[h1]Deep Inside the Royal Palace of Zenovia, Ilezabeta City[/h1]
Mircea II was sitting down in his chair, near his aquarium. The lights in his aquarium never ceased throughout the night, never even dimming. Mircea thought that something might happen to the fish in the darkness. It didn’t bother him anyway. He couldn’t even see the light from his bedroom. He sat in a beautifully crafted mahogany chair with a cushion comfy enough for royalty, with a table covered by red cloth holding in unlit candle only a feet away from him. He looked onward at his aquarium, thinking to himself that the many types of exotic fish swimming in there looked so peaceful. He thought of what a serene existence they must have in there. Life was completely meaningless for them, and there was worry about the looming threat of war. If he was a fish like them, he would not have to worry that perhaps one day countless good Zenovii men would be conscripted to fight in a war they never asked for, and millions of them would never return, their precious lives needlessly cut short.

He held in his hands a book with a preciously handcrafted red cover. It remained closed on his lap, as it was far too dark to read, but Mircea knew what was contained in it. Within those words was the holy wisdom of the one true God, Aeon, and his prophetess Ilezabeta. Collectively, the books written by Ilezabeta under the guidance and inspiration of Aeon were called the Holy Scriptures of Aeon. Within those words was the wisdom needed for your entire life, as Mircea’s personal priest, the Bishop of St. Augustus, had always said. He had read through the scriptures in their entirety, and reread many sections and chapters of it many times. And from that sage of the 5th century, Saint Augustus, Bishop of Marina, and the scholastic academics of old –  Saint Toma Miazazi, the Venerable Prost Hostius of the North, and Lord Angelus Pithy, he had learned the philosophy of the sacred. Yet still, he did not the answers to his questions. Was it simply to endure, and God would provide as a shield in times of hardship. Perhaps it was not his place after all to make the decision, but he could not simply sit back without a care if he thought that one day his people would start to die by the millions.

Mircea felt two familiar arms go around his neck while he was deep in thought. It was the arms of his wife, Nikoleta. She was wearing her nightgown, waiting for her husband to come to bed. When he did not come, she came to get him from wherever he was. They had been married for many years. Betrothed since he was thirteen and she was eleven, they married in Zenovia when he was eighteen and she was eleven, and there was an elaborate royal ceremony. That was a long time ago, in 1916, and now they had been married for 24 years. She had originally been obstinate, and had been opposed to an arranged marriage, but she saw as what she observed as Mircea’s gentle heart, his strong spirit, and the fact that they were kindred spirits. Now they had been happily married for decades, and she had given him many children, who had now grown up into men and women. She had always had incredible beauty. Now she showed signs her aging, and her beauty had begun to fade, but Mircea did not see any signs of faded beauty, and never would.

“Darling, come to bed,” Nikoleta said to him.

“I’m not tired,” Mircea said. “Look at this fish. Don’t they look so peaceful? They are free of all worries. What a sublime existence they must have.”

“Even so, you need your sleep,” Nikoleta said. “And you wouldn’t want me to sleep alone, would you? Without you at my side, it grows cold.”

“I can’t sleep,” Mircea said. “It seems so odd, to stay awake so late at night. Yet my heart feels heavy. I dread the thought of Moravians, in a moment of fervor, declaring war, and dooming millions of good men. Good men on both sides would die. Why? Why did the Moravians not learn? Why did they not learn? Did they learn nothing about the war? Revanchism and nationalism have only lead to the deaths of good men. We’ve tried to reconcile again and again, but it has been of no use. We’ve apologized again and again for our unnecessary transgressions, we’ve expressed our regret for our mistakes. Those responsible were ousted from power, and it’s been so long that they’re all long dead.”

“I know, darling,” Nikoleta said. “But you cannot stop the way they think. It was not so long ago this nation thought the same.”

“If I could go back in time and kill my great-grandfather, I would do it,” Mircea said. “No, I don’t mean that. That would mean I kill my children as well, and I would sacrifice the world for them. But the Caesar is relentless. The Thaurissans have always been so.”

“But Mircea, the prime minister can deal with the politics, can’t he,” Nikoleta said.

“I do hope,” Mircea said. “But I don’t think so. From day one, he has been preparing for war. I cannot like him, even as a man. He has always addresses me as if I were a public meeting. Yet it is no longer the place of Kings to dictate the fates of men in the modern age. But I can’t do nothing. Sister, she does everything she can. I feel such shame when I look at her. I can tell she feels nothing but shame towards me, since I am so useless.”

“Come now, you’re not useless,” Nikoleta said. “She can vote because of you. And she loves you as well as likes you.”

“You make me sound like I’m wallowing,” Mircea said.

