Rain fell in heavy sheets, cloaking the immense, weather-worn sails of a grand warship suspended in the sky. At its prow loomed a massive, ornately carved wooden sea serpent—its snarling face carved in intricate detail, fangs bared mid-snarl, its coiled body wrapping down the flanks of the hull like a mythic guardian. The creature wasn’t a mere figurehead—it was etched into the ship itself, its form engraved from stern to stern like the ghost of a monster bound to the vessel in eternal service. Shades of burnished mahogany and amber stretched across its sleek frame, only occasionally visible between plates of polished dragonsteel and the black-mouthed cannon ports that protruded like teeth from beneath rows of armored windows. 39Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc6fidcFAyh
Draconic wing-like appendages jutted from the starboard and port sides, with additional stabilizers extending from beneath the vessel. This was no ship of the sea—it soared on power ancient and arcane. Beneath the ship, its mana engine pulsed, distorting the air with violent gravitational ripples. Jet-like exhausts jutted from beneath the hull, each adorned with jagged, crystalized shards—diamond-shaped cores glowing faintly with ethereal blue light. The warship, known as Tiamat, lead vessel of the Empire’s Second Skyfleet Division, hovered above the harbor city of Mystwood Bay, its presence like a god's judgment poised to fall.
Though it was the break of Dawntide, no sunlight pierced the storm-heavy clouds. The sky hung thick and gray, veiling the heavens in a shroud of ash and mist. The engines of the Tiamat whirred with a deep, resonant hum as the great vessel slowed to a hover above the city gates of Mystwood Bay. Beneath it, the farmland and outer fields sprawled outward, soaked in rain and echoing with the thunder of marching formations.
Arrayed with precision were the legions of the Empire—ranks of soldiers flanking siege engines, mana-powered ballistae, and ward-bearing mages. Across the field, an equally vast host stood in defiance, their armor familiar brandishing identical banners belonging to the empire. Above them loomed another skyship, equally grand in stature, though its bow bore not a serpent—but a sculpted Roc, wings flared and beak bared in defiance. The two ships floated opposite each other in the sky, suspended in defiance of gravity, like ancient giants caught in a moment of mutual challenge.
Thousands of warriors stood in hushed silence, their breath fogging in the cold morning air. Two men stood as lone sentinels atop their respective figureheads—high above the world, facing one another through the rain.
“It’s nice of you to greet me so formally, Commander,” one of them called out, his voice gliding on the wind like a siren’s hymn. “You can collect your men, and we’ll escort you to the capital to answer His Majesty’s summons.”
A wry smile tugged at his lips as his long blond ponytail lashed in the stormwind, his crimson cloak flaring like a banner of blood.
The wind carried his words across the chasm of sky to the man standing atop the figurehead of the Tiamat. His hair—amber-red and tousled—hung just long enough to brush past his brow and ears, poking from beneath a dark leather headband soaked in rain. Without hesitation, he called back across the void, his voice sharp as tempered steel.
“If the Emperor desires counsel, he’s welcome to descend from his gilded throne and visit Mystwood himself—instead of sending his favorite hound.”
From atop the Roc’s beak, the other man laughed—a thunderous, cutting sound that echoed down to the soldiers below. His grin widened as he answered with just the right note of venomous mirth.
“You flatter me, Commander Vaelyn. If I’m the Emperor’s dog… then what does that make you? A rat, perhaps? At least a dog remains loyal to his master. A rat, however… gnaws through the very foundations it once swore to protect.”
Vaelyn smiled coldly, his eyes narrowing against the wind. “Then call me a rat, if you must. Rats are free creatures. No leash. No crown. No lies woven in gold.”
Still smirking, the man with the blonde ponytail countered, “You can still keep your whore as a mistress, Vaelyn. The Empire’s not asking you to abandon her—only to marry wisely. The first princess of Sruata is no common girl. She comes with an entire kingdom in tow—rich lands, rare resources, and Dwarven-forged infrastructure already built. The Emperor offered you more than a bride. He offered you a future, a throne across the sea. Rejecting it isn’t just foolish…”
His tone dropped like a blade. “It’s treason. And traitors die alone.”
Vaelyn, still perched atop the Tiamat’s carved head, called back, voice unwavering even as thunder rolled in the distance.
“That’s a fine proposal, brother… but my heart belongs to the people of Mystwood. I am no pawn to be shuffled across the board of politics, and neither are they. Mystwood is not a token to be bartered—nor is Mira some prize to be discarded. I will remain here, as was decreed, and rule in service to my people.”
