Wings of the Stars

A week had passed since the decisive operation to capture Morepesok, the capital of Snezhnaya. The mission had been a success, but the aftermath left an eerie sense of uncertainty.

With the destruction of the enemy's communication satellites, the entire region was plunged into a state of disarray. Everything was in limbo.

The once-bustling Dymny Kordon Air Force Base was now disturbingly silent. Too silent. Not a single aircraft engine hummed, not a single pilot rushed to scramble. The mighty warbirds of Waltz and Primordial Squadrons stood frozen in their hangars, their once-proud wings now motionless, their cockpits empty.

Inside the dimly lit mess hall, both squadrons sat together at a long table. Cups of untouched coffee sat before them, going cold. There was no television broadcast to distract them—without satellites, TV stations were down. The only source of outside information came from an old shortwave radio, its crackling voice the only thing breaking the oppressive quiet.

The transmission stuttered, then steadied.

"Snezhnaya has fallen into anarchy... and into the depths of civil war. Across the Snezhnayan Federation, two factions have emerged. The first, the Snezhnayan Conservatives, seek peace. They wish to negotiate a truce with Teyvat, dismantle the nation's UCAV programs, and overthrow the Socialist government in favor of a unitary presidential republic."

A heavy pause. Static filled the air. The pilots exchanged glances.

"The second faction is far more dangerous. A radical war faction that refuses to surrender. They seek to continue the war at all costs, plunging Snezhnaya deeper into conflict—not only against Teyvat and its allied nations, but against itself."

"When will this war truly end? That is a question no one can answer..."

The transmission cut out, leaving only the dull hum of white noise.

Jean exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples. "So that's it, huh? We're stuck in limbo now..."

Amber, leaning forward with her arms crossed, shook her head. "All we can do is wait..."

The weight of the situation pressed down on all of them. They had fought through the skies, rained destruction upon enemy forces, and risked their lives to bring an end to this war—only to find themselves now trapped in an uneasy purgatory.

Furina tapped her fingers on the table, staring at the flickering light overhead. "With the satellites down, our IFF system is crippled. We won't be able to recognize friend from foe at a distance anymore..."

Jean nodded, her expression serious. "That means any unidentified aircraft will be marked as an 'Unknown' on our radar. No way to tell who's on our side without getting dangerously close."

That sent a ripple of unease through the room. Engaging the wrong target could be catastrophic.

Furina sighed and pushed herself up from the chair. "I'm going for a walk. Need to clear my head."

The others nodded silently, lost in their own thoughts. As Furina stepped out of the mess hall, the cold air of the base greeted her. The wind howled softly against the empty runways, whistling through the silent hangars where their planes slept like dormant titans.

She didn't know what she was looking for. Maybe some kind of sign.

The Secrets of the Knave

Furina's boots echoed softly against the cold, tiled floors as she strolled through the dimly lit hallways of Dymny Kordon Air Force Base. The fluorescent lights flickered every now and then, casting eerie shadows that stretched and shrank along the walls. The base was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the warzone they had fought in just a week prior.

As she turned a corner, her sharp blue eyes landed on a heavy steel door to her left, marked with "HIGH-LEVEL PERSONNEL ONLY" in bold, faded lettering.

A Files Room.

She hesitated for a brief moment before glancing around. The hallway was empty. No guards. No security cameras in sight.

Perfect.

With a swift motion, she grabbed the handle and pushed the door open. The room smelled of dust, paper, and aged ink. Rows upon rows of metal shelves filled with thick binders loomed over her like silent sentinels. The dim yellow light flickered above, giving the place an almost haunted feel.

She muttered to herself, "Maybe I can find something about the Knave here..."

Furina ran her fingers across the spines of the binders, reading through the labeled names. Classified Operations. War Logs. Combat Reports.

Nothing caught her attention—until she reached the very end of the row.

A black-and-red binder.

Unlabeled.

Her brows furrowed. A binder like this, with no title, no markings—why hide something unless it contained something really valuable?

Without a second thought, she grabbed it and quickly left the files room, her heart pounding in her chest.

Back in her quarters, Furina slammed the door shut, and tossed the binder onto her desk. Letting out a long sigh, she plopped onto her chair, the weight of exhaustion pressing against her shoulders.

Her fingers fumbled for a cigarette pack on the desk. She pulled one out, placed it between her lips, and flicked open a lighter. The tiny flame danced for a second before she took a slow, deep drag.

The smoke curled into the air as she exhaled, staring at the ceiling.

"I told myself I wouldn't pick up a habit... Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess."

Finally, she turned her attention back to the binder and flipped open the cover.

The first page was a personnel file.

A Snezhnayan Air Force Pilot.

Name: Peruere Snezhevna.

Her eyes locked onto the small, faded photo on the top right. A woman with striking white-and-black hair, her gaze cold, almost lifeless.

Below the photo, the pilot's TAC names were listed.

The first one was an alias: Arlecchino.

No reason was provided, just a cold, unfeeling designation.

But then—her second TAC name.

Furina's eyes widened.

Her cigarette slipped from her lips, falling onto the desk with a faint hiss as the embers burned out against the wood.

The second TAC name was…

Knave.

A chill ran down her spine.

She quickly flipped to the next page.

Her breath hitched.

"Sortied in Two Wars.

Over 352 Confirmed Aerial Kills.

The Most Successful Ace in Any Nation."

Furina whispered under her breath, "…So this… this is the Knave."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she flipped to the next section.

A document from Imperatora Industries.

Her mind instantly flashed back to a conversation she once had in The Drowned Squadron.

"The Snezhnayan Air Force hired a weapons tech company called Imperatora Industries. And guess what?"

