Mystic Knight Merc Squad

[darthauthor]

The Tolkeen Free Press

The newsroom was abuzz with activity as screens flickered on the walls, displaying the latest images from the warfront. Reporters hustled between desks, gathering notes and footage of battles that stretched across the borders of Tolkeen. In the center of it all, the anchor’s desk was set, framed by a glowing map of the kingdom and its contested territories. Tension hung in the air, but so did a quiet determination. The people of Tolkeen needed the truth, and it was the duty of the free press to deliver it.

Lia Wren, the anchor, took her position behind the desk, her expression composed but somber. As the broadcast signal connected across the city, the light of the camera blinked on, and her voice carried into homes, public squares, and the shelters where citizens huddled against the shadow of war.

“Good evening, Tolkeen,” Lia began, her voice steady but laced with emotion. “It's been six months since the Coalition States declared war on our kingdom, a war they have named their ‘Crusade for Humanity.’ Tonight, we bring you an update on the state of the conflict and the reality behind the Coalition’s brutal campaign.”

Behind her, the map of Tolkeen shifted to show the full scope of the war. Bright markers lit up the Coalition’s positions along the borders, where their forces had stalled in the face of fierce resistance.

“From the moment Emperor Prosek made his declaration of war, the Coalition’s mission has been clear: to cleanse this land of magic, non-humans, and the people who accepts them. They call it a crusade, but what we have seen is nothing less than genocide.”

Lia’s eyes darkened as the map flickered to display the ruins of Borderline, once a thriving city, now a scar on the landscape. The screen zoomed in on the devastation: shattered buildings, smoke rising from craters, the remains of what had once been home to thousands.

“Six months ago, the Coalition’s first target was the city of Borderline, a fledgling kingdom of 16,000 souls—85 percent of them D-Bees. Three days after Prosek’s declaration, the Coalition Army arrived. Within six hours, 50,000 heavily armored troops and 36,000 Skelebots had reduced the city to a smoldering ruin. Not a single survivor escaped their onslaught.”

The screen showed before and after images of Borderline. The first, a vibrant community full of life and bustling streets. The second, a wasteland of twisted metal and ash.

“It was the Coalition’s first victory. It would be their last easy one.”

Lia let the weight of those words settle before continuing. “The ruins of Borderline now stand as a monument to the savagery of the Coalition States. Whenever someone questions why we fight, why we resist this invasion, all they need to hear is one phrase: ‘For Borderline and for freedom.’”

The image of Borderline lingered on the screen for a moment longer before the map shifted back to the broader warfront. Markers of Coalition forces struggling to hold ground against Tolkeen’s defenders illuminated the screen.

“Since that day, the Coalition has thrown nearly a million troops into this war, backed by their infamous Skelebot legions and the deadliest war machines their empire can produce. They came here expecting a swift and total victory. They believed Tolkeen would fall in a matter of weeks. But six months later, they find themselves bloodied, stalled, and increasingly desperate.”

The map zoomed in on key battle zones where Tolkeen’s forces had pushed back Coalition advances. Lia’s voice took on a tone of quiet pride.

“Our defenders, from mages to soldiers to ordinary citizens, have stood strong. In battle after battle, the Coalition forces have been repelled. Their much-vaunted Skelebots, designed to overwhelm, have been shattered by our magic and our will. For every Tolkeenite who has fallen, three, four, or even five Coalition soldiers have been sent to their graves. Our ambushes, our resistance, have cost them dearly.”

The image of a recent battlefield appeared, showing Coalition power armor units in retreat, while Tolkeen’s defenders pressed forward with magic and firepower. Elemental beings and baby dragons roared across the landscape, reducing Skelebots to heaps of metal.

“Their Ministry of Information struggles to contain the truth. Casualties are mounting at a rate they never anticipated, and even their own people are beginning to question the wisdom of this war. The Coalition came here believing they could dominate us, but Tolkeen has proven time and again that we will not be broken.”

Behind Lia, the screen shifted to show scenes from the streets of Tolkeen City itself, where citizens worked to support the war effort, side by side with mages, engineers, and healers. The glow of ley lines pulsed in the background, casting a protective light over the kingdom.

“The Coalition’s soldiers are learning what we have always known—that magic is not something to be feared, but something to be embraced. Their war machines may be formidable, but our power comes from a source far deeper than technology. The Coalition’s forces have been shaken by the wonders and terrors they’ve encountered here, and it is that fear, that doubt, that will be their undoing.”

Lia’s voice softened as she addressed the citizens of Tolkeen directly.

“The truth is, the Coalition is beginning to falter. Their supply lines are strained, their resources depleted, and their troops—many of whom had never faced the supernatural forces we wield—are beginning to lose hope. They thought they could conquer us through brute force, but our magic, our spirit, and our belief in this city have stopped them cold.”

Her gaze sharpened as she delivered the next words with fierce resolve.

“But make no mistake—this war is far from over. The Coalition may be wounded, but they are not defeated. They will regroup, they will continue to send their soldiers into the fray, and they will stop at nothing to see Tolkeen fall. It is up to us, all of us, to ensure that they never succeed.”

The screen flashed back to the image of Borderline, a stark reminder of the stakes.

“For Borderline. For our fallen. For the freedom to live without fear of oppression or annihilation. We fight not just for ourselves, but for the future of magic, for the future of every free being who calls this kingdom home.”

The broadcast zoomed out once again, showing the skyline of Tolkeen, with its gleaming towers and magical defenses stretching into the horizon. The protective energy that shielded the city pulsed, a symbol of its enduring strength.

“To the citizens of Tolkeen: remain vigilant, remain united. The road ahead is long, and the Coalition will not stop until they are either victorious or broken. But as long as we stand together, they will find no victory here.”

Lia’s voice grew softer but still held the same fire as before.

“Six months into this war, Tolkeen still stands. And as long as we fight for Borderline, for our families, and for the future we believe in, Tolkeen will stand for generations to come.”

The broadcast ended with the image of the kingdom's banner fluttering in the wind, a symbol of defiance and hope. The message was clear: the people of Tolkeen fought not just to survive, but to preserve a way of life that the Coalition sought to extinguish. The cost of surrender was written in the ashes of Borderline, but as long as Tolkeen’s heart beat, it would never fall.

[darthauthor]

Location: The Tolkeen Press

The newsroom, a quiet intensity is about as the night’s broadcast was prepared. Screens projected maps of war-torn regions, flickering with images of battlefronts and strategic updates. The anchor’s desk, situated under the soft glow of arcane lamps, was ready for another nightly update—a report that would delve deeper into the grim realities of the Coalition invasion. Lia Wren, the veteran anchor who had become a trusted voice for the citizens of Tolkeen, sat poised as the live signal went out.

Her eyes focused, her voice calm but firm, Lia began the evening’s report.

“Good evening, Tolkeen. As the war against the Coalition stretches on, we bring you an in-depth report on a chilling development, one that involves not just the destruction wrought by the Coalition, but the consequences of their arrogance and disregard for life.”

Behind her, the map zoomed in on the Mississippi River, the lifeblood of the kingdom’s heartland, where some of the war’s most brutal early battles had taken place. Images of ruined towns and abandoned villages appeared, overlaying the landscape with stark reminders of what had been lost.

“In the early days of the war, the Coalition believed they could sweep across the kingdom, and they launched what they thought would be the spearhead of their campaign—thousands of Skelebots, sent ahead of their human troops to clear the way. Their mission: to annihilate entire towns and carve a direct path to Tolkeen and Freehold. But what they expected to be a quick and decisive move turned into a disaster.”

The screen shifted to footage of desolate townships, fields, and farmlands—once vibrant communities now reduced to ruins, the skeletal remains of Skelebots strewn across the terrain like the aftermath of a machine apocalypse.

“The Coalition High Command admits to losing at least a quarter-million Skelebots in these ‘fool’s missions,’ but most analysts agree that the real number is far higher—closer to three-quarters of a million Skelebots lost, with many of them decimated in what have now become known as the Great Skelebot Graveyards.”

The image on the screen showed one of these graveyards: an open field littered with twisted, broken machines, their once-mighty frames lying in disarray. But mixed with the wreckage of these machines were the tragic remnants of those who had tried to flee—bones and debris from D-Bee and human civilians caught in the crossfire.

“Half of the Skelebot swarms were sent up the Mississippi River, the most direct route to Tolkeen and one of the most densely populated regions in our kingdom. Their advance, however, was met with resistance they never expected—resistance that tore their forces apart. As a result, dozens of towns along the river are now abandoned, their people forced to flee as the Coalition’s mechanized horrors swept through. What remains are ghost towns, haunted not by spirits but by the twisted metal corpses of Skelebots and the bones of those who once lived there.”

A pause lingered in the air as Lia let the gravity of the situation settle in for the viewers.

“But it is not just the devastation that we need to speak about tonight. Troubling reports have emerged from these graveyards—reports that have sent shockwaves through both the Coalition’s ranks and the salvage hunters who brave these lands to recover what they can.”

Behind her, images of scavengers picking through the wreckage of a once-thriving farm flashed on the screen, accompanied by shaky footage from salvage hunters who had dared to venture into the Skelebot Graveyards.

“Salvage hunters, and even Coalition regulators, have flocked to these sites, fighting to claim what remains of the Skelebots. The Coalition, of course, claims ownership over these war machines, insisting that anyone who interferes with their recovery efforts will be treated as an enemy combatant—whether they are aligned with Tolkeen or not. But this has not stopped independent scavengers from seeking out valuable parts to sell, and this has led to escalating tensions—and bloodshed.”

The footage shifted to scenes of skirmishes between Coalition soldiers and scavengers, who were exchanging fire and magic over the spoils of war.

“However, what troubles most of those who visit the graveyards are not just the dangers of Coalition retaliation, but the strange occurrences reported by those who have spent time among the wreckage. Salvagers and travelers alike have come back with chilling tales of Skelebots rising from the dead, their shattered frames suddenly springing back to life, attacking without warning.”

Lia’s voice lowered, the weight of the revelation sending a ripple of unease through the air.

“Many believe these stories to be more than just the product of nerves or fear. Some claim that the Skelebots are being resurrected by dark forces—that the nearby ley lines, which run through these battlefields, are animating the machines with a malevolent energy. Others whisper of Tectonic Entities, powerful beings from beyond the veil of reality, whose presence may be warping the fabric of these graveyards, causing the machines to rise again to continue their killing.”

The screen flashed a grainy image of a salvage team surrounded by mangled Skelebots—one of which, twisted and broken, seemed to be clawing its way from the earth. The image shook violently as the person recording the footage fled, leaving viewers with a stark, terrifying glimpse of the chaos.

“Whether these stories are true or not, the fact remains: the Skelebot Graveyards are now places of horror. Those brave or desperate enough to venture into these zones risk more than just Coalition patrols—they may face something far more dangerous, something not even the Coalition fully understands.”

The screen flickered again, this time showing the wreckage of one of the largest known graveyards, the metallic remains of thousands of Skelebots sprawled across a vast field.

“And yet, the Coalition still claims these machines as their property, a chilling testament to their obsession with domination and control. Salvagers who enter these zones risk not only their lives but the wrath of the Coalition’s military forces. For those who believe they can simply take the scraps left behind by war, the message is clear: the Coalition will stop at nothing to recover these machines, even if it means killing civilians in the process.”

Lia’s voice hardened as she addressed the citizens of Tolkeen directly.

“This is the reality of the war we face. The Coalition’s war machine is relentless, soulless, and willing to destroy anyone or anything in its path. But the machines they once sent to destroy us are now rusting in our fields, broken and defeated. And though these graveyards stand as symbols of the Coalition’s arrogance, they are also a reminder that Tolkeen will not be so easily crushed.”

The broadcast shifted to a final image of the ley lines glowing faintly in the distance, their ethereal energy casting an otherworldly light over the battlefield.

“Be vigilant, Tolkeen. The war is far from over, and our enemies continue to gather their strength. But remember this: even the mightiest of machines can fall. The Skelebot Graveyards are proof that we are stronger than they believed, and that together, we will stand against whatever they send next.”

As the broadcast concluded, the image of the desolate Skelebot Graveyards faded, replaced by the unwavering symbol of Tolkeen’s resistance.

---


The forest was quiet, but the air inside the command tent was thick with tension. Knight One stood over a map of the region, his brow furrowed in concentration. The others were scattered around, waiting for updates. The Psi-Tech and the radio specialist sat across from each other, their faces serious, both busy with their respective equipment.

The Psi-Tech’s fingers moved rapidly over the touchpad of his portable terminal, his eyes fixed on the encrypted data feed he had managed to tap into. Meanwhile, the radio specialist had her headphones on, listening to news broadcasts and Coalition transmissions with a focused expression.

After several minutes of silence, the radio specialist sighed, pulling off her headphones. “I’ve got bad news.”

Knight One turned to face her, his expression hardening. “Go ahead.”

She hesitated for a second, then spoke. “I just picked up a broadcast from a Tolkeen military outpost. They’re reporting that a significant number of Skelebots were destroyed in their last engagement. They’re taking credit for it—saying their forces were able to stop a major Skelebot attack.”

The scout, sitting nearby, raised an eyebrow. “The Skelebots we fooled?”

The radio specialist nodded. “That’s what it looks like. The timing matches, and based on their location, it’s highly likely those were the same units we sent north. Tolkeen’s military got to them before they ever reached the Hivelands.”

Knight One’s jaw tightened as he processed the information. “How many did they take down?”

The radio specialist glanced at her notes. “They didn’t give an exact number, but from the reports, it sounds like all the units we infected were wiped out. Tolkeen forces are claiming it as a victory.”

The Psi-Tech, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. “There’s more,” he said, his voice heavy. “I’ve been monitoring Coalition command networks, and I’m seeing indicators that they’re planning a major software update for their Skelebots.”

Knight One turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “Explain.”

The Psi-Tech tapped a few more keys on his terminal, pulling up a display. “They’re planning to roll out a system-wide software update to their entire Skelebot network.”

He glanced up at Knight One, his face grim. “Once they update the software, our virus won’t work. It’ll get patched out, and we won’t be able to use it to infect any more units.”

The news hung in the air like a weight, and the room fell silent as the gravity of the situation settled over them. Knight One's fingers drummed on the edge of the table, his mind clearly racing with possible contingencies.

“So, what you’re telling me,” he said slowly, his voice hard, “is that we gambled everything on sending those Skelebots north, and not only did Tolkeen destroy them, but the Coalition is about to cut off our ability to use this virus at all?”

The Psi-Tech nodded. “Exactly. We’ve got a small window—maybe a few days at most—before they roll out the update. After that, the Skelebots will be immune to the virus. It’ll be worthless.”

The radio specialist shook her head. “There’s also the matter of the radio communication. If the Coalition updates their Skelebots, they’ll likely change their communication protocols, too. Any forged signals we send won’t get through. They’ll have new encryption, new handshakes. We’ll lose access to their network entirely.”

Knight One exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. “This is worse than I expected.”

The scout, always the pragmatist, broke the silence. “So what do we do now? Do we abandon the virus? Come up with something new?”

Knight One straightened, his eyes cold and calculating. “No. We don’t abandon anything. Not yet.”

Knight Three, “The skelebot Graveyards are still ripe for looting.”

The team looked at each other and nodded in unison, already preparing to move out. As the Psi-Tech returned to his work and the radio specialist began monitoring the Coalition’s movements, Knight One turned back to the map, his mind focused.

[darthauthor]

The Aftermath of Battle

The battlefield is littered with the smoking remains of Skelebot robots, their once menacing forms now reduced to twisted, broken metal. The faint smell of burning circuitry fills the air. In the distance, a group of villagers, cautiously emerging from their hiding places, approach the scene.

At the edge of the field, Lady Serana, a female Cyber-Knight, sits on the ground, leaning heavily on her sword. Her armor is scorched and in pieces, and her face is smeared with dirt and sweat. She breathes heavily, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her. Nearby, a hulking demon, towering over her, stands with a grim smile, wiping the remnants of combat off his claws.

The villagers approach, their expressions a mixture of awe, fear, and confusion. A few carry water, while others bring water and offer medical aid. They stop a few steps away, their eyes flickering between Lady Serana and the demon.

Villager 1 (cautiously), “Lady Knight... thank you. If it weren’t for you, we’d all be dead or worse.”

Villager 2 (nervous, glancing at the demon), “But... I don’t understand. Cyber-Knights are supposed to fight for good, right? How can you stand next to—fight alongside a demon?”

Serana wipes her brow with the back of her hand and accepts the offered water gratefully. She takes a moment to drink, her eyes closing briefly in relief. She exhales deeply, her voice still steady despite her exhaustion.

Lady Serana (calmly), "I didn’t fight alongside him. We fought the same enemy. There’s a difference."

The villagers look confused but curious, encouraged by her words.

Villager 3 (with hesitation), “But aren’t you supposed to destroy evil? The Coalition says that all supernatural beings—magic users, non-humans, demons—they're dangerous. That they need to be wiped out. How can you... how can you fight the same enemy as a demon?”

The demon, standing nearby, chuckles darkly, his voice like gravel grinding on stone. His eyes shift to Lady Serana, intrigued by the questions.

The Demon (with amusement), “Dangerous? Yes, we are. The Coalition isn’t wrong about that. They want to kill us ALL. They remind me of my kind, only with... more discipline.”

He crosses his arms, looking down at the villagers, as if pondering something. His grin fades slightly.

Demon (calm, yet menacing), “I didn’t fight for you, little humans. I fought because the Coalition's toys tried to kill me. They’re efficient, ruthless—reminds me of home. And, I do love a good fight."

The villagers flinch at his words, stepping back, but Lady Serana remains unmoved. She meets the demon’s gaze evenly.

Lady Serana (firmly), “And that’s exactly why we’re not allies.”

She turns to the villagers, her voice softening, yet resolute.

Lady Serana (to the villagers), “The Coalition wants to destroy anything that doesn’t fit into their vision of a perfect human world. Magic, non-humans, and yes, even people like you—people who happen to be near it. They don’t care if you’re good or evil. They’ll raze your homes and call it defending humanity but there's nothing humane about it.”

She gestures to the fallen Skelebots, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten as she continues.

Lady Serana (passionately), "I fought today to protect you. To protect your lives, your home. That’s what matters to me. The Coalition may be fighting what they think is evil, but their methods are indiscriminate. They destroy without mercy. They’d have killed all of you just for existing near magic. That’s not humanity—that’s tyranny."

The villagers nod, understanding dawning on their faces. They’ve lived in fear of the Coalition for too long not to see the truth in her words.

Villager 1 (softly), “We would have had to abandon everything... ran away like a frightened animal... lived like them too, if it weren’t for you.”

Lady Serana (with a weary smile), “That’s why I’m here. Not to fight alongside evil, but to defend the innocent. Sometimes that means standing against an enemy—no matter who else might be fighting them."

The demon grins, amused by the conversation, but says nothing. He watches the exchange with detached interest, as if he’s a spectator in this moral discussion rather than part of it.

Villager 2 (still uneasy), “But... what about the demon? Isn’t he evil?”

Lady Serana’s gaze shifts to the demon, who merely raises a brow, waiting for her response. She sighs, leaning on her sword for support.

Lady Serana (thoughtfully), “I know this—he didn’t raise a claw against you. We crossed paths because we faced a common enemy. But when it’s done... we go our separate ways.”

She stands, though her movements are slow, her body heavy with fatigue. She looks directly at the demon.

Lady Serana (with authority), “The moment you threaten these people, the moment you turn your gaze on them—I'll end you."

The demon’s smile widens, his eyes flashing with dark amusement.

The Demon (mockingly respectful), “They’re beneath my interest.”

He steps back. The villagers look relieved, but their fear lingers.

Villager 3 (to Serana), “We… The Coalition’s war... it’s too much. They’ll kill everyone. That’s not good... it’s not right.”

Lady Serana (gently), "I’m here to protect people like you from people like that. That’s the difference between protection and oppression."

She looks around at the villagers, her voice strong despite her exhaustion.

Lady Serana, "I may fight in a world where demons and monsters roam, but my path is clear: I protect the innocent. No matter who—or what—else is in the fight."

The villagers nod. They offer her more water and medical aid, their fear of the demon now tempered by their faith in a Cyber-Knight. She accepts their help, her eyes briefly closing in exhaustion as she leans back against a nearby rock, her sword resting beside her.

As the sun sets on the battlefield, she feels good. It was worth defying Lord Coake's decree to help these people.

---

The Final Battle at Dusk

The village lay at the crossroads of destruction. The sun hung low in the sky, casting an ominous orange glow over the field as shadows stretched long across the burning remains of homes and farmland. Smoke billowed from the ruins, and the echo of battle still rang in the distance.

A mass of Skelebots, cold and unyielding, descended upon the village from all four directions like a mechanical swarm. The village men, armed with pitchforks, old rifles, and anything they could find, fought bravely, buying time for the women and children to flee into the forests beyond the village.

Lady Serana, moved like a graceful predator, her glowing psi-sword cutting through the Skelebots' ranks. Each swing of her blade severed circuits, shattered metal, and dropped one machine after another. Her armor was battered, and fatigue weighed heavily on her limbs, but she fought on, driving herself to protect the fleeing innocents. She darted between the mechanical soldiers, using every ounce of her skill to hold the lines.

But it wasn't enough.

The Skelebots came in endless waves, their red eyes glowing with the single-minded purpose of their programming.

Across the battlefield, the demon fought with reckless abandon, reveling in the chaos. His claws raked through steel with ease, his laughter dark and echoing as he tore the Skelebots apart, relishing each destruction. But even he, with all his power, knew this wasn’t a battle they could win. Not today.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the village fell. Houses were set aflame by the Coalition's cold efficiency, and the smoke rose like a dark cloud of failure. The men who had fought to the bitter end lay broken, defeated, or captured. The women and children had escaped—but the village was gone.

---

After the Battle

Lady Serana sat on the scorched earth, her psi-sword flickering before it dissipated into nothingness. She was exhausted, bruised, and covered in grime. Across from her, the demon, crouched on his haunches, watched her with an amused grin, his red eyes glowing in the dusk. Behind them, the village burned, casting the only light in the gathering darkness.

Lady Serana stared into the flames, feeling the weight of her failure pressing down on her. She had fought well—she had done everything she could—but it hadn’t been enough to save the village. The number of Skelebots, the way they attacked from all sides, had overwhelmed even her skill. She felt lucky to be alive, though the sting of survival in the face of loss gnawed at her. Her skill as a knight had grown, but so had her awareness of her limits.

She didn't know what to do next.

The demon chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that cut through the stillness.
(grinning),
“You fought well. Better than most. You’re still breathing, after all. Can’t say the same for those men.”

He jerked his head toward the burning ruins, where only the dying embers of the battle remained. Tilting his head, his expression contemplative, though there was a dark glint in his eye.

The Demon, “The Skelebots didn’t kill them all, you know. They took some of the men. Marched them off like cattle, probably to a labor camp. Maybe they’ll be lucky—re-educated, trained to worship the Coalition and obey, or they’ll be put to work as slaves. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Lady Serana clenched her jaw, her eyes still on the flames. The idea of the Coalition taking the villagers as prisoners, breaking their spirits, and turning them into slaves was unbearable. She had saved their families, but their fathers, brothers, and sons had been captured, taken for a fate perhaps worse than death.

Lady Serana (quietly), “They’ll break them. Or kill them.”

The Demon (shrugging), “Not kill them, not yet. Not when they can squeeze some use out of them. If it was my kind, that’s exactly what we’d do. Break their will, make them ours.”

He leaned forward, his tone suddenly low and tempting, as if offering her a revelation.

The Demon, “You could do the same, you know. Put down your sword. Surrender, let them take you—become one of their slaves. At least you'd still be alive, right? A comfortable prisoner, like the rest. Or...”

He smiled, his sharp teeth glinting in the firelight.

The Demon (voice lowering), “You can take up that sword again. But this time, fight like one of us. Like a demon. Forget their rules. Forget their limits. Shape the world to your will. Fight not just to survive, but to dominate. The way you fought today... there’s a fire in you. Why snuff it out?"

Lady Serana frowned, turning her gaze to him for the first time. She narrowed her eyes.

Lady Serana, "Why are you telling me this?"

The Demon (grinning wider), “You fought well today. I respect that. You didn’t run—you stood and fought, and you’re still here. Most humans would have turned tail and fled. You didn’t, and I admire that... for a human.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, more intense now.

The Demon, “If you were a true demon, you wouldn’t let them take those villagers from you. Look at them—how they looked up to you in awe. You could see it, couldn’t you? They put their faith in you, their hope. It’s almost like... they worship you."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching her reaction. She remained silent, but he saw the doubt flicker in her eyes.

The Demon (taunting), “Unless, of course, you’re the kind who only thinks of themselves. You could walk away, leave them to their fate. Forget them, forget this village. Let the Coalition take them, and move on. After all, what does it matter to you? Why not follow Lord Creed’s orders like one of these robots and be a good little cyber-knight?”

Lady Serana glared at him, but he wasn't done.

The Demon (musing), “Or... I could rescue them. Imagine it. If I tore apart their captors, brought them back here, and protected them from the Coalition? They’d worship me. They’d see me as their savior, as the one who truly cared for them. I could give them power... and in return, they’d give me their devotion.”

He laughed softly, the fire behind him crackling in rhythm with his amusement.

Lady Serana (coldly), "They're not pawns."

The demon raised an eyebrow, but she continued.

Lady Serana, "You’re wrong. I fight for them. To protect them, not to rule them. You and the Coalition are just two sides of the same coin—both of you see them as tools, as fuel for your own ends. I’ll fight the Coalition again. I’ll fight you if I have to."

The Demon (smiling darkly), “Ah, there it is. That fire. I like it.”

He leaned back, resting his hands on his knees, watching her with newfound curiosity.

The Demon, “I’ll give you credit, human. You’ve got spirit. But know this... if you ever decide that the Coalition’s discipline and my kind’s mayhem are two sides of the same coin, I’ll be waiting."

He stood, towering over her for a moment before turning away, his dark silhouette moving into the growing night.

Serana watched him go, her sword still in her hand. Her mind burned with the weight of the battle, the loss, and the path ahead. She had chosen her fight, and the price was high. But as the demon’s words echoed in her mind, she knew one thing for certain:

She would never let them break her.

---

Location: Another village

Captain Darius Creel leaned back in his chair, the cold glow of the digital pad illuminating his face as he surveyed the field in front of him. His fingertips hovered over the holographic display, which projected the terrain two-dimensionally, each Skelebot represented as a pulsing red dot moving in sync toward a single destination: the cluster of buildings just beyond the treeline. The village.

He could see it all: the seventy structures spread across the open ground, humble buildings tucked against the safety of the trees. It was quiet now, save for the sound of the Skelebots footsteps crunching over leaves and twigs as they advanced. Just as planned.

A smile—sharp and proud—crept across his face. His forces would sweep through the village like a storm, shattering every trace of life in their path.

Beside him, Lieutenant Rooker leaned in, eyes gleaming as he watched the unfolding assault. “A thousand against a hundred. This won’t take long.”

Creel tapped his chin thoughtfully, his fingers lazily dragging a Skelebot icon across the digital map, maneuvering it to flank the village from the east. “It’s a shame, really. All this effort to resist. All they’re doing is delaying the inevitable.”

Rooker chuckled, adjusting his own pad to get a closer look at the advancing Skelebots’ perspectives, flipping between their electronic feeds like a child scrolling through channels. “The mercenaries are impressive, but nothing our bots can’t handle.”

But the ease with which Rooker spoke didn’t quite match what they saw on the screens.

Red dots flickered out—small, barely noticeable at first, but slowly gathering pace. In the northeast corner of the village, where the Skelebots had just begun to funnel into a narrow clearing, a cluster of them had gone dark, their signals extinguished.

Creel’s eyes narrowed. He zoomed in on the area, catching flashes from the Skelebots’ perspective cameras. They showed trees and undergrowth, bursts of light as something flickered in and out of view. Then a series of rapid headshots as each Skelebot went offline, and their feeds cut to black.

“What the hell?” Creel tapped furiously, switching from one feed to another. “How are they taking them out so fast? They’re just mercenaries!”

The remaining Skelebots in that sector shifted, advancing cautiously as if programmed for uncertainty. As one Skelebot scanned the area. Before the Skelebot’s sensors could lock on, the mercenary aimed directly at its head, firing a shot that severed its visual and auditory feeds.

Rooker cursed under his breath. “We can’t see them. They must be invisible.”

Creel clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to smash his pad in frustration. This was supposed to be easy. He flicked to a new group of Skelebots advancing from the west, far from the confusion of the northeast skirmish. The plan was still sound. All he needed was overwhelming force, and he still had over nine hundred Skelebots.

“Send in fifty more units from the north quadrant,” Creel barked. “Box them in. They can’t keep up with those tactics forever.”

The screen shifted as his command was relayed, and fifty more Skelebots diverted to the north, their sensors sweeping methodically as they pushed toward the village perimeter. From his vantage point, Creel felt a surge of satisfaction as he watched the encirclement tighten.

Until the feeds lit up in chaos once more.

“Captain! They’re hitting the north quadrant too!” Rooker yelled, his pad vibrating as alerts flared across the screen. Through one Skelebot’s feed, Creel saw flashes of energy as mercenaries darted between trees and cover, picking off the Skelebots with ruthless efficiency. Explosions rocked the feed, sending limbs and metal shards flying as well-placed grenades blasted groups of Skelebots into scrap.

In an instant, half a dozen red dots vanished from the screen.

“They’re too well-organized, damn it!” Creel shouted, his fingers flying over the commands to redeploy more Skelebots.

Rooker was silent, his face pale as he frantically scrolled through the few remaining feeds. The Skelebots were taking the brunt of the counterattack, their programming unable to adapt to the mercenaries’ coordinated, guerrilla-style tactics. Every time they pushed forward, another ambush sprung up—figures darting out, landing precise shots before fading back into the shadows. And whenever they closed in, grenades detonated in their midst, cutting down whole squads.

Creel’s hand shook as he flicked between the dwindling Skelebot perspectives. Through one, he caught sight of ten mercenaries advancing together, launching explosives and heavy fire into the dense ranks of Skelebots pushing forward. They moved with the efficiency of a trained unit, targeting clusters and regrouping just as fast as they attacked.

“Damn them!” Creel’s voice was venomous. “They can’t win this. They won’t.”

He switched to the feed of a lone Skelebot marching straight into the thick of the village, where its infrared sensors detected a row of concealed figures. A flick of his finger, and he had control of the Skelebot’s weapon systems. With a surge of triumph, he aimed at the nearest mercenary, fingers curling to fire—

Only to watch as the mercenary disappeared into thin air, a shimmering blur on the screen.

Creel snarled. “Invisibility. They’re everywhere, like damn phantoms.”

The invisible (and Aura of Death casting) Mystic Knight crept behind the Skelebot and landed a shot directly to its head. The feed cut out in a shower of static.

With each mercenary that slipped through their fingers, with each squad of Skelebots that went dark, Creel’s frustration grew. He could almost feel the battle slipping out of his grasp, the weight of failure bearing down on him.

Rooker’s face was tense as he looked up. “Captain, we’re down to less than half strength. Our men… the Bone Jockeys aren’t taking this well.”

Creel slammed his fist down, rattling the controls. “Then send ALL the Skelebots in. Every last one. Swarm the place!”

The remaining Skelebots surged forward, a wall of metal converging from every angle on the center of the village. But the feeds flashed with explosions, red and orange bursts that lit the screen. Snipers took out the Skelebots one after another, the Mystic Knights weaving through cover and shadows, darting in and out of sight with maddening precision.

Creel’s heart pounded, his once-smooth operation descending into a defeat. He could barely watch as the red dots vanished one by one, his fingers trembling over the screen as he fought to keep control, to hold on to something, anything, that might salvage the plan.

But then came the silence. The last feed faded, leaving the screen dark.

Rooker was the first to speak, his voice thin, barely audible. “They… they wiped them out. All of them.”

Creel stared at the empty screen, his jaw clenched tight, his mind racing. His thousand-strong Skelebot force, gone. Outfought. By humans.

He shot to his feet, fury roiling in his chest. “This isn’t over.”

But the silence in the room said otherwise.

---

In Retreat

The dense forest lay in a heavy silence as Captain Darius Creel and his officers made their way along a narrow path, their footsteps muffled by damp earth. They moved with a frustrated urgency, having lost all contact with their Skelebot forces and unwilling to stay exposed in such enemy territory. Their eyes scanned the darkened trees, tension rolling off them in waves. Creel’s grip tightened around his rifle, his knuckles pale as he glanced back at his men, his mouth set in a thin, angry line.

Without warning, a rustling to their left and right was followed by the faintest shimmer in the air. The mercenaries appeared as if materializing from shadows, the forest around them warping as the invisibility spell dropped. In one swift, synchronized motion, the mercenaries stepped forward, their movements silent, smooth, and deadly.

Before Creel could raise his rifle, a gloved hand clamped down on his wrist, twisting it sharply. He gasped, the weapon slipping from his grip as his arm was pulled behind his back. His reflexive struggle was cut short as the mercenary forced him to his knees, an iron grip locking his wrists together and binding them tightly with reinforced restraints.

Around him, Creel’s officers were brought down with silent efficiency. They moved like shadows, slipping into the midst of the Coalition officers without a word, their bodies shifting smoothly as they took each man down in an orchestrated silence. There was no shouting, no clashing of weapons, only the muted sound of bodies hitting the earth.

One officer, a seasoned lieutenant with a streak of silver in his hair, didn’t even see his attacker. A mercenary dropped silently behind him, tapping the back of the officer’s knee with a precise strike. The lieutenant crumpled, buckling to the ground. Before he could reach for his weapon, the mercenary twisted his arm up at a punishing angle, locking it behind his back in a vice-like grip that left him gasping for air. His head was pressed forward into the dirt, and he was helpless to do anything but grit his teeth as his rifle was yanked away.

A few paces away, another officer turned to shout a warning, but the words died in his throat as a Mystic Knight materialized directly in front of him. The mercenary’s gloved hand shot forward, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting with such force that the officer’s fingers flew open, his weapon clattering to the ground. In one smooth motion, the mercenary stepped behind him, locking an arm around his neck, squeezing just enough to keep the officer off-balance and struggling for breath. The man's head was forced down, his chin smacking against the ground as the mercenary stripped him of his sidearm and communication device, tossing them aside.

A third officer made a desperate attempt to raise his rifle, his eyes darting around for an escape route. But before he could take a single step, a Mystic Knight appeared at his flank, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him backward with brutal force. The officer staggered, his rifle slipping from his grasp as he felt his arms wrenched behind him, his wrists locked together with reinforced restraints. His head was shoved down, helmet scraping against the dirt, his balance utterly compromised. With a shove, he was forced onto his knees, his device tossed carelessly onto the growing pile of confiscated technology.

Creel watched, rage and helplessness flooding his chest as he saw his men fall, each one stripped of dignity and weapons, forced to kneel in submission. His jaw clenched, fury twisting his face. He tried to twist out of his own captor’s grip, but a gloved hand clamped onto his shoulder with brutal strength, forcing him still.

Desperation spiked through him. He lunged forward, but his captor’s grip only tightened, and a swift boot dug into his back, pressing him down to the earth. The cold metal was unyielding, driving him into the dirt until his face was pressed into the damp soil. His fingers clawed at the ground, his teeth grinding as he struggled against the weight of the boot pinning him.

The mercenary’s voice was low, almost mocking. “You’re going nowhere.”

Creel seethed, his fingers digging into the ground, fury simmering beneath the weight pressing him down. The damp earth clung to his face, and he felt the grit in his mouth, the taste of humiliation as he lay helpless in the mud. The pride he had carried as a Coalition captain, the command he’d wielded, felt like a distant memory now.

The mercenary leader, a tall man with a helmet concealing his face, approached Creel’s face, kneeling down until they were eye level. His face was hidden, but Creel could feel Knight One’s smirk.

“Not so tough without your Skelebots, are you, Captain?” Knight One sneered. His voice was calm, taunting.

Creel tried to wrench himself free, but the mercenary shoved him harder into the ground. “You’re coming with us.”

One by one, the mercenaries lifted Creel and his men to their feet, none too gently. The Coalition officers’ faces bore expressions of humiliation and defeat, their uniforms disheveled, each one looking dazed as their wrists were bound tightly behind their backs.

Creel struggled, his face red with rage, but the mercenaries only tightened their grip, forcing him to walk forward. He felt his pride crumble with every step, as if each shove deeper into the forest pulled him further away from the authority he had once commanded.

The mercenary squad moved with practiced precision, forcing the captured officers into a single line, pushing them forward with silent, measured steps. As they marched Creel and his men toward the village, the mercenaries exchanged silent, satisfied nods.

Captain Darius Creel, the man who had come to burn the village to the ground, was now being paraded toward it as a prisoner. And with every step, he felt the crushing weight of his defeat settle on his shoulders, the taste of dirt and humiliation still lingering in his mouth.

---

The Trial Begins

The mercenaries led Creel and his men to the village center, a clearing surrounded by the remnants of the day’s battle: the torn ground, the burnt edges of buildings saved from total destruction, and the determined faces of those who had been spared by the mercenaries’ intervention. The smell of smoldering wood and earth filled the air, a reminder of how close they had come to losing everything.

Knight One raised a hand, signaling the villagers to approach. Among the villagers stood Lady Serana, the Cyber-Knight, her gaze as hard as steel as she stepped forward to address them. The crowd parted for her, the respect and gratitude in their eyes a silent testament to the trust they placed in her.

A village elder, a wiry man with lines of wisdom and worry etched into his face, joined her. He looked over the Coalition officers, his eyes sharp and unflinching. It was clear he held no fear of them now; they were in his village, powerless, with no army left to back them.

The elder's voice was steady but strong. “You led an army to destroy us—men, women, children. You sent machines to hunt us down, to kill us without warning. You may be Coalition soldiers, but here, you answer to us.”

Captain Creel scoffed, though the restraint around his wrists dug into his skin painfully. “You have no authority over us,” he spat. “I follow orders from command, not from a band of farmers and outlaws.”

Lady Serana’s gaze hardened. “And what of the orders you gave? Slaughtering civilians, destroying homes… is that what you call duty?”

Creel sneered, but his voice faltered under her gaze. “The Coalition fights for humanity’s survival. You… all of you here are too blind to see it. Evil magic wielding demons. . . Associating with this alien scum.—you're all traitors to humanity. A blight.”

The villagers murmured angrily, the quiet swell of voices like a rumbling storm. One man, younger and angrier, stepped forward, his fists clenched. “You were ready to kill us all, just because we wouldn’t bow to your emperor and his ‘Coalition.’”

The elder raised a hand to quiet him. His voice was firm as he addressed Creel. “Today, we decide your fate. It was not your machines that saved us—it was these mercenaries, humans like you, who chose to protect rather than destroy.”

One of Creel’s officers, a wiry man with a scarred cheek, finally spoke up, desperation tainting his words. “You can’t do this. We’re Coalition officers! We have rights—”

Knight Four laughed, his voice a low, mocking sound that silenced the officer immediately. “Rights? You were ready to burn their lives to the ground. Funny how you only care about ‘rights’ when they’re your own.”

Lady Serana stepped forward, her voice filled with quiet authority. “You have two choices. Accept the judgment of this village and face justice for your actions—or leave everything you know behind and become prisoners of the mercenaries, far from Coalition command, stripped of everything you hold dear.”

Creel felt a spike of fear, but he pushed it down. “You can’t do this. The Coalition will come for us.”

The elder met his gaze with a calm, piercing stare. “The Coalition. I see no Coalition here. They won’t be coming. Now, we will have our say.”

The villagers began to speak, sharing their stories, their losses, their fear. One after another, they described the terror of watching the Skelebots march on their homes, the desperation of fleeing with their families, the anger of knowing these soldiers would have destroyed everything without a second thought.

Finally, the elder turned to Creel, his voice cold and resolute. “We find you guilty of terrorizing our village, of crimes against those who sought only to live. You and your men will SERVE the village you tried to destroy, helping us rebuild what you so callously attempted to take from us. And if the Coalition should attack us again. IF they succeed, you will be the first to die.”

Creel’s face twisted in fury, but his defiance broke under the gaze of the villagers surrounding him. The mercenaries moved forward, stripping him and his men of their Coalition insignias and everything that marked them as Coalition soldiers.

As the last of their equipment was taken, Creel slumped, the weight of his defeat sinking in.

Lady Serana gave him one final, pitying look. “Today, you learn what it means to serve. Not an empire, not a machine. But people.”

And with that, she turned, leaving him to the judgment of the very villagers he had once looked down upon. The villagers watched him, their expressions a mixture of satisfaction and resolution. Creel had come to destroy them, but in the end, they had broken him instead.

---

The remnants of the recent battle lay scattered across the village outskirts: the burnt-out shells of Skelebots, the churned earth where Coalition forces had once advanced, and the faint, fading smell of smoke. Lady Serana, clad in the armor of the Cyber-Knights, stood at the edge of the field, her gaze steady as she watched the last rays of sunlight dip behind the trees. She felt the weight of responsibility settling heavily on her shoulders. The village was safe for now, but her promise was only half fulfilled.

Knight One, the leader of the mercenary company, approached her from behind. A tall, imposing man, he moved with the confidence of someone used to leading others into fire and emerging the victor. His helmet was off, and his sharp, calculating gaze fixed on her as he stopped by her side.

Knight One (smirking), “Seems like we held up our end so far, Lady Serana. The village is still standing, and the Coalition’s bots are nothing but scrap.”

Lady Serana turned to face him, nodding in acknowledgement, though her expression remained resolute.

Lady Serana, “You’ve kept your word. For that, I’m grateful. The villager and it's people are safe because of you and your company. I won’t forget that.”

Her tone was calm, yet weighted with an unspoken promise, a sincerity that Knight One found both admirable and curious. He crossed his arms, giving her a sideways look.

Knight One, “Good to hear, but I don’t think we’re finished yet. I believe there was… more to our arrangement?”

Lady Serana inclined her head, the ghost of a smile crossing her face, though her eyes remained serious.

Lady Serana, “There is. My debt isn’t paid until those villagers are free. The Coalition’s labor camp still holds the men they captured. That was the reason I came to you in the first place, and that is why I’ll be serving your company for the next three years. My sword is yours until my debt is fulfilled.”

Knight One’s smirk faded into a thoughtful expression. He studied her carefully, as if measuring her resolve.

Knight One, “Three years in my company… A Cyber-Knight doesn’t give that kind of service lightly. Most would rather die than serve under a mercenary banner.”

He tilted his head, his tone almost teasing. “Why me? You could have sought out anyone. Why hire mercenaries, especially us?”

Lady Serana held his gaze, her expression unwavering. She chose her words carefully.

Lady Serana, “Because I need results, not ideals. The Coalition would see every one of those villagers broken or worse. I’ve heard of your reputation, Knight One—you and your company get things done. And you fight to protect your own… even if you’re paid to do it.”

She paused, glancing toward the distant treeline where the labor camp lay hidden beyond the horizon.

Lady Serana, “You and I are bound by different codes, but this time, our purpose aligns. Those men are counting on us, and I will honor my end of the deal to see them freed.”

Knight One nodded, his expression unreadable as he considered her words. Finally, he let out a low chuckle, an amused glint in his eye.

Knight One, “I like you, Serana. You’re honest about what you want, and you don’t pretend to be something you’re not. It’s rare in our line of work.” He met her gaze directly. “But let’s be clear—three years is a long time, and we’ve got our share of enemies. Once you’re with us, you’ll fight where we fight, go where we go. Are you prepared for that?”

Lady Serana’s gaze didn’t waver. She squared her shoulders, her voice steady and unflinching.

Lady Serana, “I am. A knight’s word is binding, and I am bound to this cause now. My blade, my skills, they’re yours. But know this—when the time comes, I will be there to see those villagers freed.”

Knight One raised a brow, intrigued by her unwavering commitment. There was a strength in her that went beyond duty, a quiet power that didn’t need to boast. He respected that.

Knight One, “Fair enough. But don’t think for a second that I’m going to go easy on you just because you’re a Cyber-Knight. You’ll train, fight, and bleed like the rest of us. My company doesn’t do charity, and you’ll earn your place here every day.”

Lady Serana (nodding), “I wouldn’t expect anything less. If I’m to serve under you, then I’ll meet whatever challenge you set before me.”

There was a beat of silence as they studied each other, a silent understanding forming between them. Knight One extended his hand, a rare gesture from a mercenary commander who trusted few.

Knight One, “Then we have a deal. Welcome to the company, Lady Serana. We’ll free those villagers, and in return, you’ll serve in my company. Three years, or until your debt is repaid.”

Lady Serana took his hand, their grips firm, sealing their pact. For a moment, she allowed herself a flicker of satisfaction. The villagers were one step closer to freedom, and she knew she was bound by her word. Whatever the next three years brought, she would face it with honor.

As they released their hands, Knight One turned toward the rest of the mercenaries preparing their camp, his voice carrying a note of command.

Knight One, “Alright, pack up! We’ve got work to do, and it doesn’t stop here. We need intel on the Coalition camp so we can have a plan to recover its prisoners without getting them or ourselves killed. We need a man on the inside also. We march for the Coalition’s camp after we’ve looted the field of any useful parts.”

The mercenaries moved with the promise of the profit to come. As they made their way collecting energy rifles and what was left of the Skelebots good parts.

Lady Serana glanced back toward the village, a sense of purpose solidifying within her. She had made a promise to herself, to the villagers, and now to Knight One. And whatever the Coalition threw at them, she would see it through to the end.

[darthauthor]

Location: The Mercenary Camp

In the soft light of the medical tent, Lady Serana sat on the edge of a table, her shoulders tense, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face, a rare sight of exposed flesh amidst the sleek, fitted Cyber-Armor that encased the rest of her, was marked by reluctance. Across from her stood Rheya, the company’s healer, a woman with sharp eyes and a disarmingly gentle smile. Rheya noted Serana’s posture, the defiant set of her jaw, and the wariness in her gaze, reading it all with the practiced patience of someone accustomed to reluctant patients.

Rheya (smiling reassuringly), "I know this wasn’t your idea, but our commander insists that everyone in his company has a full medical check. Health is as important as armor on the battlefield.”

Serana didn’t respond immediately, her gaze shifting to the side, where a shelf of polished instruments gleamed under the lamplight. She was used to battlefields, to long marches and bruises and the sound of clashing metal, but this—this stillness, this vulnerability of sitting here, waiting to be examined—felt foreign. Exposing her face and hands was one thing, but to allow someone access to her armor, her very body, was a level of trust she rarely extended.

Serana (with a hint of resignation), “Very well. But I don’t expect there’s much you’ll be able to do. My armor… it’s not like anything you’re used to treating.”

Rheya tilted her head thoughtfully, a spark of curiosity lighting her gaze. She reached forward, gently inspecting Serana’s exposed skin first, her touch careful and respectful. As her hands moved to Serana’s armor, she marveled at its composition. The Cyber-Armor wasn’t cold or unyielding like other metals. Instead, it flexed under her touch, as if it were a living entity.

Rheya (curious), “It’s remarkable. Your armor... it almost feels warm. Is it—does it feel like your skin?”

Serana hesitated, glancing down at the metallic surface of her arm. It had become part of her, something she didn’t question anymore, like a second skin. The armor was her, and yet it wasn’t. She ran a hand along her forearm, where metal met flesh at the wrist.

Serana (quietly), “Yes… in a way. It’s alive, in its own sense. After years of training, it has become one with me. Any damage it takes, it… heals itself, given time. To most people, it just looks like armor, but to a Cyber-Knight, it’s more than that.”

Rheya looked up, eyes widening with fascination. “So, if you’re hurt in battle—physically hurt, I mean—does the armor help you heal?”

Serana, “Not exactly. It protects me, it’s a shield from injury. The armor repairs itself.”

Rheya nodded, noting the information with the silent efficiency of a professional. She took a step back, gesturing for Serana to extend her arm. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to check for any signs of strain or damage to your natural body. Armor can be a gift, but it can also hide weaknesses. Even knights need to watch their health.”

Serana sighed, her body tense but compliant as she extended her arm, letting Rheya inspect the exposed flesh around her wrist and hand. The healer’s fingers traced along her tendons, pressing gently at her pulse points, her gaze intent.

Rheya: "Everything seems fine here… but I noticed something when I touched the armor. There’s a faint, almost like… a heartbeat.”

Serana’s gaze flickered. Few people understood the true nature of Cyber-Armor, let alone sensed its subtlety. It wasn’t something she shared often, even with allies.

Serana (softly), “It’s bound to my life force. It draws from my spirit as much as my body. The armor lives only as long as I do.”

Rheya nodded, her expression respectful. “And if you were injured… would it drain your strength further to repair?”

Serana hesitated. “It heals as my body does. It grows like my hair; only faster.”

The healer’s gaze softened with understanding, her hands moving with gentle efficiency as she examined the rest of Serana’s exposed skin, checking for signs of strain or injury.

Rheya, “You’ve put yourself through a lot, haven’t you? Between the battle and the training… I imagine your body takes its own toll.”

Serana nodded, looking down, her voice quieter than before. “It’s what we’re trained for. It’s who we are. To serve, to protect.” She glanced up, meeting Rheya’s gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. “But you’re right. The strain is… constant.”

Rheya finished her examination, giving Serana a small, reassuring smile. “Well, our commander is right to insist on your health. If your spirit is what drives you, and your armor, then you need to take care of it. Regular check-ups with me might help keep that strength of yours up. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to give your mind a rest every now and then.”

Serana allowed herself a slight smile, relaxing for the first time since the examination began. “I suppose you’re right. Though… rest has never been something I’ve taken much time for.”

Rheya (smiling), “Then let’s change that. A Cyber-Knight’s strength is legendary, but even legends need time to mend. Come back to see me if anything feels off, even if it’s just a hunch. That’s part of being with us now—full health care. Our Commander insists on it for all his people.”

Serana gave a short nod, the initial reluctance fading from her face. Knight One’s insistence on this examination was clear to her now. It was a reminder of her new place within his company, a place that came with obligations, but also a rare sense of camaraderie she hadn’t known among mercenaries.

As she stood and prepared to leave, she glanced back at Rheya, her voice softened in gratitude.

Serana, “Thank you… for treating me as more than armor.”

Rheya’s smile widened, a kindness in her gaze. “Of course, Serana. You’re more than the armor. Remember that.”

As Serana stepped out of the tent, she felt a strange, unfamiliar feeling—as though a weight had been lifted. For a Cyber-Knight, the burden of duty was constant, but here, among these mercenaries, perhaps she could allow herself to share it, if only a little.

Serana paused at the edge of the tent, a quiet heaviness settling over her as she considered the healer’s words. She turned back, her face thoughtful, her hand lingering on the tent flap.

Serana, “Rheya… would you mind if we talked a moment longer?”

Rheya looked up from her medical kit, her gaze curious yet warm as she nodded, setting her instruments aside. She gestured for Serana to sit, pulling up a small stool to sit across from her.

Rheya, “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Serana took a slow, deliberate breath, her eyes drifting to the glow of the lamp, as if the flickering light could somehow help her organize her thoughts.

Serana, “It’s… the Code. The vow I took when I became a Cyber-Knight.” She glanced at Rheya, her face conflicted. “You see, our founder—Lord Coake—he’s decreed that we should not fight in wars like this one. That Cyber-Knights should stay above it, helping only on individual levels, healing wounds or intervening where we see crimes or atrocities. But we’re not supposed to take sides or bolster one army or another.”

Rheya studied her, a look of understanding dawning on her face. She nodded, her silence inviting Serana to continue.

Serana, “Lord Coake’s vision for us is one of… balance, I suppose. To be wanderers, drawn to places where people need us, not where they want us to fight their battles for them. He believes that if we do too much, people will start to rely on us, to depend on the Cyber-Knights for things they need to do themselves. Our purpose is to protect, to teach, to heal… not to become another army.”

She paused, her hands resting on her armored knees. Her gaze drifted toward the outside of the tent, where the sound of the mercenaries’ camp could still be heard.

Serana, “But this war... the people of Tolkeen have nowhere to go, nowhere that wouldn’t eventually be taken by the Coalition. They’re afraid to abandon their homes, their lands, and the lives they’ve built. They tell me that if they have to fight, it will be on the ground they know, where their children were born and where their loved ones are buried. It feels… wrong to leave them to face this alone.”

Rheya nodded, listening intently. She tilted her head thoughtfully, her voice soft and patient.

Rheya, “So, you’re torn between your vow and what you feel is the right thing to do here?”

Serana gave a small, bitter chuckle, her hands clenching and unclenching.

Serana, “Yes. The Cyber-Knights are divided because of this, half of us remaining neutral as Lord Coake wants, and the other half feeling compelled to help defend Tolkeen. I thought I was certain. But now… it seems like no matter what I choose, people will die. Thousands, on both sides. And the only way to avoid that would be for Tolkeen to surrender, to give up everything without a fight.”

She paused, her face hardening as her thoughts turned dark.

Serana, “But I believe that even if Tolkeen surrendered today, the Coalition would return in a few years to take whatever it pleased. They would just keep expanding, keep conquering. I can’t see any reason why they wouldn’t. And I… I don’t know what choice is the lesser evil here.”

Rheya reached out, resting a comforting hand on Serana’s arm, her fingers light on the sleek, living metal of the Cyber-Armor.

Rheya, “Serana, there’s no easy answer in a war like this. What you’re facing is more than a decision about whether or not to fight—it’s about your values, your beliefs, and what you’re willing to risk for them. And you’re right; wars rarely leave anyone unscathed, no matter how noble their cause.”

Serana’s gaze dropped to her hands. Her voice was softer, tinged with doubt.

Serana, “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m letting my own beliefs cloud my duty to the Code. Lord Coake’s vision has kept the Cyber-Knights free of alliances and entanglements, and maybe that’s for the best. But… if we step back, if we do nothing, then what good are we, really?”

Rheya watched her carefully, considering her words before responding, her voice thoughtful.

Rheya, “From what I can see, you’re wrestling with a very human conflict. And that’s the thing, Serana… you’re human first, Cyber-Knight second. Maybe that’s what Coake doesn’t account for. You’re not just a symbol or a sword for hire; you’re a person, someone who feels the pain of others, who sees their fears and hopes.”

She paused, a glint of understanding in her eyes.

Rheya, “I’m not a Cyber-Knight, and I can’t tell you what to do. But I know this—sometimes, staying true to yourself means more than staying true to a code. Maybe you can still honor the Code, but in a way that feels true to who you are.”

Serana blinked, the weight of Rheya’s words sinking in. There was a part of her that felt a small, tentative relief, as if she were allowed—if only for a moment—to set down the burden of always knowing what was right.

Serana, “You might be right. Perhaps there’s a way to serve both. To respect Coake’s vision and still fight for those who need protection.”

