Aurne

The President’s Ball

“...And by God, I saw one of our own sipping beer straight from the barrel! The wine was so little and the water so foul, and his thirst so great, he didn’t bother to find a tap or mug till he was scraping the bottom!” The Captain laughed, holding his glass full of Champagne, with music playing soothingly to the seated guests. At the table sat Simon Webb and Peter Mays, Captains of the third and fifth Company of the Guard Dragoons, the cavalry battalion of the Young Guard. They were dressed in Officers Regalia, wearing the white and green that had become associated with the Guard Dragoons, which clearly marked them as different to the Guard Carabiners. With them were John Foster and Foster Adams, the owners of Foster and Foster’s Paper Mill Industries, who had together established themselves as part of the gentry Through shrewd business acquisitions. John and Foster were no fans of the army, but Simon and Peter had positioned themselves directly opposite of John and Foster and had become theater actors all their own: the two Fosters couldn’t help but keep their attention on them to tell stories of soldiery.

Simon continued. “... Gave him a lashing for that one I did, as is required to maintain order on the frontier! I tell you gentlemen, a land so savage as this can only be found in distant Khita!”

John puffed on his pipe. “I say, Webb, that’s quite a tale. I figure the Young guard would have a bit more discipline!”

“The young guard is called such for their youth: boys will be boys, right? He got his punishment, especially since I had to give the native quite a pretty penny for spoiling his barrel full!”

“No doubt he would be back to Harriston for another barrel.”

“Why, of course!”

Peter entered to speak, taking a sip of champagne to wet his lips. “The Dragoons aren't all boyhood drinking. Plenty of drama gets in our way from time to time.”

John took another puff. “Drama? With who?”

“Why, the common soldier. Mostly in Hartmer or New Hampton when we’re stationed there. Bunch of ingrates.” Peter set down his glass of champagne. “They believe that us Dragoons of the Young Guard are too high and mighty compared to them. We have generations of soldiery in our families! These footsloggers have decided to stop chopping wood for pennies and take up a gun, and suddenly think themselves to be royalty!”

Simon continued. “All the while, the officers of the army gossip over whether more reforms should be taken by President Graham, or if he should be ousted in the coming election to make way for a reformist, so that the more ‘common’ of Grispen may find representation.”

“It’s a ridiculous claim. When Grispen was a colony, the common man could not vote: only the landed elite from Brimwich could! The only reform needed was allowing the nobility born here in Grispen to vote, and that was passed well over a decade ago!”

Adams finally decided to bud in. “... Quite a bit of chaos then, is it?”

“Exactly, it’s all the army wants these days! What they need is a bit of blood spilled to get the order they request.”

The four continued to speak. The ball was bustling with activity, and was perhaps the largest gathering since the celebration for Grispen’s Independence. It was held on Andrew Graham’s personal estate near the city of Sudland. The Fosters both got their invitation due to being prominent businessmen, who’s mills were essential in state documentation, and newspapers. Champagne and Whiskey flowed, with a great deal of the Champagne having been shipped all the way from Anverane for the Ball. Whiskey was slightly less commonly had, but those who did (mostly of the soldiery) drank it in quite exorbitant amounts. Servants were dispatched going table to table, putting plates full to bursting with food for the guests. Much of it was roasted duck or turkey, served with cheese or cream with cranberries. A great deal of the guests knew one another either on a first name basis, and if they didn’t, they learned quite quickly the importance of their character in stately affairs. Many of those invited were part of Graham’s supporters, while those like the Fosters were invited to hopefully be convinced of the President’s politics.

Returning to the Captains and businessmen, two more had joined them: Ellen Adams, Foster Adams Daughter, and James Mcmillan, a Son of the prominent Senator Thomas. Ellen and James were young in comparison to most of the gentry that had surrounded them, and so instantly felt a connection, with James asking for a dance and talk with Ellen before the Banquet itself had even officially started. They had returned just as The Captains finished yet another tale from their escapades, which had slowly begun to drive the Fosters more to drinking and less to paying attention.

“I will say, Mr. Adams, your daughter has quite a step to her dance! Hardly could keep up even as young and spry as I am.” Mcmillan was clean shaven, almost distractingly so. His hair was almost an orange color, and while relatively short was curly. His sideburns were thin but long. While his hair was kept well as any other at the ball, his hair had a sort of wildness with the curls. And while he dressed not any more different then his compatriots, his jacket was a dark blue color with pastel yellow pants.

“A belle for the likes of many suitors, Mcmillan, I assure you.” Adams had a big smile on his face, looking at the boy he considered hardly a man, wondering if he’d truly match well with his daughter. “You’ve got quite a number of eyes on you two, some out of joy for the young ones bonding, and some out of disdain of going against the tradition where the dance is to be started first and foremost by the host and his wife! But, I wouldn’t worry, the ball doesn’t truly begin until the banquet is over.”

James smiled, a red tinge having gathered on his face from embarrassment. “A bunch of old timers from the motherland talking of tradition can’t bother me when I wish for joy now rather than later!“ Mcmillan finally noticed the two officers who had made company with the Fosters, who were looking at the young man, judgingly. “What have you four been talking about?”

“Ah, a bunch of war stories from our dear heroes here. Quite charming lads.”

“War stories? Like what?”

“Oh, you know. Campaigns on the frontier, incidents. The usual.”

“Well, those sound like quite boring stories.”

Peter smacked the table as if to awaken a drunkard at a tavern. “Watch your tongue now, boy. What may sound boring and mundane to you may grow to be your entire life story. The campaigning, the frontier work, the soldiering: they’re all quite boring when you’re on your hands and knees picking out issues from the tablecloth! But how are you, Mcmillan? What’s your story?”

Mcmillan’s smile quickly lessened, though still kept up somewhat of a charade even as he was horribly offended. “Well… My Father owns quite a tract of land used to raise cattle for the production of meats and leathers. Large part going to you fine men, yes? I- “ Mcmillan began to trail, having spotted the Clock on the wall. “Oh, sorry everyone. I believe it’s time to find my Father. I shall not interrupt your conversation any longer! The table seems as occupied as it is already. Goodbye!” Mcmillan left, leaving the Belle he courted behind to remain with the four men.

“Some lad he is.” Simon said, breaking the silence. “Nip at his heels, and he’s sent running! Not one to be part of the conversation, I imagine?”

“Not part of the conversation?” Peter stifled a laugh. “The man damn well danced before the food became cold on the plate! He’s a coward.” Peter looked over to Ellen, who sat next to her Father. “You shouldn’t have danced with James, Lady. It makes you look wild and giddy, something that most suitors aren’t one to court after the years have gone by.”

“Why, it was only a dance!” Ellen replied, somewhat trying to find where Mcmillan truly ran off to. “Besides, he’s not a coward! Not any more a coward than- well - those revolutionary boys in Arelia who killed their king!”

The two Captains looked at Ellen with puzzled faces. Simon leaned back in his chair, rolling his fingertips on the table as he did. “I say, it seems from but one dance and a twirl, you can understand the mind of a young and adventurous creature like James as if you had grown old together. Me and Peter here have seen it a hundred times while you’ve just begun to talk with these young men: They’re wild Satyrs of the forest. Hopping and dancing trying to get every woman they can to follow them into the woods! And, when confronted by authority, run with their tail between their legs! If James truly wishes to court you, it will happen in time. But don’t be fooled by their love of dancing, or music, or words. They’re all wild, until they’re not.”

“I’m not entirely sure what you’re trying to imply, Captain.”

“They’re dumb.” Peter said bluntly. “And cowardly. They’ll avoid consequence until the very end. Their resolve? Flimsy. Oh they’ll say they’re ready for war, to fight and die in a hundred wars over a dozen nations for glory. But when the guns fire, the horns blare, and the men charge? I would not trust a man of Mcmillan’s nature to charge. Wait until he’s older, or when he truly has something to fight for. That’s a man you wish to marry.”

Ellen sat there somewhat defeated and with a sort of gained knowledge. Simon looked over his shoulder at the clock. “Ah, it’s approaching nine. I’m terribly sorry Mr. Foster, Mr. and Ms. Adams, but Me and Simon here have to find our wives. Can’t let them dance on their lonesome!”

The two captains shook the two men’s hands, before bowing to Ellen. “It’s no offense,” John said. “Me and Foster have to find our own wives soon enough. I thank you for your time, humbling us two gentlemen and the young lady here. Your stories were quite enlightening, to say the least.”

The two captains smiled, leaving in a quite good mood as they did. Indeed, the entire banquet was shifting across the place, as guests went to and from the tables gathering their family for the coming President’s speech and official beginning of the ball. A lot of guests found themselves somewhat lost in the scuffle, so Ellen and the Fosters simply waited until Graham made his speech before they would move. In the movements, an older gentleman, Edward Lewis, found himself next to the table, somewhat exhausted from all the movements.

John recognized the man instantly. “Oh! It’s Edward Lewis!” Edward himself did not know John or Foster at all, but couldn’t help but shake the men’s hands. “You used to run the New Hampton Newspaper!”

Edward let out a little laugh. “Used to, yes. Now it’s all in my son’s hands.”

“Edward Jr.? Young Eddie?” John let out a laugh. “Yes, Young Ed!”

“Yes…” Edward Lewis smiled slightly, though was quite confused. “I’m sorry, who are you two gentlemen?”

“We’re John Foster and Foster Adams.” Adams spoke, slightly embarrassed by not being recognized and his friend’s jovialness at a ball. “We run the Foster and Foster’s Paper mills.”

“Oh, oh!” Edward exclaimed, as if he found all the answers in an instant. “I see, I see! That is why you know who I am so enthusiastically! Well, as I said, I don’t run my newspaper company anymore, but I’ll send the word back to my son if you’re interested. Though I must warn you that my son is more-” Edward paused to figure out the word. “-Ehm, more hawkish than me during the height of independence even.”

“We most certainly would be. How long are you planning to stay here?”

“Oh, till midnight. I was planning to stay until morning, but I'm afraid my old bones aren’t what they used to be, and I’ve got to get as much rest as possible!” Edward patted his forehead. “Doesn’t help that I myself am a bit under the weather, as it is.”

Adams leaned back, taking another sip of champagne. “Let’s say, after President Graham begins the Ball and after we dance with the fair ladies, we escape to the promenade for a formal discussion, away from the noise and bustling of the hall?”

Edward thought for a second, then shook his head approvingly. “That- that works! Splendid gentlemen! After the first dance, I’ll meet you outside the manor and we can discuss it from there.”

Adam smiled and shook Edward’s hand. “Agreed. We shall meet you then!”

Edward too smiled, shaking John’s hand, who was almost erratic with excitement. “I must retire to my seat before Graham starts the ball. God knows how embarrassing it’d be to be the only one standing in the middle of the tables! But, see you soon, gentlemen!”

A few minutes passed, before finally, a servant announced to quiet down. As the room fell silent, the speaker once more spoke, eloquently: “Invited guests of Grispen, tonight begins the President’s ball, celebrating the crescendo of Andrew Graham’s time in office! And to celebrate the momentous occasion, here comes Andrew and Hester Graham!”

The guests all clapped, as Andrew and Hester came through the back doors, entering the banquet room from the large ballroom. The Graham’s waved. Many looked at Hester as though hypnotized: even for a woman in her forties, her beauty had maintained against the test of time, and was living proof that Andrew’s political career had been successful. Yet, quickly, all eyes locked once more to the President. Thanking the guests, Andrew began eloquently. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I welcome many of you to my Estate as guests, and will be pleased when you leave as friends! After five years of a successful presidency, It should come as no surprise that I intend to run for a second term! Many of you have supported me during my presidency, and for that, I thank you! When the new year comes, I have no doubt that I shall remain as president for another five year term!” The guests clapped happily. Graham went on, talking of his accomplishments for stabilizing the border against the harsh frontier to the west, the trade in Morisa and Arelia having expanded, and the continued urbanization of Grispen. He then began to talk of how proud he was of guests, singling many out. Those he singled out were mostly friends to his regime, but some were those who had been invited to secure political favor. The speech went on for several minutes, before finally, the end came.

“... I thank you all again for coming tonight, and invite you into the ballroom, where I may share a dance with the first lady, and where you may all dance and dine to your heart’s content! Thank you!”

The guests once more clapped, rising to their feet. Andrew took Hester’s hand, and the two made their way into the ballroom, followed by the flow of guests who brought wives, lovers, and belles to share in the first dance of many of tonight’s ball. Andrew and Hester took the first dance, followed by the Guests of honor, then the rest joined in as the dances slowly became less formal. There was no doubt that this ball, like many, would last all night and into the early hours of the morning, with guests leaving as the night went on, or staying until noon. Whatever was to come from Andrew’s attempt at reelection, it was no doubt that he’d be remembered by the Gentry as a host of the finest banquets and balls Grispen has or ever will see.

Chapter VIII

14 Rendote, 1394

The good Don Alberto did indeed deliver the news the next day. It was still morning when he arrived at the estate of the Viscount, the sun not yet hanging high in the sky and bathing the land of green and wheat-yellow fields in its almost golden light. The string of unusually hot winter days had at last seemed to recede—the 14th of Rendote, 1394, brought with it a cool chill, that was eagerly welcomed by the Viscount and his servants and staff, all relieved to finally see this spell of hot weather finally break and give way to more amiable temperatures.

Antonio Carlos’ estate was quiet that day, more so than usual. The Viscount liked to entertain guests frequently—normally it was military men who he invited, high-ranking officers in the army, who he would have recount the goings-on within the army, upon which he would deliver his critiques of colonel so-and-so and brigadier-general such-and-such, and occasionally laud praise on a few lucky individuals. Yet today there were no guests of such sort. Normally, when there were no men from the army to entertain the Viscount, his wife María Elena would call on some of her friends to have a nice little luncheon or dinner, but today the opposite had happened: she had been called on by a close friend, and was thus not at home. This left only the Viscount and José Luis, along with all their servants, to fill up the house.

When Don Alberto arrived to deliver the good news, José Luis had just entered Antonio Carlos’ study, finding his father sitting down at a desk, the frail fingers of his right hand flipping the pages of some old book every now and then, as he used the index finger of his left hand to run along the page as he read. When he heard his son enter, he stopped to turn around and see who it was. Recognising José Luis, his lips formed a warm smile, as he gestured with one arm for his son to take a seat. José went over to a cushioned armchair of dark blue, embroidered with a pattern of red flowers that intertwined with each other.

