The three airships, now flying steadily far above the cloud line, felt less like vehicles and more like fragile, roaring cages carrying the future. For the fifty members of the Order, most of whom were teenagers, the experience was an overwhelming mix of terror, elation, and nausea.
Inside the rattling cabin of the lead ship, the emotions were raw.
"Holy stars, we're actually flying," whispered Helga, her face pressed against the small window, watching the endless tapestry of clouds rush past. "I can't believe we built this. No runes, just math and metal."
Jonas, despite his constant worry, managed a weak grin. "Well, you helped lift the metal, Helga. We're doing what the nobles only dream of doing with their expensive Fire Wings. We're literally looking down on the Empire."
Mikael, however, was paler than usual. "Yeah, but it smells like a workshop and it sounds like a thousand buzzing wasps. And every time it vibrates, I think of that crater we left behind. Are they chasing us yet?"
"They're chasing ghosts, Mikael," Daemon's voice cut in, calm and focused from the cockpit. "They think we're on the ground, struggling through the woods. We have at least a day's lead on intelligence."
The initial exhilaration began to wear thin after nearly forty-eight hours of straight travel, coasting between 55 and 60 kilometers per hour. The continuous, harsh vibration was exhausting, and the smell of the biodiesel and hot metal was pervasive.
Suddenly, a loud, violent metallic clank echoed from the engine compartment. The airship pitched slightly, and the roar of the engines dropped noticeably.
"What was that?" Mikael gasped, gripping the seat.
Daemon's voice returned, sharper now. "Engine one has seized function. The lubricant, synthesized from local materials, proved inefficient against continuous high-friction operation. It was a calculated risk. It's a matter of time before the others follow."
Daemon immediately began communicating with the other two airships, instructing the designated pilots—the Eichorst twins and Hans—to conserve power and prepare for an urgent landing. His calculations indicated they were roughly two days out from Austria, placing them somewhere over the Balkans, a complex region hostile to the German Empire and nominally under the influence of the Sultan.
Under Daemon's precise guidance, the three airships smoothly descended, their ungainly bulk settling down onto a large, open meadow, the only safe, flat space visible through the sparse trees. They had enough fuel and provisions, including the packed lab equipment and B-1 stockpile, for at least two weeks, but the breakdown was a critical blow to their timeline.
As the members of the Order, weary but relieved, tumbled out to stretch their cramped legs and breathe the fresh, cool air, Daemon went straight to the lead ship's engine compartment. He needed to inspect the seized engine to diagnose the failure and find a way to salvage the remaining journey.
About an hour later, as Daemon was covered in grease, wrestling with the fused piston, the calm was broken. A scout—the Earth Magic twin—raced back to the camp.
"Daemon! Riders! Approaching fast! At least thirty of them!"
Jonas peered through a spyglass. "Horsemen. They're moving at breakneck speed. Someone must have spotted us landing, probably from a village."
Daemon wiped his hands on a rag, his face grim. He wasn't anywhere near done with the engines, and the last thing they needed was a confrontation that would expose their existence to a third party.
"We avoid force," Daemon stated, his mind already calculating risk. "We are strangers in a hostile land. The goal is information, not conflict. We attempt diplomacy first."
The horsemen arrived in a cloud of dust, armed with curved swords and short spears. Their leader, a broad man with a dark beard and severe eyes, pulled his horse to a sharp halt directly in front of the landed airships.
The leader spoke in a language unfamiliar to the Order, his voice hard and resonant: "Identify yourselves! In the name of the Sultan, declare your purpose here!"
Daemon, to the utter astonishment of his entourage, stepped forward and replied fluently, his tone measured and respectful. He understood the language—a dialect of Arabic he'd learned in his past life.
"My name is Daemon, and these are my scholars. We mean no harm to the Sultanate. We are travelers from the North, and our craft is purely scientific. We did not intend to stop here, but one of our propulsion units has failed. We will be repairing the damage and leaving within a few hours."
The leader, slightly mollified by the smooth, respectful reply, studied the strange man, the bizarre flying machines, and the entourage of teenagers. He frowned. "Your words are gracious, foreigner. However, precaution is necessary against spies and agents of the German King. I will permit your repairs, but one of you must come with us to the local garrison for questioning. It is temporary, but mandatory."
The tension among the Order members immediately spiked. "Daemon, no!" Helga stepped forward, clutching the grip of her concealed rapier. "It's a trap!"
"We can't let him go alone!" Jonas protested, channeling a low hum of Aether to his hands.
Daemon silenced them with a sharp glance, understanding the necessity of the sacrifice. Going with them was the quickest, safest way to gain essential political intelligence and secure their immediate position. Refusal would mean immediate, costly combat.
"I understand the necessity," Daemon stated to the leader. "I will accompany you. My people will remain here, and they are ordered to offer no resistance."
The leader nodded curtly, pleased with the easy compliance. He signaled two of his men to remain and watch the strange entourage, and then gestured for Daemon to mount a spare horse. As the rest of the horsemen wheeled around and galloped away, taking Daemon with them, the fifty members of the Order were left alone, stranded and vulnerable, their leader now in the custody of a foreign power.