Inside the field command tent, Corsica I stared down at the map, tracing a line with his finger.
Red flags were pinned across the tactical map of Western Terra spread over the mat. They marked the relentless advance of the Gallic Imperial Army.
Scattered before them were blue flags: the Victorian Imperial Army. It was a chaotic jumble of noble house levies, royalist forces, and numerous provincial volunteers caught in between.
Outside the tent, the neighing of horses and military cadences intertwined. The sound of Originium artillery batteries completing their firing solutions, the thud of messengers kicking up soil as they sprinted, and the pillars of smoke rising from Victorian field positions—Corsica I let all these sounds wash over him like background noise.
His eyes were fixed solely on the map.
"We have come this far," he murmured, a thin smile playing on his lips.
His fingertip stopped at a point where the blue flags were stretched thin.
"The Victorian main force. The noble regiments are all gathered. Border lords, the Royal Guard, and even the provincial militias… it's a veritable exhibition of heraldry. One might think they were hosting a gala rather than a war."
Standing beside him, his Chief of Staff spoke cautiously. "Your Majesty, scout reports suggest their cavalry numbers are higher than anticipated. Wyvern riders and heavy lancers are among them…"
"It matters not whether they throw wyverns or heavy horse at us," Corsica I cut him off. "They are an army bound by differing fears. One side fears losing their King; the other fears losing their fiefdoms. An army like that cannot gallop in the same direction for long."
His thumb pressed lightly on the Victorian left wing. "This flank… it's held by the private levies of those Dukes, isn't it?"
The Chief of Staff nodded. "Windermere, Gloucester, Northumberland… a mix of several high houses."
"Windermere? I thought that line was extinguished."
"I believe they granted the headship to a branch family, Sire."
"Good. Chaff, then."
Corsica I muttered as he picked up several red flags. "Divert the 1st and 3rd Corps here. Execute a wide envelopment behind the Victorian left wing. The Old Guard is to wait behind the center. We break through on my signal. As for the Originium artillery…"
He tapped the center of the map. "Target the densest cluster of noble banners. Smashing that point is all that matters. Take off the head, and the body will scatter on its own."
The Chief of Staff hesitated. "Your Majesty, our central infantry will be stretched thin. If the Victorians push through the center…"
"Then let them," Corsica I said, arching an eyebrow. "While they strike our center, we shall wrap around and lock them within our wings. Think of the entire Victorian Army as a single great sack. We are the ones holding the drawstring."
He continued with the airy tone of a veteran discussing a routine chore. "War is not waged by numbers and courage alone. It is waged with space, time, and the psyche. They will not trust one another's backs, preoccupied with their own house colors. We fight for one flag, one Empire. That distinction will split this plain today."
The tent flap lifted, and a messenger rushed in. "Your Majesty! The Victorian cavalry on the left wing has begun their advance! By their standards, it appears to be the Duke of Gloucester's lancers!"
"Excellent. It is only polite to accommodate those who wish to be the first to die," Corsica I said, standing up. "Relay the order. The left defensive line is to hold its ground—not one step forward. No retreat, no advance. Merely endure. The central infantry is to fall back fifty paces to reform. The Old Guard stays in reserve. I will personally oversee the Originium artillery from the heights."
The staff officers bowed in unison.
Corsica I stepped out of the tent. Before him stretched the plains, where the banners of Victoria surged like waves. They were banners of varying heraldry and color, a muddy mix of private interests and delusions. Beneath those flags stood rows of armored knights and infantry, with the royal standard fluttering high above them all.
On the opposing side, the Gallic Imperial Army stood in a unified front of blue banners emblazoned with the Golden Eagle and the Gallic Royal Crest. Regular infantry, cavalry, and Originium artillery were deployed with mechanical discipline. The intervals between units were precise, and messengers moved along established routes.
Corsica I raised his field glass to inspect the Victorian center. He saw heralds decorated in gaudy finery, weighted down by noble crests. Outwardly magnificent, their formation was jagged and uneven. The colors of the soldiers' armor in the same rank were inconsistent; shield sizes and spear lengths varied wildly.
