The war was not yet finished, but its ending was written.
Francia's king raved within the shrinking shadow of his court, lords turned on one another, and the peasants no longer marched when called.
Romanus standards lined the east and south, Brittania's banners fluttered over the northern ports, and the west was already sealed off unable to do anything lest their own homes fall to Romanus in their absence.
It was in this moment, with the Francian heartland strangled, that Julius agreed to parlay, just not with Francia.
The meeting ground was chosen carefully — a ruined abbey on neutral soil, its roof long since burned away, its stones still black with smoke.
Between its broken walls, a great oak table had been set, scarred by weather and war, but solid enough to bear the weight of empire.
The Brittanian delegation arrived first.
Their soldiers moved like wolves — lean, restless, with eyes too sharp to ever seem at ease.
