Miles above Sacra-Hill, the ISR drone sliced through the night skies, its sensors picking apart the battlefield’s fading chaos below. Gunfire crackled in the trenches, and vivid arcs of fireball spells illuminated the darkness. Thermal feeds painted a grim tableau—some figures retreating in disorder, others sprawled lifeless across the scarred earth.
The Austorian cavalry lay in tatters, their remnants retreating toward the fragile safety of their lines. The battle at the Farm raged on, its end uncertain. Yet in this fleeting moment, victory belonged to the defenders.
As the drone banked southward, the tumult of war faded into the distance, giving way to rolling plains and winding dirt roads. Its optics honed in on Qu-Till, the next waypoint in the operation.
The drone’s signal raced across the heavens, arriving at a seemingly tranquil fishing village perched on the banks of the Murlan River. With its cobblestone streets, ivy-clad cottages, and weathered Elven homes, Qu-Till projected an idyllic charm. The rhythm of daily life carried on—the fishermen mending nets, children chasing each other by the docks, and the low hum of calm rippling through the air.
Yet this quaint fa?ade masked a powerful secret. Below the enchanting exteriors of the village lay a crucial Forward Operating Base of the Beastkin Unified Army. ShadowPaw, the Army’s premier intelligence unit, operated here in anonymity, managing advanced reconnaissance and data collection in the shadow of the Murlan.
Disguised by ancient Elven architecture, the underground center hummed with activity. Northpaw, ShadowPaw’s northernmost deployed unit, manned Leythbrook Intel center, the critical intelligence nerve center of Beastkin operations in the region. Within its concealed walls, analysts worked tirelessly, transmitting vital information to forward units and orchestrating the movements of unmanned reconnaissance drones that scoured the skies.
Holographic battle maps were projected on to the walls of the center, charting the unfolding chaos miles away. The murmur of voices, the steady pings of incoming data streams, and the occasional hiss of radio static formed an understated symphony of precision.
2nd Lt. Riza Talonclaw leaned back in her chair, fatigue tugging at her golden eyes. Hours of monitoring Sacra-Hill’s battle feeds had drained her, but there was no time to rest. Task Force Dragon’s next operation was already unfolding. Her ears flicked toward the distance timer.
ISR Drone A-02 – On station in 10 minutes.
Plenty of time, Riza thought, her stomach let out a low growl. She exhaled, stretching her stiff shoulders, then pushed herself up from her chair. Coffee, something quick to eat, and more coffee—anything to keep her sharp.
The stone floor muted her footsteps as she left the main secured room, heading toward the newly improved break area. When she’d first arrived at Leythbrook, the base was barely functional—just a skeleton crew and an austere listening post. But now?
Now someone had set up a kitchen.
Her nose twitched, catching scents that made her mouth water: fresh bread, spiced meat, and the rich aroma of brewed coffee. That wasn’t here before.
Behind the worn wooden counter stood an older Beastkin woman, her golden yellow hair streaked with silver, her ears relaxed. Her sharp amber eyes flicked up, meeting Riza’s. There was a quiet confidence in her posture, a calm authority that made Riza hesitate.
“Uh… when did this get here?” Riza asked, uncertainty threading her voice.
The woman smirked knowingly. “While you weren’t paying attention, Lieutenant.”
Riza blinked. The words carried weight—not mockery, but understanding.
Without another word, the woman turned, reaching for a large tin mug. She filled it to the brim with thick, dark coffee, the aroma curling in the air like an unspoken invitation.
“Something to eat?” she asked simply.
Riza nodded. “Yeah… something light.”
Moments later, a sandwich wrapped neatly in cloth appeared beside the mug—freshly made, still warm to the touch. Riza reached for it, but the woman didn’t let her go so easily. Her amber gaze locked onto Riza’s, firm and unyielding.
“Eat while you can, Lieutenant,” she said softly. “Wars tend to go awry when those in command aren’t looking.”
Riza held the woman’s gaze for a moment longer. There was wisdom there—not just the kind that came with age, but the hard-earned lessons of experience.
