May 14, 2XX9
Five years had passed since the truth came out—since the names Emilie, Mona, and Ayaka were cleared before the eyes of an entire continent.
The world finally knew the faces behind the Ghosts of Emberhowl.
And in the calm that followed the storm, each of them charted a new flight path—no longer as soldiers, but as women who had survived a war history almost erased.
Ayaka found her calling not in the skies, but through the disciplined precision of kendo—the art of the blade.
Her movements—once defined by stick and rudder—became strikes and ripostes honed through relentless practice. The quiet grace she once carried in the cockpit now lived through the ring of bamboo swords.
Within two years, she became the youngest finalist in the All-Inazuma Kendo Championship. By the fourth, she was unbeatable—four consecutive titles, each victory a symbol of her control, her focus, her refusal to lose herself again.
When reporters asked if her swordsmanship was inspired by flying, she only smiled.
"Both require calm in chaos," she'd say. "Both demand trust—in your training, in your reflexes, in yourself."
Mualani walked another road entirely.
Branded a traitor after the war, her name was stricken from every record—her callsign erased from official rosters. But the ocean remembered her.
She disappeared to the coasts of Liyue, living among the surf and wind. There, she learned to listen again—to the tides, to the rhythm of nature instead of radio chatter and missile locks. Her return came quietly, not in an aircraft, but on a surfboard.
Seven consecutive Teyvat National Surfing Championship titles later, she was unstoppable—a storm riding her element. To the public, she was "Tempest," the surfer who conquered the sea.
To those who knew the truth, she was still Mualani, who once tore through enemy airspace with the same fearless rhythm she now brought to the waves.
Mona, on the other hand, aimed higher—beyond atmosphere, beyond Teyvat itself.
With Imena's personal endorsement—now the former President—Mona joined the Sellaris Space Program. The academics who once doubted her were forced to reconsider when she passed the astronaut qualification exams with record-breaking scores.
On October 10th, 2XX7, the Sellaris One spacecraft launched into orbit with Mona Megistus in command.
The image of her saluting on the launch pad—helmet tucked under her arm, stars reflected in her visor—became an icon across the continent.
She and her six crewmates would spend two years off-world, studying atmospheric behavior and conducting experiments on orbital propulsion. From her capsule window, Mona would often look back at the blue sphere of Teyvat—quiet, fragile, and finally at peace.
Emilie, however, remained the most visible of the three.
Once the lead pilot of Wolfsbane, later the commanding ace of Emberhowl, she was now immortalized as one of Teyvat's greatest aviators—second only to Arlecchino of Snezhnaya on the official Deadliest Aces list.
The title embarrassed her more than it flattered her. "That list just means I lived longer than most," she often joked.
Yet her fame never dulled her discipline. She split her life between her civilian career and the skies.
Her boutique in Fontaine—the Maison Écarlate—became a phenomenon. Perfumes like Ailes de Nuit and Afterburner No. 14 became instant classics, known for their depth and longevity. The fashion world called her a visionary; to Emilie, it was just another kind of mission planning—balance, structure, harmony.
At the same time, she maintained ties to the military. Twice a month, she returned to Windrise Air Force Base as a consultant for the Teyvat Air Commission and Fontaine Law Enforcement, helping design and evaluate new-generation aircraft.
Some of her input directly influenced the TAF-29 Falconess—Teyvat's next air superiority platform, a hybrid born from the legacy of the F-14A she once flew.
Deep beneath Windrise Base, in a hangar sealed behind blast doors, the original Emberhowl F-14A Tomcats rested beneath protective shrouds.
Their once battle-worn fuselages had been polished and restored. The faint scorch marks under the tailpipes still bore witness to their combat history. Emilie's aircraft—its tail emblazoned with the crimson Emberhowl emblem—was parked first in line, wings folded, engines silent but proud.
On one maintenance checklist, a mechanic had scribbled in pencil:
"Don't touch this one. She's seen more than we ever will."
A few hangars away, the four original Wolfsbane F-14As still stood mothballed at Petrichor Island—untouched since that final day when Emilie, Mona, Ayaka, Kaeya, and Houallet were exiled.
Dust gathered on their canopies. Seabirds perched on their tails.
