Chapter 63: Precipice

The Imperial Land Tank crashed out of the carrier's gut and rolled over the remnants of the Cabal war camp. The Threshers and Harvesters hovering nearby picked up those of their soldiers who were still on the ground and took off, but the Hive weren't so lucky. Those caught in the machine's path were crushed underfoot. The few who avoided it fired uselessly against the tank's hull. The tank fired back - and the offenders were left as nothing more than streaks across the ground or smoking craters.

Ikharos watched from a distant hill through the scope of Melkris's wire rifle. He didn't know how to feel about it. Imperial Land Tanks were something even his Light couldn't put a dent in. If it came to it, he was going to have more than his fair share of trouble in trying to scuttle the fortress-on-treads. On the other hand, he was relieved - because surely even the Harmony would find themselves at a loss where the Cabal were concerned. He had no love for the militants, but they were better than the alternative - than the Dark and all its proxies.

"What now, sir?" Kida asked from by his shoulder. Ikharos handed the rifle back to Melkris.

"Now I study."

"Sir?"

"I grabbed something out of the nest. Information. I'm going to decipher it. If we're lucky, it pertains to the Darkblade's ambitions." Ikharos turned north. "He's gotta have a plan. His back is exposed and he knows it."

From a moral point of view, the Cabal ripping the Hive a new one was an incredible development to witness. From a tactical standpoint, however, it was a disaster; the Darkblade was moving to replenish the energy reserves of his brood's strongest by slaughtering the biggest and baddest bastards planetside, and the Cabal wasting both manpower and ammunition on an already depleted Hive garrison was doing no one any favours.

But - if Shu'av was to be believed - they were going to cut their losses and hightail it out with their salvaged Land Tank, so... no more needless death. No more antagonizing the Hive nest into turning its attention outside instead of in.

Melkris yawned. Loudly. When Ikharos looked at him, the shockshooter smiled sheepishly. One of his outer eyes closed. "Sorry, Kirzen."

Ikharos turned back to the carrier. "Can't sleep?"

"Nama. Not with all those Hive alive."

"They're nowhere near us."

"Ah, but Hive can be stealthy when they desire it."

"Except where a Lightbearer is concerned. They won't sneak up on us, Melkris," Ikharos assured. "Their Dark is a blindingly bright beacon to me."

"How does that feel?"

"What, the Dark?"

"Uh, eia," Melkris hesitated, "but I mean... you see with magic, yes?"

"With my Light," Ikharos corrected.

"Eia, that is what I mean."

"It's... not as obvious a sense to us as sight or hearing is. Most Guardians hardly notice it until they step into their first Darkness zone, when shadows crop up on the edge of their vision. It's something to be honed," Ikharos explained. "I can pick up on creatures like Hive or Shades miles ahead - but only if the area around me is clear of other magics. Even in those scenarios I can sense lesser disciplines of paracausality at closer distances - like this gramarye. It's a subtle kind, but not entirely invisible."

"What does it look like?" Melkris curiously pressed. "What colours does magic have? What does it taste like?"

"Always has to be about food with you, doesn't it?"

The shockshooter grinned toothily. "Eia."

Ikharos smiled back. "It doesn't so much have a taste or smell - unless it's converted into a more corporeal element. And the colours... the Darkness is dark black, but that's no shock. And the Light... is light."

"What of the elf-magic?"

"It's more intrinsically linked with its wielder than any omnipotent and sentient philosophy. You can't really see it unless you see the person - mind, soul, something along those lines."

"That sounds wonderful."

"You dreaming about having magic?" Ikharos asked.

"Oh, nama. It looks like too much work."

"Lazy sod..."

"That is me! That is why I am a shockshooter." Melkris adoringly wiped a hand down his rifle. "I get to stay in one place for a long time. Oh, and because I am very good at shooting too. At people."

"At people."

"Bad people."

"Very bad."

"Eia. Like those who cheat me of glimmer. Eh, Javek?"

The nearby Splicer groaned and tossed over a glittering blue cube. "You psesiskar."

"Love you too!"

Ikharos raised an eyebrow. "What was that for?"

Melkris just smiled sweetly. As sweetly as an alien with a mouth full of serrated teeth could, anyways. "Nothing."

"Because they are gambling fools," Beraskes groaned. She was in the midst of wiping down a deactivated shock blade with the edge of her cloak. Had a Hunter been watching they would have died of horror.

"Huh." Ikharos forcibly tore his gaze away from the cape-desecration. If Lennox had-

He stopped himself. A pang of something dull and sharp at the same time stabbed right through him. If Lennox had been alive, then a whole lot would have gone differently.

He was jerked awake by a solid kick that drove the breath from his lungs. Ikharos rolled, hacking for a breath, but there was nothing around save for a pair of worried Ghosts. Xiān yammered. Gecko was even quieter than usual. Both flew over his head in a panic.

Lennox.

She was struggling in her sleep, having already torn through her sleeping bag. Her metal limbs had turned into flailing clubs. He'd gotten off lucky. Ikharos got to his feet and tackled her to the ground. "Hey!" He yelled mutedly, worried for her but aware that they were still in the middle of nowhere - possibly hostile territory. "Lenn-"

A fist caught him in the jaw. Ikharos staggered back, dazed and in a whole heap of pain. Xiān repaired him; he jumped back into the fray. Ikharos caught Lennox's shoulder and roughly shook her. "Bloody hell, woman, wake up!"

Her optics - warm yellow turned sharp - onlined. She made a gasping sound and clawed at her throat. "I can't breathe," she coughed, steel jaws cracking together. "I can't breathe! I can't breathe! I can't breathe! Can't-"

"I've got you." Ikharos pulled her against him. "I've got you."

She sobbed into his chest. After a while, she shuddered and whispered, "Bad dream."

"Exo dream?"

Lennox nodded. "Exo."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really." She sighed. "But… but... I... There were people."

"How many?"

"Two. Then... then one. And they - maybe a she? - was upset with me. I think... I think the other person died and... and we were grieving." Lennox choked. "I... I think I had a family."

Ikharos grimaced. "Oh."

"Do you ever get those?"

"I'm not an Exo."

"I mean-"

"My memories are gone. Easier to erase when they're just naked neurons as opposed to hard coding."

"Yeah..." Lennox bonelessly sprawled against him, shaking with residual emotion.

"But..." Ikharos winced. "But I... I might've had the same."

"What do you mean?"

"There were other bodies beside me when I..." He closed his eyes. "When I first woke up. Skeletons. Three. One of them... one of them was so small..."

Lennox pulled against him. "You don't-"

"I didn't think much of it then - couldn't, with Devils dropping out of the sky and the world burning down around me - but... but now... I realize I maybe had people too."

"... I'm sorry."

"No. I'm sorry. You're the only one that has to lug around memories belonging to someone else-"

"But it wasn't someone else." Lennox's voice rose, still charged with sorrow. "It was me."

"Not as you know yourself."

