June 21st – Windrise Air Force Base
Weather: Clear skies, calm crosswinds, 23°C
It was the day.
The long-awaited moment.
The Aces of Emberhowl—the ghosts of a war once fought in silence—were finally about to show their faces to the world.
Windrise Air Force Base was alive like never before. The tarmac shimmered under the summer sun as rows of uniformed personnel stood in neat formation along the hangar perimeter. Reporters hustled through designated lanes, heavy broadcast cameras perched on shoulders, cables snaking across the concrete. The air buzzed with tension, excitement, and the faint smell of jet fuel—a reminder of the base's purpose.
Security was tight. Soldiers manned checkpoints with precision, scanning badges and verifying identities. Beyond them, hundreds of civilians and officials streamed into Hangar Three—politicians in tailored suits, officers in full dress uniform, and spectators clutching press passes and smartphones.
Inside, the massive hangar had been transformed into a stage of history. A temporary platform had been constructed at the center, flanked by spotlights and a row of national flags. Behind it stood four F-14A Tomcats—jet-black, polished to perfection, their surfaces catching the light like mirrors of onyx and steel.
Each bore a call sign that once struck fear and awe across every front of the Dawnfront War:
Emilie – 016
Mona – 108
Ayaka – 148
Mualani – 103
Relics of war. Yet, they didn't look like relics. They looked ready. Alive. The kind of machines that still whispered danger even in silence.
The hangar reverberated with a low hum—the idle chatter of hundreds waiting for the moment to begin. Photographers adjusted lenses. Military PR officers checked lighting cues. A live feed camera hovered on a crane, broadcasting the event across every network in Teyvat.
Behind the stage, four figures waited.
Emilie "Raven." Mona "Starseer." Ayaka "Soumetsu." Mualani "Tempest."
Each wore their original flight suits—patched, faded, yet immaculate. The insignia of Emberhowl Squadron glinted faintly beneath the light filtering in from the half-open hangar doors. Standing with them was President Imena, arms crossed, her expression firm yet warm.
The faint roar of an F-15 engine test echoed from somewhere across the base—a reminder that this was still an airfield, still alive with the pulse of aviation.
Emilie's gaze lingered on her Tomcat, jet-black and gleaming, its tail fins catching streaks of sun. She smiled faintly, voice quiet.
"Man… lookin' at our F-14s like this, still so pristine… It's amazing."
Mona nodded beside her, arms folded. "All those ops as Emberhowl… seeing them like this again—it feels surreal. Nostalgic, but in a way that makes your chest tighten."
Ayaka tilted her head toward Imena. "Are they even airworthy anymore?"
Before Imena could respond, a familiar voice cut through from behind, smooth and confident, with that ever-present undertone of mischief.
"Of course they are. I keep my birds in top shape, remember?"
Emilie turned, eyes lighting up. "Well, I'll be damned. Chief Mechanic Kaeya Alberich."
Kaeya strolled forward in his coveralls, clipboard in hand, grin sharp as ever. "Been too long, Emilie."
They clasped hands, then pulled into a brief, firm hug—the kind born from shared battles and burned skies.
"Damn good to see you again," Emilie said, stepping back with a grin.
"Likewise," Kaeya replied, lifting the clipboard. "Also, figured you might wanna see this."
Emilie raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Kaeya tapped a few red-circled lines on the paper and beckoned Ayaka closer. "Something tells me you'll both want to know who's sitting front row."
They leaned in.
The names hit like a jolt.
Emilie blinked. "Wait—my parents? And… Chiori?"
Ayaka's breath caught. "My brother's here too?"
Kaeya nodded, lips curving in satisfaction. "Civilian gallery, left wing of the hangar. Looks like they wanted front-row seats for the big reveal."
Emilie exhaled, running a hand through her bangs, her tone caught between disbelief and quiet pride. "Figures. This whole thing's going live—TV, social media, global feed. Guess they were bound to find out eventually."
