LINE OF FIRE:

“Proceed with objective. Capture or eliminate the royal family of Yondel.”

Blue team was on the roof of the castle. Along with the airborne invasion, they had made a high-risk insertion in the red zone. Losing contact with Captain Oliver’s unit in the Frontier had forced them to hot extract via experimental Fulton technology. Within the hour, they were in the capital’s airspace, and no less than ten minutes earlier had they landed and taken holding positions waiting for their execute command.

Within the target area, their targets were the current standing royal family. Clearing out the patrols and response units on the roof, the leader of the soldiers remained silent as he and the others killed their way to the throne room. Adjacent to that, the war room. “Last chalk of guards. Clear them out and clear the perimeter.” The officer said over the radio. His eight men fanned out around the rooftop avoiding direct line of sight and engulfing themselves in the shadows. Their camouflage and silhouette blending in, becoming near invisible to the naked eye.

“Got two lookouts with muskets. Rest are magicians.”

“Pick your targets.” The officer said, “We can’t risk a sustained engagement.”

“Got another three on that balcony.” The platoon sergeant pointed.

“Marked one.” Shooting an ember to one of the guard’s boots, the marksman of the platoon returned to silence.

“Got two.”

“I have three.”

“That’s a fourth.”

Placing his suppressed rifle squarely on the final guard’s head, the platoon captain smirked, “Fifth’s mine.”

“On you.”

“Open fire!”

In near unison, five bullets were fired and cut through the hostiles. The captain’s target’s head exploded into red chunks of flesh and red mist as the corpse slumped to the ground. The overpenetration of the bullet slammed into the brick wall causing a cloud of dust to cover the body and the glass below. Following the corpse with the scope on his rifle, the officer watched the corpse and the doorway next to the body. There would be no time for cleanup, not when on a kill or capture mission. Speed, efficiency, and power was what mattered. Neatness would come with the mission report after their exfiltration and debrief.

His other men slowly moved from their positions and covered down their targets ensuring that each man was dead. With a silent nod shared between the men, the platoon sergeant gave an all-clear signal to the captain.

“Prep for entry.”

Standing on one of the many large glass pane windows overlooking the throne room, the officer in charge spotted two groups of armed individuals. One of which was under the direct command of Senior Field Agent Arish, or Princess Leccamaradel Emma Arish. Looking at the second group, the OIC couldn’t identify the young male sitting in the throne, yet he stayed his tongue as he associated the boy as being one of the targets.

Despite the princess being a member of the current standing royal family, the captain made the personal decision to remove her name from the hit list. She was more than an ally to the Federation. She was a close confidant to President Harding.

The platoon sergeant grumbled, “At least fourteen in there. More along the sides and on the second floor.”

Second team placed down heavy spikes into the roof of the castle. Reaching for their satchels, the men took out heavy bundles of rope and expertly attached them to the spikes and onto first team’s belts and harnesses.

“Don’t throw any shots. For this war to end, Princess Arish lives.”

“Ready.” The jumpmaster said patting the captain on the back.

“Airburst!” As the lead breached slammed a hammer into the glass, the platoon sergeant outstretched his hand and shot a pulse of compressed air stunning and disorienting the unknowns and hostiles below.

“Go! Go! Go!”

Within three seconds of falling alongside the shattered glass, the captain firmly placed his boots on the ground and raised his rifle alongside team 1.

“Everyone get down! Lay down your weapons!” A rifleman shouted.

“What blasphemy—”

Letting out a shrill squeal, one of the disoriented swordsmen charged at the four shooters.

“Sergeant!”

Ten bullets tore through the soul throwing him to the ground. The platoon sergeant removed his sidearm and shot the man in the head, confirming the kill. Stunned from the sudden execution, the boy with golden hair on the throne remained frozen. He was locked like stone as he set eyes upon the unknown executioners.

“Lay down your fucking weapons! I won’t say again!”

“Team two, dropping in now—”

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Blood dripped from the ceiling. Snapping his head up, half of the captain’s team was eliminated as their bodies hung from the ropes they descended on. Slowly lowering to the ground, the officer stared at the cold corpses covered in crimson and purple blood that soaked into their olive drab and coyote tan uniforms. Their weapons slammed into the ground, metal shards separating into large fragments.

“What the hell.”

“Bastards of the Federation. Zivaland as the old creators called it.” The boy that once sat on the throne stood in front of Princess Leccamaradel with a bloodied short sword in his right hand. “You use this folly as the soldiers of your own nations, sister! Why have you betrayed your people?”

Pointing the edge of the blade at her neck, a gust of wind slammed against her body and the surrounding Phantoms throwing them off balance.

“You are the first-born princess! Why must you forsake everything that father has built?” He screamed in rage, “What of the Demon Lord? The army that awaits to destroy humanity!”

“Captain!”

The senior Federation officer trained his rifle on the boy. “What moves faster, my bullet or your blade?”

SUCCESSION:

Aldrecht Spell Shaldrecht was the man that usurped then King Jospeh Arany Araish. With his rise to power and control over the Yondel, he led the nation into a prosperous future, one where they wouldn’t be the underdogs of the greater world any longer. Uprise or die. King Aldrecht was a man of military prowess, wit, and careful planning. There would rarely be a time where his intellect would come into question, even over a bottle of hard liquor.

