Chapter 4 – The Burden of History
The rain still pounded against the tall windows, but the chamber had grown colder, as if the storm outside had seeped into the stone itself. The Union envoy remained half-standing, breath sharp from his outburst; Gaule's men leaned forward in their seats, eyes narrow and calculating; the Federation general stayed braced on his fists, gaze locked on the scarred veteran who had spoken.
Then the Crown Commonwealth delegate rose.
It was not abrupt. No scraping of chair against stone. No dramatic thrust of gesture. He stood with a slowness that commanded silence, and the silence came willingly, as if the air itself recognized an older gravity had entered the room. He wore no medals. His coat was plain. But when he lifted his head, every eye turned, and even the typewriters at the wall ceased their clatter.
When the Crown spoke, it was not the voice of a man but the echo of centuries.
"There was a time," he began, the words measured, each carrying its own weight, "when the sun never set on our banners. When our fleets carried law and commerce across a third of the world, and when our treaties bound kings and tribes alike. We ruled vastness not because we were flawless, but because the world had not yet learned the price of unrestrained power."
His hands rested lightly on the table, fingers folded, posture calm. His voice did not rise, but every syllable struck with the certainty of an ancient verdict.
"And the world did learn. Twice. Two great wars, born from arrogance and ambition, consumed the earth in fire. In their wake, the graves numbered beyond counting. From those ashes we forged charters, treaties, bonds meant not to glorify empires but to bind nations to restraint. For we learned—power without restraint is ruin. Empire without responsibility is slaughter."
He paused, letting the chamber breathe in the weight of memory. The rain drummed its relentless rhythm, but softer now, as if even the storm bent ear.
His gaze shifted, slow and deliberate, until it settled upon the scarred veteran at the minority table. The room felt smaller, as though the old man and the Crown delegate were the only two figures left inside.
"You," the Crown said, voice steady as stone, "have spoken. You say this land belongs to its people. You say sovereignty must be born here, not granted by empire or market. Those words are strong. They ring with defiance. But tell me—why did you speak them? What do you seek in claiming the burden of self-rule?"
The veteran did not answer. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked, but his silence was not submission—it was calculation, the silence of a man who knew words had weight enough to kill.
The Crown's voice deepened. "Do you know what you claim? Do you know what it means to bear the weight of a nation? It is not banners and songs. It is treaties that must be signed, debts that must be paid, armies that must be restrained. It is responsibility heavier than empire, because you cannot blame it on another's leash. If you falter, it will be your children buried. Your people scattered. Your name cursed. You will dig the graves yourself. Can you bear that?"
The words lingered, heavy as iron. No sneer, no laughter, no venom—only the certainty of history pressing its cold hand upon the chamber.
Around the room, the other delegates shifted. The Union envoy looked away, his smirk gone. Gaule's representatives kept their composure, but their knuckles tightened around their pens. The Federation general's eyes burned, but he did not speak, as though unwilling to disturb the trial unfolding. Even the Southern Commonwealth leaned forward now, frowning, listening with new gravity.
The Crown delegate did not sit. He remained standing, tall and still, as though his presence itself was judgment.
The scarred veteran exhaled, a slow breath that trembled faintly at the edges. His hand pressed harder into the wood of the table, scarred fingers whitening as if holding himself steady beneath the weight now laid upon him.
For the first time, the fire of defiance flickered—not extinguished, but tested. The chamber waited, caught in that silence.
And the rain beat on, relentless, as though to remind them that history did not forgive.