Skyward Hope (A Valkyria Chronicles/Laputa: Castle in the Sky Story)

[bryanfran36]

Chapter 01 - The West Bank of Vasel

Isara Gunther stirred uneasily in the cramped confines of the Edelweiss, the tank that had become both her home and her burden. The rhythmic hum of the engine, usually a comforting lullaby, now felt like the distant growl of a storm on the horizon.

Outside, the night was still, save for the occasional flicker of artillery fire lighting up the distant sky like dying stars and the rumble of distant gunfire. The tank was parked on the outskirts of Vasel, a city that had suddenly become the linchpin of Gallia's defense against the unstoppable and lightning-fast Imperial advance.

Squad 7, and the rest of the militia under the command of Captain Eleanor Varot had been rushed here in a desperate bid to stem the tide, but the weight of the mission pressed heavily on Isara's shoulders, even in her sleep.

Restless dreams now plagued her.

Her dreams were a fragmented tapestry of memories and half-remembered tales, woven together by the faint, haunting melody of her grandmother's voice. She was a child again, sitting cross-legged on the floor of their small, dimly lit home in the Bruhl countryside when her parents took the time to visit, which was once a month. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and the faint tang of oil from her father's workshop.

Her grandmother, her face lined with age but her eyes bright with a fierce, unyielding light, held Isara's small hands in her own. Around her neck, the necklace, a simple yet intricate pendant of silver threads and blue crystal, caught the flickering light of the hearth.

"Laputa," her grandmother whispered, her voice carrying the weight of a forgotten age. "The great castle in the sky. A place of wonders, child. From a time when our people were free and unbound."

Isara had always loved the stories, though she never fully understood them. Laputa was a dream, a myth, a floating city of impossible beauty and power. Her grandmother spoke of it with a reverence that bordered on devotion, her words painting pictures of soaring spires, vast gardens, and machines that defied imagination. But there was always a shadow in her tales, a sadness that lingered like a ghost. Laputa was gone, lost to time and the greed of men.

And yet, her grandmother insisted, its legacy lived on in the hearts of the Darscen people, in their dreams of freedom, and in the crystal blue pendant that had been passed down through generations of women in their family.

"One day, Isara," her grandmother had said, her voice trembling with love and pride, "you will understand. The blood of Laputa runs in your veins. You carry its hopes and promises. Never forget that.

"Yes, Grandma," Isara said softly.

Her grandmother smiled. She held up the pendant from her neck, letting little Isara see the gem in close detail. Isara could now see the golden inlay with great wings. For the young Isara, it was strange and yet beautiful.

"When I am gone from the earth, you must keep this crystal safe. Its powers are wonderful yet terrible. It must be kept safe till it reveals the way."

"I will! Grandma,"

Her grandmother smiled again,

"Remember, a day will come when the eternal light is revived, Isara Toel Ul Laputa."

The dream shifted, and Isara was no longer a child. She stood on a vast, windswept plain, the sky above her a swirling maelstrom of clouds and light. Before her rose Laputa, its towering spires piercing the heavens, its gardens spilling over with life and color. But something was wrong. The city was crumbling, its once-majestic walls cracking and falling into the void below. She reached out, desperate to save it, but her hands grasped only air. The necklace around her neck pulsed with a strange, otherworldly light, and she felt a surge of power; an ancient, dormant force awakening within her.

"Isara!"

The voice shattered the dream, pulling her back to the present. She blinked, disoriented, as the interior of the Edelweiss came into focus. Welkin, her brother, was leaning over her, his face etched with concern.

"You were talking in your sleep," he said, his voice soft but urgent. "Are you all right?"

Isara nodded, though her heart was still racing. She touched the necklace instinctively, its cool metal a reassuring anchor. "Just a dream," she murmured. "A strange one."

Welkin studied her for a moment, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "You've been having a lot of those lately," he said. "Ever since we left Bruhl."

She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "It's nothing. Just… memories."

But it wasn't nothing. Since she had been forced to remove the necklace from its hiding place in her home in Bruhl and wear it around her neck, the dreams had been coming more frequently, more vividly, and more wondrous, yet terrifying. The necklace seemed to grow heavier each time as if it were a key to something far greater than she could comprehend. She had always known it was special to her family, as her grandmother had made sure of that.

Yet now, it felt like a burden, like a secret she wasn't ready to face.

