"Explain to me then, how we beat them.
We send our fleets, and they are annihilated; scattered across the cosmos. Our towers fall, one after another; cannibalised by those wretched things. We send our warriors, and their weapons fail; or worse. The Grineer Solution has failed. The Plague has failed. Even the mighty Dax fall in droves; slaughtered on the killing fields. Nothing works.
We cannot outsmart them. We cannot overwhelm them. So I ask again; how in the name of the Void do we beat these devils?"
"Simple. With devils of our own."
- Unknown conversation, Vitruvian 4-12 (Recovery Site Redacted)
Then.
The House Eternal is a vast, twisting place; hushed hallways, solemn libraries and open courtyards. And yet it does not lack joy. Scholars and scientists and artists mingle and laugh. There is the sound of music, of food and wine and merriment. The people sit in groups, conversing and debating; living perfect lives, far removed from the devastation which visits the rest of the Empire.
It is a place of learning; of science and understanding.
And strength.
The Dax train apart in the open cloister; a golden army of gifted fighters, splendid to behold in their glittering armour. They drill in concert, moving as one; blades weaving and twisting; turning and spinning. All in sequence; a mesmerising flow of relentless steel and rigorous discipline.
The Tenno sit apart; heads bowed in meditation. Their drills are over for the day.
Now is a time for contemplation and reflection. They commune; heads bowed, eyes closed. They feel the Void's touch upon them, and master its energies; plumbing the hidden depths within.
Sara fidgets slightly, her restlessness clear. Doric scowls at her, now distracted. Isolde and Kael remain models of discipline, lost in thought.
"Focus." Sohren chides them both, a soft smile betraying his amusement.
The oldest, he has been appointed their leader; first amongst equals.
The war is coming. They have been told as much. When they go to war, it is he that shall lead them.
Trainer crosses before them, the Dax phalanx snapping to attention as he passes.
The Tenno rise to their feet, bowing deeply.
Trainer salutes Sohren; who returns the gesture; a clenched fist folding over his chest.
They have been summoned.
They walk through the Dax formation; the golden warriors parting like a sea and bolting to attention; sabres rattling in raised salute.
The Hall of Receival is an audience chamber more opulent than Isolde has ever known, or will ever see again. The Tenno are seldom here, unless they have misbehaved and are forced to clean it; scrubbing simple wooden brushes across the endless stretch of cool marble. Sara knows the space intimately; has spent more time here than the rest of the Cell combined.
Isolde for her part never ceases to be amazed at its beauty.
It is an opulent, vaulted space; with statues dedicated to Dax heroes past and present. They line the hall like silent sentinels.
Today the space is different. It takes Isolde a moment to place it.
A red carpet has been rolled through the centre of the chamber. The normal retainers and courtiers have been banished; replaced instead by five shapes hidden beneath silken sheets. They stand before the steps leading to the end of the chamber. A set of careful eyes watches them from afar.
At the summit of the room, Lord Septimus awaits; reclining in his golden throne; flanked on either side by decorated Dax veterans.
He is a tall figure, impossibly so. Imperious and noble; his hair is neatly combed; luxuriant and thick. His robes are a crisp artic white, that accent an perfect physique. No hair is out of place; no fold or crease is present that was not placed there by meticulous design.
The seldom smiles he offers are reserved only for his favourites: artists all; select talents he offers generous patronage to. Those favoured are as many as they are varied. A sculptor from Phobos; whose statues decorate the many corridors of the House; depicting great feats and histories of warriors throughout the Empire. A gifted harpist from the Tower of Eritrea, whose lilting music drifts through the corridors and elicits tears from even the most hardened soul.
And the Tenno; most especially the Tenno. Septimus smiles broadly.
Isolde fears Lord Septimus. Not for what he does or says, but for the presence he commands. The House Eternal is a powerful place; and that power swirls through him like a vortex. He is its confluence; the master of a domain defined only by boundless wealth and power. It is said he is as old as the House itself. Isolde has little reason to doubt this. Generals come and go, bending the knee before receiving their orders; pressing his campaigns and enforcing his will throughout the stars beyond.
Of all the children, Isolde has always been the most cynical. She does not trust the House. Its appearance flatters to deceive. A bastion of Orokin learning and understanding, yes; but with particular purpose. She sees little beyond the confines of their dojo, and yet for all its artistic trappings and scientific leanings she knows the truth: The House Eternal is strictly martial in the scope of its ambitions.
Lord Septimus bids them closer with a magnanimous sweep of his hand.
His voice is a silken burr. It fills the chamber and grips those present.
"Step forward, Tenno; that I might look upon you and see our salvation."
The Tenno stepped forward, falling into line in lock-step; eyes staring straight ahead, backs straight.
"Sons and daughters of the Zariman. Children of the Void. You have trained hard; honing your minds and bodies for the trials that await. I wish that you could remain here forever, so that we might explore your gifts to their fullest potential. Alas, the war is on our doorstep. You are needed."
Septimus rises to his feet. Even at a distance, he is perfumed. He wears no unguents or fragrance: the very air itself shifts around him; accommodating him. The smell is lilac and wild elderflower. It all but overpowers them as he descends the stairs, the unnerving smile never once leaving his perfect face.
He cups their chins in his hands as he passes each of the Tenno in turn; examining them as a carver would its proudest carving; or an artist its masterpiece. Isolde shudders inwardly when it is her turn. His touch is cold and clammy, despite the flush of chemicals that threaten to overwhelm her and tell her abject lies at a genetic level. Ever disciplined, she steels herself; silently enduring the objectification. Yet another trick. Inside, her resentment builds.
"I thank you for the dedication you have shown." Septimus says, as he steps past them, approaching the robed shapes beyond. "And for such dedication, due reward."
He steps to one side, bidding them closer to the shrouded figures.
"Yours, to deliver a kind of war only the Void itself can unleash. You will be artists, and these tools… your instruments."
To their shock, Lord Septimus bows. The invitation is clear.
The children step free of formation, unaccustomed to being allowed to do as they please. Nevertheless, they unconsciously approach the robed shapes as one. Isolde considers the silhouette before her; lean and slender. It is a statue, perhaps; some decoration for them to enjoy. Her Void Sense tugs at her; compelling her ever forward.
Isolde stops inches from the statue. She is Tenno; details are not lost on her. The statues' arrangement is as the Tenno always sat, as they always drilled. None of this is accident. This statue, of all the other statues before her, speaks to her more than any other. Beckons her closer.
Isolde reaches out, pulls back the sheet. She blinks.
She is mistaken.
It is no statue at all.
She stares up into a face without eyes; cold steel, smooth and polished and gleaming. And yet beneath, she senses rage, and pain; a rage and pain that she herself has shared ever since that fateful day on the Zariman. She places a hand on its chest, her throat tightening; her mouth dry. Her anger is quite forgotten, overcome by breathless wonder as she feels a kinship the likes of which she has never experienced.
Lord Septimus is correct. She will become an artist, and this gilded armature, this Frame her instrument.
Together, they will compose a symphony of destruction the Empire will never forget.