Those bounds were a good measure less generous in reality than on the map. The Republic of today commanded but a fraction of the territory of the kingdom whose name it bore, stretching roughly two score leagues south and east of the city’s peninsula. The distant south, beyond the rebellious domain of Eskavord and the Grelyt River, had long ago been absorbed by the quarrelling Thrakkian thanes, while the outflung east had been claimed by the Hadari Empire’s rapacious spread – though this was by no means without positive aspect, as it spared Tressia direct contact with the Ithna’jîm of Athreos, who commanded the arid lands beyond the Empire’s south-eastern border.

That the Republic endured at all was as much tribute to the finest navies ever to roam the Western Ocean. Unable to make landing in what remained of the Tressian shoreland, invaders had to make dangerous assault across borders fortified by the regal decree.

The kings who had made such decrees were long gone, but their legacy remained. Tradition layered upon tradition, sealed away from the vibrant city. The squabble and barter of the markets, the tramping feet of soldiery mustered from barrack and chapterhouse; the cries of street-preachers and quarrelling children – even the chime of church bells struggled to reach the austere depths of the Council palace, and risk disturbance of those gathered therein.

Gold couldn’t buy a seat at this table, nor did valorous action alone admit one through the door. Even blood – while important here as in all endeavours – held no guarantee. Only the approval of those already within granted access and leave to speak. To join the old men and women who dictated the fate of untold thousands without ever truly living among them; whose patronage made or broke others at will.

Near a hundred seats lined the Grand Council chamber on the floor below. A mere nine high-backed chairs sat around the Privy Council’s gilded table. One had remained unoccupied since Lord Loramir had taken it upon himself to tour the borderlands. Neither his family nor the Council expected him to return. Two seats had sat empty for a decade. They served as gravestones of the Isidor and Lamakov bloodlines. Until the estates were settled – a resolution that served no one on the Privy Council and was therefore ignored – the Council was left with a quorum of six.

Or more accurately, five and one councillor with half a voice. Viktor’s seat alone had come neither from inheritance nor unfaltering approval. It was a gift given for a victory he wished he could unmake.

“It’s worse than we feared. Emperor Ceredic Saran is dead.”