December 8
16:00 Hours
Musk Reef Operational Zone
The sea was still. A thick silence hung over the waters surrounding Musk Reef, broken only by the faint hum of radar dishes and the occasional creak of steel.
The Arkhe's fleet stood idle—monumental and quiet.
It was the same task force Emilie, Mona, and Ayaka had defended almost two months ago, back when the war still felt like something they could keep at arm's length. Now, that same war had come clawing into every corner of their lives, and it showed.
Two carriers loomed in the heart of the formation: Arkhe and Egeria, their decks largely empty. Four destroyers, their hulls streaked with salt and soot, formed a defensive cordon around them. The fleet's formation was perfect. Yet it felt abandoned—like a ghost town at sea.
On Arkhe's upper deck, three aircraft were all that remained.
Two UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters—Sea Monster's rescue birds—sat side by side, their rotors still. Just beyond them, a lone F-14A Tomcat stood gleaming in the fading light. Its nose bore the markings of VFA-28. Its pilot, Captain Mualani, was now the last active aviator assigned to the carrier.
Captain Gracie Fontaine, the first female carrier captain in Fontanian naval history, stood on deck in her weathered blue jacket, her arms crossed behind her back. Kaeya stood beside her, silent, his gaze drifting toward the sea.
The carrier was in a somber state.
Deck crews moved slowly, almost like ghosts. A lone sailor sat near the edge of the catapult rail, quietly playing a low, mournful tune on his harmonica. Most of the crew stayed below deck, avoiding the open air, the emptiness.
Gracie sighed, her breath fogging slightly in the cold sea air.
"This ship might be unharmed," she muttered, her voice just loud enough for Kaeya to hear. "But it pains me. Every mission we fly, fewer planes come back. Every sortie, the sky returns a little quieter."
She shook her head, bitterly.
"Right now, the only pilot left from VFA-28 is Captain Mualani. The squadron leader. The rest…" She paused. "Gone. Either downed or transferred."
Kaeya's voice was quiet but steady. "Nobody wants a carrier without aircraft. Beats the whole point of having one. So we sit. And wait."
A moment passed.
Kaeya exhaled slowly, eyes locked on the horizon. "At the end of the Khaenri'ahn war… they gave me an order. Drop a nuclear warhead on one of my own cities."
Gracie glanced at him, her brow tightening.
"I refused," Kaeya continued. "Went AWOL. Captain Candace was the one who pulled me in. Took me under her wing."
A soft chuckle escaped him, more tired than amused.
"Back then, she was known as Raven. Sometimes Kid. Strange woman, I'll give her that. Spent fifteen years in service, never once got promoted past Captain. Didn't care, either."
He looked down at his hands, flexing them faintly.
"In Khaenri'ah, there's a faction called the Khemian. They're still active—secretive, loyal to the old ways. To them, I'm a traitor. Have been for the last fifteen years."
His eyes darkened, then softened.
"And in those same fifteen years… Candace protected me. From them. From myself."
There was a pause before he turned to Gracie, his voice tinged with concern.
"You don't think the Khemian had something to do with President Imena's disappearance, do you?"
Gracie straightened, her expression turning more serious.
"One of the vessels in our fleet is a dedicated SIGINT platform. The Capitolium. She can intercept everything—radio, satellite, encrypted transmissions. And recently…"
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"She picked up a tight-beam burst transmission in old Khaenri'ahn. One we traced back to a relay near northern Natlan."
Kaeya raised an eyebrow. "And?"
Gracie's eyes narrowed. "It referenced a secure site. A holding location. And it mentioned the President by name."
Kaeya let out a long breath, hand running through his hair.
"Damn. So that's why you called us here."
"I called you here," she confirmed. "Because we're moving again. Quietly. And we need your help to do it."
Kaeya smiled faintly, tapping his chest. "I'm no pilot anymore, Gracie. Just a guy patching holes in airframes and tuning radars."
Then he looked past her, toward the bow of the ship, where four pilots stood in quiet conversation—Emilie, Mona, Ayaka, and Mualani. Their uniforms caught the wind. Their expressions carried the weight of everything they'd been through.
"But them?" Kaeya said. "It's time for them to shine."
Gracie nodded. "They're the next generation of aces."
Kaeya turned back to her. "And the aircraft?"
Gracie smiled. "We seized a ship smuggling fighters from North Khaenri'ah to a Natlani airfield. Real quiet operation."
She tilted her head toward the hangar.
"They're already aboard. Four F-14A Tomcats, fully modernized. Upgraded radars, IFF suites, datalinks, locking systems, control architecture—these birds might still be Tomcats in airframe, but under the hood? They're cutting-edge."
