Opposite him sat Austen, his right-hand man and trusted advisor. Austen had stood silently in the corner during the meeting with the Viscount, his face a mask of neutrality. Now, in the privacy of the carriage, the mask slipped, revealing a thoughtful frown.
"He was strong," Austen admitted, breaking the silence. "Much stronger than I expected, Your Grace. And to build a city of that magnitude in a year... he possesses leadership skills that rival heros."
Austen paused, looking out the window. "But he didn't seem... far-thinking. He focuses heavily on infrastructure and refugees. He lacks the cunning of a true political player."
Osborne let out a sharp, dry laugh. He shook his head slowly.
"No, Austen. You are mistaken. That boy is a beast in his own right."
Austen blinked. "Sir?"
"Did you see the hangar?" Osborne asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Which hangar?" Austen asked, confused. "There were many warehouses near the port."
"Not near the port," Osborne corrected. "In the sector that I assume was restricted. My informants caught a glimpse of it through a gap in the gate once it was closing."
Osborne leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"He is making something there. They saw the frame. It looked like a ship, but it had no keel for water. It had... balloons. Massive, reinforced leather envelopes."
Osborne tapped his finger against his knee.
"It is a moving fortress, Austen. From its shape, and the mana residue I felt while I was here from that sector... I feel like it will fly."
Austen’s jaw dropped. "Fly? A flying ship? That’s impossible."
"With Alaric, I am beginning to think nothing is impossible," Osborne murmured. "If that thing is for the army... then there is no way Prince Lucian or Duke Larethin is winning this war. The skies will belong to Alaric."
Osborne leaned back into the cushions, a calculating gleam in his eyes.
"That is why we must bind him. We have to bet on him, yes. But we must control him through means other than military force. If we fight him, we will lose. If we make him part of the system...."
While Osborne plotted on the road, Alaric was fighting a different battle.
The sea was angry.
Unlike his previous journey to Ironhold, which had been blessed with calm waters, the winter currents had turned the ocean into a churning grey waves. The ship pitched and rolled violently, groaning against the assault of the salt spray.
Alaric gripped the railing, his face a distinct shade of pale green.
"Sea sick again, Lord?" the captain asked, suppressing a grin.
"Just... admiring the volatility," Alaric muttered, fighting the urge to empty his stomach.
Despite the rough weather, the current was undeniably fast. It pushed them northward with relentless speed. For eleven miserable days, Alaric endured the constant wobbling of the world, focusing only on the horizon.
Finally, the grey stone walls of Ironhold came into view.
Alaric stumbled onto the dock, kissing the solid ground in spirit if not in body. As he walked toward the citadel, the Knights of Ironhold stopped their drills. They turned to him, slammed their fists against their breastplates, and saluted in unison.
"Viscount Alaric!" they shouted.
Alaric entered the main keep and found a maid hurrying through the hall with fresh towels.
"Is Duke Thorne in?" Alaric asked.
"Lord Thorne is currently in the training grounds, sir," the maid replied, curtsying. "He has been sparring for four hours. He will be coming soon."
Alaric nodded. He didn't want to interrupt the Iron Wall’s workout. Instead, he went to the solar to pay his respects to the lady of the house.
Duchess Elara was reading by the fireplace. She looked up as Alaric entered, her warm smile unchanged by the tension of the times.
"Alaric," she said, setting her book down. "It is good to see you safe. The seas are treacherous this time of year."
"They certainly are, Your Grace," Alaric said, bowing deeply. "But the destination is worth the journey."
They spoke for a while, Elara asking about Haven and Lucia’s health, until heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.
The door swung open, and Duke Thorne entered. He was still wearing his training gear, sweat glistening on his massive frame, a towel draped over his shoulder.
He didn't waste time with pleasantries.
"I suppose you have come to discuss Osborne's proposal," Thorne rumbled, walking straight to the pitcher of water and pouring himself a drink.
Stolen novel; please report.
Alaric straightened his posture. "Yes, sir."
Thorne downed the water in one gulp and turned to face him. "Well? I told him I trusted your judgment, but that doesn't mean I don't have questions. I want to know your opinion."
Alaric took a breath. "I think we should take it."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "A Republic? No King?"
"Think about the numbers, sir," Alaric reasoned. "The proposal creates a Triumvirate. If the Top 3 of the council lead the nation... two of those three will be us."
Alaric held up two fingers. "You and me. Versus Osborne. Even if he schemes, the upper hand will still belong to us. We will effectively control the nation's direction."
Alaric paced the room slightly. "Furthermore, it solves the succession crisis. If we declare a new King, half the realm will call him a usurper. But a Republic? A Council? It gives us legitimacy. We aren't conquering the Kingdom; we are 'liberating' it from a mad Prince and a corrupt King to give power back to the nobility. It’s a narrative the people will support."
