holy crap this only took forever
Interlude 8
Black and Blue
Brycott, Tenereian Union
1331, Three Months After Victory at Halissen
Grand Boulevard is awash in banners, confetti, and jubilant crowds when General Sofia Fraul Clionn parades a battalion into Brycott.
The spring sun shines down on the capital's main thoroughfare, where the last of winter's snow is still a recent memory, and gives light and color to the celebratory gaiety of the city. Brycott never truly sleeps, as befits one of the largest cities on Iuryis, but the crown jewel of the Treiden people and home to hundreds of thousands is truly awake today. On any given day, Grand Boulevard bristles with activity, foot traffic, horses, and wagons alike going up and down the rows of shops, markets, hotels, shrines, and plazas that line the primary artery of Brycott. Today, Grand Boulevard outright swarms with onlookers.
From behind the barricades set by the city guard, excited girls flank the procession of steel as they crowd the streets and the windows and the balconies, cheering and jumping and squealing and swooning at the handsome soldiers who spent the previous night in the outlying town of Branbeck, preparing for this parade to celebrate their homecoming. Despite the weeks spent marching from the frontlines back to the capital, the soldiers strut in formation through Grand Boulevard with sharp steps and a confident swagger, soaking up the adoration of the masses.
And riding on horseback in the middle of this procession is the Duchess-General, clad in ceremonial armor with a cape flowing from her shoulders, clothed in glory. Her attendants groomed her in the morning, trimming her blonde hair and tying it into a neat bun, powdering her face with cosmetics to round out the angular cheeks that always seem to give her a stern and intimidating countenance. Sofia found the whole endeavor to largely be pointless and droll, but resigned herself to the necessity of appearances on this occasion.
For now, she regards the cheering crowds with the sort of casual arrogance that befits a Union general, an elven centenarian, and a Tenereian duchess, something that comes to her with learned ease. She occasionally grants the crowd a small wave here and a nod of her head there, pleased that - for all the setbacks the Huntress' War has experienced over more than a decade - another step towards reunification is still enough to bring the masses to revel in the streets.
Half an hour after the parade began from the East Gate, the procession reaches the end of its route where Grand Boulevard meets Nanhoft Square. The battalion stops in unison at the command of their respective lieutenant at the head of the parade, but Sofia rides out from formation and passes columns of infantry, moving towards the grand gates on the other side of the square. The parade is dismissed by the time Sofia makes it to the high walls of Nanhoft Palace, where the guards salute and call for its heavy gates to be opened. The soldiers disperse into the citizenry to find their own ways of making merry; for the next few days, the battalion will enjoy discounts at every restaurant and tavern and alehouse in Brycott, and there will be no shortage of young women who will invite them into their beds.
But it is here that Sofia fights her next battle, having been summoned back home. She has come armed, of course, not with a spear as her weapon, but with glory. It has been three months since she delivered a victory at the Siege of Halissen, a triumph as swift as it was ingenious. The slow, years-long march to the city's walls had long been hampered by an excruciating guerilla campaign by Caldrein's accursed mercenaries, but actually getting into the city was nothing short of a masterstroke, accomplished practically overnight and with little in the way of Tenereian casualties. Even the most reticent of members of the Supreme Conclave will not be able to deny these accomplishments. It is almost enough to compensate for the unpleasant news that the College of Electors has recently reshuffled the seats of the Supreme Conclave, placing the country's highest deliberative body into the hands of the Blues.
The general rides up to the towering walls that surround Nanhoft Palace, where the palace guards open the giant portcullis to allow her to pass on horseback. Sofia ignores the fact that the palace guards - previously composed of select soldiers from the Home Battalion - have been replaced with officers from the Capital Guard. It's a tired game that has persisted in Brycott for centuries, once driven by the paranoia of a possible factional coup, but now reduced to performative political theater. When the Blacks hold power, Nanhoft Palace is protected by the War Ministry; when the Blues control the Conclave, it is the the Justice Ministry that defends the capital. It's practically a ritual at this point, a routine move amidst the jockeying within the Blue-Black Rivalry, the Four Duchies, and the Seven Ministries. Power comes, and power goes. Sofia begrudges neither soldier nor watchwoman for following orders. She tells herself that the Blacks will retake the Supreme Conclave the next time the electors convene, and the guards will change once again.
