The morning at the Victorian Royal Palace was no longer the morning of the Victoria of old.
Instead of the rhythmic clatter of carriages outside the windows, the faint, distant thud of Originium artillery echoed through the palace walls, carried by the biting wind.
The flag atop the palace roof still bore the fluttering Lion crest, but the faces of those passing beneath it were already a sickly shade of ash.
Frederick III had spent nearly the entire night in the War Room.
It was a chamber deep beneath the palace, devoid of both clocks and windows.
A massive map of the Victorian mainland was spread across the great table, where the small blue flags marking the front lines were now almost entirely swallowed by a tide of red representing the enemy.
The Lord of the Army turned the final page of the report with a trembling hand.
"...Your Majesty. The remnants of the 4th and 6th Corps on the Northern Front are retreating toward the city's inner defense lines. The Western Rail Link has already fallen under the control of the Gaulish Imperial Army, and the two ports on the southern coast could not withstand the bombardment."
Frederick III remained silent.
He merely traced his finger slowly around the perimeter of Londinium.
The thick stone walls, the ancient defensive works lining the river, the positions held by the final elite remnants of the Royal Army.
Every single one was pinned with dense clusters of red arrows.
The Secretary of State spoke tentatively.
"Your Majesty, holding out further... serves no purpose. Gaul's main force has already secured the highway to the capital, and the Royal Army reserves are practically disbanded."
The Chancellor of the Exchequer followed suit.
"The treasury is empty. The local nobility have barricaded themselves in their own fiefs to defend their private castles, and taxes can no longer be collected. At this rate, even the capital will begin to starve."
Neither a father of the people nor the master of an empire, but simply a man, Frederick III let out a heavy sigh.
"Then... what is it you would have me do?"
His tone was still noble, yet it was saturated with a bone-deep exhaustion.
The Foreign Secretary finally brought forth the words he had prepared.
"Your Majesty, we wish to discuss a temporary evacuation to Leithanien."
The air in the room grew ice-cold.
Frederick III slowly raised his head.
"Are you telling the King to abandon his capital and flee?"
The Foreign Secretary waved his hands in frantic dismissal.
"It is not flight, Sire. It is a temporary, strategic withdrawal. The Leithanien Imperial Council has not yet declared us an enemy. They are a people who value balance; they are highly likely to accept a government-in-exile. As long as Your Majesty lives, Victoria has not truly fallen."
The Lord of the Army added with great difficulty.
"Should Your Majesty remain in Londinium and perish, it would be a magnificent death... but nothing would remain afterward. The Gaulish Emperor would merely use that death as a trophy for his victory."
From a corner of the room, the Crown Prince, who had remained silent until now, spoke quietly.
"Father."
He was still young, but during these six weeks of war, his face had aged years.
"If dying here is courage, I believe surviving to return one day is also a form of courage. I wish to say I would stay in Londinium as well... but now, it seems we must preserve our blood."
Frederick III's gaze lingered on his son's face for a moment.
A memory flashed by—the boy playing in the rain by the garden fountain as a child.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
"Would Leithanien truly accept us?"
The Foreign Secretary answered cautiously.
"Leithanien, as always, is reluctant to shed its own blood directly. Yet, they loathe losing their voice in the center of Terra once the war concludes. If Your Majesty and the Royal Household go to them, they gain the justification of being the 'last bastion preserving Terra's legitimate government.' It is a card too valuable for them to discard."
Those gathered in the room fell into a heavy silence.
Frederick III slowly stood from his seat.
He looked down once more at Londinium on the map, and at every point and line surrounding it.
Finally, he uttered a single sentence.
"Very well. I can no longer ignore the truth—that as long as the King survives, the nation remains."
The Lord of the Army's shoulders slumped with visible relief.
"But remember this."
Frederick III's voice dropped lower.
"We are not running away. We are retreating to reclaim what was stolen. I shall not forget this day's humiliation. Let it be recorded. When we return one day, I will ensure every stone in Londinium remembers this disgrace."
The Crown Prince bowed his head.
"I will keep it in my heart, Father."
Frederick III issued his orders.
