The War Council

The city of Vellmont rose from the earth like a jagged crown, its stone walkways and towering spires etched against the storm-gray sky. The streets below were a labyrinth of cobblestone and shadow, where the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine mingled with the acrid tang of fear. The city’s walls, ancient and unyielding, were fortified by barrier magic—a shimmering lattice of blue light that pulsed like a heartbeat, a relic of a time when magic was as common as the air itself. Ballistae, their bolts tipped with elemental enchantments, lined the ramparts, their presence a stark reminder of a bygone era when such weapons were enough to hold back the tide of war. Now, they seemed almost quaint compared to the luminite turrets and starflare cannons of Vallorien, but they were all Vellmont had.

The chamber stank of sweat, ink, and candle smoke. The map stretched before them, marked with lines of ink that would soon be rewritten in blood.

Magnus Thalgrin, Lord Mayor of Vellmont, sat at the table’s head. His silver hair was bound tightly, his crimson robes heavy upon his shoulders. To those who looked upon him, he was the pillar that held the city. But beneath the mask, beneath the iron control, his mind raced with calculations, each one ending in the same conclusion: the walls would not hold forever.

His councilors were less composed.

“House Draconis.” The words were spat, as if speaking the name itself might summon the storm. The speaker, a hawk-nosed man with sharp eyes and a voice like grinding stone, slammed his fist against the table. “They march a dragon mech to our gates and expect no resistance? They have been waiting for this since the last war.”

“They’ve given no demands,” a woman with frost in her voice countered. “No declarations. No ultimatums.” Her gaze was sharp enough to carve through steel. “They simply march.”

“Then why are we debating?” snapped the hawk-nosed man. “Do we wait for them to knock?”

Magnus exhaled, slow and measured. When he spoke, his voice cut through the clamor like a blade. “We are not here to speculate. We are here to act. What are our options?”

Silence.

Finally, a burly man, his beard thick as thorns, cleared his throat. “The walls are strong. Our barrier mages stand ready. But we are outnumbered. Even with the city guard and the Adventurer’s Guild, we cannot hold indefinitely.”

“What of supplies?” asked another, thin and hunched, his fingers twitching over an ink-stained ledger.

“A month. Maybe two.” The bearded man’s voice was grim. “If the barrier holds.”

If.

No one spoke the alternative aloud. The silence was a confession in itself.

Magnus’ gaze fell upon the map, his fingers brushing the inked borders of their city. “What of Vallorien? Have we heard from Governor General Garett Fenralis?”

A pause.

“Vallorien has been informed.” The words were careful, hesitant. “But it will take time.”

The War Council

The chamber stank of sweat, ink, and candle smoke. The map stretched before them, marked with lines of ink that would soon be rewritten in blood.

Magnus Thalgrin, Lord Mayor of Vellmont, sat at the table’s head. His silver hair was bound tightly, his crimson robes heavy upon his shoulders. To those who looked upon him, he was the pillar that held the city. But beneath the mask, beneath the iron control, his mind raced with calculations, each one ending in the same conclusion: the walls would not hold forever.

His councilors were less composed.

“House Draconis.” The words were spat, as if speaking the name itself might summon the storm. The speaker, a hawk-nosed man with sharp eyes and a voice like grinding stone, slammed his fist against the table. “They march a dragon mech to our gates and expect no resistance? They have been waiting for this since the last war.”

“They’ve given no demands,” a woman with frost in her voice countered. “No declarations. No ultimatums.” Her gaze was sharp enough to carve through steel. “They simply march.”

“Then why are we debating?” snapped the hawk-nosed man. “Do we wait for them to knock?”

Magnus exhaled, slow and measured. When he spoke, his voice cut through the clamor like a blade. “We are not here to speculate. We are here to act. What are our options?”

Silence.

Finally, a burly man, his beard thick as thorns, cleared his throat. “The walls are strong. Our barrier mages stand ready. But we are outnumbered. Even with the city guard and the Adventurer’s Guild, we cannot hold indefinitely.”

“What of supplies?” asked another, thin and hunched, his fingers twitching over an ink-stained ledger.

“A month. Maybe two.” The bearded man’s voice was grim. “If the barrier holds.”

If.

No one spoke the alternative aloud. The silence was a confession in itself.

Magnus’ gaze fell upon the map, his fingers brushing the inked borders of their city. “What of Vallorien? Have we heard from Governor General Garett Fenralis?”

A pause.

“Vallorien has been informed.” The words were careful, hesitant. “But it will take time.”

Magnus’ jaw tightened. Time they did not have. Even a few days were beyond fantasy.

“And House Fenralis?”

“No word.”

Magnus leaned back, exhaling through his nose. He had spent his life preparing for this moment. He had always known the day would come when the gates of Vellmont would be tested. But knowing was not the same as facing it.

“We cannot wait for Vallorien,” he said at last. “We must assume we stand alone.”

Uneasy glances were exchanged. No one dared to argue.

“Then what do you propose?” The woman with the frostbitten voice met his gaze, unflinching.

Magnus’ eyes hardened. “We hold the line.”

