Count Reginald Roth's Log, Supplemental
Albion Command recording
27 days after Rothgard's Fall
Sky spears fall.
Steel angels descend.
The black tide breaks.
Count Reginald Roth stood on the balcony of the Harbor Master's Keep, the ancient stone trembling beneath his boots. Below, Albion's forces were being hard-pressed by the jet-black armor of the Draco Imperia legions. Rune-plated troops hammered the defenders back, yard by bloody yard, while lesser dragons perched on static support machines fed raw Aether into emplaced artillery. The black flood was closing fast on the last civilian evacuation column—families and wounded streaming toward the rear gates. One more push and the civilians would be caught in the open.
Lord Blackthorn stood beside him, face streaked with soot and blood, sword still in hand. "We cannot hold much longer," he said quietly. "The men are spent. We either order a fighting retreat now or die with them where they stand." Roth's grip tightened on the railing. "Then we die with them," he answered, voice steady. "Sound the horns. Every man to the line. We give the civilians every second we can buy."
The lords around him nodded grimly. Horns sounded across the 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.
Then the sky answered.
A wave of Draco dragon riders exploded in mid-air as missiles from Raptor Squadron slammed into them with pinpoint accuracy. Lesser dragons spiraled downward, harnesses trailing smoke. The Raptors streaked over the keep at supersonic speed, their flight creating a rolling series of twelve sonic booms that thundered across the harbor like the wrath of the gods.
Two VS-22 Jackels swept low over the keep, their fusion-torch hybrid engines screaming as they buzzed the rooftop and hovered thirty feet above the entrance plaza. Stubby spars extended from the hull, and the 20mm electromagnetic Vulcan cannons mounted on them spun up with a high-pitched whine. They unleashed a storm of hypersonic slugs as well as launching air-to-ground missiles that slammed into the Draco artillery emplacements. The Draco lines dissolved into red mist. Whole squads vanished in sprays of blood and shattered armor. Artillery pieces along the quay erupted in secondary explosions, structures collapsing as the concentrated fire chewed through stone and rune-plate alike. The black tide faltered mid-charge.
Moments later, the first VS-44 swooped in low, ramp already down. Delta operators in full powered armor fast-roped out, boots hitting the plaza in perfect unison. Their matte-black exoskeletons gleamed with subtle menace—tall, imposing figures of reinforced plating, broad shoulders, and glowing visors that turned their faces into impassive masks. They formed a defensive perimeter instantly, laying down precise suppressing fire that cut down the nearest Draco troops before they could react. Draco cartridge rounds pinged and ricocheted harmlessly off the advanced armor, sparks flying as bullets and blades bounced away as if striking adamantine.
The second VS-44 came in right behind them. Marines hot-roped beside the Delta teams, their navy-grey powered armor clanging as they hit the stone—equally imposing suits of reinforced plating and glowing visors, but in the deep, authoritative grey of the Discovery fleet. The two shuttles lifted off almost immediately, climbing to a high-altitude waiting orbit while the Jackels continued to hover and provide overwatch with their cannons.
The combined Delta and Marine force took charge in seconds. Their disciplined fire evaporated the pressure the Draco had been pressing. Where Albion knights had been fighting for every inch, the new arrivals carved a corridor of death through the enemy ranks. The black legions recoiled, stunned by the sudden arrival of these armored strangers from the sky.
Roth and Lord Blackthorn watched from the balcony, weapons still raised, eyes wide with caution. These new warriors moved with terrifying precision—powered armor gleaming, weapons barking in controlled bursts—but they were unknown. Their arrival had saved the keep, yet the lords remained wary, swords and rifles still trained as the Delta commander strode forward through the smoke.
The commander, helmet still sealed, walked straight up to the nearest Albion trooper guarding the keep's gate. The soldier tensed, rifle half-raised, eyes wide at the towering matte-black figure. Without raising his voice, the commander spoke through the external speaker. "I seek Count Reginald Roth. Take me to him. Now."
The trooper hesitated only a second, then nodded sharply and led the way inside. The commander followed, every step measured, the heavy boots of his powered armor ringing on the stone. Albion troops pressed against the walls to let him pass, eyes following him with wary caution. Whispers spread like wildfire: "What manner of men are these?" "Their armor turns aside bullets like rain." Hands stayed on sword hilts and rifle stocks, every soldier tense, ready to strike if the stranger showed any sign of threat. The commander's matte-black exoskeleton seemed to drink in the torchlight, making him appear even larger and more otherworldly in the narrow passages.
Inside the dimly lit War Room, maps and rune-crystals scattered across the table, the commander stopped just inside the doorway and scanned the room, helmet still sealed. His voice came through the external speaker, calm and authoritative. "I seek Count Reginald Roth. Is he present?" Roth stepped forward, sword still in hand. "I am Count Roth."
Only then did the commander reach up and remove his helmet, revealing a calm, professional face. "Count Roth. Lord Blackthorn. I am Major Harlan Kane, Delta Force detachment from the starship Discovery. We are allies of Princess Jasmine Same Roth of Rothgard. We are here to secure the civilians and support your defense. Tell us where you need us most."
Roth froze mid-step. The name struck him like a physical blow. *Same Roth of Rothgard.* Not simply Jasmine Roth, but the full noble lineage—his own bloodline. The exact phrasing only someone who truly knew her would use. His sword lowered completely. Hope and disbelief warred across his face as he stared at the armored stranger. "Jasmine… Same Roth of Rothgard," he repeated slowly, voice thick with sudden emotion. "You know my niece. You truly know her." Kane met his gaze steadily. "We do, my lord. And we intend to keep her people—and yours—alive."