"The War is ended.
There is to be a celebration. I will have no part in it. My Continuity grows near. Damned be the hour, but I must move to the Temple on Earth, and quickly. Time grows short. This flesh is frail.
No bartering for me. No auctions or bidding. The work of the House Eternal is too important. There is much to rebuild, so much more to document. We Orokin will survive this war. We will flourish.
In the end only one could be chosen. I have made my decision."
- Vitruvian 2-3
Then.
Isolde is a patient hunter.
Even so, her patience has its limits. She sits quietly in the dark, legs folded beneath her.
The Dax presence has relaxed somewhat. The Cadre keep entirely to themselves, leaving the Tenno be.
The House Eternal does not seat itself in one fixed location. It changes every few months. Hidden towers and fortresses lie scattered across the Empire.
Of all the many citadels they have occupied throughout the War, the Mars Bastion is her least favourite. It is an ancient fortress; carved into the very mountain itself. Retainers sweep the floors, robes swishing across the cool stone as they fight an endless battle against the unstinting tide of sand that blows in from the wastes.
Outside the air is arid and pitiless, the dusty canyons and howling winds sifting stinging sheets of sands through the open windows that mark the ancient monastery's walls.
Isolde prefers the darkness of the Grotto.
It is a cavern at the pit of the fortress. Orokin engineers have worked hard, coaxing the underground spring to the surface. The water splashes down the cool rock, a pattering sound that soothes her anxious mind.
There are five regular indentations in the wall. The Liset cling to the edge of the surface of the fortress, hidden in the shadows of the deep canyon. Ready for deployment at a moment's notice. Sohren's is missing. This is not unusual. With Trainer's passing, Sohren often serves as Lord Septimus' avatar, representing him in matters of state and custodial affairs where the Lord of the House Eternal cannot be in person.
Only Mesa accompanies her in the dark. This is part habit, part precaution. She does not trust Eythan Dax, or his men.
The lack of a war has led the Tenno in separate directions. Doric is lost in his books now. Isolde knows better than to distract him. Endless study is his gift, not hers. She waits by her Frame, anxious to keep it close should Eythan Dax and his ilk elevate their actions beyond mere surveillance. She does what only a patient hunter can.
She bides her time. She distracts herself.
Isolde sets the Tarot on the deck again, scraping each leathery card against the hard stone floor in careful, deliberate sequence.
The Nine of Quills. Fate, ever-changing.
The Four of Chains. The ties that bind.
The Fool's Eye.
Her hand trembles as she sets out the next three cards. Knows their faces even before they are revealed.
The Yuvan.
The Tower, inverted.
And finally, that grinning skull.
Death.
It is the same sequence. Always the same.
The set had been an ironic gift. One from her Mother. Her parents were scientists. People of science and learning. Superstition was beneath them. And yet every time she sets the cards out, the sequence repeats.
She scoops the cards up, reshuffles with a sense of ever-mounting dread.
And deals again.
Sara claps her hands.
The musicians in the halls bow as one. The Archimedeans and the Lorists cheer and holler. The revelry is constrained, given the nature of The House Eternal, but celebrations are nevertheless in order.
The War is over, after all. They have won.
Word of the Grand Celebration is abuzz, leaving the courtiers and retainers breathless with excitement. The Tenno are to be honoured in a grand ceremony. It is the talk of the Rail. The Seven themselves will be present.
Sara knows her Cell will not attend. Cannot attend. They are of The House Eternal. Theirs is a secret life, of service left unseen. Still, she enjoys the mood that has left the soldiers and scholars around her buoyant. After so many years of endless struggle, of so many battles and unstinting horror, their hard work is finally at an end.
She rises from her chair, sparing a glance at the corridor beyond. She is the only Tenno present.
The others are unsuited to life without conflict. One in particular worries her.
She sighs and makes for the kitchens.
It is only when Sara places a warm mug on the table and pushes it steaming into Doric's hands that he stirs from his slumber. He blinks. It is morning in The House Eternal.
How long has he slept? Twenty minutes? An hour?
