Chapter 2: Thrones of Blood and Betrayal

The Northland Union was a patchwork of peoples, riddled with unrest. After the war, rebellion swept the land, leaving Thomas Thompson gray and sleepless. Riots flared, rumors flew—one day miners revolted, the next farmers struck. Thompson kept a pistol under his pillow, fearing the dark.

Political aide Andrew Allen, at odds with the vice president, saw his chance. He whispered in backrooms, leaked stories to the press, and turned the capital into a cauldron of suspicion. In a fit of rage, Thomas fired the vice president’s supporters; the vice president, sick with fear, wasted away and died. Some called it justice, others called it a curse.

Thomas was wracked with regret, but it didn’t save him. Allen, now fearing for his life, staged a midnight coup in 1852, murdering Thomas in his bed. The city woke to gunfire and shattered glass. Allen’s grim face stared out from every broadsheet.

News of the northern chaos reached the south, where Henry Long saw his opening. He banged the gavel in an emergency session, declaring, "Now is our moment!" But his words rang hollow. The third northern campaign was half-hearted; soldiers joked it was more sightseeing than war, some never even glimpsing the enemy.

Then, in February 1853, another coup rocked the south. Vice President Charles Shaw led troops into the Governor’s Mansion and killed Henry Long as he slept. The city reeled—some lit candles in vigil, others cheered. For a man who ruled by both charm and fear, it was a violent, lonely end.

Thus, lifelong rivals Thomas Thompson and Henry Long both met bloody fates. Across the Mason-Dixon, people murmured that fate had finally called in its debts. Their names would live side by side in every schoolhouse book.

Charles Shaw secured the presidency by killing his own father. He lasted less than three months before his third brother, James Long, overthrew and executed him. Shaw’s photo was burned in the square, papers printing every sordid detail. James wasted no time filling the bloodstained shoes.

James Long’s rise sent a chill through the capital. Old-timers joked, "If you thought Charles was bad, you ain’t seen nothing yet." Fear became the new currency.

James had always been the black sheep, left out of family photos, remembered for all the wrong reasons. If Charles hadn’t self-destructed, James never would have seen the inside of the Governor’s Mansion.

Once in power, James made sure no brother could follow in his footsteps—he unleashed a bloody purge, wiping out nearly all his kin. The mansion grew silent, neighbors crossing the street, the family cemetery filling fast.

The Young mansion ran red with blood, while the northern capitol echoed with ghosts. Papers spun lurid tales of haunted halls and shadowy voices. Even the bravest guards flinched after dark.

In the north, Allen installed Thomas’s son Richard as president, but soon found him disagreeable and killed him, too. It became a grim joke: presidents came and went faster than the seasons, portraits drying just as they died.

Even the undertakers whispered that a Thompson deserved better. But Allen’s luck ran out. The cabinet united, overthrew him, and backed Jonathan Thompson—grandson of Thomas, son of the vice president Allen had driven to death. Jonathan’s first act was to hang his father’s portrait above the Oval Office fireplace, a silent promise.

Allen was arrested and executed. The city celebrated with parades; for the first time in years, hope flickered, even if tinged with exhaustion.

Jonathan Thompson became president in 1852, serving thirteen years. His face became a fixture—on post office walls, in family scrapbooks. People dared to breathe a little easier.

James Long, president from 1853 to 1864, ruled by excess and fear. His name became a byword for corruption, whispered in darkened halls. Few mourned his passing.

Their terms overlapped. The divide felt less like a wound, more like an old scar—aching in bad weather, mostly ignored as life moved on.

For a decade, north and south found uneasy peace, sometimes even trading goods. Train cars rattled across borders, merchants hawked wares, and for a while, money did what guns could not.

Jonathan Thompson was peace-minded, the opposite of his warlike forebears. He tried to heal old wounds, but the fractures ran deep. Cabinet meetings stretched past midnight; even good intentions got lost in committee. Still, he was remembered as a decent man in a tough time.

James Long was another story. His parties were infamous—wild affairs that made the city gossips’ heads spin. If only lust were his vice, he’d be just another scandalous leader, but James smashed all boundaries. The stories about his debauchery would make even seasoned journalists blush.

With the north quiet, James called it a victory for southern diplomacy. His inner circle toasted to fat years ahead. After wiping out his brothers and generals, he threw daily parties in the mansion, calling in beauties—married or not—for his pleasure. The servants gossiped, moralists wrung their hands, and the tabloids had a field day.

In 1864, James Long died. Jonathan Thompson followed a year later. Their funerals—one wild, one somber—both drew crowds. Some came to mourn, others to make sure the old order was truly gone.

James’s son, David Long, took over—a man whose reputation already made the city shudder. His excesses made his father’s look tame. Staff turned over faster than the weathervane on City Hall. Rumors swirled—James would have blushed at half the stories told about David.

