The palace of Hailia stood solitary at dusk on the 7th, the typically populated grounds now largely devoid of all functionaries. The king had called a temporary recess, owing to recent developments, and now he waited impatiently on the Floor 5 balcony for the man he’d invited.

The guest could elucidate the national state of affairs for him, he reckoned. His son was out of the country, briefly, and he felt his vassals and generals had never been more keen to hide in their own constituencies.

Punctual as usual, Johannes Jensen fan Hailien, the most prominent middleclassman in the Kingdom of Weremark, arrived driven by chauffeur, the sleek black sedan kicking up the first autumn leaves as it turned to enter the courtyard. The king turned away from the balcony and headed for the atrium. When Jensen approached him, the king had barely begun down the main staircase. Jensen extended a hand as his own bodyguard left through the front door, his client’s safety now assured.

“King Dagmund,”
“Jensen,” the king replied matter of factly, clasping Jensen’s hand and sharing in a firm handshake. “We have much to discuss, and in little time.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jensen, as they began to stroll down the steps together, as was the typical fashion for this sort of meeting. The king imagined that his people had been doing this for years; the stones on the lefthand side of the room had worn down from years of conniving.

“I fear we enter a troubled era,” began Dagmund, the shadows from the skylight falling on and off his bald head. Jensen stared, holding his tongue for now. “The Lakhzovian situation, that Oranian fellow warmongering, even Jory Hellhorn and his goons prancing our own damn forests, taking potshots at us.”

Jensen now felt the need to interject. “Surely two minor flashpoints worldwide and a relic of the past don’t constitute cause for alarm? Lakhzovia faces an ethnic war confined within its borders, and the Oranians have declared their intent to operate solely against communists. Hellhorn crashed a Golf GTI and ran into a forest. He’s no real threat.” he said the latter phrase with some pause, as he did have his own reservations about that situation.

The king stopped briefly, cocking his head ever so slightly to the left and peering at Jensen. He had expected a different response. “The larger picture, Jensen.” Shifting his hands behind his back, his legs began to move again. “You must look at the larger picture. You know well enough of my intent to bring Weremark back into prominence on the international stage. It’s why I sent Magnus to Rhand, and-”

“What’s your point, Dagmund?” Jensen interjected, as they entered the courtyard. “These are your problems to face. We may have fought together two decades ago, but since then, I’ve gone on to make speeches and teach in Altberg, and you’ve gone on to be the King of Weremark.”

“My point is, Hans,” the King began pointedly, “that I will need you. Yes, of course, you may speak of how we repelled two invasions together, or how I led the nation through civil war, but that’s just a farce. What have I done since? Weremark has laid stagnant for the past fifteen years.”

“We’re a kingdom, it’s twenty-seventeen. We’ve been stagnant for far longer than that.” Jensen exhaled, his breath forming a puff of white. “Are you intending to vent now, Altberg? I have enough of that from my daughter.”

“Careful,” the king’s voice lowered. Jensen was playing with fire. “You speak to a king.”

“A king, yes,” Jensen wringed his wrists, appearing as perhaps knowing that he’d gone too far. “A king who’s vacated his palace to speak to a lowly commoner.”

They stopped at an archway typically used for weddings. Dagmund could only imagine how the situation must have appeared to the gate guards behind them. His current strategy wasn’t saving them any time; perhaps it was better to be upfront about the whole thing. Jensen was smirking now, watching him contemplate.

“I want you to advise me directly. So, I want to give you Jylmark.”

Jensen remained stern, but the king could see that bewildered stare in his eyes. The same bewildered stare he’d seen when elevating cops to guards and guards to generals. “In the stroke of a pen you’d make me the second most powerful lord in all of Weremark?”

“Yes.” the king nodded curtly.

“I’m not a monarchist,” Jensen stated, knowing the king knew.

“Believe me, we all know. It doesn’t change my offer. Despite your composure today, I believe you deserve it, Jensen. You’re a smarter and better man than nearly the whole lot of pissant lords in my kingdom. Just, don’t take me for a fool. I don’t intend to give up my birthright simply because you’d suggest it. I just mean to rule better.”

“Fine.” Jensen lagged slightly behind as he spoke, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “That I can do.”