The chamber was filled with noise.

It wasn't the usual political murmuring or the dull sound of pen against parchment — it was chaos. Shouts clashed with curses, voices overlapping in a storm that shook the marble walls of the Northern Parliament Hall.

The air reeked of sweat, perfume, and fear. Candles flickered from the iron chandeliers above, dripping wax onto the polished wooden tables arranged in a half circle. Dozens of nobles sat at their seats — some in military uniform, others in rich velvet coats, their house emblems stitched proudly on their shoulders.

The Parliament of the North had been called for an emergency session. Frostveil had burned. Trade routes were severed. The South was blaming the North, and the Central Senate had already begun drafting a joint declaration of war.

The North had no time left for hesitation.

---

"Order!" the Head of Parliament bellowed, slamming his gavel against the podium. The sharp crack echoed through the room, silencing only a fraction of the noise.

"Order, I said!"

The nobles reluctantly quieted down, though their faces still burned with anger and anxiety.

"Now," the Head continued, straightening his coat. "We have all received the reports from Frostveil Port. The explosion destroyed two Southern trade vessels and a dockyard warehouse. Casualties number in the hundreds."

Murmurs rose again — soft but venomous.

"The Southern Continent claims the blast was caused by a device built by our own engineers," said one of the older nobles, Lord Verdan of House Isolde. "They call it a provocation. A declaration of war."

"Lies!" barked another noble from across the table, slamming his hand on the wood. "They sent relics through our ports without permit! Blame should fall on them!"

"Perhaps," Verdan sneered. "But the South's armies are already marching under the Church's banners. They want war, and they'll use any excuse."

The word Church sent an uneasy ripple through the hall.

The Head of Parliament took a deep breath. "The question, then, is not whether they are right or wrong. The question is how we respond."

---

A younger noble stood up from the back row — his hair silver, his eyes sharp. "Respond? You mean survive. The South has the Church's full blessing, and the Central Senate will side with them if this turns into a continental war. We can't fight them with bureaucracy alone."

Several nobles nodded grimly.

Then someone from the left side of the room — Lord Bluerose, patriarch of the Bluerose family — slowly rose from his seat. His calm voice cut through the tension.

"There is one man who has kept order when the government could not."

Heads turned.

"Chrome Hearts," Bluerose said simply. "Their leader — the masked man known as Machiavelli. In four months, he reduced the number of active syndicates in Victoria by half. The streets are quieter. The smuggling routes are under control. Even the nobles' carriages are safer at night."

Several nobles exchanged wary glances.

"And you suggest," one of them said coldly, "that we make him a commander?"

Bluerose nodded once. "If it works, I don't care what name the man wears. The people already follow him — the poor, the street soldiers, even the disillusioned knights. He commands loyalty through fear and respect, both of which our armies lack."

A thunderous noise rose as nobles began arguing.

---

"Have you lost your mind!?" shouted one. "A criminal leading our troops?!"

"He's more than a criminal," said another, standing up. "The Chrome Hearts stabilized Victoria's underworld. If the nobles and the syndicates unite, the South will think twice before marching on us."

"You want to hand our banners to a murderer?!"

"You'd rather hand them to cowards?!"

The Head of Parliament slammed his gavel again. "Enough! Enough, all of you!"

Silence returned, though it trembled at the edges.

He looked to Bluerose. "Lord Bluerose. Are you formally proposing the nomination of this… Machiavelli as a field commander of the Northern Army?"

Bluerose inclined his head. "I am."

The Head turned to the others. "Then, as law dictates, we vote."

---

One by one, the nobles stood or sat, declaring their stance.

"House Isolde — opposed."

"House D'Arven — in favor."

"House Meren — opposed."

"House Bluerose — in favor."

"House Helvar — in favor."

The votes continued. Voices cracked under pressure, some trembling, others firm.

By the end of it, the hall had gone quiet again.

The Head looked down at the tally in his hand — his face grave. "The vote stands at twenty-three in favor, sixteen opposed."

A long silence.

"By majority rule," he said, "the Northern Parliament hereby recognizes the masked man known as Machiavelli as a provisional field commander, pending his acceptance."

The words fell heavy like lead.

Some nobles sighed in relief. Others cursed under their breath. One man stormed out entirely, muttering that the North had just sealed its fate by trusting the devil himself.

The Head cleared his throat. "A letter of appointment shall be written immediately. However…" He paused, realizing the problem. "…does anyone know where to send it?"

A murmur spread.

No one did. No one even knew who Machiavelli truly was, only that his syndicate's influence reached every corner of Victoria's underworld.

---

"Perhaps," Bluerose said slowly, "it doesn't need to be sent directly. Word travels fast among the Chrome. If the message leaves this hall, it will reach him."

And so it did.

The next morning, under the pale gray sky of Victoria, a courier walked through the crowded streets carrying a sealed letter wrapped in the Parliament's crest. It passed from his hands to a merchant, then to a beggar, then to a man in a black coat standing at an alley's mouth. The man didn't speak — he simply nodded, took the letter, and disappeared into the fog.

By nightfall, that letter found its way through the secret passages beneath the abandoned theater that served as the Chrome Hearts' headquarters.

---

Noah sat alone in his office — dim candlelight flickering across his mask on the table. The silver eyes of Machiavelli stared up at him, empty and cold.

A knock came at the door.

"Come in," Noah said quietly.

A boy — one of the younger Chrome members, barely sixteen — stepped inside and held out the letter. "Found this through the post relay, boss. No return mark, but the seal's Parliament."

Noah frowned, taking it. The wax was untouched, the Parliament's insignia pressed clearly into the red. He broke it open.

The letter was brief, written in the precise formal tone of government decree.

---

To the one known as Machiavelli,

The Parliament of the Northern Empire, by majority vote, has nominated you as provisional Field Commander for the defense of the North. Your operations, though unofficial, have demonstrated effective control and order within Victoria's criminal understructure. We call upon you now to turn that order toward the preservation of the North itself.

You are requested to appear before the Council within three days to confirm or decline this appointment.

— Signed, Head of Parliament.

Noah read it twice, his expression unreadable. Then he set it down and leaned back in his chair.

Chrome Hearts… in service of the Empire?

The idea was laughable. He almost did laugh.

"Commander Machiavelli," he muttered under his breath. "How absurd."

But the humor didn't last.

He stood, walking to the open window that overlooked the fog-draped city.

The world was shifting faster than he had expected.

Noah exhaled through his nose, slow and tired. "I wanted to stay in the shadows," he whispered. "But if the Church moves its army north… if they come under St. Eldred's banner…"

He turned back to the table, eyes narrowing at the letter.

Chrome Hearts had fought syndicates, smugglers, killers.

But this...this was something else.

"War, huh…" he murmured.

"So it's finally come to this."

He reached for his mask — the silver-eyed visage of Machiavelli — and slipped it over his face.

The candlelight flickered against the chrome surface, glinting cold and sharp.

"Prepare the men..."