The fires of Sacra-Hill burned low in the night, casting eerie shadows across the ruined streets. Smoke still curled from collapsed buildings, the stench of ash and death thick in the air. From the edge of the city, Lords Garval Jigan and Indus Palper stood at the war table within their command tent, listening to the reports from their returning reconnaissance teams.

  Jigan studied Desgan carefully. Though her armor was battered and scorched, and exhaustion hollowed her eyes, she sat upright—every inch still a warrior.

  “Tell us exactly what you saw.”

  Desgan exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing into the edges of her bandages.

  “It started in the city.” Her voice grew distant, her mind still trapped in the memory. “They came from the sky—metal dragons with spinning wings. Not beasts, but machines.”

  Jigan’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  Palper snorted. “Machines?”

  Desgan ignored him. “They hovered over Sacra-Hill, watching. And then, they struck.” She shuddered. “They didn’t drop. They descended—controlled, like spiders weaving down their silk. They hit the rooftops first, moving faster than any unit I’ve ever seen. We barely had time to react before the slaughter began.”

  Her hands trembled slightly, but she gritted her teeth and continued. “And then the smaller ones broke off. Not just scouts, not just support—killers. They streaked through the sky like hunting falcons, their weapons spitting fire and lightning. They tore through my forces as if they knew where we’d be before we did.” She swallowed, glancing at Jigan. “We were being herded.”

  Palper raised an eyebrow. “Herded? By Beastkin?” His tone was thick with mockery.

  Desgan’s fingers curled into fists. “Laugh all you want, Lord Palper. But they fought with precision. They took positions that cut us off from reinforcements. They left us with only one way to run.” Her voice dropped. “And we ran.”

  Jigan’s hands twitched slightly, but Palper let out a sharp laugh. “You expect me to believe that an entire Austorian force—our elite—was routed by escaped slaves?”

  Desgan’s smirk was humorless. “Then I expect you to die soon.”

  Palper’s amusement vanished.

  Desgan leaned forward, her voice sharpening. “I gathered what I could. Regrouped my forces. I refused to believe we had lost to them—not like that. So we moved south, toward the farm. The last reports told me the Beastkin were massing there, and I thought—” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I thought we could crush them there. That we could break whatever delusions of victory they had.” She let out a bitter breath. “I was wrong.”

  Jigan stiffened. “What happened?”

  Desgan’s expression darkened. “The city fight was chaos. But the farm?” Her voice dropped. “That was an execution.” She looked away as if ashamed. “I expected broken slaves. I expected rabble trying to fight like trained soldiers. But what I found was something else entirely.”

  Her eyes met Jigan’s again. “It wasn’t just a group of Beastkin defending a farm. It was an army. They were dug in, their movements sharp and disciplined. When we charged, they didn’t panic.” She clenched her jaw. “They waited. And then they slaughtered us.”

  Palper crossed his arms. “You make it sound as if they outmatched you entirely.”

  Desgan’s voice was cold. “They did.” She exhaled sharply. “We tried to break their lines, but then came the machines. Not from the sky, but from the roads.”

  Palper frowned. “Machines?”

  Desgan gave a hollow chuckle. “Rolling on wheels, but moving like predators. Their turrets turned without hesitation, their weapons cutting through my soldiers before they could even reach them. Cavalry—useless. Archers—useless. We couldn’t get close.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve fought Elves. Dwarves. Raiders. Rebels. But I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  She met Palper’s gaze. “This isn’t a rebellion. This isn’t escaped slaves playing at war.” She leaned forward. “This is an army.”

  Silence filled the tent.

  Palper let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You sound as if you’ve already surrendered.” Desgan’s expression hardened. “I don’t fear war, Lord Palper.” She dug her fingers into the wooden stool. “I fear that you refuse to see the truth before it kills you.”

  Palper ignored her. He turned to Jigan, his voice lowering. “She’s delirious. She sees shadows in the firelight and calls them dragons. You—of all people—aren’t fool enough to believe her, are you?”

  jigan didn’t answer immediately. Because he had seen one before. In the Elven lands, on the road to that led to that cursed village of Mya. The thing that had nearly annihilated his cavalry—the dragon that wasn’t a dragon. The one he had been mocked for reporting.

