Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

~ North Francia

The banners came at dawn — not Romanus red, not Francian fleur, but white with a Red Cross, coupled next to flags with the roaring lion of Britannia.

They rose from the sea like ghosts from old prophecy.

At first, the fishermen of Caerbonne thought them pirates, and rightly so.

What sane man would sail into the frigid, broken waters of the northwest coast in spring's earliest breath, where ice still clung to stone like memory?

But then came the drums.

And the fire.

And the war horns that hadn't been heard on that coast in hundreds of years.

Britannia had come to war.

~

Cael Montaine – The Royal Capital of Francia

The king's council chambers burned with the light of a hundred candles, all guttering in the draft of voices raised in fury.

"They've done what?!"

Duke Savarin, hands spread over a splayed map of the western coasts, trembled with rage.

The wax-sealed courier sat hunched in the corner, clutching his satchel as though it were armor.

The Queen Mother had turned white as snow.

"They landed in Lienne. Then in Calverais. And then again at Pointe Cirelle. In less than three days."

The Chancellor rubbed his temples.

"That's a third of the coast."

"And no resistance?"

the Grand Marshal barked.

"None,"

came the courier's bitter reply.

"They moved under cloud cover. Used diversion fires. Most coastal watchtowers never even sent a flare."

A single voice cut through the din.

Cold.

Clear.

Prince Amaury.

"They planned this for months. Maybe longer."

He stood at the edge of the war table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the Britannian invasion markers like a man staring down an old grudge.

"They waited for our war to rip east. Waited for Romanus to lock horns with Joan. Waited until we emptied the coasts to keep the nobles from mutiny."

"And now they've come,"

the King murmured.

All eyes turned.

The King of Francia rarely spoke in council.

He was old, tired, and his realm was slipping from his fingers as he aged decades in just the last few months alone.

But his voice still carried weight.

"We are besieged. From the south and east, by Romans. And now from the north, by Albion. From within, by ghosts of our own failure."

He rose slowly from his throne.

The gold of his crown caught the firelight.

"I will not see my house crumble in my lifetime."

And then, a single word:

"Decree."

~

The Royal Decree of Cael Montaine

By edict of the Crown of All Francia, in the presence of the assembled Council of Lords and under the light of the Eternal Flame, let it be known:

The Kingdom is under siege.

Let all vassals muster arms.

Let all men of fighting age present themselves to the levy.

Let every fortress stand, and every shrine send prayer.

Prince Amaury is granted supreme command of all mobile forces not bound to the capital.

His orders are sovereign.

His command is singular.

He will ride north.

And when the lions of Britannia are crushed against the raging seas, he will turn his host south.

And there, he shall meet Romanus.

And shatter it.

So declared by seal of King Alric IV.

So declared by the Crown.

The King declared total war, all of Francia would fight until to bitter end, with autocratic authority he sought to raise up all of Francia as a means to repel the invaders even if the very action would mean the end of Francia itself.

~

Northern Francia – Britannian Advance

The Lion's Cross burned over the bay at Calverais.

Queen Adelyn of Britannia had not set foot on Francian soil herself, but her war machine had.

Three thousand elite marines made landfall in the first wave, followed by fifteen thousand footmen, siege experts, and longbow contingents.

Their warships now owned the northern channel, with Francia's own navy had left the region to combat Romanus in the western sea.

The tide belonged to Albion.

Within days, the outer forts had fallen.

Not with sieges, but bribes.

The Francian coast, long ignored, underfunded, and neglected in favor of the more 'noble' eastern campaigns, gave way like rotted wood.

But the Queen was not here to conquer.

Not yet.

She was here to humiliate.

The Crown of the North had declared it would not stand idly by while an empire waged war unchecked.

Her words had been clear, sent by raven to the courts of every monarch on the continent:

"Romanus wages war upon a continent and calls it peace. Francia closes her gates and calls it pride. Let them both bleed. And when the tide settles, Britannia shall speak last."

~

The Field of Marriven – Prince Amaury Rides

Dust kicked up in long, cold clouds behind the Francian royal banners.

Amaury's host was not elegant.

It was not polished.

But it was angry.

Ten thousand knights.

Thirty thousand foot.

Thousands more arriving each day from inland baronies and minor holdings still loyal to the crown.

They marched hard through thawing plains, the cries of displaced peasants singing like wind through the forests.

Every village they passed burned a torch for Joan.

Every town whispered of her miracles.

But it was Prince Amaury who rode now.

Not as a peacock of court.

Not as the spoiled heir of idle rumor.

But as a man hardened by failure.

He had seen the storm Julius brought.

He had watched the kingdom crack under Joan's shadow.

And now he faced the third blade aimed at his homeland.

Britannia.

"I will not be the prince who watched our walls fall from every direction,"

he told his commanders, riding with mud-stained boots and unpolished greaves.

"I will be the storm they remember."

And behind him, the army believed it.

Because whatever his flaws, Amaury was the only man left with the strength to ride west… and then south trusting his back to her, and her crusade for the common people.

~

Caerbonne Harbor — Britannian Encampment

General Artair of House Wulven, veteran of the Highland Purge, stood atop the wooden palisade overlooking the captured Francian harbor.

A camp of twenty-five thousand sprawled behind him, tents already raised, flags snapping in the brisk northern wind.

"Still no movement?"

"None,"

his scout replied.

"But rumor says Amaury rides."

Artair scratched at his beard.

"Good."

"You wish to engage him?"

"I wish to test him."

He looked out over the sea, where the navy had dropped anchor just offshore — watching the cliffs for any Francian naval response.

There had been none.

Only silence.

He turned back toward the camp.

"Set the traps. Dig the wolves' pits. Ready the bows. We'll bleed him in the open before the gates of Elvereux."

"And if he doesn't come?"

Artair smiled.

"Oh, he'll come."

He looked to the sky.

"Because if he doesn't, the north will fall without a scream."

~

La Morienne – Romanus Forward Command

The Root messenger returned in silence, and once again, Julius read.

Then he laughed — not mockingly, not cruelly.

But like a man watching the horizon catch fire.

"She's fighting still."

Sabellus looked up.

"Joan?"

Julius shook his head.

"No. Not her."

He tossed the letter aside.

"Prince Amaury has taken to the north."

Sabellus blinked.

"To reinforce the corridor?"

"To fight Britannia."

He poured a cup of wine.

"I expected cowardice. I received strategy."

"Do we adjust our plan?"

Julius was quiet.

Then he smiled, faint and tired.

"No. We let them bleed each other."

He looked back toward the encircled hills where Joan's army had slipped away.

"And then we walk through what's left."

~

South of the Corridor – Saint Joan's Makeshift Encampment

She awoke with pain in her skull and rage in her chest.

"I ordered us to strike,"

she hissed at Morn.

"And I disobeyed."

"You betrayed me."

"No,"

the captain said.

"I saved you."

Her men had dragged her unconscious from the battlefield and fought in her name.

They had lost — but not broken.

And now, she was alive.

Joan stared at her reflection in a pool of rainwater.

Her blade — now sheathed — pulsed faintly against her side.

And far to the north, new fires burned on the sea cliffs.

She turned to her captains.

"Train the new levies. Harden them. The next time we meet the Empire… we end the silence."

They nodded.

And far away, three armies marched toward each other.

Romanus.

Francia.

Britannia.

The continent split beneath their feet.

And the North… had begun to sunder.