NONE SO VILE

04: All Things to All People

Zolfreun Manor, Losaile, 1802.

            Seventeen was too young to lose a leg. Leon sat by the boy's side, the young fox babbling softly to himself, half lost in the whirlwind of pain and strife. His left leg was wrapped in bandages, and stinking like a corpse. Only a matter of time until that comes off.

More than two-dozen men were crammed into the large canvas pavilion, and Leon knew there were at least four other identical sick bays erected throughout the Rennairan camp. Bag-eyed military physicians rushed back and forth, triaging who they could, praying for who they couldn't. Too many wounded, and not enough doctors to go around.

Contrary to popular belief, the greatest casualties of war were not made on the battlefield. There was always death in the heat of battle, but Leon had seen himself how those that died instantly were the lucky ones. There was no pain in a sword point driven straight through your heart, or a musket ball to the eye. For the majority of Leon's men, it was the injuries that got them. Slowly, and painfully.

A battle with two thousand casualties could see less than three-hundred men die on their feet. The rest came later, screaming in the dark as the surgeons did their work. 

Five days had passed since the battle of Zolfreun. After Leon killed the Angel Hashan, it had only been a matter of time until the allied enemy forces collapsed under their own weight. A cease-fire was called to collect the dead and wounded, and the generals in Emperor Ferdinand's command had sent word inviting Leon and his army to meet with them at the nearby Zolfreun Manor to discuss a truce. 

So far, negotiations had been slow.

“The war is over, lad," Leon said softly, squeezing the teenager's elbow. The fox looked up at him with a sudden clarity, sweat beading on his whiskers.

“Did we win? Did we? Did we?" He mumbled incoherently, the fever cooking him from the inside out. “It hurts, monsieur. I promised Mama I would stay out of trouble, but it hurts." 

“I know, boy," Leon replied, nodding gently. He pulled a flask from his coat, pressing it to the boy's lips and allowing him a sip. “Here, swallow this." 

The fox sputtered, but forced the liquid down. It was no fine brandy or wine, merely a wartime eau de vie, but it was high proof, and would help numb the pain… at least for a short time. 

“We won, do not fret, your Mama would be proud." Leon sniffed, replacing his flask. The other men of the sick bay watched him in equal parts wonder and terror. Leon ignored them. It was not their fault that generals of the past had ignored their dying men. “Thanks to you and your regiment, son. I merely made the calls, but you brave souls went out and fought for the pride of Rennaire. Your mother is safe at home, and I am proud of you." 

The boy slipped away again, lost in the fever pitch. His eyes spun dizzily, clouding over as he mumbled.

“What is his name?" Leon asked, sticking his head up and snapping fingers at the nearest surgeon. 

The field medic was a zebra, rare for a Rennairan soldier, but Leon would turn no useful man away. “His n-name, General? Er, well, it is… um…" The doctor scurried for reports, but everything was a mess. “Forgive me a moment…" 

“His name is Audie, General," called the man from the next bed. He was another fox, one arm hanging in a sling, an eye covered with a patch. “A good lad that fought bravely for you." 

“Audie," Leon repeated, leaning down and placing a kiss on the boy's forehead. “I will see they do not take your leg." 

“M-muh-muh-Mama…" the boy muttered, squirming fretfully on the cot. 

Leon stood, righting his filthy greatcoat and turning to the zebra. The men were all watching him, and he knew the stories they would tell of this moment, he could feel the importance of it riding his shoulders. 

These are the common people, and they need someone on their side. 

“Doctor," he began firmly, pointing to the boy. “You will call this brave man by his name, Audie. Have him moved to the officer sick-bay, I would see that his leg stays on."

“Yes General!" The medic snapped a salute, before hurrying to attend to the lad, calling over his assistants. 

The fox with the sling snorted. “General, is it true you killed an Angel out there?" 

Leon regarded him, grinning. “It is true, soldier. Losaile and Danegard sent their best, they had even our vengeful God's blood on their side… and still we prevailed. Still you prevailed, my brave children." 