Rheya smiled, her voice warm and encouraging. “You have the heart of a knight, Serana. And I think you’ll find the right path. Maybe it’s not about taking sides… maybe it’s about being who you are, where you’re needed most, and trusting yourself.”

Serana straightened, a spark of renewed determination igniting within her. She glanced toward the tent entrance, the sounds of the mercenary camp now mingling with distant voices from the village. The path forward wasn’t yet clear, but she felt a bit less burdened by the choice.

Serana (gratefully), “Thank you, Rheya. I didn’t expect to find answers tonight, but… you’ve helped me see this more clearly.”

Rheya nodded, her eyes gentle as she watched Serana rise to her feet.

Rheya, “Remember, you’re not alone. Even out here, in this war… you’re part of something larger than yourself. And whatever choice you make, know that it will be made with honor.”

Serana gave a final, appreciative nod before stepping back into the night, her mind still filled with questions but her spirit renewed. She would walk her path as a Cyber-knight, however complex, trusting in herself to find the way forward.

---

Around the tent where leadership had gathered his top officers and allies, with Lady Serana seated across from him. A map lay spread over the table between them, with markers indicating known Coalition encampments, prisoner sites, and the village they’d just defended.

Knight One leaned forward, his hand tracing the path from their current position to the nearest Coalition prison camp.

Knight One, “All right, here’s where we stand. We’ve got four choices. We can hold the village and defend it, knowing it’s likely more Skelebots will come to replace the ones we took down. We could strike first and hit the closest army of Skelebots ourselves, keeping them from getting any closer. Or…”

He paused, his gaze flickering to Serana with a knowing look.

Knight One, “We could take a risk and go after one of the Coalition camps. There are people—both humans and D-Bees—trapped there. They’ll face certain death if we do nothing, but if we rescue them, we’ll be exposing ourselves and leaving this village vulnerable in our absence.”

Serana’s brows knit in thought. She studied the markers, her fingers resting thoughtfully on the map.

Serana, “And then there’s the matter of proof. The Coalition has kept these camps existence hidden well, and without credible evidence, the stories are easy to dismiss as lies or propaganda. We need to expose what’s happening, or even if we liberate a camp, there’ll be no public outrage to stop them from rebuilding it.”

Knight One leaned back, a hint of frustration in his gaze.

Knight One, “That’s just it. We’ve got this intelligence report we put together, but on its own, it’s flimsy. Anyone could call it fiction, and the Coalition controls all information within their borders. The average Coalition citizen would call us liars or terrorists. And even if we manage to get footage, only certain voices will be heard.”

He pointed to the City of Lazlo and New Lazlo marked on the edge of the map.

Knight One, “If we can get someone politically important from Lazlo to see it firsthand, take video evidence themselves, then maybe the Coalition’s cover would be blown. But convincing them to come… that’s a challenge all its own.”

Serana nodded, her mind racing through the implications of each option.

Serana, “If we sit and wait, more Skelebots will come, and sooner or later, the village will fall. That’s inevitable. And if we strike their closest army, that will buy us time but no real leverage. But if we liberate the camp and bring Lazlo’s people in to see it… that could lead them to join with Tolkeen, that COULD change the course of this war.”

She glanced back at the map, her finger tracing the line between their position and the nearest Coalition camp.

Serana, “I understand the risk of leaving the village vulnerable. But if we’re to truly stop this, people need to see the truth. We need the evidence of these camps, something that can’t be refuted. And if we save lives along the way, it’s a cause worth fighting for.”

Knight One’s face softened, his respect for her growing with each word. Her dedication to helping others was unmistakable, and he could see the weight of her responsibility pressing on her shoulders.

Knight One, “So, if we go to the camp… who do you think we could and should bring along to bear witness? Who could give this the weight it needs?”

Serana, “The press, someone from Lazlo—someone respected, a scholar or diplomat whose voice carries weight outside of Tolkeen. A person with credibility, who can document what they see. With video, testimonials of the liberated prisoners, captured CS prison guards. Evidence of the camps’ true purpose. Then, even the Coalition’s supporters would have a hard time brushing it off as fiction.”

She hesitated, her gaze falling on the village marker.

Serana, “But if we do leave the village, we can’t leave it entirely undefended. What about a small detachment here? We could set up defenses around the perimeter, something that would at least delay any Skelebot reinforcements until we return.”

Knight One considered her suggestion, nodding slowly.

Knight One, “I’ll leave some of my men here, the best we can spare, to manage the situation as it evolves.”

Serana, “I’ll speak with some of the villagers before we go, to make sure they know we are not abandoning them. We already have dug bunkers for them, in case of an emergency. Still we should spotters posted miles out. Also, they will need an evacuation plan, in case the village is overrun.”

Knight One’s eyes softened with a mixture of respect at Serana’s seeing the reality of the situation. He expected an air strike or artillary fire any day now. The village is a stationary target. IF the CS can’t conquor it they will wipe it off the map for resisting them.

Knight One, “Then it’s decided. We’ll leave at dawn. We’ll aim for the Coalition’s nearest camp, liberate those people, and get the proof we need. You’ll reach out to the villagers tonight, and I’ll coordinate our detachment to stay behind.”

He paused, meeting her gaze squarely.

Knight One, “This isn’t an easy road, Serana. We’ll be walking right into Coalition-controlled camp, and the risks…” He exhaled, searching for the right words. “There’s no coming back from this, if they identify us. They’ll mark us as enemies, and they won’t stop hunting us down.”

Serana’s eyes glinted with FIRE!

Serana, “They already mark us as enemies for defending the innocent. To them, a Cyber-Knight is an enemy by virtue of what we represent: freedom, protection, honor. But I’m not afraid of that. This is what I became a Cyber-Knight for.”

Knight One smiled, shaking his head slightly.

Knight One, “Of course you’re not afraid. You’re a Cyber-Knight through and through.” He straightened, his voice taking on a note of command. “All right. Prepare your gear, and say your goodbyes to the village tonight. At dawn, we march on the Coalition camp.”

As Serana rose from her seat, and left for the village.

---

Privately speaking with his squad leaders afterwards.

“Relocate the villagers. Use diplomacy. IF that doesn’t work. Use intimidation. IF that fails too. Use force. Move the people. Leave those too old, sick and stubborn behind to die; if that is their wish. Let the fighters stay too. Take the rest to Lazlo or New Lazlo. I’ll pay for the expenses and transportation. Let them carry some silver coins and guns so they won’t think we are selling them into slavery. Leave us a secret underground passage way to sneaking into the village. Something we can come back to, after the CS takes the place. So we can sneak back in and slit their throats or blow the town.” They exchanged a long, silent look, an understanding passing between them.

[darthauthor]

Location: Camp Victory

The transport truck rattled to a stop, its metal frame creaking as it settled into the dirt just outside Camp’s looming concrete walls. The civilian inside, a man with disheveled hair and hands still bound from the journey, squinted through the narrow slats at the desolate expanse beyond. A cold fear sat in his stomach, growing sharper as two guards approached, their boots crunching against the gravel in unhurried steps that echoed through the otherwise silent woods.

The truck’s back door swung open with a metallic groan, and the man flinched, blinking in the sudden harsh light. He was yanked from the vehicle, boots slipping on the ground as he stumbled out, his gaze rising to take in the massive gray wall that stretched endlessly in both directions. It towered above him, a barrier of rough concrete that seemed to swallow the sky itself. The wall’s surface was pitted and streaked with grime, and at intervals, guard towers rose like grim monoliths, their slitted windows staring back at him with silent menace. Atop each tower, he could see coiled barbed wire glinting under the pale sun, an endless, twisted ribbon that looked as sharp as any blade.

A rough shove from the guard brought him out of his trance, and he was prodded forward through a large, reinforced gate. As he passed through, the camp’s brutal expanse unfolded before him. Rows of drab, squat buildings stretched out in a stark, mechanical grid. Each dormitory was identical to the next—low-slung Quonset (half cylinder) huts made of sheet metal and concrete, standing like hollow shells, void of any warmth or comfort. A faint, acrid odor clung to the air, a mixture of sweat, metal, and something he couldn’t quite place, but which made his skin crawl.

The guards led him past the dormitories, allowing only the briefest glimpses into the open “rec yards” that extended from the side of each building. Inside one of these yards, he saw groups of detainees moving in slow, resigned patterns, their shoulders slumped and faces downcast as they shuffled across the barren ground. Some clung to the chain-link fences, peering out as if trying to catch a glimpse of the world beyond, but their expressions were hollow, as if they’d already given up any hope of seeing it again. High above, razor wire twisted and coiled along the fence tops, dotted with dark patches—torn scraps of clothing and smears that could only be blood, lingering remnants of past escape attempts. His throat tightened as he took in the macabre scene, realizing these were not merely fences but barriers designed to shred any last shred of hope.

They approached the central command post, an imposing, four-story structure that loomed ominously at the heart of the camp. A faint hum filled the air as the generator within powered the flickering lights and surveillance equipment mounted on every corner.

He noticed the turret-mounted rail gun perched atop the building, its barrel trained out over the camp with a cold, unblinking readiness. Its presence felt like a dark promise, a chilling declaration that any disturbance, any attempt at resistance, would be met with swift and brutal force.

As they moved closer, he caught sight of the Skelebots patrolling the command post’s perimeter. Their skeletal frames moved with eerie precision, sensors glowing faintly as they scanned each new arrival, every detainee, every shadow. Their mechanical heads turned toward him briefly as he passed, taking in his face, his posture, his very existence, before moving on without a hint of interest. There was nothing human in them, nothing to reason with, only cold programming and the promise of violence.

The guards led him onward, passing clusters of soldiers and Dog Boys who watched him with an unsettling mixture of indifference and mild curiosity. The Dog Boys sniffed the air, ears pricked, eyes glinting with a predatory intensity as they assessed the new arrival.

He could feel their gaze on him, sharp and penetrating, and had to fight the urge to shrink away from their attention. The soldiers, human and armored, stood in groups, some leaning against the walls, others casting bored glances across the camp. Their expressions were unreadable, hardened by the monotony of their duty here. They hardly seemed to notice him, another nameless face among countless others, as they resumed their patrols or exchanged murmured words with each other.

Finally, he was brought to one of the dormitories, a cold, lifeless building with walls of worn steel and dull stone. As he was led inside, the oppressive heat hit him first, a stifling atmosphere that seemed to press down on his chest. The dormitory was packed with rows of bunk beds, each one filled with a weary, silent face. People sat shoulder to shoulder, eyes empty, bodies hunched, their voices reduced to soft murmurs. The air was thick, stagnant, filled with the scent of unwashed bodies and the faintest trace of decay. Every inch of space was filled, the beds stacked two, sometimes three, high in tight, suffocating rows.

A guard pointed him to an empty cot wedged between two others, barely enough room to turn, let alone find any measure of comfort. The guard’s gesture was brisk, indifferent, as though directing him to a piece of luggage, not a person. The man sat down, his gaze wandering over the cramped quarters, the blank, weary faces around him. He felt the weight of it—the despair, the exhaustion, the endless monotony that pressed in on every side.

Outside, the sound of a guard’s whistle split the air, followed by the faint barking of orders. The man sat, his hands still trembling, as he began to understand the place he’d been brought to, the grim reality of the Camp. The walls, the razor wire, the indifferent faces—they were not just structures or people. They were parts of a system designed to strip away identity, to crush spirit, to turn each person here into another faceless part of the camp’s machinery. And as he sat there, alone among so many others, he knew that he was no longer a free man. This was a place where hope goes to die, where freedom was a distant memory, and where survival would be his only remaining purpose.

The air hung heavy over the Camp, thick with the oppressive scent of damp earth and the faintest traces of rust from the unforgiving metal fences. Here, in the secluded Wisconsin wilderness, the sprawling detainment camp sat amid dense thickets of trees, hidden from any prying eyes by the tall pines and mossy rocks that hemmed the horizon.

Going outside, he notices a lone prisoner climbing a ladder built into the inner side of the camp’s outer wall, leading directly up to a guard post. These ladders are protected by locks at ground level which the skelebot breaks and continues climbing.

Next two skelebots fall off the post outside the wall of the Camp.

The midday quiet of Camp Victory shattered without warning as a piercing whir filled the air. One of the guard posts—its elevated silhouette usually silent and watchful—suddenly roared to life. The rail gun, mounted in its 360-degree turret, whirred, swiveling with mechanical purpose as it aimed directly at the command post at the heart of the camp.

The sound of the first shot was deafening, a crack of superheated metal that sliced through the air and struck the command post (a stationary target) with pinpoint precision. Concrete and steel splintered on impact, fragments scattering in all directions as a thunderous explosion echoed through the camp. For a split second, the guards, Dog Boys, and detainees stood frozen, heads snapping toward the source of the explosion, disbelief etched across every face.

The rail gun continued its onslaught, unleashing blast after blast with ruthless efficiency. Each shot struck the command post’s reinforced walls, piercing layers of concrete and steel, ripping through corridors, and sending sparks and debris flying as lights shattered and wires burst into flame. Inside the building, alarms blared, their high-pitched wails lost beneath the relentless assault of gunfire. Soldiers and personnel scrambled, shouting orders and diving for cover as the structure began to buckle, floors cracking and ceiling beams groaning under the strain.

In the control room, the lieutenant in charge made best efforts to issue a distress signal before a blast tore through the antenna but it was too late.

Then another blast far wall, sending him and his command panel tumbling to the ground amid a shower of shattered concrete. Across the room, Skelebots malfunctioned, their mechanical frames twitching before they were buried under the cascading debris. Soldiers staggered to their feet, some shouting for help, others racing to evacuate, but each step was hindered as sections of the ceiling collapsed, sealing doors shut and blocking exits. Smoke filled the air, thick and choking, reducing visibility to mere feet as rubble piled up around the trapped personnel.

Outside, the detainees gasped, huddling together near fences and dormitory walls, their eyes wide as they watched the once-imposing command post crack and crumble under the unrelenting fire. Guards on the ground shouted into their radios, demanding to know who was controlling the rogue railgun, but their words went unanswered. The guard post itself remained eerily silent, its automated gun swiveling, firing without pause, relentless in its assault.

After a brutal assault, the command post succumbed entirely. With a final, explosive rumble, the building collapsed inward, steel beams twisting and concrete walls crumbling as the structure imploded. Dust and smoke billowed into the air, a dense, suffocating cloud that cloaked the camp in a layer of ash and debris. Silence fell, broken only by the occasional crackle of flames and the groans of shifting metal.

Inside the ruins, survivors lay trapped beneath fallen beams, walls, and equipment, their voices muffled but audible, calling out for help through the layers of debris. Some were pinned by twisted metal, others partially buried under chunks of concrete, unable to move, their radios damaged or lost in the wreckage. Skelebots lay motionless, their frames buried or crushed under the weight of collapsed walls, their circuits sparking fitfully as they powered down one by one. Human guards and Dog Boys who had managed to avoid fatal injuries struggled to free themselves, pulling at rubble with bruised, bleeding hands, attempting to dig out comrades or create a path to freedom.

But as they moved, each one realized with grim certainty—they were trapped. Reinforcements would have to come from outside the camp, and until they did, those pinned within the ruins of the command post were left with nothing but the dust-filled darkness, the distant sound of the rail gun, and the weight of the rubble pressing down on them, sealing them in a place that was once meant to control and contain, now reduced to a smoldering ruin of twisted steel and broken stone.

The rogue Skelebot in the guard post recalibrated its sights with clinical precision, its rail gun swiveling to lock onto the second command post without hesitation. The whir of the turret grew louder as the weapon powered up, its barrel humming with energy before unleashing another deadly barrage. The first shot rang out, slicing through the air like a thunderclap and striking the second command post’s fortified walls, sending up a cloud of dust and splintered concrete. The blast reverberated through the camp, snapping the remaining guards into frantic action as they scrambled to understand the sudden, merciless assault from within their own ranks.

But the chaos on the ground escalated further, as four Mystic Knights, cloaked in invisibility, slipped silently among the guards who were still reeling from the first attack. Moving with supernatural stealth and speed, the knights struck with surgical efficiency, each one targeting a separate group of guards.
Slamming a guard into the ground, disarming them and knocking, shooting them with their own rifle a single shot to the back of the neck.
The guard’s radio dropped to the dirt, emitting static as his body slumped.

Before the other guards could react, the second knight appeared behind two soldiers, a blur of movement as he swept their legs out from under them, leaving them sprawled in the dust. He dispatches them with lethal efficiency

The third Mystic Knight appeared just long enough to deliver a brutal energy blast to a guard’s helmet, sending him staggering into the arms of a fourth guard, who barely registered the movement before both were dead by a swift, expertly delivered energy blast that left them dead where they lay.

The fourth knight, eliminated a sentry who had been reaching for his radio, thrusting the barrel to the guard’s head and firing.

With the guards on the ground neutralized in seconds, the Mystic Knights regrouped, still cloaked in their invisibility spells, watching with grim satisfaction as the rail gun continued its deadly assault on the second command post.

They joined in the bombardment of the target. Shot after shot pounded the structure, walls cracking under the relentless barrage, windows shattering as the building buckled from the inside. Inside, personnel scrambled for exits, but the structure groaned under the impact, concrete and steel tearing apart as the rail gun zeroed in with brutal precision.

As the command post’s Structure gave way entirely. In a final, agonizing collapse, the building crumbled inward, sections of wall crashing down in a shower of concrete and dust. Beams twisted, pipes burst, and flames erupted as the generator shorted, adding fire to the smoke-filled wreckage. Inside, those who had not managed to escape were now pinned beneath the rubble, trapped in the darkness and dust as the structure settled, a twisted ruin of steel and concrete.

The Mystic Knights, their work swift and silent, exchanged glances, nodding to each other as they assessed the scene. Their invisibility cloaks flickered for an instant as they moved, slipping past the confused, scattered detainees and guards who were still reeling

Knight One took the time to don the Coalition armor while Knight Two stood guard. Four continued using his Bio-manipulation on the guards to paralyze them. While Three shot them in the head at point blank range.

The third and final command post tower fell.

Next priority. The guard posts.

Disguised as a Coalition Service member, Knight One began shooting skelebots he came across in their heads leaving them blind and deaf.

Knight Two, having taken a guard post, begins sniping the guards on the ground.

---

Meanwhile, outside, Lady Serana riding forth at the minute mark of command post, towards the camp’s walls. A suitable distraction for the skelebot guards outside the wall while the company’s snipers shoot at them.

The Skelebots optics see Lady Serana disappear and reappear over and over again making targeting her problematic while she closes the distance

The thunder of hooves echoed through the clearing as Lady Serana stood tall atop her galloping horse, her body a seamless extension of the animal beneath her. The wind whipped past, but her balance was perfect, her Cyber-Armor glinting in the daylight as her gaze fixed intently on the Skelebots positioned ahead.

With a fluid motion, she raised an energy rifle in each hand, her body braced yet relaxed, eyes focused on a guard post, a towering structure rising 50 feet above the ground, bristling with weapons and sensors. The red optics of the Skelebots tracked her, trying to lock onto her swiftly moving form as she closed the distance, but they were too blind and slow.

The Skelebots opened fire, blasts streaking through the air, but Serana’s horse swerved left and right, her balance unshaken. She returned fire, her arms steady, her movements precise and fluid as her rifles spat bolts of energy toward her enemies. The first shot struck a Skelebot squarely in the chest, sending it reeling backward, circuits fried and sparking.

Another two Skelebots aimed at her, firing relentlessly, but their shots went wide, missing her by inches. Serana’s eyes narrowed, her body a blur of motion as she fired again, each shot finding its mark. She took down another pair of Skelebots, their metallic frames shuddering under the impact before they collapsed to the ground in a heap of twisted metal.

The guard post loomed above, with two more Skelebots stationed at its top, aiming their weapons down on her. Serana adjusted her balance, leaning forward on her horse with unwavering focus. She shifted her aim, both rifles pointing skyward. Her arms locked steady, and she squeezed the triggers, unleashing a rapid barrage of energy bolts that tore through the air, each shot climbing toward the guard post.

The first Skelebot took a hit to its optic sensor, shattering the red lens in an eruption of sparks. It staggered back, firing blindly as it swayed at the edge of the guard post. Serana didn't miss a beat, her second rifle trained on the remaining Skelebot. She fired again, her shot striking true, tearing through the metal plating of its chest. The bot’s power core overloaded, and with a resounding crash, it toppled from the post, hitting the ground with an earth-shaking thud.

The horse’s hooves thundered on, and Serana moved with it, an unbreakable force. The few remaining Skelebots tried to adjust their aim, but she was already on the move again, her shots precise, her stance unshaken atop the galloping steed. She fired twice more, dropping the last of the guard post defenders, clearing the path ahead.

Lowering her rifles, she kept her gaze forward, every Skelebot behind her either destroyed or scrambling, circuits fried and metal still smoking. Lady Serana was unstoppable—a force of nature astride her horse, charging forward, leaving nothing but shattered metal in her wake.

[darthauthor]

Location: Camp Victory


Smoke still drifted from the recent battle that had left the camp in disarray, Skelebot patrols moving through the dust and debris with mechanical precision, their red optics scanning every corner, every shadow for potential threats.

There are hundreds Skelebots left on high alert, scattered across the compound in coordinated sweeps (they don’t sleep and need no food, rest or shelter). Their commands were simple: locate any attackers, eliminate them, and maintain order over the prisoners. With each movement, the whirring of servos and clinking of metal echoed through the barren yards, a constant reminder of the Coalition’s iron hold over the camp. Yet beneath the Skelebots’ rigidly controlled patrols, in the heart of the command bunker, Coalition service members lay buried, trapped in the rubble of their fortified command center.

The bunker, designed to withstand artillery fire, had collapsed under the weight of targeted assault by the Mystic Knights, entombing the officers and grunts beneath layers of wood and reinforced concrete. Dust filled the darkened rooms, and the low, muffled voices of trapped soldiers could be heard, calling out in strained voices. They banged on the walls, trying to dig themselves free, but the weight above them was unforgiving. Their air supply was limited, and as each minute passed, desperation began to creep in.

Aboveground, a group of Skelebots passed the bunker entrance, their metallic feet stamping down as they moved in search of threats. They had no protocol for rescue; their orders were simple—secure the perimeter and eliminate any hostile forces. To the Skelebots, the buried Coalition soldiers were an afterthought, and the camp’s operations continued as if the officers’ absence made no difference. A live Coalition member would have to direct the Skelebots to aid the trapped grunts.

Meanwhile, the prisoners, huddled together behind fences and inside overcrowded barracks, watched the Skelebots with wary, tired eyes. They could feel the unease in the air, the increased vigilance of their robotic guards, but none of them dared to make a move. The camp had been disturbed—disrupted in a way it hadn’t been since they’d first arrived. Whispers spread among the prisoners, voices tense with both fear and hope.

From the shadows near the fence, a group of Tolkeen prisoners exchanged silent glances. Their robot guards were distracted, on high alert but scattered across the camp in search of an enemy they couldn’t find. This was the best chance they’d had in months, maybe ever, to make a break for it. They eyed the gap in the patrol lines, the thinning ranks of Skelebots shifting in formation as they fanned out toward the perimeter.

In a huddle, they whispered their plan, their voices low and hurried.

Tolkeen Prisoner (whispering), “We’ll head to the fence at the northwest corner. It’s thinner there, and the bots are focused on the main gate. If we’re quiet, we might slip through.”

Another Prisoner, “Are you mad? There are hundreds of them. If we’re caught—”

Tolkeen Prisoner (resolute), “If we stay, we die here anyway. They’re distracted; this is our only shot.”

They waited for the right moment, watching the Skelebot patrols pass by in rigid formations, red optics sweeping left to right. The mechanical soldiers seemed to sense something was amiss, their movements faster, more calculated than usual, but with no clear enemy to target, they moved on a circuit, methodical yet predictable.

As the prisoners crept toward the fence, keeping low to the ground, a deep rumble echoed from beneath the surface near the bunker entrance. A faint crack split the concrete, sending a plume of dust into the air and catching the attention of a nearby squad of Skelebots.

The Skelebots paused, their red optics fixed on the faint tremor, before adjusting their position. Some continued their patrol, while others circled back toward the command center, processing the faint vibrations as an anomaly. The prisoners froze, watching the Skelebots shift their focus.

---

Inside the bunker, the Coalition soldiers scrambled in the dark, coughing as the dust choked the narrow pocket of air they had left. Their voices grew frantic, some calling for help over the radio, though the signal was weak and mostly jammed by the thick concrete. The commanding officer, Lieutenant Grey, tried to maintain control over his men.

Lieutenant Grey (hoarse but commanding), “Keep calm! We’re not dead yet. If we keep digging, we might reach a weak spot. Stay focused, and conserve your energy.”

But as the minutes dragged on, their attempts to break free grew weaker. The air was thinning, the dust heavy and cloying, clinging to every breath. Above them, the Skelebots continued their patrols, unyielding, relentless.

---

Outside the perimeter, Lady Serana observed the 2 SAMAS flying over the camp.

Her back to the wall, she fied into the back wing of one of them sending it spiraling into the ground tumbling.
The other flew high and out of sight but it was still there, she could feel it.

Wasting no time she continued to fire on the downed SAMAS with her heavy weapons.

The Mystic Knight squad in the wood lit him up with sniper fire from their energy weapons. The surprise and combine fire was enough to keep the SAMAS down.

Then she could feel it. The second SAMAS was coming around. But this time different. She was not the target!

From a top a wall (she cut the razor wire with her Psi-Sword), her eyes narrowing as she took in what was before her. The Skelebots were moving in organized but predictable circuits, leaving brief windows of opportunity in their rotations. She knew she could exploit those patterns (she was mostly invisible to the Skelebots anyone as long as she was not attacking them), but the trapped soldiers inside the bunker added a new variable to her plan.

That's when death came from above!

The SAMAS rained fire down upon one of a detainee dormitory (Quonset barracks) until it. Soon, it would collapse and bury or kill everyone inside of it.

She opened fire with her twin heavy weapon rifles.

Serana signaled her small team, "Combine fire on my target."

It fled beyond range.

The Cyber-Knight gesturing for them to fan out and prepare.

The next step was was clear: destroy enough Skelebots to shatter the Coalition’s hold over the camp without getting the prisoners caught in the crossfire. She glanced at her energy rifle, the metal glinting in the low light, and stepped forward, blending into the darkness, she knew the path she would take, she had the element of surprise.

As day gave way to night, the camp was soon shrouded in shadows. Lady Serana moved like a wraith through the narrow paths between the prisoner barracks and the watch posts. Her movements were precise, controlled, her Psi-Sword shimmering faintly in her hand, casting an ethereal blue glow that cut through the dark but remained hidden from the Skelebots scanning optics—until it was too late for them to react.

A lone Skelebot stood guard, its red optics scanning the compound below. In the briefest flash of movement, Serana appeared behind it, her Psi-Sword slicing cleanly through its neck. The Skelebot’s optic lens dimmed as its body slumped forward, crumbling in silence. With a swift, smooth motion, she disabled it, ensuring no alert would sound.

She slipped down from the post, hugging the shadows, her form nearly indistinguishable from the night itself. The Skelebots, relying heavily on their sensors and precise programming, were blind to her Cyber-Knight presence unless she directly engaged them. And that advantage gave her the upper hand in this deadly dance.

Three more Skelebots patrolled the inner perimeter, guarding the prison yard where dozens of Tolkeen prisoners lay among themselves, watching the unfeeling red optics that had become a constant, menacing presence. Serana moved in closer, her footsteps soundless on the hardened dirt as she came up behind the first of the patrolling Skelebots.

With a flash, she plunged her Psi-Sword through its head, the energy blade slicing through metal as though it were paper. Sparks erupted as its skull melted, and she swiftly withdrew, letting it fall to the ground with a muted clatter. The second Skelebot turned at the sound, optics flaring brighter as it attempted to locate the source of the disturbance, but Serana was already on it.

This time, she raised her energy rifle, taking aim at the Skelebot’s optic sensor. Her shot was pinpoint accurate, shattering its red lens and blinding it instantly. The bot stumbled, disoriented, its servos whirring in confusion. Serana darted forward, leaping over a low barrier, and brought her Psi-Sword down in a clean arc, severing its head from its body.

The third Skelebot’s optics flared a bright, angry red as it swiveled toward her, its arm raising its energy rifle, building energy for a lethal discharge. Serana's reflexes kicked in—years of battle training and heightened psychic awareness guiding her movements before the bot could lock onto her. She dropped low, her body coiling like a spring, and rolled to the side, narrowly evading the blast that scorched the ground where she’d just been.

Springing up from the roll, she spun to face the bot, her Psi-Sword shimmering in her right hand while her energy rifle was gripped firmly in her left. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on the vulnerable joint at the base of the Skelebot’s blaster arm—a weak point in the otherwise solid mass of armored metal.

With perfect timing, she raised her rifle, aiming carefully even in the split-second of her movement, and squeezed the trigger. The bolt of energy struck the arm joint dead on, a spray of metal fragments and sparks erupting as the connection shattered. The blaster arm drooped, its energy feed severed, rendering it useless. The Skelebot jerked slightly, its optic sensor flickering as it tried to recalibrate, but Serana was already moving.

She lunged forward, covering the short distance in an instant, her Psi-Sword gleaming as she swung it with lethal precision. The blade sliced through the air with a faint hum as it pierced the metal skull of the Skelebot, sinking deep into its circuitry. Sparks burst from the point of impact, showering her armor with flickering light as the bot’s body seized.

Its limbs jerked erratically, metallic fingers twitching and clenching in spasms of uncoordinated movement, as if trying to fight off an invisible attacker. But it was no use—its systems were shorting out, its last processes overridden by the damage to its core functions. For a brief moment, its optics flashed wildly, trying to recalibrate, but the Psi-Sword’s psychic energy had already severed the delicate connections within its neural matrix.

Serana held her ground, her Psi-Sword lodged deep within the bot’s head, until she felt the final shudder pass through its frame. The red glow of its optics faded, flickering once, twice, before going dark. With a decisive pull, she wrenched her Psi-Sword free, and the Skelebot collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

She straightened, exhaling quietly, her gaze already scanning the area for any remaining threats. The bot’s metallic husk lay at her feet, its once-formidable blaster arm now a broken relic.

Serana exhaled, a silent breath of focus, before moving on to the barracks where the bulk of the prisoners were held. There, two more Skelebots stood at attention, their frames rigid, optics glowing faintly in the dark as they guarded the entrance.

Still unseen, Serana approached, shifting her Psi-Sword into a defensive grip as she assessed the terrain. The bots were positioned at each side of the door, facing outward, scanning the open yard. She waited, watching the slow rotations of their heads, timing the exact moment of each scan before making her move.

In a heartbeat, she darted forward, her Psi-Sword cutting a swift arc across the nearest bot’s neck, slicing through it. The bot jolted, a brief burst of light spilling its neck before it slumped to the ground.

The second Skelebot, alerted, turned toward her, its weapon arm rising in a calculated movement. But Serana was already in motion, flipping over its arm in a graceful, acrobatic maneuver, landing behind it with deadly precision. Before the bot could react, she drove her Psi-Sword through the back of its head, the blade piercing cleanly through the center.

With the entrance clear, she signaled to the prisoners within. The Tolkeen prisoners, wide-eyed and fearful, looked out to see her standing at the door, her Psi-Sword casting an otherworldly glow that cut through the darkness.

Serana (whispering urgently), “Your guards are down. Move quickly and stay low—I’ll cover you.”

The prisoners (recognizing a Cyber-Knight scrambled out, some limping, others clutching each other for support, as they followed her command and rushed toward the outer fence. But more Skelebots patrolled the far side, alerted to the disturbance. Serana pivoted, spotting three bots closing in from the perimeter, their optics flashing red as they spotted the escaping prisoners.

Without hesitation, she raised her energy rifle, firing off precise shots at each bot’s optic sensors. Her first two shots struck true, blinding two of them instantly, but the third bot ducked behind a guard tower, evading her aim. It aimed back, firing at her in rapid bursts. Serana dropped low, her Psi-Sword flashing as she deflected the energy blasts, each bolt glancing off the blade in a shower of sparks.

With a swift, practiced move, she charged forward, weaving around the erratic fire from the remaining Skelebot. She closed the gap in seconds, lunging forward and slicing through its head with her Psi-Sword, cutting its skull cleanly in two. The bot sparked, its circuits hissing as it collapsed to the ground, inert.

Behind her, the prisoners moved through the hole (she made with her psi-sword) in the wall, fear and hope mingling in their expressions as they realized she’d cleared their path to freedom. Serana turned back, watching the last of them disappear into the cover of the trees before she turned to survey the camp.

More Skelebots were converging on her position, drawn by the sudden activity, but their numbers had thinned. She could feel the pull of exhaustion in her muscles, but she knew there was no time to stop.

---

Meanwhile, high above, Knight Two lay prone on the roof of the dormitory, his energy rifle braced and ready. The distant glow of the Skelebots red optics painted targets across the yard, and he took a slow, steady breath. His crosshairs settled on the closest bot, his finger squeezing the trigger in a single, calculated motion. The shot landed precisely at the Skelebot’s head, shattering its optics and sending it staggering backward before it collapsed. Without missing a beat, he adjusted his aim to the next bot, picking them off with methodical precision.

At ground level, Knight One and Knight Four moved silently through the shadows, each wearing the unmistakable bulk of *Coalition service armor, their helmets obscuring their faces. Now, hidden by their disguises, they approached a pair of Skelebots from behind, moving with quietly. Knight One raised his Coalition-issued energy rifle, positioning the barrel against the back of the nearest bot’s head. With a quick pull of the trigger, he sent an energy bolt straight through its metal skull.

The bot jerked once, its head snapping forward, then slumped to the ground, dark and inert. Knight Four, mirroring his movement, did the same with the second Skelebot, pressing his rifle to its head and firing point-blank. Sparks burst from the impact point as the bot’s optic lens shattered, and it fell with a heavy thud, motionless.

Moving quickly, Knight One and Knight Four continued through the camp, taking down Skelebots one by one with ruthless efficiency. Their disguises allowed them to slip among the bots unnoticed, each step calculated, each shot silent and deadly.

Meanwhile, across the camp, Knight Three worked quietly from the shadows, tapping into the Coalition’s systems through a small handheld device. His fingers flew over the screen, attempting to redirect the Skelebots’ routines, subtly altering their paths. He sent small clusters of Skelebots toward key locations—the prisoner cells, the water supply, the command post—drawing them away from his fellow knights and keeping them occupied.

A group of Skelebots marched in formation toward the camp’s power station, their optics scanning for intruders. Knight Three smirked as he watched their orderly approach, knowing full well they were walking into a distraction. His hope was that with more bots clustered around vital areas, his fellow knights would have an easier time dismantling the defenses without being noticed by a human grunt.

On the rooftops, Knight Two’s sniper shots continued, each blast landing precisely in a Skelebot’s head. His controlled breathing kept his aim steady, and he worked quickly, taking down each target in rhythm with the movements of his brothers on the ground.

Back on the ground, Knight One and Knight Four approached another squad of Skelebots, each one turning to face away as they received new directives from Knight Three’s diversion efforts. Without hesitation, the two knights raised their rifles, pressing them to the backs of the bots’ heads and firing with pinpoint accuracy. Metal fragments scattered with each shot, sparks flickering as the bots dropped lifelessly to the ground.

As the last of the distracted Skelebots near the perimeter dropped, Knight Four nodded to Knight One, and they moved further into the camp, methodically clearing their way toward the heart of the compound. Knight Two, high on the dormitory roof, continued to pick off Skelebots, his steady shots giving his brothers cover as they dismantled the Skelebot guard presence.

With each coordinated move, the knights combined tactics whittled down the Skelebots numbers. The occasional Coalition grunt that got in the way was dispatched. And in the shadows, Knight Three continued his silent redirection, pulling strings that kept the remaining bots distracted and out of formation, unaware of the quiet, lethal force systematically dismantling them from within.

Until, the Skelebots began to shift. Something had set them off and they abandoned their guard duty.
The machines marched in an organized fashion into and around the nearest dormatory and began opening fire. The crimes of the human prisons could be heard throughout the camp.

Knight One, "Move in. Destroy ALL Skelebots ASAP. Somethings gone off in their programming they are eliminating the prisoners."

---

Knight One couldn't be sure whether it was a tactic to draw their enemy out or a contingency in case the camp fell into enemy hands but the Skelebots final order appeared to be to eliminate any and all prisoners and destroy the camp.

---

The first light of dawn cast a soft glow over the camp, illuminating the faces of the 1,200 or so surviving prisoners (out of 3,000). They gathered in the open yard, each with weary eyes and expressions marked by a mix of exhaustion and hope. Some leaned on each other for support, others still wore the haunted look of those who had lost loved ones in the night, but they all stood together, united by the sheer will to survive. At the forefront, Lady Serana, her armor gleaming faintly, took a step forward to address them.

Her voice carried across the silent crowd, steady and strong.

Lady Serana, “You’ve been through hell. This place… it was meant to break you, to erase you. But look around. Despite everything, you are still here. Each of you fought to survive, to resist. And I swear to you, your courage has not gone unnoticed.”

She paused, her gaze moving over the crowd, meeting the eyes of those who had been closest to losing hope. Her voice softened, but it didn’t lose its strength.

Lady Serana, “I know that last night, I promised to save you all. That was my hope, and I fought with everything I had to keep that promise. But the Coalition…” She clenched her fists, a hint of anger in her tone. “They had ordered the Skelebots to kill you all if they computed the camp would be lost to their enemy; us. To them, you were nothing but evidence to be destroyed.”

A murmur of horror and rage rippled through the crowd, prisoners exchanging glances as the reality of what could have been sank in. Serana held up a hand, drawing them back to her words.

Lady Serana, “Yet here you stand, because you fought for every breath, every moment, and that makes you stronger than any machine they could throw at you. The Coalition tried to bury you, to silence you, but you are not just survivors—you are witnesses. And now, you’re free.”

Her voice resonated, filling the morning air, and she softened, addressing them with deep sincerity.

Lady Serana, “We have a long road ahead. Many of you need rest and food, and the Coalition’s supplies will sustain us until we can move on. But our journey isn’t over. We need to find a sanctuary, a place where you’ll be safe, where you can rebuild. Lazlo is the closest city that offers refuge to those like us, those who believe in freedom and the right to live without fear.”

A man near the front of the crowd stepped forward, his voice wavering with exhaustion but determined.

Prisoner, “Lazlo… it’s far, isn’t it? And what if they turn us away?”

Serana nodded, acknowledging his fear, but her eyes held a quiet confidence.

Lady Serana, “It is a distance, yes. But Lazlo has long been a sanctuary for those fleeing Coalition oppression. They will offer us refuge if we reach them. For now, though, you’ll rest, eat, regain your strength. We’ll move only when you’re ready, and not a moment before.”

A young child, clutching their mother’s hand, spoke up, voice barely above a whisper.

Child, “What… what if they find us again?”

Serana knelt down, her gaze meeting the child’s with warmth and fierce reassurance.

Lady Serana, “They won’t find us again, child. Not easily. The Skelebots are gone, and the Coalition people here are buried under the rubble. We’ll decide what to do about them later, but their ability to harm you has been taken away. The… men-at-arms… and I will ensure that you reach safety.”

She stood again, addressing the crowd with an open heart.

Lady Serana, “We’ll do this together. If anyone has ideas or requests, speak them. I am here to listen. Your voices are no longer silenced, and your lives are yours again.”

A silence fell over the crowd, a mixture of awe and gratitude softening their expressions. Some nodded, others closed their eyes as if letting Serana’s words sink into the places that had once known only despair. Slowly, as the dawn light strengthened, they began to believe.

---

The camp was a subdued mood under the morning light, Coalition personnel held in makeshift cages while five Dog Boys—clearly injured but no longer trapped—sat on blankets near a cluster of Mystic Knights. The Mystic Knights moved with quiet efficiency, setting down bowls of food and water for the Dog Boys before distributing basic medical supplies, tending carefully to their wounds. The Dog Boys, unused to such treatment from anyone outside their ranks, watched the Mystic Knights with cautious curiosity.

One of the Dog Boys, a tall, wiry figure with a scarred muzzle, glanced around at his companions, his ears twitching in confusion. He was accustomed to harsh treatment, to obedience enforced by threat or scorn. But here, he and his packmates were being treated almost like guests. The scent of freshly cooked food filled his nose, and he noticed how the Mystic Knights even offered water before tending to their own needs.

Knight One stepped forward, nodding politely at the Dog Boys, his tone respectful but firm.

Knight One, "We’ve made sure you’re fed and your wounds tended to. You’ll not be caged like the others. We see that, for you, following the Coalition was a duty, not a choice."

The Dog Boys exchanged a glance, uncertain but clearly relieved. The tallest among them, who the others seemed to defer to, nodded slowly.

Dog Boy Leader, “Thank you. I… I’m not used to this. You’re treating us better than they do.” He gestured with a slight nod toward the caged Coalition soldiers, who were watching with dark expressions.

Knight One inclined his head, his expression unreadable but respectful.

Knight One, "We have no quarrel with you. We know you fought because you were ordered to, not out of hate. Besides, we have a particular respect for your kind."

The Dog Boy leader tilted his head, the remnants of his military loyalty conflicting with his curiosity and gratitude. Finally, he spoke up.

Dog Boy Leader, “What do you need from us?”

Knight One glanced back at the caged humans, some of whom were bruised and battered, buried only hours before but still trapped beneath layers of debris. He turned back to the Dog Boys, his tone level.

Knight One, "We need to dig out the rest of the Coalition personnel from the command post. Some of them are buried deep, but we’ve already cleared much of the top layer. We don’t intend to harm them—our quarrel is with the Coalition’s policies, not its people. But we need able hands, and we’re asking you to help us bring them to the surface."

The Dog Boy leader’s ears flicked, his eyes thoughtful as he took in the man’s earnestness. Beside him, one of the younger Dog Boys leaned closer, voice barely a whisper.

Young Dog Boy, “They’d never do this for us.”

The leader huffed softly, considering. He met Knight One’s gaze, his voice rough but with a faint trace of respect.

Dog Boy Leader, "All right. We’ll help you dig them out. But I don’t think they’ll take kindly to it."

Knight One smiled, a small, wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Knight One, “That’s a risk we’re prepared to take. We’re giving them the chance to live. They can make of it what they will.”

He motioned toward the site, where the rubble-covered entrance of the command posts lay. The Dog Boys, after a brief moment of silent agreement, stood and made their way over to the mound. They working, their movements efficient and swift as they dug through the debris.

The Coalition soldiers gripped the cold metal bars of their cages, their eyes locked on what was before them. They watched as their Dog Boys, loyal to the Coalition cause and trained to serve without question, now moved freely among the mercenaries, even accepting food and water from them. The Dog Boys carried themselves with a newfound ease, a tentative freedom that made the Coalition soldiers seethe. They had always been the ones in command, and yet here they were, caged like animals while the Dog Boys stood unrestrained and unbound, making their own choices.

One young Coalition officer, his uniform stained with dirt and his face contorted with a mix of anger and betrayal, gripped the bars tightly, his knuckles turning white. He could barely comprehend the sight before him, let alone the strange reality of it. With disdain dripping from his voice, he yelled through the bars.

Coalition Officer. “Traitors! You’re helping the enemy? After everything the Coalition’s done for you?”

The Dog Boys, who had once flinched at the harsh tone of their commanding officers, didn’t even flinch this time. Instead, their leader—a scarred Dog Boy who had endured years of Coalition service—turned slowly, his golden eyes meeting the officer’s with an unreadable expression. The officer's shout hung in the air, met not with fear or obedience, but with an eerie calm.

The Dog Boy leader’s gaze hardened, and he stepped forward, his posture straight, his voice level.

Dog Boy Leader, “After everything the Coalition’s done for us?” He let out a low, bitter chuckle, glancing at his fellow Dog Boys, who nodded in grim agreement. “You mean after treating us like tools, like cannon fodder? After using us to sniff out danger just so you could take the glory?”

The young officer bristled, his eyes flashing with anger.

Coalition Officer, “You were created to serve humanity. To serve us. And this is how you repay us?”

The Dog Boy leader’s expression remained impassive, his voice steady and unwavering.

Dog Boy Leader, “We served loyally, without question. We protected you, fought alongside you, even laid down our lives for you. But what did we ever get in return? Scorn, cruelty, and barely a sliver of respect. And when we were hurt, or too old, or too damaged, what did you do? You left us behind. Left us to die if we weren’t of any use.”

Several of the other Dog Boys growled lowly in agreement, their eyes filled with years of pent-up resentment. The young officer’s mouth twisted into a sneer, unable to process the shift in power, the betrayal he felt deep in his core.

Coalition Officer, “You’re nothing without us. We made you who you are. You’d be lost without the Coalition!”

Another Dog Boy, one of the younger ones who had only recently come into the group’s ranks, stepped forward, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the officer.

Young Dog Boy, “We were never ‘nothing.’ You wanted us to believe that, to keep us loyal, to keep us afraid. But we’re more than what you made us. And now we finally have a choice—a real choice. And we choose not to be part of your war.”

The Coalition officer gripped the bars, his face red with rage, but he was powerless to stop them. Behind him, other soldiers looked on in a mixture of stunned silence and frustration, some murmuring among themselves, their voices laced with disbelief and resentment.

One of the older Coalition soldiers, who had once commanded many of these Dog Boys, shook his head, muttering under his breath.

Older Coalition Soldier, “We raised them. We trained them. And now they act like they’re… like they’re better than us?”

The Dog Boy leader turned to the soldier, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

Dog Boy Leader, “Better? No. Just… free. Not things to be used and discarded. These people,” he gestured to the Mystic Knights and Lady Serana, “they treat us like we matter. They don’t order us around—they ask, they respect us. And that’s something the Coalition never gave us.”

The officer sneered, glancing at the Mystic Knights who watched quietly from the edge.

Coalition Officer, “Enjoy it while you can. They’ll turn on you eventually. You’re just monsters to them, no different from the D-Bees they protect. You’re useful to them now, but the moment you’re not, they’ll leave you just like we would.”

The Dog Boys exchanged glances, a hint of uncertainty flickering among them. But their leader held his ground, his voice firm.

Dog Boy Leader, “Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. But even if they do, we still have something you never gave us—a choice. We’re here because we want to be, not because we’re forced. And that makes all the difference.”

The Coalition soldiers stared back, their expressions a mixture of frustration and helpless anger. To them, this betrayal was unfathomable, a slap in the face of everything they had worked for, and they sat in their cages, stripped of their authority and command.

Lady Serana watched from the sidelines, her expression thoughtful, but she didn’t intervene. This was a moment for the Dog Boys, a chance for them to confront their past and make their own decisions.

The Dog Boys turned away from the caged Coalition soldiers, a newfound pride and solidarity in their movements as they returned to the Mystic Knights, their decision made, their loyalties firmly shifted. The Coalition soldiers watched them go, feeling the bitter taste of betrayal as they realized the unthinkable had happened—the Dog Boys, once their obedient soldiers, were now free.

With that, he turned back to the rubble, digging with renewed vigor, his actions a clear answer to the Coalition officer’s taunts. The Mystic Knights continued their work alongside the Dog Boys, their focus unwavering as they freed each trapped Dog Boy and CS grunt one by one, bringing them to the surface.

---

When the last Coalition soldier was dug out, Knight One approached the Dog Boys, a look of gratitude in his eyes.

Knight One, “Thank you. Your help has saved lives today.”

The Dog Boy leader nodded, a flicker of pride crossing his scarred face.

Dog Boy Leader, “We’ll remember this too. Not everyone treats us like tools to be used up and discarded.”

And with that, the Dog Boys returned to the camp, finding their places near the mercenaries with a newfound sense of belonging, knowing that for the first time, they had been treated as allies, not as pawns.

---

The morning sunlight filtered softly through the trees as Lady Serana approached the Dog Boys, who were resting near the edge of the camp. They had finished their work of digging out the Coalition soldiers and now sat in a loose circle, quietly talking among themselves. The scarred Dog Boy leader looked up, ears twitching as Serana neared. She gave them a gentle nod, her expression open and kind.

Lady Serana, “Good morning. I wanted to thank you all for what you did earlier. I know that wasn’t an easy choice to make.”

The Dog Boy leader dipped his head, acknowledging her words. There was a curiosity in his gaze, as if he were trying to read her intentions.

Dog Boy Leader, “You’re welcome. And… thank you, for treating us like… people.”

The other Dog Boys murmured softly in agreement, their faces a mix of gratitude and disbelief. Serana smiled, a warm but somber expression, and knelt down to be at eye level with them.

Lady Serana, “I’m Lady Serana. I’m… well, I’m a Cyber-Knight. Have you heard of us before?”

The Dog Boys exchanged glances, a flicker of recognition crossing a few of their faces. The younger Dog Boy perked up, his tail giving an involuntary wag as he nodded eagerly.

Young Dog Boy, “I have! Cyber-Knights are like… legends. They’re supposed to be heroes, aren’t they? Protectors of people who need help.”

Another Dog Boy, older and with a thoughtful expression, nodded as well.

Older Dog Boy, “We’ve heard stories. Tales about knights who roam the land, fighting for justice and freedom. But… we also heard that your kind have taken the side of Tolkeen.”

Serana nodded, a hint of pride mixed with humility in her gaze.

Lady Serana, “My duty is to the people, to protect those who can’t protect themselves and to stand against cruelty wherever I find it.”

The Dog Boy leader narrowed his eyes slightly, studying her with a curious intensity.

Dog Boy Leader, “And yet… you’re here, in the middle of all this, helping fight against the Coalition. Doesn’t that go against what the Cyber-Knights are supposed to do?”

Serana took a deep breath, her expression turning serious. She appreciated the insight in his question and the respect he showed by asking.

Lady Serana, “But what the Coalition is doing here…” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “They’re not just fighting soldiers. They’re targeting anyone they see as different or dangerous—whether they’re combatants or not. It’s… it’s genocide.”

The Dog Boys fell silent, absorbing her words. The young Dog Boy looked up at her, his expression troubled.

Young Dog Boy, “So… you’re here because… they’re hurting people who can’t fight back.”

Serana nodded, her gaze unwavering.

Lady Serana, “I made a vow to protect the innocent, to stand up for those who can’t defend themselves. And right now, that means standing against the Coalition. Even if it’s not the usual path of a Cyber-Knight.”

The older Dog Boy tilted his head, his eyes studying her intently.

Older Dog Boy, “Sounds to me like… you are choosing to fight… because you want to... When so many of your kind avoid it.”

Serana’s gaze softened, and she gave a small nod, her voice quiet but resolute.

Lady Serana, “It is difficult. But I believe that standing by and doing nothing would be harder. The Cyber-Knights may be divided on how to handle this war, but I can’t turn my back on people who need help, no matter the risk.”

The Dog Boy leader’s ears twitched, his voice softer now, almost respectful.

Dog Boy Leader, “You really do care, don’t you? Not just about winning a fight, but about the people. The ones who would suffer and die if you weren’t here.”

Serana met his gaze, a slight smile playing at her lips.

Lady Serana, “Yes, I do. My duty goes beyond the battlefield; it’s about the lives touched, the hope restored. You and your pack… you’ve been treated as tools, as something disposable. But you’re not. You deserve to live with freedom and respect, just like anyone else.”

A quiet murmur of agreement ran through the Dog Boys, and the young one spoke up, his voice brimming with earnestness.

Young Dog Boy, “We’ve never been treated like this before. The Coalition always tells us we’re… That we’re meant to serve. But… hearing you say that, it feels… good.”

The Dog Boy leader nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at Serana with newfound admiration.

Dog Boy Leader, “You’re different… ”

Serana felt a surge of warmth, gratitude filling her heart as she looked at the Dog Boys. For a brief moment, the war and its horrors faded away, leaving only the shared understanding between them.

Lady Serana, “Thank you. And remember, you don’t need to serve anyone who doesn’t respect you. You have strength, courage, and loyalty—all the qualities of true knights, if you choose to embrace them.”

The Dog Boys’ eyes shone with a mixture of pride and surprise, their heads held a little higher. They nodded, as if coming to a silent agreement among themselves.

As Serana rose to leave, the Dog Boy leader called after her.

Dog Boy Leader, “Lady Serana… if you ever need our help, we’ll stand by you. You’ve earned that much, and more.”

Serana smiled, nodding in return.

Lady Serana, “Then perhaps, one day, we’ll stand together—knights, all of us.”

---

As Lady Serana turned to leave, five more Dog Boys approached the group, moving with a noticeable limp and clutching at freshly bandaged wounds. The Mystic Knights who led them had treated their injuries, offering food and water before gesturing for them to join their packmates. The newly freed Dog Boys looked around, their eyes flicking from the cages holding the Coalition soldiers to the open area where Tolkeen prisoners were freely eating, laughing, and reconnecting with friends and loved ones.

The sight of the Coalition soldiers—those they’d once fought alongside—locked up and the prisoners treated with respect and care unsettled them, confusion and doubt plain in their expressions.

They turned toward their leader, the tall, scarred Dog Boy, their faces full of silent questions. The youngest Dog Boy, who had been among the first group, stepped forward, his tail giving an uncertain wag as he tried to put into words what he was still processing himself.

Young Dog Boy, “Uh… hey, guys. It’s… different here. They… they don’t treat us like the Coalition does. They don’t act like we’re lessor or… just tools.”

The newly freed Dog Boys exchanged wary glances, their brows furrowing. One of the older ones, his voice rough with skepticism, spoke up.

Older Dog Boy (newly freed), “What’s going on? They’ve got Coalition soldiers in cages, and they’re feeding these… these prisoners.” He glanced at the Tolkeen civilians with a mixture of unease and curiosity. “This isn’t how things work… or how things are supposed to work! Right?”

The scarred Dog Boy leader nodded, his gaze steady as he looked over his packmates, understanding their confusion. He gestured for them to sit down, his tone calm but firm.

Dog Boy Leader, “Things are different here. The ones who freed us, the Mercs and the Cyber-Knight… they don’t see us as just soldiers or tools. They see us as people. And they’re not interested in hurting anyone who doesn’t deserve it. They even gave us food and treated our wounds without expecting us to fight for them.”

The newly freed Dog Boys settled down cautiously, taking in the surprising sight of the Tolkeen prisoners eating in the open, watched over by the Mercs rather than guarded or bound. One of the Dog Boys, a smaller, wiry figure with a scar across his cheek, looked at the scarred leader, his voice barely above a whisper.

Scarred Dog Boy (newly freed), “And… the Coalition? The soldiers in the cages… why are they locked up?”

The young Dog Boy who had spoken first, with a newfound sense of confidence, answered, his voice carrying a hint of pride.

Young Dog Boy, “They’re prisoners now. The Coalition left them here to die, and these people… they chose to save us instead. They’re giving us a choice.” He paused, looking at Lady Serana, then back to his packmates. “They’re different. They don’t treat us like we’re… replaceable.”

