Strategic Command of Eiswacht – Sublevel 9

  Time: 03:00

  The white light hung from the ceiling like a suspended blade.

  Singular, motionless. It illuminated the octagonal war table at the center of the chamber like an altar.

  Around it, the high-ranking officers of Eiswacht's General Staff studied a tactile map projected on the surface. The markers moved slowly: patrol units, active towers, tension lines. Over the western forest, a single red dot pulsed steadily.

  —Confirmation: the target was struck —General Brannkolf stated, his voice as dry as the recycled air.

  —The charge detonated on time. The impact created a severe magical rupture.

  —Casualties? —asked a silver-haired officer wearing the ceremonial uniform of the northern wing.

  —Not complete —interjected Commander Raelz—. But significant. The enemy squad commander is out of commission. Structural damage to her left arm.

  Partial loss of mobility.

  Silence.

  A military silence.

  Not of mourning.

  Of calculation.

  Until one of the generals let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

  —Then… it worked.

  The name appeared above the hologram with a subtle animation:

  Dawn’s Justice – Result: Partially Effective

  —It’s the first time our weapons have touched a Seravenn Magical Girl —someone noted.

  —It’s not a full victory —Brannkolf added—. But it proves the concept. We can wound them. We can break them.

  —And the arcane core?

  —Destroyed in the process. Unrecoverable.

  No one objected.

  In Eiswacht, symbolic value held tactical weight.

  The Council didn’t require trophies. It required precedent.

  A soft hum —almost a mechanical purr— signaled the rear gate opening.

  The temperature dropped by half a degree. Subtle. Precise.

  A figure emerged from the shadows. Black uniform with gray trim. White hair tied in a flawless knot. Every step measured like a ceremonial march.

  Most didn’t look directly at her.

  But everyone felt her arrival.

  Footsteps echoed across the metallic floor.

  Soft — but never weak.

  A cadence of precision, from someone who had never stumbled.

  —Operative S-01 Silke Engel. Wei?spiegel Squadron. Present.

  She halted just a few meters from the war table.

  The officers turned toward her like well-oiled gears responding to a signal.

  There was no surprise on their faces. Only a measured awareness, as if they were observing a volatile substance they knew how to handle… but would never touch.

  Silke did not blink.

  Her eyes — two mirrors without reflection — scanned the map without needing to focus. She had already memorized it. Already processed it. Her mind operated three steps ahead of every word, every breath.

  —Engel, —said one of the leaders, rising to his feet— your report was vital.

  You confirmed magical presence in the zone. Tracked the target undetected. Never compromised your position.

  He paused, as if weighing the next sentence with care.

  —The Supreme Board formally extends its recognition.

  Your observation validated the upgraded anti-magic charge. That will save lives in future deployments.

  Silke gave a slight, flawless bow.

  —I only fulfilled my mission, sir.

  —Your next operation is already in the assignment phase. You will receive orders once the Council signs off.

  She nodded. Nothing more.

  No questions. No requests.

  Absolute control was her element.

  —I am ready to serve. When ordered.

  She turned on her heels with the precision of a falling needle.

  Her steps faded with the same grace that brought her in.

  The generals exchanged glances in silence.

  —She’s efficient, —one of them muttered.

  —And unsettling, —added another.

  But none of them said what lingered just beneath:

  Silke Engel wasn’t merely an elite operative.

  She was an answer.

  A warning.

  A creature that had learned to exist unseen.

  And now, they all knew—

  She was drawing near.

  Silke exited the war room without looking back. The door closed behind her with a soft metallic hiss.

  There, standing against the wall like a shadow abandoned by the architecture, waited Violeta Raumer.

  Her posture was flawless, her expression... absent.

  She could’ve been a statue. Or a visual glitch.

  —"Done basking in your own efficiency?" —she asked without emotion, without irony. It was a factual observation, like commenting on the temperature.

  —"Just enough," —Silke replied, adjusting her collar as she continued walking—. "The Council doesn’t need emotion to recognize fear. Just results."

  They walked together through the corridors. No one stopped them.

  No one greeted them.

