The battleground around the Farm erupted in chaos. Screams, the clatter of steel, and the whoosh of magical projectiles filled the air. 2nd Lieutenant Grant Cramdell ducked behind a hastily assembled barricade, his breath coming in ragged gasps as an arrow glanced off the makeshift palisade.

  “Hold the line!” he barked, his voice raw. Sweat dripped down his brow, mixing with the grime coating his face. The Austorian army was relentless—wave after wave crashing against their defenses.

  In the midst of the chaos, the command net crackled sharp enough to pierce the battle’s din: “BREAKING FORMATION—CONTINUING ASSAULT!” Grant’s teeth clenched as he blocked it out, his focus dragged back by another arrow rattling against his barricade.

  The command net’s chatter blended with the thunder of heavy machine guns as his attention snapped to a soldier rushing toward him.

  “Sir!” the soldier shouted, struggling to be heard over the cacophony. “The Mortar team is in position!”

  Grant waved him off, gripping his rifle tightly. “Then what the hell are they waiting for? Have them target that Mage circle now!”

  The radio crackled again in the background, the frantic voices of Task Force Dragon weaving faintly through the battle’s discord. A distant explosion roared, its tremors rumbling through the ground as if the whole battlefield responded to the chaos across the region.

  Meanwhile, the mortars roared to life, their shells screaming through the air before landing with devastating precision. The ground shuddered under the impact, Austorian mage circles splintering into fiery debris. Battlemages screamed as their defensive spells faltered, leaving their lines vulnerable to the unrelenting barrage.

  Grant crouched lower, shouting into his comms to the defenders nearby. “Hold your positions and keep those bastards off the trucks! If we lose the mortars and those trucks, we’re done for!”

  While the mortars rained destruction onto the mage circles and nearby enemy buildups, Grant’s attention flicked to the far parapet. He caught sight of the glow of gathering spells just before it erupted into fiery debris. Dust and fragments rained down like jagged hail, the shockwave rippling across the battlefield.

  From the top of a nearby barn, maniacal laughter echoed through the chaos. The sound was unmistakable.

  Grant exhaled sharply, shaking his head as a wry smirk tugged at his mouth. “Seraphim,” he muttered. Always unpredictable, always deadly—but right now, they were the chaos the defenders needed, he thought.

  The radio crackled faintly again, the faint remnants of a chaotic transmission audible as the Beastkin fought tooth and nail against the Austorian forces in Qu-Till.

  ____________________________________________________________________________________

  The routed survivors of the cavalry regrouped behind the advancing Heavy Infantry, forming a haggard but determined force. A young lord of a lesser house, Lord Dylan Craygen approached, his battered form and torn banner betrayed the shattering humiliation his unit had suffered. Yet his head was held high, defiance burning in his eyes as he saluted Lord Jigan.

  “My Lord,” Craygen said, his voice hoarse but steady, “what are your orders?”

  Jigan regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Your unit is spent,” he said flatly, the bluntness of the words landing like a hammer blow. “You will serve in reserve and coordinate logistics. Fetch and carry what remains.”

  Craygen’s grip on his reins tightened until his knuckles whitened. “Fetch and carry?” The words twisted in his gut like a blade. His cavalry had given everything—and now, their sacrifice was reduced to hauling supplies like pack animals? The thought stung worse than the arrows that had pierced his armor.

  “You have done all you can,” Jigan said coolly. His tone was neither cruel nor sympathetic. “Your cavalry is no longer fit for the front.”

  Rage bubbled to the surface, threatening to boil over. Craygen’s face twisted with fury, his composure fracturing like cracked glass. Without another word, he turned sharply and stormed back toward what remained of his command.

  When he reached them, his voice was steel. “Men!” he bellowed. “To me!”

  The soldiers gathered, their expressions weary and confused. Craygen scanned their faces, his own burning with conviction. “They would have us crawl in shame, but we will stand tall! They would have us fade into nothing, but we will burn brighter than the fiercest fire! To your steeds, men—for we die as soldiers, not as shadows!”

  He raised his saber high, its blade catching the firelight. “We charge again. Not for glory, nor for honor. We charge to destroy.”

