The south road into Moutham Estate looked almost peaceful for the first time in two days.A long line of the tribunal army cargo trucks rolled through the dust under a dull evening sky.Engines were growling, headlights kept cutting through the low haze that hung above the estate’s outer perimeter. Soldiers on watch raised their rifles, then lowered them again as the lead truck flashed the proper signal. Men on the line began moving before the wheels fully stopped.“Reinforcements from the south sector!” one of the guards shouted.Another soldier let out a relieved breath. “About time.”The convoy came in heavy with war supplies. Crates of ammunition. Fuel drums. Medical packs. Portable communication units. Spare barrels. Artillery shells. Two flatbeds carrying light armored vehicles rattled behind the main trucks, their metal frames clanging over the rough ground. The whole base seemed to exhale at once.A young lieutenant stepped beside the unloading team and barked, “Move those s

Beyond the northern rise, the Herold army was coming in formation.Not a strike team. Not a probing force. Not a quick raid.A full ground offensive.Not rushed. Not improvised.It moved with the confidence of something that had already decided the outcome.Tanks rolled first, dark and heavy, their lines were too clean, too deliberate. Behind them came cavalry trucks in staggered rows. Behind those came armored carriers. Infantry columns moved in disciplined intervals around them like a machine that had already practiced this moment in detail. Dust rose behind the entire formation in a thick wall.It swallowed the horizon slowly, like the land itself was being erased behind them.The captain beside Roland whispered, “That’s… not a strike force.”Roland did not answer immediately.“That’s an invasion,” the captain said, voice breaking.On the far edge of the advancing lines, artillery units were already stabilizing.“Signal all commands,” Roland snapped. “Northern armor approach. Fu

Lieutenant General Armand Kesse moved like a man who had already accepted the night would end in fire.The 11th Tribunal Battalion rolled across the open ground in disciplined force, engines were grinding low under the dark sky, headlights dimmed to narrow slits. Armored carriers led the central movement. Gun trucks followed in staggered depth. Troop transports came behind them in long, hard lines, packed with men holding rifles across their knees and listening to the war hum through steel floors and reinforced doors. The whole column looked heavy enough to break a road by passing over it.Armand stood half out of the lead command carrier, one gloved hand holding the rail above him as the convoy pushed toward Moutham Estate. Wind hit his face, carrying dust, fuel, and the metallic scent of machines running too long without rest. He was a lean man with a strict mouth and deep-set eyes, the kind of officer who believed hesitation killed more soldiers than bullets.“Maintain formation

The first Herold gun truck opened fire before the Armand could say anything further.Heavy rounds ripped across the tribunal line, chewing through men who had still been trying to regroup. Men who had seconds ago believed they were advancing now found themselves dying without even seeing the enemy clearly.One transport windshield burst inward in a storm of glass and blood. Another vehicle lost its driver and swung off course into a crater, smashing broadside into a half-ruined carrier.“Return fire!” Armand roared. “All units, return fire!”Some of them did.A few tribunal rifles answered. Two mounted guns opened up from the rear. One mortar team tried to reposition and was cut down before the tube settled. The tribunal return fire existed, but it had no shape. Herold fire did.One side was reacting. The other was executing.Machine guns from the trucks stitched the ground in brutal lines. Artillery from farther back began dropping in deliberate intervals, striking not where tribun

The shouting did not die after the first curse. It grew.What had started as anger turned into something looser and uglier, fed by drink, fear, and the bright cruelty of watching disaster happen to someone else on a screen. The television kept running battlefield footage above the counter, but now most of the room was no longer watching the war. They were talking over it, shaping it, turning it into blame.Blame was easier than fear. Blame gave them something to hold, something to throw, something to survive with.“He’s hiding while we die!” a man near the door shouted.“That’s right!” someone answered from the back.The bartender leaned both palms on the counter and raised his voice above the rest. “He sends soldiers out there, then sits somewhere safe counting his money.”That earned harsh laughter.It was not humor. It was relief disguised as mockery, the kind men used when they needed someone else to carry their terror.Ethan stayed where he was, hood low, glass untouched. He did