The Stormvault, deep beneath the glacial cliffs of Nordros, was not a place of glory.
It was a place of compromise.
In the cold-lit halls of the subterranean command center, the leadership of the Lucent Alliance gathered around a table far too large and ornate for the urgency pressing down on them. Light panels buzzed softly overhead. Dozens of voices echoed in multiple languages as commanders, diplomats, and advisors argued in overlapping waves.
The room was filled with the weight of failure—and the looming scent of collapse.
General Halra Mire stood at the far end of the table, arms folded behind her back, still wrapped in the scorched remnants of her field uniform. Her face was unreadable as she listened to the cacophony.
To her left sat Chancellor Oro Vhalen of the Cyridan League—a man of silk robes and serpentine cunning, representing the rich trade cities of the southern coasts.
To her right, General Dorn Talek of the Nordrosian Freeholds, his scarred jaw clenched tight, armor still smeared with ash and blood. His soldiers had bled the most during the fall of Rheos.
Across from them sat the youngest of the representatives, Councilor Vel Nassa of the Uvaran Clans, their face marked with ceremonial ink, voice calm, but eyes brimming with fire.
"Rheos was a failure," Oro Vhalen said, voice smooth, dismissive. "A mistake to defend. We should've never concentrated our forces in such a symbolic husk."
"A symbolic husk that held a billion lives," Talek snapped, slamming his fist against the steel table. "My people died holding that line!"
"And their sacrifice gave us nothing!" Vhalen spat. "You think Dezune mourns your martyrs? They grind forward like a machine. Always forward. Always patient."
Vel Nassa leaned forward, voice steady. "Then we adapt. We use asymmetry. Guerilla warfare. Decentralized resistance."
Halra cut in coldly. "Which requires unity. Something we are dangerously short on."
The silence that followed was thick.
Maps flickered across the holo-table. The continent—once rich in color and borders—now pulsed red in most regions. Dezune territory. The rest were small splinters of the old world. The Lucent Alliance held only a few strongholds now—Nordros, a fractured line in the Emerald Belt, and whispers of resistance in the Pale Wastes.
They were losing. Not in battles—but in will.
"Our resources won't last another year," an advisor said quietly. "We need support. New technology. External alliances. Anything."
"There are rumors," Vel Nassa said softly. "Of an independent operator… someone with an army. A man with tech beyond what we've seen."
"Kael Riven," Halra said.
All heads turned.
"You've heard of him?" Talek asked.
She nodded once. "He aided a rogue strike team a few weeks ago. He's… efficient. Cold. Dangerous. He leads like a machine. No empathy. No morality. Only function."
"But he fights the Empire?"
"He fights for peace," Halra said. "In his own way. He's not part of our alliance. He's not part of anything."
"Could he be convinced?"
Halra's eyes narrowed. "He doesn't ally. He absorbs."
That sent ripples across the room. Oro Vhalen leaned back, rubbing his chin.
"Still," he mused, "perhaps we could use a devil with good aim."
Later, in her private quarters, Halra Mire stood alone, staring at an old photograph.
Five people stood together in the image—her, Talek, a younger Vel Nassa, and two others long gone. Friends. Comrades. Family. All buried in Dezune firestorms.
Her comm device crackled. "General, your presence is requested in the Warforge. A prototype weapon just passed field calibration."
She didn't respond immediately.
Outside, stormwinds howled over Nordros' cliffs. The world was falling apart.
And yet—somehow—they were still here.
Still standing.
For now.