He paused just long enough for his words to cut deep, then added, “Mira will stay in my bed, and soon enough, she will be my wife… High Commander Aryn.”
The moment the words reached him, Aryn’s smile withered into a grim line. Rain streaked down his cheeks like blood down steel.
“That demi-hume swine is unfit to marry beneath the banner of the Empire,” he snapped. “You dishonor the throne, insult our father, and spit upon your bloodline with such heresy. Don’t make me drag you back to the capital by the ear like the child you still are… in front of all your loyal little soldiers.”
A long silence swelled between them. Rain whispered against the sails, the sound like the breath of the dead.
Then, quietly but resolutely, Vaelyn spoke.
“My mind is made. You and Father are more than welcome to attend the wedding. Mother’s already given her blessing. And one day… one day, even Father will come to see reason—he will unshackle the laws that bind demi-humes and beastfolk like slaves.”
He placed a hand over his heart.
“Our union will be the first step toward something greater. A future built not on conquest, but coexistence. With Mystwood at the center, we’ll reclaim what was lost after the fall of Enos… and rebuild not just our Empire—but our humanity. And regain the trust of our former demi and beast allies across the seas.”
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With venom laced in every syllable, Aryn snapped, “You reek of naivety when you speak so fondly of a nation of dragon-loving traitors. You were still suckling at a nursemaid’s breast when we razed their cities to ash. You couldn’t have possibly grasped the intricacies of their treachery—or the politics that damned them.”
Vaelyn smiled coolly, unshaken. “And yet, through that same education you so often tout, I learned the gods crafted the demi-humes and beastfolk in the same breath as purebloods. They were granted the same spark, the same soul—as Man, Elf, or Dwarf.”
Aryn’s voice cut through the air like a blade sliding between ribs, venomous and loud, “They are not our equals. They are mockeries of the divine, born of lustful union with the deceivers of the underworlds. That is why their shadows walk cursed, doppelgangers twisting through the afterworld and plaguing our lands with ruin. They defiled our bloodlines, birthed monstrous hybrids that now fester in our cities like rot. They are not a people to protect, but a plague to be purged.”
He turned, fury bubbling at the edge of his composure. “By Dusktide, she will be a corpse—and you will be shackled in a spire, rotting until Father decides whether to burn or bury you.”
Aryn stormed to his deck officer and hissed, “As much as it pains me to harm the Tiamat, send it screaming to the depths of the Elmton Deep.”
The officer offered no hesitation. He turned to the crew, voice booming across the deck like thunder, “You heard him, lads! Man the cannons—mages to your marks! Shields up! We’ve a serpent to slay!”
A chorus of roars answered, fierce and shrieking like banshees in the storm, as the rain lashed the deck of the Amber Roc and the crew prepared for war.
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Vaelyn strode swiftly across the rain-slicked deck toward a woman standing beneath one of the ship’s towering masts. “Jynx,” he called, his voice low and urgent. “Stand ready. We will not fire unless fired upon. Mira and most of the city have been evacuated or taken to shelter, so don’t hold back. If they strike first, let the gods sort the wreckage. We can rebuild. But we will not let them take Mystwood.”
Jynx turned to him with a crooked grin stitched permanently into her expression, mischief gleaming in her eyes. She stood barely five and a half feet tall, her long chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders beneath a battered, tri-cornered hat more suited for a pirate queen than a field commander. While the rest of the crew bore the dignified regalia of Imperial order, she wore rebellion like a second skin.
A torn blouse hung haphazardly over her chest, stopping just above her navel, exposing pale skin and a body covered in mismatched belts and ammunition. Her shorts were short—almost indecent, just below her knees were worn black boots that climbed up most her legs. Her clothes were a patchwork of colors, frayed and sun-bleached, partially obscured by a massive black cloak fashioned from the ship’s former battle flag.
Silver, gold, and platinum piercings adorned her slightly downward-angled elven ears, each one embedded with tiny, priceless gemstones that shimmered in the stormlight. Across her chest and hips, a crisscross of leather belts held an arsenal of flintlock pistols, miniature bombs, and vials filled with dubious brews. Two scimitars—curved, jagged, and forged of deep crimson dragonsteel—rested in twin sheaths at her waist.
Clinging to the brim of her hat where a parrot might perch was a sugar glider, brown and white, huddled against the storm.
