Across the Continent
The war had ended.
The ink had just begun.
News traveled quickly across the continent.
Through merchant caravans.
Through Guild halls.
Through magical communications.
Through messengers who changed horses until the animals could barely stand.
And through newspapers.
Lots and lots of newspapers.
By the end of the second day, two very different versions of the War of Five Fronts had begun spreading.
Both claimed victory.
Only one bothered mentioning what actually happened.
The Empire's Report
"GLORIOUS VICTORY FOR THE CROWN"
The headline dominated the front page.
Beneath it—
A carefully crafted account of the Empire's greatest military victory in years.
Under the brilliant direction of His Majesty, Imperial forces successfully completed a major military operation against rebel forces threatening the stability of the Empire.
Imperial intelligence recently uncovered a previously unknown enemy staging territory operating from the city of Lisbeth.
For months, insurgent sympathizers within the city had secretly provided resources, intelligence, and support to rebel nations.
His Majesty personally authorized an expansion of the operation from three objectives to five, allowing Imperial forces to strike the growing rebellion across multiple fronts simultaneously.
Several diversionary forces were commissioned to engage rebel armies throughout the region, preventing enemy reinforcements from reaching the primary objective.
The strategy proved decisive.
Imperial forces successfully penetrated Lisbeth and eliminated more than 30,000 traitors and insurgent sympathizers.
The enemy staging territory was completely destroyed.
Across the remaining fronts, Imperial soldiers engaged substantial rebel armies, inflicting significant casualties and forcing enemy forces into defensive positions.
After successfully completing their assigned objectives, Imperial forces withdrew from the region.
Imperial casualties were minor.
The overwhelming success of the campaign proves once again the unmatched strength, wisdom, and divine favor of the Empire.
That was it.
No numbers for Imperial losses.
No mention of prisoners.
No mention of surrender.
No mention of four armies that never returned home.
No mention that Lisbeth had openly supported the Empire.
No mention that Imperial soldiers had been welcomed through the gates.
No mention of civilians.
No mention of children.
No mention of fire.
Thirty thousand people had simply become—
Insurgents.
After they were dead.
The other four armies?
Diversions.
Their defeats?
Successful engagements.
Their disappearance?
A withdrawal.
Forty thousand soldiers had been killed, captured, or otherwise removed from the battlefield.
According to the Empire—
Those losses barely existed.
Instead—
A victory had been declared.
A story had been written.
And the truth had been buried beneath it.
The United Kingdoms' Report
The UK Chronicle took a somewhat different approach.
Its headline was equally large.
But considerably less creative.
"FOUR FRONTS. ONE ALLIANCE. TOTAL VICTORY."
Beneath it—
Numbers.
Names.
Locations.
And facts.
Approximately 50,000 Imperial soldiers crossed into the region as part of a coordinated five-front invasion.
Nearly 40,000 were killed, captured, or otherwise neutralized during four major engagements and several smaller actions.
Imperial forces failed to capture a single United Kingdoms city.
This marks the first recorded joint military operation involving Human, Elven, Rabbitkin, Canine, Fairy, Minotaur, and other allied forces operating under a unified battle plan.
Allied casualties remain remarkably low considering the scale of the invasion.
Then the report reached Lisbeth.
And the tone changed.
The fifth Imperial army unexpectedly abandoned its anticipated route and advanced on the independent city of Lisbeth.
Lisbeth was not a member of the United Kingdoms.
According to United Kingdoms records, Lisbeth had never requested membership, nor was it currently under consideration for admission.
The city had maintained openly favorable relations with the Empire and had previously demonstrated hostility toward several Beastkin populations.
None of that mattered.
Imperial forces entered Lisbeth without resistance.
They were welcomed.
They then slaughtered the population.
The article continued.
The exact number of dead remains unknown. Lisbeth had an estimated population of approximately 30,000.
There are currently no confirmed reports of significant numbers of survivors.
