Stargazer

by Keltoi

"Every end crawls from the same pit, rising from the schism to swallow matter, Light and life. It cannot be stopped, but here, it can be slowed."

70. Chapter 65: Regency

Chapter 65: Regency

Melkris blinked. He looked surprised, lost, and not a little uneasy.

"What you propose," he said slowly, "is a betrayal of our traditions and... and our Baron's trust."

"No one will ever know," Kiphoris replied, voice soft. "We must swear to it."

"No one except us. This... will not rest easy with me, mine-Captain." Melkris glanced at Ikharos. "You believe the same, Kirzen?"

Ikharos's mouth was dry. "Krinok needs to die," he told the shockshooter. "I hope Tarrhis can manage it. Failing that, we need you. If you can't... then I'll have to do it. And I won't be anywhere near as subtle."

Both Eliksni gave him worried looks.

"If you do," Kiphoris said slowly, "then it may spell war between our peoples. Better that we find a way to turn our mutual rage towards our true enemies."

"He attacked Aroughs. He's killed Aroughs. Those were innocent people. Civilians. I'm so close to heading off on a Sparrow and doing this myself."

"You cannot."

"I could," Ikharos pointed out. "And if this were a century earlier, then I would've too. I've since learned the importance of foresight, but Kiph... he needs to die. Quick. Soon. By whatever means necessary."

"I do not want a war against humans," Melkris murmured. They all turned to look at him. "I have seen the Hive and the Harmony. They are our foes. Not humans. Not elves or dwarves. Maybe not even Cabal. The Maw is our enemy - and all who serve it." He looked at Kiphoris. "What must I do?"

---

"Where are we going?" Ikharos asked. Dusk was fast falling and, though he'd had more than ample rest the night before, he still felt fit to collapse in the nearest bed, bunk, or sleeping bag. A mossy hollow would have worked too. Formora, though, had other ideas. She led him by the hand through the twilight-cast forest, onto the game-trail streets of Ellesméra proper.

A number of elves were still outside, doing what elves did - which was, usually, dedicating their lives to one form of art or another. It had been much the same of the Awoken in the Distributary, or so he had heard. Ikharos wondered if his own people would have done the same, had the world not tossed them into a meat grinder from the get-go. Maybe, he decided. Given how beloved the practice of weapon crafting, and to a lesser extent designing armour and Sparrows, was to Risen, maybe it already was the case. He was not exempt either; Ikharos loved to look at his Lumina and marvel at the thing of beauty his cut, bloodied hands had made. His sword, too, was a source of pride in that regard.

Immortality could bring out the best in people. It could also bring out the worst, but he didn't like to dwell on the thought.

"Lord Däthedr has offered his hall to us," Formora told him. Her pace was even and measured, the same for her voice. She wasn't pleased with the previous proceedings, be it the request that she remain in Du Weldenvarden or the conspiracy to break form and assassinate Krinok. It was likely both. "With the holdings of Rílvenar closed to us-"

"Why?"

Formora glanced at him. "Pardon?"

"Why is Violmedr upset with you?"

"Because I am accomplice to all you have done thus far. Because I plan to remain accomplice to all you will do."

Ikharos shivered. A slick, prickly feeling of uneasiness passed through him. "I don't want to be the cause of-"

"Only partially." Formora slowed. "I have... lost my patience with Islanzadí's rule. And the rule of Evandur before her, and that of Queen Dellanir and even that of First Queen Tarmunora. We are too reclusive a people, when we should be actively using these gifts of ours - of longevity, of magic, of knowledge and skills - to improve the quality of life for all on the continent. If we had, perhaps we might have stopped Galbatorix long before. Perhaps we might have discovered our ancestors' legacy and the ploy of the Harmony. Perhaps we might have rebelled without need of you or the Eliksni."

"That was the past," Ikharos said slowly. "You can't change it. We're not Vex; winding back time is beyond our capability."

"I know. It is to the future I look. I hoped my example would inspire others." The shadow of a frown crossed her face. "But seeing it now, I'm not so sure."

"Why's that?"

"... Because I am nervous of what will happen. I advocated for change of the Riders of old, but the change that came about was worse than what we had before. I don't want a repeat of the last hundred years."

"You think you'll give rise to the next Galbatorix?"

"I don't know. We are not a perfect people."

"Yeah," Ikharos said. "I'm well aware of that."

"Are you insinuat-"

"But I doubt you're about to give rise to another self-absorbed madman. Your people are remarkably sound of mind."

"Are we?" She looked surprised to hear him say it.

"I meant it in a broad sense of the term. I can't say you're normal or even reasonable, but your elves appear to me to be rather... collected."

"Collected," Formora echoed. "Maybe."

"Maybe? I mean, you're the one with a fantasy about wings-"

"And you're the man who plans to kill a god."

Ikharos smiled. "Maybe I'm a bit unreasonable myself."

"Yes!" Formora laughed. He loved everything about the sound. "So you acknowledge that you are strange?"

"Could you use a different word? That one's starting to grate."

"What about abnormal?"

"Perfect. Sure."

Formora lifted his hand and covered it with both of her own. Her smile faded away. "You're worried."

"I'm afraid," Ikharos admitted. He cycled in a deep breath. "They've arrived. The Darkness has arrived. And Jaxson..."

"You said you haven't spoken with him in years."

"Yes. Doesn't mean I don't care for him. Traveler above, he's a kid... and they're right there, with him. Those fucking pyramids. They're... they're going to do something."

"You care for him," Formora observed.

"He's my friend."

"More."

"I trained him. I taught him. I watched him grow. I'm never going to have... but Jaxson - he was something close. Something good. Something right."

Formora stepped closer. Her fingers slid up his front to curl about the collar of his robes. "If he's anything like you, then he will survive."

"I hope." Ikharos grimaced. "He's strong, but they... they're gods. The highest form of gods. Hive divinity is nothing compared to them." He slid his arms around her, pulling her close. "Nezarec is nothing compared to them."

They stayed like that for a time, close and comforted. Ikharos adored her, she was there to help him when he needed it, but Traveler above, the sheer despair he felt... It was almost enough to make him buckle, to render him immobile with fear and hopelessness.

"You might just be my lifeline," he whispered. Formora held him tighter. They eventually, reluctantly, parted - and resumed their trek through the forest. Whether they had been seen or not wasn't clear, and neither did he care. What was social stigma compared to the harbingers of the end, to the horsemen of the apocalypse, to the Deep itself?

"So Däthedr is giving us bedding," he murmured, just to move onto something less cosmically upsetting.

"No - well, yes, but..." Formora sighed. "As a patron of the Äthalvard, he often hosts celebrations concerning works both new and old. Today marks the beginning of a week of reflection. Many artists will publish their works during this time."

"So it's a festival."

"A tame one, yes."

"Party?"

"A garden party."

"A garden party for elves. This should be good."

"You don't approve?"

Ikharos chuckled. "Whether I approve or not is unimportant; I have a war to attend to. Parties are-"

"Just tonight. We may never get another chance." Formora looked at him. "Besides, I would like your input."

"I'm not all that educated in the matter of arts."

"I mean... Some of those attending are those I have been speaking with in concerns to our current disposition as a race."

"Those who you're getting nervous about?"

"I'm nervous about what they hint at propositioning, but not they themselves. Your opinion would be welcome."

He shrugged. "I'll see what I can do? I'm not... a party person. Or a people person. Hell, I'm hardly a-"

Formora groaned and leaned against him. "Stop."

"Okay."

"Smile, don't openly insult anyone, and drink responsibly. That is all I ask."

"I'm going to screw up one of those things." Ikharos squeezed her hand. He whispered, "I love faelnirv."

---

Däthedr's hall was a grand thing of natural beauty and stunning sights. The foyer past the first door was lined with depictions of elven history, up to events as recent as the arrival of the Scars. Ikharos even spied a non-Eliksni figure among the crowd behind the noble Baron - who was in the midst of meeting with the elven queen - that looked remarkably human. The character had three blue marks running across the side of their head.

"You don't look pleased." An elven man, elderly if his aged eyes were any indication, swept in from the end of the corridor. He touched his lips in greeting.

Ikharos glanced back at the portrait. "I'm still trying to decide if these scars are... bearable."

"What is your opinion as of now?"

"No."

"Ah." The elf-man took Formora's hand and lowered his forehead to meet it. The gesture was foreign, but the meaning was clear: it was of humility and respect. Even Formora looked taken aback by it, eyes widening and briefly darting towards Ikharos. "Lady of Láerdhon. I welcome you."

"Thank you, Lord Däthedr."

Däthedr straightened up and smiled. "You are both the first to arrive. My home is yours, for however long you will stay."

"Not long," Ikharos supplied reservedly.

"Ah. You have business? Does it have to do with the shrinking Eliksni encampment?"

"It does."

"Hm. I will ask later; for now, I will simply offer the facilities of my abode if you need them."

"I require a change of garb," Formora announced. "Again, thank you."

"The first guest room in the eastern wing is yours." The elven lord gestured down an adjoining hallway. Formora left with a grateful nod. Däthedr turned to Ikharos. "My offer extends to you as well, Dauthné."

"Maybe for tonight..." Ikharos looked back at the painting. It was a kinder portrayal of Eliksni than any he would have seen in Sol. The Scars had carried themselves with particular grace and mercy. Or, at least, Tarrhis's loyalists did. Not Krinok, though.

His hands balled into fists.

"Is something the matter?" Däthedr asked, all of a sudden concerned.

Ikharos sighed. "Just... just work."

"Our duties are heavy weights to bear. I know this."

"You're the commander of the local militia, right?""

"The Fyrnvard, indeed." Däthedr nodded. He gestured towards the end of the hallway. "Would you like something to drink? Tea, perhaps? Wine?"

"I don't mind," Ikharos said with a small shrug. "Surprise me?"

Däthedr smiled. "Of course. Please, come this way."

They entered something approaching a living room crossed with a dining room, all sung from trees and formed with a creative hand. It was a breathtaking sight - but Ikharos had grown used to elves and their incessant artistic applications. The fact that he was standing in a house made out of living trees ceased to bedazzle him. Däthedr glided to the table, where a jug of sparkling liquid had been set out, and poured a generous amount into two gleaming glass cups. He handed one to Ikharos.

"Fresh springwater," the lord explained. "I fetched it from the mountains to the northwest myself."

"Thank you." Ikharos delicately sipped. The water was cool and perfect. "So... I hear you're a patron of the arts?"

"I am." Däthedr nodded. "Though... would I be mistaken if I suspected you are unfamiliar with our pillar-pieces?"

"I've dabbled in a little of your literature, but beyond that I'm clueless," Ikharos admitted. "I haven't had much time for anything else."

"You have time now," Däthedr pointed out.

Ikharos looked away, in the direction he presumed Formora had gone. "Apparently. Someone decided it for me." A thought struck him. "Who is going to be here?"

"Members of the Äthalvard, friends and acquaintances, and those of noble birth or good standing."

"And me, apparently. I'm not of the Äthalvard, nor have I met you before this day so friends is a very strong a term. Of noble birth I am unqualified."

Däthedr tilted his head. "Are you not a lord yourself? Lady Formora confessed you were."

Ikharos winced. "That should never have gotten out. My lordship is not in the same context as your concept of nobility. Risen don't get called lord unless... unless a lot of things. Few of them good."

"What of you?"

"I took land." He refused to elaborate further. "So I'm probably out of place for this occasion."

"In dress, perhaps." Däthedr smiled good-naturedly. "In spirit? Nay. You are welcome here, as I said before."

"Why?"

"... 'Why?'"

"Yes. Why? I've hardly made many friends here."

"More than you realize," Däthedr said pointedly. Before Ikharos could ask, however, there was motion from the far side of the room. An elven woman entered and touched her lips. Däthedr rose to meet her. "Ah, Tenivarri! Kvetha, eka eddyr ilia eom sjon ono vera."

"Kvetha, vidira." She turned to Ikharos and bowed her head. "Lord Torstil."

Bloody hell... Ikharos tossed the veil of a pleasant smile over his growing frustrations. "My lady." He touched his lips with his fingers.

"This is Tenivarri," Däthedr announced, "my daughter. She has worked on something for this very night."

"I look forward to seeing it," Ikharos politely told her. She was largely normal appearance-wise, save for bright luminescent markings colouring both of her cheeks. "May I ask what we are to expect?"

"A portrait."

"Ah. Grand. I love forward to seeing it."

---

They talked some more, then Ikharos asked to be pointed towards his own quarters. Däthedr guided him to it and left him to his own devices. The moment they were alone Xiān appeared. She floated over his shoulder as he stumbled to the bed and awkwardly sat down. Ikharos drew in great shuddering breaths. His hands shook. His eyes scrunched shut.

They've arrived.

