Exitium Eternal

by MintyFeet

A turian patrol ship encounters a mass relay unlike any other. The peoples of Citadel space and the Terminus have no idea that beyond it lies one thing: Doom.

7. Chapter 7

BOOK TWO: INDOMITABLE
VOLUME TWO: RESILIENCE

9th of the Fourth Astral Lightning, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(July 9th, 2657 Galactic Standard)

Saren stood atop the defensive wall, side-by-side with hundreds of warriors; already, the sound of snarling beasts and their pounding footsteps echoed along the valley walls, and he breathed deeply.

This is nothing. I was powerful before, and after those surgeries, I've never been better, Saren thought, raising his gauntleted hands before him. I can do this.

He reached for that place in his mind which lay beyond his biotic implants - felt for that solid wall of rippling power which he knew lay just out of sight from his mind's eye, and grasped it with his mind as he'd been taught.

Feel the surface of the water. Lay your hand upon it; feel the waves washing over your fingers, and find the direction of the tide.

The signs came easily to him; adapted from human hands to his turian talons, he made them in quick succession - twisting his physical hands into the mnemonic keys which would unlock his magic channels, he did the same with his 'mental' hands -

Plunge your hands into the water, cup them - and draw water from the endless ocean of the aether. Do not be forceful - you will spill it all, and the channel will collapse. Pull. Pull slowly - and hold the water in your hand, fingers tight, so that not one drip falls free.

-and he pulled.

His mind flared with an icy fire; if warming up his biotic implants sent a shuddering wave of heat through his spine, this was as though someone had thrown him into an ocean of ice - but he grit his teeth, refusing to 'close' his symbolic hand or unmake the final sign of his real hands - but the waves of cold pain were too much.

Saren swore with barely-contained fury. "Spirits' shit," he spat, as his hands flickered a ghostly blue; the sign, he understood wearily, of the channel collapsing. The warriors around him paid him no mind, and he made ready to repeat the process when the towering strogg warrior at the head of their formation rapped its chestplate with three of its gleaming metal arms.

"WARRIORS! DEMONSIGN!"

Saren gave up on the magic, drew his triple-barrelled autoshotgun in tandem with the other warriors in the front line, and shouldered it just as the first wave of demons - scaled, vorcha-like Imps and their tamed, yahg-esque 'pinkies' - howled as they sprinted towards them.

"RECALL YOUR TRAINING! TRUST IN YOUR COMRADES! AND ABOVE ALL ELSE," the strogg Captain bellowed, their mechanical voice crackling with static-laced rage, "REMEMBER THAT YOU HAVE BUT ONE DUTY! TELL ME WHAT IT IS!"

"WE SLAY THE DEMON," Saren shouted in unison with the warriors at his side; the words were a call-and-response of the sort he'd heard from soldiers a million times before, and yet despite their obviously morale-boosting purpose it did indeed still his beating heart, if only a little.

"YOU HAVE BUT ONE PURPOSE! TELL ME WHY YOU FIGHT!"

"IN DEATH, WE WIN GLORY FOR HIS NAME!"

"YOU HAVE BUT ONE MASTER! TELL ME WHO YOUR MAKRON IS!"

"THE OMEGA MAKRON, MASTER OF ALL THAT IS WAR! HE IS THE DOOM SLAYER, BLESSED BE HIS NAME!"

"YOU HAVE BUT ONE GOAL," the strogg screamed as the unholy horde approached firing range; it levelled its full complement of weaponry at the vile creatures, all six of its arms toting a scaled-up version of Saren's own service shotgun as it braced its back legs into the rock below with a resounding clank. "TELL THEM WHAT IT IS!"

"KILL! KILL! KILL!"

"THEN HONOUR YOUR WORDS! MAKE READY!"

Saren felt the grips of his firearm cool with magic as his thought-command to set the weapon from safe to automatic fire was received; in response, an instant later, the physical switch on the weapon clicked into place.

"EVERY SHOT IS A PRAYER TO THE OMEGA! FIRE!"

The entire front line opened up with their weapons; hundreds of shotgun barrels screamed to life, spitting a solid wall of incendiary-foaming buckshot into the demonic host. Saren didn't even bother aiming at anything specific; the solid wall of imps and pinkies began bursting into flaming showers of gore, their unholy allies trampling their corpses into a bloody paste without even a moment of hesitation.

The minutes dragged on, the valley consumed by a wailing symphony of gunfire and demonic screeching; despite the endless amounts of demons the defenders slew, the tide advanced at a relentless pace. Before long, the demons had passed the six hundred metre mark.

Then three hundred.

Then one-hundred.

Fifty metres.

The strogg captain roared with rapturous joy, sheathing four of its six shrapnel cannons and replacing them with chainblades as long as Saren was tall. "DRAW BLADES! SATE THEIR HUNGER WITH STEEL!"

Saren kept firing his shotgun, pausing only to draw his chainsword with his left hand; he sent the activation command via the thought-sensor in its grip, readied himself for the coming melee as the blade's teeth screeched into a whirring blur-

-and then there was no time for thought. The demons smashed into the front line, and Saren let his finely-honed instincts take over; he lived in snapshots of time, thinking only about the next moment of survival.

Imp. Claws, swiping. Two steps back, chainblade - strike upwards. Shotgun to gut.

Five seconds had passed.

Fireball. Duck. Biotic warp.

Six seconds.

Pinkie. Biotic charge past, above. Ally underneath - charge cancel. Shoot downwards. Imp takes its place. Chainsword slash horizontal.

Ten seconds.

Fireball incoming, left, second fireball, will strike soldier two bodies front from behind. Armour untouched. Take fireball one.

Saren's armour let out a hissing beep as one of his Runes of Protection shattered from the hit; he ignored the warning - eleven runes remaining.

Fifteen seconds.

Second fireball. Stasis. Fireball held in place. Grab nearest imp, force friendly fire-

-Saren realized - somewhere deep in his tactical unconscious - that the demonic horde had engulfed the entire wall in under thirty seconds, and the entire defensive formation was now surrounded-

Charging pinkie, incoming imp, incoming fireball. Can only dodge one. One of the warriors to his right, wielding a chainspear and shield, smacked the fireball out of the way, blocked the pinkie's charge with a well-timed bash of his shield and thrust the point of his spear into the imp's head.

Twenty seconds.

Another warrior by his side, this one carrying a crackling sword seemingly formed of translucent magic, roared an incantation rendered incomprehensible by the cacophanous melee and slammed their empty hand into the ground; a solid wall of golden light incinerated the demons around them in a two-foot radius.

Thirty seconds.

Momentary pause. Reassess.

Thirty-one seconds.

He glanced to his rear; at the last barricade the defenders had set up, a pair of bipedal, flaming Barons of Hell, each at least twelve feet tall, were ripping apart his allies with their bare hands and ignoring the bullets and spells ripping through them as though they felt nothing.Final defensive line will collapse shortly. Biotic charge, implant at 250%.

His body shook and his teeth rattled from the sudden acceleration; he sailed over the heads of the demons below.

Shotgun. Can't aim. Fire at landing site - clear out imps. Five shots. Cancel charge. Fireborne Baron - weak spot - soft point between mouth and forehead crest.

He holstered his shotgun on his back as he exited the biotic charge, grasped his chainsword with both hands and rammed point-first it into a spot just above the first Baron's lip; the blade sputtered and chugged, clouding his vision with an explosion of viscera and bone.

Thirty-five seconds.

Clear vis-

The momentary state of blindness was enough - just enough - to make Saren too late to have any chance of dodging an incoming strike from the other Baron. He'd assumed - stupidly - that the two Barons would avoid obviously hitting each other, but-

-the flaming gauntlet smashed into him, kept going, and caved in the first Baron's face with a resounding squelch.

Saren's armour screeched in protest as he was sent flying away, but his focus was solely on the small cluster of imps he was going to - had landed on top of. All protection runes lost. Recharge time for next one - eighteen seconds. Separated from allies - buy time. Biotic stasis, circular deployment.

The imps around him remained glued to the floor, held down by purple waves of biotic power-

-and an enormous fireball, flung by the surviving Baron of Hell rocketed into his flank, reducing his right arm to a smoking, useless bit of meat.

Ignore pain.

Saren gasped; the burning, scorching, unholy feeling of nausea that threatened to overtake him was almost-

IGNORE PAIN.

Saren got up, no longer able to keep track of how much time was passing; all he could do was focus on clearing a path ahead with swipes of his chainsword and biotic pushes.

Buy time. Shit. Shit, shit, shit-

-Think. Can't heal my right arm without opening magic channel - no free hand to cast a mnemonic spell.

-Calculate. Open channel without hand signs. Intuitive magic - others can do it, so I can as well.

-Kill.

Saren did not kill.

A momentary loss of focus was spent as Saren commanded, demanded, that his connection to the aether open-

-and nothing happened-

-and a trio of imps piled onto him, rending his armour with fiery claws.

Get up. Get up! GET UP!

But his body would not respond.

Instead, he opened his eyes, and found himself laying face-down on the floor of the simulator room; he took a moment, sweating, breathing, to let his mind remember that the simulation was not reality. Magic hard-light winked out of existence around him as the "armour" he'd been wearing moments ago faded away, leaving his bare chest resting on the cool floor.

A few seconds passed.

Saren marshaled his energy, fought past his exhaustion, and found the energy to speak, growling angrily into the floor. "Spirits' shit."

