Chapter 61: Ephemeris

"Who was the man from yesterday?" Roran asked. "And the woman? And the-"

Cre'aet came at him with fists the size of anvils. Roran ducked down and backpedaled, trying to keep some distance between him and the giant.

"Merida-X8," Ozmoc reported. "A human specimen possessing heightened bodily resilience and elevated physical strength, coupled with immense paracausal influence and in-depth knowledge of Imperial formations. He attacked our garrison stationed within the seized human city natively known as Ceunon."

Roran gasped as one of the giant's hands cracked across his shield, knocking him off his feet. Cre'aet looked down at him with dark piggish eyes, narrowed critically. Roran got up as quickly as his body allowed, tugging up his heavy shield with him. A rough palm fell on his shoulder.

"Better," Cre'aet murmured, "but far from satisfactory."

The hand lifted. He could breathe easily again. "I can't match you."

"No." Cre'aet could have been smiling, but Roran wouldn't have been able to tell. The Uluru people always looked like they were in the midst of grimacing. "You are no Merida-X8. But you got back up. Why?"

Roran exhaled shakily.

"Her," Ozmoc answered for him. "He fights for her."

Cre'aet grunted. "He fights for the right to sire?"

"No." The Psion chuckled hollowly. Ozmoc's kind always had empty voices. "Human courtship rituals are more complicated than that. He fights for the right to have her as a life companion."

Roran grimaced himself and cleared his throat. "What else is there for me to do?"

Cre'aet knelt down. Even on his knees he towered over Roran. He reached for a pocket within his cuirass and procured a small blue-and-gold bell. He offered it. Roran took it. "You know how to work metal, human?"

"I do not," Roran said, "but I can learn."

"Then you will learn to inscribe symbols into steel. In my language we call it scal'sangus. Blood-etching. You have shed blood to become this... Stronghammer to your people, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then you will inscribe the workman's hammer into your bell. You have two days to do this. We will show you how. I will gather my tools and canvas. Remain here." Cre'aet stood up and marched off. Roran glanced about the field in which they practiced; a handful of villagers from Carvahall were watching by the fences, most of them young. A Psion emissary from Invoctol's personal staff was talking with Baldor nearby.

"Merida-X8 killed hundreds," Ozmoc murmured. Roran's head snapped around.

"How is that possible?"

"Unknown. Some of our more superstitious Legionaries, peasant conscripts not unlike your kin here, have taken to honouring his name with offerings formed of spare food and scrap-forged medallions. They see him as a vengeful warrior-spirit, punishing us for our overconfidence - one that can be warded off with reverence and acknowledgement. And it is not they alone; the Eliksni outcasts celebrate him across open communications like a living trophy. They claim he is a messenger and prophet sent unto them by their lost god. They adore him."

"I... don't follow," Roran admitted.

"Is there divinity in power? Or is it just sway?" Ozmoc looked up into the sky. "You have never known of this fellow human before, correct? What do you think of him, having heard of his deeds?"

Roran frowned. "I don't know? Are... are you angry?"

"Why would I be angry?"

"You say he attacked and killed your comrades in great numbers."

Ozmoc stared at him expressionlessly. "We are soldiers. We are Cabal. Being set upon by those who object to our rule is nothing new."

"If he objects... then why was he here? Why did he meet with the Primus?"

"I am not at liberty to say." Ozmoc paused. "Recite for me the Legionary's code of conduct."

Roran wracked his mind. The words came to him easily; the issue was in what order they were to be said. "Honour thine Primus, honour thine bond-brother, honour thine Emperor, and honour thine family."

Ozmoc blinked. "And which of those do you truly honour?"

"... A Primus." Roran closed his eyes, fingernails digging into his palms. "And Katrina."

Ozmoc said nothing. Neither of them did. Not until Cre'aet returned, and then only in response to the Uluru's impending lesson.

000

Kiphoris was there, ever-gracious, and took her hand as she descended down the Skiff's ramp with soft consideration.

"Velask, Zeshus," he greeted with outer eyes closed.

Formora brought her fingers to her lips. "Vel, Kiphoris-Veskirisk. You are cheery."

"It is a Kepler-morning," Kiphoris explained. "Your people have not yet crushed my spirit. That comes later."

Formora grimaced. "I know they can be-"

"Nama, it is not your fault." He chuckled with a crackling rasp. "Mine-people and yours are different. Diplomacy was always fated to be difficult. But I have achieved the most important thing, courtesy of noble Oromis: we are to learn magic. A handful of mine-kin have already been found to possess an innate gift for it."

"Who teaches them?"

"Lord Bellaen."

Formora nodded slowly. "I believe I know him. An honourable, fair man."

"So he is. I find him agreeable."

"That is good to hear."

"Lady Láerdhon!" Lifaen walked before them, offering her a respectful bow. "Atra esterní ono thelduin."

"Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr," she replied warmly. "Cousin. I hope all is well?"

"I should hope so." He nodded politely, his smile honest but worried. "I... trust the same for you?"

"To some degree." She tilted her head. "Is your concern for Narí?"

Lifeaen nodded again, but with open relief. "Yes! Is he...?"

"He is alive and unharmed, last I saw, and I doubt that will change. Ikharos will watch over him. He is in good hands."

"Thank you. This is a relief to hear."

Kiphoris rumbled, "I will take my leave. Formora, we will speak again soon, yes?"

"We will," Formora promised.

Home - was it even that? - was just as she left it: orderly, cozy, and uncomfortable. Violmedr met her by the door and led her inside, their arms interlaced. The hearth was lit and platters of rich foods laid out. Nireith ran to her, little legs kicking through the air, and pounced at her leg. He nibbled at her boots, jaws yapping away. Formora lifted him up and scratched his scaled belly.

"I bid you welcome," Violmedr told her, "and I offer you all the comforts of our estate once more." She paused and her smile shrank. "There is much we must discuss. I feel we haven't properly come to an understanding of one another."

Formora smiled sweetly, said she looked forward to it, put Nireith down, and excused herself to wash and change out of her travel/battle garb. A hot bath had been drawn and she eagerly took to it, sighing as the rigours and dust of days - weeks even - in the harsh wilderness of the Spine disappeared.

And yet, her anxiety towards all things home did not fade in the slightest.

She thought, deeply, about everything she could. Everything at the forefront of her mind. The water cooled; she distractedly muttered a spell to keep it at the temperature it was. The Eliksni had magic: that was good. The Cabal were, begrudgingly, seeking a temporary armistice: that was also good. The Harmony were finally taking overt action, first against the Hive and then towards the Cabal: that was decidedly not good.

