"Alya, have you lost your mind? Do you have a death wish?"
Wrangel lunged from his seat, seizing Alexandra by the collar in a flash.
His fingers, though somewhat less calloused lately from the endless bureaucracy of paperwork, remained thick and powerful. Between them, the fabric of her uniform pulled taut and stiff.
"Do you think a Steam Knight is some neighborhood cur's bowl of scraps just because you saw some action in Columbia? Wake up, girl!"
Alexandra gave a faint, strained smile as if her breath were being cut off, and tapped gently at Wrangel's wrist with her hand.
"C-Comrade Wrangel. Could you please let go for a moment?"
Beside them, Laman took a step forward.
"Wrangel is right. Alya, do you truly wish to die?"
Alexandra looked at Laman. Her eyes were calm, and her voice, though low, carried an undeniable weight of conviction.
"Laman, do not worry. I truly believe I can win this."
"Win?"
Wrangel let out a cynical scoff.
"You, alone, against three Steam Knights? Don't make me laugh!"
It was then that she interjected.
"I won't be alone," Alexandra raised her voice. "We will position siege batteries along the ridge of the cliffs. We haul up every field gun, howitzer, and heavy cannon we have. While I lure them in, the artillery will keep them under constant, crushing pressure. Those knights are specialized for close-quarters butchery; their only ranged capability is their flamethrowers. Their effective reach is twenty meters at best. Beyond that, they won't be able to lay a finger on me."
I found myself shaking my head at her proposal.
"Do you think it's as easy as it sounds? If you're encircled before you reach the cliffs, it's over. What if one pins you down while the other two flank?"
Alexandra met my gaze directly, unwavering.
"That is why I will operate alongside the infantry. Give me a few trucks mounted with organ guns. While I prepare my Arts for the next cycle, they will provide the necessary distraction. Once we drive them to the base of the cliff, we open up with direct fire. Even if the infantry guns only serve to rattle their nerves, the heavy shells will undoubtedly shatter that steam-powered plate armor."
Laman grit his teeth, his expression tortured.
"No. I refuse. We're promised to be married, Alya. I cannot stand by and let you face those monsters. If something goes wrong..."
His eyes were trembling, as was his entire frame.
"Laman..."
Seeing his distress, Alexandra stepped closer and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
"I am the only one who can do this. If those monsters are allowed to keep prowling until the armistice, more of our soldiers will die. If you truly care for me... let me go."
Laman's gaze flickered with hesitation. He looked into her eyes for a long moment of silence before finally giving a bitter, resigned nod.
"Fine. But on one condition. I will take command of the truck detachment. I will be the one to clear the path for you to reach those cliffs."
Wrangel slammed his fist onto the desk and let out a long, heavy sigh.
The desk seemed to splinter slightly under the impact, but I chose to whistle inwardly and look the other way—I wasn't so tactless as to comment on it now.
"Damn it... Fine. But Alya, I am personally drafting your Arts cycles and every single retreat route before this operation begins. I will not watch you get torn to pieces before my eyes."
It seemed even Wrangel had made up his mind.
My heart remained heavy. At first, the plan seemed like nothing but reckless bravado, but as the tactical schematic she described took shape in my mind, it became harder to refute. Yet... what if she failed?
If she failed, we might have to spend the rest of the day searching for whatever remained of her.
This girl was the first friendly soul I had met since arriving in this world.
Suddenly, she spoke.
"Comrade."
Alexandra locked eyes with me. Her pupils were bright and clear, shining with the resolve of one who had made her peace with fate.
"Just once, could you please believe in me?"
...In the end, I had no choice but to raise the white flag of surrender to that look in her eyes.
"Alright. We proceed with your plan. However, I will personaly command the batteries atop the cliff. If I judge you to be in danger, the order to fire will come from me."
Alexandra didn't smile; instead, her face hardened with the grim determination of an officer.
"That is more than enough."
The air in the briefing room settled into a heavy, suffocating silence. We stared at the maps, drawing deep on our pipes and cigarettes, exhaling thick clouds of tobacco smoke. Upon those papers rested the weight of lives and iron resolve.
*****************************************
A line of trucks stood assembled in the square.
Miserably, though it was only October, an early autumn frost had already settled over the chassis, making the metal glint faintly in the dim light. A biting wind whipped at the napes of the soldiers' necks.
The members of the transport unit huddled together, their shoulders hunched against the chill.
Laman stepped forward, gripping a megaphone. His voice rang out, short and blunt like a cannon blast.
"Tomorrow, these trucks go to the front. We are going to support Comrade Alexandra in luring the Steam Knights into a trap."
At those words, the soldiers' expressions froze.
From the back of the ranks, a low murmur rippled through the men.
"...He's talking about those monsters, isn't he?"
"I heard one of their shields took a man's head clean off."
"I heard about the flamethrowers. If you get hit... you're cooked like a steak before you can even scream."
"Blast it, why does it have to be us? What about the bastards in the neighboring transport battalion?"
"Those snails are still using wagons and carts, you idiot. We're the only ones with engines."
Their voices grew lower, hushed with a primal fear devoid of any levity.
