Mobilization for total war.

  Such a thing hadn't come to pass upon Aeltheryl for many thousands of years, not since the long age when the planet had first been gathered into one realm beneath a single crown and law.

  In all that time there had been, it is true, the occasional clash far out in the dark reaches of the cosmos, against foreign existences whether they were ordered and speaking peoples with cities of their own, or wandering creatures born of the void and knowing no hearth nor home. Yet these encounters had always been undertaken in cautious foresight, as acts of preservation made before danger could grow teeth and hunger.

  For the Imperium, through long centuries of watchful strength, had chosen a path of seclusion, turning its gaze inward and keeping the wider galaxy at arm’s length.

  Therefore the change, when it came, struck like a sudden winter storm upon a land grown used to gentle seasons. From the highest spire to the humblest dwelling, there was scarcely a soul who didn't feel the jolt of it, and few indeed who could at first comprehend its full meaning.

  With little delay, the Imperial Fleet was drawn forth and ordered into its complete array of war.

  Those who had long since set aside their arms were called back to service, reservists answering the summons to stand beside the draconic hosts that ruled the spaces between the stars. Men and women took leave of hearth and kin, clasping hands and making promises spoken with brave voices, that one day they would return and meet again. Yet in the quiet of their hearts, many wondered whether such vows would ever be fulfilled, or whether fate would prove too heavy a burden.

  The very heavens seemed to darken in those days, as dragons rose in numbers beyond counting, their vast bodies and beating wings tearing through the upper airs until they blotted out the light of the system’s star.

  These were ancient beings, many of whom had slept in deep hibernation for centuries unnumbered, their names half forgotten even in learned chronicles. Though mighty, their stature was still lesser when set beside the First Bond, and in comparison their long lives were but echoes. Now they stirred at a call older than memory, an ancestral urge that pressed upon them like a command written into bone and flame, driving them to fulfill the last and only purpose left to their long-spanned years.

  Across the planet, the great industrial parks turned and groaned as their works were reshaped, lines of craft and manufacture redirected to serve the demands of war.

  The labour force swelled as any who could work were drawn in, hands both skilled and unskilled set to tasks of forging, assembling, and provisioning. Though no rationing yet weighed upon the people, careful plans had already been drawn and sealed away, ready to be enacted should scarcity demand it.

  In households numbering in the billions, a mingled feeling began to rise, like a slow boil beneath a covered pot. Courage and resolve stirred there, but so too did worry, doubt, and a quiet dissatisfaction that couldn't easily be spoken aloud.

  This was true in the dwellings of the lower castes no less than in the halls of the imperial household itself. None could say with certainty what this coming war would demand of them, nor whether readiness of spirit could truly meet the trials ahead.

  Aeltheryl itself had awakened to the call of conflict, and so too had every other holding of the Imperium within the bounds of the solar system.

  Though the Imperium had long refused the path of outward conquest, the system under its care was already widely colonized. No other world matched the homeworld in gentle habitability, yet habitats had been raised with careful craft, like Caeloryn, upon astral bodies wherever life might be sustained by skill and foresight.

  The Imperial Fleet took station among these places, turning them into fortified bastions, each prepared to face an enemy from whatever quarter it might come. Plans laid down centuries ago were at last unsealed and set in motion, contingencies once deemed distant now stepping into their destined hour. Secret works, long hidden and funded with singular intent, were revealed for the purpose they had always served.

  Thus stood the Aerendyl Imperium, armed and awakened, ready to meet whatever was yet to come.

  ???

  Caeloryn was not an exception, or rather it stood at the farthest reach of what an exception might be, so distant from the common rule that it could scarcely be counted alongside it.

  Seralyth beheld these changes not with her own eyes, but through the senses of Saeryn, who swam with steady grace through the moon’s thin exosphere, where light thinned into darkness and the curve of the small astral body lay clear beneath. The outer reaches of space about that modest moon had altered greatly since the days of their first arrival, and the difference was plain even to one who remembered how it once had been.

  Gone were the earlier times when Saeryn and the other hatchlings had been allowed to roam where they wished, darting and circling in youthful freedom.

  Now they were held to a single region, the space directly above the institute, and beyond that boundary they were not permitted to stray. All other reaches were claimed by the fleet dragons, who filled the void with ordered motion as they kept watch, practiced formations, and carried out their drills without pause.

  The institute itself had been reshaped into something like a military stronghold. Its halls and chambers no longer favoured distant theory and careful speculation, but were given over instead to trials and experiments meant to serve the coming battle as swiftly as possible.

  This change did not end at the walls, but flowed downward to the cadets, whose already strict regimen was hardened further until it became nothing less than full conscription.

  Beyond the institute, the rest of Caeloryn was transformed all the same. It stood at once as a supply hub, a fortress, and an outpost, each purpose laid atop the others. The population of the moon swelled rapidly with the daily arrival of new personnel and of dragons assigned to strengthen the defences. Even when some were later sent onward to other holdings within the solar system, the numbers never truly lessened, for the stream of arrivals didn't cease.