"Select the Royal Family, core staff, and a portion of the Royal Guard for secret transit to the Northeast Port. Officially, announce that the King remains in Londinium. Open sections of the palace as frontline command posts. I will hold the palace until the final train departs."
The Secretary of State asked in a trembling voice.
"Your Majesty... the danger is great."
Frederick III gave a calm, thin smile.
"Being a King is inherently a position occupied within danger. It is simply that today, I choose the path of survival within that danger."
He drew one last circle at the edge of the map, in the northeast.
"Leithanien. There, I shall speak the name of Victoria once more."
*******************************
The Leithanien Imperial Council was unusually more bustling than usual.
Ever since news of the war between Gaul and Victoria had broken, the nobility and representatives of the Free Cities had gathered almost every week to weigh their interests.
Today, a different sort of document was presented.
A missive sent in the name of King Frederick III of Victoria.
The contents were brief.
[We politely request permission for the temporary stay of the Victorian Imperial Family and government officials within Leithanien territory until the conclusion of the war.]
The Chairman folded the paper, set it down, and surveyed the gathered representatives.
"Your Excellencies."
Starting with the refined address, he lightly furrowed his brow.
"His Majesty Frederick III of Victoria has reached out to us. To accept the Victorian Royal House would be to provoke the Gaulish Empire. Yet, conversely, it is the final means to maintain the old balance of Terra."
The Duke of Altenmark from the North was the first to speak.
"The Gaulish bastards are burning the forests and plains of Victoria as we speak. Once Victoria falls, where will they turn their gaze? Do you truly think it will only be toward the western sea? It will be either our northwestern border or the Union."
The Mayor of the southern commercial city of Grafenhausen gave a soft, smooth smile.
"I sympathize with the Duke's concerns. However, immediately accepting the Royal House is not necessarily the wisest course. Gaul is not yet ready to cross swords with us directly. They will only discuss their next move after they have wrung every drop of blood out of Victoria. What do we gain by inviting Gaul's wrath by taking them in?"
The Duke of Altenmark snorted.
"Legitimacy, for one. When that war eventually ends, no matter whether Gaul or the Union emerges victorious, the title of 'Leithanien, Protector of the Legitimate Crown' is not something that comes for free."
The Mayor of the eastern Free City of Vyseheim spoke as a mediator between the two.
"Both of your points have merit. Has our Witch King not always enjoyed watching the balance of this land? For one side to become excessively powerful is ultimately bad for us all. Sheltering the Victorian royals is a small wedge that prevents Gaul from monopolizing every crown in Western Terra."
The Marquis of Lienz from the South spoke with an air of disapproval.
"As a Marquis, I will say this. We are already exporting a significant amount of materials to the Union. On the day they clash with Gaul, there will surely be commercial benefits for us. However, if we carry the Victorian King on our backs, we will only leave Gaul and the Union with the impression that 'Leithanians are treacherous traitors who love deep games of chess.'"
The Elector of Hochberg leaned back in his chair and laughed.
"Is there anyone who doesn't already know we are traitors? From the dirt-covered peasant in the vineyard to the lowliest laborer in the market, everyone knows. Why try to hide it now?"
Dry laughter erupted throughout the chamber.
The Chairman lightly tapped his gavel.
"Your Excellencies, save the jokes for the after-party."
He lowered his voice seriously.
"While we discuss this matter, someone in Victoria is shedding blood. The fact that the King has reached out to us means Londinium has reached a critical level of danger. We must decide before it is too late."
A High Priest slowly raised his hand.
"Through the eyes of the clergy, the world following the deposition of a King is always one of disorder. If Gaul dismantles Victoria and utterly annihilates the Royal Family, Victoria will be drowned in blood for a long time by those trying to fill that vacuum. In that case, it might be less chaotic to keep the Royal Family safely stored near us."
One of the Eastern Knights Templar muttered under his breath.
"In the end, you're saying that in exchange for letting one more King into our land, we get an extra seat at the post-war negotiation table."
The Mayor of Vyseheim smiled blandly.
"A fairly accurate summary."
The Elector of Hochberg sat up straight.
