January 23, 1641

Mykal Port

IGVN VB-27 “Donner Squadron”

8,000 feet. The air screamed past Adler's canopy as he pushed the control column forward, sending his plane into a nearly vertical dive. The La Burke-class destroyer grew larger in his sights with each passing second, its deck bristling with anti-aircraft guns. Flak burst all around him, peppering his plane with shrapnel. Adler gritted his teeth, fighting to keep the plane steady.

To his right, Jurgen's plane suddenly vanished in a fireball, struck by a missile that seemed to come out of nowhere. Adler barely had time to process the loss of his wingman before another plane, Donner Four, was torn apart by a barrage of tracers. The accuracy of the La Burke's fire was unnerving, far beyond anything he'd expected from the Muans.

6,000 feet. Adler's heart pounded in his ears as he watched Donner Five and Six succumb to the destroyer's defenses, their wreckage plummeting into the sea. The flak was getting thicker, the shells exploding closer to his plane. He was insulated within the canopy, but it was like he could feel the heat of the explosions, the smell of burning fuel and metal.

Jurgen, Maller, Schneider... gone in an instant. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Half his squadron, the men he'd trained and fought with, wiped out in a matter of seconds. And for what? A single La Burke, a ship that was supposed to be an easy target for the pride of the Gra Valkan Navy.

3,000 feet. Adler's hands shook on the control column, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. The doubts that had plagued him since the briefing surged to the forefront of his mind. The Muans were supposed to be primitives, savages with borrowed technology they barely understood. But this... this was something else entirely. The La Burke's guns tracked his squadron with uncanny precision, as if guided by some unseen hand. The missiles, the radar, the proximity fuses... these were the tools of a modern military, not the backward barbarians he'd been led to expect.

2,000 feet. As the dive continued, the La Burke growing ever larger in his sights, Adler struggled to push the doubts aside. With each passing second, each plane that fell from the sky, he could feel his confidence wavering. Even if the Muans had managed to upgrade their weapons, the underlying hull still remained the same. It was this sole fact that granted him solace as the flak became a solid wall, the shells bursting so close he could feel the plane shudder with each impact.

1,500 feet. It was enough to strike with respectable accuracy, but not enough in his eyes. Alarms blared in the cockpit, warning of damage to the wings and the fuel tanks. Adler’s vision narrowed, his focus consumed by the looming shape of the La Burke. Just a few more seconds, a few more heartbeats, and he’d be able to guarantee a killing blow.

1,200 feet – almost there. He tightened his finger on the bomb release trigger, breath catching in his throat. This was it, the moment of truth. The La Burke sat before him, ready to swat him from the sky like an insect. Whether through sheer luck or his warrior spirit as a Gra Valkan, his plane was still miraculously intact. He would not falter, would not fail. Not here, not now.

With a roar of defiance, Adler pressed the trigger, feeling the plane lurch as the bombs fell away. And then he was pulling up, the G-forces slamming him back into the seat as he clawed for altitude. The sky spun around him, a dizzying kaleidoscope of blue, white, orange, and dark gray. Behind him, the La Burke disappeared in a blossoming fireball, the shock wave buffeting his plane like a leaf in a hurricane.

Adler leveled off, his heart hammering against his ribs as he scanned the skies for the remnants of his squadron. The adrenaline was still surging through his veins, his hands trembling on the control column. He'd done it, he'd struck a blow against the Muans and their accursed La Burke. But at what cost?

The radio crackled to life, the voices of his fellow pilots filling the cockpit. They sounded shaken, their usual bravado replaced by a grim determination. Adler counted the survivors, his stomach sinking as he realized just how few had made it through the gauntlet of Muan fire. Jurgen, Maller, Schneider, Donner Five, Donner Six... all gone, their lives snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

Adler keyed his mic, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside him. "Donner Leader to Warhammer Leader, target hit. La Burke is on fire and sinking. But... we've taken heavy losses. Half my squadron is gone."

