As the banners of the Austorian 2nd Army vanished over the horizon, an eerie stillness blanketed Sacra-Hill. The city—once a proud symbol of freedom and bustling life—was now a smoldering ruin. Flames crackled in the distance, throwing long, flickering shadows across the cobblestone streets. The acrid stench of burning wood and flesh filled the air, mingling with the despairing cries of the defeated.

The defenders of Sacra-Hill lay broken. Those who survived were bound in iron chains, lined up in grim, silent rows, their dignity stripped as they watched their city burn. A few civilians huddled together, clutching loved ones, while others were herded into slaver wagons by Austorian soldiers who pushed them with curt commands, deliberately ignoring their pleading eyes. This brutal operation had a calculated precision; the soldiers moved with rehearsed ease, their own reservations buried beneath the weight of duty and the authority of the empire’s iron will.

In the heart of the city square, Commander Sanra Desgan stood tall and imposing, her black plate mail armor accented with crimson gauntlets and silver scale leggings, gleaming in the firelight. She surveyed the scene with a satisfaction so cold it seemed carved in iron, her steady gaze sweeping over the subdued captives and the city now bent to her will.

Beside her, Captain Gideon Raventhrall stood with noble elegance in his red plate mail and polished black boots. The silver sash across his chest denoted his noble rank. Though his expression remained composed, a faint, predatory glint betrayed his anticipation as he surveyed the silent crowd, ready to enforce compliance through fear.

Desgan’s sharp eyes fell upon a small family—a man, a woman, and a child—fleeing through the wreckage, the firelight briefly illuminating their faces. Her lip curled with disdain.

“Vermin,” she muttered, voice filled with quiet loathing. They represented everything she despised: defiance, desperation, and a refusal to submit.

Turning to Raventhrall, she gestured toward the family. “Bring them back—or end them. Rid me of their presence.” Her voice was laced with the icy tone of command.

Raventhrall’s eyes glinted with malice. “As you wish, Commander,” he replied with a chilling smile, tipping his silver-plated sabre in a mocking salute before mounting his horse. He cast one last, lingering look over the captives in the square, some of whom avoided his gaze as if their silence might spare them from notice. He knew better. Complicity ran deep here, but in the empire’s eyes, neutrality held no value.

With a kick to his steed, Raventhrall and his guards disappeared into the smoky haze, their presence a promise of unchecked brutality.

Desgan watched them leave, her hand brushing the scar marring her cheek. That scar, left by a captured Beastkin years ago, was an ever-present reminder of defiance and loss. It had cost her much—personal alliances, noble prospects, even respect. Now she exacted vengeance on the Beastkin at every opportunity, channeling her bitter memories into cold orders and brutal commands.

“They will learn,” she murmured, her gaze cold and unyielding as she watched the civilians torn from their homes and dragged into the city square. Her voice barely rose above the crackling of flames. “Resistance only brings ruin.”

A Royal Army soldier approached, bowing low before her. “Commander, the northern sector is secured. The men await your orders.” He and his men were ordered to remain and assist in the “clean-up” by the command of Lord Jigan.

Desgan’s expression did not change. “Burn whatever remains. Those too old to serve are of no use—dispose of them. Gather the young for the wagons. As for the men—keep them shackled. Let them watch what awaits those who resist.” Her tone held no emotion; this was simply protocol.

The soldier hesitated only a moment, then nodded sharply. “As you command, Commander.”

As he turned to relay her orders, his face betrayed a brief flicker of unease—a sliver of humanity that had not yet been extinguished by the iron fist of empire. But he, like so many others, buried his hesitation in the uniform he wore, rationalizing his compliance as duty. Any defiance would make him an example alongside the others.

Desgan’s gaze remained fixed on the square as soldiers moved with grim efficiency. Elderly civilians, unable to keep up, were quietly escorted to the edges of the city, where a final, silent order awaited. Fathers were beaten before their families, cast aside as broken reminders of Austorian power, and any who dared raise a voice or a fist were executed without hesitation. Some soldiers looked away; others seemed hardened by years of duty. But no one spoke out.

Desgan’s satisfaction grew as she watched the austere display of submission. “They dare resist,” she murmured, her tone filled with contempt. “But the empire endures.”

As a soldier barked orders, ushering another group toward the wagons, a civilian met his gaze with a brief, questioning look. The soldier looked away, his hands tightening on his weapon, and fell silent. But he, like the others, knew that this silence was no shield—but the King commands, We obey.

The captives were loaded onto the wagons, and as the crackling flames consumed the last of Sacra-Hill’s resistance, Desgan allowed herself a fleeting smile.

In her eyes, the city was now subdued—a testament to the might of the Austorian Empire and a warning to all who dared oppose it. Sacra-Hill belonged to Austoria.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The sound of boots striking cobblestones echoed through the narrow alley as ten Austorian Royal Guardsmen sprinted after the fleeing elves. Shouts and commands reverberated off the walls, the guards calling out in harsh, clipped tones. The girls, their breaths ragged, ran as fast as their legs could carry them, panic clouding their thoughts. Their mistake had been simple but fatal—they had inadvertently crossed Raventhrall’s path as he hunted a Beastkin family through the burning city.

Raventhrall had barely spared them a glance before barking orders to his security team. "They're elves. Bring them back—alive if you can. They might require more... persuasion."

Now, the guards charged forward, relentless in their pursuit. The girls’ desperation led them to a side door, which they shoved open and disappeared into the darkened building. Racing down the stairs, they tripped and stumbled, their cries of fear in Elvish bouncing off the stone walls.

