The world was burning.
From the shattered cliffs of Arvenhold to the ash-choked skies over the glass plains, the Lucent Alliance had been fighting for years. Fighting not to win, but to exist. And on this day—amidst flame, steel, and fury—they were losing ground again.
Major Veyr Ascalon sprinted through the trench line, his coat billowing with each step, barking orders into a half-functioning comms unit. Explosions chewed up the earth behind him as Dezune bombardment rained down in rhythmic terror.
"Left flank is faltering! Get the damn armor in position!"
"We're already down to two mechs—both limping!"
"Then make them crawl faster!"
The command trench was a cacophony of shouting officers and dying signals. Veyr ducked under a burst of fire as a Dezune drone passed overhead—its silver hull gleaming like a predator beneath the overcast sky. He aimed his pistol skyward and fired out of instinct. A futile gesture. The drone didn't even flinch.
They had been holding the city of Rheos for nineteen days.
Nineteen days of blood and flame.
And now it was breaking.
In the bunker below the northern wall, General Halra Mire stood in the war room, her eyes fixed on the translucent table display. Lines of red advanced across the city's borders, marking the Empire's relentless push.
"Rheos is lost," she said quietly.
Captain Derin, her second-in-command, clenched his fists. "We can't abandon it. Not after everything."
Halra looked at him—hard, tired. "This isn't about pride, Derin. We're outnumbered, outgunned, and our supply line was cut three days ago. If we don't pull out now, we lose everyone."
"But if we fall back now, Dezune gains a corridor straight into the Ironspires—"
"They'll take it either way." Her voice cracked like a whip. "We make them pay for every step. Then we vanish before they can bury us."
Derin turned away, jaw tight. "We were supposed to be the last wall."
Halra looked back at the map. Her fingers hovered over the escape route drawn days ago. "We are the wall," she whispered. "But even walls must fall to make space for something new."
Out on the frontlines, Veyr rallied what remained of his squad near the east barricade—just in time to see the first wave of Dezune exo-soldiers break through the haze.
They moved with eerie synchronization, obsidian armor humming with power, weapons crackling with violent energy. Each step they took sent tremors into the ground. Behind them came the drones. And behind them, the heavy walkers—hulking titans of metal and hate.
Veyr gritted his teeth. "Lucents! Hold!"
Bullets ripped through the air like screaming banshees. One of the mechs beside him exploded in a violent burst of light and shrapnel. Still, they held. They fired. They screamed. They resisted.
But it wasn't enough.
The Empire surged forward like a tide of inevitability.
And in that moment, Veyr saw the truth: this wasn't a battle. It was a message.
Dezune didn't just want to conquer.
They wanted to erase.
As the wall behind him crumbled and he was pulled back by surviving allies, Veyr caught a glimpse of the city's central plaza—now buried in dust and flame. A statue of old unity, once bearing the seven banners of the Alliance, now lay in pieces.
Among the smoke, a single flare shot into the sky—a Lucent signal. Blue.
Retreat.
The city of Rheos was lost.
But not the war.
Hours later, in the belly of an armored transport rushing north, Veyr sat with blood on his face and fire in his eyes. He looked at the wounded around him, the children they'd saved, the civilians packed in crates and hidden floors.
And he made a silent promise.
They would rise again.