“Is there something you need, Joselu?” Asked his father in that warm tone that he reserved for his family.

“Are you busy today, father?” Asked José Luis quietly.

“No, not really.” Muttered the Viscount. He gestured to the book he had been reading when his son arrived. “I was just looking through some books of mine…” His voice trailed off, and he closed the book shut, his gaze drifting to its title. “The campaign of Prince Luis.” He stated.

“Reminiscing?”

“Perhaps, Joselu, perhaps. I am an old man and retired, there is not much left to do but reminisce.” Sighed Antonio Carlos, his lips bearing the features of a faint smile. Everyone knew very well that the Viscount had served in the War of the Waldian Succession, and had fought under the army of the good Prince Luis. He was a major when the Prince was killed at Toligno, and had fought in that very battle—it was almost impossible to have a conversation with him without being told this fact.

“Would you like to go hunting tomorrow?” Asked José. There was not much to do at home.

The Viscount gave it some thought. “A good idea, that. How could I refuse?” He said in a merry tone. His son’s face produced that cherubic smile which everyone was always very fond of.

They started to discuss the hunting trip when a servant entered to inform them of Don Alberto’s arrival. Ever the curious man, the Viscount at once got up to greet this mysterious visitor. José Luis followed. They went down the narrow corridors of the estate, and down a large staircase that led down into the large entrance room of the house, where the Don was waiting. The white walls of the room were decorated with golden ornaments that depicted the stems and branches of various plants. The azulejo-tiled floor formed a design that seemed to be taken straight out of a pastoral.

The Don Alberto was there, waiting. The Viscount, dressed in his matching coat, waistcoat and breeches, all of a vibrant blue, at once greeted him warmly and ushered him into a small drawing-room. José Luis, sharing his father’s curiosity to know what this was all about, followed the two in, and sat down on an armchair. His gaze studied the man. There was something very familiar about him, about his face. He tried to place it, to remember where he had seen him. It did not take long for him to figure it out. “This man was with Juan Antonio when I met him for the duel.” He thought. All the features of his comely curious face only seemed to grow more intense.

“Well, dear boy!” Said the Viscount. “Please, tell me why you have come. I don’t get these unexpected visitors every day.”

Don Alberto smiled, and he carried himself with a demeanor of a joyful man, as he bowed his head to first the Viscount, and then to the young Don, José Luis, who he nodded towards, in a recognition of sorts. “Your Grace,” he began, addressing the Viscount as best he could, “My Master, the good Don Juan Antonio de Rodríguez, wished me personally, to deliver this here letter,” he explained, as he reached into his coat pocket, and retrieved an envelope, “I’ve not read the contents, Don, but I believe it to be good news.” He said warmly, as he handed it to the Viscount.

The Viscount took the envelope with an eager hand, and not wasting any time, opened it, taking out the paper. He began to read.

Fourteenth of the Thirteen Hundred-Ninety Fourth,

After a long delay, on my own part, I have found the time to write these words to you now, and do so, bringing you good tidings, I hope. As you spoke to me on your pursuit for a career in the Infantry of our Royal Army, I found this an admirable, noble goal, befitting the character needed for His Majesty’s Army and so I pursued your desire with vigor and determination. In this effect, I believe I served your interest well, and have secured you, if you are willing and able, a commission in his Majesty’s Fifth Infantry of the Line, a prestigious regiment, with a well regarded Colonel. I send you this missive before the rider with your recommendation has even left, but God willing, he will ride hard and fast, and by the end of the month, at the latest, secure your commission. I have faith you will serve this Kingdom with distinction and keep faith in God and Country. My regiment is leaving for our army’s headquarters on the eighteenth of this month. I would be pleased if you could depart with us for Olivico. Next time we see each other, we will share a drink again, as did on the outskirts of this fair city.

Your friend,
Lieutenant Juan Antonio de Rodríguez y de la Isla de Plata.

When he had finished reading the letter, the Viscount Antonio Carlos seemed to be in a state of perplexion. It should not come as a surprise: he did not know this Juan Antonio, was unaware of the altercation between him and José Luis, and had not ever discussed his son being commissioned in the Fifth Infantry, though the thought had appeared in his head. The sudden news, then, left him in a state of some shock. Without making a single remark, he passed the letter over to his son. José Luis read it over. When he had finished, he too was rather surprised. There was a strange silence between them and Don Alberto, who, after a moment longer, was dismissed, and departed.

“You shared a drink with this Juan Antonio, son?” Asked Antonio Carlos abruptly, breaking the silence and sinking into a nearby armchair.

“Yes.” Was the quiet reply.

“When was this?”

“The day after María Luisa’s soirée. So a little under a week ago.”

“Is that so? Why, pray tell? Did you have a great time with him at that gathering? You didn’t know each other beforehand, no?” There was suspicion in the Viscount’s voice.

“I did not know him beforehand, no. I met him that day. We became well-acquainted at that soirée, however.”

“I see. Nothing else to add?” He said inquisitively. José Luis remained silent for a moment, and shook his head slightly, a blank expression on his face. “Well, very well then. It is not like this is bad news…it is just surprising, is all…” He rose from his armchair, and took the letter from José Luis. “He wishes for you to leave with him on the eighteenth, hm? This leaves us a couple of days to make preparations before you head off to Olivico. That is, if you do indeed wish to leave with him now?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t. He says he would be pleased if I did. After having done me this great favour, I think it’d be rude to turn him down…” Said José Luis.

“Very well, then, very well.” Antonio Carlos said, and his tone and manner of speaking began to relax considerably. He appeared a lot more comfortable now. “I will host a party before you leave in celebration of this. Perhaps the night before, on the seventeenth. Just some of the family, and a few friends and close acquaintances. This is a grand occasion! My last son, off into the army! To think, I’ll be all alone after this…” He remarked sadly.

“You’ll still have mother.” Countered his son.

“Yes…yes, of course I will, but nevertheless…all my children! One in Sremia, the other in the navy, one married and with children, and now you! In the fifth infantry regiment, and off to Olivico!” He said. There was an acted sadness in his voice, as if he was putting on a show, which his son noticed. He was clearly very happy, despite these lamentations of his.

“You’re missing one child.” Muttered José Luis curtly. The Viscount stared at his son with a pale expression. José Luis saw him wince slightly, open his mouth to speak, then clamp it shut as if he knew better. He repeated these movements twice over, then sank back into the nearby armchair, the letter still in his hand. Finally he seemed to have found his footing.

“I have told him that I harbour no ill-will…and that I very much wish to see him again. I have said this to you before. You cannot put the blame on me for this…”

“I know…” Sighed José Luis. There was an uncomfortable silence between them. “But I know Anabel does not share this sentiment, however.”

“Yes, so she has told me.”

“And mother?”

“I am not sure, José Luis. Please, let us speak of more pleasant things.” Muttered the Viscount faintly. His face expressed a visible anxiety.

“Alright, I’ll let it go.” Relented his son. “Well, the Fifth Infantry of the Line. Not bad, wouldn’t you say?”

“No, no.”

“Had you imagined something different? I hope this didn’t spoil all your plans?”

“I had considered other options, but they still hadn’t borne fruit yet.” Answered the Viscount. This fact had been bearing on him for quite some time. He had attempted, at María Luisa’s soirée, to approach the lieutenant-general Juan Ramon—the very man whom Juan Antonio had spoken with to secure José Luis’ commission in the fifth—but these efforts had not come to much. Similar searches via his other military acquaintances also came to naught. In fact, this had started to make him uneasy. He had long prided himself on his excellent connections in the army, but they had turned nothing up. It cast a certain doubt on his whole image—was he not as well-regarded as he thought he was? He mulled on this with a dark look. Therefore Don Alberto had given him a certain relief. “This is quite good, son. It will do.” He said to José Luis, but in his mind all sorts of thoughts were racing. “I could not get anything from my connections for weeks, but this lieutenant secures this commission in a couple of days! Granted, he bears the lieutenant-general Juan Ramon’s family name, so I have no doubt as to how he secured this, but nevertheless! I had thought myself well-regarded…” He mulled.

This line of thought was interrupted by his son speaking once again. “Are you familiar with the colonel of the regiment? Juan Antonio calls him well-regarded in the letter.”

The Viscount rubbed his eyes with his hands, searching his memory. “His name was…erm…let’s see…” He pondered, the fingers of his right hand firmly on his temple. “Carlos van Erzingaan. Yes, that’s it…Carlos van Erzingaan. He comes from a Waldian family that came here after the war, strong Luisists they are, a very good bloodline. He’s of very good breed, his mother was the daughter of…ah I cannot place it.”

“And he is well-regarded in the army?”

“Yes…yes, I’ve heard good things about him, very good things. Never met him myself, though, I don’t believe. If I do, I don’t remember it.”

“Alright then. In which army’s the regiment? Do you know?” José Luis said. This question the Viscount answered quickly—he was clearly more knowledgeable on this matter.

“The Army of Olivico. They’re in the same division as Isidoro’s regiment, so the second. Under Luis Agustín de Revértez. All very respectable.” He said.

“Alright then. Well, shall we start making preparations?”

“For the hunting or the party?” The Viscount asked with a slight smile.

“Well, if it is not an inconvenience, I would be pleased to go hunting tomorrow…”

“Then we shall go hunting. Worry not.”

They discussed the preparations for this for a few minutes. Eventually Antonio Carlos went away to discuss matters with some of the servants, and the room went quiet. The golden sunlight of noon peered through the panels of the windows. A faint gust of wind went around the drawing-room. José Luis got to pondering. “So it has happened at last, not by the hand of my father, but by the hand of that hussar I nearly duelled. How funny fate is! The Fifth Infantry of the Line…well, I’m pleased. I must give my thanks when I see Juan Antonio again. So I leave for Olivico on the eighteenth…off I go! From the placid comfort of my family’s estate and into the army. Like Pablo before me, and Enrique before that. How’d that turn out for them? A leg that can’t be used for Enrique, and a life in squalor and debauchery for Pablo…ah. Best not dwell on that. Best not dwell on that all…”

Chapter IX

17 Rendote, 1394

The day before he left for Olivico, and a few hours before the party at the Viscount’s estate where he would bid farewell to his family and many of his old acquaintances and friends, José Luis turned up at the door of a small apartment in downtown Corcillón, in an area near the squalid slums, but which conveyed a far cleanlier and well-kept bourgeois air. The building where this apartment was located was a white-walled, red-tiled and four-storied house, of those so typical of Corcillón and much of Lusain, and which lined the entire street. Having ascended a flight of the stairs all the way up to the third floor, José Luis could see from looking all around him that it could be in better shape—there were certain areas that needed to be cleaned, parts where the wall was chipped and bits where the banister was broken and needed fixing—but he paid this little thought. This was not the street of the wealthy or the affluent, but of the middling folk, and the house reflected that fact well.

Standing before the door of the apartment, he gave three knocks on the door of a faded green colour. There was silence. He saw down the corridor the face of a young boy peering out from one of the other apartments, evidently curious at the appearance of this visitor in a well-made gray coat and waistcoat, and black bicorn hat. He knocked three times again, with greater force. No response, so once more with the three knocks, even louder. He felt the green door rattle slightly. Then, a shuffle from the other side of the wall. The audible movements of a person from inside the apartment. There was a weary groan. José Luis saw the badly polished yellow doorknob turn and rotate, and with a quick movement the entire door itself swung open.

His brother Pablo Ignacio stood opposite to him, his entire back arched over in a tired posture, as he looked at José Luis with sunken eyes. His pale chemise shirt was worn loosely, exposing his collarbone and parts of his chest, and appeared stained with wine. The same went for his grey white breeches, and he was not wearing shoes. “Oh. It’s you.” He mumbled. Recognising his brother, he gave a look of certain surprise, an expression evidently dulled by exhaustion, and he stepped back and to the side to allow José Luis to enter. “Come in, come in…” He said…

It was the first time José Luis had seen his brother’s apartment—all their previous encounters had been at the inn just a few minutes away, where Pablo spent most of his time drinking. Since their first meeting on the eleventh, they had seen each other two more times, both of them brief encounters, as José Luis professed to not have much time, even though he wished to stay. The last one had been two days ago, and they had agreed to meet the following week, but with the news delivered by Don Alberto, this had changed. José Luis decided that he would not depart without saying goodbye, and had thus gone to pay a sudden visit at his apartment, the address of which having been disclosed to him by Pablo in a prior conversation.

Immediately upon entering he was treated to the small living room of the apartment. On the other end of the room two open windows let in the morning sunlight and the loud noise of the street below. Partially obscuring one of the windows was a small decaying fortepiano that looked as if it had not been played or tuned in months. Near it, in the middle and a little to the right of them, was a large roundtable, covered with cards and empty glasses, surrounded by chairs. Someone was sitting on one of them, their head staring straight up at the white roof, mouth slightly open and eyes closed—they were asleep. A badly kept couch—which Pablo gestured to as if to say ‘sit down there’—occupied the corner opposite to the Piano. To both his left and right José Luis could see two doors, both of them wide open.

“Please, take a seat…” Mumbled his brother, as he walked around the living room, apparently unsure of where to go. He gestured to the couch once more.

As José Luis went over to do so, he heard the man sleeping on one of the chairs suddenly speak in a slurred and guttural speech. “Qui est-ca?”

“Mon frère, bâtard…sors! Get out, go on. Out!” Replied Pablo, and going over to the man, he used all his strength to lift him up from the chair, then proceeded to let go of him, letting the man fall down to the ground with a loud thump. The man groaned in pain, then slowly brought himself to his knees. He started to crawl away from Pablo, managing to bring himself to stand, as he hobbled on away, before pausing just at the door. Seeing this Pablo went over to him again and gave a weak kick. “Out! Out!” At this final insistence, the man managed to exit the apartment, albeit with great effort. Pablo shut the door with a loud slam that reverberated across the apartment, then turned back to his brother. José Luis was staring at him with a worrisome look of confusion.

“Who was that?” He asked.

“Just a fellow I play cards with at times…that’s all…no need to worry.” He answered, making a gesture with his arm as if to dispel any and all concern.

