At the moment when dawn was just beginning to color the sky, and the Emperor's procession was already visible on the horizon, the Lord of the North stood ready for the meeting. His Spear of Longinus, the primary and most powerful "blade" he wielded intuitively and lethally, perhaps trembled ever so slightly in his hand from anticipation. Beside him, hidden beneath a cassock, a light, well-balanced dagger for close combat awaited its hour. A heavy pistol, a modified firearm, was securely fastened, ready to become a sudden and crushing argument in a critical situation.
Green, his loyal advisor and master of intrigue, stood nearby. His light blade—a rapier or long dagger, honed while learning from the Empire's best fencers in his youth—was concealed but ready for action. Father Tuck, the pragmatic priest and his secret agent, held his heavy, iron-bound mace, decorated with modest ecclesiastical symbols. He was prepared for defensive combat and crowd control: his blows were powerful and stunning, aimed at incapacitating the opponent. His unwavering faith radiated moral support capable of rallying the troops.
Hasan, an unpredictable source of profit, held his nondescript dagger, the "Blade of the Ouroboros' Chance." It looked like an ordinary kitchen knife, but in his hands, it became unusually dangerous due to its absolute unpredictability.
He had summoned his three vassal counts to present a united and unshakable front to the Emperor. A grandiose feast was being prepared—it was intended to be a demonstration of his wealth and the prosperity of the North, as well as a subtle message about his undeniable power. His "Honey Mug," now an impregnable fortress-city integrated into the cliffs of the Mountain Ridge, stood as a symbol of his authority.
The "Death Squads"—his elite units, including the "Life-Guard Hussars," the "Black Squad," and the grenadiers—and the "Legion of the Dead," heavy infantry fully clad in armor, were at the ready. He possessed the secret of gunpowder, used mortars to destroy fortresses, a primitive hot air balloon for reconnaissance, and optical sights for his jaegers. The "Doomsday Weapons"—charges planted in the mountains—remained his final, yet devastating, option. His "Golden Turtles," heavily armored stagecoaches, had become legendary, protecting his trade routes and symbolizing his prosperity and control over the Empire's trade flows.
The Northern Church, under the leadership of Archbishop Tuck, was flourishing, attracting thousands of pilgrims and undermining the authority of the Imperial Church. The Cathedral of the North, a majestic monument, also served as proof of his untold riches. The financial superiority of the "Honey Mug" was undeniable: his gold coins had become the unofficial currency of the Empire, and the bonds issued were the new standard for major transactions.
The Emperor, exhausted and burdened by a debt of ten million gold coins, was forced to recognize his economic autonomy. He was compelled to personally travel to the "Honey Mug" for negotiations, leading a huge procession that nonetheless demonstrated weakness.
Morning mist still hung over the mountain peaks when the imposing procession of the Emperor appeared in the distance, moving slowly along the winding road. It was not just the arrival of a monarch, but a display of his weakness, a veiled attempt to restore at least a fraction of his former grandeur. His scouts reported that the column stretched for kilometers, accompanied by a multitude of servants, supply wagons, and symbols of a long-fading power.
In response to this spectacle, the Lord of the North gave the order for his advance units to move out. This was not merely an escort, but a precisely calculated tactical move, designed from the very first minutes to show the Emperor the true power, discipline, and prosperity of his principality.
First moved the "Life-Guard Hussars"—his elite, maneuverable cavalry, the pride of the "Death Squads." Their slender ranks, drilled to perfection, moved in sync, like a single organism. The shine of polished steel armor and weapons reflected the first rays of the rising sun, creating the impression of an indestructible wall. The horses, carefully selected and trained, stepped rhythmically, and their hooves beat out a cadence that seemed to shake the ground. Each hussar was the embodiment of discipline and devotion, their faces expressing cold determination, and their weapons—sharpened sabers and lances—spoke eloquently of their lethality. Their appearance was intended not only to meet but to suppress, to instill awe, demonstrating superiority in training and equipment over any part of the Imperial cavalry.
Behind them, in perfectly aligned columns, followed the "Black Squad"—his line infantry. These warriors, clad in practical kilts and armed with bayonets, represented a living wall of discipline and fearlessness. Their faces were stern, their movements honed, each step filled with resolve. They were the embodiment of his will, a symbol that he had built not just an army, but something unique, unequaled in the Empire. Their appearance was meant to be a clear warning: behind all his outward courtesy lay an iron fist.
The grenadiers, armed with their incendiary projectiles, marched in readiness. Their presence was a reminder of the North's technological superiority, of the secret of gunpowder that he possessed. And somewhere in the distance, perhaps, modernized archers with optical sights were already looming, silently taking positions on the high ground, ready to demonstrate their accuracy at any moment.