Laman scanned the ranks before speaking again.
"This operation is dangerous. To be honest, you should consider it a suicide mission. Therefore, I am calling for volunteers."
An eerie, unseasonable gust of wind swirled around the soldiers. No one raised a hand. They avoided each other's gazes, staring down at the mud caked onto the toes of their boots.
Laman sighed. He struggled to think of how to rally them—how to help her.
How many ticks of the clock passed in that agonizing silence? Finally, a soldier in the very back row lifted his head.
He wordlessly raised his hand.
The comrade beside him cursed under his breath at the sight.
"Hey, have you gone mad? You have a family! What are they supposed to do if you die?"
"The lunatic... he actually raised his hand?"
But then, another voice broke through.
"I'll volunteer!"
Another soldier raised his hand, though his face was twisted in a grimace.
A man in the front row let out a jagged laugh.
"Ha! At this rate, the whole damn unit is going to end up with Medals of Valor. We'll all be dead alongside that pretty lady anyway."
The soldier next to him retorted.
"Better to die beside a beautiful woman and get a medal than to die alone clutching a shovel. What, you planning to die holding some man's hand? Looking at your face, that's exactly your destiny."
"What did you say, you bastard?"
A few men grinned at the joke, and more hands began to rise.
"Fine, pay day is a long way off anyway. Might as well go out with a bang. If I'm lucky enough to catch her eye, maybe I'll get a bonus out of it."
"Make sure you put out a good spread at my funeral. And don't be stingy with the condolence money, you hear?"
"We'll all be dead; there won't be anyone left to keep the promise! But if I survive, I'll be sure to collect your share for myself."
In an instant, hands began shooting up across the ranks. There was a mix of dark humor, bravado, and a resigned sense of duty. The fear remained, but it was now layered with a strange, loosely knit solidarity.
By the end, nearly every man had his hand in the air. The soldiers looked at one another, some breaking into laughter, others nodding grimly.
Laman scanned the square one last time before speaking curtly.
"Good. We will end those monsters. Tell me, are you all prepared to earn your medals and go home?"
A roar of defiance echoed across the square.
***********************************
Beyond the haze of dust and smoke, three gargantuan silhouettes emerged.
Brass-finished joints hissed as they vented superheated steam, and massive iron sabatons shattered the frozen mud and stone beneath them. The imperial crest of Victoria gleamed at the center of each cuirass, their pauldrons scarred and pitted from previous skirmishes.
Their advance was slow, yet heavy and inexorable.
Shields, axes, and flamethrowers—each weapon they carried was a tool perfected for the slaughter. They were the iron hammers of the Crown, the loyal guard sent to crush the defiance of the rebels, and they did not doubt their purpose.
They were momentarily halted, holding their position, when a sound reached them.
The distant, sharp crack of a rifle.
When the first shot rang out, the three knights paused. It was a pathetic, high-pitched sound; weak bullets fired from a great distance that did nothing but flatten against their shields. They didn't even leave a scratch on the outer plating of the armor.
But the fire continued for minutes. It echoed from the left, then the right, and then from directly ahead. The bullets always arrived a second or two late, forcing their sensors to dart back and forth. It was as if someone were intentionally pestering them, an annoying itch they couldn't scratch.
Suddenly, a small silhouette darted out from the gaps in the smoke.
Ursus ears, the drab khaki uniform characteristic of the northern insurgents—and in sharp contrast to the dull cloth, a pale face and fingers flickering with the glow of Originium Arts.
She raised her staff, and as she tore through the air, shards of black crystal manifested, shrieking as they lacerated the atmosphere. The lead Steam Knight reflexively brought up his shield to intercept the shards. The Arts raked across the armor's surface but failed to penetrate.
However, penetration wasn't the goal. The moment she attacked, she pivoted and fled, her movement immediately becoming the focal point of the knights' vision.
Following her, several heavy trucks roared into view, their engines thundering. Organ guns mounted on the beds glinted in the light. Gunners and loaders atop the vehicles yanked their triggers, unleashing a hailstorm of metal slugs.
The rounds ricocheted off the breastplates, but the relentless, clanging din of metal striking metal was deafening. The trucks didn't approach; they maintained a strict distance, weaving left and right, successfully splitting the knights' attention once more.
This was a provocation—a blatant lure. Yet, the knights did not see it as such. Their battlefield instincts, whispered from behind the safety of their shields, urged them to silence these buzzing, insolent flies first.
"It seems we have no choice but to take them, for the sake of His Imperial Majesty," the lead knight spoke, his voice heavy and distorted by his vox-grille.
"Cowardly traitors, scurrying away like a swarm of bees."
As the words fell, all three suits of armor surged forward, increasing their gait. Pistons hissed and spat steam, and the very earth began to tremble. As they accelerated, the dust clouds billowed higher, and the distance between the knights, the girl, and the steel chariots began to vanish.
Not one of them looked toward the cliffs towering above.
They were entirely unaware of the scores of steel muzzles tracking them from the heights, silent predators waiting for their prey to enter the killing zone. They truly believed that once they crushed that small girl and the clattering iron horses, the resistance would finally be over.
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