“What do you think is the Seraph’s greatest enemy? To me, the gift of flight is a powerful tool. Speed. Mobility. It grants this to us all, but what if you were to take our wings away, to deprive the freedom of those who have soared amongst the skies?

  Devastation, to put it simply. That is why the Commander of the Rust Blood Legion is so dangerous. Thank the Stars for the Arch Magus’s intervention… if it wasn't for his constant pressure on Caelum's eastern border, then we would have lost our fortresses to that tyrant long ago.”

  —Dame Lorelai of the Exalted Throne of Heaven

  ———

  Lorelai

  Shouts. Cries. Someone is calling out to her, but Lorelai cannot respond. A dark void envelops her body, embracing her and comforting her mind with sweet lullabies. It is peaceful. In this land of forgotten husks and fleeting whispers, all one must do is accept the emptiness. To rest in oblivion.

  But peace is not where I belong.

  Lorelai jolts awake, breath wheezing as her face drowns in a cold sweat. It is not her time just yet. There’s so much she still has to do.

  A sigh of relief is uttered by her side. Celia has returned, and she does not appear to be happy.

  “Celia? I…” the feeble Throne stammers.

  “Stop talking. Focus on conserving your energy.” Her words are brisk, harsh, and hold a slight tone of anger in them, but they don’t appear to be directed at Lorelai. Rather, toward herself. Angry with herself for being unable to help.

  “You haven’t been out for long. Just a few minutes,” she continues. “Before you ask, everyone’s fine. A few are a bit beat up, but thankfully there haven't been any casualties.”

  Ah, thank the Stars. And thank you too, Solgas, for going along with my recklessness.

  Her people are safe, but the threat still remains. The Throne has to get up now while her pain is still faint. Before she can, a group of Astrologians suddenly rush out from behind Celia and quickly begin to crowd Lorelai.

  “Oh yeah, I’ve brought some help as well. Figured you’d need it.”

  It is a blessing indeed to have such caring companions. “Thank you. I’m in your debt, all of you.”

  The leader of the Astrologians merely nods and silently gestures for the others’ aid. They move swiftly and precisely, allowing not a single blemish to taint their methodical gait. Soon, a chorus of chants fill the air as they beseech Creation for its soothing grace. Verdant green emerges from the world’s veil, accompanied by the fresh scent of pine. It seeps into her wounds and closes the bloody pores while filling her eyes with color anew.

  “That should take care of the worst of it,” Celia says, helping her up to her feet. “But it’s just patchwork. Your body’s still drained from protecting the fortress, so don’t overdo yourself. I mean it.”

  She glares at her with a familiar nagging. Unfortunately, that is one request Lorelai is unable to fulfill.

  “You know I can’t do that, Celia.”

  I can smell it: the thick odor of rust and grease. He is approaching.

  As if to echo her worries, an ominous horn blares from afar. It cuts through the dusty haze and warns of the deliverance to come, of the blood soon to grace the tattered soil. Footsteps thunder in an unruly march. Machines groan and sputters with a jittery cry. Step by step, the legion encroaches. They thirst for slaughter.

  Amidst the sonorous banner of combat, a gruff laugh bellows out. It echoes throughout the air with a revolting jolly and sullies the ears of all in the distance. That laugh is one of madness, and it is getting closer by the second.

  “It seems our visitors won’t give us a chance to rest.” Lorelai slowly rises up and clenches her fist. Good enough. My body still holds. “Celia, gather the knights and prepare to leave the Alexandria. We must make our stand.”

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  “We’re engaging on foot, then?” Celia says, an air of dread enveloping her voice as she peers out to the barren waste below. “Yep, not a sign of miasma in sight. Guess that confirms it. The Immovable One is here.”

  It is as they fear. The miasma has been ground deep into the bowels of the earth by the destructive ray. There is only one who possesses such capabilities, and with his presence, their hopes of taking to the skies have been shattered. The Seraph will soon be clipped.

  “Indeed. Rally the able-bodied as quickly as you can. I’ll go out to entertain that fiend first.”

  “In that condition? You’ll only get yourself killed out there, Lorelai,” Celia says. She’s not wrong, but someone has to delay the Legion’s advance.

  “Don’t worry, I doubt he’s in a good condition after casting such a spell. I’ll hold out somehow until help arrives.”

  And that man is not one to rush when it comes to war.

  “Hah… understood. I’ll gather the others and come back to your side once everyone is accounted for.”

  “No, Celia. You cannot come.”

