October 15, 2023 – Capital Windhoek, Republic of Namibia

  The sun sat high over Windhoek, scattering sharp lines of light across the tiled pavement outside the Hosea Kutako International Airport. It was hot, dry, and clear — the kind of day that made neckties a form of punishment.

  But inside the terminal, all eyes were on Gate 9.

  A white, ste-edged aircraft had just touched down — a foreign design, unfamiliar to the air traffic crew, though it had entered Namibian airspace cleanly, with full clearance. It bore no Earth nation insignia, only a twelve-star crest along the vertical stabilizer and a gold crane embossed across the fusege.

  The aircraft didn’t roar. It hummed — low, steady, confident.

  As it taxied into view, a half-dozen Ministry of International Retions and Cooperation officials stood by the observation deck, pressed suits stained with sweat. On a smaller podium behind them stood the Prime Minister's special envoy, Ambassador Kabelo Lunga, fnked by security and aides.

  “Are we certain about protocol?” Lunga asked quietly.

  “Yes, sir,” his aide replied, gncing at the printout. “They're not royalty. No anthem. Just a formal reception line and handover of credentials.”

  “Good,” he muttered. “Let’s not overpy it.”

  The pne door hissed open.

  Three figures stepped out.

  They wore no armor. No robes. No posturing. Just high-colred navy-blue coats with white trim and gold lining at the cuffs — formal, neat, exact. Their wings were folded back, tall and subtle, like coiled cloth behind them.

  At their center walked a woman — her face calm, her stride even. She held no device. Only a scroll-tube and a briefcase. Her badge identified her as Envoy Ireliana Vey, diplomatic officer of the Annonrial Ministry of Foreign External Retions.

  She stepped onto the red carpet with the silence of someone who expected no appuse.

  “Envoy Vey,” Lunga said, stepping forward, hand extended. “On behalf of the Republic of Namibia, welcome. We’re honored to receive your Federation’s first formal diplomatic mission.”

  She bowed slightly — not low, but with genuine respect.

  “Ambassador Lunga,” she replied, voice clear and measured. “We are equally honored to engage with the sovereign government of Namibia. May our first steps be sure.”

  They shook hands. Cameras fshed. The reception line began moving.

  The formalities sted twenty minutes. By the time they entered the presidential compound in Windhoek, both delegations had rexed — slightly. Tea was served in the courtyard. Interviews were deferred. Security lingered at the edges, but out of earshot.

  “What brought you here first?” Lunga asked as they sat across from each other on the shaded veranda.

  Ireliana smiled politely.

  “Geography,” she said. “And principle.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Namibia is stable. Sovereign. Open, but not overexposed. You didn’t rush to dominate Earth’s discourse — you measured it. That’s a nguage we understand.”

  Lunga blinked once, then smiled. “I see. You're drawn to countries that think before they speak.”

  “Sometimes,” she replied. “But more often to those who listen before they're spoken to.”

  By mid-afternoon, the Annonrial team — eight staff total — began surveying key zones across Windhoek. Not as tourists. Not as inspectors. Just eyes and ears.

  They asked few questions. But they saw everything.

  At a bus stop, one paused to study the route system, comparing it silently to a folded map. Another asked a city official about recent drought response efforts. They moved as professionals, not spies — diplomatic engineers, urban pnners, and policy analysts with calm attention to detail.

  At the Independence Memorial Museum, a cultural attaché paused before a photo of colonial soldiers, frowning slightly.

  “You kept your memory intact,” she said quietly.

  The curator beside her nodded. “The past doesn’t go away. We just learn to carry it.”

  The Annonrial woman said nothing. But she lingered longer than most visitors.

  By the next morning, the delegation was invited to the Ministry of Urban and Rural Development.

  Inside a modest meeting hall, with ceiling fans still clicking overhead, Envoy Vey sat across from Minister Johanna Namises, the official in charge of national pnning.

