The Last Banner

The great hall of Thrace's keep exuded a cold, disciplined grandeur. Marble floors stretched wide beneath towering columns etched with depictions of Thrace's rebirth from ruin. Light from golden chandeliers glinted off polished surfaces, casting long, calculated shadows across the banners lining the walls. The air hummed with anticipation, thick with the unspoken acknowledgment that this was no ordinary gathering.

Rows of soldiers lined the hall, their musketeer armor gleaming like steel mirrors, their matchlock muskets held with precision at their sides. At the far end of the room, an imposing throne sat elevated on a dark wooden dais, its edges gilded in gold. Hadrian occupied the seat, his expression unreadable, his posture relaxed but undeniably commanding.

At six feet tall, clad in a high-collared black tunic trimmed in crimson and gold, Hadrian looked every inch the ruler he had become. His sharp gray eyes scanned the room with disinterest, as though the entire gathering were beneath his notice. Despite the opulence and formality of the event, there was no excitement in his gaze, no sense of celebration—only the quiet calculation of a man who considered himself far above such theatrics.

Hadrian leaned slightly to one side, resting his elbow on the armrest of the throne. The subtle tilt of his head gave the impression that his mind was already elsewhere, focused on more significant matters than the pomp and circumstance surrounding him. His presence was felt in the silence, as though the very walls of the hall bowed to his authority.

Behind Hadrian, positioned in a calculated line along the base of the dais, stood the newly appointed councilors. Each of them wore uniforms designed not only to signify their roles but to embody the efficiency and unity that Hadrian demanded of his administration. The dark blue coats they wore fell just below the knee, trimmed with silver embroidery at the cuffs and collars. A crimson sash cinched their waists, symbolizing their allegiance to the banner of Thrace. Beneath the coats were pristine white shirts, and their polished black boots gleamed in the golden light.

The councilors represented the pinnacle of Hadrian's reforms—merchants, scholars, and commoners elevated to positions of power for their competence and loyalty, not their birth. They stood stiffly, their expressions a mixture of pride and apprehension. This was no idle gathering; it marked the dawn of a new era for Thrace, one where power flowed through bureaucracy rather than feudal chaos.

The soldiers lining the hall were a different kind of symbol. Clad in standardized musketeer armor, they were the epitome of Hadrian's military reforms. Their steel morion helmets caught the light, the reinforced crests lending them a uniform and intimidating silhouette. Polished cuirasses bore the sigil of Thrace's crimson banner and silver shield, worn over dark gray gambesons. Crimson tabards fell neatly over their armor, further tying them to the duchy's identity.

Each soldier carried a matchlock musket, its barrel shining like polished silver. Swords hung at their hips, completing the image of a disciplined, versatile force. This was no haphazard levy of peasants; this was Thrace's standing army—4,000 strong, including 500 enslaved non-humans. Among the enslaved were goblins, orcs, and even a handful of goblin shamans, their strength and abilities now subjugated and used to support the state's growing infrastructure.

The sight of the soldiers, standing motionless with their weapons at their sides, spoke volumes. Gone were the days of mismatched uniforms and disorganized levies. Hadrian's army was a symbol of order, discipline, and the growing iron grip he now held over the duchy.

Hadrian's eyes scanned the hall, his gaze lingering briefly on the rows of councilors and soldiers before flitting away. The room exuded order and grandeur, every detail a reflection of what he had built in the past seven months. Yet, it all felt so painfully hollow.

This is what progress looks like, isn't it? he thought, his fingers tapping idly on the gilded armrest of his throne. Uniforms dyed in silks produced by hands that once toiled in fields. Gold flowing from trade routes that were barren under my father's rule. Roads rebuilt, coffers filled. Thrace has never been wealthier.

The dye and silk workshops had been his masterstroke. With dyes in colors that rivaled any in Europe and silks that felt like liquid against the skin, Thrace had become a beacon of trade. Foreign merchants traveled great distances to barter for Thracian goods, bringing with them wealth that now funded his vision. Every soldier in this hall wore the fruits of that industry—crimson and silver uniforms that turned even a common musketeer into a symbol of unity and strength.

And what does it all matter? The thought came unbidden, curling in his chest like smoke. He clenched his jaw, forcing the gloom back, but it clung stubbornly.

He knew what he had to do. Every fiber of his being screamed for it. The xeno scum—the orcs, the goblins, the dwarves, the elves—all of them had to be wiped out, utterly and completely. Humanity would rise, united under his banner, and nothing would stand in its way. Not anymore.

His hand tightened on the armrest, his nails faintly digging into the gilded wood. They'll die under humanity's iron boot. My boot.

But the weight of it all bore down on him. Every decision, every sacrifice, every drop of blood spilled in the name of progress. It was all necessary. It had to be. Yet it left a hollowness in his chest, a void that wealth and power couldn't fill.

They see me as their savior, their prophet. Let them. His gray eyes flicked over the room again, his expression cold and unreadable. This isn't about saving humanity. It's about what must be done. They need me to do what they cannot.

Hadrian straightened slightly, his posture regal but rigid. The councilors were waiting, the soldiers stood ready, and the moment was his to command. Yet, all he wanted was to leave this ceremony behind and return to the work that truly mattered: the destruction of those who dared to share the world with humanity.