Author's note;
I shouldn't have taken this long. If anyone cares, at the end of this chapter, I'll explain why this update took forever.

Anyways, enjoy lads! I hope people still remember this story.

======
-1952 Military Hours
-Cygnus Station, Antarctica

An oasis of activity in an otherwise remote locale, Cygnus station continues to operate under a veil of secrecy. Alongside the rich field of stars, an Aurora looms over the heavens in a shimmering display of green and violet, the silent phenomenon splayed across the captivating sky.

Chilling winds bellow hauntingly throughout the near permanent night, its sickly whispers rolling across the Antarctic landscape. A pair of muffled footsteps resound along the outskirts of Cygnus, the dark silhouettes trudging through the western sectors.

"Westside perimeter clear, nothing... but the usual," a disgruntled voice reports over local communications, the words lightly tinted with boredom.

Pausing briefly, my companion continues relaying the update on my behalf as we begin moving further west. "Now proceeding to next waypoint, will provide sitrep upon arrival, over."

"Sentry team... Cygnus Administrative copies, out," the response crackles through my helmet's internal speakers.

The invasive cold creeps in to my extremities in spite of the insulation provided by the retrofitted winter equipment. Pushing through the discomfort, I set my eyes ahead to get my attention away from the numbness evident at the fingertips.

Through tinted goggles, the odd visage of the Rift is barely visible, its black impression blending in perfectly with the night sky. Along the way, the snow beneath pulls on my every step, making it that much harder to traverse the unforgiving terrain.

"God, this weather," I comment as the involuntary shivers kick in, sparing a glace to the side.

Bradley replies with a shrug, "At least it's nothing like what's going on in Africa. Continent's become a hotbed for the insurgency movement."

I stifle a verbal reply, offering a nod to indicate my agreement with the Sergeant as we approach the highlight of our otherwise lackluster patrol.

The anticipation sends a distinctive chill up my spine, separate from the ambient cold. Its uncanny appearance alone is enough to raise concerns even in its watered-down state.

"There she is," I say, eyes marked with guarded focus, keeping a healthy distance from it.

The sole reason for Cygnus station and her associated operational activities on this desolate stretch of land, all encapsulated in the form of a dark mass of energy. The infamous Rift, completely inert regardless of any form of stimuli, and lacking discernable features across its jet-black exterior.

There are certain things in life I will never forget, this was one of them. Hardly anything could surpass the oddity ahead and the grim implications it carried.

"Over a hundred people trapped on the other side, still probably hoping for rescue," I remark, stopping completely to stare at the Rift, feeling the unease enveloping my skin. It still haunts me to think had my fireteam arrived earlier, we would have been stationed on the other side of the anomaly.

The entire UN reactionary force dodged a bullet by arriving only after the Rift lost its colours, I did not know what to really make of that unforeseen stroke of luck.

"They knew the risks," my companion reasons with a dejected sigh, "... the researchers still went through anyway."

"Curiosity's never a good thing." I say with a solemn tone, shaking my head in disapproval. "There's already talks of classifying the entire taskforce as Missing-In-Action. Doesn't look like any of them can return, not with it like this."

I take a short pause to gather myself, thinking back to the reports I had stumbled onto earlier today. Whoever is in charge of security classification was either unqualified, or simply didn't care enough to keep it out of plain sight.

"You know, there were other fireteams like us. Two SOG teams alongside the security detail," I say, leaving my findings up for consideration.

"I know, heard the rumours from the others," Bradley states, taking the initiative and stepping closer to the anomaly. Following through with standard operating procedure, we begin visually inspecting the Rift for any indications of change.

Sweeping clockwise around the anomaly, the Rift presented only a single face throughout the duration of our search. The same, unflinching black, devoid of anything one could consider normal.

"Nothing new," I say after the sweep. At this point, it was hardly a surprise.

"Same as it was five hours ago," Bradley informs, ready to give the final sitrep of our patrol. "I'll send it."

As the Sergeant relays the report to Cygnus Station Administrative, I centre my sights back on the Rift, drowning out the words flowing through the closed communications channel.

The last vestiges of Earth's surviving rainforests are nothing compared to the files shown. That level of biodiversity and vegetation, it all seemed far-fetched and removed from our reality. This genuinely is a frontier in every sense of the word, an uncharted expanse devoid of human interference.

