Chapter 64: Riislaw

The march began with a birth.

Kirrnaka-Hul waited. The Wizards were secretive creatures, and though infamous for backstabbing one another there was an underlying kinship within their covens. He was barred from intruding onto the scene - and though he could have forced his way in, it would have entailed killing witches he needed alive to see his daring crusade through. Instead, he listened - listened as his mate, the sharp-clawed Viirloraak, gave livebirth to hissing larvae. Livebirth was not natural for them, only relied upon when they hadn't the time or space to rear their children up in the (relative) safety of a nest, and this was one such necessary occasion.

The Wizards eventually permitted him to see his newborns. Three Blades of Kâliir - other children of his - followed him, warding his back from over-ambitious underlings. The Wizards cleared before him, revealing his exhausted mate and six small proto-Thrall scrambling in the mud. He looked up. "Force the Worms onto them," he ordered. "Then place them before me, anointed in blood."

The Wizards flew to do his bidding, dutiful only to atone for their earlier rebellion. Kirrnaka-Hul listened as they roughly snatched up his children and carried them back to where a Worm-infested Ogre stumbled and swayed.

His children grew quickly. It was fortunate, for he had been about to signal for the march to continue - which would have killed them. The Wizards placed his six newest progeny before him and retreated. Kirrnaka-Hul looked over each and every one of the blind, gangly creatures who shared his blood, his carapace, his will.

He needed only one.

Kirrnaka-Hul tossed a silver spear onto the dusty ground before them. The six Thrall quietened and turned their chattering jaws towards the weapon. He said to them, "Fight. They who survive will feed. I am a noble and kind father; I will gift you a kill well above your station. But only if you slay those who might otherwise take your place. This is the way of things. This is how survival is done. Aiat."

The six Thrall pounced.

One remained, blinking with three newly-formed eyes. She was thick of crest and strong of arm, and her spear was stained green with the blood of her siblings. She looked up at him, afraid and hopeful all at once. Kirrnaka-Hul lowered his axe so that the blade bit into the earth, using it much like an anchor to keep him still as his ambitious thoughts ran away from him.

"Bring the Singer," he ordered. His Blades dragged forth a beaten, bleeding thing with a cracked crystal eye. The alien thing was like they were, doused in the Deep's favour - but also not, for its connection was weaker, it had no Worm and no relic of the Deep to cling to. A heretic with its heart set in the right direction. Kirrnaka-Hul despised it as vehemently as he respected it. The Singers were slaves to none but their anger - an anger sowed by the great King. Oryx was right. Their crusades were not just for their own benefit, but for the benefit of all. Kirrnaka-Hul wished he could do the same, drive other false, faithless peoples to the right path, the proper path, and mold them into something good - something to last. But first he had to grow. Had to cut away the weakness holding him - and his foes - back.

He looked back to his newest daughter, watching with thin amusement as she wiped a hand down the slick silver blade of her new spear and licked the blood away. "You are hungry?" he asked, more gently than he should have. He was supposed to be stern, uncaring, but this was his child. And Kirrnaka-Hul did so love his battle-proven children.

His daughter looked up. "I am," she rasped in a voice so young and so old at the same time. She had slain her own siblings - and there was no more humbling an experience than that. Kirrnaka-Hul once more relished his own memories of hunting down those not of his own clutch, exulting in the horror and wrongness of tearing into the flesh of brothers and sisters, but it almost as pleasing to watch it unfold amongst the younger broods without lifting a claw to sway the battle one way or another. Dangerous competition breeds strong blood, Tir Argok had once told him. He hadn't known her to ever be wrong.

"Then feast." Kirrnaka-Hul gestured to the beaten Singer.

His daughter took one step, then stopped and looked at him with mistrust. He laughed.

"Good!" He told her. "Good. You understand, don't you? Gifts can be innocent - but they can also be lies, tricks, a means of honest downfall."

"So I will not eat?" She asked with disappointment, wincing and clutching at her stomach. Kirrnaka-Hul felt a sliver of sympathy run through him; the Worm was never satisfied.

"You will eat," he promised her in the tongue of the righteous, the Ascendants he hoped to join. She lunged forward and lanced the Singer through the neck. It tensed and died. His daughter surged with Worm-strength, growing on the death. She pulled the weapon back and lapped at the quicksilver ichor leaking from the fallen Singer's not-throat.

Kirrnaka-Hul pulled his axe out of the ground and raised it to the sky, pointing it northward. "We all eat. I am a kind, honest father. I will be a kind, honest king. I offer you sustenance and stability - but only if you are strong enough to take it."

His brood cheered and hissed with support and opposition in equal measure. It was delightfully invigorating.

Viirloraak returned to him with dimmed eyes and a proud smirk. Together they watched as their daughter snarled and bickered with her other, older siblings - those who hadn't yet amassed the power to join the Blades of Holy Kâliir, who were yet common Acolytes and lesser Knights.

"She will rise far," Viirloraak whispered. "And she will rise fast."

"Or she will die," Kirrnaka-Hul murmured disinterestedly. That was in itself a lie, words and boredom both; she was different, she had the makings of a Blade, she was going to thrive and he loved to see it.

"I name her Novok," his mate laughed. "For it means 'grow fast'."

"Is that your hope?" He asked.

"No. It is my belief. Novok will be your rightful heir."

"Over my other children?"

"Those born to lesser Witches," Virrloraak scoffed. "All of whom I have slain."

Kirrnaka-Hul grasped her shoulder and held her close. She molded against him, a svelte thing formed of delicate bone-charms, rough alien-leather robes and searing wards. "You did. I was impressed."

His mate laughed. "As were many. War's Headsman and War's Keeper of Stratagem. We were destined to give rise to powerful progeny."

Kirrnaka-Hul glanced back to his newest child. To Novok. She speared one of her less clever brothers - one who mistakenly took her for a weak Thrall-thing - through the heart.

He was so, so proud.

000

They left their Pikes and Sparrow at the bottom of the mountain and climbed. Ikharos committed himself to the task, slowly but steadily crawling up the almost vertical mountain-face. His Eliksni companions had an easier time of it; they were well accustomed to scaling surfaces they had no right to be on. Gravity tugged at them, tried to convince them that the only right place to be was down, but the Eliksni didn't care. In that he envied them.

That envy turned to irritation the moment Melkris realized he had a prime victim to tease. He moved alongside Ikharos, helping where necessary but otherwise being a menace.

"Why don't humans have claws?" He asked aloud. "This seems foolish."

Ikharos huffed out a heated breath. His fingers were tipped with slivers of Void to help him dig into the rock, but it was still hard going. "Because we have no control over our own evolution."

"Elves do."

"Elves are weird."

"They are," Melkris agreed. "But you love them all the same."

"Can we not?"

Javek clambered back down to them. "Do you need assistance, Ikha Riis?"

"Get Melkris out of here."

"Melkris. Leave."

The shockshooter clicked his mandibles rapidly in a vague approximation of a chuckle. "Nama."

"Melkris."

"I want to be with my favourite human."

"Your favourite human," Ikharos began, "is getting real tired of your crap." He briefly released his hold on the rock and Blinked a distance up.

There was still a couple of miles' worth to go.

At last they crested the peak. Javek and Melkris helped him at the last segment, pulling at his shoulders when the fierce winds threatened to toss him from the mountain face. Beraskes was already at the top, having climbed ahead, and perched still while glowering in the northward direction. She pointed. "There, Kirzen."

Ikharos braced himself against the peak and turned. Everything was as he expected it to be - the carrier was motionless, there were massive treadtracks leading away from it and through the now flattened forested valleys south, smoke steadily climbed up from the aftermath of the Cabal incursion two days previous, and-

And in the distance, on the edge of the lip where the fjord fed into the sea, a tiny-but-large pool of hundreds of moving bodies crashed into the shallows and marched across.

