May 15th
A brand new day.
The morning in Charybdis was calm.
The skies above the coastal town shimmered with a silver-blue glow, clouds scattered like brushstrokes across the early light. Even the usually bustling Charybdis Air Base just beyond the town limits was unusually quiet — no sortie prep, no maintenance clamor. Just stillness.
For Emilie, it was another routine morning.
Head to the café. Watch the base from a distance. Return to her boutique and open for the day.
She strolled along the sidewalk that hugged the town's edge, denim jacket collar popped slightly against the breeze. The base's silhouette loomed quietly across the distance — the hardened shelters, the glint of taxiway reflectors, and the ever-present control tower, now silent.
Since the Emberhowl press conference years ago, she'd become somewhat of a national icon — Fontaine's "Warborn Rose." Everyone in Charybdis knew her, and everyone waved.
A jogger passed by and gave a quick wave, sweatband across his forehead.
"Morning, Captain!"
Emilie chuckled, pulling her hand from her jacket pocket and waving back.
"Morning!"
She turned and stepped through the door of the café — a quaint little shop nestled between a florist and a bookstore, wood-paneled and worn with the warmth of community.
Behind the counter, Escoffier gave her a cheerful wave.
"Captain Emilie! Good morning!"
Emilie returned it with a nod.
"Morning, Escoffier. Business holding up?"
The barista laughed, busy as ever with a grinder behind the counter.
"Busier than ever. Seems like half the town needs coffee to keep up with your legend."
She winked, then added, "The usual?"
"As per usual," Emilie replied, lips curling into a grin.
"Coming right up, Captain!"
Emilie found a seat by the window — her favorite spot — with a clear view of the runway far in the distance. Nothing moved on it. Just the occasional bird, and the breeze brushing across the sea.
A familiar voice broke her thoughts.
"Well, well. Fancy seeing you here, Ace."
She looked up. "Chiori! Didn't think I'd run into you before noon."
The two women exchanged quick smiles as Chiori slid into the seat across from her.
"Still in the habit, I see. Coffee. Base-watching. Disguised surveillance?"
Emilie scoffed.
"Stop that. I'm no longer a fighter pilot. Just an analyst for the Air Force — experimental tech, threat assessment, you know the drill."
Chiori leaned in slightly. "Full-time?"
Emilie chuckled, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Nope. Part-time. If they need my mind, I show up."
A server brought over a tray and gently set down two mugs of dark roast. Emilie and Chiori nodded in thanks, each wrapping fingers around the warmth of their cups.
"So," Chiori asked, sipping carefully, "what's the plan now? It's been what — years since the Emberhowl conference?"
Emilie took a long sip before answering.
"Just keep building what I have. The boutique's doing well. Still working with the Air Force. Staying busy."
Chiori nodded. "You've earned it. Oh — and the clients who buy my dresses? They love the perfume line from our collab."
Emilie raised her mug in a mock toast.
"I appreciate it, Chiori. As long as we keep the collabs going, it'll age like wine."
"Agreed."
Then—
BOOM.
A thunderous explosion rippled through the air, shaking the café's windows. Mugs clinked violently against saucers. Conversations died. Chiori dropped her cup, splashing coffee onto the table.
Emilie stood immediately.
"What the fuck was that?"
Chiori looked pale. "A gas main?"
Emilie narrowed her eyes, head turning toward the horizon.
"No… that was too big. That didn't come from town — it's farther out…"
And then they heard it.
Propellers. Jet engines. The unmistakable growl of afterburners tearing overhead.
She rushed out of the café, boots striking the pavement as she stepped onto the street. Her eyes lifted skyward — and what she saw made her blood run cold.
A column of black smoke curled into the sky to the southeast. Fires flickered behind the ridgeline. And above — silhouettes.
Bombers. Fighters. Contrails. Formation flying.
Emilie squinted against the glare — then she saw them clearly.
Her heart skipped.
