December 25, 1640

Grade Atlastar-Class Battleship, GVS Valhalla, Fifth Conquest Fleet

Fleet Admiral Alaric Dietrich stood before a large, table-mounted tactical map, complete with intricate markers indicating ship positions and other vital data. The room was awash in the soft glow of overhead filament bulbs, their light throwing angular shadows that added to the room’s tension. A large telephone rested at one end of the table.

Unlike their previous meeting, Vice Admirals Karl Feldt, Otto Steinberg, and Erik Halvard were not physically present. Instead, they participated through a bank of dedicated radio sets, each assigned to an operator who relayed their words to Dietrich.

In the midst of their discussion, a communications officer burst into the room, his steps hurried, carrying a slip of paper. “Sir, a high-priority coded message from Galavete, sir.”

Dietrich’s gloved hand reached for the message, his eyes quickly scanning the lines. “Decode it,” he ordered, handing it off to a cipher clerk who sat next to an encryption machine.

Within moments, the machine clattered to a stop, and the decoded message was handed back to Dietrich. He read it aloud, his voice a steely monotone.

“Marcus and Reinhard’s battlegroups have engaged the enemy near Galavete. Suffered heavy casualties. Both battlegroups combat-ineffective.”

The buzz of radio static filled the air momentarily before Vice Admiral Feldt’s voice crackled through. “Fleet Admiral, I’ve just reviewed the Galavete reports. Do we have more details on what precisely went awry?”

Dietrich leaned over the map. “Indeed we do, Karl. The dispatch from Galavete indicated that our battlegroups led by Marcus and Reinhard were heavily outclassed. It seems that my previous analysis of the Americans’ capabilities was… gravely incorrect. Their carrier waves – consisting of about 200 sorties from Pegasus and Cygnus-class carriers – were intercepted well before reaching effective bombing range. Following this, long-range antiship missiles sank two Pegasus-class carriers, six Cygnus-class escort carriers, one Hercules, and a handful of cruisers and destroyers.”

A heavy silence fell over the radio link. Finally, Vice Admiral Steinberg broke it. “All Pegasus-class carriers and most of our Cygnus-class carriers? They didn’t even bother with the other ships… They know exactly how to cripple our forces and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Regrettably, yes,” Dietrich confirmed, his face taut. “They couldn’t even catch a single glimpse of the enemy; all attacks consisted of missile strikes from beyond visual range. They only managed to confirm the use of anti-air and anti-ship missiles. Our understanding of their capabilities was woefully insufficient.”

Halvard’s voice surfaced, filled with grim realization. “So, our move to distract them at Galavete achieved nothing? We’ve effectively informed them of our lack of countermeasures and tipped them off to our primary objective at Cartalpas?”

Feldt answered, his tone grave. “We can hope that a significant portion of their fleet participated in this battle, but it’s possible that this level of destruction was achieved by their local garrison alone. And we should assume that they are already aware of our lack of countermeasures; these Americans have an uncanny level of knowledge and awareness.”

“Indeed,” Dietrich affirmed. “And we’ve lost a considerable portion of our naval strength in the process. I fear our failed diversion has become an invitation for the Americans to intervene in Cartalpas more decisively.”

The room hummed with the low sounds of machinery and distant footsteps, underscoring the weight of Dietrich’s words. He looked at the tactical map one more time, considering the grim options laid before him.

“And we have yet to fully gauge the extent of their naval capabilities. Do we continue to risk our fleet in hopes of completing our objective in Cartalpas, or do we change our strategy entirely?” Dietrich sighed, taking a moment to collect his thoughts before he spoke. “Gentlemen, we have a decision to make. With the recent losses at Galavete, our options are narrowing. Our previous estimations were, unfortunately, founded on ignorance and assumption.”

Steinberg interrupted, “Indeed, we’ve underestimated the Americans, but what concrete information do we have? Any solid intel regarding their capabilities?”

“The unfortunate truth is we have little but rumors and hearsay,” Dietrich confessed. “Aside from comparisons to Mirishial weaponry, there are eyewitness accounts from the Lourian and Parpaldian wars that speak of advanced munitions. In one instance, a Parpaldian sailor claimed that American projectiles obliterated entire ships-of-the-line in an instant, but what applies to wooden or ironclad vessels cannot readily apply to heavily armored dreadnoughts.”

