December 27 — One Month Later
The skies above Vagrant Fields were crystal clear, a rare calm in the storm of war.
Winter had arrived in full.
Snow fell in thick, lazy sheets, blanketing the earth in white silence.
But despite the snow—despite the freezing temperatures and biting wind—the operation to take the second major Rebel stronghold at Polokov Fortress in Mount Snowshine was proceeding as planned.
Inside the makeshift briefing room in one of the converted hangars, a sea of flight suits packed the space wall to wall. The air was tense but focused. Maps, projectors, and digital panels glowed on the walls.
Over the past month, Allied forces had received another invaluable asset: an ECM-modified E-767 AWACS aircraft—callsign Bartolomeo. Deployed from the distant, southwestern nation of Amphoreus, Bartolomeo was designed to disrupt enemy radar and improve friendly missile guidance. It would be flying high above the battlefield today, invisible but indispensable.
The successful recapture of Vagrant Fields had forced the Free Jarilo rebels to fall back, establishing a hardened defensive line at Polokov Fortress—an imposing air base buried deep in the harsh mountain ranges of Mount Snowshine.
Bronya stood at the front of the room, fingers tightening and loosening the neck of her flight suit. She adjusted the collar, cleared her throat, and took center stage. Her tone was calm, but iron-sharp.
"All right," she began. "This is it."
Her eyes scanned the room, meeting the gazes of each squadron lead.
"This will be the operation that fully liberates Everwinter Island from rebel control. We drive them out of the north today—and one month from now, we land on the mainland."
She clicked the remote, and the large display lit up with satellite recon of the mountains.
"Polokov Fortress is located east of this base, embedded in the central valley of Mount Snowshine. It's heavily fortified. Antiaircraft emplacements are concentrated around the airfield perimeter, and the mountainous terrain limits radar and maneuverability."
She switched slides.
"The area is separated by two narrow valleys—these will be our ingress points. Our ground forces will advance through both corridors. Our job is to support them and eliminate resistance in each valley before they push through."
A new slide appeared—this time labeled clearly:
Operation A / Operation B — Suppression Strikes
Operation C — Air Superiority
Operation D — Airfield Assault
"Silvermane and Primordial Squadrons will handle Operations A and B. Your F-15E loadouts are optimized for precision strikes. You'll sweep the checkpoints leading into the valley. One pass, single file. If you miss, the pilot behind you picks it up. Keep formation. No wasted time."
She glanced toward Furina.
"Operation C is Waltz Squadron's play. Your Rafale F5M Evolutions are the most agile aircraft in the entire arsenal. This valley dogfight is your show. Clear the skies."
Furina gave her a confident nod.
"Gulliver Squadron," Bronya continued, "you'll escort ECM Bartolomeo and protect our electronic overwatch. If the enemy so much as breathes on that aircraft, I want missiles in the air."
She pointed to a flashing point on the map.
"Once Ops A and B are completed, we kick off Operation D—strike the fortress air base. Disable parked aircraft, fuel depots, and hardened shelters. But—"
Bronya raised a finger.
"—Do not damage the taxiways or runways. Our intent is to capture, not crater. Use Sidewinders or guns on parked aircraft. Precision only."
Another slide showed thermal scans.
"According to satellite recon, most of the air defense is perimeter-based. Once you're inside the base, threat density drops—but the ingress will be hell. Stay low. Stay tight."
She stepped forward, voice louder now.
"And remember—if your operation finishes early, support the others. Do not fly solo. This is not the day for lone wolves. We fly together—because we're taking this island back together."
Silence fell.
Then came the replies:
"Yes ma'am!"
"Understood!"
"We'll take back what's ours!"
Bronya gave one final nod. "Then sort yourselves and sortie. Let's bring Everwinter home."
The room erupted into motion.
Chairs scraped back across concrete. Pilots grabbed helmets and G-suits, some exchanging short nods or grins. Others were silent, already slipping into mission mindset. Bronya stepped down from the dais, Furina falling into step beside her as Jean and Yanagi's teams peeled away toward their jets.
"So," Furina said, eyes forward. "This is the mission that liberates all of Everwinter, isn't it?"
Bronya nodded. "That's right. The next phase is the mainland. But this? This is where it turns."
