"empty promises, thrown to the wayside"

"-and beneath the shadow of the Spire you will find us, waiting. Say your name to the Rock of Kuthian; only then will you and you alone be granted entry," 'Formora' told him. Her expression was stricken and her stance taut with helpless horror - a marionette's woe.

He knew something of strings himself. "Who is this?" Ikharos demanded, keeping his voice low. "Who's speaking right now?"

Formora did not respond, nor whatever had found refuge in her psyche. She marched along, her head down - cutting the very picture of despair.

"I'd pay in good glimmer to hear-"

"I care not for your riches," she replied, her voice quivering - some of it anger, some of it... something else. "Release me."

Ikharos pressed his lips together tightly. "I can't do that. But I'm not your enemy. If you give me what I want, then I'll be happy to arrange something else to your liking."

"And what if I cannot answer your questions?" Formora retorted. She looked up and glared at him, gaze flush with cold rage. "I won't suffer this. Not again."

Not again. Ikharos paid attention to that; he heard the shift in tone, the anger sinking away so briefly, so momentarily he might've been forgiven for missing it - but his skin still crackled with the Arc fired from the Ketch and released by the Lucent moths, tantalising his senses and drawing out every second into an eternity. He caught the promise of something else, some hidden meaning, the suggestion of powerful feeling. He looked behind to the Flayers, Yu'uro and Ellecta, and for a split-second he lost himself in the channels of their dual concert, dutifully extended like a reluctant olive branch.

Watch. Her, he ordered - hoping they'd understand. Ikharos released Formora's arm, quickened his pace and caught up with Vindica'aur at the front of the regiment. She scarcely even looked at him; it was all but a struggle to keep up, to match her huge plodding strides. The certainty of battle had emboldened her.

"It's the spire," he explained quietly. "Something wants us to reach the spire."

"The brain-breaker," Vindica'aur grunted unhappily. "The monument that claimed you?"

"The very same. If the witch is leading the Scorn there, it'll mean trouble for us. We can't afford blanking out in the middle of a skirmish."

"My warriors have crossed the Hive in centuries past. We have infohazard-dampeners."

"So did I, and mine were a grade more advanced than yours." Ikharos felt the Light in his heart flicker with anticipation. There was Darkness in the air and more besides; the Scorn were on the move, coming from everywhere at once, and he could feel it all too keenly. Hundreds. Converging on one point - one errant soul. The witch was playing an audacious game-

"Only for you," Dûl Incaru whispered from within the recesses of his mind. "Always for you. This is what you love. This is what you live for."

"And what do you propose we do?" Vindica'aur huffed. "We have not the means to intercept the Scorn before they reach it. The Ketch-"

"Is beyond us. We can't fight that."

"We can try," Vindica'aur retorted. "It would make a glorious end."

"A stupid end," Ikharos argued. "Throwing one's self onto the blade of a proffered sword seldom makes heroes. Only corpses."

"It is the reason for our being here." Vindica'aur wearily looked down at him, raising her tusks with grim stubbornness.

"No," he replied. "The Locus is. Everything else is secondary."

"Even these agents of the Black Fleet?"

"Even them."

Vindica'aur harrumphed. "The witch deserves to die."

Ikharos said nothing. But Dûl Incaru... "Yes," she hissed. "Yes. Kill her. Kill her and crush the bulb that festers with the ill-blessings of the Sky. Destroy her. Destroy her, o Dark Angel of the Burning Lake. Sear all that she is away. This is the only true way of things. Aiat."

Be quiet.

"The Locus takes priority," he continued. "The witch could be the bait we need. If we can find a way to reach it, we need to kill it and kill it again - as many times as necessary."

"It will not be alone."

"And close to that blasted spire if our luck continues the way it has," Ikharos grimly acknowledged. "I don't like that Ketch, but I like losing my fucking mind even less. We can't risk getting caught between them."

Vindica'aur slowed. The troops at their back followed suite. "Then what do you propose?"

"Kill them all," the witch, insidious, purred. She coiled around his innermost self like a serpent, her scales like sandpaper scraping against his very being. "Burn them, lord. Burn their flesh and burn their souls. Devour them. Devour all they have to offer and keep on eating. Your fang is sharp enough for this world; consume it all."

Ikharos suppressed a shiver. The Dark slithered beneath his skin and ached for release, to find flesh and steel and rend it apart according to the wicked whim of his will. "We take the city. We leave the spire untouched if we can - avoid it wherever possible. My Ghost can install new visual blocks - she'll blot them out from our sensors. Helmets stay on. The place is crawling with intense radiation besides; everyone keeps their skin covered. Even our new ward - have someone give her an absorption shield."

"And the Ketch?"

"Keep the Threshers back in reserve. Once we're past those mountains, we'll slip into the city and make our way up; we'll see if the Ketch is unloading troops. If so..." Ikharos inhaled deeply. "We'll find a way on-board. Locate the Locus. Kill or contain it, whichever is easier."

"A thunder run," Vindica'aur mused. "But it will be their fire that rains down upon us."

"Only if they see us. Keep the Psions muffled and the regs quiet. I'll take point when we cross the peaks."

"Acknowledged, commander-interim," she murmured. "And the witch?"

Ikharos paused. "Kill her. Capture her Ghost."

"Sir?"

"I want to know if there's more Lucent Brood to follow," he lied - lied so smoothly, so desperately, so reluctantly because all he wanted was to see the damn thing dead, to see her gunned down and turned to ash, but he couldn't, he couldn't let it happen. Couldn't. She haunted him, tormented him, tortured him; he needed an end to it.

Only he wasn't so sure it was her end that would do it. If her death wouldn't free him... then what would?

Vindica'aur growled unhappily. "And the Exomind?" she asked at length.

The anger was almost a welcome replacement, if for nothing else than to drown out HER mocking laughter. "Arrested," Ikharos replied. "And unharmed. She's too important an asset."

"She is a traitor."

For all the wrong reasons. "We'll see."

They crossed at a low, narrow pass in the mountains - one that still built up to a near vertical ridge. Ikharos clambered over the precipice, raised an arm for the Cabal behind to halt in their steps, and he looked out across the city. It already resembled a warzone; thunder boomed across the broken ruins of the place and smoke rose into the air from various districts. Above it all hung the Ketch, massive and brooding, and it cruised slowly overhead while sparks of the most brilliant blue fired against its fluttering Arc shield. The witch was ahead - but her feeble strikes against the warship came from several directions simultaneously.

Ikharos magnified the zoom on his implants; his sensorium strained at his temples, warning him not to push too far, but it was for naught. He passed all sensible limits without a second thought and the sensory overload left his head pounding. It was worth it, though. It was worth it because he saw her - first there, tearing across a dark alleyway, then through the windows of an abandoned temple, and then on the streets, gesturing wildly and casting her magic. Except...

"Reflections," Ikharos realised with a sinking feeling. "She has Reflections. Illusionary clones."

Vindica'aur climbed up after him, huffing for breath. "How many, sir?"

"Unknown." Ikharos squinted. "She's... she's making Shriekers. No, not..." He caught glimpses of the things, cores too blue for Void framed with silver shell. "She has Arc Souls in place. Her Reflections are setting them around the north-western sector. They're closing ranks around the Spire."

Vindica'aur shuffled forward. "I see it now," she murmured, staring ahead. "I see it..." Ikharos caught her elbow before she could pass him by. His hand wasn't anywhere near enough to close around her arm, but the motion was enough to crack her out of her trance. Vindica'aur growled and ducked her head, the gold bands on her tusks ringing as they tapped against the plate of her cuirass. She half-turned to him, keeping her gaze averted from the Spire, and offered him a look of strained gratitude.

Ikharos activated his internal commlink. "Indilic? Are you watching?"

"Affirmative," the Optus replied. There was a flurry of activity from Ikharos's left, beyond the bowl of mountains, and as he turned he spied a pair of black-feathered crows soaring in towards them.

"Can you see the Spire?" Ikharos inquired.

"Negative. Structure is absent from visual sensors."

Ikharos nodded tightly. "Good. We can use that," he said. "Scout ahead. Find the Locus if it's there. Whatever happens we'll need to be quick and careful."

"Sir." The crows swooped down above them and, with a couple of croaks, glided onwards.

"Xiān," Ikharos continued. He held out his hand and she manifested floating on his palm. "How fast can you fix our software?"

"Gimme a moment," she told him distractedly, her iris dimming.

"Machine, I will allow you into our BattleNet-" Vindica'aur started to say.

"Already inside."

Vindica'aur raised her tusks. "I see."

"Just... talk tactical shop in the meanwhile. Anything. Let me work"

Ikharos heaved an exhale and braved a glance at the city. "Doesn't look like the Ketch is landing any time soon."