Before she could find the words to reply—
BEEP.
Her headset chirped sharply, pulling her back to the present.
Her golden eyes flicked toward the monitor.
ISR Drone A-02 – On station.
The message blinked in bold letters, demanding her attention. Yet the woman’s words lingered, echoing faintly in her mind as she grabbed the mug and sandwich. She gave a brief nod of thanks before heading back toward her console, her boots soft against the stone floor.
Sliding into her seat, she placed the mug and sandwich to one side. The steam from the coffee curled into the cool air, dissipating like fleeting thoughts.
The screen in front of her shifted, and the faint outlines of Qu-Till sharpened into a detailed display. The village emerged—a patchwork of roads, buildings, and hidden threats slowly coming into view on the map.
Riza inhaled deeply, steadying herself.
Time to work.
Captain Salafree had been watching the sky when everything changed.
The V-280 tiltrotors screamed overhead first, their unnatural silhouettes cutting through the heavens like predatory birds. Close behind came the Invictus attack helicopters—sleek, deadly forms barely visible against the pale glow of dawn. They thundered over Qu-Till without a pause, heading straight for Sacra-Hill.
Then came the explosions.
Even miles away, he felt them. The tremors crawled up through his boots as distant flashes lit the horizon. Not the raw, chaotic fury of magic—this was something colder, more deliberate. A precision that chilled the bone. This was destruction orchestrated like a symphony.
Salafree’s instincts kicked in. He turned to the peasants gathered nearby, their wide eyes fixated on the distant chaos.
“Do not be afraid,” he said, his voice calm and measured, honed from years of manipulation. “The rebels in Sacra-Hill are being dealt with. The Empire will protect you.”
And they had believed him.
Fools.
His thoughts darkened further when the slavers arrived—far earlier than expected. The wagons clattered into the village, heavy iron-bound beasts escorted by their grinning handlers. The enforcers swaggered in with coiled whips and boots stained with old blood, their presence a thunderclap in the relative peace. Salafree’s jaw tightened. These brutes were supposed to arrive under the cover of darkness—not in broad daylight.
The villagers had started murmuring.
“Who are they?” “Why do they have chains?”
Salafree lied with ease—he always did. “These men are here to protect us. They bring supplies for evacuation, ensuring we remain safe.”
Most of the villagers bought it. But some lingered, doubt flickering in their eyes. He brushed it aside—he had bigger concerns.
The real prize was rolling in.
The refugees from Sacra-Hill arrived in droves, their numbers swelling into the hundreds. Exhausted, starving, and desperate, they clung to the hope that salvation awaited them. Salafree stood at the village gates, his smile warm, his voice soothing as he spread his arms in welcome.
“You are safe now,” he assured them, his tone rich with practiced sympathy.
But behind him, his soldiers moved with quiet purpose. At first, they stood casually, their presence seemingly unthreatening. Then—step by step—they shifted, forming a line behind the refugees. A wall. Their hands rested lightly on their weapons, their polished armor glinting in the morning sun.
The way back was gone.
And then—the trap snapped shut.
Gates sealed. The slavers moved like predators, descending on the refugees with brutal precision. Whips cracked and pain sticks flared, the screams of betrayal cutting through the air like knives. Villagers watched, frozen in silent horror, too terrified to act.
Salafree allowed himself a small, triumphant smile.
Within an hour, dozens of refugees were caged. The mayor and his family had already been dragged to the wagons, along with what little resistance the village guards had tried to muster. The village was nearly pacified.
Then they came.
The iron carriages roared past Qu-til, like specters of death. Their unnatural size and speed a sheer terror. Their very presence sent ripples of fear through the slavers, even shaking his own guards. Peasants scrambled in disarray, emboldened only by confusion. For one brief moment, they had a reprieve.
But the machines didn’t stop. They bypassed Qu-Till entirely, like predators ignoring an easy kill—because something bigger awaited. And then—just like that—they were gone, leaving only an oppressive silence in their wake.
