Haufgard, Gra Valkas Empire

"...and in a stunning victory, our brave Third Conquest Fleet has successfully repelled the American aggressors near the strategic port of Mykal. Fleet Admiral Vustok’s brilliant tactics..."

Korbel Zyraxes glared at the flickering viewscreen, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. The newscaster's voice grated on his nerves like a dull file on rusted metal.

"Brilliant tactics, my arse," Korbel growled, letting his spoon clatter back into the bowl. Watery gruel splashed onto the table, joining the constellation of stains on the once-white cloth. "Bet that poncey admiral couldn't find his own backside with both hands and a map."

His wife, Nissa, shot him a look that could've curdled milk. "Korbel! Keep your voice down, for the love of Valhalla. You want the whole street knowing you've gone soft on the war?"

He snorted, a sound somewhere between amusement and derision. "Soft? Nissa, love, I'm about as soft on this war as a steel-capped boot to the stones. But I've got eyes, haven't I? And a brain between me ears, no matter what the bosses at the factory might think."

Nissa's face softened, worry lines etching deeper around her eyes. She reached across the table, her work-roughened hand covering his. "I know you're worried about Jorkell. Flames, I am too. But we can't... we can't let doubt take root. You know what happened to the Larsens down the street."

Korbel felt the fight drain out of him like air from a punctured tire. "Aye, I remember." The Larsens had been there one day, gone the next. Officially, they'd moved to be closer to family in the countryside. Unofficially... well, folks learned not to ask questions.

He turned back to the viewscreen, where footage of cheering crowds waving Gra Valkan flags played on loop. Something about it seemed… wrong, like the off-kilter whine of a misaligned machine. "Don't it look a bit... familiar to you?"

Nissa frowned, peering at the screen. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Korbel said, leaning in and lowering his voice, "I could swear on me mum's grave that's the same crowd from last month's 'victory' broadcast. See that fella with the crooked nose? And the lass with the green banner?"

Nissa's eyes widened. "Surely not. They wouldn't... I mean, the government wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't lie?" Korbel finished. "Like they're not lying about having heard from our boy? It's been weeks, Nissa. Weeks of nothing but static."

"In other news," the anchor continued, her smile as plastic as the fake flowers adorning their mantelpiece, "Chancellor Marix has announced new measures to support our war effort. Starting next week, fuel rations will be—"

Korbel jabbed the power button with more force than necessary. The viewscreen died with a pitiful whine. "New measures," he spat. "That's fancy talk for 'bend over and take it,' mark my words."

"Korbel!" Nissa hissed, real fear flashing in her eyes now. "You can't... what if someone hears? What if they report you?"

He deflated, suddenly feeling every one of his forty-five years and then some. The constant fear, the gnawing worry, the endless grind of factory work – it all pressed down on him like a physical weight. "I'm sorry, love. I'm just... I'm scared for Jorkell. And I'm tired. Tired of the lies, tired of pretending everything's fine when it's all going to the hells in a handbasket."

Nissa stood, circling the table to wrap her arms around him. She smelled of cheap soap and machine oil, the scents of home. "I know. I am too. But we must be careful. For Jorkell's sake, if nothing else. He needs a home to come back to."

Korbel nodded, lifting a calloused hand to cover hers. His eyes drifted to the faded photograph on the mantelpiece. Jorkell grinned back at him, resplendent in his new naval uniform, eyes bright with the promise of adventure and glory. War, Korbel knew, was anything but.

"Be safe, son," Korbel whispered. "And come home soon. Before your old man lands himself in hot water with his big mouth."

The factory whistle blew in the distance, its shrill cry slicing through the morning air like a knife. Korbel sighed, pushing back from the table. Another day in the munitions factory awaited, another day of churning out the weapons that might be aimed at his own boy for all he knew.

He looked at his coat, the patches at the elbows more thread than fabric now. He couldn’t even buy a new one with how strained his wallet had been lately. Something fundamental had shifted, that much was certain. The grand and glorious Gra Valkas Empire he'd grown up believing in, the one he'd so proudly sent his son to fight for, was starting to look about as solid as a sandcastle at high tide.

"Right then," he forced cheer into his voice. "I'm off to do my bit for the war effort. Try not to overthrow the government while I'm gone, eh?"

