LSergeant Ramirez crouched beside the lead wagon, gloved fingers lifting the edge of a bundled tarp as he scanned for anything that violated the treaty—swords, crossbows, even the glint of a hidden blade. The cold bit through his jacket, but he kept his expression unreadable, his eyes moving between the cargo and the merchant who stood a few paces away, smiling faintly beneath his hood.
The convoy's engines idled low behind him, a deep metallic thrum that seemed to anchor the winter air.
"All right," Ramirez said, straightening. "Next wagon."
He had taken barely two steps when something cut the wind with a thin, vicious hiss. There was no time to think. A dark blur streaked into his vision—then the impact slammed into his left shoulder, spinning him halfway around. Pain flared hot and sudden, and he stumbled against the side of the wagon, the shaft of an arrow jutting from just above his armor plate.
"What the—? Contact! CONTACT!" one of the Aurion troopers shouted, already snapping his rifle to his shoulder.
Before the sound could fully echo, the hills erupted. Figures burst from the snowbanks and ridgelines—mercenaries in patchwork armor, some with steel helms, others in fur-lined hoods. Bows twanged, crossbows thudded, and the sharp crack of steel on steel rang out as a dozen riders surged forward on horseback, spears angled low.
From the "merchant" wagons themselves, cloaked men flung back the covers to reveal more archers and swordsmen packed inside, spilling into the road in a sudden wave of blades. The lead merchant—the one who had spoken so politely minutes ago—was already shouting orders in a voice far too trained for a simple trader.
The APC crews reacted instantly. Engines roared higher, heavy turrets whirring as the gunners scanned for targets. The sharp, mechanical sound of bolts being chambered cut through the chaos.
Ramirez gritted his teeth against the pain, dragging himself behind a wheel well as another arrow splintered against the APC's armored side. The snow around him churned with bootprints and the black streaks of smoke grenades being deployed.
And somewhere above, the faint but unmistakable thunder of rotor blades began to grow louder.
The fight for Sierra-17's Steel beast had begun.
---
The arrows came in sporadic waves at first—one or two striking the armored flanks with sharp, metallic thunks, then another volley, then another. Each shaft shattered uselessly, splintering into fragments that skittered across the snow. Inside the APC, the sound was little more than muffled taps against the steel hide, but the constant rhythm was a reminder: they were surrounded, cut off, and outnumbered.
"Ten klicks from Sierra," Corporal Vance muttered, watching the GPS overlay flicker on the dash. "We're too far for quick backup."
"They're not gonna scratch us with twigs," Private Dawson said from the rear hatch, his rifle cradled in his lap, "but they sure as hell can keep us boxed in until the rest of their buddies show."
Sergeant Ramirez, still gripping his wounded shoulder but refusing to slow, scanned the interior. "We've got eight rifles, one .50 cal on top, and one bird inbound if HQ hears our distress. But if we just sit here, we'll be swarmed before air support can even clear the treeline."
The driver, Specialist Ortega, adjusted his helmet mic. "Sir, we can push through. Break formation, take the left slope. It's steep, but the suspension can handle it. Get us to that ridge and we can spot where they're massing."
Ramirez's eyes narrowed. "And risk flipping this thing? Not yet."
He leaned forward, tapping the side monitor that showed the exterior cameras. A group of mercenaries was trying to wedge logs into the road ahead, their horses kicking up snow as they scrambled to block the path. Others moved along the ridges, hoping to channel the APC into a kill zone.
"All right," Ramirez said finally, voice low but sharp. "Here's the play—three-man fire team dismounts, flanks them from that frozen creek bed. APC stays mobile, keeps the fifty sweeping. We punch a gap, then link up again before they can reorganize. We're not here to win a war—just survive long enough to make them regret picking this fight."
The men nodded, chambering rounds, adrenaline sharpening every movement. Outside, the arrow volleys intensified, as if the attackers sensed something was about to change.
Then Ramirez keyed his comms, voice steady despite the chaos.
"Outpost Sierra, this is Patrol Charlie-Two. We are under heavy contact. Initiating breakout plan now."
---
The winter wind howled through the valley, a frigid gale that cut across the road and scoured the trees bare. To the mercenaries lying in wait, it was a perfect veil — the gusts whipped up snow into swirling curtains, reducing visibility to little more than shadows and shapes. They crouched behind rocks, nestled in snowbanks, certain the Aurion patrol could not see them.
