William Limoen looked over the street before him – foggy, damp. Cold. Dawn was truly a dismal place.

The irony of the name did not amuse him as he travelled the streets of the ancient town. Whatever glory was here had been long gone. Whatever wealth had been taken. There was no opportunity in this city anymore.

Well, that wasn’t entirely, strictly-speaking true.

He rode up to the Sovereign Assembly, a fortress of some renown, and possibly the only respectable-looking building in this entire city. Grand oaken doors, sturdy granite stone. Yes, this was where the Sovereign Diet would meet and lodge for the next two weeks. They had much to discuss, and from this congregation there was much opportunity to be had.

It was now the eighth day of the proceedings, and the times that Limoen had desired a return to Port Aurora were beyond count.

“We have been ignored, my people have been slighted, and we will be having no more!” roared the Ottoporto Burgher in his ridiculous accent, at nobody in particular. He was possibly named Vicario, or perhaps Enrico. No matter, he and his burgh were of little import, and thus was why he had no roads in the first place.

“You will treat us with dignity, esteemed Burgher. Winter has been upon us, and it will be impossible to get any work done until after the rainy season!” countered William’s friend, Burgher Heinrich Groshaas. Perhaps he was a bit loud and too overt, but he had been helpful to William, and was actually quite entertaining. Especially in these dull proceedings. More often than not, Heinrich said what William wished he could.

“Enough!” shouted Burgher Konig, the premier of Rothovel. “You both shame us with your bickering. It is clear to Rothovel!” he said, shouting as he referred to himself as his entire burgh, “that no work can be done until the dry season returns.” Loud and arrogant, as per the norm for the redbearded Burgher.

“Perhaps it is time to recess for the night?” squeaked Haven’s Burgher.

And with nobody at all acknowledging that Burgher’s presence, the leaders began to leave, and the clown-show was complete. Limoen was still in his seat, thinking about the events of the day. Most had been as it usually was in the past several years – various burghers yelled in somewhat novel ways, Rothovel attempted to be dignified, nobody managed to agree on anything, and the Burgher of Lum failed to even attend.

“I think that went rather well!” said Heinrich, who had strode up to Limoen while he was collecting his thoughts. His optimism was somewhat endearing. “Hmm” was all that Limoen had in reply.

“Well, what did you think?” said Heinrich again, understandably irritated.

“As always, the most important things were those not stated.” Said William, rising from his seat and stretching. Had it truly been eleven hours since the day was called to order?

“Of course, of course…” said Heinrich, “Ottoporto, Benedama, Fluss, and Vloddam seem to be forming a coalition. I noticed the latter three being more silent while Ezzelio made his case.”

“Not very important – Fluss will do what I ask them to do, and Benedama dances on the Guild’s strings. Vloddam is new, though… Also, his name was Ezzelio? Not Vicario? Damn.” Said Limoen.

“Definitely Ezzelio,” Said Heinrich, “I think. In any event, Vloddam’s joining likely won’t amount to much.”

“None of this amounts to much – coalitions break and form as the days come and go. Yesterday it seemed like Rothovel was preparing to invade Arleskastell with Haven profiteering. Boschemer remained quiet, perhaps to develop further in their limited hills and land. The day before, it seemed like Leichstadt would press their claims in Fluss further. Today, it seems like an alliance of Northeasterners seemed imminent. It all seems to amount to nothing, and more worrisome, there has not been the slightest hint of any gold for the either of us.” Said William, thinking of the profit.

“Aye, there is no substance. But at the very least, we know what they want, right!”

“Yes, the Burghs are hungry for gold, power and prestige. Like mutts. Feed them Camelot or Station Square, for all I care. Perhaps even Onyx.”

“Onyx I’m not sure, but the others perhaps. What say the guilds?”

“The Guilds at least have the courtesy to remain quiet until I’ve had my wine.” Limoen complained as they walked through the halls of the castle. “They see little in Camelot and the Square. Naturally, there’s the War gains, the room for expansion, and so forth. It ought to satisfy them, but it doesn’t satisfy us. This is the same thing we’ve always been doing! More war profiteering, more invasions. We will never progress like this, we’ll never be able to tap into the wealth of the world! For that, we’ll need an armada that will be the envy of Pangu.” Said Limoen. He sighed, just to top off the dogma.

“Yes, yes, you and your fleet. Well, I say we feed the dogs for now, and we use the spoils to build your treasure traders. Now, let’s get some food.” Said Heinrich, cheerfully.

“If only it were that simple. I fear what the rest of the world shall do. We are caught between Pracia and Lungarn, not to mention Castrisya and Salvadare. Every time we make a move, we are in yet another balancing act, and I cannot commission a chart to be made through this one. I fear that the Burgher may be making dealings with these outside powers in light of Fredon’s death, planning for Boleslaw to be an absent Burghermeister. When the Burghers begin to make these external alliances, they become much less controllable, less baited by our carrots. It is not our Father’s land, Heinrich.” Pontification was such a lovely pastime. “But agreed, food at last.”

It was the final day of proceedings, and at long last, the Lum Burgher had graced their presence. Boleslaw IV, son of Burghermeister Fredon, whom himself was the son of King Klonoan II, entered the chamber for the first time, in a most regal fashion. Indeed, in every way, he looked the part of a King.

For the most part, well-rested, which was something Limoen was most certainly not.

Of course, the title of Burghermeister was a position made mostly to pacify the Luminos, so they would not invade yet another adjacent Burgh. Poor Radnich, their only crime was their location. Or perhaps their foul breath.

As Boleslaw strode down the hall, Limoen longed for the previous days, where he was at least able to slouch in a chair. And yet, it would be over in just a moment. Fortunately, the speech was not long.

“Burghers and esteemed gentlemen, Fredon died last fall to grave illness. He was sickly man, and yet he ruled with wisdom for many years. We are here after his grave has been filled and his memory mourned, to induct his successor! A Burghermeister of the Glimmering Hills – a man to rule in the face of uncertainty, and moderate in the face of strife. A just, wise man, like Fredon was in the past.” Already, the speech was too long.

“The Sovereign Diet has determined that his successor will be Fredon’s son, Boleslaw! It has been a difficult choice, and yet the answer was so clear – only Fredon’s son is worthy to follow Fredon’s success. Only the son of Glimmer’s first Burghermeister would be capable of such a lofty role, and yet we are here on this day to induct him, and install him as the Burghermeister!” It was not a difficult choice, Lum was still as mighty and haughty as it had been fourty years ago, and nobody wanted to risk Boleslaw being as ambitious as Klonoan.

Limoen watched as the Glimmercrown was placed upon Boleslaw’s head. It suited him, but perhaps Limoen was delirious, the end being nearly within his grasp.

“Long may he reign!” cried the hall.

“Long may he reign!”