======

The masked warrior leaves with a final parting of words, his manners distant and restrained. The enchanted pendant weighs on my palm as I take in his words—now clear and fresh as he expresses himself through a language known only by him.

Rooted like ancient stonework, I watch his ascent onto that great shell of sculpted metal. He is soon joined by three of his brethren, clad in the same garb that spoke greatly of a vastly different culture. Really, their origins are one I would give anything to be privy to.

Awakening like the beasts of legends, the hulking metal stirs with a steady hum—now tied to the whims of its riders.

Its wings circle ferociously, casting a great draft of wind in all directions—perhaps stemming from an amalgamation of metalwork and sorcery?

It was fascinating to bear witness to such a contraption. The automata rises—methodical and precise. It soon wanders off, destined to join the bloodied campaign on our eastern borders. Ancient scripts from old antiquity spoke of the possibilities of such machines, but it was merely that.

A single thought ripples as I trance upon the heavens, filled with a hunger that could only be sated with answers. 'What are they?'

The first stars venture forth into the quiet evening, melding with deep blues and gold—the only witness to a muse I knew were echoed by soldiers and fellow retainers alike.

A frown takes root, and lingers. The fading gleam of duskfall offers its clarity to the hallowed gardens as I offer a prayer to those brave men. Even as a servant of a Royal estate, I know the tides are against us.

"May her crystals light your path as you journey through clouds and strife," I look upon the distant contraption, nursing a slight worry as it falls out of sight over the palace ramparts.

I know not their names, only their masked visage. But they were noble men. That alone, makes them worthy of my regards.

"Herald be praised," I end the sermon, and continue on with the day, as I have for seasons past.

==0200 Military Hours==

-Yhunian Held Territory

As much as I loathe the thought, that damn rifle will have to be left behind. That mistake should have been beneath me, but all it took is a simple lapse of judgement. Nothing is wrong with me, yet the notion bled into the back of my head as I hustle over roots and past shrubs, keeping close watch on the dark curtain of trees ahead. All quiet for now.

The rifle is gone for good. Not us. Beyond all shadow of doubt, they know we're here. I quickly draw out my pistol and switch off safeties, undertaking a cursory inspection of the sidearm as trees hurtle past me in an endless loop of twisted figures and columns.

I am still armed, but the weapon is no substitute. Regret takes a back seat as I consider the many alternatives I could have done better in that very moment—keeping track on where the rifle fell, holding it tighter as that tackle came. I genuinely could have prevented that.

Pushing aside the reflection, I raise my voice over local comms. "This is Desert Actual, we've got foot mobiles advancing on our six."

Douglas hollers through the channel, voice bellowing with urgency. "Desert Two, I copy. We see you trotting roughly fifty metres east. Visual on about seven x-rays heading towards your position, can you confirm that number over?"

I glance behind, committing the details to memory as my visor wraps the approaching hostiles in glowering red. "Affirmative, roughly seven in pursuit. Around two hundred meters off our tail."

"Understood, we'll keep them pinned!" From the shadows, beyond the expanse of trees, distant flashes appear as the chatter of gunfire fills the air.

Empowered by the surge of covering fire, I halt and take up position behind the nearest tree as voices holler over comms relaying information and enemy movements. James bounds past, his lively quirks long since replaced by stringent determination as he quietly surveys our exposed left flank.

Frustration and regret fed right into each shot as I glare through the iron sights. Bright ripples appear with each impact, the sight confusing as it is alarming. The symphony of gunfire expands as James sweeps ahead to add to the barrage.

"Negative impact," Douglas reports, "they're closing fast."

As the situation intensifies, a pang of unease begins to form. The choices fanned out and I consider each one carefully, ignoring the incessant sounds of combat. Hesitation and uncertainty fills my thoughts as I hover over a recent memory.

First contact, that barrier. It was likely the same..

I snap out the reverie and yell out, "Everyone hold fire, wait on my signal!"

"With respect Jerome, that sounds like bullshit," James hollers through comms, shooting a weary glance as he pauses the discharge of bullets.

"That barrier's got to be similar to first contact. Concentrate fire on my mark, make it full auto," I sweep a hand forward guiding his focus back to the front.

"On your mark," Douglas asserts, gunfire now absent from the channel.

