Evening – September 8, 1639 – Southern Jungle Theater, Forward Operating Trenches

The jungle trembled.

Treads rolled over shattered roots and mud-soaked debris, heavy and unhurried. Each turn of the steel wheels groaned like the grinding of a titan’s jaw. Something ancient and monstrous was moving behind the veil of gas and fire—born not of sorcery, but of steel. Not summoned from another realm, but welded in some scorched hell and resurrected in this one.

And now it was hunting them.

The toxic fog clung low to the ground, a rolling wall of poison. Already, men were dying from it—suffocating before the enemy even fired a shot. Eyes burned. Lungs collapsed. Skin peeled like candle wax. But worse than the gas was what followed in its wake.

The Iron Lindwurms.

That’s what they called them. It didn’t matter their real name. It didn’t matter that Earth called them BMP-1s or “infantry fighting vehicles.” To the average Parpaldian soldier, they were demons—dragons not of flesh, but of treads and turreted rage.

“It’s the Iron Lindwurms,” someone whispered, his voice hoarse, lips cracked and blackened from smoke inhalation. His eyes were wide with terror.
“They’ve come from the cursed desert.”

A younger soldier beside him dropped his rifle, backing away from the trench wall.

“No... no, I saw one tear through the 6th Line last week. Cut them in half.”

“Back! Back!” another screamed, scrambling over the wall—only to collapse mid-step. He gagged violently, coughing up thick mucus as the gas overtook him. His skin blistered on contact with the air, patches peeling in wet sheets. He thrashed, choking on blood.

No one moved to help.

Everyone else was too busy choking, or praying, or preparing to die.

Inside the trench bunker, the air wasn’t much clearer. The filtration runes were overstrained, fluttering with unstable magic as the fog pressed in from every crack. Linhardt and the rest of Imperial Wrath crouched low, weapons loaded, spell reservoirs at half capacity. They weren’t safe. Just slightly less doomed.

“BMPs,” Juno confirmed, peering through her HUD with narrowed eyes. “Three of them. Probably Soviet-stock. APC-type. Light armor, fast treads, turreted autocannon.”

“What’s our best shot?” Daere asked, calmly but quickly.

“We don’t have one,” Elgar muttered. He was already checking the seals on his ammo pouches. “No launchers. No piercing enchantments. And the regulars? They can’t even pronounce 'infantry fighting vehicle.'”

“Then we improvise,” Linhardt said, rising. His voice was hard. Determined. But beneath it, the same pressure of dread clawed at his chest.

“Target tires, optics, fuel lines. Focus fire. Disable, don’t destroy.”

Marn blinked.

“We’re capturing one?”

“Command wants proof. Earth will want the wreck.”

“So we get through a wall of dying soldiers, dodge toxic air, survive drone strikes, and face down Iron Lindwurms—just to drag one home?” Marn said, half laughing.

“That’s the job,” Linhardt said. “And we’re the only ones who can.”

They prepped in silence. Rifles checked. Spare mags loaded. Emergency rune grenades activated—thermite-primed, arcane-bound, short-lived.

Marn shook his head as he clipped his cloak back into place.

“Remember those Arab trainers I told you about?”

Elgar looked up.

“Yeah?”

“They told us not to worry about these iron monsters. Said they were ‘slow’ and ‘ancient tech’—nothing to be afraid of.”

“Fuck those jackasses,” Juno said flatly, slamming a fresh mag into her Type 56. “You ever seen one carve through a stone wall with a cannon?”

“Once,” Marn said. “Still hear it in my sleep.”

Outside, the jungle roared.

The first BMP emerged from the mist like a god of iron. Its green, rust-scraped hull crawled over the trench line with unnatural calm. Its tracks churned the earth into pulp. The turret swiveled slowly, scanning the fog as if it knew where the weak points were.

The gun spoke.

The 73mm cannon fired with a bone-snapping crack. The shell arced into a Parpaldian position—turning six men and their position into a flaming crater. The concussion knocked helmets off, ruptured eardrums. Screams followed.

“They're not stopping it!”
“The bullets—they're bouncing off!”
“Why won’t it DIE?!”

Regular soldiers fired back, hopelessly—outdated rifles spitting slow rounds into metal skin that didn’t care. One brave sergeant fired a flare rune straight into the hatch. It hissed... then did nothing.

“It eats fire,” someone whispered, knees buckling.

