The Aetherial Accord

The sprawling oak table in the grand hall was lined with influential figures from across the city. They were men of stature—industrialists, aristocrats, politicians—each a master of their respective domains. Glenn sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding despite his composed demeanor. The air was thick with the scent of cigars and brandy, and the dim glow of gas lamps gave the room an ominous ambiance.

Glenn took a sip of his wine, allowing his piercing gaze to drift over the men assembled before him. Each of them owed him in some way, whether through business dealings, favors, or carefully concealed threats. He thrived in this atmosphere of power and manipulation, where every word was a chess piece, every silence a move.

"Gentlemen," Glenn began, his voice smooth and confident, "we find ourselves at a pivotal moment in history. The tides of industry and progress are reshaping the world as we know it, yet with these advancements come threats—external and internal."

A stout man with a walrus mustache, Sir Jacques, adjusted his monocle and leaned forward. "What threats do you speak of, Mr. Kingsley? Our coffers are full, our factories productive. Surely, the common rabble can be kept in line as they always have been."

Glenn smiled faintly, as if amused by the simplicity of the question. "You misunderstand me, I do not speak merely of labor strikes or discontented workers. I speak of something far more insidious. The world is changing, and with it, so are the means of war and rebellion. Science and technology have become weapons as much as tools. Nations beyond our borders experiment with ideas that, if left unchecked, could render us obsolete."

The room fell silent. The men exchanged uneasy glances. Glenn had a way of framing threats that turned even the most confident among them into nervous conspirators.

"And what do you propose?" asked Lord Gallagher, a gaunt man with sunken cheeks who represented one of the wealthiest families in the empire. "Surely you don't mean to suggest we stoop to the level of foreign savages and their grotesque experiments?"

Glenn's smile didn't waver, but his eyes grew colder. "On the contrary, Lord Gallagher, I suggest we surpass them. To maintain power, one must innovate, anticipate, and, yes, take risks. The future does not belong to the cautious; it belongs to the bold."

"And what would these 'bold' measures entail?" another voice piped up, belonging to Faelian Hargrove, a prominent weapons manufacturer. "Surely, you don't mean to delve into...human experimentation."

The word hung in the air like a curse. Even in their morally ambiguous circles, there were lines some dared not cross. But Glenn was not most men.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully. "Gentlemen, we are entering an era where the boundaries between man and machine, flesh and innovation, will blur. Imagine a soldier who feels no pain, who cannot be stopped by conventional means, who serves not out of loyalty but because it is all they are capable of. That is the future of warfare. And we," his gaze swept the room, "should be the architects of it."

The room erupted into murmurs. Some expressed outright disgust; others voiced cautious curiosity. Glenn let them argue amongst themselves for a moment before raising a hand to silence them.

"Before you dismiss the idea, consider this— our rivals are already pursuing such endeavors. Do we sit idly by and let them surpass us? Or do we ensure that our empire remains unrivaled?"

Sir Jacques cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "And where, pray tell, would you find subjects for such...undertakings?"

Glenn's smile turned predatory. "The streets are teeming with the forgotten, the discarded. Orphans, beggars, the infirm—those whom society has deemed worthless. What better use for them than to serve the greater good?"

Lord Rowan frowned. "The Church would never condone it. And if the public were to find out—"

"The public," Glenn interjected sharply, "will know only what we tell them. As for the Church, their influence is waning. Progress waits for no man, and certainly not for the superstitions of the clergy."

The room fell silent again, the weight of Glenn's words sinking in. He had planted the seed of an idea, one that would fester and grow despite their initial resistance. These men were pragmatic above all else. They might balk at the notion of human experimentation now, but they would come around when the promise of power and profit became undeniable.

"Think on it," Glenn said, rising from his chair. "The future is coming, whether we're ready for it or not. I, for one, intend to be ahead of the curve. The question is, gentlemen, will you join me?"

With that, he left the room, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous hall. Behind him, the men continued to argue and deliberate, but Glenn knew the decision had already been made. They would follow him, as they always did.

For Glenn, this meeting was merely a formality, a chance to gauge their reactions and lay the groundwork for what was to come. He already had a plan—a plan that involved far more than the ramblings of cautious old men.