"Me with skin. Me with bones. Me with lungs." She gasped. "I can't breathe. I... I can't breathe..."

Ikharos held her tight. He held her all night long.

Had she been alive he would have been happier.

Had she been alive he would have done better.

Had she been alive he wouldn't have felt like he was dragging her corpse behind him everywhere he went.

Ikharos closed his eyes; he was immortal, invincible, unstoppable, but his scars were never going to mend over. Godslayer, legion-breaker, horde-killer, decrypter of the Worm - here he stood, as human as the day he'd been first rezzed.

At least he had his gun and his Ghost. At least those he could count on.

Ikharos watched and balanced his knife across his knuckles. It swayed. It tilted. It remained where it was. Perfectly insecure, perfectly in place. It wasn't his knife, though; it was hers. It had held meaning in her hand. A sword was a Hive thing, a long blade of ambitiously reaching power, a claim that said I AM STRONG, ALL THAT THIS SWORD TOUCHES IS MINE TO BREAK, MINE TO DESTROY, MINE TO KILL, AIAT, AIAT AIAT AIAT, but this was a Hunter's knife. It wasn't long enough to claim the world, just to get the job done. Just to do what was needed and leave it at that.

Ikharos struggled, torn between knife and sword - one was easy, one was his, but the other wasn't, it was hers. He was not a Hunter, though he was well-accustomed to their wily ways. He was a Warlock; a translator of philosophy into power. Oryx had been a translator - a navigator of languages beyond words. Was Oryx a Warlock?

Are you Oryx, something whispered.

It didn't matter. Or it did. Oryx was the sword, no, the Sword - the word capitalized with importance and power. The knife, though, was all lowercase - it drew no attention to itself, it inspired little, it was not capped in gold or showered in blood. It was slim and easy to clean. Easy to forget. Easy to miss.

It was a bit like a human. And what were humans like, again? Oh yes. Humans: viciously, terribly angry when roused. Hive howled, Cabal shouted, Eliksni roared - but humans grew insidiously, quietly furious. He was human- No, nonono, he used to be human. Something else now. Something brighter. Something Lighter. Or he used to be. Again, another change - with a splash of something louder, hungrier, Darker - brought on by an act of quiet anger, of a deep-rooted grudge that called little attention to itself. Oryx had hardly noticed him, centred entirely on young Crota-slayer Jaxson, but then - then - Ikharos had struck. Quickly. Suddenly. Brightly. Oryx's eyes found him and widened with very un-godlike surprise as a spear of flowing Arc tore through His twisted, ravenous heart.

He was a creature of the knife being slowly seduced towards the sword.

Ikharos liked swords on principle, when all the philosophy was peeled back and kicked away like an overbearing blanket on a stiflingly hot night. They were simple, effective, and meaningful things. They were a form of convergent thought processes. Primitive humans all over Earth formed heavy clubs, then made them sharp - like swords. Eliksni lovingly persuaded steel into form and doused it in a wrapping of lightning. Cabal thrusted scimitars into baking ovens and pulled them out glowing with heat. Hive sharpened tools of butchery on bones and dying shrieks.

Harmony too made use of the blade, with the paradoxically far-reaching and short-bladed spear. They were strong, but they were never, ever going to win over the Hive. The ever-humble God of War was going to crush them. The old Witch was going to convince them to expend their strength on trivialities while she prepared a broom with which to sweep them away. Their blade was the wrong form. They'd already failed. Because they didn't understand blades. Not as he did.

Not as He did.

There was something/one thing/many things to be said about blades - but Ikharos wanted to know why he was so torn. The knife was, theoretically, where he belonged. It was the tool of the Guardian. No, more than that, it was the tool of the hunter-gatherer, the first state of human being. And he was being drawn to the sword, to an ambition - him! Ikharos Torstil, who vocally professed to never having any ambition!

"You think really, really loudly," a little voice grumbled from the back of his mind.

Ikharos smiled sheepishly. He flipped his hand around, catching the knife by the handle. "Sorry."

"Weirdo." Xiān's voice was full of adoring derision - ah, now there was a paradox! "You should talk with Formora again. She's good at sorting you out."

"I plan to."

"I meant where all this... nevermind." She paused. "It's still getting to you."

"What is?"

"Oryx."

"... I don't follow."

"Yeah, you do. You go on for a while all dandy - and by dandy I mean grumpy and focused on one thing or another - right up until something, like Hive, jogs your memory. Then you get into an existential crisis about how 'Oh no, I killed a god, am I going to become Him?' which is just ridiculous. You're Ikharos. Not Oryx."

"It's not about becoming Him. It's about..." Ikharos hesitated. "It's about mantling Him."

"You said it yourself: that window of opportunity's long gone."

"Is it?"

"... I don't follow. The old bitch-"

"Witch."

"Same thing. She's gone and taken Oryx's stuff."

"I could take it back. Or carve out a new kingdom just for me."

"But you won't."

"No," Ikharos agreed, "I won't. I'm too nice."

Xiān snorted.

000

Arke yawned. The forest was full of half-portion meals. Gathering them up into a satisfying lump of desire was tedious work. Oh, if only the Child of Light had wished! How satisfied she would have been for years to come! Instead she feasted on the wants and needs of lesser creatures, of higher forms of flora and lesser forms of fauna. Sometimes the elves unknowingly or otherwise tossed her sweat-meat treats in the form of exposed dreams and easily-reached ambitions. She tickled them with silken words and soft caresses.

Eliksni too were welcome as a staple food source, but they were cautious and knowledgeable - difficult to trick. Their many eyes saw many things and their many arms grasped at many high-end concepts. Elves were brighter, sweeter, honeyed in magic and blessings - but Eliksni were slow-cooked into succulence. Only a hatchling Kindred would overlook them. They were less appealing, but longer to last. And Arke had embedded herself into a lasting place of safety and plenty.

Yet she still wanted. Still lusted. Still hungered.

A little robin fluttered down to hop by her snout as she dozed. Arke opened two-of-four eyes, contemplating whether or not to snap up the irksome creature when she came to realization... she was not alone.

"You will be, soon," the little robin whispered. "The Song-Traitor stirs. A dare has been made of his demesne. They will reach once more and scour all the land."

"You migrate?"

"I starved. I feared. Those belong to lesser things. I will not starve again. I will not fear again."

Arke lifted her head. "Where will you go? Parzanon-across-the-Sea?"

"Alalëa."

"It is as much in his claws as this land is."

"Alalëa," the robin repeated. "There are no Singers in Alalëa. Only instruments and puppets."

"And devout bloodletters."

"A desire for bloodletting. Food."

"Food," Arke agreed.

The robin tilted his head. "Uirachas is dead. Vorshyyr too. They died in this forest."

"I know. I watched. I fought. I paved the way for their downfall."

"Why?"

"They sought to undo all I had orchestrated." Arke blew hot air through her flaring nostrils. "They sought to eat those I had already claimed as mine to seduce."

"Taboo."

"Yes. Taboo."

"How far does your claim reach?"

"Far. But I think it will end."

