The image on the main viewscreen was a monument to my sin and my salvation. The mushroom cloud, a beautiful, obscene flower of pure destruction, continued to bloom in the sky over the glassed plains of my homeland. On the bridge of The Aegis, a profound, stunned silence reigned. My mother’s hand was pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with a horror that transcended understanding. My father, a warrior king who had commanded dragons, simply stared, his face a mask of ashen disbelief.

  The jamming from The Oracle had been turned off. I wanted them to see this. I wanted every king, every archmage, every smug, arrogant noble on this continent to look into their scrying pools and witness the birth of a new and terrible age.

  The world held its breath.

  And it waited.

  Minutes stretched into an eternity. We watched the swirling energies of the blast zone, waiting for the inevitable, hateful flicker of golden light. We waited for the five hundred phoenixes to be reborn from the ashes, for their immortal knights to rise once more. It was the lynchpin of their military doctrine, the unshakeable foundation of their arrogance.

  But the ashes remained silent.

  “Tes,” I said, my voice cutting through the tense quiet. “Analysis.”

  [Analysis complete, Master,] Tes’s voice was as calm and clinical as ever. [The core temperature of the detonation exceeded 100 million degrees Celsius. The epicenter of the blast sublimated all organic matter. The resurrection magic of the phoenix requires a pre-existing DNA matrix to initiate cellular regeneration. With no viable cells remaining, the resurrection process cannot initialize.]

  In the scrying pools of the world, the nobles and kings watched the silent, smoking crater and felt a new kind of fear. A fear that was cold, and absolute, and final. Immortality had just been rendered obsolete by a law of physics they did not understand.

  Suddenly, the bridge was bathed in a cascade of screaming, amber warning lights.

  “Hostile fleet detected!” Valen, the young Legionary captain, shouted from his station. “Massive energy signatures! They’re mobilizing from Sylvanheim!”

  The main viewscreen shifted, showing a live feed from The Oracle. A continent away, in the heart of the elven kingdom, a new kind of army was taking to the sky. They were a fleet of impossible, majestic beauty, a forest of soaring castles and graceful, winged ships ascending from the boughs of the World Tree itself.

  They thought the Icarus was a one-time trick. Now, filled with a righteous, suicidal fury, they were coming to avenge their fallen Archmage.

  “Tes, full tactical analysis. Now.”

  The data flowed, not as a block of text, but as a series of cascading, holographic windows that bloomed around the main image, Tes’s voice narrating the threat with chilling precision.

  [Elven Sky Armada mobilization confirmed. Force is divided into two primary fleet doctrines. First, the vanguard fleet. Designation: The Swift Wings.]

  A schematic of a slender, elegant vessel appeared, its design inspired by a falcon. [Comprised of 1,580 ‘Sky-Lance’ class battle blimps. Hulls are polished weirwood. Primary armament consists of twenty Glimmer-shard Ballistae and four forward-facing Wind-Lance Turrets. They are the reconnaissance and air superiority element.]

  The image zoomed out, showing a swarm of these smaller ships forming a screen. [Total estimated troop capacity for this fleet: 2.3 million elven light infantry. Their doctrine is rapid deployment and flanking harassment.]

  Another, much larger schematic replaced the first. It was a majestic, imposing fortress, like a floating mountain castle.

  [Second, the main battle fleet. Designation: The Sovereign Host,] Tes continued, her voice unwavering. [Comprised of 3,160 ‘Storm-Crown’ class dreadnoughts. Hulls are petrified Ironwood, reinforced with Adamantite plating. These are the capital ships, designed for overwhelming firepower and frontal assault.]

  The dreadnought schematic rotated, highlighting its weapon emplacements. [Primary armament consists of eight Sun-fire Cannons, capable of melting fortress walls from high altitude. Secondary systems include a ventral Rune-forged Bomb Bay for area denial and forty defensive Sentinel Turrets. Total estimated troop capacity: 12.6 million elven heavy infantry and battlemages.]

  The final, damning numbers materialized in the center of the display. Fifteen million elven warriors, aboard a fleet of nearly five thousand magically-powered warships, were forming an interception course.

  A heavy silence fell over the bridge. Mirelle and the other Dark Elf commanders stared at the screen, their faces pale. This was the might of the people who had cast their ancestors out, a power from their oldest, most terrifying legends, made real.

  “They are magnificent,” my father murmured, his voice a low note of a warrior’s respect for a worthy foe. “But their formations are archaic. They fly like ships on the sea, not predators in the air. Their weapon systems are powerful, but their firing arcs are limited. They are a wall. A beautiful, deadly wall.”

  He was right. They were a medieval army that had taken to the sky. And I was about to introduce them to the 21st century.

  “Tes,” I said, my voice a blade of ice that cut through the tension. “I do not want a single one of those aerial forces to reach cruising altitude.”

  . . .

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The command hung in the sterile air of the bridge, absolute and chilling. I do not want a single one of those aerial forces to reach cruising altitude.

  “Acknowledged, Master,” Tes’s voice replied, devoid of any emotional inflection. “Initiating Icarus Imperative. Designation: 003. Target: Elven Sky Armada staging area, Sylvanheim.”

  A new schematic bloomed on the main display. It was a cross-section of the Icarus-3 missile, resting silently in its silo thousands of kilometers away in the hollowed-out heart of the Obsidian Dominion.

  “Affirmative,” Tes continued. “Please enter launch codes.”

  I moved to the recessed panel on my command console, my movements calm and deliberate.