  Before he could speak, the tent flap burst open, and a dust-covered scout stumbled inside. His armor was torn, his face streaked with sweat and exhaustion.

  “My lords,” the Second Recon Rider panted. “The Salin Bridge—it’s gone.” A stunned silence filled the tent.

  Palper’s face twisted into disbelief. “Gone?” he snapped. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

  The scout swallowed hard. “Destroyed.” He took a steadying breath. “The Beastkin destroyed it.”

  Jigan’s stomach twisted. The Salin Bridge was the largest crossing over the Murlan River, the lifeline that connected the Austorian Empire to the Elven Kingdom and beyond. Without it, the only passage for reinforcements and supplies to the occupation was the smaller southern bridge, an extra 3-day travel from the Capital. The implications were disastrous.

  Palper, however, only scoffed. “More lies. More impossible feats.”

  He turned to Desgan. “First you tell me they defeated you with flying machines, and now you expect me to believe they have the engineering capability to destroy a bridge that took fifty years to build?” he stated as he turned to the scout.

  The scout hesitated. “My lord… they told us it was the Beastkin.”

  Palper frowned. “What?”

  The rider exhaled. “There were Dwarves—drunk, laughing. Mocking us. They said that ‘the slaves’ had done what the nobles never could. They acted like this was all planned.” He clenched his fists. “They knew. They knew before we even arrived.”

  Jigan felt the pieces clicking together in his mind. The Beastkin weren’t just fighting to defend themselves. They were executing a coordinated strategy. Cutting off reinforcements. Setting traps. Luring them into prepared positions. This was not a desperate rebellion. This was a war plan.

  Palper, still unconvinced, waved him off. “Enough. We’re done entertaining these fantasies. Jigan—prepare the cavalry. We advance now.”

  Jigan hesitated. His gut twisted. “Indus... this isn’t just another insurgency. We’re walking into something else. Something we don’t understand.”

  “I said enough!” Palper snarled. “I won’t let paranoia halt my advance. We are going to crush these pathetic beasts, and when we reach the farm, we will burn it and this “army” to the ground.”

  Jigan clenched his fists. He knew arguing further was pointless.

  Palper had already made up his mind. Desgan looked up, her breath ragged as the pain set in.

  “Don’t go.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “They’re waiting for you.”

  “And you will go to see the king about your defeat.” Palper stated, ignoring her warning. “We go to meet them.”

  Then the Fourth Recon scout stumbled in. He was barely conscious, his armor torn to shreds, his breath ragged and shallow. He stumbled forward, his breath shallow, his eyes unfocused. His lips moved, but at first, only a dry rasp came out.

  Then, barely a whisper: “Slaughtered.” He blinked, as if seeing something that wasn’t there. His fingers twitched, reaching for a sword that wasn’t at his side. “Near… the farm…” His body swayed, his knees buckling. He wasn’t just wounded. He was broken. His voice cracked. “We never… we never stood a chance.” And then, he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

  Silence filled the tent.

  Then—a deep, mechanical hum filled the air. The tent fabric rippled and the tent flap blew open as a strong wind blew through the tent.

  Jigan froze.

  Palper’s brow furrowed.

  And then—it came. A low, unnatural hum. A deep, mechanical growl, rolling over the ruins of Sacra-Hill like the breath of a waiting predator. It sent ripples through the air, rattling the tent poles, making the fabric tremble like a living thing.

  The sound dug into Jigan’s bones, foreign, yet instinctively menacing. The tent flap blew inward, and the scout on the ground groaned, curling inward as if the noise alone could crush him. Jigan turned sharply toward the sound.

  Palper did too—but slower. As if part of him already knew he wasn’t going to like what he saw. And then it appeared.