There was no rousing speech. No false promises. Only the quiet weight of reality settling over their shoulders.

“We reinforce the walls,” he continued. “Ration supplies. Prepare for siege. And we send word—to House Fenralis, to the Adventurer’s Guild, to any fool with a sword who might listen. We cannot afford to stand alone.”

The councilors nodded, their faces drawn. The decision was made.

As they filed out, Magnus remained seated, his eyes fixed on the map. The ink seemed to shift before his eyes, the borders bleeding into something darker.

He had always prided himself on seeing the bigger picture. But the board was moving too quickly. And for the first time in his life, he feared he was already too late.

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Anya Blackstark stood atop the loading bay, her arms crossed as she watched her Direhound mech being hoisted onto the transport. The scent of oil, sweat, and something slightly burnt filled the air—probably Brody messing with the coolant again. The tension was thick, the kind that made your chest tighten and your hands itch for something to do. But Anya wasn’t one to let silence linger, not when it gave her crew too much time to think.

“Brody,” she called down, her voice sharp but laced with a teasing edge. “If that leg actuator locks up mid-charge again, I’m throwing you in front of the enemy first. Consider it your official role in this operation—human shield.”

Brody, crouched beneath the mech’s massive frame, wiped his hands on his already filthy trousers and grinned up at her. “Aye, Captain, but then who’d keep your glorious hunk of metal from falling apart? Face it, you need me.”

Nissa, perched on the mech’s shoulder and running last-minute diagnostics, snorted. “Falling apart is generous. More like ‘held together by prayer and Brody’s bad decisions.’”

“Hey!” Brody shot back, pointing a grease-streaked finger at her. “My bad decisions have kept us alive so far. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Anya raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching despite herself. “That’s not exactly a glowing endorsement, Brody.”

“It’s the best you’re gonna get,” he retorted, ducking back under the mech. “Besides, if I die, who’s gonna tell you how to fix this thing when it inevitably breaks?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Anya said, rolling her eyes. “Somehow.”

“Yeah, sure,” Nissa muttered, tapping at her datapad. “Just like last time when you nearly blew the core trying to ‘figure it out.’”

Anya shot her a glare. “That was one time.”

“One time too many,” Nissa shot back, smirking.

The banter was familiar, comforting even, but there was an undercurrent of unease that none of them could ignore. The weight of what was coming hung heavy in the air, unspoken but felt in every pause, every glance.

Nearby, Brenn, the chunky heavy gunner, was sitting on a crate, his massive frame hunched over a ration pack. He tore into it with the enthusiasm of a man who’d missed three meals, crumbs scattering across his chest plate. “You know,” he said between bites, his voice a low rumble, “if we die out there, at least I won’t die hungry.”

Anya turned to him, her expression sharp. “No. Absolutely not. We’re not doing this.”

Brenn paused mid-bite, blinking at her. “Doing what?”

“The death flags,” Anya said, crossing her arms. “No, I’m not starting a bakery with any of you after this. No, we’re not all gonna retire to some sunny beach and drink fruity cocktails. And no, I don’t want to hear about your ‘last wishes’ or how it’s been an honor serving with me. Can you all stop with that shit? We’re not dying today.”

Brody popped his head out from under the mech, grinning. “Aw, Captain, you do care.”

“I care about not having to listen to your morbid nonsense,” Anya shot back. “Now get back to work.”

Nissa smirked, leaning against the mech. “She’s got a point. If we’re gonna die, let’s at least die without the cheesy speeches.”

“Agreed,” said Jerik, the lanky scout, who was perched inside his mech’s cockpit. He had one boot propped up on the console, the faint glow of a holo-screen illuminating his sharp features. The unmistakable sound of muffled moans drifted out, and Nissa’s ears twitched.

“Jerik,” she called, her voice dripping with disdain. “Are you seriously watching porn right now?”

Jerik didn’t even look up. “It’s research.”

“Research?” Nissa repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Jerik said, finally glancing over with a smirk. “Gotta stay sharp, you know? Keep the reflexes quick.”

Brody snorted. “Quick reflexes? You’re sitting in a tin can, Jerik. What are you gonna do, outrun the enemy with your other reflexes?”

Jerik shrugged. “Hey, if it works, it works.”

Anya pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jerik, if you get us all killed because you were distracted by… whatever that is, I’m going to haunt you in the afterlife.”

Jerik grinned, shutting off the holo-screen. “Relax, Captain. I’m a professional. I can multitask.”

“Sure you can,” Nissa muttered, rolling her eyes.

Garett approached, flanked by Leona, Lyra, and Nyx. His presence was like a storm cloud rolling in—calm on the surface, but you could feel the pressure building. “Everything ready?” he asked, his voice steady but with an edge that made Anya straighten.

“Nearly, milord,” she replied, smoothing back her dark braid. “Just last-minute checks.”

Leona smirked, elbowing Nyx. “Look at her, trying to act all professional now.”

Nyx nodded sagely, his arms crossed. “Classic.”

Anya shot them a withering look. “Would you two prefer I throw you in front of the enemy instead? I’m sure Brody could use the company.”