The second BMP flanked the trench and opened with its coaxial MG—bullets stitching across the sandbags and tarp roofs. A squad of medics died in under three seconds, red mist soaking their patients.

From above, a trio of ISIS drones dropped fragmentation canisters. One hit a mortar pit. Another tore through a spellcasting station.

“We have to cut through the escorts,” Linhardt said, voice cold now. “That’s the only way.”

“You want us to wade through that?!” Marn asked, pointing to the mass of ISIS militants advancing alongside the BMPs. Black flags waved in the fog. AKs and RPGs bristled. These weren’t just thugs—they were coordinated. Fanatical.

“We hit them fast, we hit them hard,” Juno said, clipping a frost rune into her rifle. “We stop the BMP’s engine with cold, just like we planned.”

“If we can reach the damn thing,” Daere added.

“We will,” Linhardt said. “We have to.”

Then came the charge.

Imperial Wrath vaulted the trench wall—runes flashing along their boots to soften the landing. Dozens of Parpaldian soldiers screamed warnings as they passed.

“They’re going out there?!”
“Those bastards are insane!”
“Go with the gods, Wrath! Go with the gods!”

Bullets tore through the foliage as Wrath pushed forward. Marn downed three ISIS riflemen with a burst. Juno raised a frozen shield rune, blocking an RPG’s backblast just in time.

Elgar advanced in a zigzag pattern, avoiding fire arcs, muttering under his breath.

“Cryo glyph… binding roots… frost-threaded timing—”

The third BMP was ahead. Its turret rotated toward them.

“There! Fuel tank behind the third plate—!” Juno shouted.

Elgar raised both hands, his fingers shaking slightly from the exertion already burned through his reserves today. Glyphs began to form in the air before him, etched in radiant frostlight, spinning and locking into place with military precision.

“Sleet Bind—Wide Latch!”

The jungle trembled as the ground beneath the lead BMP surged upward. Glacial vines burst from the undergrowth—jagged, crystalline, and glowing faintly blue. They writhed like serpents made of winter, aiming to coil around the vehicle’s tracks, locking it in place like a beast trapped in tar.

But something went wrong.

The moment the ice touched the fog, the spell began to flicker. Not just weaken—corrode.

The thick, chemically tainted mist clung to the vines like rot. The glyphs around Elgar’s hands began to stutter, runes breaking apart, edges warping like they were caught in oil.

“What the hell—?!” Elgar’s voice cracked. “The fog’s interfering with the casting paths!”

He staggered, reeling from the backlash of broken mana.

The vines cracked apart midair, hissing with a sound like burning water. Shards of ice exploded outward—not strong enough to wound the BMP, but sharp enough to cut into the exposed arms of nearby infantry.

“Watch your six!” Daere snapped, dragging Elgar down behind a fallen tree trunk just before a hail of 7.62mm rounds ripped through the canopy above them.

“Contact left!” Marn shouted, firing a burst down the flank.

Through the haze, half a dozen ISIS soldiers advanced with AKs and RPGs, keeping pace beside the BMP, using the vehicle like a mobile wall. Their faces were wrapped, their movements aggressive. One broke from the group, knelt, and took aim.

“RPG! Down!” Juno screamed.

The projectile launched—hissing, crackling. It wasn’t aimed at the squad, but toward a deeper trench behind them. The explosion turned the dirt into a boiling crater.

Elgar’s teeth clenched as he pushed himself back up.

“I’ll try a localized freeze. Smaller, tighter arc.”

“No time,” Juno said, crouched beside a log, loading her Type 56. “Then aim where it hurts.”

She exhaled, found her mark.

Vision slit. Sensor housing. Spotter module.

Three shots.

The first pinged off the angled plate. The second cracked the glass—just enough to spiderweb it. The third embedded into the right-side sensor cluster with a dull, wet thunk.

The BMP shuddered, its turret twitching like a stunned animal. But it wasn’t dead yet.

“We need to finish it,” Linhardt growled.

Daere unhooked a flare-charge from her bandolier. The capsule was short, metal-ribbed, with a glowing fuse already sparking faint blue.

“I’ve got one shot,” she said. “Cover me.”

She moved fast—barely three steps out of cover—before gunfire lit the air around her. The BMP’s coaxial machine gun pivoted toward her, spitting lead. She dove behind a mud-soaked boulder, gritting her teeth.

“Not happening from here!” she shouted.