She still took some solace in that the three towering monsters in the Spine had died. They had deserved it. All they had done to her people, all the peoples of the world, all they had done to her - it deserved retribution, bloody and fierce. Formora only wished she had been the one to drive her sword into their hearts, but... watching was almost as good. Particularly when knowing that the one to enact the deeds was just as adamant as she to seeing them laid dead.

Formora caught herself, strangling the line of thinking before it descended into ever darker depths. She froze, aghast not by what had been done but how she felt. Joy. Genuine, exhilarating joy. She was first ashamed - and then angry once more, and bitter, and satisfied again. It was a vicious cycle of regret and hate - and she couldn't focus on it. Formora took the emotions, bundled them up, and locked them away with all the other scars she'd accumulated over her years of loose imprisonment. Repressing sensations was not a healthy habit to fall into, an old mentor had once told her - but that mentor had never known the truth of the world like she did.

Neither did Violmedr, or Islanzadí, or anyone in Du Weldenvarden - aside from those the universe begot elsewhere, in the light of distant stars. For that sudden thought Formora allowed herself to relax; the matters that vied for her attention could wait. There were other people ready and willing to see to them. Her participation would come soon - but soon was for later. For now, for a little while, she could simply be. Guilt nagged at her, though what was one evening? It wasn't as if Violmedr would let her go. The Lady Rílvenar had to put the foot down, after all. Authority had to be exerted.

With that in mind, Formora didn't feel in any hurry to leave her room.

Supper was splendid. The food provided was far superior to all she'd sampled during her trek west - though she was curious to see how Ikharos would have fared in a stocked kitchen rather than sparse wilderness. His cooking had been more than adequate, given their conditions, and he had brought strangely enticing recipes ferried over from his Sol system. That was something to keep in mind for... when? Formora promised that she would find a way to fit him into a normal household and get him to put together a proper meal, without physical exhaustion or even the threat of worldly destruction hanging over them. One day.

She smiled to herself and hid it behind a sip of wine. She couldn't believe her own audacity. Had she really...? Yes, she had, hadn't she? She'd been the one to take the next step - because he was too nervous, too shy, too uncharacteristically clueless. It had been a different sort of exhilaration, one she had exulted in. The experience had been short though sweet, one she imagined she was going to savour for some time yet. It was a spark of something good, and that made all the difference when her entire world had become a raging hurricane of danger and doubt.

It was only her, Violmedr and Lifaen who ate. There were no guests to join them and Lifaen's mate, Narí, was away with Ikharos - who may have been considered her mate, if they had time to work through whatever happened between then - wasn't present either. The thought of... them was a step too far too fast; Formora searched for something to say in hopes of distracting her wandering mind, something to break the silence.

Lifaen beat her to it.

"Is it true?" He asked quietly, though they all clearly heard him. "Are there monsters to the west?"

Formora nodded grimly. "Of more than one kind. The Hive have claimed the northernmost peaks and valleys of the Spine. Their wicked Erechaani vassals ravage the lands directly south; we found an Urgal who had been mauled by their teeth."

"Does the Urgal live?"

Formora shook her head. "He did not survive his wounds." She paused. It felt wrong to gloss over the death, but… there was so much more horror to cover. "We encountered three of the Eddyrkyn."

She could feel the stares of her kin upon her. "The Grey Folk are extinct," Violmedr said firmly.

"I believed the same," Formora replied, "until I found their city north of Vroengard. Therein slept their monumental king. Three others of comparably lesser stature set upon the Erechaani and Cabal both, killing indiscriminately. Ikharos fought with them - and slew them."

Violmedr made a dissatisfied sound. "I'm certain he did. Humans are reckless, aggressive creatures."

Formora grew annoyed. "We did not expect them, nor were we able to hide from them. They attacked him; he only defended himself."

"Could he not disengage?"

"One of the Grey Folk had wings not unlike a dragon. We could not avoid the fight."

Violmedr put down her cutlery and took a deep breath. "Would he have cared even if that were not the case?"

"Excuse me?" Formora narrowed her eyes. "You welcomed Ikharos before. You offered him sanctuary and hospitality. Where does this sudden opposition hail from?"

Violmedr met her gaze evenly. "He invited war into our nation after disregarding Islanzadí-Dröttning's explicit request not to. His conflicts are not our own, yet he dragged them to our doorstep all the same."

"You don't understand. The things we saw out there, the things we have learned..."

"I care not for fantastical notions of glory."

"This isn't about glory!" Formora snapped. She realized, a moment too late, how loud she had spoken. She leaned back, breathed out shakily, and repeated, "This isn't about glory. This is about survival. Both Hive and Eddyrkyn will kill us given the chance. We must fight back."

"As you have already done?"

"I... I'm doing what I think is right. What I know is right."

"Is that where your priorities lie?" Violmedr questioned. "Not with house, but with... with this ill-fated venture?"

"Mother-" Lifaen began.

"No," she said, "this needs to be said. Formora, you are no longer of the Forsworn to our people."

"I know," Formora said fiercely. "I know."

"Neither are you a Rider. You are not exempt from our laws and rulings any longer."

Hearing it hurt more than Formora had expected it would.

"And all this...," Violmedr continued, "this gallivanting about with a war-hungry human-"

"Dauthné," Formora muttered.

"All the same-"

"No. Not all the same," Formora bit back. "Open your eyes. Scry the land. How many times must I tell you all this? You choose to believe in the illusion of the past, but the world has changed. If we don't change to meet it, we will not survive long enough to see what it becomes."

"Our people have changed enough."

"No, we haven't. Not enough. Not in the slightest."

Formora slammed the door shut behind her, manners be damned. The birds nestling in the canopy overhead startled and scattered with shrill cries. She felt the weight of the world on her back, but it was silly - Violmedr was wrong. They had argued for the remainder of dinner, only ending when Formora had had enough and stormed out. Perhaps not the most rational choice of action, but she was angry. Why were people so shortsighted? Why was-

But she had made that same mistake, hadn't she? She hadn't believed Ikharos's warnings until she was faced with a god.

Formora started walking. Nireith bounded after her, sticking as close to her heels as he could. She had no destination in particular; she just wanted to do something. She strolled past the sparkling baryon bough - and what a wonderful thing it was. Effortlessly unique, incredible to behold; there was not a more eye-catching plant in all Du Weldenvarden.

Of course Violmedr had conveniently forgotten to mention it. Here was proof that other was not necessarily unwelcome. To admit its existence would be to acknowledge that Ikharos wasn't just a common thug with a couple of words of magic. That the Eliksni weren't just a roving band of mercenaries looking for new ways to kill.

