Gate: Thus The Second Empire Fought In Gettysburg!

by Qun Nguyn1

A thousand years after the Arachnid War a new power emerged in Falmart: the Second Saderan Empire. The horrors of the Arachnid War had long been forgotten, replaced by a new sense of invincibility and a belief in the Empire's manifest destiny to rule over all creation. However, what lay on the other side of the Gate would soon challenge even the might of the Second Empire.

5. Chapter 5: Washington and Richmond

Chapter 5: Washington and Richmond

General George Meade stood rigidly on the ridge, his eyes locked on the nightmare unfolding below. The air was thick with the stench of blood and gunpowder, screams of the dying mingling with the unnatural roars of the otherworldly creatures. His hand tightened around his sword hilt until his knuckles were white. Three full army corps… gone. Just like that, he thought, his mind a swirling mix of rage and despair.

He had planned for a defensive stand here at Gettysburg, determined to hold the line and repel the enemy. But these monsters with iron shields, hulking giants, and war beasts—were beyond anything he could have imagined. Their mages, with their unnatural spells, had ripped through his men like they were nothing more than paper. Bayonets, rifles, even artillery—useless.

The 1st, 3rd, and 5th Corps, the pride of the Army of the Potomac, had been annihilated in mere hours. Tens of thousands of brave men, disciplined and battle-hardened, had been torn apart by the monstrous Satanic army. Ogres wielding massive clubs crushed men underfoot like insects. Minotaurs cleaved through entire lines with their jagged axes, and the Saderan mages rained down hellfire, their spells incinerating hundreds in fiery explosions. Meade's heart sank as he watched yet another Union formation disintegrate under the relentless assault.

"General Meade!" A voice broke through his grim thoughts. It was Major General George Sykes, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. "We can't hold them any longer. The line's collapsing! The men are breaking!"

Meade didn't respond immediately. His mind raced. He had four corps left—80,000 men, but they were outmatched. If he threw them into this massacre, they'd suffer the same fate. And if Washington D.C. fell after that…

He took a deep breath, forcing the rising panic down. "We can't win here, George," he said, his voice low, barely audible above the chaos. "If we stay, we'll lose everything. Washington is more important."

Sykes's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're ordering a retreat?"

Meade nodded, the weight of the decision nearly crushing him. "Yes. We'll pull back to Emmitsburg. It's twelve miles southwest. From there, we regroup, march to Frederick, and then to Washington. We'll make our stand there."

"But, sir…"

Meade's voice hardened. "No, George. This isn't about pride or honor anymore. It's about survival. We still have an army to protect the capital. If we waste it here, the whole damn Union falls."

Sykes swallowed hard, understanding but unable to shake the bitter taste of defeat. "Yes, sir."

Turning from the battlefield, Meade looked one last time at the carnage below. The once-organized Union lines were now nothing but a slaughterhouse. Bodies lay in heaps, trampled under the iron boots of the enemy, blood soaking the earth. The creatures surged forward relentlessly, leaving destruction in their wake.

With a heavy heart, he raised his hand and gave the command. "Sound the retreat."

The bugles blared a mournful note, echoing across the battlefield. As the Union soldiers turned to retreat, Meade whispered to himself, "God forgive me."

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Meade watched his men begin to pull back, the dead and wounded left behind on the blood-soaked fields. "Forgive me," he said to no one in particular, the weight of the decision crushing him. "But we live to fight another day."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two days had passed since the slaughter at Gettysburg, but for General George Meade, the torment of failure clung to him like a shroud. Grey clouds hung low in the sky, seeming to press down on the sodden earth beneath his boots, as if mocking him for the decisions he had made. Every so often, a light drizzle would descend, cold and relentless, soaking the ground, the men, and Meade's very soul. Each drop carried the weight of responsibility and regret—of lives lost, of a future uncertain.

The Army of the Potomac trudged southward through the muck, battered, broken, and starving. Their boots squelched through the mud, their uniforms soaked through, and their faces bore the vacant expressions of men too exhausted to even mourn the comrades they had lost. Soldiers fell into step with no sense of order; discipline had frayed at the edges, leaving behind only a desperate desire to survive.

Meade's thoughts were as dark as the clouds that loomed overhead.

It was a failure. My failure. Three corps annihilated, tens of thousands dead, and now we crawl away like whipped dogs. The thought gnawed at him with every step. The shame burned deeper than any physical wound.

They were retreating, forced back to Frederick, Maryland, with hopes of regrouping, resupplying, and somehow preparing for the final stand at Washington, D.C. But each mile south felt like a nail driven into the coffin of the Union. Washington was their last hope. If it fell, the entire nation—the dream of unity and freedom—would crumble into dust.

Meade glanced skyward, his face grim as he caught sight of a dark shape soaring through the grey mist above. Dragons. Those massive, winged beasts with scales that shimmered even in the gloom. They were the enemy's eyes, their ever-watchful guardians, making sure that the Union army never escaped their sight.

"Damn them," Meade muttered under his breath, his leather-gloved fists clenching. He could feel the wet fabric tightening against his skin, a small discomfort compared to the seething anger he felt inside. "Damn those hellspawn and their infernal beasts."

Beside him, Major General Winfield Scott Hancock rode in silence, his eyes also turned to the skies. His once-proud face was gaunt and lined with exhaustion, his uniform clinging to him from the rain.

"They're not chasing us," Hancock said finally, his voice as tired as his appearance. "Maybe they think we're broken."

"We are broken," Meade replied, his voice cold and unflinching. "But I'll be damned if I let them take Washington."

The road south toward Frederick was littered with signs of chaos—civilian homes abandoned, their doors hanging ajar; crops trampled into the mud; livestock stolen or slaughtered. The landscape was as ravaged as the men marching through it. The foraging parties Meade had reluctantly sent out returned with less and less every day. The civilian population had nothing left to give. What little food remained had been stripped away by the advancing Union army or by the Confederate raiders that seemed to be constantly one step ahead.

How did it come to this? Meade wondered bitterly. We were meant to stop them at Gettysburg. We were supposed to turn the tide. Instead, the battlefield had become a slaughterhouse, overrun not by Confederate soldiers, but by something far worse—demonic creatures from another realm.

The sound of hooves approaching pulled Meade from his grim reverie. Major General Alfred Pleasonton, his cavalry commander, rode up with a grim expression on his face. His horse, like the man, looked worn and ragged, its flanks caked with mud and sweat.

