The negotiations moved forward smoothly after that. The grand dukes huddled together, trading names of annoying rivals and troublesome officers they could cast out of Londinium under the guise of noble duty, freeing up space to install their own pawns inside the city.
In that moment, the high lords displayed a chilling, seamless unity, behaving like the closest of comrades in arms. From his secluded quarters, Speaker Welsh found the entire display deeply laughable.
Since when did the noble dukes of Victoria unite only when it came to betraying their own? Could such an empire ever truly be great again? He did not know, nor did he care to ponder the question any further.
Ultimately, the grand dukes had agreed to trade away the ancient obstacles within their borders—and sell them at an exorbitant price, one framed so loftily that no foreign power could raise an objection.
Welsh viewed the outcome as a minor triumph. At the very least, those legendary knights would survive. Wherever their path took them, the living heritage of Victoria's golden age would endure beyond the coming political firestorm.
He wondered briefly how future historians would judge these ambitious lords—and how they would judge him, the weary accomplice who helped broker the arrangement. But he was an old man on the precipice of the grave; the opinions of posterity held little weight now.
Clearing the heavy thoughts from his mind, the old Feline sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, enjoying his most restful night in months.
No formal sessions were convened over the next several days. Not every sovereign state possessed the ruthless efficiency of Victoria's ruling class; for most realms, political posturing and internal debates required considerable time before a firm answer could be reached. Pope Yvangelista granted all delegations ample time to deliberate with their home capitals.
In some cases, distant envoys had to rely entirely on Laterano's long-range communication relays. Without that sacred infrastructure, emissaries would have been forced to ride back to their home nations, endure days of parliamentary shouting, and make the agonizing, time-consuming trek back across the wilderness.
Curiously, the isolated realm of Kjerag declined Laterano's offer for communications support, claiming they had no need of external relays. This raised Jeanne's curiosity regarding the snow-bound realm. Was Kjerag, too, an enclave of advanced technology and deeply held faith hidden among the mountain peaks?
She had wanted to inquire about the legendary snowy expanse, but she never found a suitable opportunity and hesitated to bother Enciodes Silverash, the quiet, formidable envoy from the mountains. Distracting a visiting leader during such tense diplomatic hours felt inappropriate.
When the assembly convened for its second grand session five days later, every delegation in the hall had reached a baseline consensus: the impending disaster had to be confronted. Terra's divided nations had to set aside centuries of hatred and unite to crush the oceanic threat before resuming their domestic quarrels.
Until the Seaborn were driven back, all formal conflicts across the continent were officially paused.
In truth, several delegates had initially found this condition difficult to swallow. Multiple empires were actively preparing for campaigns, and halting military movements imposed severe logistical costs.
Yet when weighed against potential ruin, every ruler recognized the immense strategic value of participating in this grand continental coalition—the first of its scale since the War of the Four Emperors.
That historic conflict had rewritten the map of Terra, enriching three of the participating empires beyond measure. The current leaders quietly harbored similar hopes: if they defeated the creatures of the deep, might there be immense spoils to claim from the reclaimed coastlines?
Driven by these pragmatic calculations, the ambassadors filed out of the primary hall.
Their work was far from over. Over the coming weeks—perhaps months—delegates would remain in Laterano to iron out the intricate logistical details, troop allocations, and supply lines.
Though the minor nations understood that small states would wield little real authority when the great powers dictated terms, they still took their seats at the working committees, desperate to keep their interests on the record.
Once the larger assembly adjourned, only a select group of representatives remained in the inner council chamber to address the immediate crisis before the grand allied force could be assembled: providing direct military aid to Iberia.
Pope Yvangelista sat at the head of the table, looking across the small gathering. Every nation present possessed the resources and strategic reach to assist the battered Iberian realm—Yan, Ursus, and Victoria among them.
Yet one figure in the room appeared completely out of place.
It was Logos, representing the fractured realm of Kazdel.
