Even from a distance, it was plain to see that the Vaimese had brought their full might to bear upon the nation of Belisio. There were no tricks, no signs of diversionary tactics or strategic manoeuvring, or any semblance of strategy at all... save for one: superiority of numbers. An endless sea of men and material crashing against the line of Belisian defenders below in an unrelenting wave of fire. Knight Commander Roland Leonis stood at the front of the bridge as he watched the battle unfold, grimly noting that the left flank was beginning to waver.

"Helmsman, take the southern approach," he said as a bright explosion bloomed on the battlefield and lit up the night sky, no doubt magical in nature. "And make haste."

"Aye, milord," the pilot responded as he turned the steering wheel, causing the sky carrier to yaw ever so slightly to the left.

Surprised by the change in course, the captain of the ship glanced at his console before speaking up, "Sir, is that wise? Our orders were to approach from the west and flank the enemy, this will take us directly to the front."

"Yes, I am aware," Roland replied. "For that is my intent."

"But sir, with all due respect-"

"The situation has changed, captain. By the time we move into position, our left flank will have fallen and it will be too late to provide any reinforcements at all. The time to deploy is now. Will you accommodate?"

The captain fell silent for a moment as he read the tactical feeds on his console before looking back at the Knight Commander and replying with a slight bow, "As you will, my lord."

"Very good, now call the battlegroup to assembly. It is time to join the fight."

And with those words, Roland turned and made his way across the bridge with one hand resting on the hilt of his ancestral longsword, Starlight. Ever so faintly humming with power in anticipation of the battle to come.

---

Meanwhile in the shuttle bay of the carrier, Liffis Kai stood among the other Spectres with his eyes closed and hands clasped in silent prayer. Some others were following suit until the voice of the ship's captain announced, "All hands, prepare to deploy. I repeat, all hands prepare to deploy."

Liffis opened his eyes and looked around as men began rushing all over the place. Pilots to their shuttles, technicians to their stations, soldiers to their squads and standing amidst them all like a river around a rock were the nation's fighting elite. Knights, Battlemages and Spectres, each one an army unto themselves. Some were veterans of a hundred battles, others were newly made. Either way, all of them wielded powers far beyond that of the average human being.

Though they were all meant to form a single battlegroup, each of them only stood with their own kind. Knights with Knights, mages with mages, Spectres with Spectres. At least between the Knights and Battlemages, there was a sense of camaraderie. An exchange of boasts and insults, but around the Spectres was a conspicuous gap between them and anyone else as though surrounded by a forcefield. Even the soldiers avoided them if they could help it.

Liffis hoped that none of his fellows would take it to heart. He was no stranger to being ostracized and he did not think that there was any malice involved. It was only natural to be wary of those who could read the thoughts of others, though Liffis was not so skilled at that as he was in controlling emotions. That of his own as well as the enemy's.

Perhaps there was also something about the program itself that was unsettling to others, but as Liffis contemplated what that something might be, a coughing fit interrupted his thoughts and he muffled it with a hand over his mouth until it subsided.

Not long now, he thought as he moved his hand away and looked at the blood on his palm, a constant reminder of the time he had left in his shortened lifespan. "Hope I can make it worthwhile," he said out loud without realizing it, another quirk from the Spectre program.

His eyes glazed over as he continued to stare at the blood on his hand, becoming so lost in it that he did not notice the Knight Commander entering the shuttle bay. His presence marked by his tall stature and suit of plate armour.

The ship swarmed like a hive; soldiers of all stripes maneuvering around each other in haste. Like a flight of bees, they moved with purpose and order, despite a sense of chaos and tension. Most people now on their feet, getting into rank and file, checking over equipment, fiddling nervously.

Still sitting, moving with the slowness of someone who either didn't care or was sure of the result, a woman nearly all in white prepared for her part.

She didn't like to switch from her air tank to her battle-mask any earlier than she needed to. It wasn't as comfortable, but what about battle ever is? Once her device was discarded and set aside, and her new way of breathing in place, she flexed her hands. A pale turquoise light shone around her legs, forming from thin air. First seeming like vapor, then gaining an edge and mass like hardened glass, a set of greaves clad her. She shifted her weight onto the pommel of her sword, and hoisted herself up.

Taking a moment to settle back onto her bones, Loretta Voltylun moved in measured steps towards her group.

A lot of famous names and faces here. Though that is to be expected when partaking in the world's last lines of defence.

The spectres, always the odd ones out. A grimly quiet bunch. She regarded them in passing with a clinical eye.

While they aren't often met with much familiarity from the knights or battlemages, she felt some connection with them. Had her magic powers not awakened, she wonders if she'd be in their ranks instead.

The battlemages; lesser in numbers than the knights, as always. Even here she feels a touch out of place. She stands beside another odd one out; more so than herself. Mr. Drunoda. A turncoat from a noble family. She wasn't much sure of his personality, nor her ability to trust him, but that was all the more reason to stay close in her eyes. She offered him nothing but a polite nod as she sunk into the group. His abilities might match well with hers, or against. So he'll be one to watch out for.

Across were the knights. The ever proud and noble knights. She regarded them, shiny and sharp, mottled and blunted. Heroes all the way through. She hears one of her ilk call them boy-scouts, and lets the tiniest sliver of a smile form under her mask. An old standby, but always fun.

Finally her eyes settle on THE knight. Roland Leonis. An old man in a young man's game; something worthy to respect and fear.

She's had her run-ins with him before. She's decided she likes the man, though she can't place when. If any knights is going to tell her what to do, he'll have the easiest time of it.

The air seems to vibrate with the energy inside and out the aircraft. Like the thumping of a drum, or a beating heart. Their turn is coming.

Her turn is coming.

Turzo "Wrath" Drunoda

The hangar was busy, as busy s it gets when your about to hot drop into a combat zone. People scurried about completing tasks and making sure vehicles and super soldiers alike were stocked with ammo and supplies. You could see the panic in the faces of the new bloods and the stalwart determination of the veterans. The air was thick with the smell of oil, sweat, and the ever-looming smell of exhaust from the vehicles warming up. Flashing red and yellow lights and communicators calling everyone to general quarters. The distant rumble of battle slowly filling into the hull as the giant flying battle form shifted in the sky towards their objective.

Leaning against the southern wall near the crew quarters stood a man dressed in a thick coat with a deep hood that hid his face but not the subtle yellow and orange glow from what lingered underneath. A marine stood next to him obviously tasked with escorting the person around the ship. The sounds of beating tribal drums sounded loud in his communicator while he was working on his breathing. A form of meditation that he practiced before a battle to both gather the ambient mana from around him and prepare him for what is to come next.

A hand on his shoulder broke him from this, the marine tasked to escort him around the ship motioned towards the formation of soldiers in the middle of the hangar then left the man’s side to return to his duties. He had been with this nation for the last 6 months but still required him to travel with an escort when ever he was out of combat. It was part of the deal that allowed him to participate in the war otherwise he doubted the higher ranks would allow him to be even near the military in any sense thinking him to be a spy.

Wrath pushed the jacket off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor, turning off his music and began to step forward towards the formation. Yellow and orange light flowed off him, even though he was of rather average height and build among the super soldiers and Knights. Turzo walked with the determination and grace of nobility. Each step was taken as if he was a giant among insects and the looks he gave the others around him said as much.

Other than the dampeners and shield generator he did not have much to cover the glowing tattoos and the shining emblem of his glorious Vaimese Empire boldly etched into his back. He wore what looked to be some sort of armored kilt that held his mirage field generators. His feet covered in a heavy armored combat boot. The eyes that glared at him as he walked past did not seem to phase the man at all, not even the nickname glowstick seemed to pull him from his bearing as a member of nobility.

Taking his place at the front of the formation for battle mages he let his eyes wander. He could see the hate of the others that looked at him as he was the basic embodiment of everything they were fighting against, a few here he did recognize at least. The knight commander who was his handler the first few months he was here and even now Turzo can only deploy wherever that man is. A noble gentleman who has been the only person he has met so far to garner the Mage’s respect in any way. Some of the super soldiers looked familiar but he hadn’t really talked with anyone here yet as that wasn’t his plan to gain allies on this side.

The mage that took her place next to him was a bit different and didn’t seem to get in his way too often, but it also didn’t seem like she held the same malice the others held for him. But that malice was good, it gave these people drive, that drive is what they needed right now.