The sun shines on Sofia once more as she passes through the shade of the portcullis, and she finds herself on the wide stone roads of Nanhoft Palace, flanked by carefully maintained greenways and majestic structures. It is a city within a city that radiates history, an enormous compound spanning half a square kilometer at the heart of Brycott that has stood for a thousand years, outsizing and outdating Tower Vigilance - Caldrein's pitiful excuse for its self-proclaimed seat of power - five times over. Its limestone walls were erected when Tenereia was still an empire, well into its expansion past the Brycott river valley, and have stood the test of time. Not
all of it, of course; crises and disasters - such as the Civil War and the Rose Revolution - did burn down parts of what was once the residence of the Imperial Family, but they were always rebuilt.
Sofia eventually rides up to the steps of Nanhoft Palace proper - the central building from which the complex derives its name, the center of Tenereian power, the seat of the Supreme Conclave - where a stablehand is already waiting dutifully. The general brushes her attempt to help her dismount - Sofia is not some fat, frail bureaucrat who requires such assistance - but allows the stablehand to take her horse to rest in the adjacent stables. The two sentries flanking the door stand at attention as Sofia marches through, and she basks in the warmth of the palace's many burning fireplaces displacing the chill outside. The high, ornate arches that hold up its halls stretch a dozen meters from the ground in an opulent display of the richness of Tenereian civilization. Colorful patterns of light filter through stained glass, landing upon thick stone columns carved with ancient murals.
As she begins retracing the familiar steps to the Chamber of Conclave, Sofia spies a familiar elven woman standing to the side of her path, waiting patiently. She is dressed in sharp robes of black, a color choice with obvious implications in Brycott and especially in Nanhoft Palace. Looking only two decades younger than Sofia herself - and thus translating into a half-century age gap between elves - it is possible to spot a family resemblance. Not that the woman alludes to such, preferring to use formal titles instead as she bows her head when Sofia is within polite conversational distance and greets: "General Clionn."
"Fredrica," the general acknowledges the woman in turn with a curt nod of her head, not bothering to slow as she marches past her, knowing full well that Fredrica Nolana Clionn will immediately fall in behind her. Sofia takes the occasional lover, but remains unmarried and has no children; to be frank, she finds having to manage her family to be one of the most tiring aspects of being the head of one of Tenereia's greatest noble houses. The urgency in which duchies secure political alliance through marriages and offspring is no longer as great as it once was back in the days of the forgotten Empire, granting her the leeway to promise to select an heir out of her extended relations. This has, of course, led to a mad and sometimes deadly scramble among her cousins and nieces, all of whom run their own political operations in hopes of impressing the duchess. Fredrica happens to be one of the frontrunners, and Sofia values her cousin enough to have her here in Nanhoft Palace, providing a briefing before the duchess faces down the Conclave.
Of course, Sofia doesn't
trust Fredrica or any of these potential successors to the Duchy of Clionn. She hasn't trusted family since
her own path to the head of the duchy. She knows full well that Fredrica and all the others only want the power that Sofia can pass on, and treat the duchess herself as a stepping stone, an inconvenience to be catered to for now and to dispose of as soon as possible. But for now, Fredrica is competent and aligned with Sofia's goals, and that's why Sofia keeps her around. Perhaps Fredrica will be the one whom Sofia leaves the future of House Clionn to when she passes. That's good enough.
Otherwise, though, Sofia does not bother to observe the social niceties expected of a family member; there are no inquiries about how Fredrica has fared or the well-being of the rest of the family. The Duchess-General has never been warm, nor particularly personally close with any of her family members, but today especially is a day for business. "How fare the other theaters?" she asks.
"The offensive in Olmand has been stalled for three seasons now," Fredrica replies in a low voice, walking beside Sofia but also ensuring that she remains one step behind her at all times. "Saboteurs in Echyre have persistently disrupted General Illyr's supply lines."
