Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 4 - Chapter 3

Master Scene

Master Scene

A scene without PCs run entirely by the GM, most often used to explain the backdrop of an upcoming session or to give a glimpse into the lives of the NPCs of the world—friends and foes alike—in the aftermath of a completed adventure.

Let us speak of the nation they call the Empire.

The Trialist Empire of Rhine, as its official name went, was founded by Richard, the Emperor of Creation, with initial holdings in the eastern region of the western reach of the Central Continent; the ancient powerhouse was running 524 years strong.

There had been a tremendous state in the Central Continent in the final years of the Age of Gods, remembered by modern historians only by an informal moniker: the Blessed Kingdom. It met its demise with the era of divinity, and this great power’s dissolution threw the whole landmass into bloody disarray.

The power struggles of the western reach were especially grisly. Though a tad chilly, the temperate lands were arable and fit for livestock; freshwater abounded in the rivers that cut through hospitable flatlands. One could see why the region had earned the name Elysium in the heavenly tongue used in those days.

But bounty begot battle. Among all creatures, man alone could not contain his thirst for more: how could such a beast rest easy when every conquered territory came with the promise of luxury?

Just as countless countries rose, fell, and rose again, so too was the Empire’s tale stained in blood—and how could it not be, with the Founding Emperor’s circumstances?

The Empire’s namesake was the River Rhine, a massive waterway that flowed from south to north. In those days, the lovely maiden flowed beside countless tiny nations that were liable to disappear in a decade at best. This period of warring lesser states was a far cry from the Pax Imperia that would one day follow, but that future was far out of sight. For perspective, the Kingdom of Seine established its throne centuries before uncontested imperial hegemony.

Amidst the struggle, the lastborn son of a branch family of one of these minuscule nations thought to himself: “Should we continue to turn our fangs upon one another, we shall vanish as a snake swallowing its own tail might. This disordered smattering of selfish fools has been propped up solely by the fruits of the lands on which they perch. In the presence of true power, their disorganized squirming will make it all too easy to claim the greatest share.”

Fed up with the frustrating incompetence of his clan, the boy began to establish his own house. Any other lastborn son in such a position would have been washed away in the muddy stream of history, but not Richard of Stuttgard—he who would one day become the Emperor of Creation, Richard von Baden-Stuttgard.

His first order of business was to tame the populace. After removing cruel local magistrates behind curtains, he directly promised the common people lower taxes and less compulsory labor for their allegiance. Using the funds from his loyal citizens, he raised an army to eliminate every last despot of his clan’s main branch to seize House Baden as its rightful ruler. The political spectacle of revolt had been possible in great part due to three allies Richard had made.

First, he’d befriended the werewolf warriors the Badens kept collared and chained, promising them emancipation and equal rights if they fought by his side.

Second, he came to the doorstep of the vampiric household that reigned over their largest neighboring state. However, he did not engage with the ancient, two-thousand-year-old patriarch of the clan; he instead turned to a fledgling barely a century old and already tired of the elders’ overbearing ways, and took the young immortal under his banner.

Third and final, Richard partnered with three minor kings. Each of the monarchs had vied for dominance on a quest for Rhinian unification, but had been forced back into their own borders by competitors. Reduced to longingly gazing at a succulent fruit rotting on its own branch, their ambitions were easily rekindled.

With talent and opportunity in hand, Richard swept across the land. His army spread through the Maiden’s Bosom—the most fertile part of the Rhine River Valley—faster than wildfire. So meticulously calculated were his marks and so flawless was his execution that the great historians who followed considered his campaign devoid of intrigue.

Richard’s territory expanded to enclose the favored maiden of the gods that scarce few had ever ruled, earning him the epithet of “the Little Conqueror.” While the moniker was in part a sarcastic jab at his unimpressive origins, those who uttered it did so knowing that he was a tireless engine of demolition and plunder, his front lines advancing with every annexation.

