Snow churned under the mercenaries' boots as a cluster of them broke from the main line, low to the ground, shields up. Their leader, a scar-faced veteran named Cadrik, shouted above the wind.
"Under its belly! That's where beasts are soft! Move!"
One of his men hesitated.
"You saw what happened to the last lot—"
"Shut it! We don't stop now, we die here!"
Inside the APC, the gunner caught the movement on thermals.
"Got a group splitting east—about twenty meters out, moving low."
Ramirez snapped his head toward the driver.
"Reverse five meters, rotate to starboard—gunner, hit 'em before they reach the treads!"
The .50 cal barked again, snow and blood exploding in sync. Three men crumpled mid-stride, shields shattered like splintered wood. Still, Cadrik roared.
"Don't falter! We're almost there!"
The Aurion riflemen took over through the firing slits—ratatatata!—precision shots cutting down any who closed the gap.
A young mercenary dropped to his knees, clutching his throat as crimson spilled between his fingers.
"They see us… even through the snow…" he choked.
Cadrik slammed into the APC's side with his shield, banging hard as if to rattle the beast.
"Cut it open! Spears to the joints!"
One soldier inside chuckled coldly.
"They're knocking. Should we answer?"
Ramirez's voice was ice.
"Answer them loud."
The rifles opened up again, bullets punching through shields, helmets, flesh. Those still standing screamed as hot lead tore through the frigid air.
Outside, Cadrik's world spun as something slammed into his chest like a battering ram. He fell back, snow rushing to meet him, the thunder of the beast echoing in his ears. His last sight was the black steel shape looming above, unbroken and unyielding.
Within seconds, the flank was gone—chewed to nothing, leaving only broken weapons and red stains in the snow.
---
The wind shifted, carrying a new sound over the battlefield—not the staccato clatter of the beast's guns, but a deep, rhythmic thump-thump-thump that rolled through the snow like the heartbeat of some monstrous predator.
A mercenary froze mid-charge, eyes darting upward.
"By the gods… do you hear that?"
Another dropped his sword, craning his neck toward the clouds.
"The dragon… the steel dragon the priests spoke of… it's here…"
From beyond the treeline, dark shapes emerged—twin-bladed, squat-bodied machines slicing through the air with impossible speed. The lead Apache dipped low, rotors screaming, its sleek frame glinting in the pale winter sun.
Cadrik's second-in-command stumbled backward, voice breaking.
"That's no dragon! It's worse! Look at the eyes—it stares right at us!"
Through the Apache's forward sensor turret, a red laser dot danced over a snowbank, then settled on a cluster of mercenaries huddled behind shields.
Inside the APC, Ramirez smirked when the radio crackled.
"Eagle One in position. Target lock confirmed. Say the word."
"Hold fire until I call it," Ramirez replied. "Let them see it first."
The Apache hovered just above the ground, kicking up snow in a blinding white halo. Mercenaries shielded their faces, coughing, their formation crumbling under the downdraft.
One of the younger fighters screamed, tossing his spear into the snow.
"No pay's worth this! I'm not dying for some lord's greed!"
Others followed suit, the murmurs of fear turning into a chorus of retreat—except for a few diehards who clung to their weapons, eyes wild, muttering prayers against the steel demon overhead.
Then, with a sudden burst, the Apache's chain gun whirred to life—not a full barrage, just a short, sharp burst into an empty stretch of snow. The message was clear: We could have ended you already.
The survivors began breaking off, some stumbling, some running, leaving their wounded behind. Above, the "steel dragon" circled once more, its shadow sweeping across the blood-stained snow before banking toward the treeline to hunt down stragglers.
---
The battlefield was no longer a skirmish—it was a slaughterhouse.
The survivors of the 200-strong mercenary force were down to less than half, their leader lying twisted in the snow, his once-proud helm split open by a .50 caliber round. Without him, their lines had disintegrated into knots of panicked men, clinging to whatever cover they could find in the white expanse.
The low growl of diesel engines came from the west, followed by the crunch of tires over frozen ground. Out of the swirling snow emerged two more APCs, their armored hulls glinting dully under the pale winter light, each bristling with weapon mounts already tracking movement ahead. Between them, a third vehicle rolled forward—a medevac truck, its red cross markings stark against the gray metal.
