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.
She stepped into the light of the central floor — calm, deliberate, and unshaken. Her heels echoed against the polished stone as she approached the Speaker's podium. The chamber hushed. Parliament had spoken, but now royalty would speak — and all knew better than to interrupt.
Valerie stood tall at the platform, her gloved hands resting lightly on its edge. She didn't glance toward the King, nor to the Judges, but met the eyes of the Lower Chamber directly.
"You all know me," she began, her tone soft, conversational — but unyielding. "Not just as a daughter of the Crown, but as a woman who has traveled, who has seen things many of you have only read about in reports. I have stood in the halls of the Reich. I have walked its streets and spoken with its leaders."
The chamber remained silent, save for the scratching of a few scribes' quills.
"Let me tell you about the man they call the Führer."
Her voice shifted slightly — no longer soft, but edged with memory.
"He is not a king, though he wears power heavier than any crown. He is not a president, though his words move entire peoples like rivers redirected by a single stone. He is a dictator — in the truest sense of the word. One whose will is law, and whose gaze is unblinking."
She looked briefly toward her father, then returned her focus to the Assembly.
"He does not rant. He does not rage. No — his voice is quiet when it needs to be. Measured. Intentional. And that's what makes him dangerous."
Her brow furrowed as she leaned slightly into the podium.
"He speaks to crowds not with threats, but with visions. He talks of unity, of destiny, of sacrifice. And when he speaks, the people believe him. Not out of fear. Out of faith. That, more than his armies, more than his weapons — is his greatest strength."
She paused.
"You ask yourselves if the Reich is building weapons. If they hide secrets in their factories and dig death into the hills. Yes, they do. But you should also ask what they build in the hearts of their people. Because that is where wars are won before they're ever fought."
She let her hand rest atop the stone again.
"I've seen him speak in person. His eyes… they don't flicker. They don't wander. They pierce. He speaks as if the world is already his, and he is simply waiting for the rest of us to admit it."
A few murmurs trickled across the benches.
"You may not see it yet — but the Reich is not just a nation. It is a story. A story they are writing with steel, with silence, and with myth. And when enough people believe in a myth, it becomes truth."
She straightened.
"So I say: watch them. Know them. Fear them if you must. But do not underestimate them. Because if you do, we may find ourselves not just in a war of armies… but in a war of ideas. And those are the hardest wars to win."
With that, she gave a single bow — not deep, but sincere — and stepped down.
The chamber remained still for several breaths.
Then a lone figure rose from the agrarian benches — a tall, pale man with rough hands and the posture of a laborer who had traded his plow for parchment. He wore the dark olive sash of the Agrarian Party, embroidered with the wheat-stalk insignia of the rural territories.
He stepped forward to the central podium.
"I am Councilor Fenric Hale," he began plainly, his voice carrying the weight of a man used to wind and earth more than marble and law.
"I speak today not just as a delegate, but as a human. And as a human… I am afraid."
The chamber shifted.
"We have received reports from human agents — spies within the Reich's outer borders. Their findings are chilling."
He lifted a parchment from his belt, but didn't read from it.
"Whole towns gone. Families vanished. Non-human races — missing. Quietly erased from city records. Schools teaching that dwarves are inferior. That elves are treacherous. That orcs are beasts."
Gasps murmured across the rows.
"These are not simply cruel prejudices. They are doctrines. Ideals taught to children. Reinforced by policy. Whispered in sermons. Echoed in military creeds."
He looked toward Valerie, then back to the chamber.
"As a human, I know the sting of racial profiling. In many lands, we are treated as second-tier. But we are not alone in this. Dwarves scoff at elven magic. Elves once cut the ears from goblins and sold them in sacks. Orcs march with the belief that every other race is weak — that they alone should rule."
He paused.
"But the Reich…"
His tone lowered.
"The Reich believes none of us should exist. This is not a hierarchy of superiority. It is a doctrine of extermination."
Murmurs turned into stunned silence.
"And that, more than any weapon, any cannon, any radio… that is what we must fear."
He stepped back, his face ashen but resolved.
"Thank you."
The chamber remained still.
All eyes slowly drifted to the Speaker, who now stepped forward again — the weight of the session building as the hour pressed on.
"Are there any further statements before deliberation begins?"
No one stood. No one spoke.