The men of the bay all shook their heads, some making signs of the faith over their chest. 

“Truly, God looked away from us that day!" A wolf cried. The sentiment irked Leon. It wasn't the One God's ignorance that delivered them victory. It was me. 

“No!" The jaguar cried, curling one paw into a fist. “Men, you should know the truth. God looked on us that day, but we alone weathered that storm! No Gods or Kings, it was the courage of you Rennairemen that won the battle of Zolfreun, not the machinations of our Lord Father!" 

Many of the men gasped, but more than not nodded solemnly. Leon nodded back, meeting their eyes. His words were dangerously close to heresy, but that didn't make them wrong. Religion was a thing of the nobility, and while it brought comfort to those in suffering, those sent to die for the glory of the Crown did not have a use for it. 

Leaving the sick bay behind, Leon stepped out into the camp proper, the chill of the mid-autumn morning biting at his ears and fingertips. Only two days since the army arrived and the well-manicured grounds of the manor had already been churned to sludge, but Leon didn't care. It was the summer home of some wealthy Losailan nobleman, co-opted by the nation's high command to hold a truce talk. The manor was wide and grand, built of limestone on a small rise overlooking the nearby forest, gardens stretching out two-hundred yards in every direction.

And it sits abandoned nine months of the year, Leon thought, eyes searching the glazed windows of the top floor. How many peasant families could be sheltered there? Twenty? Thirty, with room to spare?

“General!" Leon looked to see Marshal Deuxmoise marching to him, the jackal lifting his boots high to avoid the worst suckings of the mud. “I had heard you were not in your rooms, I did not think to find you down here with the enlisted men." 

“A rifleman must check his tools, any general should do the same. Please, walk with me, Marshal," Leon replied, beckoning the old jackal. “While I appreciate the enemy offering us their hospitality while we make peace, truthfully I find more peace out here in the cold."

Deuxmoise laughed. “Admirable. I know it means a lot to the men to see you out here. Even the mere suggestion of mixing with the enlisted would make any other general baulk, monsieur, and every soldier knows it." Since winning the day at Zolfreun, Deuxmoise's attitude towards Leon had completely reversed. The jackal was almost a sycophant now, agreeing with every one of the jaguar's remarks, laughing heartily with every joke. 

Fear will make a dog obey you once, but respect will keep it coming back.

Leon shrugged. “I will still sleep in their fine beds and eat their expensive food, Marshal, have no fear of that."

The two men left the row of sick-bays behind, weaving through the uneven alleyways of the camp. As they passed the stables, a small armada of young boys were busy tending to the cavalry mounts, feeding and brushing them. Men stopped to salute them both as they went, and Leon nodded pleasantly back at each of them.

“How go the truce negotiations, General?" Deuxmoise asked. 

Leon sighed. “To be candid? Not well. I had hoped to meet directly with the Emperor, but it seems he'd rather speak through a mouthpiece." He scowled. The representatives had met with him the day before, and nobody had gotten anywhere. There were two – an ornery wolf from Danegard named Heinrich Üller, and a fastidious otter from Losaile named Maximilian Wist. They were both primary generals of their respective armies, and even worse, both old blood aristocrats. 

“The Emperor is too ashamed to show his face to you," Deuxmoise said. “After the spanking you delivered." 

“They are proud men," Leon explained. “General Heinrich is full of bluster, while Maximilian is a natural peacemaker. I had thought to cushion their bruised egos with humility and kindness, but when they look at me, I fear all they see is a boy playing soldier."

Deuxmoise huffed, his hackles rising. “All the more shame then. You humiliated both nations to the world, General. Trying to undermine your victory only makes them look all the worse." 

“Conceited fools, too used to coasting on their bloodline!" Leon snarled, the smell of fresh bread filling the air as they approached the Brigade de Chef encampment. He tried to let the mouth-watering aroma soothe his anger, another swell of pride for his men rising in his gut. In less than a day, Leon's men had built an oven large enough to bake five-hundred loaves at a time. They worked dawn to dusk churning out nearly three-thousand a day, and still he had men going hungry. 

