At dawn, the courtyard of Drachenhalm's royal keep was filled with the sound of hooves and clinking armor. The first royal envoy to the outsiders was assembling for departure.
Sir Edric Varlen adjusted the straps of his horse's saddle, his armor polished but scarred from countless battles. Standing beside him, Father Alric carefully packed a satchel of documents sealed with King Aldred IV's crest—formal letters of goodwill, requests for talks, and proof of the envoy's royal authority.
A small detachment of knights, handpicked for their loyalty and discipline, formed up behind them. Their armor bore the banners of the crown, signifying that this was not a rogue mission but an official act of the kingdom.
Chamberlain Hadrien oversaw the preparations. "You two are not just messengers," he reminded them. "Until the formal delegation arrives, you are the face of Drakensport to these outsiders. Every word, every gesture—remember it will echo in their halls."
Edric nodded. "We will tread carefully. But if they are as powerful as we've seen… then perhaps restraint is our only path."
Father Alric looked less certain. "Power alone does not make them just. We have seen their flying beasts rain fire from the sky. If they are as merciless as they are strong, we may be walking into the jaws of dragons."
Hadrien gave a faint, weary smile. "Then best hope these dragons are willing to talk before they bite."
The heavy gates of Drachenhalm creaked open, and the envoy rode out under the rising sun. Peasants along the road whispered as the party passed, some in awe, others fearful of what dealings their lords might have with the mysterious strangers beyond the frontier.
Word had already spread: the knight and priest who met the barbarians with strange weapons were returning to them—not with swords drawn, but with the king's blessing.
They would journey first to Sierra‑17 Outpost, the site of their initial encounter. There, they were to remain as guests under Aurion's watch until the official delegation—an entourage of nobles, translators, and perhaps even spies in disguise—would arrive from Drachenhalm.
Edric glanced back at the towering spires of the capital fading behind them. "This time," he muttered to Alric, "it will not be swords we cross, but words. Let us hope words are enough."
Alric, clutching his holy symbol, whispered a quiet prayer. "If they are not… may the gods guard us all."
The envoy's banners fluttered in the wind as they set off toward the horizon, bearing the weight of a kingdom's future on their shoulders.
The journey to Sierra‑17 Outpost was slow and grueling, taking nearly two weeks as the envoy crossed thick forests, uneven plains, and winding rivers.
Sir Edric Varlen led the column, keeping a constant watch on the treeline. Though the war with the undead had quieted since the battle of Blackmere, no one trusted that the threat was gone. Every night, they set up camp in guarded perimeters, the knights rotating watch while Father Alric offered evening prayers for safe passage.
The group passed through villages still scarred by the undead incursions—burned homes, hastily dug graves, and grieving survivors who stared silently at the royal banners as they rode past. It was a grim reminder of why they were making this journey.
Around the campfires, the knights spoke in hushed tones about the outsiders.
"They fight without swords. They burn their foes from the sky as though the heavens themselves obey them," one knight muttered.
Another spat into the fire. "And yet they do not take. No land, no plunder. They fight, then leave. What kind of conquerors fight like that?"
Father Alric, listening quietly, finally said, "Perhaps they are not conquerors. But that does not make them friends."
Edric remained silent through most of the nights, his thoughts fixed on the strange soldiers they had met weeks before. He remembered their calm discipline, their strange black weapons, and the way they reacted during that first tense encounter. They did not seem like savages—yet they also did not seem like any nation he had ever known.
By the twelfth day, the road shifted from dirt and gravel to smooth black stone—an alien surface that unnerved even the horses.
"This is it," Edric said quietly. "The land of the outsiders."
Father Alric tightened his grip on the reins as he stared ahead at the horizon. Far in the distance, they could see the faint outline of Sierra‑17 Outpost, its strange angular structures glinting in the sun.
"We arrive tomorrow," Edric said to the men behind him. "Remember this—until the king's delegation arrives, we are Drakensport itself. Whatever happens next, it will shape history."
That night, no one slept easily.
The morning sun had barely risen when the envoy broke camp for the final stretch toward Sierra‑17 Outpost. The road was unnervingly smooth, unlike anything they had seen before.
As they rounded a bend in the forest path, a strange metal cart appeared ahead—large, angular, and unlike any wagon in Drakensport. What froze the knights in place was not just its appearance, but the fact that it moved without horses.
Its growl was low and mechanical, a sound that sent the horses into nervous whinnies.
"Hold formation!" Sir Edric barked as he maneuvered his steed in front of Father Alric. Instinctively, the knights lowered their lances, forming a protective half‑circle around the priest.
The contraption came to a halt several paces away. For a tense moment, no one moved. Then, with a hiss of air, one of its sides swung open like a door.
A figure stepped out.
Sergeant Ramirez.
The envoy immediately recognized him—the same soldier they had first met weeks ago during the standoff at the outpost. His black‑and‑green uniform was as immaculate as before, and the strange metal rod—their "weapon"—was slung over his chest.
Ramirez raised one hand, palm open, the other resting casually near his gear.
"Sir Edric," he said slowly, his accent heavy but recognizable. "Priest Alric. You… come back."
The knights glanced at one another in disbelief. Ramirez remembered their names.
Father Alric lowered his holy symbol slightly, though his voice was still wary. "This is… your magic?" He gestured to the vehicle behind Ramirez.