Kaeya gave a soft laugh. "No more ghosts, huh?"
He glanced over the three pilots, his smirk fading into something more respectful. "You all look the part. Zippers, badges, everything checked. The world's been waiting for this… don't keep 'em waiting."
He snapped two fingers in a half-salute. "Showtime."
At that moment, the hangar's PA system crackled to life.
A calm, measured voice echoed through the speakers:
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will now begin the Teyvat Defense Command press conference—featuring the Aces of Emberhowl Squadron."
The crowd quieted instantly. Conversations died mid-sentence. All eyes turned toward the stage.
Imena smiled softly, adjusting her jacket. She gave a subtle wink to the three pilots.
"I'll go first. You know the cue."
The trio nodded.
And with the poise of a commander walking into history, Imena ascended the stage stairs. The spotlights tracked her as the hangar's massive doors inched wider, sunlight pouring across the four black Tomcats behind her—each one framed against the sky like an emblem of war reborn in peace.
The moment had come.
Four and a half years of silence were ending.
The ghosts were about to step into the light.
And this time—
there would be no more hiding.
Imena moved to the right side of the stage, her steps measured, posture straight. She paused beside the curtain's edge, eyes briefly closing as she steadied her breath. Beyond the glare of the stage lights, she could see the crowd—an ocean of faces, cameras, and anticipation.
A quiet hum of feedback rippled across the PA system before the host's voice came through—calm, resonant, and practiced for broadcast. The microphone caught the faint echo of the hangar's vast interior as she began:
"Ladies and gentlemen, good morning—and welcome to the Aces of Emberhowl Press Conference."
The words rolled like a formal overture. The room seemed to exhale as the audience stilled.
"This event is being broadcast live across the world—on every network, every screen, every feed. Whether you're watching from your home, your office, or your handheld device—we welcome you."
The host's tone carried authority, the kind that turned every camera lens a little sharper.
"This is the moment everyone has waited for… and wondered about. The question that's lingered in every briefing room and discussion forum: Who were the aces behind the jet-black F-14A Tomcats of the Emberhowl Air Command Squadron?"
She smiled briefly, letting the suspense hang just long enough.
"But before we begin, please welcome—the President of Teyvat, President Imena!"
The hangar erupted into applause.
It wasn't polite applause—it was thunderous, genuine, rolling across the steel structure like waves striking a hull.
Imena stepped forward onto the stage, flanked by the six national flags behind her. The overhead lights washed her in soft gold, reflecting off the glass teleprompters and the polished podium bearing the Teyvat crest.
She paused midway, waved once toward the sea of flashing camera strobes, then reached the microphone. Her tone was clear, strong—but beneath the firmness was the weight of memory.
"Thank you, everyone. Thank you."
The applause ebbed, leaving silence heavy with expectation.
She took a measured breath.
"Four and a half years ago—on December 7th, at exactly 0704 hours—three F-5 Tiger IIs and one BAE Systems Hawk took off under the shadow of night, flying low across the plains and valleys of Denyu Pass."
Images appeared on the large projection screen behind her—grainy declassified footage, showing the silhouettes of four small fighters hugging the terrain, radar signatures barely visible.
"They had flown through the night of the 6th," Imena continued, her voice steady, "trying to return to their assigned F-14A Tomcats at Petrichor Island. But that return… was denied."
Her gaze swept the crowd, deliberate and unflinching.
"Branded as traitors. Accused of espionage for Khaenri'ah.
They were exiled from their own base.
No landing clearance. No backup. No allies."
The room had gone still—press, officers, civilians—all caught in the gravity of her tone.
"They had nowhere to go.
No place to land.
No options—except to fly until their tanks ran dry."
A pause. Then she leaned forward slightly.
"And then… at 0730 hours… they were shot down. Declared KIA in a failed recovery operation out of Petrichor Island."
The room murmured softly, camera shutters clicking like static in the air.
"Even then, they remained labeled as spies. Traitors.
