The Emperor stood over a resplendent map of the empire. The northern plains were burnished gold. The farm lands in rich brown jasper and hematite. The rivers arteries and ocean were lapis lazuli with the occasional swamp in muddy tourmaline. The forests in malachite and amber. The foothill in topaz-studded Iron, while the surrounding mountains sported peaks of marble. To the south, brown jasper soil studded with blackened blood opals, the remains of the demon lands. And at the figurative, if not literal, center of it all, stood a city of ruby, a living flame rebirthing the Phoenix.

  They were not regular, these precious metals, gems and stones. But with a grid cut across them and many a small figurine contained in the resulting squares. In a dozen styles, but mostly aping the colors of their origin.

  And around and through these figures, were a web of glowing points. The smallest Fiefs connected to each other, to a County, to a Dukedom and directly or at the end of a chain, to Him. The cores of the empire, connected by a web of magic, honor and obligation.

  Then a new light was born and he knew.

  The pulse of nobility obtained from his own hand spoke. And he listened, shocked. And how long had it been since that happened, he mused. A decade at least?

  Tricky bandsman.

  How extraordinary. It was only the 4rth time in the Empires history that it had happened. The 3rd in his life.

  Faulksburg, Enterbrun and Lacedaumonia before it was destroyed by the demons.

  And now This.

  A fortress core was born in Alfwin Pass.

  And the patterns changed.

  The calculus of the empire. The great balance that was his to grow and maintain.

  But what would change? What would remain the same?

  A half dozen pawns were scattered to the south of his capital. The dregs of a once noble lineage, starting their journey of colonization and atonement. A hard life, and one they would have to fight against the tainted land that bore their ancestors’ blood.

  He considered the host implied by a few demonified beast statues and nodded. Moving a pair of ruby knights holding a Phoenix standard, L7 inscribed on one, L9 the other, down to aid them.

  Good enough.

  He glanced north, where a Rook made from nearly solid gold traced ever so lightly in a spiderweb of black. Faulksberg, there was good metal in the Cataphracti still. They played around the edges of corruption, but honor restrained them from diving in.

  For now at least.

  A line of garnet and lapis lazuli figurines stood just off the coast there, four armed scaled figures with a snake for a lower body. The naga were a threat to shipping and coastal hamlets. But if they strayed too far from the water, then they would learn once more why they were called the Horse Lords. Nearly seventy gold pawns were littered around that Rook, and while the connections to him, through the duke, remained exceedingly bright, those to each other were a fractured, flickering mess.

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  They would be fractious for the next few centuries. Not entirely a bad thing in normal times. It would keep the Duke busy but they would require no direct aid against external threats.

  He glanced to the southwest, a bishop in rutilated quartz sat to the north and west of the Serena Lake, a dozen pawns to its west and north, solidly quartz as well, webbed tightly together. But farther north, where the Gischtstrom and the Rheingold rivers met, the pawns were at best half quartz with hematite inclusions speaking of fraying allegiance.

  And yet, their lines of allegiance still ran through the Count. Eight new pawns, half quartz, half ruby but with very dim core lights beneath them, clustered to the south. And one of Hematite.

  Fool. He’d not see the next summer. If the goblin figures to the south didn’t do it, then the Count would see him off. Quietly of course.

  The duke would not have the wherewithal to save him.

  He glanced to the north of the river, to Obstagartenfeld, and a Rook of hematite, the blood stone or perhaps, blood from a stone. It was an ugly piece. Half black with corruption and cracks that reached nearly the core.

  And perhaps more worrisome, the line of fealty that connected Duke to Emperor was but a thin, twisted, knotted affair. That would have to be rectified.

  And it would be. Soon.

  Barely a dozen hematite pawns stood with the Rook, surrounded by a cloud of Granite. Mostly Pawns, two dozen strong, and a single elderly Knight figurine. They were clustered in the farm land, and in the hematite-flagged baronies to the south. Quite a bit more indirect than he’d expected from the old warhorse. Strategic. A very fine play and an effective one.

  They’d not destroy the duke with it. But then, he didn’t wish for that. The line had wandered off course but they could be redeemed. It would just require some, hmmm, chastisement.

  He glanced east, to Erntebrun. At the great falx crossed with a pile of iron ore crest and the Bishop of pure iron that bore it. At the three dozen pawns scattered north and east of it. All of the same metal, densely tied together in bright, uncracked lines, though ones tinted with crimson.

  The Falxians did love their vendettas. But for all of that, they’d gather in ranks as tight as any Legion against outsiders. He tapped his lips, looking even farther north at the Fjords and the smattering of barely shining lights that covered them. Iron pawns those. To the last.

  And wise to be so. The winter would soon be on them and the frost elven raiders could not be negotiated with or propitiated. Only fought. And scattered so widely the rifts would be a nightmare. No. He reached out and moved small figures, Falx’s raised proudly up to support the new fiefs. They would need it.

  He looked west to The Forest, and the Count of Auenland. A bishop of polished oak. Clean, but bearing scars and imperfections. Surface level only, and each of them unmarred by rot. And more than a bit jagged around the edges. The Emperor smiled fondly at the rugged piece.

  Here was where he would need to make changes.

  He tapped his lips, considering the dense web that bound the oak pawns together. And at nearly a century of black lights painted about and inside The Forest’s hidden groves and even the tree tops of that trackless expanse of green. A reminder of what kept the boisterous lot occupied. Mostly.

  But by all means, not all. And what they had free would be used. And used well. The Count had a shark's nose for blood in the water. And a willingness and skill to shed it himself.

  The three counts were the counterweights against the two dukes. Not a match for them in power, but like wolves biting at the heels of an aurock, they had kept them… distracted.

  Now? With the Duke of Faulksburg's attention consumed by internal disunity, could the Duke of Obstergartenfeld really hold out against all three and his own mistreated nobles?

  Even with their new commitments, he might have overplayed that hand…

  Then again. He glanced at the oak bishop for a second, then smiled. He removed a small, ruby pawn from those north-west mountains. Caressing its surface gently and smiling at its pure, clean luster before placing it back in its padded box. He considered for a moment, then removed a knight of the same material and placed it on the new Fortress. Maybe not.

  With a bit of help…

  “Fetch me a Raven.”