“From Anverane?”

“Partly.” Said Pablo, and he elaborated no more, which José Luis took as a signal to not speak on the matter any further. “Please, sit. How many times do I have to insist?” Continued his brother with irritation, as he gestured weakly to the couch. José Luis gave in and sat down.

“You seem to be in bad shape.” He commented.

“On the contrary…I’m in the best of health.” Countered his brother, though with little conviction. Standing at the centre of the room, he looked around, as if searching for something. His eyes became fixed on a bottle laid sideways on the roundtable. He picked it up, swirled it around, then said: “Would you like some wine?” José Luis shook his head. “Alright…ah.” His gaze was now fixed on the decaying fortepiano. Grabbing a chair, he sat down in front of it. “Here, let me entertain you…”

“There’s no need to entertain me…” José Luis mumbled with a warm smile, but Pablo either did not hear or pretended to not hear. Laying his hands on the keys, he began to play a minuet, his hands dancing along the key as he went from crescendo to diminuendo and his fingers jumping from one chord to another, a fact that one like José Luis might’ve appreciated more if the instrument itself was not badly out of tune, tarnishing the music. Suddenly he stopped, and turned to look at his brother with an intense and fixed stare.

“Why have you come? We weren’t supposed to see each other until next week…” There was a coldness in his expression, but it was one that carried with it a certain anxiety and fear.

José Luis hesitated for a moment. “I’m leaving for Olivico tomorrow.” He muttered with a certain sadness.

“What for?”

“I’m to receive a commission in the Fifth Infantry of the Line, in the Army of Olivico.” Said José Luis, before adding: “Second division.”

Pablo Ignacio was silent for a few seconds. The cold stare did not leave, but only seemed to stiffen. “Oh.” He said quietly. There was again more silence. After what seemed like a minute, he suddenly spoke again: “Father’s scheming finally succeeded, I take it?”

“Well, actually…it was that hussar who I nearly duelled. Do you remember him?” A nod from Pablo led José Luis to continue. “You may remember his uncle is a lieutenant-general in the army, and the other is a viceroy of Nueva Turcaña. It seems he talked to most likely the former and secured me this commission.”

“Hm! Well…life does seem to have great success spring out of the most seemingly evident failures…I give you my congratulations. Your great stupidity bore fruit in the end!” He remarked hysterically. “So..you’re leaving for Olivico tomorrow, eh?” There was a bitterness in his voice that José Luis did not like.

“Yes. I wanted to say goodbye. I don’t know when we’ll be seeing each other again, if we ever do.”

“Don’t say that!” Exclaimed Pablo with a sudden vigour. “You’re not heading off to war, now, are you? So,” and he started to slow down as he began this sentence, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again…I’m sure of it…” He said, trailing off.

“Well, I hope so, yes.”

“So you’re off into the army, are you now…like me and our older brother Quique…well, that’s good. Joining the army always does a man good. Especially for you, having been cooped up at our father’s estate for a while now with nothing to do but attend soirées…good God! Yes, joining the army will do you a lot of good, I think.” Rambled Pablo.

“Perhaps it will.”

“Now, it’s a shame there’s no war yet,” continued Pablo, “That’s what gets a man’s blood running,”

“In what sense?” Chuckled José Luis mockingly. Pablo gave a fiery scowl, then went quiet. “Sorry. I did not mean to tease.” Muttered his brother, red in the face. “You really wish there to be war?”

“Of course! There has not been war in Lusain for more than ten years. Ever since we beat the Anveranians it has been quiet in this part of Arelia, and that does not do a country good. Without war people become…rowdy…unrest grows.” Explained Pablo, and he was now speaking fervently, with that sort of erraticness which José Luis found that he always seemed to speak with, albeit an erraticness watered down by Pablo’s own fatigue, which made him speak more slowly than usual.

“Rowdy? Is that so?” Said José Luis with a certain scepticism.

“Yes! War, mon frère, exists so that man can carry out his basest desires—killing…ravishing…looting—without any repercussions. If there was no war, and man was not allowed to do this, the state and the country as we know it would…collapse into violent anarchy! Simply look at what has happened in Anverane…ten years without war and the people start killing each other! War is there to keep such things from happening.”

“And why have countries like Anverane collapsed into violence because they’ve gone ten years without war, while we, Charevya, Thalvania and others get along fine? Would we not have collapsed into anarchy also?”

“That is because our states simply exert a bit more control over the populace than Anverane did. Give it another ten years without war, and we’ll have problems, I assure you…”

“I am not too sure if I agree with this theory of yours, Pablo. Only a small portion of the population actually partakes in war…”

“Yes…but for those who are not partaking in the struggle, all they can think about is war. All that is talked about at the soirées are the battles, the skirmishes, the sieges, the killings and so on. It utterly hypnotises the populace! Even if they are not the ones doing the killings, they are utterly…transfixed by the thought of them, and are thus reined in. There’s a whole certain science to it.” Elaborated Pablo, and he made certain slow gestures with his hands as if to clarify what he was saying.

“Very interesting. So you believe there will never truly be peace between nations?” Asked José Luis.

“Oh, that I do not know.” Said Pablo, waving his hand. “Like I said, we and other countries have not yet fallen into anarchy like Anverane because our states exert a certain control over the populace and can rein them in without the need for war,” he began, “So perhaps these states will be able to increase their control and hold over the people to such an extent that there will no longer be a need for countries to do war, because they have managed to keep the populace in check. But I cannot predict whether that will happen…that is left for history to decide.”

“Increase their control over the people to prevent war…” Repeated José Luis with a strange smirk on his face. “That’s not what most philosophers would say. I don’t think they would agree with what you’re saying.”

Pablo looked at his brother with a look of contempt. “Oh? And what would these philosophers say?” He sneered with visible mockery.

“Well, they would argue against this idea of increasing control and would instead say something about the separation of powers and individual liberty.” José Luis said, still smiling. “At least that’s what those following the school of Lefeuvre would say. That all men are equal, and so on…”

“Are you a disciple of Lefeuvre?” Asked Pablo angrily, his entire expression derisive.

“No…” Mumbled José Luis.

“But you are acquainted with his work? With his ideas?”

“Somewhat.”

“As am I. Well, I can tell you now, that all this talk of individual liberty is mere puffery. It’s nonsense! It is always nonsense…Joselu…always. When the people of Anverane rose up in Sarsier and made all those demands—for the abolition of the monarchy and ‘reforms of taxation’...it was all nonsense. It is simply excuses for the canaille to go out and kill each other, to fulfil their basest desires. Burdened by morality or religion…they invent these ideas so they have an excuse to kill the national guardsmen, shoot the king and fulfil their desires. Don’t you see? They are merely rebelling against the state because the state attempts to suppress the nature of man and institute order—man cannot handle having his nature suppressed, so he storms the armories and takes up arms against the state in order to defend his nature from being restricted.” Explained Pablo. For a moment he paused, as if to let his brother speak, but it soon became clear that this pause was only theatrical, because he soon began talking again.

“I see it as a process, an almost scientific process, as scientific as the laws of motion, dear brother,” he continued, as José Luis listened attentively, “For years man has been suppressed by the state, which has imposed order throughout Arelia and expands this order to all corners of the world to the stateless savages of Federica, Khitan and so on. Yet now the states of Arelia have pushed too far…they now exert such control over the populace that man has begun to rebel, to revolt against the state and attempt to reclaim their nature. What we are seeing is a…ahem, transition…from wars between nations to wars between the people and the state. Thus there is revolution in Anverane and revolt in Korivad. In Anverane man has been suppressed, and the state has claimed an important victory, while Korivad’s future remains uncertain. I predict that this unrest will only grow over the years. However, there can only be one victor of this great struggle. Which it will be, I cannot say, but whoever is the victor will definitively determine the course of humanity for the hundreds of years to come.” Concluded Pablo Ignacio. When he finished this diatribe he laid back in his chair, relaxed his posture, and his concentrated expression that had developed as he explained his beliefs reverted back to that mocking and sneering look, as if awaiting for some argument from his brother. José Luis only looked at Pablo with a look of contemplative meditation, and did not say anything. He laid his head back on the couch, as if to relax. “Well, I am sorry if I have bored you, Joselu.” Said Pablo with a comedic bitterness.

“Not at all, not at all,” José Luis said, dismissing the notion, “You simply have me thinking, that is all. It is an interesting theory. Not one many would agree with, yes, it is rather controversial I would say. I don’t know where you’d get this sort of thing published…” He said with a smile.

“I don’t want to publish this! Why is it that when someone ever has anything to say about philosophy people think he wants his ideas published? I’m merely rambling, Joselu, that’s what this is. This is simply the product of a few days of thinking.” Exclaimed Pablo.

“You’ve certainly thought up something.” Laughed José Luis.

“You stay a week in an apartment like this and you’d think up something similar!” Shouted Pablo and he suddenly let out a few bursts of laughter, rather suddenly, considering that previously he had been talking with a cold and humourless expression. José Luis laughed with him, but when they had finished he looked at his brother with a half-serious look.

“Do you believe all that you just said with conviction?” He asked.

Pablo stared at his brother for a few moments. “Maybe. With all my conviction? Perhaps only a quarter of it, perhaps half.”

“One third?” Suggested José Luis.

“Why not? I believe it with a third of my conviction! There you have it.” Said Pablo, giving a slight smile. They sat like that for a minute, and Pablo’s attention drifted from his brother. He gazed back to the fortepiano that he sat before, and he ran his fingers along the black and yellowed-white keys. He started to play a scale, running his right hand back and forth along the piano, as it swung to and fro from one end of the instrument to the other. At times he quickened his pace, then slowed down, then raised the tempo once more. The striking of the hammers against the out-of-tune strings produced an unpleasant noise.

“I remember when I was younger,” began Pablo abruptly, still playing the scale as he spoke, “Shortly after I had joined the cuirassiers, my regiment was in Corcillón, and I went back to our estate near the city to pay you all a visit. All of us were there, I remember, even Quique who was still in the army, and also Anabel with her husband Isidoro—they had only been married for a year or two, I think. Juanfer was there too, already in the navy.” He said, speaking softly and in a low voice, lacking much of the hysteria that had so previously characterised his tone.

“Shortly after you joined the cuirassiers, you say? I wasn’t even ten, no?”

“You were nine. I was eighteen verging on nineteen.” Pablo said quickly with conviction. He laid his left hand on the keys, and had it play a scale as well, mirroring the right hand. “I remember it well. A few weeks earlier Bertoldi, do you remember him? The Valenzian composer? He was so popular in those days…a few weeks earlier he had published a new sonata for violin and piano, and everyone was learning it. I remember father begged me to play it with Quique for the whole family, so I did. We got the sheet music laid out, and started to play…I had played it some days prior with some cuirassier friends, but still it was difficult, but I remember us doing well. I can still recall the second movement…Adagio...” He muttered. He stopped playing the scales, then began to play something else entirely: a sweet and quiet tune, consisting of a theme and a variation, then theme and another variation, so on and so forth. Every now and then he would stop for a few seconds, pausing for the violinist who was not there. José Luis listened silently, trying in his head to substitute the sometimes harsh and discordant notes coming from the piano for the sweet notes that they would have been if played on a well-tuned instrument. He smiled at his brother’s attempt to play the piece perfectly despite the faults of the instrument.

After a few minutes of playing Pablo brought the music to a slow halt. He laid his hands on the keys in a meditative silence, as they heard the last reverberations of the strings grow fainter and finally disappear. “When he had finished you all applauded us…Anabel told us to play something else, ‘un autre! un autre!’, she kept on saying.” He said, with the faintest smile. “We played some ländlers after that. Do you not remember this?” He asked, turning to his brother with an inquisitive look.

“I cannot recall it, no.” Muttered José Luis quietly.

“You can’t? You really don’t remember that day? It must’ve been sometime in the winter, early in the year…” Pablo said with great perplexion, staring at his brother with a confused look.

“I do not remember it.”

“Not Bertoldi’s sonata, not the adagio, not Anabel saying un autre! over and over again…none of it?”

“No, I do not remember.” José Luis said, almost in a whisper.

“I suppose such visits were common then for you. It was not the last time we saw each other before I was…discharged…I paid a couple more visits after that. You were only nine, it is true…all those days must’ve just molded into one…a vague fog where you can’t make out anything at all.” Pablo mused. It struck José Luis how a day that seemed to have a certain significance to his brother had completely faded from his own memory. “So that music I played, it does not ring a bell?” Pablo asked, and José Luis shook his head. “And when I play this,” he suddenly played a succession of loud and triumphant chords, their brilliant harmony shattered by the discordant strings of the out-of-tune instrument, “The opening to the third movement, you do not remember it either?” José Luis shook his head. His brother sighed. He leaned his head out the window, observing the people passing along the streets, the loud commotion that they caused as they shouted and spoke in loud angry tones.

“I always thought the conversations of the city streets were a music of their own.” Remarked José Luis, bringing Pablo’s attention to him once more. “They’re a lot like that out-of-tune piano you have…dissonant, lacking harmony, but beautiful in a way.” He commented, his voice soft and warm, the cherubic features of his face lighting up as he spoke.

“I have never liked it. It is harsh on the ears. Music is not to be harsh on the ears.” Stated Pablo plainly. José Luis shrugged, not wishing to dispute the matter. Pablo got up from his seat, took two empty glasses, and poured some wine into both of them. “Now, considering we will not be seeing each other again for quite some time, I demand we toast. To your success in the army, and to my success in…and to my good health. Now, come on. Toast with me.” He said, lifting one glass and gesturing for his brother to come over. José Luis got up from the couch with a resigned expression of defeat, approached the table, picked up the glass and lifted it high into the air.

“To your good health.” He said.

“And to your great and excellent career in the army. May you suffer no injuries and rise through the ranks unopposed.” Pablo said. The two of them drank from their glasses, José Luis putting down his after a short sip, while his brother drank half the cup before laying it down on the roundtable. Pablo fixed his gaze straight on José Luis, his eyes darting between the faint freckles on his handsome adolescent face. Using a hand to part the tousled black curls of Joselu’s hair, he kissed him on the forehead, then, still holding his brother’s head, spoke.

