The Urbanatran Library was dimly lit, its ceiling threaded with glowing veins of Rhupenite that cast a soft amber light across the shelves and towering stacks of scrolls. Pages rustled faintly in the near-silence, as if the walls themselves remembered too much.

  In a secluded study chamber, once a war room and now their retreat, Bluehawk had gathered.

  Harlen Voss stood near the narrow window, adjusting the bracers on his wrists with the ease of ritual.

  Ketta Maren leaned across the table, her gloved finger tracing lines over a faded map.

  Bran Ishell rested against a shelf, arms crossed, his chipped sword leaning against the wall beside him, his scarred brow making him look even more unyielding.

  Sira Vance stood half in shadow, balanced lightly with one foot on a lower shelf, silent as ever, watching everything.

  Sophie Relin sat cross-legged on the table itself, flipping a smoke bomb over her knuckles like a coin, her grin already alive.

  Tane Rowell leaned against a cabinet with a pen spinning between his fingers, smirk tugging at his lips.

  Kara Ellian sat composed, her braids tied neatly back, her gaze steady and quiet.

  Ethan Brask stood near the door like a wall, silent and immovable.

  Daelen Virell lounged on a chair with a book open on his knee, pale, statuesque, almost indifferent.

  Then the door shut, and Alyssa entered.

  “Pilots just landed,” she announced.

  Heads turned. Sophie’s eyes lit with curiosity. Harlen raised a brow.

  “I met them,” Alyssa continued. “Iron Legion, they called themselves. Mechanical giants with flight capability. Weapons far beyond anything we carry.”

  “Foreigners?” Bran pushed himself upright, interest sparking. “About time the rest of the world knew we exist.”

  “Maybe,” Alyssa said. “Maybe not. Most still see us as a forgotten island stuck in the breach era. The Council’s divided. Half want their help. Half think the Legion is a threat.”

  “They’d be right either way,” Tane said with his easy grin.

  “Raithe is letting the Ashguard vote,” Alyssa explained. “We’re not part of it. Not yet.”

  Sira finally spoke, her voice low. “But we’re not out either.”

  “Exactly.” Alyssa gave a sharp nod. “I spoke with Dorn. If he’s impressed, we may be cleared early. He wants to see what we can show the Legion.”

  Her tone grew sharper. “That means we get one shot. No mistakes. We show them what Bluehawk is. Tactics, control, adaptability. Everything we’ve sharpened since suspension.”

  Harlen’s voice was steady. “We’ve studied long enough. Theory’s polished. Time to test it.”

  Ketta said, “I’ve mapped three new flanking routes near the southern wall. We can work them into drills.”

  Bran grinned. “My sword’s ready. Don’t care who’s watching.”

  Sophie flicked her smoke bomb. “I’ll blind them for fun. Say the word.”

  “They’ll expect Ashguard tactics,” Kara said calmly. “Direct. Heavy. Instead we give them speed and precision.”

  Alyssa smiled faintly. “We’ll make them rethink the way they fight.” She leaned against the table and let her gaze travel over each of them. “Tomorrow, we show them why Bluehawk was made. Dorn gave me an opening. We won’t waste it.”

  Nods rippled around the chamber. A quiet energy rose in the group. The mission was not official, but the purpose was clear.

  Ethan murmured, “Then we move before they cage us again.”

  At last Daelen lifted his eyes from his book. “I would like to see what makes a flying suit bleed.”

  Several grins followed. The tension broke into something sharper—anticipation.

  Morning came with a caravan of carriages rolling across the dew-soaked outskirts of Urbanatra. Dust plumed in their wake, riders flanking the convoy on horseback, armor clinking with every jolt of the wheels.

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  In the lead carriage, the commanders rode together: Raithe Dorn, Vekar Thorne, and Ilyen Varda. Opposite them sat Lieutenant Rell of the Iron Legion, studying a glowing device that flickered with holographic scans.

  “This is where we trained the Ashguard before the mutations,” Raithe told him. “Standard Rhupenshron still stalk the woods here.”

  “And you are certain they’ll come to us?” Rell asked.

  “They always do,” Varda said. “Noise draws them like breath to fire. You’ll see.”

  The convoy halted atop a ridge overlooking a natural basin, the ground bare and rocky, sparse woods lining the rim. It was an old training ground, suited for controlled battle.

  The Ashguard dismounted and began to prepare. Armor settled, blades checked, stances sharpened.

  From the Iron Legion’s transport, four pilots emerged in sleek bodysuits with light exo-armor, neural bands strapped to their temples. Their mechs remained distant, folded in recall form, but close enough to respond.

  A horn sounded.