"High Optus," Vindica'aur barked into her radio. "Beam an overview of the city."

"Processing," Indilic murmured. "Finished. Datapacket sent."

"Received." Vindica'aur tapped a massive finger against the side of her helmet. Likewise, Ikharos connected his sensorium with the local BattleNet and the implant offered him a hallucinatory hologram cast on the rocky ground between them; it was a perfect copy of Doru Araeba, Ketch and all, sans the troublesome spire, if detracted by the uniform orange glow of Cabal projections - an unfortunate casualty of their differing biologies. Ikharos prodded his sensorium to account for it and shifted through a number of colour-blind options before the orange settled into more distinct colourations.

"Ketch is east of the Spire's location," Ikharos observed. "It's testing her strength."

"They could bombard her with Arcfire if they so pleased."

"Bombings aren't the bane of our existence, Val. Not as Cabal command would have you believe. Our Ghosts have long since learned how to keep themselves alive when the Threshers come calling." Ikharos paused. "Scorn aren't tactically inclined either. They'd rather kill with their bare hands."

Vinda'aur huffed. "Then they are fools."

"Oh they're cunning enough, but damaged where it counts." Ikharos traced along the southern banks of the city's great lake, then directed his finger up north. "If the witch is preoccupied with the Scorn, then this route should be clearer."

"We would corner her."

"Aye, but at the risk of leaving ourselves exposed to the Ketch. If she dies, her Reflections go with her. And if they fade... then the Scorn'll move onto the next best thing. Us."

"We cannot reach the Ketch," Vindica'aur pointed out. "We have not the means."

"If my jumpship was still running..." Ikharos said wistfully. "No. They'd shoot a boarding party right out of the air. Odds are they're already aware of us. I don't want to move up only to wedge ourselves between that Spire and the Scorn. That's death, plain as."

"We cannot do nothing."

"Agreed." Ikharos grimaced. "We need to wait until the Locus is baited out. That's our primary target. But we can't engage the damn thing unless the Ketch has moved on."

"Which will not be possible." Vindica'aur paused. "Unless we offer them more bait. Something equitable with the witch."

"That's a hard sell." Ikharos raised an eyebrow, unseen beneath his helmet. "She's flaunting her Light for everyone to see."

Vindica'aur just looked at him.

"No."

"Commander-interim-"

"I'm not leaving you to fight a Risen Wizard and a Scorn horde all on your own."

"The Valus Forge trained our company-"

"For how long? Six, seven months?" Ikharos shook his head, scowling.

"I know the Hive."

"War's Hive, sure. But you didn't serve Earth-side for Operaiton Elbrus. None of your soldiers did. It was a different beast entirely. We had the numerical superiority back then and we still took losses."

"We have the numerical superiority now," Vindica'aur barked.

"But not them. Are you so desperate to return to your calves in a bodybag? Or maybe not at all?"

Vindica'aur growled lowly. "Commander-"

"Enough," Ikharos snapped. "I won't suffer vainglorious schemes for the sake of a martyr's honour. We play this proper or not at all."

"Ike," Xiān said quietly.

"Not now." Ikharos glared at Vindica'aur, daring her to say something, anything, he didn't like.

"I am no glory hound," she replied coolly, slowly enunciating each word. "For there is none to be won beneath your command."

"Careful, Val."

"I am a match for the Locus."

"So thought the Glykon's security detail. And they had their own Guardian."

"A weakling traitor."

"Ike-" Xiān said again, voice rising. He ignored her.

"Katabasis fought at the 'Gap," Ikharos retorted furiously. "He knew his craft."

"A traitor to your Vanguard nonetheless," Vindica'aur pointed out.

"Which had no bearing on his confrontation with the Locus. It killed him. It killed every Cabal aboard and it hung their bodies up for the Egregore to feast. I've told you already, I intend to keep as many of your soldiers alive as I can. I'm not budging on that."

"Ike!" Xiān snapped, darting up in front of him. "Fucking look!" She flew under his chin and shoved up, making him bite his tongue while redirecting his attention upwards. At first he saw nothing, but then...there was a sparkle. A glimmer of brightness tearing across the gentle cloudless blue sky.

"Meteor," Vindica'aur said dismissively.

"No," Ikharos corrected, shoving Xiān away. He tasted blood, grimacing. "That's a Warsat."

And so it was. He recognized the flare of its outer shell burning up on re-entry, the low whining booms of its kinetic superconductors deflecting the worst of the descent's carnage, and then there was the shimmering of its extremities peeling away and fluttering after it.

"Should we relocate?" Vindica'aur asked with mild concern.

"No, I think we're good," Ikharos murmured. He tracked its trajectory, allowing his sensorium's AI to make the calculations, and he followed it down... right to the Ketch. "Interesting."

The Warsat hit the Ketch hard enough that the ship's active Arc shield momentarily blinked out, scoring its hull with superheated scrap. Most of it, Warsat included, simply slid off and fell to the city below, but the remainder was lodged deep in the Ketch's armour.

"There's more," Vindica'aur observed. Three, four, five six seven - Ikharos gave up counting when the chunks of debris started to collide with one another.

"Yeah, I see. Someone's ticked off about the ghouls." Two additional Warsats crashed against the Ketch in quick succession, the first shattering the shields for good and the second punched a crater into the warship's hold. It tipped to the side and veered away, narrowly avoiding the rest of the 'sats. A huge cloud of dust and ash kicked up from the city, blanketing the horizon. Fires quickly sprang to life amidst the ruins.

"Rot-heads are pulling back," Xiān noted. "They've taken serious damage."

"High Optus," Vindica'aur growled into her radio. "Has the Locus landed?"

"Unknown," Indilic replied. "Visual readings are scrambled. Warsat nodes are exerting jamming frequencies; sensors are overloading. Drones are unable to close in."

"Could be more of those Exos again," Xiān whispered worriedly.

"But I thought... I thought they were with the Dark," Ikharos said, frowning. "Why are they firing on the Scorn?"

"Elisabeth said it was a turf war. This might be it." Xiān shivered, her pinions shaking. "Don't want to be her right now."

"... If the Ketch is in retreat, even for a little while, then it gives us a chance. Xiān?"

"I'm... there, yeah, I'm done," she sighed. "You've got your visual blocks. Just be careful."

"Noted." Ikharos closed up his hand as she decompiled and his fingers clenched into a fist, wrapping tightly around the haft of a crystalline sceptre. He hefted it up into the air as golden wings unfurled at his back, hurling up into empty space for all the Cabal to see. Dark Resonance coiled in his offhand, manifesting itself into a jagged broad-headed glaive emanating with terrible power.

"The Ariks-Fel retreats!" he thundered in Ulurant, his helmet modifying the reach and brass of his voice. "We advance. With me!"

The Iron War Beasts gave a ragged cheer and surged up the mountainside with renewed vigour. Ikharos glanced at Vindica'aur, but she only shot him an unreadable look before adding her own voice to the chorus, following close behind as he led the host down the other side of the cliff.

The city's walls ahead were crumbling and broken in many places and it was through one of those gaps that they marched, Phalanxes to the fore and Legionaries right behind. Gladiators and war beasts stalked along the flanks of the formation. The roar of battle echoed down through the streets, across the vast lake at the centre of the city; they cut through the thicket of overgrown forestry and the maze of gargantuan buildings along the city's south at a westerly heading, then cut abruptly north.

The trek was quiet. Unnervingly so. The Dark permeated everything, lathering across every surface, but the air surged with fierce Light. The sheer power in the air tickled Ikharos's senses, instilled in him that too-false feeling of: there are others here. Others like me. A life spent with comfortable companionship was difficult to shake off; there was something morbidly ironic about returning to that old paranoid mindset, where everything that walked and talked was a potential assailant. To be Risen was not to be a Guardian anymore - but some grisly, angry, bloodied part of him exulted in it.

"But she is not like you," Dûl Incaru sang to him. Oh her voice was like needles, trailing dangerously across his skin but never, not once, drawing blood. "She is another creature entirely, an unholy cross of your kind and mine, and deserves to be excised from this reality for that transgression alone. Make of yourself the blade to cut her away, for if you don't she will do it to you. This is the only way."

No. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't.

"You cannot shake me. You cannot shrug my touch away. I am part of you, forever; I am a whetstone to your ceaseless appetite, O Great Devourer, one of many, and it is to my highest pleasure to have honed you to so sharp an edge. You are stronger but in my cunning I have claimed an element of that strength; you are mine and I am yours. So it is. So it will forever be."

He hated her. He hated her so much his blood boiled to scalding.

