The courtroom was quieter than the grounds outside the Imperial Palace.
Of course, this silence did not imply tranquility.
It was a relative quiet, born from the contrast with the raucous crowds outside—agitated citizens who had gathered to jeer and insult those being hauled away in chains.
The walls still bore the crest of the Imperial Family; the ceiling was still adorned with the gilded finery of the Empire.
But the floor told a different story.
Scuff marks from a chaotic mix of military boots, fine dress shoes, and bare feet remained etched into the surface. Wheel tracks from the luggage of fleeing aristocrats intersected with the jagged trails where shattered glass had been swept aside during the night.
Most jarring of all were the countless red banners.
The flags of numerous secret revolutionary organizations, which had once dwelled in the Empire's shadows, now hung from the rafters like funeral drapes for the old world.
Empress Frilieve sat in the elevated seat at the front of the hall.
Strictly speaking, it was not a seat for a judge, nor was it meant for an Empress.
But this city could no longer return to what it once was.
Though the Empress sat with practiced poise, her fingertips gripped the armrests of her chair with a desperate, white-knuckled strength.
It wasn't that she couldn't accept the Emperor's absence.
More accurately, she wanted to believe that this entire catastrophe was merely a symptom of his temporary departure.
She clung to the hope that once the Emperor returned, reason would prevail, orders would be obeyed, and the familiar gears of order would grind back into motion.
That was the world she had been raised to rule.
However, the reality gathered beneath her was of a different realm entirely.
The gallery was packed with citizens.
The same hands that had pounded on the palace gates yesterday, carried stretchers, and stacked cobblestones for barricades were now resting atop the benches.
Beside them stood the armed detachments of the revolutionary government. Spears, blades, crossbows—and captured Imperial weapons. These instruments of violence were now held by disciplined, controlled hands.
The nobility were present as well.
They did not dare invoke their titles to secure a seat. Instead, they kept their heads low. It was evident to all that their humility was not a sign of loyalty to the new order, but a desperate posture for survival.
The bureaucrats were even more subdued. A clerk without a dossier is a man without power. They relied on nothing but the anxious glances they exchanged with one another.
On one side of the stage sat a few Imperial Army officers, their faces set in grim masks. They wore no caps, no swords, and no medals.
In this room, a medal was nothing more than a target.
The doors of the courtroom swung open.
A gust of cold air rushed in, and the crowd turned as one.
Jacques Duclos entered the hall.
As the man tasked with the role of General Secretary, his face was a study in controlled resolve, striving to show no hint of wavering.
But today, even that effort seemed redundant.
The city and its people had already rendered their verdict on the failed regime.
His duty as General Secretary was merely to transcribe that verdict into prose and solidify it into the iron structure of a state.
Duclos marched straight toward the front.
Behind him followed the provisional ministers of the People's Front government.
Some were in military fatigues, others in formal uniforms, and some in simple civilian overcoats.
Despite their disparate attire, they shared a common aura.
Their faces were darkened by bone-deep exhaustion, yet a fierce passion burned behind their eyes.
Duclos stood before the dais. He did not reach for a microphone.
With or without amplification, the silence of the room was so absolute that it was ready to devour his every word.
Duclos did not scan the gallery.
He did not look at the Empress first.
He addressed the entire courtroom—and by extension, the entire city.
"As of this moment, the Gaulish People's Front declares itself the sole legitimate government of Gaul."
The statement was brief.
Yet, that brevity only heightened the tension. It was a truth that required no elaboration.
Everyone strained to hear what would follow.
He continued immediately.
"All executive authority of the Gaulish Empire is hereby dissolved. The Imperial House no longer represents the sovereignty of the nation. Effective today, the monarchy is abolished."
A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed through the gallery, followed by a heavy exhale.
The faces of the nobles drained of color.
The bureaucrats closed their eyes in resignation.
Some of the officers clenched their jaws with enough force to crack bone.
Empress Frilieve's fingers dug even deeper into her armrests.
She did not move, but the mere fact that she remained seated was likely the greatest act of courage she had ever performed.
Duclos noted her defiance.
He chose to ignore it.
He moved to his next point—one of the most critical declarations of the day.
"Corsica I is no longer the Head of State nor the Commander-in-Chief. He shall stand trial as Citizen Corsica."
Citizen.
The tribunal had systematically dismantled the divine authority he claimed was bestowed by the heavens.
From this day forward, the Emperor was stripped of his divinity and reduced to a commoner.
The Imperial loyalists ground their teeth at the word.
Conversely, the citizens breathed a sigh of relief. To them, 'Citizen' was synonymous with the ultimate stripping of the throne.
The entire weight of Corsica I's authority was crumbling.
Duclos emphasized the term once more for effect.
