Cent. Calendar 05/02/1640, the skies above Le Brias, Altaras, 7:46

“Two minutes into ingress. We should be above Le Brias soon enough.”

“Two minutes. Copy.”

A couple of wyverns, the unusually large size of which indicates that they’re of the lord breed, were flying just above cloud cover. They flew in a tight-knit formation, and their riders exchanged relevant information as they continued on their southward flight.

It was only five days since the second month (Febrond) of this year had started. Plump, rolling clouds obscured the ground from view but they also obscured their ingress from observers on the ground. This mattered a lot because they were from the Parpaldian wyvern corps and the ground below was sovereign Altaran territory.

“Three minutes into ingress. It should be right below us.”

The lead rider notified his wingman.

Their so-called “ingress” was a routine probing flight of the Altaran air defenses in and around Le Brias, primarily the timing of their anti-air response and, secondly the mapping of possible ingress and egress routes. Hinging on constant incursions into Altaran airspace, which also had the effect of wearing down the Altarans, multiple flights occur daily at no particular temporal pattern. It is thanks to previous flights that the Parpaldians had knowledge of where to best enter and exit Altaran airspace, how long these flight paths take, what terrain to expect, where the Altarans typically fire at them from, and so on.

“I see it!”

As the blanket of clouds gave way to a wide-open break, the Parpaldian wyvern riders could finally lay their eyes on the Altaran capital. Wide streets filled with carriages and people and ornamented with fancy lighting that were still kept lit well into the morning. The unbelievably complex urban sprawl that allowed the city (actually a conglomerate of the main city and outlying cities) to occupy such a massive area, with the sophistication of infrastructure and social class becoming ever more gilded and fancy the closer they got to the city’s heart being apparent even from the sky. They even spotted some tall buildings that stood out from the rest—command centers of companies from the western regions that have chosen to set up shop in Altaras.

The wyvern riders, who were both from Esthirant, could only compare the beautiful Altaran capital to what they thought was the richest city in the east.

“Wow... Was it ever this big? It’s nothing like the maps during the briefings...”

“It’s your first time here, huh? With how the war’s going, you’ll get used to it.”

As their wyverns glided domineeringly over the city, the riders took in the breathtaking scope of Le Brias with their eyes. Their eyes zigzagged around as if to burn the particulars in their memories, but as they did, one of them stumbled on a peculiar sight at the northern extremity of the city.

“Oh?”

Amidst the dense urbanized blocks of buildings was a wide area of about a few tacour (1 tacour = ~2.6km) across that only had a long, flat paved road in it that ran in the southwest-northeast axis. The rider immediately recognized that it was the Le Brias Airfield (though officially, “King Taara XIII Airfield”) mentioned in previous briefings, a type of port that facilitated the entry and exit of aircraft; Esthirant, too, has one, but it isn’t as big or as busy as Le Brias’s looked like it was.

“Le Brias Airfield still has some aircraft, it seems.”

He took note of how many advanced-looking aircraft there were that were either taxiing or parked in the apron. They were likely all from the west—Mu, Mirishial, Magearea, Agartha, and so on. But one particular aircraft caught his interest.

“That one... is humongous!”

At the far end of the apron was a gray-colored aircraft with a body and wingspan about twice or thrice as big as the others. They’ve never been briefed about what types of aircraft to expect other than the ones Altaras may have, but they’ve been constantly warned to never engage aircraft from countries not party to the war to honor their obligations to Asheran laws of war. Still, he took note of the country of origin of these aircraft, particularly the massive one, which had striking red-colored disc insignias on the wings and body.

“Ah! That one’s... from Japan, probably?”

It was that new country to the east that appeared out of nowhere and was said to be involved in the destruction of the Lourian regime in Rodenius. They’ve so far been friendly enough to pursue economic ties with the empire, but the last he’s heard was that they were also part of the international regime that condemned the empire’s war with Altaras. All in all, he and other grunts didn’t really think much of them besides the fact that they may be a force to be reckoned with.

But there was no time for such thoughts in the skies of an enemy capital.

Ratatatatatat!

Four minutes into the incursion, the first rattle of automatic fire rang out across the area, plunging the sleepy morning atmosphere into chaos. Countless tracer fires erupted from the many anti-air emplacements all around the city and raced toward the two Parpaldian wyverns, which stood out amidst the cloudless blue sky. 

“Alright! They’ve started firing four minutes and two seconds into ingress! Commence egress!”

Initially startled, the Parpaldian wyvern riders quickly regained composure as they seamlessly changed their stance to face north. Owing to the crude nature of Altaran fire control and the high altitude at which they flew, the fire of machine guns and circuit guns, terrifying as they may look from other vantage points, hardly came close to their targets.

The two riders turned their backs on the Altaran capital, leaving just about as soon as they arrived. But this wasn’t the end of their incursion, for the anti-air gunfire was one of many cards the enemy may play. The wyvern lords plunged straight into the clouds, reducing visibility for the riders, but the wyverns’ directional instincts and the riders’ compasses ensured that they still knew where they were going.