But they weren't dead.
They were never dead."
Her words hung like thunder.
"In truth, they stayed hidden. Beneath the waves. Until a Blackhawk helicopter—one of our Navy's own—found them. And brought them aboard the Fontaine Ousia-class carrier, Arkhe."
A faint stir swept through the audience—many remembering the once-rumored recovery at sea that had been dismissed as myth.
"After a long period of slumber… they reemerged.
Under a new call sign.
The Emberhowl Air Command Squadron."
The crowd erupted in whispers. The name itself had carried mythic weight—now it was being confirmed, live, by the President herself.
Imena gestured toward the dark silhouettes of the four Tomcats behind her, their fuselages shimmering under the hangar lights.
"Yes," she said, voice lifting. "They were connected.
Connected to the original Wolfsbane Squadron of Petrichor Island."
The projection screen changed again—showing four aircraft side by side: the early Wolfsbane F-5s and their later F-14A successors in matte black.
"Four jet-black F-14A Tomcats—the same ones behind me—rose again. And they didn't fly to redeem themselves."
Her tone hardened, resolute.
"They flew to end the war."
A collective hush blanketed the hangar.
Imena stepped aside slightly, her words echoing through the space.
"They sealed off the Veltrheim Munitions Facility in northern Khaenri'ah.
They provided critical air support to the Natlan Resistance.
They neutralized the sabotaged Skywarden.
And they destroyed the Judgement Fang Orbital Linear Gun."
Each statement landed like a hammer blow. Every mission, once shrouded in classified reports, now spoken into public record.
And then—right on cue—a subtle signal came from the wings.
A stagehand gave a discreet nod.
Behind the curtains, Emilie, Mona, and Ayaka stood side by side, silent.
Emilie exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Well," she murmured, almost to herself, "no going back now."
Mona adjusted her flight suit collar, expression calm but her eyes distant. Ayaka's gloved hands clasped once, then released.
The three of them stepped toward the light. The staircase to the right of the stage gleamed under the spotlights, each step echoing faintly against the concrete floor.
The audience didn't know it yet—but in a few short seconds, the ghosts of Emberhowl would cease to be legends.
They would become human again.
And the world would finally see their faces.
Imena raised her hand, giving the quiet signal to the stage crew.
"Now," she began, her voice carrying over the hangar's PA system, "four and a half years later… the files are declassified."
She paused, the silence that followed almost ceremonial.
"And now…"
Her gaze swept across the gathered press, the cameras, and the sea of faces.
"…the truth will be revealed."
She turned slightly, extending her arm toward the right side of the stage.
"Please welcome—
The Aces of Emberhowl: Captain Emilie, Captain Mona Megistus, and Captain Kamisato Ayaka!"
The moment the names were spoken, the crowd surged to its feet.
Applause erupted like thunder against the hangar walls, echoing through the rafters. Reporters scrambled for camera angles, shutters firing in staccato bursts. The energy was electric—pure, overwhelming release after years of speculation and rumor.
Then, through the curtain, they emerged.
Three figures in full flight gear—black Nomex suits marked with unit patches, TAC insignia, and the distinctive crimson flame emblem of Emberhowl. Their steps were steady, composed, practiced from countless preflight briefings and debrief rooms.
Emilie, Mona, Ayaka.
No longer ghosts. No longer myths.
They waved to the crowd, acknowledging the eruption of cheers and applause.
Emilie's gaze drifted instinctively toward the front of the audience—and froze.
There, seated among the front civilian section, were her parents.
Her mother's hands covered her mouth, eyes shimmering with tears. Her father was clapping hard, his posture proud and unyielding, the kind of pride that came from years of silent belief.
Emilie smiled faintly and gave a small nod—a pilot's subtle acknowledgment, more genuine than any salute. Her mother's tears finally fell.
