Ah, the Netherward Imperial Council—where the scent of incense barely masked the aroma of sweat, spilled wine, and the ever-present stench of political maneuvering. The grand chamber, with its towering stained-glass windows and cold marble floors, had the distinct air of a place where history was written in whispers and sealed with blood.
At the head of the long obsidian table sat Grand Duke Mhelfrancovince, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable—one part master tactician, one part devil waiting to close a deal. Beside him, Grand Duchess Nikkimae, a vision of elegance and barely concealed amusement, idly tapped her nails against the armrest of her chair. It was a rhythmic, calculated sound, much like a cat watching a cornered mouse before deciding whether to pounce or let the poor creature marinate in fear.
On the opposite side, Airanikka leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Hazelucci, ever the brooding presence, studied the map sprawled across the table, as if willing it to reveal Kaedwen's every weakness. At the far end sat the Grand Minister, Mhelvayne—an old wolf with sharp eyes and sharper words, his cane resting against his chair like a scepter of quiet authority. And looming over them all, with the weight of an empire in his gaze, was Emperor Francorleone himself.
And then, of course, there was me—Benetton, observer of political theater, chronicler of human folly, and connoisseur of the finest, warmest seats in the chamber. I perched atop Mhelfrancovince's chair, my tail swishing idly as I took in the scene.
"The Kaedwenians are like stubborn weeds," Mhelfrancovince mused, his voice low and deliberate. "No matter how many times we cut them down, they grow back, clinging to their land, their so-called sovereignty."
Hazelucci scoffed. "Sovereignty is an illusion for the weak. They mistake stubbornness for strength. A wolf that refuses to join the pack is just another carcass waiting for the vultures."
Airanikka tilted her head. "The Scoia'tael are already at their throats. Dol Blathanna wants to break free. They don't need much of a push."
I stretched lazily, flicking an ear. "Ah, the art of war without war. My favorite kind. Let the rebels sharpen their own daggers while we merely provide the sheath."
Grand Minister Mhelvayne chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "Exactly. We let them do the bleeding while we write the treaties."
Emperor Francorleone tapped a gloved finger against the table, his golden eyes narrowing. "This is no simple game of subterfuge. We are not just breaking Kaedwen; we are reshaping it. When the dust settles, its people will look to us, not as conquerors, but as saviors."
Nikkimae grinned, reclining in her chair. "And the best part? They will thank us for it."
A chuckle rumbled through the chamber. Ah, humans and their endless appetite for power, wrapped in ribbons of righteousness. I licked a paw, thoroughly unimpressed. I had seen mice with better survival instincts than the fools who thought they could resist the Empire.
"Then it is decided," Mhelfrancovince said, his voice final. "We move forward. The time of Kaedwen is ending."
The council nodded, and the weight of their decision settled over the chamber like a storm on the horizon. I flicked my tail. This would be fun to watch.
Reports from the Ministry of Imperial Defense and Security had arrived in the usual fashion—delivered by a courier who looked like he'd spent the last week dodging both arrows and existential dread. The Netherward Imperial Council chamber, a marvel of polished obsidian, enchanted crystal interfaces, and soft hums of arcane-tech machinery, fell into a hushed anticipation. The holographic displays flickered, feeding data streams of troop movements, intercepted communications, and battlefield projections, while the faint scent of incense barely masked the underlying aroma of metal, mana, and the ever-present ambition that hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.
The spy who stood before us was young—too young, in my ever-so-humble feline opinion. He had that wide-eyed, slightly manic look of a man who had seen things. The kind of things that made lesser men contemplate monastic life or a quiet career in baking. Instead, here he was, standing in the very heart of an empire that ate uncertainty for breakfast and washed it down with the blood of its enemies.
"The Scoia'tael," he began, his voice as stiff as his posture, "have been most receptive to our overtures."
Mhelfrancovince leaned forward, fingers steepled, his cybernetic monocle whirring softly as he zoomed in on the intelligence reports projected on the obsidian table. Beside him, Nikkimae drummed her gloved fingers against the armrest of her floating chair, an amused smirk playing on her lips. The subtle glow of runes along her cuffs pulsed in time with her thoughts—an unsettling yet elegant reminder of the seamless blend of magic and technology that powered the Netherward Realm.
