August 30th, 2XX5
Belobog, Capital City of Jarilo
0730 Hours
The skies above Belobog were partially overcast, a patchwork of low-hanging gray clouds broken by streaks of clear blue that revealed the high, untouchable sky beyond. A chilly breeze drifted over the city, hinting at the lingering grip of late summer before the inevitable snowfall returned.
Morning life in the capital stirred to motion.
School buses rumbled down narrow streets, stopping at corners to collect yawning children bundled in jackets. Horns blared in the usual morning rush hour, as tired commuters filtered into traffic, coffee in hand and the radio on low.
It was just another weekday morning in Belobog—calm, routine, predictable.
To the east of the city sat Qlipoth Air Force Base, the heart of the capital's aerial defense. The sprawling installation was nestled in the shadow of the eastern mountains, surrounded by perimeter fencing and flanked by hardened aircraft shelters.
The base was quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful, perhaps.
The flight line was calm. Maintenance crews moved with mechanical efficiency, but the atmosphere lacked urgency. A moment of calm before the storm.
Lined up on the tarmac were three F-15E Strike Eagles, glinting under the weak sunlight breaking through the clouds. A fresh coat of matte-gray paint covered their frames, the insignia of the Silvermane Squadron proudly displayed on their vertical stabilizers—an emblem of a roaring lion overlaying twin wings, with a sharp silver star above it.
Across the ramp, parked under a light awning, were aircraft from the auxiliary squadrons—F-16C Fighting Falcons, Eurofighter Typhoons, and F/A-18E Super Hornets. The mixture of Western-designed airframes reflected the recent collaborative defense agreements signed by the Jarilan leadership. The nation had finally begun modernizing its air force.
Inspecting her jet—F-15E tail number 028—was Captain Bronya Rand, Silvermane One, squadron leader and ace pilot.
She ran a gloved hand along the fuselage of her Strike Eagle, tracing the lines with a sense of familiarity and silent pride. She had been flying this aircraft for two years, ever since graduating from the Belobog Military Academy and joining the Jarilan Air Force. The aircraft was more than just a weapon to her—it was an extension of her will.
Bronya's silver-gray hair fluttered slightly in the wind, her expression unreadable as she stood beside the forward fuselage, just behind the radome. She wore a dark flight suit under her G-suit, helmet tucked under one arm, visor reflective. A patch on her shoulder bore her name and callsign—Guardian.
Her presence was commanding, but what made her even more noteworthy was her lineage: she was the adoptive daughter of Supreme Leader Cocolia Rand, the head of state and architect of Belobog's ongoing military reforms.
Bronya paused by the left engine intake, inspecting the titanium skin around the Pratt & Whitney F100-PW-220 afterburning turbofan. Her gaze lingered.
A voice called out behind her.
"Man. I'm glad it's not snowing today."
Walking up beside her was Seele, her wingman and close partner, piloting Strike Eagle 026. She wore a casual grin, her dark hair tied in a short ponytail, helmet underarm.
Bronya gave a slight nod in reply, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear.
"Yeah… With our nation being the only one snowing year-round, it really does make us unique."
Seele crossed her arms, nodding as her eyes drifted upward to the cloud-streaked sky.
"Mhm. And it looks like we're finally seeing some real progress with our air force."
Bronya turned to face her, leaning casually against the angled variable intake ramp of her Strike Eagle.
"Yep. We should be seeing more of the auxiliary squadron pilots joining our main unit soon. Might even form up some new squadrons."
Seele shifted her weight, resting her left shoulder against the nose gear strut of her own aircraft.
"Good thing your mom signed that collaborative defense act last year. That really gave us a boost. Not just in procurement—but in doctrine too. Our air defenses are finally stepping into the future."
A third voice called out from a short distance away, light and teasing.
"Hey! What are you two whispering about over here?"
Lieutenant Pela Sergeyevna, Silvermane three, approached with a slight smile, her arms crossed. Her short hair fluttered in the breeze as she joined the pair. She wore her flightsuit zipped halfway, revealing the edge of a tactical vest beneath.