  The ragged cavalrymen gathered behind their lord, exhaustion giving way to fierce resolve. Craygen’s eyes swept over their faces—bruised, bloodied, but alight with the fire of purpose. He turned to the horizon where the Beastkin defenses bristled like a fortress. ‘One last ride,’ he murmured under his breath, spurring his steed forward.

  Without waiting for approval, Craygen spurred his steed. The beast snorted and pawed the ground, mirroring its rider’s fury. He turned to face his men, his visor snapping down over his eyes. “To me!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through their fatigue like a blade. “Strike them down and show them the meaning of fear!”

  The cavalry stirred, their broken spirits igniting as they straightened in their saddles. One by one, they followed their commander, spurring their mounts toward the gates. Austorian soldiers watched in stunned silence as the ragged unit stormed past, the thunder of hooves echoing against the stones. Dust rose in their wake as they raced back toward the chaos they had momentarily escaped.

  Lord Jigan’s sharp eyes locked onto the charging cavalry. His lips curled in disbelief as he barked to his bannerman, “Is that… Craygen?”

  Before the man could reply, Jigan turned sharply, his voice booming with authority. “Blow the recall! Stop that damned fool before he kills himself!”

  The Doomgauwer horns sounded, their mournful wail spreading across the battlefield like a chilling dirge. Jigan’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword as he watched the distant figures gallop away, their banners flapping wildly in the wind. “Idiots,” he muttered, his voice filled with both frustration and resignation. “They’ll only feed the Beastkin’s weapons!”

  But Craygen didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. His unit, driven by loyalty or madness, followed their lord back into the fray.

  ____________________________________________________________________________________

  On the front lines, Lt. Grant Cramdell shouted over the roar of machine guns, his voice hoarse but resolute. “Shift fire! SHIFT FIRE!! Cover the right flank—don’t let them get past the wire!”

  Through the haze of smoke and the staccato bursts of gunfire, a sudden movement caught his eye. His stomach dropped as he recognized the source. Grant grabbed his field glasses, searching for the movement.

  “Cavalry!!,” he shouted, lowering his binoculars. “Shift FIRE!! SHIFT FIRE!! STOP THEM BEFORE THE HIT THE WIRE!!.”

  The tattered remnants of Craygen’s unit raced toward the Beastkin line with reckless abandon. Their charge was desperate, defiant, and utterly doomed, as now every gun began to track them.

  “Sir!” a gunner called out, panic creeping into his tone. “They’re going fast enough to jump clean of the wire!”

  Cramdell’s jaw tightened, his thoughts racing. “Concentrate fire on the lead riders!” he barked, his hand tightening around his rifle. “Do not let them break through!”

  The machine gunners adjusted, their barrels swiveling toward the incoming riders. The battlefield roared as the guns erupted, the light from their tracers slicing through the air. Horses stumbled and collapsed, throwing their riders to the blood-soaked ground. Craygen’s banner fluttered defiantly at the head of the charge, its golden threads streaked with dust and blood.

  Cramdell steadied his aim, exhaling slowly as he sighted Craygen through the chaos. “You picked the wrong fight, noble,” he muttered under his breath. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  The shot cracked through the air, clean and precise. Craygen jerked in his saddle, his sword falling from his grip as his lifeless body tumbled to the earth. Dust billowed around him, his steed rearing and throwing its head back in panic.

  The cavalry faltered. Their leader’s death spread like a shockwave, their once-coordinated charge collapsing into disarray. The machine gunners pivoted, cutting down the scattered riders as panic took hold. The thunder of hooves faded, replaced by the relentless rhythm of bullets tearing through the remnants of Craygen’s unit.

  Horses fell under the relentless hail of machine gun fire, their bodies crashing heavily into the blood-soaked earth. The remaining forces were either scattered or obliterated, their charge collapsing by the volume of the Beastkin’s firepower.

  The brief victory against the Austorian cavalry was quickly shattered. Heavy thumping echoed across the battlefield. The Heavy Infantry had arrived. Their massive steel shields glowed with runes as they murmured in an ancient tongue. Defensive spells activated automatically, casting a shimmering shield around them. Battlemages fell in behind, charging their mana. Swordsmen and spearmen marched just inside the growing shield. Arcane energies spiked, sending blue electric tendrils into the air. The battlemages prepared to unleash a devastating barrage of fire and lightning."