As it stood the air was obviously tense normally it would be the captain or one of the honorable knights to speak up and say something. He found that whenever he did it was always with mixed results. He didn’t have too but the better the others fight the easier it is for him to clear out the battlefield.

“Soldiers of Belisio! Never was so much owed by so many to so few. Here you are legends, here you stand among them as brothers and sisters!”

As a noble it was his duty to say at least something if he were home. Of course, then it would have been to the other mages and not the slaves. As the mages are the nobility that send the slaves to slaughter in a war of attrition.

Waves of heat distortion began to pour off him while his shields flared keeping most of the heat, he was producing within them. “Stand firm in the face of this storm as your names are etched into history on this day! Legends never die When your nation is calling you! Specters! Knights! Soldier’s! Mages! Men and women of the Great nation of Belisio! Stand tall and fight for your nation, your people! Together we will push the enemy back! Together we will win this day for Belisio!”

He wasn’t expecting anything from them morale is a fickle beast one that can make or break a battle or a war. All he could hope was that it might have helped someone. Turzo stepped back into his formation and stopped radiating heat.

Vires “The Griff” Spaeros

Griff stood confidently in the center of 7 Knights, each of whom Griff had served with in several engagements with the Vaim forces. They were awaiting their orders from Knight Commander, Roland Leonis, “The Old Lion”, and “Old” is an accurate account, and with age comes wisdom, an asset not every Knight has been known to possess.

“Griff, when we dive, what say you on a wager between our blades?” Dane, a grimly handsome devil with long thick jet black hair and a smooth voice challenged Griff in a confident tone. Griff turning his head to meet Dane’s soft brown eyes responded with his own confidence, “I’d say 1,000 Belisi Coin and winner engraves their surname in the other’s armor.” Dane a little surprised by the added remark of branding each other’s artifacts eagerly accepted, “Yes! A perfect prize!” Griff smiled, “May you find comfort in our win after I slash my name across your chest when this day is over.” Dane cracked a laugh, “Federo, do you want in too?”

Federo was slightly older then Griff and younger than Dane. He was a skilled Knight who specialized in pole-arms and heavy weapon fire. He carried with him a powerful side arm, retractable axe to pike and mounted on his power suit over the right shoulder was a small anti-tank rocket set-up that staged 6 Puncher Rounds. Puncher rounds would slam into a armor or mechanized unit without exploding, and then detonate inside the unit to neutralize occupants instead of immobilizing the unit from the outside. Federo was a large-built man weighing 250lbs at a height of 7’. He was not an agile one, he was more like the Linebacker, always there to fill gaps and plug up any holes on the front lines. Federo delayed in response to Dane’s ask, “Is it appropriate to gamify the end of those husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters?” Dane’s head popped back for a second, not a response he expected. Before Dane could reply, Kass, a lean lethal fighting machine specializing in the short sword and shield combo, chimed in, “Federo the Ethical, do not forget what those “things” are. Those things have pillaged, raped, and ransacked entire nations between here and their own original territory, they are not to be humanized. They are not my people, they are the monsters who my people have had to courageously fend against for their families, the families I care about…get off your pious mount with such a question and sit with the rest of us, I’m in on this wager!” She was not about to give any ounce of sympathy to a Vaimese cat, in her mind, they all deserved to meet their Maker.

Federo accepted Kass' reasoning, he nodded, turned to face the hangar gates, “then let’s see who’s blade is strongest.”

Griff was staggered off Federo’s center-line, raising his left hand to meet the broad right shoulder of Federo in an expression of understanding, “Taking a life is never easy, but necessary when those who depend on you are in danger of losing their own. Of course, it is those who die that have it the easiest. For those who live must continue to find ways of lightening the heavy load of suffering and meaning after all the loss.” Griff knew how important it was in war to maintain fellowship. Every man and woman had their own way of dealing with the pain of violence, some turned to faith, others to games, and some resisted making any sense of it altogether. In the end, their roles did not change in the story, they were going to take life, and it was up to God to sort the rest out.

Kass scanned after delivering her scathing review on the “things” of Vaim. She witnessed the hangar begin to buzz alive which meant orders were given recently for the dive. It was nearing that time to meet the enemy, but an unsettling feeling of sharing such a task with the Battlemages across from where the Knights were grouping up reared face. Kass looked toward Griff without receiving his attention since she stood behind him and he was currently facing the back of Federo, “Griff! Is “Old” Man sure we can trust the likes of these mages, I mean, they are exactly the same stock we are fighting against?” Griff turned around hearing Kass call him out and with poise he spoke, “I trust our Knight Commander’s decision to integrate our talents, and, I trust that if any of them turn around in an act of betrayal, like, the defected agent of Vaim, Turzo Drunoda, you and the rest of us will cut them down before they become a big problem.”

Kass turned toward the defected battle mage with obvious glaring tattoos of some magic origin. She took a minute to settle her feelings, “I call dibs if that son of b**** forgets which side he is on.” Griff shot a smirk, “I would not expect any less.”

To all their surprise, the defected mage stepped out of order and gave a speech that fell to deaf ears of the Knights that resonated around Griff. Kass shouted after Turzo stepped back into line, “Cool speech! Don’t forget your place traitor!” As a Knight, honor, and strength burned at her core, there was no honor in betraying one’s nation, even if that nation was her enemy. It would take a lot more than a speech to sway the opinions of most Knights who saw would see Turzo for what he is, a Battlemage without honor, would he prove them wrong or right was still to be determined.

Emmet stared in the mirror, humming a small patriotic tune to himself as he drew the blade across his face. With each stroke hair fell down and his soft flesh shone through. In the mirror he saw a half-shaven and mustached man, a parted haircut that could use some work, and the crest of a knight on his lapel. He stopped for a moment to consider the symbol, a symbol of his masters and his enlistment. He was not a free man. These thoughts were pushed aside for now as he finished his shave, and his song of patriotism drowned out any doubt that he may have had.

Stepping out of the wash room he entered into the rest of the barracks, a certain stillness filled the air when he entered. Although a knight of Belisio and carrying the gait of any knight of his position, some weary eyes watched him with every movement. Rumors had always filled the air at night. Some had heard of the Butcher and asked whether or not this could be the mad dancer himself. Others knew him as the lost son of House Singh, recently returned to noble life and given a position in the military with his connections.

Only a few knew him as Emmet, one of them including an ambitious young lieutenant by the name of Maximillian.
"Clean shave, Emmet?"
"Yes sir. And pray tell, how have your men been feeling about the oncoming conflict."
Maximillian laughed, "the hounds smell blood my friend, the hounds smell blood." Emmet took this in for a moment before responding.
"Well, don't let the thought of it get to their heads, or yours for that matter, too much excitement can do a number on one's focus." He paused before continuing, "and the quest for blood is not all its cut out to be."

Before Maximillian could reply a voice interrupted, and the whole ship was called to battle. With mutual confusion as to the change of plans Maximillian looked to Emmet for guidance. He and all his fellow officers looked to each other as Emmet broke the palpable silence, "well then gents, I will see you all on the field of battle, the Fifth Shock and Awe Platoon will be ready to save your asses." Some laughs filled the room as the men got to preparing themselves for battle. Each putting on their armor and their weapons of choice. Other officers cried out the calls and the sayings of their platoons.

Emmet grabbed Rasselbock and donned his powered breast plate. With his other armaments at his side he finally marched out of the barracks, quickly pacing down the hall with a remarkable apathy, as other squads and individual knights ran frantically around him. Reaching the hanger he found his platoon ready for him to join in, although far from at attention. The platoon was lightly armored and armed with a myriad of close quarter weaponry. He went down the ranks of his fellow men giving each a handshake or a pat on the shoulder before taking his own spot, and a feeling of comradery between officer and soldier hung between them. Finally, he chose to make the silent fellowship more palpable through words.

"Gentlemen, knights of Belisio, ... and everyone else," he said with a smile. "We go into battle now, and we go boldly forth. Without fear or apprehension we must prevail. You are the Fifth Shock and Awe Platoon, and this is the start of our work here in this ship. Our work in this conflict is more important than any other platoon about to go out their today. We are here for one purpose and one purpose alone: fear. The enemy will fight with great vigor and with great passion, yes, but we must break that. Our work may be dirty, it may be ungentlemanly, and by the gods on high it will be bloody. But when they see the blood that we spill with the power of our will then they will know fear. We will give no quarter, we will never surrender, and we will come to the salvation of our fellow infantry. I will see you there, boys!"