Outside, the sound of distant artillery grew louder, a grim reminder of the battle to come. Welkin straightened, his expression hardening. "We're moving out soon. The Imperials are closer than we thought. Are you ready?"

Isara took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus. "I'm ready."

As Welkin climbed out of the tank to brief the rest of the squad, Isara remained behind, her fingers still clutching the necklace underneath her shawl. She closed her eyes, trying to summon the image of Laputa from her dream, but it was already fading, slipping through her grasp like smoke. All that remained was the faint echo of her grandmother's voice, whispering words she couldn't quite hear.

The blood of Laputa runs in your veins.

She didn't know what it meant. But as the Edelweiss rumbled to life and the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Isara felt a familiar sense of resolve settle over her.

Those dreams can come later. The battle for the city, and thus the fate of Gallia was at stake. Squad 7 and her brother would not find her wanting.


===

The briefing room was a cramped, dimly lit space, its walls lined with maps and hastily scrawled tactical notes. The atmosphere was tense, the weight of the impending mission pressing down on everyone present.

Isara had long since mastered the art of social invisibility, a requirement for Darcsens in this day and age. Thus, despite being allowed to observe the briefing for being Welkin's sister and tank driver of the Edelweiss, she kept to herself and stayed close to her brother.

She saw her fellow Darscens similarly make themselves small despite being in such numbers in Squad 7.

She noticed her brother engaged in a friendly conversation with his former university classmate, Faldio Landzaat, who was also serving as a Lieutenant in the militia. Isara, having met Faldio at the barracks for a short moment before, knew him to be a polite and pleasant young man despite his views on the Darcsen Calamity.

He and Juno were two among many of her brother's university friends who were now serving in the militia, and she remembered how respectful they were to her, unlike some of her brother's less open-minded colleagues.

She was close enough to overhear their conversation.

"Well, I heard you pulled the short straw Welkin. I don't know whether to be impressed or horrified with your luck so far, given you were there at the beginning at Bruhl." Faldio said.

"I know, I'm not oblivious to the looks the other lieutenants were giving me when I picked the short straw, believe me. I was more relieved when Captain Varrot said your platoon was assigned to watch our flanks for the upcoming attack."

Faldio pursed his lips. "Better me than anyone else, Welks, believe me. Heard through the grapevine that the outlook doesn't seem good, and they feel like we're going to be just speedbumps before the imperials finally rush to the capital and end things for good."



As the discussion continued between Welks and Faldio, Isara disengaged from the conversation and swiveled her eyes towards the few Darcsens that made up Squad 7. Like her, they had taken up arms to defend Gallia from the Empire; Isara knew little of their motives, but, like her, she knew that they feared the murderous jackboot of the Empire.
Whatever discrimination they suffered under Gallian hands was much more tamer than the outright brutality and drawn-out genocide that the Empire had enshrined as part of their culture.

She had heard of Darscen Hunters being deployed as part of the second wave after the primary assault units had taken over Gallian villages and areas to comb for Darscens. Whether to enslave or kill them depended on the commander's discretion.

Isara was no fool; Welkin and Alicia didn't like to discuss the terrible atrocities happening to Darcsens in the occupied territories, but what she learned from the Darcsen grapevine, through the servants, refugees, and fellow soldiers, told her more than she ever wanted to know.

She vowed to make inroads with her fellow Darscens and to reach out and befriend her comrades in Squad 7. She knew that one day, despite the racism, Darcsens will be accepted as equals.

"Ten-hut!" The sergeant at the door said. All stood at attention as their superior officer and overall commander of the 3rd Militia Regiment Captain Eleanor Varrot came in. The statuesque and tall woman had a commanding presence as she headed to the lead desk to get the briefing underway.

Squad 7 stood at attention, their faces a mixture of determination and unease, as Captain Varrot outlined the situation. Her voice was calm but carried an edge of urgency that left no room for doubt, for this was a critical moment in the war.

"The Empire has captured the Great Vasel Bridge," Varrot began, her sharp eyes scanning the room. "It's the only drawbridge spanning the canal at Vasel, and it's a key strategic point. If we don't retake it, the Imperial forces will have a direct path to the capital. Our mission is to recapture and hold the bridge at all costs."


Before she could continue, the door swung open with a loud creak, and General Georg von Damon strode in, his polished boots clicking sharply against the floor. His presence was imposing, his uniform immaculate, yet his expression was one of thinly disguised disdain and contempt for all in the room. His gaze lingered on the militia members as though they were garbage.