"And the Foreign Ministry still stays our hand?"
Sofia can
hear the wry, bitter smirk in her cousin's words as she dryly takes on a mockingly officious effect and declares, "The esteemed advisor to the Vice Foreign Minister insists that Queen Lydia supports the Union, that she requires time to put her house in order, and that ousting her would do more harm than good."
"
Bitch," Sofia scowls.
Viscountess Eustachia Alrika Rancilberg - senior advisor to the Vice Foreign Minister - is rather unfortunately good at her job, which involves whispering into the right ears.
The Queen of Echyre offered terms a century ago, before war ever broke out: She got to keep her crown while the Queendom pledges loyalty to the Union and pays tribute. Tenereian armies are permitted to pass through to other theaters, but not to station troops in Echyre. The Blacks and the War Ministry pointed out the obvious at the time: That Echyre would become a breeding ground for insurgents, that there was no real benefit to letting the Queendom stand, and that any problems would be better solved with two battalions stationed there. But the Blues - with Eustachia as their mouthpiece - of course insisted that it was better to have a native ally in Echyre, that it was better that Queen Lydia suppress the insurgents rather than Tenereian soldiers, that absorbing Echyre into Tenereia presents too many long-term problems. Now, of course, the War Ministry needs to deal with the long-term problem of saboteurs undermining the war effort in Olmand, to be dealt with by a queen whose loyalty the War Ministry finds suspect.
The whole thing is bittersweet. On the one hand, General Illyr is an ally whose stymied progress is unfortunate, to say nothing of how it reflects poorly on the War Ministry's ability to prosecute their military campaigns. On the other hand, the difficulties in Olmand may allow Sofia's victory in Caldrein shine in comparison, and the insurgency in Echyre gives the Blacks an avenue of attacking the Foreign Ministry's short-sightedness on the issue of vassalizing the queendom.
"What of the capital?" asks Sofia as she nods curtly at a pair of saluting guards passing on patrol. As the two near the Chamber of the Conclave, the security presence grows increasingly thick. "Is there anything I need to know before I face the Conclave?"
"Brycott has mostly been subdued since the elections," answers Fredrica, which is what Sofia has been hoping for. "You've doubtlessly already been informed, but the Conclave has only convened once so far: To be sworn in. There have been a few parties since, but we are confident that attendance by Blue Members of the Conclave have been minimal at best, scattershot at worst. They have been quiet over the last few months."
Members of the Conclave are universally elected among Tenereia's most powerful figures. It is remarkably difficult to get any appreciable number of Members into a room at any given time outside of official Conclave sessions; they are often busy with other commitments or spread all across the country, to say nothing of the competing egos and necessary security arrangements. Parties, balls, ceremonies, and other social functions are thus venues in which Members aligned with each other can find a private drawing room to discuss their agendas before the Conclave convenes for any session. If the Blues - a fractious bunch that feuded with each other as often as they feuded with the Blacks - want to coordinate among themselves to preempt unified Black opposition, it would most likely be at such events. It is thus relieving that Sofia's opponents haven't taken advantage of such opportunities, although she admits that this isn't entirely surprising. The Blues won a majority of sixteen seats, a very comfortable margin that doubtlessly left them overconfident about steering Union policy for the next ten years.
Sofia can't say she blames them; the Blacks have been prone to such flagrant displays of arrogance when they won a majority in the Conclave as well. It's better for her this way, regardless.
"Have you requested more divisions for the Caldrein theater, General?" asks Fredrica as the two make the final turn to the corridor leading to the Chamber of the Conclave.
"
Obviously," Sofia scowls dryly; she has little patience for inane questions. "The Conclave has been stingy with us for long enough. It's time to strike while the iron is hot." She pauses, then reluctantly asks, "How good are my chances?"
"Your victory
should hold sway," answers Fredrica slowly, cautiously, her tone appropriately contrite after the general's rebuke. "But only two of the Blue Members can be regarded as swing votes."
Sofia grimaces. "So the Conclave is not going to abruptly see the light."