"Snezhnayan Tu-95s…"
Behind her, Escoffier and Chiori rushed out of the café.
"Snezhnayan what!?" Escoffier yelled.
"Bombers," Emilie shouted. "Snezhnayan bombers!"
Chiori grabbed her arm. "That can't be right. We've been allies with Snezhnaya for over twenty years. Since the Rebellion War!"
Emilie's gaze stayed fixed on the sky, jaw set.
"I know. But something big is going down."
And in the skies above Charybdis, war had come unannounced — tearing through the calm like a blade through silk.
The sound of klaxons.
The airbase was under red alert.
Searing alarm tones screamed across the tarmac, echoing off hangars and barracks alike. The chaos was immediate and absolute.
Columns of black smoke clawed skyward—ugly, twisting plumes rising from the shattered ruins of Charybdis Air Base. The acrid stench of burning jet fuel laced the air, mingling with the sharp, metallic bite of high explosives. The ground trembled with every detonation.
Fighter jets screamed down the runway—afterburners lit, twin claws of blue fire carving furiously into the night. The earth shuddered with a thunderous BOOM. Debris erupted skyward—twisted metal and burning wreckage rained down in a deadly storm.
From somewhere in the carnage, a soldier's voice cut through the chaos.
"Medic! We need a medic over here!"
He was dragging a bloodied airman out from the flaming wreckage of what had once been a transport truck. Another soldier bolted past, rifle raised, charging toward the perimeter as explosions echoed behind him.
Another detonation.
And then—shadows cut across the sky. Enemy fighters.
Fast. Low. Inside the perimeter.
They were already here.
Emilie froze for a moment, heart hammering in her chest.
And then—she heard it.
The roar of engines.
Fighters starting up.
One by one, aircraft taxied out of the smoke-filled hangars. The last desperate defense of Charybdis Air Base was underway.
Five F/A-18 Super Hornets.
One F-35C Lightning II.
And behind them all—the most distinctive aircraft of the group.
A Dassault Rafale M, its engines snarling as it rolled into position. Its livery shimmered beneath the base's emergency floodlights—deep blue, sky blue, white, and black flowing together like a stormy ocean. On its tail, a golden emblem: a crown above surging waves.
Beneath the canopy, a phrase etched in bold script:
Élégante et Efficace.
Elegant and Efficient.
Emilie's breath caught in her throat.
"…Wait… Furina?"
Chiori glanced over, eyebrow raised. "Furina who?"
Emilie's voice was barely a whisper. "The hotshot rookie from the Fontaine Royal Air Force Academy. Top graduate."
Then—a thunderous roar. The Rafale's twin M88 engines howled to full power. Afterburners ignited, and the jet surged forward, accelerating like a spear hurled by the gods themselves.
Runway 30 blurred beneath it.
Then—
Liftoff.
The Rafale climbed sharply, slicing into the smoke-stained sky.
Emilie turned to Escoffier and Chiori, her tone sharp and urgent.
"You two—get back to your places. Lock everything down. Now. This is a war zone. If you have weapons—use them."
They nodded without hesitation and sprinted back toward the café.
Emilie dashed toward her boutique. Still shuttered. Still untouched—for now.
She slammed open the front door, bounded up the stairs to her room. Jacket off. Holster on. Her fingers found the matte-black frame of her Beretta M9, fitted with wooden grips—custom. Familiar.
She locked it into place at her side, threw her jacket back on, and clipped her field radio to her waistband.
Then—she ran back out.
The skies had turned to fire.
Contrails crisscrossed above like the scars of gods. Fighters dogfought in tight spirals. Bombers lumbered overhead, escorted by dark, menacing silhouettes.
Then—an explosion bloomed midair. One of the F-35s had scored a kill. The enemy fighter came apart in a flash, wreckage raining down.
A moment later, another explosion rumbled in the distance—its burning remains crashed just outside the base's perimeter.
