17:42 – November 19, 1639 – Town of Saint-Maloire

The first sign was the bell.
It wasn’t the short clang of a shift change, nor the single chime for a fire. It was the deep, hammering peal that meant only one thing — the enemy was coming. I was cutting bread for Marien’s breakfast when the sound rolled over the rooftops. She jumped, dropping her wooden spoon.

My wife froze in the doorway. “It’s them.”

I stuffed the bread into my satchel, hands shaking. A loaf, two bottles of water, the kitchen knife. We had prepared for weeks, telling ourselves it would never happen. Now it had.

The street was already boiling with people. Neighbors clutching children, clutching bundles of clothing. Shouts from every direction. “South gate! Move!” someone bellowed, and the flow of bodies surged that way.

From the northern wall came the distant pop-pop-pop of gunfire. Not the slower crack of muskets, but the rapid, stuttering fire we’d heard only in rumors about the invaders. Smoke trailed upward, twisting in the pale morning light.

We ran, weaving through the crowd. The sound of engines grew louder, deep and mechanical, nothing like the clatter of a wagon. My heart thudded in time with it.

Then the guards on the wall started screaming. I caught only fragments over the din: “They’ve breached!” “Green armor!” “Wolves—”

The first ISIS fighters appeared at the far end of the street. They moved in a line, rifles up, armor a sickly green that gleamed under the sun. Helmets with dark visors hid their eyes. Each step was precise, as if the chaos around them didn’t exist.

Behind them came the auxiliaries. A wolf, its fur matted, wearing a steel plate across its chest with an insignia daubed in red. A tall, lean cat-headed creature in matching green fatigues, belt loaded with grenades. Even a warhorse, face masked in steel, barding rattling with each step.

The crowd screamed. People pushed in all directions now, no order left. A boy broke from his mother’s grip and ran toward the gate — a green-armored fighter caught him by the hair, yanked him back, and flung him to the cobblestones. A chain of hooks whistled through the air, latching into his arms, his leg, even his face. The man jerked the chain, and the boy came apart in wet pieces.

Marien screamed. I held her tighter and pulled my wife into a side alley.

We almost made it to the next street when another squad cut us off. One of them wore a mask made from the flayed face of another man, the skin stitched crudely around his visor. In his hands, a blood-slick cleaver. He stepped toward a family ahead of us — father, mother, two sons — and with three savage swings, dropped the parents where they stood. The boys tried to run, but the masked man grabbed one, yanking him back inside a doorway. The last I saw was a flash of red before the door slammed shut.

We ducked into a grain shop, hiding behind sacks. My breathing was so loud I thought it would give us away. Outside, boots pounded past, accompanied by the snarl of the wolf and the heavy clink of chains.

Then the door burst open. Three fighters filled the frame. The first sprayed the sacks with bullets, grain exploding into the air. I shoved Marien behind me, but the second fighter lunged and seized my wife by the hair. She screamed, clawing at him. He swung her in a wide arc and smashed her into the wall once, twice, three times. Her body went limp.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

The third fighter ripped Marien from my arms. She kicked and screamed, calling for me, but the butt of a rifle slammed into my temple, dropping me to the floor.

Through the ringing in my ears, I heard the worst sound I have ever known — my daughter’s cries turning into choked gasps. I forced my eyes open. The man knelt over her, sawing with a short blade. Blood pooled on the wooden floor, seeping toward me.

I crawled forward, but the third fighter stomped on my chest, knocking the breath from me. They dragged me into the street.

Saint-Maloire was gone. Bodies lay sprawled where they’d fallen. Wolves tore at limbs. A cat-headed fighter pinned a man down while another hacked at him with a machete, each blow deliberate. Smoke drifted from burning carts, the heat mixing with the metallic stink of blood.

They made me watch. In the square, survivors were lined against a wall — men, women, even a boy no older than ten. The cleaver-masked fighter strode before them. One by one, he killed them, sometimes quick, sometimes with slow, careful cruelty. The boy he shoved into a burlap sack, swinging it into the wall again and again until it went still.

A woman tried to run. One of the sub-human auxiliaries, a wolf-headed soldier in fatigues, pounced on her, dragging her back by the leg. She screamed until a blade silenced her.

By the time the black banner rose over the town hall, the sun was hidden behind smoke. I knelt in the square with the other captives. My hands were slick, my chest wet. I didn’t look down to see whose blood it was.

The chains came next. Hooks driven into flesh — shoulders, arms, cheeks. Some still breathed when they were hauled up, their limbs jerking in the firelight.

