The Sovereignty of Iron
[DATA: 30. CYCLE 10. YEAR 40 INDUSTRIAL]
[LOCATION: ISS HEADQUARTERS — BAA (ATLANTIC ALLIANCE UNION)]
[TIME: 08:30 LOCAL]
[STATUS: EXTRAORDINARY MEETING — EASTERN FRONT ANALYSIS]
Morning in the BAA had dawned with a cold sun ascending into a deceptively clear sky. Winter lay across the earth like a shroud—light, yet glacial—while within the walls of the ISS, the atmosphere was at a boiling point. The violent convulsions shattering the continents had forced the heads of intelligence to convene a meeting far outside any official protocol.
?The briefing room was choked with heavy cigar smoke, swirling like a miasma beneath the meager light bleeding through the edges of thick curtains. From the corridors, the relentless clatter of typewriters echoed—the rhythmic pulse of a bureaucracy gearing for war. Scattered across the massive oak table like bleached bones were surveillance photographs: the inferno devouring Miska, the butchered remains in the halls of Itan, and the fragile portrait of the new queen in Bratan.
?“What is your assessment of the new queen?” one of the chiefs asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward Ela’s photograph. “Age: twenty-one. Status: Queen of Bratan. Political experience: zero. Strategic capability: zero. Economic acumen: zero,” he added, reciting from a dossier.
?“A child playing with a dead man’s crown,” a grim voice replied from the shadowed end of the table. “Ela is not the threat. President Cici is attempting to stitch a wound that is only widening. Bratan is seething from within, and she lacks the spine to keep the clans in check.”
?“Our concern isn’t her ability to rule,” a third interrupted, tapping a finger on a report stamped in crimson. “The concern is whose voice she will heed. Halter has sent her a letter. If Bratan allies with Nax-Geot, our market in that region dies overnight.”
?A dry, hacking cough came from the center of the table, where the session leader stood.
“We should not lose sleep over Bratan yet. Cici knows precisely what happens if he misaddresses his loyalty.”
?Then, a withered hand slid Bruskin’s photograph across the wood. The cigar smoke drifted toward his face like a silent curse.
“And this beast? What do we intend to do with him?” the chief’s voice was laced with irritation. “He is utterly deranged.” He continued reading Bruskin’s profile. “Status: Officer, currently Supreme Leader of the SRR. Political experience: 75%. Strategy: 90%. Economy: 99%. He seems obsessed with iron development.”
?“That part is indeed troublesome,” another replied, grinding the glowing tip of his cigar directly into Bruskin’s face on the photograph. “He has the masses. We cannot simply breach the SRR and shackle him, even if we know he slaughtered the Tsar’s family with his own hands. The mob would tear us apart. Open war is not currently to our advantage. However, we shall declare him Persona Non Grata. If he takes a single step beyond his borders, he will be in irons in seconds.”
?One of the members near the center pulled another image from the pile—a blurred shot of Blais in Itan.
“And Halter? Our informants spotted his shadow in Itan. And that new anthem of his... one needn’t be a genius to recognize a declaration of war cloaked in refinement. What say you, Mr. President?”
?All eyes turned toward Wish. He had remained motionless, veiled behind a wall of smoke, but when he spoke, his smile was so tranquil it felt like an invitation to tea, not a mandate for bloodshed.
?“I believe the time has come to move our legions across the sea,” Wish began, leaning forward. “But not directly. We shall traverse the Desert of Afri. It is evident Halter is engineering something colossal, and we must be ready. By moving our forces from the southeast, we will remain beneath his radar. He will notice nothing until we have the blade at his throat.”
?A heavy silence fell over the room, punctuated only by the crackle of burning cigars.
?“The most logical maneuver,” approved one of the chiefs, igniting a fresh cigar. “We can intervene in Itan directly if the need arises. Halter seeks to siphon their oil through this alliance. You have our full mandate, Wish. Dispatch the legions to Afri.”
?Wish merely offered a slight nod. There was no need for further words. The tobacco smoke had become a fog so dense it devoured the little light remaining in the room. Behind that mist, the heads of the ISS resembled black silhouettes—false gods deciding the fate of millions with a single stroke of a pen.
[DATA: 01. CYCLE 11]
?[LOCATION: SRR PALACE (FORMER ROYAL PALACE) — MISKA]
?[TIME: 18:20 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: REGIME STABILIZATION]
While the BAA bathed in the golden rays of a diplomatic sun, the SRR was submerged beneath the frigid, silver light of a predator’s moon. Only a week had passed since the execution of the royal line, yet their memory had been excised with surgical brutality. The sky over Miska was no longer white with snow, but black with the soot of factories vomiting relentlessly—a herald of the state’s transformation into a gargantuan engine of war.
