Dominion Rising Bonus Swag

by Gwynn White

To this day, the debate rages on. Was it an accident? The act of a traitor? A lucky strike by a lone gargoyle or vampire operative? Conspiracy theories abound, including one of the most fantastical, in which the vampires and gargoyles developed a kind of flying machine that they then crashed into the facility, touching off the chain reaction that destroyed it. None of these theories or accounts are verifiable, however, as the explosion and the heat of the resulting chemical fire reduced the entire site to a massive slag field. Whatever happened there that day, all evidence of it burned up within an all-consuming fire.

  The likelihood is that an accident was responsible for the destruction of the ISK facility. The site housed significant amounts of deadly and combustible chemicals (all required to produce the weapons that were winning the war); even the smallest spark or slight malfunction could have touched off a catastrophic string of events. As difficult as it is to believe, sometimes the simplest and most innocent of missteps can have the gravest consequences.

  Whatever the case, the resistance forces had no knowledge of this. Many of them continued to press the offensive, expecting new shipments of the lethal ordnance to follow. They were left wanting. By the end of the year, most were lost. A few scattered and bedraggled units returned to tell the tale of the fallen. The betrayal, the loss, the sense of failure. They had come so close, but fallen short.

  From our greatest high, we had crashed to a new low. Humanity was adrift... but a new wave was coming.

  * * *

  Years passed. The war on the former European continent had ground to a standstill, highlighted almost entirely by brutal guerrilla attacks and brief but ultimately doomed insurgencies on both sides. As for humanity's most lethal weapons, only a few facilities had been retrofitted to manufacture them, and the collective yield was, at best, less than half that of the destroyed ISK facility. That, and the supply lines were significantly less stable. Some have estimated that as many as thirty percent of shipments were destroyed or otherwise compromised en route to delivery. The veracity of these estimations is debatable, but the recorded usages of solar flares and phosphorous rounds do plunge significantly following the destruction of the ISK facility.

  All of this is to say that humanity was, by all accounts, in a bad way. But we were not the only ones.

  History tells us that a vampire emissary arrived before the gates of Ft. Haverstall on an eerily calm evening in late winter of the year 148 XP. There was a great deal of confusion within the fort upon the emissary's arrival. No word had been forwarded prior to his arrival, and those manning the wall thought him to be the first of an invading force.

  The vampire was just kneeling and placing his hands behind his head when a shot rang out, buzzing atop his hairline. The words the vampire spoke next are universally corroborated by those manning the wall of Ft. Haverstall that night.

  "Thank you for the haircut. It had gotten a bit unruly. Now, will one of you please look through your scopes and note that my fangs have been filed?"

  It proved true. The emissary had volunteered himself for the mission, knowing full well he would never feed in the conventional sense again. It was, in its own small way, the first of many gestures laying the groundwork for a long and fitful peace process.

  The emissary was brought in from the cold. The message he carried was simple: his kind's most brilliant strategists had deduced that the war was no longer winnable. For either side to continue fighting would not only be counterproductive, but downright suicidal. As such, the otherworldly forces occupying the European continent were prepared to sue for peace.

  It was the recommendation of many on site that the emissary be executed immediately, his head sent back to his kind as fast as a horse could carry it. Instead, the commander of Ft. Haverstall communicated the arrival of the emissary, and his proposal, to her superiors.

  The negotiations that followed were long and fraught with setbacks. Weeks became months, which in turn became years. Meanwhile, sporadic engagements between hardliners from both sides threatened to derail the peace process on numerous occasions.

  Other factors presented their own unique difficulties. One of the greatest impediments to a long and lasting peace was the drafting of a document outlining the terms. After multiple drafts and concessions numbering into the dozens, the resulting document became known as The Pact of Parnassus Point, and was officially signed in the year 152 XP, over 100 years since the beginning of the Second Nothnocti War.

