Chapter 8 - The Ultimate Price and the Casual Words

  It was on the third day of the conflict that the news arrived at the Fortress of Golden Ambition—news that would test the republic's understanding of sacrifice, leadership, and the proper weight of words spoken in times of war.

  Rubius the Brownie sat in his customary corner of the great hall, his Glimmering Slate glowing in his furry hands, his tea growing cold beside him as it always did when the headlines demanded his full attention. The numbers on the slate were stark and terrible: four service members of the republic, now confirmed dead. Five more wounded, some gravely. The first American casualties of Lord Donaldo's second reign.

  Their names, the slate reported, were being withheld until families could be notified. But their branch was known—the Army Sustainment Command, stationed in the ally nation of Kuwait, far from the front lines of what the Dragon-King had called "Operation Epic Fury." They had been in a tactical operations center when Iran's retaliation struck. They had been doing their jobs, supporting the mission, keeping the machinery of war running.

  And now they were gone.

  Rubius scrolled through the responses, his heart growing heavier with each passing headline. The Loyal Opposition thundered. The Storm-Hawks screeched. The ordinary citizens of the republic, those who had supported the war and those who had opposed it, now found themselves united in grief—and in growing unease at their Dragon-King's response.

  For Lord Donaldo had spoken, and his words were already echoing through every Glimmering Slate in the land.

  ---

  On the Dragon-King's Address

  The address had come not from the grand hall of the Fortress, not from the podium of the Swampy City, but from a hastily produced video circulated through the Network of Shimmering Mirrors late on a Sunday afternoon. Lord Donaldo stood before a presidential seal, his brassy orange scales catching the light, smoke curling gently from his nostrils as he addressed the republic.

  "As one nation," he began, his voice solemn but steady, "we grieve for the true American patriots who have made the ultimate sacrifice for our nation, even as we continue the righteous mission for which they gave their lives. We pray for the full recovery of the wounded and send our immense love and eternal gratitude to the families of the fallen."

  He paused, and for a moment, Rubius thought he saw something approaching genuine emotion cross the Dragon-King's features. Then he spoke again:

  "And sadly, there will likely be more before it ends. That's the way it is. Likely be more. But we'll do everything possible where that won't be the case."

  That's the way it is.

  Rubius read the phrase again, and again, and again. Four words that had landed like stones in the still waters of the republic's grief. Four words that, in the mouths of his master's critics, had already become a rallying cry against the war itself.

  ---

  On the Response of the Loyal Opposition

  The backlash was swift and merciless.

  Senator Tamika of the Prairie Expanse, an Army veteran who had lost both legs in service to the republic, was among the first to speak. "That's the way it is,' says the five-time draft dodger to our military families who fear their loved one in uniform could be next. What a disgrace."

  Her words cut deep, for they touched on a truth that Rubius knew well but rarely discussed: Lord Donaldo had avoided service in the Great Dragon Wars of his youth—the conflict the ancients called Vietnam—through a series of deferments, four for education and one for a diagnosis of bone spurs in his heels. He had never worn the uniform. He had never faced the dangers he now asked others to face.

  Representative Joaquin of the Southern Borders called the comments "an incredibly callous way for an American President to talk about the sacrifices that our servicemembers make."

  Representative Seth of the Eastern Shores, a Marine combat veteran, was blunter still: "A draft dodger who's never fought for this country talks callously about sending our troops to die in a war of his own choice."

  Representative Patrick of the Northern River City's state, also a veteran, posted words that burned across the Glimmering Slates: "This is how our draft-dodging President talks about American heroes dying for our country. In an illegal war. With no defined goals. From his mansion. Disgraceful and pathetic."

  Even former allies joined the chorus. Sarah of the Western Counsel, who had once served the Dragon-King in the Swampy City, wrote that Trump "should carry the weight of that loss" when service members are killed—and that he had failed to do so. "Trump's response? 'That's just the way it is.' A draft dodger showing once again he lacks the character the office demands."

  ---

  On the Defense from the Faithful

  But the Dragon-King's defenders were not silent.