  They had tea again. No transtors were needed — the Annonrial spoke English precisely.

  “We’ve been facing increased urban migration,” Namises expined. “The popution in Windhoek keeps growing, but service systems haven’t scaled with it. Waste, water access, traffic management — they’re all under strain.”

  Vey nodded. “We noticed. Your city still functions cleanly, but the stress lines are visible.”

  “We’ve submitted pns to regional partners,” Namises added, “but implementation funding is… uncertain.”

  Vey opened her briefcase.

  Inside was a single-bound folder beled Phase One Cooperative Infrastructure Liaison Project.

  She slid it across.

  “We don’t give loans,” she said. “But we do offer frameworks.”

  Namises opened the folder slowly. Diagrams. Zoning overys. Resource maps. Annotated proposals — not prescriptive, but colborative.

  “This would integrate with our local system?”

  “Your engineers would co-lead. Our analysts would advise. No command. No override.”

  Namises looked up. “Why us?”

  “Because the world’s watching who we choose to work with. And we’d rather the first handshake be one of mutual scale than strategic headline.”

  News broke slowly — as it always did in Namibia.

  But by the following week, regional papers ran a simple headline

  Annonrial Federation Opens Diplomatic Mission in Namibia – Talks Begin on Infrastructure Support

  The articles were quiet. Factual. No sensational nguage.

  But in cafés, in ministries, and on university campuses, the mood began to shift.

  At a local café near the Polytechnic of Namibia, two engineering students watched the footage of Envoy Vey walking the steps of the Parliament.

  “They really have wings,” one of them said, incredulous.

  “Yeah,” the other replied. “But did you see the scroll she gave the minister? They brought data. Actual models.”

  “Not aid. Not weapons. Just a city pn.”

  “First country they choose on Earth,” the first student said. “And it’s us.”

  Back at the embassy compound, now under quiet construction just outside city center, the Federation fg was raised on its temporary pole. No music. No announcement.

  Just a twelve-star field, a golden crane, and three words carved onto the bronze pque at the entrance.

  Glory. Freedom. Advance.

  Not a demand.

  A direction.

  August 21, 1639 – Cartalpas, Holy Mirishial Empire

  The Annonrial Embassy in Cartalpas was modest by design—an embodiment of restraint amidst a city known for its grandeur. Nestled between the embassies of France and Morocco, its fa?ade was a blend of pale stone and gss, adorned only by the twelve-star crest and the golden crane emblem of the Federation. Inside, the air was cool, scented faintly with jasmine, and the hum of concealed air-conditioning systems provided a subtle backdrop to the quiet elegance.

  Ambassador Cosmellis stood by the window of his office, observing the bustling street below. His wings, folded neatly behind him, shimmered slightly in the afternoon light. A soft chime signaled the arrival of his guest.

  "Ambassador Richard Hawthorne of the United Kingdom," announced his aide.

  Cosmellis turned, offering a warm smile as the British ambassador entered. Hawthorne was a tall man in his early fifties, with sharp features and a demeanor that exuded both confidence and curiosity.

  "Ambassador Hawthorne," Cosmellis greeted, extending his hand. "Welcome to our humble abode."

  "Ambassador Cosmellis," Hawthorne replied, shaking his hand firmly. "Thank you for having me. It's a pleasure to finally meet."

  They settled into the seating area, a minimalist arrangement of low chairs and a gss table. A tea set, already prepared, awaited them.

  "Please," Cosmellis gestured, pouring the tea. "Our own blend, cultivated in the highnds of Annonrial."

  Hawthorne took a sip, nodding appreciatively. "Delightful. A unique fvor—floral, with a hint of spice."

  Cosmellis smiled. "Much like our people."

  They shared a brief chuckle before Hawthorne leaned forward, his tone shifting to a more formal register.

  "Ambassador, the United Kingdom wishes to extend an invitation to the Annonrial Federation. We propose the establishment of formal diplomatic retions and would be honored to host your delegation in London in the near future."

