Year: 930 — Month: December Location: Capital City of Khabarûn, Bashurian Empire
The early winter sun hovered low over the rooftops of Khabarûn, casting long shadows across the disciplined rows of stone buildings that formed the heart of the Bashurian Empire. The city was silent but not still. Smoke curled gently from chimneys. Vendors began lighting small fires beneath their carts to warm spiced milk and crisp flatbread. Every street, every plaza, every bridge bore the hand of careful planning — a city built not just for beauty, but for balance, for power, and for permanence.
The capital had no sweeping chaos, no press of shanties or wild markets. Khabarûn was a city of logic and law. Its avenues were laid like veins of stone, branching from the Citadel at the center, lined with statues of philosophers, generals, and crowned lawmakers who had shaped the empire through mind and steel. Arches framed the roads; towers held lanterns of burning emberglass that cast golden hues against frost-slick facades.
For twenty minutes, a royal carriage rolled through this solemn architecture, pulled by six silver-coated horses. The escort detail flanked it: twelve riders from the Royal Guard, lances raised, their helms marked with the sacred twin crest — the sun and the crescent blade. Citizens paused at the road's edge as the procession passed, not with cheers, but with silent deference. A hand over the heart. A bowed head. Respect without spectacle.
Inside the carriage, Princess Valerie sat in silence. She did not pull the curtain aside. She had seen this city a thousand times, but today it felt colder, heavier — as if the stone itself knew what decision awaited behind the gates.
The final avenue turned into a wide ceremonial causeway lined with obsidian markers. And there, at its end, stood the Citadel of the Crown and Law — monolithic, dark, and eternal. Its towers stabbed upward like spears into the pale sky. Its banners were still, its windows dark.
The carriage slowed.
Twin rows of Citadel Guards lined the entry path — unmoving, spears grounded, helms polished to a mirror sheen. Behind them stood the walls and gates of the Citadel itself: towering slabs of reinforced blacksteel, sealed with seven bolts carved in the old script of law.
A bell rang. Once. Deep and cold.
As the gates creaked open, steam hissed from their mechanical hinges. Frost peeled from their seams like shed skin. The guards saluted, striking spear to stone in perfect unison.
The carriage passed through.
In the courtyard beyond, snow had not yet fallen, but the frost painted every stone, every branch, every statue in a thin veil of white. Braziers along the main stair cast thin plumes of blue fire into the wind. The Stair of Order rose ahead — the ceremonial climb required of every royal or judge.
The horses halted.
An officer approached the carriage door and tapped once with a gloved hand. He bowed slightly as it opened.
"Your Highness," he said, voice level and respectful. "We've arrived at the Citadel."
Princess Valerie stepped out.
The cold struck her immediately, curling around her boots and gloves. She stood tall in a dark velvet cloak lined with white fur, her braid bound in a silver clasp, a simple circlet across her brow.
The officer stepped back and saluted with his palm to his chest.
"Judges and Parliament await within. The King is already seated. Shall I escort you to the Stair, Princess?"
Valerie's gaze lingered on the towering arch above — on the old runes etched across the threshold.
"No," she said. "I'll walk alone."
The guards parted, and the path cleared before her.
She began to climb.
With each step of the Stair of Order, the great arch of the Citadel loomed closer, its carved stone symbols deepened by shadow. The frost crackled under her boots, and the scent of cold iron and burning emberglass hung in the air. At the summit, massive double doors awaited — carved from dark ironwood and reinforced with steel. As Valerie approached, two guards in black ceremonial plate stepped forward and pushed the doors open with practiced grace.
The Hall of Deliberation stretched before her — vast, echoing, and immense beyond measure. It was nearly three times the size of the congressional chambers of the foreign republics, and carved entirely from obsidian-veined stone. High overhead, a domed ceiling arched with intricate mosaics of the Empire's founding: stars of the provinces, scenes of unity, scales of judgment. Thin beams of winter light streamed in through stained-glass windows, painting the chamber floor in shifting hues of gold and indigo.
