Alexandria, Kingdom of Celdorne

  Good news or bad news? King Armonde Celdor had weighed such matters more times than he could reckon, yet at some point during his long reign, their import had withered. For truly, had there ever been a choice? Always a bitter draught, with scarce a drop of sweetness to ease its way down a regent’s throat.

  Armonde kept his gaze out over his kingdom, his reflection faintly visible on the window. There was little left to stir his spirit. The world had long since lost its color, as had the hope that his reign might be marked by aught but hardship. His Prime Minister stood behind him, though Armonde scarcely took note. With a final glance at the overcast heavens, he steeled himself to choose.

  “The bad first. Get it over with, Alrick.”

  Alrick sighed, new lines forming on his already weathered face. “Sire, the Aurelian Empire… refuses our call for aid.”

  Of course they did. They had no reason to lift a finger for Celdorne – no reason that wouldn’t serve their precious borderlands. He had expected as much, but hearing it aloud still left a taste as bitter as Marneleaf.

  “And the others?”

  Alrick’s next words came out barely above a whisper, though still deafening upon impact. “The Khagarian Empire simply ignored our envoy, and the Elnoir Republic…” he paused, clearly wrestling with decorum.

  Armonde sighed. “What did they say?”

  “That the matter of our ‘localized skirmish’ hardly merited the disturbance of their resources. They claim it is a threat we can manage.”

  What could Armonde do but laugh? A localized skirmish? As if the forces of hell itself could be dismissed as a border dispute. And ‘Manage!’ What did they know of such matters? Their vast resources, their summoned champions who held the strength of entire armies in one hand – they could afford such carelessness.

  But Celdorne? No, they were the first line, and they would bear the brunt of it alone.

  “They languish in comfort while the storm gathers on our doorstep.” How many would die for the arrogance – the complacency – of these distant superpowers? The thought seethed within Armonde.

  The king drew a slow breath, willing his frustration into something more manageable. Losing his composure now would serve no purpose, save to prove that the burden was already too great. There, he had his draught. Now, would the honey be sweet enough to erase the bitter taste? “Well then. What good news have you to offer?”

  His trusted minister swallowed, lips tight as he stepped forward. “Sir Fotham’s Office reports that they’ve located suitable heroes for us to summon, though we can afford only one ritual.”

  Summoning magic – their final refuge. But what meager candidates might they have summoned forth, given Celdorne’s barren coffers? Had they but the wealth of Aurelia or Khagaria! Oh, such fancies would serve him naught. Armonde held his peace, bidding Alrick to continue.

  “They hold power, though not what the great empires would call heroes,” Alrick began, treading carefully. “One is… a ‘high schooler.’ From the nation of Japan, as summons so oft deliver. But the others – a group of soldiers, well-trained. An elite force of ‘delta’, from a land called the United States. It, too, is a nation upon Earth, yet we know but scant of it.”

  Armonde rested his arms on his knees, leaning forward. “A child, and soldiers. Who else?”

  Alrick’s hesitation was slight, but noticeable. “A scholar and a farmer, though neither are suited for the struggle we face.” He paused, drawing a breath. “The child, however… the high schooler – he possesses a skill. A power to manipulate time. Not in some grand, world-altering manner, but sufficient to slow or hasten moments as need dictates. We would need to train him, certainly. We can’t gauge its limits, but the potential remains present.”

  The king leaned back, shaking his head. “Time… That is dangerous, Alrick. More perilous than the boy can comprehend. And… soldiers? Not knights?”

  The minister’s hesitation was no longer present, words coming fluidly out of his mouth. “They are skilled warriors, sire, knights of their own realm sans noble birth. Though they lack the natural magical prowess we oft ascribe to the summons of legend, their mana reserves are remarkable – far surpassing that of most within Celdorne. Our scrying has determined that their skills in combat are commendable. They may not shatter mountains, but their mastery of tactics and familiarity with firearms is formidable. Paired with magic, it just may render them into the aid we need.”

  Armonde took a breath. “A child who may bend time, though ignorant of its scope. And soldiers – capable, yet unremarkable compared to the legends of Tenria. The soldiers have no extraordinary gifts… No divine intervention…”

  Common soldiers and a mere child. Armonde felt the weight of it settle upon him, doubts clouding the clarity he so often forced upon himself. It was preferable to naught, but what hope could such beings offer in the face of a demonic tide?

