A/N: Hey eveyrone, I decided to do what i should have done on Sunday and split the overall first chapter in half and make the club scene its own chapter due to how long it is and so its easier for people to digest it.
Thanks very much
Kind Regads
Quill
Cloaked in the guise of a consort, Surt walked with calculated grace beside Ambassador Henrik, a man whose Baltic origins lent him a stern demeanor softened only by his surprising warmth towards Britannia. The cool evening air wrapped around them as they approached the famed club, a place whispered about in circles both high and low for its exclusivity and the secrets it harbored within its opulent walls.
The evening attire she donned was a far cry from her standard tastes, the fabrics and design chosen to accentuate rather than conceal. Her short brunette hair, styled in a practical yet chic mullet, provided a stark contrast to the flowing lines of her gown, reflecting her penchant for efficiency even in her appearance.
Her face cladded in all the makeup, facial appliances and more that people of her class were expected to powder on, her maid Christina not allowing her to leave her seat until she was satisfied that she looked the part in everyway.
Surt was acutely aware of the glances cast her way, a mixture of admiration and perhaps a hint of intimidation.
Standing at a towering height, she was used to towering over many, her stature imposing, her presence undeniable and males often gawking, eyeing her up or sending daggers os resentment. Especially the smaller ones that always twinkled toed around her.
Yet, within the confines of the gown, the jewels on her neck, ears and head, amidst the glittering world of Britannian elite, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of incongruity.
Men, she mused, were spared such elaborate rituals of dress, their power and status not bound by the whims of fashion to the same extent. Though some had no issue flaunting it when it pleased them.
As they neared, Henrik began to speak, his voice carrying a note of anticipation. "You'll find the Verdant Haven unlike any other, a true haven for the elite. And their card-game tournaments—legendary. I wouldn't be surprised if tonight there was one."
Surt's lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes glinting with amusement.
"Oh, I'm quite familiar with the Verdant Haven and its games," she confessed, her voice a melodic blend of intrigue and confidence.
"The tournaments are more than legend; they're an art form here. One I've had the... pleasure of partaking in before."
Henrik glanced at her, a mixture of surprise and admiration flashing across his features.
"Indeed? Then tonight promises to be even more interesting than I'd hoped," he remarked, his earlier enthusiasm tinged now with curiosity.
They were greeted at the entrance with nothing more than a nod, Henrik's political stature rendering further scrutiny unnecessary. Surt, under her alias and the protective wing of the ambassador's reputation, passed through the threshold unchallenged, stepping into a world that was both familiar and fraught with potential danger.
The interior of the Verdant Haven unfolded like a scene from a tale of intrigue and opulence, its patrons a mosaic of the empire's most influential figures. Each laugh, each whispered secret, wove the fabric of alliances and rivalries that held the empire together—and could just as easily tear it apart.
As they crossed the threshold of the Verdant Haven, Surt allowed herself a brief pause, her eyes scanning the grandeur in the aesthetic that marked the establishment's interior. The air was thick with the fragrance of expensive perfumes and the murmur of the elite, engaged in their dances of diplomacy and deceit.
Each detail of the club, from the lavish tapestries to the discreetly stationed security, was noted by Surt, cataloged in her mind for any future utility. The place had gotten a significant upgrade since she was last here.
As they ventured deeper into the club's embrace, a woman of notable stature and ethereal beauty caught their attention. With her nearly white hair cascading like moonlight and eyes that held the depth of the night sky, she exuded a presence that was both commanding and otherworldly.
Her attire, a perfect blend of elegance and power, hinted at her status and the respect she commanded within these walls.
Recognizing Henrik, she approached with a grace that belied her influence, her gaze briefly settling on Surt with a flicker of curiosity. Henrik, with the ease of one well-versed in courtly exchanges, offered a warm greeting, introducing Surt under the guise of her assumed identity.
"My dear friend," Henrik addressed the noblewoman.
"I trust the evening finds you well. May I introduce Madam Elara, a distinguished lady." The name rolled off his tongue, a fabricated identity that now cloaked Surt in further anonymity.
The noblewoman, her interest piqued, offered a nod of acknowledgement, her gaze lingering on Surt with an unspoken promise of stories yet untold.
"I believe I will leave Madam Elara in your esteemed company. She has quite the aptitude for the games here, and I'm sure she would relish the opportunity to partake." Henrik excusing himself with a blend of courtesy and intent.
Surt, acknowledging her new companion with a polite smile, felt the weight of her role press upon her.
"I am Lady Seraphine, by the way." The noblewoman, with an air of grace that seemed almost otherworldly, introduced herself.
"Lady Seraphine, it is a pleasure," Surt replied, her tone perfectly modulated to reflect a blend of curiosity and cultured grace that she presumed Madam Elara would possess. Her eyes, sharp and observant beneath the guise of polite interest, scanned Lady Seraphine, noting the subtle tells and flourishes that bespoke her status and influence.
With an inviting smile, Lady Seraphine gestured toward a grand corner of the Verdant Haven where a group had gathered, their focus centered on a game of Herzla. "Come, Madam Elara, let us witness the art of Herzla. It's a fascinating game, one that demands both wit and foresight."
Surt feigned a look of intrigued unfamiliarity. "I must confess, Lady Seraphine, my acquaintance with Herzla is quite superficial. I would be most grateful for your insights," she said, adopting the role of an eager learner, her eyes alight with feigned naivety.
As they approached the grand corner, the murmur of the crowd and the clinking of glasses filled the air, setting a backdrop to the strategic duels unfolding over Herzla tables.
Lady Seraphine leaned closer to Surt, her voice a whisper amid the surrounding clamor.
"Herzla," Lady Seraphine began, her voice tinged with the excitement of sharing a cherished pastime,
"Is a game of strategic avoidance, where the objective is quite simple: to evade capturing any Hearts."
She explained that the game used a Bavarian pattern pack of 32 cards, traditionally with the Sixes removed, akin to what one might find in a standard Schafkopf pack. The cards held their natural order of rank: Sow at the pinnacle, followed by King, Ober, Unter, down to the Seven.
"As we play," she continued, gesturing toward the players assembling their hands.
"Each will be dealt eight cards, and we'll follow the lead of the forehand in a clockwise dance of wits and strategy."
Surt nodded, her eyes following the distribution of cards, noting the deliberate care in each player's touch and gaze.
As Lady Seraphine delved into the nuances of Herzla, Surt, lent her real focus to a nearby group of nobles whose inhibitions were loosening under the influence of fine spirits. Among them, a distinguished yet visibly inebriated figure with his greying dirty blong hair stood out—Reuben Ashford.
The Ashford name was synonymous with prestige and eccentricity, Reuben embodying both traits to their fullest. His inebriated state did nothing to dampen his boisterous demeanor, a glass of expensive liquor in one hand and the attention of a small crowd in the other.
Surt was well-acquainted with the stories that swirled around Reuben, each tale adding layers to his larger-than-life persona. One such story that came to mind was the time Reuben allegedly wagered a significant portion of his estate on a seemingly trivial game of chance. Against all odds and the advice of his peers, he won, doubling his fortune.
Amidst the clatter of cards and the low hum of cultured voices, snippets of their conversation drifted to Surt's ears, offering fragments of information that, to the untrained listener, might seem inconsequential.
One noble, his words slurring slightly, leaned in and whispered to his fellow nobles.
"They've taken a corpse, can you believe it? What bold bastards would dare desecrate the Tomb of Empress Clara? Not only is it disgusting, it's embarrassing and dehumanizing for everyone involved!" he murmured, a mix of disbelief and excitement in his tone.