"They're fording the fjord," Ikharos said in hushed English. He paused and frowned at himself. "That's a mouthful."

"Kirzen?" Melkris questioned.

"They're crossing," he repeated in Low Speak. "So they really are headed north. They could have headed south for the Cabal, for the Broddring Empire, for... everyone, really, but no. They're going for the Singers."

"If they live that way," Beraskes said dubiously.

"They do," Javek told her. "Ikha Riis found records from other Lightwalkers. They have a fortress that way."

"I know. But where?"

Javek shrugged. "I am sure the Hive will find out soon enough. Their vision is poorer than ours, but their sense of smell is sensitive. And Formora pak Zeshus tells me they can smell magic."

Ikharos felt all semblance of good cheer leave him. The Darkblade's army was moving - and fast. The ploy was a desperate one, but bold and ambitious too. It put pressure on him he would have rather done without. "Javek? Send word to Kiph and Tarrhis that we have likely confirmation on the Hive host's heading."

"Oh, eia." Javek waved to the Shanks just below. One of the drones obediently flew up to them. "Now, or-"

"Now would be preferable."

"Of course, Kirzen."

Ikharos cautiously leaned forward. The place they'd stopped wasn't exactly suited for standing, what with the rock surface sloping away into open air, but at least it wasn't a sheer drop. Not while he was sitting where he was.

Then Melkris nudged his shoulders in a teasing manner, pretending to push him off.

"Bloody hell!" Ikharos scampered away from the edge and clutched the rock behind. "You psesiskar. Don't do that!"

Melkris cackled and caught Ikharos around the chest, tugging back towards the safety of the peak. His embrace was warm and heartfelt. "I only jest, Ikha Riis," the shockshooter promised through his mirth. "But I am surprised. Death is no end for you. Why does falling strike such fear into you?"

"Long drop," Ikharos complained. "Too many rocks to bounce off. Melkris, I'm serious. Don't."

"You're fine, you're alive." Melkris patted him over the head. "Cease your cries, hatchling-human, you are among friends."

"Why is your friendship so terrifying?" Javek asked absentmindedly, tapping away at the Shank's communication's device. "All you do is test our patience - and now, threaten us with death."

"Oh, you just whine and winge," Melkris complained. "But in truth you adore me."

"I do not."

"You do."

"I do not."

"You do."

"Great Machine's grace, do you ever stop?"

"Nama." Melkris slyly winked. "Never."

Beraskes sighed exhaustedly.

"Something the matter?" Ikharos asked.

She gestured forth. "I am trying to enjoy... this, but he-" she briefly glared at Melkris "-is being a nuisance."

Melkris huffed, though he avoided snapping a retort

Beraskes turned back. "This... this world is beautiful."

Ikharos, with one eye on Melkris, leaned forward again. "It is."

"It is colourful and sparkling and alive. There are so few worlds like this. Fewer still hospitable to peoples like mine and yours."

"It's a treasure," Ikharos murmured.

"Eia. One to be protected. From Hive and Singers - and Cabal, if they make of themselves a threat to us."

"No Great Machine," Javek quietly added.

Melkris groaned. "So what? The Great Machine chose to be elsewhere. Well, I choose to be here. I refuse to leave."

"Even if your Kell orders you to?"

"Our Kell is a hatchling. He will not be ordering anyone for some time yet."

Javek slowly nodded and went back to work.

"I would like to stay," Beraskes said wistfully.

"You're not the first to say that," Ikharos told her. "Everyone wants a slice of paradise, right? Right up until its all gone - all eaten up."

"Sorry?"

"... Nothing." He exhaled. The wind tore the fog of his breath away in an instant. "Just me being cynical."

"I... believe I understand?" Beraskes didn't sound sure. "We must be wary with how we acclimate to this world, yes?"

"That's about it." Ikharos nodded. Though I haven't been doing much of that myself.

Javek cleared his throat. "Kirzen? There is, uh, a message for you?"

"What about?" He asked, gaze sliding back to the distant dark spot of Hive ranks, miles upon miles away.

"Tarrhis-Mrelliks requests your presence. He bears news of Krinok - and he desires a boon of you."

A Skiff came to collect them. Dutiful Nyreks was inside, assigned as the crew's temporary commander. He and Ikharos exchanged terse and polite greetings before settling in for the flight. Instead of Ellesméra, the Eliksni vessel flew to the plains directly south, between the borders of Du Weldenvarden and the Hadarac desert. Another three Skiffs were present - one half-cloaked in the air, the other two landed. A small collection of soldiers milled about. In the centre of it all stood the tall forms of Sundrass, Drotos, and Tarrhis.

Waiting

For him.

Nyreks's Skiff slowed to a stop and landed. Ikharos disembarked, alone, and approached the noble trio. Their cloaks, red and gold, fluttered in the surprisingly strong winds. The faulds of his teal-and-silver robes did much the same. The colours didn't matter. Not really. Not to Mother Nature, tugging away at the the ends of their garbs. But it did to him. He wasn't one of them. And yet...

And yet here he was.

"Aroughs," Ikharos said hollowly. "They took it."

"They did," Drotos solemnly reported.

"What's the body count?"

"Many."

"All?"

"We cannot tell."

"Humans. Civilians. Murdered. Why?"

"Because Krinok is a beast." Tarrhis lowered himself down on one knee. Ikharos still had to crane his neck to look the Baron in the eye. It was always the case with their upper nobility. "I did not intend for this to happen to your kind."

"I know." Ikharos bit his cheek. "But it's happened all the same."

"It has."

"People are dead. First Kuasta, now Aroughs. This has to end." His hands shook by his side. "Krinok has to die."

"And so he shall," Tarrhis told him.

"I'll organize a strike. Alone or no, doesn't matter; bastard needs to go."

"Nama."

"... What?" Ikharost took a dangerous step forward. "What did you say?"

Tarrhis narrowed his inner eyes, refusing to back down. "Nama. These are mine-people. I cannot in good conscience endorse their deaths."

"I thought you wanted Krinok dead."

"I do, Kirzen. I have sworn as much. But this is not the way."

Drotos coughed into his hand. "There is... more, brave Kirzen. This news does not come to us alone."

"What else is there?" Ikharos demanded hotly. His blood roared. His Solar flared.

"Skriviks-Archon has... has decreed that the Archon's Forge is to take place upon the site of Krinok's newest conquest."

"Archon's Forge?" Ikharos frowned. "Why?"

"You are familiar?" Drotos leaned over him, all too quickly hungry for information. "Have you partaken of it with the other Great Houses?"

"In a bastardized manner, sure. The Devils weren't happy."

"Devil-pride is a fierce thing."

"So is Devil-rage." Ikharos crossed his arm, if only in hopes of steadying them. How many? Hundreds? Thousands? "What's your point?"

Drotos knelt down much like Tarrhis, but on both knees and with both pairs of hands clasped together, as if in prayer. Maybe he was. Maybe he was praying to Ikharos's own Light. Now there was a scary prospect. "What do you know of Archon's Forge?"

Ikharos sucked in a deep breath. "It's a method by which Eliksni can either elevate their rank within the hierarchy of a crew or House, or settle disputes both personal and, occasionally, political. It's not dissimilar to the Uluru custom called the Rite of Proving, where warriors test their claim through trial by combat, which can be settled by first blood, crippling, or even death. And, again, like the Uluru rite there can be an impartial third party that can, and as custom dictates will, watch over the duel to ensure the proper laws are upheld and that the victor is decisively asserted. House Judgement took to this duty after the Edge Wars and before the Whirlwind, though afterwards the job fell to Archons and their clergy - like yourself."

