The morning dawned crisp and bright over London, the kind of perfect spring day that made Captain Alastair Reid deeply suspicious. Twenty years in the military had taught him that perfect days were nature's way of lulling you into complacency before everything went spectacularly to hell.
He stood at the edge of the Mall, watching the gathering crowds with the detached interest of a man who'd rather be anywhere else. Trooping the Colour—the annual military parade celebrating the monarch's official birthday—always drew throngs of tourists and patriotic Brits alike. Today, the sea of Union Jacks and smartphone cameras seemed particularly dense.
"Quite the turnout," remarked a voice beside him.
Reid didn't bother turning. "Always is, Williams."
Sergeant Williams, his former squadmate and current drinking buddy, handed him a paper cup of coffee that smelled strong enough to strip paint. "Six months back in London and still looking like you're scanning for snipers."
"Force of habit," Reid muttered, accepting the coffee. He took a sip and winced. "Christ, did you brew this with battery acid?"
"Special recipe. Guaranteed to keep you awake through another tedious display of pomp and circumstance."
Reid's lips twitched in what might have been a smile on someone less acquainted with war. Afghanistan had left its mark on him—three tours, a chest full of medals he kept in a shoebox under his bed, and a lingering addiction to painkillers he was still fighting. Syria had been worse. The hostage rescue gone wrong. The nightmares.
"You know," Williams continued, oblivious to Reid's darkening thoughts, "normal people actually enjoy these events. They don't stand at parade rest analyzing evacuation routes."
"Normal people haven't seen what happens when crowds panic," Reid replied, eyes tracking the mounted guards as they took position. His gaze drifted to Buckingham Palace in the distance, gleaming white against the blue sky. "Besides, I'm not here for the spectacle. Meeting with Colonel Hargreaves after. Something about a new assignment."
Williams whistled. "Back in the saddle so soon? Thought the shrinks wanted you to take it easy."
"Apparently Her Majesty's government has different ideas."
The first notes of martial music drifted through the air as the parade began. Reid checked his watch—11:02 AM. The crowd surged forward slightly, children hoisted onto shoulders for a better view. Everything proceeding exactly as it had for decades.
That's when he felt it—a strange pressure in his ears, like the moment before a thunderclap. Reid's combat instincts flared to life before his conscious mind could process why.
"Something's wrong," he murmured.
Williams frowned. "What—"
The air split open.
There was no other way to describe it. One moment, there was nothing but clear sky above the parade route; the next, a massive tear appeared in the fabric of reality itself—a shimmering, vertical gash that seemed to hover between the Mall and Buckingham Palace. It pulsed with an otherworldly light, expanding rapidly until it was the size of a football pitch.
For three heartbeats, London froze in collective shock.
Then the dragons emerged.
Not the cartoonish creatures from children's books, but massive, serpentine beasts with scales that gleamed like burnished metal. Atop them sat armored figures wielding weapons that glowed with unnatural energy. They poured from the tear in reality—a dozen, then dozens, then hundreds.
"Bloody hell," breathed Williams.
The crowd's stunned silence shattered into screams as the first dragon unleashed a torrent of flame that engulfed the front ranks of the Queen's Guard. Horses reared in panic, throwing their riders. The disciplined soldiers of the Household Division, trained for ceremonial perfection rather than interdimensional invasion, nonetheless formed a hasty defensive line.
It wasn't enough.
Reid was already moving, military training overriding shock. "Williams! Help me clear these civilians!"
More creatures emerged from the portal—not just dragons but things that defied easy categorization. Hulking giants with stone-like skin. Lithe, pale humanoids moving with impossible speed. What looked disturbingly like animated corpses wielding medieval weapons.
"This can't be happening," a woman sobbed nearby, frozen in place as her child tugged desperately at her hand.
"Ma'am, you need to move NOW!" Reid grabbed her shoulder, breaking her paralysis. "Head for the Tube stations. Underground. Go!"
The sky darkened as more dragons circled overhead. One swooped low over St. James's Park, its rider hurling what looked like balls of pure energy that exploded on impact, tearing through trees and scattering debris across the once-pristine lawns.
Reid spotted a group of Royal Marines who had been part of the parade, now forming a defensive position around stranded civilians. He sprinted toward them, dodging panicking tourists and falling debris.
"Captain Reid, 22 SAS," he barked at the ranking officer, a lieutenant whose ceremonial uniform was now smeared with soot. "What's your situation?"
"Bloody impossible, sir," the lieutenant replied, eyes wide but voice steady. "We've got minimal arms—ceremonial rifles only, no live ammunition. Communications are down. And those... things keep coming through."
A tremendous explosion rocked the ground beneath them. Reid turned to see a plume of smoke and flame rising from the direction of Buckingham Palace.
"God save the Queen," someone whispered.
"God save us all," Reid muttered, watching as a section of the palace's east wing collapsed in flames.
The lieutenant's radio crackled to life suddenly, the voice on the other end barely audible over the chaos.
"...emergency protocols activated... all military personnel to report... Joint Task Force being established... Parliament under attack..."
Another explosion, this one closer. Reid looked up to see Big Ben's clock face shatter, shards of glass and stone raining down on Westminster Bridge.
"Right," Reid said, his voice taking on the calm precision that had kept men alive in Helmand Province. "Lieutenant, your priority is civilian evacuation. Get these people to safety, then regroup at Horse Guards. Williams, with me."
"Where are we going?" Williams asked, checking the pistol he'd apparently been carrying concealed—a violation of about seventeen regulations that Reid was suddenly grateful for.
Reid's eyes tracked to the shimmering portal, still disgorging nightmares into the heart of London. In the distance, fighter jets screamed across the sky, only to be met by dragons whose breath seemed to melt metal on contact.
"We're going to find whoever's in charge of this clusterfuck," he said grimly. "Because this isn't a random attack. This is an invasion."
As if to punctuate his words, every screen in London—from the massive displays in Piccadilly Circus to the smartphones clutched in trembling hands—flickered to life simultaneously. The face of Prime Minister Sebastian Crowe appeared, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled, a thin line of blood trickling from his temple.
"My fellow Britons," he began, his voice steady despite the chaos visible behind him. "Our nation faces an unprecedented attack from forces beyond our understanding. I have declared martial law throughout the United Kingdom. All citizens are ordered to seek shelter immediately. Our military forces are mobilizing to confront this threat."
Reid watched the broadcast with narrowed eyes, noting the calculating gleam behind Crowe's show of concern.
"To our attackers," Crowe continued, his voice hardening, "know this: Britain has faced invasions before. We have endured. We have prevailed. And we shall do so again, whatever the cost."
The broadcast cut off abruptly as another explosion rocked the city. Reid's phone buzzed with a priority military alert—a summons to the Ministry of Defence, effective immediately.
"Looks like you've got your new assignment, Captain," Williams said, gesturing toward the portal with his pistol. "Bit more exciting than you bargained for, I'd wager."
Reid watched as a dragon rider in gleaming armor cut down a group of police officers with a weapon that seemed to be made of pure light. In the distance, the London Eye tilted precariously, its structure compromised by what appeared to be giant, vine-like tendrils emerging from the Thames.
"You know what the worst part is, Williams?" Reid said, checking his own sidearm as they began moving toward the relative safety of Horse Guards. "After Afghanistan and Syria, I was starting to think I'd seen the worst humanity had to offer." He glanced up at the tear in reality, where more nightmares continued to pour through. "Turns out humanity was just the opening act."
Williams managed a grim laugh. "Always the optimist, Reid."
Above them, the sky burned. London burned. And somewhere in the chaos, Captain Alastair Reid knew his war was just beginning.