"Countess Alexandria," inquired a man whose earth-brown irises gleamed, his black formal attire contrasting sharply with his cyan-blue hair. "What fate befell the inhabitants of the Kingdom of Veilmond?". " Earl Vance, both Fleet Admiral and Air Force Marshal, had determined that the island lay devoid of life and corpses. We remain ignorant of the events," the countess replied, her voice heavy with sorrow. "All that remains is a heavily bombarded castle and ominous dark spots scattered across the island."
The nobles exchanged hushed words, their expressions grave as they absorbed the countess's grim account. Lady Goodman, her fiery red irises intense, raised a poignant question: "Could we at least recover ashes for a solemn ceremony?" But Countess Alexandria's reply was disheartening. There were no ashes only black stains, remnants of bodies that had seemingly exploded. The castle, too, bore the same mysterious destruction. King Sevar's study lay in ruins, along with a wing of his castle. Field Marshal Ironcrest, his voice low, speculated on the culprits: "OLYXINAR or Haze Phantom. No other organizations would strike so boldly, unafraid of consequences, especially after Yome's inquisition debacle two years ago."
The hushed murmurs resumed among the nobles, but their conversation was abruptly stifled by an oppressive mystic pressure that settled over the room. All eyes turned to the empress, her patience visibly waning. The nobles, once tense, now eased slightly, reminded of their place in the presence of power.
"One group embodies pretentious maguses who believe themselves untouchable, while the other is akin to an indomitable bug no matter how many times you try to squash it, it refuses to die. Both are equally vexing," declared the man with gray irises and blonde hair. The countess, nodding in agreement, replied, "Duke Graham, your summary is spot-on." She then delved into further analysis: "Considering the current circumstances, OLYXINAR would remain inactive due to their mightier-than-thou complex. That leaves us with the assassins-information guild motivated by its own interests Haze Phantom. They'll act for the right price." The crown princess, deep in thought, contemplated the uncertain path ahead.
"In the wake of Veilmond's demise, one truth remains irrefutable: the kingdom has vanished, its existence obliterated. The sinister hand behind this calamity, we suspect, belongs to none other than the enigmatic Haze Phantom. By process of elimination, it seems likely that the Yoman Senate commissioned this nefarious agent. Their motive? Veilmond's capture was an ambition thwarted by our armada's unwavering blockade around the island nation, a directive I personally issued. In retaliation, today's assault unfolded, orchestrated by the very forces denied their prize". As the empress descended the grand staircase, her words echoed through the hallowed hall, each syllable laden with gravity.
"Your Majesty," began the assembly member, their demeanor visibly perturbed. "May I speak?" Her Majesty granted permission, and the assembly member continued, "No one cautioned them against violating the treaty they had signed with the city of Maphoy a treaty meticulously overseen by the Lumenoth Supreme Court. Their disregard for this pact prompted Lumenoth to dispatch the Inquisition, which ruthlessly dismantled Golad Maximus, one of Rome's pivotal armies. The aftermath? Nothing but losses and hefty fines, levied to compensate Maphoy for the turmoil they had sown."
Duke Pendragon, his expression etched with annoyance, interjected, "This, I believe, will lead to the Yoman Empire's impending collapse. Merely a year ago, the world bore witness to the ironically dubbed 'Year of the Three Emperors.' Yome's instability reigned supreme, with each emperor's reign lasting a mere two days before usurpation a grim cycle that exacted a staggering death toll."
The countess, her gaze unwavering, observed every step the empress took down the aisle. "We must proactively disentangle ourselves from Yome's quagmire. The current Emperor's grasp on power appears tenuous at best," Field Marshal Ironcrest concurred, his eyes fixed on the Empress.
"Earl Ironcrest, your plea resonates with me. Rectifying this issue swiftly is paramount, for I concur that Yome teeters on the precipice of significant change. I shall share news that has reached my ears: a figure, shrouded in mystery, has stirred unease among the Yomans in recent months. Whispers trace his origin to the Dreadful Borderlands a place steeped in enigma. It is said that he is a Martial Mystic."
As the Empress paced the length of the table, her gaze held the assembly captive. "Does anyone possess knowledge of this enigmatic figure?" she inquired. Silence hung heavy until Fleet Admiral Bloodborne stepped forward. "Your Majesty," he began, "I believe you refer to Flavius Constantine. Sailors' tales paint him as a formidable warrior and seasoned general a force to be reckoned with."
"That man," she mused, "either invigorates or instills a sense of worry, but one thing remains unchanged: I will never allow Yome and their schemes to bring down our beloved Brittanor." The empress paused, her gaze sweeping over the assembled masses. "Those who conduct business with Yome must sever any ties that bind them. They are like rotting flesh more harmful than good."