  Cosmellis's expression remained composed, but his eyes sparkled with interest.

  "An invitation we are inclined to accept," he replied. "Our Federation values the establishment of mutual understanding and cooperation."

  "Excellent," Hawthorne said, visibly pleased. "We believe there's much we can learn from each other."

  Cosmellis nodded, then, after a brief pause, inquired, "If I may, Ambassador, how fares your continent? We've heard whispers of unrest."

  Hawthorne sighed, setting his teacup down with a soft clink. “Europe has seen better days. The ongoing crisis in Ukraine has stretched resources thin. Refugees, economic strain, rising energy costs—it’s all been quite the juggling act.”

  Cosmellis tilted his head slightly. “Understandable. War, whether far or near, always leaves shadows. Some fall on cities. Some on bance sheets.”

  The Brit gave a dry chuckle, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Bance sheets, morale, food lines… We’ve been dealing with all of it. The media’s obsessed with talking about ‘resilience.’ But behind closed doors, it's less resilience and more rearranging deck chairs on a slowly tilting deck.”

  Cosmellis observed him quietly, then offered a mild nod. “We’ve been assisting those in the frozen nds you refer to as Antarctica. Providing sustenance and shelter where we can.”

  Hawthorne raised an eyebrow. “Your Federation’s delivery missions, yes. We’ve heard about them. Quiet work. Efficient. Satellite thermal imaging confirmed the heat signatures about two months ago.”

  Cosmellis didn’t deny it.

  “There are communities there now,” the Annonrial ambassador said. “Settlers. Researchers. Military support units. They came with the hope that Earth’s nations would provide them stability. What they received was... partial attention.”

  Hawthorne made a thoughtful sound and leaned back, letting his fingers drum lightly against the arm of the chair.

  “Truth be told, Cosmellis, without your aid, half of them would have frozen by now. Logistics are hell in Antarctica. Airlifts, rations, generators — it's not just a question of will, it's a question of capability. The Federation... surprised us all.”

  “Your people call it humanitarian,” Cosmellis said softly. “But there is a price for doing that.”

  The air shifted slightly. Not heavy. But more precise.

  Hawthorne picked up on it immediately.

  He leaned forward, resting one ankle over the other knee in that characteristically British posture that made everything feel less formal, even when it was anything but.

  “I assume you're not referring to currency.”

  Cosmellis let a small smile touch the edge of his lips. “No. Not currency. But worth.”

  A silence passed, the kind where diplomats say more by pausing than by speaking.

  Hawthorne nodded slowly. “Let me guess. You’re wondering what the United Kingdom would offer in return.”

  “No,” Cosmellis said. “I'm wondering whether you understand what we're offering.”

  Hawthorne blinked, caught off guard, then ughed—a soft, warm sound.

  “Ah. Fair enough. You’re not pying the usual game, are you? You’re not dangling carrots or sabers.”

  Cosmellis’s smile widened a hair. “We’ve seen your world. We know its games. We’ve simply decided not to copy them.”

  “Alright,” Hawthorne said, his tone shifting slightly. “So what is it you want?”

  Cosmellis leaned back, folding his hands loosely in his p.

  “Leverage,” he said pinly.

  The word nded not as a threat, but as fact.

  “Not domination,” he continued. “Not control. Just... position. We want room at the table, not as guests, but as peers. And for that, we need influence.”

  Hawthorne nodded slowly. “Influence built on credibility, not conquest.”

  “Correct.”

  “You’ll find the UK tends to value that.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll value what comes next.”

  Cosmellis reached under the side table and retrieved a compact bck case. It clicked softly as it opened. Inside, nestled on velvet, sat a small crystalline rectangle no rger than a passport, pulsing faintly with inner color — hues that shifted as the light touched it.

  Hawthorne leaned forward, his brow arching.