The Hall of Deliberation hung heavy with silence, the air thick with tension. Delegates glanced at each other, shifting in their seats, as if daring someone else to speak first. But none did.
From the central platform, Speaker Almand Veyrin's voice rose calmly but firmly:
"Very well. If there are no further voices, then we shall proceed to a vote."
He paused, allowing the command to settle.
"All members of Parliament, you are granted five minutes to confer with your parties and cast your votes. Red for approval of the regulation, blue for rejection."
A murmur followed as the chamber stirred to life. Delegates leaned inward in hushed conversations. Rows of colors began to form as aides moved to distribute the vote placards. Representatives of the Agrarian League, the Trade Consortium, the Workers' Party, the Scholar's Bloc, and independent delegates all formed clusters, whispering intensely. Some nodded gravely. Others seemed hesitant, glancing toward the royal dais or the judges above.
Princess Valerie remained unmoving, watching silently from her position near the throne.
The five minutes passed slowly, the clatter of shifting feet and the rustle of parchment the only sound.
Then:
"Time," the Speaker said.
Slowly, almost ceremonially, delegates began to rise — row by row, section by section — holding aloft their placards. The colors filled the chamber like a sea of muted fire.
Blue.
Blue.
Red.
Blue.
Red.
More blue.
Aides scurried among the rows with slates, tallying and recording each vote with quick strokes.
Minutes passed.
Then, the Speaker returned to the podium.
"Voting period has concluded. Final count as follows: 22 percent in favor — red. Seventy-eight percent opposed — blue. Out of 301 voting members."
A ripple moved through the assembly.
"With this result," Speaker Veyrin announced, "the proposed regulations and embargo measures regarding the German Reich have not passed."
He turned toward the high dais.
"Judges of the Tribunal, your ruling, please."
One by one, the Seven Judges rose.
Each raised their hand.
"No."
"No."
"No."
"No."
"No."
"No."
"No."
Seven voices in unison.
The Speaker inclined his head.
"All seven Judges have voted in opposition. As such, by rule of law, the regulation is fully rejected and shall proceed no further."
He struck his gavel once.
"This session of the Unified Assembly is now concluded. Members are dismissed."
A flurry of motion followed as the chamber slowly came undone — some delegates lingering in conversation, others rising in silence. The tension that had hung so heavy now fell into scattered relief, replaced with quiet reflection, unresolved questions, and uncertain futures.
Princess Valerie, still by the King's dais, exhaled softly and turned toward the stained-glass windows, her eyes lingering not on the light, but the shadows it left behind.
As murmurs faded and the scraping of chairs echoed through the vast chamber, Princess Valerie remained still.
She turned slowly toward the King's dais, where her father, King Alrik Bashur, had already risen from the Throne of Accord. The judges filed out in solemn order behind him, their black robes trailing like shadows. The Speaker was already consulting with aides. Delegates chatted in low tones as they gathered their scrolls and cloaks.
But Valerie's voice cut softly through the fading clamor.
"Father," she said, her eyes still fixed on the chamber floor. "Did we make the right decision?"
King Alrik paused at the top of the dais steps. For a moment, he didn't turn to face her. His broad frame was cast in pale gold by the light of the stained-glass dome overhead — a monarch carved from duty, not desire.
Then he spoke, calm but resolute.
"It was not our decision to make, daughter. It was theirs. The voice of the people, spoken through those who represent them."
He turned, and their eyes met — hers searching, his tired but unwavering.
"That is the burden of a constitutional throne. You guide, but you do not command. You listen, even when your heart wishes to speak louder. And when the people choose… you do not deny them."
She nodded slowly. Not in agreement, but in understanding.
The King gave her a faint nod — a signal of closure — then descended the steps and exited through the private hall behind the throne, his guards falling into place at either side without a word.
Valerie remained.
The great chamber slowly emptied, row by row. Parliament dispersed — some relieved, others stone-faced, still others muttering bitterly about votes lost and dangers ignored. The whispers that had once surrounded her now gave her a wide berth. No one met her eyes.
She watched them go — all of them.
The flags above the chamber stirred in the faint draft from the high arches. The banners of trade, of war, of law, of faith. Symbols of a united people.
And yet…
Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper to herself.
"The will of the people… But what if what the people want — is not what it seems?"
No one answered her. The chamber was nearly empty now, its vastness echoing like a cathedral of silence.
Only her thoughts remained.