The scarred Dog Boy nodded, his voice softer, almost reflective.

Dog Boy Leader, “These people see us, respect us. They’re even giving us the choice to walk away. But more than that—they’re fighting for the people the Coalition tried to erase. We’re with them because they treat us like we matter.”

A quiet, thoughtful silence fell over the group as the new Dog Boys absorbed this, glancing warily toward the Mercs and Serana. One of them, a larger Dog Boy with a tired look in his eyes, finally spoke, his tone laced with a mixture of hope and wariness.

Large Dog Boy, “So… we’re free to choose? We’re not just… Coalition hounds anymore?”

Lady Serana stepped forward, her voice gentle yet strong as she addressed them.

Lady Serana, “Yes, you are free. You don’t have to answer to the Coalition anymore, and you don’t have to fight if you don’t want to. We won’t force loyalty; it’s a choice you’re given here.” She looked each of them in the eyes, her gaze warm and steady. “But if you want to stay, to help us protect those who can’t protect themselves, then you’re welcome among us.”

The Dog Boys exchanged looks, their expressions ranging from tentative hope to disbelief. For the first time, they felt the stirrings of respect—toward themselves, toward each other, and toward those who had freed them. The scarred Dog Boy leader straightened, nodding in solidarity with his packmates.

Dog Boy Leader, “We’ll stay… by your side, for now, if you’ll have us. You’ve shown us more honor in a day than the Coalition has in a lifetime.”

Serana smiled, a warmth and pride filling her expression.

Lady Serana, “Then welcome. You’re with me.”

[darthauthor]

Location: Camp Victory


The Mystic Knights had called in their electric helicopters.

They crammed in the youngest to transport them to Lazlo.

Then decided it was best if they remained a moving target and started the great march.

---

Coalition Hunting Party

The forest is still, darkened under a thick, gray sky that mirrors the unyielding mood of the Coalition squad. The branches overhead spread like skeletal fingers, blotting out what little light the cloudy night offers. Spann, the team leader, crouches low by a set of freshly disturbed earth, his expression grim as he assesses the tracks of the Mystic Knights and the trail of refugees they are escorting.*

Lt. Spann, “The fugatives are close. Moving slow. Mercs are keeping them on a tight leash,” he mutters, gesturing to the group as they gather around him. “But they won’t make it through this. We take out the mercs first. Lexx, you’ll set up position on the ridge. Zink, you stay with him and give him eyes on the movement below.”

The squad nods, each falling into their role with practiced ease. Spann signals to Moore and Collar, the Dog Boys, whose nostrils flare as they catch the faintest whiff of the fleeing group ahead.

Moore, (Grins, eyes gleaming in the low light) “They won’t even see us coming. Those refugees, though… easy pickings. Probably think the Mercs can keep them safe out here.”

Collar, “Let’s make this fast. Tracks are fresh. I can almost smell them now.”

Simmon, the Medic, (Checking his gear) “Let’s just be careful. If they made it this far, they aren’t pushovers, and if there are that many refugees, they’ll have a defensive setup. We should clear out quickly if things get tight.”

Sally, the Demolitions Expert, (Smirks) “Then let’s tighten things up. A little nightfall surprise will make sure they don’t go far.”

Spann silences her with a hand signal. Though she’s eager, Spann knows the Mercs are skilled, especially with the refugees slowing them down. These mercenaries might not be magic-wielding fanatics like others in the war, but their reputation as ruthless, disciplined fighters is enough to have made Spann take caution. His orders from Command are clear: kill the Camp Victory fugatives and eliminate any and all evidence of the Camp and it's prisoners.

Spann, “We have orders. And we don’t let the orders slide.”

He gestures forward, and the Team moves in silence. Lexx, the sniper, breaks off with Zink, who leads him to a high ridge that overlooks the suspected location of the refugees. Moore and Collar, tracking with precision, guide the rest of the team through the trees. Spann signals to Gould to keep the vehicles just behind the rise, ready to move at his signal.

As they close in, a low, guttural growl rumbles in Bonaparte’s throat. Spann nods. Bonaparte knows his role—go in close when they’ve identified the Mercs location. He thrives in the chaos of melee, the thrill of silent kills that echo in the dark.

Collar, the Labrador Tracker, (Whispers) “They’re not far. Smells like they’ve been walking for days. We’ve got them tired, too.”

Spann takes this in, a slight smirk tugging at his mouth. He exchanges a glance with Peanut, who’s grinning wide in anticipation. The scent grows stronger as they creep closer to their prey. Spann can practically see the campfire light just beyond the line of trees.

Zink’s Voice Crackles Over the Radio, (Barely a whisper) “Got eyes on them. Mercs and refugees. Heavy guard duty. They’re setting up a defensive perimeter—Mercs are spread thin with the refugees. They're sitting ducks if we pick 'em off one by one.”

Lexx, (A barely audible mutter) “I’ll take first shot.”

Spann signals Bonaparte, Moore, and Sally, nodding toward the Mercs. Bonaparte’s eyes narrow as he readies his blade, eager to dive in the moment Spann gives the word. Sally has primed her explosives, already calculating the precise moment to strike once the Knights are down.

The Coalition team moves in silence, the forest around them dark and heavy with anticipation. The sound of their boots on the damp ground and the occasional snap of twigs are the only breaks in the stillness as Spann signals the team to close in. Lexx adjusts his sniper rifle, setting his sights on the flickering campfire light of the refugees in the distance. Just as Spann raises his hand to signal the start of the attack—

—a blinding barrage of energy bolts erupts from the shadows of the treeline.

The air around the Coalition squad fills with sizzling blasts and streaks of light as magic-infused energy rips through the foliage, scattering debris and tearing into their ranks. Mooew, his muzzle twisted in a snarl, dives to the ground just as an energy blast sizzles past him, narrowly missing his head. Cord is thrown backward, his comm gear sparking from a near-hit. Spann, caught completely off guard, shouts orders over the chaos, his voice barely audible over the shrieking bolts that light up the night.

Spann, “Take cover! Return fire! Lexx, do you have a visual on those mercs?”

But Lexx is forced to duck behind a tree, the mercenaries’ precise volleys pinning him down before he can even locate the source of the attack. Through the hail of blasts, shadows move swiftly among the trees, closing in on the Coalition’s position with deadly intent.

Bonaparte, in a frenzy, lets out a furious bark and charges forward, his Pit Bull instinct to get in close overpowering all caution. He leaps through the smoke and crackling energy, barreling toward the shifting figures in the treeline. But just as he closes in, a mercenary—with his face hidden beneath a helmet—throws a shimmering, net-like spell into the air.

The spell unfurls mid-flight, a web of glowing energy ropes entwined in complex, shifting patterns. Before Bonaparte can react, the Magic Net hits him, instantly expanding to wrap around his limbs. He struggles and snaps his jaws in fury, but the net holds tight, binding him to the ground as his furious barks turn to low, frustrated growls.

Bonaparte, (Snarling, straining against the magical bonds) “Spann! I’m—agh! Get me out of this thing!”

Moore and Collar, the two remaining Dog Boys, don’t hesitate. Moore, his usual humor stripped away by the intensity of the ambush, lets out a low growl as he and Collar dart forward to help their pinned brother. But as they sprint through the hail of energy blasts, they’re intercepted by two mercs who step forward, their forms emerging from the smoke like specters.

The Mercs, a combination of spellwork and Armor of Ithan shimmering around their bodies. Each wields a blade humming with energy, casting a pale blue light that seems to pulse with the beat of their attackers footsteps. Without a word, they engage, their movements fluid and precise, a dance of deadly intent.

Moore lunges, teeth bared, attempting to close the distance between himself and the nearest Knight. He’s fast and powerful, but the Mercs sidesteps with a practiced grace, bringing his shimmering blade around in a tight arc that forces Moore to jump back. Meanwhile, Collar lunges at the second Merc, his eyes fixed on the glowing blade as he moves in for an attack. But the Merc’s sword sweeps up in a defensive block, meeting Collar’s claws with a flash of sparks.

Just as Moore regains his footing, the first Merc (Mystic Knight) raises his free hand, muttering an incantation under his breath. A second Magic Net spell unfurls, faster than Moore can react. The enchanted ropes shoot forward, wrapping around his legs and arms in an instant, dragging him to the ground beside Bonaparte.

Moore, (Frustrated, struggling against the bonds) “Damn it! Spann, these guys are prepped for us—get us out of here!”

Collar, seeing his teammates subdued, lets out a snarl and attempts a desperate swipe at his opponent, but he’s caught off guard as the second Knight raises his own hand, murmuring the incantation in a low, calm tone. Before Collar can react, the net spell shoots forward, binding him as it had his brothers. The glowing ropes twist and tighten, wrapping around his limbs and body with an unnatural strength, pinning him to the ground.

Now, three of the Dog Boys are immobilized, their fierce growls and struggling bodies caught in the shimmering webs. The Mystic Knights exchange a brief glance, the silent understanding of experienced soldiers, as they turn their attention back to the remaining Coalition squad members who are still scrambling to take cover.

From the shadows, more Mystic Knights emerge, their forms silhouetted against the trees as they press forward. The Coalition team, now short on both numbers and morale, finds itself caught in a perfectly executed trap.

Sally, the Demolitions Expert, (Yelling over the din of energy blasts) “Spann, we need to pull out! There’s too many of them!”

Spann, (His voice thick with frustration) “No one’s pulling out until we take those mercs down! Zink, Cord, we need backup fire, now!”

But even as Spann issues the order, the Mystic Knights advance further, using the trees and shadows to shield themselves from Coalition fire. Lexx, struggling to find a clear shot, scans the treeline desperately, but the Knights move with an uncanny speed, always staying a step ahead of his rifle’s scope. Meanwhile, Zink, the team’s scout, tries to reposition himself, hoping to flank the Knights, but his movements are tracked almost instantly.

The remaining Coalition members rally as best they can, firing off rounds and maneuvering for better positions. But with the Dog Boys subdued and the Mercs pressing forward with relentless precision, it’s clear the ambush has completely unraveled the Coalition’s tactical advantage.

Cord, the Radioman, (Over the radio, desperation evident in his voice) “Gould, get ready to pull us out of here. I’m calling it. Spann, we’re sitting ducks!”

Realizing they’re overpowered, Spann finally grits his teeth and gives the order.

Spann, “Fall back to the rally point—NOW!”

The Coalition team scrambles, retreating under a storm of energy blasts and magic. As they withdraw, the Mystic Knights cease their advance, watching as the Coalition forces disappear into the woods. The Knights share a silent, victorious nod before turning back to the camp, where the refugees huddle together, watching their protectors with a mix of awe and relief.

Bonaparte, Moore, and Collar, still tangled in their magical bindings, are left behind but are soon freed by the remaining members as they regroup. The Coalition team retreats, their mission a failure, their ranks battered, and their pride wounded.

As they make their way back through the darkened woods, Spann’s face remains a mask of fury and frustration. They had been so close—and yet, they’d underestimated the mercenaries. In silence, Spann vows they won’t make that mistake again. But for tonight, the Mercs have won, the refugees protected for another day.

---

Their helicopters returned and picked up a 100 more of the liberated prisoners.

---

Location: Lazlo


The screen flickered to life, the Lazlo News Agency’s emblem glowing briefly before the broadcast cut to a somber-looking anchor seated against a backdrop showing the Lazlo skyline. Her expression was grave as she leaned forward, her voice carrying the weight of the report she was about to deliver.

Anchor, “Good evening. Tonight, we bring you an urgent and troubling report. Evidence has surfaced regarding the Coalition States’ use of detainment and death camps—known as Camps Victory, Prosek, and Purity—where they have held, tortured, and, in some cases, eradicated D-Bees, magic users, and civilians. We warn our viewers, the footage and testimony you’re about to see may be deeply disturbing.”

The camera shifted to a pre-recorded video segment. The screen showed a reporter on-site in Lazlo’s bustling marketplace, surrounded by people gathered around makeshift screens, watching the footage unfold with rapt attention. The camera panned to Lady Serana, a Cyber-Knight, standing alongside a group of newly freed survivors from Camp Victory. The survivors’ expressions were a mix of exhaustion and relief, their clothes worn and patched, yet their eyes alert.

Reporter (voiceover), “After a coordinated effort led by the Cyber-Knight Lady Serana and a mercenary company, Camp Victory has been liberated, and the survivors have come forward with accounts that reveal the Coalition’s horrifying treatment of prisoners.”

The footage cut to an interview with a survivor, a human with weary eyes and a deep scar across his cheek, who spoke with a voice full of restrained emotion.

Survivor, “They didn’t care who you were—Mage, D-Bee, or just a human how associated with them. We are all the same to them: ‘filth’ they wanted erased. They gave us no hope, no rights. They would beat us, starve us, and when they took people to the ‘re-education’ area… most of them never came back. We thought we’d die there, every last one of us.”

The camera panned to a Coalition soldier held in a makeshift cell, his Coalition uniform torn and stained, his face turned away from the camera. The reporter’s voice cut in, firm and clear.

Reporter, “These accounts have been verified through captured Coalition soldiers who corroborated the treatment of prisoners, acknowledging that their orders were to leave no evidence of what was done within the camps should Coalition forces retreat. This includes orders to execute prisoners when certain conditions were met—conditions that nearly resulted in the annihilation of the entire population of Camp Victory.”

The scene changed again, showing grainy surveillance footage recovered from Camp Victory. The video showed Coalition soldiers patrolling the camp, Skelebots marching in line, and prisoners herded into cramped quarters, visibly weakened and under constant surveillance.

The anchor’s voice returned, carrying an edge of outrage and sorrow.

Anchor, “As disturbing as this report is, the fate of those held at Camps Prosek and Purity is even more chilling. Following the liberation of Camp Victory, our investigative teams confirmed that Prosek and Purity have been obliterated—reduced to nothing but ashes and rubble. The devastation appears deliberate, with no evidence left behind to suggest what happened to the prisoners once held there.”

The screen displayed images of the smoldering remains of Camps Prosek and Purity. Charred ground, twisted metal, and remnants of the camp’s walls were all that remained, the site eerily empty of any bodies or belongings.

Reporter (voiceover), “There is no trace of the D-Bees who were held at Prosek and Purity. It is as though they were erased, as if they had never been there at all. Coalition soldiers captured during the liberation of Camp Victory have refused to disclose any information about the missing prisoners. Their silence leaves us with disturbing questions: Were the prisoners moved? Or were they… eliminated?”

The broadcast returned to the anchor, her face set with determination.

Anchor, “The people of Lazlo are speaking out. The question now is, what will we do with this knowledge? Tonight, the leadership of Lazlo is deliberating a plan to establish safe corridors and expand refugee support to aid those fleeing the Coalition. Already, discussions are underway to mobilize resources, organize aid missions, and welcome survivors to Lazlo.”

The feed cut to a Lazlo council member, his expression one of resolve as he addressed a gathering of officials and concerned citizens.

Council Member, “We will not stand by as our neighbors suffer atrocities. Lazlo has long been a sanctuary for those persecuted by the Coalition, and it is our duty to act. We intend to create safe passage for those seeking freedom, to provide resources for their recovery, and to offer refuge. Together, we will ensure that these survivors find sanctuary.”

The broadcast shifted back to the on-site reporter standing among the survivors, Lady Serana beside him. The reporter held the microphone toward Serana, her armor catching the morning light.

Reporter, “Lady Serana, as a Cyber-Knight, you have seen firsthand what these camps have done. What would you say to those who question why Lazlo should intervene?”

Serana took a deep breath, her gaze steady as she looked directly into the camera, her voice resolute.

Lady Serana, “Lazlo stands for freedom, compassion, and justice—all things the Coalition denies to those it deems ‘unworthy.’ If we ignore this, we become complicit. These camps are evidence of a horror that should never be tolerated. Lazlo’s people have the strength and the will to make a difference. If we don’t stand up now, then when? And if not for those who suffer in silence, then for whom?”

The crowd gathered around the screens erupted into murmurs, nodding in agreement. Some held each other, visibly moved by the broadcast, while others clenched their fists, determination etched across their faces.

The camera returned to the anchor, who gave a final, solemn statement.

Anchor, “Lazlo will not ignore these crimes, nor will we turn a blind eye to the suffering inflicted by the Coalition. We urge all who are able to support the upcoming efforts to aid those who have survived and to continue shedding light on the atrocities hidden within Coalition borders.”

The screen faded to black, leaving the people of Lazlo to reflect on the revelations, united by a common sense of outrage, and a newly ignited resolve to bring justice and hope to those still trapped in the shadow of the Coalition’s reach.

[darthauthor]

Location: Chi-Town Burbs

The scene unfolds in the streets of Chi-Town Burbs, where a news reporter, an unassuming woman dressed like a local, stands with a microphone in hand. A small crowd gathers, looking at each other uneasily, as she approaches a citizen for a quick interview.

A young man in a factory uniform seems conflicted. He nervously glances over his shoulder as the reporter speaks.

Reporter, "Sir, recent rumors suggest the Coalition might be using detention camps, like the alleged 'Camp Purity,' to hold D-Bees after rounding them up. And yet, when we arrived to fact-check these claims, all we found were the charred remains of what could have been… well, something. It’s all a bit suspicious. What’s your take on the Coalition’s alleged use of such camps?"

The young man fidgets, as if searching for the safest words to say.

Citizen, "I—uh, I don’t put much stock in rumors, to be honest. The Coalition does what it must to protect us. That’s what matters, right? To protect us from… threats." He tries to steady his voice, but it trembles slightly. "If they had a reason to… to do something like that, I'm sure it was justified."

The crowd murmurs uneasily, exchanging wary glances. One older woman pulls her coat tighter around herself, muttering, "The Coalition’s always done what’s best for us. We’re safer for it… aren’t we?"

The reporter leans in, sensing an opportunity.

Reporter, "Certainly, many believe in the Coalition’s mission to protect humanity. But isn’t it curious, at the very least, that Camp Purity burned down just as rumors started to swirl? Surely, if there was nothing to hide, the Coalition wouldn’t need to… well, erase any evidence, would they?"

The young man’s eyes flash with something—fear, anger, or perhaps a flicker of doubt.

Citizen, "Look, maybe… maybe it was just a coincidence. The Coalition wouldn’t cover anything up. They wouldn’t need to." His voice drops to a near whisper, a crack in his certainty.

Citizen, "They keep us safe. That’s what matters."

Behind her, Coalition soldiers in their imposing "Dead Boy" can be seen in the distance.

The camera cuts away from the crowd, and as the reporter signs off.

---

Location: Tolkeen


Special report: The Truth Beyond the Smoke—Tolkeen News Broadcast

The lit studio of the Tolkeen News Agency is bustling with activity. Reporters shuffle through papers, low murmurs of concern passing between them as they review the latest reports from the economic frontlines. The anchor, an experienced journalist named Alistair Marquess, adjusts his notes and straightens his shoulders as the camera light flicks on, and he begins the broadcast with a solemn expression.

Alistair Marquess, “Good evening, citizens of Tolkeen. This is Alistair Marquess with the Truth Beyond the Smoke, Tolkeen’s independent voice in these dark and difficult times. Tonight, we bring you a sobering update on our kingdom’s economy—a topic that touches each and every one of us in ways we might not have imagined even a few short years ago.”

Alistair pauses, glancing down at his notes, his face tense as he prepares to report on the developments.

Alistair Marquess, “As many of you know, Tolkeen’s resources have been stretched to their limits as we resist the Coalition’s relentless advance. Our society has adapted at a remarkable pace to the demands of war, and nowhere is this more evident than in the contributions made by the Necromancers—a school of magic once regarded with more than a little unease by our society.”

The screen shifts to footage of a group of Necromancers in dark robes, hard at work in a fortified workshop. They chant over a pile of bones of Coalition soldiers, lifting them and shaping them with their hands into weapons.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “The Necromancers have long been Tolkeen’s silent and shadowed allies, practicing an art feared and, until recently, largely misunderstood. Yet, with our kingdom under siege, these practitioners have emerged as invaluable contributors, producing weapons and magical items crafted through their arcane arts—specifically, bone magic.”

The camera cuts back to Alistair in the studio, who nods solemnly.

Alistair Marquess, “Many of us would shudder at the thought of touching the bones of the fallen, but for the Necromancers, these remains have become a valuable commodity in a time of scarcity. In a historic decision, the Tolkeen government has given full support for them to reclaim and repurpose the bones of Coalition soldiers. Every bone, every lifeless body left in the wake of this brutal war, becomes a resource for our survival. By breathing their magic into these remains, our Necromancers are fashioning Techno-Wizard items, of a sort, and enchanted talismans that support our frontlines and our homes.”

The screen switches to an outdoor scene where a Necromancer leads a solemn funeral service in a battlefield clearing rows of the fallen laid before him. He murmurs a spell, and the bodies are respectfully arranged, glistening symbols glowing over them. The scene shifts to show skeletal figures—the risen dead—carrying crates and tools, performing labor under the watchful gaze of Necromancers.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “This isn’t just about weapons. The Necromancers have shown their respect for our dead through historic performances in battlefield funerals and mortuary services, honoring both the sacrifices of our own and the remains of Coalition soldiers in ways that serve Tolkeen’s survival.
The zombie labor force, once met with disdain, has become a critical part of Tolkeen’s economy, taking on the burden of unskilled labor tasks in mines, farms, and fortifications.”

Returning to the studio, Alistair’s expression softens slightly, a flicker of pride visible as he addresses the camera directly.

Alistair Marquess, “Citizens, it’s easy to look at this contribution and see only darkness. But the truth lies in what they represent: resourcefulness, and support. The Necromancers are not just practitioners of the dark arts—they are Tolkeen’s artisans of survival, using whatever means they have to hold the line against a relentless enemy bent on our eradication. Through their bone magic and rituals, our fallen enemies and the bones of our foes become instruments of resistance.”

He pauses, the weight of the moment heavy in the silence.

Alistair Marquess, “To all those who may feel uncertain or even fearful, remember that these arts and these sacrifices are Tolkeen’s way of protecting our children, our homes, and our future. In their hands, even death is a tool of our survival, our magic—our freedom.”

The camera slowly zooms out as Alistair offers a final salute to the viewers.

Alistair Marquess. “May we continue to honor all who serve, in life or beyond, in our fight for Tolkeen. And to the Necromancers, we thank you. This is Alistair Marquess, signing off from the Truth Beyond the Smoke. Stay strong, Tolkeen.”

---

The broadcast resumes, and Alistair Marquess’s expression shifts slightly as he leans forward, preparing to deliver a more detailed and personal report on the kingdom’s shifting economy and the increasingly tough realities for Tolkeen’s citizens.

Alistair Marquess, “Welcome back, citizens. Tonight, as we continue our report, we must confront the realities of Tolkeen’s wartime economy and the sacrifices that all of us, as a kingdom, are making. We know these times aren’t easy, and though many are feeling the strain, our kingdom is resilient. Let’s discuss the adjustments we are all learning to live with.”

Alistair glances down briefly, a grim line forming across his face as he reads his notes.

Alistair Marquess, “As the war against the Coalition grinds on, our economic focus has understandably shifted. Almost every aspect of Tolkeen’s industry now contributes to defense efforts. The production of magic items, fortifications, and enchanted weaponry has become our top priority, meaning that many resources and goods we once took for granted are now rationed or redirected to the war effort. Rationing has affected everything from food and clothing to basic magical supplies, and while the government has worked hard to provide fair shares, the reality is stark.”

The screen shifts to footage of Tolkeen’s bustling markets, where merchants hand out limited portions to civilians, shelves stocked with only the essentials. Citizens line up, carrying ration cards, while soldiers oversee the orderly distribution of goods.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “Rationing programs have been implemented across Tolkeen to make sure that our limited resources are distributed as equitably as possible. Food, for example, is now carefully regulated, with every citizen receiving ration cards. Basic items like bread, grains, and vegetables are being stretched to their limit. Those of you with family members in active service will know they are prioritized to receive slightly larger rations, but every family must make do with what we have.”

He appears back in the studio, his tone taking on a slightly hopeful note as he reports on some of the kingdom’s inventive responses.

Alistair Marquess. “Our people have responded to rationing with creativity. Community gardens have sprung up in neighborhoods across Tolkeen, as citizens grow food on every available plot of land. The Ministry of Magic has even worked with ley line walkers to establish a program of casting the ‘Sustain’ Spell so we will be able to sustain ourselves without food for a week. These efforts reflect the heart of Tolkeen—working together, pooling resources, and innovating to keep our city alive and thriving despite the shortages.”

The screen changes again, now showing a series of workers and farmers operating in one of these enchanted fields. Next to them, Necromancer-led zombie laborers toil silently, harvesting and tending to the crops, reducing the physical burden on citizens.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “Yet, not every shortage can be solved with a spell. Magic supplies and components, once readily available, are now scarce. Techno-wizards who used to provide magical goods to civilians have redirected their efforts to equip our soldiers. Spell components like gemstones, scrolls, and Talismans are all reserved for front-line defense, meaning that many day-to-day magical conveniences are temporarily unavailable.”

Back in the studio, Alistair offers a gentle but firm reminder, his tone turning slightly serious.

Alistair Marquess, “We ask all citizens to remember that these shortages, though difficult, are necessary sacrifices. They enable Tolkeen’s defenders to stand against an enemy that has no mercy for magic or those who practice it. By adjusting our lifestyles and supporting our rationing system, we are directly aiding in our kingdom’s defense.”

The broadcast then cuts to scenes of mages and craftsmen in darkened workshops, their faces lit by flickering magical lights as they produce enchanted weapons and armor.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “To assist with our labor needs, the Necromancers and their zombie labor forces have taken on roles once filled by civilian hands. Many of the unskilled tasks needed in resource extraction are now completed by these tireless workers. While we know some may still feel unsettled by their presence, remember that every hour a Necromancer’s servant spends in labor is an hour our citizens are freed to focus on skilled work, defensive preparations, maintaining morale and fighting on the front line.”

The scene cuts back to Alistair in the studio, his expression a mix of pride and determination as he addresses his fellow citizens.

Alistair Marquess. “Though the sacrifices are real and, yes, sometimes painful, they represent the cost of our independence. Our magical economy—rooted in creativity and determination—is adapting, finding new ways to sustain us and protect our way of life. In Tolkeen, we have always held magic as our greatest gift, and now it’s our strongest weapon. With each rationed meal, with each spell component foregone, we bring ourselves closer to victory.”

Alistair’s voice softens slightly, becoming more personal as he speaks to the heart of his audience.

Alistair Marquess. “We are, each of us, warriors in our own way. Whether we’re rationing bread, managing resources, casting spells, or even summoning the fallen for labor, we’re all part of Tolkeen’s defense. Let us hold firm to the strength we find in unity. And let us remember that this sacrifice we’re making today will ensure that future generations of Tolkeen’s children will live freely.”

The camera zooms in as he closes with a respectful nod, his gaze steady and resolved.

Alistair Marquess, “This has been the Truth Beyond the Smoke. From all of us at the Tolkeen News Agency, stay safe, stay strong, and continue to support each other in these challenging times. Good night, Tolkeen.”

---

The broadcast fades to black, leaving Tolkeen’s citizens with a renewed sense of purpose as they prepare for the days to come.

[darthauthor]

Location: Chi-Town

An orderly classroom in one of the Coalition’s schools in Chi-Town. Rows of desks, filled with uniformed children, face a large digital-board at the front of the room. The walls are stark, adorned with Coalition propaganda posters showing images of heroic Dead Boy soldiers, stern-faced in their skull-shaped helmets, standing as sentries against dark, shadowy figures marked as “D-Bees” and “Magic Users.” Above the digitalkboard, a banner whispers, “Vigilance is Protection.”

Mrs. Hart, a strict-looking woman with a tight bun and severe expression, stands at the front of the room. In one hand, she holds a pointer, and in the other, an old, heavily annotated Coalition history book. She clears her throat, and the students fall silent, eyes fixed on her, aware that their attention is expected.

Mrs. Hart, “Today’s lesson, class, is on an old, dangerous tradition known as Halloween. Who here can tell me what the Coalition has taught you about this word?”

A boy named Thomas, sitting near the front, raises his hand eagerly.

Thomas, “It was a time when people invited evil into their lives, ma’am! People dressed up as monsters and… and tried to become them!”

Mrs. Hart, “Very good, Thomas. Yes, Halloween was once a holiday when people actually celebrated monsters and supernatural beings.” (She looks around the room with a stern gaze, gauging the discomfort on the children’s faces.) “They dressed in strange costumes, played tricks, and even tried to speak to spirits from beyond. They were, quite frankly, foolish. And does anyone remember what this foolishness brought about?”

A shy girl named Eliza speaks up, glancing nervously at her classmates before answering.

Eliza, “It… it brought the Rifts, ma’am? Because people were so curious about spirits and magic?”

Mrs. Hart, “That’s exactly right, Eliza.” (She nods approvingly, her expression softening just a bit.) “This curiosity was humanity’s downfall. Centuries of foolish practices, rituals, and their Halloween festivities opened the door for things far darker than they understood. The Coming of the Rifts was no accident—it was the natural consequence of humanity’s careless obsession with the supernatural.”

She points to a poster on the wall, depicting a monstrous, shadowy figure with clawed hands and glaring red eyes, hovering over a cityscape with tendrils reaching toward unsuspecting people below.

Mrs. Hart, “When the Rifts came, what followed, children?”

The class answers in chorus, their voices tinged with fear.

Class, “Monsters, demons, D-Bees, and magic.”

Mrs. Hart nods, satisfied.

Mrs. Hart, “Yes. And while the ancient humans paid the price for their foolishness, we are different. We have the Coalition. The Coalition keeps us safe, protects us from the dark forces that still lurk beyond our borders, waiting for the slightest sign of weakness or curiosity to strike again.”

She pauses, letting her words sink in, before opening her activating the digital-board filled with dark illustrations of monstrous creatures and mystical storms.

Mrs. Hart, “Today’s viewing is from the ‘Warning of the Supernatural,’ an official Coalition record of the first accounts of the Rifts opening. You will see here”—she taps with her pointer—“what the people saw. The skies broke open, flooding with swirling lights, and creatures stepped into our world. Monsters, with unnatural powers, created by magic and twisted by dimensions alien to our own. This, class, is the legacy of Halloween. Not candy or costumes, as some might think, but darkness and death.”

The children sit in tense silence, eyes wide, hanging on her every word.

Mrs. Hart, “So, we remember Halloween as a reminder. A reminder of how important it is to stay vigilant, to avoid curiosity about magic, and to always, always trust in the Coalition’s protection.” (Her voice softens, almost coaxing.) “That’s why we don’t celebrate Halloween here, why we don’t dress up or make light of the supernatural. Because we know the truth, don’t we?”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the room, the children nodding with solemn faces. Mrs. Hart, “Two words: VIGILANCE and LOYALTY!

Mrs. Hart, “These are the qualities that will keep us safe. And they are the values that will keep you safe when you grow up to serve the Coalition.”

The children gaze up at their teach, absorbing them as if they were sacred. Mrs. Hart looks out over her students, her expression severe but proud.

Mrs. Hart, “Any questions?”

For a moment, there is only silence as her gaze sweeps over the classroom, each child shaking their head obediently, avoiding her eyes, accepting the lesson without question.

Mrs. Hart, “Good. Remember, children—curiosity about these things led to the fall of the world as it once was. But now, as Coalition citizens, you are better than that. You are safer. And so, when you hear the word Halloween… remember this lesson.”

The children nod as one, their faces a mix of fear and awe. Halloween, to them, is no holiday. It’s a warning, a lesson in obedience and vigilance, one they won’t forget.

---

Public Morale Events and Demonstrations of Power

The main square of Chi-Town is packed with Coalition citizens, all assembled to witness the annual Awareness Day (Halloween) parade. Banners hang from tall government buildings, stark black and white, emblazoned with the Coalition's motto, "Unity, Purity, Security." The weather is brisk, and the sky a slate gray, casting an eerie atmosphere over the already somber proceedings. Soldiers line the perimeter, watchful as the crowd murmurs, children perched on parents’ shoulders, eyes wide with anticipation.

At the heart of the square, a large stage is set, flanked by massive Coalition flags that flutter stiffly in the wind. On stage stands High Commander Williams, a tall, imposing figure clad in ceremonial Coalition armor, and next to him, a row of senior officers who watch the crowd with steely expressions. They stand proudly as, down the center of the square, the rumble of heavy footsteps echoes—the parade has begun.

---

The Parade of Skelebots

From around the corner, a column of Skelebots emerges, marching in perfect synchrony, their metallic bodies gleaming under the overcast sky. Each Skelebot is shaped like a skeletal figure, angular and menacing, with red optic sensors casting a dull, ominous glow. Their rifles are strapped to their backs, and they stomp in mechanical unison, each footfall vibrating through the square, a reminder of the Coalition's iron grip and technological superiority.

The crowd watches in awe, a mix of reverence and fear in their expressions. Parents hold their children close, pointing at the Skelebots, murmuring reminders that these are the guardians of their future.

Child, “Mom, are those robots here to protect us from the monsters?”

Mother, “Yes, sweetie.” (Her voice is hushed, reverent.) “They keep us safe from the things that come from the Rifts, things we don’t want to see.”

The Skelebots continue to march, their ranks stretching down the main avenue, lined with Coalition soldiers in their black Dead Boy armor. With their skull-shaped helmets and unmoving stances, the soldiers look just as inhuman as the machines, a force beyond emotion, beyond fear.

---

High Commander Williams Speech

Once the Skelebots finish their parade, High Commander Williams steps up to the podium, his voice amplified across the square.

High Commander Williams, “Citizens of Chi-Town!” (His voice booms, confident and unwavering.) “Today, on Awareness Day, we come together to remember why we stand united. To remember what we stand against.”

The crowd falls silent, every face turned up to him, hanging on his words. Children, grandparents, workers, and soldiers—all are gathered in rapt attention, awaiting his message.

High Commander Williams, “Centuries ago, humans made a mistake. They invited darkness into their lives, celebrating the so-called ‘Halloween,’ a foolish tradition that reveled in evil and superstition.” (He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd.) “It was that very curiosity, that recklessness, which led to the Coming of the Rifts.”

He gestures to the towering Skelebots, standing still as statues, their glowing red optics surveying the crowd like silent sentinels.

High Commander Williams, “But today, as Coalition citizens, WE ARE BETTER. We stand protected, armed with our technology, our resolve, and our unity! Our brave Dead Boys, our powerful Skelebots—these are the tools that protect us from the horrors beyond our borders. These are what ensure the survival of humanity!”

The crowd cheers, parents clapping and shouting, instilling a sense of pride and security in their children. Soldiers along the square hold their fists to their chests in a silent salute, a display of loyalty to the Coalition and the audience around them.

As the cheers die down, the High Commander raises a gloved hand, signaling the crowd to quiet. At his gesture, a team of soldiers moves into the square, bringing with them a captive D-Bee—a creature with scaled skin and sharp, alien features, bound and visibly weakened. The soldiers place the creature in a holding field at the center of the square, where it writhes under the harsh gaze of onlookers.

High Commander Williams, “Let this serve as a reminder of what lies beyond—of what we fight against every day. This creature, like many others, would threaten your homes, your families, if given the chance.”

He gestures toward the Skelebots, who simultaneously raise their rifles, red optics flashing as they aim at the D-Bee in a show of force.

High Commander Williams, “The Coalition protects you! Never forget that! And remember—we are the shield, we are the sword, we are the future!”

---

In the crowd, a father puts his arm around his young son, who looks up at him with a mixture of fear and awe.

Son, “Dad, will the Skelebots keep the monsters away forever?”

Father, “Of course, son. The Coalition will always keep us safe. That’s why we trust them.”

Around them, others nod in agreement, feeling comforted by the display of power, by the presence of the Coalition’s unwavering strength. Any lingering doubts, any whispers of resistance or questions about the Coalition’s methods, are drowned out by the show of unity, the demonstration of invincibility.

As the anthem fades, the crowd begins to disperse, each family feeling reminded that only the Coalition stands between them and the darkness. The Skelebots and soldiers remain, their silent, watchful presence a reminder of the Coalition’s promise: security through strength, vigilance through unity.

---

Location: A families home in the Coalition


The television flickers to life in a modest Coalition family’s living room, illuminating the faces of a small group gathered around it—two children with wide eyes, their parents watching with serious expressions. The screen is emblazoned with the Coalition’s logo, a black skull over a stark white background, accompanied by the announcer’s voice, “Unity, Purity, Security.” Ominous music plays, underscoring the words as they fade to black, replaced by the image of a shadowy forest, twisted trees silhouetted against a blood-red moon.

The program, "Heroes of Humanity: Stories from the Frontlines," begins in earnest.

The voice of the announcer, deep and resolute, cuts through the eerie silence, immediately capturing the viewers’ attention.

Announcer, “Tonight, we bring you true stories from the brave men and women of the Coalition. Ordinary citizens turned extraordinary heroes, whose bravery and loyalty save innocent lives from the terrors of the supernatural.”

The screen shifts to an image of a young soldier, his face lit only by the harsh beam of his flashlight as he ventures into a dilapidated building. The image is grainy, giving it a found-footage feel that makes it even more unnerving. The music swells, and the narrator continues.

Announcer, “This is Private Markus Holt, a new recruit stationed on the outskirts of Lone Star. Just last week, Private Holt’s squad responded to a report of a D-Bee incursion in the area—strange noises, sightings of monstrous creatures hiding in the shadows. Little did Private Holt know, his loyalty to the Coalition would be put to the ultimate test.”

The scene cuts to an interview with a weary-looking man in a Coalition uniform—Private Holt himself, seated in a stark room with the Coalition emblem behind him. His eyes are intense, a mixture of pride and fear evident as he recounts his tale.

Private Holt, “It… it started as just a routine patrol. But then, we heard it… this howling, like nothing I’d ever heard. When we found the D-Bees, they were twisted, horrible things—covered in scales and slime, eyes like fire. But I remembered my training. I remembered what they taught us: no mercy.”

The scene flashes to a dramatic re-enactment, where actors portraying Holt and his squad confront the monstrous D-Bees in the dark. The D-Bees are exaggeratedly terrifying—hulking, grotesque, with sharp claws and jagged teeth, snarling as they advance on the squad.

Announcer, “Faced with creatures no human should ever encounter, Private Holt and his team held their ground, drawing on their Coalition training and their loyalty to humanity. Against all odds, they took down each and every one of the invaders, saving countless lives.”

The reenactment shows the soldiers raising their laser rifles and firing, their faces hardened and resolute as the D-Bees collapse, vanishing into the shadows with final, guttural roars. The music swells, and the scene fades back to Holt, who stares into the camera, voice unwavering.

Private Holt, “When you see them up close, you realize—they’re not like us. They’re not human. They don’t think, they don’t feel like we do. They’re dangerous. And it’s up to us to protect each other from them.”

The camera cuts back to the announcer, now seated in a sleek studio with the Coalition’s skull emblem in the background. His tone is steady, reassuring.

Announcer, “Private Holt is one of many who have stared into the darkness and faced these supernatural threats head-on. He and others like him prove that no matter how monstrous these creatures may seem, they can be defeated. With courage. With loyalty. With the Coalition.”

---

The Magic-Wielder’s Threat

The screen changes again, this time showing grainy footage of an empty city street, buildings cracked and abandoned under a pale moonlight. A chilling figure steps into the frame—a robed magic-wielder, chanting in a strange language as wisps of unnatural light swirl around their hands.

Announcer, “But it isn’t only D-Bees that threaten our peace. Magic-wielders, humans who have turned their backs on their own kind, taint our world with their dangerous powers. In another tale of valor, Officer Lily Tran of the Psi-Battalion faced down a magic-wielder who sought to summon a creature from beyond the Rifts.”

The screen cuts to an interview with Officer Tran, a stern, focused woman in the black uniform of the Psi-Battalion. Her gaze is intense as she recalls the confrontation.

Officer Tran, “This magic-wielder was summoning… something. I could feel it, a coldness creeping into the world. We had no choice. It was him or us.”

The reenactment shows Officer Tran and her team as they rush into an abandoned building, their weapons aimed at the robed figure. The magic-wielder raises his hands, chanting as a creature begins to materialize from the shadows, only for Tran and her squad to open fire. The magic-wielder screams, collapsing as the summoning is disrupted, the creature’s form dissipating back into the void.

Officer Tran, “Magic is a poison. It doesn’t belong here. And those who use it have no place in our world. We’re here to protect humanity, and we’ll do whatever it takes.”

Closing Message to the Viewers

The broadcast returns to the announcer, who looks directly into the camera, his gaze unflinching.

Announcer, “These are the heroes of the Coalition—brave, loyal, unyielding in the face of darkness. They stand as a shield between humanity and the terrors that seek to destroy us. And remember, citizens, that the Coalition is here to protect you. But we can’t do it alone.”

He leans forward, his voice taking on a sense of urgency.

Announcer, “If you see something, say something. Report any suspicious activity to your local authorities. Together, we can keep the supernatural threat at bay. Together, we can ensure a future free from magic, free from monsters, and safe for humanity.”

The screen fades to black, replaced by the Coalition’s logo once again, with the audible slogan: “Unity, Purity, Security.”

---

The young boy sitting on the floor looks up at his father, wide-eyed.

Boy, “Dad, are those monsters really out there? And people who do magic—are they… are they like that?”

The father nods solemnly, his face set with a mix of pride and determination.

Father, “They are, son. That’s why we have to trust the Coalition. They’re the only ones who can protect us from the things that lurk out there. And one day, maybe you’ll join them too, and help keep us all safe.”

The mother wraps her arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him close as she whispers, “Remember, the Coalition keeps us safe. We don’t ever want to end up like those people out there.”

As the television flickers off, the family sits in silence for a moment, the lingering fear reinforced by the Coalition’s narrative. The message has taken root: the world is dangerous, the supernatural is real, and only the Coalition stands between them and oblivion.

[darthauthor]

Location: Tolkeen Free News Broadcast - “Creativity Amid Crisis”

The camera opens on a warmly lit kitchen, where a chef in traditional Tolkeen attire stirs a steaming pot of vibrant, aromatic soup. A banner at the bottom of the screen reads:

“Tolkeen’s Culinary Challenge: Making the Most of Xiticix.”

The broadcast shifts to the familiar studio, where Alistair Marquess, the seasoned anchor, smiles with a mix of amusement and pride.

Alistair Marquess, “Good evening, citizens of Tolkeen. Tonight, we’re bringing you a rather unique story—one that speaks to our resourcefulness, even in these difficult times. As many of you know, food shortages have become a harsh reality in the kingdom. With rationing in place and crops stretched to their limits, Tolkeen has had to get… a bit creative.”

He chuckles softly, holding back a grin.

Alistair Marques, “Enter the Xiticix. These massive insectoid creatures, once considered more pest than provision, are now helping to fill the gap. Yes, you heard that right—our chefs have turned to Xiticix as a new source of protein, and the results have been as innovative as they are… unexpected.”

The screen cuts to a bustling kitchen where Chef Amira, a renowned Tolkeen culinary artist, is carefully marinating a large, segmented piece of what appears to be Xiticix meat. She glances at the camera with a wry smile, her hands moving deftly.

Chef Amira, “At first, I didn’t know what to make of it. Xiticix meat has a tough texture, but if you cook it just right, it’s surprisingly tender. With the right spices, it takes on a flavor that’s somewhere between crab and gamey venison—a bit earthy, with just a hint of sweetness.”

She lifts a slice of the marinated meat, now seared and steaming, and garnishes it with finely chopped herbs and a drizzle of sauce before presenting it to the camera.

Chef Amira, “We call this ‘Xiticix Medallion.’ It’s seasoned with herbs, roasted over an open flame, and served with a reduction of berry glaze for a hint of sweetness. The kids love it, believe it or not—it’s an unexpected treat.”

The camera cuts back to Alistair, who smiles with a raised eyebrow.

Alistair Marques, “From berry-glazed medallions to hearty stews, our chefs are exploring every possible preparation method for Xiticix meat. It’s not just about feeding the population—it’s a new culinary frontier. Chefs across the kingdom have been challenged to discover the most creative ways to make the Xiticix a staple in our kitchens.”

The screen shows images of other dishes crafted from Xiticix: skewered chunks of meat roasted over an open fire, served with a spicy sauce; delicate Xiticix dumplings with savory filling; even ground Xiticix patties crafted into meatballs served over steaming ley-line grain. In each dish, the vibrant colors of Tolkeen’s traditional spices and herbs are evident, transforming the unfamiliar meat into something both beautiful and inviting.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “These culinary creations aren’t just for show. In marketplaces around Tolkeen, you can now find vendors selling pre-prepared Xiticix cuts, allowing families to try new recipes at home. Even young apprentices in Tolkeen’s culinary schools are learning to work with Xiticix, as they experiment with textures, marinades, and baking techniques to bring out the best in this… unique protein.”

The broadcast then cuts to a street market, where a cheerful young vendor slices a roasted piece of Xiticix meat, handing samples to a line of curious citizens.

Market Vendor, “Freshly grilled Xiticix kabobs! Try it with the garlic sauce—it’s better than you’d think!”

An elderly woman takes a cautious bite and her eyes widen in surprise.

Elderly Woman, “Not bad at all! Almost like lobster… but, well, with a crunch!”

The camera returns to Alistair in the studio, who chuckles at the woman’s comment before adopting a more thoughtful tone.

Alistair Marquess, “While it may seem strange at first, this culinary shift represents the resilience of Tolkeen’s people. Even in times of shortage, we adapt. Our chefs, cooks, and home kitchens are turning what was once a foe into a valuable resource, ensuring that everyone in Tolkeen has something nutritious—and maybe even delicious—to eat.”

The camera pans over a beautifully plated dish featuring Xiticix meat garnished with edible flowers and herbs, a testament to Tolkeen’s unique and determined spirit.

Alistair Marquess, “So, the next time you’re at the market, be brave! Try something new. The Xiticix may have been our enemy once, but tonight, they’re helping to keep us strong. Bon appétit, Tolkeen.”

With a respectful nod, Alistair closes the segment, his voice a reminder of the kingdom’s perseverance in the face of challenge.

Alistair Marquess, “This is the strength of Tolkeen—turning adversity into creativity. For the chefs of Tolkeen, and for all of you trying something new on your plates tonight, we thank you. Stay safe, and keep your courage strong. This is Alistair Marquess, reporting from the heart of our resilient city. Good night.”

The camera fades, leaving viewers with a sense of pride and perhaps a bit of curiosity, as Tolkeen finds its way forward through flavor, courage, and ingenuity.

[darthauthor]

Location: Tolkeen

“Magic of Renewal: Earth Warlocks and Tolkeen’s Recycled Metal”

The camera opens on an image of Tolkeen’s skyline at dusk, its towering spires backlit by the faint blue glow of ley lines crisscrossing the horizon. The picture shifts to the base of the city walls, where piles of twisted metal and Coalition war machinery lay in heaps. Alistair Marquess, the anchor of Tolkeen Free News, appears in the studio with a look of pride as he begins the broadcast.

Alistair Marquess, “Good evening, citizens of Tolkeen. Tonight, we bring you a story of magic, and resourcefulness—a story that shows us all how even the remnants of war can be transformed into hope for our city.”

He glances down, his eyes reflecting a deep respect as he lifts his gaze to the camera.

Alistair Marques, “As you know, our Kingdom has been left with the detritus of battle—metal wreckage, scorched power armor, and fragments of the Coalition’s once-fearsome war machines. But instead of allowing these remains to become a reminder of destruction, Tolkeen has turned them into a source of renewal, thanks to the incredible work of our city’s Earth Warlocks.”

The screen cuts to footage of an Earth Warlock, his robes flowing as he stands atop a pile of discarded Coalition metal. With eyes closed and arms raised, he channels energy from a nearby ley line. He murmurs an incantation, and the metal beneath him begins to shimmer, melt and reform as sheets.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “Tolkeen is fortunate to count many powerful Earth Warlocks among our citizens, and with their gifts, the once-wasted remnants of war are being recycled and refined. Through their spells, fueled by the abundant energy of our ley lines, these Warlocks can reshape metal, extracting usable materials from even the most damaged pieces.”

The footage shifts to a bustling workshop where newly purified metals are being cast. Technicians carefully mold the liquid metal into components for weapons, armor, and fortifications, while apprentices oversee the cooling and casting processes.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “Each piece of metal reclaimed by our Warlocks is another tool to help Tolkeen stand strong. This process is more than simple recycling; it’s magic and craft intertwined, the old and new combining to give our people the resources we need to defend our home.”

The camera cuts to a close-up interview with a senior Earth Warlock named Elder Marek, his hands scarred from years of magical labor but his face serene as he speaks.

Elder Marek, “To turn the enemy’s metal into something that defends our people—that’s a victory in itself. We take what was once a weapon against us and make it a tool for our survival. The ley lines give us the strength to do this, channeling their power into our craft. It’s not easy work, but it’s vital, and we’re honored to do it.”

The scene returns to the studio, where Alistair nods respectfully.

Alistair Marquess. “Our thanks go out to Elder Marek and the Earth Warlocks who tirelessly perform this work. It’s thanks to them that Tolkeen’s forges run full tilt, and that our city remains strong, even in times of shortage. What once seemed like ruin has been transformed into a new lifeblood for our city.”

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “The recycled metal has helped fortify Tolkeen, ensuring that we can keep rebuilding even amid ongoing conflict. And let’s not overlook the cost savings: this process has saved our city precious resources and time that would have been spent sourcing new materials.”

Returning to the studio, Alistair’s face is a mix of pride and solemnity as he addresses the camera directly.

Alistair Marquess, “Citizens, this is Tolkeen’s spirit in action. By transforming the Coalition’s weapons into tools for our defense, we turn the tide of war in our own way. Every piece of recycled metal in our war machines represents the strength, creativity, and resilience of our Kingdom.”

He offers a respectful nod to the viewers.

Alistair Marquess, “This is our strength, our magic, and our unity in action. To the Earth Warlocks and the craftsmen who turn ruins into resources, we owe our thanks.

Next up we have, “New Horizons: Tolkeen’s Gateway to Survival”

The screen opens with a sweeping view of the city of Tolkeen, its towers and spires stretching toward the sky, ley lines in the background. The camera zooms in on the central square, where a shimmering, circular portal pulses with an otherworldly glow. Alistair Marquess, the familiar face of the Tolkeen Free News Agency, stands in the studio with a look of optimism as he begins his report.

Alistair Marquess, “Tonight, I bring you news that may very well mark a turning point in our efforts to sustain ourselves amid this war. It’s a story of magic, and diplomacy—a story of how our kingdom’s finest Shifters have bridged worlds to help secure a better future for Tolkeen.”

The screen shifts to a close-up of a group of Shifters gathered around a large, swirling Rift. Each Shifter wears distinctive robes, with emblems of far-off realms.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “Shifters, an elite group among Tolkeen’s many talented practitioners, have long been known for their ability to create magical gateways to other places—other worlds. And now, in a groundbreaking agreement, a select few of these mages have brokered deals with off-Earth suppliers who hold the resources we need.”

The broadcast cuts to an interview with Shifter Liriel Thorne, an elegant figure with silvered hair and a calm, wise expression. She speaks with quiet authority, her words resonating with the gravity of their work.

Master Liriel Thorne, “This was no simple task. We spent months searching and negotiating with representatives from these other realms—some of whom have cultures and practices entirely unfamiliar to us.

But we found a few and of those a some who are in need services we can provide, magic and transportation we’re uniquely equipped to offer. And in exchange, they have agreed to allow us to forage, farm, and trade on lands rich with resources we so desperately need.”

She gestures to a table beside her, where baskets overflow with unfamiliar fruits, vibrant herbs, and exotic medicinal plants.

Master Liriel Thorne, “These items here, for example—healing herbs, potent medicines, and foods we can only dream of. They grow in abundance on their lands, and through this deal, we have permission to cultivate and harvest them. We’re grateful, and we’ve taken great care to ensure we respect their lands and customs in return.”

The camera cuts back to Alistair, whose face reflects a mix of awe and gratitude.

Alistair Marques, “Incredible. Imagine the impact—medicinal supplies that can heal injuries beyond the reach of our standard spells, and foods that can replenish our stores. And what’s more, our Shifters have arranged secure pathways, ensuring that these supply chains remain stable and protected from the reach of the Coalition.”

The broadcast then shifts to a Rift, where workers receive crates of supplies that arrive from the other side. Farmers sort through roots and grains while healers inspect medicinal plants with reverence, carefully cataloging each item.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “This inter-dimensional alliance is much more than a trade agreement—it’s a lifeline. Thanks to our kingdom's Shifters, we are now connected to worlds that can provide us with vital supplies.”

The screen returns to the studio, where Alistair addresses the camera directly, his tone sincere.

Alistair Marquess, “Citizens, we owe an immense debt of gratitude to Shifters. Their work has opened pathways we never imagined, granting us the opportunity to build alliances that span across dimensions. What once seemed like a distant hope is now a concrete reality, one that brings us stability in the face of war.”

[darthauthor]

Location: Lazlo

A doctor's office.
The survivors of Camp Victory were having an exam by a Medical Doctor.
Lady Serana takes the initiative and examines many of them herself using her skill in paramedics.

After the rescuers, the Doctor and Knight One insists she be examined.

---

The doctor stood back, marveling at the intricate "second skin" of armor clinging to Serana's body. This wasn't armor in the traditional sense, nothing rigid or bulky—no sharp clinks of metal or dense padding. Instead, it appeared as an almost organic layer, matte black with subtle, dark silver webbing flowing across it like veins, pulsing softly with a rhythm as if it were somehow alive.

Touching the surface was a peculiar experience. The doctor ran gloved fingertips along the soldier's forearm, noting the sensation. It was oddly warm, not cold like metal or plastic, and yet felt smoother than any natural skin. There was a resilience to it, an elasticity that pressed back against their fingers, neither soft nor unyielding. It flexed under the touch, adjusting itself slightly, as if responding to the examination.

Then, the doctor noticed a small nick near the shoulder, the remnant of a close call. Before their eyes, the wound in the armor began to close, nanoscopic fibers stretching out like tiny strands of thread, weaving together in perfect symmetry. Within seconds, the break sealed entirely, leaving no trace of the damage. The doctor couldn't help but stare. The armor—no, this second skin—seemed to heal itself, almost like real skin.

As the doctor leaned in closer, a faint, nearly imperceptible sound became audible, resonating through the thin layer. It wasn’t exactly a noise but more a vibration, something they could feel deep in their own chest. The vibration seemed to ebb and flow, growing softer as the armor returned to its rest state. The gentle warmth radiating from it pulsed faintly in tandem, like the beat of a heart.

Moving around the Cyber-Knight, the doctor marveled at how this flexible armor melded seamlessly with the body. Every muscle was visible, every movement uninhibited, yet the protection remained, shifting in response to the woman’s form as if tailored perfectly for each motion. As Lady Serana raised an arm or took a step forward, the doctor noted how the second skin expanded and contracted smoothly, almost fluidly, returning to its neutral state immediately after.

