The Parpaldia Empire. The majestic capital of Esthirant.

  The magnificent Imperial Palace of Paradiz, like a colossal stone monster carved from the very heart of the mountain, stood proudly over the sprawling city of Esthirant below. Its massive walls, constructed from gray, rough-hewn granite, seemed eternal and indestructible, a tangible embodiment of the empire's unwavering power. Atop its flat roofs, like black carrion birds, perched cast-iron magic cannons, their long barrels aimed out to sea. Above the central spire, an enormous imperial crimson standard billowed, embroidered with two crossed flintlock muskets, symbolizing the very essence of Parpaldia—conquest and suppression through the superiority of firepower.

  Esthirant, at its feet, was a chaotic tangle of narrow, perpetually damp alleys and wide, pompous avenues. In the heart of the city, on the Parade Avenue, rose the majestic buildings of ministries and departments in the Empire style, built from light sandstone with tall columns and porticos, designed to emphasize the immutability of imperial rule. The homes of the nobility, nestled in the greenery of private gardens, were adorned with balconies featuring intricate wrought-iron railings. Along the streets lined manufactories and blacksmith shops, from which the clang of hammers, the hiss of steam, and the noise of the first primitive machine tools could be heard day and night. The air here was thick, saturated with the acrid smell of coal smoke, red-hot iron, and power.

  In the marketplaces, a filthy, clamorous life, full of smells and desperation, seethed. Merchants in bright, though often greasy, silk doublets, shouting over one another, praised their goods—from exotic spices whose aroma mixed with the stench of open sewers, to the Empire's main export: slaves. They stood in cramped wooden cages, put on public display: exhausted warriors from conquered "barbarian" lands with brands burned into their cheeks, and young, terrified girls whose beauty was shamelessly appraised by wealthy buyers.

  Ordinary townspeople, dressed in simple, faded linen clothes, scurried about their business, trying not to raise their eyes, lest they accidentally meet the gaze of an imperial guard patrol in their crimson uniforms. Along the streets, paved with uneven, broken cobblestones, a continuous stream of creaking horse-drawn carts belonging to the common folk rumbled over the stones, alongside the luxurious, lacquered carriages of aristocrats pulled by foursomes of purebred horses, whose coachmen cleared a path through the plebeian crowd with whips and curses. In the distance, beyond the city limits, well-tended fields and farms that fed the insatiable capital were visible. And into the giant port of Esthirant, hundreds of sailing ships constantly arrived and departed. The city was full of energy, but it was a feverish, unhealthy energy of a merciless struggle for survival, where every step, every word, was under the heavy, crushing shadow of the imperial boot.

  Once, long, long ago, this place had been nothing more than a modest kingdom on the southern edge of the Philades continent, known as the Kingdom of Parne. Small, unremarkable, wedged between the mountains and the sea, it was little different from dozens of other similar kingdoms. No one could have imagined that this humble kingdom would become the sinister Parpaldia Empire, whose name would be spoken in whispers, whose legions would march across the continent, and whose flags would fly over dozens of conquered capitals.

  The secret to this transformation was simple and bloody. The Kingdom of Parne possessed the richest, almost inexhaustible deposits of magic crystals and rare ores. These treasures, like an open wound seeping blood, attracted predators. Endless raids by nomads, the greed of neighboring kingdoms, constant bloody border conflicts—all of this forged its people and forced the first king, wise and cruel, to bet everything on the only thing that mattered in this world: power. He invested the entire treasury, down to the last coin, into the creation of an army. Not just an army—a war machine. Disciplined, ruthless, living by its own laws. With each new defensive battle, with each new victory, this machine grew, demanding more resources, more soldiers, more conquests for its maintenance, like a giant flywheel that, once set in motion, could no longer be stopped. Thus, defense turned into offense, and survival into conquest.

