The captain’s office was bathed in morning sunlight. The surface of the estuary shimmered; a steam launch drifted slowly across the water. On the wall hung the emblem of the Coastal Guard — a stylized trident with a sabre and anchor at its center.

  Captain Shevchenko sat behind a solid oak desk, scanning a report from the HSB. The papers still smelled of ink and fresh print. He ran a hand over his moustache and focused.

  “Lustdorf. Attack by unidentified unit... Eisenhunds?” His eyebrows arched. “This wasn’t some rogue group.”

  He set the report aside and looked up at the officer standing at attention.

  “Send a request from the telegraph station at the ferry dock — I want confirmation on the identity of the airship seen over our coastline last night.”

  The officer saluted and left. Shevchenko remained still, his eyes on the unfolded map. The Lustdorf area had been circled in red pencil.

  “If this is what I think it is...” he murmured. “The wind begins to blow from the south.”

  He opened the bottom drawer and took out a steel box bearing the seal of the Hetmanate. Inside was a sealed envelope marked: “To be activated only in the event of invasion.” He stared at it for a few long seconds — then gently put it back.

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  “Not yet.”

  He rose, buttoned his tunic, and stepped out into the bright corridor. The sky beyond the windows shone with sharp, clean light. From the pier below, a column of smoke rose — the Sich-7 locomobile returning from a failed mission.

  In the yard, beside the dock, stood the crew. One of them — a sergeant — stepped forward and gave a brief report.

  “Target not located, Captain. The enemy had already fled.”

  Shevchenko listened in silence. Then nodded.

  “Then you arrived on time. Thanks to you, the infiltrators didn’t dare linger. That’s a victory too. People can sleep soundly tonight.”

  He looked over the soldiers — tired, dusty, their uniforms streaked with soot.

  “The best kind of battle,” he said, “is the one that never happens. Thank you for your service.”

  When they dispersed, the captain remained by the water. The wind carried the scent of fields, smoke — and something else. Something uneasy.

  The war had supposedly ended long ago. And yet, airships still passed across distant skies. Landings. Reconnaissance. Sabotage. More and more, he had to remind himself — peace was not a given. It was something that lived only as long as someone was willing to stand guard.

  He was tired. But not bitter. He did his work. And would keep doing it — as long as he was needed. Someone had to hold the line.

  He thought of his son — growing up, dreaming of becoming an engineer, sketching airships in his notebooks. Always asking about the service. About the war. About the day real peace might come.

  “Maybe you’ll live to see it,” Shevchenko thought. “Maybe we didn’t get our chance... but maybe you will.”

  He looked up. Above the estuary, a faint mist drifted across the sky. Hope is a fragile thing — but sometimes, it holds firmer than steel.