Author's Note (Story and Patreon Updates):

 

Please support Manifest Fantasy on Reddit (r/HFY) by upvoting and commenting! I'm lowering the milestone so I'll upload one extra chapter on Manifest Fantasy and Summoning America if I get 400 (previously 600) average likes on my Manifest Fantasy Reddit chapters.

 

Note 2:

 

Read one week ahead: Chapter 180 is now out for all Tier 2 Patrons and higher! Tier 2 Patrons and higher will be able to read one chapter ahead!

 

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/drdoritosmd

– –

January 22, 1641

Ragna, Gra Valkas Empire

Marcellon Skaldottir sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on the flickering television before him. The daily broadcast schedule glowed in the dim light of his office, showing questionable news about the Fourth Conquest Fleet’s ‘success’ near the Mirishial capital. The broadcasts once filled him with a sense of purpose, especially as they rallied against the Divine Kingdom of Kain, but now, it seemed that they were filled with lies that contradicted the battlefield rumors streaming in from the front lines. 

 

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath, and rubbed his temples. The Imperial Broadcast Corporation, his domain for the past two decades, had been a powerful tool for rallying the citizens. They used to stream nationalistic messaging and military triumphs to fuel the people’s pride in their empire – and technically, they still do. But now, with Chancellor Marix at the helm, something felt different.

 

The broadcasts continued to trumpet the Empire’s strength and righteousness, yes, but there was a new edge to the rhetoric, a fervor that bordered on fanaticism. Marix, once a figure he had admired for his unwavering devotion to Gra Valkan supremacy, now seemed to embody an extremism that seemed counterproductive to the Empire. 

 

As he scanned the lineup of carefully crafted news segments and patriotic programming, a heaviness settled in his chest. The truth was being stretched thinner than before – he couldn’t explain how, but he could feel it, sense it. Reports of glorious victories and enemy surrenders felt hollow, lacking the concrete details and footage that had once lent them credibility. It was like the new narrative was being spun from wishful thinking rather than facts on the ground.

 

Of course, it all started with Marix’s mysterious rise to power. The public story, a thinly veiled tale of the Emperor’s sudden illness and subsequent withdrawal for the sake of the Empire’s stability, felt like a bitter jest. Marcellon knew Emperor Gra Lux – his vigor, his unyielding vision for their nation. The idea that such a man could succumb so abruptly, immediately after an attack, leaving his Empire in the hands of Marix, struck him as a blatant lie. 

 

Where was the Crown Prince, Gra Cabal, whose face used to be plastered all over the newspapers and television screens? Where was Secretary Varden Kurtz, from the Office of the Sovereign? Or Xand Pastall, Chief of the Military? Senator Marix was far down the chain of succession; there was simply no way several of the empire’s most important people simply disappeared, conveniently allowing him to take the reins of the Empire.

 

Each day, Marcell-on disseminated Marix’s narratives, mind and body moving automatically while his heart rebelled. With every announcement of the Chancellor’s ‘decisive actions’ and ‘imperial directives’, a part of him recoiled. It was as if he were betraying the Emperor with every word he allowed to pass into the imperial waves.

 

His eyes drifted to the framed photograph on his desk, a picture of his wife and two children smiling at the camera. They believed in him, in the work he did. One of them – his eldest son – was even about to finish high school. What would they think if they knew the truth behind the facade he helped maintain? How would he feel if he knowingly sent his son to die in an unwinnable war?

 

He reached for his cup of coffee, now cold and bitter, and took a sip. The taste matched his mood. He set the cup down and straightened his tie, a reflexive gesture that did little to ease his inner turmoil. 

 

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He glanced at the clock, realizing that the morning meeting with his technical team was about to begin. With a sigh, he stood up and made his way to the conference room. 

 

He was greeted by the familiar faces of his colleagues, each of them bearing the same expression of tired determination. The meeting began and progressed as it always had: a rundown of the day’s broadcast schedule, a discussion of any issues or enhancements, and a review of audience engagement metrics. He found himself going through the motions, discussing technical specifications and production schedules with a detachment that surprised even himself. Who was he? He felt like a spectator watching someone else, a man who had once been so passionate about his work, now reduced to a hollow shell.