Furina nodded thoughtfully.
"I see," she murmured, then glanced back at her own team.
"Come on. Let's finish this."
Pela tightened her gloves. "Let's."
The five of them strode across the snow-dusted tarmac, boots crunching against frost-bitten ground as they approached the flight line. Ground crews were already moving—APUs humming, ladders dropping, tow carts rolling clear.
Bronya arrived at her jet, the dark grey F-15E Strike Eagle waiting like a beast at rest. She climbed up the ladder with practiced ease, helmet tucked under one arm. Sliding into the cockpit, she settled into the pilot's seat and pulled her helmet on, securing it with a satisfying snap. Then she flipped the JFS switch.
A mechanical whir kicked to life.
The right engine began to spool, the low-pitched growl rising steadily in pitch until it became a scream. She eased the throttle forward—cutoff to idle. The F100-PW-220 engine stabilized with a powerful hum.
She pulled the lever again.
Left engine.
It roared to life with a savage howl, the airframe trembling with restrained fury. Both turbines now hissed with kinetic menace, spewing invisible fire.
The ground crew pulled the ladder away, saluted with a crisp gesture. Bronya returned it, then yanked the canopy lever. A hydraulic hiss. A heavy click.
Sealed in.
She flipped the JFS switch to OFF—now fully on twin-engine power. She took a breath. Slow. Measured.
Her voice came through clear and strong on the comms.
"All squadrons, report readiness."
A moment passed.
Then:
"Erudition Squadron, ready to go."
"Primordial Squadron, standing by."
"Waltz Squadron—locked in."
"Gulliver Squadron, ready and waiting."
Bronya nodded, her eyes focused on the horizon.
"Then let's move."
She released the parking brake and nudged the throttles forward.
The Strike Eagle rolled ahead, nose swinging gently to line up on the taxiway. Her wingmen followed: Seele, Pela, Luka—all in F-15Es, canopies down, weapons live.
Around them, fighters from across the Allied coalition rumbled to life. Rafales from Fontaine, Typhoons from Amphoreus, F-16s and F-15EXs from Jarilo's own battered air force. The ground vibrated beneath them as each aircraft taxied into position.
Silvermane Team lined up on the runway.
Bronya's voice was calm, final.
"Tower, Silvermane Team requesting takeoff."
The reply was immediate.
"Silvermane Team, cleared for takeoff. Go and liberate this island."
She took one final breath.
"Roger that."
She rammed the throttles past military power and into full afterburner.
The Strike Eagle howled.
Twin pillars of fire tore from the rear of the jet as it surged down the runway.
130 knots.
At 182, she eased back.
The Eagle soared free, wheels retracting with a mechanical thud.
"Gear up."
Behind her, Seele's jet followed. Then Pela. Then Luka.
And then—
They came.
A wave of aircraft rising from the snow.
Over fifty fighters screamed into the sky, afterburners roaring like thunder across the mountains.
From the frozen peaks of northern Everwinter to the white cliffs of the Vagrant River, the sound of liberation echoed.
Today, the Allied forces would drive the enemy out once and for all.
Today, Everwinter would rise free.
The flight east had taken two long hours.
Two hours of near-total silence, tense anticipation building with every passing minute.
Now, the day stood at its zenith—sunlight diffused through thick wintry haze, illuminating the jagged peaks of Mt. Snowshine. The mountains loomed like sleeping titans beneath a veil of frost, their snowcapped ridges slicing the horizon.
Descending through 10,000 feet, a fleet of nearly four dozen allied aircraft pierced the cold skies. The descending wedge of jets, bombers, and support planes moved like a single, synchronized organism. The invasion had begun.
Above them, the ever-watchful voice of command crackled to life:
"This is AWACS Talisman to all allied aircraft. Commence the assault. Initiate the invasion of Polokov Fortress. The liberation of Everwinter Island begins now."
Next came a gruffer, ground-based voice, filled with the raw edge of a commander who's stared down artillery barrages:
"Grate Mines Battalion here. We're advancing along the northern ridge. Silvermane Squadron, you're our guardians of the skies. Keep the bastards off our backs!"
Another voice chimed in, full of determined urgency:
"Coal Busters reporting in—pushing from the south. We'll rendezvous with Grate Mines in the valley below. Primordial Squadron, your wings are our shield!"
