The first sign was motion.

  Doke saw it before anyone else did, small shapes breaking from the far side of the destroyed turret fort, scattering outward like sparks from a struck anvil. His scope tracked instinctively, magnification tightening as the shapes resolved into vehicles.

  “Outriders,” he said. “Fifteen. Enemy STVs. They’re moving fast.”

  Otwin didn’t need the rest.

  On the forward feeds, the enemy STVs tore free of the wreckage plume, low-tracked machines bouncing hard over broken stone. They were crude compared to the Imperial issue vehicles Jordy’s troopers rode. No armor worth naming. No shielding. Just speed, aggression, and men desperate enough to believe it would be enough.

  They were coming straight for the Ol’ Five Seven.

  The intent was obvious.

  Charges on the treads.

  If they reached the fort’s skirts, if even a few of them got close enough, the fight would turn ugly fast. A fort that could not move was a fort that died.

  Otwin keyed the channel.

  “Outriders inbound,” he said. “Jordy. That’s yours.”

  Jordy’s reply came without hesitation.

  “Copy. Stormtroopers, forward. Screen and destroy.”

  The five stormtrooper STVs surged ahead of the fort, engines whining as power was fed hard into their tracks. They fanned out slightly, not wide enough to be isolated, not tight enough to be overrun. A shallow arc, weapons already coming up.

  Jordy rode at the center.

  His armor was sealed, visor dark, posture calm. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. Signals flickered through the squad’s shared channel, concise and practiced.

  Enemy fire came first.

  Low-caliber rounds snapped through the air, tracers skipping and ricocheting off stone. The enemy riders fired wildly as they closed, one hand on their weapons, the other clamped to handlebars. Some leaned low over their machines. Others sat upright, yelling as if noise alone might carry them through.

  The rounds sparked against stormtrooper armor and flew wide.

  The difference in protection was immediate and obvious

  “Hold fire,” Jordy ordered. “Let them commit.”

  The enemy STVs closed the distance fast, tracks chewing ground, suspensions screaming under the strain. Charges were visible now, crude satchels strapped to frames or clutched in gloved hands.

  “Now,” Jordy said.

  Five energy rifles fired almost as one.

  The air filled with sharp, tearing light as coherent bolts lanced out. Energy weapons didn’t crack like powder guns. They burned. They hissed. They left lines of afterimage that hung for a heartbeat before fading.

  The first enemy STV simply ceased to exist as a functioning machine.

  A bolt punched through its rider and into the engine housing behind him. The vehicle flipped end over end, track segments tearing loose as it skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust and smoke.

  Another rider took a hit in the center of his mass and vanished backward off his seat, his STV slamming riderless into a rock and detonating its own charge harmlessly against stone.

  The stormtroopers advanced, firing in controlled bursts, each shot deliberate.

  Enemy rounds continued to rattle against armor, some glancing off plates, others striking joints and skidding away without penetration. The stormtroopers barely reacted. They kept moving, adjusting formation, forcing the enemy to split their approach.

  Two enemy STVs tried to break wide, angling for the fort’s flanks.

  Jordy snapped his arm out.

  “Left pair. Cut them.”

  Two stormtroopers peeled off, STVs pivoting hard. Energy bolts stitched across the ground ahead of the fleeing riders. One enemy machine swerved, lost traction, and rolled. The other rider ditched his vehicle entirely, sprinting on foot before a single shot burned through his back and dropped him face-first into the dirt.

  The center mass of the enemy force hit the stormtrooper line and broke.

  They had expected resistance.

  They had not expected immunity.

  Stormtrooper armor turned what should have been a frantic, lethal exchange into something colder. The enemy fired and charged and screamed. The stormtroopers advanced, stepped through fire, and returned it with methodical precision.

  One stormtrooper leaned into a shot, bracing his rifle against his chest plate as he fired through an oncoming rider and into the charge strapped to the STV behind him. The resulting explosion lifted the machine into the air and scattered debris across the field.

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  Another trooper clipped a rider’s arm. The man lost control, his STV veering into another and sending both machines tumbling.

  Within seconds, bodies and wreckage littered the ground.

  Seven enemy STVs lay destroyed or disabled. Another was burning steadily, its rider nowhere to be seen. That left fewer than half still moving.

  Those remaining hesitated.

  Hesitation was fatal.

  Jordy pushed forward.

  “Pressure,” he ordered. “Don’t let them regroup.”

  The stormtroopers surged, firing as they moved, their STVs absorbing rough terrain without slowing. Energy bolts cut down two more riders who tried to turn back toward the fort in desperation.

  The last survivors broke.

  They scattered, engines screaming as they fled in different directions, abandoning any thought of coordinated attack. Charges were dropped or thrown aside. Weapons were discarded to gain speed.

  The stormtroopers did not pursue beyond reason.

  “Break,” Jordy ordered. “Hold the line.”

  The squad slowed, regrouping, weapons tracking the retreating shapes until they were certain the threat was gone.

  Silence fell again, broken only by the crackle of small fires and the distant hum of the Ol’ Five Seven’s systems.

  Jordy scanned the field once more, then keyed the channel back to the fort.

