**Captain James Nolan's Log, Supplemental**
**Discovery Bridge recording**
**34 days after Rothgard's Fall**
**They march for my people. So I answer in kind.**
Captain James Nolan stood motionless before the main holotable, arms folded, eyes locked on the satellite feeds. Albion's border defenses were collapsing under the Imperial tide. Columns of black-armored troops and supply wagons pushed relentlessly north through shattered villages. Greater dragons wheeled overhead like dark omens. Albion's knights and militia were falling back, their lines thinning with every passing hour. The kingdom teetered on the brink.
A day had passed since the first company of recruits began their crash-course training. One day. And the enemy was already marching straight toward Shire Valley—straight toward his people. No more hesitation. This was war. "Ali," Nolan said, voice calm and decisive. A.L.I.'s avatar materialized beside him, photonic patterns steady. "Yes, Captain?"
"Contact Colonel Grey. Raptor Squadron is cleared for immediate close air support on the Imperial rear. Target supply trains, artillery positions, and command nodes. Disable the dragons where possible—do not destroy unless they engage. We are not here to win their war, but we will not watch the Imperials slaughter civilians while we hide in orbit. They are coming for our people. We answer now."
A.L.I. inclined her head. "Understood. Targets and flight plans are being transmitted to the Squadron. I am ordering the chief of the boat to load air-to-ground cluster munitions on the Switchblades. Launch window in six minutes." Nolan gave a single, firm nod. The decision was made.
In the ready bay of the Raptor Squadron, Colonel Valerie "Valkyrie" Grey stood before her pilots, the deck vibrating faintly with the ship's orbital station-keeping thrusters. The twelve FS-64 Switchblade pilots listened in silence, their matte-black flight suits zipped tight, helmets tucked under arms.
"Listen up," Valkyrie said, voice steady and professional. "Orbital recon shows the Imperial rear is wide open. Supply trains, artillery batteries, and command nodes are clustered along the main advance corridor. We are going in hot, low, and fast—CAS profile. Cluster munitions for soft targets, precision strikes on anything armored. Dragons are priority one: disable flight capability if you can, but do not engage unless they turn on you. We drop, we hit, we climb. No loitering. Questions?" Major Jack "Blackjack" McCain, her XO, raised a hand. "Rules of engagement on ground troops?"
"Minimize civilian collateral. Hit the rear hard enough to break their momentum. That's it." Valkyrie's gaze swept the room. "We are not here to win their war. We are here to buy time for the people we came to protect. Mount up." Helmets clicked into place. Cockpit canopies sealed with soft hisses. The Switchblades rolled forward on their launch rails, fusion-augmented turbofans humming to life. One by one, they dropped from Discovery's belly, falling toward the blue curve of Terra like dark arrows. Re-entry heat bloomed around their forward-swept wings as they streaked through the upper atmosphere, contrails carving clean white lines across the sky.
On the ground, Imperial General Vesperian stood atop a command wagon, arms crossed, watching his legions push forward. Exhausted Albion troops were falling back in disarray, their lines thinning with every passing hour. His Greater dragons circled lazily overhead, their riders confident. The general's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Press them," he ordered calmly to his aides. "They are broken. Another push and the border collapses by nightfall. Send the reserves forward."
His confidence was absolute. The world would bend to the Draco Imperia.
The sky answered first.
Hypersonic missiles streaked down from orbit, invisible until the final seconds. The first slammed into the lead Greater dragon with a sound like the world cracking open. The massive beast screamed once, then plummeted, wings shredded, rider tumbling free. Two more missiles followed in rapid succession, striking the second and third dragons. One fell outright. The other spiraled downward, wing trailing smoke and blood, its rider fighting desperately for control. Before the general could shout a single order, the Switchblades broke through the clouds.
They came like vengeance itself—sleek, forward-swept wings gleaming as they dove. Cluster munitions rippled from their internal bays in precise salvos, blossoming into carpets of devastating fire across the Imperial rear lines. Supply wagons erupted in flames. Artillery positions vanished in rolling explosions. Hundreds of black-armored troops were cut down in seconds as the munitions shredded formations and shattered morale.
The Switchblades pulled up hard, afterburners flaring, and streaked back toward orbit before a single dragon rider could turn to pursue. The sky was empty again within moments. General Vesperian stood frozen on his wagon, face twisted in rage. A quarter of his force lay wounded or dead behind him. One Greater dragon was gone. Two others were crippled and grounded. Smoke rose in thick columns from what had been his supply heart. "Impossible," he snarled, fists clenched until his knuckles whitened. "Find them! Find whoever dares strike us from the heavens and bring me their heads!"
His aides scattered, but the damage was done. The advance slowed. The border held—just barely—for another day. High above, on Discovery's bridge, Nolan watched the satellite feed as the Imperial columns faltered. A.L.I. stood silently beside him. "Mission complete, Captain," she reported quietly. "No losses. Raptors are returning to orbit." Nolan exhaled slowly, the weight of command settling on his shoulders like familiar armor. "Good. Keep the feeds live. We bought them time. Now we see what they do with it." The stars wheeled silently beyond the viewport. Below, a new war had begun—one where the sky itself could answer.