  In the midst of all these doings, Seralyth wasn't allowed the comfort of standing idle, nor even the small mercy of quiet waiting. Among the many charges, preparations, and ordered obligations already set upon her, there came at last a summons, calling her to meet with Veyron, who had at length carved a narrow hollow in his crowded hours wherein he would receive her.

  The message itself was spare, written without ornament or gracious turn of phrase beyond what duty required, and this plainness told her a fair measure of the man’s habits and temper before ever she set foot within his presence.

  “Excuse me.”

  As she crossed the threshold, Seralyth drew in her resonance, folding it inward with practiced care, until the low thrumming chorus of shared perception dwindled to a banked ember. In its stead her ordinary senses came to the fore, anchoring her step by step as she entered the office set apart from the greater halls.

  The chamber bore the stamp of the military beyond any doubt. Its walls were fashioned of stone alloy, bare and unsoftened, broken only by a pair of mounted projection plates scored with narrow runic channels. A heavy desk of dark composite stood at the centre, its surface arranged with meticulous intention.

  “Your Highness. Good, you’re early. We lack much time.”

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  Veyron sat behind the desk, his shoulders squared and his bearing rigid as set stone. When he lifted his eyes to Seralyth, they measured her rather than welcoming her presence. Though his words carried approval, the air about him remained taut with discipline and restraint.

  Seralyth inclined her head and stepped fully into the room. The door sealed behind her with a muted sound, as though the wider world had been gently but firmly shut away. Along with that sound came a faint ripple of sensation, a subdued curiosity edged with unease, as the dragon sampled the impressions flowing through Seralyth’s senses and the remnants of her resonance.

  “I was told this would be instructional,” Seralyth said. “I thought it prudent not to delay.”

  “That’s an understandable assessment.”

  Veyron rose from his chair in one smooth, economical motion, wasting neither effort nor time. He gestured toward the seat opposite the desk, extending two fingers in a precise downward sign that left no room for ceremony.

  “Sit. What we discuss today concerns function, not form.”

  Seralyth complied without pause. She took the offered chair and folded her hands before her, her posture straight, composed, and attentive, as one prepared to learn rather than to contest.

  Leaving the desk, Veyron moved toward the projection plates set into the wall. He laid his palm against one, and the magitech answered at once. Pale lines of light ran along the etched sigils, and the air before the stone began to shimmer, as if stirred by an unseen breath.

  Slowly, a three-dimensional image unfolded, revealing a vast map of space shaped by layered sigils and glowing markers. Stars burned with a steady, muted light. Arcing vectors shifted and adjusted. Regions of influence were traced in calm, unwavering hues.

  “You are aware,” Veyron began, “That fleet doctrine rests upon predictability. Lines of advance. Fields of engagement. Mutual support between wings and formations. Order is our strength.”

  As he spoke, the projection responded to his words. Tight formations brightened and moved in disciplined paths, advancing in careful arcs. Seralyth watched them closely, her gaze keen. She had studied such diagrams before, but never had they seemed so immediate, so alive with intent and consequence.

  “And irregularities are liabilities,” she added.

  The words carried along the bond. Saeryn stirred at them, a faint bristling of defiance rising like a low growl beneath still water. Seralyth felt it and answered with a gentle pressure of will, calming it and drawing it back to quiet attention.

  “In most cases.” Veyron inclined his head by a fraction. “They disrupt command, complicate coordination, and invite failure if they’re not tightly constrained.”

  With a careful motion of his hand, he altered the display. Several formations dimmed and broke apart, their orderly paths unraveling, while a few solitary points flared into sharp brilliance. These moved alone, cutting across the structured advance like sparks snatched up by a wandering wind.

  “In most cases,” he said again, and then turned to face her fully. “You are such an irregularity.”

  The words settled with weight, yet there was no rebuke in them. Seralyth met his gaze without flinching. She had expected nothing else.

  “Because of the inverted bond.”

  “Indeed,” Veyron said, and nodded once.

  He extended a hand toward the projection, and one of the bright points swelled and unfolded, resolving into a layered depiction of dragon and pilot bound together by intersecting sigils.

  “And because of what that bond allows you to do. Your mobility. Your independent striking power. The manner in which you operate beyond conventional fleet cohesion.”

  Seralyth felt Saeryn’s attention sharpen at once. Through the thinning veil of resonance, it perceived the shifting lights and ordered symbols, drawing meaning from Seralyth’s understanding. Fast. Alone. Dangerous. A flicker of pride stirred within it, tempered by an instinctive wariness that didn't wholly fade.

  “In a full doctrinal engagement,” said Veyron, and his voice went on evenly as if he were reciting a lesson long learned, “A fleet does not turn upon a single blade, nor does it hinge upon one sharp thrust alone. It advances together, as a body with many limbs and a single purpose. Yet within that moving body there come certain hours when pressure must be laid upon one place only, and it must be laid with care, with swiftness, and without forewarning.”

  As he spoke he reached forth his hand and set one finger upon a single glowing point in the air. At once the crafted vision answered him. The greater motion all about it was stilled, as if time itself had paused, while that lone marker burned more brightly than before, steady and intent.