Seele glanced over her shoulder and shrugged.
"Nothing much. Just giving Bronya's mom some well-earned praise for modernizing the air force."
Pela chuckled softly, her breath visible in the morning chill.
"Your mom really does deserve credit, Bronya. Our air wing's been running on fumes and old doctrines for decades. We're finally starting to see some real change."
Bronya adjusted her stance, her gaze steady but humble.
"She's doing what she can. Our ground forces have been solid for a while now—but it's the air component that's been lagging. We've always needed more oomph up here."
Pela nodded in agreement.
"You got that right."
The three pilots stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of distant jet engines and idling generators humming around them. The sky above remained fractured between cloud and sun—an omen of something yet to come.
But for now, Silvermane Squadron stood ready.
Just then—
A thunderous explosion echoed in the distance, cutting through the calm like a blade. The ground trembled faintly beneath their boots. Every pilot on the flight line snapped upright, their eyes instinctively locking northward.
A towering plume of smoke had begun to rise over the city skyline.
Bronya's heart dropped.
"What the hell was that!?" she shouted, eyes wide with disbelief.
Klaxons began screaming across Qlipoth Air Force Base, their wailing alarms washing over the flight line in rolling waves of panic and urgency.
Without missing a beat, Bronya snapped to action. Her voice turned sharp, commanding.
"Everyone! Get in gear—now! We're under attack!"
She broke into a sprint across the tarmac, Seele and Pela matching her stride. The three Silvermane pilots dashed into the ready room, their boots hammering against the concrete floor. Inside, the locker room was a blur of movement as pilots threw open their lockers and geared up.
Bronya yanked her locker open and began strapping into her flight gear with practiced speed. G-suit first, cinched tight. Then her harness, life preserver unit, and survival vest—each click and snap second nature. Her gloves slid on, and she grabbed her HGU-55/P flight helmet, bolting out the door with Seele and Pela on her six.
Out on the flight line, chaos had taken hold.
Ground crews scrambled in all directions, working furiously to prep aircraft. Ladder carts were being dragged aside, engine covers yanked off and tossed to the pavement. The hum of generators and the shouting of maintenance officers mixed with the wailing klaxons.
Bronya scaled the ladder to her F-15E Strike Eagle—tail number 028—and dropped into the cockpit. Her fingers danced across the switches in the left console, flipping on the battery and avionics. The MFDs flickered to life as the cockpit came alive.
The ladder was pulled away.
She pulled her harness straps over her shoulders and secured the five-point restraint. Without hesitation, her gloved hand reached out.
JFS switch—on. A green light blinked to life.
She grasped the Jet Fuel Starter (JFS) lever and pulled it. The distinct mechanical whine filled her ears as the starter engaged. She advanced the right throttle from cutoff to idle. The right-side Pratt & Whitney F100-PW-220 engine spooled up with a rising shriek before settling into a stable idle.
Second pull. The left engine ignited, howling to life like a beast being stirred.
Both engines online.
Canopy—down. She pushed the lever forward, and the bubble canopy hissed as it lowered and sealed shut with a solid clunk.
She released the parking brake.
The Strike Eagle jolted slightly as it began taxiing, the nose wheel turning as she guided the bird out of the revetment and toward the active taxiway.
Her radio came alive—crackling with pure chaos.
"They hit the north wall! Breach in the outer perimeter!"
"Who the hell is attacking us?!"
"Can someone tell us what the fuck's going on!?"
"Control to all combat-capable aircraft—scramble immediately! Get in the air now!"
The entire flight line was erupting into motion. F-16Cs, Eurofighters, Hornets, and Rafales taxied behind Bronya in staggered intervals, the jet exhaust shimmering in the early morning chill.
Bronya's HUD lit up as she taxied to the end of the runway. In her mirrors, she spotted Seele's Strike Eagle, tail number 026, and Pela's jet tucked in tight behind.
Behind them, the auxiliary squadrons surged forward—twenty more aircraft roaring to life.