Drotos inclined his head. "Indeed. Your knowledge of our history-"

"Is in-depth, yeah, I know. I read too much."

The Archpriest chuckled. "There is nothing wrong with reading. But there is another aspect to the Archon's Forge. You are already somewhat familiar with it." Drotos threw Tarrhis an unhappy look. The Baron averted his gaze, suddenly shamefaced. "You stated that it is a place for grudges to be settled, eia? This is true. These grudges can be grievous indeed, as they were between you and Kiphoris-Veskirisk."

"... Oh yeah." Ikharos nodded. He remembered their duel all too well. "Conveniently timed after I'd tired myself out after knocking the Cabal around."

"True, regrettably. But these grudges can be larger yet, and from those higher in rank too. In the Elder Days, Kells crossed blades beneath the Great Machine to settle matters between the Great Houses. The Edge Wars almost broke that. If not for the Kings and Judgement - and Kiphoris's noble ancestor Eiriver, the Unseen - then our people would have fractured ourselves, no Whirlwind necessary. The Archon's Forge was created to avoid further destabilizing conflicts. And," Drotos's voice fell, "it can ascertain who leads a house."

Ikharos caught on. "So... Skriviks wants Tarrhis to challenge Krinok?"

"Eia."

"... This guy is the blood-kin of Taniks, right? Taniks never cared for tradition."

"Taniks," Tarrhis growled, "never cared for Kellhood either. Krinok must answer mine-challenge, when I make it - or he will lose what little credibility he has left."

"That's all well and good, but where do I come in?" Ikharos inquired. "You asked for my help specifically."

"To make the challenge, I must make a show of force. I must have mine-Captains at mine-side."

"All of whom he can write off as 'these people are Exiles. No longer capable of partaking in our traditions.'"

"That is why I need you, Kirzen." Tarrhis's deep, rumbling voice took on a pleading note. "I must have you to legitimize mine-challenge. When your connection to the Great Machine is proven, Skriviks will be able to acknowledge you as the Light's holy representative. You may take your place as a spectator and judge over mine-duel with the Ether-Thief." Tarrhis exhaled slowly, snuffling against the confines of his battlemask. "The Great Machine watches over us through you."

All kinds of wrong went through Ikharos's mind. "I'm not... I'm not like that. I'm not holy. I'm not sacred. I'm just... just a soldier."

"You have been bestowed with the Great Machine's blessings," Drotos said firmly.

"Still, I'm no holy figure. Our saints have seldom been kind to Eliksni - Kiphoris can tell you that much and more."

"But you have," Tarrhis asserted. "Mine-son, Raksil, worked with you. He had many good things to say. You have his respect, as well as that of those others you took with you to scout the Hive. There are those who have spoken on your behalf, all positive. I am sorely tempted to invite you into mine-house as it is."

There it is, Ikharos though. Formora warned me of this so long ago. "That's... great, and very kind of you," Ikharos said carefully, "but I'm human."

"In part. Is that not what you always say?"

Ikharos briefly closed his eyes. "I can't... fuck it. I'll help you with this. Whatever gets that monster killed."

Tarrhis grinned. His outer eyes closed.

"But I can't join the Scars. I just... I can't. I'm sorry. I like you, I like your people, truly, more than any other house, but I can't join. I'll still help, and I'll still advise, but I can't..." Ikharos sighed. "I just can't."

The big Baron shifted after a couple of seconds of silence. "That is... understandable. I apologize."

"Don't. The offer was a kind one, but I'm not the kind of man you want in your house." I've killed thousands of your people. I don't have any right to it.

Tarrhis reached out with his upper right hand, lightly tapping a claw against Ikharos's chest. "Your help is appreciated. Our oaths to one another still hold. This world will be cleansed of dire foes and our peoples will be saved - even if we must save them from themselves. In this we are bound, and that is enough."

"That's enough," Ikharos agreed. His anger was still there, but buried under a lump of guilt, disbelief, and discomfort. They believed in him. Even Sundrass, if her less-than-hostile gaze was anything to judge by.

They really shouldn't have.

A bunk had been offered to him. Ikharos took it. The material below and over him was softer than it should have been, given how Eliksni were, in theory, a people on the brink of extinction. Good weavers, though. They didn't need to be Wolves to be known for that. Hollowhot was a fantastic fabric, nearly as sublime as elven lámarae. It probably would have sold for a lot on the Cabal markets, if it ever made it into the Empire's softer, civilized core.

Ikharos allowed himself to dream of walking Torobatl's mosaic-ridden streets. He found it hard to picture his surroundings, each imagining more fantastical and outlandish than the last. It was a place that bred tyrants and warlords, but he sorely wanted to see it. At least once before death finally caught up with him. What with Riis long gone, it was the only alien capital he had any hopes of seeing with his own eyes - as far-fetched a future as it was.

Inevitably, the weight of what he'd been told caught up with him and Ikharos almost choked on it. Xiān zapped herself into existence above him, burning eye dimmed so as to not hurt his eyes.

"Honestly," she began, "I see absolutely nothing going wrong with this."

"It's the kind of plan I'd make," Ikharos muttered. "Good foundations, lacking in structure."

Xiān snorted. "At least you understand your own shortcomings."

"Only because of Formora."

"Hey, I've been telling you about it for years."

"Yeah, but you're you, y'know?"

"... Suppose so." She floated down onto his chest. "I am... happy with this, though."

"In what way?"

"That you're not going in guns blazing. I'm glad you're giving Tarrhis and his people the chance to do this cleanly."

Ikharos grimaced. "Clean? It stopped being clean a long time ago. Since Kuasta, really. We're just doing damage control at this rate."

"You know what I mean."

"I... I do. Aroughs... they killed it. They've killed Aroughs. An entire city."

"We don't know that," Xiān quickly told him. "Not yet."

Ikharos groaned. "Well, we will soon enough." He pressed further into the Skiff bunk, as if to bury his concerns along with the rest of him. "We'll have to get back to Ellesméra first, deal with elves and Arke and all that, then follow Tarrhis to... to Aroughs."

Nyreks took him to the elven capital while Tarrhis and Drotos discussed the strategy of their upcoming challenge and the composition of the Baron's honour guard. The second flight was shorter than the first, less than an hour and without incident. They landed in the Eliksni camp - which was in the midst of being disassembled. Ikharos dropped out of the Skiff, strolled through the activity of the disintegrating settlement, and exchanged cordial words with a couple of overseers.

Kiphoris quickly sought him out, offering an inclined head as his sole greeting, and said, "I know. Krinok and his Wretches will die."

"They better," Ikharos said lowly. "Have you told the elves?"

Kiphoris nodded. "I informed Lord Bellaen and Formora. It is mine-impression that they carried the message on to their kin." He hesitated. "Or Bellaen informed his kin. Beyond Lifaen, Formora has..."

"Has what?" Ikharos asked urgently.

"Ah, you will have to ask her yourself, Ikha Riis. It is not mine-place to say."

"Fine," he grumbled. "Anything else?"

"The Cabal have delivered. They did so a day-and-a-half ago"

"Delivered what?"

Kiphoris made a face. Which was impressive, considering how beyond the eyes and mandibles Eliksni facial features were largely static. "The Harmony corpse. And a handler."

"I'm sorry?"

"A handler. A Psion. She is to watch over your work with the Singer. We met them halfway, as we did when returning their people."

"That's not..." Ikharos blinked. "That's not at all what I wanted."