Airanikka, ever the pragmatist, adjusted her augmented reality visor and flicked through a holographic dossier with a simple swipe of her finger. "They're still hitting Kaedwen's supply lines?" she asked, her voice carrying the casual detachment of someone discussing an amusing piece of gossip rather than a guerrilla war.
The officer nodded. "Yes, Grand Duchess. Their warbands continue to harass Kaedwen's forces—forts burned, supply convoys disintegrated by explosive sigils, soldiers butchered in the dead of night by cloaked operatives wielding plasma-forged blades."
Ah, poetry. Such beautiful efficiency. And yet, humans still recoiled in horror when I dropped a half-eaten rodent at their feet. Hypocrites, the lot of them.
Mhelfrancovince exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp. "And Dol Blathanna?"
The officer swallowed before responding. "Queen Francesca Findabair sees the writing on the wall. She understands that Kaedwen is weakening, and she wants out. They're open to deeper collaboration with the Empire."
Nikkimae's smirk widened. "So, they're not complete fools, then."
Airanikka let out a soft chuckle. "Oh, they're fools. Just fools who know when to switch sides."
Mhelfrancovince leaned back, eyes gleaming behind his enhanced optics. "And what of Henselt? How does he react to the knife at his throat?"
The officer hesitated. "He's desperate. Redistributing troops to reinforce key strongholds, but it's a losing game. The more he tries to defend, the thinner his forces spread. Our predictive models suggest he'll buckle within the next six months, barring any unforeseen factors."
Now that was a delicious irony. Like a man with too many lovers, desperately juggling them all, only to end up alone when his charm and coin ran dry. I flicked my tail, basking in the warmth of impending ruin.
I stretched, letting out a dramatic sigh. "It's almost tragic," I murmured. "Like watching a rat darting about, convinced it can escape the inevitable jaws of fate."
Airanikka smirked. "You have a way with words, Benetton."
I flicked an ear lazily. "And you all have a way with crushing nations. A symphony, really."
Mhelfrancovince gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Let the rat scurry. The walls are closing in."
The room fell into a contemplative silence, punctuated only by the quiet hum of arcane machinery and the distant echoes of a world shifting beneath our grasp. The game was in motion, the pieces falling into place. And I? I would watch it all unfold from my rightful perch, curled in the lap of power, where the air was warm and victory was inevitable.
A soft chuckle rippled through the chamber, a sound as smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. The scent of burning incense and polished steel mingled in the air, an oddly fitting aroma for what was essentially a meeting of wolves deciding how best to carve up the carcass of a dying beast. The Scoia'tael—driven by their eternal grudge, embittered, relentless—were already a blade pressed against Kaedwen's jugular. Dol Blathanna, that so-called valley of flowers, long yearned to reclaim its sovereignty. A romantic notion, really, the kind of dream that poets wept over and tacticians scoffed at. Both factions desired freedom. And yet, in the grand scheme of things, the Empire had no intention of simply handing it to them.
Mhelfrancovince reclined slightly in his seat, the glow from the arcane interface reflecting off his enhanced optics. His mechanical fingers drummed against the armrest, a steady, calculated rhythm, like a war drum played in slow motion. "They fight well enough," he mused, his voice carrying the detached amusement of a man assessing a particularly scrappy stray dog. "But let's not flatter them with illusions of competence. They still fight with rusted swords and outdated tactics. A hammer swung with passion is still a hammer, but it shatters against steel."
Nikkimae smirked, her own gauntleted fingers tracing the engraved runes on the table's edge. "And we have been generous, haven't we? Supplying them with our surplus—a few Netherward Armed Force Titanium Ninja Swords, the occasional .45 ACP bolt-action rifle. Just enough to keep them gnawing at Henselt's ankles, but not enough for them to ever think they could bite the hand that feeds."
I stretched luxuriously on my chosen perch, my tail flicking lazily. "Ah yes, charity at its finest. Give a man a rifle and he fancies himself a warlord. Give an elf a rifle and he fancies himself a freedom fighter. Give a cat a rifle… and, well, that would be a much more entertaining scenario."
Mhelfrancovince exhaled sharply, something that might have been a chuckle if he wasn't a creature molded by war and responsibility. "The key," he continued, "is to let them believe they have agency while ensuring every move they make serves our interests."