With a resounding "see you there," from his fellow knights, he smiled once more at his fellow men. Looking upon the faces, some fresh to combat, he enjoyed this moment. This moment that will never come again with these same men. Soon time will take these fresh faces just as it took his own.

A young man sat on a crate, observing the gleaming sphere hovering just above his right hand, covered up to his shoulder in black, angular tattoos. The sleeveless kinetic armor he wore was almost skintight, maximizing his mobility without skimping on protection. His shoulder-length black hair fell over his face as his silver eyes watched the matching sphere in his hand transform, becoming a cube, then a star, before becoming a sphere once more. Everyone had their own rituals, their ways to prepare for battle: meditation, having one last laugh with brothers- and sisters-in-arms, not knowing when or even if they'd see each other again. This small display of his power, a warm-up, was his ritual.

This wasn't the first battle Isaac had been a part of. The scar over his left eye throbbed, a memento from his first battle, where an enemy's blade had nearly taken his eye. He knew, however, that no matter how many dozens or hundreds of battles he fought, he would always dread it. Though he had long since learned to never hesitate and he was fully aware of what he had signed up for, the thought of having to take a life never sat well with him. His resolve, however, remained unshaken. Whatever it was that awaited them should the Empire win, Isaac knew it wouldn't be anything good.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the voice of Turzo Drunoda. Like everyone else, he was familiar with the Vaimese noble's past, at least so far as the fact that he had switched sides. Unlike most people, however, Isaac couldn't say he had too much of a problem with it. On one hand, he knew that he should be somewhat wary of the possibility that Drunoda could be a spy, but he felt that if the Empire wanted to send a spy, they wouldn't have sent someone so conspicuous. As for whether or not Drunoda might change sides and fight for his homeland in the end, again, Isaac couldn't bring himself to be worried. He knew enough about the Empire to know that if the ex-noble tried to go back, he would be even less well-received than he was by Belisio. Besides, Isaac was the kind of person who was always willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt, at least until he was given a reason not to.

As the tension reached palpable heights and the din of conversation faded, Isaac sighed and rose to his feet. The sphere hovered in front of his chest before it pressed against him. It flattened out and spread over his chest, sides, and torso, becoming a solid vest of iron. Black mist issued out from the iron and surrounded his body. It solidified as he walked over to his fellow battlemages and by the time he took his place, he was wearing a long overcoat made of carbon. Like always, as he stood with his fellow soldiers, he felt underequipped, even among the other battlemages, but he also knew he was just as prepared for what was to come as anyone else.

"Holy Man," one of the Spectres whispered while clapping a hand on Liffis's shoulder. "You're spacing out again."

Broken out of his reverie, Liffis looked around at the one who touched him and muttered his thanks before turning his attention to the Knight Commander, striding towards the front of the shuttle bay like a lord among lords.

It seemed that no matter the nation, all highborns had the distinct ability to make one feel lesser by simply being in their presence and for a moment, Liffis was a child of the slums again, remembering what it was like to see a noble for the time. Like demigods, they seemed. Inhabitants of another world that would forever be out of reach for those scurrying after the scraps at their feet.

Different time, different life, Liffis reminded himself as he tried to banish the memory from his thoughts. It did not do to dwell on the past, especially with the weight of old regrets clinging to it. Before he could think about such things however, one of the Battlemages, an extravagantly tattooed man bearing the unmistakeable emblem of the Vaimese Empire upon his back, suddenly broke into speech and when he was done, one of the Knights jeered, "Cool speech! Don’t forget your place traitor!"

"Peace, Kass," Roland responded as he took his place in front of the entire group, standing before one of the shuttles that would deliver them into battle. "It was a stirring speech. Would that it be enough to defeat the enemy."

So this is the final hope of Belisio, he thought as he surveyed the men and women he would soon be leading into hell. Knights, Battlemages, Spectres, a congregation of all the nation's mightiest champions. Some stood alone like the Legion Witch, Loretta, and the Steel Mage, Isaac. Some stood with their fellows like young Griff of the house of Spaeros, surrounded by his boisterous companions and other notable worthies. One even led his own retinue, a full platoon under the charge of Emmet 'Butcher' Dukes - the prodigal son of the Singh family - who was delivering his own speech at the moment.

That family wields too much power, Roland thought as he remembered his reluctance in granting knighthood to the man, especially given his dubious past. Even so however, only one thing stood out above all other considerations in Roland's mind and it was the shocking realization of just how few they were. Altogether, they must have amounted to little more than a fleck of mist compared to the ocean of fire swelling beneath them, but somehow they were to turn the tide of battle.

Roland took a deep breath as he thought of how it all came to this.

---

---

His mind returning to the present, the Knight Commander clasped his hands behind his back as he addressed the assembly, "I won't lie to you all, the situation is grim. We can no longer afford to wait for the enemy to bunch themselves up and take them all out in one fell swoop as we originally hoped. Our left flank is weakening and it won't be long before it collapses entirely. Our best chance now is to rally the line and push back with everything we've got.

But once we've done that however, we must push on even further and not lose a single second of momentum for though the enemy host is vast, they are all controlled by relatively few officers. Mages of course, so strike hard, strike fast and stop for nothing before they can react. With any luck we'll reach their general, cut off the head of the host and cause a rout.

I want Knights to carve a path through the enemy, Battlemages to provide support and Spectres, you will do what you do best. Deliver the killing blow. Essentially, we must simply do what we have been doing all along and that is to kill every single Vai mage we encounter... except for this one here."

Roland pointed at Turzo briefly before continuing, "Now unless anyone has a problem with that, let's mount up and forward unto battle! Strength and honour, my friends!"

"Strength and honour!" some of the Knights echoed as they followed their commander into the shuttle, engines whirring and primed to deploy as the ship's hangar doors slowly opened, revealing a glimpse into the hellscape below.

"O grace of Light, grant us strength to endure the trials to come," Liffis intoned as he embarked on a separate shuttle reserved for the Spectres. "O grace of Light, protect us all."

Turzo "Wrath" Drunoda

The speech went as well as he could hope with the muscle bound meat heads and the ever so silent shadows lingering in the corner. The specters were definitely different they represented the saying, desperate times call for desperate measures. Not even the empire would push the human body so far with so many machines unless they were slave and a prized possession of a noble family. One who takes more value in the physical means of a person then what makes them a person in the first place.

The mages seemed to be rather distant or at least quiet not wanting to speak up so far. The knight across from them apparently called Kass spoke up as more soldiers filtered in, another noble knight by the looks of him. Still the traitor comment did catch his attention but did not let it show that it got under his skin.

“Unfortunately for you noble knight I neither have the time nor the crayons to explain the empires judicial system to you. However you can rest assured that because of an oath I swore, I am honor bound to fight against my nation. It’s a concept I don’t expect you to understand but I’m sure you will eventually.”

He wasn’t so high up on his pedestal to not be able to throw around a few insults now and then, by the smile on his face anyone could tell he enjoyed provoking the others. He was telling the truth after all, the justice system of the Vaim Empire was strife with loopholes and ancient customs that unless the Emperor himself wills it can be very hard to navigate. The oath of justice he swore was the reason he was fighting alongside them.

The old and rarely used custom that he invoked was used in times of trouble for the empire. If one saw something that needed changed they could challenge it. Depending on what it was, was dependent on what the individual had to do to change it. Most used this to lobby for small changes within the empire and few would go to the lengths he had. To put it simply one had to bring the case to the courts with evidence that something was wrong and effort by the person submitting it to show how important and or serious it was to them. These cases were always for the betterment of the empire and ultimately the emperor would have the final say.

For Turzo he had seen the corruption within the empire and its armies, they were supposed to be there to grow the empire and annex the surrounding nations. When he saw the rampant strife and destruction his fellows were doing to those who were conquered and made members of the empire angered him. Even if they were a slave they still had some rights on their path to being a full citizen. Seeing this he called in every favor and spent most of his wealth on people that would gather information and proof of these crimes while he went into self-isolation to fight against his own countrymen.