There was a moment of silence, a pause that seemed to stretch into eternity. Then Warhammer Leader's voice came back, tinged with a mix of satisfaction and regret. "Acknowledged, Donner Leader. Good work. Return to the carrier for rearming and refueling. We'll need you back in the fight as soon as possible."

Adler swallowed hard, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. Good work, they said. As if the lives of his men, his friends, could be measured in such simple terms. As if their sacrifice, their bravery, could be reduced to a mere tally of successes and failures.

He looked out over the battlefield, taking in the chaos and destruction that stretched as far as the eye could see. Planes spiraled out of the sky, trailing smoke and flames. Ships burned and sank, their crews scrambling for lifeboats amidst the wreckage. And everywhere, the relentless pounding of the Muan guns, the incessant shriek of missiles and shells.

With a heavy heart, Adler turned his plane southeast, the surviving members of Donner Squadron falling into formation behind him. The battle was far from over, and they would be needed back in the fray soon enough. But as they flew, Adler couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed, that the world he'd known had been irrevocably altered. For now, he had a duty to fulfill, a mission to complete.

And so, Adler set his jaw and focused on the task at hand, guiding his battered plane back to the carrier. The Gra Valkan Empire, the glory of their people, the destiny that had been promised to them... it all hung in the balance. And he, Lukas Adler, would do his part to see that promise fulfilled, no matter the cost.

– –

Mykal Naval Command Center, Mykal Port

“Sirs! The MNS Chevalier has been hit!” the dwarven communications officer, Lieutenant Thorin Ironfist, reported, his voice rising above the clamor of the Mykal Defense Fleet Command Center.

Stolen story; please report.

Admiral Durvin Flintarm, the stout dwarf commanding the defense of Mykal, snapped his attention to the map and scrying chamber dominating the center of the room. The scrying display showed the Chevalier, a La Burke-class destroyer, wreathed in orange flames, its hull breached in multiple locations. Flintarm's brows knitted together as he watched the stricken vessel list heavily to starboard.

"Damage report," he barked, his voice demanding instant response.

Ironfist relayed the information from the Chevalier. "Captain Montagne reports propulsion's offline, and they're taking on water. Fires are spreading through the ship. Heavy casualties, sir."

Flintarm slammed his fist on the edge of the map table, sending a shudder through the magical display. The Chevalier was one of their most valuable assets, a destroyer equipped with the latest American armaments. Losing her would be a heavy blow to the fleet's defensive capabilities.

"Tell the MNS Montpelier and the MNS Bellerophon to cover the Chevalier," Flintarm commanded. The more La Burkes they lost, the faster they would succumb to the Gra Valkans’ aircraft. Damn, how he wished he had a Pal Chimera with them. Alas, there was no use dwelling in wishes and daydreams. "And get me a full damage assessment on the fleet, now!"

As his officers relayed his orders through manacomms, Flintarm turned to his second-in-command, the Muan Admiral Corwin D'Arnell. The human's face was grim, his dark eyes reflecting the same concern that Flintarm felt.

"The Gra Valkans are targeting our La Burkes quite effectively," D'Arnell said. "They've deduced that those ships are our best defense against their bombers."

The Muan’s words were different compared to his own guttural brogue, reminding him almost of the elevated elven language of people like Admiral Tachyon. Though as scraping his accent was, the man’s words held true. The Gra Valkan attack was relentless, wave after wave of bombers and fighters pressing their assault despite the heavy losses inflicted by the La Burkes’ advanced weaponry.

"Aye, they're a clever lot, these Valkies," Flintarm growled. "But we'll make them pay for every inch of sky they try to take."

D'Arnell raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I must say, Admiral, I thought you dwarves preferred to fight with your feet on solid ground."

Flintarm shot his second-in-command a sidelong glance, his own lips twitching beneath his beard. "Aye, we do. But when the enemy brings the fight to us, we'll meet them on any battlefield, be it land, sea, or sky."

The moment of levity passed as quickly as it had come, the weight of their situation settling back upon their shoulders like a mountain of granite. The Mykal Defense Fleet was holding, but the cost was high, and the Gra Valkans showed no signs of relenting.

