Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The wind rolled heavy through the marble colonnades of Caer Bryndale, the current location of the Brittannian Crown, high atop the moss-strewn cliffs of southern Celtica following their successful conquering of the Celtica peoples and addition of the lands into their kingdom.

The chill came not from the sea this time, but from the weight of news carried across the Narrow Sea.

In the vaulted war hall of the High Keep, the Royal Circle of Lords had assembled under the dim light of a sun half-lost to winter cloud.

Thick fur-lined cloaks swirled as nobles took their seats around the obsidian inlay of the great war table—at its center, a map carved into the blackwood surface, lines of salt marking coasts, and colored stones denoting the movements of nations.

At the table's head sat Queen Alwynn the Iron Wolf, not in her throne, but standing, braced on both hands, knuckles white, eyes fixed not on the north where her own banners had only recently planted themselves—but to the south.

To Francia.

"To war on all sides,"

he muttered.

None interrupted her.

A moment passed, and then another, as servants stepped quietly between the gathered lords, lighting the hanging brass lanterns one by one.

Smoke and silence filled the space.

Finally, it was Lady Rowenna of Dunleaf, the Queen's sister and Archminister of Affairs, who spoke.

"Word from the Achaeian coast came two days past,"

she said, unrolling a scroll of courier wax.

"Romanus controls Thalassar, Achaleon, and the entirety of the mid-latitude deepwater harbors. Their navy is not just present, but dug in. The locals have bent knee or fled into the interior, and Germania's troops move only lightly opposed inland thanks to supply lines stabilized by Romanus naval presence."

"They've advanced that far?"

asked Duke Emmery of Garanhold, brow furrowed.

"Last we knew, the germanian's were stalled in the war effort."

"They were,"

Rowenna said.

"Then they weren't."

Another scroll was tossed onto the table.

"Further confirmation from the ambassador. Romanus presence confirmed on the Achaeian continental spine. They've begun offering 'peaceful protectorate' contracts to towns before they even march. If the local lords don't resist, they're left intact. As a result Romanus has quickly acquired almost the entire Achaeian coastline."

"So a different script than Germania,"

Aldric growled.

"Burn the ones who fight. Embrace the ones who don't, rather than kill those who fight and capture all else."

"Might as well call it civilizing the frontier,'"

muttered Sir Caerwyn of Dunmar, spitting into the brazier.

There were nods around the table. Bitter, knowing.

Rowenna continued.

"Three days after that news arrived… this became known."

She slid a folded map toward the Queen.

"The Eastern Corridor. Romanus cut clean through the Francian frontier. Their armies opened a channel from the Visigoth borderlands all the way to the north coast. There are confirmed legions stationed at each key crossing—three hundred leagues deep into eastern Francia."

Murmurs broke out across the chamber.

"Three hundred—?"

"That's nearly a fifth of the kingdom cutoff!"

"Madness. How did Amaury allow—?"

"Because,"

said Aldric, voice low,

"he didn't. Or rather he couldn't, due to his own mistimed efforts at the outset of the war, his own people turned on him forcing his return to the capital in disgrace before Romanus made their move, taking the absence of proper forces as the impetus for their real invasion."

The room fell quiet again.

Rowenna placed a final stone on the board—this one black, with a red etching.

"The navy landed in the west. Romanus troops stormed Port Kersault, Lainval, and even Cermaux. Four port cities in six days. The western heartland is gone, and with it Francia has lost almost all their fisheries leaving them scrambling for food sources."

No one spoke this time.

The map spoke for them.

Francia, a kingdom republic long known for its arrogance of position, sat now like a trapped animal—hemmed in from the south by Germania, its eastern flank crushed under Roman discipline, and its western arteries severed by a navy no one thought would ever cross the straits.

All that remained untouched… was the north... for now.

And that was precisely what Queen Alwynn's cold stare now settled on.

~

"Your Majesty,"

Came a new voice.

Lord Marcellus of Wythvale, First Sword of the Crown, leaned forward.

"If there was ever a moment… this is it."

Alwynn tilted her head.

"We only just pacified the Celtica tribes. The western peaks still burn in pockets. The northeast marshlands are full of the displaced. If we strip garrisons for a foreign war, the under-people may rise again."

"But if we wait,"

Marcellus said,

"Romanus will take the crown city itself. And we'll be looking across the straits not at a weakened, humiliated Francia—but an empire as romanus connects Francia, through the Achaeian coast to their existing holdings, making a true empire rivalling even the Visigoth Empire."

He tapped a callused finger on the board.

"Think of it. We strike from the north, storm the passes, take Charroux or even Vellence—and force the King of Francia into a two-front collapse."

"A three-front,"

corrected Rowenna, lips tight.

"Germania, Romanus, and now us."

Marcellus smiled faintly.

"Three fronts, and still none of them friends."

There was laughter at that, dry and thin.

Queen Alwynn said nothing.

Her gaze lingered on the map, following the navy stone, the black corridors, the cluster of golds around the crown of Amaury and the king in the capital.

"We'd have to withdraw from Celtica,"

she said at last.

"Fortify only the major cities, and leave the highlands mostly unguarded."

"Let them rise,"

said Marcellus.

"If they rise, we cull again. But Francia—"

he leaned closer, his tone sharpening

"—Francia is wounded. And its blood seeps into the ground faster than it can breathe. If we strike now, even if Romanus takes the capital… we'll have the north."

"And once it's over?"

asked Lady Eiryn, head of the Merchant House of Calais.

"What then? Romanus won't stop at taking land. They'll come for trade routes. For ports. For control of the strait. They'll want to encircle."

Rowenna nodded.

"And we'll have done their work for them."

"No,"

said Alwynn, slowly.

"No. We won't."

She stepped away from the table now, her silhouette framed against the storm-lit window behind her.

"We will not be their paw. Nor will we be their prey."

She turned.

"We strike not as allies. But as predators."

A pause.

Then she raised one hand.

"Begin mustering the northern banners. Quietly. No declarations. No hornblowing."

She looked to Rowenna.

"Put coin to the sea lords of Dunport. Ready the longships. We'll need thirty at least to land north of Vellence."

"To hold?"

"To surprise. They expect cavalry and highland raids. They don't expect sails."

She looked to Marcellus next.

"Leave four thousand men in Celtica. Only veterans. Quiet them with coin and winter grain. Send word to the tribes that we're returning the highlands to clan oversight. Let them kill each other while we claim our piece."

"And the war declaration?"

asked Eiryn.

Alwynn gave a wolfish smile.

"There won't be one, Francia is already at war, what does it matter if another joins in it?"

Another silence.

Then—slowly, quietly—the lords began to nod.

The tide was shifting.

The last secure border of Francia would not remain untouched for long.

And now… Brittania hungered.

~

Later, in the chambers of court, as firelight crackled and ravens were sent bearing coded missives, a single question hung heavy in the air:

Who would own the ashes when the empire was done burning the world?

No one had the answer yet.

But the Queen of Brittania would not sit idle while the board was swept.

Not while her ships could sail.

Not while northern steel still gleamed.

And certainly not while Romanus taught the world to bend.

The age of waiting was over.

The northern wolves were coming.