Nikkimae's eyes gleamed with something decidedly unholy. "And when the time comes?"
"Oh," I purred, hopping onto the table with all the grace of a shadow given form. "Then we remind them who their true benefactors are."
Mhelfrancovince nodded. "For now, let them keep bleeding Kaedwen. But if they think they'll get their freedom out of this…" He leaned forward, voice dropping to something colder. "They have another thing coming."
Nikkimae raised a brow. "So, we're playing the long game."
Mhelfrancovince smirked. "We always have been."
I yawned, curling my tail around my paws. "And what a lovely game it is."
The chamber hummed with the quiet buzz of unseen magic, the weight of inevitability pressing down like a storm on the horizon. Outside, the war raged on. Inside, the true battle was already won.
"Fascinating," Grand Duke Mhelfrancovince murmured, his voice a silken whisper laced with steel, the kind of tone that sent shivers down the spine and made lesser men question their life choices. His golden eyes flickered with something unreadable—amusement? Calculation? The quiet satisfaction of a puppeteer watching his marionettes dance to an unseen tune? It hardly mattered. The sentiment was the same. "They dream of breaking their chains, yet they do not see the shackles we so generously offer in return."
I stretched lazily from my perch on the grand obsidian table, my tail flicking idly. "Ah, the classic dilemma of the naive revolutionary. 'Down with the old masters! Up with the new, slightly more sophisticated masters!' Truly, history is a wheel that turns but never quite changes, isn't it?"
Mhelfrancovince smirked, but there was no humor in it—only the predatory satisfaction of a man about to roll the dice when the game was already rigged in his favor. "Let's expedite their cause, shall we?"
And by "expedite," he meant sending an army of eldritch horrors to make a mess of things.
With a mere flick of his wrist, reality itself seemed to tremble as a ripple of shadow energy pulsed outward. A low, guttural hum filled the chamber, the sort of sound that made the air feel thicker, like the world itself had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. One by one, they emerged from the ether—towering figures, clad in dark titanium armor that swallowed the light, each standing a menacing seven feet tall. Shadow Spirits, bound in myth and nightmare, their hollow visors pulsing with an eerie, ghostly glow.
Mhelfrancovince had crafted these creatures himself, twisted alchemy fused with the dark arts, their essence drawn from the restless dead. Necromancy, spatial manipulation, and a hint of mad genius—because why settle for just one forbidden art when you can blend them into something far more disturbing? Each Dark Knight wielded a long, razor-edged mythril sword, enchanted to cut through flesh, steel, and, most importantly, hope.
Nikkimae let out a low whistle, eyes gleaming as she assessed the newly summoned monstrosities. "You do know how to make an entrance."
Mhelfrancovince merely arched a brow. "This will be their first deployment."
"Ah, the first slaughter is always special," I mused, hopping down from my perch. "Like a debutante ball, but with significantly more dismemberment."
Mhelfrancovince's fingers drummed against the armrest. "They will assist Dol Blathanna in their armed struggle and carve their way through Kaedwen's cities and towns."
Nikkimae smirked. "And in the process, show them exactly who they're indebted to."
"Exactly."
I purred, tail flicking in amusement. "How delightfully theatrical."
Mhelfrancovince rose, his long coat billowing as if shadows clung to him, eager to follow their master. "It suits the ambience."
And truly, nothing said "ambience" quite like an army of spectral knights razing a kingdom to the ground.
Grand Duchess Nikkimae smirked, the kind of smirk that sent a chill up the spine, if spines were still a relevant feature in this room full of schemers. "The illusion of independence," she mused, tapping a single, manicured nail against the armrest, "is often more powerful than true freedom. Let them believe they are masters of their fate while we write the ending of their story."
Ah, the poetry of manipulation. So many rulers before us had tried the crude approach—iron-fisted oppression, public executions, mass starvation. Amateurs. True mastery lay in making your subjects thank you for the privilege of being owned. Give them a flag, a national anthem, perhaps a quaint little senate to debate meaningless things while the real decisions were made behind doors like these. That was how empires endured.
Airanikka chuckled, swirling her wine—imported from some vineyard that no longer technically belonged to its previous owners. "Well, at least under the Netherward Banner, they'll have a taste of modernity. Electricity, hot water, air conditioning…" She sighed dramatically. "Such luxuries are wasted on rebels, really."
