In the early dawn, as the sky over Navaleon painted itself in shades of rust and rose, a sound echoed through the streets—not of drums or swords, but of machines.
The rhythmic clack-clack of printing presses beat like war drums, resonating across rooftops and alleyways. From village schoolyards to merchant docks, citizens read SK News aloud beneath lamp posts. In taverns, old men debated its essays. In classrooms, children recited its headlines as if scripture.
But in the marble halls of the Royal Palace, that same sound was heard as a death knell.
Behind gilded curtains, nobles shifted uncomfortably. The commoners were talking too much. Debating taxes. Questioning decrees. Demanding clarification.
"Your Majesty," one advisor whispered to Queen Alira, "we are no longer shaping the narrative."
To the monarchs, every printed page from SK News was a sharpened dagger of dissent, slipped under the ribs of tradition.
And yet, the presses didn't stop.
They roared louder.