He was wearing his Ironveil parade uniform: a blood-red long coat with gold epaulettes, reinforced leather belt, polished high boots.
The flashes erupted.
"Captain Borin! Captain Borin!"
"How are you feeling after facing down the S-Rift Boss?!"
"Is it true you took it down single-handed?!"
Borin stopped. Turned his head slowly toward the outstretched microphones. A smile spread across his face.
"Single-handed? No. I had my men. My brave Ironveil hunters… But when it came to landing the final blow… yes. It was just me and the beast."
The journalists scribbled furiously. Cameras zoomed in on his face.
"And your arms, Captain? We heard they were severed!"
Borin raised both hands, turning them slowly for the cameras. "Modern medicine works wonders. But what matters isn't the flesh. It's the will." He thumped his right fist against his chest. "And my will never wavered."
A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.
Behind him, Serin stepped out as well. Uniform pristine, expression neutral, but her eyes betrayed a weary resignation. She positioned herself slightly back, knowing full well she was invisible as long as Borin held center stage.
"Captain, one last question! What do you say to your critics who claim Ironveil benefited from excessive support?"
Borin laughed. "Tell them to go face an S-Rift themselves. Then we'll talk."
The crowd applauded.
Serin sighed quietly and tugged his sleeve. "Captain."
Borin raised a hand in farewell, let himself be pulled along reluctantly, and entered the Grand Hall to a rain of applause.
Two minutes later, the second vehicle arrived. A understated gray SUV bearing the green clover emblem of Clover Company.
Charlotte Vanpelt stepped out first.
She wore her Clover parade uniform: forest-green military jacket with a high collar, straight trousers, white gloves.
Dimitri followed.
Questions flew instantly.
"Captain Vanpelt! Ironveil is now threatening your spot in the rankings! How does that feel?"
Charlotte stopped. Turned toward the journalist—a portly BBC man. She stared at him for three full seconds.
"I feel… relieved."
The journalist blinked. "Relieved?"
"Yes." She clasped her arms behind her back, posture flawless. "If Ironveil is threatening our position, it means they're competent. Which means Clover isn't carrying the burden of protecting Britania alone. That's a good thing."
"But the rankings…"
"The rankings," she cut in, "are an administrative tool. Not a measure of our true worth. We're not athletes competing for medals. We're hunters. Our goal is to close Rifts and protect civilians. If Ironveil does that effectively, all the better."
Charlotte didn't linger. She moved forward, Dimitri at her heels, and entered the Hall.
Then there was silence.
The journalists shifted position.
A modest black limousine pulled up to the red carpet.
The rear door opened.
Mara O'Connell stepped out.
Uniform impeccable. Black trousers with sharp creases, anthracite-gray military jacket.
She turned to the car. Waited.
The journalists waited too.
Ten seconds passed.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Mara sighed. Leaned into the limousine. "Captain. Get out."
No response.
"Captain."
"…No."
The voice was muffled, as if the speaker had his face buried in a pillow.
Mara closed her eyes. Counted to three in her head. Then, without ceremony, she grabbed something inside and pulled.
Elias Mercer emerged, literally dragged out of the vehicle like a sack of potatoes.
He was wearing his Jaeger uniform… technically. The gray coat was wrinkled, collar askew, one sleeve rolled up, the other not. His black hair was a mess.
"Mara," he muttered, still half-folded over, "this is abuse. I'm calling my union."
"You don't have a union."
"Then I'll start one. The Union of Captains Mistreated by Tyrannical Subordinates. UCMTS. The acronym's awful, but the message is clear."
Mara straightened him with a sharp tug, adjusted his collar with brisk motions, and shoved him firmly onto the red carpet.
The journalists, stunned, hesitated.
Then, like a school of piranhas scenting blood, they surged forward.
Mara planted herself in front of Elias and swept the crowd with an icy glare.
The journalists stopped dead. Some took a step back.
Elias, behind her, yawned.
Then, from the back of the pack, a figure pushed through.
A young woman. Maybe twenty-five. Short hair, round glasses, camera slung over her shoulder, press badge from a small local paper: The Bradford Observer.
She approached. Not too close. Just enough for her mic to pick up.
"Captain Mercer. How does the Jaeger Company feel… about riding the coattails of Clover and Ironveil's fame to get some spotlight today?"
Elias turned his head slowly toward her. His half-closed eyes opened a fraction wider.
Then he smiled.
"Riding coattails? Interesting choice of words."
He scratched the back of his neck, further rumpling his already crooked collar. "You see, Miss…"
"Pembroke. Lucy Pembroke."
"Miss Pembroke." He gestured vaguely toward the Hall behind him. "All this ceremony, the speeches, the medals… it's very pretty. Very official. But at the end of the day, it's theater."
Lucy blinked. "Theater?"
"Mmm." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "We're getting medals because an S-Rift got closed. Great. But who remembers the three D-Rifts we shut down last week without any fanfare? Who talks about the night patrols, the unglamorous evacuations, the endless reports?"
He tilted his head, thoughtful. "Clover and Ironveil are good companies. Really. But we shouldn't forget the others… It's a thankless, dirty job. The kind nobody wants. And we do it well. Even if nobody's watching."
He tapped the Jaeger badge on his wrinkled coat. "So, riding their fame? No. We're just… here. Like always."
Lucy stared, mouth slightly open.
Elias shrugged and turned back to Mara. "Can we go in now? I'm already sleepy."
Mara simply nodded.
They passed through the barriers, leaving behind a crowd of suddenly silent journalists.
Calvin, near the entrance, wiped sweat from his brow. "Good God," he muttered into his earpiece. "Did someone record that?"
[It's all live, sir,] came the reply.
"Well… shit."
Inside the Grand Hall, Borin was already seated in one of the three honor chairs, legs crossed, looking triumphant. Charlotte sat beside him, ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap.
Elias shuffled to the third chair, collapsed into it, and immediately closed his eyes.
Mara stood behind him, like the other vice-captains, hands clasped behind her back.
On the dais, a man appeared.
Steel-gray hair, short beard, visible scars on his hands. Pristine white uniform.
He stepped to the podium.
Placed his hands on the lectern, swept the room with his gaze, and spoke.
"Ladies and gentlemen, hunters, guests… Today, we honor heroes. An S-class Rift. Neutralized. Not with massive losses. Not with catastrophic destruction. But with strategy, courage, and sacrifice."
He turned to the three captains.
"Captain Borin. Captain Vanpelt. Captain Mercer."