Jynx let out a roar like thunder, her voice a razor slicing through the downpour. “You heard the man, you sorry cunts! Snipers to their roosts, load the godsdamned cannons, and mages—shields up! If it’s blood they want, then we’ll drown ‘em in it. Let’s send these zealot swine screaming to whatever gods they love so much!”
Both ships abruptly veered in synchronized formation, performing a full one-eighty turn before drifting back toward the front of their respective skyfleets. Below, the tide of soldiers surged inward as both armies closed rank, bracing for the inevitable. Silence loomed like an executioner’s axe—each side waiting, daring the other to strike first.
At the rear of both forces, clusters of robed mages began their incantations, their voices rising in eerie, rhythmic unison. The crystals mounted atop horse-drawn siege wagons flared to life, glowing with a spectral intensity as arcane energy pulsed through them. War machines—hulking, angular silhouettes of iron and timber—stood ready, their munitions loaded, cocked, and aimed skyward.
Riflemen, arbalists, and machinists formed tight battalions at the frontlines, each unit standing with militaristic precision. One row knelt with weapons drawn while the row behind loomed, rifles and bows aimed at the enemy beyond the mist. Behind them, the battle mages and arcane archers stood silent, enchanted arrows already glimmering with barely-contained magic—fire, ice, and void ready to be unleashed at command.
Atop one of Mystwood Bay’s fortified stone walls, an archer broke rank, kneeling to retrieve something that had fallen from his weapon.
“The hells are you doing?” growled the soldier beside him, glancing without turning his head.
“My arcanix crystal fell outta the damn bow again,” the first man muttered, brushing rain from his beard as he picked up the shimmering shard.
“It wouldn’t fall out if you locked it into the socket properly,” the second man replied, voice lowered but edged with sarcasm. “Maybe if you handled your weapon half as well as your wife handles your cock, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The first man elbowed him hard in the ribs, nearly making him loose his arrow. “Shut your godsdamned mouth. This bow’s older than the Empire’s manners and the arcanix doesn’t want to stay in anymore.”
“Maybe it’s tired of you too,” the second man muttered, eyes forward again as the tension thickened like a storm about to break.
Another man leaned over and muttered, “Just hold your finger over it—like this.” He demonstrated with a gloved index finger, pressing it over the crystal embedded in his bow. “Even if it’s not snapped in proper, you keep pressure on it while firing and it’ll still enchant the shot.”
Skeptically, the archer slotted the arcanix crystal back into place, then pressed a finger over it as he drew an arrow. To his surprise, the arrowhead ignited with a thin veil of flame, hissing against the falling rain.
Out of curiosity, he eased the pressure from the crystal—just enough to let it lift from the socket. The flame flickered out instantly, as if snuffed by the storm itself. He pushed the gem back in and the fire reignited, crackling along the steel tip with renewed fury.
“See?” his companion said with a smug grin. “Just don’t let it fall out after you shoot, or you’ll be tossing sticks like a peasant. A good tip to remember—especially if you’re still trying to make a son.”
The archer sighed, unimpressed. Without breaking stance, he drove an elbow into his companion’s side, jarring the man’s draw. The arrow loosed with a sharp twang.
Both men froze.
In that single moment, a chain reaction tore across the wall as the unintended shot was mistaken for a signal.
A hundred archers loosed their arrows in a storm of fire, illuminating the rain-slicked skies with streaks of amber and red. The volley screamed across the battlefield, their magically-enhanced speed blurring them into comets as they tore into the enemy’s front line.
From atop his armored warhorse, the Imperial ground commander reared his steed and bellowed, “The traitors have drawn first blood!” He turned back toward Mystwood and raised his sword high above his head and shouted, “ For the Empire!”
A deafening reply followed as cannon fire and rifle volleys tore across the open field, slamming into Mystwood’s frontline. Gunpowder thunder mixed with the howls of the dying as men were shredded mid-charge. Armor crumpled like parchment, blood misting the air as soldiers were torn apart—some vanishing the moment their corpses struck the ground, leaving only piles of steel, shattered blades, and steaming bloodied boots in their wake.
But death was no longer an end.
Within seconds, those very same soldiers reappeared in spectral plumes of swirling violet and black smoke, their nude forms gasping in shock and pain beside the towering soul-crystals embedded in runic wagons near the rear. Without pause, the resurrected scrambled into canvas-lined tents, hastily donning spare armor and reclaiming weapons before charging back into the fray.
