‘Is this the Great Hall of the Klingon Empire, or a feasting house?’ Koloth, son of Koloth, leader of the House of Koloth, could not hide the curl of his lip as he moved through the shadows of the beating heart of his people’s governance.

When his companion shot him a warning glance, visible even through the gloom of the torch-lit chamber, Koloth knew he should heed it. Kaltorok was the head of the House of Lorkoth and perhaps his most loyal vassal, and had spent much of the past months here on Qo’noS. He would only rebuke his liege if he had good reason, and held experience of this arena Koloth, who had overseen border affairs for weeks, did not.

‘The chancellor says we must be as brothers-in-arms, breaking bread and singing songs together, not stuck in dour meetings,’ Kaltorok explained, voice neutral as the two of them made their way towards the top table. ‘It keeps the councillors happy.’

‘It keeps the councillors busy.’ Koloth was sure to keep his voice lower this time. ‘And I see it draws in plenty of others.’

‘Captains and warriors and lordlings,’ said Kaltorok, waving a hand at some of the lower tables. ‘They come to boast of their deeds on distant frontiers, and fancy themselves heroes because they have drunk bloodwine in the same hall as Toral, son of Duras, even if he did not look twice at them.’

‘Followers he can keep happy with songs and supper and ceremony,’ mused Koloth, ‘and make himself look strong and supported even if the Great Houses mutter.’

‘And be supported.’ The warning glint in Kaltorok’s eye had returned. ‘He gives these warriors petty battles and bold acclaim. And they love him for it.’

‘Koloth!’ A booming voice came from a nearby table, followed soon by the figure of a hulking warrior whom Koloth knew looked less impressive outside of flattering firelight. Nevertheless, General Konjah of the High Council swaggered over and planted a firm hand on the older Klingon’s shoulder, his smile baring teeth.

‘Come to join us at last, Koloth?’ General Konjah seemed content to make it clear his courtesy was an affectation. ‘Instead of rotting on the Federation frontier?’

‘Governing,’ Koloth corrected coolly. ‘These past months, my house has increased effectiveness in our duranium processing by thirteen percent -’ General Konjah scoffed, and Koloth raised his voice as he pressed on. ‘-which has, of course, only benefited our starship construction.’

That shut up General Konjah, the burly Klingon’s expression going sour. Before Koloth knew it, the hand on his shoulder was being used to steer him through the chamber, leaving Kaltorok behind. His vassal knew his place. It was not where they were headed.

‘I assume you made trade agreements with the Federation to make this happen?’ General Konjah sneered as they moved through the crowds towards the top table. ‘Bartered and begged like a Ferengi for this wealth?’

‘There is no dishonour in offering your people strong leadership, and your neighbours steady friendship. Do not debase yourself by acting as if disinterest in governance is a mark of a warrior, General.’

It took General Konjah a beat to summon his response. ‘You are correct,’ he said at last, sounding like he was trying to brush off Koloth’s barbed point. ‘That is not the source of dishonour. Chancellor!’

Konjah always greeted people, Koloth thought bitterly, by barking their name or title at them as if he needed to declare not just his own presence, but theirs. Even Chancellor Toral was not exempt, the head of the Klingon Empire seated at the high table, halfway through savaging a leg of targ. He did not look especially pleased at being interrupted, but that irritation faded at the sight of Koloth.

‘The old dog returns,’ chuckled Toral, tossing the leg onto his plate. He stood, and others around him – a mixture of councillors Koloth had once thought respectable, and new, upstart faces – fell silent, watching the exchange openly. ‘Tired of your peaceful frontier, Lord Koloth?’

‘I had business in the capital,’ said Koloth, ‘and came to pay my respects.’ This he did, offering the chancellor a deep bow, clenched fist pressed to his chest.

Toral chuckled, but waved a hand at a seated young captain Koloth did not recognise. ‘Move,’ he instructed the warrior. ‘That chair is for Lord Koloth. Let us sit, Koloth – drink and eat and talk of the empire.’

‘I hear that is how you spend your time.’ Koloth gave the young captain a respectful nod as he vacated the chair, and before he knew it, he was seated with a tankard of bloodwine and a leg of targ before him. ‘Discussing matters of the empire, that is.’