Nissa managed a wan smile. "I'll do my best. Just... be careful, love. Keep your head down and your mouth shut."

Korbel planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "Always do, don't I?" The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed it down like the daily gruel. One more thing to stomach in service of survival.

The walk to the factory was a gauntlet of reminders. Propaganda posters plastered every available surface, their bold colors faded by sun and rain but their messages still glaring. "VICTORY THROUGH SACRIFICE!" one screamed. "CRUSH THE AMERICAN MENACE!" bellowed another. Korbel kept his eyes fixed on the cracked pavement, counting cracks to keep his mind off the hollow promises.

The munitions factory loomed ahead, a hulking beast of steel and smoke. As he approached the gates, Korbel noticed the line of workers was thinner than usual. He fell in behind Gruner, a bear of a man with hands like steam shovels.

"Mornin', Gruner," Korbel muttered. "Bit quiet today, isn’t it?"

Gruner grunted. His eyes darted around, as if ensuring the coast was clear. "Heard Foreman Drax talking. Another dozen didn't show up yesterday. Just... vanished."

A chill ran down Korbel's spine that had nothing to do with the morning air. "Vanished? Like the Larsens?"

"Keep your voice down," Gruner hissed. "But yeah, like that. Word is, they were asking too many questions about the supply shortages."

Korbel swallowed hard, his earlier bravado evaporating like morning dew. The threat of ‘disappearance’ couldn’t have felt more real. They shuffled through the gates in silence, the guards eyeing them.

Korbel took his place at the assembly line, hands moving automatically to piece together the innards of a bomb. The irony wasn't lost on him – here he was, building weapons that might be used against the sons of others. What else could he do, though?

As the morning wore on, the heat became oppressive. Sweat trickled down Korbel's back, and his stomach growled in protest of the meager breakfast. He glanced at the big clock on the wall, willing it to move faster.

Finally, the lunch whistle blew. Korbel's shoulders sagged in relief as he made his way to the cafeteria, joining the throng of tired, grimy workers.

The smell hit him first – a sour, unappetizing odor that bore little resemblance to food. He grabbed a tray and shuffled along the line, watching with dismay as a surly server plopped a grey, unidentifiable mush onto his plate.

"What's this supposed to be?" he couldn't help asking.

The server glared at him. "It's lunch. You want it or not?"

Korbel bit back a retort and moved on. He found a seat next to Gruner and another worker,

Lisbeth, who eyed her plate with the same trepidation.

"Remember when we used to get actual meat?" Lisbeth sighed, poking at the grey mass with her fork.

Gruner snorted. “Remember when we used to get actual food?”

They ate in grim silence for a while, the cafeteria filled with the scrape of utensils and muted conversations. Korbel couldn't help but notice how many tables sat empty.

"Heard anything from your boy?" Lisbeth asked suddenly, her voice low.

Korbel stiffened. "Not for weeks," he admitted. "You?"

Lisbeth shook her head, her eyes glistening. "My Viktor... he was with the Third Fleet. They say it was a great victory, but..." She trailed off, stabbing at her so-called food.

Korbel stifled a grimace. He had heard rumors about the brashness of Admiral Vustok – the opposite of Venstrom’s cautiousness and reservation.

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"They say a lot of things," Gruner rumbled. "Doesn't make 'em true."

A heavy silence fell over the table. Korbel pushed his half-eaten lunch away, his appetite gone. The doubts that had been gnawing at him all morning grew stronger. If the government was lying about the food, about the missing workers, what else were they lying about? It must’ve been no coincidence that this all started as soon as the Emperor ‘fell ill’, as soon as the Americans joined the war.

As if reading his thoughts, Gruner leaned in close. "You hear about the protests? People demanding news about their families in the fleet."

Korbel's heart raced. "Protests? But that's—"

"Dangerous," Lisbeth finished, her voice barely above a whisper. "But so is not knowing."

The lunch whistle blew again, cutting off any further conversation.

The whistle shrieked, signaling the end of the shift. Korbel's muscles ached as he clocked out, his hands raw from hours of repetitive work. The smell of hot metal and grease clung to him like a stubborn stain.

"Oi, Zyraxes," Gruner called as they filed out. "You heading to the market?"

Korbel nodded, wincing. "Aye, if there's anything left to buy. Nissa needs a few things."

