March 26, 1639 — Saint-Boyeux Port City, Parpaldia Empire

  Nestled in the southeastern region of the Parpaldia Empire, the port city of Saint-Boyeux boasts a thriving popution exceeding 100,000. Renowned for its prosperous fishing industry and famed seafood cuisine, the city stands as a testament to Parpaldia's cultural wealth. Its architecture mirrors cssical France, and its grand harbor—capable of accommodating hundreds of ships of the line—serves as a vital gateway for commerce with the northern Phides nations, including the powerful Jiang Dynasty.

  Saint-Boyeux had never known the ravages of war. Its streets echoed with ughter, its skies clear, and its people untroubled by the threat of conflict—at least until today.

  Beneath a cerulean sky, the city bustled with life. Parpaldian sailors, stationed at the docks, worked with rexed precision, their banter mixing with the gentle sea breeze. Foreign ships from northern nations, including the Jiang Dynasty, lined the harbor, their masts swaying gently.

  On the lighthouse's summit, a Parpaldian watchman reclined in a wooden chair, his uniform designed for comfort under the sun's relentless heat. Through a weathered spygss, he observed the bustling waters, his expression serene. Yet that tranquility shattered as his gaze locked onto two approaching vessels.

  The ships were unlike anything he had seen—armored, yet not in the traditional Parpaldian sense. Their design bore simirities to Muan warships, though their striking colors of white, blue, and red set them apart. What troubled him more than their appearance was their sheer size, which seemed to magnify as they closed in on Saint-Boyeux's harbor. No fg flew from their masts, leaving their origins a mystery. Their relentless speed sent a shiver down his spine.

  Armed, he abandoned his post, rushing down the spiral staircase into the lighthouse's communication room. A rotary telephone sat on a weathered desk—a lifeline to the port's command. With trembling hands, he lifted the receiver and dialed.

  "Saint-Boyeux Port Command. Identify yourself," came the gruff voice of a senior officer stationed with the Eastern Parpaldian garrison.

  "Unidentified ships are advancing on the port! They're massive and show no national fg!" the watchman reported, urgency cing his voice.

  Moments ter, the sharp bre of horns reverberated across the harbor. Parpaldian soldiers mobilized with practiced efficiency, donning their uniforms and arming themselves. In a matter of minutes, they formed an unyielding line along the docks, their stance disciplined, their resolve evident.

  The commanding officer's gaze hardened as the colossal vessels—now discerned as container ships—drew nearer. Their towering, multicolored rectangur structures loomed ominously. Amid the tense stillness, the officer spotted figures on deck, their faces obscured by headscarves, their identities hidden.

  As the ships finally docked, thick ropes were hurled ashore and secured by dockworkers, ensuring the vessels remained anchored. The air thickened with apprehension as the rger ship stirred.

  A deafening ctter echoed as its caisson gate began to lower.

  "Fall back!" the commander ordered, his voice steady but urgent. The soldiers stepped back in unison, wary of the descending gate.

  When the massive ramp finally settled, a group of masked figures emerged. Their garments were unlike any seen in Parpaldia, and they wielded long, gleaming rods—unmistakably weapons. The commander's breath hitched. These weapons bore an eerie resembnce to the legendary armaments of the First and Second Civilizations. Fear cwed at him, but he steadied himself.

  From the group, a lone figure stepped forward, distinguishable by a vibrant armband. His stride exuded authority. He approached the Parpaldian commander, whose soldiers remained poised, weapons at the ready.

  In fluent Muan, the man spoke with unsettling cheer, "Greetings, my friends. I am Westin Muhammad." His tone was disarmingly casual, devoid of overt hostility.

  Extending his hand, Westin offered a handshake. The Parpaldian commander, familiar with Muan, hesitated before grasping it, sensing no immediate danger. He sought diplomacy in this tense encounter, and Westin's open gesture seemed to offer a fragile bridge.

  "Greetings, I am—"

  A sudden, piercing crack tore through the air.

  The soldiers flinched, their eyes darting to their commander—only to find him colpsing. His head was gone, his body crumpling backward in a grotesque sprawl. Blood spttered across the dock, staining the soldiers' resolve with horror.

  Panic erupted. Gunfire followed, precise and merciless. One by one, Parpaldian soldiers fell, their bodies riddled with bullets. The disciplined line disintegrated into chaos, the port once peaceful now drenched in blood. The fallen commander y silent—a grim harbinger of the violence that had come to Saint-Boyeux.

