The Sultan’s Seaside Palace stood upon a marble bluff overlooking the inner bay — a labyrinth of courtyards, gilded domes, and arched galleries bathed in the silver hue of morning mist. Steam carriages hissed in the colonnades where peacocks once strolled, and the scent of salt mingled with rosewater from the palace fountains.

  Once built for leisure, it had become a citadel of silk and steel — its ornate bronze gates guarded by royal guards in lacquered armor, their muskets glinting like polished ivory. Beyond them stretched gardens arranged like a clockmaker’s dream: geometric pools, mechanical fountains, and trees trimmed to precision. Even the wind seemed to move in accordance with the Sultan’s will.

  When the Royale Nocturne’s banners first appeared in the harbor, the palace awakened — courtiers bustling to prepare, silver trays clattering, and rumor spreading faster than smoke. By the time Alaric and the escort strolled through the gates, the sun was climbing low and pale above the sea, staining the domes in soft amber.

  Then Alaric was brought before the Sultan, who awaited him in his garden — a pavilion open to the sea breeze, lined with cushions and perfumed with jasmine.

  “Ah, Mr. Van Aerden. I’ve been waiting for quite some time, you know — but please, take a seat,” said the Sultan, his voice smooth but edged with chill.

  “Dear Sultan, you know I prefer a horse to a carriage,” Alaric replied, adjusting his gloves with a faint smile.

  “Oh, but I only wished to welcome my esteemed guest with my finest hospitality,” the Sultan teased, eyes gleaming with mischief.

  “I respect the sentiment, but next time — just send your best horse instead.” Alaric’s grin carried both charm and challenge.

  “Of course…” The Sultan’s chuckle was soft, calculated. “Anyway, would you like some tea, coffee, or perhaps a ?erbet?”

  “I think I prefer coffee for this delightful cold morning.”

  The Sultan gestured, and a servant bowed, gliding silently toward the brass samovar that hissed in the corner. “And don’t forget the lokum. Our reunion wouldn’t be complete without it,” the Sultan added.

  “Oh, you spoil me, Sultan,” Alaric said with exaggerated modesty.

  He took a sip of coffee, then bit into the lokum. His mouth filled with the gelatinous sweetness of sugar, lemon, and rosewater — the taste he enjoyed most.

  “So, how was your travel, Mr. Van Aerden?”

  Alaric raised a finger as he finished chewing the confection. After swallowing, he took another deliberate sip of coffee. “Well… fruitful as always. We seized nineteen thousand seven hundred and eighty coins of silver from the Espanorian Eternal Order — along with a steam frigate bound for the island of Loric.”

  “Hm? Loric, you say?” The Sultan brushed his moustache thoughtfully. “Any trouble in your endeavor?”

  “Well…” Alaric’s eyes shifted aside. “In the process, we bombarded a Corsair’s cove.”

  “What?!” The Sultan’s voice thundered as he struck the table. “They are under my protection!”

  “Yes — but they were infiltrated by the Order’s spies. I didn’t have the time nor the resources to uproot them one by one.” He sipped his coffee calmly. “Don’t worry. I left their old fort intact.”

  “Let me guess… you want me to send them my old galleass and a few other worn ships — and purchase the frigate you just took?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t propose a better proposal,” Alaric said smoothly. “You’re truly a wise Sultan. Though, perhaps I should mention — it’s a fifty-gun frigate.”

  “You’re a greedy man, my friend.” The Sultan chuckled, lifting his own cup. “However, sadly for you, I have many refugees to feed. There’s a locust infestation in the southern provinces, and Gallian forces have just invaded Maser — led, I hear, by a rather talented young general. I’ve no funds to spare.”

  “I know. Don’t worry about it,” Alaric replied with an easy smile. “I already took care of it. My associates are instructed to keep food prices down in your markets.”

  The Sultan froze, then rubbed his temple with a groan. “You’re impossible, Alaric. Sometimes I wonder who the real Sultan is.”

  The Sultan’s eyes met Alaric’s, steady and searching. “How can I repay you, my friend?”

  “If it’s debt you mean, then don’t worry about it,” Alaric replied lightly. “I’ve seen the aerodrome already running — and I take it you’ve normalized relations with the Old Continent. With that, and the railways, you’ll eventually repay it. But if it’s favor you mean…” His tone turned calm and sharp. “Then even if you paid with your life a hundred times, you’d never repay it.”