At last his callous and wanton invasions came to a pause as he turned to more diplomatic means. His progress had been so rapid that the insignificant kings—dubbed so by history, not by personal choice—that were to oppose him found themselves without the time to coordinate their forces in coalition.

This was not, of course, a mere stroke of luck on Richard’s part: with every new acquisition, he loaned his newfound resources for cheap to countries he did not yet plan to topple.

These beneficiaries had no intention of repaying any favors, but to bite the hand that fed was too daunting a challenge; instead, they turned on their historical rivals to further their own interests. Even the mightiest of contenders on the world stage could not spare time to strategize against Richard with a swarm of principalities nipping at their heels. Invariably, the Little Conqueror swooped in at the end as if to say, “Your time has come.”

The man had an eye for people and opportunity. Although he never worked against his own interests, he was acutely sensitive to the power-hungry fools that he employed as pawns in his bloody grand design. Meanwhile, he plucked capable vassals from within his borders to establish loyal clans—many who enjoyed continued prestige in Modern Rhine, like the Five Generals or Thirteen Knights—who brought prosperity to the budding nation.

Richard’s talents brought abundance, which became the foundation of a country too sturdy to easily upturn. That, in turn, bought him time. Eighteen years had passed since he had begun his revolt, but the man was still healthy and spirited. At the age of thirty-two, Richard founded the Trialist Empire of Rhine and declared himself Emperor.

Truth be told, Richard had only won the position of a high king. However, his sapling state had been born atop a pile of corpses, and he knew he needed more; haphazardly inheriting the titles of old would only amount to a gilded facade of prosperity sure to rot from within soon after.

Bloodshed had unified Rhine, and without stable footing, bloodshed would destroy it. Worse still, the death of a single great king could shatter the land back into pieces. Richard dreamed of a sturdy, towering tree that would not fall as soon as the gods recalled him to their lap: to this end, he relinquished the priceless commodity of time.

So began the Trialist Empire of Rhine.

The emperor came from one of the three great houses that had founded the Empire to begin with, and the three minor kings were rewarded for their loyal service with the awesome privilege of the vote. Not only did this prevent excessive consolidation of power, but it also helped quell discontent, as the ruler required the consent of the ruled.

Furthermore, if the emperor only commanded authority granted by electors, any attempt at revolution would amount to little more than the assassination of a figurehead. One would need to provide substantial cause to sway the wielders of power to join a militaristic coup.

Richard broke free from existing modes of rule and kicked aside the title of High King to crown himself the first-ever emperor. For those that coveted the title, the only rightful path to the throne was littered with his rules. He created more than a position: here he proclaimed the birth of a new world order.

A coronation unknown to the law crowned no true Emperor; a nation serving an illegitimate ruler was no true Empire. Richard had amassed much in a single generation, and this code would remain steadfast for all those who would come to inherit his treasures: he became the immaculate model of all the virtues Elysium expected of its master.

And so, the Empire found its footing.

With the bulwark of his noble houses by his side, Richard brought the scattered churches of the land into one pantheon with the promise of protection and independence, standardized systems of measurements and weights, and ironed out the legal system that underpinned Rhinian affairs. It had cost him fifteen years, but by the time he approached middle age, the Empire had become an unstoppable behemoth.

All that remained was the harvest: minor nations that had played for neutrality now eagerly entered the imperial umbrella, and cornered giants bent the knee to prolong their existences. By the time Richard was canonized as the Emperor of Creation, not a single lesser state lay on the maiden’s banks.

The one emperor and three imperial houses had gained four electors for a total of seven, all from the 227 noble lineages that formed the backbone of the Empire. The hydra had swallowed the region whole to morph into a bizarre oligarchic monarchy that respected the rights and privileges of its lesser lords as if it were a federation.

