In Your Heart Shall Burn [Tyran or TG]

[Acrea]

Free City of Zürich
Acrean Federation

The heart of Acrea had different names depending on what tongue one spoke. In English, the modern, large complex was referred to simply as 'Aulnay'. The Germans, in their utilitarian speech, simply oft referred to it either by its name of Aulnay or as the 'Kanzleramt'. The French speakers labelled it 'Aulnay-le-Haut' and the Italians the 'Aunella'.

Whatever name one called it by, the individuals within its immaculately clean halls had the unique task of managing the largest nation in the Region. With spring out, one might think that the lush green lawns and colourful aesthetics of the blossoms and flowers that graced the exterior of the place might add a touch of cheerfulness. And one wouldn't be wrong- on any other day but today, it seemed, Aulnay possessed some cheerful character aside from the persistent urgency.

"If it seems like I'm more than a bit agitated because of it, I am. We can have this go one of two ways. Either we do it the diplomatic way, or we force it."

"We can't just force peace," Charbonnier furrowed his eyebrows.

"That's the result either way." Käthe frowned, arms crossed across her abdomen. It was, after all. There was a line, as far as the Acreans were concerned, that governed whether or not they decided to get involved in something. And whether or not they drove the OTS into acting upon something. War Crimes were one of those lines that had been crossed in Nalaya.

Most likely for worse out of the two options, as the old saying 'for better or for worse' went, it wasn't so much out of concern for civilian life that the Chancellor had pondered with her staff the extent to which they would involve themselves into the broiling mess- 'clusterfuck' as von Aust had so eloquently once described it- that was the state of Nalaya. The Shalumites, since the end of the Great War, had been close company to the Acreans militarily. In that perspective it could be taken that the Chancellor was more concerned with damage control and effectiveness that she was concerned with. The Acreans- and the OTS as well- could ill-afford to allow reports of war crimes to go un-investigated and, if necessary, unpunished. Nor could Shalumite soldiers be allowed to be associated with such acts. Given that she hadn't yet, reaming the ever-living hell out of Tyler Holland was still very much on her to-do list.

But bringing some semblance to justice in Nalaya would be no easy task either. It was monumental, in fact, and tangled with seemingly insurmountable complications. Of the lesser sort, the establishment of a ceasefire might very well be achievable, if at least to the benefit of the unfortunate displaced persons that were a fast-growing demographic in the country. Brokering peace, as von Aust understood it, was a much more daunting task. This war was not a war of simple cause, and simple reason. Even now, she had yet to fully and comprehensively understand just what the exact grievances of the various belligerents were outside of animosity and allegations in the wake of the bombing. There had to be something more than that. It seemed like nothing more than the spark to a powder keg just waiting to blow. In a quagmire of ethnonationalistic and religious strife, among other very much present reasons that they had yet to fully grasp, there was no true understanding to an outsider.

Even then, it didn't end there. Even though the fought among each other, the factions fought amongst themselves. The various peoples of Nalaya may have had their differences, but they had the common trait of possessing some values and customs that were completely alien to the Acreans. They were unlike anything that had been faced before. Nations like Azurlavai, Shalum were simple to the Acreans. They knew how things worked, how things could be solved, and how things could be damaged. Nalaya was uncharted territory.

"That's the result either way, because we can not solve Nalaya. Nobody can," Käthe continued. Her constant pacing, which had lent the room the constant reverberations of her stilettos on the polished marble, came to a standstill. She shook her head. "We can not solve it because we do not understand it. We can not solve it because there is no way to tend to the desires of every side. There's going to be no peace that ends without at least one of those groups ceasing to exist anywhere but... but history papers. You do not commit ethnic cleansing because you want peace with the other side."

"But there is no way to please everyone. It took nearly ten years and a few atomic bombs to win our struggle for survival? What do you think, that they'll just settle down and talk out their differences?" Charbonnier shot back, his tone incredulous and his hands motioning with the passion with which he spoke. "Perhaps it is better to leave this to an OTS matter, and allow them and the Esperance fellows to deal with it."

"And just ignore it?" von Aust scoffed. Now it was her turn to appear incredulous, as she turned to her Prime Minister and met his gaze. "For decades, we practically totally ignored Nalaya. For decades, we conjured up plans to defend Northern Eracura, and our homeland, and built one of the largest military and power projection infrastructures in the history of this region, and you suggest that we ignore it?"

Charbonnier remained silent while von Aust continued.

"You suggest that we ignore allegations of war crimes against our allies? That we sit still and allow hundreds of thousands to go homeless, and thousands more to die because it isn't our war? 1942 was not our war, Vincent. But look what we still did. And despite all this, you're going to sit here and advise that I do nothing while the entire fleet sits around patrolling open sea for nothing? The fuck are you thinking?"

"Colbert will lik-"

"Colbert is with me on this. Something needs to be done, and we've sat on our arses ignoring it for long enough."

[Cacerta]

HMS Alayna Cabriani (BBGN-AC-001)
Off the coast of Massis, Nalaya
It was early in the morning when the Cacertian fleet appeared off the coast of Nalaya, having made their approach during the night, hailing local Shalumite and Nalayan authorities of their presence. Admiral Elsa Rivera felt it was appropriate to inform friendly forces of their proximity -- not many would take very well to seeing a massive fleet of foreign warships close to the city’s harbor when day broke. She was in command of the associated vessels of the Royal Navy’s 5th Amphibious and 6th Battleship Strike Fleet -- an excessive amount of firepower to be present near a friendly port in Nalaya, yet part of Royal Navy protocol. Any ships bearing troops were expected to have a well-armed escort, a page out of the playbook of Grand Admiral Andrea Doria.

As soon as they were given the go-ahead, Elsa would green-light Captain Angela Menicucci to dock. From there, matters would fall into the hands of one Colonel Ileana Masella, who commanded the 5th Amphibious Assault Division. Much of the fighting performed by the actual Armed Forces of Cacerta would be done by her -- not the Zodiac Commandos who represented a private institution. Elsa, in the meantime, would be relegated to defending Massis as a strategic landing point for future Royal Army deployments should Command deep it necessary. For the most part, that meant floating around like a sleeping giant. Last report she had received from SISMI indicated that much of the fighting was situated deep inland in areas where her ships’ guns could not reach and -- thereby -- be of no use.

With that being said, Grand Admiral Elletra had elected to keep the 6th Battleship Strike Fleet in place as its combined firepower would be an intimidating defensive factor to most national navies save those of Ossoria or Acrea. Elsa felt it would be a good opportunity to begin testing several of the Alayna’s newer defensive features which include the Custode V -- a double gunned variant of Cacerta’s successful Custode IV -- and the very infantile Guardian point-defense missile system. A combination of chaff and flare defenses, the Guardian’s Lancia micro-missiles were tested during various sea trials, but Elsa was a very firmly believed that there existed no such thing as enough testing.

Elsa took her field glasses, ordering the combined fleet to full-stop and drop anchor, and began surveying her surroundings. As a support battleship -- a warship classification that the Admiral continued not to acknowledge -- the Alayna had been cruising in the center of the formation. She had been sailing rather closely to the Vera Santuli, the Domenica Anteo class amphibious assault ship that bore the precious cargo that were known as the Wardens of the South. Elsa could see Captain Menicucci standing on the deck of her own bridge with her own field glasses, a line of seat drawn to the port of Massis. Next to her was topless Colonel Masella, hands on her hips, discussing -- what Elsa assumed -- was their imminent landing in Massis.

The Admiral took hold of the speaker mic that sat on her console and tapped the transmit button a few times to test its connection before calling out, “V. Santuli, V. Santuli, this is A. Cabriani, how copy?”

“Fleet lead, this is Santuli, send it.”

“We have not yet received confirmation at this time on regards to your imminent landing. Orders are to remain in place until further notice. How copy.”

“Solid copy, over.”

Elsa returned to her field glasses to look back at the bridge of the Vera where she saw Angela looking back at her with a thumbs up.

---

Andria Zodiac Unit Wave Three
North of Siunik, Nalaya
Progression had been steady, if not quickly. The terrain around Siunik was rough and the forrests were thick, lending the light armor the need to proceed cautiously. The armor of Wave Three had been quick to link up with the previous infantry waves of the airdrop and many of them were now either riding atop of the backs of the small Coniglios or spread out in a long line in front of them. The Wave Four units had arrived somewhat later than schedule. Consisting of mostly troop transports, APCs, and other support equipment, the Colonel had elected to push forward and link up with units of the Nalayan armed forces in the area.

An order to halt came briefly through the radio and the line of Cacertian light armor slowed to a stop. The tanks silenced their engines as the OZ Commandos dismounted from the respective perches atop of them, gathering their equipment and rifles as they did so. Tia popped open the top hatch to her tank and sat comfortable on the edge of her seat as she looked around. Visibility out of her tank was already extremely low and the brush and trees around her were not helping her get a bearing on her position, however -- in the distance -- she could hear the very faint cracks and prattles of gunfire. They were getting close.

[Shalum]

The Shalumite Base
Annu, Nalaya

Some say that Christ was crucified at noon.

This, according to the elders of the Catholic Church of Shalum and the Council of Christ, was the reason why noontime was considered the best time for prayer as well as weekday masses. Or at least, they were the first and foremost among a multitude of other reasons. Being the middle of the day, it was an opportunity to rest from one’s labor and reflect upon the divine mercies of the Lord. Being the hour when the sun was highest in the sky, even during the coldest of winters, it was an opportunity to bask in the fullness of holy light from above and in the wonders of creation.

And so, on that day like any other, the bells of the Imperial army base pealed at noon.

The gentle sounds that were broadcast from the belltower of the small parish that had been established on base meant many things to different people. For some, especially the overworked, it was a relief to tired ears. It signaled an end to their long shifts, some of which had begun when the sun had set the day before. For others who were off duty, it meant that it was time for lunch, or perhaps even time to attend mass that was hosted at the same time every day. With so many troops deployed elsewhere, the normally packed pews were now much thinner in number, though it still didn’t stop people from avoiding the seating at the front. And for those posted at the gates of the base, it indicated a changing of the guard.

“Anything to report, Burkhardt?” The head of the relief guard, a man in his mid-thirties, enquired as he approached the primary entrance gate.

The sergeant in question stamped his feet in the snow underfoot, rubbing his hands together briskly, even though he wore thicker winter combat gloves. “Nothing but this fucking cold,” he groused in reply, condensation lacing his words.

“Language,” his replacement reprimanded him. “That word is hardly appropriate for this holy hour.”

“Sorry, I can’t help it.” Burkhardt complained, not sounding all that genuine about his words. “Its as if the bloody Dread Wolf herself sent winter to attack us, instead of her fanatics and goddamn heathen armies. I should be at ho- at church, with the wife and kids, not freezing my ass of guarding a bunch of gates in the heart of friendly territory.”

“Your sacrifice is duly noted.” The head of the relief guard replied dryly as he watched his comrade begin to walk away; presumably towards his barracks or the mess hall on base.

Down in the Imanalov’ village itself, life seemed to be continuing as if all were normal, and there was not an intense civil war raging hundreds of miles away. As the locals went about their daily affairs, Shalumite soldiers from the base could be seen coming and going as well. Through one street, a patrol of five men and a dog walked on, looking almost lazy and content as they chatted idly. Though they all carried weapons, none of them looked anything akin to tense. As if to emphasize the point, the dog that walked alongside its handler -a Shalumite born and raised Leonberger- paused for a moment to happily whuffle as a few children that it recognized approached him.

At another time in a different place, its handler would have likely told them to not get too close, but instead she dropped to a knee and fished around in her pockets, smiling as she pulled out a paper bag of doggy treats that she told the children to share. While the mountain dog might have stood taller than any of them (a fully mature Leon normally reached the height of an an average five year old Shalumite child) it was nothing but friendly, happily wagging its tail and panting as the children brushed its brindle, double layer fur with their small hands. The nickname of ‘Gentle Lion’ proved to be rather accurate here, as the large dog rolled over onto its back, eyes pleading for belly rubs. The soldiers of the patrol just smiled and laughed, more than content to stand in the cold a little longer while the children interacted with the not-so-attack dog.

In another street, one of the few not deployed Shalumite translators could be see talking with local, smiling as he tucked his hands a little deeper into his pockets. Unlike his fellows, he did not carry an sort of weapon, other than the knife on his hip, which he had used only a few minutes earlier to cut up an imported apple with. Whatever he was chatting about at the moment appeared to be in good nature, like many things here, because he appeared to be quite relaxed, smiling easily as he leaned against a nearby wall as if to escape the chill of winter.

Looking over the shoulder of one villager that he was currently in mid-conversation with, he did pause for a moment, blinking in surprise. Further down the street, he spied an Imperial soldier walking alongside what he thought to be a local girl, though the thick local attire made it hard to tell. They were clearly talking, and then all of a sudden, the Imanalov’ was reaching over, wrapping their arms around the Shalumite’s waist as they rose up to the tips of their toes. He could see the soldier smile and lean down, brushing his lips against those of the villager, before he pulled back again. And just like that, they were gone, rounding a corner and out of sight. It was a strange occurrence if the translator had ever seen one, and he still couldn't quite believe his eyes.

Far from any sort of activity, perched on a little hill not far away from the base, sat Major Jonathan Mauser. The giant of a soldier was currently hunched over, eyes intent as he focused on the drawing pad in his lap, a sketch pencil clutched between two of his large fingers. Beside him, set carefully atop a stray rock, was a leather travel bag that had obviously been in service for many years. Stored inside it were numerous art supplies that he had gathered over the years, ranging from different colored sketch pencils, to various kinds of paper.

While many may not have expected it, the giant of a man who commanded the Shalumite forces at Annu was something of an artist at heart, as was his younger brother back home. There was something that was undeniably relaxing about artwork, Jonathan had found over the years. Sometimes he would get lost in projects, as minutes turned to hours, time would move either immeasurably fast or painfully slow; sometimes both at once, as odd as it may have sounded.

At the moment, the subject of Mauser’s current piece was nothing other than the village of Annu before him. Large but deft fingers brought the scene before him to life, something that was especially surprising, given that he was only using a black pencil at the moment, and letting it contrast sharply with the stark white of the paper. He was incorporating as much as he could, attempting to make the Imanalov’ homes look as detailed as possible. When he had set out earlier in the morning, the major had been intended to paint the scene instead, but he wasn’t certain how the weather would affect his ability, as well as the material he was using.

All things considered, this was the best way of relaxing for him, at the moment. He had much on his mind, and it was good to have something to numb it all, if only for a while. Ever since he had taken over Rikker’s duties on base, his workload had practically doubled. Keeping track of all the forces deployed in villages other than Tatev was more difficult than he had imagined. Not to mention the fact that he was worried about his close friend, Nasaqu. It had been some time since he had heard from the little monk. Recently, he had heard about the injustice against an Anur in Armavir -which had infuriated him to no end- and had also made him rather worried about the monk, who had already gone through so much in her shorter life.

Sighing deeply, Mauser looked up from his sketch to eye the city ahead of him. To other his side, there was a small yawn, straight from the muzzle of a stray puppy that he had more or less adopted during a visit to Tatev not too long ago. “Sorry baby, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured affectionately to the dog, which was currently snuggled between his muscular body and the thicker winter coat. “Just lost in thought,” he added under his breath for no reason other than to admit it aloud.

---

Recovering
Alaverdi, Nalaya

Whether the two former slaves trusted Dzia, and the other women for that matter, was not something that was in question. They had experienced too much hardship and pain for there to be room for lying, especially now in such a tense situation, or so Brakis wanted to believe anyways as he gazed upon the young redheaded Arusai girl. Even so, he found his feet seemingly rooted to the ground, his heart pounding a mile a minute.

“If you say they are good, then I think they are good,” he finally replied simply; using only the Maldorian tongue for the sake of ease. Finding the words in the local language suddenly seemed very hard, as if he wasn’t already challenged as it was. He swallowed thickly as he watched them be led away by these apparent ‘Yath’ warriors, both of whom were female-- a concept he had never really given thought of until now. Born and raised, he had never known a woman to use a weapon, much less move with the confidence that these local fighters did.

It was as if Kaleb was reading his mind as they walked alongside this Navasard fellow; assuming he had heard correctly, anyways. Glancing over, the sandy-haired former slave appeared to be a trifle unsettled. “I don’t like being away from them,” he admitted quietly as he looked around. There was a constant expression of amazement in his eyes, though it mingled with uncertainty, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. And to some extent, it was true. Never had he been in a foreign land, much less in a house as nice as this one was.

When they finally did reach the kitchen, the two former slaves stopped in their tracks after a few steps, not quite believing their eyes, or other senses such as smell for that matter. There was food! So much of it, in fact, that they almost felt a little guilty. Others in their position had been forced to grow accustomed to meals that were often cold, and made of materials that the masters had little use for anymore. “Thank you. You are kind...very, kind.” Brakis managed to reply in in his best Nalayan, grasping Navasard’s shoulder for a moment. It was not an aggressive action in the least. If anything, one could see the appreciation in his eyes.

The pair of slaves were actually rather quiet as they ate their meals, nether of them saying so much as a word. Brakis actually felt a little guilty, eating as much as he did, with no real sense of manners along the way. It simply tasted too damn good to slow down, as they ladled the soup to their mouths, and occasionally dipped the bread in for a little extra twist of flavor. Days on the run had left them as hungry as they were tired. Sure, they had managed to get their hands on Maldorian army rations, were were both good tasting as well as nutritious, but when they had to split a meal meant for one amongst the whole group, they found themselves hungry more often than not. It had not helped either of them that they had ‘accidentally’ given Dzia and the other women shares of their own meals, making sure that they remained better fed.

The meal over, the two men slowly cleaned the corners of their mouths with napkins that had been provided, they followed Navasard deeper into the house. They didn’t know what was going to happen next, nor did they have the vocabulary to actually inquire. When they were led to their room, both men looked surprised once again. For most of their lives, they had been quite used to cramped tents and slave barracks that were populated with generations worth of critters, not something as clean and welcoming as this place was. “Thank you. You...you very kind,” Kaleb replied; sounding a little awed as he took a few steps forward to run his hand along the clean sheets of one of the beds.

“I call first dibs on the shower,” Kaleb said quietly, trying to get a chuckle out of his friend as he poked his head into the bathroom that was apparently theirs to use.

“You can have it,” Brakis only replied with a grunt; reaching down to wrap his long fingers around the hem of his shirt. Pulling the fatigues over his head, he neatly folded them, and then proceeded to follow the same process with his pants. “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me if you have to,” he finished with a tired voice before slipping under the covers. Within a few minutes, he was dead to the world, snuggled deeply into the blankets of the bed, even though he was by no means cold.

In the bathroom, Kaleb eyed the shower almost reverently, slowly fiddling with the hot and cold water handles. He had experience with such devices, as the Maldorians had made him clean up Dzia and the other girls before, but they were much more rudimentary than this was. The camp had only lukewarm water at best, whereas this felt as nearly scandling to him. Smiling softly in pleasure at the sensations, he tugged off his clothing, setting the articles on the counter. For a moment, he frowned as he eyed the tattoos on his back, which marked him as ‘property’ of Pomerok. The man had branded him, as well as people like Dzia, as little more than cattle, and even though he was free, he still wore the scars of his past life.

I would if I could ever those covered up? He thought to himself as he stepped into the shower, audibly groaning as the hot water sluiced around him exhausted body, loosening taught muscles and washing away all the stress he had built up over the last couple of days.

---

Along the Zeklet’taune Aluin
The Har’oloth, Nalaya

At ease. That was the feeling that instantly washed over the female justicar at the touch of her lover. On instinct, she pressed a little tighter against the Mak’ur woman with her hip, seeking some kind of invisible shelter within her embrace. “Inside sounds much better, yeah. Safer there,” the Shalumite woman replied quietly; tilting her head upwards so that she could place a light kiss, before she slowly broke away from the hug, though no part of her actually wanted to leave her lover’s presence just yet. Unslinging her rifle from her shoulder, the justicar followed Sabal inside, knowing that the rest of the group would only be a few steps behind them.

A grim expression creased the faces of the three Shalumite warriors as they stepped into the shrine. The place was not so different from any of the others that they had stopped to rest in, other than the fresh lines of blood on the floor, which served as a reminder of the danger that they still were in. Reaching down, Michael picked up the discarded rifle, grimacing as he watched a few drops of wayward blood fall back to the floor as he did so.

“Yeah, cleaning up it all up sounds like a mighty fine idea,” he agreed quietly; setting the rifle aside, out of the way. It was an inferior piece, at least when compared to the modern rifles that he and his fellows weildied, but perhaps it would have its use one way or another. Over the years, he had learned better than to throw something away simply because it was old, especially weapons. Swords had been known to remain in service for generations, what was to say that firearms couldn’t as well?

Faisal was meticulous about his gear whenever they came to rest at a shrine, pausing to make sure that everything was in order and had not been lost during their hike, as if his inspection would suddenly make it reappear it something had gone missing. He always kept everything in a tight bundle, making it easier to access, and taking up less room. This time around, however, he did not leave his rifle behind, instead keeping it slung across his shoulder as he went to refill his canteen after Pella had. It was better to have the weapon and not needed it, rather than the other way around.

As the others went about their affairs, Joan actually followed after her lover, though stopped short of the altar and the statue that towered over her. As the fire came to life, she slowly eased herself down into a sitting position, pulling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin atop her knees as she watched the Mak’ur woman get to work on offering a blood sacrifice. At any other time in her life, she knew that she would have been great upset by the simple notion of it, but after so long in Nalaya, developing a bond with a certain local among many others, she had managed to become more tolerant, even by the standards of the Justicar Order.

Watching Sabal from where she sat, a small smile spread across Joan’s lips. How exactly she had fallen in love with this woman, she still was not quite certain. Yet, it had happened, and she cherished every minute of it, difficult as it would be. There was some undeniable force that drew her to the Mak’ur, and she was not about to resist that kind of feeling. There would be many hardships ahead of them, however, but as long as she had Sabal, the justicar was confident that they would be able to make it through the storm. When the Mak’ur woman rose again to join the others, Joan simply held up a hand, wanting to be pulled to her feet like an athlete would on a sports field. She did not think anything had to be said, though still nudged Sabal with her hip as they walked together back to the ‘main’ area where the rest of the group was.

Close to Pella, her Shalumite guardian was watching tiredly as she scrubbed at the blood. “I can help you with that, if you would like.” He offered her quietly, voice steady as knelt down and offered a hand to her, willing to take the bloody brush and finish what the young woman had started. Admittedly, he wanted little to do with the cleanup, but figured he would be able to stomach the blood better than Pella would. Violence was his business, to some degree, after all. She on the other hand was a student, as well as a translator.

“That sounds like a good plan to me,” Faisal replied quietly as he step down his refilled canteen. A few dribbles of water had escaped the corner of his mouth, soaking his fatigues. “Fighting a lion of all things is not an endeavor for the week or sleep deprived, after all. We’re going to need every advantage we can get on our side,” he added as he reached over. Picking up his pack, he unclasped it, opening it up to reveal food and other supplies. He still had some durable, long-lasting MREs from before they had entered Mak’ur territory, but for the most part, their meals had consisted of what they had managed to gather, or what had been given by Sabal’s friend Ryld. Had they been allowed to hunt on the trail, the justicar leader was certain they would have had some nice meat to roast on the fire Sabal had started.

---

Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

Once the trio had entered the room, Dara turned and went to make sure that the door was closed well behind them, wanting to minimize the opportunity for anything said here to leave this room; however, she was beat to it by Drada. Unlike last time, they did not have the large and intimidating Malcomson to stand outside and ward away any curious eyes or ears, not that she suspected anyone would actually find this meeting to be all that out of place. Given that Siruhi Andzevatsi was the local TRC representative, it probably made sense that they were visiting her, in all actuality.

“I would not mind a cup,” Arnold replied politely as he moved to take the other, open seat. It left Dara having to stand, not that the officer minded too much, as she fell into a parade rest behind Drada and her Shalumite partner. “Thank you, Siruhi, you are very kind,” he said demurely when she handed him the requested drink. Normally, he would have asked for some honey and sugar, but given how overworked she already looked, he didn’t want to inconvenience her than his people’s presence here already did.

When Drada actually got the questioning underway, the Shalumites were quiet, simply looking at Valentin with curious eyes. Much like with prior events, they were going to refer to her when it came to actual investigative work, and step in only as was necessary. They were all fighters more than investigators, after all. Really, the only stake that they had in this whole thing was making sure that their own resources were not compromised. The troops at Tatev were already under enough pressure as it was, they did not need to worry about being undermined, much less murdered in their own beds.

[Azurlavai]

Massis Port
Nalaya

Not many powers across the world possessed aircraft carriers. They were massive, expensive to build and maintain and required over a thousand men and women to keep one running and three times as many more to keep her supplied, not to mention how your neighbors would view such a monstrosity. The force projection they carried had spelled the end for battleships, and could be a major offshore base all on their own.

The amount of foreign traffic running through since the beginning of hostilities meant the people here were no strangers to odd and amazing sights. Helicopters, tanks, warships, odd uniforms, weird tongues spoken, wounded soldiers going home. Roads had been walked by foreign boots and rolled over by tires time and time again so often that it had almost become common place. But this massive ship parked just out on the horizon behind the flotilla of incoming craft flew a black and blue flag, an imperial eagle resplendent in one corner. Many locals were unconcerned, at first thinking them to be from Cacerta. The flags were similar enough and the country was a naval power.

But others, those who had spoken to Shalumites and other foreign troops knew exactly who was coming, and a trill of dread ran down their spines as the first troop transports settled into harbor, the ramps lowering to touch down. Once more, foreign boots tramped down onto the docks, as rank after rank of men and women in mottled green and brown fatigues and solid-shell helmets assembled on the docks, carrying compact rifles and already dressed in their gear. One might not think anything of them compared to other soldiers (and plenty had been seen) but these wore a unique flash on their left sleeves; a grim-faced skull emblem, with the numbers ‘31’ in gold thread on the forehead. On the right sleeve, a shield with a lightning bolt laid over it, the number ‘4’ stitched into it in gold as well. 31st Regiment, 4th Stormtrooper Division. Combined with the blue flags on their shoulders and the hard-set faces of these men and women, it was obvious to everyone present.

The United Republic of Azurlavai had finally decided to land on foreign shores.

Several more troop carriers came in as well, their gangplanks dropping as first dozens, then hundreds of Stormtroopers descended, the first Azurlav troops to touch down on Nalayan soil in history. They had come further than any previous military deployment in history, and were now moving to begin deployment maneuvers to pave the way for reinforcements, replacements and supplies to fuel the war machine. If there was one thing Nords did well, after all, it was war.

“Bataljon, oppmerksomhet!” yelled a nearby senior NCO in Nordic, dressed as his troopers as he took the front of the formation. “Distrubuere og forberede seg til a flytte til felt manovrer!”

The first battalion was given their orders, and they stooped, grabbing up their duffel bags as they slung their rifles over their shoulders before falling into rows and beginning to march out down the road. Their first deployment zones had already been preselected, and it was time to stage for a day or two, get the regiment landed and supply lines set up, then begin the long haul out into the countryside.

After the troopships had finished offloading the infantry, who marched away in neat, ordered rows, their holds opened up to let the vehicles out. D-90 Muldyr amphibious APCs, six-wheeled battle taxis that splashed up and onto city streets, engines roaring. The MMGs had been removed from the top for transport, but the crewmen unbuttoned their hatches to poke their helmeted heads out, watching the surrounding area as they made sure no one was in danger of being run over.

After them came the infamous Mammut tanks, the turrets facing back to allow for safe storage. These titans crushed flagstone with their treads, the blue and black banner emblazoned on the tread-guards. As they rolled out of the ships, the turrets swiveled to face forwards, periscope blocks reflecting the sunlight. These crewmen too had popped their hatches to watch where they were going, and they quickly joined the rapidly increasing convoy column out of the port.

Overhead, a flight of five Drakon gunships soared by, initial recon craft to ensure the area was secure for further deployments. The current troopships occupying the port would have to move aside, as there were dozens more jockeying for positions. The entire 31st hadn’t even been deployed, with brigades and battalions moving to the landing zones as they readied for landing into this strange realm. A man emerged from the bay, a dress cap with a red band perched on his head. He glanced up at the aircraft overhead before he strode out up the ramp, his jacket flowing behind him in the greatly disturbed sea breeze as he pulled out a handheld radio, speaking one line into it as he marched.

“First deployment successful, send in the next wave.”

---

Onboard the magnificent bulk of the RMF Sovngardge, two men stood on the bridge, watching the deployment get underway. On deck, two Svart Orn IDS fighters had just finished their pre-flight checks, and the catapult launched them away, engines flaring as they soared off over Massis, heading off to conduct the first flyovers of the area. The flight was little more than a demonstration, as the enemy was further off in country, but it was good to get the deployment started with the troops in high spirits. On the deck, men and women in green vests began preparing the catapults again, readying them for the next set of Svart Orns. On the helicopter pad, a Stork transport full of MSI troopers in blue fatigues wielding shotguns and SMGs took off, seeking to head towards Massis Port and begin securing port facilities.

“Looks like we’re well underway,” said the man in the white uniform, gold eagles on his epaulets and anchors on his lapels. “The Stormtroopers should be done with their landings in the next few hours. Danton says his men are going to be moving on to the forward zones and the airfield once the first deployments get on out towards the first outposts. Word back from the ‘Luftjeger’ yet?”

“Their planes are coming in on the Torinn,” replied the one in grey, gold braids on his shoulders and blue patches on his sleeves. A small pin of a tank sat on his own epaulets, and unlike Vice-Admiral Vincent Kolwitz, his dress cap sat on the console before him. This being the kaptein’s place of dominance (or, in this case the admiral) Major-General Otis Ragnarson had taken his cap off, even in front of the countless naval ratings in blue around them. For a Haer general to even share the same bridge as a Krigsmarine admiral was a rather auspicious occasion. Soon, Ragnarson would be leaving Kolwitz to join his men on the ground, meeting with his headquarters company to lead the 2nd Expeditionary Force forward. But Kolwitz had the easy job; keep Massis port open to maintain the flow of supplies, replacements and reinforcements. They’d been promised another division at an unspecified later date should the initial forays go well (the Supreme Chairman wanted to keep away from the word ‘invasion’ as it was used to describe Aerick), so for now they had what the homeland sent them. This being a very public and very political move, Ragnarson hoped it would be given all the attention it deserved.

“Hopefully, we’ll have the Korps offloaded by the end of the day,” Kowitz was saying, which Ragnarson only barely caught, so deep in thought was he. “I’m expecting targets by the end of the week for bombardment, if we can help it. While collateral damage is a concern…well, a few cruise missiles can’t wreck an entire country.” He smirked.

They were two side of the same coin. While the sixty-two year old Kolwitz could be considered part of the ‘old guard’, a naval commander during the time of the People’s Republic and the very definition of an Azurlav warmonger, Ragnarson at thirty-nine was much younger, a new generation who had actually fought on the frontlines of a recent war. The Krigsmarine hadn’t had a real spat since the Second Great Border War, and ever since then had been preoccupied with looking tough in front of the Royal Ossorian Navy. The Haer, however, had been caught up in it. In Ragnarson’s younger days as a loytnant, he’d been involved in one of the countless secret border skirmishes that were simply swept under the rug of diplomacy. He didn’t resent this, it happened all the time, all over the world. His own tank company had been burned in their depot before they’d even had time to roll out by white phosphorous, and even he hadn’t escaped when a Shalumite fighter had knocked out his tank with a missile. The vicious burn scars on Ragnarson’s otherwise handsome face spoke of this, and he knew war from up close and personal. Kolwitz, on the other hand, knew it from the other side of a computer screen.

“I’m hoping to have the first firebase up by the end of the week,” the general replied coolly, ignoring the admiral’s quip. “Set up in the outback and tear into the enemy rear elements before they get a chance to interrupt the siege.”

“Best of luck to you, General. A shame we never got around to that card game with the Minister of Acquisitions, I know he was looking forward to it,” Kolwitz replied, seemingly unphased by the general’s standoffishness. Ragnarson took up his cap, and as he departed, a nearby comms rating piped up to the admiral.

“Herr Admiral, message from Kommissaer Danton. He says he’s ready to deliver the speech.”

“While in motion? What, is he wearing a radio pack? Very well…if he must, let him have the radio waves.” He leaned forward, picking up his handset and connecting to every frequency associated with the combined task force. “To all soldiers, sailors and airmen of the combined 2nd Expeditionary Korps. Standby for the opening dictation.”

---

“Greetings to the combined forces of the United Republic 2nd Expeditionary Korps. This is Kaptein-Kommissaer Danton, your political-kommandant of this mission for the foreseeable future. You’ve all received your briefings. You all know what’s expected of you. This operation will be just like any other fight you’ve been deployed to. We have veterans here from the border skirmishes, Iron Island and Aerick with us in our numbers, so we have the experience. The arms you carry are some of the finest to ever come out of Azurlav factories, so we have the equipment. Major-General Ragnarson tells me your spirits are high, so we have the motivation.

Consider the enemy we are about to face, and remember that this is what we -do-. We have been given the honor of striking a blow for freedom! Not freedom for ourselves, but the possibility of freeing another country from the ravages of war, tyranny and religious strife! Our foe doesn’t realize we’re coming, not yet. But when he does, he will fight hard to force us out of his land. He will use whatever means he has necessary to make us retreat. That is where he is mistaken, for he does not realize we do –not- back down from battle. If we can’t stay here alive, then let us stay here –dead-. Never forget your duty, and recall that you have been given the trust and honor by the Supreme Chairman himself to execute this vital task!

Some of you have been asking if we will be there with Shalumite Imperial forces. I will confirm that yes; the Imperials will be fighting alongside us. I know this doesn’t sit well with a lot of you, but the wheels of the world turn in fickle circles. Yesterday’s enemies become today’s allies, for the time being at least. Remember that you are –professionals-. We are fighting the same enemy in this theatre, and they –know- our strength by now. We have shown them how to make war on the battlefield, now they will have the chance to study real experts up close and personal!

Given the nature of the fight ahead, I will tell you we are going into an environment that does not suit us. The weather will be hot, supplies may become scarce and enemies will be everywhere. But I have faith you will prevail through commitment and perseverance. My business, as you know, is fighting. We’re going south to fight rebels of the Warlord Karagozian. Oh, and anyone else too who’s looking for a fight. We’ve got everything we need to win in our pockets. With the Gods watching over us from Asgard on high, let us give them a war worth song and story! Let them hear the thunder of our guns, the rumble of our tanks and the roaring of our aircraft! Let us win this day and bring home glory to our nation and our people!

We have our orders! Deployment will occur within the week! Do not doubt, do not fear, and do not waver in your duty! Prepare your weapons! We go to war!”

---

Skies off the Coast of Nalaya
Destination: Massis Air Base

Trust the Stormtroopers to hitch a ride from the Krigsmarine, that’s what they did. Amphibious assault troops looked great storming up beaches or coming off naval transports. But for the Fallskermjeger, there was only one way to travel. Flying.

A TL-27J Tern was capable of carrying 46 paratroopers, or 36 and four LV-6 Pitbull LAVs or two B1 Kugar light tanks. It was a fast, adaptable short-take off and landing craft meant to surgically deploy a single airborne platoon into the action or behind enemy lines. The days of massive fleets of paratrooper craft soaring overhead and raining men from the sky had ended, and now it was all about the surgical precision.

With the 31st and the following heavy armor battalions being transported by the Krigsmarine, the 51st had instead sought to use Luftforsvar resources. Specifically, these planes carrying the 3,500 men and women aboard. Obviously, since carrying all of them in Terns with the gunships and light armor they used would result in almost every plane in the Luftforsvar being sent in to carry them, they’d also enlisted the help of a flight of TL-400M Albatross transport planes, which were capable of carrying 76 paratroopers without additional armor. While both kinds of planes also had cargo pallets on board, this was still an egregious number of planes. In the end, the Haer had finally been forced to commit nearly two-thirds of the brigade to the ships as well, for the sake of practicality.

But newly promoted Kaptein Astrid Deinhardt was allowed to fly. Under the command of Oberst Gjavorson, she was to secure accommodations and strip space at the air base located at Massis. While the rest of the brigade would be bottled up in deployments getting offloaded and organized, she and her three-hundred man battalion could stay mobile to move on to the next location, where they’d be given a new airbase to respond from both cargo plane and helicopter to situations in the surrounding desert.

As kommandant of this Tern’s paratroopers, she stood near the cockpit, watching the pilot’s view as the horizon drew ever closer. She was unaccustomed to the new warm-weather fatigues. In Azurlavai, warm weather simply meant preparing to lose the winter padding and tug on the T-shirt. Here, however, they wore jackets and tank tops, desert fatigues of mottled green and light brown to blend into the desert. It was a whole new world they were going to, after all.

She looked down the Tern once more. As well as this craft, her battalion was stationed aboard three more Terns and two Albatrosses, escorted by four Svart Orn fighters from the Sovngard’s aerial squadron, anchored just off the coastline as well. The cargo planes had more than enough range to get from Aerick down here, but if they didn’t get fuel soon, they’d be forced to land at the first opportunity, prepared or not.

She mentally reviewed her orders from Major Kullen; make landing at the Massis airstrip and prepare the battalion for immediate redeployment by plane or helicopter to their final destination. That would be brutal, already they’d been flying for hours and the Fallskermjeger would want to stretch their legs. They were already put out that there would be no big drop, at least they should be able to walk around.

She shifted her Grummond 15 shotgun. Unlike the other branches, Fallskermjeger were equipped with unique weapons due to their unique role; they might be cut off for extended periods of time, and as such had to worry about carry limits and the possibility of not being resupplied for some time. While the risk was decidedly lower here, old habits died hard. The Kalt Military .223 was the Fallskermjeger’s bread and butter in their LMGs and DMRs, the .40 in their handguns and SMGs. Most of her men and women were using lightweight gear, meant to survive a drop and be used by a light infantry force like them. AC-4 carbines were a rapid fire, compact and bullpup package, which allowed paratroopers like the ability to engage at long range or blast through CQB house to house.

“Loytnant Brevik!” she hollered, though with the radios she may as well have not bothered. Isaac wore a headset just like her, while the other paratroopers had to holler at each other across the plane. As her second in command of 3rd Kompanie, he was privy to all of her decisions, and she didn’t dare lock him out of any of it. “Get the kids ready, we’re about to drop them off at school!”

It was often said, jokingly, that Astrid was the mother of the unit, and Isaac the father. A hard edged mother who wore the pants in the relationship, it was said. And while the implications were rather annoying, Astrid had seen they had given her the name out of respect. She did care for her unit, and they for her. Even if she and Isaac weren’t involved past professional limits and a casual friendship besides, the two had stepped into leadership positions amazingly. Brevik had taken charge of 1st platoon alongside his comrades, while the loyalty shown by her men made her miss her old kommandant Major Jaeger, who had retired after the Aerick theatre had concluded open warfare.

Up in the cockpit, the pilot radioed ahead to the control tower.

”Kameraad 6-4 to Massis Air Control. We are a flight of six, heavy, coming in under escort. Please advise landing strips and hangers, over.”

---

Council Haus, Chairman’s Office
Lowellsburg, Kapital State
Azurlavai

“To War. We send our sons and daughters off to fight…for the chance of peace.”

The Council silently bowed their heads, tipping the drinks they held back in the time-honored tradition. Karlos Vocht, Supreme Chairman of the United Republic, downed his own glass of bourbon, the drink he’d chosen for the toast. This was all part of the process, a farewell to the soldiers before the conflict began, and the hope that most of them would come home alive. He looked around at his assembled ministers, beginning to sit down in chairs and on the two couches in his office, letting out a sigh as he knew what was coming.

“Now, I know you have some questions. Concerns. Statements. I have already discussed this at length with High Kommand, note their absence here. Deacon Schaefer is aware of these discussions, though the Assembly is not. Now…I’m ready when you are.”

He braced for the inevitable, and it came just as expected. There was a storm of noise as the ministers surged back to their feet, protesting, cursing, questioning, demanding. For a few seconds, Karlos was overwhelmed by the deluge, with his only defense being Schaefer as she rose and began contesting the crowd. Behind him, standing at attention, his bodyguards both Kaptein Tor Valen and Sersjant Lara Walter watched the Ministers, ready to act. It was hardly expected that his own Council would turn on him, but hard lessons had been learned in the past.

Finally, Zachary Dalin, Minister of Acquisitions, called out “ENOUGH!” and the whole room fell silent. Dalin turned back to Karlos, his face obviously cross, but his tone only tense. “Mister Chairman, I assume that when you asked me to begin funneling fuel supplies from civilian to military stockpiles this was the end result you were going for?”

“Indeed. And as Minister Nilsson isn’t here, I must answer all your queries regarding –why- I did this.”

“It’s easy enough to see –why- you did,” said Minister Bernard Hanson, Minister of Agriculture. “Step in to a civil clusterfock where we gain nothing but a little goodwill. What we want to know, Mister Chairman, is why you never thought to run it by us first! We were elected to these positions, same as you sir.”

“Mind your tone, Hanson!” snapped Schaefer, baring her teeth. “That’s the Supreme Chairman you’re speaking to, he doesn’t –have- to discuss anything with you.”

“So the old courtesy is no longer in effect?” asked Minister of Industry Stanislaus Braum, his bald head shining in the dim lights. “You’re simply going to cast us aside to fight a war where we have nothing to gain on foreign shores. Unless we are planning to annex Nalaya as well on top of Aerick, I fail to see either the benefit in sending our soldiers to die for someone else…or for neglecting to inform us.”

Karlos had had enough of these statements. The Councilor of Economics and Education had their piece to say it seemed, but before they could the Supreme Chairman stood to his full height, narrowing his eyes. The room seemed to hold its breath, even as they beheld their leader.

“I have –not- retired yet. And perhaps I won’t, if you all are to be the candidates! I –was- elected, to hold the power of this office and keep our nation alive and prosperous! And part of that is the decision to declare war –without- the need to run it by the civilian portion of my government! If I thought for an instant the input of any of you might be needed, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I did not ask your counsel, not because I don’t care, but because this is a decision that does not need you!”

Again, more silence. All of the Council was shocked into silence, unsure of what to do or say, even Schaefer. Karlos sighed, sitting back down again. It was another minute before he spoke again.

“I respect you all…I have served my term with you all for eleven years. Some of your positions were filled by someone else, years ago. I’ve been at this job for too long…I’m getting old. Running a nation is for someone younger than me. I’m 57...its time to pass it on. But before I do, I have to ensure Azurlavai –has- a future.” He gave each of his ministers a hard glare, narrowing in on their vision. “The world has moved past warmongers. We are relics of the last century. There’s no place for us unless we change to fit it. The closest we can be is peacekeepers.”

Silence once more before Karlos stood again, looking more like the strong leader a previous generation had elected to office all those years ago. He glanced at each one of them.

“This is going to be my last war. And I’ll win it. Because Azurlavai’s future –depends- on winning it. So…who’s going to win it with me?”

Without fail, each of the Ministers bowed their heads, a fist clasped over their chest. The first being Monika Schaefer, and Karlos felt a buzz in his chest at the sight before him. Once more, these people promised their loyalty. And once more, he would do his damndest to ensure their trust was well-placed.

Schaefer would make a fine replacement if she could keep this up.

---

(WARNING: the following scene contains graphic descriptions of torture. Reader discretion is advised)

NSB Team Reaper
Village outside Sissak
Nalaya

”Got him?”

“Yeah, I see him. Orders?”

“Just observation for now. We’ll get the word in a second.”

There was one good thing about so many foreigners already in country; by the time the NSB had arrived a month ago, there were plenty of white men and women drifting around. Spies, priests, civil aid workers, mercenaries, it didn’t matter. The three person team could easily fit in, their desert jackets, black caps and orange face masks doing little to give away their identities. To the rest of the world, the stereotype was that the NSB did all their ops in suits and ties, like they were dressed for a day at the office instead of going out and murdering high-value targets for information. That suited them just fine. In the homeland, the sight of orange-wearing suited men made people turn away, knowing there was something going on they shouldn’t be interfering in, but that was rare. The homeland, including Aerick, was officially ISK turf. But there was a reason the resistance groups in Aerick had come to fear even the color orange.

”Convoy coming into sight,” radioed Ritter, their trigger-woman. She sat behind the thermal scope of her TAD-60 as Guderson watched the road with his binoculars. It would be his job to spot targets with the far more powerful optics, which was extremely important. Further up the road, their front man Vesson sat with his thumb on a detonator, prepared and ready.

This no-name town wasn’t important. It wasn’t the place where anything happened or anyone special lived. But it just so happened to be on the route back to Armavir. And it also happened to be the route one of Karagozian’s officers had decided to take today. He too was a low-level nobody, but just barely important enough that he was in charge of a particular arms-smuggling operation, bringing guns in country to outfit the defenders. Some of those guns came from the north, as it turned out.

Guderson grunted as he got a look at the ‘convoy.’ “Two technicals, a panel van and…an armored truck. Cute.”

“Probably lifted it from a bank in the city,” Ritter muttered as she lifted the enormous shell, slotting it into position. Normally, a TAD-60 was chambered to fire .50 caliber anti-material rounds, and normally that would be more than enough to take down most targets a sniper might be interested in. It could blow through walls, light vehicle armor and no body armor could stop it. But for this, they wanted to take no chance at all, and as such the AM rifle was instead chambered for a single gargantuan 20mm armor-piercing round. It was an adaptation made by the NSB specifically for these kinds of assassinations, where the target had used their brains and secreted themselves behind some armored barricade or in a vehicle tougher than what the conventional fifty-cal could take. It was mounted on a tripod normally reserved for heavy machine guns or recoilless rocket launchers, and as such was definitely a custom set-up, more akin to AT rifles of the 1st Great Border War. Ritter slipped up behind the scope again, sighting on the truck once more.

“Got the truck in sight…ready to squeeze.”

“They’re coming over the bridge,” Guderson muttered, watching the first technical cross the small wooden crossing of a shallow gorge that cut through town.

”Ready to bounce,” said Vesson, peering around the corner as he watched the vehicles pass him.

It all came down to Guderson, who had the best view of the target coming towards the killzone. Wordlessly, the team passed the kill order to him. Fortunately, Agent Guderson was on the ball, and he did a few mathematical calculations in his head.

“Do it.”

Ritter applied the last ounce of pressure to the trigger, and the massive rifle boomed as the round exploded out the barrel, traveling the six-hundred or so meters down the street from the building the two had holed up in on its second story. In an instant, the bullet-resistant windshield was torn through by a round as big as a man’s fist, coring the driver and blasting into the crew compartment, detonating right in the middle of the mess. Whoever was back there didn’t stand a damn chance.

The armored truck and panel van rolled to a halt as the convoy exploded into action. From the technicals and the panel van, armed gunmen exploded out, waving their rifles around as they hollered at each other in the local tongue, teeth bared and ready for a fight. Several of them moved towards the armored truck, probably to see if their boss was still alive.

“Detonating,” Vesson whispered, and he thumbed the detonator. From under the technicals and armored truck, a series of six frag mines daisy-chained together detonated, tearing apart the two pickups and sending shards out in all directions. The armored truck was fine, but the detonation was instead channeled out, burying fragments in the panel van and taking off the legs of the men around them. All the other militia were shredded, pieces of flesh flying. Fortunately, collateral was low. Most civilians had already bugged out when the convoy had come up, and the rest had fled at the first shot.

Afterwards, the street was silent. The flaming wrecks of the two technicals burned silently, oil and gasoline sending twin plumes of greasy smoke into the desert sky. The dirt road was pockmarked with craters, blood trails streaking off in all direction and chunks of flesh thrown all over.

Abruptly, the sliding door on the panel van flew open, and a single figure emerged, sprinting out towards an alley.

“Target is bolting!” Guderson hollered, and Ritter cursed as she picked up an M47 battle rifle, trying to get the target in scope before cursing. “I can’t get a clear shot!”

“I’ve got him!” yelled Vesson, sprinting from hiding and in hot pursuit. The slight man was fast, much faster than he looked, moving from alley to house to street to plaza to alley once more, and while Vesson was a champion level sprinter he was still unaccustomed to the desert air, as determined as he was. Sweat was pouring off his brow, and his mask was practically choking him. The target was opening the gap.

But he had forgotten the sniper.

“Got the shot!” Ritter yelled, squinting through the scope.

“Take it!” Guderson ordered, and Ritter squeezed the trigger, sending a single .30-06 round out and soaring across the distance, slamming into the man’s calf and sending him sprawling to the ground, howling in pain as his blood splattered on the wall, the limb now ruined. Vesson was on him in an instant, slapping a pair of corded manacles on his wrists and racking them tight.

“Target collected. We’re all good here,” he radioed, seconds before he pulled a black bag over the man’s head and said “Good to see you, Baraht.” And with a short chop to the temple, the man was out.

The next that Baraht knew, the bag was pulled off into darkness. He took a second to glance around. It looked like he was in a mechanic’s shop of some kind, surrounded by tools and a single vehicle with the hood up. Then a fist landed on his chin.

“Hey, Baraht! Good to see you’re back!” said a female voice, and he internally quivered. It couldn’t be…they were here, of all places! But how? “He’s awake!” she called, and boots stepped over from the darkness. As well as the three from the street ambush, there were two more operators as part of team Reaper, another male and a female. Agents Trotsbeck and Jorgenson, respectively.