  The sudden crack of gunfire shattered the tranquility of Saint-Boyeux's harbor, sending shockwaves throughout the bustling port. The deafening noise halted every conversation and task. Within moments, panic surged as civilians fled in every direction, abandoning their wares and belongings in a desperate bid for safety.

  Standing amidst the chaos on the deck of the towering vessel, Westin Muhammad's voice rang out, steady and commanding:"Bismilh! Brothers, let this night be brighter than any other!"

  His procmation was met with fervent cheers from his followers. Engines roared to life as armored Humvees rolled out from the massive container ships. Their headlights cut through the gathering dusk, illuminating their path with an almost eerie brilliance. These were not ordinary vehicles—they were military-grade, reminiscent of those deployed in the Afghan wars.

  As the Humvees descended, bck fgs bearing cryptic, swirling inscriptions fluttered in the air. The realization hit the onlookers: this was no ordinary force—it was ISIS, or a faction eerily simir. The atmosphere grew heavier as wave after wave of Humvees, den with heavily armed fighters, poured onto the docks. Their movements were disciplined, their formation tight, reminiscent of Western elite military units. The harbor, once a beacon of trade and peace, was now a frontline.

  In the bustling Léveque Market district, life continued unaware of the impending storm. Stalls overflowed with produce, merchants haggled, and children pyed in the narrow alleys. Among the crowd were a mother and daughter from Altaras, their presence unnoticed by most. They were refugees, driven to Parpaldia by the hope of a better future after the father's untimely death. Their days had been reduced to begging, surviving on the charity of strangers.

  A kind-hearted Parpaldian woman stopped before them, offering two loaves of bread. "Thank you so much! This will help us through today," the mother, frail and weary, said, bowing in gratitude.

  The woman smiled, her kindness evident. "It's nothing. Please, take care of yourselves. I'm in a hurry, but stay strong," she said before hurrying off.

  The mother broke off three-quarters of a loaf for her daughter, keeping only a small portion for herself. Just as they were about to leave, distant screams shattered the market's calm. People surged toward the exits, their terror palpable. Confused, the mother tightened her grip on her daughter's hand.

  "Mama, what's happening?" the child asked, her wide eyes filled with fear.

  The mother knelt, her voice steady despite the turmoil. "It's nothing, sweetheart. We'll be safe here." She hoped her words masked her growing dread.

  Peeking out, she saw the chaos unfold. Crowds fled in terror as heavy thuds echoed closer. Her heart raced as she spotted monstrous yellow vehicles barreling down the street, their steel frames smeared with blood and viscera. They crushed everything in their path, leaving devastation in their wake.

  Amidst the carnage, a woman fell, shoved aside by the panicked crowd. Struggling to rise, she cried, "Someone, please—!" Her plea was cut short as a yellow machine tore through her, leaving only silence in its wake.

  The mother gasped, pulling her daughter deeper into a nearby alley. She spotted an abandoned wooden crate, rge enough to hide the child. "Get in," she whispered urgently.

  The child hesitated, her small face puzzled. "Why aren't you coming with me?"

  Fighting back tears, the mother forced a reassuring smile. "I need to find something special for us. Just stay here, and I'll be back with some delicious crabs, okay?" Her voice cracked under the weight of her words.

  "Why are you crying?" the child asked, innocence in her voice.

  The mother wiped her tears quickly. "I'm just happy we'll have a feast. But remember, stay inside. If you come out, no crabs for dinner!" She managed a faint chuckle, urging the child to nod in agreement. Covering her daughter with pnks, she stepped back into the alley's mouth.

  The once lively Léveque Market was now eerily silent. Bodies littered the street, some still clinging to life, their breaths shallow. Among them, a bearded man in a Parpaldian suit y bleeding, his lower body crushed. Spotting the mother, he weakly raised a hand.

  "Help... me..." he rasped, his eyes pleading.

  The mother hesitated, the weight of the moment crushing her resolve. She took a step forward, knowing that survival meant making impossible choices.

  Amid the horror unfolding in Saint-Boyeux, the mother hesitated as she approached a wounded man, his beard matted with blood. His outstretched hand trembled, pleading for help. But survival instincts overruled compassion. She averted her gaze, leaving him to face his fate.

  Desperation guided her next steps. Every market stall y in ruins, reduced to rubble and chaos. Yet, amidst the devastation, her eyes scanned for anything salvageable. By chance, she discovered coins scattered across the corpses—small remnants of the dead. Without hesitation, she pocketed what she could, knowing that survival demanded harsh choices.