  “This,” Cosmellis said, “is a compressed data ttice made from vibrantly charged mana crystal. It’s a computational medium, but not electronic. It processes information in quantum-state pulse yers. No circuitry. No copper. No rare Earth metals.”

  The Brit let out a slow breath, clearly impressed despite himself.

  “That’s… not the kind of thing one sees in a backroom embassy.”

  “We don’t bring weapons when we meet potential allies,” Cosmellis replied. “We bring tools.”

  “And this,” Hawthorne said, lifting the crystal carefully, “is your way of saying you’d like our partnership.”

  “It’s our way of proving that partnership could be useful.”

  There was a long pause as the ambassador examined the object.

  Then he looked up with a smile that was far more serious than his tone.

  “You know, if MI6 were here, they’d be sweating through their ties right now.”

  “Then it’s good we’re speaking in private.”

  Hawthorne ughed again, and set the crystal back into its case.

  “Well, Ambassador Cosmellis,” he said, standing and adjusting his bzer, “you’ve given me plenty to bring back to London.”

  Cosmellis rose as well. “We’ll wait for your next message. Quietly, of course.”

  “Of course,” Hawthorne echoed. “And… I suspect next time, it won’t just be tea and chatter.”

  “Next time,” Cosmellis said, extending his hand, “there may be agreements.”

  They shook.

  As Hawthorne exited into the bright hallway and the embassy door clicked softly shut behind him, Cosmellis stood in silence, looking down at the tea set still warm on the table.

  He didn’t need a war. He didn’t need headlines.

  He only needed to be remembered.

  August 28, 1639 – Capital Solon, Judstain Kain Republic

  Solon was not merely a capital. It was a statement.

  Skyscrapers shaped like floating isnds rose into the clouds, their curved foundations designed to reflect the Yggdra sky in mirrored fragments. Air bridges threaded between them like strands of silk, dotted with hanging gardens and sun-filtered arcades. The cityscape glowed in the golden hour light—a blend of power and aesthetic so refined that foreign dignitaries often mistook it for a myth.

  It was no myth. It was Kain’s will made visible.

  The industrial districts, by design, sat miles away—beyond the forested lownds and wind-cleared ridgelines—ensuring Solon’s air stayed as clear as its gss towers. No smog. No noise. Only order.

  At the city’s heart stood the Morpheus Pace a towering monolith of brutalist elegance, more than 200 meters high, combining the cold geometry of 1960s America with the sacred geometry of Kain’s own architectural tradition. Its presence dominated the skyline—not because it was the tallest, but because it looked like it belonged there before anything else was built.

  Inside, beneath reinforced gss and mineral-tiled ceilings, the government’s inner circle convened in Room Sigma, the secure chamber buried beneath the west wing.

  The walls were matte gray. No windows. Just a digital screen mapping the world — Earth’s nations yered over the continent of Elysia, updated daily by satellite imaging and external data leaks.

  Twelve officials sat around the table. Some looked tired. Most looked tense.

  Prime Minister Matthias Erevos tapped twice on the steel tabletop, bringing the meeting to order.

  “Begin.”

  Leah Daidalos, Minister of Science and Technology, adjusted her gsses and gnced at the stack of papers in front of her — most of them half-read, some still warm from printing.

  She didn't stand. She didn’t need to.

  “Two weeks ago,” she began, “the Annonrial Federation introduced themselves to the world. No demands. No banners. Just... precision.”

  A few heads nodded quietly around the table.

  Leah continued. “Since then, they’ve opened soft contact with at least four Earth nations — the UK, Germany, Namibia, and—unofficially—France. We’ve confirmed aid traffic moving from their southern port into Antarctica. Infrastructure. Food. Power units.”

  She flipped a page and smirked faintly. “They even brought proper winter clothing. Feather-lined. Tailored. It's borderline hospitality.”

  A chuckle slipped from someone at the far end.

  “Cartalpas?” Prime Minister Erevos asked.

