The exhausted knights and priests stood among the ruins of Blackmere Village, battered but alive. Cheers erupted as the last remnants of the undead fell silent, weapons raised in a weary salute to their hard‑won victory.
Then, a deep roar cut through the morning air.
The smaller steel dragon swooped low over the village, so close that its shadow briefly covered the surviving soldiers. Its metallic frame gleamed in the rising sun, the strange wings and tail unlike anything they could comprehend.
Gasps and shouts rose from the ranks as the machine twisted mid‑air, performing a smooth barrel roll before ascending sharply back into the sky.
Some knights laughed and cheered, raising their swords in response. "They celebrate with us!" one shouted, exhilarated.
Others frowned, uneasy at the display. "No… this is no celebration," muttered Ser Aldwin, his eyes narrowing. "This is a reminder—they can fly where they please, do as they wish, and we can do nothing to stop them."
Father Alric gripped his staff tighter, watching the dragon climb higher. "A display of strength… perhaps also of trust. But the meaning is theirs to decide, not ours."
Marshal Renard Falke stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the steel creature as it rejoined its larger companion in the sky.
Sir Edric Varlen, knowing exactly who piloted that strange beast, exhaled slowly. "They want us to remember this day… and to remember who allowed us to survive it."
As the two dragons turned westward and disappeared into the clouds, murmurs spread through the ranks.
To some, the maneuver felt like camaraderie.
To others, it was a silent warning.
And to the most wary among them, it was proof of a terrifying truth
The surviving knights and priests gathered in the center of the ruined Blackmere Village, their armor dented and bloodied, the air thick with smoke and the scent of decay.
A scribe, his hands trembling from exhaustion, dipped a quill into ink and began writing on a parchment as Marshal Renard Falke dictated in a low, firm voice.
"Write this clearly. The undead came in overwhelming numbers, stronger than any foe we have faced. Each soldier or villager they slew rose again to fight against us—our fallen brothers became their weapons. Their leader, a cloaked necromancer, wields dark magic to raise the dead in seconds. The battle was long, brutal, and costly."
He paused, looking at the bodies being gathered into piles for burning. "We reclaimed the village, but none of its people remain alive. Blackmere is lost."
High Paladin Serion Valcroft stepped forward, his warhammer resting heavily on his shoulder. "Write that the outsiders' steel dragons intervened—destroying swathes of the undead, then circling above us as we fought. They chose not to finish the battle themselves. Whether this was mercy, observation, or intimidation, we cannot yet know."
Father Alric, still pale and shaken, added in a strained voice, "Make sure the king knows—if the undead attack again, without the outsiders, we may not survive. And he must know the truth of this enemy's curse: every fallen warrior strengthens the horde."
The scribe nodded quickly, writing every word as knights described the undead's ferocity, their speed, and the way they seemed unkillable unless struck with blessed steel or fire.
When the letter was finished, sealed with the Holy Legion's crest, Sir Edric Varlen stepped forward. "I will add my account as well. I have seen these outsiders before. I stood in their strange outpost. These dragons are theirs. Whether they are saviors or conquerors, only time will tell—but the king must know who truly turned the battle."
The message was entrusted to a trained courier bird, one of the kingdom's fastest long‑distance messengers. With a sharp whistle, the bird took flight into the morning sky, carrying the grim news toward Drachenhalm.
As it disappeared into the distance, Marshal Falke looked toward the west, where the steel dragons had vanished.
"They know our weakness now," he muttered. "And the king will soon know theirs… or what little of it we've seen."
---
In Drachenhalm, the royal court gathered inside the great hall as the courier bird landed on the outstretched arm of a royal attendant. The bird carried two sealed scrolls, both marked with the crest of the Holy Legion.
The attendant quickly presented them to Chamberlain Hadrien, who broke the wax seals and scanned the letters before handing them to King Aldred IV. The king's sharp eyes moved over the words, his expression tightening with every line.
The first letter was from Marshal Renard Falke, detailing the events of the battle: the overwhelming power of the undead, their horrific ability to raise fallen soldiers and villagers as new thralls, and the sheer devastation left in their wake. Falke described the necromancer who led them—an enemy capable of growing its army endlessly the longer it fought.