I should take the food from the manor itself. There is plenty to eat inside, an aristocrat never goes to bed with an empty belly. 

“They resist my terms, Marshal," Leon continued. “I offered them fair terms, with modest war reparations to the Crown, and was practically laughed from the room! Rennaire paid a quarter again as much back to Cielwen, and that was nearly ten years ago!" 

“With all respect, General," Deuxmoise replied. “You're meeting with old-world men, and this is not how truces are typically done." 

Leon batted the comment away, but Deuxmoise was right and he knew it.

War between great powers had protocols and traditions. In an ordinary war, the armies would finish fighting, and agree on a medium-term ceasefire. The victor was self-evident and there were rarely more conditions to this besides 'do not kill one another'. Over the next few weeks, the respective rulers and their ministers from each country would then hash out the details via correspondents. By trying to bypass the Crown and dictate terms himself, Leon knew he was setting a dangerous new precedent – but there was no helping it. His men had died for Hurlitz, Salenco, and Zolfreun, and this war had starved out the people of Rennaire for almost five years now. He would not allow Losaile and Danegard to walk away with peace terms that kept them strong in the years to come.

When our nations fight again, Rennaire will start the conflict on the better foot. Paul Vardé feels more connection with the nobles of the enemy than the peasants in our streets, should I just step aside and let him sign away half my victories all in the name of chivalry? The thought of such indignation made the jaguar's blood boil. Aristocrats only ever sought to protect their own, they cared not for the peasants dying at their feet. The people of Rennaire must know that these years of fighting were for something. I will not allow us to walk away empty-pawed.

“Perhaps you should consider leaving diplomacy to the ministers in Albedo? Save yourself the strife?" Deuxmoise suggested. “No one can deny you have done your duty, General." 

“I revived this army from the brink of death, Marshal," Leon said icily. “My men bled to take Hurlitz and Salenco, the Imperial Waistcoat was wiped out winning the day at Zolfreun. The diplomacy of ministers in Albedo is exactly what kept our country knee-deep in war for these past five years! No. I must make peace here, I will make peace here, even if it means bypassing the King himself to do it." 

Then let them try and shut me out. Jacques had received troubling news from Albedo. The kingmakers at court were not pleased with Leon's astronomical rise to fame, and there were whispers of sending him to command a colony, or even of discrediting him. After that victory, they cannot take my rank. After I make peace for our entire nation, they cannot deny my place.

“My whole life is fighting, Marshal," Leon said, sighing as he massaged a temple. “Fighting other nations. Fighting against men born to better families than I. Destiny brought me here, not the King, and I will see this through." 

“If the King does not see in you a loyal asset, then he is blind." Marshal Deuxmoise clapped Leon on the back. “These days the politicians sit in their towers and look down their snouts at us fighting men. Long gone are the days of Kazmar the Great leading from the front! You must pay them no mind." The Marshal sniffed. 

“And if he sends me away?" Leon asked. 

“Then the King is a fool, and I would not be ashamed to say it." Deuxmoise stood tall, unphased that he was treading dangerously close to treason. “I would not cut off my right paw because it embarasses my left. Our great nation is growing necrotic by the day, and it is time we cut away the dead flesh to let forth new blood."

It was not lost on Leon that Deuxmoise himself was from a good family. He was a cavalryman, after all, and that was the hunting ground of rich children seeking glory. Does he think I don't know? Or is he simply trying to ingratiate himself further to me? Or am I being unfair by holding that against him?

“I appreciate your support, Marshal. I trust that the King will see reason." Leon smiled. “After this business is done, the army will return to Rennaire. You have family in the north, I understand, will you go back via Suné?"

Deuxmoise nodded stoutly, gazing out at the trees blowing in the wind. “Indeed, General, my plans are already made! I shall arrive in the city at five a.m., I will order new boots, I will make my wife pregnant, and then I will drink a brandy." He grinned, teeth flashing. “Then I will come join you and the other marshals in Albedo, and we might face the Crown's displeasure together."