The distant rustle of leaves echoes across the newfound silence. False positives shimmered ahead, a blend of haphazard figures barely discernable from our pursuers.

A brief flutter of gold ripples ahead as a lone shoot echoes above the silence. Its source remains unknown, leaving me to ponder about the culprit for only a brief moment.

Right now, we need to put our best foot forward. Again, the familiar shimmer of gold raises a small pang of worry, intensifying the weight of what would come in the next few moments.

Compromising that supernatural barrier will hopefully force them to reconsider their actions. I centre my gaze ahead, the pistol under a death grip and allow a brief moment of clarity to sweep through me. A sharp determination settles in my core, intertwining with the surge of adrenaline through my fingers.

I steady both hands, counting the various silhouettes ahead. If they make it through, close quarters will be almost guarenteed. Anything to avoid putting ourselves in that position, I'll take it.

With a sharp squeeze the first bullet races out and more follow suit in quick succession, "Weapons free!" A chorus of renewed gunfire echoes throughout the forest. Within mere seconds, the pistol clicks and runs dry, leaving me in a momentary lull as I fumble to get a fresh clip into the fray.

The continued salvo from the others smashes into the barrier. It flickers violently with a strong glint of yellow, holding firm to the assault. Confidence slowly gives way to surging panic. The volume of gunfire relents—as did my hope of breaching that barrier.

"God damn," I seethe, sending a spiteful glare towards the seemingly unbreakable enigma.

"We're not making a dent," James bounds over to me, panic brewing in his voice as he reloads.

"I've noticed," I retort with a glare, imparting the frustration with a renewed salvo.

As the ominous figures draw closer, the visor finally registers a reliable count on their numbers. The approaching belligerents are draped in ghostly veils, crossing the dense tapestry of vegetation with a speed that denied explanation. Any attempt to hit them is thwarted by that same damned ripple. They all harbour a haunting glow, only serving to accentuate their agility as they weave through the foliage without difficulty.

A stronger shade begins to emanate from them, radiating out to saturate the entire forest in light. It reaches out, casting away the darkness with radiant melds of deep blue. It barely registers as beautiful, and seems more like an advent of something sinister. That ominous display is synonymous with one thing.

Hostility...

===Inora===

Tired eyes—barely open. Yet I keep on going, my honor as Highlander will see me through this arduous night. My aching legs yearn for respite, but I did not submit to their demands. It would not bode well to relent in Yhunian held lands.

"Be on guard," I remind the others yet again as we continue to scour the woods for motion with unwavering vigil. Those words need not be said, but it helps in soothing the mental turmoil rooted within.

Every so often, as we thread through the unyielding darkness, those rumours echoed its sentiments. The tidings of the palace guards—speaking of men wreathed in black robes asking of basic lore, guarded by equally black warriors seemed more like a tale born of a drunken stupor than the words of those entrusted with the safety of the Queen's youngest daughter.

The rumours should be just that, baseless and without a shard of truth, as it should be. It is unfathomable to believe they would journey to the fringe east for such a trivial purpose.

None would be so foolish as to stray towards the embattled fortress city and her suburbs.

Without a mirage of doubt, seasoned veterans of Yhunia's Silent Whisper order stalk our lands. Scout, tracker, and mage—they are all that and more. Even those dark-clad warriors would find their backs to be easy prey to these accomplished rangers made assassins should they step outside Drossal's famed walls.

Even now, they might yet roam the night. A blight to stain the peace that once enshrouded our eastern territories. Regardless of such adversaries, we prowl undaunted, gleaming eyes peering through the darkness as though it were day.

The refined gift over the arcane is a feat only a numbered few are born with—it is as much a blessing, as it is a burden.

"Halt," Sephra takes a short pause, her gaze focused through a veil of leaves, "a disturbance on our far left."

I grace her shoulder with a hand, hearing the faint crackles pattering far into the woodwork. "Enemies then?"

She nods, voice a murmur of acceptance as she shudders. "Yhunian rangers most certainly."

With her musings complete, she turns to me for counsel—as did Oswin. With nothing but silence between all of us, those distant roars echoed through the vast emptiness, like beating drums to signal the advent of battle. The muffled cracks sparks a recent memory, filling me with images of soldiers clad in black, with helms to blot their faces and scowls.