This show of force was subtly thought out. It was not an aggressive challenge, but an unambiguous message: the Emperor was arriving not to a simple vassal, but to the Lord of the North, the ruler of a thriving principality whose power and influence, backed by unprecedented technologies, gold, and unparalleled financial might, exceeded his own. Each step of his troops, every detail of their equipment, spoke to the fact that the "Honey Mug" had become a real center of power in the Empire.
The bells of the Cathedral of the North, a majestic structure erected by his order and filled with rare icons, rang out solemnly. Their powerful tolling echoed through the mountain gorges, announcing the Emperor's arrival. This ringing, usually bringing joy to pilgrims, was now imbued with anticipation and tension, creating a majestic backdrop for the historic meeting.
The Emperor, whose procession, though huge, demonstrated weakness and exhaustion, finally arrived at the "Honey Mug"—the fortress-city of the Lord of the North, which had become an impregnable symbol of his power. The Lord of the North met him personally. The Lord's eyes, accustomed to cold calculation and strategic genius, carefully studied the approaching monarch. The Spear of Longinus, which was now an integral part of him, was likely felt in his hand; its mystical power and ancient wisdom were his unseen allies.
He led the Emperor inside his "Honey Mug," into the very core of his fortress-city. A majestic feast, which he had ordered to be prepared, was already waiting for the monarch. Perhaps the reflection of torches and candles played on the polished stones with which the tavern—now a symbol of his power and the center of shadow trade—was lined. The air was filled with the aromas of exquisite dishes and, perhaps, his famous mead. Everything was thought out to the smallest detail to impress not only with the wealth and prosperity of the North but also to subtly hint at his undeniable authority.
The Lord of the North's loyal vassal counts were likely already taking their places, creating a united and unwavering front, just as he had planned. While the Emperor was perhaps still trying to recover from the impression made by his troops and the Cathedral bells, he now found himself surrounded by the Lord's influence, where every aspect—from the food to the decor—served as confirmation of the Lord of the North's might.
The feast he hosted was truly grandiose, a veritable whirlpool of luxury and entertainment designed to dazzle the Emperor and affirm his undeniable power. In the main hall of the "Honey Mug," whose walls were now not merely stone but integrated into the cliffs of the Mountain Ridge and adorned with rich tapestries, the tables groaned with food.
Besides fakirs who mesmerized the audience with fire and snake taming, and bards whose voices filled the hall with songs of ancient heroes and legends of the North, he had prepared other surprises. A group of skilled magicians, whose tricks bordered on true magic, created visual illusions, making objects disappear and reappear, and turning water into wine and back again. This was a subtle reference to his mastery of secret technologies and his ability to perform "miracles."
In the center of the hall, or perhaps on a specially designated platform, the best fighters of the Lord of the North's Golden Legion—an elite mercenary unit, formally independent but fully under his control—demonstrated their skill. These were not bloody duels, but exhibition performances: virtuoso weapon handling, acrobatic stunts, honed combat stances. Their movements were so perfect they seemed like a dance, but behind every movement, a deadly power could be felt. This highlighted not only the military strength of the Lord of the North but also his ability to attract and control the best warriors of the Empire.
Bright, eccentric performers, whose jokes and skits were saturated with sharp Northern humor, made the guests laugh and entertained them, diluting the official atmosphere. They could parody the Imperial Court, but they did so so skillfully that it was perceived as harmless satire. Static actors, made up and dressed as mythical creatures and ancient heroes of the North, froze in exquisite poses, suddenly coming to life and changing position, causing surprise and admiration. This added an element of mystery and magic to the feast, emphasizing the myths and legends that the Lord of the North successfully spread about the Necromancer Lord and tamed wolves.
Tasting of Rare Drinks: In addition to his famous mead, rare wines and strong spirits from the most remote corners of the world were offered, delivered via the Mountain Silk Road, which he controlled as the safest and most efficient trade route. This emphasized his economic superiority and control over shadow trade.
The Emperor sat at the head of the table, surrounded by this kaleidoscope of luxury and power, realizing that he was in the heart not just of a vassal holding, but of a prosperous principality that had become the shadow heart of the entire Empire. Every element of the feast was carefully thought out by the Lord of the North to be not only entertainment but a silent yet eloquent confirmation of his undeniable power.
When the last chord of the bard died away in the air, and the illusionists finished their performance, the Emperor, shedding his mask of slight admiration, finally moved to the essence of his visit. His voice perhaps sounded a bit more official than before when he said: "Lord of the North, I have arrived here not only for your hospitality, which, I admit, is truly magnificent. The main reason for my visit is, undoubtedly, the Church question."
His gaze lingered on the Lord of the North, then slid to the side where Father Tuck sat—his secret agent in the Church, now the Archbishop of the North. The Emperor was forced to acknowledge the growing influence of the Northern Church, which, under Tuck's leadership, differed strikingly from the Imperial Church, attracting thousands of pilgrims with the absence of church taxes and its populist character. He was undoubtedly troubled by the fact that Tuck's Church focused on building small chapels, schools, and infirmaries in villages and hamlets, creating direct competition with the Imperial Church.
