The silence in Maximilian's private study was heavier than the polished steel of his desk, broken only by the crackle of a dying log in the hearth. The reports laid out before him, bound in plain, official parchment, detailed a truth so dire it threatened the very foundation of his kingdom: the metal reserves in Valum were depleting at a very alarming rate. These metals—the iron for their rails, the copper for their communications, the steel for their weapons—were entirely reliant on trade, as Valum didn't have mines; they imported all their metals. The accelerating consumption, driven by an ambitious military and industrial expansion, meant the national stockpile had less than two years before it hit a critical, paralyzing low. It was a countdown to irrelevance.
Maximilian had barely slept. He had seen the early warning signs, but the speed of the decline was terrifying. He knew what the true cost of their dependence was, and now, that bill was due. He looked up as the doors opened, ushering in a delegation that had bypassed every layer of bureaucracy. They were not ministers or generals, but the workers' representatives—the men and women who ran the smelting plants and the weapons factories. Their faces, usually grimed with soot and stubborn pride, were now pale with fear. They looked past the guards and the advisors, their eyes fixed solely on Maximilian for help.
The lead representative, a stout man named Elias who had worked the same forge for forty years, took a hesitant step forward. "My Lord," Elias began, his voice gravelly and low, "the whispers are becoming shouts. The shipments are irregular, the prices are extortionate, and the factory floors are slowing. If we lose the metal, we lose the means to fight, to build, to eat. We are here to beg you to find a source. Valum needs a stable future."
Maximilian pushed himself up from his chair, a figure of contained tension. He walked to a map of the surrounding territories, his finger tracing a path far to the east. He turned back, his gaze sweeping over the worried faces—military, civilian, and labor alike. "You speak of stability, Elias," Maximilian said, his voice cutting through the tension with surprising clarity. "I agree. The coffers are low, not because we spend too much, but because we buy what we should own. Dependence ends now. The cure for this crisis is not diplomacy or new trade routes; it is territory and resources."
He paused, letting the implications sink in before delivering the edict that would change everything. "I have a new mission, one that cuts the knot of our vulnerability. I require one hundred soldiers, the best we have, men with iron in their will. They will be trained not for marching in columns, but for surgical warfare. Their mission is to take over Scofield's castle in a month's time."
A collective sharp intake of breath filled the room. Scofield's castle was not just a fortress; it was the chokepoint to the largest known unexploited veins of copper and iron ore in the region—a colossal, invaluable prize. General Kyle, Valum's most senior military officer, a man whose caution was legendary, stepped forward. "My Lord, that is a position considered impregnable. Its garrison is three thousand strong, and the cliffs surrounding it are a natural defense. A hundred men—even the finest—in a month? It is, begging your pardon, an act of madness."
"Madness, General, is waiting for our reserves to fail," Maximilian countered. "The timeline is harsh because the crisis is immediate. That month will be spent in brutal training. We will forgo conventional exercises. We will push them until their bodies break and their minds are the only things holding them together. This will be the foundation for the creation of a special operations program—a permanent, elite force capable of winning wars before the enemy knows they've begun. This is necessary because conventional war takes months; we have weeks."
The training ground became a legend in whispers almost immediately. It was a scar carved into the rock face beyond the parade grounds, an isolated arena of suffering and transformation. The hundred men chosen—a mix of former scouts, shock troops, and those with a history of impossible survival—were stripped of their regimental pride and forged anew. They learned to kill silently, to communicate without sound, and to drop from high elevations without injury. Their bodies were starved for rest, and their minds were constantly tested with complex, high-pressure tactical scenarios. Maximilian watched every drill, understanding that he wasn't just building a unit; he was building a doctrine.
His attention to detail extended to their equipment. Maximilian, a student of history and applied mechanics, had never been comfortable with the army's standard issue. He knew the devastating drawbacks of the single-shot rifles currently favored by Valum's infantry: their slow rate of fire and their inadequacy in the close, chaotic fighting that defined a castle assault. He had retreated to his private workshops, working with his engineers, to find a rapid-fire solution.
