The Emperor, as always, carried himself without pretense. Many who met Karl Franz in Altdorf's palace often left with an odd impression: the Emperor had no airs about him. He was shorter than many expected, lacked a commanding presence, and even had a coarse sense of humor.
Metternich, the Imperial diplomat, knew this well. After meeting the towering Knight King Ryan, who stood nearly two meters tall, and his equally imposing wife, Queen Sulia, who was 1.75 meters, Karl Franz did seem shorter and less imposing by comparison. Ryan's mere gaze was enough to instill fear and respect in everyone around him, and Sulia's regal posture and commanding beauty easily captured the attention of an entire room.
Yet, as a staunch imperialist and Reiklander nationalist, Metternich believed Karl Franz was the best, most suitable Emperor for the Empire. His reasoning boiled down to two points.
First, Karl Franz's bloodline was beyond reproach. As the direct descendant of Wilhelm the Great Prince, Emperor Leopold, and Emperor Luitpold, Karl Franz was the strongest, most legitimate heir to the throne. His election as Emperor had been entirely lawful and unchallenged. No Elector Count had ever questioned his bloodline or authority.
Second, his exceptional abilities. While Karl Franz might not be the greatest ruler in the Old World, his competence far exceeded that of his contemporaries. He was certainly more capable than the wolf cub to the north, who relied too heavily on brute force and lacked diplomatic acumen. And he far outshone the "madwoman" to the south, who knew nothing of military strategy and spent her days hosting social teas, arbitrating city council disputes, and producing heirs.
As Karl Franz's laughter filled the room, Metternich patiently waited for him to finish.
But as the laughter subsided, it grew increasingly bitter and dry. By the end, Karl Franz was barely chuckling. Slamming his hand on the desk, he wiped it with a towel in frustration. "I should organize a grand expedition as well! Send all those useless nobles to die. It would free up land, estates, and noble titles, and help weed out those truly deserving of their positions. I'm sure Reikland alone could muster a force of 20,000 for such a campaign."
"Your Majesty, I understand your frustration, but this would be a grave mistake," Metternich quickly intervened. "Such a move would cost you the nobles' support."
"If Ryan can do it, why can't I?!" Karl Franz snapped, grabbing a towel and furiously wiping the table. "You know as well as I do, Metternich, that many of our nobles are a problem. I should send them all on a grand expedition—every single one of them. Let them prove their loyalty through war. And I won't just take their men; I'll take their gold as well!"
The Emperor's fury left Metternich stunned. Was Karl Franz plotting a revolution?
Still, Metternich knew these were just words of anger. Karl Franz, rated a solid 6 in domestic governance, 5 in diplomacy, and 4 in military strategy by the dwarves, was far too shrewd to act recklessly. His broad support among military nobles and Reikland's citizenry wasn't built on such impulsive decisions.
The dwarves had recently revised their assessments, giving Ryan the legendary rating of 6-6-7 (domestic governance, diplomacy, and military strategy, respectively). His military capabilities were now rated at the dwarves' highest possible score of 7. Meanwhile, Sulia's recent achievements—such as her medal-selling initiative and her leadership in repelling the World Walker Ulfric's invasion—had boosted her rating from 5-4-3 to 6-4-4.
As Karl Franz's outburst subsided, he regained his usual cheerful demeanor. "I lost my composure. Sit down, Metternich. We have much to discuss."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Metternich replied, taking a seat.
What Metternich didn't realize was that the Emperor had been observing him just as closely. Karl Franz's anger had been a ruse—a test to gauge Metternich's reliability and draw him closer. Occasionally revealing emotion could foster trust and camaraderie among subordinates.
It seemed Metternich was indeed a calculating individual, leaving no room for error. The Emperor silently noted this.
Time for another test.
"There have always been two Empires, Metternich," Karl Franz began, continuing his probing. "One belongs to the Emperor, the military nobles, wealthy merchants, and estate owners. This Empire enjoys fresh cream bread, endless wealth, and insatiable desires. It's rife with political intrigue and backroom deals."