?A light snowfall had dusted the palace, but its purity was drowned by the crimson banners with the yellow circle fluttering everywhere. The halls had been stripped of every aristocratic luxury; art had been supplanted by military charts, and marble was coated in the ash of rapid industrialization.
?In one of the grandest chambers, Bruskin sat in a red leather chair. The hearth-light cast dramatic shadows across his face, orphaning his eyes in total darkness. Before him, a deputy trembled beneath the weight of the dossiers in his hands.
?“The regions are stabilized, sir. The fronts have been remobilized under the new doctrine,” the deputy reported, his voice fracturing. “Committees are being established in every district. Industry is operating at maximum capacity. If we maintain this trajectory, poverty will be eradicated, and the people’s power will be indomitable.”
?Bruskin was not listening to statistics. His gaze was impaled upon the flames devouring the wood. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled the smoke directly into the deputy’s face—a gesture of absolute dominance.
?“Tell me, deputy... what do you see in this chair?”
?The deputy swallowed hard, sweating despite the room’s chill.
“A chair... upholstered in the finest quality leather, sir.”
?Bruskin smirked with a coldness that could freeze the Miska River. He crushed the glowing cherry of his cigarette directly into the expensive leather, leaving a charred, hideous pit.
?“I see the hide of a dead beast. Not just here, but everywhere I look at ‘beautiful’ things. Beauty is an illusion for the weak. I do not crave your beautiful words; I need the bones of success.”
?The deputy’s breathing quickened. He realized that under this man’s command, no failure would be pardoned by aesthetics. At that moment, the door slammed against the wall. A messenger burst in, shrouded in a layer of snow so thick he resembled a wraith from the frozen front.
?“What now?” Bruskin’s voice was hollow, indifferent to the terror in the messenger’s eyes.
?“Sir... hours ago, the ISS declared total sanctions against the SRR,” the messenger gasped, steam billowing from his mouth into the freezing air. “And you... they have declared you Persona Non-Grata. You are a prisoner within our own borders.”
?The deputy gripped the armrests of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white. His eyes widened in panic.
“But that means total isolation... it means—“
?“It means nothing,” Bruskin cut him off with a sharp blade-like motion of his hand as he lit another cigarette. The flare of the match illuminated his merciless eyes for a heartbeat. “It merely exposes the fear of the ISS. They bark because they can no longer bite. Halter has sent us a non-aggression pact... and we shall sign it.”
?“So, we are forming an official alliance with Halter now?” the deputy asked, seeking a shred of certainty in the chaos.
?A leaden silence fell. Only the crackle of the hearth and the faint hiss of smoke from Bruskin’s lips dared to breach that lethal quiet. Bruskin allowed the smoke to fill the space between them, erecting a gray wall.
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?“No,” he said finally, breaking the silence like a knife through silk. “We are not making an alliance with Halter. We are simply keeping our distance from him until we are ready. The pact is nothing more than time bought with paper.”
?Bruskin turned his gaze toward the messenger. Beneath the man’s boots, the melted snow had formed a black puddle on the expensive carpet—another stain upon the remnants of the kingdom.
?“Send immediate word to Xhushi in Kian. Our meeting must happen now. Without a second’s delay.”
[DATA: 01. CYCLE 11]
?[LOCATION: CHANCELLOR’S OFFICE — NAX-GEOT, BLIN]
?[TIME: 16:20 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: CONFIDENTIAL]
While heavy tobacco smoke strangled the briefing rooms at the two other ends of the world, Halter’s office in Nax-Geot remained sterile and clinical. The golden afternoon rays lanced through the high windows, illuminating the fine dust dancing in the air and the cold metallic surface of a sidearm resting upon the desk.
?It was not the Chancellor occupying the chair. It was Avasha.
?With a snow-white cloth, she was cleaning the pistol’s components with a precision that bordered on ritual. A sharp rap at the door made her lift her head. Her crimson eyes caught and reflected the sunlight like polished rubies. The door groaned open, and Goreta entered, a dossier tucked beneath his arm.
?“Chancellor Halter, the file you requested...” Goreta’s momentum faltered. His eyes did not meet Halter’s seasoned authority, but rather the defiant gaze of the girl whose solitude he had just breached. “It is you, Avasha. Where is the Chancellor?”
?She lowered her eyes to the weapon, assembling it with mechanical speed.
“On the balcony,” she replied in a low, hollow voice—devoid of any human inflection.
?Goreta traversed the room. Every stride was punctuated by the rhythmic click-click-click of the pistol’s cylinder rotating in Avasha’s hands. Just as he reached the balcony door, her voice struck him from behind like a live round.