The countess stepped forward, her voice firm. "For all members involved with Yome, consider yourselves cautioned." But as she spoke, Cynthia noticed her father rising from his seat. All eyes turned toward him as he addressed the empress.
"Your Majesty," Marquess Rochester began, "I seek your guidance on a matter of great importance." The empress inclined her head, inviting him to continue. "During this ordeal, have you suffered intolerable grief? To the point of wanting retaliation against those who aggrieved you?"
Cynthia's vision had revealed something extraordinary, and the empress's amusement danced in her eyes. "It is only right," the empress declared, "that I hear what she saw." She turned to Cynthia. "Speak."
Cynthia hesitated, then spoke. "Your Majesty, what I saw was you and Yalzeruth freezing an entire city."
The room erupted into pleading from the nobles. They implored the empress to reconsider, fearing the consequences if she unleashed Yalzeruth's power.
The empress's face briefly registered surprise, but she swiftly regained her composure. "Marquess," she addressed him, "I acknowledge that your daughter possesses the gift of foresight. However, I suspect this vision extends far into the distant future. While my anger toward our aggressors should they indeed be the Yoman Empire is undeniable, I am not willing to unleash Yalzeruth's power to the point of reshaping nations. The moment Yalzeruth's wings touch the sky, irreversible consequences would follow."
The room held its breath. The marquess bowed, accepting her decision. "Your Majesty," he replied, "I understand."
"Indeed, Marquess Rochester, the events of today have shaped our path. The delicate balance between power and restraint hangs upon the fate of nations. We tread carefully, knowing that even the smallest shift can alter destinies. May wisdom guide our choices as we navigate these treacherous waters."
"Let it be known," the empress declared, her voice echoing through the assembly hall, "that henceforth, all contact with Yome shall be restricted. Avoid their lands, their emissaries, and their intrigues." The nobles responded in unison, their voices a chorus of obedience.
"As for those who harbor fears of invasion, listen well. While I understand the need for vigilance, consider this: Attacking Brittanor with Yalzeruth patrolling our territorial waters would be nothing short of suicidal. Yalzeruth, our guardian of the coasts, stands vigilant his wings a formidable shield against any aggressor."
A sly smile curved the empress's lips. "And let us not forget the Levarma Orcas," she continued. "They migrate at this time of year, leaving their habitual waters for distant realms. Beware, for they attack indiscriminately sea trade, vessels, and anything that catches their eye. Prudent merchants would do well to avoid losses during this season."
With that, the empress leaned back, her gaze sweeping the assembly.
The Crown Princess inquired about the teleportation connection with Yome, seeking guidance from the empress. With a nod, the empress replied, "Ah, yes. The teleportation gate that links to Yome. For now, we shall refrain from restoring its connection. We severed all teleportation during the initial attack. Restore all gates except for Yome's." The Crown Princess acknowledged her understanding and pledged to carry out the order.
"Let us now turn to the final matter," the empress addressed the assembly. "Foundation Day approaches a celebration where our enduring might be displayed for all to witness."
She leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "Regarding our efforts to upgrade streets and public infrastructure to accommodate the increasing traffic within our borders, how far do we go in our endeavors?"
The nobleman, Earl Cunningham, stepped forward. His broad shoulders and rugged features spoke of resilience. "Your Majesty," he began, "thanks to your gracious blessing, we've achieved remarkable progress. Ports have been modernized, and our roads now stand firm, no longer mere dirt pathways. Moreover, our collaboration with Lumenoth has brought water directly into citizens' homes, granting them newfound convenience."
The empress nodded, her approval evident. "Well done, Earl Cunningham. I trust that Foundation Day will unfold splendidly."
Turning to Marchioness Merill Moore, she continued, "And now, Marchioness, how fares the preparation for the palace banquet?"
The marchioness, her silver hair a striking emblem of authority, met the empress's gaze. Her icy blue eyes held both intelligence and judgment. "All progresses smoothly, Your Majesty," she replied. "The banquet shall be a grand affair, befitting our legacy."
"Indeed, Your Majesty," the Marchioness replied, adjusting her thin rectangular eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose. "I shall ensure that this banquet surpasses all expectations." With a graceful curtsey, she acknowledged the empress's gaze, her family name, and her reputation at stake in this grand endeavor. The intricate world of high society and fashion awaited her meticulous touch, and she would not disappoint.
"And now, to address the final matter the military procession," Earl Ironcrest, the Field Marshal, reported. His voice carried the weight of command as he stood, saluting the empress. "Your Majesty's army stands ready and vigilant."
Duke Pendragon, the Airforce Marshal, followed suit. "Your Majesty's airforce awaits your orders," he declared, his gaze unwavering.