“Yes, your just musing over the path that history will take,” Nikoleta said. “Will it take the path of Aeon, or of Monad?”

“And Miruna, she works so hard. Even if she is so optimistic, so naïve, she believes so strongly in her ideals. She would spit in the devil’s face if someone told her that it would help world peace. Perhaps she already has, as she sent a letter to the Caesar. She thinks he will actually read it, and he will respond well to it. She actually wanted to meet him in person, but we needed to keep her away from the lynch mobs, so we denied that. She’s going to travel the entire world.”

“Do you feel better, now that you’ve gotten all your words out in the open?” Nikoleta said.

“Yes, very much so,” Mircea said. “Thank you, Nikoleta. You always have your ways of making me feel better, even with only a few words, or none at all. I’m feeling rather tired now.

[h1]Ilezabeta City, at a lavish party of aristocrats[/h1]

There was a lavish party being held at one of the houses of Grand Duke Radislav Calinescu, a very rich man with nothing at all to do. So he spent his time marveling the newest modern devices of entertainment when he wasn’t throwing parties such as these. The room was filled with smell of wine and small sweets and snacks that would make one gain quite a bit of weight if they were not careful. The room was filled with socialization and small talk between aristocrats of both sexes. There were only infidelities within the nobility as often as men of power and wealth tended to be involved in such things, which is to say every day. 

Radislav Calinescu was looking over the party with a glass of red wine in his hand, slowly sipping it as he talked with the few guests who he had the patience to talk to. Calinescu was an impatient fellow, and grew bored of all except the most interesting of fellows. Currently, he was talking with Inclestare Lewin, Head of the House of Lords, as well as Lord Alexandru Gheata, Minister of Finance.

“Can you name anyone among society than the middle class?” Calinescu said. “The middle class air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, whispering strange ideas and sophistries of puritanism and piety. They so wish to be like their betters, yet only make themselves prudes of the most unfathomable kind. They have in them the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”

“And the worst of all is the philanthropist,” Gheta said. “There is one of that ilk among the cabinet, and his attitude is simply intolerable. Why speak of ugliness. It is better to cast such things from your very mind.”

“And that is why I cannot stand realism in art,” Lewin said. “A writer who writes of a table when he refers to a table deserves to have his pencil and paper taken from him. But enough of the middle cast. They are even uglier than the poor, and I do hate to speak of them as well. It can be said that there if something just so charming about the girls of the poor. There is something so utterly exotic about them, and so wonderfully delightful about them. They give themselves up so easily for the highborn, making all the more tragically romantic when we break their hearts and throw them back to the streets.”

“How utterly scandalous,” Calinescu said. “And how awfully intriguing. You are simply one of the most charming men ever to grace these eyes, Lewin. I do not see how either of you can stand to exist within the realm of politics, with those mutts of the middle class, who can never emulate their betters, no matter how hard they try.”

“It is the power it offers,” Gheta said. “No matter how muted it may be, it seems absolutely necessary to me that I grab onto the power that our ancestors had.”

“How utterly boring,” Calinescu said. “I could never serve in such an unexciting climate. I have a seat in the House of Lords, but I never actually attend.”

At that moment a Morav went and approached them. It was odd seeing a Morav in Zenovia, but he had his reasons. 

“Ah, what a sight to see,” Lewin said. “Calinescu, have I told you about this wonderful man, Lord Dardan.”

“No you have not,” Calinescu said. “You never said anything about you knowing a Morav.”

“Ah, Grand Duke, it is an honor,” Lord Dardan said. “I would tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“He’s wanted for treason,” Lewin said. “And for piracy. For the same crimes, as well.”

“Impossible,” Calinescu said. “You committed piracy against your own nation?”

“I do not like Caesar Thaurissan,” Dardan said.

“And that is all?” Calinescu said. “You must definitely have spunk.”

“Indeed,” Dardan said. “Who knows when I will face him again?”

“Oh, it may be sooner than you think,” Gheata said.

“Ah, what a dreadful topic,” Calinescu said.

“But is anything more romantic than war?” Lewin said. “People die in vain, millions of men die, their mothers, sisters, and daughters lament heard. It is the most epic thing of all.”

“I am more interested in who our allies will be,” Calinescu said. “What a shame it is that our nation is so far north.  We could have conquered the world with Moravia.”

“But then, Great Duke, where would I be?” Dardan said, and they all laughed.

“Perhaps the Elves in Yllendthyr?” Lewin said. “I say that would be the most satisfactory alliance.”

“And not Kataylabinsk?” Calinescu said.

“I would never allow it,” Lewin said. “I follow my beliefs, even if I do not believe in them very strongly.”

