The wooden frame of the ship groans as the sea breeze drops to a quiet whisper. Slowing its forward surge, the vessel glides across dark, glassy swells. Out in the vast gloom of the night, the silhouette of the Almathea Islands rises like a sleeping leviathan, its jagged shoreline dotted with small, glowing pinpricks of warm lanterns and the sweeping, rhythmic beam of a solitary lighthouse. The beam cuts clean through the sea mist, painting the rippling black water in stark white flashes.
Near the forward railing, Lourdes Renaud rests her calloused hands against the salt-crusted timber. Her dark eyes narrow as she watches the distant harbor lights hover in the pitch black, seemingly unmoving. She turns her head toward a group of veteran sailors who are leaning against the capstan, coiling heavy hemp rope with practiced ease.
"Why do we have to stop the ship for so many hours before reaching the harbor?" Lourdes asks, her voice crisp and echoing over the gentle lap of the water against the hull.
One of the older sailors, his skin weathered like cured leather, pauses his work. He wipes his brow with the back of a scarred hand, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he points a calloused thumb toward the shallow reefs surrounding the island's entrance.
"Navigating these waters in total darkness is a swift path to the bottom of the sea, lass," the sailor answers, his tone deep and rough. "The tide shifts fast near Almathea. You hit a submerged ridge at night, and the hull cracks like a walnut. We wait for the harbormaster's signal flares and the early morning tide."
Lourdes absorbs the answer, her face neutral, though her fingers grip the wooden rail just a little tighter. Beside her stand her fellow earth slaves—nineteen men and women who fled the brutality of the French, now moving under the protective cover of mercenaries hired by Aldo. They stand quietly in the cool night air, their posture rigid, listening intently to every word the sailors share about the local channels, the island's ports, and the layout of the inns ashore.
When the ship finally inches into the shallows, small wooden tender boats are lowered down the side with heavy splashes. Following the quick gestures of the crew, Lourdes and the rest of the slave group step carefully into the boats, their eyes darting across the dark shoreline as they are rowed toward the stone docks to find their lodgings.
Back on the main deck of the flagship, the female captain stands with her arms crossed over her chest, her tricorne hat pulled low over her eyes. She looks down at Aldo, Comtois, and Adelberd, who are standing in a loose circle near the quarterdeck stairs.
"We need one company to stay aboard and guard the ship and its three-gallon liquor reserves for the night," the captain states, her voice hard and authoritative. "Play rock-paper-scissors to see whose company gets stuck on watch."
Before she can even finish her sentence, Aldo snaps his right hand high into the air, his eyes wide and completely serious.
"My 204th company will guard it," Aldo says instantly, stepping forward. "You two go to sleep. I need to write in my 'diary.'"
Comtois immediately thrusts his own hand skyward, a broad grin spreading across his face as he looks out over the dark horizon.
"Me!" Comtois exclaims, his voice booming across the quiet deck. "The sea is beautiful, the sound of the waves is lovely, I can sleep right here on the deck!"
Not to be outdone, Adelberd steps up, raising a firm hand without a moment's hesitation. "I volunteer."
The female captain blinks, her eyebrows shooting up in absolute bewilderment as she looks at the three young men competing to stay on duty. She lets out a short, incredulous laugh.
"Then you guys play rock-paper-scissors to see who... is worthy," she says, shaking her head.
Comtois steps in, tossing a heavy arm over the shoulders of both Aldo and Adelberd, pulling them into a tight huddle.
"HOW CAN WE EACH HAVE 30 OF EVERY COMPANY GO OUT TO GUARD THE SHIP, AND THE REMAINING 210 GO ASHORE TO SLEEP AT THE INN?" Comtois shouts, his facial expression a mix of mock outrage and earnest logic.
The female captain turns on her heel, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder as she walks away toward her cabin. "Whatever. Figure it out yourselves. Fine by me."
Comtois tightens his grip on his companions' shoulders, squeezing them close. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting between them.
"Alright, you guys, slave soldier earthlings," Comtois says, a sly grin playing on his lips. "I'll look after Cealina, Aldo will look after Julia, and Adelberd will look after Maria."
Aldo gives a quick, single nod of agreement. Without another word, the three separate, stepping down into different tender boats that carry them off to their assigned galleons anchored across the harbor.
Inside the captain's cabin on the deck of the galleon Julia, the air is thick with the scent of dried sea salt and aged timber. Aldo reaches out and switches on a small magic lamp sitting on the oak desk. Instantly, a cool, brilliant blue light bathes the room, painting the curved wooden walls in sharp shadows.