The oddity of the system was the result of cumulative compromise. A single bloodline was too frail to bear the burden of the crown, but parliaments and oligarchies had failed before, and to leave power in the hands of the populace was a dream within a dream. With how liable it was to collapse, the castle was less built atop a pile of sand and more built out of sand.

Yet the process of coming to terms on common ground repeated ad nauseum had stacked up enough begrudging compliance for the Empire to continue expanding its borders for five centuries—few could claim the political experiment to be a failure. Its flaws were many and its domestic history was rife with violent purges, but throughout it all, the Trialist Empire remained standing to the modern day.

It was here in this ancient nation that an old man sat alone, surrounded by magnificent ornaments, lavish furniture, and trophies of war ranging from swords to crowns. The walls of the expansive room were tastefully subdued, but they were not mere stone: a layer of elaborately patterned wallpaper covered the masonwork. The flooring was just as exquisite; a shag carpet covered every square inch of ground to seal away the cold earth below.

Light flickered on the shelves by the wall, and the glimmering treasures on display would surely cause any historian’s eyes to fall out of their sockets. The royal crowns of fallen kingdoms, prized swords thought lost to time, and a fragment of the long-gone Blessed Kingdom’s throne lined the display cases. Each was a symbol of forgotten glory, as if to say this was the might of Rhine.

The centerpiece of the room was a stately throne that teetered on the edge of excess, sure to paint all but the most dignified as charlatans when used. Embodying centuries of history, the seat doubled as a test of worth for any who dared to sit.

Even so, the graying gentleman atop it did not shrink away from his ceremonious surroundings. He did not rely on majestic possessions to inflate his person, but rather imbued them with greater regality by his presence.

His head retained a handsome gloss in spite of the white hairs weaving into his raven mane, and what at first appeared a skinny frame was chiseled from pure muscle without an ounce of waste. He wore the finest threads dyed in the color reserved for the imperial: a resplendent purple-blue.

The man’s nose was sharp and high set, while his slender, ashen eyes gleamed with intimidating tenacity. Habit had sealed his lips tight and permanently furrowed his brow into an austere statesman’s glare, robbing him of the frailty that so often came with age.

Similarly eye-catching ornaments lay atop his desk, and his chair was lined with magnificent cushioning dyed in the same imperial colors as his attire. Despite the comfort such padding no doubt provided, his back remained ruler-straight. He was closer to a perfectly sharpened spear than a man, complete with a pointed head: the crystallization of imperial authority rested on his pate in the form of a golden crown.

Let it be known that August Julius Ludwig Heinkel von Baden-Stuttgart was the rightful heir to House Stuttgart, chief among the imperial Baden bloodlines that descended directly from the Emperor of Creation himself—here sat the reigning monarch, Emperor August IV. The gallant hero was infamous for climbing atop his drake and diving into the thick of the fight. He was so popular, in fact, that the number of sagas recounting his exploits rivaled the Black Flag Emperor, despite his still being alive.

The Emperor’s lips parted. His deep, somber voice was frequently likened to that of the draconic mount he commanded. Two personal guests of his sat in the imperial office reserved for the most serious matters of state, ready to bear witness to words that would shake the Empire.

“Hear,” he spoke. “I...grow weary of this.”

“Shut the fuck up. The least you could do after calling us all the way out here is thank us for coming, asshole.”

An aging werewolf snapped at the Emperor with words choice enough to knock a hypothetical onlooker flat on their rear. Beneath his stately mane, the manly lupine figure was scored with countless scars. His gray coat was wrapped in a fine purple-blue top, embroidered with his family crest of a great wolf. He and his flock were markedly different in appearance from the demonic cynocephali, and his demihuman kin would agree that he was an exceptionally strapping fellow—even as he grunted with a merciless glare.

“We get here and the first thing you do is grumble,” he barked. “Have some shame. I was in the middle of whooping my idiots out west back into place, so you better have a good reason for making me march all the way back to the capital.”