Emilie sprinted toward the northern shoreline of Runway 30. Her boots pounded the cracked concrete as her eyes scanned the horizon.
To her left—the carrier Harmost.
Capsized. Rolling on its starboard side. A gash torn through its hull. Smoke belched from its superstructure.
And above—
The 405ᵗʰ Armée de l'Air.
Fontaine's best.
Fighting tooth and nail to protect their homeland.
Emilie raised her radio, tuning to the Allied frequency.
The feed crackled.
"FURINA! GODDAMN IT—"
"Tidal One! Do not lose her!"
The voice—Lynette. Cool, sharp, with a touch of aggravation. But beneath it…
Emilie knew that voice. She heard something else there.
Concern.
Then—AWACS voice broke in.
"Nocturne Four, splash one."
A beat.
"Nocturne Three, splash one."
"That's the last set, Waltz."
Pause.
"Wilco."
Emilie's jaw fell slightly open.
"Waltz… is that Furina's callsign? Or her tac name…?"
Then—over the radio:
"Fox Three!"
She looked skyward.
Furina's Rafale pulled into a climb. Two Sidewinders launched—no smoke, just heat-seeking death.
A split second later—
Boom.
A Tu-95 erupted in a titanic fireball. Its fuselage disintegrated. Debris scattered like meteors across the sky.
The second missile struck its wing root.
The bomber folded in on itself and vanished in a shower of wreckage.
Another radio call.
"Fox Three!"
Two more streaks of light.
The second Tu-95 went up like fireworks over the ocean—engulfed in flame and shredded to pieces.
Then:
"Two confirmed splashes! Good kills, Tidal Two!"
Emilie thought fast.
"Tidal Two… that's her squadron callsign."
Then—she saw it.
The Rafale dove sharply, then snapped into a brutal 90-degree bank. Afterburners cut. Throttle to idle.
A violent maneuver—she forced her pursuers to overshoot.
They did.
They were already dead.
The M791 autocannon barked—tungsten rounds ripped through the first enemy jet.
Fire. Explosion. A spray of metal.
The second fighter tried to bank away—
Too late.
Furina rolled the Rafale sharply—one clean burst.
Disintegration.
Two left.
A MiG-25 and an Su-30.
The MiG peeled left. The Su-30 stayed on her tail.
Wrong move.
The Su-30 pulled a Pugachev Cobra. Classic Snezhnayan move. Nose high, bleeding speed, baiting the overshoot.
But Furina didn't take the bait.
Emilie's eyes widened.
The Rafale snapped into a 180-degree Pugachev.
Flying. Backwards.
In that moment—it wasn't a Rafale anymore. It was something else. Something untouchable.
The Su-30 slid forward—completely exposed.
"Fox Two!"
Two AIM-9s screamed toward the target.
Direct hit.
The Su-30 vanished in a storm of fire and debris.
One left.
The MiG-25 tried to escape. Too late.
Furina's Rafale pulled a full 360-degree Cobra—a full aerial loop at low throttle. Something that should've torn the aircraft apart.
But it didn't.
Gunfire.
The MiG exploded—shattered by a full burst of 30mm.
Gone.
Then—two distant explosions lit the sea.
Radio crackled again.
"Tidal One, splash one. Tidal Two, splash one."
A moment later, the AWACS confirmed:
"The skies are clear. We've got air superiority."
"This is Teyvat United Peacekeeping HQ. We're in the clear. RTB."
Voices checked in:
"Tidal One. Wilco."
"Nocturne One. Wilco."
"Nocturne Two. Wilco."
"Nocturne Three. Roger."
"Nocturne Four. Affirmative."
And then—finally—
Furina's voice.
Calm. Steady. Iron.
"Tidal Two. Returning to base."
Emilie crouched near the fencing by the runway, fingers tangled in her hair.
What… what the fuck did she just witness?
A Fontainian Dassault Rafale M…
Doing things no Rafale should ever do.