"It is a good thing those artsy young bloods brought that absinthe stuff in. Whatever that stuff is, it is the only thing that can get my mind off of the current affairs of things…"
Meanwhile, Reuben Ashford, perhaps emboldened by the wine or the company, began to speak louder.
"You've all seen nothing yet," he boasted, swaying slightly.
"My latest project—it'll be the talk of the empire, the first of something you will all come to envy! And something the world will come to fear and respect!" His eyes glimmered with a mix of defiance and drunken fervor, suggesting a conviction that many of his peers seemed to lack, given their dismissive chuckles.
"Oh, this absinthe is a little too good… Is that while you are all snickering?!"
As the Herzla explanation wound down and the game began in earnest, Surt remained outwardly engaged, yet her mind was already weaving the overheard fragments into her ongoing analysis. The drunken disclosures of nobles, dismissed by many as mere revelry-fueled ramblings, could be goldmines of insight and intelligence.
Lady Seraphine's enthusiasm was palpable as she directed Surt's attention to a particular gaming table where two figures stood out.
"Look there," she said, her voice tinged with excitement,
"Those two have been on quite the winning streak tonight. Remarkable players, aren't they?"
Surt followed her gaze and, despite the elaborate disguises that rendered them nearly unrecognizable to the uninitiated, she recognized the subtle mannerisms and the familiar strategic flair in their gameplay. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized the 'foreign nobles' dominating the Herzla table were none other than her own half-siblings, Olivia and Oiagros Zevon.
They were clad in attire that suggested allegiance to Britannia, their sashes a clear nod to their supposed loyalty, blending perfectly with the crowd yet standing out due to their sheer skill at the game. Surt felt a mix of surprise and a strange sense of pride. Her half-siblings, adept at the art of disguise and subterfuge, were here, under the very same roof, enacting roles unbeknownst to all but her.
Lady Seraphine, unaware of the personal connection, continued to praise the skills of the mysterious players.
"Their strategy is impeccable, almost as if they can anticipate their opponents' moves before they're made," she remarked, her admiration clear.
Surt nodded, her mind racing, as she agreed with Lady Seraphine's assessment.
"Indeed, they play with a finesse that's rare to witness," she replied, keeping her tone neutral while her thoughts whirled with possibilities.
As the Herzla game reached its tense conclusion, Surt watched with keen interest as one of the players, a figure of grace and strategy, clinched a victory against a noble from the Baltics.
The prize, a ring adorned with the Livonian crest, was surrendered with a mixture of respect and reluctance, its new owner accepting it with practiced nonchalance. From a distance, Surt admired the winner's poise and skill.
Lady Seraphine, caught up in the excitement of the game and the spectacle of the win, suggested they approach the successful players to offer their congratulations.
"Let's meet these remarkable strategists," She said, her voice filled with genuine admiration for the night's standout performers.
As they neared, Surt prepared to dig deeper into the Madam Elara persona, ready to engage in pleasantries and accolades.
The intricate details of their disguises were impeccable, yet not impermeable to Surt's discerning eyes. The way Olivia tilted her head, the particular cadence of Oiagros's laughter—subtle cues further confirmed their true identities to her without a doubt.
To any onlooker, the interaction was nothing more than an amiable exchange between the evening's luminary and another guest.
The recognition was mutual. Upon seeing Surt, Olivia and Oiagros's eyes betrayed a momentary spark of surprise before they quickly masked their reactions, maintaining the guise of foreign nobles they had adopted for the evening.
"And who might this be?" Oiagros inquired with a well-feigned curiosity as Lady Seraphine introduced Surt as Madam Elara.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance," she replied, her mind racing to adapt to this unexpected twist in the evening's narrative.
Under the warm, golden glow of the Verdant Haven's chandeliers, Olivia and Oiagros, introduced themselves with carefully chosen Baltic names. "I am Lord Aleksander and this is Lady Katarina. " Oiagros declared, his voice carrying the faint, exotic lilt of an accent he had fabricated for the night. Olivia, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, allowed her demeanor to effortlessly shift to match the elegance and mystique her assumed title suggested.
"We hail not from far, but from near. Exiles, I suppose you can say." Oiagros continued.
Lady Seraphine, visibly taken by "Lord Aleksander's" charm and the intrigue that surrounded the pair, hung on every word Oiagros spoke, her fascination evident in the way her gaze lingered a moment too long, the way her laughter filled the spaces between their conversation. It was clear to all, perhaps most amusingly to Surt, that Seraphine had developed a crush on Oiagros.
She observed as Olivia, seizing the moment, proposed a toast with the absinthe that had recently become the talk of the club. "Let us indulge in a truly unique experience," she suggested, her proposal infused with the promise of shared secrets and the allure of the unknown.
"This absinthe, they say, is like no other."
However, Surt felt that Olivia was plotting to get a private moment with her rather than fully entertain Lady Seraphine, by the way she had eyed her with a mischievous wink. As if to say, 'watch this'.
Surt observed Olivia's spontaneous play come into play, as Olivia skillfully interrupted another of Lady Seraphine's advances towards Oiagros. She leaned in, whispering just loud enough for their little circle to hear,
"Lord Aleksander was just telling me about his fascinating collection of antique maps. Weren't you, dear brother?"
Oiagros, catching Olivia's cue with seamless synchronicity, adopted a look of sudden enthusiasm. "
Ah, yes, indeed! The cartography of the ancient world is quite a hobby of mine," he proclaimed, managing to sound both earnest and distracted.
Lady Seraphine's eyes lit up with curiosity, her focus subtly diverted from her initial target.
Surt watched the exchange, a wry smile curving her lips as she noted the elegance of Olivia's maneuver. It was a delicate dance of social redirection they were both familiar with, though rarely had she seen it executed with such finesse in real-time.
"Perhaps, Lady Seraphine, you'd care to hear more about it?" Olivia suggested, her tone inviting yet carefully neutral, providing Oiagros the space to engage with Seraphine on less perilous ground.
With a polite nod, Oiagros took the lead, beginning a detailed, if somewhat fabricated, account of his 'collection,' his words crafted to intrigue yet not invite too much scrutiny.
Surt caught his eye for a moment, sharing a brief, knowing glance that spoke volumes of their mutual understanding and appreciation for the art of subtlety.
As Olivia gently steered the conversation away, she whispered to Surt,
"Time for a strategic retreat, don't you think? The absinthe ceremony is about to begin."
Moving away from the lively banter, they found themselves in a quieter section of the club. The change in atmosphere was immediate; the raucous laughter and clinking glasses gave way to the soft murmur of voices and the gentle clink of absinthe spoons.
The ritual of preparing the absinthe, with its precise measurements and careful additions, captivated the small crowd that had gathered.
"A fascinating process, isn't it?" Olivia remarked quietly, as they watched the bartender expertly drip water over a sugar cube, the liquid turning the absinthe a cloudy, opalescent green.
"It is," Surt agreed, her attention momentarily captured by the ceremonial precision of the act.
"Seems like there's an art to everything here."
The area set aside for the absinthe was illuminated in a way that made the bottles and glasses gleam, their contents promising an experience as potent as it was mystical. The crowd that had gathered, each person's interest piqued by the prospect of the shared ritual, created a bubble of anticipation around the preparation table.
As they stood by the table where the absinthe was being meticulously prepared, Surt leaned in slightly, her voice low, so only Olivia could hear.
"You brought the absinthe, didn't you?" she accused, but her tone carried more curiosity than condemnation.
Olivia, with a hint of mischief twinkling in her eyes, nodded.
"Indeed, I did," she confessed, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.
"Absinthe has a peculiar way of loosening tongues and barriers, more so than any other spirit. It peels back the layers of pretense and gets people to reveal their innermost truths."
Surt couldn't suppress a smile, both at the admission and the strategy behind it.
