Several hours after a swift and brutal operation that left behind piles of mangled metal and torn enemy bodies, a mechanized infantry platoon approached the site of the carnage. Accompanied by two anti-aircraft missile systems (SPAA) and a self-propelled radar station, the convoy was under the command of a young yet experienced Junior Lieutenant Antonov. The heat was unbearable.

  The sun, like a giant furnace, mercilessly scorched every living thing, evaporating every drop of moisture. Inside the BMP armored vehicles, which served as temporary shelters for the soldiers, the air was thick and heavy, reminiscent of a steam bath. Even through layers of steel, the scorching heat made the soldiers feel like sardines in a can.

  To protect themselves from stray shots and considering intelligence reports about the enemy's arsenal—primarily medieval weapons such as swords, spears, and bows, coupled with the threat of magical creatures like wyverns—the soldiers didn't dare expose themselves. Recon had reported enough to warrant caution. For this mission, they had been outfitted with specialized gear known as the "Form-RS1."

  "RL1" stood for "Rodenius Summer-1," and the name spoke for itself. The equipment was specifically designed for battles against medieval-level opponents. It consisted of an advanced set of protective elements. Each soldier was equipped with durable yet incredibly lightweight trousers and jackets made of high-tech fabric that provided excellent thermoregulation and protection against cuts and bites. Flexible kevlar armor of the first protection class shielded their arms, legs, and groin without restricting movement. Each soldier wore third-class protective "Zhuk" body armor, featuring digital camouflage that blended seamlessly with the environment. Their heads were protected by 6B28bmR helmets with shockproof visors, compatible with thermal imaging, night vision, and combined optics. Ballistic goggles completed the protective ensemble, shielding their eyes from debris and dust. Each soldier carried a tactical vest that held five magazines and three grenades, along with a 25-liter combat backpack packed with essential supplies.

  Slowly and with utmost caution, the armored vehicles advanced toward the combat site, guided by data from unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs). Finally, the lead BMP-3 stopped about 100 meters from the location of the recent artillery strike. The air here still shimmered from the explosions, and the ground was littered with torn bodies in armor and fragments of medieval weapons. The silence, broken only by the crackling of radios and the faint hum of engines, weighed heavily on everyone, underscoring the scale of the devastation.

  "Falcon to Nest, visual confirmation of enemy elimination. Do you copy? Over," Junior Lieutenant Antonov's voice crackled through the vehicle's radio. Tense from both the heat and the situation, he kept his eyes glued to the monocular, carefully scanning the surroundings through the BMP-3's optical sight. The air shimmered with heat, and even inside the armored vehicle, the oppressive warmth was palpable.

  "Nest to Falcon, received. Visual confirmation noted. Assess the extent of the damage. Be sure to inspect the area for unexploded ordnance and possible documents. Take detailed photographs, including all specifics, for our Qua-Toynian partners. Do you copy? Over." The commanding voice on the other end was firm and precise, a clear sign that headquarters expected a thorough report.

  "Falcon to Nest, copy that. Conducting a detailed inspection and photography. Out." Antonov turned off the radio. His task wasn't just to document the operation's results but also to ensure the safety of his men.

  The convoy halted at a safe distance from the battlefield. The oppressive silence, broken only by the faint crackle of radios and the whisper of wind over the sun-scorched grass, bore down on the soldiers. Emerging from their vehicles like wasps from a hive, the troops moved to their assigned positions with the professional precision honed by years of training.

  The youngest of the squad—a contract soldier, second month, from Saratov, whose name the others had already learned to use carefully because he responded badly to shouting—made it about forty meters before he stopped walking. He didn't say anything. He just stopped. Nikitin gave him thirty seconds, then walked over and said something quietly. The soldier nodded, adjusted his grip on his rifle, and kept moving. He didn't look at the ground unless he had to.

  That was the correct response.

  The battlefield was a horrifying sight. Torn bodies, shattered armor, and the remains of medieval weapons were strewn across the ground in a grotesque mix of blood and metal. Among the heaps of mangled remains, some soldiers found nearly intact bodies clad in medieval armor, while a faded banner bearing the emblem of the Lourian Battle Order fluttered eerily in the center. Sergeant Nikitin and his team were assigned to thoroughly examine this part of the battlefield, document everything, and take photographs for the Qua-Toynian experts.

