Chapter 1 -- The Ashes of Victory
The rain would not leave. It settled into the soil like grief, slicked across the tin roofs of the compound, and pooled in the potholes where children once played. Soldiers walked through it in silence, their boots carrying mud into every corner of the base. Rifles rested on their shoulders, heavy with both duty and fatigue. Engines throbbed in the distance, and generators hummed with the fragile rhythm of a place caught between war and whatever came after.
This was Southeast Asia at the turn of the millennium: a nation broken open by its own cruelty, and a world standing in judgement.
At the outer gate, an old Federation saloon pulled into view, its frame heavy, its lines unchanged since the last war in this region a generation ago. The car looked like a relic, but its presence announced authority, and the soldiers at the checkpoint straightened as it rolled to a stop.
From the back seat stepped the Federation's senior general, a man in his late forties with a face that had forgotten how to smile. He returned their salute with clipped precision. His eyes were carved by campaigns past, carrying both vigilance and the dull weight of too many burials. His aide followed, younger, sharper, holding a clipboard tight against the damp air.
"Are the others here?" the general asked.
"Yes, sir. At the central building." The gatekeeper gestured toward the parliament house that loomed over the compound, its colonial pillars streaked by decades of rain. Once it had been the symbol of sovereignty. Now it was command's borrowed throne.
The general turned to go, then paused. His voice dropped to something more human, though no less stern. "And the dead? They are not to be dumped into pits."
The soldier stiffened. "Each body is separated, sir. Photographed, documented, recorded. The world will see the evidence. Their names will not be erased."
For a moment, the general's eyes softened. Then the mask returned. He nodded once, slid back into the car, and motioned for the driver to move.
The vehicle rumbled across wet stone and stopped at the parliament steps. Soldiers lined the entrance, saluting in perfect rhythm, their eyes never lifting from their duty. The general climbed the stairs with the posture of a man who had learnt to bury rage beneath ceremony. The rain clung to his coat, but he did not shake it off. He carried it inside.
At the doors, a guard gave his report. "No changes, sir. No disruptions. All remains in order."
The general started forward. "Good."
"Wait, sir," the guard called after him, breath catching. "The Central Union and the Slavia Imperium... they are inside. They insist on presence."
The general's jaw clenched. For an instant, disgust broke through his discipline. "Imperial fanatics. Union liars." The words were almost whispered. His aide glanced at him but said nothing. With a long breath, the general crushed the anger down and stepped into the hall.
Inside, the chamber carried the solemn weight of theatre. Rows of World Council clerks sat along the walls, typewriters perched before them, their fingers moving in steady rhythm. They did not look up, did not flinch at the barbs or insults thrown across the floor. Each keystroke was as cold and mechanical as the rain outside.
At the central table sat the Gaule Republic, polished and efficient, their coats still heavy with the morning rain, the faint smell of mud and smoke clinging to their uniforms. They had marched with the columns, fought through the villages, endured the shellfire.
Beside them, the Southern Commonwealth's delegates carried the same weight. Their faces were drawn, their jackets creased with travel, boots still marked with red earth. They had not come from boardrooms or capitals, but straight from the field.
The Federation's officers were already in place, posture rigid, eyes fixed on the entrance. Their silence carried the same exhaustion, the same discipline of men who had buried too many but refused to falter.
Further down sat those who had not fought—the Crown Commonwealth, regal and cautious, their silence a mask. The Central Union, lounging with practised ease, daggers hidden behind smiles. The Slavia Imperium, stiff-backed and hungry-eyed, dreaming of empire restored. They had shed no blood here, yet demanded their place in judgement.
Amongst the minority representatives—men and women who had crawled out of the ashes of genocide—sat an old comrade. A veteran of another war, another time, once trained under the Federation's banner. Older now, scarred and worn, yet still carrying the discipline of their shared past. He sat not as a soldier of empire but as a guardian of his people. The general's throat tightened. He gave a single nod across the room, the acknowledgement of two men who had lived long enough to see loyalty torn between flag and kin.
One of the Union envoys rose, with a grin that could curdle wine. He crossed the room toward the Federation general, voice dripping with mock courtesy. "At last. I began to wonder if our great general had fallen to malaria in this jungle." He bowed with false grace. "The world sings of your courage."
The general's face hardened. "At least I fought, and did not hide behind excuses."
The envoy's smile widened. "Hide? No, no. I held the northern borders. I kept the criminals penned in, so that you could butcher them at will. Was that not mercy? Judge, jury, and executioner, all in one. A man to envy." He leant closer, voice dropping. "Tell me, will you share your recipe for Willie Pete, so that we too may burn our enemies so cleanly?"
The general's body went rigid. His aide saw the storm rising, but before it broke, the Gaule Republic's envoy cut the air with his voice. "Enough. We are not here to settle old insults. We are here to decide the future of a failed state. Control yourselves."
For a heartbeat, no one breathed. Then the general turned away, forcing his rage back behind iron posture. The Union envoy smirked and retreated, satisfied with the wound left behind.
From the shadows, a World Council representative finally stepped into the light. He moved to the podium, adjusted his notes with slow precision, and cleared his throat. His expression never shifted; his eyes gave nothing.
When he spoke, his voice carried no grief, no outrage. It was flat, practised, the cadence of a man doing his duty and nothing more.
"This meeting will now begin. The nation once sovereign in this land is gone, branded traitor, condemned by its own crimes. Today, we decide its successor."
The rain drummed faintly on the windows, relentless as memory. Outside, the earth held the bones of the slaughtered. Inside, the victors sharpened their tongues.
For the clerks, it was only another page in the record. The war was over, but the reckoning had only begun.