Parliament was seated in long, rising rows that curved in a half-moon around the central floor. The Lower Chamber occupied the front ranks — representatives elected from cities, trade guilds, and common districts. They wore sashes of deep green, blue, or ochre, depending on their affiliation.
At the very rear of the hall, a towering dais rose in three levels. On the lowest tier sat the Seven Judges, each draped in flowing black robes marked only by their domain's sigil: the hammer of the Guilds, the sword of Command, the scroll of the Scholars, the flame of Faith, the anchor of the Fleet, the wheel of Labor, and the quill of Law. Their seats were solemn, formed of polished basalt, and spaced evenly in a semicircle behind the parliamentary floor.
Above them — literally and symbolically — sat King Alrik Bashur, upon the Throne of Accord. Carved from ironwood and set against a backdrop of engraved marble wings, his seat overlooked the entire chamber. He did not preside as a god, but as a bound monarch — a sovereign held in place by law, tradition, and the watching eyes of the people's voice.
Every seat, every platform, every speaker's podium faced the center: the Main Stage, where the Speaker of the Assembly would stand to open debate. It was a circle of polished stone encircled by seven gilded pillars, each marked with one of the Empire's founding virtues.
As Valerie entered, murmurs hushed. All eyes turned toward her — not in surprise, but in acknowledgment. A royal heir, present not to speak, but to witness.
She descended the interior stairs quietly, passing rows of silent delegates, and took her place behind the Speaker's platform, beside the King's dais, as tradition dictated.
Then the bells chimed three times.
It was time to begin.
From behind the central column of the Main Stage, a man stepped forward — tall, thin, and composed. He wore ceremonial black robes, embroidered with the seven stars of the Tribunal and clasped with a pin bearing the royal sun-and-blade crest. His name was Speaker Almand Veyrin, elected voice of the Unified Assembly and longtime master of order in the grand chamber.
He bowed first to the King, then to the Judges, and finally toward the gathered Parliament.
"By decree of the Crown, and under the observance of the Tribunal and Parliament, I hereby open this session of the Unified Assembly," he said, his voice firm but calm, carried across the dome by the natural acoustics of the hall.
There was a low shuffle as scribes and aides settled behind desks and benches. Valerie remained standing beside her father's dais, eyes trained on the Speaker as he lifted a scroll from the podium.
"The first matter before us: a motion proposed jointly by the Ministry of Defense and the Crown's Council of External Affairs."
He paused — long enough for silence to retake the room.
"It concerns the rising secrecy and suspected militarization of the state to our northwest — the foreign entity known as the German Reich."
Whispers immediately swept through both chambers like wind through dry grass.
"The proposal set before this Assembly is twofold," Speaker Veyrin continued. "First, the drafting of a formal embargo on all trade and communication with the Reich, effective immediately upon ratification. Second — the initiation of a classified inquiry into the Reich's recent technological developments, military testing, and concealment protocols."
Even among the more seasoned delegates of Parliament, voices were no longer hushed. One leaned to another, murmuring about strange, heavy firearms said to spit flame and thunder, loud enough to shake the hills. In the Lower Chamber, a city delegate was overheard asking, "Who are these people really? We only know what they show us."
Others whispered of weapons that left glassed scars in the hills, of messages intercepted in dead languages, and of a borderland village that vanished from all maps. Some murmured of artillery that could level entire cities with a single blast, cannons bound in runes that howled before they struck. Others spoke of so-called "long sticks of death" — weapons said to fire beams of invisible heat that melted steel, burned men to ash, and left the soil beneath them black and poisoned. None had seen these things firsthand — but all had heard something.
Speaker Veyrin raised one hand. "This motion is not one of war. It is one of caution, transparency, and security. Debate shall now be opened to the floor."
The murmurs did not fade — they deepened. But now they carried weight.
The Empire would speak.
From the second row of Parliament's stone benches, a man rose. He was broad-shouldered and graying, dressed in a deep green sash denoting the agricultural provinces. His name was Councilor Meron Halvek, and he was known throughout the capital as a measured voice in volatile times.