Then came the cold, smooth tone of the electronic warfare craft:
"Electronic Support Platform Bartolomeo now entering area of operations. Activating ECM and ESM protocols. You're covered, allies—eyes open, sensors hot."
Bronya's voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the radio net:
"Silvermane and Primordial Teams, proceed to your designated routes. Maintain single-file approach through the mountain airbase. Weapons hot—GBUs only. We do this fast, clean, and lethal."
Jean's familiar tone followed, tinged with dry humor:
"A good old-fashioned bombing run. Single file… How charming."
Then from Primordial Six:
"Our strike must be surgical. Precision is key," Xingqiu—callsign Raincutter—affirmed.
Bronya responded with steel in her voice.
"Affirmative. All units: Begin Operation Snowshine Spearhead!"
She rammed her twin throttles to full military power, afterburners roaring to life. The Silvermane F-15E Strike Eagles dropped into combat formation behind her, each aircraft staggered at three-minute intervals to ensure bombing lanes stayed clear.
Her frame tensed with the familiar mix of stress and focus. This wasn't a drill. This was the liberation strike.
She dove into the wide valley entrance at over 500 knots, HUD glowing as the target indicators lit up across her screen.
Three positions on each side of the valley. Enemy checkpoint ahead.
The targeting pod locked four high-priority assets:
Barracks
Hardened Pillbox
Ammunition Armory
AA Gun Platform
Four locks. Four tones.
"Bombs away!" she called out.
Four GBU-12 Paveways detached from the belly rails of her Strike Eagle. The laser-guided bombs dropped with grim precision.
As Bronya pulled up and skimmed the valley at treetop height, the impacts echoed behind her.
Direct hits.
The barracks erupted, tossing debris and flame skyward.
The pillbox shattered like wet plaster.
The AA site exploded, its barrels sent cartwheeling into the snow.
The armory ignited in a storm of secondary detonations—smoke and flame arced into the air like fireworks of war.
Seele, Pela, and Luka followed suit. Each jet dropped two GBUs, one after the other, devastating their side of the checkpoint. In under ninety seconds, the forward enemy encampment had ceased to exist.
From the southern flank, Primordial Squadron matched their tempo, executing surgical strikes with equal brutality. The valley echoed with thunder and smoke.
Overhead, the sky transformed into a warzone. Contrails twisted and burned through the thin alpine air.
The art of dogfighting was on full display.
Five enemy aircraft had already gone down. But more were coming in fast—reinforcements from Free Jarilo's air division. Waltz Squadron climbed high into the airspace above the mountains, intercepting a fresh wave of Snezhnayan-built fighters.
The presence of Bartolomeo's ECM suite worked wonders—missile lock times were reduced, guidance systems sharpened, and hit probabilities soared to near certainty.
Then came the real threat:
Korol Squadron.
Flying Su-33 Flankers painted in deep crimson and black, their maneuvering was vicious, precise, and cold as the mountain wind.
Furina was already in the thick of it.
Her Rafale M Evolution twisted in a high-G merge with one of the Korol fighters. The enemy Su-33 jinked hard left, then right—desperate to break her lock. She kept tight on his six.
Furina's cannon barked.
Rounds slammed into the enemy's starboard wing. Fuel lines tore open, fluid misting into the cold air.
Then the Flanker snapped its nose vertical—executing a brutal Pugachev's Cobra—bleeding speed almost instantly.
Furina didn't hesitate.
She rolled inverted, yanked her sidestick into a dive, and kicked the afterburners.
Her Rafale screamed downward—then came the ignition.
Jet fuel—highly flammable—met the white-hot afterburners.
The leaking vapor ignited in midair. The fire crept up toward the wounded Flanker—then—
BOOM.
The right wing detonated in a brilliant fireball. The Su-33 spiraled violently downward, pilot unconscious, before smashing into the mountain with a thunderous crash.
Furina leveled off, scanning the skies. Another Su-33 was harassing a friendly—Rafale M Evolution, tail code Clarion.
Yelan.
The two danced in a savage loop. Then—Yelan's Rafale shot skyward, performed a Cobra of her own.
The Flanker overshot.