Agent Guderson stepped in front of Baraht, cradling his jaw. It was only here that Baraht realized he was gagged, nice and tight, a strap of black leather pulled tight across the lower half of his face. Instinctively, he pulled back, but realized he was zip-tied to the chain, which itself was anchored to the floor.

“Baraht…our favorite informant. It’s good to see you again, ja? I only realized after our last meeting had concluded that I had many, -many- questions for you. How’s your family? Wife doing good with the new baby? Also, I wanted to know about your neighbors, how they’re adapting to this harsh time. Or maybe…” Here, Guderson leaned down until his own orange-masked face was mere inches from Baraht’s own. “How the security on your boss’s compound tripled on the date you gave us last week. That was a little jarring, seeing walls lined with militia and AA guns set up in the courtyard. Good thing we requested a satellite scan of the place before we moved in, or we might have really been fokked. But it goes beyond that, ja? Search dogs? A light tank? Did you really have to tell him to put up a light tank? Well…” Guderson moved back, hand sliding off Baraht’s now tear-strewn cheeks. “As you know, we didn’t take that hit. We hired a few half-wits to fire a few shots, get killed and then dragged off their bodies. Congratulations, you’re a moron.”

Baraht’s eyes widened in fear and panic, and he tried to speak, to get out of what he knew was coming, but he was still lashed down, and his mouth was still covered.

“So, as you can tell, we whacked your boss anyway. Never took account of what would have happened if we –lived- did you?” Guderson’s tone became low, flat and menacing, and his hand curled into a fist. “You tried to kill us, Baraht. Now that’s not such a big thing, occupational hazard, we’re all used to it. But you sold us out. And –that- is not something we’re used to.” He stepped away, gesturing to Jorgenson. “Make him talk. But first, prep him.”

The redheaded female agent removed her jacket, revealing a built form and a black tank top under the desert camo. She grabbed a surgical tray, pulling it forward as she kicked a stool into place. Baraht began to panic, thrashing as he spotted several gleaming tools on the tray, mostly scalpels. Jorgenson answered by wordlessly cocking back a black-gloved hand and smashing it into Baraht’s face, tearing open his eyebrow. Then she sat down, pulled the wheeled tray over, and got to work.

She started on his face. Her hands were steady as she made the first incision, but Baraht’s yelling and thrashing caused her to curse. Fortunately for her, Trotsbeck stepped up behind Baraht, jamming a needle into the bound man’s neck that caused him to fall still. He was paralyzed, Baraht realized, but the pain in his cheek told him he could still feel.

He was terrified.

Jorgenson returned to work, her knife flashing again. She resumed her cutting on his cheek, which had already begun to bleed freely. She made an incision roughly the length of her pinky finger before she peeled back the skin, moving in to begin pulling tiny chunks of flesh out. Baraht wanted to scream in agony already, but his mouth refused to obey. In a minute, enough meat had been removed from his upper cheek to see his teeth, and blood flowed freely from the wound.

“Staunch that bleeding,” said Guderson from where the other four agents watched silently. They’d made a circle around the operation, observing intently as this woman performed surgical horror on this local man’s flesh. “We don’t want him dying on us.”

With precision, Jorgenson injected a coagulant and used a hot iron to cauterize the ends of the veins. Baraht almost passed out from the agony as he felt his flesh burn.

Once she had finished with his face, a mark that would remain forever, she moved to his hands. The first thing she did was take the skin off the back of both, exposing the flesh beneath, pink as anyone else in the world. Then she began slicing the tendons between fingers, rubbing charcoal into each to ensure the marks would remain. After that, she expertly searched for particular nerves in his hands, ensuring that even through the bleeding and the flesh she had to move through, she found them…and cut them out.

At this point, Baraht –did- pass out. But it wasn’t to be for long, as he found himself brought back to the world of the living by yet another needle. Wordlessly, Jorgenson finished her grisly work before she backed off, leaving the now mangled Baraht still sitting there in the chair, bleeding. He could feel his fingers beginning to twitch. He must be getting his mobility back, for whatever good that did him.

Now, the woman stepped away, and the man stepped forward. Vesson didn’t waste any time before he buried a combat knife in Baraht’s thigh. A small whimper came from Baraht’s lips, a small twitch of his neck. But Vesson hadn’t finished by a long shot. He came up, slammed a fist into Baraht’s face once, twice, three times. Baraht could feel it all, but could still only barely move.

Vesson pulled the gag down, forcing Baraht’s mouth open with a chunk of rubber. A pair of pliers appeared, and he inspected Baraht’s teeth for a moment before he grabbed hold of a perfectly healthy molar, pulling and tugging and yanking until, with a sudden snap the gum gave way, and the tooth exploded upwards in a fountain of blood. Baraht gave a low moan, though he felt like he was about to die. Vesson chose the tooth’s opposite number, giving it the same treatment and tossing both teeth aside when he had them, tipping Baraht’s head forward so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood until the anti-coagulant kicked in. For extra measure, he pulled the knife out, slapping a gauze bandage over the wound.

Trotsbeck moved in now, a pair of knuckledusters on one hand as he grabbed Baraht by his short hair, slamming blow after blow into his face. Now the other cheek had been torn open, but this one was left to bleed freely, presumably since it wouldn’t have the chance to kill him. Body blows came next, and Baraht vomited all over his lap. The agents left it there as Trotsbeck pummeled the smaller man, dislocating and reinserting his shoulders. By this time, Baraht was back in control of his senses, and was screaming his head off. He started begging.

“Please! Please, I’ll tell you anything! I’ll tell you everything!”

Guderson held up a hand, and Trotsbeck’s bloodied fist halted in mid blow, the brawny agent watching his team leader carefully before pulling back. Guderson moved forward, looking Baraht straight in his bruised, bloodied face.

“Maybe…but this isn’t just about information, Baraht.”

“Its…its not? B-but I swear, on the life of my children, I will tell you the truth!”

“No, you’ll tell me what you think I’ll want to hear. Anything to end this. And you fokked us over…or tried to, at least. So now, we’ll wait to ask our questions until we’re all done. Yes? Yes, I think that’s what we’ll do.” He finished with another blow to Baraht’s jaw. “Gag him again. We’re almost done here.”

Ritter’s turn came next, and she stepped forward with a large tub of water placed onto a metallic table, slamming it down near him. Baraht was finally released, though his hands were quickly restrained, and he was pulled over to the water, the sniper mercilessly. Dunking his head in all the way. The water was cold, and had chunks of ice floating in it, and she held him down even as he kicked and thrashed and saw black edges on the corner of his vision. Finally, she let him up, but the gag prevented him from gasping for air, and he could only draw a few desperate breathes through his nose before she dunked him again. She did this six more times before she kicked him away, back into the chair, soaking and boneless and on the verge of choking on the leather gag and the water stuck in his throat and lung.

Guderson came back again, an ATR-160 in hand. “Let’s go.”

They dragged him out the back door, to the small yard, tossing him onto his knees and holding him there. Guderson crouched down next to Baraht, leveling the rifle next to his head until his eye was level with the ejection chamber. Then he thumbed off the safety and held down the trigger. As any soldier could tell you, the sound of gunfire is something it takes time to get accustomed to. But Baraht wasn’t a soldier. He was a middleman, someone who kept his ear to the ground and listened for information, then dealt it out. The drumroll of thirty rounds going off combined with the hot brass hitting him in his already bruised and bloody face time and time and time again was terrifying, and when the gunfire stopped, he realized he was screaming again. They hauled him back inside, chained him to the chair again, and told him he was now permitted to talk.

He told them everything. Everything he knew about Armavir. About Karagozian. About the Dread Wolf. He told them everything he had held back, everything he had learned since and everything he’d already told them just to be sure. They listened without a word, and equally silently they pulled the black bag over his head, injecting him with another needle.

He awoke in his home town; his wife crouched in front of him, terrified of his appearance. It took Baraht a week to start talking again, but he told no one of who had done what he’d gone through, and he didn’t say much aside from that. He bore his sinister scars, which had turned septic almost immediately as a warning. Those he had worked for knew what it meant, and he found himself placed somewhere unimportant where nothing happened, and the sound of gunfire made him flinch and begin trembling. His hands were near useless.

Through this, the name NSB began to filter back out into the crowd, and Baraht’s name went with it.

Mostly whispered with both fear and dread.

[Nalaya]

The Previous Night
The Fane
Dyvynasshar, Nalaya

Alysstra could feel her hands trembling slightly as she climbed the broad, ancient steps that lead up to the ruinous stone edifice that was the Fane. There were no delicate carvings or verses, no histories or bas reliefs on these walls. The spirits that stalked these shattered halls were older than tools, older than words. To them, she was a brief wink of light, a mayfly flitting for its scant day, that was extinguished in a heartbeat. They were dark, primal, eternal. They spoke not in visions, but in sensations. The shadows enveloped her the moment she made it inside, the lights of the city drowned out in an ocean of darkness. The walls around her seemed invisible, as inconsequential as the barrier between the world of spirits and the world of men to the things that moved here.

She had walked through here so many times that she knew the route by heart. That was the only way to make it through the dark like this without breaking a neck, and even then it required care. The Fane was always devoid of light when the Quarval-sharess went into seclusion. The fires burned at the braziers at the gates, but the ruin itself was lost to shadow. Eyes starved for light could see things that no flame could illuminate. The plain, grey stone was rough under her feet. Once, the Fane had been only a circle of stone monoliths with a great slab at the center. Then, a proper temple had been built around the site before outside hands demolished it.

Now, it was a memory, a weeping wound in the heart of the ku’nal that would never be allowed to heal. It reminded them of the world that would destroy them if given even the barest of chances. It reminded them of the suffering and death of those who had died to protect them. It reminded them that nothing of this world, not even the most sacred of sites, was immutable. There was only change and faith. The rulers of men had looked on this place over the course of thousands of years and wept, knowing that nothing they built would ever endure as the Fane had endured. Even broken, it stood proud above Dyvynasshar, defining the skyline.

And here, in the darkness, Alysstra knew that she had entered another world. The Quarval-sharess had the power not only to cross over, but to blur the lines between this world and the other. It was a kitrye tresk’ri, a half-world, bridge between time and timelessness, between existence and oblivion, the place where creation touched the void. Spirits could walk freely here. She felt them in the shivers down her spine, their presence sparking that creeping, dreadful awe in the pit of her stomach. Their breath hit her ear, their formless fingers touched her skin, their whispers burned in her blood. It was overpowering, intoxicating. A familiar coppery smell hit her nose, accompanied by the smell of bitter herbs and myrrh.

“Dark Mother,” Alysstra breathed out softly, her voice a whisper.

The night swallowed every word.

Suddenly the touch she felt against her arms became solid. Alysstra flinched slightly at the touch. She didn’t like people coming up behind her, even if she recognized the smell and the press of sharp nails into her biceps. “I was not to be disturbed.” The Dread Wolf’s voice was unusually raw and rough, where normally it dripped of honey. It was the sound of a woman pulled from her meditations by interruption. No doubt she had been giving voice to the phantoms, howling as the spirits vented their rage through her. Everyone knew that they were angry. The wrath of the divine had been building a thousand years or more for this.

Alysstra knew that if she had been anyone else, she would be on the ground bleeding right now. She stayed very still even as the pointed nails bit deeper into her flesh. She could feel them break the skin, but she didn’t dare make a sound of pain. Not when the Dread Wolf could still be channeling spirits with malevolence in mind. She heard a soft inhale close to one of her ears. The Dread Wolf was placing who she was and orienting herself back to the world that the yochlol had just come from.

“Why are you here, Alysstra? Speak.”

The yochlol pulled in a sharp breath now that she knew that the Dread Wolf was aware of who she was. That was a promising start. “We need your wisdom, Quarval-sharess,” she said softly. She didn’t want to disturb the other things in the darkness. “Wicked things have been done.”

The tight grip on her arms eased, the Dread Wolf’s claws releasing her. A hand touched her shoulder, turning her around. “The world is a wicked place, Alysstra. You know that better than most.”

The chills were so bad that Alysstra could feel herself shivering. Even the most fearless of people could not walk into the Fane without being overcome with awe and dread, and she was no exception. If anything, she was more susceptible, because she knew what was waiting in the dark. The sheer primordial presence of the place, even during the day, could silence with ease. At night without a hint of light like this, during a kitrye tresk’ri? There was no question.

“The Shalumi have allowed slavers into the country beneath their banner,” Alysstra said softly.

The silence that enveloped the Fane was the very expression of oblivion, of the void. It was beyond that of the grave’s. Alysstra felt her blood freeze so badly that even the chills stopped. She couldn’t move.

The words that broke the eternal silence were a whisper.

“I come.”

---

Recovering
Alaverdi, Nalaya

An hour later, Dzia lay in bed, listening to the soft conversation flowing back and forth just on the other side of the open door, the sound of the Mak’ur language so different from the Maldorian tongue that she felt safe just listening. Micarlin hadn’t wanted to leave her completely alone, a sign that she understood better than most everything that had happened. The young Arusai woman wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. It was as if she was afraid that if she did, when she woke up, she would be back in those horrible tents waiting for Pomerok. She hoped that Brakis and Kaleb were doing alright, wherever they were. Lethe had said they were in the building under Jaelryn’s protection and Dzia really did believe that. The Mak’ur very seldom lied outright. They would evade or maintain silence, but generally they told half-truths when they were trying to be deceptive. Dzia had made certain to keep her questions specific enough that they were difficult to evade and she was satisfied as a result.

In the next room, Lethe rocked back on her heels. “If we knew more about the Shalumite camps, we could hit them there,” the yath’abban said, watching Jaelryn. It always surprised her how still yathallar could be sometimes, but even among them, Jaelryn was a master of tranquility and calm. She could just sit for hours if it was required, waiting on prey to move. Just the thought made Lethe want to fidget with restless energy. Their leader was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor now that she’d been relieved up in the sniper’s nest, just listening to her subordinates and focusing on the flow of breath in and out of her body.

“Why are we waiting?” Navasard demanded, his eagle tattoos lending his face a sharp cast. “Look at what they’ve done! Enslaving people, abusing them…”

“What of the women? Can they speak to the layout of the camp?” Shara asked. He was a Nava’ai man, like Navasard, but that was where the similarity ended. He was a sweet, thoughtful man by expression and, more interestingly, not faithful. He had joined them for a different reason—a score to settle with Karagozian. His face was soft and round, but his dark eyes were like basalt. Human trafficking hit him in a sensitive spot.

Micarlin shook her head. “Most of them were drugged so much they barely knew which way was up,” she said softly. “Not to mention the fact that they only saw the Maldorian section of the camp. They will have to move using the roads, though. I spoke with Arzhani bin Abd al Maajid’s people, Most Revered. They aim to blow parts of the canyons.”

Jaelryn gave no movement or sound that indicated that she had heard, but the Yath knew that was just a sign that she was deep in thought. Shara took it in stride without complaint. In his mind, anyone who had six eyes tattooed on their face was odd anyway, and he gave people a good amount of leeway when that was the case, provided he knew in advance. Granted, she was dangerous as well as odd, but not to him. There were some Yath, worse than Navasard, who were just like loose cannons waiting for the barest opportunity to go off. But there were others, like Jaelryn, who had the patience of saints. Shara knew he was dealing with the latter and he was eternally grateful for it.

“I could get a few scouts down there,” Shara said helpfully, watching Jaelryn for a response. Her eyes didn’t even flicker as she stared at the wall.

The silence stretched on suddenly, as all of them waited for her to finish thinking. Shara was about to give up when her lips moved. “Do so,” Jaelryn said. “I will follow them.”

“Most Revered?” Navasard said. He was surprised, but he also wasn’t. “One of us might be more suited.”

“I would take the measure of these Shalumi myself,” the yathallar said, standing up. “Particularly the one of the name Pomerok. We would be remiss if we did not allow an opportunity for the Shalumi to render the guilty to those they have wronged for the meting out of justice.”

“Oh, you don’t think them sitting in a comfy jail cell is just enough?” Shara said with humor. Not good humor, but humor. “We could slap them on the wrist a few times for good measure. That’s what Shalum will probably do. It’s not like Nalayans are people.”

“The Tigress would not allow them to be so soft-handed,” Micarlin argued. “For all her faults, she has no love of human traffickers.”

“Her power is not absolute,” Shara pointed out. He looked at Jaelryn. “What alternative are you going to offer the Shalumi?”

“I have not decided,” Jaelryn said thoughtfully. “First I must see.”

---

Along the Zeklet’taune Aluin
The Har’oloth, Nalaya

Sabal lingered in prayer slightly longer than she would have normally, adding a few more invocations of guardian spirits. She felt a little bit better by the time she pulled Joan up to her feet, a little more centered. The nudge even made her smile and hug Joan closer with one arm. She had never been on the pilgrimage with anyone else before, but no two journeys before had ever been the same. Each one brought a different glimpse into the eternal. And this one, with someone she loved, was proving unique. It was hard to remember sometimes that pain was waiting at the end of the line…or that death was lurking right outside.

Pella, meanwhile, flashed Michael a worried smile. “It’s alright,” she said. The smell of blood was nauseating, but she was grateful that it was keeping her hands busy. If she was focusing on the stain, she wasn’t thinking about what had caused it. At least, for the most part. She started to feel better once Sabal had the justicars help her place the iron bar in place on the door.

Night came rapidly. Too rapidly, in Pella’s mind. Sabal had already unrolled her bedroll and taken a nap while the sun was still in the sky, as if she was worried about what would happen come nightfall. It was an innocent enough decision—maybe she was just tired?—but it made Pella’s nerves flare up. Food did nothing to take her mind off it and honestly she wasn’t that hungry, but on the Aluin, passing up a chance to eat could get one killed.

Once the sun sank behind the horizon, however, the hours began to stretch on at a glacial pace. It was part of the pilgrimage’s departure from the world of men for the world of spirits. They were no longer in the world of cars and clocks and cares. Mundane things, mundane fears, did not belong on the Aluin. There was clarity in it. Distance gave people a chance to reflect on their lives, even Pella with her own relatively short span. Well, all humans had a relatively short lifespan. The girl laid on her sleeping bag and tried to calm herself down by reciting the different verses of the Linath under her breath. It started to even work after a half hour or so.

The fire cast dancing shadows inside the shrine. Sabal watched them reflect in the statue’s polished eyes for a long few moments from where she was curled beside Joan. She wanted another chance to be alone with her justicar lover, but that really wasn’t going to be an option as long as they were on the Aluin and she had no idea what was going to happen when they reached Dyvynasshar. Her instincts told her that the answer was nothing good.

The future is not now, Sabal reminded herself, resting her forehead against Joan. All things come in their time. Focus on this.

The yathallar took a deep breath, focusing on the way she felt at the moment, Joan’s skin soft under her fingertips. They were just laying down, but that was intimate enough for her to anchor herself and forget about other things.
There was a sharp crack of a bang from the doors as something large struck them with a powerful force. Both Pella and Sabal flinched, though it was the yathallar who made it to her feet first, grabbing her rifle. She was grateful that the xorile had only the one door, though it did also mean that if Kor’inth made it inside, they would have a serious problem. She checked her weapon with a flickered glance and her fingers, making certain that everything was in order in case that heavy door broke.

It went eerily silent for a long time. Pella could barely hear over the sound of her own pounding heart. For her part, Sabal was more familiar with the work of adrenaline. The yathallar’s expression was somber as she watched the door, her finger resting just above the trigger while she waited. Guns could not kill a spirit, but they could certainly discourage the body the spirit was possessing from continuing. She wasn’t prepared to kill it, though. You had to be careful with combating Kor’inth. Kill it in one body, and it could just move to another. There were rituals, both of banishing and warding, that would be required.

Fool, Sabal chastised herself in her own head. You might have taken your nap time and protected them instead. Somehow, it had managed to slip her mind. If Kor’inth did break in, it could very well become her last mistake, even if they did put the lion down.

---

Byureghayin Overlook
Approaching Tatev, Nalaya

The kun’al forces had stopped for a break as they waited for their forward scouts to return. They weren’t one long convoy—there were many large groups taking many routes, as the roads were seldom large enough to carry forces. They did have military vehicles, including APCs, but they were all older. Sabrae enjoyed the chance to get out and stretch her stiff legs, the wind playing through her hair as a small mountain breeze made itself known. Tatev was the entrance to the Heartlands, the beginning of what had once been Nairi, the land of lakes and rivers. After the harsh terrain to the north, it was beautiful green. She heard Lesaonar chuckle. “To think,” he said quietly. “If Rikker plays his cards wrong, this could be ours.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, darling. That’s how one trips,” Sabrae said with amusement. She combed her fingers through her hair, and then smoothed out her blouse. Both of them had dressed for their meeting with Rikker in business clothes, as was a little more customary in Karsoluthiyl than say, Dyvynasshar. “A few more hours, and the north will be decided.” They would arrive at their staging area in the north end of the valley in just another hour, but it would probably take at least half a day to get everything settled so that they could meet with Rikker.

“Still,” Lesaonar said before taking a deep breath of fresh air. “Have you finished with the dossier?”

Sabrae passed him the folder. In it was every piece of intelligence they’d managed to gather about the Shalumite commander and his operations since the mountain detachment had arrived in Annu. It was their business to watch the powerful in Nalaya, even those not directly playing the game. Both of them had read it before. This was just a refresher course—not that either of them put too much stock in it. Rumor and reputation had their place, but nothing was a substitute for meeting the real thing.

Lesaonar accepted it with a murmured thanks. He heard someone approaching and turned his head. “Ah, Most Honored, how good of you to join us,” the Ilharn said with a smooth politeness even though there was no love lost between the Ilharn and the Yath. It wasn’t that Lesaonar was unfaithful. No, it was simply that he liked being the most powerful man in the room and a reminder that he was at the mercy of the Dread Wolf’s occasionally capricious whims was often irritating.

Nadal looked at him with those feral golden eyes, barely blinking. The yochlol didn’t unnerve Lesaonar, but did sometimes worry him. Sabrae, however, gave the heavily tattooed cleric a pleasant smile. “I expect this is about the article,” she said almost brightly. “I assure you, Most Honored, this changes nothing.”

“And perhaps that is the root of the problem,” Nadal said in his deep, blunt voice. “You are agents of heaven, and yet you mean to parlay with one tainted by wickedness that is worthy of purging.”

“I suppose you would prefer we burn Tatev to the ground?” Lesaonar said dryly before he could stop himself. This particular yochlol was not known for his nuance…or his sense of humor.

Nadal did not crack a smile, nor did anything in his face flicker. “If that is what is required.”

“Our agreement with Rikker is a means to accomplish the task that the Dread Wolf set out for us, nothing more,” Lesaonar said. He almost asked the yochlol to be reasonable, but that was like asking a fish to run a marathon. It wasn’t Nadal’s fault, not really. He was dominated by certainty and without doubt, reason was very difficult. A beast cannot change its nature. Lesaonar sighed. “Forgive me, Most Honored, one of us needs to attend to the last of our preparations. I’m certain that Sabrae would be more than happy to discuss the matter with you further.”

Sabrae shot him a glare for throwing her under the bus as he excused himself, but she didn’t say anything of it. Instead, she looked back at Nadal. “We are doing our best, Most Honored,” she said quietly. “If we are to take Armavir, Rikker will be invaluable. When Karagozian is dead, then we can begin with the Shalumi. All things flower in their own time.”

“You are too comfortable with convenience.” Nadal’s cruel, feral eyes spoke to something in Sabrae. It was a pity that he wasn’t interested, it really was. She’d always been drawn to power. “Move so slowly towards eternity and you may find your cherished place taken.”

“I gave the Dread Wolf my vow,” Sabrae reminded him. “The ones who have wronged us will know the flames. But if you wish me to attend to this matter, allow me the freedom to see to it in my own way. The Quarval-sharess trusts my judgment and Lesaonar’s judgment. I would beg that you do the same, Most Honored.”
Nadal’s expression didn’t flicker. “We will see.” He turned and prowled off with a predatory grace, no doubt off to pray or attend to some matter of the soul.

Sabrae let out a sigh once she was certain that he was out of earshot. He was less vocal than Kalannar, but much, much more dangerous. She had no doubt that he would put Tatev to torch without a hint of hesitation. To a creature like him, so aware of the suffering of the mortal coil, death was a merciful relief. There was no doubt in her mind that operating under such a definition, Nadal was a merciful creature. Perhaps he even considered himself so. There was a logic to the Yath, no matter how distorted. In Sabrae’s experience, every single living soul did everything for a purpose, with a motive. Others would no doubt claim otherwise, quick to point out the Quarval-sharess as the embodiment of senseless destruction, but Sabrae knew much better. The woman in question did find great satisfaction in death, occasionally even pleasure, but that was not her guiding star. No, just like all of the Yath, her eyes were fixed on the divine and protection of the faithful. Sabrae envied her that conviction.

Faith made the world such a simple place.

---

Valantin Andzevatsi’s Office
Tatev, Nalaya

“Tsavagian?” Valantin said as if trying to place the name. It really did take her a minute to register it, she was so out of it. She rubbed her eyes for a moment and then sat back down at her desk now that her guests had coffee. “I have had a lot of people in my office the past few days. I don’t recall hearing that name, but there are a certain crowd who refuse to give them. Poison sounds like exactly their inclination.”

She picked up her coffee cup and swirled the liquid in it thoughtfully before taking a sip. It needed just a little bit more honey, but she was too tired to go retrieve the small container that was sitting on the side table. Her phone buzzed angrily at her until she declined the call. The number wasn’t programmed into her phone with a name attached to it, but she knew it by heart. That was Keth calling from her office. “Wonderful,” she murmured, eyes narrowing slightly for a moment in irritation. Her composure was starting to crack and it wasn’t even nine. What a marvelous day this was going to be.

She sipped her coffee again. “There have been a couple of such nameless gentlemen—and I use the word loosely—who have been in my office that I found…discomforting,” she admitted. “Soldiers, or perhaps not. Men who carry secrets in their hearts and knives in their smiles. I have made it exceedingly clear to both Sevan and my staff that I will not tolerate Unkndirnei activity in my offices, but even the TRC cannot demand they remove themselves. I can’t guarantee you that any of my less savory guests were working for them, as there are people on the street with no affiliations after the last peace, but I’ve interviewed enough horrible people to have the different breeds memorized. Besides, they’ve always had an unhealthily cordial relationship with the Diplomatic Corps. Shareshian may bitch about them, but he doesn’t really care who’s collecting a paycheck as long as the paperwork is filed.”

Valantin sighed and leaned back in her chair. It wasn’t a lie. Tsavagian was Unkndirnei, he had been in her office, and he did make her slightly uncomfortable. He wasn’t the only one who’d passed through, but he was the only one who knew who she was beyond the regional head of the TRC. She was buried deep. Even he only knew a fraction of the story. “You’re in tangled webs if you’re going after them, Siruhi A’Nadros. I would never warn anyone away from digging up evil to drag into the sunlight, but there is a certain level of caveat emptor that seems appropriate. Pick at the thread and things will certainly unravel. Things that you didn’t wish to unravel just as much as the things you wished to unravel.”

She drummed her fingers on her desk thoughtfully. Her phone buzzed again. Keth was calling back. She probably would until Valantin gave up and answered the phone. She hit silence again. “I respect what you do, Siruhi A’Nadros.” She looked over at the Shalumites. “I respect our allies.” She hit silent again when her phone started to buzz. “If there is anything I can do, I will be glad to do it. Please contact me the moment you need something. It may be some time before I can get back to you, but I will make it a priority. We cannot have someone murdering with impunity in Miak Amrots’. The rule of law is a sacred thing. Without it, well, I have seen what comes of it. Every Nalayan has.”

Her phone went quiet. Apparently Keth had caught the hint…or she was giving it a minute or two before she called back. “You should be very careful in your investigation, whoever you think the culprit is,” she said quietly. “Things in Tatev are about to become very delicate. It is no secret that the ku’nal forces will be in the area by nightfall and their commanders are expected this evening. The C’rintrin Nasadra are reasonable people, but they are not surrounded by reasonable people. If your investigation were to bring you across the wrong person’s path, I am not certain anyone could protect you. And please, I beg of you, for the sake of Tatev, do not tug at the C’rintrin’s patience now. The Esperancer article has made things very, very tense between the Shalumi and the ku’nal. I do not doubt that the two will be at war shortly in other parts of the country, if they are not already. But I do not want to see Tatev burned to ashes and I am confident that diplomacy can help us avoid that. The world now is dangerous, yes, but it does not have to be ending.”

Her phone chirped as a text message arrived. It was from an unlisted number, the same that had been calling, and read:

Pick up your goddamn phone, V.

Never change, Keth, she thought dryly as she glanced down at it. The woman’s Mak’ur blood was showing through in spades.

---

The Office of the Protector
Sevan, Nalaya

It was difficult to read genuine emotions in Khavar’s face, as always, but a particularly attentive observer might have noticed the faintest hint of a curled lip when Tatev was mentioned. They wanted her to give them the key to the north, the only true obstacle standing between the Dread Wolf and the Heartlands. Oh, perhaps the intentions were noble, but the consequences promised to be catastrophic. If Lledrith saw a hint of weakness in Tatev—something that would be guaranteed if she agreed to move soldiers out of the mountain city, considering the ku’nal were about to be camped on its doorstep—she would claim it without a second thought, regardless of any peace treaty. Lledrith had a nasty habit of respecting one thing and one thing only when fired up: power. A ‘peacekeeping’ force would not be enough to keep the Dread Wolf in check.

If Lledrith A’Daragon held Tatev, she could attack into the heart of the country with confidence. Karagozian’s death might satisfy the zealot for a while, but if her power in the north was left wholly without check, Khavar knew very well that she’d have the Dread Wolf on the doorstep of Sevan within the year. A temporary fix to one crisis could quickly become the cornerstone for a far worse one.

She swirled the coffee in her cup slowly and thoughtfully, distant eyes pensive as they took in the expressions of the Esperancers. “I will not surrender Tatev,” she said. “Nor will I request that Paron Rikker withdraw his people. But before you consider me excessively unreasonable, let me put it to you in this way: we are the only thing standing between the Dread Wolf and the parts of the country that are currently not on fire. Throughout centuries of history, one thing has always been clear: whoever controls Tatev controls the bridge between north and south. I know you are not from this country, Tiruhi Gladwell, nor do you have the…understanding of the nature of Lledrith A’Daragon that I and many here in Sevan who have had to deal with her do. I can understand that you may not see the consequences of the Dread Wolf having uncontested control of the north to be as dire as they are. Yes, the situation in the north is appalling. Yes, I am a wicked creature. But I can promise you that things will be worse beyond what your most extreme tallies are now if I withdraw my people from Tatev—however objectionable I and my people are to you, I will promise you that an army of religious fanatics lead by that thing will be unimaginably less reasonable. This is not negotiable.”

The Protector sipped her coffee. She had no expectation that Lledrith would agree to this zone: the Dread Wolf’s supply lines would have to cross it if she were to attack Armavir, which she doubted the Esperancers would enjoy. Their efforts to stop the Dread Wolf would just end with them being dragged into it as belligerents themselves. Perhaps the C’rintrin who had been given command of the ku’nal would be more understanding, but Khavar doubted it. She knew the Ilharess and Ilharn Nasadra by reputation—both were products of the political maneuverings and cutthroat infighting of the Mak’ur, cold and ruthless on their gentlest of days. Perhaps Esperance International could wheedle an agreement out of Karagozian, as he was the most likely to need the positive light cast on him. Unlike the Dread Wolf, he would need international recognition in a positive way. After all, he wanted to rule. The Quarval-sharess? She was not concerned with earthly power. It was one of the more frustrating things about her character, as far as Khavar was concerned. She could manipulate someone who wanted things. Right now, the only thing she had on Lledrith was the woman’s hatred for a mutual foe and an informant in her inner circle.

Granted, Shrike at this point could provide no window into Lledrith’s thoughts: the Dread Wolf had gone into seclusion to commune with the divine on behalf of her servants. There was something else coming, some stirring in the beyond that whispered secrets to the woman. No doubt it was a call to spread the holy war beyond Armavir. The silence irked Khavar despite her usual affinity for quiet, but she knew there was little that could be done about it at present.

“I will not prevent you from returning Vayots Dzor to something habitable and basing your refugee operation there. Likewise, your people are permitted to retain use of the airport in Tatev and surrounding areas. As far as I am concerned, your personnel have free passage through the area. You may even set up a corridor for evacuation. The trains are still running between Tatev and the cities to the south and east—not all of them are being used for supplies. You can use them to evacuate people into the Heartland. Tatev, however, will remain mine,” she said in a level voice. “You will find me, I think, to be far more accommodating than the Dread Wolf. If I am still too objectionable for you, I apologize, but I will not see my whole country burned to ashes to satisfy the consciences of others.”

---

RV Central Headquarters
Armavir, Nalaya

Gurgen motioned to Sirvard, who accepted the folder. The old man was barely literate, so he relied on his old friend for this kind of thing. The cantankerous woman settled a pair of half-moon reading glasses on the bridge of her nose and started to read. She was frowning deeply as she scrutinized it, occasionally making little murmuring sounds of discontent. After a few minutes, she had finished her thorough read of the proposal. She leaned over to Gurgen and murmured in his ear, giving him a brief synopsis of what was entailed.

“If the Dread Wolf is coming from where we believe she will be, this zone of yours will certainly close her path,” Gurgen said once Sirvard had finished. “I find myself curious to know if your peacekeepers are prepared to stand in her way.” The old man smiled humorlessly. He had fought Lledrith A’Daragon before and was one of the very few old war-leaders who had survived to tell the tale. “The virtues a man or a woman might aspire to, such as mercy and compassion, things that Esperance International thrives on, they are foreign to the nature of that beast. For the Dread Wolf, eternity is all that matters. Death is her mercy, her compassion.” Gurgen was pensive for a long moment before finally adding, “Still, it is not a bad agreement. The Protector loses Tatev, the Dread Wolf is either frustrated or preoccupied, and there is a safe zone for people.”

“Until the Dread Wolf seizes Tatev!” Sirvard snapped, her legendarily short patience at its limit. “She will be preoccupied for only as long as it takes to line the road between Tatev and Vayots Dzor with the impaled corpses of peacekeepers and anyone else who breathes wrong.”

Gurgen would have said she was overreacting, but it wasn’t exactly beyond the realm of the possible. The beast had earned her name a thousand times over. “We have no guarantee that she will do so,” he said mildly.

“Do not play devil’s advocate with me, Gurgen Messerlian.” Sirvard’s tone was acidic. “You know that creature better than anyone. She will dig in and attack south with impunity.”

“She is not commanding from the front lines, Sirvard. That honor rests with a particular pair of servants.”

Sirvard scoffed. “Because they’re so much better. The only question is whether the burn will be from their frost or her fire. Heaven is unkind when zealots are wise enough to know the blindness of their own rage. The only reason Lledrith let them touch her precious holy war was that she knows they’re smart enough to leave enough infrastructure standing to maintain their own army.” She ripped off her spectacles and tossed them on the table. “I refuse to allow her the opportunity. Let her break her armies on Tatev and the Shalumites.”

“And how are we to evacuate people, then?” It was oddly amusing to Gurgen, despite the dire nature of the circumstances. He appreciated Sirvard. With her, one always knew exactly what the situation was, what her feelings were. She was an open book. One filled with vitriol, but open nonetheless. He could not say the same for Zhirayr Karagozian. Every man and woman had their vice, and Karagozian’s was most assuredly secrets. “A reasonable woman does not tear down something without an alternative.”

“And when have I ever been accused of being a reasonable woman?” The look she was giving him could have etched glass. “If Zhirayr sees this, he will be inclined to agree: it gives him moral high ground when the DMZ is broken by the Dread Wolf, which he desperately needs to sway the Arusai and Vatani. Oh, and because the Tigress will have a fit of apoplexy so severe over losing Tatev that it just might just pop a coronary with enough force to kill her.”

Gurgen inclined his head in silent agreement. He turned to the small group and gave them a small, apologetic smile. “We wish to aid you in evacuating and protecting our people, my friends,” he said. “But we are faced with a dangerous proposition in your suggestion. The Dread Wolf is a threat that cannot be overstated. The problem with religious fervor is that it does not feel compelled to obey the laws and agreements of men. I do not believe she has any intention of peace, nor could she. The djinni is out of the bottle, as it were. These things, they have momentum. They take on a life of their own. I do not know that it can be stopped even if she did wish to rein it in. That said, I would see us assist you if it is within my power to do so. You can bring your proposal to Ter Karagozian if you wish, and perhaps he would agree, but I would give you this warning: standing in the way of a holy war is like seeking to catch lightning in a bottle. It is courting disaster at its best.”

[Shalum]

Port of Massis
Southern Nalaya

Nicholas Brooks slouched in his black office chair, boots kicked up on the plain wooden desk, eyes staring unfocusedly at the white screen of a loading webpage on his laptop. Life around the firebase had reached somewhat of a cycle of boredom, and the twenty-one year old marine found himself slowly but surely running out of things to keep busy.

A meager stack of stapled reports was neatly piled in a corner of the table, what had once been days of paperwork completed before dinner. Blood tests, incident reports, and any number of other medical documents, all completed, stapled, and waiting for the corpsman to hand them in to his superior in the infirmary.

Checking his watch, Nick frowned. 4:45.

Glancing to the piles of crisp white paper, he ran his hand through his short brown hair. He'd been wasting time in his barracks for the better part of two hours under the pretense of working, and he could still stroll over to the medical building at any time with the documents and get commended for his efficiency. The only issue was that Lieutenant Fisher would simply drop someone else's reports in his lap and tell him to get cracking, but given the way he'd been climbing the walls as of late- more busywork might be exactly what he needed.

Turning the chair to look into the rest of the barracks behind him, his boots fell from the desk as the Private First Class began tapping a pen on the wooden counter, the dull whap it produced filling the small room as he absent-mindedly looked around and debated what to do for the remainder of the evening- and for the next day, and for the day after that…

The marine groaned as he realized how terribly monotonous things had become, half-praying for something -anything- to explode. Hell, if a goat wandered into the perimeter and spontaneously combusted or something, that would have been fine by him.

However, his thoughts of flaming livestock were interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open and he turned to see Lance Corporal Gerardo Bauer —fresh from duty— step inside, greeting Nicholas with a nod.

"Hey Gerry," the corpsman greeted first, the inane musings leaving his mind just as quickly as they'd arrived. "What's up?"

The half-Cacertian, half-Shalumite was one of the seven other marines Nick shared the housing unit with. He chatted with the supply officer regularly. The two had been part of the same squad before they'd both been transferred to different units over a year ago, and now they had met again at their latest posting, thousands of miles from home.

The Lance Corporal was slightly Nick's elder, with thick black locks that sat neatly on the top of his head and hefty shoulders that gave him the appearance of a much larger man, despite his moderate stature.

”Grub's up in the mess," the other marine declared, brown eyes surveying the room. "Spaghetti, I think." He added after a moment of thought.

The housing unit was very Spartan; simple whitewashed walls and bare cement floors, punctuated by the sterile white light cast by the two large florescent lamps overhead. With only several bunk beds and two small wooden tables for furniture, the room had plenty of space that no one had taken advantage of- with one exception. In the front left corner of the rectangular room, someone had placed a grungy vinyl chair that had been dragged out of a wrecked MRAP, and the walls near it were adorned with photos of family or women that had been scotch-taped up there by the room's other tenants.

Standing, Nicholas quickly closed his laptop and placed it into its case. Zipping it shut, he quickly scanned the desk for anything else of importance he needed to secure before departing. It wasn't the he was afraid anyone would take his things, but he didn't trust his bunkmates not to spill something on it or otherwise abuse anything left in the open, and the private considered momentarily looking for someplace to stow the stack of papers. However when he was unable to find a convenient folder or empty drawer to put them in, he gave a mental shrug, figuring the barracks would be empty while he was gone anyhow.

Searching the room for his Heckler and Koch forty-five caliber sidearm, he found the weapon under his bunk in the footlocker the marine kept his few personal effects in.

Gerardo tugged at his collar while his companion checked his weapon, the logistics officer still garbed in his flecktarn camouflage utility jacket and body armor as he paced near the entrance.

Collecting his sidearm and holster from the crate, he turned to find Nicholas leaning on the doorframe waiting on him. With a nod to his fellow marine, the two warriors departed to chow down on what had been cooked up for their rifle platoon.

Stepping into the dull evening light behind his companion, Private Broosk glanced around the dirt courtyard of Forward Operating Base Paladin, looking for any faces he recognized. The barracks, like all the other buildings in the small fire support base, was a narrow, single-story structure formatted much like a motel with numerous separate rooms leading out on to a small, covered concrete walkway.

FOB Paladin was a small, unremarkable base of operations northwest of Massis, and only one of two military installations in the province. In function, it acted as a processing center for supplies that had been boated in, and were destined to be shipped further north. The other, larger FOB, which was closer to the city itself, housed the majority of the security and other support units stationed at the port city.

Nicholas peered over the wall of stacked Hesco bastions that formed the base's perimeter at the city beyond it, shadows already present to cloak the peaks of taller buildings within the population center, such as the college. The sun was a brilliant orange on the blue background of the late afternoon sky. Soon it would become evening, and then the sky would turn the loveliest shade of rose he had ever seen. The marine found Paladin to be a quiet and pleasant posting. The sector had been calm even before the Marines had arrived, they apparently scared away any opportunistic Nava’ai forces away from the city, and there was little for him to do but paperwork.

“You know," Gerardo offered, drawing the private's attention away from the sights. "For all this sitting around you do, you could transfer to a ship, or maybe back home. The food would be better either way."

Nicholas didn't answer immediately, his face wrinkling thoughtfully. While the twenty-one year old would admit this was one of the more boring postings he'd been assigned, regardless of the fact that Nalaya was an all out war zone, part of him didn't mind. As a corpsman, there were worse things than getting up every morning to warm chow and the occasional hot shower, and while the foreign posting meant the forward operating base didn't have some of the same amenities that their domestic counterparts enjoyed; it seemed a small price to pay. Crunching numbers for medicine dosages and administrative work beat applying gauze while under fire- he liked to think, anyways.

However, that boredom just didn't translate into switching to the 'Blue' side of the Navy, and the medic wasn't sure it was just the prospect of cramped quarters and even less action than now that didn't appeal to him.

"Maybe, but at my rank? Hell, I'd scrub bedpans all day."

The lance corporal laughed as Nicholas continued. "Or, I could just sign-on to Logistics, they'll take any dumb monkey." The brown-haired marine mocked good-naturedly and elbowed his companion on the forearm. "I even hear they find the ugliest one and parade him around as their king."

The base's head of supply laughed again, and placed a hand over his chest in feigned injury. "It would be a real shame if a couple dozen camel spiders found their way into those new fatigues you requisitioned…" He commented innocently, giving Nick a devious, sideways look.

"Well, you'd wind-up under some cargo crate and then where would you be? 'Where the hell's Doc!?' 'He's in the sickbay with a bunch of spider bites on his ass!'" The private first class joked, embellishing his charade with dramatic hand motions.

The two shared another laugh as they neared the long, narrow building that contained the kitchen and cafeteria.

Anyone around the base would comment on the odd friendship the two shared. They argued and antagonized each other constantly, and while a card game might occasionally leave the two on harsh terms, none of the trivial disputes ever seemed to survive a few beers on furlough.

After the momentary silence, Gerardo abruptly turned to his companion as they walked. "Your birthday's coming up, ain't it?"

The corpsman nodded in confirmation. "It's a couple months off, yes."

"Any idea what you're going to do?" Nick gave a shrug as he answered, exasperation in his voice.

"I don't know, Gerry," It was the third time the lance corporal asked that week—as if he'd given it any further consideration—but since he was boring himself to death in the barracks every day, he understood that his companion had become equally tired of his duties as well. "Ask Burke for a two day pass and go to the Heartlands?"

For a moment, the two again walked in silence as they neared the cluster of buildings containing the command center and the mess building. However, the raven haired marine scratched his chin with his thumb thoughtfully and broke the silence his counterpart had hoped would last.

"You're turning what- nineteen?"

"Twenty-two." His friend replied with a groan.

"Yeah. So I figure hop in the back of a supply truck to Sevan and see if we can't get you laid." The lance corporal proposed enthusiastically and grinned at him.

The private glared, but was drawn away as a voice rose from ahead of them.

"Hey, Doc!"

Surveying ahead, the corpsman spotted someone ahead waving slowly in his direction. Raising a hand in acknowledgement, it took him a moment to recognize the man as one of the base's postal clerks

Glancing to Gerardo, who'd been watching quietly, he nodded in the direction of the clerk. "I'm going to see what's up."

The lance corporal gave an affirmative grunt and split off, heading for the mess building.

As he neared, the clerk ducked into the nearby mail office and Nicholas followed, catching the screen door as it swung back at him.

Stepping inside, he was immediately presented with the mail clerk's back as he awkwardly reached over the tall wooden desk and grabbed a few things on the other side.

Straightening himself, the marine produced two items; a clipboard and a box. As the clerk checked the items, the twenty-one year old caught a glimpse of the name stitched into his shirt. Weidmann.

"Brooks, Nicholas A., serial number: three-seven-zero-five-eight-two?"

"Yessir."

The man suddenly turned and dropped the box is Nick's hands then thrust the clipboard to him, offering a pen he'd secured from his front pocket.

Jotting down his signature on the receipt, he returned the small plastic pen and turned his attention to the package. It was a plain, utilitarian brown cardboard box a little smaller than the clipboard he'd been given, and sealed with clear packaging tape. Over the seam was a black and white shipping label, and suspicion grew in Nicholas as he looked it over in detail.

His name wasn't actually on it; instead the tag bore his service number and a number of barcodes. There was no postage on the box, and the label gave no hints as to its sender.

"Log says it came from a distribution center in the Duchy of Haford." Weidmann stated plainly, glancing at a pink shipping manifest on the desk. "You have family around there?"

The other marine nodded his head once. "Yes. My parents" He replied as he studied the package carefully balanced on one palm. Nicholas then departed abruptly, tucking the box under his arm and heading to the door without another word.

Watching the other man go, Weidmann shrugged to himself and returned to his duties, giving the paperwork in his hand a casual glance before tossing it onto the counter.

It wasn't long before Nick found himself in the dinner queue; the still unopened box tucked awkwardly under one arm as he filed along with his tray held in both hands. It had earned him a few curious glances, but no-one had made any comments; concerned more with getting their own meals in a timely manner.

The private shuffled a bit as the line progressed, looking through the glass of the serving station while the kitchen personnel worked efficiently on the other side. Dinner was indeed spaghetti, and while the marine typically had a ravenous appetite, he took a somewhat meager helping of the pasta and a single piece of garlic toast.

He took his small meal to where Gerardo had sat down and set his tray down across the table from him.

"That's it?" The lance corporal asked with genuine surprise, a stray noodle still dangling from between his lips.

Nicholas rolled his shoulders in response, sitting down and setting the box that had been cutting into his armpit next to his tray. Gerry’s plate was piled high with spaghetti and toast, and also held a diet coke and small bag of chips he'd purchased from someone else on base.

The twenty-one year old simply wasn't hungry like he usually was; he just…wasn't. But the package…it just got stranger the more thought he gave it. The simple truth was that the young corpsman didn't receive a great deal of mail. A magazine might find its way through the military postal service on occasion, but other than that there weren't many people sending him stuff. Not even his parents, who insisted that he video call more often every time they spoke. Which wasn’t often, he doubted they remembered he was alive half of the time.

The few correspondences he'd had with non-family members in the Empire or at different bases during the early parts of his deployment had died out or become electronic, addresses and interest in communication being lost over time.

Nicholas ate quietly for a while, barely tasting the night's meal as he sat lost in thought.

After ten minutes of silence between the two, Gerardo finally spoke. "Okay, what's in the box?"

Nick glanced up from where he'd been inattentively starting to eat to see Baurer pointing his fork at the object, a small amount of tomato sauce falling from the utensil to create a small red stain on the cloth covering the metal table.

"Uh- I don't know," he admitted, and went back to eating his supper

"Well?"

The corpsman looked up from his meal, his brow cocked in unspoken questioning at the inpatient lance corporal. Much to the irritation of his companion, he gave another one of his infamous shrugs and went on eating.

Ditore gave a bitter sigh, then reached across the table and picked up the parcel; palming in his large, weathered hands.

The private watched quietly as he pulled at the tape along its edge, eventually wadding it up to and tossing the sticky mass of plastic onto the table in front of him.

Setting the package down, he pulled back the two cardboard flaps of the box. Inside, a small black device rested imbedded in white styrofoam packing blocks. Reaching inside the box, Gerardo unceremoniously pulled the object from its packaging and held it up to examine in the industrial grade lighting overhead.

It was a touchscreen phone, with no decoration or writing in its black case, giving no indication to its brand or model. Thumbing the silver power button, the logistics officer frowned. "Dead battery."

Taking the device from his friend, Nicholas tried the power and giving his companion a doubtful glance, turning his hand to Gerardo to show a glowing welcome message. Manipulating the touch screen for a moment more, the marine was prompted for a password. Keying in the first four numbers that came to mind, the device responded with an error message and, seeing he was making little headway, Nick dropped the phone into one of his pockets, resolving to look for a manual later.