"Captain Varrot," he said, his voice dripping with condescension, "I see you're briefing the… militia on matters far beyond their capabilities. Do you truly believe this ragtag group can accomplish what my forces could not?"

Damon returned his gaze towards the assembled militia soldiers. As she stood at attention, Isara could feel his gaze reach her. He had noticed her shawl, and his hatred towards her and her race was palpable.

Varrot's expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of steel in her eyes as she turned to face him. "With all due respect, General," she replied, her tone calm and measured, "your forces were unable to hold the bridge in the first place. The militia may not have the same resources, but we have proven ourselves capable time and time again. Unless you have a better plan, I suggest you let us do our jobs."

The room fell silent, the tension between the two officers palpable. Faldio, standing beside Welkin and Isara, clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his anger in check. He had little patience for aristocrats like Damon, who looked down on the militia despite their sacrifices. Isara, meanwhile, kept her eyes on Varrot, her respect for the captain growing with every word.

Damon's face flushed with anger, but he said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his pride clearly wounded. Varrot watched him go, then turned back to the squad, her expression softening slightly.

"Ignore him," she said. "We have a job to do, and we don't have time for such childish behavior.. The first part of the mission will be to capture the West bank of the river, which is currently in Imperial hands. Once we secure that, we'll move to retake the bridge itself."

She gestured to the map on the wall, pointing to the West Bank. "The Imperials have entrenched themselves here, and they'll be expecting us. We'll need to move quickly and decisively. Lieutenant Welkin Gunther, you'll lead the ground assault with the Edelweiss. Lieutenant Landzaat, take your squad and flank them from the north. Corporal Isara Gunther, I need you to provide artillery support from the Edelweiss. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Dismissed."

===

That afternoon, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the makeshift camp, Isara was hard at work on the Edelweiss. The tank, a masterpiece of engineering crafted by her fathers, Theimer and Bergen Gunther, stood like a silent sentinel in the last-minute chaos of the militia's preparations. Isara moved around it with practiced ease, her hands deftly checking every bolt, every gear, every inch of the machine that had become an extension of herself.

Theimer and Bergen Gunther had poured their hearts and souls into the Edelweiss, and it showed in every detail of its design. But now, with her fathers gone, the responsibility of maintaining the tank fell squarely on her shoulders. It was a heavy burden, but one she bore with quiet determination. She had grown up around machines, learning the intricacies of engineering at her father's knees, and the Edelweiss was as familiar to her as the back of her hand.

Welkin Gunther, her adoptive brother and the tank's commander, worked alongside her, his sleeves rolled up and his hands smeared with grease. He moved with the same quiet confidence that had made him a natural leader, his sharp eyes missing nothing as he inspected the tank's systems.

Like Isara, he knew the Edelweiss intimately, having spent countless hours studying its design and learning its quirks. Together, they made a good team, their movements synchronized as they went through the last-minute checks. It was a ritual they had performed countless times before to calm their nerves and focus their minds before their first baptism of fire as part of the militia.

Oh, they had been blooded at Bruhl, and Isara nearly lost her life as she stood off between a soldier and a pregnant Martha with nothing but a rifle in her hand and the determination to stand her ground.

It was a close call, but this time, she and Welkin were not alone in this coming battle.

"Oil levels are good," Welkin said, wiping his hands on a rag as he peered into the engine compartment. His voice was calm, but there was an edge of tension beneath the surface. "And the treads look solid. No signs of wear."

Isara nodded, her attention focused on the turret mechanism. "Turret rotation is smooth," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with concentration. "Ammunition is loaded and ready. Just need to double-check the targeting system."

It was quiet work, the kind that required patience and precision, and it gave them both a chance to reflect.

The militia was at the bottom of the priority list when it came to resources, and it showed. They didn't have the equipment, the qualified personnel, or the infrastructure to maintain the Edelweiss properly. It was a constant struggle to keep it running, and they often had to make do with whatever scraps they could scavenge or be given their way by sympathetic mechanics.

To make matters worse, the Edelweiss was a custom tank, a one-of-a-kind machine that didn't fit into any standard manual. Most of the militia and army mechanics wouldn't know where to begin with it, and the few who did were often too intimidated to try. Isara and Welkin had learned to do most of the maintenance themselves, relying on their intimate knowledge of the tank and their fathers' lessons.