 

A gentle tap on his shoulder jolted him back to reality. He turned to see Eirik, a long-time colleague and friend, standing beside him. Eirik had always been a quiet presence in the office, but there was a depth to his loyalty that Marcellon had come to respect over the years.

 

“Can I have a word with you after the meeting?” he asked softly, his voice barely audible above the ongoing discussions. “There’s something I need to discuss with you, in private.”

 

Marcellon raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued by the unusual request. Eirik had never been one for secrecy, and the urgency in his tone was impossible to ignore. Just what did he want to talk about? He nodded, agreeing to the private discussion.

 

As the meeting drew to a close, Marcellon lingered in the conference room, watching as his colleagues filed out one by one. As the last of them left, Eirik approached him. He seemed nervous – hesitant, almost.

 

Eirik glanced around the empty room, ensuring they were truly alone. He leaned in close and whispered, “I have a message from His Excellency. He wants to know Raldur Tharnvik’s stats from the Ragna Raptor’s championship game.”

 

Marcellon’s eyes widened. Raldur Tharnvik, the legendary forward his eldest son idolized. This was a detail he had shared with Emperor Gra Lux in a private conversation less than a year ago. “What’s this about, Eirik?” he asked.

 

Eirik’s expression grew serious. “The person who contacted me… they claim that His Excellency is in need of our aid. The official story about his health, his stepping down… it’s all a lie.”

 

Marcellon felt a chill run down his spine. If this was true, if the Emperor was reaching out for help, then everything he had been told, everything he had been broadcasting, was nothing more than a facade. “And Chancellor Marix?” he asked, almost dreading the answer.

 

“They didn’t say it outright, but the implication was clear,” Eirik replied. His rise to power, the changes in the Empire… there’s something sinister going on.”

 

Marcellon’s mind raced. “Why come to me?” he asked, though a part of him already knew the answer.

 

“Your position, your skills… they think you’re the key to unraveling this,” Eirik replied. “They believe you can find a way to get the truth out – the real truth; and counter whatever narrative Marix is spinning.”

 

What Eirik just proposed was… daunting, with incalculable risks. If he was found out, there was no telling what would happen. Yet, his conscience couldn’t overlook such a prospect. He almost felt compelled to follow through, as if it were the right thing to do.

 

“I – I need some time to think this through,” Marcellon said. “I can’t make a decision like this lightly.”

 

Eirik nodded. “Of course. But don’t take too long. Every day that passes, Marix’s grip on the Empire grows stronger.” He glanced around again. “If you decide to move forward, go to Gellick’s Steakhouse tomorrow evening at 7 o’clock. Ask for a table under ‘Tharnvik’. The contact will be there.”

 

Marcellon’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of the restaurant. Gellick’s was a well-known establishment, frequented by the city’s elite. It was the last place he would’ve expected for a clandestine meeting, but then again, he supposed, hiding in plain sight was often the best strategy.

 

Eirik took his leave, shutting the door behind him as he melted back into his daily routine in the broadcast center. Marcellon sat and stared at the ceiling for a few short moments, mind whirling. He returned to his office, retreating to his chair. The familiar space, once a sanctuary of productivity and pride, now felt like a cage, a gilded prison of lies and deceit.

 

To act, to risk everything in the name of truth and loyalty… or to remain silent, to continue his role in the grand deception that had ensnared the nation. It was a decision that could define not only his own fate but the fate of the Empire itself. Oh, how he regretted even being the IBC’s Chief Technical Officer. Yet as much as he wished for blissful ignorance, he knew it would never happen; this was his reality now, and he needed to make a choice.

 

Hours passed as he grappled with the dilemma, the shadows lengthening across the floor of his office. He thought of his wife and children, unaware of the dangerous game he’d been drawn into. He thought of his colleagues, the men and women who worked tirelessly to bring the news to the people, never suspecting the lies they were peddling.