Yet for anyone who walked among them, it was impossible not to feel it—the silent aura of warriors who had once fought the impossible.
Ghosts of a forgotten sky.
The skies over Charybdis were clear—an endless stretch of deep blue, scattered with thin white contrails drifting lazily toward the horizon.
At a quiet café on the outskirts of the airbase, Emilie sat beneath a shaded patio awning. Her posture was relaxed, legs crossed, a half-finished cup of coffee sitting on the small iron table beside her. A paperback novel lay open in her hand, but her attention wandered more often than she'd admit—her gaze occasionally flicking skyward whenever a distant turbofan hum broke the stillness.
She hadn't completely let go of that habit—the instinct to look up at the sound of engines.
Then, she heard it: tires on pavement.
A sleek black SUV rolled into the gravel lot, its paint reflecting the clear light like polished glass. The engine cut. The rear door opened, and a tall woman in a tailored charcoal suit stepped out, posture as precise as ever.
Imena.
Emilie smiled faintly, closing her book and setting it on the table.
"Right on time, Madam President."
Imena returned a quiet smirk. "Former president, thank you very much." She pulled out a chair opposite Emilie and sat, her movements neat and deliberate. "You're looking well, Emilie. Civilian life seems to suit you."
Emilie chuckled, picking up her cup again. "Can't complain. You holding up all right yourself?"
Imena exhaled through her nose, a small laugh escaping. "Barely. Turns out retirement's a lot of shaking hands and pretending I'm still busy."
"Damn right," Emilie said, grinning.
For a moment, they simply sat in the quiet. The low rumble of a passing C-17 in the distance filled the air, fading into silence.
Imena's tone softened. "So… how's the family been? Since your name got cleared?"
Emilie's smile dimmed slightly. "It wasn't easy. The press conference made it official, but to them—it was like watching a ghost walk off that stage. Mom cried for hours. Dad didn't know what to believe."
"But they came around?" Imena asked gently.
"They did," Emilie said. "Took some tears and a few long nights, but yeah. We're good now. We talk every week."
Imena nodded. "I'm glad. You deserve that peace."
Then, without another word, she reached into her bag and pulled out a thick, worn binder, its edges frayed and corners bent from handling. She placed it on the table with a soft thud.
Emilie raised an eyebrow. "What's this, a homework assignment?"
"Go on," Imena said, tilting her head. "Have a look."
Emilie hesitated, then slid the binder closer. The cover bore the faded emblem of the Teyvat Air Defense Force—its gold lettering barely legible. She flipped it open to a random page… and froze.
It was a high-altitude reconnaissance photograph—taken from an enemy aircraft during the raid on Imperatora Industries' munitions plant in North Dornman. The shot captured four F-14A Tomcats in formation, their wings still swept, surrounded by a mixed flight of F/A-18 Hornets, Su-30s, and even a few F-22 Raptors. The rising sun burned across their canopies like molten glass.
Emilie's breath caught. "Holy shit…"
She turned the page. Another image—grainy, black and white—showed the four Emberhowl Tomcats parked on a rural highway outside Marcotte City. Their canopies were open, ladders deployed, crews swarming around them. In the distance, the first light of dawn crept over the hills.
She flipped faster now—each page a floodgate.
Shots from the Arkhe's deck: Emilie briefing her squadron beside their F-5 Tiger IIs. Mona laughing with Kaeya by the catwalks. Candace standing by her aircraft, helmet tucked under one arm. Debriefs. Maintenance reports. After-action notes scribbled in pencil margins.
It wasn't just documentation—it was a chronicle of everything they'd lived through.
"Our last sortie…" Emilie whispered, tracing her finger over one photo. "How did you—where did all this come from?"
Imena smiled faintly. "That binder holds every declassified file from the Dawnfront War—what they're calling the Khaenri'ahn Conflict now. Training accidents, court-martial transcripts, mission logs, even the coded directives that ordered your exile. Every black op, every report."
She paused, eyes glinting. "Houallet took most of those photos himself. He kept meticulous records—guess his camera was his way of making sure none of you disappeared completely."
Emilie leaned back, still stunned. "All this time… it was sitting in a vault somewhere."