"Nama. It is what Invoctol wanted." Kiphoris's voice took on an unhappy note. "She is a Flayer. Her mind is... is noisy. We have placed her under watch by mine-Skiff. She is confined to her tent, and I have personally ensured there are neurojammers surrounding her. She will not escape, nor will she invade our thoughts."

"I'm surprised you lot haven't cut her throat."

"Oh," Kiphoris groaned, "it was close. There are few in this camp who like Cabal. Fewer can accept that we must 'deal' with them."

"It's a risk, though. For them and us."

"More for us. They demanded a hostage of their own."

"Who did you give?"

"Not yet. Tarrhis is considering Nyreks."

Ikharos winced. "Poor guy."

"Eia." Kiphoris didn't sound very pleased. "But! As long as we... receive this Flayer well, he be offered with comfortable quarters and fair treatment. Or so Invoctol promised. It was difficult to discern what his true offer was between all the times he called mine-people 'barbarians' and 'brigands'. He even went as far as to name us 'pirates'..."

Ikharos said nothing to contribute. He imagined if he had, it wouldn't have gone over well. "Politics," was all he offered.

"Politics," Kiphoris bitterly agreed. He groaned. "Thank you for reminding me, Ikha Riis. I have more elves to meet."

"Sorry?"

"Bah." The former Wolf stalked away, eventually disappearing from sight altogether.

Inspired, or rather cautiously curious, Ikharos sought out the Psion. He found her exactly where Kiphoris said she was to be: confined to a large drab storage tent with a pair of rifle-bearing Vandals and a single miserable Dreg standing guard outside. Ikharos wondered in the back of his mind how the Eliksni flew keeping a political semi-prisoner past the elves. Maybe, he mused as he entered the tent, they haven't.

He couldn't have imagined Islanzadí would have been pleased. If she didn't like him, then a Psion Flayer was really going to test her patience.

Surprisingly, the Psion inside was one he knew. She had been one of the prisoners, Ikharos realized. The one he'd struggled with the most while attempting to wring answers out of the captured Cabal. This time, however, she wore a clean red-and-green uniform and sat against a metal crate completely unfettered. Opposite her stood Formora. The two had been speaking to one another in hushed, strained tones as he entered, but it was cut short upon his arrival. Formora turned and flashed him a smile - but Ikharos's attention was already firmly trained on Midha's massive prone form. The dead Harmony looked the exact same way as he had when Ikharos had killed him. His metallic wings were tattered and torn, his crystal-eye was cracked, and his limbs were twisted and broken. There was a dark spot under his chin from where Néhvaët had thrusted up into the giant's silver skull.

There were scratches and soot spots from, he guessed, where the Cabal had tried to cut it open. They obviously hadn't succeeded.

"Kvetha," Formora greeted warmly. She walked around the body and pulled him into a tight embrace. Ikharos returned it, burying his face into her shoulder and hair.

"Want the flower back?" He asked, voice muffled. She laughed against him.

"Is this our new custom?" She teased. "Sharing a token?"

"Could be." Ikharos pulled back and slipped the satchel with the flower out of transmat. He opened it up, emptied its contents out onto an open hand, and delicately offered it to Formora. "Here you are."

"Here I am?" She paraphrased. With an amused smile she took it and tucked it behind her left ear. "There."

"There." Ikharos grinned back. And he kissed her - fleetingly, uncertainly, a nervous act of retaliation for the heart-stopper she'd given him before. Formora's eyes widened. "And there," he whispered.

She gave him a look full of surprise. It didn't last long. Formora turned about and said, "This is Neuroc, Flayer loyal to Invoctol."

"We've met." Ikharos dipped his head. "You look... less thin."

The Psion stared. "I have been appropriately fed and sheltered."

"But you came right back," Ikharos pointed out. "Why?"

"My Primus orders it."

"Surely he's got other Flayers."

"I volunteered," Neuroc told him. "I want to understand this-" she indicated to dead Midha "-as much as you do."

Ikharos grimaced. "Yeah."

"When will you begin?"

"Time's becoming a commodity, so I'll probably start today and resume whenever the universe allows for it. What are you going to do?"

Neuroc reached behind her crate and lifted up a Cabal-styled datapad, all clunky casing and bright orange screen. "I will watch, ask questions and take notes. Primus Invoctol desires revelations where these Singers are concerned. I will bring these to him."

Ikharos swiveled back to the body. "Right... Should probably start-"

"Now?" Formora finished. "You don't want to rest?"

"No time," Ikharos replied, half-apologetic. He'd managed to catch a couple of hours of sleep. It would have to be enough. "Hive are on the move, Singers are getting active, and Krinok..."

"Took Aroughs." Formora leaned against him. "I know. I heard."

Neuroc made a curious sound. "Krinok-kel struck against the local human conglomerate?"

"Um, yeah." Ikharos frowned. Probably shouldn't have let her hear that. What a state we're in - letting spies waltz into camp and pick up every other secret they can. "Doesn't matter. Gotta deal with this first." He looked back. "This is going to get bloody. If you think you'll-"

"I'll be fine," Formora told him steadily. She looked down at herself. "Though I might change into less..."

"Stainable gear, yeah. Xiān?" In an instant everything he wore changed. Instead of robes Ikharos wore an expendable set of civilian-grade clothes. Less valuable than both his armour and his lámarae-weave garb. "Perfect. Thanks. 'Mora?"

"Yes?"

"Toss me your sword."

Formora unbuckled her blade's sheath and passed it over. Ikharos tugged out the weapon and laid its covering on a nearby table, then climbed atop the dead Harmony and hung above the centre of its chest. "Right... here goes."

He stabbed downwards.

"Neuroc? Write this down. The specimen - Harmony, Singer, Grey Folk, Qulantnirang, all the above - is a fourteen foot tall entity self-proclaimed to be Midha in life, titled the Consort of Stars. What this title means is... well I have no idea. Let's assume something obscure. In any case, specimen possesses a biological adaptation formed from pure magic, local paracausal variant referred to as gramarye, influencing the make-up of his body to sprout entirely new limbs. These growths aren't separate from the body; veins and arteries channel blood in and out in tandem with the rest of the circulatory system. This blood, however, is not quite like the norm of Eliksni, human, or militant Cabal species. The Harmony require no oxygen, as far as I can see, and thus have neither lungs nor modified cells in the blood to carry the element around the body. Even the blood vessels are of a far more limited variety. They shift blood all about, but once they reach the extremities they open up to peristaltically flush the limbs full of blood rather than carefully channel the stuff about. It should be noted that this blood is silver in colouration, much like the skin of the Harmony. It may not be blood at all, considering I'm working off the vague assumption of them not being dissimilar to other known humanoid species.

"The reason, I think, has to do with the carapace of the Harmony. They have skin, but it's soft, sensitive, and highly porous - meaning that this silver blood can get through. Once it does, it hardens upon contact with open air, forming a protective shell. The substance has trace elements of iron, titanium, silver and copper, along with three other elements I can't identify - all held together with a unique liquid that's part plasma, part oil. The metal shell itself is lightweight and flexible, which can account for the Harmony's speed and agility. I might add, however, that it's very smooth. I suspect the Harmony groom themselves to rid themselves of the excess - though whether by themselves with magic or physically by others of the same species as part of some kind of traditional rite has yet to be seen.

"Beneath the skin, past all the blood vessels, is a skeleton. The outer layer of bone is porous like the skin, which allows it to take on the metal and slowly, over the course of many years, solidify it. The inner layers are not porous and exactly like that of Uluru and human - though closer to the former if only because of how naturally resilient it is. Where the limbs, hips, shoulders, and ribs are concerned it is wrapped in fibrous muscle growths boasting extreme elastic proportions. It's strange, but it could correlate with the necessary strength to control a body covered in a - admittedly not very heavy - metal. It also stands as a basis for the immense strength of living Harmony. The spine is covered in another layer of these muscles. No wonder they're so agile. Their maneuverability is exemplary for creatures of their size.