Xiān's eye was dimmed with stifling emotion. Their bond gaped open. It helped neither. Despair flooded through from both ends. No. More than despair. More than fear. More than concern. They felt wrong. Disturbed. Somewhere close to broken. Ikharos was well-acquainted with rage and the burning sensation of vengeance - but it wasn't a desire for revenge he was feeling. No, he felt humbled in the worst way possible.

The gods had arrived. They'd knocked down the front door and made themselves at home - and here he was, a million metaphorical miles away, stranded on a hidden island with one of their puppets.

"Kiphoris is right," Xiān observed. Her voice was hollow. "There are more people here than Earth. We have to do something for them."

"The Traveler is on Earth. Without it..."

"We have to trust-"

"Wish I could. How many times has the universe tried to kill us off? How many times have I had to fight it? We win by the skin of our teeth, every single fucking time. And this... this might just be the second Collapse."

Xiān landed on his shoulder. Her fins were prickly things, digging into his skin - but he couldn't raise the effort to care.

"Whether we want it not," she said, slowly and with consideration, "we're stuck here. Only thing to do is continue onwards."

"Except tonight, apparently."

"Formora wants this. She's right; there's no telling when we'll next get a chance for ordinary life."

"Krinok is at large and the Hive are on the march. And we're at a party."

"What's one night?"

"I don't even have anything to wear."

"Lámarae."

"That's casual."

"You were never one for suits."

"No." Ikharos fell back. The sheets and duvet were silk-soft. "But I had smart clothes."

"Check shirts and jeans are not smart."

"Reef stuff."

His armour was instantaneously switched out for his Awoken-woven garb with a flash of transmat. "There."

"There," Ikharos said aloud. He ran a hand through his hair and then his beard. It was... alright. Bordering on acceptable, maybe. In dire need of a comb, but like razors they were neither here nor there. "Thanks."

"No problemo."

"You coming for this?"

"Really?" Xiān asked, falling back on her vocal voice.

"We've let slip one too many times. I wouldn't be surprised if half the city knew."

"... Sure, why not. Would like to talk with someone other than you."

"You already have. Do Melkris, Formora, Javek, and Kiphoris not count?"

"One's a lovable moron, one's your corny significant other, one's a shy mad scientist, and one's way too serious for my likings. I need to branch out, mingle. You offered, so yeah, I'm going to take advantage."

"Significant other is a strong term."

"Paramour?"

"You're trying to embarrass me. I'm going to ignore you now." Ikharos sat up and touched his grey-and-magenta shirt's collar. "Guess this'll have to do."

"Wait. Shell change." Xiān's fins clattered to the ground. Ikharos suppressed a groan. Her silvery core was exposed but for a brief moment, later clad in a shell with long black fins with glowing red underbellies. Red holographic petals fluttered between the rigid plasteel growths, stretched out like spectral-webbing.

"You..." Ikharos grasped her, enfolding her in his hand. "Are a horrible little creature."

Xiān offered him nothing more than a sly blink. "What? Crimson Days not to your tastes?"

"Stop."

"We've missed it, you know. This year just flew by. We're almost summer all over again. Might just be we'll have to celebrate late."

There was no stopping his next groan. Ikharos raised his eyes to the ceiling and wondered why, exactly, the Traveler had seen fit to place unto him a familiar so nefarious. Xiān flew to his chest, knocking him down on the bed - more out of surprise than anything else. Ikharos fell back against the sheets and dropped a hand over her, cradling her close to his heart.

At least he still had her. The Pyramids couldn't take that from him. Not with him being so far from Sol.

Ikharos didn't waste time. Satisfied with his appearance, he returned to the... he decided it was a public reception room. Some old buildings had those. Or new, in the case of Däthedr's home. No. Wait. New/old. A bit of both, depending on the context. The temporal anomaly complicated matters.

He was losing himself. Ikharos cut the line of thought short and focused on what was in front of him. Däthedr and Tenivarri were present, having changed into more formal attire themselves, and with them was an elven child - a boy of no more than ten years, give or take. The adults were in deep discussion, but the youth quietly watched him approach with wide eyes. His eyes widened further when Xiān manifested in the air beside Ikharos. Even his mother and grandfather fell silent, regarding the Ghost with wonder and confusion.

"Xiān," Ikharos introduced. He jutted a thumb towards her. "She's..."

"His dragon," Xiān announced.

"No."

"Yes."

"No. Shut up." Ikharos sighed. "Hell. She's..."

"Your spirit," Däthedr said. "Arya-Dröttningu told me, among others, about this. A spirit clad in armour..."

"Uh." Xiān looked at Ikharos. "Sure..."

Ikharos closed his eyes, resigning himself to upholding the false assumption. He hadn't the energy to deal with the fallout a more honest explanation was sure to spark. Elves didn't like to talk about gods. When he opened his eyes, however, his breath was stolen from him.

Formora walked towards them. She was wearing something that was like a mix between a ball gown, a summer dress, and a military uniform. Her tunic was a dark slim-fitting thing threaded with gold gilding, with one shoulder bared and the other showing the stitched silver symbol of a barn swallow. Her entire garb was formed through greens, blacks, and golds, covered in elegant swirling patterns and little stories, with tiny silver birds migrating along the outstanding threads. Wrappings fashioned to look like interlocking feathers ran down her arms. Around her waist hung something not entirely unlike that of a Titan's mark, if of a more delicate and flowing material. It was largely hanging to one side, obscuring everything above mid-calf on her left leg. Her trousers - was that even the right word? - were marked with woven vines and leaves, forming the trees and nests to which the birds above flew towards.

She was, in a word, stunning.

Formora raised his fingers to her lips with a smile. "Kvetha," she greeted. "I am glad to see you well, Tenivarri."

"And you, Lady Láerdhon." Tenivarri looked expectantly at the child to her side. "Dusan?"

"Kvetha, my lady," the boy said, polite and obedient. "And you, my lord."

Ikharos gave Formora a pointed look. She smiled innocently, glided to his side, and looped her arm around his own. The gesture, though casual, didn't escape notice. Tenivarri smiled softly. Dusan stared with only the vague beginnings of comprehension. Xiān gagged - though only mentally, of course.

---

The celebration was to take place in the expansive garden behind the equally massive villa. A roofed pathway curled all around the place, so Ikharos was tempted to call it an atrium of sorts - complete with a central pond and branching streams for a pool, blossoming trees of cherry and apple and more, and specially-shaped rocks that were co-opted as natural furniture. The place was a paradise.

Magic was one hell of a thing

They marched across a low vine-and-root bridge hanging over one of the shallow waterways. Däthedr had left to greet other guests and Tenivarri went to see to both her upcoming art piece as well as to the preparations for drinks and food. Dusan had disappeared after citing he wanted to see "Alanna and Maud". Since Formora hadn't objected, Ikharos assumed she knew them - and trusted them. Then again, was there really anything to threaten a child in a city as idyllic as Ellesméra?

Arke, his mind whispered, but Arke was chained up tight with oaths and threats. She couldn't take a sapient life. Not without his or Kiphoris's clear permission.

It left them alone - the three of them. Two of them before long. Xiān flew up and ahead at one point, darting through the tree-branches and startling more than a few roosting birds. Ikharos watched her go, simultaneously at ease and spiritually disturbed. He couldn't shake the memory of what he'd seen. Who he'd seen. But where he was, who he was with, what he was doing... it dragged him towards the realms of relaxation and peace.

The peace gave him the freedom to think. To look around and see. To notice new things with a clear mind.

"Your eyes are different," Ikharos observed. Formora looked at him; indeed they were. Still green, but flecked with tiny particle-sized spots of sparkling gold. "I like it."

"Thank you," she said softly. "You've dressed well."

"For the occasion. You seemed serious about this, so..."

"We have an evening," Formora breathed out.

"We do," Ikharos confirmed. "But after Krinok's dead, then-"

"Then we'll pursue the Hive north."

"Just so."

"And afterwards..."

"We should see to this Albazad ourselves. A scouting mission, nothing more. Gauge their defenses. Measure their strength. Formulate a plan of attack."

Formora slowed. Her head came to rest by his shoulder. "Another day."

"Another day," Ikharos reluctantly agreed. War was hardly something he enjoyed - but he had long since found comfort in its familiarity, in the procedure of waging it. Letting go was difficult. He looked around them. "This is just like the Revelry."

"The Revelry?"

"It's a celebration from home. Finding joy in life. In survival. In persisting. We celebrate another year gone without having fallen prey to extinction."

"Not unlike your Dawning, then," Formora observed.

"Dawning is a time of joy too, but it prioritizes loved ones over a species-wide victory."

"Which do you prefer?"

Ikharos bit the inside of his cheek. "Revelry. At least in recent years. Haven't had all that many to celebrate Dawning with."

"That's..."

"You asked."

Formora groaned. "Can we not speak of something less dire? Less upsetting? For however long we have left before duty takes us away?"

"We can try." Ikharos turned. "How about-"

She kissed him, again. He was stunned for all of a second before slowly, cautiously, nervously reciprocating. Then something soft and warm and wet darted against his lips for all of a split-second, almost too fast to recognize, but he did. Ikharos's mind pulled a blank; he was woefully underprepared. Romance was something else to lust, something where his experiences, his memories, his past-gleaned skills were near useless - because one was an active want, a desire, an objective and duty and fragile and special, while the other was plain animal instinct. This was of the former. Complicated. Delicate. Important. And he didn't want to screw it up. That was where his nervousness stemmed from.

Formora pulled away. She guided him towards a boulder-bench. They sat down, her smiling sweetly, knowingly, and him being a tad confused - and a little ecstatic himself.

"How about us?" Formora whispered. "How about we talk about us?"

"Where... where do we begin?"

"Is this subject too frightening?"

"Just you."

"Amusing."

"I try." Ikharos grinned back, still frazzled. "How about we... outline the basics."

"Go on."

"Is this serious?"

"I am serious. Does it appear otherwise?"

"I'm testing the waters. So... long-term, maybe. Not a distraction on the side."

Formora gave him an exasperated look. "We both know that."

"As I said, testing the waters. Cool."

"Cool," she echoed. "I feel I must be the one to broach the difficult subjects. No, this is not a... a tryst. But..."

"But?"

"There are things I will say. They are forward, and perhaps presumptuous given where we are now, but I must give warning."

Ikharos leaned towards her. "We've been honest with one another. That's what our relationships is based on: honesty. Say it."

Formora's fingers traced the back of his neck, sliding up to his jawbone and cheek. "You are... Dauthné, but your body-"

"Was once baseline human."

"Indeed. I... don't desire a child in my future."

Ikharos raised an eyebrow out of sheer surprise. "Motherhood scares you?"

"Perhaps. More so raising a half-elven child does. Those born to parents both elf and human do not enjoy eternal lives. Not like we do."

"It's fine."

"Humans typically aim towards building families. I thought I should-"

"Risen don't," Ikharos told her. "We can't. Have children, that is."

"You can't?" Formora frowned.

"Biologically, in any case. There's been a couple of studies, but trust me - we can't. Part of the package deal of coming back to life." Ikharos glanced away, towards the villa on the other side of the garden. Other elves were starting to trickle in. "We're not exactly parent-material, besides. Most of us, anyways. People need the experiences of growing up to function properly. We don't get that."

"You seem to function perfectly fine."

"I've had three hundred years to get here, and I'm far from perfect."

"If..." Formora's fingers curled around his arm just above the elbow. "That's... all Risen?"

"If someone's had children before dying, then there's that, but after our Ghosts pick us up that road is closed to us."

"I'm... I'm sorry?"

Ikharos shrugged. "It's probably for the better. The Dark Age... well."

"You don't sound bothered," Formora curiously pointed out.

"Children are form of legacy. My legacy will live on through the students I've taught. My legacy will live on through the deeds I perform - good and bad, regardless of if I want them told or not. There's not much else I could want for."

"You seek to be remembered?"

"On the contrary," Ikharos leaned back, resting his back against the smooth rock. "I just don't want to be forgotten."

Formora's grip tightened. "I can understand that. I really can."

He inclined his head. "I've been alone. I've been outcast. I don't want either anymore. Though sometimes..." He paused. "Sometimes I want the reverse. Used to be that events transpired and I chose to partake. No choice now. Not anymore. These recent wars, skirmishes, disasters, incursions - they all seem to be pointed at me. My enemies see me, they search for ways to directly attack me, they drag me into their grand ploys for victory. Seldom works, but... I'm still there. Still in the middle of it all. Could be nice not to be."

Formora hummed thoughtfully. "I was forgotten. Left to be a madman's puppet. Treated as a cog in a terrible, monstrous machine. Now people remember me. Now they see me. I choose to fight over being abandoned to obscurity. No one notices what befalls you in the shadows. No one tries to help."

"You proposed we leave. Together. Just the two of us. Suppose there are different types of 'forgotten'."

"Perhaps. And I did. But our choice has been made. We stay. We war."

"We war." Ikharos solemnly agreed.

