POV 1: DYUG & MARY- SOUTH PACIFIC NEAR GATE

The South Pacific burned with strange light. Not just the orange flicker of fire on wrecked ships or the emerald gleam of elven magic streaking across the night sky—but a shifting, almost surreal mixture of both. Smoke rolled low over the waves, carried by the trade winds, and each flash of lightning revealed silhouettes of men and elves fighting side by side, others still struggling to kill one another.

Dyug stood on the forward deck of a crippled elven frigate that had been dragged close alongside a battered Philippine destroyer. His silver hair was damp with sea spray, his hand still clutching a rune-etched blade that hummed faintly in the salt air. The scene before him would have been unthinkable a year ago: human sailors and common elves, once locked in merciless battle, now working the lines together to keep the two vessels steady while medics ran stretchers across makeshift planks.

Mary moved like fire among them. Her crimson armor, dulled by blood and soot, made her stand out even in the chaos. She barked orders in Elvish and English both, her voice carrying authority not because of title, but because every soul on those decks had seen her fight—seen her shield mortals with her body and her blade.

“Get him stable!” she shouted as a human medic tended to a bleeding Sun Knight, the man’s chest punctured by shrapnel. When the medic hesitated, unfamiliar with elven anatomy, Mary knelt, pressed her gauntlet to the wound, and whispered a prayer. Light spread under her palm, mingling divine warmth with the sterile touch of human gauze.

The sailor looked at her as though at a saint. She ignored his awe, stood, and returned to Dyug’s side.

“They’re listening,” she said quietly. “For now.”

Dyug’s gaze swept the horizon. More wrecks dotted the waves, some sinking, some still burning. Human destroyers formed a ragged ring around the surviving elven vessels, guns tracking the skies for further threats. No fresh attack had come yet—not from human reinforcements, not from the Nightborne, not even from the sea monsters unleashed hours earlier. The lull felt deceptive, like the pause between thunderclaps.

“We cannot trust them completely,” Dyug murmured. “But… neither can they afford to mistrust us now. If the Nightborne strike again, divided, we all fall.”

Mary’s eyes softened, just briefly. “You sound like a commander at last.”

He wanted to answer, but his thoughts were broken by a crackle of static. A human voice burst from the damaged radio console patched crudely onto the destroyer’s bridge.

“—This is Southern Command Hub, Ushuaia. All units in South Pacific theater, respond.”

The transmission repeated, growing sharper as a tech officer adjusted the gain. Dyug stepped back, letting Mary and the human captain approach.

The captain, his uniform scorched and his eyes ringed with exhaustion, pressed the receiver. “This is Captain Alvarez, Philippine Navy. We’ve… allied with remnants of the elven fleet under Prince Dyug von Forestia. Situation is fluid, but we are holding. Over.”

There was silence, then a different voice replied, clipped, steady, undeniably military.

“This is Colonel Reina Morales, Southern Command Hub. Your transmission is confirmed. Stand by.”

Mary recognized the name—Dyug had mentioned it before, a human strategist who had studied their movements with unnerving precision. Moments later, the line opened again, her voice harder now:

“If you claim alliance, prove it. Patch me through to Dyug himself.”

The human captain hesitated. Mary gestured for the receiver. Dyug took it instead, his hand tightening around the cold steel.

“This is Dyug von Forestia,” he said, voice carrying both defiance and weariness. “The battle here has shown us all what lurks beyond your fleets and beyond my people’s arrogance. Nightborne titans rose from the abyss, and both our forces bled to stop them. If you doubt me, scan the waters—we leave a graveyard of proof.”

The pause was long. Dyug felt Mary’s steady presence at his side, her hand brushing against his vambrace. Finally, Reina Morales spoke again.

“Prince Dyug. You invaded our world. Your kind killed thousands.” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “But… if what you say of these Nightborne titans is true, humanity may not survive alone. I will not discard an offered blade, even one that has cut us before. Maintain your position. Reinforcements are en route. Out.”

The line clicked dead.

Dyug exhaled slowly. Around them, human sailors and common elves exchanged wary glances, some stiff, some openly hostile. But none raised their weapons again. For now, necessity had forged something sharper than treaties: survival.

POV 2: REINA MORALES – SOUTHERN COMMAND HUB, USHUAIA

Far across the sea, in Ushuaia, Reina Morales removed her headset and rubbed her eyes. The command hub’s walls rattled faintly with the storm outside, a reminder that the southern seas were as cruel as any battlefield.

Her staff waited for her decision. Maps littered the table, each one scarred with hastily drawn red and green markers—human fleets, elven incursions, the dark stains where Nightborne had been sighted.

“They’re holding together,” her adjutant said cautiously. “But only barely. If the titans return in force…”

Reina shook her head. “Then it won’t matter whether they’re elf or human. We’ll all be bones in the water.”

She studied the reports again, heart heavy. A dangerous thought crept into her mind—that perhaps this was the first glimpse of the real war. The elves had been a nightmare, yes, but the Nightborne? They were something deeper, something primal, a hunger that neither rifles nor spells could easily quench.

“Signal to Washington, Delhi, and Beijing,” she ordered at last. “Tell them the South Pacific theater is stabilizing, but at a cost. Tell them we may have no choice but to coordinate with the elves.”

Her officers exchanged shocked looks but did not protest. Reina Morales was known for neither mercy nor fantasy. If she said cooperation was necessary, then it was.

POV 3: DYUG & MARY- SOUTH PACIFIC NEAR GATE

Back at sea, the lull shattered. A ripple spread across the dark waves, unnatural in its symmetry. Elves stiffened, recognizing the vibration of ancient magic. Human radar screens fuzzed with static.

Dyug felt it in his bones first. Not titans, not yet—but scouts, probing the edges of their fragile alliance.

“Brace!” he shouted. His voice carried across both ships. “They test us again!”

From the depths, sleek Nightborne constructs surged upward—creatures of coral and iron, animated by abyssal power. Dozens of them, faster than torpedoes, their claws slicing water like razors.

Human gunners opened fire, tracers tearing across the waves. Elven mages raised shimmering barriers, runes glowing in the mist. For the first time, humans and elves fought as one without hesitation—machine and magic weaving into a desperate shield.

Mary leapt from the deck, wings of flame bursting from her back as she struck the nearest construct mid-leap. Dyug followed, his blade singing as it split the water like moonlight, cutting through chitin and steel alike.

The battle raged in close quarters, sparks raining over the sea. Elves and humans bled together, shouted together, saved one another. Distrust still smoldered—but in the face of the abyss, something else had begun to take root.

Something fragile. Something necessary.

An alliance, born not of peace, but of fire.