  “Embassy active. Modest. But polished. Think Swiss — clean, quiet, and very hard to ignore.”

  He raised a brow. “Military posture?”

  “No visible expansion,” she said. “But there are signs of coordinated drills. Structured movements. Defense-focused formations. They’re preparing... but not provoking.”

  Across the table, General Gideon Kratistos leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

  “Gods,” he muttered. “And here I thought they were a monastery with nice fgs.”

  “They still might be,” said Miriam Athanasiou, Foreign Affairs, dryly. “Just one that knows how to power a satellite and design a reactor.”

  A beat passed.

  Then Leah added, “One of their officials gave a speech st week. Casual event. Off-record. Said something strange.”

  She checked her notes.

  “We didn’t rise to compete. We stood still and watched everyone else scramble.”

  That hung in the room for a moment.

  “Poetic,” someone mumbled.

  “No,” Kratistos said. “That’s worse than poetic. That’s calm.”

  Miriam leaned forward slightly, her tone less defensive than usual.

  “I don’t think they’re here to compete,” she said. “At least not in the way we assume.”

  “Then why now?” asked Admiral Poseidonius. “Why step out of the shadows after all this time?”

  “They’re not stepping out,” Leah replied. “They’re just... letting us finally notice them.”

  The Prime Minister’s eyes flicked to his left. “Kalonikos?”

  Ezra Kalonikos, Minister of Trade and Commerce, cleared his throat and adjusted his colr — not nervously, just habitually.

  “They’re tight-lipped about macroeconomic data,” he began, tapping a few notes on his screen, “but from what we’ve gathered, their economy is stable. Managed, but not rigid. You can feel it even in how their embassies operate — structured, but not sterile.”

  He gnced up.

  “They’re export-ready in specific verticals infrastructure components, renewable energy systems, high-yield crystalline tech. That crystal processing they do—mana-reactive, low loss—it’s elegant, but small-scale. Not industry-level like Earth’s semiconductor supply chains.”

  “So not threatening?” asked Rhea Lorenzion, arms folded.

  Ezra smirked faintly. “Depends on your threshold. They’re precise, but niche. They don’t move volume. They move value.”

  “But no mass production?” Kratistos asked.

  Ezra shook his head. “No signs of it. Not like Earth’s giants. The Americans, the Chinese — they push at scale. Annonrial refines.”

  “Old-school boutique manufacturing,” Leah muttered. “Like Earth in the early industrial climb.”

  “Exactly,” Ezra said. “They’re a cathedral, not a factory.”

  Miriam looked thoughtful. “So what you’re saying is... they don’t want the global market.”

  “They want a market,” Ezra corrected. “One that respects precision over profit margins.”

  Lorenzion tilted her head. “You’re all making them sound too… noble. That always makes me nervous.”

  Ezra gave a dry shrug. “Look, I’m not saying they’re saints. I’m saying they don’t want the same things Earth’s big pyers want.”

  “Which makes them harder to predict,” said Kratistos, frowning.

  “But also less likely to crush us in a trade deal,” Miriam replied, half-smiling.

  Leah leaned in. “They’re advanced, sure. But let’s not fool ourselves — Earth is still ahead in almost everything that scales. AI systems, materials science, space access, pnetary logistics. Annonrial shines in elegance, but they’re not omniscient.”

  “Yet,” muttered Lorenzion.

  Ezra nodded. “Let’s put it this way Earth nations industrialized for war and expansion. Annonrial… matured in isotion. It shows.”

  “They’ve never had to compete in a crowded room,” said the Prime Minister softly. “Let’s see how they adjust once they’re in one.”

  The Prime Minister turned toward the map again. His finger hovered over a cluster of blinking red signals in the southern seas — the wide corridor between the east and south continents, a historic choke point for both commerce and conflict.

  “Update on Gra Valkas naval activity,” he said, voice even.

