. No one who had smelt it could ever forget it. His well meaning Santonian relatives, the Scalvians, his Gojan family… even his Malorian in-laws… none of them knew. He knew though.
God, that smell. His countrymen knew. They all knew. The burning bodies. Mass graves. Syndicalist labour camps. Emaciated children and inmates…

None of this ever left him. Years hadn't dulled any of it. Merely given him the means to cope. He'd go months without revisiting the horrors of his childhood, of his country he saw firsthand as he grew up, but when they returned they were as vivid as ever. He was ten years old… and they'd come across a mass grave. Anti-Syndicalist partisans and the village that had sheltered them…

And this man… Tobias almost couldn't fathom it. Nielsen had done that. Lieftur had done that. Their functionaries, political officers, the scum who flocked to organized violence… they'd done that. He said nothing, because deep down… it was hard to feel much.


“Over one thousand years ago,” the Satrap continued, “your family shattered us in Aria. Viking explorers from afar aided the Arianese crown… and in so doing exiled us to the shadows. Our legacy extends beyond your sagas or the holy books of the Shaddaists or the Syrixian chronicles… the Stan Yera were still children when we ruled the world, Your Majesty. We were, we are, the last vestiges of that better world and when we tried to remake it, Finnleik Scylfing cut us down. Now you, his direct descendent, will die. Your house will finally know ruin, and our god Mare d'Rabuta will usher us to our new era. Your Association of Nations will die, your family will be wiped from this planet, and we… will ascend.”

“You can’t believe this,” Tobias said, turning to Solfrid.
“These people helped the Syndicalists seize power. I know… you told me… what they did to you and your family.”

“I know what the Syndicalists did to my family,” Solfrid replied coldly.
“And I know what you did to forgive them.”

“Allow me to introduce you, Your Majesty, to…”

---

“Halla Reiten,” Max said.

“That’s Solfrid,” Alycia replied.
“Younger, but that’s her.”

“Halla Reiten,” Max repeated, “is her real name. She was born and grew up in Hjallerup. Legally she died in 2013.”

“She faked her death,” Stig grunted.

“Já,” Max said with a nod.
“‘Solfrid Aadland’ was a girl around her age who did die in a Syndicalist prison camp. Halla took her name. Halla did it to hide her real identity. As the sister of Stina Reiten.”

“That name sounds familiar…” Alycia said as she tried to pull it from her memory, but Max was already on it.

“It should. Your husband pardoned Stina’s rapist.”

---

“You were meant to die a quick death, a young death,” the Satrap mused.
“Cut down at seven, fear and pain evaporating into sweet nothingness. But you survived. Broken. Incomplete. Never the person you could have been, or privy to the sweet release my plans should have afforded you, Your Majesty.”

Tobias sank back in his chair as the Satrap pontificated, pacing before his desk in his office.

“But now you have a choice. Do you want an empty life? Or a meaningful death?”

“Now I have a choice?” Tobias asked coldly.

“No,” the Satrap chuckled.
“But it is a comfort you can take to the grave.”

“My children will survive this. My family continues on, in Saintonge. In Goyanes and Andrenne. You won't accomplish what you want to accomplish by killing me.”

“As we speak, though,” the Satrap explained, “a plane carrying an Ultramontese nuclear bomb is being transported to Saintes. The nuclear attack will not just cripple Saintonge and kill off your Meterran cousins, but the instability will plunge the region into a never ending war that the Ten Rings will profit off of as we grow in influence.”

Tobias suddenly… put it all together. The Strap’s warnings about democracy. His fixation on his family. The AN was Svane’s idea but he was there front and centre with the President of Scalvia when the project was announced.

And once Tobias realized it, he laughed. It was a short snicker. A sharp little chuckle that cut through the tension.

“Does the prospect of our reclaiming of Meterra amuse you?” the Satrap asked, for the first time
sounding confused.


“You’re nothing but an arms dealer,” Tobias replied with a dismissive smirk.
“This bullshit with my family, with your god, it’s all an excuse. Did you arm the Syndicalists because they wanted to kill my family, or because their cheques cleared?”