It seemed too good to be true, a forbidden apple in terms of the unknown. I keep both hands firmly on my rifle, backing several steps away from the anomaly as a precaution.

More than anything, I'd like to see this world in person, but I won't risk my own neck for it. The ones on the other side failed to seriously consider that, of being trapped indefinitely.

Being near this... thing, did nothing but solidify my stance. That it was nothing but a threat.

======
-0643 Military Hours
-Tartarus Base, 11th day of Springfall

A soft gentle yellow falls on me, lifting my thoughts away from a dark and dreary plane. At every turn these memories, brief and yet viscous, stings at my inner conscious. Anything to lift my spirits, I must take it in stride.

I stop and pull my eyes to the east, gazing upon the mountains and its serrated peaks, silently reflecting upon their imposing stature. The winds are my only constant as I watch the golden light cascade down onto the vale, its grip on these lands all but assured.

A myriad of different emotions surges through me as dawnrise reveals the aftermath of our actions in fall order. Coursing through my lips is a stifled gasp as I stop to observe the distraught scene before me.

All I see now, is a people undone in their pride and resolve. Few of their warriors are left, they were simply too injured to resist, spared in the name of mercy. Surging back once again, I think about the battle, and its horrible toll on those who partook in it with a troubled frown.

"The Flightwing has sighted the last of their fallen beyond the eastern outskirts," a rough echoing voice yells across from within the greenery.

The words bring my senses back to the present with a startling jolt. The Black Hand Vanguards harboured little concern over my brief reverie, their focus relentless as they toil on with ropes and metal-tipped entrenching spades.

Labouring through the paved stonework, anchored to duty and free of distractions, the warriors work to further clear the twisted remnants of the human's former war machines from the plaza.

Once proudly sculpted in the distant likeness of an insect, the aerial constructs now lay shattered, their sturdy carapace dented and cold to the touch. Like a carcass, they were sadly treated as such without respect to their mantle as the human's battle mounts.

"Not enough rope," the Lord Captain decrees, voice gallant amongst his fellow subordinates. "We need more bundles for the Silverwings to heft this away. See to it we have more from the sappers."

"At once," a Black Hand warrior proclaims, ending with a firm arm over his chest. Swift steps patter against the stonework as he darts away to the northern fringes, his sleek armor clattering with spirited vigor.

I centre my sights on the lone Vanguard as he nears, offering him my opening regards. Features shadowed under a helmet fashioned in the likeness of demonic fiends, the false snarl plastered upon it drives deep the kind of warriors the Black Hand embody in spirit.

Emotions sheltered within the menacing battle garb, the seasoned warrior continues onward without delay as if I were the passing wind. In a moment, he is out of my vision. I force down the temptation to look back, instead heaving a sigh to settle my displeasure.

Had I not known in detail the Vanguard's long, and convoluted traditions, I would have taken it as an insult to my honor.

"Beyond the outskirts, human bodies in the undergrowth," the same voice resounds again, more assertive than before.

Spurring my legs into motion, I head back to the east with long strides fueled by newfound urgency. Though my eyes are laden with weariness, the noble cause etched upon my shoulders spurs me onward. Sleep can wait, it always can.

"On our east, one sighted. Might be the last of their fallen," the Black Hand Life Mender informs, impassive with her tone and demeanor.

She lifts a hand towards a Silverwing high above, circling amongst the gold tinted clouds in a splendor of gentle grace. "Follow the dragon's approach, its rider claims sight of one directly beneath him."

"Very well," I announce over the tense moment, foregoing the usual needs of courtesy and simple pleasantries. Against these warriors, such gestures would simply be left between the waves.

Braving into the fields of greenery once again, I search for the brave souls who stood defiant until the last. Should hope be with me, this will be the last I will encounter. Empowered by the Silverwing's patient visage above, I dart ahead in hopes of finding my quarry. Human soldiers who fell.

Peering through the innocent landscape of fresh green and wild skies, I search intently for the black tinge of the human's hardened carapace armor within the untamed grass. Treading skillfully amongst the uneven woodwork, with eyes imbued by magic within, it is then I spot an odd lump in the distance.

'Suspicious and out of place, surely an endeavor worth peering into,' I thought, creeping steadily towards it.