Through this he would gather his proof and show his effort by fighting. He knew that either on his death or when he returned he will be judged. Ultimately deciding whether he would be executed, exiled permanently, or rule that he was correct. Obviously people would fight him over it but in his eyes he was still an honorable patriot of the Vaim Empire.

Taking stock of their surroundings once more as the knight commander spoke up and began talking about the battle plan and how it was going to change. He took a better note of the “witch” standing next to him and the other mage covered in black that took up a position on the other side of him. Judging by their gear neither looked like the type that would be best at a distance like himself. Still they were battle mages like him just like the others behind him as well. He wondered how many would be able to make it out as the door to the hangar slid open revealing the battle ground below.

“For the glory of the Empire.” He spoke under his breath and turned toward their shuttle. then he called out to the other mages, “Come friends, let’s show these lessor’s just what power truly is.” With a smile he stepped up onto the shuttle but kept close to the door. The glow from him began to intensify as he worked on his breathing. It was time to get into the zone and be ready to be the destroyer he was made to be.

Kass snarled at Drunoda, “No one wanted an explanation! I am reminding you of who you are and where you stand in this lot! Prove us wrong or don’t, I will take pleasure in responding to both!”

“Peace, Kass.” Words that shocked the depths of Kass’ being like a thunderous whisper. Kass held tremendous respect for Roland, her wits snapping back into place. Her gaze quickly reoriented toward’s the Lion of Belisio. She purged her thoughts quickly to give room for Roland’s address.

Dante did not do the same. He was one of the seven Knights who followed Griff by choice stood in the far back with Ciri and Lucia. Dante was the silent type who kept himself brief in conversation, but when he did speak, his tongue dropped heavy and thoughtful prose. Slender in physique, agile, and accurate. He was a marksman and short ax handler. His abilities surrounded his speed of execution. Dante tilted his head back. He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. In his mind he imagined the sounds of his hometown, Bova. Dante drifted across cliff sides as waves crashed into the high rock walls, until he reached the water well at the center of a loosely stoned town square with the smell of baking bread and strings of the church band playing. His vision took him through the narrow warm corridors that revealed a familiar wooden door opening into his mother and father’s den. Both smiling as they sat at the family table sipping coffee from this morning’s brew. His mother gently cutting a small piece of bread for Dante’s father, and then placing another piece on an empty plate before an empty seat. His vision pulled him toward the empty seat as the calling of his sister echoed from upstairs, “I’m coming!”, the footsteps of a 9-year old eager girl charged down the steps with a big smile on her face taking her seat. Dante’s vision stopped pulling him toward the family table, they all placed their heads down clasping hands, his father praying and then releasing with the final comment, “So be it.” His father looking up to gaze into Dante’s being. Immediately the vision rushed Dante out of the house, toward the town square, up into the sky, and back to the waves crashing against the cliffside.

Dante opened his eyes as he felt Ciri’s finger draw a tear away from his eye, “Are you ready?” She asked gently. Dante tilted his head forward, commanding his attitude back into formation, “Are we ever Ciri?” She replied, “No.” And then smiled, “So be it.” Dante whispered back, “So be it.”

When Roland finished, Griff turned around toward his compatriots, “We do not define the outcome, but we will define how it is told. No matter what happens when we dive, find each other, stand together, stand firm, and then we move forward.” Griff paused, he looked at Dane, Federo, Kass, Ciri, Dante, Lucia, and Omir, each nodding their heads out of recognition and love. They had fought alongside each other for quite some time, and each knew this campaign would be different than any other they’ve ever suffered before. Before Griff turned back to lead them into the shuttle he noted out loud, “Remember…no heroes, only Knights.” The 7 responded, “Strength and Honor!” The group moved toward the shuttle following Leonis.

Emmet and his fellow knights marched through the hanger onto their shuttle. It was a piece of machinery to behold, never had warfare been so quick. Each knight took his place within the shuttle, remaining in their formation. Each man stood, holding the safety handles above. Little light entered the shuttle, leaving the men in dim lighting with their faces obscured.

Some took this time while waiting for takeoff to prepare themselves. Some smoked a pipe, some prayed, and others simply took deep breaths. Emmet was cleaning his blade, Rasselbock, one last time before going into battle. He used a cloth that he kept in his belt, and he carefully wiped the dust off the edges of his tool. He did not know why he cleaned it, it made no difference to his enemy. Perhaps it was out of a sanctity for life, or maybe it was pure vanity. Either way, he knew that hours from now he would be cleaning it the same way with some more disposable cloths, as he did not like to keep a bloodied blade.

The blade now shined in the light of the shuttle, a reflective surface that gleamed through the dead of night that the men found themselves in. Emmet thought to sheath it for a moment, but instead he held onto it and grabbed the rail above his head with his free hand. Focusing his ki, Emmet began to put all his energy into his hand in preparation for the coming conflict. He felt the glow of his blade grow stronger, and a slight hum came from it. His hand began to sweat, and the guard began to shift. The ornate strands of metal began to wrap around his hand, and he felt the pressing of metal upon his flesh. His breath quickened, and he suddenly felt a deep and intimate connection with his blade, ready to move with unnatural speed.

Now prepared, he looked up to his men and broke the silence. "I will not lie to you, this work we now undertake is not tranquil, it is not ascetic, and it is not beautiful. Our blades and our clothes will be sullied with the blood of other men. They are exactly that, other human beings. The propaganda would like to tell you otherwise, and you know why? It's because it's the only way to survive. I know some of you have not seen conflict like this, and I give you this advice: know that you are fighting men, but do not let yourself feel it. It is the only way to live with yourself." With that he fell silent, and so the shuttle remained.

“All hands, prepare to deploy. I repeat, all hands prepare to deploy."

Nym’s attention snapped. She’d wasted too much time. Crux would’ve crucified her. Luckily, he wasn’t here. She ducked into a well filled quiver and tightened the strap across the protective plate covering her chest. Nym ducked and darted around those heading in other directions as she found her way through.

“Don’t.” A voice warned. “That’s the wrong direction and you’re already in a hurry,” the voice said. Nym whipped around to face her and determine who exactly she was speaking to. The woman stared back at her plainly.

Nym grinned in amusement and asked, “Oh? What exactly gave me away?” The woman looked her up and down as if to determine her worth and Nym caught a glance of a cybernetic neural node flush against her temple. “A spectre? Is it true you lot can read minds? I’ve never gotten the chance to ask, see-” she began when the woman abruptly cut her off to point her in the correct direction. “Fair. Thanks! You’re a saint!” Nym offered over her shoulder with a wink as she took off towards the shuttle she was intended for.

The knights began to take their spots and Nym fell into formation almost seamlessly. She cast a glance at the man next to her as she recognized the prayer he began to recite. Quickly, her attention shifted back overhead so she could grasp the support and steady herself.

“Are you religious?” she heard him ask. Nym often theorized that she looked approachable and it was why such normally reserved people felt free to speak so casually to her. Her wide eyed and curious expression shifted to him again but quickly unfocused.

Nym had been for most of her life. She recalled children begging for spare change and discarded food scraps in a desperate attempt to survive right outside her door. Nym thought of the nights she spent awake, losing her voice, howling for a being in the stars to help her mother pull through. Prayers that went unanswered despite the desperation and urgency behind them. When she refocused on the knight next to her, she shook her head briefly.

“Not anymore.”

A man she didn’t recognize offered his advice and saved her from her recollections. She watched him speak, thinking on his words. He was right, in his own way. It wasn’t what she chose to do, but it was entirely possible that he knew things she didn’t. Perhaps if she put in enough effort, she could rewire the firings in her brain to allow it.

‘God-willing,’ she thought bitterly.

“Ay, if you don’t mind, put in a good word for me? Maybe it would mean more coming from you,” she mused, casting her attention back to the knight next to her.

Meanwhile on the ground...

Fire and madness filled the air as the soldiers of Belisio battled on with all their might, each one of them bloodied in some way, but still holding on and facing down the endless horde of Vaimese invaders. Guns chattered, explosives thundered and above the din of combat, men howled their souls into the night with every trigger pull and thrown grenade. The Belisians knew that they were doomed, that this was their final hour and what remained of them would soon be engulfed by the endless tide rushing towards them, but still they screamed in defiance of that fate and fought on to the very last.