At the bottom of the staircase, two figures stood in eerie stillness, their forms half-hidden in the gloom. The girls crashed into them, nearly knocking them over. For a moment, chaos reigned as the elves tried to push past, frantic to escape.

“Move!” one of the girls hissed, tears streaming down her face.

The Beastkin men, clad in dark uniforms, raised a finger to their lips. The universal gesture of silence froze the girls in place. Their panic subsided slightly as their eyes adjusted to the dim light, revealing the vast underground warehouse beyond the stairs. Dozens of figures—Beastkin, Humans, even Elves—huddled in silence, their faces taut with fear. Whispers of "Quiet!" and "Stay still!" passed through the crowd.

Angelica Treelight, one of the young elves, felt her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced back at the stairs, then at the Beastkin in front of her. Something about their calm demeanor unsettled her. They weren’t cowering like the others. They were waiting. No, she realized with a start, they’re preparing.

The Beastkin raised sleek, black weapons—metal staffs with small boxes attached underneath. Their movements were precise, practiced. Around the warehouse, others extinguished lights, plunging the space into near-total darkness. The Beastkin slipped on goggles, the faint green glow of their lenses a stark contrast to the suffocating blackness.

Above, the thundering boots grew louder. A muffled voice rang out, followed by the sound of splintering wood. "I hear them! They're down here!"

The girls froze, their terror boiling over into quiet sobs. Angelica wanted to comfort them, but her voice caught in her throat. She could only watch as the Beastkin stepped forward, positioning themselves at the base of the stairs.

The door to the stairwell slammed open, and firelight spilled down the steps as the guards charged in, swords drawn and shields ready.

In an instant, chaos erupted.

The Beastkin unleashed a controlled hail of suppressed gunfire, their rifles emitting sharp, muffled cracks. The lead Guardsman staggered, blood blooming across his armor as he crumpled to the ground. The soldiers behind him hesitated, confusion spreading as their comrades fell in rapid succession, their weapons clattering uselessly on the steps.

Angelica’s breath caught as she watched the scene unfold. It’s not magic, she realized. It’s something else entirely.

The last of the Guardsmen fell, their bodies sprawled across the staircase in a grim tableau. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint ringing in Angelica’s ears. She looked at the Beastkin, their calm efficiency both terrifying and mesmerizing.

One of the men pressed a hand to his ear, activating a comms device. His voice was steady, betraying none of the tension Angelica felt. “Showdown 2 Actual, this is Showdown 2 Foxtrot. Safehouse is compromised. Repeat, safehouse is compromised. Immediate extraction required. Over.”

A burst of static responded before a firm voice came through. “Understood, Foxtrot. Secure the area and prepare for fallback. Reinforcements inbound. Actual out.”

The Beastkin lowered their weapons, scanning the stairwell for any further threats. Satisfied, they turned to the refugees in the warehouse.

“You need to move, now,” one of them commanded, his tone sharp but calm. “Stay together and stay quiet. No one gets left behind.”

Angelica swallowed hard, her fear giving way to cautious hope. These weren’t just random fighters. Whoever these Beastkin were, they had come prepared—and they had just saved her life.

Incoming Assault Team Scene

Inside one of the tightly packed V280 Valors cutting through the sky, 2nd Lt. Grant Cramdell pressed his headset closer to his ear, his brow furrowed in disbelief.

“Say again, Command?” he asked, his voice laced with tension.

The reply came unmistakably urgent. The words sent a chill down his spine. Chaos Collars are Onsite and possibly in play.

Cramdell’s jaw tightened. He took a steady breath before responding. “Understood, Command. Bravo One Actual, out.”

Switching channels on his headset, he turned to address the rest of the platoon over the platoon net. “Listen up, everyone. We’ve got a situation. Showdown 2 has confirmed Chaos Collars are at the warehouse.”

The cabin went deathly silent. Even over the steady hum of the rotors, the weight of his words was palpable.

Cramdell continued, his voice steady despite the gravity of the news. “They’ve spotted a crate bearing the Red Tower logo. Showdown 2 observed one of the collars fell out of the crate was dropped. It’s real, people. And that’s not all. Showdown saw several Beastkin forced into the building along with them.”

From across the cabin, Dagger leaned forward, speaking quietly to his men. After a few seconds of hushed conversation and nods exchanged, he switched his intercom to the Platoon net.

“Sir,” Dagger began, his tone measured but firm, “if we even think those collars got activated, our first move is demo the building. But if a few of those berserkers break loose before we can, they’ll be coming straight for us—and fast. We might need to fall back your way.”

Cramdell exchanged a brief glance with Sergeant First Class Rudeus Draken, who gave a subtle, knowing nod. Turning back to Dagger, Cramdell’s voice carried the weight of conviction.

“You call it, and our platoon will be there to support you.” he said firmly.

Dagger nodded with a smile. “Understood, sir.”

Draken leaned closer to Cramdell, his voice low but urgent. “The pilot just stated we’re less than ten minutes out, LT. We’ll need hit the ground running. However, if those Berserkers break loose, we’ll be walking into a meat grinder.”

Cramdell nodded grimly, switching back to the mission channel. “Command, this is Bravo One Actual. We are approaching the LZ.”

“Bravo One Actual this is Command. Understood, Command out.”

The V280 continued its steady flight, skimming just above the forest canopy. The tension in the cabin was electric, the soldiers double-checking their gear as the enormity of their task sank in. Below, the open plains, fields and farms gave way, slowly, to the expanse of Sacra-Hill came into view.

Cramdell’s voice broke the silence once more, calm but resolute. “Two minutes, people. Stay sharp. This is what we’ve trained for.”