Chapter 264: Vacation

“Why the hell does only O’Neer and Wyatt get to go on vacation?” one officer asked, arms crossed.

“Cause the General likes me,” O’Neer said cheekily.

He had just enough time to duck as Abel hurled a helmet at his head.

“Can it,” Abel snapped. “We are not going on vacation. We are going into foreign territory with no way back on our own.”

The officers quieted slightly, though the grumbling did not stop.

“O’Neer is coming because, insolent shithead that he is, he has an eye for schemes,” Abel continued. “Wyatt is going because he is more level-headed than all of you combined. And I’m going because I’m the commanding officer.”

That earned another round of muttering.

Abel’s gaze hardened. “I need all of you to stop acting like children and make sure we still have a population to evacuate. Got it?”

The response came back uneven and reluctant. “Aye, sir.”

Abel growled softly as he paused to think about it. On paper, it did not make much sense for the Empire to betray them once they arrived. There were only a few officers. The Rangers would not collapse without them. Disrupted, yes. Slowed perhaps. But not broken. If the Empire wanted the Vulpus as allies, killing their envoys would be a poor opening move.

It would also be a pointless one. Betraying them would gain the Empire almost nothing. The Rangers would not simply disappear because some officers and NCOs failed to return. If anything, the opposite would happen. The Vulpus were not the forgiving sort. News that their envoys had been murdered under a flag of negotiation would travel quickly across the wastes, and every Ranger still breathing would take it as proof that the Empire could not be trusted.

Abel had spent his life watching how alliances formed and how they died. Fear could force obedience for a while, but trust built cooperation. If the Empire wanted scouts, guides, and soldiers who actually knew how to survive, then keeping their word was the simplest way to secure it.

Still, the other side of the calculation refused to disappear entirely. Powerful states sometimes made decisions that looked foolish to outsiders. Empires occasionally removed inconvenient witnesses, or decided that absorbing a territory was easier than negotiating with it. If the Empire believed the Vulpus were weak enough to be conquered later, then the lives of three major officers might mean very little in the grand arithmetic of expansion.

Abel exhaled slowly through his nose.

In the end, the logic pointed one way. Betrayal would create enemies. Keeping their word would create allies. One of those options cost nothing and gained useful partners. The other bought a war in the middle of a wasteland already trying to kill everyone in it. He suspected the Empire understood that difference. He just hoped they understood it as clearly as he did.

“O’Neer, c’mere,” Abel barked.

O’Neer sauntered over, hands in his pockets, cigarette still dangling from the corner of his mouth. He barely had time to open it before Abel grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him forward.

Abel leaned in close and hissed into his face. “When we are over there, I don’t doubt you will not do something stupid. What concerns me is you making a fool of yourself and, by extension, us. Or getting drunk and getting into one of your famous bar fights.”

O’Neer blinked slowly as smoke drifted between them.

“When we are there,” Abel continued in a low growl, “you will be on your best behaviour. You will not insult anyone important, you will not start fights, and you will not break anything.”

Abel gave his coat a small shake for emphasis. “Am I clear?”

Before O’Neer could answer, Abel released him and turned to the rest of the men who had been chosen for the trip. Six soldiers stood there with Wyatt among them, all watching with the uneasy patience of people who suspected they were about to receive a lecture.

Abel stepped up to the first man and jabbed a finger into his chest. “No fighting.”

He moved to the next one. “No fucking fighting.”

Another step down the line. Another pointed finger. “No fighting.”

He repeated it again and again as he walked past them, each soldier receiving the same warning delivered with the same growing irritation.

“No fighting.”

By the time he finished the line the men were standing a little straighter, expressions carefully neutral.

Abel folded his arms and glared at the group. “I am not joking. We are guests in someone else’s territory. That means you keep your tempers, your mouths, and your hands to yourselves.”

Behind the smoke of his cigarette, O’Neer muttered quietly, “This is already sounding less like a vacation.”

Abel did not even look at him. He was already in full lecture mode.

