Chapter 27: The Committee of Three and the Fallen Crown
The air in Milan was thick with the scent of ozone and high-stakes desperation. In the grand hall of the Palazzo Reale, the Committee of Three Commanders gathered around a massive oak table carved with the map of the Italian Peninsula.
Julian arrived with his specialized detachment. Beside him, dressed in the modest silks of a "Fallen Noblewoman" turned personal aide, was Isabella, the cat-like courtesan. He had bailed her out of the Milanese district, buying her contract for a sum that made even his mercenary captain, Valerius, whistle.
[System Notification: Follower Recruited.]
[Name: Isabella (The Shadow of Milan).]
[Role: Intelligence / Political Liaison.]
[Favorability: 10 (Respect).]
[Note: Buying a woman's freedom is a cliché, Julian, but effective. She's already sizing up the Hero's weaknesses while you're worrying about her dress.']
Julian stepped into the light, his gaze landing on the man he had seen only once before at the Frankfurt Parliament: Prince Albrecht von Luxembourg.
The "Hero" was a vision of golden perfection. His armor was etched with sunbursts, and his presence radiated the kind of divine arrogance that only the chosen of a dating sim could possess. Standing between them was the senior authority: Arch-Marshal Conrad von Hohenfels, a man whose face looked like it had been carved from Alpine granite.
"Ah," Albrecht said, his voice a smooth baritone that somehow managed to sound like a dismissal. "The new fiancé. Or is it husband now? I tend to forget the affairs of the lower nobility."
"This humble servant is her husband, My Prince," Julian replied, bowing with a precision that bordered on parody. He immediately used the title 'Prince' to feed Albrecht's ego—a survival strategy he had perfected back in the barony.
"Yes, well," Albrecht waved a hand. "You know your place. That's a start. You take the lead in the logistics, boy. I am here for the heart of the matter."
Arch-Marshal Conrad watched the exchange with a weary, calculating eye. 'The boy knows how to serve high nobles to keep his head,' Conrad thought. 'A rare trait in these times of puffed-up peacocks.'
The Tactical Deadlock
The Arch-Marshal slammed a gauntleted hand on the map.
"The Spanish have not officially declared war against the Empire," Conrad growled. "They are hiding behind the thin veil of a 'Crusade for Liberation.' If we mobilize the full Imperial Ban now, we look like we're attacking a holy cause. The Pope would excommunicate us before we reached the Po River."
"A light mobilization is all we have," Conrad continued. "Imperial orders are strict: Fortify the border with the Papal States. Do not engage. We are to be 'observers' of the peace."
"Observers?" Albrecht spat, his hand clenching the hilt of his sun-etched sword. "The Spanish are sieging Naples as we speak! The Royal Family is trapped! I didn't march 1,500 Bohemians across the Alps to watch a city burn from a distance. I came to slay generals and earn the glory the Diet promised me."
"Glory is for the living, Prince," Conrad replied coldly. "If Naples falls, we support the fleeing royals. If they hold, we move in as 'peacekeepers.' But we do not fire the first shot."
Albrecht turned his gaze to Julian, a mocking glint in his eyes. "And you, Viscount? Are you going to hide behind the Marshal's robes, or do you have a spine under that silver-blonde hair?"
Julian looked at the map. He saw the trap. Albrecht wanted a frontline assault to kill a Spanish general—a move that would trigger a world war for which the Empire wasn't yet ready.
"My Prince," Julian said, his voice calm and 'philosophical.' "Glory is indeed a noble pursuit. But a vanguard needs a stable rear. While you and the Marshal hold the northern ridge, someone needs to handle the most 'unpleasant' task. If Naples falls, the Mediterranean trade collapses and the refugees will clog the roads, making your glorious charge impossible."
"And?" Albrecht asked, bored.
"I volunteer for the Southern Escort," Julian declared. "Assign my detachment to the Papal border. I will manage the communication with the Neapolitan Royal Family. If the city breaks, I will be the one to extract the King and the survivors. It's a task of... servants and guards. Not fitting for a Prince."
Albrecht laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Refugee management? You want to be a glorified nursemaid for a falling kingdom? Fine. Take your mercenaries and go. Leave the real steel to me."
[System Notification: Strategic Niche Secured.]
[Objective Updated: Operation 'Siren's Flight'.]
[Note: You've just volunteered to be the only Imperial force behind the lines when the Spanish arrive. Smart. Dangerous. And typical of you.']
The King in the Sun
Four hundred miles to the south, the city of Naples was a cacophony of cannon fire and crumbling stone.
The Royal Family huddled in the Castel Nuovo. The King of Naples paced the throne room, his crown discarded on a velvet cushion. "Five great houses," he whispered, his voice cracking with agony. "Three have opened their gates to the 'Crusader' gold. They call themselves Spaniards now. My own kin have sold the city for a promise of Sicilian titles."
Outside, the Spanish lines were a forest of spears. At the center of the camp, under a golden pavilion, sat King Alfonso VIII.
He wasn't a man; he was an idol of the Reconquista. He spoke of his ancestors who had united Castile and Leon, who had destroyed the heathens.
"My grandfather united the crowns," Alfonso said to his generals, his eyes fixed on the smoke rising from Naples. "He crushed the weak and formed the Union. Now, I shall be the one to finish the work. First Naples. Then the Papacy. And finally... Portugal and the North. Italy is not a collection of states; it is the backyard of the Spanish Empire."
He stood up, his cloak of lion-pelt fluttering. "Continue the bombardment. I want the King of Naples to crawl to me before the sun sets. And if the Empire sends a 'Hero' to stop me... I shall show them that even a Luxembourg's blood burns when the sun gets too close."
The Departure
Back in Milan, Julian met Isabella in the courtyard. She had been listening at the door—a skill he hadn't even had to teach her.
"Refugee management, My Lord?" she asked, her cat-like eyes glinting with amusement. "You lied to the Prince. You aren't going there to help the poor. You're going there to meet the people who hold the keys to the Mediterranean trade."
"And to make sure the Spanish don't get the Neapolitan treasury before I do," Julian whispered, mounting his horse.
"The Prince is moving his 1,500 men to the main road. He's looking for a general to kill. He's going to walk into a trap, isn't he?" Isabella asked.
Julian looked toward the south. "Albrecht wants to be a hero. He wants the battlefield to be a stage. But this war? This war is going to be a muddy, bloody mess of betrayals and backroom deals. And in that kind of war... the 'servant' always survives longer than the 'Prince'."
[Isabella Favorability: 12 (Curiosity).]
"Captain Valerius!" Julian shouted. "We move for the Papal border! Secure the horses—we have a Royal Family to 'escort' before the Hero ruins the neighborhood!"
The "Committee of Three" had officially splintered. The Hero sought glory, the Marshal sought stability, and Julian von Andechs-Merania sought the only thing that mattered in a crumbling world: Leverage.
To be continued...