The sun hadn't yet crested the horizon, and already the frontline burned. Smoke rose in plumes like black towers clawing at the dawn sky, while below, the cries of the dying were smothered beneath the thunderous hum of the skyfleet.
From her vantage point on the E.W.S. Sovereign, Elara watched the battlefield unfold. Like gods descending from celestial halls, her ships hovered above the chaos—predators in patient orbit.
"Alpha formation sustained," reported Admiral Ceris. "All ships maintaining altitude. Awaiting next directive."
"Target remaining enemy concentrations across the secondary trenchline," Elara ordered, her voice steel. "Coordinate with ground forces for synchronized advance."
Ceris saluted. "By your command."
The air vibrated again as turret arrays extended, their runes shimmering like stars aligning. A second wave of the fleet's wrath descended, slicing through enemy fortifications with surgical cruelty. Below, the Royal Army of Aldemar advanced methodically, soldiers moving under the protective shadow of hovering titans. Wherever enemy resistance appeared, it was snuffed out by aerial bombardment. The battlefield became a symphony of destruction, each strike an orchestral crescendo in Elara's new doctrine of war.
Kael stood beside Elara, arms folded, eyes narrowed. "We've become the sky's judgment," she said. "And they have no gods to pray to."
Elara didn't answer. Her eyes were locked on the carnage below. Her hands clenched the edge of the command table. What they were doing was brutal—but it was efficient. And it was necessary.
POV: Council of the Invading Nations
In a richly adorned war chamber hundreds of miles from the frontline, voices clashed like blades.
"I will not accept the southern half," barked King Vargan of Rythis, slamming his fist onto the obsidian table. "The mines are in the northeast. If I don't get them, this entire venture is meaningless."
"You already claimed the coastal provinces!" snapped Queen Malika of Durhess. "You cannot have both gold and sea access!"
Two Bishops of the Old Order, cloaked in crimson robes, looked on with barely concealed disgust.
"Greed," muttered Bishop Althros, "is why this war began. Do not let it be your downfall."
"Enough!" bellowed the High Strategist, pounding a ceremonial staff. "We have yet to win this war. Argue about the spoils after the crown lies shattered."
The room erupted again until—
BAM!
The grand doors flung open. A messenger stumbled in, armor cracked, clothes scorched, face pale with horror. He collapsed, wheezing.
"Guards! Restrain him—"
"No, wait," Althros raised a hand, frowning. "Let him speak."
The messenger gasped. "The front... it's gone."
"Gone?" Malika spat. "What nonsense is—"
"They—They have a weapon. It flies. In the sky like a bird. But it's not just one. They appeared above all our forward positions. Dozens. Each has fifteen cannons. Arcane. They burn everything. Our lines—evaporated. Entire legions... gone."
Silence crushed the chamber.
"Our men are fleeing," the messenger continued, shaking. "The Kingdom of Aldemar has begun a slow advance. We... we can't stop them."
"Lies!" snarled Bishop Marrowin. "He's delirious. Drunk. Execute him."
Swords unsheathed.
But Althros stood. "No. Bring confirmation. Do not kill the bearer of knowledge. Not yet."
Several Days Later
A grim hush filled the war council chamber. Even the chandeliers seemed to sway in dread.
Reports had arrived from all divisions.
The messenger had spoken truth.
Entire regions lost. Trenches reduced to glass. Regiments incinerated. The enemy's new weapon was not rumor—it was apocalypse.
Present now was a man cloaked not in regalia or armor, but in a long white coat. His hair slicked back, his eyes like oiled daggers.
Count Marridan Thorne, the duplicator.
"Our only hope," Vargan growled, "is you. Can you replicate these flying abominations like you did the cannons?"
Thorne twitched. "My Lords. My Bishops. Replication requires a sample. We have none. The Demoness cloaks her fleet in illusion. When not on the battlefield, they vanish. And when they are visible... they fire from ten times our range."
"Then get closer!" barked Malika.
Thorne's lip curled. "And get vaporized? Hardly a productive strategy."
"You're useless!" Marrowin spat.
"And yet, I'm your only source of parity," Thorne hissed back. "You lose me, you lose even the faint hope of mimicking her power."
The chamber festered with rage. Rulers and bishops shouted across the polished floor, accusing, insulting, panicking. Strategies once held sacred now lay shattered.
Desperation turned to irrationality. Someone proposed summoning forbidden entities. Another recommended sacrificing entire border cities to draw out the demoness. Madness leaked into every corner of the room.
In the end, no new solutions emerged. No plan to counter Elara's airborne dominance. The only decision reached was to throw more bodies forward, to flood the field and pray the tide might slow her down.
What they did not know—what Elara had ensured they couldn't know—was that the fleet had yet to reveal even a fraction of its true potential. She was advancing slowly, deliberately, revealing just enough firepower to secure ground without awakening new horrors from desperate minds.
For now.