Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 118: The Crown Beneath the Veil

Chapter 118: The Crown Beneath the Veil

(In the Kingdom of Valmorien)

Beyond the frost-bitten borders and the dust-choked ridgelines that framed Algoria’s war, across a salt-slick sea and into the lands of velvet empires, there stood the kingdom of Valmorien—a realm where every brick bled old blood, and every hallway whispered plans too old to die.

Its palaces were carved from duskstone. Its towers wore fleur-shaped battlements. Its nobles kissed with daggers in their sleeves. A country of elegance and venom. And atop its quiet throne, draped in wine-dark velvet and gold-inked conviction, sat Jaun-Pierre Louis—Dictateur Régent of Valmorien.

He smiled as thunder echoed outside the war chamber’s windows.

Ivar Ragnarsson sat across from him—broad-shouldered, beard braided with iron rings, wearing wolf-fur over leather mail, his axe propped silently against the marbled wall. Scyl’s king, carved from storm and memory.

"You know what your people call me," Jaun-Pierre said, swirling his glass. "The Mad Tactician. The Devil’s Strategist. I find it charming, don’t you? Madness is just the word small minds use when they don’t see the rest of the board."

Ivar grunted, unmoved. "You summoned me across the sea to talk riddles?"

"Non, mon roi," Jaun said, leaning forward. "I summoned you to discuss restraint—a curious thing to offer a Viking. Algoria is tightening its noose. They call it diplomacy. But we both know what it is—absorption masked in banners. And yet, I tell you this: we don’t need to burn for them. Not yet."

He tapped the table softly with a silver finger ring. "If Joseph pardons us—Valmorien and Scyl both—if he removes us from his list of ’future allies’..." Jaun smiled wider, "...then there need be no war."

Ivar leaned forward, blue eyes sharp as northern steel. "You truly believe words will cut deeper than steel? That Joseph—Joseph—will step back from a table he’s already begun carving?"

"Non." Jaun’s smile vanished. "I believe he won’t. And when he doesn’t, we strike with justification, not ambition."

He stood now, pacing to the great map pinned across the north wall—borders shifted and notched by wax seals and blade punctures.

"He gathers alliances," Jaun continued. "He drinks with eastern kings, whispers with desert-born caliphs. A web that stretches wide. But no web stretches without anchors."

His finger jabbed down at two markers. One bore the emblem of Ivar’s wolf. The other—a crest of obsidian lilies. "We break the net before it tightens."

Ivar crossed his arms, thoughtful. "Scyl does not follow. We raid. We survive. We do not kneel to crowns behind wine."

Jaun turned, and something cold flickered behind his eyes—something ancient and unflinching. "I don’t want you to kneel. I want you to stand beside me when I burn Algoria’s map and redraw it in the language of consequence."

For a long moment, only the crackling of torches answered them.

Then Ivar spoke.

"If you lie—Scyl will be the first to turn your palace to smoke."

Jaun chuckled, returning to his seat like a man already pleased with the deal. "If I lie," he said, raising his glass, "then I’ll pour the wine myself over the flames."

They drank.

Somewhere in Algoria, King Joseph met with envoys from the southern coastal kingdoms.

He smiled politely over golden cups.

And didn’t yet know that in Valmorien, two wolves had begun sharpening their teeth under velvet skies.

...

(At the Algoria Palace.)

The Great Hall of Alsareth—Algoria’s diplomatic heart—was carved from white marble and softened with blue banners that hung like veins of wind through history. At its center stood a long table of obsidian glass, surrounded by figures whose crowns came heavy with names, scars, and ambition.

King Joseph sat at the head, no longer adorned in his former regalia—his cloak now simpler, his hands folded—but the weight of him remained. He didn’t speak. He watched. Because today, the words belonged to someone else.

King Hans.

Young, sharp-eyed, dressed in a tailored coat stitched with the flame-and-sun emblem of Algoria. He rose to his feet with grace not learned but inherited.

"My fellow monarchs," Hans said, voice ringing with a clarity that didn’t seek permission. "Three years ago, none of us would’ve sat at this table without guards bristling and fingers hovering near blades. Three years. That’s what it took to bring walls down... so we could build something bigger than them."

He glanced around—at Queen Lysandra of the Thornmar Isles, Emperor Daichi of the Southern Crest, Chancellor N’ko of the Desert City-States, and nearly a dozen others. Some old. Some untested. All powerful.

"And we’re not done," Hans continued. "Others will come. They must. We will not stand as scattered banners when the storm comes. We’ll stand as a single wind."

A slow nod came from Emperor Daichi, but not all were convinced.

A slender king with gold-wrought rings tapped a single finger on the table. "But what if these nations you speak of do not wish to join us, Hans? What if they see no profit in unity?"

Hans smiled.

Not smug. Not mocking. Just confident in a way that unsettled even quiet air.

"They will," he said. "Because everyone at this table—you—are the reason they’ll want to. The bridges you’ve built, the strength you carry, the weight of your names... We don’t need to beg them."

Another ruler, older, voice low with cynicism, asked, "And what if they still refuse? If alliances don’t interest them? If pride outweighs peace?"

Hans let out a quiet breath, like a man trying not to laugh.

"If it comes to that," he said softly, "then we make the alliance for them."

Silence. Not from fear. From recognition.

A long-held truth rising in plain speech.

Joseph’s lips twitched—not disapproval. Almost... amused.

Around the room, the leaders exchanged looks.

And then, slowly, one by one, they raised their goblets. They didn’t cheer.

They acknowledged.

A shared truth behind polished words: sometimes peace comes after the fire.

Hans lifted his own glass, gaze level, voice like a blade sheathed in velvet.

"To unity," he said. "By hand or by history. Let the world choose."