  Defense Minister Rhea Lorenzion responded with a calm nod, eyes on her screen.

  “They’ve deployed two major surface fleets,” she said. “Composition includes battleships, long-range escort cruisers, and amphibious units. Movement suggests staged convergence near the isnd arcs between Leifor and Nigrat. They're moving with purpose — but not speed. This is calcuted.”

  “They’re preparing for an invasion?” asked Miriam Athanasiou, her fingers tight around her pen.

  “They’re preparing for something,” Lorenzion said. “But here’s the key detail—”

  She tapped the screen. Several red markers brightened, but one icon remained grey.

  “They’re not showing any awareness of Earth forces. No diversions. No ECM pulses. No orbital caution. Their signals are open and cold-war vintage. It’s like they still believe Earth is some myth floating above the clouds.”

  General Kratistos leaned in. “So they're blind.”

  “Temporarily,” Lorenzion said. “And dangerously.”

  The Prime Minister’s gaze lingered on the frozen image of the drone hovering mid-air, its sleek form a stark contrast to the antiquated battleships of Gra Valkas. The room was silent, the weight of realization settling over the cabinet.

  “Leifor and Nigrat have been quiet so far,” Admiral Poseidonius reiterated, breaking the silence. “But we’ve confirmed weapons shipments have been reaching them by sea from the north. Not ours. Not from Earth directly, either.”

  “Then who’s funding it?” Foreign Minister Miriam Athanasiou inquired, her brows furrowed.

  “Mu,” Poseidonius replied. “With American money.”

  The revetion hung in the air, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

  “They’re using U.S. financial aid to acquire advanced drones,” Poseidonius continued. “Semi-autonomous, multi-role, variable wingspan. ISR-A2s. Intelligence, surveilnce, reconnaissance, and strike capabilities.”

  He tapped the screen, dispying grainy footage of the drones in action. The machines hovered like metallic insects before unleashing precise strikes, leaving devastation in their wake.

  “Those are unmanned?” Leah Daidalos asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

  Poseidonius nodded. “Remote or autonomous. Pilots can be continents away. Hit-to-kill ratio estimated at 90% on static targets. 65% while in motion.”

  “Against what sort of defenses?” General Kratistos questioned, visibly unsettled.

  “Mid-tier radar? They spoof it. Gra Valkas-tier radar? It’s not clear they even have radar. Their battleships run analog fire control. If one of these drones comes in under cloud cover, it won’t show up until it’s already left.”

  “Gods,” Miriam whispered. “They won’t know what hit them.”

  “No,” Poseidonius affirmed. “They won’t even know.”

  Prime Minister Erevos leaned back, his eyes still fixed on the screen. “How many?”

  “Unknown,” Poseidonius said. “Dozens, maybe more. Earth-based private arms firms are delivering batches quietly, through Mu-linked fronts. They’re not flooding the zone. They’re salting it.”

  “Light coverage,” Kratistos muttered. “But deadly.”

  Leah was still watching the footage. “This isn’t even top-tier Earth tech,” she said. “These are commercial-grade drones. They’re not deploying their best.”

  “No need,” Poseidonius replied.

  “What happens when Gra Valkas hits the shoreline?” Miriam asked.

  “Depends how fast they adapt,” Poseidonius said.

  “Which they won’t,” Kratistos added.

  Erevos turned to Leah. “If you put one of these drones over a Gra Valkas cruiser…”

  “It burns a hole straight through the deck before the crew even knows it's there,” she said quietly.

  “Range?”

  “Hundreds of kilometers with rey. Swarm coordination. You wouldn’t even need to guide it in manually.”

  Erevos leaned back. “And Gra Valkas still thinks they’re fighting gunpowder and fgs.”

  The room fell silent again, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

  “They’re about to be taught otherwise,” Erevos said.

  The cabinet members exchanged gnces, the implications clear. The world was changing, and they needed to adapt.