"And you and I shall-"

Gunfire tore through the street ahead. The Cabal stirred, but it wasn't directed their way; a trio of Scorn Stalkers stumbled onto the road ahead, shredded to pieces, and one by one they tipped over dead. Dark ether coalesced around their remains, the first indicator of reanimation, but the shooting abated.

"Hold," Ikharos said, the order reverberating down the local BattleNet channel. Shadows rose over the Scorn bodies but then hastily pulled away; whoever the gunmen were, they were quick to flee.

"Kinetic rounds," Xiān identified. "Human-based arms, possibly Häkke-based design. Exos. Warsats must have planted transmat beacons."

"Why are they here?"

"Could be competing with the Scorn."

"For what?" But even as he said it, Ikharos figured he knew the answer. After all, who didn't want the power of a dragon at their disposal? "Val, disengage thermal sensors; it won't do us any favours. Cold bodies inbound, heavy fire expected."

"Understood commander-interim," Vindica'aur replied. The radio distorted her voice into a frazzled hiss. "Do we shoot to kill?"

"... Negative," Ikharos instructed, though inwardly he wondered if that was a mistake - the weakness of human sympathy. "Not unless fired upon."

"Yes sir."

"Watch your corners. Pre-Collapse paramilitaries operated on a cloak-and-dagger basis. I see no reason why these holdouts would be any different."

"Understood," Vindica'aur spat with derision. "Cowardly curs."

Ikharos didn't have the energy to bite back. He took aim with his glaive as the Scorn bodies shuddered back to life and unleashed a stream of superheated mass, searing them away. The Dark Ether crackled and popped, leaving the space they'd occupied hazy with greasy smoke.

"Continue," he ordered. The Cabal marched onwards and he flew above, matching them step for step. Of the Exos there was no sign, but the shrill cry of gunfire ahead grew louder and louder - the hissing squeals of Scorn hardware, the steady pop-pop-pop of Golden Age weaponry and the heavy roars of Arc lightning. Smoke filled the air; only a few streets beyond they found a Warsat lodged in the middle of the road, steaming and pulsing with lines of living red-orange code. The body of an Exo, similarly bare and plated like those Ikharos had crossed before, limply laid against it with internal components torn out. A mass of writhing nanites blanketed its open chest but there was no spark of life in its sunken eyesockets.

An edge of malice crept on the edge of his mind, his Light, called out for the Dark that rang within his own compromised soul. "Wait," Ikharos said in warning, raising his sceptre. Stasis creaked between his fingers with a sounds like shattering glass. He had only a moment of foresight to swing it through the air and paint the space below with totems of bleak regard before the burnt-out buildings on either side of the road erupted. Screams and howls rent the air as Scorn stampeded out of doorways and threw themselves from open windows, pressing their rotted remains against crumbling architecture and sloughing off decrepit coverings. They were shameless in their chittering multitudes, flaunting their necrotic musculature free of the protection of armour and overshield. Betwixt shattered claws they clutched clubs and knives and saws, with the occasional pistol or Servitor-eye-turned-buckler.

With a flourish of Light Ikharos spread his wings and showered his company in benevolent blessings; they raised their rifles, shimmering with golden radiance, and they fired with fiery outrage against the rot-tide.

"Incendiors to the fore!" Vindica'aur bellowed. She waded forth and through his Super Ikharos watched with detached interest as she swung her power-fist, crushing a Wraith outright and snagging a pair of Stalkers on the backswing. "Incendiors to the fore!"

Tongues of flames burst out from either side of the Cabal host, rendering the whole formation a squat little caterpillar wagging its molten legs. Scorn shrieked as their flesh caught alight and they charged with fierce abandon to make their deaths meaningful, but directed slug fire cut them down long before they could hit a single Cabal.

Ikharos shifted, dragging up the Stasis totems he'd planted and he carved them through will and will alone into turrets of umbral spite. They fired alongside the Legionaries, pinning the Scorn with diamond bolts and freezing seekers. Dozens of the ghouls were caught in the midst, all the way back into the ruins from whence they came, and they died helpless. Those that weren't initially claimed by the frost or the flame reanimated only to be caught inside the crossfire again and again. Soon enough the air stank of Dark Ether - through which the second wave pushed with impervious grace, led by loping gang swinging ashen censers.

"Ravagers," Ikharos warned, but past their ranks he spied silhouettes of pure Ether, dancing shapes chittering with sadistic glee. "Raiders. Watch your flanks."

The Raiders stalked forth and the radiant rounds passed harmlessly through their spectral forms. The first of the Scorn killers made it all the way to the firing line before manifesting back into flesh and bone and lunging at the nearest Cabal with outstretched talons. Three were caught on the blades of Gladiators and another two were torn apart by war beasts garbed in absorption shields, but one managed to grab a Legionaries helmet and frantically tugged the unfortunate soldier about, snapping their neck with pitiful ease. A Psion blasted them to atoms before they could take another.

There were more to come. With a grunt Ikharos released his hold on Solar and grasped instead for the cold certainty of the Void. He plucked with invisible fingers through the expanse of un-space, reaching out with tendrils of hungering power, and he caught the rest of the Raiders in the midst of their shadowy waltz. They jittered like puppets caught on invisible strings, dancing to a tune of his liking, and before long re-manifested somewhere between Ether and matter - only to be crushed up into sheer nothingness, dragged kicking and screaming into the Void long before the Cabal slugs could put them out of their misery. With their consumption they were flensed apart, reduced of being, their entire essence digested into pure energy. Ikharos devoured the bounty channeled back to him and he dispelled his sceptre, replacing it instead with a beam of Arc fuelled by their demise and tearing up the buildings framing the streets, exposing the rest of the undead to his followers' guns.

Soon enough the air cleared and place fell silent, broken only for the mutterings of his own soldiers - and their pale-faced prisoner. Ikharos's wings dissipated and he dropped to the ground, softening his fall at the last possible moment. He aimed his glaive towards the dead Exo and, after a cautious look around to ensure the coast was clear, slowly approached. He braced the end of the blade against the robot's chest. The swarm of nanites feebly swatted at the weapon with sinuous tendrils, burning themselves at the merest touch.

"Dead," Ikharos said curiously. He looked past it to the Warsat. "Secure this."

A trio of Legionaries ran past with their own transmat beacons in hand. They raised them up and stabbed them into the Warsat's steely flesh, aiming for those gaps where superconductor plates gave way for fragile silver. The red-orange code dancing across its surface jolted with alarm; the entire object screamed as the onboard AI was lanced with foreign viruses, but there was precious little else it could do.

"It's trying to beam a signal up to orbit," Xiān revealed. "Shut it off before it brings the whole sky down on us."

Ikharos planted his glaive against the Warsat's shell and through it he extended his Light. The power in the Warsat fluctuated almost like a living thing; it seemed a shame, really, to silence it, but Ikharos hardly hesitated before catching the energy keeping the object online and tearing it out as pure Arc. The lights flickered off and turned dark. Transmat quickly ate it up, dragging it somewhere far away - somewhere secret and safe.

Ikharos turned around slowly, bracing his glaive against his shoulder. "We don't stop. Not for anything. Forward."

The Cabal advanced as one. With a flick of his hand Ikharos dismantled the Bleak Watchers, preserving their essence for the next firefight. The components of his bracers hummed as the Stasis energy returned to him; not for the last time he felt it cling to his will, snaking demands through the wall of his thoughts. Only the Void kept the worst of it at bay. Ikharos ignored it in favour of remaining at the head of the column and following his own whim, scorching the street ahead with raw Resonance to clear the way. The city was so full of pain and hate that he doubted even a full Crux of Darkness would have seemed amiss amongst the currents of latent psychic energy.

"The Scorn'll have felt those deaths," Ikharos said grimly. "We need to hurry."

Vindica'aur grunted in agreement. "I'll order the troops to pick up the pace."

"Not that. We need to draw out Scorn worth the Locus's time." Ikharos activated his commlink. "Indilic, report."

"Negative on visual," Indilic replied neutrally. "Suspected Chieftain activity northeast of your location, engaging Reflections and unknown assailants, suspected to have electromagnetic cloaking technology. I am unable to clear a visual- Wait, negative, Exomind subject present, it's-"

"... What? It's what?"

"Drone Two is down," Indilic barked. "Drone Three is under fire."

"Pull back," Ikharos ordered. "Keep that Crow functional. Are we clear to push?"

"Negative, negative, Scornship has fielded Skiffs, dropships are en route to Hive position. Exomind subjects and Scorn packs are engaged between yourself and the witch. Spotted Exomind assailing Raiders with nanotech weaponry."

"But what about the Locus?" Ikharos pressed urgently.

"Negative, repeat, negative on Locus."

