"An urgent telegram, Comrade."
The secretary entered, placed the dispatch on the table, and exited. As soon as the door to the briefing room clicked shut, the very atmosphere in the room shifted.
A single sheet of paper lay upon the table.
It was a brief telegraphic message, the characters stamped in ink upon thin paper. Yet, looking at it, every face in the room turned rigid with tension.
I reached out and took the telegram, ignoring the bead of sweat rolling down my temple. I looked at the text and recited it slowly, letting the weight of each word settle.
"[URGENT DISPATCH: EASTERN FRONT. VICTORY FOR THE RED ARMY OF WORKERS AND PEASANTS.]"
"Urgent dispatch... Eastern Front... Victory for the Red Army?"
I read the sentence once more, slowly, just to ensure my eyes hadn't played some cruel trick on me. But the words remained unchanged.
It was real. We had won.
Someone began to clap. It started as a cautious, tentative sound. Then another joined in. The applause grew in volume, surging until it filled every corner of the room.
There was laughter, too—short, stifled bursts of relief, but unmistakable laughter nonetheless.
"We won! Manse!"
"Unbelievable... They actually held the line."
The comments drifted through the air. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth despite myself. It was strange. If one looked strictly at the statistics, this wasn't the end of the war; it was merely a victory in a single engagement. And yet, it felt as though the entire war had been won. Or rather, it felt like a definitive victory to us, at the very least.
I leaned back in my chair and let out a long, heavy exhale. I felt my shoulders drop, just an inch. For the first time since the invasion began, I wasn't obsessing over the next report, the next map, or the next crisis. For a fleeting moment, I could exist in the present.
"Comrade Chairman."
The General Secretary, sitting across from me, spoke. He remained as composed as ever, but his eyes were noticeably brighter. Unlike the historical USSR of my old world, the General Secretary here was strictly the head of the scribes and clerks, not the ultimate decision-maker. He was more akin to a Chief of Staff for the Secretariat. Regardless, today he looked pleased.
Everyone was.
"Additional reports have arrived from the 3rd Eastern Field Army and the International Brigades."
"Read them."
The General Secretary nodded and unfolded the documents. Artillery deployment, firing synchronization, the collapse of the Gallic vanguard. Every sentence was dry and clinical, yet that bureaucratic detachment only added to the sense of reality. There were no exaggerations, no heroic epics—just facts. And the facts were more than enough.
"Well done, everyone," I said, surveying the room. I wasn't sure if I was offering a formal commendation or simple encouragement. Perhaps it was both.
"This is the first time since this war started that we've truly shaken the board."
Several commissioners nodded. They understood that this telegram was more than just good news.
"The Gallic bastards have stopped. It may be temporary, but they have definitely ground to a halt."
I reached toward the map, pointing to the line etched across the Eastern Front. Only days ago, it had been retreating, inch by agonizing inch. Now, it stood still.
"Now, only one thing remains."
I paused. The room fell into a pin-drop silence.
"Do we stop here to catch our breath, or do we maintain this momentum?"
Everyone already knew the answer. It was merely a question of who would voice it first.
"The Southern Group of Forces," I said. "Are the preparations complete?"
Ivanov answered immediately. "Yes. Personnel and logistics are on standby. We await only your order."
I nodded. Calculations hummed in the back of my mind—though truthfully, I had rehearsed them a thousand times. The longer this war dragged on, the more the people would wither. The more people would die. I had no intention of pushing into the heart of Gaul, but I had no intention of squandering the initiative either.
To be honest, I was tired. Exhausted, really. From the birth of this Union until now, I had barely known a moment of rest. Meetings, telegrams, reports, and more meetings. Building a state was far less romantic than the histories suggested. Perhaps that was why this news hit so hard. It made me think that once this war ended, I might actually be able to envision an ending for my own labor.
"Order the Southern Group of Forces to begin the offensive."
A stir went through the room—not of worry, but of anticipation.
"Let us not give the Gauls the luxury of thinking we've stopped in the East. This war is not over, but we must make it clear that it is heading toward its conclusion."
I paused for a moment before adding, "And... let us celebrate today. If we keep scowling even on a day like this, all our hard work will have been for nothing."
A few commissioners chuckled. Even the General Secretary allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up slightly.
Watching them, I thought to myself: Just a little more. Once this war is over, maybe I can finally rest.
**
The nights on the eastern plains of the Union were long. When the wind blew, the grass and the earth seemed to shudder together; only the illuminated command tents managed to carve out a small territory from the vast, dark expanse.
Outside was pitch black; inside was blindingly bright. Under the flickering lamplight, men were keeping a grim vigil. Horses were tethered outside, their breath billowing in white clouds of frost. The scent of coffee brewed by the clerks wafted in and then vanished.
But the men who entered and exited the command tent did not drink the coffee. If their hands trembled, the cup would rattle. And if the cup rattled, everyone would see their hearts were shaking too.
Corsica I stood before a field desk at the back of the tent. He did not sit. Sitting only allowed his anger to rise. A man who sits begins to stockpile his rage before he can process it into thought, and eventually, that accumulated fury is vented on some innocent subordinate. He was not that kind of man.
