• Final Orders

The embers of celebration still burned bright, but duty called.

Alex Reiner walked through the dimly lit corridors of the Forward Bastion, a fortified structure carved into the mountains of Valleria's Western Front. The battle had left the station's automated repair systems scrambling to patch breaches in the outer walls, while medics worked tirelessly to stabilize the wounded. The scent of scorched metal, ozone, and dried blood clung to the air—remnants of a battle hard-fought and hard-won.

For all the laughter and drinks shared outside, Alex's task was far from over.

As a Handler, his responsibilities extended beyond coordination during battle. It was his job to report every detail—casualties, ammunition expenditure, Aether depletion rates, structural damage, and the effectiveness of experimental weaponry.

The success of future battles depended on thorough debriefings, and as much as he enjoyed the brief moments of levity, he was already calculating the long-term ramifications of the day's losses.

Approaching the command center, he swiped his ID across the security console. The reinforced doors hissed open, revealing the war room's holo-displays, still active with combat data streaming in real-time from various outposts.

And standing at the center of it all—Commander Lysara Vael.

She turned at his arrival, her golden eyes locking onto his.

Lysara was a woman who carried power in every movement she made. Her silver hair went down her back, still slightly damp from hastily cleaned battle wounds.

Though in her usual Aether-infused combat suit, it did little to hide the athletic curves of a warrior who had spent years perfecting her craft.

She had led them through hell and back, and even now, despite the exhaustion, she stood firm.

"Reiner," she greeted, a slow smirk on her lips. "Come to tell me just how much of a mess we're in?"

Alex exhaled sharply, stepping forward as he pulled up his datapad.

"Straight to business, huh?" he said. "Alright. Confirmed casualties: Thirty-two dead, fifteen critically wounded, another sixty-two requiring recovery time. On the supply side—we're down to thirty percent on rail ammunition, twenty-two percent on plasma reserves, and the Aether reactors need recalibration after the overclocking incident."

Lysara frowned but nodded. "And the experimental rail cannon?"

"Performed better than expected, but it consumed triple the projected energy output. If we don't adjust the recharge rates, we won't be able to field it in another battle this soon."

She sighed, rolling her shoulders. "So, we barely scraped by."

"As always," Alex quipped.

Alex leaned against the command table, the glow of the holographic displays casting sharp shadows across his face.

Lysara studied the data on her own screen, her golden eyes flickering with the reflections of casualty reports, supply breakdowns, and the ever-present map of Valleria's Western Front—scarred with red warning markers where Kryll activity was still detected.

"One last thing," Alex said, swiping across his datapad. "The Aetherians who survived the vanguard collapse—they'll need specialized recalibration therapy. The feedback from overextending their abilities was severe. If we don't cycle them through treatment properly, we might be down a third of our frontline Aetherians for weeks."

Lysara exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Damn it," she muttered. "We can't afford that kind of downtime."

"Exactly," Alex agreed. "We'll have to reassign squads from the central front to compensate, but that means thinning out defenses elsewhere. It's a risk, but better than letting our best fighters collapse in the next engagement."

Lysara crossed her arms, her gaze sharpening. "I'll handle the logistics. Anything else?"

Alex hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, "Yeah. I got my final orders."

She arched a brow. "Final?"

A dry chuckle escaped his lips. "That's right, Commander. After seven years of service, I'm officially retiring."

Lysara's expression shifted. The hardened military exterior softened, just for a moment, before she exhaled and gave a lopsided smirk. "I'd almost forgotten. You're of age."

He nodded. "Men usually retire by twenty-five. No surprise there."

It was the way of things. Despite his talent as a Handler, despite the accolades he had earned on the battlefield, despite the countless times he had saved his comrades from annihilation—he was still a man. And in this world, men were not meant to be warriors forever.

Biology dictated it. The strange energy that bathed Aethelgard weakened men and strengthened women. It made Aetherians the dominant force on the battlefield, while men were better suited to supportive roles. But even those roles were not permanent.

By the time men reached their mid-twenties, society expected them to leave the military and focus on their primary duty—continuing the species.

And while Alex had no issue with the expectation itself, he couldn't help but feel like he was leaving the job unfinished.

"You're still brooding over it," Lysara noted, tilting her head.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Nah. Just… I figured I'd have a little longer."

"You've served longer than most," she said. "And more than most. If anyone has earned this, it's you."

Alex sighed, pushing away from the table. "Guess that's that, then."

Lysara smirked, but then her expression grew serious again. "Actually, there is… one more thing."

Alex glanced back.

"You've been summoned," she said.

The room's hum of machinery and distant battle chatter suddenly felt far away.

"Summoned?" he repeated, narrowing his eyes.

She nodded. "Protocol Crimson-Veil."

His stomach tensed. Crimson-Veil.

There were multiple levels of summoning protocols in the Vallerian military hierarchy. Most orders were simple—standard Gold-Level summons were routine. Silver-Tier was reserved for high-ranking officers. But Crimson-Veil?

That was second only to a direct summons from the Queen herself.

Alex folded his arms, frowning. "Do you know what it's about?"

Lysara shook her head. "Not a clue. No details were shared with me. All I know is that you're expected to report immediately."

Alex clicked his tongue. "Great. So I'm either about to get a prestigious honor, or I'm about to be thrown into something insane right before I retire."

Lysara smirked. "Sounds about right."

He sighed dramatically, running a hand through his black hair. "Any chance I can refuse?"

"Not unless you want to be labeled a deserter," she teased.

"Figures."

She took a step closer and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Whatever it is, I wish you well, Alex."

He held her gaze for a moment before nodding. "Thanks, Lysara."

Alex exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the situation settle over him.

He glanced around the war room one last time, taking in the glowing displays, the distant chatter of officers managing ongoing skirmishes, the hum of the station's systems still running at full capacity.

This had been his world for years. The battlefield. The coordination. The responsibility.

And now, he was being pulled away from it.

Lysara's grip on his shoulder lingered for just a moment longer before she pulled back, crossing her arms.

"Your transport is already prepped in the hangar. The sooner you leave, the sooner you find out what this is about."

Alex scoffed. "I hate being kept in the dark."

She smirked. "You'll manage. You always do."

He gave her a small grin before stepping away. "Take care of things here, Lysara. Don't get yourself killed before I get back."

"No promises," she said with a chuckle.

With one last nod, Alex turned and strode toward the exit. Whatever lay ahead, one thing was certain—his retirement was not going to be peaceful.