Bronya keyed her radio, listening to the developing chaos.
"Bombers inbound! They're hitting the financial district!"
"Administrative sector is taking heavy damage! Civilians down—repeat, we have mass casualties!"
The three Strike Eagles aligned in a tight V formation at the threshold of the main runway. Bronya took the centerline. Seele held left echelon. Pela locked in on the right. Wingtip to wingtip.
The tower's voice cut through the static.
"Silvermane Team—cleared for immediate departure. Cancel all altitude restrictions. Priority scramble!"
Bronya's eyes narrowed behind her visor.
"Wilco. Silvermane Team—wheels up now!"
She pushed the throttles forward through MIL power and slammed them into afterburner. The twin F100s roared, flame pouring from the exhaust nozzles as the Strike Eagle surged forward.
She released the brakes.
Bronya's jet screamed down the runway, the acceleration slamming her into the seat. Airspeed increased rapidly—160, 180, 200 knots.
She pulled gently back on the stick.
The Strike Eagle rotated, leaving the runway behind. The gear lever went up, and the gear doors sealed shut as she rocketed into the sky.
Behind her, Seele and Pela launched into formation, their engines trailing twin spears of fire.
The radio was a chorus of desperation and steel.
"All air-to-air capable fighters—get airborne immediately! I repeat, scramble everything you've got!"
Dozens more jets surged off the runway. Overhead, a massive formation was already circling high above Belobog—F/A-18 Super Hornets, F-16s, and Rafales in tight patterns.
A new voice entered the net.
"This is AWACS Talisman to all scrambling aircraft. The situation on the ground remains fluid and unresolved. Standby for emergency formation assignments. Follow your updated tasking."
Inside the AWACS, radar controllers scanned the tactical display, identifying callsigns.
One stood out—solitary.
"Moltammer, are you flying solo?" Talisman asked.
A male voice replied over the net, calm but focused.
"Affirmative, sir."
"Copy that. Effective immediately, you're Silvermane Four. Join up with Silvermane Team's F-15Es at angels 15."
"Understood. Moltammer en route."
Bronya caught a visual—an F-16C streaking into formation behind her team.
"Silvermane Four reporting in. Name's Luka, but we can skip introductions for now. One through Three—I've got your six."
Bronya gave a sharp nod in the cockpit.
"Roger that, Moltammer. Form up tight. We're taking the fight to them."
Talisman came back on comms.
"Silvermane Team, you are cleared to engage all hostiles in Belobog airspace. Weapons free."
Bronya's grip tightened on the stick.
"Copy. Silvermane Team—engage all hostiles."
She rolled her Strike Eagle into a smooth left bank, diving toward the city in a shallow descent. The HUD flooded with contacts—red diamonds filling the screen.
Seele peeled off behind her, voice clear.
"Roger—Nightshade engaging."
"Wilco—Frostbite engaging."
Then Luka keyed up.
"Moltammer engaging. Let's clean up our skies."
The Strike Eagles of Silvermane plunged into the chaos over Belobog—facing a sky about to burn.
As they leveled their wings, the full scale of the attack revealed itself.
Belobog was in dire straits.
Smoke billowed from the streets below, black columns rising like grave markers over shattered buildings. Fires blazed through the residential blocks, and the administrative district was already reduced to rubble in places. The airspace above the capital had become a war zone—streaked with contrails, missile plumes, and the glint of flares.
"Skies are crawling…" Bronya muttered, adjusting her throttle and switching her armament settings.
She selected her SP weapon—AIM-120C AMRAAMs, already preloaded on her belly stations. The radar fed her targeting data: four fast movers approaching from the northeast, closing altitude at 28,000 feet. Their silhouettes matched Mirage 2000s—hostile.
She pushed the throttle forward, side-eyes scanning the MFD for tone confirmation.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Three!" she called out, firm and steady.
Four AIM-120C missiles dropped cleanly from the underbelly rails of her F-15E before igniting, streaking off in long trails of fire and smoke.
