1

On the northwestern coast of the Edrian Bay lay Efastopol, the city known as the capital of Luctretz, like a splendid pearl in its shell. Rows of tall buildings of white stone greeted the rising sun in gently ascending stages, more powerfully luminous than any lighthouse, guiding sailors near and far and pleasing the eyes of weary voyagers.

At that port, merchandise delivered over land took flight on wings of canvas across the foam-crested waves; there cargo hauled from foreign waters found wheels and continued on to the secluded parts of the continent, the dwellers of which knew not the wonders of sea. Hand met hand and coin changed owners.

Luctretz was not, like Langoria, famous for her knights and kings, but primarily for her markets and harbors, where a great many people from all over the human realm would meet each day and find understanding despite their varied cultures and origins in their endless pursuit of profit. Half for a living and half for the sheer charm of it.

Built on a grand, erect cliff overlooking the harbor on its western limit—that natural shape itself strikingly reminiscent of a ship’s bow—was the stout Royal Castle and its lofty spires. Flags of white and blue fluttered in the lance-like peaks of the stronghold, as on the masts of the ships below, and the mere sight of it would restore pride and patriotism in the hearts of all who beheld it, even in these uncertain times that appeared to shake all old values.

In the harbor lining the bay, dividing the city from the sea, numerous workers busied themselves from the early twilight of morn till the late hours of night, as they had in an unceasing sequence dating back centuries, united in their love for the waves, and smiles on their faces.

However, on that particular late summer morning, not one of the local loaders, sea dogs, merchants, or guards was smiling. With only great unease, they gazed over the glimmering waters of the Bay, following the approach of a set of red sails, the sails which belonged to the Imperial warship, the Thule.

Like a solitary dark shadow to cloud the day, a raven in the company of gulls, that glum caravel curved soundless towards the open dock number five.

Who had allowed such a tastless apparition in Luctretz and why?

A public announcement had been issued by the government earlier in the previous week, that Imperial delegates would be coming to the city for a diplomatic visit. But on which day exactly, how, and why, were left deliberately unspecified. In the absence of radio or television, the word had failed to reach the whole population, and those it did reach, it tended to do in a somewhat distorted fashion. Even the fact that it was the Empress herself coming had been kept a secret for the time being, since no one could be sure of the reaction it should evoke.

For anyone not in the know, the Thule certainly made for an alarming view.

No Imperial ships had been welcome in the city in the past three years, ever since the Tratovian embassy was closed and the diplomats banished. The Empire had responded in kind, and added a trade blockade on top of the deal, cutting all commerce across the border. Every able merchant circumvented the blockade as best they could, of course, but it had inadvertently led to a lot of businesses closing and brought about a general economic depression. Though the ruler of Bhastifal had changed in the early summer, there had been no sign of improvement in the foreign relations thus far.

Had the long-dreaded worst case scenario come true then?

Was there going to be a war?

Or had there been a war already, without anyone knowing, and it was lost?

What were those politicians doing? Where was the army? Since the moment the Imperial flag was first spied on the horizon, the city officials had been bombarded nonstop with queries by concerned citizens. The regime did their best to soothe the unrest. This was a perfectly ordinary, officially scheduled and sanctioned state visit, and nothing remotely threatening or suspicious. The situation was entirely under control, there was not the slightest cause for panic.

But behind the scenes, the Principality’s lords were less than certain of the matter themselves. Twelve platoons of knights had been stationed at the harbor to receive the Imperial guests, including fully armed cavalry. Most of them stood in rigid forms along the wider avenue paralleling the coastline, with the rest scattered in smaller groups to secure the key harbor facilities and preserve public order.

Local representatives, authorized by the Senate and the Royal House, led by the Minister of Foreign Affairs, awaited at the dock to welcome the guests. From there, the Imperials were to be guided onto a planned, tightly controlled tour in the city. The nearby docks were cleared, the fishermen, beggars, and loiterers chased away. Everything was ready, whatever should happen next.

Yet, watching the dark ship’s approach, the group of representatives couldn’t help but feel like lambs on the path of a raging bull, despite all the spears and armors behind them. It was meant to be a peaceful visit, so how come there was such an impression of wrath and vengeance behind those sails?

