A few hours had passed since the funeral. The sky hung heavy with a pale, mournful gray as steam hissed steadily from the Imperial Skyport of Lumenia.
The vast complex pulsed with motion and sound—a sprawling fortress of stone, metal, and magic built to launch the kingdom's military airships.
These great flying vessels, powered by a seamless fusion of arcane energy and engineering, were a familiar sight in every major city.
But none matched the grandeur of Lumenia's skyport, the largest of them all.
Perched on the eastern edge of the capital, the skyport stretched wide, with stone platforms broad enough to hold armies, and towering docks that reached into the clouds for fueling and repairs.
Steam hissed from iron pipes; glowing runes etched into the ground cast an eerie light.
Workers scurried across the decks—some carrying heavy tools, others mages weaving magic to levitate supplies.
Here, magic and machine moved together in perfect harmony, a disciplined symphony of war readiness.
Rows of airships stood at attention.
Some were sleek and fast, crafted for scouting and swift strikes.
Others loomed massive and armored, bristling with weapons, engines humming with lethal promise.
Every vessel was battle-ready, waiting only for the call.
Though these skyports were scattered across the kingdom's major cities, today Lumenia's was different.
Today, the King himself stood at the heart of it all.
King Theron, clad in silver armor embossed with the golden sigil of the royal family, stood near his personal flagship—the Lux Invicta.
This immense white and gold airship dwarfed the others, built as much for command as for combat.
Its gleaming metal plates shimmered with protective enchantments, and the royal crest carved into its prow proclaimed authority.
Even at rest, it seemed poised to strike.
Nobles began arriving—some in small escort ships, others driving motorcars adorned with their house crests.
They came not for ceremony but for resolve.
A car door opened.
Count Alaric Carvon stepped out, silver armor gleaming beneath a dark green cloak.
His dark hair caught the faint sunlight as he moved forward with steady, purposeful steps.
"Your Majesty," Lord Carvon said, pressing a fist to his chest.
"House Carvon stands with you—in grief, and in the hunt for the demon that took our queen."
"As does House Elliren," a voice declared from the shadows.
Viscount Renar Elliren emerged, a man in his forties, his pale blue coat immaculate, his cobalt hair tied back with precise care.
His gloved hand brushed the fabric thoughtfully.
"We will not let that demon walk the world unpunished."
King Theron met their gazes with a solemn nod. He said nothing. Words belonged to funerals. This—this was something darker.
One by one, the nobles of the Empire arrived.
Not with fanfare or celebration, but with quiet determination.
Their banners hung low; beneath velvet cloaks, armor gleamed faintly.
They were not here for court, but for war—the hunt had begun.
Suddenly, a low, thrumming hum cut through the murmurs.
Heads snapped upward.
From the cloud-shrouded sky descended a long, narrow vessel—sleek and black, its hull inscribed with runes pulsing with restrained menace.
The Blackwing Vanguard had arrived.
The airship slowed to a hover, engines rolling like distant thunder.
From its belly, armored plates slid open, revealing a massive ramp that extended to the ground.
The heavy clanging of boots echoed as figures clad in shadowsteel marched down, their faces hidden behind mirrored helms.
At their head walked a striking woman, her silver-white hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes glowing an eerie yellow.
She was the commander of the Blackwing Vanguard—the Crown's Hand, Commander Kaela Virell, a seven-star Knight.
Not a single word was spoken.
As one, they approached the king and dropped to one knee.
"We are yours," Commander Kaela said, her voice a fierce blend of steel and fire.
King Theron's eyes fell on them, gaze heavy from grief