"You as well?" the robin asked in overly-dramatized disbelief.

Arke chuckled. "Look at our cousins. Watch as our children thrive."

"They are near-extinct."

"As are we."

The robin chirped. "As are many. Midha is dead."

Arke froze. "He is dead?"

"He is. The war-makers keep his body in cold storage. The Child of Light slew him."

"He is dead." Arke purred with petty delight and foreign sorrow. Alien sensations. Animal sensations. Not to be humoured. Not to be encouraged. "Midha is dead."

"The Consort of Stars is dead. What does the Star do without its Consort?"

"It burns."

The robin sang with harsh laughter. "Burn well, Star."

"Feast well, Eltos." She huffed. "But I do not understand your intent. Alalëa is rife with discord - His discord."

Eltos hopped away. "They break mirrors in Alalëa."

Ah. Well. In that case, Arke understood. She watched as Eltos took to the wing and soared away, becoming a far-reaching albatross.

Arke was never left bored and only sometimes alone. There came those who wished to talk with her - and those were easy nibbles to be had. There were those who sought information - and those were a delight to perplex and unnerve. Most rarely of all were those who knew her, who knew her nature and weaknesses, and they were the most difficult to feed from - but she was up to the challenge. They were entertaining, too, and what was life if not entertainment and food?

A reluctant bloodletter of Alalëan blood tracked her to her nest to request an audience. Arke allowed it - because the elf's spirit was drenched in forbidden wisdom and limitless potential. Not as the Child of Light was. No, she stood on the edge of becoming the other side of the same coin; the eternally shadowed half of a stationary moon.

"I have spoken with the members of House Miolandra," Formora said. There was a question and answer in her words. "Ikharos mentioned they might have retained relics of our distant ancestors - our human ancestors."

Formora shook her head. She finally believed the Light-Child's words, though it never ceased to dazzle her. Arke loved it.

"Bellaen met with me. He... said some things. Kind things. Supportive things. And... dangerous things. He is like Narí. Like Lifaen. Like... like Däthedr." She inhaled quickly. "He explained to me that his grand-uncle, Gilderien the Wise, once operated an enchanted scrying device - one that linked with his spirit, one that linked with his spell-arrow, the very thing he called White Flame of Vándil. With Gilderien's death, it was decided in his will that he be put to rest with his relic beside him. Forever after his spirit guarded this city, ever on the watch for trespassers and intruders. Bellaen allowed me to visit his grave."

Formora looked up at Arke. She had become difficult to read ever since her fate intertwined with that of the Kingbane, but there little tells that even the eternally on-guard elf couldn't hide. She didn't want a reply, only ears to fill with her words. Arke dutifully complied. The future renegade's wants and needs were cream and mint - refreshing and delectable. Her thoughts tasted of frigid winds and burning rage. Was that her present? Or her future?

Arke looked forward to seeing it all unravel either way.

Unravel like dark wings... sharpened with peerless crystals... catching on cutting gales... tearing through the cold, cold air... delivering vengeance... ferrying hatred... hefting a suffocating duty...

Beautiful.

"I noted the outward appearance and the records of its capabilities stored in the Miolanda household. I brought all I learned to Kiphoris. He told me exactly what Ikharos said: that it's a simulation device. He suspected it was uploaded with a copy of Gilderien's consciousness, enacting the prince of Miolandra's lifelong desire to safeguard elven kind. All this lost history, lost legacy... I had thought it hidden, I had reasoned that was why we were left oblivious to it all, but now I see we are an ignorant people. It was there all along, right in front of us, and we never once asked... 'Where did we come from?'"

Arke snuffled. Formora came back to the present, expression dark with dread and exhaustion.

"War is upon us," she said. "I had told others that it was already here, but... it's only beginning. This Sword Logic is a potent, though awful practice. It's a set of instructions for the universe's worst monsters to follow. Those monsters are here. Those monsters are closing in on an early victory. I've told Lady Violmedr; she refused to listen. I have told Lord Ahrimor and Falidaer, both veterans of the battle of Ilirea; they too scoffed at my words and sent me away. I professed the truth to them in the ancient language, but they... they deafen themselves with excuses and bigotry. Only Lord Bellaen du Hljödhr of House Miolandra and Lord Däthedr du Aesjon of House Baharöth would hear me out. Only they would believe me."

"There may be another," Arke murmured lowly.

Formora looked at her sharply. "Who do you mean?"

"Many. Perhaps Lady Andvari du Alsvit. She of House Erlandaríl."

The elf suddenly looked to be in pain. "She was a childhood friend, nothing more. All those I once counted to be on good terms with now scorn or banish me from their presence. Even my relatives now see me as... as something other."

"Words have reached her. The Lady of the Waters sways to your side, not to the Forest Queen's."

"This again... There are no sides. I am not feuding with Islanzadí-Dröttning."

Arke lowered her head to whisper, "Not yet."

Formora left more troubled than when she had arrived.

000

Iorves sprinted through the forested valleys of the Spine. The scent of death and Dark was heavy. He could see its colours, taste its presence, drink its magnificence; the beasts were not far. Faoriso and Beltan ran right behind them, spears brandished. They hungered for the burning satisfaction of vengeance done. He was much the same.

For Cerazhen Pass, he thought, and all our lost brothers and sisters.

The trees grew sparser. The land leveled out. Thin smoke trails hiked into the sky above. They were fresh. They were corpse-burnings; he saw the ashy organic matter rise up into the air, devoured by heat and fire. Calcified organic matter. It shone a dying green to his sharp-sighted receptacle. The bodies below were piled high, tossed into mounds by strong-armed Uluru. A massive presence loomed above them all; stern-faced and brute-bodied, the war machine was a hideous creation of all purpose and no poise. A small army milled around it, slaughtering pockets of Hive resistance or gathering up supplies previously abandoned.

This was not what he was here for.

Faoriso touched his elbow and pointed with a whispered word. Past the army, on a rise, was the sheen of something familiar, something that didn't bother to hide itself. It too saw them, and whispered with powerful words, good words - their words, stolen! But it's whispers were not meant for them. Not really.

The army thrummed with new life and fierce fury. The Traitor-Child's hushed warnings fell onto their ears and they heard, they believed, they knew Iorves and his kin were nearby.

"The Fire-Song's lost children keen for seized souls," Beltan murmured. "They lust after that one's death."

As if to accentuate his claim, a low hiss of electronic-communications radiated from the woodland around them.

"I do as well," Faoriso said wistfully. "Midha was kind to me. Kind to us all. The Traitor-Child will pay for taking him from us."

Iorves raised a hand. He was the Sub-Orator present; he had the final say. His slow-beating heart went with them, but his orders stood. "The Song-Mother gave us clear instructions. These beasts are the highest concern. We will confront the Traitor-Child when we are free to do so - not before."

Beltan sighed in disappointment. It was a deep, sonorous sound that reverberated through the ground below. "If we must. The scent of the beasts carries further afield."