  Suddenly, a piercing, terrified scream broke the silence: "A-A-A-AH! NO! PLEASE! I didn't mean to… I didn't mean to…"

  The cry came from beneath a pile of corpses, causing the soldiers to instinctively raise their AK-12 and AK-109M rifles toward the source. The sharp clicks of fire selectors switching to "ready" shattered the fragile calm.

  "Damn it!" swore Sergeant Nikitin, aiming at the figure crawling out from under the mound of bodies. "Son of a—! Who the hell are you?"

  "I… I didn't mean to… they forced me…," rasped a wounded soldier, his voice trembling with pain and fear. "I… I just wanted to live… with my wife…"

  Another anguished wail escaped the man, filled with despair and terror. This wasn't a warrior; this was a broken, terrified human being. Even the seasoned soldiers, hardened by the horrors of war, couldn't remain indifferent to the sight. It's often said that all differences fade in the face of death. This nameless medieval soldier had faced unspeakable fear and somehow emerged alive from hellfire.

  "Lieutenant, we've got a 'knight' who survived," Nikitin reported, pointing to the wounded man. "He's saying they forced him."

  Antonov nodded, glancing at the sobbing figure, and then spoke into the radio: "Sir, we've found a survivor during the inspection. He's in critical condition but alive. Medics are treating him."

  "Alive?!" Antonov was taken aback. "How did he survive the artillery barrage? Concussion?"

  "No idea, sir."

  "Understood. Report back with a full account later. Try to get his story."

  "Yes, sir!" Nikitin returned to his squad, leaving Antonov alone with the indescribable horror of the battlefield and the miraculous survival of one enemy combatant.

  They sat him against the track of a BMP and gave him water. He didn't take it at first—he clearly expected it to be something else—and then thirst won. He drank most of it without stopping.

  The medic checked his injuries: two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, contusions on the left side consistent with having been buried under something heavy for several hours. He was conscious and coherent. The medic gave his assessment to Antonov in two sentences and moved on.

  The interrogation took eleven minutes. The prisoner's name was Doryan. He was a farmhand from the eastern marchlands, conscripted eight months ago. He described his conscription with the matter-of-fact specificity of someone who had stopped being surprised by the facts of his own life: the recruiters had come to the village, they had counted the men between fifteen and fifty, they had taken half of them, and anyone who argued was flogged in the square as an example. He had a wife. He did not know if she was still alive because he had not received news in four months and the last letter had mentioned food shortages.

  He knew almost nothing about the command structure above his captain. His captain was dead. He didn't know where the main force was concentrated. He knew where he'd marched from, which Antonov's interpreter confirmed against the map.

  "Anything else?" Antonov asked.

  "He says he never wanted to fight anyone," the interpreter said. "He says he's sorry. He keeps saying he's sorry."

  Antonov looked at the prisoner for a moment.

  "Tell him he's a prisoner of the Russian Federation. He'll be held securely, treated according to our protocols, and processed for eventual repatriation. Tell him to stop apologizing—it's not a category we have a procedure for."

  The interpreter translated. The prisoner—Doryan—nodded slowly. He stopped apologizing. He looked like a man who had just been told something he would need a long time to understand.

  He was shackled and placed in the forward holding compartment of the second BMP.

  "Damn cowards…" muttered Sergeant Nikitin as he secured the prisoner. "Just cannon fodder."

  The next day, the soldiers continued inspecting the battlefield. Specialists from the Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear Defense (CBRN) unit arrived at the camp. Their task was simple yet crucial: disposing of the bodies to prevent an outbreak of disease. The heaps of corpses were carefully piled up, doused with special chemicals, and set alight. The risk of something akin to the Black Plague spreading was far too great to ignore.

  The Principality of Qua-Toyne. Capital of Qua-Toyne. Council of Lotuses Chamber.

  Sunlight streamed through the lush vines entwining the Council building, casting a soft glow across the chamber where the members of the principality's highest governing body were gathered. The air carried the faint fragrance of exotic flowers and incense, mingling with the serene sounds of a pond nearby, where turquoise blossoms, resembling earthly lotuses, thrived amidst flowing streams.

  An attaché, a young man with a weary expression, had just concluded his report on the recent war with the Lourian Kingdom. Laid out before him on the table were photographs of the battlefield—haunting evidence of the Russian Federation's devastating power.

  "That concludes my report," he said in a faint voice, lowering his gaze.