“I have always loved you very much, Joselu. I feel that you have always cared for me deeply, even before my disgrace, and now you are the only one who is here for me, who shares with me my squalor and debauchery if but for a few hours…” He whispered quietly. An entire conflict of emotions seemed to be stirring in his soul.

José Luis held his brother in an embrace for a few seconds. When they parted, he gazed into the Travetian blue of Pablo’s sunken feeble eyes. “I love you deeply as well, brother.”

“Oh to be parted with you…well? Go on, get out!” Said Pablo, reeling away from José Luis. “Don’t come back here until you’re a colonel!”

“You wish me to leave already?”

“Yes, yes, go on. I’m sure you have something to do. Will there not be some farewell party or has that happened already?”

“It is this night.”

“I see. I don’t want to detain you any longer. Please, leave.” Pablo said, slinking back into a chair, as he rubbed his face with his hand. José Luis looked at him pityingly.

“Alright then. Goodbye, Pablo.” He muttered with dejection, walking over to the door. He paused for a moment, as if to let his brother say one more thing. Nothing came. Pablo was staring at his glass and the cards laid out on the roundtable. Turning the badly polished yellow doorknob, José Luis swung the green door open, and stepped out the apartment.

Chapter X

Everyone had gathered at the Viscount’s estate that night. Old friends of the family who wished to bid farewell to José Luis, military acquaintances of the old man there to congratulate him on the success of his family, some companions of the mother María Elena who had been invited even though they did not really know the Viscount, much less José Luis, and so on. They were all gathered at the grand parlour of the estate, a large room reserved for the most special occasions, when there were plenty of guests, and the Viscount wanted to put on the greatest of shows. An arbitrary array of armchairs, couches and small roundtables were scattered across the room, the latter being covered with an assortment of trays of food and jugs of wine for anyone who wished to help themselves. Over in one corner of the room, somewhat removed from everyone else, a trio of musicians—pianist, violinist and cellist—played a melodic and harmonious music, which accompanied the eloquent and refined conversation of the guests.

The Viscount was in such a state of elation over all this that you would think that he was being given an imperial triumph. In a way this was sort of true: José Luis’ departure for the Fifth Regiment of the Line represented a crowning achievement for the old man. At last he had cast off the shame of Pablo’s disgrace, which had for so long tarnished talk of himself and the de Aznárez, and had now seemingly restored his family’s prestige. Everyone was congratulating him, and he made sure to downplay how little he was actually involved in securing the commission—rather than present the truth, which is that this had happened completely out of the Viscount’s control, Antonio Carlos instead presented it as something that he had been working towards for quite some time, and that all his hard labor had finally borne fruit. He welcomed all the congratulations, especially from his army acquaintances, and spoke to people of his son’s great success like a hunter boasting to his friends of a great hart that he had shot.

Throughout the evening and night, the Viscount and his wife María Elena fulfilled their duties as good hosts, dashing from one end of the room to the other, bringing up new topics of conversation to keep the talking lively, disarming certain discussions before they could become arguments, and keeping the guests entertained. Both husband and wife seemed to have a particular role when it came to bringing up new topics; María Elena would always bring up subjects concerning recent gossip in Corcillón, the theatre, and other elements of high society, while the Viscount kept those who would not be entertained by such things engaged by talking about the army, foreign affairs and, as he liked to call it, ‘more important matters concerning humanity’—philosophy, science, and so on.

José Luis had spent most of the gathering greeting all the new arrivals, who were quick to congratulate him on the great honor of being commissioned in the Fifth Infantry of the Line, something that he always responded to with great thanks, at which point he sent the guest off into some ongoing discussion in another part of the room. He was not very familiar with many of the people there—some were close friends of the family, but others were simply acquaintances that the Viscount had invited so that he could parade his son like a great trophy, the spoils of a great campaign. He engaged in light-hearted talk with his sister over some trivial topic, and participated in a few other discussions, but for the most spent the majority of his time greeting the coming guests.

The bulk of the invitees had arrived and settled down in some part of the room, and though a few guests kept on trickling in after that, it soon seemed that everyone invited had shown up. All of a sudden, however, a peculiar face appeared at the door of the parlour, a face of soft and cleanly features, that José Luis recognised quickly. It was Don Eugenio, the friend who had helped him resolve that dispute with Juan Antonio—had it not been for him, José Luis would likely not have received this commission in the Fifth Infantry of the Line. He waited for Eugenio to be greeted by his father and mother, who embraced the man eagerly (for they knew him to be an old friend of José Luis from the academy), then when all that was said and done approached him with open arms. They embraced, and when they parted, Eugenio smiled at José Luis warmly.

“So! The Fifth Infantry of the Line! Quite a regiment, wouldn’t you say?” He said amicably.

“Yes indeed.”

“I offer my deepest congratulations. I take it I’m not the first.” Remarked Eugenio, and José Luis chuckled. Still standing at the door of the parlour, they now moved closer to the centre of the room, as Eugenio approached a deserted roundtable and poured himself a cup of fine liquor. “Your family does seem to have the greatest of fortunes,” he began, taking a sip before continuing, “Three sons all with very promising careers, a daughter in a respectable marriage, all very good. Yes, I know your father struck out with dear Don Pablo, but still! A high success rate, by my calculations. Compared with the fortunes of my own house, it really is a raging success…”

“The de Macetes not faring too well?” Inquired José Luis.

“Well, it could be worse. Yet I did not attend this party to talk about my own fortunes. Please, it’s your grand occasion!”

“Oh, I’ve been told that enough times, man, enough about me.” José Luis groaned, pouring some drink into his own cup. “Tell me how you’re getting on! How are things at the academy?”

Eugenio shrugged. “They are well enough, I suppose. There is not much to say…”

“How is Bernardo? And Felipe? I’ve not seen them for some time.”

“They’re fine as well, perhaps Felipe has become a bit too fond of good drink, but really, we are all in good shape.” Eugenio answered, and before José Luis could say anything else, he lifted a finger as if to silence him, and said: “Now, excuse me, but I must say my greetings to your sister.” With that he marched off like a grenadier to another corner of the room, where Ana Isabel was sitting on a couch languidly, chatting to a few acquaintances. When she saw Don Eugenio, a man whom she was quite fond of, she got up to greet him.

“How are you getting on, dear Eugenio? It’s been so long.” She said with a smile.

“Just splendid, dear Ana Isabel, just splendid.” He said, kissing her hand, before turning to her husband Isidoro, who was sat down on the same couch as his wife. “How are you Isidoro? All is well, I hope? I heard you and José Luis will be in the same division when he joins the Fifth Infantry, is that right?” He asked. The major nodded, his expression simple. “Splendid, this is all just very splendid!” Eugenio said with some elation, as he sat down on an armchair that was close to Ana Isabel. José Luis smiled at his friend’s good humour, and picked a nearby armchair to sink into, eager to be with his friend Eugenio.

“Now tell me,” began Eugenio, trying to start up or renew a previous conversation, “What were you all talking about before I arrived? There must be some interesting discussion going on, no?” He asked.

Ana Isabel gave a graceful smile that she reserved for those she liked. “Well, father seems to be in an eager conversation regarding philosophy or science.” She said, pointing to the Viscount who was in another part of the parlour, speaking loudly with a group of four men, all in military uniform. “Yet here Don Manuel was just about to tell us a story concerning our ambassador to Thalvania.” She said, looking at a young man of pleasant features sat just a few feet away, dressed in a dazzling navy blue coat and beige breeches. This Don Manuel was a distant relative of José Luis, hailing from one of the more well-off branches of the de Aznárez, but which was still close enough to the Viscount to pay a visit every now and then. He did not seem very happy to be there, however, and appeared to be telling stories for his amusement, as if recounting tales would transport him away from this boring place and into a more delightful region of his memory.

“Is that so? Do you know the ambassador, Don Manuel? I don’t think I even know his name…” Asked Don Eugenio, clearly intrigued.

“Yes, I met him when I was in Rosenheim some two years ago, just a month or two after he had been appointed minister-plenipotentiary and had arrived at the capital. Luis Miguel de Albarife, is his name.” Answered Don Manuel.

“So what’s the story?” José Luis said.

“Right, of course. Well, I was in Rosenheim, as part of a grand tour across all of Arelia with my father, it was the fourth or fifth day of us being in that city, and my father chose to gather some people for a little salon in the evening, as he was quite bored. He invited some Thalvanians, all of them reputable noblemen, and a Lusainian living in the city, a Don Eduardo de Vallerín, I believe who we had met at a dinner the previous day. Now, the guests start to fill up the drawing-room of our hotel apartment, and discussion soon starts to spring up. Don Eduardo arrives somewhat late, and brings him with a friend who we had not invited, but we welcome him nonetheless. This man does not speak a word of Lusanian, it seems, so we converse in Thalvanian and Anverais. There is dinner, and we are soon all sprawled out across the drawing-room talking about a wide variety of topics.” He paused after this, letting in the audience taking in all that had been said, and noticing their expressions of understanding, he continued.

“Eventually my father starts speaking about philosophy and politics, and he enters into a sort of argument with the friend that Don Eduardo had brought concerning…ah, I believe it was the role of Charevya on the international stage, or something similar to that. I am listening attentively, as is Don Eduardo and a few other folks who are also interested in the argument, as my father and this strange man become increasingly more animated. Eventually, I do not remember what exactly it was, but this man said something that got my father very angry. He turned to me and gave a look at Don Eduardo, and said in Lusanian: ‘son, this man does not know what he’s talking about!’. Yet immediately upon saying that Eduardo and the man shared a knowing look, and the man turned to my father and said, with the most perfect mastery of our language: ‘On the contrary, Señor, I know exactly what I am talking about.’ We all became very perplexed by this, as Eduardo and the man began to laugh, and he proceeded to introduce himself as Luis Miguel de Albarife, Lusanian minister-plenipotentiary to Thalvania!”

There was a rumble of laughter among those listening to the story. “Well, you don’t say! What a funny man!” Chuckled Don Eugenio.

“Yes, he seemed to take a lot of amusement from the whole thing and would not stop laughing. We were a little flustered at first, but we took part in the mirth eventually. My father would not stop talking about it for the next few days. We dined with him a week later, then left for Wolfsberg.”

“And tell me,” began Ana Isabel, “Did you go to any of the balls while you were there? They do say the best balls in all of Arelia are hosted in Rosenheim.”

“Yes I went to two when I was there I think it was, but they weren’t like the Autumn Ball that we all hear so much about…they were smaller, less grand.” Answered Don Manuel politely.

“We knew someone, Ana Isabel, a friend of the family I believe, who was invited to the Autumn Ball, did we not?” Said José Luis.

“Oh yes! It is true, María Isabel. She went there some five or so years ago. Said it was delightful, really, the grandest ball she had ever attended…oh I would very much like to go. Do you not think the same, husband?” Asked Ana Isabel, turning to Isidoro.

The major looked at his wife with indifference. “Oh, yes, very much…” He muttered quietly. Ana Isabel frowned at the unenthusiastic tone of his voice, made a quick upward flick with her left hand as if to say ‘I can’t even be bothered’, then turned back to the rest with a happy expression.

“The Spring Ball will be held very soon in Rosenheim. I’ve been trying to read up on all the latest news concerning it.” She informed the group.

“Have they announced who shall lead the orchestra?” Inquired Don Manuel.

“Not yet, no. At least I haven’t read anything about that.” Said Ana Isabel, shrugging her shoulders.

Just then the Viscount arrived at that area of the parlour. Followed by the group of four men in uniform with whom he had been passionately speaking with, he approached his daughter and son with a jovial and triumphant look of happiness. “Well, how are my two children? Enjoying the party?”

“Yes, of course. We were just discussing the upcoming balls in Thalvania.” Replied Ana Isabel quickly, her lips forming a graceful smile.

“Oh, is that so…” Mumbled the Viscount, somewhat disinterested in the topic. After an awkward moment of silence he began speaking again, this time in a passionate and fervent voice. “Me and our dear colonels and majors here,” he pointed to the four men in uniform who were with him, “Were discussing some very interesting philosophy. Would you like to hear it?”

Don Eduardo practically jumped at these words. “Oh, I very much love philosophy! Please, tell us all about it!” He said with such an eager enthusiasm that it made José Luis chuckle a little bit. Ana Isabel frowned slightly, something that was noticed only by her brother, somewhat peeved by the sudden change of topic prompted by her father.

“Well, go on then, Juan Francisco, tell them all about it!” Said the Viscount. One of the men in uniform, a man of middling age with a thick brown beard and casually dressed hair, stepped forward, like an actor entering the stage. His expression bore an authoritative and meditative look, his hand in his waistcoat, that made him look like he was imitating one of the ancient philosophers from more than a millennium ago.

“Well, as I’m sure everyone knows, the ideas that are all the rage in those intellectual circles in our capital of Bergona, and most especially in Anverane and Waldia, are those ideas concerning the happiness of man, which…”

What followed was a lengthy discussion, that only the Viscount and this Juan Francisco seemed to be interested in. Ana Isabel went over to some other part of the parlour where her mother was talking about something else, and even Don Eugenio became a little confused and uninterested—everytime he raised a question, Juan Fernando immediately entered into a long ramble. “It is very simple…” He would say, and at once he would begin an unsteady stream of such convoluted words and ideas that left Don Eugenio more confused than he had been before he had asked the question. Only the Viscount seemed to be understanding what was said. Every now and then he would nod his head in agreement in such a comic way that José Luis was left wondering whether or not he was merely pretending to comprehend everything that was being said.

Juan Francisco’s rambling killed the interest of everyone who was there. Don Manuel freed himself from the dull discussion and began chatting to Isidoro about some trifle. When the officer finally stopped speaking, he looked around with a satisfied look. “That is all, that is all…” He mumbled almost triumphantly, and was received with a few short bursts of ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ by the Viscount. He then went away to a corner of the room where a few other officers were speaking, tried to start the philosophy discussion once more, only for María Elena to rush over in a rescue mission, roping in the officer with a different, unrelated topic. José Luis saw all this and laughed quietly. Turning to Don Eduardo, he began to speak to him about the academy.