---

They drifted back to the manor for drinks. There was indeed faelnirv on offer, but Ikharos spied some Draumr-Adurna and chose a glass of that instead - of freshwater prepared with crushed herbs and flower extract. It was calming, reassuring, delightful. It almost felt as if his senses had sharpened after his first sip, as if his mind had finally unraveled to relax and reach out to the world around him. He shared the small bowl of dream-water with Formora and smiled politely as another elf disentangled from a discussion with others to approach them. The man had long blond-silver hair reaching down to his shoulders in thin, sparkling strands. His eyes were like chips of grey ice, cool and reserved. On his chest was a brooch displaying the crawling insignia of a pale marble-ish spider. He performed the elven gesture of greeting and said, "Atra esterní ono thelduin."

"Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr," Ikharos replied. "I'm-"

"Lord Torstil."

"Ikharos Torstil. No title necessary"

The corners of the elf-man's lips twitched. "I am Lord Bellaen of House Miolandra. It is a pleasure to meet you in person."

"Does my reputation precede me?"

"To a degree."

Formora - her arm still locked under Ikharos's - said, "Kvetha, Bellaen-Vodhr."

"Greetings, Formora-Vodha. I trust you are well?"

"I am." She inclined her head.

Another elf joined them, glass of wine in hand. Her symbol - like Formora's bird and Bellaen's spider - was the stitched trajectory of a speeding comet. "Ästrith," Bellaen said with a respectful nod.

"My lady," the she-elf offered Formora a half-bow. "My lords."

Ikharos's eyes darted to Formora. She raised an eyebrow as if to say: what? Is something the matter?

Xiān swooped down at the next moment. All talk in the garden ceased as heads turned and eyes tracked the free-flying Ghost. She came to a stop by Ikharos, looking around and blinking her single eye. "'Sup," she said. Ikharos could hear the grin in her voice.

---

If anything, he was glad the elves were an open-minded people - at least where less dire topics were concerned. Ikharos quickly rattled off the basics of "no, she's not a drone" and "yes, she's alive", coupled with "that's my Ghost, touch her and I'll get upset" to those nearby. His explanation was a short and terse one, scraped to the bone of necessity out of sheer disinterest. He didn't feel inclined to get dragged into a mess of Xiān's making - and so he didn't. The elves got that. They understood. He didn't need to repeat himself. They did all the work for him. It was exhausting all the same. Talking with them was exhausting - because of the looks they sometimes gave, the reactions they had, the wrong questions and the incorrect assumptions and the attitude, oh the attitude. Ikharos paused, after all was said and done, and found he was disappointed in himself for his less-than-pleasant thoughts - but also helpless. He was, in a word, grouchy. Short-tempered too. Low on patience and high on reasons to complain.

His companions, though, demanded less from him. Maybe they realized. He wouldn't have put it past them; elves were sharp and clever creatures. More than him, socially-speaking.

Bellaen and Ästrith remained with them. Their questions were purer and more inquisitive, less opinionated. He appreciated that. He also appreciated how kindly they spoke to Xiān, who stayed with them too. Formora talked with them at great length, more at ease than with many others of herown kind. They were soon joined by another two elves, Eilífa of House Televvar - whose signet was a tree with roots below as long and far-reaching as its branches above - and the warrior Arahynn of the minor House Oernir - whose own symbol was that of a dark-eyed barn owl. It was the latter that Ikharos found most compatibility with. Their experiences were far from the same, but the similarities helped.

Besides, engaging in old soldiers' tales was always interesting.

"I fought in the first war against Galbatorix," Arahynn admitted. He was a tall man with brown-gold hair knotted back into a tight braid. His clothes were almost certainly a uniform, more even than Formora's what with the lack of overly decorative patterns or symbols. "And before that the Urgal incursion of the Toark River roads, against the bandits hailing from Dûrgrimst Vrenshrrgn in the lands between Hedarth and Ceris, and then the rogue Rider-led outlaw brotherhood of Crassfield, near Bullridge."

"Rider-led bandits?" Ikharos asked, taken by surprise.

Arahynn nodded. "A young lad, ambitious beyond his years. It was the first signs of many of the Riders' waning stability. What of yourself?"

"Ah." Ikharos briefly looked up. "Fought against a pack of Kings - Eliksni House - near Paris. Much of France was in their hands at the time - and for centuries afterwards. Took part in the Battle of Twilight Gap, where millions of Eliksni from House Winter, House Devils, and House Kings tried to take the Last City of Earth. After that was the Great Hunt, where we, Risen at large, hunted down the Ahamkara to Venus and slew all those we could find, so they would never extract their blood-prices from us again. I fought in the Great Disaster as the rearguard during the retreat. Saw the Hive-Prince Crota in all terrible glory. He filled the skies with green fire, Wei Ning's corpse still hanging from his sword. After that... mostly just worked to undermine the House of Devils. Saw some action on Mars too, against the expeditionary legions of the Cabal and the Vex's Virgo Prohibition."

"The Vex?" Arahynn asked, bemused.

"Time-traveling machines with bellies full of poison," Ikharos answered. "Dangerous in their strongholds, weak without. At least where my kind are concerned; Eliksni and Cabal have enough trouble as is dealing with their constructs."

"What of these Hive creatures you fought? Do they clash with these... Vex?"

"Yes. Sometimes. The Vex stay well away from Hive when they can. No surefire way to calculate what they'll do - which kinda lumps them in with my kind. Hive are phenomenally more dangerous - and considering what the Vex are capable of, that means something."

"You cross them regularly, then?"

"Regrettably."

Arahynn tilted his head. "I have heard those Hive here, who live to the west of us, now march north. I am told they do so to hunt the last of the Grey Folk?"

"'Tis so."

"I may be a warrior, but aggression of this calibre is beyond me. Why?"

"Because they're hungry," Ikharos replied. "Hive only ever think to fight. Their existence relies on the extermination of others."

"Surely you have a tactic to employ against them?"

"Starve them out."

Arahynn nodded glumly. He paused. "Our reluctance to offer aid towards this fight must irk you."

"It's... annoying," Ikharos admitted. "This fight is too important to sit out on the sidelines."

"So I understand. Däthedr-Vor informed us of what his scrying-visions showed him. I have never known him to exaggerate - nor to offer false advice. This grand act of ineptitude ill-suits us. What are we Undying responsible for, if not the shepherding of the mortal realms?" Arahynn smiled, head dipped in respect and acknowledgement. Ikharos blinked.

"That's... rather welcome news."

"I only regret that it took Formora's troubled return to remind us of our dues."

Ikharos hummed, unable to say anything else - because it was unfortunate, it was a travesty, but to say as much would have been rude. And he didn't want to be rude. Not with an elf he was starting to think he genuinely liked. His attention drifted to the rest of their little group, strolling along the perimeter of the idyllic garden. Ästrith, honest and pleasant, was grinning along to whatever Xiān had said. Bellaen and Formora were discussing something in hushed tones. It was nice. Almost normal. Or abnormal, rather - he wasn't used to anything so civil.

At some point Däthedr had moved into the centre of the garden, conversing with another group of elves. There had to be near fifty people in attendance. Islanzadí arrived not long after, followed by Arya and Orik. The dwarf looked starkly out of place, looking here and there with narrowed eyes. His gaze eventually fell on the floating, flitting, darting, laughing form of Xiān - and he officially joined the ranks of gawkers.

Good luck to him, Ikharos thought. He turned back to Arahynn - and found the elf offering him a crystalline glass full of faelnirv. "Thank you," he said, meaning it. The drink was appreciated, what with the Draumr-Adurna long since drained. He and Arahynn walked on.

"The warrior in me is too curious not to ask more questions," the elf admitted. "Will you humour me, Dauthné?"

"Call me Ikharos. Sure."

"These 'Cabal' the Hive fought with... what are they like?"

"In which aspect? Socially, economically, or-"

"Physically."

"Then your question is impossible." Ikharos smiled to himself. "The Cabal in truth refers to the empire as a whole, to the whole conglomerate of species catalogued within. I know only of a fraction. But, if you are to refer to the military arm, then that simplifies things."

Arahynn slowly nodded. "Oh, I am, but you must tell me the rest another time."

"There's two main components there: Uluru and Psion. The legions here brought along an auxiliary force composed of a tribal race called Erechaani, but they have since converted to both the Hive religion and cause. Retreating back to the staple species for a moment, the Uluru are the most plentiful - and typically in positions of command. These Soulrazers are unique, having a Psion for a Primus, but it's not unheard of for Psions to attain the ranks of officers. Met a few in Sol."

"How are these Uluru built? Wherein do their strengths lie?" Arahynn asked curiously.

"Their strengths lie in their strength," Ikharos explained. "Common Uluru soldiers are of height with Kull and many times stronger. The higher the rank they possess, the larger their size. Uluru grow depending on their view of their own position in their society, if the scholars I spoke with aboard the Leviathan are to be believed."

"The Leviathan?"

"A pleasure barge for their exiled emperor. That's a story for later."

Arahynn nodded slowly. "One I hope to hear, if you are willing. Uluru are creatures of physical might, then?"

"Extremely. Aggressive, too, in every field they operate. Uluru suffer from chronic tunnel vision, throwing everything they have to whatever pursuit they have at the forefront of their minds. Their armies are fearsome, devastating things - but their politicians, merchants, and artisans are equally effective in their own professions, I've heard. It makes for a rather unique society. They're the closest thing our galaxy has to a sustainable star-spanning civilization." Ikharos grimaced. "It's a pity they made themselves enemies of my own people. If they had been more diplomatic, we could have done some incredible things together."

"What would you envision?"

"Cutting out the Hive rot and burning it away."

"That is... extreme."

Ikharos grunted. "It is. But the Hive are worse. They would see all life scoured from existence in their path to prove themselves. Removing them is a mercy towards the universe as a whole."

A pause stretched between them. Then, "What of these Psions?"

"Our size, single eyes, minds like sledgehammers. A client species of the Cabal. One of the first to be conquered too, as I understand it, and thus cemented into their society as a staple pillar. Some are born into servitude, but others are welcomed into the world free - depending entirely on the actions of their ancestors. Serfs - be they Psion or of any other species - have the right to volunteer for military service. Twenty-five hundred years or so, by Earth and Kepler reckoning, is what it takes to attain freedom and full citizenship."

Arahynn made a face. "Being pressed into combat is a terrible practice."

"Could be, depending on where you're stationed. Or how much you're worth in a fight. Uluru do this too, for better rights. They are a warrior-people first and foremost, and veterans are both seen and treated with the highest respect." Ikharos looked up at the sky wistfully. "If we hadn't the Hive or Vex to worry about, then the Cabal would be one of the greatest powers to be. And a better alternative besides; without the constant pressure of the machines or the Dark hordes, I imagine their empire would have evolved into a softer, kinder place."

"You respect them?"

"Highly. I feel disdain too; their war tactics are laughable and their honour is more likely to cripple a warrior's ability to fight than aid them, but there's so much behind the legions to admire. They are old. They are wise. They are strong. It would be foolish to underestimate them."

"Nor shall I." Arahynn vowed. "Thank you for this. Would you mind if I made another inquiry?"

"Not at all."

"So… it is true the Grey Folk yet live?"

Ikharos dipped his head. "It is."

"And they are arrayed against us?"

"That would insinuate that they see you as foes. They do not. To them, you are unaware cattle at best; a necessary pest at worst."

Arahynn's face twisted with various emotions; insulted, confused, uncomprehending, conviction. "I... see."

"And you slew them," a third voice accused half-heartedly. Ikharos turned; Arya stood a few feet away, brow furrowed and a drink in hand. There were precious few present going without.

"I did," he confirmed, "because they gave me little choice. All three attacked me unprovoked. All three were ready to kill me if I didn't kill them. Or worse."

"Worse?"

"You're no stranger to captivity," Ikharos pointed out. He ignored Arahynn's wince and continued. "Surely you can imagine a people as long-lived and vicious as they could come up with some truly twisted methods by which to turn me to their side."

Arya's expression hardened. "What would you know of my ordeal?"

"I know that you were taken prisoner. I know that you were mistreated. You professed to it upon our arrival to this city, before the court of your mother and all others present."

"But you don't understand."

"I understand in plenty."

"How?"

"When I was three days old, I got caught by a pack of Devils." Ikharos crossed his arms. "You're not the only one who's seen the dark underbelly of war. I understand, princess."

"I'm not a princess," Arya refuted. Something in her glare gave way, losing its edge. "That is not what dröttningu means."

"Okay?" Ikharos said, exasperated.

Her glare subsided entirely. "I am not here to argue."

"No? That's a first."

"Ikharos."

"What?" He snapped, quietly but nonetheless with a vicious edge. "You finished undercutting everything I say?"

"Lord-" Arahynn began to say.

Arya interrupted with a firm, "I wanted to confirm you were well. Last I saw, you were on the verge of panic."

The scrying. Io. Jaxson.