"General," Pleasonton said, his voice tight with frustration, "there's nothing left. The land's been picked clean. Another army's already passed through here and stripped everything."

Meade's heart sank. "Another army? You mean the otherworlders?"

Pleasonton shook his head, his expression darkening. "No, sir. It's the Army of Northern Virginia."

At the mention of Robert E. Lee's forces, a flicker of old rage stirred in Meade's chest, momentarily pushing aside the despair that had been gnawing at him. Lee. He had almost forgotten about the Confederates in the chaos after Gettysburg. Lee's army. The rebels.

Of course it was Lee. The two forces had been on a collision course at Gettysburg, poised to decide the fate of the war. But that battle had been overshadowed by something far worse—the portal. The infernal, godforsaken portal that had opened in the middle of the battlefield, spewing forth an army of grotesque creatures. Demons, dragons, monsters from a world beyond understanding. The Confederates had been just as stunned as the Union forces, but now, it seemed, Lee's army was moving again—like a vulture circling the wounded.

Meade's lips pressed into a tight line. "Of course it's Lee."

"We can't fight Lee," Hancock said, his voice betraying a tremor of anxiety. "Not in the state we're in. The army's on the verge of collapse. Another battle would be suicide."

Meade said nothing, his eyes fixed on the horizon, where the road ahead snaked through the desolate landscape. He knew Hancock was right. The Army of the Potomac was shattered, its spirit broken. The men couldn't take another battle, especially not against Lee's hardened veterans. And then there were the otherworlders—the real threat, the nightmare that had descended upon them all.

"There's only one thing we can do," Meade said quietly, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

Hancock turned toward him, his brows furrowed in confusion. "What are you suggesting, General?"

Meade didn't look at him. His eyes remained locked on the distance, as though he could see beyond the fog, beyond the dragons circling above, to the one man who had always been his rival. "We need to talk to Lee. Send a messenger. Request a meeting."

Hancock's eyes widened. "Talk to Lee? You think he'll listen?"

"He'll listen," Meade said through gritted teeth. "These monsters are as much a threat to him as they are to us. He's not stupid. He won't risk his army being wiped out by those things."

Hancock was silent for a moment, clearly weighing the idea. "Do you trust him?"

"No," The general replied sharply. "But we don't have a choice."

The message was sent, and within a few hours, the reply came back. General Robert E. Lee had agreed to meet. The decision weighed heavily on Meade's mind as they moved toward the designated meeting point. He couldn't help but feel the bitterness rising in his chest. To meet with a man who had been the symbol of rebellion, the architect of countless Union deaths, left a foul taste in his mouth. But as the grotesque shapes of flying dragons soared high above, he knew the stakes had changed. They had no choice now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The wind cut through the fields like a knife, stinging General George Meade's face as he and his officers rode slowly toward the meeting point. His stomach churned with every step his horse took. The worn reins in his hands felt heavier than ever, his knuckles white as he gripped them, trying to steady his shaking hands. He had faced Robert E. Lee's army countless times on the battlefield, but never had the task ahead of him felt so bitter, so wrong. Yet there was no avoiding it now.

The abandoned farmhouse in the distance loomed ahead like a forgotten relic of the past. Its crumbling walls were charred black from battles fought too close, its roof sagging in defeat, much like the country it once sheltered. Meade's eyes narrowed at the sight, the dilapidated structure seeming to mock the notion of peace he had come here to seek.

It was the last place he wanted to be. To meet Robert E. Lee—not in battle, but in parley—was an indignity that burned in his chest. He had spent years fighting this man, fighting the very idea of the Confederacy and all it stood for. The blood of his soldiers, Union men, stained the battlefields from Antietam to Gettysburg because of the rebellion that Lee led. Now, instead of confronting him with cannon fire, he had to extend a hand in truce.

Beside him rode Hancock, his expression hard but his eyes carrying a deeper understanding of the moment. Hancock, too, had bled for the Union cause, and yet even he knew the terrible truth. They were at the end of their rope. The war between the North and the South no longer consumed their thoughts—it was the demonic invasion, the grotesque creatures pouring through the colossal gates from another world, that had shattered the lines between enemies. The Union army was exhausted, barely able to hold the line. Meade had no choice but to seek Lee's aid.

As they approached the meeting point, Meade could see Lee already there, standing tall like an impenetrable fortress. The Confederate general seemed untouched by the chaos around him. His grey uniform was immaculate, as though the dirt and grime of war dared not stain him. His officers, including the loyal Longstreet, stood behind him in rigid silence. They, too, understood the gravity of this moment.

Meade's heart hammered in his chest. The memory of Gettysburg stung, the bitter loss that had forced him into this position, where he now had to beg the man who had almost broken him for help. Lee didn't need to ask for this truce—Meade did. He hated the thought of coming to this point, hated that he had to rely on the very man who had led the Confederacy in rebellion. Yet the monstrous creatures now roaming the battlefield, the dragons circling the skies above, had left him no other option.

He dismounted, feeling the weight of the war pressing down on him, heavier than it had ever been. Hancock followed suit, his face a mask of calm, though Meade knew his friend was seething inside. Behind them, the rest of Meade's officers stood in grim silence, the hopelessness of their situation etched into their faces.

Across the field, Lee stood unmoving, his face betraying none of the emotions that churned beneath the surface. His officers—Longstreet, Stuart, and others—watched with the same cold, unreadable gaze. There was no mistaking the reality: Meade was the one coming from a position of weakness. The Union army had been shattered, and while Lee's forces weren't in much better shape, the difference was clear. Meade needed this truce more than Lee did.

The two generals faced each other, the distance between them not just physical but ideological, emotional—a gulf of years of bitter fighting. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of distant gunfire and the occasional inhuman screech from the creatures that had ravaged the land.

"General Meade," Lee's voice cut through the air, smooth and controlled. He offered a curt nod, his face impassive.

"General Lee," Meade replied, the words grating against his throat. His voice sounded harsher than intended, the frustration and bitterness leaking through. He straightened his back, forcing himself to stand tall, even as he felt the weight of his circumstances pressing him down. This was not the battlefield, but it was no less a confrontation.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the memories of battles fought, men lost, and blood spilled hanging between them like a heavy fog. But this was no ordinary war any longer. The stakes had shifted, and the old rules no longer applied.