The Satrap looked on, looking a bit perturbed. Tobias wasn't done though.

“All of your talk… you ‘let the Syndicalists off the leash.’ Do you know how long I wanted to kill Thomas Nielsen? Fifteen years, that's how long. And you know what? He earned that hatred in me,” Tobias said as he stood up.

“Kill me! I’m already dead!” he barked, smirking again as the Satrap clearly didn't know what to make of him now.
“At least Thomas Nielsen and Jannik Lieftur believed in something,” Tobias shot back coldly.
“They weren't common gun runners who hid behind prophecies and some grudge no one’s been alive to care about for a thousand fokking ye…”

“I cared!” the Satrap growled back as he slammed a fist into the table. He was nearly hyperventilating. His eyes were wide in his deep set, older face, his body heaving from anger and adrenaline.
“We care,” he finally added, calmly, through laboured breath.
“My ancestors walked this world when the Lost Empire was new. You and your kin, and the rest of the squabbling morons of this word, are lesser men, barbarian stock too jumped up on your ignorance. But no more! Your ancestor stopped us once before, but you… you will die. And your Santonian family will die in nuclear hellfire.”

The Satrap’s voice has risen. Going from calm and methodical to angry. From a teacher to a rabid preacher fixated on sin.

“And as for your children, well… the political instability wrought by your assasination at the hands of a fellow Prydanian will throw this country into chaos once again. And this time there will be no rogue princes escaping.”

The Satrap took the pistol Tobias he reluctantly lowered and pushed it to Halla.
“If I or any of my men were to shoot you,” the Satrap added as he walked around Tobias, almost taunting the snipers opposite them, behind the bulletproof glass, “history will record it as a terrorist killing a King. But if one of the King’s own subjects kills him… it becomes a political act. A call to action. Fulfill your destiny, Halla.”

---

“Kolfinnur Grundt… there was more to it than that,” Alycia insisted.

“I know,” Max replied.
“The Prime Minister and I advised the King to pardon him, but it doesn’t change the fact that he pardoned her sister’s rapist.”

“It blew up in the Prydanian press. I half understood the people who wanted to drag him back here from Saintonge to stand trial,” Alycia replied gruffly.
“But Toby did the forgiving thing.”

“He’d saved people,” Stig replied before looking back at the royal palace.
“Grundt did. I…” he paused.
“There's a reason your husband didn't come to an old soldier like me for advice on that one. Still… I could make peace with it.”

“There's a lot we can make peace with,” Alycia replied.
“But right now I want my husband back.”

“Where the fok are you, Hummel?” Stig muttered.

---

“We all followed you, because you were supposed to save us,” Halla said, her voice shaking as she raised the pistol.
“You were supposed to save us. But you pardoned a rapist. And a murderer.”

Tobias closed his eyes for just a split second, but the fear that he’d never open them again was real. When he did, he looked at Halla.

“Kolfinnur Grundt saved people. He risked a lot to save people. There are Prydanians alive today who wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for him…”

“BUT NOT MY SISTER!” she fired, Tobias winced. The bullet lodged into the bulletproof glass behind the King. She aimed again.

“Shoot him. End it now,” the Satrap growled.

“I need him to admit he pardoned a rapist. And a murderer. I need him to admit he betrayed me. He betrayed his country. Tell me, why Stina doesn’t deserve justice,” she growled. Each word was punctuated by breath conjured deep within her. Her nostrils flared as he aimed Tobias’ own pistol at him.
The earlier images of death and destruction from the war… they changed. Tobias no longer remembered the smell of burning bodies or the site or a mass grave. He no longer felt like he was that ten year old boy, helpless in the midst of carnage.

He remembered being older. He had a sense of purpose. He wanted to help. He remembered comforting a child with a candy bar. He remembered an old woman praying to God when he’d comforted her in the snow. He remembered celebrating Christmas and Miðsumar amidst the carnage but finding time for sweet things. Krista. He remembered Krista. And he remembered meeting Alycia. He remembered people. Just… people. The people of his realm.
It wasn't his because he wanted it. It was his because as a young man, no longer a boy, they looked to him. He didn't want them to, but they did. And he remanded… he wanted to help.

