Cronus, Eastern Cliffs – Dawn
The wind howled across the jagged cliffs of Cronus, salty and sharp with the scent of blood yet to be spilled.
"Master," Virgil Quinn said, his voice low but clear as he approached, "our men received a transmission from Operation: Mirror's Edge. They've located Lance Sterling."
Gabriel Aurelius stood on the cliff's edge, his gold-lined coat snapping in the wind. Hands folded behind his back, his gaze stretched far across the horizon where black dots broke against the silver sea—thousands of enemy boats approaching like a tide of rot.
"But we have no support to offer," he said. His voice held no regret, only calculation. "Tell them to wait for air support. That's the best we can do."
Virgil nodded and vanished into the bunkers below.
Gabriel's eyes stayed on the horizon, where swarms of attack planes screamed overhead—shadowing the rising sun.
"It's a great thing we managed to replicate their firearms in time, wouldn't you say, Julian?" he asked, not turning.
Julian Veiss stepped into view beside him, arms behind his back in perfect mirroring posture. "It is time we destroy the Astorian army. Once they're gone, you'll hold up my deal, right?"
Gabriel smiled, faint and cold. "Of course."
Without another word, Julian stepped off the cliff—falling like a blade toward the chaos below.
⸻
Cronus Beach – Defensive Line Alpha
The beach had been transformed into a fortress of steel and stone.
Sandbags were stacked in thick rows—three layers deep—with wooden bunkers reinforcing the rear. Barbed wire coiled across the shoreline in uneven paths, the jagged metal glinting like hungry teeth in the dawn light.
Caltrops and crude mana-disruptor mines dotted the narrow strips between dunes. Sharp wooden spikes jutted from shallow pits carved into the earth—camouflaged by sheets of netting and branches.
Dominic Sinclair paced along the forward trench line, the heels of his boots clapping against the hard-packed mud. Soldiers stood at attention, their uniforms drenched in sweat despite the cold air, their new rifles—Astorian replicas—held tightly to their chests.
"Ready arms!" Dominic shouted. A ripple moved through the trench as hundreds of rifles snapped into firing position.
He turned sharply toward the command pit, where engineers huddled around a half-assembled tripod weapon.
"Are the machine guns ready?" he barked.
"Just prototypes, sir," one officer answered. "Mana-fed, untested under strain."
Dominic's gaze hardened. "Good enough. Set them up in staggered intervals—three per ridge. Line the cliffs. I want overlapping fields of fire. If they breach the first layer, we bury them in the second."
"Yes, sir!"
Above, wooden towers rose from the cliffs—archers and spotters stationed at the top, binoculars and enchanted lenses scanning the waterline. Mages flanked each tower's base, each cloaked in charcoal black, readying spells to heat the water, rip the air, and rend flesh when the first wave hit.
At the highest ridge, siege ballistae were locked in place—geared with massive bolts lined with explosive runes. Smoke from the forges behind the ridge painted the sky with a constant haze, and the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal rang like a funeral march.
The sea churned as the first wave neared.
Hundreds of boats closed in—metal and wood, painted black, sails lowered. They came in rows. Ten wide. Fifty deep.
Dominic raised a hand.
"Hold."
The water roared. Thunder cracked—not from the sky, but from the approaching planes behind the fleet.
Muffled prayers leaked from trembling lips.
Beneath the sand, enchantments pulsed—mana circuits drawn into the beach's bedrock began to glow. Defensive glyphs. Concealed artillery ports.
Dominic's hand dropped. "Fire!"
The cliffs came alive.
Ballistae launched with the howl of dying beasts, trailing fire. The first bolts smashed through the front line of boats—wood and flesh erupting skyward in showers of splinters and blood.
Gunfire echoed from the trenches, a rolling wall of noise that swallowed the beach. Tracer rounds painted arcs across the sky.
And yet, still, the boats advanced.
The battlefield was fire and thunder.
Gunfire howled through the air. Trenches roared with spells and steel. Smoke curled into black towers along the horizon.
Then, without warning, the wind shifted.
The air thickened. A deep, unnatural fog rolled in from the sea, swallowing sound and light alike. Visibility dropped in seconds. Men stumbled through the mist, coughing, losing their bearings.
Something rumbled overhead. A low, droning growl—like a leviathan stirring in the sky.
Julian turned toward the sound, flanking Dominic near the forward command tower.
"What the hell is that?"
"I can't see it," Dominic said, narrowing his eyes. "But something massive is coming."
The fog trembled. Thunder cracked—but not from the clouds.
A roar like a god's breath tore across the sky. Through the mist, a jagged silhouette began to form—steel and magic interlocked in a monstrous frame.
Then came the rain.
Bolts of pure mana lit the fog from within, striking down in jagged torrents. The first barrage landed squarely on the forward trenches—an entire row of bunkers vaporized in an instant. Screams followed, broken and short.
The mist burned away, and the sky unveiled its monster.
An airship.
Not a floating galleon or a retrofitted cruiser—but a fortress in the sky.
It loomed with jagged armor plates and rotating mana cannons mounted across its hull. Turbines thrummed like heartbeats. Giant glowing runes along its spine pulsed with enough energy to blind anyone who stared too long. It moved with unnatural grace—far too fast for something so big.
Below, soldiers screamed orders. Some ran. Others dropped to their knees and prayed. Dominic's jaw clenched as he watched the forward line collapse under the sheer force of the bombardment.
