**Corporal Garrick Thorne's Log, Supplemental**
**Rothguard approach, Wyvern shuttle recording**
**37 days after Rothgard's Fall**
Home wears an enemy's face tonight.
The enhanced stealth VS-44S Wyvern Medium Shuttle reentered from Discovery in a precise pre-atmospheric braking burn, its engines firing in a hard, controlled deceleration that shed velocity before the craft plunged into the thicker layers of atmosphere. The maneuver minimized the fierce re-entry heating that would have otherwise painted the hull like a beacon across the night sky. Once slowed, the shuttle transitioned into a long, silent glide from far out over the dark ocean, its stealth engines throttled to a near-silent whisper that reduced noise by nearly fifty percent. Inside the dimly lit troop bay, Garrick Thorne sat strapped into his seat, the faint vibration of the hull the only reminder they were still moving at all. Across from him sat his squad and Sergeant Mira "Havoc" Calder, all of them now dressed in plain civilian clothes scavenged from the refugee stores—rough wool tunics, worn cloaks, and simple trousers that would blend into any crowd on the occupied coast.
Garrick shifted, feeling the reassuring weight of the compact .45 electromagnetic pistol concealed beneath his cloak. The weapon was a scaled-down cousin of the Mark 1 carbine—same electromagnetic propulsion, same quiet lethality, but far easier to hide. No one spoke for the first few minutes of the descent. The only sound was the soft rush of air against the hull and the occasional creak of harnesses.
Mira broke the silence, her voice low and matter-of-fact, yet carrying the edge of someone who had walked into worse darkness. "We go in at night with Civilian clothes, civilian movement. No armor, no heavy weapons. You carry the pistols only—The Mark 1s stay behind. They're too big, too obvious." Darius Blackthorn adjusted the cloak over his broad shoulders, his steady gaze fixed on the sergeant. "Why us specifically? There are full Delta teams on board. Why send recruits who've only just finished the gauntlet?"
Mira's mouth curved in a small, knowing smile. "Because you know the land. Rothguard is your home ground. You know the forest trails, the old merchant roads, the blind spots in the walls. A Delta operator might be able to move silently anywhere, but you four move silently *here*. That local knowledge is worth more than another squad of specialists tonight." Elara Whitestone checked the concealment of her own pistol, her sharp eyes narrowing. "And the resistance? We're to link up with them as soon as possible?"
"Correct," Garrick answered before Mira could, his voice low but firm. "Princess Jasmine gave me the charge herself aboard Discovery. We find them, deliver her message, and gather targets and persons of interest. The resistance must know they are not alone." Rylan Graymaw's wolfkin ears twitched beneath the hood of her cloak. "The march will be slow. No one makes a sound. If the Imperia has patrols in the woods, we become shadows." Tobin Brasswhistle patted the small pouch at his belt that held a few emergency tools and a compact comm. "I'll keep my eyes open for anything we can use once we're inside the wire. Supplies, weak points, anything."
The shuttle continued its long, gentle glide. Far below, the dark ocean stretched like an endless black mirror, broken only by the faint silver of wave crests catching starlight. The craft descended in a wide, sweeping arc, the horizon slowly tilting as the coast drew nearer. The transition was gradual but unmistakable—first the rhythmic hush of surf against rocky shores, then the dense, shadowed wall of the coastal forest rising to meet them. Ancient trees crowded the shoreline, their canopies forming a living barrier that swallowed the shuttle's faint silhouette as it slipped inland. The Wyvern threaded between the treetops in near silence, its stealth engines barely a murmur against the night wind. The squad felt the subtle shift as the craft banked one final time and settled into a secluded clearing several miles inland from Rothguard's west-coast walls. The ramp lowered with a whisper of hydraulics, and cool night air rushed in, carrying the familiar scent of pine and salt that Garrick had not smelled in weeks.
They stepped out into the darkness. The Wyvern lifted away almost silently, its running lights extinguished, vanishing into the night sky like a ghost. The squad formed up without a word, Mira taking point with Garrick close behind. The march began—slow, deliberate, every footfall placed with care. No one spoke. The only sounds were the soft rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of the sea.
Hours passed in tense silence. The forest thinned as they drew closer to the city. By the time the first pale light of sunrise touched the eastern sky, the walls of Rothguard rose before them—once the proud merchant city-state of open gates and bustling markets, now transformed into a military fortress. Black banners of the Draco Imperia hung from the battlements, watchtowers bristled with ballistae and mage-lanterns, and patrols moved along the parapets in tight, disciplined formation.
Garrick crouched at the tree line, studying the gate. A merchant caravan was already forming up outside, wagons loaded with supplies for the occupiers. With caution and a little luck, they could slip in among the workers and traders. Mira glanced at him, her voice barely a breath. "Your city. Your lead." Garrick nodded once, heart heavy with the sight of his home under enemy banners. He rose, pulled his cloak tighter, and stepped forward into the open with the rest of the squad falling in behind. The walls of Rothguard waited—occupied, scarred, yet still home.
They would enter. They would find the resistance. And the black tide would begin to burn.