Dawn light bled across the gold threads of the heavy curtains.
The Victorian House of Lords remained as solemn as ever, though today that gravity was tainted by a metallic grating sound.
At the end of the corridor, every flicker of the candles in the antique gilded chandelier caused the heraldry of the great houses on the walls to ripple like a dark tide.
Since the loss of Birmingham and Philadelphia, the air in this chamber frequently turned jagged.
"How can you dare to respect as a 'personal choice' those who surrendered cities to the rebels?"
Duke Dunmore struck his cane against the floor.
"It is a form of treason, arbitrarily carving away the Sovereign's territory."
Yet, Marquess Huntington's counter-smile was thin and hardened.
"Your Grace, we all know to whom the land truly belongs. But before the Crown offered its promise, our families defended those lands with their taxes and their blood. The people no longer ask for 'grace.' They demand bread and peace."
"Do you deny Imperial authority?"
A stalwart of the Imperial faction growled low.
"I do not deny the history of the Empire," the Marquess said, wiping his spectacles with a handkerchief. "I suggest we acknowledge reality. If it is true that noble cities were swayed by the rebels' 'compassion,' perhaps that is because that compassion was more persuasive than the Imperial indifference."
Their words were sheathed in the veneer of courtesy, but every syllable glittered like a knife edge.
Even as the bell on the presiding dais rang three times and the chief secretary read the next agenda, the argument would not subside.
Some shouted that the city gates must be sealed, while others sighed low that the interior was already collapsing.
The fire in the hearth flared once, distorted and bloated, before clawing its way back to life.
No conclusion was reached.
The House of Lords adjourned, hiding another crack beneath the gold-plated floorboards.
At noon on the same day, the Gaulish palace felt dark despite the addition of five more candelabras.
The glow of the golden chandeliers remained, but what descended onto the meeting table was not gold—it was ambivalence.
Emperor François, chin resting on interlaced fingers, observed the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Minister of Interior, the Inspector General of the Gendarmerie, and the Minister of War in turn.
"The Federation's reforms will weaken Victoria."
The Foreign Minister began the proceedings.
"Following the north, the center of those wretches is churning. That is nothing but good for us."
Then, the Minister of Interior tilted his head slightly.
"The Foreign Minister is not wrong. However, Your Majesty, look within our own borders. The Socialist Party, the Communist Party, the Labor Party—the so-called 'Three' are gaining influence every week. The eyes of the people gazing at the Federation are no longer looking across the borders; they are piercing the walls of this very palace."
The Inspector General of the Gendarmerie then cautiously added,
"We shall open unofficial channels to the Liberty League of Columbia. If we tip the scales—certain media outlets, printing houses, and financial veins—the balance will be held."
The Monarch gazed at the garden through the window for a while.
Fog crept between the branches of the pomegranate trees, and the fountain's spray drifted on the wind.
"The enemy of an enemy may be our friend," he said quietly.
"But the people must not be tainted by that vile water and raise banners within our gates. Maintain distance from the Federation, but manipulate the shadows beneath our palms as necessary. Only as much as required, without damaging the independence or honor of that woman's party."
The Minister of War bowed his head.
"Your orders shall be carried out."
Long after the meeting concluded, the chandelier vibrated with a faint tremor, as if coughing.
A sense of balance to avoid leaning too far in either direction—that was the only virtue of this palace, and its oldest defect.
As the sun began to dip, the capital of Kazdel—a meeting room in a palace where the shell craters and scorch marks of a war from decades ago had yet to be erased—was filled with the scent of winter, despite it being late autumn.
Wind seeping through the window frames softened the solidified wax of a snuffed-out candle by yet another layer.
Theresia folded her hands on the table and scanned the faces of her staff slowly.
The aged minister, the young secretary, the scarred general, and Kal'tsit.
"You have heard the news from the Federation."
Theresia's voice was warm and calm.
"In that place, Sarkaz and non-Sarkaz are learning how to lower the hands they once pointed at each other. They are learning to turn hate into language, language into systems, and systems into habits to erase the animosity."