"We're not equipped for this," he muttered, half to himself.
⸻
On the Cliffs Above
Gabriel stood unmoving, watching the sky erupt. His golden coat rippled in the wind, eyes locked onto the monstrous ship.
Then, like meteors breaking free, two armored figures dropped from the vessel's hull. Trails of condensed mana spiraled in their wake.
They slammed into the cliffside with thunderous force, stone cracking beneath their boots.
The two knights rose—each clad in dense silver armor, polished to a shine. Mana-core reactors hummed across their chests. Their capes bore the imperial crest, tattered but proud.
Each drew a heavy weapon—one carried a war axe with a mirrored edge, the other a long polearm tipped with an energy-forged blade.
One stepped forward. "By order of the Imperial High Command, you are to be executed, Gabriel Aurelius."
The second added, "I am Commander Elias Varn. This is Knight-Captain Hale. Surrender, and your death will be swift."
The wind screamed across the cliff.
Jagged stone jutted out beneath Gabriel's boots, rough and uneven. The cliffside dropped steeply behind him, overlooking the chaos below—airship bombardments reducing the beaches of Cronus to ash. The sky glowed orange from distant firestorms. Smoke trailed high into the heavens, blackening the clouds.
The two knights stood ten paces from Gabriel. Their silver armor shimmered faintly in the overcast light, built like walking bunkers. Steam hissed from vents along their backs. Their capes snapped in the wind—blue and gold, royal standard.
They moved in tandem, spreading out slightly. Trying to flank him.
"Nothing personal," said Commander Elias, voice low and grating beneath his helmet. He dragged his mirrored war axe through the dirt. "But the Empire demands your death."
Knight-Captain Hale planted his polearm into the stone. A pulse of blue mana surged along the shaft. "We were chosen for this. You die here."
Gabriel sighed, lips parting just barely. "Show me, then."
Elias charged first.
His boots cracked the ground with each step. His axe swung in a brutal arc meant to cleave Gabriel in half. Gabriel didn't dodge—not immediately. He waited, watched, then tilted his body at the last second. The axe missed his face by an inch, slicing through air.
Gabriel reached out and caught Elias' arm mid-swing.
CRACK.
The force sent a ripple down Elias' frame. His footing nearly slipped.
"Too rigid," Gabriel said, as if critiquing a student. "Your balance's off."
Then Hale came.
His polearm struck like a spear of light, jabbing toward Gabriel's spine. Gabriel let go of Elias and twisted with a dancer's grace, parrying the strike with the flat of his golden blade. Sparks danced off the impact.
Hale pressed forward—three thrusts in quick succession. Sharp. Controlled.
Gabriel parried each with minimal movement. He shifted only what was necessary. His coat swayed with each turn, but his feet never moved. He was planted like a statue.
"A bit better," Gabriel said to Hale. "You think while you fight."
Hale stepped back cautiously. Elias came in again with a horizontal swing—this time, faster, sharper.
Gabriel caught it on his blade and held it there. Steel shrieked against steel.
"You're strong. But strength alone bores me."
He kicked Elias in the stomach. The knight flew back, skidding across the stone, armor scraping sparks from the cliff's edge.
Hale let out a cry and leapt, his polearm spinning overhead—mana surging from the tip like a drill.
Gabriel raised his sword with one hand.
Their weapons collided.
The mana burst outward in a blinding flash, vaporizing part of the cliff behind them. Rocks tumbled into the sea. The shockwave blew back Gabriel's hair—but he remained unmoved.
"You're trying too hard," he said. "You fight like someone with something to prove."
He ducked under Hale's next swing, stepped inside the knight's guard, and slammed the pommel of his sword into Hale's helmet—hard enough to rattle his brains.
Hale stumbled. Gabriel grabbed his armor and hurled him toward Elias, who was rising again.
The two crashed into each other.
"Still alive?" Gabriel asked, almost impressed. "Good."
They rose slowly this time, armor dented, breath labored. Elias wiped blood from his lip. Hale's polearm sparked where it had been cracked along the edge.
They stood shoulder to shoulder.
"I've killed men stronger than you," Elias said, voice hoarse. "But none colder."
Gabriel gave him a slight smile. "And I've killed men louder than you. But none slower."
This time, they attacked together.
Coordinated. Desperate.
Elias swung high, Hale went low.
Gabriel danced between the strikes, pivoting and spinning—not dodging, gliding. The cliff rang with the sound of steel on stone, of metal crashing against mana, of power wasted on someone who didn't need to try.
Then Gabriel struck back.
A short slash to Elias' knee joint—armor cracked, the man faltered.
A spinning parry to Hale's next strike—he used the polearm's momentum to whip the knight sideways and slam him into the cliff wall.
Elias rushed in once more.
Gabriel's sword flashed. This time, it cut deep.
The axe fell from Elias' hands. He dropped to his knees, blood trickling down the inside of his armor.
"Why…?" Elias choked out.
"You're not what I'm looking for," Gabriel said quietly. "You were never meant to reach me."
Hale tried to rise one last time.
Gabriel moved in a blink.
His blade pierced Hale's chest with a clean, brutal thrust. Through the heart. Out the back.
The knight's eyes went wide. He gasped once, then fell.
The wind returned. The smoke rolled higher.
Gabriel cleaned his blade with a lazy flick, the blood steaming as it hit the scorched stone.
He turned back toward the sea of fire below.
"Two knights," he said, to no one in particular. "Still no kings."