  And yet – he had seen desperate men achieve the impossible before. Even under Alexander Celdor’s legendary command, it had been ordinary men who held the line, bleeding for a kingdom yet unbuilt, dying for a humanity yet unsaved. Perhaps that was the true nature of Celdorne: not heroes, but those who stood against the dark, armed with nothing but faith and steel, knowing they were all that held the world back from oblivion.

  “Soldiers,” he repeated softly. He felt his decisions shifting like the sands of the demon-infested Istrayn wastelands, solidifying the more he pondered. “Not heroes, but still, men of war.”

  Alrick nodded, as if they’d already earned his approval. “Indeed, sire. To summon four heroes with but one ritual – it is the most prudent of our options. They may not be legends, but in this great struggle, perhaps these men are precisely who we need.”

  Truly, there was no grandeur in this – no tales of gods and legends. Yet he understood: tales mattered little when the time for blood came.

  “Very well. Soldiers, then,” Armonde said at last. “When will they be summoned?”

  “Ere afternoon on the morrow, sire. We shall have them then.”

  – – – –

  Khaldat, Al-Jadira

  October 7, 2025

  Given the choice between good news or bad news, Captain Cole Mercer would’ve opted for no news at all – other than the arrival of a margarita, preferably on a Hawaiian beach. Hell, fuck the stereotype; he’d even take a drink with one of those little umbrellas that always looked so ridiculous but somehow made the drink taste better.

  But alas, here he was instead, shoving his way through the crowded, seething heart of a Jadiran city on foot. He’d bunched up with his team, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his medic, Mack. His breacher, Miles, and his explosives expert, Ethan, followed close behind.

  The protestors were everywhere, their raised signs reflecting their loyalties to the Jamaat al-Nadir al-Istiqamah. The JNI.

  The government had done most of the work for them – years of neglect, corruption, and empty promises had left these people desperate enough to believe in anything. And the JNI? They were more than happy to fill the void, selling martyrdom as salvation. All these people, screaming for revolution, oblivious to the fact that their supposed saviors had just tried to turn them into radioactive martyrs. Some jihad that was – had a real je ne sais quoi about it. Dying for a cause they barely understood.

  But it wasn’t just the government or the JNI. No, someone had to go and fuck it up even further. CIA, Mossad, whoever. They’d all taken their turns poking the hornet’s nest, funding the wrong factions, propping up the wrong leaders, all in the name of ‘stability’ or ‘democracy’ or whatever buzzword they were using these days to mask their power grabs. And for all he knew, the usual suspects might’ve been in bed with the JNI themselves. Wouldn’t be the first time someone decided to play both sides. Hell, it wouldn’t even be the tenth.

  “Shitty ass intel,” Miles grumbled – the first thing he’d said since they found the bomb. “Ain’t this city s’posed to be under the Jadiran government’s control? The fuck are all these Nadir puppets doin’ crawlin’ around out here?”

  There could’ve been any host of reasons, from botched HUMINT to the simple assumption that the Nadirs deliberately showed control in specific neighborhoods to play the city off as ‘safe.’ Cole could only shrug in response. “Wish I knew. Just hope exfil ain’t compromised.”

  Their cloaks would probably fool the average person, but even that wouldn’t matter if said person stood close enough to hear him breathing. Yeah, the cloaks provided a thin veneer of anonymity, but the bulky items under them – packs, vests, weapons – weren’t exactly discreet. At best, they were a fragile defense; ‘cover’ as functional as cardboard. As the tide of pro-JNI demonstrators rose, detection went from an extremely hopeful ‘maybe not’ to a crushing inevitability.

  Even retracing was a no-go. Forward was the only viable option, however pyrrhic it might prove. Fuck it. He could see the car dealership in the distance, overlooking the park – just a few more blocks and they’d be home free.

  The spinning sign flickered through gaps in the crowd, but the way there felt blocked at every turn. People pressed in on all sides now, moving shoulder to shoulder like it was a packed nightclub. The density forced Cole to thread through them, nudging where he could, pushing where he needed.

  The crowd pressed tighter, his heart thumping harder. And then his heart completely fucking sank.

  “AMREEKAAN!”

  The voice came from his right, from a teen pointing a finger at Cole.

  Fuck. He kept his head down and hood up, continuing to push forward. But the damage had already been done. Amreekaan, the voices hissed again, more of the crowd waking up to the four American operators in their midst – four of the very devils the JNI had brainwashed them to hate.

  The crowd thickened, every shove met with another person stepping into their path, intentional or not. He grit his teeth, forcing the frustration back. These civilians weren’t the enemy – not directly.

