"civility dies first"

Damn it all. Damn it all to oblivion.

The sun had set by the time he called for it. The sounds of the camp drifted down to the shore and the lights of sentry turrets glittered on the waves. Harvesters came and went at intermediate periods, ferrying back from the Rancis Olyptus's dive site, growling deeply as they soared overhead. But other than that, everything was so, so deceptively tranquil. Not a hint of Scorn. Not a whisper of prowling Exominds. Nothing. They were alone, stood up to their calves beyond the water's edge. The tide lapped at their legs, rising slowly but surely.

Surely enough to sweep this dark business away when he pulled the trigger.

He clicked the safety off. The Forerunner's live-sight meshed with his own - a hallucinatory screen cast over his retinas. The red dot trembled, centred on her: the very subject of all his frustrations.

"There's dragons here on this very island," Ikharos said - not to Formora but to Indilic. The Psion stood motionless by his shoulder. A set-up he'd grown comfortable with in the months following Operation Elbrus, forged from necessity and understanding. "That's what's guarding the Spire. They're hidden in a bunker underground. A hundred crystal hearts. Still alive. Still whispering."

There came no response.

"I had one. In my hand. I had it in my hand... and I let it go. I allowed it to live." Ikharos grimaced, his teeth clenched. Anger wasn't descriptive enough a word. He was furious. "She's fully psionic."

Humans are incapable of psionics, Indilic murmured. The foreign thoughts drifted past Ikharos's own, imprinting at the forefront of his mind. He basked in it. In the alien sense of interconnectedness. It was dangerous. A thing of tenable trust. Oh he loved it.

"Baseline humans shouldn't be paracausal either," Ikharos pointed out. "She's both."

A neohuman adaptation?

"Don't know." Ikharos paused, grim-faced. "But my guess is draconic intervention. Her language reeks of them."

"It's not their language," Formora croaked tiredly. "It precedes them. It precedes us all." Her almond-shaped eyes were narrowed, pit-dark like a shark's - devoid of all the gold. She'd pulled down the scarf from her mouth to speak clearly. Vindica'aur, on Ikharos's orders, had already taken her sword from her. She hadn't fought it.

He hated that. He hated how cooperative she was being, as if his forced show of mercy changed things. And sure, yeah, it did - but not in any well-meaning way.

"It's binding," Ikharos said hoarsely. His throat still burned with the memory of it. The oath. It had him now. The words. They snared him tightly and all he could do was dream of escape. "Like a Hive curse. It shackles. Curbs truths."

"It's the language of truth," Formora said. "It's built for the truth. Moulded by it."

"A truth of someone's own making is just a lie given life."

"A truth made real is truth all the same. It simply has a quantifiable beginning."

"And no end?"

Formora paused. "No," she breathed. "No end."

Ikharos exhaled slowly. "This," he said, indicating the Forerunner, "makes a truth of endings."

"Are you to make it my end?"

"I'm considering it."

For a time there was nothing but silence. Oh the bliss, the haunted bliss.

"End me or no, it matters not," Formora said. "You've already fallen in with us."

"Make sense," Ikharos barked.

"You're as much a part of this as I am. More so. You're marked. You're a Rider. Whatever drives your loathing, it won't serve you anymore. The dragons are a part of you now."

"... Explain."

"The egg hatched for you."

"What fucking egg?"

"The egg I kept!" Formora snapped. Her hands bunched into fists by her side, then... relaxed. "You touched it after I mended your wounds. When the Scorn set upon us."

"The villa." Ikharos breathed in quickly. "Your pack. I thought..."

"You felt it, I know," Formora finished. "I had to escape."

"You had a dragon all this time?"

"Two."

"Two?!"

"Agaravel. She's with them now. The others. Cuaroc and the rest. But the egg - the egg hatched."

"I never touched it," Ikharos protested.

"You all but did. It must have been desperate enough to choose proximity over contact, but all the same it hatched for you. Do you know how fortunate you are?"