  “Not many people dare speak to me like that.” The Sultan said, his tone grow serious.

  “Many people want to be in your good graces,” Alaric said, setting his cup down. “I only want to help you.”

  The Sultan leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Speaking of good graces — did you know the ulamas have declared a jihad against the Gallians? Without even consulting me. My janissaries have already marched with the mamluks.” He said with a scoff.

  “All the more reason to disband them,” Alaric said nonchalantly, stirring his coffee.

  “I can’t, Alaric. They have the voice of the people — and the voice of gods.”

  “The world is changing, my friend. Gods no longer broker power for kings and emperors.”

  “But what would the people think?”

  “Haven’t I told you the three sources of power?”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Alaric—”

  “Monopoly over policy—”

  “I know, but—”

  “Monopoly over information—”

  “Listen to me!”

  “Monopoly over violence,” Alaric finished, eyes locking with the Sultan’s.

  The garden fell silent except for the hiss of the samovar.

  “With your printing press project,” Alaric continued, “you’ve already taken your first step at monopolizing information. You’ve already provoked the zealots. It’s too late to turn back.”

  “I do not wish to become a tyrant,” the Sultan said quietly.

  “All great leaders are tyrants, in a way,” Alaric replied, his voice almost gentle. “They just have better packaging — more charisma, a touch of grace, and the wisdom to wield it.”

  “I’m not you, Alaric!”

  “I know,” Alaric said with a faint smile. “That’s precisely why I’m advising you, Selim.”

  “Then why don’t you become my vizier?” the Sultan asked, half in jest, half in longing.

  “Unless you want another insubordinate vizier who’ll muster an army, march south, and purge every fundamentalist he finds — then I suggest I don’t.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” the Sultan asked.

  “I say…” Alaric leaned back slightly. “You need to monopolize the other two.”

  “But how?”

  “End the Janissary system,” Alaric said as he took another bite of lokum.

  “I think it would be hard.”

  “You’ll manage to replace them in your palace with royal guards.”

  “Yes, but this is the whole Janissary this time. They would surely revolt.”

  “Of course they will,” Alaric said, unbothered. “That’s why you need to build up your navy.”

  “And why would they allow that?”

  “Because they’re spoiled,” Alaric replied with a smirk. “And their record at sea isn’t exactly stellar. They’ll dismiss it as another one of your unnecessary indulgences — which works perfectly in your favor.”

  “But ships fight on water, not on land.”

  “True…” Alaric lifted his cup, eyes glinting. “But marines fight on both. Think about it — if you train a navy and station it on that bay—” He pointed toward the glittering harbor beyond the garden. “You’ll have ships and a modern army ready to protect both you and your city.”

  The Sultan’s gaze followed the line of Alaric’s finger, silent for a long moment.

  “And when they revolt,” he said slowly, realization dawning, “they’ll be the ones cut off and starved.”

  Alaric smiled. “See? You’re learning.”

  The Sultan fell silent, weighing the merit and the risk. The room for error was small, he thought — but not following the plan might carry an even greater one.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “I’ll buy the ship — and more of your arms.”

  “Oh, I have a better offer.”

  Alaric reached into his satchel and produced a rolled parchment, setting it upon the table before unrolling it with care.

  “What is this?” the Sultan asked, brow furrowing.

  “Our investment,” Alaric replied. “Take a look.”

  At first, the Sultan thought it was a map. But as he leaned closer, his expression changed — it was no map at all, but a set of plans. Detailed blueprints of a massive structure drawn with every inch of details.

  “You plan to build a factory?”

  “A factory complex, to be precise,” Alaric said, tracing his finger across the parchment. “Where everything is manufactured and assembled side by side.”

  “What do you plan to manufacture?”

  “Oh, many things — including, but not limited to…” He glanced up with a hint of mischief. “Arms and ships.”

  The Sultan’s eyes lit up like a child tasting his first candy.

  He could not contain his excitement. For the first time in years, he saw a way out of the Empire’s decline — a real hope for modernization.

  “What is your proposal?” he asked, leaning forward eagerly.

  “As usual,” Alaric began, “I’ll handle the initial capital and oversee construction. Then we share ownership — six to four, in my favor this time — in return for an exclusive tender for your purchases.”

  “Six to four in your favor?” The Sultan raised a brow.