  The Founders' Pact, as it became known in shorthand, laid the groundwork for peace. Chief among its precepts was the founding of a city-state to be shared by humans, vampires, and gargoyles alike. And so it was that roughly one year later, the foundations were laid, a metaphor unto themselves.

  The construction of the city came as the result of an unprecedented group effort, but was not without its challenges. After so many generations of war and destruction, the very idea of creating something, of building for the future, was a foreign one for most involved. Add to that the uneasiness all sides felt at the prospect of working with former enemies. From the city planners down to the bricklayers, cross-species tensions persisted as the mixed crews learned to work and live together... at least in theory.

  This tension and mistrust manifested itself most dangerously during the initial stages of planning and construction. For years, the city was little more than a fetid morass dotted with scattered individual buildings. These were surrounded by rude shantytowns and tent cities. Slowly but surely, however, the urban infrastructure began to take shape. Sewer lines and power grids were established; roads were paved and graded; government and municipal buildings were erected; the shantytowns and tent cities were cleared out, making way for permanent domiciles and business districts. After nearly two decades, the city was finally starting to look like the future it had been billed as all along.

  The city was named Meridia, marking a new zenith in human/vampire/gargoyle relations. And while it may have been the first such shared city-state, its example soon spawned others.

  But peace?

  Some say we'll never know true peace. Some say we never did in the first place.

  * * *

  By now you're probably wondering who I am, how I know all this. My name is Dolan Zobbles, and mine is one of the few families that has fought since the First Nothnocti War. Nearly every one of my ancestors has served as part of the 216th Battalion (AKA the Two-One-Six), or at least had to live with someone who did. And now, here I am, carrying the torch. They say I'm an officer now--an adjunct lieutenant, technically--but really, I'm just an up-jumped military historian with a name and family history my superiors know. I never wanted to be a soldier. We all thought those days were done and behind us. I wanted to go into politics, to run for office, and instead... well, here we are, barely a mile or so from the front lines and hundreds from the only place I've ever called home. The only strategies I know haven't worked for decades (centuries, even!) and now they have me strategizing in real-time. I have a pistol strapped to my thigh, its constant presence awkward and unfamiliar, and the rifle on my rickety excuse for a desk is making it hard for me to write. Pops of automatic weapons fire can be heard in the distance, and for all I know any moment a monstrous horde will come barreling over the rise, screaming and howling as they fall upon our position. But I don't know what else to do, so I suppose I'll keep writing.

  The one thing I do know? Thank the gods for small favors, at least I have a solid crew behind me.

  Shenji Tokugawa, Sergeant. An infantry lifer and total ballbuster, but they say every good LT needs one of those, right? He has these peoples' respect in spades, and I plan to lean on that as much as I can until I've earned it for myself.

  Edwin Edgehill, Corporal. Tokugawa's designated second. Hates my guts, near as I can tell. One of those anti-officer types. Though, given my scant credentials, I can't really blame him. Hell, even I don't want me here. TFB for both of us, I guess.

  Ryen Cato, Corporal. Our sniper. Maybe the most tightly wound, qu
ietly intense individual I've ever met. The fact that he can put a target down from over a klick away makes it all the more unsettling. Suffice it to say, I'm glad he's on our team.

  Henry "Hank" Smiley, Corporal. Cato's spotter. The yin to his yang, so to speak. The two are nearly inseparable. As much as he keeps Cato in check (for which I'm extremely grateful), he also keeps him right on target (again, for which I'm extremely grateful).

  Sativa Cordova, Specialist. Demolitions and Ordnance Disposal. If you want it to go boom, she knows the price of admission. Still trying to decide if she's an honest to gods head case or just a little loopy. (That, and which would be preferable.)

  Lana Cato, Specialist. Our medic. Also, Ryen's younger sister. They should have never been allowed to serve together, but it's hardly the first time command has looked the other way. Total opposite of her brother, always able to find the light even when things look their darkest. She's... she's something special.

  Cyrus Moustakis, PFC. Heavy weapons man, and bigger than life, to boot. Pretty sure his bicep is as thick as the barrel of his weapon, but it might just be an optical illusion-type thing. Either way, I'm good with it.

