I open my eyes to the roar of my commander's voice tearing through the canvas walls of my tent. "Wake up, boy, and get ready to march into battle." His words hit like cannon fire, low and thunderous, rattling in my skull. My heart hammers against my ribs as if trying to escape. I force myself upright, the thin cot creaking beneath me, and reach for my musket propped beside the bed. Cold oiled steel greets my fingers, familiar and heavy. Today is the day we push forward—to drive back the forces of the Aurelian Empire and capture their ironclad fort that looms over the valley like a steel crown. It won't be easy; their forces outnumber us several times over, and their machines of war are said to blot out the sky.
Even getting close to their fort will take more effort than most men have in their bones. Their ramparts bristle with brass cannons and rotating aether-turrets, each powered by humming crystal cores that glow faintly in the dawn mist. I know all this, and yet none of it matters; we have no choice. War doesn't ask for our consent. Pushing aside the flap of my tent, I step out into the chill morning air and slip into formation with the others. Steam from the camp's boilers coils through the lines of soldiers like ghostly serpents. I grip my musket in one hand, its bayonet catching the pale light, while my other hand trembles uncontrollably with the raw, gnawing fear of death.
The commander mounts a gear-laden platform at the front of our assembled ranks, his greatcoat snapping in the wind, epaulettes gleaming with brass filigree. At his back, a pair of mechanized standard-bearers—clockwork constructs in tarnished uniforms—hold aloft the crimson banner of the Valorian Republic. "Begin marching!" he bellows, his voice amplified by the aether-etched speaking funnel strapped to his throat. The sound is loud enough to make even the veterans flinch, a rolling command that sends a tremor down the entire line. At once, the formation lurches into motion, boots striking the mud in steady rhythm. The ground seems to shake with the combined weight of men, gear, and the distant rumble of steam-tread artillery rolling into position—a show of might you only witness in times as dark and deep as these.
We march over churned earth scarred by old bombardments, past shattered wagons and the twisted remains of earlier machines left to rust where they fell. As we crest a low ridge, the battlefield unfurls before us like a nightmare tapestry. In the far distance, vast shadowed silhouettes rise into the sky—Aurelian war-blimps, their gas envelopes stitched from blackened canvas and plated with overlapping sheets of burnished brass. Great propellers thrum at their sides, and from their bellies protrude enormous magic cannons, each mounted on gimbaled rings of polished copper and etched runes. A piercing whine splits the air as the blimps adjust their bearings, and then they begin firing into the field below. Lances of incandescent aether-light streak downward, detonating in blinding blossoms of blue-white flame. Soldiers to my left and right are obliterated where they stand, bodies erased in an instant, leaving only drifting ash and the faint smell of scorched ozone. Just as I think this aerial hell is the full measure of the nightmare, a new sound cuts in—a high-pitched, rising whizz from somewhere far above. The noise grows sharper, more focused, like a blade of sound. It screams toward us, and the moment it peaks, it vanishes at my side. For the briefest heartbeat, there is silence. Then a gigantic explosion tears the world apart.
The blast hurls me sideways into the mud. My ears ring with a shrill, piercing tone, drowning out everything else. The world becomes a blur of smoke and shrapnel. When sound finally claws its way back into my skull, it arrives all at once: the ragged screams of soldiers, some bellowing war cries, others shrieking in pain and terror; the crack of muskets and the metallic cough of aether-rifles; the hiss of ruptured steam lines spilling scalding vapor into the air. All around me, men scramble, fall, rise again, or do not move at all. My entire body trembles, convulsing beyond my control. I stare down at my hands, caked in mud and blood, shaking as if they belong to someone else. In that moment, as fires burn unchecked and blimps circle overhead like predatory leviathans, all I can wish for is strength—strength enough to tear those floating death-machines from the sky, to shatter their cannons, to stop the fear they have carved into the hearts of my friends.
The wish ignites something inside me—rage, desperation, a stubborn ember of defiance that refuses to die. My body is weak, my limbs unsteady, but I push myself up from the muck. The tang of iron and smoke burns in my throat as I stagger back into the forming line. Even if I am not strong now, I will become stronger. I must. Around us, officers shout orders, their voices hoarse, while arcane signal flares streak overhead, painting commands across the clouds in shimmering sigils. Just as I steady my footing, the commander's voice booms out again, raw and fierce. Standing atop a shattered gun carriage, cloak torn and soot-stained, he lifts his saber, its edge glowing faintly with runic enchantments. "Do this for your families!" he roars, each word laced with a subtle amplification spell that makes his voice resonate in our bones. "Do this for the Valorian Republic! Dying today will mean nothing if we die crawling—only courage and strength can truly push you forward!" His words slice through the clamor like a bayonet, and with that rallying cry, the terrified, broken sobs that had filled the ranks twist into something new—savage, furious shouts that vibrate in the air like the roar of some great wounded beast.
I, Elias Verdan, am only one soldier among hundreds, a single thread in this fraying tapestry of war—but in that moment, my fear hardens into resolve. I tighten my grip on my musket until my knuckles ache. With my own cry of fury tearing from my throat, I surge forward with the others. I no longer march simply for the patch of earth I call home, but for the friends already swallowed by this battlefield and for those who will yet fall if we break. Our formation presses on, step by brutal step, as the Aurelian fortress looms ever closer: a monstrous construct of black stone, riveted steel plates, and towering smokestacks belching murky fumes into the sky. When we finally come within musket range, the enemy answers at once. From the crenellations and firing slits, their musketeers and magi unleash their might. Bullets of forged steel and whirling bolts of condensed aether rain down upon us, each impact exploding in sparks or shards of crystalline light. Men crumple like cut wheat, but still we advance, swallowed by a storm of metal and magic.