  “We need to consider our position,” Erevos continued. “Earth's technology is reshaping the battlefield. If we don't adapt, we'll be left behind.”

  “Agreed,” Miriam said. “We should explore avenues for cooperation with Earth nations. Their technology could be invaluable.”

  “Let’s begin by reaching out to their representatives,” Erevos concluded. “We have much to learn.”

  The cabinet members nodded, the path forward clear. In a world transformed by technology, adaptation was not just an option—it was a necessity

  "They've been consolidating their forces," Admiral Poseidonius began, pointing to a holographic map dispying the movements of Gra Valkan fleets. "Their naval units are amassing near the western shores, and there's increased activity in their shipyards."

  General Kratistos leaned forward, his expression stern. "They're blind to the realities of this new world. They still operate under the assumption that their World War II-era technology grants them superiority."

  Foreign Minister Miriam Athanasiou interjected, "Their arrogance is their weakness. But we must not underestimate them. Their ideology hasn't changed—they seek domination, and they won't stop until they've subjugated all who oppose them."

  Prime Minister Erevos nodded solemnly. "They took advantage of our disappearance and swallowed up the entire continent. Gaia continent was swift and brutal. We cannot allow history to repeat itself here."

  Leah Daidalos, the chief intelligence officer, added, "Our sources indicate that Gra Valkas is unaware of the true capabilities of Earth's nations. They don't comprehend the technological advancements that have taken pce since their era."

  "That ignorance could be our advantage," Poseidonius remarked. "But we must act decisively."

  The room fell silent as the weight of the situation settled over the cabinet. The threat was real, and the time to act was now.

  "We need to consider our options," Erevos stated. "Do we confront them directly, risking our national security, or do we seek alliances to bolster our defenses?"

  Miriam spoke up, "The United States and South American nations have shown a willingness to cooperate. Their technology and resources could be invaluable in countering the Gra Valkan threat."

  Kratistos frowned, "Relying on foreign powers comes with its own risks. We must ensure that our sovereignty isn't compromised."

  Leah interjected, "But the alternative is facing Gra Valkas alone. We've seen what they're capable of. We need allies."

  Erevos considered the arguments before him. "We'll initiate diplomatic talks with the United States and South American nations. We'll propose a mutual defense pact, sharing intelligence and resources to counter the Gra Valkan threat."

  The cabinet members nodded in agreement. The decision was made.

  As the meeting adjourned, Erevos addressed the room one final time. "We stand at a crossroads. The actions we take now will determine the future of our nation. Let us proceed with resolve and unity."

  With that, the cabinet members dispersed, each carrying the weight of the decisions made and the challenges that y ahead.

  September 1, 1639 – Capital Kilcrus, Kingdom of Irnetia

  Dorntham Pace, Royal Council Chamber

  Rain tapped gently on the vaulted windows of Dorntham Pace, draping the gray stone halls in a haze of cold light. Oil nterns lined the chamber, their flickering fmes revealing faces furrowed by age, war, and indecision.

  In the Council Chamber of Thorns — so named for the carved yewwood branches that lined the walls — the Royal Council of Irnetia sat in full session. Red and silver tapestries depicting ancient battles and stag-headed saints hung like omens above them.

  At the head of the chamber sat King Irtis XIII, his silver circlet dulled, his eyes hollow but unshaken. His voice echoed through the room — not with power, but with weight.

  “I pce the Kingdom of Irnetia under a state of war readiness.”

  Silence followed.

  Then chaos.

  Chairs scraped stone, voices broke out like shattered gss.

  Lord Brenan MacCuil, the High Marshal, shot up first, his gloved hand smming against the oak table.

  “With what army, Your Majesty? We have bipnes with rusted propellers and coastal guns older than your son!”

  Minister Ciarán Brogue, burly and red-faced, added, “We’ve got coal shortages! Steel rationing! And now we expect to fight the Valkans as if we were Leifor? That’s madness!”