Glancing at his empty tray, he stood and set the box next to his plate and silverware.

"I've got some stuff to finish in the barracks," he explained to his friend; who still had half his meal before him. The Lance Corporal said nothing, but gave a nod as he brought his soft drink to his lips.

Dumping his plate and tray on the way out, Nick dodged the next wave of hungry marines as they entered the cafeteria and squeezed past them to exit into the courtyard.

Dusk was going to fall quickly, as it often did, and the brilliant sunset that soaked the base in crimson light was quickly fading to usher the moon and stars into the sky. They were still hours away from their full brilliance, something he had come to enjoy. Had he been up in the mountains with Rikker’s troops, it would have gone dark a while ago, and he would have gotten to see the heavens in their true glory; without any light pollution to get in the way.

Crossing the lot, the corpsman cast a disinterested looked around the base, returning a small wave thrown by a sentry as he chatted with several others near an armored humvee, their voices lost to the soft putter putter of the idle vehicle's engine.

However, as he got nearer to his quarters, Nicholas became aware of a shadow follow close behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, the private found that he was indeed being followed and turned to address his unannounced companion. "What'd you want, Doc?"

Doc gave no response, the young pup instead cocking his head inquisitively at the corpsman, tail whipping side-to-side with enthusiasm. The dog had been one of the many strays from a neighborhood south in the city proper, unique in that it had followed one of the foot patrols back to Paladin, likely enticed by the bits of food strays passing marines occasionally tossed. It had made itself a home around the base, sleeping under parked jeeps during the heat of the day and exploring the grounds when it cooled off in the evenings.

It had been named 'Doc' after an incident a few weeks after Nicholas had transferred. The private had been caught napping outside the barracks in a folding chair, and when the pup came across this, it decided the snoozing marine's lap looked like a comfortable place lay down. When passing enlisted men woke the corpsman with a jeer, the groggy medic retorted sarcastically that he had more in common, "with the damn dog" than the rest of the base’s garrison, and some of the other marines had taken to calling the dog by his nickname.

Now the small animal sat near his feet, hazel eyes watching Nicholas expectantly. The young man stooped for a moment, scratching Doc behind the ears, a small smile on his lips.

Righting himself, he stepped around the dog as it continued to dance near his feet, nimbly dodging the private's heavy combat boots as the mutt continued to vie for his attention; the prospective payoff of something tasty should he get it.

Entering his barracks, Nicholas tossed the empty box to the side as he headed for his workstation. With a heavyhearted sigh, the corpsman examined the area and picked up several scattered pieces of paper, silently cursing as he did so. Gathering what remained of his reports, Nick brought one of the ruined documents to eye level and groaned. "Damnit, Brandon..."

The hours of work written neatly on the treatment plan had been destroyed, a long series of black lines marring several rows of text. Below that:

1. Fuck Bitches

2. ???

3. Profit

Had been scrawled in barely legible black marker in what could only be his bunkmate’s terrible handwriting. It was a shame that proper writing skills were no longer important, as electronics replaced pen and paper.

Glancing around the room as if he suspected Brandon might still be hiding nearby, the marine wadded up the piece of paper and threw it in the direction of small waste bin that sat near the door. The medic scratched head in pondering- this didn't have anything to do with the incident last week, did it? Surely a poker game wouldn't cause his roommate to be so up in arms. The marine at fault had always a bit of jackass, but had never struck him as the type to hold a grudge.

After a moment of fruitless thinking, the medic discarded the thought and pulled a chair up to the desk and set to work once again. The efficiency of Private Brandon Young’s laziness was borderline admirable. While Nick's roommate hadn't cared enough to cross out every line he'd written or tear up all the reports he'd typed, he'd been very selective about what documents he'd vandalized.

Dosage charts, treatment notes, and anything else handwritten had apparently bore the brunt of the attack- judging by the 'confetti' that littered the floor and desk surface. Nicholas sat with a frown, staring down at a fresh manuscript as he attempted to recall a detail from one of his lost reports.

With a sharp sigh, he tossed his pen next to his laptop and set both his elbows down on the desk, either palm against his temples as his gaze bore into the piece of paper.

In a very brief window of time, he'd gone from having a stack of reports waiting to be turned in the following morning, to having several hours of work to recreate before he retired to his bunk for the night.

The corpsman rose from the chair with a groan as his back protested movement after sitting for so long, a good two hours passing in the seeming blink of an eye. Stretching, Nick looked around the again empty barracks.

Gerardo and a few others had stopped in over the course of the evening to speak to him for a few minutes or to grab something, but they had all eventually disappeared to more lively sections of the base.

Brandon hadn't turned up, which was probably wise given the mood he'd put his bunkmate in. But—unless he intended to sleep in one of the MRAPs—he'd have to face the corpsman before the end of the night. And when that time came, Nicholas certainly intended to have a word or two with the man.

Maybe the infirmary would be out of stitches the next time Young did something stupid, which happened pretty regularly around the base. Indeed, that sound pretty devious to the corpsman.

---

Carrier Strike Group 3
The Port of Massis, Nalaya
The Next Day

Since the day that the Empire had landed the first waves of ground troops in the divided Military Protectorate, the naval branch of her armed forces had maintained a continuous presence in her southern waters, always on guard and ever vigilant, even though none of the rebellious factions had so much as a single warship at their disposal. For the first couple of weeks, the 2nd Carrier Strike Group -whose flagship had been in service since June of 1980- had performed conducted security operations; supporting Nalayan and Imperial forces with airstrikes.

Admittedly, the carrier had been ill prepared to carry out such a supportive role. She had been docked in Mubata when the war kicked off, in the middle of resupply, and half the crew on a much needed shore leave. Because of all of that, High Kommand had made sure to have the group relieved sooner than later, while at the same time doing their best to not limit boots on the ground, or even put them in danger by taking away their much needed airborne support.

The same could not be said for the relief force; however, which was known as the 3rd Carrier Group. While the composition of escorts was more or less the same: a few frigates, a couple of destroyers, a cruiser, and an AIP submarine, the same could not be said for the flagship of the force. Instead of an old, nearly outdated Invincible-class carrier, the task force was based around a Garnele-class carrier -the ISN Andrew Holland- which had been brought into service only a year earlier. New and practically glistening, she carried twice the load of the class that preceded her; able to launch airstrikes around the clock, and even able to carry up to 1,500 marines if the need arose.

On any given day, there was very little activity with the fleet. They floated in the harbor, bobbing gently with the waves whenever they happened to roll in, and quietly watched as news was broadcasted in from the mainland. By now, carrier based operations were not even all that needed, due to the fact that the Empire had well over a hundred warplanes stationed in Massis. Every now and then, a few Bartgeiers would lift off from the flight deck to perform combat air patrols, but that was about the extent of things.

Not today, however. Instead of the normal lethargy, there was a certain buzz about the Shalumite ships as the crewmen went about their duties. The reason for that would become apparent soon enough, for they were about to be visited by a couple of foreign fleets, both of which were loaded with troops and supplies that would be needed for their upcoming participation in the war effort further inland.

The first to arrive were the Cacertians, who were quickly hailed by the communications team of the Imperial flagship. The ensign who got the honors was a young waif of a blonde with eyes shining with enthusiasm as she keyed up the radio. “Alayna Cabriani, this is the ISN Andrew Holland, we confirming your hailing. Be advised: you and your battlegroup are clear to begin docking and unloading procedures. We will be transferring you to the local port authority from here, we don’t have a list of what berths are clear at the moment, I’m afraid. Please keep in mind that the port is still active despite ongoing conflicts, and that civilian traffic is still present.”

In the distance, through the windows of the command and control tower of the Shalumite light carrier, the crew observed the slow shuffling of Imperial warships; making way for incoming transport ships from the Kingdom, as well as giving any outgoing civilian vessels a wide berth. The ocean may have been vast, but there was only so much room for maneuvering at any one time in and around the Nalayan port. The last thing anyone wanted was for there to be a collision between ships, especially when it was easily avoidable.

It did not take long, however, before a heavy feeling began to set in with the Imperial navy officers. For quite some time, they had been tracking the next group of arrivals with the help of an AWAC a hundred miles away and a few thousand feet up. Only now, however, were the first Azurlavain vessels coming into view. They seemed to loom, and in the minds of more than a few Shalumites, it felt as if battle was going to break out at any moment now.

“RMF Sovngarde this is the ISN Andrew Holland of the Imperial Shalumite Navy hailing you. We read you on our sensors. Be advised, you are clear to commence landing operations. Please pay respect to civilian freight vessels as well as Cacertian and Imperial warships. There are a number of vessels operating in an increasingly small area.” This time, the radio operator was a gruff, thirty-something seamen who was not nearly as cheerful as the woman who he had relieved an hour prior.

From his place at the edge of the command center, the Admiral in charge of overseeing the 3rd Carrier Group harrumphed quietly, his hands braced against the vacant console in front of him. His eyes were focused squarely on the incoming Nordic vessels, and he couldn’t help but let his mind wander. How easy it would have been to give an attack order. At this close a range, and with so many vessels and aircraft under his command, he knew that he could easily speak the Sovngarde with a fair share of missiles before the Azzies could return fire. But alas, it was not meant to be. He had orders to work with them, not wipe them out, for better or worse.

---

Shalumite Air Force Base
Massis, Southern Nalaya

Over the course of his life, there were many things that Thomas Hewbert had come to hate. His job, where he was supposed to spy on people he had come to know as friends, and siphon intelligence from those higher up so that he could pass it along to people who would only exploit said information. Another thing he come to hate was his government, or at least the intelligence community that belonged to it. They had sent him in the United Republic head first, with a good deal of spy-related training, but with no expectation of him ever surviving his mission, much less living long enough to be recovered safely from it so that he could return to his homeland.

But above all else: he hated being alone.

Oh sure, in the movies and popular culture, being in the espionage business looked like the dream. Expensive cars, big houses (usually owned by the bad guys), and beautiful women who practically were falling over each to be on your arm. Violence, opulence, and sex. What more could someone desire, right?

Wrong. For people in the trade like Thomas, their work was nothing like that, and if it was, they had either been in the ‘company’ long enough to work themselves up the ranks, or they had just managed to get lucky around the way. For the average operator like he, however, life was much more difficult. He, as an example, had to fill the role of an officer who still saw action on the frontlines; earning the wage of a grunt, and not even the smallest amount of gratitude from the agency who had sent him into Azurlavai in the first place. It could have been worse though, he knew. Thomas didn’t even want to imagine what some female agents had to do in order to complete their assignments, especially prolonged or deep cover ones.

In some way, Thomas knew that he would have been able to bear the weight of his job if he had someone who he could talk to. Someone he could trust, like the few he had confided in during his days at the STG’s farm. But no, he had nothing akin to that kind of support system here. No friends or fellow spies who he could talk to, much less a significant other who he could so little as whisper with at night. Oh, how he wanted someone like that, but at the end of the day, he knew that it wouldn’t end well. He couldn’t allow the fact that he was putting -someone else- in danger, by simply associating with him no less, to be on his conscience.

So, he was left to simply sneak a peek or two of Kaptein Deinhardt’s rear end when she was turned around, or play coy with the blonde, thirty-something divorced quartermaster that his unit normally dealt with. Neither of whom he could ever dream of actually getting to know, for fear of having his true loyalties discovered. At least he didn’t have to worry about a bottle of vodka or bourbon spilling his secrets to the nearest komissar.

That was why he found himself sitting in the middle of his apartment floor, two days before he was to deploy to Nalaya. His surroundings were spartan to say the least: a couch, television, a small coffee table, and couple of lamps, and a few other odds and ends you would have expected. There was nothing about his living quarters that really made him stand out, no family photos. It was one of the downsides of being a spy, as well as a man who was supposed to be an orphan.

The coffee table he leaned against was bare, except for a bottle of vodka that was pretty much empty, save for a few drops that one would never be able to properly extract. On the floor, spread out between his legs, were the few personal belongings he had brought with him from Shalum. A picture of him with his family, another featuring his sister and her children, him graduating from the University of Fontera, and a few news articles. The last featured titles like ‘Five Shalumite Paratroopers Killed in Training Accident’ and ‘Bodies of Deceased Soldiers Unable to be Recovered; Memorial Held in Their Honor.’

They were all lies, of course. His -real- name were among those listed, and it was very much clear he was still alive and kicking. In reality, it had all be a publicity stunt, a way of making five men and women disappear from the face of the earth without their families or friends being able to question it. Everyone listed, such as himself, was a member of the STG. Some, like Viktor Bergler, he knew to be alive and well; posing as a pilot with the Azzie’s Air Force. Others, like Lara Skaar, he had not heard from in some time. He truly hoped she was alive, he had come to cherish her as a close friend, but at the same time, he knew better than to keep his hopes up.

It was not like any of them would be left alive if discovered. They were all too low ranking, too unimport, to be of any real value beyond a trade their government wouldn’t go for.

Titling his head a bit to look down at the newspaper articles, he felt anger begin to burn its way through his alcohol soaked veins. At one time, he had cried, a hell of a lot more than he would have liked to admit. He had lied to everyone: his family, friends, and even colleagues. Now, however, when he gazed at the articles, all he felt was anger. The kind that burned its way through his already soaked veins.

It were things like these innocent newspaper articles that reminded him that he could never have a normal life. Never be anything more than the hollow shell that was ‘Isaac Brevik.’

Or could he?

Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, but thoughts flashed through his mind. The only one holding himself back here was, well, himself. If he suddenly dropped off the radar, no one back home would know other than his handler and the agency that he belonged to. All that it would take to shrug off all the weight, at least in his mind, was a simple fire…

Before he knew what was happening, Thomas rose up (stumbling along the way) and fetched his trashcan. It was a metal thing, so he didn’t need to worry about any kind of fire spreading. Gathering the pieces of paper, he crumpled them together in his hand, and deposited them all in the receptacle. From a cabinet, he produced a box of matches, which he kept around for emergency purposes, such as lighting a candle during a power outage.

Staring down at the metal wastebin for a moment, Thomas paused, worrying on his bottom lip as he did so. Could he really do this, destroy everything from his past life, with the exceptions of his: journal (Something that had kept him sane for so many years) and family photos? The patriot he had once been screamed no, to stop before he did anything he would regret. But something welled up in him, the belief that if he didn’t do this, that he would only have more regrets to weigh on his already overburdened psyche.

He dropped the match, and watched as the dry paper went up in flames easily.

And as the light of the fire danced against the olive skin of the man standing over it, something finally clicked. Thomas was dead and gone, but Isaac Brevik was very much alive.

“Are you alright, sir?” The voice of Menig Kurt Weiten broke the former Shalumite spy from his memories; causing him to stand a little straight, rather than simply leaning against the bulkhead of the transport craft they were currently hitching a ride in. “You looked a bit...distracted, sir.” He added after a beat, a concerned expression etched onto his face. He was young, a replacement for someone lost on Aerick, but apparently he knew Isaac well enough.

Blinking, the Loytnant reached up to adjust his helmet absently, while his bullpup carbine clanged against the metal he had been leaning against. “I’m alright, yeah. Just been thinking, I guess.” He replied, having to practically shout over the roaring engines of their bird. “I thought I would have a little more time to be normal before command sent me back into the fray!” He grinned, flashing rows of white teeth.

The Menig nodded in understanding, and opened his mouth to reply, but Isaac quickly held up a hand as his headset crackled. Grinning when she was done, he nodded, and keyed up a reply. “You got it boss. I’ll make sure the kiddies get off safe,” he chuckled over the radio, before cutting the link.

Clearing his throat, Isaac looked over those assembled before him. Astrid was up towards the cockpit with the rest of the officers, while he was riding towards the back with the grunts. Not that there was any real segregation, he had just been ‘blessed’ with the duty of making keeping tabs of everyone while they were in transit. Not that they were going to do anything nutty, they were all grown adults.

“All right boys and girls!” He hollered at them, expecting them to listen in. Slinging his rifle over his chest, he went on, one hand rested on the weapon. “In a few minutes, we’re going to be landing at our friendly air base in Nalaya. I expect you all to be on your best behavior while we’re here.” Though a warning, he was actually smiling a bit. “We should get a few minutes to walk around, but from what I understand, we’re going to be redeploying to, or at least near, a combat zone very shortly.”

Glancing back towards the rear door of the cargo plane, he paused for a moment, before finishing up. “I want you to know how proud I am of you all. I’ve worked alongside you all, and have seen what you can do, both on the battlefield, and in training.” He paused, wishing he’d taken a swig of water before he started. His mouth felt dry. “I want you all to keep it in mind that you have been chosen to be among the first of our people to fight in Nalaya. It is as much an honor as it is a responsibility. So when we go out there, make the boys and girls back home as proud of you as I am, and we’ll do just fine.”

On the ground, there was a hustle and bustle. Some soldiers stopped and stared as they observed Azzie aircraft buzzing overhead, at least until their superior officers hollered at them to get back to work. Flight crews were less concerned as they reloaded multi-role and ground attack aircraft for missions that were to be conducted up further north. A few prime movers were out and about, wheeling planes back and forth, so that their new ‘allies’ in the conflict would have more room to store their own birds. Idly, a couple of Shalumite Panther self-propelled anti-aircraft guns tracked the cargo planes loaded with paratroopers, at least until someone told them to knock it off, lest they blow the friendly aircraft out of the sky on accident.

In the control tower, military and civilian communications operators alike were doing their best to sort out the mess that was the airspace over Massis. Planes were coming in and out all of the time, something that likely irritated the locals to no end, as the Imperial airforce constantly put vehicles in the air capable of delivering airstrikes, or had cargo planes landing with some kind of piece of priority equipment or supplies needed for the frontlines.

“Kameraad 6-4, this is tower.” A distinctly Shalumite voiced replied a few moments later. “We read you loud and clear. Be advised, you have been moved up to priority, you are clear for landing. Please move to these runways and hangers so that you can unload cargo.” What followed was a rattling of information, what runways were open, as well as what hangers they could use. They were slim on the latter at the moment, as due to the fact that Shalum had so many planes stationed here for the time being; but one way or another, they would find the space to accommodate their new Azurlavian friends.

As the first Azzie plane touched down, loaded with paratroopers (including Isaac and Astrid) a Puma rolled out of where it had been parked a few moments later; headed towards the hangar where the friendly paratroopers were expected to disembark. On board the Shalumite armored personnel carrier was General Joseph Burke, the commander of the 4th Imperial Expeditionary Brigade. Though perhaps not the most important in the command hierarchy, he was the one who had been left in charge of Massis, and in turn, greeting the Azzies and meeting with their commander. At least until Malcomson and Blackburn could meet them personally.

[Shalum]

Firebase Galahad
South of an Imanalov’ Village
Northern Nalaya

Firebase Galahad sat silently in the evening, the blanket of deep violet that cloaked the installation broken by the orange glow that spilled through windows and open doors. In the courtyard, a trio of sentries was huddled near a parked humvee. Nearby, a group of gebirgsjägers sat on a covered cement platform near the rapidly deployable vehicle shed, between them a piece of plywood situated precariously on several small crates to create an impromptu table.

"Fold," The man across from Private Andrew Geller spat bitterly, throwing his cards on the table unceremoniously. "I swear to God, you guys are giving me bad hands on purpose."

The disgruntled gebirgsjäger looked around the group of card players accusingly, and his eyes lingered particularly long on the corporal with the deck of cards next to him. There was a collective groan amongst them, and Andrew simply went back to his cards.

"Relax, Seigler." The eldest among them—a thirty-something staff sergeant—replied calmly as he glanced to the corporal, signaling for him to resume.

The non-commissioned officer obeyed, meticulously shuffling the deck then laying down the next two cards. The game continued quietly for a while after that, someone occasionally commenting on a bad hand or remarking that they had other things they should attend to, but staying nonetheless.

Then, the silence was broken by a deep, concussive thump and everyone looked around before glancing unsurely to each other. The sound rang out again, the crisp night air also carrying the clatter of metal-on-metal, and Staff Sergeant Mader stood abruptly, her eyes fixed in the direction of the base's 81mm mortar battery pit.

She quickly scooped up her CAR-11 carbine from where it leaned against a nearby support pillar and murmured a question to the others as she went. "Who the fuck is fir-"

The first explosion was bone-rattlingly close, and the sheer, deafening sound of the detonation sent Andrew tumbling backward over the crate he was sitting on. For a brief second, the ringing in his ears drown-out the cries of alarm of his comrades and the only indication of the following salvo of explosions was the sensation of the concussions resonating in his chest, loaning the situation a peculiar sense of surrealism as the lance corporal lie staring numbly at the stars above him.

However, he was quickly pulled back into awareness as a silhouette appeared over him and took hold of him by the vest, lifting him off the ground and setting him on his boots. Whoever the man was, he had to be damn strong. Even without his full kit, Andrew had to have weighed two-hundred and sixty pounds with armor on.

The stranger's hands still clamped around his collar, the man closed the distance between Andrew’s face and his to reveal herself to be Mader.

Geller’s gaze drifted from the expression of his friend, looking briefly at the smoking crater where a shell had landed frighteningly close to their card game, then to the shadowy figures of that were really other gebirgsjägers racing by, shouting as they went. Manning the defenses of their once quiet, backwater outpost; arming themselves with their weapons, assault and battle rifles.

"Hey- hey, you with me, trooper?" Mader yelled into his face, the staff sergeant's eyes clearly searching Amdrew’s for some indication of cognition. The lance corporal nodded fervently, though the words were scarcely audible against the piercing ringing invading his senses. By chance, the supply officer spotted his companion's shredded forearm, the sleeve of her utility jacket torn and bloodied. Meeting the Amazonian woman’s eye once again, Andrew said nothing, though is expression conveyed his concern.

"It's fine," the other gebirgsjäger reassured him, picking up a rifle from where it sat nearby and pressing it into the corporal's chest for him to take. "C'mon,."

=====

Corporal Dietrich Haegler flinched involuntarily as several incoming rounds whizzed by, pinging off the body of the humvee he, a combat medic, was crouched behind, or landing in the dirt near him.

"Keep the light steady," he instructed over the deep clatter of heavy machine gun fire, looking up to the horrified face of the mountain infantrymen holding the flashlight, the man's expression of mix of helplessness and fear.

Regardless, the small cone of light continued to shake as it illuminated the casualty at the medic’s feet. "Get the trauma kit out of the truck." Dietrich said to his aid, the order almost swallowed by the sound of the vehicle's turret spewing lead toward the hills. Henry obeyed, one hand shooting into the back of the transport while the other tried with moderate success to keep the flashlight focused on the downed sentry who had been one of the first to fall.

The corporal had rushed from the barracks with nothing but his sidearm and knife, and had been forced to work with whatever medical supplies he could find along the way. The medic lifted his palm away from the wound to examine it in the light and was immediately met by the grisly sight of his fallen comerade’s wound.

The gebirgsjäger had been shot in the neck, though by some stroke of luck the round had passed cleanly through without hitting bone or breeching his airway. Still, there was the very real risk of his nicked carotid artery hemorrhaging and killing him if the bleeding couldn't be quickly brought under control.

Feeling around blindly in the back of the humvee, the rifleman holding the light finally felt cloth. "I've got it!" He declared, extracting a drab green package with reflective white tape on the cover to form a small cross with a caduceus wrapped around it.

Dietrich’s light disappeared momentarily as his companion opened the bundle and spread it out in the dirt, neat rows of medical dressings and sterile plastic packaging glistening slightly in the light.

"Good, now find a pad of gauze and fold it over on itself." The medic instructed as he reapplied pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding. The aide obeyed, extracting a field dressing and tore open the plastic casing before offering it to the corporal who quickly placed it over the wound, freeing one of his hands.

The wounded man groaned weakly, and the combat medic looked from his pale face to his assistant. Wiping one bloody palm on his sleeve, he beckoned for the flashlight. Receiving it, he turned its beam on the medical kit. "Find a dose of morphine, and stick it in his thigh."

The gebirgsjäger bobbed his head in acknowledgement, pulling a small tube from the bundle and pulling the small plastic cap off the top of it to reveal a two-inch needle. "Wh-What about his pants?" Henry asked hesitantly, drawing a sharp frown from Dietrich. As much as he'd preferred to be working with another medic, he needed another set of hands at the moment, whoever's they may be.

"Don't worry about his pants- stick it into his leg and push the release on the end of it."

The gebirgsjäger complied somewhat hesitantly then tossed the empty injector aside, looking to the corpsman for further instructions. "Go back into the kit and find a pressure bandage; we need to wrap this wound." He stated flatly, returning the flashlight.

The rifleman dug into the package again, thumbing through each pouch hastily as enemy fire continued to rain down. Dietrich watched from where he sat over the casualty, but was suddenly blinded as warm blood splattered across the side of his face and he recoiled, and a surge of adrenaline sending his heart thumping against the inside of his chest.

His free hand shot to his eye, smearing blood across the side of his face in the shape of a palm and obscuring his vision further. Wiping the viscous fluid off his face with his wrist, the numbness of the endorphin rush subsided enough for the corporal to realize he was unwounded.

"Damnit, I'm hit." A voice off to the medic's left admitted, and Dietrich could hear that he spoke through gritted teeth. Looking in that direction, he saw that the soldier manning the M2 .50 caliber machine gun was sitting oddly inside the Fuch’s turret. A moment more of examination revealed that he'd been hit in the leg, a round having punctured the armored frame of the vehicle and caught him just above the knee, subsequently spurting blood in the direction of the other gebirgsjägers.

Dietrich glanced from the gunner to the casualty with concern, pondering how to treat them both. Seeing the conflicted medic, the gebirgsjäger in the turret shook his head and took hold of the machine gun once again, loosing tracer rounds and expletives into the darkness. They had a general idea of where the enemy was, but it was too dark to make our their exact positions.

Glancing around the chaos of the night as it unfolded around him, the corporal spotted his assistant still struggling with the medical equipment. "Henry, a pressure wrap!"

"Th-There's nothing here," the rifleman stuttered, the beam from his flashlight racing over the pouch as he continued to flip open pouches and thumb through pockets.

"Here, swap with me," Dietrich ordered, scooting sideways to allow some space for the other man. The two quickly exchanged places, Henry being careful to keep pressure on the bandage that had been hastily applied to the wounded trooper's neck as the corpsman took the flashlight.

Still crouched behind the vehicle, the medic shuffled to the kit and began searching it, carefully patting down each pocket. Dietrich carried himself with an odd calmness, and even with enemy fire landing only feet, away his actions were measured and his hands steady. It was the kind of tentative confidence born through experience and training, both of which Deitrich had plenty; courtesy of Hramatar Narekatsi and her Brigadi, no less. He'd come to understand what he had to do to keep his comrades alive, and had come to grips with the fact that he wouldn't always be able to save everyone. The latter thought sometimes left him with a knot in his gut, but that was the simple truth of it.

Cursing, the combat medic glanced up from the bundle of medical supplies near his knees. He couldn't find a compression wrap or a hemostat dressing to work as a substitute, and he cast a concerned look back toward Henry and the wounded gebirgsjäger. The downed trooper needed medical care he couldn’t provide out here, in the mud and blood. No, he needed a proper doctor, something they couldn’t quite provide at their little outpost. Good thing there was a pararescue team up at Tatev; assuming they could evac him safely.

"Henry," Dietrich called the man he'd met only a few minutes ago and the soldier looked up sharply. "I need to get supplies from the infirmary, keep pressure on that dressing and keep him still. I'll be right back."

To the man's credit, he simply nodded in spite of the expression of dawning horror that was creeping across his face and he went back to the wounded sentry as the medic crept toward the back of the stationary armored vehicle.

Clicking the off the flashlight, he shoved the black metal cylinder into his holster that his sidearm had occupied a moment before. It made for an awkward fit, but it would have to work the medic decided as he fixed his grasp on his pistol, the weapon made slippery by the blood that coated his hands.

Dietrich peered from cover, waiting for a break in the fire. The medical building was only a few dozen meters away, but it may as well have been a kilometer. He would be very exposed, and with only his olive green T-shirt to protect him during his sprint, the mortar and small arms fire would be less than merciful to Dietrich should their paths cross.

It was tempting to fire back toward the mountains with his pistol, but gebirgsjäger in him reminded the he had other priorities. Besides, the slopes were over two hundred meters away, and while Dietrich was a good shot with his USP45, he was rather doubtful that he would hit much of anything if he were to fire back into the darkness at the pinpricks of light in the distance.

"Damnit," Haegler swore as he realized no break in the fire was coming. "Covering fire!"

The call echoed across the base from soldier to soldier and the air was suddenly filled with streams of glowing orange tracers that arched toward hills like swarms of angry fireflies. Dietrich leapt from cover under the protective wall of fire and dashed toward the aid station.

Despite the enemy rounds that continued to whiz by and snap in the dirt near his boots, the medic reached the shack breathless, but unharmed. Throwing the door open, he rushed into the building. The single-room structure was a mess; papers and writing utensils scattered across the floor by his fellow medics as they'd rushed out into the conflict and holes punched in the structure's thin walls by the firefight outside. Grabbing the nearest medical pack, Dietrich hastily rifled through the bag and procured a few other items from cabinets and shelves around the room. Shoving them into the pack, he struggled momentarily with one of the zippers before throwing the straps of the rucksack over his shoulders and returning to the door.

Suddenly, as his foot met soil as he dashed from the infirmary, he felt a wave of heat creep down his back, and he was carried forward as it surged past him like a massive gust of wind as the medical building exploded in a brilliant orange and brown behind him.

The first thing to reunite with the ground was Dietrich’s forehead, quickly followed by the rest of his body as the air was pushed from his lungs. Ears ringing and face still buried in the brunette soil, there was little the dazed corporal could do as the world retreated into darkness.

=====

Back on the other side of the base Andrew pressed himself deeper into the shadow of the Hesco barrier as rounds continued to snap as they cut through the air overhead and took small pieces out of his refuge, spraying cement dust in every direction.

The lance corporal's knuckles whitened against the grip of his CAR-11, the bullpup carbine the only weapon available to him in the chaos of the attack. Mentally counting the number of rounds remaining in his only magazine, he waited for a break in the fire so that he might make them count.

Lance Corporal Geller swore as another incoming piece of lead impacted the wall to his back and blasted broken cement fragments into his face. In truth, he should've been counting his blessings- many of the other men who'd rushed out from their dinners or bunks didn't have the advantage of body armor, and he was silently thankful he'd neglected to take it off half-an-hour ago.

Hearing the distant report of one of the Wolverine’s grenade launchers along the perimeter, the supply officer allowed himself some satisfaction in the knowledge that the base had dug its heels into the ground and was finally pushing back after nearly fifteen minutes of constant abuse by enemy insurgents; likely Nava’ai militiamen who had seen them as an easy target, if he knew anything about the enemy.

Now, with more Shalumite lead in the air than that of the enemy, it became a matter of inevitability. The insurgents would either withdraw under the intense fire of the combat outpost's heavy ordinance, or be crushed by the imminent arrival of the friendly air support that hung over the installation's shoulder like a vengeful guardian.

That was to assume they were insurgents, of course. Without night gear, he hadn't seen anything of the enemy and he— along with most of the other mountain troopers—were simply firing back at muzzle flashes.

Suddenly, Andrew felt the concrete behind him rumble and heard the bellowing sound of a diesel engine approaching. From his right the massive silhouette of a Wolverine appeared, the imposing armored transport jerking to a halt between the lance corporal and the incoming fire.

Orienting its gun toward the enemy, the armored vehicle's punishing 30mm cannon spoke (which also was fitted on Honey Badger IFVs); erasing an enemy position on the hillside with chilling efficiency.

At the moment, it seemed like the entirety of Firebase Galahad breathed a sigh of relief- Geller included. The swift return of the patrol from the valley below promised that the installation would survive to see the light of a new day, no matter how the odds had been stacked against them before.

Moving alongside the Wolverine, a fireteam appeared and sought cover near their rolling shield, firing on the slope as they did so. Tapping one on the shoulder as the rifleman crouched into cover next to him, the supply officer gestured to his magazine over the clamor of the battle around them. The lance corporal's newfound comrade understood, and he was quickly provided two fresh clips.

Taking a moment to exchange magazines, the gebirgsjäger then brought his weapon to his shoulder and rejoined the fray. Over the rattle of his carbine, he heard the warrior next to him shout. Releasing the compressed trigger, he was suddenly aware of the roaring buzz of a helicopter's blades cutting through the night air in the distance.

"Radio! I need a radio, goddamnit!" A voice rose above the others. Looking over his shoulder to the desperate call, Andrew spotted Captain Auer—the installation's ranking officer—half-crawling over one of the earthen-filled barriers to extend a grasping hand.

It took a moment for the revelation to dawn upon him that the commander was beckoning to him for a handheld radio. His hand first distinctively shot to his shoulder where a small black combat transmitter usually resided. However, when he felt only the burlap-like texture of his Kevlar, he returned the Captain's gaze- his expression filled with confusion and questioning.

However feeling a tap on his shoulder, his attention snapped right and he found that a radio had been pressed against his arm. Following the gloved hand holding the end of it, he looked to the shadowy face of the unnamed warrior, two white orbs staring at him with impatient expectancy.

Andrew’s expression went from inquisitive, to confused, and finally to alarmed as he made the connection. Recover from his momentary lapse of thought, he took the device and quickly tossed it to the waiting Captain who pushed himself off the barrier and brought the transmitter to his lips.

"Air, this Galahad Actual. We're taking fire from the north and east, requesting you suppress those positions. Laser marked, be advised danger close, over."

"Galahad Actual, this Talon Two," Andrew heard the reply from the newly arrived aircraft through the radio of a nearby soldier, the loud whine of the engine audible in the background. "Roger your last, confirm danger close. Splash in ten seconds."

High above the conflict, the small scout helicopter, which had been diverted from its normal patrol route, crested one of the ridges that revealed the valley beyond. The aviator scanned the darkness, his night vision equipment turning the world a pale jade.

"Those guys are getting lit up," he commented, and he saw his copilot bob his head in agreement. In the distance, the combat outpost was a mass of flickering pricks of light, each weapon and tracer round a glowing dot in the night.

"We've got firing positions overlooking the base," the other aviator observed.

Scanning the mountainside, the man at the controls gave his acknowledgement as he found the small signature along the crest of the ridge. The entire mountain side was a mass of red blurs on his thermal scope, the small crimson objects appearing and disappearing amongst the rocks as they received and returned fire.

The pilot changed his radio channel and adjusted the small microphone that sat on a metal boom near his mouth. "Talon Two to Galahad Actual, we've been cleared hot by forward observer. Beginning gun run."

"Galahad copies. Confirm cleared hot." The captain replied crisply.

The scout helo pitched forward, its nose lowering as it dropped nearly a hundred feet and fixed its sights on the rocky peak. The pilot compressed the trigger; the miniguns on either of the helicopter's stubby wings roared and sent a band of bright tracer fire cutting through the night like a massive crimson buzz saw.

"Switching to HE rockets." The pilot stated to his colleague calmly as his thumb twitch minutely on the joystick. Tapping the trigger lightly two more times, the night was filled with the piercing howl of two rockets as they raced through the dark followed by bright orange tails. The projectiles buried themselves in the mountainside and seemed to carry part of the landscape with them as they exploded.

Noticing the altimeter growing perilously slim, the Shalumite aviator eased the flight controls back, leveling the aircraft from its dive and he pushed on one of the foot pedals, gently rolling the AH-6 to circle and make another run.

Without warning, however, the helicopter jerked hard to the left as if pulled by a string like a child's toy. In the cockpit panels suddenly went black and only those systems on separate battery reserves like the radio and night operations equipment continued to work, though the pilot's vision momentarily scrambled as the optics in his helmet went out of focus for a moment before correcting themselves. As if on a half-second delay, there was a loud bang towards the rear of the aircraft where the engine was located.

They had taken a direct hit, from something pretty stout at that.

"Talon Two, major damage." The copilot relayed over the radio's command channel as he pulled the joystick back into his chest as the aircraft began to lose altitude.

"Restart main powerplant," The pilot ordered, throttling the struggling engine as the base below grew larger. The engine awoke once more and strained to keep the craft in the air as the various panels and indicators powered-up, bombarding the two aviators with flashing emergency lights and the shrill cry of altitude and engine alarms.

But it was too much for the rotor-wing's single, damaged engine, and pilot made a desperate call across the radio's emergency frequency. "Mayday, mayday, mayday, Talon Two going down."

There was no grace to the Little Bird's descent; it simply fell from the sky like a stone, its rotors still beating the sky in a futile bid to stay aloft.

It came to earth nearly fifty meters outside the perimeter, the craft's small landing skids instantly buckling under the force of the impact and smashing the nose of the fuselage into the ground. The rotors shattered like glass as they spun against the rocky terrain, throwing segments of broken steel in a lethal torrent of flying metal.

It bounced a short distance before coming down to a symphony of shattering glass and the moaning of steel being pushed to the breaking point. For a brief moment, the screeching of the airframe being torn apart by the ground was the only thing that could be heard in the valley before it came to a halt with an air of finality about it, leaving the night in an eerie silence as the gunfire abruptly ceased on both sides.

---

Along the Zeklet’taune Aluin
The Har’oloth, Nalaya

There was a grace to the female justicar as she was raised to her feet by her lover, a serene smile creasing her lips. Without a doubt, their situation could have been better. Much better. They were in the middle of a country that was divided against itself, on the road to a city that could very well end up being their final resting place, and it was very likely that they were being hunted by Kor’inth at this very moment. And even with all of that in mind, she needed nothing more than Sabal to stay positive.

As they made their way from the shrine, the redhead could feel that no words needed to be said. Instead, she simply placed her hand on the yath’s stomach gently, but at the same time with enough force to stop the tattooed woman in her tracks. Joan’s eyes flickered over her lover’s body with a certain hungry look, though she of course knew that there was no way she could fill those kinds of desires in their current situation. Instead, she settled, leaning forward to brush an affectionate kiss on the other woman’s lips, before taking her hand as they went to rejoin the others.

The rest of the day passed by without any kind of major events. The Shalumites were more than content to rest after the long hike they had gone through in order to get this far. They prepared a bit of the food that Ryld had provided them, supplementing it with some of the last MREs that they had left from the last shipment they had received in Armarvir prior to the war breaking out. It was an odd mix of local and foreign foods, but tasted good to the justicars all the same. After everything they had gone through, they were really lucky to have anything at all to eat, as well as water to fill their bellies.

In the lull, the Shalumites found other things to do. Faisal and Michael went about caring for their weapons; stripping them down for a proper cleaning, the smell of military grade gun oil hanging in the air. Though the weapons hadn’t been used in a while, they had been exposed to more than a few harsh elements, making the cleaning more of a ‘safe rather than sorry’ kind of preemptive action. Doing an inventory of ammunition only made them frown. There was about two hundreds round left between the two men. Not bad, all things considered, but in the heat of battle, you burned through that kind of supply quickly.

While the boys played with their toys, Joan decided that she would fill the free time with her lover, even if that only meant they could nap together. Stripping off her long-sleeve overwear and folding it neatly, she settled down next to the Mak’ur woman with the same grace as a cat. Gently, she wrapped an arm around her companion's waist, and nuzzled herself against the woman’s neck; breathing in her scent with contentment. It wasn’t hard to fall asleep alongside Sabal, the redheaded justicar had found out.

Not quite able to hide her deviousness, when Joan felt her lover begin to stir, he hand just so ‘happened’ to find its way under her lover’s trousers for a few moments when she was sure no one else was paying attention to them. “We should probably get up soon, sissurn, night is coming quickly.” She murmured into the Mak’ur woman’s ear, before slipping her hand away from her lover’s legs so that she rub her eyes; seemingly unashamed.

As they cuddled now, Joan smiled softly as she leaned against Sabal. She knew her lover was likely distracted with thoughts, of what was going to happen next, or even about the future when they reached Dyvynasshar- their final destination. “When this is over,” the Shalumite said suddenly; stroking the Mak’ur woman’s stomach. “I wanna take some time off, you know? Put away my gun for a while, see some of Nalaya that isn’t on fire, or crawling with the filth we hunted for a while.” She paused to look up, her chin rested on Sabal’s collarbone. “Preferably you with you, if you could manage it somehow.”

Of course, so much of that it was wishful thinking. Assuming they would survive the night, then the next, then their time in Dyvynasshar if they made it that far. But the justicar wanted a goal, something to look forward to other than more: bloodshed, senseless violence, and war crimes to prosecute...or avenge if the situation called for it.

Joan wasn’t sure how long she basked in the attention of Sabal, nor did she really care. No matter how long they laid here like this, curled against one another, she knew it would never been long enough. “You know,” she paused for a moment as she looked up into Sabal’s eyes. The words ‘at our age’ died on her lips, she didn’t want to imply they were old, not by any means. “We’re going to have a lot of lost time to make up for, if you know what I mean.” She mused quietly, not wanting Pella to overhear this particular piece of conversation.

Any sense of intimacy and calm was lost, however, as the door of their shelter banged loudly, the sound ringing through the small space. The justicars all flinched, and Michael actually crashed to the ground, having fallen half-asleep in a sitting position. Just as quickly; however, their training kicked in, and they all jumped into action, arming themselves with their rifles. Safeties were undone, and fire selectors put to single-shot, the trio knowing that they had to conserve ammunition as much as possible.

“Pella.” Michael began, his own voice calm, but firm and perhaps a trifle nervous. “Get behind me,” he instructed her simply, before returning his gaze to the door. Rising up from the floor, he settled into a kneeling position, taking advantage of the built in knee pads of his combat wear. In the stillness, he could hear his own heavy breathing.

Near Sabal, the redheaded female Justicar took up a defense position, brandishing her Nashorn counter-assault rifle. While her two Shalumite comrades in arms were equipped with weapons that fired intermediary rounds -which were more powerful than what pistols fired, but not as powerful as what sniper or battle rifles did- she was equipped with a weapon that ‘had enough firepower to knock a man out of his boots,’ or so the saying went. Meant for long range engagements, her 9.63x63mm chambered weapon should have made short work of anything, this lion included, assuming she managed to actually hit the damn thing.

“Sabal,” Faisal grunted as he kept his weapon trained on the door. While lacking in a high-powered round, he did have explosives at his disposal. An underslung grenade launcher, and a pair of 40mm grenades that he hadn’t used in Armavir. Not that he felt comfortable using them here, in such a small space. “Any idea what we should do? I doubt he -or she- is going to leave anytime soon.”

“Because it smells dinner,” Michael added darkly.

---

Colonel Dominic Rikker’s Office
Tatev, Nalaya

Quiet. Calm. Those were words that could have been used to describe the current situation in the city of Tatev. In the northern part of the country, far away from fires raging to the south, no one seemed daring (or dumb) enough to challenge the fact that the Imperial and Federal forces had the city firmly in their grasp, and would sooner die than surrender it or the people living there. Troops milled about on patrols, a few checkpoints were set up here and there, but for the most part, life seemed to continue without disruption. Tensions were high, there was a brawl here or there, but all was ‘quiet on the northern front’ for the most part.

In the small, Shalumite section of Miak Amrots’, the man tasked with leading the Imperial forces in Tatev could be found in his office. He was not slaving over paperwork, or trying to put out another fire, however. No, he was spread out on the couch in his office, snoring quietly, arms folded so that they made a makeshift pillow to cradle his head. Over the last few days, weeks, and months, he had been under a great deal of stress. Trying to handle a division sized job with only a reinforced brigade, not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination. One couldn’t quite blame him for wanting to catch up on sleep, especially when he had Hramatar Narekatsi to lean on, if only a couple hours while he rested.

Knock knock.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

The sounds of knuckles rapping on the door to his office grew louder, more insistent, but the Shalumite commander just mumbled under his breath and rolled over; unconsciously turning to face the back of the couch, as if it would keep his isolated from what was going on in the world around him. As he curled up a bit, his dreams plagued by a certain blue-eyed Arusai angel that he never could seem to attain, the door to his office swung open to reveal a breathless gebirgsjäger.

“Colonel! Colonel Rikker, sir!” The young woman chirped as she entered, freezing in place as her eyes landed on him. He looked to be asleep...and did not appear to be wearing a shirt. Without thinking, she swallowed at the sight of him.

“Yes, soldier?” He asked in a hoarse, rumbling tone. Deep sleep was something he hadn’t gotten to enjoy in awhile, not since the last time he had slept in a hotel with a proper bed. “I asked not to be disturbed until at least 16:00 hours.”

“I, ah, apologize, sir.” She stumbled over her words, blinking as he sat up and faced her. The young soldier had heard the rumors from his protection detail, and regardless of if they were true or not, she could see why that TRC representative upstairs liked to frequent his office. “But it is urgent news, sir! Major Johanna sent me to fetch you,” she explained as the colonel reached down to pull on a short sleeve camouflage shirt. “Drones have picked up ku’nal forces approaching the city, and scouts have confirmed their presence.”

If anything was going to really grab at his attention, it was that. In an instant, he had gone from in motion to frozen, his eyes snapping up to meet her own. It was only now she realized that he still had dark circles under his eyes, though not as bad as they had been in previous days. “You’re serious?” He asked, and she just nodded. “Fuck me, I thought they would have taken longer. Has Hramatar Narekatsi been alerted to this?”

The young woman nodded quickly. “She should be finding out right now. The major dispatched two runnings: one to inform you -that is me- and one to inform her.” She confirmed.

“Eh, good. Good.” Rikker grunted as he rose up, fumbling around to find his long sleeve uniform top. It was something every on duty soldier was supposed to wear, and he was no different. “Have the perimeter guards alerted that we may have company soon. I’ll just...figure out how we should proceed.” He motioned to his office. Really, he had no idea what the first step in even greeting their new arrivals would be.

“Of course, sir.” She snapped a quick salute. Turning to head out, she paused for a moment. “If I may make a suggestion, colonel, you could use some concealer. You look...tired.” She explained slowly. She knew enough about Mak’ur to know they could sniff out weakness, and his appearance could fall into that kind of category. Her only concern was being told off by her commanding officer. She knew he was a relaxed man, but the kind of suggestion she made could be seen as ‘out of line’ on the other hand.

Thankfully, he just waved her off. “I’ll keep that in mind, trooper. I’ve got enough fires to deal with right now though, so we’ll see. Go handle your duties, don’t worry about me.” He said as he rolled his shoulders, muscles taut from the nap.

As the young woman darted out of his office, Rikker fished out his phone. He really needed to speak with Hramatar Narekatsi, but before he did so, there was someone else he needed to speak with, if only by text. A certain light played in his eyes as the image of a beautiful woman filled his smartphone’s screen, along with some contact information that he used to fire off a quick message.

Val- we’re going to have some company soon. Our friends from Dyvynasshar have been reported not far from the city by our eyes in the sky.

-Dom

---

[Azurlavai]

Massis Port

“Herr Admiral, a warning from the Andrew Holland. They’re saying to watch the other ships coming in.”

“Cacertians and civvies, bah,” Kolwitz scoffed. “That’s what we get for pulling in so late, fighting for space with rowboats and amateurs. Very well. Comm, advise the Imperials we’ll slow some of the landers, make it a little easier on their collective hearts.”

The radioman turned back to his console, sending the described information to the Shalumite carrier, as well as to several nearby troopships dispatching landing craft to port. While the second wave was moving as normal as there was no time to call them back, the third cut about ten percent of its landing craft to the next wave, making it easier to avoid other craft in the water. The UR flotilla coming in was still a massive undertaking, as they had thousands of men and tons of equipment to drop in a very short amount of time, but so far they were making it happen.

On the flight deck, a big hefty Pelikan heavy helicopter was loading up with MSI troopers, bound for the shore. In her cockpit sat Krigsmarine aviator Loytnant 1st class Ulrich Sternns, running final checks with his copilot Loytnant 2nd class Omar Samson, as they went over their bird’s instruments and equipment. The Valkyrie, they called her. Not a very original name, but Sternns didn’t mind. They had pulled medivac before, and the Pelikan had a deep internal bay. She could funnel troops, wounded or supplies by the truckload, hell even fit a Pitbull in her rear bay by ripping out the seats.

“Pressure looks good,” Samson was saying. “Pre-flight checks complete. We’re all ready to go.”

Sternns glanced back at the MSI sersjant nearby, calling out to him. “Okay, hold on to your socks. We’re about ready to take off.” To the control tower, he reported in. “Sovngarde Flight, this is Sølv 2-1. Ready to takeoff towards Massis Port for offload, over.”

The reply took a minute, likely because of all the confusion in the control tower, but come it did.

”Sølv 2-1, we read you are clear to takeoff, five by five. Good flying, we’ll see you again in a few minutes. Out.”

“Copy that,” Sternns radioed back, gently pulling back on the stick as he increased power. The Pelikan’s engine began whining throatily, the rotor blades impossible to see now as the craft’s nose tilted up, her landing gear finally leaving the deck. Nearby, several crew ratings instinctively stepped even further away, faces turned and covered as the prop wash hit them. Fortunately, it was only for a few seconds, as the Valkyrie pulled even further from the deck, her landing gear retracting into her belly as Sternns pointed her towards the shoreline, breaking away from parent vessel to cross the open water. Down below, the veritable tide of landing ships stretched away, and a few MSI troopers at the open door looked down at the mess.