The Patriarch of Constantinople, whose attempts to undermine the power of the Lord of the North had failed, had undoubtedly increased the pressure on the Emperor, threatening excommunication and calling for religious riots. And now, realizing his powerlessness and inability to wage war due to a huge debt of ten million gold coins, the Emperor was forced to arrive personally to try to resolve this issue.
The Emperor began his speech with a proposal for a compromise, carefully choosing his words so as not to appear too weak, but also not to provoke the Lord of the North.
"Lord," he began, "The situation with the Church causes deep concern. The Patriarch in Constantinople, as you understand, is implacable in his demands. However, I, as Emperor, realize that your Church as well, under the guardianship of Archbishop Tuck, has acquired significant influence among the common people."
The Emperor continued: "Perhaps we can find a path to coexistence. Some form of recognition of your Northern Church, in exchange for... certain concessions. Perhaps mutual recognition of authority, or a limitation on the spread of the Northern Church's influence beyond your lands? We could discuss the delineation of spheres of influence, or perhaps the creation of a unified Synod, where the voice of the North will be heard, but the authority of the Imperial Church will also be preserved. My goal is not to suppress faith, but to ensure order and unity in the Empire."
The Emperor was undoubtedly under immense pressure from the Patriarch, who threatened excommunication and called for religious riots. His offer of compromise was forced, as he realized his powerlessness and inability to wage war due to the massive debt of ten million gold coins he had taken from the Lord of the North. He was trying to find a way out of the corner he had been backed into, and this was his attempt to save some face by offering a peaceful settlement instead of open confrontation.
The Lord of the North raised a hand, interrupting the Emperor, and his voice, filled with calm confidence, rang out across the hall, drowning out any background noise of the feast.
"Your Majesty," he began, "The Church of the North, under the wise guidance of Archbishop Tuck, has never entered into confrontation with the Imperial Church. It exists in parallel. We build small chapels, schools, and infirmaries in villages and hamlets, there where the Imperial Church, oriented toward large cities, does not show itself. And it is not my fault, Your Majesty, that the Imperial Church does not receive support among the commoners. We, in the North, preach that 'every human is a temple of God,' and that the place of prayer does not matter. Our Church has not shied away from worldly pleasures, rejecting strict fasts and self-flagellation, which has attracted many parishioners tired of dogmas and extortions. The construction of our churches is carried out on voluntary donations from the people, and Father Tuck himself, as you may know, takes an active part in this, and after work drinks in the tavern with ordinary people, strengthening personal connection and trust. We openly accept herbalists, fortune tellers, and other folk healers whose practices the Imperial Church considers heresy, provided they act unselfishly. At the same time, Archbishop Tuck ruthlessly punishes any false prophets and witch doctors who extort money from people. Is this not care for the flock? Is this not true faith, addressed to the people? Our Church is a Church for the people, not for Constantinople. And the thousands of pilgrims flocking to the Cathedral of the North, actively participating in its construction, as well as the absence of church taxes—all this only confirms that we are answering the needs of the people that the Imperial Church ignores."
The Emperor grit his teeth, feeling the Lord of the North's argumentation hitting the weakest point of his power—the lack of popular support. His tone became harder as he parried: "Lord of the North, I highly value your eloquence and care for the common folk. However, I cannot help but note that your, as you put it, 'parallel' activity introduces obvious discord and turmoil into the Empire! You speak of selflessness, but the actions of your Church undermine the authority of the unified Imperial Church, which has held our people together for centuries. Thousands of pilgrims flocking to you—this is not just a manifestation of faith, it is a reorientation of loyalty! Your Church attracts people who then cease to trust legitimate institutions, sowing doubt and schism. Is this not direct disobedience to the Patriarch, and therefore to me, as the Defender of the Faith? You are creating a precedent that could tear the Empire apart if every region starts creating its own 'people's' church following its own dogmas! Think of the chaos this will spawn!"
The Emperor pointed out that although the Lord of the North had not declared open war, his actions were, in essence, more dangerous than a direct armed rebellion, as they destroyed the very fabric of imperial unity, starting with the spiritual sphere. In his words, one could sense the desperation of a ruler losing control of the situation but not yet ready to admit total defeat.
The Emperor lowered his voice, leaning forward, and his gaze became almost pleading, losing the remnants of former grandeur. There was no arrogance in his words now, only the weight of inevitable threat. He leaned closer so that his whisper, despite the background noise of the feast, clearly reached the ears of the Lord of the North:
"Lord of the North, I speak to you not as an Emperor to a vassal, but as a ruler caught between the hammer and the anvil. The Patriarch... he is pressing like never before. He is not just displeased, he is furious. He is calling for a Crusade to be summoned against the North. He is convincing all bishops and rulers that your Church is heresy, and you are a heresiarch splitting the unity of the faith. He sees in your actions a direct threat to his power and the entire Empire."