“I think the day when I present myself to Cinsti is coming soon, however,” Dardan said. “I do hate to submit to the will of my peers, but it seems that in every year it is the norm in more and more nations. When war comes, I am sure that they shall will want a pirate of my skill.”

[h1]The Streets of the Trollish District of Ilezabeta City[/h1]
In the darkness of the Trollish district of Ilezabeta City, thousands of Trolls marched solemnly across a long street, in memory of the young girls who had died in a textile factory. In a way, they had been murdered, killed by the negligence of unwary and uncaring industrialists who still walked free. At the head of the parade of Trolls stood the priests, who were solemnly leading the trolls with their heads turned sadly towards the ground. Among them was Throgg Magog, the head of the National Trollish League.

At the end of the street, the walking came to an end. The priest turned, and he addressed the crowd.

“There are no words that may truly comprehend the sorrow we feel. Those one-hundred and sixty-nine girls, whose lives have been taken, prematurely. No words can describe what we fill. So I recite. I recite the only words I can, to speak my sorrow. [i]How blind ye be, ye who treads down the settlement, ye that cast temples to desolation, ye that lay waste to tombs, the untrodden sanctuaries where the ancient dead lie.”[/I]

[i]How blind ye be
Ye who treads down the settlement
Ye that cast temples to desolation
Ye that lay waste to tombs
The untrodden sanctuaries where ancient dead lie[/i]

These words repeated fifty times by the mourning crowd, like a mantra. From these words written in an ancient text, written not by a Troll, but a sympathetic elf, they expressed their sorrow. These words, hailing from the ten-thousand word-long short epic poem The Trollic, were said in the most intense times of mourning. It was all they could do to express their sorrow.

[h1]The Tsardom of Ventium, Near the Capital of Ventium[/h1]
Princess Miruna had been disappointed that going into Moravia would be impossible after all. However, she did not allow it to put a damper on her mood. She was now in Ventium, and she was sure they would be more accommodating. Now she was traveling in a train, near the capital. She looked over some paper work relating to the OICP, then she handed it to her chief lieutenant, the Executive Secretary Cladiu Puturea. She was impressed that he had worked his way up at such a young age. He was only twenty-nine, yet he was recommended as the top choice for her chief lieutenant at OICP.

Cladiu Puturea took the file of papers from Princess Miruna after giving the princess all the niceties that a princess was needed. He realized that she was highly naïve, and she was a poor administrator, so he took over in the departments in which she did not excel in. Despite the princesses naivety, Puturea thought that what the Princess was undertaking was not only a noble endeavor, but one pivotal for the future. When Zenovia, Kataylabinsk, Avalia, and Fuso defeated Moravia, Verendes, and Izuno, the world would need an organization that would serve as a face for international cooperation. 

[h1]Ilezabeta City, house of Stefan Lupul[/h1]

Throgg Magog sat at a chair in his house, looking at his fireplace. Although a Troll, he had been spared of the worst effects of the inequality of his people, as he had been raised in the priesthood. However, he was far from ignoring the plight of his people. Indeed, he was the farthest from that that was possible. For years now he had lead the National Trollish League, the NTL, which was dedicated to the creation of equality for the Trollish people. 

He had arrived at the home of MP Stefan Lupul, a Radical member of the House of Commons. It was a modest house, as Lupul believed deeply that he must engaged in modest living for as long the poor among his nation continued to suffer. Throgg knocked on the door, and Lupul himself opened the door.

“Mr. Magog,” Lupul said. “Please come in.”

Lupul prepared some tea for the both of them, which Magog was happy to accept. However, he did not come over to enjoy tea with a friend, but to discuss serious and dire events. Also in there was an elder man, the elderly Latcu Dragnea, a seventy-four year old Radical MP who was influential in the Radical Party. Together, the three of them took their respective seats around a small, burning fireplace. 

“I am sure you both know why I’m here,” Magog said. “With the current situation, I say we must stick together. The NTL will endorse the Radical Party as long as the Radical Party will endorse us.”

“You have my promise,” Dragnea said. “I will do everything in my power to ensure that the Radical Party will endorse the plight of the Trolls. I can offer no promises, however.”

“And you have promise of support, Mr. Magog,” Lupul said. “I run for my party’s nomination, hoping to achieve that coveted position of party leader, but my campaign is centered on greater things than partisan politics. The people have risen up, and have petitioned for their restlessness to be answered. Neither the Patriots nor the Centrists can offer anything close to an answer.”

“I thank you both utterly,” Magog said.

“I will get to work immediately as well,” Dragnea said.

“Please stay for just a moment for the tea,” Lupul said. “We must take this one step at a time. There is much to discuss. We may not leave for even an hour.”

