ALBION (HUMANS)
I wake up—or perhaps ‘wake’ is too strong a word for the brief interlude where my eyelids struggle to lift. It doesn’t last. A sharp prick jolts me, like one of those needles the Inquisition’s doctors use for bloodletting—when they drain a man a little too much, just enough to make sure they get every drop of value from his lymph before tossing him aside.
I still have time to feel the cold metal that grips my whole body. Not tight enough to kill me, but firm enough to keep me from moving. They don’t want me dead—not yet. That doesn’t make it any less terrifying.
One of them—a smaller model than the one carrying me, the ones we fought—climbs over the machine, slips between the gaps of its claw and grabs my arm.
The needle slides under my skin, burrowing into the crook of my elbow. Before I can react, the world fades again.
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But the world does not stop turning. The clouds drift on. The transport droids march. Even the birds seem to return to the ruined forest. The towering machines, standing meters high, find the debris field far easier to traverse than the forests, where the trees, the small rivers and bushes get in their way. The robots are massive, disproportionate compared to this woods... but not anymore, considering what once roamed here.
They are an alien sight in this forest—what remains of it. The old creatures are gone. No more trolls, no more deer—even the dragon is but a husk, waiting for death.
And perhaps that is what awaits it soon enough.
Thorvak, despite his efforts in the deep dwarven halls, between the towering stone pillars, the troglodytic dwellings carved into tunnels lit only by earth oil, despite his fierce battle of words with King Durmar, despite his young allies and devoted followers—perhaps he simply cannot stop the inevitable.
Some things may be fated to happen. Or maybe there are no other paths left. Maybe the roads have already closed.
And if he is not the one to contemplate such thoughts, perhaps others do—whether in Kor Morne’s inquisitorial citadel, in Benamire, or anywhere in the Kingdom of Elbak. None can deny that something greater than a mere cataclysm has begun. A different kind of game is taking flight.
For now, the Admiral—despite his doubts, his fear, and the amphetamines coursing through his veins—has the advantage. And soon, he might even have new… friends? Or maybe that would be too idealistic.
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ADMIRAL
If I had the tendency for self-destructive habits—biting my nails until my teeth cracked, or worse, self-mutilation that left flesh raw and bleeding—I would be tearing myself apart right now.
Instead, my eyes bear the consequences. I remained glued to the VR goggles the whole day, since the first morning lights returned. Nearly fifteen hours locked in, aside from the brief hour-long journey from my former shelter in the debris fields to my new hideout in the karst peaks. Locked inside, staring at these damn lenses, seeing the world through cameras and sensors—but soon, they will be in front of me. Vulnerable. Within reach.
Within reach of… what, exactly?
The thought gnaws at my mind, and my stomach—already weakened by the drugs, exhaustion, and too many other variables.
That absurd AI Leia has arranged nothing more than a pen fit for cattle. Creatures meant for either eternal servitude or sudden death, their heads lopped off in an abattoir. Why am I thinking such things? Bloodied thoughts swirl in my head, tangled in an unstoppable current, contaminating everything. I see the needles slipping into their arms, feel the sedatives working. Not amphetamines this time, but enough to keep them subdued for a while—at least until I wake up.
Yes, I will sleep. I must. More than a mental necessity, it is a vital, "strategic goal", as that damned AI would say.
At last, I set aside the source of my ocular torment—and likely, my survival, however temporary it may be. I collapse into a cushioned ensemble, pleasantly arranged, designed to mimic the luxury of my former cabin—not that it matters, considering I spent most of that time in cryosleep.
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THORVAK (DWARVES)
My audience with King Durmar ended long ago. And yet, neither I, nor Bran, nor even the King himself have left the council chamber. In fact, everyone has returned.
The King does not want to fight the Inquisition. He fears them, perhaps more than anyone here. He is old—so old that even for a dwarven king, he stands as an exception. And because of that, he feels a perpetual need to prove himself, to justify his rule, to satisfy his own pride. He cannot resist the one reason that might force him into conflict with the inquisitors and their terrifying war machines.
The dragon.
That the Inquisition would seize the forest, establish an outpost—he does not care, even if the younger, more fervent dwarves like his cousin - that is me - would never accept it. No, what he cannot allow these vile humans—those who desecrate runes with their twisted magics, their transic rituals, their abominable, tamed creatures called Baldakais—what he cannot let them take is the dragon.
Its bones. Its claws. Its brain. Its scales. Every part of it.
Whether he realizes it or not, the venerable guardian is already dead.
And that really bothers me. I don’t know why, but I can’t help thinking that by its mere presence, it fulfills a fundamental role, a spiritual balance in this forest. And destroying its being, its presence, would be like desecrating the holiest of temples. I know there is no use in pleading with my king; whether I want it or not, the situation is no longer mine alone.
Yes, I have indeed managed to negotiate a lucrative contract for my guild, far more than the other wolves who will pounce on the dragon. But now, I—no, we—will have to take part in its murder. And I can't imagine telling my wife, given how pious she is.