Anxiety could be read in his eyes. He was ready to take extreme measures, for the threat of a Crusade was serious. The Emperor, exhausted by war and burdened with a debt of ten million gold coins, was in an extremely vulnerable position. He could not afford another war, especially a religious one, which could finally tear the Empire apart. He needed the Lord of the North's cooperation, as only he could stop the Patriarch, whose influence had grown to unprecedented proportions.
The Lord of the North watched the Emperor as he lowered his voice and leaned forward. This was the moment of truth. In the Emperor's eyes, one could read not only irritation but also unconcealed alarm.
He leaned closer, his whisper almost inaudible amidst the not-yet-subsided noise of the feast. "Lord of the North," he uttered, his voice low and tense, "The Patriarch... he is implacable. He is calling for a Crusade. Against the North. Against you."
"And the Empire," the Emperor continued, his gaze becoming more pleading, "it cannot afford this. Not now. We are exhausted. The treasury is empty, thanks to... our recent loans. The troops need rest. The people... the people are tired of wars. Another Crusade, especially one like this, could tear the Empire apart from the inside. It will lead to unthinkable consequences that will affect everyone. Including you, Lord of the North."
In his words, there was an undisguised threat, a veiled plea. He could not openly admit his weakness, but his gesture, his lowered voice, and his look were more eloquent than any words. He was cornered by the Patriarch, who, by all appearances, was ready to go to extreme lengths to regain his power over the souls of the Empire. And the debt of ten million gold coins he had taken from the Lord of the North made him helpless in the face of this threat. He was trying to use the threat of a Crusade as leverage to force the Lord of the North to make concessions, perfectly understanding that the consequences of such a war would affect his prosperous lands as well.
The Lord of the North leaned toward the Emperor, closing the distance between them. His eyes, full of cold calculation, met the Emperor's eyes, and his voice, barely audible over the residual noise of the feast, was filled with a sinister gentleness.
"Your Majesty," he whispered, "the problem is not the Northern Church... and not the Empire." He held a short but tense pause, allowing his words to settle. "The problem is the Patriarch."
His gaze became more piercing, pointing to the truth that the Emperor himself could not or did not want to say aloud. The Lord of the North knew perfectly well about the Patriarch's attempts to undermine his power through bandits, about his failed intrigues. Now, when the man threatened a Crusade, he pointed directly at him as the root of all evils. This was not just an accusation, but a subtle hint that if the source of the problem was the Patriarch, then the solution should be directed at him, and not at the North. The Lord of the North skillfully shifted the burden of responsibility from his shoulders to the one who was truly interested in confrontation, and who, it seemed, was pushing the Emperor into a dead end.
The Lord of the North watched as the Emperor looked around cautiously, seeking confirmation of his fears or simply trying to assess the situation. At that moment, he gave a barely noticeable sign to his warriors. Instantly, as if by an invisible signal, the "Legion of the Dead"—his heavy infantry, fully encased in armor, whose fearlessness inspired terror—moved forward. Their steps were silent, despite the weight of the armor. Without a single word, without rudeness or threats, they unobtrusively but decisively cleared the space around the Emperor's table. They did not push the guests away, but rather created an invisible wall, moving the curious further back, providing the Emperor not so much with space as with a sense of isolation where he could speak without prying ears.
The "Life-Guard Hussars" took strategic positions along the perimeter, their presence tangible but not oppressive. This gesture was carefully calibrated: it demonstrated not only the power of the Lord of the North and control over his people but also a hidden threat. The Emperor had to understand that in the "Honey Mug," he was not just a guest, but in the Lord's personal domain, where every corner obeyed his will, and even the most intimate conversations could be... "secured" from outsiders.
The Lord of the North leaned toward the Emperor again, his voice as quiet as the Emperor's, a barely distinguishable whisper filled with weighty meaning.
"Your Majesty," he whispered, his gaze direct and piercing, "if the Patriarch is the source of this... discord, the source should be eliminated, not the consequences fought."
He paused briefly, allowing his words, full of unambiguous subtext, to settle in the Emperor's consciousness. Then his whisper became even quieter, almost inaudible.
"I propose... strengthening the position of the one who truly supports the Empire, and eliminating the one who sows discord."
This was not just a proposal, but a hidden threat and a promise simultaneously. The Lord of the North was offering the Emperor the joint elimination of the Patriarch, perhaps even physically, or his complete discrediting, which would allow the Lord of the North to further strengthen his positions, and the Emperor to get rid of a headache and, perhaps, even reduce his debt. The Lord of the North skillfully pushed the Emperor toward a choice where the gain for him was obvious, and for the Emperor—deliverance from an unwanted figure.
The Emperor shuddered, his eyes widened, and he instinctively, but barely noticeably, recoiled. The Lord of the North's whisper, filled with such calm but sinister determination, seemed to sound like thunder in this silence.
The Emperor switched to a whisper again, his voice full of both horror and temptation, as if the proposal itself was a poison he couldn't help but taste.
