Stormfront

Location: Tavara – Western Frontier Base, Level 6 – Emergency Command Hall

The alarms howled like war sirens, blaring across Level 6 as security shutters clamped down in waves. Smoke curled through the corridors, and automated defense turrets clicked into place. The Western Frontier Base, one of Tavara's most fortified installations, was now under siege.

Damien arrived first, sliding behind the reinforced command desk as bullets sparked against the metal plating. Logan followed close behind, his combat gear smeared with dust and blood. Nora took up position at the west flank, her coat fluttering behind her as she fired a precise round into an advancing mercenary's shoulder.

"They're using ex-military!" Logan shouted. "Not random mercs. These are trained operatives—Western Federation, Tier IV minimum."

Damien slammed a fresh mag into his weapon. "They want the Falcon drive. That's the only reason to hit this deep."

"Which means," Nora called out, "someone told them where it was."

Damien's expression darkened. "A traitor inside."

Suddenly, the lights flickered—followed by the presence of a black-and-crimson armored figure dropping through the vent shaft.

The impact shook the floor.

Everyone turned.

The figure straightened, voice filtered through an eerie vocal modulator.

"You weren't supposed to make it this far."

Damien's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess—code name?"

"Obsidian." The figure pulled back their helmet—revealing a scarred face Damien knew too well.

"Renauld." His voice dropped.

Nora froze. "That's impossible. He died in Valderra five years ago."

"No," Damien muttered, raising his gun. "They let the world think he died. Because he joined them."

Renauld—Obsidian—smirked. "You're not ready for what's coming. This isn't about Falcon. Or Theta. It's about Tavara itself. The world needs reordering, Damien. And the Raven heirs? You were just placeholders for a system long overdue to fall."

"Funny," Nora said coolly, stepping forward, "we were about to say the same to you."

Without another word, Damien moved. Fast.

The hall erupted into chaos. Nora spun with elegant precision, her strikes measured and surgical. Logan shielded their flank, holding off the second wave of attackers pouring in through the side tunnel.

Damien engaged Obsidian in direct combat. Fists met steel. Elbow strikes rang like gunshots. Obsidian's cybernetic enhancements gave him a brutal edge—but Damien wasn't just a strategist anymore. He was a survivor—and a fighter.

"Still think we're placeholders?" Damien grunted, blocking a vicious hook.

Obsidian spat blood. "You're ghosts of a failed empire."

Damien landed a brutal strike to his jaw, sending Obsidian crashing into the server wall. "Then let me show you what a ghost can do."

With a final coordinated strike from Nora and Logan, Obsidian collapsed—conscious but broken.

As backup arrived and swept through the remaining attackers, Damien turned to Nora.

"We need to accelerate. No more waiting."

She nodded. "The Citadel. Tonight."

"Agreed." Logan joined them. "Ashford's team already has a flight path mapped. But there's more."

He handed Damien a bloodstained chip. "This was embedded in Obsidian's shoulder armor. Encrypted—looks like old-world military code."

Damien pocketed it. "Then we've got a clue. And a warning."

Nora placed a hand on his arm. "We're past warnings."

Damien glanced back at the burning corridor, then forward—toward the mission ahead.

"The storm's already here."

And as Tavara burned under silent skies, its fate moved closer to the edge—drawn by the vengeance of the forgotten and the awakening of the prepared.