"Cousin!"

Formora turned around. Lifaen caught up with her, features wracked with shame and dismay. "I'm sorry. My mother-"

"Is wrong. I won't stand to be lectured on something she has no idea of."

"She is scared."

Formora hardened her expression. "So am I. And I have been for some time. But I won't hide away until this storm passes by."

"The things you spoke of..."

"Need to die for us to live," she viciously finished. Lifaen recoiled.

"You don't mean that," he said, somewhat subdued.

"I do. I very much do. I've been traveling with Ikharos and the Eliksni for some time. They are accustomed killers, this is true - but they have to be so they can survive. The universe is unkinder than we could ever imagined, and it has finally caught up. Should we fight? Or die?"

"It can't be-"

"As simple as that?" Formora finished. "It is. I am appalled to see that I am the only one considering this. I have always despised our hypocritical ways. Enlightened, we call ourselves! In what regard?! And now, finally, all this is going to mean our end. If this is how the älfakyn are ruled, I want no part of it."

A shocked look crossed over Lifaen's face. "You can't mean that. After all your time..." He trailed off.

"After my time being Galbatorix's slave, you mean?" Formora turned away. "I thought I would have been glad to return. And I was - but now I realize it was nostalgia colouring my sight with hope. We are not so different from the humans, dwarves, and urgals - equally misguided, equally vulnerable."

"What are you going to do?"

Formora sighed. "I... don't know. I won't stay here. I'll find shelter among the Eliksni; I returned to assist them, after all. Not to argue with your mother."

"I mean..." Lifaen struggled. He looked like he wanted to say something, but was equally afraid to say it. He took a few moments to collect himself. "I believe you."

Formora looked back at him. "You do?"

"I do," he said with more confidence. "I don't have the memories of the land beyond the forest. Nor can I scry the realms past our borders. Even so, with all that has happened... Yes, I believe you. And there are others."

"What do you mean?" Formora grew troubled. "You speak like a conspirator. I want no part of any deception."

"It is no deception. Only... doubts."

"Who is doubted?"

"Islanzadí. Lord Arhimor. Lord Falidaer. My mother."

"Your mother?"

"She is wise - but she is not all-knowing. She does not trust the Eliksni anymore for their warring ways, but when I walk among their numbers, through their camp, I sense desperation, not malice. They are afraid too." Lifaen exhaled. "I can't... Please understand that there are those who sympathize with you. Many are considering the gravity of your warnings, and the warnings of Ikharos and Tarrhis as well."

"So Narí said," Formora muttered dubiously. She looked around, but there was no else to be seen. "I am tired, cousin. Goodnight."

"... Goodnight." Lifaen stepped back.

Formora turned around and walked away - saddened, angry, and not a little lost.

000

He parlayed. He convinced. He promised. He humoured. Kiphoris was fast growing sick of it all. Diplomacy had taken upon itself an off-ether taste. He had his people slowly, but surely, grasping at the skills of magic but it wasn't enough. Everything else was stuck in a quagmire. Islanzadí refused to give land so that his Scars could set up a more permanent encampment. She refused to allow Skiffs to fly to the other major cities for purchasing supplies and stocking up on natural resources. She didn't allow them to mine for Glimmer. She barely allowed them to set up an ether-den so that his people could feed, and only after he had stressed that without ether, his people were going to die.

Still, Kiphoris kept going. His people needed him, though he was almost positive he was doing something wrong, that the fault of all the slow progress lay with him. Politics was not where his skills laid. His time in the Reef had been civilian in nature, and the only time he ever stepped outside his comfort zone was when he interacted with the fire-spirited Corsairs. Never with the Queen's secret-stocked court.

Then, when all the politicking was over with for each local day, there was one more hurdle to pass.

Arke.

"I could make it all so much easier for you," she whispered to him, sweet and smiling.

Her tail curled around his legs.

"I could give you all you could ever need. All you could ever want."

Her jaw rested on his shoulder.

"I could bring you home."

Her breath ghosted over his neck.

Then, one day, she said to him, "Fly with me?"

Kiphoris looked at her.

"Fly with me..." Arke tilted her head and watched him with four golden eyes. "And I will tell you a secret."

Kiphoris stalked by the edge of his people's camp. He could not sleep. Not with the whisper-serpent's offer dangling over his head. A secret, she had said. What kind of secret? A worthwhile one? Or something useless? He didn't know. Secrets were Mara-kel's specialty, but Mara-kel was never a patron of his. Her secrets had been her power, as secrets were the power of all Awoken - even precious Lima, lost to Skolas's frenzied rebellion (and who he still missed so very much). But he was Eliksni, he was a once-Wolf and now-Scar. Secrets did not entice him as open purpose and crew loyalty did. With Arke, though, he needed to think about secrets - those she held over him and those he could use to protect himself from her. He needed to think as Mara-kel would have done. Arke was an Ahamkara, and few creatures were more dangerous than the Wish-Wyrms.

A shape wandered out of the evening gloom: Formora, scowling and slow-gaited, and with her little war beast trailing right behind her. Kiphoris watched as the evening guards saw her, recognized her, and greeted her. She engaged them in discussion, attempting to feign good cheer - but he saw through it. Kiphoris walked over. One of the Vandals saw him coming and saluted. "Velask, Kiphoris-Veskirisk."

"Velask." He indicated towards Formora. "Vel, Zeshus."

"Kiphoris." She politely dipped her head. Her smile was strained and tired.

He gestured to the empty land behind him, between the camp and the forest. "Come with me. I have a favour to ask of you."

They walked until he was sure they were out of earshot of the guards, then said, "Arke invited me to fly with her."

"She did?" Formora looked at him in surprise. "And... what did you do?"

"As of yet, nothing."

"Are you afraid to fly with her?"

"No. She would not dare kill me."

"Are you afraid to fly?" Formora amended.

Kiphoris shook his head. "I have lived mine-life on Ketches, Skiffs, and with Pikes close at hand. Nama, that is not it."

"Then what is?"

"I... am afraid to trust her." Kiphoris glanced in the direction of the Ahamkara's nest. She had carved out a place to brood by the camp's edge that was close to his own Skiff. He imagined it was purposely done. "She may feed on the stray desires of others, but it is her own wants that render her so dangerous. Her kind place feeding above all else. That is not something to be trusted - but these acts of generosity indicate otherwise." He crossed his prominent arms. "I believe she is attempting to trick me into lowering mine-guard."

"If you recognize what she's doing," Formora said slowly, "then you should have no issue with keeping her at a distance."

Kiphoris nodded. "This is true."