The reality is that House Clionn's position is more fragile than most realize. Five centuries ago, four duchies of Tenereia saw the writing on the wall when the Rose Revolution ravaged an empire weakened by the Civil War. They joined the revolutionaries early enough that they were considered pivotal and essential to the establishment of the new regime, and survived the ensuing purge that wiped out the old guard or drove them into exile in Caldrein Province.
In theory, the Four Duchies - House Clionn among them - no longer have any peer competitors or betters, no other rival duchesses or an empress they needed to kneel before. They possess the largest fiefdoms, retain their massive wealth, and maintain the only private armies. In reality, however, the reorganization of Tereneia from empire to union marginalized their power. Their fiefdoms are limited by the diminished control they have over former vassal houses, their wealth is constantly challenged by a mercantile class that gained prominence from the Civil War, and their armies pale before the military might of the War Ministry. Their hold over the politics of Tenereia have similarly diminished, especially when the unwritten rules of the Union dictate that no duchess may ever be elected to Conclave, an attempt to restrain the influence of the remnants of the old guard. The Four Duchies thus rely on their network of allies and proteges to maintain their power, aligning with the Blue and Black Factions, and exploiting the divisions within the Seven Ministries.
But although a seat on the Conclave is barred to her, Sofia has nonetheless spent decades becoming an established figure in the War Ministry instead, commanding state armies in service to the Union. She has done all that she could to intertwine House Clionn with the new governments and cliques, to tie their fortunes together and cement the duchy's place in the new paradigms of power, making them irreplaceable to the Blacks. Sofia is known to prefer to be addressed as "General" instead of "Duchess" to reflect her position in the government...and to proclaim that her standing in the Union has been
earned instead of merely being born into.
The doors to the Chamber of the Conclave are before them now, flanked by a quartet of heavily-armored ceremonial guards. Checking herself over and smoothing out the wrinkles in her robes one last time, Sofia summons the full power of her regal majesty as befits a returning war hero. Behind her, Josephine whispers "good luck, General" as the great double doors begin to creak open, as she prepares herself for a well-deserved victory lap.
Or so she thought.
She knows something is wrong the moment the double doors to the Chamber of the Conclave. Against her expectations, the rotunda she steps into is largely empty. The constellation of grand, arching tables that form a circle within the chamber is unoccupied, its seats not filled with the twenty-four members of the Conclave who should be standing there to greet her with applause. There is but a single woman who sits on one of the ornate, high-backed chairs, one of twenty-five spaced out around the tables, arranged so that they all face the center of the rotunda.
The woman - tall, blonde, elven, dressed in resplendent robes, perhaps just shy of a ninety or a hundred years of age - looks up from the stack of documents on the table as Sofia enters, which is when she realizes something is
definitely wrong.
"Welcome home, Duchess," Speaker of the Conclave Josephine Tamnin Ariasphon says politely, elegantly gesturing to a chair next to her as the doors close behind Sofia. "Please, be seated."
The Speaker of the Conclave is a ceremonial position that really functions as the herald and errand girl for the twenty-four sitting members who actually matter in the Tenereian Union, themselves installed by the convening of the electors. As Speaker, Josephine holds no authority, wields no power, and commands no armies that aren't granted to her through the leash of the Supreme Conclave. Nor has Sofia ever personally respected this young elven upstart, this smug lackey of the Blues who has no idea what the world really looks like beyond the pages of her books. But the general has always been cautious towards Josephine. Despite the aforementioned youth, despite the ebb and flow of politics in Brycott, despite the two elections that have come and gone - one of which took place mere months ago - Josephine has remained Speaker for ten whole years. It tells Sofia several things: That Josephine has survived and fended off attempts by rivals and allies alike who covet her office, that at least thirteen Members of the Conclave think she's actually working for
them and have few problems with her remaining in the best position in the entire Union for keeping tabs on all twenty-four of them, and that her liver has not given out after the alcohol abuse that tends to plague the office.
"Allow me to first congratulate you on your victory at Halissen," Josephine chimes as Sofia passive-aggressively plops herself down on a chair one seat away from Josephine, next to the chair the Speaker of the Conclave has gestured to, maintaining a disdainful distance from her. To her credit, Josephine does not seem offended at all as she adds, "It's good that you have something to show for your efforts after eight years."