  Across the table, the sharp-eyed Lady Siobhán Elraigh, draped in dark green silk, spoke coolly.

  “Yet doing nothing invites the same fate. Shall we polish our boots while Valkans set our cities to fme?”

  “We received arms from Mu,” said Captain Rían ó Caomhánach, young and bold in his flight leathers. “Enough to arm three battalions. More are coming. They believe in our defense.”

  “And what of Earth?” asked Lt. Sorcha Ní Tuathail, her voice calm but firm. “Their weapons could destroy an entire Valkan fleet in an hour.”

  Brogue spat. “A force from another world! They bring nothing but war!”

  “Why not the Earth nations, then,” Sorcha replied, “instead of the butchers Gra Valkas?”

  Heads turned as the chamber door creaked open.

  Prince Cael Aethes entered. Tall, fme-haired, and unmistakably not entirely human. His elven blood showed in his high cheekbones, luminous eyes, and the faint point of his ears — once a source of whispered court gossip, now an undeniable symbol of lineage and difference.

  He bowed shallowly toward the throne, then spoke without waiting for permission.

  “If we do not choose allies, we will inherit enemies by default.”

  Some sneered. Others leaned forward.

  “We cannot hold Irnetia alone,” Cael continued. “Not against Gra Valkas. Not for long. We must extend the hand now — to Earth.”

  Archdeacon Eóin Ruaidh rose from his seat, crimson robes swirling like blood.

  “Aye, and shake hands with devils,” he hissed. “The Earth folk come with steel birds and fire from heaven. Their gifts are power, but their price is our soul. Are they not newcomers trying to take over the Second Civilization?”

  “And Gra Valkas is not?” Cael shot back. “Was it not they who burnt entire continent? Who shelled the refugee boats leaving their continent, and be proud of them?”

  The chamber froze at the mention.

  Even the King’s grip tightened on the iron arm of his throne.

  From the side, Maeve Kealin, court poet and chronicler, who seldom spoke in these chambers, lifted her voice — quiet, but poignant.

  “We speak of monsters and messengers. But none here seem willing to call one what it is. Earth does not ask for our nds. Gra Valkas never needed to.”

  Lady Siobhán nodded once. “True words.”

  “Is the Earth willing to support us?” asked a viscount near the back, his voice brittle.

  “Have we even asked?” Cael replied.

  King Irtis finally stood, rising like an old tower refusing to colpse.

  “Irnetia has always stood alone. Through storms, through kings mad with ambition, through winters where we lit our hearths with shipwreck wood. But never—” his voice cracked, then hardened, “—never have we faced thunder from two skies at once.”

  “We are fnked by tyrants and titans. And now, we must choose.”

  The royal steward approached the map id across the table — the parchment old, but newly inked. Red markings now traced the Gra Valkan naval movements off the west. In the east, Mu lines of communication glowed faintly in blue. And to the far horizon, satellites passed overhead — symbols of Earth’s ever-present eye.

  High Marshal MacCuil growled, “So what then? We beg the stars for weapons?”

  “No,” Cael said firmly. “We speak to them. We show that we still have pride, still have steel. And if they see that — they may choose to stand with us.”

  Lady Siobhán added sharply, “And in the meantime, we evacuate the western coastal towns. Quietly. Swiftly. The civilians will not survive a Valkan bombardment.”

  Brogue opened his mouth to object, but the King silenced him with a gnce.

  “Begin at first light.”

  As the royal seal was pressed to the evacuation orders, the chamber slowly emptied, voices hushed.

  Only the King, the Prince, and the Archdeacon remained.

  Eóin Ruaidh gred at Cael with smoldering eyes.

  “Your blood is not all ours. You speak of Earth because you feel drawn to them.”

  Cael met his stare without blinking.

  “I feel drawn to anything that doesn’t want to turn this kingdom into ash.”

  And with that, he turned and left, leaving silence behind.