Lyra chuckled, leaning against a crate. “Careful, Anya. They might take you up on that. Leona’s been looking for an excuse to show off her sword skills.”

“Oh, I don’t need an excuse,” Leona said, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade. “But if you’re offering, I’ll take it.”

Garett, oblivious to the exchange—or perhaps choosing to ignore it—simply nodded. “Carry on. We leave soon.”

Anya watched him go, her expression softening for just a moment before she turned back to her crew. “Alright, enough chatter. Let’s make sure this thing doesn’t fall apart the second we hit the field.”

Brody popped his head out from under the mech. “No promises, Captain.”

“Brody,” she said, her voice low and warning.

“Kidding!” he said, holding up his hands. “Mostly.”

Nissa hopped down from the mech, her datapad tucked under her arm. “He’s not wrong, though. This thing’s held together by duct tape and hope.”

Anya sighed, running a hand over the mech’s scarred metal plating. “Yeah, well, hope’s all we’ve got right now.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than she intended. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Brenn, still chewing on his ration pack, broke the silence. “Hope and duct tape. Sounds like the title of our memoirs.”

Anya groaned. “I said no death flags, Brenn.”

“That wasn’t a death flag,” Brenn said, grinning. “That was optimism.”

“Sure it was,” Nissa muttered, rolling her eyes.

As they turned back to their work, the banter continued, but there was a new weight to it now. A quiet acknowledgment of what was coming, and what they might lose. And in that moment, despite the fear, despite the odds, they were together. And for now, that was enough.

The transport ship cut through the night sky like a blade, its magitech engines humming with a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through the hull. The sound was steady, almost soothing, if not for the tension that hung thick in the air. The ship’s exterior bristled with luminite turrets, their crystalline barrels glowing faintly with stored energy, and starflare rifles lined the sides, their sleek, silver frames catching the starlight. The clear night sky above was a tapestry of stars, cold and indifferent, betraying nothing of the storm brewing below.

Inside the bridge, Garett stood with Leona, their faces illuminated by the soft blue glow of a holo-projector. The image of Lord Mayor Magnus Thalgrin flickered before them, his silver hair and crimson robes rendered in ghostly light. His expression was grim, his voice tight with barely restrained worry.

“We’re lucky they haven’t attacked yet,” Magnus said, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “They’ve been scouring the outskirts, tearing apart the countryside. It’s like they’re searching for something.”

Garett’s jaw tightened. “Any idea what?”

Magnus shook his head. “None. But our scouts report roughly two to three thousand Emberclad troops, all likely capable of some form of magic. And the Iron Revenants—around two hundred of them. They’re not just foot soldiers, Garett. They’re elite. And then there’s the dragon mech.”

At the mention of the dragon mech, Garett’s mind flashed back to his childhood—to the night of his soiree, when Duke Dragan had arrived in his Vhaerax Dominus, a towering monstrosity of steel and fire that had left the young Garett both awestruck and terrified. The memory was sharp, vivid, and it sent a chill down his spine.

Leona’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and bitter. “We’ve had suspicions, but that pretty much confirms it. Damned House Draconis.”

Garett nodded, his expression hardening. “House Draconis or not, we’ll handle it. I’ve already commanded my forces from Vallorien to deploy in aid of Vellmont. It’ll take at least two days to mobilize, but my ship and some of my elite troops are only a few hours away.”

Magnus visibly relaxed, his shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank you, Garett. Truly. We’ll hold out as long as we can.”

The holo-projection flickered and faded, leaving the bridge in silence. Garett exhaled slowly, his gaze distant. Leona placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding him.

“We’ll get through this,” she said, her voice firm. “We always do.”

Garett nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere.

Outside on the deck, the night air was crisp and cold, carrying with it the faint scent of ozone from the ship’s engines. Lyra stood at the railing, her staff resting against her shoulder, her pink hair—ending in turquoise tips—catching the starlight like a cascade of silk. Her golden-hazel eyes glimmered as she stared out at the horizon, her expression unreadable.

Footsteps approached, steady and familiar. She didn’t turn.

“You know,” Garett said, his voice carrying that lazy confidence that made everything sound like a joke, “if you don’t get enough sleep tonight, you might misfire a spell and take us all out tomorrow.”

Lyra smirked, though her gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “And here I thought you had faith in me.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, leaning against the railing beside her. “I just have less faith in probability.”

She scoffed, finally glancing at him. “Probability favors the prepared.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “And are you?”

Lyra hesitated, gripping her staff a little tighter. She knew he was only teasing, but the weight of her secret pressed against her ribs. Her power had never felt heavier, like a storm barely held at bay.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “Are you?”

Garett grinned. “I always make it up as I go.”

“Reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, the hum of the engines filling the space where words didn’t. Then, Garett shifted, his fingers brushing against hers—a fleeting touch, almost accidental. Almost.

Lyra’s breath caught. She should pull away. She should say something, crack a joke, change the subject. But she didn’t.

“Whatever happens,” he said, quieter now, “we’ll face it together.”

She wished she could believe that. Instead, she forced a smile, even as her heart ached with the weight of what she couldn’t say. “Together.”

The word tasted like a lie.