  Across the Glimmering Slates, supporters of the war pointed to the solemnity of the address, the expressions of gratitude, the promise of vengeance against those who had killed American patriots. They noted that Lord Donaldo had called the fallen "heroes" and "true American patriots." They argued that his acknowledgment of further casualties was merely honesty—a recognition of the realities of war that previous leaders had been too cowardly to state.

  "Sadly, there will likely be more before it ends," one supporter wrote, echoing the Dragon-King's words. "That's not callous. That's truth. War is hell, and pretending otherwise doesn't honor the dead."

  Others pointed to the Dragon-King's promise of retribution. "America will avenge their deaths," Lord Donaldo had said, "and deliver the most punishing blow to the terrorists who have waged war against, basically, civilization."

  The phrase "basically, civilization" became its own minor controversy—a note of informality in an otherwise formal address that some found endearing and others found emblematic of the Dragon-King's casual approach to matters of life and death.

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  ---

  On the Rising Toll

  As the days wore on, the numbers climbed.

  A fourth service member succumbed to injuries sustained in the same attack that had killed the first three. The Army Sustainment Command now had four names to add to its rolls of honor, four families to notify, four funerals to arrange.

  The circumstances of their deaths remained shrouded in operational security—out of respect for the families, the Central Command of the Republic's Forces explained, and to protect the integrity of ongoing missions. But the lack of detail fed speculation. Were they in a forward position? Were they caught off guard? Had the intelligence failed?

  The questions multiplied faster than answers could keep pace, as questions do in the Age of Confusion.

  ---

  On the Satirists and Their Barbs

  It was perhaps inevitable that the conflict would produce its own grotesque shadow in the realm of humor.

  A comedian named Toby of the Western Hills, who had once written for a popular animated entertainment about four boys in a mountain town, launched a website that spread like wildfire through the Glimmering Slates. Its premise was simple: if the Dragon-King was so eager to send young Americans to die in his war of choice, why not start with his own?

  DraftBarronTrump.com appeared overnight, its header proclaiming: "America is strong because its leaders are strong. President Trump proves that every day. Naturally, his son Barron is more than ready to defend the country his father so boldly commands."

  The site featured spoof quotes attributed to the Dragon-King and his older sons. "People come up to me, with tears in their eyes, and they say, 'Sir, you're the strongest. Send Barron off to war,'" read one faux quote attributed to Lord Donaldo himself.

  Donald the Younger was quoted as saying his college student brother "represents strength, courage, and service. I'll be honoring that sacrifice in my own way, mainly by talking about it from a safe distance."

  Eric of the Golden Coins, in the spoof, discussed not war but pancakes, which "are complex" to make.

  The satire spread, as satire does, because it contained a grain of truth. The Dragon-King's children—Barron, Donald Jr., Eric, Ivanka, Tiffany—none of them served. None of them faced the dangers that the Dragon-King asked of others. They lived in luxury, protected by the very forces whose sacrifices their father directed from afar.

  The hashtag SendBarron began trending across the Glimmering Slates. Some users noted, with dark humor, that the young man might be too tall for military service—six feet nine inches, exceeding the height limits of all branches. Others simply repeated the question that had begun to echo across the republic: why should the children of the working class die in a war whose architects' children would never see a battlefield?

  Senator Christopher of the Coastal State of Golden Vistas gave voice to this sentiment on one of the morning discussion programs:

  "It won't be the billionaire kids of Donald Trump and his buddies that die. It's going to be the children of middle class and poor families all across this country who are going to die for a war of choice, a war of vanity, an illegal war."

  ---

  On the Reaction of the Dragon-King

  Rubius, having absorbed all of this through his ever-present Glimmering Slate, eventually made his way to his master's chambers. He found Lord Donaldo in a state of unusual agitation, pacing before the tall windows that overlooked the Churning Sea.

  "Rubius! Have you seen what they are saying? These ungrateful—these so-called patriots—they twist my words. They call me a draft dodger. They attack my family. My son! Barron! He is a wonderful young man, a great young man, and they want to send him to war!"

  "Your magnificence," Rubius said carefully, "the satirical site is intended as commentary on the broader question of who serves and who does not."