The foreign envoys quietly observed the quiet Sarkaz youth, wondering why an envoy from the scarred, lawless lands of Kazdel held a seat at a table reserved for the continental powers.
Pope Yvangelista addressed the unspoken question before anyone could voice it. "I have invited Kazdel to this council because the Sarkaz possess a unique capability—one that can alter the strategic balance of this war. In truth, their ancient heritage may be precisely what we need to counter the Seaborn."
The Pope's declaration drew surprised looks from every statesman present. Was this mere diplomatic flattery, or an undeniable fact? Could the mercenary race truly possess a countermeasure against the horrors of the ocean?
Had any other nation made such a claim, the delegates would have dismissed it as absurd. But these were the Sarkaz—an ancient, terrifying race whose long history hid countless forgotten Arts and esoteric traditions.
"The distinguished delegates are likely familiar with the Anasa among our kin," Logos spoke up calmly, breaking the silence.
The representatives nodded slowly, acknowledging the legendary shapeshifters of Kazdel, before leaning in to hear the youth elaborate.
"The Anasa collective possesses a unique biological trait," Logos continued in his steady, measured tone. "Through their inherent perception, they can scan the mental and spiritual state of living beings, allowing them to instantly distinguish a uncorrupted person from one touched by Seaborn taint."
"You are saying the Anasa can identify Seaborn infiltration within human populations?" High Inquisitor Carmen interrupted, his aged voice tightening. The revelation was monumental—a piece of intelligence that could fundamentally alter the war.
The greatest terror the Inquisition faced was not the physical brute force of the ocean beasts, but their silent, insidious corruption. Countless towns had fallen because ordinary citizens transformed into monsters without anyone noticing—sometimes without even realizing it themselves.
To lose comrades to frontline combat was tragic, but to have brothers-in-arms turn into abominations from within shattered morale far more effectively. The Inquisition possessed specialized Originium Arts to purge the corruption, but they lacked a reliable method to identify deeply hidden vectors.
"Indeed," Logos replied smoothly. "It is a capability unique to the Anasa on this continent. Centuries ago, when parts of modern Iberia were still inhabited by our people, the Anasa fought alongside the ancient fleets against these very horrors using this exact ability."
No one in the room questioned how many centuries ago Logos meant. The statesmen simply sat in quiet reflection, choosing not to debate ancient territorial history.
If this young Sarkaz represented a solution to the invisible plague eroding Iberia's populace, certain historical grievances could be set aside for the greater good.
"Then tell us," Carmen spoke first, his eyes fixed on the young court member. "What does Kazdel demand in exchange?"
Every gaze shifted to Logos. The great powers were eager to know what price the ancient, dangerous race would exact for their aid.
For centuries, foreign empires had viewed the Sarkaz with deep suspicion and prejudice. Sitting across from one as an equal at a diplomatic council felt almost surreal.
"Our demand is simple," Logos stated, his eyes sweeping across the powerful figures in the room. His expression remained calm, though a quiet weight filled his heart as he awaited their answer. "Kazdel requires the nations present to officially recognize our statehood, grant our territory full diplomatic standing, and cease state-sponsored hostility against our people. We ask that our brethren no longer be forced to wander as stateless mercenaries—and that the ancient name of Teekaz be restored to us."
The chamber fell silent as the weight of his words hung in the air.
"If that is all," High Inquisitor Carmen declared, breaking the quiet without hesitation, "Iberia agrees. We will formally recognize Kazdel as a sovereign nation and lift official discriminatory policies against the Sarkaz within our borders. Naturally, this applies to government stance; changing the hearts of common citizens will take time."
As the oldest combatant against the ocean tide, Carmen held no reservations. Iberia had few Sarkaz within its borders to begin with, making the concession effortless compared to the survival of his homeland.
The envoys from Yan, Ursus, and Victoria exchanged quiet glances, weighing the political ramifications. One by one, they gave their formal assent.
They could enforce policy changes at the state level, even if purging centuries of deep-seated prejudice among the common folk remained a far longer journey.