"A majority of the creature's organs are contained within its metal-ringed ribcage. It has two set aside near the top as some kind of... hearts? Each with five chambers. 'Hearts' isn't right - they don't just pump blood, they make it. It's fused with... with another collections of organs that are almost like stomachs, or even bio-organic versions of dynamo-fueled power generators. These organs in turn lead directly to the head - to the eye. This is where it gets tricky. Upon noticing this connection, I assumed that Harmony are photovores, that they subsist on sunlight alone - but they're too large, too active, too inhuman, so I didn't stop there. The crystal absorbs light, yes, but it's more than that. These aren't filter feeders, gobbling up whatever goes their way. No, these are predators. They grab light from across a wide electromagnetic spectrum. They eat colour. That's why the Grey City is so... grey. Nezarec ate all the ambient light in the place. I've cast a spectral analyzer over it just to be sure, and it went wild. This is magic. Dragon-magic. Ahamkara handiwork. I've long since come to the conclusion that Harmony and Ahamkara are interlinked not through circumstance alone, but this is bigger than anything I anticipated. Ahamkara make these crystal orifices.

"My emerging theory is that Harmony are born, or hatched or whatever, blind and mouthless. They desire the ability to see and eat, and this wish draws in nearby Ahamkara to help them by invoking the Anthem Anatheme and lending them a piece of their magic. Both Harmony and Ahamkara benefit from this - both get the chance to eat. If this is true, then it means the Ahamkara have been around the Harmony long enough for the latter to become completely dependent on the Wish-Dragons. It's a symbiotic relationship. This depends entirely, however, on the idea that Harmony reproduce - but after my inspection of the specimen it appears they possess no classic reproductive organs, sexual or otherwise.

"Beyond the heart and stomachs, all the other organs are devoted to sound - communication, essentially. No livers, no pancreas, no kidneys. Light and colour is probably a clean source of energy, so where's the need? The sound organs, though, are connected to everything else. They're more like drums of a sort, vibrating down fibre cords all around the body. This probably accounts for their strange voices, emanating from every part of them. They're complicated creatures, but also not. What internal functions they do have are complex - though they lack many of the other characteristics other sapient species do. They aren't like us. Not one bit.

"Oh, and the horns may well be insensitive growths, but they're too deeply connected to the skull so no, Neuroc, they can't be naturally shorn off like Uluru tusks."

Formora handed him a towel. Ikharos gratefully took it and wiped down his hands. Some of the blood has solidified over his own skin. He summoned the Void and seared the stuff off. He did the same with Vaeta, which had been thoroughly stained silver, then gave it back. "Thanks," he told her.

"You're welcome." Formora looked past him, gaze harsh. "Is there anything else?"

"As in...?"

"Weaknesses?"

Ikharos nodded and turned around. He pointed to the opened up chest. The air smelled like freshly-forged steel. "Rib-rings go almost all the way down. Hips are plated, so while the waist isn't as well defended, hitting it with intent to harm isn't going to work. Go for the hearts if you can, eye if you can't. Severing the neck works too, but you gotta cut deep. No throat and jugulars are well hidden.

Neuroc stepped closer. "The carapace is impervious to all Imperial munitions, but not your blade?"

"Enchanted," Ikharos said. "Rider swords are magic-sharp. Eyes, though, are exposed and breakable. It might not kill the Singer, but it blinds them - which could give your people more than enough time to find another way to kill them. Try for laceration over explosives or blunt force. Energy rounds won't fare well either. The armour is resistant to heat. Solid projectiles with enhanced armour-piercing shells are your best bet."

Neuroc blinked. "Understood."

"We done?"

"For now. I must report this to Invoctol." She tapped away at her datapad. Ikharos frowned; he hoped Kiphoris had gone over the device, if only to mask their current location from the pad's geographical tracker. Probably did too. The Wolf was too thorough and careful to have let something like that pass.

"Noted." Ikharos turned and summarily left with Formora. Xiān put his armour back on him. Once they were outside, Ikharos cycled in lungfuls of clean, fresh forest air and tried his best to untense. It didn't work near as well as he'd hoped. "There's... so much wrong."

Formora took his hand and led him away from the tent. "With the Harmony?" She softly inquired. "Or at large?"

"Bit of both. The latter's got me worried, but the former... I'm not used to that." Ikharos almost stumbled over a length of cables. "Eliksni, Uluru, Psions, humans, even Hive - we're different, but we've got too much the same to look at each other as completely other. We all eat. We all drink. We all speak. We all breathe. We all roar and shout and bite and fu- You know what I mean."

Formora slowed. "I think so. I'm not as familiar with the anatomy of most of those you named, but..."

"They're the same where it counts," Ikharos elaborated. "Harmony aren't. And that's... that's weird. I mean, they're aliens, I shouldn't be so surprised - but Eliksni are aliens and they work like we do. Convergent evolution and all that. We all evolved the same because it works, we're surviving, but the Harmony went and said no. No. They wanted magic. They wanted their damn dragons. Now they've got both and die without either." He frowned. "So... maybe not completely unlike Hive, what with their Worms."

"Has a Hive ever survived without a Worm?"

"Now there's a question for the history books. No idea. I imagine they'd just be Krill, then. That's what the pre-Worm Hive were called. But... that was so long ago."

Formora leaned against him. "It doesn't matter."

"The Hive-Worm thing?"

"The Harmony and their strangeness. They live and die like everyone else. That's enough."

"Suppose so." Ikharos wrapped an arm around her and delighted in the pressure of her against him. It was intoxicating. "Tarrhis is planning something. About Krinok. And Aroughs. And the House of Scar."

"What is it?"

Ikharos told her everything - the Archon's Forge, the opportunity Skriviks gave them, Tarrhis's intent, and how he was supposed to be there to lend credibility to the entire endeavour. He finished off with his own thoughts on the matter: like how upset he was that he had to play the part of some kind of prophet. "Because I'm related in some manner to a god," he complained. "I... I hate gods. Religion is one thing, people can have that, just let me keep a distance, but gods... gods have hurt me again and again. The Traveler screwed humanity over. It screwed the Eliksni over. I admire it, I respect it, but no way in hell do I think it's been good to us. Not in the long-term."

"Mortals are greater than gods," Formora murmured.

"You've said that before."

"Am I wrong?"

"It's debatable." Ikharos lowered his forehead to her shoulder. "But I like it. Keep saying that, please. It's a nice thought."

"Shall I add it my house-words?"

"House-words?"

"Family motto."

"Will Violmedr approve?"

Formora straightened. Ikharos knew something was off. "I meant Láerdhon, not Rílvenar at large."

Ikharos raised his head. "Has something happened?"

She grimaced. "Yes. You did."

"... Sorry?"

"Don't be; it's not your fault."

"I'm not really getting any of this. What happened?"

Formora sighed and buried her face against his neck, under his chin. "Violmedr is upset. With you. For going to war with the Hive."

"What the hell?" Ikharos frowned. "That's... I mean, Traveler above. Is it suddenly a crime to kill Hive or something?"

"My people don't understand."

"Hive are bad."

"I know that, but they don't."

"Then let's tell them."

"I have. Many of them refuse to listen."

"Then let's show them."

"They refuse to look."

"So they're willingly ignorant?" Ikharos groaned. "People are the worst."

"They can be. But there are others who do listen."

"I guess only some people are the worst. That's good."

"They're being overly secretive," Formora said quietly. "It's making me nervous."

"Sounds it." Ikharos kissed her forehead. "I'm here, you know."

