22-02-2026, 10:41 AM
Lonmouth, New Englia
12 January 5713
12 January 5713
Quote:The well-lit night was not the talk of the town in Lonmouth, because in Lonmouth, the night was always well-lit. The old capital had never quite surrendered its pride, nor its appetite, and inside La Couronne del Sol, the golden glow of hanging lamps reflected against polished marble floors and tall windows that framed the river like an oil painting. The restaurant was a monument to continental ambition, an Egelian-Lourennais fusion of warm indulgence and calculated elegance, the sort of place where deals were rarely written down but often remembered.
John Edward Turley, leader of the Conservative People's Party and delegate from Galebrough West and Camlin, sat stiffly in his chair, his large hands folded around a glass of red wine he had barely tasted. His Parmesan-crusted pork chops had cooled into irrelevance, though he occasionally prodded them with his fork to maintain appearances. Turley was a man who understood spectacle, who thrived in pulpits and campaign halls, who could stir crowds into fervor with a raised eyebrow and a well-timed pause. But waiting was different. Waiting implied dependency, and dependency implied weakness.
Across from him sat Allan Selkirk, his protege who represents Portavie-on-Sea South, who seemed entirely unbothered by the delay. Selkirk ate slowly, methodically, as if demonstrating to the world that patience was not merely a virtue but a weapon.
“He’ll come,” Selkirk said without looking up. “Men like him always do. They simply prefer to arrive when their absence has been noticed.”
Turley gave a half-smile. “You make him sound like a cardinal.”
Selkirk dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “No. Cardinals believe in God.”
As if summoned by the remark, a figure appeared at the entrance, removing his coat with theatrical precision before handing it to the hostess. Hurgaci Ruyere moved with the deliberate confidence of a man who understood the value of timing, his smile wide enough to suggest warmth but restrained enough to imply discipline.
“Gentlemen,” Ruyere said, his accent smooth and almost musical. “My apologies. Lonmouth traffic conspires against punctuality.”
Turley stood immediately, his anxiety dissolving into relief. “Hurgaci! You made it.”
They shook hands firmly, Turley’s grip enthusiastic, Ruyere’s calculated.
Selkirk did not stand. Instead, he watched.
Ruyere took his seat, declining the menu with a polite gesture. “I’ve already eaten,” he said. “Tonight is for conversation.”
“Oh. Of course it is,” Selkirk muttered.
Turley shot him a warning glance, but Ruyere only chuckled softly, as if amused by resistance rather than offended by it.
For a moment, they spoke of harmless things—property markets, Lonmouth’s stubborn refusal to modernize its harbor, the humiliating fifteen percent polling that had reduced the Conservative People’s Party into what Selkirk privately described as a historical footnote with a press office.
“You know,” Ruyere said eventually, leaning forward slightly, “it surprises me that a nation as proud as New Englia finds itself… constrained.”
Turley stiffened. “Constrained?”
“Yes. You sit on oceans of potential,” Ruyere said gently. “And yet you allow hesitation—foreign hesitation—to dictate your future.”
Selkirk’s fork stopped midair.
“If you’re referring to Petroenglia,” Selkirk said flatly, “you’ll find it operates independently. As it should.”
He emphasized the last three words with surgical precision.
Petroenglia was, to Selkirk, more than a corporation. It was a constitutional instrument, a carefully balanced entity designed to insulate national resource policy from precisely this sort of interference—foreign charm dressed as friendly advice.
Ruyere nodded, as if he had expected the objection. “Independence is admirable. Necessary, even. But independence does not exist in a vacuum. It exists within a political environment.”
Turley leaned forward. “Go on.”
Selkirk frowned.
“The Kalistani bid,” Ruyere said calmly. “It introduces… uncertainty.”
At the mention of Kalistan, Turley’s expression hardened. The Empress’s postmaterialist, environmentally alarmist crusade on steroids had been insufferable enough; her government’s attempt to insert itself into New Englia’s economic future was something else entirely.
“It’s ideological theater,” Turley said. “They want to dictate morality while forcing our economy to be a sitting duck.”
Selkirk nodded. “Hypocrisy, if I may add.”
“But it is an effective hypocrisy,” Ruyere said softly.
That word lingered. Effective.