  The beast. Sleek. Black as the void. Its spinning wings tore through the night, churning the air in a relentless, rhythmic howl. It did not flap. It did not glide. It did not roar. It hummed. It whispered death. It was nothing like a wyvern. Nothing like any beast of the skies they had ever known It banked sharply, slicing through the night sky with a howl of wind and fire—then was gone, leaving only the fading hum in its wake.

  Jigan’s hands clenched.

  Palper’s lips parted, but no words came.

  Because in that moment, there was nothing left to say.

  The Doomgauwer horns blared again. The deep, echoing dirge that had broken armies, that had drowned cities in despair. But now… it sounded hollow.

  Jigan placed a hand on his sword. His voice was quiet, but firm. “We’re marching into something we don’t understand.”

  The fires of Sacra-Hill burned low in the night, casting eerie shadows across the ruined city. Smoke curled from the remains of shattered buildings, filling the air with the acrid scent of charred wood and death. From the high walls of the city, General Indus Palper surveyed the darkness beyond the outskirts, his gloved hands tightening behind his back as his mind raced about that thing he saw earlier.

  "The Beastkin are still at the farm," a scout reported, his armor covered in dust and sweat, breaking Palpers line of thought. "Our reconnaissance teams confirm a force is dug in there, but no signs of movement."

  "Thank you, you are dismissed." Palper stated, returning the statue before the soldier left the tent.

  Lord Garval Jigan stood beside him, arms crossed, his face carved from stone—unreadable.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Palper smirked. "They're scared. Trapped. We'll ride them down before sunrise."

  Jigan exhaled slowly. "We should be cautious. The reports—"

  Palper scoffed. " Reports of what? Machines? More flying metal dragons? Yes, Jigan, we saw something, but it fled into the night. It didn't attack. It didn't destroy us. Whatever it was, it's gone. And we still stand."

  Palper set his eyes on the table before him. Whatever magic they used must be spent. Otherwise, why would that reconnaissance team return without a scratch? He shook his head to clear the thought and motioned for Jigan to step closer.

  "Jigan, have the officers assemble here. I want to go over the plan with you and them."

  Jigan saluted left the tent. He returned a few minutes later, following some officers into the tent.

  As his officers entered, Jigan stood beside his longtime friend, though skepticism sat heavy in his mind.

  Palper spread out a massive map of the city, using small stones and markers to sand-table his plan. The forces would be broken into two maneuver units—one taking the main road south, the other exiting the city to the east and circling around through the forest for cover. Once the eastern unit was in position, the main force would charge down the road, appearing as the primary assault. The recon team had reported a break in the defenses there, making it the most logical attack point. Once the Beastkin engaged, the second force would break cover and strike from the flank, forcing them to split their forces or panic and flee.

  To Palper, the plan was flawless.

  But Jigan was unconvinced. The first recon team had been decimated, yet the second had observed their enemy unchallenged. Something is wrong. The realization struck him like a blade slipping between armor—what if they let the recon element go? What if this is a ruse?

  Jigan shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. Enough preposterous ideas. The slaves—those who would once cower at the sound of thunder—are now tactical geniuses? Impossible... And yet, the hairs on his neck stood on end.

  "It's too dark to fully control the fight. We wait until dawn," Palper declared. "Then, no matter what tricks they use, those former slaves will see who their masters truly are and quake in their shoes, while we crush them beneath our boots!”

  The officers cheered at their commander’s confidence, breaking away to relay orders.

  Jigan, however, remained uneasy. It feels too easy…

  Palper must have sensed his hesitation. "It seems easy because they are what they are—animals." He gestured toward the map. "Yes, they crushed a reconnaissance team, but the second went by without issue. Whatever magic they had is long gone. You’ll see in the morning." He smirked, leaning closer. "By the way, that useless Commander Desgan did show me a good place for command and control. We shall observe their defeat from there."

  Jigan followed Palper to a large tower near the city's southern edge. Its reinforced stone walls and battlements provided an unbroken view of the land beyond—including the farm. He scanned the Beastkin encampment. No watch fires. No movement. Only silence. The land was utterly still..

  He let out a quiet breath. They’re asleep. His unease faded slightly, his lips curling into a smirk. Sleep while you can.