When my turn came, a fighter gripped my jaw, forcing me to look at him. Through his visor, I saw nothing human. The hook bit into my cheek, hot and cold all at once. I looked up at the smoke-choked sky, and for a moment, I thought I saw Marien there, smiling at me like it was just another morning.

Then they pulled, and the world went black.

Val Fleury, Parpaldian General Staff HQ, Capital Esthirant, Parpaldia — Two Days After the Reconnaissance

The chamber was cold despite the afternoon sun pressing through the tall windows. Dust hung in the air, drifting in slow spirals above the table where the map of the southern frontier was pinned with red and black markers. A dozen officers stood around it, their uniforms neat but their faces drawn.

At the head, General Orvain unfolded the reconnaissance report with deliberate slowness. The paper crackled in the silence, the only other sound the deep ticking of the great clock mounted above the fireplace. He read the first lines aloud, his voice flat.

“They butchered everyone. Women. Children. Entire families. Saint-Maloire is gone.”

A murmur went around the table. Some officers shifted uncomfortably, eyes fixed on the map rather than their commander. Colonel Verdane, tall and severe, broke the quiet first.

“Sir, if we allow ISIS to hold that city, they’ll push on Duro within the month. They’ll turn Saint-Maloire into a forward base. From there they can cut the coastal road and strangle our southern supply lines.”

An older brigadier cleared his throat. “And if we move too soon, we’ll walk straight into what killed those people. The recon men say these fighters have auxiliaries — semi-furry creatures, wolves, cats, even horses, all armored and drilled. They’re using modern rifles, heavier than anything we’ve faced before.”

Orvain’s hand slammed down on the table, rattling the marker pins. “We have modern kit too. Courtesy of our allies.”

All eyes turned to the far wall where crates were stacked shoulder-high. The stenciled markings of the UAE and Saudi Arabia were clear on the wood. The lids had been pried off, revealing neat rows of AK-47s, bayonets in oiled sheaths, matte-green plate carriers, and helmets with fresh webbing straps.

“We’re not marching in with muskets anymore,” Orvain said, voice hard. “We have rifles. Ammunition. Armor. Our men can meet them in the street and win.”

One of the younger majors spoke up. “With respect, sir, the enemy isn’t just relying on numbers. They’re disciplined, they know the terrain now, and the auxiliaries… they can outflank us faster than any cavalry.”

“That’s why we strike before they dig in,” Orvain cut him off. “No more hesitation. Every day we delay, they strengthen their position and weaken ours.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Verdane’s voice came, low but certain. “We’ll take it back.”

The general nodded once. “Then prepare the men. I want the first trucks moving at dawn.”

Chairs scraped back. Orders began flowing down the line, clerks scribbling furiously, runners already heading for the courtyard. Outside, the rumble of engines signaled the loading of the first convoy.

Nightfall – Town of Saint-Maloire

By nightfall, the crates of rifles were empty, and the armory’s racks glinted with new steel. The men of Parpaldia, now clad in their borrowed armor, moved like a different army — one that believed it could win.

The convoy rolled south under a sky the color of lead. Trucks rattled over the pitted road, their beds crowded with soldiers in mismatched green and tan fatigues. AK-47s rested across knees, magazines taped together for speed. The fresh plate carriers from the UAE and Saudi Arabia creaked with each jolt, their ceramic plates cold against our chests.

No one spoke much. The only sound was the low drone of engines and the rattle of loose gear.

I sat near the tailgate, wind in my face. The air smelled faintly of smoke. Ahead, the horizon shimmered, and through the haze, the broken gates of Saint-Maloire came into view. Above them, a black banner flapped in the wind, the white script jagged and alien.

“Looks empty,” Danric muttered beside me.

Broun, our squad sergeant, didn’t take his eyes off the gate. “It’s never empty.”

Five hundred meters from the walls, the order came to dismount. Boots hit the ground in unison, and the convoy’s engines faded to silence. We spread out into squads, rifles at the ready. The silence ahead was heavy, almost unnatural.

We took the eastern approach, moving through a ditch choked with weeds until the wall loomed over us. The gate’s left leaf hung broken, the right sagging on a single hinge.

Broun signaled us forward.

We slipped into the streets, rifles sweeping from window to window. The city was dead — shops gaping open, shutters hanging by a nail, cobblestones littered with glass. The smell hit us before the first body — rot, burned flesh, and something sharp like rust.

A shadow shifted on a rooftop. Broun raised a fist, and we froze. Then came the sharp crack of a rifle. Hensel dropped instantly, blood blooming across his helmet.

The return fire came from two directions at once. Figures in Green PASGT kit moved like they were on a firing range — smooth, deliberate, rifles braced. Their dark visors caught the light, giving no hint of the faces beneath.

Then we saw them.