Nothing too dramatic happened, fortunately.

The Thule furled her sails and was successfully stilled at the berth. Anchors were dropped, the gangplank set, hawsers tied on bollards. Seeing this familiar routine acted out with casual ease, the spectators relaxed somewhat.

No arrows, no fire, nor brimstone.

Signal trumpets were blown. The Principality’s side had their own band along, prepared to receive Her Imperial Majesty with appropriate ceremony. The musicians hadn’t seen such high-profile action in a long while and were a tad nervous.

The passengers began to disembark. Drums started. Trombones and tubas followed.

First came soldiers. Fifty elite knights of the Empire crossed onto solid pavement in their black armors, visors down. The infamous Stohenkartes, the “stormcrows”. Two pairs in a row, they marched on, filling the dock, coming to a halt only a few paces short of the hosting party.

Kicking their heels simultaneously, the first row of soldiers stopped and stood without budging an inch more, looking extraordinarily provocative. One by one, the rows coming behind did the same, thereby gradually bringing the whole company to a standstill. Then followed servants. Courtiers, maids, cooks, what have you, all strode on less rigidly than the soldiers, more quietly, but in no less exemplary form, adding to the long line.

In a while, the stone-made platform became filled to the brim from one end to the other, as the two hundred-odd personnel aboard the large caravel disembarked, and this count did not even include the crew of the ship itself. It was surprising all of them could fit on the landing.

Once the last of them were out, only silence followed.

None among the Imperials spoke up.

No one made any salutes or gave words of greeting.

They merely stood, still like a collection of statues, keeping their expressions neutral, waiting—waiting for what, exactly? Where was the Empress? Where were the officers? Weren’t there meant to be two ships coming? What was going on? Some divergences were always to be expected, when it came to the Imperials, but this wasn’t at all like what was agreed. The Luctretzians twisted their brows in confusion, trying to see past the jungle of dark helmets in front of them, yet no one dared to speak. In a while, without a separate signal, the orchestra stopped playing.

Somehow, the mood didn’t seem at all appropriate for music.

This bizarre staring contest went on for about a quarter of an hour, before the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Timothy Danlau, finally decided to risk starting something he perhaps shouldn’t have.

With hesitation, he lifted his chin and raised his voice.

“Uh...To whom here may I speak…?”

No one answered his frail question, which the sea wind picked up and carried away.

“...Is her majesty still aboard?” he questioned the knights in the front row.

They wouldn’t answer him either, the whites of their eyes barely perceivable through the narrow visor openings. Those solemn gazes alone did little to explain things. Up on the Thule, the crew was taking down the sails without a word, as if nothing that happened outside the ship mattered to them one bit.

Minister Danlau didn’t think he had ever felt as helpless and lost in his whole life.

Why oh why did something like this have to happen in a situation of such paramount significance?

“W-will it take much longer...?”

2

About eight hundred yards east from dock five, a small gig pulled to a pier considerably more modest. That shoddy wood pier couldn’t have supported even a squad of infantry in full gear without collapsing into the sea. Fortunately, it only needed to carry three.

Major Uleison brought down his staff, dispelling his camouflage with a sigh. Sustaining such an elaborate spell for so long took a good deal of honest effort and he wiped his glistening brow.

“It appears the diversion is working,” Miragrave reckoned as she climbed off the boat and glanced in the Thule’s direction. “Let us hurry. Our hosts may be happy to stand in attention all day, but I know by experience that wearing black in the midday blaze is not pleasant.”

“This has to be the most absurd operation I have ever seen,” Aurlemeyr commented, pulling the oars in.

“What boring life you’ve led then!” the Marshal replied. “Leave things to diplomacy and I’ll be ripe for retirement before we see her majesty again. Come! We proceed as planned!”

Avoiding the Principality’s patrols along the way, the eccentric trio made their way through the harbor and into the city. It was not a private sightseeing tour they had in mind, of course. Guided by Miragrave, who knew the way, they kept to the less populated roads, and sought out an august building complex on the south side of the city.

Once, when Luctretz had still been part of the Kingdom of Langoria, that building had served as the King’s summer villa. Later, it became the first Royal Palace of the Prince of autonomous Luctretz, until the construction of the present day castle. In the centuries since, this place, known as the Southerling Palace, had been renovated and appended several times, coming to house both the Ministry of Defense, as well as the headquarters of the Royal Army.