  In just a hundred years, the Kingdom of Parne, like an alchemist who had found the philosopher's stone, made an unimaginable technological and magical leap, leaving its neighbors forever in the dust of history. The transition from the age of noble knightly duels to the age of impersonal, mass slaughter was swift, bloody, and irreversible. Their armories, previously consisting of spears and swords, were filled with tens of thousands of smoothbore muskets. Their coordinated volleys, shrouded in acrid, sulfur-smelling clouds of smoke, mowed down the ranks of the enemy aristocracy, still clad in their gleaming but now utterly useless plate armor, turning martial valor into mere meat. Heavy siege cannons, whose thunderous roar, like the wrath of the gods, turned the age-old walls of enemy capitals into rubble, became the main argument of their diplomacy.

  Simultaneously, mage-breeders, working in secret laboratories under the personal control of generals, bred new, larger, and more ferocious breeds of war wyverns. From solitary, albeit formidable, predators, they transformed into true squadrons of "living bombers," capable of unleashing a firestorm upon enemy formations. War ceased to be an art. It became a craft. Cold, mathematical, and merciless.

  Another ninety long years were spent, with an inexorable, almost mechanical cruelty, absorbing more than twenty scattered kingdoms, finally proclaiming themselves the mighty Parpaldia Empire. Victories followed one after another. The name "Parpaldia" became synonymous with the word "inevitability." At last, the first emperor was crowned, and his name was now spoken in a whisper, full of fear and awe.

  However, like the insatiable beast they themselves had nurtured, the giant war machine began to devour the Empire from within. The enormous costs of maintaining the sprawling army, of building ever more ships-of-the-line, of producing thousands of muskets and tons of gunpowder, relentlessly dragged the treasury to the bottom. The solution was obvious, the only one possible, and absolutely ruthless—further, endless expansion.

  Each new invasion was a painful blow to the exhausted economy, but victory brought new lands, new slaves, new mines, and new taxes, which immediately, like water into sand, were spent on maintaining the insatiable army. It was a vicious cycle, an imperial curse from which there was no escape. They were hostages of their own power, forever condemned to war simply to sustain their existence. Their empire was not a building. It was a fire that had to constantly consume new territories lest it be extinguished.

  And after just ten years of such relentless expansion, the Parpaldia Empire, like an octopus, had spread its tentacles over a vast territory that included seventy-two vassal states. Their flags were torn down, their armies disbanded, their nobility humiliated, and their peoples, like cattle, now toiled for the benefit of the imperial war machine. The inclusion of Parpaldia in the "Assembly of Eleven Superpowers" was not just a political act, but an international recognition. They had achieved their goal. The world, though shuddering in terror, acknowledged their power. It was the apex of their bloody triumph.

  The throne room of the Imperial Palace of Paradiz was a temple to power, designed to inspire awe and crush the will. High, vaulted ceilings disappeared into darkness, supported by massive columns of black obsidian polished to a mirror sheen, in which hundreds of magic candles cast ghostly reflections. Their cold, unblinking light fell upon tapestries depicting the Empire's greatest victories—not noble duels, but burned cities and lines of chained captives. The air here was still, heavy, saturated with the smell of cold stone, wax, and a faint, almost metallic, taste of authority.

  In the center of this hall, on a high dais, rose the Throne. It was carved from a single piece of ancient, almost petrified, dragonwood and was adorned with intricate gold inlay. Upon this throne, straight and unbreakable as a blade poised to strike, sat Emperor Ludius I. His piercing gaze seemed to slice through the gloom, a mixture of a strategist's cold calculation, a conqueror's insatiable ambition, and a youth's thirst for eternal, almost divine, glory. He was dressed in a formal uniform of crimson and black velvet that fit his athletic figure perfectly. Every gesture, every tilt of his head, was measured and filled with an innate, almost predatory, majesty. He did not simply rule. He was the living embodiment of the Empire—young, ruthless, and utterly certain of his right to command the world.

  "Your Imperial Majesty," a voice, gentle yet hard as steel, broke the silence. An ash-silver figure, like a shadow, entered the hall noiselessly, sinking into a deep, respectful bow that demonstrated absolute submission.