"The war crimes and crimes against the state committed by Citizen Corsica will be judged by the tribunal of the Gaulish people and the victims of the aggrieved nations. Let it be known that this trial is not an act of vengeance, but the birth of a new order."
From this point, Duclos intentionally slowed his pace.
The courtroom was silent, and that silence became a vacuum of total focus.
He delivered the final proclamation.
"The Gaulish People's Front government declares an unconditional surrender to the Allied Powers. All imperialist wars of aggression initiated by the Gaulish Empire are terminated. Immediate ceasefire orders are being dispatched to all fronts. The armies of Gaul shall lay down their arms and follow the directives of the Allied Powers."
The moment these words left his lips, the power dynamic within the courtroom shifted.
The delegations from Victoria and Leithanien were not physically present, but their shadows loomed large.
This declaration of surrender was the sentence that guaranteed their victory.
It was a statement that could satisfy their prestige.
But simultaneously, it was a statement that forced them to fight over where exactly that prestige would be planted.
For the UTSSR, this was even more crucial.
By declaring surrender themselves, the Gaulish People's Front elevated themselves to the status of a legitimate party to the peace negotiations.
Once this statement was solidified, Gaul's seat would not be empty when the war's conclusion was finalized at the negotiating table.
The People's Front would sit in that chair, siding with the UTSSR to protect their mutual interests.
That was the masterpiece the Union sought to paint.
Duclos understood this perfectly.
He knew he stood here today not just to speak to the citizens, but to hurl a document at the world outside.
He shifted his gaze to the Empress.
The Empress looked up.
In her eyes, there was no anger—only a profound lack of understanding.
Why? Why in this manner? Why go this far?
Duclos did not cease his speech.
He was not truly speaking to her. He was utilizing the position she occupied—the very symbol of the old regime.
"Citizen Frilieve is a witness to this court and a bystander who turned a blind eye to the anti-national actions of Corsica I. However, as she did not actively participate in these crimes, and in consideration of mitigating circumstances, she is declared innocent. Her safety and well-being shall be guaranteed by the Gaulish People's Front government."
As he finished, murmurs rippled through the gallery.
The word 'guarantee' could be interpreted as mercy, or it could be heard as 'hostage.'
The difference was decided solely by who held the whip.
The Empress showed no outward reaction to the sentence.
She was a woman who did not grasp the political weight of 'guaranteed safety.'
Yet, even she felt one undeniable truth:
She was no longer the mistress of the palace. Her physical person was now the property of this new nation.
Duclos took a breath.
Now, he had to drive the final nail home.
He pressed his palm against the dais—lightly, but with intent.
It was a gesture not of emotion, but of absolute conviction.
"I propose to the Allied Powers that the peace negotiations for the termination of the war be held at the Imperial Palace in Lingones."
The gallery erupted into a fresh wave of unrest.
The Imperial Palace.
The very place where, until yesterday, the barrels of rifles looked down from the battlements.
And where, today, the flags of the revolutionary government flew.
To turn that place into a negotiating hall was an intent to bury the legacy of the Empire under the crushing weight of humilliation.
Duclos added:
"The palace is no longer a throne. Since the war of imperialist aggression was spearheaded by the monarchy, it is only fitting that the peace be settled there. The fate of Gaul shall be organized in the capital of Gaul, in the name of Gaul, by the government of the Gaulish people."
At this, a few nobles lost their composure and began to stand.
However, Duclos' guards immediately stepped forward.
Spear butts slammed against the floor with a rhythmic thud.
Duclos' expression remained unchanged. He already knew.
From this moment on, the nobility had no choice.
To survive the tribunal, they would have to pretend, at the very least, to recognize the legitimacy of the People's Front.
As Duclos stepped down from the dais, movement erupted near the center of the hall.
Several nobles attempted to approach the Empress.
Their steps were measured, but their intent was blatant.
To attach themselves to the Empress now meant using her as a human shield tomorrow.
Since she was politically naive, they intended to use her as a sacrificial pawn for their own preservation.
But it wasn't the revolutionary guards who stopped them first.
It was the palace servants standing by her side.
They bore no weapons.
But they barred the way with their bodies.
Their gazes held less fear than they did a simmering fury.
What they had witnessed was not the grand tragedy of a dynasty, but the sickening cowardice of the aristocracy.
The Empress paused as she watched them.
For the first time in her life, she felt that the people beside her truly cared for her well-being.
As she left the courtroom, all she could offer those who had been her servants were a few awkward embraces and soft words of gratitude.
Duclos watched the scene from the corner of his eye and barked a short instruction to an aide.
"Move the Empress to the annex. Increase the guard detail. If any nobles try to approach, separate them immediately."
The official nodded.
There were still many in the Empire who viewed the Empress with sympathy, even if they despised the Emperor.
