Funny—between bombardments and looping deaths I’ve never stopped to ask how I ended up in this borrowed body, on this war-torn continent. Philosophy seems like a luxury reserved for people who don’t wake to artillery at dawn. Yet the question doesn’t gnaw at me the way it should. Somehow this world—rifles, mana, mud, and all—fits like a coat already broken in. It feels right. Natural.

  I draw a steadying breath. Hein and I step forward exactly in time, heels clicking on marble, spines ramrod straight. Each exaggerated motion is for show, but the discipline grounds me. Our navy-blue parade coats are newly pressed, brass buttons polished to mirror sheen. Black visor caps angle just so; mirror-bright boots swallow our calves. A crimson-braided sash crosses each chest from shoulder to waist—the place our decorations will soon rest. For now, the cloth lies bare, as if holding its own breath.

  The war-room doors boom shut behind us. A hush settles, thick as pipe smoke. We march down a narrow carpet toward the assembled brass and aristocracy. When we reach the center we halt and snap to attention, right fists crossed over our hearts—the Union’s formal salute. The required posture freezes every joint, but my gaze, at least, is free to roam.

  A vast topographical map sprawls over the central table, its edges curling up like parchment baked too long. Tin unit markers bristle across ridgelines and rivers; I spot a few fresh gouges where some impatient staffer has stabbed at the enemy front. Smeared cigar ash clouds the eastern quadrant—Anreik territory, I note with grim amusement. To either side stand longer oak tables already occupied: to the left, generals and seasoned staff-mages in worn uniforms; to the right, high-born delegates whose velvet collars and jeweled rings whisper power louder than any rank badge.

  Along the rear wall, mounted above a marble mantel, hangs a gigantic stag head—no ordinary trophy. The antlers spread wider than my outstretched arms, each tine ending in wicked spurs. The skull itself could cradle a musket. Bullet? Cannon? I decide the kill must have been magical; anything less would have shattered those bones.

  The air smells of lamp oil, powdered mana crystals, and expensive pipe tobacco. Soft-ticking pocket watches marking the seconds. Faces remain unreadable masks of brass and braid, but I catch small tells: a nostril flare of noble disdain here, a tiny uptick of pride on an old colonel’s lips there. And dead center sits Field Marshal Krieg, throne-like in a crimson-leather chair, hands folded over a ceremonial sword, expression chiseled from basalt.

  At last Krieg rises. As though pulled by wires, every person in the hall follows suit. No chair dares creak. He moves left at a measured pace, boots whispering on carpet, medals chiming like distant wind chimes. The nobles track him with hawk eyes; the career officers stood straighter as he passes. When he stops directly before us, it feels like the room shrinks to a single heartbeat.

  He lifts two fingers.

  A steward glides forward, presenting a lacquered mahogany box cradled on velvet gloves. Brass hinges catch the light as the lid swings open, revealing twin medallions nestled in crimson velvet: faceted stones the deep blue of midnight seas, each set in a starburst of silver and suspended from a royal-purple ribbon. The gems glow from within—mana pulsing slow and sure, like a sleeping beast.

  “At ease,” Krieg says. The word is quiet, but it lands like a hammer.

  Hein and I allow our shoulders the smallest permissible drop. Even so, tension wires every muscle. Standing this close, I feel more than see the Marshal’s presence: like standing near a furnace banked but never quenched. Hein once whispered that Krieg is eighty, though he looks fifty—broad shoulders still fill his high-collared dress blues, the antique gold braid dulled to old bullion. A sweep of iron-gray hair flows back from a daunting brow, blending into a disciplined beard split by a heavy cavalry moustache. The man is war personified.

  A faint chuckle rumbles in his chest—almost kindly, but not quite.

  “Soldiers,” he intones, voice a gravelly baritone that reverberates in my ribs, “you have won great honor—and precious maneuver space—for our Union. Accordingly, I raise you both to the rank of Major, confer upon you the Great Lake Cross, and…” He lets the pause twist every stomach. “…assign you to a new theatre.”

  Only his eyes smile at that last promise.

  “Thank you, sir!” Hein and I bark in unison. The echo rings a hair louder than protocol, yet he permits the breach.

  The steward lifts the first Cross. Krieg himself pins it just above Hein’s heart, then mine. The mana-stone is unexpectedly warm, a living ember beneath the cloth. Pride swells—genuine, fierce, and startling. Proof I am not numb anymore.

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  With another finger flick, two straight-backed chairs are whisked into place behind us. Krieg circles the nobles’ table to his crimson seat, and a rustle of parchment and braid accompanies the hall’s collective descent. He gestures, wordless. We sit.

  Krieg nods toward the stocky general seated nearest the campaign map. The man rises, clears his throat, and addresses us through clenched command presence.

  “Majors. Your daring strike has granted High Command a window: the diplomats will attempt a cease-fire, perhaps even peace.” His inflection makes his skepticism clear. “Your concern, however, is elsewhere.”