"Who's leading the Scorn?"

"Chieftains approaching from south and east of your position, Abomination is holding Hive perimeter. Skiffs are depositing troops now: three additional Chieftains with fresh crews. Armour bears colours of House Kings, Wolves, Winter and Exile."

"Prison's bounty," Ikharos said with a grimace. "Understood. Bring in the Thresher, quick strafing runs. Hit those Skiffs and pull back. Do not linger."

"Acknowledged. Threshers are en route." Indilic paused. "Additional Warsats detected, collision inbound."

Ikharos looked straight up. "I see them. They'll be raining down on top of us if we stick around. We'll take cover in one of the temples. Val, keep them moving!"

"Sir?"

He pointed down the road. "Three blocks ahead, see it? Belltower, cloisters, courtyard and all. Get your men inside, set up firing divisions. Clear out whatever Scorn you have to. I'll draw ghoul-fire away until you're secure. Don't draw attention to yourselves unless you have to."

"What of the Exos?"

"Same as before, don't shoot unless fired upon. Let them pass you by, or we'll be stuck between them and the rest. Go!"

The Cabal filed past in a hurry. Ikharos peeled away, his Light already rising to the surface, and he took to the air with an Arc-fuelled bound - his wings combusting back into being and dragging him up above the rows of titanic buildings. Before long Void bolts whizzed around him as Raiders on the ground took aim, but he darted faster than they could track, riding on jets of molten Solar. He pulled their attention westwards, to the fringe of the city, then- then the Warsats hit and everything was covered in smoke and dust all over again. Ikharos cleanly transitioned back to Darkness, allowing the Resonance and Stasis to smother his Light, and he dropped like a rock straight down. He landed on an empty balcony, drew his sidearm and redirected his vision to the sensorium-linked sights on the weapon. Through UV and weak spectral analysis he tracked the movements of undead Scorn scampering down the street below; they were numerous, more than he was expecting, and Ikharos realised that the witch hadn't just drawn in the Ariks-Fel - but the listless crew of its sister Scornship.

The brutes hurried along, quite unaware he was right there; he had to restrain the urge to put a bullet in the back of every crude iron helmet that bobbed past. The air was full of their stink, their malign presence. The city was in dire enough a state but the stain of their passing befouled what little dignity the place had left. Oh he hated them, like a perverse dark mirror of his own kind, and he hated all that they stood for: unliving tools of vengeance poised to rip and tear simply because they could. It was worse yet when the fresher Scorn ran past, still clad in the garb of their old Houses - gold for Kings, teal for Winter, navy for Wolves. Colours that used to mean something. Names that used to carry weight.

Ikharos collapsed back into the Void before that familiar fury could take him; he dove into the waters of oblivion and allowed it to wash over him, scouring the raw emotion away until all he was was purpose and direction. He cloaked himself in a veil of empty space and he vaulted up onto the roof of the building, running along it and back towards his company's position. The Scorn would figure the ruse before long, but by that time he was confident that Vindica'aur would have assigned firing squads and set up gun emplacements to hold the temple against them.

Across the city rolled the crack of thunder - the Threshers hitting their mark. Shadows passed through the blanket of dust above, trailing tails of glowing plasma. A trio of Skiffs flew after them like angry wasps. The distant crashes told him more of their number had been outright downed. If those pilots survived, Ikharos vowed to himself to reward them. As it was, he didn't dare raise comms in such close proximity to the enemy; already he could spy the lightning of a Reflection darting through the air half a mile or so away, shrieking and lancing a street corner with deadly Arc. Scorn, he thought.

"Leave them," something said, and he stopped in his tracks. Turned. Zendolyn-Far stood a sword's length away, all of a sudden there. Her armour was engaged and her wings, all four of them, were flared out. Golden optics glared out from amidst silver plate and inky black Darkness, pinning him in place. "Don't intercede. Don't involve yourself."

"You left them to kill me last we met," Ikharos said. He lifted his chin. Stasis filled his hands. "What do they want?"

"To serve."

"Who?"

Zendolyn-Far made a clicking sound, alien in its tempo. He soon realised she was laughing at him. "You already know this."

"... Nezarec?"

"The human is wise."

"He's dead," Ikharos pointed out. He slowly adjusted his footing, turning to face her. "He died a long time ago."

"We know." Zendolyn-Far looked past him. "But it is the very thing they seek to undo."

"They want to bring Him back?" Ikharos scoffed. "Good luck to them."

"You don't believe it possible?"

"Nezarec was butchered. His remains scattered to the stars. If they want to dig Him up, then they're going to have to work for it." Somewhere behind him the Reflection screamed - with pain. "Is that why you're here?"

Zendolyn-Far didn't react. Ikharos wasn't sure what to look for in any case; she wasn't like any other species he'd encountered. "I am here to hunt," she said softly. "Under any other circumstances, you would be my prey."

Ikharos traded the cool Stasis for burning Resonance, forming it into the Lubrae's Ruin. He allowed the blade to fall and plan itself in the roof, lodging it on dragon-scaled slates. "Try it," he snarled. "See what happens."

She stirred and tilted her head. "The Subjugator-"

"Dead."

You killed him?"

"With my own blade," Ikharos said. He tensed, waiting for the violent reaction, the roar, the hatred...

But instead Zendolyn-Far laughed again. It seemed more genuine this time around. "His bravado was insufferable," she hissed. He could all but hear the smile in her voice - honest joy, palpable relief. "He and the Witch-Mother deserved one another. I presume she is dead as well? Or has she committed to her final heresy?"

"What do you think?" Ikharos retorted.

"I will have to assume both." Zendolyn-Far glanced past him. "That is Her own daughter. She bears the Queen's shell. Curious that you carry her torment in your heart."

"You waste your time." Thus invoked, that writhing, bloodied thing in the back of Ikharos's mind rose to the surface. It coalesced at his back, pressing into him through his armour. Her claws, her chitin, her very breath - it cut through him like molten knives. "Just kill her and be done with this," Dûl Incaru gnashed, manifest and real. Her fangs glinted red, hanging over his shoulder on the edge of his vision. "There are logics to be proven; there are foes to be cut down."

"Shut the fuck up," Ikharos gasped through clenched teeth.

"Kill her! Kill her now!"

"Be quiet!" His words thrummed with the power of the Void and the Nightmare staggered back as if struck. The ensuing silence was deafening.

"You..." Dûl Incaru snarled. "You ruin yourself with this charlatan's game. You cry pain, but do nothing to stem the bleeding. Bind your wounds with battle. Temper your steel with violence. This is the only way."

Ikharos heaved for air, but all the same, despite the sheer loathing that burned in his heart, he turned back to Zendolyn-Far and pointed with his glaive. "If you're not with the Exos," he said slowly. "Then you must be with the Scorn."

Zendolyn-Far bowed her head by a fraction. "Astute. Fascinating tools, no?" She slowly extended an arm and Dark Ether filled in the space beyond her fingers, growing until the smog grew heavy, until it became solid and Ikharos could hear the smog's newly-formed ribcage rattle beneath the weight of its cuirass. A Chieftain stood in the place, large enough to be considered a Baron, and the very building beneath them creaked beneath its weight. It stared down at Ikharos with pale eyes, unseeing; there was no familiarity in its gaze. It did not remember him.

But he remembered it.

"Tools? No," Ikharos croaked. He looked into the thing's decayed face and he felt regret - deep, inexplicable regret. "They're monsters."

"Just as the mudray considers the lung serpent," Zendolyn-Far mused. Ikharos wasn't quite sure what she was saying, but he understood the sentiment was clear enough. "They died, the same as you. They live again. And what fascinating tales they have to tell."

"Put them in the ground, Disciple. Bury them deep. Give them peace."

Zendolyn-Far's arm fell back by her side. "Xhafi would not have it," she murmured. "He is not to be denied."

"I thought the Black Fleet sought the end of all things," Ikharos said bitterly.

"The final draw of the curtain, yes."

"Then end these poor souls. Give them the rest they deserve." Ikharos stared at the motionless Chieftain, his stomach twisting into knots. "This one more than most."

"It is meat. Nothing more."

"But it used to be a man. A violent, ambitious man, but a man nonetheless. Do you know his name?"

"Should I?"

"He was famous enough in his own time," Ikharos continued. "His name was Skolas and he was Kell of the Gentle Weavers. He waged war against his own people, the Vex and humanity alike - all to cut the strings directing his every move. He found his escape after much suffering, his own included. I gave it to him." Ikharos tightened his hold on his glaive. "I'd like to keep it that way."

"Do not intercede," Zendolyn-Far warned again. "Do not. Take your soldiers and move on."

"I can't do that."