"Do not be so hard on yourself, Spectre Arterius. You managed to survive for four minutes and twelve seconds this time - two minutes better than your previous attempt, and a whole minute and four seconds without having use of your right arm. And all that, without magic, I might add."

Saren eased himself into a sitting position, looking up at the source of the voice; it was an older human man wearing what could only be described as an ornate, black set of medical scrubs, gilded in gold and silver, standing in the observatory overlooking the simulator's floor. Flanked by two similarly-garbed strogg who were impassively working away at dataslates held in their mechanical arms, the man regarded Saren with an appraising look. "If I'd had the skill - the power - to open my channels," Saren spat, "I'd have made it."

The man waved his assistants away; they nodded and quietly left the room via a door behind them, and once they were gone he leapt down to the floor, landing with a graceful, nearly-silent clack as his boots touched the ground. "You are aware, Milord, that the simulation is, first and foremost, a medical exam, designed to determine your neuromagical compatibility, yes? The simulation must record your stress responses, and the like. It is entirely incapable of letting you 'make it,' so to speak."

"I'm well aware of the simulation's nature." Saren sighed and rubbed at his fringe. "Even so, I was aiming, Doctor Lawson, to survive for at least five minutes."

"Unlikely." Henry Lawson's tone was matter-of-fact as he offered a hand; Saren took it and stood up, cursing under his breath from pains his brain was still trying to realize was fake. "The machines which dictate the parameters of the neuromagical compatibility simulation are programmed to ensure that the difficulty of the fight you face is impossibly lethal - the record, if it could even be called that, was set by a mage centuries ago, and even they did not last more than eight minutes." The doctor smiled. "So - without using magic? Four minutes is downright exceptional, Spectre."

"Exceptional. Pfft. Right." Saren stretched his arms and legs, letting the adrenaline fade. "You yourself said that even those without the ability to wield magic in reality can, in some cases, do so within the simulation."

"I am not of a mendacious disposition, milord. I said, specifically, that there have been, in the history of this program's use, two individuals who were capable of doing so," Henry clarified with an exasperated shake of his head. "One was the aforementioned mage. The second was a Redeemed Summoner who was about to have his magic abilities unlocked, after having voluntarily given those powers up several years prior."

Saren glared at the man. "Your point?"

"I will ignore your attempts to defeat the very nature of reality, and instead inform you that your compatibility ratings are as exceptional as your performance in the previous simulation," Doctor Lawson continued, waving a hand vaguely in Saren's direction. "In any case, the surgeries you have had so far - the basic suite, I will remind you - have fused fully into your noetic matrix, and your compatibility for aetheric connection channel grafts are far above acceptable levels. You are ready, Milord, to undergo the next set of procedures."

Saren took a moment to feel the magic pumping through his veins; not two days prior, he'd been referred to the medical bays high up in the Martyrium of His Eyes and undergone what Patriarch Harper had called his "first steps towards true lethality" - inscribing runic matrices on his bones and organs, letting him use translatory magic, guarding his soul from demonic influence or harvest and allowing him to consume any and all substances without fear of injury - all without having to carry his necklace of runes with him. There had been a whole host of other additions; amongst others, an enhanced perception suite, low-grade regenerative theurgic wards which would expedite his natural healing process by a factor of ten, and the ability to better combat mental fatigue.

It's not enough, Saren thought with frustration. I'm not enough. Not yet. "And how long will I be waiting?"

"The chiurgeons are already preparing the operating room," Henry said with a roll of his eyes. "It was assumed, given your character, that you would want to begin as soon as the facilities and personnel were available."

Saren folded his arms. "You find it disagreeable?"

"Not particularly. I merely think that, were I in your shoes, I would prefer to, I do not know - explore? Take time, perhaps, to visit the entirely foreign culture alien to my own sensibilities? Delve into the rich, vast culture I have had no experience with?" Henry smirked. "Do you understand my thinking?"

"If I were a civilian, I would be doing that," Saren replied with a shrug. "But I'm not. I'm not here to look at museums and shop at bookstores. I'm on the clock. The Council doesn't pay me to take vacations."

"Of course, of course. I understand. Come with me, Milord." Henry made his way towards the simulator room's door, grumbling as he went. "Warriors. Dullards, the lot of them."

"I heard that," Saren said, trailing behind the doctor.

Henry sighed. "Perhaps we should not have given you that perception booster."

"If it puts your delicate sensibilities at ease, Doctor, I do intend - at some point in the future - to experience the many luxuries and cultural richness your people have to offer," Saren noted as the two began winding their way through the medical wing of the Inquisitorial headquarters.

"Do you, as a matter of course, generally insult those who operate on you?"

"I try not to make a habit of it, unless the target of my wit deserves it," Saren retorted.

Henry let out a barking laugh, before turning around to clap Saren on the shoulder. "You, Milord, have as sharp a tongue as my firstborn. I implore you - should you be assigned to work with her, please - please! - do not encourage such abhorrent, unseemly, and most of all, unladylike behaviour."

"I can't promise anything," Saren replied, grinning.

As they walked, various personnel, including a handful of Redeemed demons, paid them no mind save for the occasional polite nod; in short order, they had arrived in the surgical section of the medical wing, and Henry ushered Saren into a waiting room adjacent to a surgical facility - where a muscled, mountain of a main clad in a faded black greatcoat stood waiting, flipping through a physical tome which was chained to his belt.

"Ah. Spectre Arterius. A pleasure," the man said; darkly tanned and wearing his hair short, the man bowed slightly, the contents of his coat clinking as he did so.

Doctor Lawson raised an eyebrow. "Inquisitor Hislop? Is there a problem?"

"No, no - I simply wanted to meet our turian friend here without delay." The black-garbed Inquisitor offered a hand - prosthetic, Saren thought, noticing the unnatural protrusions beneath his leather-like glove - in greetings. "Inquisitor Benyamin Hislop - I report directly to Patriarch Harper and Matriarch Oliwa."

"Spectre Saren Arterius," Saren responded as they clasped arms and shook hands. "To what do I owe the pleasure of making your acquaintance?"

"I have been assigned to oversee your ascendance," Benyamin explained, "to become the first person to hold the combined rank of Inquisitor and Spectre."

Saren blinked with concealed shock. Huh. Hadn't expected both the Exitium's ruling bodies and the Council to sign off on that less than a day after submitting the request. Instead of making his surprise known, he simply nodded, smiling. "We'll have to debrief, then - though, if you wouldn't mind, I am due for a medical procedure."

"By all means! Please, go ahead - I did not mean to intrude," Inquisitor Hislop said, waving his non-gloved hand in deference. "As said - having been tasked with this duty mere minutes ago, I simply wished to begin discussions with you at the earliest possible convenience. I will await you here - whenever you are freed from the burdens of the attentions of our most noble chirurgeons, I will be available."

Henry glared at the man. "Your tone, Ben."

Benyamin returned the doctor's glare with an almost-innocent smile. "Yes, old friend? Have I offended your refined sense of honour?"

The two stared at one another; Saren did his best not to laugh as Henry crumbled beneath the power of Benyamin's charm.

"Dullards, all of you! I play host to a company of fools," Henry grumbled; he gestured at the airlock-corridor connecting the waiting area to the operating tables next door. "Go, Lord Arterius. The sooner you and Inquisitor Hislop are out of my hair, the better!" With that, the doctor stormed out of the room; Benyamin roared with laughter, and fixed Saren with a wide, toothy grin.

"Hah! Oh, it is ever so easy to light a fire beneath that man's arse," the Inquisitor said, miming wiping tears from his eyes. "You could fight a demon with that man, so stiff his is spine."

"I think," Saren noted happily, "you and I are going to get along."

"Oh, I would hope so. It would reflect poorly on my otherwise pristine record of service if I were to be removed from your service on account of my inability to adapt to, ahem, 'changing cultural circumstances,' or some such nonsense." The man sank into one of the room's chairs, the cushions creaking beneath his towering frame, and jerked his head at the airlock. "Go on, then. Finish your medical work - and then you and I will begin having a merry old time!"

Saren nodded. "I'll be right back, Inquisitor."

With almost-renewed confidence, Saren made his way once more into the operating room and laid down on the table; once he was settled, the same tripedal metal-legged medi-strogg - an almost insectoid thing covered in a red cloak-like set of surgical scrubs, its face obscured by a six-eyed mask and festooned with dozens of mechanical arms - which had operated on him last lumbered out from the hatch opposite that which Saren had entered from.

"Raziva. I hadn't expected to see you again so soon," Saren said, leaning his head back on the table; the disgust he'd felt upon laying eyes on the Makron of Tongues had now given way to almost excited, if still-wary feeling of anticipation.

"Ahhhhhh. You, my good sir, were ahhhhhh. always fated to return to my humble workshop with great haste," the strogg wheezed, its voice rendered almost unintelligible behind a wall of warping filters and hissing, artificial-sounding breathing. "Long have I known your kind. You hunger for power - and magic, ahhhh, magic is power itself. This, ahhhhhhh, I believe."

Saren closed his eyes. "Then let's get started."

A familiar, sleepy wave of comfort began to wash over Saren, and as he began to fade into unconsciousness Raziva whispered with delight. "Are you ready, then, Spectre, aaaaah, Arterius, to have your magical potential unleashed? Are you ready to inscribe your will upon the universe?"

Four minutes.

Exceptional.

Like the Hells.

"Give me everything you've got," he mumbled.