"Look at that," he remarked to an aide. "That is the disorder they leave unattended in the name of 'tradition.' The nobles delude themselves into thinking their private retinues are small empires unto themselves. That is why they are so disjointed. If you asked them later, they would claim it was for the 'glory of the house.' Ridiculous."
His gaze stopped on a small standard far to the right rear of the Victorian lines. It bore the mark of the Victorian Royalty. Behind it sat the Royal Army and the Royal Guard.
"The road to reach that point is still long," he whispered softly. "But no matter. We shall carve them up one by one."
A report arrived that the Originium artillery was ready. Moments later, a thunderous roar tore through the plains. Beams of violet light arced through the air, carving through the center of the Victorian ranks. Earthen fountains erupted as the formation shattered. Shards of armor, torn banners, and human remains were tossed skyward.
A second and third salvo followed. The Originium shells struck with surgical precision exactly where the noble regiments were most concentrated. Panicked by the initial impact, the soldiers fell into confusion. Noble commanders spurred their horses forward, attempting to restore order, but at that moment, the beat of the Gallic drums echoed across the field.
Corsica I made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Now. The center is to push only slightly. Feign weakness, feign endurance, feign chaos. The wings are to remain steady. The 1st and 3rd Corps, keep your flanking maneuver out of their sight."
His voice was chillingly calm. "We shall build them a bridge that sways before their eyes. Sturdy on the surface, but with the nails slowly pulled from within. We let them gallop across it at full speed, then sever it at its weakest point."
From the distance, trumpets blared. The Victorian cavalry was charging toward the center. Knights leveled their lances as hooves tore the soil. Gaudy flags cut through the wind. Behind them, the infantry followed with a roar.
Corsica I smiled. "Good. Come closer. Closer still."
In his mind, the next three scenes of the battle unfolded as clearly as if they were already happening. The Victorian lancers would crash into the Gallic infantry—spear against shield, steel against blood. The Originium artillery would then rain fire behind and beside them. As the cavalry and infantry tangled, they would inadvertently block their own path of breakthrough.
The Victorian left wing, intoxicated by their early 'success,' would not stop their advance. But their support from the flanks would vanish, and the sand pits and concealed trenches at the edge of the plains would reveal themselves. At that moment, Gallic cavalry would emerge from the fog to pierce their flank.
Finally, the 1st and 3rd Corps would appear in the Victorian rear. Red flags would rise behind the Royal Army, and the moment their retreat was cut off—
"That will be the end of today's engagement," Corsica I murmured. "Once the sun sets, Victoria will no longer be an 'Empire.' It will be nothing more than a government-in-exile, fawning among those decadent swine, waiting at the next negotiating table for our terms."
His Chief of Staff asked quietly, "And after that… where do you look, Your Majesty?"
Corsica I was silent for a moment before speaking slowly. "All of Terra."
His eyes seemed to pierce the distant horizon. "Victoria, the Soviet Union, Iberia, the Leithanien Empire, the feudal lords of Sargon, the hicks of Bolivar… in time, they are all but temples of gods waiting to rot. We shall build a new Empire upon those ruins. The Gallic Empire will not merely be a nation of the west, but the center of all Terra."
He reached out into the empty air. "Their crowns, their red banners, even the skull-shaped throne of the Emperor… all shall become fertilizer in Gallic soil. Our flag will sprout upon it."
Outside, the artillery roared again. In the heart of the plains, the centuries-old dignity of Victoria was being shredded. Corsica I raised his field glass once more. He wanted to see the faces of the defeated. Only then could he accurately calculate their fear and rage for his next move.
"Today is Victoria's turn," he said, low but clear. "And tomorrow… it will be the turn of the others."
***************************
Lieutenant General Amfielice Windermere wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand inside the STAVKA operations room. Wooden markers and flags were pinned across the great map of Terra covering the entire wall: the southern Victoria-Gallic front, the southwestern Federal border fortresses, the buffer zones with Leithanien to the east, and the refugee camps on the eastern fringes.
It had not even been a full day since the small marker on the border plain between Victoria and Gaul had turned red.