Aldo spreads a large, yellowed Palantine map of Heilop across the flat tabletop, weighing down the curling corners with a brass compass and an inkwell. His dark eyes scan the intricate topography before he picks up a graphite pencil. He leans low over the table, his breath even, and begins sketching precise lines, marking a clear path starting at Dravensk, a strategic settlement situated in the far south of Heilop.
He writes down a tight, methodical note in the margin of his paper:
"Dravensk, with its dense pine forests, is easy to defend and is often not fully controlled."
Satisfied, Aldo reaches into his satchel and pulls out a second document—the Tenets map. He unrolls it beside the territorial map. His finger traces the structural points of the economic and political framework detailed on the parchment: an economic model built on State Capitalism, paired with a political structure of Republicanism or a Constitutional Monarchy featuring Selective Suffrage, robust Civil Rights, and a strictly Merit-Based Bureaucracy.
He taps his chin with the end of his pencil, his forehead furrowing into deep lines of thought.
"What should our cultural policy be?" Aldo mutters aloud to the quiet room, his voice barely louder than the scrape of the waves against the hull.
Onaga, sitting on a low wooden chest in the corner, suddenly claps his hands together with a sharp, crisp crack that echoes off the wooden rafters.
"How about Traditionalism?" Onaga suggests, his young face brightening. "A policy focused on building community resilience and cultural foundations."
Hano, who is leaning against the doorframe picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, looks up and shakes his head sharply.
"I think we need a bit of progressiveness too," Hano counters, his voice laced with annoyance. "Being too traditional isn't good. When I was in Tokushima Prefecture, my friend was forced to dye his hair black even though he had naturally brown hair 'cause...order nonsense.."
Onaga throws his hands up, his eyes wide. "But Heilop culture would be different! We're talking about Heilop; we're not on Earth anymore!"
Aldo doesn't look up from his map. He draws a firm circle around two specific terms on the document.
"I'd choose conservative and traditional cultural policy," Aldo says calmly, his tone completely flat, "and liberal and civic education."
Hano steps forward and slams his open palm down on the wooden table with a loud, wooden thud, making the inkwell rattle.
"Damn, we're always talking about post-civil war statecraft!" Hano snaps, his face flushed. "What about propaganda to garner public support?"
Onaga nods vigorously, pointing an index finger at the ceiling. "That's right! We've forgotten about that."
Aldo leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. He looks at both of them with a calm, unbothered expression.
"Regarding propaganda... it's really not that necessary," Aldo states simply. "Serfs and peasants live and only live in the village; they are loyal to the village and work for their family and community. There is no nationalism, proletarian ideal, or democratic ideal. Even if we defeat a duchy and rule over that duchy, the peasants probably won't care, if we don't rule harshly and life is stable."
Onaga leans forward, his expression dead serious as he jabs a finger toward Aldo. "But we still need it!"
Hano grabs a spare piece of scrap paper and a quill, furiously scribbling lines down.
"For example," Hano says, his voice fast as his quill scratches against the rough parchment, "'A flat, unchangeable tax rate (e.g., 10% or 20% of harvest), explicitly banning emergency levies or random seizures.'" He pauses, blow-drying the wet ink with a quick breath.
Aldo taps his pencil against the edge of the desk. "Universal protection under my professional army. Anyone who harms a peasant on my land faces absolute execution. Something like that." He pauses, then adds, "Untamed land to whoever clears it, tax-free for the first three years."
Hano taps his chin with the wooden shaft of his quill, his eyes staring blankly at the wall for a second as he thinks. A sharp grin breaks across his face, and he writes quickly.
"An occasional, calculated wiping out of catastrophic peasant debts to the crown or merchant cartels," Hano reads aloud as he finishes the sentence.
Aldo taps his notebook with increasing speed, his eyes scanning through dense pages of handwritten notes.
"As I told you guys back in July," Aldo says, his voice growing sharper, "a revolution needs a Dissent Mass, a Weak State, and Elite Overproduction. The people of Heilop are resentful of the exorbitant taxes imposed by Palanton Sevan, the ruler of all of Heilop. Heilop is a decentralized feudal system, heavily corrupt, and showing signs of decline, like the decay of the nobility. Perhaps we need more sparks, those who are qualified but not truly elite, like..."
Hano abruptly raises his hand, interrupting Aldo mid-sentence.
"It seems we are also Elite Aspirants," Hano says, pointing a thumb at his own chest, "with weapons, organizational skills, but no real power."
Aldo freezes. He pauses, his hand hovering over his notebook as his eyes dart across the page. He rapidly flips back two pages, aggressively checking his scribbles, his jaw working as he stammers.