Furina had said nothing, listening intently as Wriothesley leaned in closer.

"They were tasked with collecting flight data from real pilots—to feed into their drones."

Her jaw had tightened. "You're telling me those things we fought were using real pilot data?"

Wriothesley shook his head. "Not yet. But they're working on it. And they've already got a pilot in mind."

A sinking feeling had settled in her chest.

"The Snezhnayan Air Force calls her The Knave."

A fighter pilot. Over a hundred confirmed kills. The deadliest ace in the entire Snezhnayan Air Force.

Her mind snapped back to the present.

She stared at the document, reading through it quickly.

Then—her heart nearly stopped.

Imperatora Industries wanted to use The Knave's flight data… to make their drones fly exactly like her.

Her hands gripped the paper so tightly that it nearly crumpled.

Then, without warning, she slammed her fist on the desk, knocking the binder onto the floor.

"WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THIS SORCERY!?"

She buried her fingers in her hair, gripping it as frustration coursed through her veins.

Before she could spiral further, the door suddenly burst open.

Jean, along with the rest of the Primordial Squadron and Waltz Squadron, stormed inside.

"Furina!? What happened!?" Jean demanded, eyes darting around the room before landing on her.

Furina let out a sharp exhale and bent down, grabbing the fallen binder. Without a word, she tossed it to Jean.

"Take a look at this."

Jean caught it and started flipping through the pages. Her brows furrowed. "…What's this?"

"The Knave's profile." Furina muttered. "Peruere Snezhevna. Also known under the alias Arlecchino Snezhevna."

Jean's eyes widened as she stared at the photo. "S-So… this is the Knave?"

Furina nodded grimly. "Yeah."

She took a deep breath before continuing, "And apparently, a tech company called Imperatora Industries hired Arlecchino to fly fighter jets with some sort of data collection system… to have it implemented in their drones."

A tense silence filled the room.

Furina's voice dropped lower, colder. "That means MQ-99s, MQ-101s… and that fucker I destroyed while defending The Drowned Squadron's Commander, Jakob."

Wriothesley's eyes widened in shock. "S-So… the intel I gathered was true after all…"

Furina scoffed. "And you told me about this! You said it was true!"

Wriothesley shook his head. "I said might. The intel I gathered at Korovograd Air Force Base was just a conversation I overheard between personnel there."

The Knave's Darkest Battle

Jean flipped to the next page, her sharp eyes scanning the text before calling out to the room.

"Hey! Listen to this!"

The conversation stopped immediately, all eyes turning toward her. She took a steadying breath before reading aloud:

"Arlecchino's fiercest battle—the one that pushed her kill count past 300—was against her own mentor.

Crucebena.

During the Celestial Rebellion War. Fifteen years ago."

The air in the room grew thick. No one spoke. No one moved.

Jean continued, her voice lower, heavier with the weight of what she was reading.

"Crucebena was recruited into the Celestial Squadron as a mercenary pilot. A skilled, veteran ace. But before the war ended, she went AWOL. She defected to the Rebellion."

Jean paused, glancing up to gauge the others' reactions before continuing.

"At the time, Arlecchino was flying a MiG-25 Foxbat. Crucebena? She had an ADFX-01 Morgan."

Everyone knew what that meant. The Morgan was an experimental aircraft—stealth capabilities, an absurdly powerful engine, and deadly precision weaponry. Against a MiG-25? On paper, the fight should have been one-sided.

And yet—Arlecchino won.

Jean's voice was almost a whisper now.

"They fought tooth and nail. An aerial duel that lasted almost an hour. In the end... Arlecchino came out the victor. Crucebena was shot down. Her body was recovered with the wreckage."

A heavy silence filled the room.

Furina leaned back, running a hand through her hair, frustration and disbelief warring inside her.

"Fucking hell," she muttered, shaking her head. "As if things couldn't get any worse."

Jean exhaled and slowly closed the binder, placing it back down on Furina's desk.

"No kidding," she said. "She's really the deadliest ace in all of Teyvat."

Furina nodded grimly.

"No kidding."

A long moment passed before Jean spoke again.

She crossed her arms and looked directly at Furina. "So far, Furina… you've already collected more than 250 kills. It's still uncertain if you're at the 300 mark already."

Furina's head snapped up, eyes wide.

"Wait. I have that much!?"

Jean nodded. "Yeah. Based on Arlecchino's profile, she built up her 300+ kills over fifteen years. Across multiple wars. Her record includes this war, too."

She let that sink in before adding, "You, however? You've done this all in one war."

The weight of those words settled over Furina like a lead blanket.

One war.

She had terrorized the Snezhnayan skies in her Rafale. Her name was spreading like wildfire. Pilots whispered her callsign with fear, and even enemy forces were beginning to second-guess their chances when they saw her jet approaching.

A reputation like that could break the morale of an entire air force.

Furina let out a long sigh, brushing her fingers through her disheveled hair.

"Doesn't matter," she muttered. "I just want this to end already."

Jean nodded. "We all do."

Furina exhaled sharply. "But it's a civil war out there now. It's not just us versus Snezhnaya anymore."

Jean sighed, rubbing her temples. "Yeah. And we have an operation soon. We're still proceeding with the strategy that HQ sent us."

The room fell silent again.

Outside, the distant hum of fighter jets echoed across the base.

A civil war had broken out in Snezhnaya.

Anarchy was rising.

Snezhnayan forces were fighting their own.

The Rebels. Versus. The Conservatives.

And with communication cut off, there was no way to know who was still loyal.

No way to tell who was still an ally.

Or who had already become the enemy.

Friend?

Or foe?