"What's this favour you seek?"

"Instructions on how one flies with a dragon."

Formora smiled uncertainly. "Truly?"

"Truly," Kiphoris said. He grinned back.

Formora measured Arke's size, Kiphoris's weight, and using what she learned put together a saddle of smooth and supple tree bark sung into a material form not unlike leather. Arke took to it easily enough, snaking her head through the loosened straps. The bindings curled around the place where neck met torso, around her shoulders, and then past her forelimbs. Formora ensured that the straps wouldn't go near the wings so as to not impede Arke's flying capabilities. After it was fitted, she instructed Kiphoris to mount up.

He looked at Arke with uncertainty. It wasn't just her, it was the whole notion that gave him pause. How did Eragon clamber atop Saphira? He had forgotten the motions, only that the young human had made it look simple. And even then, Eragon was human and he Eliksni. He was bigger, heavier, and his limbs were different. He had claws instead of blunt fingers. He had more than twice the young Rider's weight. Kiphoris feared he would humiliate himself.

"It's not at all difficult," Formora chided. "Just climb."

Kiphoris shot her a frustrated look. "You may be used to it, but I am not. When I fly, I sit down! Not hang like a newly-molted hatchling from an insecure swaddling sling!"

"There are belts for you if you fear falling, but trust me: you'll find your balance before long."

He grumbled. "Only if this becomes a common occurrence."

Arke twisted her head around to look at them. "Do you not lust after the skies, o Dreamer mine?"

Kiphoris wagged a claw at her. "Don't."

She cackled and straightened up, knees bent to grant him an easier climb. With a quick inhalation, Kiphoris went ahead and scaled her soft-feathered flank, sitting up on the saddle and looking around with confused expectations. He found the belts Formora had told him off and strapped his legs in. Two horn-like handholds had been formed at the front of the saddle, which was reassuring, but there was nothing for his lower arms to do. It felt off.

Should he have carried a wire rifle? Hunting from the skies wasn't such a terrible idea - though he often reveled in the monotony of silently tracking prey by scent and territorial markings, rather than chasing with a Skiff. Shooting from the air felt cheap.

"How does it feel?" Formora called up.

Kiphoris grunted. "Like I have fed upon a mountain of ether and grown too much too quickly. I am not meant to stand at this height."

"You think you will be a Captain forever?" Arke turned her head to the side, studying him with two rich eyes. There was a smile across her draconic head, the corner of her lips pulling back from fang-filled jaws.

Kiphoris filtered out her words. "Be still," he complained, "and allow me to find mine-balance."

She laughed and turned her head forward once more. Her voice was a mixture of nerve-wracking and oddly comforting. He hoped the latter wasn't because of her dragon-magic exerting some sort of influence over him.

Formora patted his ankle. "You're doing well."

"I haven't done anything."

"Perhaps not. In that case, you're doing nothing very well."

Kiphoris growled. "Enough. Arke, I am as ready as I will ever be. Fly."

Arke lifted herself up, took a few steps, and jumped. Kiphoris's hearts were in his throat; his sudden exhalation was frosted with ether. Her wings beat at the air, buffeting him and tearing them both out of gravity's greedy grip. He hung on for dear life.

Flying was... fun.

She landed at a small cliff far from the city. Kiphoris would have feared her turning on him, what with them being somewhere so secluded, if not for the oaths preventing her from doing so. He disembarked, slowly and carefully so as to not hurt her with his claws or trip over the saddle straps himself, and turned about. Her head came close, snout almost pressing into his chest.

"What's this secret?" He inquired.

Arke grinned. It was all teeth. "You are a Dreamer."

"I know. That is mine-title and mine-moniker. This is no secret to anyone."

"You are a Dreamer," Arke repeated. "You will only ever be Kell over your dreams."

Kiphoris closed his inner eyes. "I will not be Kell? That is hardly a secret worthy of keeping. I do not seek to be Kell."

"Not even to save your people?"

His mouth went dry. "What are you talking about?"

Arke winked, one eye at a time. "You will only ever manage to shepherd your people to a brighter future in your dreams."

"Mine-people are doomed?!" Kiphoris felt his hearts tighten and roar.

"You will only ever survive your origins in your dreams."

"My... what? Mine-origins? You mean the Maw of Riis?" Kiphoris looked up at the sky, but it was clear and twinkling with stars. There was no mythical fleet of night-dark arrowheads, no godlike judgement waiting to befall him and his kith. "Speak sense!"

Arke laughed. It was a horrible, horrible sound. "I think not." Her jaw brushed over his shoulder. Kiphoris pushed her away. She continued to chuckle. "Your dreams are rich things indeed. Do not be afraid to act upon them."

Kiphoris snarled. He hated word games. Riddles were never easy for him - particularly those coming from an entirely different species. There was no telling what she really meant.

"Fly me back," he ordered.

Arke hunkered down. "As you wish."

000

Ikharos pulled his knife against the throat of the Knight hanging over him and held it down as it bled out. It struggled fiercely, battering its elbows into his side so hard he was at risk of having his ribs broken. It would have been quicker to use Light - but then, that would have served to attract the attentions of bigger and badder. He pressed the blade further in, splitting flesh and bone. The Knight gargled horribly.

Finally, after what felt like an age, the warrior-morph stilled. Ikharos tossed the creature off of him and gasped in clean air. There was green blood on his robes, carrying with it an atrocious stench. Ikharos took one look at it and figured he had a long night of scrubbing ahead of him. "Psekisk."

He shivered. It wasn't a chilly evening, but he felt cold. It was too Dark to be comfortable. His Light acted up in response to the malignant stimuli, coursing through him with jerky movements. A part of him missed the calm of Du Weldenvarden. The rest was just happy to be out, to be free to roam and work as he saw fit. Places of law were unfit for people like him; he'd been alive too long to adhere to someone else's commands.

"Kirzen?" An Arc-cloaked figure peered over the lip of the crater - one of his own making.

Ikharos sat up and dusted himself off. The effort was in vain; his armour was filthy. "I'm up."

Beraskes extended one of her lower hands. Ikharos took it and scrambled up over the edge. He looked around, but there was nothing to see. The accompanying Acolytes were slain.

"Kirzen!" Beraskes pointed back down into the crater. The Knight's throat - or what remained of it - split open. Something crawled out.

Ikharos closed his eyes. "Traveler above... fine." He slid back down to the warrior-morph's corpse, grabbed the weakened Worm and crushed it in his hand. He regretted it immediately; his glove was ruined. "Bloody hell..."