“Whole new place we’re fighting in,” said one of them, tapping his squadmate on the shoulder. “What do you think the girls here look like?”

“Knowing you, it won’t take long to get rejected by one!” yelled another trooper, to which the blue-clad security soldiers laughed. They seemed at ease, but in truth all of the occupants were on edge. Not only were they fighting in a hostile new land half the world away for reasons they could scarcely understand, but they would be fighting alongside old enemies too. The non-aggression pact had only been signed a few months back, and everyone on both sides was still extremely itchy to jump.

Sternns put the Valkyrie in a wide turned around the port, aiming to avoid the main approach most of the gunships were using. The faster attack helicopters would be getting fuelled off the ships in port, but they were expected to be based out of the airfield here, and other pads further inland. For his part, he and Samson would be doing the same thing they were already doing here, ferrying troops to Massis Port and the surrounding area, supporting the city forces as necessary.

Solid ground was now beneath them, as houses flashed close by. A military compound peeled by their right flank, and the trooper on the machine gun automatically tracked it as he spotted Shalumite vehicles down blow, the red and green Imperial banner flapping in the sea winds.

“So answer me something,” asked Samson, breaking out a granola bar, chewing it as he watched the instruments before him. “The fighting’s been going on a year, right?”

“Right,” Sternns replied, carefully negotiating a larger building, keeping a respectable distance.

“So, if the Imps have been here the whole time, why isn’t this war done and dusted yet?”

“Who knows? Maybe the locals are more trouble for them than they thought. You didn’t listen at the cultural briefing?”

“I rely on you for that shit, man. I just dozed off for a few minutes…”

“Not surprising…okay, near as I can tell from all that they shoved at us, Nalaya isn’t a simple one side versus another. You got the forces of the Federal government working with us and the Imps and Cacertians, then you got the Armavir rebels and their allies, and –then- you got this Dread Wolf woman and her allies too. Not to mention anyone else who decides their tribe is next to inherit the country, or what the fokk ever.”

“Yeah, but then why ain’t the Imps just brought a few cruise missiles down on the target cities and swept in to take out whoever stumbles out? It’s what they’d do to us.”

“Who knows? All I can say, is that anyone takes a shot at me, you’re turning them to dust.”

“Fokkin A, man. Just gimme one of these stupid fokkers, I’ll get him real quick.”

Finally, the Pelikan pulled in towards her target, wheels down as they landed in the large pad area cleared for them. It wasn’t an official landing, little more than a large, empty square, but the two MSI spotters in the corner had made sure to identify a place mostly vacant of civilians as possible, and the back hatch dropped to allow the other troopers in back to quickly disembark. In two minutes, the whole chalk was on the ground, and Sternns pulled back to get them out, heading back towards the fleet for another flight.

---

Ragnarson reached up, pulling a pack of Nidhogg brand cigarettes from his jacket pocket, putting one between his teeth and tugging it out before extracting an older flip-lighter, igniting the open flame. His boots clunked on the ship’s deck as he emerged onto the flight deck, tugging his dress cap on as he squinted into the bright sunlight, taking a deep pull on the ciggy as he glanced around. A naval vessel required absolute precision between the combination of pieces that were the crewmen, and it was often said that Krigsmarine sailors were even more disciplined than a Hær veteran division (though he held his own reservations on that point). A few nearby ratings gave the general a glance, but because this was an outside area of an active duty warship, they merely snapped to attention, rather than calling out for the deck to stop or saluting. There was too much activity to stop things for one senior officer, even the commander of the Task Force.

He moved down the deck, the harsh ocean winds snapping at his uniform as another pair of Svart Orns took off, soaring by and making the Major-General’s ears ring. He didn’t mind, his hearing would return to normal in a minute or two. Long experience with armor and artillery had taught him these things for a long time.

The Stork before him was similar to the one that had just taken off not too long ago, save for the fact that this one was painted green instead of grey, and two soldiers with wide boonie hats were standing outside as the rotors began to spin up. The first one nodded to the general, slinging her rifle as she tugged at her gatorneck. Unlike many other soldiers hitting the port for the first time, she and the other Ranger next to her were already stripped down to their short-sleeves, and her companion was chewing some imported Arokennite tobacco, spitting a glob onto the deck.

“All set, General?” asked Loytnant-Oberst Tona Sindyr. Her arms wore sleeves of ink, Nordic tattoos that covered her from her wrists to her shoulder. Sworls, weaves, blocks, clouds, fangs, shields, serpents, she had every image a stereotypical Azurlav soldier wanted to get inked on, including a skull on each knuckle. She too was smoking a Nidhogg, but as Ragnarson approached she dropped it on the deck, stubbing it out with her boot.

“Thank the Gods Kolwitz isn’t in charge of this little adventure,” Ragnarson replied as he stepped past his commander of all Special Forces in the country. “He’d level half the country for teatime without a thought.”

Sindyr was a sixteen-year veteran, seven of those in the elite Mountain Rangers, rough terrain warriors without peer. Unlike the Fallskermjeger, however, the Rangers weren’t so focused on straight battle. Their purpose was that of unconventional warfare instead, and that’s why Ragnarson saw fit to take a woman like Tona and put her in command of his elites, especially in this foreign, hostile country.

The three of them stepped onto the Stork, where two more Mountain Rangers, both armed with battle rifles, waited. They seemingly paid the Major-General no attention, though all five of these veteran warriors were tasked to make sure that the scarred man in grey came to no harm. Once they touched down, it would be the task of his command kompanie’s infantry to protect him, but for the flight over they were it.

“You mean we’re –not- here to conquer, pillage and rape?” Sindyr chuckled, tugging at her gloves. “Well, shit. Guess we better go home, boys. Sounds like this place isn’t going to be fun after all.”

“Worst party ever, ma’am,” said Loytant Mullaer replied, his eye still glued to the scope.

The Stork was joined by a pair of Drakon gunships for escort, and Ragnarson looked out past the Ranger bodyguard next to him at the fleet of landers below, carrying the nine-thousand men and women under his command towards shore, where they’d be offloaded and start heading for their deployment zones. Force recon from the 33rd would start sending out forward teams to secure the roads and scout places for supply posts and security FOBs, clearing the way for the 31st and its heavy armor, followed by the rest of the Korps. Aircraft from the Sovngarde and airfields established on land would keep them under a constant fire cordon, at least until Ragnarson’s planned artillery parks were carved out for the 6th and their consequent reinforcements to come.

He finally took a look at Massis proper, feeling the sea breeze whipping past as he gazed out at the city. This far south, he could already feel the dry air blowing past, even out on the ocean, and past that the scrublands extended far out beyond his sight, threatening to become desert in the distance. There hadn’t been time to acclimate their troops to a concept barely understood by the upper staff, so the general knew he’d have to adapt as his men encountered issues. No Azurlav had ever fought a desert war. They’d barely had time to equip this task force with desert camouflage, a feat it would take even longer for the next wave to do.

An errant salt breeze stung Ragnarson’s face, and he recoiled slightly as he felt his scars begin to alight. Tona noticed, and frowned, about to question but the general brushed it off, turning back without a word. She let it go, watching him carefully anyway.

The Stork finally came in on approach landing, setting down in a cleared part of the port. The Rangers were first off, and as they swiftly secured the area Ragnarson stepped out as well, hand automatically checking for his Kalt. He’d be changing out of full dress into battle gear soon, but the ceremonial uniform was good to begin the campaign, especially as he might be in the field for weeks or months before he received a chance to make another presentation like this.

Nearby, one of the landers dispatched a wave from the 33rd Motorized. Unlike the Stormtroopers, the 33rd possessed no heavy armor, merely Pitbulls LAVs that zoomed down the road to clear the path and set up roadblocks, and Muldyr APCs that would take squads of troopers further inland once the preparations to move fast were complete.

Kaptein-Kommissaer Alric Danton stood in front of the Bandvagn Sleipnir model, Ragnarson’s personal command vehicle. Outfitted with extra armor plating, an enhanced radio package and a .50-cal machine gun, the unusual trailer pull system normally reserved for supply tracks and deep snow transport served perfectly for command of this Korps, allowing Ragnarson to move his command kompanie with the frontline, where he preferred to be.

Danton saluted to both Sindyr and Ragnarson, who saluted back. Technically, the political officer was removed from the chain of command, but even he had to respect the two most senior Azurlav officers in theatre at present. He seemed unaffected by the heat, his ankle-length black trenchcoat defying the blazing sun with barely an ounce of sweat on his face, his poise perfect, a radio strapped to his back. With him were a half-dozen soldiers from the 2nd Korps Headquarters Kompanie, a helmet with a large green 2 emblazoned over it, the Life Guard. They watched the surrounding area, monitoring the deployment as they also watched the buildings carefully. A nearby Guardsman with the simple rank of Menig glanced over her shoulder, noting a cluster of locals nearby and gently shifted her carbine, not quite pointing at them.

“Major-General. It is good to see you have arrived safely.”

“Danton. Caught your speech over the line. A bit over the top, but it did the job.”

The kommissaer shrugged, nonplussed. He’d heard better criticism and worse praise, every orator had.

“The first wave is getting ready to depot up. Several empty yards have been approved for our use until we’re ready to roll out. ETA, next week before we can get any large number moving.”

Ragnarson grunted, stepping up into the Bandvagn and patting his radio technician Korporal Tomas Vylass on the shoulder. Already monitoring the situation and scribbling down relevant information, Tomas merely nodded. The two had been working together for six years, and the system they had worked. Ragnarson picked up the first sheet of paper, reading about the Cacertians coming in, reports of Shalumite troops’ unease, two of the NSB teams having newly updated information on Armavir, already one of the Drakon gunships was grounded because of a critical warning light on the edge of the city.

“Given the nature of this deployment,” the general said as he put a Nidhogg between his lips, Tomas already present with a lighter as he wordlessly lit the general’s cigarette, all while still listening to his radio headset, scribbling down incoming information. “We might need to step that up a little. I don’t want to bottleneck the city. Kolwitz’s ships are already going to be taking up a large portion of the harbor. We’ve only a-“ he checked the slip in his hand, looking for the timestamp. “Thousand troops deployed. We –need- to clear the area quickly. How soon can Wittenburg’s force recon be ready to move?”

It was LC Sindyr who answered this time, piping up from the back. Her Rangers still stood at the Stork, ready to get back to work now their job here was done. “From the rate, the first teams are down and getting fuelled up. Assuming they’re placed first priority for supplies, we can get two columns out now, start pushing on the first objectives.”

“Any threats detected?”

“Aircraft took no fire, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t militia out there. Shalumite reports state guerillas all over these hills.”

“If they’re out there, they need to be intercepted. I want it handled, Tona,” Major-General Ragnarson said, to which LC Sindyr nodded sharply, giving a crisp salute and spinning on one heel, barking orders to her Rangers, who all piled back aboard the Stork. Swiftly, they were up and gone, out into the horizon. The 11th Mountain Ranger Kompanie would disperse out into the hills. It was the NSB’s job to find intelligence, but the Rangers would be the ones to act on it.

Danton still remained standing, to which Ragnarson addressed. “I want everyone to know we have three priorities: speed, security, courtesy. We need to get the Korps moving through fast enough to not slow down everyone else any longer than necessary, keep our sites locked down enough that no one can take advantage and inconvenience the local population as little as possible. Any incidents with native civilians will be met with harsh punishment.”

The political officer nodded and, with as little ceremony as before, turned on one heel and strode off into the dust clouds, disappearing among the constant stream of Azurlav soldiers in less than a heartbeat.

“I fokking hate when he does that,” Ragnarson grumbled around his cigarette, tugging on his dress tie and pulling his jacket off. He intended to be in field gear for the next part.

“Tomas?”

Already, the technician aide was reaching over to the dials, adjusting the frequency before he slid the second headset over. The general took the set, tugging it on and position the microphone in front of his mouth.

“This is Jarl, to all local and Shalumite command elements, I have just touched down. Assuming command of all United Republic military elements in the city of Massis.”

---

Massis Air Base

Kameraad Flight came down towards the runway, the fighters peeling away towards the port to rejoin their mother carrier. Several of them eased their thumbs off the trigger of their guided missiles, merely a step away from triggering radar lock. The cargo planes themselves were like a flock of enormous, ungainly birds, casting down on landing strips with ponderous intent and shuddering impacts that seemed to last forever. As each plane came down, it headed straight for a recently vacated spot, pulling in for maintenance, fuel and to give the Fallskermjeger a chance to stretch for a few hours.

The large cargo ramps and side doors both popped open, allowing the men and women who had stood to file out to exit, jogging out into two lines. Every plane let out a stream of men and women in light gear and jackets, filing towards the same location to fall into formation. The first thing first was to maintain appearances, and in front of the Imps it was especially important to hold to the reputation of discipline rather than the one of fear.

Loytnant-Kommissaer Lillit Kvarson was one of the officers Astrid had been speaking to, and the two female officers were already speaking even as they began making their way towards the rear of the plane, moving towards the front of their formations. 5th Kompanie would be fine under Brevik until she got there, and if Isaac became busy with something, First-Sersjant Obermann would be able to take over. UR rank policy always ensured someone was there to take the reins if the kommandant fell.

“After the troops are let off to mill around, I need you to take your staff and find the local base commander,” Deinhardt was saying, checking her orders off a notepad in her hand. “You’ll be stationed here to maintain disciplinary command over the airbase. We’re expecting the Luftjeger and several more flights from the Krigsmarine to base here, so we need a framework in place before they arrive.”

Kvarson nodded. Unlike Astrid, who had the look of a beautiful girl gone hard with scars and a brutally acquired tan, Lillit was a little more strained in her appearance. Her face was all hard angles, with a jawline and chin sharp and strong enough to cut glass. Her eyebrows were angled into a natural frown, and she constantly kept her midnight black hair extremely short, lest it get messy beyond control or regulation. Whereas Kaptein Deinhardt was athletic, slim and bound in lean muscle, Kvarson was whipcord thin, her kommissaer’s longcoat seeming to hang off her frame, cap perched on her head at just the right angle to force her to stare down at whoever she was talking to. Astrid was also tall, but Kvarson leaned towards the shorter side, just shy of five-seven. In this case, neither was the other’s superior as they belonged to different chains of command, but Lillit had been attached to the 51st for the time being. If the Kaptein wanted her here, that was her assignment.

The battalion finally fell in. Composed of 2nd, 4th and 5th kompanies, this was an unofficial organization. When the rest of the brigade caught up to them, they’d be melded back into the 75th Drop Battalion almost seamlessly, but for now Astrid was in charge of getting a foothold set and responding to immediate threats in the outback. For now, three hundred men and women stood before her, and as the Kaptein took the front of the formation all the idle chatter ceased. The eyes of the airbase were upon them, mostly Shalumites. Time to give them a show.

“BATTALJON! OPPMERKSOMHET!” hollered High-Sersjant Hjalbek, his face turning red with the strain. As one, the formation came to attention, weapons snapping across their chests, pointing up and to the left. Astrid gazed out over her temporary command, checking to make sure that every kompanie had an officer in charge. Normally, a major would be detailed to command a formation this size, but as all senior officers were coming in on the boats with the bodies of their units, it fell to the field commanders to take the vanguard into Nalaya for them. The Shalumites were lucky to have already been in country when the shooting started, as their chains of command, lanes of supply and areas of deployment had already been set as the war kicked off.

“At ease!” the redhead hollered, and her men immediately moved into the secondary position, shifting under their jackets in the sweltering sun of midday. “Welcome to Nalaya, Fallskermjeger!” she continued, not bother to switch from Nordic to English. If the Shalumites wanted to know what she was saying, they could slip a spy into her ranks for all she cared. “We may not be the first down, but rest assured we’re the first to head towards the action!”

“Ha-ooh!” yelled a trooper in the crowd, and the rest of the formation followed suit. “HA-OOH!”

Despite herself, Astrid grinned. They were so eager to get back into it, even mere months after being pulled from active combat in Aerick. They made her damn proud to be up here. Images flashed through her mind of her own mother, in command of her own infantry force, watching Eleanor Deinhardt pick up the slack after her cancer had claimed her father. Astrid had become a true military brat then, and she felt a sense of déjà vu as she stood here now. Like she was too small to fill an enormous set of boots…

“Stow that, we’re professionals here!” she hollered. “Leave the trouble-making and saber-rattling for the Stormtroopers!” A round of laughter from her troops. From out the corner of her eye, Deinhardt spotted a Shalumite APC approaching, heading straight for the concentration of Azurlav planes and paratroopers. Someone was coming to speak to them, and if they were bold enough to do so immediately after landing, they had to be someone important. “Listen up! You’ve got six hours to stretch out! I’d recommend PT, Gods know all that leave must have softened you up. Stay on the base, don’t go where you’re not wanted. Strip down to your shirts; it’s going to be hot. Chow, water and facilities will be made available in the hangers. So park your gear and keep your weapons –un-loaded…but close at hand. You got that?”

“HA-ooh!” was the reply en masse. For some reason, her eyes landed on Brevik’s face, and she paused for only a moment, studying him carefully. He was a good soldier, Isaac. Loved by the troops, efficient in his work and eager to get stuck in no matter the odds. The two of them had seen hell a few times together, both in Aerick and on Iron Island saving the Stormtroopers from getting annihilated almost two years ago. Not to mention all the border clashes. But, of late, Brevik had seemed…distracted. Distant, almost. She’d thought to send him to a kommissaer, but his record was clean and he might not take that the right way. Still, Astrid felt it her duty to get to the bottom of the situation, and find out what was making her 2IC so blue.

But that was for another time. High-Sersjant Hjalbek leaned in close, muttering in her ear “Ma’am, Shalumite officer just dismounted. He’s looking for you.”

Wordlessly, Astrid nodded before calling out to the formation “Battaljon! Oppmerksomhet!” Again, the soldiers came to attention, and she glanced over them one more time before calling out “Dismissed!”

The formation broke, soldiers falling in around their officers to receive further instructions. Afterwards, the enlisted began to look after themselves, while the officers would see to the task of getting them organized for the next leg of the trip.

Deinhardt, meanwhile, had only a second before that Shalumite bigwig came over, and she called to Brevik “Loytnant! Get 5th Kompanie situated, then come and see me!” She and Isaac could get back to their men in a little bit, but for now they had planning to do. In the meantime she, Kvarson and Hjalbek turned to face the incoming Puma, eyes narrowed as the officers clambered out. Astrid stepped forward first, hoping her younger age of 27 wouldn’t hinder her here. She nodded to her opposite number, noting the general’s pins on the man’s lapels.

“Kaptein Astrid Deinhardt, kommandant of this vanguard battalion, 51st Fallskermjeger Brigade. Good to be here, General,” she said in English. They might be enormous spans in the officer corps apart, but the fact remained that she was the senior Azurlav officer here at the air base, and as such she would represent her country for the time being. She gestured to the bull of a man to her left and the whip of a woman to her right. “High-Sersjant Anton Hjalbek and Loytnant-Kommissaer Lillit Kvarson, my Senior NCO and my political officer.” Both nodded courteously. Hjalbek didn’t speak English well, and Kvarson was more than content to let herself be introduced instead, her dark eyes studying the Shalumite general coolly.

---

114th MP Battalion
Landing Craft, en Route to Massis Port

Many people mistakenly believed the Gallagher Shepherd to be the same species as its Acrean cousin. While there were definitely similarities, as they were both related to the same forebear, the Nordic specimen descended from the first hounds ancient Azurlav settlers had brought with them over a thousand years ago had evolved several distinct characteristics. With a slightly leaner muscle mass, a Gallagher Shepherd was faster, and acclimation to fending off large wild beasts had made them both fanatically loyal to their masters and quite proficient at bringing down threats larger than themselves. These combined to make them excellent hunting hounds and attack dogs, making them constant companions to soldiers, police, hunters and other such adventurous and dangerous jobs. These hounds were their constant companions, and were so admired that the Shalumite had taken pups over to their own lands long ago to have access to the breed.

But to Visekorporal Lavina Olsen, the Azurlav breed was the better one. Bred pure and true, descended from those noble warrior hounds of ancient. Her own companion Iorek looked up at her, a long pink tongue flopping out from between his jowls, a curious and excited look on his face. She and the four year old had been together since her days of Advanced Training, when she had been presented with a puppy and told to raise him. Their time together in Lauftja had forged a relationship not between servant and master, but between comrades. The rotation through Aerick had solidified that bond in combat fighting Sisterhood resistance groups. Now, the two were inseparable.

She reached down, a hand idly scratching Iorek behind the ears before moving down to his own dog-shaped Kevlar vest with his name and number stitched into the side, scratching around the edges. He was always itching in his armor, and a little bit of help went a long way for the soldier dog. His leg began twitching as he savored the bit of attention, just like all dogs did.

All dog handlers in the UR military had similar jobs. Secure a site, patrol for enemies and ordnance and in combat the dog would be sicced on the enemy while the handler fired on the target. The difference being career specialization, meaning a dog assigned to an infantry battalion would be more often used as an attack dog, a dog assigned to an engineering kompanie was better trained to search for ordnance, so on and so forth. But Military Police were different. Rather than spend the first three years sitting at the border watching the Shalumites, Olsen and Iorek had been on active call as civil enforces in the city of Lauftja, Vyorlen state. Far inland, no chance of war with the Imps, the worst things the two saw in the first years of their career were the same as any other cop across the rest of the world. That’s what happened when the military acted as civil enforcement, after all.

“Okay, listen up!”

She glanced up, her scratching stopping as she looked at Loytnant Haas. Iorek whined for only a second as he wondered where his loving had gone before realizing they were being addressed and he too turned his head forward, sitting his rump down on the deck. Loytnant Haas was not a dog handler, but he was certainly an enforcement agent, a brick wall of a man with the traditional black beret and eight-pointed blue star armband that denoted him an MP. An AC4 carbine hung from his strap, though the MPs assembled around him wore a variety of weapons from shotguns to assault rifles to a few grenade launchers, all the same layout they had worn in civil service.

“We’re landing in twenty minutes! When you get to shore, form up at block ‘D’ with your duffels and prepare to move out quick-fast! We’ve got the third deployment wave coming in behind us, and those landers cannot stay longer than it takes to get us offloaded, so don’t waste any time! Once down, we’ll meet up with MSI Team Kilo from off the Sovngarde to establish a temporary HQ and begin patrols! You’ll get your orders there! Get ready, MPs!”

Unlike many of the men and women landing in the port who would be waiting around for a few days getting their gear ready for open warfare before deploying to points further inland, security would be in motion as soon as they touched down, keeping the peace and watching for any serviceman to step out of line. The more Hær MPs and MSI troopers deployed in Massis, the fewer other security troops they needed to pull off the line, and hopefully it would just be them and the logistics personnel in a few weeks’ time, cutting down on the footprint in Massis immensely. All they had to wait on was the Luftforsvar security troops to touch down afterwards to defend the airfields, and they’d have a full security cordon on the Azurlav portion of the city.

She took in a breath, trying not to consider the scope of the task before her. As well as policing a city, they also had to watch out for enemy infiltrators, while getting accustomed to the locals and their own various ways. There was a lot of opportunity for this affair to go south in a hurry.

But, as she glanced down at Iorek, she saw a face that had complete trust in her, even if that face was fuzzy and had a large, pink tongue hanging from one side of the mouth. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all, she thought as she scratched him in his favorite spot behind his ears.

[Nalaya]

Hishatak Square
Massis, Nalaya

The worst things always seemed to happen on the brightest days with the bluest skies.

Massis had been a city poised at a brink for a long time now. It was a delicate balance preserved solely by the fact that the Empire of Shalum was allied with the government. People didn’t like Khavar T’avish, necessarily, but they supported her as the successor of someone they loved, someone to keep a fast fading dream alive. The events leading up to Sissak, revealed by Esperance International, were fast eroding that tentative goodwill by the time the Azzi, as they were being called, had arrived.

It only took one nudge for a hornet’s nest to come alive, and the Azzi had provided a boot stomp with their invasion of Massis. The arrival could be called nothing else, with how little mind had been paid to Nalayan approval. Oh, they had the go ahead from Shalum, but the Tigress’s forces on the ground were not pleased at the idea of foreigners policing their city. Men with dogs and rifles brought up altogether too many horrible memories in Nalaya, and these were not locals so willing to accommodate the concerns of the RV already embedded in Nalaya.

Suddenly, the concerned voices were no longer concerned. They were angry, and reaching a fever pitch at a speed that made the air crackle with the charge before a storm. Clouds were forming over Massis. The whole city was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. And it did, at Hishatak Square, the very heart of Massis, with all its names of the martyrs of Nalayan history graven into the stone of its large paving stones. It was also on the border between the areas designated for appropriate use by foreign military personnel belonging to the Shalumi and Azzi. The Cacertans had been deemed a much safer force, less inclined to cause friction, and so they were permitted to move throughout the city without more than security checks designed to restrict access...as much as that could be done in any Nalayan city. The statue of the broken sword at the center of Hishatak Square was surrounded with flowers and thoughts and prayers for the victims of the war to the north. It was a private moment of grief that pierced too many hearts. Even if Massis was not embroiled in the war itself, it wasn’t far away. People had loved ones who lived in the afflicted or occupied areas, many missing or dead.

The Azzi patrols quickly found themselves in Hishatak Square when they made their way to secure the city.

Himnakan Andranik Topalian, the one-armed and one-eyed commander of the Rrazmakan Vostikanut’yun in the greater Massis metropolitan area, was at the edge of the crowd assembled. His officers were in uniform, but not riot gear, and surrounded the giant knot of people at the center mostly to make certain everything stayed orderly and soldiers maintained a respectful distance. He wasn’t prepared for the sudden about-face in mood that the new arrivals caused. He understood it, but it frightened him, and he was a hard man to frighten.

Someone shouted something. “Get out! Leave Nalaya! This is not your country! This is our country!”

Suddenly, there was a chant in the air. “This is our country! Get out! You are not welcome! This is ours!” It was gaining momentum, growing, turning into a thing alive.

Topalian had seen this kind of mood before. It was not a good one. There were Nalayan soldiers in that crowd, off duty but still armed. If they were swept up in this, nothing good could come of it. Suddenly, the people who had been praying were up on their feet and he could feel the energy spreading. Windows were opening on upper levels of the buildings on the side street. He could feel the fear knotting in his own stomach.

He grabbed a bullhorn. “Think of Massis!” he shouted. “Think of your families! No one wants this!”

Next to him, an officer was already grabbing their radio. “We need every officer at Hishatak Square,” he was ordering. “Topalian’s orders.”

His people were so well trained that they didn’t even need him to say it. It was obvious in what he was doing. Once the request was out, they turned their attention to trying to soothe the crowd. He sent a few officers jogging towards the Azzi. They needed to leave. They needed to leave yesterday.

The chant was turning into an inarticulate roar. Nalayan soldiers, still in uniform, were forcing their ways to the edges. Not to help soothe, but to provide a barrier between civilians and the Azzi in case something happened. But what could they really do in the face of a monster like this. And with modern technology, it spread like a virus across social media. Suddenly, there were Nalayans on every street, and most were not constrained by the RV. Where other riots the city had seen were aimless and usually college students who’d been drinking and getting riled up over football, this was an entirely different animal. That was frustration and alcohol talking.

This was hate.

Back in Topalian’s office, the phones started to ring as Nalayan military commanders tried to get ahold of him. His cellphone buzzed like a barrel of angry bees, but he couldn’t put his hands down to answer it. He was busy holding them up, trying to plead for calm.

“Get out of here, Himnakan,” one of the off-duty soldiers said. He was a tall Arusai man with brown hair and those unmistakably Arusai green eyes, a kapitan’s rank insignia on. “You don’t want to be caught up in this. Your people aren’t in the gear for it.”

“Neither are yours!” Topalian said.

The kapitan shrugged.

A brick went hurtling over their heads, headed right in the direction of the Azzi. It was like someone had just dropped a match into the powderkeg. Months of fear and anger were coalescing into something horrible.

“Tear gas!” Topalian barked into his radio as an animal roar went up in the crowd. He felt his blood freeze when he heard it roll across the city, taken up by the people who had spilled into the streets. There was no way he was going to be able to contain this now, not without Nalayan military intervention. Nothing the foreigners could do would calm this fury.

The crowd was not a mindless beast. It broke up almost as soon as it had formed and spread like wildfire, the chant going up. It could be heard everywhere in the city. Topalian could see people covering their faces to hide them from heaven. The spirits of rage were loose now, but they knew to move to rooftops and alleys with rifles to accompany their sticks and stones. Topalian found himself swept into the chaos, fumbling with the gasmask at his belt as the tear gas hit Hishatak Square in white clouds. People choked and coughed, but others forced their way out of the affected area. He heard windows shatter, but he wasn’t certain where or what they were coming from.

“No! No! No!” he heard himself shouting, the adrenaline surging in his veins like an inferno. He could feel the catastrophe as an irresistible force launched an immovable object into motion.

---

P’aros
Massis, Nalaya

“No! No! No!” Yeretz screamed at the TV screen as her coffee cup fell from nerveless fingers, splashing the dark liquid across the clean, grey, industrial carpet of the break room. She’d been watching Tatev’s Chermak Odz, her home city’s regional football team, tearing apart Yeraskh’s Kapuyt Yeghjeru. Then, her programming had suddenly cut out, replaced with a live feed of what was going on at Hishatak Square and in the streets. She was the Nakhagah, the intelligence coordinator between Nalayan forces, her superiors in the Unkndirnei, and foreign military in the Massis metropolitan area.

They were going to die. Her people were going to die. She knew about foreigners. She knew that they weren’t much of ones for pulling back. And personally, she didn’t give a fuck what happened to them. But her people? She was going to see them die and she knew it. The Unkndirnei didn’t have the manpower to secure an entire city. They were elite, specialists, and certainly not frontline force. Her cellphone was suddenly exploding with texts and calls.

“What do we do?” one of her people whispered. She wasn’t certain who.

“Control it! Now!” she barked. “I want every Nalayan soldier on post out in those streets grabbing people and pulling them out of this! Fucking hell! Fucking Azzi! I told them to clear fucking security with me!” It turned into a scream of anger. “No! No! No!”

“This is our city! Invaders! Slavers! Murderers! Get out! This is our country!”

It didn’t take much to change the course of a war, not really. Just one little brick, one little shot, one little riot in the heart of Nalaya’s art and culture that had stood free of war, as an island in the storm, for decades. If Massis turned into a bloodbath, the winds would shift dramatically. The Protector could ignore a lot of things, but not this going even more sour.

Khavar T’avish was a fervent, ardent believer in that core tenet of unspoken Unkndirnei code: reciprocity. It was a strange little commandment. Do unto others as they do unto you. Sometimes, do unto others quickly before they do unto you, the joke went.

Yeretz was wondering if this was going to have to turn into that second half. She knew one thing for certain. If I ever, ever get the Azzi and Shalumi commanders in a room, I’m going to fucking strangle those motherfuckers, she thought, incandescent rage eating away at her stomach as the mask returned abruptly. She shut her entire face down, assuming that blandly bored expression that Unkndirnei could wear so well.

“Now!” she barked, this time cold and controlled. It was a good start. People were already scrambling to get word out and get people mobilized to contain it.

She called Shalumite command first, because she had an actual rapport with them. She didn’t care who picked up the phone. The words hit them like a steamroller, controlled and slow, but brutal in inflection. “Get your fucking people off the streets and tell the Azzi to do the same thing now!”

Her people were already on the radio, trying a broadband call and then targeted ones on the few Azzi radio frequencies they’d been given. It was the same message. “This is Nalayan command. Get out, get out, get out! Do not engage! Get your people off the streets!” It was in English, then repeated in Nordic by the one masnaget they had who was fluent. She’d requested Zulemian by name the minute she got word that Azzi troops were inbound.

Akabi Yeretz was watching her own worst nightmare coming to life on the screens, and she was a woman who had seen a lot of nightmarish things. Every person in Nalaya near a radio or a TV or a computer or a cellphone would be watching this. Suddenly, there was nothing she could do as the bandaid they’d slapped over the axe wound of foreign invasion to the Nalayan psyche was ripped off.

A single shot fired, and there would be a hell coming down on the north and west parts of a country that what was happening now couldn’t hold a candle to. The foreigners had to withdraw, break contact, get out of the way, and let this burn itself out while Nalayan soldiers put out their homeland's fires.

[Shalum]

Hishatak Square
Massis, Nalaya

Private First-class Steffen Wolfensohn could smell it in the air: trouble.

The whole situation wasn’t just trouble, no, it was a reactor melting down before his very eyes. Every instinct was at war with the fact that if he tried to get the hell out of this jam, he was either going to end up getting shot by his comrades-in-arms, or torn to pieces by this vicious mob of Nalayans. Basically, it was looking more and more like he was well and truly fucked, regardless of what he chose to do.

“Masks on!” The battalion commander scream over the roar of the crowds. “Get ready to receive contact, you fucking maggots!”

“Allfather and gods above, protect us,” another Shalumite draftee murmured to himself as pulled on his M50 joint service general purpose mask, before donning his ballistic helmet with faceshield again. Absently tightening his NBC seals, his somewhat Azzie-like accent sounded more distorted. “Protect us and guide us through these trials…”

“You put your faith in foreign gods,” another tried to joke as he raised up his Hirsch automatic shotgun, the Wolf Armaments logo proudly stamped on the side. “I put my faith in this.”

Corporal Timothy Lyons remained silent. It was enough to keep from vomiting, or otherwise visibly showing his own anxiety.

“WWWRRROOO!” Came up the roar from the crowd ahead of them.

Packed into Hishatak Square, stretching out into an angry tide, were hundreds -if not thousands- of rioting local citizens; waving hastily made signs, and shouting angry chants at the foreign soldiers. It seemed like every ethnicity was on display: Arusai, Nava’ai, Mak’ur, Vantai. The young Corporal Lyons would have even sworn that he saw a Imanalov’ headwrap or two among the chaos.

Quickly, he realized that even if reinforcements from outlying FOBs and marines offshore were deployed to assist in riot control operations, they would still be outnumbered at least a hundred to one...or that was what it felt like, at least. Timothy could hardly believe this many people lived in the city of Massis.

But they did.

There had to be thousands of them, the young corporal thought as he began to tremble. Angry citizens, rebellious college students, perhaps even mercenaries, or even enemy insurgents. Who knew how many of them were armed? Who knew how many thugs and criminals had decided to join in, just on the chance that they could loot and pillage the city while every cop had their plates full beyond measure? Who knew how many of these people were Nava’ai insurgents, wanting to slip into the city so that they could sabotage Shalumite and Azzie forces while they could? It was a mess. It was a nightmare.

It was a goddamn revolt.

“WWWRRROOO!”

The protests of hundreds if not thousands of rioters muddled into a deafening, indistinct roar.

Down in the plaza itself, a thin line of armored and armed Shalumite military police and infantry men tried to keep the crowd back, contained to where they already were. While policing the people was not, by any means, their place in Massis, they had been ordered to act by their small unit commanders before anyone higher up could say otherwise. They were there as much to protect Shalumite and Federal interests from harm, as they were there to keep the Azzie forces separated from the riots, and thus left unable to get involved in the ongoing melee.

Surely, command and logistical staff at the local Imperial bases were cowering behind their Hesco bastion walls and concertina wire, making calls every: General, Colonel, Commander, Captain, and Admiral that they could think of. All so that they could put more friendly bodies between themselves, who were lacking in even the arms to defend themselves, much less fight off an angry horde that had been whipped into a mad frenzy.

Lyons could see the brief, tumbling little lights as flaming bottles arched through the air towards Shalumite and Azzie lines. That was surprising, even to him. It seemed as if, only moments earlier, this protest had begun, and already the rioters were flinging quasi-explosives their way? The incendiary cocktail exploded amid the narrow line of Imperial soldiers, and together with the press of bodies, it was a matter of time before something began to bend...or break.

It started with a greenhorn military policeman, the shoulder piece of his armor on fire, throwing down his riot shield.

The others on either side of him, seeing him panic, began to falter. Waver. Finally, one stepped back.

Another turned tail and ran.

There was no bellow of “fire!” like in the vids by the Shalumite movie industry. No grand resistance or show of force put on by the Imperial soldiers who had been ordered to hold back the angry rioters. Just the roar of the masses, the crack crack of bricks as they clattered against the wavering lines of Shalumite soldiers, a gas grenade exploding over the protesters heads. Then everything around him began to move, pushing him forward into the nightmarish horde. Clutching his own shotgun close to his chest, he tried to steel his nerves. The meager group of Imperial military policemen were failing, and their poorly trained (at least for this task) greenhorn infantrymen and women were downright routing. Who the fuck knew what other Shalumite forces were doing, or the Federal police and military for that matter. There was nothing -to- do except go along with it, and try to survive.

A crack like lightening filled the space to the left of Timothy.

He turned his head, trying to find the source of the noise, and saw the soldier who had been praying before. Or at least what was left of him. The man’s face shield, meant to protect him against the debris thrown by rioters, had been utterly smashed by some kind of lobbed object. Furthermore, his face was a bloody mess bright red blood and mangled facial features. He had to be unconscious, or Heaven’s forbid, dead. Regardless, he was left unable to fall, because of the press of bodies, the incapacitated Shalumite soldier was jostled forward like some kind of ragdoll.

Had he been shot, or simply struck by an object? Timothy wouldn’t know until this was all over, and by then, he could very well be dead himself.

“Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me!” The corporal tasted something hot and acidic in his mouth and promptly forced it back down.

“Go! Go! Go!” He heard the voice of his captain holler among the chaos. At first, he thought it was an order to break it all up, but a moment later, he was corrected. “Get out of here! There’s too many of them!”

“WWWRRROOO!” The protesters roared, welcoming them to with an enraged serenade of violence and chaos. The cracks and whumps of bricks clattering and property being destroyed filled the air. Timothy’s unit rushed away from the already breaking line of Imperial security forces, throwing down riot shields and other piece of gear, trying to lighten their load as they fled like any smart man would. Where their commander had disappeared to in all of the chaos, the corporal couldn’t even begin to guess.

There were no more orders; no more discipline among the frightened and outnumber Shalumite troops, just everyone howling at each other. There was either flee, or be killed; torn apart by the angry mobs of Nalayans. As one rioter grabbed for his shotgun, Timothy paused mid-stride to strike the towering man with the butt of the weapon, not even pausing to see if he went down. The young corporal was too concerned with fleeing, getting the hell out of there.

In all of the haze and confusion, fleeing Shalumite soldiers and military police ran headlong into patrols of Azzie forces that had apparently sparked all of this pandemonium. “Run! Get out of here! It's not safe!” Were some of the things hollered at the Nordic troops by fleeing Shalumite soldiers. They must have been a sight for the cameras, including the the Imperial battlefield media team that had been sent out to film the riots.

At the Shalumite headquarters in Nalaya, known as Firebase Sentinel, things were a mess. General Burke had departed for the airport to meet with paratroopers who had just touched down, and had left control of Shalumite forces stationed at Massis in the hands of Colonel Annete Durrand. The forty-something woman, who was keen enough to follow the guidance of Yeretz -a Federal intelligence officer she had communicated with several times since Imperial troops had set up shop in the city- order a unilateral withdrawal of all Shalumites troops in the city to their forward operating bases. At the same time, she responded with messages of her own, asking Yeretz for any kind of advice that she could lend.

Of course, by the time Annete orders reached the troops, the majority of them had already turned tail and ran; headed for their FOBs, which were fortified with Hesco bastion walls and concertina wire. It was about the safest place for them to hunker down at the moment, as assaulting it would not be an easy task, especially for an unprepared mess of rioters and looters.

Massis -the Empire’s greatest and most reliable source of supplies from the homeland, as well as reinforcements- was in an open and defiant revolt against the foreigners within. And, as it turned out, the Imperial soldiers wanted no part in a bloodbath.

[Azurlavai]

Hishatak Square
31st Stormtrooper Regiment, 28th Infantry Battalion, 4th Kompanie, 1st platoon

Move fast, keep to the roads. Those had been their orders, and Major Ivo Stijns intended to see them through as quickly as he could. While the battalion all had trucks and Pitbulls to give them transport, many escorted the flanks, making sure to police the distance and watch for civilians or local forces who could get caught under foot. Stijns’ own command vehicle, one of only six Muldyr APCs in the 28th, sat center of the column as it rolled through Massis, heading for their staging ground. The battalion had actually been split into three such columns, another of which was staged on a major road with the 5th Armored, also Stormtroopers attempting to get to their staging areas as quickly as they could. Heavy armor rolling through a city tended to put a halt to major movement, and even in Azurlav provinces tanks tried to move as quickly as possible. The third was on another road a little further to the west, and they would have the longest route, but the column containing the 4th Kompanie was on the most direct route towards the rally point.

But there was a problem.

“What the hell do you think’s up with them?” asked one Trooper as he eyed up the crowd near the statue. The briefing had named this place Hishatak Square, an area where civvies were known to gather. Some kind of memorial place, it seemed. His teammate eyed up the crowd beyond, hefting her ATR-160 uneasily, pointed down but in the general direction of the disturbed congregation beyond the line of local police.

“Dunno…we’re just grunts, we don’t get told a damn thing.”

“They know we’re here to help, right?”

“Who the fokk knows what they’ve been told.”

The situation was deteriorating by the second, and every Azurlav soldier rolling through there knew it. They all wanted to get the hell out of there, the last thing anyone wanted was for the opening moves of the intervention to be an all-out shooting war with the locals they were ostensibly there to protect. Shalumite troops in full riot gear began streaming into the plaza to back up the local cops, ballistic shields and face masks shining in the high sun, even through the dust kicked up by the Stormtrooper vehicles.

”Nice and easy, everyone,” said Major Stijns over the radio to his men, watching through his own vision blocks as the mess began to look real ugly. ”Keep it steady. Sooner we’re through, sooner we can ease up.”

He turned to his comms aide. “Tell kommand they need to route the units behind us down another avenue, this one’s compromised. Tell them, situation deteriorating, possibility of riot on our hands.”

And then, just as Stijns’ own vehicle passed through the archway on the other side that would allow him to head on towards their new compound and relief, it happened. One of the Muldyr APC’s behind him suddenly sputtered and died, right in the middle of the arch.

“Son of a-“ the gunner cursed, leaning down into the troop bay and hollering “What the fokk just happened?”

“Damn thing died!” the driver replied, trying desperately to re-key the ignition. “Fokk, the engine must have a cracked seal!”

“Are you serious?! I told you to get this thing inspected in Aerick!” the gunner hollered, smacking the man upside his helmeted head. The driver warded off the blows angrily.

“Oi! Piss off! It passed on all points!”

“Then get the fokkin’ thing started already!”

There was enough room for soldiers to pass through the arch on either side of the vehicle, and already half of the battalion had rolled through by now, but that still left over a hundred men and women to go, and in the square itself the Pitbulls, Mastiffs and Kløvhest trucks of the column were hemmed in by their own desire to move quickly through, log-jammed by the speed and now bumper to bumper by the sudden stop.

A mechanic was swiftly called for from the 511th, but in Ragnarson’s haste to get the more threatening elements through the city first to cut down on the amount of invasive maneuvering they’d be doing, only a handful of support teams had been dispatched, and the closest mechanic was six blocks away trying to put the tread back on a stranded Mammut.

Two Kløvhest transport trucks, a Mastiff and four Pitbulls currently made up the number of vehicles in the square proper, with the last Pitbull only halfway in. The loud protests of the crowd were making the Stormtroopers uneasy, and they all started scanning with their weapons, unsure of themselves. At the front, two more crews had ditched their own vehicles to sprint over to the dead Muldyr, and the engine hatch was up as they all frantically attempted to correct the issue. The troops loaded into the soft-skinned trucks looked on, weapons tight in their hands, sweat pooling on their brows. Those foot troops on the side of the crowd turned their full attention as the screaming reached a fever pitch, gloved hands gripping weapons tightly. They had all experienced this sort of riot training in Aerick, but unlike the rest of the regiment the 28th battalion hadn’t taken part in any of the actual peacekeeping, relegated to homeland defense before being called up to join the Expeditionary Korps. Training could only get you so far. Nerves would soon break.

“Steady!” yelled the battalion High-Sersjant as he jogged up from his own vehicle outside of the square. “Hold your fire! Do not engage! Do –not- engage!”

While this was supposed to help the troops hold to their discipline, it only put them even more on edge, and several began dismounting from their vehicles to join the security pickets. Now as well as rifles, shotguns, LMGs and even grenade launchers began to join the line of Azurlav troops, and squads swiftly reformed as the Stormtroopers took up battle positions, assuming the familiar formations to support each other with overlapping fire. An entire platoon had formed a line of mottled green and brown now, watching things truly get out of hand, as stones and bricks began to fall on the Shalumite riot troops and the Nalayan officers.

“Steady! Hold your fokkin’ fire!” screamed the High Sersjant as he tried to contain the situation, physically grabbing Stormtroopers and shoving them back towards their vehicles. “Godsdammit, stand the fokk down!”

But the tension among the Stormtroopers was rising. The radio waves were chattering, full of talk about what was happening in the square as helicopters spotted the events below, and vehicle drivers swiftly reported in to what was happening.

“Krypter krypter krypter!” yelled Major Stijns into his radio as he popped the hatch to get a better look past the dead APC in the archway. “This is Stijns to all nearby elements! I am in Hishatak Square, with Troopers trapped in a confined space with rioting civilians! Need backup immediately!”

Just when things seemed like it couldn’t get any worse, the Shalumite line was suddenly under barrage.

“WWWRRROOO!”

The crowd SURGED, and it suddenly turned from a block of angry, hurt people devastated by war and shamed by foreigners into one enormous entity, and that entity was hostile. The Shalumite riot troops began to waver, several of them dropping with horrible injuries as the objects being thrown at them got even worse. Cracks sounded out from the crowd.

“What the fokk was that?”

“Anybody got eyes on?”

“Repeat, are we under fire?”

“Stand DOWN, Godsdammit!” yelled the battalion High-Sersjant again, now angrily moving in front of the platoon that had set up their gun line, shoving troopers back and kicking them away, but they simply came back around, rejoining the line. Molotov cocktails were falling on the Shalumites now, setting the dirt on fair, and some of the tossed bottles came damn close to the Nordic lines as NCOs tried to keep their men under control. By this point, Major Stijns was screaming over the line, attempting to have someone come and save his column as the situation got all out of hand, but too late. Every other column was already moving to evacuate their areas, getting off the streets as fast as they could. In the port, the landing troops had emerged to find the area locked down as the stream of deploying Stormtroopers and regular soldiers halted and took up position to keep the situation from getting worse, setting up roadblocks and fire lanes as the local Nalayans screamed at the Nordic troops to listen to the local commander, stay off the streets. General Ragnarson was on the line with a woman named Yerentz, the one who had issued the warning, and he was hollering at his officers to get clear as fast as possible. Those who had reached their depots and rally points were to immediately lock them down, turn them into fortresses, not let anyone but UR inside. He called up the local Imperial forces, but they stayed sheltered in their FOBs as Shalumite troops sprinted back to safety, desperate to escape the coming storm, and that still left hundreds of Azurlav men and women stuck on the roads, even as the forward elements broke for the edge of the city or tried to make it to their depots, there was just not enough time or space to get them all clear.

The Shalumite MPs had broken by now, sprinting to escape the coming storm, and every man and woman in the UR column had dismounted, joining the gun line. The Pitbull gunners had disengaged their safeties, wheeling their machine guns around as they prepared to open fire. A few had broken themselves, taking off to safer parts of the column, but now from both sides came several more squads, men from the immediate front and rear of the column who had heard what was happening and moved to reinforce.

The crowd closed in, a massive, undulating wave. Despite not knowing more than a handful of words taught to them from their phrase books, the Stormtroopers responded by immediately yelling at the crowd, weapons up and ready. They called for a halt, cessation, stop moving. Now the bricks were falling on the gun line, and the Stormtroopers didn’t have riot shields.

The situation sat on a knife’s edge of unleashing hell to both sides.

[Acrea]

Free City of Zurich
Ministry of the Special Intelligence Service

The quiet carpeted halls of the center of all Acrean intelligence tended to stay that way. Not as a matter of policy, but of common courtesy. Secrecy was a motif here, and silence its offspring. Conversations were for behind the doors of offices and conference rooms, like the latter of which that a group of people clad in black suits or other office attire sat. Waiting, deliberating.

"Damn it." a deep voice broke the still silence, from a man by the name of Callum. Nobody reacted with anything other than a glance. "Everyone here realises that we've lost the ball, right?"

"Like we had it in the first place? The Chancellery has done fuck all to move on this besides pushing forward a vote."

"A vote that, with the Azurlavaians deciding to run around now, supports the force of the fleet off the coast of Nalaya," Callum replied with sharp tone.

The woman he rested his hazel gaze at did not turn away, and met it with equal steel. Serena Cortlandt was a woman of positive repute, if one cared to ask. Her high-cheekboned, defined attractive Prussian features may not have been unique even among the other Aurelians in the room, but being that she was the only woman of that group they gave her a 'Black Widow' aura that was only compounded by the tailored black pantsuit that fit well to her athletic figure. Like her, everyone at that table had been assigned to the mostly quiet task force on Nalaya. Previously quiet, that is.

Callum rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What do they want on the ground, if anything?"