---

28th of the Fourth Astral Lightning, Year 1157 of the Twenty-Sixth Age
(July 29th, 2657 Galactic Standard)

It is six in the morning, on the twenty-eight day of the fourth astral lightning; you have survived to this, the one-thousand-fifty-seventh year of the twenty-sixth age. If you wish to shed your flesh, transcend your bones and become only one of His Eyes, then awaken, and prepare with your morning rites. Your morning sermon today hails from The Book of Eyes, chapter two, verse seventeen.

"And so the warriors stood atop the walls of the great citadel-city of Enigmata; for five hundred days they had repulsed the demon, and though their blades remained sharp and their shotguns held many shells, the fire in every defender had dwindled to but a flickering ember. Let it be remembered that these stalwart sentinels were neither coward nor heretic - and yet, for as long as they could recall, now, none amongst these great soldiers had eaten more than a meager handful of nutrient paste, nor drank water unfouled by decay and dirt - and now, even those seemed to be luxuries that could no longer be afforded if the kind people of their city were to live."

"We are vexed! We are cursed! How abhorrent a fate," the warriors cried, "that our swords thirst for blood and our shotguns crave vengeance, and yet it is our stomachs that will betray us! How unfair a fate that our minds can think only of water, when it is sorcery we should recall!"

"So it was, then, that the Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, heard the cries of these pitiful warriors; He descended from the sky, heralded by the storming portals which announce His arrival upon the field of war. The Omega Makron, God of all that is War, came to stand in the killing fields beyond the wall, and gazed upon the carnage Enigmata's defenders had unleashed; the warriors fell to their knees, awaiting His judgement."

"And His judgement they did receive! The Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, saw the mountain of slain demons, and He was proud. But so too did He see the warriors who no longer stood atop the great wall, but leaned upon their weapons, voices dry with thirst and bellies crying with hunger - and He was displeased."

"He said nothing, it is recorded; indeed, He did not move for many hours, until the sun began to set."

"O Great Slayer! The unholy host comes," the warriors shouted, "and you have come to save us!"

"But soon they despaired, for as the setting sun became the dark of night, no horde of foul blasphemies came to assault the citadel; Hell's foul minds deigned only to send one final monstrosity to finish off the weakened warriors - a single Daemon Imperator, the Many-Legged-Beast, the Walking Heresy, the Unclean Titan: a great, awful thing, a mountain of flesh whose very footsteps shattered the earth and whose foul exhalations sent rancid winds blowing across the continent."

"Before the warriors of Enigmata could join the Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, in waging war on this titanic monstrosity, the battle was concluded - for without word, He, finding only that His hatred increased in scale accordant with the size of His unholy foe, sallied forth. With the Holy Arsenal, He lay into the foul creature with but a fraction of His might. Ten thousand guns, ten thousand blades and ten thousand strikes of His fist - and the Daemon Imperator was felled, bleeding lakes of foul ichor from ten thousand wounds; its bones were torn and its flesh ripped."

"As the sun rose, there lay before the walls of Enigmata nothing more than the mountain-sized corpse of the Many-Legged-Beast; so vast was its size, even slain, that the very sun was blocked from shining upon His victory. Then, and only then, did the Doom Slayer, blessed is His name, decide to grace the warriors of Enigmata with his voice."

"And thus He spoke! He said:FOLLOW!"

"And follow they did, for His command is law!"

"He led them to the skull of the behemoth, which lay upon the sands - and with His hands, the Fists Most Holy, he tore open the skull of the Daemon Imperator. Thus did He lead the warriors into the body of the demon, forging forward with mighty strikes from His hands, ripping and tearing to forge tunnels of flesh and canals of blood which could be crossed without trouble."

"He spent day upon day within the body of this great blasphemy; though He did not gift the warriors with His words then, He instead did gift them a blessing they found themselves unworthy to receive!"

"The Rites of Purification! Now it was so, that every slain demon might sate hunger with their flesh, and slake thirst with their blood; so long as any person could kill the enemy, there would never again be a time where a warrior might be laid low by anything as banal and dishonourable as weakness of the stomach!"

"On the last day, as He lead them to the rectum of the Daemon Imperator, the defenders of Enigmata fell to their knees in excrement and bile, and so they did say, weeping with joy:

'O Great Slayer! O Unchained Predator! O Hellwalker, O Flesh-Tearer! We are unworthy! We are blessed! How ever can we repay you, O Lord Of Death, for the salvation you have brought us?'"

"The Omega Makron, God of All That Is War, did not speak at first; He stepped forward, and ripped open the behind of the Daemon Imperator - and the sun itself shone down upon him, desert winds sending fresh, untainted air into the behind of the Daemon Imperator. Then, He turned, gesturing at the many upon many miles they had walked; at the path they had carved through the Daemon Imperator itself, and He gave them only one command."

"HE GAVE THEM ONLY ONE COMMAND!"

"SPOKEN, IT WAS, WITH SUCH FURY AND HATE AND FEROCITY THAT THE HEAVENS THEMSELVES SHOOK WITH HIS ANGER!"

"THUS HE SPOKE!"

"RIP AND TEAR! UNTIL IT IS DONE!"

This concludes our reading. What have we learned? What lesson do we glean from this passage? It is this: Do not forget your duty! Do not forget your sacred cause! War-magic is not enough! Honed blades and loaded shotguns are not enough! Courage is not enough! Hope is not enough! If you are to fulfill The Command, you cannot do so if your mind is closed and your knowledge is lacking! Fill the library of your mind. Tend to its shelves. Seek understanding. You, who wish to be Inquisitors, cannot succeed if you cannot abide by His One Command! You cannot Rip and Tear if you know not how to do so! Your fortress is an open mind! Your armory is a library as vast as your hate! Remember this, and your success is guaranteed!

Now, loyal defenders of all this is holy, I beseech you, join me in the first prayer of the day. "Yours is the shield that guards us from sin…"

Spirits, she could have just skipped the storytelling,

Saren groused as he got out of bed. And was the screaming really necessary? We're already up! Even so, as the priestess - the ma'assaeen,in the Exitium's tongue, gaialugha - launched into prayer, he followed the letter, if not necessarily the spirit of the ritual, and made his way over to the prayer rug in the corner of his quarters, knelt, and closed his eyes.

Well, uh, I'm still not really a religious sort of guy, so...right. If there's a deity out there - if there are deities out there who are listening, do your damn jobs and help kill all these demons.For a moment, Saren considered just getting up and going about his business - but something tugged at the back of his mind, and after a few moments of silent, empty contemplation, he continued his reflections. Verux, He who is of Fire and War, I ask that you light my path and set my enemies alight, he thought, scouring his memories for the ancient Valluvian prayers he'd overheard once or twice when he was a young boy. Calucinia, Both He who is of Mystery and She who is of Vengeance, I ask that you guide my talons and rend my enemies asunder.

Surprised at his own sudden bout of faith - fake or not - Saren got to his feet, donned his undersuit and strapped on his combat armour (which now bore faint runic inscriptions across its entire length), a vague sense of discomfort settling deep into his bones. Doing his best to not dwell on the sensation, Saren made his way out into the corridors and began walking to the nearest mess hall; Inquisitorial acolytes, mostly young humans with the odd strogg mixed in with their numbers, were milling about as they too began their days. Thankfully, none of them paid him much mind beyond the occasional greeting, and so his journey to find breakfast lasted only five minutes, instead of the nearly thirty it'd taken on his first day after settling into the Inquisitorial Hall.

Lost in thought, Saren nearly flinched in open surprise when he realized that one of the tables in the mess hall - a massive, wood-floored chamber which reminded him of the sorts of log houses he'd been to while camping in middle school - played host to a trio of visitors from the Citadel. Tela, out of her armour and wearing an Exitium-style tunic and shawl, was instantly recognizable, but the identities of the other two took him a moment to place. First was a one-horned middle-aged salarian wearing robes bearing the six-winged crest of the Church of the Seraph, and the other was an ashen-skinned asari-like creature, with a muscular build that'd make any krogan proud poorly-hidden beneath its Exitium-made robes-

-Spirits, Saren realized, stunned into dumbfounded shock for a moment. A suitless quarian? I'd heard they'd managed to reinforce their immune systems with magic, but - but still-

"-ren? Saren? You good? Goddess, I think he's finally lost it," Tela muttered, who had gotten up and was now waving a hand in his face. "Hey! Wake up, you old fart!"

"What? Tela? Get out of my face," he grumbled, batting away her hands and easing himself onto the wooden bench at the table. "Spirits. Can't even let a man think."

"Spectre Vasir's reputation for hostility well known," the salarian said, smirking. "A personality trait some find endearing."

Tela shoveled a spoonful of stew from her tray into her mouth, swallowed, and proceeded to glare at the salarian. "Shove it up your cloaca, Mordin."

"Possibly an affectation, meant to lull others into a sense of false security," the salarian added with a wan smile; Saren realized exactly who he was sitting across, and sat up straighter.

Saren gazed at the salarian, who, in turn, returned the look with one that was terrifyingly piercing. "Mordin? Mordin Solus?"

"A pleasure to meet you again, Spectre Arterius," Mordin said with a quick nod. "Not sure if you recall. Our last meeting was brief...and unduly interrupted."

Saren blinked a few times, recalled the hailstorm of incoming artillery and gunfire which had been the backdrop to their last conversation, and smiled. "Well, either way, I'm happy to see you made it out of that shitstorm in one piece." He paused, then gestured to his missing horn. "Well, mostly, anyway."