“That means no stealing,” he continued, pacing slowly in front of the group. “No doing weird drugs you find lying about. No shit flirting that looks like harassment. No shacking up with random local women.”

He jabbed a finger toward the ground for emphasis.

“You keep your hands where they belong, and your pants on.”

Abel stopped pacing, turned back toward the group, and bellowed.

“AM I CLEAR?”

The response came back quickly this time. “Yes sir!”

Abel stood there for a moment, chest rising as he took a slow breath, the kind a man took when deciding not to throttle half the people in front of him. A private appeared at his elbow as if summoned by instinct alone, holding out a glass of Averlonian brandy. Abel took it without a word.

“Get the fuck out of my sight, all of you,” he growled. “And get ready. We leave in two hours.”

The officers and soldiers scattered with suspicious speed.

Abel took a slow sip of the brandy, cleared his throat, and stalked off toward his tent.

O’Neer watched General Abel disappear into the camp and then glanced over at Wyatt. “They have weird drugs?”

Wyatt closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his snout. “O’Neer… please just don’t.”

“What? I’m just curious,” O’Neer replied.

Wyatt immediately jabbed a finger into his chest. “And that is exactly the problem.”

“Alright alright, no drugs, no drunken brawls, no local women.” O’Neer said, and Wyatt just shook his head in response.

A few hours later O’Neer found himself climbing into a carriage waiting deep underground. The tunnel had clearly been carved by the Hive, a straight engineered passage that ran toward the Empire. Efficient, direct, and unsettlingly smooth for something that had probably been dug by creatures with claws.

The first thing O’Neer noticed was how plush the interior was. Soft seats. Proper lighting. Even the faint smell of polished wood instead of dust and sand. It was far more comfortable than anything he had ridden in.

Then he noticed the cooler.

It was built neatly into the side of the carriage and packed with ice and bottles of chilled drinks. O’Neer immediately helped himself to one. He had always been a firm believer that fate helped those who helped themselves.

“Wow, these Imperials really know how to live it up, huh?” O’Neer said as he took a large swig of the ice cold beer.

Abel just grunted as he pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and leaned back in his seat like he was about to take a nap.

“Wyatt, you have first watch,” Abel muttered.

O’Neer glanced over at Wyatt, who simply nodded without complaint.

“You’re just going to sleep, General?” O’Neer asked, a smirk creeping into his voice.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, O’Neer. I can hear it,” Abel replied without opening his eyes. “Besides, in this box and underground, if the Hive decides to kill us, we’re dead anyway.”

O’Neer took another drink and leaned back. “Comforting.”

Wyatt frowned slightly. “Then why am I on watch?”

“Principle,” Abel grunted.

The journey took a few days, and in O’Neer’s opinion it was maddening. The carriage was comfortable, the drinks were cold, and the route was efficient, but there were limits to what a man could tolerate.

He had not expected that one of those limits would be taking a shit in a dim tunnel while a hive creature stood a few paces away, watching him to make sure he did not wander off.

Turns out he was a shy pooper. You learned something about yourself every now and then, it seemed.

When they finally reached their destination, O’Neer had to admit, if only to himself, that he was impressed. The floors were smooth and polished, the air was clean, and there was even a servant waiting with a tray of cold drinks the moment they stepped out into what looked like an underground reception hall. It was all very… put together.

He took the offered drink without hesitation.

There were people everywhere. Humans, mostly. Not soldiers either. Workers, attendants, civilians going about their business. That caught his attention more than anything else.

They were staring.

Not subtly either. Eyes followed the group openly as they moved through the hall. O’Neer could not blame them. Vulpus did not exactly blend in. Fur, ears, tails. Everything about them stood out against the mostly hairless humans around them. He doubted anyone here had seen a Vulpus in centuries, if ever.

O’Neer took in the space and the people moving through it, and he couldn’t help but wonder what life here would look like for the average Vulpus. Clean air. Stable ground. Food that did not try to kill you. The thought lingered longer than he expected.

Almost without thinking, he slipped a cigarette between his teeth.