The second letter contained the testimony of Sir Edric Varlen and Father Alric, recounting how the outsiders' steel dragons had intervened. The larger dragon circled high above, while the smaller one swept in and pulverized entire groups of undead with terrifying precision before soaring away. Edric noted that the same kind of steel dragon had been seen before at Sierra‑17 Outpost, piloted by the strange soldiers of Aurion.
As the king finished reading, the hall erupted in hushed murmurs.
Lord Brenwick slammed his fist on the table. "Outsiders with such weapons? They did nothing while our men bled! They waited until the last moment to show their strength!"
Lord Halvar Greystead retorted, "And yet without them, Falke and Serion would be corpses shambling among that horde! Perhaps we should be grateful rather than suspicious."
Lady Arlenne raised her voice above the clamor. "Gratitude or not, we must admit this: we are weak against such an enemy. And now we know these outsiders can annihilate our foes as easily as a man crushes an ant. That power could as easily be turned against us."
King Aldred tapped the parchment against the table, his face grave. "We cannot ignore their role in this. They intervened—but only just enough to remind us of their power."
Chamberlain Hadrien stepped forward cautiously. "Sire, this letter proves they hold weapons far beyond our comprehension. If they wished, they could have destroyed both the undead and our knights in the same breath."
Brenwick sneered. "Then we must seize that power for ourselves before they turn it upon us."
Halvar countered, "Fool! Seize it? They can crush armies without stepping onto the field. We must seek alliance—or at least peace—while we still have the chance."
The king raised a hand, silencing the nobles.
"They saved Blackmere… but not for free. They want us to remember who holds the true power in this land." He looked down at Falke's words again, lingering on the description of the necromancer.
"Summon my council," Aldred said coldly. "We must decide—do we treat these outsiders as saviors, as threats… or as both?"
Weeks after the battle of Blackmere, the royal court of Drachenhalm assembled once more. The nobles crowded the long marble hall, their voices rising as heated arguments filled the chamber. The lingering stench of burned parchment and sealing wax from previous councils testified to the countless debates already held about the outsiders.
King Aldred IV sat at the head of the hall, expression firm but silent, allowing his lords and advisors to speak.
Lord Brenwick, ever ambitious, stood and declared, "We know now that these outsiders wield power beyond any magic. Yet they stood idle until the last moment, as if mocking us. I say we march upon them—strike before they strike us. Their power is not divine, merely crafted. And what can be made can be taken!"
A murmur of approval came from a few of the more hawkish nobles.
Lord Halvar Greystead slammed his hand on the table. "You'd throw our men into slaughter against a foe that can rain fire from the sky? We saw their dragons. We cannot fight them—not now. We should meet them as equals at the negotiating table, not as fools on the battlefield."
Lady Arlenne, seated beside her brother, added sharply, "Trade with them. Learn from them. These weapons of theirs—if they are crafted, then they can be acquired. If they are forged, we can learn their secrets. An alliance ensures survival; war ensures ruin."
But Lord Merrow, sly and smiling, leaned back in his chair. "Alliance? Trade? You are all short‑sighted. If we invite them as partners, we will be forever beneath them. But if we crush them now, when they are few and still building their foothold, we take what is theirs and claim their power for the kingdom. Let them taste true Drakensport steel before they can ever show their fangs."
The chamber erupted again, half the court in uproar, the other half in anxious whispers.
Chamberlain Hadrien finally stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "My lords, my ladies, we must see the truth. They saved Blackmere not out of mercy, but out of strategy. They showed us just enough of their strength to remind us what they can do. If we march against them, we march to our deaths. If we bend the knee, we become their vassals."
King Aldred finally rose from his throne, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
"You all speak of war, conquest, or trade. But we forget one thing—they are not of this world. Their intentions remain unknown. They may be saviors. They may be conquerors. They may be both."
He looked down the hall, meeting the eyes of each noble in turn.
"We will send an envoy—but not as supplicants. Nor as aggressors. We will show strength, but not arrogance. They will see we are a kingdom worthy of respect, not submission. And if war comes…" His gaze hardened. "Then the blood spilled will not be theirs alone."
The chamber fell silent.
Still, even in that silence, the division lingered—some nobles quietly planning for alliance, others for conquest, each waiting to see how this first true diplomatic mission would unfold.
---
In Solaira City, the atmosphere inside the Aurion Air Force Command Center was tense. Captain Elias Verdan, the F‑35 pilot who had provided the decisive airstrike at Blackmere, now stood before a panel of senior officers and government officials. His flight helmet sat on the table beside him, untouched, as if the weight of it still lingered on his head.