"Not anymore," Imena said simply.
They sat in silence, the sound of the wind stirring the café's awning. Somewhere far off, a pair of F-16s roared on takeoff from Charybdis Air Force Base.
Emilie exhaled slowly, staring down at the binder. "News outlets must be losing their minds right now."
"Oh, they are," Imena said dryly. "Half the continent's rewriting its history books as we speak."
That earned a laugh from Emilie. "Serves them right."
Imena leaned forward. "Got any plans today?"
"Not really," Emilie said, stretching her arms. "Might stop by the hangar later. Maybe check on the Tomcats."
"Still keeping an eye on them, huh?"
"Old habits die hard."
Imena nodded knowingly. "I've got a final inspection tomorrow—the orbital elevator, before Sellaris One docks in December."
Emilie's eyes lit up. "Ah, that's right—Mona's coming home this year."
"She is," Imena said, smiling softly. "Talked to her last week. She's itching to see the old Emberhowl crew again."
"Damn right," Emilie said with a grin. "Been too damn long."
Imena rose from her seat, straightening her blazer with her usual precision. "All right, Captain. I'll let you get back to your peace and caffeine."
Emilie stood too, extending a hand. "Good seeing you again, Imena."
Imena clasped it firmly. "Likewise. And Emilie… keep that binder safe. That's your history in there."
"I will," Emilie said.
Imena gave a thumbs-up, turned, and disappeared into her waiting SUV. The engine started, and the black vehicle rolled down the quiet road, shrinking into the distance until it vanished into the shimmering afternoon haze.
For a long while, Emilie didn't move. She sat back down, watching contrails drift high above the horizon—ghostly streaks against the pale blue. Then her gaze fell back to the binder resting on the bench beside her.
She ran her hand over the cover, the embossed insignia catching the light.
After a moment, she closed it gently and whispered to herself, almost like a sigh carried by the wind:
"…Imena, oh Imena."
The late morning sun hung high over Charybdis, casting long, sharp shadows across the café patio. The chatter of pilots and ground crews mixed with the distant growl of engines from the nearby airbase.
Emilie sat quietly, one hand resting on her half-empty cup, the other brushing against the worn binder beside her. The air smelled faintly of roasted beans, aviation fuel, and sea breeze—a scent that felt oddly like home.
Then, right on cue, she heard a light, quick step behind her.
A young woman approached—barely out of training, by the look of her. She had short white hair streaked with blue and wore a Fontaine Air Force flight suit that still looked too new, the fabric stiff and freshly pressed. Her helmet bag hung off one shoulder.
"Um, miss?" she asked, polite but nervous. "I hope you don't mind if I sit here? There's no other table available."
Emilie looked up, mildly amused. The kid had that same spark in her eyes she used to see in Mona and Ayaka years ago.
She gestured casually toward the empty seat.
"Help yourself, kid."
"Thanks, miss."
The young pilot sat down, adjusting her posture automatically—spine straight, shoulders squared, every movement a little too crisp, the mark of someone still wired from training. The faint scent of jet fuel clung to her uniform.
Emilie smirked. "From the way you're dressed, I'd guess you're a fighter pilot."
"Yes, ma'am," the young woman answered, tone respectful but bright.
Emilie chuckled. "Heh. Reminds me of myself years ago."
The girl leaned forward slightly. "You served in the Air Force?"
Emilie nodded, her gaze softening. "That's right. Part of an auxiliary squadron off the coast of Fontaine—long time ago."
"I see," the girl said, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
Emilie extended a hand across the table. "Emilie."
The young woman hesitated just a second, then shook her hand firmly. "Second Lieutenant Furina de Fontaine."
Emilie blinked. "Furina, huh? I've heard that name before."
Furina's eyes widened. "Oh? Y-you did?"
Emilie chuckled, folding her arms. "A couple of my old buddies over at Charybdis mentioned you. Top graduate of the Royal Fontaine Air Force Academy, right?"
Furina rubbed the back of her neck, smiling sheepishly. "Yeah… that's me."
"Impressive," Emilie said, leaning back. "What'd they have you fly during training?"
"A Dassault Rafale, marine variant," Furina replied instantly, the pride in her voice unmistakable.