Dinner was had. Guests started to depart. Those who were not so close to the family were the first to leave, saying their warm goodbyes to the Viscount and repeating their congratulations to his son José Luis, before going back home in the carriages. Soon all the military acquaintances of the Viscount were gone. They were followed by the companions of María Elena, and then by the distant relatives, Don Manuel among them. Soon the parlour began to feel empty, as those who remained sat and spoke under the dim candlelight of the chandeliers, the sweet melody of the piano trio overtaking the loud bustle of conversation.

Don Eugenio said his goodbyes soon after this. He and José Luis shared a short embrace. “I wish you very good luck, good friend. Really, the best. You’ll have an excellent career, I’m sure. I expect nothing more from a de Aznárez.” Said Eugenio, the pleasant features of his round face forming a bright warm expression. José Luis smiled, and bid the man farewell.

All that was left now was José Luis, the Viscount, his wife, and Ana Isabel and her husband Isidoro. Conversation became increasingly quiet and uncommon. The musicians were dismissed. An uncomfortable silence was enthroned in the room. José Luis thought that at any moment his sister would get up to leave with Isidoro, but she did not. Perhaps she did not want to say goodbye. Every now and then she would glance at her brother with a sad, melancholic expression that he found hard to bear. Unable to handle the strange wistful silence that pervaded the almost empty parlour, José Luis got up and excused himself, and said that he would be back shortly.

He walked around the estate for a while, observing the golden-ornamented white walls with a doleful look, running his hands along the wallpaper of the rooms. He felt his feet touch the cold azulejo tiles of the entrance room, and saw the entire estate washed over by that faint orange glow of candlelight. The small windows let him see the all-encompassing dark of the night, draped over all of Arelia and the little lanterns that were the stars. He could stare out into the entrance garden, where earlier so many carriages had been stationed. Now nothing but those trimmed green hedges. The quiet chirping of insects.

Many years ago, his older brother, in this very same spot, had left the estate, gotten a horse from the stables and rode off into an unknown fate. He had galloped hard through the night, with a bag carrying all his possessions and those two dueling pistols that he had stolen from his father, someone who, after that day, he never saw again. That day he had renounced his family, José Luis thought, renounced it all. Or was it the other way around? Had his family renounced him? The various circumstances that swirl around a man when he commits such actions are murky and mysterious, he thought. Yet something had indeed been renounced that day. Something that Pablo could only now recall when he was with José Luis, or perhaps when he played those triumphant chords of Bertoldi’s sonata on that discordant and out-of-tune piano…

He heard the faint shuffle of footsteps behind him. His sister and her husband stood behind him. “Oh, dear Joselu, we must be going. It’s so late…” She sighed in a despondent tone, and she walked over to her brother quietly. They held each other in a deep embrace. He could hear her sniffle slightly, and opened his eyes to see tears welling in her cheeks. “Dear brother, dear brother…” He could hear her say, pausing slightly with each word. “This is the last time I have to endure this…you’re the last one I keep telling myself, the last one…I won’t have to see anyone else go away.”

“I won’t be away forever, Anabel.” He cooed soothingly.

“I know…I know…ah, God! A thousand blessings on you! May you never come in harm’s way, God willing…you barely know what it is like, you were so young when we saw off Quique and Juanfer and…and…” She cried.

“And Pablo, Anabel.” The mention of his name only seemed to bring her sadness to new levels.

“Oh God! Do not repeat his mistakes, please! I don’t think I could bear it. I’d die…” And she started to sob. They parted. Ana Isabel buried her face in her hands, and José Luis laid a hand on her shoulder. Isidoro stood near them motionlessly, unsure what to do. José Luis gave him a look to say ‘go on, then’. The major embraced his wife, and tried to lead her away. Turning his head to José Luis, he spoke quietly.

“Serve your country well, Don José Luis, serve it with distinction and courage. I trust we will meet when we are both in Olivico soon.” He said not very assuredly, his words interrupted by the rhythmic sobs of his wife. José Luis gave a slight nod, as he saw Isidoro lead Ana Isabel out the entrance room and into the forecourt, where their carriage awaited them.

Perhaps they all renounced something when they left, mulled José Luis. Quique, and Pablo and Juanfer, all of them. Like a captain that cuts an anchor line, they renounce that cosy estate life that they had so cherished, and are thrust out into that vast open and unknown ocean, unaware of the storms that fate has prepared for them: a lame and useless leg, a disgrace as result of a duel. Occasionally they find land again, small islands of placid solace which one can take refuge in, an occasional family visit for Quique and Juanfer, or a sonata from Bertoldi for Pablo, the vague frame of a memory that none but him can remember. Then the winds shift, the boat drifts away from that island, and back out into the tempest they sail, on a course already determined that they cannot know, only able to chart as it unfolds before them…

The next day, early in the morning, the young son bids farewell to his father and mother and father in a sorrowful goodbye. Servants carry bags to a small carriage that has been prepared for him, and with a last wave to his parents he steps inside. There is a loud crack of a whip, the braying of horses, and the rattling of wheels against the stone pavement, as the carriage jolts forward, riding under the eoan light of the sun, that lantern in the sky that lights the world.

NOITE SANGRENTA

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The moon hung low in the night sky, casting its silvery light on the cobbled streets of Valestián City. A gentle lapping of waves against the harbor's edge was an ever-present companion to the stillness of the night – the soft sound welling out from every shore. The yellow and white lights dotted the city like fireflies as far as the eye could see, scattered among pastel colored buildings painted with intricate designs. Night had fallen hours before, but Valestián City remained in no way asleep – pubs and inns were full to bursting with patrons.

Teodór stirred slightly, his consciousness emerging from the depths of sleep as a distant dissonance broke through his slumber. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim illumination filtering through the luxurious draperies that adorned the windows of his finely appointed hotel room. The rich fabric was decorated with vibrant patterns embroidered in gold thread and felt soft beneath his fingertips.

Beside him, his friend Heriberto stirred as well, groggy and disoriented. The two men had returned to the hotel only a few hours prior, the evening was marked by a splendid theatrical performance had momentarily swept them away from the reality of their surroundings. The late hour only accentuated their exhaustion, and they did not even have the chance to change into their nightclothes before surrendering to the embrace of sleep.

Teodór's brows furrowed as the distant clamor intensified. It was not the kind of noise one would expect at this hour, especially in the heart of the capital city of Valestián. As the cacophony continued to swell, the men exchanged a puzzled glance.

Teodór shifted from his bed, his senses slowly returning to him as he listened more intently to the chorus of voices that permeated the night air, he could discern the distant cries of anger and frustration of hundreds, maybe even thousands of people, growing louder.

"What in heaven's name is happening?" Heriberto muttered as he rose from bed, throwing a wary glance toward the window. The richly illuminated curtains concealed all but a few glittering stars and glimpses of oncoming dawn beyond.

"I have no idea," Teodór replied, "But it can't be anything ordinary to rouse such a commotion at this hour."

Heriberto's brow knit as he rose from his bed, casting a wary glance toward the window. The ornate curtains, woven from the finest fabric money could buy, concealed the turmoil beyond.

"Shall we look?" Heriberto asked hesitantly.

"I- I don't know.." Teodór answered nervously.

Teodór hesitated, his gaze lingering on the draperies that seemed to both shield and separate them from the world outside. He had always considered himself a man of action, driven by an insatiable curiosity. However, the escalating unrest that now echoed through the streets gave him pause. Just as he was about to brush aside the draperies to get a clear view of what was going on outside, two sharp shots rent the air, like cracks of thunder in the night, causing him to panic and fall onto the floor. The soldiers of the Guarda Real and the Guarda de Segurança Interna sought to disperse the crowd, their warning shots intended to quell the growing tumult. Instead, fear spiraled into chaos, and the protest's energy surged as barricades were erected.

The chaos escalated, reaching a crescendo that shattered the night's tranquility. Teodór and Heriberto exchanged another glance, their eyes reflecting the tension that hung thick in the air. Without further contemplation, they quickly got out of their room and made their way down the dimly lit corridors of the hotel, curious to find out what was happening outside in the streets. They were also accompanied by other guests and some hotel staff members who were also curious as to what was happening outside.

When they stepped out of the hotel building onto the street, the scent of gunpowder and the distant echoes of gunfire wafted through the air. The once-genteel plaza had transformed into a battleground, the cries of protesters mingling with the stern commands of soldiers. Fear and uncertainty swirled as they were swept into a frenetic tide of humanity.

"Dear God!" Exclaimed one of the hotel guests, "What has happened to this place?!"

"Citizens of Valestián!" shouted one of the officers, "Disperse now, so that you may not be harmed!", but to no avail. The words, punctuated by the report of musket shots, sent shockwaves through the crowd. Panic rippled like a contagion, and before long, those who had taken up arms among the protesters retaliated with their own volleys.

"Senhors, senhoras," said one of the hotel staff members, "I urge you, for your safety please return back to the building!" As the sound of musket fire grew louder, they retreated to the safety of the hotel.

Their footsteps clicked against the floor of the grand foyer, which had been polished and waxed to a shine that reflected their worried faces in mirrored tiles on the floor. The staff stood off to the side, fear was etched in each line of their bodies as they aided Teodór, Heriberto, and the other guests from the lobby. Once they were escorted back to their room, the hotel employees hurriedly returned back to the ground floor.

Teodór and Heriberto could hear the employees of the hotel barricading the entrance downstairs. They could hear the protesters' screams outside, some banging against the entrance on the floor beneath the room as they try in vein to seek refuge from the soldiers who are opening fire on the protesters.

"We can't go out there!" Teodór cried out, his voice no more than a wispy echo in Heriberto's ears.

"What are we going to do?" Teodór asked as shots rang out again. The sharp staccato of musket fire mingled with the anguished cries of the wounded. In the midst of it all, the two friends found themselves caught in a vortex of confusion and fear.

"Help me prop this door closed," Heriberto said as he awkwardly shoved against it with his shoulder. While he did not relish living like a rat in its hole, neither did he want to face what was coming outside. He knew that if death came for him today, then better to die on his feet than on his knees begging for mercy at the muzzle of an enemy's musket. Teodór joined him at the door and together they pushed back until it made contact with something solid and unmoving behind it.

The minutes stretched into an eternity, the cacophony beyond the walls an unsettling reminder of the world in upheaval. It was nearly an hour later that the tranquility of their solitude was shattered by a sudden intrusion. The door to their room burst open, the force of the entry accompanied by the ominous creaking of wood against wood. In the dim light, the figures that stood in the doorway were an unsettling amalgamation of authority and uncertainty.

Teodór's heart leapt into his throat as he and Heriberto turned toward the door, their eyes meeting the stern gazes of two soldiers of the Guarda Real accompanied by a lone soldier of the Guarda de Segurança Interna and one hotel staff member. "Good evening, gentlemen," Teodór managed, his voice betraying a mixture of confusion and trepidation.

The soldier at the forefront, his expression stern, returned a curt nod. "Good evening, senhors," he said, "We apologize for the intrusion, we are conducting a search."

Teodór exchanged a brief glance with Heriberto, the unease that had lingered since the first echoes of unrest now amplified by the presence of authority figures in their sanctum of luxury. "A search?" Heriberto queried, his tone mirroring the skepticism that danced in his eyes.

"Yes," the second soldier answered, "we have reason to believe that some of the protesters may have sought refuge in this hotel."

Teodór's heart raced as he attempted to reconcile the opulent surroundings of their room with the stark reality that had descended upon the city outside. "We assure you, gentlemen, that we are simply travelers passing through the city," he declared, his voice even as he met the gaze of each of the intruders in turn.

The soldiers exchanged a glance, their resolve seemingly unwavering. "We can never be certain," the first soldier declared, leaving little room for argument.

Heriberto's hand brushed against Teodór's arm, a silent gesture that communicated their shared understanding of the situation. With a nod, Teodór turned his attention back to the soldiers, his features a mask of compliance.

"As you wish." Teodór conceded.

For what felt like an eternity, the soldiers conducted their search, their practiced movements revealing a proficiency honed by experience. Drawers were pulled open, closets examined, and even the grand curtains that had once served as a barrier against the outside world were brushed aside as the men combed through the room with meticulous precision. Teodór's heart pounded in his chest, as he glanced at Heriberto, he found his friend's expression a mirror of his own.

And then, as quickly as they had entered, the soldiers retreated, their movements marked by a silent acknowledgement that their search had yielded no results. The door closed behind them with a resounding thud, leaving Teodór and Heriberto alone once more. For a long moment, the men simply stood there, their gaze locked on the door that now separated them from the outside world. The symphony of unrest that had once provided the backdrop to their solitude had now faded, replaced by the eerie silence that seemed to resonate in the aftermath of the intrusion.

For a long moment, both of them simply stood there, their gaze locked on the door that now separated them from the outside world. The symphony of unrest that had once provided the backdrop to their solitude had now faded, replaced by the eerie silence that seemed to resonate in the aftermath of the intrusion.

Teodór exhaled slowly, the tension that had once held him in its grip now slowly ebbing away. He turned to Renato, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Well," he began, his voice laced with a hint of humor, "it appears that our journey has taken a rather unexpected turn."

Heriberto chuckled softly, still trying to process what had just happened.

The predawn light clawed its way through the darkness, casting an unsettling glow upon the city streets. The battle had subsided, leaving a trail of devastation and loss in its wake. As Teodór and Heriberto dared to step outside, they were greeted by a sight that would forever be etched into their memories. The streets were marred by the remnants of the night's brutality, makeshift barricades that were erected last night, along with the bodies of the wounded and the fallen, estimated to be in the hundreds, litter the streets, as the military doubled down on the patrols. Now, soldiers could be seen in every corner of the city.

The cast-iron lamp posts sprayed sparks of streetlight over the damage; out of one came a man who dragged his bleeding foot behind him as he ambled along, pausing often to see if there was any help to be had from those still moving. Another stumbled past them with bandages around his head; they could only watch as he continued down the road away from them. Bloodstains marked the cobblestones, and the air held a palpable sense of grief as volunteers and medical personnel moved in the scene, tending to the wounded and carrying away the fallen.