A wolf-headed soldier stepped into the open, his fur streaked with ash beneath a cut-out PASGT helmet. His plate carrier had been modified for his broad chest, his AK braced in clawed hands. Beside him, a tall, lean cat-headed fighter crouched low, green fatigues adapted for digitigrade legs, tail twitching as he took aim with a scoped rifle. Behind them, the bulk of a horse-headed heavy infantryman loomed, barding strapped over fatigues, a belt of ammunition slung across his shoulder.

The sight was almost worse than the gunfire — human shapes twisted just enough to remind you they weren’t.

They moved with the humans, covering their flanks, darting into side alleys, firing from unexpected angles. The wolf barked something in a guttural voice, and three more auxiliaries appeared from a side street, sprinting low and fast.

We returned fire, brass clattering on the stones. One of the cat-headed fighters went down, but the rest pressed forward, muzzle flashes strobing in the darkened street.

The fight for Saint-Maloire had begun.

The first burst caught us flat-footed. Rounds snapped over our heads, smacking into the walls with sharp, dry cracks. Broun’s voice cut through the noise.

“Cover! Get to cover!”

We dove behind a collapsed cart as bullets chewed splinters from the wood. The air stank of dust and hot metal. My pulse was hammering so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

On the rooftop to our left, a human fighter in Green PASGT leaned into his rifle, firing in controlled bursts. Two buildings over, a wolf-headed auxiliary bounded onto the parapet, muzzle flashing as he raked our position. His helmet’s ear cutouts made him look more monstrous, not less.

I risked a glance over the cart and squeezed off three shots. One of the human fighters dropped, tumbling out of sight. A cat-headed rifleman returned fire immediately, his tail lashing as he shifted positions.

“They’re moving to flank!” Danric shouted, pointing toward a narrow alley.

Broun didn’t hesitate. “Grenade in that gap, now!”

Verdane yanked the pin and lobbed it. The explosion was deafening in the confined space, sending dust and chunks of masonry into the air. For a moment the firing stopped — then a roar answered.

A horse-headed heavy infantryman burst through the dust cloud, carrying a short, thick-barreled rifle in one hand and swinging a club-like weapon in the other. He hit Verdane first, the blow sending him sprawling. Broun fired point-blank into the creature’s chest, but the plate carrier held, and the horse-headed fighter backhanded him into a wall.

“Fall back!”

We scrambled down the nearest side street, boots slipping on loose stone. Rounds sparked off the walls around us. A wolf auxiliary lunged from a doorway, claws swiping. I fired instinctively, the rounds tearing through his neck. He collapsed mid-stride, but another was already moving in behind him.

A human fighter in PASGT tossed a hook chain from the corner. It whipped through the air, catching Danric’s arm and jerking him clean off his feet. His scream was cut short as the chain’s wielder yanked him out of sight.

The street ahead opened into a small square, but it was worse than where we’d been. Fighters lined the far side, firing from behind an overturned cart, their auxiliaries darting between them like predators in a hunt. I dropped to one knee, braced my rifle, and fired until the bolt locked back.

“Reloading!”

Broun was down. Verdane wasn’t moving. Our squad was cut in half before we’d even made it two hundred meters inside the wall.

The last thing Broun shouted before the next volley hit was, “We’re in it now!”

We regrouped in the shadow of a crumbling shopfront, the air thick with plaster dust and the metallic tang of blood. Broun was gone, Verdane too. Danric’s screams were still echoing somewhere behind us, then cut short with a wet sound that made my stomach turn.

“Push forward,” Corporal Havel barked, his face pale under his helmet. “If we stay still, they’ll box us in.”

We moved street to street, rifles up, watching every shadow. The enemy fired from broken windows, from the gaps in rooftops, from alleys so narrow you couldn’t see the muzzle flash until the round was already on you. Every time we returned fire, another set of claws or a green visor appeared somewhere else.

At the edge of a small plaza, we caught sight of them up close. Three auxiliaries were dragging a wounded Parpaldian by his vest straps. One was a wolf-headed male, his green PASGT helmet smeared with black paint, eyes like chips of ice. Another was a cat-headed female sniper, rifle slung across her back, tail swaying slowly. The third, a hulking horse-headed heavy in reinforced barding, was the one holding our man’s legs.

The wolf saw us first. His muzzle pulled into something between a snarl and a grin.

“You send us to dig your ditches, clean your streets, haul your carts,” he growled in thick-accented Parpaldian. “And you still think you’re better?”

The cat spat at the cobblestones. “Cheap labor, that’s all we were to you. Now you’ll see how much we’re worth when we’re armed.”

The horse-headed fighter’s voice was a deep rumble. “You should’ve paid us with respect, not scraps.”