"Impressive," She remarked, genuinely admiring her sister's foresight.
"You always had a knack for uncovering the heart of matters, especially when it benefits a cause."
The absinthe was finally ready, its preparation an elaborate ritual that captivated the surrounding onlookers. The green liquid, now liberated from its bottle, was poised to serve as both a libation and a tool for revelation within the club's gilded walls.
Olivia handed a glass to Surt, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.
"To the truths we seek and the games we play," Olivia toasted, her gaze meeting Surt's with an intensity that acknowledged the depth of their shared endeavors.
Surt raised her glass in return, the potent aroma of the absinthe tickling her senses. "To the dangerous paths we tread," she replied, her voice a blend of jest and solemnity. After a small, cautious sip, the unique flavor of the absinthe unfurled on her tongue, potent and rich with the taste of forbidden knowledge.
"This stuff is dangerous," Surt commented after a moment, her thoughts drifting to the future, envisioning the nights that might find her seeking the same liberating escape.
"I could see myself getting quite accustomed to it."
Olivia chuckled, acknowledging the sentiment with a nod.
"It does have a way of ensnaring one's senses," she agreed, sipping her own drink with a practiced ease.
As Surt held the glass of absinthe, her attention subtly shifted to the broader scene unfolding around her. The club, an exclusive enclave for Britannia's nobility, both near and abroad, buzzed with the low hum of conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional outburst of laughter or heated debate.
Nobles of various ranks and standings mingled, their titles ranging from Viscounts to Grand Dukes, each carrying their own set of interests, allegiances, and burdens under Malcolm's rule.
Surt, with a glass of absinthe cradled in her hand, retreated into the dimly lit fringes of the Verdant Haven, her posture relaxed yet vigilant.
The opulent club, a hub for Britannia's elite, pulsated with life—a life foreign to most outside its gilded walls. Here, the upper echelons of society reveled in their status, oblivious or indifferent to the watchful eyes that surveyed them from the shadows.
In the far corner, isolated yet observable, stood a delegation of foreign dignitaries. Their demeanor was one of forced composure amidst the sea of Britannian aristocracy.
An ambassador, caught between his role and his discomfort, flinched as a Britannian duke clapped him on the back with a familiarity that reeked of dominance rather than friendship. The duke's laugh, booming and unbridled, filled the air, his gesture a clear display of power thinly veiled as camaraderie.
Closer to the heart of the revelry, by the bustling bar, a young waitress maneuvered with an agility born of necessity. Her uniform, pristine and demure, served as scant armor against the predatory gaze of a baron who, emboldened by liquor and status, sought to breach the professional distance she meticulously maintained. Surt watched as the waitress dodged an advancing hand, her skill in evasion speaking to a regrettable familiarity with such encounters.
Surt wove through the crowd, the ambient chatter and laughter became a backdrop to her silent appraisal. Her formidable presence, marked by her height and the quiet confidence with which she occupied space, attracted speculative glances from a group of nobles. Their interest was not in her identity but in the novelty she presented—an enigma in their midst.
One count, particularly inebriated and undeterred by decorum, attempted to lay a hand on her. With a swift movement, Surt sidestepped his advance, her glare icy, a wordless but potent deterrent.
A young lady-in-waiting hastened past, the fabric of her skirt whispering against the marble floor, Surt took a discreet, yet discerning look at her. Her face was flushed, breaths coming in short, rapid bursts indicative of recent agitation or fear. Her eyes darted nervously around, as if she was both seeking an escape and fearing she would be called back to the very place she fled from.
Surt's eyes followed the lady momentarily, acknowledging the stark contrast between her own position, where she could deflect unwanted advances with a look or a step, and that of the lady-in-waiting, whose station demanded compliance and offered little room for rebuff or refusal.
Surt managed to regained her composure, weaving through the throngs of Britannia's elite, her path intersected with that of a nobleman of Indian descent. His demeanor stood in stark contrast to the prevailing attitudes around them; where others exuded entitlement, he projected a sense of genuine courtesy and concern.
"Excuse me, madam," the gentleman began, his tone infused with a sincerity that was uncommon in such grandiose gatherings, drawing Surt's attention.
"I noticed a hint of unease in your manner. I hope all is well. Might someone be causing you distress?"
Surt, momentarily surprised by the genuine concern in his approach, managed a small smile.
"I appreciate your concern, truly," she responded, "I'm merely trying to locate a friend in this crowd."
He acknowledged her reply with a nod, his demeanor respectful and unimposing.
"If you require any assistance, please feel free to let me know," he offered, then added,
"By the way, I hail from Punjab—a proud heritage." Surt assumed he was charmed by her warm response to him.
Surt's interest was piqued. "Punjab, you say? As in India? How are things back there?" she inquired, seizing the opportunity to glean insights from a different perspective.
The man's face shadowed slightly as he pondered her question.
"The region has its challenges, particularly, a lot of the officer class has been placed along the Burmese-Chinese border where tensions have been escalating. Things have been changing in China, we feel the tremors of their discontent," he admitted, his tone laced with a mix of resilience and realism.
"Yet, we remain hopeful. Adversity isn't unfamiliar to us, and we've learned to navigate it with perseverance. I hope for peace in the Asian continent, one of these days."
"Mr. Singh!" the voice commanded authority and a hint of irritation, belonging to a senior military officer adorned with distinguished insignia. The others in the group, a blend of uniforms and formal attire, turned their gazes toward him, their expressions mingling curiosity with disapproval.
"I must take my leave," the gentleman, now identified as Mr. Singh, said to Surt, his tone laced with regret. He offered a respectful nod, a silent acknowledgment of their brief but meaningful exchange, before he turned to rejoin his awaiting colleagues.
"We do not mingle with the locals as equals, Mr. Singh. Remember your place here, we are guests not peers!" the officer chided, loud enough for nearby onlookers to overhear.
Settling into a quieter corner of the club, Surt leaned against the cool marble, her senses sharpening as she tuned into the murmurs and snippets of conversation that floated through the air.
"Did you hear about the latest decree?" a Duke asked, swirling his glass of absinthe, the green liquid catching the light.
"Malcolm's tightening the noose again."
A Grand Duke, adorned in a sash that bore the imperial crest, leaned in, lowering his voice.
"We must tread carefully. Today's favorite could be tomorrow's exile—or worse."
Nearby, a group of foreign dignitaries stood somewhat apart. An ambassador from a newly conquered territory exchanged a strained smile with a Britannian Baron, the latter's condescension thinly veiled.
"Your land has much to gain under Britannian rule," the Baron remarked, though his tone suggested less of an offer and more of a decree.
Surt's gaze shifted to a corner where a few nobles leered over a hostess, their laughter too loud, their stares too pointed. She felt a twinge of disgust, her hand tightening around her glass. These were the moments that laid bare the ugly truth beneath the aristocracy's polished facade.
At another table, a Viscount raised his glass.
"To the Emperor," he toasted, though his eyes darted around, seeking affirmation or perhaps complicity.
"May his reign endure."
Yet, not all echoed the sentiment. In a hushed exchange, barely audible over the clinking of glasses, a Baron murmured to his companion,
"The Imperial Family grows out of touch. They forget who holds the true power in this empire."
Surt absorbed these snippets, piecing together a mosaic of loyalty, fear, and burgeoning dissent. Each word, each glance, provided insight into the cracks forming within the empire's foundations.
As Surt settled into her observations, her brief respite was interrupted by a British noble who sidled up to her, his demeanor carrying the unmistakable air of condescension that she had come to associate with the worst of the Verdant Haven's patrons.
"Excuse me, my dear," he began, casting a disparaging look in the direction the Indian noble had departed.