  Marco Jensen, PFC. Squaddie. Sharp eye, quick with a rifle. Even quicker with a joke. Can't say I blame him. Gotta keep it light, or else it gets too heavy, right?

  Yusa Antonia, PFC. Squaddie and radio operator. Kinda quiet when she's not on the mic. I don't really know her well yet, but that will change soon enough, if I had to guess. Not a lot else to do when you find yourselves pinned down.

  So, that's the squad. I don't really know what else to say. Hell, no one even knows what this war is about, not really. Way above our collective pay grades. Maybe one day one of my children's children will lay it out all neat and clean like I did with my ancestors' wars, but right now, at the end of the day, all we really know is that we have to find a way to survive it, no matter the cost.

  If for some reason we don't, though...

  Well, I guess I just wanted us to live on in... in some form, at least. Maybe someone will find this journal one day. Maybe they'll tell the story of the Two-One-Six and remember us around their campfire or dinner table, thank us and toast the sacrifices we--

  Ah, hell. Who am I kidding?

  None of us are ever getting out of this gods-forsaken war alive, anyway.

  Taken from the journal of Lieutenant Dolan Zobbles, 216th Battalion, entry dated 257 XP.

  Reign of Steel and Bone

  Alternative POV

  Gwynn White and Erin St Pierre

  Dominik Dakar loathed orchids.

  Almost artificial in their rigid perfection, their prim faces peered at him out of the victory wreaths, and through the stretches of pale-gold ribbons that circled the golden columns arching up to the dome of the crystal ballroom.

  They reminded him of everything he hated in the Round Palace.

  Nothing more than a pretty cage, the palace crawled with perfect nobles, who simpered and fawned over him—Yatres’s greatest mage and warrior—as if that would hide the truth that they were wolves dressed in silks and velvet. Wolves who would love nothing more than to sink their teeth into him, if they thought they could get away with it.

  They couldn’t.

  Taliesin, his betrothed, squeezed his arm harder than necessary. If it wasn’t for his soft leather tunic, her fingernails would have broken through his skin.

  “Dominik, my sweet,” she drawled.

  He grimaced; as wolves went, Taliesin was one of the worst. But no one looking at her intricately styled red curls, pert nose, and pouting red lips would agree with him.

  They didn’t know her like he did.

  “Where is your brother? Everyone else has paid their respects to me this evening except him.” Her fan thwacked his chest.

  His lips thinned. If she did that one more time—

  He sidestepped but at the same time leaned in attentively. When it came down to it, he was a wolf, too. “I suppose he’s still prettying himself up for you. You know how Elion likes to impress.”

  A cord pulsed in her neck. “At least he makes an effort.” Her eyes trailed down his tunic, leggings, and surcoat. She sighed, then muttered, “What was Father thinking?”

  Excellent question. He had no idea what had possessed his father and the king to agree on this match. No one looking at the two of them could call their relationship a match made in one of the heavens.

  More like the last of the hells.

  The only logical explanation was his magic.

  He was an Element-Fabricator—a polite name for a magic parasite. He couldn’t resist a small smirk. In the final battle fought today against the Nyhans, he’d ripped the magic from an enemy Storm-Rider.

  His trademark wicked grin twitched.

  He’d tossed the stolen power into rocks too heavy to lift with mere hands, and rained them down on the enemy. None of them had survived.

  As magic went, that wasn’t astonishing in itself, but he had been half a mile away when he had done it. It had been a turning point in the battle. Now they danced to lilting harps and lutes, and sipped sparkling peach wine to celebrate Yatres’s win in the hard-fought war against the Nyhans. With no magic of her own, Taliesin would need someone with his kind of talent at her side when she finally became queen.

  Pity his stomach churned at the prospect of spending the rest of his very long Fae life at her side. Trouble was, his powers were so rare, so powerful, that only the Soul-Reaper of Yatres could equal them.