“I’m King, but I’m not God…one day I’ll die. And if it’s now, or decades from now, I will have to answer for my sins. Including the people I killed during the War. We’ll all have to answer for our sins, eventually, Halla,” Tobias said softly.
“Kolfinnur Grundt saved people. He tried to do the right thing, after all the bad he did. That’s more than most Syndicalists did. I granted him a pardon, but pardoning his crimes is not forgiveness. He’ll die and meet God like we all will.”

Halla gripped the gun tight in her hand.

“Shoot him now,” the Satrap growled.

“Your sister deserves justice,” Tobias replied.
“But I pardoned a man who risked his life to save people. I'm sorry… I’m sorry it meant your sister’s rapist and murderer got to walk these lands again, free. I really am, but I knew when the war was over…”

“KILL HIM NOW!”

“I KNEW WHEN THE WAR WAR OVER… we needed forgiveness, Halla. Or else it would be a cycle. Death. Revenge. Death. Revenge. We had to stop it… I had a chance to stop it. God, something… some force out there… something I knew was greater than all of us needed me to stop the cycle. So I did.”

Halla snorted.
“You've a way with words, Your Majesty. But don't try to paint your cowardice like God is on your side.”

“God isn't on anyone’s side,” Tobias replied, his voice shaking as he stared down his own gun.
“Good and evil, we invented those things. God is a force of nature. And He always sees to His justice. Halla… when I pardoned all of those Syndicalists at the end of the war, I did it because I knew that when each died they'd have to meet God. And so will Kolfinnur. God will force him to answer for his sins. Your sister will get justice. It won't be because of me or you though… and no one has to die. Too many of us have already.”

“One more needs to die,” the Satrap coldly sneered.

“It never stops at one,” Tobias answered, hanging his head.
“I hated pardoning them,” he added. His green eyes sunk down as he shook his head.
“Kolfinnur too… but I couldn't let my anger win. That's what my uncle did. That's what the Syndicalists did, but sometimes we need to rise above ourselves for the greater good.”

Halla’s hand shook…

She had held out hope that her sister's rapists and murderers would be brought to justice. And then… like that… the Prince she had believed in and the King she had looked up to had just pardoned him.
She felt her finger on the trigger, but it was like jelly. There was a will to pull it, but she just couldn't.

It was then that a ringed hand gripped her hand and the gun.
“Dear, the hour's getting late,” the Satrap said, as he stared at Tobias.

“Halla, if you kill me… I want you to know I’ll forgive you. Not pardon, forgive.”

“Why?” she asked before anger and sadness took over at once.
“WHY?”

“Because despite everything this madman has said… I’m not broken. I’m not incomplete. The war he dragged us all through, that took your sister and my parents, didn't ruin me. It made me realize just how blessed I was to have our country to fight for.”

He looked up at the Satrap.
“It made me realize… I’m proud to be who I am. I’m a King of Prydania. I'm the King of Prydania. I’ll forgive my own murderer if it’ll help my country.”

---

“What the fuck is that?” one of the three Ten Rings militants tasked with guarding the control centre of the palace’s central computer systems asked.

“Who the fuck cares? We cleared out the guards.”

“I saw something.”

“It's just your imagination, sand for brians!” the third guard grunted as he walked up behind the other two. Look. The moons are just shining through the windows…wait.”

He bent down and picked up what looked like a tin soldier toy.

“What is it?” the first guard asked.

“It's a Knight of the Storm,” the second explained.
“The ones all done up in the ceremonial unis.”

“What the fuck is it doing here?” the tin soldier’s legs were walking in place as the third militant picked it up off the ground.

“Saying ‘hej,’” three shots from a pistol with a silencer took out the militants from behind, as Laurids collapsed back against the wall.
“Never let a Darrow boy fish if you don't wanna get baited,” he grumbled before forcing himself into the control centre.