  A concentrated barrage of fire and lightning rained down from the mage’s staffs, missing the beastkin dug in positions and striking the barn where the civilians had sought refuge underground. The explosion tore through the structure, flames consuming the upper levels as splintered debris cascaded onto the earth.

  A sudden, choking silence followed, only to be replaced by screams and the crackling roar of fire.

  Lt. Cramdell’s heart sank as he turned toward the inferno. “The barn!” he shouted, horror and disbelief etched into his voice. For a moment, the battlefield seemed to fall away, the chaos around him drowned out by the weight of what had just transpired.

  Inside the barn, some civilians—wounded and desperate—had been receiving treatment. They had no chance to react as the walls caved in. Beneath the burning wreckage, the debris sealed the entrance to the underground Winehouse, where the others had taken shelter. Their voices could no longer be heard through the smothering rubble.

  Before Cramdell could issue orders, the medics—faces pale with urgency—dashed into the debris, frantically clawing at the smoldering remains in search of survivors. The sight hit Cramdell like a physical blow, his gut twisting as rage overtook him.

  “DAMN IT!” he bellowed, his anguished scream cutting across the battlefield. With a sharp, feral motion, he raised his rifle and unleashed a storm of gunfire at the new line of advancing battlemages. His fury was mirrored by the machine gunners and the trucks heavy machine guns, their weapons roaring as they turned their wrath onto the enemy.

  The Heavy Infantry line was pushed back under the withering barrage. Some battlemages tried to fire back only to be unable to use their spells as the heavy infantry began to falter. Some tried to bolster the defensive shield only to have it obliterated in seconds by the hail of gunfire. Other battlemages panicked, broke rank and fled, only to be cut down as the Beastkin soldiers pressed their attack with ferocious determination.

  But the destruction of the barn weighed heavily on the defenders. Medics and some soldiers worked feverishly amid the wreckage, pulling bloodied forms from the debris. The muffled cries from below the surface spurred them on, but every second that passed felt like an eternity. The door to the Winehouse remained buried, the civilians inside trapped by collapsed beams and debris.

  Lt. Cramdell’s gaze flicked toward the medics, his face lined with frustration and exhaustion. He tapped into his comm unit, his tone clipped. “Dragon this is Alpha 5 Alpha, Requesting immediate medevac, We have multiple wounded here! 9 line is as follows” he ordered. The reply came swiftly, but not from the commander of the Taskforce. Colonel Merryclaw’s voice carried the weight of command, cool but firm.

  “Alpha 5 Alpha, this is Command. Save your breath. We do not have any available airframes, all forward deployed airfames have heavy damage and are unable to fly. UAVs are still in the air. We are working on reinforcements, but for now, your unit must hold. Task Force Dragon is at Qu-Til and is fighting to control the city. They will be there to assist as soon as they can. Do what you can until Task Force Dragon arrives or when we can resume medevac operations. Wish we had better news. Stay alive, we are coming for you. Command out.”

  The words landed like a blow, echoing in Cramdell’s ears as he watched the medics and soldiers search through the wreckage. No one spoke—there was no time to waste.

  Cramdell lowered his comm unit and gritted his teeth, his voice a low growl. “Understood, Command. We’ll hold the line. Alpha 5 Alpha out.”

  Lt. Cramdell crouched behind the barricade, his breathing sharp and uneven as the battle surged around him. The crack of gunfire and the metallic clash of weapons filled the air. An arrow sliced past his shoulder, striking the debris just behind him. Instinct kicked in as he swung his rifle up, squeezing off three controlled shots. A distant figure—an Austorian swordsman who had broken through to the second line of razor wire—crumpled to the ground. Cramdell ducked behind a barrier for cover, as another arrows sped by him.

  His headset hissed with static. Before Cramdell could catch his breath, Lt. Colonel Ridgefall’s commanding voice came through. “Alpha 5 Alpha, this is Dragon Actual.”

  “Dragon actual this is Alpha 5, send your traffic over.” Cramdell said dejectedly, as he peered around the barrier. He prepared his rifle to fire but noticed his chamber was open.

