The defenders of Drakensport were barely holding their line, backs pressed against the burning remnants of the town. The Holy Legion had formed a tight circle around the priests, desperately trying to keep the horde from overrunning them completely.
Marshal Renard Falke, his armor dented and streaked with blood, barked hoarse orders. "HOLD! REINFORCEMENTS WILL COME—JUST HOLD!"
But his words felt hollow. The ground was already littered with the corpses of knights and villagers alike—many of whom had risen again as part of the horde.
The cloaked figure stood at the rear, raising its arms high. The earth shuddered as more corpses clawed their way up from beneath the soil. The line was seconds from breaking.
Then—
BOOOOM!
The entire battlefield shook violently. A deafening roar split the air as something streaked down from the sky at impossible speed. A searing explosion of fire and steel tore through the undead ranks, pulverizing dozens in an instant.
A second blast followed. The ground erupted again, sending mangled corpses flying through the air.
The cloaked figure froze mid‑gesture, turning its hooded head toward the sky.
Every soldier, every knight, every priest stopped fighting for a heartbeat as they looked up—
—and saw a sleek, angular shape slicing through the clouds.
It wasn't like the slow, looming "steel dragons" the knights had seen weeks before.
This one was smaller. Sharper. It moved with terrifying speed, banking effortlessly as it released another barrage of precision fire.
Undead were ripped apart, burned, and shredded by the sheer destructive force. The battlefield lit up with fire as shockwaves rolled through the ruined town.
Sir Edric Halberg's mouth hung open as he shielded his eyes from the blast. "By the One God…"
Father Alric whispered, almost in awe, "It flies faster than the eye can follow…"
One of the surviving soldiers from Redham Village, eyes wide, shouted over the chaos, "I've seen it before! This isn't the same steel dragon from before—this one is different!"
High Paladin Serion gripped his blazing warhammer tighter, his expression hard to read. "Whatever it is… it fights for us."
Up in the sky, the Aurion F‑35 banked hard, its engines roaring as it fired another missile straight into the densest cluster of undead. The detonation shredded dozens more corpses, sending limbs flying.
Moments later, the familiar radar‑domed silhouette of the AWACS appeared high above the clouds—circling like a distant sentinel, guiding the F‑35's every move.
The cloaked figure staggered back, clearly unnerved for the first time. The "steel dragon" wasn't just fast—it was precise, unrelenting, and utterly beyond anything Drakensport could comprehend.
And for the first time that night, hope began to stir in the hearts of the defenders.
But none of them knew yet—
this was not the last Aurion would send.
---
Hours before the strike, the war room in Solaira City was locked in tense debate.
Live drone footage showed the battlefield in chaos—knights and priests torn apart as the undead horde grew stronger with each fallen defender. At the center of it all, the cloaked figure raised the dead with terrifying ease.
General Marcus Delos slammed his palm against the table. "We can't just sit here! If they fall, those things will spread without resistance—and they'll reach our borders sooner than we think!"
Foreign Minister Elena Choi fired back. "General, these people are zealots. We've all seen how they 'spread their gospel'—through fire and slaughter. They aren't our allies."
"Maybe not," Delos shot back, "but right now, they're the only wall between that horde and us. You'd rather wait until our own towns are full of walking corpses?"
Murmurs of agreement came from several senators, but Defense Minister Takahiro Sato cut in. "You're ignoring the risk. The moment we intervene, we reveal our strength. They'll see what our 'steel dragons' can do, and they'll either fear us… or decide they need that power for themselves."
Another senator added, "If we show too much now, we lose the element of mystery. They already see us as outsiders—what happens when they watch us destroy their enemy with weapons they can't comprehend?"
Elena leaned forward. "We already know what they think. Their priests call us barbarians. If we intervene, they might see it as us asserting dominance. That breeds resentment, not gratitude."
Delos's voice rose. "Or they'll see that we saved them—and realize we aren't their enemy. Like it or not, this might be our best chance at diplomacy without waiting for them to turn on us first."
The room went quiet as President Edrian Velez watched the footage—knights torn apart, villagers rising again as undead seconds later.
He finally spoke, calm but firm. "If we do nothing, the horde grows stronger. If we intervene, we expose our power—but we may gain something more valuable than fear."
He turned to Delos. "Send one fighter. No ground troops, no full air strike—just enough to turn the tide. The AWACS will coordinate every shot. They must know exactly who saved them."
Sato frowned. "And when they realize what we're capable of?"
Velez didn't take his eyes off the screen. "Then they'll understand Aurion isn't a nation to be taken lightly—friend or foe."
The order went out.
Minutes later, an F‑35 Lightning II roared into the sky from Forward Air Base Orion, guided by the AWACS circling high above Drakensport.
The decision was made. The strike would change the course of their relationship forever—whether as allies or as enemies.
---
The knights of the Holy Legion felt the tide of battle slowly turning. Each pass of the steel dragon rained fire upon the undead, pulverizing entire clusters of them in violent bursts of flame and steel.
Marshal Renard Falke, bloodied but still standing, shouted, "PUSH FORWARD! DON'T LET THIS CHANCE SLIP!"
Knights rallied, slamming their shields together as they advanced. The priests' blessings flared once more, bolstering their strength as the undead ranks began to thin.
But above, every soldier's eyes kept drifting upward.
The sleek steel dragon wasn't alone anymore. A second, slightly smaller craft had joined it, circling high above like a youngling staying close to its parent.