Reports were scattered across the desk—mud-stained envelopes, crumpled telegram copies, and handwritten notes from the front lines. The penmanship varied wildly; some were written by trembling hands, others were frantic, hurried scrawls.
Corsica I flipped through the papers one by one. His fingertips were clean; his pace was measured. Usually, he was not a man to read every line, seeking only the essential, but today, as he sought those essentials, his brow reddened.
"Frontline status report. Rose Farm sector. Vanguard losses... assigned Originium artillery batteries neutralized... Caster losses... retreat."
He laid the paper down and placed his hand on the map. It was a crude depiction of the Union's eastern plains: low hills, sprawling farmland, shallow streams, and roads. Roads were the arteries of war, carrying the lifeblood of logistics.
"Your Majesty."
The Chief of Staff entered. He did not look Corsica I in the eye, keeping his head bowed as he presented another report.
"The vanguard of the Grande Armée has... crumbled more than anticipated."
Corsica I did not reach for the paper. Instead, he stared at the Chief of Staff's fingers. They were trembling, ever so slightly. If a report made a Chief of Staff tremble, the front line was likely in a state of absolute ruin.
"More than anticipated?" he asked.
His voice was not raised. It was low, and that low tone made the Chief of Staff's face turn even paler. The officer swallowed hard.
"The vanguard's ranks have effectively... disintegrated. The enemy's bombardment was far more accurate than projected. It cut through our marching columns like a blade."
Corsica I pressed a finger onto a single point on the map. Rose Farm. The name no longer felt like a place; it felt like a scar.
"And the columns, I assume, were marching in their usual fine, orderly ranks?"
The Chief of Staff nodded. "Yes. The vanguard seemed certain of victory. With the Casters and Originium artillery following close behind..."
Corsica I gave a short, mirthless laugh. It was a thin sound, barely a twitch of the lips before it vanished.
"Certainty."
The word seemed to pierce the air inside the tent. He took the paper this time. There was a black smudge on the edge—ink or blood, it was hard to tell. At the front, the distinction was often meaningless.
"And the Originium artillery?"
"Mostly lost," the Chief of Staff replied, his words quickening. To speak faster was to try and hide fear. "They were caught in the bombardment while clustered together. The interval-timed fire allowed the shocks to accumulate. The defensive Arts... failed to absorb the kinetic impact."
Corsica I did not nod. He traced a finger across the map. He was likely recalling where the artillery had been placed, why it was there, and whose suggestion it had been.
"Arts barriers are resilient against piercing strikes, but brittle against raw impact," he murmured, as if to himself.
The air in the tent grew colder still. The staff officers wondered if the biting night air outside might be preferable to the frost inside the tent. Corsica I turned to look at the entrance. The wind tugged at the canvas, making it flutter. To him, the swaying fabric looked like the shifting borders on a map. He despised that instability.
"Where is Pierre Augereau?"
The Chief of Staff hesitated, but only for a second. "He is waiting at the rear command post, awaiting Your Majesty's instructions."
Corsica I picked up a small telescope from the desk. He didn't use it to look at anything; it was a habit. He needed something in his hand to keep the rage from leaking out of his fingertips. He set the telescope down slowly.
"Pierre has erred."
The Chief of Staff held his breath.
"But he is no fool who is ignorant of war."
This was not a pardon. It was a cold assessment. Corsica I picked up the order of battle next to the map. The Old Guard. They were not a force meant to plug holes in a line; they were the blade meant to end the war.
Corsica I tapped the line twice with his fingertip. "The Old Guard stays put."
The Chief of Staff reflexively looked up, surprised by the deviation from expectation.
"Not yet," Corsica I added. "Look at what the Union has gained."
He pointed to the frontline of the Union on the map, decorated with numerous small red flags.
"They haven't just gained a victory," he said. "They've seized the initiative."
The staff officers' expressions hardened. He who holds the initiative moves the front line. He who moves the front line moves politics. When politics shift, the Empire's rear guard wavers. And if the rear wavers, the front line cannot hold, no matter how strong it is.
Corsica I placed his palm flat on the desk. He pressed down. The little red flags collapsed under his hand.
"The Union will be preparing their next move. Am I correct?"
One of the staff officers spoke up cautiously. "It is likely the South. Given how they held in the East, they will look to another front..."
Corsica I nodded—short, sharp, and certain. "Correct. Therefore, we shall make the choice first."
As he spoke, the energy in the tent shifted. Officers unfurled maps, placed fingers on tactical points, and exchanged glances, ready to record the Emperor's commands.
Corsica I began to dictate orders. The sentences were clipped and brief; he loathed long-windedness. He moved to another map hanging in the tent—the projected deployment of Union artillery. Observation lines, high ground, smoke screens, communication wires.
"Union artillery uses observation as its eyes," he said. "We shall pluck those eyes out."
"Shall we reinforce the reconnaissance units, Your Majesty?" an officer asked.
"Reconnaissance alone is insufficient," Corsica I snapped. "Bring the Casters. We will jam the enemy's vision."