Yelan's nose dipped.
Two Sidewinders loosed.
The heatseekers streaked true—striking the Flanker dead-center.
Mid-air kill confirmed. The enemy aircraft disintegrated into flaming debris.
Furina grinned behind her visor.
"Nicely done, Clarion. Great kill!"
Yelan's voice was calm, professional:
"Thank you, Captain."
Down below.
The entire southern valley echoed with rolling booms and missile streaks as the twin bombing operations swept through enemy lines. Operation A was flowing clean—objectives falling one by one under Silvermane's precision. It was almost wrapped. Operation B, led by Primordial, was pressing hard through its midpoint.
On open comms, the enemy's encrypted frequencies burst with panic and rage, their radio discipline cracking under the pressure:
"These damned Jarilans! They're fucking relentless!"
"Hold the line! The Architects have abandoned us! The skies belong to them now—"
AWACS Talisman cut in with an update, tone composed despite the chaos unfolding across the grid:
"Grate Mines and Coal Busters have cleared Checkpoint One. Their advance is smooth, no significant resistance. Keep pressure on. You're making history up there."
Southern Front. Operation B.
Jean's F-15E Strike Eagle tore through the mountain pass at 450 knots, hugging the terrain. The second enemy checkpoint emerged from the snow-covered ridge—a cluster of hardened targets tucked between rock outcroppings and forest thickets. Behind her flew Amber, Mavuika, Ningguang, and Ei, keeping tight spacing.
Jean's HUD lit up with locks.
Three hardpoints.
Two Barracks.
One fortified Storage Unit.
A high-pitched tone filled her headset—locks acquired.
"Fox Three—Bombs Away!"
Three GBU-31s dropped clean from her belly rails, stabilizers deploying immediately as they sailed downward. Jean yanked the stick back, banking sharply into a climbing turn to avoid blast radius and SAM coverage.
Two direct hits. The Barracks went up in a plume of black smoke, windows blown clean off. But the third bomb drifted wide.
"Shit! I missed the Storage Unit!"
Amber's voice crackled in immediately, steady and confident.
"Don't sweat it, Dandelion! I've got visual. Going in hot."
Amber's F-15E swept in low and fast, gaining targeting locks on Jean's missed target and two adjacent flak emplacements. Her targeting pod confirmed all three.
"Fox Three, triple release—dropping now!"
Three JDAMs loosed from her pylons. The bombs fell true, hammering the target zone. The ground erupted in flame and debris as Amber pulled up into a climb.
"Target neutralized, Dandelion. Storage and flak both down."
"Nice work!" Jean replied, exhaling.
AWACS Talisman keyed in again:
"Primordial Team, be advised—your ground battalion is advancing toward Checkpoint Two. Maintain air cover. You're doing great."
Northern Front. Operation A.
Silvermane was already hammering the final checkpoint. The valley floor was torn open with crater marks, and smoke trails painted the snow black.
Explosions erupted near bunkers and SAM pits. The enemy comms flared:
"They're bombing the checkpoint! Where's our fucking air support?!"
Static swallowed their voice as Pela's JDAM buried itself in the enemy command post. A secondary explosion ripped through the compound, shattering what was left of their resistance.
She pulled hard into a left bank, setting up for another strike run.
"We're almost done here!" she announced over the squadron frequency.
Then—a blip on IFF.
A short ping.
AWACS Talisman keyed in with the call that turned the tide:
"Operation C complete. We have full air superiority. Waltz Squadron has split into two elements and is inbound to assist Silvermane and Primordial teams."
"Waltz Six to all allied units," Lyney's voice came through, lighthearted but focused. "Hey, did someone call for the cavalry?"
Luka chimed in, a grin audible in his tone:
"We're wrapping up here, but yeah, wouldn't mind some extra firepower!"
"Ritesword here," said Lynette calmly. "We'll handle it swiftly."
From high above, three Rafale M Evolution fighters dove into the valley like avenging falcons—Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet.
They broke formation in unison, pulling their targeting data from Bartolomeo's ESM link. Three SBU-64 glide bombs released in quick succession.
The bombs arced downward in synchronized paths, guided by laser designators.
Multiple simultaneous impacts. Explosions blanketed the last functional targets around the final checkpoint—supply tents, radar stations, and ammo caches incinerated in fireballs.