The doctor had seen countless forms of armor over the years, but this—this was something alive, something adaptive.

---

Dressed in civilian clothes not to draw more attention than she liked (incognito) Serana dared to endulge herself with a meal that would satisfy her completely now that she was in Lazlo.

The Cyber-Knight Lady Serana sat alone in the quiet, softly lit room, the ambient sounds of the bustling restaurant outside muffled by the thick walls. She shifted in her seat, feeling the light press of the armor’s second skin against her frame as she leaned back.

Tonight, for the first time in weeks, she was given a moment of solitude and a chance to indulge, free from the eyes of others and the unspoken questions of those who saw the armor and wondered what it meant.

The waiter entered, polite but curious. The sight of her—muscular, focused, and cloaked over something that rippled faintly with the customers movements—seemed to unsettle him. He paused, his notepad ready.

“Good evening, ma’am. What can I bring you tonight?” he asked, maintaining a professional demeanor.

She looked up, contemplating for a moment. What ‘did’ she want? Here, in this rare pocket of privacy, she could almost feel the tug of normalcy, a temptation to order something purely for taste.

“Alright,” she said, folding her hands on the table, “Let’s make this easy. I’ll start with a large steak, rare. Make it lean but keep a bit of the fat.”

He scribbled, glancing at her as she spoke. She could almost hear her nutritionist’s voice reminding her to balance protein with iron, to ensure her red blood cells stayed high enough. She tapped her fingers on the table, her tone light but her choices deliberate.

“Add some roasted vegetables on the side. Whatever’s in season—roots are good. And,” she paused, “could you bring an extra plate of steamed spinach, too? Plenty of iron in that. I need lots of iron.”

The waiter nodded, his pen moving swiftly.

“Oh, and a double order of sweet potatoes,” she added. “I’ll need the carbs.”

The waiter finished writing, waiting for her next words, but she sensed the glance he tried to steal at her skin—almost imperceptible but still there, that faint shimmer as the armor’s fibers adjusted around her arms. She caught his gaze and shrugged. Probably thinks I’m a headhunter.

“For dessert,” she continued, almost smiling at the thought, “bring a double helping of vanilla ice cream with some berries on the side. Strawberries, if you have them.” She paused, noting the slight surprise in his eyes, and added, “I’ll need the antioxidants to counter any… oh, that's not important right now.”

She let him wonder what that meant.

“And one last thing,” she said, meeting his eyes squarely, her tone softening just slightly. “A tall glass of sparkling water with lemon. It’s been a long day.”

The waiter nodded, closing his pad and retreating with a respectful bow. As the door closed, she exhaled, relaxing into the moment. She felt her armor, almost as if it approved of the choices she’d made, ready to draw every nutrient from the meal to fuel her strength and the armor’s quiet demands.

When the food arrived, she’d let herself savor every bite, knowing each choice she’d made was both for survival—and, for just a fleeting moment, for herself.

---

Lady Serana’s Interview on a Lazlo News Show

The studio lights are bright, casting a warm glow over the modern yet understated set. The bustling city of Lazlo provides a backdrop behind the glass, its towering buildings. The host, a polished and confident woman named Mira Caelum, adjusts her earpiece as she introduces her guest.

Mira Caelum, “Good evening, Lazlo! Tonight, we have an extraordinary guest with us. She’s a warrior, a healer, and the rescuer of the prisoners of Camp Victory. Please welcome Lady Serana of the Cyber-Knights.”

The camera pans to Lady Serana as she steps forward, her presence commanding yet tempered by a warm, genuine smile. Dressed in her polished armor, she nods respectfully to Mira and the camera, her powerful frame both imposing and reassuring.

Mira, “Thank you for joining us, Lady Serana. It’s an honor to have you here.”

Lady Serana, (with a gracious nod) “Thank you, Mira. The honor is mine. I’m grateful for this opportunity to speak with the people of Lazlo.”

Mira, “You’ve become something of a legend, you know. Stories of your travels and the good you do for villages and towns have reached far and wide. I think everyone watching is curious—what drives you to live such a life? What keeps you going through everything you face out there?”

Lady Serana, (Pausing thoughtfully, she leans forward, her eyes steady) “I’m driven by a deep conviction that every life, every soul, has value. I believe in the potential for redemption and healing, even in the darkest of places. The world we live in—harsh as it is—has not lost its humanity. I go where I’m needed, and I fight so that others can have a chance to live in peace, however short that peace may be.”

Mira, (nodding, visibly moved) “You’ve been called the ‘healer-knight’ because of your extraordinary abilities. We’ve heard tales of your psychic healing, that you can heal the sick and injured in a matter of minutes. Can you tell us more about that gift?”

Lady Serana, “It’s a gift I hold sacred. My abilities allow me to provide care quickly and without the need for conventional resources. In a world like ours, where medical facilities are often out of reach, this power means the difference between life and death for many. I can only use it a few times each day, but when I do, it brings relief to those in pain, a chance for life. To me, it’s not just a gift; it’s a responsibility.”

Mira, (smiling with admiration) “It’s incredible. And yet, you don’t just heal the body. I’ve heard that you offer to hear confessions from those you help, that you spend time listening to their troubles. Why is that important to you?”

Lady Serana, (Her expression softens) “Healing the body is only part of the journey. Many carry burdens in their hearts—regret, guilt, fears they can’t escape. By listening, by letting them release that weight, I hope to help them heal inside, too. Sometimes, people just need to be heard, to know they’re not alone. I offer that solace, just as much as I offer my blade or my healing.”

Mira, (gestures to the camera, leaning in) “Speaking of your blade, our viewers may not know this, but you’re capable of feats of strength that most would consider superhuman. I hear you can carry over five hundred pounds—an ability most would envy.”

Lady Serana, (chuckles modestly) “Yes, I am fortunate to have strength that matches my calling. It’s all about balance, in mind and body, which my training as a Cyber-Knight has cultivated. But really, strength is only valuable in how you use it. To protect, to build, to offer a shield to those in need—that’s why I train as hard as I do.”

Mira, “And in some villages, you and your team build entire shelters before you move on, leaving permanent a place of refuge for others. You don’t just save lives, you’re helping rebuild society, one cabin at a time.”

Lady Serana, “Every shelter, every wall we build, serves as a reminder that resilience is possible. That the world can be cold, but we can face it together. These small acts—they add up. Each one is a small victory against despair, against giving up.”

Mira, (smiling warmly) “Lady Serana, you are an inspiration. One last question before we go: If you could leave a message with the people of Lazlo tonight, what would it be?”

Lady Serana, (pausing, her voice calm but firm) “To the people of Lazlo, and all those watching—never lose sight of hope. There are many forces in this world that would have us believe the worst in each other, that would tear down what we’ve worked to build. But kindness, courage, and compassion—these are strengths no force can truly destroy. Hold fast to them, and together, we can face whatever comes.”

Mira, “Thank you, Lady Serana. That’s a message we all need to hear. Thank you for joining us, and may you continue to be a light in dark places.”

The screen fades as Lady Serana nods in gratitude, a quiet smile on her face, as she prepares to depart once more, back to the world she strives to protect.

---

The Next Interview: A Heated Exchange

The studio set is calm but charged with tension. The host, Marcus Voss, a sharp, seasoned journalist known for his direct style, sits across from Lady Serana. Unlike her previous interview, this one has a different tone—less celebratory and more probing. Lady Serana sits tall, her armor reflecting the studio lights, her gaze steady as she braces for the questions.

Marcus Voss, (leaning forward, voice steady but intense) “Lady Serana, thank you for joining us. I won’t mince words—the Cyber-Knight Order is facing internal division over this war. Many say the Order should remain neutral, as Lord Coake himself believes. Yet here you are, supporting Tolkeen, in direct defiance of his vision. Aren’t you concerned that, in taking sides, you risk dragging the Order into political quagmires rather than preserving its mission of universal justice?”

Lady Serana, (meeting his gaze without hesitation) “I understand the concern, Marcus. I respect Lord Coake’s position, as he believes neutrality is key to our order’s integrity. But, to me, this goes beyond allegiance to any kingdom or flag. This is about defending the innocent, regardless of nationality. The Coalition’s actions are not about defense—they’re about extermination and expansion. Neutrality, in the face of such brutality, feels like complicity.”

Marcus (raising an eyebrow, intrigued) “Complicity, you say. But some might argue that neutrality preserves the Cyber-Knights as an unbiased force for peace. Isn’t there value in staying above the fray, in not appearing to favor one nation’s agenda over another’s?”

Lady Serana, “Perhaps. But tell me, Marcus, if neutrality means abandoning people who are being systematically hunted and destroyed, is it still justice? Tolkeen may have made choices I don’t entirely agree with, but they did not initiate this war. The Coalition’s agenda is rooted in fear and hatred of D-Bees and magic-users, simply because they are different. I cannot, in good conscience, stand by and do nothing while people—innocent families—are crushed under the Coalition’s boots.”

Marcus (leaning back, arms crossed) “So, by your logic, it sounds like you’re justifying a kind of rebellion against your own Order. You’re defying Lord Coake’s wishes. Doesn’t this weaken the very unity the Cyber-Knights depend on?”

Lady Serana (taking a deep breath, her tone calm but resolute) “Marcus, my loyalty to the Cyber-Knight Order is strong, but my loyalty to my principles is stronger. If we forsake innocent lives in the name of preserving our image or remaining above reproach, what good is our Order? My path may not please Lord Coake, but I would rather protect innocent children than worry about my reputation.”

Marcus (with a wry smile) “But that’s the heart of it, isn’t it? Lord Coake doesn’t believe Tolkeen can win. He seems to think fighting alongside them would lead to nothing but loss. And it’s divided your order because, strategically, he believes fighting will only drag the Cyber-Knights down. Is it really worth risking the future of your entire Order for a cause you might not win?”

Lady Serana (her expression solemn, her voice low but firm) “Perhaps Tolkeen will fall. But if we stand by and do nothing, it sets a dangerous precedent. If the Coalition succeeds, what’s to stop them from continuing this campaign of hatred? Ask any historian—empires rarely stop when they’re winning. Today, it’s Tolkeen. Tomorrow, perhaps it’s Lazlo or New Lazlo. I won’t be a passive witness to an unending cycle of destruction.”

The camera catches Marcus as he shifts, recognizing the gravity of her words.

Marcus (nodding slightly) “So, by that reasoning, you’re saying the Coalition won’t stop with Tolkeen. But what would you say to those who claim Tolkeen isn’t innocent either? That they’ve flirted with dangerous forces, even summoned monsters to defend themselves? Is that the kind of ally you’re willing to stand by?”

Lady Serana, “Tolkeen is imperfect. Yes, they’ve made hard, sometimes dangerous choices, but they’ve been pushed into a corner. It’s one thing to condemn them from the safety of neutrality, and quite another to experience the threat they’re facing. I don’t justify every action they’ve taken, but I understand their desperation. They weren’t the ones who brought war to their doorstep; they are defending themselves against a relentless invasion. And I believe that people—mothers, children, families—deserve a chance to live, even if the government protecting them makes flawed decisions.”

Marcus (leaning in, more subdued, with a hint of respect) “Some might call that the ‘wrong side of right,’ as you’ve said yourself, Lady Serana. You’re willing to sacrifice the order’s reputation, to defy your Lord’s position, all to help a nation that may be doomed to fall. But you’re prepared to take that risk because you know you are protecting innocent people.”

Lady Serana, (nodding) “I know there are those who will say I’m wrong, that I’m going down a dangerous path. But at the end of the day, I have to be true to myself. And if standing with Tolkeen, despite its flaws, to defend innocent lives from extermination is ‘wrong,’ then I’ll be wrong every time. I’d rather make a stand now, even if it’s complicated and imperfect, than look back and wonder if I could have made a difference.”

Marcus (sighing, his voice softer, almost impressed) “It’s a heavy burden you’ve chosen, Lady Serana. I don’t think anyone doubts your sincerity. But it’s clear that your actions will continue to stir debate among the Cyber-Knights and here in Lazlo. Before we close, what would you say to those in Lazlo who fear that helping Tolkeen could bring the Coalition’s wrath here next?”

Lady Serana, (gazing directly into the camera, her voice steady and resolute) “To the people of Lazlo, I say this: Remember that indifference has its price. We may feel safe here today, but the Coalition’s ambition is not limited. If Tolkeen falls, we may be next. If we turn a blind eye now, we may face the same threat someday, only without allies who might have stood beside us. IF the Coalition went to war with Lazlo, Tolkeen would stand with you. Stand for justice now, or risk losing everything you hold dear in the future. The choice is ours.”

The studio falls silent for a moment, her words resonating deeply. Marcus gives a thoughtful nod, acknowledging the weight of her statement.

Marcus, “Thank you, Lady Serana. Your perspective, while contentious, is undeniably powerful. I think our viewers will have much to consider. And to you, I can only say—may your path be safe and your cause just.”

Lady Serana (offering a final nod) “Thank you, Marcus. And may we all find the courage to protect what truly matters.”

The camera fades as Lady Serana rises from her seat, her figure a striking silhouette against the Lazlo skyline, embodying the complex struggle of honor, loyalty, and justice in an unforgiving world.

[darthauthor]

Location: Lazlo

Lady Serana approaches the entrance to The House of the Shield, a place where the Cyber-Knights in Lazlo meet. She pauses at the base of the wide stone steps, her gaze lifting to take in the imposing yet serene structure before her. The building stands in quiet dignity, nestled between ancient trees whose branches cast dappled sunlight over the stone facade. Smooth and weathered, the stones are marked with the faint engravings of the Cyber-Knight order, subtle but unmistakable, as if it were a silent pledge to those who pass beneath it.

As she steps up the stairs, the world outside seems to quiet, her footsteps soft against the stone. The front doors are heavy, made of thick oak and bound with iron, with a single carved cross at their center. She places a hand on one of the doors, feeling the coolness of the ironwork beneath her fingers. For a moment, she feels a stirring of anticipation, and then, with a gentle push, the door yields, welcoming her inside.

Inside, the light shifts, softened by stained-glass windows that line the hallway. Each window bears an intricate design of Cyber-Knights in various scenes: defending the innocent, extending aid, etc. The colors are warm, casting rich hues across the polished stone floor, where her footsteps echo faintly in the silence. The hall smells faintly of parchment, leather, and the subtle tang of metal from the armory beyond. There’s a stillness to the air, filled with the subtle weight of history and duty, and she can feel the legacy of her order around her, watching, welcoming her.

Ahead, the hallway opens into the Grand Hall, a vast space with high vaulted ceilings and walls lined with banners bearing the insignias of different Cyber-Knight divisions. Knights and support staff bustle here and there, their movements purposeful but unhurried. Some nod respectfully as she enters, recognizing her by reputation if not by face, and she returns their nods with quiet humility.

Her eyes are drawn to the far end of the hall, where a large wooden table sits, surrounded by chairs. A central ledger rests upon it, open and inked with the names of those who have sworn their allegiance to the Cyber-Knight Order. Beside the ledger is a set of inkpots, pens, and candles, the wax softened and smoothed by years of service. It’s a gathering place, she realizes, a place for counsel and resolve, where knights can make plans, share knowledge, and renew their commitments to their ideals.

Turning to the left, she catches sight of a narrow staircase leading down to the armory and vaults. Though the door is closed, she senses the energy from within, an organized rhythm of metal on stone, the murmur of armorers and quartermasters attending to the weapons and gear stored below. She knows that down there, weapons and armor lie waiting, carefully tended to by skilled hands—tools of protection, not aggression, meant to guard the innocent and defend justice.

Further inside, she sees the library, its entrance flanked by statues of knights in traditional poses of honor and strength. Inside, rows of shelves hold bound volumes, maps, and records collected from across the land. A low table holds an array of maps, some newly inked and others ancient, as if tracing the same purpose across generations. A few knights study them intently, and she makes a mental note to return here to learn more about the territories she has yet to see.

As she continues, the hall opens up to the meditation space, a small, quiet sanctuary filled with candlelight. Simple wooden benches face a carved stone altar at the front, where a single white cross hangs, plain but profound. This place of reflection is a reminder of the dedication that underpins the order, a space where members of the Order can set aside the burdens of their calling, even if only for a moment, to reflect and find solace.

Her path finally brings her to a quieter wing, where she sees living quarters and the infirmary. Here, the scent of herbs and linens mingles with the faint sounds of conversation as nurses tend to knights recovering from injuries. The rooms are modest but comfortable, with simple beds, wooden chests, and washbasins. It’s a place of healing, a retreat for knights to recover not only physically but spiritually, surrounded by those who understand the weight of their duty.

Lady Serana takes a slow breath, letting the place settle around her like an old cloak. Though this is her first time within these walls, The House of the Shield feels both new and familiar, a sanctuary built on the values she holds dear. She feels the weight of its history and purpose seep into her, grounding her resolve. Here, she knows, she will find allies, wisdom, and the strength to carry out her mission, knowing that every step forward will be in service of something greater than herself.

---

She has heard of this place many times—a sanctuary where the leader of the Cyber-Knights contemplates, plans, and holds counsel—but today, the room feels colder, heavier.

The room is silent as Lady Serana steps into the hall and sees Lord Coake’s along with two-dozen other Cyber-Knights. Light filters through high windows, casting solemn patterns on the walls, and in the center of it all stands Lord Coake, his silver hair and piercing gaze steady, unwavering.

Lady Serana pauses, feeling the weight of her armor pressing on her as she steps forward. She meets Lord Coake’s gaze, her posture calm, yet resolute. She knows he is already aware of her decision, perhaps even expected it, but still, he remains silent, letting her speak first.

Lady Serana, (her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of emotion) “Lord Coake. I stand before you today not as a knight seeking counsel, but as a woman bound by conscience. I can no longer uphold the Order’s neutrality, knowing that by doing so, I am abandoning those in need to face annihilation. I surrender myself to your judgment and resign from the Order.”

Lord Coake’s eyes remain steady, his expression calm, yet there’s a flicker of sorrow, perhaps disappointment, as he considers her words. He stands silently for a moment, his hands clasped before him, the silence stretching as if to test her resolve.

Lord Coake, (his voice as firm as the stone walls around them) “You believe my stance on neutrality to be a failure, Serana. That our efforts to inspire and aid without becoming entangled are inadequate. Yet neutrality has preserved us, has kept the Cyber-Knights intact, and has allowed us to bring hope to thousands without the stain of political agendas.”

Lady Serana, (her voice rising slightly, a passionate intensity coming through) “Hope is not enough, my lord. Hope is an ember, but in Tolkeen, that ember is being snuffed out. The Coalition does not intend to merely subdue; they intend to eradicate. I understand your wish to avoid political alliances, but how can we claim to stand for justice if we ignore mass murder? You say we are planting seeds, but there will be no one left to cultivate them if they are all dead.”

Lord Coake’s gaze hardens, but not unkindly. His tone is quiet, almost reflective.

Lord Coake, “You underestimate the strength of our example, Serana. What we represent goes beyond any single battle. By standing above the fray, we become a symbol that one day the people may turn to when they are ready. We are not meant to save everyone ourselves; we are meant to inspire people to save each other.”

Lady Serana’s hand drifts to her chestplate, resting over the emblem she has worn with pride for so long. She inhales deeply, feeling the weight of his words, yet unable to accept them fully.

Lady Serana, “You have given them an idea, yes. But an idea alone won’t protect them from the Coalition’s weapons, from the soulless machines they send to destroy those they fear. I don’t argue that strategy and caution have their place. But you speak of planting seeds—then abandon the field to burn. I cannot, and I will not, stand aside while innocents die for our ‘neutrality.’ Not when I can make a difference.”

She pauses, her hands moving to the clasps on her armor. One by one, she undoes each piece, the polished metal slipping from her shoulders and arms, clattering onto the stone floor. Beneath, she wears simple clothing, a reminder of the person she was before the title, before the Order. She lets the armor fall, every piece echoing her decision.

Lady Serana, (her voice steady, though a hint of sadness lingers) “I would rather bear the weight of action than the burden of inaction. I don’t need the title of ‘Cyber-Knight’ to protect the innocent or to defend what I know to be right. My heart will not allow it.”

Lord Coake’s gaze follows the pieces of her armor as they fall, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighs, looking back at her, and for a moment, there is a glimmer of respect in his eyes, though his voice remains firm.

Lord Coake, “You are committed, then. It is no light thing, leaving the Order. Yet, I cannot force you to remain if you no longer believe in the path we walk. But know this, Serana: the burden you take on is heavier than any armor. You may save lives, perhaps, but at what cost to yourself? The world is merciless to those who walk alone.”

She takes a deep breath, standing taller without her armor, as though the choice has lifted some invisible weight from her.

Serana, “I know the risks, my lord. And I know the price. But my conscience would haunt me far more than any danger if I chose the path of inaction. Perhaps the Order will survive longer without me. But if that survival comes at the cost of lives lost to the Coalition’s tyranny, then it is not a survival I can support.”

Lord Coake regards her for a moment, as though weighing her very soul in his gaze. Then, he inclines his head, a gesture of reluctant acceptance.

Lord Coake, “Then go with honor, Serana. Though you leave the title behind, you leave as a knight still. A knight bound not by the Order, but by your own code. I may not agree with your path, but I respect the conviction with which you choose it.”

Lady Serana bows, a silent acknowledgement, her heart heavy but resolute. She turns and begins to walk toward the exit, leaving the remnants of her armor scattered like memories on the stone floor. As she reaches the door, she hears his voice once more, quiet, almost a whisper.

Lord Coake, “Be safe. And may your actions bring justice, if not peace.”

Without looking back, Serana steps into the open air, feeling the cool wind on her face. With or without the Order, she knows she will continue the fight—not just for the hope that Lord Coake inspires and holds dear, but for the lives of those who need more than hope alone.

---

The rain falls in icy sheets, soaking the streets in a dull gray that muffles sound and blurs the lights of the distant city. Lady Serana stands on the cobbled street, her breath a faint mist in the frigid air as she stood outside the hall of the Cyber-Knights.

She shivers slightly, her clothing damp and offering little warmth. Her eyes narrow as she watches the shadows across the street, where four figures stand clustered beneath the awning of a building.

The Four Mystic Knights, dressed in civilan garb, stand unassuming yet poised, each of them concealed by long, worn cloaks and battered hats. Serana half-believes they are mercenaries, though something about them suggests a unity beyond mere employment—a sense of purpose that feels strangely familiar, if unspoken. Their actions have always aligned with her goals, and so she has refrained from questioning them too deeply.

One of them, Knight Four, a tall, quiet man with a rugged jawline and keen eyes—steps forward as she approaches. Without a word, he removes his cloak and drapes it over her shoulders. The fabric is heavy and dry, carrying the faint scent of leather and steel, and it shields her from the cold with a warmth that feels unexpectedly comforting.

Knight Four, (voice low, almost smooth) “Can’t have you freezing out here, Lady Serana.”

She nods in silent thanks, drawing the cloak closer as Knight Two strides forward and opens the door of their waiting vehicle, a sturdy transport, dark and nondescript. He gestures for her to enter, his gloved hand steady, almost formal in its movement.

Knight Two (with a respectful nod)

Inside, Knight One, the leader of their company, waits. He regards her with a calm, assessing gaze as she steps into the warmth of the vehicle, followed closely by Knight Two and Knight Four. They settle into their places, moving with the ease of men who know their roles well. Outside, Knight Three lingers briefly, scanning the rainy streets with watchful eyes, then slips into the driver’s seat, sparing only a brief glance at her in the rearview mirror before starting the engine.

The vehicle pulls away smoothly, the lights of the city fading into the misty distance as they drive in silence through the cold, rain-soaked streets. Serana feels a mixture of gratitude and strange kinship with these men—mercenaries by appearance, yet there is a focused discipline to them that seems to defy their rough exteriors.

The vehicle finally pulls up in front of a large building—their destination. An outfitter’s shop, its purpose marked only by a small iron plaque on the door. As they step inside, the warmth of the interior washes over them, a welcome relief from the chill outside. The air smells of polished leather, oiled metal, and faint wood smoke, and racks of weapons, armor, and gear line the walls, glinting faintly under low lighting.

Serana follows them to the back of the shop, where a wall-sized mirror stands against the far wall, its polished steel reflecting the space. One by one, they help her select the items she’ll need: practical, durable clothing, boots lined for warmth, armor fitted precisely to her frame, and a set of weapons that feel balanced and reassuring in her hands.

When she is finally dressed, Serana steps back, glancing up at the mirror to see herself—fitted with the tools of her new path, yet looking somehow different, as if the reflection were of someone both familiar and transformed.

Behind her, the Mystic Knights stand in a silent line, their expressions unreadable, each man quietly appraising the figure she has become. They offer no words of praise or encouragement, yet their presence is one of quiet approval and camaraderie. Knight One steps forward, handing a small pouch to the outfitter, who nods respectfully and marks the transaction complete.

As the men turn to leave, Serana catches Knight Four’s eye in the mirror. He offers her a nod—small, almost imperceptible, yet charged with a mutual understanding.

Knight One (voice low, steady) “We believe in action. That’s why we’re here.”

She meets his gaze, her eyes filled with a newfound hope. With a final glance at her reflection, she turns to follow the Mystic Knights, her cloak sweeping behind her as they step back into the rain-soaked night.

As Lady Serana steps out of the outfitter's shop, flanked by the Four Mystic Knights, the rain begins to slow, the relentless downpour easing into a gentle drizzle. She pulls the cloak closer around her shoulders, savoring the newfound warmth of her armor beneath it, each piece carefully chosen, perfectly fitted.

Then, as if nature itself were bearing witness to her choice, the clouds overhead begin to shift. A small break appears, a parting of the heavy gray, and a single, golden ray of sunlight pierces through, illuminating her like a spotlight. The soft beam settles on her figure, casting her shadow long against the wet cobblestones and surrounding her in a gentle glow. The light catches on the polished edges of her armor and the faint droplets on her cloak, making her seem almost otherworldly, as if she were a vision of hope itself, standing against the darkness.

She stops, lifting her face to the sky, feeling the warmth of the sunlight spill over her. For the first time in hours, she allows herself to smile, a small, genuine expression of peace. In the distance, as the rain softens, a vibrant rainbow begins to arc across the sky, its colors faint at first, then growing brighter, each hue standing boldly against the gray backdrop.

The Mystic Knights, standing quietly beside her, exchange glances. Knight Four tilts his head slightly, a faint smile of his own crossing his face. There’s a quiet awe among them, though none speak; they simply stand in shared silence, witnessing the moment with her.

Serana feels a surge of affirmation—a reminder that, there is still beauty, still light that can emerge from the darkness. The rainbow stretches wide and enduring, like a bridge connecting two worlds, two paths. And as she stands in that spotlight of warmth and color, she knows that she has chosen hers.

[darthauthor]

Location: Lazlo


The rain has tapered off to a soft drizzle as Lady Serana and Knight One walk side by side, the quiet patter on the cobblestones the only sound between them. They have left the outfitter's shop and now stroll along the winding streets, the rest of the Mystic Knights a few paces behind, giving them privacy.

After a moment, Knight One turns to her, his brow slightly furrowed, a look of curiosity in his eyes.

Knight One (voice calm, inquisitive) “Serana, I’ve always wondered… How does the Order of the Cyber-Knights keep its operations funded? An order of that size, with knights traveling, maintaining equipment, supporting their mission to fight the vampire kingdoms, the demons of Calgory, it must have significant expenses.”

Serana considers his question thoughtfully, a faint smile touching her lips as she glances up at him.

Serana (her tone measured, reflective) “It’s a question most people ask sooner or later. There’s no simple answer, but the truth is, the Order funds itself through a blend of tradition, reputation, and, to some extent, trust.”

Knight One nods, his interest clearly piqued, and she continues, choosing her words with care.

Serana, “Our support comes in various forms. In the field, however, it is donations. Generous patrons, grateful villagers with a bowl of food, even entire communities will contribute what they can to aid us. We don’t demand payment for our protection or assistance, but people offer freely, even when they have little more than they need. Almost never money. Sometimes supplies, horses, or food for the road. Our reputation as defenders, as protectors, has fostered a goodwill that, in many cases, sustains us.”

Knight One (thoughtful) “So the Order relies on the goodwill of the people?”

Serana, “In part, yes. But there’s more. The Order has set up a kind of financial network, similar to the banking systems of the old world, for safekeeping people’s earnings and valuables. Villagers, merchants, travelers—they entrust their funds to the Order’s vaults in exchange for a guarantee that they can retrieve it when needed, from any outpost connected to our network.”

Knight One raises an eyebrow, a look of mild surprise passing over his face.

Knight One, “A banking network… like a credit system?”

Serana (nodding) “We issue what we call ‘bills of exchange.’ These can be redeemed at any Cyber-Knight outpost, sparing people from carrying valuables across dangerous lands. The Order’s trustworthiness allows these bills to serve as a kind of currency in themselves, and it’s proven invaluable to many of the poor. People are willing to pay a small fee for the security it provides, and it’s enough to keep our operation funded.”

Knight One considers this, the rain-slicked streets reflecting faint lights as they walk, the city quiet in the aftermath of the storm.

Knight One (after a moment) “It’s an unusual model. So the Order is a force for good—and a bank?”

Serana (smiling, her tone carrying a hint of irony) “More or less. It’s a delicate balance, and not without its complications. But it allows us to avoid obligations or associations with governments. The funds are used solely to support our work, our outposts, and to ensure we have the resources we need to help those who can’t help themselves.”

Knight One pauses, his gaze thoughtful as he looks ahead.

Knight One, “So, in a way, the people invest in their own safety, their own future, through you. It’s… clever. Lord Coake has established a foundation for the Order that goes beyond what’s visible—a trust network that binds people to you even without loyalty to a state or nation.”

Serana nods, the faint smile lingering as she realizes he understands more than most.

Serana, “Yes. That’s his vision, at least. To be a force that people can depend on, not because we demand loyalty or taxes, but because they choose to trust us. The Order is not perfect, but it exists to give people hope—and to protect that hope. It’s Lord Coake’s belief that this model keeps us honorable, impartial… nuetral.”

Knight One glances at her, his expression unreadable, though a hint of admiration flickers in his eyes.

Knight One, “And yet you’ve chosen to step outside that neutrality. You’ve left that security and financial backing behind. That takes guts.”

Serana meets his gaze, her eyes steady.

Lady Serana, “I still believe in the Order’s mission, in Coake’s vision. But there are times when we have to do more than inspire hope. Sometimes, we have to act.”

They walk in silence for a moment longer, each lost in their thoughts. The quiet, cold night feels less oppressive now, as if the storm has cleared more than just the sky. And as they continue down the rain-washed streets, Knight One’s expression softens, a hint of understanding and respect bridging the space between them.

---

Location: Lazlo. The Atlantean Quarter. Aurelous Clan Enclave


The streets of the Atlantean Quarter are a stark contrast to the rest of the city, lit with soft amber lanterns and lined with intricately carved stone columns. Ancient Atlantean symbols, etched deep into the stonework, glow faintly in the evening light, casting an aura of mystery and age. Lady Serana walks alongside the Mystic Knights, their quiet, confident presence beside her a reassurance as they guide her into the heart of the Aurelous Clan’s enclave. The air is filled with the faint scent of incense and herbs, mingling with the crisp night breeze.

As they pass the guarded entrance to the enclave, the Mystic Knights greet the Atlantean sentries in a fluid, melodic language she recognizes as Ancient Greek—but to the Atlanteans, it is simply their native tongue.

Their words, spoken with respect and familiarity, bring approving nods from the guards, who open the tall stone doors, allowing them to pass. It’s clear to Serana that the Mystic Knights are known here—respected even. Their association with the Aurelous Clan bolsters their reputation, one that suggests a deeper alliance and shared trust.

The inner courtyard is breathtaking. Vines climb stone pillars, blooming with white and lavender flowers under the moonlight. In the center stands a Healing Pyramid, its sleek, marble sides catching the starlight and casting faint reflections over the courtyard. Serana has heard stories of these pyramids, said to amplify healing. Rumor has it they draw power from the stars and earth alike, a marvel crafted by the Aurelous Clan. She can feel the subtle energy in the air—a soothing, rhythmic pulse that fills her with a strange sense of calm and vitality.

A tall Atlantean steps forward to greet them. His features are sharp, noble, with eyes that seem to hold millennia of wisdom. He wears a robe of midnight blue, embroidered with silver patterns depicting ancient symbols of life and healing. The Mystic Knights introduce him as Theron, the liaison of the Aurelous Clan.

Theron (his voice warm, his accent faintly melodic) “Welcome. You walk among friends here. Our friends (the Mystic Knights) have spoken highly of you.”

Serana inclines her head respectfully, feeling a deep appreciation for the hospitality.

Serana, “Thank you, Theron. I am honored to be welcomed into your home. I have heard of the Aurelous Clan’s healing arts—your people are renowned for their skill and wisdom.”

Theron nods, a faint smile touching his lips.

Theron, “Our gifts are but one aspect of who we are, as their (motioning to the Mystic Knights) strength is only one part of their being. Tonight, we welcome you as family, one who shares our values.” (gesturing toward a hall adorned with symbols of the Atlantean clans) “Come, let us share a meal together.”

They follow him into the great hall, where a long stone table is laid with plates of fruits, bread, roasted vegetables, and a selection of unfamiliar but enticing dishes. The food, seasoned with fragrant herbs, is served on elegantly carved wooden platters. They take their seats around the table, and Serana is placed between Knight One and Theron, a place of honor among her new allies.

As they begin the meal, Theron speaks with the Mystic Knights in the Atlantean tongue, their conversation flowing easily. Serana watches, observing the ease with which they converse, feeling as though she has been invited into something between friends. Knight One occasionally translates for her, offering brief explanations of a word or phrase.

As the meal progresses, Theron turns his attention to Serana, his gaze curious yet kind.

Theron, “Tell me, Lady Serana, of your journey. They have mentioned your courage, but we would know of the path that has brought you to us.”

Serana pauses, gathering her thoughts as the others listen in quiet respect.

Serana, “I have walked a path of service, much like your own people. My former order, the Cyber-Knights, taught me to defend the innocent, to bring hope to those who suffer. But… I found that hope alone was not enough. People need more than a symbol; they need real action. And so, I left, seeking a way to act without hesitation or restraint, even if it meant leaving behind the title of Cyber-Knight.”

Theron nods thoughtfully, his gaze sharpening as he considers her words.

Theron, “It takes strength to step away from one path one is on when one believes they need to walk another. In many ways, it is a burden to see beyond tradition.” (glancing at the Mystic Knights) “These men, too, have chosen a path that others… might not understand.”

The meal continues with stories exchanged between the Mystic Knights and the Atlanteans—tales of battles fought and lives saved, of the Healing Pyramids and their effects, of rituals and oaths taken and honored. The conversation is warm and as the meal draws to a close, Theron rises, raising a hand in blessing over them.

Theron, “Lady Serana, know that the Aurelous Clan considers you an ally. If you ever need healing, counsel, or refuge, our doors are open. And to you, friends—you continue to bring back our people from slavery. May you all walk in strength.”

Serana stands, bowing her head in gratitude, her heart full. She feels as if she has gained more than mere mercenary allies.

---

The fire crackles in the quiet of the night, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls of the courtyard. The Mystic Knights and Serana sit together around the fire, their faces illuminated in warm light, their voices low, speaking in quiet tones about the future. The night has a sacred quality to it, something timeless, a moment suspended between past and future.

As the conversation pauses, Knight One shifts his gaze to Serana, a thoughtful glint in his eye. After a moment’s silence, he leans forward, his voice carrying a quiet solemnity.

Knight One, “Lady Serana, tonight, we’d like to offer you an invitation—an honor, really.” (He gestures to the others, who pull back their sleeves, each revealing a tattoo on the inside of their forearm. It is a striking heart with a stake through it.

She studies the tattoo, its bold lines, but the symbol’s meaning is clearly etched in each line. It’s a mark of commitment.

Knight One, “This tattoo—it’s more than ink on skin. It’s a rite of passage, a mark that binds us as brothers.” (He pauses, meeting her gaze) “Usually, to earn it, you must serve with us for a long time and perform an act of dedication to our unit. But tonight, we offer it to you without waiting. The Atlanteans have spoken highly of you, and your actions speak louder than words ever could.”

Serana feels the weight of his words, the praise in his tone. She looks at each of the men in turn, seeing in their eyes a desire for her to join them.

Serana (her voice soft, humbled) “I… I am honored, truly. To be invited into this initiation with you all is more than I could have hoped for.”

Knight One nods, a glimmer of approval in his eyes, and gestures to an Atlantean elder, along with Theron, has joined them for this sacred moment. The tattoo artist steps forward, carrying a small, polished wooden case. Inside, she sees the tools for the tattoo—needles, inks mixed from rare herbs and minerals, shimmering faintly in the firelight.

Theron (his voice deep, ceremonial) “This is an Atlantean ink, infused with elements... It is our gift to you, Lady Serana. May this mark stand as a reminder of the path you have chosen, and of the allies you now have.”

Serana (having been warmed of the pain she turns on her psionic power of Deaden Pain on herself) holds out her arm, baring her forearm as Theron begins the process. The first poke of the needle stings, a sharp but grounding sensation. The ink flows, dark and steady, each line forming a pattern. She feels the rhythm of it, the ritual of the ink sinking into her skin, the slow and deliberate creation of something permanent.

Around her, the Mystic Knights watch in silence, their faces a mixture of pride and solemnity. They have endured this ceremony, yet each initiation is its own sacred moment, a rebirth into their company, a renewal of the bond that ties them.

When the artist finishes, he steps back, and Serana lifts her arm to see the fresh tattoo glistening against her skin. An armored knight, it feels deeply personal—a mark of her own journey.

Knight One reaches out, clasping her shoulder with a firm, reassuring grip.

Knight One (his voice steady, warm) “Welcome to our company, Serana. You’re one of us now—not just by word, but by bond, by mark. Wherever you go, whatever battles you face, you’re never alone.”

The other Mystic Knights reach out, one by one, offering quiet words of welcome and camaraderie, each man acknowledging her not as an outsider but as a sister. Serana’s heart swells, the warmth of belonging filling her chest. She has left behind her former order, her title, her old life, but now she has a new one.

Together, they retire to the recovery chamber of the pyramid to restore themselves. And in the heart of the pyramid, Serana truly feels she has found her path, her people, and her purpose.

---

Awakening and the Power of the Tattoo

Serana blinks, her vision blurry as she emerges from a deep, dream-laden sleep. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of the morning filtering in through a narrow window. She takes a moment to orient herself, surprised by the heavy, aching sensation that lingers in her muscles. Her whole body feels as though she has just come from battle, every movement stiff and tender.

A sharp, throbbing pulse draws her attention to her forearm, and she sits up, gingerly touching the spot where her new tattoo was inked. The outline of the armored knight etched into her skin is vivid, the lines dark and precise, yet it feels almost alive, as though some energy is stirring just below the surface.

As she gets to her feet, her mind races, piecing together the events from the ceremony with the Mystic Knights and the Aurelous Clan. She realizes with a start that she has been asleep for days. Her body, it seems, has been recovering, absorbing what the tattoo has instilled in her.

After a careful stretch, she makes her way to the washroom, filling the basin with warm water and gently bathing, letting the heat ease her sore muscles. The ache in her forearm is sharper here, as though the ink itself is laced with something potent, something that resonates within her. She studies the tattoo in the water’s reflection—an armored knight, bold and striking, symbolizing not just her commitment but a power yet untapped.

Clean and feeling more grounded, she dresses and heads to the dining area, where the Mystic Knights await, seated around a modest spread of food. Knight Four looks up as she approaches, his face brightening with a warm smile.

Knight Four, (chuckling) “Good to see you finally up. We were starting to think you’d sleep right through the week.”

Serana smiles, taking a seat across from him, reaching for a piece of bread, still feeling a bit off-balance.

Lady Serana, “I feel like I’ve been through a siege. And this tattoo…” (she glances down at her arm, rubbing it lightly) “it’s like it’s… alive somehow.”

Knight Four nods, his expression turning serious, as he leans forward, his voice carrying an edge.

Knight Four, “The tattoo you received isn’t just art. It’s bound with Atlantean magic, imbued with a gift that few are granted. That armored knight you bear—it's more than ink. When you’ve learned to activate it, it’ll grant you a suit of mystical armor, strong enough to withstand energy rifle fire. It lasts for hours, and once it’s worn off, you can do it again; when your energy has returned.”

Serana blinks, looking at her tattoo. She touches the knight inked into her skin, feeling beneath her fingertips.

Serana, “So… this isn’t just a mark of initiation?”

Knight Four, “Not by a long shot.” (His voice drops, his gaze serious but respectful) “It’s an honor and a tool. You’ll need to practice with it, learn how to activate it by touch. It’s not something to use lightly. But the tattoo has strengthened you, permanently. You’ll find that you’re… tougher. Physically. You’ll be able to take more damage than most, regardless of whether you activate the armor.”

Serana absorbs his words in silence, her fingers still tracing the lines of the knight. She feels a surge of gratitude.

Serana, (softly) “Thank you. This is… more than I ever expected.”

Knight Four, (smiling) “It’s not just us. The Aurelous Clan knows of your deeds, your reputation. They are a friend to many D-Bees who speak well of you. They liked your interview on the news. They also greatly respect Cyber-Knights. They knew this tattoo would suit you—quite literally.” (He chuckles) “It is what the Atlanteans do when one of their own becomes a Cyber-Knight.”

Serana nods, feeling a sense of pride swell within her. She has been entrusted not just with a symbol of belonging, but with power.

The rest of the meal passes in camaraderie, the Mystic Knights occasionally sharing tales of their first times using their own tattoos, the mistakes and small triumphs that came with learning their powers. And as they talk, Serana’s mind churns with the possibilities. She has left behind the title of Cyber-Knight, but in this new chapter, maybe she has something better.

After breakfast, she rises, feeling the ache in her arm anew, but with a newfound determination.

Serana, (looking down at her tattoo, a faint smile on her lips) “Well, I suppose it’s time I learn what this armor can really do.”

---

Serana stands in a secluded clearing, sunlight filtering down through tall trees that surround them in a quiet canopy. Across from her stands Sir Darius, a towering Atlantean Cyber-Knight with the bearing of a warrior forged in countless battles. His skin bears faint marks of Atlantean lineage, tattoos that carry the weight of his culture’s ancient history. His gaze is steady, both fierce and wise, as he looks at Serana with the focused scrutiny of a mentor evaluating a promising but untested student.

Sir Darius gestures to her forearm, where the tattoo of an armored knight still tingles faintly on her skin.

Sir Darius, (his voice calm, resonant) “Your tattoo holds power, Serana, power that will serve you well if you learn to wield it. The Atlanteans have perfected these marks over generations to channel protection. For our people, the tattoo is a calling, a reminder of what we stand for.”

Serana nods, knowing it’s more than just a tattoo—it’s a connection their ancient traditions. Darius steps closer, rolling up his own sleeve to reveal a tattoo of an armored knight.

Sir Darius, (with a faint smile) “This symbol is our armor, and it doesn’t rely on any machinery to do its work. Unlike the traditional Cyber-Knights, Atlanteans take pride in refusing cybernetics. We find strength in the ancient arts, in the knowledge and power embedded in our very bodies, unaltered.”

He looks at her thoughtfully, the smile fading slightly.

Sir Darius, “You, of course, have undergone the Cyber-Knights’ secret Blood Oath, ”pacto de sangre” a ritual of shared blood and nanobots. I know well what it entails: a master sharing not only their spirit but an indelible part of themselves with their apprentice. When the conditions are right, those nanobots transform, weaving you a second skin of armor that is unmatched in strength and flexibility; enhancing your resilience, your very biology.”

Serana studies his face, sensing the tinge of wistfulness in his voice. She hadn’t thought much before about the difference this would make, but hearing it from someone outside her order brings new clarity.

Lady Serana, (quietly, respectfully) “You know the ritual well, Sir Darius, though I can sense that your people hold a different tradition.”

Sir Darius, (nodding) “We Atlanteans do not partake. It’s a cultural bias, perhaps, but to us, the idea of nanotechnology within our bodies conflicts with our devotion to the natural, and the magical. My people believe in letting magic and spirit do what machines cannot. And while I can call on this tattoo to form armor,” (he taps his tattoo, the faint shimmer pulsing in response,) “I will never know what it is like to be bonded with armor that’s woven from within, with nanobots as part of my very body.”

Serana lets his words settle, realizing the divide between their paths—the biological and technological blend within her, and the purely magical tradition he embodies. Yet she senses no resentment, only understanding, and perhaps a touch of curiosity.

Sir Darius, (his tone instructional) “Your nanobots do more than protect you physically. They make your body efficient—remarkably so. Have you noticed how your appetite has changed since the Blood Oath?”

Serana, (thoughtfully) “I have… I remember being hungrier. Now I am really only hungry when my armor is in need of repair.”

Sir Darius nods, an approving glint in his eyes.

Sir Darius, “Those nanobots are masterfully efficient at extracting every possible nutrient. They are in your guts. They take what they need and you don’t, and rebuild themselves; your second skin with it. They ensure that even in the most hostile conditions, your body can thrive.”

He steps back slightly, his gaze sharp as he watches her absorb this new information.

Sir Darius, “Your body is tougher than most, yet you must still honor its limits. The nanobots will protect you, yes, but they also respond to your actions and choices. They’re a part of you, just as this tattoo is a part of me. Learn to understand the relationship between the armor within and the armor you summon from the tattoo. Respect them both.”

She nods, feeling a new understand settles over her.

Sir Darius, (his tone softening) “You’re already stronger than most, but your greatest strength will come from understanding these layers within yourself. Before, your body had a union of biology and technology. Now it has one with magic as well.” He extends his arm, the tattoo of the knight on his forearm pulsing gently. “Now, watch closely.”

Serana’s gaze follows his movements as he places his hand over the tattoo, closing his eyes briefly in concentration. A soft, almost imperceptible aura fills the air, and then the tattoo begins to glow, brightening as the magic flows outward. In moments, shimmering armor materializes around him, until he stands clad in a faint suit with a soft, almost otherworldly glow.

Sir Darius, (his voice steady, calm) “This is the power that lies in your tattoo. It will become an extension of you, protecting not only your body. With time and lots of practice, you will learn to summon it with just a thought.”

She watches, captivated by the transformation, feeling the resonance of the tattoo on her own arm pulsing in response, as though it, too, yearns to be activated, to serve. Darius looks back at her, his eyes reflecting both pride and encouragement.

Sir Darius, “When you’re ready, I’ll guide you. This is only the beginning.”

Serana nods, her hand pressing lightly over her own tattoo, feeling the potential within it, as if a new door has opened.

[darthauthor]

Location: Somewhere in CS Iowa


The sun was just beginning to cast a warm, golden light over the fields as Jacob, the farmer, walked out to the barn. His oldest son, Evan, was already there, setting up the first feeding for the pigs, who grunted and snuffled eagerly at the sound of their footsteps. The day was young, and the whole farm seemed to move with quiet activity.

Outside the barn, Evan’s stepsister, Mara, stood by the apiary, chatting softly with Nara, one of the D-Bees who handled the beekeeping. Nara’s skin had a soft green hue, her movements gentle as she checked the hives with practiced care. Around her hovered a few bees, returning from early morning flights, and the faint scent of honey mixed with the earthy smell of the barnyard. Nara and the other D-Bees would spend most of the day working here, crafting soaps and candles that the family sold in town alongside the farm’s produce.

Jacob smiled at Mara and Nara as he passed, tipping his hat. “Looking good, Nara. Mara, check the soybeans after breakfast, will you?”

“Got it,” Mara called back, turning to smile at him, the sunlight catching the green undertone in Nara’s skin as they worked side by side.

Inside the barn, Evan was elbow-deep in pig feed, carefully filling the troughs while the pigs jostled each other for position. “Dad, these pigs are getting big,” Evan said with a grin, pride clear in his voice. “Must be that new corn we put in last week.”

Jacob nodded, running a hand over his short-cropped beard. “Coalition seeds are something, that’s for sure. Best yield we’ve seen yet. Too bad we can’t replant ’em ourselves,” he added with a touch of frustration. Every year they had to rely on the Coalition for seed, fertilizer, and pesticide, but the results were undeniable—the crops grew quickly, strong and resistant to pests and drought.

They finished feeding the pigs, then headed to the small citrus orchard nearby where the younger kids, Anna and Joel, were playing in the shade of the trees. Joel was busy poking a stick into a pile of dirt, while Anna had wrapped her arms around one of the farm dogs, her small face pressed into its fur.

Jacob’s wife, Sarah, emerged from the farmhouse, waving them all in for breakfast. Her smile was warm, her blond hair pulled back into a braid, and her daughter Mara ran up to join them, wiping her hands on a cloth. They gathered around the worn wooden table inside, filling plates with eggs, bacon, and toast. The air was filled with the smell of fresh coffee, honey-sweetened from the farm’s own hives.

“Did you hear?” Sarah asked, looking at her husband. “In town yesterday, they said the Coalition soldiers found a man with a Naruni thing. Took it from him, gave him a beating, too.” Her tone was cautious, as it often was when speaking of the Coalition, a blend of respect and unease.

Jacob shook his head, his expression hardening. “Naruni,” he muttered. “Good thing they took it. We don’t need that trouble here. Some people never learn. Like that one guy with the ban book, last year.”


Their quiet breakfast continued, the clink of cutlery against ceramic filling the silence between bites. The adults sipped their coffee, gazes drifting to the barn where the D-Bees moved about with practiced precision. The D-Bees’ skin was an array of green and purple hues, each shade bright and bold under the morning sun. Against the sprawling backdrop of golden wheat fields and the wide, cloudless sky, they seemed almost otherworldly, like vivid brushstrokes against a pastoral painting.

These beings had become an integral part of the farm’s rhythm. They knew every creak and groove of the old barn, every stubborn hitch in the machinery, and every spot in the fields where the earth held just the right moisture. Their movements were fluid, as though they were one with the very soil and wood, and their alien appearance belied an understanding of the land that even the oldest farmers in the county respected.

Yet, the family watched with subtle wariness. The Coalition had tightened its hold on the region recently, its skelebots a constant presence on the nearby roads. They came unannounced, their armored vehicles rumbling down dusty paths, eyes cold and fingers never far from the triggers of their weapons. For the family, the Coalition’s scrutiny meant that interactions with the D-Bees had to be careful. Any sign of warmth could be mistaken for sympathy, or worse, defiance against the Coalition.

The youngest of the family, barely old enough to understand, stared openly at the D-Bees with curiosity rather than fear. To her, they were magical, like the strange creatures in bedtime stories. She didn’t see them as “D-Bees” or “aliens” but as part of her home, no different than the rust-colored barn or the whispering rows of corn. Her gaze lingered on one of them, a tall figure with deep purple skin flecked with hints of blue, who noticed her watching and gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.

The adults noticed and exchanged uneasy glances. Yet, there was an unspoken agreement at that breakfast table: the D-Bees were part of their lives, their family in a sense, even if they dared not say it aloud.


After breakfast, Evan slung his worn leather satchel over one shoulder, a familiar weight filled with tools, and gestured to Jacob to follow. The two moved toward the barley fields, which stretched out like a pale green sea, the early morning dew still clinging to the stalks. As they walked, they spoke little, each focused on the tasks that lay ahead. The barley needed careful tending this time of year, and they worked in silent synchrony, each gesture a practiced part of the daily ritual that bound them to the land.

Meanwhile, Mara gathered the younger children and led them toward the sprawling squash patch at the edge of the orchard. The little ones skipped and chattered as they went, their voices carrying over the quiet hum of the farm. She watched them, smiling as they eagerly darted between the wide, waxy leaves, searching for the hidden treasures of pale green and golden squash nestled beneath. This was her time to teach them the patience and attentiveness that the land required, her hands guiding theirs as they carefully examined each vine and leaf, ensuring no pests or blight marred the burgeoning crop.

Closer to the barn, Nara and a few other D-Bees had begun their work near the apiary. The air around them was filled with the soft buzz of bees returning from their early forage among the wildflowers and fruit trees. With delicate, deliberate motions, the D-Bees tended to their craft—melting beeswax over a small, makeshift stove, dipping wicks with steady hands, and blending lavender and citrus oils into fresh batches of soap. Their green and purple fingers moved with a practiced grace, each motion precise, as if part of a carefully rehearsed dance. They shared quiet conversations in their lilting language, soft laughs interspersed with nods and glances that spoke of shared understanding.

Though they were officially laborers, the D-Bees had carved out a space on the farm that went beyond their assigned duties. They’d built a small structure near the apiary, a place where they stored their tools and kept supplies for their crafts. Here, they gathered after the day’s work, exchanging stories of their distant worlds or weaving ornaments from wild vines and colorful stones they found near the river. They sold these small crafts—beeswax candles molded into intricate floral shapes, soaps wrapped in muslin, and woven bracelets—at the local market on Sundays. Each piece carried a bit of their spirit, a testament to their presence on the farm, and the townsfolk had come to recognize and cherish the unique beauty of their handiwork.

Over time, the D-Bees had become more than workers on the land. They were part of its pulse, of its quiet, enduring life. The children would often run to them with questions about their crafts or listen in awe as they described strange moons and suns in far-off skies. Even the family, bound by the constraints of the Coalition’s watchful eye, found moments of kinship with them—a shared smile, a helping hand, a silent understanding beneath the surface.

Here, near the hives where bees busied themselves in their endless work, the D-Bees had woven themselves into the farm’s fabric, as irreplaceable as the crops and as steadfast as the trees that bordered the fields. They had created, in this small, secluded corner of the world.

As they worked through the morning, Jacob couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in what they’d built together, even with the Coalition watching over them. The farm was a delicate balance—dependent on the Coalition for its success, but thriving under the steady hands of his family and the D-Bees alike. The Coalition provided reliable law enforcement and ensured their safety.

When the sun was high overhead, casting its light over the barley fields, Jacob paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, looking out over the land. The crops were strong and abundant, the pigs healthy, and his children worked beside him. Despite the limitations imposed by the Coalition’s control over their seeds and supplies, Jacob was grateful. Life was stable here, safe.

And as long as he kept his farm running, kept his head down, and kept using the Coalition’s seed, that safety would endure.

---

Evan sat on the back porch steps, absently flicking pebbles toward the edge of the barnyard as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the fields. The smell of freshly turned earth, animal feed, and the faint citrusy undertone from the orchard filled the air, grounding him in the familiarity of home. He was on leave from the Coalition military, but after weeks of grueling training and even a few skirmishes, this quiet farm life felt almost foreign to him now.

Hearing the soft patter of footsteps behind him, he turned to see his stepmom, Sarah, crossing the yard with a warm smile. She’d always had a calming effect on him, and her presence felt like a balm after his long months away.

“Mind some company?” she asked, brushing back a stray lock of her brown hair.

