Location: Moscow, Russia – Kremlin Security Command
The alert system screamed red.
General Orlov stood stiffly in front of a high-resolution monitor, jaw clenched as a satellite feed displayed an impossible image: a winged figure hovering in the stratosphere above Russian territory.
"What is this?" he barked.
A shaken aide replied, "We thought it was a drone at first. But sir—satellite L-92 zoomed in. The wings... the wings span over a mile. It's humanoid. No propulsion. No aircraft signature."
Orlov's stare hardened. "Has it attacked?"
"Not yet. But she's broadcasting something—high-frequency waves. Not hertz. Not anything we can trace through standard spectrum analysis. She's... speaking through the wind."
---
In the Air Above Siberia
Velkyr hovered in silence, her body radiant against the sun's edge. The stratosphere warped around her like ripples in a broken mirror.
She saw them coming.
Jets.
Sleek, modern. Weapons loaded. Six in formation.
Below, missile silos armed. Satellites re-targeted. The Earth's most brutal systems of war prepared to strike her down like a myth uninvited.
And she waited.
Not out of arrogance.
But grief.
---
Russian Federation Defense Command – Operation Seraph
At 09:30 UTC, Russia authorized a direct military response under code: Operation Seraph.
Twelve fifth-generation fighters armed with long-range heat-seeking missiles approached the target. Orders were clear.
Neutralize the entity.
"Visual on target," said the squadron leader. "She's not engaging."
"Locking," came another voice. "She's just... standing there."
"Fire at will."
Twelve missiles soared skyward—screaming toward the myth reborn.
---
Velkyr Responds
She saw the weapons long before they reached her.
In ancient days, kings threw spears. Now, they hurled fire and thunder in tin cans.
She exhaled.
One beat of her wings scattered the clouds into a vortex. Wind sliced across the sky with sonic fury.
The missiles? Gone. Dissipated mid-flight into snow.
The jets? Spun out of control, tossed like leaves.
One pilot's last visual was her eyes—violet suns burning with a sorrow older than nations.
Then silence.
---
Back in the Kremlin
Static flooded every screen.
"Sir, we've lost all communication with the squadron!"
Orlov slammed his fist on the console. "Send the drones. Send the SAMs. Bring her down!"
Another officer stammered, "Sir... she's descending. Fast."
---
Groundfall
Velkyr touched down thirty miles outside Norilsk, her feet cracking the tundra. Winds howled in her wake. Trees bent. Buildings shook.
Civilians ran. Soldiers formed barricades.
She raised a hand—not to attack—but to command the elements.
The snow stopped.
Time slowed.
Velkyr walked into the city like a prophet of the end times.
And the people stared.
Some screamed.
Some knelt.
Most simply watched.
She stepped into the square and raised her voice—not with rage, but sorrow.
> "You have forgotten the sky.
You chained the wind to machines.
You made gods of war and currency.
You desecrated your own myths.
But I forgive you.
For you are broken.
And broken things must be remade."
With a single sweep of her wings, the city's infrastructure shut down.
No explosions. No destruction.
Just... sleep.
Lights dimmed. Guns powered down. Drones fell from the sky.
She didn't kill.
She simply stopped the city.
Then vanished in a shimmer of stormlight.
---
Worldwide Reaction
CNN Breaking News: "Unknown Entity Causes Power Collapse Across Norilsk. Government Denies Mythic Involvement."
BBC Report: "Russian Jet Squadron Lost in High-Altitude Collision. Conspiracy Theories Rise."
Avalon Emergency Feed:
Lucian's voice cracked. "She took down an entire city—without firing a shot. This wasn't revenge. It was a message."
Isaiah's face appeared. "She's drawing a line."
Suri added, "She's saying: 'Join me—or stay out of my way.'"
Ayar leaned into the feed. "We're out of time. If she thinks she's the only one who can 'remake' the world, then the Maw will find her. Use her. Or worse—merge with her."
Lucian nodded grimly. "Then we find her first."
---
Location: Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia – Temple Ruins
The winds whispered to an old monk sitting in lotus posture.
He opened his eyes as the mountain howled.
"She returns."
Acolytes behind him murmured prayers.
He smiled.
And said, "Let the Winged Queen be tested—by the child of storm and fire."