Ayaka turned her head next, eyes catching familiar faces near the front. Her brother, Ayato, stood beside Thoma and their parents—smiling, clapping, eyes full of pride. Ayaka grinned, pointed playfully toward them, and gave a quick wink before waving. The gesture drew laughter and a few cheers from nearby spectators.
Mona's eyes scanned the gallery until she found her own family—her father standing tall, her mother holding a folded handkerchief. She offered a single nod, calm and composed, yet her expression softened.
For a brief moment, all three of them—aces of Emberhowl, veterans of the skies—looked less like soldiers and more like daughters returning home.
They reached the long table at center stage, where three microphones awaited. In front of each rested a gleaming black nameplate:
Starseer.
Raven.
Soumetsu.
The three women sat, helmets placed neatly on the table beside their placards.
The crowd began to quiet.
The host stepped forward again, her tone shifting back to formality.
"Ladies," she said with a nod, "please introduce yourselves."
Mona adjusted her microphone first, voice steady, carrying a measured Fontaine cadence.
"Captain Mona Megistus," she began. "Formerly of the Fontaine Air Defense Force, 5th Fighter Wing, 15th Tactical Fighter Squadron—Wolfsbane Squadron."
She paused briefly before continuing, "And former member of the Emberhowl Air Command Squadron."
Applause rippled again—brief, respectful.
Next, Ayaka leaned toward her mic, voice poised and clear.
"Captain Kamisato Ayaka," she said. "Formerly of the Fontaine Air Defense Force, 5th Fighter Wing, 15th Tactical Fighter Squadron—Wolfsbane Squadron."
She took a breath, gaze steady. "And former member of the Emberhowl Air Command Squadron."
Finally, Emilie reached for her microphone. Her fingers brushed the metal stand for a moment before she began.
"Captain Emilie," she said softly. "Former lead flight, Fontaine Air Defense Force, 5th Fighter Wing, 15th Tactical Fighter Squadron."
Then, with quiet pride:
"And former lead flight and commanding officer of the Emberhowl Air Command Squadron."
The host gave a single nod. "Captain Emilie—before we begin the Q&A session, would you like to say something?"
Emilie hesitated. Her eyes moved from the host… to President Imena standing offstage… and finally to the rows of faces in front of her.
When she spoke again, her voice carried both strength and tremor.
"I… I'm honestly at a loss for words," she admitted, exhaling quietly. "But I'd like to start by thanking the Teyvat Air Defense Force, President Imena's administration… and every nation represented here today—for this welcome home."
She paused, letting the quiet settle around her.
"For four and a half years… we lived in the shadows," she continued. "Hidden from the truth of our service. There were days I thought I'd slip—say something out of habit. Mention a call sign, a sortie, a name that didn't officially exist. But I stayed silent."
Her voice steadied as she went on.
"When I retired from the Air Force, I tried to start over. Went back to Fontaine. Opened a business—a perfume boutique. Something I'd dreamed of since the war."
A faint smile crossed her lips. "Traveling, experimenting with scents… it helped me stay grounded. Helped me remember that there's beauty even after fire."
Her eyes found her parents again.
"And to those I couldn't respond to… when you were told we'd been killed in action… I'm sorry. We had no choice. We couldn't say anything. Couldn't reach out. We had to let the world think we were gone."
The microphone caught the faint quiver in her breath.
"But we're here now. Alive. And we're starting again."
She gave a small nod to the host, then leaned back.
The host, visibly moved, returned the nod with quiet professionalism.
"Thank you, Captain Emilie," she said softly. "With that… we'll begin the official question-and-answer session."
A low murmur spread across the hangar as hands and microphones went up, camera lights flaring back to full intensity. The air was heavy—not with tension this time, but with anticipation.
The air inside the press hall was electric.
Cameras clicked. Lights burned white-hot against the polished steel backdrop. Reporters from every nation crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, murmuring in anticipation.
At the long table center stage sat Captains Emilie, Mona Megistus, and Kamisato Ayaka—the Aces of Emberhowl. Before them: nameplates, microphones, and a wall of questions waiting to be unleashed.