Emilie arched a brow. "A Rafale, huh? Not bad."
"Yeah," Furina said, animated now. "One hell of a jet, if you ask me. Agile, versatile, responsive—it flies like it's part of you."
Emilie laughed softly. "I wish I could say the same, Lieutenant."
Furina tilted her head. "Oh? What kind of plane did you fly, Miss Emilie?"
Emilie's lips curved into a nostalgic grin. "F-14A Tomcats."
Furina blinked. "Tomcats? As in—those massive carrier interceptors?"
"That's right," Emilie said. "We didn't get the newest birds back then. Always a generation behind. But for my squadron? We loved them. They were temperamental, loud, and heavy as hell—but damn, when those twin TF30s kicked in, nothing in the sky felt like it."
Furina nodded slowly, her expression a mix of respect and curiosity. "No denying that. They were legends."
"Yeah," Emilie said softly, the word carrying more weight than it should have. "They were."
After a pause, she asked, "What squadron are you assigned to?"
"Armée de l'Air 405th Tactical Fighter Squadron—Tidal Squadron," Furina replied proudly.
Emilie's eyes lit up at the name. "Ah, the 405th. I remember them. Flew alongside one of their pilots once."
She squinted slightly, searching her memory. "Can't recall her real name, but I'll never forget her callsign—Ritesword. Flew an F/A-18. Saved my ass more than a few times."
Furina's jaw dropped. "Wait—you knew the 405th?"
Emilie smiled faintly. "Sure did."
The young pilot snapped her fingers, suddenly grinning. "Speaking of Tomcats… you've heard of the Demons of Emberhowl, right?"
The air seemed to shift just slightly. Emilie's expression didn't change much, but her fingers brushed against her cup a little tighter before she answered, calm and even.
"Yeah. I've heard of them. What about it?"
Furina leaned back, her voice dropping into that quiet, almost reverent tone reserved for legends.
"Just that old saying, you know?"
She recited it softly, almost word for word, like something memorized from a briefing room wall:
"When history witnesses a great change, Emberhowl reveals itself—first, as a dark demon. And as a demon, it uses its power to rain death upon the land… and then it dies. However, after a period of slumber, Emberhowl returns—but this time, as a great hero."
Emilie nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's how the saying goes."
Furina smiled faintly. "You don't happen to know anything about those old auxiliary squadrons, do you? Wolfsbane or Emberhowl?"
Emilie gave a small smirk, voice casual. "Can't say I do."
Furina grinned wider. "Funny thing though—you've got the same name as one of them. Emilie of Emberhowl. Callsign Raven. And you—Emilie."
Emilie scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Really? Must be one hell of a coincidence."
"Maybe," Furina said with a quiet laugh.
Just then, Furina's phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it, then checked her watch. The moment of calm shifted back into formality.
"Well, I should head back. Got a meeting with the commander."
She stood, straightening her flight suit and giving a neat, professional nod. "Nice meeting you, Miss Emilie."
Emilie smiled and rose slightly. "Nice meeting you too, Furina."
The young pilot turned to leave, but Emilie called out one last time.
"Oh—Furina?"
Furina paused by the door, looking back over her shoulder. "Yes, Emilie?"
Emilie gave her a small, sincere smile. "Stay safe up there, alright? You're one of the next generation of aces."
Furina's eyes brightened. She stood a little taller, pride shining through the modest façade.
"I'll do my best, ma'am."
With that, she turned and stepped out into the sunlight, the glass door swinging shut behind her.
Emilie stayed where she was, eyes fixed on the empty doorway. The café had quieted again; only the hum of engines and clinking cups filled the air.
She leaned back in her seat, looking down at the cooling coffee. "That kid's got a lot of spark," she murmured. "I've seen the Tidal Squadron's sim tapes. Kid can pull off maneuvers you wouldn't believe."
A quiet chuckle escaped her lips.
"If a war broke out today," she said softly, eyes lifting toward the clear blue sky, "she'd be the one to end it."
The wind stirred through the open patio, rustling the pages of her binder—those fragments of history—before settling again into stillness.
Emilie smiled faintly, gaze distant.
And somewhere far above Charybdis, a new generation of contrails began to carve across the heavens.