Juno glanced at the tree line—then at the slope above the BMP.

“I’m going over!”

“What?!”

“Flanking elevation. Give me five seconds!”

Without waiting for approval, Juno broke right, sprinting through fire and fog. Bullets zipped past. One grazed her thigh. She kept running.

Behind a charred tree stump, she found her angle. Her cloak was already half-singed, and her visor was cracked on one side. But her throwing arm was still good.

She pulled a second flare charge—this one designed for vehicle disablement. Thermite-lined, rune-bound, and hot enough to melt a turret if it landed just right.

She exhaled. Threw.

The capsule arced through the air and struck the BMP’s rear engine plate, clanging off the armor.

“C’mon…” she whispered.

It stuck.

The blue flame ignited instantly, screaming like a banshee. The heat grew fast, licking up the rear plate, seeping through the venting system.

“Yes!” Juno grinned. “Come on, burn you bastard—”

Then the BMP’s side hatch flew open.

A gunner leaned out, coughing, blood on his chest—but not dead. He lifted a Makarov pistol, eyes full of hate.

“JUNO, MOVE!” Daere shouted.

A crack of gunfire.

The gunner fired once.

Missed.

Juno dove back—just in time for Linhardt to put two clean rounds into the man’s face. The body slumped, twitching as it tumbled into the smoke.

The vehicle choked.

Smoke poured from the top vents now—white, toxic, laced with heat. Inside, the crew panicked. One bailed out through the top hatch, waving his hands.

The BMP stalled, tracks screeching in place. It tried to reverse—but the thermite had already melted part of its lower drive assembly.

It was still dangerous.

Still thrashing.

But no longer a monster.

“One disabled!” Daere called. “Two more!”

“We’ll get them,” Linhardt muttered. “We have to.”

Smoke hissed from the engine block of the stalled BMP, its metal skin glowing faintly orange under the thermite’s lingering heat. The vehicle wasn’t moving—but the war sure as hell was.

“One down!” Juno gasped, crouched behind the burnt shell of a ration crate. 

“Two left.”

Linhardt opened his mouth to respond, but the sound was already there—another set of treads, faster this time, angrier, as if the first vehicle’s death had awakened something in its twin.

“Second BMP incoming!” Elgar shouted, gripping his rifle tight. “It’s pushing hard from the east flank!”

The fog parted like torn cloth as the second Iron Lindwurm surged through, its turret swiveling with cold mechanical precision. Its cannon locked on to the center trench line where dozens of Parpaldian soldiers still fired blindly into the smoke.

“Cover! COVER!” someone screamed.

Too late.

The BMP fired.

The shell landed just behind the first trench ridge—a direct hit. The explosion vaporized the centerline gun emplacement. Sandbags erupted like geysers. Dirt, blood, and limbs flew upward in a sickening arc.

The concussive blast threw soldiers off their feet. One man landed near Linhardt’s position—face down, unmoving, half his torso gone.

“It’s butchering them!” Daere shouted, dragging a bleeding conscript under cover. “They can’t hold!”

All across the line, Parpaldian soldiers panicked. Some ran, coughing and stumbling, as the toxic gas thickened, turning even shallow breaths into agony.

One squad tried to rally around a water-cooled machine gun, but the fog jammed the feed belt. Another fired a volley with their ancient Rhen Marks—one shot apiece, bolts sliding back with painful slowness.

It wasn’t enough.

The BMP’s coaxial MG mowed them down.

“Back! Get back!” a lieutenant howled. His legs were already gone. He died choking on his own teeth seconds later.

A young private collapsed nearby, clawing at his throat, eyes bulging.

“The masks—don’t work! They don’t work!”

Elgar cursed, forming a weak cleansing glyph over the boy’s chest. It flickered, fizzled, died.

“We’re losing magical integrity!” he barked.

“That’s not fog,” Marn growled, coughing. “It’s death.”

Linhardt’s comm crackled.

“Wrath Command to Alpha—regroup east of trench 4B. Enemy second vehicle advancing. Drones converging from air sector 3. We need that BMP captured or dead!”

He gritted his teeth.

“Understood. Wrath team, new vector. Move!”

They sprinted across the broken trenchline—jumping over smoking corpses, dragging two wounded regulars behind them.

Suddenly, a drone zipped down through the canopy and exploded midair, spraying thermobaric fire across their escape path.