  “Grant, I don’t have time to mince words, what’s your no bullshit assessment of the situation at the farm?” Ridgefall asked while looking at the UAV footage over the farm and over Qu-til.

  Cramdell slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle, his teeth gritted as he keyed into the comm. “Standby, sir!” he barked, his attention split between Ridgefall’s voice and the immediate chaos around him. He sent his bolt home, locking a fresh round into the chamber.

  Another explosion rocked the line, sending shockwaves rippling through the barricades. The medics were still pulling bloodied forms from the barn’s wreckage, their shouts barely audible over the din of battle. One of the machine gunners shouted for orders, and Cramdell pointed sharply toward the advancing Austorian battlemages.

  “Suppressing fire! Keep those bastards pinned down!” Cramdell growled before turning his focus back to the comm. “Dragon Actual, the situation is a complete cluster fuck, sir,” he stated bluntly, anger and exhaustion layered in his voice.

  He shifted position, glancing toward the smoldering remains of the barn as he continued. “Captain Redthorn is dead. He, with two medics and some civilans were killed when the barn they were in was destroyed. An errant Electric fireball hit the barn when we engaged a group of Austorians. We’re running low on heavy munitions, and at this rate, it’s only a matter of time before we run out of everything else. We’ve got a lot of wounded, and civilians are trapped in a shelter under the barn. It’s bad, sir. Real bad.”

  Cramdell paused, firing off another burst as an advancing Austorian soldier stumbled into his sights. “We need help now,” he snapped, his voice rising. “If reinforcements or supplies don’t get here soon, we aren’t going to make it.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  There was a moment of silence on the other end, broken only by the faint background chatter from Ridgefall’s command. When Ridgefall spoke, his voice carried an edge of urgency but remained calm. “Understood, Alpha 5 Alpha. Reinforcements are moving to your position. Hold as long as you can. I’ll get you what you need.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cramdell replied, his voice steadier now, even as the chaos around him intensified. The channel cut out, leaving him to focus on the battle before him.

  “Stay sharp!” he shouted to his men, his commanding tone cutting through the battlefield noise. “Keep them off the mortars, and for gods’ sake, hold that line!

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  A new battalion of Heavy Infantry marched forward from the city with unnerving precision, a relentless tide of steel and magic. Though they lacked the offensive spellcraft of the battlemages, their mastery of defensive magic and strength enchantments made them formidable. Enchanted shields with embedded runes shimmered faintly green, absorbing bullets, deflecting shrapnel, and, to the Beastkin's dismay, even turning aside the .50 caliber rounds from the GUA-19s. Despite the barrage, the Heavy Infantry pushed forward with grim determination, their enhanced strength allowing them to shove the razor wire aside with brutal efficiency.

  The Beastkin machine gunners poured fire into the advancing lines, the GUA-19s roaring as hot tracers lit up the battlefield. Each burst seemed to stagger the Austorian Heavy Infantry for a moment, forcing them to slow to regain footing. But even the overwhelming firepower could only slow their advance. Inch by inch, the Heavy Infantry pressed forward, their shields holding under the relentless onslaught. Behind them, the next wave of Austorian forces advanced—swordsmen with gleaming blades, battlemages readying their next salvo, and archers forming up to unleash another rain of deadly arrows.

  Lt. Cramdell watched the scene unfold with gritted teeth. “They’re bunching up,” he muttered under his breath, his sharp eyes catching the moment the Heavy Infantry started to form a bottleneck near a section of the wire. The sheer concentration of magic and physical strength forced them into tight formation as they pressed forward.

  From their concealed positions, the Beastkin Engineers lay in wait, watching the Austorian forces step further into the trap. Their hands hovered over the detonators; nerves taut but determined as they waited for the exact moment to strike.

  “They’re in position,” one engineer whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

  The lead engineer nodded sharply, his eyes locked on the bunched-up formation. “On my mark… three… two… one… now!”

  The ground seemed to explode in unison. A deafening chain of detonations ripped through the battlefield as the Engineers triggered the line of claymore mines and Anti-personnel IEDs. The air filled with the metallic hum of steel fragments scything through flesh and bone, cutting down the swordsmen, archers, and battlemages positioned behind the Heavy Infantry.