“Yet we are agreed of our endgoal,” Magog said. “With cooperation, we shall gain strength. Organization is needed for victory.”

“We may not win enough be able to win a majority,” Lupul said. “Or even a government. But I am optimistic. This is the beginning of a new era of politics, and a new, better chapter for the proletariat may open up.”

“But first comes your battle for nomination,” Dragnea said.

“Incumbents have always been popular in this nation,” Lupul said. “But the party is split over who should lead. I believe I have a good chance at victory.”

[h1]Ilezabeta City, House of Commons, February 5th [/h1]

There was a ruckus in the House of Commons. Sir Vali Radmridreu had brought up the topic, with much passion, of the “incident,” he used the word calamity, in the factory, when 169 young Trollish girls died. However, a fellow Patriotic MP had rebuked him, and Radmridreu replied fiercely. Adrian Brasab tried to quiet his fellow cabinet member, but Radmridreu did not wish to let this issue go. He had realized that something had obviously gone wrong here. He no longer cared about touting the party line, and did not care if he caused the party to factionalize. 

“I will not retreat,” Sir Vali Radmridreu said. “I will not be hushed. I will not be silenced, either for party politics or to not offend my beloved peers. I will not abandon this issue.  I will not ignore the plight of my constituencies, or the plight of the constituencies of my fellow MPs.”

“But to the honorable Sir Radmridreu,” a Patriotic MP responded. “By empowering the powers of labor, the unions shall inevitably rise up, and infiltrate the government until their power is unstoppable. The economy shall come to a standstill, and the workers shall become lazy.”

“As a man nominated for his work his work in bureaucracy and governmental service,” Sir Radmridreu said. “And given by his Majesty, God rest his saintly soul, the honorable knighthood, I would like to ask my junior how he came upon these conclusions, as he must have access to information that I. Please, my peer, tell me of this trove of information that I am unaware of. For all my life, I have been a dedicated conservative liberal with a firm grasp on the economy. And I do not see how allowing our youth to work their jobs without fear of death is a threat to the economy.”

“Well, they are not really our people,” Adrian Brasarab said.

“To the esteemed Member of Parliament, Adrian Brasarab,” Radmridreu said. “I cannot find myself agreeing with your statement. Although I have always regarded you as a courageous and praise-worthy individual, I can only see you now as being betrayed by your own tongue.”

As Radmridreu continued to talk, he continued to speak of the calamity at that factory, where 169 Trollish girls died. The leader of the Radical Party, Vlad Craiovesti, stood up, and clapped loudly for Radmridreu. It was followed by the entirety of the Radical Party giving Radmridreu a standing ovation. Radmridreu was a bit hesitant to accept the praise of those he saw as the far left, but he soon accepted it. 

[h1]A Factory in Numa[/h1]

The city of Numa had stood for thousands of years, before the Zenovii had even inhabited the lands that now were called Zenovia. Of course, that was now deep in the past, and now it was inhabited largely by Zenovii, the others being the Trollish immigrants. This ancient city was beautiful, yet there were also ugly districts. It was one of the first Zenovii cities to industrialize, and dirty and dangerous factories were aplenty in the poor West District.

In a textile factory, over a hundred years young girls were hard at work. Here they worked about eight hours a day, and received only menial pay. Adriana was one such girl. To her, work was monotonous, soul-crushing, dangerous, and hard. Yet she got her motivation from the fact that her pay, menial it may have been, helped her family. Ever since consumption had taken her father, her mother and two brothers had a hard time making ends meet.

Working next to her was Anca, a fellow young girl who she had befriended in the factory. Anca was more gentle than her, so Adriana felt protective to her. Yet it pained her that she could help her in her greatest struggle. She could not even help herself.

“Do ya think they’ll be another fire?” Anca said. “Liken to the Trollic gals?”

“Ah, nah,” Adriana said. “No way. How’d ever thought of the same thing happenin’ twice, and in a weeks time?”

“Hope yer right,” Anca said.

Then there was a loud commotion from the other girls. It began to get so loud that Adriana and Anca stepped away from their machines, and stopped working. As if she was in a nightmare, she heard someone yell the word fire, and then she felt the heat start to rise.

The doors had been locked, to prevent the girls from taking unauthorized breaks. The girls rammed against the hard steel doors in vain again and again. Anca felt herself full of fear, and tears wailed from her as she broke down.

“Adriana will protect me, right?” Anca said.

“That’s right,” Adriana said.

The fire eventually consumed all one-hundred and fifty-six girls. As the fire began to wash over them, Adriana was holding onto Anca. She never gave up trying to escape, but there was none. She died, feeling deeply unfulfilled, filled with the great regret that she could not save Anca.