"Could it be?" A cold wave of trepidation surges forth, helped immensely by the distant echoes that now only seemed to grow with time's ceaseless march.

"Inora?" Oswin offers a nudge, though I did not heed it, instead indulging in the vivid memory of that tense meeting. They, who came without warning to our eastern most encampment.

~~~~

The faceless warrior brandishes a single finger—his middle, remaining silent with a hidden glare kindled with resentment. Such a gesture must mean an insult, though its precise nature and meaning still eludes me.

The gathering of four quickly spurred a torrent of discussions as they leave. Many who laid eyes upon them quickly delved into their supposed origins, though none seemed to hold even a glimmer of certainty. But all would agree, that this is an encounter steeped in mystery.

~~~

That memory still is fresh and clear, surging forth with clarity. It was evident even through the odd gesture, the warrior's actions were retribution at my presence, and actions against him and his fellow kin. A simple lack of foresight, paid unjustly with the price of blood.

The burdens of that mistake loom over me, forming a dark meld of unending regret. But was the fault truly mine? Their armour aroused strong suspicion even at first glance. Perhaps the blame should be shared, not only by me, but to their artisans for drafting such ominous designs.

Stifling the thought, I return Oswin's concern with a frown, heeding the worry etched upon his face, evident through helmet and unending darkness.

"We go to that disturbance, and chance a look. Should we be outnumbered, we will stay clear," I step through the veil of leaves, inciting both to trudge along. We are only three now, but we must make do.

"I am certain the sounds are born of conflict," Sephra offers her musing, soft voice laced with a tight thread of caution, "perhaps of our own kin mired in battle?"

"A lucky happenstance, and if true," I pause, wondering if such hasty judgement is sound. There are other Highlanders also given the same institutions as us, though I know not of any that might share the same locale.

Even if not true, we must scour these lands for anything of note. The path is clear, and so should our intentions. "We must assist if need be," I look at the two, resolute with a tense frown. They spur glances at each other, and slowly nod.

"I am with you," Sephra bounds ahead, scepter cradled in both hands, her tone alight with conviction, "I pray my mending will not be needed."

The Life Mender leads ahead, serving as vanguard through the unkempt darkness. The trees glide past us—a blur of twisting pillars and forking branches. They did little to stifle our hasty pursuit as we scamper onwards to the growing sounds of battle.

A growing concern simmers to the fore as those thuds grow louder and clearer. Again, that nagging suspicion unleashes its presence.

What if?

===Jerome===

After that surge of light, I sink back behind cover. The phenomenon is immediately followed by a jarring torrent of something violently impacting the surroundings. Some of those objects whiz past me—roughly the size of a clenched fist as I yell out over the clatter, "Hit the deck!"

"Status," I raise the channel as the barrage worsens, feeling the panic coursing through the assault. At this rate, close quarters is almost a certainty.

"All good, we're not taking much heat," Robert asserts, maintaining a level head through the frantic development.

"Thank us later," James retorts over comms as he issues a brief spray of returning fire. He turns to me and highlights the enemy's approach. "I can see those shitheads, hundred metres at most!" he yells.

Fallen leaves and discarded branches litter the forest floor as the onslaught continues. Through all of this, the options are slim and there is little room for maneuvers on our end. That only leaves Robert and Douglas in a position to pull us out of this mess.

"Everyone heads up, definite contacts due west," the former issues a warning, his voice now registering with a hint of panic, "we've got foot mobiles trotting to our position. Doesn't seem like a lot, about five or less, I—I don't know."

"Just what we needed," I stifle the comment to a whisper, keeping the words from registering over the channel. "How far?"

"Under four hundred metres, based on my bucket's readout," Robert answers.

With a grimace to go along with the harsh acceptance, I snap my pistol towards the left, combing over the foliage for signs of movement, light—or anything that would indicate signs of life. For now, the only thing certain is the clean blue outline of both operatives ahead.

Several flickers of movement registers past their hunched forms, but with the constant barrage, it was difficult to discern more than just that.

If we somehow get through this, a certain white-haired General will be in for an earful for cooking up this damn proposal. I should have refused—told that geezer to shove that idea up his ass and file a report on this.

Anyone of us could have done that, but we didn't and we will have to live with the consequence. The visor's motion tracking then catches movement, snapping me out that reverie.

