“The people of Salva celebrate today as a party of six Adventurers arrived after completing the first quest authorized by the House of Ryder. They had successfully destroyed a Horde pack of goblins that were raiding some of the outskirts villages, finally bringing stability to the much-needed farmlands.

  With the siege behind us, the scares are still felt by many. Goblins still raid the countryside, and those who Toriffa J’avais took during their temporary breach of the city walls.

  With Colonel Hackett stating in an announcement after the siege that anyone who was taken would be returned, there has been a lack of progress since. With heavy resistance from our common enemies, the American military has been forced to focus on the Vampire Lord and the Crusaders.

  Princess Assiaya agreed to re-establish the local Rindoria Guild – the Adventure post that was established in the city before Salva first rebelled under Templar Natilite guidance, but recruits have been limited. With limited government funds available and the Guild being cut off from the wider Guide network, it has become nearly impossible to attract those who are willing to join.

  It was Mendarium who wished to join the Salva/Vagahm alliance and, still under hostile occupation, agreed to secretly send four warriors (with Vagahm contributing the other two) as a gesture of goodwill. With this success, the Salva Council has announced that additional quests will be posted at the Palace – and all Adventurers must coordinate their efforts with the Minutemen still operating from there.

  The new postings relate to more goblin hunting, another retrieving a family stolen during the siege, and providing security protection for the outskirts by the Salva/Minutemen government. There was one posted by a private individual from Iriskia who is seeking justice from a religious terrorist attack. Unity sympathizers attacking a Farian storefront now that a Farian taken the throne in the small City-State – however, the quest is still pending Minutemen review.” - Salva’s Mother Voice Tribune

  May 13th, 2069 (Military Calendar)

  Colorado Springs, Colorado, United States

  North America, Earth

  *****

  Studying the proposed treaty, Assiaya felt the weight of a headache building. Most of it was legal framing, which she struggled to understand. It felt like these politicians took joy in overcomplicating simple terms—stretching sentences just to fill pages.

  The only one who enjoyed reading through the American documents was Yeldan. The Wood Elf had served under the previous regime. After they were executed, he joined Ryder's House with the aim of entering political office.

  She leaned back and set the proposed treaty on the table. "I now understand why Kallem groaned at the sight of paper."

  Ceka, the loyal Neko servant and Head Maid of Assiaya’s House, approached. The feline set a glass of milk on the table and offered a slight bow. "You all need to drink and rest."

  "I do not want to rest," Assiaya said. "I want to go shopping with Father."

  "I know, but you cannot work yourself to death, or you will grow old with wrinkles. Now rest."

  "You are worse than Mom," Ellen muttered. "Always lecturing me to drink properly."

  "I am the Head Maid of a powerful House," Ceka said. "You can do as I say, or I can discipline you."

  Ellen glanced at the Princess and the noble Wood Elf with confusion. "You can’t hit kids. I'd post it online, and you'd get totally canceled."

  "That is the most alien thing I have heard on Altaerrie," Rosanhi said. "A Head Maid holds special status. They can order nobility if it concerns their master’s health—especially children."

  "I remember Routh once using a leather belt on Kallem's children's hands for being disrespectful," Assiaya added.

  At first, the American girl looked around, confused that her threat of online backlash didn’t faze anyone. She had never experienced such indifference. On Earth, every moment felt public, always under judgment. Here, there was no fear of being recorded, no internet tribunal. The realization unsettled her. She turned to the Neko. "Would you hit me?"

  Ceka paused at the door. "Hit you? No. Discipline you? Yes. But that right belongs to your mother and the women who manage your House. Still, I’m starting to believe Altaerrie children are undisciplined and could use hard work."

  "That’s… crude," Ellen said.

  "I’ve seen worse," Rosanhi replied. "Once, I knocked over a lamp and burned down a barn. My father made me lay bricks until the new one was built."

  "...I think I’ll drink my milk," Ellen mumbled.

  Assiaya glanced at her Elvish friend, silently agreeing: Earth was strange. Family station here meant everything. She and Ellen both took their drinks, savoring the pause. For a moment, the Princess stared out the window, where a bright, lonely half-moon hung in the sky. She wondered where her father was.

  "Miss your daddy?" Ellen asked.

  Assiaya could only nod.

  "I understand," Ellen said. "My dad’s always gone too. When I was little, I barely saw him—only video calls."

  "When my city was first attacked," Rosanhi said, "my mother and I fled to Vagahm. I left behind my father and three brothers. They stayed to defend the city. I cried for months, wondering if I’d see them again."

  "I didn’t know you had a third brother," Assiaya said.

