Wings of the Stars

The Following Day

One of the Primordial Squadron's F-15E Strike Eagles sat motionless inside a hangar at Korovograd Air Force Base, its sleek frame catching the dim light filtering through the open doors. The jet, marked with Primordial One's insignia, had just undergone a routine inspection.

Overseeing the final checks was Albedo, the Aircraft Alchemist, alongside his assistant, Sucrose. Both were meticulous in their work, ensuring every inch of the aircraft was in top condition.

Albedo scribbled the last few notes on his clipboard before looking up.

"Everything is in order, Ms. Gunnhildr. The plane's still in good condition."

Jean, standing nearby, gave him a nod of approval. "Thanks, Albedo. I'll head out now."

Without further words, Jean Gunnhildr—The Dandelion herself—turned on her heel, exiting the hangar. Outside, a car was waiting. She got in, started the engine, and drove off toward the base headquarters.

Albedo remained where he was, deep in thought. Jean said one of their squadron's planes took on an Su-57… alone. Covered well enough for the others to escape the kill zone.

That kind of reckless bravery… No, that kind of flying—who the hell was capable of that?

He turned his gaze toward another aircraft parked just outside the hangar—a Mirage 2000-5. Standing beside it, performing routine maintenance, was Wriothesley.

The pilot caught Albedo's eyes and raised a brow.

Albedo signaled for him to come over. "Hey! Wriothesley! Got a second?"

As the two approached each other, Albedo sized him up. Is this the one who went all gung-ho?

Wriothesley reached him first, standing casually with his arms crossed. "What's up, Albedo? Something you need?"

Albedo nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yeah. I need to ask you something."

"Sure."

Together, they stepped inside the hangar, heading toward Albedo's workshop, a space cluttered with schematics, tools, and pieces of disassembled aircraft. The scent of oil and metal lingered in the air.

Both men took a seat, the atmosphere shifting into something more serious.

Albedo didn't waste time. "I'll be straight with you. Were you the one who went head-on against that Su-57?"

Wriothesley chuckled. "I wish. But I don't have the balls for that. That was all Waltz."

Albedo raised an eyebrow. "Waltz?"

"Yeah. Furina De Fontaine."

Albedo snapped his fingers, realization clicking into place. "Ah. Imena's murderer?"

Wriothesley's smirk faded slightly. "That's what they say, yeah. But between you and me? I doubt it. Either way, doesn't matter right now."

Albedo leaned forward. "Tell me what happened."

Wriothesley exhaled sharply, recalling the events. "It was a mess. Overcast skies, freezing conditions, and we were running interference for Primordial Squadron so they could get the hell out of there."

"Was she reckless?" Albedo asked.

Wriothesley shook his head. "Reckless? Maybe. But it didn't matter. She got the damn job done. She's the only one who'd take the enemy head-on, no hesitation. Hell, she went after that Su-57 solo—landed a few rounds on it, too. I mean, who the hell does that? In this squadron? We usually fly like we have a death wish, but she—she makes it look normal. Like it's just another day in the skies."

Albedo's eyes widened slightly. "So you're telling me… the hero in all of this was Furina?"

Wriothesley nodded without hesitation. "That's right. And if you ask me? She's no murderer. Someone set her up."

Albedo sat back, arms crossed, absorbing the information. "Do you… feel a sense of pride?"

Wriothesley smirked. "Of course. The whole squadron does. We've lost pilots before—two, three, sometimes even four in a single mission. But now? Since Furina took lead, it's different. Two losses. Two. Across two major operations. That's unheard of for us."

Albedo's mind was already racing, his thoughts forming into a theory.

"What's her flying style like?"

Wriothesley let out a small chuckle. "Elegant. Efficient. And fucking insane." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She barely even uses flares or chaff to shake missiles. Most pilots panic. She doesn't. Instead, she just pulls some crazy-ass Pugachev maneuvers, even full Cobras. It's like she knows exactly how to make a missile miss before it even gets close."

Albedo narrowed his eyes. "I need to take a closer look at her plane. See what's what."