Before we could answer, the wolf slit the throat of the soldier they’d been dragging, letting the body drop like trash.

“Advance!” Havel roared. We opened fire. The wolf went down in a spray of fur and armor fragments, but the cat had already vanished behind cover, and the horse barreled straight at us.

I fired until my magazine ran dry. The heavy’s momentum was terrifying — each step shaking the ground under my boots. A grenade finally stopped him, the blast knocking him off his feet, his barding clattering against the stone.

We pushed into the plaza, stepping over his body. The moment we crossed into the open, more fighters appeared on the rooftops, their green PASGT kits stark against the pale sky. A volley of fire drove us to the ground.

“They’re pulling us in,” Havel muttered. “We’re walking into their kill box.”

I glanced back toward the way we’d come. The alleys were already filling with movement — shadows of more auxiliaries, their shapes wrong in a way that made my skin crawl.

Somewhere up ahead, a deep voice — maybe the cat sniper — called out, “Don’t let them leave! Every bullet they gave you, we’ll give back!”

The gunfire ahead went quiet. Too quiet.

Havel raised his fist, signaling us to halt. The plaza was still, but the hair on my neck stood up. I scanned the rooftops, the alleys, the shattered windows. Nothing moved.

Then the first shout ripped through the silence.

“Allahu Akbar!”

It came from the rooftops, loud and sharp, followed by another, then a chorus from every direction.

The street erupted in gunfire. From three side routes, fighters surged forward — human ISIS in full Green PASGT kits, rifles blazing, and their semi-furry auxiliaries weaving between them like hunting dogs closing in on prey.

“Contact left!” someone yelled.

A wolf-headed fighter vaulted a low wall, AK barking in short bursts. Behind him, a cat-headed sniper crouched in the rubble, picking her shots with surgical precision. A horse-headed heavy broke from the right flank, charging straight into our line. Two men went down under his sheer weight, armor plates cracking like pottery.

“Allahu Akbar!” another voice bellowed from the rooftops as a human fighter leaned out and dropped grenades into our position. The blasts threw us apart, ears ringing.

I staggered into a side alley, only to be met by a snarling wolf auxiliary. His PASGT helmet hung crooked, revealing one ear torn in half. He raised his rifle but paused just long enough to spit words through his fangs.

“You called us beasts when we built your cities. Now we hunt you in them.”

He fired. The round tore through my plate carrier, the impact knocking me flat. My rifle clattered away, and I rolled into the cover of a doorway.

In the plaza, the fight was dissolving into pure chaos. Human ISIS fighters shouted in Arabic, their cries of Allahu Akbar! echoing over the gunfire. The auxiliaries shouted in Parpaldian, spitting curses and promises of vengeance.

“You made us clean your blood from the streets,” the cat sniper’s voice rang out between shots, “now you drown in it!”

The horse-headed heavy roared as he swung a captured Parpaldian rifle like a club, smashing it into a soldier’s skull with a wet crack.

Havel tried to rally us. “Fall back to the east wall! Go!”

We tried. But the alleys behind us were already choked with fighters — humans and semi-furries both, their rifles snapping up in unison. The trap was closed.

An ISIS fighter with a dark green visor stepped into the open, his voice calm over the chaos. “This is Allah’s city now.”

“Allahu Akbar!” the crowd roared, and the killing began in earnest.

The order to fall back was lost in the roar of gunfire. Men were shouting, screaming, firing wildly into the smoke. The plaza was a killing ground, every angle covered by rifles.

I saw Havel go down first. A burst from the rooftop punched into his side, spinning him before he hit the cobblestones. Two men tried to drag him back, but a grenade rolled between them and went off in a blast of dirt and blood.

“Allahu Akbar!” the cry echoed again, louder than the gunfire.

From the left flank, a pack of wolf-headed auxiliaries charged low and fast, teeth bared, green PASGT kits flashing between the smoke. They hit our line like a hammer, dragging men to the ground, tearing at throats, jamming knives between armor plates.

“Die like the cattle you made us!” one wolf roared in Parpaldian, his voice raw with fury.

From the right, the cat sniper and her squad laid down precise, unrelenting fire. Every time a Parpaldian soldier lifted his head, a round found him. She called out in Parpaldian between shots, voice cold and sharp.

“You sent us to scrub your floors. Now you’ll bleed on them.”

The human ISIS fighters surged forward behind them, firing from the hip, rifles clattering. The air was a wall of noise — the deep bark of AK-47s, the sharp snap of rounds breaking past my ears, the guttural chants of “Allahu Akbar!” rolling like a wave through the streets.

