Divide and Rule: The Birth of Romania
I, cloaked in the guise of the Sage, shared tales of governance with the Knight King. Divide and rule. Divide et impera. You might think this phrase, thick with the brutal stench of empire, sprang from England—but trace its roots, and you'll wind back to ancient Greece. True, no one wielded it more ruthlessly than the British during their colonial heyday, bleeding their dominions dry! But anyway.
From the cradle of ancient Greece to the pinnacle of the British Empire, this technique—sowing division, igniting frictions, and ruling the fractures—carries a profound history. It's devastatingly effective. Just what the Knight King needs now.
Of course, I know the pitfalls. Stir up division and clashes are inevitable. Still, for him at this moment, it's essential.
"Won't sparking friction cause problems?"
"I won't claim it's flawless," I replied, "but such rivalries let them check each other. The king stands above, mediating between his fractious vassals—that's how you rule."
"Pitting them against one another... and reigning from on high..."
If the king commands true authority, those bickering lords will have no choice but to beg his intervention. Maintaining that balance demands unshakeable power, of course. But a king who inherited Arcadia and the Immortal Crown? His prestige will overflow.
What happens generations from now? Who knows. For the present, it'll suffice.
And so I spun my yarns for the Knight King: pitting commoners against knights, knights against nobles; granting minor titles like the Five Ranks to breed petty jealousies among his subordinates. Tales of fiefs bestowed on nobles, the lords who govern them. Indirect rule through a web of barons. Our conversation stretched through the night, until the sun crested the horizon.
"The more I hear, the fresher your wisdom feels. The title of Sage suits you perfectly."
"You're too kind."
"Your knowledge feels priceless, beyond measure. What say you—will you lend your mind to my cause?"
The Knight King, clearly moved, extended his hand. He must see the Sage's intellect as a boon. But no—that won't do. Occasional guidance is one thing; constant counsel? Humans must learn to stand on their own legs. Even this much instruction from me isn't ideal... but some guidelines are necessary.
Thus:
"Regrettably, I cannot leave this forest."
"You cannot leave?"
"Yes."
From beneath the robes shrouding the Sage, I extended an arm. Stone-carved flesh, hewn from rock. A body so alien would raise eyebrows!
"That body...?"
"Complicated circumstances. I can't stray beyond these woods. Grateful for the offer, though."
"Hmph... a body of stone. Cursed by the gods?"
"Can't say. It's intricate."
"I see. No helping it, then. Your wisdom is invaluable, but if you're bound here..."
"Thank you for understanding."
Yet the Knight King's gaze lingered on me—on the Sage.
"Then... if I need your wisdom again, might I borrow it?"
"I can't leave the forest, though?"
"I'll send a messenger. Relay your counsel through them—wouldn't that suffice?"
I nodded. If insoluble dilemmas arise, I'd gladly advise.
"Of course. Ask away."
"My thanks. With your guidance, this realm could endure a millennium and beyond."
"Too kind."
Hm. A millennium? Elves don't even last that long. Ah, elves—right.
"One more piece of advice: strengthen ties with the elves and dwarves."
"Elves and dwarves? They rarely show themselves."
"True, but their skills surpass ordinary humans. Elven hunters outmatch any man; dwarven smiths forge metals no human can tame. Their crafts hold immense value."
"Indeed... but will they deign to meet us?"
"Not easily, no. But there's a place where you can."
"For both?"
"Yes." I nodded and continued. "Between the Great Elven Forest and the dwarven Sagarmata lies a city called Betelgeuse."
"Betelgeuse?"
"Every decade, elves and dwarves duel there. Use that to meet both at once."
For reference, their rivalry rages on, dead even—virtually identical win rates.
Ahem. Anyway, Betelgeuse offers a prime chance to parley with both. Precious opportunity. Duels every ten years... about three left? Even off-season, some linger, but the decennial clashes draw crowds like no other. In this entertainment-starved world, they're spectacles. Fan clubs form for contestants!
"Such a place exists...?"
"Yes. Far from your campaigns, so you'd not know. Building bonds there will yield great allies."
"I see..."
It bordered Aesir domains, but they're shattered now, their followers scattered. Word of Betelgeuse faded too.
"Lizardmen, Procyon mages, other beastkin... no need to detail them. Your territories overlap; exchanges are routine. Especially with the beastkin kingdoms around Minoa and the ratkin of Ratkinia."
"True... I'll heed your counsel."
The king inscribed my words on papyrus, tucked it away, and rose. After a sleepless night, his eyes burned sharp. What nation would he forge? A flicker of curiosity stirred.
"Grateful for your tales. One last request?"
"Another?"
Fine, a favor's no burden.
"Anything within my power."
"Thank you." He smiled awkwardly—his delicate beauty almost feminine. "Name my new realm? I'm hopeless at it."
"The nation's name?"
Just keep Arcadia? No, he wants fresh.
"Arcadia suffices, no?"
"I'm its successor, but reviving a fallen name feels... ill-omened."
Fair point. Tainted by defeat.
Names swirled in my mind. Since I gave him the surname Caesar... Rome? Too vague. Rome endures, but... Romania? Slap on a land suffix. Better than plain Rome? Echoes real-world Romania, but Rome's prestige is unmatched. All roads lead to it; romance's root...
"Romania. How's that?"
"Romania?"
I nodded. Feels slapdash, but Rome's weight carries it.
"Fine name. Romania. Romania." He repeated it, beaming. His refined features bloomed like flowers.
"Truly grateful. Coming to you was no mistake. This debt I'll not forget."
With repeated thanks, the Knight King departed the deep woods. I watched his back recede.
His Romania. How long would that name endure...?
A touch of anticipation lingered.