  "Remille, welcome," the Emperor said with a casual, almost lazy, gesture, inviting her to a plush sofa opposite the throne. He slid a crystal decanter of wine towards himself with a faint smirk. There was so much power in this simple movement that at the far end of the hall, as if on an invisible signal, a servant slipped from the shadows and, with deferential speed, offered him a fine linen napkin. "What news do you bring me today?"

  Remille, her face like a carving from the hardest alabaster, sank onto the soft cushions with unwavering grace. She allowed herself no hint of emotion, but inside, her heart pounded with a furious force, like a coiled spring ready to burst free at any moment.

  "Your Imperial Majesty, the royal family of Altaras, like weeds, has managed to survive and escape our trap. They have found refuge in… Russia, that distant barbarian land, and have announced the formation of a provisional government there, like pathetic gnats trying to defy a hurricane," Remille said with cold contempt.

  "We intercepted their magical broadcast, poisoned with the venom of rebellion, which has sparked riots and uprisings in our vassal territories. They are spreading like wildfire and threaten to engulf the entire empire," she paused, weighing each word like a precious gem.

  "If we allow these barbarians to continue sowing dissent, this festering sore of rebellion, like a cancerous tumor, will grow to unimaginable size, devouring our empire from within. With your highest permission, we have already begun Operation 'Purification.' We will destroy this entire infection, tear it out by the root, and burn in the fire of oblivion not only the Russians themselves but any memory of them. The Parpaldia Empire has known no defeat and will know none, and in the annals of history, there will not remain even the slightest mention of this insignificant and insolent country." Remille's voice was even and confident, but in her eyes burned a fanatical, merciless fire. Like a priestess of a bloody cult, she was ready to carry out any command from her god.

  "Commendable, commendable," a smile, like a predator's snarl, slid across the Emperor's lips, revealing perfectly straight teeth, faintly stained yellow from expensive wine. There was no mirth in his eyes, only a cold, predatory approval. "You have done the only right thing, Remille. With these unafraid barbarians, who fancy themselves the arbiters of fate, one must act this way, and no other. They dared to mock our great empire. They dared to give hope to slaves. For this, they must be mercilessly destroyed. Let a harsh, bloody lesson be taught to each and every one: what will happen to those who dare to challenge me, Ludius the First, Emperor of Parpaldia."

  He gracefully, in one fluid motion, filled two tall crystal goblets with a thick, burgundy wine that swirled like fresh blood in the light, and offered one to Remille.

  For some time, they continued their leisurely conversation, discussing matters of imperial governance and ways to suppress the revolts. In every word of the Emperor resonated his unwavering, almost divine confidence in his own might and his right to absolute power. He spoke of the coming war as if it were the routine work of a gardener who had to weed an overgrown patch. And Remille, her eyes filled with impatience and cold cruelty, listened intently, like a faithful disciple, absorbing his every word and feeling his will become her own.

  Having concluded their talk and received the highest approval, Remille, her eyes blazing with fanaticism, left the imperial palace and headed for the First Department. A clerk was already waiting for her at the massive entrance. With a trembling voice and an anxious air, he informed her that the Russian diplomats were waiting for her in the hall. Their arrival, like their insolence, was completely unjustified. With each step down the long, echoing corridor, the muscles in her slender legs grew heavy as lead, and her jaw clenched until her teeth ground together. What unimaginable audacity! To appear here, in the very heart of the empire, after everything they had done! She still could not fully believe that the imperial army, that invincible war machine, had suffered a defeat at the hands of some pathetic barbarians.

  Fighting back an unfamiliar fear, bordering on a morbid curiosity at their unknown audacity, Remille, her face a stone mask, slowly opened the door to the hall and saw the two diplomats. To her surprise, their faces seemed vaguely familiar. It took a colossal effort to maintain a mockingly arrogant expression, hiding a storm of emotions raging in her soul beneath a mask of cold superiority. At that moment, she silently swore to herself that she would exert all her strength, all her will, to destroy not only these impudent guests but their entire cursed, unworthy-to-exist country.

