Knight Tarkinson sat in the Tower's conference room, holding the freshly released vote totals for his rivals: hundreds of thousands, even millions of votes.
And that was just the first day.
They couldn't compete.
"We're at too much of a disadvantage. Even the largest art theater can only hold a thousand people," an elderly noble said.
"Isn't that because you couldn't bear to give up the theaters' profits and shut out Magic Films?"
Knight Tarkinson sneered, leaving the elderly noble speechless.
He had gone from a lackey who did the dirty work—one whose successes went to the great nobles and whose failures were his alone to bear—to someone who could tell the Elders what to do. He owed it all to Annan.
But gratitude was one thing. On the competition, he would not give an inch.
"This isn't the time for that."
The richly dressed old man at the head of the table spoke grimly. "We need to figure out how to draw the world's attention back to the Art Capital."
"We can record our competition with Magic Stones and screen it in every theater. There's still time!" another elderly noble said.
To their surprise, Sir Tarkinson shook his head. "Why pit our weakness against their strength?"
"Free City's advantage is its numbers. So we'll play to ours: the elite. Once every important figure is on our side and opera singers endorse us, the right to define the Champion will naturally belong to us."
That had been Sir Tarkinson's plan from the start: build up their standing by dismissing everyone watching Everyone's Singer as country bumpkins.
Unfortunately, the Hall's earlier, foolish rush had cost him a trump card.
Though the misfortune had ultimately brought him a connection to the Governor.
"Next, I want you to invite the nobles you know.