I approach with my staff drawn and senses alight. It lies motionless, the scars of fire prevalent nearby, a rugged grey much like the standards of their common warriors. Soon, it is apparent the shape and look is indeed that of a human soldier.

With my findings affirmed, the Silverwing darts away, its proud rider leading the armoured dragon towards other endeavors beyond my privy. Left on my own, a bout of loneliness tugs my soul as I turn to regard the corpse with newfound reluctance.

Here lies the remnants of a person, his honor and dignity unprotected in death. The sight unravels a small knot of unease within, my heart answering with heightened tremors against the chestplate.

The outline of his body is unchanging still, and my hopes of a possible survivor falls to the void. Drawn ever closer to the fate of this unnamed soldier, a quick glance around his disfigured form reveals scorch burns of unprecedented ferocity.

With a sigh, I kneel down, intending to turn the body over to its side, muttering a quick apology as I did so. "Peace onto you," I breath out, being ever respectful of my actions.

The body offers no resistance as I gently push on its shoulder, the very thought distressing to think about in full. Slowly, the face of the human is revealed, features exotic and foreign, but empty of life and scarred immensely by spells.

A tragedy beyond the weight of a thousand words, carried forth by glazed eyes onto this new day. Eyes that were different, eyes unlike my own, the Euralian trait of slender pupils, molded for the starlit darkness of this world.

Greatly compelled to show respect, I bow my head, a palm brushing against cold armor and skin. Through my actions, there is nothing but deep reverence for the departed spirit of this fallen warrior. The extent of these injuries are haunting to mull over, though there is some solace to be taken in knowing he did not suffer long.

The tragic atmosphere permeates as I part my lips to deliver forth a short prayer, quiet words weighted greatly with spiritual importance. The ancient sermon in which all Euralians carry in heart and soul, in life through death, for ally and enemy.

"Formidable you surely were with bravery and loyalty at your behest, unyielding even when faced against our sudden might. Honoured warrior of humankind, may you find peace in the Herald's crystal embrace, she who accepts all." I pause, eyes trancing upon the fallen soldier's scarred face.

A beleaguered tone graces my lips as I continue, recalling the bizarre truth of their origins. "... even those who are not born of this world. Know that peace lies ahead," I say.

This was not my first prayer in the afterglow, yet the emotional importance woven through my words remains just as clear, pristine like a lake forgotten. It sails without regret to say that what we are doing, does not follow the ancient codes of virtue.

With the aimless clouds above as witness to this ponderous moment, I close the warrior's lifeless eyes, sensing the raw cold emerging from his flaked skin. All that he is and has been, I will carry a small part of it onward as lingering memory, just like the others.

'It is the least I can offer in times like this.' I muse with a grim outlook, reflecting gravely upon the near future.

It pains my honor to do this, but such a task must be done. Spotting my real quarry two short leagues away, I edge closer to the ominous slab of metalwork, snaking my fingers over the hardened exterior as I lift it into open arms.

Tremors from my heart thunder against the chestpiece as I heft the weapon upon my shoulder, its weight and value imparted onto me. An item crafted upon the battlefields and strifes of their own world, this innocently shaped slab of metalwork is woven greatly into their warrior culture.

I stand up, ever mindful of my hands in fear of its boisterous decree. Like a crossbow, I hold its pointed tip to the sky, fingers shying from what I believe to be the weapon's attack latch.

Tracing back towards the clear expanse of stonework, and emerging through the shadowed greenery I present myself back to the Life Mender, shrouding my inner conflicts from my stature and gait.

I present the human weapon, arms outward in honoured reverence befitting of such an item. The Iron-masked woman takes it from my hands, inspecting it with a sharpened gaze, humming in approval as she turns to regard me.

"What kind of warrior breed was he?" She asks, grasping the human-made weapon by its ends, unafraid of its inner workings.

I weave back to the quiet moment, drawing the recent memory from the depths. It is fresh and clear of doubt, each detail I remember as it were, certain and precise like notes of a song.

His helmet, tempered grey and masking everything but the face. A simple, yet efficient design that speaks greatly of their affinity in metalworking. It was the hallmarks of their normal soldiers. Wreathed in lesser standards of plated grey and metal, their foreign armor, however peculiar still offered these men a modicum of protection from spells.