Iorves hummed in acknowledgement. He watched the Traitor-Child, miles away. It stared back.

They ran. They tracked. They hunted. Stray Thrall were put to the blade. Lone Acolytes were shattered with barked spells. An Ogre was impaled by three different spears in three different places, choking off its roar before it could commence. The killings were delectable. They were good and right - and Iorves delighted in the taste of the Hive eye-glow fading.

It was justice. For Cerazhen. For Ana-Harmony. For his lost people.

But all they were doing was picking off the stragglers of an even larger host. One headed north. Why north?

What did they know?

Were their eyes on one of their installations?

On Albazad itself?

"We must investigate," Iorves declared. His kin marched with him, striding through organic wilderness to find the Hive army. And find it they did, crawling along the bottom of another valley. Weapons were being dragged in the dirt behind them, ranging from mobile Boomers to less wieldy siege-engines. Newly-birthed Tombships were being cast into form in their air above them, rippling out of cysts in the fabric of reality.

But where was-

Beltan shrieked. A massive hand had snagged him by the shoulder, tugging him towards a hulking form only just emerging out of the mountain's shadows. He raised his spear, blade glowing with heat - but too late. Monstrous jaws closed on his head, crunching on his receptacle and sinking its fangs into his metal shell. Poor Beltan gave one last ragged shriek before going still.

Iorves staggered back, struck silent and dazed by horror. It was just as it had been at home; unequivocally brutal, senseless, and ruthless. He steeled himself - no, no! This was their grand purpose! This was what their mentors, their master, their great teachers promised them! Existence exerted solely through the strength of one's self! No law beyond that written by the gods! A flash of silver from the edge of his famished vision. Faoriso screamed a war cry and charged, spear aglow. The beam scored a deep burn across the abomination's front, searing through chitin and flesh both. Beltan's body dropped from its silver-stained jaws. She pressed the advantage, tearing her spear through it air and aiming for its-

An axe planted itself in the side of her skull. Faoriso's spear dropped from nerveless fingers. Her entire body jerked once, twice, never again. The killer tugged its axe out of her head and turned to face Iorves, faceless save a soulfire slash running down the centre of its head.

"You... creature," Iorves choked out. His entire body trembled, off-setting the pitch of his song.

The Hive beast shrugged off the insult and approached quickly. The abomination behind it amused itself with tearing Beltan's corpse apart limb by limb. It looked up only when axe met spear with a crash of sparks and grunts, then returned to its grisly feast. Iorves sang sharply, cuttingly, and processed a myriad of binding and crippling spells. The axe-wielding warrior powered through each and every incantation, ripping through the magic without a care in the world.

It was unstoppable.

Iorves realized that the beast was a greater warrior than he. As such, when his spear was inevitably thrown aside and a three-fingered hand caught him by the neck, he wasn't all that surprised. Only disappointed - in himself, his kin, the metal humans that were at that very moment engaged in a firefight with Hive creatures, even the accursed Traitor-Child. The green gap in the Hive warrior's helmet brightened - more and more, until it blotted out everything else. Iorves grew dizzy and faint with overstimulation, choking on the poisoned feast and despairing as his entire world become emerald.

000

"Where do you think they went?" Melkris wondered.

Ikharos frowned. "I'm not sure. Thought these guys were Sword Logic enthusiasts..."

Javek shivered. "They are very large."

"Oh yeah," Ikharos agreed. "It's ridiculous."

"How do they support so much weight and power? I see no mouths with which to feed."

"We'll know when Invoctol hands over that body. I'm anxious to figure it out myself."

"When is that happening?" Melkris inquired. "I feel like all we do is wait. Then fight. Then wait some more."

"What, you think me studying a deceased Harmony specimen's going to be exciting? 'Cause let me tell you now: it's not."

"Maybe. But I want to hear you explain all you learn afterwards." Melkris sighed contently. "Human words are funny."

"Your face is funny," Beraskes growled irritably. She was a tad more reverent and respectful towards Ikharos than the other two. He figured it was just a lack of familiarity with how casually he ran things. Melkris laughed. Javek groaned. Kida didn't do much of anything, besides watch the treeline for incoming Exos. Thus far, nothing revealed themselves. There were only Cabal on the horizon, and they looked to be packing up.

A couple of Hive wandered once the Cabal had left with their prize. No big packs nor any high-ranking killers. Just hungry scavengers. They were relatively easy to mop up. A couple tried following the massive tread-trails left by the Imperial Land Tank, perhaps in an ill-thought out quest for vengeance. Ikharos didn't know. Neither did he care. He cut down every single Dark-worshipper he saw.

The Exos, too, became sparse. There were a few distant flickerings of movement in the surrounding woodland, but other than that they seemed to have disappeared. Maybe the Hive army headed north was cause for alarm. Maybe they had newer, easier prey to hunt down. More villages to burn, perhaps.

Ikharos still hadn't forgotten Doramb. He didn't think he ever would. They were going to pay for that.

A sword was tossed in the middle of camp. Right in front of Kida, who looked at it in faltering inquiry. The wielder uncloaked, casting off the blanket of Arc-energy with a low electrostatic hiss and shrug of a single shoulder. Beraskes stared at the Frame blankly. Her Marauder-helm boasted more eyes than she did. It made her look like a spider pretending to be a human, getting only halfway there. The Hive-ivory she hefted in a bundled steel-thread net didn't do much to dispel the image.

Beraskes peered closer. Kida didn't move - he had no instinct to do so. Why would he? He was a barely-thinking thing, built with advanced heuristic settings, but he was still a thing. Not an animal or person, built from the ground up with a mesh of cells and a core of I must survive; he was a collection of metal parts and circuitry with very clear instructions: do as the human says. There were no happy accidents on a machine's creation - only predetermined purpose.

"Extrasolar entity designated: Beraskes." Kida's orange optic brightened. "Do you require assistance?"

"Kii'da-ma'ha pak ma'den kir," she replied. Beraskes glanced at Ikharos. "Kirzen? How is it the machine above gifts you trinkets like this?"

"Because I got this." Ikharos clicked his fingers together. Sparks of Solar burst into the air and floated on a weak draft, dying away within moments. "And he wanted to curry favour. Or keep me in check. One or the other; maybe both."

"It would have carried mine-favour," Melkris said lowly. He looked over Kida appreciatively. "It moves well and shoots accurately."

Javek grunted his agreement, hands reaching inside the shell of a deactivated Shank.

Beraskes scoffed. "I would take blood-and-ether warriors any day." She glanced at Ikharos. "Or... blood-and..."

"Water," Ikharos supplied, "though the analogy doesn't work near as well." He clucked with his tongue. Kida swiveled about, standing straight. "At ease. Patrol the perimeter."

"Inquiry: how far, sir?"

"How about a stone's throw. Be thorough."

"Affirmative." Kida wandered off, rifle aimed at the ground. In the Frame's absence Beraskes crouched down and untied the ball of netting, allowing the collection of scoured bones, claws, and teeth to clatter out. She picked up a long fang, turned it around before her eyes, and hummed an old Riisan tune.