  A heavy silence filled the chamber. One of the Council's elders, a man of wisdom and age, studied the photographs with an expression of profound shock. His hand moved to his mouth, as if to stifle a gasp of horror.

  "Gods... what an atrocity," he murmured, his voice trembling. "I... I can hardly believe it."

  "How could they achieve such a result?!" another Council elder bellowed, rising sharply from his seat. "They claimed to possess no magic! And yet these photographs tell a different story... An army of twenty thousand annihilated in moments... They didn't even leave their positions! How on earth can this be explained?!"

  "They unleashed hell itself on the battlefield," a third elder declared, his tone calm yet laced with unmistakable dread. Known for his analytical mind and deep understanding of military history, his words carried weight.

  The chamber erupted into heated debate. Theories and speculation flowed freely. Some suggested the Russian soldiers were descendants of an ancient empire wielding forgotten magical technologies. Others dismissed such notions as absurd fantasies.

  Kanata, the Head of the Council of Lotuses, raised his hand, calling for order. The soothing sound of decorative streams flowing through the chamber momentarily drowned out the escalating commotion.

  "Please, direct your attention here," he commanded in a calm yet resolute tone.

  His aides distributed documents to the gathered members, each printed on high-quality paper procured from the Russian Federation. The documents were strictly classified, containing the operational plan for a mission named "Liberation," meticulously crafted by the Russian military.

  "This… this is…" the elder in charge of military affairs stammered, his eyes widening in astonishment as he skimmed the pages. His face turned pale.

  "The Russian Federation is proposing Operation Liberation," Kanata announced, his voice imbued with respect and a trace of awe. "Their plan is to launch an assault on the city of Gim, employing their so-called 'dragon-like blades.'" He paused briefly, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "They aim to advance as far as the Lourian Kingdom's capital and capture King Haark Louria himself. The Russian Armed Forces intend to draw out the Lourian forces and deliver a decisive, crushing blow. They request that we do not interfere, given their superior speed and logistics. Now, what is your verdict on this plan?"

  Kanata's question required no verbal reply. The gravity of the situation and the sheer power of the Russian Federation were evident to all present.

  "I have no objections," the first elder said. His voice was steady, but he had not looked away from the photographs.

  From the far end of the table, Elder Taviss—the oldest member of the Council, a man whose tenure predated Kanata's appointment by fifteen years—slowly set down the document he had been reading.

  "I will not object to the vote," he said. "But I want my question entered into the record before we proceed."

  The room waited.

  "We are authorizing a foreign military to conduct offensive operations inside a neighboring kingdom. Operations that—" he glanced at the photographs once more, "—will result in outcomes of this scale. We have seen what they can do. My question is not whether we should authorize this. My question is: when this war ends, and the Russians remain, and their base at Sloboda is established, and their ships are in our port, and their linguists have learned our alphabet—" he paused, "—what is our position then? What leverage do we retain? What prevents the next conversation from being conducted the way they conducted this one?"

  He gestured at the photographs.

  "I am not saying we refuse. I am saying we should know the answer to that question before we sign. Because after we sign, it becomes much harder to ask."

  The silence that followed was not comfortable.

  Kanata looked at Taviss for a long moment.

  "The question is entered into the record," he said. "And I do not have a satisfactory answer to it today. That is also entered into the record." He looked around the table. "We vote."

  The vote was unanimous. But the question remained in the room after the session ended, the way certain questions do.

  The Council of Lotuses endorsed the Russian Federation's strategy. The horror etched into their minds by the photographs was now replaced with a flicker of hope for a swift end to the war.

  City of Gim. Lourian Kingdom High Command Headquarters.

  "Where are the frontline forces?!" he roared, his voice echoing through the command tent, making everyone present flinch. "I demand a status report!"

  One of the knights, a young man with a pale face and downcast eyes, responded mechanically, his voice devoid of emotion.

  "My lord, we sent a request via manacom, but... no one responded."

  Adem froze in place, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His patience had run out.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  "This is starting to concern me," he hissed, his eyes burning with icy fury. "What about the scouting unit sent to Ejey?"

  "They should be arriving soon, my lord," the knight stammered, lowering his head even further. He barely dared to breathe in the presence of the enraged general.

  "Fine… Now get out of my sight!" Adem barked, waving a hand dismissively.

  The knight practically stumbled out of the tent, as if a gust of wind had blown him away.