“Thank you." 

“Do not worry, General." The Marshal squared his shoulders, chest puffing up with pride. “Rennaire is a faded wisp of its former self, but together we will unite beneath the King, free him of the malingerers by his side, and restore our home's glory and honour!"

And if the King himself resists that change? Leon considered. Where would your loyalties lie then, Deuxmoise? 

“As for them," the old jackal continued, waving a paw towards the manor. “I see in you a modern-day Kazmar, you make sure our enemies see it too."

Leon's days as a child had been spent reading books on Kazmar's incredible exploits. The old crocodile had been the greatest military leader of all time, without a doubt. Kazmar had conquered the wasteful deserts in the east, and made his nation the centre of the entire world. A true hero of antiquity. Those days are long gone now, he thought, as the old Marshal said his farewells. Our King has nothing to fear from me, if only I can help him see that. 

Leon left the baggage and bakers of the army behind, picking his way through the muddy thoroughfare as he headed back to the grand manor on the hill. Men continued to salute him as he went, some even kneeling or cheering his name. It was important for the soldiers to see him. Modern day militaries all seemed to hold their enlisted corps in a kind of contempt, and all of the books Leon had read claimed an iron fist and a short leash was the best way to force the most out of them. 

It was likely due to Danegard. Despite its smaller size, the wolves were as famous for their cruelty as they were for their incredible armies. 

But I see a better way – yesterday's solutions will not answer today's questions. Leon imagined a world where people wanted to join the military. An army of willing participants, not coerced or tricked into joining, but made up of men who felt a shared sense of honour in victory. Would such men not fight harder and longer than those who did it fearing the whip? 

Reform. That was the path forward. Leon could see the world was changing, and he had a mind to make sure Rennaire was leading the way forward. I want it, and I deserve it, if only I can show the King this way of thinking. With kindness to the commoners, and respect to the soldiers, Leon saw a future with Rennaire as an unstoppable nation. Men like Paul Vardé were in the way, but Leon had conquered every other foe he'd faced so far. There is no reason to think I cannot best you as well. 

He found Jacques busying himself by the manor's entrance, elbow-deep in an argument with some other staff officer. Leon imagined the rat was pressing the poor fool on his buttons not being shined enough, or some other pedantic matter.

The two of them had met in artillery school. Jacques had never made it out due to his awkward social abilities, but before he flunked out Leon had seen something in the rat. As soon as he took the position of General, he had sent for Jacques. The man had proved indispensable, constantly checking his reports and delivering Leon perfect and reliable information – the key to his successful logistics.

But he certainly was a stickler for the rules. Not in the stuffy way that men like Deuxmoise might be, but in a more simple fashion. If it was written down, Jacques could not understand why it shouldn't be followed. 

“My friend!" Leon said, taking the rat by the arm and instantly pulling him away from the poor man he was quietly berating. “Come. I would go over my strategies for the next meeting with the enemy generals." 

“Right away, monsieur," Jacques said, skipping to keep up. His uniform was assembled to the very letter of the soldier's manual, and he scowled at each tiny fleck of mud that touched his coat, brushing it away with more scorn than Leon had ever seen directed at simple dirt. 

“We are fighting a war, Jacques," he said, as they rose up the polished steps into the manor lobby. “There will be mud." 

“It does not mean I must like it, General." 

Leon shrugged, not caring a whit as his boots trod thick prints across the expensive rug adorning the floor. Zolfreun Manor had been divided up into two halves – one side for Leon and the Rennairan army, and the other for Danegard and Losaile. The manor acted as a wall, ensuring the two armies could not see one another, and forming a kind of no-man's-land in the middle where the treaties could be discussed. 

“I don't know how to approach these men," Leon said quietly, as they continued up to the second floor, where his rooms were. “They should be my equals. And yet as I dictated the terms for peace, General Heinrich almost bit my paw off, and Maximilian was forced to calm him down. By the end of the meeting they were practically laughing at me, Jacques." The memory had a sickly blend of anxious rage swirling through Leon's chest. It was humiliating, and infuriating all at once. “How do I reach men like that, men who simply refuse my authority?" 