"Eliminate the Patriarch?" he asked back, almost soundlessly, as if afraid that even the walls would hear these words.
His gaze, darting between the Lord of the North and the cleared space around them, spoke of an internal struggle. On one hand, it was unthinkable, sacrilegious. On the other, it was the solution to all his problems, the final deliverance from the relentless pressure that threatened to tear his Empire apart.
The Lord of the North nodded calmly, confirming the terrible but tempting thought for the Emperor. His gaze was firm; there was not a shadow of doubt in it, only cold calculation.
"Exactly so, Your Majesty," he whispered, leaning even closer so his words were accessible only to the Emperor. "The Patriarch clings to the past, to dogmas that repel the people, and does not see the future. He sees a threat in every innovation, heresy in every step toward the people. His actions, his calls for a Crusade—this is the agony of the old world, which threatens to ruin both the Empire and those trying to save it."
He paused briefly, allowing the Emperor to realize the full gravity of the situation he had outlined.
"We can put a more compliant man in his place," continued the Lord of the North, and in these words sounded an unambiguous but extremely tempting prospect for the Emperor. "A man who will understand the needs of the people. Who will be loyal not only to the old order but also to... the new realities. A man who can unite the faith, not divide it. And, perhaps, such a man will be much easier to convince of the necessity of more... flexible relations between Constantinople and the North."
There were no guarantees in the Lord of the North's voice, only perspective. He offered the Emperor not just a murder, but a change of power that would bring stability and, importantly, allow him to control one of the most important pillars of the Empire. It was a masterful weaving of subtle threat, strategic proposal, and demonstration of his ability to act.
The Emperor sat, immersed in deep thought. He was not stupid and realized the full riskiness of the Lord of the North's proposal. eliminating the Patriarch was not just changing a face on the church throne; it was an act that could stir up the entire Empire, provoke unrest among the deeply religious, and give grounds for rebellion to his own opponents. The reputation he tried so vainly to preserve could be definitively destroyed.
However, another thought flashed in his mind—the thought of salvation. This risk, however great it might be, could become the single chance that would allow him to preserve his power. The Patriarch was a constant source of problems, his pressure was unbearable, and the threat of a Crusade was real and deadly. By eliminating him, the Emperor could get rid of the financial burden at once, restore a semblance of control over the Church, and, most importantly, avoid a bloody war that the Empire simply could not endure.
He imagined the Patriarch, a man clinging to old dogmas while the whole world was changing, and the North was prospering, building new churches and attracting the people. The discord the Patriarch sowed was a real threat to the unity of the Empire. And in this gloomy perspective, the Lord of the North's plan, though daring, looked like a saving straw.
The Emperor slowly raised his head, his gaze became more determined, reading the weight of the decision made. He understood that he was making a deal with the devil, but the price of inaction would be far higher. He was ready to take the risk.
The Lord of the North saw the determination settle in the Emperor's gaze when he accepted this extreme measure. Now that the hardest words had been spoken and the decision made, the Emperor moved to the practical side of the matter, asking the most logical question.
"But who will be the new Patriarch?" whispered the Emperor, his voice sounding tense but with a shade of newfound hope. He was looking not just for a replacement, but for a person who could stabilize the situation and, more importantly, be acceptable to the Lord of the North.
The Lord of the North met the Emperor's gaze with a slight, almost imperceptible smile. His answer was ready; it was an integral part of his long-term plan.
"Your Majesty," he whispered in response, glancing at the table where Father Tuck sat, his secret agent and Archbishop of the Northern Church, "I think the answer is obvious. Archbishop Tuck."
He paused briefly, allowing the name to settle in the Emperor's mind before continuing the justification. "He is a man of the people, loved and respected by thousands of pilgrims. His Church prospers not through profit, but through true faith and service to ordinary people. He has proven his loyalty not only to the North but to true values. He understands the needs of the Empire and is capable of uniting, not dividing. His elevation will remove any tension between the Imperial and Northern Churches, since he himself will become its head. No one will dare reproach you for betraying the faith if such a... people's Patriarch stands at its head."
The Lord of the North's words were carefully weighed. He was not just proposing his man, but presenting him as the only correct solution that would strengthen the Emperor, unite the Church, and, of course, ensure his influence on one of the most important pillars of the Empire.
The Emperor let out a short, sharp snort, waving off the Lord of the North's suggestion. His eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose, and he shook his head.
"No, Tuck won't do," he whispered, but now with some firmness. "That would be... too suspicious. Too obvious. As if I rigged it myself to seat your man on the Patriarchal throne. It will cause even more questions, even more distrust. Accusations of heresy and conspiracy will rain down on me from all sides. The people may love Tuck, but the higher echelons of the Imperial Church and the nobility of Constantinople... they will not accept this. I need someone who will not cause such obvious resistance, who will look like... a compromise figure. Someone we can present as a solution, not as another problem."