"I know. I am holding you."

"I mean in a 'you can talk to me' way."

"So I realize." Formora's voice softened. "This is... nice."

"Isn't it?"

"You and me."

"You and me," Ikharos agreed. "Up until I head off with Tarrhis."

"I'm going with you."

"No."

Formora lifted her head and narrowed her eyes. "I am."

Ikharos closed his eyes. "No. Eliksni... can get dangerous."

"I know. I've lived alongside them for months now-"

"Not like this. You've lived with the common Eliknsi, but Krinok-... He's a different beast entirely. One of the last living relatives of Taniks. Well, Taniks killed Guardians. Dozens. True deaths, all. If Krinok's half the monster Taniks was, then I don't want you anywhere near him."

"I'm not a child," Formora bitterly retorted

"I'm not treating you like a child."

"No. You're treating me as a mortal."

"Aren't you?" Ikharos stilled. "No... I'm sorry."

Formora's expression was grave. "I want to be there. You're going, Kiphoris is going, Tarrhis is going - what if it goes wrong?"

"Then we'll be doing it my way," he whispered. "What will your presence change?"

"I can help."

"It's either a duel or an assassination. Both of which we're performing against a Kell. An Eliksni almost Saphira's size and many times as dangerous."

"Dangerous. Like the Hive."

"Sure."

"You ran headlong into a Hive nest and almost didn't make it out."

"That's... different."

"How?" Formora challenged. She sounded angry - but worried too. "Ikharos. I don't like... I don't want you to die."

"I'm Risen."

"That's no excuse. Be better."

Ikharos sighed. "This plan is all we have. Krinok needs to die, or Aroughs will only be the beginning."

"Then please, let me help."

"Mora, you can't."

"So I am to remain behind? Perhaps you'd like it if I swept out our home, cleaned the dishes, cared for the-"

"It's not that!" Ikharos said quickly

"Then what is it?!"

"I don't..." Ikharos clenched his teeth, then let go and sighed. "Lose you. I don't... I lost Zahl. I lost Er-... I-I can't. Lose you. Please. I don't care about you fighting, I need you to fight at my side, to help me, but this could get very bad very quickly. I'm not letting you die for nothing."

Formora's features, once drawn with affront, softened. She cupped the side of his face. "And I don't want to lose you. You are dear to me. I think more than anyone else."

"There's nothing you can do in Aroughs. I need you here."

"Doing what?"

"Getting the elves who believe, who listen, and... see what you can get." Ikharos breathed, in and out, in a vain attempt to calm his racing heart. "Maps, guidance, advice, support, spells, anything. The Hive are marching. We need to kill Krinok, not just because of Aroughs, but because of the Eliksni. I can't take on that many alone, nor with Tarrhis and his loyalists. We need the Ketch's weapons. We need the other Barons. We need the elves. If we fail on either front, I don't think we'll be able to stop the Darkblade. Do this. For me. Please."

Formora looked, for a moment, as if she were going to protest again. Instead she said, reluctantly, "Wiol ono."

(For you.)

"Thank you." Ikharos let out a trembling breath. He leaned in and kissed her. She kissed back, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. They pulled apart a long moment later. "And you are dear to me."

Formora smiled, though still looked far from satisfied.

He avoided visiting Oromis. Ikharos didn't think he had the energy for it. The old elf was pleasant, polite, and intelligent - but the soft condescension and gentle reservations towards anything pertaining to the universe's cosmically dire state was grating, and the proximity of two dragons who weren't exactly fond of him didn't help matters. Eragon was alright, but Eragon was a boy. He was hardly someone Ikharos wanted to seek out for engaging conversation.

His chosen alternative wasn't all that great on that front either, but he had to make sure she was behaving. Arke had fallen into the precarious spot of not-foe-not-friend-only-a-tad-trustworthy, and he never knew what to make of it. Ikharos had previously tried to keep her at a distance, and thought he'd done a splendid job there, but her snide remarks and husky whispers were needles poking holes in his defense - and he had nothing to replace it with.

Nothing beyond a bullet to the dragon's brain, but that was sure to give rise to a whole host of other problems.

He and Formora found the Wish-Dragon by the edge of camp, having made a nest of plucked saplings, broken branches and a smattering of soft leaves. She was not alone. Saphira was there with her, along with her Rider and, surprisingly enough, Arya. Arke saw him first and lifted her head up. "Child of Light," she trilled.

The others turned. Eragon raised a hand in greeting; Arya brought two fingers to her lips; Saphira blinked one big plate-sized eye.

"Vel," Ikharos greeted, utilizing the Eliksni word on a whim. It felt less improper than any 'howya'. "I'm going to assume you're up to date with what's happening?"

Arke winked at them with all four eyes, one after another.

"Thought so."

"What's... happening?" Eragon inquired, perplexed.

Ikharos indicated in a northwesterly direction. "Hive are on the move. Their Darkblade - big guy, would probably eat dragons for breakfast - is taking his brood to find a battle."

"Why?" Arya asked. She sounded both confused and suspicious.

"Because they eat death. They subsist on violence. Finding a challenging enemy and then killing it is like a five-course meal to them." Ikharos tapped at the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip. "They grow on it - on fighting. And, well, if they stop fighting then the Worms in their stomachs will eat them inside out."

"So they have to keep fighting?" Eragon asked curiously. "All their lives?"

"All their lives," Ikharos confirmed. "Unless, of course, we end their lives. It would be a mercy to all involved."

"Are... are you going to do that?"

"Yes," Formora said instantly.

"Probably." Ikharos gave her a semi-amused look. He sobered not a moment later. "Soon as this Eliksni mess is dealt with."

Arya peered past then "What is happening? Why have so many left?"

"Aroughs," Ikharos grimly reported. "Other Eliksni took it."

"Took it?"

"Attacked, razed, pillaged, killed. Tarrhis convinced me to help him settle it his way, so... yeah." Ikharos heaved a breath. "We're going to kill the bastard responsible, then turn our sights back to the Hive. Before they reach the Grey Folk."

"The Grey Folk?" Arya asked sharply. She looked utterly bewildered by what she was hearing. "Why them?"

"Because they're strong."

"And they live north?"

"Somewhere," Ikharos supplied. "We don't have an exact location, but the Hive might. They have the uncanny ability of crawling into places they really shouldn't."

"How do you know this?"

"There was a record left by one of my kind in Celbedeil. It... was an eye-opening read." Ikharos looked at Arke. "The Wish-Dragons went to war. Some sided with the dwarves and the Risen who led them, while the rest-"

"Were enslaved," Arke finished. Her ever-present smile finally disappeared. "You know this enslavement, Child of Light. You have seen it time and again."

"The Dark's seductive," Ikharos confirmed with a scowl. "Or so I hear. Must be why it has so many damn preachers." He bit the inside of his cheek. "Arke. Where are they?"

The Ahamkara lifted herself up and prowled close. "You wish to learn of their location?"

"No. I'm just asking if you know." Ikharos stonily met her lecherous gaze, crossing his arms in front of him. Fed up, she turned about and settled back into her nest.

"Look," Arke said simply.

"You already have the words," Formora murmured, catching onto the Wish-Dragon's meaning. "You can see them yourself."

"Scrying?" Ikharos hesitated. "I haven't gone north. I don't know the land."

"Neither do you care for it. Your desire is to see the Hive numbers, calibre, and health." Arke rested her head down over two feathered paws. "Do so. See them."

Scrying. Ikharos inhaled deeply. He hadn't done it before - but he knew the words. "Adurna," he said. Water bubbled up from beneath the ground in front of him. Saphira loomed over him, looking at her own reflection in the crystal clear liquid. "Draumr kópa." (Dream stare.)