Sofia is familiar enough with the vernacular of Brycott's political scene to know when she's being handed a backhanded compliment. Her smile, therefore, is appropriately cold, along with the insincerity of her words when she replies, "Thank you."
Josephine raises an eyebrow, her smirk sardonic. "You don't seem terribly happy about it."
Sofia's wry smile widens a little, masking her resentful disappointment that she is not being greeted by a grateful Conclave, but rather by their lackey, disappointment that is only tempered by a sense of unease at
why this is so. "Pardon me, I
am happy. I had merely assumed I would be briefing the Conclave."
Josephine nods, a surprisingly polite gesture, given the context. "That could happen in time. For now, a preliminary debriefing is necessary, and the Conclave has tasked me with discussing the immediate future with you." She pauses for a moment before offering: "Some tea?"
Well, then. The Speaker of the Conclave is capable of at least observing the
barest of niceties towards her political betters. "Thank you," Sofia acknowledges with a nod.
Josephine picks up a small bell on the table in front of her and rings it twice. Almost immediately, a small disguised door built into the muraled walls around the Chamber of the Conclave swings open, and two maids emerge from them with a serving cart full of teapots, cups, saucers, and bottles of tea leaves. They have just stopped beside the Speaker of the Conclave when she languidly raises a hand and announces, "We will serve ourselves. Leave us."
The maids dutifully retreat, leaving the serving cart; they understand the implicit message, that the conversation to be had is not for their ears. For her part, Josephine begins helping herself to the cart, reaching for her preferred tea leaves and beginning to brew her own tea. Of course, Sofia - who snidely elected to put an empty seat between her and the Speaker so as to not have to sit beside her - is too far away from the cart to help herself to tea without getting up, and Josephine pointedly does not push the cart over to her. The resentment within her continues to bubble, but Sofia remains too proud to rise from her seat or ask for anything from Josephine, which would only highlight her blunder.
"We've looked over the casualty reports," Josephine says as she plucks her favored tea leaves from a bottle into an empty teapot, "and the Supreme Conclave has agreed that we need to replenish some of your ranks. We will grant you an additional division in the Caldran theater of operations. Mobilization orders were given shortly after the Conclave learned of your victory at Halissen, and we expect the division to be supplied and ready to march in a month's time."
Sofia is pleasantly surprised that the Conclave proactively prepared for reinforcements upon news of her victory; she expected to have to fight for it in front of the Conclave and then spend months waiting for their mobilization. That being said, she isn't particularly surprised that this Blue-dominated Conclave has absolutely no realistic idea of how many troops are necessary to actually fight a war. "I appreciate the support from the Conclave," the general allows politely, deciding to be graceful with the little victories she
has won, even with the likes of Josephine. "However, I will need more than just one division to continue an offensive campaign to take Arnheim."
"I'm afraid you misunderstand, Duchess," Josephine replies, pouring hot water into her teapot to steep the leaves. "The division the Conclave has granted you is to consolidate your gains. In the two weeks your new division is supplying and readying for march, the Conclave expects you to submit a full proposal detailing the formation of a provisional government in western Elspar."
"Pardon me," Sofia says, not actually expecting to be "pardoned" by the likes of Josephine, "I'm afraid I am not following. By 'consolidating', you mean..."
"We mean that the Conclave wishes to restore western Elspar into a functioning administrative subentity part of the Union as soon as possible." The Speaker of Conclave closes the lid on her teapot to allow it to steep, allowing her to turn her full attention back onto the Duchess-General of House Clionn. "The arrangement will be temporary, of course, just enough to create
some immediate stability - a provisional government, a platform for counterinsurgency efforts over the next few years - while a long-term political solution is devised."
Sofia narrows her eyes, as her previous anxiety grows increasingly into a certainty that there is some incoming cosmic trick that is being played on her. "You've said 'western Elspar' twice now," she points out carefully.
"It is what you have taken, yes?" Josephine asks with an air of faux innocence. "The forts of Ainellen and Cherlith, and then the cities of Wynholm and Halissen."
