Building an empire which the sun never set

It had been a month since Arthur and his father first discussed their proposal to transition the shared agricultural lands—used in common by rural farmers—into private estates, mechanized for modern farming. The aim was clear: to draw the surplus rural population into the cities and meet the ever-growing labor demand of the burgeoning industrial sector. At first, the idea was bold, even controversial. But with King Cedric's influence over Parliament and the vested interests of many powerful political figures—many of whom were shareholders or outright owners of factories, foundries, and mining operations—the topic soon caught momentum.

Debates began, and soon after, legislation followed. Parliament passed a series of laws under the collective name of the Enclosure Acts, These acts permitted and encouraged the privatization of common fields, pastures, and woodlands that had long been cultivated or used communally. Under the new law, these lands were surveyed, fenced, and redistributed—almost always in favor of wealthier landowners. The displaced tenant farmers, no longer able to sustain their livelihood through traditional methods, were pushed toward the industrial cities.

The legislation emphasized several key provisions:

•The right to enclose common fields with royal or noble license.

•Monetary compensation—often minimal—for dispossessed families.

•Legal registration of private property to ensure efficient tax collection and land utilization.

•A subtle but strategic promotion of mechanized agriculture, with incentives granted to landowners who adopted new tools and crop rotation techniques.

While many politicians ignored the looming social consequences of such a dramatic shift, Arthur remained wary. The rapid migration of displaced rural workers into urban centers could lead to unrest, disease, or crime if not managed carefully. Though many members of Parliament dismissed such concerns as needless expenditure, Arthur was able to persuade his father, and through him, King Cedric, of the importance of preemptive social planning.

Thus, alongside the Enclosure Acts, a handful of rudimentary but crucial support policies were passed:

•The creation of "Work Allocation Bureaus", basic institutions where migrants could register and be directed toward available factory jobs.

•The establishment of temporary boarding houses in city outskirts, poorly funded but capable of housing newcomers.

•Public message boards maintained by the city councils, offering job notices, food distribution points, and basic hygiene information.

•A modest network of urban patrols, tasked with maintaining order in overcrowded boroughs and aiding new arrivals in finding their way.

Though primitive, these measures were among the first attempts to systematize mass migration in a time of industrial upheaval. Arthur himself spent many sleepless weeks lobbying, negotiating, and writing. He held personal meetings with influential industrialists and noble landowners, carefully convincing them that long-term stability was worth more than short-term cost.

After a full month of intense labor, Arthur granted himself a rare day of rest. He rose late in the morning and took a slow, drawn-out breakfast at the sunlit table of his study. As was his habit, he opened the morning paper.

The war between the Kingdom of Syvatoslav and the Usman Empire had entered a state of bitter stalemate. There were no fresh offensives, no dramatic shifts in the frontlines, and public interest had begun to wane. Reports of the conflict no longer claimed the front page, relegated instead to the inner columns. But the headline that did grace the front page caught Arthur's eye.

It told the story of a noblewoman who worked as a head nurse at the Royal Hospital in the capital—a rare thing in itself. Her name was Lady Florence, and the article detailed how, despite her aristocratic lineage, she had taken up the profession of nursing. The staff described her as "unyieldingly disciplined" and "passionately devoted to her work." What intrigued Arthur most was her use of scientific principles in practice.

Following the recent confirmation of the germ theory of disease—a still-debated topic in most scientific circles—Lady Florence had instituted sweeping hygiene reforms in the hospital: daily linen changes, forced ventilation, and sterilization routines. According to her own statistical records, infection rates had dropped significantly. Her initiative had caused a stir and lent further credence to the microbe theory. Arthur admired her foresight—how swiftly she had adopted a new idea while most remained skeptical.

After breakfast, Arthur returned to his writing desk and picked up where he had left off in a book of philosophy. He had barely read a few pages when a knock came at his door.

"Come in," he said, lifting his head.

A servant entered and handed him a letter. Arthur recognized the seal—Anna.

Initially, he had agreed to meet her only out of familial duty, but over time, he had come to admire her curiosity, her intellect, and especially her love for the arts. Unlike many women of noble birth, Anna was well-read, deeply thoughtful, and unapologetically passionate about her interests. Since her last visit to Pendralis, the two had exchanged letters regularly, often discussing literature, music, and philosophical ideas.