The werewolf was David McConnla von Graufrock, head of the Graufrock Duchy. As one-third of the imperial pie, his clan governed a large swath of land from the central north of the Empire to its western holdings. Once upon a time, his forefather had won his freedom by joining Richard against a tyrant; centuries later, the preeminent werewolf lineage still held the nation together with their military prowess.

The Graufrocks also boasted the right to rule, and David in particular had served as August IV’s spear for many a moon and year. Having leapt into battle at the age of seven, he’d been an early bloomer even by werewolf standards. Nowadays, he was well regarded for continuing his track record of loyal service without showing a hint of his old age, as the sitting emperor’s closest advisor.

How shocked the populace would be to hear him assault His Imperial Majesty with the filthy diction of a drunkard at the pub.

Alas, this was unavoidable: be they liege and vassal as they were, the true nature of their dynamic was better described as brothers in arms or partners in crime. David’s second wife was August’s younger sister—and the Founding Emperor’s second wife had similarly been the eldest sister of the first Graufrock—but their familial ties paled in comparison to their unyielding friendship.

“I’m going to sock you in your face if you recalled us just to complain. Oh, and I’m helping myself to a bottle or two from the vault while I’m at it.”

David’s remarks easily crossed the line, even for a candidate to the throne, but the Emperor showed no signs of caring. Had August’s retainers been present, they would have reached for their daggers, turning red in the face, but the man himself accepted the disrespect as a matter of course.

They had stood shoulder to shoulder, groveling in the same mud and eating from the same pot—they’d subsisted on “stew” that included anything edible they could get their hands on—on the front lines. What was there to hold back now?

The pair had made themselves busy with their fair share of mischief in their youth: they’d peeked up skirts, ventured into red-light districts, and gotten punched out of bars when they couldn’t pay their tab. David’s greeting could be considered on the civil side, considering their relationship.

“What wretched vassals I am burdened with,” August remarked. “Always swiping prized wines from my cellar for every little request... I shall never forget the day you pilfered my 244-year-old red Alsace over a tiny marriage interview.”

“Do you have any fucking clue how hard it was to rein in that wild beast for long enough to marry her off to your grandnephew? Plus, this time I had to stop my brats from running around and picking fights to make time to come.”

“I suspect the fault for that lies more with your genetics than with me... At any rate, I turned fifty-seven this past autumn. The gods will not punish you for treating me with more care.”

“Still early to bemoan one’s age, I’m sure you’ll agree.” A third voice entered the fray. In contrast to the booming vulgarities offered by the werewolf, this new speaker cut off the haggard August with sprightly vigor.

Not content to merely discount the Emperor’s cries, the man went so far as to plant his behind on the imperial desk. He fearlessly crossed his legs and casually began filing his fingernails—a show of flippancy that was grounds enough for him and his whole family to be beheaded and kept on pikes to decorate the castle gates for half a year.

The gentleman was frighteningly beautiful, like the hue of silver personified. He nestled a stylish silver wand beneath his arm, snuggled into his magus robes, and with his bangs neatly pulled back, Martin Werner von Erstreich openly displayed his particular silver eyes.

Martin, too, was one of three who could lay claim to the throne, as evidenced by his family crest: a wine glass split in two. He was the progeny of the crafty vampire who had helped Richard overthrow the two-millennia-old ancient bloodsucker, all while politically maneuvering around the terrible accusation of treachery.

“You’re in the middle of your second term, aren’t you? Ha, that leaves plenty of room to spare. I suffered three, you recall. With how brief a period it is, I’d prefer to hear a more spirited declaration that you have another term in you yet.”

Such was the silver gentleman’s excuse for sitting on the imperial desk so brazenly. He had endured three fifteen-year terms signing papers on this very table. It was impossible for him to summon any restraint when interacting with property that was all but his own.