What they didn't know — what they could not have known — was that the APC's roof-mounted thermal optics were alive with heat signatures.
Inside the armored shell, Specialist Ortega grinned without humor as he tapped the feed. "They think they're ghosts out there. But look at this…" Dozens of orange silhouettes blazed against the dark blue background, each one a living furnace in the subzero cold.
"They're not hiding," Corporal Vance muttered, "they're naked."
Sergeant Ramirez was about to order the dismount team to push forward into the creek bed when the next volley of arrows slammed into the hull, a sudden, angry hiss of impacts. The sound was hollow against the plating, but the sheer number made it clear — the attackers were getting bolder.
One shaft clanged against the gun shield of the .50 cal, forcing Private Otero, who was manning the weapon, to duck back for a moment. Another volley tore through the air, the arrows whistling so close to the firing ports that the dismount team froze halfway to the rear hatch.
"Negative, negative," Ramirez barked into his mic. "Stay inside, hold positions. We're not walking into a crossfire."
The APC's turret swiveled, its servos whining as Otero realigned the big gun. The thermals painted the world in glowing targets, each one oblivious to how exposed they really were.
Then, with a squeeze of the trigger, the .50 cal thundered.
The first burst ripped into the snow-covered ridge, sending plumes of white and red spraying into the air. The mercenaries' illusion of safety shattered instantly. Screams cut through the wind as men scrambled for cover that no longer existed, their forms lit up like beacons in the sights.
"Keep sweeping!" Ramirez ordered. "They thought winter would hide them—show them winter doesn't mean a damn thing to Aurion."
The gun roared again, brass clattering inside the turret as the APC rotated to rake another flank. But the arrows kept coming from farther out, desperate and wild now, pinning the vehicle's crew in place. No one had fired back with bows or muskets yet — just arrows — but it was only a matter of time before something heavier arrived.
Ramirez's mind raced. They were ten klicks from Outpost Sierra. Reinforcements would take at least fifteen minutes. And the enemy wasn't breaking off… they were stalling for something.
That realization hit like ice water in his veins.
---
The first roar of the beast's weapon was unlike anything the mercenaries had ever heard. It wasn't the sharp crack of a crossbow, nor the rolling boom of a catapult—it was a tearing, shredding roar, like the sky itself had split open.
Snow erupted in bloody bursts where the rounds struck, and men were simply gone—one moment crouched with a bowstring drawn, the next reduced to a heap of red and black fragments.
"Hold the line! Spread out!" barked a tall man in a wolf-fur cloak, his voice straining to be heard over the wind and the booming gun. But before his order reached half the men, his head was erased in a pink mist, his body crumpling into the snow as though the soul had been yanked clean out of it.
Panic rippled through the ranks. Some tried to scatter behind rocks, others dove face-first into the drifts. The lucky ones found cover; the unlucky were shredded mid-stride, their limbs torn away as if by invisible giants.
One archer crawled forward through the snow, eyes wide with terror and rage. He jabbed his companion with a gloved hand, pointing frantically. "There! Beneath the beast! A hole—small, but it's there!"
Indeed, between the armored plates of the creature's belly, there was a dark slit, no larger than a thumb's width. None of them understood it was a firing port for the soldiers inside—just that it was a gap in the otherwise invincible armor.
"It bleeds there!" the archer shouted, hope kindling in his voice. "Aim for the gap! Bring it down!"
But even as they nocked their arrows and took aim, the turret above swung in their direction, and the snow in front of them began to leap and churn as the metal beast spat fire once more.
Still, in their desperation, they thought they'd found the monster's weakness—without realizing they were aiming straight at the teeth of the trap.
---
Inside the cramped hull of the APC, the air reeked of hot metal and burnt propellant. Sergeant Ramirez was pressed against the armored wall, listening to the hammering impacts of arrows bouncing harmlessly off the exterior. His radio crackled with urgent chatter, but his eyes were fixed on the small slit in the floor plating—the very gap the mercenaries had so eagerly discovered.
"Contact—bottom side," one of the soldiers called out, already bracing his rifle against the firing port.
Through the narrow view, the world outside looked warped and small, but the enemy was close enough to see their breath pluming in the cold. The first arrow whistled past the slit and clattered uselessly inside the cabin.