“Perhaps by allowing the proper procedure to take place?" The rat suggested. Jacques always said what he truly thought, and he said it without inflection or malice. It was something Leon adored about the man – he was of good blood, but he was no aristocrat speaking in half-truths and suggestions. “Bypassing the Crown's ministers will be seen as an insult to all involved. They can get more favourable terms by dealing with Duke Vardé directly." 

“You and Deuxmoise both!" Leon shook his head. “That is not an option. The people need someone they can rely on, what good am I to them if I allow the bloody wigs to set us on a weakened path!" 

“The old ways are intended to keep everyone satisfied, General," said Jacques. The rat had a knack for stating the obvious. “To prevent further war."

With diplomacy came an unspoken agreement. The two nations would allow each other reparations, offering territory up tit-for-tat. It was not Rennaire's goal to humiliate or ruin their enemies, but to build a 'lasting' peace. According to men like Vardé, the best way for that was to keep both nations in almost equal standing (albeit, with Rennaire slightly on top). 

Leon saw things clearly. “There is no end to war, Jacques, and when the next one comes I'd rather start it ahead of my enemies."

“Your enemies, or the King's?" 

“Mine," Leon said firmly. “I am the one out here fighting them."

Jacques sighed, closing the door behind them. “Your terms are very favourable for Rennaire, yes, but it will lead to a situation in the near future where further war with Danegard is unavoidable." 

“As long as other nations see themselves as our equal, the wars will never stop. Duke Vardé's method only leads to them being able to hit us harder when that day comes. His treaties with Cielwen are what led to this circus in the first place! He gave everything to them, and we had to rip the gold out of our teeth to pay for this bloody war." 

“I understand your logic, General," said Jacques, opening up the door to Leon's room and allowing him in. “But the enemy may not see it that way." 

“They lost!" Leon exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “If they did not want to be humiliated, they shouldn't have fucking lost! It is that simple. God's in his Heaven, the stress of it is murder." 

He turned to Jacques, out of breath.

“What would I do without you, my friend?" 

The rat frowned. “Hire another staff officer?"

“Shut up." Leon pushed in, pressing Jacques against the wall, one paw touching his hip, their crotches brushing together. 

“The tension… is unbelievable," he whispered, grinding slowly against the rat. 

“Erm… yes," Jacques said, blushing from his cheeks to his ears. “I thought… this sort of thing was… er… only for campaign?" 

“There's no peace yet, right?" Leon chuckled. “I'm tired of arguing. Why, you don't want it?" 

“I…" The rat squirmed between him and the wall, and Leon could feel the firmness in their trousers. 

“In Kazmar the Great's day, the officers would rut with the men," Leon whispered in Jacques's ear. “It was seen as a sign of respect, for subordinates to help relieve the dominant." 

“But…" The rat stammered. He was typically so unflappable, and to see him all nervous and put-upon filled Leon with delight. “We really… shouldn't… I mean, it isn't the kind of thing people look kindly on…" 

Adorable. 

“You're saying it's wrong?" Leon asked. His paw trailed up the front of Jacques's trousers, feeling the hard outline of the rat's cock. “That you don't want to serve me?" He shoved the rat's trousers down, exposing his quivering pink cock. It was medium sized, smooth, a small bush of creamy-grey fur at the base. Leon's paw clenched around the tip, drawing a soft grunt from the man. 

“You know… I… love… to serve… monsieur…" Jacques replied, breathing in short, shallow gasps. 

“So then…" Leon undid his own breeches, exposing himself. His cock was also pink, but slightly larger, and covered with jaguar barbs; small bumpy ridges along the length that he'd only heard good things about receiving. He pressed their cocks together, pleasure aching in his hips. “...serve me." 

