In the heartlands of the Beastman Confederation, Skarn of the wolfkin had not slept a full hour since the four columns came home.
The camps told the story to anyone with eyes. The tribes had returned from the war to their own ground, and they still pitched apart: wolfkin ridges, tigerkin river-lands, the bearkin deep woods, the dogkin vales.
A confederation that won a battle in utter glory, its enemies decimated, had come home carrying itself like it lost.
Their four lords met at the war-lodge fire, as they now did whenever the continent coughed, and the continent had been coughing without pause.
A scout crossed the lodge and bowed low to the four lords together, and her report broke apart in her mouth.
"Word from the human kingdom, great lords. The king has... forgive me. It reads wrong, but it reads the same from three runners."
