Chapter 45: Respect Before Leaving

Night fell swiftly over the coastal settlement. The twin moons of this world climbed toward their zenith, bathing the bay and the charred ruins in a pale, silvery glow.

On a wide grassy bluff overlooking the sea, the Ironclaw Tribe gathered for their sacred funeral rites.

The air was cool, carrying the scent of burning cedar, wild sage, and sweet incense. Rows of funeral pyres built from split timber stretched across the ridge, each carefully layered with dry pine and ceremonial herbs.

Wrapped in clean white burial linens provided by their kin and guarded until now by John’s perimeter sentries, the fallen lay in solemn formation.

Two hundred and forty-seven beastkin had perished during the brutal imperial assault—over a hundred and eighty frontline warriors who had thrown themselves against the Solarian heavy infantry, along with sixty-seven civilians caught in the crossfire of crossbow bolts and burning buildings. For a clan numbering barely two thousand souls, losing over a tenth of their population in a single afternoon was a devastating blow.

A few dozen paces back from the edge of the bluff, John and Sergeant First Class Ritcher stood side by side in the dim moonlight. Both had removed their tactical helmets, holding them quietly against their hips. Their weapons hung at rest, their posture straight and respectful as they observed the ancient ceremony.

At the front of the gathering, Lyra stood before the largest pyre at the center of the bluff.

Resting upon the raised wooden platform was the body of Chieftain Keith. His large battle-axe lay crossed over his chest, his grey fur brushed clean of blood and soot.

Lyra had changed into a ceremonial black mantle embroidered with silver thread along the edges. Her long, violet-tinted hair hung loose down her back, swaying gently with the ocean breeze. Her amber eyes reflected the moonlight, filled with deep, silent grief, but her back remained straight, projecting the strength her surviving people needed to see.

A blind, elderly shaman stepped forward, shaking a hollow wooden staff strung with beast teeth and iron bells.

A rhythmic, haunting chant rose into the night air. The surviving wolfkin gathered around the bluff joined in, their voices blending into a low, mournful rumble that rolled across the open water.

One by one, the tribe members howled toward the peak of the moons—a piercing, sorrowful cry that echoed against the cliffs, guiding the spirits of their fallen kin into the ancestral hunting grounds.

Lyra took a blazing wooden torch from the shaman.

She walked slowly to the foot of Keith’s pyre, whispering a quiet, final farewell in their native tongue before lowering the flame into the dry kindling.

WHOOSH.

Fire caught instantly, roaring up the dry timber and wrapping the chieftain’s bier in a warm, amber blaze.

Along the ridge, dozens of torchbearers touched their flames to the remaining pyres. Within moments, more than two hundred pillars of fire illuminated the night sky, sending sparks and pale smoke drifting out over the dark ocean.

The crackle of burning cedar mingled with the soft sobs of widows, weeping cubs, and battered warriors who bowed their heads in silent tribute.

After witnessing the ceremony, John placed his tactical helmet back onto his head, fastening the chinstrap with a crisp click. He adjusted the radio headset at his ear, tuning into the encrypted command frequency where real-time reports from his island headquarters were already queuing up.

"Eagle Actual to Base Command, status report," John spoke in a low voice into his throat mic.

"Base Command copies, Eagle Actual," the communications officer responded through the earpiece. "Tactical Operations Center is fully spun up. The two high-value captives—the Inquisitor and the priest—have arrived at the detention block and are secured in holding cells. Intelligence personnel are ready to begin the debriefing protocols on your mark. Furthermore, logistical manifests for Outpost Alpha’s perimeter defenses and coastal radar arrays require your direct authorization."

"Understood," John replied. "Prep my transport. I’m inbound."

"Copy that, sir. Bird is on approach to LZ Falcon."

John turned to Ritcher, giving a brief nod. "Time to head back to the island. We need to oversee the interrogation of those two Solarian officers and finalize the deployment plans for the base construction here."

"Right behind you, boss," Ritcher replied, raising his carbine back to a comfortable ready stance.

As the two soldiers turned to leave the edge of the bluff, soft footsteps approached behind them. John looked back to see Lyra walking over, having stepped away from the glowing line of funeral fires. Her dark ceremonial mantle fluttered lightly in the sea breeze, and the reflection of the flames danced in her golden eyes.

"Commander Smith," Lyra called out softly, stopping a few paces before him.

John paused, turning around to face the tribal leader. "Lady Lyra. I’m afraid I have urgent matters to oversee back at our main base across the channel. A garrison unit will remain stationed here through the night to maintain security, provide medical care, and assist with clearing the debris."

Lyra looked at him with profound sincerity, placing her slender, clawed hand over her heart before bowing her head.

"Thank you, Commander," Lyra said, her voice filled with quiet emotion. "Not only for saving what was left of our people from chains and slaughter, but for standing with us tonight in honor of our fallen. The Ironclaw Tribe will not forget your respect."

"We honor those who fight for their home," John replied with a steady nod. "Rest well tonight, Lady Lyra. Tomorrow morning, our engineering battalions will begin delivering building materials to rebuild your settlement."

Just as he finished speaking, the deep, rhythmic thrumming of twin turboshaft engines reverberated across the cliffs.

A pair of bright landing lights pierced the darkness above the bay as an MH-60M Black Hawk descended smoothly from the night sky. The helicopter flared its nose over the cleared, designated landing zone on the flat grass just fifty meters away, kicking up swirls of dust and pale ash with its powerful rotor wash.

The pilots set the craft down with practiced precision, the wheels settling firmly onto the turf while the rotors kept spinning in a low idle.

John offered Lyra a final respectful salute. "Until tomorrow, Lady Lyra."