“Fokking relay systems,” he muttered, before grabbing his walkietalkie.

“EIDERWIG!”

“HUMMEL!”

“Is our boy still alive?”

“I wouldn't make it a point to stretch this out much longer…”

“On RALT… THEEE! TWO! ONE!...”

---

“It made me realize… I’m proud to be who I am. I’m a King of Prydania. I'm the King of Prydania. I’ll forgive my own murderer if it’ll help my country.”

Halla’s eyes were wide… Tobias could see the hurt… but… he could see something else.
“The War took something from everyone,” Tobias whispered.

He didn't need to say “it's up to us if we take more from each other.” It just… was. It was a haunting possibility that hung over everything.

“Halla, your compliance can be achieved in other ways,” the Satrap said coldly as he pulled a pistol from his belt and aimed it at her head.

And just then something else Tobias remembered from the War came back to him. The sound of shattering glass. He immediately yanked Halla down, pulling them both to the desk, as the shattered bulletproof glass of the window hadn't even fully broken apart yet before a single sniper bullet pierced the Satrap right between the eyes. He stumbled back… his own gun firing towards the ceiling. Tobias grabbed the pistol from Halla, and Knights of the Storm in tactical gear poured in from the shattered window.

It almost seemed to happen in slow motion. The sounds and sights just echoed for a split second that seemed like an eternity.

“YOUR MAJESTY!” one of the Knights yelled as bullets cut down the Ten Rings militants in the office.

Tobias was pulled from Halla and his gun tossed aside.

Two Knights began to restrain a crying Halla, and Tobias had to pull free from his guards.

“Halla! Go easy on her! Hey!”

“I’m so sorry…” she sobbed. She was hysterical. Crying her eyes out.
“What have I done? All of those dead people…”

“Shhh…” Tobias tried to calm her as his heart raced a mile a minute before turning to one of the Knights.

“Please…” she cried… “please…”

Tobias nodded.
“Treat her well.”

“Your Majesty…”

“Treat her well…” Tobias replied as he collapsed on the ground. Next to the Satrap’s body before sitting up.

He looked out through the shattered window. Knights of the Storm had secured the office… and he looked across the river. To the military encampment.

He saw her. And he began to laugh.
“Jesús,” he chuckled. Overcome with relief and now, exhaustion.
Alycia, his wife, was holding the sniper rifle. She had killed the Satrap. He looked over at the fallen terrorist’s body.

“Reciprocity,” Tobias said softly, as the Knights of the Storm and the Army retook the palace.

---

Knights of the Storm reserves and the Royal Prydanian Army secured the area around Absalonhöll as Tobias was led from the building. Ten Rings militants- those who had managed to survive- were being led out of the palace in cuffs.

“PABBI!”

“Hanna!”

Tobias picked up his daughter before embracing his wife as his twin sons Baldr and Hael hugged his legs.

“Your Majesty.”

“Colart.”

The old Norsian war dog smiled and pat his shoulder.
“I'd almost forgotten what it was like to have you fighting for your life.”

Alycia took Hanna as Tobias hugged him. Collart was, admittedly, taken aback. He and Tobias had grown closer over the years… but not to this extent.

“You saved my wife. And my children.”

Colart had to stop himself from saying he'd sworn a duty to protect Alycia at all costs. Because right now… her husband was just happy her and their children were alive.

“Of course Your Majesty.”

“Toby.”

Tobias looked up, as Stig, flanked by Royal Army soldiers approached.

“Stig! Holy fok, Stig! The Santonians!”

“You don't need to worry.”

“No you don't understand. There's a nuclear…”

“Silean, Santonian, and Ultramontese intelligence intercepted the bomb in Sil Dorsett. And…” Stig smirked. He remembered he'd met Princess Alice at a foreign state dinner a few years back. He'd been impressed with her moxy. And it'd paid off.

“... Princess Alice of Sil Dorsett ordered a strike on Ten Rings locations in Aydin. Her forces took them out. The Ten Rings have been routed in the Aydini countryside.”