‘That’s not what you meant.’ Toral looked calm as he sat and had a swig of bloodwine. ‘You meant that I spend my days feasting. As if there is something wrong with meeting with bold warriors come from afar to tell me of their deeds and lives, instead of sequestering myself in private chambers with politicians discussing taxation rates.’

Koloth shrugged. ‘Taxation pays for your fleets.’

‘Meeting with warriors from far and wide makes them happier to pay it,’ Toral countered. ‘And tells me of the needs of those outside of this bubble on Qo’noS. I spent years in the hinterlands, Lord Koloth. I know the value of those who fight for a living, who fight for honour, outside of the halls of power. You think I should not receive them?’

The trap was transparent enough that Koloth didn’t miss a beat before replying, ‘I think I do not tell the chancellor how to govern.’

Toral’s snort made his disbelief plain. ‘You said I ought not turn on the Romulans.’

‘I said I do not see the glory in bringing the hammer to an already broken people. The tales I hear from the coreward border have yet to dissuade me. They speak of warships against patrol boats, raiding parties striking shattered worlds with little of value. That is the work of butchers and bullies, not warriors. It is bloodshed for bloodshed’s sake.’

Another young captain that Koloth did not recognise sat up at this, her eyes flashing. ‘My bird-of-prey struck a mighty victory against a self-acclaimed Romulan warlord and his great vessel!’ she declared, chest puffing. ‘I will not take this insult from -’

‘If that is even true,’ Koloth snapped, head whipping around to glower at the upstart, ‘I expect you brought your fully provisioned ship against a dilapidated hulk that has not seen a proper refit or proper supply in fifteen years. I congratulate you on your victory, Captain, for prevailing against a wily, ageing Romulan commander, but that is the work for young warriors to cut their teeth and prove themselves. It is not a saga for the ages.’ He turned back to Toral. ‘Or the business of chancellors.’

Toral threw back his head and laughed. ‘Within a minute, Koloth, you do tell me how to govern!’

Koloth felt his cheeks flush as the rest of the table broke into cackling, a symphony of sycophants washing over him. He had always cared for nuance and detail, a trait that had fuelled his great success, but repeatedly opened him to ridicule from his fellows.

‘They are petty border disputes, not the business of Qo’noS,’ said Koloth, and knew the moment he’d said it that he’d misstepped.

Toral’s eyes swept the table. ‘And there we have it,’ he told his circle. ‘Lord Koloth thinks battles against our oldest enemies are not a concern for the politicians of this empire.’

‘I don’t -’

‘You are not completely wrong, Koloth,’ Toral carried on, hefting his tankard with a twinkle in his eye the older warrior did not trust. ‘They are a wretched lot, these stars of a fallen empire. A grand hunting ground for lone captains and warriors, but not for battle. There is little to raise the banner against – or for. Not in those unclaimed lands. Which is why it is time, Koloth, to turn our eye at last to the richest target: the Romulan Republic.’

The sinking feeling in Koloth’s chest had been there since he’d arrived, he realised. Now it settled with no surprise or fanfare, merely that same sickness that had stirred in him the moment Toral had ascended to the chancellorship. ‘The Republic may have fleets and richer territories,’ he said, ‘but they are allied to the Federation. Starfleet will not stand idly by when you come to those they have sworn to protect.’

It was not the accusation he wanted to make. You have spent months promising much and delivering little, he wanted to say. Those who backed you are starting to grumble. So you do as all our weak leaders have done, and you provoke a war. No matter if you can win it. No matter if it is what’s best for the empire.

This isn’t about our honour. It’s about yours.

To say that here, surrounded by Toral’s sycophants, would not be courage. It would be madness. The gleam in the chancellor’s eye as he drank deeply from the tankard spoke of his awareness; he knew this was a performance, that he threw meat to the targ pit and made the hounds bay for him.

But it made him loved. It made him powerful.

‘Let us see the honour of Starfleet, then,’ said Toral at last, setting his tankard on the table with a thunk. ‘Let us see how they fulfil their oaths.’