And then there was the third reason, which made Welkin's jaw tighten and his hands clench into fists whenever he thought about it. Isara's heritage.

The fact that she was Darscen.

It wasn't something she could hide, not with her distinctive features, nor was it something she would hide, for Isara was proud of her Darscen heritage. And while most of Squad 7 had come to accept her, the same couldn't be said for the rest of the militia or the army, for that matter. People found reasons to avoid her, to steer clear of the Edelweiss, as if her presence was a curse. It was a quiet, insidious kind of prejudice, one that cut deeper than any outright hostility.

Welkin had seen it too many times to count. Mechanics who suddenly remembered they had other duties to attend to. Soldiers who muttered under their breath of the "horrible smell" or gave Isara sidelong glances. Officers who looked the other way when she needed support. It made his blood boil, but he had learned to channel that anger into something productive.

He used it to fuel his determination, to remind himself why they were fighting not just for Gallia, but for a future where people like Isara wouldn't have to face such ignorance.

For her part, Isara had learned to endure it with quiet grace. She didn't let it show, not in front of Welkin or the rest of the squad. But sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, she would touch the necklace, underneath her shawl, around her neck, as if drawing strength from the childhood memories of her parents and grandmother that it contained. .

As they worked, the tension of the impending battle began to fade, replaced by a sense of calm focus. The rhythmic clink of tools, the hum of the engine, the familiar scent of oil and metal.

It was a kind of moving meditation, a way to center themselves before the storm. Welkin glanced at Isara, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You know," he said, his tone light but sincere, "we make a pretty good team."

Isara looked up, her expression softening as she met his gaze. "We do," she agreed. "Thanks for always having my back, Welks."

He nodded, his smile widening. "Always, Is."

===

The city smoldered under the morning sun, thin columns of smoke curling skyward where Imperial mortars had done their grim work the night before. The Gallian militia suffered heavy casualties under that bombardment, but they were still in the fight. . Welkin Gunther, lieutenant and acting platoon leader, studied the hand-drawn map on the hood of the Edelweiss, tracing the two-pronged assault he had devised.

"Alright," he said, looking up at his squad, their faces dirt-streaked but determined. "Largo, Rosie—you take Market Street. Draw as much attention as you can. We'll push along the river and hit them where they least expect it. Keep them focused on you while we work our way up."

Largo, the grizzled veteran, cracked his knuckles and slung his launcher over one shoulder. "Hmph, teach a veteran like me how to actually do things. Leave it to us. We'll make plenty of noise."

Rosie, ever fiery, loaded her submachine gun with an audible click-clack. "Just don't keep us waiting too long. I don't like fighting uphill."

Welkin smirked, then turned back to his team. "We advance in pairs. Covering fire. No heroics. We push to the bridge, secure it, and hold. Let's move."

At his command, the militia began to advance, where they would take back the bridge or retreat in disgrace, and Welkin would resign his command.

"Edelweiss, rolling out. Infantry, keep tight and watch your sectors," Welkin Gunther said, his voice crackling over the platoon's radios. The young lieutenant stood in the commander's cupola of the Edelweiss, Squad 7's steel fist in this operation. His breath fogged in the dawn chill as he glanced at the map bolted to the hull. Strategizing a plan was one thing. Execution of that plan under fire was another.

Welkin's prong advanced along the river's edge, using the shattered storefronts and dry docks for cover. The Edelweiss' treads crushed debris as its 88mm main gun swept left to right, panning for targets. Corporal Marina Wulfstan, crouched behind a sandbag emplacement with her sniper rifle, spotted the first Imperial countermove: a squad of shock troops setting up a machine-gun nest in a half-collapsed clock tower.

"Contact! Ten o'clock, upper floors! They've got interlocking fields over the approach." she barked.

"Acknowledged," Welkin said. "Edelweiss, suppress. Higgens, take your fireteam and flank through the sewer grate. We'll punch a hole." The tank's turret whined as it rotated, and the gun roared. The clock tower's facade disintegrated in a hail of masonry, but the Imperial gun crew kept firing, their tracers stitching the ground near Marina's position.

"Isara, take them out," Welkin ordered, his voice low but firm.