“All this we already know,” Feldt said. “Is there nothing else we can discern from these rumors? Missile ranges? Naval doctrine?”

Halvard spoke the answer lingering in the back of everyone’s mind, “Unfortunately, no. The Lourians and Parpaldians were too primitive to even grasp how the American missiles worked, and we, too, are likely behind in understanding. The accounts claim missiles coming from beyond visual range, but such descriptions are insufficient in determining maximum ranges.”

Feldt’s voice seemed to falter. “We’re up against an enemy we can’t understand – one we likely cannot win against no matter what…”

Dietrich agreed wholeheartedly, his opinion on the Americans shifting. As he toyed with the idea of retirement, he evaded Feldt’s remark and focused the topic of their conversation back onto the Battle of Cartalpas. “The Americans are indeed formidable, and we must consider that while taking our next steps. Are we to continue with our objectives or reconsider?”

Silence filled the room as each man pondered the gravity of the decision ahead. No one wanted to be the first to voice what they all were thinking: the risk of staying put and completing their original orders could be catastrophic.

“Before we decide,” Steinberg broke the quiet, “I think we should–”

His words were interrupted by the sudden buzz of a priority message. Dietrich tensed as a Communications Officer relayed the message, “Urgent report from the eastern reconnaissance units, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Sir, our eastern scouting force engaged the enemy 400 miles east of Cartalpas. We’ve lost contact, but before we did, they reported being under heavy missile fire. Their last transmission suggested complete annihilation.

A rumble of static erupted as Halvard responded to the harrowing update. “They’re here.”

Dietrich nodded gravely, his eyes narrowing. “Gentlemen, it’s clear we have no means of fighting back against the Americans. We have no countermeasures for their technology, and each moment we linger increases the risk to the entire fleet.”

Feldt, emboldened by Dietrich’s confirmation of his fears, proposed, “Shall we retreat, sir?”

Dietrich agreed, “Indeed. We must retreat and regroup. I have no intention of giving up this fleet to follow the commands of a ruler who we only know rumors about – whose legitimacy is questionable. We’ll leave behind our submarines and a battleship division to slow their advance. They’ll be our sacrificial lamb, giving the rest of us time to withdraw.”

Steinberg grimaced at the thought but nodded. “Understood, sir.”

“Their mission will be to obstruct and delay the American forces, allowing us to retreat and save as many lives as possible.”

“Very well,” Steinberg acknowledged.

Dietrich turned to look out the window at the vast ocean, pondering the cost of underestimation and the price they’d have to pay for their lack of understanding. “Gentlemen, we must make haste. The next few hours will dictate the fate of this operation and possibly this entire war.”

The Vice Admirals exchanged their acknowledgement of Dietrich’s orders, carrying them out and readying their battlegroups for a full retreat. As Dietrich gazed at the scattering of distant ships – his fleet, his responsibility – he knew that a change was coming. It was a wind from across the sea, a maelstrom created by a powerful eagle.

––

Cartalpas, Holy Mirishial Empire

Admiral Serrath surveyed the command center in Cartalpas, tuning out the distant sounds of battle. His gaze shifted between the parchment maps marked with swiftly fading arcane markers and the humming American radio equipment. He’d served long enough to weather many a storm, but nothing like this. Reports flooded in – both written and magically transmitted – of the worsening naval Battle of Cartalpas.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the updated movements of the Gra Valkan forces, carrier aircraft marked by fading symbols on the map. He gritted his teeth, feeling an uncomfortable tightness in his chest as his eyes fell on the symbol representing the Pal Chimera, escaping inland. The shrill cry of its shields shattering remained in his ears, reminding him of the challenges he faced. His mind swirled in a whirlpool of strategic implications.

The numbers were staggering – and not in their favor. Out of 40 squadrons of fighters, only 19 remained with any reasonable combat capacity. The bombers fared even worse, down to 12 squadrons from an initial 34, having dealt damage only to the Gra Valkans’ layers of destroyers. The once-proud Orichalcum class battleships now lay at the bottom of Cartalpas Bay, their engines extinguished, a morbid testimony to Gra Valkan naval prowess. The surviving fleet and escort carriers were operating at diminished efficiency, and his magical ships of the line and magic frigates were hanging on by the thinnest of threads. Each marker that faded from the map took with it a piece of the fleet’s remaining strength and, in turn, a sliver of his resolve.