Yellow outlines of vague figures are overlayed across the distant proliferation of trees. They are close, but further identification is again hindered by the dense foliage.

Fear begins to take root, but it is quickly phased out. For all the things going wrong right now, I still have the capacity to think every choice through with a clear head. Utilize every ounce of past training and experience in any given situation, and the results will always take care of the rest.

The first step is easy, take control of the situation and think of the best possible way to get everyone into a cohesive unit, and from there respond accordingly to the ongoing threat in any way I see fit. Reaching that notion is as instinctual as observing trigger discipline on a weapon.

With only under a minute or two to spare before close quarters ensues, I pull out one final card under my sleeve. "James, Douglas," I holler over the chaotic ambience, "pull off those contacts for now. Head north and get a pincer going around our pursuers, get the heat off us ASAP!"

"Desert two, copy, trotting due north," Douglas replies and cuts off. The two operatives disappear into the periphery as I pull out an empty third clip from the pistol. Only three more clips left.

"Cover me! I'll get some eyes above us." James motions with a rough tap on the shoulder, rifling through my rucksack.

"Alright, make it quick," I shift slightly and point the ruck in his direction, patience already wearing thin.

Thankfully, all items and field essentials within are pre-positioned accordingly to the team's customized layout, allowing him to fish out several of the pocket-sized drones in a handful of seconds.

With both hands fumbling with urgency, James wastes no time in getting the machines airborne. A basic alert pops up at the top right corner of the visor, indicating the drones' active connection to the team's localized battlenet.

"Black Viper drones airborne!" James turns around, darting back to his previous choice of cover behind the adjacent tree. He makes it past the barrage, possibly sustaining a few negligible hits to his person if the hard thwacks are of any indication. Once again, the armour's proving its worth not just in the field of augmenting a soldier's situational awareness.

"Fuck me!" he yells, nursing his crippled right leg. Perhaps that statement was premature.

He quickly shrugs off the pain, waving off my concern and recovering back on two feet. "I'm fine, just stings like hell." The operative gets back into position and issues a vengeful stream of return fire back at the enemy.

Taking his words at face value, I turn back ahead and risk a short peak out of cover, not liking the sight in the slightest. I continue supporting with the pistol's shots, mentally rehearsing the placement of a combat knife tucked on the belt.

"Downed a few," Douglas hollers through comms, his voice cutting through with a constant blaze of gunfire, "they're still not budging."

"Brace, brace, brace!" I turn to James just as the enemy surges past the last dozen metres. They leap out and cross the threshold—darting past the front and onto both flanks. Frantically, I aim at the approaching threats, making good on the last few shots in a desperate final bid before resorting to close-quarters.

Each of the shots echoes with a scream, and the thud of a body collapsing. Voices hollered over the next few seconds. Mine, them, James. They devolved into a crude blend of screams, barely discernable from one to the next. Blood splatters across the gloves—someone's, not yet mine. With the last shot, fists went flying, and the fight quickly descends into a mess of limbs whizzing into and past my vision.

A sudden force makes contact with my right temple, coinciding with a sharp pain in my neck. The jarring assault sends the world spiraling, and I quickly lose balance, both legs giving way and tripping over something—or someone.

The vegetation cushions the rapid descent—a small consolation to that searing, god-awful throbbing surging from my neck. It echoes with a steady pulse as the sounds of combat remain muffled in a muted cacophony of chaos and violence.

Gunfire continues to chatter as I lie in place, barely coherent to anything coming my way. Try as I might, nothing made sense. Silhouettes hovered overhead, black mixed with blues or golds. The trample of footsteps fade and transitions into an eerie silence as someone looms over me—just a black figure.

"Man down—man down!" The ringing intensifies, drowning out the words—and all attempts to discern them.

A rough hand latches onto my shoulder, pulling me away from a mess of still bodies. "Got him!"

"Get him patched! They're falling back," a voice yells.

"Covering!" a third voice chimes, gunfire chattering shortly after.

The pain intensifies as I am positioned behind cover. Only now did I notice the small knife lodged in my neck, and that gush of fresh blood. I make a sluggish attempt to stem the flow, carefully wrapping my fingers around the crude handle, though it only manages to cake the entire hand in blood.