He delivered his final decree. "Lastly, Pierre Augereau is stripped of his command effective immediately."
The staff officers' eyes widened. Corsica I added coldly, "Pierre will oversee reorganization in the rear. I shall assume direct command of the front."
At that moment, a horse whinnied outside. Someone galloped up and skidded to a halt at the entrance. It was a messenger. He saluted, gasping for air.
"Your Majesty! A report on Union movements!"
Corsica I gestured for him to speak.
"Offensive orders have been issued to their Southern Group of Forces. Their supply lines are shifting southward..."
Corsica I's lips thinned into a hard line. He neither laughed nor flared in anger.
"See," he said to his staff. "They are already moving."
He tapped the map. "So we move as well. Faster. More precisely."
The Chief of Staff asked tentatively, "Your Majesty, the Old Guard..."
Corsica I looked down, his gaze sharp enough to make the officer flinch. "The Old Guard is saved for the end."
"The 'end' arrives only when I am certain we have reclaimed the direction of this war."
He stared out into the darkness beyond the tent entrance. There was a void where nothing could be seen. In that darkness was the front line. In that darkness was the Empire. And in that darkness were variables.
One such variable crossed his mind.
Surely... that man won't move yet.
Corsica I swallowed the thought before it could reach his lips.
**
Silence reclaimed the plains where the battle had ended. The resonance of Arts that had roared only moments ago, the shouts of the dying—all had faded.
Marshal Emmanuel sat atop his horse, the reins held loosely in his hand. The beast lowered its head, huffing out white clouds of breath that carried the metallic tang of blood.
Bodies lay in heaps beneath them. The gray uniforms of the Leithanien Imperial Army were tangled with the blue of the Gallic Empire. Once-polished buttons had been torn away, cavalry cuirasses were dented and crumpled, and spears and crossbows lay abandoned in the mud. Weak heat still rose from the earth, scorched by the residual energy of Arts.
The victory was absolute.
The Leithanien Imperial Army had fled, their phalanxes shattered beyond regrouping. The levies sent by various Electors had failed to fight as a cohesive army, and their command structure had snapped. The Casters' Arts had failed to harmonize, scattering uselessly, and their cavalry had splintered without direction.
Emmanuel accepted the result with stoicism. He had fought many such battles. The slow, heavy Leithanien machines held firm in initial collisions, but once a crack formed, they were incapable of recovery. They were too rigid, bound by systems too ancient and complex to be flexible.
He nudged his horse's flanks and climbed a slight rise. As his vision cleared, he saw the city sprawling across the horizon.
The thousand-year capital, Bedunien.
Thick stone walls, layers of tiled roofs, and at its center, a single towering structure. The city remained silent, appearing almost oblivious to the slaughter that had just occurred at its gates.
Emmanuel raised his telescope. At first, he saw nothing unusual. It was the same city he had always seen. The same landscape. The angle of the walls, the placement of the towers, the silhouette of the central plaza—he knew it all. He had analyzed this city on maps dozens of times.
And yet, amidst the familiar, there was a profound sense of wrongness. It was the High Tower.
The High Tower of Bedunien had always stood there—an ancient stone monument. It was not a military fortification, nor was it truly a religious site; it sat somewhat apart from the political center. Many knew the Emperor of Leithanien had resided within it for decades, but few gave the significance of that fact much serious thought.
Emmanuel had been one of them. Until now.
Through the lens, the air around the upper reaches of the tower was shimmering. At first, he thought it was an illusion—fatigue following the battle. He lowered the telescope and raised it again. He adjusted the focus. He wiped the lens.
The shimmer did not vanish. The air was gathering.
It didn't spark like flame. it didn't howl like a storm. It was the opposite. It was too quiet. Too orderly. It was as if dozens of layers of spatial flow were being aligned in a single direction; an invisible force was being drawn into the tower.
Emmanuel's hand froze. He summoned a Caster. A Gallic officer nearby dismounted and approached. His face was already deathly pale. Even before being questioned, he looked like a man who knew the answer and wished he didn't.
"What do you make of that?"
The Caster struggled to find words. His lips were dry and wouldn't part. He didn't even look at the tower; he simply felt the atmosphere.
"...It cannot be measured."
Emmanuel narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"A mystery... something that cannot be calculated or known by the limits of human understanding."
Emmanuel raised the telescope again. Above the tower, Arts on a scale he had never witnessed on any battlefield were congregating. They were converging, inward, toward a central point.
It was as if the world itself were holding its breath, drawing it all in.
Emmanuel reflexively dismounted and took a step back. It was the involuntary reaction of a man facing the inexplicable.
"This... this is not war."
War exists within human calculation—manpower, logistics, morale, geography. No matter how much Arts intervened, war eventually resolved through human choices. But that... that looked less like a choice and more like a verdict.
Emmanuel tightened his jaw. He could not tear his gaze away from the tower. For the first time since claiming victory in the field, a chilling premonition of defeat crawled up the back of his neck.
"Until now," he whispered under his breath, "I thought we were winning..."
He could not bring himself to finish the sentence. But before his eyes, he saw it clearly.
The approaching finale.