  Then came the bangalore torpedo. Its explosive force tore through the front ranks with devastating ferocity. The ground heaved violently as the blast shattered the Heavy Infantry’s enchanted defenses, obliterating them in an instant. Bodies were flung skyward, their armored forms shattered like brittle statues. Dust and debris rained down, choking the air and momentarily silencing the battlefield.

  Lt. Cramdell lowered his rifle as the echoes of the explosion faded. His gaze scanned the carnage before him—the once-imposing ranks of Austorian forces now lay scattered and broken. The trap had worked perfectly, but the sight still turned his stomach. Blood soaked the earth, and the acrid scent of magic and explosives hung heavy in the air.

  “Engineers, status?” he barked into his comm.

  “We’re clear, Lieutenant,” came the reply, the voice tinged with exhaustion. “The line’s holding for now.”

  Cramdell exhaled sharply, shifting his attention back to his machine gunners. “Focus your fire on any groups. Don’t give them a chance to regroup.”

  The defenders responded with renewed vigor, the sound of gunfire resuming as they swept the battlefield for stragglers. Among the chaos, the medics continued to dig through the barn’s wreckage, their efforts tireless even as the battle raged around them.

  For a fleeting moment, it seemed the line would hold. But Cramdell knew better than to celebrate too early. “Keep sharp,” he muttered to himself, his grip tightening on his rifle. “They’re not done yet.

  The battlefield trembled under the weight of a renewed Austorian assault. A massed formation of Heavy Infantry surged forward like an unstoppable tide, their enchanted shields shimmering as they absorbed volleys of bullets. Behind them, Magic Lancers emerged from the city at full gallop, their steeds armor glowing faintly in the dim battlefield haze. Their lances crackled with magical energy, poised to strike devastating blows as the Heavy Infantry covered their advance.

  Lt. Cramdell gritted his teeth, his voice hoarse as he barked into his comms. “Focus your fire on the infantry! Keep those bastards pinned down!”

  Machine gunners adjusted their aim, unleashing a torrent of lead at the advancing Heavy Infantry. But the shields held, the defenders’ rounds ricocheting harmlessly off the enchanted barriers. The Austorians pressed closer, their lines disciplined and unyielding.

  The Magic Lancers raced forward, their lances aimed at the Beastkin’s defensive vehicles. One lancer broke from the formation, his weapon glowing brighter as he closed in on a stationary gun truck. The vehicle’s turret swung toward him, but the lancer struck first. His lance erupted in a blast of raw magic, shattering the 3 barrel cannon and sending the vehicle reeling backward, flames licking at its frame. The magic set the turrent on fire and caused the truck to start to smolder.

  The crew abandoned the buring gun truck, retreating to the secondary position where the reserve truck slid into a fighting position. The reserve opened fire, its mounted heavy weapons cutting down several Austorian soldiers. But the relentless advance of the Heavy Infantry forced it to pull back, its position overrun as the defenders fell into disarray.

  Cramdell ducked behind a barricade, reloading his rifle as chaos consumed the front line. The defensive line was folding under the weight of the Austorian assault. Machine gunners began pulling back, their positions overrun by the enemy’s sheer numbers.

  He keyed into his comms, his tone sharp and desperate. “We’re being overrun! All units, fall back to the secondary line!”

  The defenders scrambled to retreat, firing as they fell back to the secondary trenches. The air was thick with smoke and ash, the ground trembling under the relentless march of the Heavy Infantry.

  “Dragon Actual, this is Alpha 5 Alpha, emergency priority! The farm is under heavy attack—repeat, the farm is getting overrun! Requesting immediate assistance! We are—” Cramdell shouted, as explosion rocked the trench behind him. Dirt and debris rained down as Cramdell was thrown off his feet by the shockwave. His head struck the ground hard, his vision going dark as his comms crackled with static.

  Miles away in Qu-Til, the Beastkin artillery units prepared their counterattack. HIMARS launchers and Brutus Howitzers guns slew to pre-set locations and stood ready. Their crews tense as they awaited targeting coordinates from the FDC.

  The forward observer (FO) Callsign Gauntlet, crouched in fighting position near the collapsing main trench line at the farm, fighting to stay conscious despite his wounds and fighting off the Austorians.

