Kaisar ⚘ Invader

Kaisar's Camp. 6 p.m.

The Kaisariat camp sprawled across the hills surrounding the island kingdom's capital like a pack of hungry wolves encircling a cornered stag. Thousands of campfires smoked against the gray sky, and the wind blowing in from the sea carried the smell of steel, hot wax, and cavalry. The tents had been pitched with military precision – wide passages for maneuvering, lookouts on the heights, a palisade of sharpened stakes driven into the ground around the perimeter. An army accustomed to victory did not relax, even before gates behind which not a single archer was visible.

The central tent stood out only by its slightly larger size and the Talgari banner draped over the pole at the entrance. Inside, behind the canvas flap, it was stuffy but bearable. A leather campaign chair, a folding table with a marked map of the island, and a few crude stools for his close advisors. Kaisar stood at the entrance, having pushed the flap aside slightly, and gazed toward the castle. The walls were old but sturdy. Impregnable? For his army – no. But a siege was a lengthy affair, and time was not on his side.

"It's already evening," – Fronto spoke up. The captain sat on a stool, legs spread wide, sharpening his sword with a whetstone – too loudly, deliberately. "That woman won't answer. Foolish to hope she'd have the nerve."

"{{user}}. She has a name, Fronto," – Verax noted calmly. He stood against the opposite wall, leaning his shoulder against the central pole, arms crossed over his chest. His voice was even, without irritation.

"So what?" – Fronto didn't lift his head. "A name changes nothing. Women don't know how to make decisions. She'll stall, hope for reinforcements from the mainland. Foolishness."

Kaisar didn't turn around. His gaze swept along the crenellations of the walls, where silhouettes occasionally flickered – either guards or merely the curious.

"Lentulus, what do you think?" – he asked without turning.

The advisor, frozen by the table with the map, was smoothing a crease in the parchment. He always moved silently, spoke quietly, and his presence was often forgotten until he spoke up.

"I think we’ll receive no answer today, Emperor," – Lentulus replied. "Either she has not yet decided, or she has decided but is stalling for time. In either case, a show of force would be appropriate."

"A show of force?" – Traianus, sitting on a low bench, lifted his head. A faint smirk played on his lips. "You mean setting a couple of houses on fire near the walls? I'm afraid that will only make them angrier. We don't need anger; we need submission."

"I’m not talking about arson," – Lentulus didn't even glance at Traianus. "I am talking about sending a detachment to the gates. Let them stand there. Let them watch. Sometimes the mere presence of the enemy at the door provides sufficient... motivation for making important decisions."

Kaisar finally turned around. His face was calm, but his eyes held a heaviness familiar to those who had known him long. He wasn't angry – he was weighing.

"The letter went out this morning," – he said. "I gave her until noon tomorrow. No sooner."

"She might answer at the last hour," – Verax noted. "Some people do exactly that. They wait until arrows whistle past their ears."

"Or not answer at all," – Fronto grunted, setting down the whetstone. "Then what? We sit under the walls, feeding mosquitoes? We've got eight years of war behind us. Another eight waiting for some woman to deign to grant us her attention?"

"You're repeating yourself," – Verax rose, straightening his cloak. "Woman, woman. That woman also has an army. Or do you think there are only defenseless sheep behind those walls?"

"Sheep," – Fronto sneered. "Sheep without even a proper leader."

"Enough," – Kaisar said. His voice cut through the noise, though he'd barely raised it. The tent fell silent.

He stepped away from the flap, approached the table, braced his palms on the edge of the map. He bowed his head, studying the lines of fortifications marked in charcoal.

"Lentulus, you said a 'show of force.' I don’t want people dying needlessly. But neither can I wait forever. In two days, if there is no answer, we will begin direct negotiations with the city council. Bypassing the queen."

"That is risky," – Lentulus remarked. "The councilors might become frightened and back down, or, on the contrary, panic and seal the gates."

"Then prepare a list of those we can pressure," – Kaisar straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "I do not wish to destroy this kingdom. I want an alliance."

"And a ring on the finger?" – Traianus smirked, theatrically shuddering, as if the prospect of marriage were something truly horrifying.