"You have a strange way of checking up on someone." Ikharos uncrossed his arms. They dangled by his side, fingers digging into the insulative material over his legs and hips. Touch anchored him. It gave him a ledge to cling to even as the wider world swept by. It kept him from falling, from plummeting into the dark depths below. "Falling back on old faithful, eh? Doubt and scoff, princess. Go on. Keep it up; my opinion hardly matters."

"You are upset."

"Fucking yes. I'm killing for you, I'm bleeding for you, I'm dying for you, I'm handing out all my history and horror for you you to prod and poke at - and no one has the fucking decency to say 'Thank you'." Ikharos noticed some of those nearby had fallen silent, had turned to watch, but he was on a roll. Something had been awakened in him, something broiling and bubbling and incapable of being leashed ever again. "I came all this way to help you people. I have put my life on the line again and again to shield you from those who would see you dead, dragging their focus onto me. I have been stabbed, shot, clawed, cursed, broken - even killed, and all you do is scowl and scoff. No assistance, no gratitude, not even a little consideration - just... this."

Arya looked momentarily panicked. Her eyes darted past him, at others around them. Appearances are everything to elves. "I understand that what you saw yesterday was troubling, but there is no need-"

Xiān slowly flew over to them, fins twitching and eye alert. "Is everything okay?"

"Just fine," Ikharos lied. She saw right through it too.

"Well, that's good." Xiān gave him a meaningful look. "'Cause this is a night to enjoy, right? A lot of effort went into this. It would be a pity if something ruined it."

Ikharos begrudgingly acquiesced. "It would. Can't have that, can we?"

"No, we cannot." Another elf stepped closer, smiling icily.

"Islanzadí," Ikharos coolly greeted.

"Lord Ikharos," she returned. Däthedr and another elven man, noble by the looks of him, trailed behind her. The former gave Ikharos a nigh-on apologetic look while the latter spared him only a hard, distasteful glance. "I had not expected to see you here."

"Nor did I expect to be here," he countered, "but I was offered both an invitation and good reasons as to why I should attend."

"Ah, by Lady Láerdhon, no?"

"Indeed."

"I must ask: what is it you plan next? You are oft to leave the hospitality of our cities to see to matters of other peoples, true?"

"Aroughs," Ikharos told her. "I plan to go to Aroughs."

Islanzadí's expression faltered. "What happened there was-"

"Is a travesty. One that cannot happen again."

"It cannot," she solemnly agreed. "But we are in no position to-"

"Of course you aren't." Ikharos touched his lips with his fingers, warping the greeting into a farewell. "It has been a pleasure. Lord Däthedr? This evening has been splendid thus far."

"It has only begun," the nobleman hurriedly said, warily glancing at the queen. A shadow had crossed her face, dark and foreboding, but Ikharos was long past caring. His regard for her was rapidly disintegrating the more he contemplated it; he couldn't help but consider all the mistakes she'd made and conclude that she was a poor wartime-leader. The trappings of paradise had blinded her to the realities of the real world - or so he imagined. "Surely you will stay for the rest of it," Däthedr continued.

"We will," Xiān cheerfully promised. "No way we're missing this. We're long overdue for something nice. Right, Ike?"

Ikharos winced. "Yeah. Sure."

"See? Raring to go."

Däthedr smiled, relieved. "That is good to hear. What of you Arahynn? Has this evening treated you well?"

"Splendidly, as ever my lord." The warrior-elf dipped his head.

"That is high praise. Thank you both - and you," Däthedr looked at Xiān with something approaching endearment. "You have made this a colourful night indeed."

"That's what I do," she cheekily returned. "Right - where's the... Oh yeah." Xiān turned her eye on Ikharos. "Kiph says we'll be off early in the morning. Don't overdrink."

Ikharos grumbled. "I haven't gotten tipsy in years,"

"Doesn't mean you should start now. Not unless you want a fresh rez first thing tomorrow."

"At this rate I'm half-tempted," he joked darkly. He touched his lips with his fingers again, growing impatient. "Islanzadí, Däthedr, and..." Ikharos looked at the last member of their trio.

"Laufin."

"Ah. Well, it's been a pleasure, all." He left them where they were, retreating to where Formora and her friends were conversing. Arahynn and Xiān followed.

---

The rest of the evening passed quickly. Ikharos came to the conclusion that the best way to enjoy it was to stick with the people he knew weren't going to be difficult - which hampered his freedom but kept him from plummeting into the pits of frustration. One night, Formora had stressed to him. He needed to make the most of it.

"The Äthalvard will unveil the fruits of their labours soon enough," Formora whispered, "but this is only the beginning. A first course, if you will."

"For the rest of the week?"

"For the year. The Agaetí Blödhren will commence in a few months. Everyone will be hard at work to furnish the oncoming celebration with something worthwhile."

"Will we be attending?" Ikharos inquired.

"It depends on whether we can. I should hope so."

"Fair. You've got me curious now."

Formora nudged him. "Hush. The artisans have arrived."

And so they had. Däthedr led the elven artists to the middle of the garden, which had been conspicuously left clear - likely for that very event. He introduced himself and those partaking in a song-like manner, using the ancient language. He heaped praises and hyped up the crowd, the picture-perfect showman. Ikharos zoned out - right up until he heard, "-to thank Lord Ikharos and his partner Xiān for sparing the time to revel with us and share in our traditions."

There were eyes on him. Ikharos cleared his throat and said, "It's an honour to be here. Thank you for inviting me."

Däthedr smiled and gave way for the Äthalvard. The hush of the crowds disappeared as the myriad of spectacles were unleashed. The sights ranged from being as tame as simple (though impressive) paintings to works as extraordinary as half-alive essences of physical magic, twisting through the air like wispy wraiths formed of silver dust and ethereal energy.

Ikharos watched it all, dragged out of his bored reverie. He found himself impressed and transfixed with every new work unveiled. Everything else - the war, the Scars, Io, even the Pyramids - faded before his momentary awe.

---

When all was said and done and the show was over, Ikharos retreated to the room Däthedr had set aside for him. Xiān flew to a shelf on the other side of the room and perched down, eye going dim. He himself was feeling the rigours of weeks on weeks of stress and work. Constant worrying was an exhaustive thing. He sat down on the bed and heaved a sigh full of both satisfaction and trepidation.

He was going to watch a Kell die. The notion was a humbling one - and frightening too. When did it end? At what point did the ever-escalating violence subside? Death called for death, the dead rose again - was this the future? Was this all there would be? An endless cycle of fighting, of galaxy-wide battle hurtling through the limits of mortality and physics and TIME?

The door opened behind him. Formora noiselessly slipped in. Her cheeks were flushed and eyes alight - and she wore a grin so wide and pure he couldn't help but return it. "Did you..." She began, near breathless.

"Enjoy it? Sure. More than, even." Ikharos sighed again. There was no weight behind it this time. It was just him releasing a long-held breath. "That was nice. Very. I... I appreciate having taken part. It's nice to know-"

Formora darted forward and- No, darted wasn't the right word. Ikharos saw her approach with plenty of time, but he was still surprised to feel her lips against his and her hands at his shoulders, pushing him down. His hands went to her sides, more out of surprise than anything else, but as he processed what was happening he wrapped his arms around her and held her closer. Formora climbed onto the bed, hovering over him.

"Ugh."

Their kiss stopped. Both of them looked sideways. Xiān glared at them, exasperation flickering in her burning eye. "Really? Could've at least told me to leave."

Formora stared. "I'm sorry. I forgot-"

"Yeah yeah, everyone always forgets the Ghost. Ike, this is getting real old. This happens again, I'll go on strike." Xiān raised herself up into the air "Will I close the door too?"

"... Yes please," he mumbled, rolling his eyes.

"Traveler above..." She left. The door clicked shut - but Ikharos could still hear the last remnants of the party through the walls. A harp was being played somewhere and someone was singing. A near-scalding heat rolled off the woman over him, but the fingers tracing his cheeks, jawline and neck were cool to the touch. She was still wearing her party-attire. It felt like satin beneath his finger pads, soft and smooth and luxurious.

"This is custom," he murmured. "Right?"

Formora hummed once. "A mix of elven lámarae and Eliksni watercloth."

"Who-"

"Eilífa and Kiphoris."

"Kiph? Seriously?"

"You yourself told me he was a weaver. A skilled one, I have discovered."

"His clan - house, whatever - were, but this is a lot even for-"

Formora kissed him again. She was quick to deepen it. Her forehead brushed against his own. Ikharos reached up to cup the back of her head. His fingers laced through her hair, undoing the braids. It fell down around them, framing their faces and curtaining off the rest of the world.

For a while, there was only the two of them.

---

Ikharos woke up. There was no other way to put it. Sometimes it was a gradual thing, but this was a near-sudden return to wakefulness. His inbuilt clock was chiming; he had duties to attend to.

Formora was fast asleep. A couple of strands of hair hung over her face. Her eyebrows were furrowed and the edges of her lips were downturned. In short: she was scowling in her sleep. Ikharos reached out and tentatively ran his hand over her shoulder, struck by how much he cared. She was incredible. He moved closer, fingers tracing down her arm conveniently thrown over the covers.

There was a special delirious intensity in being so close. Ikharos looked her over; he had wanted to see her the night before, and she him. Armour dislodged, uniforms done away with - and it turned out they were not quite so different. Formora hadn't the same bright luminous claw marks running across his head or drawing across his front, but the shadows of where blades had kissed skin were there. Bullet scars were rougher, uglier, and she hadn't those, but there were burns on her end. A hand-shaped one right below her ribs. Ikharos had kissed it, fielding it as a question. The answer was a tight-faced grimace.

Galbatorix.

Rarely had he wanted to kill his fellow man as much as he did now.

In return her lips had touched the rippling lines crossing his left bicep. It had been a Wizard's caress and Ikharos had told her such. Her fingers had tapped the jagged gouges criss-crossing his calf: a lingering reminder of his stint as a mortal during the Red War, courtesy of an over-eager war beast.

It jogged a worry; where was Nireith? With a friend, most likely, but Ikharos couldn't shake the concern. At least until his gaze slipped over Formora again. The sight of her was too powerful. It banished every other thought in his brain, everything except cherish this.

She stirred, as if feeling his stare as a physical thing. Her eyes fluttered and inched open. Formora blinked at the sight of him, yawned, and stretched her arms out. Even that was graceful. Elves, he thought with some amusement. "Is it morning already?"

"It is." Ikharos kissed her cheek. His lips stayed there, slowly but surely roving down to her neck, ghosting over her skin. Her heartbeat raced just below the surface, too fast for a baseline human. Faster than his own, even. "Have I ever told you you're gorgeous?"

"Surprisingly, no," she muttered.

"Well, you are."

"Should I expect more compliments like this?"

"Oh yes."

"Good." Her arms curled around him, tugging him against her. The embrace was all he could ever want. "I should go with you."

"Can't. You know it. Your presence will only hamper the message we're trying to impart."

"Then you should stay."

"I'm the credence Tarrhis needs. That doesn't work either."

"Stay?" Formora's hands cupped his face, pulling it from neck to directly in front of her. "Please?"

"I wish I could." Ikharos pressed against her, closing his eyes. "Eka dunei ono."

"Un eka ono." Formora released a shuddering breath. She pulled him in for a chaste, though long-reigning, kiss. "Gánga heilln, Ikharos-dunei. Líka, wiol edtha."

"Abr stefna. Eka hirda onr baedi mjök eom eitha pessu. Unin thornessa lífa orono du naesta, eka weohnata kuasta hrygr eom ono." Ikharos looked at her longingly, trying to memorize everything about her - the dormant strength, the fiery pride, the dauntless determination, the caring warmth. There was so much roaring for his attention, trying to get him to move and refocus, but this - this was too important.

"You learn too quickly," Formora huffed.

"I had a great teacher."

"But not a wise one. I think I should have drawn it out."

"Why's that?"

"Keep you nearer."

Ikharos grinned. "Sure. Look, no matter how this goes it won't take long. I'll be back in a few days at most. We'll work together again. The Hive will never see us coming."

"Never."

With one last kiss, Ikharos slid out of the bed and looked around for his Reef suit. "Xiān?"

"You done?"

"For now."

"I'm not going in. Armour's by the door. Same with biosuit. No one's about, so be quick."

"Joy. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Seriously. No reminder at all. Not one. Honestly, there should be a way for Ghosts to delete memories 'cause this is traumatizing."

"Drama queen."

"And proud."

---

The Eliksni camp wasn't any more awake than the elven city around them. Ikharos found Kiphoris by the foot of his Skiff's entrance, sipping at a chilled cup of low-density ether. A blanket had been tossed around his shoulder, cut from the soft fur of some alien beast. He handed the cup over. Ikharos took a draught and gave it back. It worked about just as well as coffee and without the awful taste.

Oh, how he despised coffee. Lennox had loved it, but he... Ikharos was a tea-man at heart.

"Ikha Riis," Kiph hissed pleasantly, outer eyes half-lidded. "Are you ready?"

"When do we leave?"