Wyatt immediately reached over and snatched it out of his mouth.

For a brief, feral second, O’Neer’s instincts flared and he almost bit the hand on reflex before catching himself.

“Not here,” Wyatt hissed under his breath. “You know the humans don’t like the smell.”

“…Right,” O’Neer grumbled, tucking the cigarette away.

A pair of attendants approached soon after, bowing slightly before gesturing for them to follow. The group moved through a series of corridors, each as clean and orderly as the last. The lighting was steady and even, coming from faintly glowing fixtures set into the walls. No smoke, no flicker, just controlled illumination that made the whole place feel deliberate.

They were led to another carriage, this one set along a rail that angled upward.

O’Neer stepped in and took a seat by the window without being told. If they were finally heading to the surface, he wanted to see it.

The carriage began to move, smooth and quiet, the motion steady as it climbed. There was no jolt, no rattling. Just a low hum that suggested whatever powered it was working properly.

Natural light spilled in as they emerged from the tunnel, and O’Neer leaned slightly toward the window, eyes narrowing as the capital of Averlon came into view.

The first thing he noticed was how clean everything was. The roads were properly paved, not packed dirt or cracked stone. Edges were straight, surfaces maintained. There was no debris collecting in corners, no windblown sand piling up where no one bothered to clear it.

The streets were busy but orderly. People moved with purpose, but without tension. No one was scanning rooftops or keeping a hand near a weapon. Conversations happened openly. There was even the occasional laugh.

They looked at ease, safe and content bordering on complacency at least to him.

O’Neer’s gaze moved across the details as the carriage rolled forward. Magic was present everywhere, but it was woven into the city rather than standing apart from it. Street lamps glowed with a steady light that did not flicker. Shop signs carried faint enchantments that made their lettering clearer and easier to read. Even something as simple as a door handle carried small etched runes, likely for durability or convenience.

Further down the road he spotted a maintenance crew working on a lamp post. One of them held a tool that gave off a faint hum. He pressed it against the base of the post and a ripple of light ran through the structure, the glow stabilizing almost immediately. No dismantling, no scaffolding, just a quick adjustment before they moved on to the next one.

O’Neer watched them for a moment, then leaned back slightly.

“…Efficient,” he muttered.

The carriage continued deeper into the city, past more of the same quiet order. No shouting, no scrambling, no sense that anything here was about to fall apart if someone stopped paying attention.

It was an unfamiliar feeling.

For once, O’Neer was in a place that did not seem like it was trying to kill him.

“So the Empress will be meeting us then,” Abel grunted as he adjusted his hat.

O’Neer glanced at him and couldn’t help the dry thought that followed. Abel’s idea of “cleaning up” before leaving for Averlon had consisted of putting on slightly newer clothes and dunking that wide brimmed hat into a bucket of water that had turned noticeably murkier the moment it made contact. The man stared at it for a second, nodded like the job was done, and put it back on his head.

It looked like a lot of effort just to meet a monarch…

O’Neer had not bothered.

He had watched the entire process, taken a slow drag from his cigarette, and decided it was a waste of time. If the Empress wanted to see the Vulpus, she could see them as they were, not dressed up like something they weren’t.

His own hat had not been cleaned in six years, and it was going to stay that way.

When they reached the palace, the group slowed without needing to be told. It was less a residence and more a fortress that had been dressed up to look presentable. Thick walls, clean lines, and layers of visible security that did not bother hiding themselves.

O’Neer’s eyes moved upward first. Phoenixes were perched along the upper spires, each resting on reinforced platforms that looked deliberately overbuilt to hold their weight. Even at rest they radiated heat and presence, feathers faintly glowing against the sky.

Below, Royal Guards stood at intervals along the approach. Their armour was massive, closer to constructs than equipment, the same kind of towering frames he had seen before on the Wardens. They did not shift or fidget. They simply stood, each one a statement that getting past them would not be easy.

Mixed among them were Hive creatures.