  Blood trickled down his face as he keyed into his comm. “Redleg one, this is Gauntlet,” he rasped, his voice weaking but determined. “We need fire support on these coordinates.”

  Despite the pain, the FO relayed the coordinates, and what seemed to be like hours, the response came.

  Screams like banshees flew by the Beastkin towards the Austorian line. The 227mm Rockets screaming across the sky.

  Moments later, the first volley of HIMARS rockets slammed into the advancing Austorian forces. Explosions ripped through their lines, shattering units, flinging Heavy Infantry into the sky and forcing the disciplined army to scatter.

  The Brutus Howitzers followed with thunderous booms, their airburst shells tearing into the massed formation of Heavy Infantry and scattering their debris across the battlefield. The Austorian advance faltered and fled, buying the Beastkin defenders precious time to pull out of the main trench line.

  Back at the secondary line, chaos reigned as the defenders scrambled to regroup. The radio crackled faintly; its circuits damaged in the earlier assault. SFC Draken ordered everyone back and into the newly established positions. Sweat dripped from his brow, but his focus remained unwavering, even as fire bullets whizzed past and explosions shook the ground around him.

  Behind him, two medics hauled Lt. Cramdell to cover, his unconscious form slumped between them. Blood streaked his forehead, the back of his body armor scorched from the explosion that had thrown him off his feet.

  “Dragon, Dragon this is Alpha 1-6,” Draken began, his tone clipped and urgent. “Be advised—Alpha 5 Alpha is down, wounded but alive. FO is seriously wounded but alive. We have pulled back to the secondary position, but the situation is critical.”

  Static crackled faintly before a reply came through, the voice firm but laced with urgency. “Alpha 1-6, this is Dragon Seirra two. Situation Acknowleged. Reinforcements are en route. Artillery fire will continue to suppress enemy forces. Maintain defensive positions and provide further updates as needed.”

  Draken exhaled sharply, the weight of the chaos momentarily lifting. “Understood, Command. Alpha 1-6 out.”

  He glanced over his shoulder as the medics worked on Lt. Cramdell, their hands moving quickly to stabilize the wounded officer. Around them, defenders were firing furiously, desperate to hold back the overwhelming Austorian advance. Draken adjusted his gear, gripping his rifle as he keyed into the open comms channel.

  “All units, this is Alpha 1-6,” he called out, his voice steady. “Reinforcements are inbound. Hold your positions and keep those bastards off the line!”

  As the next wave of Heavy Infantry marched out from the city gates, the Beastkin defenders struggled to hold their crumbling line. The relentless gunfire that had earlier slowed the Austorian advance now began to falter. One by one, the machine guns fell silent, their barrels glowing red-hot and their ammo belts spent.

  The gun trucks, their .50 caliber weapons running dry, shifted their strategy. Engines roared as the vehicles maneuvered across the battlefield, transforming them into mobile cover. Soldiers with what little ammo they had left scrambled to move alongside the trucks, firing sporadically as they fell back toward the secondary line.

  The air crackled with static as the FO keyed into the comm from his position on the line, his voice raw with frustration. “Redleg one, Redleg one,” he coughed “This is Gauntlet, The rounds have stopped. We still have targets, what is the situation, over?”

  The reply from Command came swift and firm. “Gauntlet, This is Redleg. No rounds available. Ammunition is currently depleted. Ammo trucks are en route, ETA unknown. Hold your position.”

  The FO bit back a curse, his grip tightening on the radio. Sweat and dirt streaked his face as he surveyed the field, his heart sinking at the sight of the dwindling defenses.

  From his damaged tower, General Palper surveyed the battlefield, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he assessed the carnage. The artillery strike had nearly taken him—one of the Brutus airbursts had obliterated the wall mere feet from where he’d stood. Dust coated his uniform, and a jagged cut above his eye trickled blood, but he remained upright, his iron will unbroken.

  His gaze lingered on the mangled battlefield, noting with grim satisfaction the faltering defensive line of the Beastkin. Then he saw the wreckage of the Austorian center—the shattered bodies of his soldiers—and among them, his old friend, Lord Jigan. Jigan’s broken form lay twisted amid the rubble, his once-brilliant armor dulled and cracked.