"I saw that darker man approach you just a moment ago. Did that damn Indian trouble you in any way?"
Surt's eyes narrowed slightly, her demeanor cool as she replied, "On the contrary, he was ensuring I was not the one being troubled. Quite the gentleman, actually."
The noble's face contorted into a sneer at her words. "Gentleman? You'd do well to remember, my dear, that those... of a darker complexion might not always have the noblest intentions."
Surt felt her patience thinning, yet she maintained her poised exterior.
"I find that integrity isn't a matter of complexion. I can discern character quite well on my own, thank you."
Undeterred by her retort, the noble pressed on, his tone laced with acrimony.
"You must understand, these 'allies' from Asia, especially the darker ones, they're not entirely content with our ways. They express quite a distaste, not just for Malcolm but for our entire governance."
Intrigued despite herself and seeing an opportunity to delve deeper, Surt probed,
"And why do you think they're so discontent? Is it because the trade agreements aren't favoring them as they should?"
His irritation flared visibly. "It's their own fault," he declared.
"China, for example, is ungrateful. We've extended lucrative trade agreements, yet they complain. They'd rather dream about having their own horde of Sakuradite one day than invest in their nation's future. It's sheer greed."
Surt considered his words, recognizing the layers of bias and misinformation that tinted his views. "So you believe they're just squandering their resources? Perhaps their perspective on 'benefit' and 'equity' differs from ours."
The noble huffed, clearly unaccustomed to being challenged.
"Their perspective is skewed by greed and short-sightedness. They don't understand the value of a partnership with Britannia."
Surt's interest was further piqued by the noble's escalating fervor, posed a pointed question,
"Do you fear a future where the Chinese might be seen—and treated—as equals on the global stage?"
The noble's laughter was harsh, dismissive.
"Equals? They are a ticking time bomb, nothing more. Granting any sort of prominence to Far East Asians would only delude them into thinking they stand shoulder to shoulder with us, with the white European elite."
Surt's inquiry was calculated, "So, is your disdain for all Asians, or do you segregate your prejudices?"
He leaned in, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face.
"I've nothing against enjoying the... finer aspects of Asian. I have an intense fondness for their women," he said, a clear insinuation lacing his words.
"But let's not kid ourselves. A world where they think they can rival or threaten Britannian supremacy? That's not a world I plan to live in."
Surt pressed on, masking her growing revulsion with a veneer of curiosity.
"And you believe Asia, China, in particular, should be kept in check, cultivated, and colonized for their own good?"
His agreement was immediate, fervent.
"Absolutely. They possess resources, potential, but lack the civilized oversight to use them wisely. They're ripe for guidance, for cultivation under a firmer, more enlightened hand—ours."
"And this 'guidance,'" Surt continued, "is it just a euphemism for exploitation and subjugation under the guise of Britannian superiority?"
The noble's smile didn't waver.
"Call it what you will. But in the grand chessboard of international politics, some pieces are simply more pivotal than others. And Britannia, my dear, is the queen on that board."
Surt, masking her growing disdain, inquired nonchalantly as she shifted in her heels.
"You are surely a man of large and bold opinions, all of which were fearlessly stated. What is your name, sir?"
The noble puffed up slightly, pride in his heritage apparent even amidst the distasteful conversation.
"Van der Berg," he announced with a touch of arrogance.
Surt couldn't resist a parting shot, her tone laced with mockery.
"With a name as pompous as Van der Berg, it's no wonder you seek solace elsewhere. Perhaps foreign women find novelty in it."
As she turned to leave, Van der Berg's veneer of civility cracked further.
"In another setting, I'd show you just how much of a man Van der Berg can be," he muttered, a vile implication hanging in his words.
Surt felt a surge of revulsion at the threat veiled thinly as a jest. It was a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked beneath the surface of even the most refined gatherings. Determined not to show her unease, she walked away with measured steps, her mind now focused on finding allies or at least the comfort of more familiar, less hostile company within the club.
Her decision to rejoin Olivia driven as much by a desire to escape further unpleasant encounters as by the need to regroup. She wove through the crowd with renewed purpose, her thoughts momentarily clouded by the distasteful exchange.
Surt was able to hide her true demeanor from most, but not Olivia. Her half-sibling was always able to see the subtle change that indicated that she was in her element, gleaning information amidst the din of revelry.
With a discreet nudge, Olivia directed Surt's attention to a heated exchange occurring at the edge of the room. There, amidst the clinking glasses and the undercurrent of genteel debauchery, stood a man seething with indignation, his face reddened either by drink or anger—perhaps both.
"That's Krushevsky," Olivia murmured to Surt, her voice low.
"Seems he's caught in quite the storm."
The center of the brewing conflict, Mr. Krushevsky, was visibly incensed, his anger palpable even from their discreet vantage point. He was locked in a heated debate with another noble, the source of his ire being a veiled accusation thrown carelessly into the air by his opponent.
"My family's honor is not up for debate!" Krushevsky's voice thundered through the space, his hand balled into a fist at his side, a physical testament to his effort to maintain decorum despite the provocation.
"You speak of matters you understand nothing about, you fool! I ought to teach you a lesson on respect."
The accusatory noble, taken aback yet smug, retorted with a taunting undercurrent,
"Oh, Krushevsky, such defenses. But rumors do tend to have a kernel of truth, don't they? Your indignation only adds fuel to the fire. You would hardly be the first person whose wife is unfaithful!"
Surt absorbed the exchange with keen interest, her thoughts briefly flickering to the broader implications.
A part of her assumed Charles had added a new lady to his half-dozen or so of mistresses that he constantly courts.
Around them, the crowd had thinned, a circle of onlookers forming, eager to witness the spectacle yet cautious not to get too involved.
Surt watched intently, her mind racing as she pieced together the implications of the public confrontation.
As the argument simmered down, Krushevsky being pulled away by peers urging him to retain his dignity, Surt sensed the depth of the scandal's potential impact if it somehow turned out to be true. Infidelity, after all, went against the supposed 'integrity' of the noble class.
On paper and in public, at least. A noble being branded a cuckold would no doubt create immense resentment, especially if it was a man of higher stature responsible for the cuckolding itself.
As they watched the remnants of the altercation dissipate, Olivia turned to Surt, a playful smirk forming on her lips.
"You know," she began, her gaze sweeping over Surt's carefully constructed appearance,
"You do make quite the convincing ambassador's consort. It's almost too perfect. Chistina's work no doubt"
Surt raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement mingling with her pride in her own subterfuge.
"I aim to embody the role," she responded, her tone laced with a touch of mock vanity.
"I should think blending in is the point, isn't it?"
Olivia laughed softly, the sound mingling with the ambient noise of the club.
"Indeed, it is. But seeing you like this, so prim and proper, is amusing to me. It's such a stark contrast to the Surt I know—the one who's usually orchestrating our more... covert operations and hiding away in her armor and robes."
Surt couldn't help but smile.
"Well, I'm glad my guise can provide some entertainment."
Olivia's gaze shifted across the room, finding Oiagros still ensnared in Lady Seraphine's company, the noblewoman seemingly reluctant to release him from her attentions.
"I think it's time for a tactical extraction," Olivia declared with a hint of mischief.
"Poor Oiagros looks like he could use a rescue. And what better way to divert Lady Seraphine than by pulling him into a game of cards? She wouldn't dare interrupt, not when the stakes are high, and the focus is sharp."
Surt nodded, understanding the strategy.
"Lead the way, then," she said, ready to follow Olivia's lead and curious to see how her siblings would maneuver their way out of the social entanglement.
In the refined chaos of the playing room, Surt positioned herself at a vantage point where she could observe Olivia's diplomatic rescue of Oiagros.
