I stood on the airfield, a chill wind cutting through the open expanse, flanked by a group of armed escorts, ready to greet our new interim chancellor. The decision had been made that the role should go to none other than Oskar Steinhardt, who had served as the vice commander of the rebellion and was also the half-brother of the old chancellor, Ludvig Steinhardt. It was a choice that balanced the need for continuity with the demands of the current political void. Oskar, however, was not a man who sought power or influence. When the war ended, he was among those who believed that their mission was over, that the hard part was done. He had returned to his hometown, setting aside his uniform for the humble life of a farmer.
With no telephone line, reaching him had taken far longer than it should have—runners were sent, messages delivered by hand. But in the end, Oskar agreed, albeit reluctantly, to step into his brother's shoes, at least for the time being.
I would not classify Oskar as the sharpest tool in the shed compared to his brother. During the war, many had looked down on his appointment as vice commander, dismissing it as mere nepotism—an unearned honor given simply because of blood relations. But, to the surprise of many, Oskar had proved them wrong. Despite lacking his brother's sharp wit or strategic genius, Oskar possessed a different kind of strength: a steadfast reliability, a natural charisma that allowed him to connect with the troops in a way few leaders could.
Under pressure, Oskar acted decisively, without hesitation, and that made all the difference in the chaos of battle. When morale flagged, he rallied the men with fiery speeches, weaving humor into his words with an ease that lifted spirits. I had seen battle-hardened veterans, men with hollow eyes and broken wills, straighten their backs and laugh when Oskar spoke. It wasn't because his jokes were particularly good—they were often crude or overly simple—but because he made them feel like they were part of something greater, something worth fighting for.
Still, his lack of skill in the political arena was worrying. War had its own brutal logic, but politics was a different beast altogether—a world of whispered deals, hidden daggers, and delicate power plays. Oskar was too straightforward, too trusting, and I knew that the sharks circling our fledgling government would see him as an easy target. Yet, despite my reservations, I also knew that his appointment was precisely what we needed right now.
It wasn't about policy or strategy; it was about symbolism. Oskar, like his brother, had become a key figure of the revolution. To the people, he was a hero—a living embodiment of their struggle, their hope for a future unbound from tyranny. His rugged features, broad shoulders, and easy smile made him a figure that the common folk could see themselves in. He was the face of the revolution, standing beside his brother, a beacon that promised that their fight had not been in vain.
And that was why he was here now. It served as a reminder to the public that just because Ludvig was no longer with us, his spirit, his ideals, still burned fiercely within the veins of our new government. Oskar's presence was a message—one that spoke directly to the hearts of the people. It said that the ideals of the revolution were not dying in a smoke-filled room of political schemers; they were still alive, still strong, carried by the same hands that had helped win their freedom.
As the airship touched down, its engines humming against the cool morning air, I could already imagine the reaction of Valois and the other governors. They would be fuming, indignant at this new appointment—a farmer, an unpolished soldier elevated to the highest post in the land, even if temporarily. Imagining their frustration, their carefully laid plans unraveling, was delightful in my mind.
I watched as Oskar stepped out of the airship, his broad frame silhouetted against the rising sun, his boots hitting the tarmac with a solid thud. He looked over at us, his face breaking into a familiar grin, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of the old rebellion in his eyes—the fire that had carried us through the darkest of days. As much as he might wish otherwise, he belonged here, for now.
Government officials and department heads stood in a long line, shoulder to shoulder, each waiting their turn to introduce themselves and shake hands with the new interim chancellor. There was a palpable sense of formality hanging in the air, every person taking extra care to perfect their demeanor—a stiff posture, a firm handshake, a polite greeting.
When Oskar reached me, I quickly stood at my best posture, smoothing my uniform, ready to deliver my greeting just like all the others.
"It's good to see you again, sir—"
But before I could finish my sentence, without a single word of acknowledgment, Oskar pulled me into a tight bear hug, shattering every bit of professionalism I had tried to maintain.
"Hahaha! Visha! Good to see you as well, boy!" he exclaimed, his voice booming across the tarmac.
I had to stifle a sigh, biting back the urge to roll my eyes. Of course. I had forgotten how Oskar operated—this man still treated me like a child.
I joined the rebellion when I was just a young boy, barely old enough to hold a rifle, and as a result, I had grown close to many of its key members over the years. Especially Oskar and Ludvig, who, I suspect, saw me as their own child. Admittedly, I had felt the same—Ludvig was the closest thing to a father-figure I'd ever known, while Oskar was more like a beloved, somewhat irresponsible uncle.
And no, Viktor is my real name. "Visha" was just a nickname, one I had grown increasingly annoyed by over the years, although, for reasons I could never quite articulate, I never truly hated it. There was something about it—an echo of simpler, more innocent times—that stopped me from completely rejecting it.
Oskar kept his arm draped around my shoulders, oblivious to the line of officials still waiting to greet him. He launched into a series of remarks, firing off questions in quick succession as if completely forgetting the situation we were in, seemingly only interested in making small talk.
"Wow! Look at you! That uniform looks great on you, kid!" His eyes crinkled in genuine delight, and he gave my shoulder a squeeze, ruffling the perfectly pressed fabric of my jacket.
I forced a smile. "Thank you, sir."
"Say, you still look thin. Too thin." He stepped back to look me over, frowning. "Are you eating well? I thought the capital had plenty of food."
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but I nodded curtly. "I'm eating just fine, sir."
"Wait. Do you have a girlfriend yet?" Oskar continued, his voice rising in enthusiasm. "How are you gonna get married at this rate? You're in the famed capital, with your looks and status, you have no excuse, boy!"
He laughed loudly, clearly enjoying himself, while I tried not to cringe at the incredulous stares from the line of officials. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Eliza standing beside me, her lips pressed tightly together as she fought to keep her laughter contained. I caught the faintest sound of her muffled giggle, and I shot her a sideways glare. She gave me a wink, her eyes dancing with amusement.
This was Oskar for you. A man of big gestures and little regard for decorum—indeed, he often needed a little nudge to remember where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. It was a trait that endeared him to the soldiers, who loved his relaxed, down-to-earth nature, but at times like these, it was more of a liability.
"Sir Oskar," I finally interrupted, doing my best to inject authority into my voice. "I am also delighted to see you again." I stepped back slightly, putting some distance between us as I straightened my uniform. "However, I am afraid we do not have time for small talk, as we're extremely behind schedule."
Oskar blinked, momentarily taken aback, and then, just as quickly, his expression shifted as if realizing where he was and what was expected of him. He cleared his throat, straightening his back, and gave me a sheepish smile.
"Oh, yes. You're right," he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly before turning his attention back to the waiting line of officials. "Of course. Let's get on with it."
He gave me a final pat on the shoulder before stepping forward, his demeanor shifting into something closer to what one would expect of a man in his position. Still, I could see that irrepressible warmth in his eyes, a hint of the laughter that never strayed too far from his lips.
I watched as Oskar moved down the line, shaking hands and offering polite, if somewhat hasty, greetings. He wasn't like his brother—he lacked the sharpness, the gravitas—but that, in its own way, was a strength. He made people feel at ease, made them believe that they were in the presence of someone who genuinely cared. And that, I supposed, was what we needed now. Even if I had to endure being called "Visha" in front of every government official in the capital.