Minutes passed and the fighting was no longer at a distance, but hand to hand. Among the front ranks, Belisian combat knives clashed against Vaimese steel. Then seconds passed and a barrage of magic fire rained down from above, incinerating friends and foes alike. The mages of the Empire cared not for the lives of their slave soldiers, culled from the vestiges of nations conquered. Then just as it seemed that the end was near and the defences were finally about to be breached, a new sound emerged from the chaos. Compared to the noise of battle all around, it was barely a whisper. Only audible to those with still functioning commlink devices and augmentations, but the words were like trumpets heralding the approach of imminent salvation:

"This is Steed 1, reinforcements are en route. Coming in hot."

"Fight on you bastards!" shouted one of the men who heard the message. "The Knights are coming!"

"The Knights are coming!"

The shout was echoed all around and the Belisians took up arms with renewed vigour, guns raging against the coming storm.

---

After a brief look on the battlefield below, Roland determined that the situation was worse than he had initially thought. Had there been another moment of delay, it might have been too late. There was no time however to feel vindicated in his decision as the shuttle propelled forth, shooting out of the carrier ship and into the fray with VTOL engines screaming like wings of fire. From thousands of metres in the air to the scene of battle below, the drop took less than a minute and in that time, the left flank of the Belisian defence had managed to save itself from the brink of collapse, fighting the enemy forces to a standstill.

"Open the door, pilot," Roland said as the shuttle neared the ground. "Let them see us."

"Roger that, sir. Door's opening."

And with that, the Knight Commander unbuckled himself from his seat to stand at the rear of the shuttle as the door ramp was lowering, allowing a clear view of the Belisian defenders below. With his hair and cloak whipping in the wind, Roland drew Starlight from its sheathe and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Warriors of Belisio, you will stand firm!"

Then without waiting for the shuttle to land, he jumped out and landed light as a feather between the Belisian defenders and the enemy ranks, deflecting every bullet sent his way with the blade of his sword. As soon as a gap emerged in the hail of gunfire directed at him, he charged his ancestral weapon with Ki and released it in the form of a sweeping horizontal slash, cutting a swath through the invaders before him.

"Rally on me!" the Old Lion roared as he held his sword aloft, shining brightly with power like its namesake. "No quarter! No mercy!"

The Belisian soldiers echoed his shout as they formed a firing line on either side of him, emboldened by his presence. When the first shuttle at last touched down upon the ground, Roland called out to it, "Sir Vires, I shall hold the line here! Commence the attack and do not let a single enemy mage escape our wrath!"

The other shuttles were mere moments behind, but when they arrived it would be in a clear landing zone as the enemy forces were being pushed back further and further by the Knights of Belisio, charging into battle like the heroes of old.

Isaac glanced over at Turzo when he heard him mention showing their lessers what true power was, but said nothing as he stepped into the shuttle. Not only did he not trust his voice to not betray his nerves, but he considered everyone fighting, friend and foe alike, his equal. Not only was not over-confident in his own power, though he knew he could hold his own, he felt that if he thought of himself above anyone, it would only bite him in the end.

A few minutes, the inertia of the launching shuttle made him sway in his seat and he took a deep breath to settle himself, despite the occasional tremor that rolled through the shuttle. Whether it was from turbulence or enemy fire, Isaac preferred not to think too hard about it. The battle was one thing. Once he was on the ground, he'd actually be able to do something to keep himself alive, but in the air, stuck in the confined space of the shuttle, where a lucky shot could spell death for everyone on board...Suffice it to say, Isaac was not the biggest fan of flying.

A few moments later, he felt the shuttle slow down as the front of the ship rose, he knew they were preparing to land. He stood up and joined Turzo at the shuttle doors as the craft touched down. He could feel the heat radiating from the former Vaimese mage and couldn't help but feel sorry for any enemy that crossed his path. As the doors opened, he took another deep breath and said to the other mages with him, the encouraging smile on his face masking his nervousness, "Good luck, everyone. See you all on the other side."

Before the door fully touched earth, Isaac bolted out from the relative safety of the shuttle. Rather than hang back and support the knights from behind, Isaac made a charge straight toward the combat, having quickly found the spot that needed his help the most. The hem of his coat shortened, the carbon material transforming into a black mist as his iron vest flowed out from his sleeves in silver, fluid-like tendrils. With practiced ease, Isaac combined the molecular structures of the two materials and soon had eight double-edged swords with exposed tangs hovering in the space near him. The moment he entered the fray, the weapons began to whirl around him, a personal hurricane of flashing steel and the bright crimson of his enemies. Despite the seemingly chaotic patterns of the weapons that flew around him, not a single one came close to harming his allies, despite the close quarters, thanks not only to the mastery of his magic, but also his finely honed sense of spatial awareness.

It was that spatial awareness that alerted Isaac to the approaching threat. He quickly turned around and shielded himself with his arm as an axe blade came down on him. The assailant looked at Isaac in shock, having not expected his attack to be stopped dead in its tracks, not knowing about the carbon nanotube material Isaac's coat was made of, nor did he know about the kinetic armor underneath. Capitalizing on the Vaimese soldier's surprise, Isaac called one of his swords to his hand and swung it upward, slicing through the haft of the soldier's weapon as two more blades flew into his chest with enough force to pierce through his armor. As the man fell to the ground and Isaac withdrew the weapons, he looked down at the soldier's lifeless body for a moment before he turned away. He threw himself back into the battle, a fresh desire to end it as soon as possible driving him forward.

With the detached disinterest of the lazy cat watching over the mouse scurrying to and fro in its vain struggle for survival, the lanky ghoul watched as body after body flooded into the shuttle bay. His expression did little to betray the turmoil storming his mind as the buzzing began. With each new face, the buzzing in the boy’s head grew louder and louder, the various disembodied voices clashing against each other, merging and breaking apart as they formed a mad orchestra performing a concert that moved between beautiful symphony and agonizing discordance.

With every new thought or observation given form to join the disharmonious harmony, the paradoxical performance swelled to its climax. The young Spectre felt as if his mind were splitting apart at its seams.

Not long now

The words cut through the noise. The soothing warmth of familiarity serving as a shining beacon in the dark sea of insanity. As the boy focused on the words, his mind’s eye shifted, it’s gaze fixed solely on the source of its respite. As he grew closer, the orchestra’s damned song faded into the gentle hum of a choir. The boy’s eyes shifted from the impossible sea of faces to the form of the Holy Man gazing upon something in his hand. It would be nothing for the young Spectre to peer into his comrade’s mind, to see what he was seeing, know what he was contemplating.

But he wouldn’t dare.

Not this one.

Never this one.

The Holy Man towered over his brothers, the Spectres who congregated around him. There were some within their ranks who avoided the man…but they all recognized him. In some capacity anyway. Duncan certainly did. To the boy, he was the calm at the center of the storm. Order within chaos. An abnormality amongst abnormalities. Proof that they weren’t doomed to be the monsters that others saw them as. The potential to be…good?

No.

Not good.

Never good.

Images flashed across the boy’s mind. Blurry. Unfocused. Painful. He pushed them away, back into the dark shadows they sprung forth from.

With his train of thought derailed, Duncan turned his attention to the other wreck occuring before him. The Others gathered around their own ranks. Metal men in garish garb. Mages mulling over malevolent magicks. Some gave speeches, some gave insults. Some prayed like the Holy Man, some laughed with their fellows. The many little rituals of the men and women preparing for battle, with him as their silent, unseen audience. Occasionally, stray thoughts would pierce Duncan’s calm. He would let them in, let them say their piece, then let them leave. And then he would ponder.

Those thoughts of love.

Thoughts of joy.

Thoughts of duty and glory.

Of dread and sadness.

Of fear.

Of hatred.

He would hold each against his own heart, hoping to identify that feeling which resonated with his own…but he did so in vain. Whatever moved him, he either did not find it amongst the thoughts of the Others, or could not recognize it. For these gathered few, this would be a momentous occasion, something extraordinary that they would hopefully look back upon. But for Duncan…the coming battle would be no different than breathing or eating. For this was his purpose, his very reason for creation.

Like the cat finally pouncing upon the mouse, there’s no greater reasoning or motivation to the act. There is no malice. No joy. It is merely instinct.

Pure and primal.

