"Consider the longevity of our Empire. The expanse of the Rail. We have existed for centuries, constrained only by the limits of our collective imagination.
Yet there is a frontier unconquered. These survivors of the Zariman, with their fitful devil minds; they swim in the shadows of the Void, unmoved by its currents; unswayed by its eddies. A Gift? A Curse?
Both of these things, and so much more.
A chance to plum the endless depths; to be stared at by the howling Void, and stare right back.
An Opportunity."
- Unknown conversation, Vitruvian 4-9 (Recovery Site Redacted)
Then.
The Tenno return to The House Eternal. To re-arm, to reflect. To kneel before their Master, and give thanks for the many gifts bestowed upon them. The singers and bards are gone now. The halls are forlorn and silent. Even the cloisters are barren. Only the most trusted Dax remain. They linger behind, hands twitching by their swords; pacing, frustrated. They long to join their comrades on the front.
The Lorists and Archimedeans stand aloof from the Tenno, content to observe but never interact. The children are placed in turn in the Somatic Link; an unnecessary Cradle. These Tenno Dream no longer.
The Tenno endure the tests, cold and unblinking.
The war is not unfelt; by Sohren most of all. He has grown exacting; harsh, distant. He has seen too many Dax fall before his eyes; good warriors expended in the endless furnace of the War. His father had been one of the Golden Few, as his father before him. As a child he had dreamed of becoming Dax, brave and loyal and true. Yet the Void has denied him this dream; providing an all new nightmare in its stead.
He will never follow in his Father's legacy. Instead, he is damned to surpass it.
Kael and Isolde follow him dutifully; Kael, as cold and precise as the blade he wields; Isolde, colder still. Her songs never lift the halls, nor do her smiles light the room. Sara is the opposite; she hides her despair behind caustic smiles and brittle laughs, but the others have seen her wipe her eyes; in those unguarded moments.
Still, they remain strong. The mission is everything to them.
It is the decree of The House Eternal. The Empire will endure.
Doric watches them all; concern ever-mounting.
They are told little as to how the war truly progresses. Doric has to piece it together from unguarded asides from the strategos that hurry from one briefing to the next. A patchwork picture is formed.
Other Tenno operate under the will of the Executors; deploying from staging areas far removed from the House Eternal. Doric reads of their deeds in the Lua despatches; of heroic sacrifices and desperate victories, hard-fought. He imagines his own Cell fighting alongside them; comparing their abilities with their brothers and sisters further afield.
This question above all others vexes him. Why have they been separated?
Fire and fury. The Dax hurl themselves upon the Foe. Golden bodies fall; rendered scorched husks, blackened by streaming energy.
Steel and swords clash. Cutting beams hiss. The Destroyer's Children sing their deadly song.
Sohren is up ahead. He carves a path through the foe, Kael at his side. Isolde and Sara hold the flank; pressing ever onward. Screaming hellfire and robotic wails fill the air.
It is up to Doric to hold the rear guard. He is the largest, the strongest. A rock, upon which the surge of all counter-attacks break. He marshals the forces at his command; the pitiful remaining Dax fanning out; their blades high, eyes searching the heavens. Another attack could come at any moment.
There is a lull in the carnage, as Sohren and the others drive deep into the temple. Doric holds the annex with the rearguard.
Doric stands tall, marveling at the ruined majesty of the ruins around him.
In truth they were late. The Dax had assaulted the Citadel an hour before the Cell's arrival. The annex is a vaulted place; once colonnaded and proud with splendour. Now it is a charnel house. Broken Sentient and scorched bones splinter underfoot.
A hand grasps his ankle; slick blood spattering cold stone. Doric looks down.
Death was a mercy to this warrior. The body the hand is attached to is little more than a torso. The skin of the face has been burnt away on one side; showing white bone, teeth and a single staring eye in anatomical cross-section. Doric frowns, leaning down; peering closer.
The hand is known to him. After a moment, Doric cries out in horrified recognition.
It is Trainer.
He is surrounded by fallen Sentient. Their chassis broken, their Oro crushed with a destructive totality that shocks even the Tenno. Trainer's pistol is empty, his sword broken in two. The riven hilt has been driven clean through another of the infernal machines, pinning it to floor beside him.
Trainer's other eye blinks. His lips gasp for air with an agonised croak.
He is still alive.
Doric witnesses a level of willpower than transcends the superhuman. Trainer reaches up with his remaining hand and beckons Doric closer.
The ancient Dax strangles out the words, every syllable in agony.
"Beware the House. Beware its Lies."
Doric blinks.
Trainer is gone.
Doric never learns his true name.
Months pass. There has been a breakthrough. A counter-attack on the front has proven wildly successful. The Sentient advance has stalled. There is a reprieve.
The mood amongst the House Eternal is buoyant. Courtiers return, in select amounts. Music fills the halls, once more; but it is hesitant; tempered by an unspoken tension.
There is no sign of Lord Septimus. The Tenno are ordered to remain as they are.
The Tenno languish in a state of limbo; restless.
The Tenno are forbidden from seeing their Lord. They are forbidden from the front. They are to remain here, and here alone; until instructed otherwise. Left to their own devices, they roam the halls; enjoying an unusual degree of freedom, albeit within the carefully supervised confines of The House Eternal.
The other Tenno notice the change in mood, but know better than to comment on it. Sara becomes less sullen, glad to be away from the death and destruction, if only for a brief respite. She spends her time with her Warframe and the artificers; decorating its elaborate chassis, humming to herself sadly.
Trainer's death has weighed heavily upon them all.
Grief is expressed in many ways. Kael and Sohren train, blade brothers now; readying themselves for the next phase of the endless war, that must surely come. Skana after skana is called for. A crowd of Dax gathers in size with each progressive contest, marvelling at their skill. They will honour their mentor's memory the only way they can.