"Xhafi's offer will not be so polite as mine. Be sensible."

"You seem afraid," Ikharos noted. "Of failure."

Zendolyn-Far's stance grew rigid. He heard the scritch of steel-on-steel as needle-blades emerged from her bracers and jutted over her knuckles. "I serve the Witness. I serve the end. There is no failure. Our victory is certain. Our duty is mercy to existence. There is nothing to fear."

"Tell it to yourself. You don't sound so sure."

A tense silence followed, broken only by the distant chitter of gunfire.

"I know your kind," Zendolyn-Far said at last, her voice dangerously quiet. "You kneel at the altar of death, for it is the only voice you will lend your ear. Heed it now." She stepped back. "Kill him."

The thing that used to be Skolas blinked as if he were only just realizing where he was. The moment he laid eyes on Ikharos he lunged for him, gurgling with wretched glee. Ikharos backpedaled, drawing his glaive across the once-Kell's chest torso and drawing blood, but he just kept coming, kept closing in. Talons closed around the edges of Ikharos's robes - and then they were off, plummeting from the roof to the road below. Ikharos activated his wings, but the weight of Skolas slammed down on top of him, driving him into the stony street below with an almighty crack. His breath was driven from his lungs and his overshields shattered altogether; claws jammed themselves in again his chest, sinking through steel and hadronic weave to pierce the skin beneath. The pain was like a wake-up call, banishing the daze from his mind. Ikharos Blinked just to get himself out of Skolas's dark embrace and stumbled along the road.

Skolas roared and ran for him, all four hands outstretched. Ikharos ducked beneath the tackle, shoved his glaive into the Scorn's gut and stepped past, tugging his weapon after him with a spray of ash and Ether. He twirled around, took aim and fired ethereal heat from the tip of his Ruin. Skolas stumbled ahead with a shriek, armour and hide alight, and his torso tipped forward, spine severed but rags of muscle and tendon still clinging tight. Skolas tossed himself around, ripping himself apart, and he took another couple of steps before falling to pieces entirely - and even that didn't stop him. His uppermost half quite simply crawled after Ikharos with panting bloodlust.

Ikharos aimed his Forerunner and planted a series of rounds in the ghoul's skull, enough to stall it long enough to close the distance and drive his glaive down onto Skolas's core. Should've done this the first time, he thought darkly. He filled the weapon with spite and power and the Resonance expanded from the Ruin's broadhead, growing and searing until all the flesh of the Chieftain was replaced with swirling dark matter. It was a quick end, tidy for a Scorn and clean enough - but the others felt it. The rest of the horde sensed the death like a failing organ, a section of their communal brain shutting off, and they convened almost instantly on his position. Dark ether clogged the sky overhead and Wraiths howled in the distance; buildings groaned as Abominations stomped and crashed through walls and beyond them Ikharos heard the strangely childlike pitter-patter of countless Stalkers running barefooted down the adjoining paths and alleyways. Above, situated at the edge of the next terrace up, Zendolyn-Far perched like a living gargoyle, her wings splayed and her claws pressing into the slate.

Ikharos raised his Forerunner and fired. None of the bullets connected. Not for a lack of accuracy; they simply did not connect, plucked straight out of the air by an invisible force. It was like shooting upon the hull of a Pyramid ship. Not paracausal enough, he figured. Not even in his hand. An entity like her needed a different grade of weapon.

"There are enough of them to occupy you for some time yet," she called out. "I think I shall let them. Unless your resolve has broken already?"

Ikharos holstered his Forerunner, took his Ruin in both hands and fired a beam of Resonance up at her. The blast took out the roof, the entire side of the building, but a shadow of Solvent quickly raced down the crumbling rumble and swam right for him along the road's cobblestones. He scarcely had time to vacate his position with a Blink before Zendolyn-Far lunged out of the ground, lashing her wristblades through the air in a scissoring motion. She turned to him, hunkered over, and growled lowly.

"That," she hissed, "was most unwise."

She darted for him, blades aimed for his heart. Ikharos shifted, pulled his glaive across and deflected their points, then tried to move - but Zendolyn-Far was quicker than Skolas had been. Quicker and whole lot more nimble; she matched his sidestep, drove her pointed snout against his ribs and threw him back against a wall. There was a collision, a brief one that rocked his very core, but there she was again, bearing down too fast to outmanoeuvre. He caught the closest needle with the spokes on his glaive's haft, but the other snaked around his guard and carved along his overshield until - snap - it shattered. Ikharos moved his head, angled his body; the point scored across his collar before sinking into his shoulder. His armour did nothing to stop it. It wasn't even that painful at first, just a tiny-

And then his world exploded with agony. Fire. His muscles were flaring, his blood was aflame, his heart was full of embers. Poison in the blade, in his system. His vision danced briefly before his sensorium's combat-lock took control, hacking into his senses and diluting the effects even while the stuff ran like wildfire through his veins.

Ikharos caught the offending arm and pulled it close. The needle's point emerged from his shoulder on the other side - he could feel it. Zendolyn-Far rumbled a deep, hearty laugh before lifting him up with the blade and pinning him against the the wall. "Well?" she asked. "What now?"

The fire inside was eating away at him, scorching his nerves into ash. Ikharos closed his eyes, took that fire and he reshaped it, gave it a better purpose, a kinder purpose. Golden Light flushed out from his core, banishing the pain and reknitting broken flesh - all save the implement still lodged in him. That was fine. That was all well and good because he leaned on it like an anchor, using the sting as a point to balance his power around. The Solar in his body turned vindictive, turned angry, and he-

"No," Zendolyn-Far barked. She pushed him - and Ikharos was enveloped by the wall, Solvent filling the space around him where there should have been stone. His Light was instantly constricted, the Solar blinking out like a flame without oxygen; he gasped as everything but mortal weakness was flensed from him, almost breathing in the foul stuff. It was everywhere, flowing past his armour, his biosuit, running across his skin.

Until it wasn't and they were inside the building, broken pillars and piles of rubble cast around the room. Ikharos watched with trepidation as Zendolyn-Far's face emerged from the wall in pursuit of his own; her helmet melted back with the Solvent, revealing her grinning visage. She parted her jaws, both of them, and from it emerged her tongue, tri-pronged and dripping with venom. It coiled, took aim, and lunged - and he let go of her arm to catch it with Arc-amplified speed, closing his hand around the slippery muscle just as the ivory tips made contact with his visor. The fang-like protrusions etched across the glass, chipping away, breaching the sanctity of his helm.

"No," Ikharos exhaled. Stasis flashed between them, freezing Zendolyn-Far solid. He tried to dig deep, he really did, but his will couldn't break surface-level. With a shudder she broke free of the crystal entrapment and jutted her head forward while dragging him closer to her - close enough to pull her tongue back and snap her craw shut on his hand. Red. Red. Everything was red.

Until the Arc in him surged. Then he bled lightning and she stopped laughing. Her head snapped back, jaws smoking, and Ikharos braced a foot against her chest. He kicked as hard as he could, driving the last of his Arc into the effort until the needle in his shoulderblade snapped right off. It landed with a chink, followed by his own thud - but he was free, he was on the ground and she was advancing with a snarl, her own armour sliding back into place. Ikharos forced a Blink, tossing himself across the room. He staggered to his feet, saw her bound, so he picked the closest thing to hand - a table - and tossed it. Zendolyn-Far simply moved through it with Solvent.

Aw fuck.

Her remaining needle punctured right through the hand he raised to stop her. His other was mangled, broken, useless and hung limp by his side. Ikharos tried to kick at her, but she wasn't having any of it, wrapping her free arm around him and tugging him close, sinking her talons into his back and raking them across. They tumbled across the floor, hit the other wall or maybe a pillar, she ended up on top and drove one knee down onto his calf, breaking it. Ikharos scarcely had the breath to grunt, and none whatsoever for the follow up stomp on his other leg, her claws tearing through his knee. Zendolyn-Far dragged her needle across the floor, still skewering his hand, and she tried to drive it against his neck - but he fought her. He fought her with everything he had. It was getting close. Closer. Kissing his skin, promising more of that burning feeling.

"Yesssss," Zendolyn-Far hissed.

There was a clatter from one of the windows, maybe a doorway. Something was climbing in. Somethings.

"Ikharos-" Xiān started to say, but he already knew what to do. Pulling the Void back to the forefront Ikharos forced another, second Blink that left him dazed but free. Overhead stood a Scorn Stalker, glancing down at him with bestial confusion, then hunger - and then, finally, pain as he closed his hand around its ankle and devoured it on the spot. The Void filled in his wounds with gentle oblivion, renewing his strength. A third Blink landed him back on his feet, surrounded by yet more lost little ghouls.