"I assume you understand why I requested this meeting," Meade began, his voice as hard as the steel grip he maintained on his emotions.

Lee's eyes flickered briefly to the sky, where one of the creatures flew lazily overhead, its wings casting a dark shadow across the ground. "I understand," he said quietly. "The enemy we face now is unlike any we've known."

Meade clenched his jaw. It felt wrong to be standing here, discussing the future with a man who had led the South in rebellion. The hatred and anger that had fueled him for years now warred with the cold, practical need for survival. He couldn't help but see Lee as the enemy, no matter how dire their current situation had become.

"The Union and the Confederacy may be at war," Meade said, his voice sharp, "but this new enemy—these monsters—they threaten to destroy everything. If we don't act now, it won't matter who wins our war. There won't be anything left to fight over."

Lee's expression remained calm, his gaze never leaving Meade's. "You're asking for a truce, then?" His tone was neutral, as though this were a casual conversation about battlefield tactics rather than the fate of their nation.

Meade's frustration boiled over. "A truce, yes. We need to stop killing each other long enough to deal with this new threat. These demons—they don't care about the North or the South. They'll slaughter us all if we don't do something."

Lee's jaw tightened, though his voice remained measured. "You come to me now, asking for cooperation. After all that has passed between us, you expect me to simply forget the years of bloodshed? The men who have died under your command, Meade—do you think I can ignore that?"

Meade felt a surge of anger. "Forget? No, I don't expect you to forget, Lee. I haven't forgotten either! But this is bigger than you and me, bigger than our damn war! These creatures will wipe us out if we don't stop them. I'm not asking you to surrender, I'm asking you to put aside this war long enough for us to deal with the real enemy."

Lee's gaze hardened, his eyes narrowing. "You think I haven't considered that, General? I've seen these creatures with my own eyes. I've watched them tear through my men, as I'm sure you've watched them tear through yours. But you and I both know that a truce, temporary or not, will not be easy. My officers, your officers—they won't take kindly to it."

Meade took a step forward, his anger finally breaking free from the restraint he had held onto so tightly. "Damn your officers, and damn mine! This isn't about honor or pride, Lee! This is about survival! We don't have the luxury of playing at politics anymore. If we don't act now, there won't be any armies left to lead!"

Lee's expression remained unreadable, but Meade could see the wheels turning in his mind. He wasn't a fool, and Meade knew that Lee understood the reality of the situation as well as he did. They couldn't afford to keep fighting each other, not now.

"There's more at stake here than just the survival of our armies," Meade said, his voice lowering slightly. "If these creatures aren't stopped, they'll take Washington, Richmond, and every town and city in between. There won't be a North or a South left to fight for."

Lee's eyes flickered with something—recognition, perhaps, or the weight of inevitability. "And after the demons are defeated? What then? Do you expect my men to simply lay down their arms and surrender?"

Meade's anger flared again. "If you truly care about this country, Lee, then you should surrender! We're fighting for the survival of the United States, not for some fantasy of a Confederate nation. Lay down your arms, join us, and we'll face this enemy together."

Lee's expression darkened, his face hardening into an impenetrable mask. "I fight for the South, General, just as you fight for the Union. I will not surrender. Not now, not ever. But I will agree to a truce—for as long as this new enemy remains."

Meade's hands trembled with fury, his entire body tense with the desire to lash out, to strike Lee down where he stood. But deep down, he knew it would solve nothing. They needed each other, whether he liked it or not.

"Fine," Meade said through clenched teeth, his voice filled with barely-contained rage. "We'll call a truce. But once this is over, once these creatures are defeated, we'll finish what we started."

Lee's eyes met Meade's, cold and unyielding. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

The two generals stood in silence for a moment longer, the weight of their tenuous alliance hanging over them like a storm cloud. Then, without another word, they turned and walked back to their respective armies, knowing that the battle for survival had only just begun.

White House, DC, July 5th, 1863

The atmosphere in the White House was tense, the air thick with the weight of the unthinkable. President Abraham Lincoln sat at the head of the table in the dimly lit war room, his face gaunt and eyes hollow with worry.

It had been three days since the Battle of Gettysburg, but the shock of what General George Meade had reported still reverberated like cannon fire through the halls of the White House. A battle with demons—beasts from some infernal plane beyond human comprehension—had emerged from the very earth itself. The news had been so surreal, so unearthly, that Lincoln himself had demanded visual confirmation. And the images that had arrived, grainy and distorted, had chilled the blood of every man in the room.

Lincoln's long fingers drummed nervously on the heavy oak table as he awaited the report from his Secretary of War, Edwin M. Stanton. Around him, the room was filled with the most powerful men in the country, yet none spoke. The ticking of the clock was the only sound as they tried to come to terms with the incomprehensible. The images that General George Meade had sent from Gettysburg sat scattered across the table. Photographs of gargantuan figures with twisted, monstrous faces; others depicted troops—what was left of them—staring in stunned disbelief at the sight of a colossal army, the likes of which had never before been seen on Earth.

Stanton, usually a man of unshakable confidence, was uncharacteristically quiet as he stood before the large map spread out on the table. The map of the Eastern Theater of the war, once a clear and concise representation of Confederate and Union positions, now bore ominous, hastily drawn red lines representing the unknown force that loomed over the Union capital.

Finally, Stanton cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I wish I could bring you better news, but the situation is dire." His voice was steady, but there was an underlying tremor that betrayed his anxiety. He pointed to Gettysburg on the map, then traced a path towards Washington, D.C. "The enemy—these demons—are approximately 85 to 90 miles from the capital. General Meade reports that they number nearly one million strong."

There was a collective intake of breath around the room. Lincoln's eyes darkened as he leaned forward.

"Have they moved?" he asked quietly.

"Not yet," Stanton replied. "But it is only a matter of time. They are regrouping, possibly planning their next move. General Meade's men are exhausted from the battle, and though we've dispatched reinforcements, it's clear that 80,000 men from the Army of the Potomac may not be enough to repel such a force."

General-in-Chief Henry Halleck, seated to Lincoln's left, shook his head in disbelief. "One million... How is that possible? How did we not know?"

Stanton sighed heavily. "Sir, I wish I had an answer. These are not men—they're creatures, some standing as tall as houses, with armor that seems impenetrable. Meade's artillery barely scratched them."