"Shit," I repeat the word like a mantra, feeling the warmth flooding out and staining the armour. The torrent makes headway and completely envelops the hand, now making it clear that without immediate medical attention, the chances of survival is next to zero. At this rate, hypovolemic shock is not far off.

Through all of this, the pistol somehow remains in my right hand. Even with conscious thought now factored in, it maintains a death grip around the pistol grip. Losing one weapon is already one too many.

James puts a firm hand on my chest, his identity only evident with the small red cross on his arm.

"Fuck," I wheeze out, enduring the pulsating pain as the team's appointed medic rifles through his kit.

The operative issues a nod, immediately assessing the injury and applying a firm pressure on the wound. "No shit, now stay still," he dryly states, fishing out a packet of hemostatic pads with his free hand.

With a sharp tug, he wrenches the knife out. A scream nearly escapes my lips, but I clamp down on the pain. He quickly places a pad on the open wound, sealing its edges with a sweep of his thumb.

I respond after a considerable delay—fearing the prognosis. "How, is it?"

The operative replies without hesitation. "External jugular's definitely hit, probably nicked the interior one as well. Asshole was gunning for your head but it slipped—you'll live."

The air inside the helmet remains saturated with the distinctive scent of copper, though it barely registers as I sweep over the front to assess the battle. Projectiles still hurtle towards our position as we return fire in equal measure, no one else aside from me suffered a serious wound. If the Gods are willing, it will stay that way.

I muster what was left of my strength, coating my voice with a semblance of authority. "We need off this place."

James answers after finalizing the dressings. "Still a work in progress. Stay still, hit us up if you need anything else," he moves off and joins the ongoing skirmish.

===Inora===

We proceed with nimble footsteps towards that battle, none of whom are privy to our approach. Their thunderous roars grace our ears with ever increasing clarity, a relentless tirade so reminiscent of that dreadful encounter.

They are here, well beyond the frontlines, but why?

Such a question has no place now, and so I banish the thought, swearing to the pious rigors of duty. Draped beneath darkness and shadow, we are in our element. Yhunian rangers battled the warriors in black, their arcane pure as starlight through the woods. Here lies an opportunity, ripe for the taking.

"They are already bloodied, " I slow down, noting the odd lack of numbers from the Yhunians. The rule of twelve, a concept their people adhere in all things. But here they number only half at best.

I ready the scepter, instilled with desire to join the battle and rid the world of these warriors. With the advent of battle all but assured, I need only the fealty of those beside me.

"Are you still with me?" I inquire, brandishing a resolute façade to both.

Sephra's gaze flutters ahead, her expression mired with grim acceptance. The light and softness of her youthful demeanor withers, fading to a semblance of submission. Oswin simply nods, perhaps also hesitant but more willing to join the fray.

Their scepters comes ablaze with soft blue, echoing their adherence to our Lord Captain's institutions. Here we stand, ready to unleash our regards onto the accursed Yhunian invaders. The woods slowly glide past in our silent prowl forward, sinking ever deeper into the elements around us.

Only the sounds of rustling leaves and passing steps marks our passage. The night is our veil and strength. From the darkness, will come light and fury. This, we hold dear now, and into the hereafter.

The accursed invaders assumed a safeguarding stance, imparting all their arcane to a single evoked barrier. "For the towns burned to dust, and families sundered."

With a scowl, I let loose a furtive volley onto the Yhunians. In this moment, we stand with the faceless warriors against the same enemy—allies by coincidence. I can only hope they share in that same ancient creed.

With the added fury, victory is all but assured. Our violent decrees surge onwards without pause, searing women and men alike. We struck from the sides, where their barriers can never hope to defend, and so it falls. Our flames reign uncontested, a billowing tide of ashes and smoke to engulf the place where the enemy once stood.

I hasten the pursuit, embracing the riveting thrill of a first strike brilliantly executed. The heat flushes against me as I squint ahead to welcome the scene of destruction.

The fruits of our endeavors lie before us, charred remnants of a once pristine land. And yet, suspiciously empty. Neither the glint of armour, nor bodies could be seen within the fiery tempest. What trickery would they evoke this time?

"Those cowards warped away," Oswin murmurs, his voice laced with contempt. The mage's crestfallen demeanor spreads as a sigh escapes me, "like scurrying rodents to light."