Imena stood off to the side, watching quietly, her expression unreadable.
The host nodded to the first journalist in line.
A reporter raised a hand, voice steady but eager.
"Captain Emilie, regarding the 5050th Squadron—did you ever discover who they were during the Meka One incident over the Deshret Desert, four years ago?"
Emilie leaned forward slightly, posture straight, eyes sharp beneath the stage lights.
"No," she said. "After the presidential 747 made its emergency landing, our IFFs registered seven F-15S/MTDs. They responded to our friend-or-foe queries as allies, positive identification codes, friendly squawks. They flew a textbook formation—no deviation, no anomalies."
Her tone hardened.
"So we trusted them. They were there to protect the President. It wasn't until after the war that intelligence confirmed what we should've known: they weren't friendlies at all. They were Mechshade Squadron—Khaenri'ahn, flying false flags under spoofed transponders."
The journalist lowered his mic, nodding grimly. "Thank you, Captain."
Another reporter stepped forward.
"Question for all three of you—can you explain what happened at Petrichor Air Force Base during your exile, and what led to it?"
Mona adjusted her mic first.
"We were ordered to execute a precision strike against Chuwen Fortress, deep within Natlan. Two prior attempts by ground forces had failed. The third required full air support. Wolfsbane was assigned to lead it."
Emilie took over smoothly, the tone clipped and professional.
"We flew the sortie as ordered. Top cover, SEAD support, and precision bombing coordination with our strike elements. The fortress was neutralized. But during the return leg, we encountered a refueling anomaly."
Ayaka's voice came next, calm but distant, recalling every second.
"Our route took us over Tepeacac Rise. Our IFFs showed friendly 767 tankers and F-15 escorts. But as we approached the rendezvous, their IFFs glitched—flickered from blue to red. Seconds later, our RWRs screamed. Dozens of radar locks. Beyond-visual-range threats. Missiles launched."
Emilie nodded tightly.
"I ordered immediate terrain masking. We dove into Tepeacac's canyons at Mach 0.9, cutting through valleys so tight our wing edges nearly clipped the rock. The TF30 engines were screaming, pushing airflow limits. We lost radar contact, turned south, and evaded into Ancestral Valley."
She exhaled. "We made it back to Petrichor alive. Barely."
Mona continued, her tone now edged with anger.
"But our CO, Colonel Courbevoie, refused to believe our report. His adjutant, Commander Maksim, dismissed our data logs as fabricated. They accused us of striking civilians over Sector Papa Alpha—a lie spread through Khaenri'ahn channels."
Emilie's eyes narrowed.
"They'd already been compromised. Maksim was taking orders from someone else. So I put him down—non-lethal—but we had to move. Mona killed base power. We regrouped, only to find our Tomcats sealed off by security."
She paused, then added, voice low:
"We had one last option. Kaeya still had our old F-5s and a BAE Hawk stored in a private hangar. We launched with whatever fuel and ordnance remained. That's how we escaped Petrichor."
The reporter scribbled quickly, expression solemn. "Thank you."
Another journalist raised the mic.
"A follow-up—regarding Sector Papa Alpha. Captain Emilie, what really happened there?"
Emilie gave a short laugh. "Feels like an interrogation at Charybdis."
Laughter rippled through the hall, light but brief. Then she straightened.
"Our assignment was clear—intercept retreating enemy transports. Intelligence confirmed military targets, no civilian presence. We followed ROE, checked, double-checked. Then, comms interference spiked—ECCM flooding every frequency. Amid the noise, a new voice cut in, broadcasting on our allied channel. Callsign: Mechshade. The 5050th Squadron."
Her expression darkened.
"What we didn't know then was that Mechshade wasn't Teyvatian. They were Khaenri'ahn black-ops, impersonating us. They opened fire on an aviation engineering college under the guise of a precision strike. Over two hundred civilians were killed."