They stood like statues, unmoving and silent, their forms too alien to belong in any civilized setting. Clawed limbs folded in, heads angled slightly as if observing everything at once. They did not react to the flow of people moving past them.

What caught O’Neer off guard was the people.

No one stared. No one hurried. Citizens walked past these things like they were just another part of the street. No flinching. No wide eyes. Just quiet acceptance.

O’Neer frowned slightly as he took it in.

Either these people were very well protected… or they had gotten used to living next to things that could kill them without effort.

When he walked into palace he couldn’t help but whistle as he looked up at magnificent decor. Red carpet, banners taller than buildings, gold, silver, more gold, more silver.

“This Empress Cecilia sure knows how to live it up.” O’Neer said.

“That’s one way to put it.” Avel grunted as he looked around as well.

O’Neer’s attention drifted from the guards to a group of noble ladies passing along the palace approach, and he found himself frowning for an entirely different reason.

Their clothes looked utterly impractical.

Feathered accents that served no purpose beyond display, narrow waists cinched tight, open backs that left skin exposed, high slits that suggested movement but were paired with long trailing lengths of fabric that dragged along the polished stone. The garments flowed and shifted with every step, elegant in a way that made no sense to him.

He watched one of them carefully step to avoid catching the hem under her own foot.

“…Right,” he muttered under his breath.

Back home, clothes were made to survive. Dust, heat, blood, whatever the day decided to throw at you. If something dragged on the ground, it got torn off or caught on something that wanted you dead.

Here, it seemed the opposite applied. The more impractical it was, the more important it looked. And when the ladies spotted the grimy group, they all moved almost in unison. Feathered fans snapped open, covering the lower halves of their faces as they leaned slightly toward one another, whispering in low, careful tones.

Their eyes, however, gave them away. They glittered with curiosity, tracking the Vulpus openly now that the pretense of discretion was in place. The fans hid their mouths, but not their interest.

O’Neer glanced down at himself, then at Abel, then at Wyatt.

Dust. Scars. Travel worn gear that had seen better decades.

Then as they ventured deeper into the palace grounds, the crowd shifted. The nobles thinned out, replaced by men who carried themselves differently. Military types. High collars, heavy capes draped over broad shoulders, uniforms cut sharp and deliberate. Many bore scars across their faces, old lines that had long since healed but not faded. Their expressions were hard, measured, the kind that did not waste movement or attention.

O’Neer felt himself relax slightly.

These were his kind of people.

As they passed, his gaze met that of an older officer standing off to the side. The man’s posture was straight, eyes sharp, the kind of look that weighed and assessed in a heartbeat. No hostility. No curiosity. Just recognition.

O’Neer tipped the brim of his hat in acknowledgement.

The officer gave a small nod in return, equally restrained, equally respectful.

Seems soldiers knew soldiers, no matter the land.

When they got to the throne room they saw the massive gold gate carved onto it was the symbol of the empire, a great phoenix rising from the ashes, and shrieking at the sky wings held out.

“Rather dramatic…” O’Neer quipped and Wyatt just gave a slightly committal grunt.

Then the doors opened. As the group approached, O’Neer saw her, Empress Cecilia, and, if he was being honest, he had no idea if she counted as pretty.

Humans always looked strange to Vulpus. Especially their women. No visible ears, expressions that felt harder to read, like something was missing from the face. But this woman did not come across as blank.

Not even close.

She sat on the throne with one leg crossed, posture composed without looking stiff. One arm rested along the armrest, the other lightly supporting her cheek. It was not a deliberate pose so much as a settled one, like she had always been meant to sit there.

Her chin was slightly raised, her gaze angled downward over the hall, taking in everything without settling on any one person. Her expression did not change.

Her eyes were red, the color of polished rubies. Not warm. Not inviting. They felt distant, like looking through crimson glass at something that had already decided what it was seeing.

O’Neer held her gaze for a fraction longer than necessary, then looked away. He didn’t like the feeling that came with it.

Then she spoke, her voice light and airy, carrying easily through the chamber.

Welcome Vulpus, to my empire…