"Well, I got a message from the Watchtower—the Scryvians have arrived," Uncle Charlie said with a wide grin, his eyes twinkling beneath that heavy beard. Through the open blinds, Aleron caught sight of a dark silhouette gliding through the horizon, slowly growing larger.
The Scryvians had arrived.
That single thought jolted him into motion. He leapt out of bed, heart pounding. "So what are we going to do?" he asked eagerly, trailing behind his uncle, who was already making his way to what looked like the basement.
"What else d'you think we're goin' to do, son?" Uncle Charlie replied matter-of-factly, his deep voice rolling like thunder. "We're goin' to give 'em our best shot, that's what."
"Are you insane? That's an entire ship, and we're just two!" Aleron exclaimed, incredulous.
Uncle Charlie only laughed, a rich, booming laugh that filled the cottage walls. "Hah! We don't need no more people, lad. Just the two of us'll do fine. These babies'll be more than enough."
He reached a heavy iron door at the far end of the corridor, swung it open, and revealed a hidden armoury—a treasure trove of gleaming steel and humming energy weapons. Swords, firearms, lances, even heavier gear lined the walls, all meticulously kept.
"Wow," Aleron breathed. "That's… a lot."
"Yeh," his uncle said proudly, "the best of the best. But that's not what we'll be usin' today. Nah, these are what we'll be wearin'." He stepped deeper inside and pulled out two sets of armor—sleek, elegant, and old-fashioned yet advanced, shining white with a cream hue.
They were the armor of the Falcon Knights. On the breastplate, a white bird spread its wings wide, and beneath it, the initials FK gleamed faintly.
"You brought these here?" Aleron asked, eyes wide.
"Yup. Sure did," Uncle Charlie said, patting the armor with something like affection. "Now suit up. We've no time to lose."
Aleron donned his armor quickly. It felt heavy at first, far too large, but as soon as he fastened the last clasp, the metal adjusted itself, shrinking and fitting perfectly to his frame. A faint light shimmered over him, and suddenly he felt stronger, steadier, ready.
"Let's bounce," Uncle Charlie grinned, the light catching his beard as he turned toward the exit.
They stepped outside into the open air. The sky had turned a moody grey, clouds swirling as if stirred by the approach of war. The ship was several kilometers away—large, metallic, and ominous.
"You know how to use one of these, right?" Uncle Charlie asked as he adjusted his gauntlets.
Aleron simply smirked. "I'll manage." He took one step forward and his armored boots glowed; the ground beneath him burst with light as he glided across it like a skater on air.
Military armors like these were an evolved version of those once used during the ones used in the game of Velo Ball. With a single burst from the boots, they could launch their wearer across vast distances, allowing movement that looked almost superhuman. Each touch of the ground released a controlled propulsion, sending them forward in quick, graceful bursts.
Uncle Charlie followed with surprising speed for a man his size, his armor humming like a great beast awakening. They glided side by side across the rolling fields of green.
"Why would the Scryvians come here?" Aleron shouted over the wind. "There's barely anyone around!"
"Well, lad," Uncle Charlie replied, his voice steady even against the rushing air, "this here's one of our supply points. Food, fuel, medicine. If they destroy it, we'll be in for a right famine. And if they hit the others after that, we might as well kiss victory goodbye."
"Ah, here we are."
They crested a hill—and there it was.
The Scryvian ship had landed, its enormous hull gleaming dull silver under the morning light. The ground trembled from its descent. The hatch at the base was open, and from it poured smaller craft—scouts, interceptors, gunships—spreading across the countryside like a swarm.
Uncle Charlie gave a low whistle. "Well, that's a fair number of the bastards, ain't it? Give me a hand, will ya? Let's wipe these lot out before they reach the settlements."
Aleron nodded. His jaw set, eyes narrowing, he crouched low and blasted off toward the nearest cluster of enemy flyers. The burst from his boots sent him soaring into the sky.
He landed on one of the smaller Scryvian skiffs with a heavy thud. Two soldiers were aboard, encased in their dark mechanical suits. They barely had time to react before Aleron moved—his hand flashed, and a light-saber blade burst to life with a humming spark. The weapon of a true Falcon Knight.
In one fluid motion, he struck. A clean, swift arc—and silence followed. The two Scryvians collapsed as their ship veered.
"I'm sorry," Aleron murmured, bowing his head briefly. "But you'd have done the same to my people."
He whispered a quiet prayer, as was his custom whenever he took a life, before gripping the controls and turning the skiff toward the others. The battle was only beginning.
Meanwhile, Uncle Charlie strode straight for the mother ship. The ground seemed to shake with each step he took. The front hatch opened wider this time, releasing a stream of armored figures that glided toward him in eerie unison.
"Hah!" Uncle Charlie chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "Been a while since I moved these old bones." He lifted his hand, and from the distance, a massive weapon flew straight into his grasp—a great war axe, easily his height, its haft carved with swirling golden runes that curved into a pure white edge. The blade shimmered silver, and at its base, the crest of the Falcon Knights pulsed with a radiant glow.
"Olivia, my love," he said softly, voice thick with affection as he ran his thumb along the axe's hilt. "Dance with me again, eh?"
With that, he moved.
For a moment, it looked like the world slowed to a crawl. A path of light appeared beneath his feet—a luminous tunnel bending through the battlefield. Uncle Charlie walked its length with deliberate grace, each step shining like a star's pulse.
And as he passed, the Scryvian soldiers fell. Heads cleaved cleanly from their armored bodies, the sound of steel on air echoing faintly before fading into nothing.
When he reached the end of his path, he turned on his heel, and the light behind him flickered once—then vanished. The Scryvians collapsed all at once, their lifeless forms thudding to the earth.
"Disembodiment of the fallen, star path cleave," Uncle Charlie said aloud, resting the long axe on his shoulder. His voice carried a strange solemnity, like a man uttering a sacred rite.
For a moment, silence filled the field. Then, a new sound—low, hissing, inhuman—crept through the air.
"Well, well, well," came a voice, distorted and guttural, each word grinding like broken machinery. "If it isn't… a Falcon Knight."
*******