“Ah!" Cried Jacques, as Leon seized his hips, spinning him around and shoving him against the wall. One paw brushed the rat's tail aside, and he slid his thick cock between the tight cheeks of the man's ass. This was one rule of Leon's – like in Kazmar the Great's day, he was the dominant, and he never took the submissive position. 

“You look so good," he whispered in Jacques's ear, grinding against him. “You want to serve me?" 

“Y-yes, monsieur!"

Jacques was always so eager to obey, and it made Leon's blood pump faster. If only I could make you my wife, and breed you. 

He had just made his cock slick with olive oil, tip pressing against the rat's entrance, when a knock came thundering at the door. 

“God, look at this man…" Leon muttered, pausing his pre-emptive thrusts, his cock already softening against Jacques's cheeks. He called out. “What is it?!" 

“Herr Valoisier!" Came back the voice, a sharp Danegardian accent filing down all the consonants. He pronounced Leon's surname as 'val-oh-zeer' instead of 'val-wah-sier'. He spoke Rennairan clearly enough, as most on the continent did, but with a very noticeable accent. “General Üller and General Wist are ready for your presence once more!" 

Leon pushed himself off Jacques, already using a towel to wipe away the slickness at his crotch. 

“Yes, yes!" He shouted back. “I'll be along shortly." 

“Danke, Herr Valoisier!" 

A pitter-patter of steps told him the messenger had run off. 

“Atrocious timing," Leon snapped, refixing his breeches. “They do it on purpose, Jacques. It's a deliberate insult not to give me any warning."

“Yes, General." The rat was already put back together completely, as if nothing had happened.

Leon's mind raced at how to approach the meeting. Last time had been ridiculous, and he wouldn't stand for that kind of shame again.

“I see in you a modern-day Kazmar the Great, General, make sure our enemies see it too." That's what Deuxmoise said. 

Very well. 

“Jacques, prepare reports for me on each of the corps's finances. I will go over them when I return." Hopefully with the knowledge of peace. 

The rat frowned. “I can do that, General, but is it not best to leave that sort of task to the Marshals?" 

“Just have it done, yes?" Logistics were key, in his mind, and the firm order of them helped Leon concentrate. Logistics gave men clothes, guns, ammunition, and food. It gave them confidence too, that they would have everything they needed when it came time to destroy the enemy. When he'd first taken command of the Eastern Army, the soldiers had been dressed in winter clothing and gone without meat for nearly two weeks. It was technically illegal, but the first thing Leon did was secure better clothes and food from local suppliers. 

Logistics won wars.

“Good luck," Jacques said flatly, as he left. Leon nodded back, hurrying down the long hallways to the parlour in the centre of the manor. 

He was nervous. These men should fear me, and yet they laugh in my face. It was ridiculous. What do they need to see? All men needed something different. For Leon's soldiers, they had to see a general that loved them. For his Marshals, they had to see a general who knew what he was doing. Kindness, respect, and authority had gotten him far, but if Leon truly wanted to remake Rennaire into the great nation he knew it could be, he would have to become all things to all people. The King, the aristocrats, the common folk, each of them needed a different face.

As does the enemy. 

He arrived in the parlour before Heinrich and Maximilian. Making him wait was a trite powerplay, and Leon happily took a seat at the table, relaxing back while he patiently waited. 

It did not take long for the wolf and the otter to appear. They came with a small delegation of advisors, bouncing around them and exchanging notes. 

Heinrich Üller wore the green uniform of the Danegard Kammerjaeger. A dark metal breastplate, thick coat beneath it, an iron helm in the shape of a wolf clutched under one arm. Maximilian Wist wore a more typical outfit; the usual yellow tailcoat of the Losaile high command. 

“Gentlemen," Leon said, nodding to them both as they sat. “So good of you to join me once again." 

“And to you," Maximilian said in his light Losailan accent, the otter dipping his chin respectfully. Heinrich sat like a statue, glaring at Leon. 

“General," said Leon.

“Monsieur," said Heinrich. The word growled out as 'monzer' through the wolf's teeth. A deliberate slight.