Then, after a couple of minutes of flying ‘blind,’ they reached the end of the clouds and emerged back into view. Below them were farmlands, plantations, and relatively developed towns—they were no longer in Le Brias, but they were still in Altaran airspace. Of course, that meant that they were still in the middle of their incursion. As they continued to make their way north, the lead rider felt a low rumbling beneath his crouched body.

Grrrr...

The ominous, almost faint growl of his wyvern lord was a tattle-tale sign that trouble was up. Sensing that danger was close, he turned on his manacomm. 

“Heads up! Possible enemy regulars in the vicinity!”

“Copy!”

A reminder that they were still not in the clear and that their enemy would try everything to ensure they never come home. But as a combatant, that was nothing special; in their place, they would be doing the same thing.

The lead rider kept his wits about, scanning the skies around him for signs of the enemy. But before he could spot a trace, his wyvern began to act with increased hostility: its claws were engaged, and the tufts of sensitive fur on its scales were all visibly standing on end. It turned its head in the 11 o’clock direction, which the rider promptly picked up on and turned toward. Sure enough, he spotted four dark, winged silhouettes against the white cloud backdrop, seemingly gaining altitude to try and match theirs.

“Contact! Four enemy regulars at 320; they’re heading right toward us and increasing in altitude!”

The four wyverns—their blue and white identifiers showing that they were Altarans—were flying directly toward them, flapping their wings to gain as much speed and altitude as they could. The faces of their riders were covered with scarves, but those on the wyverns were clearly twisted and giving off an aura of bloodlust. They obviously wanted a fight, and the Parpaldian wyvern lords were also beginning to growl in their direction in apparent approval of their Altaran brethren’s challenge.

But it was not to be.

“Remember your ROE—do not engage! Maintain formation! We’re giving them the slip!”

In addition to the limitations of wyvern combat and accompanying doctrinal prescriptions, their mission was to probe and harass the Altaran air defense; engagement with the enemy wyvern corps was expressly forbidden unless the circumstances made an engagement inevitable. The riders, reining in their wyverns with promises of rewards and threats of disciplinary actions, denied the enemy’s invitation to combat.

The riders, engaging their flight mechanisms, instructed their wyverns to pick up the pace; with a single, powerful wingbeat, a huge volume of air was sent backward, propelling the Parpaldian wyvern lords to close their maximum speed. Frigid winds pummeled the riders’ protected faces, and it was nigh unbearable, but it was a worthy price for the extra speed they’d earned, which allowed them to be faster than the enemy regular wyverns should they try to give chase.

The Parpaldian wyvern lords flew across the skies like thunderbolts, soaring through the air at speed and leaving behind nasty damage, even if psychological. To the Altaran wyverns’ chagrin, the Parpaldians easily flew past and above them, never allowing them to keep up in the first place and leaving them in the dust. In an event that lasted hardly half a minute, the two sides, having never met in combat, disengaged almost as fast as they saw each other; within the next few minutes, the Parpaldians were well on their way back home and exiting Altaran airspace.

Royal Castle, 9:10

Back at the capital, the incessant cacophony of bells big and loud being rang, and the staccato of machine gun fire had long ended, and most of the city returned to their usual business after the air raid warning was lifted at around 8:30 in the morning. At the Royal Castle, however, things were only starting to pick up as a new day in the war with Parpaldia ensured that there were always heated discussions, hoarse voices, bending backs, and dirty palms and knees from all the prostrating. Inside the command quarters nestled deep within the castle compound’s main keep, its most fortified structure, King Taara XIV and his military commanders had gathered around a big table on which a map of the kingdom’s territory was laid flat.

It was the usual scenery of the king mulling over the island’s northernmost peninsula on which Le Brias and much of the kingdom’s administrative and economic functions lay. The sight of so many blue pieces, which corresponded to entire Army formations from regiments to divisions, crammed together in the small peninsula never ceased to be an unsettling sight for the commanders, but they were largely powerless to prevent an “all eggs in one basket” scenario as it was the king’s decisions that led them up to that point. After all, the last time someone disappointed him and didn’t deliver what he wanted wasn’t all that long ago—the former Navy Chief of Staff, the name of whom they best not utter in the king’s presence, was only recently stricken from his position and banished. 

The commanders of the Army, especially Chief of Staff Kairnaka, not wanting to suffer the same fate, were prepared to bite off their tongues and force themselves to agree to the king. For hours now, they have been standing around him with straightened backs and stern faces, giving off the impression that they’re in top shape.

“Hmm... This will not do.”

The king muttered under his breath as he fiddled with the triangle-shaped pieces placed on the airfield on the map, which indicated the nearby airbase that was hosting two wyvern squadrons.

The Army commanders’ ears tingled, having been pre-conditioned to be attentive to the king’s mumblings. They all quickly jumped toward the king to try and placate his anxieties.

“What’s the matter, Your Majesty?”

“The recent incursions have not been plugged up...”

The king uttered in his signature cheery tone, which hid a more frightening, condescending undertone. Naturally, to the Army commanders—and by extension, everyone else present in the room—this was the critical signal, one that would determine whether they get a promotion (and thus a happy life for their families) or a one-way trip to Kuzan and the accompanying eternal social disgrace. But no one liked to play such a high-stakes game, especially if they were put on the spot, but this was, unfortunately, the fate that would befall...

