The Arrival

The sea was quiet at first.

Then came the sound—low, deep, and strange. Not thunder. Not waves. It was a warning. A call. Like something waking from the ocean floor.

From the fog, five ships slowly emerged.

They were monstrous. Heavy. Black as oil. No flags. No emblems. No names. Just steel carving through water, ghost-like and patient. Their sails hung torn in places, crudely stitched with silver thread that shimmered faintly under the moon. Some were crescent-shaped, others jagged—like teeth ready to bite.

The water churned at their arrival. Wood creaked. Chains clattered. Metal groaned as anchors dropped like thunder into the shallows.

Then came the hiss.

With sharp, mechanical exhale, wide ramps dropped from the bellies of each ship, slamming into the sand with deep, jarring thuds. A hiss of steam rose where steel met earth—like the shore itself recoiling.

And then, they came.

Figures poured out in tight, practiced silence. Dozens at first. Then more.

Not a word spoken.

Just boots. Synchronized steps. Precision.

They wore black gear—tight, padded, tactical. Their armor wasn't tribal. It wasn't homemade. It was sleek and silent, layered with plates and dark mesh. Some carried long, slender blades that flickered with unnatural light. Others moved with tools no one from the mountains would recognize—hovering tech, foldable launchers, and things built for clean, silent kills.

Behind them came the muscle—hauling gear in box crates, guiding levitating carts that hovered inches above the sand. They moved like clockwork, every gesture exact. No yelling. No confusion. They didn't need orders.

They already knew the plan.

The air changed—thick with cold, heavy with dread. Even the wind fell silent, holding its breath as the soft thump of boots and hiss of steam claimed the shore.

Somewhere beyond the treeline, unseen eyes watched—silent, tense.

---

Inside One of the Ships – Lower Deck, Officer's Cabin.

A dimly lit room sat quiet inside the largest ship.

Lanterns burned with a soft orange glow, casting long shadows against the iron walls. Machinery hummed in the background—steady, controlled.

A man sat in the center, in a dark wooden chair.. His skin was pale, almost grey under the light. Hair slicked back, neatly oiled. His eyes, cold and calculating, barely blinked. One leg crossed over the other, he sipped from a porcelain cup, steam curling lazily upward.

Across from him, another man leaned over a chessboard, fingers tapping lightly against a bishop. He had a rougher look—broad-shouldered, with a grizzled beard laced with silver. His eyes were an icy green, sharp but tired. A scar stretched across his left brow, barely healed.

"What a lovely scene tonight. It's been long since I felt this good," the man with the tea said, voice smooth, his gaze still on the game.

The other gave a silent nod, eyes fixed on the board.

"What if we're overpowered, Jon?" he asked, his tone low, laced with concern. He didn't look up—his fingers paused mid-tap.

Jon scoffed, shaking his head with a smirk. He set his cup down hard on the metal table—it rang out like a bell.

He hissed slightly, as if the tea had burned his tongue. "Why, is someone starting to feel scared?" he teased.

"You weren't scared when you took the job, Snow," Jon added, mocking grin tugging at his mouth.

"10,000 Solari coins deal doesn't come every time," Snow replied dryly. "So I dared take the risk."

Jon leaned back, folding his arms with a chuckle. "Relax, they're just... tribes," he said, dismissively. "The best they can do is kill most of our men." He shrugged, brushing a finger along the edge of a bishop before knocking it over playfully.

Snow didn't smile.

"I heard the mountains work with them," he said, after a brief pause—voice tighter now. His hand hovered over the board, then slowly dropped to his side.

Jon raised a brow. "Hmm. And what does the mountain do, exactly? Uproot itself and fight beside them?" He laughed—loud and theatrical. "That could mean this island still has spirit. Charming."

He reached for his tea again—but stopped. Empty.

He raised the cup toward Snow with a dry smirk. A silent request.

"Out of tea," he muttered.

Snow didn't move.

Jon slid off the chair with a grunt. His feet hit the floor with a soft thud—but not the way you'd expect. He barely came to Snow's waist.

