Chapter 407 - 406: The King’s Gambit

Chapter 407: Chapter 406: The King’s Gambit

Pennmerian Palace — Philadelphia — Pennsylvania — Holy Commonwealth of Pennmere

In the quiet, wood-paneled sanctuary of his private study, William Penn Sr., the man the world now called the King of Pennmere, leaned back into the velvet embrace of his sofa. The room smelled of old ink, expensive parchment, and the lingering, sweet residue of several cups of Celestial Tea.

Outside the heavy oak doors, the machinery of a burgeoning empire ground on, but within these walls, Penn sought only the fleeting luxury of silence. He closed his eyes, the weight of his responsibilities carving deep, weary lines into his forehead.

"Sebastian," Penn murmured, his voice thick with the fatigue of a ruler who spent more time fighting with ledgers than with swords. "Tell me... is there any of that London Malt Ale left in the cellar? Or have the guards discovered my secret stash?"

His old butler, a man whose spine was as straight as a Vanguard saber and whose face was a map of loyal service, paused in the act of polishing a silver tray. He looked toward his master with a faint, paternal disapproval. "There is indeed a cask remaining, Your Majesty. However, might I suggest that mixing fermented grain with the potency of Master Alaric’s Celestial leaves is a recipe for a most undignified headache? You have already consumed four cups of the ’Master’s Blend’ this afternoon."

Penn cracked one eye open, a dry smile tugging at his lips. "At my age, Sebastian, a headache is merely proof that I am still alive. Bring the—"

The sentence died in his throat. Penn’s eyes snapped fully open, and he jolted upward with a start that nearly sent his spectacles flying. Seated casually in the armchair opposite him, legs crossed and a faint, sheepish smirk on his face, was Alaric Jonathan Kenway. He looked as though he had been sitting there for hours, despite the fact that the room’s only entrance was guarded by two of his finest soldiers in the Commonwealth.

"’Laric!" Penn shouted, his heart hammering against his ribs as he clutched the arm of the sofa. "What in God’s name...?! Do you take a perverse pleasure in taking years off my life, or is this simply your way of ensuring I never grow too comfortable in my own home?"

Alaric chuckled, the sound low and resonant in the quiet study. "A bit of both, William. Though mostly I’m just here to deliver an invitation. There’s going to be a banquet at the Keep tonight... a real one. Extravagant, loud, and expensive. I’m in a remarkably good mood, and I’d like you and your family there. Invite a few of the noble houses too, if you think they can handle their liquor."

Penn stared at him, blinking slowly as he tried to process the abrupt transition. To his perception, it had been barely three hours since Alaric had vanished from the here after their discussion on the currency’s inflation.

"A banquet? Now?" Penn shook his head, looking at the grandfather clock in the corner. "You haven’t been gone more than a few hours, Alaric. You barely stepped out the door before deciding to throw a festival. What could have possibly happened in three hours to put you in such a celebratory state?"

Alaric leaned forward, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically proud. "I’ve decided it’s time for the world to meet my strongest student. He’s here, in the Keep. And he’s... special, William. So special that I’m prepared to teleport Reuben back from the Carribean tonight if that’s what it takes to have the whole family present."

Penn paused, the weight of Alaric’s tone causing him to sink back into his cushions. He knew Alaric’s standards; if the man was calling someone his ’strongest,’ then the boy was likely a walking calamity.

"You’d bring Reuben back? Just for this?" Penn sighed, nodding his head in a slow, yielding gesture. "Very well. If it means that much to you, I’ll bring the family. Perhaps a few of the more loyal noble families from the council as well. They could use a reminder that Pennmere is a place of joy, not just steel and taxes."

Alaric nodded, his gaze turning sharp and strategic. "Good. And notify the Pennmere Gazette for the morning edition. Tell them to write it up as an event of unprecedented luxury. Let the world know... especially the spies lurking in the docks... that while the French and Spanish are busy sharpening their knives, Pennmere is busy celebrating. Show them we aren’t at all concerned with being ’sandwiched’ by our neighbors."

Penn could only chuckle at the sheer audacity of the man. "Propaganda through gluttony. I suppose it’s a more refined tool than a blockade." He leaned forward then, his smile fading into something much more grave. He reached for a piece of heavy, cream-colored parchment sitting on the side table and, with a flick of his wrist, threw it toward Alaric.

Alaric caught the letter effortlessly, his brow lifting in a silent question.

"The moment you vanished earlier," Penn said, his voice dropping into a low, somber register. "Spain’s Royal Messenger arrived at the gates. It seems Philip V has finally found his voice."

Alaric unfolded the letter. His eyes moved with lazy patience over the ornate, flourishing script and the long list of titles that preceded the actual message.