Though not of the same blood, Princess Lecamaradel Emma Araish took upon herself to learn and mirror as much as the standing king as she could. Grief and sorrow for her former family’s loss was not the priority. And she maintained the steadfast belief that it was to sacrifice everything, heart, soul, mind, for her people. For Yondel.

Under the fires of war was her talent and will for fighting perfected. Even today her hands still rubbed against the cold steel surface of a weapon, be it firearm or blade. Her fingers glided over the uneven and grooved grip of her sword. Behind the determined gaze she held towards those that threatened the throne, echoes of prior teachings wrapped her mind and provided enough stimulation for her to plan her next move.

White dust.

Ash.

Amongst her time alongside the Rangers, and the fathering missions beyond the borders of her father nation, the princess had become hardened, the epitome of a true soldier. Officer training gave her the experience to lead, conflicts gave her the experience to survive. Those memories had yet to petrify her. Instead, they reinforced the idea to keep moving ahead.

The air around her was thick. A reminder of the unsatiable appetite for blood.

It was yet only a single day that changed her life forever. Countless other times had fate, Mother Juna, and God tried to change her—Yet the Reclaimers, her warriors during the campaign against and the defense of Bishmark is where she went from just another soldier to a true commander.

Ever since then Lecca had seen the worst and best of humanity. And today, she continued to see both black and white.

Death. The old friend had shown face time-and-time again. Helpless comrades, innocent lives, muddied hands. All fell to the Reaper. She yet stood alone in the puddle of blood, however those she surrounded herself with began to wither away with time.

“Princess.”

The one who held a silver blade to her throat watched her with burning eyes. Simon Shaldrecht. The young blood had doubted her capabilities before, and now with a raging curiosity the boy tested her will for life. “Your highness,” She spoke softly. “Lay down your arms.”

For the killing that had occurred just moments ago, the initial confrontation between the princess and prince was in silence.

Returning to an absence of words, quiet, the prince lowered his sword. It would not be a fair duel if one side was unable to fight. He ignored the riflemen behind him. The only one that would cause harm to him was the princess right in front of him. He looked to his men, ensuring that they would not interfere.

Lecca could just barely here her men and Simon’s men speaking to each other. Lifting her own blade and aiming it squarely at the prince, she waited in silence as her brother adjusted his footing.

“Till death.”

Ashes fell. The horrors of extinguishing life were just as beautiful…

A single signal flare breached the horizon just outside of the city walls. As the burning skies settled, she eyed as the golden-haired boy placed his dominant side forward. Visibility around the castle had been hampered by the heavy smoke and ashes from countless explosions. Warriors from either side of the conflict screamed in both rage and fear as they fought for their lives and for the future of humanity.

“Thirteen ground level. Another fifteen-up top. Twenty-eight, sir!” The platoon sergeant of Blue Team yelled. “Behind the pillars and up on the balcony-we need to pop smoke!”

“Princess Araish,” the commanding officer asked as his cold eyes focused on the silver-haired maiden. “You’re here to stop the war?

“Sir.”

“Good—” His response was interrupted.

To the lack of words that followed, everyone in the room turned towards Prince Simon. A single head had fallen to the ground, the sound of spurting blood and a heavy gurgling noise from the head echoed in the silence in the room. Dead eyes stared directly at the princess as the rolling head came to a sudden stop against the platoon sergeant’s boots.

As the world slowly became blurry, Leccamaradel shed tears as her hands tightened around her swords hilt. Her skin a pale white, and her burning through the salt, a jolt of lightning shocked the floor she stood on. A shriek escaped her lips as the wave of pure mana flooded the room turning the orange-gold light of the sun a violent purple. Saliva scaped her lips as she continued to scream, and her sword began to shatter into millions of pieces, being replaced by a weapon of blood.

“First Sergeant—”

“Engage! Fall back!”

Snapping their metal rifles up a torrent of bullets flew down range targeting both groups present within the throne room. Pink mist, crimson droplets, and tears were thrown into the cold air. The overpenetration of the rounds fired smashed into the stone walls and breached the painted windows surrounding the room. Glass shards gave way to golden light. Turning mute from her screams, Lecca stepped forward.

She remained deaf to Captain Orwell’s cries to retreat.

Cursing as he released an empty magazine; the First Sergeant removed his pistol and aimed it at the prince. However, the younger man was quicker and lunged at the rifleman breaking the sound barrier. Taking three steps back, the man was lucky enough to lose his right arm as Lecca focused her nullification spell on the entire room, cutting the use of all magic with the exception of her own.

Jerking back biting his tongue, the NCO fell to the ground and retrieved the pistol from his separated appendage. Prince Simon didn’t have a time to kill him as Lecca lunged forward pericing the boy’s shoulder with her crimson blade. “Princess!” He cried out looking over his shoulder and staring with wide eyes.

His body tumbles to the ground as blood from broken teeth now dribbles to the cavern floor. Miya breathes heavily, her eyes trained on the three dead killers now and one unconscious one, before turning to Levi. The look of prey she had in her eyes before was gone, replaced with a mixture of worry and exhaustion.

“Monster!”

She was one. The countless people she had killed, and now her own brother.

“Traitor!”

Leccamaradel had sold her allegiance not to a flag but a people.

“Liar!”

She never was a liar.

Removing the blade from his shoulder, the princess plunged it once more through the boy’s heart.

She was to kill the last person she once called ‘family’.

It was ironic. She never truly knew the man. His presence was limited.

How many more times?