  “Yes,” Alaric said evenly. “Unlike the aerodrome and the railways, this time I’ll be supplying the crucial manpower — the technical experts.”

  “Can I convince you to split it in half?”

  “Maybe…” Alaric took a slow sip of coffee. “Under one more condition.”

  “And that condition is?”

  “End your slave trade.”

  “Oh…” The Sultan leaned back. “I wasn’t aware you’d become an abolitionist — a champion of equality.”

  “I’m… an industrialist,” Alaric replied with calm precision. “But trust me when I say — the slave trade brings more problems than it’s worth these days.”

  “Let me guess — slave revolt is bad for business,” the Sultan said, mimicking Alaric’s tone.

  “That, and it hinders progress. It’s not just making skilled labor scarce; it hinders technological advancement — and more importantly, prevents the rise of a constitutional monarchy.”

  “Wait — you want to split my power?”

  “I want to split the liability. You see, Sultan, politicians — at least the majority — are less than dogs; they’re only loyal if you feed them and keep them on short leashes. But luckily for wealthy people like us, their price is relatively cheap.”

  “What if they desire more than just bribes?”

  “That’s why you need an army loyal to you — and millions of emancipated slaves grateful to the Sultan who freed them.” Alaric smirked.

  For a moment, the Sultan did not speak. A slow, unsettling clarity settled over him as the pattern revealed itself — the railways binding the land, the aerodrome shrinking distance, the friendship that had felt genuine, the navy poised to guard the capital, the factories yet to rise, and now this: emancipation. Not mercy. Not reform. An apparatus. A means to shatter old loyalties and forge new ones bound directly to the throne. Alaric had always been laying it before him, piece by piece — not merely to enrich himself, but to reconstruct sovereignty itself. The thought was unsettling — not because a foreigner stood as powerful as the Sultan, but because Selim could no longer discern why Alaric had chosen to do any of this at all.

  “You know... the other day a group of merchants came to me and said a similar thing. Establishing a constitutional monarchy, I mean.”

  “is it Societas Novus Comercii — also known as the SNC, the guild?” Alaric’s tone grew serious.

  “You know them?”

  “Yes. And that’s more reason to establish a constitutional monarchy.”

  “Are they a problem?”

  “Problem is an understatement. They’re a threat to you. They are the ones behind the secession and the establishment of the United States of Albion.”

  “Then we must uproot them!”

  “In time, Sultan. If you are not careful, you will be beheaded like the Gallian monarchy.”

  The Sultan’s face grew pale at the unveiling of a new threat. “Oh — just when I thought my empire’s future was assured,” he said, covering his face.

  Then suddenly, a palace servant approached and bowed deeply. “O Great Sultan, there is a messenger.”

  “I told you I don’t wish to be disturbed,” the Sultan said, rubbing his temple.

  “My Sultan, it is Miss Weiss. She comes for Mr. Alaric.”

  The Sultan looked to Alaric, who appeared just as confused. “Then bring her in,” he said.

  Moments later, Mila entered — her step brisk, her posture sharp. She bowed to the Sultan before leaning close to Alaric, whispering something into his ear. The Sultan could not hear her words, but he saw Alaric’s expression change — the calm, composed gentleman replaced by something darker, sharper. His face now bore the silent rage of a predator.

  “It seems you’re in luck, Sultan,” Alaric said quietly as he rose to his feet. “It appears I must personally come to blows with the Guild.”

  The Sultan blinked, confused.

  “Thank you for your precious time — and your generous hospitality,” Alaric continued, already straightening his coat. “But I must beg my leave.”

  “Wait, Alaric, wait!” the Sultan called after him. But when Alaric turned, the Sultan froze — for a brief moment, it felt as though he were staring into the eyes of an angry tiger.

  “A... about the factory,” the Sultan stammered. “Can you build it as soon as possible? We’ll discuss the split of ownership later.”

  Alaric blinked, his rage momentarily quelled. “Ah… yes. Pardon my rudeness — and of course, I could arrange it.”

  “Is something happening that I should worry about?”

  “No,” Alaric replied, his voice cold but measured. “It’s a rather personal matter.”

  “Very well then... Salam, old friend — and safe travels.”

  “Salam, old friend.”

  Then Alaric and Mila departed, leaving the Sultan alone with the hiss of the samovar and the slow, uneasy silence of a plan that had only just begun to breathe.