"Scrimshawing?" Ikharos guessed.

Beraskes dipped her head. "Eia. You practice?"

"Somewhat." Ikharos flaunted his bracers. The metallic feathers rippled with colour. Some of them boasted etched patterns across their sheening surfaces. "Not in the usual manner. Same concept, though."

"Dragon parts are not the same as Hive parts," she commented dubiously.

Ikharos shrugged. "Both carry risks of curses, but you're probably right. Still, it all comes down to using pieces of what you kill."

"It is a necessity," Beraskes muttered.

"A final honour where animals are concerned. Insult in the case of people. Even a people as twisted as..." He motioned towards the small collection of prize bones. "Those."

"What of dragons?" Javek asked curiously. "Is it an insult to them? Or an honour?"

"It's a chance to eat," Ikharos replied. "Unless you leech the consciousness from the pieces."

"Have you done that?"

"With these?" He raised his hands. "Sure. A little less so with other hardware I've designed, but that's... different."

"You have more dragon-armour?" Melkris inquired eagerly.

Ikharos shook his head. "Not armour."

"Then..."

"A weapon. More like an effigy, of sorts. One made in rage. I was... overcome at the time. Couldn't think straight."

"And now?"

Ikharos winced. "I'm ashamed to have ever touched her remains. Despicable creatures."

Melkris slowly backed off. He heard the tone in Ikharos's voice. Javek, though, was built of braver stuff. "You treat Arke differently," he pointed out

"Arke is caged, and in a way the Awoken Queen could never have managed. And she's free of malign influence - beside her own, that is. Not Taken."

"Taken?" All three Eliksni seized up. Javek retracted his arms from the Shank, all four eyes wide with horror. "A Taken Wish-Beast? By the Maw-anointed Hive-king?"

"Yep." Ikharos sat down. "Dead now. Both of them."

"That..." Beraskes shivered. She dropped the fang. "Where is this weapon now?"

"Somewhere... somewhere safe. It's not the only questionable thing I've made." Ikharos leaned back, lying in the grass. The stars were out in plain view. He was beginning to make sense of them. "Though of them all, it's comparably more tame. Ish. Still working out some kinks. The Anthem Anatheme is a rather difficult science to navigate..."

Melkris sidled over to him. There was something nervous, afraid even, in his eyes, but there was a sliver of familiar slyness too. "Tell me more."

"No."

"Ah, come on."

Javek shivered. "I do not think I want to hear this."

"Neither do I." Beraskes gathered up her bones. "Speak quietly. I yet want to sleep in peace."

"I'm not telling him anything," Ikharos announced. "You can all just carry on."

Melkris poked him in the side. "You are."

"I'm not, go away."

"You cannot pique my interest and carry on as if nothing has happened."

"I'm not a people person; don't know when to keep my mouth shut."

"Nama, you love people."

"I appreciate their presence. I hate them being needling little bastards who don't know when to quit."

Melkris nodded gravely and glanced to the side. "Did you hear that, Javek?"

"I... what does that have to do with me? He meant you!"

"Nama. Kirzen said needling little bastards. You are little."

"We're the same size, you fool."

"Little in years. Little in intelligence."

Javek huffed. "I'm a Splicer. I think mine-intelligence is just fine; elsewise Skriviks-Archon would have dismissed me from the priesthood."

"Ha, little Javek!"

Ikharos closed his eyes and tried to zone them out. "We'll move soon," he murmured. Melkris kept on chanting, but Beraskes heard. Hopefully Javek too. "To figure out where those Harmony went."

"After Hive," Beraskes grunted.

"Most likely. We should get eyes on them too. Any word from the Skiffs?"

"No."

"Pity." Ikharos put an arm behind his head. "Nothing much happening around here. We should probably get eyes in on the nest, but time's short and people are moving. You fit to trek?"

Beraskes made an affirming sound. A steady scratching noise followed; evidently, she was starting on the ivory.

Riven's corpse sprawled across the temple floor, like a once-graceful cetacean cut open on the deck of a commercial whaling ship. He had in his hands a knife - her knife, her knife, her knife, all he had left of her -and he worked it over the bony pieces that once made up the dragon's vocal chords. Whispers built up in his ears, clogging out every other sound, but he could feel just fine - feel the roughly smooth texture of her bones, the slick film of her blood, the sickening pressure of her repugnant magic.

He stayed well away from the jaws. They weren't the same ones that had bitten down, but it all amounted to the same thing. He'd retrieved the pieces he held by cutting into her throat from the outside. The throat he'd ran down with five others to reach the dragon's heart.

What the hell.

Ikharos looked up. There were tears in his eyes, fire in his mouth, and whispers - so many whispers, too many whispers - pounding against his eardrums.

The others had left. Some returned to the City to report the grim news. Others - Quantis - briefly stayed to make sure he was alright. Ikharos had sent her away. She'd gone with Petra to the edge of the City, where Corsairs were setting up camp.

He needed to be alone, because he was alone. Gone. Gone. Gone. She was gone.

A gun formed under his fingers. Ikharos didn't really have a design in mind, but when did that matter? Divine paracausality: wacky, right? The coin toss was his to own. The dice always rolled in his favour. Bullets hit him and then decided, nevermind, I don't actually want to hurt you.

Ikharos never lost a poker game - and he didn't even know the rules.

But everything else? Yeah, he lost that. There was a timer on everything he touched, everything he saw, and it always started counting the moment he began to care.

What the hell.

The gun had no barrel. It had no ammunition, either - not really. It was just bones and desire, wired together in all-consuming hate. He hated the dragon - hated what she'd done to everyone, to him. She took Lennox. Lennox: who was his friend for more than a full century. Lennox: who sought him out and dragged him back from the depths of despair. Lennox: who gave him a shot at living again.

Back to the edge he went. Back to the proverbial cliff of bubbling horror.

All because of a dragon.

All because of a Witch.

What the hell.

The gun was a wish. It was a want - plain as day. Did Riven answer it? Was this her doing?

Or was it the pale cosmic ball in the sky?

... Did it really matter? One hurt him, tore out his heart, but the other-

The other put him in the cruel, cruel universe knowing full well he was going to suffer. It put all his kind back into the world. Gave them incredible power without an iota of concern, without even contemplating 'wait, no, this might be a bad idea' - like handing a gaggle of five-year-olds a fully loaded revolver. And when the shooting started, when bodies started hitting the floor - everything in the empty dark all around the single flickering torch heard loud and clear. Things with too many eyes and too sharp teeth.

What the hell.

000

She felt as if home had simultaneously embraced her with warm, welcoming arms and sent her away, door slamming shut behind her. Formora talked with Lady Violmedr only rarely, and even those few curt conversations were strained. They had finally discovered that neither were going to give in and acquiesce to the other's wishes. Formora would not bow her head and meekly follow tradition. Violmedr refused to accept outside influence, so caught up in the past that she forgot the realities of the present.