A grizzled field officer snarled from the camp’s edge, “You filthy maggots! You’ve only got so many revivals within the hour before the madness sets in! Lose another set of gear and I’ll let the abyss keep you next time!”
Crossbows and rifles belched fire and fury, their projectiles glowing with enchantment—some igniting midair, others detonating on impact, splintering men and earth alike. Both sides rotated their firing lines like the teeth of a dwarven steam cog, kneeling and rising with grim precision, their volleys relentless and near-synchronous.
Dead men vanished as fast as they fell, only to reappear seconds later—bare, breathless, but burning with renewed hatred.
Behind the lines, the mages chanted with closed eyes, sweat and rain matting their hair to their faces as they fed mana into the revival circles. Rotations of casters stepped in and out, guzzling bitter elixirs and mana flasks to stave off collapse. One misstep, one missed word, and the spell could rupture into arcane backlash, dooming everyone tethered to the ritual.
Through the chaos, those bearing steel stood unshaken—columns of sword and axe and shield awaiting their turn to feast on blood. They did not flinch as bullets screamed past. They did not speak. They were war given form.
Then the sound of hooves split the battlefield.
From the dense shadows of Mystwood Forest came a thunderous charge—cavalry units erupting from the trees, cloaks soaked and lances lowered. They bore the white and blue banners of Valmosa’s imperial crest, the divine ichneumon emblazoned in argent against storm-dark cloth. The ground trembled as they thundered down both flanks of the battlefield, aiming to cleave the lines like a blade through flesh.
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Cannons from above screamed through the skies as Vaelyn’s skyfleet unleashed its opening salvo, raining death upon the onrushing cavalry below. The heavens split with fire and steel—until, just above the charging ranks, a shimmering veil of flame erupted midair. Allied mages, already in trance, wove blazing wards into the storm, crafting a dome of searing heat to catch the hellfire before it reached the earth.
Cannonballs vaporized on impact with the barrier, bursting into steam and molten shrapnel. Some, however, pierced through the veil—jagged iron balls plunging into flesh and soil, obliterating soldiers and horses alike in thunderous bursts of crimson mist and shattered bone. Within seconds, many of the fallen erupted back into being behind their lines, rising nude and gasping in black and violet plumes beside their battalion’s revival crystals—reborn only to be sent charging back into the meatgrinder once more.
The survivors of the cavalry crashed into Mystwood’s forward ranks with terrifying momentum, lances lowered, blades swinging. Steel clashed with bone as they carved into formations of riflemen and arbalists. But amidst the hail of bolts and gunfire, concealed among the second line, stood phalanxes of spear-wielders. As cavalry breached the wall of bolts and smoke, rows of gleaming spears shot upward like the fangs of a waiting wyrm—piercing horses from below, skewering their riders mid-charge.
From the tree line behind the advancing army, monstrous siege engines emerged.
Trebuchets hurled fire-bundled boulders into the air, while catapults flung roiling cauldrons of tar and molten pitch. Ballistae sang their thunderous hymn, aiming not only at the skyships above but at the fortified walls of Mystwood—and worse, at the revival wagons, their glowing crystals pulsing like hearts in the gloom.
Siege towers and battering rams crept forward like predatory beasts through the fog of war, their ironclad wheels churning up mud and corpses as they rolled. Upon each tower’s upper deck stood hooded war sorcerers, conjuring elemental lances of fire and ice—hurling them like divine wrath into the chaos. Where they struck, soldiers were flash-frozen and shattered, or set ablaze until nothing remained but blackened armor and howling embers.
All around, the battlefield drowned beneath a tide of blood, smoke, and screaming steel. The sky bled fire. The earth wept gore.
Defying the laws of gravity, a chorus of skyships soared above the carnage—vessels of differing generations, powered by steam engines, gas-filled blimps, and the arcane breath of mana engines. They hung in the sky like titans in deadlock, their hulls ablaze with the fury of war. Cannons thundered in rhythmic succession, echoing across the clouds in a relentless fury of fire and smoke. Each ship bristled with enchanted defenses—mages stationed at vital junctures, weaving shimmering auras of warding magic to deflect or absorb the storm of incoming spells. Fireballs were met midair by counterspells; cannonballs exploded into steam when met with barriers of enchanted flame.
Tow harpoons—massive, iron-tipped spears tethered to thick chains—launched between vessels, crashing through decks and railings, binding enemy ships together like beasts in a pit fight. Two such ships broke formation, now locked in deadly embrace.