  The high, almost cathedral-like reception hall of the First Department was designed to crush and humiliate. Massive obsidian columns rose into the echoing shadows of the vaulted ceiling, and the golden imperial crests on the walls seemed to look down with contempt on anyone who did not belong to the highest caste.

  "Lady Remille. We meet again," the man in the impeccably tailored black suit, clean-shaven and with a cold, piercing gaze, who was clearly the lead, said these words with a barely perceptible, hidden smirk. As if he knew something she didn't.

  "I presume you are aware of the events that have transpired in the Kingdom of Fenn? What of the demands our government put forth? What more pathetic pleas have you brought us today?"

  "None. As always, we reject them," Remille's voice was ice, sharp as a razor. She held in her heart all the hatred that churned within her like lava in the crater of an awakening volcano, ready to erupt at any moment and incinerate everything in its path.

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  "Your vile, treacherous actions have provoked rebellion in our vassal territories. You offered them assistance in gaining sovereignty, thereby incurring the wrath of His Imperial Majesty. You were foolish to underestimate the power of a recognized superpower, the Parpaldia Empire! Relay this to your government: they are by no means untouchable, and their fate is sealed. His Imperial Majesty has given his permission for the 'Purification,' and none of you will escape his fury! We will burn your entire country to the ground!" Remille clenched her fists, ready to pounce on these insolent men.

  "I'm sorry, did I understand you correctly?" the diplomat, his face an unmoving stone mask, raised an eyebrow with a calm, almost scientific curiosity. He looked at her with cold interest, like an entomologist examining a rare, venomous, but utterly predictable insect.

  "It is exactly as I said. With no hidden meanings," Remille's voice was even, but a note of undisguised fury slipped through.

  "Rejoice and thank your gods that I am merciful today, and that you will not die here and now. Once our invasion force conquers your wretched country, there will be no mercy for anyone. Remember that!"

  Remille uttered these words in a tone so cold that it was as if an icy wind swept through the hall, freezing the very air. She desperately wanted to wrap her hands around this insolent diplomat's neck, to stab him with a stiletto, and to send his head, like a trophy, back to Russia—as a final warning to all who dared to challenge the might of the Parpaldia Empire.

  But to Remille's extreme, almost insulting surprise, not a single muscle twitched on the diplomats' faces in response to her furious words. Their expressions showed no fear, no anger, not even surprise. They looked at her as if they were carved from cold gray granite, and her threats were no more to them than the howling of the wind outside. A short, oppressive silence descended, in which all the poison of her words hung. Then the lead diplomat, with the same indifferent, almost bored expression, spoke, his voice quiet but penetrating to the very core of her consciousness:

  "Lady Remille, you have no idea what a terrible calamity you have brought upon your empire. Not with your strength, but with your foolishness and your boundless arrogance. My government need only give a single order for the entire Philades continent, down to the last stone, to be turned into a lifeless, molten desert. And for that, we will need neither soldiers nor ships. We call it 'strategic deterrence.' For you… let's just call it a spell that will bring an eternal curse upon your empire and your entire lineage." Each of his words was clear, slow, and weighty, like the blows of a hammer on a coffin lid.

  "Expect a surprise, Lady Remille. We are leaving. Our government no longer wishes to communicate with pompous, foolish, and shortsighted natives. All the best. And you can be certain that we will meet again. But not within these walls," he finished, and a faint smile appeared on his lips. A dark, ominous spark flashed in his eyes—not a threat, but a statement of an inevitable fact.

  "The ramblings of dead men do not concern me. Save those fairy tales for your afterlife," Remille threw after them with contempt, nervously clenching her hands until her knuckles cracked. She struggled to contain her rage and the desire to attack these arrogant guests. Only immense self-control and years of training at the imperial court kept her from tearing off this mask of icy composure and revealing the primal fear that had stirred in her soul for a moment at the word "spell."

