By Aldus Penwright, Senior Writer, The Times-Observer
The Realm stands at a peculiar crossroad: neither war nor peace, but something quieter and more difficult — the long labor of moral recovery. It has been scarcely a month since the rope snapped taut around Rodger Bianchovi’s neck, ending the life of a man whose lies nearly unmade the soul of the Kingdom. Yet in the weeks since, Eyehasseen has discovered something remarkable. Out of falsehood’s ashes, truth has taken on the dignity of a cause.
From the Gutter to the Light
Across the cities, the sound of honest printing presses has become almost devotional — the steady rhythm of restored faith. The same machines that once poured out venom under The Red Banner now produce proclamations, sermons, and civic bulletins stamped with the mark of the new Truthkeepers’ Guild. Their emblem, a quill entwined with a sword, hangs proudly above doorways once shuttered by shame.
Even in the smallest villages, the effect is palpable. In the market squares of Brackley, news-sellers call out not rumors but corrections; in Whitehaven’s harbor, sailors debate the difference between fact and opinion with the earnestness once reserved for fish prices. “We’re all editors now,” joked a fishmonger, “only the paper’s in our mouths.”
Citizens who once greeted every headline with suspicion now gather at reading posts erected by local councils. Children stand on tiptoe to read aloud from the daily bulletins, while elders nod approvingly. “We forgot how to believe,” said a schoolmistress, “and belief begins with the truth.”
The Cleansing of the Word
The Ministry of Information reports that, since the Guild’s founding, the number of registered publications has decreased by half, yet readership has doubled. “People would rather pay for honesty,” explained Minister Thayne, “than accept lies for free.”
A walk through Inverness confirms it. Posters once plastered with scandal are now replaced by notices of civic virtue: Charity Bazaar for the War Widows, Lecture on the Duties of Citizenship, Evening Lessons in Logic for the Working Man. The tavern walls that once bore Bianchovi’s seditious cartoons now display the new national maxim: “Truth Alone Defends.”
The change is not confined to words. The Constabulary, freshly emboldened by success, has extended its vigilance to the realm of rumor. In the Dock District, street gossip is now answered not with fist or fine, but with public correction. Constables distribute printed “truth sheets” clarifying the facts of ongoing investigations. “We can’t punish every whisper,” said Inspector Daven, “but we can drown it out with truth.”
The People’s Reckoning
This transformation, though sudden, has not come easily. Many who once dabbled in the half-truth trade now find themselves objects of suspicion. The lesser editors of the old Banner have fled or repented. One was recently seen sweeping floors at the Guild’s Chapter House — “repaying ink with sweat,” as the saying goes.
At the same time, new heroes have emerged: the quiet typists who refused to print lies, the printers who reported secret orders, the clerks who turned over suspicious ledgers. Their names fill the papers now where the traitors’ once stood. One such man, Tomas Reed, a compositor of modest means, was awarded the Silver Laurel for “refusing to set false type.” Asked what gave him courage, he replied, “The truth doesn’t need a crown — just a backbone.”
The King’s Reflection
His Majesty addressed the realm last evening from the balcony of the Royal Palace, his words carried by lantern light and echoed from every bell tower:
“Our enemies thought they could blind us with paper and ink. They forgot that light passes through paper and ink alike. We are not cleansed by punishment, but by remembrance. Let us remember what a lie costs.”
The crowd that gathered below answered with a murmur that became a chant — “Truth, Truth, Truth” — until the word itself seemed to hum in the autumn air.
The Lessons of the Liar
It would be a mistake to suppose that the Kingdom’s trial ended with the executioner’s knot. In truth, Bianchovi’s legacy lingers not as threat but as warning. His lies proved how fragile truth can seem when unguarded, and how resilient it becomes when defended. The Red Banner is gone, its presses melted and its archives sealed, but every citizen who repeats an unverified tale keeps a corner of it alive.
The Guild Warden, Master Felix Arlen, expressed it best at yesterday’s dedication of the Hall of Verity:
“The liar’s ink has dried. Ours must not. Truth is not a monument — it is maintenance. Sweep it, polish it, guard it, or it will gather dust and forget itself.”
The Nation’s Renewal
There is a curious calm over the Realm now — not silence, but equilibrium. Trains run on time, letters arrive unopened, and in every ministry the clerks copy their figures twice to be sure. The moral weather, once stormy, feels newly clear.
Of course, shadows remain. The Marelian border hums with tension; foreign presses still print their distortions abroad. But the Kingdom’s heart is steady. It has learned to doubt only what deserves doubt, to believe what earns belief, and to distinguish between the two — the very essence of wisdom.
Epilogue: The Candle and the Mirror
At dusk, as this reporter walked past the river, he saw a group of schoolchildren lighting small candles and setting them afloat downstream. When asked what they were doing, one replied, “We’re sending the light to the towns that still read lies.” Another added solemnly, “They’ll know it’s truth because it doesn’t burn the water.”
And perhaps that is how this chapter closes — not with vengeance, but illumination. The Kingdom of Eyehasseen, bruised by deceit yet strengthened by the struggle against it, stands cleaner, wiser, and truer than before. The air smells of ink again, but this time it is the scent of renewal.