A Royal Rift

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Eighteenth of Garasy, Thirteen Ninety Four
6:48 PM, Herdade de Mouredès

The radiant sun descended languorously upon the horizon, casting its golden tendrils of light across the expanse of the Strait of Santa Halan. Merely two days had elapsed since the tumultuous events of the Sixteenth of Garasy protests, dubbed the Bloody Night had sent shockwaves rippling through the very core of the Kingdom of Galistia, leaving the nation still trembling in its wake. Adorned in the resplendent regalia befitting his royal station, Crown Prince Lucian V arrived at the Herdade de Mouredès, an expansive estate nestled atop a precipice that commanded an awe-inspiring panorama of the strait and the distant city of Santa Halan, ensconced upon its island. This grand estate was the ancestral seat of the venerable Casa de Mouredès, and its present head, the Count of Cójón, Gláucio de Mouredès, bore a cherished friendship with the Crown Prince that had withstood the test of time. The architectural splendor of the Count's abode mirrored the elegance of a bygone era.

As the royal carriage drew to an elegant halt before the imposing entrance of the estate, Crown Prince Lucian V alighted gracefully, his gleaming boots resounding in harmonious cadence upon the cobblestone courtyard. The embrace of old friends ensued as Count Gláucio, resplendent in his own noble attire, complete with the sash emblematic of his high rank, warmly welcomed his distinguished guest. Their fraternal bond had been nurtured across the expanse of many years, bearing testament to the enduring nature of friendships forged in the crucible of youth. "Your Highness!" proclaimed the count, "It is an honor of the highest order to receive your august presence within the hallowed confines of my modest estate."

"Count Gláucio, the honor is wholly mine. Your hospitality has ever been a beacon of solace in these turbulent times."

"I beseech Your Highness, join me within! There is much we must discourse upon, for I did not solicit your presence here without weighty cause." Entreated the count, extending an arm towards the opulent interior of his residence.

With a gracious nod, Lucian followed the count and entered the count's luxurious estate. The walls of the foyer were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting scenes of valor and grandeur from Galistia's storied past. The ornate chandeliers overhead bathed the surroundings in a warm, golden light, casting a regal ambiance upon the estate. As Count Gláucio and Crown Prince Lucian V made their way through the elegant corridors of the Herdade de Mouredès, their footsteps echoed softly on the polished marble floors. The grandeur of the estate was unmistakable, a testament to the noble lineage of the Mouredès family. The walls of the corridors were adorned with portraits of the previous counts of Cójón.

"Your Highness-"

"Oh, please, Gláucio, dispense with formalities," Lucian interjected with an affable smile, "our friendship has spanned the years, and we are among kindred spirits. Address me by my given name, I beseech you."

"I suppose it wouldn't Your Highness." the count conceded with a warm smile. "Well, Lucian, it has been far too long since our paths last converged in this manner. I had harbored hopes of a swifter reunion, but the weighty obligations that befall us both have proven formidable barriers."

"Indeed, my dear friend, the exigencies of my royal duties have monopolized my time, and the recent tumultuous events that have gripped our beloved Galistia have left scant room for personal matters." A discreet clearing of the throat emanated from the periphery, compelling both men to pivot their attention toward a liveried servant, impeccably attired, poised in readiness to fulfill their desires. "Oh, greetings Senhor Aldo. Might I inquire, is the tea in readiness? It is imperative that we do not detain His Highness any longer." Said the count. "Certainly, Your Excellency," the servant responded with a respectful bow, "I have meticulously assembled the finest assortment of teas as per your request. They await your pleasure, already arrayed upon the veranda."

"Very well, Senhor Aldo. I appreciate it. You are dismissed."

With the servant's departure, the two friends resumed their dialogue, continuing their leisurely sojourn toward the veranda. Here, a breathtaking vista unfolded before them, with the Strait of Santa Halan stretching out in all its splendor, the cerulean waters shimmering beneath the embrace of the setting sun, which painted the sky in myriad hues of gold and crimson. Lucian took a seat on one of the elaborately crafted chairs, and Gláucio joined him. They gazed out onto the strait, a moment of tranquil reflection before resuming their conversation. As they settled into their seats, Lucian regarded Gláucio with genuine curiosity. "Tell me, my friend what has life been like for you in the past few years? I heard that you married Apolônia of the House of Navas, a noblewoman of influence. How has married life treated you?" Count Gláucio's countenance, in response, radiated with a mélange of pride and affection as he embarked upon narrating the tale of his matrimonial union. "Indeed, Apolônia and I have been joyfully wed for the span of five years, my dear Lucian," he began, "She is a remarkable woman, possessing a fortitude of character that mirrors her outer loveliness. Our marriage has been graced with the arrival of a daughter, Eufêmia, who recently celebrated her third year, and has become the very joy of our lives."

"That sounds truly wonderful, Gláucio. Family is a treasure beyond measure. I'm glad to hear that you have found happiness."

"But what tidings of the royal household, Lucian? How have they fared?"

"Regrettably, Gláucio, the fortunes of my family have not flourished as of late. Father's recent passing has cast a shadow upon our hearth."

"I extend my heartfelt condolences for the loss of your father, Lucian. And how does Her Majesty, the queen, fare amidst these challenging times?"

"Alas, my mother and I find ourselves embroiled in ceaseless disputes concerning matters of state. My younger brothers, Jônatas and Paulo, have, regrettably, been ensnared by her favoritism, consistently taking her side against my counsel. These have been trying times for our family, indeed." Lucian turned to his friend, noticing his expression of understanding, and changed the topic.

"Gláucio, I sense that there is more to this meeting than a simple reunion. What is it that you truly wish to discuss?"

"You sure are sharp-minded, Your Highness. I'm glad you noticed." The count chuckled, "Well, go on, my friend, what is it that you want to tell me?" Lucian asked. "Well, Lucian, to start off, our beloved Galistia is crumbling. It is failing, and it has been for some time." Lucian arched an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "I beseech you to elaborate, Gláucio." The Count leaned forward, his expression earnest. "Ever since the fateful choice to oppose Anverane twenty eight years ago, and the eventual war against Lusain twelve years ago, our kingdom has languished. We lost our colonial possessions in Morisa, our economy is crumbling, our army weakened, and our prestige has waned. The queen and her court's ineptitude have ushered us into this sorry state." Lucian pondered Gláucio's words, the ramifications of their veracity settling upon him like a heavy cloak. The wars against Anverane and Lusain had indeed proven to be costly missteps, ones that had left Galistia enfeebled and exposed. "Gláucio, what course of action do you propose?"

"I propose that you, Your Highness, that you assume the throne as the rightful king. Overthrow your mother."

"But Gláucio, to depose my own mother, such an undertaking is fraught with profound consequences. Are you certain that this path is the correct one to tread?"

"Indeed, Lucian, I am firmly convinced of the necessity of this course. The hour is propitious, for your mother's favor among the populace is dwindling rapidly. Should we fail to act with alacrity, the commoners may rise in revolt, as we witnessed transpire in Anverane last year. This time, the odds of their success are considerable, given the precarious state of the Royal Army. Most of the Royal Army's rank and file would readily defect to any revolutionary faction, driven by their meager remuneration, the only ones that are loyal to the crown are the Royal Guards."

"And what of my brothers, Jônatas and Paulo? They have not always seen eye to eye with me, and they have often sided with our mother during our disagreements. Would they not rise against my government?"

"Well your brothers will have to make a choice, Your Highness. I understand your concerns, my dear friend. Yet, consider this: would you prefer to sustain a monarchy that crumbles at its very foundations, or would you rather witness the entire aristocracy of Galistia, including yourself and your family, face the wrath of enraged commoners, precipitating the establishment of a republic—a republic that may prove no more stable than the monarchy it supplants?" Lucian's gaze fell, and the weight of his silence bespoke volumes. He was acutely aware of the stark veracity embedded within the Count's words. Count Gláucio leaned closer, his words a hushed entreaty. "Lucian, I do not propose this course lightly, my dear friend. But time is no longer our ally. Should we falter in taking swift and decisive action, the unrest festering among the populace will burgeon. They may turn against you, against us all. I have already garnered the support of influential military officers from both the Internal Guard and the Royal Army. Deputies of the General Court, as well, stand with us. Together, we shall orchestrate a coup, and the upcoming General Court's assembly at the Palácio de Rivona in three days, where they will convene at 10 AM to address the Sixteenth of Garasy incident and other matters of state, presents an opportune moment."

"But Gláucio, what guarantee do we have that the commoners will not revolt against me, even if I were to take the throne?" A wry smile tugged at the corners of the Count's lips. "Believe it or not, Your Highness," he replied, "the people would support you. You are widely popular throughout the country, much more so than your own mother. They see you as a beacon of hope, a leader who can steer Galistia out of its current turmoil." Lucian, after a prolonged contemplation, finally yielded. "Very well, Gláucio. I concur with your plan."

"Then let it be so. You have made a wise decision, my friend."

"You mentioned military officers and government officials supporting the cause. I must know, dear friend, who are these individuals who have pledged their allegiance to this endeavor?"

"Lucian, you must understand the gravity of this information. You must swear in God's name that you will not reveal these names to anyone, not even your most trusted confidants."

"Gláucio, you know I could do no such thing. Scripture forbids it, and my faith is unwavering. You have my word, Gláucio, that I shall not leak these names."

"I am not sure if I can trust you Lucian, I had learned my lesson when you snitched on me when I bad-mouthed one of our friends when we were young," the Count chuckled, "how can I be so sure you wouldn't do the same now? And besides, there are too many to name." Lucian looked at Gláucio with a hint of disappointment in his expression; the Crown Prince didn't expect his childhood friend to distrust him. "Very well, Gláucio, I will see what I can do to garner more support. In the meantime, please inform your fellow conspirators in the General Court to be prepared for what lies ahead." The count took a sip of his tea and nodded in agreement, "Of course, Your Highness, I shall convey the message." Lucian grunted and stood up, preparing to take his leave, intending to return to the capital for some much-needed rest. "Well, I shall get going now, Gláucio. I shall see you in three days." The Count interjected, standing up with him, "Your Highness, the journey back to the capital will take hours, and you must be famished. I implore you to stay and dine with us. I would not have you travel on an empty stomach. It is the least I can offer after bringing such weighty matters to your attention." Lucian hesitated; he did not usually like to dine with his friends, as he was rather a socially awkward person for a royal, but the count insisted that he dine with him, and Lucian eventually relented. "Very well, if you insist, Gláucio." The count gestured for Lucian to take a seat again, "Thank you, Lucian. It has been a long time since we've both met, staying a bit longer wouldn't hurt; who knows when we'll get to meet again?" Lucian nodded in agreement, let out a soft sigh, and both of them took a seat. Lucian grabbed the teapot on the table and poured tea onto the porcelain teacup, filling it up halfway through. Lucian then took a sip of the tea, its rich flavor calming him and momentarily washing away all of his thoughts. "I must admit, Gláucio, this is one delicious tea you have. I have never tasted anything like this before." Lucian said, appreciating the tea's flavor. "Why thank you, Your Highness. It's the finest tea from Khitan that I could buy, imported it from Thalvania's eastern colony. It is a taste of the exotic that I believe we should explore further. Perhaps we ought to set up trading posts in the continent in the near future so that we can trade with the natives directly for tea, rather than importing it from Thalvania and Waldia. The tea they sell us is exorbitantly expensive to import."

"It seems that you and I share the same sentiment, Gláucio. Rest assured, it will be among the first things I address once I ascend the throne." Gláucio and Lucian shared a laugh, the camaraderie of their friendship evident in their easy banter. Their conversation was interrupted by the familiar figure of Senhor Aldo, the servant who had attended to them earlier." Senhor Aldo, what is it?" the Count inquired. The servant bowed slightly before addressing them. "My apologies, Your Excellency, but the supper is already prepared. The chefs have been hard at work, and the dishes are fresh from the kitchen." Gláucio and Lucian exchanged surprised glances. Supper was not typically served at this hour, but the Count appreciated the effort. "Very well, Senhor Aldo. We shall make our way to the dining room. You are dismissed." With that, the servant bowed once more and retreated to carry out his duties. Gláucio and Lucian rose from their seats and made their way to the dining room. With the aroma of freshly prepared dishes wafting from the dining room, they both made their way to the table. The servants had ensured that the food was still piping hot, and the plates were placed before them, laden with an array of delectable sea food dishes, each one carefully crafted by the finest cooks Cójón could offer, accompanied by two wine glasses filled with the finest wine in Galistia. Once seated, Gláucio called one of the servants, "Could you ask the head chef what they had prepared for us tonight?" The servant nodded, "Of course Your Excellency, I'll be back in a moment." The servant bowed and hurriedly went to the kitchen and returned with a list of the dishes that had been prepared. "Your Excellency, the chefs have prepared.." the servant looked at the list, "a plate of salted codfish, eggs, and finely chopped fried potatoes, two plates of duck and rice garnished with chorizo, two bowls of seafood stew with clams, shrimp, and fish for the main course, and for dessert, we have custard tarts, and tarts made with fresh cheese, sugar, and cinnamon. For drinks, we have wine imported from Lusain." Lucian interjected, "Hold the dessert please, I will not be able to eat it, as I have to return back to the capital as quick as possible once I finish eating." The servant wrote on his piece of paper, "As you wish Your Highness." The count took a sip of wine, "Thank you, senhor. You are dismissed." The servant bowed once again and continued doing his task. A short prayer was offered before eating, Lucian bowing his head briefly, his lips moving in silent reverence, with Gláucio followed suit, and as the last words of the prayer faded into the air, they turned their attention to the feast before them. Their conversation flowed naturally as they savored each bite and sip of the food and wine, "Gláucio, where are Apolônia and Eufêmia? I would have thought they'd join us for such a splendid supper." Lucian asked between mouthfuls, "Ah, my dear Apolônia and Eufêmia, they are in Segolon, celebrating a holiday that Apolônia's family observes each year. It is a tradition dear to her heart, and I did not wish to disrupt their joyous gathering." Lucian nodded in understanding.

With their supper concluded, Lucian rose from his seat feeling content and invigorated, and Gláucio followed suit. "Well, Gláucio, I must now make my way back to the capital. The evening has been truly delightful, and your hospitality unmatched." Gláucio nodded, "It has been an honor to host you, Your Highness, and I am grateful for the trust and friendship we share. Please, let me accompany you back to your carriage." Gláucio replied, "Very well, as you wish, Gláucio." Lucian said. Gláucio signaled to one of the servants, "Senhor, please see that the rest of the staff and servants enjoy the remainder of this splendid feast. It would be a shame for such delicious food to go to waste. Tell them to not eat all of the tarts, though, leave some for me." The count said. "As you wish, Your Excellency." The servant bowed, before walking away to inform the rest of the staff. As they made their way back outside, Lucian's royal carriage awaited him, the night enveloped them, the distant stars shimmering in the velvety sky. With their temporary goodbyes exchanged, Lucian boarded the carriage, and the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves echoed through the night as the carriage carried him away, back toward the capital of Galistia.