Dust motes twirl and dance a giddy jig in the great arched windows that form skylights to the Library. Doric rubs at his eyes, massaging the heavy bags beneath. For all his power and manifold gifts; he is, ultimately, human. His calloused fingers are smudged with ink, which has filled a neat pile of journals and diaries as tall as any of the heaps around him.
Knowledge surrounds him. Stacks of learning rendered in as many forms as there are languages. Data slates and gilded Vitruvian, ancient tomes and rumpled scrolls. Gathered too is a sea of endless mugs and Martian clay ware. Some filled, others with dregs of caffeine or flavoured lemon water. Sara has been clearing them as they pile up, "Emptying the hutch", as she calls it. Doric knows he is a disgrace, that Trainer would take him to task over his dishevelled appearance, but there is so much to learn, and so little time.
Continuity. The word taunts him. Endless, infinite – but how so? In what context? Whatever the secret is, it is closely guarded. He is working in over two dozen languages; many forgotten. Cracking cyphers and riddles. Deciphering texts and tablets long faded. Interpreting ancient poems that might as well be riddles, such is the antiquity of their wording. Still the answer eludes him.
There is a reason for this.
He finds gaps in the documents. Intentional censorship. Pages torn, scrolls strategically missing select pieces of parchment; Vitruvian carefully expunged, redacted. For all its knowledge, there are answers in the Library that the Orokin do not wish others to know. A secret, sacrosanct. Forbidden.
Doric presses on, building a picture: stalking the answer he seeks by framing the gap at its centre with the knowledge around it.
He is close. So very close.
Kael meets Sohren in the sparring chamber at the top of The House Eternal. He is dressed for their morning session: a simple black body-glove, a blunted skana in his hands. His hands and feet are exposed. They have moved away from wooden weapons, trusting each other with true steel, however dull.
The chamber is on the summit of The House Eternal: an open air auditorium flanked by dark red stone, cut into the top of the mountain. The stonework of the floor is of Earthen import, arrayed in a pattern around the Endless Eye of the House Eternal. The endless wastes are visible through the gaps in the pillars, a magnificent view of undulating rock and sloping dunes. The stonework is warm beneath his feet.
Sohren is dressed quite differently today. He wears a ceremonial suit of gilded armour, more comparable to a Dax honour guard. An artic white cloak drapes across his shoulders; pinned in place by a shining silver broach. It flashes brilliantly in the sun as he turns to face Kael.
Sohren looks imperious, every inch the heroic warrior of old.
"What is the occasion, Friend Sohren?" Kael smiles, laughing. "Should I have worn a robe?"
Sohren returns the smile, but it is fleeting, distracted.
"I can't train with you, Brother. Not today."
Kael raises an eyebrow.
"Oh? Afraid I'll school you?"
Sohren shoots him a scowl.
"Now, now. Trainer taught you better than to spout such nonsense." His expression grows serious. "But I must speak with you, if I may. A favour."
Kael nods readily.
"Of course. Anything."
Sohren smiles.
"I am leaving. For how long, I cannot say."
"The Ceremony?" Kael grins, clapping him on the shoulder excitedly. "You have been selected?"
Sohren shakes his head, smiling sadly.
"We serve the House Eternal, Kael. Such glory is not ours to witness."
Kael frowns.
"A mission, then?"
"Of sorts." Sohren offers the merest shrug, armour clicking with the gesture, "In truth I cannot say. But I have a duty to you, and the others, as much as any Lord."
Sohren produces a sword, swathed in velvet crimson.
"My father's sword. Yours now." Sohren smiled at his friend, "You have command of the Cell until I return. Keep them focused. Keep them together. I worry for them, now that the War is done."
Kael takes the sword in his hands. It is a gilded nikana: silver laced with gold.
Kael shakes his head, marvelling at its craftsmanship as he draws it briefly from its sheath. It is perfectly weighted; the metal folded countless times. Sohren has wielded it in a thousand battles. Countless enemies of the Empire have met its final, biting touch.
"I cannot accept this." Kael breathes.
Sohren smiles reproachfully.
"You can and you shall. Quarrel no further; my time is short."