“...I thought that two wyvern squadrons should be enough, hm?”

...Sad Kozen, chief of the kingdom’s wyvern corps, on whom the king’s attention—and his terrifyingly short fuse—fell upon.

At once, his face became drenched in sweat. As the chief of the wyvern corps, which is under the Navy, he was in a very precarious spot: his forces had taken part in the Battle of Menda Point, but he was largely spared from the king’s ire, all of which, unfortunately, fell upon the former Navy chief of staff. He knew there would never be another chance, so despite his forces’ limitations in capability and strength, he must somehow convince the king that he had a solution hidden within his back pockets.

But as misfortune would have it, he had none. The Parpaldian wyvern corps was simply superior in all aspects, and there was no way of bridging that gap in the immediate short term, especially not with the Muish-Mirishial-led international task force protecting the sea lanes around Altaras that was an arms blockade in all but name. Their biplane squadron, consisting of aging Great War surplus airframes bought from a third party that skirted Muish aviation export regulations, was the only one capable of putting up a fight against the Parpaldian lords and overlords but was—in all honesty—hilariously undermaintained, undersupplied, and pathetically small.

His mind was on overdrive. It helped not that the king stared at him with empty eyes, making it impossible to tell if he was in a forgiving mood or that he had already decided on his fate. At that point, he had already finalized his options down to two: increase the wyvern squadrons stationed near the capital or try and argue otherwise. It was obvious to anyone which choice provided the higher chance of amnesty with His Majesty’s temper, but his eyes twitched to no end as his logic gnawed at his mind, begging him to reconsider. Ultimately, his desire to survive trumped logic.

“I-I was mistaken, Your Majesty...”

The words came out of his mouth piecemeal, presented in a way that maximized the ‘grovel’ factor. He subtly lowered his stature with respect to the king as he crossed his hands and bowed solemnly.

“You are in fact correct: two wyvern squadrons were never enough. I will shed blood and tears to get you more squadrons! The Parpaldians will never again break into our skies!!!”

The wyvern corps chief put on a pathetic show in lip service, a move that the other commanders respected, yet they looked away in second-hand embarrassment. Their reactions mattered not, for the chief’s efforts had bore fruit: the King, his face red with embarrassment from the flattery, chuckled in a light-hearted way that almost seemed devious.

“Bravo!”

Taara suddenly clapped his hands, which got everyone else in the room to jerk in surprise.

“Now that’s how you own up to your mistakes, gentlemen! They make no excuses and blame no one else but themselves for their error! I forgive honest mistakes but never incompetence!”

For all his words, Taara—and perhaps Chief Kozen—were the only ones smiling. Most of the commanders present were either too afraid or seething with rage at his remarks, none of which came boiling to the surface; they all stood still, silent, solemn—submissive, even. Just as the king was about to dismiss the wyvern corps chief, an officer came into the room, walked up to the Army Chief of Staff General Kainarka, and whispered something in his ear. Kainarka promptly turned to face the king and relayed the information that had arrived.

“Your Majesty, the elements of the 6th Infantry Division have all arrived. They’re currently disembarking from Le Brias Station.”

In contrast to the old man Kainarka’s sleepy eyes, Taara’s eyes sparkled with delight at the news; the other Army commanders, meanwhile, tried their best to hide their dismay.

Another division, a full 18 to 20 thousand men, had arrived in the capital, joining three other divisions, several artillery regiments, and other auxiliary battalions already stationed all around and within Le Brias. While this was indeed formidable on paper, this was a huge chunk of the Army just sitting in the capital peninsula, leaving the rest of the island rather under-defended. In other words, they had all of their eggs clumped up in one overcrowded corner of their massive basket. 

“Now, let’s get back to reconfiguring our defenses...”

The king turned back to the big map in the center of the room as pieces that represent the newly arrived elements of the 6th Infantry Division were brought in by staff.

- - -

Meanwhile, off to the city’s northwest quadrant, there was a planned extension of the city proper where a central park was the main feature; from this park, five major avenues radiated. It was halfway past the clock between sunrise and noon yet the sky began to turn dark once more as rain-filled clouds rolled in. Further west from the central park was a smaller, minor park situated on a hill that the Royal Altaran Army repurposed as an anti-air artillery battery due to its relatively high elevation and commanding view of the surrounding city. Amidst the star fort-like ramparts and sandbags, things were not looking swell for the men who manned the battery.

“Mulazim (lieutenant)!!! We’ve got a problem!!!”

A group of men wearing the Altaran regular uniform in varied states of haphazardness hurriedly called for their lieutenant. They were in a state of panic, and their faces conveyed all the necessary messages: something was horribly wrong.

“What?”

Instantly judging the situation to warrant his immediate attention, the lieutenant followed his men without hesitation. As they exited his office and headed straight for the gun emplacements, his panicking men were too finicky to give him a brief account of what had happened.

“What the hell happened?!”

“W-We were just firing at the enemy wyverns as instructed by our Cavus (Sergeant), b-but then...”

“T-The gun... It j-just...”