Sir Edric Varlen narrowed his eyes, awestruck. "By the gods… they're circling us. As if… as if they were alive."
Serion Valcroft tightened his grip on his blazing warhammer, staring at the two strange beings dominating the skies. "If these are not beasts, then they are weapons. Weapons wielded by the outsiders."
Falke's heart pounded as he watched the pair of machines move in perfect unison—one striking with deadly precision while the other maintained a wide, constant orbit, as though guiding its partner.
"Mother and youngling…" whispered one exhausted knight, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing.
No one corrected him. None of them truly understood.
What they did understand, however, was that without these strange outsiders, Blackmere would have already been lost.
And that realization chilled them as much as it gave them hope.
Sir Edric Varlen stood frozen for a moment, his sword dripping with gore as he watched the two steel dragons move in tandem above the battlefield.
Unlike the others, he did not see them as mere beasts. He had been there—at Outpost Sierra‑17, standing beside Father Alric during that tense first meeting with the strange soldiers of Aurion. He remembered their black metal rods, their strange speech, and the quiet power they carried without flaunting it.
His throat felt dry. "It's them…" he muttered, his voice barely audible.
Marshal Renard Falke, still barking orders to push forward, glanced at him briefly. "What are you saying, Varlen?"
Edric tightened his grip on his sword, his eyes fixed on the circling machines. "The outsiders—the ones we called barbarians. These dragons… they belong to them."
Father Alric, standing nearby, heard his words and went pale. His grip on his staff trembled as memories of that outpost flooded back—the strange lights, the incomprehensible language, and the cold, almost casual way the Aurion soldiers had carried themselves.
The priest whispered a prayer under his breath. "So they choose when to act… and when not to."
Edric exhaled slowly, watching as the larger dragon unleashed another burst of fire, tearing apart an entire wave of undead. "They saved us. But make no mistake—this is their power. And they wanted us to see it."
The realization spread among those close enough to hear him.
The so‑called barbarians had just proven, beyond doubt, that they were anything but weak. And Edric knew—when the time came, Aurion would decide whether they would be saviors… or conquerors.
The thunder of the steel dragons still echoed through the battlefield, but after their initial devastating strikes, they stopped firing.
The larger dragon maintained a steady orbit high above, while the smaller one flew in tight circles closer to the fight, its movements sharp and deliberate.
Marshal Renard Falke noticed it first. "They're… watching us," he muttered, lowering his sword briefly as he studied the sky. "They could destroy every last one of these creatures… but they're holding back."
High Paladin Serion Valcroft, his armor scorched and blood‑stained, swung his warhammer into an undead knight, shattering bone and rusted steel alike. He looked up briefly, his eyes narrowing. "They want us to see their power… and our limits."
Sir Edric Varlen, still cutting through the horde, felt a cold realization settle in his chest. He knew exactly whose machines these were. "They're letting us fight. They could end this… yet they're giving us the chance to win—or to die trying."
Father Alric, panting and clutching his staff, whispered a trembling prayer. "Perhaps they are testing us. Or perhaps they want to see whether we are worthy of standing beside them… or beneath them."
The Holy Legion fought on, emboldened by the destruction the dragons had already wrought, but the knowledge that these outsiders were deliberately holding back gnawed at the soldiers.
Every knight understood, even without words: the Aurions were watching.
Whether it was mercy, strategy, or arrogance, none of them could tell.
But with every blow struck, with every undead felled, the soldiers of Drakensport realized something deeply unsettling—
they were no longer the most powerful force on their own battlefield.
The battle raged until the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. The once‑thriving Blackmere Village lay in ruins—homes reduced to smoldering rubble, the stench of death heavy in the air.
Marshal Renard Falke raised his sword high, his voice hoarse but commanding. "PUSH! DRIVE THEM BACK TO THE SHADOWS!"
With renewed determination, the Holy Legion surged forward, shields locking as they forced the undead horde toward the riverbank. Every strike of blessed steel burned through rotting flesh, every priest's chant seared the monsters with holy light.
The tide turned.
The necromancer, its cloak tattered and dark power flickering, realized its control was slipping. It raised a skeletal hand, a wave of decayed corpses rising to form a barrier. Then, with a piercing, otherworldly shriek, the figure retreated into the mist, slipping toward the dark waters at the edge of the battlefield.
High Paladin Serion Valcroft, covered in blood and ash, roared as he cleaved through the last of the undead in his path. "CUT THEM DOWN! LEAVE NONE STANDING!"
Sir Edric Varlen struck down one final risen soldier—once a villager, now unrecognizable—before collapsing to his knees in exhaustion. He looked around at the smoking ruins, at the mangled bodies of friends and foes alike.
The field grew eerily quiet.
The Holy Legion had reclaimed the town… but the people of Blackmere were gone. Every villager was either dead, risen, or reduced to ash.
Father Alric stepped through the carnage, his face pale, gripping his staff so tightly his knuckles turned white. "We won… but there is nothing left to save."
Up above, the two steel dragons still circled silently watching, observing, making no move to aid further.
Renard stared at them for a long moment, lowering his blood‑stained blade.
"They could have ended this far sooner," he said bitterly. "Instead… they let us bleed for it."
Serion glanced skyward but said nothing. Deep inside, he knew Falke was right.
The outsiders had just shown Drakensport exactly where they stood.
And as the necromancer's silhouette vanished into the misty waters, every knight felt the same gnawing fear this was only the beginning.