  The Skies. Near the Site of the Lourian Army's Annihilation.

  Meanwhile, Knight-Rider Muller, one of the Lourian Kingdom's most elite warriors, soared through the sky atop his trusted wyvern, surveying the battlefield below. The sky was shrouded in thick, ominous clouds, and the howling wind made flying both uncomfortable and perilous. His squadron of twelve wyverns had been deployed across the eastern frontlines, tasked with a simple reconnaissance mission—assess the situation.

  But what they discovered defied all logic.

  How could an army of twenty thousand simply vanish?Mass desertion? Impossible.Where could they have gone in such a short time?

  Muller descended towards the sector where the frontline forces had last been seen.

  "They should be around here somewhere…" he muttered, scanning the ground through the mist.

  Dropping to an altitude of two hundred meters, Muller finally saw it.

  Utter devastation.

  The land was pockmarked with massive craters, the ground blackened and scorched. Piles of burned corpses lay in neat mounds, their skeletal remains surrounded by swarms of crows, harbingers of death. The stench of charred flesh and decay hit him like a wave, making his stomach churn.

  "That... That smell…" he whispered, his face paling. "Wait… That's our battle standard!"

  Panic surged through him. Reaching for his manacom, he hastily relayed his findings to headquarters. Moments later, a response crackled through—

  "Land and investigate further. We need confirmation."

  Shutting off the manacom, Muller guided his wyvern down.

  "Gods… What kind of battle took place here?! This… this shouldn't even be possible… Headquarters, this is Muller, reporting—"

  His words died in his throat.

  Suddenly, his wyvern let out a low, guttural growl, its sharp eyes locking onto something in the distance.

  Then he saw them.

  On the horizon, several fast-moving, insect-like objects cut through the air, their forms sleek and unnatural. A deep, mechanical hum accompanied them, sending a chill down Muller's spine. His survival instincts flared, screaming at him to flee. Without thinking, he leapt onto his wyvern's back and took off, pushing it to its maximum speed.

  And then...

  A monstrous shape emerged from the storm clouds above.

  A Mi-28M attack helicopter.

  Before Muller could react, the war machine unleashed an R-73 missile.

  A sharp, menacing hiss filled the air as the missile locked onto him with terrifying precision.

  "Headquarters! I'm being pursued by an unknown enemy! It's like… a spear of light!" Muller's voice cracked with fear as he dodged frantically, trying to shake the relentless missile.

  Then, an eerie sense of déjà vu gripped him.

  Images flashed through his mind—his wife, their young daughter… Their smiles, their laughter… and his wife's final words before he left for battle:

  "Take this amulet… It will protect you."

  His hands moved instinctively, reaching for the small pouch at his waist. Inside was the gift from his wife—a peculiar golden talisman.

  At that moment, just as the missile closed in — The amulet flared with a brilliant, blinding light.

  A protective barrier erupted around Muller and his wyvern, shimmering like a divine shield. The light was so intense that even the helicopter pilot momentarily lost visibility. At the same time, a wave of warmth and energy surged through Muller's body, filling him with an overwhelming sense of invincibility, as if an invisible force stood between him and certain death.

  Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the light vanished.

  The missile struck the barrier—A deafening explosion rocked the sky—And then… nothing.

  Muller was unharmed.

  The amulet's one-time protection had worked. The blast propelled him westward, allowing him to escape the battlefield.

  "Gods… Thank you…" he whispered, his voice trembling with gratitude and shock at the miracle that had just unfolded.

  He had survived.Because of her.Because of her love.Because of the amulet's mysterious power.

  City of Gim. Headquarters of the Lourian High Command.

  Inside the spacious yet cluttered command tent, filled with maps and war trophies, tension hung thick in the air. Lieutenant General Adem paced back and forth, his usually cunning and menacing face twisted in anger. His fists clenched and unclenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The stale scent of old wood, wax, and worn parchment mixed with a faint, almost imperceptible trace of fear that seemed to permeate the very air inside the tent.

  "Lord Adem… We've lost contact with the scouting patrol," murmured the mana-com operator, a young knight whose face had gone pale. His voice barely cut through the suffocating silence. He kept his head lowered, eyes fixed on the ground, as if hoping to disappear from the inevitable wrath of the general, a silent reflection of his own helplessness.