Frankly, it was getting annoying. He never knew he’d be in command of such sissies, easily fazed by a non-threatening enemy wyvern flyby. Just as he was about to lose it, he heard a commotion coming from the direction of one of the gun emplacements.

As they emerged out of the inner battery’s earthworks, he was treated to what must have been an appalling sight: one of their precious rapid-fire machine guns, a Muish-built MY-99 famous for its high rate of fire, was smoldering. It was pointed upwards, but even from afar, one could easily tell that the barrel was bent; it wasn’t on fire, but a great amount of smoke and fumes emanated not only from the chamber but from the barrel itself. What was vexing above all, however, was how the gunnery sergeant was ordering his men to fetch buckets of water to splash the gun and cool it.

“Quick, fetch some water from the nearby pumps! These things aren’t circuit guns—they actually blow up in your face!!!”

As for what led to this event, one need not look further than the gun emplacement itself: all around the gun platform were piles upon piles of smoking hot brass—spent shell casings.

Sure enough, the lieutenant was fuming, just like the precious machine gun that his men had unwittingly destroyed. He ran toward the cavus, pushing aside his men. Just then, the cavus noticed him and was about to salute him...

“Ah, mulazim—”

But the lieutenant grabbed him by the collar, his face red with rage.

“You motherfucking dolt!!! Do you realize how lucky we are to have been given these machine guns?!”

He screamed right in the cavus’s face, pelting the poor soldier’s face with spit and bad breath, courtesy of the lieutenant’s garlic-filled breakfast. The cavus tried to reason with him.

“B-But we were told in training that these are just like the circuit guns!!! And we have plenty of those, right???”

“They fucking aren’t, dumbass!!! And no, we only have one of these machine guns!!!”

Just as the cavus, who was frightened to tears, was about to scream his apology, their conversation was rudely interrupted by the sound of popping.

Pam!

It was the machine gun; the chambered bullet, left in the machine gun along with the belt of bullets left unattended by the gunners when it had overheated, cooked off due to the high temperatures in the barrel. Not long after, the other soldiers from earlier returned to the scene, bringing buckets filled with water with them.

“Get clear!!!”

They screamed as they sequentially threw their buckets’ worth of water onto the still-smoldering machine gun.

It was a pathetic sight, one that the lieutenant never imagined would see in his career. Was this how bad their conscription was? After all, most of the men with him had been conscripted within the last few months. Then and there, the lieutenant started to get certain thoughts: if this was the general state of the military, then it was no wonder that they lost horrendously at Menda Point.

He was tempted to conclude that they were going to lose to Parpaldia, whose exploits in the Philades continent and the tales of their army’s successes against the Northern Alliance all those years ago were known far and wide. But the Parpaldians were not invincible: tales also abound of military disasters and blunders. Above all of this was the fact that this was going to be Parpaldia’s first attempt at conquest over the ocean, and if there was any room for error, he could only hope that they’d blunder more than they would.

Tired from all the frustration, the lieutenant simply closed his eyes and walked away, but not before issuing a couple of orders.

“You and the rest of your crew! Come see me at my office! The rest of you, go and dispose of that machine gun!”

In the wake of a probing run by the Parpaldian wyvern corps, they revealed cracks in the Altaran military’s capacity to fully defend its capital, although such cracks were not big enough for the Parpaldians to immediately notice.

Cent. Calendar 07/02/1640, several km east of the port of Le Brias, Altaras, 6:24

The fifth and sixth days of Febrond passed with similar incidents: continued probing runs of the Parpaldian wyvern corps over Le Brias and the Altaran Army and wyvern corps responding in kind. Just as Taara had hoped, the addition of another wyvern squadron, which constantly had a flight of two regular wyverns above the capital as a defensive combat air patrol, helped to ward the Parpaldian wyverns from venturing too deep into Altaran airspace and gave the city’s air defenses room to breathe; however, news of incursions above cities as far south as Hajjisler became more commonplace, further stretching their already thin air defense network.

But incursions from Parpaldian wyverns had become the one thing to expect daily and soon enough, the sound of bells and wailing air raid sirens had become common experiences for not only the regular folk but also the military. The threat of a Parpaldian invasion still loomed over them, but not as many people were holding their breath now compared to before; fatigue from the continued incursions gave way to complacency, and by the seventh day, most people in Le Brias were already expecting the bells and sirens to sound at around this time.

Unfortunately for them, the war was about to escalate.

It was early in the morning. It was still winter, so the sun had only begun to start peaking from above the horizon. Altaras is located in the subtropics, so while snow didn’t fall upon the capital, a substantial amount of fog had set in. The city of Le Brias was only beginning to wake up from its slumber, but its gas-lit and magic stone-lit streetlights shined eerily amidst the fog like it was a scene straight out of a mystery fiction. The fog was thickest around the gigantic port, which is largely closed to international traffic except for Altaran-flagged ships.

While the port isn’t expecting any traffic, uncannily enough, 62 hulls were parked roughly 3 tacour (~8km) east of the breakwater. Unbeknownst to the Altaran port authorities, these ships were not here to make a port call in the regular sense. Flying the colors of the Parpaldian Empire, all 62 ships—20 warships and 42 auxiliaries disguised as transports—belonged to the Imperial Parpaldian Navy. The thick fog helped block the ships from view as they stopped in front of the harbor opening, but the rising sun was bound to eventually give away their location to the Altaran defenders.