She muttered aloud:
"My friends were right… Furina can do things in that Rafale no one else can…"
She stood slowly, boots crunching on debris as she turned back toward the fencing.
The battle was over.
But the war?
It had just begun.
Minutes Later
Emilie waited behind the chain-link fence at the northern perimeter, eyes fixed on the smoke-smeared skies above Charybdis Air Base.
She could still smell the burning wreckage carried by the sea breeze. Her hand rested on her Beretta's grip as she scanned the sky—waiting.
Then, she heard them.
A low rumble, gradually building in intensity.
Moments later, five F/A-18 Super Hornets came into view, engines growling in synchronized descent. They passed overhead in a tight formation, wingtips steady, trailing faint contrails in the wake of battle. One by one, they touched down, tires screeching as they met the scorched runway of Charybdis.
Another sound followed—a sharper whine, a sleeker profile.
A lone F-35C Lightning II screamed overhead and began its final approach.
Emilie's radio crackled to life.
"Tidal Two, the runway's all yours. Cleared to land."
"Cleared to land." Furina's voice was calm. Composed.
Then it came—the most distinctive aircraft of them all.
The Dassault Rafale M.
It sliced through the air above her in a gentle arc, the light of the setting sun dancing across its hull—deep blue, sky blue, white, and black flowing together like a stormy sea. The golden emblem on the tail—a crown above rushing water—shone defiantly in the golden light.
Her Rafale.
Furina's.
The landing was flawless. The wheels kissed the tarmac, the suspension absorbing the weight of the mission without protest. The jet veered gently off Runway 30, its canopy still reflecting the orange glow of distant fires, and taxied toward the flight line where the others awaited.
Silence hung for a moment, broken only by the idling roar of turbines and the distant wail of sirens.
Then—footsteps behind her.
Emilie turned.
Escoffier and Chiori had arrived, both wide-eyed and tense, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and dread.
Chiori was the first to speak.
"What the hell is going on, Emilie? Did your friends in the Air Force say anything?"
Emilie shook her head slowly. "No... nothing yet. But... those bombers..."
Escoffier raised a brow. "What about them?"
She turned to face both of them, voice quiet—measured.
"They weren't ours. They weren't from Teyvat."
A long pause. The implication settled in, heavy as stone.
She turned her gaze back toward the flight line.
There—distant, silhouetted by the burning horizon—she saw a figure drop from the Rafale's ladder. Helmet off. Hair tousled by the wind.
Furina.
The infamous rookie.
Top of her class at the Fontaine Royal Air Force Academy.
Still just a girl. But tonight, she'd flown like a ghost in the storm—impossible, precise, unstoppable.
Emilie's voice dropped to a whisper.
"It seems…"
Her fingers tightened on the fence wire.
"…we're standing on the brink of another war."
The Following Day
Charybdis was torn.
The harbor—once a symbol of Fontaine's naval might—was now a field of carnage. Smoke drifted into the pale morning sky as flames licked the air from twisted, blackened hulls. What had been a bustling naval hub just a day prior was now an inferno of wreckage. Towering cranes, once vital arteries of commerce and war, had collapsed into grotesque metal skeletons. The piers were torn apart, littered with the shattered remains of warships. Steel was bent, scorched, and drowned—monuments to a fleet that would never sail again.
And then there was the Harmost.
One of Fontaine's proudest aircraft carriers.
She now lay on her port side, capsized and half-submerged in the harbor. Her hangar decks flooded. Her flight deck—once a runway for power—was now partially underwater, fractured, listing toward the sea. It was not just the end of a ship. It was the death of an era.
Just beyond the harbor, the town itself had been gutted.
Cratered streets carved the earth like wounds. Homes had been flattened, their wooden frames and stone walls crumbled into broken piles. Smoke drifted lazily from collapsed shops, empty restaurants, and broken schools. The markets were gone. The laughter was gone. The people—those who had once walked these streets—were either dead or fleeing. The silence was deafening.