Daere caught the edge of the blast—her armor held, but the concussive wave sent her flying into a trench wall with a sickening crunch.

“Daere!” Juno shouted.

Daere groaned—conscious, but blood seeped from her side.

“I’m hit. Rib’s broken… maybe two.”

Linhardt yanked her up.

“We don’t stop. Marn, cover left. Juno, with me!”

They regrouped on a low ridge flanking the second BMP. From here, they could see it: the vehicle snarled through no-man’s-land like a steel god, cannon roaring, flames licking the side of its track armor. More ISIS militants flanked it, hurling molotovs and shouting prayers into the smog.

“There’s no clean approach!” Juno hissed. “They’ve stacked bodies around it!”

“I need ten seconds to mark a weak point,” Elgar said. “That’s all.”

“You’ll get five,” Linhardt said. “We’ll cut a path.”

Juno moved first.

She sprinted forward, dropping a flash rune as she slid behind a crumbled tree. The explosion didn’t kill, but it stunned. Half the militants around the BMP turned, disoriented—long enough for Marn to gun down two of them with short bursts.

Linhardt followed up, sliding behind a low barricade and tossing a rune grenade under the vehicle’s turret. It didn’t explode, but sparked—interfering with its targeting optics.

Inside, the BMP’s crew rotated the turret wildly, firing blind. Shells tore into the jungle, one striking dangerously close to a dugout holding three Parpaldian engineers. All were incinerated instantly.

“Gods help us…” one of the nearby regulars gasped. “Why are we even here?”

Elgar ignored him. Focused.

His hands moved fast—four runes traced midair, rotating in a shrinking helix. His breath came shallow.

“Cryo Core Surge—Threaded Injection.”

A tiny needle of blue light launched from his palm.

It slammed directly into the BMP’s ventilation grill—disguised beneath a shroud of armor. The light flickered… then bloomed.

Frost spread.

Fast.

The engine coughed.

A pop. Then a crack.

Then the treads stopped.

“NOW!” Linhardt shouted.

They charged—through flame, smoke, and falling ash. Marn took a round to the thigh—screamed, stumbled—but kept firing. Juno vaulted over a dying insurgent and landed near the hatch.

Daere, bleeding, slammed a flare into the rear engine plate.

“MOVE!” she screamed.

They dove clear just as the flare ignited, melting the rear assembly completely.

The BMP hissed. Rattled. Stopped.

Inside, the crew yelled in panic.

One tried to open the hatch.

Linhardt was waiting.

Bang. One shot. The hatch slammed shut again.

They had won.

But barely.

Elgar collapsed to one knee, drained.

Daere sat against a tree, gasping.

“Tell me we don’t have to do this again today…”

Marn clutched his bleeding leg.

“I liked this cloak… it’s got holes now.”

Juno stood, shaking.

And Linhardt turned toward the jungle again—because even in victory, the buzz of drones still filled the air, and somewhere beyond the trees…

The third Lindwurm waited.

The jungle was on fire.

What wasn’t burning was choking in smoke. What wasn’t smoking was drenched in blood. The sounds of battle no longer resembled war—they sounded like a world breaking apart, one scream and one shell at a time.

And from the treeline came the third Lindwurm.

Its treads snarled through the muck, spewing up blackened water and shattered bones from what had once been a fortified trench line. The BMP’s hull was scorched, but its turret turned smooth and steady. It moved like it had already killed a hundred men and planned to kill a hundred more.

The Iron Lindwurm had no soul. It had only war.

Parpaldian soldiers tried to hold the line. Tried.

“Hold the left wall! Don’t let it break through—!” a lieutenant shouted.

The BMP fired. The cannon round punched through three sandbag walls, a medical station, and half of the command tent. Bodies flew. Screams cut off mid-sentence.

A squad tried to reposition a Maxim gun to target the crew hatch. A drone swooped in behind them, dropped a napalm charge, and set them on fire. Their shrieks melted into the jungle noise.

The trenches were collapsing, literally and spiritually.

“They're godsdamned everywhere!”
“The air’s poison! We can’t breathe—!”
“Where the hell is Wrath?!”

Wrath was moving. Limping. Bleeding.

Marn was down, dragging his injured leg behind him, a tourniquet tied just below the thigh.

Daere’s cloak was shredded, blood soaking the hem. She could barely hold a sidearm steady.