One was the Jörmungandr, the Sea Serpent—its hull coiled with carved scales of polished amberwood, its prows adorned with a snarling serpent’s head, dripping seawater from enchantments etched into its fangs. The other: Strix, the Omen of Darkness—sleek and predatory, shaped like an avian reaper, its sculpted owl visage boasting a beak like a cleaver and wings carved to mirror divine wrath.
Across the iron chains connecting them, soldiers clashed high above the storm—blades singing and sparks flying with every strike, bodies falling only to vanish in midair, their souls drawn back to the ritual crystals on the battlefield below.
From the underbelly of the Strix, its cannons roared again—eviscerating chunks of the Jörmungandr’s hull and punching through its great gas envelope with brutal precision. Though Jörmungandr was driven by a mana engine, it still relied on a secondary blimp system to stay aloft—an older generation skyship, noble but aging.
Crewmen swung from mast to mast like frantic spiders on silk, descending upon the ruptured envelope with buckets of searing tar and bolts of arcane-treated fabric. Scrolls unfurled in the wind, releasing repair charms into the air, desperately trying to mend the shredded skin of the ship. Others—too slow, too bold, or simply unlucky—were caught in the next fusillade, their bodies torn apart by cannon fire or pierced by spell-shattered debris. They plummeted in silence—only to vanish in flares of shadow and reappear on the ground below, reborn in the chaos, rushing once more toward the fray.
Both ships, Jörmungandr and Strix, exchanged blow after devastating blow, carving each other into ruin until they became locked in a spiraling descent—an interlocked death dance, like twin birds of prey tumbling through the skies in their final embrace. Their mana engines, torn beyond salvation, sputtered and howled with tortured resistance, spewing plumes of raw celestial essence across the decks—vapors so pure they scalded flesh and spirit alike. The lower hulls flooded with choking mists, melting skin from bone, as their crews writhed and died where they stood—far above the reach of their side’s resurrection enchantments. No death crystals glimmered here. No salvation waited. Only dissolution.
Beneath the spiraling wreckage and high above the earthbound fray, the very air began to twist and harden. A cloaked figure, hunched on the deck of the dying Jörmungandr, whispered a forbidden incantation—its cadence fast and tight, like the click of teeth in a beast's mouth. The space surrounding the mage shimmered unnaturally. Raindrops curved away, suspended in the air, deflected by an invisible barrier of warped magic.
With a final breath, the spell collapsed in on itself—not with an explosion, but a pulse of reality-shattering silence. A deadening thud rang out like a blown subwoofer, a rupture in the veil of sound and space.
Then came the scream of chaos.
A rift split the sky like torn parchment, belching forth a titanic phoenix wrought from molten rock and writhing flame. Wreathed in smoke and dripping magma, the elemental beast soared into the the storm laden sky with a hellish cry, trailing fire that hissed into steam as it passed through the rain. Its wings unleashed a molten hailstorm upon the advancing imperial legions below, melting steel and vaporizing men where they stood. Then, with a screech that cracked the bones of the heavens, the beast plunged into the Strix.
The impact shattered the ship’s hull, severing its tethers in an instant. The vessel split as if cleaved by a god’s blade. Flaming debris, mangled corpses, and burning embers rained down upon the battlefield, some evaporating midair as they passed through the enchanted boundary of the revival field. Soldiers rematerialized in an instant on the far end of the warfront—naked, wide-eyed, blades already at their throats once more.
As the Jörmungandr descended slowly into the wide river that fed Mystwood Bay, a voice rang out from a nearby enemy skyship’s crow’s nest:39Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ527LVyzWiy
“Moltrez!”
The cry pierced through the storm like a war horn. Mages stationed across the decks below heard the name—a mythic summon rarely dared, even in times of desperation—and immediately began incantations in response, their voices weaving counter-magicks through the air.
Moments later, the clouds above shuddered and parted as a blazing meteor screamed down from the heavens. It wasn’t merely flame—it was living fire, a divine forge wrapped in a comet’s shell, and it fell with vengeful precision toward the wounded Jörmungandr below.
Another mage, standing near the original summoner atop the battered skyship’s deck, threw up a spell of equal recklessness. With a guttural chant, he tore a rift in the air above the ship’s envelope—just as the fiery meteor made contact. The blast scraped across the Jörmungandr’s upper frame, burning the very air around it, then vanished into the rift like a swallowed star.