  Palper’s chest tightened, grief threatening to claw its way to the surface. Powerful mages? No... something else. Their weapons are unlike anything I’ve seen. His fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. There was no time to mourn, no time to reflect. Only revenge.

  Turning sharply to his aide, Palper barked, “Send out the reserves—all of them. Heavy Infantry at the front. Pin them down, overwhelm them, and leave nothing standing. I want those flea bags dead.”

  The aide saluted and ran to deliver the orders. Palper remained in the tower, his eyes cold with resolve as he watched the next wave pour from the city gates. Damn them all, he thought bitterly. I’ll crush every last one.

  In the secondary position, the Beastkin engineers worked frantically to build up the position. Trenches were hastily dug, improvised barriers cobbled together from scrap metal and broken equipment. The defenders fortified their positions with whatever remained—sharpened stakes, coils of barbed wire, and scattered sandbags reinforced the line.

  The defenders fought with diminishing resources and mounting desperation. A gunner slammed the last belt of ammunition into his weapon, squeezing the trigger until it clicked uselessly. “I’m out!” he shouted, his voice raw with exhaustion.

  Another soldier glanced at his empty rifle, then back to the gun trucks that now served as their only cover. “Move up! Use the trucks!” he barked, rallying the uninjured. The soldiers surged forward, ducking behind the vehicles as the Austorian Heavy Infantry pressed closer, their shields gleaming with defensive enchantments.

  The FO watched the chaos unfold, helpless to change the tide. He glanced toward his JCVAILs unit and keyed into his comm again. “Redleg one, this is gauntlet” his voice strained against his wound. “Any update on guns, Im lasing about two formations, please tell me you have something. We need help.”

  “Ammo convoy is delayed,” the reply came back. “We’re stretched thin—Command says to hold.”

  The FO slammed a fist into the dirt, cursing under his breath. But even as the situation spiraled, his mind sharpened with resolve. He trained his designator on the next cluster of Austorian forces moving into position. That was until the pain took him and his world began to go dark.

  SFC Draken moved among them, his patched-up comm setup still clutched in his hand. “Get those barriers up now!” he barked, pointing sharply to a gap in the line. “We need to hold them here!”

  Around him, the remaining defenders tightened their grips on nearly depleted rifles and gathered any remaining grenades. Any leftover ammunition boxes were broke open, ammunition given out to anyone. The mortar team joined the line, as the last round left the tube. Half used Machine gun belts were laid out, and the gun trucks were running low or out of ammo, but they setup, knowing this was their final stand.

  The sound of marching Austorian troops slowly grew louder, their formation spilling across the field like a swarm. Heavy Infantry led the charge, shields glowing as battlemages moved alongside them, their Fire Bullets igniting the air with bursts of heat and flame. The massed formation was relentless, and Palper’s smile widened as he watched from the tower, savoring the Beastkin’s desperation.

  Draken gritted his teeth, raising his rifle as the first Austorian soldier crossed into range. “Hold steady!” he shouted to his men. “Let them come to us!”

  The battlefield trembled with the rumble of advancing Austorian forces, their boots striking the earth in unison as they poured from the city gates. From his vantage point in the shattered tower, General Palper watched the massive wave of soldiers spread across the field like an unstoppable tide. His smile was cold and calculated, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction as he surveyed the carnage below.

  Now it’s time, Palper thought, his fists clenched behind his back. Time to crush them completely.

  Down below, the two Beastkin soldiers struggled to drag the FO back the secondary line. His blood-soaked uniform clung to his chest, his breathing shallow and ragged as his consciousness began to slip away.

  “Stay with us, man,” one soldier urged, adjusting his grip as the FO’s body sagged heavily between them.

  They reached the medics just as the FO’s head lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering shut. The medics sprang into action, laying him flat on a stretcher and tearing away his tattered armor to assess the damage.

  “He’s unconscious,” one medic barked. “Let’s stabilize him before we lose him!”

  SFC Draken ran to them, “You are too far forward, You’ll need to move the wounded out of here immediately.”

  The medics froze, exchanging wary glances before one protested. “Move them? Most of these men can’t be moved! If we try, it could kill them!”

  The second medic shook his head, gripping the edge of the stretcher tightly. “We’ll lose them here if they overrun us. Let’s get them out of here.”

