"Five souls. You promised twice that."

"Come now, Septimus, even my influence has its limits."

"They seem frail."

"Then make them less so. Your experiment, your subjects; what follows next I leave to you."

"Very well. And the Warframes?"

"Will follow in time. Remember: the need for secrecy is absolute. Margulis cannot learn of our work here this day."

"The Archimedean? I would have thought the opinion of a mere scholar beneath you."

"Consider it a personal favour, old friend."

- Unknown conversation, Vitruvian 4-17 (Recovery Site Redacted)

Then.

Reality and dreams blur. Memories churn; one into the next. Then he is beyond, seeing the Zariman from outside; its mighty sweeping lines scarred and warped from where the Void's energies had washed over the hull. A fleet of Orokin cruisers and smaller picket craft surround it. The boy's recollections lack consistency or structure. He feels rough hands handling his unconscious body. He watches this too from beyond his physical form; as if looking down from a great height.

The men carrying him are Dax soldiers; golden and resplendent in their armour. Lorists and Archimedeans swamp the corridors, marshalling the soldiers now that the initial sweep is complete, and the area secure. It is a recovery effort. Then he hears the hum-click of a cryopod. Then a dreamless peace.

Next he blinks, and finds himself in the dark, limbs restrained. He screams.

Nobody hears him.

Or so he thinks.

Hours pass. Or months, years, maybe? He blinks, and is in a chamber. It is not the Zariman. There is no thrumming engines, or chitter of ship systems. Only silence; an eerie peace.

The voice speaks to him once more.

"Wake up, Kiddo."

Kael awakes with a start. The Golden Man is with him. Smiling and perfumed and so impossibly tall. His radiance is almost overpowering; Kael has to scrunch his eyes and look away. The man's voice is milk and honey.

"You had another outburst. It's okay, child. Don't be afraid. You're safe here."

But Kael is afraid. He cannot move, for the Chair. The other voices call it a Somatic Link. He knows it only as a prison.

Kael is not alone. He sees Isolde to his right, Sara to his left. Doric is there too; asleep and ever-dreaming.

And finally Sohren. Sohren is awake, eyes alert. He too is bound to a Chair, but does not panic. He looks directly at Kael, meeting his gaze; as strong and commanding as ever. Sohren's voice speaks to him, reassuring him as the two friends lock eyes, lips unmoving.

I'm with you. I'm here. Sohren's confidence is iron-cast, infectious. We're all here.

Me too, the strange voice adds, chuckling; before darkness takes Kael once more.

Time shifts once again.

The chamber is circular, high vaulted; gold on alabaster. The Somatic Link dominates the room; crude cables snake down from the high vaulted ceiling. All eyes are upon him from the Gallery. Yet another demonstration.

Before him is the Armature. It is a sorry looking puppet; a thin, wasted thing; its face a golden skeletal mask. It wears a silent rictus scream, yet makes no sound. Kael feels sorry for it. He does not know why. It is a mere puppet, nothing more.

The honeyed voice calls down from on high.

"Wear it again, boy."

Kael closes his eyes. The Armature shudders, clambering to its feet

He sees through eyes that are not his own. Feels the sinewy muscle beneath its metal skin. The Link deepens. He feels pain, and suffering that is not truly his own. He blinks, realising that he too is now crying.

Kael seems himself through the Armature's perspective: pale and small; all but swallowed by the mighty throne encasing him. He reaches out, toward it; willing himself free. Demanding it. A wire snaking into the Somatic Link pops and fizzles; sparking fitfully. The Somatic Link loses power. Yet his control remains. Transference stable. A murmur ripples throughout the crowd.

Kael flinches when the Golden Man shouts in approval, and the waiting gallery erupts in applause. Concentration is broken. The Armature flops lifelessly to the ground once more.

The Golden Lord casts his goblet down with a petulant snarl; the clang reverberates against the high ceiling.

"Again!"

Time has lost all meaning now.

They are seated as pupils, the five of them,

Their Dax is with them. He is their protector, their tutor. Their gaoler too, in many ways.

They refer to him only as Instructor. He lives up to the title. He teaches them art and poetry, science and war. A foundation of knowledge and understanding. History informs conflict, and conflict their training.

They learn of the Invasion. Of the arrival of the Sentient. That the Defence Grids have failed - are continuing to fail. That we, the Mighty Orokin, are losing. That they are known now as Tenno, and must become peerless. Anything less means certain death.

Instruction is as physical as it is mental. They are taught the striking forms, the grappling arts; even the Thousand Feats: the forbidden combat techniques known only to the Dax themselves. Each day ends the same. The children on their backs, bodies quivering from exhaustion; bodies bruised and all but broken. Lorists fret over them, as the Golden Lord watches from the gallery; that cold smile forever etched on his perfect face.

Instructor demands perfection. They cannot hope to survive the battle unless their muscle-memory is just so. They must move as a Dax moves, think as a Dax would think. They must become all this and so much more.

The gun is as important as the blade. Rifles and pistols; all patterns, all designs.

The children move and shoot; floating targets cubes and brass Armatures, not dissimilar to the ones they are asked to wear with their minds, time and time again; until the process is instinctual, the Somatic Link all but unnecessary.

The forms are combined. Dummy weapons; simple wooden props issued at the start of each sparring session. The children practice on each other: grabbling, wrestling; interchanging dagger strikes with rolling throws that flow into submission chokes and practice guns pressed against sweating brows or exposed throats. No quarter is given, no movement wasted. On and on the training goes, relentless.

Exhausted, pushed to breaking point and beyond, the strange voice that beckons to each of them in the depths of the night begins to fade; replaced with the all too exacting demands of the real. Something else has taken its attention.

Every night, sleep overcomes Kael like a crashing wave.

For the first time since the Zariman Incident, the boy knows peace.

The children are reunited once more. They kneel in a line, dressed in matching Transference Suits. Their bodies are lean and sculpted; their faces alert.

This day is different. The gallery is full. A demonstration, only this one feels different.

Instructor kneels before them, eyes closed.

Two are selected. Always two.

This time it is Kael's turn. He steps forward and face his opponent. His heart sinks as he bows.

It is Sohren. Of course it is.

Isolde is more ruthless and exacting; a peerless shot, but Kael is faster, more skilled with a blade. Sara impetuous and daring, but reckless. Doric hesitates, too concerned with strategy to truly capitalise on his brute size and height. Kael has bested them all.

But never Sohren. He is that extra bit older; taller and stronger. Instructor knows this, understands the ferocious competitive streak that drives Kael; that in turn compels Sohren to be as remarkable a Tenno as he has become.

"Begin." The Dax instructs.

The wooden practice skanas are blunt, but smart when they taste skin. The wooden blades clack and crack as the two boys launch themselves at one another, feeling the eyes of the other children, and those from the gallery beyond. There is an electric tension in the air.

Kael will not allow himself to lose again.

Kael is fast. The skana dents and chips as it flashes in at Sohren, time and time again. Sohren has learned Kael's pattern from months of sparring; from the numerous bruises that decorate his forearms. Sohren is a master with a blade. What he lacks in speed, he makes up for with an efficacy and discipline Kael cannot match.

A parry here, a sidestep there. Sohren's skana counter-flashes; a calculated, single strike. Kael yelps; the skana flying from his grasp. The skana clatters to the floor. Kael's eyes water, his cheeks flush red as he clutches his smarting hand.

Sohren holds his blade up in solemn salute; tall and handsome and strong. The gallery swells with applause. He bows to Kael. Kael respectfully returns the bow, cheeks burning in shame.

The Dax looks over at the Golden Lord. The Golden Lord nods coolly in approval.

A decision is made.