"Direct hits across the board," Freminet called out, breaking into a vertical climb to rejoin formation.
Bronya came in over the net, voice sharp and proud:
"Operation A complete! Excellent work, everyone!"
A second IFF ping.
"Operation B complete!" Jean announced, exhilaration rising in her voice. "Thanks to our Waltz allies!"
AWACS Talisman followed up with final confirmation:
"All strike operations—A through C—are complete. Repeat, mission success confirmed. Excellent coordination across the board."
"All aircraft, proceed to the airbase perimeter. Commence Operation D."
"All ground units, advance to the forward airbase! Push the line!"
Luka keyed in as he adjusted formation:
"Roger that. Silvermane Team, we've got momentum—let's wipe the floor with the rest of them!"
The liberation of Everwinter Island had entered its final phase.
But then.
The enemy radio crackled to life once more, bitter and defiant through the static.
"So... you've found a reason to fight... Bring it on."
"All aircraft on the base have launched. This is our last line of defense!"
Talisman's voice snapped across the frequency with a sharp tone, the situation rapidly escalating.
"Alert to all combat elements! Five Su-33 Flanker-Ds inbound at high speed from the east! Dogfight imminent—lock and load!"
Then, the enemy signal returned with chilling precision, colder than the steel of their airframes:
"Korol Squadron, wipe them clean."
Luka's blood ran cold as recognition set in. His fingers tightened on the flight stick.
"Korol Squadron... Those bastards were the ones who spearheaded the Belobog invasion. They're the aces behind the curtain."
Bronya's voice cut through with a smirk, but beneath it, steel and fury churned.
"Then it's time we give them the warmest Jarilan hospitality imaginable."
She reached for the emergency ordnance release and slammed her gloved hand down. The dull metallic thunks echoed through the fuselage as her underbelly racks jettisoned the remaining air-to-ground ordnance.
"Silvermane Team, drop your payloads. Leave the rest of the ground cleanup to Primordial and Waltz. This is our airspace now."
One by one, her wingmates complied.
"Roger that!" Luka confirmed.
"Understood," came Pela's calm, razor-sharp reply.
"Let's do this thing!" Seele shouted with grim excitement.
Bronya shoved the throttles into full afterburner. Twin PW engines screamed as her F-15E surged forward into the stratospheric knife fight. She spotted a Su-33 streaking straight toward her, smoke trails cutting through the sky like blades.
The two jets flashed past each other in a high-speed merge. Bronya yanked the stick into a hard right bank, deploying speedbrakes to tighten her turn radius. G-forces hammered her body as she fought to get on her opponent's six. The Flanker, agile and powerful, mirrored her movement.
But Bronya had one advantage—ESM support from Bartolomeo.
The electronic warfare coverage jammed the enemy's radar efficiency. Her RWR stayed clean while her own lock tone sang like a siren.
Tone. Lock.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!" she shouted.
Two AIM-9X Sidewinders streaked off the rails in tight succession, their heat-seekers hungrily pursuing the Su-33 as it dived and popped flares.
Too late.
The first missile struck the belly. The second tore through the left wing root.
The Flanker split open mid-air—its fuselage twisting violently before vanishing into a fireball.
"Splash one!" Talisman confirmed. "Five remain."
Across the AO, a column of smoke blossomed in the distance as Pela's Strike Eagle surged through it like a bullet through a thundercloud.
"Tango down for Frostbite!" Pela called coolly. "Three left."
Talisman keyed in again.
"Primordial and Waltz teams are clearing out remaining ground targets. Outstanding work, all units."
Meanwhile, Seele was locked in a close-range dance with a particularly slippery Flanker. The enemy aircraft jinked wildly, side to side, forcing a scissors maneuver that threatened to spiral out of control.
Then the Su-33 abruptly leveled and pulled its nose into the air.
"Cobra! Shit!" Seele cursed, forced into an overshoot as the enemy jet executed the signature post-stall maneuver with surgical precision.
She rolled hard right, dropping altitude fast and dragging her jet down into the jagged valley below. The enemy pursued, the two fighters now tearing through the terrain at treetop level—mere meters above the scarred ground, where flaming wreckage still smoldered from the earlier assault.