---

As the Spectre shuttle lurched forward and took flight, Duncan found himself thinking of the Others. Before today, he had only worked with others within his own order. His own brothers. He knew little of the other Belisian forces. And there would have been a time when he would have gladly kept it that way. He had his tasks and they their own. But…something stirred within the boy. An uncertainty. A change. He had noticed it before. Back when his bro-

_{no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no} no no no no no no no no no

no no no no

no no no no

no

Another series of unfocused memories began to surface in the boy’s mind, but he averted his gaze. He knew that to gaze upon those images and slides now…it would break him. He didn’t know where that knowledge or his absolute certainty came from…and that terrified him. But ever the master of many masks, the boy refused to allow his face to betray him. His was a stony demeanor, the ghoulish Spectre of Dr. Mallard. In an effort to steel his mind, the boy found the Anchor. Liffis Kai. The Holy Man. He pushed his mind towards the solemn Spectre delicately, careful not to push too far. There would be no melding, no invasion. Only the passage of a thought - four words in an attempt to seek assurance.

”Knights…Mages…good people?”

In a shaky, uncertain voice, the young Spectre would speak his thoughts aloud rather than risk intruding upon the Holy Man’s privacy. For many, it would be their first time hearing the boy’s voice outside of their own heads. Raspy. Hoarse. Some shifted their gaze upon him, sizing him up, searching for weakness. Others turned towards Liffis, curious to see his reaction to the strange outburst. Most remained unfazed, their minds solely focused on the task at hand.

The young Spectre, however, awaited the sage’s wisdom with bated breath, his eyes trained solely towards Kai. The Belisian weapon was little more than the boy Ducky once more, a creature of earnest, unabashed curiosity.

And the answer he was given would doubtless shape the boy’s troubled heart.

As the shuttle made its rapid descent towards the battlefield, Liffis could feel the heady blend of fear, pain, hatred, anger and exhilaration radiating in waves from all the soldiers below, churning together into an almost narcotic like intoxication the closer they drew. No matter how many times he experienced it, Liffis could never quite seem to get used to it and it always took a great deal of effort to distinguish which parts of what he felt were his own sensations.

He felt the impact of a bullet ripping through his chest and looked down to reassure himself that it was not happening to him. Then came the raw grief of seeing a friend drop dead to the ground and he looked around at the other Spectres, reminding himself that he was not the soldier on the ground, firing his gun with rage in an attempt to avenge his fallen companion. Then came the sudden shock of an explosion and Liffis barely managed to restrain himself from flinging his own body into the side of the shuttle. That would have been embarrassing.

One by one, he addressed each of the intruding sensations until they faded into the background like white noise and he became aware of himself again. His own mind, his own thoughts whispering, Peace. Serenity. Calm... Calm. Let all else be washed away by the Light and trouble me no more.

Liffis breathed a sigh of relief as he had found his centre again, but there was something else. A feeling of... uncertainty? A change. Then terror. Sheer terror! And an almighty attempt to quash it. Were these emotions his own? No, Liffis realized as he looked around. They were someone else's. Someone nearby.

Then in a furtive voice, that someone spoke, "Knights… Mages… good people?”

Duncan, of course. The artificial human. Unique even among Spectres. Though he was young compared to the others, he had been a Spectre all his life and was thus technically the 'oldest' among the program. Still, as far as Liffis was aware, he himself was the oldest in terms of physical age and that made him an elder brother of sorts. A role he accepted readily as he responded to the young Spectre with a gentle smile, "Yes, they are good people."

Then the shuttle ramp dropped as the craft slowly touched down upon the ground, easing into position. The cacophony of battle instantly spilled in through the door and Liffis made sure he was the first one to stand outside on the ramp as the shuttle landed, raising his arms and throwing up a kinetic barrier to deflect any bullet, bomb or energy bolt sent their way.

"Let's get to work now and take care of each other out there. Light be with you all."

The shuttle danced through the skies above the field of battle. Below concussions could be heard, and an endless cacophony of rage and madness hummed in the air. Within the shuttle the men remained largely silent, only a few muttering quiet prayers to themselves. The breaths of soldiers preparing their ki were heard above all else, soft glows now emanating from the weapons and the bodies of these knights. Amongst these men preparing was Emmet, who clung to rasselbock in his right hand, the twisting metal of the blade’s handle pressing into his flesh and the blade glowing slightly. In his left hand he held onto the shuttle but remained ready to take his sidearm out of its holster.

The silence was suddenly broken as the enter shuttle rocked and creaked followed by a large impact. From the ground an enemy mage, unbeknownst to the knights, had fired upon the shuttle. The wall of the shuttle burst open, knocking the men closest to it aside. Two of them fell to the floor unconscious, metal stuck in their side. Suddenly everyone in the cabin realized a problem greater than this hole, and it was felt by everyone there. Clearly the pilot must have been harmed in this accident, as the shuttle uncontrollably began twirling towards the ground.

One of the unconscious men flew out of the hole in the cabin, plummeting to the ground. The chaos previously in the outside world now entered the cabin as the men shouted in fear and urgency. Another knight grabbed the other unconscious soldier, swinging him over his soldier. Emmet went towards the door of the shuttle, clinging to the wall as he turned towards the men, "looks like we're going to have an impromptu landing, gentlemen," he yelled, "get ready to jump."

He looked through the rupture in the wall the shuttle seemed to be steadying itself, likely from the copilot trying to take control of the situation, but it still spiraled towards the ground. Emmet swallowed the sick feeling growing in his throat and waited for just the right moment. Finally, as they were close enough to the ground he shouted, "now," and pried open the door before jumping out. Behind him came the rest of the men jumping from the shuttle. He ducked and rolled as he made it to the ground, and before he could even gather himself, he felt a strange vibration in his blade. Letting his ki guide him as his eyes were filled with dust, he raised his blade to meet another in a parry before lunging and striking forward.

Rubbing the dust from his eyes he saw a helmeted Vaimese soldier at the end of his blade, skewered through the neck. Looking around at his position he saw his men in disarray. The position they were in seemed to be a currently falling flank, where the remaining Belisian knights resisting the push were no match for the oncoming onslaught. He noticed his men in combat with the enemy, before he took his sidearm and caught side of the soldier carrying his unconscious brother in arms. Instinctively he ran towards them, and he took a shot at a Vaimese soldier about to strike the knights. Reaching the two men he quickly finished off the enemy on the ground with his blade before firing in the air and yelling, "to the shuttle men, we need cover!"

A dark cloud of carbon surrounded Isaac as various rips and gaps in his coat repaired themselves. He had just finished fighting off a wave of soldiers and earned himself and his fellow soldiers a brief reprieve. He wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand and saw it come away smeared in blood, a minor wound he sustained from a grazing blade. Not for the first time, he was thankful for his coat and the kinetic armor underneath, those being the only reason he had gotten away from that fight so lightly.

The sound of an explosion shook him out of his thoughts and he looked up to see a Belisian shuttle, smoke pouring from the side as it fell from the sky. As he watched, he saw figures, Belisian knights judging from the crest on the side of the shuttle, jump out of the falling craft as it fought to stay in the air. Before he gave himself time to even think about it, Isaac was already on the move. He knew that the knights would be landing in the thick of it and even if they didn't exactly need his help, he was still going to support them however he could.

As he ran, discarded weapons leapt from the ground and floated in the air around him. Isaac then pulled whatever steel he could from the blades and firearms, the useless remains falling to the ground, and wrapped it around his forearms and shins. He then did something he had only tried once before: he focused on the steel on his limbs, his carbon coat, and his iron vest, then jumped. Using his control over the metal and carbon on his body, Isaac forced himself to soar into the air. He wasn't flying or even gliding, but simply jumping very high and very far. It was something he didn't like to do, since it felt as if his arms and legs were about to be pulled out of their sockets, but he knew he couldn't waste any time, not if he wanted to help the crashed knights.

After a second jump, Isaac saw the knights attempting to regroup. One of them, a young man about Isaac's age, fired his weapon in to the air, to get the attention of his men Isaac assumed. At the same time, he noticed a group of three Vaimese approaching from their blind spot. The steel separated from Isaac's limbs, as do his vest and part of his coat, forming a sword in each hand, as well as eight more behind him. Before the Vaimese soldiers could close the distance, Isaac, who used his coat to slow his descent, landed between them and the Belisian knights. Before the closest one could react, Isaac lashed out, driving his blade through the man's throat. As he did, four of the other blades flew out, decapitating one of the other men. The other put up a better fight and parried one of the swords, only for the other to run him through from behind.