  Navigating through blood-soaked streets, she reached the city's central pza. The grand fountain, once a symbol of life and prosperity, now overflowed with crimson. Lifeless bodies—children and adults alike—y strewn across the square. Even the surrounding architectural marvels bore scars of devastation, their majestic fa?ades shattered by relentless violence. She pressed on, spotting a half-destroyed food stall near the fountain.

  Despite its disarray, some fruits and provisions remained. Rushing forward with caution, she scavenged frantically, her hands trembling. Each item she gathered was a lifeline, a fragile thread binding her to hope. Within minutes, she filled a basket, her heart racing with the belief that this meager collection might sustain them through the horrors of this nightmarish siege.

  With newfound urgency, she retraced her steps toward Léveque. She suppressed the urge to vomit as she passed mutited corpses, their expressions frozen in terror. Then, amidst the silence, a voice called out:

  "Hey, dy! Have you seen a kid wearing peasant pants and a yellow-trimmed blue shirt?!"

  Her breath caught. She had seen the boy. He y lifeless, an axe embedded grotesquely in his forehead. Not wanting to shatter the man's hope, she shook her head, feigning ignorance, and moved on.

  As she neared the alley where her daughter hid, a chilling sight stopped her. Men dressed in bck robes patrolled methodically, their faces obscured by scarves. They wielded long, wooden staffs, tapping the bodies they passed. She ducked behind a wall, her breath shallow, but a sudden weight pressed on her shoulder.

  She spun around, eyes wide with fear. Standing before her was one of them—draped in bck, his eyes cold yet eerily calm. Sweat drenched her brow as she braced for the worst. Yet, the man extended a hand, revealing a container filled with roasted meat. Though it was a rare and precious offering, especially amidst this horror, she was paralyzed by mistrust.

  The man gestured again, his intentions unclear. Was it a cruel ploy? A gesture of false kindness? He spoke, his words incomprehensible to her. Yet his motions suggested generosity. Finally, realizing she had no choice, she accepted the offering. He handed her the container, nodded, and moved on.

  As she returned to the alley, the weight of her relief and dread blurred together. She advanced slowly, unwilling to frighten her daughter. Setting down the container, she noticed foreign letters inscribed on its lid: "La Fille." But in her exhaustion, she dismissed the writing.

  She knelt by the wooden crate hiding her daughter. "Sweetheart, it's safe now. Mama's here with lots of good food," she whispered, her voice soft yet urgent.

  Silence. She tapped the crate's lid. "Come on, don't make me open it for you."

  Still no response. Anxiety crept into her voice. "If you don't open it, Mama will—"

  She removed the pnks, her heart pounding.

  Frozen in horror, she stared at the ghastly sight. Her daughter was gone. Only the severed head remained, crimson blood staining the crate's interior. Time stopped. Her trembling hands lifted the head, holding it close.

  The foreign inscription fshed in her mind—"La Fille"—"The Girl." Grief overtook her. Cradling her daughter's remains, she sobbed uncontrolbly, her body shaking with despair.

  A shadow loomed behind her. She sensed the figure but couldn't react. The metallic click of a gun echoed through the alley. In a cold, calcuted moment, the gunman fired. The bullet pierced her skull, and her lifeless body colpsed beside her daughter's remains.

  Thus ended their tragic story.

  By dawn, Saint-Boyeux, once a thriving port city, had transformed into a hellscape. Laughter was repced by anguished screams, and the city's radiant lights gave way to the ominous glow of towering infernos. The ISIS fighters, ruthless and systematic, gathered the sin into six designated points across the city. Corpses formed grotesque mounds, bck fgs fluttering over every government building.

  Parpaldia's once-proud fg was torn down, repced by the ISIS banner. Fighters filmed their gruesome triumph, pouring oil over the piles of bodies before igniting them. Those still clinging to life amidst the carnage were consumed by the fmes, their desperate struggles futile.

  As the city burned, drones patrolled overhead, hunting survivors. The peaceful harbor had become a theater of death.

  From a church tower overlooking the devastation, Westin Muhammad spoke into a rge microphone, his voice booming across the ruins:

  "Today, we've purged over 7,000 vermin. But this is just the beginning. No one can stand against us. The so-called righteous forces drove us into hiding, treating us like animals. But today marks our resurgence. ISIS shall erase every trace of God's creations from this world—once and for all!"

