The winds howled over the bones of Falmsreach.
Smoke still lingered in the sky like a wound refusing to close. Between the ruins, the Kingdom's remaining forces were gathering—silent, organized, purposeful. And angry.
Herzl stood beside Commander Raik, watching the war table in the heart of the underground command bunker. The only light came from flickering projectors and the occasional torch. Maps were strewn with black pins and red circles. Republic forces were converging from three fronts—northeast, central, and deep south.
And yet, none of the officers looked afraid.
Because something had changed.
The latest reports told the tale: the Kingdom of Alexandria was pushing back.
Hard.
"The moment we regained naval superiority at the Gulf of Greskar, the tides turned," Raik said. His voice was gravel. "But this… this is more than strategy."
Herzl nodded. "It's something else."
Grim stood across the room, sharpening his blade slowly, deliberately. He hadn't spoken since the bombing. There was something… colder about him now.
One of the young scouts burst into the war room, saluting sharply. "Enemy bombing wings spotted heading toward Jora Ridge. Twenty minutes, maybe less."
"Then we intercept," Raik growled. "Launch the Wyrmflame squadron. Full sortie. I want anti-air cannons live."
A loud hum buzzed through the chamber. From above ground, the engines of Alexandria's warplanes screamed to life—sleek black machines with glowing blue Inn-cores mounted along their wings. A union of ancient power and modern engineering. Machines that didn't just fly—they howled.
Herzl watched the soldiers move like clockwork. Orders turned to motion. Fear turned to fire.
And still, something gnawed at his mind.
He turned to Grim. "You felt it, didn't you? During the bombing. That wasn't just conventional Inn usage. That was… manipulated by something else."
Grim paused. Then:
"It wasn't the Republic's doing."
Herzl narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying?"
Grim looked directly at him. His tone was low. Measured.
"Someone else is feeding both sides. Someone who doesn't want peace."
Herzl blinked. "But why?"
"Because peace means memory. And memory brings justice."
The words hung in the air like steel.
Just then, the earth above rumbled. Sirens wailed.
"Contact made," shouted a nearby comms officer. "Air battle has begun over Ridge Alpha!"
The bunker's ceiling shook with distant thunder. Screens flickered—live feeds of dogfights in the clouds. Warplanes moved like phantoms through black smoke trails. Energy bursts from Inn-cores traced streaks of blue and white across the sky. Republic bombers released their payloads—but this time, the Kingdom's interceptors sliced through their defenses with vicious precision.
"For every one of ours they bombed," Commander Raik muttered, "we'll give them ten back."
But Herzl wasn't watching the feeds anymore. His eyes had drifted toward the rear of the room—toward a flickering sigil carved into the wall. Old. Faint.
The mark of the Severed Moon.
"I've seen that symbol before," he said quietly. "In Grim's old journal. It doesn't belong to the Republic… or the Kingdom."
Grim turned, noticing Herzl's gaze.
"Leave it," he said. "There are things even I fear to remember."
But Herzl didn't look away.
Because something about that mark felt like a whisper buried in bone.
And far beyond the walls of the bunker, in a forgotten valley untouched by either side, a figure cloaked in white and gold stood at the edge of a cliff.
Watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.