It hammered in a painful truth: her home - if it even was that - was barred to her. For a short time Formora found a place in the Eliksni camp, sleeping comfortably in the shadow of Kiphoris's Skiff when night fell. It allowed her to watch and learn as the familiar strangers all about lived and worked. They were a productive and tightly-knit people - and more in-tune with all the universe's many truths than even her own elven kind. A small group even practiced magic. It was there that she began to actively help out, working alongside the ever-polite Lord Bellaen to single out those with a propensity for gramarye and instruct them in the proper ways of spellcraft. It was tiring, though satisfying work.

Beyond that, she found that volunteering herself to other tasks to be just as gratifying. There were Splicers who wanted nothing more than to learn of the natural world around them, technicians who needed help with maintaining the many machines, and the few nobles who tried - with some success - to parley with their hosts. Kiphoris welcomed her there where the latter was concerned, but it was Drotos who engaged her more often. The Archpriest was fascinating - part physician, part engineer, part clergyman. He was a warrior of some renown too, if the rumours among the common soldiers were to be believed. While he gave her tasks to complete or curiosities to sate, he offered information on something she'd long wanted to know about: the god that propelled them to such great lengths.

Formora remembered the disbelief she'd once held with faiths of all forms. She still had it, quarreling with the realization that immortals indeed existed. Ikharos mentioned gods often, though either with a deep reservoir of disdain or distant, begrudging acceptance. Never with reverence. Never with loyalty or love. The Eliksni were different - and they followed the very same god as he. The Great Machine they called it. It was the Traveler to humanity - to her own human ancestors.

Her ancestors had worshipped a god.

Remarkable. If not a little overly fantastical. But maybe 'worship' was too strong a word. The only form of evidence she had to go on was Ikharos, as the sole human from Earth, and he was not compelling proof. He made no prayers and gave no offerings. His faith was a scarred, hurt thing. He depended only on people - and even then, not really. A sympathetic man, but not one who trusted easily. Distant with strangers and blatantly curt to those he didn't respect. His easygoing amiability was largely a sham - a barrier with which he could disguise how he truly felt.

Formora had picked up on that quickly enough upon meeting and speaking with him. She had liked knowing it because it was advantageous; he was not a creature without weakness, immortal though he may have been. She liked it now for different reasons, because she could pride herself on having that hard-earned trust, having that faith.

The Eliksni, though, were different. They were largely cautious too, but their opinion towards the god that once hovered over them was powerful and mostly positive, if marred with an ancestral hurt for its abandonment of them. What Formora took away from that was that one: gods were not kind, and two: they were just as prone to terror and miscalculations as mortals.

It was almost more frightening than learning gods existed in the first place.

"Lord Däthedr."

The elven noble graciously took her hand and led her inside. "Lady Láerdhon."

Formora raised her free hand and touched her lips. "Atra esterní ono thelduin."

"Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr," he replied, mirroring the gesture

"Un atra du evarínya ono varda," she finished. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Thank you for attending," Däthedr countered in good humour. They strolled through the first corridor of his manor, where the walls were laden with history-made-art. There was even a stylized depiction of tall, four-armed Eliksni to be seen, meeting with the slender forms of familiar älfya. Beyond the hallway, in the dining room, a small collection of notables had gathered together. Formora knew only half by name: Lord Bellaen of House Miolandra, the young heiress Eilífa of House Televvar, the aged artisan and warrior Arahynn of the lowly House Oernir, and Narí - the recently returned mate of her own cousin. The rest were unknown to her, though a couple were somewhat familiar in appearance and dress. One of them bore the symbol of the silver dhow on his shoulder; the emblem of House Erlandaríl - of Lady Andvari herself.

Arke's penchant for foreknowledge was unnerving.

Narí and Arahynn stood and bowed their heads as she arrived. The others offered similarly respectful greetings. It was remarkably clean of all the negativity that often plagued her encounters with others of their kind. Formora smiled, touched her lips again, and took to the seat proffered by Däthedr.

Plates were set out. Food was served - more savoury and natural foods, the delicacies of Du Weldenvarden. It was nothing like the basic sung-food and tasteless rations she'd subsisted on out in the wilds. It was good, it was familiar, and it was comforting. Däthedr's daughter briefly appeared, her son hiding behind her legs. The elder lord spoke to them and, in the case of little Dusan, bade him goodnight. The child courteously replied, though his eyes were on her - on Formora. She smiled back, not a little uncertain. The boy shyly looked away and disappeared, ushered on by a loving parent.

If the food was good, then the drinks were exemplary. The Faelnirv was sweet and fresh - though Formora came to the realization that she had been spoiled with ether-boosted beverages. Narí even addressed it, mentioning how the Servitor-supplied substance augmented the cider.

"I must partake of this," old Arahynn replied. He turned to Formora. "Are the Eliksni open to trade?"

She hesitated only briefly. "You would have to specify what you want to trade for. Ether they are willing to share, but only when it is in surplus - and only to those they trust, I believe."

"They must trust you."

"I... I have fought alongside them." In a muttered voice she added: "In doing so, I slew a beast in Ceunon that stood to eliminate their Baron."

"What was this beast?" Eilífa wondered.

"It was an Ahamkara," Formora replied truthfully. "The second of which I have slain."

"Like this Arke creature?"

"Indeed."

"Are they so dangerous?" Bellaen asked, concerned.

Formora hesitated again. "It's a complicated subject to ponder. Yes, though you need not worry. Arke has been both disarmed and appeased with oaths in the ancient language."

"Appeased?"

"She desired her bindings. Kiphoris tells me she sought it out herself, so that she could put to rest our fears of her."

"A noble thing to do."

"No. Desperate," Formora corrected. "Ikharos stood ready to slay her then and there."

"Why?" Eilífa asked out of sheer puzzlement. "What reason did he have?"

"Prior experience with her ilk. I was of the same mind," Formora admitted. "All the Wish-dragons I have encountered before meeting her were wicked, malignant creatures. Even those afterwards - those, you may know, who beset themselves upon us as we traveled Eldor lake - sought only to feed from our distress and deaths."

"But why would they seek you out in particular?" Eilífa continued. "It seems strange that we have never encountered their kind before, only for them to resurge where you and Ikharos are."

"Because they serve those who see us as foes. As threats to their grand ploy."

"You speak of this... Strife Cult," Arahynn noted.

"It's true," Narí said suddenly. He winced. "There were... The Grey Folk live. And they are arrayed against us."

"Truly?" Eilífa inquired, quite aghast.

Formora frowned despite herself. The ridicule was slow to arrive. Where was it?

"Truly," Narí gravely responded. "Three of them attacked the Cabal to the west without provocation. Upon noticing Ikharos, who was hidden nearby, two of them turned their attentions to him and engaged him in combat. It was... an unnaturally vicious exchange."

"And Ikharos...?"

