Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The winter sun cast long, brittle beams through the stained-glass windows of Vincelles Palace, its light fractured into shades of crimson and gold that danced upon the stone floor like dying embers.

King Theodric of Francia, ruler by divine right and sword, sat upon his throne — a tall chair of whitewood inlaid with lapis and iron, the crest of House Veillair glinting beneath his fur-lined mantle.

He had not moved in some time.

Before him, the great hall was quiet save for the murmuring of scribes, the rustle of maps, and the faint crackle of hearthfires.

Tension, unspoken but thick, hung in the air like smoke before a storm.

He was listening.

Listening to the death throes of his kingdom beginning to unfold.

A courier bowed low at the foot of the dais.

His boots were caked in road-grime.

His voice wavered slightly.

"Your Majesty. Word from the southeastern front. Prince Amaury's forces have crossed into the outer valleys of Lower Germania. The river forts have been taken — minor resistance only."

Theodric nodded once, fingers drumming slowly against the armrest.

"And the counter?"

The courier hesitated.

"Our scouts confirm… Romanus riders are present. Fast-strike cavalry. Their movements have disrupted our western supply lines."

"How close?"

the king asked without looking up.

The man swallowed.

"Close enough to light smoke within a day's ride of our forward bastions."

A silence followed.

Then Theodric leaned back in his throne, closing his eyes.

"They've outflanked us already,"

he muttered.

Like a blade beneath the ribs.

He could almost see them — those cursed Romanus riders, ghosts in iron, bleeding the flanks of his campaign with surgical cruelty.

They didn't aim to fight in a line.

They aimed to gut the Francian war machine before it ever reached its stride.

He opened his eyes again and gestured to his First Strategist, a lean man named Belis.

"Have Amaury withdraw from the forward rivers,"

the king said.

"Consolidate around the stone fortresses. Make the bastards come to us. Let Germania burn trying to hold Achae — we won't waste our men chasing shadows across frostbitten hills."

"Yes, Majesty,"

Belis murmured, already scribbling.

Another voice rose then — this one from a woman seated along the right tier of the council benches, wrapped in emerald silks.

Lady Ralenne, his spymistress.

"Your Majesty, on the matter of Achae itself…"

Theodric turned his gaze to her.

"Speak plainly."

She inclined her head.

"Our troops embedded with the local Achaean defenders report Germanian morale is faltering. Their push inland has slowed. Skirmishes favour our side — especially since our naval support landed near the Malenfort and established a temporary port."

That drew a murmur from several nobles.

"And Romanus?"

Theodric asked.

Lady Ralenne's eyes flicked down to the scroll in her hand.

"Unconfirmed. We suspect a southern detachment has linked with the Germanians — there are signs of Legion-style encampments on the coastal ridgelines."

Theodric's knuckles whitened on the throne.

So his true enemy had moved south as well.

That man — once merely a Lunan dog of war — had become a thorn in every side of the continent.

Worse, a crowned thorn.

A usurper playing at being king.

He rose slowly from the throne, his voice low.

"If they open the southern coast, we'll lose Achae. Not in a month. Not in a season. In weeks. Once those Romanus supply routes root into the sea, there will be no choking them out."

The court fell silent.

"But if they want to spread themselves that thin—"

he continued, more to himself than the others

"—perhaps there's blood to be drawn on the northern edge instead…"

He turned then to a grizzled knight who stood alone near the war table.

Marshal Rouvin, veteran of two Celtic campaigns where the Francians had raided the Celtic lands and begun a process of cultural takeover by planting their own people to gradually takeover the region and give them a casus beli to obtain the region as a staging ground to invade their northern neighbors and lifetime rivals.

"Speak of the north."

Rouvin stepped forward, his face drawn but steady.

"The Brittanic forces have pushed beyond the border forests. Three Celtic tribes have fallen in the last thirty days. The fourth, the Dhorlin, have fortified the riverlands, but their chieftains have begun to reach out to us."

"To us?"

the king asked.

"For sanctuary. Or alliance. They claim Britannia will not stop at the tribes. That it seeks continental reach."

Murmurs again.

Nobles shifting in their seats.

Fear creeping like frost between the stones of the court.

"Brittania,"

Theodric said softly.

"Another wolf at the gates."

It was becoming clear now.

The continent — once balanced upon the scales due to the long peace — was tilting.

Julius had declared himself a king, and none had stopped him.

The Germanians were desperate — inviting the devil in for help with Achae, unaware the price would be paid in land and sovereignty.

The Visigoths marched in the east unchecked.

And the island dogs of Brittania were now hungry for the mainland.

Francia, once mighty, once stable, now stood at the edge of three wars.

A fourth if his nobles couldn't keep their knives out of each other's backs.

His son chased a stalled invasion.

His ports were under siege.

His allies were either conquered or cowards.

And yet—he would not bow.

He would not yield Francia to a king who forged his throne in rebel steel.

He raised his hand, commanding silence.

"This court will dispatch emissaries to the Dhorlin tribes. Offer them iron, grain, and a banner to march behind. If Britannia wants a foothold, they'll find only fire."

"To the south, we hold the Achaean ridgelines. Build the redoubts. Burn every bridge the Germanians may cross. If they want Achae, let them rot in it."

He turned last to Belis.

"Begin drafting orders. We pull our eastern hosts into defensive formation. We bleed Romanus wherever they ride. Not with a wall. With a storm. Make their victories feel like scars."

The firelight flickered behind his crown.

"Let Julius have his throne,"

he said.

"We will break his empire at the edges."