Evan gave her a slight smile and shifted to make room for her. “Not at all. Just… taking it all in.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the light shift over the fields. Evan noticed how strong he felt, almost restless, compared to his last time at home. The military training had added muscle to his frame, and Sarah couldn’t help but notice just how much he’d grown. Even his hands, once rough from farm work, now held a new tension, as if they’d been hardened further by a different kind of labor.

“You’ve really grown, Evan,” she said with a mix of admiration and maternal pride. “Can’t believe how big and strong you’ve gotten.” She gave his arm a light squeeze, playfully amazed at the solidness of his bicep. Evan blushed, embarrassed but pleased by her approval.

He shrugged, smiling shyly. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re lifting gear all day. Nothing like tossing hay bales, though.” His voice dropped, a hint of sadness edging in.

His step-mom tilted her head, her blue eyes softening as she sensed something weighing on him. “How’s the military been treating you? You… holding up okay?”

Evan hesitated, his gaze fixed on a spot in the distance. “It’s fine,” he said slowly, then shook his head. “Actually, I don’t know. This whole war with Tolkeen… it’s confusing. I get why we’re fighting… but some of the things we’re asked to do… about D-Bees…” He trailed off, unsure of how to express the doubt that had been gnawing at him.

“You’re not sure about it?” Sarah asked gently.

Evan nodded. “I’ve always known what the Coalition expects of me, but…” He paused, his jaw clenching slightly. “Seeing Dog Boys around, I get it—they’re loyal, they’re part of the squad. But the D-Bees… they’re different, but it’s like we’re not even supposed to see them as… people.” He let out a breath, his brows furrowed. “It feels… wrong sometimes.”

Sarah reached out, resting a hand on his arm. “Evan, it’s okay to question things. You know, that’s why we have our own minds, our own thoughts. And maybe… maybe there’s a reason you feel this way. It doesn’t make you any less loyal. It just makes you human.”

He glanced over at her, relief and gratitude in his eyes. “Thanks, mom. It’s hard to talk to Dad about this stuff. He wouldn’t understand. But you… you’re different.”

She gave him a soft smile, a warmth in her eyes that felt like acceptance. “Well, I’m here anytime you need to talk,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You’ve got a good heart, Evan. Don’t ever lose that.”

They sat there, watching the sun dip below the horizon, sharing a quiet moment. For Evan, it was a reminder of the home he missed—a connection to something simpler, more honest than the war. As he looked out over the fields, he found himself hoping that when his leave ended, he could carry this sense of clarity back with him. He didn’t know what lay ahead, but at least he knew there was someone here who understood.

The room was lit with the faint glow of the moon casting a cool light through the window, and Jacob lay on his back, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as his mind churned with thoughts of his son, Evan. Beside him, Sarah turned onto her side, her blue eyes watching him in the darkness, sensing that something was weighing on him.

“Jacob,” she whispered, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “What’s on your mind?”

He sighed, turning his head slightly toward her, a rough, tired smile playing on his lips. “It’s Evan. Seeing him here… he reminds me of how much better things are now. He’s grown so strong. I look at him, and I can’t help but think about where we came from.”

Sarah listened, her fingers tracing gentle circles over his shoulder. She knew bits and pieces of Jacob’s past, but there were parts he rarely spoke of, memories he kept locked away.

“It wasn’t always like this for us,” he continued, his voice low and filled with a quiet resolve. “Back before the Coalition, when I was on my own… we had nothing. Just ran, hid, tried to survive. And no matter where we went, there was always something, some monster or mage or D-Bee out there waiting to eat or enslave us. You know… that’s what took them.” His voice caught, a rare crack in his typically stoic demeanor.

“Your first wife… and your daughter,” Sarah said softly, her heart aching for him. She knew this pain lingered in him, though he rarely let it show.

Jacob nodded, his jaw tight. “They were killed by things out there. Things I had no way to fight. I didn’t have powers, didn’t have magic, couldn’t read a spell even if I wanted to. Just a man with nothing but my own two hands and a son to protect.” He glanced at her, the shadow of his old life in his eyes. “It was no life at all. Until we made it into Coalition territory. This… the farm, the pigs, the work we have here—it’s our life. And I’m grateful for it every day.”

Sarah squeezed his hand. “You’ve built something good here, Jacob. You’ve given us all a good life.”

Jacob’s face softened as he looked at her. “That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s the Coalition that gave us this life. Gave me a place to work, protected us. D-Bee labor to keep things running. A house to come back to at night, food on the table, safety for you and the kids.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s the best we’ve ever had.”

They lay in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night outside. Jacob’s gaze grew distant again, his thoughts drifting to the Coalition’s fight against Tolkeen. “I know people talk about the war, the killing, and some even question it. But to me, it’s clear. They’re driving out, enslaving, killing… I know it sounds brutal, but they’re dealing with the same monsters I ran from. I tell myself every day that Evan is out there fighting the same ‘things’ that took my first family.”

“You think he’s safe?” Sarah asked, a slight quiver in her voice.

“He’s safer there than he would be without the Coalition taking care of us,” Jacob replied firmly. “Look, I know there are people out there who question it. But if the Coalition is a monster, it’s our monster, and at least a HUMAN one. And that’s better than serving a real monster like some dragon, or some mage.” His voice took on a hard edge. “This world was ours before they showed up, before those Rifts opened and things started crossing into OUR land. And now… well, they’ve got no more right to be here.”

Sarah nodded, understanding his conviction. “You really believe there’s no better option?”

Jacob said with finality. “I’ve been out there. I’ve seen what the wild holds, what those others bring. If the Coalition tells us how to live, then so be it. Better than scratching out a life only to have it taken away again.” His brow furrowed, as though searching for the right words to express the deep-seated belief that kept him loyal. “There was something I remember hearing as a kid… from some old book, or maybe someone just told it to me. Said something about how we humans… we were meant to have dominion over everything. Over the birds, the beasts, all the land. Maybe that’s why I feel the way I do about this war. If it’s US or them, then it’s gotta be us.”

Sarah watched him, feeling the weight of his words. She knew his life had been marked by loss and hardship, and she understood why he clung to the Coalition with such fierce loyalty. For Jacob, it was a promise of security he’d never had before, a way to stake his claim in a world he believed was rightfully human.

“So you believe it’s right to destroy them, even if… even if they’re just trying to live too?” she asked gently.

Jacob closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “If we don’t take a stand, then we risk losing everything we’ve built. They say Tolkeen serves dragons, mages, supernatural things who rule over people,” he spat the last word, his anger barely restrained. “How’s that right? If they were loyal to our race, they should want to live under human rule, they could’ve joined the Coalition, live in our world, a human world for humans by humans, under human laws, human order. Instead, they’re out there, raising armies, stirring up trouble.”

He sighed deeply, the tension leaving his shoulders slightly. “I don’t know, Sarah. But, I don’t need to know. I don’t care about voting or reading books or whatever else people think is freedom. This life… it’s better than any so-called freedom I ever had.” He reached for her hand again, his fingers lacing with hers. “All I know is, this is the best life I’ve ever had, the life I’ve got here in the CS. And so I want it to be for Evan, and you and the kids.”

She nodded, leaning over to kiss his cheek, the understanding between them a silent agreement. For Jacob, the Coalition wasn’t just a government; it was a way to hold onto everything he held dear in a world where nothing was guaranteed.

[darthauthor]

Location: Outside of Lazlo

The campfire crackles in the cool night air, casting a warm glow over the gathered Dog Boys as they sit in a loose circle around Serana. Their eyes, a mixture of curiosity and loyalty, watch her with a quiet intensity. Each one of them, battle-worn yet hopeful, listens closely, ears perked, as she holds a carefully folded piece of paper in her hands.

Serana takes a deep breath, looking around at their familiar faces. Tonight, she’s offering them a choice—a future of their own.

Serana, (her voice calm yet filled with purpose) “I’ve been thinking about us—about all of you. You’ve followed me.”

She pauses, meeting each of their gazes, her words hanging in the cool night air.

Serana, “I want to give you the choice to start over. A place where Dog Boys can live in peace, away from the wars and the politics of others. Saskatchewan, up in Canada, is a region with open land and few settlements. The Coalition doesn’t bother with it, and the monsters there are but it’s a place where you could build a life, a town.”

One of the Dog Boys, a gray-furred tracker named Mack, tilts his head, his tail giving a faint, thoughtful wag.

Mack, (hesitantly) “You mean… a place for Dog Boys?”

Serana nods, a soft smile touching her lips as she unfolds the piece of paper, revealing a rough sketch of a flag. In the center is a paw print, simple yet powerful, a symbol of unity and pride. She holds it up for them to see, gauging their reactions.

Serana, “Yes, a place of your own. A colony where you could live among your own. You would patrol the lands, yes, keeping monsters in check, but you’d be protecting each other. And perhaps, over time, you’d be joined by others—those who want the same life of peace.”

The Dog Boys exchange glances, murmuring quietly among themselves. Some are visibly moved, ears twitching, eyes shining with a hope they’ve never quite dared to feel. A younger Dog Boy, Scout, his coat a rich brindle, leans forward, his voice filled with excitement.

Scout, “So… we’d have a flag? Our own flag?”

Serana nods, holding up the paper a bit higher so they can see the paw print in full.

Serana, “A flag of your own, with a symbol that stands for what you’ve fought for and what you deserve. It’s only a sketch, but I wanted to hear from you. Do you think it represents what we’re building? A place for Dog Boys to live with dignity and freedom?”

Mack, (nodding slowly, his eyes thoughtful) “It’s simple, but… I like it. A paw print—no frills, no fancy symbols. Just who we are. It’s perfect.”

Another Dog Boy, Tank, a muscular soldier with a scar across his left eye, leans back, his gaze steady.

Tank, “We’d be starting from scratch. Clearing the land, building homes, making it a place fit for our kind. We’d be in charge of protecting the region, setting the rules.” (He pauses, looking at Serana with a mixture of loyalty and determination) “But we’d have your backing, right? You wouldn’t just leave us to fend for ourselves?”

Serana reaches over, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.

Serana, “I will never abandon you. I’ll be there to help you settle, to build, to train. And I’m arranging for the release of other Dog Boys held as prisoners. They’ll be sent to Saskatchewan—a fresh start, if they want it. It won’t be easy, and some may see it as exile. But it’s also freedom. A choice.”

The Dog Boys fall silent, absorbing her words, looking at the sketch of the flag as though seeing something tangible for the first time—a future they can call their own. Scout reaches out, tracing the outline of the paw print with a clawed finger, his expression one of quiet awe.

Scout, “A paw print… it’s us. It’s everything we’ve been and everything we want to be.”

Mack, (nodding, his voice filled with new resolve) “I’m in, Serana. I’m tired of fighting everyone else’s wars. If this means a chance to fight for our own, to build a place for our kind… then I’m in.”

One by one, the other Dog Boys nod, the resolve spreading among them like wildfire. Serana watches as their faces light up, their posture shifting from hesitant hope to fierce determination. She rolls up the sketch and tucks it back into her pocket.

Serana, “Then we’ll make Saskatchewan a place of a home for Dog Boys, by Dog Boys.”

The Dog Boys give a collective howl, a fierce, jubilant sound that fills the night air, a sound that feels like both a vow and a celebration.

---

The team of Dog Boys descended from the electric helicopters as they touched down near the edge of a lake. The air was brisk and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of pine and damp leaves. Frost covered the ground, glittering under a pale sun, and a low mist rose from the lake, casting a mysterious, serene atmosphere over the landscape. Their breath fogged the air as they stepped out, scanning the landscape that would soon become home.

The Dog Boys moved in silence at first, taking in their surroundings: towering pines and spruce trees standing like silent sentries, the gentle lapping of lake water nearby, and the sheer vastness of the untouched wilderness. Some were visibly awed by the beauty, while others wore an expression of respect, even apprehension.

A few exchanged glances, some nodding with a wordless resolve. Their supplies, including stacks of wood for building, tool crates, survival kits, and bundles of insulated tarps and rope, were neatly arranged in a nearby clearing, awaiting their hands.

Serana (the Cyber-Knight), a seasoned survivalist and their leader (for now), gathered them around a cluster of tall, slender pines. Standing on a fallen log, she surveyed the group, her face serious, but her voice steady.

“Listen up,” she called, her voice carrying over the clearing. “We’re here to lay the groundwork, and that starts today. Sarge is in charge.”

Standing on a fallen log with authority and confidence was Sarge, a Dog Boy veteran with a thick, silvered coat and eyes sharp as ice. He let out a short bark, drawing every Dog Boy’s attention to him. Their ears perked, bodies stilling, as he surveyed them with a serious but proud look.

"Listen up," he growled, his voice carrying over the rustling trees. "This land is ours to settle and protect. Every one of you was chosen because you know how to survive and adapt. We’re not just here to camp out—we’re here to build."

He scanned the group, letting his words settle before continuing. "Our supplies are good for six months. But after that, we’ll be relying on what we can hunt, grow, and gather. This means everything we build, everything we do, needs to make this place last.”

Sarge began assigning roles in his efficient, no-nonsense style. "Builders, you’re first up. Set up our communal shelter over there near the tree line—it’ll give us cover and a view of the lake. Hunters, you’ll form scouting teams and mark the perimeter, find trails, and report back with anything that looks useful or suspicious. Foragers, I want eyes on all the vegetation we can use. And scouts, you’re our early warning. Get a feel for the territory. You’ll be moving in pairs.”

As he issued each directive, the Dog Boys nodded, already preparing for the work ahead. Their tails swished subtly in unison, a silent show of agreement, and they moved with an unspoken understanding that came from their pack mentality. The orders were instinctively accepted; this was their leader, and they would follow.

The scouts—Dog Boys armed with maps and compasses—headed off toward the lake, scanning for clean water access points, fishing spots, and any evidence of animal tracks. They moved efficiently, marking the land as they went.

Meanwhile, a small group of Dog Boys hunters and foragers moved into the forest with quiet steps, trained eyes scanning for small game trails, edible plants, and any resources they could gather to supplement their supplies. Among them, Katya (Lady Serana’s Psi-Druid friend), a specialist in natural medicines, carried a small satchel and a field guide, searching for plants that could serve medicinal purposes or bolster their food stores.

As the builders got to work, the rhythmic thud of axes biting into wood filled the air. Logs were hauled, split, and stacked, forming the foundation of what would soon be a sturdy, insulated shelter. The teamwork was instinctive—one person stripped the branches while another notched the logs for fitting, and yet another measured the alignment. There was no wasted movement; each action was purposeful and precise.

Nearby, the foragers returned periodically, dropping off bundles of wild sage, dried berries, and a few roots Katya identified as edible. These small additions would add flavor to their meals and serve as an emergency food source, a small but significant contribution to the Dog Boys sustainability.

As the sun lowered, casting a warm amber glow over the lake and forest, the communal shelter began to take shape. A tarp was pulled over the log frame to seal it against the night’s chill, and a few scouts returned with reports of freshwater springs along the lake’s edge. They had marked the spots with natural markers and were confident of their reliability.

Fires were built in stone-lined pits, crackling and throwing a comforting warmth and light across the camp. A few gathered around the fires, grateful to warm their paws, while others worked to secure their supplies for the night. The temperature began to drop, and a hush settled over the group as they finally paused to take it all in—the firelight dancing on faces both worn and determined, the distant howl of a wolf echoing through the trees.

Before they retreated to their shelters, Lady Serana gathered them once more, this time around the central fire. Her face, lined with exhaustion but glimmering with pride, reflected the fire’s glow.

“Today was a good start,” she began. “But remember, we’re only at the beginning. In the days to come, this land will test us in ways we can’t even imagine. But as long as we stay united. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow, we continue.”

With that, the Dog Boys dispersed, some slipping into the communal shelter while others took turns on watch, their silhouettes stark against the flickering fire. The night grew colder, but no one seemed to mind. They had begun their mission, and each of them felt the gravity of it, understanding that their hands were now responsible for building not just a camp, but a new beginning.

---

Months later (the Dog Boys are on their own), the camp has been transformed into a fully functioning settlement. The early days of rough shelters and simple tasks had given way to a thriving, self-sustained community, with structures and routines that reflected the Dog Boys resourcefulness and growing sense of identity beyond the Coalition.

The clearing near the lake had expanded, and paths worn smooth from use snaked between the buildings and gathering areas. The settlement now feels permanent, a carefully organized network of structures blending naturally with the surrounding forest. The main communal shelter, once a single log building, had evolved into a multi-room lodge with thick, insulated walls of wood, clay, and mud. Built to withstand the Saskatchewan winter, it stood proudly near the heart of the camp, a central point that radiated warmth and safety.

Other smaller places branched out around the main lodge, each serving a distinct purpose. These included a communal dining hall, a storage and food preservation shed, an armory for weapons and tools, and individual quarters for some of the Dog Boys who preferred solitude. Each building was made from logs, stones, and materials they’d foraged or crafted, with roofs layered in bark and thatch to shed rain and snow.

In a large cleared area near the camp, a small but thriving garden was now fully operational. Rows of hardy vegetables—potatoes, carrots, kale, and turnips—grew under a protective covering of makeshift greenhouses. Made from frames of wood and stretches of transparent tarp, these structures helped extend the growing season, and the Dog Boys took pride in nurturing the plants through the cold season. Fresh vegetables added variety to their diet and supplemented the rations that had dwindled over the winter months.

Nearby, another team had begun a small beekeeping area with a hive box they’d built from wood and bark. Bees now hovered and worked in the early spring air, essential not only for honey but also for pollinating their crops. In another corner of the clearing, drying racks held strips of smoked meat from successful hunts, while crates stored dried herbs, berries, and the bounty from earlier foraging trips.

Down by the lake, fishing platforms have been built, forming a small pier that jutted out over the water. Here, Dog Boys expertly fished with rods, nets, and traps, replenishing their protein supply. Smoked fish hung in nearby racks, curing to preserve it for weeks to come. A sense of skill and familiarity had developed in their fishing routines, and their confidence shows as they expertly wove fish traps from willow branches, ensuring a steady supply of food.

Water purification had become a well-organized system, with barrels and a rudimentary filtration station built from gravel, charcoal, and sand. They maintained a careful reserve of freshwater, knowing the importance of always having a reliable supply on hand, especially as spring melt increased the runoff from the surrounding hills.

In a corner of the settlement, a forge area had been set up where some Dog Boys had taken to basic metalworking. Using a small forge they’d constructed from gathered stones and fueled with coal and wood, they could now repair metal tools and even create simple implements like nails, hooks, and blades. This small smithing operation became a focal point of community life, with sparks flying and the ring of hammers creating a rhythmic backdrop to daily activities.

A woodworking station nearby held various hand-crafted items: bowls, utensils, traps, and even a few carved trinkets that decorated some of the shelters. Their tools were now sharper, their skills honed, and the items they crafted were durable and practical. The Dog Boys were learning to be self-sufficient in ways that went far beyond the Coalition’s training, making their camp into a place where they could produce, repair, and create most of what they needed to survive.

The perimeter around the camp had grown increasingly secure and organized. Watch posts were now fortified platforms, raised off the ground and camouflaged with branches and leaves, providing a perfect vantage point for lookout teams. Dog Boys rotated through these posts regularly, their sharp senses scanning the forest for any disturbances, whether from wildlife, supernatural threats, or signs of other survivors in the area.

To further reinforce the settlement’s borders, they had set up low barriers and traps along the outer perimeter, blending into the natural landscape. Snares for small game lined the paths outside the camp, adding to their food supplies and keeping unwanted animals from encroaching on their territory. The camp’s scent markers, refreshed regularly, made their presence clear to any wildlife or potential intruders.

Inside the camp, a deep sense of camaraderie has taken root. As the Dog Boys moved away from their strict Coalition loyalties, they began to forge their own culture, grounded in mutual respect and shared purpose. Some had adopted new nicknames, reflecting their personalities, and even displayed small, personalized decorations around their spaces—feathers from hunted birds, carved wooden charms, or bits of polished stones from the lake.

Every evening, they gathered in the dining hall, where meals were shared family-style, with large bowls of hearty stew, freshly smoked fish, and vegetables from their greenhouse. Stories of the day’s adventures, hunts, and challenges were swapped, and laughter often punctuated the quiet hum of conversation. They were starting to see themselves as a pack with a shared future, rather than just soldiers following orders.

As spring began to set in, the surrounding forest showed the first signs of life after winter, with buds on the trees and the occasional wildflower poking through the undergrowth. Birds returned to the area, filling the air with song, and squirrels could be seen darting around, gathering early shoots and seeds. The Dog Boys sensed the shifting seasons instinctively, and many found a quiet joy in the rhythms of the natural world.

They began to plan for new projects, using the spring’s mild weather and longer days to expand the camp. Some proposed building a training area where they could practice their skills, while others suggested creating more intricate traps and exploring the possibility of taming small animals to help with gathering or protection.

With each passing day, the Dog Boys pride in their home grew. They no longer looked over their shoulders, waiting for Coalition orders or approval; they had become the masters of their own lives, finding in themselves a strength and self-worth that was more profound than any rank or mission.

Sarge, the veteran Dog Boy who had led them here, watched them all with a quiet, satisfied gaze, noticing how they’d changed since those first days. As he looked out over the thriving settlement, he knew this place was more than a camp—it was proof that Dog Boys could build something lasting, something entirely their own.

---

In the heart of the Saskatchewan wilderness, what had begun as a mission had turned into a true community. And with spring blossoming around them, the Dog Boys feel truly alive.

The camp, now a thriving settlement in the Saskatchewan wilderness, had taken on a character that was both rustic and resourceful, blending the Dog Boys’ natural instincts with clever ingenuity and a few touches of comfort. In the months that follow, with the addition of new equipment, animals, and tools, the settlement grows into a small, self-sustained community—unique with the spirit of the Dog Boys.

In the center of the camp, a tall wooden sun-dial had been erected, serving as a simple but effective way to mark the passage of hours. Carved carefully from local timber, it cast a distinct shadow on a stone platform with etchings that indicated morning, midday, and evening. The Dog Boys checked it often, intuitively timing their routines by its shadow as they adjusted to the rhythm of daylight in the wilderness. The sun-dial was more than a tool—it was a grounding reminder of their independence, a natural and self-made way to order their days.

Down by the shore of the Lake, the Dog Boys had constructed a small water mill that turned gently with the flow of a tributary leading into the lake. Built from local timber and carefully assembled with gears and paddles, the mill provided a slow but steady source of energy for grinding grains, milling flour from foraged seeds, and even crushing medicinal plants into fine powders. Powered by the current, it required minimal maintenance and ran silently, its rhythmic creaking blending into the natural sounds of the forest.

The mill becomes an essential piece that allowed them to produce food staples and medicine autonomously, further freeing them from reliance on their initial supplies.

Near the main lodge, a set of solar panels had been set up on a small wooden frame, angled to capture as much sunlight as possible. These panels were used to charge essential electronic devices—flashlights, radios, and even an electronic music player that had become a treasured item in the camp. Dog Boys took turns ensuring the panels remained unobstructed by leaves or debris, recognizing the value of having a renewable energy source in this remote wilderness.

The solar station had become a gathering spot in its own right, with Dog Boys occasionally chatting and exchanging news while they waited for their devices to charge. For a community rooted in nature, this quiet touch of technology was a lifeline to a more modern world, and they respected the power the panels gave them to remain connected and illuminated.

In a small, fenced enclosure near the garden, the Dog Boys kept a herd of goats. The goats had quickly become a staple of camp life, providing fresh milk that they used to make simple cheeses and even a type of yogurt. This new source of nutrition bolstered their diet, adding valuable protein and calories, and a few Dog Boys had even bonded with the animals, learning their temperaments and routines.

The goats were more than livestock—they were companions. Their soft bleats became part of the camp’s soundscape, and some Dog Boys spent time grooming them, securing the pen, and even giving the more friendly goats nicknames. The herd felt like an extension of the pack, and the goats’ presence in the camp added a warmth and domesticity that balanced the wildness of their surroundings.

By the lake, the Dog Boys had constructed a sturdy fishing boat, hewn from wood and carefully sealed with resin and tar. It was big enough for two or three Dog Boys to row out into deeper waters, allowing them access to the lake’s rich supply of fish. Nets crafted from woven fibers were neatly stored on the shore, ready to be cast into the water from the boat. The boat had become a prized asset, giving the Dog Boys the freedom to explore and fish away from the shallows, and allowing for larger catches that could be dried and stored for long-term food security.

Fishing became a daily ritual for some, a peaceful task that allowed them to connect with the lake and its quiet beauty. On clear mornings, the boat would glide across the water, a graceful addition to the natural landscape as the Dog Boys cast their nets in near silence, scanning the waters with a practiced eye.

Stored in a tightly sealed crate in the storage shed, pounds of sea salt had become one of the camp’s most valued resources. They used it sparingly, preserving meat and fish with careful precision, knowing it was essential for food storage and flavor. A portion of the salt was set aside for any potential future trade, as they recognized its value in a world where such commodities were rare.

In the evenings, small portions of salt would be sprinkled on roasted meat, a luxury that brought a sense of richness to their meals and turned dinner into a shared celebration. For the Dog Boys, the salt represented more than just seasoning—it was a link to civilization, a reminder of the world beyond their forest haven.

Among their possessions, the electronic music player had become a beloved item, something that offered a rare comfort and connection to memories of the past. The device held an eclectic collection of songs, a mix of instrumental tracks, classic rock, and ambient sounds that the Dog Boys played during quiet moments around the campfire.

Music drifted through the camp in the evenings, creating a serene atmosphere as they rested after a day’s work. Some swayed slightly to the beat, others hummed, while a few lay back with their eyes closed, letting the music transport them. The songs became a shared experience, a language of memory and emotion that brought them closer together. Occasionally, they played upbeat tracks, sparking laughter and a few light-hearted jests, but most of the time, the music was soft and reflective, a fitting soundtrack to their newfound lives in the wild.

Five months in, the camp had grown into a truly self-sufficient village, complete with sources of food, energy, shelter, and entertainment. Their shared work had transformed the wilderness into a home, and the camp was alive with the subtle but steady rhythms of daily life. Paths worn smooth from months of use connected each area, from the fishing pier to the water mill, and the laughter and low murmurs of the Dog Boys were carried on the wind, blending with the forest sounds.

In the mornings, as the sun rose, they moved with purpose, maintaining their structures, feeding the goats, gathering food, and patrolling their secure perimeter. At midday, they would sometimes gather for meals, eating together under the open sky, occasionally seasoned with the precious sea salt. And in the evenings, they relaxed by the fire, music playing softly in the background as the forest settled into twilight.

---

Across the sweeping prairies and rugged landscapes of southern Saskatchewan, a land as wild as it is beautiful, where the sky stretches on forever and the wind carries both the scent of sage.

Along a dusty dirt trail, about an hour’s ride from the nearest town, a small family homestead sits nestled between open prairie and a shallow creek. The land is modest, just enough to sustain a family of six: parents, two teenage sons, and two younger children. Their small farm stretches across thirty acres, its boundaries marked by wooden fencing and low stone walls built from rocks they’ve dug up over the years. The homestead itself is simple yet sturdy, made from timber hauled from the northern forests and sealed against the prairie winds with mud and resin.

Out back, a few acres of land are dedicated to rows of corn, beans, potatoes, and hardy vegetables like cabbage and peas, planted in neat furrows. The family grows what they need to survive the harsh winters, canning and preserving every spare harvest. There’s a small pen with a handful of pigs rooting around in the mud, while chickens and ducks strut around, pecking at bugs and scraps. A sturdy pair of horses graze in a fenced pasture, and the family’s two cows lazily chew their cud, providing milk, cheese, and trade items for the family.

The children stay close to home, their parents always casting watchful eyes to the horizon. In addition to the unyielding seasons, the family knows the prairie holds other dangers: creatures that sometimes wander too close, and men just as dangerous. Just two weeks ago, cattle rustlers hit a neighboring homestead, stealing half a herd in the dead of night. It’s common knowledge that Highwaymen roam the main trails, lying in wait to ambush travelers. Even at night, strange sounds echo across the prairie—howls that are sometimes wolves but occasionally… something else.

About a day’s ride from the homestead lies the town of Clearwater, a small but bustling settlement with a population of just over 200 people. The main street is lined with a mix of buildings, from a general store and a blacksmith’s forge to the saloon, where country music drifts from the swinging doors, and cowboys and homesteaders alike gather to share news, trade, and drink away the hardships of prairie life.

In Clearwater, cowboy hats and leather dusters are as common as the prairie dust itself. Men and women alike wear rugged clothing built to withstand the elements, often accessorized with bandanas, spurs, and sometimes, revolvers holstered at their sides. The town is an eclectic mix: weather-worn ranchers, families selling produce, Native Americans trading crafts and game, and the occasional gunslinger with a reputation that precedes him.

But not all in Clearwater are honest folk. The town has its share of troublemakers—rustlers who trade stolen livestock, highwaymen keeping their ears open for valuable information, and self-styled gunslingers looking to make a name for themselves. There’s an unspoken rule in Clearwater: no one asks too many questions about a man’s past, so long as he keeps to himself and respects the town’s order.

The local sheriff, a tall, steely-eyed man who once rode with the Canadian Cowboy Brigade, keeps a close watch over the town, aided by a few deputies and the occasional gunslinger looking to make some coin on the right side of the law. Together, they keep the peace, though everyone knows it’s only as strong as the next rustler gang that comes through.

About a half-day’s journey north of Clearwater lies the Dog Boys self-sufficient village with wooden lodges, fenced gardens, and a herd of goats, cows, and even a few horses. The Dog Boys have built a mill by the lake, and their fishing boat now provides a steady source of food. They’ve established trade with neighboring homesteaders, swapping goods like fish, salt, and leatherwork in exchange for grains, vegetables, and occasionally fresh livestock.

While most of the region knows of the Dog Boys, few outsiders venture too close to their settlement. The Dog Boys maintain a guarded but peaceful stance with the human settlers, occasionally patrolling the land for dangerous creatures and raiders as part of an unofficial truce. They’re known to offer aid to those in need—so long as they’re respected. In return, the locals have learned to appreciate the quiet protection the Dog Boys provide against the less savory elements of the prairie.

The Dog Boys reputation is complex: part legend, part mystery, and part fear. While some view them as allies and protectors, others are wary, gossiping about their unusual senses, their loyalty to each other above all else, and the strange, silent ways they communicate. Most who trade with the Dog Boys describe them as loyal, straightforward, and efficient, but there’s an understanding that they are different—wild in a way that no cowboy or farmer truly understands.

Beyond the homesteads and towns, the prairie stretches in every direction, a vast, rolling expanse where the sky and land meet in a seamless horizon. Bison herds roam freely across the open grasslands, their massive, shaggy forms a reminder of a wilder time. These herds, however, are valuable targets for nomadic tribes, ranchers, and hunters alike. The native tribes have lived alongside the bison for generations, their nomadic ways deeply respected by many in the south.

But the prairie holds more than bison and cattle. There are darker creatures in these open spaces—monsters and demons that sometimes wander from darkened groves. Farmers and cowboys alike tell stories around the fire of sightings on the edge of the prairie, of strange footprints discovered near barns and distant howls in the dead of night.

For those who brave the prairie, life is a rugged mixture of hard work and constant vigilance. Most ranchers and cowboys work long hours, herding cattle, mending fences, and keeping an eye out for rustlers. They wear their hats and dusters like armor, carry revolvers on their hips, and travel with a practiced caution. Life here demands grit but also camaraderie, those who live on the prairie know that they rely on each other for survival as much as on their livestock.

Despite the hardships, there’s a sense of freedom in the land, a beauty in its rawness that draws people back, even when the risk is high. There’s a certain pride in working the land and living by ones rules. For every tragedy or danger, there’s an evening by the fire, a dance in the town square, or a song sung in the stillness of twilight that makes it all feel worthwhile.

[darthauthor]

Location: The Federation of Magic. House Sigil of the Order of the Mystic Knights


As Lord Maceo Sigil skimmed the report, his eyes narrowed, taking in the details with a mixture of curiosity and calculation. The gathered intelligence, collected from multiple sources unbeknownst to each other, painted a picture of Knight One’s mercenary company—a force composed of Mystic Knights and loyal supporters, their operation finely tuned and profitable, yet carrying a hint of mystery.

Each of the Mystic Knights provide a unique component of the company, were reportedly loyal to the Order, paying their tithes with meticulous accuracy. However, the report noted an intriguing behavior: they went out of their way to avoid killing Dog Boys—genetically modified canine soldiers, typically viewed with disdain by other mercenary groups. Instead of killing them, they exiled them to a hidden camp in Canada, a small haven of freedom, far from the eyes of the Coalition and the Order alike. The reasons behind this leniency were unknown, but it hinted at a softer, potentially hazardous sentiment among the ranks.

Maceo's gaze flicked to another part of the report: the mention of Lady Serana, a former Cyber-Knight now contracted under Knight One’s command. Known for her defiance of Lord Coake and her stand against the Coalition in their war against Tolkeen, she had gained a cult-like following across Lazlo and Tolkeen, where people saw her as a hero. Her loyalty is strong, but not to any traditional authority. And though she had left the Cyber-Knight Order, she retained her powers—abilities that made her an effective weapon against the Coalition’s Skelebots.

A weapon... and perhaps a liability, Maceo mused.

He leaned back in his chair, his mind quickly cataloging the profiles of the four knights as he considered their motivations, strengths, and loyalties.

---

Knight One: The Strategist

Knight One, also known as Marcus, is the mind behind the company’s carefully crafted reputation. His intellect and discipline shaped the group, balancing loyalty to the Order with a calculated amoral pragmatism. This was no common mercenary. Maceo could see Knight One’s influence in the company’s restraint, and even their decisions to spare certain enemies—choices that reinforced their image as strategic rather than savage. Marcus was well-read, perceptive, and a master at adapting situations to benefit both his personal objectives and those of the Mystic Knights.

The report noted his honor among clients, a rare trait among mercenaries, which drew high-paying contracts and repeat business. But despite his reliability, Marcus kept his affiliation with the Mystic Knights carefully hidden, allowing him to fly under the radar, manipulating his position for maximum advantage.

Maceo’s brow creased as he considered this. Marcus was pragmatic, loyal, and sharp. A man to be trusted—at least, as long as the benefits remained. His quiet, measured demeanor kept him from taking unnecessary risks, and Maceo recognized in him a kinship for wielding power with a certain restraint. Marcus was someone worth keeping close… for now.

---

Knight Two: The Executioner

Knight Two was Marcus’s perfect shadow. A lethal, loyal, and patient, he can eliminate targets with a level of stealth that bordered on the supernatural. He carries out his orders without doubt, embodying the values of the Mystic Knights through pure, cold efficiency. His calm demeanor made him the ultimate weapon, someone who spoke with his actions, not words.

But it is his loyalty that intrigued Maceo the most. Knight Two’s absolute trust in Knight One’s leadership created a dependable hierarchy, a link in the chain that Maceo could exploit. His motivations were simple: complete the mission and keep the Order’s reputation pristine. Maceo noted with satisfaction that Knight Two’s silence and discipline would allow him to act as an enforcer if Marcus’s careful hand ever faltered.

He's a killing machine from which kingdom are built and destroyed.

---

Knight Three: The Technician

Knight Three was a curious outlier in the company’s ranks. Cautious and self-serving, he lacked the combat prowess of his peers but more than made up for it with his technical skills and survival instincts. He served as the group’s communications expert, gunsmith, and field medic—support roles that Marcus depended on to keep operations running smoothly. Unlike the others, Knight Three is driven not by loyalty, but by paranoia and a desire for security. He is constantly observing, distrusting even his own comrades, planting tracking devices and monitoring those around him.

Maceo’s fingers drummed thoughtfully on the table. This Knight’s loyalty was tenuous, likely dependent on the Order’s protection. If ever he sensed a threat or a better opportunity, he might turn on them all, but for now, he served a purpose. His skills made him a necessary asset, and his mistrust kept him vigilant—a quality that Maceo could appreciate. He reminds me of someone, spying on ones allies, competition, and enemies alike; oh yes, We are alike in that...

Every organization benefits from a little internal scrutiny, he thought with a grim smile.

---

Knight Four: The Infiltrator

Lastly, there is Knight Four, the team’s charismatic infiltrator. A natural spy, he moved with a blend of athleticism and charm, creating false identities and manipulating his way into high-stakes situations with ease. Knight Four’s confidence and ability to blend in allowed him to navigate social circles and acquire information without drawing attention, a vital skill in the high-stakes world of espionage.

Knight Four is not only a valuable field operative but a tool Maceo could use to subtly influence rumors and perceptions. His loyalty to Marcus was more personal, built on mutual respect rather than blind duty. Yet his daring personality hinted at an adventurous streak that could be exploited—if properly managed. As Maceo read through the details of his smooth persona and adaptability, he could see the man’s potential for infiltrating places and gaining information, particularly in territories where open warfare was impractical.

---

Maceo put down the report, a faint smile forming on his lips as he considered the power these four Knights held and the subtle influence Marcus exerted on the company’s operations. He understood well the value of such carefully layered skills. Here is a group of professionals loyal to the Order, yet with enough independence to operate under the radar, unburdened by the Order’s notorious reputation. Their success—and secrecy—reflected Maceo’s own belief in the strength of delegation.

And yet, something nagged at him—the reports of their peculiar sentiment toward the Dog Boys, their aversion to killing them, the strange sanctuary they had built across the border in Canada. Such a leniency hinted at a moral streak, a potential threat to the ruthlessness Maceo valued in his subordinates. Even Marcus (Knight One), for all his pragmatism, might harbor sentiments that could prove troublesome in the wrong situation. And Lady Serana’s presence was another wildcard; her influence among Lazlo and Tolkeen’s populations could either serve or hinder the Order, depending on her loyalty.

He would need to keep a close watch on them, perhaps even send additional spies to observe their interactions and assess the risk of them straying from loyalty to the Order. Still, he knew that to stifle them too closely would compromise their effectiveness. As much as he despised the concept of mercy, he recognized its strategic value—a reputation for subtle restraint, if well managed, could open doors for future alliances.

In the end, Maceo had to admit the company’s independence as a risk worth taking. Knight One’s intellect, Knight Two’s discipline, Knight Three’s vigilance, and Knight Four’s finesse formed a formidable combination. They acted as tools within the Order’s reach yet beyond its most scrutinizing eye, allowing Maceo to expand his influence in unseen ways.

Yes, he could live with their quirks for now.

He picked up his quill and made a note in his own code, a reminder to review their actions and assess them again in due time. Their reports would continue to flow, but Maceo Sigil was not a man to leave potential threats unmonitored.

He would keep his gaze sharp and his patience ready—for even his most loyal knights could stray.

---

Tolkeen News Broadcast

“The Struggle for Tolkeen: Hope Amidst the Chaos”

The broadcast opens with a sweeping aerial shot of Tolkeen’s front lines, a clash of magic and machinery illuminating the darkened sky like a chaotic storm. Wisps of flashes in brilliant colors, casting an eerie glow over the battlefield as spells detonate among the Coalition’s ranks.

Alistair Marquess, the familiar anchor, appears on the screen, his face set with a grim determination, yet his eyes alight with something fierce and resolute.

Alistair Marquess, “Good evening, Tolkeen. Tonight, I bring you news from the front lines, where our people—those defending their homeland, their families, and their beliefs—are engaged in battles that, to them, are nothing short of heroic.”

(The camera shifts to the front lines, where a ragtag assembly of Tolkeen’s soldiers—alongside supernatural creatures, D-Bees, independent spellcasters, and hardened mercenaries—are entrenched in fierce combat. Skelebots and CS soldiers move in disciplined formations, their advanced robots and power armor creating a line of steel and death. But every inch the Coalition pushes forward is met with fierce resistance from Tolkeen’s fighters.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “Our forces, both military and freelance, have become a united front of unlikely allies. Independent freedom fighters, privateers, and a myriad of supernatural beings have come together with one purpose: to halt the Coalition’s relentless advance. The battlefield is no longer just a place of struggle but one of unity, as every Tolkeen soldier, mage, D-Bee, and citizen fights as though their very lives depend on it.”

The screen shifts to a muddy trench, where a D-Bee with tough, scaled skin stands shoulder-to-shoulder with a human mage, their faces streaked with grime but their eyes hard with resolve. A Coalition patrol inches closer, only to be met with a hail of magical fire and brute force from Tolkeen’s defenders. The D-Bee roars, lifting a massive hammer, while the mage mutters incantations, channeling fire through his fingertips.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “For those fighting on Tolkeen’s side, the Coalition has become a heartless machine of oppression that they believe must be stopped. Each skirmish, each ambush, each hard-won defensive stand is not just another point on a map but a moral victory, a chance to push back against a force they see as soulless and tyrannical.”

(The broadcast returns to the studio, where Alistair’s expression hardens as he speaks with barely restrained intensity.)

Alistair Marquess, “Every day, Tolkeen’s people demonstrate a bravery that few armies have ever faced. They are united not just by the desire to survive but by a belief in a cause they see as just. And with each passing day, the Coalition’s advance is slowed to an agonizing crawl. While they may gain ground, every step forward is hard-won and paid for in their blood.”

(The screen shifts to a Coalition soldier crouching behind the wreckage of a skelebot, his helmet covered in soot, his eyes haunted. Behind him, skelebot parts lie scattered in heaps, their twisted metal smeared with the dark stains of battle. Coalition forces struggle, facing not only Tolkeen’s organized defenses but also ambushes, guerrilla attacks, and sabotage from countless independent groups.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “An observer from the frontlines reported that for every foot of ground taken by the Coalition, the battlefield is littered with the broken bits of skelebots and Coalition grunts. But Tolkeen pays a price as well, each loss of one of our own is a reminder of the sacrifices made in defense of our home. Even so, Tolkeen’s fighters grow smarter, fiercer, and less fearful with each passing day. The Coalition expected to crush us swiftly. Instead, they face a foe that grows more formidable with each battle.”

The footage shifts to a triumphant group of Tolkeen defenders—D-Bees, humans, and supernatural beings alike—celebrate a hard-fought victory over a small Coalition outpost. Cheers erupt in the air, the mood one of fierce pride and camaraderie.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “No family in Tolkeen is untouched by this conflict, but that has only strengthened our resolve. Those who have lost their homes or their loved ones fight with fury. In our hearts, every skirmish, every ambush is a triumph, and every setback only fuels us.”

(The camera cuts to a Demon, his horned face battered but proud, standing beside a human farmer turned soldier. Behind them, a mage raises his hands, casting a spell that summons a Shadow Beast. The creature is quickly sent off hunting for Coalition soldiers.)

Alistair Marquess, “From our most experienced sorcerers to our newest recruits, Tolkeen is united in its fight. This isn’t just a battle—it’s a fight for survival, for justice, and for the belief that we are standing against an EVIL juggernaut that seeks to stamp us all out.”

(The broadcast shows a Coalition commander observing the battlefield, frustration etched on his face as he watches yet another attempt at advancing foiled by Tolkeen’ tactics. The Coalition’s invasion force, vast as it is, inches forward with agonizing slowness, each “victory” ringing hollow as they lose scores of soldiers to each foot of ground.

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “Our defenders, D-Bees, humans, and super-beings alike, have every reason to feel pride. Tolkeen has achieved what no other force has managed—holding the Coalition at bay. We have forced them to pay dearly for every step, and they have learned that their technology, their machines, their ranks of soldiers cannot crush the spirit of Tolkeen.”

(The camera returns to Alistair, his gaze intense as he speaks directly to his fellow Tolkeenites.)

Alistair Marquess, “Our fighters know they are part of something that feels like destiny. Each success, each act of defiance, fuels the belief that we are on the edge of winning this war. Even as we stand ready for the next battle, there’s a sense that we are merely the beginning—the opening act to something much larger.”

He leans forward, his voice soft but unwavering.

Alistair Marquess, “And so we fight on. We are Tolkeen, a kingdom united by our diversity, our magic, and our spirit. And we will make them pay for every inch, for every drop of blood they spill on our soil.”

(The screen shifts once more to the front lines, where Tolkeen soldiers, mages, supernatural beings, and D-Bees alike stand together, facing the retreating Coalition forces.)

Alistair Marquess (Voice-over), “Against overwhelming numbers, we stand firm. And we believe, with all our hearts, that we will prevail.”

(The camera returns to the studio, Alistair’s voice a calm but powerful reminder as he closes the segment.)

Alistair Marquess, “To every Tolkeenite, to every ally who fights with us, know that you are part of something historic. No force, no matter how mighty, can extinguish the fire of a people united. This is Alistair Marquess, with the Tolkeen News Agency, reminding you to hold on to hope and remember why we stand together. Good night, Tolkeen.”

The screen fades to black, but Alistair’s words linger—a rallying cry, a promise, and a defiant spark that ignites the hope of every citizen who watches.

---

The train station sat at the edge of the small town, surrounded by rolling farmland and guarded by the ever-watchful eyes of Coalition soldiers. The day was bright and clear, sunlight glinting off the metal structures as townsfolk gathered near the platform in anticipation. The sound of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional squeal from children or bark from a nearby dog. People could feel it coming before they saw it: the steady thrum of wheels on the rails, a sound that had come to symbolize safety and order in a world with danger.

With a plume of dark smoke curling into the sky, the train emerged in the distance, chugging along the track with a slow but steady rhythm. Its dark, weathered exterior contrasted with the reinforced polymer tracks that shone in the sunlight. The engine itself was a robust, utilitarian machine, built more for endurance than style. The boiler was encased in rugged steel panels darkened by soot and wood smoke. The faint scent of burning wood wafted through the air as it got closer, carrying on the breeze as a reminder of the nearby forests that fed its fires.

The train's single track and compact, narrow body were all designed with efficiency in mind. There was nothing luxurious about this line; it was a workhorse, reliable and formidable, hauling both goods and passengers with unwavering punctuality. Soldiers clad in the Coalition’s dark military gear stood atop the train cars, weapons at the ready, their skull-shaped helmets gleaming in the sun. Eyes sharp, they scanned the area for any sign of threat, alert and disciplined. Their presence had become as much a part of the train's arrival as the screech of its brakes.

As the train pulled into the station, the grinding of metal against metal drowned out the murmuring crowd. Steam hissed from the engine as it came to a halt, and the doors to the cargo cars slid open. The D-Bee laborers, clad in worn work clothes and kept under the watchful eye of a station master, moved quickly to their assigned tasks. They began unloading crates, barrels, and sacks of goods, each labeled with the Coalition insignia. Some crates held processed food for the nearby farms, while others contained supplies for the soldiers stationed in town.

The D-Bees worked efficiently, stacking the cargo with practiced ease, their movements quick and precise. A gray-skinned D-Bee hauled a crate from the train, his muscles straining under the weight, while a purple-skinned worker handed it off to be stacked on a cart waiting nearby. Despite the harsh conditions they faced, the D-Bee workers moved with a rhythm they had perfected over countless stops, and their presence, though barely acknowledged by the human townsfolk, was vital to the station’s daily operations.

A human worker, stationed alongside the train track, operated the track pan, carefully replenishing the water tank under the train’s engine. The long, shallow pan filled slowly, the clear water shimmering as it was piped in, readying the engine for its next journey. Meanwhile, the D-Bees loaded stacks of cut firewood into the firebox, the wood piled high to fuel the steam engine on its journey ahead.

On the platform, townsfolk waited patiently, some holding small packages or videos to be sent to neighboring towns, others standing with baskets of produce or goods ready to trade. A few children stared up at the soldiers atop the train, eyes wide with admiration and a hint of fear. The Coalition soldiers rarely interacted with civilians, but their presence was a comfort. Everyone knew the dangers that lurked beyond the town’s borders, and the soldiers represented the Coalition’s promise of security—a promise that this train route, at least, had thus far upheld.

The train station itself was a modest structure, a wooden building with a few benches lining the walls and a single ticket counter behind thick glass. A large Coalition flag fluttered above the building, a stark black-and-white skull emblem against the blue sky. Posters plastered the walls, reminding citizens of the Coalition’s values and warning against consorting with supernatural forces.

Jacob and Sarah had come to the station to pick up a delivery of seeds and supplies for the farm. They stood near the platform, Jacob tipping his hat back as he watched the unloading with a practiced eye. He felt a familiar sense of reassurance seeing the Coalition soldiers, knowing that their town was connected to a reliable line of protection and supplies. Sarah, her blue eyes bright in the sunlight, glanced at the D-Bee workers as they moved crates with swift precision, a mix of empathy and pragmatism in her expression.

“Look at them,” she murmured to Jacob. “They’ve got to work every day, whether it’s hot or cold, and for half the pay.”

Jacob shrugged, his gaze fixed on the soldiers. “It’s the only way some of ’em survive. Beats what’s out there, if you ask me. This train… it’s a lifeline, Sarah. Keeps our town safe, keeps the farm running. I’m grateful for it, whatever it takes.”

The train conductor, a tall man in Coalition uniform, stepped out and rang a bell, signaling that the train would be departing soon. The D-Bees finished their work, stepping back as the doors slid shut and the steam engine began its slow chug forward. The townsfolk murmured in appreciation, some waving as the train picked up speed, watching the soldiers keep their vigilant positions atop the train as it moved down the track, securing the goods and passengers onboard.

As the train rolled out of sight, the faint sound of its whistle fading in the distance, the town resumed its usual rhythm, the station emptying as people returned to their daily lives. For now, the train had brought them everything they needed—supplies, security, and the steady assurance that, at least within Coalition territory, life would continue in predictable, orderly fashion.

[darthauthor]

Location: Chi-Town


In a grand, high-ceilinged conference chamber adorned with the insignia of the Coalition, Emperor Karl Prosek sat at the head of a polished black table, surrounded by his top military advisors and officers. The walls displayed the Coalition’s propaganda posters, images of strong soldiers, the Coalition flag, and slogans proclaiming humanity’s dominance over the supernatural. The room was filled with a silence that no one dared break. Prosek’s expression was cold and unreadable as he reviewed the holographic projection of Tolkeen’s borders, the fractured red lines marking the Coalition’s halting, scattered progress.

He looked up slowly, his eyes sharp and unforgiving as he took in the faces of his generals. "Let’s begin,” he said, his voice a quiet command that sent a ripple of unease through the room. “Nine months, gentlemen. Nine months into a campaign against a kingdom we were told would fall like a house of cards.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over them. “And yet here we sit, discussing what I can only describe as a string of humiliations.”

One of the generals leaned forward, his voice cautious. “Your Excellency, Tolkeen has proven… more difficult than anticipated. Their use of magic—”

Prosek raised a hand, silencing him. His gaze was piercing. “I do not need to hear excuses. The most formidable military force on this continent finds itself stymied by what should be a mere stepping stone.” He shifted his gaze across the room.

The emperor’s guard stepped forward, their gloved hands putting gorrate around their throats of the men.

“I was told Tolkeen would buckle under our might, that our presence alone would cause them to scatter. Instead, we are losing men and machines faster than they can be replaced.”

There was a long silence before a general cleared his throat. “Your highness, Tolkeen’s defenders are… unlike anything we’ve encountered. They’re using magic in ways that our troops were simply unprepared for. They summon creatures from other dimensions, manipulate the land itself, earthquakes, hot lava, and—”

“Magic,” Prosek said, his voice dripping with disdain. “The Coalition has stood for years against the corruption and perversion of magic. Yet here we are, brought to our knees by it. Are you suggesting that we cannot stand against this force? That we, the Coalition, are weak?”

His paled face tensed. “No, Your Excellency. But their forces are entrenched, and they have allies from across the dimensions. They fight with a desperation and knowledge of their terrain that we underestimated.”

Prosek’s jaw tightened, his patience clearly wearing thin. “You underestimated what I would do, to you, if you returned to me in failure.”

Prosek's guard begins to strangling the officer (killing him slowly).

Another General straightened in his seat, choosing his words carefully. “Sir, Tolkeen’s guerilla tactics and their ability to recycle our own war materials into their defenses have given them an edge. Their use of… unconventional methods has stymied our traditional tactics. Our supply lines are failing, and without a steady influx of parts and munitions, our mechanized units are grinding to a halt.”

Prosek gestured to the holographic map, where red indicators marked the positions lost and regained, each symbolizing a battle fought and paid for in Coalition lives and machinery. “I have provided you with every resource, every tool, every soldier required to cleanse this blight from our land. And yet, instead of advancing as conquerors, you are scrambling to hold positions that Tolkeen retakes by nightfall.”

With a motion of Prosek's head the man’s executioner began strangling the general.

There was a faint murmuring among the officers, some exchanging nervous glances. They all knew what was happening.

Prosek’s expression hardens. “Our soldiers are trained to be disciplined. They are taught loyalty, to have faith in the Coalition’s strength. Yet reports indicate they are rattled, frightened even, by the so-called wonders of Tolkeen’s magic. This fear, this… hesitation is unacceptable.”

Prosek’s gaze turned icy, his voice cold. “We are not here to be deterred by fear. We are here to eradicate a threat to humanity. This is a campaign of purification, a crusade against the supernatural filth that has infected our world. We cannot afford to falter.”

Anorhwe general nodding. "Of course, Your Majesty.”

The Emperor smiled, “Why should I give you another chance to fail me?”

The general, “It’s simply… I know the battlefield now. And the price of failure. Our men weren’t prepared the first time, for this level of magical counterattack, nor for the degree to which Tolkeen has fortified itself. We underestimated their… their will to fight."

Prosek let his smile fade, and his tone grew colder. "Underestimated?" He turned his gaze to each officer in turn, making them feel the weight of his disappointment. "I do not underestimate General”

Prosek signaled his guard to begin strangling another officer.

Emperor Prosak, “Tolkeen is an infestation, an enemy whose very existence threatens the purity and safety of humanity. You failed to see them for what they are: a pestilence that will not go quietly into the night simply because we bring tanks and power armor to bear."

General Micander Drogue, his appointed Special Liaison Commander for Tolkeen Operations, leaned forward, his face a mask of cold resolve. "Your Majesty," he began, "we still have the capacity to destroy Tolkeen.”

Prosek’s eyes narrowed as he listened, his expression unreadable.

General Drogue, "A war of attrition is not a war we lose, my Emperor," his voice low and unwavering. "If we cannot shatter Tolkeen by brute force, then we will wear them down, inch by inch, until they break beneath the weight of our superiority."

Prosek, folded his hands, fingers steepled, and allowed a small, calm smile to form. "Your right general Drogue," he said, his tone almost amused. "These are D-Bees and sorcerers, crawling like rats into the ruins of their so-called kingdom. They will abandon ship or turn on each other in the final days. You live, for now. Deliver me Tolkeen and I'll make you the hero of this campaign.”