"Sustained that wound on a different mission - nothing related to you or the intel you delivered," Mordin clarified hastily. "Your work?" The salarian took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sighed contentedly. "Excellent. Far beyond expectations. Hadn't known it was possible until then to take out a heavy gunship with only biotics."

"Wasn't all me," Saren admitted. "That...truck-launching trebuchet...thing, you and your crew slapped together was spirits-damned incredible."

Mordin sniffed indifferently. "Simple mathematics, Saren."

"What the fuck," Tela interjected through another mouthful of stew, "are the two of you even talking about? 'Cause if you're going to just sit there and swap war stories, I'm outta here."

"We haven't seen each other in years," Saren retorted. "The least you could do is be polite."

Tela snorted. "I am paid, specifically, to be an enormous piece of shit. Last I checked, being nice isn't in my job description. And besides, you're leaving out Haesa here!" She reached around Mordin's back, and patted the suitless quarian on the back; the man flinched for a second before steadying himself.

"Sorry, Tela. Still getting used to the whole...touchy-feely thing." The man's voice was raspy and dry; Saren found it odd, hearing the multi-layered voice of a quarian without a mask in the way. He paused, cleared his throat and addressed Saren. "Haesa'Raan vas Tonbay, Fleet Internal Security. It's a pleasure to meet you, Spectre."

Saren extended a hand and the two clasped arms - Haesa, this time, didn't flinch, though a moment of discomfort still passed over his face. "Internal Security? Can't say I've ever seen one of your people in person...ever, actually."

"FIS personnel don't usually get out of the Fleet much, if ever," the quarian admitted with a shrug. "Keeping the Fleet safe from the inside is a...time consuming job, to say the least. Honestly, I'm surprised I even managed to get this posting - you'd better believe the Admiralty wants every hand on deck to deal with the madness now that, apparently, nobody has to wear a suit anymore." Haesa stared into his bowl of soup, expression melancholy. "Keelah se'lai. It's almost too much, you know? The Exitium, and all...this," he added, gesturing vaguely around the group.

"The Exalted Exitium presents an overwhelming number of questions. Feelings of crisis are perfectly logical, I assure you," Mordin added with a nod. "Demons. Hell. Magic. Doom Slayer. Inquisition. Inquisition!" The salarian waved his hands around jerkily. "Hard to believe any civilization today would have such a thing."

"I mean, it's not really an Inquisition in the way we'd think of it," Tela pointed out. "It's really just a state security branch. They just name it all weird, give it a coat of religious paint. Exitium's actually not all that crazy, if you ask me. I mean - okay, yes, they are," she added, waving off the incredulous looks of the others, Saren included, "but having a church-themed state sec really isn't the strangest thing I've seen so far."

Saren scratched at his fringe. "How long have you three been hanging around the Inquisition, anyway?"

Mordin cocked his head, eyes darting about as he took in Saren's face. "Asking as Saren? Or demanding as Spectre Arterius?"

"Spirits, I'm not trying to interrogate you three," Saren grumbled. "I haven't talked to anyone from Citadel Space in nearly a month - not in person, at least. Just wanted to see how you all were doing. I've been training in magic and figuring out how I'd carry out my duties with both Inquisitorial and Spectre-type training. See? Not so hard."

"Me, I've finished getting my initial cultural exchange report done - figured it was about time to buckle down, get to work talking with the Inquisition's higher-ups," Tela began. "Talking shop, figuring out intelligence-sharing logistics, getting to grips with the Exitium's knowledge base and the like. Besides the paperwork, it's actually pretty fun - I'll probably dip into magic training some time in the next week."

"Well, it's not like what I'm doing is classified," Haesa continued with a grin. "Far from it. The Fleet sent a few dozen personnel to get a feel for the Exitium, and see what opportunities it could offer us - the fact that getting us out of our suits was almost effortless for the Exitium's sorcerers - is that the right term? - got the entire Admiralty Board frothing at the mouth at the possibilities. The Church of the Inquisition just happened to be a good spot for me to liaise, what with the similarities to Internal Security."

Mordin, on the other hand, kept his expression in a neutral, polite smile. "Actually no longer operating directly with Special Tasks Group."

Tela looked taken aback. "Wait, wait, you're not here on STG business? You didn't say you were here as a civilian."

"Never asked," Mordin pointed out with a theatrical shrug. "Cannot be at fault for your assumptions, Tela."

"Goddess, I swear - wait a minute. Actually, how in the hells did you get in here, then? The other people from the Citadel I talked to, they said the Inquisition wasn't taking in anyone who hadn't undergone their military training or schooling or whatever," Tela said, frowning.

Mordin smiled - a genuine one, this time. "Came here to find myself."

Saren thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Have you found what you're looking for yet?"

"No. But...close. I am close." Mordin poked at the small mountain of food on his tray, stirring circles around the hunk of meat in the centre. "An ongoing process."

"Hey, your hearing gone too? You didn't answer my question," Tela groused.

"No. I did not," Mordin answered, nonchalant, before happily stuffing a hunk of meat into his mouth.

Tela rolled her eyes. "Special Tasks Group through and through. Goddess, I hate your type."

Mordin finished chewing, looked up, and winked. "Luckily, not looking to copulate with you at this time."

Tela, perhaps unused to or unwilling to further entertain much more of Mordin's repartee, excused herself not long after, citing an upcoming meeting with Inquisitorial higher-ups; Haesa joined her, leaving Mordin and Saren alone at their table.

Silence fell; Mordin waited for Tela (and Haesa) to leave the mess hall before speaking. "Good riddance," Mordin muttered. "Special Tasks Group policy mandates cooperation with Council Spectres whenever possible. Personally, have tried to follow said policy since leaving the Group. Spectre Vasir…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing.

"She's a bit much, I'll grant you that," Saren admitted. "But she's a professional at heart."

Mordin cocked his head, regarding Saren with a curious gaze. "All evidence points to that being the case." He shrugged. "Instinct says otherwise."

Saren folded his arms. "Hey now. I don't know what she's done to you or what you've heard, but from where I'm sitting Tela's never been anything except competent, professional, and eminently reliable. Rough around the edges, yes. Not a fan of protocol or bureaucratic process? Also yes. But we're Spectres, Mordin. Nobody gets to where we are because we enjoy that sort of thing."

"Did not imply otherwise." Mordin's expression - the look in his eyes, his posture, his tone - all were almost painfully neutral. "Instinct is instinct. Can save lives. Can also bring catastrophic results, if not kept in check."

Saren leaned forward, eyes quickly scanning the surrounding room; nobody was sitting within earshot, but he held out his left arm and quickly saccaded a short-range message on his omnitool.

Short Range Communications - If you have something to tell me, I'd rather you be upfront about it.

Short Range Communications - Reply - Nothing concrete. Instinctive distrust. I am in no position to speculate or investigate given my current position. Simply wanted to express my concerns to someone I hold in esteem.

"I appreciate your trust in me." Saren sighed, shaking his head. "Even so, I've got a schedule to keep, Mordin. I'm in no position to investigate someone, especially a colleague, especially without any other evidence to back this."

"Was not asking," Mordin replied with a small smile. "Was wondering if you - or anyone you know - shared said reservations. My worries are allayed, slightly."

"I wasn't trying to be accusatory, by the way," Saren noted. "If you think something's up, I'm not telling you to turn a blind eye."

Mordin stared at his plate for a minute. "My instincts," he said eventually in a much quieter voice than before, "have not always been correct."

Saren picked up on his meaning and sighed. "I'm also not trying to make you second-guess yourself."

"Fully capable of doing that on my own." Mordin shut his eyes, sighed deeply, and nodded at Saren. "Thank you. Either way - have spoken to you. Little else for me to do now."

"You mentioned you were on a...journey of self-discovery, right?" Saren segued, eager to change the subject. "Anything lined up for today?"

Mordin pointed to the six-winged emblem on his robes. "Studied healing magic for the past month. Am still continuing my studies, yes, but also decided to, ah, branch out. See more of the Exitium. The Inquisition seemed an excellent starting point, given previous work history. Meeting with a fellow medical specialist - one Doctor Archer. Discussing our trade, ostensibly." He looked pointedly at Saren's place at the table. "Not hungry?"

"Damn - got caught up with talking to you all. I've got to fill up, too - have my general combat magic exam coming up shortly," Saren grumbled as he got to his feet.

"Test?" Mordin blinked several times, eyes flitting about in thought. "Combat magic training schedule, from materials I've read, dictates first serious exam takes place about six months into basic schooling - custom curriculum? No, unlikely. Adapted from existing materials. Accelerated schooling track? Intensive training likely, given your-"

"-I'm right here," Saren said, smiling slightly. "You can ask me, you know."

Mordin paused mid-speech and glanced up at the turian. "Apologies. Lost in thought. Care to clarify?"

"Intensive training on my own time," Saren clarified as Mordin quickly wolfed down the last bites of his food. "Inquisitorial 'training' has been almost comically easy for me given my background, but magic - well, I'm learning at my own pace, since it's really just a matter of how fast I can cover each set of lessons in the packages they've given me."

Mordin nodded slowly. "I see. Will not keep you any longer, then."

"It was nice speaking with you, Mordin," Saren answered, clasping arms with the salarian. "We should meet up when we both are free."

"Likewise," Mordin replied with a small nod. "Contact me when you wish. It has been good, speaking to you."