Standing on the bridge of the Carles Dídac Gallaire, the flagship of this task force and the newly decorated veteran of the Battle of Menda Point, was Deuxième imposrion (Vice Admiral) Pommerau, also a veteran of the battle that smashed the Royal Altaran Navy for good. With War Plan Intrépide in full motion and the War Department pressured by the Senate and the Emperor to “keep things going,” the Navy had once more prepared another task force—some of which kept the relatively unscathed ships that participated in Menda Point—to fulfill its duty in the invasion: a diversionary attack on the port of Le Brias. With that said, Pommerau, having no time for R&R, was once again the commander of the diversionary attack force, but riding the high from their unprecedented success in Menda Point, he wasn’t the least bit unhappy with this.

He paced back and forth on the bridge, anxious about the enemy discovering their presence before his ships were in place. He held his hands behind his back and timed his paces with the passing of seconds—precious moments of lost opportunities, as he believed them to be. After all, there was only a few seconds difference between the time his fleet in Menda Point fired their first volley and the time the enemy could have fired their second—the crucial few seconds that scored them the sinking of the Rahmi Kaymakk.

One, two, three seconds passed. It was utterly agonizing hearing the back-and-forth banter of gunnery officers and their crews and the groaning of the turret’s heavy steel moving into place, all of which were muffled out by the clacking of his hard leather soles on the floor mimicking the ticking of the second hand. 

“Vice admiral!”

Just then, the voice of one of his staff officers pierced past his muffled hearing. The trance was instantly broken, and Pommerau’s head was back in the game.

“Yes?”

“All ships have confirmed, ‘éclair’!”

That was the codeword that the ships were ready to move to “tonnerre.” Pommerau’s eyes lit up—it was finally time. With a resolute quick adjustment of his officer cap, he relayed to him the orders he had been waiting to say.

“Relay to all ships: tonnerre! Tonnerre!”

Communications officers promptly repeated the vice admiral’s orders over the channel broadcasting to the fleet, after which captains and gunnery officers relayed them to their crews. Shouts of “tonnerre!”—the word for “thunder”—rang out across the decks of all the Parpaldian ships, which was followed not long after by what sounded like real thunderclaps.

Bababam!!! Bababam!!!

The Parpaldian warships, which had all trained their guns on pre-planned targets—sea forts, torpedo pens, coastal artillery emplacements—all opened up in a flashy show of explosions and thundering shockwaves. In concert with the rays of the rising sun dispelling the fog, the thunderous roar of the Parpaldian naval batteries scattered the remaining traces of fog. As soon as the guns were fired, they were immediately prepared for reloads with their magazines prepared for a long day of firing.

Today, what will wake up the citizens of Le Brias won’t be the deep groans of bells or screeching of sirens, but the staccato of Parpaldian naval artillery. 

- - -

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!!!”

A man whose receding hairline indicated he was in his mid-50s kept cursing to himself as he hurriedly put on his officer uniform. Minding not which button went into which hole, he then strapped his readied gun holster, took the basin of water prepared near the sink, and splashed his face with it. Without even drying himself with a towel or fixing his wet and unkempt hair, the man burst out through the doors of his quarters and immediately ran for the command center.

He had been awakened from his long slumber fighting the hangover from the officers’ gala last night when the sound of distant thunder reached his ears. Soft enough as they sounded through the thick walls of the fortress he was in, he immediately knew that they were not the work of a thunderstorm. As he ran past soldiers too busy to give due respect to him, suddenly, the entire fortress was beset by rumblings reminiscent of an earthquake.

Boom... Boom...

He pushed himself against the wall as the magic stone-lit lights hanging from the ceiling swung from side to side. This fort was doing its job holding out well against such immense forces, but a good commander knows not to rely too much on the thickness of his fortress’s walls. Soon after, he managed to reach the command center, where he found most of his officers had already gathered.

“Mirliva (brigadier general)!!!”

They greeted him with salutes and relieved faces.

“We’re under attack!”

“No shit! Give me the situation report!”

“At around 6:25, lookouts on Bulwark 4 reported flashes—and then later, sounds of gunfire—roughly 1200 to 1800 enlac (~6 to ~9km) to the east! They were in the middle of the fog, but after it had cleared, we confirmed them to be Parpaldian warships! We last counted 50 of them!”

The brigadier general’s face turned pale. A naval force as big as that had enough firepower to level his fort, Fort Ruvek, multiple times over in a day’s worth of sustained bombardment. They had been expecting an invasion for a while now, but to think that the Parpaldians are so brazen to try and actually mount a landing before the formidable defenses of Le Brias itself. While there were other fortifications in the area, it was their duty as the men of the sea fort that was protecting the mouth of the harbor to ward off this menacing threat.

“Inform command of this! What’s the status of our fort?!”

As personnel hurriedly contacted the command center further inland of this new threat, officers gave their reports on Fort Ruvek’s status.

“All bulwarks are holding and intact, but we’ve confirmed considerable damage to batteries Koff and Baff, and they’re out of action; batteries Alum, Tsa, and Dah are currently in action!”