"Won. Both were slain by him, and he, while wounded, managed to escape the third in no small part due to the distraction offered by the Cabal." Narí looked around. "They were fearsome things. As tall as buildings and as fast as birds on the wing. Their skin was like steel, impenetrable by all weapons save the magic and enchanted blade wielded by Ikharos. The third followed us later. It spoke clearly and powerfully in the ancient language only, leading a force of lesser metal creatures with the minds of former humans."

"Excuse me?" One of the other elves frowned and leaned forward. "Metal bodies... human minds?"

"Exominds," Formora elaborated. "Or Exos. Where Ikharos comes from they are a common enough sight - or so he tells me. Old and powerful; they were created long ago in a daring bid for immortality. They are as long-lived as we - or longer, for their bodies don't age at all. Their minds are their only constraints."

"How is this managed? Moving a mind into metal?"

"I don't know. But the Exos we crossed were of a strange variety. Even unto death they survived, relocating to a small mental pocket at the base of their skull." Formora tapped the back of her neck for emphasis.

"And these... people... they followed the Grey Folk?"

"Unquestionably. They were ready to kill on the orders of the Harmony."

"Harmony?"

"It is what the Grey Folk call themselves in this language," Formora explained. "Or, in their old tongue, they are the Qulantnirang."

"They have no tongues," Narí muttered. "No mouths, no nostrils, no ears, and only a single crystal for an eye. They are unique."

There were troubled murmurings around the table.

"We theorize that they draw sustenance from death," Formora added. "As the Hive do."

Däthedr cleared his throat. "Yes, these Hive. It is they you set out with the Eliksni to face, yes?"

"Yes." Formora dipped her head. "They are as terrible as the Grey Folk - if not worse."

Narí nodded in agreement. "The stories Ikharos told... it makes me shudder to think that such bloody history has come to pass. Even mad Galbatorix would seem pure and innocent in comparison." He sighed shakily. "It was explained to us the reasonings behind the Hive's beliefs, ambitions - even their twisted creation as a race. It's tragic and horrifying in plenty. I saw them, too. At a distance - but I saw them. There is no reasoning with those monsters."

"No," Formora murmured, remembering the Knight that had almost killed her. "There is not." She paused. "This is grim news - hardly suitable for dinner conversation. I apologize for-"

"No," Eilífa said quickly, flashing a fleeting, unsure smile. "That is why I am here. I believe it is the same for everyone else, if I am not mistaken."

"True," Bellaen said with an acknowledging tilt of his head. "There are important things to be discussed here on this night, and revelations to work through."

A sliver of discomfort ran through her. Formora looked around. "I was under the impression this was to be a cordial affair."

"It is," Bellaen quickly followed up, "but there is so much more we need to understand. And you need to understand."

"... Is this about Islanzadí?" She asked suspiciously.

No one spoke. No one save for Lord Däthedr, who reluctantly said, "Indeed."

"I want no part of any feud."

"This is no feud."

"Not yet," Formora shot out, remembering Arke's troubling words. "Conspiracy hardly endears one's self to a reigning monarch."

"There is much that has ceased to be endearing of her rule," Däthedr replied. "Evandur was a good king. I served him faithfully for many years. His death is a loss I will never truly recover from. I was favourably disposed to Islanzadí taking the place of her mate as Queen, for I truly believed she would rule well - and she did, in peace and seclusion. But this peace will not last and our seclusion has already been broken."

"It should have broken earlier," Bellaen said quietly. "Our allies the Varden suffered for it - as well as Brom, last of the Elf-Friends. We have forgotten our allies. Islanzadí has forgotten our allies. And now, we receive warnings from well-meaning strangers, warnings of armies gathering and dark magics unraveling."

"I have scryed the land," Däthedr announced, "just as you said we should. Kuasta is nothing but ashes. The northern Spine has been claimed by creatures of shadow and green fire. And to the north I feel a menacing chill, a presence that forces me to end my seeing-spells prematurely."

"It is just so," Formora said tiredly, though not without some relief. "We must do something. Even to only offer meagre forms of assistance is worth more than inaction."

"So we must. Yet, Islanzadí forbade it."

"Then we make a case to her! Convince her of all you have learned, Lord Däthedr. You are trusted in the court - your words are worth far more than mine."

"Trusted?" Däthedr shook his head. "I spoke out against the closing of our borders after the capture of Arya-Dröttningu, citing that it would only be to our collective detriment. Queen Islanzadí was not pleased with me. I dare say she still isn't, though I was proven right. If I do this now, speak against her again, I fear she will be predisposed to judge us harshly."

"You're afraid."

"I am wary."

"You should be afraid of the alternative - of what complacency will mean for our people."

"I am," Däthedr said honestly. "Believe me, Formora Láerdhon, I do fear the threats beyond the scope of our borders."

"Then what?" Formora challenged. She was speaking out of turn, given their stations, but her concern had been lost somewhere with the revelation of the meeting's true intention. "What will you do?"

"I don't know. On that I will look to you for instruction."

"... Me?"

"Yes. You have traveled the land more recently and extensively than all of us present. You have learned of the true nature of these threats, have you not? You made the alliances with Ikharos and the Eliksni first. Where matters of the outer world are concerned, I defer to you."

No one else spoke. They were all looking to her. Ikharos would have started barking orders, she figured. Formora was less keen on the idea. She took a deep breath. "The Hive... the Hive march to war."

"North," Narí said, nodding. "Ikharos said as much after he escaped their clutches."

"He was captured?" Eilífa asked with surprise.

"Briefly. A Hive sorceress took him with a teleportation spell. As I understand it, he cut down all who barred his way back to freedom - and learned much in the process."

Formora's mind lingered a moment too long on the unnerving realities of the explanation. She needed to talk with Ikharos - and soon, preferably. "They march north. We believe they go to challenge the Harmony in their own domain."

"That is good news, yes?" Arahynn ventured.

Formora closed her eyes. "No. It is not. Their magic and faith allows both of those monstrous races to grow on violence and death. Whomever wins the oncoming battles will have their strength bolstered. And then... they will turn their sights on us."

000

The city fell just as the local night crept up on them. Fires raged. Natives shouted and cried out - dead, injured, or herded and beaten into submission by thugs who no more deserved to be called Eliksni than vicious kin-eating rodents. Skriviks marched up the central street, his staff tapping away at the cobblestones. The walls of the place, once pristine, had been painted in sloppy red and scattered ash. The canals ran thick with the drenched proof of needless brutality. Skriviks stopped, looked around, and came to the realization that he recognized none of it. Not the Scar banners fluttering from the roofs of high buildings. Not the Skiffs strafing through the air. Not even in the once-noble soldiers that marched past.

Aroughs, it was called. A word he couldn't pronounce. The inhabitants were primitive, vulnerable, small, and weak.

Their city was open to attack and here he was in the middle of it all. Watching it burn.

Inelziks found him there. Her eyes were wide with uncharacteristic horror. Her previous calm and elegance had given way to something else, something afraid. A small broken thing - a pudgy little alien swaddled in damp cloths stained red - dangled from her hands.

There were no songs to be had.

No poems to be woven together.