With that, the courtroom began its rapid dismissal.
But this adjournment was not an end; it was a beginning.
As Duclos stepped outside, the clatter of telegraph machines was already echoing across the city.
Gaulish People's Front Government, Sole Legitimate Authority Declared.
Abolition of the Monarchy.
Citizen Corsica Stripped of the Throne.
Unconditional Surrender to the Allies.
Negotiation Site: Lingones Imperial Palace.
The sentences pulsed through the wires.
To Victoria. To Leithanien. To the UTSSR.
When the staffs of each nation received the telegram, they would read the same text with vastly different expressions.
Victoria would think of its prestige.
Leithanien would think of its borders.
The UTSSR would think of its legitimacy.
And Duclos knew it all.
He looked back at the palace once more.
The building was still massive, still heavy, still possessed the form required to crush the spirit of a man.
But the hand that wielded that weight was no longer a bloodline of the Imperial House; it was the hand of the masses.
Duclos did not stop his stride.
The palace had to be transformed into a negotiation hall.
And a negotiation hall is but another form of battlefield.
The true war was starting all over again.
*************************************
The Great Banquet Hall of the palace had changed its nature entirely, though the gilded ceiling remained.
Once a place for the Emperor's masked balls, it was now a venue where the ink of treaties was leveled like bayonets.
The delegation of the Gaulish People's Front occupied the head of the table.
They sat as the "Host Nation of the Negotiations" and the "Successor Government of the Combatant State."
The UTSSR delegation was calm. Their necessary documents had arrived early; their arguments were pre-polished. The Victorian delegation squared their shoulders, desperate not to lose an inch of prestige. The Leithanien delegation looked ready to slap a hand down the moment those Victorian shoulders leaned too far forward.
Victoria seized the first right to speak.
"The fundamental principles of these negotiations are 'Reparations' and 'Security Guarantees.' Victorian national infrastructure has been decimated by Gaulish aggression. Consequently, the occupation and military administration of certain Gaulish cities to ensure 'Reconstruction Aid' and prevent a 'Security Vacuum' are non-negotiable."
(Translation: Hey, you broke my house, so hand over the keys to yours. We're moving in to 'clean up,' and if you don't like it, the war continues.)
The Gaulish People's Front representative swallowed hard. The secretary beside him gripped his pen with white knuckles.
The moment the word 'Occupation' was stamped into the minutes, Gaul's future would fall into the shadow of that word.
Leithanien interjected immediately.
Their voice was smooth, but it carried the edge of a razor blade.
"Leithanien emphasizes the necessity of a 'Buffer Zone.' To prevent the possibility of remilitarization in border regions, the 'Demilitarization' of specific sectors and the permanent presence of an 'International Monitoring Group' are essential."
(Translation: Gaul, don't you dare pick up a knife again. That way we can be the ones to stab you and suck the marrow from your bones. Also, the border lands are ours now.)
Victoria raised an eyebrow. The reaction clearly stated: That land belongs to me.
The UTSSR representative raised a hand.
His voice wasn't loud, but the room went silent.
Victoria or Leithanien might have suffered more damage, but the UTSSR was the nation that had done the most to actually win the war.
"The Union proceeds on the premise of 'Legitimate Governance.' The Gaulish People's Front government has submitted a document of surrender as the combatant party and currently exercises administrative power. Therefore, no territorial disposition can be discussed without the 'Consent of the Gaulish Government.'"
(Translation: Stop trying to carve up the Gaulish steak between just the two of you. Take your money and go home. If you keep acting like vultures, we'll step in. Don't act like you won this war by yourselves.)
The Victorian representative chuckled—a short, dry sound.
"The Union speaks of 'Self-Determination.' Of course, we agree in principle. However, military administration is required for practical implementation. A security vacuum benefits no one."
(Translation: You like your principles, don't you? Fine. But you think principles alone run a city? We're going in to set the frame. If you hate it, send your own troops to do the dirty work.)
Leithanien did not miss the opening.
"Victoria's proposal risks being misconstrued as an 'Expansion of Military Rule.' The international community is wary of 'Territorial Annexation' and the 'Perpetuation of Occupation.' Leithanien proposes a more neutral 'Joint Administrative Commission.'"
(Translation: Look at these incompetent fools who nearly lost the war, now scrambling for every scrap of land. Thanks to your greed, we get to play the role of the 'Neutral Party.')
Finally, the Gaulish representative found his voice.
"Gaul shall maintain its 'National Existence' and 'Administrative Continuity.' We have abolished the monarchy, but we have never consented to the dissolution of the state. Furthermore, the Gaulish government will fulfill its own 'War Crime Responsibilities' as demanded by the Allies. However, such implementation must occur under 'Gaulish Jurisdictional Sovereignty.'"