"Yes, and Arnheim next..."
"No," the Speaker of the Conclave interrupts, and although her tone is soft and polite, there is a shocking finality to it. "I'm afraid that will not be the case."
Sofia's brow furrows. "I don't understand."
Josephine smiles, and it is the sort of smile that Sofia recognizes, the sort of smile that all these social climbers in Brycott flash whenever they're about to stab you in the back. "You've had a good run at Caldrein, and the Conclave appreciates the difficulties you've faced in the campaign. We believe you have done the best you can. However, it is also our decision that it is time to cut losses."
"
Losses?" Sofia echoes incredulously. "We just produced a victory in Halissen."
"Yes, you did. However, the Conclave does not believe pursuing any continuation of this conflict is tenable. We have spent too much time on Caldrein, at the expense of other, more
urgent theaters." Any hint of a smile has slipped from her lips, and her expression actually looks grave. "While you have been dealing with isolated Caldran rebels, Ornthalian irregulars have already been fielded in Ardya, Olmand, and Cedrania. We previously assumed they were merely providing the partisans with training; we now have proof that Ornthalian funding, supplies, and
people have made their way into these theaters, to say nothing of the actual Ornthalian armies waiting like vultures at the borders. It's time to look at the big picture."
Sofia fixes Josephine with an incredulous stare. She understands the words coming out of the Speaker's mouth, but little of it makes sense to her. Certainly, the war against Caldrein has taken far longer than it should've, and there have been setbacks, but the idea that the invasion should come to an end is patently absurd, even for the chronically spineless Blues.
Especially in the aftermath of a major victory that has put Caldrein on the back foot, perhaps permanently. "The big picture," Sofia says slowly, as if speaking to a particularly slow child, but also so she can master her growing anger, "is that we have
smashed the largest army that Caldrein has fielded thus far. This is a blow from which they cannot recover, not if we press the advantage."
"Yes," Josephine mutters, and she sounds impatient here, "sending soldier and civilian alike fleeing across dozens of kilometers of wilderness, during the harvest season, just before winter."
"That was when the Caldran forces would be weakest."
"And what do you imagine would happen to them?" the Speaker of the Conclave demands. The lilt in her voice suggests it's meant to be a sardonic rhetorical question.
But Sofia does not bother responding to Josephine's dismissiveness, replying in a matter-of-fact manner, "They will flee to Arnheim, where the city will be poorly defended, crippled from tending to a wounded army of soldiers and refugees alike."
"Yes, where disease will run rampant, and where the city's harvest will likely fall short of accommodating the sudden influx of refugees."
And this is where Sofia allows herself to sneer, to give voice to the contempt that she holds for Josephine and the Blues like her. "How curious," she snorts, "that you express so much sympathy and concern for the enemy over
our armies, over
our daughters who have died honorably in combat."
"Has it occurred to you, Duchess," Josephine sighs, and her tone is explicitly impatient now, that of an adult trying to lecture a young, particularly
dense child, "that it is not our intention to govern a wasteland? Nor to struggle endlessly with a starving, resentful population? That we were looking to be greeted as
liberators freeing the population from a backward, regressive regime?" Her eyes narrow with displeasure. "You attacked and triggered an exodus at a time when the people of Caldrein Province needed to prepare for winter the most. Thousands, if not tens of thousands, likely perished in the retreat to Arnheim. Many more will perish in the city to disease, most likely."
"Pardon me,
Speaker, but warfare is based on the exploitation of the enemy's weaknesses."
"Yes," Josephine mockingly scoffs, "as I'm sure you've learned for yourself over a decade of failures. The enemy has been sabotaging your war efforts since the very beginning, and after ten, eleven years, you have only half of Elspar..."
"
Two-thirds," insists Sofia icily.
