Chapter 118: The Crown Beneath the Veil
(In the Kingdom of Valmorien)
Beyond the frost-bitten borders and the dust-choked ridgelines that framed Algoria’s war, across a salt-slick sea and into the lands of velvet empires, there stood the kingdom of Valmorien—a realm where every brick bled old blood, and every hallway whispered plans too old to die.
Its palaces were carved from duskstone. Its towers wore fleur-shaped battlements. Its nobles kissed with daggers in their sleeves. A country of elegance and venom. And atop its quiet throne, draped in wine-dark velvet and gold-inked conviction, sat Jaun-Pierre Louis—Dictateur Régent of Valmorien.
He smiled as thunder echoed outside the war chamber’s windows.
Ivar Ragnarsson sat across from him—broad-shouldered, beard braided with iron rings, wearing wolf-fur over leather mail, his axe propped silently against the marbled wall. Scyl’s king, carved from storm and memory.
"You know what your people call me," Jaun-Pierre said, swirling his glass. "The Mad Tactician. The Devil’s Strategist. I find it charming, don’t you? Madness is just the word small minds use when they don’t see the rest of the board."
Ivar grunted, unmoved. "You summoned me across the sea to talk riddles?"
"Non, mon roi," Jaun said, leaning forward. "I summoned you to discuss restraint—a curious thing to offer a Viking. Algoria is tightening its noose. They call it diplomacy. But we both know what it is—absorption masked in banners. And yet, I tell you this: we don’t need to burn for them. Not yet."
He tapped the table softly with a silver finger ring. "If Joseph pardons us—Valmorien and Scyl both—if he removes us from his list of ’future allies’..." Jaun smiled wider, "...then there need be no war."
Ivar leaned forward, blue eyes sharp as northern steel. "You truly believe words will cut deeper than steel? That Joseph—Joseph—will step back from a table he’s already begun carving?"
"Non." Jaun’s smile vanished. "I believe he won’t. And when he doesn’t, we strike with justification, not ambition."
He stood now, pacing to the great map pinned across the north wall—borders shifted and notched by wax seals and blade punctures.