"But what if you need it?"
"I am with our Lord, surrounded by the finest Dax." Sohren laughed. "Go on, it's yours."
The blade clacks back into its sheath smoothly.
Kael takes a step back. He bows, deeply, the sword close to his chest.
"I accept your gift with thanks, Tenno Sohren. Go with Glory."
Sohren returns the bow, fist folded across his chest.
"Go with Glory, Tenno Kael."
Dax have appeared at the edge of the arena. Eythan Dax nods at Sohren.
It is time. He is expected.
Sohren looks at them, then back at Kael. Sohren offers a curt nod and a smile.
"Well then. Until our paths next cross."
Kael returns the nod, as solemn as ever.
There is nothing further to say. Sohren turns and heads for the dark tunnel at the edge of the Arena. The Dax fold in behind him, a royal escort eight strong. Kael watches them go.
Sohren is the first to be swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel.
Kael never sees him again.
Doric turns the pages of the next chapter, heaving a sigh despite himself. This is futile. His current book is ponderously written, obsessed with the banal and the arcane. Rituals of the Meso Era. A tired tome, even to one as versed in academia as Doric.
A loose leaf sifts to the floor. He frowns, picks it up.
It is an illustration. Rendered in harsh charcoal and crude crayon, its lines harsh and angular. Whether it comes from the book or from a separate text the illustration is arresting.
It depicts a single figure, diminutive in height. The figure stands atop a shallow pedestal, surrounded on all sides by hunched, snarling figures. Elder wrecks and haggard crones, they bicker and bid, casting shekels and bidding vast fortunes.
It is an exchange of power, a bidding contest between rival parties.
It is an auction.
There is something forbidden about the drawing. Something dangerous. It is illicit, heretical.
The symbol denotated at the base of the small figures face is known to him. He has seen it before, countless times in his research. Always in connection with the Orokin. Always in reference to the Continuity they always mention, but never explain.
Doric bolts upright. Paper flies as he scrambles for his notes.
The same word, over and over. Seldom explained.
Eventually he finds a translation he can work with.
Yuvan.
Ancient Hindu. The translations are diverse and varied, but the same two words crop up; over and over.
Young, healthy.
Doric looks at the elder crones, then at the single figure they squabble over.
Around them all, that etched symbol. Framing the entire picture in jagged markings.
Continuity.
A pit opens in his stomach.
It is mid-morning.
There has been no word from the site of the Grand Celebration. It was to be a crowning moment of glory for the honoured Tenno. By rights it should have been broadcast to all and sundry by now.
Instead nothing. Just a lingering silence. The retainers and staff wait by the broadcast monitors, exchange uncertain glances.
A half hour passes. The retainers emit a deflated sigh. There must be a technical fault with the base's transmitter. The Dax confer privately, exchanging glances. Unbeknownst to the Tenno of the House Eternal, there is a seismic shift in the Empire's status quo.
Orders are given.
Sara knows none of this. She resumes her rounds, visiting Doric once more.
She is bound for the kitchens, fists full with bunches of clanking mugs when she hears the barge depart. It rises up into the air above the citadel, drives thrumming at maximum speed.
Sara finds what little entertainment she can. She watches it leave.
It is Lord Septimus' personal ship. It thrums into the sky, engines pulsing. She watches it leave through the window, disappearing into the cloudless sky. She senses a sudden feeling of sadness, and cannot understand why. It is a curious feeling.
Perhaps it is because she is not aboard. Perhaps because she is missing out on some secretive adventure, that is not for her to know or experience.
Or perhaps, years from now, she will look back and realise that this was the moment when their lives change forever.
She hears footsteps sprinting behind her.
It is Doric, breathless. A single tattered page flaps wildly in his hand.
Kael works through his kata with his practice sword, Sohren's blade is tied at his waist. It is too grand a blade for simple drill work.
The barge has long disappeared into the sky. He watched it go, a hand cupped over his brow to shield from the beating sun.
That was then. He resumes his drills, honing his skills for the time that he may duel his friend again.