Perfect.

With a viciously wide arc Ikharos summoned and swung his glaive, bisecting half a dozen of the Scorn on the spot. What the Resonance didn't drink in the Void gladly snapped up, chewing their physical forms into raw energy for his sole consumption. Zendolyn-Far rose up from the other side of the room, a touch more casual than he liked, and slowly turned to face him. Her helm may have concealed her features, but it was easy to picture the murderous expression beneath.

"Iraeka," she snapped. The remaining Scorn fled. "You are a nuisance."

"I try," Ikharos said drily.

"I would prefer if you didn't. Disarm. Retreat. Submit."

Ikharos allowed the Void to encapsulate him, reinforcing his regenerating overshield and filling his palms with power. It pooled in eyes until he blinked indigo smoke. "I want the witch. I want the Locus. I won't leave until I have them."

"I see." Zendolyn-Far straightened up. "So you have your targets."

"I do."

"Then you must understand: I also have mine." Her body darkened with Solvent until she was seemingly made of the stuff. Zendolyn-Far took one step forward...

And fell through the floor.

"Ike-"

"I know," he muttered. Ikharos rose up into the air, dragging his Light beneath his feet, and as Zendolyn-Far lunged up from below he held out his hands to her, allowing the Void to rip boiling and starving straight from his palms. Solvent sizzled, Zendolyn-Far shrieked, she fell back down and the floor returned to its prior constitution. He watched for her - but, before he could even consider it, she leapt from the ceiling above and ran her claws through him. Ikharos twisted, he bucked against her hold and he tore himself out of her grasp, running on that animal desperation to escape, keep a distance, can't let her catch my throat between her teeth.

She fell after him, biting and gnashing, whirling around like a typhoon of pure violence. Her every motion sliced and diced and it struck him that not only was she faster than he was, larger and stronger, but she reacted more quickly too. Ikharos arrayed his glaive between them if only because it was the sole weapon she seemed wary of, but she found ways to sneak around it. Her claws were long and deft, though soon enough it was Zendolyn-Far's tail he grew to fear most - that bladed tip in particular, formed from rigid bone and clapped in glittering silver. Her blows came often enough that his overshields couldn't recover fast enough, nor could he find many ways to fight back. It took all his effort to ward the worst away. He tried Blinking but it scarcely gave him a second to catch his breath and soon enough she learned to expect it.

Ikharos tried changing up his strategy - just to see if he could psych her out. He threw his glaive, which she dodge with little effort, and replaced it with a sword of molten fury. That caught her attention and in the moments before she set herself upon him again she barked a laugh. Now you have it, Zendolyn-Far seemed to say. Her helm's gold optics shone with mad glee. Now we can dance for real.

Ikharos thrusted for her heart, feinted and turned it into a horizontal slash, but she literally jumped over the strike and half-submerged in the ceiling overhead - dropping down on him like some prehistoric raptor, all claws and teeth and primal hoots. Ikharos blocked, deflected, he dashed and moved as his body felt natural; in some ways he felt he enjoyed it near as much as she. The fear in his blood, that cold feeling running down his spine - it was... tantalising. There was something hypnotising about the art of fighting, of throwing one's entire self into combat. Even the pain lessened to a dull throb, overshadowed by the addicting allure of adrenaline in his system. But all the same it had to end. There was a world beyond the two of them, one that relied on his victory here. His Dawnblade faded away and he tugged his knife free of its sheath and bathed in Solar Radiance, forcing a Blink in the moment - but this time close to her instead of creating distance, dangerously close, close enough to personally finish matters. Ikharos swept for her throat. Zendolyn-Far ducked her head back, too quick on the draw. Not quick enough for the rest of her body to follow, though.

Ikharos drove the knife down onto her leg, her thigh just above the knee and he didn't stop until all ten inches of steel disappeared into her flesh.

And... that was it. He stopped there, expecting her to fall, to stumble, to do... anything. Instead, anticlimatically, he glanced up and found her incredulously staring back down at him. Ikharos twisted the blade - but her tail lashed inwards, coiling around his leg and pulling it out from under him. Ikharos fell badly. He tasted blood and tried to kick himself free but before that could happen she threw him into the closest wall. The back of his helmet collided with stone. Stars danced across his vision. Zendolyn-Far was on him again in an instant, closing a hand around his cracked helmet and lifting him up before slamming him against it again. Hot blood pumped from the back of his head, running down his neck in thick rivulets. Something was about to give way and Ikharos knew it wasn't going to be the wall.

He tensed, sharpened his will to a singular edge and drove a dirk of Stasis into Zendolyn-Far's arm. She dropped him with a low grunt. Ikharos pulled himself up against the wall-

Pain. Chest. Bones cracking, flesh splitting. Ikharos looked down at the bladed tail lodged in his ribcage and he knew even at a glance he was already dead. Missed his heart. That was the only reason he was still able to see, to comprehend his death. His heart had survived. Not so much everything else.

"You die here," Zendolyn-Far whispered. She leaned in close. "You die and I leave your corpse for the dead to foul. The witch will be dealt with. The Acolytes' slaves - broken and weeping, as is their due. But after that? We'll see what we can make of you. You will come to thank me for it."

She stepped past him through the wall. Ikharos stayed there, leaning against the stone until her tail tugged after her and pulled him through. Just... not all the way. The Solvent dissipated faster than his body could follow. The stone solidified just as he was halfway out.

across

an

abyss

he

saw

her her her

red ivory green

watching

laughing

"-should have listened," Zendolyn-Far snarled. "I'll kill him again! And you will watch."

Ikharos gasped, free of the wall, free of the blade in his chest, free of death. The cold sensation of being filled his body up until he all at once alive, standing, breathing, seeing - seeing the Disciple not ten feet away with her broken needle-blades and lashing tail and clawed hands clutching at-

Xiān.

"Human! I have your-"

Light. She had his Light but in its absence he descended into the Dark; it smouldered and smoked, igniting a flame beneath his anger and ballooning it out until all it could do was roar. Bleak wings of permafrost framed him, giving him air, throwing him at her while the Ruin filled his hands. Ikharos shouted with hoarse rage and drove down on Zendolyn-Far, crashing into her, hacking, hacking hacking hacking with mindless abandon even while she lashed his own body with innumerous mortal wounds. He flayed at her own defense, beat at it until it cracked and then, then, drove home with a downward strike that took her arm straight from her shoulder.

She screamed.

"Ike!" Xiān cried out, pulling herself free from between twitching dead fingers. She flew to him, into the embrace of his being and disappeared into the shelter of his soul. She was shaking. Terrified. Their neurosymbiotic bond flooded with feeling - relief, fear, FURY.

Zendolyn-Far laid on the ground before him, cupping the stump of her shoulder while purple blood ran thick and heavy between her claws. Her chest heaved and he could hear her gasping, starving for air. Ikharos raised his glaive to finish the matter, but the ground opened up beneath her and swallowed her whole. The Solvent sank away.

"No!" Ikharos shouted. "NO!" The Dark roiled inside and out, crashing this way and that; he tore up the road, burned the earth down to rock, hacked the street apart but she was gone. She was gone. Fled.

"Ike!" Xiān called to him. "Ike, I-I'm fine!"

No. It wasn't enough. She was his everything and ALL he had LEFT and the universe would burn before the enemy would EVER put their hands on her again. Even if she protested, even if she detested the very idea that he prized her above all and everything else. Her protests fell on deaf ears - almost literally. Her frazzled pleas to calm down, to stop, to redirect his blade towards the gathering throngs of Scorn were heard but not heeded. He couldn't really comprehend what she was saying, even, the rage had fogged his mind. Her mental prods were noted, but he could care less- No, wait. Not hers, not all of them. Through a fractal mirror of his own frozen will, removed by distance and waning power, Ikharos saw the blurred flare of gunfire splitting through long shadows, the whizzing shriek of live rounds needling through air and brickwork with equal ease. He felt a desperation not his own, an incessant tugging against his lingering resolve.

All at once his temper faded and cold purpose set in. He could hear Xiān again, pounding against the barricades of his frenzied mind, and oh so cautiously he allowed her back inside. She was upset he could feel. On edge. Still scared, still angry herself - but above all else he could feel her gratitude and he knew she felt the same of him.

"Do you see it?" he asked quietly. His commlink quietly buzzed with frantic chatter. Engage, someone bellowed across the line. Engage, engage, engage.

"I see," Xiān replied. She sounded exhausted. "You need to let her draw."