  Darkness ruled the Beastkin’s camp. No torches, no lanterns, no campfires to give away their position—only a deep, unnatural silence. To an outsider, it was as if the land itself had swallowed them whole.

  And yet, the Beastkin were not blind.

  Figures moved soundlessly through the night, slipping between defensive positions, adjusting razor wire, planting unseen traps beneath the soil. To an untrained eye, they were ghosts—shadows shifting through the void.

  Then, a flicker.

  A faint green glow flowed across the eyes of soldiers crouched in the trenches. A soldier looked around cautiously. He turned his head slightly, scanning the horizon. He saw everything. The wavering heat signatures of his comrades. The distant outlines of enemy scouts moving along the city’s edge.

  No words were spoken. He raised a hand, signaling in silence. Instantly, his fellow soldiers shifted positions, preparing for what was to come.

  Further back, perched atop the main house like silent predators, the Seraphim watched the battlefield unfold. Unlike the others, their eyes burned with something more. Multi-lensed devices cast a ghostly glow across their faces, making them appear almost inhuman. A faint hum, barely audible, whispered beneath the wind—their vision piercing the darkness in ways no natural eye could.

  And above them all, high in the sky, where no man dared to look, a mechanical bird circled. Watching. Waiting.

  The Northpaw drone transmitted everything back to the command hut.

  The Austorians rode out to their positions with confidence, believing their enemy lay sleeping in the dark.

  They had no idea they were already seen.

  In the heart of the Farm, nestled behind large trenches and rolls of razor wire, Alpha companies makeshift command post hummed with quiet efficiency. 1st Lt. Chip Lancer leaned over his JCVAIL monitor tablet, his sharp eyes flickering between the drone feeds, the glow illuminating his face.

  On the screens, the Austorian army took shape, moving with eerie precision.

  Cavalry columns tightened, hooves stomping in rhythm, a living tide of steel and flesh.

  Infantry ranks locked shields in grim silence, their armor dull under the fading moonlight.

  And then—ghostly blue and violet flickers. Mage-lights. Magic weaving through their lines like whispering specters.

  The Austorians were forming up and moving to positions. And they had no idea they were already dead men walking.

  Lancer’s golden Beastkin ears twitched. He smirked, turning to Cramdell. "You owe me twenty ducats, Grant."

  1st Lt. Cramdell, kneeling beside him, sighed, then reached into his pocket and tossed a handful of ducats onto the table with a clink. "Damn, Chip. I really thought they’d stay together and rush us."

  Lancer chuckled, shaking his head. "They still think we’re going to run."

  Cramdell adjusted his helmet, his ears flicking as he fine-tuned his radio. The casual banter faded, replaced by the cool professionalism that had kept them alive for so long.

  "Alpha 5 Alpha to all units. Hold fire. We let that recon team go to lure them in. Let them come to us."

  The responses came instantly—calm, steady, professional.

  "This is Black Pawn 3, ready." Sergeant First Class Dagger stated as he adjusted his sniper rifle.

  "Alpha 5 Alpha, this is Mike 4. TRPs dialed in, awaiting orders." The newly arrived mortar team leader stated, his voice both professional and nervous at the same time.

  "Alpha 5 Actual, this is Recon 1. The Rats are primed and ready to rock." Lt. Aron Steele stated, his tone posh with a bit of crudeness.

  “Alpha 5 Actual, this is Alpha 1-6” SFC Draken replied. “Alpha company is stands ready to put the hurt on them.”

  Cramdell smirked as he listened. “They’re going to regret coming here.”

  Lancer leaned back in the wooden chair, tapping his finger on the side of his rifle as he studied the advancing army. A slow, cold certainty settled in his chest.

  "They came thinking they were the hunters."

  "They have no idea they are the prey."

  He muttered under his breath, "These bastards think we're going to play fair..."

  Cramdell arched an eyebrow. "You say something?" He grinned, reaching into his pack and tossing Lancer a cold drink.