Salafree exhaled, tension bleeding out of his frame. He muttered under his breath, “Now, back to business.”
The second wave of slavers arrived at dawn, their wagons casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. Salafree stood tall, reading from the King’s decree, his voice booming with authority.
“By order of His Majesty, all lands surrounding Sacra-Hill are declared in rebellion. Those found within are hereby sentenced to servitude.”
The declaration crushed what little hope remained. Most villagers crumpled to the ground, their spirits shattered. Resistance was minimal. The imperial seal carried too much weight.
It was all going smoothly—until Salafree felt it.
The sensation started as a faint prickling at the base of his neck. A creeping awareness he couldn’t quite define. And then it grew. A presence—unseen yet undeniable—loomed over him. Like the judgment of gods.
His hand slid to the pommel of his sword. He turned, his sharp gaze sweeping over the empty streets. Nothing. Just the whisper of the wind and the faint cries of the villagers.
And then—he heard it.
A subtle buzz, faint yet insistent. An almost insect-like hum that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. It crawled into his ears, burrowed into his thoughts.
He glanced up instinctively. The sky stretched wide and empty.
Superstition, he thought, shaking his head. His lips pressed into a thin line as he strode back toward the square, the wails of the newly enslaved echoing through the air.
But the unease refused to leave him.
His boots echoed against the cobblestone as he made his way back to the village square. The sound of wailing and crying filled the air.
Music to his ears.
The slavers worked quickly, organizing their fresh merchandise. Chains rattled as villagers were shoved into lines. More would come. Perhaps he’d buy a few himself.
Then—he heard it.
A low rumble.
Salafree stood motionless, his breath caught in his throat. The low rumble grew louder—deeper, almost guttural—as if the earth itself had stirred awake. It wasn’t the distant chaos of explosions or the rhythmic clatter of slaver wagons. No, this sound carried weight. Intention.
The southern road lay shrouded in an unnatural stillness. Dust swirled in faint eddies, the faint glow of dawn stretching shadows across the cobblestones. Salafree’s hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword, his knuckles tightening as his pulse quickened.
The sound grew.
And then—they appeared.
Figures emerged on the horizon, their shapes distorted by the haze. It was difficult to tell how many—dozens? Hundreds? The metal beasts had flown by or bypassed the village earlier, uninterested in this pit of misery. But these forces came directly, unrelenting, their presence exuding a grim finality.
Salafree’s stomach twisted. His composure threatened to break.
The slavers hesitated, their movements slowing as the rumble began to engulf the square. Chains clattered to a halt. Whips hung limp. Even the terrified villagers froze, their wide eyes turning to the southern road, searching for answers that would not bring comfort.
Salafree’s heart pounded. The moment stretched, heavy and suffocating.
And then—against his better judgment—he spoke.
“What in the name of the Emperor…?”
The sound swallowed his words.
ISR Drone A-02 – On Station LiDAR Scanning…..
Live feed active. Processing 3D terrain overlay...
Riza leaned forward, her almond-shaped yellow eyes narrowing as Qu-Till’s layout shimmered into view on the holographic map. Her fingers flew over the console as she murmured softly to herself, talking through the details while updating the battle plan.
“Log palisade walls… wood-reinforced, but aging. Two watchtowers at the main roads—Human-built, basic design. Elven archways in the square… decorative? No, more deliberate. Camouflage for something. Not the Austorian style...”
She shifted to thermal imaging, catching faint heat signatures: Austorian patrols moving along the cobblestone streets in small squads, civilians hiding in their homes.
Her focus locked onto the town square. “What is that...?” she muttered, zooming in.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
The reinforced wooden wagons came into view—iron bars glinting faintly under the drone’s optics. A pale hand darted out, trembling and frail. Her stomach twisted as she whispered, “Cages.”
Her breath caught. “Sarca-Hill survivors,” she murmured, realizing the prisoners’ soot-streaked clothing bore marks of their ordeal. Anger tightened in her chest.