In his words, there was an understanding of political realities. He was ready for extreme measures, but not those that could cost him the last crumbs of legitimacy. He needed a figure who could pass as "independent," even if managed.
The Lord of the North slowly nodded, accepting the Emperor's argument. In the end, his goal was not to install Tuck at any cost, but to control the Church and eliminate the current Patriarch. Risking the entire operation because of excessive obviousness would be unwise.
"You are right, Your Majesty," he whispered in response, his voice as calm and calculating as always. "Tuck is, perhaps, too... conspicuous. A new figure is needed. Perhaps younger. Someone not so tightly bound to the current establishment, but influential enough to be accepted. A Patriarch who sees the future. Who understands that the Empire must develop, not cling to outdated dogmas."
The Lord of the North thought for a moment, but it was only a show pause; in reality, his mind was already working through new options.
"A man who can bring unity, not discord. Who can show that the Church can be a support for the people, not an instrument of oppression. And who will be... grateful for the trust placed in him."
There were no direct names in his words, but there was a hint at the qualities he sought: young, ambitious, unconnected to the Patriarch, yet influential enough for his candidacy to look acceptable to the Emperor and the Church, and, of course, easily controlled. The Lord of the North let the Emperor understand that he was ready to cooperate in this matter, but the final word would still remain with him.
The Emperor, accepting the Lord of the North's logic, nodded in agreement.
"Good," he whispered, his voice now less tense, but still cautious. "I will see to this. I will prepare a list of candidates who, as you put it, will be more loyal to the Northern Church and see the future. But this will take time."
The Lord of the North answered him with confidence, cementing the deal. "And I, Your Majesty, in turn, will deal with the Patriarch."
His words were spoken with such unperturbed determination that they left no doubt about the outcome. Thus, under the cover of a grandiose feast, in the heart of the Lord of the North's "Honey Mug," a deal was struck that could forever change the face of the Empire. The Emperor, cornered by debts and the Patriarch's pressure, agreed to an extreme measure, and the Lord of the North gained the opportunity to eliminate an ecclesiastical leader unwanted by him and seat his own man in his place, thereby extending his influence to one of the most important pillars of the Empire.
The next morning, with the first rays of the sun, the Emperor pompously left the "Honey Mug." His procession looked not quite as exhausted as upon arrival, but the hidden relief from the agreement reached was noticeable. The agreement, though secret, had been concluded, and the weight of the decision seemed to have fallen from his shoulders a little.
As soon as the last sounds of the departing procession faded in the mountain silence, the Lord of the North, not losing a minute, gathered his closest advisors—Father Tuck and Green—in his office. His personal workspace was modest but functional, devoid of excessive luxury, yet furnished with the same strategic calculation as his entire domain. Maps, books, tactical diagrams—all this surrounded him, symbolizing his constant work of thought.
The Lord of the North did not waste time on preludes. Immediately, as soon as Tuck and Green took their seats, he went to the essence.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice calm but full of resolve. "We have just agreed with the Emperor on a... delicate matter. The Patriarch in Constantinople has become a serious hindrance. He pressures the Emperor, calls for a Crusade against us, and sows discord in the Empire. He must be eliminated."
He looked first at Green, whose eyes had already lit up with anticipation of a new intrigue, then at Father Tuck, whose face remained unperturbed, though he, like no one else, understood the true cost of the Patriarch's dogmatism.
"The question is not whether to do it, but how to do it most effectively, without unnecessary noise and in a way to avoid unwanted consequences for us and the Emperor. The matter must be arranged so that suspicion falls neither on him nor on us. And, of course, so that someone... more compliant, who sees the future rather than clinging to the past, takes his place."
Green, always quick of thought, leaned forward first, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
"My Lord," he began, "the most effective method of elimination, if we are speaking of the Patriarch, is not brute force, but the subtle poison of intrigue. We can provoke him. Force him to publicly state something so radical, so heretical from the Emperor's point of view, that the monarch will be forced to remove him himself. Or, even better, sow rumors of his conspiracy against the Emperor, of connections with foreign enemies."
"I have enough agents in Constantinople to start spreading the necessary rumors, planting fake letters, organizing 'accidental' meetings with suspicious individuals. We could even stage an assassination attempt on the Patriarch himself, so that he, in panic, makes rash decisions and reveals his true nature. Or... stage an assassination attempt on the Emperor, framing the Patriarch. It will be a complex game, but it will allow us to avoid direct intervention and keep our hands clean."
Father Tuck, who had been listening attentively until now, shook his head, his gaze more grounded but no less astute.
"Intrigues are good, Green, but they often leave too many loose ends, too many opportunities for mistakes. And most importantly—they do not guarantee a quick and clean result."
"My Lord, I propose a more... direct, but no less covert path. The Patriarch is an old man; he undoubtedly has many ailments. I have knowledge of herbalism and simple field medicine. But I also know how to use this knowledge correctly for incorrect purposes."