Her attention, however, was diverted when the Baltic noble who had earlier forfeited his ring to Olivia approached her. His demeanor carried a certain intensity, reminiscent of the calculated and commanding presence, yet a polite one.
"Good evening," he began, his voice carrying a tone of casual authority as he extended a hand in greeting.
"I am Stern, but some around these parts call me 'Stern the Axe.'"
Surt, intrigued by the moniker and the energy he exuded, returned the introduction in her adopted persona.
"A pleasure, Mr. Stern. I'm Elara," she replied, allowing her curiosity to blend subtly into the character she portrayed.
Despite the initial formality, there was a palpable undercurrent of intensity to Stern, an energy that Surt found unusually compelling. His presence commanded attention, and his gaze held a sharpness that suggested a man accustomed to being both respected and feared.
As Surt engaged with Stern, she took a moment to assess his appearance, which carried an aura of calculated ruggedness that seemed to set him apart from the typical polished nobility.
His hair was dark and meticulously kept, yet there was a hint of unruliness to it, suggesting a man who embraced order without being enslaved by it.
Stern's attire was elegantly tailored, fitting his stature perfectly, yet it bore subtle deviations from the standard noble fashion, hinting at a preference for practicality over ostentation. His clothing was dark, accented with hints of deep burgundy that spoke of wealth without the need for flamboyance.
The way he carried himself—upright, assured, but not overly so—suggested a man well-accustomed to wielding both influence and power, yet wary of the trappings that came with them.
"Lady Elara. Allow me to treat you to something elegant. That is, a drink, of course. And somewhere a tad quieter."
Stern's offer for a quieter drink was a welcome diversion for Surt, who found the prospect of a more intimate conversation intriguing, especially with someone as enigmatic as Stern.
They moved away from the bustling center of the Verdant Haven to a smaller bar on the opposite side, where the clamor of the crowd softened into a distant murmur, allowing for a semblance of privacy amidst the public two male couples, sat by the table holding hands and engaging what Surt assumed to be intimate.
The bar they approached was an oasis of calm compared to the vibrant energy that permeated the rest of the club. Here, the lighting was subdued, casting warm, amber tones over the polished wood and the array of bottles lining the shelves.
The bartender, a man of Indian origins with an expert touch and a quiet demeanor, acknowledged Stern with a nod, accustomed to catering to the varied tastes of the club's patrons.
Stern took the lead in ordering, specifying the ingredients with a precision that suggested familiarity with the recipe.
"A gin and Dubonnet, if you please," he said, his voice carrying an undertone of respect towards the bartender.
"One part gin, two parts Dubonnet. And a half lemon wheel, with just two ice cubes to finish."
The bartender set to work, his movements deft and practiced as he combined Gordon's London dry gin with Dubonnet in a small wine glass.
The addition of the lemon wheel added a citrus note to the aroma that began to fill the space between them, while the ice cubes, perfectly proportionate, sank the lemon into the concoction, creating a drink that was as visually appealing as it was likely to be refreshing.
As the drinks were prepared, Surt observed Stern, noting the way he held himself with an ease that belied the undercurrents of intensity she'd sensed from the start. The choice of drink, a favorite of royalty, hinted at a man who appreciated tradition yet was not bound by it, a trait Surt found increasingly fascinating.
When the bartender placed the finished drinks before them, Stern raised his glass in a gesture of toast.
"To unexpected encounters," he offered, a subtle acknowledgment of the serendipity that had brought them together this evening.
Surt echoed the sentiment, lifting her own glass.
"And to intriguing conversations," she added, her interest piqued by the man before her and the stories she sensed lay beneath the surface.
After the nuanced dance of their conversation and the shared ritual of the drink, Surt's instincts kicked in, her senses sharpening as she contemplated Stern's intentions.
"Are you trying to get me drunk in hopes of seduction?" she asked, half-jesting yet probing for the truth, her eyes locked onto his to gauge his reaction.
Stern's response was immediate and clear, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Not at all," he assured her, his tone sincere.
"I'm well aware you accompanied Ambassador Henrik tonight. He and I share more than just acquaintanceship; there's blood and history tying us together."
"I sense there's a complexity to you that transcends your current guise," Stern ventured further, his observation sharp yet devoid of malice.
"There's an essence about you that doesn't align with the simplicity of 'Elara.'"
This acknowledgment nudged at Surt's sense of control, introducing a fissure in her crafted exterior. She was unaccustomed to being read so accurately, especially by someone she had only just met.
Her mental gears whirred, contemplating her next move—how to navigate this unforeseen recognition without compromising her true objectives.
"Your perceptiveness is noteworthy, Mr. Stern," Surt replied, maintaining her composure while her mind worked feverishly. "But rest assured, my intentions tonight are benign. I'm merely here in the capacity you see."
She offered a smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes, a subtle signal of her guarded stance. The mention of family and history piqued her curiosity and added layers to Stern's character, suggesting a shared connection to Ambassador Henrik that warranted further exploration. Yet, his astute observation of her persona signaled a need for caution.
"Your acuity does you credit," she continued, deflecting with practiced ease while subtly reinforcing her constructed identity.
"But let's not dwell on the mysteries of 'Elara.' Tonight, she's simply a companion enjoying the evening's charm."
The directness of Stern's next words cut through the nuanced layers of their interaction, bringing a sharp focus to the conversation.
"I'm not here to dance around intentions," Stern stated, his forthrightness catching Surt slightly off guard. "My interest lies solely in reclaiming my ring. It holds value far beyond its appearance."
He edged closer, his voice dropping to ensure privacy amidst the surrounding chatter.
"I recognize you, not as 'Elara,' but as the adept player you truly are. You've commanded the card tables under various guises, haven't you?" His eyes locked onto hers, not accusing but acknowledging her prowess.
"I'm convinced you can win that ring back from 'Lady Katarina.' It's a challenge well within your reach."
urt paused, her mind adeptly weighing the implications of Stern's transparency. His unmasked perception of her true self was unsettling, hinting at a perceptiveness that demanded a level of caution. Yet, it also piqued her interest, suggesting that Stern possessed a degree of acuity that was rare among her usual encounters.
If not for his connection to Henrik, she'd assume him to be a foreign, subversive agent that worked against the crown from the comfort of the court. Surt deduced that he was worth talking to, but she'd have to dig her own hooks into him first.
"You see, my disguises, my multiple identities, they're a shield against debt collectors. I'm entangled in the web of gambling debts," she admitted with a feigned hint of shame.
Stern's eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary, an unspoken understanding—or perhaps skepticism—passing between them.
"I believe you, Henrik and I both suffer from the disease of gambling as well," he finally said, Surt detected a nuance in his tone that suggested he might be indulging her narrative for now, playing along with her ruse.
"Winning back the ring would not just be a favor to me," he mused,
"But I'm also in a position to make certain inconveniences regarding your debts disappear. I have resources at my disposal."
Surt, while intrigued, prodded further.
"Why not commission a new ring, then? With your means, it should be trivial."
For a fleeting moment, Stern's facade of composure slipped, revealing a glimpse of genuine emotion.
"The ring isn't merely a piece of jewelry; it's a tether to my past, a piece of my family's history. So, from one gambler to another, could you lend your expertise?"
Surt recognized the emotional leverage Stern was attempting to apply. Yet, his acknowledgment of her 'predicament' and his offer to assist with her 'debts' provided a platform for a different kind of relationship—one that wasn't strictly adversarial but potentially mutually beneficial.
"Alright, Stern," Surt agreed, masking her skepticism with a smile of complicity.
"I'll retrieve your heirloom. Consider it a challenge accepted between two kindred spirits."