"An hour. Skriviks-Archon is speaking on wide-band, if you would like to listen. Preaching to all who will hear."

"Might do that. Looks like I have time to burn. Then again... " Ikharos glanced back the way he had come, but... no. It wouldn't do to have said goodbye then return for all of twenty minutes just to make his farewells all over again.

Still...

"Stop. Go talk with Javek."

Ikharos shrugged. Why not? He wandered away, towards the area rife with the smell of ether and the feel of Void. A small pack of smooth-shelled Servitors hovered in the space between tents and Skiffs. A group of Eliksni tended to them, chittering to one another and their charges in a civil, relaxed manner. A few saw him coming and offered him hasty miurlis salutes. Ikharos returned the gestures and stopped by the edge of temporary ether-den, hands clasped behind his back. Javek disentangled from a Servitor's feeding tubes and joined him, blinking with his outer eyes.

"Kirzen," Javek purred, mandibles rapping against his jaws. "You are well?"

"Doing great. You?"

"Eia, I am well. But..." Javek hesitated. "Nervous."

Because of the challenge. Ikharos's smile fell. "True."

"Are you?"

"A little."

"A little?"

"I've resigned myself to this kind of life. Krinok, Hive, Cabal - none of this is new."

"I do not envy you."

"Nor do I. Envy me, that is. Getting swatted about isn't exactly fun."

"I cannot imagine it is." Javek sent him a curious sidelong look. "You are overly cheery."

"Am I?"

"Your eye-fur is not quite so low, nor are your teeth pulled close together. Was your elf-celebration so enjoyable?"

Ikharos frowned.

"Ah. You are upset again."

"No, I'm..."

"I know." Javek's outer pair of eyes closed. "I am joking."

"Oh."

"Poorly."

"Yeah."

"I am no Melkris."

"Thank the Traveler for that."

Javek laughed. Ikharos smiled along, completely at ease. At least he could enjoy this. Then the Splicer's head turned and looked past him, amused expression faltering. Javek raised a hand to his battlemask in an approximation of an elven greeting. Ikharos turned.

And groaned.

"No," he said gruffly. "I'm not doing this again."

Arya scowled. She looked, in a word, frustrated. Ikharos felt much the same. "I'm not-"

"I don't care." His voice fell to a low growl. "I'm done being polite. You more than anyone else should be giving me a break, but instead... Just stop." Ikharos turned to leave.

"I spoke with Däthedr."

He stopped and swiveled back around. "So?"

Arya hesitated. "He told me to scry. I scryed."

"And?"

"Kuasta is gone. Ceunon is abandoned. Aroughs burns. Something is happening."

"'Something'. Not what I've warned you about time and again. Just 'something'."

"You must admit, your boasts are difficult to belie-"

"Boasts?" Ikharos snorted. "You're delusional."

"Not you?" She snapped back.

"I've been in the thick of it time and again. I've seen the true face of the Enemy. Could be I'm one of the few who truly understands what we face."

"Again, you say 'we' like this involves us."

"It does! Neither Kuasta or Aroughs wanted to be involved, no more than your people, but they suffered all the same. How long before an elven city is razed?"

Arya stared at him. "It won't come to that. We're hidden."

"So you should stand aside and let everyone else suffer in your stead?"

"I didn't say that-"

"But you insinuated." Ikharos put his hands on his hips and looked up and around at the trees ringing the glade. "Forests are awfully flammable. It really wouldn't take much to set one off. A spark, really. Could you imagine that? A blaze blanketing the entirety of Du Weldenvarden? One city wouldn't be the extent of it - try all your cities."

The elf's eyes widened. "Nothing has that kind of power."

"Gods, Arya. We fight gods. Burning a forest? That's a cakewalk." Despite himself, he worriedly glanced back towards the direction of Däthedr's estate. Arya, being a sharp-eyed elf, caught on all too quickly.

"You care for her," she whispered.

Ikharos looked at her, eyes narrowed. "Don't."

"Your propaganda places her in a difficult place. She believes you."

"She believes me because she saw the same things I did."

"Regardless, her position is precarious."

"Is that a threat?"

"A warning."

"Formora's strong," Ikharos said stubbornly. "Could be the strongest elf I've met yet - in more ways than one. She doesn't need me to coddle her."

Arya was undeterred. "Not coddle, perhaps, but care."

"I care more than enough."

"Do you?"

"Don't lecture me. You have no right."

"I know what it is to love-"

"And lose? So do I."

---

Zahl had a smile. Lecherous, maybe. Or sweet. Maybe even thoughtful. Ikharos could never tell. Human people were not something he knew how to read very well. Blue star-people less so. But by all the gods, he was beautiful. His skin glimmered. Actually, genuinely glimmered. And his eyes! Bright purple! Who had eyes like that?!

"You're looking at me," Zahl laughed. He was stocking dusty tubs and boxes of medicines and other bits'n'bobs Ikharos had snagged from a nearby hospital.

"So are you."

"I'm looking at me?" Zahl's eyes darted to the scratched up mirror in the corner of the room. "Suppose I can't blame me."

"I meant looking at me," Ikharos said. He was flustered. Shy. A wreck. He knew how to snarl out Eliksni insults, crack their comms open and spill out their secrets, even run circles around haywire security Frames, but this - this was another sort of battle. People were a war, civil and humble. That was how he classified them. It was a war that had outgrown him, that had entirely outclassed him. He couldn't keep up.

At least until Zahl lagged behind to help shoulder the weight. They ran to catch up together.

"I was just thinking..." the other man began. "I think we might need new bandages."

"I'll go get them." Ikharos moved to get up.

"No!" Zahl's hand fell on his shoulder. Ikharos could have shrugged it off with ease; not only was Zahl a pacifist, the man was Lightless. But... he couldn't. Just couldn't. "No. We have enough for now. Stay. Please. Seeing you reassures them."

Ikharos frowned. "No it doesn't. It frightens them."

"That's what you think."

"It's what I know."

"You only frighten because you only ever think you can frighten - but you are capable of so much more."

"Yeah. Killing."

Zahl shook his head, looking down at Ikharos with stern condescension. "No. You're hope. Their hope. My hope."

"For what?"

"A better tomorrow. Please - never forget that. Never."

"Fine," Ikharos groaned. He didn't believe it, but if Zahl wanted him to say the words, then... "Never."

---

"I know my duties," Ikharos continued, just to drag them away from a topic fast becoming uncomfortable. "I know what I have to do. I know I've made the right choice. Can you say the same?"

Arya didn't reply.

000

The ride to Aberon was long, hard, and took far too long. At least in comparison to how their Eliksni allies traveled. Tellesa reckoned she had been spoiled, having seen and learned all she had. Horses, even the speedy mounts employed by the Varden's scouts, had been thoroughly ruined for her.

The city gates were already wide open to account for the steady traffic pushing in and out. Surdan guardsmen stood on either side, occasionally stopping people to ask questions and investigate carts. They eyed both Tellesa and her followers suspiciously. Their hands tightened on the hafts of their gleaming halberds.

Tellesa wasn't intimidated. With Kielot and Murtagh riding a rank behind, she led the way and watched unsurprised as the polearms swung to bar her way.

"Name yourself," one of the soldiers gruffly demanded.

"Tellesa Kjallasdaughter. I serve Lady Nasuada and the Varden."

"I'll have to check that." The man motioned to a nearby boy, who set off running into the city. "Remain here."

"Of course." Tellesa slowly reached back into her saddlebags. "Would a letter of commendation from Sir Parzald help any?"

The guard snatched the folded parchment out of her hands and studied the unbroken wax seal. He called over another man, who in turn whispered something unintelligible. Finally, they looked back at her and grumbled some. "Fine. Go on."

Tellesa smiled and took the letter back. She and her band cantered past the guards and into the city proper. The pedestrians crossing the perfect cobbled roads moved out of the way, recognizing that the steeds and armour they bore signified them as employed warriors. She had long since found herself growing fond of the perks of the reputation, even if it had nothing to do with her personally but rather the vocation at large.

---

Borromeo Castle was a grand thing of royal architecture, befitting as a home for a monarch and as the centerpiece of an entire kingdom. Tellesa left her mare in the stables to be tended by servants and followed as an official led them into the seat of Surdan power. Kielot and Murtagh followed out of tradition more than anything else. They were her trustees and guards, in essence, though why she, a mere scout sergeant, would need guards was anyone's guess. Both had assigned themselves to the task without asking her input.

It was more than welcome, however.

They passed through the courtyard just as something roared. Dust billowed around a huge metallic shape, flinging the stuff in all directions as it rose up and shot away.

"Is that a Skiff?" Tellesa asked aloud.

Their guide, a man from the nomadic tribes who went by the name of Dahwar, blinked and waved the disturbed sediment away from his face. He looked warily at the swiftly shrinking shape in the air. "I believe so. Captain Palkra of the Eliksni has been ordered to... reconvene with his people, I believe." He huffed and looked at Tellesa. "Better those creatures keep to themselves, yes?"

She frowned. "Some of 'those creatures' are my friends."

Dahwar went quiet for a long moment. He eventually murmured, "This way."

Their quarters awaited. Hopefully there would be baths and hot dinners, but Tellesa couldn't shake her gaze from the skies. Where is Palkra going?

000

They loaded the Skiffs and flew for many local hours. Javek prayed; he prayed long and deeply, eyes closed and both pairs of hands clasped together. He prayed as he had never prayed before, hoping, nay begging for a near bloodless solution to his house's divisions. They needed it - for themselves, for the hatchlings, for the world at large, for the Great Machine itself. They needed it badly.

Only together could they save what remained of their banner.

Only together could they hope to defeat the Hive.

Only together could they destroy the Harmony.

Only together could they break the War-Machine's blockade and once more reach to the stars.

A part of him, traitorous and thirsting for independence, didn't want any of it to end. Javek refused to listen to it on the basis of pain. It hurt to see everything collapsing around him. It hurt to see the suffering of the Whirlwind dragged all the way to their newest home, infecting the minds of Eliksni and the humans both.

It hurt knowing that it was all the Great Machine's fault that the Harmony had turned to the Maw, that the Hive had risen in the first place, that his people were in their current divided and starving state. It was his god, the one he had been taught since hatching to love, to cherish, to chase after and pray to.

And so Javek prayed to the traitorous god - because he didn't know what else to do.

---

They stopped near the great desert taking up the majority of inner Alagaësia, by the edge of a place Xiān called Silverwood Forest.

"Now, I may be mistaken," Ikharos said upon disembarking, "but I think there used to be an elven settlement around here before the Fall. Oromis told me."

"Not Formora?" Javek questioned.

The two-eyed soft-skinned human - wise, honest, brave, good-intentioned - shook his head. "Geography isn't the type of subject we bond over. Magic and history is my forte - and hers, apparently. Oromis said he lived here, when we first talked. Didn't think much of it at the time, being in proximity to dragons and all, but now..."

"Can we find it?" Melkris asked. "Search for old treasures?"

"If it was destroyed by the Forsworn then everything was likely either burned to the ground or looted by soldiers. Probably not."

"Aw." Melkris chittered with disappointment and wandered off. Ikharos too left to go talk with the gathered nobles, leaving Javek on his lonesome. Taking inspiration from Melkris - for once - he walked to the forest and delved in the soft, glittering undergrowth. The name made sense, given how everything glinted silver when the sunlight struck the sheening leaves, ferns, and mosses at a certain angle. The trees had dull grey bark. Flowers bloomed between the reaching roots, subsisting on what light filtered through the canopy above were of pure white.

It was pleasant, both to the eyes and the tongue, as well as the mind. Javek reached out with his consciousness, wary and curious all at once. The animals and plants didn't notice, going about their day as they always did. Some had been spooked by the sound of the arriving Skiffs and the Eliksni laying camp, but many others either didn't notice or didn't care - particularly the smaller creatures. Those of lesser stature were confident in their ability to avoid detection. They didn't see much need in running. Only those of large mass did, those who had something to lose.

It was like a noble Riisan House, Javek realized. Those in power feared over their own stability within the rigid structure. They hoarded ether to keep their size and gather warriors loyal to them. And if anything threatened to destroy their standing? The nobles either attacked or ran, much like the beasts of the forests. It was pathetic. Aggravating. Self-defeating above all else. Javek, for once in his life, took a step back and realized how utterly bizarre it was. How stupid. How depraved. Krinok was the worst offender. He needed to die, as Ikharos said, but... though Tarrhis was fair, he was just, he was true, it didn't help that his own power was built on blood and bullying.

But what was there to do?

Nothing, he told himself.

Ikharos had said he was resigned to a life of violence.

Maybe he wasn't so alone in that.

Javek's mind caught on something. Another consciousness, miniscule compared to his own but formed of such single-minded focus he was hard pressed to see past it. He wandered closer, looking for the creature responsible - and found it hanging on a platform of sticky silken strands stretching between two tree branches. The tiny beast was as wide as his palm, possessing only of a stocky and colourful red-and-black abdomen with six hornlike crests all around it and a head outfitted with six black eyes with two dark fangs hanging below.