Doric spends his time in the library, alone. Books are not forbidden to them, and he takes comfort in them when he can.
The room is a vast place, panelled with Earthen wood and lined with cool stone; an unusual affectation for a space of Orokin design. Row after row of mouldering books line the shelves; entirely at odds with the sweeping alabaster and gilded archways of the halls beyond. A vaulted cloister runs around the perimeter of the shelves; serving as an elevated viewing gallery of the priceless relics.
Many of the tomes are in languages long since forgotten. Doric has been through many of them over the years, has translated what few he could. He has not come here to read, not today.
He sits at the games tables; set apart in an open space in the heart of the library.
He repeats Trainer's words in his mind, over and over.
Beware the House. Beware its Lies.
He dares not share the warning with the others. He ponders over the Komi board, lost in thought. Beside it are several other games; each more complex than the last. He plays himself regularly; articulating strategy in multiple languages under countless rule sets. He plays each of the boards in unison. It helps him think. It calms his frenzied mind.
Doric is broken from his reverie by the scrape of a chair against the stone floor.
Isolde sits across from him; fingers laced together under her chin. She studies the Komi board, then regards Doric with those startlingly violet eyes. Her book of poems sits on the table beside her, forgotten.
"Let's play."
Doric looks up, his dark face set and solemn. She has changed much from the girl that used to sing joyfully in the golden halls of the Zariman. Cold now, aloof. Focused on the mission, above all else. Still, her presence in the library is not unusual. Often she can be seen in one of the far alcoves, a frown upon her face as she devours yet another history or poem.
She has never shown an interest in the games before.
"It's a simple game. You'll grow tired of it."
"Try me."
They play. Doric blinks. It proves more difficult to best her than first anticipated.
"Again." She says, at once.
They play again. The result is closer still.
"Once more."
Doric finds himself frowning at the board, wondering quite how she managed to outmaneuver him so.
"Another game." Her attention is on the next board. "Something more complicated."
Her voice speaks in his mind.
Don't react. We are being watched.
Doric's face remains still as he draws her attention to a far more elaborate set on the next table.
It is a three-tiered board, with a maddening variety of many-sided dice. The pieces range from the lowliest foot soldier to the most elegant star-galleon. The value of each piece is defined by the material they are crafted from; in descending value: ivory, steel, wood.
The game is antiquated, long out of favour with the Golden Lords. Nevertheless, Doric has learned its rules, the careful steps that can be taken. He explains to Isolde the subtleties, the strategies and counter-moves necessary to win the game. Even then, his introduction is painfully high level.
"The Golden Lords call it Ars Bellica, though it is often shortened to simply Bellica. Three boards: space, ground, tower. One must master all three boards before pressing their opponent's tower."
He illustrates the rules in a practice game: he against himself; demonstrating the nuances from one board to the next.
All the while, the Dax watches them. Doric spies him in return; reflected by the polished ivory of the galleon shows to Isolde.
The Dax is one of the proudest members of Trainer's flock. Strong-willed, ambitious; a peerless fighter, by the exacting standards of the Dax soldiery. Vehemently loyal to the House Eternal. The gaps in the ranks have afforded him a meteoric rise in station.
With Trainer's death, he now stands as castellan to Lord Septimus.
This promotion is behind much of the change within The House Eternal. It is his men who deny the Tenno access to the High Archimedean; his men who watch their every move with a thinly disguised animosity.
His name is Eythan.
"Focus on the pieces." Doric says softly, as Isolde scrutinises the board. They are playing their first proper game.
No more Void Talk. The Dax lack the command of the Void, but are not without a sensitivity. Their prolonged proximity to the Orokin has granted them as much.
Different avenues of communication are required.
A new language is developed, leveraging the complexity of the game to the Tenno's favour. A form of spy-craft, devious even by Doric's standards. Isolde catches on quickly.
The complexity of the game is such that pieces can interchange and flow with alarming speed. Doric establishes the baseline structure of their impromptu language; defined by strikes, feints and retreats. They are forced to pantomime reactions of perceived victories and defeats; under the ever watchful eye of the Dax across the library floor.
The true conversation is conducted through the Bellis Board. Isolde opens with a daring strike:
Lord Septimus is ill.
I am aware. The servants speak of it often.
Isolde's cruisers then batter one of Doric's forward positions.
Then you know there is to be a ceremony. A coronation, of sorts.
Doric swiftly counters; his own forces weathering the initial storm and mounting a reprisal strike of their own.
A successor?
I am not certain. The servants say little, and the Dax even less.
Do we know when this ceremony is to take place?
Isolde frowns as Doric makes a blinding series of adjustments to his forward line.
She rallies her forces as best she can, brow knitted:
No. The cards have spoken to me, but their words make little sense. Just a single word, over and over.
Doric holds his line, bowing his head to Isolde:
Show me.
Isolde leaves her flank open with a piteously exposed counter-pushed; a clear signal that their conversation is over. Doric exploits the gap ruthlessly.
Isolde pushes herself up from the table with a defeated sigh.
"I had hope to best you, but I have a lot to learn, it seems. Next time, Doric."
The Tenno rise to their feet, exchanging a bow.
She turns on her heels and departs, leaving him alone at the table.
She has left her book on the table: Great Minds and Poems of the Orokin Third Age. It is her favourite.
Doric spares a glance at the polished ivory pieces. The Dax is gone.
He does not open the book until he is safely lost amongst the endless shelves.
A single tarot card is inside. The symbol is known to him.
It is the Ouroboros; the Endless Serpent.
Its meanings are many and varied. Its origins are in alchemy; the snake that eats its own tail, and is then eaten in turn. An infinity loop; an endless process that repeats itself, over and over.
Continuity.