?“Bang!”
?She had leveled the pistol at the back of his head, mimicking the sound of the shot with a predatory smirk. Goreta’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t fear; it was humiliation. He, a general forged in a thousand battles, was being mocked by a teenager who had never tasted the sulfur of a real front.
?“Avasha, enough,” Halter’s voice commanded from outside.
?“Fine. It was just a joke,” she hissed, lowering the weapon with practiced indifference.
?Goreta stepped onto the balcony and sealed the door behind him, seeking sanctuary from that irritating presence. He dropped the dossier onto a metal chair and addressed Halter with a rasping tone.
?“The subject’s file you requested, Chancellor.”
?“Do not let Avasha trouble you, Goreta. She has a... certain arrogance.”
?“If you believe ‘certain’ is the appropriate term, Halter, then you are blind. She possesses an ego that could smother an entire army. And you dismiss it as mere arrogance?”
?For a moment, only the cacophony of the city below filled the void—the industrial grind, the vehicles, the collective respiration of millions. But that symphony was severed by a dry, hacking cough—a harsh and agonizing sound erupting from Halter’s chest. He pressed his hand to his mouth, desperate to veil the collapse occurring within. For a fleeting second, Goreta glimpsed the crimson droplets staining the Chancellor’s palm.
?[SUBJECT H VITALS: STABLE / HEMORRHAGE RISK: 8%]
?Before turning, Halter wiped his hand swiftly against his garments and clasped his arms behind his back, reassuming his habitual posture of iron.
?“You did not come solely for the dossier, Goreta. A courier could have delivered that. Speak plainly. What haunts you?”
?Goreta looked him dead in the eye. He saw the fatigue hidden behind that mask, the dark circles beneath his eyes carving deeper trenches with every passing hour.
?“Do you recall what you told me long ago?” Goreta’s voice was leaden, burdened by the weight of decades. “That you would never permit your daughter to endure the same life as yours.”
?“I do,” Halter replied curtly, his gaze averted.
?“Arrogance and ego are leading her down that exact path, Halter. And you know precisely where that road ends.”
?Halter offered a faint smile—a grimace so subtle it was almost invisible—and placed a hand upon his old friend’s shoulder.
?“Tell me, Goreta... can you strip the scent from a storm? The answer is no. She is what she is.”
?Goreta shrugged the hand off with a sharp, decisive motion.
?“Halter, I am not speaking to you as a general. I am speaking as a father who has already lost a child. Do not think I have forgotten the promise I made to an old friend.”
?The silence returned, cold and jagged, as the wind toyed with the hems of their overcoats. Halter took the dossier and retreated into the office. Avasha had remained in stillness, but her crimson eyes tracked every movement. The Chancellor dropped the file onto the desk and turned toward Goreta.
?“Alert Blais. Tell him to prepare for departure to Bratan. And inform him... that Avasha will accompany him.”
?Avasha recoiled. She surged to her feet, shoving the assembled pistol aside with a sharp metallic clatter.
?“Wait! What is the meaning of this?”
?“As you heard. You will go with Blais to meet Queen Ela,” Halter said, his gaze pinning her.
?“It’s not right! You know I loathe politics and everything associated with it. Why must I be the one?”
?Halter let out a shallow exhale, followed by another muffled cough. His stare was unyielding. Avasha realized then: this was not a suggestion.
?“This is an order, Avasha. Blais will handle the documents and treaties. But you... you will deal with the Queen and everything else this mission demands. Without exception.”
?She slumped back into her chair with a snarl of resentment, turning her head away in a gesture of revolt. Halter wasted no more time and turned back to Goreta, his voice resuming its metallic, razor-sharp edge.
?“Once Blais has departed, activate Operation Blitzkrieg. I want all the new generals deployed to their respective fronts. And begin the immediate reinstatement of the Alphabetical Ranks.”
?Goreta nodded in silence. He knew this maneuver signaled the onset of large-scale devastation. As he departed, Avasha muttered to herself, submerged in her venomous spite:
?“This state has a mountain of idiot deputies, and he sends me... what a father.”
[DATA: 01. CYCLE 11]
[LOCATION: IMPERIAL SUITE “ALPHA” — NAX COMPLEX]
[TIME: 18:30 LOCAL]
[STATUS: ELITE PREPARATION — GROUP PSYCHOLOGY ANALYSIS]
Unlike the tension suffocating the Chancellor’s office, a deceptive tranquility reigned within the residence of the “Five Chosen.” Halter had installed them in an Imperial Suite, granting them the privileges of the state’s highest-ranking generals. Here, luxury was not merely a concept; it was a visceral reality: heavy velvet drapes, floors that felt like white marble clouds, and whiskey decanters shimmering like crystals under the twilight. Outside the gargantuan windows, the sun was hemorrhaging a violent crimson, bleeding into the black soot of the industries charring the horizon.