"Fortunately- or unfortunately depending on who you ask- it's not anything," another man of Avenian stripe, Damien, answered. "The MoD's only consideration for the time being is naval and air. And they're not going light."

Serena let out a disdain-tinted chuckle. "I thought they were going for the refugees, not to sink an Azurlavaian flotilla."

"You'd think that's the idea." Callum shook his head, taking a seat in one of the wheeled leather chairs that lined the table. Everyone was silent for a moment. To Callum, this whole mess was tinged with the buildup to something else. They knew that the Chancellor's patience with the Shalumites had eroded since the first accusations of war crimes, and he could only imagine now how livid she must be. Even so, she certainly was not keen on trading shots with them. The Azurlavaians were likely considered free game for her now. He hoped that his guess on the matter would be wrong in that regard.

All eyes rose as the door shot open with the force of a bullet. It was quite miraculous the frosted-glass failed to shatter as the handle struck the rubber stop on the wall beside the door. Callum raised an eyebrow at Luca, the junior agent who stood there gathering his breath for a second.

"Qualcuno controllare i loro cellulari?" His sentence was quick, exasperated as he placed his hands on his hips. If the news didn't seem so urgent Callum would have given a hearty chuckle at the sight. Fortunately, like most others in the agency, he was multilingual.

"We've been in a tank. Spit it out, then," Callum urged.

"News is showing unrest in Massis. Civil unrest. Given the way it looks to be working out, we aren't certain but presume it to be anti-coalition. At least by the video reports. Actual intelligence is spotty, at best, right now."

"When did this update come in?"

"Oh- about five minutes ago," Luca answered, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe.

"Hell of a time for this to happen, given the Chancellor's recent statements," Callum mused. He leaned back in the chair, which reclined slightly with his weight upon the back.

At that, Serena scoffed. "It wasn't us. If it had, we'd know. Hell, we in this room would likely have been the ones responsible. She just made a very right call if our assumptions about this are correct. She doesn't want the Azurlavaians there, and neither do the Nalayans. We just have to hope this doesn't get worse," she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

It was Callum's turn to shake his head in disagreement. "You'd have better luck wishing for night to not come than for Nalaya to get any better."

---

As much as she willed them to disappear, thoughts of the situation in Nalaya plagued Serena's conscience as she walked through the cool hallways of the Ministry. The carpet dulled the familiar rhythm of the heels of her shoes to sharp 'thuds', the only other noise to distract her the soft whispers of voices of pairs that walked by.

"Cortlandt!" A gruff voice called out. Serena paused, and turned on the ball of her feet to search out the source of the voice. It took the form of Shaun Cassidy, a veteran Caledonian agent that she had first met a long, long time ago. He looked rougher now, the clean shaven appearance he'd had substituted by a short, trimmed dark beard that followed the distinctive cut of his angular jawline. Shaun was a bear of a man, not easily forgettable in the sea of humdrum figures in tailored suits that dominated the populace of the Ministry.

"Shaun," Serena began. She crossed her arms under her breasts. "What do you need?"

"Me? Nothing. Canaris sent me," Shaun explained.

"What for?"

"You're being reassigned for the time being. Embassy in Aragon. Something's going on. Nalaya-related, most likely, but I can't be certain. Either way, he wants you abreast of every development and bit of intelligence we have or will be receiving. Likely a framework for whatever our job in Nalaya will be."

"And he wants me on it?" Serena sounded skeptical, despite her better judgement. Canaris did not just send someone somewhere without a purpose. However mediocre that purpose may be. "And I thought we weren't putting troops on the ground?"

"Technically we aren't troops, but that's right," Shaun replied, nibbling on his lower lip for a few seconds. "There won't be ground troops, unless the Chancellor decides that it's worth enough to spend lives to kick the Azurlavaians out of the country, and then leave ourselves. We're hoping a confrontation will be enough. Besides the point, though. You're on. Get packing and get ready."

[Shalum]

Acrean Embassy in Aragon
Duchy of Haford
Shalum

“I hate skirts.”

“Quit complaining, Cortlandt, you look half decent for once.” Shaun gave Serena a toothy grin, glancing down at the dark-haired Prussian with amused eyes. His own suit jacket had to be specially tailored, given that it had originally been struggling over his broad chest. He knew how Serena felt, however. Not quite, but he had a clue. A skirt and a blouse didn’t leave room to conceal a firearm in most cases, and a pencil skirt would certainly not be able to be yanked up fast enough to reach a PPK on one’s inner thigh, leaving her without a weapon and him with the smug satisfaction of being responsible for her safety.

It was a stupid consideration, really. They had nothing to fear for their safety here. But it was built into both of them, woven into the fabric of their years in service, for a weapon to be their security blanket.

Embassies were considered the soil of the nation they belonged to, for all intents and purposes, and the Acrean Embassy was no different. It was a little slice of home in a foreign city. The decor was little different than what one might find in the Ministry; the long, rich mahogany wood table in the centre of the room was polished to a high sheen, surrounded by tall leather chairs on wheels that rolled with ease on the thin, clean deep oxford blue carpet. On one side of the room stood an Acrean flag situated on a slightly higher pole than the ones that flanked it; Aurelian and Arcadian on one side, Avenian and Venetian on the other. A Shalumite flag had been placed on the other side of the room but it’s location was so odd and out of place it was clear that it had been brought for this occasion and this occasion only.

“You’d think we were here for a pleasant sunday brunch,” Serena murmured to Shaun, her eyes glancing towards a table that was right outside the conference room, in a larger lounge space. It was laden with a variety of bakery sweets, and light smooth drinks of Acrean popularity, such as cold peach tea. No alcohol was present. Though they expected some extra consideration by the Embassy staff due to the expectation of the Imperator, both Serena and Shaun were experienced enough to know that the table was set out with consideration of those who would have to wait for the meeting’s conclusion. Unfortunately, as the pair were slated for seats at the table, they would not be able to enjoy it.

The Acrean delegation to this meeting wasn’t a lowly one. The primary individuals in attendance were Lauren Stanton and Vincent Charbonnier, the Minister of Foreign Affairs and Prime Minister. Likewise seated at the table were other representatives of the Ministry of the Defence, and Shaun and Serena there as representatives for the Intelligence Ministry.

The arrival of the Shalumite delegation could have been considered to that of an expensive, precisely tuned closed. Two minutes before the meeting was set to begin, the Imperial motorcade arrived, quickly grinding to a halt. The driver and man in the front passed seat disembarked, moving around to ‘secure’ the area before they moved around to the rear of the vehicle; opening the door for Tyler Holland, before promptly standing at attention as he rose out of the vehicle. Two women followed his exist, as well as a towering man dressed in a three piece suit and wearing sunglasses that gave away very little of his expression.

Stepping into the Acrean embassy, the Imperator took a moment to glance around, his facial features nothing less than neutral. He looked like a man who was here for business, neither happy nor displeased. He had nothing on his head of security though, he was tall enough to cast a shadow on the Empire’s executive as they walked.

“Miss Stanton, Mister Charbonnier.” Tyler was the first to speak, giving them a small bow of the head -as was Shalumite cultural tradition- in greeting before he offered his large hand for a shake. “Ministers,” he went on to name each of them personally, as a sign of respect. “It is a pleasure to see you all again,” he went on, the briefest of smiles creasing his lips. Unsurprisingly, he had met all of them on one occasion or another.

“And a pleasure. Though not mine. We have a lot to discuss, Imperator,” Lauren stated, her smooth Britannian accent giving a sophisticated, and vaguely passive aggressive edge to her tone. Charbonnier simply nodded in response to Tyler’s acknowledgement.

“Shall we begin?” he questioned.

“Indeed. I wish this meeting was under better circumstances,” Tyler Holland agreed, his deep baritone voice rather somber as he moved to take a seat at the table. The head of his security detail simply drifted towards the back of the room, before taking up an ‘at attention’ kind of stance. “Is there anyone who would like to begin?” He asked; glancing around at the assembled officials.

Stanton and Charbonnier took their seats as well, and the rest of both delegations followed in kind. Shaun gave Serena another of his trademark grins. “I’ll take one for the both of us, lass. Go find something to entertain yer’self,” he told her. Serena gave him an appreciative look as he sat down, her standing behind him.

“I know we know who’s here, but for record’s sake,” Charbonnier began. He glanced around at their side of the table. “Present are myself, Foreign Minister Lauren Stanton representing the Acrean executive. Major Andreas Neuer and Mister Aldric Caen are representing the military and civilian leadership on behalf of Minister Westenra, and Agent Shaun Cassidy is representing the Intelligence ministry with Agent Serena von Cortlandt as his second.”

After introducing the names of the Acrean party, which a scribe promptly recorded, the Prime Minister leaned back in his seat and looked at Tyler across the table. “Imperator, I am sure that the first thing on all of our minds on this side of the table is, first and foremost, why we were left out of the loop on the matter of Azurlavai.”

Tyler paused for a moment to glance at those of his own party. The most important one on his end, besides himself of course, was the redhead sitting to his left. Diane Beckman, the Director of the STG, had been invited to accompany him on this little visit, and he had been planning on introducing her to the rest of the assembly, but it appeared that they were already up and moving towards the matters of business. He didn’t blame them, and the old woman simply shrugged in indifice, before giving him a ‘go ahead’ kind of expression as she leaned back in her seat.

Looking back towards the Acreans, he went into his reply. “I will begin by saying, when Azurlavai came to me about getting involved in Nalaya. I was surprised, to say the least, given prior relations between our respective nations.” He paused to shrug. “After speaking with their Chairman, however, I was confident that they were in it for the right reasons. The Azzies are conducting police actions, and nothing more. Helping us -the international community really- put down rebels in Nalaya seeking to overturn the rightful government in the military protectorate.” He was almost thoughtful for a moment. “Why you were contacted? Simply put, there wasn’t much time. No sooner had the Azzies already cleared their plans of action with the Nalayan government and my own, than they were mobilizing fleets and sending them south. We expected that we would have more time to deliver word to you. Weeks, not days.”

“It was a failure on our part,” Beckman said for the first time. “And for that we -are- truly sorry. There was no ill intent on our parts for keeping you out of the loop.” At that, Tyler nodded in agreement.

Charbonnier and Stanton glanced at each other. Serena could tell why. They’d already gone over it in countless hours of brainstorming and analysing the situation. The question popped immediately into her head. How could they have done it so fast?

“Your apology is much appreciated. But we have to ask, did you not find it concerning that they were able to organise such a force in such a short frame of time?” Stanton question, her eyebrows furrowing a bit.

Serena could think of a dozen possible answers, and as Shaun glanced back at her she knew that he was thinking the same. The most probable that she could imagine was that the Azurlavaians had to have planned it in advance. Prepared it in advance. The only factor they weren’t expecting is that the Nalayan people would no longer tolerate more foreigners invading their land.

As it turned out, the Imperator had an answer for that, seeming unfazed by the question. “I am not sure how much Acrea concerns themselves when it comes to the matters of the island of Aerick out in the Sanguine Sea,” he began slowly; opening his hands. “But for some, troops of the United Republic have been engaged with rebellious forces on the island. This conflict has gone on for some time now, and has left the Azzie military in a state of semi-mobilization. To redeploy troops was an easy affair for them, as I understand.”

“Not to mention, the Republic has deployed Stormtroopers, their most elite branch of their military. While we do not know for certain, we have reason to believe that they are fully mobilized at all times,” the STG director supplemented. “Besides, I do not imagine any nation would volunteer themselves without first preparing to go to war. Ahem, excuse me-- conduct a police action.”

The Acreans- at least the Aurelians in the room- looked to be hiding smirks beneath their composed expressions. It was fleeting, however, as Stanton nodded.

Serena didn’t hear her response as she glanced around the room. Her eyes landed on each and every Shalumite at the table, before she locked eyes with the imposing figure standing behind the Imperator. His sunglasses made it so that she couldn’t see his eyes clearly, but she could feel his gaze. Her own was more challenging than analysing, given that the man was trying to look imposing. But he didn’t scare her.

The towering Shalumite agent in the corner of the room -behind the Imperator- was as methodical with every scan of the room, his chocolate eyes sweeping over the assembly of statesmen and women every few seconds, his hands rested behind his back all the while. No one cared about him, and that was perfectly fine. He was supposed to be as nameless as any man you passed on the street, yet as deadly as any nuclear bomb if called upon to protect the Imperator. When his sunglass tinted gaze found Serena’s, he held it for a few moments, before given her an unperturbed, nearly imperceptible nod before moving on to continue conducting his duties as the the protector of the Shalumite executive.

The conversation at the table disinterested Serena. Though she was Shaun’s second, she knew (from his words) that he would handle everything. Her job was to observe everything else. She walked slowly and silently to the door, past several staff members and with one final glance at the other man. A quizzical, curious one this time. And then she was in the lounge.

The fact of the matter was, there was no way to make a conversation like this interesting. Agent-in-charge Mason Shepherd had never found politics all that riveting to begin with, and over the years, he had been forced to endure more than his fair of Imperial events. He never complained, though. It was a prestigious job with a paycheck that had him set for life at the age of thirty-five, but still, a little invigoration would have been nice every now and then. Glancing at the other SIU agent in the room, a silent conversation was had between him Mason and the other man, before he quietly slipped out of the room and into the lounge, the Imperator never seeming to notice.

Occupied with sipping from a small cup of tea, Serena didn’t notice immediately when the man left the room not too far behind her. She didn’t know how. It wasn’t like he was difficult to spot. Nonetheless, she masked her brief expression of surprise before she turned around to finish her drink.

Out in the longue, Mason made no immediate moves to speak to the young Acrean woman. Instead, for the first time since arriving at the embassy, he removed his sunglasses for a moment so that he could rub his eyes, before slipping the accessories on again. Checking his watch, he couldn’t help but sigh quietly. They would likely be here for some time, perhaps several hours. Finally, moving over towards the Prussian woman, his deep voice rumbled. “Excuse me, miss?” He didn’t know her name offhand, nor was he about to ask. “But you wouldn’t happen to know if there was any coffee available? I could go for a cup or two,” he explained, not quite smiling, nor frowning either.

“Oh- yeah. There’s a pot there,” Serena answered, turning to face the man. She was greeted first with a spectacular view of his chest before she had the sense to look up. Now that they were face to face, she could see how big he really was. And that was a lot, lot bigger than her. She was a bit off-put by his continued wearing of sunglasses and the blatantly dull expression on his face, but it beat a grimace or frown of some sort.

“Danke, ma’am.” He replied after a moment, eyes looking over her with perhaps a little more intent than simple analytics. It only lasted a second or two, however, before he turned and headed towards the little drink area, where there was already prepared tea and coffee. He poured himself a generous mug, mixing in a bit of sugar and cream. Black coffee seemed to be the stereotype of spies, but if he was going to be on the job for hours on end, he at least wanted to enjoy the proverbial lifeblood of his line of work. “How long have you been with the Ministry of Intelligence?” He asked her suddenly as he returned, sipping on his drink quietly.

“About nine, ten years now,” Serena replied. The corner of her lip turned up for a moment as she turned to face him, shifting her weight to one foot and tilting her head slightly. A part of her was curious as to why he would so suddenly start speaking to her, after giving the facade of mister tall, dark, and mysterious. The other part of her wanted to question him herself.

“Very nice,” Mason hummed quietly in approval as he plopped down in the seat across from her. He undid the top buttons of his suit jacket so that he could make himself more comfortable, inadvertently showing off his USP45 sidearm in the process. “I was going out on a limb,” he explained with a shrug. “You have that -look- that someone else in the business like me simply knows, and well, I doubt you’d stick around with the ministers back there for fun,” he chuckled.

“The business like you, huh?” Serena smirked, placing her cup on a side table and leaning forward. Her eyes scanned over Mason’s face, icy grey irises that would have reflected in his sunglasses were she close enough. “The business of what, exactly?”

“Oh you know, the spy business. Getting laid, drinks on the beach, all that shit that happens in movies,” he replied with a chuckle. Taking another sip of his coffee, he reached up and removed his sunglasses; setting them on the coffee table in front of him. “But seriously, from one intelligence officer to another, I know the look. Being bored out of your skull, wishing you could be doing anything else right now. That kind of thing,” he shrugged. “I’ve seen it in the mirror more times than I can count.”

Serena chuckled. “I wasn’t aware that getting laid was part of the deal. You must be getting better assignments than I am,” she replied, not hiding the way that her eyes looked up and down his figure in a once-over as she spoke.

Mason snorted, his chocolate eyes flashing in amusement for a moment as he looked up to meet Serena’s gaze. “Oh believe me, I really don’t. I spend most of my time following the Imperator around, or reassuring some legislator that the boogeyman isn’t out to get him for some goddamn reason.” He joked, tearing his gaze from her to look her over a time or two, a minute flicker of approval in his eyes.

“Excuse me, you two,” a new voice added. Looking over, Mason spied a new arrival, a Shalumite man wearing a cleanly pressed uniform. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find agent,” he paused to look down at the paperwork in his hands. “Serena Cortlandt, would you?”

“You’re speaking to her. What is this about?” Serena questioned, furrowing her eyebrows as she looked up at this man. From the uniform, and the paperwork, and the fact that he asked for her by name, she didn’t quite get a very positive feeling at that moment.

The Shalumite just looked at her for a moment quizzically, before shrugging as he opened up the folder in his hands. Extracting several pages of paper that had been stapled together, he promptly handed them to her. “As of nine-thirty-one, Shalumite standard time, in the two-thousand-and-sixteenth year of our Lord, by order of the Acrean Minister of Intelligence, I am here to inform you, Agent Cortlandt, that you have been assigned to the Shalumite Special Tasks Group as a foreign attache until further notice. You at to report to Agent-in-charge Mason Shepherd no later than twelve o'clock tomorrow afternoon.”

There was a choked cough from the sitting Shalumite agent, as he tried not to spit his coffee out on those positioned in front of him. “Come again? I’m agent Shepherd,” he explained as he jabbed a finger at his own chest.

The other agent just shrugged and looked at Serena for a moment. “Congratulations then, on your assignment, sir. It's not everyday we work with Prussians,” the man chuckled. “Have a nice day you two, and happy hunting.”

Serena, for her part, looked amusingly stunned. One eyebrow raised, her mouth slightly open as though she was searching for the right words, any words, to string together as a response. It could be worse, she supposed. At least Mason had a sense of humour.

The Shalumite agent was silent for a long couple of moments after the messenger had departed, his own expression of surprise mirroring that of the Acrean intelligence officer sitting across from him. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when nothing came out. Finally, she sighed and leaned forward, giving her a faux accusatory look. “Let me guess, you planned this?”

“If I had, I would have chosen a more suave and sweep-me-off-my-feet kind of partner.” Serena shrugged, her lips turning up into a small smirk. Sipping her tea, she locked eyes with Mason. “Was the whole ‘year of our lord’ deal necessary? Seems a bit formal.”

Mason snorted and took a sip of his coffee before leaning back in his seat. “Thanks, thanks, I really feel the love there. I probably would have gone for the whole ‘femme fatale’ kind of look if I had gotten to choose,” he teased her with a small smirk of his own. Shrugging, he continued. “We take our law seriously over here in the Empire. Some people refer to it as after the common era, we refer to it as the ‘year of our lord,’ just a matter of semantics,” he shrugged. “If you’re gonna be my partner, you gonna have to get used to all of my culture’s little quirks,” he grinned.

“I’m going to have to get used to you, or the country. Can’t do both at the same time,” Serena chuckled, leaning back in her seat. She curled her legs up on the open space beside her, silent for a moment as she eyed her new apparent partner. Even though he was, apparently, the one in charge.

Chuckling, Mason leaned back, kicking his legs over the arm of the little arm chair he had settled in. Was it professional? Not at all. But he figured it wasn’t something he needed to worry about here, at least in front of her. “You’ll probably have an easy time with me. I’m about as interesting as a two-by-four,” he joked unashamedly. It wasn’t as if he did much outside of work. “If anyone is going to have trouble, it's going to be me getting used to you,” after a pause, he added, “it’s not often that I have partners.”

“I like to think that I’m a rather likeable person,” Serena stated. Her cup, though she held it, was empty. She paused, thinking for a moment, and then shrugged. “Not that either of us have a choice about being stuck together for hours and hours.”

“Oh, it is going to be terrible. I can see it already,” he grinned at her. “If you would prefer, you could just go ahead and run now. I am sure no one would question me if I said you showed up for work on time every day and left once I gave you assignments,” he joked. “But really,” he was trying to be more serious now. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine. You’ve had a partner before, right?”

Serena was silent as she pondered the question. It should have been a simple answer. She’d never really had a partner, had she? Never a single one that she knew like the back of her own hand, perhaps even better than she knew herself. It was always a team, a task force. Never just alone with one person. Her smirk faltered. “No.”

Shepherd blinked in surprise, his own look of amusement dropping into a more serious one of thought. Absently, he swirled what remained of his coffee, before finally mustering a reply. “Well then...it’s, it’s really not all that different when you compare to working with a bigger team. You’ve got the same goals and all of that, just less people to blame it on if something goes tits up,” he tried to joke. “How, um, would you feel about meeting up with me later tonight after this meeting wraps up? I’m sure we’ll have a lot to discuss, and well.” He motioned to the lounge area. “Something tells me this is neither the time or place for nitty-gritty details.”

“That sounds good,” Serena replied, her lips turning back up. She glanced back at the still open door of the conference room, where the meeting had turned from more of an interrogation and into an actual conversation. That was a good sign, at the very least. “What time?”

Mason’s eyes followed her own, and he sighed in relief, if only mentally. At least he wouldn’t have to go back in there to look tough, or worst comes to worst, crack some heads. Looking back at Serena, he shrugged. “Anytime after...eh, six should be fine. My hours can be pretty fluid,” he shrugged. “At least for now. Any preferences to where we meet?”

“No clue,” Serena said, pondering for a moment. She chuckled, now with a full and pleasant smile on her face. “I don’t quite know my way around here yet, you know. Just got here and all. What do you suggest?”

The older agent actually looked like a deer in the headlights for a moment, eyes widening as he blinked. “Ah, well.” He stumbled over his words. “I’m afraid I don’t actually know a good many places in Aragon to eat. Most of the time, I take my meals at the office, or at my house,” he admitted. “I actually know a good Quenmenese restaurant, but well, that more take out than dine in.”

“I don’t mind take-out,” Serena replied. It wasn’t a particularly popular cuisine at home, Quenmenese. Their take-out was always mediterranean. Nonetheless, she was open to trying new things.

“Sounds good to me, then.” Mason replied with a small smile. It was a good answer, as far as spies and soldiers went. In their line of work, you more or less had to get used to eating foreign foods, as well as things you found no kind of desire in. It was just part of the job. “From what I have been told, it's about as close to the real thing you are going to get this far north. We have different meats, spices, that kind of thing,” he shrugged. “So um...we would meet at my place, unless you have somewhere you’d prefer? There is always my office too,” he offered.

“No, no. It’s fine,” Serena confirmed, almost too quickly. She didn’t mean it like she was that eager to go to his house, and she internally cringed at how it sounded that way. She bit her lower lip.

“My house?” He asked, as if looking for confirmation. If the lass was ‘eager’ about going to his residence, then he didn’t notice it, or at least seemed fazed. “Well, alright then. I’ll just go ahead and jot down my address and phone number in case you need to get in touch with me,” he said as he reached for a notepad on the table. When he was done, he handed the post-it to her. “So, it’s a date then?”

“Yeah,” Serena nodded. Internally, she groaned at his last words. That had to be teasing her, right? There was no other way. Now she couldn’t get the idea out of her mind. Not that it mattered, either way. She knew that this was nothing like that.

---

The House of Mason Shepherd
The Duchy of Haford
Aragon, Shalum

When one first arrived at the residence of one of the Special Task Group’s most prominent agents, it was likely that they would have experienced some amount of surprise. It was not some of grand residence that you would have expected for someone of his pay grade, nor was it located in some kind of secluded area where maintaining security was easier. Instead he lived in a quaint little brownstone townhouse that found itself wedged between the glitz and glamor of the downtown area, and the more quiet, easy going suburbs that the majority of the city’s population could actually afford to live in. The whole place was comfortable and quiet, and felt like some young couple with two dogs with there, not a trained agent who could kill in a heartbeat if he so chose to.

On the steps of his house, he waited patiently for Serena to arrive, leaned back against the smooth stone. It was dusk by now, technically already dark on the street, due to the sun dipping below taller, neighboring buildings. Between his legs was a water bottle, and in one hand was his smartphone. She was a bit late, and he was wondering if she was going to call at any moment, asking for directions.

In all fairness, Serena would not have been late at all if she’d been paying attention to the navigation in her car more properly. A missed turn and a detour assured that she was no earlier than seven past six, at which point the jet-black Audi pulled up in front of the Shepherd residence with an exasperated Serena

Mason couldn’t help but whistle in appreciation as Serena pulled up, her car shining under the city’s new LED streetlights. Though more of a Porshe kind of person, he certainly liked the look of the vehicle. Not to mention the woman behind the wheel...god, where did that come from? Standing up, Mason shook his head; slipping his phone into his pocket, before walking towards where she had parked street side. “For what is essentially your first day on the job, Cortlandt, you’re not making good impressions. Late already,” he teased her.

Serena raised an eyebrow at Mason, a challenging glint in that icy steel gaze of her’s. Shutting the car off, she leaned back in her seat as she considered her words. She had changed earlier, into a more comfortable pair of denim shorts and a simple thin black cotton off-the-shoulder top with long sleeves that fit snug to her. She failed to bring a snappy retort to mind. “You got me there,” she replied, snatching up her small leather bag before lifting herself out of the A6. It was an Acrean-imported sedan model.

Smiling, he gave her a small nod of the head in the universal ‘follow me’ kind of way, before turning towards the stairs. The door was already unlocked, and he held the door for the younger woman before closing it behind them. Inside, they were greeted with a rather comfortable setting of hardwood floors and chairs and couches laid out. Though he may not have had many guests on any given day, he was at least prepared. “Feel free to make yourself at home,” he said with a soft smile. “I didn’t, um, order dinner yet. I figured I would wait for you to show up,” he explained with a small shrug. “I figured we could pass the time with drinks and paperwork, though, if you were up for it?”

“You invite a girl to your home and don’t even have dinner ready yet?” Serena smirked, her head on a swivel as she looked over the inside of the place. It was nice, clean. Well decorated. Nothing that she hadn’t expected, in all reality. “I’d say you aren’t off to a great start yourself. At least you have drinks.”

Mason just grinned and tugged at the color of his shirt. Gone was the suit, replaced by a more simple pair of khaki cargo shorts and a black polo shirt that hugged his upper body. “Hey, I didn’t want to be the presumptuous one that ended up ordering something you would hate,” he tried to defend himself. Reaching over, he tossed her a colored pamphlet with the menu of the takeout place listed. “Any preferences you have on drinks by the way? Water, coffee, beer, wine? I’m usually pretty stocked up,” he chuckled.

“Beer,” Serena told him simply as she picked up the menu. It was foreign to her, having never eaten Quenmenese. She frowned for a moment, realising that she didn’t even know where to begin to pronounce the names of some of the foods listed.

“Coming right up,” Mason replied with a nod. He disappeared a for a few moments, only to return with a brown-tinted beer bottle in each large hand. “Imported straight from Aurelia,” he chuckled as he handed her the drink, cap already removed. He seated himself next to her -not too close, however- and read the menu as well. “I’m going to be honest, I’ve eaten this place for years, and I still don’t know what half of this menu says. I usually go for something safe, like their version of pasta and rice,” he shrugged.

“Well what’s the fun in being safe?” Serena stated, smiling over at Mason as she took a long drink. Furrowing her eyebrows at the menu, she pursed her lips. “Why don’t we try… Bo luc lac?”

“They say that he who dares, wins.” Mason replied with a small chuckle; eyeing the menu. When she finally spoke her order, he couldn’t help but blink as his eyes darted over to the item image. “Well, it doesn’t look half bad, I suppose.” He replied slowly, surprised that she had even managed to -say- the name properly. “I think I could go for it, yeah.” He said, before fishing his phone out of his pocket. “I have them on speed dial, it will just take a second.” He promised as he stepped away.

Soon enough, Mason returned, smiling as he plopped down and took another sip of the rather stiff Acrean lager. “The food should be here in twenty or less,” he promised. Looking over, he spied the manilla envelope from work on the table that had both of their names on it. “You wanna go ahead and open this up and get it out of the way, or save it for after dinner?”

“Oh, just get it over with,” Serena said. The couch was extremely soft, the cushions feeling as though they enveloped her as she leaned back. Of course, in reality they barely moved other than to accommodate her weight.

“So I may have opened it earlier,” he said in preface, chuckling at her tone. Undoing the clasps, he pulled out a thick section of paperwork with the stamps of both their agencies on them. “And there is a minor, um, issue.” Pausing, a sheepish look crossed his face as he held out the papers to her. “I don’t speak Prussian.” Motioning down to the papers, it was very apparent that they had not been written in his native English.

“German?” Serena replied, raising an eyebrow at Mason, taking the paper in hand. Looking over it, she sighed. “According to your ever so gracious Director, we are going to be spending a lot of time together. Training, practicing, all for something that… we will be told when we need to. Wonderful.”

[Cacerta]

Several Weeks Before…

HMS Alessandra Sarissita-Trento (SSNA-JS-003)
South of Vaddon, Nuadan Ocean
The Alessandra had been shadowing the RMF Sovngarde for nearly a week after picking up her sonar signature not long after departing their last patrol checkpoint.

She had been observing the Ossorian military base on the island of Vaddon from a distance for several days. Considering the ongoing conflict the RON found themselves in, Captain Liviana Mosconi did not feel comfortable coming any closer than they already were. On several occasions they had already needed to go dead in the water to avoid the risk of detection by nearby Ossorian ships and submarines. After having a close call with one of the RON’s Katell class submarines -- as confirmed by sonar -- the Captain made the decision that they had overstayed their welcome. Not long after, the Alessandra went on to continue north with her ongoing patrol route.

They had proceeded several dozen kilometers north of Vaddon at a low cruising depth -- maintaining a speed of 24 knots -- when she picked up the signature of the Sovngarde on her long-range sonar. Finding it suspicious to detect an Azurlavaian ship so far south and away from the United Republic, Liviana had elected to shadow the carrier; informing the Admirality of her change in plans via the CRN’s designated encoded VLF radio band. It did not take long for Grand Admiral Doria to confirm the submarine’s change in agenda; the closest vessel capable of shadowing the ship aside from the Alessandra was the Johanna and she was off the north-west coast of Nordkrussen.

“Captain Siciliana will be taking care of the remainder of our patrol zone,” Liviana stated to her XO, Valter Moretti, in her private quarters. The second-in-command was leaning against the doorframe of his commander’s room, arms folded and brow furrowed in concentration. The Captain rolled out a chart across the table in her room. “Our sonar pings of the Sovngarde put it rounding about Vaddon.” She pointed out a connected line that showed the ship’s course. “The only thing I imagine that the Azurlavaians might have interest in is Nalaya. I have significant doubts that they’d be interested in Andria and it would seem outside of their wheelhouse to be patrolling the southern oceans.”

Liviana got up from the seat of her desk and put her NWU coat back on, rolling up her sleeves as Valter followed her closely behind. They proceeded through the submarine’s cramped gangways, ducking carefully through bulkheads as they retreated stern-ward towards the CIC. The commanding officer put on her cap as she entered the control room and was greeted with a Captain on deck! to which she quickly responded, “At ease,” and waved everyone back to their stations. “Helm. Course and speed.”

“Course: one-five-five. Speed: 28 knots.”

“Very well. Maintain course and speed.” Liviana moved to her console on the center of the floor and grabbed the handset from the intercom control attached to the ceiling. “Sonar-Conn, report status of our current contact.”

“Conn-Sonar. RMF Sovngarde is maintaining steady course and speed; continuing on its course one-five-two at a speed of 27 knots.”

“Sonar-Conn. Understood, keep me updated.” Liviana reached back to her console and pushed the up button to raise her periscope, leaning against the handles after it had completely risen. She scanned the horizon carefully, making a full 360 degree rotation before pushing the handles up and bringing her periscope back down. “No surface contacts. Sonar-Conn, any contacts?”

“Conn-Sonar. Minus Priority One, the scope is clear.”

“Very well,” the Captain turned to her XO, “Mister Moretti, take us down to 80 meters.”

“Aye, Captain.” Valter turned on his heel and approached a nearby occupied console. “Diving control, set your depth to eight-zero meters; forty degree down angle.”

“Conn-Radio. Captain, we have an incoming priority transmission on our VLF radio band.”

“Radio-Conn, I’m on my way.” Liviana hung up her handset. “Mister Moretti, you have the Conn.” Liviana moved quickly and intentionally, proceeding through two bulkheads before appearing in the radio room rather startlingly. “Mister Angelo, do you have something for me.”

There was an audible tear of paper and the man returned with a printed message. “Yes Ma’am, direct from the Grand Admiral.”

HMS Alessandra, Andria Command Group
Acting Captain Liviana Mosconi

Continue pursuit of Sovngarde until further notice. Stop.
Report movements in two hour intervals. Stop.
Report movements to Admiral Rivera. Stop.

It was going to be a long month.

---

Prior to the Azurlavaian landing...

5th Amphibious Assault Division
Massis, Nalaya
Even though Admiral Rivera had been notified almost immediately of the impending approach of the Sovngarde by the Captain of the Alessandra Sarissita-Trento, it was still quite a hectic rush to get the troops of the Amphibious Assault Division onto shore. To speed up the process, what amphibious vehicles they had, the Vera Santuli dropped off as it made its way into port. It must have been a strange sight to any spectators to see tanks and armored vehicles rolling out of its submerged stern landing dock. Ileana had lead the amphibious elements from the opened cupola of her Unicorn tank destroyer; one hand on her throat mic and using the other to direct the following vehicles to the closest appropriate landing. The arrival of the Kingdom’s 5th Amphibious Assault Division illustrated Cacertians proclivity for water-based technology -- how many nations focused on making sure its armored vehicles could swim?

As the Vera began the last stages of its docking procedure, the APCs and IFVs that had landed ashore via their amphibious capabilities maneuvered into position and began the work of setting up a secure perimeter. Troopers poured out of their corresponding transports, brandishing their Naval Assault Rifles and keeping a close eye on their surroundings. Even though Massis was -- on paper -- a friendly port, the sight of fully-armed and armored foreigners could certainly seem intimidating to the local populace. Ileana commanded the off-load of her forces from atop her tank, combining her radio communications with hand signals to unload what was left of the towed guns and trucks that remained on board.

“Let’s pick it up, ladies and gents,” the Colonel spoke over the radio waves, “We have Azurlavaians in bound and I want to get us on shore and out of their way before they arrive, otherwise this landing process is going to go straight to shit.” Vehicle drivers hit the gas on their vehicles, letting the trucks’ massive tires dig into concrete as they arose from the belly of the vessel towing various arms and material. It was not long after when Ileana’s Unicorn fell in line as rearguard as they made their way to the local Shalumite base which had been kind enough to house them until larger Royal Army elements arrived to properly set up an FOB. But, with the arrival of the United Republic, Ileana was more than sure that they now had no set goal objective for reinforcements. Until Army Command said otherwise, the 5th Amphibious would be alone to conduct their ground missions.

Annette Durand would be their local contact in Massis; second in command to the base commander, Joseph Burkes, who was away. The Colonel did not bother to ask where Burkes could be, it would be answer she would have to get later once they had settled in. It was not long after they had finished unloading when the Azurlavaians arrived. Ileana observed them for as long as she could before their landing craft disappeared behind the buildings and cranes of the dock; their carrier prominently displaying the sigil of the United Republic.

Ileana switched to a secure channel that the Shalumites had provided to them prior to their landing, “Colonel Durand, this is Colonel Masella of Her Majesty’s 5th, how copy?”

To say that there was an Imperial military presence at Massis’ port was an understatement. Of the five hundred or so troops currently stationed in the city, at least a fifth of them appeared to be on duty here, moving up and down the docks at regular intervals. Normally, they were actually quite relaxed in their duties, more or less blending in with the local workers and civilian contractors who had the job of loading and unloading ships. But today, they were fully alert, weapons kept at the ready, a certain purpose in the soldiers’ steps as they patrolled. Perhaps it was the arrival of the Azzies and Cacertians, or perhaps it was something still unseen that was causing this kind of reaction.

After a few moments, there was a flicker of radio traffic from the Shalumite side. It was not static, but it sounded as if there was a lot of talking going on in the background as the Colonel went about her reply. “Ah, yes, hello Colonel Masella!” An accented voice replied, trying to sound somewhat cheerful despite everything, but not quite succeeding in the process. “We read you, though I am going to have to apologize for any background noise. We’re rather, well, busy at my command post at the moment.” She said in the way of explanation. “Is everything green with your landing operations?” She inquired, trying to sound as friendly as she could. There was something to be said for familiarity and ease of communication, especially among those who were allies in all but paperwork.

The convoy of Cacertian armored vehicles came to a brief halt as Ileana and her Unicorn crew sped to the front, “All green, Colonel, if not a bit rushed. I did not possess any intel -- personally -- that the United Republic had any interest here in Nalaya.” She kept one hand on her throat mic as she turned back to signal all the commanders poking out of the cupolas behind her to follow her directions. “With that said, my orders to proceed northward have been delayed. Army Command orders came through early this morning for my Division and I to hold until further notice. I do believe we are making a determination as to whether or not more Royal Army elements will follow behind mine -- I hope you have room at your base for 2,000 men, women, and their vehicles, Colonel.”

There was a quick laugh over the radio, followed by some shuffling as Colonel Durand got settled at a more quiet desk back at her forward operating base. Brushing some hair behind her ear, she keyed up her communications piece again. It was a headset of sorts, with a transmitter clipped onto her belt. “We have plenty of spare room, yes.” She confirmed, but there was a pause. “I’m afraid, however, that we may not have room inside the perimeter walls for all of them. The bases here at Massis were designed for the storage and processing of supplies and troops before they were shipped further north, or as a waiting area for soldiers returning home. We may have space for five or six hundred of your soldiers at most. I’m afraid that the rest of them will have to camp in the fields surrounding our bases, if that is alright with you, ma’am,” she replied. Per Shalumite military regulation, there had to be a 200 meter space of open field in all directions around the base to ensure proper security. While it wasn’t recommended for soldiers to sleep there, the Imperials and Cacertians didn’t have many other options at the moment, at least without asking the locals for quarters.

Ileana’s Unicorn led the way, weaving through the streets of Massis at a fast, yet controlled, dash to the outskirts of the city. The AAD’s vehicles were painted in a dark olive green, the only two things standing out being the sigil of the Royal Army -- in its red highlights -- and the symbol of the 5th; a stylized fortress emblazoned with their nickname Wardens of the South. The Amphibious Assault Divisions -- while primarily a spearhead and security force for the Royal Army -- was expected to survive on their own in adverse conditions. As such, they were well equipped with appropriate camping gear and food supplies to last several weeks, if the needed arose. It would be nice to put their trucks in an appropriate motor pool for now, and it would seem that the majority of the Division’s personnel would be camping outside of the walls which would be fine, for now. The Cacertian Colonel set at the edge of her cupola, providing her a more full view of her surroundings. “That’s fine, Colonel, as long as their is a place for us to appropriately set up camp. We’ve brought along enough supplies to keep us self-sufficient, for the most part, but it’s just a better idea to stick closer to friendly forces than camp outside the city or where we won’t be welcome.”

On any given day, the Shalumite security forces at Massis would have been out in full force, patrolling both on foot and in in their vehicles. There would have been manned checkpoints here and there as well, stopping civilians, if only for a moment to do some rudimentary searches. They were rarely invasive, as the soldiers came to know the locals who they saw everyday. At the moment, however, there was none of this. No soldiers out in the streets, armored vehicles, or even checkpoints. Just a few civilians out and about, less than was usual.

“That is very understandable, ma’am. Yes, there is more than enough room for you all. I just wish more of it was behind our Hesco barriers,” the Imperial colonel lamented. “You’re more than welcome to bunk up with us until you all decide to move on, rest assured. General Burke actually expected this kind of request, so he gave y’all the approval in advance,” she went on to explain. “Just follow the road signs that we’ve set up for our supply vehicles, they’ll lead you right to our forward operating base. We set ourselves up on the outskirts of town where there was more open space to work with.”

“Understood, Colonel. Once we arrive, we’ll get ourselves set up accordingly,” Ileana responded as she looked at a map, “ETA fifteen minutes.”

[Cacerta]

5th Amphibious Assault Division
FOB Sentinel, Massis, Nalaya
The Cacertian arrival at the Shalumite FOB Sentinel was quick and methodical; they were quick to fit as many utility vehicles as they could in the provided space inside the base’s Hesco barriers. The rest of the divisions vehicles and armor parked themselves on the exterior fields. With orders to hold in place, Ileana told her troops to get comfortable for now. The OZ deployment in Siunik and how well their fight for the city pans out will be a major determining factor in how CRA command wants the 5th to proceed. Latest information passed down from the Colonel was that the initial forward elements had begun to engage hostile forces on the city’s outskirts, but the OZ armored units had yet to move into position. It was believed the street to street fighting would be detrimental for a fully armored force; they had elected to send their light tanks in waves once the infantry had begun to move in.

Despite the Colonel’s quip about getting comfortable, the mentality of her soldiers remained objective and serious. The men and women of an amphibious assault division were all career soldiers who very much understood the importance of keeping themselves sharp and ready for a fight. Isidora Proscia started her career in the military in 2009 after graduating from the Potenza School of Mechanical Engineering. In her younger years, she had been a devout skeptic over mandatory service in Cacerta -- many countries around the world did not require its citizens to serve -- but now, after fooling around the army for seven years Isidora considered her comrades in arms her family.

Her technical prowess and proclivity for machinery had put her in the army’s engineering corps very early in her military career. She spent much of her time in shops and hanger servicing all manner of Cacertian vehicles, of which she had a strong background in the turbine engines found in the Royal Army’s Tuonos and Unicorns. It wasn’t a surprise to her when, after nearly three years of being covered in dirt and oil, that command and pulled her from her original post in Anzio and stuck her aboard a ship bound for Andria. The small island protectorate was in dire need of turbine engine specialists, especially with its location so far from the home islands. The 5th Amphibious Assault Division was stationed there as was a number of the Kingdom’s elite armored battalions -- all of whom ran vehicles equipped with turbine engines.

As soon as the 5th had arrived at FOB Sentinel, Isidora immediately went to work inspecting the engines on their assigned Tuonos and Unicorns. The engineer was almost obsessive in her need for inspecting things and she found herself in the underside belly of one of the tank’s engine compartments, her hair tied in a pony tail and her face covered in oil smudges. She was pulled from her work when she heard someone calling her name. Grunting as she got off her back, Isidora arose from underneath a Tuono, stretching as she did so. “Who the hell is calling me right now. Now is definitely not the time.” She said it playfully. Isidora knew who it was.

“Who know who the hell it is.” Antonio Sorice and Isidora had been assigned to the 5th around the same time. I native of Andria, the transition from the supply division of the 77th Armored to the same position on the 5th Amphibious was not as drastic to him as it was for her. As one of the main requisitions officers for the Division, he and Isidora had chatted a lot in between her ordering parts for their various vehicles. He came in behind her carrying a large box that had been shipped from Potenza -- more parts for their vehicle engines. “You know goddamn well who it is! And take this box, it’s heavy as shit.”

Isidora turned around and smiled at him, taunting him in not attempting to take the box out of his hands.

“Do you want me to drop it? Because I will.” He played as if he was struggling with it, even though he really wasn’t.

“Both you and I know you won’t do that. The Colonel will have your ass,” Isidora kept one hand on her hips and another twirled a wrench like a clock.

It felt like minutes, but it was only seconds, before Antonio put the box down on the grass in front of her. “You’re no fun, Isidora, you know that?”

“I’m plenty fun,” she responded as she opened the box up and began examining the appropriate parts she needed, “Just not the same kind of fun as you!”

The engineer retreated back underneath the vehicle’s engine block, dragging the wooden crate with her as she did. Antonio watched her intently and listened to the sounds of her tools at work. Methodical and repetitive. Occasionally she would take a part out, placing it to one side, and proceeded to grab its newer and cleaner component from the box the man had brought her.

“Have you been hearing about what’s going down in the city?”

“Nah, not really,” she said to him as she continued her work, “I’ve been working on keeping this shit in working condition. You know how it is.”

The man was half-tempted to make a quip about how Isidora kept their vehicles almost obsessively immaculate in their working condition, but he kept his mouth shut. If he wanted to see her out of her uniform at all tonight, it was best not to say anything stupid while she was busy doing her work. “Apparently there are riots going on in Hishatak Square. Apparently the people aren’t all too happy with everyone being here.”

“I can’t say I blame them, though,” Isidora responded, “I mean, how well would we take it if a bunch of foreigners came to our country in the midst of a civil war.” She came out from underneath the tank and stood up again. “We’re here to help, of course, but for the local populace they might just see us as stirring the pot.” Expertly, Isidora climbed up on top of the vehicle and squeezed herself into the driver’s seat. There was a brief moment of silence between them before the engine of the tank started with a low rumble. “Right now!” Isidora yelled over the sound of the turbine engine. “We’ve got to wait for orders from Top! Who knows, we might be moving out of the city for the sake of city!”

[Nalaya]

Along the Zeklet’taune Aluin
The Har’oloth, Nalaya

Sabal hated the way she could hear the door creak when the creature slammed into it again. Then the eerie silence returned. She could picture the lion pacing back and forth, scenting the air. Her grip on her own rifle relaxed slightly at the quiet. That was not a bad sign. “I suggest we not go outside,” she said quietly as her lips curved into a wry smile.

Pella laughed nervously at that. “Do you think it can get in?”

“Anything is possible, but not everything is likely,” Sabal said, offering the girl a small, more reassuring smile. “It will go in search of other prey eventually, though it may not be able to hunt well with that old injury. It has every reason to hunt humans, even without taking Kor’inth’s possession into consideration.”

The quiet stretched on and on, for eternities, until Sabal finally relaxed and set her rifle down. “I think the spirit has moved on, at least for now. It will try to catch us out on the road, without shelter. It may be better for us to track it down, as much as I hate to say such a thing.” She sat back down on the floor, trying to stretch out the muscles that adrenaline and fear had tightened. “We need to sleep. I don’t want to try and fight Kor’inth while tired. And when we do, we need to be properly prepared. Spirits like Kor’inth can move through bodies, even possess them. I’ve channeled it before.”

It wasn’t a good memory, being lost in that all-consuming rage, but it had been necessary. Survival was the nature of the beast, and Sabal’s soul was most certainly bestial, if in the most sacred way possible. She could feel the discomfort with the idea of combating Kor’inth like a knot in her chest. Having Joan in her arms would ease it.

She liked the idea of a future with the justicar, even if she wasn’t certain what it would look like. If Joan was willing to stay in Nalaya, they might have a chance. She wasn’t certain how well she would survive if she went to Shalum. But how fair was it for her to ask Joan to stay? At least for a while, they could. She wanted to be able to show Joan all of her country: the gardens of the Heartland, the vast sea of sand that was the Dominion, the rugged beauty of the Homeland, the majesty of the Sarrnamanik’s titanic peaks. There was so much wonder that Joan hadn’t had the opportunity to see, trapped in Armavir by duty. Part of her felt a niggling doubt about whether it was even possible, but the thought was something to cling to in a world so dark.

This spirit’s presence was a sign, as uncomfortable as it was to admit. The world was displeased, perhaps with Karagozian, or perhaps with what she was doing. Sabal didn’t know what to do now. The thought of Dyvynasshar was beginning to make something twist unpleasantly in her stomach...well, it had before, if she was being honest with herself. Even before she violated the Tenet of Reserve. Her failing was not going to win her any points with the yochlol or the Dread Wolf.

Sabal laid her head down on the folded blanket she was using as a pillow, her thoughts racing a million miles a minute. This was not what she’d imagined for her life when she left the Homeland more than a year ago to pursue human traffickers.

It gets no easier from here… she told herself. In the morning, they would need to deal with Kor’inth. Then, they could make their way to Dyvynasshar and whatever was waiting for them there.

---

Miak Amrots'
Tatev, Nalaya

The moment Valantin saw Rikker’s text message, she immediately dropped everything she’d been doing, including entertaining the EI investigator and the Shalumites nosing around. They were a very minor problem compared to the one squarely in the middle of her plate now. One dead man was a lot less threatening than a city full of dead people if Rikker breathed wrong. “The ku’nal are here earlier than expected,” she said as she rose to her feet, setting her coffee cup aside and tucking her phone into her blazer pocket before pulling it on. “I have to go. I’m sorry. If you require my assistance in any way, shape, or form, please let me know.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck… Her brain was already in crisis mode as she breezed out of her office, right past Sahak. “I’m out of the office,” she called over her shoulder at him. “Phone’s off.” She knew he would understand that she was in the middle of something that could not be interrupted for any reason.

She had been around for a long time, playing with fire nearly as long as she’d been alive, but this was going to be ghosting closer to the flames than even she was particularly comfortable with. Val moved on intercept course to catch Rikker before he made it to the gates where Sabrae and Lesaonar Nasadra would be waiting. She didn’t know what the hell was going to happen next, but at least they were known actors. Valantin had the advantage of fingers on the pulse of Nalaya’s intelligence community, and the pair were certainly known to the Powers That Be even in Sevan. They were what Siran Zadian would politely refer to as ‘pieces of work’.