I saw one of our men try to surrender, dropping his rifle and raising his hands. A horse-headed heavy strode up, ripped the helmet from his head, and brought it down with a sickening crunch.

“Push! Don’t let a single one leave!” the cat sniper shouted.

We were boxed in completely now. Every alley spat fire and muzzle flash. The few of us still standing fired in desperation, counting the last rounds. I dropped another magazine in and realized it was my last.

A hook chain whipped out from the shadows, catching a soldier’s leg. He screamed as he was yanked off his feet and dragged toward a group of human fighters. They pinned him, one holding his arms, another raising a knife. The blade came down once, twice, the screams choking off.

The smoke was choking me now. My lungs burned, vision blurred. Somewhere in the haze, I heard a voice in Arabic, calm and commanding, before another surge of Allahu Akbar! rolled through the street.

The last of our line broke. Men ran, some dropping weapons, others clutching wounds. The wolves gave chase, dragging them down one by one. I tried to follow, but the cat sniper’s shot ripped into the wall beside me, spraying stone chips across my face.

I turned and froze. She was standing just ten meters away, rifle lowered, tail swaying slowly. Behind her, the horse-headed heavy loomed, his shadow falling over me.

“This city is ours now,” she said in perfect Parpaldian. “And your kind will never set foot in it again.”

The heavy’s blow sent everything into black.

Smoke drifted in lazy curls above the ruined plaza. The black banner of ISIS hung over the town hall, its fabric snapping in the wind. The smell of blood and burning wood mixed in the air, thick and suffocating.

Human fighters moved through the streets in pairs, rifles slung or carried low, checking doorways and rooftops. Semi-furry auxiliaries worked alongside them, their green PASGT armor marked with scratches and streaks of dried blood. The wolves padded silently, sniffing for survivors. The cats perched on balconies, scanning the streets below. The horse heavies dragged barricades into place, sealing the main approaches.

A group of captured Parpaldians — soldiers and a few civilians caught in the chaos — were herded into the center of the plaza. Their helmets and weapons had been stripped away. They knelt under the watch of four human ISIS fighters, the muzzles of their AKs inches from the prisoners’ backs.

One of the wolves paced in front of them, his boots crunching on broken glass. “You see what happens now?” he said in Parpaldian, voice dripping with contempt. “You called us beasts. Now the beasts decide if you live.”

From the steps of the town hall, the ISIS commander raised his voice. “This city is under the law of Allah now!” he roared in Arabic. “The enemies of the Caliphate have been destroyed. Their blood purifies this place!”

“Allahu Akbar!” came the answering roar from fighters and auxiliaries alike.

The commander gave a short nod. Two human fighters stepped forward. The first prisoner tried to speak, but a boot in the ribs cut him off. The rifle cracks were sharp in the open air, echoing between the buildings. One by one, the prisoners fell forward into the dust.

The cat sniper watched from a rooftop, her tail swaying lazily. She called down in Parpaldian, her voice almost casual. “This is what cheap labor costs you. Remember it, if any of you crawl back here.”

In the alleys, wolves and cats dragged out the last hiding civilians. Some were executed on the spot. Others were shoved toward the town hall steps for public punishment. The horse heavies dumped the bodies into a growing pile at the edge of the plaza, where two fighters poured fuel over them. The fire took quickly, sending black smoke into the gray sky.

By nightfall, Saint-Maloire was silent again — but it was not the silence of peace. Patrols stalked the streets, their footsteps echoing between the shuttered buildings. The black banner over the town hall did not move in the wind now; it hung heavy, as if weighed down by the blood spilled beneath it.

For ISIS and their semi-furry allies, the city was secure. For Parpaldia, it was gone.

14:30 – November 20, 1639 – 3rd Floor, First Foreign Affairs Department, Diplomacy Bureau Building, Val Fleury city, Esthirant Capital Region, Parpaldia Empire

The sky above Val Fleury hung overcast with a pale haze, the kind that pressed against the city like the lid of a boiling pot. The sound of fountains in the marble courtyards below was muffled by triple-glass windows, enchanted subtly to dim noise and glare — a simple spellseal woven into the framework, common among Parpaldian upper ministries. A delicate, civilized touch to hide the weight of collapsing order.

Inside the high-ceilinged chamber of the First Foreign Affairs Department, layers of thick noise-dampening charms had been cast into the marble centuries ago. Now, they only muffled anxiety.

Four people sat around the long oval table. Only the most senior members of Parpaldia’s diplomatic machine had been called to this session, and even then, it was under false pretense.

Prime Minister Kaios sat at the head, as always — tall, silver-haired, fingers laced together. His voice, when it came, was calm and level.

“We have two months. Sixty days before the eastern provinces become unsalvageable.”