"I'm aware of my luck," Ikharos said, or lack thereof, "but this strikes me as more a case of manipulation."

"If you're looking for someone to blame, then avert your gaze," Formora fired back. "You were far from my first choice - but it was never mine to make."

"Nor mine."

"Then you understand the Dragon Rider's plight. You're one of us now." She smiled humourlessly. "It makes this fitting. The work of karmic circumstance. Justice. You're the last. Killing me would be a bitter irony indeed."

Ikharos grunted, unimpressed. "Thought you wanted to live. Can't make up your mind?"

"Of course not. But at least now you understand." Formora threw out her arms. "Now you know the mind of an elf. Capriciousness defines us. It is our nature. You'll grow familiar with it in time."

"Are there more of your people on the way?"

"I dearly hope not." She stepped forward, allowing the sidearm's barrel to brace against her collarbone. A shot that close would tear her body apart. "You're like us now."

"A Dragon Rider?" Ikharos said drily.

"And an elf - or close enough. Closer than you already are. You may notice the changes soon if the magic is strong."

"Changes?"

"The flesh," Formora whispered, "is malleable. The truth of form is the bearer's whim. That is what the ancient language offers: the freedom of choice."

"I don't feel very free."

"A glimpse may leave the impression of a prison, but study will remake your world into paradise."

"Paradise doesn't seem to agree with you."

"Doesn't it?" Formora raised an eyebrow. "I've sculpted this form to the very finest detail of my choosing."

"Dragonspeak," Ikharos said with a scowl.

"The dragons didn't grant me this. This is a legacy more ancient than even theirs."

"Spare me the sermon. Vanity's someone else's vice; whatever you're selling, I don't want it."

"You do. You just don't know it yet. The world is ruled by magic. The ancient language is power - power over the masses, over the fabric of what is real and what is not. You can kill me, but you'll do so at your own peril. I can teach you."

For a moment he was tempted. Just a moment - because what was the Anthem Anatheme if not another forbidden secret to bring to bear against the Darkness, the Hive, the Nightmares?

"I... don't think that's wise," Ikharos decided. "You're trouble enough. You almost killed one of mine."

"Ra'arche? I saved him."

"He almost died because of your actions. I'd say that evens things out."

"Then what cause have you to hate me?"

"You still threatened to kill him. And you denied me those dragons." Ikharos scowled. "You haven't endeared yourself."

"I saved your life," Formora pointed out.

"And abandoned us when it was convenient."

"My priorities laid elsewhere."

"Where are those priorities now?"

"With you," she said. He almost believed her. "And with that dragon. Your dragon."

"It's not mine."

"It hatched for you."

"To prey on my Light. I know the kind."

"To bond," Formora argued. "To forge a connection of equal intimacy."

"I've had enough of dragons and their shackles. The dragon can rot. If it comes back I'll shoot it dead."

"I can't let you do that."

"You won't be around to stop me." His finger tightened on the trigger. His moral sense warred with necessity - with caution and grudge. Formora glared at him, all but daring him. He hated it. A chill brushed over the back of his neck, forcing his hairs to stand on end. Ikharos stiffened as the phantom manifested - incorporeal, a figment of exhausted imagination but oh, oh so real.

"Do it," Dûl Incaru whispered. "Kill her."

His hand trembled. She was close enough there was no chance of missing, but it irked. It... bothered him. The anger was really something else.

"She made herself your enemy. She is weak but she challenges you. Slay her now. Prove the logic. Do it."

No.

Indilic's hand closed over his wrist. Ikharos glanced at him; the Psion's gaze was telling enough. With a ragged breath Ikharos lowered the gun. "Fuck off," he told her. "Don't come back."

"You need me."

"No. We don't. If we ever see your face again my soldiers will kill you on the spot. Go. Now."