  "He died during the first siege. He was the oldest, part of the government. Executed for inciting rebellion."

  "I didn’t know that," Assiaya whispered.

  "We don’t speak of it publicly," Rosanhi said, glancing down at her drink.

  "Why not?" Ellen asked.

  "Because others suffered worse," Rosanhi said. "As nobles, we must maintain a public face, regardless of family hardship. And now I have another brother going to war."

  "I..." Ellen hesitated. "I’ve never had these kinds of conversations. My friends don’t talk about this in school."

  The three girls exchanged looks in silence. Different worlds, species, and cultures—yet all waited and prayed for their fathers or brothers to return from war.

  Assiaya understood that her father was doing his duty. She looked back at the treaty and remembered hers. It took hours to parse—not because of length but due to translation issues. Translation amulets worked wonders in conversation, but their magic struggled with written text.

  The treaty did what it claimed: it acknowledged her as head of Salva and her country’s efforts to rebuild. The United States recognized her and her father’s legitimacy.

  She felt relief reading one section: While politically autonomous, Salva and the Daru'uie Protectorate would surrender the right to conduct foreign policy independently and would rely on American military defense.

  Assiaya frowned. The line about surrendering foreign policy stung—how much control would she truly have, even if Salva appeared autonomous?

  "What do you think, Yeldan?" Assiaya asked.

  "It’s a simple treaty," Yeldan replied. "Wordy, yes. But straightforward. The question is—what do you think?"

  "I wish Father were here," Assiaya said.

  "And that’s why Heads of State have motuia advisors," Rosanhi noted.

  Assiaya closed her eyes, inhaled, then focused on the treaty again. "I’m concerned about giving up so much power. I’ve seen my former master force vassals to submit like this. I didn’t become Princess just to sit on an uncomfortable chair."

  "Then the question is," Yeldan asked, "what do you want your country to be?"

  "That’s a hard question," Rosanhi said. "But historically, Salva has always been a vassal."

  "I suppose that’s true," Assiaya admitted. "I don’t remember much of my first family, but I’ve learned what Vagahm thought of my former father. I want to stop fighting. I want us to prosper like the Americans, yet retain cultural pride like the Aristocracy."

  "That last part must’ve been hard to say," Rosanhi said.

  "It was," the voice in her mind admitted. "I have to give Kallem credit—he keeps his home beautiful and unified."

  Yeldan took a coffee from Ceka and sat across from the Princess. "If that’s your goal, then signing the treaty is the correct path."

  "But it doesn’t go far enough," Assiaya said. "They only offer defense. I know we’re too weak to stand alone, and I’m not strong enough to conduct... geo-politics."

  "It’s geopolitics," Ellen corrected.

  "Sorry," Assiaya said. "I mean, the treaty is fair. But I want more."

  "Is Altaerrie not already investing in Salva?" Rosanhi asked. "They’re fixing city walls and buildings. My family’s workshop has more orders than ever. Guilds are excited by the influx of Americans. Economically, we’re better off than we’ve been in years."

  A soft flutter of feathers followed the voice that gently broke the optimism.

  "Perhaps. But only if you measure strength by walls and not by markets."

  All heads turned. Xilnan, the Princess’s economic advisor, stood near the window, arms crossed, her vibrant plumage shimmering in the moonlight. A Yalate—flightless and elegant—she wore a sash embroidered in guild sigils, her tall frame poised with quiet authority.

  "I’ve reviewed the numbers," she said, voice calm but unyielding. "The Americans have spent more coin reinforcing garrisons and landing pads than irrigating farmland or restoring civic roads. They’ve built for war, not for people."

  Rosanhi furrowed her brow. "But my workshop has been flooded with orders."

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  "From private contractors," Xilnan clarified. "Not from city commissions. Not for local needs. They are building their warpath, not our future. Barracks are not roots. No investments in irrigation, no funds for merchant roads, no grants for guild apprentices. Just military outposts, polished gates, and fuel depots."

  Assiaya regarded the Yalate woman, feeling the words settle heavily on her. "You think I should ask for more?"

  "I think," Xilnan said softly, "that failing to secure your people’s future now is not humility—it’s abandonment. Empires leave ruins when they depart. If we do not plan for life after their war, we risk inheriting a husk."

  "What the Princess means is that," Yeldan said. "That is all limited to their needs, not ours. For them to properly occupy the city, they need to have clean streets and a fortified wall. But, as we have seen, they do not share much in this city. Military investment only focuses on military needs."

  "I thought so," Assiaya said. "I remember Kallem having meets with different groups. Some were military, but others were with the guilds in the economy. He valued balance."