  But they were just as much a part of the plan as that dirty bomb they’d just disarmed. Human shields, blocking his team’s retreat as a final ‘fuck you’ from the JNI to any souls unfortunate enough to stop their plan. They wouldn’t be able to accomplish their mission, but they’d be able to trade blows with the U.S. – removing valuable operators from the board.

  And of course, there was no helicopter exfil – the one thing that could’ve gotten them out of here clean. It wasn’t that Command hadn’t considered it – oh, they definitely had. But there was just no way to get a chopper in when half of Jadira’s government leaned toward the JNI, whispering in the same rooms where the U.S. tried to maintain leverage. No way to open up the airspace for a nuclear threat, when that threat had been all but a conspiracy theory until now.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  A few dead Americans? That was just a blip to the powers that be – not worth jeopardizing relations over. The emerging sound of vehicles cemented their sorry situation. They were at the mercy of red tape, praying for action from a Command that was at the mercy of the most asinine politicians and diplomats to ever grace this Earth.

  The vehicles finally approached, pick-up trucks with mounted .50s – Technicals. The sea of people blocking his escape – angry, confused, manipulated – wasn’t something he could just shoot his way through. Evidently, the JNI had no such reservations.

  As the gunmen swiveled their turrets onto the crowd, Cole ducked.

  “GET DOWN!”

  He hit the pavement, dragging Miles down with him as the sharp crack of heavy machine gun fire split the air. .50 caliber rounds ripped through flesh and concrete alike, bodies crashing down in a mix of blood and bone. A wet spray splattered across Cole’s arm, the warmth of it seeping into his cloak.

  The crowd erupted into screams, raw panic settling in as they realized what was happening. The demonstration devolved into a human stampede – people pushing, shoving, climbing over each other to get away from the gunfire.

  “Fuck!” He wriggled his hand down to his push-to-talk button, careful that it wouldn’t get crushed. “Aegis, Sentinel Actual. Grid 38S RV 130563. Exfil is compromised. We’re pinned down near the intersection of Shari’a Al-Hariri and Shari’a Al-Shaheed. JNI forces opened fire into a crowd of civilians. Heavy civilian casualties. No team casualties yet, but the situation is critical – need immediate fire support and reinforcements to break contact, over.”

  Cole adjusted his body, shielding himself from the inevitable as best he could. Weight slammed into him – someone’s knee crushing into his ribs, the wind knocked from his lungs as another body pressed down, trying to use him as leverage to scramble up. His back and chest burned from the impacts as more people fled, some of them stumbling, others outright trampling over him. He gasped, his breath stuck in his throat as the weight piled up.

  “Sentinel Actual, Aegis. Solid copy on all. QRF and fire support are on standby, but we are awaiting confirmation from the Jadiran government to open airspace. EOD teams are en route to confirm the bomb. Hold position and minimize civilian exposure. Prepare for contingencies, but no air assets can engage until clearance is secured. Stay sharp. Aegis, out.”

  “Oh, fuckin’ A.” He stayed down, instinct overriding the urge to move. The dead weight on top of him shifted slightly, more blood pouring out onto his cloak, soaking it through. As if one blanket of despair wasn’t enough.

  He rolled his head to the side, feeling the blood creeping under his cheek. It wasn’t his. The pavement had become slick, a red sheen coating everything in sight. It wasn’t just blood; it was guts, sweat, dirt; all mixing into a thick slurry that made every inch of the street a deadly slip zone.

  The permeating scent of iron wasn’t any easier to stomach.

  Amidst the chaos, he forced himself to shift the weight off his back and freed his arms.

  The gunfire slowed, then finally stopped. This was it. He scrambled up, the blood-soaked pavement making it harder to keep his balance. The AK-74 in his hands snapped up, locking onto the nearest gunner. The man tried to bring his turret down on Cole, but it was too late.

  One quick burst was all it took. The rounds punched into the gunner’s chest and neck, his body slumping forward and collapsing onto the turret. His dead weight shifted the gun, and the turret shifted wildly to the side. The barrel swung back toward the other JNI forces, the weapon firing briefly and indiscriminately until the dead man’s finger finally fell away from the trigger.

  With a tap from his FAL, Ethan had simultaneously eliminated the gunner on the second technical, though lacking the dramatic chain reaction. Taking advantage of the chaos, they retreated into a nearby cafe, laying down suppressive fire on the remaining JNI forces.

  The shattered windows and overturned tables provided minimal cover, but it would suffice for now. Miles swept inside while Cole and Ethan maintained their attention outside, gunning down the insurgents foolish enough to pop their heads out of cover. Cole tapped twice on Ethan’s shoulder, directing him to maintain their defense while he turned to assess the situation.