  His words ignited a fervent response from the gathered militants, their cheers echoing across the charred remains of the city.

  In a single day, Saint-Boyeux had fallen. Armed with advanced 21st-century weaponry, ISIS overwhelmed Parpaldia's forces, reducing the proud city to ash. Even the empire's mightiest soldiers were powerless against this modern onsught.

  The rise of ISIS in this new world signaled a grim future—one where the bloodshed had only just begun.

  7:30 AM, March 28, 1639 — Uriecht, Capital of the Marl Kingdom

  The capital city of Uriecht bore striking simirities to the urban centers of the Parpaldia Empire, its streets lined with lush greenery and its architecture influenced by Parpaldian culture. However, Marl had strategically distanced itself from becoming a vassal to the northern imperial behemoth through shrewd governmental reforms. By forging cooperative ties with Parpaldia rather than opposing them, Marl experienced significant national growth while maintaining its sovereignty. Yet, today, the Kingdom of Marl stood at a pivotal juncture, with Uriecht poised to host a momentous event.

  In the heart of the capital, nestled along an ancient cobblestone street, the Beefsteak Restaurant was renowned for its Parpaldian-style architecture, affordable yet exquisite cuisine, and bustling atmosphere. Patrons flocked here for both the food and the ambiance. This morning, however, the chatter inside was particurly focused, as a group of patrons engaged in hushed but animated discussions.

  "Those men... they dress simirly to the Altaran elite, but something about them is distinctly different."

  "They're surrounded by armed guards—clearly high-ranking officials from Altaras. Only dignitaries warrant that level of protection."

  "Still, their attire... It's not typical of what we've seen from Altaras. It's more extravagant, unlike anything I've encountered before. And it's obvious these aren't cheap garments."

  The group continued their specutions as two figures, dressed in what appeared to be Altaran attire, conversed quietly at a corner table. Their movements were calm, deliberate, yet their presence commanded attention.

  "Ambassador of Saudi Arabia, how do you find the beef here? Compared to the fine dining establishments of Europe, few could rival this level of quality," one remarked, leaning in slightly.

  "I'm no connoisseur of Western cuisine," the Saudi ambassador replied with a measured tone, "but this will suffice for our upcoming audience with King Marl, Ambassador of the UAE."

  Their conversation paused as they resumed their meal, the air around them thick with diplomatic tension. Finishing their ptes, they rose, accompanied by a contingent of guards armed with state-of-the-art firearms. The two ambassadors moved in perfect coordination, their posture exuding authority and purpose.

  Outside, a sleek bck vintage car awaited them, part of a meticulously arranged convoy. The vehicle, a rare import from the Mu Republic, was a testament to the Marl Kingdom's diplomatic reach and growing influence. The government of Marl had spared no effort in providing a dignified means of transport for these foreign dignitaries.

  As the convoy began its journey toward the royal pace, the streets of Uriecht seemed to hold their breath. This wasn't merely a ceremonial visit. The arrival of these high-ranking Middle Eastern ambassadors signified a deeper geopolitical shift—an intricate dance of diplomacy, trade, and security. The Marl Kingdom was about to host a crucial diplomatic event, one that could reshape its future on the global stage.

  9:00 AM, March 28, 1639 — Grandis Castle, Uriecht, Capital of the Marl Kingdom

  Emerging from the winding road leading into the heart of Grandis Castle, a towering medieval fortress adorned with Renaissance architectural elements came into view. The castle, with its high stone walls, narrow windows, crenelted towers, and a deep moat bridged by a drawbridge, stood as both a symbol of regal power and a strategic defensive stronghold. Perched atop a rocky hill and surrounded by dense forests and flourishing greenery, it was an ideal sanctuary for the Marl royal family.

  Two sleek bck vintage cars rolled up to the castle's iron gates. Without the need for any inspection, two guards swiftly opened the gates, their faces stoic yet alert. The convoy advanced into the meticulously manicured garden, stopping at a red carpet extending from the courtyard to the grand throne room entrance.

  A bearded servant dressed in formal bck attire stepped forward, opening the rear door of the leading car. Out stepped two dignitaries fnked by their security detail—foreign emissaries whose mere presence signaled an unprecedented diplomatic encounter. Standing at attention on either side of the red carpet were rows of Marl soldiers cd in ornate armor reminiscent of the Spanish colonial era, their muskets raised ceremoniously skyward, their steel boots striking a solemn cadence.