For a moment all Formora did was look at them. Then it passed and she stepped back, reaching to the sides of her neck, whispering words of alien meaning - deep and full of power. The Anthem Anatheme rendered into something fit for mortal consumption. When her hands fell away there were lines in her skin, scar-like. In the moments before she submerged Ikharos recognized them for what they were.

Gills.

What the actual fuck?

Ikharos released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. The witch remained at his back, snarling her displeasure, but Indilic's psionic presence was heavy enough to keep the worst at bay.

"Lord," Indilic said softly.

"What?"

"You are frightened."

Ikharos shot him a warning look. "Does that bother you? Would you prefer a fearless Primus to take my place?"

Indilic's expression was unyielding. Psions had the best poker faces in the known galaxy. There was no competition. "Peace, lord," he said soothingly. "Peace."

Ikharos breathed in deeply. "Of course I'm frightened." He shook Indilic's grip loose. "This place doesn't make any fucking sense." He sighed and waded back to shore. "Send for the Val. We need to talk."

The advance on the city and the following thunder-run had been none-too-gentle on the Iron War Beasts. Beyond the Ether-burns and nanite infestations the greatest danger was exposure to radiation. The makeshift infirmary had quickly become very popular amongst the rank-and-file - and in the interest of preserving their limited supplies Ikharos made treating the wounded a priority. Vindica'aur and Indilic followed him along as he walked through the ranks of injured and ailing Cabal, offering morsels of healing Light left and right. A red-pelted War Beast, cured of a broken leg, took to prowling by his side after he'd restored it to fighting shape.

"We don't have the armaments to mount a second assault," Vindica'aur was saying. "If the tunnels were sealed-"

"They were," Ikharos interrupted, "and I won't be able to open them back up."

"This native power is concerning," Indilic said. "Was it wise to cut the..."

"Älfa," Ikharos said. He mended a Psion's burns - the leftovers of a Screeb explosion. "She called herself an älfa."

"And elf."

"That she did."

"What does it matter what she calls herself?" Vindica'aur complained. "We should have kept her. Flensed the secrets from her brain."

"She was compromised by draconic memo-hazards," Ikharos reminded her. "I'm not eager to expose a Flayer to that. Are you?"

"Commander-"

"You saw how they controlled her."

"They released her, did they not?"

"They released her because she was the only thing keeping me from killing them. And now-" Ikharos grimaced. "-now I just... can't."

"But we can," Vindica'aur growled. "We remain free. Our visual memetic-blocks are operational."

"You said it yourself, you don't have the armaments."

"But we have the will. We have the strength. We are Cabal. We eat the mountains, we-"

"Drink the seas until your bellies burst, I know," Ikharos groaned. He knelt down by a wounded Gladiator and mended the broken bones in their shoulder with the flick of a finger. "I know, dammit. The city's still too hot a spot. Whole island is. That Ketch is still at large. We have to leave."

"Thank you, lord," the Gladiator gasped. They ignored him.

"To hunt the witch," Vindica'aur continued.

"We don't even know where she's gone." Ikharos moved onto the next: a Legionary wracked by radiation poisoning. His hands filled with golden Solar. "The witch was a diversion. A necessary one, but we don't have the luxury of diverting our efforts towards her and the Locus at the same time. Not again. Doru Araeba could have given us both but that fell through. Our original directive still stands: the Locus of Communion."

"If she has a dragon-"

"I don't care about the fucking dragon!" Ikharos snapped.

There was a pause. Vindica'aur lowered herself, falling onto a knee beside him. "Lord," she said, pleading. "We are dead regardless."

"No. No, we have a chance. Just so long as we play things right."

"The witch must die-"

"The Locus is everything. The Black Fleet is everything. These Disciples? Everything." Ikharos worried at the inside of his cheek. "The dragons need to die. The witch needs to... to be dealt with. But Elisabeth was right. We're at a precipice. The Exos aren't afraid of open battle. They want us dead. And Zendolyn-Far - she almost had me! She had my Ghost at her fucking mercy. We need to move to safer ground."