The deaths are immense—too many to count, too many to name—but our courage, or perhaps our madness, proves more powerful than any instinct to flee. We push through the rain of bullets and blazing sigils, shields splintering, armor buckling, lungs burning with exertion and smoke. Steam-tanks grind forward beside us on churning treads, their armored hulls scorched and dented, turret-mounted cannons thundering as they lob explosive shells into the fortress walls. With what remains of our once-proud regiment—a ragged fraction of the force that left camp at dawn—we reach the great ironbound gate. Its surface is studded with reinforced rivets and swirling Aurelian etchings that pulse faintly with protective enchantments. "Breach it!" someone yells. We crowd against the doors, ramming them with our shoulders, then pull back to fire. Muskets crack in unison as we aim at the locking mechanisms and glowing ward-stones. Shards of crystal and metal explode outward, and with a tortured groan the gate yawns open. On the other side, packed shoulder to shoulder in a narrow killing corridor, stand Aurelian soldiers in polished breastplates and plumed shakos, rifles leveled. They fire point-blank into our front ranks. The men at the very front are shredded instantly, their bodies jerking as bullets tear through flesh and bone. Hot blood sprays across my face, warm and sticky, spattering my vision in a red haze.
My knees nearly buckle. For a heartbeat, my resolve fractures under the weight of the carnage. I feel myself teetering on the edge of collapse, ready to drop my weapon and let the chaos swallow me. Then a firm hand clamps down on my shoulder, fingers digging through fabric and mail. I turn to see the commander beside me, streaked with grime and blood, a shallow cut searing across his brow. His eyes, however, are clear—sharp as bayonets, unyielding as iron. "Stay strong," he growls over the thunder of gunfire, leaning close so I can hear him. "This is only the beginning of what is to come." It's not the grand, sweeping speech he gave before, but in some ways, it strikes deeper. It feels honest, brutally so. The war will not become kinder; the enemy will not ease their grip. But we are still here. The words shake me back to my senses, burning away the fog of panic and dragging my strength up from wherever it had tried to hide. I straighten, gripping my musket tighter, and force myself forward into the maelstrom once more.
We surge through the gateway, clambering over rubble and fallen bodies as we spill into the outer courtyard of the fort. Smoke hangs thick in the air, tinted green and violet by residual magic. We fire as we advance, muskets bucking against our shoulders, spent cartridges and shattered crystal shards crunching underfoot. For a few desperate moments, it feels as though momentum is finally on our side; Aurelian defenders fall back, their lines bending beneath our assault. None of us see the trap until it is too late. Hidden beneath a layer of battered plating and tarp at the courtyard's center lies their true defense: a massive rotating aether-cannon mounted on a circular rail, its barrel a spiraling lattice of brass and crystal. As the last of the tarps fall away, the cannon shudders to life with a grinding of gears and a rising, pulsating hum. Sigils along its length ignite in rapid succession, bathing the stonework in eerie blue light. "No wonder there were so few soldiers at the gate," I think, dread congealing in my gut. This weapon was always meant for us. The cannon spins, tracking our clustered forces with mechanical precision. A blinding sphere of compressed aether gathers at its maw, swelling like a newborn star. Then it fires. A single beam of annihilating light rips across the courtyard, followed by a shockwave that feels like a giant's fist slamming into my chest. Men vanish where the beam touches them, reduced to charcoal silhouettes and drifting motes of ash. The blast tears our formation apart, flinging bodies and debris in every direction. Pain explodes through me as I'm thrown backward. Instinctively, I squeeze my eyes shut, certain that this is the end—that I have been obliterated along with the rest, that my story ends here in a flash of alien light and pulverized stone. Yet there is no oblivion. Only darkness…and then, softly, the sound of my own breathing.
I gasp and jerk upright—not on a battlefield, but in my narrow, familiar bed. The ceiling above me is unscarred plaster, faintly yellowed by lamplight. My chest heaves as I drag in air that smells not of blood and smoke, but of old wood, oil, and the faint tang of coal dust. For a long moment, I lie there, shaking, unsure if I am dead or dreaming. Then I stumble to my feet and lurch toward the brass-rimmed clock on the wall. Its intricate gears tick steadily behind a glass face, hands pointing to a time and date that make my stomach drop. Ten years earlier. I've gone back a full decade. My mind reels. I stare at the clock, then at my hands—smaller, unscarred, lacking the calluses I'd earned through endless drills and battles. My heart races with a strange mixture of terror and possibility. Just as I begin to whisper, "This can't be real," the air in front of me shimmers.
From thin air, a rectangular pane of faintly glowing light flickers into existence, framed by delicate, rotating cogs of golden aether. Lines of text, crisp and impossibly sharp, type themselves across the transparent surface.
[Napoleonic Notice: Activation Confirmed]
The words hang there, luminous and undeniable. As the notification fades, the pane reshapes itself into a new window, subdividing into labeled sections and elegant dials. At the top, in bold script, my name appears: ELIAS VERDAN. Beneath it, I see unfamiliar terms rendered in mechanical clarity—Strength, Endurance, Aether Affinity, Tactical Insight—each accompanied by numbers and small, shifting bars that glow in hues of bronze and silver. A stylized figure representing me rotates slowly in the center of the display, surrounded by tiny icons of weapons, uniforms, and arcane augmentations I don't yet recognize. Before I can fully make sense of it, a second window blooms beside the first with a sharp metallic chime, like a bell struck inside my skull.