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Twentieth of Garasy, Thirteen Ninety Four
1:03 PM, Palácio de Bilma

Two days had passed since Crown Prince Lucian V and Count Gláucio de Mouredès had met on the picturesque estate overlooking the Strait of Santa Halan. The discussions that had taken place during their clandestine gathering weighed heavily on Lucian's mind as he made his way back to the Palácio de Bilma, his personal residence on the outskirts of Valestián City. It was an idyllic retreat from the political intrigues of the main palace, Palácio de Leóvilés, where his mother and brothers resided. The afternoon sun cast long shadows as Lucian's royal carriage made its way along the winding path leading to the Palácio de Bilma. He had just concluded a visit to the War Ministry building in the city's southeast district. Upon his arrival, Lucian was greeted by Pio do Rosário, his loyal personal assistant and servant, a man who had served the Crown Prince with unwavering dedication for years. Pio's demeanor was impeccable, as always, and he presented himself with a deep bow.

"Your Highness," Pio began respectfully, "I trust your visit to the War Ministry building was productive."

"Indeed it was, Pio."

"There is a matter of importance I must bring to your attention."

"Hm? What is it?"

"I have a letter for you from the Count of Cójón." Pio stepped forward, a sealed envelope and a folded newspaper held delicately in his hands. The envelope bore the distinctive seal of the Count of Cójón, "I have also taken the liberty of collecting your daily newspaper as well, Your Highness. It arrived earlier this morning."

"Well thank you, Senhor Pio." Lucian said as he accepted both the envelope and the newspaper, he placed the newspaper on the desk, acknowledging it as something to peruse later. His attention turned to the sealed envelope, and with deliberate care, he broke the seal and extracted the letter contained within and began to read.

"Nineteenth of Garasy, Thirteen Ninety Four,
My Dearest Lucian,

I trust this missive finds you in the best of health and spirits.
I could not help but recall your fondness for the Khitan tea from
our last meeting, and so I have taken it upon myself to arrange
for a shipment of this exquisite brew to be transported from the
distant shores of Hirschbrunn to your residence. Please accept it as
a token of our enduring friendship.

Furthermore, it would be remiss of me not to gently remind you,
though I have every confidence in your steadfastness, that duty
beckons with an urgency that befits the gravest of responsibilities.
As a beacon of our nation's honor and virtue, you, my dear friend,
are called upon to once again embrace the call to service. The fate
of our beloved land rests, in no small measure, upon your unwavering
dedication.

Yours faithfully,
Count Gláucio de Mouredès, Count of Cójón"

Lucian's lips curved into a fond smile as he finished reading. He folded the letter neatly, placed it back into its envelope, and set it aside on his desk. "Aside from this letter from the Count of Cójón, Your Highness, we have received a rather intriguing package earlier today an hour after you left. It arrived in a large crate, and the markings on it are in Thalian." Pio said. Lucian raised an eyebrow, "Thalian, you say?" "Yes, Your Highness. The group of individuals who made the delivery claimed the crate was imported from Hirschbrunn."

"Ah, must be Count Gláucio's gift for me." Lucian chuckled, "That guy never ceases to amaze me."

"What would you have us do with the package, Your Highness?"

"Oh, just store its contents in the tea caddy."

"Very well, Your Highness. Do you have other requests you wish to make?"

"Indeed I do, Pio, please prepare my horse for tomorrow, I have an inspection to conduct. Additionally, write a letter and dispatch a messenger to Sir Sérgio de Crenas, the Governor of Fort Guadadoba. Inform him to have the second-in-command of the Third Royal Regiment of the Line, Major Hugo de Castenie, ready the soldiers for inspection tomorrow."

Pio executed a deep bow, "As you wish, Your Highness. I shall attend to these matters promptly." With that, Pio took his leave, setting about the tasks Lucian had entrusted to him while the crown prince started to read his daily newspaper in his office room.

-------

4:39 PM, Fort Guadadoba

"You know, Governor," Victor began with a hearty laugh, "back in my days with the Internal Guard, we were constantly chasing brigands out of the roads in the outskirts of the capital. I remember this one time when I and my mates were pursuing a particularly nimble fellow. He was sprinting like the wind, but suddenly, he tripped over a root and went sprawling.. when that bastard turned around and saw me closing in, his face turned as white as a ghost! I swear, It was the funniest thing I'd ever witnessed in my life!" Victor's laughter filled the room, while Governor Sérgio, engrossed in the documents before him, offered a faint smile but made no verbal response. His dedication to his duties often left him with little patience for Victor's tales.

As Victor's laughter subsided, he couldn't help but notice the Governor's stern concentration. Clearing his throat, he commented, "You know, Governor, sometimes I think we should all lighten up a bit. Life can't be all paperwork and discipline." Sérgio's attention remained focused on the parchment he was perusing, his expression unyielding. He muttered in a measured tone, "Our duty to the kingdom often demands discipline above all else, Victor." Before Victor could offer any further remarks, their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of a young messenger. The young man, bearing the seal of the Royal coat of arms, seemed somewhat flustered as he entered the office. "Apologies for the interruption, Governor, Lieutenant," the messenger stammered, "I bear a letter of utmost urgency for your attention." Sérgio's gaze shifted from the papers before him to the messenger. Without hesitation, he extended his hand, expecting the sealed envelope. "Give it here," Sérgio ordered, his voice devoid of any warmth. The messenger promptly handed over the envelope, casting a somewhat wary glance at the stern governor. With a curt nod of dismissal, Sérgio gestured for the young man to leave. As the door closed behind the departing messenger, Victor couldn't help but comment on the governor's demeanor. "You know, Governor, there was no need to be so harsh with the lad. He's just doing his job." Sérgio, however, appeared unperturbed by Victor's observation. He focused his attention solely on the sealed envelope in his hands, a sense of gravity enveloping him. With measured deliberation, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter within, revealing the formal and finely penned script.

"Twentieth of Garasy, Thirteen Ninety Four
Sir Sérgio de Crenas,

Greetings and salutations. I trust this letter finds you well and in
good spirits. I am writing to request your immediate attention to
a matter of the utmost importance.

Please inform Lieutenant Colonel Hugo de Castenie, my esteemed
second-in-command of the Third Royal Regiment of the Line, that the
regiment shall assemble tomorrow at 8 AM within the courtyard of
Fort Guadadoba. It is of paramount importance that the regiment be
in full attendance and prepared for inspection by 9 AM.

Your compliance is greatly appreciated, and I trust in your diligence.

Yours faithfully,
Lucian V, Crown Prince of Galistia"

The room fell silent as Sérgio meticulously read the contents of the letter. His brow furrowed as he absorbed the gravity of the message within. It was evident that the missive bore significant weight, judging by the governor's solemn expression. As Sérgio continued to read, Victor waited in respectful silence. It was not his place to inquire about the contents of a royal missive, and he knew better than to interrupt his superior. After a few moments, Sérgio gently placed the open letter back on his desk, the absence of any indication of distress on his face betraying nothing, and the atmosphere in the room was tense. Sérgio, finally acknowledging his subordinate, turned to him, "Victor, I require you to summon Lieutenant Colonel Hugo de Castenie to my office at once."

"Of course, Governor." quickly rose from his chair and made his way towards the fort's officers' quarters, where he expected to find Lieutenant Colonel Hugo. Entering the bustling quarters, Victor scanned the room until he spotted Lieutenant Colonel Hugo de Castenie engaged in conversation with the Third's regimental major, Major Horácio Rego. The two officers were discussing affairs within the regiment with a mix of seriousness and camaraderie. Without hesitation, Victor approached the duo and interrupted their conversation with a respectful salute. "Lieutenant Colonel Castenie, Governor de Crenas requests your immediate presence in his office." Hugo turned his attention to Victor, his brow furrowing slightly at the unexpected summons. "Is there a matter of urgency, Lieutenant?" he inquired. Victor, maintaining the formality of his tone, replied, "Yes, Lieutenant Colonel. And it requires your presence." Hugo nodded in acknowledgment, excusing himself from Horácio's company. As he followed Victor out of the officers' quarters and towards the Governor's office, he couldn't help but wonder about the nature of such urgent matter. Upon reaching the Governor's office, Hugo entered the room and found Sérgio behind his desk, the letter from the Crown Prince resting before him. "Lieutenant Colonel Castenie, the Crown Prince has ordered the Third Regiment to be assembled tomorrow at 8 AM in the courtyard for inspection. The regiment must be fully prepared and organized by 9 AM." Hugo's brows furrowed in thought as he absorbed the directive. The unusual nature of the command left room for speculation, but he knew better than to question it outright. His duty was to execute orders promptly and efficiently, regardless of their origin. "Understood, Governor, I shall see to it that the regiment is prepared for inspection as ordered." With that, Hugo excused himself from the Governor's office, leaving Victor and Sérgio behind. As he returned to the officers' quarters, he couldn't help but feel uneasy about the situation. "So what was that all about?" Horácio asked, "I've received orders from the Crown Prince himself that we are to assemble at the courtyard tomorrow for a regimental-wide inspection." Horácio, leaning against a table, raised an eyebrow at Hugo's announcement. "An inspection, you say? Tomorrow?"

"Indeed, Horácio. It seems we won't have the luxury of resting in this fort until the day we retire as we dreamed of ever since we were stationed here." Hugo chuckled lightly. Horácio grinned in response, "Ah, well, a little unexpected drill never hurt anyone. Besides, we've faced worse surprises in the past." Both officers shared a laugh as they discussed about the upcoming regimental-wide inspection. The orders may have been mysterious, but they were determined to execute them with the same discipline and dedication that had always defined the Third Royal Regiment of the Line ever since it was levied in the year of Thirteen Seventy Two.

──────────────

Twenty First of Garasy, Thirteen Ninety Four
7:31 AM, Fort Guadadoba

The dawn of a new day in Fort Guadadoba broke with a harsh and relentless clamor, as the regimental non-commissioned officers raised their voices to rouse the slumbering soldiers of the Third Royal Regiment of the Line. It was a cacophony of shouted orders, punctuated by the shrill blast of bugles and the brassy blare of trumpets. The thunderous awakening was a tradition as old as the regiment itself, designed to instill discipline and punctuality into the ranks. Florencio Peres, a seasoned corporal in his mid-forties, knew this reveille well. He had heard it in the darkest hours of the night, during battles, and in the stillness of the fort. His eyes blinked open at precisely 7:31 AM, a minute later than the usual time he had trained himself to rise over his many years of service. But in the military, even a minute's delay was unacceptable, so he quickly swung his legs out of the cot and onto the wooden floor. Around him, the other soldiers of the Third Regiment's First Fusilier Company's Second Platoon were doing the same, their movements hurried and synchronized, like a well-drilled machine. With practiced efficiency, Florencio dressed himself in his uniform, carefully buttoning his blue coat with red facings and affixing his brass buttons. He donned his black bicorn hat, the distinctive headgear of the regiment, and adjusted it until it sat at just the right angle. Next came his equipment, belts, and accouterments, all carefully checked and maintained to perfection. The most crucial piece, however, was his musket, a trusty Brown Bess flintlock. He retrieved it from the armory, where it had been stored overnight. He checked the barrel, the lock, and the stock, ensuring everything was in proper working order. Cleaning and maintenance were habits ingrained in him since his early days as a fusilier.

As Florencio hurried to join the formation in the courtyard, he couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia for his earlier years as a grenadier. A decade into his service, his exemplary performance had earned him a coveted spot among the regiment's elite. But a major injury during a drill had dashed his dreams of remaining a grenadier. Despite the setback, he still received the same pay as a grenadier, a rare honor, along with military decorations and awards for his dedication. The courtyard was a hive of activity, with the fusiliers forming multiple ranks to the right of their esteemed grenadier counterparts' formation. Most had foregone precious hours of sleep, spending the night meticulously polishing their boots, cleaning their muskets, and tending to their uniforms. Unlike the grenadiers, who had personal caretakers to handle such tasks, the fusiliers had to rely on their own efforts. Exhaustion hung heavy in the air, the soldiers' eyes heavy with sleep deprivation. Yet, the relentless shouts of the officers and non-commissioned officers, coupled with the stirring sounds of the bugles and trumpets, kept them alert despite their fatigue. Lieutenant Colonel Hugo de Castenie and Major Horácio Rego, the regiment's senior officers, strode about the courtyard, their presence commanding respect and attention. They exchanged hushed conversations as they surveyed the assembled ranks, discussing the upcoming inspection and the state of their soldiers.

"Attention!" The soldiers snapped to attention, their boots hitting the ground in unison, muskets held perfectly upright. They stood like statues, the culmination of hours of effort and discipline. "Good morning gentlemen of the Third, as stated last night, there will be a regimental-wide inspection today at 9 AM. Until then, stand by in formation and, if possible, remain silent. Correct any errors in the formation as needed." With a final nod, Hugo signaled to the officers and non-commissioned officers to continue their vigilant scrutiny. The intense shouts and orders resumed as the soldiers and their leaders tirelessly worked to ensure perfection. As the minutes ticked away, Florencio couldn't help but steal a glance at his pocket watch. It read 7:59, just one minute away from 8 AM. The anticipation in the air was palpable, and the soldiers stood at attention, resolute in their dedication to uphold the honor of the Third Royal Regiment of the Line. At precisely 9:10 AM, the resounding clatter of hooves echoed through the courtyard. Every soldier's gaze turned toward the source of the sound, and the buglers played their bugles to herald the arrival of the Crown Prince. Crown Prince Lucian V, mounted on his magnificent Zalavegan brown stallion, made a regal entrance. His presence commanded the attention of all, and the soldiers presented arms with their muskets, a salute to their colonel and future king. Lieutenant Colonel Hugo de Castenie and Major Horácio Rego moved forward to greet their commander and engage in quiet conversation.