Once he'd left, Saren quickly grabbed a tray from one of the communal stations and loaded his plate up at the serving station with a healthy bowl of dugoguk, a thick, spicy stew of fermented legumes, assorted offal and the stewed blood of a shevre - itself a four-legged, three-horned creature farmed mostly for its meat. It'd been a pleasant surprise to find a dish so similar to the nocti pulmectithat'd kept him fed during his own military training, and as he eagerly scarfed down spoonful after spoonful he found its spicy, powerfully-savoury flavour fortifying his spirit as much as it sated his hunger. Soon, there was none left, and despite wanting to stay and continue to gorge himself on the plethora of options available - even a month in, he hadn't worked his way through even half of the meals on offer - his time was up.

The testing area, by now, was well-known to him; a quick elevator ride down two levels and a five minute walk later, Saren returned to the testing facility he'd been training at for the past month. A small crowd of would-be Inquisitors milled about outside; most, as before, were younger humans or strogg clad in the pale-blue robes of initiates, though Saren did notice a lone Redeemed imp wearing a white cloak amongst their number. In truth, he hadn't bothered to make acquaintances amongst any of them, instead spending his time studying or focusing solely on his instructors. He paid little mind to the others, then, acknowledging them only with polite nods, and - having timed his arrival perfectly - simply entered the training hall by himself.

The interior of the gymnasium-like structure, normally set up with "lanes" similar to a firing range had been rearranged such that there was only a central platform raised slightly above the floor at the centre of the room; a dozen examiners, none of whom Saren could recognize from their silhouettes visible from behind the slightly-tinted glass that separated them from gym, stood in the observation deck which hung from the ceiling.

"Spectre Saren Arterius of the Citadel Council, your request for testing has been approved in full," a woman's voice rang out; Saren didn't know who it was, but the clipped, cool voice was as authoritative as Councilor Tevos' own. "Proceed to the main platform, and we shall begin."

Saren did as he was told, rolling his shoulders and loosening his muscles. "I am ready," he called out.

"Very good. The contents of this examination - designed to determine a functional level of competency in the three schools of magic - have been made known to you. Once you have demonstrated your grasp of the spellcasting portion of this examination, we shall collate your written and practical results, and have the results sent to you by this evening."

"I understand, and am ready to begin," Saren said.

"The test begins now," the woman called out; the training hall, previously well-lit, dimmed significantly, leaving the gym bathed in a soft-blue light from the ceiling-mounted illuminators. "Please open your magic channels."

Saren grinned, heart soaring at the chance to show the results of a month of endless labour; not even bothering with the mnemonic hand signs, he felt for the mental space beyond his biotics, and instead of pulling, tore open the floodgates and in the same instant forged a mental wall - almost as though he were forming a biotic barrier - and crafted what he conceived as a magic dam of sorts. His whole body flickered a bright blue first before flaring with a cold, black fire for several seconds, before it receded, and he breathed in deeply, feeling the enormous, freezing weight of the aetheric dimension hanging "above" him and letting small drips of magic to drip into his body.

Silence.

More silence.

Saren looked up at the deck, frowning slightly. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," came the woman's reply, her tone utterly unconvincing. "We had not expected you to master unsigned channel activation, and while your method of doing so was not unknown to this body, it is certainly...highly unorthodox, especially for one as new to magic as yourself." There was a pause, and when the examiner spoke again, this time Saren swore he heard not confusion, but concern, coming from the woman. "Do you feel...unwell? Unsteady?"

"Not at all," Saren answered; he let the dam open a little more, shivering with physical cold and mental sharpness as the frigid fire circulated through the magical equivalent of his nervous system before he cycled it back into the reservoir of the aetheric dimension. "It feels good, in fact. Refreshing."

"I...we...we understand," the woman answered.

Silence again, for a moment.

"Very well. You have passed this stage. We begin, now, with hermetics. If you look down, you will note that the centre of the testing platform contains a chamber holding a variety of hermetic ritual reagents, as well as molds which will shape your output into a circle. We ask that you use the reagents within and magi-construct a railing, fence, or barrier of some sort, which will encircle you within the testing platform with a gate by which you can exit."

Saren knelt down, popping open the small chamber set into the testing platform via a small latch that hadn't been there previously; he extracted a bag with ritual chalk, a dozen earth-aspected bricks of metacrete - what most hermetically-forged buildings were made of in the Exitium - alongside several vials of distillates, essences, and a few handfuls of Gaian soil packed into circular molds. With workmanlike efficiency, Saren replicated the hermetic crafting array for constructing a fenced railing, aimed the moulds around the perimeter of the testing platform, and let a small drip of magic pour from his hands into the magic circle. A bright flash of light filled the hall, and when Saren next blinked the array had vanished, and instead a fenced railing had sprung into existence, placed perfectly around the testing platform with a small gated section behind him.

"Excellent," the woman said. "Excellently done indeed. Let us move on, then, to examine your basic theurgic healing skills. A moment, Spectre; please allow the simulation projectors to complete their activation routines, then do as you must."

Saren waited as a dull yellow light began flashing up the walls of the testing hall; after a minute, the light blinked out, and a hard-light projection of a naked, wounded human - one of their arms burnt, scratched and badly broken in two places - appeared in the centre of the testing platform, in addition to holographic representations of the necessary hermetic ritual ingredients he'd need to kickstart the theurgic process.

Breathe, Saren thought to himself as he drew a circle of Noetic Restoration on the platform; in truth, despite the process itself theoretically being simple, theurgy remained a constant source of frustration over the course of the past month.

First, activate the array from the top-down.Saren fired a small drip of magic into the circle; it lit up, shining a brilliant red as the liquid reagents within swirled.

Second, use the bottom quarter-right sector to scan the target's soul matrix.Saren closed his eyes, touched the bottom right-quarter of the circle, and let the magic of the circle's reaction flow into and through him; when he opened his eyes again, he could see the ghostly image of the warrior - with their arm untouched - hovering slightly in front of it.

Third, mana drain to tap target and clear interference.A jet of green aetheric energy flowed from Saren's hands into the hologram's chest, and Saren tugged gently at the magic current, feeling it wash away from the hard-light human.

Regeneration theurgy is above eighty percent power output. Wards are stable. Reach far, far back - beyond the aetheric reservoir - and spike into the Source.Saren pushed his magic flow out of his channels, 'up' into the reservoir he thought of as sitting above his head, and launched it as hard as he could - he felt solid resistance as his 'dam' made way for the new channel, then frost as the channel pushed through the icy flood of the aetheric reservoir - and then an almost overwhelming wave of power that stopped as fast as it started. Jackpot.

Saren breathed in.

Source channel clear. Noetic pattern recognized. Lower the soul matrix onto the body.

Breathed out, as the ghostly image descended upon the warrior.

You are not healing the warrior,Saren all but chanted in his mind. You are not healing the warrior. The warrior is already healed. His soul remembers. He is whole. You are simply returning things to their natural state. I believe. I believe he is already healed. I believe he is already-

the warrior's theurgic overlay flickered, soft, twinkling pules of verdant theurgic power struggling against forces unseen-

The warrior is already healed! I believe it! I know it to be true. He is not wounded. He is NOT wounded!

-the arm shimmered as it restored itself to its unbroken state, and Saren did his best to know the burns and cuts were not there; after nearly three minutes of focus, Saren cut the connection, exhausted - leaving several small, if not necessarily dangerous, cuts on the arm, and a small patch of scar tissue from a healed burn near the projection's wrist.

"That's it," Saren panted. "That's all I've got."

"Very well, very well. Take a moment to rest, then, Spectre; we will begin the sorcery portion of the test whenever you are ready," the woman replied, her tone gentle. The projections disappeared, and Saren took a few moments to catch his breath before sucking in several calming lungfuls of air.

"Alright, I'm ready to proceed."

The entire training hall flickered, and now the platform where Saren stood was surrounded by a dozen red-tinted hard-light imps, suspended at eye-level with snarling jaws and hateful glares frozen in time.

"Six targets, you will eliminate with lightning. Six more, you will eliminate with fire. You may begin at your leisure."

Saren thought for a moment, then readied himself. Raising both hands, he took aim at the nearest imp target with his left, imagining his muscles guiding his hand to the next five targets in turn; his right hand he clenched into a fist. For a moment he felt for the flickers of instruction he'd committed to heart and let hour upon hour of study flash through his mind.

Abbess Shepard, aboard the Citadel. Lightning comes first - it is nothing more than opening, then sustaining a controlled breach into the aether. Fireballs come next - gathering, and releasing a charged mass of aether.

Warmage Toshiwa, pacing before his lectern. You are a chirurgeon, not a blacksmith. You wield a scalpel, not a hammer. Conduct the aether to your hands; feel the water pool in your palms, its waves lap against your fingers. Your breaching of the aether is a delicate thing; too little, and you will only launch an anemic spray of aetheric power - as lethal as a handful of water thrown at a raging fire. Too much, and your controlled breach may soon become a raging flood - lethal, yes, but as much to yourself and your comrades as to the enemy.

And, of course, Kabalim Malius - the man who'd mentored Saren the second he'd finished basic training, and the very same man who, even after leaving the Cabal and entering the Blackwatch, Saren had never been able to best in a straight-up biotic duel. Your biotics burn calories. Your element zero nodes require electrical input to function. Your amplifier requires both. Either way, your intellect only matters insomuch as you are capable of creatively deploying what you can wield. Everything else? The foundations? That's just willpower and energy reserves. Energy, you can get by eating. So that leaves willpower. Fuel your body. Steel your mind. It's that simple. A concussed vorcha could be trained to do it.