Martin’s two aging companions grimaced at his immortal arrogance. For a mensch and especially a werewolf—who on average lived thirty years less than mensch—fifteen years was an eternity. To have the whole of preadulthood written off as “brief” was objectionable from a mortal perspective.

“Wow,” David scoffed, “the mindset of a four-century-old geezer sure is something else.”

“With how unlike our perceptions of time are,” August added, “might I suggest you take a fourth term upon yourself? You, if anyone, surely have plenty of room to spare, Duke Erstreich. I reckon you shall take an afternoon nap and awake to find your tenure complete.”

Faced with a snarling werewolf and a glaring emperor, the mighty vampire nonchalantly blew the dust from his fingertips. His silver eyes flickered with discontent as he pointed his sharpened nails at them both.

“You’re to call me Professor Martin or simply Professor—how many times must I tell you this, gentlemen? I’ve expressed my distaste for that unromantic title on more occasions than I can remember. Ah, but forgive me: perhaps you two imbeciles left the ability to learn back inside of your mothers’ wombs.” Having said these damning words with all possible grace and civility, he added, “And I’m not a geezer. I’m still quite young, thank you.”

In fairness, vampires in foreign lands regularly strolled about at five hundred, and there was even a princess who’d celebrated her first millennium as of late. Martin was, relatively speaking, still young.

At any rate, these three were the colossi at the heart of the Trialist Empire. All of them were shrewd bureaucrats and played the part of liege and vassal perfectly in the public eye; if anyone acquainted with them were to see this scene, they would come to the conclusion that this was a distasteful performance from three impeccable body doubles.

But of course, their conversation was raw, unfiltered reality.

“Y’know, Gustus,” David said, “you say you’re tired and all, but I heard from my craftsmen that you put in an order for a new set of drake gear. And not some fancy-ass ceremonial armor either. You’re buying a saddle with plenty of room to load up cargo.”

The werewolf casually dropped August’s nickname as he scrutinized the man’s claim of fatigue. Although his white hairs were certainly growing more numerous, the deep black that pervaded his branch of the Baden tree was still lush, and his gray eyes had just as much life in them as those of a man in his prime; those who lent him their hand when he climbed a flight of stairs did so as no more than a formality.

“It is a gift,” August answered. “I did not place the order to suit my personal interests. I recognize the gear may fit my lovely Durindana, but it is the product of coincidence, as I intend to bestow the equipment upon a drake of equal size.”

Lies spewed forth without a hint of hesitation: he didn’t so much as shift his gaze. The Dragon Rider’s moniker was no mere publicity stunt, and he’d grown up riding lesser drakes into battle. Even now, he pampered his trusty steed in the palace’s drake stables—evidence enough that he could not abandon his lifelong fixation on soaring through the open skies.

The Emperor’s military career had begun with the dream of flight. Determined to leave the earth beneath him, he had learned of a species of drake that man had narrowly managed to domesticate and enlist; to him, his appointment as the head of the clan and subsequent coronation were unsolicited byproducts of his success.

“Rumor has it that the third iteration of your aeronautical warship has been refitted again,” Martin remarked. “The, er, Alexandrine, was it? I’ve heard whispers of your stubborn insistence on equipping it with the capacity to launch draconic knights. ‘Weary’ indeed. Over at the College, not a day goes by without hearing a gripe about how ridiculous the final specifications have become.”

The vampiric professor glanced back to gauge the Emperor’s reaction to his provocation, but August was experienced. After navigating the world of politics—where foul intent sprouted faster than common weeds—for nearly three decades, this didn’t even faze him.

“That is a measure to better the survivability of the airship. Pray tell that you have yet to forget the tragedy of the Kriemhild.”

The Emperor’s retort was unwavering, his steadfast gaze more solid than steel. Who could believe that such a stalwart being had no scruples about using his salary and whatever imperial funds he could to fuel his personal hobbies?