Lincoln leaned back in his chair, his hand resting over his chin. "We need every available soldier here in Washington within the week," he muttered, staring at the map with hollow eyes. "What are our options, Mr. Stanton?"

Stanton nodded and began his report. "Sir, we've calculated which Union forces can realistically arrive within three weeks and their potential impact: First, we have Major General Ambrose Burnside's Army of the Ohio. He has around 25,000 to 30,000 men stationed in Eastern Tennessee. Burnside's troops have been engaged in smaller operations, so moving them north should be feasible. They would travel via rail and road through Ohio and Pennsylvania."

Stanton's eyes were sharp as he continued. "Their arrival would provide a significant boost to our defenses in the capital. They would need to be utilized strategically to cover critical gaps."

"Major General William S. Rosecrans is engaged in the Tullahoma Campaign. His army of 60,000 to 70,000 men could potentially be redeployed within 2 to 3 weeks. The logistics of moving such a force are challenging, but with the Union's rail network, we can get a substantial portion of his men to Washington in time."

Lincoln's face was thoughtful. "Rosecrans' men are a substantial force. If we can get even part of them here, it could make a significant difference."

"Grant's army, based in Vicksburg, is somewhat tied up with securing the region. The siege concluded on July 4, and while it would be difficult to move a large force immediately, we might be able to send detachments or cavalry units northward within 3 weeks."

Stanton's expression grew grim. "The distance and logistics are daunting, but Grant's involvement could provide additional support, particularly if we need specialized units."

"Major General Nathaniel P. Banks is heavily engaged in the Siege of Port Hudson. The army of 30,000 to 35,000 men could be partially freed after July 9. However, moving them from Louisiana to Washington is impractical within three weeks. We might get a small detachment or elite units, but their full force won't be available in time."

Lincoln nodded, acknowledging the constraints. "Every bit helps, but we must be realistic about their availability."

"Major General Darius N. Couch's 15,000 militia and emergency troops are already stationed in Pennsylvania. They can be quickly mobilized to reinforce Washington almost immediately. Though they are primarily untrained, they will serve as a temporary defense force while we await more battle-hardened troops."

Stanton's voice was firm. "Couch's men can form the initial line of defense, buying us time for the more experienced troops to arrive."

"The capital already has a garrison of approximately 20,000 to 30,000 men. These troops include convalescents, reserves, and local defense forces. They will form the backbone of Washington's defenses and provide an immediate defensive capability."

Lincoln's eyes were intense. "We have a solid foundation for our defenses in Washington. They will be critical in holding the line."

"State militias from Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York can be rapidly mobilized within 1 to 2 weeks. Their effectiveness may be limited compared to regular troops, but they will bolster our defenses."

Stanton's tone was resolute. "These forces will help to fill the gaps and reinforce our defensive lines until more trained units arrive."

"Edwin, with these reinforcements, how do you assess our ability to defend Washington, D.C.?"

"With the forces outlined, we have a fighting chance," General Meade began, his voice steady but urgent as he pointed to the map of Washington D.C. and its surroundings. "If we can mobilize Couch's militia and rally the state militias immediately, we can reinforce the Washington garrison. The arrival of Burnside's and Rosecrans' troops will provide the critical mass we need to hold the city against a major assault."

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of paper maps as Meade's finger traced the various army positions. He paused, his eyes meeting Lincoln's briefly before moving back to the task at hand.

"The rail network will be crucial for moving these forces quickly. We must ensure the routes are clear and that supplies are managed efficiently. But we must also prepare for the possibility that the demonic forces strike sooner than we expect."

The President's gaze shifted to Stanton, his Secretary of War, whose usual resolute demeanor was now mixed with the unmistakable shadow of concern. Lincoln was a man known for his optimism, for his ability to keep hope alive even in the darkest moments. But now, as the telegrams described the advancing demonic horde—towering monsters with nightmarish forms—the grim reality began to sink in. The fate of Washington, and perhaps the Union itself, was in their hands, and the enemy they faced was not human.

"Stanton," Lincoln said softly, "we must act swiftly and decisively. The fate of Washington, and with it the Union, depends on our ability to coordinate these efforts and prepare for the battle that's coming."

Stanton nodded. "Yes, Mr. President. General Halleck and I have already begun discussing fortifying Washington. We need to ensure the city's defenses are prepared for a siege. The engineers will start reinforcing the fortifications immediately. We must establish defensive lines around the key approaches to the city, particularly along the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers."

General Henry Halleck, the Army's chief of staff, stepped forward. His usually composed face was drawn with worry. "Mr. President, we also need to prepare for the worst. If the demons breach our defenses, we must have a contingency plan in place. The government cannot afford to be wiped out."

Stanton glanced at Halleck, then back at Lincoln. The taboo topic hung in the air like a storm cloud—evacuation. No one wanted to speak of abandoning the capital, but the reality of the situation demanded pragmatism.

"Mr. President," Stanton said carefully, "we hope to hold Washington. But if the situation deteriorates, we must prepare for a possible evacuation. If Washington falls, we cannot allow the entire Union leadership to be captured or killed. The country needs to know that we are still in control, even if it means leaving the capital temporarily."

The words struck like a hammer. The notion of abandoning Washington, the seat of the nation's government, felt like an admission of defeat. Secretary of State William Seward, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, his voice tight with disbelief.

"Relocate the government?" Seward asked, his brow furrowed. "Are you suggesting we abandon Washington to these... creatures?"

Lincoln raised a hand to quiet Seward. He understood the emotional weight behind the words. Washington, during this Civil War, had come to symbolize the Union's struggle for survival. To leave the capital felt like surrender. But as Stanton had pointed out, survival required difficult choices.

"Not abandon, Mr. Seward," Stanton corrected, his voice steady but grave. "We must consider the practicalities. Washington, D.C., is a symbol, yes, but the Union's strength lies not in one city. It lies in our people, our armies, and our determination to survive. If we lose Washington, we do not lose the war. The government must remain intact, and it must continue the fight."

Lincoln sat back in his chair, tapping his long fingers against the map on his desk. His gaze lingered on the small dot that represented the city of Washington. The thought of leaving the capital, of abandoning the White House, gnawed at him. It felt like an impossibility. But deep down, he knew Stanton was right. If Washington fell, the Union couldn't afford to collapse with it.