In her mind, Surt was aware that this endeavor might tie her into a deeper rapport with Stern. Yet, she also saw the advantage in such an alliance. By engaging in this personal quest of his, she would not only gain his favor but also position herself to extract information and insights more freely in the future.
The deal was struck, not with a handshake but with a shared understanding of mutual benefit. Surt was not naïve; she recognized the layers of manipulation at play. Yet, in the intricate dance of power and intelligence, alliances were fluid, and one's enemy today could be a source of valuable insight tomorrow.
As Surt made her way back to the card table, her mind churned with thoughts of Stern. It was unnerving, the way he had pierced through her disguise with such precision.
His knack for discernment suggested a depth of perception that Surt rarely encountered. She couldn't help but think that Stern, with his incisive understanding of people, might find a kindred spirit in Charles himself.
The card table came into view, and there sat her siblings, Olivia and Oiagros, alongside Lady Seraphine, who appeared to be more engrossed in the company than the game itself.
"Seems like you've been drawn into the world of Herzla, Lady Seraphine," Surt remarked, her tone playful.
"Or is it the world of 'Lord Aleksander' that's caught your interest?"
Lady Seraphine responded with a smile, tinged with a hint of sheepishness. "I must confess, it's more the latter," she admitted.
"But a game of Herzla is a delightful addition."
As they all prepared to play a game of Herzla, Surt decided to drop her pretense of unfamiliarity with the game.
"I must admit, Lady Seraphine, I've played Herzla more than a few times," she confessed with a smile.
"But I didn't want to steal the joy of your explanation. You do it so enthusiastically."
Lady Seraphine looked at her with a playful skepticism. "Oh, really? You let me go on like a schoolteacher to a seasoned player?" she teased, her eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.
The soft murmur of the Verdant Haven faded into the background as the Herzla cards danced across the table, their movement punctuated by the focused silence of the players. Surt, seemingly detached, surveyed her hand with an ease that masked her intense concentration.
"It's just a game, isn't it?" Olivia teased, laying down a card with a confident flick. The challenge in her voice was clear, but Surt merely offered a small, knowing smile in response.
"As simple as a game can be," Surt replied.
Her mind raced ahead, calculating the possibilities, predicting her sister's strategy. She placed her card down with deliberate care, countering Olivia's play with a move that seemed innocuous yet was strategically potent.
Seraphine, not to be outdone, chimed in with her own strategy, trying to steer the game in a new direction. "
Let's see how you handle this twist," She declared, a hint of triumph in her voice as she played her card.
But Surt was already two steps ahead, her response immediate and decisive, unraveling Seraphine's tactic before it could take hold.
"Every twist has its turn," Surt remarked calmly, her play neutralizing Seraphine's attempt to gain the upper hand.
As the game wove its intricate dance, each player's strategy layered and complex, Surt's acumen shone distinctly. Her plays, while unpredictable, were not without purpose; they were the calculated moves of someone who understood the game's depth beyond its apparent simplicity.
"Sacrificing the queen to save the king?" Olivia quizzed, eyebrow raised, as she observed one of Surt's seemingly counterintuitive moves. The phrase was not literal, but a common idiom among card players in Britannia.
"Sometimes the queen is more dangerous than the king," Surt responded cryptically, a slight smile playing on her lips.
Her strategy transcended the mere retention of power; it was about positioning, about influencing the field in a way that might seem obscure at first but was ultimately decisive.
Her own words echoed in her mind, casting new light on her plans. Certain figures in China, key players in their own right, were like the 'queens' in her current game—potentially more dangerous, more pivotal than their kings.
In this light, the turmoil in China could be an unexpected boon if navigated correctly. The demise of members of the ruling class could create a vacuum, a shift in power dynamics that could be exploited.
Surt's role, akin to that of a master strategist at the card table, would be to anticipate, adapt, and act—not impulsively, but with the calculated patience of a player poised to win.
Setting things in motion finally would also give her some breathing room with Charles, reassuring him that they are moving ahead without further postponing and no one would be the wiser of just how much this would play into her own true plan.
It was hard to not fall into a mental fixation on the subject, having to play all the sides in this way. But this is the burden of holding on for the sake of her true mission, one that 'transcended the mere shape of human destinies', as she remembered it being described to her.
"Deep in thought, thinking over your next move, huh?" Seraphine, attempting to pierce Surt's strategy, countered with a play she deemed clever.
"This should disrupt your plans," she asserted, laying down a card she believed would corner Surt.
Yet, Surt welcomed the challenge with a nod, acknowledging Seraphine's tactic before countering with an unexpected move, sacrificing one of her seemingly pivotal cards.
"In every game, and in life, sometimes you must relinquish control to gain it," Surt mused aloud, her strategy a reflection of a philosophy where apparent loss could translate into a strategic advantage.
As the final round approached, the tension was palpable, Surt's opponents scrutinized her every move, trying to glean insight into her strategy.
With the decisive moment at hand, Surt laid down her final card, a play that sealed the match's outcome. Her approach—unconventional, bold, and tinged with a willingness to embrace risk—had paid off.
With the realization of her victory settling in, Olivia leaned back, impressed despite herself.
"You don't just play the game, my dear. You orchestrate it," she acknowledged, a note of respect threading through her words.
There were no grand declarations of victory, no overt celebrations. Surt simply reached out and claimed the crested-ring of Stern's from the collective stakes, her fingers brushing against the cool metal with a quiet acknowledgment of her win.
"Why the ring?" Olivia finally asked, her curiosity piqued by Surt's interest in what seemed a trivial prize.
Surt examined the ring under the light.
"Sometimes," she began, her gaze shifting from the ring to her siblings.
"it's not about the value of the prize but the challenge it represents. And perhaps," she added with a thoughtful pause,
"I just find the crest on it to be interesting."
Olivia feigned intense disappointment as she put on a playful protest.
"It's hardly fair. You swoop in and conquer the table like some Herzla empress," she stated with a comical frown.
Oiagros, on the other hand, seemed less affected by the game's outcome, albeit slightly ruffled by the competitive tension.
"I need a drink," he announced, standing up with a stretch.
"And for the record, I don't even like card games." Iagro went off in a huff with Seraphine chasing after him.
"Excuse me, now, I am feeling all the alcohol at once taking its revenge upon me."
Having excused herself from the table of needing to visit the restroom to release some of the drink and reapply some of her lipstick and powder, Surt navigated through the Verdant Haven's opulent corridors.
The weight of the ring in her possession a constant reminder of her immediate mission. Stern was nowhere in the immediate vicinity, prompting a subtle yet thorough search on her part.
Eventually, her persistence paid off when she caught a glimpse of Stern heading toward a less frequented part of the establishment. Swiftly yet discreetly, she followed him, stepping through the backdoor that led to a serene and tastefully adorned courtyard.
The courtyard was a quiet oasis compared to the vibrant energy inside. At its center stood a striking nude statue of King Arthur, an homage to legendary leadership and valor, water serenely cascading around it. The surrounding flora, meticulously arranged and maintained, added a romantic and almost ethereal quality to the space.
Stern was there, his figure outlined against the soft lighting, seemingly absorbed in a moment of contemplation or perhaps enjoying a brief respite from the evening's festivities.
"Ah, you found me," he greeted, his voice carrying a note of respect.
"And I see you've succeeded in your quest."
With a nod and a small sense of accomplishment, Surt extended her hand, offering the ring back to its rightful owner. "It was quite the game," she said.
"But here is your ring, Mr. Stern."
Stern accepted the ring with a genuine smile, examining it briefly as if to reassure himself of its authenticity before carefully stowing it away.
"I must admit, I had my doubts," he confessed, looking back at Surt with an appreciative gaze.
"Not about your skills, perhaps, but about the odds of seeing this ring again. You've managed to surprise me, and that's no small feat."