The immediate threat taken care of, Isaac let go of his weapons and the ten blades took their place behind him in a circular pattern. He turned to the knights and held his hand out to the one he saw firing his weapon into the air. Now that he was closer, Isaac could see that the man, though he was his age, was slightly shorter, and wore a mustache. "Isaac Ryder, Battlemage," he said, mustering as friendly a smile as he could, despite being in the middle of a warzone.

Turzo "Wrath" Drunoda

The ride down was bumpy and rough, Turzo still held on near one of the doors waiting for their turn to fight back and decided to say a small incantation of luck and protection.



With the incantation said aloud the transport hit the ground hard and opened its doors. Wrath stepped out slowly and observed the scene in front of him. A chaotic mess of blood-stained soil and gore. Watching the lines around him he kept towards the back and waited for the transport to take off. Most of the others surged forward to join in on the fighting but Wrath took his time to observe his surroundings before making his move.

Without taking another step the glowing mage raised his hands and the earth twisted and rose under him. 8 pillars also rose with him, it was only about 10 feet up but enough to get a vantage point and get shot at almost immediately. The stone pillars helped to give him cover while also beginning to reshape and take on markings like what he wore on his skin.

Looking over the battle grounds in the sky and on the ground, chaos reigned, the enemy was being pushed through fear and mind control but mostly they were filled with so many chemicals that they might as well be dead. He was aware of the combat efficiency of his former mages and slave soldiers, throw enough shit at the wall and something is bound to stick. Not the best military doctrine but it had worked so far.

With the last bit of information, he needed being found Wrath set to his plan and started his magic. There was a reason he stuck to mid and long-range magic manipulation for he was just as likely to injure himself or an ally in close quarters combat, so crowd control was always his go to. The first step was to create distance between the soldiers or at least their reinforcements.

in one swift motion he fought against the strength of the earth and rose a five-foot-tall wall about a foot thick up behind the first two rose of enemy soldiers along the fighting line he could see. With a heavy push almost as if he was pushing a boulder uphill, he through the wall back into the enemy lines like an ocean wave through the ground attempting to push back and trip the reinforcements.

Then he switched to pulling the blood-soaked soil down into the earth then tried his best to pull the water in the ground almost up to the surface. Understanding natural phenomenon and knowing how the world and elements reacted to each other down to the subatomic level helped mages like himself to better understand and use their magic. Understanding the natural world was the first step to manipulating it.

With a yell Wrath brought his fist down and sent out several vibrations through the ground into the enemy’s back line. This was an attempt to liquify the ground the army was standing on in places momentarily. This itself would create all sorts of chaos for the unsuspecting enemy forces giving his team the upper hand.

With one last thing to do while they were disorganized was to truly let his former allies know he was here with his signature attack and with the downed drop ship he knew exactly what to do. The ship itself wasn’t too far away and he knew he could reach them with this shot he just wasn’t sure if any of them would be caught in it.

Pulling in the oxygen from his immediate surroundings and separating hydrogen from the moisture and water nearby. Wrath began to feed a small ball of blue and orange that he continually compressed and compressed for several minutes being sure not to rob himself of oxygen while he did this. With one smooth motion he threw the small ball of flame toward the enemy lines near the downed shuttle or at least in its direction and waited for the explosion of flame that was sure to come next.

“Fuck me…” muttered a balding man as the wind picked up, whipping the pages of his magazine into a frenzy. He twisted his body, trying to shield his “reading material” from the wind, but the wind was undeterred. It caught the book and gave it lift. The man desperately tried to hold onto it, but the tug-of-war proved to be too much for the magazine’s abused binding.

RIPPPP!

In a flash, the small campsite had a change of weather. A flurry of pages - the flickering campfire revealing women posing in the nude alongside “advice columns” - had descended upon them. The balding man stood up and threw his torn rag on the ground and began stomping at it out of rage. One of the men sitting around the fire, a younger blonde boy, barely of fighting age, began laughing as he loudly chewed his bologna sandwich. The balding man turned to him, his head as red as a ripe tomato, and screamed at him.

“The FUCK you laughin’ at, bologna boy?”

The boy’s laughter intensified, morphing into a full blown coughing fit as bits of bread, meat, and mayonnaise spewed out with each cough. One of the other men - short and stocky with dark hair - piped up, “Looks like he’s laughin’ at your dumb ass, Marchetti.”

“Oh yeah? You laughin’ at my dumb ass, boy?” the man called Marchetti fired toward the coughing boy, which only made the coughing boy laugh and cough even more. His face also began to turn red, as tears welled up in his eyes, and he managed a choked approximation of “Shut the fuck up, Marchetti.”

A fourth man, a taller lad with a bright shock of red hair, chimed in, “Yeah, shut the fuck up, Marchetti. Let Monti choke in peace.”

Marchetti shot a look over towards the ginger and started nodding. “Oh yeah?” he turned towards the coughing boy. “I got a lil’ somethin’ Monti can choke on. Come here, ya little bitch!” he shouted as he rushed toward the choking Monti and started pelvic thrusting toward the boy's head. The boy’s laughter and coughing grew even louder as he pushed the thrusting Marchetti away, earning a roar of laughter from the other men.

“HEY!” barked the older blonde man seated the the far side of camp, a can of opened beans in his hands. The other men jumped to attention, with the exception of Monti who was now doubled over coughing up his dinner. “Marchetti, shut the fuck up and go check on Menarini.”

Marchetti stood still for a moment, just gazing at the older man. He appeared to consider saying something before the man piped up again. “You got a problem with that order?”

“No.” Marchetti answered.

“No sir.” the man corrected, his eyes narrowing at the balding soldier.

“No sir!” Marchetti answered.

“Then what the FUCK are you waiting on? Get!” he barked at the soldier, who turned and began hurrying out of camp towards the ridgeline to the east. The senior soldier looked down at his beans and shook his head before looking back over towards the boy vomiting. He sighed. “For fuck’s sake, one of you go either help Monti up or put ‘em down.”

The men all turned to look at one another before the exasperated officer called out, “Russi - go. The rest of you pick up Marchetti’s porn. Go” which caused them to scatter like ants.

Another bald man next to the officer chuckled. “Belisio’s best and brightest.”

The officer grunted as his spoon clanked against the metal can. He watched as the tall redhead Russi managed to get Monti back on his feet - just in time for the kid to spew again. The officer shook his head and stared into the can. “Yeah. Best and brightest. God help us.”

---

In the cold darkness, a figure stood atop the rocky outcrop overlooking the field engulfed by countless Vaimese slave soldiers and a truly pitiful Belisian force. She stood in silence, binoculars practically attached to her face. If it wasn’t for her occasionally lowering them to get a better view, one could be forgiven for thinking she was a statue.

She heard the bald man long before he reached her, his muttering and cursing cutting through the howling wind. As she scanned the opposite ridgeline, his voice cut in.

“Spot anything?”

She hadn’t. Nothing worth mentioning anyway. She had been tracking the movements of a particularly shifty looking group - possible mages by her count - but she was finding it rather…difficult to concentrate at the moment.

“Ayy, you fuckin’ deaf or something? I asked ‘you spot anything?’ Cap wants to know.” the man had called out to her again. But the watcher on the ridge was trying her best to not lose her mark. Could be nothing, but it was worth looking into.

“God fuckin’ damn it - why are you such a fuckin’ freak, Menarini?! Just say something already.”

A moment passed. Then another. The balding soldier stooped down and picked up a rock. He tossed in the air, checking its weight, before chucking it towards the woman on the rock. It collided squarely with the back of her head, but it didn’t earn a reaction. Juno’s head shifted forward, then she returned to her previous position.

“What the fuck…?“ he chuckled to himself in disbelief before picking up another one. Again he threw a rock at the silent woman, and again he struck true. No reaction. Marchetti stood mouth agape as he shook his head. She was bleeding. Even in the darkness, he could see that.

“Contact spotted.”

The soldier had just picked up another rock when he processed what he had just heard. He turned to look at her, shocked. “Wait, what?”

The woman pulled a radio from her side and brought it to her mouth.

“Steed One, Steed One…This is Zombie, over.” she barked. The radio buzzed for a few moments before the static was cut.