"Where would we go?" Lincoln asked, his voice hoarse, weighed down by the enormity of the decision.

Stanton took a deep breath, unfolding another map that outlined the northeastern and midwestern regions of the Union. "We've identified several cities that could serve as temporary locations for the government. Each has its strengths and weaknesses."

He placed the map on the table, and the others crowded around, peering at the options Stanton presented.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Philadelphia was Stanton's first and most immediate recommendation. It was, after all, one of the largest cities in the Union, steeped in history and significance. More than that, though, it was one of the key industrial powerhouses of the North.

"Philadelphia is one of the largest and most significant cities in the Union," Stanton explained. "It has a major industrial base, strong rail connections, and a large population. As the original capital of the United States, it carries a symbolic weight that would help maintain morale. People would see us move to Philadelphia, not as retreating, but as regrouping in a place that has always been central to the founding of the country."

Philadelphia's strategic importance was not just in its industry, though. Its position along the Delaware River gave it a natural defensive barrier. Any force advancing on the city from the south or west would first need to cross the river—a formidable obstacle, even for demonic creatures. The river could slow their advance, giving Union forces time to mount a more cohesive defense.

The city was also a key transportation hub, with rail lines connecting it to the industrial heart of the North, from Pittsburgh to New York City. Its proximity to these industrial centers made it an ideal location for supplying a continued war effort. And with the Pennsylvania militia able to quickly reinforce the city, it could be transformed into a bastion of Union strength.

"Philadelphia's defense could be bolstered by local militia, and reinforcements could be mobilized from Pennsylvania and neighboring states," Stanton noted. "The Delaware River provides a natural barrier against any advancing forces. Its location makes it a key logistical hub, and it's far enough from the immediate threat to allow us time to regroup and reorganize."

Lincoln nodded thoughtfully, absorbing Stanton's analysis. Philadelphia was a natural choice—it was close enough to Washington to maintain continuity of command, but far enough to avoid immediate threat. Its industries could keep the war machine running, and its symbolic value could reassure the people that the government remained strong.

But there were concerns too. While Philadelphia's position was advantageous, its sheer size made it a daunting city to defend. It was sprawling, with large working-class neighborhoods and industrial sectors that could be difficult to protect in the chaos of war. Moreover, if the demonic forces breached the Delaware River, defending the city would require an enormous commitment of resources.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Next on the list was Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsylvania and a critical rail hub. While not as large or industrially powerful as Philadelphia, Harrisburg's location made it vital to the defense of central Pennsylvania.

"Harrisburg is another crucial location," Stanton continued, pointing to the city on the map. "It's situated on the Susquehanna River, which provides natural defenses, and it serves as a key transportation and rail hub. Defending Harrisburg would help us protect central Pennsylvania and provide a launching point for counteroffensives."

Harrisburg's importance lay in its geography. Nestled along the Susquehanna River, the city had natural defenses that could slow the demonic advance. The river could be used as a defensive line, with artillery and infantry stationed on the far bank to repel any attack. Harrisburg was also a key junction for several major rail lines that connected the eastern and western parts of the Union. Protecting the city would ensure the flow of supplies and troops between the two regions.

"Defending Harrisburg would prevent the demonic forces from moving west toward Pittsburgh or north toward New York," Stanton said. "It also sits on critical rail lines that connect to Pittsburgh and the industrial cities further west."

The city was not without its vulnerabilities, however. Harrisburg was smaller than Philadelphia, and while its position along the river was advantageous, it was closer to the front lines of the war. If the demonic forces moved quickly, Harrisburg could be overwhelmed before sufficient reinforcements arrived. Moreover, the city lacked the industrial capacity of larger cities, meaning it would not be as effective a long-term base of operations for the Union government.

Still, Lincoln considered it carefully. Its strategic position in the center of Pennsylvania made it a natural choke point for any westward advance by the enemy. If Harrisburg could be fortified and held, it would buy the Union precious time to reinforce the other cities.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Further west, nestled in the Appalachian Mountains, was Pittsburgh—the beating heart of the Union's steel industry. Though far removed from the immediate front lines, Pittsburgh's value to the war effort was undeniable.

"Pittsburgh is located further west, away from the immediate threat," Stanton explained. "It's a vital industrial center, especially for steel production. The city's location in the Appalachian Mountains provides natural defenses, and its industrial base would be critical for rearming and equipping our forces."

Pittsburgh's significance came not only from its steel mills but also from its geographical isolation. The city was protected by the rugged terrain of the Appalachians, making it difficult for any invading force to reach. Its industries could continue producing weapons, ammunition, and other war materials without interruption, even if the fighting in the east grew worse.

"It's also a transportation hub with access to the Ohio River and several major railroads," Stanton continued. "Pittsburgh's distance from the front lines makes it an ideal location for a fallback position if Philadelphia and Harrisburg fall."

However, the distance that protected Pittsburgh also presented a challenge. If the government relocated there, it would be far from the centers of power in the East, making coordination with the armies in Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia more difficult. Moreover, the city's remoteness could create logistical difficulties in maintaining supply lines, particularly if the railroads were disrupted by the advancing enemy.

Still, Lincoln recognized the value of Pittsburgh. In the worst-case scenario, if the Union lost control of the East Coast, Pittsburgh could serve as a bastion of resistance. Its industries would keep the war effort alive, and its location would provide a refuge from the horrors sweeping through the eastern cities.

Cincinnati, Ohio

Moving further west, Stanton pointed to Cincinnati, Ohio, as a potential fallback location. Nestled on the Ohio River, Cincinnati was not only a major industrial hub but also strategically located near the border between the Union and Confederate states. This made it a critical transportation center for the Union war effort.

"Cincinnati is far enough from the immediate threat to serve as a safe fallback," Stanton noted. "Its industrial capacity is substantial, and its location along the Ohio River ensures it remains accessible for supplies and troop movements, even if railroads are compromised."

Cincinnati's access to river routes was a key advantage, allowing for continuous resupply even if Confederate forces disrupted overland routes. The city also had strong links to the Union's western armies, particularly those commanded by Generals Grant and Rosecrans, offering a valuable strategic connection if the conflict shifted toward the western theater.

General Halleck, reviewing the map, agreed with the assessment. "The proximity to Grant and Rosecrans would allow for rapid reinforcements if needed. Cincinnati's position could serve as both a defensive stronghold and a launch point for future counteroffensives."

