The war room of Bastion Emberfall was buried beneath thirty meters of bedrock, steel, and reinforced shielding. It was built to survive orbital bombardment. What it couldn't survive, however, was indecision.
The circular chamber buzzed with arguments. Holograms flickered above the central table—battlefront projections, dwindling supply graphs, and casualty counts that refused to stop ticking upward.
Twelve nations. Twelve seats.
And none of them agreed.
"Pull back from the central corridor, reinforce the eastern flank. If we lose Emberfall, we lose the Spine Line!" barked General Harven of the Solari Union, his fist slamming against the console.
"That's suicide!" retorted Chancellor Elya of the Korran Republic. Her voice cracked with fatigue. "We need those corridors to resupply the northern outposts. If they fall, the Dezune will sweep through like wildfire."
A third voice cut through—calm, but cold.
"No matter where we draw our lines, the outcome remains the same," said Strategos Varn of the Aetherian Dominion. His pale eyes swept the room. "We are not fighting a war of attrition. We are fighting a war of inevitability."
The chamber fell silent.
"Then what do you propose?" Harven growled. "That we surrender?"
"No," Varn replied. "That we consolidate. Abandon fractured provinces. Prioritize mobile warfare. Relinquish fixed territories and become fire that moves—burning everything in our path."
Murmurs broke out across the chamber. Some nodded. Others sneered.
"What about the civilians?" asked Commander Sael of the Rivenmar Archipelago, voice sharp as glass. "What about those we swore to protect?"
"We cannot protect the dead," Varn said simply.
Above them, the upper levels of Emberfall brimmed with life.
Engineers repaired broken gunships. Refugees were guided to ration lines. Soldiers rotated shifts, leaning against railings, sharing smokes and silent stories.
Mara Kaelir passed through these levels, a datapad clutched in her arm, her mind replaying the chaos of Rheos and the sobs of a little girl who didn't cry.
Everywhere, people held on.
Not to victory.
But to meaning.
Back in the war room, Elya rose from her seat. Her face was pale. Her words, firm.
"I propose we send envoys. Reach out to the outlier factions. To the rogue leaders. There are whispers—rumors—of a man named Kael Riven, a strategist unlike any other, commanding his own rogue nation in the western ruins. If even half of what's said is true—"
"Kael Riven is a myth," Varn interrupted.
"No," Harven muttered. "He's real."
That drew eyes.
"I've seen the footage. From the Crimson Plateau. A thousand Dezune dead. No survivors. No footprints. Just precision."
The room turned colder.
"I don't care if he's a myth," Elya said. "We need him."
Mara stood behind the chamber's sealed glass, listening.
So they were finally saying his name.
Kael Riven.
The boy born in a bunker.
The ghost in the algorithms.
The perfect tactician with the hollow eyes.
Mara didn't know what terrified her more—the Dezune…
…or the man the Lucent Alliance now wanted to depend on.