ALBION (HUMANS)

A dull pain pulses through my ribs as I force myself upright, my breath ragged, my hands trembling after the brutal blow that sent me to the ground. Around me, the battlefield is not made of earth and stone—it is a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered ruins.

The air is thick, saturated with the stench of scorched earth, rusted iron, and something acrid—like burning oil mixed with the dying scent of damp wood. The eerie, flickering light above makes everything waver, broken surfaces shifting between gold and gray in a spectral rhythm. I blink away the sweat dripping down my face, but I cannot lose focus. The others are still fighting. We are still fighting. And we are losing.

The creature—no, the Bavil, as Groboln called it—stands before me, effortlessly cutting down my companions. Its face, or rather, the lack thereof, is a grotesque mockery of a human visage—smooth, expressionless, a soulless imitation. But its movements, the way it shifts its weight, the way it reacts with brutal precision, are not those of a lifeless being. It is fast. Too fast. And it knows exactly where to strike.

I see Lyrel dart in from the side, her blade glinting, a swift shadow in the dim light. Her footwork is impeccable—quick, light, fluid, the way only elves can move—but even she cannot anticipate what is about to happen. The thing moves before she even completes her attack, pivoting with impossible speed, its torso twisting in an inhuman manner, its arms snapping up to catch her sword mid-swing. Not block—catch.

“Damn it!” Someone shouts—me, maybe, or another—as the machine wrenches her weapon from her grip like plucking a twig from the ground. It tosses the blade aside as if it were nothing. Lyrel barely has time to retreat before another droid bursts from the wreckage and slams into her.

Her scream is cut off as she crashes against a heap of twisted metal. I don’t know if she’s alive. I don’t have time to find out.

“FALL BACK!” I scream, my voice raw.

But there is nowhere to run.

The debris, the wreckage we thought would be an advantage, has become our prison.

More of them appear—dozens? No, hundreds? They move like predators in the ruins, emerging from the darkness between the skeletal remains of war machines, their reflective eyes glowing in the flickering light. For every enemy we try to face, another slithers behind us. We are being herded into a trap we cannot yet see.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I hear Groboln chanting, the raw hum of magic filling the air. He casts forward—a surge of flames, searing and bright, meant to consume everything in its path. But the lead Bavil simply walks through. The fire licks its metal frame, but it does not slow, does not care.

“We can’t hurt them!” Salina shouts, breathless.

“We can’t outrun them either!” roars a man as he swings his axe in a wide arc. The blade strikes a droid’s flank—and bounces off in a spray of sparks.

It doesn’t even flinch.

My stomach knots.

A sound rises above the chaos, mechanical, inhuman—a deep, rhythmic hum. The ground trembles beneath our feet. The air vibrates. I don’t know what it means, but it means something.

And then, one by one, they appear. Colossal Bavils—whatever monstrosities they are. These things must be six or seven meters tall. I have never seen anything like them. They crush debris and ruined machinery under their titanic strides, shaking the earth. And they are running toward us.

We are doomed. Trapped. And I don’t even want to know what these abominations intend to do with us, why they are here. The smaller ones, still terrifying, close in completely. Whispers of fear ripple through us.

I struggle to my feet, my limbs heavy.

The humming intensifies.

The last thing I see before everything fades is the lifeless face of a Bavil, standing over me, watching as I sink into darkness.

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ADMIRAL

My pupils are dilated, my heart racing, my veins burning with the chemical fire of amphetamines. My thoughts race faster than my body, faster than time itself. The capture is imminent, exactly as planned. Leia’s calculations were correct. The trap is perfect.

They were never going to escape.

The machines move with calculated efficiency, neutralizing each target with precise strikes to their nerve points. No need to kill, no need for blood. Just capture them, then, with the larger transport droids, take them back.

It’s so simple. And yet.

For the first time since the crash, since my entire world was upended into this twisted new reality, I move. Not through the eyes of a machine, not through Leia’s data streams, but as myself.

I step outside.

The night air hits me like a wall. Real air. Not the recycled metallic tang of a ship, not the artificial sterility of life support. No, this is earth—damp and rich, filled with the decay of leaves and the scent of something wild.

Steam rises into the night, drawn strangely toward the auroral bands, the peaks stretching skyward as if trying to touch the clouds. I stand on a small balcony, hidden from the rest of the world, gazing into the darkness.

I feel insignificant beneath this vast, alien sky.

The shifting light undulates slowly, a spectral dance across the heavens. Here, there is no wreckage, no debris, no remnants of the old ship, the old me. Yes, I am meant to change, and so is this world.

And there, amidst it all—the first humans I have seen since the crash, since I woke up alone in a world that does not belong to me.

Soon, they will be here, motionless. Captured. Mine.

And yet, as I step forward, feeling the irregular ground beneath my feet, a thought latches onto my mind, refuses to fade.

What am I doing?