  And yet, every soldier, technician, or officer who crossed their path lowered their gaze or altered their pace.

  As if a cold ripple had disturbed the air.

  As if presences like theirs —colorless, comfortless— were only meant to be glimpsed from the corner of the eye.

  A nearby monitor displayed the rotating emblem of the Ministry of Arcane Defense. Silke didn’t even glance at it.

  —"Schattenspeer squad is gathered," —Violeta murmured—. "Private room 11-Delta. Looks like Weisshaupt didn’t enjoy how yesterday’s field simulation ended."

  —"Weisshaupt doesn’t enjoy anything she didn’t control six days in advance," —Silke said. Her voice was smooth, perfectly modulated. It could be a caress or a scalpel, depending on the listener.

  —"Do you want us to go now?"

  Silke paused in front of one of the corridor’s narrow windows. From there, the underground test hangar was visible. Empty. Silent.

  —"Not yet," —she said at last—. "I want them to hear my steps. To know I’m coming.

  And then… we observe."

  Violeta didn’t ask what she meant.

  She simply followed behind, like a shadow that had found one darker than herself.

  The halls of Strategic Command weren’t built to inspire confidence.

  They were built to impose order.

  Straight lines. White lighting. Angles without concession.

  Everything seemed calculated to make time move slower down there, as if the walls compressed seconds in some invisible pressure chamber.

  Silke moved without urgency. Each step was identical to the last—measured, elegant, soundless.

  Violeta followed behind, synchronized by instinct, as if both had been choreographed since childhood.

  To their left, a row of display cases showed deactivated magical fragments—shattered energy cores, resonant plates, failed weapons.

  One bore a tag: “Specter Project. Classification: Failed.”

  —They remind us that everything can break —Silke said, without turning her head.

  Violeta nodded slightly.

  The corridor turned right. Two low-ranking soldiers immediately froze upon seeing them.

  One of them dropped a diagnostic tablet. The metallic clatter echoed like a confession.

  Silke didn’t stop.

  Didn’t look.

  At the far end, a reinforced door with black magical bands awaited.

  Room 11-Delta. Restricted Access: Tactical Units, Class A.

  Violeta stepped ahead and placed her palm on the reader. The seal recognized her imprint without issue.

  The door opened with a deep whisper.

  Inside, the atmosphere shifted.

  Warmer. Denser.

  As if the tension of those present had altered the magical pressure in the air.

  Elianne Voss sat lazily, feet propped on the central table, idly spinning her pulse staff between her fingers. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling light, but her mind—as always—was processing everything.

  Mareike Kohl leaned back in her chair, still wearing her gauntlets, absentmindedly leaving small dents on the metal table.

  Ilsa Dreiman, ever still, sat straight-backed, hands folded neatly on her lap. She didn’t speak. She didn’t breathe more than necessary.

  She looked like she was waiting for orders that hadn’t yet been given.

  And at the center, like a statue in the middle of a ritual, stood Klara Weisshaupt.

  Upright. Motionless.

  Her uniform perfectly pressed, her long coat swaying slightly in the filtered air.

  Her braid wound tight like a knot of control.

  Her gray eyes locked on Silke.

  —You’re late —she said, without raising her voice.

  Silke offered the slightest smile, the kind that chooses not to drink the poison.

  —Just in time to be early.

  Now the Six figures shared the same room.

  Six different shadows.

  Six ways of looking at the world from the abyss.

  The silence stretched a few seconds longer, heavy as an unspoken oath.

  Silke was the first to break it.

  She walked a few steps through the room, her fingers brushing the back of an empty chair.

  —"Curious," she said softly, not looking at anyone in particular. "I wondered if this time Project Aurora would require emotion… or just blind obedience."

  It wasn’t mockery.

  Nor a direct challenge.

  But the words hung in the air like elegant poison.

  Klara didn’t blink.

  She stepped toward Silke.

  The heel of her boot echoed with restrained weight.

  Without warning, she raised her hand.

  A vortex of gravitational particles formed in her palm.

  In a whisper of motion, her scythe appeared: black, curved, pulsing.

