[The Iron Kingdom of Aethelgard – The Throne of Cogs]
The air in the throne room tasted of sulfur and rust. It was a cavernous space of black iron, filled with the grinding noise of massive gears turning beneath the floor.
King Alaric sat upon the Throne of Cogs, his face pale and lined with stress. He looked at the reports scattered across his tactical table.
"Our stockpiles are full, Lieutenant," the King said, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. "We have produced enough steel, enough mana-shells, and enough airships to level a continent. But... an invasion of Westminster?" He shook his head. "Their Guild of Preservation ensures they never run out of food. Their Walls are blessed by the Angel of Protection. A war would bankrupt us within a year."
From the shadows of the balcony, a man stepped forward.
He was striking—pale skin, black hair bleeding into crimson tips, and a heavy red cape that dragged behind him like a river of blood. Three black crows perched on his shoulders, watching the King with unnatural intelligence.
The Lieutenant. A high-ranking officer of the War Sequence, but one whose origins were erased from every public record.
"Bankrupt you?" The Lieutenant asked softly. He walked to the window, looking out at the smog-choked city of Aethelgard. "Majesty, look at your kingdom. What do you see?"
The King frowned. "I see industry. I see power."
"I see rust," The Lieutenant corrected him. "Aethelgard is a machine that has stopped moving. You produce weapons, but have no one to shoot. You train soldiers, but have no land to conquer. Your economy is suffocating on its own surplus."
The stranger turned, his eyes locking onto the King.
"A machine that does not move rusts, Alaric. And rust is death."
The King gripped the armrests of his throne. He knew the Lieutenant was right. The Iron Kingdom was starving because they had no one to trade with. London controlled the agriculture; Aethelgard controlled the weapons. And London didn't need weapons.
"If we attack," The Lieutenant continued, walking toward the tactical map, "we force them to consume. We force them to break. And when we take Westminster... you will control the grain and the steel. You will not just be a King. You will be an Emperor."
"But the casualties..." The King whispered. "Millions will die."
The Lieutenant smiled. It was a gentle, terrifying expression.
"War is not death, Majesty. War is industry. Every bullet fired is a job created. Every soldier fallen is a hero made."
He placed a gloved hand on the map, covering the territory of London.
"I have drafted the strategy myself. The Angel of Preservation is passive; he will not strike first. If we hit their supply lines in the Deadlands... they will starve before they can fight."
The King looked at the map. He looked at the confident, charismatic monster standing before him. This man was a Tier 6 strategist. If anyone could win an impossible war, it was him.
Greed slowly overtook fear in the King's eyes.
"And you?" The King asked. "What do you get out of this, Lieutenant? Why are you so eager to lead my armies?"
The stranger bowed slightly. He couldn't tell the King the truth—that he needed a battlefield of a million corpses to perform the ritual to become a Grounded War Angel. He didn't care about the economy. He didn't care about the glory. He just needed the mud to turn red.
"I am a servant of the War Sequence," The Lieutenant lied smoothly. "Peace offends me. I simply wish to see the world turn... vigorously."
The King picked up his iron quill. He looked at the declaration of war.
"Very well," Alaric said, signing his name in heavy black ink. "Let the gears turn. We march on London."
The Lieutenant watched the ink dry. His crows fluttered their wings in excitement.
One million souls, he thought, staring at the King's signature. The stage is set.