Her mind raced as she tagged the wagons and surrounding guards. She pressed the comm switch firmly, voice sharp and commanding.
“Dragon Sierra Two, this is Quebec-One! ISR Priority update—patch me through to Dragon Actual now!”
The rumble grew louder, vibrating through the cobblestones beneath Salafree’s boots. His hand instinctively moved to the pommel of his sword, his knuckles whitening.
His heart froze.
The metal beasts had returned. And this time… they were coming straight for him.
He spun on his heel, barking orders with a voice that betrayed none of the panic clawing at his chest.
“MAGES! ATTACK! NOW!”
The battlemages reacted with rehearsed precision, their hands snapping upward. Arcane sigils flared to life, etched into the air with fiery tendrils. The sky seemed to tremble as raw energy crackled and roared to life.
Flames gathered, coiling into an enormous orb of searing heat before surging forward, a streak of fire against the dawn.
BOOOOOM!
The fireball struck the ground with devastating force, a violent shockwave rolling across the field. Dirt and debris rained down in chaotic bursts, and the acrid stench of scorched earth filled the air.
Salafree held his breath, watching the smoke churn in the aftermath, hoping—praying—that it had been enough to halt the enemy’s advance.
But then, out of the haze, the beasts emerged.
They didn’t lurch or thunder forward like cavalry—they slid into view, engines growling with mechanical hunger. The rising sun caught the sleek armor plates, their angular shapes cutting through the dust like blades. Their tires gripped the earth with unnatural precision, rolling effortlessly over shattered cobblestone and churned dirt, undeterred by the battlefield’s wreckage.
Salafree’s breath hitched. These weren’t mindless monsters—they were predators. His grip on his sword tightened.
“Gods preserve us…” he muttered under his breath.
Meanwhile, a few hundred meters to the south, the command net of Task Force Dragon crackled to life as the fireball’s impact registered across their sensors.
“DRAGON! DRAGON! THIS IS CHARLIE 3-1!” The urgency in the tank commander’s voice cut through the static. “WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! BREAKING FORMATION—CONTINUING ASSAULT!”
The convoy momentarily faltered, the AMX 10 RCs shifting into defensive positions. Through the multi-spectral display inside the lead tank, Captian Rylan Firetalon narrowed his golden eyes as the terrain ahead lit up.
“ALL TEAM TANK ELEMENTS—PREPARE TO ASSAULT THE VILLAGE!”
His voice was sharp, authoritative, cutting through the chaos. He reached for his comms, keying into the command net.
“Dragon Actual, this is Charlie 6 Actual. Contact made with hostile forces—artillery units holding position outside effective range. Orders?”
A pause, pregnant with tension, crackled over the line. Then, Dragon Actual’s calm voice replied, steady yet resolute:
“Maintain forward momentum, Charlie 6 Actual. Neutralize hostiles. Clear the village and proceed with Phase Two.”
Captain Firetalon exhaled sharply and keyed into the broader comms. “You heard the order. Let’s move. Rapid clearance—no hesitations.”
The tanks roared forward, engines growling as their wheels chewed through the earth. The lead AMX 10 RC took point, its gun swiveling toward the town’s outskirts. Dust and debris clouded the horizon as the assault on Qu-Till began.
The screen flickered before Riza, the holographic map of Qu-Till glowing with precision and detail. Her almond-shaped yellow eyes darted over the real-time feed, the scene unfolding before her with chilling clarity.
“Mages,” she whispered to herself, watching plumes of flame arch high into the air as the Austorian fireball detonated in front of the lead tank. The concussive force seemed to shake her console, though she knew the vibrations were only in her mind.
Her fingers hovered above the controls. No. She couldn’t freeze up. Not now.
Riza snapped into action, toggling the comms to priority override. “This is Quebec-One,” she started, her voice faltering. She inhaled sharply, pushing through the tremor. “Requesting priority comms. S-2, patch me through to Dragon Actual immediately!”