They were dangerous, and not in the way that Rikker was necessarily expecting.

But in her position as their weapon, she knew what they were capable of—what she was capable of—better than anyone.

She smoothed out her hair and clothes before stepping out into the hall to catch Rikker. “I know we don’t have time for any planning if they’re already here, but I’m here to be support,” she said quickly.

Out at the gates, Sabrae unfolded her passport case to present her papers to the guards at the gate, chatting pleasantly with them. They seemed wary of her just because she was with the ku’nal and the brooding figure that was Lesaonar, but no one here really knew who she was. Sabrae T’sarran was no warlord and she was a very private woman. Lesaonar liked his power open, forceful and direct. She worked in subtle ways. Besides, she didn’t look like one of the C’rintrin in northern-style business attire. Her blouse was a deep, royal blue, tucked into dove grey slacks. She had the sleeves rolled up like Lesaonar’s, more to enjoy the feeling of golden sunlight on her skin than anything else. She was a woman barely tattooed, a line of script in pale blue ink running down from her left temple to the top of her cheekbone. “Thank you for your service, Paron,” she said with a bright smile at the serzhant in command, her heavily hooded eyes warm and friendly. Her hair, blonde and shot through with silver, was pulled back into a neat bun at the moment and she had reading glasses perched atop her head now that she was into her mid forties and her eyes were beginning to act up.

There were a pair of sapphires somewhere in the T’sarran family tree, lending their color to those smiling eyes. They were not eyes half as genuinely friendly as Valantin Andzevatsi’s. She was unquestionably beautiful, but in the way knives were beautiful: polished and lethal.

Lesaonar was a brooding figure, a tall and powerful Mak’ur man easily even in height and musculature to the Shalumite soldiers. He wasn’t as big as Nadal, a bit on the leaner side as he’d lost some of his bulk from age, but he made up for it with a brutal temper. He was, at heart, a violent man. A cunning one, but a violent one all the same. He was the universe’s complement to Sabrae’s smiling, almost unassuming nature. “Are you finished?” he grunted when she took her papers back from the man and tucked them into the pocket of her coat, which she had draped over one arm.

“Just about,” she said with a smile. “It would seem that Colonel Rikker and the ever lovely Siruhi Valantin Andzevatsi are almost here. I just saw them come out the main doors.”

“About time,” the Ilharn said. He lit his cigarette and then clicked off his lighter, tucking it away in his pants pocket. He’d lit it more out of boredom than a real craving.

Sabrae’s lips thinned for a minute. It was a despicable habit, mostly because it made kissing him like kissing an ashtray. “Must you?” she asked with a sigh that sounded faintly put upon. It would aggravate him, which would pay dividends later.

He glared, but didn’t dignify it with an answer. She could see the hundred or so little scars on the inside of his forearms from where his sleeves were rolled up. Both of them might have passed for well-dressed partners of some law firm or another if it wasn’t for the fact that they were surrounded by soldiers with weapons. These ku’nal did not have a uniform other than the scarfs they all had that could be pulled up to cover their faces, but they did have body armor and weapons that were only ten or fifteen years old, if even that. Some of the gear was quite new. All of it was in good condition, carefully maintained. Their vehicles were similar, a little older but armored and well cared for. There was only a few vehicles here, though. They hadn’t set a convoy for a meeting. After all, Tatev wasn’t enemy territory...and if Rikker was foolish enough to turn it into enemy territory, Nadal would have command of the faithful.

Really, Sabrae considered herself very much the lesser of two foes that he could face, but she’d always fancied herself a humble creature at heart.

Lesaonar stroked his short, carefully trimmed and steel-colored beard, his cigarette dancing from his lips to his side, trapped between two fingers. He flicked the ash off the tip with a lifetime’s practice. He was older than her by a little less than ten years, but his hair had gone grey early. His tattoos were a swirling grey on tan skin. He didn’t say anything, however. He preferred to leave much of the talking to Sabrae, if only because it was enjoyable to watch her play her word games with people. Besides, he would take these few minutes to brood and observe the defenses. After all, if things unfolded in the most probable manner, he would be disassembling them in a few days at most.

---

Hishatak Square
Massis, Nalaya

Anger ruled Hishatak Square. It had taken on a life of its own, spreading like wildfire through the crowd, racing down the broad avenues and narrow side streets. Glass broke throughout the city, shattered by stones and rocks. Enterprising protesters made bold by rage picked up canisters of tear gas still spewing forth their contents and hurled them into the ranks of Azurlav soldiers.

<<This is our city! Our country! Murderers! Slavers!>>

It was long past the time to try and root in place to deal with it in a calm, confident manner. The ku’nal would have immediately identified it as Kor’inth, a spirit of rage, channeled by the many. It really did feel like a thing alive or a storm. Electricity crackled unseen in the air, like the world had suddenly built up a charge that could no longer be contained—a fair representation of the truth.

Why would someone ever hold back when they felt they were fighting evil incarnate? Nalayans in particular were a zealous bunch, prone to righteous fury. And they were not soft people by nature. This crowd—mob now, really—was filled with veterans of every conflict history had thrown at them. They were people hardened in a crucible of war and devastation. Maybe that was why they had no fear and couldn’t be deterred. There were a lot of them, too. Armed with lengths of chain and rebar and bricks that they’d picked up, they hit with the force of a crashing wave against anything that tried to resist. The fleeing Shalumites were no target compared to the soldiers who decided to stay. The Nalayans picked the most dangerous, most aggressive thing and met it head on, just as they’d been doing for most of their recorded history. It didn’t matter that they didn’t have body armor. They had rage, and that was in many ways enough.

People on the roofs at the edge of the square dumped burning tires full of gasoline down on the heads of troops below, caught up in the frenzy. There was fire, tear gas, and black, acrid smoke everywhere in the square as chaos overtook the city. Nalayan vostikanut’yun from the base at Massis were still staging, armed for riot suppression and equipped to do enough non-lethal harm to at least contain the frenzy. However, still staging meant that they weren’t ready to intervene yet.

Cooler heads among the protestors in Massis did exist, mixed in with the crowd. Many of them were just as angry, but they could control it. Use it more effectively. These were people who had been waiting for an opportunity, the type prepared to climb to overlook points with rifles and take proper shots at the foreigners. They were pulling back and spreading, grabbing their own equipment as Nalayan authorities did the same.

However dangerous this was, however, it was only the beginning of a long-felt anger suddenly gaining its voice. It had been set loose like a dog lunging free of its chain and now howled in the streets of Massis...but the shockwaves reached far, far beyond.

---

Nalayan Federated News

Riots Erupt After New Foreign Arrivals

Beginning of the conflict at Hishatak Square

Prn. Jivanshir Arshagouni
Senior Correspondent

The unease in Massis has been palpable since the first foreigners arrived on its shore, but today at the memorial service in Hishatak Square for those killed or vanished in the conflict to the north. The culmination of weeks of anger, mistrust, and frustration sparked the beginnings of ugliness in the street. At present, Nalayan commanders on the ground could not be reached for comment, as the situation is still unfolding and their attention is required.

This comes in light of revelations of disappearances and slavery permitted by Shalumite command due north in Sissak, carried out by the subset of Shalumite forces that were Maldorian. However, at present no attempts at negotiation for right to prosecute have been made between Shalumite forces and the Nalayan government, though the TRC reported that they are about to file a formal petition requesting access to victims and perpetrators for interviewing as the beginning to an open investigation, as the Shalumite command had not contacted them or Nalaya’s military justice system.

It is hardly a secret that the Nalayan people have a deep distrust for foreign military presence on their native soil. The history of the nation has been one clouded in conflict, including with the outside world. The upset expressed in Massis has begun to spread, igniting other, more peaceful demonstrations in Sevan, Yeraskh, In Salāḧ, and other, smaller cities. Eyes are beginning to focus on Tatev as well, as it has the largest foreign military presence outside of the Shalumite 13th Expeditionary Force.

The Protector was quick to immediately address the situation:

"Nalaya,

The abuses of the outside world are not new to us, but that does not mean we must tolerate them as the cost of doing business. At this time, the behavior of our would-be protectors is beyond unacceptable. Shalum will transfer the custody of those who engaged in human trafficking on our soil to Nalaya so that the Truth and Reconciliation Committee can advise my office of suitable trial dates and sentencing as well as allowing for Nalayan investigation into the possibility that such operations may be continuing. If they do not acquiesce to the workings of justice, I simply invoke the principle—the right—of reciprocity.

They have permitted criminal acts against Nalayan citizens and concealed the knowledge of said actions from our justice system. That foreign forces have blundered their way onto Nalayan soil with no regard for our laws, culture, or the lives and well-being of our citizens whether military personnel or civilians is not a surprise, but it is a bitter fulfillment of expectation. We have foreign military personnel on our streets whose presence and authority to police was not authorized by me or anyone in my chain of command. They have all the appearances of glory hounds looking to part out any people they come across who give the impression of belligerence.

These forces have abused our hospitality, our understanding, and our trust. They do not apologize, they do not empathize, they do not care. The only response we have had from them is inaction and silence. That will not continue. I am furious with the conduct exhibited by those who claim to be agents of peace and security, but I am also resolved. The people have spoken and their message is abundantly clear. The status quo cannot be tolerated. Something has to give, and it will never be Nalaya.

All of you, return to your homes, not in defeat or despair, but in preparation for what may come. Let us take the time to consider our future and understand that whatever we do next, whatever happens next, no Nalayan is doing it alone. Whatever our grudges and allegiances, whatever chaos and violence has set itself loose, we are all a part of this nation. We have stood unbroken and unbowed for centuries, despite invasion and civil war and countless tragedies. We were united by a dream and we will fight for it until there is no more blood left in us, against anything and anyone who threatens to rip it away.

Let us dedicate ourselves now to a course of action. Let us dedicate ourselves to forcing the light into every dark corner of our country and our world. We will not be silent, we will not be meek, and we will not accept anything but victory. Our anger needs to be more than felt. It needs to be used, here and now, to demand redress.

I know I am not the one who should be giving you this address, so I will close with a reminder from the one who should have, may she rest in peace: Necessity cannot dictate morality. We should never allow evil simply because it wears the faces of our allies, our friends, our neighbors. We have a duty to drag into daylight the darkness that lingers in this world, where it can be seen for what it is and banished for what it has done. We have a duty to remember, but also to act. Indifference and convenience are only comfort to those who work vile deeds, not those who are harmed by them.

Thank you. May you all walk always under heaven's eyes."

Nalayan forces on the ground are already working to address the dangerous situation in Massis. Our thoughts and prayers rest with all the areas currently afflicted by war, but so does our obligation and our commitment to act.

[Shalum]

3rd Imperial Expeditionary Infantry Brigade Combat Team
Mobile Command Center
The Nava’ai Highlands

Sleep. For the majority of his life, James Tiberius Blackburn had maintained a relatively positive relationship with the condition of both body and mind. It was one thing that had always been there for him, though not necessarily with the regularity he desired; especially during his college years, or during the more intense sections of his time in Imperial bootcamp. Many nights had been dreamless, for lack of a better term. He would simply lay down, and then awake several hours later, usually around the time that the sun began to rise. A bit later in life, when his fiancé had begun to stay over with great regularity; sharing the same bed with him, James would dream of better things as he held her at night. A better future that he wanted to build with her, children and maybe some house in the suburbs with a white picket fence with a couple of dogs to make a mess of the place. Overly stereotypical, he knew, but they were called dreams for a reason.

Alas, those days were gone for him, replaced by the harsh reality that was Nalaya.

No longer did he sleep soundly in whatever cot his troops had set up for him, or even on the floor of his Puma command vehicle when they were on the move and he was simply too exhausted to stay awake. Part of this was because of environment he found himself in, but more often than not, it was the disturbing dreams that filled plagued his slumbers who were to blame. The likeness of a redheaded woman, his beloved Ada, would intertwine with the horror stories and images that he had seen in the Maldorian camp. At other times, it would be the wounded and broken form of Norazn who haunted him, using his last breaths to call James a murderer and a monster who was only there to destroy his country like a disease; regardless of how far from the truth it was, and how many times Desil told him that he had done the honorable thing.

It was as if all the things he dreaded most, and for others as well, seemed to manifest themselves in his resting mind with unsettlingly vivid details that he couldn’t help but feel as if each nightmare was real, without a doubt. Each time he awoke, James would often think At least it is over, but it never seemed to be. His devious mind would only introduce him to a new chapter of torture, a fresh batch of images. It wasn’t rare for him to awake either with a shudder, or tremblings that shook his entire body, his mind swirling in pain, and his body in a seemingly constant-state of near exhaustion. Nothing really became clear until his first...or third, cup of coffee, usually heavy on the honey or sugar. His current pace was far from healthy, James understood quite well after dating a doctor for over two years, but it was too late for him to back down now. If Rikker could handle the pressure of leadership up in the grueling north, then so could he down in the war-torn south.

Today, however, was a departure from the norm, perhaps in the best possible of ways. When James’ command group, and the brigade at large for that matter, had ceased its advancing operations for the day, they had decided to go ahead and set up some tents so that everyone could get some proper rest and time in the shade. The general's was among the first deployed, and upon its completion, James had immediately put his second in command in charge, before slipping off to at least and try catch a few hours of shut-eye. Upon laying down the firm material of the makeshift bed, he had fallen asleep. But for once in a long time, no nightmares abused his conscience. Instead, he was simply dreamless, something that his unconscious body practically clinged to.

Alas, like with many things in life, it came to an end all too quickly. After a mere couple of hours (the brigade was in the process of taking a twenty-four period of rest, it wasn’t as if they had run into any major resistance since the battle of Sissak) the relative peace was broken as a younger soldier, obviously a bit nervous pulled back the flaps of the tent to step in. “General Blackburn?” He asked loudly, hoping to rouse the man once his eyes landed on his passed out form.

There wasn’t any response, so very slowly, he moved forward to shake the commander awake. Anyone else would have probably bitten his hand off, before stripping him of his rank for such an intrusion, but this was not the first time the young soldier had been given this duty of waking James up. “General Blackburn, sir? Please wake up,” he rose the tone of his voice as he began to gently shake the cot.

It took a few moments, but finally, there was a low and displeased grunt. “Wha-” James mumbled as he came to, eyes shooting open as he lifted his head off the single pillow of his cot. Blinking rapidly, he automatically reached up to wipe away the rheum from his eyes. Once he could see properly, he looked over at the young runner, a frown creasing his lips as a headache immediately began to pound. “What...what do you want, Corporal Lawson?” He asked with a tired voice, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. As much as he desired to stay in and go back to sleep, he figured that whatever was important enough to need him awake, would also require him to get out of bed. “I asked not to be summoned unless necessary,” he reminded the young soldier.

“I, ah, apologies for that, sir.” The runner replied, standing at attention as he watched the general pull on his uniform’s overshirt. Out here, in the middle of Nalaya, there wasn’t a need for any kind of pomp or circumstance. In fact, James had been seen on many occasions, dressed like any other soldier, and bedecked in combat armor. “You’re needed at the command center. High Kommand has requested your presence, as well as that of the other field commanders.”

James was sorely tempted to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh, but managed to refrain from it. He actually enjoyed meetings with the highest echelons of his military’s command structure, the men up top were as focused on the mission as they were willing to provide him with the resources he needed to complete operations. They often chose the worst times to summon him, however.

“Fine, fine. Just give me a moment,” James replied idly as he moved over to his footlocker, which a couple troopers had set up at the foot of his cot. Unlocking it, he went about his routine, slipping the black sheath of his wedding knife onto his belt. After that, he slipped on an ankle holster, which he filled with a Mak’ur steel blade that Ada had given him as a gift so long ago. Technically, it wasn’t made to be a boot knife, but he was able to use it as one.

“There is something else, sir.” Corporal Dexter Lawson added as he watched the general. “They wish to speak to you from the divisional mobile combat and command center, not the brigade’s.”

James paused for a very long moment, before looking over at the young soldier incredulously. “Really?” Was the only response he could muster. Ever since the battle of Sissak, the better part of a month ago, he had not so much as thought about visiting the divisional command center. With the brigades spaced out again as they advanced north towards Armavir, it had simply become too inconvenient for regular in-person visits. Thankfully, with the power of satellite communications, he hadn’t needed to. Until now, apparently.

“Yes sir,” the runner confirmed with a nod. Turning, he opened the tent flap for James again, so that they could walk and talk. “The commander of the 2nd Armored Brigade has been called up as well. Apparently the Field Marshal wants to have a meeting with all of the combat commanders of the 13th. That is where my information on the situation ends though, I’m afraid.” He replied with a small frown as they headed towards an open field, where a transport helicopter waited for James, rather than towards the command center of the 3rd Brigade’s encampment.

“Just lovely,” the noble-turned-general replied; sounding displeased with the information. Regardless, there wasn’t much he could do about it, rather than hop on the waiting helicopter, which would then ferry him a good twenty or thirty miles to his meeting. “Inform my aide-de-camp that I will be away, perhaps for several hours, depending on how long the big shots want to keep me. Make sure that he informs Colonel Rickenbacker that he is in command until I return.” Of course, the runner he was speaking to could have easily done it, but there were times when respecting the proper chain of command was necessary.

For lack a better term, his personal assistant was going to be a higher ranking message runner.

“You are dismissed, trooper. Peace be with you,” James said as he glanced over at the younger man. The soldier saluted sharply, returning the proper sentiment in return, before trotting off, likely to find James’ aide-de-camp. Sucking in a low breath, the weary general kept moving along the dirt path to the hastily established helicopter pad, where he found a Mil Mi-24V gunship already waiting for him, as well as a couple of pararescuemen who had apparently been shoehorned in to act as his bodyguards for the day. Giving the pair a nod in greeting, he moved to the nearest seat, and got settled in for the flight.

Twenty-four minutes later, James found himself touching down at the 13th Shalumite Expeditionary Force’s main encampment.

From the air, it looked like quite the impressive place. There had to have been several hundred tents set up, ranging in sizes large enough to house an entire company’s worth of troops or a good amount of more important equipment, to the more smaller ones that you would have expected to find at any campsite. There had to have been two or three times the amount of armored vehicles and instruments of war: armored personnel carriers, infantry fighting vehicles, main battle tanks, transport trucks, and so much more.

General Blackburn didn’t have too long to ruminate on what he saw, however, before the helicopter came in for a landing; touching down gracefully in an open field on the southern perimeter of the cantonment. He was greeted by Malcomson’s personal assistant, a woman who looked far too delicate to be in the military, much less this close to the frontlines. She gave him a warm little smile and asked him to follow her to the command center, his two personal guards never far behind him as he went.

As he moved through the city of tents and soldiers, James silently looked them over, mentally inspecting who were supposed to be among Shalum’s best fighters: Imperial marines. They were an imposing lot, there was no doubt about it, but many of them did look tired. Some walked slowly, others simply carried themselves with less grace, but they all kept their their heads held high. You could tire an Shalumite marine, but never break him, or so the Corp wanted everyone to believe. There were quite a few ‘walking wounded’ among them, men who were not so bad off that they had to return home because of injuries, but were not so hurt that they required a stay in the mobile field hospital.

One thing James noticed about them struck him as rather surprising. As he passed...they all stopped and saluted, or at least nodded their heads in acknowledgement. And while that was expected, given his rank, the look in their eyes did not go unnoticed to him. There was respect and approval there, or even in some cases, even admiration. He was more than just a uniform or some stiff from Aragon to them. Or, so he liked to think anyways. Pondering it, he realized that the men back in his own brigade had regarded him with such looks for some time now. Ever since Sissak…

If only my father was here to see me now, James quietly mused as he drew closer to the command tent. There had been some controversy at first, when he had been assigned to the commander of the 3rd Expeditionary Brigade. On paper, he had all the credentials needed, between his time commanding capital guard troops, which focused heavily on urban warfare and both offensive and defensive tactics. There were others, however, who were skeptical that sending in an untested general -a noble, no less- was not the greatest of ideas.

His father had been among that group, even though he had still backed his son nonetheless, going as far as to use his political sway to help him whenever possible. While he had never admitted, James suspected that his father worried over whether or not he would be able to keep his men in line. It seemed that he was able to now, and not even by using force. Instead, all he had needed to do was earn their respect, which apparently could been won through a duel that had saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives at the end of the day.

Far too soon, General Blackburn was broken from his train of thought by the female aide-de-camp. “Here we are, sir,” she announced with a demure smile. “Generals Malcomson and Lehman are already inside, waiting for you, sir.” She explained as she reached over, opening the door for him.

“Thank you for your assistance,” James replied with a nod. Turning back to his bodyguards, he gave them a small wave of the hand. “Remain here, if you would. It is going to be a long meeting, and I am sure Malcomson’s marines are more than capable of maintaining my security.” He told the two, imposing soldiers. They murmured their acknowledgements to their commanding officer, though the senior of the two didn’t look convinced in the least. Not that James was surprised, though. Bodyguards were literally paid to be paranoid after all.

At the doorway to the command tent, James paused for a moment, slowly breathing in and out. He wasn’t looking forward to whatever this was going to be, if past gatherings of this kind were any indication. Glancing at the female aide-de-camp, he gave her a soft smile. “Wish me luck,” he joked quietly, before more or less forcing his legs to carry him into the tent.

“You can’t fucking do this!” Those were the first words James heard as entered, causing him to startle in surprise. Eyes sweeping over the single room tent, he took in the scene. General Malcomson braced against the table set up before him, a fire raging in his eyes as he glared at a large TV screen that had obviously been hooked up to a nearby computer terminal. On said screen were several divided boxes, each filled with the face of a prominent member of the Imperial High Kommand.

“Actually, General.” The gravelly voice of Marine Corps’ Commandant Ferdinand Schultz was the kind that either demanded respect, or sent a chill down your spine if he wasn’t on your side. The man on screen had obviously gone through hell, between the scars that were edged onto his face, and the serious expression in his eyes. “We’re well within our right to do exactly this. Quite frankly, you have no right to speak to us in the manner that you are now.”

“What I think my counterpart is trying to say,” the Imperial Army’s Field Marshal sounded as if he was at least trying to be cordial about it whatever the bad news was. “Is that you need to remember your place on the totem pole, General Malcomson. You answer to us, it isn’t the other way around.” Looking away from the brooding marine, Urban Holland fixed his gaze on James for a moment. “General Blackburn, it is a pleasure for you to finally join us.”

“It is an honor, sir.” James replied demurely, giving the men on screen a quick salute, before he made his way over to the table. Looking over at his fellow commanders, he spied General Tristan Lehman from the 2nd Armored looking rather unsettled under the fiery gaze of Malcomson. “If I may inquire, sir,” he went on slowly; looking up at the television screen. “What is the issue?”

The marine in the room let out a unkind noise, which Field Marshal Urban Holland -the man who was more or less in charge of the 13th’s movements and command structure, given how much his branch had dedicated to the fight- seemed to not even acknowledge as he shifted in his swivel chair on screen. “We’re were just discussing the dismissal of General Malcomson.”

Immediately, James’ eyes widened in surprise, and he practically choked on nothing, but Marshal Holland continued after a momentary pause. “Effective as of twelve in the afternoon, on the 1st of August in the two-thousandth and sixteenth year of our Lord,” he began in the most formal of Shalumite ways. “Major General Dieter Malcomson was requested to be dismissed by Imperator Tyler Holland, a decision that was decided to be most appropriate by the Shalumite military’s highest command structure. He is requested to report to the air force base in Massis, where there will be a transport waiting for him. Upon arrival in the Empire, he will be issued new orders, including his reassignment to a domestic unit until further notice,” Urban Holland finished with a rather pointed look towards the fuming marine commander.

Commandant Schultz cleared his throat, a rough sound that wasn’t pleasant by any means. “As I am sure you understand it, General Blackburn, the absence of Malcomson will create a void in the Shalumite command structure in the Military Protectorate,” he said slowly; reaching up to scratch the grey scruff that one could have called a beard if they were generous. “Until such time as we can decide upon a new; more permanent commander, you have are neomg promoted to the head of the 13th Shalumite Expeditionary Force, General Blackburn.” It was a true, marine-styled promotion, even though they belonged to very different branches. No flowery language or pomp and circumstance, just the cold hard facts, and nothing more.

That was what seemed to do it. Upon hearing the news, Malcomson let out a displeased grunt, before muttering something about ‘fucking nobles’ and something about James’ uncouth parentage, before storming out of the tent. On screen, there was a sigh from the Commandant. “For such a good soldier, that man never could reign in his temper,” he lamented, though he didn’t quite seem to really have any emotion invested in the statement.

James was left reeling; however, with the news. He was being promoted, to the head of the 13th, at that? It was a simple as that, a several line speech, and then suddenly he had the better part of twenty-thousand men answering directly to him? God, he felt dizzy. “I-ah-um,” he opened his mouth to speak, but it came out as a disjointed series of breathless stutters. “I...am honored by your decision, sirs.” He managed to finally get out, snapping a shaky salute.

“Thank you, General Blackburn, but you’ve more than earned your place, I believe.” Field Marshal Holland didn’t quite smile, but then again, when didn’t he wear that serious expression? “If you want to thank anyone, however, I would probably send your letters to the Imperator or your father. They were the two who pushed for your promotion.”

James nodded, very numbly. “Of course, sir. I will be sure to do that.” There was a pause as he mulled over the information. “If I may, what is the reason for my...predecessor’s dismissal? By all accounts, he has been nothing but successful. We’ve driven the Nava’ai back, essentially to their last stronghold,” he pointed out.

“We have been beating the enemy, yes, rather handily. But at the price of the people’s support,” Marshal Holland replied. At James’ perplexed expression, one eyebrow rose on the older man’s face. “Have you not been made aware of the situation in Massis, General Blackburn?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t, sir.” James replied, shaking his head quickly in reply.

“Bring up the live-feed from Massis,” Urban grunted out; looking off screen, presumably at some signals technician who had been wrangled into seeing that the video conference was facilitated without issue. There was some shuffling in the background, followed by tapping on a computer keyboard, and the clicking of a mouse. “Any time now, lad,” Urban said after about thirty seconds; tilting his head towards the unseen signals trooper.

”I apologize, sir. It doesn’t quite work like in the movies...ah, nevermind! There we go!”

The image of several severe looking generals shifted to what appeared to be a live television broadcast from a Nalayan station, given the logo on the bottom right hand of the screen, and the foreign -but understandable, at least to James- text that was displayed on the news ticker at the bottom of the screen. Tearing his eyes away from that, and to the center of the live feed, James went pale as he watched the scene unfold. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of rioters in the square of Massis (where he had given a speech early in the war) clashing with the Shalumite troops that had been assigned to port security. At least, it looked that way for a few moments, before molotov cocktails began to fly, and heavily outnumbered Imperial riot police began to route without so little as discharging their non-lethal weapons.

“That occurred a good three hours ago, it’s still ongoing, but the damn stations just seem to keep replaying that segment of our boys running like hell.” The Field Marshal didn’t sound pleased in the least. “We’ve been trying to raise our installations at Massis for some time now, but tucked in tighter than a turtle in its shell. Apparently General Burke was conducting some kind of inspection at the local air base, and the woman he left in charge is a bit out of her league. At least when it comes to trying to hold back a horde of angry locals.”

“What the hell caused all of this?” James asked; running a hand through his thick, brownish-black hair.

“At the moment, we’re not really certain, I am afraid. From what limited reports we have received, when the Azzies started rolling in, the locals went batshit insane,” Field Marshal Holland let out a humorless laugh. “From what our friends in the Unkndirnei have told us, everything in Nalaya has been resting on the edge of everything else, and if a troop surge was enough to tip the balance; the Azzie’s suddenly arrival was like a goddamn sledgehammer.”

“Does this riot have anything to do with the dismissal of General Malcomson?” James questioned after a long moment, wincing as he watched a Shalumite soldier toss his flaming riot shield at the ever encroaching crowd, before turning to run, much less they overwhelm him. The camera panned away to focus on a group of Azzie soldiers around their vehicles, who looked to be in a rather precarious situation. Were they trapped? He didn’t imagine any sane soldier would want to stay in the square unless they had to.

“You could say that,” the voice of Commandant Schultz chimed in from off-screen. “Though it isn’t the only reason. Malcomson’s inaction regarding the Maldorians is another. We trusted him to hand over the prisoners to the TRC, at which time we would then release an official condemnation. That was supposed to occur over a month ago, and yet, I do not believe he even cared enough to get in touch with the Nalayan government. An oversight on our own part for not noticing it sooner,” he let out a grunt. “We expect you to not make the same mistake, General Blackburn.”

“Of course, General. It will be on top of my priority list after this meeting,” James promised quickly. Truth be told, he wanted as little to do with the Maldorians as possible, so getting them into Nalayan hands quickly was just fine by him. Maybe it would clear up his dreams a bit, he mentally chuckled at the notion, something that sounded much darker in his mind than he would have liked.

A few moments later, the live feed was gone, replaced by the image of the High Kommand again. For the most part, they had remained silent. In fact, many of them didn’t even appear to be paying attention, instead focused on a laptop on their desk, or paperwork they needed to deal with. “We won’t keep you any longer, General Blackburn, I am sure you need time to get a handle on your position. Promoting a replacement for your former position with the 3rd, getting yourself acquainted with your new position, and so on.” He paused for a moment. “If I may say one thing, General Blackburn?”

“Yes sir?” James replied, standing straight and at attention as he looked up at the large TV screen.

“Invest in a razor. You are starting to look rough, if I may so so myself, and you know ardent the Imperator is about his soldiers looking as clean in appearance as they are deadly in battle.”

---

To: Protector Khavar T’avish
From: Major General James Blackburn
Encryption: High

---

Arzhani,

On behalf of the Thirteenth Imperial Shalumite Expeditionary Force, I would like to express my greetings to you in a humble manner. I am sure many have said it, but it is a great honor to serve not only my fatherland, but a nation that has come to be a second home of mine, the Military Protectorate of Nalaya. My name may not be familiar to you, and that is very understandable given how many parts it takes to run a formation as large as the 13th Imperial SEF; but perhaps you will recognize the name of my fiancé Ada Narekatsi, who is the acting Hramatar of the Hreshtakneri Brigadi.

While, in most cases, I would further like to introduce myself and lay out my position in the Imperial war machine, I will save that for another time. I understand that you are a very important woman, as I am a very busy man, and I wish to get directly to the point of this letter.

Approximately two hours ago, General Dieter Malcomson was dismissed as the commanding officer of the 13th SEF, and I was order to take his place as the Major General of Imperial forces deployed to southern and central Nalaya. The reasons for this are currently being kept from the public and media until press secretaries back home can formulate proper statements; however, I have no issues sharing the reasons for it now. In the shortest way I can explain it: General Malcomson disobeyed several orders given to him by the High Kommand of the Shalumite Armed Forces, displeased the Imperator of the Empire in the process, and worst of all, sacrificed his duty to the Nalayan people in order to achieve ‘victories’ over Nava’ai forces. He put personal glory ahead of what it means to be a noble soldier, a true leader, and a peacemaker.

I will admit, in the short time that I have acted as commander of the 13th, things have been quite chaotic; between trying to get an understanding of what is happening in Massis, and attempting to grow accustom to my new duties in such a short time span. Even so, I have read over some reports and files of my predecessor, and I was shocked to find that he had not even taken the first steps towards handing over the Maldorian rapists and slavers over to your people. It appears that he was content to let them rot while he fought ‘his war,’ instead of handing them over to the proper authorities.

Let me assure you, Arzhani, that I wish to make dealing with these criminals one of my top priorities. The Maldorians are nothing but scum of the earth, and they deserve whatever punishment you and your people deliver to them, not to mention what they may face in the afterlife. So I ask of you: please tell me a place in your country that I can send these criminals, or a TRC representative who I can get in contact with so that we can at least begin the transfer process. I assure you, within a half-hour of your response to this letter, I can have them loaded onto trucks and ready to be moved where you tell me to send them.

I will end by saying this, Arzhani, that I fully offer my services to you-- as any officer in my position should. The lands that my soldiers fight upon are not our own. They are your people’s, something that my predecessor failed to respect, a mistake I will not allow myself to make. If there is anything that you ever need of me, please do not hesitate to ask.

I look forward to corresponding with you further in the future.

It is my honor to be,
Major General James Tiberius Blackburn

---

To: Protector Khavar T’avish
From: Imperator Tyler Holland
Subject: State Visit
Encryption: Hand Delivered Via Embassy Courier

---

Arzhani,

A good and profitable day to you, Protector Khavar, may the pillars of law and order; erected by by the will of the Nalayan people, support your efforts as the leader of a nation during these dark and uncertain times that we currently find ourselves in. Though we are separated by great distances and different cultures, I wish to begin my message to you by offering a thousand humble greetings, as our friends in Hostillia would.

In life, there are many things a man in my position must do. During my youth, it was something my father told me more times than I could ever hope to count, but I never truly understood what he meant until I rose to the position of Imperator. There are a great many things I could say, flowery language that means really means very little when you begin to pick it apart. I am not the person who prefers that to cold hard facts, so I will not waste your time by having you read that sort of thing. I like to think of myself as a man of truth, so I will speak it.

I have greatly erred against you and your nation, Arzhani, and have become the source of many pains. While I am certain it will give you little solace, I truly mean it when I say this: I am sorry. As the saying goes, ‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions.’ I meant well, but I failed in my own duties.

With a desire to see the war end quickly, lest more innocents perish, I sent a commander who was not capable of seeing past his own pursuits of glory. In an effort to save the lives of Shalumite servicemen, I sent tribal warriors in their place, men whose hearts were black and corrupt, driven by their own evil desires. Those are but a few examples of where I have stumbled as a leader. While I cannot go back in time and prevent what did from happening, I can submit myself to you; hoping that you will be merciful enough to allow myself and my troops to continue working alongside you, so that we may repair what has been damaged and pave the way for a better, more whole and united future for Nalaya in the future.

As I am sure you have heard by now, I have instructed General Blackburn to turn over the custody of all Maldorian criminals to your government or intelligence services. The same order was given to General Malcomson; however, it is apparent to us now that he never did as was instructed. Speaking of him, I have instructed that he be returned to the Empire. While he is not yet aware of it, upon his return to Shalum, we will begin the process of reviewing him. At the very least, he should expect a dishonorable discharge from the Imperial Shalumite Armed Forces; unless the Ministry of Justice recommends he be prosecuted for crimes against Nalaya and her people, at which time he will instead be court martialed. He will not go unpunished for his crimes, that I assure you.

I would like to end this letter on the reason I am writing it. For some time now, my ambassador has requested that I come to Nalaya, so that I may meet with you and your government. My wife, Allison, who you have met before, has echoed similar sentiments to me, and I have come to agree with both her and my ambassador in Sevan. Given events that have occurred over the last couple of weeks, I believe that it may be best if I visit your nation for some time, so that we can meet properly in person. I am sure that there are a great number of things that we could or need to discuss if we are to work together more closely in the future. However, the decision to meet ultimately is up to you, for I do not wish to impose myself.

Thank you for your time, Arzhani T’avish

It is my honor to be,
Imperator Tyler Holland of the Empire of Shalum

[Azurlavai]

Kouncil Haus
Lowellsburg, Azurlavai

“Make sure we’re ready to jump when the reaction hits the fan,” Karlos Vocht said to the aide who was in charge of packaging the response they’d just filmed. “We need to make sure this is contained, or we’re going to be the biggest bad guys since the People’s Republic threatened to invade Ossoria.”

The aide nodded, taking the memory card from the camera to go into editing. The news of what was happening with the deployment was still ongoing, but from what Karlos had heard, it was starting to turn ugly. As in, riotous ugly. He mentally sighed, kicking himself. He hadn’t thought to –slow- the deployment. In his mind, the faster the Korps was through Massis, the better. But he had forgotten to run –that- part of his plan by the local authorities. Instead, the events of the day looked more like another military conquest for Azurlavai. He brushed himself off as he stood, sighing in defeat. He already knew what the feedback was from down south. How bad it looked today. The media kept feeding him video of his own Stormtroopers, facing down a crowd with rifles raised, shouting at the people who were protesting their home being overrun.

Wouldn’t anyone else do the same?

A single man entered the room. By all accounts, he wasn’t interesting. Short brown hair, blue eyes and a face that screamed normal like a thousand others, the only noticeable thing about his features what that he –wasn’t- noticeable. Spot him in a crowd, and one would probably forget he was ever there. And that was a good thing, for in his black suit and dark glasses, he looked like everyone else running around the Haus. But one clue stood out, drawing his eyes to the man immediately; an orange piece of cloth, neatly tucked into the suit jacket’s breast pocket. Abruptly, the man’s demeanor changed. His easy going stroll turned into one that screamed close control, the result of countless hours of practice and training. His face went from ordinary to schooled, his eyes from inquisitive to tracking every piece of movement in the room, after he’d searched for exits and weapons automatically.

This was an agent from the National Security Bureau.

Karlos drew in a half breath, his face neutral. He didn’t like dealing with the NSB. Torture artists and thugs, the lot of them. Most were sociopaths and sadists in his opinion, a leftover from the previous regime that he just couldn’t get rid of…but they had their uses. Since he’d taken office eleven years ago, the NSB had reported to him and disrupted no less than five severe threats to the United Republic, two of which had been in Shalum and one inside even Azuran borders. That had turned out to be a rogue military officer, so relations had at least stayed warm there.

The agent drew closer, and Valen glanced down at Karlos, who held up a hand to keep him and Sersjant – from intercepting him. The suited man cut through the aides, the press and a few Assemblymen there to see him before coming to the desk, nodding his head deeply.

“Mister Chairman.”

“Go ahead, Agent-?”

“Johansson, sir,” the man replied, his name not sounding fake at all, straightening up and removing his dark glasses. “Apologies, habit of the job.” He grunted lightly, laying the glasses down on Karlos’ desk.

“Mister Chairman, I have some rather distressing news to deliver you.” The agent extracted a manila envelope, holding it out to the Supreme Chairman. “It concerns events in Massis as of now.”

Feeling that pit of dread already settling into his gut, Karlos took the envelope, his hands numb as his fingers clumsily broke the seal, pulling the single document free. It was a transcript of a conversation between a helicopter pilot flying over Massis reporting back to General Ragnarsson.

Over Hishatak Square.

“When did this happen?” he asked quietly, eyes searching for a timestamp.

“It still is,” replied the agent.

Karlos Vocht had fought in several small scale conflicts. He’d seen Azurlav boots planted on enemy soil several times, faced the prospect of terrorists and politicians and utter stupidity at work. But none of that put as much fear into him…or as much defeat.

“Get me a line to the Korps.”

---

[box]
[b]EMERGENCY TRANSMISSION
FROM THE OFFICE OF THE SUPREME CHAIRMAN
TO GENERAL RAGNARSSON, ADMIRAL KOLWITZ

-CEASE IMMEDIATELY, ANY FURTHER DEPLOYMENT OF COMBAT ELEMENTS
-DEPLOY ONLY THOSE SUPPORT ELEMENT NECESSARY TO MAINTAIN LIMITED GARRISON IN MASSIS
-PREP FOR WITHDRAWAL ALL HEAVY ELEMENTS, INCLUDING ARMOR AND ARTILLERY

---

Hishatak Square

The events of Hishatak Square were often discussed in the coming years, both in defense of interventionism, and to speak out against it. In hindsight, to some, it seemed perfectly clear where the fault had laid, and what should have been done to fix it. So, the Stormtroopers were not to be blamed, it was said. To others, this was simply another edition of Azurlav warmongering, their very nature and society geared towards conquest.

As Molotov cocktails, broken bottles and tear gas canisters fell among them, the Stormtroopers wavered, but held their ground, shouting back at the crowd as NCOs tried to keep things under control, and the Major up front screamed hysterics for someone to come help him.

Then it happened.

One of the crewmen, not focused on the crowd but on fixing the dead APC so the column could finally get the hell out of there, was unfortunate enough to be pulling out of the engine compartment when an errant Molotov shattered on the armor above him. He had only a second to glance up before he was suddenly drenched in burning fluid, and he screamed. He was a truck driver, not an armored truck. As a result, he had no fireproof jumpsuit, and his fatigues caught on fire in an instant. He ran in a blind panic, screaming as he stumbled through the gun line before another Stormtrooper tackled him, patting him down frantically and throwing sand over the man to try to put out the flames. Even so, the soldier would have horrendous burns all over his body, and would probably be discharged from service.

This was one step too far.

Even the NCOs couldn’t control what happened next. Most of them didn’t even try.

The Stormtrooper nearest the almost inflamed crewman raised her rifle, squeezed the trigger, and put a 6.5mm round through the closest rioter’s head. It was smooth, clean, and lethally efficient, drenched in fury and anger.

And with that, the Stormtroopers who were standing on security leveled their own weapons, and began mowing down the people they had ostensibly come here to help. Assault rifles, shotguns, light machine guns, even the handguns of a few crewmen boomed, chattered and popped, mowing meat by the foot.

“Fix bayonets!” went up the cry, for what they knew would be the countercharge, and every Stormtrooper with an ATR-160 halted for a moment, drawing their combat knives and affixing them in smooth, practiced motions before resuming their murderous work.

In a heartbeat, the tension at Hishatak Square had broken. But it had become a slaughterhouse instead.

[Shalum]

Miak Amrots'
Tatev, Nalaya

I look fucking ridiculous, Rikker thought unhappily as he gave himself one last look in the mirror. Against his better judgement, he had taken the advice of the runner who had been sent to fetch him. She had dutifully applied a small amount of concealer, and had actually done a good job with it, from an objective standpoint. He didn’t look nearly as tired as he felt. Regardless, he didn’t like the notion of using makeup products. Something about stupid male pride, he was certain.

Hopefully Valantin didn’t notice, or at least question him on it. Why he was wearing another woman’s skincare products was very low on the list of things he wanted to deal with today.

Quite honestly, he had been trying to keep thoughts of the ku’nal’s arrival out of his mind. Ignorance was bliss, and all of that.

All of that aside, the colonel had cleaned up rather well. While he hadn’t the time for a shower, he had at least made a point of washing his face (before the concealer application, of course) and shaving. Imperial standards of grooming and personal hygiene were quite high, as it turned out. After rooting through his footlocker, he had managed to scrounge up his last clean and pressed uniform, which he had donned quickly and without preamble. As he went about fixing his belt, where he kept his service pistol and combat knife -among other utility items- he made a mental note to either wash his other uniforms, or find someone who would do it for him. Normally, it was something he didn't inconvenience anyone else with, given how easy a task it was under normal circumstances, but he was just so damn busy these days that he hadn’t the time lately.

Moving through the hall, Dominic nodded at a couple soldiers as he passed, Federal and Imperial alike. After months of working together, he had begun to notice the groups congressing together quite often, chatting while on guard duty, or intermingling with each other during the lunch hour. It was to be expected, especially among allies. With the developing situations across the country, however, he hoped relations as they were would remain-- positive.

The Shalumite commander was broken from his chain of thought by the sound of a door opening, and the appearance of an angelic figure that could only be Valantin. Just the sight of her made his warm, chocolate eyes fill brighten with excitement and affection, his lips curling upwards. The smile he wore certainly helped lessen the otherwise stormy expression he had been wearing. “Valantin,” he breathed as soon as she closed the door behind her. “Just having you by my side will be enough,” he promised her quietly; falling in step alongside her. The colonel wished he could take her hand, or at least touch her in some way, but he knew better than to do that. There were boundaries to their relationship, if that was what you wanted to call it.

They walked in silence, for the better part of a minute if he had to guess; navigating the corridors of Miak Amrots' as they made their way towards the main entrance of the military installation. Without any real warning, however, there was a falter to Rikker’s otherwise deliberate steps. He paused for a moment, scanning their surroundings, looking to see if there was anyone around. Pleased to see that there wasn’t, he acted without any real forethought, pulling Val into a little alcove of sorts that led to a couple of rooms that he knew to be empty.

Dominic give his partner a chance to question why he was doing this, he moved far too quickly for that. In an instant, he had her against the wall with more aggressiveness than he usually ever used, her body trapped between his own and the painted drywall. His hands found themselves running through her lush, thick hair, while his lips met her own with a spark of unbridled passion-- at least on his part. The kiss was hungry and possessive, as were the way his hands shot down from her head to wrap themselves around her hips, holding them to his own as he ground into her for a moment without really thinking about it.

When Rikker finally had enough sense to pull back, he inhaled sharply, his eyes dark with something else other than exhaustion for once in what felt like a long time. Hesitant to pull away, a sheepish expression crossed his face as he smoothed down her blazer, and then her hair. Preening his lover was something he had gotten accustomed, and even good at, over the last couple of weeks. “Sorry,” he couldn’t help but apologize quietly as he rested his hands on her shoulders, looking into her crystal blue orbs the whole time as he spoke. “I just...I just wanted to do that one more time before everything went to hell,” he smiled softly.

Outside, on the streets of Tatev, as well at the gates of Miak Amrots', things seemed to be relatively calm. Daily life went on as it normally did, though for how long was yet to be seen, given the impending arrival of ku’nal forces. Civilians moved about, and the occasional army squad could be seen patrolling the streets now and then. One thing of note was that, since the arrival of the Hreshtakneri Brigadi, the visible presence of Imperial troops had slowly decreased, per the instruction of Colonel Rikker. It was his belief that the locals would rather be policed and protected by their own countrymen, rather than foreigners.

It wasn’t to say that the Shalumites had lessened their numbers in the city, however. Far from it, really, with tensions as they were. They had just stepped back from the limelight to some extent, waiting to be called upon.

It had been considered best for Federal forces to greet the C’rintrin, so naturally, the Shalumites at Miak Amrots' kept their distance. There were a fair number of them, probably thirty or so. Some had simply been out and about when the ku’nal delegation arrived, smoking cigarettes or enjoying a break from whatever duties they had inside the base. Others, like Major Johanna and her little company of air assault troops, were there to keep watch and make sure nothing went awry. While they liked to think that the ku’nal would hold up their end of the bargain, the situation developing down in Massis had more than a few Shalumite soldiers on edge.

Colonel Rikker and the Siruhi Andzevatsi arrived without much in the way of preamble. No grand procession or announcement, they simply emerged from the main doors of the base, looking rather dapper. There were a couple of salutes towards the colonel, or nods of acknowledgement and appreciation towards Valantin. Though few had actually spoken to her, at least beyond pleasantries, they all understood that she did damn good work in the local area.

Approaching the group of ku’nal, Rikker swallowed thickly, praying that they couldn’t tell just how nervous he was at the moment. He had very little in the way of briefings on his side, it was not something he and Valentin had really gotten to plan for on their stolen nights together. As much as he hated to acknowledge it, he didn’t even know what the C’rintrin was. Were they a political wing of the ku’nal, an organization of some kind, some kind of council of yochlol? Rikker really didn’t know, and it was too late to ask now.

Approaching the group, Rikker paused to give them a courteous bow. At least, it was considered such in his country when it came to meetings of business or state. Greetings could be fluid, ranging from bows at the wait, to handshakes or wrist clasps. “Esteemed representatives,” he said as he straightened; nodding at each of them. “On behalf ot the Shalumite forces in northern Nalaya, I would like to welcome you to Tatev. I am Colonel Dominic Rikker, and this is Siruhi Valentin Andzevatsi. She is the head of the local Truth and Reconciliation Committee's branch.” He said in the way of introduction, his eyes sweeping over the crowd of new arrivals.

Silently, he wondered where the hell Hramatar Narekatsi was, but didn’t dare break eye contact with the ku’nal representatives, lest he cause them disrespect.

---

Along the Zeklet’taune Aluin
The Har’oloth, Nalaya

Every time that the lion outside slammed itself upon the barricaded entrance, filling the small altar room with the sounds of creaking wood, and the grinding of the metal bar against the door frame, the justicars tensed and clutched their weapons a little tighter. Any minute now, it was very likely that they would do battle with a vicious creature, perhaps possessed by some kind of Nalayan spirit no less. While they didn’t hold much stock in that sort of thing, usually, they had learned better than to simply write things off after spending over a year in the country.

“Aww, and here I was hoping to sleep outside tonight. Enjoy the outdoors, and maybe some peace and quiet away from you blokes,” Michael chuckled as he shifted his stance; going from one knee to the other, his padding pressing hard against the cool stone underfoot.

“He or she has us cornered right now. Too easy of a kill, even if biding a little time is necessary. I doubt our friend is simply going to pass up five easy meals,” Faisal observed more pragmatically as he kept his rifle trained on the door. He hated being the bearer of bad news, especially with Pella present, but quite honestly, he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. His mind mouth had moved faster than his mind. After a while though, when it seemed that the foul beast had left, he chuckled quietly as he fell back onto his haunches. “Okay, I may stand corrected.”

Very slowly, Joan flicked on the safety of her rifle, and set it aside next to the weapon of her lover. Reaching up, she ran a hand through her red hair, silently wishing she had come kind of hair comb, and the time to properly clean it. While she cared very little about modern fashion, she at least liked to remain hygienic when it was possible. “Sleep sounds good to me. If we’re going to have to fight Kor’inth, I’d like to at least be well rested,” she smiled softly. The other two justicars nodded in agreement, before Michael went out of his way to wrap Pella in a reassuring kind of hug, before he shuffled off to take a sip of water from his canteen.