"The second Empire is far larger. It's populated by those who rise before dawn and toil until dusk, struggling to survive on the brink of starvation in poverty and ignorance. This, too, is the Empire. Would you agree?"
"I don't think so," Metternich replied calmly. "I believe there are also two Empires, but I see them differently."
"The first is an Empire under Your Majesty's rule and light, built on strengthening legitimacy and maintaining the balance of Elector Counts. It is an Empire where your authority unites the entire realm, consolidating all power to recreate the glorious Holy Empire of Sigmar."
"The second Empire is one of division, where Elector Counts disregard imperial authority, pursuing their own agendas. Its armies are scattered, its strength diluted, and its provinces fight alone against external threats, prioritizing self-interest and local traditions over unity. This Empire would inevitably drift toward dissolution and decline."
The Emperor fell silent, leaning back in his chair with a faint smile. "I give up trying to convince you, Metternich. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I'm right. But this discussion is pointless right now."
"But Your Majesty," Metternich interjected urgently, "the Knight King across the mountains has already achieved unification! Surely you understand the strength of Bretonnia now—a nation of glory and prosperity, known throughout the world. Ryan has become the undisputed master of a unified realm."
"Well said, Metternich," Karl Franz agreed. "But tell me, where is my Karak Eight Peaks? Where is my Old Guard? Where is my supportive church and Holy Grail knights?"
"…" Metternich was at a loss for words.
"I've studied Ryan's unification methods extensively," the Emperor admitted, his frustration evident. "The grand expeditions themselves aren't the issue—I'm confident Reikland's wealth surpasses that of any Bretonnian duchy. But there are two things I can't replicate."
"First, Ryan accomplished something unprecedented in Bretonnia's thousand-year history: the unification of royal and religious authority." Karl Franz raised a finger. "The Empire has only come close to this twice—when Charlemagne founded the Empire as the chosen champion of Ulric, and when Ludwig the Savior united Sigmar's blessing with imperial authority. But even they couldn't fully merge the two. Ryan managed it, though. How? I've no idea. I've tried everything with Volkmar, but it's impossible. No one can completely control a colossal entity with independent armies, finances, and administration—not even Volkmar himself. Only the Lady of the Lake's church seems capable of such unity."
"Second, Ryan's personal strength…" The Emperor raised a second finger. "Even you must admit, Metternich, that Ryan's abilities border on the superhuman."
"You're aware, aren't you, why my grandfather built the Reiksguard fortress in a corner of the city rather than next to the palace?"
"There are many reasons, Your Majesty—space for cavalry charges, strategic distribution of resources, cost efficiency," Metternich replied. "But the real reason is fear. Fear that the Reiksguard might one day turn against the Emperor. This arrangement ensures the royal guard, Altdorf Honor Guard, and the legendary Imperial Court Guard can still protect the Emperor."
"Ryan himself is an army," Karl Franz said with a bitter laugh. "And the Holy Grail Knights—those two or three hundred elite warriors—are more formidable than the combined might of the Empire's eight knightly orders and church militias."
"The Old Guard, admired across the Old World, is a force so powerful that any ruler would fear even the slightest hint of rebellion. Most would immediately move to divide, co-opt, suppress, or dismantle them, even at the cost of reduced combat effectiveness. Yet Ryan alone wields them effortlessly, trusting them completely. This mutual trust, reinforced by shared interests and loyalty, unleashes their full potential."
"It's… unprecedented," Metternich admitted reluctantly.
"I know you dislike Ryan and have been stirring up trouble behind the scenes," Karl Franz said, shaking his head. "Give it up, Metternich. If anything goes wrong, I won't back you—and neither will Reikland."
"I understand," Metternich replied, his face pale. After a moment's hesitation, he added, "But Talleyrand has already accepted much of our money and resources. If we abandon this now…"
"No, let that be," Karl Franz interrupted with a smile. "Ryan must have tacitly approved. We need a discreet communication channel like this. In fact, you've done well. Do you know why the pastry shop across from the Countess's Palace in Nuln, despite its mediocre products and exorbitant prices, still attracts so many customers?"
