Fringilla Vigo's voice slowly flowed out from the shimmering screen before him.
Things hadn't been going well for Nilfgaard lately—or rather, not for Emhyr var Emreis.
He was the supreme emperor of the Black Sun Empire, and it was he who had expanded Nilfgaard from a mere province into the massive realm that now dominated the entire South. Under his rule, the empire's military might had swollen to a scale more terrifying than anything in human history.
A militaristic behemoth like this was bound to strike fear into every kingdom, big or small, across the Continent. After all, it kept devouring everything around it to grow stronger—and was never satisfied.
But once such a nation's expansion was halted… things no longer looked so glorious.
"There are many voices inside the Empire now," Fringilla reported. "The nobles have long grown weary of war. They can't accept a campaign that endlessly boosts Emhyr's prestige while bringing them little in return. The one stirring the pot the most is Duke Joachim de Wett, whom you personally released from the battlefield."
"The common soldiers once supported Emhyr, having tasted the rewards of war and glory. But now, with no signs of new campaigns anytime soon, they too have started grumbling."
"As for the newly conquered kingdoms, many of them are restless—local uprisings are flaring up again and again."
"And most importantly—Marshal Menno has fallen in battle. That has severely weakened Emhyr's grip over the army, and now many forces that once clung to him loyally have begun considering other options."
Fringilla looked up and concluded, "Emhyr is overwhelmed."
Lann leaned back in his chair, tapping his knuckles rhythmically on the armrest as he pondered for a moment.
Just as he had expected.
Emhyr's personal abilities were indeed rare in history—his rise had been rapid, and his reputation formidable. But precisely because of this, he had developed an inflated confidence in himself, convinced that as long as he kept winning, his prestige alone would be enough to keep everything under control.
Perhaps it was due to the many years he had spent wandering in exile under a curse, missing out on proper education. Emhyr's mind was filled with strategies for fighting battles—but he had never truly learned how to get along with the old nobility at home.
In the original timeline, he had gone against royal tradition by refusing to marry into the old aristocracy. Instead, he had tried to take Ciri—that wild girl from the North—as his wife, nearly triggering an upper-class rebellion within the Empire.
And years later, during the events of the game, if the player helped Radovid V or Dijkstra unify the North, then Emhyr—once again stalled on the battlefield—would eventually be killed in a coup launched by the domestic opposition.
Lann thought for a moment, then asked Fringilla, "What role have you played in all this?"
"I returned home after being defeated in battle. Now, people like me and Duke de Wett have formed a separate faction, in case Emhyr decides to carry out a post-war purge."
Lann chuckled. "So you count yourself as one of the leaders of Emhyr's opposition?"
Fringilla nodded. "My uncle has also contributed quite a bit to it."
Fringilla belonged to House Vigo—one of the few sorcerer families that passed down their legacy through bloodline. Her uncle, Artorius Vigo, was a top-tier mage, comparable to Tissaia de Vries of the North.
He still held considerable sway within the Empire.
"What should I do next, Duke Lannister?" Fringilla lowered her head.
Lann paused in thought, then asked, "You said the common soldiers are hungry for war?"
Fringilla nodded. "But with the complete annihilation of the Third Army and the Fourth Cavalry, the Empire's elite forces have been wiped out to the root. Emhyr has been hesitant ever since. I've also advised him against starting another war…"
"Why stop him?"
Fringilla blinked in surprise.
"If the Empire is unstable, then why not use war to divert internal conflicts? Isn't that the smart move?" Lann smiled gently.
Fringilla chewed over those words. They did make sense.
But still—this shouldn't be coming out of the mouth of a Northern duke!
You're the Duke of the North! she thought. Why are you encouraging the southern emperor to start a war?
Unless...
"That's right," Lann said, seemingly reading her mind. "I need a war too—a great war against the South."
Fringilla tested the waters. "To… deflect your own domestic unrest?"
