The air outside the Capitol Gatesthick with anger. What had begun as a mourning vigil for Wyndmoor had swelled into something unstoppable.Millions of protesters, surging like a tidal wave, filled the grand avenues leading to the royal palace. Their voices rose as one, a cacophony of grief, fury, and desperation.
"JUSTICE FOR WYNDMOOR!"
"IVAN, SHOW YOUR FACE!"
"HOW MANY MORE WILL DIE?"
Handwritten signs rippled above the sea of people. Some bore the names of the lost. Others dripped with accusations—painted in red like blood.
And at the very front—The Capitol Patrol Guard (CPG) and the Royal Knights of Edenia stood in solid formation, blocking the gates with riot shields and steeled expressions. Their armor gleamed under the overcast sky, but behind their visors, they could hear it. The rage. The hopelessness. The demand for truth.
A commander stepped forward, his voice amplified by a speaker.
"DISPERSE IMMEDIATELY."
The words fell flat. Nobody moved. Instead, someone in the crowd—a woman clutching a photo of her sister—stepped forward, tears streaking her dirt-stained face.
"MY FAMILY WAS IN WYNDMOOR! WHERE WAS THE WARNING?!"
Another voice joined. Then another. Then—A bottle flew. Glass shattered against a riot shield, spraying shards at the frontline. A second bottle followed, then a brick, then a dozen more. The Capitol shook with chaos. The protesters surged forward. The Royal Knights drew their weapons.
"HOLD THE LINE!" the commander barked, his voice cracking under pressure.
The streets of Eldoria, Edenia's capital, had never seen a storm like this. From every district, every town, every shattered home, they came. Hundreds of thousands. Then millions.
"SHOW YOUR FACE, IVAN!"
"OUR FAMILIES DIED IN WYNDMOOR!"
"HOW MANY MORE WILL YOU SACRIFICE?"
Banners and signs—ripped bedsheets, cardboard scraps, wooden boards—rose above the crowd, scribbled in bold, furious strokes:
"THE KING HIDES WHILE EDENIA BURNS."
"NO MUTANT, NO HUMAN—ONLY GRAVES."
"THE CPG PROTECTS TYRANTS, NOT PEOPLE."
"WYNDMOOR DIDN'T VANISH—IT WAS MURDERED."
Mothers clutched framed photographs of lost children. Fathers held ashes in urns. Some carried pieces of rubble from Wyndmoor, dusted with the charred remnants of their homes. Others came with nothing at all—only rage.
The Capitol Patrol Guard (CPG) and Royal Knights stood in solid ranks, shoulder to shoulder, their gleaming armor forming a wall of steel and discipline.
At their center, General Calloway watched in silence, arms folded. His weathered face remained cold, unreadable.
Behind him, a line of snipers had already taken their positions along the high battlements, their scopes glinting in the sunlight.
A CPG officer raised a megaphone. "CITIZENS OF EDENIA, RETURN TO YOUR HOMES. HIS MAJESTY WILL ADDRESS THE NATION THIS AFTERNOON."
The roar that followed was deafening.
"HIS MAJESTY CAN'T HIDE BEHIND A FUCKING FORTRESS!"
"TELL THE KING TO SPEAK NOW, OR WE TEAR THESE GATES DOWN!"
A group of dockworkers from Brighthelm slammed their steel wrenches against the barricades in rhythm, a mocking drumbeat of defiance.
A group of students from Marrowind University, dressed in torn uniforms, chanted "NO THRONE ABOVE THE PEOPLE! NO THRONE ABOVE THE PEOPLE!"
"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, KNIGHTS?!" a woman shrieked. "YOUR KING'S ORDER TO KILL US?!"
From the frontlines, a man with bloodshot eyes spat at the nearest Royal Knight's boots. "How does it feel, huh? Standing there, guarding a man who won't even LOOK at us?"
The Knight—face hidden behind his visor—did not react. Then, the next bottle flew. It shattered against a riot shield, spilling ink-black paint over the armor. Another followed—this one full of oil.
Then—a torch. A fireball erupted, licking the barricades. The CPG surged forward, shields slamming into the crowd, trying to force them back. But the people pushed harder.
Inside the Grand War Room of the Edenian Capitol, the air was thick with tension. The room, carved from dark obsidian and silver-veined marble, was meant to withstand war, but at this moment, it barely contained the storm brewing inside.
At the head of the table sat King Ivan Dreymore III—his broad shoulders hunched, his hands clenched against the armrests of his high-backed throne. Deep shadows clung beneath his eyes. The weight of Wyndmoor—and the millions of enraged citizens outside—pressed down on him like an executioner's blade.
Across from him, the two Prime Ministers and the six members of the High Council—the most powerful figures in Edenia—argued like men standing at the edge of a cliff.
"We cannot stall any longer!" slammed Prime Minister Thaldrin, head of Security and Military Defense. His heavy fist struck the polished table. "The people demand answers. Give them something, or they'll tear the gates apart."
"And what exactly should we tell them?" sneered Lord Adrastos, Prime Minister of Economic and Development, adjusting his gold-rimmed monocle. "That Wyndmoor was a 'tragic accident'? That we had no control over what happened? Because we well know that's a lie."
"It wasn't an accident. It was a necessity." The room froze. The voice belonged to Chairman Stroud, the highest-ranking member of the Zero-Six Council, the shadowy elite who governed the Capitol Patrol Guard (CPG) and national security. A man of ice and steel, Stroud barely raised his voice, yet his words cut deep.
"Wyndmoor was beyond saving." He leaned forward, eyes like a scalpel. "We neutralized an existential threat before it spread to the rest of Edenia."
"Neutralized?" growled General Zhang, the CPG's war strategist. "We incinerated a town of seventy thousand people, Stroud. Call it what it is."
