**Imperial General Varak Thorn's Log, Supplemental**
**Imperial Command Tent recording**
**37 days after Rothgard's Fall**
The sky betrays the sea.
General Varak Thorn paced the heavy canvas floor of the command tent like a caged wolf, his armored boots grinding deep divots into the packed earth. The communication crystal clutched in his gauntleted fist glowed a sullen amber, its inner light flickering like a dying ember. For the last hour, he had tried again and again, each failed connection tightening the knot of cold dread in his stomach until it felt like a blade pressed to his spine. The reinforcements—Admiral Korr's fleet, the black-sailed armada that was supposed to crush the valley in a single unstoppable tide—had gone ominously silent.
"Answer, damn you!" he snarled, thumb pressing harder against the crystal's rune-etched surface until the metal bit into his palm. The tent flap stirred in the evening wind, carrying the distant clang of hammers and the low murmur of soldiers digging trenches. His second, Tribune Cassian Drusus, stood at the map table, arms crossed, watching the general with the wary patience of a man who had seen too many campaigns turn sour.
The crystal finally flared to life. Static crackled violently, then voices spilled through—shouts, curses, the unmistakable roar of wind and breaking wood. A harried face appeared in the crystal's depths, the fleet commander's second, Tribune Lirren, his uniform torn and streaked with soot, eyes wild with terror.
"General Thorn—thank the ancestors it's you," Lirren rasped, voice raw and broken. "We're under attack—attacked from the Drakon-cursed sky itself! The greater dragons are dead or dying—ripped apart by rods of fire falling from the void! Half the fleet is damaged beyond repair—sails shredded, decks splintered, hulls taking water. We're turning back to port. We have no choice. The black tide is broken!"
Varak's blood ran cold. He slammed a fist on the map table, scattering markers across the parchment like spilled blood. "From the sky? What madness is this? When will you sail again? We need those troops and those dragons now—answer me, Tribune!" Lirren's face twisted in exhausted fury and despair. "Sail again? Void's maw—with what? The dragons are gone—burned to ash or bleeding out in the waves. The transports are listing, and the crews are pulling men from the water like drowned rats. We're done. Sorry, General. Good—"
The signal died with a sharp crack. The crystal went dark in Varak's hand. The general stared at the lifeless stone, the cold dread in his gut hardening into something heavier, more final. He turned slowly to Tribune Cassian Drusus, who had gone very still, the color draining from his face. "Tribune," Varak said, voice low and dangerous, barely above a whisper. "They're turning back. The dragons are dead. The fleet is broken." Drusus exhaled through his teeth, his usual calm fracturing. "Then we stand alone, General. The valley is still ours to take, but without the fleet's numbers and the greater dragons… we face them with what we have left. The men are tired. The supply lines are stretched thin."
Varak paced again, mind racing through maps, supply lines, and the stubborn resistance he had already faced. "We dig in. No more open-field marches. We form a defensive line across the eastern approaches—fortify the ridges, mine the passes, and wait for them to come to us. Let them bleed on our steel while we rebuild what we can from the islands. The Imperia does not break so easily." Drusus nodded once, sharp and decisive, though his eyes betrayed the same grim weight. "I'll send runners to the engineers immediately. We'll have the first redoubts up by dawn. The men will fight harder when they know the sky itself has turned against us."
The general stopped at the tent entrance, staring out at the darkening sky where stars now glittered like indifferent eyes. Somewhere above, unseen and untouchable, the enemy had struck without warning. The black tide had faltered, but the war was far from over. "Make it strong, Tribune," Varak said quietly, the words heavy with the fate of an empire. "We are the last line now." Outside, the sound of shovels biting into the earth rose, steady and relentless, as the Imperium prepared to dig its heels into foreign soil and dare the sky to strike again.