Next to him, Elto, the Empire’s top foreign strategist, frowned faintly, flipping through a bound folder filled with sealed military briefings.

Across from them, Princess Remille sat like royalty sculpted into motion — poised, sharp, chin tilted just slightly. Her long black cloak was lined in violet, the royal color of her house, though she wore no crown.

Captain Heiden Kestrel stood behind her, unmoving, a quiet shadow in ceremonial black.

“You’re certain?” Remille asked, voice flat.

“Yes,” Kaios said. “ISIS forces have advanced through Saint-Maloire and flanked the entire Hagrelne defense chain. We’ve lost three forward bases in a week.”

“Duro?” she asked.

Elto answered this time, adjusting his glasses.

“Still holding. But if their northern push continues, Duro becomes a trap. And we both know what’s stored there.”

Duro — the Empire’s forge-city, 50 kilometers outside the capital. The industrial crown jewel, where their ships were skinned, armor cast, mana cores slotted into tanks. A city of war machines, and 200,000 workers who kept it humming.

“We’re not there yet,” Kestrel said. “But we’re approaching the line. The one where we stop fighting to win — and start planning to survive.”

Kaios’s gaze settled on Remille.

“It’s time to begin the evacuation.”

A silence. Not surprise — that had come weeks ago. This was acceptance. Heavy and final.

“How many?” Elto asked.

“Everyone we can save,” Kaios replied. “But realistically? We move the vital core. Medical, industrial, civic minds. Fifty thousand at first. Then a hundred. Then whoever can follow.”

“Out of forty-six million?” Elto asked.

“Yes.”

Remille leaned back, tapping her fingernails against her chair.

“And where do we take them?”

“Europe,” Kaios said without hesitation.

“We’ve never even seen it,” she scoffed. “No official delegation has set foot on their soil since Earth arrived. What makes you think they’ll even let us in, let alone house us?”

“They will,” Elto said, “because they’re strategic. If we frame this as a mutual investment — an exchange of talent and regional access — they’ll listen.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then we lie better,” Kaios said.

Remille smirked at that.

In the corner, the planning board had been wheeled in. Thick red markers traced three major evacuation routes: one through Marl Kingdom to the west, where UAE-backed infrastructure had laid Earth-grade rail and satellite networks; another down the Southern Trade Line, rarely used but still functional. The third was more speculative — a sea corridor via old colonial posts in Port-Aubernac.

Next to the map, a list had begun to take shape. Scrawled in Elto’s tidy handwriting was the title:

“Continuity Initiative: Phase I – Diplomatic, Scientific, Strategic Assets”

Already, the names from the Ministry of Health, Engineering Colleges, and Imperial Archives were filling in.

Beside the list, several classified parchment folders lay spread — marked “EARTH INTERACTION DOSSIER / Level Omega Clearance”. Each one contained carefully curated documents: summaries, broadcasts, Earth diplomatic interviews.

There were still no official embassies in Esthirant — but Parpaldian observers had been quietly watching for years.

“If we’re doing this,” Kestrel said, eyeing the list, “we need more than visas. We need a military presence.”

“You want Earth troops?” Remille asked, arching a brow.

“No,” he replied. “I want our troops trained by Earth. Equipped like Earth. Brought into the next century overnight.”

Elto frowned, arms crossed. “You think they’d even allow that?”

Kestrel stepped forward, laying down a sheet torn from a Mu-supplied digital brief. On it, a photo of modern Earth infantry — foreign soldiers in green-gray fatigues, kneeling in formation with sleek black rifles under harsh desert sunlight.

“Look at them,” he said. “Uniform discipline. Thermal drones circling above. Rifles without mana cores. Night optics slaved to digital command channels. Every unit synced. Every movement rehearsed.”

Remille frowned slightly. “That’s Earth’s military?”

“One of them,” Kestrel nodded. “A NATO unit. From the Middle East deployments.”

Elto raised a brow. “You keep saying that acronym like it means something familiar.”

Kaios leaned forward slightly, his fingers laced.

“NATO. It stands for North Atlantic Treaty Organization. A massive military pact. Not a single nation, but a block of Earth powers, joined under one doctrine. France. Germany. Britain. The United States. Over thirty nations act as one military force.”

Remille leaned back, thoughtful now.

“Thirty nations. One army?”

“More or less,” Kaios confirmed. “They retain their individual commands, but their weapons are standardized. Their tactics are aligned. They fight together — and they train each other. Their war doctrine isn’t just military — it’s a machine. Industrialized, tested, evolved.”

Elto narrowed his eyes at the dossier’s printed stats. “How powerful?”