Amidst the distant rumbling of enemy gunfire, they could also hear the sharper sounds of their high-caliber coastal artillery roaring to life. Now that he was here, it was time for him to coordinate their defense. After wiping some of the residual water from the edges of his eyelids, the brigadier general got to work issuing orders. But before he could, one of the communication officers in the chamber called his attention.

“Mirliva! We got a reply from the castle!”

Ever since the loss at Menda Point, the military command of Altaras’s armed forces was moved from their respective headquarters to the command center underneath the royal castle with His Majesty reasoning that it “streamlines command and control.”

“What did they say?!”

“They’re diverting ammunition and cannon, and they’re deploying the wyvern corps to attack the enemy fleet!”

The officers breathed a collective sigh as they thanked their higher-ups’ decisive speed. This was a no-brainer, for an invasion was likely imminent.

“Good! Tell them we will hold out for as long as we can!”

Fort Ruvek, along with a dozen other sea-facing fortifications around the port, continued to hold firm against the Parpaldian naval bombardment.

Cent. Calendar 08/02/1640, town of Astaran, ~60km south of Le Brias, Altaras, 6:05

The next day, further south along the capital peninsula’s eastern coast was the nascent town of Astaran, a fishing town that was just starting to develop its cargo port.

At six in the morning, the sun was just beginning to rise, and the early morning fog clinging to the coast was slowly dissipating. The port was empty, for the fishing trawlers had already set sail to catch the day’s haul, leaving behind the rest of the town to set up their market stalls, yet to be filled with all sorts of freshly caught ocean bounty. Amidst the town’s modest market district stood a single-story cafe of blues and purples, sticking out like a sore thumb in both appearance and substance. Unlike the market stalls, which mostly sell seafood, the cafe dealt with sweet pastries prepared the night before and coffee, the beans of which had been procured well before the week started. As such, the cafe was already open for business, contrary to the rest of the market; however, in the same juxtaposing fashion, the cafe was bereft of customers, unlike the dozens of marketgoers lining up at the stalls awaiting the fishermen to return with fresh bounty.

But it would be a lie to say the cafe was without a soul: a woman in a black dress wearing a white frilly apron, a youthful, rather chic appearance running contrary to her wrinkles and blemishes barely hidden by thick makeup, sat in one of the ornate wooden chairs next to the cashier, her attention directed at the tinted glass panes of the cafe’s door. Dressed as a servant, she was the owner of the cafe and its sole employee, in charge of its accounting, procurement, operation, and above all: survival. She minded not that the marketgoers ignored her cafe, for the customers she established this cafe for were the city folk coming to Astaran for its pristine beaches untouched by the stench of industry. However, ever since the kingdom had moved into a state of war, the pool of people looking to go to the beach had dried up—by extension, so had her source of income.

“This is getting outta hand...”

She mumbled to herself as she pulled out a Leiforian-made cigar from a stash behind the cashier, a rare item that she was supposed to be saving but had become a guilty pleasure as of late.

She held the tip of the cigar close to one of the lit candles on the cashier’s counter and rotated the tip around the flickering ember as she waited for its edges to blacken. Just as she had finished preparing her cigar and was about to put it into hand, she heard the jingling of brass from the chimes mounted on her door. She turned to look at who had come in, expecting a customer, but the grimace that appeared on her face was more than enough to show her lack of delight.

“Azis...”

She grumbled as she took the first puff of her newly lit cigar. The exotic flavor tingling her olfactory senses was not enough to numb the bitterness of her untimely encounter with this man.

“Yener.” The man known as Azis called her by name in a not-so-subtle affectionate manner. “Lovely to see you, too...”

Azis took the seat closest to the door—and the farthest from Yener—and started browsing the menu that was placed on the table.

“Can I have the—”

“We’re closed, darling~” Yener cut him off, making a cutesy flying kiss as she blew out the smoke she inhaled.

“I thought Lovely’s opens at—”

“We don’t serve heartbreakers here, darling.”

Yener stood from her chair, walked up to Azis, and crossed her arms as she looked down at him with amused eyes.

“Best you pack up that lovely smug look on your face and hightail it outta here.”

“Heh.” Azis chuckled, placing the menu gently down on the table as he averted his gaze away from Yener’s. “Where’s Toran?”

Toran was Yener’s younger brother and someone she knew Azis didn’t personally know of.

“Toran? So you plan to cheat on your new girl with him? I never took you for that type...”

“What?! No! I’m just looking for him!”

“So it ain’t an affair... Thinking of bribing him, mmm?”

Azis, a civilian official working for the military as head of the local district’s recruitment office, was looking for Toran, the head of the local constabulary in the small town of Astaran. From Yener’s perspective, such a pairing seemed fishy, especially as the war seemed to be amping up with the recent Parpaldian naval bombardment and imminent landings at the capital.

“No! Just... Get him for me, please?”

“Why bother looking for him here? Go find him at the station!”

“But he isn’t there! Well, actually, the entire station’s deserted...”

“What?”