He trudged back into camp long after Beraskes had returned, glove and robes scoured of gore. Melkris was the Eliksni on watch for the night. He sidled over beside Ikharos and closed his leftmost eye in a teasing manner. "Ikha Riis! How fare you?"

"Unhappily." Ikharos dug into a satchel hidden away in his bedroll and plucked out the preserved flower within. He sighed. "Better now. What is it?"

Melkris went quiet for a looong moment. Worried, Ikharos looked over. The shockshooter was staring at the flower with an expression of bewilderment. "How does the plant improve your spirits?"

"Because..." Ikharos grimaced. He knew what was going to happen next was going to be awful. He just knew. "Formora gave it to me. As a parting gift."

"But why would... Oh." Melkris's eyes twinkled. "I understand."

"I swear, if you-"

"Nama! I will not be mean. I am Melkris; I am noble-hearted." The shockshooter put a hand over his chest. "I remember being young and fierce-blooded like you, Ikha Riis."

"I'm pretty sure we're around the same a-"

"I remember! I remember chasing after the affections of handsome eliko and pretty elika!"

"Good to know." Ikharos packed the flower away and settled into his bedroll. "Don't wake me up unless we're under attack."

Melkris sat down beside him. "I am not so cruel as to bother your affections. I am only surprised it took so long. Are humans normally so oblivious?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Your lives are so short, surely you should enjoy all life has to offer before you end."

"Formora and I can't age."

Melkris nodded. "Oh. Eia. Good."

"What's the concern about?"

"I like you. You are amusing."

"Glad to have been of some entertainment," Ikharos murmured. "Can't you go away? I'm tired."

Melkris grumbled. "I never have anyone to keep me company upon mine-watches. Where is little Xiān?"

"Hiding. This is Hive territory. She's not coming out."

The shockshooter did some more complaining before, mercifully, wandering back to his post. Ikharos drifted off into blissfully dull sleep.

He was woken up abruptly, before the dawn had, well, dawned. Javek hovered over him. "There are mites nearby."

"Your wards tell you that?" Ikharos was up in an instant. "How far?"

Javek pointed northeast. "A rikha in that direction. They do not yet come for us, but..."

"We should move all the same."

"Eia."

"How's west looking?"

"Beraskes reports that it is clear, but Raksil says he can smell Er'kanii. There may be a pack nearby."

"Then we'll deal with them. Can't let them return to their masters."

"I concur," Javek said. He gripped his rifle. "Kirzen, may we discuss magic as we walk?"

Ikharos smiled. "Of course. You still keen to learn?"

The Splicer's outer eyes shuttered. "Eia. I try to trade with Narí-elf, but he does not know Low Speak and I do not know how to form the words of the human language."

"It's fine. I'll try to substitute as best I can."

They were half a day away from their first position when they stopped - though whether for a short break or to properly set camp Ikharos was undecided. Beraskes caught a pair of wild pidgeons and Narí grew some edible fruit. Since he'd outlawed having a fire, Ikharos cooked the fresh meat with magic. It was... an experience. And not an ideal one.

He was crunching on an overcooked bird leg when Melkris came to him with a bundle of mangled daisies and buttercups. The shockshooter just dropped it all onto his lap, rubbed both pairs of hands together and had the audacity to smile at him.

Ikharos blinked. "What the fuck?"

"I give you ammunition," Melkris explained. "Gift this to your Formora. You need not mention my assistance."

"... What?"

"Flowers, eia? That is not how humans show affection?"

Ikharos looked around. Kida was watching everything with mechanical indifference and Raksil was glancing over at them with unveiled curiosity, but it had gone unnoticed by everyone else. That or they were just ignoring them; Melkris's antics were always the same - mystifying and only sometimes amusing. Ikharos sighed. "No that's... I don't know." He sucked in a deep breath. "Look, I respect you. I sometimes even like you. But please, Melkris, please don't get involved. I'm stressed and confused by all that's happened already; I don't need you complicating things."

Melkris didn't budge. "I am beginning to feel unwelcome. What am I here for, if not to give advice?"

"To shoot people."

"Oh, eia." Melkris nodded sagely. "Eia, I am good at shooting. Particularly at people."

Ikharos closed his eyes and tried, so hard, to not react. He knew the shockshooter's kind. They were the type of people who just liked to stir up trouble and watch chaos unfold. Half of all the Hunters he'd met had been of the exact same mindset.

"Move, fool," Javek said. He sidled in and knelt opposite Ikharos. "We are to discuss magic."

Melkris made a face. "Learning?! Nama, not for me. Good luck, boring scribes. I am going to find Beraskes. She knows what fun is."

Raksil made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Narí, sitting nearby, looked at the Vandal in bewilderment.

Ikharos turned back to Javek. "Thank you."

Javek grinned uncertainly, mandibles relaxed. "Very welcome, Kirzen."

"So... magic."

"Eia."

"Where were you and Formora at?"

"Moving natural elements and changing their composition." Javek gestured to a patch of bare earth beside them. "Deloi un adurna." The dirt became sodden and soon warped into a small puddle of mud. Javek, for his part, didn't look all that fazed by enacting the spell - it had been a small one, to be fair. "And I know how to shape it to mine-specifications. Adurna rïsa."

The water rose out of the puddle, shaking free of the earth's sedimentary grasp and stretching out like a transparent curtain.

Ikharos nodded. "Do you know how to use the water to divert light?"

"Eia." Javek's eyes brightened. "Formora pak Zeshus informed me of your own discovery. I believe she was impressed with your initiative."

"Really? I didn't get that impression." Ikharos cracked a wry grin. "I'm pretty sure she was laughing at me. Apparently we're slower learners than elf children, the two of us."

"Elves seem very wise."

"Oh, don't start. Be a proud Eliksni, not a... a sucker for all things elven." It's too late for me.

Javek smiled back. Then, for some reason, looked off into the distance at nothing in particular. "Kirzen? Will you join the House of Scar?"

Ikharos choked and coughed; he'd swallowed wrong. He cleared his throat with a couple of thumps to his chest, grabbed his flask and drank deeply. The fading after-feeling was highly unpleasant. "Will I what?"

Javek eyed him cautiously. "... Apologies, I did not mean to-"

"No, nono, just... didn't expect it." Ikharos put his flask away and wistfully looked down at his hands. "No. I don't think I will. Look, Tarrhis has been endlessly helpful and hospitable, and I've found I like working with your people, but I love my freedom too much. Joining a people, any people, usually involves becoming part of a structured order. I don't do ranks. I'm independent - always have been." He paused. "Did someone ask you to press this?"

"Nama." Javek blinked one of his inner eyes. "Only mine-curiosity."

"What's got you thinking?"