  The blade traced a precise arc… until it rested, with immaculate accuracy, against Silke’s neck.

  The contact was barely a touch.

  A lethal caress.

  Silke met her gaze unflinchingly.

  Her lips curved slightly, as if they shared a private joke no one else could hear.

  No one intervened.

  Violeta turned her eyes away with practiced indifference.

  Elianne lowered her feet from the table—not out of respect, but calculation.

  Mareike let out a dry chuckle, her eyes glinting with anticipation.

  Ilsa remained motionless, a statue awaiting command.

  Klara held the blade in place a few seconds longer.

  Then, as if nothing had happened, she dismissed it in a compressed flare of light.

  —"Next time you question a project out loud... make sure you're not standing at its center, Engel."

  Silke gave a slight nod.

  —"Merely an observation, Commander."

  —"An unnecessary one."

  Their eyes locked for one heartbeat longer.

  Then the atmosphere loosened. Slightly.

  Six living weapons.

  Six pieces in a machinery of lethal precision.

  And that night, though none of them fully realized it yet, they had just aligned for the next step in Project Aurora.

  The world still slept.

  But in Eiswacht...

  dawn bore another name.

  Seravenn morning

  The first sound I heard wasn’t an alarm.

  Nor a magical alert.

  It was Velka groaning as she turned on her mattress.

  —Ah... my bones —she muttered like an eighty-year-old woman.

  —You have bones? I thought you were made of sarcasm and muscle —Neyra replied, her voice so raspy it sounded more like a curse than a joke.

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t—not yet.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  My throat was dry, my head heavy, and I felt a warm churn in my stomach I couldn’t quite name. Hunger? Fear? Just… exhaustion?

  I slowly sat up.

  The air in the room reeked of sweat, residual magic, and that soft fragrance Imperial laundries used to mask trauma.

  Velka stretched her arms like a broken cat.

  —I’m alive, I think. Lyss? Still got that ‘saw the gods in their underwear’ look?

  —Worse —I said—. I think the gods took turns kicking me.

  Neyra let out a short laugh—more like a disguised cough.

  —I didn’t sleep. I just closed my eyes and saw explosions.

  —That’s sleep —Velka yawned—. Welcome to the squad, rookie.

  They looked at me—not as superiors, not even as teammates.

  More like survivors from the same fire.

  I stood from the futon without making much noise.

  Neyra sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her hands like she still expected to find blood.

  Velka was already pulling on her combat gloves, even though no one had called for us yet.

  —You think they’ll… say anything? —I asked into the air.

  Velka frowned.

  —Say? Please. This is Seravenn. They’ll either give us a medal or send us on a new mission with Caelia’s arm still warm.

  Neyra sighed, standing up.

  —I’m not sure which one I’d prefer.

  Right then, a faint hum echoed through the room.

  The wall communicator flickered blue.

  —Notice: Shadows of the crown, report to Strategic Planning Room, Level 4. Field instructions pending. Priority: Active.

  We froze in place.

  Velka shrugged and snapped her fingers.

  —Told you. Still warm.

  The hallway smelled of recycled medicine and burned magic.

  None of us said much. We walked in a loose line, like the floor weighed more than usual.

  Velka had a magical ice pack stuck to her neck. Neyra dragged her feet. I barely remembered how to walk straight.

  To distract herself, Velka pulled a small device from her inner pocket, put on a pair of earbuds, and turned it on. A holographic icon blinked above her ear.

  —What are you listening to? —I asked, more to fill the silence than out of real interest.

  —Mirabelle Sterling —she replied, not looking at me.

  —The idol?

  —The icon. First of the six. New Althameria has her singing in everything from billboards to kitchenware.

  But… this song’s actually good. —She handed me an earbud—. Here.

  I took it.

  As I put it on, a clear, sweet voice filled my ear, carried by soft echoes, bubble effects, and bouncy synths. The melody had something of artificial euphoria—like a candy that doesn’t melt.

  “Kiss me even if the world is ruins,

  don’t let them see the pain.

