The most trusted advisor of military affairs to King Friedrich held his hands behind his back. “Let us hold a vote, for the sake of this nation.” Meyer proposed, which dissatisfied the nobles.
His idea was nothing but a commoner value to the parties present, and his suggestion alone, his first words, stirred commotion. For those lords whose rank exceeded the majority, any noble lower than themselves had no say, and the need to put themselves on the same social stratum as those they ruled over was humiliating. It destroyed the conventions of the nobility, and the marshal could only look around him powerless as the inevitable conflict ensued.
Frowns targeted him. However, he kept an unwavering demeanour. Ignoring their complaints, he turned to the king for his vote of confidence. The two monarchs glanced at each other and returned to the marshal an answer within a firm nod. Friedrich raised his hand, and the nobles silenced their squabble.
Having waited until all was still, the marshal then began the vote. “Those in favour of surrender?” He asked firstly.
Some lords remained uncertain about the marshal and the kings’ choice. Only the brave or foolish enough, usually from the lower-ranking nobles, raised their hands first. Even though it was clear that those in support of surrender had lost, Meyer took careful note of every person who voted in favour.
“And those against?” Meyer asked those opposed to surrender.
In predictability, the majority of nobles chose to oppose. Arms rose like towers, reaching for the ceiling. Their numbers did not lie, and the vote was passed. However, there were two whose ballots were yet to be cast. When everyone else had done so, they were cunning enough to choose to do so last, gathering that there was overwhelming support for the continuation of war. The two kings put up their hands, assured that it was the righteous path to take. But on counting the final tally, Meyer nodded his head and sighed, acknowledging its results disappointedly.
He raised his arm, and his hand drew into a fist. Like a tempest, his loyal troops marched inward, bearing arms against the lords and ladies of the conference. As officers directed their soldiers, reinforcements barged into the hall. The rattling of sabres and rifles surrounded them, their blades and barrels pointed only at those who had voted to fight. Without caring that they were once their lieges, they seized the blue-bloods at the given order. The men who fought were wrestled to the ground, their arms twisted and herded away from the table. Even the nobles who had voted in favour of surrender were alarmed by the brutal culling of their comrades. They watched helplessly as their friends, family, and old allies were pushed aside, forced into a corner of the room, including King August and his family.
Having known nothing of this betrayal, King Friedrich looked on, trapped in a stupor. Stupefied by the coup that swiftly swept through the palace, he and his family were safe from mistreatment, but the king felt as though he was a hostage of his minister. The grand marshal called away the spared to be brought into a separate chamber, lest they witness a heinous crime be carried out in the following moments that would come, that they could have been subject to if not for their vote. But the royals remained, and he especially did not want to explain his actions to them.
Naively convinced that it was possible yet, King Friedrich attempted to make amends. “What is the meaning of this?” Nothing could possibly explain what was occurring before his eyes, his words intended not solely for the marshal but for every soldier involved in the act.
August, his family, dozens of noblemen and noblewomen, and their children, whose parents had been careless enough to bring them along, were forced out of their guest chambers and briefly reunited with their guardians, who were cordoned off to one side of the reception. Some attempted to flee through the windows and the rear doors, but as more troops streamed into the hall, they were struck down. The Lecher king held his daughters and his infant son close, his wife frightened to tears. Only those who had seen the rougher edges of time understood what awaited them, embracing the young who were still innocent, oblivious in the face of imminent fate. Once his men were in position, a captain pointed his sabre at the ceiling, commanding his troops to aim their rifles. The cries of the moon were captured by his blade, which glimmered with a soft white light.344Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhn4j9mwJQx
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