’To William Penn Sr., styled King of the Holy Commonwealth of Pennmere,

From Philip V, by the Grace of God King of Spain, King of Castile, León, Aragon, the Two Sicilies, Jerusalem, Navarre, Granada, Toledo, Valencia, Galicia, Majorca, Seville, Sardinia, Córdoba, Corsica, Murcia, Jaén, the Algarves, Algeciras, Gibraltar, the Canary Islands, the Indies, the Islands and Mainland of the Ocean Sea...

It has come to Our attention that the polity now calling itself the Holy Commonwealth of Pennmere has, in a remarkably brief span of years, expanded its influence across territories, trade routes, and settlements whose stability is of great concern to the Crowns of Europe.

We have observed, with no small measure of interest, the sudden growth of your ports, the unnatural strength of your banks, the swift improvement of your arms, the strange discipline of your soldiers, and the increasingly aggressive reach of your merchants. We have further received reports that Pennmerian agents, ships, and financiers have begun interfering with matters that touch upon Spanish colonial interests in the Americas.

Let it be known that Spain does not seek needless conflict with your Commonwealth... However, peace is not preserved by the unchecked ambition of a young state that mistakes sudden fortune for divine mandate.

Therefore, We require the following assurances from Pennmere:

First, that Pennmere shall cease all military and commercial encroachment toward Spanish-held territories...Second, that Pennmere shall provide a full accounting of its recent naval movements...Third, that Pennmere shall refrain from supplying arms, coin, medicine, or protection to rebels, escaped laborers, or smugglers...Fourth, that representatives of Pennmere shall meet with Our appointed envoys to establish proper boundaries...Fifth, that the so-called Celestial Bank shall not extend loans, credit, or financial instruments to parties operating within Spanish dominions without the express consent of the Crown of Spain.

Should Pennmere continue to interfere with Spanish holdings... His Catholic Majesty shall be forced to regard such actions not as accidents of commerce, but as deliberate provocations.

Written by Our command and sealed under Our authority,

Philip VKing of Spain and of the Indies’

Alaric read the letter once, then twice, his eyes tracing the elaborate seal at the bottom. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint, humorless smile that didn’t reach his eyes... the kind of smile that preceded a very long, very violent evening for someone else.

"How generous," he murmured, the paper crinkling slightly under his grip. "After all the Celestial Products we allowed them to buy... heh."

Penn watched him carefully from the sofa, his hands steepled under his chin. "That is not the tone of a man who found generosity in that parchment, ’Laric."

Alaric chuckled, folding the letter with a meticulous, almost insulting care. "No, but I found clarity, William. Spain doesn’t want a treaty. They want to choke the life out of us before we become too large to strangle. Look at the demands: No loans from the Celestial Bank. No aid to ’escaped laborers’... which is their way of saying we can’t offer freedom to the people they’ve enslaved. No free naval movement. No commercial influence. In prettier words, they are saying: ’Shrink yourself, William, or war will do it for you.’"

Penn’s expression darkened, the earlier weariness returning to his features with a vengeance. The room felt smaller, the weight of the Spanish Empire pressing against the walls of the study.

Alaric’s smile sharpened, turning into something cold and predatory. "It seems the Spanish Kingdom seeks to cage the lion while it’s still considered ’young’," he said, his voice dropping into a dangerous silkiness. "And if we refuse to place our neck in their hands, they believe war is the only consequence."

A moment of heavy silence passed. Sebastian, sensing the shift in the room from domesticity to high-stakes geopolitics, bowed deeply. "If you will excuse me, Your Majesty... Master Alaric... I shall see to the preparations for the ale and the travel arrangements for the evening." He backed out of the room, the click of the door providing a finality to the scene.

Alaric stood up, tossing the folded letter onto the coffee table. He looked at Penn, his red-ringed eyes glowing with a faint, inner light. "Now that it has come to this... how will you answer, William? Knowing full well that if Spain moves, France will not be far behind. They’ll join hands just to see us burn and have the Celestial products for their own."

William Penn took a long moment to answer. He looked at the letter, then at the man who had built the very foundations of his power. He let out a slow, measured breath. "Alaric... do you happen to have any more of those cigars? The ones that smell like a better world?"

Alaric chuckled, reaching into the storage seal on his shoulder. With a flick of his wrist, a thick, premium cigar flew through the air. As Penn caught it, Alaric snapped his fingers. The tip of the cigar was instantly, perfectly sheared off, and a small, controlled flame appeared at the end of Alaric’s thumb.

Penn leaned in, taking a long, deep drag of the celestial smoke. He let it out slowly, his eyes hardening into the steel of a King who had no intention of bending.

"I think," Penn said, his voice steady and devoid of doubt, "I’ll write them the biggest ’fuck you’ letter they’ve ever seen."

Alaric’s laughter echoed through the study, sharp and delighted. "Spoken like a Kenway, William. I’ll see you at the banquet."

In a flash of white light, the room was empty again, leaving only William Penn Sr., the King of the Holy Commonwealth of Pennmere, and the scent of smoke.

.

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