"The enemy will be relying on their sturdy barricades and fixed positions," Maximilian explained to his chief armorer, Colonel Voss, over a table scattered with schematics. "Our men will be fighting in stairwells, narrow halls, and curtain walls. A single, slow shot is a death sentence in those environments."
His solution was to look to the past, specifically to the designs of the early-to-mid 20th century. He had painstakingly reinvented the Russian PPSH-41 and the PPS-43, adapting their drum and stick magazines for Valum's standard 9mm pistol cartridge, a modification that simplified logistics and drastically increased the sustained rate of fire. The resulting weapon was compact, rugged, and devastatingly effective in close quarters. "They need to lay down a wall of fire as they breach a door," Maximilian stated, tapping a finger on the drawing of the modernized PPS-43. "These are weapons built for this mission. They are the tools of surgical violence."
The attack plan was centered on a single, audacious element: the airship. Valum's new, massive military-grade airship, recently completed, would approach under the cover of a mountainous weather front. The hundred soldiers, now designated the Aether Hawks, would execute a mass drop, paratrooping directly onto the inner courtyard and main towers of Scofield's castle. Their mission was to secure the castle until ground reinforcements arrive, seizing the command points and neutralizing the garrison leadership before a proper defense could be organized. It was a race against the sun, against time, and against the overwhelming odds.
As the mission drew closer, the tension among the senior staff reached a fever pitch. A formal meeting was called, unprecedented in its unity of purpose—military and civilian officials were aligned in a single, desperate plea.
General Kyle once again led the charge, his voice resonating with deep, professional anxiety. "My Lord," he pleaded, standing before Maximilian who was already clad in a simple, practical leather tunic suitable for travel. "The men are ready. The weapons are sound. The plan is flawless in its audacity. But a contingency for your personal safety must be implemented. You are not a paratrooper; you are the Sovereign of Valum. If you fall, the entire state falls into chaos, and the mission, even if successful, will be irrelevant."
"General Kyle is correct, My Lord," Minister Alva chimed in, his civilian robes seeming to wilt under the weight of the moment. "The risk to the airship is already too great. To have you aboard, the absolute center of our legitimacy and power, is to put the fate of Valum into one vulnerable basket. Please, My Lord, for the future of us all, reconsider. We fear for your life."
A half dozen other voices, both military and civilian, joined the chorus, detailing scenarios of capture, death, and catastrophic political fallout. They had never pushed back with such a unified, forceful front, their shared fear for his life overcoming their ingrained obedience.
Maximilian let them speak, listening to the desperate logic of self-preservation that dominated their concerns. When the room fell silent, he walked to a cabinet and pulled out a modernized PPS-43, the cool steel a sharp contrast to the warm wood. He checked the magazine and set the safety.
"The soldiers I send have wives, children, and parents. They are asked to perform the impossible," Maximilian said, turning to face his staff, his eyes like chips of blue ice. "They are asked to stare into the abyss of defeat and seize victory. I cannot ask them to carry the fate of the nation if I am unwilling to carry it myself. Leadership is not a title, gentlemen; it is a weight. When I step onto that airship, my presence is a force multiplier. It tells every soldier they are fighting for more than just a paycheck or a flag; they are fighting with their Lord beside them."
He gave a small, decisive shake of his head. "I am planning on joining them. Your request is denied."
He raised his hand to preempt any further argument. "I do not seek glory; I seek to inspire confidence. If this mission secures our future, I must be there to command the final push. If it fails, I will stand with my men. Prepare the final launch protocols. This discussion is concluded. Valum's future is secured in the air and paid for in blood, my own included."
His decision, absolute and final, crushed the remaining opposition, leaving the room heavy with a mixture of terror and awe. The senior staff knew that Valum was no longer just a kingdom of trade and bureaucracy; it was now a kingdom defined by its reckless, ambitious, and utterly determined Lord. The airship would launch in three days, and the fate of their metal-starved nation would either be redeemed in a single, desperate military gamble or extinguished on the ramparts of Scofield's castle.