A breath later, it reappeared—falling from the heavens like divine retribution onto the rear ranks of the enemy’s ground forces near the forest’s edge. The impact annihilated soldiers, splintered siege machines, and—more critically—shattered the crystal-laden wagons responsible for the resurrection enchantment. The flames that followed turned men to shadows and left only glassy craters in the dirt.
Cannons along the Jörmungandr’s exposed upper decks thundered once more, vomiting iron into the broken lines below. Engineers below deck battled a different war—engaged in frantic struggle to keep the lower holds from flooding entirely, diverting water with steam-driven pumps even as the mana engine beneath sputtered and died, its ethercore flooded and sparking. The ship, though grounded, was not yet dead—it drifted slowly down the river, a bruised leviathan leaking blood and fire.
Aboard the Amber Roc, Aryn stood unmoving, eyes locked on the chaos below. He raised a single hand, and one of his summoners immediately stepped forward. Her lips moved with slow precision, voice riding the rhythm of rising winds. With each word, a violent zephyr tore across the sky beneath the Roc, swirling tighter and darker until a bolt of black, miasmic lightning lashed out from a gaping wound in reality.
From the torn void emerged a colossal stone hand—monolithic and glacier-veined—that reached through dimensions and snatched Moltrez mid-flight. Lava hissed against enchanted ice. The flaming phoenix flailed against the grip, its molten blood trailing across the frost golem’s arm, burning away ice and reforming it into blackened, obsidian stone.
The Titan stepped fully through the tear, its size unfathomable, and both it and the bound phoenix plummeted downward in a spiraling crash that obliterated everything beneath. Soldiers from both factions were crushed instantly beneath their fall—no resurrection spells reached them.
Moltrez’s screech tore at the sky, a dying sun caught in the embrace of a god-sized executioner. It burned hotter, brighter—its flame roaring in agony—until with a final, anguished wail, it vanished into a cloud of smoldering violet and black miasma. Nothing remained in the titan’s hand but fire-charred air and silence.
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The titan slowly rose to its feet, unbothered by allegiance or plea, as riflemen and mages from Mystwood’s legion unleashed hell upon it. The frost-born beast, blind to banners, slaughtered both Aryn and Vaelyn’s forces with indiscriminate wrath—crushing bodies beneath its fists in an arctic fury. Rain that dared fall near the creature froze midair, transforming into jagged, javelin-like spears that pierced siege towers and mangonels, bringing them crashing down in splintered ruin.
From above, cannon fire rained down in waves, carving slivers into the titan’s glacial armor with every blast. Yet the skies were no sanctuary. Aryn’s fleet and Vaelyn’s defenders tore at one another with equal ferocity. The northwest walls of Mystwood crumbled beneath the strain of battle, their aged stone giving way as mangonels collapsed and flaming spiked orbs of metal arced uselessly into the heavens. Then came the fall.
One of Aryn’s skyships—its mana engine split open from repeated strikes—sputtered like a dying star. With one final desperate twist of its wheel, the pilot angled it downward. The vessel careened into the battlefield below, crashing into a cluster of allied mages and the wagons of crystal that had sustained Mystwoods revival spell. The collision detonated the remaining mana cores and fractured crystals in a cataclysmic bloom of searing blue plasma. Bodies, gear, soulstones—everything—was reduced to ash and silence in an instant.
The resurrection enchantments, so long the buffer between glory and oblivion, were shattered. Death returned to the field in full. No rebirth. No redemption. Only the cold finality of steel and bone on both sides.
From the treeline of the Mystwood foreset, hidden families—those who had once called these lands home—watched in stunned horror. The empire had turned inward, devouring itself. Their fields, their walls, their people… undone by their own supposed guardians.
Across the battlefield, the chaos devolved into something more primal. The grandeur of spellwork gave way to the brutality of instinct. Warhammers crushed skulls into the muck. Blades tore sinew from bone. Explosive charges ripped limbs from torsos, leaving the maimed to crawl and scream in the burning dirt.
Above them, skyships—graceful harbingers of death—surrendered to gravity like birds infected with plague. Some crashed into the city’s heart, flattening towers and ripping apart streets. Others, barely guided by dying crew, glided into the sea where they continued to rain fire upon Mystwood’s harbor. Homes and marinas alike collapsed beneath the fury of unrelenting cannon fire.