No ballads to be recited.

"Why?" She asked. "This isn't us."

"No." Skriviks took the dead thing and tossed it into a ditch, hearts hollow. "This is Krinok-kel."

"... Why?"

"I don't know."

"We need Tarrhis."

"He is far."

"You sent him far!" Inelziks accused. "He is... this is... This is not mine-house. This is not mine-banner. Not anymore."

Skriviks looked around. "Quiet! Or his creatures will hear."

"What does it matter?" Inelziks deflated. "We have killed ourselves."

"We have not."

"We have. Our pride, our honour - it's gone. This isn't us. This is not who we are. I... can't..." She looked up at him. "Please. Bring Tarrhis back."

"Krinok will kill him. Krinok will slay the child."

"Then we must kill Krinok!"

"Quiet, I said!"

"You are an Archon! You are a leader to our people, a saviour!" Inelziks poked him hard in the chest. Skriviks growled, but she ignored it. "Act like it. Call a duel. Call a ceremony. I do not care; bring Tarrhis here. Krinok must die. Tarrhis must assume control - before we lose what little we have left. Please!"

Skriviks stood still and closed all four eyes. He was in pain. So much pain. It was worse than any battle wound. It was grief: for Riis, for Eliksni, for himself.

The city around them continued to scream.

000

"Up!" The Eliksni Captain's face was full of scorn and disdain. She waved her crackling blade through the air. "Up, I said!"

Zhonoch growled. Neirim glared. Neuroc... watched. They all stood anyways. Blades were potent. Blades were meaningful. Blades were right. There was no arguing with a blade unopposed. But Uluru - foolish misguided creatures - thought otherwise. They always did, challenging for every scrap of leverage they could get.

"Where are you taking us?" Zhonoch asked darkly, standing straight and trying to loom over the Scar Captain.

The big she-Eliksni sneered, mouth opening to reveal rows of dagger-like teeth. Fangs were good too. Fangs were great. Useful. Natural. "We're sending you home."

Neuroc almost laughed.

Almost.

The Skiff they boarded rumbled and shook. The winds outside were angry. Neuroc could taste the anger. It was alive. It was watching. It was perplexed. She liked that. She liked it when those not of her kind were perplexed. It made them easy to maneuver. Easy to manipulate. Easy to drive to ill-fated action.

They landed not long after. It was an open field lush with vegetation. A trio of armed Eliksni escorted them out and released their bindings. They were met with a small contingent of Uluru Legionaries. The Eliksni boarded their craft and took off, flying back to their camp. Zhonoch exchanged words with the commander.

Neirim turned to her, eye flashing worriedly, distantly. He necessitated watching.

A landed Harvester was nearby. They boarded, buckled in, and started flying all over again. Neuroc waited patiently. Her stomach churned. Her mind wavered- No. No. No. Don't let go. Neirim was looking away. Speaking with Zhonoch. Then Zhonoch was standing above her, asking her a question. There was a glint of concern in his eyes. A soldier's concern.

"I am fine," she said, waving a hand. "I am fine."

His own hand dropped on her shoulder, gentle. He could have crushed her if he so wished, but the thought didn't cross his mind. It crossed hers, though. "If you're sure. We won't be going back."

Neuroc smiled hesitantly; she needed to go back. There was something there. Something she saw. Something she sensed. Something she discovered. Something important.

At last they reached a village. It was native, but patrolled by Cabal soldiers. A metaconcert hung above like a thick stormcloud. Neirim dipped in and out beside her. Neuroc offered only fleeting greetings. It welcomed her back like kin, a hundred voices offering her sympathies and regret and concern. It was a cushion of community - and it threatened to strangle her. Neuroc drifted back out, laughing at every joke and meeting every heartfelt worry with the same excuse.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine."

Gradually, one by one, the voices fell back. All but three - three intertwined in permanent unison.

"Come," it said. "I request your presence."

There was something in its voice. Relief: choked and bright. Love. But not for her. Not in the past. Scarcely there in the present. Never in the future.

"We have been summoned," Neuroc told Zhonoch. The big Uluru nodded, exhaustion finally revealing itself. The poor treatment they'd received showed in his sloppy, dazed movements. The conditions had only just been bearable. Their captors? Full of old hatred.

It had been perfect. Gradual and form-fitting. A place to begin. A place to practice. A place to learn. She had begun; she had practiced; she had learned. Now she had perfected it - perfected her being of the present. It was going to work.

The three voices were one in actuality. A huge Uluru - dutiful Shu'av - ushered them into the prefab office. A towering Psion stood within, garbed in fine armour and finer cloak. It was their new Primus. It was their Dominion's Triune.

It was her greatest obstacle. And it didn't notice.

"Zhonoch," the Psion greeted with bated breath.

The Uluru Vigilant stared. "... Who are you?"

"I am-"

"Wait. No. No. Not really. It can't be." Zhonoch's small eyes widened. "By Acrius's gleam..."

"Yes." The Psion leaned forward. "It's me."

"It's all of you... all three..."

"Yes. We - I - are one now."

"Tlac?"

"I am Invoctol. And I know you."

Zhonoch blinked. Hard. "What in the... You really did it? You... you infused?"

"We did. I did." Invoctol gathered himself. Looked at her. "There is much we must discuss. Imperial matters come first."

Zhonoch saluted. He was grinning through his discomfort and surprise; he was giddy. "Yes sir."

"Please, relax. You are with friends now." It was meant for her. Invoctol saw how tightly wound her mind's walls were and took it for caution. He was not wrong. Not entirely. "There have been developments."

"How did you get us back?" The Vigilant asked immediately.

Invoctol walked behind his desk and sat down. "I traded. I made deals. I bartered and I swore oaths."

"With Eliksni bandits?"

"With sapients outside the influence of the resident cults."

Zhonoch grimaced. "The Hive persist, do they?"

"Yes. But it's worse than that."

"Worse than- We lost an entire carrier!"

"And salvaged an Imperial Land Tank only yesterday. But the Hive are not only zealots here."

"Who?"

Neuroc walked back to her assigned cabin in the village. It had belonged to humans, but as per a treaty worked out between Invoctol and the local elders, housing was made available for Cabal officers. Neirim met her there, quiet and expectant. He had a dusty old cup in his pouch, with a small satchel of salt and a few rags of spare cloth. He carried it all like holy contraband.

"Mother?" He whispered once they were in the confines of the building. "What comes next?"

Neuroc regarded him thoughtfully. "We learn," she said. "The Primus needs an operator."

"To go where?"

"Back."

"To the barbarians?"

"To the creature. The human."

Neirim's eye crinkled with vulnerable concern. His cold assassin's visage melted away entirely. "We cannot. They will kill us."

"Words were spoken. Binding words."

"For what purpose?"

"To know our enemy." Neuroc gave him a firm look. "Be they Singer or human."

It was her duty. Her purpose. Her singular objective. She would see it through, even if she had to fight to the bitter end.

Aiat.

AN: Big thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!