"Then how about this. Bringing the Royal House directly to the capital would provoke Gaul too much. Instead, why not give them a quiet castle in some peaceful province in the Northeast? We'll call it a 'Temporary Court' to make it sound grand, but in reality, we use it as a monitoring station managed by us."
The Duke of Altenmark nodded slowly.
"As long as the King is in our palm, the cards we can play at the negotiation table increase—whether he eventually returns to his homeland or dies here."
The Chairman took up his gavel once more.
"Then I shall summarize it into one proposal."
He looked briefly at the clerk recording the minutes.
"The Leithanien Empire permits the entry of King Frederick III of Victoria and the Royal Family. However, their stay is defined as temporary, and the location is restricted to a castle on the northeastern frontier, not the capital. Our troops will be stationed in the area under the guise of guarding the Royal Family. We will notify the Gaulish Empire that this is a 'humanitarian measure' and pointedly deny any political implications."
Nods followed throughout the chamber. It wasn't a unanimous approval, but it wasn't an outright rejection either.
As Leithanien always had, it was a conclusion that stood exquisitely in the middle, attempting to appease both sides.
The Chairman added a final note.
"However, choose the timing of making this public very carefully. Once Gaul has complete control over Londinium, they will have an excuse to save face. If the news leaks before then... the flames might spread to our own borders."
The chamber began to murmur again.
Some thought it a wise compromise; others believed the blade would eventually be pointed at them regardless.
Yet, on that day, in that place, the name of the Witch King was mentioned only a few times like a joke.
No one expected him to appear and state his opinion personally.
They did not yet realize just how far the blood would spread.
***********************************
The Londinium outer defense line was far more hellish than it appeared on the map.
There were many days when a whole Gaulish Imperial division attacked for hours only to advance a few hundred meters.
The river snaking around the city was twisted and jagged, and atop the stone walls dating back to the old dynasties sat not the dignity of Victoria, but its desperate, murderous stubbornness.
Andre, an infantry sergeant of the 1st Gaulish Legion, slammed his head against the inside of the trench and gasped for air after the third assault ended.
"Damn it, those Victorian bastards are holding on like idiots."
The comrade crouching beside him let out a hollow laugh.
"I'm starting to wonder if we're trying to knock down an actual cliff or an ancient fortress. How many times have they rebuilt that wall, for god's sake?"
If you poked your head above the trench, Arts from the Victorian Court Casters would fly your way in an instant.
In the sky, shells from the Gaulish Originium artillery arced down to tear chunks out of the stone ramparts; below the walls, the Victorian Royal Army sang hymns as they held their shields and repelled the charges.
In the midst of the deafening artillery fire, Andre felt he could catch the incredibly faint sound of Londinium's bells mixed in.
Someone shouted from the left trench.
"Combat Engineers! Dig deeper into that foundation over there! There's another waterway!"
The Gaulish forces already held several blueprints of Londinium's sewer system.
It was data sold in secret by a corrupt Victorian official.
Thanks to that, the Gaulish Imperial Army was waging war not just on the surface, but underground.
Assault squads infiltrated the sewers, fighting Victorian soldiers chest-to-chest in the dark tunnels.
Clutching the icons hanging around their necks, the Victorian soldiers unleashed frantic Arts, while the Gaulish stormtroopers pushed forward behind their shields.
Above, a barrage of shells collapsed a section of the wall.
As stone dust rose like a cloud, the banners of the Gaulish Old Guard rose through the gaps.
Beneath the flag bearing the golden eagle, the Guard soldiers silently locked their shields and climbed upward like a rising stair.
"Now!"
Andre lunged out of the trench.
His legs were already shaking like jelly, but his body moved according to his training.
The moment he entered through a breach in the wall, he found himself almost nose-to-nose with a Victorian soldier.
A young face, exhausted eyes, a Royal Army uniform soaked in blood.
Andre's shield slammed into the boy's simultaneously.
His body was pushed back, then he lunged forward again.
In that split second, an Originium shell fell from above, tearing through the upper part of the wall. A rain of stone fragments poured down, and one of the two fell backward with a scream.
