The atmosphere in the cramped meeting room near the city square was thick with tension. Only an hour ago, the Austorian 2nd Army had shattered Sacra-Hill’s outer gate, sending shockwaves through the city. Rumors of an invasion had circulated for years, but few had believed they would see it come to pass. The local resistance, many of whom had worked tirelessly to smuggle slaves to freedom, found themselves caught unprepared. Several members had already fled, taking with them only a few refugees but leaving others to linger in a large abandoned underground warehouse. The remaining fighters were left to cobble together a plan for survival.
In the dimly lit room, a group of resistance fighters gathered around a rough-hewn table, their voices low but charged with urgency. Below them, in a hidden warehouse beneath the house, huddled groups of former slaves—Beastkin, elves, and humans alike—all awaiting transport to safer lands. With the Austorians now bearing down on Sacra-Hill, hope was rapidly dwindling.
“Without help, we won’t last another day,” muttered one fighter, his voice hoarse from worry.
Just then, five figures entered the room, all wrapped in long cloaks despite the warm air outside. The resistance fighters tensed, exchanging wary looks. Cloaks in this weather? It didn’t sit right. Several resistance members cast suspicious glances at the newcomers, gripping their weapons a little tighter.
One of the fighters, a human named Karl, narrowed his eyes. “Where have you all been?” he asked, suspicion clear in his tone. “You’re not sympathizers for the Austorians, are you?”
The five figures paused, then glanced at one another. Without a word, they let their cloaks drop, revealing their uniforms—green, black, and brown woodland camouflage patterns, complete with body armor and advanced rifles slung across their chests. For a moment, silence filled the room as the resistance fighters took in the sight of these well-armed, disciplined warriors.
One of the newcomers stepped forward, a tall Beastkin with piercing eyes. “We’re not here to harm you,” he said in a steady voice. “We’re with the Seraphim Special Operations Brigade, part of the Beastkin Unified Army. We were deployed months ago to monitor the Austorian forces here, and we now have orders to ask for assistance from you for our mission.”
A shocked murmur rippled through the resistance members; their initial suspicion replaced by disbelief. One fighter let out a harsh laugh. “A Beastkin Army? And you’re here to save us?” he mocked. “That’s rich. Next you’ll tell us you’re here to storm the city single-handedly.”
Several others chuckled, shaking their heads, but the laughter died down when an elderly Beastkin, known to many as a former adventurer and mentor, stood up and approached the Seraphim operators. His worn clothing and weathered face showed his age, yet his eyes were sharp, assessing them with quiet authority. He reached a trembling hand toward the lead Seraphim operator and touched the patch on his sleeve—the distinctive insignia of the Seraphim.
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The old man’s voice was rough but steady. “Is it real?” he asked, his gaze piercing. “Are you truly Seraphim?”
The lead operator met his gaze, a solemn expression on his face. “Yes, sir. We’re here to prepare for our friends who will save you all.”
The elder Beastkin’s face softened, a spark of hope rekindling in his eyes. He turned to the others and raised his voice, calm but powerful. “These are Seraphim,” he declared. “Elite warriors of the Beastkin people. The scourge of those who stand against them.” He then looked back at the Seraphim soldiers, a small smile crossing his face. “And friends to those that need them. They do not make empty promises.”
A reverent silence fell over the room as the others looked at the Seraphim with newfound respect, some even standing straighter, as though in the presence of legends. The elder nodded to the lead operator. “When?” he asked simply.
The leader, Lieutenant Chip Lancer, known by his code name “Showdown One,” allowed a slight smile. “Soon,” he replied, his tone resolute. “The Beastkin Unified Army is mobilizing and moving as we speak. But for now, we need your help to prepare. Our mission is to gather intelligence on Austorian forces, and we’ll need eyes on key structures around the city.”
With the resistance listening intently, Chip began laying out the details. “We’ll set up Listening and Observation Points on critical positions—the main square, the bridge, and, of course, the slaver collar warehouse we identified last week. My team will split up and take some of you with us to set up LP-OPs. We’ll need to know the Austorians’ troop strength, patrol routes, and combat readiness.”
Chip turned to the elder Beastkin. “Two of us will stay here to provide security for those hiding in the warehouse below. We need you to help us keep these civilians safe, no matter what.”
A few members of the resistance exchanged glances, some still struggling to fully believe the scope of what they were hearing. But just then, a sharp burst of static crackled from Chip’s radio. He lifted it to his ear, and a voice came through, providing the timing and approach details of the advancing BUA forces.
The resistance fighters fell silent, listening to the faint, steady stream of radio communication—evidence that help was, indeed, on its way.
With renewed resolve, a few resistance members stepped forward, volunteering to accompany the Seraphim to the observation points. As they prepared to depart, a young child, wide-eyed with worry, approached the Seraphim leader. The child tugged on his sleeve, looking up with trembling lips. “Will we be safe?” she asked softly.
Chip knelt down, gently lifting her up in his arms, and met her gaze with a reassuring smile. “Yes, little one,” he said. “We’re here to make sure you’re safe.”
He set her down beside her mother, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder before turning to his team. With quiet determination, the Seraphim operators and their new allies dispersed, each one preparing for the task ahead.
In the depths of Sacra-Hill, as the first hints of hope took root among the resistance, the Seraphim and their allies braced for the storm they knew was coming. The true fight for Sacra-Hill had only just begun.