Kaeya nodded slowly, then lifted a hand and waved to the group of pilots. Emilie spotted the gesture.
"Looks like we're being called," she said, straightening.
The four women walked together across the deck, their footsteps echoing faintly as they approached.
Mualani stepped forward first. "What's happening?"
Kaeya spoke with a grin. "You've got new aircraft. And not just any—these are enhanced Tomcats, built for precision and survivability."
Mona raised a hand. "I get the need for new planes. But why now?"
Gracie stepped in. "Because we just intercepted a credible message in Khaenri'ahn—about the President. These aircraft will give you a fighting chance if you run into resistance. Which, if we're right, you will."
Mualani arched an eyebrow. "Even mine's getting replaced?"
Gracie smiled. "Yes, Mualani. Even yours. The upgraded suite in these birds puts them in a different class entirely."
She turned on her heel. "Come with me. I'll take you to the lower deck."
The six of them moved together, the wind tugging at their jackets and flight suits. As they walked toward the carrier's central island, the faint golden glow of the setting sun bathed the sea in amber light.
Below deck, in the hangar, waited their new machines.
And with them—hope for what came next.
As soon as they arrived at the hangar below deck, the atmosphere shifted.
The metallic hum of the carrier's systems reverberated through the cavernous space. Rows of maintenance gear and parked vehicles lined the sides, but front and center, the unmistakable silhouettes of four freshly painted F-14A Tomcats dominated the room.
Each jet stood proud under the overhead lighting, their bodies sleek and immaculate.
Jet black fuselages shimmered slightly under the lights, accentuated by sharp blue and gold accents that danced across their frames like bolts of lightning in the night. Their canopies were tinted, their control surfaces spotless, and every inch of them screamed refinement and power.
Emilie, Mona, Ayaka, and Mualani slowed to a stop, taking in the sight.
"These are yours," Gracie announced, stepping forward beside them. "F-14A Tomcats—extensively modified."
She motioned toward the aircraft with a nod.
"Upgraded radar, improved IFF, advanced locking systems. The entire avionics suite has been overhauled. Control systems are fully modernized. You won't need a RIO in the backseat—these birds are built for single-seat operation now."
She glanced at each pilot in turn.
"They'll respond faster, handle smoother, and react sharper than the old birds you trained on. More maneuverability, more awareness. These are next-generation Tomcats in every way that matters."
She paused before continuing, arms crossed.
"We've already had your aircraft numbers stenciled on. Whatever tail code or nose number you flew with before—it's been carried over. These are your planes now. Your war machines."
Emilie took a slow step forward, her eyes locked on the jet nearest to her. The reflection of its black surface caught a glint in her eyes.
And then she whispered, under her breath—
"Emberhowl..."
The word hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot.
Mona tilted her head, brow furrowed. "What?"
Mualani raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Huh?"
Emilie clenched her fist slowly at her side, the sound of leather gloves tightening barely audible.
"We're no longer Wolfsbane," she said, voice steady and quiet. "That name died when we hit the ocean."
She turned to face the others—her squadmates, her wingmates—looking them each in the eye.
"Starting from now on... we're Emberhowl."
A silence followed. Heavy, but charged.
"The ghosts of Emberhowl," she added, voice low and resolute.
Mona folded her arms, nodding. "Not official, maybe. But I can live by that."
Ayaka raised a hand, eyes calm and focused. "Same here. The name fits."
Mualani smirked, placing a hand on the tail fin of her assigned Tomcat. "Emberhowl. I'm in."
Kaeya watched from behind, hands in his pockets, a faint glimmer of nostalgia in his gaze.
Gracie smiled faintly.
"Well then," she said, "looks like I'm aboard too."
She turned serious again, stepping toward the group.
"We rescue the President tomorrow. The message we intercepted—it's real. And it's time we moved on it."
She gave the jets one more glance.
"These planes were smuggled out of North Khaenri'ah—meant to be sold off to Natlan. We intercepted the ship mid-transfer and brought them here. That's why they're so unique—experimental tech, black market avionics, you name it. But they're ours now."
She took a long breath.
"Though Emberhowl isn't an official callsign..."
Gracie's eyes met Emilie's, then the rest of the team.
"Tomorrow, you'll take to the skies as them—together."
The hangar fell quiet again, except for the distant echoes of footsteps and the occasional clank of a wrench being dropped by a deckhand further back.
The four pilots stood before their new machines—jet black birds of prey forged in secrecy, baptized by fire.
Their mission would begin at dawn.
And the name Emberhowl would take flight with them.