Though his face remained a mask of stoic leadership, inwardly he wrestled with the grim calculations of warfare. The Gra Valkans’ ceaseless carrier waves had done their job well, whittling down his fleet’s numbers to the point of vulnerability. With each new report, the weight of his responsibility bore down harder, as though the walls of the command center were closing in. It wasn’t just the ships and aircraft; it was the lives of the men under his command and the lives of the citizens of Cartalpas.

His thoughts were interrupted by a faint magical pulse from one of the sigils on the console, indicating a high-priority message. Serrath’s eyes glanced at it, deciding to deal with it in a moment. He was just about to issue a new set of commands when –

Amid hushed conversations and the sporadic crackle of radio chatter, an aide approached.

“Admiral Serrath, a detailed update from the U.S. Consulate has just arrived,” the aide announced.

Serrath’s visage remained unyielding, despite the despair from their mounting losses creeping into his heart. “Proceed.”

The aide turned a dial on the radio set, initiating a secure connection. A voice with practiced clarity came through. “Admiral Serrath, this is the U.S. Consulate. The U.S. Navy Seventh Fleet has arrived, including elements from Carrier Strike Groups 5 and 12 among other assets. Naval and aerial elements are in your operational theater and stand ready for integration. You’ll be liaising primarily with CSG 5. Command frequency details and tactical updates will be sent securely. How copy?”

The weight of Serrath’s world momentarily lightened. “We copy, U.S. Consulate. Liaison officers will be dispatched for immediate coordination with U.S. units.”

As the connection ended, Serrath turned to his staff, his voice noticeably more relaxed. “Mobilize the liaison teams. Our priority is now seamless integration with U.S. forces. I want briefings for rules of engagement, shared tactical frequencies, and coordination procedures ready within the hour.”

His officers nodded, faces hardened but eyes unmistakably relieved. The air in the command center seemed to shift. The deep furrows of worry that marked Serrath’s forehead eased for the first time in days as the room broke into a flurry of activity. His face felt less drawn, as though a hand had lifted some of the burdensome weight from his soul.

The uncertainty surrounding the fate of Cartalpas and the EDI war effort remained, yet for the first time in what felt like an eternity, hope wasn’t just a scarce commodity; it was a burgeoning reality.

Glowing symbols danced on the consoles and screens, representing surviving Mirishial ships and aircraft now relegated to supporting roles. Though his pride was shattered, he found solace in the guaranteed safety of the citizens of Cartalpas, the guaranteed vengeance to be exacted upon the intruding Gra Valkans, and the guaranteed victory to be achieved by the reinforcing Americans.

The arcane hum of the command center seemed to mute as officers and aides began shuffling documents, replacing magic gem supplies, and whispering tactical adjustments to one another. A sense of purpose now tinged the air, accompanied by a renewed sense of vigor. Screens were quickly updated to display the integration points for U.S. assets coming from the eastern opening of the Cartalpas Strait.

Admiral Serrath and his staff huddled around the central console, staring at the remaining projections of their ships. Though rescue was coming, they still had to hold out until then. Ideas volleyed back and forth, each officer contributing nuanced tactical points regarding the defensive positions of the surviving EDI forces.

As they debated, an aide burst into the room, slightly out of breath but with eyes wide in excitement. “Admiral, new intelligence coming in. Gra Valkan forces are initiating a full retreat!”

The room fell silent for a heartbeat, each officer exchanging glances of disbelief before a soft murmur of hope erupted. The emotion in the room shifted dramatically, from cautious optimism to something far more potent.

Despite the joyous turn of events, Admiral Serrath’s expression remained neutral, his eyes scanning the room. “Still waters, everyone. This is promising news, but the situation is fluid. The Gra Valkans could still leave behind a force to complete their objective of damaging the port infrastructure. Update frontline commanders and have them stand by for new orders.”

A flurry of acknowledgments filled the air as his officers got to work. Serrath took a moment to address the room, his voice firm yet slightly uplifted. “This is the turning point we’ve longed for, but we must proceed with caution and precision. We cannot be blinded by overconfidence. Our alliance with the United States offers us a critical edge. Let’s make sure we use it wisely.”