Isara nodded, her hands moving swiftly over the tank's controls. The Edelweiss's turret rotated with a soft whirr, the barrel of its main gun aligning with the group of Imperials out in the tall grass. A moment later, the tank roared, its cannon echoing through the streets. The shell struck true, obliterating the patrol in a burst of smoke, blood, and body parts.

Higgen's fireteam moved like shadows, slipping into a drainage culvert and emerging 50 meters upstream. Grenades cooked off in the tower's underbelly, and the machine gun fell silent.

But the Imperials weren't done. A metallic growl echoed from the bridge. Two Imperial APCs rumbled forward, disgorging armored infantry.

"Lancers! Bandits on the bridge!" Marina shouted, shouldering her rifle.

"Infantry, smoke the bridgehead!" Welkin ordered. Canisters arced through the air, peppering the approach with gray-white fog. The Edelweiss lurched forward, its hull-mounted machine gun chattering as it advanced through the smokescreen. An Imperial rocket screamed past the turret, detonating against a burnt-out truck.

"Driver, hard left! Line up the shot!" Welkin yelled. Isara grunted as her brother, in his panic, kicked the left side of her back for emphasis. The Edelweiss pivoted, its treads screeching, and the main gun bucked. The lead APC erupted in a fireball, its fuel tank igniting secondary explosions among the infantry. The second APC reversed, but Marina's armor-piercing round punched through its vision slit, killing the driver.

Three blocks east, Sergeant Largo Potter wasn't having a better day. His diversionary force, a mix of scouts, shocktroopers, and Rosie Stark's bruiser squad was supposed to draw Imperial reserves into a street fight. Instead, they'd walked into an ambush.

"Sniper nest! Fourth floor, red awning!" Largo growled, ducking as a bullet sparked off the brickwork beside his head. Rosie, crouched behind a market stall, racked a round into her grenade launcher.

"Cover me, you babies!" she shouted, charging into the open. Bullets pinged around her boots, but the grenade soared true, bursting the sniper's perch into flames. Largo's team surged forward, clearing the intersection with precise bursts of gunfire.

"Library's ahead," Largo said, checking his tattered map. "Take the high ground, and we'll pin their reinforcements."

The City Library was a landmark of Vasel City and the marker that they were a few blocks away from the bridge, its pillars now pockmarked by shrapnel. An Imperial light tank guarded the square, its coaxial gun sweeping for targets.

"Rosie, you're up," Largo said.

"Finally," the brawler smirked. She hefted her Mags onto her shoulder, but a burst of autocannon fire forced her behind a statue. The tank's commander, focusing solely on Largo's squad, didn't notice Alica Melchiott's scout team scaling the library's rear fire escape.

Grenades rained from the rooftops. The tank swiveled its turret upward, but Alica's squad already had clear shots. Two lancer rockets struck the tank's thin rear armor, turning its engine block into scrap. Rosie whooped as the hatch blew off, and a surviving crewman scrambled out only to be cut down by a burst of gunfire.

"Objective secure. The imps are redirecting forces toward us." Alica reported.

"Good," Largo said. "Let's make 'em regret it."

Back at the bridge, Welkin's force was bleeding. The Edelweiss' left tread was damaged, and three infantrymen were down. Imperial reserves were starting to arrive in force, their commanders realizing that the Market Street assault was a feint. But the delay had been enough.

"Largo's engaged their rear. They're collapsing!" Aisha said, peering through her scope.

Welkin grinned. "All units, fix bayonets. Drive them into the river."

The Gallians erupted from cover, a crescendo of gunfire and coordinated rushes. Shocktroopers led the charge, their submachine guns chewing through retreating Imperials. The Edelweiss, limping but still combat-ready, fired canister rounds directly into the fleeing enemy. Across the bridge, Largo's team emerged from the library district, catching the Imperials in a crossfire.

An Imperial officer raised his pistol, rallying his men for a countercharge, but Marina's bullet took him in the throat. The officer fell to the ground, twitching and gasping as his blood drained from his body and into his lungs. The remnants of the beachhead force broke, some throwing down rifles, others diving into the Vasel River's currents.

The pathetic sight did not move the militia's hearts, for the Militia proceeded to open up on the diving soldiers, tracking the splashes made by the imperial soldiers as they tried to swim to the other bank.

Blooms of red soon rose from the water as a few bodies floated up, but by and large, the after-action reports would show that most imperials had gone straight to the bottle, having downed in their attempt to flee, due to being weighed down by their armor and heavy equipment. Their bloated bodies would come up from the river bottom for weeks after the battle.

