Seated by his desk with a cup of his favorite drink in his hand, General Sanctullator received an earful. Across him, the baron of the Citadel prattled on about rumours from the front, much to Sanctullator’s chagrin. The general slouched in his chair, legs folded over each other, the cup in his hand rapidly being drained of its contents. It was another tiresome day, listening to the ranting of the fools he had the misfortune of being surrounded by, set to the lazy crackling of the hearth to the side.

“Your excellence, are you certain this will work out? It hasn’t been more than a few weeks since we’ve received these new weapons, don’t you think it’s reckless to rest our futures on them?”

Sanctullator waited until he was done sipping from the cup to respond. Blegh. Should’ve picked something more plain for this morning. Would help me deal with this plain sham of a man. “As if I’d ever make a decision like this without being entirely certain it’ll get the job done. Anyone who knows me even a little knows this.”

The baron of the Citadel bit on the edge of his lip, with enough force to make the bottom lip buckle inwards slightly. Odd. Did the machine run out of steam this early? Or am I celebrating too early? That would be a first.

“Your excellence, may I remind you that we’ve been losing ground for the past few weeks, and the enemy is nearing Whitestream. They are not far from the banks of the Steyer, and are nearing useful Lokahn. The emperor does not wish for his lands to become embroiled in war over a general’s arrogance. Please, for the love of her lady Justice almighty, tell me that this is not-”

“Lord Baron… calm down for a moment, will you.” Sanctullator raised himself upright.

“How do you expect me to? Our position is in danger-”

“That was an order.”

The baron fell silent. “Good, your ears are working splendid,” Sanctullator said. “Now listen. I don’t like having to recite every little gratuitous detail of my plans. Most people fail to understand my thinking. ‘s been the constant from day one of my life. But the results I’ve brought home speak for themself. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The baron grumbled under his breath; his teeth were bared. “Paragon of Justitia… Ender of Heathenry… yes, I know. But that doesn’t mean you’re always on the mark.”

“Of course not. But I certainly have a habit of being right.” Sanctullator grabbed a blank paper lying on his desk, and sketched out a map. His sketching was accompanied by sighing and tiresome pacing at the hands of his lone guest. “Here’s the plan, nicely sketched out for you.”

“I’m not certain how these childish scribblings amount to much of anything, your excellence. Other than proof of your lack of artistic merit.”

Sanctullator brought his hand down on the desk. “This isn’t about my ‘artistic merit’, you joker. You asked for the plan, you get the plan precisely how I envision it. Is that clear?”

“Yes it is.”

“Then shut it, and pay attention.” Sanctullator took his empty quill back into his hand, and tapped onto the paper with it. “Here’s the plan. We weren’t going to hold onto a wild open frontier such as Lokahn’s western provinces for long. Instead of sending our men to an early grave, I had them retreat cautiously to more suitable defenses. And by suitable defenses, I of course mean holdable defenses.” He scratched at the paper around a block representing Whitestream, and a line representing the nearby Steyer river.

“And? Were we simply to leave all between the western reaches and the Steyer for the monsters to take over, without much of a fight?”

Sanctullator rested his hairy chin on the knuckles of his free hand, his eyes on the verge of rolling out of his head. “I was getting to that. Of course those areas weren’t just handed over. We’ve made the path for the enemy as grueling as can be. Any weapons or important resources they could use were taken. All the loyal citizens that resided there fled the area with our troops. Not to mention that we fought for every town, for as much as was necessary. See, we have the numbers on our side. They don’t. Every footman that falls is one footman they cannot replace so easily. Every dragon monster that takes a cloudbuster shot to the chest makes for one more innocent that must be sacrificed to their putrid god. By the time they’re done at Whitestream, their forces will have been battered enough to be pushed aside. And by the time we reach the Origin Mountains again, they will have lost far too much for a proper defense of Westedge.”

The baron had slouched his shoulders; his eyes had given way to the arrogant selfSanctullator was used to. There we go. That’s more like it. The birds are coming back, the snow is melting, and the baron of Westedge is once again in dire need of a kick to his backside. As Justitia had always intended, pfft.

“Why, my apologies. It was only a little concern from my end. But I’m still not sure if you can see the hole in those little plans of yours.”

“Which is?”

“Explain this to me, General Sanctullator. What would happen if the defenses at Whitestream fail? Is there another line of defense or some fortress I have not heard of to await the beasts? Because I see no such thing on this little map of yours, Sanctullator. Because there likely is not one. Am I right?”

“Yes, yes,” Sanctullator said, twiddling the quill between his fingers. “All this time spent worrying about ‘potential breakthrough’ this and ‘disaster’ that. You’re not seeing the forest between the trees here. Even if Whitestream falls, the defenses will have battered their forces. They can enjoy control over another wretched provincial burg for a month or three, while we assemble a large enough group of reinforcements to push them back out before the flowers even bloom.”

“Oh? Are you truly so-”

“Confident? Yes. The finest in cloudbuster technology will stop any dragon attacks. And the muskets will make any ground assault on the walls rather costly. No one in the world besides a select few has any knowledge of the musket. So whatever happens, we’ll be seeing a whole lot of dead dragons at the end of the day.”