(Translation: We'll pay whatever reparations you want, just let us live. Also, remember we're a socialist state that just killed the monarchy—you know our backer is the UTSSR, right?)
Victoria cut in as if they had been waiting for that specific point.
"Entrusting war crime accountability solely to 'Domestic Jurisdiction' lacks international credibility. Therefore, an 'International War Crimes Tribunal' is necessary. In particular, the responsibility of 'Corsica I' transcends mere domestic concern."
(Translation: You're going to judge your own Emperor? Don't make us laugh. We want to grab him by the throat and hang him ourselves—and you expect us to trust you? At least half the judges will be ours.)
Leithanien nodded in agreement.
"Agreed. 'Publicity of Trial' and 'Right of Access to Evidence' are paramount. Furthermore, we must clarify that war crimes are matters of 'Individual Responsibility.' Collective punishment only breeds instability."
(Translation: Good, let's just cut the heads off Corsica and his generals. In exchange, we'll take most of the reparations and a few mobile cities. If we start talking about 'Collective Guilt,' it might get awkward for us if we ever get caught in something similar—let's keep the optics pretty.)
The UTSSR representative slowly began to weave the threads together.
"The Union does not oppose an 'International Framework.' However, the moment the trial is twisted into a 'Tool of Post-War Hegemony,' the new Gaulish government loses its legitimacy. It is necessary for the Gaulish People's Front to sit as a member of the tribunal. That is how the war truly ends."
(Translation: I see exactly how much you want to turn this trial into a show. If you turn Corsica into a trophy, the new Gaulish government looks like a puppet. Put them on the bench. If you won't do that, at least give them enough face to look independent.)
The Victorian representative tapped his finger against the table—not with impatience, but with the rhythm of calculation.
"Very well. Let us form a 'Joint Tribunal.' We will blend a panel of Gaulish judges with a panel from the Allied nations. Procedures shall adhere to international norms, while the Gaulish government shall handle execution."
(Translation: Fine, we split the judges half and half. Happy now?)
The Gaulish representative's face stiffened.
But he did not object immediately.
Without the UTSSR's backing, they had no veto power here.
The UTSSR representative took advantage of the silence, pulling out a single sheet of paper.
The sheer weight of that paper seemed to chill the room.
"Let us move to the territorial question. The Union proceeds on the basis of 'Respect for Existing Borders.' However, to fill the 'Administrative Vacuums' in areas occupied during the war, the Allies must provide 'Guaranteed Transit' and 'Security Cooperation' so that the Gaulish People's Front can immediately dispatch provisional administrators."
(Translation: Take your money and stay out of Gaulish internal affairs.)
Leithanien offered a smile—a pleasant, hollow thing that made it all the more dangerous.
"Guaranteed transit is possible. However, the 'Safe Corridors' must be operated by an 'Allied Joint Command.' Monopoly by a single nation breeds misunderstanding."
(Translation: Open the road to Gaul? Sure. But I need my cut of the crumbs. Hand over a few mobile cities first.)
Victoria nodded immediately.
"I support the Joint Command concept. And as seen in the case of Londinium, 'Symbols' are needed to stabilize public sentiment. Victoria is prepared to continue 'Peacekeeping Deployments' in the liberated zones."
(Translation: The 'Liberator' image works wonders, doesn't it? We'll pretend to handle security while maintaining our influence. And we'll dismantle their industrial facilities while we're at it.)
The Gaulish representative, unable to contain himself further, countered with extreme caution.
"Peacekeeping deployments must be 'Request-Based.' The Gaulish government cannot accept measures that can be interpreted as an 'Infringement of Sovereignty.'"
(Translation: Victoria, stay the hell out.)
Sentences clashed atop the table. The battle in this room was fought not with spear-tips, but with the subtle turns of vocabulary.
Then, suddenly, someone glanced behind the head table.
Footsteps approached. They weren't soft; they were the unmistakable sound of a security detail in motion.
At the end of the hall, the aides of the Gaulish People's Front opened a path.
Empress Frilieve entered.
Officially and practically, she had no right to be in this meeting.
Yet, the moment she entered, the air in the room underwent a total phase shift.
The Victorian representative's expression hardened for a flicker of a second.
The Leithanien representative did not lower his gaze.
The UTSSR representative calculated in a heartbeat, ensuring no trace of that calculation reached his face.
The Empress did not take a seat behind the presiding officers.
She stepped only one pace into the room and surveyed the entire space.
She said nothing.
That silence promised to be the loudest statement made in the negotiation hall today.
For it was living proof that Gaul's past had not yet truly died.
Had Duclos desired this scene, or feared it?
Each delegation reached their own conclusion.
The conference continued. But now, a new clause was attached to the end of every sentence.
A living symbol known as the Empress.