"I..." Javek trailed off. He began after a heavy pause. "I am a Splicer."

"So I've realized."

Javek's mandibles chittered at a slow pace, like laughter - he had found the comment humourous, evidently. "I am a Splicer," he repeated, "and I have dedicated my life to worship of our noble Servitors and the Great Machine. My skills are in technology and physiology; I practice mechanical and medicinal work. Kiphoris is my draft-Captain, but the abbot to whom I have sworn loyalty is High Priest Drotos. Through him, I follow the word of Skriviks, our Holy Archon."

"Who stayed behind," Ikharos said carefully, "with Krinok."

"Who stayed behind with Krinok," Javek acknowledged, "in hopes of protecting the families without warriors."

"Where does he align himself, then?"

"With our people. Tarrhis is healthier for our house than Krinok. Skriviks will choose him if pressed once more."

"What's your take on all this?"

"I am unsure." Javek dropped the water spell. It splashed down and sank into the ground. "I served Skriviks directly when I first became a sacred Splicer; he was wise. I joined with Drotos as mine-sway over metal and flesh increased; he was thoughtful. I joined Kiphoris when our house underwent great stress and turmoil; I found him to be clever. And now, I am here to serve you; you who offers respect and friendship and honest advice."

Thinking he knew where the whole thing was going, Ikharos quickly said, "I'm not taking on followers. Sorry."

Javek waved disarmingly. "That is not mine-point. I have learned to respect you in turn, Kirzen. You are powerful, that much is clear, but you do not swing your power around. Even noble Kiphoris does this, if only to reassert order into his..." he glanced in Melkris's direction, "rowdy crew."

"So?"

"I am getting there. I have made some... observations of you, Kirzen. It is true that you prize your freedom very highly. I... think I may be learning to do the same. I... appreciate this." Javek indicated to their camp with his upper hands. "We are among the Maw's servants here, in great danger, but I do not feel afraid. I feel... like I belong. This is mine-calling."

"Roaming?"

"In part, eia. No strict ranks, merely a mutual respect. I feel at ease when I speak, for there is no overeager officer to dock mine-arms at a perceived insult. There is no High Priest to push me to prayer every Riis-hour of the day. There is no knife at my back from jealous Wretches, for I am among comrades. I will not go hungry, for this world is rich in bio-organic compounds suitable for ether conversion. I am sated now. Mine-concern lies only on how soon this will end. I... wish for independence."

Ikharos quickly looked around, with mind as well as eyes. "Be careful with your phrasing."

Javek murmured an apology. He tasted the air. "I think we are alone. Mine-wards have not yet been sprung."

"Still. Let's not take chances."

A whirring broke their focus. One of the Shanks flew in, left thruster spitting more aggressively than the right. Javek rose up and held out his arms. The drone obediently flew to him, allowing him to catch it and switch it off. Javek called for tools; Raksil grabbed one of the Splicer's packs and ferried it over. Engineering instruments were taken out and paneling was detached from the Shank's top.

"She is overworked," Javek murmured, "and in need of new wiring."

Ikharos took a handful of sapphire wire out of transmat and held it out. "Here."

"Thank you, Kirzen." Javek inspected the pieces with surprise. After a couple of long moments he nodded. "These will work."

Ikharos waited until the Splicer was done before saying, "Let's get back to magic. You know the word for metal?"

"Malmr is metal. Stál is steel."

"One offers a broader control over all metallic elements, but the other allows for a firmer grip on one specific aspect of some metals - of that which we process and use to form the hulls of our machines, big and small. Both have their merits. If, say, I wanted to sabotage a dropship, which one would be of more use?"

"Stál. It is direct." Javek splayed a hand over the Shank. "Stál, waíse ikonoka ósjaldan."

The loose paneling slid back into place, once more covering the Shank's internal workings.

Ikharos held out a hand. Void gathered between his fingers. "You see this?"

Javek watched it with a mix of caution and fascination. "Eia. It is the energy of the abyss."

"Exactly. You know how it works?"

"I am not certain. Energy is... drawn out, correct?"

"In some aspects, perhaps. There is a phenomenon my people have termed zero-point energy, which ties into how we can tap into its power. The Void is... well, it's calm. Perfect calm. But even in the un-rippling surface of the Void, there is friction. The tiniest forms of friction imaginable, but it's there. Not because there's anything in the Void, no, but because the Void exists. And while something exists, even something as weightless and empty as the nothingness of the absolute absence, there will be... sway. And, funnily enough, this is how the Void takes part in the concept of creation. Energy, eventually, makes things happen. Particles appear in vast expanses of nothing from nowhere. Energy thrums into fruition. The un-rippling Void ripples."

Javek held up his claws. "Fair points, all, and true, but while you can wield it, I cannot."

"Can't you?" Ikharos cleared his throat. "Néhvaët."

The air popped. The violet orb in his hand grew. Javek stared.

Ikharos continued, "Our power within this ancient language, this Harmonic Tongue, this gramarye... is limited only to our imagination. It's frighteningly dangerous and impossibly alluring. You outfit your Servitors with Void charges, right? You let them roam the empty places outside the material universe, let them taste of the absences of being. Technology is but one means by which to reach to the stars and beyond. Magic, I'll think you find, is another. It's what got the Hive so far."

"This is dangerous," Javek muttered. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because your people are wicked smart. What with your kin bartering for magic from the elves, it's inevitable that you'd realize that the road of magic pulls a U-turn and leads right back into science. Arc, Solar, Void - we both know about them, we both know of the elements that encapsulate all the processes of reality. I'm just making sure that someone - in particular, you, the most talented Eliksni mage as of yet - are taught the proper way. I like this world. I'd hate to see it blown up because of Splicers barreling down this path without any heed for safety. I know your kind. I know you're cunning and inquisitive and keen to get stuck in, but word of warning: don't mess around with this stuff."

Javek's arms lowered back into his lap. He set the Shank aside. "I... think I understand. I am indeed yearning to learn more."

"About the Void?"

"About everything. Including the Void." He closed his outer eyes. "Will you teach me Kirzen?"

"Sure, why not?" Ikharos smiled. He settled back. "The Void is a forfeit. The grandest forfeit of all. It's a sacrifice beyond all other sacrifices, not through malign action or malevolent depravity, but through existing as a nonexistence. By hungering, by swallowing up chunks of existence, it exerts pull. And I, through exerting my will over the natural processes of the universe and making them different, can draw on that force found within the Void and make it mine. The Light transcends all sorts of barriers, which is why I can survive and control the Void with such ease, but one does not need Light to touch it. Nor does one even need a shred of the paracausal like we do - though it does help.