"Looks like an Exo. What good will it do?" Great Solar wings combusted from his back. Void gathered in his hands and his eyes, flaying the fabric of muddy reality away from the movement of peerless energies - the essences of life and un-life, shifting pink and bright against a black-indigo landscape. Truesight was ever a dazzling, befuddling sensation, but he took to it naturally, looking down upon the facsimile of the physical world as a hunting bird would an open field. With a burst of Light every Scorn and witch in the dead city was sure to feel it as Ikharos soared across it, cutting a direct path towards the temple in which his Cabal were stationed. And fighting for their lives. He was fast, but not fast enough. Some sparkling silhouettes fell within the range of his 'sight, then blinked out for once and forever. Some of them were pulling back to the upper floors. Things were chasing them. Three things, small and human-shaped and framed in the dull grey border of artificial life. There was more activity on the ground floor as well, a bobbing collection of heads and swinging arms.

"Just do it."

He hesitated only a moment before releasing his hold. The Stasis he'd planted hours earlier crumbled and, before dissipating altogether, he felt the sabre violently rip free of its scabbard. And then... nothing.

The temple reared up before him not a moment later and Ikharos pulled the Void into his fist, firing it out as a concentrated wave of antimatter. The walls ahead crumbled - revealing the Exo in the midst of advancing up a staircase, raising an arm swarming with crimson nanites. SIVA, some part of Ikharos recognized, but it hardly mattered in the moment because even as the faceless Exo turned to confront him he erased it with a wave of his hand and landed amidst its disintegrating remains. No mercy for those who fired first.

He whipped up the stairs, taking the second startled robot in the small of the back with a bolt of sizzling Arc. Steel melted like hot butter, but nanites swarmed to the rupture. Flailing tendrils lined with razors lashed at him, lashed at his shields even while the Exo jittered with overloaded synthonerves. Its ribcage opened and an assortment of blades and slender limbs shot over its shoulders, slid around its sides in something approaching a full-bodied embrace, attempting to hold him still. Ikharos simply increased the Arc voltage until the Exo was reduced to a crinkled husk. It fell with a dull clang. He stepped over it without a second look.

The last one was standing before some three dozen Cabal warriors, a pair of war beasts and a Gladiator lying dead by its feet. Slugs chipped at its bodies but repair nanites and SIVA bugs swarmed around it, taking some of the heat and filling in where the armour-piercing rounds found artificial flesh. It had its back to them, facing him. It glared with dead optics coloured a curious magenta.

"Last chance," Ikharos said in a low, threatening voice.

"Audes nos pugnare?" it questioned. Yellow optics narrowed from behind thin netted grates. It seemed to pant, venting excess heat through tiny needle-thin pores dotting the sides of its neck - exhaling without stop but following the slow, almost natural beat set by a false-diaphragm in its shifting chest, that vestigial reminder of life. It had no mouth and its skull was aggressively gaunt, more alike to a Frame's cranium than an actual human head. A short mohawk-like crest crowned its brow, upon which was mounted a tower of small speakers. It was from that which its voice emanated, neither feminine nor masculine.

"'Fraid so," Ikharos replied evenly. "How do you plead?"

It shot at him with a wrist-mounted photon weapon - firing weaponized luminescence. Ikharos's Solar Light harmlessly drank it in.

"I see," he said. Space yawned open around the Exo before closing with a snap, the bubble of null collapsing with a decisive crunch. Nothing remained in the aftermath. Ikharos looked down; the ground floor, at a glance, seemed just as messy. He could see Vindica'aur struggling with another Troubleshooter, throwing herself against it with cleaver and power-fist. The other Cabal were trying to pin it down with suppressive fire, but their armaments weren't enough to contend with Golden Age tech.

Fortunate that he had some of his own.

"Remember," Xiān whispered. "Spinal node and brain both."

"I recall," Ikharos murmured. He connected with the BattleNet. "Val, ready your Incendiors. They'll need to be quick or it'll rebound hard."

"Sir?" she panted, confused.

"Just do it." He drew his Forerunner and took a couple of careful steps to the left. The Exo was, so far as he could tell, looking up towards his own position. It had likely sensed the deaths of its companions. Amusingly, it lingered long enough for Vindica'aur to beat a retreat to her own line - and for a comparatively, to the Val at least, much smaller figure to leap behind it and lodge a blade through its chest.

The Exo twisted, but a flash of psionics pinned it in place. One of the Flayers rushed from an adjoining corridor and dragged Formora back, sans her sword. Fascinating that her sabre cleanly ran the robot through where slug rifles struggled to put in a dent.

"Study after," Xiān advised him. "Quick. Before the next problem breaks down the door."

Ikharos adjusted his angle, waited a breath, tensed his finger around the trigger... and fired. His pistol's heavy piercing round drilled straight through three levels of chiselled stone, shattered the psionic bubble, burrowed into the Exo's skull and pulverized its way down the robot's compact spine, grinding to a halt somewhere near where the tailbone should have been. The Exo dropped on the spot. A second passed before Incendiors leapt into action, firing streams of oily flame as a cloud of angry nanites buzzed around the corpse.

"Good shot," Vindica'aur barked gruffly.

"Casualty report?"

"Five dead," Indilic chimed in, "and seven wounded."

"Dirty injuries?"

"Negative. Psions are flushing nanite remnants. Company followed parameters in accordance to Iron Watch, as decreed by Valus Forge. The radiation exposure will need to be rectified with gel-exposure."

"No, I can do that when we're done."

"Could've been worse," Xiān noted. "A lot worse."

"It's getting too hot." Ikharos looked to the Cabal behind him. "Rejoin the Val below and barricade the doors. Scorn'll be on us in a minute or less. Tell her the Disciple came by, but now it's in retreat."

The Centurion at their head saluted and barreled past, leading his troops down at a sprint. Ikharos watched them pass and, when they had disappeared, turned back to the battle outside. He could already hear the rattling roar of ancient Skiffs gliding by, blindly sweeping the streets with indiscriminate Arc-fire. Past that, there was the occasional pounding of Warsats landing, peppering the city with steaming pockmarks. Light and Dark gathered closely around him, permeating the very air he breathed. It tasted like spiced vanilla, burning his throat as he drank it down. It felt like glass in his mouth, broken and cutting. Exhilarating by proximity, exhausting by consequence.

He was tired.

This is a mess, Ikharos privately thought. We can't stay here.

"We leave now, someone else becomes a victor," Xiān reminded him. "That's how it always is."

"She had you," he whispered aloud, furious, "In her fucking hand."

"Ike-"

"I can't. I can't, Xiān. I can't. We have to pull back, recuperate."

"That's what SHE's going to do," Xiān pointed out. "This might be the home stretch. One major Chieftain down-"

"Who we weren't even expecting. And these Exos are... it's a whole new plague." Ikharos tightened his jaw. "I'm going to order a retreat."

"They'll hate you for it."

"So long as they stay alive to do so, that's fine by me."

"Ike. The witch. We came for her. For Elisabeth. We can't leave without them."

"The Locus-"

"The Locus ain't playing ball. It's probably off somewhere, chatting up a storm - y'know, like it was designed to? These packs here are Wolf War casualties, outfitted soldiers. Not bandits. They've got the gear to back it up. That's on purpose."

"We're still miles out."

"Then let's make it quick." He felt his sensorium buzz as Xiān re-opened a secure channel. "Val Vindica'aur, we're going to try a thunder run."

"A thunder run? Now?" Vindica'aur question sharply. "Commander-interim, the Scorn-"

"Threshers will lance the area behind us," Xiān continued. "Then carve us a path to the spire. I'm highlighting a potential route on the 'Net."

"I… I understand."

"I'll actively mark additional targets for the Threshers as well."

"Exos catch us out in the open, we're dead," Ikharos pointed out. He watched as a Skiff drifted into view - he tensed, waiting for it to turn and fire on his position, but it ignored him entirely and flew onwards. Towards the Spire. "No cover against nanite swarms."

"Tighter pens means a killing ground if Scorn get involved."

"That close they'll be preoccupied with Reflections. So long as I keep myself Dark, they won't spot us."

"Even then I won't be able to chart a course like that. We're not exactly rolling with in-depth architectural scans. Unless... wait." Xiān paused. "Formora."

"We need her alive," Ikharos said, "if we want to detain Elisabeth."

"Pity we can't call her."

"All the same, a thunder run doesn't lend us the assurance we'll all make it to the spire. Nor, I think, will the witch care to distinguish between any of us, human or Cabal."

"We won't make it with wounded either," Vindica'aur said. "They have to be extracted."

"Optus, are you listening?" Xiān asked.

"I am," Indilic replied. "Enemy units are steadily converging on the infohazard object."

"Is the Ketch pushing up?"

"Negative. Some crashed Warsat emplacements are keeping the Scornship at bay via heavy munitions. Exominds appear to be creating chokepoints, funnelling Scorn into concentrated kill-zones. Additional Frame units are advancing on Shrieker positions."

