"Where do you think they're taking us?" Chris asked, voice small against the walls.
"Probably to their ship or a hideout," Oscar said, jaw clenched. "This could be a trap. We're walking right into it."
Mario glanced at the console strapped to his wrist. "Halley's signal is getting stronger. Whoever has her is close. We need to stay ready for anything."
A chime came over the comm. Oscar tapped the screen. "Hawk-5. Put it through."
A voice came alive in the cramped space of the landing craft—familiar, honeyed with the easy cruelty of old friendships and old grudges. "This is Stefan Ronalds, commander of Pascal Rebel Forces. Nice to see you, old friend."
Stefan was chaos wrapped in muscle and charm. Commander of the Pascal rebel forces, he didn't lead with strategy — he led with instinct, adrenaline, and a grin that made even seasoned generals nervous. His black hair, long and wild to the neck, whipped around him like a flag of defiance, never tied back, never tamed. It matched his spirit — untethered, unpredictable, and absolutely magnetic.
He was built like a brawler, broad-chested and thick-armed, the kind of man who could punch through a bulkhead and then offer you a drink right after. His voice boomed through war rooms and campfires alike, full of laughter, half-baked plans, and the kind of stories that made you question whether he was brilliant or just lucky. Probably both.
Oscar's gut tightened like a fist. That name carried weight; it had teeth. "Why did I have a bad feeling about this?" he muttered.
"Os! How are you, buddy?" the voice continued, syrupy. "Been a long time, right?"
"Who is this guy?" Youri whispered.
Oscar rolled his eyes. "We served together in the United Army once. He is a loose cannon, big mouth. He's trouble." He watched Oscar's face. "How's Halley? Loud as ever?"
Oscar's answer was clipped. "We're here because she's missing. We think she was taken. Do you have a base nearby?"
There was a pause, like a predator considering. "Yes — close. I think she might even be at my base," Stefan said.
A corner of the grin showed. "She's tough. We'll get there in time."
Oscar didn't like the sound of that. "Let's just hope it's not what I'm thinking."
Outside, the trees closed in like a living wall. The ship's hull whispered as it skimmed low; life on Altea exhaled and held its breath.
They were still moving when the base's hangar doors opened with a groan. The view opened onto a concrete apron where another ship waited—sleeker, armed, its insignia a jagged symbol that crawled across Oscar's memory.
"Wait. They've got another ship with them?" Mario's whisper was edged with fear.
Inside the base
"Major Sergei, to whom do I owe the pleasure?"
"Marquis Miller," came a reply from a sterile channel. "I have a report for you."
Marquis Miller was not just a warrior — he was the Empire's living legend. In his early fifties, he stood tall with a build carved from decades of battle, discipline, and unyielding pride. His presence alone could silence a war room. Broad-shouldered, iron-backed, and always composed, he moved like a man who had never tasted defeat — because he hadn't.
His blond hair, slicked back with military precision, gleamed under the command deck lights like polished steel. Not a strand out of place. It was the kind of grooming that spoke of control, legacy, and a refusal to bend to time. His face, weathered but regal, bore the marks of countless campaigns — not scars, but lines etched by wind, grit, and victory. His jaw was square, his gaze unwavering, and his voice carried the weight of command even in silence.
A man with too much authority and enough honor took the feed like a king receiving a tribute. "really—what's the news?"
"Drones picked up activity on the far shores. The Tartarusios. They're hiding under our nose." Said Sergei.
Miller's laugh was contempt. "So those bastards are right under you and you only tell me now? Don't expect thanks." He barked orders, then closed the line. "Commander Stefan has landed. Said the soldier. I'm on my way." Said Sergei as he left the secret meeting with Marquis Miller.
At the empire's ship
"My lord the council says wait," he muttered, fingers tightening on the rail. "They want the gods present for the apprehension." He crushed the paper's on his hand. "I bow to no council. Prepare the fleet. We sail for Altea. We will make those blue skies red."