  “Outrider Squad to Home Base,” he said. “Enemy outriders driven back. Returning to base.”

  ***

  They came in hard from the north.

  Doke saw them break cover against the stone long before the rest of the fort registered the movement. His scope caught the telltale dust plumes first, then the shapes themselves, low tracked machines tearing across the broken ground at speed. They were running light, engines pushed past comfort, riders hunched forward as if trying to outrun what they already knew.

  They had raced ahead of their fort.

  Too far ahead.

  Doke tracked their vector, jaw tightening as the angles resolved in his head. The northern turret fort was still advancing, but slow and deliberate, its bulk committed to the ley-line and the ground beneath it. The outriders had tried to close the gap to support the fort that was now a smoking absence. Instead, they had overextended.

  Now they were in the open.

  Between the Ol’ Five Seven and their own machine.

  No man’s land.

  “Otwin,” Doke said into the line, voice flat with certainty. “More outriders. North. Coming in hot.”

  Otwin did not need the rest.

  He was already standing at the command table, watching the forward and lateral feeds stitch together into a clear picture. Jordy’s squad was still out, still regrouping after the first engagement. They would not be back in time.

  “Open fire,” Otwin ordered. “All sharpshooters. All small arms ports. Use the light energy cannons.”

  “Roger,” Doke replied.

  “Aye aye,” the Fort Master echoed, hands already moving.

  The Ol’ Five Seven did not slow.

  It did not need to.

  In the tower, the sharpshooters shifted as one. Positions were adjusted. Rests were braced. Optics snapped to life. Wind was read. Distance was judged. Targets were assigned without words, lines of responsibility falling into place through habit and trust.

  The first shots came from above.

  They were not loud. Not dramatic. Just precise.

  A rider at the front of the enemy pack took a round through the head and vanished backward off his STV, the machine continuing on for several meters before slamming into a rock and flipping end over end. Another rider swerved to avoid the wreck and was cut down mid-turn, his vehicle slewing sideways and shedding track segments as it ground to a halt.

  The rest kept coming.

  They always did.

  Fear drove them as much as orders now. Fear of being caught between a fort that could not save them and a machine that very clearly could kill them.

  Small arms ports opened along the Ol’ Five Seven’s hull.

  Rifles barked in controlled bursts, muzzle flashes brief and disciplined. Rounds stitched across the ground, chewing up dirt and stone, forcing the outriders to jink and weave. Some ducked low over their machines. Others fired wildly, rounds snapping uselessly against the fort’s armor or skipping away into the distance.

  It did not matter.

  The light energy cannons spoke next.

  They swept shallow arcs across the field, not trying to chase individual riders but carving space. Coherent energy burned across the ground, catching STVs mid-sprint, slicing through engines and frames alike. One machine simply split, halves separating in a spray of sparks and debris. Another took a glancing hit that turned into a full burn as the rider lost control and slid directly into the beam.

  The outriders scattered.

  Some tried to turn back toward their fort, realizing too late that they had outrun its protection. Others pushed harder toward the Ol’ Five Seven, hoping speed might carry them through the fire.

  It did not.

  Sharpshooter rounds found exposed throats, shoulders, and faces. Riders slumped. Vehicles careened. Charges detonated prematurely as bolts struck packs or satchels, turning desperate gambles into sudden, violent ends.

  The field filled with smoke and wreckage.

  Doke tracked targets methodically, calling corrections, shifting fire where needed. The sharpshooters followed his lead, working angles, denying escape routes, forcing the remaining outriders into predictable paths.

  “Left cluster breaking,” one shooter reported.

  “Let them run,” Doke replied. “Focus center mass.”

  The Ol’ Five Seven rolled forward through the chaos, its presence looming, its guns relentless. The outriders had nowhere safe to go. The ground between the fort and the turret was a killing zone now, watched from above and flanked by energy fire.

  One rider made it close.

  Too close.

  He burst through the smoke, charge already in hand, face twisted with effort as he drove his STV straight at the fort’s skirts. A sharpshooter clipped his shoulder, spinning him sideways, but momentum carried the machine forward.

  A light energy cannon cut him in half.

  The wreckage skidded to a stop yards from the fort, burning quietly.

  The remaining outriders broke completely.

  They fled north in ones and twos, engines screaming, abandoning cohesion and any hope of regrouping. Some dumped their machines and ran on foot, only to be cut down moments later by careful shots from the tower.

  Silence crept back in, slow and uneasy.

  Smoke drifted across the ground. Small fires crackled. The distant bulk of the northern turret fort continued its advance, now very clearly aware that its outriders were gone.

  Otwin watched the feeds, expression unreadable.

  The Fort Master looked at him once, then back to his boards.

  Above them, at the top of the tower, Ben listened.

  He had not fired a shot.

  He stood with his hands resting lightly against the stone, eyes closed, breathing measured. The sounds of battle washed around him without breaking his focus. Inside, he felt the pull of power, the familiar pressure at the edge of his awareness where his core answered his will.

  Runes along his gloves began to glow, faint at first, then brighter as he gathered his magic.

  Carefully.

  Deliberately.

  Ben opened his eyes.

  And began to shape what came next.