Yuliana had been scheduled to meet with the local Ministers and military leaders there, to discuss the details of the planned armistice, as well as the problem of piracy. Due to the unexpected absence of her majesty, however, both the timing and the nature of this meeting were about to change.

No visitors were expected to appear until later in the afternoon, and security was appropriately lax. Still, in their foreign outfits, the three wanderers were drawing a lot of attention from the pedestrians and likely wouldn’t remain hidden for long. Optical spells weren’t reliable in broad daylight, or in close range, so it was pointless to further exhaust the Major. They could only depend on speed, and for the fortune to favor the bold.

“Make yourselves natural, gentlemen,” Miragrave told her companions, as they marched brazenly down the street, following the tall perimeter wall towards the front entrance of the building.

“I’m not a male though,” Aurlemeyr said.

“Then stop staring at my ass and focus.”

“I am sensing the presence of adept casters,” Major Uleison reported, hurrying along. “There is one on the third floor, two more on the ground floor. They have detected our approach and are surveying us telepathically. I cannot hide the Bow from them.”

“Aury, can you see them?” the Marshal asked.

“I can only pick up general signs of life,” the girl languidly replied. “The Bow can’t tell mages apart from normal people.”

“If you allow, milady,” the mage offered. “I may relay my impression of their positions directly into your mind.”

“Just don’t make it too weird.”

“Excellent,” Miragrave said. “Suppressive fire. Non-lethal. I want no fatalities yet. Fire at will.”

“Roger,” Aurlemeyr replied. “Commencing fire.”

As she walked on, the girl unclenched the grip of her golden arm. The lens-like circle embedded in the palm emitted a sharp flash, easy to miss on the sunny street, and a peculiar whirring sounded briefly from within the grotesque limb.

That was all. Executed at eight times the speed of sound, the effect was practically instantaneous and impossible for anyone inside or outside the palace to detect. The emitted bursts of high-frequency energy pierced through the marble walls in the shape of hair-thin filaments, their trajectories bent and corrected by arts outside human expertise. No noise, no explosions. Only the sustained peace confirmed that all the targets were incapacitated.

Shortly, the trio arrived at the front gate.

Two knights in plumed helmets stood on watch, wearing sparkling chestplates similar to the otherworldly conquistadors, blue ribbons across, and tall halberds of white steel in their grips. They noticed the odd walkers, recognized their uniforms as those of the enemy nation, and turned immediately to confront them.

“Uleison, you’re up,” Miragrave told the mage, not slowing her pace.

Major Uleison spread his arms apart as he stepped on, as though to embrace them, and told the guards with a friendly smile, “Sleep, my friends. Sleep.”

Hearing his voice, the knights' eyes rolled back in their heads and they collapsed on the spot, out cold. Uleison pointed his catalyst at the heavy cast iron gate and it swung open before them, the lock immediately undone. They passed through to the front yard of the Ministry. Two more guards stood by the front door, alarmed by the mysterious show. But they were also removed from the play with ease, unable to resist the Major’s magic, and went tumbling down the marble stairs, their consciousness robbed from them.

The front doors slid open and without stopping, the intruders climbed the spotless stairs, past the slumbering watchers, and went in. Miragrave didn’t need to ask for directions. She had been here twice before, if only in the role of an adjutant then, and knew there was only one such conference hall suited for the large gathering expected. And having hosted and attended meetings of all levels and varieties as a seasoned officer, she knew the opposing party would waste no moment of this historical day to play, but would keep on rehearsing their lines, to the point of nausea.

The Prime Minister was their main target, but having more witnesses didn’t hurt.

The more the better.

Following the Marshal’s lead, they continued across the entrance hall, past the few surprised white-collar workers, to the stairway in the back. Now that the guests were in the building, it was natural to assume, without better knowledge, that they belonged there by every right, and no one thought to question their intentions. And even if they did consider it, the look on Miragrave's face was enough to make them think again. With the enemy mages out of the way, the coast was clear—for the time being, anyway. No doubt someone was reporting the sleeping knights on at this very moment.

They had to finish the job before reinforcements arrived.