Maximilian sighed. “I thought we might begin our conversation today with a small treat. A ginger tea I first discovered in southern Felise." He snapped his fingers, and a servant rushed forward, laying a silver platter down on the table between them. 

The tray held three small cups, and a beautiful porcelain teapot, covered in an intricate red and white pattern. 

“Stunning, no?" Maximilian suggested, gesturing to the pot as the servant poured the tea. “It has been in this manor's family for ninety years. A true antique."

“Danke," Leon said, accepting his tea. He took a sip, the hot ginger washing through his body. “That is truly lovely, my appreciation, General Maximilian." 

“We reviewed your terms once more," General Heinrich said. “I personally met with his Holy Righteous Emperor Ferdinand, and we simply find these agreements unacceptable. Insulting, even. You have insulted an Emperor, General Valoisier." 

I'll bloody his nose if I have to. 

“Should we not do this the proper way?" Maximilian suggested. “We can agree to a short ceasefire today, General, and then let us allow the ministers to settle on their terms." 

“No," Leon said sharply. “I am speaking for Rennaire, the Emperor is here, we do not need to wait to make peace." He sipped his tea, placing the antique porcelain back on the table. “I will speak plainly, Danegard and Losaile have lost this war. In that, you have lost all rights to dictate terms here, and you will be grateful for what the Rennairan Crown allows you."

“How dare you," Heinrich growled, lips peeling back to show his teeth. 

“I am sure he does not mean that," Maximilian cautioned. 

“I mean it and more," Leon replied.

“Your terms would leave us weak, practically defenceless," Heinrich said. “The Emperor will not concede this ground. I am warning you boy, if you continue down this path so stubbornly, there will be no peace made at all." 

“Then let us continue the war," Leon said, leaning forward. These men had to fear him, they had to see he was furious and unafraid.

I will become all things to all people.

“I was born on the north coast, you understand? I was born on the shores of a dying fatherland, during the Thornish war of 1780. I saw blood and death before I saw eight years old. When I came to this army one year ago it was starving like a neglected mutt. No doubt you had told your Emperor that victory was imminent – 'a matter of weeks, your majesty'. But what came next?" 

A muscle was pulsing in Heinrich's temple. “You go too far, General." 

“Not far enough!" Leon cried, standing up so suddenly his chair flew backwards, scraping loudly across the polished floor. “I defeated you! Crushed your kammerjaeger at Hurlitz, robbed you of a standard in Salenco, and executed your Angel at Zolfreun! I have built this army into the greatest force in the east! If you do not agree to my terms, I will continue to fight you all the way back to Dannesburg!" 

“I think things have gotten a little out of control here, gentlemen," began Maximilian. “Why don't we–"

Leon picked up the antique teapot, spinning on his heel and hurling it at the wall. The porcelain smashed against the bricks, exploding into a shower of tiny painted chunks, tea splashing onto the ground. The advisors all flinched backwards, and Maximilian cried out, while Heinrich only tightened his fists. 

“That was a ninety year old antique!" Maximilian cried. “A family relic!"

Leon spun back on them, showing his fangs, the hackles on his neck rising up high. He pointed to the smashed teapot, screaming. “AND THAT WILL BE YOUR EMPIRE!" His fist crashed down into the tabletop, spittle flying from his lips. “If you continue to resist me I will destroy everything you hold dear! EVERYTHING!" 

Inside he was calm. You will respect me. I will save this country, no matter the price I have to pay, understand that.

“This is not how things are done, General," Heinrich warned.

“It is how they're done now. These are fair terms, and I make no concessions," Leon continued, pointing to his treaty documents on the table between them. “You will sign this peace and live in my new world, or you can resist and die in your old one!"

Heinrich glared back, grinding his teeth. Maximilian sat stunned in his chair, eyes wide. 

Leon squared his shoulders, blowing air from his cheeks as he straightened his greatcoat. 

“I will be in my rooms, monsieurs. Take this to your Emperor and ratify it. Come get me when you are ready to sign." 

And before they could reply, Leon turned away, leaving them in stunned silence.