**Corporal Torin Shadowear's Log, Supplemental**
**Shire Base, Squad Barracks recording**
**37 days after Rothgard's Fall**
The stars call. We answer with quiet steps and sharper steel.
Morning light filtered through the narrow windows of the squad barracks in the 1st Company compound, casting long shadows across the rows of double bunks and neatly stowed gear. Corporal Torin Shadowear stood at the center of the small common area, his cat-kin ears alert and his single tail still as he reviewed the data packet on his comm once more. Around him, his squad gathered on benches and footlockers, the air thick with the scent of fresh fatigues and the faint metallic tang of weapons oil.
To his left sat Corporal Marcus Hale, the first human, a broad-shouldered Rothgard veteran whose steady hands had once swung a Rothgard axe in the old forest skirmishes. Beside him was Corporal Lena Blackwood, the second human, sharp-eyed and quick with a quip, her scout background making her the squad's eyes in tight spaces. Across from them lounged Corporal Ryla Stonefang, the wolfkin, her powerful frame coiled with restless energy and her heightened senses already scanning the room as if expecting an ambush. Next came Private Lirien Silverleaf, the elf, graceful and precise, his long fingers tracing idle patterns on the bench as though already mapping terrain. Finally, Corporal Finn Gearwhistle, the gnome, perched on a reinforced stool to match the others' height, his inventive mind already turning the briefing schematics over in his head.
Torin cleared his throat, his voice steady and pragmatic. "Listen up. The packet is clear, but I'll summarize so we all start from the same ground. Discovery is not just another airship or mage-engineered wonder. It is a starship from another world, displaced here through a rift caused by sabotage. It orbits above us now. Our job is infiltration. We drop by night via VS-44 shuttles a few miles from the target, move in on foot, mark key sites, and feed coordinates back for stand-off strikes. Delta operators will shadow us for coordination. We also watch for high-value personnel to destabilize their command. Questions before we move?"
Marcus Hale leaned forward, brow furrowed with the weight of a man who had charged into shield walls. "This 'orbital' business—striking from above the sky itself. How do we know the coordinates will reach them without the Imperia's mages sensing the transmission? And what in the ancestors' names is a 'railgun'?" Lena Blackwood tapped her comm, her tone dry but edged with unease. "And these 'hypersonic' strikes, the packet mentions. I understand speed, but if the weapons travel faster than the speed of sound, how do we stay clear of the blast radius once we call them in? We're scouts, not gods."
Ryla Stonefang's ears flattened, her wolfkin growl low and guttural. "I smell risk in every line. If the Imperia has greater dragons on those islands, our stealth will mean nothing once the sky lights up. My nose already itches at the thought of that much power overhead." Lirien Silverleaf's voice remained measured, almost musical, though his fingers tightened on the bench. "The packet speaks of 'Delta operators.' Are they like our shadow-wardens, or something more? And the target port—how fortified will it truly be if they can strike it from the void?"
Finn Gearwhistle's small hands gestured animatedly, his inventive mind racing ahead. "The logistics house and refurbishment yards sound ripe for sabotage, but if their rune-engines or whatever powers them are as strange as the Americans' own machines, how do we identify the weak points without blowing ourselves sky-high? This 'gravimetric' talk alone makes my head spin."
Torin listened to each in turn, nodding once, his cat-like ears flicking with shared tension. "Valid concerns. The packet says the strikes are precision-guided from above the clouds. We mark, we withdraw to a safe distance, and we trust the sky. Delta operators have trained with us in the gauntlet—they move like ghosts and hit harder than any knight I've seen. As for the port, we observe first. Finn, you and Lena will handle the technical assessment once we're inside the wire. We move as one. No one plays hero."
The squad absorbed his words in silence, the weight of the unknown settling over them like a heavy cloak. Torin checked the time on his comm. "0930. Form up. We link with the other squads at the spaceport." At the spaceport pad, the squads converged in disciplined ranks, the morning sun glinting off the matte hull of the waiting CHS-130 heavy shuttle. Torin's group fell in beside the others, the air buzzing with low conversation and the deep thrum of the craft's engines already spooling up. They boarded together, the ramp swallowing them into the cavernous interior where webbed seats and restraint harnesses waited in orderly rows.
The moment the ramp sealed and the shuttle began its taxi, the frantic montage of reactions unfolded with visceral intensity. Finn Gearwhistle gripped his harness with both hands, eyes wide as saucers, his gnome frame pressed back into the seat as the craft accelerated. "By the gears of the First Forge—this thing is bigger inside than a mountain hall! The floor is pushing us—feel it? We're not rolling, we're being *thrown*!"
Ryla Stonefang's ears flattened against her skull as the shuttle roared forward, her wolfkin growl turning into an involuntary whine that cut through the engine thunder. "The ground is moving too fast—my nose is burning with the smell of fire and metal! I can taste the sky already, sharp as blood. If this is how the Americans travel, I prefer running on all fours until my paws bleed!" Lena Blackwood laughed nervously, knuckles white on the webbing, her scout's steady nerves fraying at the edges. "It feels like the whole world is tilting sideways—my stomach is trying to climb out of my throat! Is this what birds feel right before they fall? I've climbed cliffs in a storm, and this still makes me want to retch!"
Marcus Hale kept his jaw clamped, but his voice cracked when the heavy shove of acceleration slammed them back into their seats like an invisible giant's fist. "I've charged shield walls and faced dragonfire, but this… this is unnatural. My ribs are cracking under my own weight—how much more can this beast push before it breaks us?"
Lirien Silverleaf, ever graceful, still clutched the harness as the craft clawed upward, the roar vibrating through every bone and the pressure building like a vise around his chest. "The air grows thin—my ears are ringing, and the light outside the ports is turning strange. I can feel the pressure changing in my blood. Are we… climbing into the heavens themselves? The forest never prepared me for this void!"
Torin Shadowear, seated beside his team, kept his expression neutral even as his own stomach lurched and his cat-like senses screamed at the impossible forces. "Breathe through it," he growled through clenched teeth, tail lashing once before he pinned it still. "The packet warned of this. We are not falling—we are rising to meet our purpose. Hold the line."
The climb steepened, the shuttle shuddering violently as it punched through the last layers of atmosphere. Then the roar eased, the crushing weight lifted in a stomach-dropping instant, and weightlessness seized them for a brief, disorienting moment—bodies floating against restraints, gear shifting, startled curses filling the bay—before the internal gravimetric systems engaged with a soft, humming surge that pressed them firmly back into their seats. The craft, docked with Discovery's heavy shuttle bay, was brought in with a series of heavy mechanical clunks and hisses as the harness captured and slid the massive vessel into its berth. Pressurization equalized with a faint sigh that echoed like a held breath finally released.
The ramp lowered once more. Waiting at the threshold stood their assigned Delta Operator, Sergeant Jax "Reaper" Kane—a lean, scarred man in matte-black tactical gear, his face impassive beneath a faint stubble. He gave a crisp nod as the squads filed out. "Corporal Shadowear's team," Kane said, voice low and professional. "I'm your Delta shadow for this op. Target is the military port of Vespera on the island of Thalor in the Atlantian chain. It's the Imperia's primary logistics hub on the western approaches—warehouses packed with supplies and weapons stockpiles, and dry docks for refurbishing damaged vessels. We insert tonight under the cover of darkness, mark the critical nodes, and feed coordinates for stand-off strikes. Stay tight, stay silent, and we all come back breathing. Any questions before we move to the ready room?"
The squad exchanged glances, the weight of the stars still lingering in their bones and the reality of the mission now fully upon them.