The war was not yet finished, but its ending was written.

Francia's king raved within the shrinking shadow of his court, lords turned on one another, and the peasants no longer marched when called.

Romanus standards lined the east and south, Brittania's banners fluttered over the northern ports, and the west was already sealed off unable to do anything lest their own homes fall to Romanus in their absence.

It was in this moment, with the Francian heartland strangled, that Julius agreed to parlay, just not with Francia.

The meeting ground was chosen carefully — a ruined abbey on neutral soil, its roof long since burned away, its stones still black with smoke.

Between its broken walls, a great oak table had been set, scarred by weather and war, but solid enough to bear the weight of empire.

The Brittanian delegation arrived first.

Their soldiers moved like wolves — lean, restless, with eyes too sharp to ever seem at ease.

At their head strode Lord Eadric, the commander of Brittania's armies in Gaul.

He wore no crown, no cloak of velvet, only a sea-green mantle clasped at the shoulder with bronze.

A practical man, his men whispered.

The kind who could count the cost of war in both coin and blood without trembling.

When Julius entered with his retinue — Sabellus at his right hand, standard-bearers behind — the hall fell silent.

Rain dripped from the rafters.

Neither lord bowed.

Neither reached for pomp or priestly blessing.

They simply met eyes, two predators circling the same kill.

"Shall we dispense with courtesy?" Eadric said, his voice carrying the clipped cadence of the isles.

Julius inclined his head. "We shall. Francia dies. Best we speak of what comes after."

Even if he was an emperor, and one who was being slighted as if he were just a common man, it mattered not to him, to rebuke the Brittanian commander now would simply raise hostilities furthering the parlay but in the wrong direction, while ruining the peace that was coming, only to be replaced with border friction and suspicion.

If he had to let an unknown party refuse to accept his crown as a sign of his superiority, fine let them look down on him, he knew that in the end he'd get the last laugh afterall.

So began the parlay.

Eadric wasted no time. "The north ours. Ports, fisheries, timber routes. We have bled to hold them, and we mean to keep them."

Julius gestured to the map laid across the table.

Pins marked their advance — scarlet for Romanus, blue for Brittania.

The north was indeed Brittanian, a jagged line of occupation stretching deep into Francian soil.

"I do not contest it," Julius said. "Those lands are yours. Romanus does not war with its allies."

The Brittanian commander's eyes narrowed, as if searching for trickery.

"So easily?"

"Easily," Julius replied. "Romanus has no need of every field. What we hold, we will simply hold, to take away what you've conquered would only have those peoples rise up against us since they did not lose to us afterall. Besides, one way or another you'll become our neighbors best to start that relationship with goodwill rather than contempt, if we are to become allies one day, should the Visigoth Empire turn its eyes away from the east."

For a moment, silence. Then Eadric gave a short, sharp laugh.

"I had thought Romanus greedier."

"Heh, even without the north the larger share is already ours, we don't mind sharing the meal."

The discussion turned to the Francian capital.

Here, Julius was unbending.

"My legions will take the city," he declared. "Not yours. The heart must fall to Romanus alone, as it was the heart that struck at us first. This fight is for our revenge not your glory."

Eadric bristled.

"You had the goal of revenge from the beginning, however since they broke the concordat our people have grown to desire revenge of a different sort, am i to tell my men they suffered for nothing?"

Julius's gaze did not waver.

"The capital houses the king and prince who stole from us, and brought upon all of us this war, they are ours to take, besides we've heard of your men getting their revenge in the north if they are still not satisfied with that, perhaps its less a question of revenge but more to do with a lack of competent leaders."

The Brittanian studied him a long moment, then leaned back, fingers drumming the table, it was a slight yes, but one only in response to his own earlier slight tit-for-tat as it were.

At last, he gave a curt nod.

"Very well. The Lion keeps the coast, the wolf gets the heart."

With that settled, the talk turned to trade.

Here, for the first time, the air lightened.

Romanus grain and steel for Brittanian timber and fish.

Joint patrols of the Eastern sea to choke Francian piracy before it could take root.

Agreements on tolls, and tarrifs, for caravans moving from Romanus roads into Brittanian harbors.

For hours they spoke not as foes, but as architects.

"The river routes you seize will flow toward our ports," Eadric noted. "If tariffs choke them, we both bleed."

"Then we keep them open," Julius replied. "We profit together, or not at all."

"Your iron could forge our ships."

"Your ships could guard our coasts."

At length, Sabellus leaned to his emperor and murmured, "This sounds less like parlay, more like pact."

Julius's answer was quiet but firm: "So long as it holds."

By dusk, the rain had thinned to mist.

The oak table bore fresh ink upon parchment — not treaty, not yet, but a draft of one.

Eadric rose, stretching his shoulders.

"Strange," he said at last. "I had thought this meeting would be edge to edge, word to word, until one of us broke. Instead I find myself thinking… perhaps the world grows smaller, not larger."

Julius gave the faintest smile.

"Smaller, yes. But stronger, if we shape it so."

The Brittanian extended his hand.

Rough, scarred, the hand of a warrior who had never feared blood.

Julius clasped it, iron to iron.

And in that ruined abbey, amid the smoke-stained stones of a dying kingdom, the first threads of a new friendship were woven.

That night, back in camp, Sabellus watched Julius pore over the draft agreement by lamplight.

"Do you trust them?" Sabellus asked.

Julius did not look up.

"Trust? No. Trust is for men without memory. But interest binds tighter than trust. Their need for trade will keep them steady. And our need for sea-strength will keep us from spreading our own fleets to sparse, while keeping strength prepared for engagements in the south or east."

Sabellus considered this, then nodded slowly.

"So it begins — not just the end of Francia, but the start of something else."

Julius's eyes gleamed in the lamplight.

"An empire does not survive on conquest alone, Sabellus. It survives on what it builds after the killing stops."

Outside, the campfires burned, their smoke rising into the damp night.

And far to the north, Brittanian fires burned too.

For the first time in memory, they did not burn against Romanus, but alongside it.

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