  Adem came to an abrupt stop, his piercing gaze locking onto the unfortunate knight like a dagger. His voice, cold and sharp as tempered steel, rang through the tent.

  "What was their last report?" he asked, his words laced with an eerie calmness—far more terrifying than open rage.

  The operator swallowed hard, his throat tightening with fear. He frantically searched his memory, trying to recall the final transmission from the patrol.

  "They… they said… they were being pursued… by arrows… with trails of smoke, my lord," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, tinged with quiet despair. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, tiny droplets rolling down his pale skin like scattered pearls.

  Adem's face contorted with fury. A guttural growl rumbled in his throat.

  "One more pathetic excuse from you, and I will personally slit your throat!" he snarled, his eyes burning with white-hot rage. Then, forcing himself to rein in his temper, he turned sharply to General Pandur, who stood calmly over a table, studying the map spread across it. "General Pandur! Do you hear this nonsense?!"

  "Adem," Pandur responded smoothly, still not looking up from the map. "Why shout? That won't help us find a solution. Let's focus. How is the main force's advance toward Gim progressing?"

  Adem gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath to keep his fury in check. "Sir, at this moment —"

  Before he could finish, one of his attendants burst into the tent, his face ashen, gasping for air.

  "General Adem! It's urgent!" he wheezed, his voice trembling with terror.

  The words froze Adem in place. A single bead of cold sweat rolled down his temple. He could tell—this was far worse than he had imagined.

  "Lord Pandur!" Adem turned to the other general, his voice tense but steady. "We need reinforcements immediately! I'll go to Jin-Haark myself—we must mobilize every available force to hold Gim!"

  Pandur gave a slow nod, his expression calm, yet a flicker of unease crossed his eyes.

  "Very well, Lieutenant General. Go. This is a crucial matter—that's precisely why I trust you with it, Adem."

  Adem rode hard toward Jin-Haark, his thoughts a whirlwind of dread.

  "First—those thunderous, arrow-like blades… Then—the abandoned Gim… That same, inescapable feeling of doom… The failure at Fort Ejey, the collapse of our invasion into Qua-Toyne… all because of those damned Russians… Do they possess the ancient weapons of the lost ones? I must report this to the Observer."

  Pandur watched the sky, assessing the situation. Forty-four wyverns—a formidable force, yet… doubt gnawed at him.

  "I believe we should entrust the rear lines to the lieutenant general," he said to his aide. "What do you think?"

  "I agree with your assessment, sir," the aide replied.

  At that very moment, sixteen wyverns suddenly emerged over the city, shrouded in a dense veil of smoke. Moments later, a devastating barrage of rockets rained down upon the ruins of Gim. Then—a thunderous roar split the sky, and there they were—Su-34s, slicing through the heavens like steel predators.

  "Fast-moving bastards…" one of the Lourian soldiers muttered, staring up in terror.

  "What in the hell is that?!" Pandur shouted, his voice hoarse with horror. Panic spread like wildfire through what remained of his forces.

  "They… they're dropping something… into the shelters!" a militiaman screamed, pointing skyward.

  His voice was drowned out by the hiss of falling munitions. From the sky, canister bombs released their payloads, bursting open in mid-air and scattering hundreds of smaller submunitions. Upon impact, they unleashed dense, blindingly white clouds of smoke and fire. A sharp, chemical stench of burning sulfur filled the air.

  PSSSSSSHHHHHHH.

  "Gods above… those must be the 'Infernal Mist' mentioned in the legends…" Pandur's aide whispered, his voice barely audible over the rising cacophony of screams. His eyes widened in sheer terror as he pointed a trembling hand toward the expanding white cloud. "My lord! That is sorcery of the highest order! We must flee at once! That cursed fire eats through stone and steel! Please, we must ride—now!"

  Pandur, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer horror unfolding before him, cast a desperate glance at his men. The army was already unraveling. Knights, militiamen—everyone was scattering in blind panic. The air was filled with agonized shrieks, the wretched sound of men choking on their own screams.

  He saw the white cloud spreading from the impact points, clinging to the ground, crawling into doorways and along drainage channels the way water did. It was not moving like smoke. Smoke dispersed. This did not.

  The screaming from the northern quarter had a different quality than screaming from conventional fire. Pandur had heard men die in a dozen ways. He had no category for this.

  His aide was pulling at his arm. "The legends—the texts from the Ravernal era—they described this. A white fire that could not be put out with water. That burned through—"

  "Ride," Pandur said.