Lann didn't answer her question directly. Instead, he continued, "What I need now is for you to make it happen. Ideally, the war should start next year—or the year after."
Realizing she'd spoken too much, Fringilla quickly lowered her head. "Yes, understood."
Lann resumed his casual drumming on the chair's armrest, while his mind flickered through calculations of the powers he currently held.
How long until the witcher apprentices were ready for the Trial of the Grasses? How much more time would the griffin need to fully mature? The integration of Saskia's independent kingdom… the unicorns from the other world...
Suddenly, he asked, "How is Nilfgaard progressing with magical training?"
Fringilla hesitated—but only for a moment. Fortunately, she had memorized all this information long ago. After all, she was now one of the leading figures of the Empire's magical forces.
"A few senior mages are currently developing entirely new combat doctrines for mage units, as well as new directions for training soldiers and refining battlefield strategies."
Fringilla's tone wavered slightly. "But there aren't many senior mages left in the Empire. And those who remain have mostly retreated to remote regions, unwilling to take command…"
Lann chuckled. "Forget about the senior mages. Just focus on cultivating as many battle-ready mage-soldiers as possible. Can you do that?"
Fringilla froze again.
This Northern duke—one moment urging the South to launch another war against the North, the next pushing to strengthen the Empire's magical reserves—what on earth was he planning?
But all she could do was nod. "Yes."
Lann nodded in satisfaction. "Also, I have a few letters for your dwarven bankers. I'll send them over later via teleportation magic. Make sure they're delivered."
"Yes."
...
The southern empire was roiling with unrest, hidden currents swirling beneath the surface.
And the North hadn't been particularly peaceful either.
Cintra. The royal capital.
Beside the teleportation circle.
A hundred royal guards, clad in steel and led personally by the Lion Guard commander House, had formed a tight perimeter, separating the circle from the crowd beyond.
But that did little to curb the people's curiosity. Citizens gathered in ring after ring around the teleportation circle, craning their necks to watch as elegantly dressed men and women stepped out one after another, whispering excitedly among themselves.
"Look, look—another one!" someone cried out. From his clothes, he seemed to be a bard. "I know that crest! A cross on a green field—that's Brugge! A kingdom across the Brokilon Forest!"
Someone sighed in wonder. "How many kings is that so far? Must be the twentieth one?"
Another chimed in, "I've seen more kings this week than barons in my whole life. Isn't Duke Lannister the only one who's managed to gather them all?"
His comment drew loud approval, and people began to echo it.
"Only Duke Lannister!"
"Praise the Lion of Cintra!"
They cheered among themselves, paying no mind to the darkened expression on the face of the king who had just stepped through the portal.
Their chatter continued unabated. "How many kings do you think will come in the end? Could it reach fifty?"
"What, did a plague rot your brain? There aren't even that many kingdoms in the North! Thirty at most, I'd say!"
"Thirty... That's still a lot. So many kingdoms…"
...
Yes, so many kingdoms.
House watched another king emerge from the teleportation circle and instinctively rested his hand on the lion-headed longsword at his hip.
It was too many—far too many kingdoms.
He strode forward and bowed to the newly arrived monarch. "Your Majesty Venzlav, I am House of Cintra. Please follow me—my soldiers will join your escort and accompany you to the conference."
King Venzlav cast a glance at the crest on House's armor, his expression sour.
"A knight… well, I suppose that qualifies you to guard me. But is this how all you Cintrans behave?"
He gestured toward the nearby crowd of Cintran citizens, his displeasure practically overflowing from his eyes.
"That's the people welcoming their visiting monarchs from afar," House replied. With his helmet on, his expression was hidden—but the curve of his covered mouth hinted at a habitual smile.
"Besides," House added, "His Majesty Foltest arrived quite some time ago. He's missed you—and asked me specifically to bring you to him without delay."
Venzlav said no more. Brugge was, after all, a vassal state of Temeria.
He left in a hurry. And after him, more kings continued to arrive and were steadily guided toward the royal palace.
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