He paused, his eyes meeting the Lord of the North's eyes.
"A way can be found for the Patriarch to 'pass away' from natural causes. In Constantinople, there are undoubtedly monks or servants in his entourage who are unhappy with his tyranny or simply sufficiently... flexible in their moral principles. Through them, a certain potion can be administered to him that mimics illness or old age, without traces of violence. It will look like God's will or a natural demise."
"Or, if required, an 'accident' can be arranged—a fall from a staircase, the collapse of some part of the temple during his stay there. The main thing—no direct violence, no assassins with daggers. It must be clean and natural."
Tuck finished, his heavy mace lying nearby seeming particularly ominous in light of his proposal.
"Or, as an extreme measure, if the Patriarch proves too stubborn, there is always a way to provoke a popular uprising against him personally, accusing him of heresy or connection with demons—fortunately, my Northern Church has already sown the necessary seeds of doubt in people's minds. Then the crowd itself will 'eliminate' him."
The Lord of the North listened to Green and Father Tuck's suggestions, weighing all the pros and cons of each strategy. Green's intrigues were elegant but potentially complex and could leave too many traces. Tuck's plan was more direct but still required delicate work and depended on executors in Constantinople.
And suddenly a thought struck him. Something much more reliable, more... his.
"Tarantula," he said aloud, narrowing his eyes slightly, recalling the details. "The formula of the 'Tarantula' poison. The very one I found in Sultan Ahim's chambers."
This poison was undoubtedly the Lord of the North's trump card, knowledge he had acquired in dangerous eastern lands. Its effect was known—a slow, imperceptible withering mimicking natural illness, which made it the ideal tool for such a delicate task. It was the perfect compromise between intrigue and direct elimination, leaving a minimum of traces and questions.
Now it only remained to decide who exactly would deliver it to the Patriarch, and how it would be done.
The Lord of the North looked over his advisors again, now with a new, concrete task.
"So, 'Tarantula,'" he said. "The cleanest and most effective means. Now the main problem: how to deliver the poison to the Patriarch? He lives in Constantinople, surrounded by his retinue, guards, and, without a doubt, is extremely cautious."
The Lord of the North turned to Green. "Your agents in Constantinople. Can they find a way? Perhaps through servants, cooks, or even someone from the lower clergy who has access to his personal chambers, food, or drinks?"
Then he glanced at Father Tuck. "Father, your network in the Imperial Church. Are there people there who can be useful? Those tired of the Patriarch, or those who, perhaps, seek their own advancement? We need someone who will not arouse suspicion, who has regular access to the Patriarch and can act unnoticed."
A tense silence hung in the air while Green and Tuck pondered this new challenge, their minds already beginning to work through the most subtle and complex infiltration scenarios.
Father Tuck shook his head negatively, his face remaining unperturbed, but regret flashed in his eyes.
"My Lord," he said, his voice deep, "that is, unfortunately, impossible. Currently, I am under anathema, and there are none of my people in the Patriarch's circles. Anyone who was even slightly loyal to me has long been expelled or left Constantinople themselves. We cannot use church channels for this."
The Lord of the North's gaze shifted to Green. This meant the entire weight of the task lay on his shoulders and on his network of agents. Now it was exclusively a task of intrigue and covert infiltration.
"That means all hope is on you, Green," said the Lord of the North, addressing him. "Your agents. Constantinople is their field of activity. How will you be able to gain access to the Patriarch? Through his servants? Guards? Or someone from his immediate circle who can be bribed or blackmailed?"
Green thoughtfully stroked his chin, his gaze fixed somewhere in the void, as if he already saw the tangled labyrinths of Constantinople before him.
"Anyone can be bribed, my Lord," he finally said, his voice low and judicious. "The question is only in the price... and in how to find the one who not only has access but is desperate enough, or ambitious enough, to take the risk. The Patriarch is surrounded by people who are either fanatically devoted or thoroughly vetted. But even the most devoted have weaknesses, and the most vetted can have hidden motives."
He looked up at the Lord of the North. "This will take time, my Lord. My agents will have to conduct a thorough investigation, identify suitable candidates in the Patriarch's entourage—servants, monks, even members of his guard. We will have to study their habits, their secret vices, their needs. It is delicate work requiring patience and skill. But I am sure we will find a thread to pull. Perhaps it will be a maid who needs money for a sick child, or an ambitious young priest dreaming of a high post, or a guard suffering from a gambling addiction."
Green finished with grim confidence. The task was difficult, but not impossible for a master of intrigue.
And then, amidst reflections on how best to penetrate the Patriarch's circle, Green suddenly raised his head, and that very excitement that always preceded his most daring and successful intrigues flared in his eyes.
"My Lord," he said, his voice full of determination. "I will go to Constantinople myself. Secretly."
Father Tuck raised an eyebrow in surprise, and the Lord of the North looked attentively at his advisor, awaiting explanations.
