The throne room was quiet in a way that made every sound carry further than it should.
High ceilings arched above polished stone, banners hanging motionless in the still air. At the far end, upon a raised dais, Sultan Mehmet sat upon his throne, his posture unchanged, his expression as cold and composed as the marble beneath him. Before him stood the men who now carried the weight of a war that had begun to strike closer to home.
A month had passed since the fall of Zambia and Waqib. In that time, three more cities had been taken. No one in the room needed to speak the names. The loss was understood without it.
"The enemy advances on all fronts," Mahmud Pasha said carefully, his voice measured, though the strain beneath it was clear. "From the north under Victor, and from the east under his loyal commander, Schwarzenberg. Their coordination is… deliberate."
"Deliberate," echoed Osman, the crown prince, though his tone carried no calm. He stepped forward, unable to remain still. "It is not deliberation, it is dominance. They take our cities one by one while we sit behind walls and count losses. Both Field Marshal Bayezid and General Ibrahim are dead. General Kahn is soon to be beset upon by Schwarzenberg and his force in the east."
His anger filled the space, sharp and unrestrained. "We should strike," Osman continued. "Gather the remaining field armies, meet them in open battle, and crush them before they reach the capital. This slow bleeding will destroy us."
Mahmud Pasha turned slightly toward him. "And if we fail in open battle, we lose everything at once. The cities buy us time. Time to gather forces, to consolidate, to…"
"To watch more banners fall?" Osman cut in. The tension between them tightened, but neither spoke further.
On the throne, Sultan Mehmet had not moved.
His gaze remained steady, fixed somewhere beyond the men before him, as though measuring something none of them could yet see.
"They are strong," he said at last. His voice was calm, quiet, yet it carried through the chamber with ease. "They have learned from their loss outside of Beirort. They adapted. They do not wish to repeat their mistakes. Our hit-and-run tactics will be futile against them if they already expect it."
Osman turned toward him. "Then we force new mistakes. We do not wait for them to choose the field. We take it from them."
Sultan Mehmet's eyes shifted to his son. "And where," he asked, "would you take it?"
Osman hesitated, just for a moment.
"Between their forces," he said. "Before they unite further. Strike one, then the other. Break their momentum."
Mahmud Pasha shook his head slightly. "They are not divided in the way we require. Their communication is faster than ours. Their supply lines are secured. To strike blindly would be to risk everything on a single throw."
Silence settled again. The Sultan leaned back slightly, his hands resting upon the arms of the throne. "We do not act blindly," he said.
He rose. The movement drew every eye in the room. "They believe we are weakening," he continued, stepping down from the dais. "They believe each city taken brings them closer to victory."
He paused, looking between Osman and Mahmud. "They are not wrong." The words hung in the air, stark and undeniable. "But they are not entirely right either."
Osman frowned. "What do you mean?"
Sultan Mehmet's expression did not change. "We have lost ground," he said. "But we have not lost control."
He turned, gesturing toward the unseen expanse beyond the palace walls.
"The capital remains. Our core remains. Our armies, though reduced, are not broken. And most importantly, they advance further from their origin with each step they take."
Mahmud Pasha's eyes narrowed slightly, understanding beginning to form.
"You intend to draw them in," he said.
"Yes," the Sultan replied.
Osman's expression hardened. "And sacrifice more cities to do so."
"I intend to choose where the war is decided," Sultan Mehmet said.
His gaze settled firmly on his son. "Not them."
The room fell silent once more. Osman looked away briefly, his anger still present, but tempered now by the weight of his father's words.
"And when they arrive," he said, quieter now. "When they stand before us."
Sultan Mehmet turned back toward the throne.
"Then," he said, "we end it. We send three Luxenberg heads back to their home continent"
He sat once more, his composure unchanged, his certainty absolute.
Around him, the men of the Sultunate stood in silence, each one understanding that the war had entered its final phase.
The silence in the throne room did not last.
The great doors at the far end opened without announcement, the sound echoing across the chamber like a challenge. Every head turned, guards, shifting instinctively as a single figure stepped forward from the shadow of the entrance.
He wore black.
Not the ornate silks of a courtier nor the flamboyant dress of a general, but a uniform cut with stark precision, trimmed only faintly in gold. It bore no crest of the Sultunate. No symbol of rank is recognised within these walls. Yet it carried its own authority, one earned elsewhere.
Harrison Fontaine walked the length of the hall without hesitation.
There were murmurs, low and uncertain. Even those who knew the name seemed unsure how to place the man before them. The second son of the fallen Grand Duchy of Fontaine had once been spoken of with ridicule, a reckless heir who had squandered his position in drink and excess. A man unfit for command, unfit even for expectation.
That man did not stand here now.
He stopped before the Sultan, offering a measured bow that carried respect and submission.
"Sultan Mehmet," he said, his voice steady. "I trust I do not intrude."
Osman's expression darkened immediately. "You were not summoned."
Fontaine's gaze flicked toward him, calm and unbothered.
"Oh," he said. "But I was."
Mahmud Pasha studied him more carefully, recognition settling in.
"The mercenary commander," he said quietly. "The one who fought in the campaigns of King Gu Tian."
Fontaine inclined his head slightly. "The same."
A shift passed through the room at the name. That campaign, fought years before on the distant Simbar continent, had ended in swift and decisive conquest. Few here had seen it, but many had heard of it.
Sultan Mehmet regarded Fontaine in silence for a moment. "You arrive just in time," the Sultan said. "I assume you have been bored defending the south against Kislevian raiders."
"Naturally, especially when a more interesting enemy has appeared," Fontaine replied.
Osman stepped forward, unable to contain himself. "We have no need of sellswords who come when the tide turns. This is not some distant campaign for coin."
Fontaine's expression did not change. "No," he said. "It is not."
He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded document, handing it to one of the guards, who passed it up toward the Sultan. Mehmet took it without comment, opening it with slow precision.
"My contract," Fontaine said. "You may rip it up; my mercenary company was founded with your generosity; it is time for me to truly become your faithful servant. I swear my undying allegiance to the Hakim Sultunate."
Sultan Mehmet finished reading and ripped it in his hands.
"You have arrived at a decisive moment," he said. "Victor Luxenberg advances closer to the capital; they are over a month away now."
Fontaine allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile. "Excellent," he answered. "I have been meaning to once again meet Emperor Luxenberg."
With Harrison's arrival, the plan to deal with Victor's forces was soon to unfold.