  "You want to ask the Americans for more money?" Rosanhi asked.

  "Yes…, no…," Assiaya placed her hand on her head, slightly messing up her hair. "I do not know what to do. People of Salva, like the rest of the region, have only gotten by, slowly marching to a slow death. We must make ourselves vassals to the Americans. Only then will we be safe, but I do not wish to only be leeches. I wish to be strong."

  "I do not understand your concern," Rosanhi stated. "It is the nature of things. If this is all the Americans are asking, it is a good deal."

  "Unity offered Kallem a good deal," Assiaya replied. "And he hates himself. What if no future deals come? What if they see me as weak, or think Salva is a burden? I don’t want a good deal—I want an honorable one."

  "Let us focus," Yeldan said. "Do you remember what I said at the meeting?"

  "About respect?"

  "Correct. Sometimes, going along the expected path breeds discontent. You are right to be concerned about your image now, as many American Congress and White House ranking officials will remember how you behave."

  "Do you think they agreed to Uncle Hackett's plan because they think I am weak?" Assiaya asked. "Because I am a young girl?"

  "Partly," Yeldan said. "I do not believe they mean disrespect. From what I understand, American politics is a gamble for them. This means they have faith in you; otherwise, they would not have engaged in such a manner."

  "But," Assiaya said. "If I disrespect them by asking, we could lose everything. I have seen Kallem strip nobles' lands, honors, and titles for being greedy."

  "You are smart to be aware of that," Yeldan said. "There is one flaw, though."

  "What is that?" Rosanhi asked.

  "These are not normal times," Yeldan said. "It is true that a vassal indentures themselves to the wills of their masters. The only difference is regarding countries and not individuals. However, being in such a position has benefits if cards are played correctly, as the Americans say."

  "What is that?" Assiaya asked. "We cannot survive without them. That gives them all the power."

  "Yes," Yeldan said. "What do we have? Control of the lands around the Bridge and positive relations with allies are what they crave. Without us, they cannot win the war."

  The Princess leaned into her chair, staring at her advisor. Rosanhi Elstina understood what the political advisor said first, but remained politely silent. It was clear that the Wood Elf wanted her to discover the answer.

  It took a few mental conversations with the voice to bring up the point because the Americans and Aristocracy fought so heavily to control Salva in the first place. Whoever controls the City-State controls the Bridge, and that was when Assiaya realized the answer. Her blue and gold eyes widened, and she stood from her chair. "In war, you need a base. And we are that base. They cannot wage war without going through us."

  Yeldan took a sip of his coffee, enjoying the Altaerrie caffeine drink. His mannerisms showed that the elf had already come to the same conclusion as she did: "You are correct. There is no alternative path for us. We must vassal ourselves to the Americans, regardless of whatever they call it. However, they need our cooperation."

  "What if they decided to replace Assiaya?" Rosanhi asked.

  "Impossible now," Yeldan explained. "Now that the public knows about the war, the Princess is a public figure for their world and ours."

  "They need me as a public face to rally the people to their cause," Assiaya stated. "Any move against my House will scare everyone to Kallem. But what if I am wrong about this? They might not overthrow me, but they could reduce my position to nothing."

  "That is the nature of politics," Yeldan said. "Sometimes, you must take a risk and make demands."

  "Are you sure?" Assiaya asked.

  "If I were the Americans with all their might," Yeldan replied. "I would. It is the nature of the world. If you are strong enough, you display it. If you are weak, you make yourself useful to the strong. However, the key for you is knowing what you desire, your demands, and when to compromise."

  The dual-eyed girl sat back in her chair before grabbing her milk. She thought carefully about what had been discussed, as there was much to reflect upon. She accepted the treaty and used it to gain more benefits for her people.

  She didn’t have her father beside her, but she had advisors, friends, and her House. That had to be enough.

  Assiaya turned to her American friend. "You have been quiet. What do you think?" she asked.

  "What do I think?" Ellen said. "I should pay more attention in school. All my friends do is talk about boys, make-up, and other girl stuff. I don't know any kids who think this. I have no idea how to relate."

  She glanced at the treaty again, as if realizing—for the first time—how much the world could hinge on paper.

  "I do not know what peasant girls speak about," Rosanhi said. "Noble girls are educated in matters of importance."

  "Importance?" Ellen said. "What do you mean?"

  "House duties," Assiaya replied.

  "Yes," Rosanhi said. "One day, we will be married to a husband. Our responsibilities will be managing our Houses and ruling over our Realm. To be the rope that binds everything together."

  "That was what I felt," Assiaya said. "After becoming free, I felt I needed to take my father's formal throne to help. But I fantasize about getting a husband when I grow older."