It looked at him.

He looked at it.

Eventually, the tiny predator - for that was what it was - decided enough was enough and leapt down from the tree to scamper across the detritus-covered forest floor. Javek ambled behind it, content to watch and follow and nothing more. He trailed behind, stopping only when it crawled into a makeshift burrow.

The burrow being the eye socket of a human skull. An elven skull.

The bone was thin and fragile with both elven specialization and age. There was not a speck of tissue to be seen on the thing. It could well have been centuries old. Javek looked around at the forest, only just noticing the strange formations in the nearby trees and the oddly-shaped rocks that could have once been the foundations for walls.

An old elven settlement indeed. Javek shuddered; he didn't like to think of the slaughter that had surely happened here. Not after having been among the surviving elves to the north. Now he understood, though. Formora's rage made sense; this was surely one of the tragedies she spoke of, one she regretted and mourned after. How different it must have been to live on a world and meet with the dark histories of one's past in person. He had never seen Riis, not once, but the humans...

They saw their Whirlwind every day.

Or they would have, if they only chose to open their eyes.

---

Javek walked back to camp only a couple of hours later. He was not hungry, for the forest beasts had fed him when he called. He was not thirsty, for his magic drew pure water out of the ground ready for him to drink. And neither did he desire ether, for he had supped earlier that morning before they had left Ellesméra altogether. His life was different; there was both a spring in his step and a weight to it. Magic had uplifted him to new heights of power and wisdom - but with it came the vaunted position from which he could look down on his past, on his people, and come to the realization they were far from perfect.

He headed straight for the group he knew and loved. Beraskes, Melkris and Raksil had gathered around a small cooking device and heater, though the night was already more than warm enough for his liking. Javek joined them and sat down. "Where is Ikha Riis?" He asked.

Raksil gestured further along, deeper into the camp. "He wants to ensure the Psion is not causing trouble."

"I distrust the creature," Beraskes growled. "It irks me to carry her around with us."

"Only this far. She and Arke and Kida will remain here with a skeleton crew. Ikha Riis is ensuring she will cause no harm to our brethren in our absence."

"Bah." Beraskes turned back to their meal. It was a local beast, all long legs and rending antlers but nowhere near the size of the animal Ikharos had felled for their Cabal prisoners weeks ago. It was fortunate they had no gluttonous Uluru to feed. The only one who stood to overreach beyond his own portions was Melkris.

Javek watched the skinned and gutted body turn over the portable cooker. He would have eaten it bloody and raw, as the others wanted, but humans couldn't do that. They had to cook their meat. Ikharos had often thanked them for the compromise by adding whatever spare spices he and Xiān had hidden away to the meal. It more than made up for the added layer of needless complexity. Even choosy Beraskes had thought so.

"What is that you have?" Raksil leaned closer, squinting at the animal in Javek's hands. The Splicer shrugged.

"I want to ask Ikha Riis about it."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Yes, but it likes me. I spoke to it in the magic language. It knows I am a friend."

Melkris leered at him. "Javek is friend to all!"

"Not you," he snapped back.

"Oh yes, especially Melkris."

"Melkris is a fool, undeserving of Javek's attentions."

"Ghrah!" Beraskes snarled. "We get it, elikos, you are both pretty. Can you please be quiet now?"

Melkris beamed. "She called me pretty!"

Raksil laughed. Javek smiled despite his misgivings. Beraskes simmered.

Ikharos returned before long, and just in time too; their resident Marauder had been about to strangle their shockshooter. Beraskes sat straight and noble-like as the human arrived, ever the proper soldier. Javek half-suspected she liked Ikharos too. As much as Melkris and him, easily, though for different reasons.

"Javek has something to show you," Melkris announced.

Ikharos sat down between them and glanced at him. "Oh?"

Javek held out his new pet. "What is this?"

The human jumped. Right up into the air. Talk from the nearby groups quietened as others took notice - but Javek had eyes only for Ikharos, who was in the midst of staring horrified at the tiny forest beast. "Psekisk!" A hand went to his heaving chest. "Sweet Great Machine above!"

"Is it..." Javek shrunk in on himself, pulling the little animal closer. "Is it wrong? Is it bad?"

Ikharos looked up at him, then back to the creature. "I can't... Oh, Great Machine... You scared the life out of me."

"What is it?" Melkris asked with a frown, humour forgotten.

"It's a spider. A really, really big spider. Oh hell..." Ikharos spouted out some human curses and sat back down - a little farther away from Javek than before. "Was not expecting that."

"Is it terrible?"

"It..." Ikharos looked at him again, concerned. "It's not bad, no. I mean... you have it under control, right? It won't bite anyone?"

"Nama," Javek confirmed. "It will not."

"Then it's fine. But please - some warning next time."

Melkris chirped. "Spiders are Kirzen's weakness. Javek, where did you find your new familiar?"

Ikharos glared at him. "Don't even think about it."

"Ha!"

"He said no, Melkris! You psesiskar, sit back down!" Beraskes rose up and chased after the shockshooter, who was making a run for the forest. Raksil released an exasperated sigh and dragged himself to his feet to lope after them.

"He's not allowed near my tent," Ikharos muttered, though whether to Javek or Xiān wasn't clear. Maybe both. "Not this night, the next, any time in future. Spiders are horrible. Bloody Melkris...

Javek brought his pet up to face-height. He certainly didn't think so. No, his creature looked incredible. "Spider..." he said, just to get a feel for the word. It sounded simple, but nice. It was easy on his tongue, which was far too rare for a human word.

"Looks like an orbweaver," Ikharos murmured. He was looking at the spider again. "If one were crossed with a tarantula."

Javek nodded slowly. "Orr-ub waiv'ar. Terenterula."

"Orbweaver," Ikharos repeated. "Tarantula."

He tried the human words again with a little more success. "What are these things you speak of?"

"Types of spiders. It's a big animal group, lots of differences between them. Tarantulas are big, orbweavers are colourful and... yeah, I've seen a few of the latter with horns like those. A whole lot smaller, though."

"Are spiders loyal?"

"I'll tell you now, spiders don't make especially great pets. It won't love you. It won't understand you. It won't obey."

Javek smiled. "What if I speak to it in the ancient language again, so it understands what I say?"

Ikharos hesitated. "Sure?

"And turn it intelligent like Islanzadí's bird."

"That's... ambitious. And not a little frightening. If this leads to a spider uprising, I'm blaming you."

Javek was nonplussed. "What should I name it?"

"What would you like to name it?"

"Chelchis?"

"After the Kell of Stone?"

"Eia."

"Suit yourself." Ikharos once more peered at the creature. "You know it's probably female, right?"

"It is?" Javek looked it over. "How can you tell?"

"Because it's big. Males are typically smaller and don't live near as long. Well, either that or this is a male and we're about to be attacked by giant cat-sized spiders at any moment now."

Javek looked in the direction of the forest.

"I'm kidding," Ikharos said. "They can't grow so large. There's nothing to worry about. I think. I hope..."

Javek nodded and turned back to his spider. "I will still name it Chelchis."

"It's your call."

Javek held his spider up, close to his eyes. "Onr nama er Chelchis." (Your name is Chelchis.)

Chelchis rubbed her little fangs together.

---

Javek listened. He listened to the camp as comrades went to sleep and compatriots woke up. He listened as a half-crew left to patrol and another returned, their own shift over. He listened to Ikharos's soft breathing, Melkris's muffled snoring, Beraskes's claws tapping against the steel of her cuirass, and Raksil's troubled mutterings. All had fallen into deep slumber - save for him and Xiān. And Chelchis, but not quite. As Ikharos had explained it, spiders entered states of semi-dormancy rather than outright sleep, so given how she was motionlessly resting in the hollow of his empty helmet...

There was just two of them, in essence.

"Everyone's got a pet these days," Xiān mused. "You with Super Spider, Formora with her bear-crocodile-dog, Ike with his robot hitman and Kiph with his flirt-dragon."

Javek grinned. "I like that."

"Which part?"

"All of it."

Little else was said after that. They fell into a comfortable silence. Xiān's shell relaxed and opened ever so slightly, allowing the cushioned sounds of public radio chatter to filter out. There was rough and sophisticated Ulurant, the shrill Psion-speak, a Drotos-prayer, Servitor murmurings, and even a hum from the planet-sieging consciousness high above.

And then...

Skriviks.

Javek perked up, his breath coalescing in front of him as a frosted ether cloud. "What did he say?"

Xiān played it back.

"The challenge is met."

---

Kiphoris came by to see to them. Javek's old Captain wore a grim look. When he spoke, his voice and words carried with them an unhappy weight. Resignation. Like Ikharos. Like Javek. Their lives were violent. Their present and futures were violent. Their expectations were of yet more violence. Did it ever end? Was there really no other path to peace and survival than violence? Theirs was a harsh reality, Javek decided. They had to acclimate themselves to the needful cruelty of well-intentioned slaughter or risk being cut away and cauterized from existence like a drekh's lower arms.

He stopped himself out of horrified shock; he was beginning to sound like the Hive.

A hand fell on his shoulder. Javek couldn't feel anything beyond the comfort of its weight through his pauldron. "You doing alright?" Ikharos asked, concerned. His eyes had no glow, had no ether-blue, but they were expressive enough on their own. They looked at him with a quiet concern.

"Are we a crew?" Javek blurted. Kiphoris had moved on by then, leaving them to gather up their belongings and board a Skiff. He motioned to himself, to Beraskes, to Melkris and Raksil. "Are you our Captain?"

Ikharos didn't say anything for a long time. Javek regretted having asked. "... At this rate, I don't know." He snorted. "It wouldn't be right for me to refuse an invitation to Tarrhis's house, then steal myself a couple of Scars."

Javek didn't mind. "I enjoy this," he admitted. "The freedom."

"So you've said."

"I don't want this to end. I like... being able to be me."

"Relatable. Maybe when all's said and done, I'll trade with Tarrhis to get you a more... factional-neutral position. Emissary to the elves, maybe?"

Javek grimaced. "Kiphoris-Veskirisk does so already. He makes it look painful."

"Probably is."

"No thank you."

"That's fine. We'll see what we can get." Ikharos pulled away, but Javek grasped his forearm. The Light-human glanced back, surprised.

"Thank you," Javek said quietly, eyes lowering. "You have been a fair friend."

Ikharos didn't say anything. He returned the grasp, squeezed, and pulled away to get back to work. Drotos had sent him materials to study in preparation. Other Splicers were on their way to see to the Lightbearer's armour and appearance and make him appear more easily acceptable to the neutral masses of their banner - those they wanted to sway to their side.

Politics, Javek thought derisively. Necessary, perhaps, and not entirely uninteresting, but it just wasn't for him. Large politics in any case. There was something fascinating about the civil interactions that played out within a crew, or even in human, dwarven, and elven villages, but again - he wasn't in a position to enjoy it. He was a Splicer; he saw to his people's needs whether it was in machines, in prayer, or now in magic. No one was presently seeking him out, though. Everyone had their tasks - except for him. He was free for a short time.

Javek decided to tend to his flock of Shanks and the spider he'd so recently adopted. Did it need a nest? A burrow? Perhaps he could make one out of spare salvage, small enough to be carried on the Skiff but large enough for Chelchis to be comfortable. Yes. The idea enticed him. Javek smiled to himself, happy with having formulated a worthy distraction, and wandered around camp in search of materials for his latest project.

000

Ikharos had no idea what to expect. Of all things Eliksni-related, Archon's Forge was one of the few cultural pillars he still lacked extensive experience with - not least because it always ended more quickly than intended when he played along. It was firmly a word-of-mouth tradition rather than something specifically covered in their records, or at least the modern version was. Maybe the surviving houses understood in some capacity that they had warped the age-old practice into something less than decent and felt some guilt over it. After all, who wanted to be reminded of their own failings?

He held his arms up as Drotos stalked around him, peering with critical interest at his modified attire. The teal hadronweave of his robes had been vandalized with sloppily painted Eliksni runes signifying LIGHT and GREAT MACHINE and WARRIOR. A great pelt of snowy white fur took up form as his new collar while a shimmering cobalt cape hung from his shoulders, lines of purple crystalline electroweave periodically lighting up within the cloth - as if it had been woven around the bioluminescent tentacles of some deep sea jellyfish. A bone-bleached sash ran across his front, inlaid with glittering royal amethysts he had supplied himself. The Eliksni loved the sight of them - both the Scars currently with him and the Wolves of the past. It had been one of many methods Mara Sov and Sjur Eido had employed to tame Skolas's once-fierce house so long ago.

Besides, jewels could carry spare energy in case he needed to cast spells. It may have looked gaudy and out of place, but they had their uses. His helmet hadn't escaped the attentions of the artistic Splicers either; on the left of the helm the glyph for Kirzen had been neatly (compared to the others) coloured across the silver plasteel in rust-red.