By 1100 hours, the bridge was theirs.

Welkin looked out over the bridge, a sense of pride swelling in his chest. They had done it. Against all odds, they had prevailed. And as he turned to his squad, he knew this was only the beginning. The war was far from over, but for now, they had won a crucial victory.

"Good work, everyone," Welkin said, his voice filled with quiet pride. "We won here."

For a moment, his words hung in the air, unanswered. The militia stared at him, their faces blank, as though they couldn't quite comprehend what he was saying. After weeks of relentless Imperial assaults, after days of hearing of defeat after defeat on the radio, and after seeing refugees stream into southern and western Gallia with stories of towns burned and lives shattered, the idea of victory seemed almost foreign. Impossible, even.

And then it hit them.

They had won.

A low murmur rippled through the group, growing louder with each passing second. Soldiers exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from shock to disbelief and then to something else entirely: joy.

Pure, unbridled joy.

One soldier let out a whoop of triumph, his voice cutting through the silence like a gunshot. Another threw his helmet into the air, laughing like a madman. And then, as if a dam had burst, the entire unit erupted into cheers.

"We did it!" someone shouted, their voice cracking with emotion. "We actually did it!"

The celebration spread like wildfire, the militia's shouts and screams of triumph echoing across the battlefield. Soldiers clapped each other on the back, their faces split wide with grins. Some hugged, their laughter mingling with tears of relief. Others simply stood there, their hands raised to the sky as if thanking whatever gods might be listening for their survival.

Welkin watched it all with a small, satisfied smile. He didn't try to stop them. They had earned this moment. After everything they had been through since the nightmare began at Bruhl, after the doubt, fear, and sheer exhaustion of fighting a seemingly unstoppable enemy, they had earned the right to celebrate.

He climbed down from the Edelweiss, his boots crunching on the broken ground, and made his way through the crowd.

Isara Gunther was standing by the tank, her hands still resting on the controls as though she couldn't quite believe the battle was over. Her face was smudged with grease and soot, but her eyes were bright with relief. Welkin approached her, his smile widening.

"We did it, Isara," he said, his voice soft but filled with pride. "Thanks to you."

Isara blinked as if startled out of a daze and then smiled back at him. "Thanks to all of us," she replied. "We're a team, remember?"

Welkin nodded, his gaze sweeping over the celebrating militia.

They were a ragtag group, thrown together by circumstance and bound by a shared determination to protect their homeland. They weren't professional soldiers. They didn't have the training, the equipment, or the resources of the Imperial army. But they had something the Imperials didn't have: heart.

And today, that was enough.

The celebration continued, the militia's shouts and laughter carrying across the river and into the town of Vasel. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was hope. Real, tangible hope. The Imperials weren't invincible. They could be beaten.

And Squad 7 had proven it.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the battlefield, Welkin climbed back onto the Edelweiss. He raised a hand, signaling for silence, and the militia gradually quieted down, their faces turning toward him.

"Today, we showed the Empire what Gallia is made of," he said, his voice carrying across the crowd. "We showed them that we won't back down, no matter the odds. This victory belongs to all of us. But this is just the beginning. The war isn't over. Not yet. So let's take this moment to celebrate, to remember what we're fighting for. And then let's get ready to do it all over again."

The militia erupted into cheers once more, their voices rising in a chorus of defiance and hope.

===

That evening, as the rest of Squad 7 and the militia found quarters in the parts of the ruined city, small pockets of celebrations were happening. Faldio's platoon and a designated reserve unit of the 3rd Regiment moved up to secure and police the sector now that it was back into Gallian hands.

Captain Varrot was there to personally congratulate Welkin's unit for giving one of their first victories of the war and then, after a short speech, let them off to their merrymaking.

They had become heroes of the hour for their actions that morning, though Isara decided to slink off from the festivities for now and headed into the makeshift garage where the Edelweiss had parked. She was not one for parties, and there were the unpredictable actions one could take in the presence of Darscens.

Also, her crystal felt heavy on her neck with a familiar sensation of sadness, though Isara could not identify the source. She had felt such sadness when her father and mother died in that car accident.

Isara sighed, she would not let this pain defeat her; she was going to do another round of maintenance for Edelweiss, since she had a feeling that Welkin and Squad 7 would be sent once again to counterattack the enemy on the other side of the river.

To be continued...

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