"They're penning her in," Ikharos breathed. "If we charge through, we might not be able to get back out."

"But if we don't," Xiān privately whispered to him, "they'll kill her. Or maybe they won't. Maybe they'll just take her with them."

He hated that. He hated that she knew how to convince him. He hated she was forcing a compromise - because Xiān, he was well aware, would have been glad to have seen the witch and her traitorous Ghost killed from the get-go. But it was common procedure to capitalize on these scenarios, to compound on enemy conflict and inter a Vanguard victory before all else. Besides, he mused, allowing a member of High Coven to fall into the hands of an additional Black Fleet hold-out with all the dangerous intel of the Lucent Hive in her head was paramount to a total disaster. If they learned about the higher workings of the Light, the Ghosts... that was a risk Ikharos couldn't allow to pass. Not for the problems it would surely cause him down the line.

"Indilic," Ikharos said, "launch Harvesters for imminent extraction. Colossus Faer'o will remain with all wounded and Psions, including the Flayers. I don't want them anywhere near that Spire."

"Understood. Sending orders." A moment passed. "Sent. Harvesters are taking off. Where do you want them to land?"

"West of the lake, in the gardens," Ikharos replied. "There's high enough walls to provide meagre cover, but enemy presence should be sparse around now. Val, inform Faer'o to relocate as soon as able."

"The rest of my troops will partake in the 'run?"

"Affirmative. Threshers will accompany Harvesters for extraction, but as soon as those shuttles are past the mountains I want those fighters looping around for a bombing run - shower everything behind us in phosphorous and plasma. Show our ward a holomap and request she plot a course - I don't care what you have to do to convince her. Inform her of our objective." Ikharos wished he'd been of mind to requisition a Nightstalker for the venture. Beyond the obvious advantage of another human Lightbearer, the ability to cloak squads of Cabal at a time would have been invaluable. A shame, that.

Satisfied the sky was clear, he raced down the stairs to link up with the rest of the company. There, he found Legionaries already rushing to and fro - and heard the crashing of Scorn at the barricaded doors and barred windows. Vindica'aur was at the centre of the bustle, hunkered down on one knee and aiming with a wrist-mounted projector a glowing map of the city supplied by Indilic's Crows. Formora was beside her, golden eyes reflecting the orange light. She looked tense. Her sabre hung by her side, gripped loose in her hand and free of his Stasis lock. They glanced up at his approach. Vindica'aur offered him the barest of nods. Formora simply regarded him with that same cautious suspicion.

"You killed it?" she asked softly, scarcely audible above the hubbub of activity and the cries of the ghouls outside.

"Hm?" Ikharos tilted his head. "The Exo? Yes."

"... Thank you," Formora murmured. Her gaze shifted to the map. She raised her voice. "Moraeta's Spire is too exposed. I can show you the path by way of the Nucerian canals, but it still lies beyond the safety of the city. The gardens are too open; the vineyards provide some means of concealment-" she glanced at Vindica'aur "-though not for creatures of your stature."

Vindica'aur grunted. "Thunder runs aren't quiet, twig. A silent approach isn't what we need. We aren't Skiffblades trying to sever air-tanks in cryo."

Formora's expression briefly shifted to one of confusion before it settled into a well-schooled mask. "Very well. The canals will still serve you well."

"Understood."

"Now let me free."

Ikharos crossed his arms and bowed his chin to his collar, eyes fixed to the hologram. Someone - Indilic or Xiān or another BattleNet operator - was painting an angry red line through the city from the temple to the Spire's location. It was... convoluted. A near U-shape.

Perhaps sensing his consternation, Vindica'aur jutted a massive finger into the map. "Warsat here. Heavy Frames and worse - more nanite-carriers. I won't subject my soldiers to those weapons. Not again."

"But you'll gladly run at a Ketch even if it means your death?" Ikharos murmured. "End result's the same, Val."

"Nanite weapons are foul. Dishonourable. No worthy death to be found in that. There are no ballads to be heard of heroes infested with hungry machines."

"I have lent my assistance," Formora cut in, glowering. "Let me free."

"No," Vindica'aur growled. She swung her head around, almost clipping Formora with her tusks. "Quiet."

"Val," Ikharos said warningly. Vindica'aur growled wordlessly before returning her attention to the map. He turned his gaze to Formora. "We cannot. You're coming with us."

"I will not-"

"We'll need you to verify the authenticity of the route."

"I can do so in the ancient language!" Formora scowled.

Ikharos shook his head. "My warning stands."

"I won't go to the Spire. I won't."

"I'm afraid none of us have a choice," he said - paradoxically hoping, hoping, the exhaustion he was feeling wasn't showing in his speech, while trying to play that note of relatable sympathy. She imagined herself a prisoner, maybe she was. Maybe they were wrong to do so. But of the shackles that bound them both, he firmly believed his were stronger.

All the same her jaw tightened with restrained anger. "I could bring it against you," Formora whispered. Her magic, he thought. That was what she meant. "You know I could. There is nothing to stop me."

"No, but seeing as you'd almost certainly die for trying, I'm confident you won't. Not when every action you've taken so far has been towards your own survival. You won't risk it."

"I don't belong here."

"All the better to finish this business sooner rather than later." Ikharos squinted. "Mountains to the rear of the Spire look steep. Is there a passage through we might be able to use?"

"Why?"

"Because no Harvester's going to survive a drop in that hot a zone. We'll have to fight our way out."

Formora released a shaking sigh and gestured to one of the peaks. "There's... a ravine near here. Cut for the city's inhabitants to escape in the case of a siege, but..."

"But?"

"It will not provide shelter from those who fight from dragonback. Or anything capable of flight for that matter."

"So if the Skiffs see us slink away, they'll pin us down," Ikharos surmised. "No, not that way. We'll just have to risk retracing our steps." He paused. "Are the wounded ready to be moved?"

"As soon as the Scorn outside break away," Vindica'aur grumbled. "They are dogged things."

"Then we'll have to postpone their extraction until our thunder run," Ikharos decided. "Killing them now will only attract more. I'll try to draw the Scorn our way, but those Threshers will have to be on the dot."

"My pilots know their craft," Vindica'aur told him proudly.

Ikharos nodded. "We'll take the Scorn, follow this route, Faer'o takes the wounded, the Psions and his own column south, Threshers fill this district with fire. We won't be able to stop once we start. Do the Legionaries know that?"

"They know, sir. Some of these pups have been waiting for a thunder run their whole lives. There is no greater honour."

"I hope they're good for it." Ikharos crossed his arms. "Indilic, you heard all that?"

"Affirmative."

"Make sure the Threshers know to thread that needle to the exact second. If they catch our wounded in the blast I'll have their hides."

"I'll pass it along sir."

"You do that." Ikharos looked across the map to Vindica'aur. "Are your men ready?"

"They should be." Vindica'aur stood up. The temple's chambers, like most of the buildings in the city, were ideally suited for Cabal - unlike most human-built architecture they could straighten up without risk of banging their heads against the ceiling. Vindica'aur picked up her cleaver, raised it into the air and shouted, "Oeta va bharrush!"

Ready for clamour and glory.

The soldiers cheered, giddy in the face of overwhelmingly dire odds - so desperate to be seen, even if it meant their end. Ikharos glanced at Formora. She stared back.

"If you want to stay alive," Ikharos said, "stay with us. And keep that sword pointed forward. The Flayers won't be there to watch for you. And whatever you do, don't look at the monument. If you do someone will have restrain you."

She didn't react. Not outwardly in any case. "What," she started to ask, "do you plan to do when you reach the Spire?"

Grab the witch, he thought. Demand an explanation from Elisabeth. "Not die."

Formora raised an eyebrow by a near indiscernible fraction. "Ambitious." She cast a long look at Vindica'aur and followed it up with a whispered, "Would that we all had such lofty goals."

A chuckle escaped Ikharos before he could help himself. "A quick death is its own reward. Not least when the Scorn and their ilk are involved. Pray that you never have to find out why." He turned on his heel and made for the Phalanx manning. Vindica'aur settled in beside him soon enough. Together they waited.

"Harvesters are closing in," Indilic announced not long after.

Ikharos took a deep breath. Once more into the breach. "Launch the Threshers." His Light manifested as a glowing blade in his hands. "Open the doors."

The Phalanxes activated their shields and pulled away the huge bars of partially-rotted wood and stone from the door. For a moment nothing happened-

Then they crashed open and hell itself swarmed inside to meet them.

AN: Massive thanks to Nomad Blue for editing ya legend!

Just some raw fight scenes and raw-er imagery.