Marquess Bloodborne, the Fleet Admiral, stepped forward. "The Imperial Marines and the Imperial Navy are prepared," he announced, his salute crisp and precise.
Countess Alexandria, her demeanor composed, added, "The Empress's Imperial Battalion stands at the ready."
The Vanguard Council, assembled in the opulent hall, confirmed their readiness for the upcoming celebration. The nobles exchanged glances, their minds racing. But then, a hushed murmur swept through the room as the empress spoke the name that hung heavy in the air: "Yalzeruth."
The ancient entity, present since the empire's inception, stirred memories and legends. The nobles grappled with the implications of what role would Yalzeruth play in this grand event. Concerns surfaced, whispered behind gloved hands, as they awaited further revelation.
"Certainly," the empress declared, her voice unwavering. "Even though Yalzeruth has remained elusive for nearly a thousand years, his presence is essential for this momentous occasion. Here's my command: devise a procedure that ensures citizens' comfort and safety during his brief flyover. His majestic flight shall be a fleeting marvel, witnessed by all."
The Vanguard Council members and nobles of the Assembly Hall nodded in unison, their resolve unwavering. They would execute the empress's directive with precision, orchestrating an event that balanced awe and security.
The grand assembly hall fell silent as the empress addressed her court. "Does anyone have news to report?" she inquired. Viscountess Goodman stepped forward, her voice filled with anticipation. "Yes, Your Majesty," she began. "I bring wonderful tidings. My firstborn son, Hugh, has achieved the rank of Magus at Fury Academy." Pride resonated in her words, and the empress's smile acknowledged the achievement. "It is indeed commendable," the empress replied. "Hugh's progress reflects well upon the OLYXINAR institution." With that, she rose, and the entire assembly followed suit. "Nobility of Brittanor, your session is adjourned," she declared. As the nobles bowed, wishing her a calm and pleasant rest, the empress, flanked by the Vanguard Council, the crown princess, and the ladies-in-waiting, made her exit. Yet, before leaving, she beckoned Marquess Rochester and his daughter to join her.
Cynthia and her father complied with the instructions, rising from their seats and trailing the entourage out of the meeting hall. The marble corridors of the palace echoed with hushed footsteps. Ahead, Marquess Rochester and Duke Pendragon engaged in a fervent discussion, their voices rising like tempests. Amidst this tension, Cynthia's ears caught the empress's summons. She quickened her pace, arriving at the front of the group. There, the empress stood, her hands outstretched.
Cynthia clasped the empress's hand, their whispered exchange a tapestry of secrets and promises. The gray door loomed a threshold to the conversation that lies ahead. "Young Lady Rochester," the empress intoned, "shall we discuss your imminent journey upon obtaining your wand?" The guards swung the door open, revealing a cerulean-hued chamber. Cynthia settled into a plush blue-armed chair, anticipation fluttering. The ladies-in-waiting glided forth, bearing delicate refreshments.
Cynthia sat gracefully, her eyes meeting the empress's with a sense of purpose. "Your Majesty," she began, "it is crucial to understand the abilities that my wand would unlock. Once I grasp that knowledge, I can learn how to wield my power effectively." The empress's eyes sparkled with intrigue as she sipped her tea. "Indeed," she mused, "your logical approach is commendable. And who knows, when you receive your wand, perhaps it will unlock a path that leads to the esteemed Draetheon council. A scepter, rather than a mere wand, could elevate you to a position of great authority within our state." Her smile held both encouragement and mystery, leaving Cynthia to wonder about the possibilities that awaited her.
"Well, Your Majesty, as intriguing as that sounds, wouldn't that imply I'd be confined to the state unless on official business? Possessing a scepter would signify leadership within the state. Additionally, wouldn't it hinder my ability to inherit my father's title if I were to join the council?" Cynthia replied honestly.
Upon hearing this, the empress burst into laughter. "My dear, what is a title from the Brittanor Empire compared to being a council member of the State of Lumenoth? Pay attention, dear, because you seem to have forgotten what truly matters. In this world, there are three Mystic classes: Maguses, Martial Mystics, and Warlocks, also known as Spellcrafters. The latter, to which you and your father belong, is the rarest of the three clans, making your clan members highly esteemed in the Mystic world. Take great pride in what you can achieve," the empress said to Cynthia, her smile gentle and reassuring.
"Yes, I understand, Your Majesty. I will remain resolute and strive to become the best Warlock possible," Cynthia said, matching the empress's smile. Her response was cut short as a cup of tea was handed to her by a Lady-in-Waiting, to which she graciously expressed her thanks.
"Now, Marquess Rochester, how much of the current events unfolded according to your and Alder's intentions?" the empress asked, her previous cheerful demeanor replaced by a serious tone. "It's time we discuss your plans in detail and assess whether they pose any threat to my empire."