  "Wait, husband?" Ellen said. "You mean one of those princes in shiny silver armor. All dressed up that fight's monsters and witches?" The American placed her hands together. "I wish to be a princess so badly now."

  The three girls stared at each other before giggling.

  May 12th, 2069, (Military Calendar)

  Hastsano Gap, the former Confederacy of Daru'uie

  Murbol Mountain Range, Nevali Region, Aldrida, Alagore

  *****

  Walking through the forest, Ryder could see thousands of Legionaries encamped. Some patrolled the perimeter, guarding their comrades as they rested. Others shared rations or tended to the wounded.

  “I wasn’t expecting this,” King muttered.

  “It feels like we stepped back in time,” Ryder replied.

  Their Areani escort, Caius, held up a hand as two war walkers stomped past. Both were four-legged machines—one an elecprobus, crackling with restrained energy coils, and the other a ballista accelerator, its siege launcher folded and locked for transit.

  Comanche stiffened. Ryder saw it in their eyes. These same war machines had been aiming at them for months. It was hard to accept that they were allies now.

  “You’re right,” King muttered. “Just like a time machine.”

  “Except for the giant walking robot spiders,” Higgins added.

  “Spiders?” Barrios asked. “I thought those had eight legs?”

  “Okay. Smartass,” Higgins grumbled.

  Barrios chuckled. “Better a smartass than a dumbass.”

  “Then you’ve got a long way to go,” Barrett deadpanned, earning laughter from the others.

  “Be nice, now,” Natilite said. “This is the first time they’ve seen Altaerrie.”

  “We get it, Mom,” Wallace teased. “Yes, ma’am. Please and thank you.”

  Capitaneus Flavius-Elpidius Antius, commander of Horatius, stopped in front of them and turned toward Ryder. “You and your men will have to wait here.”

  “I understand,” Ryder said with a nod. He turned to his Warrant Officer. “Take Comanche. Help the wounded. Resupply the Bluejays.”

  As the units dispersed, Ryder, Natilite, and Antius followed Caius deeper into the camp.

  It shouldn’t have surprised Ryder, but it did. After everything he’d seen—magitech, dragons, ancient empires—this hybrid of antiquity and modern war still felt surreal. Legionaries gathered around radios. Others checked over gear, repaired vehicles, or manned flak-ballista emplacements. Despite their historical appearance, these weren’t militia—they were professionals.

  The trio entered a large tent made of thermal-absorbing cloth. Ryder recognized the material—used to counter dragons and Seekers that hunted by heat. Inside, support staff worked around glowing crystal tables, reviewing Seeker patrol feeds and coordinating with distant detachments. It didn’t have the sophistication of an American TOC, but the organization impressed him. This wasn’t a ceremonial force. It was a division-sized war machine.

  Caius led them to a crystal command table and stood at attention before addressing a Lat, calling him “Praetor.”

  Antius leaned in. “One of the highest ranks in the Imperium. Equivalent of a General who commands whole theaters, not single units.”

  It was unusual. A senior commander leading just one Legion was inefficient—unless Hispana was sending a message. This campaign was serious.

  As the Praetor finished his current discussion, a Valkyrie officer approached. The Lat removed his helmet, revealing steely gray eyes and sharp features. Behind him, his Pretorian Guard formed a disciplined shield wall.

  Beside him stood another man—human, slightly shorter, robed in green and brown. His armor looked secondary, thrown over scholar’s clothing. Yet what caught Ryder’s eye was the Binark on his hand—a clear sign. A motuia, bound by contract to serve.

  Lucan, Ryder guessed. This wasn’t a simple assistant. The man had the bearing of a trusted strategist, like Billy Lee to Washington—an Archivist, likely trained in military and cultural doctrine.

  The motuia opened a small case containing a glowing orb. Analog switches and dials lined the side. He flipped one switch, then pressed a button. Three internal crystals lit up. A dull shimmer spread, forming a translucent gray haze that enclosed the group.

  Ryder blinked at the sudden shift. Sounds outside muffled into silence.

  Natilite smirked. “Sometimes I forget you don’t have these tools.”

  “It’s a sylvaraen,” Antius explained. “Anyone can pass through it, but nothing said inside escapes. Total silence outside the sphere.”

  “Means ‘Silent Harmony’ in Elvish,” Natilite added. “Originally invented so Thali’ean nobles could gossip undisturbed.”

  Of course, Ryder thought. Even gossip becomes a military innovation eventually.

  “I don’t know if I should be impressed or disturbed you’ve never seen one,” the motuia said dryly.