The sun is high in the sky now. It is early afternoon on Mars. Kael's brow is sheened with sweat.
The blade moves slowly, describing a deliberate flow interspersed with sharp cuts that split the air and whistle. He stops mid flow.
Many eyes are watching him from the shadows of the tunnel.
The Dax soldiers that emerge are not the same warriors who accompanied Sohren that morning. Far from it.
This is no honour guard. They are dressed in field gear. Stark and utilitarian. They wear no insignia, no identifying marks of any kind. Leering Oni masks rob their faces of any expression.
Kael is Tenno. He senses the tension even as they file out into the practice area.
Kael turns to face them.
"Well met." Kael nods a greeting. "A fine day for a bit of sparring."
They do not reply. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
There are two of them. He glances over his shoulder.
No, four. They have fanned out in a circle. Surrounding him.
The Tenno watches them carefully.
The Dax draw their blades as one. Long form nodachi; streamline blades hissing from their sheathes in a single smooth motion. Kael silently notes the nature of the blades. Razor-sharp, killing edges all. Far longer than his dull training sword.
Trainer's words stay with him, even now.
A Dax does not draw unless they intend to kill.
Kael does what any Tenno would.
He flourishes his practice blade up before his nose: a classic fencing salute.
He bows, ever respectful.
As his other hand closes around the hilt of Sohren's blade, cinched at the small of his back.
In the Grotto there is a burst of commotion.
One of the Lisets detaches from its moorings. Canyon winds howl through the gap, sending the cards flying. Isolde leaps to her feet, shielding her eyes; dark robes flapping.
Tarot cards swirl all around her. She blinks as the environment seals entomb her once more in soothing darkness. She recognises the space the Liset has departed.
It is Kael's.
At first Kael intends only to incapacitate. He favours the practice sword; flowing between his opponents. The blade reflects strike after strike, turning aside attacks that surely intend to kill. He rolls and whirls from one opponent to the next: a whirling blur. He checks their guard; punishing his would be assassins with snatching hits that dent armguards and flash at their faces.
The Dax are Dax. Master swordsmen, every bit as skilled as he.
Even so their numbers grant them overconfidence. They rush him as one. No less than three blades are caught in a lock with his own. The metal peals as it struggles.
Physically they outmatch him, man for man.
"Final warning." The Tenno pants, sweat beading his brow. "Desist."
The fourth man slashes at him.
Kael rolls away at the last second, shrieking his blade free. Not fast enough. Warm blood spits on burning stone. It was a glancing hit, but the Dax have caught his bicep.
The Tenno snarls in pain, reacts. Sohren's blade leaves it sheath in a whipping strike.
A charging Dax topples to the floor, a geyser of blood jetting from the stump that was once his neck.
Kael whirls both blades around to criss-cross before him, sinking low in a crouching guard.
His lupine war stare takes them in, eyes brimming with controlled fury, nostrils flaring as blood pours down his arm.
The other Dax freeze, exchanging glances. They raise their guard, warier now.
They fan out, encircling him once more.
The merciless sun beats down upon them, relentless.
Doric grabs Sara by both arms, panting. Sweat soaks his tunic. He has sprinted fully three levels of the fortress to reach her.
"Continuity! I know what it is!" Doric gasps. We have to warn the others!"
Sara is taken aback. Doric is a frenzied wreck. He had not slept properly in three days. None of what he says makes even the slightest semblance of sense.
She gets three words in.
"Kael? Drilling. Why?"
"Isolde?!"
"The Grotto." Sara shakes her head. "What's the matter? What's wrong with you?!"
Doric ignores her.
"Sohren, where's Sohren?!"
"I've no idea. With Kael maybe?" She grabs his wrists, trying again. "Why?"
Before he can react further, there is a clatter of armoured feet.
Dax soldiers line both ends of the corridor. Their faces are hidden by snarling masks.
Trainer has taught them the turbulent history of the Empire. The various ages: from ancient Lith to the early Axi. Sara is as rebellious as a Tenno can be, but she is a quick student. She remembers her lessons well.
