There was a vase with a single flower in it, its petals wilting, under a crystal chandelier. Half of its candles had been spent, which unevenly illuminated the reception hall, which was stripped of wealth and anything that was not nailed down. Its priceless paintings had been stolen, and its furniture had been snatched and sold. The moonlight intruded into the hall, having battled through the snow to reach the windows of the palace whose image was reflected on the icy ground outdoors, polished by the howling wind. Every door was closed, the heat from the fire burning in the pit in the wall trapped, forming an atmosphere that tensed by the minute. Soldiers with pointed helmets, armed with rifles, stood on guard, their corporals and captain bearing their silver sabres. However, it was precisely their ordinary, commoner-like uniforms that indicated they did not belong to the noble court gathered in the palace, unlike its usual guards.
Murmuring, lords and ladies consulted their lieges and vassals, surrounding two families who huddled around one table in the centre. One blank parchment and one pen lay unused. The ink on the pen’s tip began to dry. There were two queens and two princes, sisters who were princesses, and beside them were the kings of Zhermannen and Lechen, standing on opposite sides of the table, staring at each other. Of equal rank, some would assume that they would vie to be the most-spoken man under the palatial roof, but neither of them was dim enough to want to speak first. Though they were once enemies, they have come to convene as allies with their respective factions accompanying them. The expected infighting never occurred, and the lords were, for the most part, rather civil. But that night, it did no good to simply be civil.
The young Zhermanner prince stood by his father’s side, holding onto his jacket, overwhelmed by the numbers around him. Curiously, he looked around him, seeing faces of hopelessness, including the Lecher royals who had long stayed away from politics, but they now know where that had gotten them. The prince watched the droplets of wax drip down the candle that was set on the table, but he did not warn anyone that its bowl had begun to overflow. Hot wax melted onto the surface of the parchment, and a new stick of candle was required, yet in the hours that they have spent debating, the convention would not conclude.
“This is the devils’ work!” A count, who was a patriot, continued his heated rant and refused to yield a single step from his stance. “It would be no better than to die with our arms bound and our eyes veiled.” He discussed the lack of prospect if they were to favour surrender.
Stroking his pointed beard, a baron sighed. “I am afraid Count Ruppin speaks true.” The gentleman, one of the swayed lower-ranking nobles, agreed with him.
There were mumbles of agreement, but there were oft sighs like his. Refusing to believe that it was the only path, their countrymen, however, felt confident that they were left choiceless.
Looking at his comrades who surrounded him, their eyes curious as to what he would suggest, another count offered a path to salvation. “I say, honourable lords, that we dispatch our swiftest riders under the guise of dark.” Leaning in with a quiet voice, it was deemed that the soldiers who protected them could not be trusted with their plan. “Let us rally the Bawarer. Surely they would not oppose our rule over the Rus.” He pulled together a fist, sounding sure that it could be done.
“Yes…” Count Ruppin seemed uncertain, pinching the tip of his moustache, but he did not deny his excitement to return the favour of war that the enemy had brought to their shores. “Lure the damned Rus into the Warisëten Corridor, and they shall know hell.” Envisioning his plan aloud, his scheming voice gave hope to many ignorant nobles.
Another cleared his throat with a sickly cough, and although he might have purposefully turned the nobles’ attention to himself, he assumed a more active role. “Might I interject, my lords?” A margrave interrupted the lesser-ranked. His lungs were weak and his posture fragile. “What do you think will happen once this cursed alliance inevitably falls?” His body may have been frail, but his mind did not ail.
As his court position ranked higher than most, his presence alone silenced the lords. The talkative suddenly joined the two kings and their families in quiet contemplation, to think before they spoke, and the chatter of the room abated.
When peace came to the meeting, rarely found in times of such strife, the margrave furthered, “There is no reason to lose our heads over a war we have already lost.” Even if he was in death’s embrace, he demonstrated his will to survive longer. More so, he was sceptical of his comrades’ suggestions.
“I must agree with the margrave.” A third count joined the discussion, persuaded by his argument. “Existing under the Confederation would certainly be a lighter fate than becoming… non-existent.” His reason was emphasised, and it was not necessarily untrue.
The nobles tapped their fingers on their belts, which had been stripped of their personal arms. Their predicament had split the camp, having taken a detour and returned to where their talks began. The debate soon cooled, nowhere nearer the answer to the problem than when they had gathered. Staring at the empty parchment, they hoped that the silence could usher in the first words that could solve the crisis, to decide whether the nation should surrender or fight on as a whole. But none were willing to confidently state their cause, and the pen stayed still. Equally, the two kings’ counsel had not been heard, and it was clear that their thoughts had been confined by the constant discourse that had taken its toll on their health.
Either suggestion seemed enticing. However, they refused to be the reason for defeat if their plan was foiled. Looking at each other, the Zhermanner king, Friedrich, and the Lecher king, August, understood their counterparts to be moderate leaders. Shying away from deciding, their eyes broke contact. Friedrich turned to the parchment and leaned forward, held up by his fists on the table. When his knuckles met the hardwood surface, he realised that the only man who could provide treasurable insight had not yet uttered as much as a word. Hidden in the shadows, he too stayed away from political talks.
The Zhermanner king lifted his head and turned to his side. “You have been quiet, Grand Marshal Meyer.” He summoned his trusted soldier.
Standing silently, his arms crossed, near the great doors that led into the lobby, he felt all eyes bearing upon him. As his lords and liege were similarly, the man who was called forth was left choiceless. Advancing out of the dark, his field uniform came into the light, a stark difference from the dress of the court. But despite him being an outsider, the nobles made way for the grand marshal, whose birth was not that of a high lord, nor was he an imposing figure. The air about him was surprisingly lacking, yet his rank alone moved all. The middle-aged soldier was led towards the table, where he stood beside the kings at ease, as if he was equal to that of his liege. The Zhermanner and the Lecher pivoted themselves, ready to take in what he had to say.349Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEns1IQBGhi
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