  He taps a parchment. “You will spearhead Operation Zenith—the Union’s first expeditionary foothold across the ocean in the so-called New World. Your mandate: landfall, secure a perimeter, erect a forward base, and hold until civilian governance arrives. No retreats. No rescues expected for six months.” His jaw works as if chewing glass. “Questions will be answered after departure.”

  Unease ripples through the left-hand table: seasoned officers exchanging the look men reserve for the condemned. Across the aisle, nobles trade thin, victorious smiles—as though they’ve just nudged inconvenient pieces off their polished board. Marshal Krieg’s mouth curves, not mocking but satisfied, as if he approves the test ahead.

  “Majors—stand.” The Marshal’s voice slams down like a portcullis. We spring upright. “Serve the Union to the utmost. Dismissed.”

  We salute, pivot, and leave in lockstep—two beats, right-left, out. Efficiency honed by war.

  Only once the heavy doors seal behind us do our shoulders finally sag—but not for long. The same white-gilded attendants appear as if conjured, gliding across a courtyard stained gold by the setting sun. They escort us past manicured lawns to a newly built brick barracks reserved for senior officers. Three stories, neat rows of mullioned windows, lanterns already flickering to life.

  At the second floor the attendants bow and melt away. Hein and I exchange a wordless stare, exhaustion overtaking adrenaline.

  “Later,” we agree, voices frayed.

  My quarters prove Spartan yet comfortable: iron-framed bed in the far right corner, writing desk opposite, tall window centered between. A small tiled bath hides behind a sliding door. On the crisp blanket lies a sealed envelope, wax stamped with a stylized sunrise.

  OPERATION ZENITH

  —For immediate eyes only—

  Bedtime reading for a pair of freshly minted Majors—and the first step toward a frontier that might kill us… or set us free.

  I strip off the parade blues, let them puddle on the chair, and make for the bath. Hot water hisses from brass taps, carrying the faint ozone tingle of mana filtration—luxury compared to trench-life mud. I soak until my skin pinks, then drag on the linen nightwear laid out for officers: loose ivory shirt, drawstring trousers, nothing fancy but softer than anything I’ve worn in what felt like months—more like a week almost two. One grunt, two thuds, and I sink into the mattress. Heaven.

  A bedtime story, then.

  I tear open the wax seal; inside is a thick stapled dossier and a slimmer envelope marked Operational Orders — Zenith. The dossier comes first: twenty-odd pages of history, geography, and politely worded warnings. I skim.

  The Setting

  ? Target landmass: New Alysia—a name that strikes me as arrogantly central, considering the Union has seven member states and neither Hein nor this body were born in the kingdom of Alysia proper.

  ? Strategic value: rumored veins of high-grade mana-stone, purity levels off the current charts. Whoever taps them first controls the next century.

  ? Indigenous hazards: fauna classified as “monstrosities.” No sketches, only casualty ratios. Comforting.

  ? Climate: coastal rain belts giving way to dense interior jungle and basalt highlands. Temperature swings described as “extreme.” Bring everything.

  A sidebar recaps why every foreign empire has tried to bite off a piece of Aresia: our continent is the last solid footing before the jump to New Alysia. Whoever controls us controls the staging ground. The new landmass was first sighted a century ago, but sail-powered expeditions made it only by miracle—contrary currents, cyclonic mana-storms, and shifting reefs turned follow-up voyages into ship-graveyards. Ninety years ago crystal engineers unveiled the first mana-boats: hulls driven by a single melon-sized mana-stone core—dense, potent, but crushingly heavy. Scaling up isn’t as simple as “load more fuel.” Double the crystal and you double dead-weight; triple it and the hull wallows like a barge, cancelling the extra range. Until lighter, purer ore is mined in New Alysia, we’re stuck at that crude equilibrium—and so the scramble to plant a flag.

  Our Orders

  1. Embark with the 3rd Expeditionary Logistics Corps in ten days.

  2. Make landfall at Charted Cove Theta-Seven (latitude and longitude helpfully blurred by ink blot).

  3. Construct Fort Everwake: palisade, mana-shield pylons, field workshops, and a beacon tower for long-range relay.

  4. Scout and confirm at least three mana-stone deposits within a three-hundred-kilometre radius — metric, huh.

  5. Hold and defend for six months—minimum—until civilian miners and a provisional governor arrive.

  I lay the papers on my chest and stare up at a plain plaster ceiling, the room’s lone mana-lamp casting soft halos that drift along hairline cracks. Monsters, storms, untamed mana—they excite me; maybe I’m turning into a battle-junkie after all.

  Across the wall, Hein’s bedframe creaks; he’s no doubt wading through his own packet. Tomorrow we’ll trade notes and try to make sense of the supply checklist—maybe even rough-sketch what a fort should look like. Hein’s experience will have to paper over the gaps in my knowledge.

  I let the dossier slip to the floor, close my eyes, and—just before sleep claims me—whisper a half-formed thought to the dark:

  “New world, new thrills.”