Thorne grunted, stroking his beard. "We need to put in rules before accepting such an offer. Osborne is a merchant at heart. He will try to buy the country out from under us."
"We will," Alaric promised. "We will design checks and balances so tight he won't be able to breathe without our permission."
The tension in the room eased. Thorne nodded, accepting the logic.
"By the way," Alaric added, his eyes lighting up. "I also have something else to discuss. A new weapon I am making."
Thorne looked wary. "Weapon?"
"An airship," Alaric said simply.
He didn't give Thorne the blueprints, those were top secret but he explained the concept. The heated gas. The monster leather. The steam cannons raining fire from the clouds.
Thorne stood there, the towel slipping from his shoulder. He stared at Alaric, trying to process the sheer ridiculousness of the idea.
"You..." Thorne shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and immense pride swelling in his chest. "You are going to fly an army over their heads?"
"Yes," Alaric smiled.
Alaric didn't leave Ironhold. He stayed for nearly three weeks, refining the details, inspecting the defenses of the pact, and waiting.
Then, the raven arrived. Duke Osborne was coming.
The meeting took place in the War Room of Ironhold. It was a secluded chamber with thick stone walls, guarded by the most loyal knights of the south.
Three men sat around the heavy oak table.
Duke Thorne, the Iron Wall of the North. Duke Osborne, the Merchant Lord of the West. Viscount Alaric, the warbreaker.
There were no scribes. They wrote the future of the nation themselves.
"The proposals are straightforward," Osborne said, sliding a thick parchment across the table.
They spent hours debating, arguing, and refining. But eventually, the structure of the Republic of Shersia emerged from the ink.
Article I: The Nobility & Voting The nobility would retain their status. However, power would be determined by a point system based on rank.
- Dukes: 20 Votes.
- Marquises: 8 Votes.
- Earl: 3 Vote.
And so on…..
"There are currently three Duke seats," Osborne noted. "Mine, Thorne... and Larethin's."
"Larethin will be purged," Thorne said coldly. "Along with anyone who supports the Usurper Prince."
"Agreed," Osborne said. "Which leaves a vacancy. The seat of the East."
He looked at Alaric.
"Upon the conclusion of the war, Alaric shall be elevated to Duke. He will take over Larethin's territory and status, becoming the third pillar of the Upper Three."
Article II: The Chancellor "The Nobles will vote for a Governor from among the Three Dukes," Alaric read aloud. "This Governor shall be titled Chancellor."
"Term limit?" Thorne asked.
"Five years," Alaric proposed. "The Three can lobby for votes among the lesser nobles. The winner takes the role of Chancellor. He can appoint ministers and other governing authorities from the senate of nobles and even demote them"
Article III: The Separation of Powers This was the most critical part. The deadlock designed to prevent tyranny.
"Regardless of who wins the Chancellorship," Alaric explained, pointing to the diagram he had drawn, "the other two Dukes will automatically assume the roles of Supreme Commander of the unified Shersian Army and Prime Minister."
They scrutinized the specific powers:
- The Chancellor (Executive):
- Can issue executive orders to the Army.
- Can veto laws passed by the Senate.
- Constraint: Cannot make laws. Does not hold the personal loyalty of the troops. Does not control the treasury.
- The Prime Minister (Legislative/Admin):
- Controls the National Budget.
- Unifies the Senate of Nobles to draft and pass laws.
- Constraint: Feeds the Army and funds the Chancellor. Without the PM's signature, the Chancellor has no gold.
- The Supreme Commander (Military):
- Controls the Unified Shersian Army.
- Has the physical force to stop a tyrant.
- Constraint: Needs the PM for money (food/weapons) and the Chancellor for legitimacy (orders).
Article IV: The Override "The Veto," Osborne muttered, looking at the clause. "The Chancellor can stop me from passing a law or decision?"
"Yes," Alaric said. "But we added the loophole you wanted. The Senate can override a Chancellor's Veto... but it requires a 3/4th Majority Vote."
Osborne did the math in his head. To get 3/4ths, he would need almost every minor noble in the kingdom to side with him against the Chancellor. It was difficult, but not impossible.
"Acceptable," Osborne nodded.
For the rest of the day, the three men read through the document hundreds of times. They looked for semantic traps. They looked for loopholes that could be used to seize absolute power.
They found none. The deadlock was perfect. It forced them to cooperate, or the nation would freeze.
Finally, Duke Thorne stood up. He dipped his quill in the ink.
"For the South," Thorne said, signing his name.
"For the West," Osborne followed, signing with a flourish.
"For the Future," Alaric whispered, adding his signature at the bottom.
The document lay on the table, the ink glistening in the candlelight. It was no longer just paper. It was a death warrant for the Monarchy and a birth certificate for a new era.
History would later know this treaty as The Triarchal Accord of Ironhold. It was the turning point of the Sherisan national legacy, the moment when three titans agreed to share the sky.