General Marcus Delos leaned forward, arms crossed. "Captain Verdan, explain why you performed a low‑altitude pass over the battlefield after neutralizing the threat. That maneuver wasn't part of your mission parameters."
Verdan kept his posture straight but steady. "Sir, the barrel roll and fly‑over were meant as a signal. The Holy Legion was exhausted, outnumbered, and on the verge of collapse. I intended to boost morale—let them know we were allies in that fight, not just distant observers."
Defense Minister Takahiro Sato frowned. "Or to them, it looked like mockery. You don't know how they perceive such displays. To a culture that reveres martial honor, that kind of maneuver could be seen as arrogance."
Foreign Minister Elena Choi tapped her pen against the table. "We're already walking a tightrope. They still call us 'barbarians.' They don't understand our weapons, our doctrine, or even our intentions. If they take this as a threat—or worse, as humiliation—we could spark a war before formal diplomacy even begins."
Verdan's jaw tightened slightly. "With respect, Minister, I didn't fire on any of them. I made no aggressive movements. I simply showed presence—nothing more."
A senior air marshal cleared his throat. "Whether you meant to or not, Captain, you gave them a spectacle. And now, that single maneuver will be dissected in their royal court for weeks. We can only hope they don't have the concept of intimidation by aerial display."
President Edrian Velez, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. His tone was calm but firm. "Captain Verdan, you're a skilled pilot. You turned the tide of that battle, and for that, Aurion owes you gratitude. But understand this—every move we make now is political. The smallest act can be seen as a threat or a promise."
Verdan nodded respectfully. "Understood, Mr. President."
Velez turned to Delos and Sato. "What's done is done. We can't erase the barrel roll. What we can do is control the narrative. We'll issue no statement about the maneuver. If they ask, we frame it as a show of solidarity—nothing more."
Elena Choi exhaled slowly. "Then let's hope their court doesn't think we were flaunting our power. The wrong interpretation could undo everything we've worked for."
Verdan saluted before stepping back, dismissed but still feeling the weight of what might become Aurion's first unintentional diplomatic crisis.
In Drachenhalm, King Aldred IV convened a private council with his closest advisors. The debate over who should lead the first diplomatic mission to the outsiders had dragged on for days. Some nobles still pushed for a show of military strength, others for a delegation of merchants and scholars, and a few even whispered about assassins and spies hidden among the envoys.
At last, Aldred made his decision.
"They know these men," the king said, his voice echoing through the council chamber. "They have spoken with them, shared words, and seen their strange weapons up close. If we are to build trust—or test their intentions—we send those who already stood before them."
The room fell silent as his gaze shifted to Sir Edric Varlen and Father Alric, both of whom stood near the dais.
Edric stepped forward, bowing his head. "Your Majesty, it will be an honor. We know their outpost, and we know enough of their manner to approach them without insult."
Father Alric, still visibly uneasy from the memories of both the first encounter and the horrors of Blackmere, clasped his holy sigil tightly. "If it is the will of the crown, then I will go. But… sire, these people are unlike any we've known. They are not barbarians. They are something else entirely."
Chamberlain Hadrien nodded in agreement. "They are also the ones who turned the tide at Blackmere. If we send warriors as our envoys, let them be warriors who owe their lives to these outsiders' steel dragon. Gratitude can open doors where suspicion closes them."
Aldred's eyes swept across the assembled nobles, silencing further objections.
"Sir Edric Varlen and Father Alric will lead the first royal envoy to the outsiders. They will carry my seal and my word. Their mission is not to kneel, nor to demand, but to learn who these people truly are—and what future they bring to Drakensport."
Some nobles muttered quietly, still unhappy with the decision. Lord Brenwick whispered harshly to Lord Merrow, "If these two fools return with nothing but awe for these 'outsiders,' we may yet be forced to seize their power by the sword."
But Aldred ignored them.
"Prepare the envoys," the king ordered. "They leave at dawn."
That night, as Edric and Alric readied themselves for the journey back to Sierra‑17 Outpost, both men reflected on their past encounters with Aurion. They had seen the outsiders' power firsthand—and now they would return, not as wary strangers, but as the first bridge between two worlds teetering on the edge of war or alliance.