It is early evening already, and I am struggling to keep my focus. The talks have been going on for several hours now, only interrupted by a short break to take a light meal this afternoon. Some progress has been made—if that is what this can be called.
They have agreed, at least, on the matter of the church.
New churches are to be founded along the southern borders, in lands where faith still bends to local custom. The dukes will bear the cost of construction, each within his own territory, while Charles will provide clerics, relics, and, more importantly, the assurance of papal favor. It is framed as piety, as unity and protection.
No one speaks of what follows once the stones are laid.
The agreement is recorded carefully.
It is not nothing. But it is not what Charles came for.
“We are no longer dealing with local threats,” he says evenly. “The borders have changed. So must our response.”
As if on silent command, scrolls are unrolled. I marvel at their beauty… Rivers traced in ink, mountain passes marked with small symbols, towns varying in size, tiny dots across a wide canvas of forests and the sea.
There is tension now around Charles’s eyes. He is going to make his move. I recognize the pattern. This is how he speaks of conquest when he wants it to sound like reason.
“The northern wars will continue,” he goes on. “They demand men. Grain. Coordination. A kingdom divided by customs cannot hold.”
A murmur moves through the room.
One of the dukes leans forward. “We are not divided,” he says. “We are allied.”
Charles inclines his head. “Alliances are fragile.Kingdomsendure.”
That word lands hard, multiple dukes are wincing visibly.
Another duke speaks, sharper. “And the cost of endurance? We know what becomes of lands absorbed into your realm. Their kings vanish. Their laws are replaced. Their sons are sent north to be educated into obedience.”
Silence.
Charles does not deny it.
Instead, he says, “They prosper.”
My eyes find Tassilo as the others speak. He listens, composed, hands folded, gaze unmoving. Bavria lies along the eastern border. His lands shield the rest of the South from what waits beyond. He has married into Langaria, a southern kingdom older than my husband’s crown, where kings rule by inheritance sanctified by the church rather than conquest. His father-in-law’s word still carries weight in Rome. His sisters and cousins sit on foreign thrones. He is not isolated.
But that is precisely the problem and will most likely be his downfall.
Charles gestures to the map. “I am not asking for surrender. I am proposing unity. Shared defense. Standard levies. Royallaw only applies where disputes cross borders.”
“Today,” someone mutters.
Charles’s eyes flick toward the sound.
Tassilo finally speaks. His voice is calm. “You ask us to bind ourselves without knowing where the binding ends.”
“You already rely on my armies,” Charles replies. “You already benefit from my borders.”
“Yes,” Tassilo says. “And in return, we have kept the peace here. Without annexation.”
The word hangs between them.
Charles smiles faintly. “Peace is temporary.”
“And sovereignty,” Tassilo counters, “once yielded, is never returned.”
I feel it then—the shift in the conversation.