  Dance, dance, if the sky is falling…

  let’s pretend it’s all just snow~”

  On the tiny display, the album cover showed:

  “Chronicles of an Artificial Flower”, limited edition.

  Mirabelle Sterling posed in an off-shoulder white dress adorned with ribbons and opalescent pearls. Her ash-blonde hair fell straight around her shoulders, with two strands framing a delicate face, made up to the point of surreal perfection.

  She smiled like she had never heard the word war.

  —This is what they like over there? —I asked, handing the earbud back.

  —All of them do. Don’t judge. —Velka smirked—. Sometimes pretending the world isn’t burning is the only relief you get.

  We kept walking.

  In the distance, a group of technicians were discussing something with a man in exotic clothes: a blue tunic embroidered with gold, a sun emblem on his chest, and a low-wrapped turban. Two uniformed aides flanked him. I caught a whisper as we passed:

  —...the Sultana ordered there be no further delays.

  Velka raised an eyebrow.

  —An emissary from Al-Rahad?

  —I guess so —I said, still processing the pop song bouncing around in my head—. What’s he doing here?

  —Diplomacy. Or maybe espionage. Sometimes they look the same.

  The emissary glanced at us for a moment as we passed, without stopping. His eyes held a strange gleam, like he was weighing the fabric of every uniform.

  Then he kept walking.

  The planning room doors awaited us at the end of the corridor, imposing, with the Velo emblem projected in magical gold.

  Velka pulled out her earbuds.

  —Well. Showtime.

  Neyra sighed.

  —I love Mondays.

  The doors opened with a quiet hydraulic hiss.

  The interior was more austere than I expected: metallic walls lined with floating screens, a ring-shaped table with a missing segment, and at the back, the Veil emblem projected in golden light.

  A middle-aged woman awaited us.

  Sharp features, gray braid tied back with precision, and a high-ranking uniform with no unnecessary decoration. She wore black gloves and held a magical tablet with active sigils.

  —Shadows of the crown —she said without ceremony—. Matriarch Elior issues the following high-priority directive.

  Velka snapped to attention almost instinctively. Neyra still looked half-asleep inside. I just tried not to seem too tense.

  —Yesterday’s incident with the arcane engine compromised part of the containment perimeter in northern Seravenn. According to recent intelligence, one of the scattered containers was intercepted by an unidentified convoy.

  She projected a map: a blue dot moving across snow-capped mountains.

  —The mission is simple: recover the package before it crosses the border into Eiswacht.

  Velka raised her hand, maintaining perfect posture.

  —Is it a weapon?

  —Negative. Experimental prototype. Sigma Three classification. Not fully defined by our analysts. Its origin points to joint development with the Frontier Magitech Institute.

  —And if it’s already crossed?

  —Then you failed.

  The silence that followed was brief but tense.

  —What about Caelia? —Neyra asked quietly.

  The commander barely blinked.

  —Commander Vorn remains in recovery. This operation does not require her involvement. Emotional attachment must not interfere with tactical efficiency.

  Velka clenched her jaw. Neyra looked away.

  I simply nodded.

  We no longer knew if these missions were punishment, tests… or distractions.

  —You have one hour to gear up. Transport authorized, minimal support. No aerial coverage.

  —Understood —we said in unison.

  The commander gave a single nod and exited through the side hatch, never looking back at us.

  We were left alone in the room.

  The hologram still floated, the blue dot pulsing like a lost heart.

  Velka was the first to speak:

  —An unnamed prototype… great. It’s probably a magical toilet ornament or something.

  —Might explode anyway —Neyra said, sighing.

  I stared at the map with more than just suspicion.

  I didn’t know why, but something about that route, that object, the silence around it… pressed on my chest.

  —Let’s go —I said at last—.

  If it doesn’t matter to them, then let it matter to us.

  Tactical Preparation Room

  The equipment room smelled of polished metal and residual magic.

  The lights were dim, lockers stood open, and a faint arcane mist drifted in the air after system calibrations. On a central table, three mission suits lay waiting like empty skins.

