Count Reginald Roth's Log, Supplemental
Albion Command recording
27 days after Rothgard's Fall
Sky spears fall.
Albion charges.
The black tide breaks.
Count Reginald Roth stood on the balcony of the Harbor Master's Keep, the ancient stone trembling beneath his boots as the sky itself seemed to ignite. One moment, the Draco carrier had dominated the horizon, its greater dragon roaring commands that bound the lesser dragons in perfect harmony. The next, a streak of white fire lanced down from the clouds and struck the massive airship dead center. The explosion that followed was unlike anything the old count had ever witnessed. A blinding sphere of plasma and shockwave simply erased the carrier from existence, vaporizing the greater dragon, the deck, and half the hull in an instant. Flaming debris rained into the harbor like the wrath of the gods.
Around him, the commanding lords stared upward in stunned silence, their faces pale beneath soot and blood. Lord Blackthorn gripped the railing until his knuckles bled. "What sorcery is that?" he whispered. "No mage, no dragon, no rune could strike from the heavens themselves." Roth's voice cracked the paralysis. "I do not know what power our new allies wield, but it has bought us a chance. Look—the black tide falters. Charge! Drive them back into the sea before they reform!"
The lords roared their assent. Horns sounded across the inner keep. Albion's exhausted forces surged forward in a final, desperate counter-attack. Knights of the Mage Corps led the charge, enchanted plate gleaming as they poured through the breaches. Will-driven arrows and magitech volleys tore into the reeling Draco ranks. Infantry regiments followed, blades raised, voices lifted in the ancient battle cries of Albion. The ground shook with the thunder of their advance.
High above, the Switchblades descended from orbit like silver falcons. Their pilots had already locked targets. Missiles streaked away on trails of fire, slamming into Draco gun boats and individual dragon riders with pinpoint accuracy. Lesser dragons spiraled downward, harnesses trailing smoke. Gunboats disintegrated in mid-air, their rune-steam cores erupting in secondary explosions. The Raptors banked hard, cannons chattering as they swept the sky clear of any remaining aerial threat.
On the ground, the Draco forces staggered, momentarily stunned by the loss of their carrier and the greater dragon that had bound them together. Yet they were still Imperial soldiers. Officers barked harsh orders. Surviving ironclads poured fire into the charging Albion lines. Lesser dragons, now fighting on instinct alone, breathed flame across the quays. The black legions reformed with brutal discipline, absorbing the counter-charge and pressing back against Albion's exhausted troops. The momentum that had been broken by the sky spears began to rebuild, one bloody yard at a time.
In the Shire Base command center, the holotable flared with fresh data. Nolan watched the Draco reformation with narrowed eyes. "They're rallying faster than I expected. Ali, status on the ground teams." A.L.I.'s avatar answered instantly, voice crisp. "Jackels and Delta squads are ready, Captain. Marines are prepped for rapid insertion." Nolan's command was immediate and absolute. "Launch. Secure the civilians and the Harbor Master's Keep. That is where Count Roth is most likely commanding. Do not let the Draco reach them. Go."
On Discovery's orbital flight deck, Delta operators and Marines, already in full combat armor and kit—tactical vests loaded with magazines, non-lethal sonic disruptors, and breaching charges—double-timed across the deck in perfect formation. Their powered suits gleamed under the hangar lights, visors down, every movement precise and rehearsed. They streamed up the ramps of the waiting VS-44 medium shuttles, boots ringing on metal. Each Wyvern-class craft could carry a full platoon plus equipment, and tonight they were loaded for urban combat and civilian extraction.
Flanking the VS-44s on the adjacent pads, the VS-22 Jackels roared to life. Their fusion-torch hybrid engines spooled with a rising scream. Door gunners checked their electromagnetic Vulcan cannons while pilots ran final pre-flight checks. The gunships would provide close air support and overwatch, their sleek frames casting long shadows across the deck as they lifted first, forming a protective screen around the heavier shuttles.
The VS-44s rose in perfect formation, flanked on both sides by the VS-22 Jackels. The combined force descended through the upper atmosphere like a steel phalanx, engines flaring as they vectored toward the burning quays and the beleaguered keep.
The drone continued its silent watch, capturing the desperate struggle below. Albion's charge had bought precious time, but the black tide was reforming. Now the true test had begun—whether the combined strength of two worlds could turn the tide before the Draco Imperia reclaimed its momentum.