The image warped into a blank, grey landscape, but covering it were the rippling ranks of the chitin-clad. Burning green eyes dotted a majority of the bodies, and many lugged wicked weapons of dark magic and primitive metalworking. An Ogre lumbered past the puddle's viewpoint, head bloated and bulging, jaws open and groaning, claws curling and shaking. It was a small one, too, only a couple of feet shorter than Tarrhis.

"What is that?" Eragon whispered fearfully.

"Those are Hive," Ikharos told him. "These are the things Islanzadí scolds me for going to war against."

Saphira snuffled. "Horrible things. How many are there?"

"Hundreds," Ikharos grunted. "Or even thousands, depending on how many new Thrall they've hatched for this conquest."

"Look," Formora said urgently.

Something else strode into view, spine un-hunched. It was taller yet than the Ogre and many times as powerful. The Darkblade was a gargantuan warrior of alien might, but there was a spark of something approaching nobility in his undaunted stance. His greathelm swept about to regard his army with a mean soulfire stare, monstrous axe leaning over his shell-padded shoulder. It eventually craned around in Ikharos's direction - and stopped there. The Hive beast seemed to stare through the enchanted water, right at Ikharos.

Maybe he was doing just that.

"Psekisk." Ikharos dropped the spell. The water's colouration returned to a normal drab transparent-grey. He looked up - and found that barring Formora, the three non-Ahamkaras were staring at where the Darkblade had been.

"They smell magic," Formora observed. "Even at this distance."

"There is an army." Arya didn't seem to have heard. She met his eyes. A cold mask fell over her features, shutting down anything even approaching emotion. "I must tell my mother."

Ikharos shrugged. "She probably still won't listen."

"You don't know her."

"But I know people. Some like to stick their heads in the ground and wait for everything to - hopefully - blow over. You elves have a particular affinity for it."

Arya's brow furrowed. "That is uncalled for."

"I've been warning your people for a little while now and every single time I've been ridiculed. Is it?" Ikharos shook his head and knelt down. "Draumr kópa."

The water morphed again, but it found nothing but a great shadow, empty of everything. He had been looking for the Broodqueen. If she wasn't showing up, then maybe, finally, she was dead for good.

"Draumr kópa."

Another shift. This time it detailed the mangled monstrosity that was the towering half-Ogre, brother to the Darkblade. It marched behind the ranks of Hive, reaching out and ripping at any who lagged behind. Not a single Thrall tried to slip away; the newborns knew what awaited them if they did.

"You can find all your foes," Arke said with a yawn, "if only you seek it."

Taking the idea to heart, Ikharos whispered the spell again. "Draumr kópa."

Another grey landscape. The figure at the centre of it was alone and kneeling in place, scraping a jagged dark rock down the edge of a heavy sword. Short red hair, slick with blood, crowned the figure. It looked up with two crimson eyes, not at Ikharos but at something else, as if someone was speaking to it. Elkhon. Dammit.

"A Shade," Arya gasped. "Where did you see that?"

"In the Hive nest," Ikharos muttered. "She serves the Grey Folk."

"Shades don't serve anyone."

"Durza served Galbatorix," Formora coolly pointed out.

Elkhon stood up, tilted her head, and looked at a wispy, featureless humanoid figure kneeling before her. She smiled - and brought the newly-sharpened sword down on them. The other figure, so briefly there, disappeared. The Shade Risen said something and laughed.

Too much. He'd learned all he needed to; she was alive and well and killing people.

"Draumr kópa."

This time the landscape was well-defined, with a monochrome city and shining crystal monument in the center. Within the crystal floated the source of Kepler's problems: the God of Strife himself. "Nezarec," Ikharos said through gritted teeth.

"That's a Grey Folk?" Eragon inquired, voice flushed with wonder and trepidation.

"The worst of them."

"It's... massive."

"Gods usually are."

"Gods don't exist," Arya huffed hollowly.

"Tell him that."

Arya looked troubled. Eragon looked spooked. Formora looked grim. Saphira... was unreadable. Dragon faces were hard to figure out.

Ikharos allowed the spell to leave his grasp. That was enough. One more, his traitorous mind whispered. Just one. Just to be sure.

"Draumr kópa."

The image flickered with the confusing mesh of data and light all around. It was the inside of a subspace vault. At the centre of his vision rested a single rifle, cloaked in a ragged wrapping of Hive leather and tattered Wormsilk. A bayonet of chipped hadium steel jutted out from below the barrel, but Ikharos's eyes rested entirely on the desiccated organ in the centre of the weapon, caged in Dark magic and rings decorated with Hive glyphs.

Here lies Oryx, he thought, Demon-King of the Hive, Father of the Taken, Navigator of the Deep, and now a rifle. May He never see the light of reality again.

"Let's do another," Xiān suggested. His subconscious was conspicuously quiet. "Please."

"Who?" He asked. "Taniks?"

"You know as well as I do he's probably still alive. No. How about... you know who."

Ikharos didn't even hesitate. "Draumr kópa," he said aloud.

The scene shifted altogether. A pale rocky highland painted in aglae blues and greens, fossils aplenty, plumes of chemical gases rising out of stone vents. It was a place of half-alive things and forgotten purposes.

"Io," Ikharos noted aloud.

A man stood on the foremost ridge, overlooking a valley cast in a storm. His armour was almost entirely plasteel plate, painted with differing shades of green in a weak attempt at camouflage. One of his pauldrons was covered in netting, perhaps in hopes of lessening its sheen. The Titan's mark was green like his armour and tattered towards the end. His helmet was squat and a cross between oval and square-shaped, with a short antennae sprouting from one side. It was clutched under one arm, leaving the man's face bare. His skin was dark, eyes brown, hair black - and he looked grim and determined all at once.

His innocence was long gone. He'd grown up.

"Who is that?" Formora asked, awed by the sights of distant geysers and plumes of shooting lava.

"Jaxson," Ikharos quietly explained. "My... my friend. Partner."

Jaxson donned his helmet and walked to the edge of the ridge. The storms were strange, unnatural, but there were big grey spots in the sky. The shapes of the blanks almost looked like-

Like pyramids.

Ikharos's mouth went dry. Xiān materialized beside him, to the shock of the others, but she was too transfixed by the same sight that had him enthralled.

"No," they said in unison.

Jaxson was saying something. Maybe to his Ghost. Maybe to someone on comms. His firearm, a decorated submachine gun, was clutched tight.

"I need to hear," Ikharos said, suddenly desperate.

Formora caught on and said, "Draumr hórna." (Dream listen.)

Ikharos repeated the phrase. The still puddle started making sounds.

"-ollow. Unnatural." Ghost's voice was tinged with fear and choked with emotion. "When I look at that ship... Eris, can you hear us? Eris?"

No. Please no.

"... Nothing," Ghost sighed.

Jaxson stopped in place. "Zavala, come in."

His voice was just as Ikharos remembered it. Has it really been three years? How long for him?

The Commander's voice filtered through with a backdrop of static. "Any sign?"

"My signals are being suppressed," Ghost reported. "I can't even summon a Sparrow."

Get out of there. Get out, please.

"What do you see?" Zavala questioned.

"The Pyramid. It's... oppressive. Like a storm building."

"Then be quick. Get out ahead of it."

"Yes sir." Jaxson marched ahead, eyes trained on the paracausal entity - one Ikharos couldn't truly see. His feet crunched over calcified bones, moving to the edge of a cliff, and then...

Something snagged him. Something invisible, with fingers of pure potential and merciless entropy.