"Watch yourself," Gruner muttered, leaning in close. "Word is, folks ain't too happy in town."

With a grim nod, Korbel set off towards Valk’s, one of Haufgard’s largest supermarkets. In better times, it had been a symbol of Gra Valkan prosperity, its aisles overflowing with goods from across the empire. Now, it was a sorry sight – a shell of its former glory and a reminder of how far they’d fallen.

As Korbel pushed through the doors, the usual blast of cool air was noticeably absent. "Another power saving measure," he muttered to himself, joining the sparse crowd of shoppers.

Inside, the scene was depressing. Entire aisles stood empty, their shelves collecting dust. Where products remained, they were often single rows, spread thin to hide the lack of stock. Signs everywhere announced purchase limits: "MAX 2 PER CUSTOMER" in bold, angry letters.

Korbel grabbed a basket and made his way down the aisles, his footsteps echoing in the unnaturally quiet store. He passed the produce section, wincing at the sight of wilted vegetables and bruised fruit with exorbitant price tags.

"Fifteen marks for those sad excuses for apples?" he muttered, shaking his head. He moved on, opting instead for the canned goods aisle.

Here, at least, there was some variety, though the prices still made his eyes water. He picked up a dented can of beans, turning it over in his hands.

"Ten marks," he grumbled, dropping it into his basket. "Nissa won't be happy, but at least it'll keep."

As he made his way to the bread aisle, Korbel overheard snatches of conversation from other shoppers.

"...third time this week they've been out of milk."

"Did you see the meat counter? Sold out again."

"My Greta cried for an hour yesterday. Can't find her favorite sweets anywhere..."

The bread aisle was another disappointment. Where once stood a variety of fresh-baked loaves, now only a few sad, pre-packaged options remained. Korbel grabbed the least stale-looking one, adding it to his meager haul.

At the checkout, the cashier - a tired-looking woman who couldn't have been more than twenty - rang up his items with mechanical efficiency.

"That'll be thirty-two marks," she droned.

Korbel bit back a curse as he handed over the money. It was nearly half a day's wages for a can of beans, a loaf of bread, and a few other essentials. As he pocketed his change, he couldn't help but remember when that same amount would have filled two carts – and that was no more than a couple months ago.

"Papers say we're winning the war," he remarked casually to the cashier. "Don't much feel like it in here."

The young woman glanced nervously at the officers by the entrance before she replied in a whisper, "Best not to talk about such things, sir. Have a good day."

Korbel nodded grimly, gathering his paltry groceries. As he stepped back out onto the street, the weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders. If this was ‘victory’, he dreaded to think what defeat would look like.

As he pocketed the receipt, shouting from outside caught his attention. A crowd was forming, voices rising in anger.

Against his better judgment, Korbel found himself moving closer. More snippets.

"...nothing but lies!"

"Where's my husband? They promised..."

"The Americans are coming! We're done for!"

In the center of the square, a group had gathered – mostly women and older men. They held up signs scrawled on bits of cardboard: "WHERE ARE OUR SOLDIERS?", "TELL US THE TRUTH!", "END THE WAR!", “WHERE IS THE EMPEROR?”

Korbel's gut clenched. This was the trouble Gruner had mentioned. He should turn back, head home to Nissa, keep his nose clean. But something kept him rooted to the spot.

A woman's voice cut through the noise, sharp with pain. "My Klaus left with the Fourth Fleet three months back. Not a word since! And they want us swallowing this victory rubbish? How have the Americans made it to Mykal if we’ve supposedly secured Cartalpas?!"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Korbel found himself nodding, thinking of the logic of the woman’s question and of Jorkell.

Then a new voice boomed out. "BREAK IT UP! This meeting's against the law!"

Military police had arrived, their clean uniforms a mockery of the crowd's worn clothes. People started pushing, voices rising.

"We've got rights!" someone shouted.

"Traitors!" The shout came from the edge of the square, where a group waving huge Gra Valkan flags had appeared. "You're helping the Americans!"

The air felt thick, like before a storm. Korbel's instincts screamed at him to run, but the press of bodies held him in place.

It happened in a blink. Someone shoved a policeman and it turned to shit from there. Batons flashed. Screams filled the air. Korbel found himself knocked about, struggling to stay on his feet. A baton whistled past his ear.