Andre checked that he was still standing and exhaled sharply.
An officer roared from behind him.
"Do not retreat! If this city falls, the war is over! Today, we bring down the palace flag!"
The city was layered like an onion.
Once they breached the outer walls, they were met with yet more stone barriers and narrow alleys within.
This was Londinium's Old Quarter—a tangled space of merchant warehouses, apartment blocks, ancient cathedrals, and bronze statues.
Civilians fled in stumbles everywhere.
Some wept as they carried their bundles; others watched from behind windows with faces that seemed to curse both Gaul and Victoria equally.
Andre's platoon was ambushed at a street corner by Victorian civilian guerrillas.
Stones, arrows, and improvised Originium bombs rained down from the rooftops.
The squad leader leading the way went down screaming.
"Up there! Look up!"
Andre reflexively threw up his shield.
A flying stone shattered against it. Someone spat a curse next to him.
"It seems every person in this city hates us."
Despite this, the advance did not stop.
The Gaulish Imperial Army devoured the city sector by sector, street by street.
They fought to reclaim squares in the afternoon that they had already occupied in the morning. Some Londinium residents cursed the Victorian King while simultaneously hexing the Gaulish Emperor.
At night, the city would grow briefly quiet, and each time, the Originium batteries would spit fire once more.
In the distance, toward the palace, a massive pillar of fire tore into the sky. It was the moment an outer pavilion of the Victorian Royal Palace collapsed entirely.
*************************
Inside the palace, it was less a King's court and more a crumbling fortress.
When Frederick III walked the palace gardens for the last time, the sky reflected in the pond was ash, and a thin film of Originium dust floated on the water.
The Royal Family, core advisors, and a portion of the administrative staff had already departed for the Northeast Port the previous night via trains and ships held in reserve.
The rumors circulating among Londinium's citizens were wildly inconsistent. Some said the King had fallen ill and was hiding in a cellar; others said he was fighting on the front lines personally; and some even said he was in secret negotiations with the Gaulish army.
Only a handful knew the truth.
The Captain of the Royal Guard, Sir Rowan, had returned after personally seeing to the sealing of the secret passage entrance.
That passage led to a train station where the Royal Family could board a train—tracks that miraculously hadn't been severed yet due to the desperate struggle of the Paragon Unit.
On his way back, he stood in a daze for a long time, staring at the empty throne.
"Is His Majesty to depart soon?" he asked the last remaining Praetorian lieutenant.
The lieutenant shook his head.
"His Majesty... said he would remain here until the very end. Until the moment the Gaulish army breaks down the palace gates. Only then will he move via another route..."
Sir Rowan closed his eyes.
"The seat of a King is a truly cruel place."
He tightened his sword belt once more.
From the outskirts of the palace, the bugles of the Gaulish assault squads could already be heard.
That evening, the Londinium Palace was attacked from four directions simultaneously.
Through the west garden came the Old Guard; through the east gate came the infantry, their path cleared by artillery.
Assault squads who had infiltrated through the sewers emerged beneath the northern tower, and specially selected Casters initiated the attack toward the southern chancel room.
The Royal Guard did not lay down their swords until the end.
Sir Rowan stood atop the stairs of the west garden, looking down with eyes that had not yet lost their light.
Flames licked the air beside a ruined fountain, where dead soldiers and broken statues lay in a tangled mess.
He pulled off his helmet and cast it aside, descending the stairs in full armor.
"Today, it matters not which flag claims this garden," he whispered to himself.
"I merely offer loyalty to my faith."
The lead of the Gaulish Guard clashed with his blade.
Flashing sparks, shattered steel, bursts of blood.
Sir Rowan parried until the third strike. On the fourth, he was driven to his knees; on the fifth, the sword fell from his hand.
As he raised his eyes one last time, he saw the blue Lion flag still fluttering atop the palace roof.
A moment later, an Originium shell fell, tearing the banner half-asunder.
****************************
When the doors to the Throne Room were smashed inward, Frederick III was no longer there.
It was true that he had sat upon the throne until moments before his departure.
However, after signing the final document and issuing the final command, he had headed for the underground tunnel with a few bodyguards.
