The final preparations were a blur of cold steel and low-frequency hums. Henry and Caspian were moving through the line of the Bastion Ten, checking mana-capacitors and speaking in the low, shorthand code. The airship sat on the tarmac, its engines a heavy thrum that vibrated through the soles of their boots.
But then, the hangar doors hissed open again. Albus Lionheart walked toward them, his armored footsteps sounding heavier than usual. The look on his face wasn't just grim—it was defeated.
Henry stopped mid-sentence, his hand hovering over Briggs' shoulder. He didn't even turn around before he spoke. "I'm not going to like whatever is coming out of your mouth next, am I, old man?"
The General stopped a few paces away, his jaw set so tight it looked like carved granite. "No. I don't think you will. The High Council and the Royal Court just issued a joint mandate. They've... restructured the mission parameters."
Caspian let out a sharp, jagged sigh, rubbing his temples. "Restructured? We're thirty minutes from drop-off. What could they possibly have changed?"
"The Bastion Corps is out," Albus said, his voice dropping an octave. "The Royal Family's approval ratings have been plummeting since the news of the Serial Summoning broke. They've decided they need a 'public victory.' A member of the bloodline is joining the op, and they're bringing a detachment of the High Guard to replace your men."
Henry went perfectly still. The air around him seemed to chill. "Please," he whispered, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. "Please tell me the royal they're sending is Mordred. I can at work with him."
Albus shook his head slowly. "It's the Crown Prince. Roderick is leading the High Guard detachment."
Caspian actually recoiled, his face pale with a mix of shock and pure exasperation. "For fuck's sake! You're putting Roderick and Henry on the same mission? In a silent zone? You haven't just lost your mind, old man—you've signed our death warrants."
"Henry and Roderick in a confined space is a disaster," Caspian continued, pacing a small circle. "The High King wouldn't have signed off on this. He knows the history. He knows what happened last time."
"The King didn't have a choice," Albus rumbled, looking away. "The Queen and the High Council strong-armed him. They want a Prince to save Dredge City, not a 'retired' Colonel with a drinking problem. They want a parade, Caspian."
Henry turned around finally, his eyes no longer just a starlit void, but a swirling storm of suppressed rage. He looked at the Bastion soldiers—men like Briggs who were now being told to stand down for a group of "palace peacocks" in gold-plated armor.
"Roderick," Henry said, the name sounding like a curse. "The man wouldn't know a stealth mission if it bit him in his royal ass."
He looked at Albus, his voice deathly quiet. "You realize what this means, right? This isn't a rescue mission anymore. It's a suicide mission with better lighting."
Lenore, standing behind Henry, didn't move, but the jagged obsidian of her greatsword rattled in its sheath—a clear reflection of her master's fury.
The heavy hiss of the hangar's pressurized seals heralded a new arrival. Ten soldiers marched in, their Viridian Plate shimmering with a polished luster that stood in insulting contrast to the battered, matte armor of the Bastion Corps.
In the center of the formation walked a man who seemed to belong in a palace ballroom rather than a war room. His long golden hair was pulled back in a tight, elegant queue, contrasting sharply with his ashen-white skin. He wore a high-collared black shirt under a sweeping, blood-red long coat that flared with every arrogant step.
He stopped ten feet from the group, a sharp, punchable smirk playing on his lips as he looked over the "commoner" heroes and the retired Colonel.
"Rejoice, mortals," he announced, his voice carrying with a practiced, theatrical projection. "You're in the presence of the Royal Blood. I'd tell you to bow, but I wouldn't want you to strain yourselves before we reach the city."
His eyes settled on Henry, his smirk curdling into something more personal. "Henry. I heard a rumor you'd finally bored of the city's low-rent brothels and cheap whiskey. I suppose even a stray dog eventually finds its way back to the hand that feeds it."
Henry didn't flinch. He just leaned back against a crate, mirroring the Prince's smirk with one of his own—only Henry's was far more jagged.
"At least I'm getting my hands dirty, Roderick. I figured you were still at the palace needing the Queen's permission to use the bathroom. Did she cut off your allowance? Is that why you're here—trying to play soldier to pay off your gambling debts?"
