Wings of Resolve
Steam hissed and gears clanked in the sprawling heart of Arkhelm's Armory Vault, where molten metal met sacred design. The air was thick with the scent of oil, scorched metal, and a strange electric pulse that came from the rune-crafting chambers. Soldiers, engineers, and blacksmiths worked like clockwork—this was where Arkhelm forged its legends.
Elian stood with Lyra and Kael, facing a towering wall lined with weapons, armor, and glider packs the world had never seen before. Strategos Erina herself observed from a steel balcony above, eyes sharp.
"Welcome to the rebirth of your war," she declared. "The Scales of Iron are best when they adapt. And now, we adapt to you."
Uniforms were rolled out—sleek, charcoal-black armor lined with reinforced, lightweight titanium plates, resistant to ancient bone and claws. Segmented for speed and flexibility, the suits bore silver trim with the emblem of Arkhelm: a dragon curled around a blade. The armor was tight around the torso, layered at the shoulders, and protected the vitals without weighing the soldier down. Each came with magnetic sheathes for dual titanium blades—upgraded with runed edges that pulsed faint blue. These blades could now pierce even thick ancient hide with precision, if wielded with force.
Kael grabbed his set first, whistling. "Now this is fashion I can kill in."
Lyra rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her smirk as she ran a hand along the armor's contours. It was efficient. Elegant. Deadly.
Then came the masterpiece—Wind Gliders. They were small, compact packs made of reinforced steelweave and engine-grade alloy. Once strapped to the back, they connected to the armor's spinal rune-line. With a simple switch in the gauntlet, the packs sprouted sleek mechanical wings—two large primary wings and two stabilizers. The small, rune-powered jet engine could be triggered to keep the user airborne in mid-battle, even hover temporarily or make sharp directional shifts in flight.
Elian stood in awe as his glider hummed to life on his back. The wings unfolded with a satisfying shnk, humming with quiet power.
"They're not just for travel," Erina called down. "They're your freedom. They're your survival."
Lyra equipped hers with practiced efficiency, her expression unreadable. Kael? He grinned like a kid with a new toy, already taking short bursts off the ground and circling the chamber.
"Hoho! This thing is sweet! I feel like a damn angel of death!"
Sheane Heath entered the chamber then, still injured, his left arm in a sling, but armored nonetheless. He looked at his squad—no, his family—and nodded.
"Squad Alpha, T.E.R.O.S.A., you're no longer survivors. You're vanguard." His voice was hoarse but steady. "The Ancients took our homes. Took our people. But they haven't taken our purpose. Your first mission as Arkhelm's sky blades begins in forty-eight hours. Recon. Skirmish. Rescue."
He stopped in front of Elian. "Fyre... I don't know what you are anymore. But I know you've saved lives. You've earned your wings."
Elian saluted. "I won't waste them, sir."
The squad trained through the night. They practiced in Arkhelm's gravity towers—vaulted arenas that simulated mid-air combat. Elian adapted quickly, using his size and balance to make precise strikes while gliding. Lyra danced through the air like a ghost, her strikes silent and deadly. Kael? Wild, unpredictable, yet devastating. He treated every dive like a sport, laughing even as he sparred with drone-controlled dummies that mimicked ancient movement.
At dawn, as the sun bled gold over the jagged skyline, the squad stood on a high launch platform, new armor gleaming, wings folded, blades locked in place. Below them, the city pulsed. Above them, the sky beckoned.
For the first time since Vandrel's fall, Elian didn't feel like a survivor.
He felt like a soldier.
And war was calling again.