  Without another word, the diplomats turned in sync and, with measured steps, headed for the exit, leaving her alone in the middle of the vast hall. They departed with their heads held high, not as supplicants, but as judges who had delivered their sentence.

  Stepping out of the stuffy palace of the First Department into the sun-drenched square, the diplomats, like shadows, quickened their pace and, without looking back, headed for their waiting carriage. Their demeanor betrayed not the slightest concern. This was not an act. This was the calm of men who had just pressed a button and set in motion a mechanism that could no longer be stopped. War had been declared.

  Central Highway, outskirts of Esthirant. A section of road.

  "Center, this is Consul-1. Do you copy?" Alexei Vishnevsky spoke into the miniature throat microphone hidden in his shirt collar. All of his feigned diplomatic gentleness had peeled away like a useless husk. His features sharpened, becoming hard, as if carved from granite, and his eyes held the cold, calculating resolve of an SVR (Foreign Intelligence Service) resident who had just received confirmation that war had begun.

  "Receiving. What's your status, Consul-1?" the voice of an operator from the embassy crackled in his micro-earpiece, distorted by interference from the city's protective magic fields.

  "Target 'Megara' has declared total war with intent for genocide. Contact terminated. We're packing it in, activating Protocol 'Exfil.' All operational groups are to proceed according to plan 'Retribution-1.' Alpha and Vympel groups, target acquisition for objectives 'Foundry' and 'Forge.' Shield Group, commence Operation 'Dawn' immediately, do not wait for a separate signal."

  "Acknowledged, Consul-1," came the short reply, and the connection was cut.

  A simple yet elegant closed carriage, hired by the embassy and indistinguishable from the hundreds of other aristocratic vehicles in the stream of traffic, rolled smoothly along the central highway of Esthirant. Suddenly, the driver pulled sharply on the reins. The carriage jerked with an unpleasant screech and came to a halt. The horses neighed in fright, rearing up. Neighboring carriages, forced to stop, grumbled impatiently.

  "Damn it!" Colonel Gruzdev, sitting opposite Vishnevsky, swore with hatred. He instantly touched the commlink hidden in his cuff. "Yastreb-1, report status! Why have we stopped?!"

  Instead of a reply, three short, barely audible clicks came through the micro-earpiece—the cover team's coded signal: "ambush, enemy has us surrounded, proceeding with Protocol 'Typhoon'."

  "Looks like an ambush," Vishnevsky stated quietly, almost silently. Without the slightest fuss, in one smooth, practiced motion, he drew a compact Lebedev PL-15 pistol from the tactical holster under his jacket. Nodding to his partner, he disengaged the safety with a sharp, dry click. The slide racked almost silently. Like a professional assassin, he concealed the pistol in the folds of his jacket, its barrel aimed at the thin wooden door, ready to open fire at any moment.

  A knock, insistent but not rough, came at the door. Vishnevsky and Gruzdev exchanged a glance. "Too polite for Remille's guards," flashed through Vishnevsky's mind. He slowly, almost lazily, opened the door a crack. And saw a painfully familiar face.

  "Greetings, honored ambassadors from the Russian Federation. Allow me to invite you to dine at my humble estate. It's just nearby," Lord Kaios smiled, dressed in an elegant black coat. His gaze seemed to pierce right through them, and his hand gestured casually towards one of the aristocratic quarters.

  The lead diplomat, with a professional, slightly strained smile, replied politely:

  "Hello, Lord Kaios. We appreciate your hospitality, but unfortunately, we must decline your gracious invitation. As you are likely already aware, our countries are in a state of war. There is nothing more for us to discuss. Please accept our deepest apologies." He spoke politely and with restraint, but his hand, hidden in the sleeve of his jacket, continued to grip the pistol, ready to fire. This was not just a refusal. It was a challenge thrown in the face of one of the most powerful men in the Empire.