Yener’s eyes widened as her heart skipped a beat. The town’s entire constabulary—a measly 10-strong officer corps plus her brother, the head officer—being gone is unheard of. A major brawl between rival fisheries in the past got all eleven officers scrambling to stop the fight from escalating, but there didn’t seem to be anything happening in town to warrant their disappearance from the station; the fishermen are all currently out at sea, too. As she pondered more possibilities, something interrupted her train of thought.

Boom...

The echo of a distant explosion, likely the sound of cannon fire, had rung out. It didn’t faze her or Azis—the local shore battery conducts frequent drills, after all—but the echoes didn’t stop coming.

Boom... Boboboom... Boboom...

Singular cannon shots turned into cascading volleys firing at infrequent intervals. Such a cacophony only lightly piqued Yener’s curiosity, but to Azis, it was a cause for alarm.

“The guns at the shore battery can’t reload and fire that fast... And they only have four guns!”

Sweat started to drip down his now pale face. He turned to look at Yener, who was now also starting to be alarmed. As soon as they decided to check out what was going on, the door of her cafe flung wide open.

“Yener!!!”

One of the fishermen’s wives came running in, her face a ghastly white and startled.

“Where’s Toran, your brother?!”

“I-I don’t know! Azis here says he and the rest of the constabulary are not at their station!”

Azis interjected into their conversation.

“Why are you looking for him? What’s going on?”

The woman’s eyes were on the verge of tears, her lips alternating between curving and straightening as she struggled to find her words.

“T-T-The Parpaldians!... The harbor!... Come, quick!!!”

Sirens blared inside Yener and Azis’s heads. Without hesitation, they followed the woman as she dashed out of the cafe and toward the port. Much like them, everyone else in the market had caught wind of what was happening and were similarly making their way to the port, curious about what was happening. As soon as they cleared the town streets and reached the piers at the port, they could only gasp in horror at what they saw.

Dozens of ships gathered at the mouth of Astaran’s harbor, but they were unlike the fishing trawlers everyone in town had been anticipating. These were larger, bristling with guns of all sorts and flying a myriad of flags—all of which were the flags of their enemy. One of the larger ships, a big floating fortress made out of metal, fired their guns.

Boom!!!

“Eeek!”

“Look out!”

“Run!!!”

People all along the port ran for dear life at the sound of gunfire, but the enemy’s guns were not aimed toward them: off to the far left—north of the port—the single shore battery protecting Astaran, already on fire, received more of the enemy’s shots. As soon as the enemy shells hit, a powerful explosion took place, instantly eviscerating what was left of the smoldering battery in a towering jet of flames.

KABOOOM!!!!!

“Get down!”

Azis screamed as he threw his entire body onto Yener’s to shield her, right in time as the mighty shockwave of the explosion ran over them.

“Are you okay?!”

“Y-Yes...”

Seeing that she was unharmed, he quickly got back on his feet. But before he could dust off his pants, a man called out to him.

“Oy, you! Is my sister alright?!”

He looked up to see a man in the uptight gray uniform worn by the constabulary, only that he had a big gold star pinned on his left breast—the mark of the head officer.

“Toran! Where in the gods’ names have you been?!”

Yener shouted at him in anger as she struggled to get back on her feet, still seemingly shell-shocked by the blast.

“I’m sorry... We got a tip that an armed party of suspected Parpaldian saboteurs had taken over the lighthouse, so we all set out, but we turned back as soon as we saw the ships at the harbor...”

Toran’s exasperated face watched over the harbor, which now had more vessels in the water than earlier. In front of the larger ships were hundreds of smaller boats, each appeared to be carrying an assortment of men, horses, supplies, cannons, and engineering equipment, all of them approaching the port. Azis looked on with a flabbergasted expression on his face.

“N-No... This isn’t... This shouldn’t be the case...!!! I thought... No, the military said they were landing at... Le Brias...”

The townsfolk of Astaran, with their single shore battery silenced and the town garrison redeployed to the defense of Le Brias up north, could only watch helplessly as the might of the Parpaldian Imperial Army made landfall at their port and nearby beaches like waves crashing endlessly.

Cent. Calendar 10/02/1640, town of Kan Garasi, ~80km southwest of Le Brias, Altaras, 16:31

But the eastern town of Astaran wasn’t the only town that witnessed the Parpaldian Imperial Army in amphibious action: on the southern end of the western coast of the capital peninsula was another fishing town with a sizeable port, Kan Garasi. At almost the same time as the landings at Astaran, a larger force made landfall at the Kan Garasi’s port. Unlike Astaran, Kan Garasi was protected by two shore batteries, one of which was hidden and camouflaged in a nearby cliff face; fortunately for the Parpaldians, thanks to the efforts of military intelligence and their recruited local allies, they were able to know where the second shore battery was and silence it ahead of the landings.

The town’s constabulary and people were docile enough to allow them passage and control without needing extra ‘convincing,’ which made their landings even easier. But since this was the Parpaldian Imperial Army’s first rodeo at amphibious operations and overseas military campaigns, things didn’t exactly move as smoothly as they planned. Such was the headache of Entoupercheur (Colonel) Marius, commander of the Parpaldian Imperial Army forces landing in Point Margaux—their designation for Kan Garasi. While he and his command element, the Naval Infantry, and a few companies worth of infantry and cavalry have already landed, the majority of his men and supplies have yet to leave the hulls of their landing ships.