  “That,” he said, indicating it plainly, “Is where you’d be deployed.”

  Seralyth looked upon the image and said nothing. In her mind she felt the burden of that single light, standing alone amid wide and ordered hosts. It lay neither at the heart of the formation nor safely behind its strength, but was set ahead of all others, cast forward into places not yet known.

  “You are not a vanguard,” Veyron continued, and there was no rise or fall in his tone. “Nor are you held in reserve. You won’t stand to hold lines, nor will you trade blow for blow until strength is spent. Your office is strategic disruption.”

  “Disruption,” Seralyth said in turn, giving the word its due importance. “Do elaborate.”

  “Removal of obstacles.” As he spoke those words, the vision shifted once more. Signs of the enemy came into being, gathered about centres of command and along the paths of supply. One after another they were struck through by sudden and certain flashes, clean and final. “The breaking of enemy command. The taking or denial of key sectors at the turning points of battle. The ending of assets whose continued existence would tip the struggle against us.”

  His eyes returned to her, steady and unblinking. “You are not sent to places where survival is assured. You are sent to places where delay would cost us the field entirely.”

  A slow breath passed from Seralyth. The meaning of his words settled within her, not as fear, but as a deep pressure, like stone laid upon stone. Along the bond Saeryn answered, its thought rising fierce and bright. It was ready to meet danger face on. She answered to it with calm.

  “And extraction?” she asked aloud. “Am I expected to withdraw without aid?”

  “In many cases, yes.” Veyron did not alter his expression. Again he changed the vision, and it showed the bright point striking true and then passing away into the empty reaches beyond the knowing of sensors.

  “Support may be set in place, but you can’t depend upon it. Your success will rest upon speed, upon discretion, and upon the skill to disengage before the enemy can answer in force.”

  He paused for a moment, no longer moving his hands, and then added in the same measured voice, “For this reason, you won’t operate alone forever.”

  Seralyth’s attention sharpened at once. “You imply a unit.”

  “A small one,” said Veyron. The vision drew itself inward, until only a handful of markers remained, moving together in close accord, each aware of the others. “Chosen with care. Not an ornament, and not a comfort set in place to lift spirits. Those selected must act alone when needed, adapt swiftly to change, and remain bound together under conditions most severe.”

  Saeryn’s presence pressed nearer now, its curiosity alight. The dragon was curious about those that might fight with them. Seralyth gave it no answer yet, for she was still listening.

  “And how will they be chosen?” she asked.

  “Through observation,” Veyron replied, letting his hand fall back to his side. “Through testing. Through failure, in some instances. Compatibility is not born of feeling. It’s a matter of function.”

  Seralyth inclined her head once. There was no romance in such words, and for that reason she trusted them the more.

  “And Saeryn?” she asked more quietly. “How is it regarded within this doctrine?”

  For the first time, Veyron did not speak at once. His gaze rested upon her, as if he could see the resonance that bound dragon and companion together.

  “As part of you,” he said at last. “And as a force of great multiplying effect. The young dragon presence changes how threats are considered, how far engagements may reach, and how swiftly responses must come. These matters will be accounted for.”

  Saeryn felt the meaning of those words, though their full shape escaped it. Counted. Measured. Used. Its unease rippled along the bond, keen but held in check.

  “But understand this,” Veyron went on, and though his voice hardened, it did so only a little. “You will not be deployed without care. Strategic assets are not spent in haste. They are placed where their influence reshapes the field entire.”

  Seralyth felt the truth of that settle into her bones. There was no promise of safety within it, only purpose and intent.

  “I see,” she said. “And my preparation?”

  “You’ll learn to read battles before they come to pass,” Veyron answered. With one last motion, the vision showed many branching paths, outcomes shifting as small changes of timing and placement were made. “You’ll learn to see when one deed outweighs a thousand volleys. You’ll study defeats as closely as triumphs. And you’ll accept that hesitation, in your appointed role, costs lives you’ll never behold.”

  The bond drew tight. Saeryn shrank from that thought, and a flash of anger and guarding instinct rose within it. Its free spirit struggled against the restrictions. Seralyth steadied it, her resolve unshaken.

  “I accept that burden,” she said aloud. “If it serves the Imperium.”

  Veyron inclined his head, no more than was needed to mark her answer.

  “Good. In this time of need, I’m afraid that was not a request, Your Highness. Yet it’s better when understanding comes before necessity.”

  The crafted light faded, and the sigils of magitech sank back into still and lifeless lines. The chamber returned to its spare quiet, and it seemed colder now without the glow of imagined wars.

  “You are dismissed,” said Veyron. “We’ll continue next, and move from theory into practice.”

  Seralyth rose to her feet. She drew her composure about her as one might set a cloak upon the shoulders, smoothing it into the calm she knew so well.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  She turned and went from the office. When the door had closed behind her, Saeryn’s presence pressed close again, fierce and watchful. Before them lay a road neither had sought, yet now it stood plain and measured, set out with care, offering no gentleness and allowing no turning aside.

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