A young officer spoke up, hesitant but unable to hold his tongue. "But, Your Majesty, our soldiers are not equipped to face… demons, elementals, dragons. The Tolkeenites are throwing everything at us, and it's… it’s affecting morale. They’re terrified. They’ve never faced—"

"Enough," Prosek interrupted, his tone icy. He leveled his gaze at the officer, and the room fell silent. "Fear is a tool, Commander. One that we wield, not one that controls us. These soldiers fight for humanity’s survival. They fight for a world free from the corruption that has crawled through the Rifts, from the so-called ‘allies’ Tolkeen has summoned. And if they forget that, they will find themselves on the outside of our borders, left to fend for themselves alongside the very creatures they fear.”

The silence deepened as Prosek’s words settled over them. He turned to his minister of Information. "The propaganda machine. How are we managing the news of these losses?"

The head swallowed, choosing his words carefully. "The Ministry of Information is working around the clock to keep morale high. We’re framing every setback as a tactical withdrawal, every loss as a necessary sacrifice. But…" He glanced down at the data reports before him. "There’s no concealing the casualty counts. The families of the dead are speaking out. Rumors are beginning to circulate about our true losses."

Prosek's lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing slightly. "Then make sure those families understand the honor of sacrifice for humanity. Remind them that their loved ones died to keep us safe from creatures that have no place on this Earth. And remind them that there is no nobler death than one given in service to the Coalition."

He looked around the room, his eyes hardening. "If the people of Tolkeen wish to die in service to magic and monstrosities, so be it. They are already dead. We simply need to finish the work they have begun. But our soldiers? They die for a cause greater than themselves."

The generals shifted uncomfortably, but none dared speak. Prosek was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the table.

“And the Skelebots?” he asked suddenly, his tone turning icier.

Generals grimaced. “We’ve had them reprogrammed you Majesty. To prevent what happened before. The same trick won’t work on us twice.”

Prosek’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded slightly, as if acknowledging a minor inconvenience. “Then perhaps it is time we reassess our strategy. If the enemy insists on fighting us with subversive, dishonorable tactics, then we shall respond in kind.”

He looked around the table, his gaze settling on each officer in turn. “Tolkeen’s strength lies in their unconventional warfare. Their guerrilla strikes, their ability to summon these creatures… fine. Then we shall strike with methods of our own. Increase the deployment of Dog Boys, Psi-Stalkers, and whatever freaks and monsters Dr. Bradford has cooked up at his laboratory in Lone Star. If our soldiers fear magic, then let them see their fellow humans, I mean mutants, stand against it.”

A quiet murmur of agreement swept through the room. It was a bold suggestion; Dog Boys were made to hunt magic users. Psi-Stalkers were bred to hunt supernatural beings. And Dr. Bradford's monsters, their increased number on the front lines could offer a psychological boost, a sign that the Coalition was willing to use every means at its disposal.

Prosek continued, his voice low and filled with calculated malice. “Furthermore, begin rotating out the green troops and reinforce with seasoned officers. Those who have proven themselves capable of holding the line. I want soldiers who do not flinch at shadows.”

He looked at the General, who nodded, though he looked hesitant. “And, Your Excellency… what of our original plan to capture and occupy towns as we advance?”

Prosek’s face remained impassive. “That strategy has proven ineffective. These towns are not assets; they are burdens, filled with vermin who resist and sabotage our efforts. The time for leniency has passed. If Tolkeen’s people want to stand by their mages and demons, then they have sealed their fate. Any settlement that harbors enemies of the Coalition is to be razed. No hesitation, no prisoners.”

The room was silent, the implications sinking in. Prosek’s words made it clear: this was not a campaign to conquer; it was a crusade to cleanse. Every town, every village, every individual that stood with Tolkeen would be treated as an enemy.

“This is not a matter of tactics or logistics,” Prosek continued, his voice rising slightly. “We are here to prove that we will not be cowed by magic, by D-Bees, or by any supernatural presence that dares pollute our world. We will erase this blight, and if we must burn Tolkeen to the ground to do it, so be it.”

Generals shifted in their chairs, the gravity of his words evident on their faced.

“Your Excellency, with respect, this approach will place additional strain on our resources and public relations. There will be… complications in containing the reports of scorched earth tactics.”

Prosek waved a dismissive hand. “The people will believe what they are told. The Ministry of Information will do its duty. Let them hear of our victories, our strength, our resolve. Our people must feel safe, must know that their Coalition is strong, unbeatable. If they know the truth, they would tremble in fear at the very thought of what’s happening beyond our borders.”

He paused, his eyes scanning the room, his gaze challenging each of them. “Tolkeen’s defenders can and will be broken.” He leaned forward, his tone cold and resolute. “This war will teach them that to oppose the Coalition is to sign their own death warrant. We shall break their spirits, shatter their morale, and raze their kingdom until nothing remains but ash and obedience.”

The officers nodded, some more reluctantly than others, but none dared speak against him. In that moment, they saw the extent of Prosek’s vision, his determination to see his human-centric utopia realized at any cost.

As the meeting adjourned, Prosek lingered a moment, gazing at the holographic map, his eyes glinting with something dark, almost fanatical. For him, Tolkeen was not merely an enemy—it was a symbol of everything he despised, everything he believed threatened humanity. And he would crush it, whatever the cost.

After all, he reminded himself with a self-assured smirk, he was not a monster. He was a savior. And only the weak questioned the price of salvation.

The surviving advisors and generals fearfully left the room with a renewed dedication to winning. Life, as they knew it, depended upon it.

---

Later…

In the private, fortified chamber where Emperor Karl Prosek received his most trusted advisors, a man known simply as Director Lann approached the Emperor. Lann was the Coalition’s Head of a special project. He is a meticulous and severe figure whose very presence exuded secrecy and control.

He kneeled before the Emperor with a quiet intensity, his sharp, calculating eyes betraying the gravity of what he was about to propose.

“Your Majesty,” Lann began, his voice low and steady, “the time has come to authorize the activation of our sleeper agents within Tolkeen. Our intelligence assets are fully embedded. With your permission, we’re prepared to activate them for direct action against the Tolkeen war efforts.”

Prosek’s brow arched slightly, his interest piqued. The Program was one of the most clandestine and audacious undertakings within Coalition Intelligence. It had been years in development, designed to penetrate Tolkeen’s ranks from within by transforming human agents into seemingly authentic D-Bees. It was a project fraught with moral ambiguity, even for the Coalition, but Prosek knew its potential to shift the tide of the war.

“Explain,” he commanded, his voice calm but edged with the demand for perfection.

Lann continued, choosing his words carefully. “Our operatives have been transformed—physically, mentally, and psychologically—to fully adopt their roles as D-Bees. They’ve been reconditioned to believe they are who they appear to be, with deep-seated cover identities that even their conscious minds cannot penetrate. As a result, they’ve been able to infiltrate Tolkeen’s forces, gathering intelligence and even building trusted positions close to Tolkeen’s government and military.”

Prosek leaned back, considering this carefully. “You’re telling me they’ve fully accepted these… ‘second selves,’ these D-Bee personas?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lann affirmed. “Their secondary personalities are the only identities they are aware of at the moment. The program has achieved a level of fidelity so high that even Tolkeen’s medical examiners would perceive them as true D-Bees, scars and all.”

A faint smile appeared on Prosek’s face, a glimmer of satisfaction at the thought of Tolkeen trusting these sleeper agents. “And you’re confident they will awaken as Coalition operatives upon activation?”

Lann nodded. “Our conditioning is ironclad. At the issuance of the correct trigger phrase, their original identities will resurface, bringing with them their unwavering loyalty to the Coalition. Once activated, they will remember their mission objectives and the skills required to carry them out, including sabotage, assassination, and high-level intelligence gathering. Each agent has been programmed to return to their D-Bee cover as soon as their task is complete.”

Prosek steepled his fingers, his gaze intent. “And tell me about the targets.”

Lann’s lips curved in a subtle, approving smile. “There are many, Your Majesty, but one in particular stands above the rest: the King of Tolkeen.

The agents embedded will provide support, but our most valuable asset is one of Tolkeen’s own—a D-Bee shapeshifter. This individual has undergone extensive conditioning, not just in body, but in mind. He has been modified to appear as you, Your Majesty.”

Prosek’s eyes sharpened, intrigued. “Interesting… You’re telling me you have crafted a D-Bee who not only looks like me, but believes he is me?”

“Precisely, Your Majesty,” Lann said, his voice smooth. “The conditioning has been flawless. He carries your presence, your demeanor, even your voice, as closely as our methods can manage. When he arrives before Tolkeen’s King, he will believe he is you—there to confront him directly. We anticipate that Tolkeen’s King will see this as an opportunity to gloat, to confront what he perceives as the Coalition’s leader before ending your supposed life.”

“And he will be met with his own end,” Prosek murmured, the idea clearly appealing to him.

“Yes,” Lann confirmed, his tone tinged with satisfaction. “We have embedded a specialized chemical weapon within the shapeshifter’s body. It is undetectable by any standard means and will detonate when he reaches proximity to the King. It’s designed to be triggered by specific signals, ensuring a lethal dose of toxins is released. Once this occurs, Tolkeen’s King will be eradicated before he even realizes the nature of his error.”

Prosek’s smile was a cold, calculating thing. “And what becomes of this… doppelgänger afterward?”

Lann’s expression remained unflinching. “He will not survive the mission, Your Majesty. But if he does, he will have been executed or captured and no memory of his original life, no sense of himself beyond his secondary identity. He will be of no further use to Tolkeen—and of no danger to us.”

Prosek leaned forward, his face illuminated by the glowing hologram of Tolkeen’s territory. His eyes glinted with an emotion somewhere between satisfaction and contempt. “Excellent. Let him be my shadow in that cursed kingdom—one that will bring their so-called leadership to its knees. And after we eliminate their King, the rest will fall into line, scrambling for some semblance of order without their precious leader.”

Lann nodded, his face a mask of professional pride. “With your authorization, Your Majesty, we will initiate the activation sequence immediately. Within days, Tolkeen will be infiltrated by our most loyal and undetectable operatives.”

Prosek’s gaze hardened, his face an unreadable mask of command and certainty. “Do it. Let Tolkeen choke on its own weakness, unaware that it is my hand around its throat. This is the fate of any who challenge the Coalition States—swift, calculated, and absolute.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Lann bowed deeply, leaving the room to set the operation in motion.

Prosek sat alone for a moment, reveling in the quiet power of his decision. He knew that this move, shadowy and ruthless, would never be lauded in the public eye, nor would it be celebrated by his citizens. But in his mind, it was no less a part of his duty to humanity—a necessary evil, a means to an end.

In the shadows of Tolkeen, his likeness would arrive to deal a fatal blow to his enemies, and they would know, too late, the lengths to which the Coalition would go to secure humanity’s survival.

[darthauthor]

Location: Lazlo


The cities of Lazlo and Tolkeen are wild with whispers, the alleys and taverns thrumming with tales of a dragon’s wrath that had yet to descend. In the heart of Lazlo’s Atlantean Quarter, under the shadow of the ancient marble pillars and across cobbled streets aglow with the light of a hundred spell-lit lanterns, adventurers and mercenaries gathered in clusters, discussing the summons. Everyone had heard of the great Aurelor the Magnificent and of his promise to tear down the Coalition’s aircraft of death and the base from which it issued forth its destruction. Treasure hunters and battle-hardened warriors alike were eager to take up arms beside a living legend.

In the middle of this crowd was Lady Serana, her armor gleaming. Her short-cropped hair caught the light of the flames around her as she listened to the tale of Aurelor, told in eager voices by young Atlanteans who revered him as a mythical champion. She’d heard these stories as a child, tales of the Great Horned Dragon who protected the innocent across realms and whose justice was swift and unyielding. To fight beside him was an opportunity she would never have imagined possible, and she was determined to answer his call.

Beside her, the Mystic Knights stood with measured expressions. They cared little for heroics; only the promise of Aurelor’s treasure lured them.

Knight Three, turned to Serana. “They say he’s a legend, but that does nothing for me if we die or he does before we see any of his reward,” he muttered in a low, gravelly voice. “I don’t care for stories. I care for coin and magic, and I want it in advance.”

Lady Serana thought for a moment but nodded. “I don’t disagree. We’re about to go up against the Coalition’s finest, and if you’re dead, a promise of reward means little.”

Knight Two, hawk-like eyes, crossed his arms in thought.
Knight Four, “If he’s a dragon as powerful as they say, it shouldn’t be much for him to grant us some of his treasure now. We need to know he’s worth his weight.”
“Agreed,” Knight One added, his voice quiet but resolute. “A wise man doesn’t take on vengeance for free.”

---

They pack and make preparations to magically travel to Tolkeen.

---

Location: Tolkeen


There, standing tall and imposing, was Aurelor, a great horned dragon, his dragon aura radiating a quiet, controlled fury.

“Those of you who wish to fight,” he began, his voice a deep rumble that carried to every corner of the square, “know that I am not seeking allies in the name of peace or defense. This is vengeance. If you join me, you do so to kill and at the risk of your life.”

Many adventurers and mercenaries, a motley crew of fighters, each with their own reasons for volunteering to join Aurelor. step forward and pledged themselves to his cause.

The Mystic Knights exchanged glances, their eyes narrowing.

“We will join you, Aurelor,” Knight One called out, “but we will need payment in advance. No magic weapon or gem will be of use to us after death. Equip us now, and we’ll deliver.”

Aurelor regarded the knights with a level gaze, then nodded. “I will arrange for the delivery. For now, take my word for it and these gems as my guarantee. Fight beside me, and greater treasures await you still.”

Each knight's expression shifted from suspicion to quiet respect as they picked up gems.

Lady Serana stepped forward, her eyes meeting Aurelor’s. “I don’t need an advance. Fighting for revenge is enough. The Coalition took my people, just as they took yours. They’ve killed those I loved. I’ll lend my blade to this cause—until the last breath.”

Aurelor’s gaze softened, just slightly, as he looked at her. “Then stand beside me, Lady Serana. Let my claw and your blade carve the path of justice—no matter the cost.”

And so, together, they prepared to unleash the dragon’s wrath.

---

Location: Aurelor's camp


The camp is set up at the edge of a misty forest just beyond Tolkeen, a carefully chosen spot where no Coalition surveillance drones dared venture. Fires crackled, casting flickering light across the faces of the gathered adventurers, each one drawn by a promise of vengeance, wealth, or glory. The excitement of conversation and clinking of armor filled the air as mercenaries and would-be heroes mingled, sharing tales.

At a modest distance from the crowd, the Mystic Knights gathered.

Knight Two shared a glance, a silent agreement passing between them. It was time to sift through the crowd, to root out Coalition spies before any foul play could derail Aurelor’s plan.

Knight Three, cast a look over the assembled adventurers.
He let his gaze fall to a particular group of young men, all human.

“We’ll start with them,” Knight Three murmured to his companions.

Knight One, gave a short nod, already reaching for the psionic energies that would give him insight into their thoughts and emotions. With a quiet inhale, he activated his empathic abilities, his mind opening to the emotional undercurrents that buzzed through the camp. Emotions flared from the crowd: excitement, apprehension, impatience… and a few threads of anxiety and fear sharper than most.

Knight One’s eyes landed on the young men, and his focus sharpened. One of them—a wiry, dark-haired youth with an anxious expression—felt out of place. Beneath his attempts to project confidence and bravado, a seething dread pulsed from him, a distinct fear that seemed rooted in more than just the prospect of facing a Great Horned Dragon.

“Follow my lead,” Knight One whispered, straightening and approaching the young man with an easy, disarming smile.

“New faces,” he greeted, gesturing to the log beside the youth. “Mind if I join you for a bit?”

The young man looked up, startled, and quickly nodded. “Sure, of course.” He cast a glance at his companions, as though seeking reassurance, but they avoided his gaze. His nervousness flickered like a candle, though he worked hard to hide it.

Knight Two, came up beside him. “Where are you from?” he asked casually, his tone friendly but his eyes sharp.

“Here and there," young man answered too quickly. “We came as soon as we heard about Aurelor’s call.”

“Interesting,” Knight Two said, leaning forward slightly.

The young man stammered, glancing at his companions. “Y-Yes.”

Knight Three’s empathic senses caught the anxiety spiking. Something felt forced in the young man’s response, almost rehearsed.

Knight One moved forward, his own towering presence bearing down on the group. He crossed his arms. “Funny, how some of you don’t seem to fit the usual type.” he asked, eyeing the rest of the group.

The youth swallowed hard.

Knight Four, who’d remained silent until now, let his empathy scan the young man one last time. There was a specific undertone to his anxiety, a constant sense of fear directed not toward the camp or the dragon, but toward something else. Something disciplined. The kind of fear a soldier held for his superior.

“They don’t belong here,” Knight Four said softly, his eyes narrowing.

The youths exchanged nervous glances. Their hands resting on their weapons.

Knight One didn’t waste a beat, his voice a commanding whisper. “We know what you are. Speak, and we might let you go back with all your limbs.”

The dark-haired youth looked around, his face drained of all color. Finally, he lowered his head in defeat. “We were… sent to observe. Only to observe! They said the Coalition had to know what kind of force would be opposing them. I swear, we weren’t supposed to interfere, just report back.”

Knight Two smirked, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Well, your reporting days are over. We don’t need your kind slipping back to spread our secrets.”

Knight One looked at them, his face hard. “You’ll be answering our questions. Then you will be quarter and feed. You will be set free, after we return. IF we don't return, then you will be as alive as we are.”

As the Mystic Knights secured the group, Lady Serana approached, her face grim. “What's going on here?” she asked, glancing at the youths who now sat defeated and silent.

Knight One gave a short nod. “Coalition spies, sent to watch and report. But we’ll keep them around for information and disinformation.”

Lady Serana gave the young men a hard look, her voice a low murmur. “You picked the wrong side.” She turned to the Mystic Knights. “Well done, all of you. Aurelor will be pleased to know that his plans remain undisrupted.”

The Knights, their work done, exchanged satisfied glances, already planning their next round of the camp, knowing more Coalition eyes could be lurking anywhere in the shadows.

The spend the rest of the night inspecting the would be crusaders. With the shrewd use of See Aura (to identify humans disguised as D-Bees or who lie about the possession of cybernetics or psionics), Empathy, and Telepathy a number of people are collected.

With the use of psionics, spells and interrogation techniques the Mystic Knights collect information.

By dawn the spies are in a Tolkeen prison.

---

The group huddled around the map spread across a makeshift table, illuminated by the light of lantern lights. The map of Lake Michigan showed detail of the Coalition base: fortifications, docked vessels, patrol routes, and where the CAF-1 bomber was stationed.

Knight One, his hands resting heavily on the table, broke the silence. “It’s a trap,” he said grimly, his voice steady but edged with concern. “The Coalition knows Aurelor wants to destroy their bomber and their base. They’ve surrounded the area with vessels of war. They’re ready for us.”

Lady Serana leaned closer, her cybernetic eye scanning the map with precision. Her finger traced the perimeter of the base. “We can’t just charge in,” she said. “The CAF-1 is protected by the Coalition’s strongest units, and they’re expecting an attack.”

Knight One nodded, his sharp gaze fixed on the map. “The spies we captured gave us information about the Coalition’s next target for the bomber. A border town, close to the Wisconsin line. But that tells me one of two things: they either leaked the information on purpose to bait us, or it was given up under interrogation to feed us just enough truth to keep us predictable.”

He paused, letting his words settle over the group. “There’s at least a fifty-fifty chance the target is a decoy. If we go to defend the town, they might bomb someplace else entirely. Defending the town could be a fool’s errand. The safe thing would be to evacuate it, just in case.”

Lady Serana straightened, her expression hardening. “But you and I both know most people are stubborn and won’t leave their homes based on the word of strangers.”

Knight Four, a quiet figure standing at the edge of the group, chimed in. “If it’s a trap—and it is—we should consider letting the bomber take off and attacking it once it’s airborne. If we catch it in the air, we won’t have to face their entire garrison.”

“That’s a dangerous gamble,” Lady Serana said. “If we fail, they bomb another town, and we’re back where we started—with more lives lost.”

Aurelor, in his human guise, stepped forward. His presence commanded silence, his fiery gaze sweeping over the group. “The bomber is a weapon of mass murder. It has killed too many already. We know where it is now, at that base. If we hesitate, it will kill again. We cannot allow that to happen.”

Knight One looked at him evenly. “We also know it’s a trap. If we lose, we’ll not only lose the bomber—we’ll lose all of us and the chance to destroy it.”

Aurelor’s eyes burned brighter, a faint flicker of his dragon fury barely restrained. “We have an army now,” he said, his voice calm but with an edge of steel. “Thanks to all of you, and those who have joined this cause, we have the strength to strike at their base. They may be prepared for an air assault, but they won’t expect the coordination we can bring. We HAVE to strike now, before they send more spies or the ones we might have missed send warning. We MUST be radio silent and not tell the rest of the camp our plan.”

He gestured at the map, pointing to the waters around the island. “The Water Warlocks can ensure that no Coalition vessel escapes. Their ships will be destroyed. Those of you who fight on land will breach their defenses and destroy their base.”

Lady Serana folded her arms. “And you?”

Aurelor’s expression sharpened, his human façade barely containing the ancient dragon’s wrath. “I’ll take the skies with my dragon friend. That bomber will not survive our encounter. I’ll make certain of it.”

Knight Four exchanged a glance with Serana. “While you’re in the air, we’ll be in the thick of it. Destroying or securing their base.”

Aurelor nodded. “I will clear the skies. When I return, I want that base either in ruins or under our control.”

Knight Three, “What IF we could steal the bomber? Use it to destroy the base or a Coalition target?”

Aurelor smiled a little before asking, “How? Sneaking on board and flying away with it would seem impossible.”

Knight Three, “So is destroying it and the base but we are doing it anyway.”

The Dragon almost laughed but it turned into a gruff..
The map is now a blueprint for vengeance. As they prepared to move out, the flickering lantern light caught the determination etched into each of their faces. The trap was set, but so were they. This battle would be a reckoning, and the Coalition would pay dearly for their arrogance.

[darthauthor]

Location: Lake Michigan


The shoreline was still, the dark expanse of Lake Michigan stretching out endlessly under a canopy of stars. The moonlight shimmered on the water’s surface, casting pale streaks across the gentle ripples. Standing knee-deep in the cold, lapping waves was Maren, the Water Warlock, their dark blue robes flowing and damp, clinging to their body as the lake embraced them.

They extended their arms outward, fingers splayed, their voice rising in an ancient chant. The words were fluid, like the song of the tide, resonating with an energy older than the land itself. Each syllable carried power, rippling out into the water, which began to churn and spiral gently around their feet.

The temperature of the air seemed to drop as the spell’s energy intensified. Mist swirled in ghostly wisps around Maren, drawn from the lake by unseen forces. Their eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the magic coursing through them. The lake answered their call, waves rising and falling in rhythm with their voice.

As the Warlock’s chanting reached its climax, they plunged their hands into the lake. The water glowed faintly where their fingers disappeared beneath the surface. For a moment, there was silence—stillness, as if the entire world was holding its breath.

Then the lake stirred.

The elemental’s voice was a deep, resonant echo in the Warlock’s mind, as vast and ancient as the depths of the lake itself. “You have summoned me with purpose, warlock. Speak your need or return me to my home.”

The Warlock fell to one knee, bowing deeply, their head nearly touching the water. Through their connection to the elemental plane, the Warlock reached out.

The Warlock’s mental voice carried a tone of deep reverence and gratitude. “I am of water. I thank you for answering my call. I would not have summoned you but for the gravest of needs.”

Bowing their head again, droplets of water falling from their hair. “Enemies defile these waters with their machines. Water will restore the balance. Water shall return you to your home in the elemental plane of water.”

The elemental’s voice, vast and resonant like the echo of waves in a deep cavern, responded in the Warlock’s mind in a deep primal way the Warlock understood without words. It is like looking at a dog's face and knowing what they want.

The Warlock’s mental tone grew earnest. “Water is eternal, but I shall not keep you from your home for long. There are those who threaten the balance here. I beseech you to bring ruin upon them.”

The elemental pulsed with acknowledgment, the shimmering surface of its form shifting with hypnotic fluidity. The Warlock intuitively understood, the elemental will not linger beyond what is necessary.

The Warlock rose, the glow of the elemental reflecting in their determined eyes. “Thank you, my brother of the deep. I am forever in your debt."

The elemental’s presence pulsed.
The Warlock understood it to mean, “Lead, and I shall follow.”

Inviting his Warlock brothers
They undressed and cast spells. Stepping deeper into the lake, the cold water rising to their waist, then their chest. They dove forward with practiced ease, cutting through the water like a sleek predator. Beside them, the Water Elemental moved silently, undetectable by any means. It was the water—its form indistinguishable from the lake itself, even to the most advanced sonar systems.

The Warlocks began to swim with fluid, powerful strokes, the water parting easily before them as though guided by an unseen hand. Around them, the lake seemed unnaturally calm despite the warlocks movements. The currents bent and shifted subtly, carrying the Warlocks forward faster than any human swimmer should be able to move.

Beneath the surface, the elemental’s power was palpable. The Warlocks could feel its presence in the way the water embraced them, buoying their movements and propelling them forward. They shared a silent connection, their minds linked in harmony. The elemental’s strength coursed through the lake like a heartbeat, a rhythm that matched the Warlock's own.

Above them a major Air Elemental summoned by a Dragon (shape-shifted into their smallest forms) flew with them.

The Mystic Knights helicopters waited for the planned time with their electric helicopters and the army they carried.

---

As they swam, the Warlocks thoughts turned to the task ahead. The enemy was close—machines of war that floated arrogantly on the sacred waters. Their steel hulls cut through the lake, their engines disturbing the peace of the depths. But soon, they would face the wrath of the lake itself.

The Warlock’s body glided through the water. The chill of the lake seeped into their skin, but it did not bother them (thanks to their magic). The warlock’s connection to the water was too strong for discomfort. It was their ally, their weapon, and their sanctuary.

---

As the shoreline of Station Alpha grew before them, the Warlocks finally caught sight of their targets and took positions.

Coalition States Navy Mark IV Hurricane submersible patrol boat floated silently on the surface. Its sleek, angular shape cut a sharp silhouette against the night sky, its running lights glowing faintly in the darkness.

Without warning, the winds roared to life, spinning into a violent vortex that surrounded the patrol boat. The still lake transformed into a churning nightmare winds ripped through the air, slamming into the vessel with the force of an unrelenting hammer.

Waves surged upward and came crashing against the ship’s hull with deafening booms. The once-smooth surface of the lake became a writhing, chaotic expanse of foam and fury.

The gales howled like a banshee, tearing through the air with devastating force. Anything not bolted down was ripped from the ship, including crates, equipment, and even unsecured sections of railing.

Torrential sheets of rain lashed the deck. Marble-sized hailstones pelted down with lethal velocity, leaving dents in metal.

---

Onboard the patrol boat, chaos reigned. The deck tilted violently as the waves crashed over the bow, flooding compartments and sending sailors sprawling.

Those who hadn’t made it below deck in time clung desperately to anything sturdy, their knuckles white as the wind threatened to tear them away. One sailor lost their grip, tumbling across the slick deck before the wind hurled them into the churning lake.
Flying debris battered the crew mercilessly—broken pieces of equipment and twisted metal fragments became deadly projectiles. A metallic panel from the communications array tore free, striking a sailor and sending them crumpling to the ground.
The crew in the belly of the ship fought to maintain control as alarms blared. Water surged into compartments through cracks in the hull, threatening to overwhelm the bilge pumps.
“Engines at critical!” someone shouted, their voice barely audible over the cacophony. The ship groaned under the strain, its frame shuddering with each wave.

The waves hammered the ship relentlessly, lifting it high into the air before slamming it back down with bone-rattling force. Each impact echoed through the lake, the sound mingling with the relentless thunder. The winds circled like predators, their ferocity unyielding, battering the vessel from all sides.

The ship’s once-sleek hull now bore the scars of the assault—dents, cracks, and missing panels. Antennas snapped like twigs, and the radar dome was ripped clean off, vanishing into the tempest.

---

There the Warlock smiled faintly, their lips curling with both satisfaction and sorrow. “There,” they communicated, in the way of Water Warlock with an elemental, physically and psychically pointing toward the distant vessel. “Our enemies await. Let us remind them of the power of the water.”

The elemental’s response was a wordless surge of agreement, the currents around Maren shifting with anticipation. Together, warlock and elemental began their final approach, the calm lake belying the storm of destruction about to unfold.

---

Captain Miriam Harker stood on the bridge of the Fairweather, his boots planted firmly on the polished deck as the ship cut through the frigid waters of Lake Michigan. The metallic hum of the ship's systems and the steady rhythm of the engines filled the air, a comforting backdrop to the weight of her responsibilities.

It was then that a young officer burst through the hatch. "Captain," he stammered, his face pale.

Harker raised an eyebrow. "Explain yourself.

The man rasped, his voice thick with urgency. "Danger is coming. From the water."

Harker snapped. He turned back to the holographic navigation display. Lake Michigan was calm, the weather station reporting nothing unusual.

But then, the first mate's voice crackled over the intercom. "Captain! Unusual activity detected on sonar—south-southeast!"

Harker’s blood ran cold. "Define 'unusual.'"

Before he could respond, a crewman on deck screamed. Harker spun toward the bridge windows, his heart skipping a beat. Rising on the horizon, almost impossibly close, were ten monstrous walls of water. They towered above the lake’s surface, glinting menacingly under the gray sky. Each wave was a hundred feet high, their peaks frothing with rage, their dark blue masses surging forward with unstoppable momentum.

"Brace for impact!" Harker shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. Alarms blared throughout the ship as sailors scrambled for safety. He grabbed the console, his knuckles white, as the first wave loomed.

The Fairweather met the first wave with its side exposed. The water struck with a deafening roar, tossing the 7,000-ton vessel like a toy. The steel hull groaned under the force, rivets popping like firecrackers. Crew members clung desperately to handrails as the ship listed violently, spray and foam crashing through every open hatch.

The second wave hit before the ship could recover. This time, the wave lifted the Fairweather nearly vertical, the prow pointing skyward as if reaching for salvation. Inside, chaos reigned. Equipment broke loose, crashing against walls and ceilings. Harker fought to maintain his grip on the console as the bridge tilted, the horizon spinning wildly outside the windows.

By the third wave, the ship was beyond saving. The immense force flipped the Fairweather onto its back, its hull slamming into the lake with a sound like thunder. Inside, seawater flooded compartments, extinguishing lights and dragging sailors into the depths. Harker’s last thought before the icy water enveloped him was of the psychic’s warning.

When the final wave receded, the lake grew eerily calm, as if nothing had happened. The Fairweather, once a mighty destroyer, lay capsized in the water, its upturned keel breaking the surface like a grave marker. Debris floated around it—sections of the deck, broken lifeboats, and the occasional flash of a sailor’s uniform.

The skies were filled with SAMAS looking for a fight.

They met with a storm.

The sky about had turned into a tempest.

---

Station Alpha’s day was routine. Personnel bustled about their tasks, mechanics worked in hangars, radio operators monitored frequencies, and sailors prepped the docked vessels.

The Major Water Elemental unleashed another tidal wave spell. The lake groaned as if alive, and the first wave began to rise.

---

“Massive water displacement detected!” the Coalition service member yelled into the comms.

The wave smashed into the base’s southern wall, tearing through it like paper. The force obliterated the outer docks, tossing patrol boats into the air and slamming them against the cliffside. Cranes collapsed, and containers of supplies spilled into the frothing water.

Personnel scrambled to higher ground, alarms blaring across the island.

---


The second wave struck before the base could recover. Water poured over the landing strip, tearing apart chunks and sweeping smaller aircraft from their tethers. The hangars, designed to withstand storms, buckled as water forced its way inside, tossing jets like driftwood.

The dock area became a churning whirlpool. Ships that had weathered the first wave were slammed against each other or driven aground. The repair facilities, painstakingly built to handle complex naval operations, were reduced to twisted metal and splinters.

The third and fourth waves compounded the damage. Floodwaters surged through the lower barracks, dragging bunk beds, furniture, and anything not bolted down into the lake. The desalination plant, vital for the base's water supply, was crushed under the relentless onslaught. Sparks and smoke rose as electrical systems shorted out.

By the time the fifth wave struck, the base was unrecognizable in parts. Entire sections of the perimeter wall had vanished, replaced by torrents of water.

---

The Commander, soaked to the bone and standing in what was left of the command tower, barked orders into the emergency radio. “Evacuate to the radar station! Move inland! Secure survivors!”

From his vantage point, he could see the devastation below. The southern half of the base was submerged, a graveyard of twisted steel and floating debris.

---

The seventh wave brought the final blow to the radar and weather stations, perched on the island’s highest points. The surge of water crumpled the structures, scattering the radar arrays across the landscape. Communications with the fleet were severed, isolating the base completely.

Wave eight tore into the northern barracks, where the last remnants of dry ground remained. Personnel who hadn’t yet evacuated were forced to climb onto rooftops or cling to debris. Supplies stored in warehouses were swept away, barrels and crates bobbing in the tumultuous water.

The ninth wave targeted what remained of the hangars and repair facilities. The reinforced roofs collapsed inward, burying equipment and tools under tons of waterlogged rubble.

---

The final wave, cresting ominously as it thundered toward the battered base hit with apocalyptic force. What remained of Station Alpha was submerged in an instant. The command tower crumbled, its structure no match for the deluge. Jets were swept into the lake, joining the submerged remnants of ships, cranes, and buildings.

---

When the water finally began to recede, the island bore little resemblance to its former self. The base lay in ruins—buildings flattened, equipment destroyed, and the once-pristine shoreline scarred with debris.

The island lay in shambles, its once-mighty naval base reduced to a chaotic wasteland by waves and earthquakes. Survivors clung to the few solid patches of ground left, exhausted and wary of what might come next.

---

Above the island, the circling SAMAS began to sway. Pilots fought with their controls as the wind dragged their craft sideway.

In moments, the wind reached its full, devastating strength, it roared across the island like an invisible wave, tearing through the ruins and anything still upright.

A SAMAS tilted violently to one side as the wind caught it. “I’m losing control!” the pilot yelled into his headset. Seconds later, the craft spun out of control and slammed into the ground, sending a fireball roaring upward.
Another, higher up, managed to escape the island's radius but was forced to retreat to calmer air. The remaining craft hovered far offshore, helpless to assist those below.

From what they could see, ANY aircraft in the area of the bases were battered by the wind and storm above the island attempted a quick retreat to safer skies but many were struck by an invisible force that had no heat signature knocking them into each other or the water.

---

“Did you feel that?” someone asked.

Commander Harker, bruised and exhausted, froze in place. His sharp instincts kicked in. “Everyone, to stable ground! Now!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the growing panic.

The first violent shockwave hit like a bomb, throwing people off their feet. The island groaned as cracks snaked through the ground, splitting concrete slabs and tearing through the remaining infrastructure. The hangar remains, already weakened from the tidal waves, collapsed in on themselves, sending plumes of dust and debris into the air.

The fractured tarmac buckled, jagged pieces of concrete jutting upward as the earth beneath shifted violently. A salvaged jet, teetering precariously on its wrecked landing gear, slid sideways into a newly-formed chasm.
What remained of the north barracks crumbled as the earth beneath it liquefied, swallowing pieces of the structure into the ground. Soldiers scrambled to higher ground, their footing unstable as aftershocks rippled outward.

The shattered remains of the docks sank as the ground beneath them shifted toward the water.

Near the base’s command tower ruins, a jagged ridge erupted from the ground, lifting broken steel and concrete skyward. It split the island in two, severing paths and dividing survivors into isolated pockets.

In several areas, the ground simply gave way, swallowing equipment, vehicles, and even a section of the radar station. Water rushed into the voids, forming new ponds and leaving gaping scars on the island’s surface.

The island’s natural cliffs crumbled under the strain, sending avalanches of boulders and earth into the lake, further damaging the crippled naval vessels moored offshore.

Commander Harker, clutching a twisted railing for balance, shouted orders. “Get to the high ground! Move, move!”

He watched as the once-proud Fairweather, still overturned in shallow water, shifted again. The massive destroyer groaned, its hull scraping against submerged rocks as the quake twisted the lakebed beneath it.

---

After what felt like an eternity, the tremors began to fade, leaving behind an eerie silence. Dust hung heavy in the air, and the island was unrecognizable. The naval base was gone—obliterated by water and now earth. Survivors huddled together on the few stable patches of ground, their faces pale and their eyes wide with disbelief.

---


The Invasion Begins

The electric whine of rotors filled the air as 10 stealth electric helicopters descended over the shattered remains of Station Alpha. Their sleek, black frames gleamed faintly in the moonlight, nearly silent as they approached the devastated island. Inside, two platoons of heavily armed mercenaries sat in disciplined silence, their armor matte black and bristling with advanced energy rifles.

Lady Serana, the Cyber-Knight, stood apart from them, her hands resting lightly on the hilt of her magic sword, which hung at her side. Her eyes were closed, her expression serene. Exuded calm, she opened her eyes as the helicopters landed, her voice soft yet commanding.

"The enemy will not yield—neither must we."

The mercenaries nodded, their discipline unshaken. The helicopters landed, and the soldiers spilled out in perfect formation. The robots were waiting.

---

The Skelebots, sleek and humanoid in design, stood in a defensive formation near the island’s remaining infrastructure. Their metallic bodies gleamed under the searchlights they carried, and their laser rifles glowed faintly as they calibrated their aim. They moved with cold precision, every step calculated, every sensor primed for combat.

The robots opened fire immediately, red lances of energy cutting through the air toward the advancing mercenaries. But they moved without hesitation, the blasts were harmless to them.

"Spread out!" barked the mercenary commander, his voice carrying over the chaos. The platoons split into coordinated squads, maintaining their distance from the robots while raining down energy rifle fire. Pulses of green and blue energy lashed out, striking the robots metal frames and leaving glowing scorch marks.

The mercenaries maintained their superior tactics, using cover and keeping a distance from the advancing robots. The energy rifles proved devastating, each shot disabling or destroying a skelebot in a burst of sparks and smoke. But the machines did not falter.

The Skelebots, programmed to fight until destruction, shifted into a flanking maneuver, firing in coordinated bursts. A group of five robots charged forward, attempting to close the gap, only to be obliterated by a mercenary squad armed with concentrated fire.

The Mystic Knights (disguised as Mercs) moved with clockwork efficiency, using tactics and teamwork to dismantle the skelebots defensive lines. Every advance by the machines was met with overwhelming force, their inability to retreat or surrender turning them into easy targets.

As the last few squads of robots reorganized for a final, desperate push, Lady Serana stepped forward, her movements deliberate and fluid. Her blade gleaming faintly with an otherworldly tint. The air around her seemed to grow still, her presence drawing the focus of every nearby Skelebot.

The robots turned their weapons toward her, their sensors locking on—but they were too slow. Lady Serana moved like the wind, her blade flashing in the dim light.

She lunged forward, her sword cleaving through the first robot’s torso with ease. Sparks and metal shards erupted as the machine fell in two, its systems failing before it could react.
A robot fired at her, but she sidestepped effortlessly, the laser passing within millimeters of her face. She spun, using the momentum to drive her blade through the next robot, severing its arm and weapon in one fluid motion.
Lady Serana’s zen-like focus made her untouchable. She seemed to predict every movement, every shot, always one step ahead. Her blade danced through the robots, each stroke precise, each movement calculated.

Within moments, she had cleared an entire flank of robots, their shattered remains scattered around her. She paused briefly, her sword held loosely at her side. Her breathing was steady, her face serene.

The last group of robots, cornered and outnumbered, fired wildly in all directions. The mercenaries closed in, their energy rifles cutting down the remaining machines. Lady Serana darted into their midst, her blade a blur of light and destruction. In mere seconds, the battlefield fell silent, save for the hiss of cooling metal as the helicopters waiting to extract the victors.
As the Mystic Knights approached Lady Serana, his expression a mix of awe and respect.

Lady Serana sheathed her blade, her gaze distant. "They were machines—programmed for destruction. I only offered them the inevitability of their end."

Knight One nodded and gestured for his troops to regroup. The mercenaries began sweeping the area, ensuring no threats remained. Above them, the electric helicopters hovered, their rotors casting faint ripples across the lake’s surface.

Lady Serana turned her eyes toward the horizon, the faintest hint of a smile gracing her lips. "There will be more battles," she murmured, her voice low. "But tonight, we have won."

The island was no longer a strategic naval base. It was a battlefield scarred by elemental fury.

- The docks were gone.
- The barracks and operational centers were erased.
- Sinkholes and ridges dominated the landscape, rendering the terrain almost impassable.

Survivors, already battered by waves and earthquakes, found themselves clinging to whatever solid structures they could find—broken walls, jagged rock formations, or the twisted remains of steel girders.

Lady Serana stepped into the dimly lit remnants of what had once been Station Alpha’s command room. The destruction around her was profound—cracked walls, sparking consoles, and pools of water still clinging to the floor from earlier battles. The air smelled of smoke and salt, mingling with the faint metallic tang of scorched circuits.

Commander Harker sat in a broken chair in the center of the room, his wrists loosely bound with a strip of salvaged cable. His uniform was torn, his face streaked with soot and dried blood, but his posture remained upright, his eyes defiant.

Lady Serana approached with deliberate calm, her dark blue cloak trailing behind her. Her magic blade rested in its sheath at her hip, but its presence was palpable in the room, an unspoken reminder of its wielder’s authority.

Serana’s voice was soft yet cutting, like the edge of her sword. “I am here for answers, not bloodshed. You will tell me where the bomber is.”

Harker’s lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “You think I’m just going to tell you? You’ve already dismantled everything here—what more do you want?”

Lady Serana stepped closer, her icy blue eyes locking onto Harker’s. There was no anger, no malice in her gaze, only the unshakable determination of someone who had walked through fire and remained unscathed.

“I know what your bomber did,” Serana said evenly. “A civilian village, erased from existence. Families, children, innocents—all gone. That destruction was deliberate. You owe me the truth.”

Harker’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Serana continued, her tone still calm. “You believe yourself loyal to your chain of command, to your Coalition. But this bomber? It is a weapon of murder, not war. What harm is there in telling me where it is? Or are you protecting those who target civilians?”

The words struck a nerve, and Harker flinched, though his expression remained stoic. “You don’t understand how this works,” he said finally. “You’re an outsider—a rogue. This isn’t your fight.”

Serana crouched to meet Harker’s eyes. “When you brought that weapon to bear on innocents… It’s my fight.”

Harker took a deep breath, his resolve wavering. “You think I wanted this?” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “That village wasn’t a target—it was collateral damage. A mistake in a world full of mistakes.”

Serana’s gaze didn’t soften. “And yet, the weapon remains. Where is it?”

Harker hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s not here. That’s all I can tell you.”

Serana’s voice hardened. “Then where is it?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Harker snapped, his voice rising. “Even if I told you, you wouldn’t find it. That bomber isn’t something you can just walk into a hangar and take. It doesn’t need to refuel or land on airstrips—it needs miles of water just to take off and land. And it’s gone. The leadership moved it days ago, anticipating an attack. I don’t even know where they sent it—it’s classified, need-to-know only.”

Serana stood, the pieces falling into place. She turned to pace the room, her mind racing.

“Why move it?” Serana mused aloud. “They feared this attack. They thought I might come. But by moving it, they’ve only delayed the inevitable.”

Harker looked up at her, exhaustion and defiance mingling in his expression. “You’ll never find it. The CAF-1 is a ghost—hidden, protected. Even you can’t touch it.”

Serana stopped pacing, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. “Perhaps not yet,” she said, her voice as cold as the steel of her blade. “But ghosts have a way of being exorcized. And I am good at exorcisms.”

---

Lady Serana turned to leave, her cloak billowing slightly as she moved toward the broken doorway. Before stepping out, she paused, glancing back at Harker.

“Pray that your secrets don’t cost more lives. Because, I will see justice done for your war crimes.”

Without another word, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving the Commander alone with Knight One.

[darthauthor]

Location: Lake Michigan



The sky above Lake Michigan was a storm of invisible fury. Beneath a twilight canopy smeared with streaks of crimson and gold, the Coalition’s SAMAS pilots swept through the air in disciplined formations, their sleek, winged power armor glinting in the dying light. Each of the 120 surviving units moved with practiced precision, their boosters flaring as they streaked across the sky at speeds dragons could not hope to match. Yet, despite their superior velocity, they fought an enemy they could not see—a supernatural force battering them from the sky itself.

High above the melee, Aurelor, in his Great Horned Dragon form, hovered alongside his ally, Nikiden Shodai, a shimmering Kumo-Mi dragon cloaked in light and shadow. Between them churned a Major Air Elemental, a towering vortex of invisible might that bent the winds to its will, silently slicing through the clouds like a razor. The three moved with unearthly grace, their forms cloaked in magic that rendered them invisible to the SAMAS pilots advanced optics and targeting systems (turn invisible at will and the spell Aura of Death).

The first SAMAS formation swept through the sector, their pilots scanning frantically for the source of the attacks. “Eyes on! I’ve got nothing!” one of them barked through the comms, his voice taut with frustration.

Aurelor responded with a roar that split the heavens. Though unseen, his presence rippled through the air like a thunderclap. He dove through the ranks, his massive tail whipping out of nowhere to strike one of the armored soldiers. The SAMAS unit spun wildly, its stabilizers shrieking, before it careened into the lake below with an eruption of water and sparks.

“Control your sectors!” a commander shouted. “They're using hit-and-run tactics—stick to tight formations!”

Nikiden Shodai unleashed his own assault. The Kumo-Mi dragon, sleek and serpentine, darted through the sky in elegant loops, his claws lashing out with sudden precision. He struck from seemingly impossible angles, moving against the natural flow of physics as if the air itself bent to his will. One SAMAS pilot had no time to register the tracks of claws raking across his wing before his power armor disintegrated in a shower of sparks and shredded metal.

The Air Elemental surged forward next, its immense and formless presence buffeting an entire squadron. Gusts of wind twisted with unnatural ferocity, bending the SAMAS units off course and slamming two of them into one another with bone-crushing force. The Elemental’s silent wrath was relentless, every pulse of its invisible body a tidal wave of destructive energy.

“Target! Target! Sector Five!” shouted another SAMAS pilot, only for his words to be cut off as Aurelor, his gleaming eyes, molten gold with streaks of fury, burned through the haze as his jaws snapped shut around the SAMAS unit. The pilot’s screams were lost as the dragon crushed the power armor like a tin can before vanishing again.

Despite the dragon’ slower flight speed, the SAMAS units struggled to maintain their advantage. The Coalition soldiers were unaccustomed to facing enemies in the sky who could hit this hard. Each time they accelerated to flank their foes, the dragons and the Elemental adjusted, outmaneuvering them with impossible shifts in trajectory. Somehow, the supernatural creatures did not simply fly; they defied the laws of gravity, warping through the air in ways the SAMAS pilots couldn’t anticipate.

Aurelor’s magic-infused body glowed faintly with regenerative energy. He could feel the minor dents and tears in his scales sealing up even as the battle raged on. A missile exploded nearby, throwing shards of shrapnel against his flank, but within seconds, his flesh knitted itself back together.

“Commander, we’re taking too many losses! Over a dozen units down and no confirmed targets!” one pilot cried.

“They’re ghosts!” another shouted. “I can’t hit what I can’t see!”

Nikiden Shodai swept low, his form twisting into an elegant barrel roll as his tail smashed through a trio of SAMAS units attempting to regroup. The Coalition soldiers spun out of control, their wing boosters faltering before they plummeted to the earth below. Shodai roared, his voice resonating with a deep, primal magic that sent ripples of fear through the SAMAS pilots’ comms.

Aurelor surged upward, positioning himself high above the remaining power armors. He released a blast of radiant fire, the inferno cascading invisibly through the air, catching a squadron mid-flight. The flames engulfed them, and though they tried to outfly the attack, their armor melted under the heat, their boosters sputtering before they fell from the sky in smoking ruins.

The Air Elemental, meanwhile, coiled and surged in a series of destructive waves. It split into smaller tendrils of wind, each lashing out like invisible whips, cutting through power armor joints and bending wings. One SAMAS pilot screamed as his controls seized up, his armor buckling under the relentless assault.

The Coalition forces were in disarray now. Their once-tight formations were shredded, their superior numbers dwindling with every passing second. From the ground, the Aurelor’s army—mages, mercenaries, and warlocks—watched the skies with awe. They couldn’t see the battle, only the occasional explosion or falling wreckage of another SAMAS unit.

Above it all, Aurelor and his allies pressed the attack, a storm of vengeance invisible yet unstoppable. The dragons and their Elemental ally had turned the Coalition’s trap into a killing ground, leaving only chaos and shattered metal in their wake.
---
“What is happening?” one of the CS officer’s prisoner yelled, shielding his face from the biting wind.
---
Aurelor landed with a thundering crash, his immense frame stirring up a cloud of dust and ash from the ruined Coalition base. His golden eyes, glowing with the embers of a battle not fully sated, scanned the smoldering wreckage around him. A low growl rumbled from deep within his chest as he folded his wings with a deliberate slowness, his massive claws sinking into the dirt. The battlefield was his, but he felt a gnawing dissatisfaction.

The SAMAS units had fled, scattering in all directions. Those remaining had been too few and too frightened to provide a challenge. Aurelor had wanted more—a fight to match the rage that had driven him to take the skies. Instead, they had broken and run, leaving him with a hollow victory.

Around him, his allies gathered, their voices a mix of awe and concern. As he turned visible, those closest gasped as they saw his wounds healing before their eyes. Deep gouges along his scaled hide sealed shut, leaving no trace of the damage inflicted during the battle. A few burns smoldered faintly before cooling, as though his very blood extinguished them.

Lady Serana approached, her armor streaked with soot and her expression grim.
“The base is ours,” she began, her tone measured, “but the bomber that destroyed your village isn’t here. The Coalition leadership moved it before we arrived. They must have anticipated we’d strike.”

Aurelor’s glowing eyes narrowed, and his tail lashed against the ground, sending tremors through the earth. “Cowards,” he hissed. “Hiding their weapon of destruction while they leave others to fight their battles.”

Knight One, stepped forward. His voice was calm but tinged with urgency. “From what we’ve gathered so far, the bomber has no fixed destination. In theory, it can fly indefinitely. Its engines are powered by internal nuclear cells. The only limit is the endurance of its pilots and their water supply.”

“Then it could be anywhere,” Aurelor growled, his frustration mounting. He cast his gaze toward the remains of the base, watching as his people secured prisoners and scavenged for anything of value. “And while it flies, more towns are in danger.”

Serana nodded. “We’re interrogating survivors and scouring the base for intelligence. Anything that can give us an idea of where it will land or attack next. But this place won’t be safe for long. The Coalition will retaliate. If they can’t have this base, they’ll destroy it.”

Aurelor’s massive head lowered toward her, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “Then we leave nothing for them to destroy. Gather everyone and everything of use. I will not give the Coalition the satisfaction of catching us off guard.”

Knight One stepped back, nodding to the others. “You heard him. Move! Get what we can and prepare to pull out.”

The camp erupted into motion. Mercenaries and warlocks moved swiftly through the ruins, gathering equipment, confiscating Coalition tech, and leading prisoners under guard. The Fire Warlock summoned their elemental ensuring no evidence was left behind to give the Coalition clues about their departure.

Aurelor paced the clearing, his frustration evident in every calculated step. The satisfaction of destroying the base, the source of his village’s devastation, was fleeting. It was a hollow victory, one that did nothing to stop the bomber still circling somewhere out there, waiting to rain more death from the skies.

Lady Serana lingered near him, her voice softer now. “We’ll find it,” she said, as though reading his thoughts. “We’ve already crippled one of their strongholds. It’s only a matter of time before we find their prized weapon.”

Aurelor paused, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His wounds had fully healed now, his strength returning, but his spirit remained restless. “Time is a luxury the innocent do not have, Serana. I will not stop until this weapon is destroyed. Until the Coalition feels the weight of their sins.”

She nodded, her jaw tightening. “Neither will we.”

As the last of their forces regrouped, Knight One approached Aurelor. “We’re ready to move. If the Coalition retaliates, they’ll find nothing but rubble.”

Aurelor’s eyes flared with determination. “Good. Let them come. And when they do, let them know that Aurelor the Magnificent will hunt their bomber to the ends of the earth if that’s what it takes.”

With that, the great dragon unfurled his wings, casting a shadow over the scorched battlefield. His allies moved in formation behind him, their stolen spoils and prisoners secured. As they took to the skies and disappeared into the mist, the base lay silent and empty, a smoldering monument to the fury of a dragon who would not be stopped.

[darthauthor]

Lazlo Special News Report


The screen fades from the bright, familiar Lazlo cityscape to the solemn expression of the anchor, a middle-aged human woman with sharp features and a steady, measured tone. Behind her, the studio backdrop displays the Lazlo emblem, but it’s partially obscured by an image of the devastated village of Tur, smoke still rising faintly in the distance.

Anchor, “Good evening, Lazlo. We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you a special report. Tragedy has struck one of our own. The village of Tur has been devastated in what can only be described as a catastrophic attack. Rescue workers are still counting the bodies, and those maimed in the explosion have been transported to the capital’s hospitals for urgent care. The hearts of all Lazlo citizens go out to the families of those who have suffered this unimaginable loss.”

The screen shifts to aerial footage of Tur, now reduced to smoldering ruins. A slow pan reveals craters where homes once stood and the remnants of a charred marketplace. Medics rush to carry injured villagers on stretchers as volunteers sift through rubble, searching for survivors.

Anchor, “The cause of the destruction has been confirmed—a Coalition bomb. Experts have identified the chemical signature of the explosives, which match that of Coalition-manufactured weaponry. While the attack’s scale and devastation echo the previous destruction of the village of Sorville, Tur’s larger population has tragically led to a higher death toll.”

The camera cuts back to the anchor, her expression grim.

Anchor, “The Coalition States have so far refused to respond to inquiries. We of the media have reached out to their representatives, demanding answers, but our radio calls have been met with silence. Similarly, the government of Lazlo has made official demands that the Coalition either acknowledge the attack or provide evidence that it was not their doing. However, our sources within Lazlo’s government report that the Coalition has ignored all diplomatic attempts at contact.”

The anchor’s voice grows slightly sharper, tinged with frustration.

Anchor, “This lack of response has left us with more questions than answers. Was this a mistake by the Coalition’s military? A rogue element acting without orders? Or perhaps something far more sinister—a calculated test by the Coalition government to gauge Lazlo’s reaction? The silence is deafening, and it speaks volumes.”

The screen cuts to a recorded interview with a Coalition military defector who sits across from a Lazlo journalist. The man’s uniform has been stripped of insignia, but his demeanor is serious, his eyes hollowed by years of service.

Coalition Defector, (grimly) “One village today. Lazlo tomorrow. That’s what this is. If the Coalition can bomb a village and get away with it, what’s stopping them from doing the same to a city? The super-bomber they’re using is a game changer, and no one is safe—not mages, not D-Bees, not civilians. They’ve built it to make sure no one can fight back.”

The screen cuts back to the anchor, her tone sharpening with urgency.