On the note of the aeronautical warship, the Empire was in the midst of a project that combined its impressive advancements in magecraft and shipbuilding. The theoretical concept had been hashed out half a century prior, and the tests had advanced to the third prototype build at present. As the wings to a new dawn, the airship was meant to strike awe into Rhine’s neighbors while solving the state’s lack of a large port, heralding the next age of prosperity.

The Trialist Empire had been a continental nation since its inception, and lacked any notable holdings on the coast. Although it bordered a good deal of ocean to the north, the majority of its shoreline was covered with unusable sheer bluffs; the few cooperative banks they had became unnavigable for anything more than local fishing boats come wintertime. This is to say, the Rhinians had no warm water port from which to launch larger vessels.

The lovely maiden from which they derived their name flowed to a verdant inland sea in the south, but even then, many points on the Rhine were not traversable for massive crafts. Ships also differed in make between those specialized for river and ocean travel, so artificial enlargement was not a viable solution.

For the moment, the satellite states Rhine kept in orbit to its south included seaside city-states that provided access to the southern sea, settling the immediate issue. Yet the Empire knew that a day would come when its inability to command open waters would come to bite it. To expand its already-excessive borders could cause the nation’s already-strained central government undue tension, making conquest unappealing; still, the imperial leaders sought some means of oceanic access.

Their solution? Airships.

By constructing the vessel around an arcane engine and running quasi-mystic circuits imbued with anti-gravity and propulsion spells all throughout the build, the Empire would have access to the most endless sea of all: that which continued far into the heavens.

Or at least, it would once the many problems this plan came with were solved. Not only was the technology volatile, but it was incredibly difficult to recover from an error when hovering far above ground, and to top it all off, those who inhabited the skies interfered with progress to challenge imperial air supremacy.

The Empire’s little wings had to account for all of these problems at once. To that end, those in charge of designing it were constantly testing new solutions that had proven innovative at best and bizarre at worst.

“You know,” David butted in, “I’ve been thinking this for a while now, but why the hell’d you name the thing after your wife?”

“‘Forget the Kriemhild?’” Martin repeated mockingly. “No, I remember—I remember well how a flock of drakes ran the Kriemhild aground, and how you insisted on commencing work on a new vessel in the wake of the tragedy, you spendthrift.”

“The airship will revolutionize trade and warfare!” August shouted. “This investment is no waste or whim! And the ship was christened by means of public vote!”

“Come the fuck on, you’re the Emperor!” the werewolf shouted back. “Renaming the damn thing should’ve been child’s play! What the hell are you going to say if it sinks?!”

“Then at least keep the scale modest!” the vampire joined in. “Why couldn’t we begin large-scale construction after developing reliable flight?! You might as well ask a novice shipwright to hammer out the frame!”

“It won’t sink!” the Emperor boomed. “Anything graced with Alexandrine’s name is destined for greatness!”

“Oh, I fucking knew it, you stupid lovebird!”

“Why must you be so insistent in your baseless confidence, you fool?!”

Any one of these exchanges would cause a devoted patriot to cough up their guts and die on the spot, and the three greatest powers in the Empire continued their charade for another ten or twenty minutes. As a matter of course, the ceaseless fonts of indignity were only sealed when the Emperor—the impetus of all this, mind you—brought down his fist.

“Enough! I am at my limit! Let me resign!” August hurled the crown from his head—an act that would make some skip past fainting straight to sudden death—and jumped to his feet. “I tried to refuse this second term as well, only for you two to conspire to keep me on the throne! One of you—I don’t care who—switch with me!”

“You mustn’t ask for the impossible, Your Majesty!” David cried. “I am a withering thirty-two years of age, no less atrophied than a mensch such as yourself at fifty-seven. And oh, the horror! My old wounds rouse me without fail each night! How inconceivable it would be to punish—I mean, entrust such a pitiful soul with the great responsibility of sovereignty!”

