The ethereal hum of my flying machine vibrated through my bones as we soared over the Belgian countryside, the wind whipping at my cloak like an eager hound. I, Hans Muller, captain in the Empire's elite mage battalion, led this reconnaissance patrol— a small company of five, including myself, perched atop our arcane constructs. These weren't the clunky aeroplanes the Island Nation prided themselves on; no, ours were masterpieces of sorcery: shimmering wings of woven aether, bodies of lightweight alloy infused with runes that bent the air to our will. Silent, swift, and deadly. At thirty-five, with scars from a dozen skirmishes etched across my hands and face, I commanded respect. My men followed without question, their own machines gliding in formation beside mine.
We were high enough to evade casual eyes—about a thousand meters up—but close enough to spot details on the ground. The western front stretched below like a scarred canvas: mud-churned fields, shattered villages, and the ever-present haze of smoke from distant artillery. Our mission was simple: scout enemy positions in this neutral-turned-battleground of Belgians, report back, and strike if opportunity knocked. Sergeant Klaus flew to my right, his radio pack bulky on his back, antennae humming with latent energy.
"There," I said, pointing downward through the crystal lens strapped to my eye. A cluster of French and Belgian troops—perhaps a company strong—swarmed like ants, digging trenches along a low ridge. Shovels flashed, earth piled into parapets, machine guns being emplaced. They were fortifying fast, oblivious to the shadows above.
Klaus nodded, already tuning his radio. "Command, this is Eagle One. Enemy entrenching at grid Delta-Four. French and Belgians, mixed force. Request permission to engage."
Static crackled, then a voice: "Eagle One, green light. Neutralize and report."
I grinned beneath my goggles. "Form up. Enchant rounds—explosive yields. Fire on my mark."
We dove in unison, machines tilting gracefully. My hands glowed as I channeled mana into my rifle, runes igniting along the barrel. Bullets hummed with infused power. We unleashed hell from above: enchanted projectiles streaking down like judgment bolts. The first hits detonated on impact—trenches erupting in fireballs, bodies hurled skyward in ragged pieces. Limbs scattered, torsos shredded; one French soldier vanished in a crimson mist, his scream lost in the blast. The survivors panicked, scrambling as tracking bullets curved mid-air, homing in to explode against fleeing forms—guts spilling, bones shattering in wet cracks. Yells rose to us, faint but piercing: pleas for mercy, curses in French, the raw terror of men breaking. A few huddled in craters, alive but shattered, their fortifications reduced to smoking ruins.
Satisfied, we banked away, climbing back to altitude. "Target neutralized," Klaus radioed. "Minimal survivors."
The flight back to base— a fortified encampment five kilometers behind the front—took minutes. Tents clustered around rune-etched obelisks that warded against enemy spells, mechanized walkers standing sentinel like iron giants. We landed smoothly, machines dissipating into wisps of aether as we dismounted. I strode to HQ, a sturdy bunker dug into a hillside, and delivered my report to the colonel: positions mapped, threat eliminated. He nodded curtly. "Good work, Muller. The ground push will roll through unhindered."
Exhaustion tugged at me as I headed to my tent, a canvas shelter shared with my lieutenants. I collapsed onto my cot, boots still on, the adrenaline fading into a dull ache. The war's rhythm: strike, report, rest—repeat until victory or death.
The flap rustled; Battalion Leader Vogel entered, his uniform impeccable despite the mud. "Muller, a word." He was a stern man in his forties, runes tattooed on his arms for enhanced casting. "We've got a new recruit for your company. Fresh from the academy—top of her class. Name's Lena Schmitt, twenty years old. Fiercely nationalistic; bleeds black, red, and gold for the Empire."
Before I could respond, she stepped in behind him—tall for a woman, with sharp features, cropped blonde hair under her cap, and eyes burning with zeal. Her uniform was pristine, runes on her sleeves glowing faintly. The second she saw me, she snapped a salute so crisp it could cut glass. "Captain Muller! Lena Schmitt reporting for duty, sir! Ready for any mission to crush the Republic and its allies!"
I sat up, eyeing her. Enthusiasm like that was a double-edged sword—fuel for the fight, but blind to the horrors. "At ease, Schmitt. Welcome to hell. We'll start you easy: gear check and standby. No heroics yet."
Vogel chuckled. "She's yours now. And Muller—new orders. Scout Brussels; it's the next target for our ground troops. Flatten any visible defenses you find. Take your company, full strength. Dismissed."
He left, and Lena hovered, practically vibrating. "Sir, I'm honored. The Empire will prevail—I've trained for this!"
I nodded wearily. "Save the fire for the enemy. Rest while you can."
But orders waited for no one. I rallied my men—twenty strong now, including Lena—and we prepared. Machines materialized at our summons, aether coalescing into winged forms. Lena mounted hers with wide-eyed awe, her hands steady on the controls. "I'll watch the ground, sir," she volunteered, positioning herself at the rear.
We lifted off, the base shrinking below. The flight to Brussels was tense, the landscape below a patchwork of war: burned farms, refugee trails, the occasional skirmish flashing like fireflies. Lena scanned diligently, calling out minor sightings—a supply wagon here, a patrol there—but nothing warranting a strike.
Brussels loomed: spires and streets turned fortress, allies digging in. Anti-air defenses dotted the outskirts—machine guns tilted skyward on makeshift mounts, crews scrambling as we approached. "Engage," I ordered.
We dove, enchantments flaring. Bullets lanced down: explosive rounds hammering the gun nests, detonating in chains of fire that shredded metal and men alike. Tracers arced up futilely, but our machines danced through, untouchable. A battery erupted in a fireball, gunners torn apart—limbs flying, bodies charred black. We swept the visible defenses: barricades blasted into rubble, trenches collapsed under tracking shots that burrowed and exploded, burying soldiers in avalanches of earth and gore. Screams echoed up, the city trembling under our arcane wrath.