The response came clipped and businesslike over the encrypted channel. “Quebec-One, Dragon Actual is actively engaged. State your urgency.”
Her ears flattened slightly, her focus darting back to the feed. The fireball’s impact cloud still hung in the air as the tanks began to surge forward, dust and debris swirling in their wake. The metal beasts moved with relentless precision, but the wagons—the cages filled with Sarca-Hill refugees—remained in the heart of the village, dangerously close to the line of fire.
“I—I need to speak with Dragon Actual!” she stammered, her hands gripping the edge of the console. Her usually steady voice faltered, tinged with desperation. “It’s about the wagons in Qu-Till… They’re slaver cages, and civilians—civilians are in play. Dragon Actual needs to know—now.”
The silence on the other end dragged for a moment too long. Then came the response.
“Standby, Quebec-One. Patching you through.”
She barely exhaled before the line shifted, a new voice cutting in—calm but firm, laced with the unmistakable edge of battlefield command.
“This is Dragon Actual. Make it fast, Quebec-One. We’re under fire.”
The screen flickered, and Riza caught her breath as she registered the chaos. Tanks advancing. Infantry deploying. Smoke and flame billowing as the battlemages launched yet another fireball—this time aimed closer to the rear convoy.
“Sir,” she began, her voice quivering before she forced it steady. “ISR confirms slaver wagons in the town square. High probability of Sarca-Hill escapees inside. Civilians are in the line of fire. Confirmed COBs in the area.” She inhaled deeply. “Requesting fire control protocols immediately—check fire unless no civilians are visible. And requesting neutralization of slavers before they can escape.”
A pause crackled across the line. For a moment, all Riza could hear was the faint hum of equipment in the intel shack and the thunderous rumble of engines in the live feed.
“Understood,” Dragon Actual replied finally, his tone cold and decisive. “Good call, Quebec-One. We’re adjusting now.”
She watched as the glowing 3D map updated on the shared virtual sandbox. The wagons and their likely escape routes flashed red, tagged as priority targets.
“This is Dragon Actual,” his voice came back on the net, this time across all channels. “All Dragon Elements, check fire protocols in effect. Engage only with small arms and coaxials unless no civilians are in sight. I repeat—no civilians, open them up like a can opener.”
A chorus of acknowledgments rippled through the comms as the convoy’s formation adjusted.
“Dragon Actual to all Dragon elements—cut off any escape routes. Neutralize slavers and secure the captives at all costs.”
Miles away, in the lead AMX 10 RC, the tank commander of Charlie 3-1 looked at the advanced Sniper 2 sighting unit monitor. The fleeing wagon rattled along the cobblestone streets, its right wheel wobbling dangerously as the driver urged his horses faster.
“Target acquired,” the gunner reported calmly.
“Engage,” the Tank Commander barked, his voice steady even as the battlefield churned around them.
The Sniper 2 locking mechanism hummed faintly before the main gun roared. The shot was precise, a single 40mm high-velocity round ripping into the wagon’s right wheel. The impact splintered the wood, sending the wagon skidding uncontrollably to the side before stopping in a shower of sparks and debris.
The horses screamed, breaking loose from the wreckage as the slaver scrambled to escape on foot.
“Moving target,” the gunner called.
“Take him down.”
The Sniper 2 adjusted seamlessly, the sight switching to coaxial and locking onto the slaver as he sprinted toward the forest edge. Shots thundered. The slaver dropped instantly, the rounds throwing his lifeless body to the ground.
“Target neutralized,” the gunner confirmed.
The commander keyed into the net, his tone sharp and professional. “Dragon Actual, this is Charlie 3-1. Escaping wagon neutralized. Captives secured. Advancing to the next objective.”
Task Force Dragon’s assault unfolded with breathtaking precision.
The BOXER RCRs surged into the village with relentless speed, their mobility and firepower overwhelming the Austorian defenders before they could organize a cohesive response.