  The two diplomats—ambassadors from Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates—descended the steps with measured grace, accompanied by their aides. Approaching them was a distinguished older gentleman, dressed in a white ceremonial robe with a flowing silver beard. This was Patrick Demerut, the seasoned Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Marl Kingdom, a man whose career had been shaped by navigating the delicate bance between diplomacy and national defense.

  With a firm handshake and a welcoming smile, Patrick greeted them."I extend the warmest welcome to you both, esteemed representatives from the rising powers of the West. I am Patrick Demerut, Minister of Foreign Affairs, and I will personally oversee your reception in our kingdom."

  The ambassadors exchanged respectful nods, their expressions neutral but their eyes scanning the surroundings with keen observation."We are honored to be here," the UAE ambassador, Rashid al-Maktoum, responded with a calm yet authoritative tone. "I am Ambassador Rashid, and this is my counterpart, the Ambassador of Saudi Arabia, Abdulrahman Al-Faisal."

  Without further formalities, Demerut gestured for them to proceed. They moved through the courtyard, fnked by soldiers whose discipline was evident in their unwavering stances. Entering the castle, they passed through a grand marble corridor adorned with intricate carvings, soaring windows, and ornate ceilings that contrasted sharply with the fortress-like exterior. The opulence within conveyed a sense of wealth and power, an unspoken reminder of Marl's historical resilience.

  Ahead y the Great Hall, its massive doors guarded by two sentries who, with synchronized precision, swung them open. Inside, the throne room radiated authority. King Frederic Marl sat upon his gilded throne, a figure of commanding presence illuminated by the natural light pouring in through stained gss windows. Surrounding him were members of the royal family and a congregation of nobles, their hushed murmurs filling the vast chamber with anticipation.

  The murmuring broke into audible disdain from certain corners of the room."Why must we gather for these Altaran pretenders?" a young noble, Duke Eldrin, muttered loudly enough for many to hear.

  The king's voice cut through the growing tension like a bde."Silence!" His command reverberated through the hall, quelling the noise instantly. The room fell into a heavy, expectant silence as all eyes turned toward the two foreign ambassadors kneeling in deference before the throne.

  "Rise," the king instructed, his voice steady yet probing. "As King of Marl, I welcome you. Speak now—why do emissaries from distant nds seek friendship with our kingdom?"

  Ambassador Rashid rose, his gaze unwavering as he pced a hand over his heart in a respectful gesture. His voice was deep and deliberate, resonating with a quiet strength."Your Majesty, we do not merely seek friendship. We bring knowledge, prosperity, and innovation—gifts of a world shaped by endurance and ingenuity. Our nations have conquered the harshest deserts to rise as global economic powers. We wish to share this strength with Marl, forging a future of mutual prosperity."

  The nobles exchanged skeptical gnces, whispers rising again. Global economic power? Technologies that cross deserts without wind? To them, the concepts seemed both fantastical and unsettling, far beyond anything even the Altaran had ever achieved.

  Duke Eldrin leaned closer to another noble, his eyes narrowing."Look at their attire... That fabric is unlike anything we've seen. And their boots—crafted from some exotic leather. There's more to these men than meets the eye."

  Minister Demerut, sensing the growing curiosity, seized the moment."Your Majesty," he addressed the king with measured formality, "these ambassadors hail from realms unknown to us, having arrived on a vessel unlike any seen before in our harbor—a ship of steel that moves without sails or wind. Could it be we are witnessing the dawn of a new era, one where these distant civilizations possess advancements beyond even the great Parpaldian Empire?"

  The king's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of skepticism crossing his face. Descending the throne steps, he approached the ambassadors, his gaze sharp and calcuting."What guarantee do you offer that your promises are more than mere words?"

  Ambassador Abdulrahman, stepping forward, replied with solemn gravitas."Your Majesty, we offer more than words. In our ships lie blueprints, trade agreements, and technology that could transform Marl into a beacon of power. All we ask is the chance to prove ourselves as partners, not conquerors."

  The room hung in tense silence. The future of Marl was at a crossroads, and the stakes had never been higher.

  Ambassador Faisal al-Saud from Saudi Arabia stepped forward, his tone calcuted yet firm:"We do not come with mere words. We bring investment opportunities and security guarantees. Should Marl choose to align with us, our military forces can bolster the eastern frontier, fortifying your borders while facilitating trade routes for Emirati and Saudi enterprises to establish a stronghold here."

