Ironclad

The hum of the engines vibrated through the floor beneath Iris Ardent's feet as she stood on the observation deck of *The Aegis*, the flagship of the Techie forces. The massive, armored airship glided silently over the vast wasteland below, its metal shell reflecting the dull, cloudy skies of Aer. Through the reinforced glass windows, she could see the jagged remains of what had once been a verdant forest, now reduced to blackened stumps and choking dust. The destruction was necessary, she reminded herself. It was the price of progress—the inevitable triumph of technology over magic.
Still, the barren landscape unsettled her. There was a hollow quiet that lingered in the spaces where trees and rivers once thrived. She turned away from the view and adjusted the metal plating on her arm, feeling the familiar weight of her exosuit shift with her movement. Every piece of armor she wore was a testament to her belief in the future, forged from the hands of her people, the Techies. They had come so far, and she, as a commander, carried the heavy mantle of leadership. Beneath her plated exterior, she was painfully aware of her fragility. The armor was more than physical—it was the shield she wore against doubt, against the whispers that sometimes crept into her mind, wondering if the war against magic had gone too far.
“Iris.”
The voice of Marshal Vance Pierce, her superior and mentor, snapped her out of her thoughts. She straightened her posture as he approached, the heavy steps of his own mechanized suit clanking in sync with the faint hum of machinery embedded into the walls. His suit was larger, more imposing than hers, with gears and joints that whirred with every move. His face, scarred and lined with years of battle, bore the mark of a man who had seen too much, and yet not enough to turn back.
“Marshal.” She inclined her head respectfully, though the gesture was stiff in her bulky armor.
“We’re approaching the Deadwoods,” Vance said, his eyes scanning the barren land below. “We’ve detected a Fey presence near Rachna.”
Iris flinched at the mention of the ancient site. The Fey revered it as sacred—a place where their twisted myths claimed life had once sprung from the dark waters. To the Techies, Rachna was a strategic location, a focal point of magical energies they sought to control—or destroy. The Mages and Fey had protected it fiercely, and many a Techie squad had been lost trying to breach its defenses.
“Is it the Fey or the Mages?” she asked, her hand reflexively gripping the hilt of the plasma rifle slung over her shoulder. The weapon was an extension of her, like the armor she wore—a tool for survival.
“We’ve had reports of Fey activity, but no sign of the Mages yet,” Vance replied. “That might change. We can’t afford to let them secure the Well. Our future depends on this.”
Iris nodded. “The team is ready. We’ll take Rachna and cut off their access to the Life Tree’s energy.”
Vance’s hard gaze softened, if only a fraction. “You’ve done well, Iris. Don’t forget that. This war… it’s bigger than any one of us. We’re fighting for a world where we don’t have to rely on their magic. A world where our future is built on logic, science, and steel.”
Her chest tightened at his words. She had trained her whole life for this moment, risen through the ranks of the Techies to stand here as a commander, but the weight of it all pressed down on her like the heavy metal plates of her armor. She had been taught that magic was an abomination, a force that corrupted and enslaved, but lately, she had begun to wonder if the destruction they wrought in its name was worth the price.
“We won’t fail,” she said, her voice more certain than she felt.
Vance gave her a firm nod before turning to leave. “Good. We move out in ten.”
As the Marshal’s footsteps faded, Iris allowed herself a moment to breathe. She removed her helmet, feeling the cool air against her skin. Her dark hair, damp with sweat, clung to her forehead. In the reflection of the glass, she caught a glimpse of her face—tired, lined with worry—and for a moment, she wasn’t the ironclad commander she pretended to be. She was just Iris, a woman caught in the middle of a war she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore.
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The advance into the Deadwoods was silent, save for the hum of the Techie squad’s armor and the occasional hiss of steam from their joints. Iris led her team through the desolate landscape, their path illuminated by the dull glow of their suits’ energy cores. The air was thick with tension. Every step brought them closer to Rachna, and every moment felt like a countdown to confrontation.
The Deadwoods were aptly named. Twisted, charred remnants of trees stood like skeletal sentinels, their branches reaching out like claws. The ground beneath their feet was cracked and dry, devoid of any life. In the distance, the towering forms of the Fey's sacred trees loomed, their gnarled trunks pulsating with an eerie, otherworldly glow. Magic was strong here, thick in the air, almost suffocating.
Iris clenched her jaw, focusing on the mission. The Fey were an unpredictable enemy, their powers rooted in forces that defied logic and reason. But they were no match for the might of technology. Not today.
“Commander, we’re nearing the coordinates,” a voice crackled through her earpiece.
Iris raised a hand, signaling the team to halt. She scanned the area, her HUD displaying readings of elevated magical energy. They were close.
“Spread out,” she ordered. “Keep your eyes open.”
The squad fanned out, weapons at the ready. Iris kept her plasma rifle close, her finger hovering over the trigger as she moved cautiously through the twisted underbrush. Her armor clanked softly with each step, the sound almost swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Then, she saw it—the Well of Rachna.
It was smaller than she had imagined, a dark pool nestled between two massive trees, their roots intertwined like veins. The water shimmered with an unnatural light, and the air around it felt heavy, charged with ancient power. The sight of it sent a chill down her spine.
“This is it,” Iris whispered, stepping closer. “The Well of Creation.”
As she approached the edge of the water, something shifted in the air. A low, melodic hum echoed through the trees, growing louder with each passing second. Her heart pounded in her chest as the ground beneath her feet began to tremble.
“They’re here!” a voice shouted through her comms.
Before Iris could react, the Fey emerged from the shadows, their forms shifting and blending with the trees as if they were part of the forest itself. Their bodies were ethereal, shimmering with the soft glow of magic, and their eyes—deep, endless pools of light—seemed to pierce through her armor, through her very soul.
The Techies opened fire. Plasma bolts cut through the air, sizzling as they struck the Fey, but the creatures moved with a grace and speed that defied logic. They twisted and danced around the attacks, their movements fluid and unpredictable.
Iris fired her own weapon, trying to focus on the mission, but the Fey were everywhere, surrounding them, closing in. Her team was falling, one by one, their suits sparking and smoking as they were overwhelmed by the sheer force of the Fey’s magic.
“Fall back!” she shouted, but it was too late.
A Fey, its form shifting like smoke, appeared before her. Its eyes met hers, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. She could see something in those eyes—something ancient, something sad.
Before she could react, the Fey reached out, its hand passing through her armor as if it were nothing more than paper. She felt a searing pain in her chest, followed by a cold, creeping numbness. The world around her dimmed, the sounds of battle fading into the distance.
As she fell to her knees, her vision blurred, and she found herself staring at the Well of Rachna. The water shimmered, rippling as if in response to her presence. For a fleeting moment, she understood. This place—it wasn’t just a source of magic. It was life. It was creation. It was everything.
And she had come here to destroy it.
“Iris…” a voice whispered, soft and familiar.
She looked up, her breath shallow, and saw Vance standing above her. His armor was battered, his face pale, but his eyes burned with the same resolve he had always carried.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the weight of her armor pressing down on her chest, suffocating her.
Vance knelt beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder. “We did what we had to.”
But even as he said it, Iris knew it wasn’t true. In her final moments, she realized that the armor she had worn all her life had been a lie, a shield to protect her from the truth she hadn’t wanted to face.
The Fey weren’t the enemy.
They never had been.
And now, it was too late.
With her last breath, she reached out toward the Well, her fingers brushing the edge of the water. The cool touch of it soothed her, and for a moment, she felt the weight of her armor lift.
And then, there was only darkness.