“You see,” Ruyere continued, “perception matters. Markets respond to clarity. Investors respond to confidence. Citizens respond to leadership.”
Selkirk narrowed his eyes. “And what exactly are you suggesting?”
Ruyere smiled, as though the question itself were an invitation.
“I’m suggesting nothing,” he said lightly. “Only that the parliament possesses a voice. A voice capable of expressing national priorities.”
Selkirk leaned back, folding his arms. “The House of Delegates do not need to put Petroenglia into account right now.”
“No,” Ruyere agreed. “But Petroenglia exists within a nation whose direction is shaped by its hallowed assembly.”
Turley said nothing, but his breathing had changed. Slower. More deliberate. Ruyere watched him carefully.
“There is a phrase we use in Bianjie,” Ruyere said, almost conversationally. “Dovani for Dovanians.”
He said it without emphasis, without insistence, as though it were merely a cultural curiosity rather than the quiet cornerstone of the Verhamese-Bianjian bid.
“A shared destiny,” he added. “A continent that stands together, rather than apart.”
Selkirk scoffed. “Spare us the 'intriguing' poetry.”
“I’m just offering perspective,” Ruyere replied calmly.
Selkirk leaned forward now, his voice sharper.
“No,” he said. “You’re offering influence.”
The air tightened. Turley shifted in his seat.
Selkirk continued. “Petroenglia was designed specifically to prevent this sort of manipulation. Not Kalistani. Not Bianjian. Not anyone’s.”
Ruyere nodded respectfully. “And that is wise.”
He paused.
“But wisdom evolves.”
Turley exhaled slowly. “What would clarity look like?” Turley asked quietly.
Selkirk turned toward him sharply. “John.”
But Turley did not look at him.
Ruyere answered carefully. “Perhaps a parliamentary resolution,” he said. “It wouldn't be binding nor coercive. Merely expressive.”
Selkirk shook his head. “You're suggesting symbolic interference.”
“Symbolic leadership, rather,” Ruyere corrected.
Selkirk opened his mouth to object again—but stopped.
Because he understood something.
Not the morality. The optics.
A resolution condemning the Kalistani bid would not control Petroenglia.
But it would shape the environment in which Petroenglia made its decision.
Selkirk hated the logic.
And admired it.
Turley’s voice was quieter now, more introspective.
“It would show resolve.”
“And it would show unity,” Ruyere agreed gently.
Selkirk stared at the table, his mind racing ahead to the consequences, the headlines, the shift in narrative.
The Conservative People’s Party, no longer irrelevant, but decisive.
He hated how much sense it made.
“We'll need partners,” Selkirk said finally.
Turley looked at him.
“Right, the Republican Socialist Party,” Selkirk continued reluctantly. “They'll hate Kalistani moral imperialism even more than we do. Then we can start recruiting disaffected Social Democratic and Liberal delegates after.”
Turley’s eyes lit faintly.
A coalition of convenience. A spectacle. A return to relevance.
Ruyere leaned back, saying nothing.
Because he no longer needed to.
Turley raised his glass, his confidence returning like a forgotten reflex.
“To New Englia,” he said.
Ruyere raised his own.
“To New Englia.”
Selkirk hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, joined them.
Later that night, outside the restaurant, Turley stumbled slightly as he climbed into his car, his laughter louder now, loosened by wine and possibility.
Selkirk followed more slowly, his expression still shadowed by doubt.
Ruyere remained behind, watching them disappear into Lonmouth’s golden streets.
Only when they were gone did he remove his phone.
He dialled a number from memory and the line clicked.
“Yes,” said a calm female voice.
“It’s done,” Ruyere said.
The aide on the other end was Lin Meiyun, senior political strategy secretary to Semken Tan, and one of the newer, younger political operators in Bianjie’s government.
There was a pause.
“And?” she asked.
Ruyere smiled faintly, gazing at the glowing skyline of a nation that still believed itself sovereign.
“They’re going to do it themselves,” he said. “They think it’s their idea.”
Lin allowed herself the smallest hint of amusement.
“Good.”
Ruyere ended the call and slipped the phone back into his coat.
He had always admired New Englian politicians.
They were proud.
Principled.
And, when handled correctly, remarkably easy to persuade.