Soldiers stationed within the city walls retaliated in brutal fashion. Catapults, trebuchets, and artillery cannons roared in defiance, leveling skyships that had survived their plummet from the heavens. Those unfortunate enough to survive the crash and swim ashore were gunned down in cold blood by riflemen and machinists entrenched throughout the harbor, their devices whirring with lethal precision.
Rain screamed from the sky like the gods themselves were weeping, their sorrow pounding down on the ruin below. The remaining ships hung in the air like dying animals, limbs trembling, masts broken and ablaze. Their decks were engulfed in fire, crumbling as collapsing timber and molten debris crushed soldiers from both sides without distinction.
Amidst the chaos, Jynx stood atop the main deck of the Tiamat, scimitars in hand, her stance relaxed, gaze fixed on the tow cable connecting her ship to another. A cloaked figure darted across the cable with unnatural agility—an assassin, and not a subtle one. With a final leap, he landed on the scorched deck before her, brandishing two long daggers with jagged, serpentine blades.
His voice slithered out, low and vile. “I’m going to enjoy fucking your lifeless cunt once I tear you apart.”
Jynx’s grin spread like wildfire across her face. “Even in death, your tiny cock wouldn’t be enough to tickle my rotting corpse.”
In a flash, she dropped both scimitars into the deck beside her and began pulling flintlock pistols from her belt, sleeves, boots—dozens of one-shot weapons hidden across her body. With each fired round, she tossed the pistol aside and drew another, firing again in a relentless rhythm of smoke and fury.
The assassin moved like liquid shadow, twisting and weaving through the hail of lead. Some bullets he deflected mid-air with his twisted blades, each movement impossibly swift. Before Jynx could draw her next pistol, he was already upon her. She barely snatched up her scimitars in time, locking blades with him in a storm of crimson sparks.
The man’s hood slipped from his head, revealing a cruel grin carved into a youthful but sinister face. One eye gleamed bright blue, while the other was pale and soulless—clouded with milky film, swirling like a storm trapped behind glass.
He opened his mouth to taunt her again—but Jynx cut him short with the tip of her boot slamming into his groin.
The assassin buckled with a choked gasp as she slashed him across the cheek and followed it with a vicious roundhouse kick, launching him into a collapsed mast with a crack of bone and timber.
“I thought you were gonna rape my cunt, you ugly fuck!” she shouted, laughing as he staggered upright, blood running down his face, his smile now cracked and twitching.
The man groaned, clutching himself. “Oh, I’m going to have my healer bring you back over and over again just so I can rape you to death after a stunt like that, you honorless bitch.” He spat a mouthful of blood across the deck as the rain quickly washed it away.
Jynx, wiping the flat of her blade that had struck the assassins cheek against one thigh of her shorts, taunted, “If you were halfway attractive, that might almost sound like fun. But seeing as you look like you crawled out of the depths of your mother’s asshole instead of her twat, I’m gonna have to pass.”
The assassin clenched his jaw in fury, teeth grinding as he suddenly blurred forward in a flash of unnatural speed. His twin daggers lashed out at her neck like twin vipers, but Jynx dropped flat onto her back in the blink of an eye, the blades slicing through the rain just inches above her.
With a smooth, vicious motion, she kicked upward with one boot, launching one of his daggers into the air. Twisting onto her side, she used her opposite leg to sweep his feet from beneath him. The assassin stumbled, crashing into a group of soldiers locked in battle just behind them. One soldier lost his footing and tumbled over the guardrail, screaming as he fell to the chaos below.
Rolling with catlike grace, the assassin landed on his feet and slashed the throat of the soldier who had broken his fall. A geyser of blood burst across the deck as the body toppled over the side, lifeless.
The disarmed dagger clattered onto the deck beside the assassin. He snatched it up, his blood-streaked face twisted in a grin.
“I’ve waited a long time to carve you into pieces, bitch,” he growled. “And when I’m through with you—”
His words were abruptly silenced as his head exploded into a pink mist of bone and brain. A musket round had torn through his skull, leaving nothing but a ruined stump.
Jynx whipped her head around, eyes flaring with fury. High in a nearby crow’s nest, a fellow soldier nodded coolly while reloading his rifle.
“You fucking fuck!” Jynx shouted up at him. “You stole my kill! And I wanted to hear what the bastard had to say—his mouth was fouler than a skunk’s asshole. It was entertaining!”
She turned away with a growl, her gaze cast back down toward the battle below, the endless roar of cannon fire and steel returning to her ears like a symphony of chaos.
Rain fell heavier now, as if the heavens wept for what was to come.