High above, aerial reconnaissance painted an even darker picture.
Blackened scars streaked the countryside for miles. Some enemy aircraft had been downed by anti-air fire—bomber carcasses lay in the hills, broken and charred. But others still burned offshore, half-sunk in Fontaine's coastal waters. A grim reminder that the threat hadn't come from just one wave. It had come to stay.
Charybdis was no longer a city.
It was a graveyard.
In Emilie's home, the television cast a flickering blue glow across the living room. Escoffier and Chiori stood near the couch, both of them frozen, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen. No one said a word. The usual banter was gone. No sly comments. No jokes to cut the tension. The only sound was the low murmur of the broadcast and the occasional thud of distant artillery, faint, but ever-present.
Then the words came.
"As of 10:00 AM today, the nation of Snezhnaya has officially declared war on Fontaine, Liyue, Mondstadt, Natlan, Sumeru, and Inazuma."
A thick silence fell over the room.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
The screen shifted. Footage from across the continent now filled the feed—firebombed ports in Mondstadt, burning shipyards in Inazuma, smoke rising from the valleys of Sumeru.
"As soon as the news broke, enemy aircraft began bombing Fontainian, Natlan, Inazuman, Liyuan, and Mondstadt territories, causing widespread destruction. The Teyvat Union Defense Force has released a statement suggesting that these initial attacks were conducted primarily by drones."
A new image filled the screen.
A sleek, black machine.
The MQ-99.
Unmanned. Merciless. Built for war.
"Military analysts speculate that these drones were launched from container ships hidden in civilian harbors and ports. Remotely operated. Smuggled into key locations, they bypassed all early warning systems."
The feed now showed smoldering naval bases. Ports ablaze. Civilians fleeing.
"According to the Secretary of the Air Force and the Navy, these drones targeted Teyvat's critical naval infrastructure. Half of the continent's aircraft carriers, including those under construction, were struck in coordinated precision strikes."
Then came the final blow.
The revelation that changed everything.
"And just recently—Snezhnayan military forces have seized the Teyvat Orbital Elevator. Reports state that former President Imena was present during the attack. Her current whereabouts are unknown."
Emilie's breath caught.
Her jaw fell slightly open.
"…Imena."
The reporter continued.
"The Ousia-class carrier Arkhe Two was seen operating off the coast of Morepesok, the Snezhnayan capital. Fontaine's Air Force launched a retaliatory strike, destroying multiple Snezhnayan targets and downing several enemy fighters."
A pause.
"However, these victories came at a steep cost. Several Fontainian aircraft were lost, with at least two crashing into populated areas. Civilian casualties are expected to rise."
"At this time, Snezhnaya has made no official statement regarding their motive for war."
Emilie turned off the television.
The screen went black.
She slumped into the couch, her hands trembling slightly.
"…Imena."
Escoffier sat beside her, slowly.
His voice was low. Rough.
"She'll be alright… right?"
Emilie nodded, but it was hollow.
"I hope so… there aren't a lot of places to hide there."
Chiori raised an eyebrow.
"You sound like you've been there."
Emilie glanced at her.
"I have."
A pause.
Chiori leaned forward.
"…What? You've been to the Orbital Elevator?"
Emilie nodded again.
"During the construction phase. That was before we were revealed as Emberhowl."
It was the truth.
Another war had begun.
But Emilie wasn't the same person she had been back then. Ten years ago, she had gone into battle as a seasoned pilot—her hands steady, her mind sharpened by the flames of experience.
But Furina…
Furina was different.
Furina was a rookie.
At least… that's what Emilie had assumed.
But the maneuvers she'd witnessed—those razor-edge turns, the seamless split-S evasion, the high-G kill shot under pressure—those weren't the moves of a fresh graduate.
No.
They were the moves of an ace.
And the numbers confirmed it.
Eleven confirmed kills.
On her first sortie.
Furina wasn't becoming an ace.
She already was.