However, the city's location also posed risks. Its proximity to the Kentucky border left it exposed to Confederate raids, and now with the threat of demonic forces looming, that vulnerability became even more concerning. While the Ohio River provided a natural defensive barrier, it wasn't as formidable as the Delaware or Susquehanna, meaning Cincinnati's defenses would need significant reinforcement to hold against a determined attack.

"Cincinnati will need to bolster its fortifications," Stanton warned, "particularly along the riverbanks and key access points. We can't afford to underestimate the threat from Confederate forces, let alone these supernatural invaders."

New York City, New York

The final option Stanton presented was New York City, the largest city in the Union. With its vast population, industrial capacity, and strategic position along the Atlantic Ocean, New York was a strong contender for relocation.

"New York City has immense resources," Stanton began. "Its population and industry make it a vital center for manufacturing, especially for war materials. As a major port, it offers direct access to the Atlantic for resupply and naval support, and its rail connections allow for transportation across the Northeast."

New York's geographic position also provided natural defenses. The Hudson River to the west acted as a barrier, while its location along the Atlantic offered naval protection and the ability to bring in supplies by sea. These factors made it a potential stronghold that could support the Union war effort even if other cities fell.

"If Philadelphia falls, New York could become the critical point for defense and coordination," Stanton continued. "Its industries would ensure that the war effort remains supplied, and its distance from the front lines offers some protection from immediate threats."

However, Stanton acknowledged the drawbacks. New York's distance from the key battlefronts in Pennsylvania and Maryland would make coordinating with field armies more challenging. While it offered security, that very remoteness from the fighting might delay critical decisions and responses. The city's massive population, while a resource, also posed a risk. Stanton pointed to the draft riots earlier in the war, where civil unrest had shaken the city, underscoring the challenges of maintaining order in such a densely populated urban center.

"New York's size is both its strength and its vulnerability," Stanton warned. "The sheer number of people makes it difficult to defend against internal strife. Any unrest, like what we saw during the draft riots, could spiral out of control in times of crisis."

As the room fell silent, Lincoln stared at the map spread before him, his mind racing through the possibilities. Each city offered its own advantages and challenges, and the decision before him was not an easy one.

Philadelphia was the most immediate and logical choice. Its proximity to Washington, its industrial base, and its symbolic importance made it a natural candidate for the Union's new capital. But the risks of a rapid demonic advance up the Delaware River were real, and Lincoln knew that defending the city would require an enormous commitment of resources.

Harrisburg offered a more defensible position, with its location along the Susquehanna River and its vital role as a transportation hub. But it lacked the industrial might of Philadelphia, and its proximity to the front lines made it vulnerable to a swift attack.

Pittsburgh, with its steel mills and mountain defenses, provided a safe haven far from the immediate threat. But its distance from the centers of power in the East made it a challenging location for coordinating the war effort.

Cincinnati, with its strategic position along the Ohio River and its connections to the western armies, offered a strong fallback position if the war shifted west. But its vulnerability to Confederate raids and demonic incursions from the South made it a risky choice.

And then there was New York City—massive, wealthy, and defensible, but distant from the immediate battlefields and prone to internal unrest.

Lincoln took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the faces of his generals and advisors. The decision before him was not just about where to relocate the government—it was about the survival of the Union itself.

"We'll prepare for every possibility," Lincoln said finally, his voice firm. "But for now, we'll hold Washington. We'll hold it with everything we have."

The room was quiet for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them all.

"But if we must leave," Lincoln continued, his eyes locking with Stanton's, "Philadelphia will be our next stand."

With potential relocation sites identified, the discussion shifted to the defense of critical towns and cities to slow the demonic advance and protect vital areas.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Stanton's finger hovered over the map, tracing the path from Gettysburg to Harrisburg. "Harrisburg is our first line of defense in central Pennsylvania. Its position on the Susquehanna River and its control over critical rail lines make it essential for holding the northern part of the state."

Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsylvania, was more than just a political center. It was a vital transportation hub, with rail lines branching out in all directions, connecting to Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and points farther north. Its location on the banks of the Susquehanna River also provided a natural defensive barrier. The river itself was wide and deep, making it difficult for any army—especially one as massive as the demonic horde—to cross without being exposed to artillery fire.

General Halleck leaned forward, pointing to the rail lines. "If Harrisburg falls, we lose control of the railroads that supply not only central Pennsylvania but also the routes leading to the northeast and to Washington, D.C. Without those supplies, our armies in the field will be crippled."

Lincoln's face was set in a determined frown. "We must make Harrisburg an impenetrable fortress. Reinforce the city's defenses—fortify the bridges, dig trenches, and place artillery on the high ground overlooking the river. If the demons reach Harrisburg, we'll make sure they pay dearly for every inch of land they try to take."

Stanton nodded. "I'll order additional troops to Harrisburg immediately. We can pull forces from the Department of the Susquehanna and the Pennsylvania militia. It won't be easy, but we can hold the city."

York, Pennsylvania

The conversation shifted to York, a key industrial town in southern Pennsylvania. "York is critical for several reasons," Stanton said. "It's a major rail hub and one of the few industrial towns in this region. Its factories produce weapons, ammunition, and other supplies that are vital to the war effort."

York had grown rapidly during the war, its factories churning out the materials that kept the Union army supplied. The town was also a key stop on the Northern Central Railway, which connected Harrisburg to Baltimore and Washington. If York fell, the demons would not only gain access to the factories but also to the rail lines that could bring them closer to the capital.

General Halleck interjected. "If the enemy captures York, they'll be able to cut off our supply lines between Harrisburg and Baltimore. We can't allow that to happen. Defending York will also help protect the approach to Harrisburg, preventing the demons from flanking our defenses."

Lincoln was quick to agree. "York's industrial capacity is too important to lose. We need to ensure the town is well-defended. Send engineers to fortify the factories and rail lines. If necessary, we'll turn the entire town into a fortress."

Stanton made a note. "I'll order reinforcements from the local militias and assign a division of regulars to York. We'll also coordinate with the Pennsylvania Railroad to ensure that any critical supplies can be evacuated if the situation becomes untenable."

Emmitsburg, Maryland

The discussion turned southward to Emmitsburg, a small town just over the Pennsylvania border in Maryland. Though Emmitsburg was not a large city, its location was of immense strategic importance. Situated on the direct route between Gettysburg and Washington, D.C., it was a natural defensive position—a choke point where a determined defense could slow the enemy's advance.

