**Jasmine's Log, Supplemental**
**The Cove, Western Coast**
**0607hrs**
**27 hours 47 minutes to Black Fleet Landfall**
Dawn breaks slowly.
Lines form below.
Shadows rise above.
At 0607hrs, the cove operated with quiet precision. Long orderly lines of Rothgard refugees moved through the registration stations the Americans had erected along the reinforced clearing. Tables of lightweight composite stood beneath bright floodlights, each manned by a pair of Marines who scanned faces with handheld devices and spoke in calm, measured tones through translators. Most arrivals carried only the clothes on their backs and small bundles of belongings. Medics and beastkin healers worked side by side in the adjacent triage tents, their stations marked in clear color-coded zones.
Jasmine moved among the lines, offering quiet words of reassurance. She paused beside an elderly elf woman whose cough had worsened during the voyage. A human medic and a catkin healer worked together, the healer's soft green light easing inflamed lungs while the medic administered a small vial of clear liquid. "Thank Adoni," Jasmine murmured to herself as she continued down the line. The critical cases were few. Most were simple sicknesses from cramped quarters, minor injuries from the hurried evacuation, or infections that responded quickly to the Americans' medicines. No one had died in the night, and that mercy alone felt like a gift from the divine.
Near the southern pier, Sebastian stood with Sarah and three other ship captains, their small circle illuminated by a portable lantern. Sarah, Jasmine's best friend since childhood and the steady helmsman who had guided the Ironclad through every storm, leaned against a crate with her arms folded. Her dark hair was tied back, her eyes sharp despite the long night. Sebastian, ever the inventor, kept glancing toward the towering airships, his fingers twitching as though he longed to touch the seamless metal.
Jasmine joined them, wiping a smudge of dust from her cheek. "We are halfway through," she said without preamble. "Four more lifts and everyone will be lifted to Shire Base. The Americans say the residential blocks are ready and the farms are already producing. Their medics tell me our people will recover faster up there." Sebastian shook his head, his voice filled with quiet wonder. "Those airships… each one carries eighty at once. Eighty! I watched the ramps close and the craft rise without a single sail or mana crystal glowing. My mind cannot stop turning over the possibilities." Sarah smiled faintly, the familiar teasing edge in her tone. "You'll have time to take one apart later, Seb. Right now, we need to keep the captains calm."
Captain Lirian of the swift ketch *Windrunner* nodded toward the orderly lines and tables. "Look at how they have set up the camp—everything in perfect rows, lights that never flicker, people moving without panic. My ketch has never seen order like this, even in the best harbors." Captain Garrick of the massive supply barge *Deep Haven* rumbled, eyes on the armored figures directing the flow. "And those soldiers—they move as one, no wasted step, no raised voices. They guided my heavy barge to the pier as easily as herding sheep. Discipline like that could turn the tide of any battle."
Captain Thorne of the heavy merchant caravan *Golden Trade*, broad-shouldered and practical, crossed his arms. "My holds take half a day to unload in the best ports, yet these airships load eighty souls in minutes. It is faster than anything I have ever seen. But if the black fleet arrives before we finish…"
"They will not," Jasmine said firmly, meeting his eyes. "The Discovery has eyes in the sky. Their fighters patrol above us even now. We finish the lifts, then we move the fleet north if needed. Our people will be safe behind their walls long before the enemy crests the horizon."
High above the cove, dawn painted the eastern sky in soft rose and gold. Angel One—callsign Blackjack—held steady at twenty thousand feet, the sleek forward-swept wings cutting clean through the thin air. Beside him, Angel Two—callsign Dragon—flew in perfect formation, Major Patrick "Dragon" McCarthy's Irish brogue crackling over the encrypted channel with his usual blunt energy. "Still quiet down there," Dragon reported. "Evac progressing. Half the refugees are already at base."
Blackjack's eyes flicked across his sensor display. "Copy. Keep the pattern wide. We—" Two new contacts bloomed on his screen, low and fast, hugging the wave tops thirty miles east. "Dragon, confirm two bogeys, bearing zero-eight-five, angels five hundred. Speed eighty knots. Massive radar signatures—way too big for anything in our threat library." Dragon's tone sharpened instantly. "Confirmed. Closing slow. Looks like living signatures, not metal. Heat blooms are organic, not engine exhaust. Dragons?"
Blackjack's thumb hovered over the weapon select. "Exactly. Big, slow, and heading straight for the cove. Weapons hot. Ghost Actual, Angel One. We have two unknowns inbound. Large organic radar returns, speed eighty knots, low altitude. Request weapons free or hold for decision." A calm, clipped voice answered immediately. "Angel One, Ghost Actual. Roger, two unknowns. Stand by." The channel clicked once, then Ghost Actual continued without pause. "Discovery Actual, this is Ghost. Angel One reports two inbound dragons, thirty miles east, low and slow at eighty knots. Massive organic signatures. They have tone and are requesting weapons free. Your orders, sir?"
The dragon from the east had come.
But now new shadows moved against the dawn.
The green watched from the ridge.
The strangers stood ready.
Two worlds held their breath together.