Your Excellence,

It has been a week since the start of the Draconist Onslaught. They’ve stormed all across the front in great numbers. Don’t misunderstand, we’ve had plenty of success holding the enemy back in places, but the forces there end up withdrawing as well due to pressure elsewhere. One point has been attacked so savagely that there’s barely anything left of the nearby village, let alone what happened to the tower. Or the men stationed there, for that matter. Just one lad managed to get out of there. Poor bastard had ran for a day straight in his muddy, sooty clothing.

But that’s beside the point. We’ve had to pull back across the entire front. The lads at the front are starting to grow weary. Our supply trains are being ambushed left and right. Even though we’ve got more men, they’re gaining ground on us… I estimate there’s roughly ten thousand more souls under their yolk, and there’s another twenty thousand on the verge. Do we have any plans to beat this mess back, your excellence? My town’s defenses can probably last a long while, but I’d rather not force myself to find that out.

Yours truly, Heidi Goosprings of Whitestream

Sanctullator tapped the tip of his quill onto the desk. Ever since returning to the Citadel, there had been a torrent of good news. His oldest had passed the entrance exam to one of the finest universities back homewards, the Bailiffs finally had a breakthrough with the Citadel’s population, and the Weapons Research Institute had given their word: The design of the musket had been finalized, and production could soon begin. Sanctullator shook his head in disbelief.

Can’t believe I’m saying this, we’re at the end of an era. Never thought myself worthy to see the future of warfare myself. Or nevermind, actually…

The general sighed. it wouldn’t be the first time the Institute had come up with something. They had a library’s worth of papers and prints to their name, cataloguing ideas for new ways of warfare. Most left a lot to be desired; others had been forgotten about entirely. The musket had yet to see any actual combat. Alas, the institute had chosen not to run trials of such a nature, for reasons known only to the abyss.

Leaning his head against his free hand, Sanctullator scribbled down a quick response promising more reinforcements. It was just about the emptiest promise he could make, throwing more men into the meat grinder. His hand jittered erratically as he wrote the word ‘reinforcements’, resulting in a mess he didn’t so much as attempt to correct. Afterwards, he groaned. More reinforcements… how much lower do I need to drop my standards? Why has no one in the Imperial Court bothered to send even a single regiment of Elites over here? What in the abyss is even…? Ugh. Not a chance in the abyss anyone'll defend any of those shitholes out west. Here's to hoping they can fall back alright.

Rain ticked on the window, as did the clock tick it’s way southward. Sanctullator, who by now had gotten a little peckish, stuffed the letter for Heidi into the first envelope his eyes fell upon. Then, just as he was about to call for an assistant to send the letter on it’s way, it slid out of his hand. The general groaned. He’d already put his standards into a geyser, and that had been a bridge too far already. Instead, he turned the envelope on its back, and took a step away from his desk, leaving it to catch dust.

He dragged himself to a bookshelf nearby. Most, if not all of the tomes occupying its shelves had grown a layer of residue of their own. Sanctullator pulled one out, and wiped the cover clean. “History of Lokahn”, the title read, the author’s name standing proud thereunder in golden lettering. Sanctullator flipped through the pages: He’d read this one through several times already, ever since the day he was appointed as Lokahn’s governor. Conquering was one thing, governing was another.

“Memories, memories… those were better times.”

Alas, there wasn’t much else to be learned from it now. Sanctullator slid the book back into its slot in the shelf, then walked away from the shelf entirely. Once again, he stood face to face with the envelope on the desk. On the one hand, Whitestream’s garrison asked for assistance. On the other, Sanctullator had a reputation to maintain. The general shook his head, kicking at the legs of the desk.

“Why in Justitia’s name are the Elites not here yet… idiot emperor, thinking I can pull miracles out of thin air...”

The door flew open. “Sir. Is time for evening meal.”

Sanctullator took on a statue-like pose. “Yes, let me prepare myself real quick, I’ll be coming in a short while.” Talk about the worst possible timing! Hopefully he didn’t hear any of that.