Arthur broke the seal and began to read.

In the letter, Anna expressed her reflections on the Syvatoslav-Usman war, commenting on how little progress had been made and questioning the political objectives behind it. She then asked if Arthur had found time to read the books she had recommended during their last exchange—"On the Sublime and Beautiful" and "The Republic". She was eager to hear his thoughts and whether the ideas had stirred him as they had stirred her.

Arthur smiled, set the letter down, and pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer. He began writing his reply, taking time to craft his thoughts with care. Once finished, he sealed the letter and handed it to the servant with instructions to deliver it without delay.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Arthur read by the window, the spring light warming the room as the hours slipped by. By nightfall, he had lost all sense of time.

But peace was not universal.

That very night, far from the calm of Arthur's study, the Usman Empire suffered a catastrophic blow—one that would send shockwaves across the continent.

In the dark hours before dawn, under a moonless sky shrouded in thick coastal mist, the Kingdom of Syvatoslav launched a meticulously planned assault on Karamesra, a major naval base and shipyard located along the northern coast of the Usman Empire. The port city had long been considered impregnable, its waters protected by sea walls, guard towers, and a large anchored fleet of over two dozen vessels—including line-of-battle ships, brigs, and armed sloops.

Yet the Syvatoslav navy, sailing from the northern reaches under Admiral Mikhail Vronski, had studied the tides, wind patterns, and guard rotations for weeks. His sailing ships—refitted for stealth and speed—approached silently. Sails were furled, oars muffled, lanterns covered. They moved like ghosts through fog."

The first wave of the attack came in the form of fireships—obsolete merchant hulls loaded with pitch, oil barrels, hay, and gunpowder. These were released with the current, their rudders locked toward the heart of the Usman anchorage. By the time the guards spotted them through the mist, it was too late.

With thunderous impact, the fire-laden hulls crashed into the wooden sides of the anchored Usman vessels. The initial explosion tore through a supply ship, blowing its deck apart and sending flaming debris across the water. Within moments, flames leapt from ship to ship, igniting sails, rigging, and the tar-sealed hulls like kindling.

Cannons onshore began to fire blindly into the fog, their gunners unsure of where the enemy truly was. Alarm bells clanged through the streets of Karamesra. Soldiers poured out of the garrison and into the docks, but found only confusion and chaos. Gunpowder smoke and sea mist hung thick in the air, mixing with the acrid stench of burning hemp and pitch.

Syvatoslav marines—disciplined and well-trained—disembarked swiftly from their schooners once the fire ships had done their work. Armed with percussion-cap muskets and boarding sabres, they stormed the dockyards, cutting through panicked defenders and sabotaging the remaining artillery batteries. The Usman crews, many still half-asleep or caught unarmed, offered only disorganized resistance.

A key magazine warehouse—filled with barrels of powder, lead shot, and crates of musket ammunition—was struck by a musket volley and exploded with apocalyptic force. The shockwave shattered nearby windows and set ablaze several timber structures along the dockside. In the fiery glow, shadows of men ran, screamed, fell, vanished.

By the time the first rays of sunlight pierced the horizon, Karamesra's entire anchored fleet was gone. Twenty-one warships had been completely destroyed—some burned to their waterline, others sunk in the shallows. The port's main dry dock had collapsed, its wooden scaffolding reduced to cinders. Warehouses filled with cannon, uniforms, and spare masts were either destroyed or now in Syvatoslav hands.

The Syvatoslav navy, remarkably, had suffered minimal losses. They withdrew just before dawn, taking with them six captured vessels, including a recently built ship armed with twelve smoothbore cannons. The waters of the Karamesra harbor were black with charred wreckage and floating bodies. Thick columns of smoke rose high into the sky, visible for leagues in every direction—an ominous signal that would soon reach the distant capitals of both empires.

The Karamesra Raid, as it would later be called, marked the most devastating naval defeat in the Usman Empire's recent memory. It wasn't just a loss of ships or supplies—it was a blow to pride, a strategic wound that would take years to recover from. The docks that once roared with the sounds of hammering iron and creaking hulls now stood silent, twisted, and broken.

And in the capital city of Pendralis, Arthur, unaware of the inferno that had consumed a fleet, quietly turned the final page of his book. The candle beside him flickered in the still air of his chamber, as if stirred by a breeze that came from far, far away.