Seconds later—impact.
All four enemy Mirages were shredded mid-air, detonating into blossoms of orange and black. Shrapnel scattered across the sky like dying stars as Bronya and her wingmen punched through the aftermath, flying right through the smoke columns without flinching.
She keyed her mic.
"Silvermane Team, break formation! Prioritize eliminating all enemy aircraft and bombers!"
"Copy!" Seele barked back, pulling left.
"Wilco!" Pela added, breaking right.
Luka peeled off wide in his F-16C, vapor trails curling from his wingtips.
Then came Talisman's voice, tense and clipped.
"All units, this is AWACS Talisman. We are officially in a state of emergency. The capital is under attack by unknown hostiles. Do whatever it takes to fend them off. Weapons free."
Luka, full of fervor, keyed in with fire in his voice.
"Roger that, Talisman! Moltammer's in the fight!"
Bronya's eyes swept her radar and IFF system. Her blood ran cold.
Dozens of returns. Enemy aircraft flooding the battlespace from all angles. Her HUD filled with IFF-negative tags—non-friendly, closing in fast. Mixed signals.
Some were older-gen fighters—F-14B Tomcats, easily identified by their distinctive wing sweep.
Others were much more advanced—Su-30 Flankers, maneuvering aggressively through Belobog's airspace.
But that wasn't the worst part.
Some of them were flying allied aircraft—Eurofighters, Rafales, F-16Cs…all flying in enemy formations.
"Holy hell…" Bronya hissed, breaking into a shallow climb.
"There's too many. This isn't some small strike force—this is a fucking war. It's like a whole nation just invaded us."
"Su-30s!" Pela called out from the right.
"This has to be Snezhnaya! No one else operates them!"
"No—it can't be!" Seele cut in.
"Didn't they sign that arms reduction act with Teyvat fifteen years ago? They're still under sanctions!"
Bronya didn't have time to argue. Her RWR lit up—radar spike dead ahead. A new blip appeared.
Bomber-class signature. TU-95 Bear.
"Hostile bomber in my scope. Moving to intercept."
She dove low and hard, hugging the bomber's six. The massive turboprop was sluggish—no chance to maneuver.
"Fox Two!" Bronya declared, thumbing the Sidewinder launch.
The AIM-9M leapt off her rail and speared through the sky, striking the Bear square in its tail section.
Direct hit.
The TU-95's tail sheared off entirely. The remaining fuselage twisted in agony before it spun into a flat corkscrew and dove nose-first into the heart of the city. The resulting fireball lit up an entire street block.
Then—more escalation.
A new voice flooded the net.
"This is the Jarilo Naval Fleet! We have enemy warships approaching the harbor! Multiple unknown vessels—defend the bay at once!"
Bronya gritted her teeth, scanning for another target. A lone Mirage 2000-5 buzzed past her canopy, pulling into a sharp jink.
"You're mine."
She chased.
The Mirage banked right—Bronya countered. Then it broke left—Bronya matched. They circled in a deadly spiral of energy management. The Mirage suddenly pitched into a steep climb, trying to bleed her speed.
Bronya matched the pitch rate, yanking her stick hard into her gut. Her flight suit pressurized as the g-loads climbed.
Then, the Mirage broke left in a snap-roll and dumped its nose.
Bronya mirrored it perfectly.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Two!"
Two Sidewinders screamed off her rails, smoke trailing like white-hot lances.
She pulled away in a hard break, flares popping just in case.
Direct hit.
The Mirage exploded violently, a wing tumbling through the air. The fuselage spiraled down, smashing into a high-rise and detonating at street level.
Across the city, Seele spotted movement above—a Eurofighter banking hard across her nose at high speed.
"Gotcha."
She slammed her throttle forward into max afterburner, aftershock rumbling through her frame. She pulled her F-15E into a textbook Immelmann turn, flipping over the top of the loop and catching the Eurofighter in her HUD while inverted.
Tone.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
Two Sidewinders raced out of her launchers.