Juno had a cracked visor, one eye swollen shut, and was coughing up pink foam. But she kept her rifle shouldered.

Elgar, pale and near mana depletion, stumbled beside Linhardt, gripping a frost shard like it was the last weapon in the empire.

“One left…” Linhardt said under his breath. “Just one.”

The drone swarm arrived in full force.

A dozen small black shapes zipped through the air, their engines screaming like locusts. Some dropped munitions. Others acted as spotters—flashing red pulses, guiding enemy fire.

One slammed into the rear of a broken barricade and exploded, sending Daere flying into a crater.

Another clipped Elgar in the shoulder—blood sprayed, but he stayed upright.

“They’re hunting us,” Juno growled. “They’ve learned how we move.”

“Then we teach them fear,” Linhardt snapped.

He grabbed a flare rune, snapped it in his palm, and lobbed it skyward. It burst in midair—blinding white light that momentarily jammed the drone optics.

“MOVE!”

They sprinted down a trenchline that barely still existed, leaping over corpses and craters, dodging falling embers and screaming survivors.

“They’re hitting Sector 3 next!” a medic shouted at them as they passed. “We can’t hold it—your team’s our last shot!”

“Then we don’t miss,” Linhardt replied, charging toward the BMP’s last known vector.

They caught sight of it cresting a hill, firing into a bunker where the last of the 22nd Company had taken shelter. The autocannon tore through the wall, vaporizing the defenders inside.

“It’s wiping us out!” Elgar hissed. “We’re going to run out of bodies before we run out of bullets!”

“Then stop the damn engine,” Juno said.

Linhardt pointed.

“It’s moving past a slope—we flank hard left, cut across the riverbed. Elgar, you freeze the radiator this time. Forget finesse. Just kill the drive.”

They broke cover just as the BMP turned toward them.

It saw them.

It opened fire.

Bullets chewed through trees. Wood exploded. Rocks shattered. One clipped Daere’s hip. She stumbled.

“Keep going!” she yelled. “Don’t stop—go!”

Juno hurled a stun rune. It detonated low—flashing silver and blinding the BMP’s optic scope for just two seconds.

It was enough.

Elgar staggered into position, stood tall on an outcropping, and screamed as he cast:

“FROST NOVA—DEEP CORE FRACTURE!”

The blast wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t beautiful. It was desperate.

A wave of supercooled air surged forward and smashed into the BMP’s side. The vehicle’s armor cracked with a metallic scream, the ice spreading fast across the engine vents and into the powertrain.

It groaned. Coughed.

Then stopped.

Smoke poured from every vent.

The treads locked.

It didn’t explode.

But it had finally stopped moving.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Linhardt ran.

He scaled the side of the still-burning trench, leapt onto the BMP’s sloped side, and kicked the hatch three times before firing once into the hinges. The metal popped.

Inside, the crew shouted in panic. A pistol fired.

Linhardt reached in and yanked one of them out—slamming him to the ground.

The other raised his hands.

Captured.

“WE GOT IT!” Juno called. “Third BMP—neutralized and secured!”

Around them, the battlefield continued to burn. The drones began to retreat—scattered, disrupted, their control cut off. Smoke poured into the sky like a funeral pyre. The jungle floor was thick with corpses, most of them Parpaldian.

Wrath stood.

Barely.

But they stood.

Smoke still curled from the wrecked husk of the second BMP as Imperial Wrath trudged through the outer perimeter of the forward jungle camp. Their boots sank into blood-clotted mud, and the smell—burned oil, ruptured flesh, sour sweat, and ash—was thick enough to taste.

No one cheered.

The few remaining Parpaldian soldiers who still held the trenchline simply stared as Wrath passed—part awe, part relief, part guilt. Some saluted. Others bowed their heads. One young private, barely older than a schoolboy, dropped to his knees and whispered a thank-you prayer. Not to a god, but to the six battered soldiers who looked like they’d been dragged from a grave.

Daere limped, her side bandaged under her torn cloak. Marn’s thigh was wrapped in pressure gauze, his movements stiff. Juno’s right gauntlet had melted along the edge from the drone strike, and her visor still flickered in her peripheral display. Even Elgar, usually the quiet pillar, walked with a slight tremor. His last spell had drained him to the bone.

And Linhardt—the calm center—said nothing as he led them back into the main command dugout. His rifle hung low. His eyes burned, but not with anger. With restraint.