  Reluctantly, the medics worked faster, stabilizing what they could while soldiers scrambled to reorganize. There wasn’t much time.

  The air was thick with anticipation and tension as the Beastkin defenders waited behind their last defensive line. The rumble of thousands of Austorian soldiers marching in unison resonated through the earth, their formation darkening the horizon. Heavy Infantry led the wave, their enchanted shields gleaming ominously under the dim, smoke-filled sky. Behind them marched countless swordsmen, battlemages, and archers, their ranks stretching as far as the eye could see.

  SFC Draken stood at the center of the Beastkin position, his rifle tightly gripped as he scanned the massed enemy. “Hold steady!” he barked, his voice cutting through the sharp crackle of tension in the air. Around him, the remaining defenders gritted their teeth, their dwindling ammunition and worn weapons a stark reminder of their desperate reality.

  As the first ranks reached the wire, the Beastkin opened fire. Machine guns erupted with a deafening roar, tracers slicing through the air and into the advancing Austorian lines. The riflemen followed, their shots precise and deadly as they targeted the gaps between the shields. Bodies fell, tangled in the coils of razor wire, their cries drowned out by the chaos unfolding around them.

  The battlemages launched their Fire Bullets, crude but effective projectiles that hissed as they hurtled toward the defenders. Flames burst along the barricades, forcing soldiers to duck as embers danced through the air. But the Beastkin held firm, their aim unwavering as they continued to pick off the Austorians at range.

  The razor wire tore through flesh and armor alike, ensnaring the advancing swordsmen and archers. Screams echoed through the lines as they struggled to cut themselves free, their movements frantic and chaotic. Draken’s voice rang out again, sharp and commanding. “Keep firing! Don’t let them push through!”

  The defenders rained bullets onto the exposed Austorian ranks, turning the tangled wire into a killing field. Heavy Infantry tried to push the wire aside, their enchanted strength allowing them to make slow progress. But every step forward cost them dearly as Beastkin sharpshooters targeted the unprotected joints of their armor, dropping them one by one.

  A single soldier broke free from the wire, charging headlong toward the barricades. Draken’s rifle came up in one smooth motion, his finger tightening on the trigger. The shot rang out clean and precise, dropping the enemy just feet from the defensive line.

  But the tide began to turn as more and more guns fell silent. The machine gunners pulled useless triggers, their belts completely spent. Grenades were gone, and the Fifties mounted on the gun trucks clicked helplessly as the ammunition ran out.

  “We’re out!” a gunner shouted, slamming his fist against his weapon. His cry was echoed by others across the line as soldiers scrambled to reposition themselves behind the mobile cover of the gun trucks.

  Draken slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle, his hands moving swiftly despite the sweat and grime coating them. “Use your pistols! Mount Bayonets!” he yelled, as soldiers unholstered their pistols or mounted their bayonets. Those who still had rounds left fired precision shots, their exacting fire keeping the Austorians at bay.

  But the wave of enemies grew closer, their determination undeterred by the mounting losses. The battlemages pressed forward, their Fire Bullets igniting the barricades as archers loosed volleys of arrows overhead. Heavy Infantry pushed through the wire with increasing momentum, their glowing shields flashing as they deflected stray shots,

  The remaining Beastkin defenders fought valiantly, their rifles barking defiantly even as their magazines emptied. One soldier grabbed a broken blade from the debris, his hands trembling as he prepared for the inevitable close combat. Another threw his last grenade into the advancing crowd, the explosion ripping through the nearest Austorian ranks but failing to halt their surge.

  Draken’s headset crackled as a faint transmission broke through. “SFC Draken, stand by for incoming...” the voice cut out momentarily before roaring back to life. “Hold the line—reinforcements are on the way!”

  But the words offered little comfort as the wave of thousands continued to press forward, their relentless charge threatening to swallow the defenders whole. Draken took a knee, firing one last shot before his rifle went dry. He stared at the empty weapon, his breath sharp and uneven as he rose to his feet. He pulled his P-10C pistol out of its holster, ready to defend to the bitter end.

  “Fall back to the barricades!” he yelled, his voice hoarse but unyielding. “Don’t stop firing!”