Saren tore open the aetheric reservoir his mental dam was holding back, not pulling, but forcing, twisting it through his magic channels. With his left hand he imagined a set of window shutters clacking open and closed, over and over, letting only staccatos of bending light through the blinds; with his right, he imagined his closed fist punching through an emergency fabcrete wall in the side of a space station with the force of a biotic punch, letting the vacuum of space suck his hand into the breach and holding it there.

Dimly, he was aware that someone was calling his name.

It didn't matter.

A hiss escaped from between his clenched teeth as a glacial spike of raw, furious pain tore through his body for a moment-

-Saren waved his left hand in a wide arc, six blood-red daggers of flame homing into their respective imps-

-Saren unclenched his right hand and spread his talons, a six-pronged blast of black-red lightning screeching into six targets-

-and just so, the pain passed, and Saren's consciousness snapped back into normal operation. He stood, panting slightly, a feral, toothy grin on his face as he surveyed his handiwork - all twelve targets were now green.

The pause, this time, was uncomfortably long; Saren focused on breathing, and did his best to not dwell on how nearly a minute and a half passed as the shadowed figures in the observation deck conferred amongst themselves.

The next voice that came was a man's voice, with an accent his translatory matrix placed as being slightly lilted, as though he'd hailed from one of the colonies in the Canian cluster of farm-worlds. "Spectre Arterius," the man said slowly, "in your time in the Exalted Exitium, you have had no interaction with magically-inclined instructors besides those we have provided to you. This is correct?"

"It is," Saren replied, frowning slightly.

"And," the man continued, "you maintain your position expressed upon your initial meeting with Lord Admiral Grissom and Abbess Shepard - namely, that you were unaware of magic's very existence before then?"

"I would hope," Saren said slowly, keeping his tone on the dangerous side of neutral, "that you are not accusing me of cheating."

"Cheating? No. There is no way to cheat magic. This body of examiners simply finds great surprise in your ability, given the limited time you have received magical instruction. Are you aware of the spells you have just cast?"

"Vilefire," Saren explained matter-of-factly, "a third-tier flame-aspected sorcery spell. Ideally deployed when facing a small number of medium to low threat targets, thanks to the spell's capability of limited tracking without continuous concentration; no more than twelve bolts should be cast at once, in order to maintain the effectiveness of the tracking matrix. And levinhail, a second-tier lightning-aspected sorcery spell. A short-charging spell, ideally deployed as an initiating attack against a small number of medium threat targets, employed where chain lightning might not disable foes quickly enough due to the associated travel time; no more than eight 'lances' should be projected, for fear of spreading its power too thinly. "

"And when, Spectre Arterius, did you happen to learn these spells? Certainly they were not taught to you; the standard curriculum you have followed, as laid out by Warmage Toshiwa, expects competency in foundational war-sorcery after a period of six to eight months," the man said, tone nearly incredulous. "We were strongly aware of the possibility of your surpassing this goal, given your history as a warrior of some import, and so were not opposed to your taking this examination - indeed, we had hoped, given your evident progress in classes, that you would be ready to accelerate your learning." The man paused, and his tone was a mixture of awe and confusion. "This, however, speaks to a level of skill far beyond our expectations."

"The Introspections and Ruminations on the Foundations of Basic Sorcery? Honoured invigilators," Saren said, somehow managing to keep the mocking tone out of his voice, but only barely, "I worked ahead on my own, and completed that lesson package in three days. For the past month, I have spent most of my free time in self-study - currently I am about halfway through the first-tier material, and have dabbled in select spells up to the fifth tier of difficulty with varying degrees of success."

"No indication of this was made to Warmage Toshiwa," the man answered, confused.

"Those lessons - I appreciate them. And I mean no disrespect to Warmage Toshiwa when I say this - but you have grouped me almost entirely with teenagers who, with one or two exceptions, have not spent half their lives in combat," Saren grumbled. "His lessons have been helpful in reinforcing my fundamentals and allowing me to better understand the philosophy behind your combat magic and picking up tricks and tips I would not have come to understand on my own. Otherwise, most of what he teaches is just lecturing, and the two supervised training sessions we've had provided no room for showcasing independent study."

"Sorcery may have a reputation as the simplest form of magic to wield," the woman from before interjected, "but that by no means indicates that it is perfectly safe. Spectre Arterius, improper use of sorcery can explosively remove limbs, poach the water within your body until you burst, or inflict any other number of horrific injuries. This, too, does not even begin to describe the matter of numbers - we are not forging the front-line soldiers whose numbers compose the wall that the Church of the Slayer builds, or training the mages who will toil under the Church of the Seraph. We are the Inquisition, Saren - precious few of our young ones showcase talent for Inquisitorial work. We cannot afford to lose them, not now, when they are so untested and untrained."

The words had escaped Saren's mouth before he could even stop himself. "Okay, I've heard enough. Look. I get it. I understand that I am ignorant. I understand that, given the scale of the war you have fought, for how long you've fought it, that I am a weak, powerless insect. I understand - I really do - that magic is not something I've been surrounded by since birth. But perhaps you've mistaken me for one of the countless administrative members of the Exitium Expeditionary Group - or the civilians tagging alongside them - that are here to study history, cook food, write stories about your culture, or unclog toilets."

"We meant no offense," the man said, his tone placating.

"That's the worst part," Saren seethed. "I don't know magic. I didn't have magic runes inscribed on my bones before coming here. I wasn't born ready to fight the spawn of Hell. The scale of your city - your planet is unlike anything I've seen. The nightmare your civilization faces every day terrifies me, because I know my own peoples are in no way, shape, or form ready to handle anything like it. Your eternal war is something I want nothing to do with, even if I understand that I don't have a choice. But make no mistake - I am a warrior, and I have been tested and trained like few others in Citadel Space. I swore the Oath of Duty to the Turian Armed Forces three years before I was legally allowed to. I wa - ah, may or may not have been operating in the Blackwatch - what might as well be the turian equivalent to your Inquisitorial forces - around the time most soldiers finish basic training. I have killed and I have bled for my people - both the turians I grew up around and the many species that call Citadel Space home. So call me what you'd like - but do not think I am some untrained juvenile holding his first rifle." He paused, doing his best to tamp down on the outpouring frustration and rage pooling deep in his stomach, and glared up at the observation deck. "And - might I just add - I might be one of the Council's elite, but it's just as true that the lowest, greenest, most untrained recruits for your military that hail from Citadel space has chosen, own their own volition, to come here and probably die on an alien battlefield, far from anything resembling home just on the miniscule chance that they might survive and come home to teach the rest of our people. Perhaps you could find it in your hearts to avoid looking down on us."

In the heavy, thick silence that followed, Saren felt, for a moment, as though he might regret his words - and yet, no matter how much he tried, he could not bring himself to find fault for his words.

Two minutes passed.

"You have given this body much to consider," the woman replied at last, her voice somber and unusually apologetic. "Your examination is complete, Spectre Arterius. Please - we - yes. Yes. We will have our results for you as soon as possible, and you are free to conduct yourself as you see fit until then. Your performance was exemplary, and we are...grateful, for sharing your thoughts - your honest thoughts - with us."

"It was the least I could do for you," Saren muttered as he stormed out of the training hall.

He returned to his quarters in furious contemplation, ignoring the looks of worry and concern on all those he passed; once back within the stone walls of his temporary home, he flung open the curtains in the living room area, and stared out onto the cityscape below. From so high a stack, far above the endless depths of Indomitable, the infinite sprawl of the city stared back at him, ant-like swarms of aircars and citizenry going about their business.

He stood there for a long time, lost in an empty sense of anger, before finally settling down at his desk to begin penning yet another one of his reports to the Council.

Later that evening, Saren's report-writing was interrupted by the chiming of his door alarm; he palmed the dome-like holo-projector at the centre of his desk, and blinked in confusion. Benyamin was there, clad as always in his thick black coat, but standing next to him was an older pale, slightly yellow-skinned woman whose rounded features and thinner eyes were unknown to him; she was clad in a set of white-grey robes bearing the Church of the Seraph's six-winged insignia across her chest.

"Enter," he said, shutting down his data-slate and turning to face the door.

The woman entered, her greying ponytail bobbing slightly as she limped in - though what injury caused this, Saren was unsure of, as her long robes obscured her legs. Ben poked his head through the doorway, gave a jaunty salute and grinned. "Ah, Matriarch Ryder here wishes to speak with you alone for a moment, so do not mind me. We will speak in a moment!"

"Matriarch," the woman scoffed, turning back to roll her eyes at the Inquisitor. "Is it too much to ask that you call me by name? Must we stand on formality, even now, after all these years?"

"I do not know," Ben replied with a lopsided smirk. "I have been informed on multiple occasions that it is my lack of formality which besmirches my otherwise spotless career, so, ah, let it not be said that when introducing persons as exalted as yourself that I have failed in my duties as a host most gracious."

The woman sighed and rubbed at her forehead. "Benyamin, it was once my duty to regularly change your soiled diapers."