Kestrel flipped the page. A satellite image showed dozens of aircraft parked in neat rows. Ships the size of cities. A warehouse complex stretching beyond the horizon.

“Militarily?” he said. “NATO can deploy over three million troops. Thousands of tanks. Hundreds of warships. Entire strike forces coordinated through satellite command grids. Air supremacy. Naval dominance. And unmatched logistical networks. Every piece replaces itself before it even breaks.”

Remille exhaled slowly, eyes still locked on the page.

“That’s a civilization built for total war.”

Kaios nodded. “Which is why we can’t think like an empire anymore. We need to think like a network. Specialized, agile, and interoperable.”

“And how do we join them?” Elto asked. “That kind of alliance doesn’t open its doors for beggars.”

Kaios’s voice dropped lower.

“We don’t ask to join. We study them. We model after them. We mirror their structure in our exile force. Learn their rhythm, shadow their logistics. With time, we become useful — and then, we become welcome.”

Remille gave a short laugh, not mocking, but edged with tension.

“So the heirs of a magic empire… learning warfare from Earth’s machine gods.”

“If that’s what survival demands,” Kaios said, “then so be it.”

Kaios stepped toward the board and tapped three points carefully drawn in red: France, Germany, the United Kingdom.

“These three,” he said. “Old names. Strong ones. What intelligence we’ve pulled from UAE and Saudi Arabia tells us they remain central powers. Not just militarily — culturally, historically, politically.”

Elto narrowed his eyes, studying each dot like a battlefield.

“France,” he said first. “They still have nobles?”

“Ceremonial, mostly,” Kaios said. “But they respect legacy. Bloodline. Statecraft. They carry centuries of diplomacy in their veins. If we send Remille, they’ll listen.”

Remille smirked faintly. “They’ll either adore me… or try to seduce me.”

“Good,” Kaios said flatly. “Either outcome serves the mission.”

He tapped the next dot.

“Germany — precision. Industrial power. They’re the backbone of this ‘European Union.’ What we know suggests a strict order. Logic-first. Protocol above pride.”

“Structure above ego,” Kestrel added. “A place where failure isn’t tolerated, and neither is improvisation.”

“They may be cold,” Elto said, “but they’ll understand planning. And if we offer them cooperation, efficiency, control — they’ll bite.”

Kaios moved to the third mark.

“The United Kingdom. An island nation, once an empire. Now mostly quiet, but dangerous when provoked.”

“Survives by building alliances,” Kestrel added. “They talk like merchants, but they act like wolves.”

Remille tilted her head. “And what do we offer them?”

“Information,” Elto said. “A front-row seat to another world. Access to our magic systems. Arcane theory. Long-range ritual weapon development. They’ll take that over gold.”

Kaios nodded.

“We’re not looking for saviors. We’re looking for strategists who understand what we are — and what we can become.”

Remille leaned on the edge of the table, her tone shifting from amused to serious.

“And what do you think we’ll become?”

Kestrel answered.

“Parpaldian troops in Earth-grade armor. With drone scouts. Satellite-linked squads. Rations that don’t spoil. Supply lines that reach continents. Our magic, laced into their tech. A fusion no world has ever faced.”

Elto exhaled slowly.

“If they let us. If they trust us.”

“They don’t need to trust us,” Kaios said. “They just need to need us.”

He looked around the room, gaze steady.

“If we survive this, we walk into their world not as relics — but as partners. Hardened. Sharpened. Smarter.”

Remille didn’t speak, but her expression said enough: interest, calculation… and something close to hunger.

Elto looked up finally, voice lower now, not cold but distant — the way a man sounds when calculating losses.

“We’re still deploying the 2nd Elite Imperial Magic Caster Division. Imperial Wrath. They held the line at Balaire Junction, Southern Forest when no one else could. Few weeks ago, they stopped a mechanized ISIS push cold — without a single loss.”

“Our best,” Kestrel said. “And more than that. They’re not just mages. They’re a symbol. The only division still holding their ground and the public’s faith.”

Elto nodded, slowly.

“They’re not like the rest of our casting forces. The 4th, 5th, even the 1st divisions have lost cohesion, morale — equipment failures, training gaps. But Imperial Wrath? They’ve adapted. Learned. Even mimicked Earth-style engagement on the field.”

Remille said nothing, but her gaze sharpened.

“So deploy them again,” she said.

Elto’s jaw tightened.

“We can’t.”

A long pause followed. The kind that only lands when everyone knows what isn’t being said.

“If we lose them,” Elto continued, “we lose the soul of this army. They're not just a division. They're our legend. Our last heroic thread. If they fall, morale won’t just dip — it’ll fracture.”

“So we pull them back,” Kaios said, nodding. “Lock the doors behind them. Archive their legacy.”

