Across the United Kingdoms, the headlines were triumphant.
Across the Empire, the headlines were fatal.
And both sides believed they were reading the truth.
In the United Kingdoms, the latest editions of the United Kingdoms Chronicle sold out almost as fast as they could be printed.
Children ran through the streets shouting the headlines.
Merchants read articles aloud to gathered crowds.
Innkeepers nailed copies to their walls.
For the first time since the Empire announced its massive invasion, hope had returned.
The front pages were filled with stories from all three battlefields.
Twenty Thousand Defend the Realm.
Three Armies of the Empire Driven Back.
The Vixens Lead Historic Victory.
Allied Kingdoms Fight as One.
The details varied depending on which article one read.
Some focused on the brilliant battlefield traps.
Others described the heroics of soldiers who gave their lives to protect their comrades.
Some highlighted the power of the Vixens.
Princess Llandra, raining death from the skies.
Nyxian, the Succubus Witch, wielding living shadow and dragon-scaled whips.
Bunny, the Hammer of Solmere, smashing through the front lines like a force of nature.
Zephrial, the Saint of Sanctaris, healing the wounded and hurling invisible barriers that flattened armored soldiers.
There were stories of Fairy mages turning forests into living weapons.
Stories of Minotaurs defenders holding the line.
Stories of Wolfkin scouts striking like shadows.
Every kingdom saw its own people represented.
And every kingdom saw itself as part of something larger.
A united front.
A united dream.
A United Kingdom.
Yet every article ended with the same sobering truth.
The Empire was still coming.
The three victories had bought time.
Nothing more.
The main army—now consolidated—was estimated at nearly two hundred and fifty thousand soldiers.
An army unlike anything the continent had seen in generations.
And according to the latest intelligence, the King and Queen themselves intended to attend the Battle of Solmere.
The implication was obvious.
The Empire believed the war was about to end.
Jax Darquebane had made one unusual request of the press.
For one week, his name was to disappear.
No articles about his recent weddings.
No stories about his role in planning the defenses.
No interviews.
No speculation.
Nothing.
Officially, the Chronicle editors assumed he wanted to avoid becoming the center of attention.
Unofficially, only a few knew the truth.
The Empire believed he was dead.
Jax intended to keep it that way.
And if they were going to believe a lie…
He intended to make it convincing.
Several editions of the Chronicle included a special insert.
A black-bordered obituary.
It described how Jax Darquebane had fallen suddenly ill.
How his condition deteriorated over several days.
How a private funeral had been held in Solmere.
How only close family and friends were permitted to attend.
The article included testimonials from those whose lives he had changed.
Merchants.
Farmers.
Refugees.
Workers.
The piece was emotional.
Heartfelt.
And entirely fabricated.
The editors had gone so far as to include smaller articles and advertisements from the same week, all to make the paper appear completely authentic.
The finished copies looked indistinguishable from any legitimate issue.
And that was exactly the point.
Once printed, the false editions were quietly distributed through the United Kingdoms' intelligence network.
Their destination:
Alexandria.
The heart of the Empire.
The United Kingdoms had become surprisingly effective at information warfare.
The Empire's distrust of beastkin severely limited their ability to infiltrate allied territories.
The United Kingdoms, by contrast, found no shortage of sympathetic humans within the Empire.
Many had friends, spouses, or business partners who were demi-human.
Others simply hated the war.
A few were paid very well.
However they came to the cause, they proved invaluable.
And now, they carried a lie directly into the hands of the Empire's leadership.
Several days later, the royal convoy was making its way toward Solmere.
The King traveled in extraordinary luxury.
The centerpiece of the procession was a dimensional carriage crafted by Barb.
From the outside, it appeared to be a large but otherwise ordinary caravan.
Inside, it was a mobile palace.
A spacious living chamber.
Four private bedrooms.
A formal dining area.
Enchanted lighting.
Climate control.
Even a magically chilled wine cabinet.
The King had accepted it as a diplomatic gift from a neighboring lord, never realizing that Jax Darquebane held a quiet stake in the enterprise that had built it.
Had he known, he would have burned the carriage on principle.
Instead, he praised it as evidence of his kingdom's sophistication.
Inside the luxurious cabin, the King, Queen, and senior generals gathered around a polished table.
One of the officers entered holding a newspaper.
"My lord," he said. "You will want to see this."
The paper was passed around the table.
The headline was simple.
Jax Darquebane Confirmed Dead.
The King nearly snatched it from the general's hands.
He read the obituary once.
Then again.
A wide grin spread across his face.
"At last."
The article described a secret funeral.
It listed dates that aligned perfectly with the curse ritual.
It referenced events that were verifiably accurate.
The paper stock, ink, and formatting all matched genuine United Kingdom publications.
Even the Empire's spymaster inspected it personally.
He turned the pages slowly.
Studied the print.
Compared the layout to previous issues.
At length, he exhaled.
"It appears authentic."
That was all the confirmation the others needed.
The mood inside the carriage transformed instantly.
Wine was poured.
Toasts were made.
The mage who had overseen the curse ceremony looked positively radiant.
"I told you," she said. "No man can withstand that level of magic."
The King laughed.
"So the mighty Jax Darquebane dies in bed, while we march to erase everything he built."
The Queen smiled behind her crystal goblet.
To her, this was not merely victory.
It was validation.
Another obstacle removed.
Another champion consumed by the will of Chaos.
She had manipulated kings, nations, and wars for over a century.
And now the greatest threat to her ambitions was, supposedly, gone.
Even the spymaster, though not fully convinced, found his doubts fading.
If Jax were alive, why remain hidden through three critical battles?
Why permit his own obituary to circulate?
For the first time, he allowed himself to consider that perhaps the impossible had happened.
Perhaps Jax Darquebane truly was dead.
Outside, two thousand elite soldiers escorted the royal convoy toward Solmere.
Inside, confidence had become certainty.
The King leaned back in his chair, smiling like a man who already saw his statues being erected.
"Once Solmere falls," he said, "the rest of the continent will kneel."
The Queen raised her glass.
"To the future."
The generals echoed the toast.
Crystal clinked.
Laughter filled the carriage.
And as the royal entourage rolled toward the greatest battlefield in modern history, they shared one unshakable belief.
Jax Darquebane was dead.
And with him gone, nothing stood between them and total domination of the continent.