Anchor, “Amongst Lazlo’s experts and citizens, debate is already raging. Many believe that Lazlo must respond decisively, demanding reparations for the lives and limbs lost—or risking retaliation to prove that such attacks will not go unanswered. To do nothing, as some fear, would invite more destruction.”

The image behind her changes to a massive, imposing figure—a great horned dragon with scales that glimmer faintly in the sunlight. A caption reads: “Aurelor the Magnificent.”

Anchor, “In related news, Aurelor the Magnificent, the legendary dragon crusader and rescuer of the innocent, has emerged. He has returned to the forefront of resistance against the Coalition. His crusade, now known across the continent, focuses not on killing Coalition soldiers but on destroying their most dangerous weapons—chief among them, the CAF-1 super-bomber.”

Footage plays of the Great Horned Dragon, Aurelor, in action, a majestic, terrifying figure soaring through the skies, destroying Coalition SAMAS in the sky. Fires rage below as survivors of the attacks are shown surrendering under the dragon’s watchful gaze.

Anchor, “Aurelor has taken responsibility for several Coalition losses, including the destruction of Station Alpha, the launch site of the bomber that annihilated Sorville and took the lives of Aurelor’s wife and community. The dragon has also confirmed his involvement in the destruction of the Coalition’s destroyer ship The Fairweather, two missile cruisers, and six submersible patrol boats, as well as over 100 military aircraft and an untold number of skelebots.”

The screen transitions to footage of citizens gathering in Lazlo’s streets, waving banners and flags bearing Aurelor’s likeness. The dragon’s growing following is evident, with impassioned speeches from supporters calling for Lazlo to align itself with his crusade.

Anchor, “Despite his tragic losses, Aurelor continues his crusade, allowing Coalition soldiers to retreat and surrender without harm, and treating prisoners with fairness. His campaign has inspired many in Lazlo to call for direct action against the Coalition.”

The image shifts again, showing a diagram of the CAF-1 super-bomber and its reported capabilities.

Anchor, “Aurelor and his company have warned Lazlo and Tolkeen of the potential threat posed by the Coalition’s super-bomber. Capable of delivering destruction from an altitude of seven miles and higher, the bomber is reportedly equipped with stealth technology that makes detection and interception nearly impossible. Experts warn that without preparation, Lazlo itself could become the next target.”

The screen cuts back to the anchor, her expression grave.

Anchor, “The question remains: what will Lazlo do? Can we afford to wait for answers that may never come, or will we act to ensure the safety of our people? As the village of ‘Tur’ mourns its dead, the citizens of Lazlo hold their breath, waiting for a decision that could shape the future of our kingdom.”

The screen fades to black, and the Lazlo emblem reappears, accompanied by somber music.

Voiceover, “This has been a special report from Lazlo News Network. Stay safe, stay vigilant, and may peace find us all.”


---

Location: The Emperor’s War Chamber


The chamber is dominated by a massive table etched with maps of the Coalition States and its enemies. Emperor Karl Prosek stands at the head of the table, his imposing figure clad in a ceremonial uniform. Around him are his key advisors: General Monroe; Director Helstrom; and Minister Carlisle.

Emperor Prosek, (glaring at the gathered advisors), “Explain to me how this mess spiraled so far out of our control. A single village. One bomb. And now Lazlo believes it has the right to spill Coalition blood in retribution?“

General Monroe, (visibly tense, avoiding eye contact), “Your Excellency, it is an unprecedented escalation. Lazlo’s forces acted swiftly—precision strikes, minimal engagement. We estimate they lost no more than a handful of personnel.”
Prosek, (voice sharp) “While we lost trained soldiers. Do you think we can afford this kind of attrition, General? Especially while our forces are still tied up in Tolkeen?”
General Monroe, “No, Your Excellency. The army remains committed to the Tolkeen campaign. A war with Lazlo now would stretch us dangerously thin.”
Director Helstrom (interrupting), “Which is precisely why Lazlo acted, Your Excellency. They’re testing us—baiting us, even. They think we’ll overreact, lash out, and fall into a two-front war we can’t sustain.”

Prosek (pausing, his jaw tight), “And their people will believe this retaliation is justified because of Tur. Because of ‘our’ bomb.”

Minister Carlisle, “Which is why we must control the narrative, my Emperor. Lazlo seeks to frame us as aggressors, using this to galvanize their people and allies. But our people—our humans—need a different story.”

Prosek (arching a brow), “Go on, Carlisle.”

Minister Carlisle, “We deny Lazlo’s actions outright. We paint their story as propaganda, a fabrication designed to justify their own aggression. “No retaliation happened,” we say. Their claims are merely lies to bolster their standing among their D-Bee and mage sympathizers.”

Prosek (nodding slowly), “And what of our soldiers who witnessed Lazlo’s so-called retaliation? What of their tales, their whispers? A single loose tongue could unravel our efforts.”

Director Helstrom (calmly), “Then we silence them. We already monitor communications from the units involved. Any soldier who cannot be persuaded to remain silent… will be dealt with. A few disappearances are a small price to pay to preserve the Coalition’s reputation and prevent an unnecessary war.”

General Monroe (hesitating), “Your Excellency… are we prepared to do that to our own?”

Prosek, (fixing Monroe with a steely glare), “Do you hesitate to send soldiers into battle, General? Is death by Lazlo’s hand more noble than death for the Coalition’s stability? If they can’t see the greater purpose of silence, they are liabilities, not soldiers.”

General Monroe (reluctantly nodding), “Understood, Your Excellency.”

Prosek (turning to Helstrom), “In the meantime, your people will find out who set off the bomb in Tur. I don’t care how deep you have to dig—rogue soldier, saboteur, false flag—it matters not. I want answers. And when you find them… make sure they can’t cause us further embarrassment.”

Director Helstrom (bowing slightly), “It will be done.”

Prosek, “Carlisle, I expect the propaganda arm to move swiftly. Deny, deflect, and double down. I want Lazlo painted as desperate liars, exploiting a tragedy to justify aggression. Make them the villains in this story.”

Minister Carlisle (smirking) “Consider it done, Your Excellency. The broadcasts will begin within the day.”

Prosek (clasping his hands behind his back, his gaze sweeping the room), “Let this be a reminder to us all: the Coalition does not bow, apologize, or falter. We are humanity’s last hope, and we do what must be done. Lazlo will learn this… in time.”

The room falls silent as the Emperor’s words settle over the gathered advisors. Each of them bows slightly as Prosek strides out, his cloak sweeping behind him. The doors shut with a resounding echo, leaving his advisors to carry out his will.

[darthauthor]

A Glimmer of Opportunity

The camp was unusually tense. The fires crackled softly, their light casting long shadows across the sprawling war camp Aurelor had assembled. Mercenaries, adventurers, and Tolkeen loyalists moved with purpose, their voices hushed but edged with excitement and unease. A new figure stood near the center of the camp: a war reporter, a wiry human woman with a sharp gaze and a knack for being in the right place at the worst time. She had a datapad clutched tightly, her recorder active, documenting every movement and exchange.

She had heard rumors that Aurelor, the legendary dragon, might end the war, and she intended to make sure the world knew about it.

Inside a hastily erected command tent, Knight Three was bent over a radio console, headphones pressed to his ears. His face, normally unreadable, now betrayed a flicker of shock as he listened to the crackling transmission.

“This is Sergeant Holtz, Coalition field operative. Priority Alpha transmission to any Coalition forces in the region. Repeat, we have the Emperor. He is alive and well, for the moment. We’re moving northeast on foot, attempting to rendezvous at the border of Wisconsin and Minnesota. Request immediate extraction or reinforcements.”

The signal faded briefly, drowned out by static, before another desperate voice came on. “We’re under pursuit by hostile forces. Repeat, we are moving northeast. ETA to safe zone, unknown. Priority Alpha! Secure the Emperor!”

Knight Three slammed a fist against the console. “Aurelor needs to hear this.”

---

The Tent of Command

Aurelor stood in his human guise, arms crossed as he surveyed the map laid out on a wooden table. Lady Serana leaned over it, her cybernetic eye glowing faintly as she gestured at possible places the bomber could land. Knight One and Knight Four are nearby, listening to updates from their scouts.

Knight Three burst into the tent, his urgency cutting through the quiet deliberation. “We intercepted a CAS transmission,” he said, his voice tight. “It’s big.”

Aurelor turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “How big?”

Knight Three placed the headphones on the table and repeated the message word-for-word. When he finished, the tent fell silent. Even the faint breathing seemed to fade.

“The Emperor?” Knight One said at last, his tone disbelieving. “Prosek himself?”

“Possibly,” Knight Three said, his expression grim. “But there’s more. Joseph Prosek has already made a counter-broadcast from Chi-Town claiming his father is safe there.”

Knight One, “This is disinformation—a tactic to lure their enemies into a trap. It’s improbable the Emperor would travel anywhere near the coordinates. Why would he?”

“Trap or not,” Aurelor growled, stepping closer to the map, “if there’s even a chance it’s true, we cannot ignore it. The war could end with his capture.”

Knight One, “No it won’t. The Emperor puts on a performance, a good one, but there is always another actor waiting for their chance to be in the spotlight.”

---

Lady Serana leaned over the table, her sharp eyes scanning the map as she thought aloud. “The transmission was from here,” she said, pointing to a region just west of the Tolkeen border. “It matches the civilian reports of Coalition troops moving northeast.”

“Tolkeen forces are already holding back a Coalition push in that area,” Knight Four added, his voice measured. “If those troops make it across the border, the Coalition will throw everything they have into getting the Emperor back.”

“And it’s not just them,” Knight One said, pointing to another cluster of marks on the map. “We’ve got at least a dozen mercenary bands and bounty hunters converging on the area. They’ll fight anyone—us, Coalition, even each other—for a shot at capturing him. Fame and Fortune is the believed prize to the man who can deliver the Emperor to either the Coalition or Tolkeen.”

Aurelor clenched his fists. “The crash survivors. A hundred Coalition soldiers. Even if Prosek isn’t among them, they have something important enough to bring the entire Coalition Field Army barreling toward them. If we move quickly, we can get them first.”

---

Lady Serana nodded. “We’ll need to move fast, and we’ll need to move smart. The Coalition is desperate—they’ll use every resource to protect this convoy. We’ll need a way to bypass their patrols and disrupt their communications.”

Knight One added, “If we act too openly, we risk drawing the Coalition Field Army straight to us. We’ll have to strike quickly and invisibility.”

Aurelor’s eyes flared with molten gold as he leaned over the map. “Then we do what we must.”

The tent fell silent again, until the war reporter spoke from the corner. “If you capture him,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement, “it’ll send shockwaves across the continent. People will remember this moment for generations.”

Aurelor turned to her, his gaze piercing. “This isn’t about glory. This is about justice—and stopping the bloodshed before more innocent lives are lost.”

She nodded, but her recorder remained on.

---

As the company began to mobilize, scouts are dispatched to track the Coalition convoy. Mercenaries armed themselves, their eyes glinting with greed or loyalty. The war reporter followed closely, her camera capturing the energy of a force on the verge of history.

Aurelor stood at the head of the company, his form still cloaked in human guise. His golden eyes scanned the horizon, his mind racing with possibilities. He knew the stakes were high. Whether or not the Emperor was truly with that convoy, this moment could change the course of the war.

And he intended to see it through.

[darthauthor]

Divided Pursuit

The camp was alive with controlled chaos as Aurelor’s forces divided into smaller groups. Each unit, a blend of mercenaries, Tolkeen loyalists, and adventurers, prepared to comb through the dense, rolling terrain near the border of Wisconsin and Minnesota. The region was a patchwork of forests, rivers, and abandoned industrial ruins, the perfect place for the Coalition to maneuver or hide a high-value asset.

At the center of it all stood Aurelor, in his human guise, arms crossed as he addressed his allies.

“We’ll spread out,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of command. “Each group will cover a different sector. I’ll act as the distraction.”

Lady Serana raised an eyebrow. “You’re putting yourself in the crosshairs.”

“That’s the point,” Aurelor replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If the Coalition believes I’m closing in on them, they’ll move away from me. And in doing so, they’ll have to move through areas where our people are waiting.”

Knight One, his face a mask of skepticism, stood nearby, arms folded. “If the Emperor really is out here, they’re not going to let him anywhere near you. And that’s assuming this isn’t a trap.”

Aurelor’s gaze fixed on him. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Knight One shook his head. “I don’t buy it. They’d never mention Prosek openly over the radio unless it was deliberate. If he were really here, they’d use a code name, something untraceable. The fact that ‘Prosek’ is being tossed around tells me this is a decoy.”

Lady Serana interjected, her tone measured. “Maybe. But there’s still a chance the Coalition made a mistake in the heat of the moment. If they’re scrambling, they might have slipped up once. After that, they’d use it as a trap.”

Knight Three, sitting at a makeshift radio console, listened intently to the crackling chatter. “The traffic is chaotic,” he said, adjusting the dials. “Multiple units are claiming they’ve got the ‘package.’ Some are heading northeast, others southeast. It’s hard to tell which—if any—are real.”

“It’s deliberate,” Knight One said firmly. “They’re muddying the waters, hoping to spread us thin.”

“Then we’ll spread thin,” Aurelor said, stepping toward the map. His finger traced a series of routes marked in red. “But with purpose. Each group will patrol these areas, converging at key choke points. I’ll be here—”

He tapped a point near a ruined industrial site.

“This spot is open enough to draw attention but surrounded by terrain that works in our favor. If I roar loud enough and make enough of a mess, the Coalition will move to avoid me. When they do, they’ll run right into you.”

---

The Dragon’s Distraction

Later that night, Aurelor launched into the air, shedding his human form as he rose above the treetops. His massive wings beat against the cold wind, his scales glinting faintly under the light of the crescent moon. A low growl built in his chest before he unleashed a thunderous roar that echoed for miles, shaking the very ground below.

Coalition troops in the surrounding area snapped to attention. Radio chatter spiked as reports poured in.

“Hostile confirmed! The dragon is in Sector Six! Repeat, Aurelor is in Sector Six!”

Missiles streaked through the sky, their trails glowing faintly as they screamed toward him. Aurelor banked sharply, dodging with an agility that defied his massive size. He retaliated with a burst of dragonfire, incinerating a cluster of incoming drones and forcing ground troops to scatter.

Below him, bounty hunters began to converge. Drawn by the promise of wealth and glory, they came armed to the teeth, their vehicles closing in from every direction.

Aurelor roared again, a challenge that rang clear even over the din of battle. He wanted them to come. He wanted to keep their focus on him while his allies worked in the shadows.

---

Knight One’s Suspicion

In a forested sector several miles northeast, Knight One crouched beside Lady Serana and a squad of mercenaries, their eyes scanning the darkened treeline. The faint sound of Coalition power armor echoed in the distance, and the group tensed.

“This is wrong,” Knight One muttered, his voice low. “Even if the Emperor were here, they wouldn’t keep him near Aurelor. They’d move him in the opposite direction.”

Serana adjusted her visor, her cybernetic eye glowing faintly. “And yet, the chatter keeps leading us here.”

“Chatter designed to confuse,” Knight One insisted. “I’m telling you, it’s a decoy.”

Before Serana could respond, a Coalition patrol emerged from the woods—five soldiers in standard power armor, their movements cautious but methodical. Knight One motioned for his group to stay low, and the mercenaries complied.

The Coalition soldiers paused, scanning the area with their sensors. One of them spoke into his radio, the static-laden words barely audible.

“Sector clear. Moving to rendezvous point with the package.”

Knight One frowned, his grip tightening on his sword. “Convenient,” he whispered.

---

Elsewhere, a group of mercenaries under Aurelor’s command lay in wait along a narrow pass. They’d tracked another Coalition unit moving with what they claimed was the “package.” As the soldiers came into view—nearly thirty in this group—the mercenaries launched their ambush.

Explosions rocked the pass as charges planted along the cliffsides detonated, sending rock and debris crashing down onto the Coalition troops. Gunfire erupted, and the Coalition soldiers scrambled to return fire.

Among the mercenaries was Knight Two led the snipers. His ion rifle targeted the power armor, his every shot methodical and devastating.

But even as they gained the upper hand, no sign of the Emperor emerged.

---

By dawn, the scattered groups reconvened at a prearranged point. The mood was disappointing, their victories tempered by the lack of confirmation. They had taken prisoners, but none seemed to know the true whereabouts of the Emperor.

Aurelor landed heavily among them, his wounds from the distraction already beginning to heal. He surveyed the assembled group, his frustration evident. “Well?”

Knight One stepped forward, his face hard. “It’s a decoy,” he said simply. “Too many units claiming the same thing. No consistency in their movements. If Prosek’s here, they’re hiding him well.”

Lady Serana nodded. “But if he’s not, then the Coalition’s plan worked. They’ve kept us chasing phantoms.”

Aurelor’s molten gaze swept over them. “Then we’ll keep chasing,” he said. “Until we know for sure.”


---

Location: Cedar Hollow

The town of Cedar Hollow sits on the edge of the Minnesotan wilderness, an outpost caught in the crosswinds of a quiet but unyielding conflict. Surrounded by towering pines and frosty lakes, the town has a haunting, ancient beauty softened by patches of moss and overgrowth creeping over remnants of crumbled pavement. Great forests dominate the land, but Cedar Hollow combines the elements of old human settlement with a pre-industrial aesthetic.

Buildings are built with rough timber hewn from nearby trees, featuring iron reinforcements scavenged from pre-collapse structures and salvaged from old ruins. The rooftops are mostly thatch and shingle, though a few have managed to retain rusty metal sheets hammered into a workable shelter against the cold rains. Stone chimneys smoke constantly, and the smell of burning wood and damp earth lingers in the air.

For most of Cedar Hollow’s residents, life is pre-industrial, relying on hand tools, draft animals, and basic carts. However, scattered around town are enigmatic pieces of technology—the "artifacts" as they’re called by the locals. These are remnants of humanity’s former technological peak, items that now serve various purposes but are rarely understood by those who use them. There is an old generator near the town center, occasionally providing light for the inn and the tavern.

Cedar Hollow is very much a frontier town, where dust mingles with ash and every face is hardened by survival. The people here are tough and vigilant, suspicious of outsiders. The locals, mostly farmers, hunters, and tradesmen, have banded together to protect themselves from marauders and those seeking to take what they want from them. The population is exclusively human.

The landscape around the town is wild and untamed, with dense forests and rugged hills that make it hard for large forces to move undetected—a natural advantage against anyone's movements against the town.

In Cedar Hollow, every eye watches, every ear listens. The air is tense, charged with anticipation as people know anyone could come any day. The residents whisper of things they’ve seen at the edge of the forest—flashes of light, moving shadows, and ominous sounds in the night. And so, the people of Cedar Hollow cling to their frontier home.

Places of Note:
The town square is a wide, cobbled space surrounded by wooden benches and a few merchant stalls. It’s also where a notice board with a map, tattered but legible in bold ink. People gather here for announcements, trade, and news. Rumors circulate quickly, and news of Coalition movements travels by word of mouth or through runners.

An Old Clock Tower.

The town's marketplace: a series of wooden stalls and tents where goods are traded—most of them practical, like animal hides, preserved foods, and handmade tools.

The Stag’s Respite in an Inn. It’s a squat, sturdy building with reinforced walls, complete with a hidden room where maps are laid out.

A town well (water).

A Saloon.

A barbershop.

Sheriff's office (town protector) and cell.

---

Arrival in Cedar Hollow

The clatter of hooves on the frost-touched dirt road echoed through the stillness as Lady Serana, A Warlock, and Knight Four entered Cedar Hollow. Their horses, sturdy and trail-hardened, snorted puffs of steam into the crisp air. The townsfolk stopped their tasks to stare, suspicion etched into every weathered face. Eyes squinted beneath fur-lined hoods and caps, watching the trio with wary anticipation.

Serana, her cybernetic eye glowing faintly against the drab light of the overcast sky, dismounted with practiced ease. Her armor caught the weak sunlight, a mix of dull steel and dark leather with faint etching in the pauldrons and breastplate. Her presence was commanding, a blend of grace and unyielding strength, made even more striking by her legendary reputation as a Cyber-Knight.

Behind her, the Warlock slid from his mount. Though his gait was casual, there was an unplaceable tension in his movements, like he was more attuned to the unseen than the seen.
Knight Four, tall and broad-shouldered, wore his survivalist’s attire with rugged confidence, his piercing eyes scanning the town with the alertness of someone ready for danger.

The town unfolded before them, a patchwork of the old world and the frontier's grit. Cedar Hollow's buildings, fashioned from rough-hewn timber and scavenged metals, bore the weight of countless seasons. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning pine and damp earth. The streets, hardened by cold and use, were quiet save for the faint creak of a cart wheel and the soft bleat of goats penned near the livery.

In the town square, a handful of locals huddled near the notice board, their gazes flicking toward the newcomers. Conversations hushed. Children peeked from behind their parents' legs, curiosity battling caution in their wide eyes.

The town’s old clock tower, leaning slightly to one side, ticked faintly as it counted down another day. Near it stood the Stag’s Respite, its sturdy frame adorned with a swinging sign that squeaked in the breeze.

---

Serana walked her horse to the square, her boots crunching over frost-laden cobblestones. She paused beneath the notice board. Raising a hand in a peaceful gesture, her voice carried, clear and calm but commanding:

"People of Cedar Hollow, I am Lady Serana, a Cyber-Knight. My companions and I are travelers, here to offer aid—not harm. I understand the hardships of life on the frontier, and I come bearing neither demands nor expectations. My blade, my skills, and my knowledge are yours to use as you see fit."

The crowd murmured. Most of the townsfolk had heard tales of Cyber-Knights—wandering champions of justice, protectors of the weak—but none had seen one before.

“I’ve fought for the innocent and the oppressed across many lands,” she continued. “If there are injuries among you, illnesses in need of tending, or threats you cannot face alone, I offer my services freely.”

A young woman, wrapped in a patched shawl, stepped forward hesitantly. “Freely?” she asked, her voice tinged with doubt.

“Freely,” Serana confirmed, her organic eye meeting the woman’s. Her cyber-eye scanned the onlookers, picking up faint stress patterns in their heart rates and breathing—a silent testament to their guarded fear. She softened her tone. “There is no price for kindness.”

---

The murmurs grew louder, a mixture of relief and disbelief. The town’s sheriff, a wiry man with sharp features, approached with a measured stride, one hand resting on the worn hilt of a revolver. His voice was gravelly but civil.

“Name’s Marshal Dawson. If you’re here to help, you’ll find no shortage of work. We’ve got injuries from hunting accidents, and there’s been talk of... strange things out in the forest.” His gaze flicked to Sprout, then Knight Four, before settling on Serana again. “If you can help us, I’ll see to it you’re treated fairly.”

Serana nodded. “Fair treatment is all I ask.”

---

The crowd began to relax, some faces even showing faint smiles. An older man stepped forward, his cane clicking against the cobblestones. “There’s an old woman—my wife—who’s been coughing up blood. Can you help her?”

“Yes,” Serana said without hesitation. “Lead me to her.”

As the townsfolk began to speak among themselves, listing ailments and concerns, the Warlock leaned toward Lady Serana, his tone light but knowing. “Quite the entrance, Lady Knight. They’ll remember this.”

Serana smiled faintly. “Let’s make sure they remember us for the right reasons.”

Knight Four, silent but watchful, secured the horses at the livery stable, his attention never wavering from the crowd.

---

The small room was lit, by sunlight casting long shadows on the rough timber walls. The scent of damp wood mixed with the faint tang of herbal poultices, and the air carried the muted crackle of a fire from the adjoining room. Lady Serana knelt beside a narrow cot, her cyber-eye glowing faintly, casting a pale blue light over the weathered face of an elderly woman.

The patient’s breaths were shallow and rattling, her chest rising and falling with visible effort. A thin blanket covered her frail frame, and her hands—gnarled from years of labor—clutched weakly at the fabric.

---

Serana’s movements were deliberate and calm, her voice soothing as she addressed the patient and the old man standing nearby. “I’m here to help. Let me see what’s wrong.”

The woman nodded faintly, her trust won by Serana’s earlier words in the square. She adjusted her position, as she reached for the woman’s wrist.

Her fingers gently wrapped around the woman’s wrist, feeling her weak, irregular pulse.

Serana leaned closer, her cyber-eye adjusting to zoom in on the woman’s chest. The blue glow shifted as it scanned beneath the surface, inflamed bronchial tubes and darkened patches near the lower lobes confirmed a severe infection, likely pneumonia.

Thermal imaging, revealing abnormal heat patterns along the patient’s chest and throat. She flagged areas of concern, but the fever was dangerously high.

Serana turned to the elderly man. “She’s fighting a lung infection. Likely pneumonia, worsened by the cold and damp. Her fever is high, and there’s fluid building in her lungs. Has she had any treatment?”

He shook his head, his voice laced with worry. “We gave her some tea from the herbs we grow, but it’s not enough.”

Serana nodded, her mind already calculating. She reached into the small satchel at her side, retrieving a med-kit. Within it were a few medicines, sterile tools, and a few vials of antibiotic compounds. She selected one and held it up to the flickering light.

“This will help with the infection,” she said, drawing a dose into a syringe. “It’s safe, but strong.”

The old man hesitated but nodded. “Please. Save her.”

Her fingers adjusted the woman’s head elevation, tilting her to ease her breathing. A soft hiss escaped from a small device Serana placed on the woman’s chest—a portable vaporizer delivering a mist of bronchodilators to open her airways.

Serana sat back on her heels, her organic eye meeting the old man’s. “She’ll need rest and warmth. The medicine will start working soon, but you’ll need to keep her hydrated.”

The old man’s face softened, relief breaking through his hardened exterior. “Thank you. You’re… not like anyone we’ve seen before.”

Serana gave a faint smile, standing and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I’m just someone who helps. Look after her, and she’ll pull through.”

As she turned to leave, her cybernetic eye glowed faintly, scanning the room one last time. It picked up on the worn blanket, the inadequate insulation of the walls, and the frost gathering on the edges of the windows. She made a mental note to return with firewood and thicker coverings, her thoughts already focused on what else could be done to help this fragile, resolute town.

[darthauthor]

Location: Cedar Hill


The room was somber, the sharper smells of blood, sweat, and fear. Several townsfolk sat on crude benches or lay on makeshift cots, their injuries or illnesses varying in severity.

Lady Serana stood in the center of the room, her presence both commanding and reassuring.

Serana’s cyber-eye scanned the room. Her voice was calm but resolute.

“Bring me those who need help,” she said, addressing Marshal Dawson, who had led her to the infirmary—a drafty, repurposed barn. “I’ll do what I can, but I’ll need to see them all first. Some may need immediate attention.”

The marshal nodded and began directing people forward. The sick and injured shuffled closer, some leaning on loved ones for support, others wincing with every step.

Serana knelt before the first patient—a young woman clutching her side, her face pale and twisted with pain. Her eye glimmered as it focused on the woman’s abdomen. Infrared mapping revealed internal bruising and a faint heat signature suggesting an inflamed organ. Tilting her head slightly, Serana used her enhanced hearing to pick up the faint irregularities in the woman’s breathing—a wheezing sound accompanied by shallow gasps.
Her hands moved gently over the woman’s ribs, picking up subtleties in the bones.

Serana stood and turned to the woman’s husband. “She has a ruptured spleen. It’s causing internal bleeding. She’ll need bed rest and a compress for the swelling, but I can stabilize her.”

---

When Serana reached the third patient—a child barely old enough to walk, coughing and feverish—she realized the limits of her cybernetics and paramedic skills. The scans picked up fluid in the lungs and an elevated body temperature, but the root cause eluded her.

She knelt down, her hand hovering gently over the child’s chest, and closed her eyes. A psychic power emanated from her, imperceptible to the others but tangible to Serana as she tapped into her psychic diagnosis.

She stilled her mind, her breathing deep and even as she focused on the child’s essence. In seconds, an image formed in her mind—a vivid, three-dimensional map of the boy’s body. She saw the swollen lymph nodes, the inflamed airways, and a patch of shadowy congestion in the left lung. Bacterial pneumonia.

Serana opened her eyes, the glow from her cybernetic eye flaring momentarily as she reoriented herself. “He needs antibiotics, warm fluids, and his fever brought down immediately. Without treatment, this will worsen.”

At the edge of the room, a wiry man with sunken cheeks slumped against the wall, shivering violently despite the fire’s heat. Serana’s cybernetic systems detected nothing immediately life-threatening—no visible wounds, no fever—but something about his posture and the haunted look in his eyes caught her attention.

As she approached, her psychic sense prickled, a faint wave of unease washing over her. She extended her hand and hovered it a few inches from his chest. Her mind focused, her mental picture growing clearer in her consciousness.

The man’s body appeared normal, but beneath the surface, she sensed an oppressive, alien presence—an intruder. The psychic picture sharpened, revealing possession, a parasitic entity latched onto his very life force, draining his energy and leaving him on the brink of collapse.

Serana’s voice softened. “I can help, but I’ll need time.”

The man nodded weakly, his eyes filled with relief and fear.

---

By the time Serana had worked through the crowd, she had categorized the patients into three groups:

Immediate need:
The woman with the ruptured spleen.
A hunter with a deep leg wound showing early signs of infection.
The child with pneumonia.

Delayed but Necessary Care:
A young man with frostbite that hadn’t yet set into gangrene.
An elderly woman with chronic joint pain and swelling, likely rheumatoid arthritis.

Spiritual and Psychic Cases
One possessed man.

Turning to the assembled crowd, Serana addressed them with quiet authority. “Some of these injuries are urgent and need to be addressed tonight. Others can wait but will still require care. I’ll prioritize the worst cases first.”

She looked to the Warlock and Knight Four, who stood nearby, his brow furrowed in thought. “I’ll need your help,” she called to her companion, “can you organize some things for me?”

Her companions nodded, moving swiftly to assist.

---

Serana exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cold air, and knelt beside her first patient, a child with pneumonia.

The girl’s small body was racked with coughing, her cheeks flushed with fever. Her breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps. Serana’s had already confirmed a bacterial infection, but now she leaned closer, closing her eyes and resting her hand gently on his chest. She stilled herself, drawing upon her psychic energy. Her power grew in the quiet room, like a subtle shift in the air. Her hand grew warm, and spread that warmth from her palm, suffusing the girl’s chest.
In her mind’s eye, she saw the bacteria—the shadowy, alien shapes swarming in his lungs, their growth aggressive and unyielding. Slowly, methodically, she willed her energy to halt their spread, forcing the infection into stasis.
As the bacteria were destroyed, the girl’s fever began to ebb. Her breathing steadied, and though her lungs remained damaged, the worst of the threat had passed.

She opened her eyes, her voice soft but firm. “She’ll need fluids and warmth to recover fully. But the infection is gone.”

---

Next, Serana moved to the young woman clutching her side, her face pale and lined with pain. Blood stained the blanket beneath her, though no external wounds were visible.
Kneeling, Serana placed both hands on either side of the woman’s abdomen. “This will take a few minutes,” she said calmly. “Stay as still as you can.”
Closing her eyes, Serana let her mind delve deeper, her breathing slowing as she entered a meditative state. In her mind’s eye, the woman’s body unfolded like a living diagram. She saw the rupture in vivid detail: torn blood vessels and tissue leaking into the abdominal cavity.

With surgical precision, Serana’s energy began knitting the tissue back together. It was delicate work, the psychic equivalent of suturing, but far more refined. The torn vessels sealed themselves, and the bleeding stopped. The woman’s pain ebbed, her face relaxing as the warmth of Serana’s energy spread through her.
After seven minutes, the work was complete. Serana withdrew her hands, and the woman sat up gingerly, her movements free of the agony that had gripped her moments before.

“You’ll need rest,” Serana said, “but the rupture is repaired. No scarring, and no further bleeding.”

---

At the far end of the room sat the wiry man, his body trembling despite the warmth of the fire. His eyes were hollow, haunted, and his breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. The townsfolk avoided him, murmuring about curses and spirits.

Serana approached and knelt in front of him, her gaze steady. She said gently, “I’m going to help you.”

She reached out, her hand hovering just above his chest. The man flinched, but Serana’s voice was soothing. “Close your eyes.”


As Serana began, she began her exorcism. His heart rate slowed, and his trembling lessened. The alien presence within him recoiled at the energy, its grip weakening.
Closing her eyes, Serana extended her senses. In her mind’s eye, the man’s body appeared, overlaid with the dark, writhing presence of the parasite. It clung to his essence, feeding off his vitality. Serana focused, her will sharpening like a blade, and pushed the intruder out, forcing it to release its hold.
The entity resisted, its form shifting and lashing out in the psychic plane, but Serana’s strength held firm. Bit by bit, it unraveled and dissipated into nothingness.

When it was done, the man sagged forward, his breathing deep and even. Serana steadied him, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder. “You’re free now. Rest, and your strength will return.”

---

The Frostbite Victim

The final patient was a young hunter, his fingers swollen and blackened at the tips. Serana’s eye detected necrotic tissue forming, but it hadn’t yet spread far enough to warrant amputation.

“You’re lucky,” she said, inspecting his hand. “The frostbite isn’t too advanced. Your fingers can be saved.”

The Warlock stepped in.
Casting a magic spell to heal burns the young man’s frostbitten hands
They placed their hands on his, her touch light but steady. Closing their eyes, They focused their energy on the dying tissue. Slowly, warmth spread from into palms, and the necrosis began to reverse. Damaged cells regenerated, and blood flow returned to the affected areas.

The hunter gasped as feeling returned to his fingers, the blackened skin fading to a healthy pink.

“You’ll need to keep them warm,” Serana said, standing. “But you’ll recover fully.”

---

As Serana finished her rounds, the room was filled with a quiet awe. The townsfolk watched her as if she were something otherworldly, a figure from legend brought to life. Serana, weary but composed, wiped her brow and turned to Marshal Dawson.

“They’ll need care to fully recover,” she said. “But they’ll live.”

The marshal nodded, his voice heavy with gratitude. “We’ve never seen anything like what you just did. Thank you, Lady Serana.”

Serana simply nodded, as she turned to prepare for whatever challenges the town of Cedar Hollow might bring next.

---

The barn-turned-infirmary still hummed with the quiet gratitude of the townsfolk. **Lady Serana**, her psychic healing complete, had stepped outside for fresh air, her weary but composed figure visible through the open barn doors. Inside, **Knight Four** stood among the patients, his rugged frame and calm demeanor a steadying presence in the room.

The patients lay or sat on their cots, still showing signs of fatigue and recovery, but their spirits were lighter after Serana’s intervention. Knight Four rolled up the sleeves of his survivalist jacket, his voice warm and reassuring as he addressed them.

“Now that Lady Serana has seen to your health,” he said with a faint smile, “let me help you feel a bit more human again. This won’t take long.”

---

Knight Four approache the first two patients: the young woman with the repaired spleen and the child who had recovered from pneumonias. He knells beside them, his hands extended just above their shoulders.

Closing his eyes, Knight Four whispered a string of ancient words under his breath, the syllables rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. His hands began to glow faintly with soft golden light, the warmth of his magic spilling into the space between him and the patients.

The golden light flowed over the woman and the child like a gentle tide. Dirt and grime lifted from their skin and clothes, evaporating into harmless sparks that shimmered briefly before vanishing.

The child, previously bedraggled and coughing, now looked as though he’d just emerged from a hot bath. His matted hair became soft and clean, and his patched clothes looked freshly laundered. The woman, her face pale but no longer pained, glanced down at her spotless blouse and hands, a small smile breaking across her face.

Knight Four straightened, giving them a nod. “Much better,” he said, stepping toward the next pair.

The possessed man, now freed from the dark entity by Serana’s psychic intervention, sat quietly, his exhaustion evident. Next to him, the hunter, flexing his newly-healed fingers, watched with curiosity as Knight Four approached.

The warrior-mage placed a hand on each of their shoulders and began the spell again. His voice this time carried a faint resonance, the magical energy stronger as it flowed into the two men.

The possessed man’s hollowed, haunted appearance softened as the grime of days, perhaps weeks, lifted from him. The shadows beneath his eyes faded slightly, and his tattered clothes, now spotless, regained an almost-new appearance. The man exhaled deeply, as if the act of being clean was itself healing.

The hunter, who had returned from the forest with frostbite and dirt ground into his skin, looked down at his gleaming boots and unblemished gloves with an expression of wonder. Even his hair, previously matted and tangled, now fell neatly against his head.

Knight Four clapped the hunter on the shoulder. “Clean clothes and clean skin feel a little like armor, don’t they?” he said with a grin. The hunter chuckled, the tension in his body visibly easing.

---

Knight Four moved through the infirmary with deliberate care, touching two patients at a time, his magic weaving a comforting transformation over each of them. The older woman with arthritis, the townsfolk helping care for the sick, even the children peeking around the barn door—all received the spell’s gentle touch. Dirt and stains vanished, hair and skin gleamed, and the faint scent of something fresh and pure lingered in the air.

For these hardened frontier people, who often lacked the luxury of cleanliness, the spell was more than just practical—it was a gift. They sat taller, their spirits visibly lifted.

---

As Knight Four finished with the last patient, the barn doors creaked open, and Lady Serana stepped back inside, her eyes sweeping over the transformed room. Her expression softened at the sight of freshly cleaned patients, their smiles hinting at a moment of peace amidst their hardships.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Serana said, a faint note of humor in her tone. “I can’t even smell the barn anymore.”

Knight Four shrugged, his easy grin flashing. “Even warriors deserve to feel like people now and then.” Turning to the townsfolk, he added, “You’ve endured enough.”

A quiet ripple of gratitude spread through the room, with murmurs of thanks and nods of appreciation directed toward both Serana and Knight Four. For a moment, the weight of survival seemed lighter, and Cedar Hollow felt a little less harsh, its people a little less weary.

“Thank you,” the marshal said quietly as he approached the pair. “You’ve given them more than just healing. You’ve given them hope.”

To the people of Cedar Hollow, Lady Serana became more than a Cyber-Knight—she became a savior.

---

The Cyber-Knight, clad in a mix of worn leather and sleek metallic armor, went for a walk.

She stood amidst the quiet forest. The chill of a Minnesota wrapped around her like an unseen cloak, her breath forming faint puffs in the icy air. A single cyber-eye, glowing faintly with a soft azure hue, hummed as it processed the world around her.

The forest was alive in ways only she could see. Her organic eye caught the earthy greens and browns of moss clinging to the rough bark of the trees and the skeletal branches stretching against the overcast sky. But her cybernetic gaze peeled back layers of reality.

Thermal imaging revealed the faint warmth of a squirrel scurrying up an oak tree, its tiny body pulsing like an ember in the cold.

The stark shapes of deer antlers glimmered in a distant grove, their heat signatures blending with the ambient cold of the forest floor.

Infrared mapping outlined trails worn into the earth by countless generations of animals, invisible to the unenhanced eye but glowing faintly red to her augmented vision.

The fallen leaves, brittle and half-covered in frost, appeared as a chaotic patchwork beneath her boots. To her cybernetic eye, their edges were sharper than a blade, their crystalline frost patterns reflecting in vivid blues and whites.

As she scanned the treeline, her eye zoomed effortlessly, adjusting focus and distance. She spotted a broken branch dangling precariously from a high birch—a detail that might go unnoticed by others but signaled a recent passing of something large. Her heads-up display flagged it with a soft beep, overlaying an estimated time of disturbance: “4 hours ago”.

Further beyond, where her organic sight blurred into shadow, the cybernetic eye detected subtle heat trails, faint but discernible, curling like ghostly threads through the cold. A coyote, perhaps? Or something else? She narrowed her vision and overlaid a scan for movement patterns, overlaying her view with potential trajectories.

The forest whispered, its quiet broken only by the soft rustle of leaves in the wind and the occasional creak of shifting branches. Her augmented hearing, tuned in, picked up the rhythmic crunch of something moving deeper into the woods, far beyond her immediate range.

Even in the encroaching twilight, the cybernetic eye painted the forest in detail no human could fathom:

Veins of water running just beneath the frostbitten ground shimmered faintly.
The clouded sky above lit up with faint traces of electromagnetic interference, hinting at a distant storm on the horizon.

The faintest footprints, left by boots heavier than her own, pulsed faintly against the ground—a trail she hadn’t seen before.

She exhaled slowly, her glowing eye dimming momentarily as it recalibrated. In this silent forest, where winter’s grip was beginning to take hold, she saw more than a warrior would ever need to. But she also knew: in this place, what she saw might not always be what mattered most.

[darthauthor]

Location: The Stag’s Respite, Cedar Hollow’s saloon and inn.

It was a warm but tense refuge that evening. The fire crackled in the corner, its heat battling against the November chill that seeped through the cracks in the timber walls. Locals nursed drinks at rough wooden tables, speaking in low voices, their conversations fractured by wary glances at the strangers in their midst.

Knight Four leaned against the bar, a casual smile on his face, though his eyes flicked occasionally to the corners of the room where the town’s more hardened faces sat. His survivalist attire, practical and worn, marked him as someone used to the wilderness, but it was his presence—relaxed but alert—that spoke volumes to anyone who paid close attention.

Lady Serana and the Warlock were outside, tending to supplies. This conversation needed to come from someone who could seem approachable—a man of the world, not a legendary Cyber-Knight or mysterious warlock.

Knight Four raised his mug of lukewarm cider to the bartender, a wiry man in his forties with sharp features and calloused hands. “Good stuff,” he said, his tone friendly. “Nothing like a warm drink after a long ride.”

The bartender nodded but said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly. Knight Four wasn’t surprised—this wasn’t a town that trusted easily.

He shifted his posture slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make the conversation feel private. “You’ve got a nice little town here. Quiet. Out of the way.”

The bartender grunted. “We like it that way.”

Knight Four chuckled, letting the silence sit for a moment before continuing. “That’s why we stopped here. Quiet’s hard to come by these days, what with the wars and all. Don’t suppose you get much trouble from mercenaries or bounty hunters?”

The bartender’s eyes flicked up, suspicious now. “Not often,” he said carefully. “Why do you ask?”

Knight Four took a sip of his cider, then set the mug down, his tone turning slightly more serious. “We’re just passing through, but, well… there are some folks out there looking for us. Bounty hunters, mostly. A few soldiers of the Coalition sniffing around for anyone who doesn’t fit their idea of ‘acceptable.’ We’re not looking for trouble, but it has a way of finding us.”

The room grew quieter. A few of the locals stopped their conversations, their gazes shifting toward Knight Four. He met their eyes calmly, his expression open and non-threatening.

“We’re not criminals,” he added quickly, raising a hand. “Just people trying to stay out of the way of those who’d rather shoot first and ask questions later. I’d appreciate it if you could keep our presence here quiet. No need to stir up trouble for anyone.”

The bartender’s lips tightened. “You’re asking a lot,” he said. “Coalition comes around here now and then. They’re not bad folks, not to us, anyway. Keep things steady. Keep the bandits off our backs. Hard to argue with that.”

Knight Four nodded, leaning forward slightly. “I get it. Coalition keeps people safe, gives them a better chance than they might have otherwise. I’ve seen their cities—shiny streets, clean houses, everyone in their place. Looks like paradise compared to what some folks live through out here.”

The bartender frowned slightly, sensing there was more to come.

“But,” Knight Four continued, his voice dropping lower, “I’ve also seen what happens when you’re not the right kind of person. When you don’t fit their mold. People who think for themselves, who don’t fall in line, or who happen to be born different—those people don’t get safety. They get walls, prisons, and worse. I’m not saying the Coalition’s bad for everyone, but it’s not good for all of us.”

A few murmurs rose from the tables. One man, a burly farmer with a thick beard, spoke up. “Maybe it’s better than starving out here, scraping by every winter.”

Knight Four inclined his head. “You might be right. But until you’ve seen the cost of living under their boot, I’d be careful what you wish for. They’ve got a way of taking more than they give.”

Shifting the tone slightly, Knight Four let the tension ease. “Speaking of the Coalition, we’ve been following some chatter on the old radio bands. Sounds like they’ve got something big moving through this area. Some kind of important man, a ‘package,’ they’re calling him. Could be a general, maybe even a defector.”

The room grew quieter again. The bartender frowned. “You saying he’s coming here?”

Knight Four shrugged. “Don’t know. Could be laying low, same as us. Could be passing through. All I’m saying is, if the Coalition comes sniffing around here for him—or for us—you might want to think twice before pointing them in any direction.”

The bartender hesitated, glancing at the others in the room. Some of the faces were guarded, others skeptical. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind. Can’t speak for everyone, though.”

Knight Four smiled faintly. “That’s all I ask.”

As he finished his cider and stood to leave, Knight Four glanced around the room one last time. “We’re not looking for trouble,” he repeated. “But if it comes, we’ll make sure it doesn’t fall on you. Just… keep quiet about us. And if you hear anything about that ‘package,’ well…” He tapped his temple lightly. “Might be worth thinking twice about who you tell.”

The locals watched him as he left, their faces a mix of unease and contemplation. Outside, Lady Serana waited with Sprout, her cybernetic eye flickering faintly as she scanned the streets.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

Knight Four shrugged. “Some of them get it. The rest? We’ll see.” He glanced back at the saloon, his expression tightening. “Let’s not stay too long, though. Trouble’s coming—it’s just a matter of when.”

---

The Warlock

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, Cedar Hollow was bathed in hues of gold and crimson. The Warlock stood at the edge of the town square, his robes fluttering in the evening breeze. His wide-brimmed hat shaded his face from the fading light, but his hands moved with purpose, tracing intricate patterns.

Before him lay a small clearing, barren save for a few stray leaves and frost-touched debris. A curious gathering of townsfolk had formed around him, their expressions a mixture of awe and suspicion. Even those wary of magic couldn't resist watching.

The Warlock’s voice, low and rhythmic, carried over the hush of the square. They seemed to resonate with the very fabric of the world, drawing unseen forces into alignment.

As the warlock completed their spell, the air around him shimmered faintly, as though heat waves rippled through the cold evening. Particles and fibers, invisible to the human eye, began to gather and swirl in the clearing like a delicate dance of dust motes in sunlight.
The spell drew from every corner of the area—fallen bark, splinters, and minute fragments of dead plant matter. The particles fused together forming first faint outlines, then solid shapes.
Logs, each dry as seasoned firewood, began stacking themselves neatly in the clearing. Their surfaces were smooth, their structure strong, as though cut from living trees yet untouched by decay or damp.
From the swirling mass, planks emerged, their edges perfectly uniform, their grain as clean and straight as if cut by master craftsmen. The planks floated briefly in the air before settling in a tidy row beside the logs.
The process continued until a small hill of wood stood before the townsfolk. The logs gleamed faintly in the sunset light, their dryness promising an ideal fuel source for the coming cold nights.

Sprout stepped back, his hands lowering as the magical energy dissipated into the ether. The warlock’s face, shadowed by his hat, showed no sign of exertion—only calm satisfaction. He gestured toward the pile with a simple flourish.

“For your fires,” he said, his voice warm but understated. “Take as much as you need. It’s dry, clean, and will burn hot through the coldest nights.”

The townsfolk stared in silence at first, their skepticism melting into cautious gratitude. A man with a thick beard and calloused hands stepped forward, testing one of the logs. He lifted it easily, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

“This is… good wood,” he muttered, glancing back at the others. “Better than most of what we chop ourselves.”

A woman stepped forward next, brushing her hands over one of the planks. “How’d you do this?” she asked, her voice tinged with both wonder and hesitation.

The Warlock tilted his head, a faint smile visible beneath the brim of his hat. “By asking kindly,” he said, his tone teasing but gentle. “The Earth provides us more than we often realize.”

As the townsfolk began to take pieces of wood, murmuring their thanks, the marshal approached the Warlock, his gaze level but not unfriendly. “That’s a mighty useful spell you’ve got there,” he said. “Not something we see every day.”

The Warlock nodded, his expression unreadable. “No need to fell trees when Earth magic can provide. Use it wisely. There’s plenty here to warm your homes and your hearts.”

The warlock turned back toward the forest edge, where Lady Serana and Knight Four watched silently, keeping to the shadows. He tipped his hat slightly in their direction before retreating into the fading light.

Behind him, the people of Cedar Hollow worked together, distributing the bounty he’d created. For one evening, at least, the tension between strangers and townsfolk seemed to ease, replaced by the simple comfort of warmth and plenty as the night drew in.

---

Lady Serana

The sun dipped low behind the towering pines of Cedar Hollow, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain. Frost kissed the ground in shimmering patches, and a thin layer of mist clung to the forest edge. Lady Serana stood just beyond the town’s outskirts, scanning the landscape with the precision of someone who had spent countless nights under the stars. Her cyber-eye glowed faintly, its augmented vision highlighting subtle contours in the land and potential hazards invisible to the untrained eye.

Serana crouched near the base of a large spruce tree, brushing away frost-crusted leaves. The ground beneath was solid and slightly elevated—ideal for avoiding pooling water if the temperature rose enough for the frost to melt. The canopy above offered natural protection from falling snow, though her tent didn’t rely on it.

Her organic eye swept across the surroundings while she thought through her mental checklist:
A nearby creek, faintly audible through the stillness, was close enough for convenience but far enough to avoid the chill of its damp air.
The spruce grove broke the prevailing breeze, creating a natural windbreak.
No signs of recent animal tracks or disturbances, though she remained vigilant.
Satisfied, Serana nodded to herself. “This will do.”

Reaching into a compartment on her belt, she retrieved the tent: a compact, sleek rectangle the size of a paperback book. It's dark material shimmered faintly in the fading light, hinting at its advanced construction. Serana unfolded it with practiced ease, the structure expanding like a blooming flower. Within seconds, it took shape: a sleek, insulated dome just large enough for two people to sleep comfortably.
She drove lightweight stakes into the semi-frozen ground, ensuring the tent was secure against any wind gusts. She adjusted the tension of the lines with precision, pulling them taut without the slightest tremor.

As she stepped back, she admired the structure. Its seamless surface blended into the natural surroundings, the muted gray material reflecting only enough light to avoid drawing attention.

Serana ducked into the tent, unrolling her sleeping bag—a marvel of lightweight warmth—onto the insulated floor. The tent created a cocoon of warmth inside that would protect her from the harsh Minnesota cold.

From a pouch on her back, she pulled a small water bladder and connected it to the tent’s water collection system, which would gather any moisture that evaporated during the night. It wasn’t much, but it would stretch her supplies if needed.

Stepping back outside, Serana crouched near a small, frost-covered boulder, her eyes scanning the darkening horizon. The town of Cedar Hollow was visible through the trees, its plumes of chimney smoke curling into the frigid air. She could faintly hear the muted clatter of hooves and the murmur of voices carried by the breeze.

Serana inhaled deeply, the crisp air stinging her lungs but clearing her mind. She didn’t resent the townsfolk for their suspicions or their precarious loyalty to the Coalition. They were survivors, like her, trying to carve out a life in a harsh world. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to impose upon them, not when she was capable of fending for herself.

Her voice was barely above a whisper, carried away by the wind. “Better out here, anyway.”

As the last light of the day faded, Serana moved around her camp with quiet efficiency:
She collected a few fallen branches from the surrounding forest and lit a small, smokeless fire using a portable heat igniter.
Her cybernetic eye scanned the edges of the grove periodically, ensuring no threats approached.
She prepared a simple meal from a ration pack, eating slowly as she listened to the subtle sounds of the wilderness.

The night deepened, the cold intensifying, but Serana felt no discomfort. Inside her tent, the warmth and insulation were enough to let her rest without concern. Still, as a seasoned wilderness survivor, she allowed herself only light sleep, her senses always attuned to the world around her.

Her tent stood in quiet defiance of the biting cold, self-reliant at the edge of Cedar Hollow.

[darthauthor]

Location: Cedar Hollow


The Cedar Hollow Saloon, tucked inside the inn, was alive with conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. The air was rich with the scent of aged wood, whiskey, and faint smoke curling from a small hearth, casting a warm, flickering light that danced across the sawdust-covered floor.

At a corner table, Knight Four shuffled a deck of cards with smooth precision, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly with each movement. Across from him, a Warlock, his grizzled face partially obscured by the shadow of his hood, sat nursing a drink, his presence as calm and immovable as the elements he controlled. Next to them, Lady Serana, the Cyber-Knight, leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxed.

The saloon doors creaked open, and the muted hum of conversation froze mid-sentence.

The gang strode in like a storm rolling through a calm valley. Their boots clunked heavily against the wooden floorboards, the sound carrying an air of dominance as they moved into the room like they owned it. As they entered, their presence shifted the energy of the room, like a storm rolling in on a clear day.

“Flick” was the first to break the stillness, his knife flipping rhythmically through the air. His grin widened, manic and sharp, his eyes scanning the room for signs of trouble—or entertainment.

“Speedy Morales” followed close behind, her heels tapping sharply against the wooden floor as her sharp, disdainful gaze swept the room, silently assessing its inhabitants.

“Sweet Sue”, trailing just behind Speedy, carried herself with a smirk, her narrowed eyes lingering on each face as though daring someone to meet her stare.

Little Bobby swaggered in last, his confidence radiating like heat from a fire. His sharp, glittering eyes swept over the room, lingering on the bar and the patrons before landing on a woman. He gleamed with amusement and anticipation, taking in the bar with a mix of entitlement and curiosity. He paused for a moment, letting the silence stretch as the saloon’s patrons returned to their drinks, though the tension in the room remained palpable.

Bobby’s had noticed Lady Serana, who was busy pretending not to notice him. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder, and the warm lantern light caught the cool edge of her composed expression. There was a calm self-assurance about her that seemed out of place in the earthy rowdiness of the saloon. To Bobby, that made her stand out all the more.

A mischievous glint flickered in Bobby’s eyes, and he tilted his hat as his grin widened. His gaze darted briefly to Sweet Sue, whose expression darkened with irritation, before he leaned toward her, exaggerating his delight. “Reckon I’ll be busy for a bit,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery and flirtation. Sweet Sue’s jaw tightened, her lips pressing into a line, but Bobby was already dismissing her reaction, striding toward the woman with a cocky saunter.

“Say, sweetheart,” Bobby drawled, his voice thick with confidence and mischief, “how about a drink for a real gunslinger?” He leaned casually on the bar, his intense gaze locking onto her as though he’d already claimed her as his next conquest.

Lady Serana turned to face him fully, her polite smile tight, her eyes unreadable but watchful. She immediately recognized him as “Little Bobby” infamous for capturing a Cyber-Knight and handing him over to the Coalition. Her thoughts churned, dark and cold. Whether that Knight was now imprisoned or dead, Bobby had played a part in their downfall. Serana had no illusions about his character, but she forced her tone to remain even.

Serana’s voice cool, laced with sarcasm as her eyes briefly flicked to Sweet Sue, then back to Bobby, “Bobby.”

The word hit Bobby like a shot to the chest. His cocky grin faltered, confusion flickering across his face as he processed what she’d said. She shouldn’t know his name. He’d never been to this town before.