?Alfo stood by the window, tracing his reflection in the thick glass. He sipped whiskey that cost more than the annual wages of a soldier rotting in the trenches.
?“Luxury is a narcotic for the mind... transient and fraudulent,” Zeta’s voice was monotonic, almost robotic. He sat behind him, rigid as a monument. “What are you searching for in that glass, Alfo?”
?“Why did the Chancellor pluck five adolescents from the academy to make them generals?” Alfo asked, his eyes fixed on the ice melting in his glass. “What did he see in us that we dare not see in ourselves?”
?“Oh, enough with the philosophy!” Ette barked a laugh that shattered the heavy silence, collapsing onto the bed with white silk sheets. “You are all agonizingly pessimistic. Look at Goto—he’s savoring this as if he’ll be Chancellor by morning.”
?Goto adjusted the collar of his expensive black suit. His smile was saturated with confidence, yet his eyes betrayed a flicker of anxiety that no amount of tailored cloth could shroud.
?“Appearance is half the battle,” Goto said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “If the enemy is to slay us, let them find us dressed better than their kings.”
?Alfo turned slowly. In his eyes, Goto didn’t look like a leader; he looked like a starving child drowning in a glass of opulence.
?“You know battles aren’t won by tailors, Goto. A bullet doesn’t care about the price of your suit.”
?“And yet, image is worth an entire army,” Goto countered.
?“No, it isn’t,” Zeta severed the conversation.
?Goto furrowed his brow, looking at them with disdain. He felt as if he were on trial before these two—so clinical, so grim.
?“Ette is right, you’re insufferable,” Goto muttered, reclining with his boots still on the pristine sheets, glass in hand.
?The silence was becoming stifling again when the door was violently thrown open. Aista stormed in. Though she fought to remain composed, her eyes harbored a hidden terror, as if she had just witnessed something that defied existence.
?“If you only saw what I saw, boys...” Aista’s voice wavered—a rare fracture in her discipline.
?“Who did you see, girl?” Ette asked, his smile freezing as he tried to maintain the levity.
?Aista slammed a dossier onto the oak table with a dry thud and leaned against the cold wall. Her face was pallid, as if the blood had drained from her veins.
?“I was in the central hall gathering the latest front sketches. I crossed paths with... her. Halter’s daughter. Avasha. She was in the corridor, and her gaze...” Aista shuddered. “There was a feral madness in her eyes, as if she wanted to murder me simply for breathing the same air.”
?“I never would’ve believed a girl could be so terrified of another,” Ette erupted into laughter, rolling across the bed.
?“Come on, you gave us a scare for nothing,” Alfo intervened, still staring at the horizon. “She’s just a spoiled brat the Chancellor keeps around as decoration.”
?“Don’t talk nonsense,” Goto laughed, swirling the ice in his glass with boyish arrogance. “She’s cute, in that ‘rebel’ way. If it weren’t for those red eyes, she’d be perfect for a royal ball.”
?Aista looked at them with a bitter pity, as if watching men walking toward a guillotine with their eyes sewn shut.
?“Joke all you want. I was trained by the finest psychologists and manipulators of this state. I can recognize a predator just by the way they blink. She isn’t ‘cute,’ Goto. She is a predator.”
?Zeta rose to his full height. He set his glass aside, ending the dialogue with his silent authority.
?“Enough of this idle talk. She, like us, obeys the Chancellor. That is the only fact that matters.” He moved toward the door and opened it slowly. “Goodnight, everyone.”
?Despite the luxury surrounding them, Zeta did not look back. He closed the door, leaving behind the warm, golden light of the suite. In the darkened corridor, his reflection on the black marble looked like a shadow dissolving into nothingness. Outside, the unceasing smoke of Nax-Geot’s industries was devouring the final purple rays of the sun, plunging the world into an industrial darkness.
Alphabetical Ranks introduced in the coming chapters. This system prioritizes Efficiency over traditional seniority:
- ?Rank A (Novice): Officers newly appointed to their posts. They must obey all higher ranks within their department.
- ?Rank G (Experienced): Those with proven field experience in their current roles.
- ?Rank B (Veteran): High-level commanders who bridge the gap between frontline warfare and grand politics.
- ?Rank S (Absolute Efficiency): The pinnacle of strategy and lethality. An S-Rank officer (even a Colonel) is autonomous and answers only to the Central Hub (Central Chamber, Parliament, or the Chancellor himself). They bypass the traditional chain of command.