“The post exceeds my capacity, Your Majesty!” Martin proclaimed. “Alas, my meager talents leave me unable to take on any more than my current mission of checking the power of the nation’s artisan unions to secure our financial interests. Should I abandon my office and allow internal trade wars to wage unabated, the citizenry you care for as your own sons and daughters will suffer horrors the likes of which have remained unseen since the foreign invasion prevented by the Black Flag! Please, reconsider! You must understand that our tenuous peace rests upon your shoulders!”

“Your Majesty this, Your Majesty that—only at times like these do you ingrates perform the part of loyal vassals! Fine, then consider this an imperial mandate! Switch with me!”

The dictionary contained no word severe enough to describe their ignobility as the men shouted themselves hoarse. Perhaps it was enough that they retained the bare minimum of good sense to keep their battle to the realm of repartee as opposed to that of fisticuffs.

Only after each had taken a glass of water did their tempers cool, allowing them all to remember that they were grown adults. They took a moment to wipe their sweat or Clean themselves in a belated attempt to don some guise of dignity. With renewed airs, they resumed discussion on a topic that could alter the fate of the Empire—but at its core, this remained the world’s most worthless game of musical chairs, wherein the goal was not to sit.

“Ahem... I have been sleeping poorly as of late, and I wake each morning to terrible coughing fits. Age has robbed me of my vigor to the extent that I can no longer hide the effects of my poor health on my work. No longer can I fulfill my duties as emperor.”

Properly crowned once more, Emperor August IV coughed with clear deliberation. True, it sounded genuinely painful; however, the magus at the table noted he’d cast some sort of physical manipulation magic. Employing remarkable skill to inane ends must have been some sort of cultural tradition in Rhine.

“This is coming from the guy who nearly worked his personal guards to death by doing his imperial tour on drakeback because it was faster...”

“How odd. I recall you’d been quite animated when coming to see our progress on the Alexandrine... I must be misremembering.”

The Emperor gracefully ignored his grumbling dukes and glanced over at the werewolf. “When the winds carry the scent of war, the valiant House Graufrock is best at the helm. Say, have you heard the rumors of the giants stirring in the Frost Spirit’s Peaks?”

“As if. It’s too late for them to come out now. But seriously, I really can’t handle it. I don’t think I’ll last another fifteen years in good health. The court physician doesn’t look too pleased with my condition, and my brat still doesn’t have the experience to lead...”

August could say nothing to this excuse. The two of them had been together through thick and thin—including the baffling incident when David, the patriarch of one of the imperial houses, had helped him escape the castle and earned himself a temporary ban from the palace for his troubles—and he knew his old friend was on his last legs.

The average werewolf lived to fifty, and even the healthiest barely ever made it past seventy. At thirty-two, David was well within range of planning his retirement.

With that in mind, August’s gaze shifted to the vampire. He’d dealt with plenty of crafty career politicians during his reign, and continuing the conversation as if he hadn’t literally just nominated Duke Graufrock for the throne was hardly a challenge.

“To match our mighty rivals, an unflinching foundation will be paramount for our nation. I believe duty calls for you, Duke Erstreich.”

“Professor,” the immortal vampire mumbled, averting his eyes.

August’s nomination had compelling grounds: unaging beings did indeed tend to benefit from their disposition when on the throne. They were less likely to lose sight of a set plan, and they did not overexert themselves to rush out a project like their short-lived counterparts did when the reaper was in sight, making them perfect for carrying out long-term schemes.

In fact, for the greater part of the Trialist Empire’s peacetime—or at least, that of cold wars disguised as peace—House Erstreich had been the ones to steer the country toward economic prosperity. Their indifference to life made them less suitable for battle, but none could match their patience on a long-term investment. The macroeconomics of a state could only truly show change in long increments of five years or so, after all.

“True,” David chimed in. “It’ll be peaceful for a while. The two of us cleaned up all the big wars.”

“The eastern conquest was an ordeal,” August added. “Both you and I lived on the front lines for two whole years.”