He was a dwarf—stout, square-jawed, but quick on his feet.

"Oops," he grinned. "Sometimes, Snow, I envy your height."

And with that, he turned toward the back shelf, the smirk still lingering on his lips.

Then came the sound of a lock sliding open, heavy and slow.

The door creaked.

A man stepped in—cloaked in black, masked from brow to chin. Only his eyes visible. They didn't blink.

He dropped to one knee with precision—like he'd done this a hundred times. Hands together, a quiet symbol of respect.

"Master," he said, voice low and firm. "A Frontliner insists on seeing you. Says he brings words from the tribe."

Jon didn't speak at first. He and Snow exchanged a long look. One of those silent conversations. You sure? Should we bother?

Snow gave a faint nod and flicked his hand.

The masked attendant rose without a word, opened the door again, and held it—gesturing for them to pass.

Snow walked out first, the leather of his long coat whispering against the steel walls. The masked man stood, waiting, silent.

"Oh, don't wait on me," Jon said, his tone casual but laced with edge. He reached for the teapot, his fingers brushing the carved metal. "I'm still refilling my cup. Go on, I'll join the party in a minute or two."

He raised the teapot with a dramatic wrist flick, pouring lazily into his cup, steam rising. He didn't even look back.

The attendant gave a sharp bow and disappeared behind Snow.

---

Top deck. Cold air. Metal beneath their feet. The sky above a heavy grey.

Snow, the commander, walked behind the silent attendant. Each corridor they passed had guards posted at the doors, stiff as statues, hands to their hilts.

They took a sharp turn, then emerged onto the upper overlook—a broad, open space above the deck, like a balcony made for command. From here, you could see the whole coast, the fires in the distance, the dead waves waiting below.

And there, kneeling on the deck, was the Frontliner. The one who had limped away after Two and Six let him live.

His eyes found Snow and widened. He tried to rise but failed—his legs weak, blood still dried at his thigh. Instead, he dragged himself across the floor, metal scraping under his palms, breathing hard.

Snow didn't wait. He stepped forward, sparing the man the effort and the shame.

"What did you find?" Snow asked. His voice low, unreadable. A calm you didn't trust.

The man coughed, throat dry, dust stuck to his skin. "They're... terrifying," he muttered. "My men... we were ambushed. In the woods. Not by warriors. By children."

Snow's brow twitched, barely. Just a small shift in his expression.

"Children?" he repeated. Not mocking. Not amused. Just... curious.

Silence followed.

Then—a laugh. Sharp. Loud. Tea spilled onto the floor.

Jon.

He'd come in right as the silence settled. Caught the end of the words, and now he was laughing so hard he choked.

"Children?" he repeated, pressing a hand to his gut, another to the railing as he laughed. A guard rushed to take his cup. Jon handed it off like it was beneath him now.

He made his way down the stairs, still wiping his mouth with his embroidered handkerchief, the edges of his beard twitching from the leftover laughter.

"So you mean... children did this to you?" he asked, still smiling, eyes cold now as he stood over the kneeling man.

"Yes. They—"

"And why did you survive?" Jon cut him off, the smile dropping like a blade.

"If it were me," he said, voice flat now, "and children—not even grown warriors—children wounded me, dragged me through dirt like cattle..."

He paused. The air around him went still.

"I would've hanged myself on the Great Wall. Headless. Just my bloody body swaying in shame. And I'd leave one last order: let my corpse rot in the wind. Let the vultures laugh."

He hissed. Slow and sharp.

The Frontliner swallowed. His throat bobbed.

"A child... is like three of our men," he whispered. "One swing of their bone blades... does more damage than our swords."

Jon didn't respond.

He raised his hand, flicked a finger.

Two bulky guards stepped in, lifted the Frontliner by his arms—his boots barely touching the ground.

Jon walked up. No words. No warning.

He drove his knee into the man's groin with brutal force.

The man screamed. Folded. Shook like a leaf. The guards held him up.

Jon stepped back, brushing off his robe like he'd just stepped through mud.

"That's for making us look like fools," he said.