"Why?"
"Because Talleyrand owns it." The Emperor wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Now then, Metternich, you will represent the Empire at the upcoming Marshal's appointment ceremony."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
October, Couronne, Bretonnia
At the gates of Couronne, a grand ceremony welcomed Lucien, Marquis of the Badlands and Commander of the Three Badlands Legions, back from his campaigns.
Arriving with Lucien was the second ironclad warship custom-built at Sea Gate, now christened Varyag. In honor of this naming, Lucien also renamed his thousand-strong personal guard the Varyag Guard.
Years in the Badlands had darkened Lucien's complexion and honed his demeanor. The once refined Winford noble now exuded the aura of a desert vulture—sharp, watchful, and patient. However, much like a vulture, his hairline had begun to recede.
"Welcome back, Commander of the Badlands," Ryan greeted Lucien alongside Sulia and Morgiana, standing at the palace steps.
"All for the Lady, the King, and Bretonnia," Lucien replied, kneeling before presenting the full registry of soldiers and residents under his command in the Badlands. He also delivered tributes and gifts from Belegar, King of Eight Peaks, which arrived in dozens of wagons. Ryan didn't have time to inspect their contents but knew Bretonnia had also sent a significant quantity of grain to the dwarves for brewing.
The citizens of Couronne lined the streets to cheer for Lucien and the returning Badlands troops. Many soldiers, having served three to four years, returned as seasoned veterans, wealthier and more confident.
The Varyag Guard began playing a military anthem inspired by Araby's music, a melody that stirred something familiar in Ryan.
"Boom-boom~ Boom-boom~ Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom~"
"Ancestors, spirits, Lady, gods of the Old World~"
"Ancestors, spirits, Lady, gods of the Old World~"
"Brave and fearless, Bretonnia~"
"Your knights, in every age, renowned throughout the world~"
"Chivalry unmatched, second to none~"
"Your knights, in every age, renowned throughout the world~"
"Chivalry unmatched, second to none~"
"Knights' nation~ Knights' nation~"
"Forever loyal to your lord!"
"In the Lady's name, judge your foes and deliver justice!"
"In the Lady's name, judge your foes and deliver justice!"
Ryan was nearly moved to tears. "This was the anthem sung at the 1453 meeting between the Emperor of Eastern Rome, the Third Tsar of Rome, and the Doge of the Venetian Roman Republic during their triumphant parade in Constantinople. Today, thanks to Lucien Pasha's efforts, I, Sultan Ryan, can once again hear this glorious tune!"
No one understood what Ryan was talking about, except Sulia, who had grown accustomed to his cryptic remarks about "Green Rome" or "The Emperor is also Rome." With a playful smack on Ryan's arm, Sulia took control of the conversation to ease the awkward atmosphere. "Your King has started rambling again. Let's not mind him. Knights and soldiers, the banquet is ready. Please, come in."
Inside the palace's grand hall, Ryan and his guests took their seats.
"How are things in Karak Eight Peaks?" Ryan asked Lucien. "How is the Angrund clan faring?"
"King Belegar and his clan are doing well," Lucien reported. "Over the past few years, we've fought more than a hundred battles around the Eight Peaks, effectively clearing the surrounding area of Greenskin threats. According to King Belegar, there shouldn't be any major Greenskin activity in the region for at least the next decade."
"Were the losses significant?" Ryan inquired, visibly pleased.
"The dwarves suffered minimal casualties," Lucien replied with a hint of frustration. "Most were minor skirmishes. We lost over two thousand men, but Durant managed to recruit plenty of new soldiers."
Durant, a mercenary leader who had inherited the Blackheart Repp barony and now dominated the Border Princes region, flashed a sycophantic grin. "Plenty of folks are willing to fight for the right price, my King. The Border Princes are full of young men eager to earn their place. Losses are expected, but there's no shortage of replacements."
Ryan nodded thoughtfully, asking a few more questions before turning back to Lucien. "I have a question for you, Lucien. Answer it in detail."
"At your command, my King."
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