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Chapter 1299: A Swift Attack

Outside Thorn Town at Cage Mountain, winter had opinions.

“Ah — atishoo —”

Good sneezed as he fought through gusts of snow into the hangar and dropped the ammunition case beside the plane. He slumped onto it. “I hate winter. It reminds me of being refugees.”

“Nobody likes the Months of Demons,” Finkin said, already crouching over his own wooden case and prying it open, “but true winter hasn’t arrived yet. You should feel lucky we’re near the sea — the coastal Months of Demons are mild compared to what you’d get inland.” He lifted shells and sorted them methodically. “Before His Majesty took over the Western Region, every winter was a question of whether your house would collapse on you in the night and whether you’d be fast enough to dig yourself out before you froze. You couldn’t stay inside because the snow would bury you; you couldn’t run because there was nowhere to go.”

“The Months of Demons in Neverwinter were really that bad?”

“That’s right. Nothing changed until His Majesty built the concrete houses.” Finkin looked up. “Why do you think he named the city Neverwinter?”

Good had no answer to that. He picked up his case and got to work.

The Fire of Heaven carried two machine guns: one fused with the airframe at the front, fed from a metal cartridge magazine that had to be removed and replaced completely; the other mounted on a rotating rack in the middle, operated exactly like the Mark I used by the Gun Battalion, loaded with a saddle-shaped drum magazine holding a hundred shells. When the rear gunner’s drum ran dry, he reloaded by hand. Two different weapons, two different disciplines.

After every mission, regardless of how many rounds had been fired, the ground staff reloaded both positions. But Good always came back to do it himself. The ritual was its own reward — every contact with the machine was time he felt he’d earned. He had no desire to give that to someone else.

A wave of cheering erupted outside.

Another student had passed the landing exam on the runway. Even in the snow, Her Highness ran two patrols a day over the northwestern Kingdom of Wolfheart and held theory sessions each night. She reviewed the day’s flight problems, corrected mistakes, and pushed the class until the sessions ran long past dark. The schedule left almost no space for rest.

Under her example, the students worked harder than they had in Neverwinter. This past week, not a single trainer aircraft had gone down.

Good finished fitting the new ammunition case into the front storage bay with his partner and walked to the hangar window. The runway was visible through the falling snow.

“Homesick?” Finkin came up behind him.

“I’m worried about being replaced.” Good turned to look at him. “We only have four fighters — one of which is Her Highness’ Unicorn. That means I have to be in the top three to fly a Fire of Heaven at all.” He looked back out the window. “Our edge is combat experience. But we haven’t seen a single demon yet. If even one of the new students is naturally gifted—”

Finkin was quiet longer than usual. Then, in a resigned tone: “Oi. You’re overthinking it. We’ve put thousands of live rounds into actual targets. Her Highness always says even the Gun Battalion needs months and thousands of wasted shells before they’re ready for real battle. That kind of experience matters.”

“But we don’t shoot well. Do we?”

Finkin had nothing to say to that.

The Aerial Knights had flown dozens of live-fire sorties since arriving, burning through ammunition on practice targets — balloons, hilltop trees, whatever Tilly designated. And Good had discovered something uncomfortable: he was a better pilot than he was a gunner, and the gap was wider than he’d expected. He’d watched a new recruit named Manfeld demonstrate an instinctive accuracy within his first days of training that Good still couldn’t reliably match.

He wasn’t wrong to be worried. He had no shortcut for it. Flying could be improved by repetition; shooting, apparently, was a different organ entirely.

Then the alarm pierced the hangar.

One sharp, cutting shriek — the kind that reached the spine before the ears processed it.

Good and Finkin turned to each other with identical expressions. When the alarm sounded, all training stopped. The runway was cleared. The four official Aerial Knights reported immediately to headquarters.

They had not heard it once since arriving at Thorn Town.

They ran.

The temporary headquarters was packed within minutes. Thirty-odd people, still catching their breath.

“We received a message from Iron Axe.” Princess Tilly stood at the map table, speaking without preamble. “A troop of demons has appeared two hundred kilometers north of the Gust Castle.” She pointed at the position. “The message came by animal courier; Iron Axe noted that there are refugees in the area and believes the demons are moving toward them. The Gust Castle garrison would take more than two days to reach the location — by then it would be too late.”

She let that sit a moment.

“Nobody else can cover that distance in two to three hours. The Fires of Heaven can. The demons have never shared the sky with us.” She looked around the room. “Aerial Knights — advance.”

“As you wish, Your Highness!”

The shout came as one voice.

Good was at the hangar before the echo died. He swung up into the pilot’s cabin, checked the engine controls by touch, pressed the ignition, and spun the starter lever. The motor caught; black smoke curled from the exhaust stack. He could feel the whole machine vibrate under him as the engine found its rhythm.

He pulled on his goggles. He waved once at the people watching from the hangar doors — and then he pushed down the lever, and the Fire of Heaven began to move.

Seven or eight minutes from the alarm to wheels-up: four biplanes lifted off the runway through falling snow and banked north, rising into the grey winter sky.

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