  He was about to call out orders when he caught sight of Mack, huddled in the corner, kneeling in front of a kid on a chair. Fuck, what the hell had happened? The boy, no more than six or seven, clung to Mack’s side. That was about the age Mack’s kid would’ve been, if not for his wife’s miscarriage.

  The kid was pale, hands gripping Mack’s vest tightly. But there was blood. A deep scarlet, spreading stain soaked the front of the boy’s shirt. Mack lifted the shirt, but it was too much. Even Cole knew – there was nothing they could do to save him.

  Cole placed a hand on his medic’s shoulder. “Mack, we need to move.”

  Mack nodded, resting a hand on the boy’s knee before speaking. His tone was gentle, but it was the kind reserved for goodbyes. ‘Everything is gonna be okay?’ It was a blatant lie, sure, but maybe the kid needed that more than the truth.

  As he stood up, Cole noticed it – a gaping wound on Mack’s side. “Aw, fuck.” He quickly turned Mack around, confirming the exit wound on the other side with bitter relief.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Mack decided. “You can patch me up later.”

  His voice was steady for now, the adrenaline probably carrying him. Still upright, still operational, but Cole knew the window was closing. The blood loss would hit hard soon.

  Mack, always the bleeding heart. Now he was literally bleeding for it – a tragic symmetry, wrapped in shitty irony.

  Miles returned just in time to catch the bad news, but his report brought a bit of a reprieve. “Backside’s clear. There’s a construction site up ahead; too tight for vehicles.”

  Cole took it for what it was – a brief opening, but better than nothing. He could tend to Mack once they got there. He turned to Ethan, calling out, “Walker, we’re moving out the back!”

  The man already shifted to cover their exit. Cole slung Mack’s arm over his shoulder and swapped to his sidearm, allowing his rifle to hang on its sling. Mack’s weight slowed him down, but they moved fast, pushing through the alley behind the cafe.

  The construction site wasn’t far, just past a crumbling wall and a half-finished block of buildings. Taking down a pair of insurgents, they crossed into the site – an open area littered with piles of concrete blocks, rusted scaffolding, and the skeleton of a garage. It definitely wasn’t ideal cover, but it would suffice for now.

  Cole glanced around – clear for now, but painstakingly temporary as all respites were. The Nadirs would be converging on them soon.

  “Citadel, Sentinel Actual. Grid 38S RV 128563. We’re pinned down near the intersection of Shari’a Al-Hariri and the construction site. One wounded, combat ineffective, requesting immediate CASEVAC and fire support, over.”

  The radio hissed back at Cole, the white noise deafening in its indifference, as if mocking the hope he barely allowed himself to feel. Then came the saving grace.

  “Sentinel Actual, Aegis. Airspace cleared. 24 STS is en route to your location. ETA is 20 mikes. City is crawling with JNI, recommend holding position until reinforcements arrive. Prepare for CASEVAC and stand by for further instructions. Aegis, out.”

  Fucking finally! But 20 fucking minutes? With the Nadirs on their way, in a city supposedly full of them? They were sitting ducks, praying they didn’t get found; praying none of the insurgents from earlier had managed to point out their location before dying.

  Cole turned his attention back to Mack, Ethan and Miles already holding the perimeter. “We got friendlies inbound, but we’re fucked for the next 20. Imma patch you up quick, so lay down, face up, alright?”

  Mack nodded, twisting to remove his backpack. Cole accepted it, digging out the Advanced First Aid Kit lodged within.

  “Gauze and Kerlix first, disinfect later,” Mack wheezed out.

  Cole nodded, packing the wound with combat gauze. Blood soaked through quickly, but it’d hold for now. Applying pressure, he wrapped the wound tight with the Kerlix roll and secured it all with an ACE bandage.

  Mack’s voice verged on hoarseness, but thank God it still maintained coherency. “Morphine… Inject…”

  Cole pulled out the morphine injector and jabbed it into Mack’s thigh, then grabbed another. Nah, one was enough. He didn’t want to overdo it just yet.

  Mack groaned. “Epi… keep pressure up.”

  He complied, pulling out the epinephrine injector from his kit and pressing it into Mack’s arm. Cole worked as fast as he could, moving onto setting up the saline bag and IV line as pallor crept up to Mack’s face. But… what came after saline?

  Mack seemed to sense what Cole was thinking. His breath was shallow, but he forced the next words out. “TXA… in the kit… prevents clots from breaking down.”