As Mystwood's forces gained the upper hand, the Amber Roc—the flagship of Aryn's fleet—began to pull away. Below, imperial ground troops turned and retreated into the treeline, leaving their wounded and dead behind. Not far from Jynx, Vaelyn carved through the last of the enemy soldiers aboard the Tiamat.
“After them!” Vaelyn shouted, blade slick with blood. “This is our chance to seize Aryn and gain leverage over Father!”
Mages aboard the deck ran to the tow anchors binding the Tiamat to the enemy ship. They pressed bare hands to the links, channeling heat until the metal anchors began to melt, turning to liquid and snapping free.
Partially aflame, the Tiamat cut through the storm like a wounded serpent. It sailed forward, drifting closer to the Amber Roc, until both ships collided with a crunch of hull and shattering timber. In the chaos, Vaelyn, Jynx, and their men leapt aboard, blades ready.
Rifle shots cracked across the deck. Screams followed. Soldiers plunged overboard, their bodies swallowed by the forest canopy below.
Amidst the carnage, Vaelyn caught sight of Jynx, hunched and staggering. Blood poured from her chest in a torrential stream. She looked up at him and smiled through the agony. “Give ‘em... hell, boss,” she whispered.
And with that, she stumbled backwards and let herself fall over the railing, vanishing into the dark embrace of the trees below.
Vaelyn stood frozen, lips parted, eyes wide in disbelief. Before he could speak, laughter echoed from across the deck. Aryn stepped into view, his silhouette framed in fire.
“You really thought I was retreating?” he said, tone venomous and firm. “You thought I’d hand this victory to you?”
He pointed his blade. “Surrender now, brother, and I’ll spare the lives of your men.”
Vaelyn turned slowly, taking in the distance between his fleet and his current position. They had fallen behind. He was alone.
“I’ll never surrender to you,” he said quietly.
Aryn smirked. “Have it your way.”
With a sudden lunge, he thrusted his rapier foward and slashed toward Vaelyn’s chest. Steel screamed as Vaelyn met the blow, parrying with his own blade. Soldiers from both sides stood frozen in place, encircling them, bearing witness to the duel. No one dared interrupt the dance of blades between Crimson Mage allumnni.
They circled, striking and feinting in a flurry of practiced motion. Their swords rang out like the bells of war, neither gaining ground.
Suddenly, Vaelyn leapt back and flung out his hand. A black flame ignited, hurtling just past Aryn’s head. Aryn charged, his blade erupting into searing flame mid-leap. Their swords met again—steel against fire—sending sparks cascading across the deck. Embers licked at the hem of Vaelyn’s cloak, igniting it.
Without pause, he spun free, slipping from the burning fabric, and hurled it into Aryn’s face. The distraction worked. Vaelyn lunged, ramming his blade through the cloak and into Aryn’s left thigh.
Aryn howled, gripping the blade’s edge, “Ignis inferni!”
A molten surge of flame burst from his palm, melting through the dragonsteel blade and searing it in two. He staggered back, yankig the broken rapier from his leg, and hurled the blade overboard.
“This is your last chance, brother,” he panted. “Father still offers you mercy. End this tantrum.”
Vaelyn’s voice was steady, resolute. “I will no longer bow to a tyrant. You’re blind, Aryn. If you would only see—”
Before he could finish, a spear tore through his back and burst from his chest.
The gasp caught in his throat. His eyes went wide. What remained of his sword clattered to the deck.
One of Aryn’s soldiers had broken the sacred truce of the duel. Vaelyn collapsed in a heap of blood and steel.
Aryn stood frozen, breath heavy, watching as his younger brother bled out at his feet. He cast a healing spell on his leg, sealing the wound with a glow of magic.
“Kill the rest,” he ordered coldly. “Revive Vaelyn. Shackle him with nullifying restraints and toss him in the brig.”
The soldier who had thrown the spear stepped forward. “What of Mystwood and the survivors?”
Aryn didn’t even glance his way. “Summon Ifrit. Burn it all to the ground. We’ve had our fun—and we’ve secured the prize. Father can give the ruins to the next bastard in line and rebuild it however he wants.”
Without another word, the man who had ended Vaelyn’s life shifted—his body twisting, reshaping into a large black crow. With a shriek, he leapt from the deck and vanished into the storm.
The Amber Roc, still spintered and stuck to the burning Tiamat, sailed toward the capital, their bloody work trailing behind them in smoke and fire.
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