The Shalumite crusaders went about preparing for sleep quietly, their footsteps seeming to echo a little louder in the small, confined space of the structure. Faisal set up a bed roll, using a folded blanket as a makeshift pillow. Michael did the same, talking quietly with Pella about something. Joan suspected he was trying to cheer the young girl up, or at least reassure her, something that brought a soft smile to the redhead’s lips. He’ll be a good father someday, she mused, trying not to think too hard about the future.

Drifting over to where her lover was going to rest for the night, Joan let out a small huff of exhaustion as she settled her folded blanket next to the yathallar’s without asking. She figured nothing needed to be said. Besides, where else was she going to sleep. “Stop thinking so loudly, else I’m not gonna be able to sleep,” she yawned as she laid down; wrapping her arms around Sabal. She nestled against the woman, enjoying the warmth the Mak’ur radiated. “Tomorrow can wait until then. It's just you and me, and well, them,” she chuckled as she peeked over her shoulder to look at the others.

Returning her head to Sabal’s chest, she looked up at the yathallar adoringly, a little flicker of something else in her eyes. “So unless you want me to give you a reason to go to sleep,” she licked her lips teasingly. “Just...be quiet and hold me. I need the rest, and so do you,” she winked.

Of course, she knew that their future was uncertain. That they could very well perish in the coming days, if not hours. But as long as she had Sabal and her friends, she liked to think that they had hope on their side. She also wasn’t planning to write off divine intervention, either.

---

Massis Air Base
Southern Nalaya

As the heavy transport planes came in for a landing, shaking the very space and time around them as their engines roared, small crowds of Imperial soldiers and air crewmen began to gather here and there; stopping what they were doing so that they could observe the Azzie paratroopers disembarking. Many of them were greenhorns, who had never seen contact with the enemy, making these foreign troops the closest they had ever come to any kind of real conflict. A few of the more daring (or stupid) troopers shouted greetings to the new arrivals.

Others, like an Imperial marine perched in the gunner’s position of a Fuchs Light Assault Vehicle, had been in combat before, but never with those loyal to the United Republic. He watched them from a distance without much emotion either way, his hazel eyes narrowed slightly, but kept his heavy weapon pointed up and away from the runways that the paratroopers found themselves situated on. If there was going to be another incident between his country and the Republic, it wasn’t going to be caused by him making a foolish mistake, that was for certain.

As he hustled down the ramp of the TL-27J Tern he had ridden in on, Isaac couldn’t help but suck in a sharp, little breath as he took in his surroundings for a moment. It was surreal, be surrounded by his...countrymen, again. In the distance, a flag that had once evoked strong emotion in him, now just made him feel uneasy. He had finally managed to escape its control, only to be immediately reminded of his former place in what it represented. The large groups of Imperial soldiers didn’t make him feel much better, either.

To think, had he not accepted a spot at the STG’s training farm, he could have very well been one of them. Would he have been glaring, feeling that natural hate that many Shalumites did; or would he have been more sympathetic, wanting to get to know these paratroopers better before he cast judgement on them and their people?

It was not something the young Loytnant had long to ponder, before the High-Sersjant, automatically snapping him to attention, along with the rest of his comrades-in-arms. Though he didn’t dare tilt his head either way, his chocolate brown eyes did go back and forth for a couple of moments, seeking out Kaptein Deinhardt from among the crowd. After they had landed, she had seemingly disappeared and he was simply...curious, of where she had gone off to.

When they were dismissed by their commanding officers, he grinned as he fell into a more ‘at ease’ kind of position; removing his rifle from his chest so that he could cradle it. “Alright troopers, you heard the woman, you have six hours! Go relax, for the love of, Odin! Stretch it out, or walk it off. I’ll be around to make sure you all haven’t gone soft on us at some point,” he laughed loudly as they began to disperse. Reaching down, he began to peel off his long sleeve shirt, preferring the cooler short sleeve of his fatigues underneath, especially in this heat.

Fetching the rest of his kit and combat pack, Isaac set it aside, before going through to make sure everything was in order. He had before they had taken off from the airbase back home, and he had even gone through it again on the flight to Nalaya as a way to pass the time. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as the rest of 5th Kompanie was doing the same, getting themselves organized. Sure, he could have barked orders at them, but they were all more than competent, and didn’t need his oversight for something as simple as this.

After checking in with the other officers in his unit, he hung back a bit, waiting for Astrid to get done with whoever she was speaking with. Though he couldn’t put a name to the face, Isaac was certain this man was rather important, making it a meeting he couldn’t simply step into, unless he was summoned, of course.

Further down the runway, where the Puma armored personnel carrier had ground to a halt, General Burke had emerged with little in the way of fanfare. Adjusting his red beret, he took a moment to survey the Azzie officers who had come to greet him, before walking forward to meet him halfway or so. On either side of him, there were a couple of marines acting as his bodyguards. It wasn’t anything personal against the paratroopers, quite truthfully. In active war zones, it was standard protocol for a general to not travel alone, unlike in times of peace.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Kaptein. High-Sersjant.” He replied with a small smile and a bow, before offering his hand out to shake with both of them. The general was trying to be courteous, but even he couldn’t help his eyes from roaming up and down Astrid for a moment. Scarred or not, he liked what he saw. There was something...exotic, about Azzie women. There weren’t exactly many of them back home, but that was a line of thought for another time.

“My name is Joseph Burke, I am the Imperial commander here in Massis.” He explained, motioning his hand vaguely towards the rows of parked Shalumite aircraft, and the soldiers and crewmen who milled about. “On behalf of the Shalumite military and the Federal military of Nalaya, I wanted to greet you personally. It is nice to see other members from the Eracuran Union finally join the fight,” he smiled.

Anything else he may have wanted to say was cut short as the sounds of gunfire could be heard in the distance, even over the hum of engines here and there on the runway. It was not a couple shots either, but the steady pop pop pop of automatic weapons fire. A couple seconds later, sirens could be heard filling the air, coming from emergency towers put up by the Shalumites in case of an impending attack on the airfield or local FOBs. Soldiers tensed, and one of Burke’s bodyguards immediately pulled a radio off his belt, keying it up to figure out what the hell was going on. “That doesn’t sound good,” the general muttered as he looked over his shoulder towards the city proper.

Isaac seemed to have completely forgotten the notion of waiting, as he immediately began to jog up, his muscles straining against the fabric of his short sleeve shirt. “Astrid,” he called out, before immediately closing his mouth. “I mean, Kaptein Deinhardt. What is going on?” He asked, eyes a little wide as he gazed down at her. For a split second, he paused to look at his combat pack, where he had left his rifle behind with the rest of his gear, before looking back to her.

[Nalaya]

Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

“No need to apologize,” Valantin said breathlessly. She was reasonably certain no one had seen, which admittedly was more doubt than she was usually comfortable with. But it wasn’t as though she was going to be unhappy. She tried to smooth out her hair and her clothes quickly. She flashed him a bright smile. “I’d love to continue that later.”

She felt the dread returning as she stepped outside. To her, the Ilharn and Ilharess Nasadra were easily spotted. She was familiar with the C’rintrin, well studied on their personalities, histories, and quirks. Her job was to keep an eye on the north, after all.

“Moment of truth,” she murmured to no one in particular.

Lesaonar pushed away from the wall that he’d been leaning against when Rikker arrived with Val, returning his bow politely. Sabrae did the same. “Paron Colonel, it is an honor to meet you,” he said smoothly, extending his hand to Rikker to shake. He was familiar with the custom. Lesaonar’s tone was not easy to read—it was almost perpetually sarcastic and almost disapproving or contemptuous. However, he wasn’t sneering...yet. “I am Nasadra Lesaonar Rhomduil dal Kophyn, the Ilharn of our qu’ilinasar. My lovely companion is the Ilharess, Nasadra Sabrae T’sarran dal Kalannar.” He motioned to Sabrae as he said her name.

“Ussta senger,” Val greeted, bowing her head to Lesaonar. She let her eyes move over to Sabrae, though she kept her gaze slightly below theirs. “Ussta jallil. It is ever an honor to meet the archons of the faithful. I hope your journey from Karsoluthiyl was a pleasant one.”

Sabrae laughed. It was a lovely sound, guileless and genuine. She very seldom gave any outward indication of a less than genteel nature. “Military transport leaves something to be desired, Siruhi Andzevatsi,” she said pleasantly. She smiled at Rikker. “Your welcome is most appreciated, Paron Colonel. It is gratifying to receive hospitality in times like these. We have heard much about you since your stay began in Annu. Your reputation is flattering one.”

Lesaonar chuckled. “Let us hope you bear at least a passing resemblance to it, Paron Colonel.” Neither he or Sabrae made persistent eye contact. They were looking at Rikker, but they didn’t meet his eyes for the most part. It wasn’t surprising to Valantin. Sustained eye contact was associated with powerful emotions, hence why the Yath almost always made it but the C’rintrin and so many other Mak’ur restricted themselves to glances. It was a subtlety she’d forgotten to warn Rikker about, but she was certain that the ku’nal representatives were savvy enough to understand the cultural difference.

Mak’ur, for all their brashness, could be creatures of extreme subtlety. Part of it was their innate attentiveness to personal power and a self-awareness that knew without manners, they would wipe themselves out. Only the Yath could really walk around challenging the world, mostly by virtue of their status as emissaries between the divine and the mundane.

Val felt her nerves start to rise as Sabrae studied her. “Hramatar Narekatsi sends her apologies for not greeting you personally. With everything in Massis...the Protector’s Office wanted to have words with her in the very near future and she didn’t want to disrupt any negotiations by running out halfway through or ignoring you.”

“Of course. That is not a problem,” Sabrae said pleasantly. “I hope she is well.”

“I doubt I would be, in her unenviable position,” Lesaonar said, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “And you, Paron Colonel, I hope you are well. Shall we perhaps continue this conversation somewhere less public? I’m certain that these charming men and women have other things to do with their day. I give you my word that Sabrae and I will not harm a hair on your head. Any will tell you that the word of Nasadra is their bond.”

Sabrae nodded, still smiling pleasantly. “Perhaps we are not all friends quite yet, but it would be an unforgivable breach of manners for a guest to strike at a host.”

Directly, Val reflected. Neither of them were saying that they wouldn’t order people to Rikker harm. C’rintrin spoke like they were making wishes with djinni. If anyone in the world could get the better of a djinn, it would most certainly be an Ilharn or Ilharess.

---

Along the Zeklet’taune Aluin
The Har’oloth, Nalaya

Sabal sighed when she felt Joan settle into her arms, relaxing slightly. The justicar’s body against her own was a reminder that she had Joan at least for now. There was something about the way they fit together that made Sabal feel oddly complete, like she’d found the other half that she hadn’t realized was missing. Sabal, as a general rule, didn’t feel things halfway and she didn’t try to ignore what she felt either. She loved Joan, more than she’d thought she knew how after her constantly casual affairs. Suddenly, she hated the fact that they were going to Dyvynasshar. Sabal knew it would mean a parting, maybe temporary or maybe permanent. You’ll protect her, she said to herself. Whatever that means.

Pella laid down as well over beside her own things, using her wadded-up jacket as a pillow. She was exhausted from nerves and ready to sleep, but she did flash Michael a quick, tired smile in thanks. It was sweet that he was trying so hard to calm her down. Hopefully, in the morning, everything would be okay again.

Sabal waited until Joan went still in her arms and her breathing evened out to smooth her hand lightly over the justicar’s hair. The verses came to the tip of her tongue without a second thought, but remained there instead of being set free. Someday, she would show that Tenet to Joan and say, This is what you make me feel. She felt a little like a bird, who had just learned what it was to soar, facing the possibility of clipped wings. Her fingertips started to trace swirling patterns on Joan’s back beneath her shirt, soaking in the feeling of warmth and softness.

It was times like this when her attention was drawn to Joan’s fragility, her mortality. There was no question in Sabal’s mind that Joan was an incredibly capable warrior. They were together in battle more often than not. Sabal was used to ducking and weaving in tandem with her lover, covering Joan’s back and having her own covered in return. Even the greatest warriors in history had been laid low eventually, however: a sword, a bullet, a bomb, or just the gradual passage of time.

Sabal supposed she was just feeling unusually selfish. She wanted all the time with Joan she could get before the universe pulled them apart. Maybe she was just behaving like a kitten, digging her claws in out of fear whether or not falling was a real danger. But she could feel that pull of an ending, that chill of the grave, advancing on them. Yathallar were not normally creatures of prophesy—that power to sense possibilities hidden from view belonged with the yatharil—but she was still sensitive to the stirrings of spirits, whose vision was unclouded. Nothing was certain, nothing was preordained, but some things were so likely as to be almost graven in stone.

She did not believe in looking at the future as some faiths claimed to be able to, but this time, she could almost feel the future looking at her. It had a grim and hungry look.

“Dream sweet things,” she murmured to Joan, smoothing her hand down the justicar’s back. When they reached Dyvynasshar, she would ask for a night before seeing the Dread Wolf. She would have asked for a lifetime, but that wasn’t even vaguely possible. After all, they were supposed to ask the Dread Wolf for peace, a wish the Quarval-sharess would be ill-inclined to grant.

Her friends could beg for peace. She would beg for time.

Just a little bit more time.

---

The Office of the Protector
Sevan, Nalaya

The scream of rage that split the otherwise quiet air was not a surprise to the attachés and aides that lingered around the door, debating what to do in low voices. Shattering glass and then a huge, heavy bang sent them scattering, however. They had never heard that before, but they knew only one thing could make that sound: the desk of office, expansive and made of heavy mahogany hardwood, being flipped like a toy. It had to weigh in excess of two hundred pounds, and judging by that bang, it had caught some air.

The Tigress was far, far beyond angry.

Before they could blink, the door exploded open with a thunderous crack as its handle punched through the drywall on the interior wall on impact. Blood spattered against the wall from the hand Khavar had wounded when she’d put her fist through the screen of the laptop she’d been watching the live feeds from Massis on.

“Arzhani—” one of the aides started to say.

Her scream was inarticulate, almost animalistic in its expression of rage. She’d just addressed the nation. Now she would have to make a public statement again, presuming she could somehow be talked down from this fit of apoplexy.

Khavar’s anger was usually cold, like winter. Her expression normally remained composed even while she vented on objects. Right now, however, her face was contorted into a snarl of rage that bordered on a berserker frenzy.

“Arzhani—”

She hooked a chair with one hand and hurled it at the aide stupid enough to try and talk her down, smashing the wooden chair against the wall hard enough to damage the drywall on the far side of the room from her.

The secretarial staff scattered as she put her fist through the glass surface of the main secretary’s desk.

Inna Karapetyan froze as she poked her head out of her office to see the source of the commotion. She’d seen her superior angry—livid, even—but never like this. The storm had been brewing for a long time. She wasn’t certain whether it would be better to try to talk Khavar down or wait for her to pass out from blood loss. The second probably wasn’t the best option, granted. Khavar could probably kill at least three people before the dizziness caught up to her. “What’s wrong?”

Khavar whirled around, sending a coffee pot hurtling at Inna’s head. The military officer had excellent reflexes. She recoiled enough to dodge, using her door as a shield. The glass shattered against the door.

“Arzhani, I would appreciate it if you used Nalayan, not violence,” Inna called.

“Massis!” Khavar screamed. Something else fragile exploded into fragments, judging by the sound.

Inna felt a cold dread hit her. She grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV in the common room that was currently overlooking Khavar’s rampage. The minute she heard the gunfire and saw the crimson on the stones of Hishatak Square, Inna felt a world end. Open, internationally friendly Nalaya had just died a sudden, violent death at the hands of its protectors. Inna felt…betrayed. She had been one of the advocates for building good relations with the wider world.

Khavar hurled a chair through the screen before Inna could hear what was being said, not that she needed to. Horror was universal, comprehensible even without words.

Motherfucker, Inna thought almost inarticulately, at a loss for any other words even in the privacy of her own mind. Suddenly, she knew what it was like to see the future. Every zealot in Nalaya had just been validated, every moderate horrified into zeal. The entire nation would be feeling the pain, horrifying even in a war because it had come from the people who were supposed to be protecting them and preserving the peace. How hard is it to get the fuck out of a square?

Inna felt her heart shatter like the glass that Khavar had broken.

The Protector seemed to be regaining herself, perhaps due to lightheadedness. Khavar ripped off her blazer and used it to staunch the bleeding on her hands and right forearm. “I want troops in Hishatak Square,” Khavar said in a raw voice. “I want troops on every street corner, in every alley, anywhere those vermin might run.”

“It could cause a war.”

“Cause a war? They’re killing my people!” Khavar snarled. “I’ll finish what they fucking started!”

Inna bit her lower lip hard and then nodded. “I understand,” she said before stepping back into her office to grab her coat. She emerged in a split second. “I’ll send a medic your way.” With that, she hurried off to do the Protector’s bidding. Inna could ensure that the commanders on the ground in Massis understood that they were to prevent the Azzies from getting access to more civilians. As much as she wanted to burn them with their own fire, that wasn’t an appropriate response...not that Khavar had ever been one for ‘appropriate’ force.

Inna fumbled with her cigarettes once she’d sent medics as promised, fishing one out and catching it between her lips while she located her lighter. Once the slim white cylinder was lit, she tucked the lighter back in her pocket and hurried off to meet with Siran’s secretary to get the news passed through the fastest possible channels.

Behind her, Khavar wiped off her better hand and then fished out her cellphone. She dialed with a few taps. As soon as her right hand answered, she spoke. “Siran, I want a Hradadari. Call me when you and Hravad have something. Thank you.” Her tone was calm and controlled again.

---

Command Center
Aragotsotn, Nalaya

Hravad watched the footage from Massis, a fire roiling in his gut and a stabbing pain in his heart. Massis, birthplace of Anahid Vaneni, was burning and here he was, preparing to march on Armavir instead of protecting the city on the sea. Massis had always been one of the crowning jewels of Nalaya. If Sevan was Nalaya’s heart, Massis was its soul: a city of beauty, art, learning, peace, and romance.

He should have been married in the small, red-roofed chapel that overlooked the white-sand beaches on the west end of town, hidden from the prying eyes of the world. He had so many wonderful memories of Massis. It had been the first city they’d visited after the Unification War ended, their not-quite-honeymoon. He remembered the reality of what they’d done hitting him like a train. He’d kissed Anahid at the center of Hishatak Square, before its dedication, until they were smiling and laughing so hard that they couldn’t, her arms linked around his neck and her body against his. They had been so wonderfully, vibrantly happy. Their universe had been at peace for the first time in living memory. Now not only was she gone, but blood was running through those beautiful streets. Hravad’s vision blurred and his eyes stung. The tears didn’t fall, but they were there. The grim, growling general felt all the old wounds open again. They’d come so far, and suddenly this.

He wanted to rip the commanders responsible apart with his bare hands. On a rational level, he understood soldiers protecting themselves, but he was not operating with full rationality and he knew for a fact that they had been told to leave when this first started to unravel. He was almost more crushed than angry, though, the knife driven into a part of his heart he hadn’t realized still existed.

In a way, it was almost like losing another piece of Anahid. That was what hurt the most.

“That was Khavar,” Siran said softly as she returned. She knew him well enough to read grief in his stony expression. “She wants a settlement.”

“I assumed she would gas Massis to get the Azzi,” Hravad said. There wasn’t a scrap of humor in his voice.

“Inna’s handling it, so that’s probably not going to happen,” Siran said. As much hell as she gave their resident trainwreck, she knew that Inna Karapetyan did the right thing when it came down to fire or flood. She couldn’t save herself, but she’d die to save other people. That was what Anahid had seen in her. “I’m going to get in touch with Messerlian and Izanian. Lledrith too. We need to do this while Khavar’s willing. It’s going to be impossible if she’s not.”

“You have my support, Siran,” Hravad said quietly. “I will have my staff contact the Vatani. Even Qasim and Idir will be interested.”

Siran gave him a half smile. “I see how you are, giving me the challenging ones.”

Hravad shrugged instead of smiling or chuckling, his scarred face still mostly immobile. “We will have the meeting here. I will extend my hospitality to the others.”

“Good. They trust you. Hravad Ardzuni is a man of his word. Would you be willing to negotiate the settlement, Hravad?”

He shook his head. “I’m no diplomat. You’re more suited.”

Siran laughed. “The word of a spy isn’t much good to anyone, Hravad. They trust you. Besides, you saw Anahid agonize over the last Hradadari. You’re more qualified than anyone to build something that she’d be proud of.”

Hravad was quiet for a long moment before nodding slightly. “I will try. I will be in my office drafting a proposal if you need me.”

“I’ll get them to the negotiating table,” Siran promised. “Then we can get this three-wheeled clown car on the road.” She stepped out the door then, determination in her step, and left him to plan.

Hravad retreated into his office, sitting down in the uncomfortable folding chair that he’d commandeered to put behind the scarred desk. He’d surrendered what had once been the commander’s office to Siran, who was making use of every flat surface from what he’d seen of the spread dossiers, black lists, and maps. She had a more difficult job than him, in his opinion. She had to achieve objectives silently, in the dark, preferrably with not even her own side being aware of the plan until it was executed.

His eyes found the photograph. It was a picture of Anahid at the Tkhrali Opera House in Sevan, listening to La Traviata on the opening night—her birthday—after its restoration finished. He had been the one to make the request of what would be the first performance. The expression on her face was pure, wondering joy. She looked awed, and he knew that face—it was the one she always wore when a dream came true. A fraction of a second later, she’d looked at him and said, I love you so much. Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.

The strains of the song that he thought of most when he remembered that opera immediately came to mind. He had seen so much of Anahid in the story. It was that one melancholy aria that had seemed to suit her so well in her last days, when she was exhausted from carrying the world’s pain and suffering on her shoulders, when she’d seen her dream come half-true. There was a peace, yes, but a tumultuous one without reprieve.

Farewell, happy dreams of the past,
The roses in my cheeks are already pale.
I am missing Alfredo’s love,
Comfort, support for my tired soul.
Oh, smile at the desire of the forsaken woman.
To her, grant forgiveness; welcome her, oh God.
Now it is all over.

The joys, the sorrows will soon be over;
The tomb confines all mortals.
Neither tears nor flowers will my grave have,
No cross with a name that covers my bones.
Oh, smile at the desire of the forsaken woman.
To her, grant forgiveness; welcome her, oh God.
Now it is all over.

Now, he reflected, it is all over.

[Shalum]

Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

Valantin’s discomfort didn’t go away as they passed through the large main doors to Miak Amrots’, soldiers stopping to watch curiously as these two Mak’ur followed her and Rikker through the halls. It was the Nalayan soldiers who tensed slightly. They didn’t know exactly who they were dealing with, but they knew that Sabrae and Lesaonar were ku’nal. If they were with Rikker and Valantin, that made them important ku’nal. “There’s a conference room this way that we can use. My office will be too busy for us to accomplish everything and this should be more comfortable anyway,” she said. “It’ll just take me a moment to arrange for coffee and food.”

“How hospitable. That is much appreciated,” Lesaonar said, tone still that naturally dry, almost perpetually sarcastic one. “We will endeavor to keep ourselves to business. I am certain that the Paron Colonel and you yourself are busy people.”

Though he tried to project a certain air of confidence around the ku’nal delegation, Rikker felt just about as good as the Nalayan soldiers that they had passed in the hall looked. A certain amount of tension had settled in the pit of his stomach, and his nerve endings seemed to be firing at about a million miles a second. If not for the beloved Valantin at his side, the colonel knew he would have likely been even more unsettled than he already was.

“We certainly are, Paron Lesaonar,” the Shalumite dipped his head for a moment in differential respect. It was more a sign of his own people than that of the visiting Mak’ur; however, he didn’t even consider the possible implications until after the fact. “However, we’ll always make time for esteemed guests such as yourselves. The cooperation between the ku’nal and other elements in the local area, such as my own or those loyal to the Tigress, is paramount to peace,” he offered them a small smile. How genuine it was could be left up to question as he walked alongside Valantin and the others to the conference room.

“Our concerns regarding the possibility of coexistence is what motivated this little visit,” Sabrae said pleasantly. “Peace is a delicate thing and it requires understanding.”

“We would like to have knowledge of our agreement in rules of conduct for our people as well as yours, and an explanation of the behavior of Shalumites in country,” Lesaonar said more forcefully. He much preferred Ter to Paron, as he had earned it in his time as Ilharn Nasadra. “The Yath are thoroughly...concerned. It is never wise to draw their concern.”

Sabrae shot her counterpart a glare when Rikker and Valantin weren't looking, a silent rebuke for his abrasive nature. Lesaonar shrugged wordlessly before focusing back on Rikker. This was not going to be the most amicable of talks.

No Nalayan blood ran through the colonel’s veins, he was a Shalumite born warrior through-and-through. Still, he had been in the country for over two years, and in that time, he had come to learn a great number of things, if only through a second handed means. The language, how to prepare food, and even the local culture. So while he was, by no means, one hundred percent understanding of how things worked here, he was not stupid enough to miss the bristling edges in Ter Lesaonar’s tone. His lips curled slightly, in distaste, but he quickly schooled himself before he lost any more control than he already had.

“Of course,” Rikker replied slowly; bowing his head again in confirmation, brown eyes flickering over the two ku’nal diplomats. Some part of his mind was more aware than the rest of his mental subroutines, reminding him where his sidearm rested, along with his Kukri styled combat knife. “I hope that I will be able to ease the concerns of the Yath, I apologize that they were ever raised in the first place,” he attempted to placate them as they neared the conference room. “I assure you that I will do everything I can to answer your queries. I wish to see peaceful coexistence between us, not friction.”

“Perhaps your superiors might have considered such things before they permitted slavers in Nalaya?” Lesaonar said dryly.

“That is unfortunately the root of the Yath’s displeasure. Subjugation and ownership of other humans is considered the greatest of evils in L’i’dol,” Sabrae said as she took a seat at the conference table. She could see unease in his expression and posture. It was somewhat satisfying to have him off balance. It was how Sabrae preferred to keep her enemies. She was under no illusions that this relationship would remain friendly forever, if even long. Rikker’s people had thoroughly sabotaged him. “You are aware of the events in the south? Esperance International wrote a rather scathing article. It seems they are good for something after all.”

Valantin noted the bruises on Sabrae’s wrist showing slightly through the concealer. That was something that piqued her curiosity, though she knew better than to ask directly. There was no way in hell the average person would be able to lay a hand on that woman. Contention in the ranks? “I’ll fetch coffee,” she said instead of voicing that thought. “And maybe some food. Colonel, I trust you can handle this on your own for a few minutes?”

“We don’t bite,” Sabrae said with a smile.

Try as he might, Dominic couldn’t stop himself from visibly wincing this time, his shoulders tensely rising and falling at the scathing words. He was silent for a moment as they stepped into the conference room, differentially waiting near the door until the ku’nal representatives had been seated. Shalumite manners, as well as old style chivalry, called for a man such as himself not to sit down until his guests had first.

In the seat, Rikker silently made sure that his posture was as perfect as he could make it. Ramrod straight, no slouching. There was a seriousness in his eyes as he looked between the two ku’nal diplomats, hopefully masking the nervousness he felt wanting to bubble up from his stomach. “You are correct, Tiruhi Sabrae, I am aware of said article, as well as the crimes against Nalaya that it covered.” Now was a proper time for his lips to curl downwards in displeasure, and they did. “I do not think I have the words to...properly describe how disgusted I was to learn of what occurred with the Maldorian auxiliaries and the locals they enslaved.”

Turning his head to look at Valantin now, he smiled slightly, nodding in confirmation. Coffee sounded good right now, as did food. Not that he could really stomach much of at the moment. “That would be very much appreciated, Siruhi. I can certainly hold down the fort until you return,” he promised. Looking over at Sabrae, he tried to hold his smile. “I am sure you don’t, Tiruhi.” Something, however, told him that she was mostly lying, the bedroom excluded.

The Mak’ur were strange creatures, but predictable in some ways at the same time.

Valantin slipped out, even though she was reluctant to leave Rikker alone with them. She trusted he could probably handle himself, but these were dangerous creatures. She also didn’t like the way Sabrae had looked at her. There was understanding in the woman’s eyes—her secret was known by that one. It left the head of Tatev’s TRC with a definite nausea born of nerves. What else would the Ilharess Nasadra be able to see in her face or her file?

“Such a charming woman. The TRC ever are,” Lesaonar said once she’d left. “We may be able to assist you in your Yath problem, or assist you in assisting yourself as the case may be. We would recommend relinquishing custody of the Maldorians as quickly as possible. The radio address from the Tigress was very clear on her feelings. You may wish to annoy your fellow officers in the south into compliance.”

“The Yath have also expressed a desire to leave some of their people here in Tatev to ensure the crimes are not replicated here in the north,” Sabrae said. “If that is objectionable, I of course understand, but it would placate them. Nadal in particular has been perhaps excessively vocal on the subject.” Her tone was somewhat amused, as if she found the yochlol’s adamant nature on the subject to be entertaining rather than threatening. “You are foreign, and so we appreciate you don’t understand their nature, but we must remain servants of the faith despite our more measured demeanor. Still, I assure you that you will find us preferable to the Dread Wolf.”

Lesaonar chuckled. “We would prefer that Tatev remain standing, after all.”

There had been a flash of insult and anger in the colonel's eyes. You could accuse his comrades in the south of malpractice, there was no doubt about it, and no part of him felt inclined to argue about such things. One could even say that he, personally, had done a poor job if it made them feel better and preserved the peace. Accusing his men, however? That was a different story. They had been in country for over two years at this point, and their largest issue had been when a dozen or so of his troops had gotten into a drunken bar fight with some locals. It wasn’t a bad record, all things considered.

Inhaling slowly, Rikker schooled himself before he dared respond, much less he say something that he would seriously regret later; assuming he lasted that long. “I am not sure if you were made aware, but about three hours ago, General Blackburn was promoted to the commander of the 13th SEF. He informed me that he had contacted the TRC, and was simply waiting on instructions as to proceed with the prisoner transfer. By the end of the week, the Maldorian criminals should be in the hands of Nalayans, so that they may be properly judged,” his words were even, no inflection of the short-lived anger he felt run through his veins.

Exhaling slowly, the colonel continued. “I would not find the presence objectionable, assuming that they do not harass my men, or prohibit them from conducting their duties. You may speak to the local police commander if you wish. The worst problem he has had with my men is a few drunken incidents and some minor property damage that they either repaired themselves, or paid for out of their own pockets,” he explained. “Regardless, I would much rather not have to deal with the Dread Wolf, and Yochlol Nadal is someone who I believe I could work with, if need be, or someone under his command for that matter.” Rikker wasn’t about to claim he knew how the ku’nal command structure worked.

“An admirable attentiveness to Nalayan justice. We’re fortunate that you are in command here in the north,” Sabrae said, dipping her head in acknowledgement. “I am certain the Most Honored will be thorough in his inquiries, if perhaps indelicate. He has Yath manners.”

“Blackburn? Ah, the one who dueled Ter Sarkissian. He inherits a troubled position, much as you have, Colonel,” Lesaonar mused aloud. “Still, we must all play with the hand we are dealt.”

Sabrae sighed, leaning back in her chair. It was a thoughtful sound rather than a despairing one. “That does leave the matter of our troops here in Tatev. I assume you have stipulations regarding where we are permitted and how we must conduct ourselves, Colonel? We are here to negotiate as smooth a...visit as possible.”

Rikker wanted to snort. Troubled did not even begin to describe the position that General Blackburn had inherited. The man had more or less been set up to fail from the beginning, or so it seemed, though there was nothing that could be done about it now. “Of course, though the stipulations are no different than the ones I laid out to Most Honored Nadal,” he nodded in confirmation. “As I believe I spoke of earlier, I wish to see ku’nal forces remain in the areas we have designated for them. I am, by no means, trying to limit your people. Friction with locals and my own troops, given tensions across the country, is something I am simply trying to avoid. I hope that does not offend you. I just do not want any incidents,” he chuckled; sounding more tired than he would have liked.

“Additionally, well, I wish to see good conduct out of your troops. It goes back to my first point of trying to avoid conflict. Should they get into any kind of trouble, I will let you handle them, unless the local police would be better suited?” He hated that he couldn’t remember the Kapitan’s name. Dominic had met him on several occasions for various reasons. Shrugging, he went on. “All in all, I think you understand what I am trying to set for your people here. Nothing too strict or imposing, I hope. In line with the...Tenets of Reserve, I believe? Correct me if I am wrong,” he smiled softly.

“It is an agreeable arrangement. We fully intend to obey the Tenet of Reserve. For our good as much as for yours. As for the conduct of our troops: they are warriors of the divine, and the Yath are quick to remind them of such. They will conduct themselves according to the laws of our people, or face the consequences of heaven,” Lesaonar said seriously. “We are equipped to police our own. If the altercation is with your troops, I would suggest we construct some form of mediation, potentially through the local police or Hramatar Narekatsi’s people. They are something of a bridge between worlds at the moment.”

“I’m certain the Hramatar will be thrilled,” Sabrae said with amusement. “But she will understand the point, I think. Hopefully, we have no such problems.”

Sabrae and Lesaonar were both watching Rikker like hawks. Mak’ur, for all their heated tempers, were creatures of subtlety. They did not make eye contact, instead watching the movements of the rest of his face. The composure of non-Mak’ur was seldom as controlled. For them, this was an education on Rikker’s nature.

“There is one other matter, uncertain and still very much debated among our people: Armavir.” Lesaonar’s tone hadn’t changed, but his expression had. It was a subtle change, ambition and hunger eising closer to the surface. “It occurs to us that your own people have a vested interest in seeing it fall. What do you intend to do about the Nava’ai?”

The colonel nodded, pleased with the answer. “I would find those terms rather acceptable. I hate to give Hramatar Narekatsi more duties.” He really did. As far as he was concerned, the Arusai woman was far more overworked than he was, even though he practically lived on caffeine and Valantin’s encouragement these days. “But I’m afraid that myself and those under me would be far too biased, if only on principle alone,” his lips curled upwards as he chuckled quietly.

Dominic was silent for a few moments, thinking. “I wish for the Navai’ai to fall just as much as anyone else.” He admitted, reaching up to scratch at his chin. “Unfortunately, I do not have the forces at the moment to both keep my own territory secure, as well as take the fight to them. I was only able to spare about four-hundred men or so to assault the city of Siunik. I’m afraid my allies, under the command of Tiruhi Kella, have had to bear the majority of the weight when it comes to striking down our respective enemy.” He frowned, genuinely wishing he could do more. “I could perhaps spare a few more of my warriors, if they were supported by your own force, but that is all I am really comfortable with at the moment.”

Lesaonar smiled at Kella’s name. “You have fine taste in allies, Colonel. Arzhani bint Diya al Din is an honorable woman. But that is a tangent. Forgive me.”

Valantin returned with coffee at that point, setting down a tray. There were cups for all of them, kadaif, and some fresh fruit. It was nothing heavy.

“Thank you, Siruhi,” Sabrae said with a smile.

“Hramatar Narekatsi wanted me to convey her apologies for not meeting with you.” Valantin passed Rikker a cup of coffee. “She was about to get on a conference call with the Protector last I saw her. Something urgent.”

“Interesting. I hope all is well,” Lesaonar said in his dry voice. It sounded sincere enough. He looked back at Rikker. “Any assistance you could render in our work to take Armavir would be appreciated. We are not Anahid Vaneni, and so taking the city is expected to be a long, hard battle. Karagozian has been preparing for this day for well over a year, perhaps many. He will be a fearsome foe.”

The colonel was still smiling when Valantin returned, the compliment of his pick in allies received rather well. It did not hurt that his lover was in their company again, bringing drinks and food for them. The way his body reacted to her presence was subtle, though a skilled reader of body language could have picked it up regardless. His shoulder lowered slightly, his eyes chocolate eyes shone a little more as they looked over the woman. That kind of thing. “Thank you, Siruhi Andzevatsi,” he said; perhaps a little too warmly, as he accepted the cup of coffee from her. Taking a sip of it, he set it aside to return his attention on his guests.

“Things are going about as well as they can. I received word some time ago that my forces, along with Arzhani bint Diya al Din’s were on the move. They had it surrounded last I heard, and were beginning the assault. Assuming all goes well, the Nava’ai should be pushed out or simply crushed within a day, perhaps two or three,” he gave a little shrug. “I will certainly try and render assistance with what I can. Until Siunik is resolved though, how much I can spare is left to be seen. Let it be know, though, that I wish to see Karagozian and his forces wiped out just as much as anyone else does,” he gave them a little grin. “Perhaps my aircraft and artillery will be able to provide support?” He asked after a moment of thought, looking between the ku’nal representatives.

And while the sentiment was true, Rikker was not as keen on pitching in on the war effort as others may have been. Oh, he really wanted to, but the fact of the matter was, his force was the smallest in the north. They were a reinforced brigade at best, more geared towards keeping northern Nalaya firmly in their grasp, rather than going on a warpath further south. The only real advantage on his side, besides good defense positions, was the superior technology that he wielded over adversaries and enemies alike. Artillery, aircraft, missiles, that kind of thing. He could have augmented his numbers with Imanalov’, but he was still very much hesitant to send out a call for them if it wasn’t necessary.

Sabrae smiled. “It is that kind of support that we lack. It might be worthwhile to consider the possibility of moving against Karagozian in concert, at least for a time.” She hadn’t missed the change in Rikker’s behavior when Valantin rejoined them. Apparently the reports Sabrae had received were quite accurate. The Ilharess mentally praised their agent for her meticulous work. If push came to shove, that information would be highly useful. “If Arzhani bint Diya al Din has seen fit to place her faith in your word...well, she is not a woman accustomed to being incorrect in her trust. An alliance between us, of any form, would shake Karagozian’s ambitions to their core. Perhaps even enough of a stir will be caused for the other Nava’ai to hang him out to dry.”

The proposition of an alliance with the ku’nal did not settle well with the colonel. Sure, it may have sounded like a nice idea on paper; shacking up with second strongest power in Nalaya, but he was not dumb enough to miss the implications. As far as he knew, there was no love lost between the Tigris and Dread Wolf. By choosing to join one side, he would effectively lose the other. And, needless to say, he wasn’t exactly keen on joining ranks with a ruthless, bloody thirsty religious fanatic. Really, he just wanted to be left alone in his mountain stronghold, where his and Federal troops kept the place locked down very tightly.

Still, he had to keep up the facade for now, lest they decide to just slit his throat now and begin the bloody conflict. “I understand, ma’am,” he replied respectfully. “I agree that an alliance between ourselves could certainly speed up the war effort and strike fear into the Nava’ai, but I don’t feel...comfortable making promises at this very moment. I am a man of my word, so I do not say something unless I plan and know that I can follow through. At the moment, Arzhani bint Diya al Din and Hramatar Narekatsi are both relying on me, and I cannot fail them,” he paused to look at Valantin for a moment; lifting his coffee cup to his lips. Hopefully he could change the topic of conversation, lest they try and rope him in any further. “With any luck, I will have a decision for you sooner than later. Until then, is there anything else that you think we need to discuss?” He asked with a smile.

“We understand, Colonel,” Lesaonar said. He knew an evasion when he heard one, as did Sabrae. However, that wasn’t really a problem. One way or another, Rikker would help them—either by conveniently dying or assisting them with forces further south. “It is always desirable in times such as these to know where our friends stand, yes? Hramatar Narekatsi and Arzhani bint Diya al Din no doubt find your concern on their behalf most gratifying. We have occupied enough of your time at present, I think, but we may wish to revisit these topics of conversation tomorrow. Nadal expects something from Dyvynasshar tonight. We heard a very short while ago that the yochlol went into the Fane to break the Quarval-sharess’s seclusion. Domestic matters, you understand.”

Rikker wanted to let out a shaky breath, he felt the build up in his lungs, begging to be released, but by some stroke of luck, he managed to hold it in. They seemed to have accepted his attempt of moving on, at least at face value. “That would be perfectly fine. This is not a matter than can be handled over night. Perhaps time to ruminate and sleep on this matters will help us with further negotiations, should they be needed.” Of course, no part of him wanted to revisit things, but he couldn’t exactly decline either.

When it came to the mentions of Nadal, he nodded in confirmation, but didn’t touch the topic. There wasn’t much he could really say, other than meeting up with the yochlol again would be...interesting. “If that is the case, than I think we may conclude for the day.” He said, hoping that it would be the end of things. Glancing at Valantin for a moment, he almost asked if there was anything the local TRC representative may have wanted to add, but he realized that it would be the equivalent of throwing her to the sharks. Getting her more involved than she already was, in some nasty business at that.

“We appreciate your time, Colonel,” Sabrae said with her bright smile. “I look forward to seeing what comes of this. Do try enjoy yourself amidst all the chaos. One never knows what tomorrow brings. I’m certain Siruhi Andzevatsi will be able to recommend something. We rely heavily on the TRC as well, when we visit Tatev in better times.” It wasn’t quite a prod, but it was close enough to make Valantin uneasy.

Lesaonar stood up with a grunt. “Stiff,” he complained. He was in his early fifties, though he seldom felt it. A little hint of infirmity seemed to relax most people, however. “The road isn’t kind when you start to get older, Colonel.”

Sabrae laughed. “I’m certain Colonel Rikker won’t have to worry about that for a while. The military seems to keep people young, or at least fit.” She dipped her head to Rikker and Valantin. “Have a beautiful day, both of you. After all, it’s only the end of the world as we know it.”

“Always a pleasure, ma’am,” he replied with a smile of his own. Perhaps they would have to battle one another in the days to come, but for now, he could at least pretend to enjoy himself. The comment regarding the TRC didn’t do unnoticed to him; however, and on instinct, he glanced over at Valantin before quickly returning his gaze to their two guests.

Glancing between the two, the colonel then chuckled. “Here is hoping to that, Siruhi. I try to keep as fit as I can, but I am sure my age will catch up with me sooner or later.” He had actually turned thirty-five the week before, something that had been handled with little fanfare. In all honesty, he hadn’t even realized what the significance of the day was until Mauser had gotten around to calling him up on his satellite phone. He actually felt a little guilty about it. The year before, they had a proper celebration, with local kids eating the majority of a cake that had been brought up from Tatev. This year, it was little more than a couple of beers and trying to explain how he had forgotten his own birthday to Valantin.

“And the same to you, honored guests. A beautiful day and safe journeys,” he said with sincerity as he dipped his head to them in return. A sign of respect. “I would be happy to escort you out, if you wish,” he added after a moment. It was the polite thing to do, though he much rather would have spent his free time in this conference room with his lover.

“I’m certain we can find our way, Colonel,” Lesaonar said as pleasantly as he seemed able to manage. “You are quite busy people and truth be told, so are we. Perhaps someday we can meet on less precarious terms. Now, my lovely colleague and I have much to discuss with our own officers, if you will excuse us.”

Valantin watched them go, her danger sense tingling. There was trouble ahead with those two. Sabrae shut the door to the conference room behind her as she left with the Ilharn Nasadra, leaving Valantin and Rikker alone. “That…” She hesitated, then took a deep breath. “...I don’t like it.”

Very slowly, Rikker returned to his seat, an audible thump heard as he collapsed into it with little in the way of grace. Inhaling and exhaling, as if it would make him feel better, he finally mustered a reply. “I don’t either. Felt like I was staring death in the eyes for a minute there.” Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, he kept his gaze on the wall across from him. “Did I say anything I shouldn’t have, Val?” He finally asked before he took a sip of lukewarm coffee; knowing she had sat in for a good deal of the meeting.

“I don’t know for certain. I don’t think so,” Valantin said slowly. It was probably for the best that Rikker didn’t know when he was really looking death in the face. “I think they will abide by the agreement, at least until the Dread Wolf says otherwise. The C’rintrin are honorable in their own way, but...capricious. As for what they drew out of the meeting, who can say?”

Rolling his chair a little closer to her own, Rikker leaned back, more or less resting his head on her shoulder as he kept his gaze on the wall. It wasn’t comfortable at all, hell, it made his neck hurt, but the fact that he got to be in physical contact with his lover was more than enough to make up for any discomfort. “I don’t think anyone really can anymore, only the heavens know their intentions,” he murmured.

“I wish they were at least minutely predictable. But no, they’re proving to be as bipolar as a damn chihuahua.” She was the only person he could really say this so bluntly to. His confidant, if one wanted to put a label to it. Rikker didn’t trust anyone else, other than Mauser, who was far away at the moment, cooped up at Annu. “I can handle the C’rintrin, hell even the yochlol and yathallar even, but it's the Dread Wolf who has me worried. With everything going on in Massis…” He let the words hang in the air, as if to prove the point for him.

Valantin laughed despite the gravity of the situation, the image of a chihuahua and the Mak’ur not mixing flawlessly. It was pretty comical, at least to her. The mention of the Dread Wolf was immediately sobering, however, like being hit with freezing water. “Dominic, she’s not going to say anything good about Massis,” Val said softly. “When Sabrae called it the end of the world, she wasn’t wrong. I don’t know how we’re going to come back from this. The slaving by the Maldorians of the 13th, now riots in Massis…” She shook her head. “Do you really want my honest opinion?”

“I know she isn’t going to. And we’re not. Going to come back from this, I mean.” His tone was soft as he shifted a bit, more or less nuzzling into her shoulder and the crook of her neck. “She is going to want blood. Shalumite blood. And I -not to mention my soldiers- happen to be the closest source.” Perhaps the most disturbing part of it all was that he didn’t sound...upset. If anything, he was resigned to the fact that he very well wouldn’t live to see the end of the week. He was trapped, and if the ku’nal decided to lash out, he couldn’t do much beyond react. Perhaps they would be willing to accept him in order for time to withdraw his troops. Unlikely, but one needed to have some hope.

Looking up at Val slowly, his eyes were tired. The seemingly youthful colonel that had landed in Tatev two years ago was gone, replaced by someone older and more weary. Still, he managed a real, bright smile for his lover-- the woman who would never really be his. “Of course I do, Valantin. You didn’t even have to ask,” he chuckled quietly.

“I’ve been through this before, this kind of war,” Val said. “I think you need to start getting your people out, Dominic. The Dread Wolf isn’t going to be the only one who throws shade on Shalumites. The Tigress is furious. Massis can only make it worse. That’s why Ada couldn’t come—Khavar was raking her over the coals, more out of frustration than any real culpability. I know you probably haven’t gotten orders to withdraw yet, but…” She brushed her thumb across his cheekbone, her hand gently against the side of his face. “I’m sorry. This isn’t what I wanted, what any of us wanted.”

“It isn’t,” he let out a deep breath that he had seemingly held the entire time. The feeling of her fingers, her touch, eased his tension, but not nearly enough to make him feel any better about his current situation. “Don’t worry, there isn’t a need for apologies. Its my fault, my people’s fault, not yours. Your nation is the victim here, and mine is the culprit.” The words were bitter, but truthful nonetheless.

“I’ll...see what I can do about pulling out, I guess. I’m not sure how possible it actually will be. Until we’re told to withdraw, my troops are supposed to protect Tatev. And hell, even if we are ordered out, half of them will probably desert and just assimilate into the local populace,” it was an attempt at a joke, but his tone fell a little flat. “I dunno how Nalaya will look at it, but a lot of my people have gone ‘native.’ I know of at least a couple Shalumite-Imanalov’ children, and I’m pretty sure Major Johanna is happy to be spending time with her Mak’ur boytoy right about now.” At this point, he was rambling, but he kept talking.

Dropping his head back onto her shoulder, he sighed. “I’m probably gonna be a fall guy for this.” He stated dryly. It wasn’t exactly a new tactic for the Empire. When things got bad, and they lost, they usually liked to clear hour. Put the blame on someone other than the government running things. Sadly, it usually worked. “I’m...sorry about all of this, Val. I wish it wasn’t like this way.”

“It is what it is,” Val said gently. “I’ll do my best to help, but there are powers in this world that I can’t contend with. But I don’t want to ever see you take the fall. Let Malcolmson or someone actually responsible pay for it. I know Ada will say the same. People do respect you, Dominic.”

Reaching between them, Dominic found her hand. Without word, he laced his fingers through her own, gently running his thumb along the skin of her palm. He didn’t dare look at her now, but instead on where they were joined. “Like you...there are powers that I can’t contend with. One of them is my government. You and Narekatsi may have influence here, but as far as anyone back home is concerned, you just two Nalayan women,” he shrugged slightly. “If they want to drag my name through the mud, make me take the fall, I can’t really protest, now can I?” Dominic asked with a soft chuckle. He liked to think he was a big boy though, he could handle whatever bullshit that they threw his way. Not that he wanted to, of course, but again, it was what it was.

“Maybe…” Val felt her throat close up. She wasn’t sure what she had been about to say. What, that she should run away with him? She knew her time in Nalaya, in the safe and comfortable life she’d been living, was coming to an end. It would probably be a violent one. Where was her future with Rikker? Or was it just...this? A lie and an ending in fire and smoke.