“RECEIVED ZOMBIE. GO FOR STEED ONE.”

”Got a stork in the sky, over.”

A moment passed before the next reply.

”COPY THAT, ZOMBIE. STORK IN THE SKY. YOU HAVE PERMISSION TO ENGAGE, OVER.”

“WILCO, Steed One. Zombie out.”

With that, the woman returned the radio to her side and leaped off the rock. As she passed the soldier, she gave him a glance, tossing the binoculars at him. Marchetti juggled them before he finally secured his grip and brought the lens to his eyes. He scanned the ridgeline…

And nothing.

He turned to look over at Menarini as she approached the large, kneeling suit of hers. She approached from the rear and climbed up into its exposed back. Once she was in, Marchetti watched as the metal shimmered and bristled like an angry cat’s fur before it reached out with metal tendrils and began to spread out across the woman’s back. And just like that, the back was solid, no seam in sight. It was unnerving to watch. But he couldn’t help it. As the metal figure began to stir, Marchetti found himself mesmerized by the flickering metal on its arms. Like scales on a dragon. A metal dragon.

The Hepius roared to life. As it rose to its feet, it swung the cannon from where it had been resting beside it to front and center. The tendrils on the back of its head snaked forward, finding their places in the base of the cannon. And then the humming began.

_hmmmmmmmmmm

A dull light began to flicker from within the cannon.

_{hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm}

After a few moments, the humming grew louder and light brighter. Marchetti managed to tear his eyes away from the strange machine back towards the ridgeline.

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

He didn’t see shit. He brought the binoculars to his eyes and…

Still nothing.

HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

The humming grew even more intense. When the soldier looked over, he would notice small wisps of pinkish-purple appearing around the edge of the cannon, from the end of which a purplish arc lashed about violently.

HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Suddenly, a voice crackled out from the machine, sounding warped and tinny..

“You’re going to want to stand back.”

“What d’you mea-” he started to protest -



- but the humming evolved into a ferocious roar, joined by a creepy scream - a woman’s scream? - as a large column of purplish light poured out of the cannon. The soldier instinctively dove to the ground, searching for cover. From his place on the rocky ground, Marchetti traced the beam as it cut through the sky towards…nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The bitch had fired at nothing.



And then the explosion started. He watched as from a seemingly empty night sky, the imposing figure of a Vaimese dropship had suddenly appeared - materialized out of nowhere. And there was now a massive chunk missing. Explosions were going off. It was breaking apart in the sky and falling to the ground in two halves. Marchetti watched as at least two dozen bodies came tumbling out of the wreckage, plummeting towards sure death.

After a moment, he got to his feet and looked down at the battle below. The wreckage of the dropship was now illuminating the melee going on around it. Absolute carnage.

The strange voice cut through the man’s thoughts.

"Drop’s coming. Tell Captain Bruno to take the ridge.”

He looked over towards the machine woman, but it wasn’t moving.

“What?”

His answer was silence. Marchetti was about to reply when he noticed another shuttle light up off to their southeast. A friendly one this time. Mage must have took a page out of the Zombie’s playbook. At the same time, the machine roared to life once more, launching immediately southeast.

“Fuckin’ freak…” he muttered to himself as he hurried back towards camp.

---

As the Hepius roared down the hillside, Juno trained her eyes on the falling dropship. Steed One had just broadcasted that reinforcements were coming…but that wasn’t where they were supposed to land. She frowned. She was to join up with the landing force and support their push into the opposition flank. From the west. THAT was her objective. THIS was improvisation. And Juno so very much hated being forced to improvise.

She gave the battlefield a wide berth as she repositioned, gliding over the landscape like a figure skater on the ice. Still, the occasional small arms fire caught her, some bouncing off the Hepius’ armor, some piercing through. None doing any significant damage that couldn’t be repaired though. The woman pressed onward.

Even from her considerable distance, she could tell that the survivors of the shuttle’s crash were making a stand. She began to take aim with the cannon. The shuttle took some significant damage on its way down, but it somehow hadn’t detonated. She could correct that, maybe take a few Vaimese out while she was at it. The cannon began to hum again.

Something detonated in the area of the crashed shuttle.

…

The light in the cannon fizzled as the Hepius took a hard turn. Directly into enemy lines. The Hepius readied the AAPT and began swinging at anything that got within reach. Cracking skulls with one arm and using the cannon as a lance with the other, the Hepius began to cut a path towards the next shuttle. The downed shuttle was lost. That was a shame, but she still had her orders. She needed to link up with the main force.

As she glided through the lines, an enemy mage landed a nasty hit on the Hepius. The explosion ate away at the front armour and burned much of the woman’s face. Ever calm, however, the Hepius approached the mage, quickly regenerating as the mage hastily prepared their next attack. In vain, it would seem, as the mage soon found himself getting to know the AAPT rather personally.

Juno screamed across the battlefield, figuratively and literally, until eventually arriving at what seemed to be a Knight-held line. Drenched in the viscera of numerous Vaimese slave soldiers and one particularly unfortunate mage, the Hepius looked every bit a monster. Juno had maintained her composure…but for how long, she couldn’t say. The skin on her face stretched and tore, constantly jabbing her brain with shocks of horrible, intense pain. She could feel the little tingle in the back of her head, a surefire sign that it was time to…let loose.

She just needed to get her orders first.

…which she had neglected to tell the Knights she had approached, opting instead to just stand there.

Menacingly.

The hum of the shuttle was like the throaty growl of a beast. Head tilted slightly, Nym could feel the adrenaline building. Growing inside of her, it took with it all her giddy and carefree attitude from before and locked somewhere safe. She doubted she would see it again for a while. As the shuttle dropped to touch ground, Nym grew anxious. Not at the danger she would face, but at having to bottle the energy that was threatening to take over. The collapsible bow came into her capable grasp and with swift hands, it locked into its opened position.

‘Let us out,’ she insisted mentally, watching the exit. They’d hardly touched ground but the waiting had felt like an eternity. Her gaze didn’t even flicker as others spoke around her. She tuned them all out. The doors began to open, bodies rushed the exit. Head lowered, she followed suit. Unlike most knights, she would find a way of setting herself further back. The cries of battle already well under way, the sounds of death made it hard to think clearly.

Nym hissed in a breath as she narrowly dodged a projectile. The sounds of an explosion behind her as it made contact didn’t manage to steal her attention. Instead, she pulled the string taught and allowed it to brush her lips, she released and sent the arrow flying into the throat of the offending party. Nym was over him the moment that he dropped, ripping the weapon from its lodged location to reuse.

A cry headed her way, she pivoted. Nym identified the enemy, then drew and released. Rinse and repeat, like a machine with a singular job. Ad nauseum. Continue. The only real issue with wearing as little protective gear as she did was that she had to be significantly more careful than most. Hyper awareness was hard to maintain when constant stimuli surrounded her from every angle. It made movement much easier, though.

“Kid!”

When a strong grasp circled her waist and pulled her back, the woman writhed quickly. She slipped from dark and oversized hands with ease only to take aim upon a friendly face. “Crux?” she realized, immediately taking a scope of their surroundings before turning to face him once more.

Instead of answering, he slammed his helmet into an enemy mage. Then again. The helmet now covered in blood, she watched Jaxon shake his head animatedly in frustration. She handed him the scarf she’d been using as a dust mask while she readied her weapon. As he wiped away the mess to see once more, he finally spoke. “You go deaf? Or just have selective hearing?” he asked, sounding rather unamused. He must’ve attempted to get her attention and she’d ignored him.

“I’ve got two names. You can use one of them,” she shot back with a smirk.

“Get it together, Jackal. No laughing matter unless you want to leave here in a box,” he insisted. “Not like where we’ve been before,” he added, rotating the sword in his right hand.

“Selective hearing. I’m not blind,” she fired back without hesitation. “What an honor, I get to fight alongside my hero,” she joked, the last word coming out strained as she released an arrow. It stuck in the armor of her target but didn’t otherwise affect them. “Shit,” she cursed, pulling another back against the string.

Nym didn’t need to look at Crux to know he was disappointed. So far she had shown him nothing impressive. “Be a good dog, show me some teeth,” he encouraged lowly, his head lowered as he lifted the oversized blade.

Clenched jaws made it hard to speak but Nym answered just the same. “Yes, sir.”