From inside the first APC, a soldier's voice barked over the squad comms.
"Forward unit, we've got your signal. Reinforcements on site. Let's clean this up."
Before the mercenaries could even regroup, the Apaches roared back into their attack run, the thump of their rotors nearly drowned by the rising, mechanical scream of their M230 chain guns spinning up. Then the nightmarish BRRRRRRT of miniguns joined in—streams of tracers ripping through the morning haze, chewing apart the snowbanks the mercenaries thought were safe behind.
One mercenary dropped to his knees, clutching his ears as the snow around him erupted into geysers of dirt and ice.
"Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!" he screamed, but his voice was swallowed in the mechanical roar.
Another tried to rally the men, shouting over the cacophony, but his words were cut short as the minigun swept past—one moment a man, the next, a red mist drifting into the wind.
Inside the medevac, Ramirez's helmet clinked against the metal wall as a corpsman checked his bandaged shoulder.
"Looks like you stirred up a hornet's nest," the medic said grimly.
Ramirez winced, watching through the slit window as an Apache banked hard, swooping low over the fleeing shapes in the snow.
"Not hornets," he muttered. "Hornets don't carry miniguns."
The ground shook again as another burst tore through the mercenaries' retreat path. What was once an organized ambush was now a desperate rout—the 90 who had stood moments ago were being whittled down by the second, and the steel beasts of Aurion showed no sign of slowing their advance.
---
The battlefield was silent now, save for the groan of engines and the distant hum of the hovering Apache. The snow had stopped falling, but the wind still swept over the field, carrying with it the bitter scent of blood and burning flesh.
The medevac crew moved quickly, their boots crunching over crimson-stained snow. Ramirez lay slumped against the side of the APC, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. His face was pale, lips pressed tight against the pain as two medics eased him onto a stretcher. The rear hatch clanged shut, and the vehicle roared to life, pushing through the churned slush toward Outpost Sierra-17.
Scattered across the frozen field, the survivors of the mercenary force were little more than broken things now. Some still clutched weapons with frozen fingers, unable to lift them; others lay with legs twisted the wrong way or bellies torn open, steaming in the cold. The cries of the wounded were thin and ragged, sometimes trailing into silence mid-breath.
The Aurion soldiers moved among them methodically. There was no Geneva Convention here, no medics rushing to save the enemy. One man knelt beside a mercenary whose arm had been blown off at the shoulder, the stump a mangled mess of blackened flesh and bone. The soldier rested a hand briefly on the man's chest, muttered something low and final, then drew his sidearm. One shot. The sound was dull against the snow.
Elsewhere, another soldier crouched over a man missing both legs, his eyes wide and unseeing, mouth working soundlessly as if trying to speak. The soldier's breath clouded the air as he took aim and squeezed the trigger. The body went still.
It went on like that — short, sharp reports echoing in the cold, each one ending another voice on the wind. There was no cruelty in it, only grim necessity. Here, mercy wore a uniform and carried a gun.
By the time the last shot faded, the field was quiet again. Steam rose from the warm barrels of the rifles, drifting upward into the pale winter sky. The steel beasts idled in a loose circle, their armored hulls unmarred, the black stains on their plating the only sign of the battle they had endured.
In the distance, the Apache banked away, heading for its next patrol. The remaining Aurion soldiers began collecting whatever was worth taking — weapons, maps, scraps of armor. Anything else was left for the snow to claim.
Within the hour, the convoy was moving again, heading back toward Aurion lines. Behind them, the field lay littered with bodies and shattered steel, a testament to what happened when the old world met the new — and learned too late that there was no going back.
---
Days passed, and the snows of Solaira grew heavier, burying the city's streets in white. The events at Sierra-17 were no longer just whispers among soldiers; they had reached the polished floors of Aurion's government halls.
The morning broadcasts ran the headline in stark letters:
"SUPPOSED AMBUSH ON AURION APC NEAR SIERRA-17 – INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY"
Footage rolled across the nation's screens — grainy images of the aftermath, the silent hulks of APCs standing in a frostbitten field, black smoke curling from what little remained of enemy forces. The commentators spoke in careful tones, calling it an "alleged attack" by "unidentified armed elements" operating dangerously close to Drakensport's trade route. But everyone knew where the fingers were pointing.