Ramirez gave a short, almost amused exhale. "Not magic. Car." He tapped the metal with his knuckles. "Car. No horse. Drive."
Edric, still cautious, eased his grip on his sword. "You… know why we are here?"
Ramirez nodded. "Envoy. Talk. Yes. Come." He gestured toward the vehicle, then toward the road leading to Sierra‑17 Outpost.
The knights exchanged uncertain glances. This was not the terrifying display of fire and thunder they had once seen in battle—this was something mundane for Ramirez, yet utterly alien to them.
After a long pause, Edric gave the smallest nod. "We will follow. But the priest rides with me."
Ramirez inclined his head. "Okay. Follow slow."
The "car" rumbled forward, leading the way toward the outpost, while the knights rode cautiously behind it—each step taking them deeper into a world that made less and less sense the longer they looked at it.
The "car" could have easily left the knights behind, but Sergeant Ramirez deliberately kept its speed low, matching the horses' pace.
Inside the vehicle, two Aurion soldiers exchanged glances. "We could be there in five minutes," one muttered.
Ramirez shook his head. "Orders are orders. We stay with them. No surprises. No spooking the horses."
From horseback, Sir Edric Varlen watched the strange contraption closely as it rolled steadily ahead of them. The sound it made—a low, rhythmic growl—never faltered, as if some hidden beast was trapped inside.
"By the gods…" murmured one of the knights riding beside him. "It moves without a trace of fatigue. No horse could run so long without rest."
Father Alric adjusted his grip on the reins. "If even their wagons need no beasts of burden, how many more wonders must they hide?"
The hour‑long trip felt surreal. The soldiers inside the car occasionally glanced back at the procession, noting the knights' tense stares and the way their hands never strayed far from sword hilts.
Ramirez opened the side door briefly during a brief stop, stepping halfway out. "Almost there," he said slowly, making sure to speak clearly. "Little… more… time."
Edric gave a curt nod, still wary. "We stay. Together."
When the outpost finally came into view, it was as strange as the first time Edric had seen it—sharp‑edged walls of steel and concrete, with strange glass windows glinting under the sun.
But this time, there was no fear in the envoy's eyes. There was caution, yes. They were not here for a standoff.
As the group approached the outpost gates, the air suddenly split with a deafening roar.
The knights' horses reared up in panic, their eyes wide with terror. Sir Edric fought to keep his mount steady while two of the younger knights struggled to calm theirs.
Above them, a sleek steel dragon screamed through the sky at incredible speed, banking sharply before ascending again. To the soldiers at Sierra‑17 Outpost, this was nothing unusual—just another F‑35 on a routine patrol.
But to the knights and Father Alric, it was a nightmare made flesh.
One knight whispered, voice trembling, "Gods preserve us… it's the same beast… the one that burned the dead at Blackmere."
Another tightened his grip on his reins. "If one such monster could slaughter so many, what horror would ten of them bring?"
Father Alric clutched his holy symbol tightly, his knuckles white. He had seen what a single steel dragon could do—the fire from its belly, the thunder of its fury. And now, more of them circled overhead like predators watching prey.
Ramirez, stepping out of the car, raised both hands in a calming gesture. "No danger. Patrol. Normal."
His words, though halting, did little to ease the tension.
Edric's eyes followed the jet as it disappeared beyond the treeline. "Normal…" he repeated under his breath, the weight of the word sinking in. For them, such power was mundane.
The knights realized, perhaps more than ever, just how small Drakensport truly was compared to these outsiders.
As the gates of the outpost opened, the soldiers inside saluted Ramirez and his platoon. The envoy, still shaken by the sight of the steel dragon, entered slowly—every clang of hooves against the black stone echoing like a drumbeat of history in the making.
Once inside Sierra‑17 Outpost, Sergeant Ramirez led the envoy toward a shaded area near the command building. The knights dismounted, still visibly unsettled by the earlier display of the steel dragon. Father Alric clutched his robes tightly, glancing up at the sky every few seconds as if expecting the creature to return.
Ramirez spoke briefly into his radio, his tone calm and measured. "Command, envoy is here. Requesting linguistics team. We'll hold them here until the interpreters arrive."
A voice crackled back through the radio. "Copy that. Team's on the way. Keep things calm, Sergeant."
Ramirez turned back to the knights and priest. "Talk… soon. People come. Language… fix."
Sir Edric gave a cautious nod. "We wait. But we wish to speak with your leaders… soon."
Ramirez understood enough to nod again. "Yes. Leaders. Soon."
The soldiers at the outpost kept a respectful distance, though their curious glances lingered. To them, the armored knights looked like something out of a history book come to life.
Minutes later, a small group approached—two linguists carrying tablets with translation software, escorted by armed soldiers. One of them, Dr. Helena Voss, stepped forward and gave a polite bow of her head before speaking in slow, careful words.
"We… talk. Understand… better. You… tell… why come."
The priest looked at Edric, who nodded for him to speak.
Father Alric stepped forward. "We come as the first messengers of Drakensport. We bring word from our king—and we await the great delegation that will follow."
The linguists listened closely as his words were slowly processed, piecing together fragments of the language they had been studying since first contact.
For the first time since arriving, it felt as though a true conversation—one that could shape the future of both nations—was finally about to begin.