The old minister tilted his head.
"Compassion is good. But compassion alone cannot defend our borders from those cruel individuals who wish to despise and annihilate us…"
"…That is true."
Theresia tried to smile.
If even a minister close to her reacted this way, the public's response was clearly inevitable.
"…Then how about building schools? To ensure hatred is no longer inherited. And so that our Sarkaz can stand with dignity without relying on mercenary business."
The wounds of the city and the race remained deep, but her vision lingered like an ember.
"The Federation is a mirror for us," she said in conclusion.
"A mirror reflecting the face we could become. We must not be hasty, but let us not stop."
Once the meeting ended, she stood by the window for a moment.
Beyond the shattered roof, evening birds cut across the twilight.
She silently vowed to herself that someday, laughter would return to this city, and to the Sarkaz people.
At the start of the night, the Columbian Communist Party headquarters in Philadelphia was hot with the breath of old brick.
Earl Browder stood on the podium, his back to a map.
November 10th. The by-election.
The date on the wall was painted in an unusually large shade of red.
Countless party officials sat packed together, looking up at him.
"Comrades!"
Browder placed both fists on the podium.
"The Federation and Comrade Chairman Vladimir are showing us what the future is. The task of turning the people's voice into seats, the factories into councils, and the barracks into the soldiers' own eyes and ears. To those who said it was impossible, our eternal future—Communism—has already answered."
A staff member handed him a small note.
It was an internal report stating that Gaulish money was secretly flowing into the Liberty League's media network.
Earl nodded and, instead, pulled up the corners of his mouth.
"Excellent. It couldn't be better."
He raised his voice again.
"Everyone! I am not saying they are doing that right now. But if they inflate their mouths with the money of foreign powers, we shall expand our footprint in the factories and streets! This election is not a battle between parties. It is a battle for who holds the heart of this country—that is the fight! If we win, history will call us heroes; if we lose, history will judge us as failures! But I have no doubt that we will win and be called the heroes of the world!"
Applause erupted.
It was so loud that the old lightbulbs shook.
Earl raised a palm to calm them and added,
"An election is a festival of victory for us. But a festival does not come without preparation. The unions, the student comrades, the Soldiers' Soviet, and the District Soviet—let us weave them all together. Only solidarity that surpasses fear will neutralize fake news and foreign interference!"
Beyond the window, the late autumn wind pushed the flags.
Red and white cloth rippled in unison.
The city's breath was quickening.
At the same time, in a remote farming village in the Kazimierz Union of Knight Commanders, the wind was sharper.
The carriage of the Szlachta trampled through the dirt road, crushing the young potatoes, and several head of livestock were tethered and dragged away in the name of property tax.
An old farmer held onto the back of the carriage with both hands until he was dragged and sprawled into the dirt.
When his young son rushed to his aid, a knight struck him in the back of the head with the hilt of his longsword.
Blood soaked into the furrow of the earth.
When night came, a single candle was lit inside a hut.
Five households had gathered in secret.
A young man in an old coat spoke slowly.
He did not bother mentioning that he was a Narodnik—a peasant enlightener.
Instead, he spread out a small flyer he held in his hand.
"This may sound like a story from far away."
His voice was low.
"But what happened in Victoria and Columbia was a change made by people who learned how to 'reclaim their names.' That law applies to us as well. Let us start with the promise to create a gathering, to share our grain, seeds, and salt equally. Let us learn our letters, read the documents, and demand receipts. Tonight, we shall begin by writing your names on this paper."
People hesitated, but then wrote their names, line by line.
Shaky handwriting, smeared strokes.
Yet, a strange light entered between the strokes.
Something different from the old customs of mutual aid and barter—the seeds of contract and solidarity.
Outside, the wind howled and a dog barked twice.
The candle in the hut did not go out.
Avoiding the Catastrophe, the mobile city of Ursus continued its run through the night.
On its massive crawler tracks, metal and lights surged like a sea.
