The news spread not like fire but like rot — slow at first, creeping through the cracks of rumor and pigeon-borne letters, until every hall of power tasted the stench of it.

It had been mere days but even without Romanus herself spreading news, it still got out, and all the surrounding nations already learned of the development with the ripple quickly spreading outward further.

The Concordat was broken.

~

Britannian Monarchy

High upon the cliffs of Dover, the wind howled through the great stone keep of Caerwyn.

Queen Isolde sat draped in wolf-furs, her hair braided with pearls, her eyes fixed on the messenger kneeling before her.

"Poisoned wells?"

she asked, disbelief curling around the words.

"The Francians stooped that low?"

The court murmured.

Lords in heavy cloaks shifted uneasily, while bishops clutched their sacred objects.

For all Britannia's love of war, it had always been clean — a clash of shield-walls, a matter settled by blood and steel, not toxins in the earth.

Isolde rose, her crown catching the torchlight.

"Send word to every shire. Double the guard upon the wells, upon the aqueducts, upon the grain stores. If Francia dares to foul the water of Romanus, they may dare it against our forces as well."

One of her thanes cleared his throat.

"Majesty… if the Concordat falls, then so too does the leash upon the slavs. They have long coveted the northern coasts. Poison is one matter. Invasion is another."

Isolde's mouth tightened.

She looked to the grey sea beyond the window, its waves restless as her thoughts.

"We shall not strike first,"

she said coldly.

"But let none mistake us for sheep. If the Union, or Francia, or even Romanus itself thinks to test Britannia, they will find our cliffs sharper than any spear, for now we finish the war, and prepare for the next."

The council bowed.

Yet unease lingered.

For in the silence after the queen's words, every lord wondered the same: without the Concordat, what oath could be trusted?

~

Germanic Confederation

In the oak hall of Altdorf, smoke from a hundred hearth-fires curled toward the rafters.

King Arnulf of Germanic horde leaned upon his throne, fingers drumming the armrest as his warlords argued below.

"They have done what we all wished to do,"

growled Lord Siegfried, scarred cheek twisting.

"The Concordat was a chain on wolves. Francia has snapped it. Why not us? Why should we not fight as our ancestors once did, many brothers fell fighting against Achaeia 'honorably' when they could have been saved that horror?"

Others muttered approval.

Germania's armies had ever bristled under the restraints of honor — raiding was in their blood, ambush in their bones.

The Concordat had tamed them, forced them into the shape of 'civilized men.'

Now, at last, the leash was gone.

But Arnulf did not smile.

His pale eyes were sharp, cold as steel pulled from snow.

"You think this is freedom?"

he asked softly.

"No. This is ruin. Francia may laugh now, but soon they will drown in what they have unleashed. Romanus will not hesitate to answer them in kind. And when the fields rot, when assassins haunt every court — tell me, Siegfried, what will your raids be worth then? Already the influence of Romanus is deep, our bonds are close yes, but given time Romanus will come to rule over our peoples if we do not resist."

The hall fell silent.

Arnulf rose, his wolf-pelt cloak sweeping the floor.

"Make ready our borders. Strengthen our spies. Watch Romanus, watch Francia, strike down any disloyal chief. But we strike at no one — not yet beyond our borders. Germania waits. Germania endures. And when the others have torn themselves ragged, we shall be the ones left whole to pick up the pieces."

His warlords bowed reluctantly.

But many still licked their lips like hounds scenting blood.

~

The Slavic Union

In the frostbitten city of Novgorod, the bells tolled midnight as the boyar council gathered.

Czarina Milena sat upon her carved ivory throne, a fur mantle spilling across the dais, her face hidden in the shadows of her crown.

"The Francians have broken faith,"

intoned Patriarch Oleg, his beard a white river down his chest.

"They have loosed chaos upon us all."

"A chaos that Romanus will answer with tenfold,"

rasped General Dragomir, his voice like gravel.

"Poison will meet fire. Fire will meet slaughter. The West collapses into madness — and we stand upon the edge."

The boyars bickered, some calling to ally with Romanus, others to arm against it, only the Visigoth Empire seperated the two but it would be a grand struggle for either to win against on their own.

At last Milena raised a hand.

Silence fell.

"Let the West devour itself,"

she said coolly.

"Romanus and Francia both are too proud to bend. Their quarrel will blacken the earth. Meanwhile, the Union shall continue to look east, where the steppes lie wide and the horsemen restless, we must finish consolidating the north, and prepare to stake our claims in the west and south. Why waste blood on poisoned wells, when there are still lands untainted to claim?"

A murmur of approval swept the council.

Milena's lips curved faintly.

Let the fools of the West drown in their honorless games.

Slavia would watch, and when the moment came, she would carve an empire not poisoned but forged anew.

~

Greecia

In Athens, beneath columns still scarred by wars ended on in the past year, the Archons debated in the echoing chamber of the Agora.

"Blasphemy,"

declared High Archon Themistocles, slamming his staff upon the marble floor.

"The Concordat was sacred! To poison wells is to spit upon the gods themselves."

Yet another Archon, lean and hawk-eyed, spread his hands.

"Sacred, yes — but gone. Francia has shattered the vase, and no glue will mend it. We must decide not whether the Concordat lives, but how we survive without it."

Priests muttered of divine wrath. Generals argued of fortifications. Merchants whispered of disrupted trade.

At last, an elder voice rose above them all — Archon Lysandra, her hair silver, her eyes sharp as when she was young.

"The Concordat was the wall that kept the world from devouring itself. Now the wall is dust. Romanus will answer shadow with shadow. Francia will sink deeper. And the rest will follow. We in Greecia must tread carefully, for shadows have long memories. Better to stand aloof, cloaked in the wisdom of neutrality, until such a time as the madness burns itself out, it will be at that moment we can rise anew to reclaim the whole of Greecia for our Republic."

Her words carried the weight of centuries.

And though the debate raged until dawn, it was her counsel the Agora heeded.

~

The Visigoth Empire

But not all feared the breaking.

In the blood-lit halls of the Imperial Palace, Emperor Alaric II sat upon his black marble throne, laughter booming like a drum.

"At last!"

he roared, wine spilling from his cup.

"At last the mask is torn away! Francia has done what I would have done, had I the courage to face against the whole world at once. The Concordat shackled us like cattle. No more! Now war is true again — cruel, cunning, glorious!"

His generals roared in agreement.

Already they spoke of assassins trained in the desert, of poisons brewed in hidden caverns, of ships that could strike ports unguarded.

Only Chancellor Eudo dared to raise a voice of caution.

"My Emperor, rejoice if you must — but remember, the new Kingdom Romanus is not a beast to underestimate. Julius will not suffer shadows to be wielded against him without mastering them himself."

Alaric grinned, teeth flashing like a wolf's.

"Then let him! Let Julius drown in the same mire. We shall see whose hand is stronger in the dark. And when the dust clears, it will be Visigoth banners flying over the ruins across the entire continent, a Reich that will last for a thousand years."

The court cheered, drunk on the promise of unleashed chaos.

And thus, while others fretted and fortified, the Visigoths sharpened their daggers with glee.

So the echoes of Francia's betrayal spread, striking each nation differently — caution in Britannia, patience in Germania, ambition in Slavia, neutrality in Greecia, and triumph in Visigothia.

The Concordat was no more.

The world stood upon the edge.

And the shadows grew deeper by the day.

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