Up the stairs to the second floor, and west from there, they strode along a lengthy hallway, which the doors of numerous offices spaced. The few guards along the way ended up likewise in the dreamland, and so they reached the last stop. At the end of the hallway stood white-painted double doors with gilded handles, and Major Uleison courteously opened the way once more, like a proper master of ceremonies, afterwards closing the way and making sure the locks couldn’t be opened by standard measures.

The guests found themselves in a larger hall spanning the full width of the building, with great, full-height windows at both ends, speaking of the palace’s regal past. The floor had sparkling clean cross-parquet; from the ceiling hung glittering crystal chandeliers. In the middle of the room stood a large, oval-shaped conference table, numerous hefty mahogany chairs around it.

As expected, the room was not empty.

Thinking they still had a wealth of time to spare, the attending ministers were having a private meeting of their own, together with a handful of army leaders from the other end of the complex. Various papers were spread wide over the table and some crumpled on the floor, detailing debate strategies, demands, and whatever concessions were deemed acceptable—the list of them sure to be far shorter than those that they weren't. One of the ministers was sitting on the edge of the table itself, his leather shoes resting rudely on the chair next to him.

Caught by surprise like this, the crowd all turned their eyes at the unannounced visitors.

“I sure hope that’s not where you planned for her majesty to sit,” Miragrave dryly remarked to the minister on the table and halted.

Paling out of shock, anger, and dismay, the decorated politicians and officers all sprung up to their feet with a great deal of commotion and creaking of chairs, resembling a pack of devastated lambs. One among them, Adolan Lancaster, the Minister of Defense, regained his senses with commendable swiftness. He felt the host’s obligation to question the intruders before anyone else, and assumed this duty with vigor quite unwise for his age and blood pressure.

“Colonel Marafel!” the man boomed as he came forward, his wide face beet red, and short mustache twitching. “W-what is the meaning of this—!?”

“—That would be Grand Marshal Marafel these days,” the Imperial corrected. “Try to read the memo to the end the next time. Apologies, but I didn’t feel like standing on ceremony on such a beautiful day, so I left your clowns at it by themselves.”

“This—this is preposterous!” Minister Lancaster roared, standing stiff as a penguin. “Y-y-you cannot just waltz into my Ministry like you would to a club house, whatever you are! Not even if you were a Divine Lord! There are rules and conventions to these things! Her majesty should know better than to let her dogs run wild! How did you even get in here? Where are all the guards? GUARDS!”

“Resting their eyelids,” Miragrave answered him. “In the meanwhile, Minister, if you are quite done with compensating for your wounded ego, then sit back down and be quiet, so that I may explain the situation.”

The other people in the room exchanged confused looks, like children hiding behind the Minister of Defense, unsure of what to do. What was going on? But the Marshal’s words certainly had no discernible soothing effect on Lancaster himself. Looking like an alchemical reaction about to go critical, he pointed at Miragrave, trembling out of rage.

“You will not order me around in my own house, in front of my colleagues!” he assured. “This unacceptable! I will not approve of this! I can see well enough now that your kind has not changed one bit, despite your pretty little letters! There will be no more negotiations with you and yours! You may tell her majesty that from this day on, Imperials are no longer welcome in Efastopol, or anywhere on the Principality’s soil! By any excuses! You find your way out and sail right back to whence you came, or—mark my words!—there will be blood! This will not be the end of it! If you want war so much, then you will have your war! I promise you! We’re not afraid of you smug little peacocks in your pompous uniforms! GUARDS!”

Miragrave slowly exhaled, shaking her head.

“We don’t have time for this shit,” she said. “Aurlemeyr, incoming orders.”

The bearer of the Gilded Bow had remained quiet and still through all the noise. Now, her demeanor underwent a swift change. Her inhuman eyes opened wide and began to faintly glow. She raised her metallic arm in front of her, startling Minister Lancaster, who quickly retreated, and nearly fell over the chair behind him.

“Ready to receive,” Aurlemeyr spoke in a voice that rang queerly hollow and ethereal, as though sounding from distant space.

Miragrave glanced out of the north side window, through which the Bay and the harbor were well visible, and continued,

“The target is Principality Ship Victoria. Strategic fire, destroy the target.”