  Velka was the first to break the silence:

  —Well, at least this time we’re not starting with explosions. That’s progress.

  —Don’t celebrate too soon —Neyra replied, inspecting her staff with a meticulous gesture—. Technically, we’re still in the deployment phase.

  —Deployment phase, covert punishment phase… what’s the difference? —Velka tossed her jacket onto a bench and began tying her hair—. I bet three magical candies this "prototype" is something ridiculous. A glowing face mask? A relic that sings hymns?

  —Or something we shouldn’t touch without gloves —Neyra added without looking up, though a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed amusement.

  I didn’t say anything at first. I was adjusting the locks on my uniform, focusing on the clasps. My fingers no longer trembled like they used to.

  —You good, Lyss? —Velka asked, now powering up her pulse glove and spinning the runes to test sensitivity.

  I nodded.

  —Yeah. Just… learning to breathe before jumping into the unknown.

  Neyra raised an eyebrow.

  —Smart tactic. Less heroic. More useful.

  —Caelia taught me that —I murmured.

  They both fell silent for a moment.

  —Then it works —Velka said, more gently.

  We got ready without another word for several minutes. Each with our own rituals. Neyra fine-tuned the private channel frequencies. Velka traced symbols onto her ammo belt with arcane chalk. I checked the corrosive cartridge on my rifle for stability.

  Before leaving, Velka paused in front of the frameless mirror floating by the exit.

  —Ready, war witches?

  —Ready enough —Neyra answered.

  —More than you think —I said.

  And together, we left the room.

  Not as a makeshift trio.

  But as something that —maybe— was starting to resemble a team.

  On the Way to the Transport

  The hangar buzzed with morning activity. Arcane engineers and mech-assistants moved between suspended runes and fuel tanks, tuning seals and tightening magical clamps. The air still carried the chill of early dew.

  Velka walked ahead with her hands behind her head, jacket unzipped like she bore none of the weight of half a nation.

  —You know —she said, stretching with a loud yawn— technically, I should be leading this mission. Experience, charisma, and an immaculate ass.

  —Do you also have a broken compass? —muttered Neyra, not even lifting her gaze from the scanner staff— Because the last time you said “trust my instinct,” we almost landed in a minefield.

  —False. It was a training field. Semi-active. Technically.

  —Right —Neyra replied, deadpan—. And the corpses were decorative.

  —Enough already —I cut in—. We're just retrieving cargo. No one needs a crown today.

  —Exactly —Velka agreed—. Which is why you should let someone naturally diplomatic lead. Like me.

  Neyra slowly turned to her.

  —Velka. Yesterday you made a logistics officer cry because they wouldn't let you steal a cafeteria mug.

  —It had magical kittens on it! What kind of monster says no to that?

  We were still laughing when we reached the transport.

  Inside, the jumper was narrow —metal benches on either side, leather restraint straps enchanted for balance. The door sealed with a hiss and lock.

  From the cockpit, a gravelly voice came through:

  —Target zone in ten. Buckle up your emotions, lassies.

  —Was that a threat? —I asked, securing my strap.

  —'Cause it felt like one —Neyra added, almost smiling.

  Velka blew a kiss toward the ceiling and declared:

  —Oh blessed gods, protect this humble journey. And if there are enemies... let them be hot.

  Neyra and I exchanged the look of pure resignation.

  —And this is why she’s not in charge.

  The aircraft lifted smoothly. Outside, the mist began to dissolve into a pale silver sky.

  Through the rear hatch, the landscape unfurled —low hills, dry trees, and arcane stone ruins — a forgotten border between two worlds.

  Velka stood with a stretch, her back cracking dramatically.

  —Time to dress for bloodshed.

  Neyra was already unfastening her coat, her movements calm, ceremonial.

  I hesitated for a second... and then followed suit.

  One by one, we activated our transformations.

  Velka winked as she adjusted her glove.

  —And thus, legends are born.

  Neyra exhaled sharply.

  —Try not to die mid-monologue, legend.

  —Less than ten now —grunted the pilot from the cockpit, his accent rough like mountain gravel— Seven if th' wind behaves. And hush up, this ain’t no beauty salon.