The mounted 30mm cannons tore through mage circles and large Austorian formations with devastating efficiency. Fiery spells meant to repel the armored vehicles fizzled out under the concentrated barrage, leaving the battlemages scrambling for cover. Every volley from the cannons churned the earth and shattered defensive lines, breaking the Austorian resistance in brutal waves.
On the rooftops, archers attempted to hold their positions, loosing arrows toward the advancing BOXERs. Coaxial machineguns mounted on the vehicles swiveled and unleashed precise bursts, cutting down the archers before they could threaten the infantry dismounts.
Smoke and fire filled the narrow streets as the Beastkin soldiers pushed deeper into the heart of Qu-Till. Under the cover of the BOXERs, squads of infantry dismounted and swept through the village, moving methodically as they pressed the Austorian forces further into the farthest corner of the city.
The dismounted infantry advanced with ruthless efficiency, their training and discipline evident in every movement. They fanned out into overlapping fire teams, clearing buildings and alleyways one by one.
Mage circles hidden in courtyards and backstreets were quickly neutralized, their defenders overwhelmed by the combined firepower of small arms and grenades. The Austorian defenders tried to regroup, but the relentless speed of the assault kept them off balance.
As the Beastkin soldiers pushed further into the city, their tactical superiority forced the Austorians into a single defensive pocket near the town square. The concentration of enemy forces there ensured they had no escape, as TF Dragon's infantry tightened the noose around their position.
The narrow streets of Qu-Till erupted into a maelstrom of fire, steel, and death. The Beastkin infantry surged forward from the Boxer RCRs, their movements precise and disciplined. Each squad advanced in a well-rehearsed rhythm, covering one another as they cleared the maze of homes and alleys. But the Austorians, despite their fractured command, were far from broken.
Steel clashed against bullets as Austorian swordsmen met the Beastkin troops in brutal, close-quarters combat. The first line of shieldmen braced their tower shields, forming an overlapping wall that stalled the attackers’ momentum. Behind them, swordsmen thrust through the gaps, their blades flashing under the flickering torchlight of the village. They moved forward only to be tore apart as the grenade launchers and light machineguns disposed of the shields and swordsmen.
“Push! PUSH UP!” barked a Beastkin squad leader, his voice barely cutting through the chaos. A heavy axe slamming into wall next to the squad leader. The defender struggled to free his axe, only to be cut down by a precise three-round burst from a Beastkin soldier’s M807A2 rifle. Blood splattered onto the cobblestones, mixing with the grime of war.
A fireball roared through the air, crashing into the side of a Boxer RCR. The explosion rattled the armored vehicle but failed to penetrate its reinforced hull. From the turret, the 30mm autocannon swiveled sharply, the gunner acquiring his target.
“Target locked—MAGE, third story window!”
The cannon barked, and the upper floor of a building disintegrated in a storm of shrapnel and fire. The battle mage within vanished in the eruption, his defensive spells unable to withstand the sheer force of modern weaponry.
Austorian pikemen tried to hold the main road, their long spears forming a desperate barrier to slow the advancing Beastkin. But as they steadied their line, a second Boxer pivoted, unleashing its coaxial machine gun.
The staccato chatter of the 7.62mm rounds tore into their ranks, turning the once-imposing formation into a pile of writhing bodies. Those who survived the initial burst ran, only to be picked off by suppressing fire from Beastkin riflemen moving between the houses.
Arrows rained down from the rooftops. One struck a Beastkin soldier in the shoulder, sending him staggering into cover. His comrade dragged him behind a low stone wall, ripping the arrow free before slapping a bandage over the wound.
“Snipers, clear those rooftops!” came the sharp order over comms.
From the high ground, a Beastkin marksman exhaled slowly, his rifle’s crosshairs settling on the silhouette of an Austorian archer. A single suppressed shot rang out, and the archer collapsed, his body tumbling from the rooftop into the dirt below.
The battle was turning. The Austorians, now bottled into a shrinking perimeter, fought with the desperation of men who had nowhere left to run.
And in the center of it all, Captain Salafree’s world began to close in around him.