ESM coverage was interfering with the Flanker's targeting, but its cannon was still functional.
Tracer rounds zipped past. One burst came dangerously close to her right wing.
Up ahead, a collapsed bridge loomed—its concrete support pillars partially standing.
Seele spotted a narrow opening, barely wide enough for a clean pass. Her teeth clenched.
"C'mon baby... stay with me."
She nosed forward, throttle maxed. The Strike Eagle screamed toward the pillars.
At the last second, Seele rolled 90 degrees to port and slipped through the gap on her side, wings vertical, flying nearly Mach 1.
The Su-33 wasn't so lucky.
Its larger airframe clipped a pillar. The tail fin sheared off instantly. The airframe yawed violently left, slammed into the rock face, and detonated in a spectacular fireball.
Seele rocketed out of the canyon and leveled off, breathing hard but grinning.
"Kill confirmed for Nightshade! Thanks to their incompetence!"
Talisman's voice came again.
"Ground threat level minimal. We're nearly there. Focus fire on the remaining aircraft!"
Two more Su-33s tried to make a break for altitude but were intercepted by Bronya and Pela.
Two more Fox Twos. Two more kills.
That left one.
Luka was in a vicious dogfight—his F-15E and a Su-33 chasing each other across the sky in a horizontal scissors duel.
Then Luka made his move.
He faked a hard right break—baiting the Flanker. As the enemy committed, Luka slammed his stick left, cut throttle, and bled speed to pull into a tight turning circle.
The Su-33 overshot and drifted into his kill cone.
"Where is he?! He was right here!!" the enemy pilot cried.
Lock tone.
Luka smirked and whispered, "Gotcha."
He squeezed the trigger.
The AIM-9X detached, flared, and streaked straight into the Su-33's tail.
The impact shredded the aircraft. It spiraled down into the scorched terrain.
"Kill for Moltammer!" Luka called with satisfaction, rolling his jet once in celebration.
Talisman's voice returned.
"All hostiles eliminated. Mission accomplished!"
Furina's voice crackled in, half-playful, half-proud.
"Hey, Silvermane Team—you all working overtime or what?"
Seele laughed.
"You know us. We work hard, fly harder."
Amber chimed in.
"You're stealing our thunder out here!"
Pela's voice was tinged with humor as she replied,
"Well, I think it's safe to say... we all brought the heat today."
Bronya spoke last, firm and confident.
"Affirmative. Everwinter Island is officially liberated."
Then came confirmation from the battalion commanders.
"All planes, the air base is secure—and remarkably intact!"
"ATC tower is under friendly control. Begin approach sequences!"
Bronya nodded, her tone resolute.
"Wilco. Silvermane team inbound for recovery. Returning to base."
As time ticked forward, the airspace above Everwinter Island gradually fell silent. One by one, the Allied aircraft called in their final approach vectors, descending toward the reclaimed tarmac of Polokov Air Base. The adrenaline of battle slowly gave way to controlled procedures and the hum of well-practiced routines.
Bronya, however, held her position above the base, circling at medium altitude. Her F-15E Strike Eagle carved lazy arcs through the cold Jarilan sky, engines humming a deep, steady note.
"Guardian, you're cleared for final. Runway is all yours, ma'am," came the calm voice from the tower.
Bronya exhaled softly and nodded inside her cockpit. "Wilco. Cleared to land."
Her gloved hands moved over the cockpit switches, methodically. She called it out aloud to herself.
"Gear down—three green. Flaps—set. Speedbrake—armed."
Her Strike Eagle responded with precision, its complex flight systems now geared for a textbook landing. She gave a quick glance between her Primary Flight Display and HUD, monitoring descent rate, AoA, and speed. The variable-geometry exhaust nozzles of the Pratt & Whitney F100s whined in a familiar tone as she adjusted her throttles.
The runway loomed ahead, black and slick from the winter mist. Bronya eased the stick back. Her aircraft descended steadily, her shadow stretching long across the tarmac.
A final flick of her thumb deployed the speedbrake, the dorsal panel on the upper fuselage popping open. Air resistance buffeted the jet, nudging the nose downward slightly. Bronya compensated instinctively.
Then—
Touchdown.