  11111100100.

  A single, jarring, electronic beep echoed on the bridge. A crimson warning message flashed across the screen.

  [ERROR. WARNING. PROJECTED YIELD INSUFFICIENT.]

  I froze. “Tes, explain.”

  [The Icarus-2 and Icarus-3 warheads were designed with a standard thermonuclear yield of one megaton,] she reported. [While sufficient for annihilating a concentrated ground force, the Elven Sky Armada is a dispersed, high-altitude target. To ensure a 99.9% probability of total target neutralization before they can scatter, a minimum yield of five megatons is required.]

  A cold knot of frustration tightened in my gut. I had accounted for everything but the sheer, glorious stupidity of their righteous fury.

  [Recommendation: Initiate the magitech enchantments on the Icarus warhead,] Tes suggested, her voice as calm as ever. [A conventional thermonuclear weapon is not enough. The latent magical potential of the core materials can be amplified. A magitech thermonuclear weapon is recommended.]

  She was right. I had designed the Icarus project with a final, terrible contingency. The first test had been pure physics, a clean demonstration. But I had woven runes into the very heart of the core, a fusion of two worlds’ sciences that I had prayed I would never have to use.

  “Approved,” I said, my voice a low growl. “Initiate the magical enchantments.”

  [Future verification required,] Tes stated. [Please enter unlock code: 29645EEC4]

  As my fingers flew across the panel, a profound, pin-drop silence fell over the bridge. Lyra, confused by the sudden tension, looked up at me from my mother’s side. “Brother? What does that mean?”

  I looked down at her, her innocent face a stark, beautiful contrast to the apocalyptic act I was about to commit. I forced a small, reassuring smile. “It means there’s going to be another boom, fire-cricket,” I said softly. “An even bigger one.”

  Her eyes lit up, and she started jumping up and down in my mother’s arms with unrestrained glee. “Yay! Bigger boom!”

  My parents stared at me, their faces masks of shock and dawning horror. I think, in that moment, they finally started to believe that this was not a dream.

  I turned back to the screen. [Magitech enchantments active. Launch sequence re-initiated.]

  …

  Thousands of kilometers away, deep in its granite silo, the Icarus-3 missile awoke. Intricate, glowing green runes, dormant until this moment, blazed to life across the sleek, black surface of its warhead. They were not runes of fire or force, but of amplification, of dimensional resonance, of reality-warping potential. The silver-grey core within began to hum, not just with the vibration of unstable atoms, but with the thrum of a contained magical apocalypse.

  The missile launched. Another silent spear, arcing over the world.

  …

  In Sylvanheim, the elven armada was a breathtaking sight, a forest of silver and gold ascending into the heavens. On the command deck of the lead dreadnought, the Lord-Admiral raised a hand, about to give the order for the fleet to form its grand battle line.

  He never got the chance.

  He saw the new star being born in the sky above him.

  The explosion was not white. It was a sickening, violent emerald green, the color of corrupted life magic. It did not just burn; it unmade. The initial flash of thermonuclear fire was amplified a thousand-fold by the magitech runes, creating a shockwave that was not just physical, but dimensional.

  The five thousand ships of the Elven Sky Armada, the fifteen million warriors they carried, the pride of a civilization that had stood for ten thousand years… they were caught in a wave of green, unmaking fire. The polished weirwood of their hulls did not splinter; it dissolved into screaming, spectral energy. The adamantium plating did not melt; it was erased from existence. The elves themselves were not incinerated; their very souls were torn from the fabric of reality.

  . . .

  On the bridge of The Aegis, we watched the silent, green holocaust bloom on the main viewscreen. The mushroom cloud was laced with writhing tendrils of green lightning, a beautiful, obscene flower of pure, world-ending power.

  Then, I opened a channel.

  Not to my fleet. To the world. The Oracle, no longer a passive observer, became a broadcast tower, hijacking every scrying pool, every communication crystal, every enchanted mirror on the planet.

  From the smoking crater in Aerthos to the golden spires of Lumina, my face appeared. Not the face of a boy, but the cold, hard visage of the Warlord, my eyes burning with the reflected light of two murdered armies.

  “My name is Alarion Wight, heir to House Wight,” my voice echoed, calm, clear, and absolute. “This is a warning to those who have wronged my family. Actions have consequences.”

  I let the silence hang for a moment, letting them stare at the green, dying star on their screens.

  “I am not retreating. Do not think you are off the hook. My weapons are always aimed at you. Nowhere is safe. The age of the Ghost and the Golemancer is over. The Reaper is coming for your lives. You get to choose how you die. Wait for me to come and get you, and live a little longer. Or do something foolish again, and call forth your own early death.”

  The transmission cut.

  Silence returned to the bridge. My father stared at me, a complex mixture of horror and dawning, strategic understanding in his eyes. He knew. This wasn't a tantrum. This was a play for time.

  My mother just looked at me, her face pale, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. The innocent boy she had held just an hour ago was well and truly lost.

  And Lyra, in her innocent, perfect voice, broke the spell. She looked up at me, her sapphire eyes wide, her head tilted.

  “Brother?” she asked, a hopeful, angelic smile on her face. “Can you make a third boom?”

  Everyone on the bridge—my parents, my commanders, even Patricia—stared at her as if she were an alien. Even I was taken aback. A note flashed in my private HUD, a simple, chilling observation from Tes.

  [Note to self: The user's actions may be having negative repercussions on what is considered ‘normal’ for the child designated Lyra.]