Behind them, the jungle still echoed with distant gunfire.
And the third Lindwurm was still out there.

Inside the command tent, the dim glow of arcane lanterns flickered across a war-torn map table. Colonel Ardon Vern stood waiting, arms folded, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers. His uniform was stained at the sleeves, and one eye was twitching from lack of sleep.

“You did it,” he said as they entered. “You killed the machines.”

No one replied.

“We stabilized a doomed sector. Saved at least eighty lives. Maybe more.”

Still, silence.

“You’re not going to like what comes next,” Ardon finally said, voice low.

He reached into a tin-plated courier box, removed a sealed parchment, and placed it flat on the table. Linhardt recognized the seal instantly.

Imperial red. Capital-grade.

“This was delivered twenty minutes ago via signal bird. Straight from Esthirant.”

“Orders?” Linhardt asked.

Ardon nodded.

“Effective immediately, the 2nd Elite Imperial Magic Caster Division—Wrath—is to return to the capital by military airlift.”

The silence cracked.

“What?” Daere said. “No. No—we just held this ground. It’s barely stable.”

“You’re pulling us now?” Marn asked, incredulous. “They’re not even done burying the bodies.”

“I didn’t make the decision,” Ardon said sharply. “The order comes from the Imperial Council. You’re to report directly to Lady Remille herself.”

For a moment, the room filled only with the distant rumble of artillery. Somewhere on the ridge, another trench was taking fire. Screams echoed faintly through the jungle.

“They’re reassigning us as a political asset,” Juno said bitterly. “We bleed for this line and now we’re a goddamn photo op.”

“We were winning here,” Elgar murmured, slumped on a crate. “We started turning the tide. If we stayed… we could teach the regulars. Reinforce spells. Fortify bunkers. They need us.”

“They’ll need martyrs too if they stay out there,” Ardon said, not unkindly. “This war is no longer fought where we can see it. It’s in boardrooms now. Broadcasts. Negotiation halls.”

Linhardt stepped forward, voice level.

“We’re not leaving by choice.”

Ardon looked at him.

“No, you’re not.”

He handed over a packet of intelligence reports—maps, supply charts, drone imagery. Linhardt skimmed the top page. A timestamp. Eight hours ago, a new wave of drones had hit the eastern front. One was reportedly carrying a chemical dispersal unit.

“More gas,” Linhardt muttered.

“Yes. And possibly more machines.”

Outside, the camp’s wounded cried out as surgeons worked by lanternlight. One field mage stood over a body, hands glowing weakly, trying to restart a pulse that had long faded. The healing glyph flickered… then died.

“They don’t have enough magic,” Elgar said quietly. “We’re the ones who can tip the balance. If we leave now...”

“They’ll break again,” Juno finished.

Daere rubbed her temple.

“They’ll die thinking we abandoned them.”

“We don’t choose who we save,” Linhardt said, eyes still on the horizon. “The empire does.”

They packed in silence.

Their camp was small. Mobile. It had to be. Within an hour, they’d be lifted by car drake to the nearest airbase, then flown back to Esthirant. Every second of that flight, they’d leave behind men who couldn’t cast, who couldn’t breathe, who couldn’t understand why the strongest fighters in Parpaldia were leaving them.

The regulars watched them wordlessly. Some saluted. Others didn’t.

Marn winced as he loaded his gear.

“Remember those kids at trench four?” he said. “The ones with the rusted rifles?”

“Yeah,” Daere replied.

“We’re not coming back for them, are we?”

No one answered.

As the drake transport descended from the cloud line, its wings casting long shadows over the burning tree line, Linhardt looked back toward the jungle.

“They called them Iron Lindwurms,” he said softly. “Like fairy tale beasts.”

“And we’re the heroes?” Juno asked, eyes dark.

“No,” he said. “We’re just the ones who walk away.”

Six months ago - Saint-Boyeux Slave Market, South-East Parpaldia

Morning dew drips from blades of grass. 

 

The plains of Saint-Boyeux stretch wide and unbroken, a vast quilt of ochre dirt and brittle grass kissed by the pale blue light of dawn. Out here, far from the imperial courts and polished stone cities of Parpaldia, the land wears its scars openly — wagon ruts from trade convoys, charred patches from fire-beast culls, even the shattered bones of old border markers driven deep into the soil when war with the south was still fresh.