Captain Salafree’s heart raced as he darted into the narrow alley, his polished armor clanging against the stone walls. The enemy was closing in—silent specters moving through the mist, dismounted infantry materializing as if from nowhere. They weren’t supposed to be here. Not this fast. Not with this kind of precision.
He cursed under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. From a shadowed corner, he peered out cautiously, his breath catching as he saw them—the Beastkin soldiers advancing like a storm, their yellow, almond-shaped eyes gleaming with eerie calm. His stomach churned as he watched the group of battlemages he’d sent moments earlier to collect civilians, attempt to engage the Beastkin.
The skirmish was over in seconds. The Beastkin’s staffs struck with blistering speed and unerring accuracy. Spells fizzled and shields shattered as the battlemages crumpled to the ground, their cries extinguished as efficiently as a snuffed candle.
“They’re… monsters…” Salafree muttered, stepping back unsteadily. He turned sharply, motioning for his remaining soldiers. “Inside. Now!”
They barreled into a modest house—its wooden beams worn from years of quiet resilience. The door slammed shut behind them, muffling the chaos outside. Salafree’s eyes scanned the dim room, quickly locking onto a Beastkin family huddled in the corner. The father stepped forward instinctively, shielding his wife and children with trembling hands.
Salafree drew his sword in a flash, its blade glinting in the dim light. “You,” he barked, his voice sharp with desperation, “you’re coming with us.”
When none of them moved, he turned to his men. “Take them,” he snapped.
The soldiers advanced, forcing the family together into a frightened huddle. Salafree’s gaze fixed on the youngest—a girl no older than six. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and snatched her from the mother’s arms, drawing a dagger and holding it to her neck.
“Stay back!” he roared. “Not another step, or she dies!”
The child whimpered, her tiny body trembling in his grip. Her mother sobbed, reaching out helplessly before being pushed back by one of Salafree’s soldiers.
The room descended into stifling silence, broken only by the faint sounds of battle outside.
Then it began.
A crossbow bolt fired from one of his guards shattered the window, embedding itself into the wall just inches from an approaching Beastkins soldier’s head. He pulled back away from the window and from Salafrees bodyguards.
A second bolt punched out through the glass, striking another soldier in the helmet. The reinforced combat helmet dented but gave way just enough for the tip to cut into the skin beneath. Blood trickled down the side of his head as he stumbled back, cursing.
“STAY BACK! WE HAVE HOSTAGES!!!” Salafree barked, his grip tightening on the squirming child. The panic in his voice betrayed his failing composure.
Then he saw it—a small, round metal object sailing through the shattered window. It bounced once, twice, before rolling to a stop at his feet.
“What in the—”
A flashbang detonated, flooding the room with a blinding flash of light and a deafening crack. The Beastkin infantry moved with swift, terrifying efficiency. Like shadows given form, they breached the room, clearing it with mechanical precision.
The blast left Salafree reeling, white-hot agony lancing through his skull. His vision swam as he fumbled blindly, his fingers brushing against the dagger he had dropped. He lunged for it—
CRACK.
A rifle stock slammed into his wrist, shattering the bone with a sickening crunch. A boot followed, driving him face-first into the floor. Strong hands wrenched his arms behind him, and cold metal cuffs snapped into place.
His men were subdued just as quickly, groaning in pain as they were forced to the ground beside him.
The family, though trembling and disoriented, was quickly ushered to safety. The little girl, still sobbing, clung tightly to her mother as a Beastkin soldier gently knelt before her. "You're safe now," he said softly, his voice steady but kind. "We've got you."
Across the room, another soldier examined the wounded Beastkin soldier, his helmet removed to reveal a deep gash above his temple. Blood trickled down in thin rivulets, staining the soldier's tunic.
“You’ll live,” the medic said briskly, applying a bandage with practiced hands. “Head wounds bleed like stuck pigs, but you’ll be fine.” He secured the dressing and motioned for the injured soldier to keep his eyes open as he finished patching him up.
