The squad stood in the simulation room, celebrating their success. For the first time since arriving at Bluescale Hub, they had flawlessly completed the full operation.
"Hell yes!" Kean whooped, throwing a fist into the air before turning to Mei. "Did you see that shot? Nailed the hybrid right through its core!"
Vivian gave a rare smile as she wiped a small amount of solution off her forearms. Even Adam cracked a faint grin. William rolled his shoulder, positioning his hand as if his shield was still magnetized to his arm.
But Gilbert didn't smile. He stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, gaze thoughtful.
"We go again tomorrow," he said. "Different sim. From now on, we don't run the same simulation twice unless it's necessary."
Kean, who had been halfway through a dramatic reenactment, paused and looked over. "Wait—what? Why not? That's how we get better, right?"
Gilbert turned to face them all, his voice quiet but firm. "Because we won't get a redo in real life."
The words settled into the room like gravity.
From that day on, they trained harder, smarter. Each simulation became a single shot to succeed. Some, they passed. Others failed. Sometimes they partnered with Askel and Aisling's squad—learning from their ruthless precision and measured coordination.
More squads arrived at the Bluescale Hub. Unlike the White Horns, those companies were only known by numbers—Company 47, 88, 101. Their soldiers watched the White Horns with silent interest—sometimes respect, sometimes challenge in their eyes. The White Horns although young were still a special company with their only mission being the cleaning of a city gaining them a small amount of fame.
Two weeks after arrival, the notification finally came.
Deployment Order – Unit 5A9 – Standby for Forward Transfer in 25 hours.
Gilbert received the message while seated in Colonel Aniela Eden's office. As a medic under the White Horn's she was allowed to travel with them.
He sat on the medical bed, zipping up his jacket, the collar brushing his chin as he re-read the Pantheon seal on the message. The room hummed with medical instruments.
"So, how'd I do?" Gilbert asked without looking up.
Aniela didn't glance away from the diagnostics screen. "Very well. I finally located the focus zone. Your neural weave is strongest at your spinal upper thoracic area… and your posterior parietal cortex connection is off-pattern."
"So, what does that mean?" he asked
"It means your dormant circuit is rooted in spatial awareness and navigation; multitasking and attention; decision making. Your suit's backplate is amplifying a pattern I haven't seen in any other Knights…." She trailed off, already lost in thought, her fingers flying across the console.
Gilbert stood and stretched, catching a glimpse of himself in the reflective wall—thick muscles wrapped around his arms and shoulders, his stretched spine curved like a bowstring drawn taut. Sharp brown eyes that seem lighter colored than usual, the scars from his reattached arm are still faint.
"So next steps?"
"I'll start cross-testing your suits' telemetry with biophysical enhancements. Might be able to tailor a support enhancement specially to your neural cadence." She muttered the last part mostly to herself. "Or maybe…design a new one altogether."
He was already halfway to the door.
"Goodnight, Aniela."
"She raised a hand without looking up. "Colonel Eden."
He paused, lips twitching into the smallest hint of a smile before disappearing down the hall.
As Gilbert stepped into the corridor, his halo watch buzzed softly—an incoming message from command.
Knight 141
Briefing begins in Multipurpose Hangar C in forty minutes.
Deployment details classified—Level 4 Clearance required.
He exhaled through his nose and tapped his watch, informing his squad that he had a meeting and won't be back in a while running to his room changing out of his training uniform.
Gilbert stepped into Multipurpose Hangar C, the cold artificial light casting long shadows beneath the vaulted ceiling. Normally used for armor calibration and drop-load prep, the chamber had been reconfigured for a high-level operation briefing.
All around, officers had taken their places. The walkways above were lined with 2nd Lieutenants, their forms rigid as they peered down like judges in a war tribunal. On the ground floor sat High Knights and squad Sergeants—present only due to their officer status. At the front sat the company leaders the White Horn's Major Cade being the most prominent. At the front stood a tall man with dark hair and wearing the Dragon Legion dress uniform.
At the forefront, the company commanders were arrayed in full regalia. The White Horns' Major Cade sat among them, his presence as steady as steel.
At the head of the hall stood a tall man in Dragon Legion dress uniform. His posture was impeccable, every movement deliberate.
Gilbert took his seat to Aisling's left, offering her and Askel—seated on her right—a curt nod. Aisling returned it with a ghost of a smile. Askel merely grunted, arms crossed.
A large holo-emitter blinked to life at the center of the room, projecting a slowly rotating orbital station. Labeled in stark blue glyphs:
ASHENSPIRE 2396.
The structure bore the scars of war—cratered plating, shattered spires, and breach points flickering in warning red.
The tall officer stepped forward, voice clear and clipped.
"I am Lieutenant Colonel Luca Vos," he began, hands clasped behind his back. "I will be commanding this operation."
His gaze swept the room like a blade.
"Companies 458, 600, 201, 102, and the White Horns will form the temporary battalion designation: AlphaRomero. You are being deployed to Ashenspire, a strategic relay between the Martian Belt and the Bastion Line. The station is under siege. Defense protocols failed. Command systems are offline. Communications are dark."