Tobias paused. Alice? He smiled softly. Deep down.. well… he quietly thanked her before he turned to Alycia.

“And you shot that son of a bitch.”

“Damn straight I did,” Alycia smirked as she kissed Tobias on the lips.
“Now… where are those rings? They need to be tossed into the deepest trench of the Pale Sea.”

“I'm afraid, Your Grace,” Stig replied, “that I’ve had to authorize the ÖSU to take the rings into custody. If we can learn anything about the Ten Rings organization from them then we may be able to organize an AN hunt for any remnants.”

“Fine,” Alycia said with an exhausted sigh.
“But when Hveiti is done with them, we're going to toss them to the fishies.”

“Damn straight,” Tobias replied, kissing his wife again.

“Damn what?” Hael asked and Tobias ruffled his hair.
“Language, little one.”

Red and blue lights illuminated the scene around the royal palace… and Tobias and his family were taken into protective custody. It wouldn't be long before they'd return… certainly a shorter absence than the last time he was driven from this place. That helped. He looked at the palace. Restored from the ruin the Syndicalists had left it in… but still baring new battle scars.

Jörn had been right all of those years ago. The end of history never comes. The page just turns.

---

Like a Prayer by Madonna, 5:39

---

Rationale
In the January 2025 routine quarterly report to the Defence Committee of the National Assembly of Saintonge, the Ministry of Defence referenced that the Royal Santonian Armed Forces recently foiled a major attack against the Kingdom of Saintonge. During the discussion of the quarterly report on 30 January 2025, multiple Committee members made inquiries to Defence Minister Adm. Marc-Maëlmon de Liescoët, MRS (Ret.) (National, Coulitz – Roscoff) The inquiries were focused on what the attempted attack was, how the armed forces stopped it, and what could be done to prevent future attacks. There were requests for more information about the incident and offers of assistance from the legislators in keeping Saintonge safe.

The idea of a hearing was floated by some Committee members. However, Adm. Marc-Maëlmon de Liescoët advised the Committee that an open hearing in aid of legislation would not be optimal, as a large amount of information from the incident was still classified. As such, the full Committee voted down 7-29 a motion from member Iseult Jaffrelot (Green, Haut-Rhâne) for the committee to hold a hearing on the matter.

Instead, Committee members Fabien-Caël Guyonnet (National, Sancoins-Est) and Olivier Delescluze (Liberal, Novale-Ville) proposed that the Ministry of Defence and the Royal Santonian Armed Forces provide a confidential report to the Defence Committee of the National Assembly of Saintonge. The motion by Mr Guyonnet and Mr Delescluze was unanimously passed by the full committee on 31 January 2025.

This report is in fulfilment of that request by the Defence Committee of the National Assembly of Saintonge.

---

---

OOC notes: @Prydania wrote part of the report in the "Information Section". Post also pre-approved with @Sil Dorsett and @Paxiosolange ; they also supplied some details with regards to their nations.
OOC2: This is ICly a classified document.

OOC Note: The following is one of those posts that you can disregard if the more speculative side of RP isn't to your liking.
IC:



Eskilborg, Prydania
ÖSU Headquarters
Max Hveiti looked down through the glass into the all white, sterile laboratory. Scientists covered head to toe in white garb, including facemasks, went about their business.

"Empress Alycia's going to want those rings back."

Max raised an eyebrow as Brigadier General Kaleb Stahl of Military Intelligence walked up to him, holding two coffees. Max nodded, taking one and sipping.

"And my nephew wants a rocket ship for Yirhet'kel," Max grumbled.
"We don't always get what we want."

"You're going to refuse a request from the royal household?" Kaleb asked, grinning cheekily. Max, though, just rolled his eyes.

"Do you know what kind of Shaddaist my family was?" he asked.

"There's more than one kind?" Kaleb replied with a shrug.

"How the fok are you the head of military intelligence?" Max asked back, looking at him with... well not quite disdain, but a certain level of disappointment.

