The great hall of Mousche had seen better days. Cracks spiderwebbed across the marble floor, remnants of the seismic shockwaves that had rippled from the crater where War had detonated his hundred boiling suns. Tapestries that once depicted glorious battles now hung in tatters, their edges singed, their colors bleached by the heat that had rolled across the capital like a wave from hell. The stained glass windows, those magnificent panes that had told the story of the kingdom's founding, were gone. Shattered. Replaced by wooden boards hammered in by frightened servants who expected the next blast to come at any moment.
King Vorn sat on his throne, a gilded thing that had once gleamed with pride but now seemed almost pathetic in its opulence. He was a large man, not in the way of warriors, but in the way of those who had spent decades eating rich foods and drinking fine wines while others did the work. His jowls hung heavy, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool autumn air filtering through the boarded windows. His fingers, fat and pink, drummed against the armrest in a nervous staccato.
Around the long oak table that had been dragged into the hall for this emergency meeting, his advisors argued.
"The refugees are pouring into the eastern provinces by the thousands," said Keeren the Wise, a gaunt man with a gray beard that reached his chest. His voice was hoarse from days of shouting orders, organizing relief efforts that never seemed to be enough. "We have no housing for them. No food. No medicine. The camps are breeding grounds for disease, and winter is coming. If we don't find a solution soon, we'll lose more people to cold and sickness than we lost to the fires."
General Voss slammed his fist on the table, making the goblets jump. He was a bull of a man, bald and scarred, his armor still dented from the battle that had nearly killed him. "We should be talking about revenge, not refugees! That monster, that War, slaughtered our finest knights! Sir Lach, Lady Mira, Argile, Victor! The best of us, gone in an instant. And you want to pack our people off like beggars?"
"Those knights are dead because you insisted on engaging War outside the gates!" snapped Lady Sarene, a sharp-faced noblewoman whose family's lands had been reduced to ash. "You thought your elite squad could take down an incarnation of conflict with nothing but courage and prayer. You were wrong. Now eighty percent of our kingdom is a smoking crater, and you want to throw more lives away on revenge?"
"We cannot just let him get away with it!" Voss roared, rising from his seat. "The honor of Mousche demands—"
"The honor of Mousche demands nothing if there's no Mousche left to defend!" Keeren interrupted. He stood as well, pointing a bony finger at the general. "We are a kingdom on life support. Our army is decimated. Our treasury is empty. Our people are starving. And you want to declare war on a being who turned a mile of land into glass with a single attack?"
Lord Harrow, a portly noble with a red face and thin hair, spoke up from the far end of the table. "I say we cut our losses. Give the refugees severance money, a few silver each, and send them on their way to Thornheim. Thornheim has resources. Thornheim has land. Let them deal with the problem."
"And what of those of us who stay?" Sarene demanded. "You expect us to just... abandon our homes? Our titles? Our histories?"
"Your homes are gone, Sarene," Harrow said flatly. "Your titles mean nothing if there's no kingdom to grant them. The smart move is to pack up what's left of the treasury and relocate. Thornheim will take us in. We have diplomatic ties. Marriage alliances. They won't turn us away."
"They'll turn us away if we show up with a hundred thousand refugees begging for bread," Keeren said. "Thornheim has its own problems. Bandits in the east, famine in the south, and now they're dealing with the disappearance of two of their most prominent knights. Zedrik and Alrick vanished during a gala. The whole court is in an uproar."
General Voss sneered. "Good riddance. Those two were vultures, preying on their own people. I heard stories about what they did during tax collections. Women. Children. Didn't matter to them."
"Whether they were vultures or saints is irrelevant," Keeren said. "The point is Thornheim is in no position to take in refugees. They'll turn us away at the border."
"So we let our people die in the streets?" Harrow threw his hands up. "What's your brilliant plan, wise one? Pray to the gods for a miracle?"
The arguing continued, voices rising, fingers pointing, accusations flying. King Vorn sat on his throne, watching them, sweating, his fat fingers still drumming. He had inherited this kingdom from his father, who had inherited it from his father before him. The Vorn line had ruled Mousche for three centuries. And now, in his lifetime, it was crumbling to dust.
He thought about the treasury. About the gold he had stashed away in secret vaults, the jewels, the artwork. He could flee. Take the money and disappear to a foreign land, live out his days in comfort while his people starved. The thought was tempting. So tempting.
But if he fled, he would be remembered as a coward. The king who ran. The king who abandoned his throne. And Vorn, for all his greed and gluttony, cared very much about how he would be remembered.
"Enough!" he bellowed, slamming his fist on the armrest.
The room went silent. All eyes turned to him.
Vorn stood, his bulk straining against his velvet doublet. He wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief and took a deep breath.
"We are not giving up on Mousche," he said, his voice quavering slightly. "Not yet. Not while I still draw breath. But the general is wrong. Revenge is a luxury we cannot afford. And Lord Harrow is wrong. Abandoning our people is not an option."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"Keeren. You will prepare a long voyage carriage. The best we have. Stock it with provisions, gifts, and a delegation of our most persuasive diplomats. You will travel to Thornheim and beg—" he swallowed hard, the word bitter on his tongue, "—beg them to take in our refugees. Offer them trade concessions. Mining rights. Whatever it takes. We need a place for our people to go while we rebuild."
Keeren bowed his head. "As you command, Your Majesty."
General Voss looked like he wanted to argue, but one look from the king silenced him. The other nobles exchanged glances, some resigned, some relieved, all exhausted.
Vorn sat back down, his heart pounding, his hands shaking. He had just committed his kingdom to a path of humiliation and uncertainty. But it was the only path left.
"Go," he said, waving his hand. "Prepare the carriage. We leave at dawn."
The advisors filed out, their murmurs fading into the shadows of the ruined hall. King Vorn sat alone on his throne, staring at the boarded windows, and wondered if he would ever see the sun shine on Mousche again.