Flintarm turned his attention back to the scrying display watching as the Montpelier and the Bellerophon moved to protect the crippled Chevalier.

“Admiral, reports coming in from across the fleet,” Ironfist called out. “The Aquitaine has suffered damage to its forward gun turrets, but she’s still in the fight. The Richelieu reports minor damage to her superstructure. The Landarrin reports that it has lost a fifth of its aircraft complement, while the Neutron reports that its mana reserves are critical. We’ve already lost one of the Muan carriers.”

Flintarm nodded. The fleet was holding, but the toll was mounting. Each damaged ship, each lost crew member, was a blow to their defensive capabilities. They needed to find a way to turn the tide, or at least to buy time for the American reinforcements to arrive.

He found his gaze lingering on the rear of the formation, where the battleships were positioned. The heavy hitters of the fleet were taking a beating, their thick armor and powerful shields barely withstanding the relentless Gra Valkan assault. At this range, their massive guns were all but useless, unable to strike back at the enemy ships that harried them from afar.

"They're sittin' ducks back there," Flintarm growled, his frustration evident in the set of his jaw. "We need to do somethin' to take the pressure off 'em, or we'll lose 'em before the day is done."

As if on cue, a communications officer hurried over to them. "Admiral Flintarm, sir," he said, saluting sharply. "We just received a message from the Americans via manacomm. They say their fleet is on the way, but it will take them three days to reach us."

Flintarm's eyes widened, his heart sinking at the news. Three days. Three long, bloody days of holding out against the Gra Valkan onslaught. It seemed an impossible task, a feat beyond the reach of even the most seasoned warriors.

"Understood," Flintarm said, his voice steady despite the weight of the news. "We'll make those three days count. We'll fight with everythin' we have, and hope it’ll be enough."

The communications officer nodded. "There's more, sir. The Americans also sent us some information on the commander of the Second Conquest Fleet. Fleet Admiral Falke Venstrom, known for his rather cautious approach to warfare."

D'Arnell stepped forward, his brow furrowed in thought. "A cautious commander, you say? That could work in our favor." He turned to Flintarm. "Admiral, perhaps we could create a forward engagement group, consisting of the Orichalcum-class battleships and some escorts for anti-air protection. We could send them ahead, in hopes of getting within missile range. Even if they can't, they might at least force Venstrom to pull back, given his cautious nature."

Flintarm stroked his beard, considering the proposal. It was a risky move, exposing their battleships and escorts to the fury of the Gra Valkan assault. But if it paid off, it could buy them the time they so desperately needed.

"Aye, it's a gamble," he said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map table. "But it's one we might have to take. Those battleships are no good to us sittin' in the rear, and we need to do somethin' to throw Venstrom off balance."

D'Arnell nodded, his gaze drifting to the manacomm device. "What about illusion magic? Could we use that to create decoys, confuse the Gra Valkans?"

Flintarm shook his head. "Not likely. Venstrom's relyin' on radar. Our illusions won't show up on those screens. They're only good for close-quarters trickery, not the kind of long-range battle we're facin' here."

D'Arnell sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Of course, you're right. It was a foolish suggestion."

Flintarm clapped a hand on the Muan admiral's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "Nay, it's not foolish to consider every option. But in this case, we'll have to rely on the cunning of our movements."

He turned back to the map table, his eyes tracing the lines of the proposed forward engagement group. It was a bold move, a desperate gamble in the face of overwhelming odds. But it was a gamble they had to take, if they hoped to survive the fury of the Gra Valkan onslaught.

"All right, here's what we'll do," Flintarm said, his voice low and urgent. "We'll send the battleships and their escorts ahead, have ‘em push as far as they can. If they can get within missile range, they can give the Valkies a bloody nose. If not, then it shall be as you said – they can at least force Venstrom to keep his distance, buy us some time."

D'Arnell nodded, his dark eyes brightened by the slightest hint of optimism. "I'll see to it that the orders are relayed to the fleet."

Flintarm grunted his approval, "Good. And let's hope the gods of war are smilin' on us today. We'll need all the help we can get."