"Latest report," she commanded.
A staff officer looked down at his papers. "The Gallic Imperial Army has breached the Victorian primary defense line. The noble regiments of Gloucester, Northumberland, and Kent have suffered catastrophic losses. The Duke of Windermere's forces have been annihilated; the Duke himself is confirmed dead. While portions of the Victorian Royal Army are retreating in an orderly fashion, the majority of provincial levies have collapsed in total disorder."
Ivanov, the People's Commissar of Defense, snorted. "As expected. When an army built of noble vanity takes a direct hit to the face, the outcome is always the same."
Wrangel stood before the map with his arms crossed. "Still, they broke faster than I thought. I figured they'd last at least two days."
Amfielice said nothing, her finger tracing along the Victorian border. Ivanov turned to her. "Do you see light anywhere, Comrade Lieutenant General?"
She met his gaze directly. The eyes of the woman who was once the head of the Victorian House of Windermere were far calmer now than they had ever been. Her uniform and the cap emblazoned with the red star seemed to suit her strangely well.
"Rather than light… perhaps there is a candle that has yet to be snuffed out," Amfielice replied. "The strength of the Victorian Army is that they only start using their heads after they've been thoroughly thrashed. Noble pride may drag them down initially, but once a crisis hits, that pride shifts direction—to protect the lineage."
Wrangel looked intrigued. "For example?"
"Once they recognize the pattern of the Gallic Army, they will pivot from head-on collisions to attrition by the second battle. That is the true challenge," Amfielice continued in a level voice. "Victoria is a nation that only begins to 'learn' after a grand defeat. However…"
Her finger moved past the Victorian border, down toward the southern frontier of the Union. "The Gallic Emperor knows better than anyone that time is against him. He will want to delay a direct confrontation with the Union for as long as possible. Therefore, he will design a war against Victoria that is short and brutal—hitting hard and fast to minimize our window to react."
A Major General spinning a pencil in his hand asked, "Which means… our window to act is also short."
"Precisely," Amfielice nodded. "Corsica I seeks blood as soon as he draws his sword. Most men of his talent and ambition do. If all Terra is his chessboard, the current phase is simply clearing the Victorian knight. We must prepare several contingencies before our turn arrives."
Ivanov uncrossed his arms. "What is your opinion, Comrade Lieutenant General? Should we assist Victoria? Or should we let the two Empires bleed each other dry?"
All eyes in the operations room converged on Amfielice. Many still viewed her with duality: a former Victorian aristocrat turned citizen and Lieutenant General of the Red Army of Workers and Peasants. An expert who knew Victoria inside and out, yet also the one who had abandoned it.
Amfielice took a breath. "We have no reason to protect the Victorian Crown. That much is clear. The Kings and nobles of Victoria have done nothing for us—or for their own workers. However… we have no reason to let the people living on Victorian soil be used as fertilizer for the Gallic Emperor, either."
Ivanov raised an eyebrow. "Watch your words. To some, that might sound sentimental."
"It is not sentiment, but calculation," Amfielice's voice hardened. "If the Victorian people are ruthlessly trampled by the Gallic army and the Empire collapses without preparation, it won't be our side that stands upon the ruins—it will be theirs. They will use Victoria as a springboard to bypass our southern border. That is precisely why we must dictate the manner in which Victoria falls."
Wrangel chuckled softly. "So, it's a question of how to win while ensuring Victoria breaks in a way that suits us."
"Exactly," Amfielice nodded. "We need not gift victory to the King of Victoria, nor preserve his kingdom. But while the Victorian workers and soldiers fight the Gallic invasion, we can make them doubt their King and their lords. We can even let the nobles doubt their King. What they will need then is weapons, intelligence, and… a different kind of flag."
Ivanov leaned in. "A different kind of flag?"
"The Victorian People's Committee Preparatory Committee, the Victorian Soviet, the Victorian People's Front… the name does not matter." Amfielice's eyes gleamed. "Just as the Gallic People's Front joined us to create a provisional People's Committee, Victoria needs similar seeds. We must ensure that the Gallic invasion doesn't strengthen the monarchy, but rather accelerates its collapse. That way, when the war ends, the remaining powers won't just be Gaul's flag and ours, but at least a third one as well."