I remain firm in stance, even as his comment washes through the smoldering flames. The masked warriors held their ground, peeking from shelter as did I to them. All three held a stern oath to silence. One of them moves to defend their backs, but the others remain still.

They stood like ancient guardians—reminders of a culture now lost to time. In spite of their strangeness, there is only that brewing echo of emotions within.

Murderers, they are. Anger simmers to the fore, and beckons me to seek vengeance. Their hands are wrought with blood. Two warriors—dear friends. Here their killers stand, almost a mockery of that fated slaughter.

A calm voice flutters. "Let it go, in their memory. Let them both rest in peace," Sephra offers with a wavering lilt. The Life Mender pauses, a light frown gracing her lips. "Someone of their ilk is gravely injured."

"How do you know?" Oswin says, his hand on the cusp of stopping her, as did I.

Sephra halts and turns, her voice reaching a solemn tone. "Why else would they stay." She presents her sceptre to me. Without much hassle I take it, and watch her continue.

She steadies her approach, braving their veiled ire. Now without a means to defend herself, she brings both arms to the front and proceeds into the murk, offering a demure persona.

The masked warriors allow her into their midst, forging an uneasy truce with the now unarmed mender. They stay their weapons, but remain on guard to her prodding. Behind them was perhaps one of their own, gravely injured.

I follow in her steps, wondering if her assumption did indeed hold a shard of truth.

======

"You were right," behind the ominous gathering of three, lay the forth. Blood trickles down his armoured chest—black as the rest of his visage. He holds a hand to his neck, glaring back through the dark glint of his helm.

"Mender's intuition." Sephra looks at me, gracing a smirk though it quickly sours back into concern.

She halts before the man, forsaking her safety for those in need as is the spirit of her profession. Their weapons are poised on her, like us. But she pays little heed to such dangers barely a pace away from her head.

A soft weave of green exudes from the Mender's hands. The others watch, restraining their caution as they gazed upon the soft melds—perhaps in awe. They make no attempt to remove her presence from their injured kin.

Time here is fleeting, more enemies may yet arrive, but the notion is muted as I reveled in the strangeness of this moment. Her hands engulf the warrior's bare neck, touch intrusive but equally tender.

The nearest one suddenly intones, raising a finger to Sephra. "Whatever she's doing, I don't consent to it. She'll cross the line if she takes my pad off."

The injured one looks at his kin, then to me. I pause and forsake the notion of ever getting closer. Any more and I fear a reprimand, be it through words or weapons. Below, he held a trinket—more likely a weapon. It would take only a moment.

"At least we're not being shot at. It's the same guys from first contact," he wheezes, prying his ire off me. With that, I release my breath and plunge into a pool of relief.

Even in his weakened state, he exudes an aura of authority. His voice bears that familiar tone despite being muddled with pain. He skirts away from Sephra, though it was futile with his back resting against a tree, its trunk a large column that stifled an easy escape.

"Allow me for but a moment to mend," she raises one hand to placate his growing fears, and those of his kin. Slowly, she cranes his head to the side, though he avoids her gentle prompt. He quickly glares at the mender, imparting his unsaid defiance, their helms almost touching.

"Pitiful measures," she sighs with ample disappointment, foregoing her boldness. Her fingers sink onto his skin with a reverent glow, raising her concerns almost in reprimand, "this would not stem the bleeding, let alone leave the skin unscarred." She thumbs over the silken pad, ignoring its presence entirely.

Their gazes now felt colder than ever, yet she continues. I avert and stand back, shedding cold sweat. Even now, I nursed a strong urge to seek out their faces, to see the men behind such sinister masks. To know fully, the ones who felled my former companions.

Just as quickly as the thought forms, it vanishes. Oswin remains behind, his slight shuffles echoing with the crackles of scorched leaves and branches. My patience wears thin as the moments pass.

"As soon as you are finished, we depart," I announce, casting a weary glance at the warriors. One glares at me, but remains silent—almost as though it truly is an oath.

"Of course," Sephra answers, keeping her gaze anchoured.

The air felt cold, even as the dying flames carried their warmth over to me. Against my will, the wait continues. It is too late now to truly regret the decision to thread into the murk.

===End===