  Lancer caught it effortlessly, twisting the cap off with a single motion. "Nah, man. Let’s get ready for the fireworks."

  He set the bottle down, reached for his rifle, and performed a chamber check—one smooth motion, crisp, clean and efficiently lethal.

  The Austorians thought they were marching to victory. Lancer smirked as he walked out to his position.

  They were marching straight into the maw of hell.

  As the farmstead lay cloaked in darkness, its defenders moving silently through the trenches and fortifications. Inside the command post, 1st Lt. Chip Lancer sat watching his JCVAIL monitor, the faint green glow of the night vision device on his helmet illuminating the table. Beside him, 1st Lt. Cramdell sipped from a canteen, his ears flicking idly as he stared at the screen.

  Outside, the world was still. The kind of quiet that only came before something terrible.

  Cramdell glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s almost time.”

  Lancer smirked. “You know what comes next.”

  Cramdell clicked his radio. “STAN-TO, STAN-TO.” His voice was calm, steady. "All positions, prepare to repel assault. Confirm status."

  Across the battlefield, Beastkin soldiers tensed. Weapons were checked. Magazines were checked. Extra belts of ammunition were spread out to feed the machine guns. Then all went silent, as if the world held its breath.

  Lancer, inside the command shack, leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms. "You ever wonder why we do this?"

  Cramdell raised an eyebrow. "What, STAN-TO?"

  "Yeah. I remember when General Thompson first drilled it into us back in training. Every morning, before the sun, every soldier up, every weapon manned, like clockwork." Lancer rubbed his chin. "Never made sense to me. Thought it was a waste of time."

  Cramdell chuckled. "I remember that class. You asked him why, and he just stared at you like you were an idiot."

  Lancer smirked. "And then he said, ‘Because dawn is when you die if you’re not ready.’”

  Cramdell nodded, looking toward the window, where the faintest hint of orange was beginning to crest the horizon. "Funny how things stick with you."

  Then, the ISR monitor went red.

  Lancer's smirk vanished. His ears twitched, his eyes flicking to the screen as red markers bloomed across the feed.

  The radio crackled. “Northpaw to all units—confirming mass movement! They’re coming!”

  Cramdell’s fingers tightened on his radio. "Well, guess we finally understand, huh?"

  Lancer grabbed his rifle and chambered a round. His golden eyes burned in the dim light.

  "Yeah. We do."

  Lancer pulled his helmet on, ears flattening slightly beneath the weight then popping out through the top. He glanced once more at the glowing red markers on the screen, then out toward the battlefield beyond.

  The first slivers of dawn broke over the horizon, casting a dim glow against the fortified positions.

  The Austorians thought they would catch them sleeping.

  They were wrong.

  Lord Jigan adjusted the brass telescope, his grip tightening as he scanned the enemy position. The Farm lay silent, its sprawling fields bathed in cold moonlight. No movement. No shifting of troops. Just a sea of darkness beyond the faint outlines of crude fortifications.

  Beside him, General Palper stood with his arms behind his back, his confidence unwavering. “They are terrified,” he declared. “They don’t even muster to fight.”

  Jigan frowned, lowering the telescope. Something is wrong. If the Beastkin were truly panicked, why hadn’t they retreated? Why weren’t they scrambling for an escape?

  Below, the Austorian cavalry charged.

  The two flanking forces surged forward, hooves hammering the earth, a thunderous tide galloping toward the farmstead. The elite of the Empire, armored in gleaming plate, their banners fluttering in the wind. The ground shook beneath their advance, the rhythmic pounding filling the air.

  Jigan raised the telescope again, sweeping across the enemy line—searching for weakness. Then, as the cavalry closed the distance, he saw them.

  Waiting.

  Beastkin soldiers, crouched in their trenches, weapons braced. Not scrambling. Not caught unaware. Waiting.

  A shadow shifted atop a vehicle, and Jigan’s sharp eyes caught the faintest glint of metal. A barrel. Long, thick, and already spinning.

  His stomach dropped. “Gods above,” he whispered, his mind flashing back to Mya, that spinning mass of metal.