"Emmitsburg is crucial for a rearguard defense," Stanton said. "If the demons break through Gettysburg, they'll head south toward Washington. Holding Emmitsburg will buy us the time we need to prepare the defenses around the capital."

Halleck added, "The terrain around Emmitsburg is favorable for defense. The town is surrounded by hills, and the roads leading south can be easily fortified. We can station artillery on the high ground and use the town as a staging area for counterattacks."

Lincoln's eyes were serious. "Emmitsburg must be held at all costs. If we lose it, the road to Washington will be wide open. Send additional troops there, and make sure the local population is prepared to evacuate if necessary. We can't afford to have civilians caught in the crossfire."

Frederick, Maryland

Moving farther south, the conversation turned to Frederick, one of the largest towns in western Maryland. Frederick was not only a key junction for Union forces but also a major supply depot. Its location at the intersection of several major roads and rail lines made it a critical point for controlling the movement of troops and supplies between Washington, D.C., Baltimore, and Pennsylvania.

"Frederick is a logistical hub," Stanton said. "It's where we store much of the supplies that support the Army of the Potomac and the defenses of Washington. If the demons capture Frederick, they'll gain access to our supply depots and cut off one of the main routes to the capital."

Halleck nodded. "Defending Frederick will be essential for maintaining our ability to move troops and supplies. The town is also strategically located—it's far enough from the front lines that we can use it as a base for launching counterattacks, but close enough that it can support the defenses of Washington and Baltimore."

Lincoln looked at the map, his expression thoughtful. "Frederick must be fortified. We need to ensure that the supply depots are secure and that the roads and rail lines leading into the town are defended. If we lose Frederick, we lose the ability to support our armies in the field."

Stanton made a note. "I'll order additional troops to Frederick, and we'll begin fortifying the supply depots. We'll also coordinate with the local militias to ensure that the town is prepared to defend itself."

Baltimore, Maryland

The discussion turned to Baltimore, one of the most important cities in the Union. As one of the largest and most industrialized cities in the country, Baltimore was a vital center for the production of weapons, ammunition, and other supplies. Its location on the Chesapeake Bay also made it a key transportation hub, with ships carrying supplies up and down the East Coast.

"Baltimore is essential to the war effort," Stanton said. "If we lose Baltimore, we not only lose a major industrial center but also the ability to supply Washington from the sea. The enemy would gain control of the Chesapeake Bay, and they could use the city as a base for further attacks."

Halleck's expression was grim. "If Baltimore falls, Washington will be isolated. We can't allow that to happen. The city's defenses are already strong, but we need to reinforce them. We should also prepare for the possibility of a siege—if the demons reach Baltimore, we may need to hold out for weeks or even months."

Lincoln's expression was resolute. "Baltimore must be defended at all costs. Fortify the city's defenses, and ensure that the port is secure. If necessary, we'll turn Baltimore into a fortress."

Stanton made another note. "I'll order additional troops to Baltimore, and we'll begin preparing the city for a potential siege. We'll also coordinate with the Navy to ensure that the port remains secure."

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Finally, the conversation turned to Philadelphia, the largest city in Pennsylvania and one of the most important cities in the Union. As a major industrial center and transportation hub, Philadelphia was critical to the war effort. Its factories produced weapons, ammunition, and supplies, while its rail lines connected the city to the rest of the country.

"Philadelphia is our last line of defense," Stanton said. "If the demons reach Philadelphia, it could be catastrophic. The city's industrial capacity is unmatched, and losing it would cripple our ability to continue the war."

Halleck nodded. "Philadelphia is also one of the main relocation sites we've identified. If Washington falls, Philadelphia will become the new seat of government. We must ensure that the city is fortified and prepared for any potential attacks."

Lincoln looked at the map, his expression determined. "Philadelphia must be defended. We'll fortify the city and prepare it to serve as a fallback position if necessary. The fate of the Union may rest on Philadelphia's ability to hold out."

With the key cities and towns identified, the discussion shifted to the next steps. Stanton and Halleck would coordinate the movement of troops and supplies to reinforce the defenses, while Lincoln would oversee the broader strategy to ensure that the Union's forces were ready to meet the coming threat.

As the meeting drew to a close, Lincoln stood, his expression resolute. "We are facing an unprecedented threat, but we will not falter. The Union will survive. We will defend our land, our people, and our future. Together, we will overcome this darkness and ensure that the ideals of our nation endure."

The men in the room nodded in agreement, their faces set with determination. The Union was at a crossroads, and the decisions made in the coming days would determine its fate. But one thing was certain—no matter the cost, they would fight to the end to protect their country.

July 6th, 1863 – Executive Mansion, Richmond, Virginia

The grandeur of the Jefferson Davis Room in the Confederate capital offered a stark contrast to the dread that gripped its occupants. The room, with its elaborately carved mahogany panels, gold-framed portraits of past Southern leaders, and plush leather chairs, stood as a symbol of a decaying aristocracy determined to cling to power. Outside its thick, shuttered windows, the clatter of hooves and the rhythmic hammering of steel fortifications echoed through the city streets. Richmond, seat of the Confederacy, was preparing for a storm of monstrous proportions.

President Jefferson Davis sat rigidly at the head of the long table, his bony fingers tapping rhythmically on its polished surface. To his left sat Secretary of War James Seddon, fidgeting with his monocle, and to his right, Secretary of State Judah Benjamin, whose dark, calculating eyes observed the room with a mix of disdain and anticipation. The War Cabinet had convened for an emergency session following devastating reports from the North.

General Robert E. Lee's famed Army of Northern Virginia was in full retreat. The reason? Not Yankee soldiers, but an abominable force from Hell itself, or so the rumors claimed. This new enemy had obliterated large swaths of the Army of the Potomac, plunging the Union into a state of unprecedented disarray. Washington, D.C., trembled on the verge of collapse.

The stakes had never been higher for the Confederacy.

"Gentlemen," Davis began, his Southern drawl commanding attention, "we stand at a crossroads. The Union, our detested enemy, is wounded. But the force that inflicted this wound…" He paused, casting his steely blue eyes around the room. "It is something far worse than the Federals. It is a force we cannot comprehend. Our duty now is to determine how best to leverage this chaos to our advantage."