  Alpha Squad surged first—Raithe leading, Vaeyna’s shadowed steps slipping through blind spots, Adric’s greatsword cleaving two beasts at once. Soreya spun her spear into a snarling maw, while Eren slammed an iron plate into another’s flank.

  Beta followed with Vekar’s glaive sweeping wide arcs, Miklen’s axe sinking deep, Keenya and Liam locking into flawless formation.

  Gamma moved last, Selka’s traps halting their enemies cold, Orrin’s bow dropping targets before they breached, Vel Moret’s brute force cutting through the rest.

  The Iron Legion pilots watched closely, their murmured commentary clipped and technical.

  “Efficient,” Rell said quietly to Raithe. “Raw. No ranged firepower, but the rhythm is there.”

  “We make do without guns,” Raithe replied dryly.

  When the dust of Gamma’s work finally settled, silence stretched across the field. All eyes turned toward the ridge where Bluehawk waited.

  Alyssa Veyr descended first. Her stride was calm, confident, her twin grapple launchers glinting faintly in the sun. Behind her, Bluehawk moved as one: Harlen’s steps measured, Ketta’s gaze sharp, Sira flowing like dusk from one shadow to another. Bran’s presence was massive, Sophie’s grin wicked as she spun her smoke bomb, Tane’s smirk daring, Kara composed, Ethan steady as stone, Daelen aloof but exact.

  The horn blared again.

  The beasts came. Eight Rhupenshron tore from the brush.

  “Formation Seven. Eyes open,” Alyssa said.

  She moved first.

  Both grapples fired, lines hissing through the air. She swung wide, redirecting herself mid-flight, body arching like ribbon on wind. She landed lightly, blades flashing, and two Rhupenshron fell before they even turned.

  “She’s insane,” Raithe muttered under his breath.

  Bluehawk flowed in behind her. Harlen’s blade cut tendons with precision. Ketta’s spike blinded her prey. Sira vanished and reappeared only when her strike was already done. Bran’s sword came down like a temple bell. Sophie spun in her own smoke, fighting with chaotic rhythm. Tane danced past claws with a smirk. Kara struck with dancer’s form. Ethan moved only when necessary, his blows exact. Daelen served as an axis for the others to pivot around, a silent core.

  And above them all, Alyssa soared. Grapples snapped, redirected, twirled. She struck from above, vanished, struck again, blades slicing like extensions of her breath.

  When the last Rhupenshron fell, silence lingered. Not stunned silence. Reverence.

  “They’re not what I expected,” one Iron Legion pilot murmured.

  “They move together like they’ve rehearsed this,” another said.

  “They didn’t,” Rell corrected. “That was live sync. Trust. You don’t fake that.”

  His gaze followed Alyssa as she walked past her squad, calm and unhurried. “They’ve turned themselves into weapons. And she is their blade.”

  The rest of the day blurred into voices, reports, demonstrations. Ashguard commanders nodded. Council scribes whispered furiously. Something had shifted.

  And by nightfall, when Councilor Ardren Soln asked the warriors to cast their votes—yes or no to the Legion’s presence—Bluehawk moved without hesitation. Each marked their choice and dropped it into the waiting bucket.

  When Alyssa stepped forward, she folded her paper carefully, placed it inside, and returned to stand beside Rell. Her eyes never wavered from the horizon.

  The votes would be counted later. For now, dismissal was called, and the warriors filed back into the city, their voices hushed but restless.

  As the ground cleared, Alyssa called softly, “Lieutenant.”

  Rell glanced her way.

  “Walk with me?” she asked.

  He hesitated only a moment before falling into step. Together they crossed the quiet training grounds to the equipment racks near the northern wall. There, Alyssa found her old weighted armor still hanging neatly, as though it had been waiting. She lifted it, tested the weight, and began strapping it on piece by piece.

  “They kept it out,” she murmured.

  “They knew you would be back,” Rell said.

  She cinched the straps, flexed her arms, and tested her grapples. At last she turned to him.

  “I’ve seen how you fight,” she said. “You don’t just react. You shape the battle. I want to stand beside that. Learn from it. Match it.”

  “You think we’d make a good team?” Rell asked, a grin tugging faintly at his mouth.

  “I think it’s worth finding out,” Alyssa replied. Her voice was calm, but there was a spark in her eyes.

  “I don’t want distance between strong fighters anymore. I want allies. The kind you trust when everything falls apart.”

  “Then you’ve got one,” Rell said firmly.

  Alyssa said nothing, only began jogging slow laps across the field in her heavy armor. Her steps rang steady against the stone.

  “You call this training?” Rell asked.

  “This is my training,” she answered between breaths. “Weighted armor. Laps. Until I drop.”