  The three of us exchanged glances.

  And there it was again.

  Caelia wasn’t here.

  And without her... we were about to find out what we were really made of.

  Rural Zone – Outskirts of Seravenn

  The magical jump spat us out with elegant violence.

  We landed well.

  Almost well.

  Velka rolled down a low hill and got up in one smooth motion, brushing off her cloak like it was part of a dance. Neyra landed with surgical precision, not even kicking up dust. I, on the other hand, had to steady myself on a slippery slope that nearly sent me face-first into the ground. Thankfully, no one mentioned it.

  —Clear area —Neyra said, scanning with her staff—. Convoy signal reads northeast. About three hundred meters across the field.

  The plain stretched out before us like a wild carpet: dry weeds, stone outcroppings sunk in damp soil, and fragments of roads long forgotten. Far ahead, arcane transmission towers stood covered in moss. Silence, but not peace.

  Velka started walking with a faint smile.

  —Been a while since I came this far south. This kind of landscape makes me nostalgic.

  —Nostalgic? —I asked as I followed—. You're from around here?

  —Outskirts of the capital, more or less —she said, her tone slipping into something close to wistful—. Small place, nothing fancy. Fields, rusted stations. I grew up climbing grain silos like they were castle towers. Dreaming someone would call me for something important.

  Neyra walked alongside us, her gaze harder.

  —I actually lived in the capital. Sector 7-A. Before… I awakened. —She didn’t say more, but the silence after hung like a curtain.

  —What was it like? —I asked, genuinely.

  —Loud. Rigid. Excessively bright. Like perfection was a law, not a goal. —A pause—. I don’t miss any of it.

  Velka whistled.

  —And here I thought I was the dramatic one.

  —You are —Neyra muttered without turning.

  —And you’re the insomniac.

  —Tact. That’s a word, Velka.

  —Thankfully, I never learned to cast it.

  We chuckled softly, more from need than actual humor.

  After a few more steps, Velka turned to me.

  —And you, Lyss? Where’re you from?

  It took me a second to answer.

  —Not from here.

  Neyra raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press.

  Just then, our comms pulsed with a faint signal—stable connection. Silence from command.

  —By the way —Velka added—, was it just me, or did that pilot have the weirdest accent in the known world?

  —It wasn’t just you —Neyra replied flatly—. That wasn’t pure Seravenn dialect. It sounded like… some rusted version of the old frontier speech. Only people in mining zones still talk like that.

  —He sounded like every word was being dragged by a shovel.

  —Or by his own hangover —I added, making them both laugh.

  We kept walking in silence for a while.

  Ahead, cloaked in mist, the convoy waited.

  The smoke from the transport was still clearing when we reached the designated area. The convoy was stopped in the middle of an uneven clearing, surrounded by trees and roots. At first glance, it looked like a mechanical failure… but the silence was too clean.

  —We’re just supposed to drop in like this? —I asked, eyeing the stream of arcane energy leaking from the rear engine of the enemy transport—. Aren’t we gonna get instantly shot?

  Neyra tilted her head and pointed to her chest.

  —We can concentrate magic in zones. Not full shields like Caelia’s, but localized protection.

  —Localized?

  —Head, chest, limbs. You choose what to reinforce. Normal bullets disintegrate on contact. But if they catch you off guard... —she snapped her fingers— game over.

  Up front, Velka smirked.

  —Relax, Lyss. If they kill you, I promise to sob dramatically over your corpse.

  —That’s so sweet of you —I muttered, adjusting my rifle.

  We slid down the hill toward the convoy.

  What followed was a violent choreography.

  Velka took point, firing with ease, disintegrating every soldier who peeked out. Neyra flanked left, blasting clusters apart with controlled bursts. I stayed above, perched on a branch, eliminating targets with surgical precision.

  Everything was going smoothly… until we started getting in each other’s way.

  —Velka, that one was mine! —Neyra shouted as her target burst into ash before her spell hit.

  —Didn’t have your name on it, princess!

  —He was in my sights!

