Saving Dale

Admiral Barrett was neck-deep in shame, his reputation in tatters after failing to capture Wyrmtrace. What should've been a defining victory had slipped through his fingers, leaving him a pariah among his peers.

"Well, well," a fellow Admiral drawled during the holographic meeting, his voice thick with mockery. "Weren't you bragging about taking Wyrmtrace in a day? How's that working out for you, Barrett?"

Barrett's jaw tightened, his darkened expression barely masking his irritation. Still, he managed to mutter through clenched teeth, "Frederick's Legion Glory is already on the move. You'd better prepare."

His eyes flicked to the silver-haired man at the head of the table, the unease in his chest mounting. Trying to steady himself, Barrett nervously rubbed his fingers together, his voice dropping to a quieter pitch.

"Sir, if Lyra isn't neutralized soon, she could become a real problem."