 

Then, he thought of Emperor Gra Lux, the man he’d sworn to serve, the leader who had earned his respect and admiration. If there was even a chance that His Excellency was in danger, that he needed help… how could Marcellon turn his back on that?

 

As night fell, Marcellon came to a decision. He would go to Gellick’s, would hear out this mysterious contact, and assess the situation for himself. It was the least he could do. He owed it to the Emperor, to the Empire, to unravel this conspiracy, no matter the cost.

 

– –

January 23, 1641

Marcellon glanced at the clock on his office wall, the hands inching towards the end of another long day at the Imperial Broadcast Corporation. They were scheduled to air victory footage from Junnaral that never came; instead, they aired reruns of the supposedly successful Battle of Otaheit and various ongoing ground campaigns. He shuffled the papers on his desk, his mind only half-focused on the day’s tasks. The other half was preoccupied with the impending meeting at Gellick’s, a rendezvous that held the potential to change everything.

 

He rose from his chair and reached for his coat. As he shrugged it on, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had been his constant companion since Eirik’s revelation. The weight of the secret he carried tore at him, growing heavier with each passing hour. 

 

Marcellon made his way out of the building, nodding to colleagues as he passed. He was glad he had a fairly convincing poker face; otherwise, he didn’t think he’d be able to mask the stormy thoughts in his mind. What would this meeting bring? What truths would be uncovered? And what price would he have to pay for his involvement?

 

The streets of Ragna bustled with the early evening crowd as Marcellon walked the familiar route to Gellick’s. The restaurant was a popular haunt for the city’s elite, a place where deals were made and secrets traded over prime cuts of steak and expensive wines. He calmed himself – what he was doing today wouldn’t be that much different from the meetings he’d had in the past.

 

He arrived at the restaurant a few minutes before the appointed time. He gave his name to the maitre d’, his voice steady despite the subtle hammering of his heart. “I have a reservation. Tharnvik.”

 

The maitre d’ nodded, recognizing Marcellon as a regular customer. “Of course, sir. Your table is ready. Please follow me.”

 

As Marcellon wound his way through the tables, he scanned the faces of the other diners, wondering which one was his mysterious contact. He was led to a booth in a quiet corner, away from the main bustle of the restaurant. He slid into the seat, his nerves thrumming like live wires.

 

A waiter approached. “Good evening, sir. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

 

Marcellon glanced up, momentarily caught off guard. “Ah, yes. A glass of your house red, please.”

 

The waiter nodded. “Of course. And would you like to hear about our specials today? We’ve new items made from Elysian livestock and seafood.”

 

Marcellon shook his head. “Not just yet. I’m waiting for someone.”

 

As the waiter departed, Marcellon returned to his anxious scanning of the restaurant. He didn’t have to wait long. A man in a nondescript suit approached the table, his face unfamiliar but his bearing unmistakable. This must be the contact.

 

The man slid into the booth opposite Marcellon just as the waiter returned with the glass of wine. He smiled politely at the waiter. “I’ll have the same please.”

 

The waiter nodded, placing the wine in front of Marcellon. “Very good, sir. I’ll be right back to take your orders.”

 

As the waiter departed once more, the contact turned to Marcellon, his expression now serious. “Mr. Skaldottir, thank you for meeting with me. I understand the potential risks involved in a conversation like this.”

 

Marcellon took a sip of his wine, hoping it would calm his nerves. “Your message through Eirik was quite cryptic. What exactly is this about?”

 

The man answered plainly, “We’ve been monitoring the situation in the Empire closely, and certain developments have raised concerns at the highest levels. Your name has come up as someone who might be able to provide valuable insights.”

 

The waiter returned, pad in hand. “Are you gentlemen ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”

 

The contact glanced at the menu, then looked up at the waiter with a smile. “What would you recommend from your specials tonight?”

 

“We’ve recently added a new dish – grilled basilisk steak, served with a side of mashed cardon and our house sauce.”