The courtyard, with its gentle sound of water and the subtle fragrance of flowers, provided a stark contrast to the earlier tension of the card game. Here, under the watchful gaze of the legendary king immortalized in stone, a brief moment of calm was shared.
Stern expressed his thanks with genuine warmth, acknowledging the depth of the task Surt had undertaken.
"Your assistance means a great deal to me," he said, an undercurrent of earnestness in his voice.
Surt, however, remained anchored by a thread of skepticism.
"I appreciate your gratitude," she began, her tone tempered by the evening's insights,
"But I can't help questioning your motivations. Wealthy men don't wager family heirlooms lightly."
Stern met her scrutiny with a calm acknowledgment, his expression revealing a hint of respect for her astuteness.
"You're observant, I'll give you that," he conceded.
"The truth is, the 'treasury' I mentioned—it's not entirely mine. It's entangled with Henrik's assets. I'm an information broker, and Henrik... he facilitates the more...financial aspects of my dealings."
Surt's curiosity was piqued as Stern delved deeper, revealing the clandestine nature of his work.
"An information broker," she echoed, mulling over the implications.
"So, you trade in secrets. And Henrik aids in laundering the proceeds through what's purported to be familial wealth?"
"Exactly," Stern confirmed, a wry smile touching his lips.
"And you'd be surprised at how much the nobility confides in someone they perceive as an honest broker. Infidelity, scandals, political treacheries—my ledger is thick with their confessions."
He paused, his gaze drifting momentarily to the statue of King Arthur, as if drawing a silent parallel.
"And yes, Charles's adventures often feature prominently in the whispers I hear."
Surt absorbed this revelation, reassessing Stern in light of this new context. His role as a purveyor of secrets and Henrik's involvement painted a complex picture—one where alliances were fluid, and information was currency.
"What's the story behind this ring?" she asked directly, her gaze fixed on Stern, seeking to unravel the thread of personal attachment he had to this object.
Stern's laughter broke the seriousness of their exchange, a light-hearted chortle that seemed to momentarily lift the weight of their clandestine dealings.
He extended the ring back to her, his gesture casual yet deliberate.
Actually, hand this over to Henrik," he suggested with a wry smile.
"He's the one who can give you the full tale."
The response piqued Surt's curiosity even further, but she accepted the ring, her mind already formulating questions for Henrik.
"Why didn't Henrik mention you'd be here? What's this disconnect between you two?" she pressed, sensing the undercurrents of a deeper backstory.
Stern's expression turned momentarily reflective, a hint of reluctance shadowing his features.
"Our paths tonight were not meant to cross, at least not in any planned manner," he admitted.
"Henrik and I, we're entangled in a complicated history. Let's just say our last encounter here didn't end on the best of terms. And technically, I shouldn't even be here tonight. But," he paused, his gaze drifting as if pulled by unseen threads,
"Something felt compelling, an inexplicable pull to come here, as if the night itself had its own designs."
"Then perhaps it's fortuitous that we met," Surt mused, having grabbed the ring and began to turn it between her fingers, contemplating the unseen forces that had steered both their courses to this shared moment.
"Henrik does have his resources committed to that ring, and he values it highly," Stern remarked with a nod towards the piece in Surt's possession.
"Tell him to deduct whatever amount from my share of the treasury. It's substantial enough to extinguish any debts you might be entangled with."
As Stern began to distance himself, a thread of curiosity unraveled within Surt, prompting her to breach a topic that might risk her carefully maintained cover.
"Before you go," she called out, halting his departure,
"Do you and Henrik share the same political sensibilities?"
Stern stopped, his back to her momentarily before he turned to face her again. In the dim light of the courtyard, his expression was a mix of contemplation and resolve. "It's not a matter of aligning with Henrik or anyone else for that matter," he began, his voice steady.
"This isn't about personal vendettas or power plays within the inner circles."
He stepped closer again, his presence commanding yet not imposing.
"Malcolm's reign," he continued,
"Is a stain on Britannia's legacy. His tyranny and paranoia don't just destabilize our nation; they threaten to corrode it from within. If there's a movement to depose him, to steer Britannia back to its rightful course, then yes, I find merit in that cause. And trust me, there are many who share this sentiment, silent as they may be."
Surt listened, parsing each word, each nuance of his tone. Stern's declaration offered a glimpse into his political inclinations, suggesting a depth of conviction and a sense of broader loyalty beyond mere personal gain.
"As for Malcolm," Stern concluded,
"Any change at the helm would be an improvement. It's not just about dethroning a despot; it's about salvaging what we stand for as a nation."
Surt processed his words, the gears in her mind turning as she considered the implications.
"So, you're an idealist? Do really think everyone who is not honest, in a place like this, is merely idealistically seeking to oust Malcolm?" she queried, a slight smile playing on her lips, trying to lighten the mood.
Stern chuckled, a sound that seemed somewhat out of place in the serene setting.
"Perhaps, surely anyone with any sense of morals and ideals would like to see Malcolm gone," he conceded,
"But I strive for honesty in my idealism. I'm not one for fanciful dreams without foundation. Britannia doesn't just need passive nobles; it needs true heroes."
Stern's gaze lingered on the statue of King Arthur, his eyes reflecting a mix of reverence and contemplation.
"We need leaders of his caliber," he mused aloud, his voice carrying a trace of idealism.
"Individuals who not just lead but inspire, who embody the virtues they're meant to uphold."
Surt acknowledged his sentiment with a nod.
"It's been enlightening," she said, offering a genuine note of gratitude.
"Your honesty is refreshing in this place. Even if your ideals are a little impractical. Do you really think any of the noblemen could aspire to the status of Arthur's integrity?"
"True, the nobility lacks candidates of Arthur's virtue. But then again," he added with a playful glint in his eye,
"Perhaps the answer lies not in men but in women. There are tales in the Far East where Arthur is imagined not as a king but as a queen."
Surt's intentionally cocked her head in a way to portray her keen interest, not just by the anecdote but by Stern's apparent knowledge of Eastern cultures.
"Heard that in the Far East yourself?"
Stern shook his head, a tinge of regret coloring his tone.
"Alas, I've never set foot there. To visit places such as Mongolia, with its vast history and landscapes, is a dream I have yet to fulfill." He sighed, a wistful note evident.
"Most of what I know comes second-hand, from individuals like Van Der Berg—loud, opinionated, yet undeniably well-traveled."
At the mention of Van Der Berg, Surt recounted her recent unpleasant interaction.
"That man spewed some vile opinions earlier. Hard to believe he's the source of your insights."
With a dismissive snort, Stern's demeanor darkened slightly.
"Van Der Berg is the epitome of contradiction. Abhors Asians yet profits from their plights. He's deep in schemes trafficking opium into China, attempting to cripple their workforce, keeping them reliant on Britannian trade. And then there is his involvement in trafficking women as secret brides for Britannian officers—it's despicable."
"A man of this sort, he must have ambitions, the kind that may even step on the toes of what Malcolm wants for the nation. Like what, I wonder?" she ventured, connecting the dots to broader implications.
Stern's smirk returned, laced with cynicism.
"Oh, he boasts of schemes to infiltrate the Sakuradite black market. But those in the know say it's all talk—a manifestation of his envy towards the Japanese prosperity from Sakuradite trade. He dreams of siphoning their wealth, yet lacks the means or courage to actualize such fantasies."
Surt pushed one last time, testing her luck.
"And what does he think of Malcolm?"
Surt's inquiry into Van Der Berg's stance on Emperor Malcolm elicited a knowing look from Stern.
"Publicly, Van Der Berg is all praises for him, a loyalist to the core," he shared, a hint of irony coloring his tone.
