2026-03-09 13:42:36
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VOICES AGAINST ONE MAN
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
THE MAN THEY CURSE
The television was louder than the room needed it to be.It hung crooked above the bottles behind the counter, throwing cold light across the drinking parlor in Renham County. The place smelled of spilled beer, old wood, frying oil, and wet coats. Men sat at rough tables with half-empty glasses in front of them. A few women stood near the wall, arms folded, eyes fixed on the screen. No one looked relaxed anymore. Not with war on the news.Ethan sat in the far corner beneath a weak yellow lamp, his hood was pulled low, his shoulders remained still, and a dark glass of wine was untouched in front of him.Two tribunal escorts were nearby in plain clothes. One sat two tables away pretending to study his drink. The other leaned against the wall near the back door with his cap low and his hands in his pockets. To everyone else, they were just tired men hiding from the cold.The bartender wiped a glass, glanced up at the television, and said, “Turn the volume up. That’s war footage.”A y
THE EXECUTION OF THE 11TH BATTALION
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 ARRIVAL OF DEATH
The first mine did not end the advance.It broke it.The illusion of control vanished in that instant, as if the battlefield itself had rejected them.Lieutenant General Armand Kesse grabbed the edge of the command carrier vehicle as another explosion tore through the left flank and threw dirt, fire, and screaming men into the night. The neat formation he had led toward Moutham Estate was gone in seconds. The road had become smoke, shattered wheels, and bodies hitting the ground too hard to rise again.What had been a planned advance seconds ago was now a place where decisions no longer mattered.“Pull back!” Armand shouted into the field mic. “Pull back now!”But the order did not move cleanly. Men were already running in different directions. No formation remained. No clear line. Only survival.Some dropped flat where they stood. Others tried to drag wounded soldiers across ground that might still be armed beneath them. Every step carried a question—would the ground hold, or woul
THE ADVANCE INTO THE TRAP
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 ORDER OF RETALIATION
The report felt heavier than paper.Ethan stood at the war table in the Tribunal command room, one hand resting beside the marked sectors while three officers waited in silence for him to speak. Outside, the base still moved with tense purpose. Inside, the air had gone still. The news of the tribunal army loss had reached the room before anger had.Captain Lorne stood at Ethan’s right. Across from them, a communications officer had just finished reading the latest field summary in a careful voice that did not quite hide his dread.“Moutham Estate has fallen,” the officer said. “Yentreha County has also been taken. El Pekka County fell within the same operation window.”Ethan did not answer.The officer swallowed and continued. “Tribunal command at Moutham was broken. Surviving forces are scattered. Major General Roland Vince was returned alive.”That made Lorne’s jaw tighten. “Returned?”The officer nodded. “Yes, sir. He was sent back with a message.”Ethan finally looked up. “Say it
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