The Empire has not been without its internal struggles, throughout its many ages. Internecine warfare, attempted coups and countless betrayals. Orokin history is often penned in the blood of tyrants, or traitors. These Dax have masked their faces, as any assassin would. Their intentions are clear.
Sara tightens her grip on the bunched mugs.
Doric stands tall behind her. Gone is the fatigue now.
The Tenno stand back to back: Doric's hands raised in a resting guard, Sara and her collection of clay ware.
They have no real weapons. They are penned in on both sides.
The Dax on Sara's side rush them first, hoping to drive them backward into their comrades waiting blades.
Sara hurls the mugs into the air. The air shudders as the Void slaps the air; shattering the clay into a thousand lancing fragments. The Dax shy back as the shards glance off their armour; skittering off their bracers. Sara and Doric take the momentary distraction to charge: angling punches at throats and kicking at the soft sections of their armour. Doric's beaked fist catches a windpipe. A Dax falls, choking.
Sara draws a blade free from one Dax's boot, buries it deep into the next man's throat. Blood dribbles from the eyeholes of his mask, as he falls; his whole body juddering. The Tenno sprint free, exploiting the gap. Clattering armoured cleats reverberate against the high stone walls, as the rest of the Dax give chase.
They round the corner.
Mesa stands in the doorway, Regulators low at her side. Doric yelps and hauls Sara into a side archway at the last second.
There is a dizzying storm of rapid fire shots. A clatter of armour as bodies topple.
Mesa appears, wreathed in gun smoke.
Isolde's voice is rendered harsh and stern through the Warframe's filters as she looks down at them.
"The Grotto. Move."
Sara bolts for her Warframe.
Doric hesitates. He can feel Isolde's rage simmering in the air around the Frame, infusing the Void around her. She has to know.
"Sohren and Kael. You have to warn them."
Mesa's mask then is a silvered helmet, not dissimilar to an ancient Conquistador. It betrays no expression as she listens.
"I've discovered what Continuity is." Doris says. "How exactly the Orokin live forever."
And so he tells her. Of the parades of children; a shivering procession that winds its way high up into the Mountain Pass, to a forbidden fortress on Ancient Earth. Of the Chosen that is selected, the Yuvan. Of the bidding that ensues. The pithy bartering and twisted arcane rituals that follow.
The more he explains, the more Mesa's fists curl into tightened balls.
How the children's minds are stolen from them, their spirits crushed as Transference obliterates their very essence, replacing them.
The knuckles themselves crack.
How the process is repeated, time and time again. Now and forever, pitiless and cruel.
The Regulator's reflexively snap into her hands, itching for a target.
Kael plays for time he does not have. The Dax know better than to try and brute force him. He is bleeding, but not helpless.
The wound on his arm weeps openly, soaking his body glove.
That is not enough for his would-be killers. They inch ever closer, probing the outer stretches of his guard. Testing him. Time and time again the blades flash – staccato exchanges of shrieking steel, brief and deadly.
One Dax overextends himself. His swordsmanship is excellent. There is no faulting the striking technique or angle of attack. But Kael is lightly armoured, dressed for quick sparring against a fellow Tenno. This grants him a certain speed that far outstrips the armoured Dax.
He spins inside the Dax's guard, the training blade turning the Dax's blade high and aside. Sohren's sword flashes, and the Dax is left without a hand. Kael is not finished.
He is Tenno. His commitment to the kill is absolute.
The training sword is cast aside entirely. Two handed, the golden nikana opens the man's throat, then belly; swift alternating cuts. Then it snaps back around, truncating the man's leg at the ankle. The Dax topples, gurgling.
The assassin is still falling when the blade comes down through his chest, slamming clean through the breastplate in a decisive twisting finish. Kael dances back, ripping the blade free and flecking the sandy stone with blood.
The young man holds his friend's blade pointed toward the two Dax, fully-extended, as they slowly circle each other. His face is entirely devoid of emotion. That wolf-like stare never blinks.
Two against one now.
The Dax's teamwork is laudable. They have seen the Tenno's style now; assessed how the boy moves and balances himself. Most Tenno are thought to be physically frail, wholly dependent on their Warframes.
