The waves churned with unnatural movements, bodies of humans and abominations littering the sand.
Amidst loud whistles and screamed orders, the first wave of soldiers plunged into the sea—only to be ambushed by tentacles, claws, and horrifying limbs.
Gunfire instantly erupted.
A thunderous boom tore through the storm and a salvo of artillery pounded the tide, turning it into a frothing mess of blood and mutilated corpses—both human and inhuman.
Some soldiers, overrun with fear and horror, tried to flee, only to be cut down by their superiors or trampled underfoot.
Thousands of mud-soaked soldiers let out a collective roar as they charged across Tavroska Beach.
Up ahead, through the beguiling mist, the vague silhouette of the Kingdom's prized FSV-12s towered imposingly.
These incredibly massive warships remained stationary, looming large on the horizon, watching, waiting.
Jagged teeth snapped, dragging a man into the murky depths mid-scream.
A reptilian beast refused to succumb to the single-bolt rifles, swimming toward the wading soldiers—only to get obliterated by heavy ordnance, never to rise again.
The dark sky and pelting rain did very well to add to this haunting atmosphere as man and beast engaged in a desperate struggle of life and death.
"Safe zone has been established!"
The major general's voice cut through the cacophony as a flare shot skyward.
Under the storm's wrath, the light was dim and quickly swallowed by the darkness—but by then, the hum of engines had already filled the air.
Coastal vessels zipped into the newly secured perimeter, desperate soldiers scrambled aboard while their counterparts–chest deep in water– struggled to repel the savage sea creature
Artillery shells continued battering the
waves, compensating for inaccuracy with
sheer volume.
One by one, the vessels pulled away. The
safe zone shrank.
Then, at last, silence.
Another flare cut through the night-larger,
brighter, a signal from the fleet.
The boarding was successful.
With confirmation secured, horse-drawn
artillery and ground units began their retreat
from the beach.
The first phase of Operation Charon's Toll
was complete.
...
BANG!
Lugh's head snapped backward as the
supply crate lurched violently, the impact
rattling his bones.
Crates tumbled around him like dice, slamming into the walls of the hold.
The cannons hadn't stopped.
If anything, the barrage had grown louder.
Occasionally, an inhuman screech would slice through the din, a sound so unnatural it seemed to cut through his very soul.
Lugh clutched his head, face blank, hands trembling.
This was a truly wretched place.
How had he ended up here?
Oh, right. He had snuck aboard to avenge his fallen father.
Avenge?
The word felt... incorrect.
A miscalculation.
His mind flickered to her-the woman who had called herself his stepmother, the daughters she had spawned, the suffocating halls of his father's estate.
Had they held a banquet when he disappeared?
Raised a toast?
Had they laughed?
A strange emotion clawed at the edges of his mind.
Was it anger? Was it relief?
His expression remained vacant, even as the crate he was in got flung across the hold, slamming into another stack.
He did not reposition himself.
He did not react.
Outside, the battlefield's roars which had already risen to a feverish pitch suddenly ceased.
Lugh's eyes snapped open.
Did they win?
No, if the army had lost, he would be fish
food by now.
A meaningless death.
Unacceptable.
A moment later, the eerie quiet was shattered by cheers-thousands of voices shouting in triumph, the blaring of horns joining the cacophony.
Lugh exhaled slowly, relaxing into the wood of his crate.
Ah.
The door creaked open.
Lugh did not move.
Two sets of footsteps.
"What now?"
"Let's work while we talk," a second voice replied, too lighthearted for a warzone.
Lugh remained utterly still, eyes half-lidded, heart slow.
His breath had already been shallow—he did not need to force it.
It was a learned habit.
The first voice spoke again, moving crates as he went.
"Our countrymen are prepared to ambush a small battalion, not an entire division. And worst of all, we can't even contact our handler in these cursed waters!"
His voice was low, frustrated, bitter.
Lugh's mind sharpened.
He recognized that language.
It wasn't the Ophris tongue–Elvish–it was something else.
Heiro?
A thread of calculation slipped through the
numb recesses of his mind.
These weren't smugglers. They weren't deserters.
They were spies.
He did not tense.
He did not move.
It was not the first time he had listened from the dark.
"You said it yourself-these are cursed waters. If there's an incident, this fleet might not necessarily make it to the shores of Heieg."
"And if there isn't an incident?"
"Then we make one."
The first man hesitated.
"... That would mean we-"
"-fail our mission to get the Fleureux compound sample? Don't worry. There will be other opportunities. Our current predicament is far more pressing."
Silence.
When the first voice returned, it was small.
"...No... I meant that would mean we..."
"...Die."
The second man's voice was grave. Unyielding.
"No price is too great for our nation's prosperity. Even our lives."
Silence again.
Then, laughter. Soft. Almost cheerful.
"Understood."
Lugh listened without emotion.
Sabotage.
They had abandoned their original mission and were acting out of desperation, which meant this situation was worse than he thought.
Not a minor issue. A catastrophe in the making.
"Come help me with this crate."
Lugh's breath remained steady.
"That's odd-it's heavier than expected."
Lugh's body remained motionless.
"Wanna check?"
Lugh did not pray. He never had.
But if he did, now would be the time.
"Sure, why not?"