Frank nodded. "To do that… we must extend our reach into Victoria. Weapons, funds, propaganda, organizational leaders…"
Wrangel picked up the thread. "Do not send the army directly, but extend the hand. While Gaul hammers Victoria, we sow the seeds for a new government behind the lines."
Ivanov muttered while staring at the map. "And what of our borders in the meantime? Is the 1st Southwestern Group ready?"
Amfielice answered as if she had been waiting for the question. "Over the last two years, the Type-26 bolt-action rifle has been issued to the entire standing army. New rifles and artillery equipment were prioritized for the southwestern border corps. Defensively speaking, we are far more formidable than we were two years ago. However…"
Her gaze alternated between the Victoria-Gallic front and the vast plains along the Union's southern border. "Corsica I is no fool. If he subjugates Victoria quickly, the likelihood of us being dragged in increases. That is why I believe we must plan based on a timeline."
"A timeline?" Ivanov asked briefly.
"Yes." Amfielice traced an invisible line with her finger. "The time Gaul needs to penetrate deep into the Victorian heartland; the time required for a resistance movement to grow within Victoria; and the time it takes for the Victoria-Gallic front to impact our southern border. We must look at these three timelines as they overlap."
Wrangel nodded. "Then, Comrade Lieutenant General, give us your proposal."
Amfielice took a long breath. To reach this point, she had spent countless nights in reflection and nightmares—as a Victorian Royal Army officer, as a prisoner lying in a Union camp, and the day she defected to the Union at the Revolutionary Committee's invitation.
"First, we must immediately reorganize the entire Southern Army Group as a 'cordon sanitaire' in case Gaul attempts an encirclement through Victoria. Mix independent artillery divisions and infantry corps to ensure we can harass them the moment they step onto the plains."
"Second, we must message left-wing groups in various nations through the Comintern's Wartime Joint Committee. Identify groups ready to organize a Victorian People's Front and establish secret channels for support. The OGPU and the People's Commissariat of Foreign Affairs should spearhead this."
Feliksa nodded slightly from the side. "It can be done," she said quietly. "We've already sown a few seeds inside Victoria. They just need more water to sprout."
"Third," Amfielice concluded. "Officially, we must maintain 'neutrality' with Victoria. We must not form a military alliance with the Victorian Monarchy. Instead, a simple declaration of principle is enough: 'Should any Gallic aggression threaten the borders of the Union, the Union is prepared to act in collective defense.' It serves as a warning to the Gallic Emperor and a beacon of hope for the Victorian people."
A brief silence filled the operations room.
Ivanov's lips curled into a slanted smile. "Calculations worthy of a Windermere. A path that does not save the King, yet does not abandon the people… do you truly believe such a path exists?"
Amfielice didn't hesitate for a second. "I do. Because if that path did not exist, I would have no reason to be here."
Wrangel laughed softly. "Very well. Let us, who believe in that path, forge it together."
Amfielice's amber eyes burned with resolve.
************************
The Leithanien Imperial Diet convened again today, as usual, without its Emperor. Many noble house crests were engraved on the high ceiling of the chamber: swords and shields, dragons and castles, winged lions and chariots, the silhouettes of half-broken ancient keeps. Centuries of aristocratic pride were solidified in stone and gold filigree.
At the far end, perched high, was a massive black throne. It was a seat woven of bone, ice, and blue Arts sigils. The throne of the Lich King.
But the seat remained empty.
Below the throne, representatives from various princes, free cities, Grand Prelates, and Grand Masters of knightly orders sat in semi-circular benches. The Diet's presiding officer adjusted his cloak and spoke.
"Honorable Princes and representatives of the Free Cities." He cleared his throat out of habit. "War has broken out between the Gallic Empire and the Victorian Empire. Documents from Lingones and reports from our scouts have confirmed this. Today's agenda is singular: the stance of our noble and holy Empire regarding this conflict."
A murmur filled the chamber. A Duke from the northern border was the first to speak, an old man whose white beard hung like a mantle.