  Or a Fae wielding the Bone she guarded.

  The Bone, source of all power and coveted by nations, had made Yatres great for generations.

  Yet another object he loathed.

  He hid his despair behind a laugh as he glided Taliesin from one group of their so-called friends to another. But the hard, cold truth was that the only thing getting him through this victory ball was the beautiful shadow following Taliesin: Lieutenant Caeda Aerith, Taliesin’s bodyguard.

  Caeda’s keen hazel eyes narrowed on every detail in the ballroom, marking positions and faces and names. But despite her impressive observation skills, she never seemed to notice him watching her.

  Why should she? He came from one of the noblest families in the kingdom, while she was nothing more than an abusive haberdasher’s daughter. A relationship between them that went beyond the guard and the guarded was impossible.

  She gnawed the inside of her cheek like she always did when she was concentrating.

  He looked away to hide his longing for her and flicked his fingers. Two flutes of sparkling wine floated through the air to land in his hands. He passed one to Taliesin and then sipped deeply from his own. Bubbles tickled his tongue.

  With nothing to say to his betrothed, he sighed with relief when his brother, Elion, stepped into the ballroom from the main staircase. Golden curls tumbled around Elion’s face, pinched with cold. He rubbed his hands together and headed to a fire burning in the hearth.

  Elion’s timing was perfect to rescue him from death by Taliesin-induced boredom. He waved his hand furiously. “Elion!”

  Elion’s eyes lit up. Smiling broadly, he weaved through the circling dancers to join them. He slapped Dominik on the shoulder. “Hello, brother.” And bowed at Taliesin. “Your Highness. Lovely as ever.”

  Taliesin tipped that pert nose into the air.

  He had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at her. Despite Taliesin’s obvious disdain for his brother, Elion had chosen to stand as a buffer between him and his betrothed.

  He would always be grateful to Elion for that.

  Out of all his siblings, he and Elion were the closest. For decades, it had bothered him that, while he and Elion shared the same magic, it was a badly kept secret that his powers as an Element-Fabricator far exceeded Elion’s.

  The heavy silence between Elion and Taliesin required filling.

  He ran his gaze up his brother and pulled a cheeky grin. “Elion, two hours prettying yourself up, and this is the best
you could do?”

  Elion chuckled and grabbed a flute of wine from a passing waiter. He brushed a hand down his fancy royal-blue tunic, embroidered with silver swirls. Elion always fussed more about his clothing than he ever could—or would.

  A hush echoed through the room.

  He pivoted to find the cause.

  Ayda, his best friend, stood at the vast double doors. When she wasn’t trading jokes with him or challenging him to sword fights he always let her win, she was also Soul-Reaper and patron saint of Yatres.

  As always, she looked devastating, in the most ethereal, preternatural way.

  Her legendary Sword hung in its sheath at her side. Snowflakes from the endless winter hung in her golden hair like pearls. Even her silver robe, and the steel breastplate she wore over it, were flecked. Unfortunately, not enough to hide the Yatres sigil: the Sword crossed by the Bone. The greatness of Yatres and the absolute necessity for the triad of power, created by the Bone, the Sword, and the Soul-Reaper, were the only two subjects they never spoke about. Ayda revered Yatres and her triad.

  He despised all of it.

  King Kaist waved the performers to a stop. Even the orchestra abruptly stilled, the sounds of flutes and harps dying mid refrain.

  Ayda bowed to the king, then glided to the throne. Her guards flanked her, glaring at anyone who moved. He almost rolled his eyes at the officiousness.

  As if anyone would dare touch Ayda.

  She stopped two feet from the king and drew the Sword. Head bowed, she knelt before him and laid the Sword at his feet.

  “King Kaist,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Today our Bone fed on the souls of your victory. A victory wrought from—”

  Crimson light burst from the Sword.

  That was new.

  Ayda gaped and leapt to her feet.

  He swore internally. His hand drifted automatically to the hilt of his sword. Not even his magic could control the Sword.