 

The contact nodded. “That does sound tempting. Anything else that stands out?”

 

“If you’re in the mood for seafood, we have a delightful kraken calamari appetizer. The kraken is caught fresh daily, and we prepare it with a light, crispy batter. It’s served with a zesty lemon-herb dipping sauce.”

 

“Kraken calamari, huh? Yeah, why not,” the man said. “I think we’ll start with that.”

 

The waiter jotted down the order. “Excellent choice, sir. And for your main course?”

 

The contact glanced at Marcellon. His words seemed too confident, like this wasn’t a clandestine meeting but simply an outing between friends or colleagues. He talked like he owned the place, or at the very least, like he wasn’t afraid of being caught in the slightest. “What do you think, Mr. Skaldottir? The basilisk steak, or are you leaning towards something else?”

 

Marcellon scanned the menu quickly. He couldn’t decide, so he simply went along. “The steak sounds perfect. Medium, please.”

 

The operative nodded. “Make that two.”

 

As the waiter left to place their order, Marcellon returned to their conversation. “Insights… insights into what, exactly?

 

The man’s demeanor shifted. “The official narratives surrounding recent events, particularly those related to the leadership of the Empire. The public story is an affront to His Excellency, as you may have already realized.”

 

Marcellon sighed. It was as he expected. He took a sip of his wine, gathering his thoughts. “You mean the Emperor’s supposed stepping down and Chancellor Marix’s ascension?”

 

The contact nodded gravely. “Among other things. Your position within the IBC gives you a unique vantage point. I’m curious about your perspective on these matters.”

 

Marcellon hesitated – this was it. “I’ve had my own doubts about the official story. Things don’t add up. But to say more… I need to know that I can trust you.”

 

“I understand your hesitation. In my line of work, trust is a rare and precious commodity. What I can tell you is that my interests align with those of His Excellency’s. There is a reason that your recent broadcasts have aired more reruns and commentary than actual combat footage – especially naval footage. His Excellency, of course, does not approve of the way Marix is currently handling the war – and neither should the public.”

 

Confirming his suspicions did little to ease his uncertainty. Marcellon considered his next words carefully. “And if I were to help you… what would that entail?”

 

The waiter returned with the food, which the mysterious man across from him seemed to rather enjoy. “For now, we’re simply looking for information. Your insights into the workings of the IBC, the mood within the corporation, any inconsistencies you’ve noticed… the works. Of course,  the first priority is to ensure your safety and security – and that of your family’s.”

 

Marcellon downed several pieces of calamari as he listened to the man’s explanation. It seemed he had access to extensive resources. Was he perhaps an operative working with Sicarius? The elites within the Empire’s main clandestine arm were known for their devout loyalty to the Emperor, so this would make sense.

While his proposed measures for safeguarding his family were convincing, this was still a decision he couldn’t close so soon. He took a deep breath. “I’ll need some time to think, to see what I can find out without raising suspicions.”

 

The operative agreed. Of course. Proceed with caution and maintain your normal routines. We’ll establish a secure method for you to share any findings.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Marcellon said.

 

The operative finished his meal quickly. “Your courage and commitment are admirable, Mr. Skaldottir. Remember, discretion is paramount. We’ll be in touch, but for now this conversation never happened.”

 

As the man stood to leave, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a wad of cash. He placed it on the table, a casual gesture that caught Marcellon’s eye. 

 

For a moment, his heart raced. Was this a bribe? An attempt to buy his loyalty? But as he looked closer, he realized the amount was too small for that. It was, he suddenly understood, a tip. For the waiter.

 

It was a peculiar action, one that Marcellon wasn’t used to seeing. In the Empire, tipping wasn’t a common practice. But the operative, it seemed, played by different rules. Whether it was a habit picked up from his travels or a quirk of his own, Marcellon couldn’t say. And in the grand scheme of things, it hardly mattered.

 

What mattered was the truth, and what it would take to unveil it. He knew he didn’t have a choice, but he preferred to convince himself that the truth was calling, and he had to answer.