Family reunions were tense, more security than guests. After taking power, David picked up where his father left off, eliminating any relatives who posed a threat. He rounded up surviving uncles—some jailed, some executed, some mutilated. People crossed themselves passing the mansion, and some said the air grew colder near the gates.

David’s cruelty was legendary. He gave each uncle a nickname—one, William Young Jr., was dubbed "Pig King" for his size. David locked him in a filthy cell, forcing him to eat like an animal. The story spread, turning William’s nickname into a cruel playground taunt.

For over a year, David’s depravity dominated the headlines. Finally, his own cabinet had enough. They staged a coup, killed him, and put "Pig King" William Young Jr. in the White House. The nation reeled from the bloodshed; even the most jaded reporters struggled to keep up with the carnage.

Almost simultaneously, Michael Thompson succeeded Jonathan Thompson as president in the north—just a boy of ten, with real power held by the cabinet. Teachers told students the president was a kid like them; parents wondered how grown men could take orders from a child.

Michael Thompson was ambitious, and with the formidable First Lady Frances Thompson at his side, he launched a coup, eliminating powerful ministers and seizing control. The First Lady’s name became legend, spoken with awe and fear.

The coups of William Young Jr. and Michael Thompson both came in 1866, setting them at the starting line together. Editorial cartoons mocked William as lost at the start while Michael dashed ahead. The nation watched, waiting for one or both to stumble.

But William’s troubles ran deeper. Before he could act, David’s third brother Andrew Long led a mutiny, marching toward the capital with drums and banners. Several cabinet members staged their own coup, killing David and installing William Young Jr.

Andrew Long was stunned by William’s message: "I’ve already dealt with the culprit—go home to your families." Andrew spat on the order, declared himself president, and pressed on. At first, Andrew controlled 80% of the territory. But William, spurred by desperation, mounted a ferocious counterattack, killing Andrew within a year—a bulldog in a boxing ring, knocking out younger rivals.

Sadly, William was brave only with family. Against outside enemies, he folded. In 1867, he sent troops north against Michael Thompson and was crushed, losing cities and land. The balance shifted for good. The south never regained the upper hand. But in the taverns and church pews, folks still whispered—what if the tide turned one more time?

After defeat, William turned inward, purging any relatives who might threaten his rule. His paranoia emptied the halls of power. In 1872, William died, and his nine-year-old son, William Young III, became president. The inauguration was somber—the boy’s feet barely touched the floor behind the desk.

In 1876, Michael Thompson died suddenly at twenty-three, succeeded by another child, Michael Thompson Jr. Rumors of poison and plots swirled. The nation, tired of child rulers, wondered if any adult would ever hold power again.

Despite his age, William Young III was vicious. He invented torture devices and went out in disguise, ordering followers to kill those he disliked and dissecting their bodies in secret. The city was paralyzed with fear, curfews the new normal. Parents told children cautionary tales about the "monster in the mansion."

In 1877, Daniel Carter staged a coup, killed the child, and put William’s brother Robert in the White House. Bells rang out, and churches prayed for normalcy. In 1879, Carter forced Robert to resign, taking the presidency himself and renaming the state Carter—the Southern Carter Administration.

At the resignation ceremony, Robert cried, "May I never again be born into the presidential family!" The cry echoed across the marble steps—a plea heard by thousands. The Young Administration, founded in blood, vanished into dust. The banners burned in the streets; the Young name became a warning for generations.

In the north, Michael Thompson Jr. sat in the Oval Office, but real power belonged to First Lady Frances Thompson—a legend in her own right. She ran cabinet meetings with an iron will, her name spoken with pride by northern women. Under her rule, electric lights flickered to life in northern towns, and the scent of fresh-cut timber from new schoolhouses filled the air. She modernized the Northland Union, laying the foundation for its transformation into an agricultural and industrial powerhouse.

In 1882, Daniel Carter died, succeeded by his son Stephen. Both were virtuous, focused on nation-building and peace. Under Stephen, the south enjoyed the "Bright Years"—gardens bloomed, trade flourished, and the echoes of war faded. For a moment, north and south found common ground.

In 1890, First Lady Thompson died, and Michael Jr. took the reins. Her funeral procession stretched for miles, and newspapers credited her reforms with saving the north from collapse. Michael, now grown, stepped into a daunting legacy.

In 1893, Stephen Carter died, succeeded by his grandson Charles. The transition was somber but smooth. That year, Michael Jr. moved the capital to Springfield and launched the "Thompson Modernization"—telephones, streetcars, and fresh ideas reshaped the city. He dressed in tailored suits, read European newspapers, and surrounded himself with advisors from every corner. His vision: heal the old wounds and unify the nation.

While the north moved confidently forward, the south spun in circles, chasing ghosts. After Charles Carter took office, the Southern Carter Administration was rocked by coup after coup, in an endless chain. And so the south spun in circles, chasing ghosts, while up north, the future waited—bright, unblinking, and just out of reach.