"Greetings, gentlemen."

"Good morning, Your Highness." Both Hugo and Horácio said

"I must apologize for the late notice of this inspection. I understand it has inconvenienced both of you."

"Your Highness, there is no need for apologies. You are the Crown Prince, and we are but humble officers. We are here to serve and follow your orders."

"Indeed, Your Highness. Our duty is to ensure your commands are executed promptly and efficiently."

"Thank you both for your understanding. Let us proceed with the inspection, shall we?"

With that, the three officers turned their attention toward the assembled soldiers. They began their meticulous assessment at the far left of the formation, where the Prince's Own Grenadiers stood in all their imposing glory. These elite soldiers bore the honor and responsibility of being the vanguard of the regiment. One by one, they moved through the ranks, inspecting uniforms, equipment, and muskets. Lucian's keen eye didn't miss a single detail, and he occasionally offered quiet words of praise to soldiers who stood out with their impeccable attire or precision in their duties. The inspection continued methodically, the officers progressing down the formation, their pace unhurried yet purposeful. When they finally reached the fusilier companies of the Third Royal Regiment of the Line, Florencio Peres and his comrades awaited their turn with bated breath. The Crown Prince, with his officers in tow, assessed the fusilier companies with the same scrutiny as the grenadiers. He paid attention to each soldier, offering nods of approval and the occasional word of encouragement. After the inspection that seemed to stretch into eternity, Lucian took a step back, he chuckled softly, addressing Hugo and Horácio. "Just as the way I left you guys here two years ago." With the formalities of the inspection behind them, Lucian turned his attention to the purpose of their gathering. "Good morning, soldiers of the Third Royal Regiment of the Line. I sincerely apologize for the late notice of the inspection today. We have been granted the honor of mounting the guard for the General Court's meeting at the Palácio de Rivona today. Our duty is to ensure the safety and dignity of the court during this important event." Lucian glanced at his pocket watch, it was 9:34. Time was of the essence, and their march to the Palácio de Rivona could not be delayed. With a commanding gesture, Lucian signaled for the regiment to form into marching columns facing the fort's gate. The soldiers, guided by their officers and non-commissioned officers, executed the maneuver with precision. The Crown Prince raised his hand, and the grenadier company took its position at the forefront. Their red plumes and imposing stature marked them as the vanguard of the regiment. "Third Royal Regiment of the Line, forward, march!" proclaimed Lieutenant Colonel Hugo de Castenie. The regiment began to move as one, their boots striking the ground with a rhythmic precision that mirrored the beating of a single heart. The Prince's Own Grenadiers led the way, and the fusilier companies followed closely behind. They marched out of the fort, the massive wooden drawbridge opening to allow their passage. Down the hill they descended, the proud soldiers of the Third Royal Regiment of the Line.

-------

Twenty First of Garasy, Thirteen Ninety Four
10:22 AM, Palácio de Rivona

The Queen, Diana de Leójara-Porín-Salusia, resided on her elevated throne, a magnificent seat of power that looks like it had descended the heavens. The throne was crowned by a gigantic baldachin, an emblem of the Crown's regal authority. Surrounding the Queen, ten of her closest advisors stood like sentinels of her reign. Count Gláucio de Mouredès, the Count of Cójón, found himself seated among this distinguished assembly, his noble lineage and reputation preceding him. The chamber itself was a marvel of architecture, with its high-vaulted ceilings and grand chandeliers that cast a warm, golden glow upon the chamber. As the last deputies of the General Court took their seats, a Speaker of the House, a man of solemn demeanor, arose to commence the proceedings. He read from a piece of parchment paper. "Good morning, Esteemed Colleagues and Honorable Deputies of our Sovereign Kingdom, by the grace of our sovereign monarch, Queen Diana de Leójara-Porín-Salusia, ordained by Almighty God, we have gathered on this auspicious day to deliberate upon matters of paramount importance to our great nation. As we assemble within these hallowed halls, we are bound by our solemn duty to engage in discourse that shall shape the course of our beloved nation, to ensure justice is dispensed, and the welfare of our subjects safeguarded. Let the spirit of enlightenment and reason guide our deliberations as we seek to unravel the intricacies of this grave matter, in the pursuit of equity, peace, and the enduring prosperity of our beloved land. May the wisdom of the ages illuminate our path, and may our shared dedication to the common good inspire us in our solemn endeavors this day. Let us proceed with due reverence for the gravity of our mission, as representatives of the people, charged with upholding the honor and integrity of our nation. May God smile upon our Queen and grant us His divine guidance as we embark upon these deliberations."

With his formal statement concluded, he took his seat, and the first order of business was declared. "First order of business, gentlemen, the Sixteenth of Garasy incident, dubbed the Bloody Night, more than fifty people dead, mostly civilians, some mutineers from the Internal Guard. People are calling for economic and political reforms and are calling for a constitutional monarchy." The room fell into a moment of expectant silence as the weight of the issue hung heavily in the air. Deputies exchanged glances, their minds grappling with the implications of such a profound and contentious matter. Deputy Jeronimo de Astarral, a man known for his progressive views, rose to address the assembly. "As we discuss political reforms, it is my belief that we should introduce a constitution that limits the queen's political influence. Furthermore, we should establish a lower branch of the General Court composed of elected representatives from the peasantry and civilians." Deputy Ruben de Araújo scoffed and interrupted, his tone condescending. "Peasants running the government? Absurd! I would sooner let my horse rule the kingdom." de Araújo's statement prompted laughter to ripple through the chamber. The debate had begun, with deputies taking sides and raising their voices in argument.

The chamber soon became a cacophony of voices, heated debates escalating as opposing viewpoints clashed. The Speaker, struggling to maintain order, resorted to shouting, "Order! Order!" to quell the tumultuous proceedings. Amidst the chaos, Count Gláucio de Mouredès rose from his seat, "I agree with Mr. Astarral! We ought to establish a constitutional monarchy and allow elections for representatives from all corners of our nation. The General Court, which has been ran by the nobility themselves ever since the institution was established a century ago, has constantly failed the nation, making missteps such as the wars against Anverane twenty-eight years ago and the war against Lusain twelve years ago, which cost the nation its overseas colonial possessions, its once-fledgling economy, and its reputation to wane. The simple-minded nobility in the General Court and the easily manipulated queen are the reasons why we're in this sorry state!" The room crackled with heckling, insults, and vehement objections. The noble deputies, staunch defenders of tradition and the status quo, were quick to voice their dissent. The chamber had once again descended into a frenzy of discord.

The Speaker's efforts to restore order were in vain until he bellowed, "Order!" once more, commanding the attention of the assembly. "Thank you, Mr. Speaker," Count Gláucio began again, "my main point is, it's time for change, and if we don't embrace it, the population will rise up as we witnessed in Sarsier. This time, their chances of success are higher, given the state of the Royal Army." Jacintho Saraiva, a staunch opponent of reform, retorted vehemently, "You're insane! Lunatics like you have no place in the General Court! I, for one, will not entrust the fate of our nation to lowly peasants." Gláucio, infuriated, shouted, "Then let it be so! Continue in your dated ways, and let the enraged and starving peasantry rise up in revolt, and round up all of the noblemen and noblewomen of Galistia and chop all of our heads off!" The chamber fell into an uneasy silence, the echoes of Count Gláucio's words lingering in the air like a haunting refrain. The uneasy silence that had gripped the General Court was shattered by the resounding bang of the massive wooden doors. All eyes turned to the entrance, where the unexpected arrival of Crown Prince Lucian V had left the deputies in confusion. One of the deputies, their brows furrowed with perplexity, had the audacity to inquire,

"Your Highness, what is the purpose of this interruption of the General Court's legislative session?"

Lucian, however, stood resolute, his presence commanding the attention of all in the chamber. In a voice that brooked no dissent, he declared, "The reign of my mother, Queen Diana of Leójara-Porín-Salusia, is over. My reign has commenced." The shock and disbelief that rippled through the assembly were palpable. Some deputies even allowed themselves a derisive laugh, their mirth short-lived as their peers silenced them with stern glances and hushed admonishments. A brave deputy dared to speak, voicing the unspoken question on everyone's mind,

"What of the queen?"

"What of her? Her rule over Galistia ended the moment I entered this chamber."

The deputies turned their gaze to the queen, who sat upon her elevated throne, her face an enigma, betraying no emotion, it was as if she.. didn't care about the whole situation unfolding before her very eyes. Then, their eyes returned to Lucian, the chamber filled with a bewildered hush. However, many among the deputies believed this to be some form of jest, an act of audacious theater. They responded with heckles, insults, and outright attempts to assault the Crown Prince. A pandemonium of voices and actions ensued, an uproar that threatened to engulf the chamber. Count Gláucio de Mouredès, alarmed by the chaotic scene unfolding within the chamber of the General Court, made a swift exit, fleeing the tumultuous atmosphere and finding solace in the quiet foyer just beyond. His heart raced, and he was keenly aware that he needed to act swiftly to prevent further unrest.

As he stepped into the foyer, he was greeted by an unexpected sight—a platoon of fifty grenadiers, resplendent in their imposing uniforms, stood in formation. Their presence, accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Hugo, was a reassuring one for Gláucio, who recognized Hugo from his service in the military. Without hesitation, Gláucio rushed toward Hugo, "Lieutenant Colonel Hugo!" he called out, trying to get the officer's attention amidst the clamor from the chamber. "You must act quickly.. the crown prince, your colonel, is facing a violent outburst from the deputies of the General Court! They are heckling and assaulting him as we speak, you need to intervene and restore order!" Hugo, however, hesitated for a brief moment. The gravity of Gláucio's words weighed heavily on him, and he questioned whether this was a mere exaggeration or, indeed, a dire situation. He glanced toward the chamber, where the noise and chaos continued unabated. Seeing Hugo's uncertainty, Gláucio pressed the matter further. "Lieutenant Colonel Hugo! I assure you, this is not a jest or an exaggeration! Our Crown Prince is in danger! You must act swiftly to protect him and maintain order in the General Court!" Reluctantly, Hugo nodded, understanding that he could not afford to dismiss the urgency of Gláucio's plea. He issued a command to the fifty grenadiers standing at attention. "Prepare to enter the chamber! Maintain discipline and composure! Our duty is to restore order." The grenadiers responded with swift obedience. They moved in unison, their polished boots echoing in the corridor as they advanced toward the chamber. Upon entering the chamber, they were met with a scene of tumult and disorder. Crown Prince Lucian was grappling with one particularly unruly deputy, whose actions had sparked the chaos. A grenadier, acting swiftly, tackled the deputy to the ground, disarming and immobilizing him before aiming his musket as a stern warning. The remaining forty-nine grenadiers moved further into the chamber, their presence commanding immediate attention. They pointed their muskets at the deputies, creating a formidable barrier that left no room for defiance. The deputies, who moments ago had been in uproar, were now forced to stand, retreat, and cluster together in one corner of the chamber, their defiant voices silenced. Seeing that order was gradually being restored, Lucian, still composed and resolute, issued another command. "Lieutenant Colonel Hugo, bring in another platoon of grenadiers. Let our presence serve as a reminder of the authority we hold." Hugo, though perplexed by the situation, recognized the necessity of complying with Lucian's orders. He hurriedly exited the chamber, and within moments, another platoon of grenadiers entered, doubling the imposing presence. The atmosphere in the General Court had shifted dramatically. What was once a chamber filled with disorder and dissent was now a realm of authority and control. The deputies, cornered and outnumbered, had no choice but to yield to this overwhelming display of military might.

Amidst the solemnity and tension that had gripped the General Court, Crown Prince Lucian the Fifth, his attire slightly disheveled from the earlier altercation with a rowdy deputy, rose once again to address the assembly. "Behold!" Lucian declared, "Queen Diana's sovereignty has concluded, and in its stead, I, Lucian the Fifth, shall henceforth ascend to the exalted throne as the King!.. of Galistia!" The announcement sent shockwaves through the chamber. Deputies exchanged bewildered glances, struggling to comprehend the abrupt change in leadership. The queen herself, her regal countenance now marred by fear, clung to her throne for protection. Pointing toward his mother with an air of both sorrow and determination, Lucian issued a command to fifteen of his one hundred grenadiers. "Arrest her." The grenadiers, fiercely loyal to Lucian and unwavering in their commitment to his cause, sprang into action. They rushed toward the throne, where Queen Diana stood, her advisors forming a desperate human barrier to shield her from the encroaching soldiers. However, the grenadiers, towering figures compared to the advisors, simply pushed them aside with authoritative force. Some advisors, driven by a surge of courage, attempted to grapple with the much larger grenadiers, but their efforts were in vain. Musket stocks met their heads, and they crumpled to the ground, unconscious. In the midst of the commotion, the grenadiers reached the queen, seized her gently but firmly, and led her to where Lucian stood. She looked into her son's eyes, her own filled with a mixture of sadness and disbelief, and spoke with a quiver in her voice. "You cannot do this, Lucian! I am your mother, and this is a grave betrayal!" Lucian's voice wavered as he responded, a sense of regret tingeing his words. "Forgive me, mother. I regret the necessity of this action, but it is for the greater good of Galistia." As this family drama unfolded, Lucian turned his attention back to the General Court. He raised his voice, commanding the assembly's attention once more. "By the authority vested in me as your new sovereign, I hereby order the General Court to pass a decree adjourning its proceedings for two months and twenty-five days." The General Court, still reeling from the events that had transpired, found itself under the formidable watch of the Prince's Own Grenadiers. President Bernardo de Ibavès, recognizing the inevitable, sighed heavily and issued a decree. "By Order of His Most Faithful Majesty the King's Most Esteemed General Court, I hereby declare Prince Lucian the Fifth as the new King of Galistia, and that the General Court and it's proceedings shall be adjourned for a period of two months and twenty-five days!" The declaration was met with silence, save for the echoing footsteps of the grenadiers who maintained their vigilant stance. It was a moment of profound change, and the General Court had little choice but to acquiesce. President de Ibavès, accepting the reality before him, spoke once more. "All Hail Lucian the Fifth of Leójara-Porín-Salusia, King of Galistia!" The deputies, some reluctantly, joined in the chant, their voices echoing through the chamber.

"All Hail Lucian the Fifth, King of Galistia!"