Gasps echoed through the hall. Emilie continued, steady and unwavering.
"That atrocity was pinned on Wolfsbane. From that day forward, every mission we flew was under suspicion. Every kill confirmed had to be justified twice over. But we kept flying—because that's what pilots do."
She folded her hands.
"We didn't know it then, but that was the spark that would eventually push us into exile."
The next journalist spoke.
"Captain Kamisato Ayaka—a question for you. The declassified files state your first combat sortie took place during the defense of Petrichor Air Base, early in the war. But they also mention you were serving with ground crews at the time. Can you elaborate?"
Ayaka nodded softly.
"That's true. I was a Second Airwoman then, still completing my Replacement Pilot Training Program. I was assisting the mechanics on my F-5 Tiger II when the alarms went off. Base defense scrambled. The sky outside was chaos."
She drew a slow breath.
"When the mechanics cleared my bird, the battle was nearly lost. But I took off anyway. I entered the fray just in time to cover Second Lieutenant Emilie and Captain Megistus during egress. It wasn't a victory—but it was the first time I understood what combat truly meant."
Her voice softened to a whisper.
"The fear. The responsibility. The weight of every missile you fire."
Minutes turned into an hour.
One question became ten, then twenty. They answered them all—disciplined, unwavering, never flinching.
Then came the final question.
A young journalist stepped forward, hesitant but clear.
"To all three of you: if given the chance to start over, knowing the war would happen again—would you still have joined the Air Force?"
The hall went silent.
Emilie glanced at her squadmates, then turned to the Tomcats behind the stage. Their dark silhouettes gleamed under spotlights—weathered, battle-scarred, and magnificent.
She leaned forward.
"Yes," she said. "Because it runs in my blood."
She turned toward the crowd.
"My mother served as a forensic analyst in the Fontaine Forces. My father—Marechaussee Phantom. Service isn't something you choose. It's something you inherit, and carry forward. I wouldn't change that. Not for anything."
Mona followed.
"My answer's the same," she said, firm and sure. "I'd do it again. Not for recognition, not for glory—but because duty doesn't vanish when the war ends."
Ayaka's words came last, calm and resolute.
"My brother was one of the first to enter the Natlan capital. My family has served Inazuma for generations. If I had to live it again… I would. For my nation. For Teyvat."
The host stepped back to the podium.
"And that concludes today's Q&A. Ladies and gentlemen, please stand and salute—the Aces of Emberhowl!"
The crowd rose in unison. Applause thundered through the hall—cheers, camera flashes, standing ovations from every corner.
The aces stood together, side by side, heads high.
The war was long over, but in that moment, they stood taller than ever—no longer ghosts, no longer fugitives. Just pilots. Survivors. Heroes.
As the press began to disperse, Mualani approached from the wings, hands in her jacket pockets, a grin spreading across her face.
"Well," she said, smirking. "Was that really so hard?"
Emilie let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head.
"Yeah… maybe not."
They turned together toward the rear of the stage—toward the row of jet-black F-14A Tomcats, preserved and immaculate under hangar lighting.
The same aircraft that carried them through the Skywarden.
The same wings that clawed through the upper atmosphere to destroy the Judgement Fang.
The same birds that ended the war.
They stood before them in silence, the echo of applause still fading behind them.
Not ghosts.
Not demons.
Just aviators—finally free.
The crowd had mostly dispersed.
Only the low murmur of lingering reporters and the distant hum of air conditioning filled the cavernous hall.
Emilie stood near her Tomcat, running a gloved hand along its weathered fuselage. The faded emblem of Emberhowl still shone faintly under the spotlights—a scarred reminder of what they had survived.
Then—footsteps behind her.
Measured. Familiar.
She didn't need to turn around to know.
Her parents.
When she finally looked, they were already there—eyes wide, trembling with disbelief and relief all at once. For a heartbeat, none of them moved. Then her mother broke first, crossing the last few steps and throwing her arms around Emilie.