  Palper turned, hearing the urgency in Jigan’s voice. “What is it?”

  Jigan turned, horror dawning in his eyes. “It’s a trap.”

  Palper's brow furrowed. “That’s impossible, we—”

  Then, it began.

  The GAU-19s roared to life.

  A wall of light and fury erupted from the dug-in FENNEK scout vehicles, their 12.7mm Gatling guns spinning at a blistering pace.

  The sound was an earsplitting metallic whirr, followed by an unholy thunder as a storm of bullets ripped through the first wave of cavalry.

  Man and horse exploded—shredded, pulped, gone.

  Jigan barely registered what was happening before the very walls of Sacra-Hill shook. Stray rounds, kicked skyward from the sheer recoil, slammed into the outer fortifications, annihilating a line of archers above the city gate. Screams echoed across the morning air as men were torn apart, their bodies tumbling from the heights.

  The Austorian mage circles flared, responding with fire. Spells streaked through the air, brilliant streaks of red and orange arcing toward the trenches. Some hit razor wire, sending shrapnel flying. Others slammed into the ground near the trenches, kicking up dust and smoke, but doing little real damage.

  The cavalry charge pressed on—momentum forcing them forward. But the guns didn't stop.

  Line after line of proud riders were shredded. Some made it through the initial burst, only to crash headlong into razor wire, their screams swallowed by the thunderous barrage. Others, desperate, tried to veer off, only to be caught in the overlapping fire of riflemen and machine gunners in the trenches.

  Jigan watched, transfixed, unable to look away. The finest warriors of the Austorian Empire were being annihilated before they even reached the enemy.

  And then, at last, it happened.

  The charge broke.

  What remained of the once-proud cavalry broke ranks and fled, the surviving riders spurring their mounts in blind panic, racing away from the hellscape of fire and steel.

  From his vantage point, Jigan’s hands trembled. The sheer devastation was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. He understood now. This was what had happened to Desgan.

  Palper, beside him, exhaled sharply. For the first time, there was no arrogance in his expression.

  "This is... madness," he muttered.

  Jigan closed his eyes, forcing himself to regain composure. “The Berserkers… they are nothing compared to this.”

  The routed cavalry crashed into their own advancing ranks, their voices shrill with terror.

  “The roar! The fire! Gods help us—TURN BACK!”

  Some tried to halt, only to be trampled by the advancing heavy infantry and battlemages.

  Palper felt the tremor of fear ripple through his ranks, a sickening wave threatening to swamp his command. He gripped Jigan's shoulder, fingers almost crushing bone. His voice, though low, vibrated with barely contained fury. "We are not broken," he growled, his gaze burning into Jigan's. " They will break."

  He whirled on his men, his voice booming now, a forced confidence against the rising tide of terror. "Jigan, take command of the Magic Knights! Move!" A snap of his head towards a nearby mage. "Ice Mages! Wall!" He stabbed a finger down at his bannermen, the gesture sharp, commanding. "Behind the Heavy Infantry! Every last one of you! We will erase that farm from the map! NO QUARTER!!"

  The Doomgauwer horns blared again, their haunting, magical dirge echoing across the battlefield. The battered remnants of the cavalry clutched their heads, some collapsing to their knees, overwhelmed by despair.

  But among the Austorian ranks, the Heavy Infantry—clad in their enchanted armor—marched on, undeterred.

  Jigan looked at them, at the gleaming ranks of steel moving forward like a tide, and felt a cold chill. The Beastkin should have retreated. But now, the army would charge, chasing them into the abyss.

  Jigan exhaled sharply, closing his eyes. No more doubt. No more hesitation. He walked to his steed and donned his armor. The runes flickered to life, their glow steady, unwavering—just as he had to be.

  The Magic Knights, in matching armor, formed behind him. In Mya, he had no other Magic Knights at his side, but now, his unit was complete. Hundreds of mounted knights, clad in enchanted armor and wielding lethal, enchanted lances, arrayed themselves behind the General.

  This battle was far from over. It had only just begun. He spurred his steed forward.