“Excuse me?!” Martin exclaimed. “I think you’re forgetting about someone who toiled to secure supply lines and restructure the army!”

Having already been denied once, the Emperor completely ignored Martin; the werewolf was content to do the same so long as the hot potato was not in his hands. Together, the pair made for a mighty coalition: the Baden and Graufrock clans had close ties to four of the electorate houses—over half. Though August’s family would not be enthused about letting their representative abdicate, they were more likely to bide their time until their next emperor than to put up any real resistance.

This was indicative of the major peculiarity of imperial politics, the greatest flaw in the system: for all its apparent fluidity, the top families of high society were distinct in name only.

Relations between the imperial houses needed no introduction. The Founding Emperor had taken an Erstreich princess as his legal wife, and his son had wed a Graufrock. The first Duke Erstreich—also known as the second emperor—had doted on Richard’s younger sister as his favorite mistress, and his son had also wed a Graufrock. House Graufrock, in turn, drew blood from both other duchies. For the lords of these houses, they were sure to have a relative in power no matter who wore the crown.

Little changed for the electorate houses. While most monarchies disallowed marquises like them from marrying into royalty, the Empire’s restrictions were far more lax. Brides and grooms could be welcomed into the innermost court of the palace, and imperial princes and princesses commonly relinquished status to wed into these lesser houses. Again, they were all effectively related.

If an elector ever dreamed of seeing their kin crowned, they were sure to take the diplomatic path of marriage. Such games of statecraft could only be played against a backdrop of relative peace and prosperity, thus discouraging rash actions. This collusion allowed the Empire to dodge the violent struggles of succession and subsequent fragmentation that plagued other nations; as wonderful as this was, it also meant everyone involved had to close their eyes and pretend not to see the blatant put-up job on display.

That said, being emperor came with far more weight than any soul could imagine. If a sorry wretch intoxicated with lust for power found himself in a position to claim the title, he would be crushed underneath the endless work, overwhelming responsibility, and the nigh unrealizable expectations set by his retainers and in-laws—a fact that helped to keep the machine running after hundreds of years.

“Why not cede to the crown prince?” Martin asked. “I would be happy to back his ascension.”

Although the Trialist Empire was not a hereditary monarchy, the crown prince could assume power in times of emergency. In some edge cases, previous emperors had handed over the reins to particularly trustworthy princes, so the precedent was there; unfortunately, Martin’s desperate suggestion only drew a deep, deep sigh from August.

“I don’t know what got into that thankless urchin, but he threatened to remarry his wife into her family abroad if I tried... Do you truly think I would fail to consider easier options before summoning the two of you?”

“Whoa there,” David said. “You know how much of a hassle it’ll be if another dukedom pops up? If he throws our satellites into chaos over this bullshit, I swear...”

“Is that even possible?” Martin questioned. “Surely not, yes? The gods and their churches will never allow him to remarry his own wife to enter her family.”

“That buffoon has connections on that end,” August muttered, his voice downcast. “The pious brat.”

As the heaviness of the Emperor’s heart dragged down the atmosphere, silence set in upon the room. The vampire’s eyes darted back and forth as he contemplated amidst the quiet tension.

Hook, line, and sinker, the other two thought at once. But just as they began to start considering how to deliver the news to the electors, the ingenious magus struck epiphany. The vampire had earned his professorship without abusing his political position, and his intelligence was not just for show.

“I know! I shall yield my estate to my daughter!”

Martin decided to offer his beloved daughter of forty years as a human sacri— Ahem, he decided to unveil his newfound ambition to place his child in the venerated seat of the Emperor, all with a refreshed smile on his face.

[Tips] The three imperial houses are the most powerful families in the Rhinian Empire. The leaders of the two clans not currently sitting are considered dukes, and serve the Emperor as trusted counsel—on the surface. In actuality, they are a web of relatives who treat one another as such.