"Unlike you, my Lord, whose name and fame are now known throughout the Empire, and certainly unlike Archbishop Tuck, who, as he rightly noted, is under anathema," Green allowed himself a slight, knowing smirk, "few know me by face in Constantinople. My connections there are a network of agents, not personal acquaintances with the higher circles. I can disappear into the crowd, act from the shadows. Personal presence will allow me to assess the situation from the inside, identify the right people faster, conduct negotiations. I will be able to find this 'thread' to pull myself. It is much more reliable and faster than relying only on reports."
There was logic in his words. Green was a master of intrigue; his strength lay in invisibility and the ability to manipulate people. His trip would significantly speed up the process and increase the chances of success. It was a risky step, but characteristic of Green, always ready to personally throw himself into the thick of events if it promised success to his master.
Having heard Green's arguments, the Lord of the North approved his decision. His confidence in him was absolute.
"Good, Green," he said, "so be it. You will go to Constantinople. Secretly, but not as simple travelers."
Green nodded, his mind already calculating the details. "Ingrid and I will go under the guise of noble aristocrats, my Lord," he clarified. "Ingrid, with her blindness, will serve as the perfect cover. No one will suspect her of being a spy or agent. On the contrary, she will evoke sympathy and allow us to appear unhindered in high society, where a simple agent could never penetrate. Wealthy nobles looking for rare relics or pearls, enjoying the culture of Constantinople—this will be the perfect legend. Our status will allow us to get close to those circles that have direct or indirect access to the Patriarch, and my fame as an advisor will remain hidden behind the mask of a loving husband and refined connoisseur of art."
Lights of cunning danced in Green's eyes. It was a genius move, combining disguise, social status, and the use of Ingrid's unique circumstances to create a practically flawless cover for such a delicate mission.
That same day, while the sun was still high in the sky, preparations began for Green and Ingrid's departure. With utmost care, a luxurious carriage was prepared—not just a vehicle, but a mobile symbol of status corresponding to their new legend. It was decorated with a family crest invented specifically for this mission and looked as if it belonged to a lineage with a long history and untold riches.
Green and Ingrid dressed in lavish outfits befitting wealthy third-generation nobles. Ingrid, with her blindness, played the role of a noble lady in need of a caring spouse and attention, which deflected any suspicion from her. Green embodied the image of a refined but slightly absent-minded aristocrat, occupied with his collections and interests more than anything else.
Their "retinue" was also carefully selected. Several of the Lord of the North's "Life-Guard Hussars," dressed in personal guard liveries, looked impressive and disciplined. Their habitual bearing and combat readiness were only slightly masked, but to the unsophisticated eye, they were simply devoted bodyguards. Among them were also several of the Lord of the North's jaegers, disguised as hunters or attendants. Their sharp eyesight, ability to move unnoticed, and, most importantly, hidden daggers concealed under loose clothing, made them ideally suited for covert reconnaissance and, if necessary, for the quick and silent elimination of obstacles.
This small but carefully selected group seemed fully immersed in their new roles, creating a flawless cover for a mission that could change the fate of the entire Empire.
The Lord of the North extracted several special coins from a secret pocket, made of pure gold and decorated with a barely noticeable, almost mystical symbol. These were not just money, but a sign of his personal patronage, his unspoken "password" in the world where Green had to act secretly.
"Take this, Green," he said, handing him the coins. "They are not for open use. This is... for special occasions. When you need to demonstrate that behind your back stands not just a wealthy nobleman, but something more. They will point to my patronage to those capable of reading between the lines. After all, you will be moving undercover, and no one but us will know who you really are. These coins are a silent but eloquent confirmation of your true power and that you are acting in my name."
Green carefully accepted the coins, his gaze sliding over the mysterious symbol. He understood that this was not just a financial instrument, but a powerful lever of influence capable of opening doors and forcing people to act in the interests of the Lord of the North without asking unnecessary questions. It was one more tool in the arsenal of the master of intrigue, allowing him to act with even greater efficiency in the shadows of Constantinople.
Under the bright midday sun playing on the gilded elements of the luxurious carriage, Green and Ingrid took their places inside. Outside, the "retinue"—disguised Life-Guard Hussars and jaegers of the Lord of the North—took their positions, their faces remaining unperturbed, hiding true combat bearing behind the mask of devoted servants.
The coachman, an experienced and loyal man, pulled the reins. The horses snorted, straining their muscles, and with a light creak of wheels, the carriage moved from its place. Gradually gaining speed, it moved away from the mighty walls of the "Honey Mug," heading south, toward Constantinople.
To the outside world, this was merely a journey of wealthy nobles setting off on their business. But for the Lord of the North, and for Green and Ingrid, this was the beginning of a most important mission. Weeks of travel along dusty roads full of dangers and surprises lay on the path to Constantinople. Ahead waited a most complex intrigue, the goal of which was the elimination of the powerful Patriarch and changing the course of the Empire's history. The mission had begun.
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