Roderick's eyes narrowed, his pale face flushing with a hint of color. "My relationship with the Crown is ironclad, Henry. Unlike yours. Remind me—how old were you when your family decided you were a lost cause and showed you the gates? Twelve? Most children get a birthday party; you got an exile."
Henry's expression went cold, the starlit void in his eyes swirling dangerously. "Better to be kicked out at twelve than to be breastfed at twenty-five. Or was that just a rumor, Roddy? People say you still can't fall asleep without a Royal Nanny tucking you in."
Roderick's hand flew to the hilt of his ornate rapier. "That was a lie spread by dissidents, you gutter-born—"
"I don't know," Henry cut him off, his voice airy. "I've always found that the most embarrassing rumors are the ones with the most truth behind them."
"ENOUGH!"
Albus Lionheart stepped between the two men, his presence like a falling mountain. The sheer weight of his Authority made the air vibrate, forcing both Henry and Roderick to take a half-step back.
"You are acting like petulant children in the shadow of a massacre," Albus rumbled, his gaze swinging between the Prince and Henry people standing behind them. These students, these soldiers—they are looking for leaders, not a comedy routine about your childhood traumas. If either of you speaks another word that isn't about the mission, I will personally throw you both off this fort."
Henry let out a slow, irritated breath and looked away. Roderick straightened his red coat, huffing with indignant pride.
"The transport is fueled," Albus growled. "Get on the ship. Now."
As they walked up the ramp, Claire leaned toward Serena and whispered, "Are they always like this? Because I feel like the 'Unknown Entity' in Dredge City is going to be the least of our problems."
The ramp hissed shut, sealing out the air of the hangar and replacing it with the sterile, recycled scent of high-grade Ichor fuel. Henry paused at the threshold, looking back at Morgana, Hayley, and Albus.
"Don't rearrange the furniture while I'm gone," Henry said, his voice light but his eyes lingering on Hayley for a fraction of a second too long. "I've grown fond of the mess."
Then, he turned and disappeared into the bowels of the ship, Lenore and Caspian followed behind him.
The vessel was a titan of the skies—a G.U.A.R.D.I.A.N.S. heavy-drop frigate. On the main deck, the ten High Guard soldiers stood in perfect, rigid formation, their viridian armor gleaming under the magi-tech floodlights. They looked more like museum exhibits than soldiers, a fact that made Caspian's jaw tighten every time he passed them.
A few meters away, partitioned by a heavy blast door, was the tactical hub. Serena, Wanda, and Claire sat on the perimeter benches, their new armor humming with low-level energy. Lenore stood in the corner, her horned helmet tilted toward them, a silent obsidian gargoyle.
In the center of the room, Henry, Caspian, and Roderick stood around a holographic table displaying the pulsing red cancer that was Dredge City.
"We have to be surgical," Caspian said, tapping a finger on the outskirts of the city. "If we march in with a full viridian parade, Viroth will hear us before we clear the first block. My suggestion? The High Guard stays with the ship as a fortified backup. Only the seven of us enter the city first."
Roderick looked like he was about to protest—his "public victory" required an audience, after all—but Henry cut him off before he could speak.
"He's right," Henry said, his gaze shifting to the three girls. "Listen to me. This isn't a classroom exercise. This is your debut. To the world, you're the 'Prophesied Heroes,' but right now, that's just a label on a bottle. This mission determines whether the public sees you as symbols of hope or just more casualties of the Council's failure."
He then looked at Lenore. "Lenore. You're their anchor. Do not leave their side."
The knight gave a single, slow nod.
"And one more thing," Henry added, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute, uncharacteristic gravity. "Nobody's life here is worth more than anyone else's. I don't care about prophecies, I don't care about royal bloodlines, and I don't care about old grudges. No heroic sacrifices. If you try to die for the mission, I'll kill you myself. We all come home, or none of us do."
The ship suddenly lurched. The heavy thrum of the engines shifted into a low, groaning whine as the stabilizers engaged. Through the viewscreen, the blue sky had vanished, replaced by a thick, sickly crimson fog that clung to the glass like wet wool.
The vessel hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud.
Roderick straightened his red coat. "Alright," he smirked, though his ashen skin looked a shade paler in the red light. "This is it. Let's go save the damn city."
As the ramp began to lower, a sound drifted in from the mist—a wet, rhythmic pulsing, like the heartbeat of a giant.
Dredge City was waiting.