  Ethan shouted something from the other side, but Cole couldn’t afford to look. He fished out the vial. Tranexamic acid? He had no clue what the hell it was, but if Mack said to use it, he wasn’t gonna argue. “Fuck it,” he muttered, jamming it into the line.

  “Haemaccel now, wit–” he coughed, “with the saline.”

  Cole prepped the haemaccel bag next, gunfire already starting to echo throughout the concrete structure.

  “Alright, now the fent. In my pack,” Mack rasped. “ACTIQ… lollipop…”

  “First time guy’s ever asked me for a lollipop,” Cole smirked, almost forcing a laugh. He grabbed the ACTIQ stick, shoving it into Mack’s mouth. “Suck, don’t swallow. This ain’t that kinda party.”

  A faint, pained chuckle escaped Mack as he clenched weakly around the stick. The drug worked fast, the lines on his face easing a bit. Mack’s breath hitched again. “Just bought a couple hours… if I’m lucky.”

  Shit, a couple of hours? They’d be lucky to make it five minutes. The gunfire grew more intense, a brief lull settling in as Ethan and Miles made it back to his position.

  “How’s it lookin’?” Miles asked, positioning himself behind a stack of rebar.

  “Mack’s stabilized, for now. He’ll make it, but,” Cole said, glancing down at his watch, “our guys are still ten minutes out.”

  “Shit…” Ethan muttered.

  Miles kept staring forward, breaking the subsequent silence with a sigh. “To Valhalla, then.”

  “Well, it’s been a helluva ride,” Cole mustered up his best pep talk. “If ya really think about it, we basically stopped World War 3. And hey, at least we can get the show on the road with the Jadirans now.”

  “Man… Fuck the Jadirans,” Mack muttered, slurring every word except fuck, which, unsurprisingly, came out clear as day.

  Cole snorted. “Yeah, fuck the Jadirans.”

  As if presenting that exact opportunity on a silver platter, the first wave of JNI fighters poured in, making their way up the garage’s ramp and exterior stairway. This wave, it seemed, had hardly received any training in urban combat – or in any combat, for that matter.

  Cole’s muzzle flashed as three insurgents dropped, bodies dropping on the concrete ramp. Walker fired over the edge, onto the hapless remnants below who scrambled for cover with all the futility of resisting the Borg. The next four ascending the stairway crumpled, Miles dispatching them like hunting easy game.

  Eight minutes left. Of course, the moment Cole felt any sliver of hope, reality immediately crushed it. More tires screeched to a halt outside, and he risked a peek. They’d dealt with the first wave easily enough, but this? It dwarfed it – a force five times the size, with fighters who looked like they'd survived more than a few battlefields.

  “Well,” Miles said, finally turning to Cole. “Guess I’ll get this out while I still can. Your sister’s hot as hell.”

  Cole ejected a spent magazine, slamming a fresh one in. “Needed certain death to get that one off your chest, huh?” He scoffed, “Alright, if we make it back home I’ll be sure to tell her you said that at your funeral.”

  Miles smirked, but it simmered as he adopted a more serious tone. “But for real though, it’s an honor to die at your side.”

  Well, that was a sentimental side he hadn’t expected out of him. Cole paused as he searched for an appropriate response – something he’d seen in a movie once. “It’s an honor to have lived at yours. All of you.”

  A bit cheesy, maybe, but it felt right in his heart. If anyone thought it didn’t fit, fuck ‘em.

  The wind whipped up suddenly, swirling dust and debris through the garage – and only the garage, curiously enough. Outside, insurgents advanced across the lot, oblivious to the localized maelstrom.

  “The hell?” Ethan muttered.

  The swirling intensified, kicking up more dust. Beneath their feet, glowing lines etched themselves into the concrete, a familiarity that sang of countless nights devouring questionable manga and anime.

  Ethan and Miles traded baffled looks, clearly not privy to Cole’s epiphany.

  The air around them bent, warping like heat off Jadiran asphalt. Their world peeled away, unraveling as the light grew.

  A million thoughts overwhelmed Cole. Fuck, what would his sister think? She’d no doubt receive that dreaded visit from uniformed officers, carrying that dreaded folded flag, thrust into the dreaded finality of a memorial service with an empty casket.

  At the same time, he couldn’t ignore the Lord’s truly impeccable timing, and the fact that they’d be getting a second chance – the fact that Mack could yet survive.

  “No fuckin’ wa–”

  The light consumed them. Everything folded inward, collapsing into that glowing circle.

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