  He was already spurring his horse.

  He clenched his reins so hard his knuckles turned white, struggling to steady himself in the saddle. His hands trembled, his legs felt weak. His stomach twisted into knots, the toxic fumes triggering nausea. The piercing whistle of more bombs filled the air, but he forced his horse forward, pushing it to its absolute limit.

  His survival instinct screamed inside his head, like a storm roaring through his mind: *Run. Don't look back. Just run!*

  Then, a thought crept in—one that sent an even deeper chill through his soul:

  "This weapon… This horror… is not the work of mortals…"

  A terrifying realization clawed at his mind. "What I'm witnessing… this isn't just a weapon. This is an echo of the ancient magical empire of Ravernal..."

  The smoke from the first strike had already done its work. The horses were uncontrollable—animals that had never encountered chemical smoke had no category for it, and they responded the only way available to them. Pandur's mount threw him at the first intersection. He did not get up quickly enough.

  The second strike—a standard high-explosive payload from the Su-34's second pass—was not aimed at him specifically. He was simply in the impact zone. The targeting system that selected his position had identified it as a command node based on the concentration of mounted officers around it. The logic was correct. The outcome was what outcomes are when high-explosive ordnance meets unshielded personnel.

  General Pandur and his immediate staff were removed from the order of battle at approximately the same moment that Lieutenant General Adem's convoy reached the Jin-Haag road. Neither of them would know this for some time. Adem because he was riding hard and receiving no transmissions. The staff, for different reasons.

  Some time later, NBC (Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical) units arrived in Gim. Their task was grim yet unavoidable—neutralizing the hazardous residue of the incendiary chemicals and disposing of the dead to prevent an epidemic. The acrid stench of phosphorus and decay hung thick in the air... total land area is…" he paused briefly, "…over seventeen million square kilometers."

  The military base on the outskirts of the industrial town of Sloboda hummed with steady, disciplined activity. Beyond the windows of the headquarters, where Major General Alexey Voroshilov of the 1st Liberation Division of Qua-Toyne was stationed, stretched an endless steppe—crisscrossed by roads and occasionally broken by dense patches of forest.

  Inside the spacious command office, furnished for function rather than comfort and filled with the quiet hum of operational machinery, maps and tactical graphs flickered across a large projection screen.

  "…Thus, we have successfully driven the enemy out of Gim. Zero casualties among our personnel," Major General Voroshilov reported with calm precision. His voice was steady and authoritative, carrying the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. "We are currently fortifying our position, conducting a sweep of the area, and securing key infrastructure. Engineering units are en route to restore communications and assess structural integrity."

  Behind him, his aides stood at attention, closely observing his reaction and ready to provide any necessary details at a moment's notice. The weight of responsibility loomed over the commander, yet he exuded an air of confidence and control.

  "Well done. Solid work," came a voice over the line. It was calm but carried an undeniable firmness and respect. "Proceed to the next phase of the operation. Awaiting your report on full territorial consolidation."

  "Understood. Voroshilov out."

  "Yes, sir! For the Russian Federation!" he responded firmly, his voice filled with unwavering patriotism.

  "At ease. Transmission over."

  The projection screen flickered off.

  As the operators powered down the system, Alexey slowly lowered himself into his chair, a trace of relief washing over his features. He pulled open a desk drawer, retrieving a small, carefully wrapped pack of premium coffee—grown by the finest agronomists in Siberia, thanks to the rich black soil imported from Qua-Toyne. He brewed it in his favorite thermos, inhaling the deep, bold aroma before taking a slow, satisfying sip.

  At that moment, the coffee felt like a well-earned indulgence—almost a drug, a reward for the relentless demands of his duty. So much had weighed on him in recent weeks. The fanatical elves they had rescued near Gim, who had nearly fainted at the sight of a new face appearing on their surveillance monitors… He had endured it all, steadfast in his mission.

  And now, at last, he could savor this small moment of respite.

  Third Civilized Area. Parpaldia Empire. Department of External Affairs. Office of the Deputy Director.

  The analyst's report from the previous week had been escalated, as requested. The Deputy Director had read it. His response, delivered verbally to the analyst's superior, had been: "Your man is catastrophizing. Send him on leave."

  Now the Deputy Director sat at his desk with the latest field dispatch in his hands.