Not so a Tenno of the House Eternal.
The Dax change their approach: adopting alternating stances that will sorely test Kael's ability to defend. It is a sound tactic, emblematic of their skill and training. In a fair fight, it would surely work.
Kael has no intention of fighting fair. He grunts as he burns his cut arm shut with the Void, his vision swimming as the flesh cauterises.
Then he intentionally lowers his guard. He closes his eyes, waiting.
The Dax see the feint for what it is. They tense, expecting some trick or subterfuge.
The Tenno waits, breathing deeply. Listening with every sense.
The taller Dax strikes first. His blade cleaves forward, whooping as it splits the air.
The golden nikana clatters to the stone floor.
The Tenno has vanished.
The Dax frowns, spinning about, uncertain. He glances left and right, his blade at high guard. The golden nikana rattles at his feet, between his legs, abandoned.
Kael reappears from the Void behind the Dax, crouched low. The nikana rips upward; flaring with eldritch power as the Tenno's eyes blaze.
The Dax flops apart in two separate directions.
Kael doesn't wait for the blood to settle. He is already charging the final Dax, who lunges in return.
Steel meets steel as they flash past one another. The Tenno rolls to his feet, recovering. He blinks, patting himself down.
He is unscathed.
The final Dax stands tall, facing him. Then his foot staggers, once.
The Dax crashes over in a heap, face-first; an expanding pool of blood running freely across the tiles.
Kael looks up as his Liset finally arrives. He thinks of warning the others. Of Isolde and Doric and Sara: unarmed, scattered throughout the fortress. Of Sohren's parting words.
Then thinks of Sohren, surrounded on all sides by Eythan Dax and his Honour Guard.
He looks at the bloodied sword in his hands.
There is no time.
Kael is long gone by the time the other Tenno tear their way through the old monastery, fighting their way to the summit.
They find the discarded training sword and the Dax's ravaged bodies scattered across the roof of the temple. The wind whistles freely through the pillars around them, low and plaintive.
Sara and Doric look at each other. Then Doric looks back over his shoulder.
Isolde too is gone.
Kael's Liset emerges from the Rail Gate, shuddering. He sits encased in the Somatic Link. His senses are one with the organics of the ship around him. Once more, he sees through eyes that are not his own.
Venus stretches out before him. The surface is a raging extreme of boiling heat and numbing cold. His Ship Cephalon scans on all frequencies, adamant that the signal is here. Where is it? Where have they taken Sohren?
The Planetary Defence Grid surrounds Kael. Imposing cylindrical towers, they lay there inert. They have not fired since the Sentient last broached the sector. Debris and asteroids flit by as the Liset weaves its way through the wreckage. So much of it is still fresh from the war.
A proximity alert. Kael blinks, seeing the debris moments before his Cephalon takes over; neatly slipping the ship around it. An asteroid of some kind, larger than most.
An alarm bleats. His Cephalon, normally so calm and focused, shrills in panic. The debris is no debris at all.
The Orokin Barge bears down on them, weapons already powering up.
Kael has time to scream before a wall of light envelops them.
He is slammed into darkness.
The Liset falls in a tail spin towards the planet, its bow alight. The Cephalon is gone, so too are ship systems, any semblance of control.
By the time the Tenno awakes, the House Eternal will be long forgotten.
And Origin System forever changed.
They find the aftermath of Isolde's rampage throughout the ancient monastery.
It is a slaughter. Bodies choke the halls. Doric recognises Mesa's handiwork: the pinpoint precision of an exacting brand of butchery. And not just the Dax. The courtiers and the musicians, the traders and the cooks. People they have known their entire lives.
In mute horror they follow the trail of corpses, back toward the Grotto.
None were spared.
As her Liset departs, Mesa's golden armour is painted in blood. Her Regulators glowing red hot like a furnace. She had stalked the halls in silence, the only sound her deliberate footfalls and the chattering echo of the Regulators against the high vaulted ceiling. The screams linger with her, even now.