Ramirez grinned grimly. "They think they've found a weakness." He gave the order without hesitation. "Light 'em up."
The soldier squeezed the trigger, and the confined space filled with the brutal thak-thak-thak of automatic fire. Outside, the snow erupted in streaks of red and black as the rounds punched through fur, leather, and flesh. Screams rang out, muffled by the steel walls, but unmistakable.
One mercenary who had been crawling toward the port with a dagger jerked violently as three rounds slammed into his chest, flipping him onto his back, eyes frozen wide in disbelief. Another tried to drag him away, only to have his legs shredded into ribbons by the next burst.
Inside, Ramirez swapped places with the gunner, peering through the slit just long enough to see panic taking hold. Men were falling back, slipping on ice, dropping their weapons. Those still standing fired wildly, their arrows hissing harmlessly into the snow or ricocheting off the hull.
"Keep them pressed," Ramirez ordered. "We don't let them regroup. They came hunting for a beast—let's show them what one looks like."
The firing ports opened up again, and the metal beast roared anew, turning the white winter field into a killing ground.
---
The plan had been simple—lure the beast in, pin it with volleys, and swarm it before its handlers could react. That was the way you broke warhorses, siege rams, even armored wagons. The men had believed it. He had believed it.
But the thing they had drawn into the trap was no beast of flesh or wood.
The first roar of its weapon had been like thunder in a narrow canyon—metal screaming and air tearing in a way that made the heart stumble in the chest. Arrows meant to crack its hide bounced away like rain against stone. Then the slaughter began.
The "clank, clank, clank" of its great gun cut through the winter wind, deep and methodical, each burst sending men flailing backward with half their bodies missing. And under it came a sharper rhythm—ratatatatat—dozens of smaller bites, chewing through shields, leather, and bone as if none of it existed.
They had thought it would take time, perhaps a dozen good men, to wear the thing down. But in the space of barely three minutes, seventy were already gone—cut down in sprays of red against the snow. The air stank of blood and the sharp, alien scent of the beast's breath—hot metal and burnt powder.
No war cry came now. Men who had sworn they'd die for honor were stumbling away, eyes wide, mouths open in wordless terror. Those who stayed crouched behind their shields, trembling as the beast's guns picked them off one by one.
The commander's stomach churned. This wasn't a foe to tame. This wasn't a prize to capture. This was a god of war made fleshless, wrapped in steel, and it was looking straight at them.
And gods, it was hungry.
---
The commander bellowed over the howling wind, voice breaking under the din of gunfire.
"Shields up! Press forward! It's only one beast—drive the handlers out!"
A mercenary, crouched low with blood splattered across his face, shouted back.
"Drive that out? It's tearing us apart! We're walking into the reaper's mouth!"
Another man screamed as his leg vanished in a spray of snow and flesh, the great gun hammering again—CLANK, CLANK, CLANK. The commander's words were swallowed by the sound.
Inside the APC, Sergeant Ramirez ducked back from the firing slit, reloading.
"Thermals lit up like a bloody festival—thirty, maybe forty still pressing the left flank!"
A private grinned grimly, feeding the belt into the .50 cal.
"They're lining up nice and tight out there. Like ducks."
"Then keep plucking 'em," Ramirez barked. "Driver, pivot us—sixty degrees, slow rotation. Keep the front armor on their archers."
Outside, another mercenary tried to rally his side.
"They're just men inside! Kill the handlers and the beast will die!"
An older fighter spat into the snow.
"Men? Men don't make thunder like that. That's a devil inside there!"
The smaller rifles chattered again—ratatatatat—cutting down three more who had broken cover to charge.
The commander's voice cracked as he saw his front line melt away.
"Archers! Bring them down! Aim for the black slits in its hide!"
An arrow whistled through the air, clanging uselessly off the side of the APC. Inside, one Aurion gunner laughed.
"They really think they're scratching paint."
Ramirez's eyes narrowed as he sighted another figure through the slit—a man waving frantically, clearly barking orders.
"Command element spotted. Suppress him."
The .50 cal thundered again. The commander's world went white and red in an instant as the man beside him was cut clean in half. He staggered back, the wind knocked from his lungs, the enormity of the mistake pressing in.
In less than four minutes, seventy dead had become nearly ninety. And still, the beast roared.