"This, here, what I'm holding? This is null power, negative energy. It's eating even as we speak. Arc is action and change, Solar is passion and the duality of growth and destruction, but Void - Void is infinite. The moment a star-spanning civilization figures out how to subsist on Void alone, that's it; they're out of this big game. The Light and Dark have nothing on the Void beyond influence. They are a Gardener and Winnower playing at a flower game, but the Void is the earth, it's the air, it's the environment in which they play."

"You speak of the Great Machine and its predator like..."

"Like people?" Ikharos guessed.

"Eia."

He shrugged. "They aren't. But they are. They are driven by will - even if those wills are ultimately tied to their purposes. At least that's my understanding. There've been smarter people than me who've studied this more in-depth, but right now you're talking to me, so you're getting the general layman's interpretation. Hence: the metaphors."

"I am not complaining or objecting, I was merely caught by surprise," Javek said quickly. "I have heard many stories of the Great Machine, and how the Splicers of old worked many wonders with its blessings, but to hear of the Light and the Maw imagined as something so quaint is... amusing. Strange, even."

"Am I a strange man for saying it?" Ikharos half-groaned, smiling ruefully.

Javek tilted his head. "Nama. I would consider you creative, not odd."

"That's... nice. Thank you?" Ikharos frowned. "Traveler above, this has got to be one of best conversations I've had in a long time - and that's depressing."

"This has been enlightening."

"No, not just that. I'm talking high-end concepts and you... you get them." Ikharos exhaled and leaned back. "Bloody hell. Forget everything else, that's... jeez. I miss having intelligent conversation. Not that I got so much of it in Sol either..."

"Not even Formora?" Javek asked slyly.

Ikharos shot him a dirty look. "She does. One of the few, I might add. But her experiences give her a more elven-orientated viewpoint. She learned magic before science. We're the other way around. This... whatever this is, it's a touch of familiarity."

"You could have more. All you need do, Kirzen, is find mine-brethren. There are other Splicers serving Tarrhis-Mrelliks and Drotos-Achris at this very moment."

"That requires sticking in one place and, unless that place is an unassailable fortress, I prefer to roam. Either I'm a nomad or I'm the king of the castle. There's no in-between." He sighed. "A holdover from my youth. Can't trust the land I stand on until I know it can weather an earthquake. Faith is a flighty thing where the doubtful are concerned, isn't it? I can't help-"

Narí perked up, eyes narrowed and head tilted. He looked at Ikharos. "Did you hear that?"

Ikharos frowned. "Hear what?"

"Tha-"

A scream, oh so distant, stuck a foot only just into the door of audibility. Ikharos ripped his Lumina out of its holster and got to his feet. He looked around and, yes, it wasn't just him who heard it. All the Eliksni looked at him, expectantly, looking for orders.

"What the hell?" He muttered with a frown, and took one step forward.

There it was again: another scream. Ikharos started running.

There was fire. Green fire. Soulfire. It flickered through the trees like emerald torchlight. Inhuman chanting wafted on the wind alongside it. And the screaming too - which was all too clearly human. Ikharos pressed himself to go faster, Blinking and gliding on Solar boosts where he could. He burst into the clearing with his cannon already barking, putting two Acolytes down before anyone could blink. A pyre had been erected over the stamped-down grass, formed of the bones and souls of the long-dead Cabal - and the blood of recently butchered human beings. One still lived, strapped to the broken haft of a spear in the centre of the pyre, alive only for the soulfire having not yet reached her. Around the fire lurked loping Erechaani turncoats and snarling Hive savages.

Monsters, his instincts told him.

He dealt with them as such. The first Erechaani pounced. Ikharos shot it in the face. He shot the second. And the third. And the fourth. And then an Acolyte who tried to muscle in. He emptied the rest of the cannon's rounds into the closest aliens and Blinked, once, to the top of the pyre. With a slash of a Void-wreathed hand he cut the woman's binds and Blinked them out, back to the edge of the clearing just as Beraskes and Raksil scrambled past with shock blades drawn. Melkris and Kida fired over their heads, each shot scoring a fatal hit. The throng of cultists didn't stand a chance.

Ikharos stepped away from the terrified woman and brandished his blade. It hummed with hungering draw, pushing at its material limitations for the chance to bite into nearby prey. Ikharos lifted it, doubled down on his knees, and-

Someone was laughing. Someone was behind him, shedding off a form that did not fit. Someone was planting talons in his back, burning talons glowing with Dark power. Ikharos gasped; his strength abandoned him. A lancing pain tremored through him. His eyes caught on the spreading fire, running along the lines of a rune etched into the dirt all around the clearing. A rune he read as DOOR outfitted with the messy accentuation of MOVE.

The rune yawned open like a door. They - he and the Wizard in the midst of casting off her perfect illusion - moved.

The horror of his situation gave him one last burst of energy. Ikharos painfully tore himself away from the Wizard's grasp and swiped behind him, cracking through her ward and slicing through her neck with pitiful ease. He stumbled away and fell to his knees, grasping at the rocky ground below. Everything was dark and Dark, but he had a pretty good idea where he was.

"Shit," Ikharos breathed, voice soft with trepidation and muted pain.

His surroundings rustled with the sounds of chattering teeth and clattering claws.

Their communicators weren't working. They couldn't get a signal through all the rock and magic. Ikharos desperately hoped Narí and the Eliksni had been in a position to retreat, to survive, but he didn't expect the same to be true for himself much longer.

He was lost and the Hive were hunting him. He had been right in his earlier analysis only a few days previous; they were digging down into the earth. The carrier had been split open at the belly, with entrails formed of ragged Thrall-carved tunnels stretching out into the rock crust below. It was there that the Wizard had sent them both, somewhere deep down where the only light came from crystalized soulfire and giant orange egg-sacs in which unborn Hive quickly gestated. Worms slithered across the mucus-slick floors and dusty moths flew around piles of relatively old bones. Bright spores bloomed from the starved husks of dead Thrall. It was a nightmarish subterranean garden built on the principle of survival of the fittest.

Ikharos despised everything about it - the sights, the smells and the people. Could they even have been called that? Hive had the capacity for higher thinking, but everything about them bespoke a bestial mindset based solely on savagery. There was nothing civil or decent about them to be seen - though that was nothing new.

The larger morphs, those who oversaw the hatching of Thrall and the forcing of Worms unto them, hadn't ignored him. Knightly fathers and Wizard mothers roared and shrieked the moment they caught his scent, all the more territorial with their young so close. Or maybe they were ambitious, like the Witch that had caught him; Ikharos reckoned she had teleported him into a hatchery to flay the Light from his bones and feed it to her children. She obviously hadn't considered that he, a creature of the peaceful Sky, would fight just as fiercely to keep his life.