Then came another headline.
Smaller.
But somehow heavier.
"THE EMPIRE SLAUGHTERS ITS OWN — AGAIN"
The article reminded readers of another event.
Main Street.
Crescent Moon Canyon.
General Valen had marched ten thousand Imperial soldiers into the canyon.
Fewer than fifteen hundred returned.
More than twelve hundred survivors were later accused of cowardice and treason.
Captain Aldric Rowan among them.
They were executed.
By their own Empire.
The Chronicle placed the two events beside each other.
Main Street.
Lisbeth.
Imperial soldiers who survived a defeat.
Imperial citizens who supported the Crown.
Both declared traitors.
Both killed.
The final paragraph asked only one question.
If soldiers who survive for the Empire can become traitors, and citizens who welcome Imperial armies can become insurgents, who exactly does the Empire consider worth protecting?
Jax's Statement
The Chronicle had requested a statement from Jax.
They expected something lengthy.
They didn't get it.
His response was brief.
Unfiltered.
And very Jax.
"Our Special Forces and allied armies stopped four Imperial armies from taking the cities they were sent to attack."
"Nearly forty thousand enemy soldiers were killed, captured, or removed from the fight."
"We won those battles."
"But we failed to protect everyone who needed us."
"The attack on Lisbeth was not predicted. That failure is mine."
"The Empire chose to slaughter defenseless people. That is theirs."
"We will work to ensure something like this never happens again."
That was all.
No excuses.
No celebration.
No attempt to shift responsibility.
Just weight.
Unfortunately—
The public noticed something else.
Two words.
Special Forces.
Editorials
The editorials came almost immediately.
Some praised Jax.
Some questioned him.
Some outright disagreed with him.
One began—
Jax Darquebane has accepted responsibility for failing to protect a city that was never under his protection.
Another went further.
Lisbeth was not a member of the United Kingdoms. It had not requested admission. It was not being considered for admission. Its government was openly sympathetic to the Empire and had a documented history of hostility toward Beastkin.
What military obligation did Jax Darquebane have to defend it?
The answer came from another writer.
Perhaps none.
Perhaps that is exactly the point.
Another editorial was less forgiving.
Not of Jax.
Of the Empire.
The Empire wants us to believe Lisbeth was secretly filled with insurgents.
We are expected to believe that a city known throughout the region for supporting the Empire was secretly one of the rebellion's most important staging grounds.
We are expected to believe that the Imperial army entered this secret enemy stronghold without resistance.
We are expected to believe the citizens welcomed the soldiers sent to destroy them.
And we are expected to believe thirty thousand traitors conveniently revealed themselves only after they were dead.
Another simply printed the Imperial report beside eyewitness accounts from the region.
No commentary.
It didn't need any.
But one editorial appeared in nearly every major city of the United Kingdoms.
Its title was simple.
"THE BLAME THAT ISN'T HIS"
For perhaps the first time in modern memory, we have watched a leader claim responsibility not for victory—but for failure.
Jax Darquebane did not need to accept blame for Lisbeth.
Legally, politically, and militarily, Lisbeth was not his responsibility.
Yet he accepted it anyway.
The Empire claims victory over thirty thousand people it murdered.
Jax Darquebane claims failure for thirty thousand people he could not save.
Readers may decide for themselves which statement tells them more about the men making them.
The people read.
And they remembered.
The Streets
The reaction was divided.
Some mourned Lisbeth.
Others didn't.
"It wasn't even one of ours."
"They supported the Empire."
"They hated Beastkin."
"They would've turned on us eventually."
But those voices were quieter than they might have been a week earlier.
Because no matter what Lisbeth had believed—
They had opened their gates.
And the Empire had killed them anyway.
Still—
Something else was spreading through the streets.
Something considerably less somber.
Excitement.
The alliance.
The battles.
The victory.
And especially—
Those two words.
"Special Forces."