He stepped calmly down the aisle toward the central floor. All eyes followed him as he ascended to the speaking platform — the sound of his boots echoing across the chamber.
"Honored Tribunal, Crown, and fellow delegates," Halvek began, his voice steady but resonant, "we cannot overlook the implications of such an action. That nation — the Reich — sits on a land rich in rare minerals and fertile farmland. It is not just their weapons we must understand, but their place in the world's trade web."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the long rows of Parliament.
"Many surrounding nations rely on the Reich's exports. To cut all ties — to embargo without diplomacy — would force them to seek resources elsewhere. We risk painting ourselves as aggressors, isolationists… or worse: villains."
A low murmur of approval swept through the hall, followed by polite applause from many seated in the chamber.
"I urge this Assembly to weigh not only what we fear, but what may follow. Let us not vote on fear alone."
He stepped back from the podium and gave a respectful bow.
Speaker Veyrin nodded from his position.
"Thank you, Councilor Halvek."
He turned slightly.
"Is there anyone else who wishes to speak?"
A woman in a navy sash stood from the education and foreign affairs row — Councilwoman Elira Thorne of the eastern provinces. She moved to the central podium with purpose, chin held high and hands folded before her.
"Honored Assembly," she began, "let it be known that recently, the Reich has made it their mission to annex their neighbor — the so-called Human Confederation. While no arrows were fired and no secret weapons deployed, it should still be noted: they took a nation into their fold without ever consulting us, their regional counterpart."
Gasps and quiet murmurs followed.
"We cannot allow a rising power to bribe or bend others quietly into their borders. It may be peace today — but silence paves the road for conquest."
She offered a formal nod to the dais and returned to her seat.
A man from the far-left bench rose quickly — Councilor Bram Durell, marked by the deep red sash of the Workers' Party. A known populist and labor advocate, he climbed the stage and leaned slightly into the podium.
"I must respectfully disagree," he said. "I have followed the Reich's internal policies closely — especially their labor reforms. Their laws grant workers power and protection our own outer provinces still dream of."
A few murmurs, some skeptical, others thoughtful.
"And that's not all," Bram continued, lifting a sheaf of parchment. "From my own spy reports within the Confederation, it appears the people wanted this. There were no marches against it. No mass exodus. They welcomed it. And more than that — they've been listening to Reich broadcasts. Repetitively. They call it by a new name — radio. If roughly translated into our tongue, the term is something like Nurfolg. But that's beside the point."
He scanned the room.
"This annexation was not forced. It was peaceful. And we should treat it as such."
Several members of Parliament nodded in agreement. One younger delegate called out, "The people have the right to rebel against their government if they so choose!"
Councilwoman Elira turned her head, met Bram's eyes across the floor, and gave him a single respectful nod before resuming her seat.
Speaker Veyrin returned to the center podium.
"Anyone else who wishes to speak, please step forward."
A pause.
Then, from beside the royal dais, a voice rose.
"May I speak?" came the firm, clear voice of Princess Valerie.
A collective shift rippled through Parliament. Dozens of heads turned upward toward the King's platform.
A voice from the middle benches shouted, "Royals are not to interfere in Assembly decisions!"
Valerie's expression didn't falter, but her gaze lowered slightly to the floor — not in shame, but in restraint.
Before the room could break into open protest, one of the Judges leaned forward from the Tribunal.
It was High Magistrate Elros, the eldest of the Seven, whose domain covered Civic Law.
"Incorrect," he said firmly, rising to his feet.
The chamber fell into hushed stillness.
"According to Empire Law IV, Article II, Page 7 — a royal heir may voice their opinion before Parliament so long as they are not casting a formal vote. As she is not the Queen, and holds no legislative seat, she may speak freely."
A beat passed. Then, slowly, Parliament began to nod — a murmur of agreement moving through the benches.
Princess Valerie looked up, her gaze finding High Magistrate Elros, and gave him a single nod of appreciation.
With renewed confidence, she stepped down from the royal dais and made her way toward the stage."