The baron grimaced. “I hope for your sake that this is not a joke. You certainly haven’t been very forthcoming with me, nor any of the other barons for that matter.”

“Let’s just say that I learned my lesson the last time I was. Anything else you wish to add, Lord Baron?”

“No. I will be taking my leave now.”

Sanctullator turned away from the door of his study, as the baron left the room. After the door snapped shut, Sanctullator buried his mouth under an almost empty cup. The baron had left quite the impression on his way out. As if he had bitten into the world's sourest lemon, so deep was his frown and so stiff were his steps.

Idiots have a habit of defeating themselves.

But just as the Baron’s footsteps were no longer audible, a different man’s footsteps crept up to the door of the study. His eyebrow twitched; who in the hallowed lady’s name felt the need to disturb him now? A loud clearing of a throat answered that question; who else but General Gallie? Sanctullator clenched one of his fists under the desk.

Walking plague, meet broken back. Wonderful.

Snowfall caressed the windows, as the aged general waddled into the study, clutching his back. “Oof...”

“Something happen during your stay in the core?” Fell from a horse? Finally got the well deserved kick to the arse?

“Oh, some sod of a constable. Left a hole in the middle of the road for far too long, and I tripped and fell over said hole. What a fool. I had him whipped. Now he’ll understand what it is like for someone such as me to have to clutch my poor old back.”

Sanctullator scoffed. What a wonderful, noble man you are, Philip. “I’m sure it was all an accident. Perfection is a mirage for all men, isn’t it?”

“The empire expects nothing short of the best. We’ll mould it if needed, as we have done for centuries,” Gallie said. “But yes, I have returned from a pleasant stay in the beautiful Core. I spent some time with my beautiful wife, my children and my grandchildren in the pleasant meadows. You know of the meadows in the core, right?”

Sanctullator rolled his eyes. “Why yes, that is where my own home is. It is very beautiful.” I’m amazed he still can’t remember that. Time to retire, old man…

“Ah yes...” Gallie dipped his finger into his mustache, twirling the ends around his finger. “My apologies, of course. But I’m a busy man, and such little details are… irrelevant, in the canon of the world. I’m sure you would agree.” Excuses, excuses…

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it. Justitia knows how full my hands have been these past few months.”

Gallie scoffed softly. “Speaking of having full hands… How is the situation, General? I had asked to not be bothered by whatever developments are playing out on your front on my little getaway. Before you ask, I have my own reasons for that. Not the least of which being that I’m not in charge of the front.”

Sanctullator groaned in reply. “Yes, yes, I understand. Wish I could’ve done the same as you, if I were to be perfectly honest. Alas, no luck in that regard. But I can assure you that everything has gone the way I wanted it to, and I can assure you that we’ll be staring victory square in the eyes as usual- What are you doing?”

The aged general had picked Sanctullator’s sketch off of the desk, and was now stroking his mustache as he studied the scrap of paper for what it was worth. “What do we have here? Did your son make this?”

His face colored red, Sanctullator pulled the sketch out of Gallie’s hand. “No, that’s a sketch I did for someone else who’d barged in here not too long ago. Bastard wanted an explanation of what I was doing, he got one alright.”

“Well, you ought to stick to words, as I’m afraid those little scribblings of yours aren’t making the situation very clandestine.” Gallie grinned. “But truly, were your plans so convoluted that you had to showcase your subpar artistic abilities? I’ve seen quite the oddities from you over the years, true, but-”

Enough of this, old man. “We’ve been over this before. When your duties amount to little more than collecting taxes, you wouldn’t see the value of top class military tactics. Our case? The baron of this wretched burg. Had the feeling he wanted to accuse me of treason because I didn’t want to throw forces into the woods to die at the hands of ten beasts ambushing them.” Sanctullator breathed out, drumming his fingers on the cup sitting within hand’s reach still. Someone ought to invent bigger cups.

Gallie clicked his tongue against the walls of his mouth. “Correct me if I am mistaken, General Sanctullator, but am I hearing an intent to simply give up-”

“No, that’s what all the other sods said as well,” Sanctullator grumbled, “My men have orders to halt the enemy as much as they can. But I won’t be sending them into any meat grinders. End of story.”

“Ah yes, ah yes,” Gallie said, scratching his head. “That sounds like a plan you would come up with. My apologies.” Idiot. “But enough on these matters, yes? You have everything under control as per usual, so I hear. It seems odd, doesn’t it? A man of your stature, explaining himself to underlings like a child, hah. I bet they may be enjoying it a little.” Could say the same about you, old man.

Sanctullator shook his head. “I’m suspecting there’s more to it. Something about that sod of a baron is giving me all the wrong signs. I think he isn’t very appreciative of my presence here, given how fond I am of taking control over the strings. He wants control, and me to either get back to Ravens Hill, or shuffle out of this country. We should keep an eye on him.”

Gallie’s eyebrows tilted upwards. “If you say so, Stefan. We’ll have to have a member of the inquisition keep an eye out on the fool, in that case. Can't these uppity Lokahnians get the wrong idea. But we can discuss this in greater detail after dinner, yes?”

Sanctullator placed both hands over his mouth, his eyes having narrowed to a mere sliver. “...Agreed.”