  Ryder pulled out his phone and held it up. “And I fear you’ve never encountered this sinful destroyer of civilizations.”

  The reactions varied. Natilite rolled her eyes. The Lat tilted his head, intrigued. The Praetor remained expressionless. Only Antius looked unsurprised, likely recalling Ryder’s antics in Salva.

  “Praetor,” Antius said. “This is the Altaerrie. American ethic.”

  “Captain Ryder of the American Army,” Lucan said formally. “Duke of Salva, father of Princess Assiaya, Head-of-State of this region.”

  “I am Lucan,” he continued. “Archivist of the Henness House. I present Bacchus Henness, Praetor of the Hispana Republic.”

  That sealed it—an Archivist. According to Fraeya, motuia in that role served as elite consultants—masters of knowledge applied to war, culture, or policy. This one was both scholar and advisor.

  “I am Matthew Ryder,” he said. “Captain, United States Army. Duke of Salva. Father of Assiaya. This is Natilite, Templar, and a member of my Palatini. We came to escort you to our base.”

  Henness said nothing at first. His eyes locked on Ryder with surgical focus. The kind of stare that saw past words.

  Something in Ryder's gut twisted. That name—Henness—was familiar. He glanced at Natilite, who stared back with her blue eyes ringed in gold, visibly annoyed.

  It was Carol’s look—when he forgot their anniversary. He swallowed.

  “Antius,” Lucan said. “My master wishes to confirm your report.”

  “I have amendments,” Antius said. “Palatini Orias successfully contacted the Altaerrie.”

  “And your claim about Orias?” Henness asked.

  “Defeated in battle,” Antius replied. “I’m sorry. I have no better news.”

  Then it hit Ryder. Orias—Fraeya mentioned them constantly. The unit that recruited Salva, found the Bridge, struck the first blow against Kallem.

  Led by Centurion Henness—the Praetor’s son.

  Ryder’s breath slowed. He had walked into a father’s reckoning without knowing. A silent test. One he’d already failed.

  “Praetor,” he said. “Orias’s fate was sealed before my forces arrived. But their bravery is remembered—spoken with honor among the Minutemen. I can only hope we live up to their legacy.”

  “Mother will decide our destiny,” Henness said coldly. Then his gaze shifted. “That is the daughter of Raegel? I expected someone more coordinated.”

  Ryder turned. Fraeya darted between Legionaries, telling story after story with relentless enthusiasm. It was her usual performance—no filter, all heart.

  “She’s chaotic,” Ryder admitted. “But brave. Loyal in a way you can’t teach. War hasn’t broken her. It’s just sharpened her truth.”

  “Bravery is only useful when directed by wisdom,” Henness replied. “That falls to leadership. Now—how do we get my Legion off this peninsula?”

  “That’s the easy part,” Ryder said.

  “Easy?” Henness frowned. “It took vast resources to move them here undetected. We are surrounded. Halfway at best.”

  Lucan spoke carefully. “We are only halfway to Salva. The element of surprise is gone.”

  “My people accounted for that,” Ryder replied. “The 101st Airborne holds a landing zone at the ridge near the peninsula’s edge.”

  Lucan blinked. “Fifteen thousand Legionaries? On a ridge? With no cover?”

  “Trust the Captain,” Antius said firmly.

  Henness’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed. “I thought you were a Duke.”

  Natilite prepared to explain—but Ryder cut in.

  “My people value merit, not rank,” he said. “Rich or poor, political station doesn’t override military hierarchy. I serve my commanders because our republic demands it. Not my pride.”

  That gave Henness pause. For a second, something unreadable passed through the Praetor’s eyes. Then—just faintly—he smirked.

  Antius stepped in and described the American airlift plan. Ryder let him handle it. The Horatius leader explained how the Army could extract the Legion from Orackoo’s ridge to Salva using rotorcraft and tilt-jets. Lucan scribbled notes into his journal and recorded the dialogue using a bulky audio device powered by magitech—a similar version of Edison’s cylinder tech.

  Lucan raised objections. Unity’s monopoly on flight made the idea unbelievable. But the Templar’s word was enough to quiet him—for now.

  Henness, meanwhile, showed no emotion. But Ryder knew better. The Praetor was absorbing every detail—cold, quiet, and methodical.

  “I’ve heard enough,” Henness said. “We’ll have time to uncover what other marvels the Altaerrie have built. Our priority is reaching that friendly landing zone.”

  “As Lucan said,” Natilite reminded, “the enemy knows we’re here.”

  “I’ll speak with the Battalion Commander,” Ryder said. “They’ll cover the crossing as the Legion moves.”