Jax had said them once.
Casually.
That was all it took.
Across taverns—
"Did you hear? The Special Forces wiped out forty thousand soldiers."
"That wasn't all them."
"How do you know?"
"Because there aren't forty thousand Special Forces!"
"How many are there?"
A pause.
"Nobody knows."
Across markets—
"I heard there are only a hundred."
"My cousin says fifty."
"I heard it's just Jax and the Vixens."
"That's ridiculous."
"I heard the bunny woman killed three thousand soldiers with one swing."
"That was the dragon."
"Which dragon?"
"The fire one."
"There's more than one?!"
The stories grew.
By the end of the week, the Special Forces had apparently grown from an undefined collection of elite fighters into a secret army capable of appearing anywhere on the continent.
Nobody knew who belonged to it.
Which made it considerably easier to invent members.
Some claimed the Fairies were Special Forces.
Others claimed the Minotaurs were.
One tavern insisted the Special Forces were entirely Shadows.
Another insisted they were an elite group personally trained by Jax.
A third claimed every member had killed at least one dragon.
Nobody bothered explaining where that many dragons had come from.
Art followed.
Paintings of the Vixens appeared throughout the United Kingdoms.
None were particularly accurate.
Llandra became a celestial archer firing glowing arrows from the heavens.
Zee stood alone before an entire Imperial army, Sanctaris blazing with enough light to illuminate half the continent.
Bunny became a towering warrior whose hammer appeared approximately twice the size of World Breaker.
Which was impressive.
Because World Breaker was already ridiculous.
Nyxian—
Nyxian's paintings took certain liberties.
Mostly with the amount of armor she was wearing.
In several—
Apparently the artist had simply given up on armor altogether.
Cheap prints appeared in markets.
Children swung wooden hammers at each other while shouting Bunny's name.
Toy bows suddenly became Starpiercer.
Sticks became Sanctaris.
Anything remotely resembling a whip became Lilith's Kiss.
Merchants began selling—
SPECIAL FORCES SURVIVAL PACKS
Nobody seemed entirely sure what they were supposed to help someone survive.
But they sold extremely well.
The Vixens had become heroes.
Jax had become something else.
A legend.
And like most legends—
The truth was quickly becoming optional.
Beyond The United Kingdoms
Other kingdoms watched.
Some had dismissed the United Kingdoms as an experiment.
Elves.
Beastkin.
Humans.
Fairies.
Old enemies pretending they could suddenly become allies.
It wouldn't last.
That had been the assumption.
Then the Empire sent fifty thousand soldiers.
And the alliance held.
Merchants noticed first.
Trade routes shifted.
Prices moved.
Governments that had previously ignored requests for diplomatic meetings suddenly found room on their calendars.
Military leaders studied every report they could obtain.
Five armies had advanced.
Four had been destroyed or captured.
And the fifth had only succeeded because it attacked somewhere the alliance hadn't prepared to defend.
The United Kingdoms had survived.
More importantly—
They had survived together.
For some rulers—
That was impressive.
For others—
It was terrifying.
The Empire's Throne Room
The King slammed his fist onto the arm of his throne.
"It's a good thing I ordered five targets instead of three!"
His voice echoed through the chamber.
"Or you would have had ZERO victories to report!"
The generals remained silent.
One finally spoke.
Carefully.
"Your Majesty, expanding the operation required us to divide our available forces across—"
"Do not speak back to me!"
The King rose.
His face reddened.
"It was my brilliance that ensured this campaign had any success at all!"
Nobody answered.
"I gave you five opportunities!"
His eyes moved across the assembled officers.
"FIVE!"
He raised a hand.
"And you managed to properly execute my strategy ONCE!"
Silence.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
"Perhaps the problem is not my strategy."
His voice lowered.
"Perhaps my troops are simply not being led properly."
Several generals exchanged glances.
None dared respond.
The King continued.
"Lisbeth proves the plan worked."