  "Indulge me with just one minute of your precious time, gentlemen. Just one minute!" Kaios exclaimed, his smile suddenly widening, almost manic, but something flickered in his eyes that sent a chill down both Russians' spines. It was not the madness of a fanatic. It was the madness of a gambler going all in.

  "War with the Russian Federation is a fatal, irreparable mistake for my empire! And I will do everything to stop it. It would be a great and unforgivable folly if our nations could not find sensible people capable of finding common ground. I would like to establish a direct, unofficial channel of communication with you. Perhaps you could leave me some artifact of yours, a radio beacon, so that we might avoid a senseless slaughter," his voice grew serious, without a hint of jest.

  "Frankly, I have no desire to be caught in what you Russians call 'carpet bombing'," he finished, and his expectant gaze seemed to bore into their very souls.

  Alexei Vishnevsky tensed internally, like a drawn bowstring. His finger applied almost imperceptible pressure on the trigger. This man knew too much. He used their own modern military term. "A spy network in Moscow? Agents among the 'transferred' foreigners? Or… something worse?" Thoughts raced through his head with the speed of a computer processor.

  "To finally convince you to trust me, allow me to tell you something that, here in this world, only you… and I know."

  "That's… possible," Vishnevsky said slowly, a hint of cold surprise in his voice, his body remaining coiled like a spring.

  "It's probably been many years since I read these names in old, dusty books. I've already lost count of the time," Kaios smirked slyly, like a cat enjoying the helplessness of a cornered mouse. "The explosion at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. Does that name mean anything to you? The war in Afghanistan? Or perhaps, such a landmark event as the collapse of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics? Forgive me, but I don't remember the exact dates, I've grown old…" Kaios smiled again, watching a tectonic shift occur on his interlocutors' faces.

  To say the diplomats were stunned would be an understatement. The mask of impenetrability on Colonel Gruzdev's face, a veteran of both Chechen campaigns, shattered as if struck by a sledgehammer, replaced by an expression of absolute, primal shock. A cold sweat broke out on Vishnevsky's forehead, the SVR resident's jaw dropping involuntarily. These words were not just information. They were a password. A password from another, long-buried world. No one, absolutely no one in this reality, could know these names.

  "What were you saying… about dinner?" Vishnevsky asked, his voice hoarse, almost alien. He was trying to maintain his composure, but his world had just been turned upside down.

  Kaios chuckled, pleased that his gambit had succeeded.

  "This way, gentlemen-comrades," he gestured for them to follow, deliberately using the old Soviet form of address. And in that simple word, there was more meaning and mystery than in all their previous negotiations.

  Parpaldia Empire. Capital City of Esthirant. Estate of Lord Kaios.

  The interior of the mansion was striking in its undisguised, almost decadent splendor. Unlike the heavy, oppressive luxury of the imperial palace, here reigned an atmosphere of refined hedonism. The furniture, crafted from a light, almost honey-colored kai'ri wood, seemed to breathe art and elegance, and on the walls, instead of battle scenes, hung enormous tapestries woven from the finest silk, depicting pastoral scenes from mythical tales. Through the tall, lancet window overlooking a quiet, secluded garden, the melodious burble of a fountain could be heard.

  "I see you have a great many questions for me," Kaios chuckled, skillfully spearing a piece of succulent duck in orange sauce with his fork. He popped it into his mouth, barely chewing, and washed it down with a rich, burgundy wine. "And judging by your faces, a great many indeed. Please, don't be shy, ask away. Try the duck. I assure you, despite your professional decorum, you'll be licking your fingers," he smirked, and a glint of an old sybarite who knew the value of life sparkled in his eyes.

  "Thank you, Lord Kaios," Ambassador Vishnevsky, having recovered slightly from the shock, cut a neat, small piece, trying to maintain an outward calm and composure. The meat melted in his mouth. "Mmm, truly… delicious. What was your name… in your past life? And how do you know about the Chernobyl disaster and the war in Afghanistan?"