"We did what was necessary," Stroud repeated, unshaken. "Had we hesitated, the mutant outbreak would have engulfed multiple provinces by now. It was the correct decision."
Admiral Koenig, the CPG's naval commander, snorted. "The 'correct decision' doesn't seem so correct when you have a million people at your doorstep ready to crucify us."
A loud scoff came from Director Patel, the head of Intelligence. "The mob outside is irrelevant." He waved dismissively. "They are emotional, blind to the greater picture. Let them scream. We control the media."
Secretary Vance, the diplomatic strategist, shook his head. "You think they will be silenced by our usual political theater? No. They demand an explanation, and if we don't provide one, they will create their own."
King Ivan finally exhaled sharply. "Then tell me, what is the right explanation?"
Silence. A cold stalemate stretched between them, the weight of history itself balancing on their next words.
Dr. Luthra, the Council's chief scientific advisor, finally spoke. "The truth will never be acceptable to the people. But a lie—if crafted well enough—can become the truth they need."
All eyes turned to him. Luthra adjusted his thin spectacles, his voice clinical. "We declare Wyndmoor an unavoidable loss, a disaster caused by rogue mutant factions. We emphasize that the government took 'swift action' to contain it before the situation worsened."
"And how do we explain the Sentinels?" Thaldrin countered. "Their deployment was too sudden, too calculated. If we don't address it, people will assume we planned the destruction from the beginning."
Stroud smiled faintly."Then we let them assume."
"What?"
Stroud folded his hands together. "We let the fear fester. We let the people see what happens when mutants are left unchecked. Wyndmoor becomes the cautionary tale—the proof that without our control, the world falls to chaos."
Adrastos scoffed."You're suggesting we use a massacre as propaganda?"
"I am suggesting," Stroud said, eyes glinting, "that we turn this into our advantage."
General Zhang's jaw tightened. "And what about the protesters? The world is watching, Stroud. We use fear, and we risk rebellion."
King Ivan finally stood, his towering presence cutting through their arguments. "Then let us remind them why rebellion is impossible."
He turned to Secretary Vance. "Prepare my speech. I will address the nation at sundown." His voice hardened. "And if the protests do not disperse by then… We break them."
The protests outside the Capitol Gate had stretched for hours, voices hoarse from shouting, banners torn from scuffles with the Capitol Patrol Guard (CPG) and Royal Knights. The tension in Capitol was suffocating, a city on the brink of collapse. Then, finally, the world paused.
A low hum filled the skies as Skycaster Drones—the sleek, golden-winged holographic broadcasters of Edenia Prime News—rose over the streets, projecting a massive holographic screen above the protestors. Across the kingdom, in homes, bars, train stations, and public squares, the same broadcast flickered to life. King Ivan Dreymore III sat at his throne, staring into the nation's soul.
The camera framed him in front of the Golden Crest Banner, the emblem of Edenia—a sigil of a crowned Lion encircled by stars. His golden eyes, sharpened with resolve, scanned the millions watching. He was not just speaking to Capitol, but to every province, every village, every Edenian citizens.
Then, he spoke. "My people… Yesterday, Edenia has suffered a tragedy unlike any before."
The streets fell eerily silent. Even those who hated him, who blamed him, listened. "Wyndmoor was not destroyed by our hands. It was consumed by chaos, by forces that threatened to spread beyond control. We did what was necessary, but I will not call it a victory. There is no victory in loss. Only grief."
In the crowds, some wept. Some cursed. Some held onto the last embers of their fury. "I know many of you feel abandoned. I know many of you demand justice. But justice is not found in reckless vengeance or in tearing down what holds us together. Justice is found in unity, in moving forward, in ensuring this never happens again."
He leaned forward, voice lowering yet cutting through the silence. "Edenia is strong, but our strength is nothing without our people. That is why, starting today, all related families of Wyndmoor will receive direct compensation. We will rebuild what was lost. And we will never allow this tragedy to repeat itself."
The crowd shifted. Some still denied his words, calling them empty promises. Others demanded more, asking who was truly responsible. But there were those whose rage softened, whose clenched fists finally loosened.
King Ivan let the moment settle before delivering his final blow. "I promise you this: The full truth will be revealed. And those responsible for this atrocity—whether mutant, extremist, or traitor—will answer for their crimes."
The broadcast cut to black. For a moment, the kingdom held its breath. Then—chaos erupted once more. Amid the restless crowd, a new hologram blinked to life.
The familiar face of Vanessa Lorne, the most respected journalist in Edenia, filled the screen. Clad in a sleek navy-blue blazer, her auburn hair perfectly set despite the chaos behind her, she spoke into the floating Skycaster Drone with practiced precision.
"This is Vanessa Lorne, reporting live from the Capitol. King Ivan Dreymore III has just made his long-awaited address regarding the Wyndmoor Incident, offering both relief aid and the promise of justice. But the question remains—will it be enough?"
Behind her, the protestors continued to argue, chant, and demand more answers. CPG forces remained on guard, their presence still heavy, though less hostile than before.
Vanessa turned, her gaze sharp. "Reactions are divided. While some accept the King's words as a step forward, others believe this is merely damage control. Many here are calling for greater transparency—demanding to know who truly ordered Wyndmoor's cleansing."
The Skycaster Drone zoomed in on a group of grieving families, their eyes hollow, their expressions unforgiving. A woman clutched a burned Wyndmoor town flag, whispering her son's name. A man with bloodied knuckles raised a sign that read: "JUSTICE FOR WYNDMOOR. NO MORE LIES."
Vanessa turned back to the camera, her voice unwavering. "One thing is clear—Edenia is at a crossroads. The King has spoken, but the people have yet to decide whether to stand with him… or against him."