"This is good," Drotos happily rumbled. "You look proper."

"I feel overdressed," Ikharos complained, though it was a lie. His robes were tight-fitting, to allow for easier movement, but the extra weight of the cloak and collar wasn't all that much of an issue. Glimmer had been supplied to repair the dents and tears in his armour as well, leaving him looking as good as new. Ikharos's sight turned to the mirror at the far side of the pavilion; he didn't actively dislike how he appeared. The holstered Lumina and sheathed Néhvaët, both at either hip, lent him a more battle-ready look. Besides, the sharp - though still elegant - sight of Eliksni handiwork was tasteful all on its own. He knew a few Guardians who would have killed for similar designs. Alien art was prized where the younger Risen were concerned. Lennox herself had worked herself into a frenzy over the cloak-like mantles of the Flayers from the Ice Reaper regiments. "Who am I doing this for?"

Drotos blinked. "For the House of Scar," he said, perplexed.

Kiphoris grunted. He stood off to the side, mostly silent. "He mean which notable figures do we seek to impress."

"Ah. The Barons are Vasto, Eskran, and Lokiis."

"Tell me about them," Ikharos urged. "How do they play?"

"Eskran lusts after the Cabal," Kiphoris began, growling with disgust. "He adores their armour and often steals their weapons. His armour is formed from salvage torn from their tanks. He bears a winged jump-pack instead of a cloak, and... his helmet is outfitted with the oil-fed hoses of magma launchers."

"Incendior tech?"

"Eia. He imagines himself Acrius reborn into Eliksni flesh."

"Traveler above." Ikharos grimaced. "The universe spits up all sorts. Where's his loyalty?"

"More likely to Krinok than Tarrhis. He has little honour and no qualms about performing treachery."

"Someone to watch, then. The others?"

"Lokiis is too clever and wary, but his mate, Velekris, may be turned to our side if we deliver a well-meaning impression."

"Would this Lokiis act against us even if we do snag his consort?"

"Nama. Their love is strong and bond absolute. Velekris will approve of your presence; I know he will. Lokiis will follow soon after."

"What about the third Baron? Vasto, right?"

"Correct. He-"

"She," Drotos interrupted.

"She?" Kiphoris frowned. "Did they...?"

"Yes," the High-Priest confirmed. "The news came recently."

"Ah. In that case, she is... a she now."

Ikharos nodded. "Yeah, got that. Whatever suits, right? " He tugged at his collar, impatient. "What's she like?"

Kiphoris crossed his upper arms. His claws tapped at his bracers. "Vasto is... a farmer."

"A farmer?"

"Nama, the term does not feel right... A cultivator, perhaps. And a skilled accountant. He-"

"She," Drotos cut in.

Kiphoris grumbled. "Eia, thank you. She is gifted in overseeing Glimmer-mining operations and resource management. Without Vasto, our house would have collapsed into in-fighting long ago. We will need him-"

"Her."

"-her if we seek to return order to the House of Scar."

"How do we convince her?"

"By showing her that with Tarrhis as regent, our house will be stable and that with Krinok as Kell, our house will die off. It is the truth, of course - but we need to impart on her the severity of this reality and the importance that lays with her making the right decision."

"That sounds like a hefty conversation. Do we even have time?"

"No," Kiphoris said with disappointment. "No, we do not. Krinok and Tarrhis will rip each other apart the moment we arrive. Their hatred of each other is legendary. We will be fortunate if you and Skriviks have time to invoke the rites before the duel begins."

"... Riiight. Okay, fine. Is there... anyone else?"

"Krayd and Ralkrosk are Krinok's loyal Captains. They may attempt something. Sundrass, Palkra and I will watch them."

"What of the other Captains?"

"Most will follow their Barons. Though..." Kiphoris hesitated. "There is Inelziks."

"You mentioned her before. A songstress, right?"

"A poet. She is as influential as any Baron, though in standing a mere Captain. The Scars adore her."

"Who will she choose?"

"Us, I hope."

"I know her," Drotos said, then hesitated. "I knew her. She was an Arch-Priest alongside me. Inelziks is honourable and merciful; she will have no love for Krinok's mindless slaughter of Eliksni and humans alike."

"Knew is past tense," Ikharos pointed out. "She could have changed since you last met her."

"Nama. She has not."

"Then I guess I'll take your word for it. Which Baron does she serve?"

"Lokiis."

"Well that simplifies things. If we get Velekris, then Lokiis and Inelziks will follow. Vasto will come to us when we win. Eskran we deal with afterwards, once Krinok is dead and he is alone."

Kiphoris nodded. "I will inform Tarrhis and combine our plans. This will work. It must." He left.

"It must," Ikharos echoed.

---

The challenge was met. So the Archon had said.

Tarrhis took his Skiffs and flew them across Silverwood, over Tüdosten Lake, past the Surdan cities Cithrí and Dauth (which was, coincidentally, the Harmonic word for death) and straight to the southern Imperial city of Aroughs. The captured settlement was built on a headland in the middle of a near-flooded swamp. Once, perhaps, the tall walls lining it had been white and pristine, but by the time they arrived it was all coated with a semi-fresh layer of ash. Craters pockmarked the ground. Skiffs hung overhead, more than Tarrhis had at his command. A select few fires raged and died on the periphery. Walkers patrolled the streets.

And there, in the city square, a veritable army of Eliksni bearing the red-and-gold cloaks of House Scar had gathered.

No one opened fire. Ikharos heard the pilots up at the front of the Skiff argue with someone on the radio, but he didn't pay attention; rather, he watched and waited for something, anything to happen.

But all else was silent.

The Skiffs landed in the square. He disembarked behind Kiphoris and Nyreks, blinking against the sudden glare of the sun high above. The only clouds to be seen were a result of the smoke clambering up from the city. The smell of blood was in the air.

There. Further ahead, by the ranks of the closest soldiers: humans held at sword point. Not all dead then. Still, though, how many? How many did he have to avenge? How many needlessly lost their lives because of some mad dog in a position of power?

Tarrhis had likewise clambered out of his own personal vessel. A staggeringly tall Eliksni separated from the waiting masses and approached, hobbling forward and leaning on their staff. The Archon Skriviks, Ikharos presumed, if only for the extreme age of the rickety creature. He had to be thousands, if not tens of thousands, of years old.

"Tarrhis-Mrelliks!" Skriviks greeted. His voice was, though loud, little more than grating rasp - and still it was the only voice to be heard for miles on miles around. A genuine Riisborn, Ikharos decided. They were an endangered kind. Dangerous too, sure, but above all else precious. What lessons had they to impart? What memories of the Whirlwind could they share? Ikharos sorely wanted to know - but none had ever told him. Maybe the Archon before him was to be the first.

"Skriviks of Elder Days." Tarrhis knelt and bowed with respect he hadn't afforded even Ikharos. "I am relieved to see you well."

Skriviks looked like he wanted to smile, but couldn't with the masses watching. "And where," he began, "is this emissary of the Great Machine you purport to have with you?"

"I'm here." Ikharos stepped forth. A wave of whispers overcame the once-deathly quiet ranks of watching warriors. All were Scars, but many wore personalized insignias and glyphs to show which noble they served. Those present weren't all Krinok's. In fact, it looked like the Ether-Thief's people only made up a fraction of those watching.

"Who are you?" Skriviks demanded, but in High Speech rather than Low Speak. He was invoking rights. By tradition, Ikharos had to answer honestly. Under the terms of suffocating honour, the noble secondary dialect of Eliksni was reserved for honest and true speech. It was their own imperfect version of the ancient language.

"I am Ikharos Torstil, of planet Earth and the Sol system. I am Dragonslayer, Swordbreaker, Aphelionbane." He held up his sheathed blade so all could see the heart set in the pommel. Only a few were bound to recognize what it was, but that was enough - word would hopefully spread. "I am the Avenger of Stone and Defender of the Light. I am Kirzen, Kingkiller."

"Which king did you slay?" Skriviks asked, voice more hushed than before. The rites were all but forgotten, and so quickly too.

Ikharos paused, just to be sure he had all their attentions. "Eka vergarío Oryx," he vowed in the ancient language, the Harmonic tongue, the language of magic.

The whispers doubled.

"I am here to support Tarrhis's claim and..." His expression hardened. "Cast judgement on those who dared to strike against the humans of this world - humans, your secondborn brothers and sisters beneath the Great Machine."

Tarrhis stepped forward, tall and mighty and with his helmet's horns polished just so they could gleam magnificently in the morning light. "It is true. The Great Machine shone its love onto these people. It gifted Ikha Riis with power more than any Kell, true or otherwise, could ever muster."

Recognizing his cue, Ikharos held out a hand. Arc sparked up into the air, then fell back down to flare to life as sizzling Solar, only to quench itself on the flesh of reality and culminate in a tiny bright orb of deadly Void. The Void hummed; the Void groaned; the Void yawned. The cacophonous noise of it echoed around the square and down the many streets. The whispers were drowned out beneath the otherworldly din.

Skriviks stared, wide-eyed, and leaned all the more heavily on his decorated staff.

Another Skiff tore through the air and roughly landed; the pilot was either drunk, confident, or in a hurry. A single figure dropped out of the back, easily as large as Tarrhis but more gangly, more ruggedly dressed.

"Mine-crystal murmurs and mine-machines of war need building," the newcomer growled. "Mine-time is limited. Tarrhis, you rat, you exile, you coward and frightened little thing, you tall drekh, you cur - draw your blade and choke on your blood. Mine-attentions are for worthier things than you." The newcomer's four eyes, blue tinged with a curious strike of pink, found Ikharos. "This is your pet human, Tarrhis? A tiny thing, an insect. When you are dead I will pull its limbs from its body and listen to it squeal. I love hearing them squeal..."

Tarrhis growled heartily, rearing up to his full height. "Fight and die, traitor."

Skriviks slammed his staff against the ground. "Not yet! There are traditions to be-"

"Enough with tradition!" Krinok shrugged off his cloak. "Your tradition is dead weight, Elder Preacher. A Ketch cannot fly laden with the useless."

"How dare-"

"Quiet! Your Kell speaks!"

Skriviks snarled, but, after a tense moment, backed away. Krinok's gaze swept back to Tarrhis. His four hands reached behind to snag and drag out four giant knives. They were hunting tools, long and curved and thickly-built, designed to gut and skin. Ramshackle shock-generators were strapped to the base of each silvered blade.

They was not protocol.

Tarrhis unsheathed twin shock swords, the more easily identifiable cutlasses often employed by the common Eliksni. There were no guns, no spears, no shields, nothing. Just blades. Ikharos scanned the crowd for snipers, for warriors gearing themselves up to intervene - but there was nothing. Nothing at all. Everyone was still. Armed, perhaps, but still. Even Tarrhis's loyalists, those who climbed out of the Skiffs to watch, stood by and did nothing. Ikharos helplessly did the same. His only consolation was that Melkris was inconspicuously not present. Ikharos's eyes met those of Kiphoris. The Captain nodded to him, so slight as to be easily missed by those not searching for it. A look of confirmation, of camaraderie in conspiracy and hope. It was even more reassuring; nothing was going to go wrong.

His attention drifted back to the humans nearby. Prisoners. Important ones too, if their dirtied finery was any indication. Eight of them - including a boy barely a man and a much younger girl. They watched everything with wide, frightening eyes, scarcely moving for fear of setting off their guards.

If Krinok died, what was going to happen to them?

Ikharos sent a pulsing mental probe backwards. Javek caught it, answered with his own. Another image was sent - the humans. Javek replied with a wordless confirmation; they were both ready to act, despite whatever came to pass. By the time he looked back to the soon-to-be combatants, the two nobles had already begun to circle one another. The insults had been done away with, replaced only by animalistic hisses, snapping, and the odd roar.

Ikharos hated how it sounded. It was like reliving the Gap all over again.

There was a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. A Captain was racing forward, two Vandals beside him. Ikharos raised a hand and sent a wall of flickering Voidflames ahead of them, blocking them off. They, along with many others, stared at him. The Captain growled and took a threatening step forward - but then Palkra was there, putting his mass between the Krinok- supporter and Ikharos.

"Something wrong, wretch?" The racer teased.

The other Captain seethed. "You-"

"Ralkrosk, you are hideous. Have I ever told you that before? You are disturbingly ugly. Look at your eyes!"

"You, Palkra, are-"

"Here. I am here. So if you dare even try to attack Tarrhis-Mrelliks or Kirzen, I will personally cut you down."

Ralkrosk fell into a bitter silence. He glared at Ikharos and Palkra both, though not much else. A couple of other Eliksni had stepped forth - but to restrain the troublesome Captain if necessary, not join him.

There was a brief cry of outrage from the dueling grounds. Ikharos's head snapped around. One of Tarrhis's pauldrons had been gouged away, right to the underlying chitin. The shell was cracked, trickling a single line of blood. A broken plate was nothing to laugh at; even watching the two cracked segments rub against one another was painful. Krinok, standing some distance away to escape the Baron's retaliation, was smirking.