"No, no!" Ghost cried out, as if in pain. "Don't-"

New shapes, shards of nothingness, ripped into the sky before them. Dozens of them, more. Jaxson struggled as the nonphysical force tugged him off the cliff and dragged him through the air. Towards the Pyramid.

Ghost's voice returned. But it was wrong. It was someone else. "You bring weapons. You will not need them. We offer only truth. We will ha-"

A portal yawned open before them and swallowed them up. Jaxson fell onto rock lathered in shadow. Razor winds whipped at his armour. There was little light, less Light, and... Ikharos, for some reason, could smell sea salt.

"Ascendant Plane," Xiān hissed, fins flaring up.

"What is this?" Arya demanded, nervous.

Ikharos didn't answer. Couldn't. He was rooted to the spot, rendered speechless.

"Something pulled us out of the beam." Ghost sounded... better. "What's happening?"

Jaxson was up, weapon at the ready. "Where are we?"

"I-I don't know!"

Something in the air opened up. A Shrieker - massive.

"A Witness," Xiān whispered. "This is-"

"High Coven," Ikharos finished.

"Shut it off. Shut it off, before they see us!"

Ikharos dropped the spell. He staggered back as if struck - because he had been struck, with horror and worse. "Jaxson... She has him..."

"We don't know that," Xiān said quickly. "He's strong. Stronger than we give him credit for. And he's looking for Eris. If she's near, then they'll make it out. They have to."

"This isn't some brood Witch, this is Her, this is the Queen!" Ikharos's eyes scrunched shut. "And I'm... I'm stuck here..."

"Ikharos."

"That was the Darkness. And Her. We... we shouldn't have come."

"Ikharos." Formora grabbed his arm while throwing worried looks over her shoulder. She tugged him away. "We need to find Kiphoris."

What does he matter? Ikharos wanted to say, but he went along - too numb to offer any resistance. Jaxson was alone. He'd left Jaxson alone to face the Darkness itself.

Kiphoris had been talking with a white-haired elf with dark eyes, possibly Lord Bellaen, but upon seeing Ikharos he immediately retreated with them to his personal Skiff. There they climbed up into the command deck and Formora had Ikharos sit down. The Captain placed a mug of low-energy ether in his hands.

He would have preferred steaming tea. Ikharos sipped cautiously. It was sweet, but nowhere near as overpowering as the dosages his scouts preferred. It was more comforting this way. Not enough to get him antsy for exercise.

"What happened?" Kiphoris demanded, firm though kindly.

Formora began. "We went to Arke for information on the Hive. She hinted that scrying would produce the results we wanted."

"And the Hive frightened you so?"

"I turned my gaze towards home," Ikharos murmured. "Sol. Io. Jaxson."

Kiphoris rumbled. "Oh. Your Young Wolf."

"Emphasis on young," Xiān said quietly. She rested beside Ikharos on the soft bench. "They were there."

"They?"

"The Darkness," Ikharos continued. "The Maw."

"Y-you... you saw them?!" Kiphoris staggered back to the holotable, eyes wide.

"No, but... but I saw their absences."

"Absences?" Kiphoris echoed. "What do you mean by 'absences'?"

Formora quickly explained. "If someone hasn't seen something before, it appears as an empty spot on the water's surface."

"We heard them too." Ikharos raised his head. "They spoke through Jaxson's Ghost."

Kiphoris tensed. "Which part of the Darkness? The Hive? The Taken? Fikrul's beasts?"

"The Pyramids. The Black Fleet."

All four of Kiphoris's eyes closed at once. "The Dark Quiver. Full of arrows, ready to fly. Ready to sink between carapace-plates and skewer valiant hearts."

"They're in Sol. Kiph, they're in Sol. Our people..."

The Captain sagged. "Most of the houses went to Sol. Millions of Eliksni... of humans..."

"We have to go back."

Kiphoris looked up. "How?! The Warmind blockades up down here!"

"We need-"

"To fight. To save ourselves. This isn't Sol; we may outlive the Maw's crusade yet."

Ikharos was aghast. "We can't just... leave them!"

Kiphoris looked at him, regretfully uncompromising. "We have no choice. Mine-house is here. Many more millions of humans are here. More than are in Sol. If we leave - if we somehow trick the machine above - then we leave them to die. There are hundreds of Lightbearers on Earth, and only one here."

"Two." Ikharos slouched. "Saw Elkhon as well. Before... before Jaxson. She's thriving."

"So she is. We can't leave. Nor should we."

"That's Jaxson. My friend. My... I trained him. I taught him how to form Void, wield Solar, channel Arc. I can't leave him to that."

"Mine-Awoken kin are there too," Kiphoris responded. "Some of those I cared for died because of Skolas and his foolish ambitions, but others yet live. Do not think I make this decision lightly; they were family to me. But we cannot leave. Cannot."

"People are going to die."

"People will die no matter the choices we make. I thought you knew this lesson already."

"I..."

"More will perish if we leave now without preparing them. Krinok must be slain, the Hive must be stopped, the Harmony must be toppled. Will you abandon all of that?"

"... No." Ikharos gasped it out, furious with himself - because it felt like he was betraying everything he'd once held dear. "No. I can't."

"He's right." Formora murmured. "I can't speak for Sol, but the events unfolding around us are too dire. We need every advantage we can get. Turning our gaze outwards will spell our doom."

Ikharos's nails bit into the meat of his palms. "I've gotta do something. Eventually."

"Eventually," Formora agreed, though she didn't sound optimistic.

"Eventually." Kiphoris pushed away from the table. "Perhaps this is not the time, but now that we are gathered..."

"What is it?" Ikharos asked, already exhausted.

"We must discuss the duel Tarrhis is adamant he field towards Krinok."

Ikharos groaned. What is Krinok compared to the Darkness itself? "I know, he wants me there-"

"Krinok must die. Tarrhis is a great warrior, but Krinok is sly and treacherous. He may cheat. Even if he doesn't... we cannot allow him to win."

"What do you propose?" Formora asked slowly.

Kiphoris looked towards the hatch leading down into the hold. "If the fight goes poorly, then someone will have to act. I am considering Melkris, outfitted with a shimmer-cloak and... and an alien weapon. He is a fine shot."

"What kind of weapon?"

Kiphoris marched around the table, reached under and pulled out a long-barreled weapon of sleek grey metal. "An Exo rifle. We have corpses aplenty; planting one will be easy. It will turn mine-house's vengeful gaze towards the Harmony."

"And Melkris?" Ikharos questioned dubiously.

"He will agree. I know he will, as long as you, Ikha Riis, ask him to do this alongside I. He is a realistic eliko. He knows what will happen if Krinok survives. Melkris is too sympathetic towards humans to let this slaughter continue."

"This is manipulation," Formora observed. She didn't sound upset, but neither was she eager.

"Eia." Kiphoris's shoulders hunched up. He leaned forward with all four hands on the table. "But it is for a good cause. All involved must swear themselves in the magic language to secrecy. This cannot go further than we and Melkris. Not even to Tarrhis."

Ikharos thought it over for a long time. Eventually, he rasped, "So this is our contingency plan?"

"Eia."

"... It'll have to do. Mora?"

Formora winced. "I don't like this, but... I agree. We can't be gentle or honourable. Not with the Harmony bearing down on us."

"Then it is settled." Kiphoris growled to himself. "I will find Melkris. He returned with you, yes?"

"Yeah," Ikharos confirmed.

"I will find him. Stay here, please." The Captain disappeared down towards the hold.

Ikharos, for a while, watched the open hatch. "This is it," he murmured, distracted. The Pyramid-shaped blank spots still danced before his eyes, cutting into his sight.

"This is what?" Formora slid onto the bench and wrapped her arms around his midriff.

"This is how we kill a Kell."

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for the editz!