"MARIX OUT!" The cry spread like wildfire.

The flag-wavers charged in, fists swinging. Korbel ducked a wild punch, his heart hammering.

This was madness. He had to get out.

Fighting against the surge, he pushed towards the edge of the square. A woman fell nearby, blood on her face. Korbel hauled her up, dragging her along as he finally broke free.

They stumbled down a side street, the riot fading behind them. The woman mumbled thanks before limping off, leaving Korbel alone with the rush of blood in his ears.

He slumped against a wall, gasping. The can of beans dug into his hip, a small reminder of normalcy in this nightmare. As his breathing slowed, a cold feeling settled in his gut. Things were bad – worse than he'd thought. The Gra Valkas he knew was falling apart.

Korbel pushed off the wall. He had to get to the military office. Had to find out the truth, whatever it cost.

The streets emptied fast as word spread. Korbel moved quick, sticking to shadows, his mind racing. What would he say when he got there? What if they locked him up just for asking?

The military office loomed ahead, its stern facade a far cry from the welcoming recruitment center it had been when Jorkell signed up. Korbel's steps slowed as he approached, doubt gnawing at his resolve. But the memory of his son's face steeled him. He pushed through the doors.

Inside, the air was stuffy and still. A tired-looking clerk sat behind a scratched desk, barely glancing up as Korbel approached.

"Yes?" the clerk asked, his voice flat.

Korbel cleared his throat. "I'm here about my son. Jorkell Zyraxes. Second Conquest Fleet. Haven't heard from him in weeks."

The clerk's eyes narrowed slightly. "Name?"

"Korbel Zyraxes."

The clerk made a show of rifling through a stack of papers on his desk, then pulled out a thick ledger. He flipped it open to a random page, running his finger down the entries with exaggerated care.

Korbel leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the ledger. His eyes widened as he realized the page was filled with what looked like equipment inventories, not personnel records.

The clerk, oblivious to Korbel's discovery, furrowed his brow in mock concentration. "Hmm, let's see here..."

Korbel's jaw clenched. This man wasn't even trying to hide his indifference. "That's the wrong book," he said flatly.

The clerk's head snapped up, surprise flickering across his face before he schooled his features. "I beg your pardon?"

"That ledger. It's got nothing to do with troop deployments, does it?"

For a moment, the clerk looked like he might argue. Then his shoulders sagged. "Look, friend," he said, keeping his voice down, "I don't have access to that kind of information. None of us do anymore. They took all those records weeks ago."

"Who's 'they'?" Korbel pressed.

The clerk's eyes darted. Again with the eyes, like with Gruner and the cashier. "I've said too much already. Official response is: No updates available at this time. Next of kin will be notified of any changes. That's all I can tell you."

Korbel's fists clenched. "That's it? That's all you can tell me?"

The clerk's gaze flickered to something behind Korbel. "Sir, if you have no further business—"

A heavy hand landed on Korbel’s shoulder. "Is there a problem here?" a gruff voice asked.

Korbel turned to find a stern-faced MP eyeing him suspiciously. He deflated, the fight draining out of him. "No. No problem. Just leaving."

As he turned to go, a soft voice caught his ear. "Psst. Mister."

It was another clerk, younger, with kind eyes. She glanced around before whispering, "I shouldn't say this, but... the Second Fleet is okay. Admiral Venstrom surrendered early. Your son might be fine."

Korbel's heart leapt. "Really? But why haven't we heard anything?"

The clerk shook her head. "Communications are restricted. But keep writing. The letters might get through eventually."

Korbel nodded, not daring to speak further. He shuffled out, feeling the MP's eyes boring into his back.

Outside, the evening air had cooled. He couldn’t forget the clerk’s words – Jorkell might be alive. The thought buoyed him as he made his way home.

Nissa was waiting up, her face etched with worry. "Korbel? What happened? I heard about the riot and—"

He cut her off with a hug. "It's okay, dear. There's hope. The Second Fleet... they say it's okay."

Nissa’s eyes widened. "Really? But how do you know?"

Korbel hesitated, then decided to trust her with the truth. "A clerk at the office. She shouldn't have told me, but... she did."

They sat at the kitchen table, basking in the hope that clerk had provided. After a while, Nissa spoke up. "Should we write another letter?"

Korbel nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, we should. It might get through this time."