Ben nodded sagely. "You are a woman of great grace indeed, to spare my young self the shame of having to conduct my daily business with such an undignified burden. An act for which I am most grateful, milady." The woman simply glared at the Inquisitor; he, in turn, chuckled to himself. "Yes, yes, Auntie. I will be a good little Inquisitor and stand outside without bothering passers-by, and certainly I will not do anything so crass as attempting to listen in to your most private conversation."

"Your father," Matriarch Ryder muttered, "may his spirit find rest, would no doubt be ashamed that despite your many years of glorious service, nobody has yet managed to dull that tongue of yours."

"Father had the intellectual - and comic - sensibilities of a piece of concrete," Ben retorted. "He would not have known humour if it had crawled down his throat and played a symphony in his gut."

The woman jabbed a finger at the hallway. "I - excuse - just go! Out! Leave us, you foul-mouthed upstart."

The Inquisitor feigned another salute. "Yes, Auntie! At once!" He waved again at Saren, winked, then disappeared as the room's door slid closed.

"I must apologize for the actions of my nephew," the woman grumbled, turning to face Saren as he, in turn, got to his feet. "I do hope that he has, in training you in the way of the Inquisitor, carried himself with at least slightly more dignity than can be usually expected of him."

"He has. Slightly." Saren shook the woman's hand - both were covered with soft, grey gloves - and looked at her contemplatively. "Your voice is familiar. Are you the lady with whom I, ah, interacted during my exam?"

The woman blinked several times, a small smile spreading across her face. "Yes, I am. Matriarch Eileen Ryder, of the Church of the Seraph."

Saren gestured to one of the armchairs in the nearby seating area of the chambers; Eileen limped slowly over to one of the chairs and gingerly lowered herself into it. Saren sat across from her, and raised a hand before she could speak.

"I'm glad that you're here, Matriarch. I, ah, wanted to apologize for my conduct earlier," Saren said, shaking his head. "It was improper. I let my own feelings get the better of myself, and in the moment I...insulted you and your colleagues. I just wanted to make amends before we speak any further, and I hope you can forgive me."

"You are not forgiven," Eileen replied, her tone soft, "because you have nothing to apologize for. I did not hear you, Lord Arterius, but rather the voice of your fears. Your anguish. Your rage. Your weakness."

Saren stared at the old woman, frowning. "I didn't say that I was speaking from a place of weakness - and, even so, that doesn't excuse my conduct."

Eileen shrugged. "It was plain to me. I am, as much as it pains me to admit it, not exactly the young warmage I was once; I have raised many, and seen much in my lifetime. Perhaps I do not have the same background you do - I do not have the same culture - but - ah. Let me use an example. Are you aware of our basic military training, Lord Arterius?"

"I'm not - at least not in any detail," Saren answered slowly. "I know you have some commonalities with what I'm familiar with - drill instructors, simulated combat training, and the like."

"Correct. When I was a young woman, I did my time in basic training; warmages from the Church of the Seraph train in tandem with the countless, more mundane soldiers in the Church of the Slayer, at least in the beginning. And, indeed, we do have drill instructors, and we do have simulated combat training; we endure hardships meant to break down the civilians and mold them into warriors." She paused, staring out the window of Saren's quarters with a wistful smile. "Have you been made aware of the so-called 'Month of Tribulation,' Lord Arterius?"

Saren cocked his head. "I haven't."

"Not long after processing - mere hours after one is assigned to their barracks, puts on their uniform, and so forth - every new soldier in a group one-hundred strong is brought to a simulator room, spatially compressed to simulate an entire city, encompassing around a thousand square kilometres," Eileen explained. "For the next thirty days, the instructors send wave after wave of simulated demons and heretics at you. There is no explanation. No guidance. Food and water are carefully placed by the simulation's directors so that there is enough - barely - to survive. The weaponry scattered about the simulated city is that which would be found in emergency caches; the armour available is of the same quality, save for a few sets of powered armour which come without instructions. Trainees who fall in simulated battle are rendered unconscious, placed elsewhere in the simulation, and made to continue."

"That almost - almost - seems excessive," Saren muttered.

"It is not. I am of the belief, in fact, that if logistics were not a factor, the 'Month of Tribulation' should be at least doubled in length," Eileen noted flatly. "It is necessary. The simulation directors go out of their way to present overwhelming, exhausting, and frankly unfair odds, as a sizable number of recruits will already have faced - and perhaps even slain! - demons before. For those who have - perhaps even in similar circumstances as those presented in the simulation - it is a chance to confront their own nightmares once again. For those who have not been bloodied, it is the simulation's purpose to utterly shatter them. To show them that, no matter what they have been taught, their preconceived notions of combat against the tides of Hell are utterly insufficient. That no matter how much they have prepared, it is not enough."

Saren recalled his own time, in both basic and special forces training, and nodded slowly. "We don't treat our newest recruits like that, not immediately, but it's...not entirely dissimilar to what I and many other more experienced soldiers from Citadel Space have experienced."

"That we share commonalities is good to hear. And afterwards?"

"Training continues. The civilian is broken and the soldier is constructed."

"Mmmm. So it is with us as well." The Matriarch looked back at Saren, and her expression was some alien mixture of icy-cold determination and warm, almost motherly reassurance. "Do you have an oath? A ritual induction, a speech, that is presented to you when your people are made warriors?"

Saren nodded, the memories as fresh as the day he'd taken the Oath to Duty. "I am a soldier of the Turian Armed Forces. I present myself here today with my comrades at the bidding of the Turian Hierarchy, and I leave here today by its grace. I swear upon my name that I will defend the Turian Hierarchy with my life; I swear upon my honour that I will serve my comrades as they shall serve me. I will die for this, the most noble of causes; I shall not abandon those who fight at my side nor those who I am sworn to protect. Before the Spirits, may this binding contract engrave itself upon my soul."

Eileen nodded, and replied with an oath of her own. "I am a warrior of the Exalted Exitium. Today, I am dead. My life is forfeit and I am transubstantiated; my flesh is aegis and my bone is blade, wielded in His name and held in His honour. I will kill in His name. I shall be smelted in the forge of hate and sharpened on the stone of suffering. I am but one of the armoury, a tool to be used to destroy the unholy and the hell-borne; when I am shattered and blunt, I shall be cast aside, crushed beneath the feet of my comrades. When my body is no more, I shall be formed into the stairs on which my children shall climb until, on the blessed day of glory, we reach the holy summit where we are free of the War Eternal. There is no end. There is no quarter. Blessed is the Doom Slayer's name and holy is His One Command! I shall rip! I shall tear! Until it is done!"

There was silence, for a while.

"I have been...struggling," Saren said at last, "with the contradictions inherent to your culture. You preach of hope, of determination, of struggle against the impossible. And yet at the same time, at least on an individual level, you've all embraced a, ah, fatalism, a bleakness that seems all-pervasive. That everyone - not just the elite warriors like myself - has just accepted that death, a painful death, in the face of a nightmare that may very well never end is the only outcome you can look forward to." He paused, and shut his eyes. "Maybe even the only outcome anyone, for countless generations to come, can look forward to."

Eileen shook her head sadly. "You are not incorrect, Lord Arterius. We do not fight demons. Demons live, in a sense. We can let their blood, and fling their souls into the endless swirl of the Aether. But we fight Hell itself, not just demons; we fight the very concept of evil, against an unending eternity of our nightmares made manifest. The War Eternal is not named so as an exaggeration. And so it is that I believe we have failed you - and likely many others from Citadel Space. We have broken you all down; I can imagine myself as a young woman again, starving, feeling as though I was on the verge of death, after an entire month of horror. I went into the simulated city arrogant and proud - I had mastered magic almost as well as you have now thanks to a youth spent ignoring everything besides my studies, and I believed that with proper military instruction I would be unstoppable. Instead, as the instructors carried my nearly-lifeless body from the room, all I could think about was how...insufficient I was. How it was my only fate to be thrown into the endless churn of the War Eternal, merely one more brick laid in the wall of the Exitium. I do not understand your culture, not nearly as well as I should, but I find myself imagining you are, spiritually, in a similar place."

"I don't care if I die," Saren admitted. "Spectres don't usually retire. We don't have the luxury. We either die in action, or, if we're unlucky, sustain injuries that prevent us from continuing to do our jobs. I accepted, long ago, that I wasn't going to make it past twenty-five; every year since then has just been a bonus. But - but - I…" He trailed off, glaring out the window as he felt that seething ball of empty rage broil in his stomach again.

"The people," Eileen said, her voice a gentle murmur. "The ones you swore to protect."

"I'm one man," Saren growled. "And I am an arrogant man, I admit. But not arrogant enough to understand if - or how - I am supposed to protect the people of Citadel Space against this, this endless, unending tide of literal hellspawn. Spirits, we're not even at war, and yet my job consists - consisted - almost entirely of making sure we don't all kill each other."

"The Exalted Exitium has not existed since the beginning of time, Lord Arterius. Our histories - corrupted by the passages of time, yes, but I do like to think they are at least somewhat accurate - tell us that the ancient humans of Earth were certainly nowhere near as organized, well-equipped or unified as we are today, and they survived," Eileen pointed out. "I should think that your peoples would have done the same even if we did not exist, and we do."

"I'm having a hard time accepting that."

Another silence.

"I understand the problem, I think," Matriarch Ryder said with great feeling. "We have broken you down - not some fresh-faced young man, but a veteran of many years. But when I finished my Month of Tribulation, I was not simply tossed into the deep end of training; we recruits were moulded, reshaped, and built back up again. We have afforded you no such chance."