Nobody mentioned that Lisbeth hadn't been one of the original targets.
Nobody mentioned Campbell.
Nobody mentioned that the change had occurred after the armies were already preparing to move.
And nobody looked toward the man standing quietly near the rear of the chamber.
General Korvin.
The Empire's spymaster said nothing.
He received no praise.
No songs would be written about him.
No statue would carry his name.
That suited him perfectly.
The King could have the victory.
Korvin preferred the information.
The Queen finally spoke.
Soft.
Measured.
Deadly.
"Oh, I agree, my lord."
Every eye turned toward her.
"The decision to expand the operation was inspired."
The King's expression softened.
"A lesser mind would never have seen the opportunity."
A smile appeared.
Small.
Controlled.
"This was merely a temporary setback."
She glanced toward the generals.
"We will learn from it."
Her eyes returned to the King.
"We will regroup."
A pause.
"And when we do..."
Her voice lowered.
"We will crush these rebel nations."
The King smiled.
The Queen stepped closer.
"And when this rebellion is finally destroyed, statues of your greatness will stand across the continent."
The King's smile widened.
Around the room—
Heads bowed.
Behind them—
Korvin remained silent.
Thinking.
Truth Versus Story
Across the continent—
Two versions of the same war continued to spread.
One of glory.
One of victory.
One of control.
The other—
Numbers.
Names.
Questions.
And somewhere between them—
People decided which version they believed.
In the United Kingdoms—
The victory became legend.
Outside them—
The victory became proof.
But inside the Empire—
It became something considerably more dangerous.
Main Street
The newspaper had crossed the border folded beneath a shipment of cloth.
Possession of it wasn't worth the risk.
Everyone in the room knew that.
They read it anyway.
There were seven of them.
Three women.
Four men.
None were soldiers.
Not anymore.
One woman sat silently at the table.
Her husband had survived Crescent Moon Canyon.
He had come home wounded.
Ashamed.
Terrified.
But alive.
For three days.
Then the Empire accused him of cowardice.
Treason.
Desertion.
They executed him on Main Street.
She had watched.
The Empire told her he deserved it.
Across the table sat an older man.
His son had marched with General Valen.
His son had survived too.
Until Main Street.
Another woman had lost her brother.
Another—
Her father.
They had all been told the same thing.
Traitors.
Cowards.
Enemies of the Empire.
The woman looked down at the newspaper.
At the headline.
THE EMPIRE SLAUGHTERS ITS OWN — AGAIN
Her fingers trembled.
She read about Lisbeth.
A city that supported the Empire.
A city that welcomed Imperial soldiers.
A city of thirty thousand people.
Traitors.
Apparently.
After they were dead.
The older man stared at the page.
"They said Lisbeth was an insurgent stronghold."
Nobody answered.
"They said the army destroyed rebels."
Still nothing.
Finally—
The woman looked up.
"They welcomed them."
The room remained silent.
"They opened the gates."
Her voice cracked.
"And then they called them traitors."
The older man's jaw tightened.
Another woman whispered—
"Just like our husbands."
Nobody corrected her.
The words sat there.
Dangerous.
The first woman looked again at the Chronicle.
For years, she had tried to believe what she had been told.
That her husband had failed.
That he had dishonored the Empire.
That somehow—
He had deserved what happened.
Because believing otherwise meant accepting something far worse.
Her hand slowly closed around the newspaper.
"They lied."
No one moved.
The older man looked at her.
She repeated it.
"They lied about him."
The room changed.
Not loudly.
No weapons were drawn.
No rebellion was declared.
Nobody spoke of overthrowing kings.
Not yet.
But another man at the table looked toward the closed door.
Then back at the newspaper.
"If they lied about Main Street..."
He stopped.
The woman finished for him.
"What else have they lied about?"
No one had an answer.
And inside the Empire—
For the first time—
More and more people were beginning to ask.