Behind him, Sweet Sue stiffened. She stepped closer, her voice low and sharp, a venomous hiss. “Bobby! How does she know your name, Bobby?”

The words drew glances from the rest of the gang.

“Flick” still idly flipping his knife, paused mid-flick, his grin growing wider as he sensed the tension.

“Speedy”, sharp-eyed as ever, narrowed her gaze, her arms crossing as she leaned casually against the bar, watching Serana with suspicion.

Serana straightened, the faintest glint of satisfaction in her eyes as she met Bobby’s stare head-on. Her calm expression didn’t waver, though her fingers tensed against the edge of the bar, ready to draw her weapon if the need arose.
“Everyone knows Little Bobby,” she said smoothly, her voice steady. “Your reputation gets there before you do.”

Bobby’s smirk crept back onto his face, though his eyes betrayed his unease. “You’ve heard of me,” he said, recovering with a thin veneer of charm, though his voice carried an edge of uncertainty. He straightened, his hand casually brushing the holster at his hip. “Guess my reputation precedes me.”

At the corner table, Knight Four, who had been observing the interaction, set his cards down with deliberate calm. His sharp eyes lingered on Bobby’s holster for a fraction of a second before meeting Bobby’s gaze. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He recognized Bobby from reputation alone—a quickdraw specialist with more arrogance than sense.

Knight Four’s own fingers hovered near his handgun, his adrenaline spiked with anticipation.

The room’s energy shifted, the air growing heavy. Sweet Sue’s glare darted between Bobby and Lady Serana, her jealousy burning hot. Speedy Morales crossed her arms, her sharp eyes flicking toward Knight Four and the Warlock, noting their relaxed postures but sensing their alertness. Flick continued flipping his knife, a nervous habit made menacing by the manic grin that never left his face.

The room was like the quiet before a storm.

“Sweetheart,” Bobby said, his voice dropping, his smirk sharpening into something more dangerous, “You should know, whatever you heard about me, it is all true.”

Lady Serana tilted her head, her expression cool, unbothered. “I know exactly who I’m talking to,” she replied, her voice steady, her gaze unflinching. “The man who trades lives for credits.”

The saloon fell silent, the tension snapping taut as the gang bristled, and Knight Four’s hand rested casually near his holster, his trigger hand ready.

Bobby’s grin sharpened, he stared at Serana for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled—a razor-sharp grin. “I like you,” he said softly. “You’ve got fire.”

Knight Four leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening as he finally broke the silence. His voice was calm, almost lazy, but carried an undercurrent of sharpness that drew immediate attention.

“Well now, Bobby,” he said, his tone rich with mock curiosity, “what brings you to our little corner of nowhere? Seems like you’ve got bigger fish to fry than a quiet town like Cedar Hollow.”

The gang’s attention shifted sharply to the man at the table. Bobby turned his head, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied Knight Four. The man’s relaxed demeanor and casual tone didn’t fool him; there was an air of readiness about him, a predator’s stillness. Bobby’s grin returned, though it was thinner this time.

“Didn’t know I had to clear my travels with the locals,” Bobby said, his voice edged with sarcasm. He gestured around the bar, playing to the audience. “Didn’t think Cedar Hollow would be so... protective.”

Knight Four chuckled, a low, dry sound. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his fingers steepling casually. His movements were slow, deliberate, the kind of calm that made people uneasy. “Not protective,” he replied smoothly. “Just curious. You don’t exactly blend in, Bobby. And let’s just say I’ve heard stories.” He tilted his head slightly, his tinted eyes gleaming with a playful light. “The kind that usually ends with someone losing a quickdraw.”

The Warlock beside him sipped his drink, his silence heavy but his presence unshakable. A subtle tremor passed through the floor beneath the bar, faint enough that most wouldn’t notice, but enough to make Bobby’s instincts uneasy.

Bobby took a step closer to the table, his hands resting loosely on his belt, near his holsters but not quite there. “Stories, huh?” he said, his tone still light but with a flicker of challenge. “Well, you seem like the kind of guy who likes a good story. Maybe you’ll get one tonight.”

Flick chuckled from behind Bobby, his knife flipping and spinning faster now. “Careful,” he said, his voice lilting with amusement. “Sounds like this one’s got teeth.”

Knight Four turned his gaze to Flick for a moment, the smirk never leaving his face. “Teeth?” he echoed, his voice light but pointed. “Not much use against a gun.”

Bobby’s grin widened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “You still haven’t answered my question,” Knight Four continued, his focus returning to Bobby. “Why Cedar Hollow? You chasing someone, or just passing through?”

Bobby shrugged casually, leaning his weight onto one hip. “Maybe a little of both,” he replied, his tone easy. “Heard someone might’ve passed through here recently. Important someone. Thought I’d stick around, ask a few questions.”

Knight Four’s smirk widened, though his eyes glinted with curiosity. “Let me guess. Prosek?”

Bobby’s grin faltered for the briefest of moments, a crack in his facade so fleeting most wouldn’t notice. But Knight Four noticed. He saw it and filed it away. Bobby recovered quickly, his laugh sharp and loud.

“Well now,” Bobby said, spreading his arms as if to invite the room in on the joke. “Looks like you’ve been listening to stories too.”

Knight Four’s voice turned colder, though his smirk remained. “Maybe. Or maybe I just keep my ears open when trouble walks through the door.”

The room’s tension thickened again, and the faint creak of leather echoed as Sweet Sue shifted her weight. Speedy Morales’s sharp eyes flicked between Knight Four and Bobby, her stance subtly adjusting, ready to spring into action.

The Warlock finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly, as if pulled from the depths of the earth itself. “Prosek, huh? Dangerous game, hunting someone like that. Especially if you’re not careful where you step.”

Bobby’s grin returned, but it was harder now, less genuine. “Careful’s not really my style,” he said, his voice tightening just a hair. “But thanks for the advice, old-timer.”

The Warlock chuckled softly, a sound like stones grinding together. “Advice is free. Ignoring it usually costs more.”

Knight Four leaned back again, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Well, Bobby, far be it from us to keep you from your… business,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “But you might find Cedar Hollow’s got more eyes than you think. You’ll wanna watch your back.”

Bobby’s grin widened, his bravado snapping back into place. “Don’t you worry about me, friend. I always watch my back. Question is, who’s watching yours?”

The words hung in the air, the tension between them crackling like the charge before a lightning strike. Knight Four’s smirk deepened, his fingers twitching just slightly toward the holster at his hip. “You offering?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the stillness punctuated only by the faint creak of wood and the rustle of clothing as hands hovered near weapons.

Then, the Warlock spoke again, breaking the silence with the deliberate weight of his words. “Easy, boys. No need to spill blood over words.”

Knight Four held Bobby’s gaze a moment longer before leaning back once more, his smirk softening. “Sure,” he said lightly. “We’re all friends here. For now.”

Bobby chuckled, the sound sharp and grating. “For now,” he echoed. With a casual nod to his gang, he turned back to the bar, though his shoulders remained tense, his movements sharper than before.

Knight Four watched him go, his smirk fading as his eyes narrowed. Trouble had walked into Cedar Hollow, and it wasn’t leaving without making a mess.

[darthauthor]

Location: Cedar Hollow


The tension in Cedar Hollow had thickened like a storm cloud ready to burst. The streets, usually bustling with quiet, hardworking townsfolk, now seemed to hold their collective breath.

Knight Four stood in the middle of the street, his figure relaxed but commanding. The weathered planks beneath his boots creaked as he shifted slightly, his gloved fingers brushing the edge of his holster in a slow, measured rhythm. The mid-morning sun was relentless, beating down on the town with an unforgiving heat, casting long shadows that stretched across the street. Dust swirled in the faint breeze, catching in the light like gold flecks, a fleeting beauty against the tension that gripped the town.

Across from him, Little Bobby lounged with an easy confidence near the saloon's porch, his hat tilted low to shield his eyes from the sun. His cocky grin never faltered, though his sharp eyes gleamed with something far more calculating. Behind him, his gang clustered in varying states of readiness, watching the scene unfold with a mix of amusement and growing interest. Flick flipped his knife idly, the metallic glint catching the light as if it were a signal. Sweet Sue leaned against a post, her arms crossed, lips curled into a smirk, though her eyes narrowed every time she glanced at Knight Four. Speedy Morales stood with her arms loose at her sides, her stance casual but her gaze sharp, constantly scanning for any advantage.

Knight Four’s voice cut through the charged air, calm and firm, a measured challenge. “Bobby,” he called, his tone steady, carrying across the street with the weight of someone unafraid of the answer, “how about we settle this now? Just you and me. One-on-one.”

The crowd, a loose gathering of townsfolk who had cautiously emerged from their homes and shops, murmured at the boldness of the challenge. Eyes darted between the two figures, tension crackling like lightning.

Bobby’s grin widened, though a flicker of something else, respect, maybe? flashed in his eyes. He pushed off the porch railing and sauntered forward, boots kicking up small puffs of dust with each step. He came to a stop a few feet (2 meters) from Knight Four, tilting his hat back to get a better look at the man who’d dared to call him out.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Bobby said, his voice smooth and mocking, carrying just enough edge to cut. “But why now, stranger? You afraid I’ll come calling when you’re not ready?”

Knight Four’s smirk mirrored Bobby’s, though his eyes remained sharp, calculating. He replied coolly. “I just don’t care for waiting. Figured this way, the fight’ll be fair. No tricks. No gang jumping in. Just two men with guns and a clock.”

The town clock, looming over the far end of the street, ticked faintly in the silence that followed, its hands inching closer to the noon mark.

Bobby tilted his head, considering the challenge, and then chuckled. “You’ve got a sense of humor. I like that. Alright then, high noon it is.” He turned to his gang, his voice carrying a hint of warning. “This one’s mine. Nobody interferes.”

Sweet Sue’s face twisted with frustration, and she took a step forward. “Bobby—”

He silenced her with a sharp look, his grin gone, replaced by a rare seriousness. “I said nobody interferes,” he repeated, his voice firm. “I don’t need help to take down one man.”

Satisfied, Bobby turned back to Knight Four, the grin creeping back onto his face. “You just made my day, stranger. Better make the next five minutes count.”

Knight Four didn’t answer, just gave a faint nod and turned, walking slowly toward the center of the street. The crowd began to disperse slightly, giving the two men space, though the air hummed with anticipation. The town clock ticked louder now, each second a drumbeat leading to the inevitable.

The townsfolk whispered among themselves, the words barely audible over the weight of the moment. A few leaned against railings or perched on barrels, their faces tense with morbid curiosity. Even the horses seemed quieter, their shifting hooves muted as though they, too, sensed the gravity of what was about to unfold.

The saloon doors creaked as the Warlock and Lady Serana stepped outside, their expressions unreadable. The Warlock’s gaze lingered on Knight Four, his grizzled face calm but intent. “He always like this?” the Warlock asked Serana quietly.

Serana’s lips curved into a faint smile. “He doesn’t run from a fight,” she said simply, her eyes fixed on Knight Four. “And he likes a challenge. Always has.”

The clock’s hands crept closer to noon, each tick echoing like a gunshot in the silence. Knight Four stood still in the center of the street, his posture relaxed but every fiber of him ready. Bobby mirrored his stance a few paces away, his grin gone now, replaced by the cold focus of a man who lived for this moment.

The crowd fell silent as the clock struck the hour, the deep, resonant chime ringing out across Cedar Hollow.

The duel had begun.

---

The chime of the town clock’s high noon bell rang out like a death knell, echoing through the silent streets of Cedar Hollow. Dust swirled lazily in the midday heat, catching the golden sunlight in hazy ribbons as the crowd held its collective breath. Two men stood across from each other, their shadows long and sharp against the ground.

Knight Four, calm and composed, was a study in lethal precision. His stance was relaxed, his weight balanced evenly between his feet, his gloved hand resting lightly near his holster. His gaze locked onto Little Bobby, sharp and calculating, a predator sizing up its prey. The sun gleamed off the polished grip of his revolver, the stillness around him belying the crackling tension in the air.

Little Bobby, for all his bravado, stood rigid, his grin stripped away, replaced by a cold intensity. His hand hovered over his pearl-handled pistol, his fingers twitching faintly. His cocky air was still there, but it had hardened into something darker—pride, sharpened by the knowledge that all eyes were on him. Losing wasn’t an option.

The town had gone utterly still. Even the faint creak of a sign swinging in the breeze seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

“Let’s see how fast you are,” Bobby said, his voice carrying in the heavy silence.

Knight Four didn’t respond. His focus never wavered, his breathing steady, his fingers loose and ready. The duel wasn’t about words—it was about the moment, the razor’s edge where action and reaction became indistinguishable.

The tension in the air stretched impossibly thin, the weight of the crowd’s unblinking eyes pressing down like a thundercloud.

The moment broke.

Bobby’s hand snapped toward his holster, the gleam of his silver-plated revolver flashing as it cleared the leather. His movement was fast, blindingly fast—fast enough to end most fights before they began.

The sound of the gunshot was deafening, splitting the air like a lightning strike. The crack reverberated through the street, sending a shockwave of sound rippling through the stunned onlookers.

Bobby’s revolver never fired.

Instead, it clattered to the ground, spinning in a lazy arc before coming to rest in the dust. Bobby’s right hand jerked violently to his chest, blood blossoming from his palm in sharp, crimson streaks. He staggered back a step, his face contorted in shock and pain, staring at his hand as though it had betrayed him.

The entire crowd froze, the weight of what they’d just witnessed sinking in like a stone. Flick’s knife stopped mid-air, and even Speedy’s usual cool slipped as her eyes widened. Sweet Sue let out a sharp, incredulous breath, her fingers twitching toward her belt but not moving further.

Knight Four stood exactly as he had before, his revolver held steady in his hand, its barrel still smoking faintly. His expression was calm, untouched by the adrenaline that rippled through the air around him. He took one step forward, the soft sound of his boot meeting the dust loud in the silence.

Bobby swayed slightly, his good hand clutching his wounded one as his pride burned hotter than his injury. “You… bastard,” he spat, his voice thick with a mix of anger and humiliation.

Knight Four finally spoke, his voice cool and steady, cutting through the moment like a blade. He said simply, his handgun still aimed low. “Be grateful. You’re still alive.”

Bobby glared at him, his sharp features twisted in fury. His right hand hung useless at his side, blood dripping steadily onto the dirt. For a moment, it seemed he might lunge forward, pride driving him to reckless action.

Knight Four tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping, quiet but unmistakably deadly. “Don’t. You’re fast, Bobby, but not now.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it was different. It wasn’t the charged, electric anticipation of violence—it was the oppressive stillness of a man who’d been beaten, not just in skill but in pride. Bobby straightened slowly, his left hand brushing dust from his shirt in an attempt to recover some dignity.

He looked at his gang, their expressions a mix of shock and caution. Flick’s knife remained still in his hand, Speedy’s weight shifted forward, but neither moved to intervene. Sweet Sue’s fury simmered, but even she held her ground, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line.

Bobby’s voice broke the silence, low and bitter. “This isn’t over.”

Knight Four’s handgun lowered slightly, his smirk faint but unmistakable.

The tension in the street lingered for a moment longer before the crowd began to stir, the murmur of voices swelling as the townsfolk broke from their shock. Bobby turned on his heel, his gang moving to flank him, their expressions a mix of irritation and bruised pride.

Knight Four watched them go, his handgun sliding smoothly back into its holster.

Knight Four’s eyes narrowed, his tone icy and cutting. “No. It isn’t.”

In a blur of motion, Knight Four’s hand moved, his handgun flashing out of its holster with deadly precision. A second shot rang out, louder than the first, and for an instant, the air seemed to vibrate with the force of it.

Bobby’s head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ground.

The gang froze in horror, their collective breath catching. Flick’s knife clattered to the ground, forgotten. Sweet Sue’s scream ripped through the stunned silence, raw and furious, her hands flying to her face. Even Speedy, usually composed, took a step back, her eyes wide with shock.

From the sidelines, the townsfolk erupted into a murmur of disbelief and fear, some shouting, others gasping as the infamous Little Bobby lay motionless in the dirt. The pink mist from the magic bullet dissipated quickly, leaving only the image of a lifeless figure sprawled on the ground.

The moment stretched, each second dragging like an eternity.

But Knight Four didn’t flinch. His handgun remained trained on Bobby as he took a slow step forward, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Check his left hand.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then Speedy, her sharp instincts overriding her shock, crouched down beside Bobby, her trembling hand reaching out. She froze as her fingers brushed against the smooth metal of a pistol gripped tightly in Bobby’s left hand.

The realization hit her like a freight train. “He—he had a gun,” she said, her voice shaking. “He was—he was about to shoot.”

Flick’s manic energy sputtered, his usual grin replaced by a grimace. “He was goin’ for it?” he muttered, half to himself. His gaze darted to Knight Four, then back to Bobby.

Sweet Sue, trembling with rage, glared at Knight Four, her teeth bared. “You didn’t have to kill him!” she snarled. “You—”

Knight Four’s voice cut through her accusation, calm but unyielding. “He gave me no choice. He reached for his second gun. I spared him once—he didn’t take it.”


The gang bristled, their emotions flaring like a powder keg ready to ignite. Sweet Sue’s trembling hands clenched into fists, her fury practically radiating off her. Flick’s grin returned, this time sharp with malice as he spun his knife in his fingers. Speedy’s sharp eyes darted between Knight Four and Bobby’s dead body, her body coiled with tension, ready to spring into action.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, from the shadows, a low voice rumbled like distant thunder. Big Drew stepped forward, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the gang. His presence alone seemed to change the air, his calm, quiet authority cutting through the chaos. He looked at Bobby, dead and sprawled in the dust, then turned his steely gaze to Knight Four. His voice, when it came, was low but firm, carrying the weight of finality.

“Kill him.”

The words landed like a spark to dry kindling. Instinct took over, each gang member reacting in the split second after Drew’s command.

Speedy Morales moved first, darting toward Knight Four with blinding speed, her reflexes sharp and her body low. She was a streak of motion, her hands reaching for her weapons.

Flick, his grin stretching wider, surged forward next, his knife spinning in a blur of motion as he charged, his body tilted forward for speed.

Sweet Sue, teeth bared in rage, lunged after them, her hands lighting up with the fiery glow of her pyrokinesis as she aimed to hurl a blazing flame directly at Knight Four.

And then the ground betrayed them.

The Warlock, standing by the saloon with his hand subtly extended, finished his spell. A power rippled through the air, and in an instant, the dusty ground beneath the gang’s feet shimmered and hardened into a slick sheet of ice, its surface catching the sunlight in sharp, glittering shards.

Speedy, mid-sprint, hit the ice first. Her momentum carried her forward uncontrollably, and with a sharp cry, her feet flew out from under her. She hit the ground hard, sliding awkwardly across the ice, her limbs flailing as she fought for purchase.

Flick was next, his forward charge turning into a wild, stumbling skid. His knife flew from his hand as his arms pinwheeled, and with a loud crash, he landed flat on his back, the impact knocking the wind out of him.

Sweet Sue’s fire fizzled as she slipped and fell, the heat of her anger doing nothing against the cold, treacherous surface. She landed in an ungraceful heap, her hands scraping against the ice as she tried to recover.

Big Drew, heavy and deliberate in his movements, didn’t fare much better. His boots slid immediately as he stepped forward, his towering frame swaying as he fought to stay upright. He managed to drop to one knee, planting a hand on the icy ground to steady himself, but the motion left him vulnerable.

The surprise of the ice rippled through the gang like a shockwave. Panic and anger flared in their expressions as they struggled to adjust. Knight Four, standing just beyond the edge of the frozen ground, remained steady, his revolver drawn but lowered slightly, watching them with a calm, calculating gaze.

“You’ve got choices,” Knight Four said, his voice sharp and unwavering. “Crawl away, surrender, or fight from your knees. But this ends here.”

The Warlock stepped forward, his presence as solid as the ground he commanded, his grizzled face impassive. “The ice won’t break unless I want it to,” he said, his tone low and even, as though he were stating a fact of nature. “So think carefully before you decide.”

Speedy, still sprawled on the ice, hissed in frustration as she struggled to rise, her sharp movements sending her sliding again. “This is a goddamn joke,” she spat, her voice edged with fury. “Drew, what the hell do we do?”

Big Drew’s face was dark with frustration as he slowly turned his gaze to Knight Four. His voice, heavy with grudging respect, was quiet but carried the weight of his words. “You’ve got us pinned, stranger. But you better believe this ain’t over.”

Knight Four’s smirk deepened, but his gun stayed trained on the gang. “It’s over when you make the right choice,” he said. “Lay down your weapons and crawl out of here. Or stay and lose more than just your footing.”

Sweet Sue glared at him, her fiery defiance momentarily dampened by her position on the ice. “You’re lucky Bobby’s..,” she snarled. “He’d—”

“He’d do what?” Knight Four interrupted, his voice cutting through hers like a whip. “Pull another gun? Get himself shot again? He’s dead. Think about that before you make the same mistake.”

Flick groaned as he tried to sit up, his voice weaker but still defiant. “Damn magic tricks...”

Knight Four’s gaze flicked to him, his smirk returning. “And here I thought you liked flashy moves.”

The gang exchanged uneasy glances, their options clear but unappealing. Big Drew’s jaw tightened as he looked at each of them, weighing their survival against his pride. Finally, he let out a sharp breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Stand down,” Drew ordered, his voice cold but resolute. “We’ll take Bobby and go.”

One by one, the gang froze, their defiance draining as they accepted Drew’s command. Speedy and Sue glared daggers at Knight Four, but neither dared move. Flick muttered under his breath, crawling slowly toward Bobby’s unconscious form, his fingers itching for his knife but staying empty.

The Warlock flicked his wrist, and the ice began to melt, retreating into the dust as quickly as it had appeared. The gang, now kneeling or crawling in the dirt, gathered Bobby and began to retreat, their anger palpable but contained.

Knight Four watched them go, his gun still in hand, his sharp eyes never leaving them. “Next time,” he called after them, his voice carrying, “leave your pride at the door. You’ll live longer.”

As the gang retreated, their bruised pride and wounded leader a stark reminder of their defeat, the streets of Cedar Hollow slowly began to settle. The townsfolk who had gathered to witness the chaos dispersed, their murmurs fading into the background. The sun remained high, casting its relentless heat on the scene, but the storm of tension had passed—for now.

Knight Four holstered his revolver with a practiced motion, his sharp gaze lingering on the horizon where the gang had disappeared. His smirk softened, replaced by a thoughtful expression. Turning toward the saloon steps, he found Lady Serana leaning against the wooden railing, her arms crossed and her dark eyes fixed on him.

Her demeanor was calm, composed as always, but there was an intensity in her gaze that he recognized—a quiet storm of emotions held in check. She had watched the entire encounter without intervening, her silence speaking volumes. The Warlock stood beside her, his expression unreadable, his presence grounding as always.

Knight Four stepped closer, his boots stirring the dust. He stopped just short of the stairs, tilting his head as he regarded her. His voice, usually tinged with playful confidence, was quiet, almost introspective.

“How are you?” he asked, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “About me killing Bobby. The man who killed Cyber-Knight Scottsdale.”

Serana’s dark eyes met his, unwavering. For a moment, she didn’t answer, her gaze searching his face as though measuring the weight of his words. Finally, she let out a slow breath, her voice low and steady.

Serana looked away briefly, her gaze falling to the spot where Bobby had fallen. Her voice, when it came, was softer, but no less resolute. “Sir Scottsdale wouldn’t have wanted revenge. He lived by a code—one I respected; I still do. Killing Bobby doesn’t undo what he did, and it doesn’t bring Sir Scottsdale back.”

Knight Four’s smirk faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression. “That sounds like the Cyber-Knight’s way,” he said. “Honorable, noble, maybe even idealistic.” He paused, his tone sharpening slightly. “But what about your way?”

Serana’s gaze snapped back to him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “My way is to remember that justice isn’t about satisfying anger. But if I’d wanted to see him dead, I wouldn’t have stood by while you pulled the trigger.”

Her words hung between them, heavy with meaning. The two warriors, so different in their methods, held a shared respect for the complexity of justice in a brutal world.

Serana’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “I didn’t do anything to stop you or the duel. Little Bobby died the way he killed so many others.”

Knight Four nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward again. “Fair enough," he said.

The Warlock, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke, his deep voice resonating like the earth itself. “Justice is patient,” he said, his gaze shifting between the two. “It doesn’t demand blood for blood, but it doesn’t forget, either. Bobby’s path led him to what he deserved, whether it was by your hand, hers, or any other’s.”

Knight Four chuckled softly, the sound carrying a note of respect. “You two always know how to keep things complicated, don’t you?”

Serana’s expression softened, her voice quieter now. “The world’s complicated. Sir Scottsdale understood that. I hope you do too.”

He nodded, tipping his hat slightly before turning back toward the saloon doors. As he pushed them open, he glanced over his shoulder, his voice lighter now. “Complicated or not, you know I don’t hesitate when it comes to pulling the trigger.”

Serana watched him disappear inside, her gaze lingering on the door long after it swung shut. Her hand brushed the hilt of her hidden blade, her thoughts heavy with the past and the uncertain future.

The Warlock stepped up beside her, his grizzled face unreadable as he followed her gaze. “And how do you feel about him?” he asked quietly.

Serana didn’t answer immediately, her expression tightening briefly before she exhaled. “Like he said,” she murmured. “It's complicated.”

[darthauthor]

Location: Cedar Hollow


The evening settled over Cedar Hollow, the cool air thick with the scent of wood smoke and the quiet hum of a town preparing for night. Lady Serana stood in the corner of the Stag’s Respite, her cybernetic eye dimmed to a soft glow, giving her a less imposing appearance. Her leather-and-metal armor reflected faint firelight, and her posture, relaxed but upright, suggested both strength and approachability.

The room was quieter now, the earlier chatter of the townsfolk reduced to murmurs. Some remained skeptical of her presence, but others had softened, watching the Cyber-Knight not with suspicion but with cautious interest.

Serana raised her voice gently, enough to be heard over the murmurs. “People of Cedar Hollow,” she began, her tone calm but resonant, “I’ve seen many roads and heard many stories. I know how heavy it can feel to carry burdens of the heart and mind—grudges, regrets, guilt. Sometimes, sharing those burdens can make them lighter.”

She glanced around the room, her organic eye meeting the gazes of those who dared look directly at her. “I don’t come with judgment or rules. I’m not here to preach. But if you wish to speak—about your worries, your mistakes, or your struggles—I will listen. And perhaps, together, we can find clarity.”

A faint rustle of unease passed through the room. The people of Cedar Hollow were not accustomed to baring their souls, especially not to outsiders. But Serana’s presence, strong yet nonthreatening, made the idea less daunting.

“I’ll be outside,” she added. “Come to me in confidence. What we speak of will remain between us. You have my word of honor as a Cyber-Knight.”

---

Serana sat on a low wooden bench just beyond the saloon’s door, her breath visible in the cold air. The stars above shone faintly through the wisps of clouds, and the soft murmur of the forest provided a natural solace.

A young woman, no more than 18, hesitated at the edge of the porch. Her shawl, patched but clean, was pulled tightly around her shoulders. Finally, she stepped forward, wringing her hands.

“I don’t know if I should…” the girl began, her voice barely audible.

Serana motioned for her to sit beside her, her organic hand resting lightly on the bench. “There’s no ‘should,’” she said softly. “Only what feels right. Speak if you wish, or sit in silence if you don’t. Both are welcome.”

The girl hesitated but eventually sat, her posture hunched. “It’s my brother,” she whispered. “We’ve been fighting for weeks now. Now he thinks we should send word to the Coalition. Says it’d be safer for the town and they might reward us.”

Serana remained quiet, letting the girl continue.

“I called him a coward,” the girl said, her voice breaking. “Said he’d sell out to strangers. But I’m scared too. What if the Coalition comes, and we’ve done something to anger them? What if we’re not safe?”

The girl’s words tumbled out, her emotions raw and unfiltered. Serana listened intently, her cybernetic eye faintly glowing in the dark, its attention focused but not intrusive.

When the girl fell silent, Serana leaned forward slightly. “It sounds like both of you are afraid,” she said gently. “Fear has a way of disguising itself—sometimes as anger, sometimes as righteousness. This is how it is with the Coalition. But at its core, it’s the same for everyone.”

The girl glanced at her, surprised by the simplicity of the statement.

“Your brother doesn’t sound like a coward,” Serana continued. “He sounds like someone trying to protect the people he loves. And you? You’re not wrong to want to stand strong against the Coalition. You’re both seeing the same problem but from different sides.”

The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know how to talk to him anymore.”

“Start with the truth,” Serana said. “Tell him how you feel, not what you think he should do. Tell him you’re scared too. You don’t have to agree on everything, but understanding each other’s fears can help, even if you see things differently.”

The girl wiped her eyes, nodding slowly. “I’ll try.”

Serana placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. “That’s all any of us can do.”

---

As the night deepened, more townsfolk approached Serana, one by one.

A middle-aged man, burdened by guilt, confessed to hoarding food during the last harsh winter, even as his neighbors went hungry. “I don’t know how to face them now,” he admitted. Serana encouraged him to seek forgiveness, not through words alone but through actions—sharing his strength and resources with the community in the coming months.

A hunter, plagued by nightmares, spoke of a decision to leave an injured companion behind during a hunt gone wrong. “I don’t know if he made it back,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. Serana reminded him that survival sometimes forces cruel choices but urged him to honor his friend by ensuring no one else faced the same fate.

An elderly woman, trembling and frail, admitted her fear of the Coalition soldiers who had taken her eldest son years ago. “If they come back, I’ll… I’ll welcome them, just to keep the rest of my family safe.” Serana offered no judgment, only an understanding nod and reassurance that survival takes many forms.

---

By the time the stars were fully visible, the townsfolk had trickled away, their hearts lighter, their minds calmer. Serana remained on the bench, staring into the darkened forest. Her shoulders bore no outward sign of the weight she carried, yet she felt the ache of absorbing so many burdens.

Knight Four approached from the shadows, his boots crunching softly against the frosted ground. “How do you do it?” he asked, his tone low. “Carry all that for them?”

Serana glanced at him, her organic eye tired but resolute. “By remembering that it’s not mine to carry. I don’t solve their problems—I help them see that they can. It’s enough.”

Knight Four sat beside her, silent for a moment. Then, with a faint grin, he said, “I’ll never understand why you bother.”

Serana smiled faintly, the glow of her cybernetic eye flickering. “Because someone has to.”

The campfire burned low, its embers glowing faintly against the backdrop of the frosted forest. The silence of the night was broken only by the occasional crackle of wood and the distant rustle of leaves. Lady Serana sat across from Knight Four, her posture relaxed yet attentive. Her cyber-eye glimmered faintly in the firelight, casting an ethereal glow over her otherwise calm features.

Knight Four leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. His face was shadowed by the brim of his hood, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the inner conflict he had carried for so long. Serana waited patiently, her gaze steady, offering no pressure, only quiet understanding.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Knight Four said finally, his voice low and rough, almost as though the words themselves were reluctant to leave him. “But I think I need to tell you the truth. About who I am… and what I’ve been doing.”

Serana didn’t move, but the faint hum of her cybernetic systems told him she was listening intently. “Take your time,” she said gently. “There’s no rush.”

Knight Four exhaled deeply, his breath visible in the cold night air. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not just some mercenary looking for work, tagging along with Knight One, Two, and Three. I’ve been lying to them. To all of you.”

He lifted his head slightly, his gaze meeting Serana’s. “My real name isn’t Knight Four. It’s—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is… I’m an agent of the Order of the White Rose.”

Serana’s expression didn’t change, but her organic eye narrowed slightly, studying him. She said nothing, letting him continue.

“My assignment was to infiltrate the Order of the Mystic Knights,” he explained. “The White Rose believes the Mystic Knights are a threat—dangerous criminals who need to be stopped. My job was to gather information, find weaknesses, and eventually bring them down. I’ve been feeding them everything I’ve learned. Every plan, every success, every failure.”

He hesitated, his hands tightening into fists. “At first, it was just another mission. Another way to serve the cause. But the longer I stayed with them, the more I realized… they’re not the enemy I was told they were. They’re not perfect—hell, Knight One’s methods alone would make most White Rose agents sick—but they get results. Real results. They help people. They’ve done more for the places we’ve been than I ever did working alone or even with the White Rose.”

Serana leaned back slightly, her gaze unwavering. “And what about their flaws? The things your Order opposes?”

Knight Four’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, they’re a bunch of greedy capitalists. They take payment for their work. They profit. And I won’t lie—there are things they’ve done that I don’t agree with. But not every Mystic Knight is the same. Knight One? He’s principled in his own way, even if it’s hard to see sometimes. Knight Two? Relentless, but effective. And Knight Three… he’s saved more lives than he’s taken, no question.”

He paused, his voice softening. “I’ve seen them do more good than harm. I’ve worked with them, fought with them, and trusted them with my life. And the truth is…” He hesitated, as if forcing himself to admit something he’d been denying. “I trust them more than I trust the White Rose.”

Serana tilted her head slightly, her voice calm and even. “Then why are you telling me this now?”

Knight Four looked away, his gaze fixed on the fire. “Because you... you left your Order, the Order of the Cyber-Knights. You defied your Lord Coake to do what you thought was right. You saw that the ideals they held didn’t match what you felt in your heart.”

He looked back at her, his eyes searching hers. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. If I was committed to the White Rose’s cause, I’d have set them up to be imprisoned by now—Knight One, Two, Three—all of them. But I haven’t. And I don’t think I can.”

For a moment, the only sound was the crackling fire. Then, Serana spoke, her voice quiet but firm.

“You’re right. I left my Order. Not because they were wrong, but because their path wasn’t mine anymore. They wanted me to stay neutral, to stay out of the war. But I couldn’t do that—not when I knew I could make a difference.”

She leaned forward, her cyber-eye flickering softly. “You’re at a crossroads. You’ve seen both sides, felt the pull of both ideals. The question isn’t who’s right or wrong—it’s who you are and who you want to be. If you believe in the White Rose, stay loyal to them. But if you’ve found something truer, something better with the Mystic Knights… then stop fighting it.”

Her gaze softened, a faint smile touching her lips. “It’s not about betrayal. It’s about finding where you belong.”

Knight Four leaned back, rubbing his face with his hands. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered. “If I turn my back on the White Rose, I’m a traitor. They’ll come after me. And if the Mystic Knights ever find out who I really am…”

“They might forgive you,” Serana interrupted, her tone steady. “They might not. But either way, if the truth eventually comes out... Better it comes from you than from anyone else.”

Knight Four sighed heavily, the weight of his dilemma pressing down on him. Serana reached out, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“You’ve already made your choice,” she said softly. “You’re just afraid to admit it. And that’s okay. It’s not easy to walk away from something you’ve built your life around. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

He looked at her, his expression conflicted but grateful. “Thanks. For listening. For… not judging.”

Serana’s faint smile returned. “I’m not here to judge. I’m here to help. Whatever you decide, you have my support.”

As the fire burned lower, the two sat in silence, Knight Four wrestling with the weight of his confession and the choice that lay ahead. And though the night around them was cold, the warmth of Serana’s understanding gave him a sliver of peace.

[darthauthor]

Location: Cedar Hollow


The moon hung high in the frigid sky, its silvery light spilling over the rugged landscape of Cedar Hollow. The faint crunch of frost-laden leaves broke the stillness as the Warlock emerged from the forest. Beside him, an 8-foot-tall humanoid made of shimmering ice strode with slow, deliberate steps. The creature's crystalline form reflected the moonlight in dazzling patterns, its broad, jagged shoulders glinting like a frosted sculpture.

On its back, the Little Ice Monster carried a massive load of neatly stacked firewood. The weight didn’t strain the creature; it moved effortlessly, its every step steady and precise, as if it had been made for this task. The wood, gathered from dead and fallen trees, was a mix of seasoned logs and freshly collected branches—dry and perfect for burning.

The pair approached the outskirts of the town, their figures surreal against the backdrop of the quiet wilderness. A faint blue glow emanated from the monster’s chest, a core of magical energy that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of its steps. Its presence was otherworldly but oddly peaceful, its massive form silent save for the faint creak of its icy joints.

The townsfolk, many of whom were still awake and tending to evening tasks, stopped and stared. Some murmured nervously, while others peeked from windows and doorways. The Little Ice Monster was a strange sight, even for a town accustomed to the occasional brush with magic. The Warlock raised a hand in a gesture of calm, his brown robes stirring gently in the night breeze.

“It’s all right,” he called out, his voice carrying over the still air. “It’s just here to help.”

They reached the Stag’s Respite, the warm glow of its interior spilling through the windows. Sprout stopped just outside the building and gestured toward the side of the inn. “There,” he said, his voice steady but commanding. “Stack the wood neatly.”

The Little Ice Monster obeyed immediately, its massive hands moving with surprising delicacy as it unfastened the ropes securing the load. One by one, it lifted the heavy logs, each weighing more than a grown man could carry, and placed them in a tidy stack against the wall. The pile grew quickly, towering almost to the height of the creature itself.

As it worked, the ice monster emitted faint wisps of cold vapor that dissipated into the night air. The frost it carried seemed to cling briefly to the logs before fading, leaving the wood dry and ready for use.

A few braver townsfolk ventured closer, their faces a mix of curiosity and wariness. One of them, a wiry man with a weathered face, stepped forward and cleared his throat. “What… what is that thing?” he asked, his eyes darting between the Warlock and the towering figure of ice.

He offered a faint smile, tipping his wide-brimmed hat. “A helper,” he said simply. “It doesn’t harm, doesn’t tire. Just works when needed. The wood comes from dead trees and fallen branches—nothing living was harmed. Enough here to warm the inn and anyone else in need.”

The man blinked, his expression softening as he glanced at the steadily growing woodpile. “Well… we could use the help, no denying that.”

Another voice, a woman bundled in a thick shawl, chimed in. “Is it dangerous?”

“Not unless I make it so,” the Warlock replied, his tone reassuring. “It’s just ice and magic. Think of it as a walking tool, nothing more.”

Within minutes, the wood was stacked neatly, a towering supply that would last through many cold nights. The Little Ice Monster turned to face Sprout, awaiting further instructions.

“Good work,” he said softly, then turned back to the gathered townsfolk. “This is yours now. Use it well.”

The townsfolk murmured their thanks, a mix of awe and relief in their voices. Some even managed faint smiles as they looked at the enormous pile of firewood, grateful for the unexpected generosity.

The Warlock nodded to the townsfolk, then gestured to the Little Ice Monster. “Come on,” he said, his voice low but firm. The creature turned, its massive frame moving with the same slow grace as before, and followed him back toward the forest. Its glowing core pulsed faintly in the moonlight, its icy form blending into the shadows of the trees.

As they disappeared into the night, the townsfolk remained by the inn, watching the frost-covered ground where the creature had walked. For all its strangeness, it had left something tangible—warmth and security in the form of firewood. And for that, the people of Cedar Hollow couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude, even in the cold air.

---

The faint glow of dawn brushed the edges of the horizon, casting the world in a steel-gray light. The air was cold and still, a deceptive calm before the storm. Knight Four lay on his side, rifle clutched to his chest, his body coiled even in sleep. Suddenly, his Sixth Sense jolted him awake, a searing wave of adrenaline ripping through him. His heart pounded, his instincts screaming one clear message: Danger is here.

Without hesitation, he rolled onto his feet, his boots crunching against the frosty ground as he scanned the dim surroundings. There was no immediate sign of danger, but he knew better than to doubt the feeling.

Knight Four’s mind raced—he couldn’t see the Warlock with his binoculars, but he can see the Coalition troops.

His breath puffed visibly in the cold air, his voice urgent but quiet.
“Serana!” he hissed, crouching inside the tent. “Wake up! We’ve got company—Coalition troops, Dog Boys, and Skelebots. They’re rounding up the town.”

Serana, fully alert despite the surprise. Her cyber-eye flared briefly, scanning him. She didn’t need to ask if he was sure—Knight Four’s instincts had proven themselves too many times to question.

“How many?” she asked in a low tone, already strapping on her armor.

“At least twenty,” Knight Four replied grimly.

Serana swore under her breath as she began packing her gear. “The Warlock?”

Knight Four shook his head. “Couldn’t find him, but he’s smart.”

---

Within moments, Serana and Knight Four moved to a nearby rise, crouching low behind the cover of a rocky outcrop. From their vantage point, they could see the Coalition forces moving with ruthless efficiency.

The troops, clad in their signature black armor with the Coalition’s emblem etched into their shoulder plates, marched through the streets of Cedar Hollow. Their rifles gleamed in the faint pre-dawn light, their movements mechanical and precise.

The Dog Boys, humanoid canines genetically engineered for hunting mages and psychics, moved ahead of the group, their keen senses sniffing the air and ground for any trace of magic. Their growls carried faintly on the breeze.

Behind them came the Skelebots, towering humanoid robots with skeletal frames and glowing red optics. Their heavy footfalls left deep impressions in the frosted earth as they flanked the group, a wall of cold, unfeeling metal.

At the center of the formation stood Lieutenant Talon, his voice cutting through the stillness with chilling authority.

---

The townsfolk, rousted from their homes, were herded into the town square. The lieutenant stood on an overturned cart, his helmet gleaming as he surveyed the frightened faces.

“We know you’ve been harboring mages,” Talon shouted, his voice carrying over the gathered crowd. “Don’t bother denying it. We have our sources. Little Bobby’s gang made sure of that. They told us everything.”

From their vantage point, Serana and Knight Four exchanged a sharp look.

Talon’s voice turned darker. “You will hand over the mages, or we’ll burn this place to the ground. One by one, we’ll make an example of each of you until you give them up or the mages surrender themselves.”

A murmur of fear rippled through the crowd, and one young man—a brother of the girl Serana had counseled the night before—stepped forward. His hands trembled as he raised them, his voice cracking under the weight of fear.

“They’re not hiding here,” he stammered. “We don’t have any mages. I swear!”

Talon stepped down from the cart, his imposing frame looming over the young man. “Wrong answer.” He grabbed the boy by the collar, pulling him close. “Let me make this simple. Either you tell me where they are, or you’re the first example.”


Serana’s jaw tightened, her fists clenched as she watched. “He’s terrified. He’ll say anything to survive,” she muttered, her voice low and tense.

Knight Four nodded grimly. “And the Lt knows it. This is about breaking them. Scare the others into giving us up.”

Serana’s cyber-eye zoomed in, scanning the forces. “We can’t let this escalate. If they start killing people, it’ll be a massacre.”

Serana turned to him, her voice firm. “You focus on disrupting their ranks. I’ll make my way into the square. I can talk to the townsfolk, calm them down, and keep the soldiers distracted.”

“And Warlock?” Knight Four asked, scanning the treeline.

“He’ll show up,” Serana said, her confidence unwavering. “He always does.”

---

The town square was deathly quiet. The gathered townsfolk stood in tight clusters, their breath visible in the freezing air, their faces pale with fear. Lieutenant Talon stood at the center of it all, his dark armor gleaming faintly in the predawn light. His helmet obscured his expression, but his voice carried with cold authority, sharp and cutting against the stillness.

The young man trembled before him, his hands clenched at his sides as he tried to answer the lieutenant’s questions. His voice cracked as he stammered denials, his courage fracturing under the weight of Talon’s presence.

Talon stepped closer, his armored boots crunching loudly on the frostbitten ground. He tilted his head slightly, his tone mockingly conversational. “Not hiding any mages, you say? No warlocks? No magic healers? You expect me to believe that?”

The boy opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He froze, his fear palpable.

Talon let out a long, exaggerated sigh, then gestured sharply to one of the Skelebots flanking him. The humanoid robot, its skeletal frame lit by glowing red eyes, stepped forward with a mechanical hiss. Strapped to its back was a flamethrower, its barrel gleaming ominously in the cold morning light.

“Warm things up a bit,” Talon ordered, his voice dripping with cruelty. He pointed toward the clock tower.

The Skelebot moved with mechanical precision, its flamethrower hissing to life as a jet of fire erupted from its barrel. The townsfolk gasped in unison as the flames licked at the base of the clock tower, climbing quickly up its weathered wood. Smoke billowed into the sky, and the faint sound of creaking timbers filled the air as the flames consumed the structure.

The lieutenant turned back to the crowd, his voice calm, almost casual. “There’s no point in lying to me,” he said. “I don’t care what words you use: warlock, magic user, mage—it’s all the same to me. I know they’re here.”

Talon began pacing, his helmeted gaze sweeping over the crowd. “We found deep footprints leading into your little town, the kind left by something carrying a lot of weight. And then there’s that suspiciously large stack of firewood over by your saloon. Not exactly subtle, is it?”

He stopped in front of an elderly man, who shrank under his gaze. “And let’s not forget the miraculous recovery reported here. Illnesses and injuries, gone overnight. Your last Coalition patrol passed through here and saw some very sick people. Now, everyone looks perfectly healthy.”

Talon tilted his head, his voice taking on a venomous edge. “Sounds magical, doesn’t it?”

Talon turned back to the young man, who still stood frozen in fear. “Where are they?” he demanded. “Where are the mages who healed you? Where are the strangers who came here yesterday? Don’t make me burn anything else. Your clock tower’s just the beginning.”

The boy shook his head frantically, tears streaming down his face. “I—I don’t know! I swear!”

Talon stepped closer, towering over him. “You don’t know? Or you’re too scared to tell me?” He gestured toward the town square. “I can keep burning, boy. The Stag’s Respite. Your barn. Your neighbors’ homes. How long do you think it’ll take before someone decides to stop protecting your precious magic users?”

Talon turned back to the crowd, raising his voice to cut through the growing whispers. “Take me to where they spent the night. I know you know. This isn’t a difficult choice: give them up, or I start choosing who dies first.”

His words hung in the cold air, the crackling flames of the clock tower casting flickering shadows across the terrified faces of the townsfolk. The Skelebots loomed at the edges of the square, their glowing eyes fixed on the crowd. The Dog Boys growled low in their throats, their predatory stances ready to pounce.

Talon crossed his arms, his tone cold and final. “You have until I count to five. One…”

[darthauthor]

Location: Cedar Hollow town square


The tense countdown of the town square was shattered as the Dog Boys, standing alert at the edges of the Coalition formation, suddenly snapped their heads toward the barn. Their noses twitched, and their pointed ears flattened, sharp growls rumbling low in their throats.

One of the Dog Boys, a scarred brute with an eager snarl, barked out, “Magic! Coming this way. Coming from the barn too! Strong magic! Wait a psychic too. Major.”

The Dog Boys nudge their heads in the directions.

Lieutenant Talon turns his head sharply, his attention snapping to the barn.
“Magic in the barn?” Talon said mockingly, his voice carrying a cruel edge. “Well, well. It seems our little town is hiding something after all.”
The structure stood at the edge of the town, weathered and quiet.
“Five grunts and your Skelebot, on the barn. Surround it. Dog Boy Cord with them. Light it up. No prisoners.”
Turning to the Dog Boy next to him.
“Bite,” he said, “Take two Skelebots and TAKE the psychic.”

Seconds later the barn was surrounded.

The Skelebots, moving in perfect synchronization, advanced in a wide circle around the barn.

The Lieutenant’s tone shifted, sharp and commanding, through his radio. “Weapons free! Target the barn and fire at will!”

The Skelebots, standing at rigid attention, moved with precision and speed. Their glowing red optics locked onto the barn as they raised their energy rifles in unison.

“Grunts! Open fire!” Talon barked at his human troops.

Together they unleashed a barrage of energy bolts. The glowing streaks of red tore through the early morning gloom, each shot striking the barn. The wooden structure shuddered with every impact, chunks of wood and debris flying into the air as the blasts ripped through its walls.

Inside, the barn groaned as its old beams struggled to hold against the relentless assault. Flames erupted from sections of the roof as the concentrated energy ignited dry timber. Smoke billowed into the sky, dark and acrid, as the barn’s sturdy walls began to buckle.

The townsfolk watched in horror, their cries of protest swallowed by the overwhelming weapons fire. One man shouted, “That barn’s just for storing hay! You’re killing nothing but empty wood!” But his voice was drowned out.

The Dog Boys barked and howled, their senses alive with the lingering aura of magic. One growled, “It’s still there! The magic is strong—it’s hiding something!”

The lieutenant, standing tall, he commanded, his voice cutting through the din. “I want it leveled! Keep firing until there’s nothing left!”

The men reloaded.

The Skelebots fired in synch, their shots targeting every visible section of the structure. The once-sturdy building crumbled under the onslaught, its walls collapsing inward as the roof caved in with a deafening crash.

The barn fell in a massive cloud of smoke and dust, its charred remains smoldering in the dawn light. The ground trembled as the last of its supports gave way, leaving nothing but a blackened heap of rubble. The Skelebots stood motionless, their glowing optics scanning the wreckage for signs of movement.

Talon turned back to the Dog Boys, his tone impatient. “Well? Do you still smell magic?”

One of the Dog Boys stepped closer to the wreckage, sniffing the air deeply. His ears flattened, and his lips curled in frustration. “It’s still there. Something’s buried in the ruins.”

Talon’s helmeted head tilted as if in thought, then he barked another order. “Keep your weapons ready. If there’s anything alive in there, I want it dragged out and killed—NOW!”

The townsfolk stood frozen, their expressions a mix of terror and fury. Some whispered prayers under their breath, while others clenched their fists in helpless anger. The destruction of the barn wasn’t just an act of violence—it was a demonstration of the Coalition’s absolute power, a chilling reminder of the price of defiance. The CS grunts reloaded.

The smoldering ruins of the barn hissed in the dawn light, the frost on the ground melting into mud from the heat of the collapsed structure. The Skelebots, still flanking the wreckage, stood motionless, scanning for signs of movement among the debris. Their glowing red optics swept through the smoke, their energy rifles humming faintly, ready to fire at any threat.

Without warning, a massive wall of stone, materialized in an instant, towering over the barn like a natural fortress. It was a stone wall and it was falling. Before the Coalition forces could react, the entire wall collapsed forward, crashing down upon them with unstoppable force.

The thunderous impact shook the ground, sending shockwaves through the village. Dust and debris filled the air as they were buried beneath the wall of stone. The Skelebots, Dog Boys, and soldiers disappeared under the immense weight, their movements silenced.

As the dust settled, an eerie quiet blanketed the square. The wall of stone, massive and unyielding, stood as a monument to the Warlock's power. The Coalition forces were buried beneath its weight.

For a long moment, nothing stirred. Then, the Warlock began to rise.

The Warlock’s form shimmered, almost imperceptibly at first, as he passed through the stone wall like a ghost. His body phased effortlessly through the immense rock, as though it were no more solid than water. Slowly, he emerged from the center of the wall, his movements calm and deliberate.

When he reached the top, The Warlock stood tall, his figure silhouetted against the growing light of dawn. The faint glow of his magical energy surrounded him, casting a pale blue luminescence over the gray stone. His wide-brimmed hat tilted downward slightly, giving him an air of quiet authority.

The townsfolk who witnessed the scene stared in stunned silence, their fear momentarily replaced by awe. Even the Coalition forces in the square froze, their weapons slack in their hands as they processed what they had just seen.

The Warlock raised his hands, his voice carrying with calm resonance. “You came with fire and iron, thinking your numbers would overwhelm us. You thought you could crush this place and its people.”

He gestured to the stone wall beneath him, his expression unreadable. “But the earth itself comes to my aid. It shields me. It buries you beneath me. Those who threaten the balance make themselves the enemy of the Earth and its waters.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the burning clock tower in the distance. Then Warlock lowered his arms, his voice soft but firm. “Leave while you still have the choice.”

From the other side of the square, Lieutenant Talon watched, his hands tightening into fists. His tactical mind raced, calculating the odds. He couldn’t deny the Warlock’s power, nor the effectiveness of his display.

“Damn mages,” Talon muttered under his breath, his voice seething with anger. “Always the theatrics.”

He turned to his remaining forces, his voice sharp. “Hold your positions. He won’t drop the wall on the women and children of this town while we hold them human shields. I want that Warlock dead. He’s just one man. He can’t hold out forever.”

The Warlock, did not flinch. His wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, but the air around him seemed quiet with power. His robes, marked with symbols of the Elements of Earth and Water, shifted slightly in the icy breeze. The ground trembled.

From within from below, seven towering humanoid figures made of shimmering ice burst into the open, their crystalline forms catching the first rays of the sun. Each Little Ice Monster, their jagged fists clenched with the weight of pure power. Their forms radiated cold vapor as they made a defensive formation between the Warlock and the Coalition.

The Little Ice Monsters lunged forward, each one charged one of the Coalition Grunts.

The Grunts opened fire, blinding beams streaked through the air, striking the Ice Monsters squarely—but to no effect. The cold surface of the magical creatures harmlessly refracted the blasts without so much as a crack.

The Ice Monsters responded with relentless efficiency, their jagged fists hammering the CS Grunts. Their punches landed with crushing force, the sound of cracking ice blending with the sharp crunch of armor.

One Grunt staggered backward, its rifle discharging into the air as his chest plate dented inward. But their rifles, useless in the fight, left them vulnerable to the sheer strength of the Ice Monsters.

One Ice Monster grabbed a grunt by the head, slammed it into the ground. Another tore a Grunts's arm off and used it like a club, denting its enemy’s head with brutal swings.

From his position in the town square, Lieutenant Talon watched in disbelief as his men were systematically dismantled. His jaw clenched behind his helmet, and he turned to his sargeant, and the remaining Dog Boys and grunts, his voice sharp and commanding.

“Open fire!” he barked. “Take them down! Concentrate your fire!”

Already unnerved by the sudden assault, hesitated for only a moment before raising their energy rifles. A deafening volley erupted, the bright streaks of fire cutting through the morning mist. The beams struck the Little Ice Monsters, bathing them in light—but the creatures stood firm, utterly unaffected.

The combined fire hit not only the Ice Monsters but also several grunts caught in the crossfire. Then there were the grenades!

Within seconds, the battlefield was littered with the smoking remains of the CS Grunts, their bodies collapsed into twisted heaps.

Lieutenant Talon growled in frustration. His cold, calculating mind sought a different strategy. His gaze fell on the townsfolk, huddled in the square, watching the chaos with wide, terrified eyes.

With swift, predatory movements, Talon seized a young woman from the crowd, dragging her forward. His left hand gripped her shoulder tightly, while the barrel of his energy pistol pressed firmly against her back.

“The ice monsters may be immune to our weapons,” Talon snarled, his voice amplified by the speakers in his helmet, “but the townsfolk are not.”

The Coalition soldiers followed his lead, each grabbing a hostage from the crowd. Cries of fear and protest erupted as the soldiers leveled their rifles at their captives, using them as human shields.

Talon’s voice cut through the noise, cold and venomous. “Come on, then!” he shouted at the Ice Monsters. “Keep coming! Let’s see if you care more about these people than I do!”