Formidable they may be, they are overshadowed by their more elite brethren. The ones who shroud themselves in unyielding black, their faces rarely seen and voices almost never heard outside the realms of battle.

"Regular, it is not one of their elites," I look up, certain of my conclusion.

"That is concerning," she replies, a short pause between her words. "So that warrior detachment is still out there, on the islands. The distant homes of those we campaigned against so long ago..."

"They are not to be taken lightly," I step up, insistence pouring out my lips. "Those soldiers are the best the humans have, they harbour great mastery over their way of fighting," I say attesting greatly from my own experience, a pit of sadness gathering as I recall the unfortunate meeting against his pact.

It was in a moment of fatigue, an impulsive move done without a second thought. My greatest regret still, to mistake them as Yhunian spies.

A confident tone shatters the haunting reverie, "We'll take steps to make certain our victory. Out of respect for their skills, we will offer them one chance to surrender. Should they return, they will find us waiting," she boldly affirms.

"The life wards?" I ask, eyes tracing the mountain ridges. Such a firm assertion could only mean the warding crystals are already present along the mountain peaks.

"Enchanted and placed," she answers, a frown hidden in her words. "They rely solely on ranged warfare. The ones we fought, their style vaguely mirrors the Yhunian principles of battle. We can mold our current tactics to work against them if need be..."

I avert my eyes, dismissing her comment. "Let us hope the wards will prove useful in detecting them. To stop more unwanted bloodshed," I retort. "We took this place only through the element of surprise."

The Black Hand Life Mender tilts her head lightly, eyes visibly faltering through the holes in the helmet. "I expect nothing but the full weight of their vengeance. Our deeds are sown with human lives, and it pains me to see that some of them were innocent and without weapons," she muses, a hint of sorrow laced beneath her words.

"Still, duty binds me to this path. Better us have this fortress than the Yhunians, as a Warrior Scout you surely know the value of foresight. I dread to think of the weapons they might conjure with the knowledge of this place."

Powerless to weave an argument against it, I settle for a nod, seeing the truth in her statement. Concluding our affair with withering silence, I walk pass her, my legs bound towards those whom I know share my grievances.

Sephra, Oswin and Myandra. They know of my inner conflicts, and I know of theirs. We thread on a cautious line, serving as newly minted occupiers of this frontier. Unwilling, but compelled by duty.

If word could be sent to Princess Luculia, or perhaps her other sisters, then we could halt this endeavor. I know a Royals decree will stop the Black Hand, it is the only way I foresee an outcome that shall halt this farce from further tainting the values we hold dearly.

These steadfast brutes will act upon any decree, just as they did against the Elves so long ago, faithfully and without question. They serve proudly, at the cost of virtues and honor, adhering to the old ideals of Euralia's unclean past.

======
-0954 Military Hours
-Tartarus Base, Air Pad 04

The cries of Silverwings shatters the interlude as they rose over the horizon, gracefully in their home element amongst the clouds. With seamless twists and turns, the armoured dragons descend steeply into the vale, their wings veered back as they dive headfirst at speeds unrelenting and dangerous.

I look up, watching as they skillfully glide along the cliffs, mere leagues away from the mountain's jagged precipice. The display of aerial prowess captures my fascination as the Flightwing Riders spur their esteemed mounts onward, limbs tightly coiled around the harness as they battled the high winds.

Oswin raises a finger, eyes rolling from the Flightwing's dauntless display of finesse. "There are less... flaunting ways to enter the valley. Certainly ones that are more safe," he mutters, cold amusement drifting as his hands weave another knot onto the Broadwing's unattended saddle.

The noble beast bellows softly, head craning up to regard the Silverwings with a fleeting gaze, huffing out a groan through her snout. Deep rumbles echo across the dragon's thick scales as I glide my fingers across her large bulk, seeking to forget the gruesome images of the recent morning encounters.

Never have I seen so many charred victims, in a single morning. Their scent still lingers in the forgotten winds, heavy with smoke and defeat.

"They deserve the honor of a warrior's burial, all of them," I mutter, recalling the Black Hand's refusal to entertain the notion, "... to end them on such a desolate note, and not carry on with their final rites."

Forming my hands into a fist, I send a cautious glare away, lips now heavy with revulsion. "It shames me to see them as Euralian warriors," I whisper, eyes besieging the back of a Black Hand warrior.

