Fenrir's Leash

Prologue

The Gleipnir.
The Airborne Fortress.
The Beast of Leasath.
The Avenger.
The Black Death.

It had many names.

It was a symbol of hope, of retribution against the vile, wretched Aurelians.

It was a symbol of oppression, of tyranny belonging to the ungrateful Leasathian bastards.

However, it only knew itself as Gleipnir, the name it was christened with during its launch day.

It was designed to be a weapon, and it did so, wonderfully.

Efficiently taking over a whole country in the span of a mere 10 days, it was seen as a lifesaver, reducing the need of Leasathian soldiers on the ground to battle those pesky Aurelians.

It also cruelly ripped apart innocents, taking so many lives as a byproduct of that "wonderful" combat record.

It was a true King, reigning over the skies of Aurelia with nothing daring to tread upon its domain, for those who are foolish enough shall court death by the cerulean beam of light.

It was a Tyrant, tearing asunder any resistance, any moves made to break free from the harrowing chains of occupation.

Kings, however strong, however cunning, shall face the end of their reign.

On that damned day, a Smiling Vulture flew upon the skies, challenging the Tyrant's reign in an effort to put an end to its valorous record.

That joyous day, the Vulture managed to actually damage the King's pride, albeit with considerable losses.

Still a victory over the Lord, however.

The Gleipnir escaped to Santa Elva to make repairs, the famished Leasath citizens back home worrying over the state of their Avenger while their leader, Diego Gaspar Navarro paid no mind, and continued to host glamorous banquets with zero regard to the war's progress.

Eager to put an end to its reign however, was the Smiling Vulture.

It had took so many lives.
It had destroyed too many homes.
It must be dethroned.

The Vulture set out to liberate Santa Elva, to face his Nemesis.

And face his Nemesis he did, taking the Black Tyrant down after a grueling battle, neither side giving the other respite.

One had to avenge its countrymen's losses.
One had something to protect.

Neither was the wrong side.
Ȏ̷̫̳͛r̴̬͒̈ ̴̗̄̂m̸͎̟̫̣̀͌̓̅a̶͈̺̜̽͒y̷̹͇̳̳̿̈́̈h̷̢̹̽a̷̮͍͉̅̓p̷̼̿̆s̵̲̖̱͉͋.̴̳̲͉͒̓̄̇.̴̙͒̑͘.̸̥̦̥̈́͊͝ͅ?̴̢̘̟̀͘ͅ

Defeated and in its last death throes, Gleipnir's engines howled with an ethereal scream, the macabre cacophony aiming to take down an entire city with it as an act of vengeance, ordered by its Captain, Sir Frank Burlington.

However, the Smiling Vulture managed to stop its attack with Requiem-esque missile blasts from his Apalis, and his bold smirk will forever decorate the skies, fouling the Tyrant's legacy.

The defeated King laid to rest in the Lenal River, breaking into pieces while the Leasathian denizens watched in horror as their Hero was murdered, the haunting melody of its jet engines stopping forever after it had crashed into a bridge, the fuselage almost splitting into two.

That is the end for the King.
That is the end of a Tyrant.

One side anguished with palpable agony.
The other celebrated, happy for the success of the coup d'etat.

It changes nothing for the Gleipnir.

It's the end of the line.

Or is it?