“...Which one is that?” Aurlemeyr asked, her voice momentarily returning to normal.

“...The frigate in the middle,” the Marshal quietly answered, looking like her headache was growing worse. “The big one. Blue flag.”

“Understood,” the agent replied, raising her arm to point at the ceiling. “Target acquired. Locking on.”

“Fire!”

The ministers and generals of Luctretz watched this strange performance from the back, feeling quite dizzy and detached from reality. Was it some kind of a collective delusion, or was it really happening? What followed cleared all of their doubts in regards to the reality of the situation, although what replaced their existential suspicions made acceptance hardly any easier.

A bright orb of light appeared shining before the young lady’s metallic fingertips, a miniature star, a faint magic circle revolving around it. The clump of mana rapidly gained in size and intensity, accompanied by an intense resonance, which made the very air tremble, ears ring, and caused the people around to involuntarily wince.

“Commencing strategic bombardment——”

With an abrupt, blindingly bright flash, the star vanished.

A split-second later, the ceiling vanished as well, as the hypersonic burst of plasma seared a large, round hole straight through the upper floors of the Southerling Palace.

Following a brief lag, a horrible boom tore the pastel blue skies above Efastopol, rattling the palace windows and making the floor tremble with its pressure. Many of the people in the conference hall had great trouble keeping on their feet, though the shock was not that bad this close to the launch point.

Minister Lancaster got the worst of it, standing more or less directly under the hole. He received a hearty shower of stone dust all over him, dying his navy blue suit and red face alike with the deathly color of chalk. Scattered papers, broken pieces of flooring and fragments of incinerated furniture fell lazily about the astounded Minister from above, like first snow. Meanwhile, Major Uleison courteously shielded the Imperials with a light shield.

With no time to spare for his new makeup, Lancaster instinctively turned his eyes to the northern windows, alongside everybody else. They were far too slow to catch the flash of light in the distance, which pierced the main deck of the Victoria. However, they did see the great geysir of boiling sea water that arose from below the frigate, lifting that masterpiece of naval engineering high up in the air, engulfing it, plank by plank tearing its punctured hull in two, the masts split like toothpicks, the sails shredded.

Only several heartbeats later, the spectators heard a celestial noise carry into their ears from the harbor side, a deafening, muffled boom, like a faraway shower. A sudden northern wind made the window panes creak and groan. A few glass squares fell from their places and broke on the floor.

Slowly, the sea settled, but the large royal frigate awaiting her maiden voyage was no longer anywhere to be seen.

“W-wha…t is...” Minister Lancaster stammered, rotating his head stiffly back at the Imperials, at an utter loss for words.

“Now, if I have your attention,” Miragrave spoke, as if nothing unusual had happened. “Your reaction so far has been highly predictable, to the point that I took the liberty of preparing certain documents in advance. Here, if you would be so kind.”

Reaching under her uniform coat, Miragrave produced a black scroll, which she proceeded to hand over to the Minister. He reflexively extended his powdery arm and received the sealed message, like an athlete his baton at a relay race, turning it around in his hands.

“This is…?” he mumbled.

Facing the man with a militaristically upright posture, Miragrave recited aloud,

“By my right as the high commander of the Imperial Army, with the authority bestowed upon me by Her Majesty, Empress Ashwelia of Tratovia, I hereby declare war on the Principality of Luctretz, effective immediately. The time is...the end of the fourth period, on the fourth of Autumnaat, in the year 999. Witnesses may attest that you have received the declaration, both written and spoken, and there can be no confusion regarding the matter.”

“W...War…?” the Minister whispered.

The rest of the audience was too shocked for words.

“Yes,” Miragrave nodded. “Judging by your earlier rant, you do not disagree. We are now at war. Then, have this one.”

While the local side still struggled to digest the dramatic turn of events, the Marshal drew out another scroll, outwards identical to the first, which she likewise passed on to Minister Lancaster. He received it just as well, now that he’d gotten the hang of the routine.

“What is…?” he muttered, profoundly overwhelmed.

“It is what follows all wars with the Empire, Minister,” Miragrave explained. “Your unconditional surrender. If you open the document, you will see that I have already signed that I accept. All that is missing are the signatures of Prime Minister Barrington, and that of the Royal House representative, whoever that is, the Prince, or someone who can sign on his behalf. I care not, so long as it gets done.”