  “What?” Celia staggers back in shock. Her eyes twitch, and her teeth grind together as she poorly attempts to hide her rage. “No, you’re not doing this.”

  Her frustration aches at Lorelai’s heart, but it must be done. “You are the most powerful knight in this fortress after me. Someone has to protect the Comet, or else this entire expedition will have been for nothing.”

  “Damnit, Lorelai!” Celia practically screams. “I know you’re trying to protect me, but just because I haven’t been to the battlefield in a few years doesn’t mean I’m fragile enough to need protecting. I’m still a proud knight of Polus. Don’t you trust me?”

  “I do,” she says. “And that is why I am trusting you to protect the child in my stead. To protect our hope for a better future. Please.”

  Celia hangs her head and mutters a storm of curses as she paces about in a conflicted mood. Eventually, though, she gives up and lets out a defeated sigh.

  “I feel like I’m doing this way too often, but fine.”

  “Thank you.” Lorelai opens her arms out and beckons for a final parting hug. Celia begrudgingly partakes, but her tight hold betrays her true feelings.

  “And, if something were to happen to me, please take the Comet and flee—”

  “I thought you always said that a leader shouldn’t dwell on defeat.”

  “It’s different now. The battle here may be our bloodiest one yet, and we still don’t know the true depths of the Immovable One’s might. Above all else, even my own life, the child must make it to the capital.”

  Lorelai isn’t planning on dying here. Even so, none truly know what fate has in store for them.

  “Stop talking or it might just really happen,” Celia says with a half-hearted tease. “If you trust me, then I trust you to make it back alive. Our fool of a King won’t be able to function without you, so come back safe.”

  “Of course.” After all, home awaits.

  Celia lets go and takes a few tentative steps backwards. “Then leave. I’ll send our best to you.”

  Lorelai gives her friend a solemn salute and turns around. Her gold and silver wings manifest upon her back; the twin blades shine with ferocious intensity. It is time.

  Lorelai dives off the fortress and descends to the barren land below. Faster and faster, wind howling as she plummets, until the clouds have become a distant sight. It doesn’t take long before a nagging weight strikes her — dense and cumbersome. It drags on her wings and forces her fall into an unsteady spiral as she strains to keep herself still. His influence has already reached the fortress.

  Finally, Lorelai collides upon the black dirt. A column of debris erupts from the impact, and through the scattered bits, she’s given a clear view of the ones responsible for the attack.

  An army of mud-stained legionaries emerge before her. Steam erupts from their unwieldy powered suits; the emblem of a black corvid with glowing red eyes is engraved on the soldiers’ helms, and an incessant whirring fills the rusty air as they trample the earth with clunky, awkward stomps.

  But what revolts her the most is their bodies’ savage, almost unnatural, convulsions. They shout and utter pained groans while stumbling mindlessly. It is as if their conscience has been dulled into a singular objective: to kill. To maim. To rip all that stands before them, bloodlust oozing from every crack within their graceless prisons of steel.

  No grace or consideration for the wielder is present in the malicious design. The only purpose of the biomechanical scourges are to wreck as much chaos as they can before their inevitable, honorless end.

  The machines following them are no less disgusting than the tortured souls lurching around it. Lorelai can barely even discern what the shape is supposed to be: just an amalgamation of foul plates and jagged blades merged together into an unsightly construct erected on a crude imitation of a carriage. Some bear a slight resemblance to the beasts of the earth, and others are mocking replicas of man. Everything about the Caelum forces are conceived wholly for the purpose of war, and nothing else.

  The soldiers come to a stop a fair distance away from her. They sway in place with an eerie, perturbing gaze, and merely await their next order in silence. No will to feel. No mind to think. They are mere dregs to be directed, dehumanized into puppets of flesh.

  But there is one soul among them that still retains some semblance of a free spirit. She can hear him now slowly trudging to the forefront — stomping with hostile intent and biding his time so that he may savor every moment of her uncertainty. He is enjoying this.

  Finally, the man reveals himself. Giant midnight-black armor similar to the bulky frames on the legionnaires is clad upon his body, only it is no mere plate of junk. The bulwark is smoothly connected, the outer binding they call “exoskeleton” shines with a luster, and the form is molded to his build. The mechanical apparatus attached to him is silent with nary a groan or creek, and the massive spiked mace resting on his shoulder appears to be forged with lavish ores of violet: the very same color glowing from his great helm.

  He is the Commander of the Rust Blood Legion, the Immovable One, the tyrant of the empire, and scourge of all that is winged.

  He is Gravitas, warrior of gravity.