At the town’s constabulary, which they had commandeered as their temporary headquarters, Marius was overseeing the landings, the construction of an airfield, defenses, and base elements, and the movements of scout cavalry and naval infantry to secure key outlying villages and hills around Kan Garasi. Everything—even the success of this operation—depended on how fast he could get men and material out of their ships. Unfortunately for him, Parpaldia’s organizational divides and adversity toward inter-service cooperation meant that the rate at which his men and supplies landed was not under his control: it was under the commander of the navy squadron attached with him, Bâtimeau régler (Captain) Daucourt. A ruffian of an officer, his temper mirrored his short stature (probably due to his dwarven blood), and the man grew out his beard to its full extent, contrary to the Esthirantese culture of clean-shaven jawlines to which Marius was an avid subscriber.

“Bâtimeau régler Daucourt...”

Marius grumbled as he slowly turned to face the officer.

“Ah?”

Daucourt replied in a coarse tone as he stroked his largely unkempt beard, much to Marius’s disgust.

Under normal circumstances, Army and Navy officers never saw eye to eye with communique handled by their respective command units’ messengers and communications units, but the involvement of Naval Infantry, which was under the Navy, in Army operations necessitated that Marius and Daucourt shared the same space, breathe the same air, and (begrudgingly) tolerate the other’s proximity.

“It’s already day two of our landing... Optimally, we should already be marching toward Kagis, but due to unfortunate circumstances bordering on force majeure...”

Marius cleared his throat, averting his gaze from Daucourt’s steely, almost animalistic glare.

“More than two-thirds of the needed artillery and land dragons needed for the assault are still suffering all manner of seasicknesses aboard those ships of yours...”

Just as he said these words, Daucourt spat what he was chewing onto the spit bucket next to his feet before returning his attention to Marius.

“Can’t help it. If you wanna speed things along, we are more than happy to allow those beefy muscles of yours...” Daucourt pointed out Marius’s flimsy, thin build as he subtly put forward his bulky biceps. “...to help unload your horses and dragons out of my hulls.”

Muffled snickers could be heard at the other side of the room, infuriating Marius further.

The Parpaldian Imperial Army, unmatched and mighty as it was in the continent, was completely alien to the quirks and challenges of amphibious operations. The same was true for the Navy, which up until recently still held the doctrine of fleet-in-being for its blue water fleet, with its riverine fleets seeing more experience as veterans of the conquests on the continent. The Naval Infantry fulfilled its role and duty with excellence, landing ahead and securing key infrastructure, but the larger regular forces were a tad too unwieldy for the small launches prepared for the venture; due to Kan Garasi’s small port, most of the transport ships were forced to unload their load onto these launches outside the harbor. To make matters worse, the unstable Febrond weather refused to cooperate, what with strong winds kicking up two-meter-high waves out of nowhere—they’d already lost a company’s worth of supplies, horses, and ammunition when their launches capsized at the mouth of the harbor when a sudden gale blew in and kicked up very high waves.

“Oh? You’re one to talk of muscles, you brute! You’re clearly too strong for your own good when you can’t even pilot a launch properly! I will never forget that sickening drunken show you call a ‘boat ride’ when you personally ferried me and my staff!”

Insulted, Marius had taken off the gloves himself and started openly hurling snide remarks.

“Hah! What can I say? Your wife—Vivienne, if I recall; she didn’t stand out like the other women—told me she liked it rough~”

A vein popped in Marius’s face as he exploded in anger.

“Why, you...!!!”

He flew into a fit and grabbed the short Daucourt by the shoulder. A brawl was about to break out when a loud, deafening roar thundered around the room.

GroooOOOOOHHHHH!!!!

Everyone, including Daucourt and Marius, was instantly thrown into a defensive stance as they looked around for the source before their conscious minds kicked into gear. Wait! Their minds collectively screamed as soon as they recognized the roar. Marius and his staff officers exited the constabulary and looked up into the reddening evening sky to see the silhouettes of three flying lizards flying the Parpaldian colors.

“Huh? The wyvern corps is here...”

Puzzled by the sudden appearance of the wyvern lords, Marius was about to run to where the airfield was being constructed when his attention was called by one of his staff officers.

“Entoupercheur!!! Forgive my late report, but the engineering corps reports that the airfield is now ready to accept wyverns! The wyvern corps have also sent confirmation that their first squadrons should be arriving here at Point Margaux!”

Marius breathed a sigh of relief.

“Ah, I see. Say that earlier, will you?!”

To the background of repeated apologies, he looked back to the splendid sight of the wyvern lords lining up for a vertical landing at the airfield in the distance. Even if his forces were behind schedule, the presence of the wyvern corps’ squadrons opened up new avenues to make up for lost time and opportunities. As various strategies swirled in his mind, Marius chuckled under his breath.

“This changes things...”

More than two months since the war began and two days since the first Parpaldian soldiers set foot on Altaras, the first wyvern squadrons began to fly in from mainland Parpaldia as the ground campaign started to get rolling.