Isolde doesn't care. They made their choice. Serving the monsters who would wear them as puppets. Each of them are complicit. Each of them deserve justice.
Isolde thinks of Sohren, alone on the Barge surrounded by Dax. She thinks of ailing Lord Septimus, of what plans he and their other Gilded Masters had in store, should they too grow sick and old in time.
Her resolves only hardens.
The task ahead is clear.
Isolde is gone by the time they reach the Grotto. There is no note, no parting message. Kael and Sohren are missing entirely. There is nothing he can do for them.
Doric knows the totality of Isolde's rage. In truth he shares it, but he masters it.
Isolde must be stopped.
For her own sake, if nothing else.
Doric resolves to find her first. He and Sara track her Liset's signature. Yet they are too late, always too late.
It is a scene that will be repeated throughout the Origin System. Doric and Sara will arrive at the next forgotten fortress, to find the same carnage repeated. Many of these bases are mercifully abandoned before Isolde descends upon them. So many more are not.
In each fortress, Doric checks the Library. Where the rest of the corridors are ablaze, their standards defaced, their ayatan sculptures broken and scattered across the floor.
Yet the Libraries are always intact. The books are left untouched. Tomes of poetry are even missing: each one a memento of yet another purging slaughter.
Left in the heart of each Library is an Ars Bellica set.
Each time the pieces shift. Isolde is continuing their game, alone.
Doric tracks the moves, discerning her intentions.
It is a record. With each fortress destroyed, another piece is removed from the board.
Sara watches as Doric examines the particular disposition of the pieces on the board.
It is a finishing action; a pincer movement. There is but a single move left to make.
Doric examines it sadly, as Mirage steps closer.
"What is it?" Sara askes.
Doric looks at her, lips taut. He borrows an expression from another game entirely.
"Checkmate."
Isolde finds Septimus in a forgotten cave on Earth.
The cavern is abandoned. The only guards present have fallen on their swords as one. Their skulls grin up at her from their heaped armour.
The Orokin's twisted secret will be taken to their graves.
Mesa stalks into the cave. Isolde has stripped her Warframe of its finery. It is a ragged mess; an oilcloth tied over its face where the finer detailing used to be. In time she will rebuild it, reshaping it in an image better suited to the machine-like focus she has dedicated to her bloody quest.
Septimus wheezes atop the roughly hewn throne. The machine behind him resembles a fluted organ; golden and splendid, bronzed with time and age. Tubes and pipes of all shapes and sizes snake from it and into his gaunt, hunched frame.
He is but a husk, a wretched thing. His hair is lank, his skin droops from the bone.
Mesa spares one look over her shoulder.
There is a shimmer of light as Isolde steps free of the Frame, padding across the floor of the cave. She rises up to the throne room, looking down at him. She feels no pity, no remorse.
Septimus burbles and rasps nonsense up at her. His pupils are milky white, long since without sight. He giggles inanely; the sound a wet shuddering against the tubes that force his mouth open. The Tenno's nose wrinkles. The Golden Lord has fouled himself countless times. He has been left to rot.
Isolde calmly her hands upon the tubing. Her fingers clench and twist.
She tears the pipe free of his throat. Blood and skittering teeth spatter across the floor.
The support organ locks in place with a resounding clunking sigh, finally at rest.
Silence fills the chamber once more.
Eventually the Tenno sets something at the base of the throne.
Then Isolde turns, and walks away.
The cave is overgrown by the time Doric and Sara come across it, six months later.
The machinery is threaded with vines, dappled with ivy and speckled moss.
Lord Septimus is little more than a grinning skeleton, that has all but grown into the lichen coating the throne. Earth's ravenous plant life spares no one.
An Ars Bellica board is set at the foot of the throne, beside an ancient mahogany box.
The board itself is empty, its pieces neatly collected and placed back in the box.
The message to Doric is clear. Their private conversation is at an end.
The game is concluded.
There is no satisfaction, no true closure in Isolde's vengeance.
But The House Eternal has been eradicated, its fading embers finally extinguished.
Now they can rest, knowing that the twisted house that raised them is gone forever.
Or so they think.