"...to show for it. Your 'military solution' has unnecessarily ravaged the province, has brought us no closer to our strategic goals, and has
destroyed decades of progress for any political or diplomatic solution for reunification. To make matters worse, you have triggered increasingly strident Ornthalian support for Caldrein. Already, we are learning that Ornthalia is preparing to declare for Caldrein. Not
irregulars, Duchess," Josephine snaps, real anger and anxiety seeping into her voice at the prospect of a possible real war between the two superpowers of Iuryis, and Sofia finds herself stunned both by Josephine's seemingly visceral reaction and this new piece of information, "but an
army, one that's ready to march into Caldrein. Thirteen years ago, these proud, arrogant separatist leaders would have
never allowed foreign armies on their soil. You have successfully driven Caldrein deeper into the Ornthalian bosom." And, almost as an afterthought, with no shortage of incredulous scorn: "And just what made you think it was a prudent strategy to unleash the Squirrels on
civilian targets?"
Sofia swiftly recovers from her momentary surprise and scowls, "They were targeting a
Caldran mercenary academy."
Josephine gives a bark of derisive laughter. "And you've managed to kill more villagers and maids than apprentices, but I'm sure they're just
collateral damage."
Fixing the Speaker with a steely glare, the Duchess-General stiffly states, "I am a military woman. I respect the difficulties of actual combat. I don't second-guess my soldiers from a
comfortable chair hundreds of kilometers away. And all of this would've been avoidable had the Conclave granted me more divisions."
"The Conclave has granted you
plenty. And you knew full well going in that there were other, more urgent theaters of operations that you had to share resources with. We've granted you far more than your fair share because of your insistence all those years ago for a military approach for reunification, and you have completely,
utterly failed in your promise of '
reunification in three years'."
"We never just requested more
conscripts," Sofia snarls. "We requested more
paladins, which we never received."
Josephine is utterly unsympathetic. "There were not enough paladins to spare. You knew this from the very beginning. This item was discussed when you and your peers first proposed the invasion of Caldrein to the Conclave. I was not Speaker then," and she stabs a finger into the table for emphasis as she continues, "but I
was here in this very chamber. You don't get to say you weren't warned when you and your alliance of '
military women' decided it was in the national interest to escalate a mere dispute over
hunting grounds to a military campaign of national restoration, a campaign that undercut decades of diplomatic outreach, successful trade, informal bilateral relations.
Time was on our side, up until you decided an invasion was..."
Scoffing in ridicule, Sofia throws her head back and rolls her eyes, scowling, "Oh, don't fool yourself. Time was hardly on our side, not with Caldrein falling further and further under the sway of Ornthalia." She fixes her glare back on Josephine and narrows her eyes, her voice low as she demands, "You want to stop now?
Now? It is as you said, after all; there is no hope for a political or diplomatic solution. If we stop
now, we lose Caldrein for good, and the entire province becomes an Ornthalian proxy right on our borders. Is that what you want?"
"My apologies," Josephine says, which means she is completely unapologetic as her voice turns level and cold. "I was too busy being polite to be clear. Let me be clear: The Conclave no longer holds
any confidence in your plans for a military reunification with Caldrein. We are cutting our losses. And you need to get on board."
And it is here that the full picture finally clicks together for Sofia in a moment of chilling clarity. Why the Blues seemed to have been quiet for all this time, why arrangements of reinforcements were made before Sofia even asked for them, why the Speaker has been sent here to debrief the Duchess-General instead of convening here with her. Sofia assumed that she had a window of opportunity shortly after the elections for the Supreme Conclave to engage in politics, to play the Members of the Conclave off against each other. But now she realizes that her enemies - galvanized by their fear of Ornthalian intervention, and looking to discredit the Blacks in general and House Clionn in particular - had already set things in motion before the election. The game was rigged from the start.
Sofia's voice comes out oddly flat when she rhetorically asks, "And I'm sure the electors changing the ranks of the Conclave had nothing to do with this, did it?"
Josephine raises an eyebrow. "And what is it you think you're implying?"
"I see what this is," Sofia breathes, and there is rage in her otherwise subdued voice, lilting with a near-hysterical hint of bitter laughter. "You cowardly Blue
cunts, you with your disdain for '
military women'. This has nothing to do with political or diplomatic solutions. You're willing to let Caldrein slip away - let
national reunification slip away - just for a chance to sabotage us, to sabotage
my duchy. You're happy with letting Ornthalia set up shop on our doorstep so you can ruin the legacy of the Blacks and cling onto your majority at the Conclave."