"Uh, um, well... uh, uh..." Aldo stutters, his face flushing slightly under the blue light of the magic lamp. "It seems we're Aspirants... But... but... we need more people, like the third sons of nobles, the Burghers and merchants, the clerks, and the rich farmers. They seem dissatisfied, but not yet satisfied enough. If we have them, a revolution will break out."
Onaga leans his chin on his palm, his expression thoughtful. "Isn't it true that when people suffer, they will rebel? Where there is oppression, there is struggle."
Aldo nods quickly, grabbing his pencil again. "That's a good point. A group of commoners protesting usually fails. Just add some elite Aspirants and there will be a revolution."
Suddenly, a loud crunching noise fills the cabin. Comtois, who has been sitting silently on a barrel right next to Aldo, casually bites into a dry biscuit, chewing loudly with a blissfully neutral look on his face.
"Uh, when will the civil war happen?" Comtois asks around a mouthful of crumbs.
Aldo glares at him sideways. "You act as if I'm a prophet."
Comtois shrugs, swallowing the bite. "I heard you're saying some interesting things."
"That won't help me predict anything," Aldo mutters, turning back to his map. "It'll be next year, 1301, usually 1302, or at the latest 1304. At this rate, Heilop will go bankrupt in 1303."
Hano turns around, his eyes locking onto Comtois with total incredulity. He lets out a loud scoff.
"Hey, why are you here? You are supposed to be in Galleon Cealina!" Hano shouts.
Comtois keeps his face completely relaxed, utterly unfazed by the outburst. He takes another slow bite of his biscuit.
"Well, I actively participate in the glorious proletariat revolution," Comtois says smoothly, his tone entirely casual.
Hano rubs his temples, his voice dropping into exasperation. "Do you even listen? Did we ever say we pick socialism?"
"I did hear Aldo say prole once," Comtois replies flatly, chewing another biscuit without breaking eye contact.
Onaga lets out a long, dramatic sigh, slumping his head into his hands.
Across the dark waters of the harbor, aboard the Galleon Maria, Adelberd sits alone in his cabin, illuminated by the faint glow of a small oil lamp. He stares at a hand-drawn map of his own, his eyes burning with intense conviction.
Harboring his own secret, rebellious plan, Adelberd dreams of the German Empire. He longs to spread the iron discipline and structural perfection of the Prussian model throughout Heilopan, establishing an unshakeable order of efficiency and military precision. He taps his fingers against the wood, his thoughts racing back to the other ships anchored nearby.
Do Aldo and Comtois also want to revolutionize like me? Adelberd thinks to himself, his eyebrows knitting together in anxious calculation. Are they planning the exact same thing, or am I standing alone in this?
He hesitates, his fist hovering over his desk. A deep fear of exposure gnaws at him—if he misjudges them, his entire vision could be crushed before it even starts. He stands up and walks to the small stern window, looking out into the dark harbor. Across the gentle waves, he spots the faint, distinct blue light glowing from the cabin window of Galleon Julia.
Determined to get an answer, Adelberd leaves his cabin, boards a small skiff, and rows himself across the dark water to the Julia.
Moments later, a heavy, rhythmic knock echoes against the door of the captain's cabin on the Julia.
Aldo pulls the door open. Standing in the doorway is Adelberd, his face pale, his jaw set in a rigid, dead-serious expression. Adelberd immediately steps inside, his blue eyes darting aggressively around the room—taking in the blue magic lamp, the spread-out maps, the scribbled Tenets document, and the notebooks scattered across the desk.
Yes, is he plotting a revolution? Adelberd thinks, his heart pounding in his chest as his eyes lock onto Aldo's notes.
Without missing a beat, Adelberd steps up to the table. In a sharp, precise, and passionate tone, he pours out his grand vision—explaining his ideals, his passion for Prussian structure, and his desire to transform Heilopan into a disciplined power.
Comtois, still sitting on his barrel with a half-eaten biscuit in hand, waves a casual greeting at Adelberd and gestures toward his side of the table.
"Join my side," Comtois says with a cheerful grin.
Before Adelberd can answer, Aldo steps firmly between them, raising a hand to cut Comtois off as he lays out the core tenets of their own plan, matching Adelberd's seriousness point for point. Adelberd listens intently, his eyes widening slightly before he gives a single, firm nod of agreement, aligning himself with their cause.
Hano watches the entire exchange from the corner, leaning against the wooden beam. He throws his hands up in the air, a sarcastic smirk spreading across his face as he shakes his head.
"Woah..." Hano comments dryly, his voice echoing in the small cabin. "It looks like there are three Heilopanian citizens or slaves with revolutionary plans for every square meter."