  "Commentary! It is an attack. A personal attack. The Deep Realm is behind it, mark my words. They will stop at nothing to destroy me."

  "Your magnificence, the four service members who died—their families are grieving. The comments about further casualties being 'the way it is' have caused concern."

  Lord Donaldo stopped pacing and fixed Rubius with his golden gaze. "I honored them. I called them patriots. I said we would avenge their deaths. What more do they want?"

  "Your magnificence, some feel that the acknowledgment of future casualties lacked... solemnity. That it sounded almost casual."

  "Casual! It is reality! War has casualties. Everyone knows this. I did not start this war—the warlocks started it with their attacks on our allies, their nuclear ambitions, their terrorism. I am finishing it. And yes, more of our brave warriors may fall before it is done. That is not callousness. That is honesty."

  He resumed his pacing, smoke curling from his nostrils.

  "The previous administrations, they lied. They pretended war was clean, that no one would die. I tell the truth. The people appreciate the truth. They will see that I am right."

  "Your magnificence, the scrying pools show that fifty-three percent of voters view the war as a mistake. The number is growing."

  Lord Donaldo waved a clawed hand dismissively. "Scrying pools! Conducted by the Deep Realm, as always. I trust my instincts. My instincts say the people are with me."

  He paused, a thought occurring to him.

  "Rubius, add something to the next proclamation. Say that the camels have formed a memorial committee for the fallen warriors. The people will love it. Camels are very respectful."

  ---

  On the Vigils and the Silence That Follows

  That evening, as the sun set over the Churning Sea and stained the waters the color of blood, Rubius sat alone in his corner with his Glimmering Slate.

  The images from across the republic told a story the proclamations could not reach. In the Northern River City, mourners gathered with candles, their faces illuminated by flickering light as they remembered the fallen. In the Motor Metropolis, flags flew at half-staff outside the homes of Gold Star families. In the Swampy City on the Potomac, the Grand Council fell silent for a moment of remembrance—a silence broken only by the sobs of those who had lost loved ones.

  Four names would eventually be released. Four families would receive folded flags and presidential letters. Four stories would be told and retold until they became legend, or were forgotten in the next crisis.

  Rubius scrolled through the comments, reading the words of ordinary citizens grappling with extraordinary loss.

  "My nephew was over there," one woman wrote. "He came home in a box. And the president says 'that's the way it is.' What way? Whose way? Not my way."

  "My son signed up because he believed in this country," another wrote. "He believed in his president. Now I have to believe that his death meant something. Tell me it meant something."

  Rubius set down his slate and rubbed his eyes with his furry paws.

  He thought about the four who had died—their names unknown, their faces unseen, their sacrifices reduced to numbers in a statement and a phrase in a proclamation. He thought about their families, who would receive visits from uniformed officers in the coming days, who would hear words of gratitude from officials who had never known their loved ones, who would spend the rest of their lives wondering if it had been worth it.

  He thought about the Dragon-King's words, spoken from the safety of the Fortress, from the comfort of a life that had never known the terror of combat or the grief of loss.

  That's the way it is.

  Perhaps, Rubius reflected, that was the most honest thing his master had ever said. For the powerful, for those who gave orders from beachfront estates and gold-plated towers, that was indeed the way it was. Others died. Others grieved. Others paid the price for wars of choice, wars of vanity, wars that the children of the powerful would never fight.

  He tucked his slate away and made his way to the kitchens, where the sprites were preparing the evening meal in somber silence. They had seen the images. They had heard the words. They knew that something had shifted in the republic.

  One of them had set aside a small plate of food, wrapped carefully, with a note: "For the families." It was a gesture, small and inadequate, but genuine.

  Rubius looked at the plate and felt something catch in his throat.

  He climbed into his small, comfortable bed and stared at the ceiling.

  "More arrows on Tuesday," he murmured. "Always more arrows on Tuesday."

  But the arrows, he knew, were no longer just flying toward distant sands. They were landing in homes across the republic, in the hearts of mothers and fathers, in the memories of children who would grow up without parents.

  And from the Fortress of Golden Ambition, there was only silence.