The air in the Great Hall of Kaer Trolde was thick with the scent of roasted meat, stale ale, and the sharp, chemical tang of Tarantian coal smoke clinging to the newcomers. Crach an Craite remained as unmoving as the cliffs of his home, his eyes darting between the four factions that now stood before him.
A Cumbrian knight, his plate armor gleaming with etched runes of protection, stepped forward and struck his breastplate with a gauntleted fist. "Jarl, we come as representatives of monarchs, not as common brigands," he boomed, his voice carrying the weight of ancient law. "Why did your men set upon the Unified Kingdom's vessel? We have crossed a sea of stars to seek alliance, not to trade blood for splinters."
An Arlandian diplomat, draped in silks from Caladon, nodded in agreement. "My companion speaks truly. We came for trade and the strengthening of ties between our worlds. To attack a peaceful fleet is the act of a savage, not a ruler. Surely, the lords of these Isles are more than pirates?"
The Tarantian merchant, a man named Henderson whose top hat was spotted with grease, waved a dismissive, gloved hand at the knights. "Enough with the theatrics and the moralizing! You're both saying useless things," he snapped, his voice sharp with the impatience of a man who lived by the clock. "Chairman Willoughs didn't send me here for a lecture on chivalry. Jarl, consider the skirmish a regrettable accident—a misunderstanding of maritime protocol. My cannons merely spoke because your men forgot their manners."
Henderson didn't wait for Crach to explode. He snapped his fingers, and two Tarantian porters hauled a heavy wooden crate onto the stone floor, crowbarring it open. Inside lay rows of Flintlock Pistols, bolts of shimmering machine-woven cloth, and a small, humming Mechanical Decoy. "This," Henderson grinned, "is the future. Why hunt with a bow when you can kill a bear from a hundred paces with a lead ball?"
Not to be outdone, the Cumbrian and Arlandian delegations signaled their own men. The knights presented blades of folded steel that never dulled, while the scholars of Arland offered Enchanted Glass that could show the viewer's true heart. The hall, once a place of salt and iron, was suddenly a bazaar of wonders that defied every law the Skelligers knew.
Standing apart from the clutter of commerce, the Vendigrothian lead scientist crossed his arms, his eyes scanning the bearded warriors of the Isles with a mixture of pity and clinical disgust. To him, these people were biological relics—savages living in a soup of high-magic interference. Yet, he reached into his grey coat and produced a series of glass vials filled with shimmering liquids.
"Set aside the toys and the trinkets," the Vendigrothian said, his voice cutting through the chatter like a scalpel. "Your people die of rot, of fever, and of wounds that fester. These are Healing Salves and Miracle Serums born of pure, distilled logic. They do not require a prayer or a sacrifice. They simply work."
Crach an Craite looked at the pistol, the enchanted glass, and the cold blue vials. The world had indeed changed. The Sea-Kings had arrived, and they were offering the power of gods for the price of an open door.
******
In the weeks that followed the Parley, the fog of war over the Skellige Isles was replaced by the thick, black smoke of industry and the shimmering auroras of displaced magic. The market of Kaer Trolde transformed into a sprawling bazaar where the silver coins of the Isles met the Universal Credit—the standardized currency of Arcanum used by all four nations to facilitate their global trade.
As the Jarls sat with the outlander historians and merchants, the true scale of the world they had collided with began to emerge. The Skelligers, who had once thought themselves the undisputed kings of the sea, listened with dropping jaws as the maps of Arcanum were unfurled.
They learned first of the Unified Kingdom. It was a titan of smoke and the largest of the four, its borders stretching across vast coal-fields and teeming metropolises like Tarant. Its business was everything and anything; its merchants were a swarm that could swallow a nation's economy whole before a single sword was drawn. To the Tarantian Council, the world was simply a series of ledgers waiting to be balanced.
Beside it sat its old rival, the Kingdom of Cumbria. Traditionalist and proud, the Cumbrians were a people of strict chivalry and iron-clad morals. Though they did not shun the modern comforts of steam, they wore their traditions like armor. To a Skelliger, the Cumbrians felt like kin—warriors who valued a man's word and his lineage—yet they possessed a disciplined lethality and a mastery of the balance that made the Raiders of Spikeroog look like children.
Then there was the Kingdom of Arland. The Skelligers found them the most open and trustworthy. Open-minded and free, the people of Arland were peaceful by nature, preferring the arts and philosophy of Caladon to the soot of the factories. Yet, a chilling warning accompanied their description: even the most peaceful of the four possessed the power to guarantee the total destruction of a Great Nation. The Jarls looked at the Arlandic galleons and realized that if provoked, these "peaceful" scholars could level an empire like Nilfgaard without breaking their stride.
But it was the Republic of Vendigroth that truly haunted Crach an Craite's dreams. While not the largest, they were the most advanced and civilized society the world had ever seen. They were the undisputed apex—a nation of logic so cold and technology so refined that they could dismantle an empire as if it were a broken clock. Their Tesla rods and Automatons were not just weapons; they were the end of all resistance.
As the full weight of this knowledge settled over Kaer Trolde, a collective sigh of relief echoed through the feasting hall. The Jarls, usually a prideful and hot-blooded lot, grew uncharacteristically quiet. They looked out at the Vendigrothian ironclads and the piles of Credits on the trade tables, realizing how close they had come to extinction. Had they retaliated for the "pirate skirmish," these four nations could have uprooted the Isles and cast them into the depths.
"We have not met neighbors," Crach whispered to his council, his jaw finally closing as he stared at the map. "We have met the gods of a new age. And thank the Mother we let them through the gates."
The partnership was sealed. Trade flowed, but the Jarls were glad for the peace; they knew now that to provoke Arcanum was to invite a storm that no shield could weather.