Secretary of War James Seddon leaned forward, his face as severe as his rigid posture. "Mr. President, the Army of the Potomac is in tatters. Our scouts report that their soldiers are deserting en masse, and Washington itself is on the verge of hysteria. General Lee's retreat has brought our men back into Virginia, but make no mistake: these creatures—their size, their strength—are beyond anything we've faced."

General Braxton Bragg, ever the dour realist, scowled. "If these demons—these things—can destroy the Union's largest army, we must assume they can crush ours as well. If they turn their gaze southward, Richmond will be next."

The room grew tense. General Bragg's words hung heavy in the air, a reminder of the fragility of the Confederacy's position. But Davis, undeterred, waved off Bragg's concerns.

"That may be," Davis said, "but we must focus on the opportunities before us. The Yankees are no longer our greatest threat, but their weakness can be our salvation."

Senator Robert Toombs, a man whose rhetoric dripped with venomous vitriol, leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk. His dark hair was slicked back, and his pale face seemed to glow with smug confidence.

"To hell with those godforsaken Yankees. They're weak. They always have been. This whole experiment of theirs—this mixing of races, this pandering to the Negro and the immigrant—is crumbling right before their eyes. Now we have the chance to step on their throats while they writhe in the dirt. Offer them a truce, yes. Let them beg for peace. But we do it on our terms."

Judah Benjamin, ever the diplomat, interjected with his smooth, measured tone. "And what, Senator Toombs, should those terms be? The recognition of our independence? Control of the border states? Or do we demand the entirety of the South remain in our hands, free from any future interference from the Union?"

Toombs sneered. "Recognition of our independence is non-negotiable. But we go further. We demand that the border states—Maryland, Kentucky, Missouri—be handed over to us, free and clear. If the North is to survive this nightmare, they'll give us what we want."

The assembled men nodded, some more eagerly than others. The idea of expanding the Confederacy's territory and strengthening its position in the wake of the Union's imminent collapse was tantalizing. But Secretary of War Seddon, ever the pragmatist, raised his voice once more.

"While I agree with Senator Toombs in principle, we must remember that we are dealing with something far beyond the Yankees. These… creatures, they might not care for the distinctions between North and South. We need to ensure that Richmond, Atlanta, and our other critical cities are fortified to withstand any potential attack."

General John Bell Hood, his eyes flashing with military fervor, slammed his fist onto the table. Hood had earned his reputation through brute force and sheer determination, and his battle-scarred face bore witness to his years of service. "We can't just hunker down in our cities like frightened women," he growled. "We need to take the fight to them. Fortify Richmond, yes. Protect Atlanta, absolutely. But we must also regain Vicksburg. The Mississippi River is our lifeline. Without it, we are strangled."

"Recovering Vicksburg will be difficult, especially with Grant's forces there," Benjamin remarked. "But if we manage to sow enough chaos in Washington, we might pull troops away from the Mississippi. If the Union is desperate, we could reclaim that entire region without firing another shot."

President Davis's gaze was fixed, unblinking. His mind raced with possibilities. The stakes had never been higher, and he knew that any misstep could spell the Confederacy's doom. Yet, for the first time in months, there was a glimmer of hope.

"The Yankees are a weakened beast," Davis said finally, his voice low but filled with conviction. "We must move swiftly to exploit their weakness. We will offer President Lincoln terms of peace—terms that will ensure the survival and sovereignty of our Confederacy, terms that will establish us as a recognized nation among the world's powers."

"But what if Lincoln refuses?" asked General Bragg, ever the pessimist.

"If Lincoln refuses," Davis said coldly, "then the Union will face annihilation—not just from us, but from these demonic forces. And when Washington burns, Richmond shall rise."

Senator Toombs grinned, his teeth gleaming like those of a predator. "Lincoln will have no choice but to accept. His precious Union is crumbling under the weight of its own moral decay. They've let the Negro and the immigrant poison the soul of their nation, and now they will pay for it."

Secretary of War Seddon, eager to seize the initiative, leaned forward. "I suggest we immediately mobilize the reserves and volunteers. With the promise of protecting not just our homes but the very fabric of Southern society, we will see a flood of men willing to fight for the Confederacy."

Davis nodded. "Make it known to every white man in the South that he is fighting not just for his country, but for his race, his heritage, and his way of life. The Yankees and their Negroes, their Irish, their Germans—let them drown in the blood of their own failure."

The room, filled with Southern gentlemen, was thick with prideful hatred, their bigotry as much a part of their identity as the suits they wore. The Union had long been despised as a cesspool of racial impurity and cultural chaos. Now, the possibility of using this demonic threat to crush the North once and for all filled them with dark excitement.

Judah Benjamin, ever the strategist, raised a hand. "We must not forget the foreign powers. The eyes of Europe are upon us. If we can demonstrate that the Confederacy stands as a bastion of civilization against the chaos unleashed in the North, we might finally gain the recognition of Britain and France."

"To hell with Britain and France," Toombs spat. "We don't need their approval. This is a white man's fight, and it'll be white men who decide its outcome."

"Perhaps," Benjamin replied coolly, "but international recognition will lend legitimacy to our cause. If we are to secure our place in history, we must consider all avenues. The Union's fall must be the catalyst that cements our place in the world."

As the Cabinet members murmured their approval, the enormity of the situation became clear. They were not simply fighting for their independence—they were fighting to preserve the racial and cultural hierarchy they held so dear. The Confederate leadership knew that their fate—and the fate of the South—depended on swift, decisive action.

"Mobilize the reserves," Davis ordered. "Fortify Richmond, Atlanta, and every key city. Prepare the documents for our offer of truce. And let it be known to every man, woman, and child in the South that this is not just a war—it is a crusade. A crusade to preserve our way of life, to protect our race, and to destroy the Yankee menace once and for all."

With those words, the meeting was adjourned. The Confederate leadership, now filled with a newfound sense of purpose, left the room, their minds filled with visions of a future where the South would rise victorious—not just over the Union, but over the abominations that had brought it to its knees.

As the sun set over Richmond, casting long shadows across the city, the capital of the Confederacy stood on the brink of both annihilation and rebirth. The choices they made in the coming days would determine whether the South would rise as a new nation—or be consumed by the inferno that loomed on the horizon.

The real battle was just beginning.