 

Loud chattering fills the flat plains of the fields as one of Parpaldia’s largest slave markets is busy in motion. Horses carrying carriages full of slaves, mostly demihumans and “exotic ones from new lands” arrive at their designated zones. 

 

Makeshift tents stretch in neat rows, canvas straining under the weight of trade banners. Scribes with ink-stained robes record purchases at low desks while guards in red-plumed helmets patrol with spears lazily resting on shoulders. The scent of sweat, dust, and frying meat rides the wind.

 

“Quality over quantity here! Only the best of the best are offered today!” a dealer bellows, standing atop a raised wooden platform, gesturing to a bound woman with silver hair and vacant eyes. “Witchblood! She'll silence a beast with a glance. Guaranteed obedience enchantments. Bid starts at three bags of gold coins!”

A man no older than forty, walks slowly alongside his wife, her hand resting on his arm. His tunic is plain, but clean, cut in the square-shouldered style favored by Parpaldian middle-class officials. His wife wears a sunveil — pale yellow silk that flutters behind her like a banner — and keeps a lace glove tight over her nose.

“They’ve trained them better this year,” she says quietly, eyes scanning a group of elf-eared children huddled under a shade cloth. “Last spring’s lot couldn’t speak the trade tongue.”

“Reeducation camps in Lucrevia,” the man mutters. “Military got involved. Faster turnaround now.”

A sudden yell cuts through the din.

“Deep-fried squid, deep fried squid! Fresh from the port!”  a teenager calls, balancing a tray of skewers high above his head. “Get a fiery kick in your mouth with our specially-sourced red magic stones!”

 

The teen’s voice cracks with enthusiasm. His parents, behind him at a battered stall, grind down fire-red shards into paste — red magic stones, valued by the military for their combustibility and fire mana, bought by civilians to add some extra spice for home cooking.

The couple walks past the stall, catching the man’s attention, his nose twitching as he smells the spices.

“Don’t even think about it,” his wife says flatly, without looking at him.

He blinks. “What?”

“That look. I’ve seen it. You’re remembering the clam stew incident. You couldn’t breathe for an hour. I had to pour freezing water onto your tongue.”

“That had too many chillies in it. One of the kids must have pulled a prank.” he mumbles, eyes moving between his wife and the stall. “Besides, that was two years ago. I’ve built tolerance.”

She turns to him, lifting one eyebrow over the edge of her sunveil. “Last week, you cried while eating spiced ham. Spiced. Ham.”

He sighs, defeated — for now — and continues walking with her, passing caged selkies and horned children and one dealer loudly bragging about a slave who could mimic any voice, including imperial officers.

Then, as she pauses to examine a tent displaying gold jewelry, he quietly slips away.

He arrives back at the stall, the line having already dissipated by now. “Three skewers, please”, he whispers to the boy while passing him the proper amount of gold coins.

The boy nods at him and takes the gold coins and places them into a bag. “Thank you for your patronage, sir”, he whispers to him as he passes him the skewers, slightly dripping with oil.

The man returns a curt nod and turns back quickly, holding the skewers low, as if that might somehow dampen their unmistakable aroma.

He rejoins his wife just as she’s stepping away from a display of magically-bound slave contracts. She stops mid-step and turns her head slightly, nostrils twitching.

She doesn’t say anything right away.

But she does raise an eyebrow.

He tries to play it cool, looking around as if he were just admiring the architecture of the canvas tents.

“You went back,” she says.

“I did not,” he lies. “I was just—repositioning.”

She crosses her arms. “You reek of squid and regret.”

He holds out one of the skewers like a peace offering. “Truce?”

She glares at it. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she snatches it from his hand, takes a bite, and mutters, “You’re still weak to spice. It’s in your sweat. You smell like a burnt book.”

He smiles, mouth full, relieved. They walk together again in silence, chewing, blending back into the crowd.

The tents begin to shift — less festive now. Heavier. Iron bars replace colorful banners. Guards watch more closely. Here, the high-end “curated stock” is shown not like livestock, but investments.

They come to a larger tent. No loud barking here. Just a sign on a black canvas flap:
"Imported Acquisitions – Verified Origin, Clean Bloodlines."

A tall slaver in formal dark robes greets them with a low nod, recognizing the wife's veil — a sign of status in Parpaldian noble circles.

“Looking for skilled help? Or… rare stock?” he asks smoothly, with a practiced smile.