"This is your own doing, cur!" He called out in a disarmingly calm voice. "You should never have opposed me. I am Kell. You do not oppose your Kell."

"You slew Valdas!" Tarrhis hissed through gritted fangs.

"No great loss, yes? She led us here, stranded us here, left us to die after her - and you enabled it. I am going to give the Eliksni something to be proud of. An empire."

"We only have one Ketch, you coward! We have not the soldiers nor the resources for an empire!"

"Mine-machines, so loyal and bold, will do it for us."

"You are a misguided cretin."

"And you are a self-enslaved fool." Krinok surged forwards. Blades met blades, crashing and crackling together. It turned ugly whenever one of them so much as touched the other, sawing through steel armour and ripping at the flesh beneath. Both made wild attempts to disengage whenever they were made the victim in those scenarios. It quickly became apparent that the way they were fighting was in Krinok's favour: he was quicker and had more weapons to wield. More often than not he was doing the cutting.

Tarrhis realized it too. He was a traditionalist, true, but how much of Eliksni tradition led to combat? A lot, Ikharos reckoned. And the Baron was an old hand at it. As soon as he caught on to the fact that he was waging a losing battle he changed tact. He charged forth, bringing his greater size and momentum to bear. Krinok leapt away, trying to get to his opponent's back, but Tarrhis was still quick enough to swivel about and face the Ether-Thief at every turn. It was like watching mountain lions brawl, swinging at one another with scything strokes and savage thrusts. There was no mercy to be had, no goodwill left between them; both were fully intent on hurting and killing the other.

It wasn't a swordfight, though that may have been the original intent. Given how both were experienced warriors and expert survivors, it was only natural that it devolved into a twisted competition of butchery. Not all blows could be dodged or parried, and many hit home. Protective plating crumpled and blood splashed. The volume was great, and Ikharos was half-surprised both were still going strong, but only because he almost forgot to account for their size. They were genuine giants, bodily hurtling with all their might against one another. Neither came away from each crashing struggle unscathed.

Then, with a stroke of luck, Tarrhis caught hold of one of Krinok's arms and tugged. The Ether-Thief gave a growling yelp, but he couldn't shake free. He slashed and slashed and slashed, and yet Tarrhis couldn't be dissuaded. The Baron angled one of his swords against the false-Kell's chest and hammered it in, running his foe through the lower abdomen. Not an immediately fatal blow, but getting dangerously close.

Tarrhis raised his other sword and brought the pommel against the face of gasping Krinok, again and again. Ikharos winced; he'd been hit like that before, most recently in Ceunon when dueling Kiphoris, but never by an Eliksni so large, nor with such brutality. Again and again the shock sword's foil crashed against Krinok, shattering his face mask and bloodying his snout. One of the Ether-Thief's mandibles snapped and hung limp. Purplish-red blood flowed.

Krinok's eyes suddenly brightened. With a guttural snarl he tugged himself closer, dragging the sword lodged in his chest deeper, his jaws shooting to Tarrhis's neck. The insulative material of the Baron's biosuit couldn't and didn't hold against the serrated teeth. Tarrhis cried out and pulled away - too late. With a savage wrench of his head, Krinok pushed away with his jaws coated in gore. Both of them stumbled and staggered, at death's door - and neither fell over the edge.

It was close. Too close. Where was Melkris? He had to take the shot soon, before-

A dull roar emanated from overhead. Ikharos looked up. His sight filled with fire and broken metal. The Skiff wreckage smashed against the ground, groaning and spluttering. A beam followed it down, tearing across the cobbled pavement, and hit Tarrhis. Tarrhis.

The Baron cried out and collapsed, side afire with white plasma.

What-?

All order in the city disintegrated. Kiphoris ran past him, headed for Tarrhis and Krinok - who was slowly ambling towards the fallen Baron. Ikharos should have joined him, he had to join them, but...

But...

"Harmony!" Xiān screamed.

Skiffs bellowed. Arcfire burst through the air. A winged shape plummeted and caught one of the swift vessels by the tail and dragged it down out of the sky, bringing the ship under its feet to cushion its bone-shattering fall. But the tall, silvered humanoid creature's bones weren't broken. It stood amidst the scatter of flaming debris, casually rolling its shoulders and taking one confident step towards the gathered Eliksni. A gleaming spear was clutching in one hand while the other cooked up a crackling spell.

Harmony.

Genuine, actual Harmony. Like Midha.

Shit.

Ikharos looked around. The silver giant wasn't alone. There were others - another winged creature playing havoc with the Skiffs and a few on the ground, tearing through buildings and Walkers both. Hundreds of fired Arc bolts glanced off their metallic hides with little effect. It was going to be a slaughter.

And the humans...

He exhaled fitfully. His decision was made.

"Javek!" Ikharos yelled. He was already running, Lumina drawn - and then he Blinked, closing the distance. He fired, seven times. The Eliksni of Krinok's employ - no, they were Fallen - dropped dead. "Move," he ordered brusquely, shouting to be heard above the din of horrific and sudden battle. Where the hell had the Harmony come from?

The civilians - terrified, uncomprehending, and assuredly traumatized - were at least still in semi-cohesive states. They moved.

More fire. Something was roaring. There was something in the square, pouncing about, something with rickety bat wings and two lion-like heads on a draconic body. It had too many eyes to count. The malformed creature spewed out dark oily flames from both maws. Not that way, then. Ikharos gestured to the line of nearby buildings, to a narrower sort of street. Eliksni were rushing all about, yelling and shouting and screaming. There was fighting and running and too much, too much, too much, he couldn't make sense of anything.

But they were running too. The line of broken houses reared up and covered them, quietening though not entirely banishing the storm of furious noisenoisenoise behind. And some ahead, from where something crashed against the Eliksni patrolling the outer city. And then... and then quiet. From ahead, not behind.

The Darkness swept over them, unseen by all but him. It moved in waves and tides, flooding the whole city - or maybe just the block.

Ikharos turned around. The civilians - bloodied and ashen - looked at him with fear and expectation. He...

"Javek," he said quickly, "get them out of here."

Javek nodded. So did Beraskes, standing beside him. They were all that had followed, for better or worse.

"Find Melkris too, if you can. He could be in danger."

"What of you? What of-" Javek looked past him, eyes widening. He raised his gun.

"No," Ikharos snapped. "The civilians. They're your priority. I'll deal with her." Then, to the humans: "These two will get you out of here. Stay with them."

"But..." The youngest man, who looked to be the fiercest of the lot, looked at the Eliksni with a mixture of trepidation and hate. The girl was holding his hand tightly, shaking. "They're monsters."

"Not these ones. They've sworn to get you out - safe. I promise you that."

"Why can't you?" The man looked past him. "Who is that? Is that... is that a Shade?!"

"Move," Ikharos told them. Javek kicked open a door to the adjacent building. There were no more complaints. Ikharos turned around - and spun and fell on his back as something blindingly hot slammed into him and through his shoulder. A kiss of a plasma bolt, no more. Still hurt like hell.

He propped himself up on his elbows, heaving for lost breath. Three Exos marched towards him, weapons aimed directly at his head. Behind them strolled a tall, heavily-built figure clad in tank-grade plate armour. She wore no helmet, leaving her short crimson hair free to rustle in the weak city breeze. Her maroon eyes settled on him, hanging over a thin-lipped mouth curled with amusement.

"Brave," Elkhon commented, nodding to the buildings, "staying to buy them time. Not very smart, though."

"Everyone always says my plans suck," Ikharos groaned. The pain was awful. Not the worst, but awful. "How-"

"We've figured out how to make you dance." The Exos cautiously stopped, fifteen feet away. Elkhon had no such inhibitions. "Someone burns a city, you run. Someone kills civilians, you run even faster. Kuasta, Ceunon, now Aroughs - you're not all that hard to predict anymore." She looked up, at the battle he'd left behind. "Pretty soon we'll be burning all the cities... because of you."

"Because of-"

"You, yeah." Elkhon knelt down. The Dark emanated straight from her. It was so thick his Light threatened to choke and die on the stench of it. "You're kicking them up into a tizzy - bugs, brutes, and knife-ears."

Ikharos stilled. "What?"

"You think we don't know?" Elkhon's smile widened. Her teeth were sharp, scraped and filed into jagged points. She barely looked human. "They're going to feel the burn first, same as the brutes." She motioned past them, back to the square. "Same as the bugs."

Ikharos went for her. Another bolt cut through him. He lost all feeling in his legs. The shooter had hit something vital, evidently. The pain got worse - but that was an occupational hazard, right? His arms worked fine, his lungs still drew breath, and though scrunching up in terror, his Light still burned bright.

Elkhon pulled a long blade over her back. It was near as tall as she was and built of dark obsidian - except for the glassy edges drenched in the energies of the Deep. She dropped it tip-first onto the ground and leaned with her hands pressed on the smooth-cut pommel. "I gave an offer last time. I'll make it again - or I would've, if... well." She gave him a curious look. "Geraxes heard your claim. Sent word on to the rest of us before you did him in.."

Ikharos hissed through clenched teeth, "No idea what... you're on about."

"He was the second-hatched son of Midha. He was there when you killed his father and brother. He heard what you told his sire and told us, before you finished the job. You killed the King." Elkhon paused. "And you said it back there, just a few minutes ago. You killed Him. You killed the Demon-King."

She studied him a little more, edging close. "I should kill you. I really should. The Singers want you dead. But the Mother, Aviatrix-Grandest, she... I don't know. Her desire is a strange thing. Shielded, so the dragons can't bite. We can never really tell what she wants. Might as well bring you to her, see what happens then. How'd you feel about that? We drag you all the way back home, tied behind Janus? I think he'd like that. Old chimera loves a drawn-out meal."

He lashed out. The Void rippled and congregated into reality as a whip of pure hunger. It overcrowded his singular focus, heightening his senses - and all those senses he brought to bear on his one action, his one target, his one desire: Killing Elkhon. Removing the stain of Light-controlled-by-Darkness. Scouring the planet of all Shade influence - starting with her. The violet stream of negative energy hit her quick, clawed into her armour and tasted blood and Dark, but it was cut off before he could strike any truly significant blow. Elkhon flinched and staggered back. Her Exos, on the other hand, closed in. One of his arms was rendered useless; a beam had lanced through it, cutting away all his exerted control.

They had him. They had him dead to-

"Jierda thierra hálsar!"

All three Exos crumpled, necks twisting at sickening angles. Elkhon twirled around, surprised. Ikharos felt the same, but it was hard with all the burning sensations running up his body. He had to fix that - and so he did, with a flush of fierce golden Light. Javek was standing in the doorway of the building he had previously left through, doubled over with sudden exhaustion. His four eyes were trained on the Shade - torn between hatred and fear.

"What? How could... Fucking insect!" She snarled and raised her greatsword. All it would have taken was a leap to strikethe Eliksni down. Ikharos didn't give her that chance; he lashed out with a beam of Arc, hitting her dead centre and cutting a swathe through the block of abandoned buildings behind. Elkhon disintegrated with a receding scream.

Ikharos rolled to his feet, rushed to Javek, and wrapped an arm under the Splicer's first set of limbs. He half-led, half-dragged the Eliksni away, further down the street. "Psesiskar, what are you doing?!"

"Can't leave." Javek hacked out a shuddering breath. "Those Exo-humans are too well-built. Killing them is hard."

"What about the civs?!"

"Beraskes leads them. She is able - you know this."

"You shouldn't have come back." Ikharos glanced back. The Darkness was coalescing, reforming, gearing itself up for another manifestation.

Javek gave him a severe look. "What is the point of us having power, Kirzen, if not for others? I must fight. I must."

Ikharos grimaced. "More like run now. She's going to-" He looked back again. "Oh hell. Dragon!"

The two-headed thing from earlier stood at the other end of the street, right where it met the square. It stared at them and sniffed the air, gulping in the taste of ozone and Arc - and Light. Ikharos let go of Javek and pushed him on, drawing Néhvaët. "Get away!"

"Nama," Javek cried out, hobbling back. He was both fearful and fearless all at once.

The Ahamkara grinned - two grins, two sets of lips pulled taut over long teeth meant to rend flesh - and bounded towards them. Even with its wings folded up the beast was almost large enough to touch the buildings on either side of the street. Ikharos swept his sword through the air, casting forth teeth of sharpened Void. The oncoming monster slid and lowered its head, snarling as the purple force dug into its hide. Not enough. It wasn't enough.

"Here, I have an idea," Xiān blurted. "Run!"

Fair, Ikharos decided, watching as the Ahamkara resumed its charge. He turned, grabbed Javek's shoulder, and Blinked.

---

AN: Massive thanks to Nomad Blue for going through this monster of a chapter!

I got the Mythoclast and its catalyst. Finally. It's pretty cool.