“We already have,” Kestrel confirmed. “Classified orders were issued yesterday. No further deployment without direct Prime Ministerial override.”

“Good,” Elto said, exhaling. “That’s a piece of us we don’t rebuild. Not even with Earth’s help.”

He leaned slightly forward now, his tone shifting — not grim, but purposeful.

“So we plant the seed,” he said. “In Europe.”

A long pause.

Remille walked to the window, pushing aside the velvet curtain. The light of day had faded to gray. Over the skyline of Val Fleury, the chimneys of Duro painted the air with black smoke. Faintly in the distance, the forge city burned orange, like coals breathing under steel.

“What do you think it will look like?” she asked, not turning around. “The Earth cities. The real ones. Not Mu's Otaheit or Runepolis with their ancient crystal towers.”

Elto stood and joined her, gazing out as well.

“I imagine it’s noise,” he said. “Steel. Speed. A forest of glass and stone that never sleeps.”

“Or maybe it’s quiet,” Kaios said from behind them. “Organized. Clean. Full of screens and machines that think faster than we do.”

“What if it’s worse than Otaheit?” Remille mused. “What if we show up wearing capes and they laugh?”

“Then we let them laugh,” Kaios said. “And we walk away with survival in our hands.”

Remille smiled faintly.

“I’ll lead the mission,” she said. “I’ll dress the part. I’ll drink their wine and answer their questions. And if they ask what we want?”

She turned to face them all.

“We want time. Just enough to breathe.”

The marker board behind them filled with new lines and names.

The ghost of an empire was taking shape — not in banners, not in gold — but in spreadsheets, in train manifests, in visa requests.

No news had been leaked. Not even the Emperor knew.

But in sixty days, if the plan held, Parpaldia would not fall. It would vanish — and reappear in exile, armed with memory and purpose.

And far beyond the smoke of Duro, ISIS kept marching.

Thirty minutes later, the chamber had taken on the focused energy of a command cell — hushed, intense, deliberate.

A large planning board now stood at the center of the room, wheeled in by a junior assistant and expanded with a soft clack as its hinges unfolded. Several sheets of mana-thread parchment were clipped in place, glowing faintly as Elto pressed his finger to activate the embedded tracer glyphs.

Red ink markers began sketching slow, deliberate lines.

From the capital city of Val Fleury, one path cut southwest toward the Port of Sainte-Armand, the rail and sea corridor nestled near the Marl border. Another route threaded southeast, marked in dotted orange: a failsafe trail, harder, longer, but viable if Marl grew unstable. Small rune-tags glowed at key junctions — safehouses, loyal nodes, diplomatic rest points.

Kestrel stood at one side of the board, hands behind his back, eyes scanning every detail. Behind him, two members of his internal team silently copied locations into enchanted whisper-slates, ready to distribute among field couriers.

Across the room, Elto sat with two aides at a smaller desk, their fingers flying over a spell-screened type slate — an Earth-imported laptop modified with a minor shielding charm to bypass Parpaldian ether interference. Rows of names scrolled across the screen: engineers from Duro, medical officers from Albranne, logistics specialists from Fleurac.

Each profile had tags: skills, age, bilingual score, dependents, relocation priority.

At the top of the page:

“List 001-A: Parpaldian Continuity Core – Phase I”

Not a soul outside this floor had clearance to see it.

No press. No military commanders. Not even the Emperor’s Guard.

This wasn’t a public plan. It wasn’t a mission.

It was a shadow state, forming in silence.

At the far edge of the chamber, Princess Remille stood at the arched window, her arms folded over her chest. Her gaze stretched far beyond the city — past the tiled rooftops of Val Fleury’s upper blocks, past the velvet-green lines of outer vineyards, and toward the low smog-banked horizon.

Fifty kilometers away, just barely visible in the late haze, lay Duro — Parpaldia’s iron heart. Even at this distance, the orange-glow of forge stacks lit the skyline. Columns of thick smoke rose in vertical scars, twisting through the cloud layers above.

Those refineries had built war machines for a hundred years. They’d outlasted revolts, embargoes, and kings.

But smoke wouldn’t stop what was coming.

Remille’s voice was quiet — too quiet to be for anyone but herself.

“You’ll choke on what you’ve burned.”

Behind her, the muffled sound of bootsteps drew closer. Kaios joined her side, hands folded behind his back, eyes following her line of sight.

He didn’t speak immediately. He didn’t need to.

Then, softly:

“When the sun rises,” he said, “we begin the end.”

Remille didn’t look at him. Her voice was calm, even.

“Then let the world watch us fall with grace.”

And the board behind them kept filling with names.