The drums of victory still thundered through the capital. Streets overflowed with cheering citizens, children tossing petals, nobles bowing as if the war was already a song to be sung. Everywhere, banners of the Vale family swayed proudly, their colors untarnished by time or defeat.
Warchief Darian rode at the front, face grim behind the ceremonial mask of triumph. He could feel the eyes of thousands on him, burning with worship. To them, he was the man who had done what every Vale before him had done: conquer. Unbroken. Eternal.
He dismounted at the great hall, silence falling as he raised his hand. The Emperor himself leaned forward, waiting for the ritual proclamation of victory.
Darian's voice cut like steel through the hush.
> "There is no victory."
The words struck harder than any blade. A ripple of confusion spread, then nervous laughter. Surely he misspoke. Surely the Warchief only meant to delay the boast, to heighten suspense.
But Darian removed his helm, letting the crowd see his unflinching eyes.
> "The Scythelanders still stand. Their banners fly over the corpses of our men. For the first time in centuries, the Vale has failed."
Gasps tore through the hall. A noble fainted. A general dropped his goblet. The Emperor's face froze, caught between disbelief and fury. The crowd outside, hearing the words carried by echo and rumor, broke into chaos—shouts of denial clashing with cries of despair.
Darian stood unmoving amid the storm. He felt the weight of a thousand ancestors pressing down on his shoulders, their victories mocking him. Yet his voice did not tremble.
> "I will not cloak defeat in lies. The Vale name is stained. And I alone bear the shame."
The silence that followed was heavier than any battlefield.
Everyone stood still, the unbelievable tale of defeat shocking them to the marrow. The grand hall, moments ago a furnace of celebration, now felt colder than a grave.
A noble's jeweled goblet slipped from trembling fingers, wine spreading like blood across the marble floor. Another lord whispered, voice breaking, "Impossible… the Vale has never fallen."
The Emperor's hand tightened on his throne, knuckles white, while his courtiers dared not breathe. Outside, the cheering crowd faltered as rumors rippled outward. The roar of triumph curdled into scattered cries of confusion.
Darian did not bow his head. His gaze swept the hall, steady as iron, and his words rang again:
> "I speak no lie. The Scythelanders stand undefeated. My failure is the empire's burden to bear."
And in that stillness, the weight of centuries shattered like glass.