Mhelfrancovince leaned back, fingers steepled, his golden eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "Let them fight, let them scream for their so-called liberation… and then let them realize the only path to true prosperity is through us."
I stretched luxuriously on the council table, licking a paw before interjecting with the voice of reason—mine, naturally. "Ah, but let's not forget the true incentive. The trappings of civilization, yes, but what of the real modern delights?" I flicked my tail and gave them all a knowing look. "High-speed internet, fast-food delivery, indoor plumbing…" My ears twitched. "I mean, come now. These people have been wiping their backsides with leaves for centuries. One good demonstration of a self-cleaning toilet, and they'll be pledging eternal fealty before sundown."
Airanikka snorted into her wine. "He's got a point."
Mhelfrancovince merely arched a brow. "You think modern comforts alone will be enough?"
"Oh, of course not," I purred. "There's also the matter of entertainment. What do they have now? Bards? Minstrels? A traveling troupe performing the same tired tragedies for the five-hundredth time? No, no, no—what they need is high-definition cinematic storytelling. Introduce them to a streaming service, let them binge-watch for a week straight, and they'll never pick up a sword again."
Nikkimae smirked, swirling the dark liquid in her goblet. "A war won not with bloodshed, but with the promise of comfort."
Mhelfrancovince's smile was slow, deliberate. "Why not both?"
I flicked my tail again, satisfied. "Now that is the spirit of an empire."
The Emperor himself had given his approval, his decree as unyielding as the laws of nature—or at least the laws of physics, which, in our Empire, we occasionally bent just to prove a point. The Grand Minister had blessed the operation, though I suspected he would have also blessed a plan to replace Kaedwen's ruling class with well-dressed toads if it meant expanding our influence. The Netherward Empire did not wage war like common brutes. We were not some rabble of half-starved mercenaries charging into battle with rusted swords and dreams of glory. No, we were artisans, sculptors of fate, painting the future with the finest brushstrokes of deception, diplomacy, and just a pinch of well-placed destruction.
Why waste legions of our own soldiers when others could be inspired—a lovely euphemism for manipulated—to do the work for us? The discontented, the restless, the ambitious fools who thought they fought for freedom, they were our weapons. We whispered into their ears, fed their grievances like a chef seasoning a fine roast, and nudged them toward rebellion with the gentle touch of a puppeteer adjusting the strings of his marionette. They would shatter their own chains, dance in the ruins of their former masters, and just when they believed themselves free… we would be there, waiting with shackles far more elegant, far more comfortable, than the ones they had broken.
Mhelfrancovince exhaled slowly, the kind of exhale that signaled either immense satisfaction or the imminent demise of a rival kingdom. He leaned back in his chair, the golden glow of the chandelier casting deep shadows across his face. "It is time," he murmured, fingers steepled, the corners of his mouth curving into something that was not quite a smile, not quite a threat. "Begin the next phase."
The room fell silent. Not the awkward, fumbling silence of lesser courts where nobles scrambled for words, but the deliberate stillness of a plan being set into motion. A single nod from him was all it took—the final keystroke in a grand orchestration.
Boninacarla, ever the efficient blade in the dark, raised an eyebrow. "So, we let them burn their own house down, then offer them a palace?"
Airanikka smirked. "Why build them a palace when we can sell them the idea of a palace and charge them rent for eternity?"
Nikkimae tapped her fingers against the polished mahogany of the table, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Let's not forget the finishing touch—the illusion of choice. They'll believe they chose us. That they wanted this."
I stretched languidly, curling my tail around my paws. "Ah, the old freedom-through-benevolent-subjugation routine. A classic. Now, if we could just get them to sign a lifetime service contract for our streaming networks and fast-food chains, we'll have them truly enslaved."
Mhelfrancovince's golden eyes flickered with amusement. "Patience, Benetton. First, we let them bleed. Then, we offer the bandages."
Boninacarla crossed her arms, her voice laced with dry humor. "And if they refuse?"
I yawned. "Then we take away the bandages. And the doctors. And the hospitals. Eventually, survival instincts will kick in."
The meeting was adjourned with nothing but a glance, and with that, the wheels of fate turned once more. The Empire did not simply conquer. It did not merely expand. It reshaped the world in its image—one whisper, one rebellion, one meticulously orchestrated collapse at a time.