She rolled level and watched her target.
Direct hit.
The Eurofighter's right wing tore clean off. The rest of the aircraft spun violently and splashed down into the bay in a plume of fire and foam.
Seele pulled left to disengage.
"Splash one!"
Talisman's voice returned to the net, graver than before.
"All units, stand by for intel update. We've identified the attackers—they're part of the Free Jarilo Armed Rebellion. Repeat—Free Jarilo Rebellion."
The comms exploded with disbelief.
"A rebellion!? You've gotta be kidding!"
"The Free Jarilo group wants to overthrow the Supreme Guardian and the Architects—they're trying to start a democratic revolution, but this—this is full-scale warfare!"
"Where the hell did they get this kind of firepower?!"
"SU-30s… Rafales… Are we seriously saying they built an air force overnight?"
"No way—they had to get external support. This is too coordinated, too heavy."
Pela came back on, voice tense.
"This doesn't make sense… Snezhnaya signed the disarmament accord. They're still under tech sanctions. There's no way they'd be supplying advanced fighters to a rebellion—they'd get hit with retaliatory strikes from Teyvat!"
"Unless…" Bronya muttered grimly.
"…someone wants to keep their fingerprints hidden."
The skies were chaos.
But the Jarilo Air Force—desperate and determined—was holding its own.
Each missile fired by Silvermane Squadron and its allies carved fiery trails across the war-torn sky. Most found their mark.
From dozens of enemy aircraft, the numbers began to dwindle. Rapidly.
Single digits.
Bombers plummeted from the clouds, wings sheared clean off, spinning helplessly toward the earth below. Fighters erupted into burning wrecks—some splashed into the icy waters of the Belobog Bay, others corkscrewed into the city, colliding with buildings in bursts of flame and twisted metal.
Down on the ground, the resistance was fierce. The Silvermane Guards and Belobog's conscripted defenders dug in deep, pushing the invading forces back street by street. Pillars of smoke curled into the sky from tank husks and collapsed structures. The capital had become a battlefield.
Near the Administrative District, Luka "Moltammer" was neck-deep in a furious dogfight with another F-16C—an enemy pilot who clearly had skill.
"Damn bastard!" Luka growled, wrenching the stick hard left, his fighter jinking sharply to avoid a burst of 20mm cannon fire. "Think you can just waltz in here and try to take our capital!? No way in hell!"
The two Falcons crisscrossed each other in a violent weave, wings almost scraping. The hostile F-16C tried to get a tone. Luka was faster.
He jerked into a tight scissors maneuver, rolled inverted, and yanked the nose upward.
Lock tone.
"Fox Two!" he roared, hammering the launch trigger.
Two AIM-9X Sidewinders detached from his pylons and streaked toward the enemy fighter in a cloud of smoke and flame.
Impact.
A fireball consumed the enemy Viper, its fuselage crumpling midair before spiraling down—shattering into a city park below.
"Yes!" Luka shouted, fist slamming the side of his cockpit in triumph. "Splash for Moltammer!"
Bronya's voice crackled over comms, her tone sharp but proud.
"Nice work!"
Luka smirked and throttled back into formation.
"Let's teach these rebels a thing or two about starting a civil war!"
AWACS Talisman came online, calm but urgent.
"The Rebellion threat level is dropping—enemy numbers are low. Drive them out of Belobog! Push them back!"
And then…
It appeared.
A sudden, massive radar contact materialized on their scopes—bearing east, inbound from the sea.
A colossus.
IV-8492 Strigon.
A 24-engine aerial carrier—Khaenri'ahn origin, designed for strategic force projection and carrierborne air dominance. A weaponized behemoth capable of launching full squadrons of fighters while airborne.
The blood drained from Bronya's face.
Then came a burst of encrypted enemy comms—jagged, unfiltered static followed by a cold, mechanical voice:
"Korol Squadron, we will commence mission operations once the delivery is complete..."
At once, eight Su-30SMs popped up on radar—Korol Squadron. Sleek, agile, lethal.