Dominic just sighed quietly and straightened up, only to wrap his arm around her shoulder. In their seats, it was the most he could do. “Everything’s going to be just fine, Val. We’re just in a bit of a bad spot right now, is all.” It was a gross oversimplification, he knew, but he had to say something. In reality, there was more than enough evidence to drag him in front of a judge as it was, he just hasn’t told her that. Adultery was an offense in the Imperial military, considered unbecoming of an officer of his stature. Not prison worth, admittedly, but enough to kick him out and slap him with some stiff fines.

Valantin knew she needed time to collect her thoughts, but first she wanted all the time with him that she could get. This could easily be goodbye. If things went wrong, he would be leaving Nalaya in the blink of an eye...one way or another. It was a chilling thought. She gave his hand a squeeze. “Why don’t we talk somewhere else?” she said softly. “Think you can get away with some time holed up in your office? I told Sahak I would be out of the office a while.”

Normally, Rikker was an on the ball kind of person. He had a sharp mind. But after weeks of intensive work and more stress than anyone should have been had to bear alone, he was feeling the effects of fatigue. The way her hand tightened around his own seemed to bring him back though, her words truly sinking in a moment later. He blinked in surprise at first, eyes a little wide and energetic as he looked up at her. He knew that tone and the suggestions that came with it.

“That sounds wonderful, Val. My office, um, should be clear of anyone. And if it isn’t, well, I’ll make sure it is.” He flushed a little at his own words, but didn’t falter as he stood up and offered her his arm. “Shall we, Siruhi Andzevatsi?”

Valantin laughed, feeling lighter already. She could agonize in a while. For a moment, she could forget. “I’ll meet you there,” she said with a smile, kissing his cheek and vanishing through the doorway. He was going to have to wait a little bit, but she was certain he would find something to think about.

Despite the more gloomy mood that had settled in the room following the ku’nal delegation’s visit, Rikker couldn’t stop himself from grinning as he watched Valantin disappear through the room’s door. There was -something- about her that, no matter what, could always seem to make him feel better. More alive, even if he was facing death. Silently, he counted to sixty once she had departed, trying to seem as if he wasn’t in any great rush to get out of there.

When he finally exited, and navigated the halls of Miak Amrots’ back to his office, the colonel took a few deep breaths. He was, well, excited if he had to be truthful. He and Val had been so busy these last few days, since everything had gone to shit, that they hadn’t had much time to themselves. “Siruhi Andzevatsi will be stopping by shortly for a debriefing. Make sure that no one disturbs us,” he relayed to one of the guards that kept watch near his office.

He could have sworn he saw a gleam of amusement in the man’s eyes as he nodded. “Of course, sir. We’ll make sure of it. Have a nice day,” the soldier tipped his helmet respectfully; watching as his commander disappeared behind the heavy wooden door, and into the confines of his office that had become like a second home.

Valantin did take some time before arriving at his office, long enough to leave her blazer in her office and check to make certain Sahak knew she was going to be out of the office. He always seemed to approve of her outings, mostly because she smiled more after them. Rikker reminded her what it was to actually feel things again. She’d been a lot to other men. She’d smiled, sighed, and held their secrets. Sometimes she’d been their secret. But those affairs had always left her cold. Not this one.

She felt a world better when she stepped out of reality and into Rikker’s office, closing and locking the door behind her. She was reasonably confident that a few of the guards knew, but they hadn’t said anything and that was what mattered. If it could just stay a secret, just a little bit longer, then she would consider herself fortunate. She smiled at her lover, slipping off her blazer and folding it over to drape on the back of a chair. Everyone wanted something. The difference between Rikker and her husband or Emin or any of the others she had to use every day was that Rikker just wanted her.

The colonel, simply Dominic when it was just them, was very much prepared for her arrival. He had broken out a couple of proper glasses, and had filled them with some wine that she had gotten him a while back. Perhaps a misallocation of resources, but he had gotten a real mini fridge to store it, among other drinks, in his office for situations like this. He left them waiting on his desk, however, as she stepped into his office.

“I almost thought you were going to ditch me for a second there,” he teased her as he rounded his desk. It was clear from his tone that he was joking, and as if to punctuate the point, he stepped forward; wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her close to him, something he couldn’t simply do while in public. After pressing a long and proper kiss to her lips, he grinned at her, a little breathlessly. “Have I told you how beautiful you look today? Because I feel like I forgot to,” he laughed quietly.

“Good things come to those who wait,” Val murmured with a smile, her eyes lighting up when he called her beautiful. She knew she was—she’d used the charm like a weapon for a long time—but here it meant something. “Thank you, Dominic. You’re as handsome now as you were the first day I saw you: more than words.” When she kissed him, though, it didn’t say slow things. There was need and want and a little bit of impatience. She wasn’t very good at following her own advice, but then again, it had been a while since she last had time alone with him. The wine would be fine for a while. She wanted to feel alive and with him, even if it was only for a little while before the magnificent inferno that would be the end of whatever sunlight world they’d lived in. Stars did not go quietly into that good night. Why should they?

Dominic wasn’t really sure how it happened. Everything was moving so quickly, driven by passion and desire, as well as some desperate undertones. When their lips met, he reacted readily, not so much battling her as he was going with the flow of things. Somehow, they ended up on the couch of his office, the TRC representative perched in his lap as he pressed a kiss to her jawline. The smile he wore was wide and warm, his eyes filled with affection as he held her. “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, Valantin,” he murmured. “So beautiful and sweet, the light of my world, my moon and stars.” Each statement was punctuated by another kiss, his hands finding the hem of her blouse.

As they fell back onto the couch itself, Rikker couldn’t help but laugh. Reaching up, he ran the pad of his thumb along her cheek, tracing the skin under her gorgeous blue eyes as he admired them from below. “I love you so much, Valantin,” he murmured without thinking; going still a moment later as he realized that had been said aloud, not in his mind like he had originally intended.

Val barely caught the words, but they hit her like electricity, crackling under her skin and setting her nerves on fire. In that moment, she felt like both the best and worst person in the world at the same time. That was the point of this, wasn’t it? a nasty voice in her head said, a voice that had long laid dormant. Her neglected conscience, she supposed. Make him love you and use him, like you use everyone in your life…

“I love you too,” she whispered to Rikker, eyes soft and difficult to read. It was somewhere between adoration, delight, lust, and undefinable sorrow. They were fragile words, cheap words, easily spoken. She’d used them before on many occasions for many reasons. They were magical, opening doors for her that no amount of force could ever open. She’d had very few compunctions about saying them in the past. It was easy, convenient, and useful.

Liar! her conscience snarled. You always lie! You don’t know how to do anything else. He flew to you like a moth to flame, and now you’ll burn his wings with his own love.

Valantin wasn’t entirely convinced that it was a lie anymore. She kissed Rikker until she couldn’t breathe or think. Hearing him enjoy himself, hearing him feel good, drowned out the guilt. It was as though somehow she thought this would change his mind and make it all about lust again, like it had been with others. This made her feel wanted and in control—safe—because she knew how to use her body. Her head and her heart were an altogether different problem.

Dominic’s reaction had been instant and electrifying, a grin spreading across his lips that was bright enough to light up the whole damn room and then some. Rows of white teeth were bared, and eyes widened first in surprise, before lighting up in joy as he realized that she really loved him too! Regardless of their shitty situation outside of this room, he felt his heart soar to new heights. As he returned her kiss with an indescribable fervor, he wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her as close to him as was humanly possible. His other hand was a little more impatient, especially now, tugging at her clothing as he grinned up at her breathlessly when they broke apart for air.

“I didn’t expect you to say it back,” he admitted; laughing quietly as he looked up at her. His expression of weariness and stress was gone, at least for now; replaced by a man who had clearly heard the best news in the world. “But I loved hearing you do it. I love you so much, Val,” he grinned; leaning up to capture her lips again in a deep, passionate kiss. Heart hammering in his chest, Dominic was on nothing less than cloud nine.

She knew she’d made him happier than she’d ever seen him before. She focused on other things, his lips against hers and his hands on her body. That was easier, safer, and left less room for second thoughts. Let him have his illusions while they lasted and let her chase passion before the end, a fitting task for what she was. If she could turn those dangerous words into less troublesome moans, if she could distract him, she would be safe. Her heart would be safe. Her fingers danced from button to button, undoing them quickly. They probably wouldn’t end up completely undressed, just in case, but she wanted to be thorough. Don’t let him think. Valantin had always been good at stealing people’s reason from them.

As lovestruck as he was, Dominic was no fool. He knew when there was a time for speaking, and when there wasn’t. The latter was now, if how she acted was any indication. From what he gathered, Nalayan blood ran hot, and passions high when they got into these kinds of moods, not that he minded in the least. It made for quite the affair, actually. Any further words died on his lips as he went into action, kissing and fumbling, working on the buttons of her own blouse. He knew better than to toss it away, but he at least wanted to admire the view.

Things only devolved into more carnal actions by that point, as trousers and the like were tossed aside. Weary or not, the colonel had gone far too long without his lover, and Valantin suddenly found herself with a rather insatiable partner the longer they went. Not that it meant he paid her own body any less attention, of course.

The colonel was a rather attentive person when it came to his work, after all.

Rikker was everything Val could have ever asked for in a lover. She never failed to thoroughly enjoy her time with him. But eventually they were both exhausted and the world started to creep back in. She couldn’t cling to Rikker forever and she wasn’t ready to really talk about feelings. But before she could say anything, her phone started to buzz. Val leaned over and picked it up. “Sorry,” she said apologetically before answering it. “Sahak?”

“Your husband is here. He wants to see you. Is your meeting finished or should I tell him he needs to wait?”

Valantin took stock of herself. She was a hot mess right now. “Fifteen or twenty,” she said. She needed to clean up. Her husband didn’t pay much attention to her, but he’d notice this. When her assistant murmured his assent, she answered, “Thanks.”

Her goodbye kiss and apology to Rikker was heartfelt, but she only told him that duty had called. She never liked leaving his company, particularly for Nshan’s. It wasn’t until she was actually in the shower that reality hit. Dominic Rikker loved her. And she’d said she loved him…. Somehow, she doubted her own words were a complete lie. That was a terrifying thought. She felt wretched then as she washed away the evidence of their liaison. Why are you doing this to him? she asked herself. But she knew the answer: eternity. A single word loaded with so much meaning, so many emotions. It was beginning to ring hollow.

[Nalaya]

Along the Zeklet’taune Aluin
The Har’oloth, Nalaya

Kor’inth was waiting.

Sabal could feel it as she repacked her bag, like a gaze burning into the back of her neck or feet walking over her grave. She’d woken up before Joan by a good half hour and spent probably half of that time just laying there with her arms around her lover, praying for the best and fearing for the worst. Finally, when the restlessness set in, she kissed Joan’s forehead and gently disentangled herself to take care of her things. She cleaned her rifle quickly and went through the motions of protecting herself against possession by Kor’inth. The last thing they needed was the yathallar falling prey to a berserker rage, and she was the most natural target, already attuned to the world of spirits.

Her mind was a whirling mess, conflicting emotions battling for supremacy in her heart. Whatever happened with Kor’inth, whatever happened in Dyvynasshar, she needed to be focused and so she tried her hardest to bring things under control.

“You’re worried.” Pella’s soft voice broke her out of her troubled thoughts. She looked over to see the girl’s wide eyes mirroring her own apprehension.

“Yes,” Sabal said, not afraid to admit her concerns. “We face a difficult challenge.” What she didn't say was that Dyvynasshar would likely be the more difficult of the two. “But we will endure it with patience and courage. That is all one can do sometimes.”

“We’re ready to go Sabal!” The de facto leader of the Shalumite trio, Faisal, called as he leaned down to pick up his traveling pack; sliding it onto his shoulders before he made his way towards the ku’nal duet, his booted feet slapping against the hard ground underfoot. His muscles ached from the trek that they had endured the day prior, but he made no complaint, nor seemed to slow down as he clutched his freshly clean assault rifle.

“Did a count. We each have about a hundred rounds,” Michael added as he joined the group, rifle slung over his shoulder, hands rested on his hips. While, to a civilian shooter, it may have sounded like a good number, given the cost of ammunition these days; to a military group such as themselves, it was a bit concerning. One could end up surprised how quickly they burnt through supplies in the heat of battle. “Not counting sidearms though, but I’d estimate about the same,” he shrugged as he patted the handgun on his hip.

“Ready, sissurn?” Joan asked with a small smile as she joined the rest of the ground; cradling her own, powerful weapon. Leaning forward, she pressed a quick kiss to her lover’s cheek, before settling back onto her heels. “Dyvynasshar is just a few more hills over yonder, and then we can finally rest.” Despite what she actually expected to go down, given what she and Sabal had talked about during quiet conversations, she at least sounded cheerful.

“As ready as one can be for such a thing,” Sabal said with a small smile that she only half felt. “Do we mean to seek out Kor’inth? Or are we just to continue on our way and pray that it stays far from us?” She favored the first even though it meant killing one of her arlathil. There was less chance of death or injury that way, to her mind.

Pella felt her whole body tighten nervously at the thought of going toe to toe with such an ancient and powerful spirit. “Could we find another way around out of its territory?”

Sabal shook her head. “The lands around the Aluin are very dangerous,” she said quietly. “One does not stray from the righteous way and live.”

Faisal glanced at his subordinates for a moment, before he turned back to Sabal. “Preferably, we would just keep going along the path, and hope that Kor’inth finds another meal to occupy itself with,” he said slowly. “In a diamond manner, perhaps.” Said formation was meant for VIP protection, usually used by four man special operations teams to keep the important, and usually unarmed member of the group in the middle, surrounded by a wall of guns and armored bodies. In this case, it would simply be Pella.

“However,” Michael took over from here. “This is your country, Sabal, so we’ll happily do as you reccomend. If you think hunting is what we need to do...than we’ll do it.” He paused to grimace slightly. “I have the feeling we’re going to run into Kor’inth either way.”

“We will not have the protection of a xorile, a shrine, until the third night from here,” Sabal said. “It will come in the night. I do not relish the idea of hunting one of my spirit-kin, but…” She took a deep breath. “It is a spirit of rage. Such things are drawn towards conflict like a moth towards flame. I feel it is more likely than not that Kor’inth will seek us. I am not eager to battle it on its own terms. Not all rage is careless.”

Pella shifted her weight from foot to foot nervously. “I don’t like the idea of fighting it in the dark,” she admitted. “Lions can see a hell of a lot better than us, and I assume possessed ones can see even better.”

“That was my thought,” Sabal said. It was as though the words were being pulled out of her. The yathallar was deeply troubled.

For a moment, Kaplan Faisal’s lips went thin as the corners of his mouth pulled in concentrated thought. He was in no mood to go lion hunting either, especially with how far out from their destination that they still were. If they burned through ammunition, then they could be very much vulnerable further along the path. If someone was injured, especially badly, than they would have a tough time getting to Dyvynasshar.

He wasn’t even going to ponder what would happen if someone died. It was something he refused to allow.

“Then I guess it's settled. We’re going hunting,” the justicar leader said slowly; glancing down at his rifle on instinct. Looking back up at the yathallar, he continued. “I’d rather pick my own terms rather than fight on the enemy’s. How do you suggest we look for trouble, if we’re going to do so?” He asked her, figuring she was a much better expert on the matter than he was.

“Follow its tracks,” Sabal said. “At least as far as we may. We will be looking for a cave or cleft in the rocks. Kor’inth will have a lair, somewhere dark and secret where it may rest and regain its strength after a hunt or a battle. It is that or bait it, but we do not have an animal to use as bait, nor a stand. It would be far more dangerous than tracking it to its lair, and even that is a perilous proposition.”

Pella knew that their yathallar would be an excellent tracker, but lions were not necessarily the easiest creature to follow, particularly on bare rock if it took such a path. She took a deep breath and nodded a little bit. “I can come or stay in the shrine,” the girl said nervously.

“I would rather have you with us,” the yathallar said. “Just in case.”

It was a trivial enough task to catch the lion’s trail from outside the shrine. Sabal smiled grimly as she found it, grateful that the beast had its injury that made the tracks unique. “We must be careful,” she said warningly. “These lead beyond the path. There may be any number of powerful spirits there, those who are not necessarily kind to travelers. That aside, there are a number of more mundane dangers: quicksand, venomous creatures, falls and rocks, and predatory animals. We have no guarantee that Kor’inth is in its den now, though it is most likely.”

Moments like these where when the skills of the justicars truly showed. They moved like specters, as noiseless as the thief in the night. Weapons were always kept at the ready, in the event that the creature they hunted ended up being closer than expected. They purposely kept Pella towards the back of their little formation, Joan never more than a couple of steps behind. Normally, Sabal or Michael would have been the one to escort her, but the redheaded Shalumite woman was their ranged fighter, and her lover was needed up front so that the spirit could be tracked properly.

Noiselessly, Faisal moved next to Sabal, dropping to a knee as he brought his rifle to bear; eyeing the environment ahead of him. Normally, the rock would have provided discomfort, but his increasingly damaged knee pads held up for the moment. “Noted,” he said quietly; glancing over at her. “We should stick together then-- not that we haven’t already been doing that. Hopefully we can do this quickly, assuming its home. The sooner we can get back to the main path, the better, yes?”

“Yes,” Sabal agreed definitely. “We cannot be off the Aluin after dark, when the moon is high. It would be our end, assuredly.”

The yathallar lead the way cautiously out into the Har’oloth. The Aluin all too quickly faded from view between the distance and the brush. Much of it was thorn and bramble, broken up by the occasional tree spreading its gnarled branches over the rough ground, long swaying grasses of golden hue, and great stones that frequently stood near cracks in the earth as if erected by Mother Nature herself to stand sentinel over the hollow places. Sabal wound her way through the brush on the trail of the tracks with an expert’s ease. There was a small game trail that they seemed to be following, though it was occasionally a narrow squeeze or required the justicars and their Mak’ur companions to duck down or crouch. They followed it for a good distance before suddenly the brambles gave way to a great outcropping of razor sharp rocks rising from the ground, forming a natural maze of sharp edges and broken ground.

“Ah, a jess belgareth,” Sabal said. The beast was clever, there was no mistaking that. A wrong step in this area could slash someone open or, if they were not careful with their step, easily twist an ankle or break a bone. Some places were even great rifts that could lead to a plunging fall into the earth never to be seen again. It was not a terrain that she wanted to deal with in the dark, to be certain. Places like this ate even the wildlife at times, though most animals were wiser than humans. At the same time, there were hundreds and hundreds of species, particularly insects or other small creatures, that flourished in areas like this. A biologist’s dream and nightmare simultaneously. “We must be very, very careful. Areas like this did not earn their name lightly.”

“It means fang-maze,” Pella said for the justicar’s benefit. She had heard of areas like this, though she’d never seen one before in person. Just pictures. However, she knew what a danger they could pose, and some stretched for miles and miles. She hoped this was a small one.

“Fang-maze? Really? Jesus fucking Christ.” Michael muttered under his breath, pointedly ignoring the displeased glances that his comrades in arms threw him. He knew better to use the Lord’s name in vain, of course, but at this moment, he really didn’t care all that much. It was the simplest way to voice his displeasure, at least for the moment. “Just when I thought this little outing couldn’t get any better,” he grumbled under his breath. Anything else he had to say died on his lips as he batted at some kind of small insect that swarmed around his face, either drawn to his exposed skin, or the slick sweat on his tan skin and earthy musk that wafted around his body.

“It could always be worse, just remember that.” Joan knew that she was tempting the spirits with those words, but didn’t much care as she eyed their surroundings. As she did so, a warm feeling began to dribble down her arm, and she let out a quiet curse as her eyes surveyed the limb. A thorn had apparently been kind enough to cut deeply, even through the thick fabric of her armored clothing. Not enough to make her feel any real pain, but at the same time, enough to draw blood. “Ugh, great. Anyone have a—” As she looked up, she froze, a soft cry of alarm escaping her lips. “Sp-sp-spi—!”

There was a flash of steel through the air, so quickly that it practically made a sound. In an instant, Faisal had drawn his combat knife, and with the skill of an assassin, gutted a particularly large spider that had decided to dangle in front of her. As the top half began to fall, he was already moving to sheath the weapon, cleaning off what remained of the creature on a nearby branch. “I have no doubt about that. This place kinda reminds me of a living nightmare.” The dark skinned justicar said, seemingly nonplussed about solving Joan’s spider problem so efficiently. “Sorry, I hope that didn’t sound offensive, Sabal.” He added belatedly, dipping his head in a differential nod of respect.

“I’d rather we not linger, if at all possible.” Michael muttered unhappily. He was half tempted to sling his rifle over his shoulder and switch to his sidearm, but it would do little good if they ran into their prized lion. “Perhaps we should keep moving,” he added; glancing down nervously at a seemingly endless cavern.

Sabal had let out a sharp hiss of breath when Faisal killed the spider. There was a definite danger to striking down beasts on the road, even arachnids. After all, they were predators. There were Yath that devoted their whole lives to the care and study of the creatures. Sabal crouched down next to the split halves of the creature, placing them together and then holding her palm over it, murmuring a brief prayer to appease the creature’s spirit. “You should be careful,” she said when she stood up. “To strike to kill is to court danger. Like attracts like. Death is no exception to such a rule.” She took a breath, then nodded a little. “You are fortunate that your nightmares are so pleasant as this.”

Pella was right there with Joan, however. She was afraid of spiders, though she didn’t like to admit it. She was always impressed by the bravery and perhaps insanity of those Yath who could stomach being so close to them.

Sabal lead the way into the maze. The projections of rock that stabbed upwards to the sky were a range of between about half a foot and fifteen feet high. There were low walls like razor blades primed to trip and slice deeply, while other towering rocks had jagged edges that could cut like a knife if one leaned against them. The uneven ground made it dangerously easy for the justicars to trip and hurt themselves badly. Sabal knew people who had trespassed into a jess belgareth before, only to slice themselves to ribbons and die of bloodloss. She had nearly tripped over their bodies when she went in on the trail of a wounded oura cub.

It was strangely serene as well as perilous. Marching little lines of ants trundled across the narrow path, dipping down into the lion’s pawprints and then trudging up the side. Butterflies of brilliant jewel-tones, like delicate emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and amethysts fluttered to and fro, landing on the flowers that grew on climbing vines and little assortments of tiny yellow blooms that clustered on the ground, soft and spring green leaves narrow spearhead-like shapes above the black-brown dirt. The soil here was surprisingly rich. It might have made excellent farmland, were it not for the rocks and the only intermittent rain.

“That one you do not want to brush bare skin against,” Sabal said, pointing out beautiful red-veined leaves on one of the climbing vines that softened some of the sharp rock faces. “They have little stinging hairs on the leaves and stem. It is...unpleasant.”

Pella nodded, smiling when she heard birds start to call as they moved in deeper. The songbirds here were protected from most predators that would go after their eggs. A few fluttered low, landing on the ground ahead of the small group of humans and doing a hopping dance. Their calls sounded like raspy whistles more than warbles. “Those are zaqh suri,” she said brightly. “Homeland shrikes. Aren’t they cute?” She thoughtfully left out some of their main, distinctive characteristics. Hopefully they wouldn’t run across one’s nest, both because they were territorial and because their nesting habits were...interesting.

They were little puffballs of feathers, their bodies a dappled brown with a soft grey underbelly and red stripes on their wings. One of them hopped close to Faisal’s foot, giving him an inquisitive look before immediately darting away again and taking sudden wing. The handful of birds took off again in a moment or two, disappearing as quickly as they’d come. A sand-colored, frilled lizard sunned itself lazily on the rocks nearby, studying the justicars before licking its eye. It refused to run away and desert its position. Then a little mouse-like creature hopped across their path on kangaroo-like legs before vanishing into a hole in the rock.

There was life everywhere they looked.

“We are truly blessed, I like to think.” Faisal murmured as he walked alongside their Yath guide, his weapon slung over his shoulder for a moment, so that both of his hands were free to navigate the path that they travelled. His eyes were sharp and alert, breathing a little off kilter due to nerves. Once already, he had come close to losing his life while venturing too close to a rock slab. He would have ended up cut into a million pieces, if not for Michael grabbing him before he could stumble any further forward. Joan had muttered about karma and his killing of the spider, something he had half-heartedly brushed off.

“We could very well people to have ever seen these particular lands and paths.” Joan added, keeping close to Pella, more or less picking up on their leader’s train of thought. “I doubt many would willingly venture this far out,” she chuckled. Turning her head, she watched as Michael more or less had a stare down with a shrike that had managed to wrangle what looked like a mouse. “If only we weren’t out hunting, or on a pilgrimage for that matter. I imagine I could get lost out here, capturing the beauty of nature,” she mused as she went very much out of her way; avoiding a suspicious looking vine.

“Something to keep in mind for the future?” Michael proposed, glancing at Sabal. This war wouldn’t last forever, and with any luck, they would all emerge alive from their little adventure that they were on. Not to mention the fact that Joan would likely want to stay with her lover, whether the Yath protested it or not.

“You could always join Sabal’s ranks. Take acolytes on tours,” Faisal teased Pella; nudging her with his elbow as they walked further. His legs felt a bit tired from their long hike, but he wouldn’t dare complain.

“I’d be a terrible Yath,” Pella said with a smile. She seemed to have relaxed a little bit now that they were into the forest of stones that were only growing taller and taller as they moved deeper into it. Some of the jagged protrusions from the earth were hundreds of feet high, dwarfing the small group.

Sabal paused when she caught a hint of some smell on the wind. She recognized it in a heartbeat: the sickly sweet smell of decay. It was definitely meat of some kind left to rot in the sun. “We should be careful,” she said quietly as she started to move forward. “Something is dead nearby.” It was entirely possible that the creature’s lair was in here somewhere, rather than on the other side like she’d hoped.

“Maybe it’s a dead lion?” Pella said hopefully.

The yathallar unslung her rifle and started to move forward in a walk that was more a crouch, trying to be quiet. She heard a crunching sound from ahead and felt her blood run cold. Something with powerful jaws was cracking bone. She wasn’t certain if it was Kor’inth or not, but it was probably large. It didn’t sound like a jackal. The next crunch sounded like a large bone, maybe a femur, breaking. Definitely not a jackal, she thought. Whatever it was was around a sharp corner, which she didn’t like at all. It would hear them coming without question. Animal ears were much sharper than human ones, and if it had a kill, it was not likely that the creature would shy away fearfully. Out here, large game was a valuable meal.

Pella stayed towards the rear quietly, trying not to quake. It was easy to not make a sound, with that kind of fear. She wanted to bolt. Everything in her body was screaming to. The only thing keeping her from doing so was the knowledge that fleeing could get her killed very, very quickly too.

The justicars were all veterans, and they knew for a fact what death smelled like. It was this, the sickly scents that wafted in the breeze. If the justicars weren’t on edge already, they certainly were now. They crouched a little lower, made even more deliberate steps, and Joan purposely move in front of Pella now. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t allow the young woman to get hurt. She had already gone through so much. If anything, Pella at least deserved the chance to have a life. “A dead lion would be amazing, but too convenient,” Joan murmured; smiling wryly. “Unless it was a case of divine intervention. I wouldn’t complain if it was.” She would have chuckled, perhaps even giggled, if not for the severity of the situation, and the chance of death just around the corner.

The closer that they drew to the noise, the lower Micahel and Faisal crouched, all but hugging the ground. If their legs protested in discomfort, they ignored it. There was a good reason for this. If Sabal or Pella would have glanced back, they would have seen Joan haunched down, but not nearly as far as either of her companions. It effectively allowed her fire over the heads of everyone else, increasing how much led they could put downrange when it came time to fight. The amazing part, at least to some who had seen justicars fight, was that they didn’t have to vocalize what needed to be done. They simply acted, falling into sync with each other like a well oiled machine.

Trying not to make a sound, Faisal reached over to tap Sabal, hoping that she had at least some kind of understanding when it came to hand signals. ”Danger ahead?” He questioned silently, glancing towards their little path around the rocks ahead. ”How do you want to proceed?” Using hands wasn’t the best way to communicate long messages, alas, but hopefully she would get the message. Ideally, one of them could sneak up and scout whatever was ahead, but that could end very badly, on the other hand.

Sabal made the sign for ”slow” and then held a finger over her lips. She stepped forward quietly, padding through the long grass, and rounded the corner with her rifle at the ready. She felt calm and aware, the adrenaline rushing through her body also serving as a connection to her own bestial half.

It was crouched behind an outcropping of rocks, but she could occasionally see glimpses of its nose, spattered with blood, in the tall grass. Its hide blended in almost perfectly, though, and very little of it was showing. Sabal could see enough, however, to know that this was a massive one. They were most certainly looking at the animal that had left those tracks.

The bone crunching abruptly stopped and Sabal tightened her grip on her rifle. If it came out from behind that rock, it would come out in a charge.

But the creature didn’t emerge as minutes stretched on, which did nothing to comfort Sabal. Then, she felt that creeping dread, like someone walking over her grave. Goosebumps were forming on her arms. She knew that feeling: they were being watched. Something tawny flashed in the corner of her eye and Sabal hurled herself to the side, smashing into a relatively dull section of rocks. The lion landed right where she’d been with a terrifying roar, the smell of death clinging to it like a shroud. Spittle hit the justicars as the creature lashed out at them with hooked, lethal claws and snarled. The problem was that this rocky passage was not a broad space where it was easy to get away. Sabal was so close to the lion that she could have easily touched it without even fully extending her arms, which made it difficult to lower her rifle and attack it. She smashed the butt of her rifle into the beast, but it didn’t even seem to notice. Her next action was to draw the long knife she wore on the outside of her thigh. It undoubtedly meant death for her, but she needed to draw it away from the justicars so they could get a shot in.

Nothing could have prepared the justicars for when the lion emerged from its hiding place. While Sabal may have been able to see it, they were all holding position a couple of feet back, waiting for the order to move, or for something to happen. When the latter occurred, the trio of Shalumite crusaders let out sounds of surprise, eyes going in terror as they stepped back. Their years of training and combat experience held true now, even in this desperate moment, as they shouldered their weapons and prepared to engage. Bullets did not immediately fly; however, given that their target refused to stay still for more than half a half a damn second.

“Sabal’s in danger!” Michael hollered after what felt like an eternity, already snapped out of his conservative, more defensive mindset. Moving forward, his forty-five caliber pistol barked in rapid succession. While there was no doubt in his mind that quite a few of his shots would go wide, the hope was that at least a few would hit their mark. As the saying went, forty-fives packed the power to theoretically knock a man out of his boots, so hopefully it would make a lion at least think twice. Even something as powerful as Kor’inth.

Reaching the yathallar, he gripped the back of her right arm, pulling the woman towards him without hesitation. She may have been strong, but he was built like a tank, and adrenaline was flowing through his veins. “Move, now!” He barked at the Mak’ur woman, already firing his sidearm again. When his magazine ran dry, he would have to switch to his knife. It would take far too long to reload.

Sabal had been at the lion’s flanks while the justicars were confronted with snarling jaws and those wicked claws. When the beast surged to one side for Faisal and Sabal drew her knife, she felt herself suddenly tugged off balance—and towards the head of the animal. Sabal spat a curse, careening towards the justicars whether she liked it or not—most definitely the not, in this case. She ripped her arm away from Michael and recoiled back towards the tail when the lion whipped around, blood dripping from its shoulder, with murder in its golden eyes. Its massive paw hit hard enough to spin the justicar and then its jaws snapped shut on the closest limb with force enough to break bone.

Michael may have screamed, but the sound was drowned out by the sounds of his forearm and right elbow being simultaneously broken in multiple areas. A final gunshot echoed, the bullet soaring off into the distance somewhere, before he sidearm clattered uselessly to the ground as his grip slacked. He couldn’t feel his arm anymore, not really. Just pain as razor sharp teeth tore into him. The justicar cursed and cried out, his body being thrown around, helplessly, as he was left to the mercies (or lack thereof) of Kor’inth.

“Michael!” The other two Shalumites cried out, more or less at the same time, as they steadied their weapons. Both of them looked pale and horrified now as they watched their friend been torn into, blood coating the fangs of the lion once more.

Distressed or not, they didn’t break down now, however. No, they did the only thing that they could.

Join the fight.

“Engage!” Faisal hollered, the lion finally seeming to stay relatively still for them. No sooner had he cried out, than his rifle began to bark, the intermediary 6.5x45mm rounds cutting through the air viciously. A moment later, Joan joined him, her own battle rifle spitting out single, but much more powerful bullets. If the kaplan’s rifle was comparable to a power driver in terms of noise emitted, than her own weapon was like a thunderclap in the confines of their current environment.

Lions were powerful apex predators, but they weren’t bulletproof. The minute powerful rifle rounds struck the beast, it released Michael with a hellish yowl and whipped around, bounding away with the speed of an enraged beast. A bullet had lodged in its spine as it turned, so one leg was dragging limply as it struggled away. It had taken enough damage to go find a quiet place and die...but this was no ordinary animal, as far as Sabal was concerned. She hesitated for a second, torn between giving chase and seeing to Michael, but she knew the lion was badly, if not immediately fatally, wounded and wouldn’t be going far. Not with a blood trail like that following it—the spray of blood from one of the lion’s arteries hit the stone wall about four feet up from the ground.

Sabal wasn’t certain if it was lion blood on her or Michael’s. “Pella, medic!” She had to shout over the ringing in her own ears, well aware her voice would be barely audible for at least a second. Confined spaces and firearms were not a combination kind to the ears.

No matter how frightened Pella was, thousands of years of conditioning couldn’t be shaken: when Yath spoke, ku’nal obeyed. She ran to Michael’s side, looking down at his mangled arm, but Kor’inth had done a fine job of ripping his arm to ribbons. This needed a tourniquet around the bicep, from what she could tell...which meant losing that arm out here. She knew Sabal had some medical supplies in the bag the yathallar had handed her when they left the path, no doubt including one. That would have to do. Before Pella had time to think, she was acting on autopilot. Sabal had been drilling her on this kind of thing every day on the path when they stopped for the night, after prayers. After all, they’d known that a confrontation with Kor’inth was inevitable, since it was venting its rage on pilgrims.

Sabal walked after the lion carefully with her rifle at the ready, keeping her eyes open to make certain the beast wasn’t setting up another ambush. The body was severely damaged, yes, but Kor’inth’s frenzies were the stuff of nightmare. She’d seen it in humans, she’d seen it in beasts. This lion could easily do the same.

There was a moment of silence in their little, almost canyon like space. With the youngest of them already on the move, trying to save the wounded justicar, the two Shalumites who remained on their feet seemed a little stunned. So much had just occurred in less than sixty seconds, and they now found themselves here, half deaf and covered in blood. Who or what it belonged to, they tried to not think about too hard. “I’m going to help Pella. Go make sure that Sabal doesn’t do anything crazy,” he half-shouted, though it sounded like a whisper to Joan’s ringing ears. Still, she nodded in confirmation, padding after her lover, her own body shifting into a nearly autopilot state. A woman of the cloth, she was, but Joan was also a soldier by profession; trained to follow orders.

On the ground, Michael rolled back and forth in pain, his good hand weakly applying pressure to his wounds. As blood began to seep through his fingers, he let out a low whimper, apparently unable to vocalize anything more. Faisal was at his side a moment or two later, along with Pella, but he could only stare at them blankly. Apparently adrenaline had its limits, because his arm sent currents of agonizing pain through his body.

Do not fear causing pain, Sabal had told Pella when they discussed battlefield medicine. She wrapped the tourniquet around Michael’s bicep and pulled it tighter and tighter—as hard as she could, in fact. It had to bite in to stop the bleeding. She apologized in a chant under her breath, but she could almost imagine Sabal shouting at her not to stop. There were needles and ampoules of some kind of opiate, either heroin or morphine. Either were a safe bet with Mak’ur medicine. Whatever the case, Pella moved carefully. She had trouble getting the drug into the needle with how her hands were shaking, but Michael’s veins were easy to find. It wasn’t until he was dosed up—admittedly with a heavy dose, as Sabal had in fact prepared for big Shalumites—and the tourniquet had stopped the blood flow, that she felt herself starting to breathe again...and starting to cry.

“Sabal! Sissurn!” Joan hissed as her lover came into view a few moments later, her boots clicking against the stone underfoot. The notion of stealth was lost to her now, mostly because she had no idea how loud she actually was at the moment. Catching up with the yath, she slowed, placing a hand on her lover’s elbow to get her attention. “Don’t run off alone again, please,” she Joan breathed out as her hands found her rifle again.

Sabal was not too far ahead, watching all around and carefully as she followed the blood trail that the lion had left. Joan’s sudden arrival almost made her jump out of her skin. “I am not alone,” she said softly without looking away from the trail. “You were right behind me.” She could hear the lion roaring, more pained than enraged now. It was a fearsome sound, but also—to Sabal—a heartbreaking one. It was still one of her arlathil, though she wasn’t feeling incredibly sympathetic towards Kor’inth after it attacked Michael. But the lion was only a vessel co-opted by the ancient spirit, and now it was a dying one.

The next turn in the path, which Sabal eased around, revealed the giant beast laying on its side in a pool of blood, facing them with golden eyes staring into them. Sabal could almost feel its pain, watching it pant and lay still. The fight had mostly bled out of it, though she knew that would change if they got too close. It was the largest lion she’d ever seen, a beautiful specimen with clear features, intelligent eyes, and a rich golden coat that blended in so well with the Homeland’s tall grasses. Sabal was as awed as terrified and angry.

She would have to kill it, or Joan would. Sabal raised her own rifle. “Evagna uns’aa,” she murmured quietly, almost ashamed of herself. It was necessary, but it was still a wretched task.

Next to her lover, Joan could only gaze down at the wounded lion with a sense of reverence. She had never seen one in person before, and by the Heavens, it was huge. For much of her life, she had studied creatures such as it in books and through the internet, and now the blood of one was on her hands. The notion made her stomach roil, but it was nothing compared to the pain it had caused her friend, as well as innocent pilgrims along the path.

Swallowing thickly, she gripped her weapon tightly, keeping it raised, but not pointed directly at Kor’inth. She was sure that some of her brothers-and-sisters of the orders would have loved the chance to kill a ‘demon’ like it, but she only felt nervousness bubble up from her stomach at the pain in Sabal’s voice. “I can kill it, if you do not wish to, my love,” she said softly; glancing at the Yathallar. “I was the one who caused it so much pain, after all,” she frowned.

“I should,” Sabal said quietly. “Kor’inth is fled, but an oura should know death from a sister-soul. Perhaps that will make it an easier passing.”

It was the cleanest death she could make it, done with precision. Three shots to the head, piled right on top of each other. If the first and second hadn’t pierced the skull, the third most certainly did. Sabal approached the giant lion cautiously even now that it had slumped limply, its bloody head resting on its great paws. By her estimation, it was over four hundred pounds of raw muscle and dense bone designed for the sole purpose of killing. She could see the old wound to its front leg, an unmistakable mark of shrapnel from a mortar round or similar ordinance. She could see the mane now that she was able to think for a minute. He was a big male, but not as old as she’d expected. Fully grown, but not much aged beyond that.

When Sabal examined the lion’s body, there were dozens of traces of bullet wounds, knife slashes, claws, and teeth. He had been a creature of power, one who had beaten Death into submission now and again. It was little surprise that he had proven such a devastating instrument. Sabal murmured a prayer under her breath, resting her hand on the top of its head. Then she turned to Joan, ignoring the tightness in her own throat. “We must go see to Michael.”

“Sorry big guy, it was you or us. Hopefully the big man upstairs has a place for you after all of this,” Joan murmured as she watched her lover finish off the fatally wounded lion. When the trio of gunshots filled the air, the Shalumite woman didn’t so much as flinch. Her ears were ringing, and she was no stranger to violence such as this. Wordlessly, she caught Sabal in a hug for a moment, holding the larger woman against her smaller, but still strong frame as a few red locks messily fall past her own chin. “Yes...let’s go,” she said softly. The words make her heart catch in her throat. Joan knew that, whatever scene they came to, would not be a pretty one.

The walk back towards where the whole incident had occurred was both easy and the most difficult of the youngest justicar’s life. Instead of a trail of breadcrumbs, or a long line of string like in the stories, they relied on splatterings of blood here and there to guide them back. “Assuming he lives and doesn’t lose that arm, he’s probably never going to be a warrior again. It's not a wound you heal from, completely anyways,” Joan murmured pragmatically as they drew close; trying to keep as professional as she could. If she didn’t...she’d likely break down, something that she simply couldn’t do in the wild lands that they found themselves in at the moment.

The scene that they returned to was a little surreal, at least to the redheaded crusader. Faisal looked, for lack of a better term, dazed as his eyes flickered between Pella and Michael. His normally tan skin was pale, the horror not quite gone from his expression. On the ground, the man who had survived the lion attack was whimpering and crying softly, pain apparently abated a good deal by whatever their young stand-in medic had administered him. Really, he didn’t seem all that much in pain, as he reached up to stroke the young woman’s cheek with his large hand. It was only belatedly did he realize that he had spread some of his blood onto her cheek. “Pella...Pella...I’m alright. I’m going to be just fine,” he said softly; sounding like he couldn’t muster much more than that.

Once they arrived back at the small group, Sabal took one look at Pella’s handiwork and knew that it would be a miracle if they could save even half the strength in that arm. The bone was splintered, the arteries and flesh ripped to ribbons. Maybe if the lion had just bitten him once, but it had torn and bitten several times and shaken him around his arm. There was no hospital that they could fly him to in order to it. “Good job,” she said to Pella, squeezing the girl’s shoulder. “He will not bleed out.”

“That arm…” Pella felt a wave of uncertainty and dread.

“We’ll do what we can,” Sabal said as she crouched down. “We will give it a few minutes to clot and then we can take it off slowly. If he really starts to bleed again, we will replace it and try again. A short duration should give him a better chance.” She grabbed her surgical disinfectant and started cleaning all of Michael’s wounds carefully, trying not to disturb the clots. The yathallar packed his wounds. She released the tourniquet slowly, bit by bit, before too long. The blood didn’t come surging out again, so she felt relieved. It hadn’t been on long enough to completely destroy his arm, though he might have acquired a little nerve damage to go with his nice new bruises. Better than dead, though. Then Sabal bandaged him up with sterile gauze expertly.

Michael's eyes were lidded as he gazed up at Sabal from where he laid, slight discomfort etched into his features. Sure, there were some rather powerful drugs flowing through his system at the moment; ones that allowed him to not feel a thing, but they did little to reassure his mind that everything was alright. All he had to do was glance down at his ruined arm, if he wanted a reminder of what had happened to him, anyways. “Bastard just had to go for my good arm, didn’t he?” He asked, forcing himself to smile a bit as Sabal continued to patch him up. “A shame, I’d grown rather attached to it.” The groans from his compatriots in the background only reassured him that the terrible pun was worth it.

Pella felt her horror and nerves start to ease. Sabal was here, as composed as could be, and that stopped the girl from panicking. “Is the lion…?”

“No longer in this world,” Sabal said. There was a sorrow in her eyes and voice when she said it. “And if we are fortunate, neither is Kor’inth. At least, not here.” She checked the morphine ampoules and the tablets she had. There were more than enough to get them to Dyvynasshar…if no one else was injured. It would have to do. “We must return to the Aluin now, or we may never again find it. The only way out is forward, and Michael needs a true physician. The best we can do is keep it clean and the bleeding stopped.”

There were tight nods from the justicars. They knew that they had to keep moving, of course, but they were much less excited about it now, with Michael in his current state. There was nothing they could do about it now, however. “Then let’s not waste time. I’m ready to get out of here,” the injured warrior groaned from where he laid. A moment later, Faisal was at his side, gently (as possible, anyways) helping the man to his feet with a little assistance from Pella.

Joan’s lips tightened, feeling nothing but sympathy for Michael. His intentions had been nothing short of brave, but his plan had not been well thought through, not that she could blame him for that either. At most, he had only a scant second or two to act, and in that time, it looked as if he had spared Sabal from a similar fate, if not worse. “I’ve lost count again, how many more days lay ahead of us on the path?” She asked, sounding weary as she stood next to her lover. She knew that they had set out on their journey quite some time ago, but she had honestly lost track of time, with everything that had gone on.

“Time is different on the Aluin,” Sabal said with a shrug as she lead the way back to the Aluin, following her own tracks. “Perhaps a few days, maybe a week—each one an eternity, each one a blink of the eyes. We are not too far. It depends on how swiftly we intend to move.”

Michael quietly groaned as he moved alongside Pella, more slowly than he probably ever had before. His legs were perfectly fine, but he was damn tired, as well as gravely injured. “Than we should best move quickly, then. We’ve already spent a good deal of time away from the path, and I’ve grown tired of walking. I don’t know if I could handle another week on the path,” he grinned slightly; despite the pain, trying to put on a front for young Pella.

Sabal didn’t steer them wrong. Within a few hours, they were back on the Aluin, headed towards Dyvynasshar.

Eternity called.

[Nalaya]

Valantin Andzevatsi’s Office
Tatev, Nalaya

“I want a divorce.”

Valantin heard herself saying it before she could stop herself, voice robotic and empty. She knew Nshan wanted to laugh it off as a joke, but her tone stopped him. She wasn’t certain that she’d ever loved him, that she’d ever loved or would ever love anyone, but she was comfortable with him. It had been easy to be his everything. He never asked her for anything except her body and sweet words, not even her heart. That was part of the problem, she supposed. He wanted her body, he wanted her to make him feel good, but he didn’t want all the baggage that came with knowing who she really was. She could see the cracks starting in his heart through those brown eyes. Nshan wasn’t a nice man or a good man, but he had feelings and she knew that he adored her.

“You don’t mean that,” he said in a low voice. “Val, I love you. You love me. We...we can work this out.”

It actually stung, even through the ice. “Nshan, no, we can’t,” she said quietly.

“I know you’re unhappy, Val. I know I haven’t been home, that we haven’t talked, but...please, sireli, I will do anything,” he begged, stepping towards her. He framed her face in his hands, soulful brown eyes looking so broken. He smelled like cigar smoke and cologne, a smell she’d always associated with safety. Nshan was safe, even if he did work for Karagozian. Maybe they were two spies, each lying to the other, but at least he’d meant it when he professed devotion. But he had never been able to start a fire in her heart no matter how many sparks had flown when they met. “I love you. I need you. Please don’t do this to me, to us.”

It would be better to break his heart now than have him and their family dragged down with her. She was under no illusions that she would get to keep her cover much longer. She couldn’t even measure it in days. No, they were in the realm of quickly fading hours now.

Nshan the faithful, Nshan the handsome, Nshan the fool. He had loved her for her siren song, never knowing how he’d desired disaster. She had turned him into a villain to suit her purposes, but moments like these reminded her that he was just a man, one who had made a fatal mistake in who he gave his heart to, just like Rikker. Not that he had really loved her when they got married—he’d been using her influence to keep Karagozian informed on the TRC’s inquiries, and she let him because she was using him too. It had been the first time he saw her holding Lasia that he’d had his sudden change of heart. Apparently she was the better spy of the two of them. She was a fine actress, after all, in a role she’d played for many years.

“I want a divorce,” she said again in that oddly detached way.

He kissed her, and she didn’t kiss him back, lips like stone. That was when he knew for certain that it was over. “Tell me why,” he said hoarsely when he pulled back. “What did I do? Is there someone else?”

“No,” she said softly. The last thing anyone needed was Nshan going after Rikker. Besides, she wasn’t doing this for another man. That idea was ridiculous. This was about duty, about necessity, about convenience. No longer was being married advantageous. It was as simple as that. “I just can’t keep going this way.”

“So let me change,” he said, stroking her hair. She knew he couldn’t let go of her yet, so she didn’t force him away. “I’ll do anything, Val. Anything.”

“You can’t make me feel what I don’t,” Val said softly.

It probably would have hurt him less if she’d shot him. “What about Lasia and Rafayel?” he said desperately.

“I love them,” Val said, feeling a spark of passion amidst the ice. She loved her children, in her own damaged way. This was best for them too. It would protect them from the fallout of her own choices, even if it hurt them now. “I will always love them, but I am poison, Nshan. They have to stay away from me. You have to stay away from me.”

Nshan looked at her and she had the feeling that he was really seeing her for the first time since they’d met. “Val,” he said very softly, “what have you done?”

“I’m sorry this hurts you,” she said instead of answering.

He grabbed her, fingers gripping her arms tightly enough to leave bruises. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Val. Please, just let me protect you. Stay with me. Whatever’s happening, we can be together. Please.” He was begging now.

“No, we can’t. I want a divorce.”

His expression crumpled as he let go of her and took a step back, turning his back to her and covering his face with his hand. She knew he was trying to control himself so he didn’t break into tears. Nshan was a strong man, but she’d just crushed his heart in his chest. It made her want to go put her arms around him and apologize with a thousand lies and kiss him. Whatever her feelings or lack thereof, it was still fourteen years of marriage.

Before she could, the door to her office slammed open and Sahak came spilling in. “Siruhi, there’s shooting in Massis!” her assistant blurted out, wild-eyed. Behind him, from his computer screen that was playing the news, she could hear the sound of distant automatic weapons’ fire.

Val suddenly realized that she could taste salt and feel something wet on her cheeks. She wasn’t certain if it was because of her marriage’s sudden implosion or the fact that everything she’d ever been afraid of was suddenly happening. The whole world had just gone wrong and she didn’t think it was going to be possible to fix it.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. She looked down at the text numbly through the blur of tears.

Tonight, finish what you started, it read.