Salafree groaned, his head pounding as the ringing in his ears faded to muffled shouts and movement around him. He squinted, trying to focus through the ache in his skull. His body betrayed his rising panic, trembling with the weight of realization.
He had underestimated them. Gravely. The thought clawed at his mind, a bitter truth that tasted worse than the blood pooling in his mouth.
Lying on the cold, hard floor, bound and powerless, Salafree let his head fall back. His eyes darted around in vain for an escape, but all he could see were the yellow eyes of his captors—unwavering, piercing, and merciless.
And now, there would be no escape.
The radio buzzed with static before a clear voice cut through. “Dragon Actual, this is Charlie 6 Actual. Remaining enemy forces are surrendering, Mop up operations are nearly complete. City center is under control, civilians have been liberated, slavers neutralized. Qu-til is ours. Awaiting further orders.”
In the mobile command vehicle rolling just outside the village perimeter, Lt. Colonel Ridgefall leaned over the comms station, his ears twitching slightly at the report. His golden, almond-shaped eyes scanned the holographic map displaying the battlefield. Qu-Til’s markers shifted to green, indicating control had been established.
“About damn time,” Ridgefall muttered, straightening his jacket. His tone carried the weight of fatigue mixed with relief as he turned to the operations officer at his side. “Deploy the M-1087s immediately. I want the FDC operational in five. Artillery units—begin deployment now. We’ve got a fire mission coming up.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied briskly, moving to relay the commands.
Ridgefall’s focus returned to the map. The artillery convoy had already pulled into position on the open plains south of Qu-Til. In the field near them, the Brutus SPGs let out low metallic groans as their hydraulics locked into place, barrels shifting skyward. The HIMARS crews scrambled, feeding the fire control systems with new coordinates. Even the idling reload trucks seemed to hum with anticipation, ready to deliver more destruction at a moment’s notice.
The calm, however, was fleeting. A sharp burst of static erupted on the comms, followed by a panicked voice that cut through the relative quiet like a knife.
“Dragon Actual, this is Alpha 5 Alpha, emergency priority! The farm is under heavy attack—repeat, the farm is getting overrun! Requesting immediate assistance! We are—”
The transmission broke into a chaotic cacophony of shouting and distant explosions before abruptly cutting out.
Ridgefall’s jaw tightened as the weight of the words settled over the command center. He exhaled sharply, his mind already calculating.
“Get me Alpha 5s last known coordinates!” he barked, his voice steel. He turned to the artillery officer. “Priority fire mission! I want targeting solutions on Austorian concentrations near the farm now.”
“Yes, sir!” The officer scrambled to pull the ISR drone data, sending updates to the Brutus and HIMARS teams.
“Dragon Actual, ISR showing outer defenses collapsing at the Farm,” Quebec-One reported, her voice steady despite the chaos on the feed. “Multiple Austorian elements pushing through. Sending updated TRPs now—enemy forces heavily massed along the northern treeline and eastern trenches.” In seconds, the JCVAILs near the FDC buzzed with the new TRPs of the largest concentration of Austorian forces.
After her report, the FDC commander stepped in, “Artillery is deploying as ordered, Dragon Redlegs deployed” The FDC stated as the M1087 Fire Direction Center Expando-van completed its expansion.
Charlie 6 broke over the net “Team tank and Dragon elements standing by to race to the Farm.”
Ridgefall’s yellow eyes darted back to the virtual sandbox, where the farm's marker flickered ominously. He pressed the comms button and keyed into all channels.
Shit. Ridgefall’s mind raced. His forces were still consolidating at Qu-Till—redeploying them meant exposing flanks. But the Farm wouldn’t hold without support. He had seconds to decide.
“Charlie 6, I want your unit leading the push north—hit them hard and fast. All Dragon elements; we roll in five! Dragon Redlegs, you’re weapons free as soon as the TRPs are confirmed!”
He exhaled. Around him, the command center snapped into action. Reports flooded in, boots pounded on the metal flooring, and the virtual sandbox flickered with updated orders. This fight wasn’t over. Not even close.