  The content was straightforward. The border city of Gim—a fortified position that had withstood three Qua-Toinean campaigns over the past decade—had been taken in a single day. Russian forces had not assaulted the walls. They had conducted an air strike on the Lourian command structure, destroyed the air assets on the ground, and advanced while the garrison was in collapse. Total Russian casualties: unconfirmed, but field agents described no evidence of Russian dead at the site. Total Lourian dead in the city: estimates ranged between four and eight thousand. The remaining garrison had surrendered or dispersed before midday.

  The dispatch also included a second item, appended by a different field agent. The wyvern patrol sent to investigate the earlier artillery site had been intercepted. One survivor, recovered west of the battlefield, reported that the Russians' aerial weapons could not be evaded. His exact words, as transcribed by the relay station: *Whatever you do, it follows.*

  The Deputy Director set the dispatch down.

  He thought about the analyst he had sent on leave.

  He called for his secretary.

  "Get me the Director. Tonight." He paused. "And recall Analyst Ferris from leave. I want him in the building tomorrow morning."

  He looked at the dispatch one more time, then put it in the highest-priority folder.

  He did not sleep well that night. That was, he would later reflect, the appropriate response.

  Border City of Gim.

  Territory Under the Control of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation.

  The city was a nightmarish sight—torn tents, shattered medieval war machines, and the ever-present stench of burning and decay. For the seasoned contract soldiers of the Chemical, Biological, and Radiological Protection Unit (CBRP), men hardened by exposure to death and destruction, the aftermath of white phosphorus munitions, though grim, was expected. They went about their work methodically, systematically clearing remnants of explosives and neutralizing hazardous substances.

  But for the conscripts on their first deployment, the reality of war revealed itself in all its horrific clarity. They gagged, their hands trembled. Piles of corpses, clad in rusted medieval armor and caught in various stages of decomposition, painted an unspeakable horror. The sickly-sweet stench of rot and scorched flesh assaulted their nostrils, triggering nausea and pounding headaches. Even battle-hardened soldiers struggled to suppress their revulsion and fear. Their mission—to clear the city of the lingering effects of phosphorus munitions and decontaminate the wells—felt almost insurmountable.

  Yet, despite setbacks and grueling effort, the CBRP unit completed its task.

  Engineering units followed soon after, immediately beginning construction of primary fortifications along the border with the Kingdom of Louria. Sappers meticulously combed the area, carefully disarming any unexploded ordnance. Then came the motorized rifle and tank platoons, followed by the technical support workshops.

  Within a single day, the outskirts of Gim had transformed—barbed-wire checkpoints were established, a tent city erected, and fuel stations put into operation.

  Slowly but steadily, the city was beginning to come back to life. Operation "Liberation" had entered its next phase.

  Louria Kingdom. Capital City: Jin-Haark. The Royal Council Chamber.

  The chamber was not full. Three of the regular council members were absent, their seats empty in ways that suggested they had found reasons not to be present for this particular meeting. King Haark sat at the head of the table with the stillness of a man who had received too much information at once and had not yet determined how to arrange it.

  On the table before him were the reports. The naval engagement off Maihark. The artillery action at Fortress Ejey. The fall of Gim.

  The fall of Gim.

  Gim had never fallen. Not in living memory. Not in the histories that General Maos had read to him as a child, describing the great campaigns of his forebears. Gim was the eastern gate of the kingdom. Gim was the proof that Louria endured.

  "The Russians did not assault the walls," Prime Minister Maos said. He was reading from the dispatch, which he had already read four times. "They attacked from the air. The strike was completed before General Pandur could evacuate his command staff."

  Haark said nothing.

  "General Adem is intact and is returning to Jin-Haag. He requests an emergency audience."

  Haark said nothing.

  "Your Majesty." Maos set down the dispatch. "We need to discuss what we know about the Russian Federation's capabilities and what our options are."

  Haark looked at him. His face was not angry. It was something that took Maos a moment to identify, because he had served this king for eleven years and had not seen it before.

  It was uncertainty.

  "What do we know?" Haark asked.

  Maos thought about the reports on the table. The weapons that followed. The fire that could not be extinguished. The army of twenty thousand that had become craters in a morning.

  "We know," he said carefully, "that our previous model of what war is—" he paused, searching for words that would be accurate without being unacceptable to say aloud in this room, "—does not appear to apply to this opponent."

  The silence that followed was very long.