In a corner cafe, condensation frosted the windows and paint-peeling stains mottled the ceiling like blemishes.
Five young people sat around three pushed-together tables, each raising their voice.
"I'm telling you, production must be handed over to the Factory Soviet."
One slammed his glass down.
"The labor union should hold the contracts, conduct the negotiations, and be able to strike at any time."
"That stops at the level of worker socialism."
The person across laughed bitterly.
"The state is ultimately just a tool. Do not fear Anarchism. Power must be dismantled, and individual solidarity must replace everything. In this backward country, the revolution must be more radical than what the Federation is moving toward!"
"Both of you are wrong."
The third person, wearing a fedora, shook his head.
"Our power lies not just in factories, but in the entire city. Integral Communism is the answer. We must operate the city through federations by sector. Transport, communication, printing, food. We are already gripping the veins through which each other's blood flows. We need to split and unify that network."
A train whistle wailed long from outside.
In the corner of the cafe, a middle-aged man reading a newspaper suddenly lifted his face.
His gaze held a coldness that was entirely different from the heat of the young men for a brief moment.
The gaze of a spy always carries a similar hue.
But the youth did not know.
They were busy memorizing the names of the people they would argue with tomorrow, and revising the sentences they would compose.
"The Federation showed us one thing."
The first one said again.
"The experience of the people speaking, and what is spoken becoming the system. Once we have witnessed that, permanent revolution can no longer be stopped."
Glasses clinked.
The cheap liquor left a coughing aftertaste.
The mobile city turned toward the northwest.
The wind licked the edges of the window frame.
As the night reached its deepest, a light turned on in the city's high tower.
Duke Kashchey walked slowly toward the window.
The lights of the city spread out below like an ocean.
Occasionally, power lines flickered as if catching their breath, and in the distance, a steel bridge shimmered with an iron sheen.
He studied his profile reflected in the glass for a moment.
This face had not changed for a long time.
Or, perhaps it had changed so much that it had become indistinguishable from the first.
"Revolution is always as beautiful as a flame."
He muttered to himself.
"But the flame eventually burns out, turning the place it scorched into ash."
The door was knocked twice, politely.
His secretary entered and presented the documents.
A translation of the Federation's reform documents, a report on trends in the universities within Ursus, and a map plotting the routes of propaganda materials moving along the border.
Kashchey did not flip the first page; he set the documents down on the table.
"Block the passage to the Federation."
He said quietly.
"But leave no traces. Clumsy suppression only creates myths through martyrs."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And 'recommend' that the university recruitment criteria for lecturers be changed. Sit those who fix text well rather than those who write well. Make the arguments long, and keep conclusions delayed. Reduce editorials in newspapers, and reduce the size of name lists and obituaries. Fill them with sports and scientific papers instead. People dislike getting tired while they read."
The secretary wrote quickly.
He looked out the window one last time.
The lights of the mobile city moved like constellations.
Time passed, and the secretary bowed and exited.
The door closed silently, and the room was once again left with only his own breath.
Kashchey rubbed the glass window slowly with his finger.
To him, time was always something he could wear like clothing.
Letting go of yesterday's self, and changing into tomorrow's self.
The undying Black Snake had lived for a thousand years in that way, protecting the Empire.
And once again, he would begin the next day.
In the distance, very far away, the city breathed low.
The contraction and expansion of the lights—that was the Empire's pulse.
He thought of ways to regulate it appropriately so the beat wouldn't waver, so it wouldn't speed up or slow down too much.
The wind turned the corners of the tower.
The night was long, and his old eyes were not bored by that length.
By tomorrow morning, another text would be placed on his desk.
He would read those sentences slowly, erase some, let some live, and publish others under entirely different names.
Revolution does not know borders.
But borders know how to delay revolution for a long time, and finally, make it fade.
He knew this.
And with the unhurried grace of one who knows, he looked at the city view for a moment longer and, without extinguishing the candles, rang the bell.
The night guards changed shifts.
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