"Spare me your pity," Saren growled. "I am not some inv-"

"-it is not pity," Eileen interjected with a wave of her hand. "It is the truth. You remind me of Patriarch Harper, from when I met him long ago. I am not terribly close to him, but I do recall a much younger Inquisitor who lashed out at the world around him, for a time."

Saren focused on breathing for several moments, calming his mind, and he rubbed at his fringe. "Apologies. You...you're right. I knew, on some level, going into all this, that I wouldn't be...at the top of the pecking order any longer, so to speak. That the War Eternal was beyond sanity. It's just one thing to know, and another to know, if you catch my meaning."

"I do. I do understand, Lord Arterius," Eileen said, gently laying her wrinkled hands upon his own. "So it is that I must, too, apologize. We - I - have not treated you fairly. We have taken your hope, and replaced it with nothing. We have assumed your competence in things with which you have no experience, and yet at the same time coddled you for fear of failure - our own, and yours. I hope that, moving forward, you will find our treatment of you - and your peoples elsewhere in the Exitium, I imagine - will be...better. More cognizant of your unique background."

"That's all I can ask for," Saren replied, sighing. "And I didn't mean to insinuate that the instructions laid out by Warmage Toshiwa were lacking; biotics might not be the same as magic, but throwing around warped fields of mass-modified space-time isn't exactly safe either."

"I am sure it is not - a demonstration, I think, will be in order at some point in the near future," Eileen answered eagerly before her tone shifted into something sombre. "But I would ask that you...reconsider the degree to which you have been working ahead without at least consulting someone of rank. Let us arrive at the true reason for my visit."

The old woman stood up with evident effort, and lifted her left leg onto the armchair she'd been sitting on; she raised her robes, exposing her legs-

-and Saren did his best not to shout in terror.

One of her legs - the good one - was as normal as could be.

The other - the one she'd been limping on - was not the same shade of pale yellow as her skin, but rather, a sickly, rotting palette of blackish-red and purple; unnatural, ethereal tendrils of infinite black-on-black twisted and pulsed as they wove through her skin.

Something in the deep, primal part of Saren's mind flared with a torrential downpour of despair and disgust.

Kill her - kill that thing - NOW, it roared. You're going to die if you don't kill her RIGHT NOW.

With every ounce of willpower he could muster Saren did not reach for the sidearm he wasn't carrying; he did not leap backwards and try to rip the old woman apart with all the biotic force he could bring to muster.

He sat, breathing, just breathing.

"Excellent," Eileen said with an approving nod; Saren breathed an audible sigh of relief as she sat back down, shielding him from the horror which hid beneath her clothes. "Your instincts are well-sharpened, to recognize on some level that what I have shown you is not proper. And your temperance is iron, for not acting upon the demands of your subconscious understanding of the situation."

"What. Is. That." Saren pointed a shaking hand at her legs. "What in the hells is that?"

"Allow me to regale you with a tale, Lord Arterius," Matriarch Ryder intoned with a sad smile. "Many years ago, a young woman who fancied herself above her peers in the fields of magic found herself trapped in study with comrades who were...not capable of learning as fast as she was. She brought these concerns to her tutors, who, in turn, accelerated her learning. But even that was insufficient! So ravenous was her hunger, her need, to become more, to master more, that she delved deep into the endless texts the Exalted Exitium keeps, and indeed for many years she spat in the face of her superiors. Why would she not? Indeed, they warned her time and time again that such arrogance would be her downfall - that at the rate she was going, it would be hubris, not the demon, which would unravel her very being."

Eileen closed her eyes for nearly a minute, saying nothing.

"The hybrid sorcery-theurgy I attempted to cast - a spell which would have increased my magic channel capacity and output by an exponential factor of hundreds, if not thousands - succeeded in spectacular fashion," she said at last. "I do not recall much besides pain, but I am told that I very nearly managed to kill several of my teachers in some sort of madness; in the end, the corruption which infused my body with unimaginable power was simply too much, and those charged with my instruction were spared the fate of having to injure me to contain my rampage. That aetheric cancer which you saw spread to the rest of my body in a matter of minutes; it would take nearly a decade of rehabilitation, training, medication and theurgic healing to repair my own soul matrices into anything that might resemble a functional state."

"And this, this...affliction," Saren nearly whispered. "It's still there?"

"I could remove it," Eileen answered with a sad smile. "It would be trivial, knowing what I do now, all these years later. But I choose not to. It is a reminder of what arrogance can do to a person. It is a lesson, made manifest, for my students - that magic is as dangerous as any demon."

Saren shook his head slowly, unable to stop the gesture or the words that came next. "Does it hurt?"

"Very much so. But I am alive, I can carry out my duties, and in the end that is all that He asks of us." Eileen then held out her right hand and twisted her fingers through a complex series of signs; a small golden light pooled around her hand, and with a small pop a sheaf of parchment winked into existence, floating gently onto the table which they sat before. "Here. Your exam results - as well as a graduation gift from me."

Saren took the papers and scanned its introduction.

Aetheric Transubstantiation, Tier Zero
School: Sorcery / Theurgy Hybrid
Subclass: Offensive Ritual
Duration: Infinite
Target Type: Self-Afflicting, Viral

"There are several pages, but truth be told the ritual itself is more a matter of time than it is complexity. In addition, you might be surprised to know that the ingredients to begin the ritual are very simple to source," Eileen explained with a shrug of her shoulders. "I am sure that you could find them, and requisition them, without raising any alarm whatsoever."

"Why? Why would you give me this?" Saren shook the papers slightly - because he was upset, or because his hands would not stop shaking, he could not tell.

"I am making a point, Lord Arterius." Eileen's gaze bored into Saren's own, and he could see something dark in her eyes. "I have not known you for long, but with...a handful of exceptions, my instincts have served me well, and they tell me you are a wise man." She paused, and her tone brightened. "In any case, you did pass your exam with flying colours, save for some difficulty with the theurgic healing. To be honest, I have never seen someone struggle with it - rest assured that in the coming days, in addition to a more personalized form of instruction we will investigate the source of this issue."

"I appreciate it," was all Saren could manage.

"That is very good to hear!" Eileen yawned and stretched before slowly getting to her feet again. "I am glad that we have had the chance to speak in person, Lord Arterius. I am a woman with little free time these days, but if you would wish to speak with me again do not hesitate to send a message through the proper channels - I assure you, I will do my best to make time."

Saren mumbled something polite in reply and sank back into his chair as Eileen limped out of the room; he shut his eyes, sighed, and when he opened the again he looked longingly at the bottles of brandy in the room's small kitchenette.

"I need a Spirits-damned drink," he grumbled.

"That is good to hear, my friend," Benyamin laughed as he came sauntering into the room with his arms stretched; Saren nearly jumped in surprise from being roused from his reverie. "I was thinking just the same thing!"

"Oh, right. You were waiting outside," Saren muttered. "Have a seat? I can fetch us some gl-"

"-no, no, no, Saren, none of that," Ben interjected, rolling his eyes. "What are we, a party of depressed geriatrics? We, no, you, have all of Indomitable at your selection and you would waste away in your room, drowning your sorrows? Shall I dim the lights, and play a funeral dirge while I am at it?"

"Knowing you people," Saren grumbled, "funeral music would probably be quite loud and not at all suited to letting one find solace in some fine drink."

"Ah, ah, ah, I will have you know that it is a matter of choice, and I would like the funerary occasions held when I am slain to be less melancholy wailing, and more...party, perhaps!" Ben slapped Saren on the back. "Up with you, then."

Saren, for a moment, considered waving the man off; he looked out the window for a long moment, then sighed. "I suppose I could spare an evening."

"Spare an evening?" Ben circled around to look Saren in the eyes. "I know we have only seen each other for lessons - kind of a misnomer, really, considering I have learned as much from you as the other way around - but not once have you mentioned that you have been busy in the evenings. Or, at least, so busy that you - no. You do not mean to tell me that you have not explored the city at all?"

"I have not," Saren admitted. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Ben replied with a tone that suggested quite the opposite. "Off your arse! Let us spend an evening to celebrate the passing of your examination. And, if it would wound you to, ah, waste time on such frivolities, perhaps it would ease your mind to know that I do intend to, as you say, 'talk shop' for at least a short while. I simply do not see why we could not do so in a more inviting setting."

"I - fine. Maybe a change of pace would help clear my head a little," Saren said quietly as he got to his feet. "But if you could pick somewhere a little...quieter, I'd appreciate that."

"Oh, worry not," the Inquisitor laughed as the two began leaving the Inquisitorial Hall. "I am aware of your character. You, like Patriarch Harper, are above such mortal pleasures as a raucous evening spent at an ale-hall, followed by a friendly bout of fisticuffs with your drinking partners and concluded with a handful of sobriety gels and enough street food to bleed one's wallet dry." He waved a hand at Saren. "I understand! I understand. Too much fun for your constitution."

"I don't know," Saren rumbled. "Sometimes I like to finish my evening with my hearing intact."

"Boring," Ben sighed theatrically as they made their way out of the dormitory wing of the building and down towards the foyer, "but I suppose, just this once, I shall compromise. Let us be away, and I will bring you to the very same establishment where, once, it is said, the Patriarch of the Inquisition spent his younger years scowling at his beverages, smoking enough rokok to fuel the entire industry and generally being a miserable, taciturn wretch."

"That'd suit me just fine," Saren said with a sigh. "Just fine."