"If the Gallic Empire strikes Victoria, our western border will be next," he said slowly. "Have we forgotten our ancient wars? The days when the boots of the filthy Khan trampled our plains? There is no difference between the Khan and the Gallic. While Victoria stood, they checked each other's blades. If one falls, the survivor will turn toward us."
A Marquis representing the southern commercial cities tapped his fingers on the table. "I understand the sentiment. However, what is there to gain if we join? Gaul, the Union, and Victoria will all view us as a potential enemy. Unless the Lich King himself takes the field, in our current state… would our army not simply be dragged into a meat grinder?"
A Grand Prelate stopped wetting his fingers for prayer and spoke. "We detest blood." He shook his head. "But we cannot stop other blood from soaking the earth. While the Lich King is immersed in his deep research, we are left with a choice: which blood do we allow to flow, and in which direction?"
The Mayor of Viseheim, a free city of the east, spoke next. "We cannot ignore the Union either," he said cautiously. "They have avoided direct conflict with us so far, but if Gaul swallows Victoria and bypasses the southern plains to strike the Union, one day red flags and blue flags will clash on our borders too. We are not prepared to side with either."
The Elector of Hochberg snorted. "The Union? You mean that Red Republic? They are men who hate kings, despise nobility, and mock all that is holy. You suggest we hold hands with such creatures?"
The eastern representative replied, trailing off slightly. "Despise them as we may, we can use them. While the Union catches the edge of Gaul's blade, we can lean our backs against them. Conversely, while Gaul fights the Union, we can expand our influence in Central Terra under the guise of 'the last guardians of order.'"
Suppressed laughter and tongue-clicking rippled through the hall. The Imperial Diet was always like this—a complex tangle of conflicting calculations and vanities. The Presiding Officer tapped his elegant gavel lightly.
"Gentlemen." He made his voice heavier. "His Majesty did not grace us with his presence at this meeting, but a message has been handed down through his circle of court mages."
The chamber went silent.
"His Majesty says," the Presiding Officer's voice echoed low. "'The blood of Terra eventually flows into a single sea; I merely wish to know the temperature and color of that sea.'"
Several princes frowned. "As always… an inscrutable word," Grand Duke Leopold muttered. "Which is to say, His Majesty will once again not personally intervene unless the absolute worst occurs."
The officer continued, looking slightly embarrassed. "There will be no direct intervention for the time being. However, His Majesty has demanded that we 'ensure the balance of Terra does not tilt toward one side.' I take this to mean we must not let any one nation grow excessively strong."
The Northern Duke tapped the table. "Then the answer is simple. We must attach a counterweight somewhere so that Gaul does not swallow Victoria too easily. If we cannot send troops, then through other means."
The representative of the eastern free city was quick to understand. "Arms exports, material support, intelligence sharing… those sorts of things." He nodded.
The officer scanned the hall. "Then let us summarize as follows. First, the Leithanien Empire will not directly intervene in the Gallic-Victorian war for the time being. No troops will be sent, no official declarations of war. Second, reinforce the defensive lines along the western border. Each Prince and Free City shall reorganize their forces to be ready to respond immediately should the Gallic Imperial Army approach our borders by bypassing Victoria."
"Third," he continued, "in the export of weapons and materials, adjust the flow so that no one side gains an absolute advantage. Whether it be Victoria, or the Union and its allies, let them all pass through the hands of our merchants—but be careful that the scales do not tip entirely."
The Duke of Hochberg chuckled lowly. "So in the end, we solve it through trade again?"
The Mayor of Lohenheim smiled. "Where there are those who bleed in war, there are those who bottle that blood and sell it. Since we have no intention of bleeding ourselves, should we not at least own the bottles?"
The presiding officer added a final note. "Fourth, keep a portion of the Imperial Army in reserve so that His Majesty may declare an intervention at any time. The day His Majesty truly chooses to rise, this war will take on a completely different form. It would not be remiss for us to imagine what our choice will be then."
The hall erupted into noise again. Pros and cons were debated, but no one stepped forward to volunteer their own troops to be sent west.