He tapped his pad. The map zoomed in to expose interior tunnel networks, each infested with pulsing red markers.
Styx Confirmed.
"These are not common ferals or beast-class. The assaulting forces belong to the Baron House of Sinclairei—a cadet force of the Duke House of Sinclaire. These are elite Stygian forces. We estimate they will fully compromise the station within seventy-five hours unless reinforced."
Luca turned directly toward the section where the White Horns sat, eyes sharp.
"White Horns—you are the spear."
Another click. A new hologram emerged: the pale, unfocused face of a woman—hair long and unkempt, eyes reflecting sleepless madness.
Dr. Ilena Vos.
"She's a surviving Federation mechanic. Her last known research focused on adaptive armor circuitry. Intelligence indicates she may have stolen Stygian technology just before the war reignited. She is to be retrieved— If that is not possible, prioritize the recovery of her data."
A hand shot up from the mezzanine. A young 2nd Lieutenant.
"Extraction window, sir?"
"No window," Luca said flatly. "You drop in dark. Extraction will be triggered upon relay reactivation. Until then, you're cut off. In emergencies, route all comms to your First Lieutenants or Major Cade. They'll serve as interim command."
Aisling leaned toward Gilbert, murmuring just loud enough for him to hear.
"No backup. No window. Sounds familiar."
Gilbert didn't smile.
"It's war."
From his far side, Askel rolled his shoulders.
"Hopefully one of these noble-blooded freaks gives me a challenge. The last servant we fought didn't even dent my shield."
Luca stepped back, posture never wavering.
"Report to your squads. Prep your kits. Final loadout and departure is in twenty-two hours. Dismissed."
The hologram blinked out.
Gilbert stood and turned to Aisling, voice low and dry.
"See you in the field, Aisling. Try not to make me save your noble ass again."
She raised a brow, but said nothing—only smirking as he passed.
Gilbert streamed out with the rest of the Knights, making his way back through the artery halls of the hub. When he reached his squad's quarters, he didn't waste time.
He stepped in, voice already sharp with command.
"Prep for battle. Ana, Mei—check our logistics. Double-check cold pack rations, stimulant reserves, and armor diagnostics. I want a full readiness report in one hour."
The squad moved like clockwork.
Three hours before departure, Gilbert returned to Multipurpose Hangar C—this time fully armored, squad 5A9 trailing behind him in formation. For the first time, they wore their suits outside of a simulation: the real plating, the real weight, the real chill of the reinforced systems pressing against their skin. Gone was the cradle of virtual consequence.
They stood tall in the hangar's cold light, the echo of footsteps muted beneath hydraulic whines and armor servos. The hangar had transformed yet again, now a staging ground for war. Across the floor, other squads had assembled, silent and grim. The White Horns stood out instantly—sleek black and white plating against the standard dark gold of the other companies.
A synthetic voice rang out over the intercom system:
"Boarding in five minutes."
The words echoed like a hammer cock ready to fire.
Around them, squads moved. Final checks. Ammo tallies. Quiet nods passed between squadmates—some nervous, others steeled. Across the hangar, squad leaders barked out last-minute commands. The atmosphere was thick—not with panic, but with precision.
One by one, the companies filed toward their assigned dropships. Each sleek vessel hissed open, mag-clamps extending like open jaws. The White Horns boarded together, stepping onto the cold floors of their corvettes.
Through reinforced viewports, the fleet came into view.
Dozens of craft—frigates, cruisers, drop carriers, and Luca Vos's Destroyer—floated outside the Bluecscale hub in disciplined formation. All sixty-one vessels drifted in silence, waiting.
Gilbert stepped toward the rear of the craft, hand gripping the side rail as the hatch sealed with a heavy thunk. His helmet's HUD flickered to life, synchronizing with the dropship systems.
Across the comms, a single line crackled to life from command:
"Fleet formation locked. All craft: prepare for warp. E.T.A. to Ashenspire—twelve hours."
And with that, the engines ignited.
The fleet moved as one, a spear of light piercing the void between worlds.
The hum of the Corvette's interior systems had become a kind of lullaby—steady, mechanical, constant. Outside, the stars streaked past in long, warping lines as the fleet surfed through space.
Inside, the White Horns sat mostly in silence, each locked into their own routines.
Chen Mei sat with her eyes closed, fingers twitching lightly against her datapad. A diagnostic loop fed through her HUD, triple-checking the evac beacons she'd set into her loadout. Across from her, Anastasia had already detached one of her gauntlets and was quietly adjusting a micro-piston. She worked with surgical focus, like she was tuning an instrument before a recital.
Kean sat sideways, feet up on a cargo crate, tossing a coin between his fingers. The rhythmic clink each time he caught it was the only sound breaking the tension.
William stood near the bulkhead, arms folded. His shield rested against the wall beside him—gleaming, pristine, and unnaturally heavy-looking. He hadn't spoken since they launched.
Adam sat on the floor, polishing the barrel of his wyvern III sniper rifle with a strip of cloth.
Gilbert remained near the hatch, staring at the display screens as the ship gave occasional updates on formation integrity and proximity to enemy scanner range. He hadn't removed his helmet.