Kaleb, however, chuckled. He'd always had an... interesting... relationship with Max. He enjoyed messing with him.

"My family," Max replied, "originally came from Mishkanulsa. It's an isolated region in Iraelia. Some of the tallest mountains of the world can be found there."

"I don't mean to be disrespectful, Max, but what does that have to do with the Empress' request for the rings?"

Max looked down through the window. A scientists had had removed the Satrap's rings from the evidence envelope. They were laid out on the sterile table as another scientist began to scan them with a handheld device.

"Well," Max began, "my ancestors from Mishkanulsa, the Mountain Yihuds, have a story about a giant, half man-half ape of snow white fur and monstrous strength they call an Eima. Old mountain guides have reported seeing them as far back as anyone can remember, but their existence has yet to be confirmed."

"Sounds like a folktale," Kaleb said with a shrug.
"Prydania has more than a few itself."

"Já," Max replied with a nod.
"Still, there have been a few scalps that mountain trackers claim come from an Eima. A simple DNA test could confirm if these scalps are a known animal or some yet to be documented species... but no test on any of these scalps has ever been attempted."

"Why not?" Kaleb asked. He didn't know what exactly the point was to any of this, but he admitted he was intrigued.

"Well, Shaddaists from my family's ancestral homeland are more isolated than most other Shaddaist communities. And isolation breeds superstition. It's believed that to talk about an Eima is to invite it and the danger they bring to your home. Sending an alleged Eima scalp to Sarazed or Adonai-Jirah to get properly tested would anger the Eima. Maybe even bring their rage on your home. No one wants to risk it."

"Oh," Kaleb replied with a shrug as he sipped his coffee.
"Bummer."

"Point is," Max replied, "that something so easy as a routine DNA test could shed some light on this, and moronic old timers clinging to old stories about mountain monsters keep it from happening. So no, Her Grace won't get these rings back. Not until I've studied each one to its fullest extent. I'm not letting sentimentality get in the way of finding out all I can about them."

"They're just rings, Max."

"Rings displaying a language no scholar we liaison with can untangle. That doesn't make you a bit curious?"

"It's interesting, sure."

"Herra Hveiti?"
One of the scientists down in the lab had activated the intercom.

"Já?" Max replied.

"The initial scans of the rings are complete. Initial material analysis indicates a number of rare components. Further invasive testing is still to be put on hold until the planned experiment?"

"Já," Max replied.
"Let's do this properly before we start melting parts of these things off."

"What experiment?" Kaleb asked, only for Max to shoot him a quick glance before he returned his attention to the scientists down in the lab.

"Bring in the sword," Max said into the intercom.

Kaleb watched as the controlled entrance to the sterile lab opened and two more scientists entered, and they were carrying Jægerblað, the heirloom sword of the Prydanian royal family. The sword King Tobias had carried for much of the Civil War.

"How'd you get the King to agree to this?" Kaleb asked.

"Because if nothing happens then the sword goes back and we all carry on like normal. But if something happens..."

"What 'something,' do you think will happen?"

"Just watch," Max said, laser focused on the scientists bringing the sword to the table where the rings were laid out.

"Something's happening," one of the scientists said through the intercom.

Max and Kaleb each got closer to the window overlooking the lab. It was faint at first, but as the ancient sword got close to the rings... a black shadow and purple flame began to rise off of them.

"What in God's name is that?" Kaleb asked, unable to explain what he was seeing.

"I don't know," Max answered.
"But I think it's time you and I paid the Azure Dawn a visit."

OOC:
That concludes The Purging Fire! It would be a lie to say that I had all of this planned since I came to Eras in 2017. That's certainly not true. Still, many of the threads present in this RP do date back to that, mixed with some new ideas I developed along the way. So in many ways this is the conclusion of a story that's been eight years in the making.
Thank you to @Sil Dorsett, @Ashita, @Kyle, and @Paxiosolange for their direct help in crafting this story! And a huge thank you to everyone else who read along!

You all are the best RP community around, and it's a pleasure to worldbuild and write with you all.