This Furina De Fontaine…

The supposed murderer of Imena…

The one pilot crazy enough to take on an Su-57 head-to-head…

There was something different about her. Something that didn't add up.

And Albedo intended to find out exactly what.

The Following Week

Albedo finally got his chance.

Furina's Dassault Rafale was towed into his hangar for a full inspection. The jet sat in the dimly lit space, its sleek silhouette casting sharp shadows against the concrete floor.

Albedo stepped forward, eyes tracing the contours of the one-of-a-kind aircraft as he exhaled slowly.

"Finally. A fresh jet to inspect… and work on."

He circled the plane, hands in the pockets of his oil-streaked lab coat, studying the deep blue, sky blue, white, and black livery. The colors flowed seamlessly across the airframe, undisturbed by time or wear. Even after its last brutal mission, the paint remained pristine—save for a few streaks of dirt from the icy rain she had flown through.

But the tail—that was another story.

The three jagged black slashes, once bold and sharp, had begun to wear down. The paint protection film was peeling, unable to withstand the relentless high-speed, high-G punishment Furina had been subjecting her jet to.

He glanced at the serial number just beneath the cockpit.

"One Zero One Three. Foxtrot Foxtrot..."

His breath hitched.

His eyes widened.

"No way."

He recognized this exact aircraft.

This was the jet he had worked on. The one he had personally helped modify.

The ultimate Rafale.

A machine fine-tuned beyond its limits.

He hadn't expected it to ever be assigned to a pilot—let alone Furina De Fontaine.

Albedo moved toward the rear, crouching near the twin Snecma M88 engines. His hand ran lightly over the heat-scorched exhaust nozzles.

He inhaled deeply.

Burnt carbon. The unmistakable scent of a machine pushed past its limits.

He sighed, grabbing his notepad and scribbling down observations.

"Engines pushed beyond tolerances. But..."

He ran his fingers along the airframe, checking for stress marks, hairline fractures—anything that might indicate structural fatigue.

Nothing.

No warping. No wrinkling. No signs of weakness.

"Despite all the high-G moves Furina has pulled, the fuselage is still in perfect condition."

A slow smirk crept onto his face.

He knew this jet inside and out.

He had it built the way he intended it to be.

"The ultimate Rafale. Never in my wildest dreams did I think this plane would be assigned to anyone... and yet, here it is. And it's flown by Furina herself."

His fingers tapped against the cold metal skin of the aircraft.

"The modifications I made... they make this Rafale maneuver like a damn Snezhnayan jet."

He recalled every enhancement he had painstakingly implemented:

Eliminating the delay in the fly-by-wire system, allowing for instantaneous control input.

Reducing response lag in the sidestick, making the jet react as if it were an extension of the pilot's body.

Reinforcing the fuselage for higher G-loads, allowing it to withstand aggressive dogfighting.

He exhaled, stepping back.

This Rafale wasn't just special.

This Rafale was a one-off.

Two Weeks Later

Albedo stepped back, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

The work was complete.

Furina's Rafale had been restored to perfect condition—and then some.

He had:

Overhauled the engines, returning them to peak efficiency.

Upgraded the engine management computers, granting the M88s more thrust and power output.

Fine-tuned the avionics, ensuring seamless control even in the most extreme conditions.

He crossed his arms, admiring his work.

"With these upgrades, Furina will be able to accelerate harder and faster. She'll be able to chase down anything in the sky."

A small, almost prideful smirk tugged at his lips.

"The one-off plane I had built by Dassault... in collaboration with Dassault..."

His gaze settled on the golden emblem on the tail—a crown over flowing water, Furina's unmistakable symbol of elegance and power.

"Now ready to see even more action."

The hangar doors slid open, flooding the dim space with sunlight. Ground crews moved in, securing the Rafale and towing it back to the Drowned Squadron's apron.

As the jet disappeared into the daylight, Albedo exhaled.

With these upgrades… Furina was about to reach the next level.

And he couldn't wait to see what she would do with it.