Morons, he thought darkly. Sometimes the upper echelon of their murderous nobility could muster the intelligence to come up with truly nefarious plans, but the rest...

The alternative was that she had teleported him in under orders and that him aimlessly wandering through the corridors and chambers of their sprawling nest was some sort of game. The more Ikharos dwelled on the idea, the more certain he was - if only because the larger morphs he kept expecting to converge on him never did so, always keeping their distance despite making their presences clearly known. Well, that and the thumping sounds that echoed from behind him. Something big was stomping his way, tracking him by scent or magic or some other Hive sense, and it was taking its sweet time.

Ikharos ran ahead, keeping himself veiled in Void and Promethean code, and flitted through nest after nest. It was like a tiny city had been carved into shape below the dead Cabal ship, spiderwebbing in all directions. There were nurseries, Ogre-stables, barracks and sparring yards. Ikharos passed a wedding cathedral and an execution chamber - and could scarcely tell the difference between the two. In both, dominant Hive whetted their insatiable appetites on killing their mewling lessers. They were a self-destructive species, only kept aloft by how rapidly they spawned new generatored and how rigidly their tribute-system was enforced. It was the same sights he'd slaughtered through on Luna, Mars, Titan, and Callisto; Hive digging, setting up shop and spreading their influence from there.

There was one difference, though. Ikharos watched and studied as new activities were carried out, as weapons were sharpened or forged in blood and chitin, as Wizards hurriedly rushed the metamorphosis of freshly-hatched larvae into skittering Thrall. Something was happening soon, and from the sight of Tombships being grown into shape as fruit hanging from tall black spindles of Hive magic, Ikharos was almost certain he knew what.

An invasion.

If only he knew what they planned to invade. Foreknowledge would have made all the difference.

"We need to find out more," Ikharos decided.

Xiān disagreed. "We need to get out!"

"This has given us a prime opportunity to undermine their efforts."

"Whoa, hold on, that's a whole other matter. 'Undermining' is a big step above 'finding out more'."

"They're one and same."

"Nu-uh. Ikharos, c'mon, be reasonable. We're in a bad, bad place. How about we get the hell out?"

Ikharos kept going, deeper into the nest. "Let's do both. Gather intel while on our way to escape."

"This isn't going to end well."

"There's something colossal breathing down our necks; this going wrong is a given."

"Traveler above, you're the cheeriest pessimist this side of Venus. It's so annoying."

"Realist. Not pessimist. Get it right."

000

Tellesa watched. She waited. She kept her sword loose in its scabbard. She didn't budge - not even a little. Her orders were to remain in place, still as a statue, until her target came past. The roads were clear and quiet after night had fallen. She laid in a ditch, barely breathing for fear of giving herself away, and kept down in the dense brush.

Murtagh waited beside her, bow in hand. Kielot and Honsel were on the other side of the road, similarly armed. Both Paltis and a mage of Du Vrangr Gata were with them - both further away, but nonetheless close by. They weren't leaving it to chance.

A small group of dark-garbed riders cantered out of the night and down the road. Tellesa tightened her grip on her blade, eyes trained on the lead courier. There was a satchel tied to their saddle. There. She leaned forward, straining her knees, and...

"Now," she whispered.

Murtagh fitted an arrow to his bow, pulled the string back, and loosed. It struck true; the lead rider was tossed from his horse, feathered fletching protruding from his shoulder. The other three slowed and looked around, shouting to one another. Honsel and Kielot capitalized on their surprise and added their own arrows into the mess, injuring one and striking another dead. The horses panicked.

Tellesa burst out of cover and sprinted straight for the first rider's mare. She caught its reins before it could bolt, hanging tight as it bucked and jumped with fright.

"Hey!" Murtagh shouted.

Tellesa turned. The first rider was almost upon her, one arm hanging limp but the other clutching a knife. He wore a bloody scowl with a murderous glint in his eyes. He thrust his weapon forth. Tellesa let go of the reins, slapped the attack away from her centre and closed in on him. She grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the knife and used her free arm to drive her elbow repeatedly into his face - it was far too close for her to draw her sword. A pity, really. She would have liked the chance to exercise her sword craft.

His nose broke and focus shattered. The rider reeled back, bleeding profusely, and tried to stagger away. Tellesa didn't give him a chance, consistently hitting him until he lost his balance and collapsed. She didn't even stop there - not until the Imperial stopped moving entirely. Wait - the satchel

Tellesa twirled around, fists still clenched. Paltis had it, gripping the reins and beast both. The horse fought, but the Eliksni's strength was enough to keep it in check. Murtagh rushed to help her. Kielot, Honsel, and the accompanying mage finished off the last mounted rider and then the wounded one. They would have tocomb through the corpses later; there was a message to deliver first.

Parzald took the sealed letter and opened it up. His tired frown deepened as he read through it. "This is encrypted," he said at last, and handed it over to Fendrel. His second-in-command took up a stylus and roll of parchment and started rooting through it. "What happened?" Parzald asked.

Tellesa stood to attention. "We struck quickly and quietly. No survivors. No mages either - or we killed them too quickly for them to work their magic."

The old officer nodded. "Good. Fendrel?"

"Almost," the other man muttered. "There. Same code as the previous group, though I wouldn't expect this to last."

"Is it...?"

"Directed to... yes, the Black Hand."

Parzald cursed. "What's their intent?"

"The details are sparse, but... I think they mean to..." Fendrel glanced up at Tellesa. "You're dismissed, serjeant."

"No," Parzald said. "She's heard this much. Tellesa?"

"Sir?"

"Not a word of this outside this tent. Understood?"

"I understand, sir."

Parzald turned back around. "Fendrel?"

"They mean to kill Nasuada."

"Of course they do..."

"Sir?"

"Get a message to Jörmundur. Tell him he must double her guard - and increase security checks. These dastards are crafty."

"I'll get on it, but... sir? Will it be enough?"

Parzald didn't answer. He looked at Tellesa with a frown. Eventually, he asked, "How do you feel about returning to the capital?"

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!

Season of the Chosen was good. Season of the Splicer looks to be just as good, if not better. I'm loving it so far, all the lore drops and gameplay. I particularly enjoyed the lorebook Achilles Weaves a Cocoon (feels tragic and haunting) and the entry for Star-Eater Scales really threw me for a loop (whether it's mere coincidence or not, I had a nigh-on existential crisis with it - in a positive way).