Captain's Log, Supplemental
DDSN-X100 USS Discovery
Captain James Nolan recording
Christening Date plus 42 days (estimated)
High orbit above Terra – colonization site selection locked
The valley is chosen.
The modules are prepared.
We descend in darkness.
The world below sleeps.
Or pretends to.
We leave no trace.
We take only what we need.
And we carry the weight of what we do not know.
Jasmine Same Roth moved through the streets of Rothgard like a ghost in armor.
The city that had once sung with market cries and lantern glow now whispered in fear. Carts rattled over cobblestones, piled high with crates and bundled children. Families pressed close, eyes darting toward the eastern horizon where the first black banners of the Imperia vanguard had appeared at dawn—marching west from the inland plains, unstoppable. The air smelled of smoke and salt and the faint metallic tang of mana-charged weapons being primed.
She wore no crown. No royal cloak. Just the mana-infused leather armor of a dragon-rider, twin magitech pistols at her hips, short sword sheathed across her back. Verdant waited on the castle ramparts with the other lesser forest dragons—wings folded, eyes glowing like embers in the gathering dark. The bond thrummed between them: steady, sorrowful, resolute.
The evacuation fleet gathered in the harbor below—merchant galleons, fishing ketches, even a few noble pleasure barges pressed into service. Sails were being raised. Lanterns dimmed. Children wept quietly in their mothers' arms.
Jasmine did not weep.
She walked.
Past shuttered shops and silent fountains. Past the statue of her grandfather, sword raised against the eastern horizon, past the last of the city guard directing civilians toward the docks. She moved with purpose, boots ringing softly on stone, until she reached the small Adoni church tucked against the western wall.
The building was modest—whitewashed stone, arched windows filled with stained glass that caught the last light of day in muted reds and golds. A single lantern burned above the door. Inside, the air was cool and thick with incense—myrrh and cedar, the scent of prayer.
Sebastian waited in the nave. The shepherd-inventor stood amid half-packed crates, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair falling across his brow. At thirty-two, he looked older—lines of sleepless nights etched around his eyes. His priest's robes were smudged with oil and soot; tools lay scattered around him like offerings. One crate lay open, revealing his latest work: the deep-indigo Mana Crystal Core, veins of silver-white light pulsing within; beside it, the compact electrical motor—copper windings gleaming, housing machined to tolerances no blacksmith could dream of achieving.
He looked up as she entered. The tension in his shoulders eased fractionally. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth—the same one he'd worn at sixteen when he'd been nothing but an altar boy with grand ideas, sneaking her extra communion wine behind the sacristy and swearing he'd one day build a machine that ran on prayer.
"Jas," he said, voice rough but warm. "Thought you'd be at the docks barking orders like you own the place." She crossed the nave, boots echoing softly. "I do own the place. Technically. And you're still late for everything."
He snorted. "Some things never change." The banter died as their eyes met—years of shared secrets, shared laughter, shared grief flashing between them in silence. He cared for her.
Always had. Even if her father hadn't ordered him to protect her, he would have gone anyway.
Sebastian gestured to the open crate. "It's ready. The core holds enough essence to power the ironclad for three days of continuous operation. The motor is an early prototype, but stable. No backlash. No overload. I installed the motors last night. All that's left is the core."
Jasmine knelt beside the crate, fingers brushing the crystal. It pulsed once—warm, almost alive—under her touch. "You're not staying," she said. Not a question.
Sebastian gave a small, sad smile. "Your father commissioned it from me six months ago. Told me it was for the crown's emergency reserve. Last week, he came to the workshop himself and told me the truth. It's yours—your personal escape vessel. The ironclad is berthed in the hidden cove north of the harbor: armored hull, steam-assisted mana engines, armored plating. I've already fitted the motors. The core goes in tonight. And I'm going with you." Jasmine looked up sharply. "Sebastian—"
"Don't." His voice cracked, but his eyes were steady. "I have contacts—Adoni churches across the Atlantia Islands. They'll shelter us, pass us west. The fleet will scatter; we'll slip through the gaps. Albion waits. Your father's noble kin will take you in. But the ironclad is your way out if the rest fails. And I'm not letting you go alone." She rose slowly. "You're giving up the city. The people."
"I'm saving the future," he said. "The ironclad can carry fifty armed, fast, low-profile. We take who we can, but you're the priority. Roth blood. Same blood. The Imperia won't stop until they have the throne." Jasmine's hand tightened on her sword hilt. "I can't leave them."
"You must." Sebastian stepped closer. "Your father ordered it. Your mother agreed. The Forest Clan will cover the retreat—your mother will lead them in the woods. The king will hold the walls as long as he can. But you—you carry the line forward. And I'm not watching you die here."
Silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, filled with all the words neither could say.
She stepped closer. "You're really coming with me." Sebastian reached out, brushed a stray braid from her face—the same gesture he'd done a hundred times when they were teenagers sneaking out after vespers. "I've been following you into trouble since we were sixteen. Think I'm stopping now?"
Jasmine's throat tightened. She managed a small, broken laugh. "You always were terrible at following orders." "Only the bad ones," he replied, voice softer. "We'll get through the islands. We'll get you to Albion. Together."
She nodded once—sharp, final.
He closed the crate, latched it, and lifted it with a grunt. "The core goes to the ironclad tonight. We leave at first light." Jasmine watched him carry the crate toward the side door that led to the hidden workshop beneath the church. She did not follow.
Outside, the sky darkened. Black banners moved west from the inland plains, drakonid wings darkening the horizon as Rothgard prepared to burn. And in the clouds above, Verdant circled once—watching, waiting, bond thrumming with shared sorrow.
The end approached on wings of fire.