Her main gear met the concrete in a smooth kiss. She held the nose high, bleeding speed with aerodynamic braking before gently lowering it down. Once the front wheel touched, she eased on the toe brakes.
"Welcome back, Bronya. Exit left when able. Your friends are waiting."
She chuckled at the tower's message. "Thanks, Tower."
As she taxied down the active and turned onto the parallel taxiway, the sight that greeted her forced a laugh from her lips.
Her squadmates—Silvermane Team, Waltz, Primordial, Gulliver, and several allied pilots—had gathered by the flight line, waving and cheering as if she had just returned from orbit. Hands punched the air, some jumped, a few even danced.
Bronya shook her head, laughing into her mic. "Man, you guys are crazy. Move out of the way before I roll over your toes."
Furina's voice came through the radio with a teasing lilt. "Move out! Don't get turned into runway paste!"
The crowd parted theatrically, clearing her path. Up ahead, Pela jogged into position in front of Bronya's stall, arms raised, guiding her with precise marshalling signals.
Bronya rolled forward slowly, adjusting with short brake taps.
Then—Pela crossed her arms high over her head.
Bronya responded instantly, pressing hard on the toe brakes. The F-15E came to a jarring stop, its suspension bouncing slightly under the weight of inertia. A final hiss escaped the undercarriage.
She reached down, pulled both throttles from IDLE to CUTOFF. The twin engines began to spool down, their pitch lowering into a guttural whirr before fading into silence.
Reaching for the cockpit controls, Bronya popped the canopy release.
Hydraulics hissed. The canopy lifted upward, revealing her sweat-slicked brow and sharp silver hair which now spilled free as she removed her helmet.
Bronya stood in the cockpit, helmet under one arm, scanning the crowd.
Her teammates surged toward her.
Cheering, laughing, clapping.
Bronya raised a hand and laughed. "Alright, alright! Settle down! Listen up!"
The commotion died down as the pilots leaned in, eager to hear what their Guardian had to say.
Bronya's voice carried clearly over the cold wind. "First off—Merry damn late Christmas. And second—Everwinter Island is back under Jarilan control!"
A chorus of cheers erupted like a wave.
Bronya grinned, raising a hand. "Listen, listen! We're taking the night off. We earned it. But come January…"
Her tone shifted, becoming sharper, more commanding.
"…we begin the next phase. An amphibious landing. The push toward the mainland. Toward Belobog."
She looked each of them in the eye.
"Our superiors are already drawing up the plans. But one thing's certain—this fight isn't over. Not by a long shot. One target at a time. One push at a time. That's how we take it back."
"Dismissed."
Some pilots saluted. Others clapped Bronya on the back or shared quiet nods of mutual understanding before dispersing across the base—talking, relaxing, processing the hard-won victory.
But a few stayed.
The core.
Pela, Luka, Seele. And the full Teyvat Strategic Strike Group.
Seele approached first, her helmet clipped to her hip. "So… that's it. Phase One complete."
Bronya nodded solemnly. "Yeah. We've breached the gates."
Furina sauntered up, smirking. "You really are one of the aces of aces, Guardian."
Bronya raised a brow. "Oh? And what makes you say that?"
Furina gestured toward the field behind them. "You took down elite enemy pilots—Korol Squadron no less—in a jet with no thrust vectoring. You can't even pull a cobra, yet you wiped the skies clean."
Pela gave Furina a sideways glance. "Jeez, Furina, whose side are you on? Ours or Korol's?"
Furina laughed. "Relax. I'm just stating facts. The SU-33 can supermaneuver—on paper, it should've smoked Bronya."
She looked up toward the setting sky, eyes reflecting the fading sunlight.
"Reminds me of a certain duel I had. Su-57, fourth-gen versus fifth-gen. I should've been scrap metal."
She paused, chuckling to herself.
"Funny how that pilot ended up becoming my wingmate."
Seele raised an eyebrow. "Really? Who?"
Furina smirked. "Now that's a story for another time."
The sky over Everwinter turned a soft violet hue. Snow blew gently across the battered airfield. And in the distance—beyond the calm, beyond the celebrations—loomed the shadows of war yet to come.
The first island was liberated.
But the mainland?
That was a different beast entirely.
The Road to Belobog had just begun.