"A chain faithfully unbroken for countless cycles. It is not our place to judge or dictate their way of conduct," Oswin reasons, stopping to huff a sigh. "It matters little now."

"Sadly," Sephra weaves in a word, offering a sad smile at the both of us. She turns back to her work, immersed in the endeavor amongst the plethora of human equipment loosely sprawled on the ground.

I gaze intently at the odd collection of metalwork and trinkets. The information they carry, is bound to forge more questions than answers. Noble in her commitment, she carries on nonetheless, dutifully sorting them in orders of presumed importance for the flight back to Drossal.

The sharp call of a Silverwing lures my attention to the clouds, back to the approaching visage of the three dragons. Their speed has since only increased as they hurtle through the air, as though forced into retreat by an unseen enemy.

"Things are amiss," I hold a hand up, intuition on the prowl. A shimmer of red radiates from one of the Lancers, setting my suspicions alight. Such an act would imply the Flightwing carries an immediate warning, one that must be known at once.

"Luminary flare from the Flightwing." I behold the spectacle with budding concern, watching as the Lancer evokes the flare into the sky. It arcs over the sun at the zenith of its path, slowly dispersing into a mirage of smoke, the remaining essence bound to the winds.

"They bear an urgent warning," Sephra murmurs, tone sunken with concern. "It is red. So perhaps another fight is upon us, and so soon as well."

I turn towards towards my battle-sister, gazing at her tired features from the side. Her body bore the signs of spiritual exhaustion. Pale skin, shivering limbs and cruel headaches. All this, to uphold a Life Mender's sworn oath to heal.

Feet turning sharply, I grab her on the arm, leaving the Broadwing to its lonesome. The very air grows heavy with mounting dread, sinking overhead as though a storm on the brink of release.

I rush to the assigned rally as vehement cries resound in the distance, the muffled words as though captured in the heat of conflict. Realization slowly dawns as I will my legs to take greater strides.

"To the Rally Emblem, now." I say, spurring my two companions with me. Our cloaks flutter behind us, heart racing amidst the sudden call as more voices enter the fray.

"Red flare, red flare! Spread the alert, gather all at once!" A Black Hand soldier yells, breaking into a sprint as he marshals his fellow Vanguards from a building. Swords and staves glitter under the sun's rays, the clattering of armor a constant chime as many answered the sudden call to arms.

Crude remarks begin to thunder from the spirited few as more soldiers stream towards the rally emblem, simply the mindless wails of those without etiquette. My stomach curls at the indecent words spoken, even as I surge onward into the stonework plaza.

"Into formations with all due haste," a waiting Vanguard decrees at the limits of his voice, wielding an esteemed battle staff, the crystal gleaming with powerful intent.

With seasoned footwork, everyone assembles under the order amidst the swift chaos. The cries of Silverwings draw ever closer, their bickering shrills ringing sharply amongst the pattering of armoured footsteps.

I slip through the tide of churning armor, weaving into the assembly under the rally emblem's glinting visage, an indomitable black fist. A sigil of unrelenting strength and allegiance, fitting for the warriors that serves under its cause.

A slight clink resounds as my pauldrons impact the ones beside me, their bulkier forms easily surpassing mine. Beads of sweat gather over my brows as I find myself at the forefront of the formation, thoughts churning at the dire implications these Lancers bring.

Befitting of their repute, the Black Hand's iron-clad discipline carves through the foreboding ambiance, their appearance resolute and certain. Even the women are equally impassive, their faces and feminine worth hidden beneath a full visage of plated terasteel.

A nervous gulp escapes me as the Lord Captain strolls past the front, sending a momentary, but surely heated glance, as though privy to my inner musings. I stand firmer, tilting my head higher to emulate the others, wondering if my fellow pact mates are doing the same to avoid the Captain's dangerous ire.

The shrills rise again as the Silverwings land upon the stonework plaza, its riders swiftly releasing their flightware harnesses with an urgency that spoke greatly of something sinister.

The Lord Captain steps ahead, his armoured visage radiating sharp contempt. "Lancers, what warnings do you bear," he asks immediately.

A female Lancer leaps off her Silverwing, the gilded helmet wings denoting her stature as Flightwing leader. "Yhunian forward scouts spotted not a day's march to the north, behind them lies a detachment of Yhunian soldiers," she reports.