  —I’ve got your face in my sights and I’m not blasting it, am I!?

  —Can you two not do this right now!? —I snapped—. I’m trying to cover you and I can’t even hear my own commands!

  Velka shot another soldier who barely peeked out… then turned to us, completely fed up.

  —Och, fer th’ love o’ the bloody Stars! If ye two dinnae shut it, I’m gonna lose me damn mind! Swear tae th’ gods, stop blockin’ me shot an’ let me do me job, aye!?

  Silence.

  Absolute.

  Neyra blinked like someone had just been hexed in front of her.

  —…What the hell was that?

  —Was that your voice? —I asked—. You sounded like a pub brawler from the ancient archives.

  Velka stiffened. Then slowly reloaded her sword with way too much dignity.

  —You heard nothin’. An’ if ye say otherwise, I’ll hex yer eyebrows off.

  —I mean… I kinda liked it —Neyra muttered, still wide-eyed.

  —I liked it too —I added with a smirk—. Feels like we just unlocked a secret boss form of Velka.

  —Shut it, both of you— Velka said now with her usual accent.

  Bodies were piling up. The fight was short — almost unfair. None of us had taken real damage. Not even a scratch. The convoy, on the other hand, was a smoking graveyard.

  And yet, the most memorable thing about that fight… was Velka’s accent snapping through like a war cry.

  The scent of burnt metal and dissolved magic still lingered in the air as we approached the first vehicle. Neyra was the first to climb aboard.

  —I'll check the cargo records —she said, activating her tactical visor as she moved with practiced ease into the main compartment.

  I looked at Velka, one eyebrow raised.

  —And you were mocking the pilot…

  —Excuse me? —she frowned.

  —"Och, fer the love o' the gods, shut yer traps!" —I mimicked, putting on the thickest accent I could muster.

  From inside the truck, Neyra chimed in without missing a beat:

  —"Ah’ll blow yer bloody line o’ fire tae bits, ya numpties!" —she added, snickering.

  Velka crossed her arms and lifted her chin.

  —Next time, I’ll let you get shot. See how that goes.

  —She’s back to her usual self —I muttered—. Honestly, it’s kind of comforting.

  We climbed aboard one by one. The interior of the convoy was partially wrecked, but some compartments remained intact.

  Neyra found it first —a sealed crate tucked beneath collapsed supply boxes.

  —This wasn’t in the manifest —she murmured.

  She cracked the seal with a precise jolt of magic and opened it. Inside was a small lead-and-obsidian box, layered in containment glyphs.

  —What the hell is that? —I asked, leaning in.

  Velka crouched beside it, eyes narrowing.

  —Doesn’t look explosive. But it’s designed to block arcane scans.

  Neyra opened it carefully. Inside, a sleek metal case contained a magical synchronization mask. Elegant in design, almost surgical. Thin lines of microconductors ran along its band, and a tiny energy node pulsed at the center of the forehead.

  —Have either of you seen this before? —Neyra asked.

  —Never —Velka and I replied in unison.

  —It’s calibrated to mimic emotional signatures —Neyra noted, scanning the embedded data—. Why would this be in a supply convoy...?

  Velka pulled out one of the documents tucked beneath the mask. She examined it in silence, jaw clenched.

  —This… isn’t from Seravenn.

  —What? —I stepped closer.

  —The seal. It’s from Eiswacht. But it’s poorly forged —she explained—. And the signature here… belongs to a commander who was discharged six months ago. For treason.

  Neyra’s brow furrowed.

  —Are you suggesting…?

  —Yeah. There’s an active spy in Seravenn. One with access to logistics routes.

  A cold shiver ran down my spine.

  —And we just “happened” to intercept this?

  —The Veils will want to see this —Neyra said grimly—. This isn’t a routine find. If this mask is what I think it is… we might be looking at a replicated ability.

  Velka nodded.

  —And I’m afraid of finding out… whose.

  We stood there in silence, surrounded by twisted metal and bodies turning to ash. War wasn’t only fought on the frontlines.

  It slithered, too —like poison.

  And we had just found the first drop.