Speaker Welsh had no way of seeing the expressions on the faces of the figures sitting at the other end of the line. Having already lived long enough to keep one foot in the grave, he had zero patience for trying to decode what useless schemes these so-called high lords were brewing.
After a long, heavy silence, the voices on the far end signaled for the Speaker to continue. Though subtle resentment flickered over his biting sarcasm, Welsh still held the official title of Speaker, and the grand dukes owed him at least a modicum of procedural deference.
"Since everyone has arrived, let us address the paramount topic of this Laterano summit," Welsh said, shrugging his frail shoulders. "There are decisions that only you gentlemen possess the authority to finalize."
He laid out the looming Seaborn disaster, detailing the dark threat of a second Great Silence—a apocalyptic tide capable of burning every noble seat and ducal title to cinders.
"Can you verify these claims?" a grand duke with a shrill, piercing voice blurted out, breaking the quiet. He sounded like a man who had been hastily dragged away from a salon banquet, his composure still rattled. "How do we know this isn't some elaborate trap set by the Sankta and Iberians to gather our soldiers, leaving us open to continental pressure?"
"The court of Yan has independently corroborated the intel," Welsh countered dryly. "Unprecedented coastal movements of Seaborn organisms have been registered along their southern reaches as well. I doubt three major powers would fabricate a farce of this magnitude merely to fool us, Duke of Normandy."
Hearing Yan mentioned, the Duke of Normandy fell silent. It was not that he placed blind faith in the eastern empire, but rather that no global power would use so brittle a lie when verification was only a message away.
"What about our own intelligence network?" another grand duke demanded with sharp irritation, eager to push the blame for this blindspot onto the nominal manager of Londinium. "Have our operatives in Iberia reported nothing? I recall our spy network claimed full coverage over the southern region!"
"If I recall correctly," Welsh replied, a cold sneer lacing his voice, "the intelligence budget was slashed eight years ago. Allocation for reconnaissance in Iberia and beyond has sat at precisely zero for years! When you redirected those funds to spy on your domestic rivals and manufacture artillery shells, none of you foresaw a day when you might actually need eyes abroad!"
The old Speaker made no effort to hide his disdain. That once-mighty intelligence apparatus had been built by the Lion King himself; how could these treacherous dukes ever allow such an organization to endure?
For years, the dukes had systematically withheld funding, gutted operational allowances, and even tipped off foreign regimes to flush out native spies—pocketing the bounties to stuff their private armories with firepower.
Welsh had burned with quiet fury over such self-destructive stupidity for years, yet had been forced to hold his tongue. Today, safe in Laterano and beyond their physical reach, he intended to speak every bitter truth without holding back. He had no intention of returning to Victoria anyway.
"Speaker Welsh seems to carry a heavy burden of grievances," a raspy, ancient voice cut through the channel. The moment it spoke, the chatter among the other grand dukes vanished into absolute silence, as if every lord had been instantly muted.
"My grievances are endless, Duke of Wellington!" Welsh retorted firmly. "But we are not here to listen to my complaints. We are here to decide Victoria's stance on this crisis. That is the only matter that demands an answer!"
With the arrival of the Iron Duke, Welsh knew the real discussion could finally begin. The grand dukes had to choose whether to join this continental initiative or reject it outright, allowing him to deliver Victoria's official answer to Pope Yvangelista.
The moment Welsh finished speaking, chaotic arguments erupted across the line. The ten grand dukes transformed the confidential channel into something resembling a rowdy street market, shouting over one another in a cacophony of conflicting interests.
Some argued for immediate rejection, insisting Victoria should only join after securing absolute dominance over the other nations rather than entering as an equal.
Others maintained a sliver of statecraft, recognizing that Victoria could not afford to sit out an initiative of this scale. Missing the foundation of a grand alliance meant forfeiting any chance at shaping the post-crisis balance of power.
"And what is your assessment, Iron Duke?" a grand duke finally asked, turning to the venerable military commander.
The channel went dead silent once more, every lord waiting for the veteran's verdict.
Such was the terrifying prestige of the Duke of Wellington—the undisputed military titan of Victoria. A single word from him could tilt the balance of this ten-sided council, which explained why he had remained silent until pressed.
"My assessment?" Wellington let out a low, dry chuckle. "It is quite simple. Victoria must maintain a presence within this combined military structure. However, one crucial question remains: who among us is willing to deploy their own regiments to the frontlines?"
The Iron Duke's words carried a sharp edge, as if he were looking through the communication terminals straight into the selfish hearts of the grand dukes. Silence blanketed the line once more.
"If we cannot resolve that single detail, all our grand speeches are worthless," Wellington continued, his tone cold and pragmatic. "Rather than squabbling over abstract principles, you would do better to figure out whose troops are being sacrificed!"
The grand dukes remained silent. None were willing to commit their personal armies to an overseas expedition; every division sent to fight the Seaborn was a division lost in the contest for the Victorian throne, handing an immediate advantage to domestic rivals.
Yet refusing to contribute troops entirely was impossible, especially after the Iron Duke had spoken. Thus, the lords sat in tense quiet, each waiting for another to blink first.
Welsh was not surprised by their paralysis. Their reaction had been predicted by Pope Yvangelista during their private chat, which was why the Pope had offered that subtle, cunning suggestion.
"Gentlemen, during my audience with Pope Yvangelista today, he offered a rather interesting thought..." Welsh paused deliberately, letting the silence stretch before continuing in an unhurried cadence. "He noted that if Victoria is too consumed by internal affairs to commit standard military forces, we might recruit those who still burn to fight for Victoria's honor. And if we lack personnel... there are certainly plenty of such individuals remaining inside Londinium."
The implication was crystal clear to every lord on the line. The Pope was suggesting they send the ancient, unyielding order of Steam Knights to lead the charge in this continental salvation war!
Yet could they truly make such a choice? The Steam Knights were the immortal pride and peak military trump card of Victoria! If those warriors were to fall, they belonged on Victorian soil, defending the realm!
Furthermore, deploying the Steam Knights to a multi-national theater carried immense risk. Once those massive, steam-powered suits were fielded alongside foreign armies, the leak of Victoria's core military technology would become virtually inevitable.
"The Steam Knights are no longer our ultimate trump card," one grand duke muttered coldly. "They are a relic of the past—a legacy that has become a barrier to this nation's progress!"
He recalled those inflexible, stubborn warriors with deep disdain. Their very presence restricted the lords' movements; the ancient order refused to align with any of the grand dukes, clinging stubbornly to idealist notions of chivalry.
The Steam Knights remained drunk on past glory, oblivious to the fact that a changing Victoria no longer had room for their ancient ideals. To the grand dukes carving up the empire, these relic defenders were nothing more than obstacles that needed to be eliminated, regardless of who ultimately seized the crown.
Though few dared to voice the treacherous thought aloud, the subtle shifts in breathing across the channel revealed that every duke was entertaining the exact same calculation. They merely waited for someone else to break the ice.
"I believe it is a magnificent proposal," the Iron Duke declared, his heavy voice breaking the stalemate with deliberate gravity. "To let the glory of Victoria shine across the continent in a war to save civilization—is that not the sacred duty of a knight? It is precisely what those idealists live for."
Wellington wanted those stubborn warriors out of Londinium. He wanted every inflexible knight who stood in the way of the new order cleared off the board, cast out to a distant battlefield from which they would never return.
"The era of steam and chivalry has passed," the Duke of Wellington concluded coldly. "We no longer require trump cards from a bygone age. We shall forge new trump cards of our own."