"What regiment do they belong to, and what of their exact numbers?" He questions her further.

"From the banners, we believe them to be part of the Yhunian 1st Regiment, 9th Southern Cohort. The soldiers number over a hundred strong from the skies, with perhaps more hidden amongst the covered woodwork. They are heading due south with haste, and will be poised to encircle the mountain ranges in two days," she replies.

"Faster than expected," the masked Captain says, running a finger through the cleft of his armoured chin.

He looks up after a moment of pondering. "Have the rest of your Lancers withdraw from further patrols, keep them in reserve. The enemy rarely advances without Spearhead interference, I suspect their Tacticians are keeping the wyverns grounded to shroud their numbers," the man decrees with finality.

"Our mounts will be prepared, and we will fight to the last. For the Queen's honor, we will," she affirms.

The Lord Captain nods. "You may be outnumbered, but I trust this will not break your faith in the cause. Be at the ready should we come under Spearhead assault."

The Lancer offers a clenched fist over her chest. "By your example, Lord Captain." she turns to look at the captive humans behind, "And what of them?" she inquires.

He waves a hand dismissively. "The plan will still proceed regardless, it is not safe for them here."

Helpless against the surge of attention, the defeated humans, a mere fifty sat together with what little dignity they posses, prisoners in an place that once belonged to them. Their hands and legs remain bound as they endured the sun's luminous ire, their fate certain to be under Euralia's rule.

'A battle is impending, more will suffer and die.' The thought circles, revealing a mental image of needless sacrifice. A scene of destruction woven across the vale. Shattered emblems and tattered banners lay across fallen Euralian and Yhunian soldiers alike, their faces frozen on the cusp of death, lips curled away as though to unleash a scream of muted agony.

I close my eyes, accepting the future that awaits. Standing vigil amongst the others, I wonder how many more will perish simply to prevent our enemies from learning the secrets of human weaponry.

"Too many," I whisper, the words a reflection of my musings.

Vierra guide us...

======
-1958 Military Hours
-Tartarus Base

I stand before the grace of the Broadwing, her wings readied and armor fastened. Its load cradle is filled to the brim with precious examples of human artifacts, items of presumed worth to the Prime Scholars.

"On behalf of the Inquisitory League, we thank the Scouts for their help." The bearded scholar tilts his head down to us, hood shrouding all but his gratitude as the other elders peered down in silence regard.

"Our esteemed pleasure Elder Darmas," Sephra answers on my behalf, beaming a troubled smile back. She inspects the load cradle a final time, running her fingers freely through the rubber cords for loose knots.

She offers the Lancer at the helms a nod, gifting him her blessings. "Bundles are fastened tight, you may take to the wings."

"And so we proceed," the unnamed Lancer says, parting words left aside.

With a great beat of its wings, the dragon surges into the air, its true form in full display as the Broadwing slowly ascends to the clouds. The weight she carries slows her departure, a burden perhaps eased slightly by the dragon's namesake.

Other Broadwings take to the air, ferrying the former occupants away to safer pastures. The surviving humans were crammed upon their backs, treated little better than cattle as ropes bound them together. Now only a beleaguered few, they pose little threat to the Lancers and Black Hand escorts.

"Safe travels onto them," Oswin says, pausing to seek my attention. "At the very least, the humans will not be present for the impending attack."

I manage a smile, though it was shallow. "A silverlining. If... a dim one at that."

Hastily assembling into formation amongst themselves, the Flightwing departs over the western-most mountains, visible as glinting specks across a gilded sky of orange. A lone Silverwing glides along the pact, their only means of protection in the precarious journey back to Euralian skies.

The human fortress now lies empty, deprived of sound and heavy with an air of apprehension. Defending Silverwings soar hauntingly over the mountains as the stars rose to meet them. In the fading light, their shadowed forms were akin to wraiths, swift and unseen to the unprepared eye.

The last Broadwing prepares to leave, its rider a familiar face, soon to depart and never to be seen again. With folded arms, Myandra looks up to the Flightwing, her watchful eyes burdened with bittersweet emotions.

"They will learn to embrace our net of safety," she says, sitting atop her proud Broadwing. "Earth is beyond reach, they know this in their heart."