  A tense silence hung in the air as King Frederic Marl scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the skeptical faces of the nobles. After a long pause, his voice cut through the silence with regal authority:"Your offer is ambitious, but Marl has thrived without foreign intervention. Convince me with proof, not promises."

  Sensing the king's hesitancy, Patrick Demerut, the seasoned Minister of Foreign Affairs, stepped forward with a deferential bow."Your Majesty, perhaps we should arrange a visit to their vessel. If their cims are true, we cannot afford to overlook such an opportunity."

  The king nodded slowly, turning his sharp eyes back to the emissaries."Very well. I will consider your offer—but be warned: every promise must stand the test of reality."

  Ambassadors Rashid al-Maktoum and Faisal al-Saud inclined their heads in unison, their confidence unwavering.Faisal added, "We aspire not merely to cooperate but to forge a strategic partnership with Marl."

  The room's atmosphere grew heavier. Duke Eldrin, known for his unwavering skepticism, furrowed his brow but held his tongue. His eyes followed the king, who resumed his pce on the throne, clearly aware that winds of change were brewing.

  In the strained silence, Rashid and Faisal exchanged a knowing gnce. Then Faisal, with a subtle yet firm smile, stepped forward."Your Majesty," his voice resonated with crity and resolve, "we recognize Marl's pride in defending its sovereignty. However, the threat we face is no longer distant. Parpaldia, once a symbol of eastern dominance, has fallen prey to an extreme terrorist force originating from the East—ISIS. Ruthless and relentless, they call themselves the Ismic State, and their influence has already begun to spread westward."

  The hall fell deathly silent. The tension was palpable, broken only by the faint murmurs of disbelief rippling through the nobility."ISIS? Parpaldia under siege?" came the hushed whispers.A nobleman's voice rose from the crowd."Impossible! Parpaldia rules the Phides! How could mere savages topple an empire? Show us proof!"

  The king sat upright, his cold eyes narrowing on Faisal."What are you implying?"

  Ambassador Rashid raised a calming hand, his tone sharp yet diplomatic."Your Majesty, this threat cannot be underestimated. Should Parpaldia fall, nothing will deter their westward advance. Neighboring nations will inevitably be their next targets. We propose a defense agreement: station UAE and Saudi forces in Marl's strategic cities to safeguard the eastern borders. In exchange, we pledge economic aid and cutting-edge military technology to strengthen your defenses."

  The room stood still, each word reverberating like a drumbeat. Even Duke Eldrin could not mask the concern shadowing his stern features. Rising to his feet, he challenged the diplomats:"How can we trust your armies? We've never seen your forces in action. Allowing foreign troops onto Marl's soil is a double-edged sword."

  Faisal met Eldrin's gaze, his smile unwavering yet respectful."Duke Eldrin, our presence is purely defensive, governed by mutually agreed terms. We seek mutual benefit, not dominion. Furthermore, we are prepared to organize a military demonstration to prove our capabilities."

  The king's expression remained inscrutable, though the flicker of contemption in his eyes betrayed his inner deliberation. Accepting such an offer risked Marl's sovereignty but declining it could invite disaster. The weight of the kingdom's future pressed heavily upon him.

  "Very well," the king finally decred. "I shall convene the Royal Council to deliberate this proposal. But understand this: any action that threatens Marl will be met with unforgiving reprisal."

  Ambassador Rashid bowed deeply."That is our solemn commitment, Your Majesty."

  A sudden commotion echoed from the corridor. The throne room doors swung open as a breathless royal guard stumbled in, kneeling before the king."Your Majesty, urgent news from our northern front and neighboring territories!"

  The king's eyes sharpened."Speak. What has transpired?"

  The young guard struggled to compose himself."Our northern ports now border the unstable mountainous region, and the neighboring Parpaldian Empire has suffered a devastating assault from an unknown foreign force!"

  The revetion sank in like a stone. Count Demerut stepped forward, his voice steady yet grave."Your Majesty, this is no trivial matter."

  Rashid seized the moment, his voice unwavering."Forgive my intrusion, Your Majesty. The northern frontier is now your border with a nation called Iran—a state with aggressive hostilities. Swift action on this accord is imperative to secure Marl's future."

  The king's face darkened, knowing the truth: refusal might spell ruin, but acceptance would open the door to an uncertain alliance. The weight of his next decision would shape Marl's destiny.