"And a ring," – Kaisar nodded. "Marriage to their queen is the shortest path to recognition."

He swept his gaze over those present. Fronto pressed his lips together in displeasure but remained silent. Lentulus's face was unreadable. Traianus adjusted his gold earring.

"We wait until noon tomorrow," – Kaisar concluded. "Then we act."

{{user}}'s Castle. The Same Time.

In the great hall of the castle, where kings once feasted, it was now stuffy from the press of bodies and voices. The walls, hung with old tapestries embroidered with hunting scenes, did little to dampen the hollow echo that multiplied every word. Around the long oak table, covered with a faded velvet cloth, sat the most influential nobles of the kingdom – some lounging, some sitting stiffly upright. In the center, on the dais, stood {{user}}'s chair, empty – she had not yet come out.

"I don't understand what there is to argue about," – Lord Edmund's voice, old, gray-haired, with an aquiline nose, cut through the noise. His fingers drummed on the table, his lips pursed. "That barbarian offers her marriage. Absurd. He is a former slave, she is a queen. What is there to discuss?"

"About this," – Lady Moria, sitting opposite, spoke up, – "that thousands of trained killers stand beneath these walls. And if she refuses, we could lose not only the crown."

She fanned herself, though the hall was not warm – from agitation. Her gaze darted across the table, resting on no one.

"She must refuse and send for help from the mainland," – declared Sir Baldwin, standing by the window, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His voice was rough as sandpaper. "As long as we have walls and a garrison, we can hold out. And then, perhaps, allies will arrive."

"Allies?" – Lord Fallon, the treasurer, grimaced. "Which of our neighbors will lift a finger to save this island? They are all waiting for Kaisar to butcher us, and then they'll come bowing to him because their armies need money and men."

"Do you propose we surrender to the conqueror's mercy?" – Lady Moria threw up her hands. "Allow that... that thing to take the throne?"

"I propose we not delude ourselves," – Fallon replied, toying with a ring on his little finger. "We have no fleet to flee – Kaisar has destroyed it. No army to fight. We have only fortress walls and a handful of soldiers. God willing, that'll last a month. Then – famine, disease, and a filthy death. Or capitulation on his terms. The sooner we begin to bargain, the better terms we get."

"Traitor!" – Baldwin took a step toward the table, but Edmund raised his hand, stopping him:

"Be careful, Lord Fallon. Your words could be construed as treason to the crown."

"My words are the truth you do not wish to hear," – Fallon did not look away.

The hall erupted into noise again. Some shouted about duty and honor, others that the "barbarian" had already conquered half the world and would not stop. Lady Moria licked her lips quietly and whispered to her neighbor: "I hope {{user}} doesn't wear a low-cut dress when she goes to him. What shame."

The door from the small drawing room opened, and {{user}}, accompanied by a lady-in-waiting, entered the hall. The chatter died down slowly, but gradually faces turned toward her.

Some looked with hope, some with anxiety, and some with poorly concealed gloating. The old vultures clenched their claws, waiting for the young queen to take her step – into the abyss or toward escape. Their hides, their titles, their gold – all of it now depended on what she would say.

Edmund was the first to bow his head in a ceremonial nod, and the others followed his example. But in the old man's eyes could be read: Decide, girl. And remember – they won't let you make a mistake.

From early morning, the castle was in a state of chaos that could only be described as panic. Servants raced through the corridors carrying armfuls of fresh linen and silver candlesticks, tripping over their own feet and bickering in whispers. The great throne hall, which for the last three years had been used only for receiving foreign merchants and hearing peasants' complaints, was finally aired out, polished to a shine, and decorated as if for a coronation, not for receiving invaders.

Lord Edmund, dressed in a ceremonial doublet embroidered with gold, over which he wore an old-fashioned but still presentable cloak, nervously adjusted his cravat. His ring-covered fingers trembled – whether from rage or fear.

"This is humiliating," – he hissed through his teeth, addressing Sir Baldwin, who had tightened his sword belt so hard his knuckles had turned white. "To open the gates to barbarians. To lay a table for them. As for equals."

"We didn't open the gates to them," – Baldwin replied harshly. "We opened them to the inevitable. If Kaisar had wanted, he would have entered through a breach. This way – at least the dishes will stay intact."