Sephra plants her hand on the dragon, placing feather-light touches across its tough leathery cheek. "I suppose this means farewell," she concludes.

The Seeker slowly nods, her answer strewn with sadness. "It is. I depart for Fairsteed, our chances of meeting again... are shallow. There is no further business for me here, my affairs are complete."

Curiosity gathering, I weave in an inquiry. "You are not joining the Flightwing?" I say, leaving the question unfinished.

"Queen Ayleth demanded her daughter travel back to the capital city. Circumstances aside, I still am bound to her place as Seeker of a Royalty," Myandra sighs.

"With luck, I could request an audience directly with her Majesty to deliver your findings. Denouncing the Black Hand's conduct is bold, but not wrong," she further adds.

"Thank you," I reply, gathering the strength to deliver a final farewell. "And goodbye."

"Goodbye indeed." Oswin mirrors my sentiments.

"Honoured I truly am, to have met you three," Myandra affirms, before turning her sights to the evening sky. "Astel, to your wings."

Humble in its grace and pride, her Broadwing takes to the air without breaking the silence. Like the others, the dragon climbs to the high winds, her great bulk slowly disappearing into the night. The cold expanse welcomes them into the murk as the stars shone brightly over their retreating visage, a mere blip, soon to fade into obscurity.

A few campfires lay scattered across the human fortress, their clarity staving off the encroaching darkness after the sun's departure. The remaining Black Hand are on constant vigil, watchful of even the slightest infringements amongst the grass, willing to commit once again to the spells they wield in battle.

Blinking away the fatigue, the cruel weight over my lids disappears momentarily. "North, we head north. To assess the Yhunian strike group, and its strength," I say, mindful of the wind's carress.

Wordlessly, my two companions usher in their support. Anything to help in the defense of the human fortress, we will take in stride. Regardless of our stance, the Black Hand still were Euralians by heart and allegiance.

Two Silverwings stood on guard nearby, the only ones that could be spared for this endeavor. The grounded dragons raise their heads to us, eliciting a muffled cry to alert their Lancers of our approach.

"Ready I presume?" One of them asks, immediately hopping onto the saddle of his dragon. He offers an expectant hand, reaching down for me.

Accepting the chivalrous act, I rest my hand on his, bracing a leg against the flightware stirrups. The Lancer pulls me up, slowly releasing his grip as I swing the other leg over the saddle. Now seated firmly, my gaze turns to my companions to watch their progress upon the other awaiting Silverwing.

The two made room for each other upon the saddle, settling into place without complaints. They move their arms into the safety harness, waiting for the moment of flight, even as space conforms them closer than they would have liked.

Shifting my hips slightly, I lean forward, tapping the awaiting Lancer on a shoulder. "Take us north," I decree, bracing myself.

He offers a glance back, answering without delay. "Hold firmly."

The wind surges like a tide unyielding as the Silverwing climbs to the air, my fingers tightly coiled around the flightware straps. I hold on for dear life, legs clamping down on the saddle harder, trusting the harness to its mantle of anchoring me.

Through the ascent, the air grows ever colder. Warmth disappears from the tips of my toes, replaced by the encroaching embrace of cold. The stars seemed to permeate my field of view as the Silverwing steadies its bearing. High above, the nightly canvas shone with such brilliant radiance, for a brief moment it was as though the troubles of the world was truly beneath my notice.

'Beautiful and timeless, and yet so mysterious,' I muse, gaze trapped skywards.

The view drives forth a sense of serenity, reaching into the unmarked crevices of my soul. Many nights I remember looking upon them for guidance, in simpler times, fraught with nothing but innocence.

It truly was naive was to think the world was without flaws back then. A believe now shattered, swept aside without remorse.

The humans were compelled to discover and explore far beyond their own borders, regardless of the risks it may hold. They adhere to logic and discipline, yet were still driven forth by their innate desire for the unknown.

What could they truly glean from us, if all they could uncover is our history. Why had they stayed, knowing their Rift may one day deprive them of return.

Even after all my observations prior to the attack, these people still were a mystery. Their motives beyond normal reasonings.

Perhaps they partly deserved their fate, if they dearly wish to be part of the unsightly mess that is our world. A land of near constant strife and warring nations.

===end===

Author's Note :

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