The embrace hit hard. Years of silence, grief, and absence compressed into one overwhelming moment.
Emilie held them both tightly—her mother's sobs muffled against her shoulder, her father's hand gripping her back like he was afraid to let go. The scent of her mother's perfume mixed faintly with hydraulic oil and cold metal—strangely grounding.
Four years apart.
Now over.
When they finally pulled back, her parents' hands lingered on her arms, as if reassuring themselves she was real.
Her mother's voice quavered, barely steady.
"Emilie… we're so happy to see you again."
Emilie nodded, eyes glinting in the hangar light.
"I know, Mom… I'm so happy to see you too."
Her mother exhaled shakily, trying to compose herself.
"But why all the secrecy? Why couldn't you just tell us you were alive?"
Emilie let out a slow breath, choosing her words carefully.
"Because we couldn't just walk back into your lives after the war and say, 'Hey, we made it.' You needed time to heal—from everything. From the war… from losing me."
Her father rubbed the bridge of his nose, his voice gruff but gentle.
"I get that. I really do. But couldn't they have done it differently? Signed something? Anything? A confidentiality clause—hell, even a coded message would've been enough."
Emilie gave a faint smile, weary but understanding.
"I asked the President the same thing. She said it wasn't worth the risk. One overheard word, one careless moment, and the whole operation would've unraveled. We had to disappear completely—until it was safe."
She paused, then looked between them.
"Look… we just got each other back. Let's not waste that by arguing about what can't be changed. What matters is that I'm here. There's no more secrecy. No more pretending."
Her father's shoulders eased. He looked at his wife, then back to Emilie, eyes firm with pride.
"She's right. She's alive. That's what matters. We've got her back—and that's all that counts. She's a damn hero. A Teyvat hero. The rest? It's history."
Her mother wiped at her eyes, smiling through her tears.
"Right."
Emilie's expression softened.
"Come on. Let me show you around my fighter."
They walked together across the hangar floor toward the Tomcat—its titanium skin gleaming under the lights, the wings folded forward in display mode.
Emilie's boots echoed against the concrete as she reached up and tapped the intake, smiling faintly.
"This is her. F-14A Tomcat, tail number 016. She's been through everything with me—from the Coral Sea to Skywarden orbit."
Her father ran his hand along the wing root, shaking his head in quiet awe.
"She's a beauty. I can't believe this old bird carried you through all that."
Emilie chuckled softly.
"She did more than carry me. She kept me alive."
Her mother traced a hand along the nose cone, her voice hushed.
"I used to dream of you flying. Never thought I'd see the plane that brought you home."
They stayed there for a long while, talking.
Stories spilled out—briefings, sorties, the carrier life, near misses, even moments of laughter from the ready room. The heavy things came too—losses, the exile, the silence. But it all blended together like the calm after a long storm.
Every word, every shared memory, felt like breathing again.
Outside, the late afternoon light poured through the hangar doors, washing the aircraft in gold. Ground crews were beginning to power down the displays. The press had gone home. The base was quiet.
For the first time in years, Emilie felt at peace.
The declassified files had gone public.
The world now knew the truth.
The Dawnfront War—officially renamed the Khaenri'ahn Conflict—was being dissected by historians and journalists across Teyvat. What had once been buried under layers of political obfuscation was now open for all to see.
And for the Aces of Emberhowl, that truth meant freedom.
Their names—once scrubbed from records and listed as KIA—were restored.
Their honor reclaimed.
Their legacy preserved.
Emilie turned to her parents one last time, smiling through the faint shimmer in her eyes.
"I'm home," she said softly.
Her mother nodded. "You always were."
The three of them stood there, framed against the silhouette of the Tomcat—steel, sunlight, and memory.
Behind them, the hangar doors slowly began to close, the light narrowing to a single golden line across the floor.
The day had been long.
But it was done.
The war was history.
And the Aces of Emberhowl—once ghosts in the sky—were finally, undeniably, home.