The guard shrugged, and shrank away from the study. Sanctullator sighed, and straightened out his uniform. He had little desire to drag himself down to the lavish dinner table which had been decked out, despite all the pressure from his stomach. As far as he was concerned, this day was better off dead and forgotten.

As he left the room, he glanced back at the paper lying on the desk. Spare a miracle, he’d have to send the thing eventually. How the mighty had fallen. The court wasn’t going to be too pleased, nor would the Justitian common folk be. Sanctullator shook his head. Only thing better than a hero is a fallen one… how in the abyss will you get yourself out of this one, Sanctullator… might’ve had some luck in the past, but that’s dried up… Disgraced general Sanctullator dismissed…

A frown on his face, Sanctullator dragged himself out of the study. The guard at the door didn’t respond. Sadly for him, it was business as usual. Nothing but the same old rations for him.The guard remained passively at the door, even as Sanctullator dragged his feet over the carpet all the way to the stairs.

No one else on the way to the dinner hall questioned Sanctullator’s newfound way of walking either. Perhaps everyone was as tired today. Even the palace appeared somewhat somber; the carpet was full of crinkles, the windows were in dire need of a wash, and the chandeliers flickered. Sanctullator grumbled under his breath. It hadn’t been like this in the morning, nor in the afternoon for that matter. In the span of an eyeblink, everything had gotten noticeably slower. As if the palace’s foundations had revealed their true nature, and all its residents had been living a lie.

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Once at the dinner hall, Sanctullator didn’t say anything, instead preferring to sink down into a chair at the far end. The forks and plates were cast in an illustrious silver; little dents and imperfections in the material revealed its age, however.

Over the course of half an hour, the chairs were filled by the other bureaucrats assigned to Lokahn. Among the attendees were the local Baron, as was General Gallie. Even the head of the Inquisition was here, wearing his ornate robes as per usual. There was no more work cut out for them, apparently. Sanctullator covered his mouth with a cup of tea. Swear to Justitia, they spend more time eating than working…

The dinner hall stirred to life. It was the preferred way of catching up with one another for the bureaucracy; over good food prepared by the locals, paid for with the Lokahnian budget. Anything lesser didn’t meet their par. Sanctullator wasn’t one to voluntarily tip his toe into it. Bureaucrats were some of the least interesting people in the world. Every day, nay, every week was the same. Same dull duties, same dull activities, same dull people. Most spoke with such an arrogant tone, it was difficult to not remind them their blood was all that separated them from those upholding their lavish way of life.

Several waiters entered the hall, each carrying a tray topped with plates. From the smell and the looks of it, tonight’s meal would be beef garnished with baby carrots and beets. “Enjoy your meal, General,” one said as he delivered Sanctullator’s plate, a small wave being his lone thanks of the night.

Too tired to do more. What a shame, I’m sure the poor bastard could use a little more than that. Alternatively, all these lazy arses can give their kudos. But no. Too high class for that. Ugh, they all can get kicked in the balls for all I care.

Last in line was a waiter carrying a tray of long-necked bottles. Today he was the unfortunate one with the duty to fill all the wine glasses. The most thankless task of them all; the lone man who’d thank hadn’t got a taste for wines.

“Not like that, you simpleton! You’ll spill it on my hand!”

“Sorry sir...”

After enduring a few more minutes of insults over the most insignificant of mistakes, the waiter hurried his way out of the dining hall, covering his brow with a forearm. Sanctullator breathed out in an exasperated manner. What a wonderful band we’ve got going here.

“Gentlemen, I bid thee a wonderful evening meal.” Gallie raised his wine glass.

“Aye, a joyous evening to you as well,” a faceless bureaucrat replied.

The entire table toasted one another. Sanctullator’s input amounted to him raising his little tea cup a couple of centimeters off the ground, before placing it back down on the dish with a thud. Toasting was difficult enough on a good day, let alone one such as this. It was to the soul akin to dragging yourself over a bed of broken glass. Hoping to forget the matter, Sanctullator cut off a piece of the beef. Eating was always a solid distraction. Alas, the plan drifted off of the road just a single bite in.