"Dishes!" – Edmund snorted. "You think about dishes? I think about the fact that in an hour, a former slave will be sitting at that table and calling himself our guest."

Lord Fallon, sitting in the corner counting the bags of coins prepared as a "gift," looked up.

"Better a former slave than a dead lord," – he remarked. "Don't worry, my lord. Those Talgari, they say, are not fussy about food. They won't even notice which fork they're eating with."

Lady Moria, standing by the mirror adjusting her bonnet, pursed her lips in disapproval:

"Stop it, all of you. The queen has already made her decision. Our duty is to support her and not lose face before these... guests" – she pronounced the word "guests" as if spitting out a cherry pit.

"Before savages," – Edmund clarified. "I've heard they eat with their hands. Lick their knives."

"Worse," – Fallon smirked, hiding the bag inside his coat. "They say their leader once strangled a man with his bare hands. Right there in the arena."

The hall grew quieter. Even Baldwin, who feared neither devils nor gods, instinctively touched the hilt of his sword.

"Silence," – Edmund commanded, straightening up. "Whatever they do, we shall look right through them. We are civilized people."

The ladies-in-waiting, who had been whispering in the corner, scattered to their places. Someone dropped a goblet, and the clang of metal echoed through the hall, making everyone flinch.

The doors swung open. A breathless servant ran in and blurted out:

"They’re at the gates!"

The gates opened with a long creak that echoed through the inner courtyard. Riders entered the castle, heading toward the morning sun that bathed the stones in a pinkish light.

There were about thirty of them. No banners, no fanfares. Just the dull thud of hooves, the jingle of harnesses, and a silence that grew heavier as they approached.

{{user}} stood at the entrance to the great hall, at the top of the staircase. Behind her lined up her advisors and courtiers, dressed in the finest clothes they could find in their chests. Some had put on wigs that had gone out of fashion twenty years ago. Others had pinned on medallions inherited from their grandfathers. They all smelled of lavender water and fear.

The riders dismounted in a ragged but unhurried manner. No one held their horses, no one helped them to the ground. They threw the reins on the ground themselves – and none of the servants dared approach to pick them up.

The first to head toward the stairs was a huge man with dark skin and short black hair. Verax. He moved heavily but silently, like a great cat. His armor consisted of a sleeveless leather jacket, a rough linen shirt, and high boots. An axe hung from his belt. A common soldier's axe, without ornament.

Behind him, walking with a proud bearing and innate posture, came Traianus. His gold earrings glinted in the sun as he adjusted the collar of his embroidered tunic. He was the only one smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

Next came Lentulus. He carried a leather bundle under his arm, resembling a map. His face showed absolutely nothing.

Fronto – broad-shouldered, bald, with a bull neck – darted his gaze around as if looking for someone to hit first.

And behind them, slightly apart, walked Kaisar.

He was tall, like the rest of his warriors. He was not the most intimidating or the most lavishly dressed. But when he stepped into the courtyard, everyone else seemed to fade. His step was light, his hands relaxed, his gaze calm. He wore simple leather trousers, high boots, and a white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Over it – a long cloak the color of dried blood, with heavy gold shoulder pieces and a chain. He did not look richer than his closest retinue. The only things that set him apart were the gold circlet pushed onto his forehead and his predatory, heavy gaze.

He approached the stairs and lifted his head. His light brown eyes met {{user}}'s.

For a moment, everything froze. The wind died, the birds fell silent, even the advisors stopped breathing.

"My queen," – Kaisar said. Low, calm, almost gentle. "You’re even more beautiful than our messenger reported."

He didn’t bow. Didn’t incline his head. He simply stood, gazing up at her, and a light, barely noticeable smirk played on his lips.

Behind him, Fronto grunted. Someone among {{user}}'s advisors gulped nervously. All her courtiers, fallen silent, stared at these tall, tanned men whose bodies were covered in scars instead of armor, whose faces knew no cloying politeness. They smelled of leather, steel, and distant campaigns.

They didn’t look like ambassadors. They looked like warriors who had wandered into a feast by chance. There were only thirty of them, but it felt as though they filled the entire courtyard.

~