“Show us the sea-caught ones. You mentioned a pair in your last notice,” the wife replies.

“Ah, yes. From the Eastern sea from what I’ve heard. Some guys pulled them off a fishing vessel. Foreigners — not demihuman. Not marked.” He gestures toward a side partition, drawing back the cloth.

Inside are two children, maybe nine or ten. Tanned skin, wet-black hair, fine-boned faces. One boy, one girl. They sit cross-legged on woven mats, ankles chained lightly to a post, but not harshly treated — not yet.

The boy meets the gaze of the strangers with stiff pride. He pulls his sister a little closer, shielding her with an arm that’s too thin to do much. Still, he tries.

The Parpaldian couple exchange quiet words with the slaver, who shrugs and explains, “They don’t speak the trade tongue. Can’t read runes. Communication’s near impossible, but they’re obedient. They eat, they follow instructions. Willful, but not wild.”

Ahmet frowns, catching only the tone.

The wife tilts her head. “Take both?”

The husband glances down at the kids, then nods. “Bundle deal. Could be good for the house. Young enough to adjust.”

Within the hour, the purchase is finalized — scroll signed, seal pressed. Chains unlocked. The slaver’s assistant hands over a thin packet of papers detailing origin guesswork and basic health inspections.

The children don’t fully understand what's happened until they’re loaded into a two-wheeled family cart drawn by a thick-haired draft beast. The man and woman sit in front; Ahmet and Sanam are placed gently — though firmly — in the back, with a blanket and a half-loaf of honeyed bread between them.

They ride for half a day, out of the open market lands and into the cleaner lanes of a Parpaldian residential district — not rich, but respectable. Two-story homes of dark timber and pale stone. Window boxes with flowering spice-plants. Street lamps getting routinely refilled with light magic by workers.

The family’s home is larger than most. Four wings, small orchard in the back, a low garden wall.

Here, for the first time since their capture, Ahmet and Sanam are not chained.

They’re fed.

Bathed.

Given beds of their own — small, but soft.

The household is strange. Workers bustle about the property — a one-eyed beastkin gardener with shaggy ears, a tall lupine woman who runs the kitchen and speaks in sharp clicks, a mute human scribe with chalk-dusted gloves, and several others of mixed heritage. None are treated harshly. None seem frightened.

The boy, Ahmet Salim remains wary.

The girl, Sanam Korai watches everything with silent wonder.

They don’t understand this place, this language, these rules. But they aren’t hungry. They aren’t cold. And at night, for the first time in weeks, they sleep without waves or chains.

Ahmet keeps his guard up, watching for signs — a whip, a curse, a locked door — but none come. The master of the house, Ser Kadrel, only speaks to him with slow, even words and patient gestures. When Ahmet drops a bucket or fails to follow an instruction, the man simply exhales through his nose and moves on.

Sanam, younger and more adaptable, mimics the staff with childlike boldness. She tugs at the lupine cook’s fur tail one morning and gets a scolding in clicks and growls — but also a warm roll stuffed with sweet roots. She begins to smile again. Ahmet doesn’t know whether to feel relief or guilt.

Meals are simple: warm rice, soft eggs, roasted tubers. No one demands thanks. No one takes food away. The one-eyed gardener gives them both a piece of sugarfruit on the fifth day and mutters something in thickly accented trade tongue. Ahmet doesn’t understand the words — only that it’s not unkind.

The language barrier remains, thick as fog. Words swirl around them like music from another room — rhythmic, familiar in tone but distant in meaning. Sanam begins to pick up gestures. Ahmet resists, uncertain if learning means giving in.

But one night, he finds her in the garden, whispering Parpaldian numbers to herself while counting stars.

He sits beside her in silence.

She takes his hand.

“I think... they want us to stay,” she says in Urdu, her voice quiet as wind through orchard leaves.

Ahmet doesn’t reply.

He looks toward the house, where the glow of lantern-light spills gently through the windows. Inside, the strange, monstrous, and human move together like clockwork, each with a role. A place. Not family — not yet — but something that does not hurt.

He looks down at his clean hands, his unshackled feet.

For the first time, he does not feel like cargo.

He exhales.

“I’ll learn their words,” he says finally. “But only so we don’t get tricked.”

Sanam nods, already knowing that was as close to hope as he’d allow.

Behind them, the orchard trees sway in the night breeze, and the stars above Elysia shimmer like watchful eyes.