Josephine regarded Sofia with a clear look of disdain. "I'd watch your tongue, Duchess. Whatever you're attributing to this '
changing the ranks', the Conclave is pushing forth with this mandate with the blessings of the electors. And you are addressing its
Speaker."
A bitter laugh does escape Sofia's throat this time as she asks sardonically, "What care does my tongue require before a
glorified errand girl, hm?"
To her credit, Josephine does not rise to the taunt as she simply states, "This 'glorified errand girl' will be the first to inform the Conclave of the outcome of this meeting." A self-satisfied smirk unfurls across her lips. "Imagine what I can tell them."
Her voice going flat, leaning uncomfortably forward in a position that seems like a prelude to lunging at Josephine's throat, Sofia coldly asks, "Is that a threat?"
Sofia watches with deep satisfaction as Josephine's expression swiftly goes through shock, terror, false bravado, then uncertainty in rapid succession. The Speaker in the Conclave isn't stupid, and the general can see the gears working in her head. That Sofia wouldn't
dare harm the Conclave's own representative. Even now, the duchess has too much to lose. Or does she? True, the Conclave would never
dare do anything
too drastic against one of the Four Duchies of Tenereia, but what about Sofia personally? The Blues have clearly tied any failures in the war in Caldrein to her specifically. Once the Conclave calls off the reunification of Caldrein, the resulting political fallout - the effects of which will be felt for years - will all but ensure the death of her influence and political life, her reputation forever tainted as the woman who lost Caldrein. House Clionn's power would tumble, and her family would fall over itself trying to distance themselves from its matriarch. There would almost certainly be another power struggle, one that sought to sideline Sofia entirely. Perhaps her scions will outright kill her, whether by poison or a literal stab in the back. Or perhaps they'll simply exile her to some remote vacation home where she'd grow old and waste away, forever forgotten as anything beyond a cautionary tale of failure.
Josephine must have realized this. What does Sofia have to lose? What would be the cost of murdering a Speaker of the Conclave? How quickly can the guards outside the door respond to her cry for help? Will it be faster than how quickly a military woman can snap the neck of a bookworm? In that one moment, the Speaker of Conclave is suddenly cognizant of her own mortality.
Sofia holds the moment for longer than is necessary, this one indulgence amidst the threat of her whole life collapsing around her. If she is to be honest, it's also a moment of numb uncertainty and indecision, the realization that - in the heat of the moment - she suddenly finds herself lost and uncertain of what to do. Still, unwilling to show weakness even in her moment of greatest political peril, Sofia at least manages to sneer as she rises to her feet - and feels self-satisfied as Josephine flinches back at the motion - and mutters, "What did you think was going to happen here, giving me lip and threatening me? You're a petulant
child given grown-up robes. Be grateful that I still recognize the legitimacy of the Conclave, for that is the only reason you're still alive."
She does not wait for Josephine's reaction. Sofia whirls on a heel and marches for the doors of the Chamber of the Conclave. She slams the doors open and storms out, ignoring the stunned and concerned look from Fredrica, who has been waiting outside the chamber all this time. She ignores the timid "General?" her cousin whispers in confusion, ignores her attempts to catch up a moment afterwards. She is blind and deaf to all of this. Her mind is spinning now that she has a moment to herself, now that she's processing everything that has happened.
She hopes that the Blues die slow and agonizing deaths. She hopes she will stand over their rotting bodies buried in forgotten graves and laugh. She hopes Josephine's tea - left steeping and forgotten in the teapot - grows bitter.
But as she struts out the doors of Nanhoft Palace proper, an eerie calm begins to settle on Sofia. She begins weighing her options. A plan begins forming in her head. It is not ideal - far from it - but there is still a way to fight back. It will be the work of years, but she can still cling onto her power and have her revenge.
She needs to return to Elspar. She needs to return to the war.
"
I will not let it end this way."
something something russian troops in kyiv in three days amirite