The aerial carrier's launch bays hissed open.
And then—
Missiles.
The IV-8492 fired its payload—dozens of high-speed, long-range cruise missiles arcing upward and dispersing in a terrifying fan.
Silvermane Squadron and the remaining allied air wings snapped into formation, eyes wide, weapons hot.
And then—chaos.
"All planes, take them ou—" Bronya began—
BOOM.
A thunderous explosion tore through the formation. Shockwaves rippled through the air.
"Shit! Break, break!" she yelled.
The formation disintegrated. Fighters broke in every direction, weaving and diving through the city in a desperate bid to survive.
Bronya caught sight of a lead Su-30. She slammed the throttle forward, flipped master arm on, and toggled to heat-seekers.
Lock tone.
"Fox Two, asshole!" she barked.
Two Sidewinders lanced off her rails, trailing white smoke.
The enemy radio flared up in panic:
"Commander! Break, break!"
Too late.
Impact.
The lead Su-30 detonated midair—its right wing and empennage ripped free, flaming chunks raining down on the city.
"The commander is hit!" another voice cried. "Our lead flight is down!"
Bronya banked hard right, pulling 6 Gs as the city twisted below her.
"What the fuck was that!? Talisman!"
Talisman responded, his voice grim.
"The rebel group has a massive aerial cruiser! No formal identification. This is... this is some Khaenri'ahn witchcraft!"
Another pilot cut in, panicked.
"Evade! Quarter of our planes just got hit!"
A second voice.
"Abort! Abort! We can't stay in this airspace!"
Talisman broke in again, this time with authority.
"We received orders from command. Abort the mission. Head west—regroup at Everwinter Island. Evacuate Belobog."
Luka, weaving between a cluster of incoming missiles, shouted in disbelief:
"What—what!?"
Talisman repeated, firmer now:
"We're ordered to give up Belobog. All squadrons, break from the airspace and head west."
Seele snapped in rage:
"Are you OUT OF YOUR MIND!? WE CAN'T COMPLY!"
Talisman's tone cracked slightly—he hated this order too.
"We're militarily at a disadvantage. Comply and head west. Vacate Belobog airspace."
Pela's voice burst over comms.
"This is Frostbite! We're not leaving!"
Talisman's voice fell to a near whisper.
"Listen! It's only temporary. The plan is to withdraw, regroup at Everwinter Air Force Base, and prepare a counterattack."
Then, more gravely:
"This also activates Section Six of the Teyvat–Jarilo Nation-in-Arms Act. That means we'll receive outside support. Reinforcements. Supplies. Everything."
He sighed.
"We can't afford to lose our remaining forces. Please. Follow the orders."
In her cockpit, Bronya screamed in frustration and slammed her fist against the glass.
"Damn it!"
But then, slowly, she exhaled.
"All planes," she finally said, her voice low. Resigned. "Disengage and evacuate."
Seele's voice came next, reluctant.
"But Bronya!"
"No buts!" Bronya snapped. "We have to trust command."
A long pause.
"...Fine," Seele said.
The remaining fighters formed up around her. Trailing smoke. Low on fuel. Ammo expended. Spirit tested.
AWACS Talisman's E-767, orbiting at 40,000 feet, banked gently westward. The great bird pulled away from Belobog's sky. The last AWACS eye… leaving the city behind.
The mission was a failure.
Bronya looked over her shoulder, her heart shattered.
"I'm so sorry, Belobog..."
Luka, eyes burning, added:
"We'll be back for you... we promise."
Of the 20 planes that had taken off from Belobog Air Force Base—
Only 6 made it out.
And of the 40 total aircraft that rose to defend the city?
Only 10 survived.
The rebels had won the day.
Belobog, the proud capital, was now under their control.
As for the surviving forces?
They had no choice but to retreat.
To regroup.
To lick their wounds on the frozen tundra of Everwinter Island—an exile deep in one of the snowiest regions of Jarilo.
How long would they remain stranded?
And would they ever take back their home?
Only time would tell.