Standing on the receiving end of such a one-sided recital of terms, Minister Lancaster began to muster his fighting spirit again.

“...You are—you are mad if you think any one of us is ever going to sign such an abominable document!” he growled, shaking the scroll like a sorcerer would a malfunctioning wand. “You may scare us with your unnatural sorceries! You may sink our ships! You may slaughter our people and scorch our lands, the way you did Dharva! But know that so long as there is a single man, woman, or a child, who still draws breath in Luctretz, we will never surrender! We will never submit to tyranny…!”

“We shall see about that,” Miragrave quietly replied, turning to the girl with the golden arm. “Aurlemeyr, new orders.”

“Ready as you are.”

“The target is—Efastopol. Strategic fire. Destroy the target.”

Voicing no complaints, asking no questions, the preternatural light returning to her gaze, Aurlemeyr raised her arm once more, higher, to point directly at the zenith of the sky.

“Target acquired,” she spoke again with disturbing nonchalance, considering the gravity of the task. “Warning: there are allied units in the affected area.”

“I don’t care,” Miragrave replied. “Initiate countdown and fire when ready.”

“Understood. Disengaging limiters; aural reactor expanded to full capacity. Amassing mana. Estimated time remaining: 645…640…635…630…”

The star of death was relit above the girl’s outstretched hand, larger than before, brighter. Multiple layers of magic circles opened, ancient letters revolving around them, and a great, transparent arc of light appeared revolving between them, like a fan, turning ever so slightly faster at each passing moment.

Anyone with an ounce of magical potential could feel in their bones that something downright monstrous was about to happen. All ambient energies from the surroundings were being sucked into the expanding light. Excess vitality leaking out of living bodies was likewise stolen straight off the surface of the skin, making the spectators feel like chilling waves were washing over them. Even Uleison had a look of discomfort on his face, but stood his ground, gripping his staff.

“W-what are you doing?” Minister Lancaster wheezed, suddenly feeling short of breath. “H-have you...have you gone mad…?”

“Is my sanity something you should concern yourself with right now, Minister?” the red-haired demon of a woman asked him, her tone mortally serious. “I gave you the warning shot. You know what this means. When whatever she’s counting reaches zero, we are all going to be ashes, together with this city. Unless your people sign your surrender.”

“Y-y-you wouldn’t dare do it…!” the man yelled.

“Try me!” she replied.

No falsehood or deceit could be discerned in the Marshal's deep green eyes. No fear. No hesitation. Only cold-fuming wrath. If she couldn’t get her way, she would kill them all, even if it meant her own end at the same time.

Minister Lancaster turned his eyes at the caster instead. Regardless of whatever inhuman weaponry she possessed, Aurlemeyr herself was only a frail girl. If she was taken down, the threat would be removed. The Minister could surely do it with his bare hands, if he had to. Alone, if no one would help him. He took a step forward, but wouldn’t find success quite so easily. With a sharp swish, Miragrave drew her sword and pointed its tip at the Minister’s throat, holding him at a distance.

“I’m sure you heard,” she told him, “but your signature is not required.”

“What do you want!?” Lancaster cried, feeling the onset of mortal terror.

“I want your ships,” Miragrave answered. “I want my princess back!”

As sincerely as the Minister wished for time to stop, to get one moment more to think and plan, it nevertheless passed on without mercy, as evidenced by the graceful archer’s voice reciting the numbers.

“585…580…575…”

What should be done?

What was the right decision?

Before Lancaster could decide, one in the crowd standing back now came forward. It was an older man, thinner, shorter, with silvery mustache and hair, clad in a spotless gray suit. It was Prime Minister Barrington himself. Unlike Lancaster, he had no history with the Royal Army, but there was nevertheless rather militaristic—fatalistic—discipline in his bearing now.

Conquering his personal fears, seeing his duty to his people, Minister Barrington marched over to Lancaster, rigidly extended his arm—and snatched the scroll from his colleague's grip.

“Give me that!”

So began and ended one of the briefest wars in recorded history. Although, you might be surprised to know that it did not break the record of the shortest ever fought in this strange world, and only barely made it to the top five.