In the Ministry of Defense, the atmosphere was taut. Officials sifted through reports, cross-checking satellite imagery, intercepted chatter, and soldier testimonies. Details were kept from the public, but within the inner circles, there was no doubt that this was no random raid. The patterns were too organized, the numbers too large for a band of desperate brigands.
For now, the stance was measured. The official statement spoke of "ongoing investigations" and "a formal request for clarification" to Drakensport's crown. But the request itself had yet to be delivered. By Aurion's reckoning, the news would not reach the kingdom for another week or two, depending on the weather and the reliability of their medieval couriers.
In the meantime, the footage and still frames played again and again on Solaira's newsfeeds, showing armored doors closing, medevac vehicles rushing away, and dark shapes in the snow where men had once stood. To the citizens of Aurion, it was a sobering reminder that this world beyond the rift was not as peaceful as some had hoped.
To the soldiers at Sierra-17, it was just another day on the frontier — and a sign that the next attack might not wait for winter to pass.
---
The keep's lower chambers were always colder than the rest of Drachenhalm. The walls were thick, the corridors narrow, and the flicker of the torches never seemed to reach the corners.
Lord Brenwick walked alone, the sound of his boots echoing against stone. The meeting was not in the grand hall, but in one of the old war rooms — a place most courtiers had forgotten existed.
Two men were already there when he entered. Both wore plain wool cloaks, the kind any merchant might own, but the way they carried themselves marked them as anything but common.
"You're late," one of them said, not looking up from the map spread across the table.
"I was delayed," Brenwick replied, shutting the heavy door behind him. "The court is abuzz with rumors of Aurion steel in the snow. No one speaks it aloud, but suspicion travels faster than any rider."
The other man — lean, sharp-eyed — tapped the map. "We underestimated them. Their machines aren't just for show. Those flying ones… they broke the line before it even touched the enemy's hulls."
Brenwick stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We can't afford another failure. The crown knows nothing of this — and it must stay that way. If Aldred suspects we acted without his blessing, we'll hang before the Aurions even lift a finger."
"Then we move differently," the lean man said. "No open field battles. No massed companies. We cut the road behind their outposts, bleed their supply lines. By the time they realize, they'll be too far from their own world to hold the ground."
Brenwick frowned. "That takes time. And time is what we don't have if they start asking questions."
The man with the map finally looked up, his eyes cold. "Then perhaps we should make sure their questions… never reach the right ears."
A long moment passed. Then Brenwick nodded, just once.
Outside, the snow kept falling, silent as the grave.
---
In the high-vaulted council chamber of Drachenhalm, the fire snapped and spat in the hearth, but its warmth didn't reach the long table where the realm's great lords sat.
A scrap of parchment lay in the center, weighed down by a silver goblet. The edges were damp and frayed, the ink smeared where snowmelt had touched it.
Lord Harthwick of Braemore picked it up between two fingers and read it again, his brow creasing deeper with each line.
> "—iron beasts… fire from the sky… our company destroyed… Cadrik fallen… they are not men—"
He set it down slowly. "And you're telling me, Lord Chancellor, that this is the only account of the so-called battle at Sierra-17?"
The Chancellor's voice was flat. "The bird arrived at Westfort Tower three nights ago. No other messenger. No rider. No survivor."
Across the table, Lady Maevra of Aelbrook gave a sharp laugh. "Then it's tavern talk. Soldiers embellish. Mercenaries embellish twice as much. Next you'll say these Aurions ride dragons of steel."
"Some do say that," murmured Lord Trevane, swirling his wine. "Twin-winged, spewing fire that can melt stone. If half of it's true, then Cadrik's men never stood a chance."
Maevra waved him off. "If half of it's true, then we should be sharpening our tongues, not our swords. The Crown won't act on the ramblings of a half-frozen sellsword scribbling before his death."
But Lord Trevane's eyes stayed fixed on the parchment. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the ramblings are the only truth we'll get — before the Aurions decide to write the rest of the story themselves."
The chamber fell into uneasy silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Outside, the winter wind rattled the shutters, as if trying to warn them of something none of them wanted to name aloud.