  "Alexei Borisovich. Belov," Kaios replied with a sad, nostalgic smile. He took a sip of wine and dabbed his lips with a fine silk napkin. "I was living in Moscow back then, just a young man, full of fire. My father, being a high-ranking official in the Central Committee, helped me get into the Andropov Red Banner Institute of the KGB. After graduating with honors, I was assigned to the 'Kaskad' special-purpose detachment. Our task was to train personnel for the Afghan special services and conduct search and reconnaissance operations to eliminate insurgent groups," a note of old pride crept into his voice. "Ah, so many years have passed… forgive me, I got sidetracked. Next question?"

  "How old are you now?" Colonel Gruzdev asked. His question was short and direct, like a gunshot. He looked at Kaios not as a diplomat, but as an operational target.

  "In this body," Kaios smirked, gesturing casually at himself, "or in total, including that past life?"

  "In total."

  "One hundred and fifty. Give or take a few years. It's been so long, one loses track," Kaios answered with a philosophical air, taking another sip of wine.

  "Hmm, I see," Gruzdev rubbed his chin, trying to gather his thoughts. A hundred and fifty years old. He was sitting across from a contemporary of Napoleon who spoke with the slang of the 1980s. It didn't compute. "And… how did you end up in this body?"

  "My heart gave out," Kaios smiled sadly, but without a trace of self-pity. "Afghanistan, then the collapse of the Union, working for one of the 'agencies' in the 'wild nineties'… My heart couldn't take the collapse of the Union. The injustice. The treachery. I thought I would see a light at the end of that dark tunnel… and I did… but not the one I was expecting." Kaios fell silent for a moment, and his gaze seemed to look through the walls of the mansion, through this world itself, into a distant, lost past. "I ended up in the body of an infant, the heir to one of Parpaldia's most ancient but impoverished noble houses. I don't know what happened to his soul, maybe it just faded away. And I, like a parasite, took its place and have lived in this body for so many years... At first, I hated it all. These pompous counts. These arrogant lords, their rituals, their code of honor that they violated at every turn. Over time, however, this land became… a home to me. a second motherland. I got used to it, I adapted," his voice held a mix of bitterness and nostalgia, as if he were an eternal prisoner of two worlds.

  "Understood. And what do you want from us, Alexei Borisovich?" Vishnevsky asked. Now he addressed him not as a Parpaldian lord, but as a countryman, albeit from another era.

  "Here's the thing… What's your name? Although, your call sign will suffice…" Kaios looked expectantly at Colonel Gruzdev, whose military bearing marked him as a professional soldier.

  "Consul-2," Gruzdev answered curtly, by the book.

  "Well then, 'Consul-2,' I have numerous contacts among the high aristocracy and the general staff of the Parpaldia Empire who listen to my words, and who, to put it mildly, are extremely displeased with the current Emperor Ludius and his fanatical puppet, Remille," Kaios continued, as if discussing the weather.

  "As a lord from a high aristocratic branch, I have a full claim to the position of regent. And frankly, I have no desire to be buried under the rubble of my own palace during one of your demonstration airstrikes," his gaze grew serious, and he set down his glass.

  "When the time comes, and I have no more rivals, I can take the throne. Become the provisional ruler and make peace with you. On your terms. In return, I need very little: your tacit support, a radio beacon for targeting so that your missiles don't accidentally mistake my estate for the imperial palace, and a way to establish direct contact with you. How does my proposal sound to you, comrades?"

  "I will relay your words to our government. You will be contacted," Vishnevsky replied dryly, without a hint of emotion.

  The long-awaited "green light" from Moscow came a few days later. And over the next week, a team of SVR specialists, under the guise of merchants of rare artifacts from Sios, discreetly infiltrated Kaios's estate. Working like ghosts through the night, they installed a disguised satellite communications complex and compact generators in his cellar and instructed him on how to use it all. And then, just as discreetly, they left the empire and headed for the Kingdom of Fenn. The piece had been placed on the board. Now, they just had to wait for the right time to make their move.