Scene: Crash Site – Blackwood Outer Mountains
B.A.M. General Soren Vask's POV
It wasn't supposed to go down like this.
Not our jet.
Not him.
Not the symbol of the Empire itself.
But war doesn't follow symbolism.
It follows strategy—and we were outplayed.
---
Ten minutes before impact, our defense grid went black.
The final drone didn't retreat.
It baited.
Lured our falcons into a vertical spiral before an EMP blast fried everything—our nav, shields, propulsion.
Then came the final strike.
A missile drilled through our underbelly.
The roar… the burn… the drop.
---
We hit the side of a snow-covered ridge like a god slammed his fist down.
The wings tore off. Metal shrieked. Glass turned to dust.
I saw the tail section rip into flame behind us before the cockpit crumpled like paper.
I blacked out for 14 seconds.
When I came to, my ears were bleeding.
But I heard one sound:
His voice.
> "Soren."
Chris Blackwood — bloodied, bruised, but alive — was pulling himself from the debris, steam rising from his torn black coat.
The king was standing.
I rose to my knees, teeth clenched through pain. A shattered rib stabbed every breath, but I ignored it.
> "Are you hurt, sire?" I asked hoarsely.
> "Only my patience."
One of the remaining commandos dragged himself out next. Another… wasn't moving. The rest?
Gone. Burnt with the bird we flew.
> "This was calculated," Chris muttered, scanning the treeline. "This wasn't resistance. This was a message."
> "You're not safe here," I said. "We need exfil immediately."
He turned to me, eyes sharp.
> "I'm never safe. That's why I rule."
I activated my emergency beacon, encrypted with Flame Protocol Alpha. It would call a stealth extraction team from the nearest shadow base… if the signal wasn't jammed.
It was.
> "We're blind," I said. "They're still here. Hunting. Watching."
> "Let them come," Chris replied. "They want to kill a symbol?"
He straightened up fully, despite the blood.
> "Let them watch it walk out of the fire."
---
Fifteen Minutes Later — Forest Edge, Near Crash Site
We heard the crunch of boots before we saw them.
Shadowed figures—no insignia. No flags.
Rebels.
Dozens.
Weapons aimed.
Chris didn't flinch. I raised my rifle, barely holding aim through pain.
> "Surrender the king," one voice called out. "You're surrounded."
Chris stepped forward slowly.
> "No," he said.
> "You'll die here."
> "Then burn the map," he growled. "Because this is still my land."
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