Holy Britannian Empire Flag Novels & Stories

A contract with a signature and nothing more. Then the chapel doors open, and my carefully constructed certainty starts to crack. Her father steps in first, tall, proud, his hand curled protectively around her arm. Then I see her. Isabella Hart. My bride. For a moment, I forget to breathe. The dress should have looked ridiculous, heavy with lace and sequins, the kind of gown that makes a woman look like a doll. But on her, it doesn’t. The fabric hugs her waist, the neckline bares her shoulders, and the faint shimmer of beads catches the light. Her hair is braided into a knot, a few strands loose around her face. She looks untouched. Fragile, even.

The remnants of Valerius's forces scattered north of the Northern Territories permafrost line for three days. At dawn on the fourth day, his adjutant knelt outside the border outpost gate, carrying a charred war banner. The flagpole was snapped. The Iron Throne crest of the Human Empire on the banner had been licked away by flame. More than half of it was gone. Only a single charred armrest remained.