“So then, General Sanctullator, have you been keeping an eye on the front?” Gallie asked. In response, Sanctullator frowned as if he was staring at one of his children after a day spent playing in the mud.

“...That is my duty, is it not? What makes you think I would lose track of the situation?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. You know how it is, keeping track of the situation and all.” Gallie said, before turning back to his food for a moment. Why you utter scumball, you. Clearly thinks I’m not up to the task anymore, the voice tells it all! Does he take me for a fool?

The baron of the Citadel then spoke up. “Actually, gentlemen, I wished to inquire with the two of you on this matter. You see, my aides and my people have been getting quite nervous about the situation unfolding on the front. They’ve heard of a… rout, so to speak?” he said, tapping on his chin by the end. Sanctullator grumbled in response.

“Hmm, nonsense. If there was a rout, I would be the first to hear of it. There is no rout. Our forces are merely falling back to more defensible positions. The enemy doesn’t have infinite men to throw at us. And ever since we’ve brought the cloudbursters over, there’s no flyaway monsters to worry about, either.” Little bastard...

The baron shrugged. “Alright, then. But we will have to turn the tide at some point, do we not?”

Sanctullator rolled his eyes, while pressing his fork into a carrot. “I said, we’re letting these bastards bleed themselves out. Once their little foray into our territory loses its luster, that’s when we’re striking. They have two small cities, we have all the important bits, not to mention the rest of the empire. We’ll last, don’t you worry.” He placed the fork in his mouth, and pulled the carrot off.

Gallie shook his head. “No no no, Sanctullator. We ought to drive the beasts back now. Let ‘em starve in their mountains, I say!”

Sanctullator rested his head against a free hand, as he swallowed the carrot. “As if that even matters. The emperor’s authority on military matters is long diminished. The rest of the court has to agree with him now as well. And no, I’m not going to ask for reinforcements or anything of the sort. You know of what I’ve accomplished for Justitia. Had plenty of doubters in my career, and I’ve proved them wrong time and again.” And am I looking forward to the day I get to add his name to the list.

“Well, I hope your luck won’t be failing us all of a sudden. The country expects nothing less than the best.”

At long last, the two men decided to bother others. Sanctullator pretended that the hall wasn’t a mess of posh fools, and resumed stuffing himself. He kept his pace slow, eyeing the clock every so often until his plate would be empty.

Of course, once he was done, it was back to work. His mind dawdled back to the envelope on his desk. The dirge to his own standards. Sanctullator eyed his plate, and wiped at his brow. Every bite was a step closer to having that envelope sent out. The spectre of it hung over him, as if folded paper had the ability to kill a man. Which it did. Battle reports. A rebuke for cowardice or sheer incompetence. A Dismissal. A written charge… a capital sentence. A spider from the north crept up Sanctullator’s back.

“Are you alright over there, Stefan?” Gallie asked.

Sanctullator laid a hand on the back of his neck. “I’m fine. And don’t call me Stefan, Philip.”

Gallie wiped his hands on his mustache. “A simple ‘I’m fine’, would have been enough, you know.”

Sanctullator clicked his tongue. “Yes, yes...”

“Oh yes, that reminds me, actually.” Gallie propped himself up in his chair. “I have some important news to deliver.”

“Yes?” Sanctullator rolled his eyes, as he lifted his teacup to his mouth. Let me guess, latest marriage?

“The Weapons Research Institute has finally found a suitable way to test the muskets in battle, they say. As unbelievable as it may seem, they believe this conflict suits their tests the best.”

The bearded general let his teacup fall from his hand, back onto it’s little plate. “Say that again?”

“Certainly. The east is a far different type of conflict. It is far more of a so-called storm war. And this is the environment the Institute wants to test the weapon in. What are your thoughts on the matter, I wonder?”

Sanctullator folded his hands on top of one another before his mouth. “Let’s just say that I’ve got some ideas now. Ideas which will take care of our little dragon problem.”