The tunnel was one of the royal house's oldest secrets.
A path created so that kings might survive through centuries of civil wars and foreign invasions.
He looked back at the throne one last time.
"I will return," he said in a very soft voice, and then turned his back.
Only the King's discarded cloak and an empty crown stand remained in the Throne Room.
When the Gaulish stormtroopers burst into the room, they witnessed that hollow vacancy for the first time.
"Sire! We have secured the throne!" the assault leader reported, gasping for breath.
Shortly after, Corsica I himself walked up the palace hallway.
He wore the blue Imperial mantle over a military uniform stained with dust and blood.
Generals and advisors followed in his wake.
The moment he crossed the threshold of the Throne Room, he paused.
Broken pillars, shattered stained glass, fragments of documents scattered across the floor.
And upon the high dais sat the empty throne.
The crown was missing.
Corsica I's face hardened.
"Where is the King?"
The assault leader bowed his head low.
"We have not found him, Your Majesty. Every room in the palace is being searched, but it appears most of the Royal Family has already vanished. According to servant testimony... the royals have not been seen for several days..."
Corsica I's eyebrows slowly arched.
"He fled?"
The air in the room froze.
Everyone present knew better than anyone how much blood and time had been poured out for this day.
They had toppled the capital of a grand empire, captured the palace, and brought down the King's flag.
And yet, the King himself was not here.
Corsica I walked slowly toward the throne.
He stood before the empty seat and traced his hand along the armrest.
Dust came off on his fingers.
"Is this the glory of Victoria?"
His voice echoed low.
"The city is burning, the soldiers are dead, and the King has run away."
A Chief of Staff ventured carefully.
"Your Majesty, we believe it will not be difficult to discover the King's place of exile. Whether it be Leithanien or some remote island... if we mobilize our intelligence network..."
Corsica I raised a hand.
"Silence."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
In his mind, countless battle maps appeared. Border defenses, field battles, strategic rail hubs, ports, and finally, Londinium.
At the end of all those victories was this hollow vacancy.
"I moved hundreds of thousands to take this city," he said slowly.
"Our soldiers bled, our nobility paid, and all of Terra grew to fear our name. And yet, what am I holding?"
No one dared open their mouth.
Corsica I curled his lip in a sneer.
"Ruins and an empty throne?"
He turned to face his advisors.
"Record this. Today we gained a victory, but we also suffered an insult. A victory without a King, an empty throne—this is not a complete victory. Frederick III. Never forget that coward's name. For one day, I will kill that wretch with my own two hands."
He did not sit upon the throne.
Instead, he descended the dais and looked out the window at the distant city fires.
Londinium had not yet grown completely silent.
From somewhere, the sound of artillery, the whistles of scouts, and a mixture of screams and weeping still rose up.
"It took nine weeks from the start of the war to subdue this city," Corsica I murmured as if to himself.
"The enemies we fight from here on will be more obstinate. The Union, Leithanien, and everything else in Terra. We must remember today's hollowness. Next time, we shall not even give them a path to flee."
One of the Chiefs of Staff asked cautiously.
"Your Majesty, how many resources do you intend to allocate to tracking the King's whereabouts?"
Corsica I thought for a moment before answering with indifference.
"As many as necessary. But not so many as to be excessive."
He looked at the burning city again.
"We cannot lose the entire empire obsessing over a single King."
A look of cold calculation once more crossed his face.
"The mere fact that Londinium is now ours means half this war is over. The other half... will be finished in the struggle against the runaway King, the murky empire to the east, and the Red Republic standing in the north."
The wind blew.
Entering through the broken window frames, the wind shook the old banners above the throne.
In that moment, it felt as though an invisible line connected Frederick III's old quarters, the view out the window of the royal train bound for Leithanien, and even a certain Chairman of the People's Committee peering over maps in the southern border fortifications of the Union.
Corsica I gave a very brief smile upon that invisible line.
"Very well," he said softly.
"Let us see if the Union's eastern border is truly as solid as they claim."
High above the night sky of Londinium, the flag of the Gaulish Empire was fully unfurled.