"But behind closed doors, he's far more critical. He desires a ruler who embodies the imperialist zeal, someone who'd aggressively expand Britannia's dominion."
Stern's voice lowered as he recounted a particular episode that illustrated Van Der Berg's true sentiments.
"Van Der Berg once concocted a wild scheme, suggesting to Malcolm that Britannia should launch invasions on Japan and China. It was more a fantasy of grandeur than a strategic proposal."
A brief chuckle escaped him as he continued the tale.
"Malcolm's response? He feigned enthusiasm, promised Van Der Berg the necessary funds for his grand conquest. But what arrived at Van Der Berg's doorstep was not a chest of gold but a barrel of whisky, courtesy of none other than Henrik."
Stern mimicked the gesture of unsealing a letter, his voice adopting a mock solemnity.
"Drink enough of this, and you might conquer any land in your dreams,' so Malcolm wrote. The mockery didn't sit well with Van Der Berg, to put it mildly."
Surt imagined the scene, a vivid illustration of the King's pettiness.
"He had the entire barrel dumped into the River Thames in a very public fit," Stern concluded, shaking his head at the folly.
"For all his bluster, Van Der Berg is a man driven more by vanity than by viable political ambition. And Malcolm, despite his many faults, seems to have his number."
As their conversation wound down amidst the calm ambiance of the courtyard, Surt felt a sense of closure for the evening's unexpected yet enlightening exchange. She extended her gratitude, her voice imbued with genuine warmth,
"I must head back now. It's been a revealing discussion... thank you for your honesty."
Stern's response carried a subtle undercurrent of optimism.
"Perhaps, in time, I'll have the privilege of knowing the person behind the guise, beyond the gambits of the cards."
Surt offered a small, somewhat melancholic smile, acknowledging the sentiment while recognizing the improbability of such a scenario.
"The likelihood of that is quite slim," she admitted, her tone tinged with a hint of regret.
With a final nod of acknowledgment, Surt turned to leave
Leaving Stern and the courtyard behind, Surt felt a mix of contemplation and resolve as she re-entered the club's lively atmosphere. Her thoughts lingered briefly on the idea of allies and new eras, but the immediate task was to locate Henrik and reacquaint herself with the ongoing machinations of the evening. Her interaction with Stern had offered a rare glimpse into the genuine aspirations and concerns of another player in Britannia's grand political game, providing her with much to consider as she navigated her path forward.
Rejoining the lively atmosphere of the club, Surt soon found herself crossing paths with Henrik once again. His face lit up with a mixture of relief and pleasure upon seeing her. Leaning in, his voice barely above a whisper amid the din.
"For the sake of appearances, we ought to mingle with the other nobles, maybe join one of the feasts happening upstairs."
Surt nodded in agreement, the prospect of further immersing herself in the night's activities offering both a challenge and an opportunity.
Yet, before they could proceed, curiosity tugged at her thoughts, compelling her to inquire about Stern.
"Henrik, why do they call him Stern the Axe?" she asked, her interest piqued by the nickname and its origins.
Henrik's response came with a hearty laugh, a sound that seemed to momentarily cut through the surrounding clamor.
"Stern? He's a real son of a bitch, but in many ways, he's like a distant brother to me," he confessed, a twinkle of camaraderie in his eyes.
"The name 'the Axe' suits him because of his brutal honesty—his words can cut deep, often more sharply than intended. It's a nod to our royal house slogan, 'The Axe Forgets, but the Tree Remembers.'"
The slogan, with its underlying warning about the lasting impact of actions and words, struck a chord with Surt. She couldn't help but find amusement in the aptness of Stern's moniker, considering their earlier interaction and his candid disposition.
"A man who speaks so honestly, that he hurts everyone in the process," she remarked, the humor not lost on her.
"Truly, some people are scared of the truth when it isn't in their favor.".
Surt presented the ring to Henrik, his reaction was a mix of surprise and delight.
"Stern promised a portion of his treasury for its return," she mentioned, watching Henrik's expression shift to one of amusement.
Henrik's laughter filled the air as he took the ring, examining it with a nostalgic eye.
"Ah, this old thing," he exclaimed, his joy evident. "We did lose it during a rather wild night last year—too much whiskey and high stakes at the card table."
Curious, Surt probed further, connecting the dots instantly.
"Was that the same whiskey that ended up in the Thames, courtesy of a certain Van Der Berg?"
"Yes, that's the one!" Henrik confirmed, chuckling at the memory.
"Stern and I did our fair share of the drinking before deciding the Thames could handle the rest. I suppose it was our way of toasting to Van Der Berg's health—or lack thereof."
"Can Stern be trusted, though?" she inquired. "He shared quite a bit about Van Der Berg with me."
Henrik's expression sobered slightly, a hint of respect surfacing. "Stern is… a man of a strange sort," he admitted.
"Honestly, the rare fibs he does make might as well be the truth. Anything he says about someone seems to come to pass. As for Van Der Berg, he's a useful idiot, but one that wields influence. Malcolm tolerates him, sees some reflection of himself in Van Der Berg's buffoonery, perhaps."
With the ring's mystery resolved and new insights into the political theater they were all part of, Surt and Henrik rejoined the ongoing festivities, their masks of conviviality firmly back in place.
The evening waned, and the party's fervor grew, culminating in a comical scene that caught Surt's eye: Oiagros, in a somewhat undignified scramble, made his escape through a window, his pursuer—a notably inebriated Lady Seraphine—stumbling in her tipsy determination to catch him.
It would be the only thing that drunk patrons of that night seemed to remember.
– – –
In the shadowed stillness of Charles's private library, a sanctum of strategy and contemplation within the royal palace, Surt detailed her findings from the Verdant Haven. The heavy tomes and ancient heirlooms surrounding them were among the few witnesses to their clandestine discussions.
"It is exactly as we thought," Surt reported, her gaze meeting Charles's with unwavering resolve.
"There's a large amount of tension among the nobles. Discontent with Malcolm's rule is more widespread than we anticipated. Many would welcome a change in leadership, regardless of who ascends the throne."
Charles, standing by a grand window that framed the moonlit gardens beyond, turned back to face her.
"Indeed, discontent is a powerful ally. But it is not enough to simply know there are allies in the court. We must be strategic, turning their passive resentment into active support for our cause. But I am sure we already have a few major names on our side…?"
"Absolutely," Surt agreed, pushing forward with the broader implications of their strategy.
"This is why our focus on the abroad must become our next focus, as well. The geopolitical balance may postpone the Ragnarök Plan further."
At that moment, the room's shadows relinquished their hold on a figure who had remained discreetly at the periphery of their meeting—an enigmatic young man who bore a striking resemblance to Charles Surt had noticed in all the years she had known him.
V.V. his eyes while the age of a youth on the outside, clearly were ones of someone far older, and always seemed to be sizing up women that made Surt uncomfortable everytime she deal with the boy.
"About time we got past the politics..." resonated with a blend of impatience and insight, revealing a depth beyond his apparent youth.
Charles acknowledged him with a nod, then refocused on Surt.
"Our plan remains paramount. The situation in China is our immediate concern. The Ragnarök plan must adapt to these new variables. We need to ensure that when we act, it is with precision and in anticipation of Malcolm's possible countermeasures."
Surt felt the weight of her role, a pivotal point in the intricate machinery of their plans.
"Understood. Let's set the cards into play," she concurred, her tone imbued with the gravity of their shared commitment.
As Surt turned to leave, V.V. broke his earlier silence.
"Try not to stir up too much trouble without us, will you?" he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Surt paused for a brief moment, acknowledging his remark with a slight, wry smile, but chose not to reply.
And thus, it all began in earnest.