"This world is not ours," Indilic solemnly stated. "There is no safe ground."

"We load up regardless," Ikharos fired back. "This island's a fucking death trap. Even taking your helmet off in the wrong place can kill you."

"We can't run," Vindica'aur huffed. "Where is the glory in that?"

"Glory?!" Ikharos rounded on her, his eyes ablaze with sizzling power. "There's no glory in anything we do here! Take your glory and throw it into the Hellmouth."

"We are Cabal-"

"No. No, you're a just fool grasping to be seen." Ikharos curled his lip. "All you vainglorious Uluranth bastards, stamping everyone else down just to call yourself a legend. It doesn't work that way. I don't see you, Val Vindica'aur. No one will. If you die here, you die forgotten. How will your calves like that? Mum fell into a Dark spot in the universe and never came back. That's some legacy."

"I fight to kill my enemies," Vindica'aur growled, "so my calves won't have to."

"Great. I'd call it noble if it wasn't so pig-headed."

"You are a fool if you think there's hope," she whispered. "I know the signs, commander-interim, and they are poor. You have led us to our deaths. At the very least allow us to face the end with some dignity."

The Solar in Ikharos's hand shifted, becoming solid. He twirled the Dawnblade and pointed it just short of Vindica'aur's absorption shield. "Here's your dignity. Fall on it."

For a while they stared at each other, glaring. Ikharos held his breath, waiting for the roar, the sizzle of Solar energy looping and imploding, for the hiss of the sun's heat on hammered steel. It never came. Indilic interposed between the two of them - not physically but with the sledgehammer force of his mind.

Enough, he barked. The projection of intent made Ikharos wince. The Empress was clear in her instructions, Val. We serve-

"Don't you think to lecture me, Psion."

Indilic's eye flashed. He shifted, cloaking falling away to reveal the brace of insignias on his pauldron. My position here is twofold. The first is to ensure the elimination of the priority target. Need I remind you of the second?

Vindica'aur visibly balked. "You will not," she muttered sullenly.

Indilic turned his mind's eyes on Ikharos, and though nothing was said the meaning was clear: they would have words later. Insubordination at its finest.

"Ready your ships," Ikharos ordered, "while I tend to my own. We relocate at first light."

Vindica'aur rose with a huff and stomped away. The very earth shook with her fury.

"I believe your words were 'she won't challenge you again'," Ikharos said softly. "But every time I talk to her we argue like fucking children."

Indilic just looked at him. "Request to speak privately, commander?"

Ikharos motioned for him to follow and they strode back to the Shadow Trespass. Crates of Cabal-forged components laid nearby. Xiān wordlessly dropped him a toolkit.

"Shall I signal for assistance?" Indilic inquired.

"That won't be necessary." Ikharos broke out the magnatool. "I know what's broken and how to fix it."

"I thought-"

"I can get it airborne. Anything more than that and I'll need a Skiff to pick apart. Pity we hadn't grabbed one earlier."

Indilic digested that. "Understood."

"What did you want to say?"

I would rather show you, Indilic projected, and reduce the risk of being overheard.

So secretive, Ikharos thought. He made no attempt to hide it. Trust, plain and simple. You know I'm game.

What followed was a diaspora of noise, sensation, colour. It came slowly, gently, the caution of a developed telepath imprinting ideas on the mind of the primitive human - something maladapted towards handling that kind of strain. Indilic's consciousness was a maze with the weight of a maul in graceful hands, swinging his will about with the utmost delicate care.

Ikharos saw darkness. As pitch black as the night sky - broken by a single explosion seared across his mind's eye. The crack of a gunshot split his eardrums open. He could smell the acrid black powder - frontier justice loaded into a barrel. As messages went it was clear enough. He should have been horrified, but the naysayer in the back of his mind agreed. That and... the other thing slithering within his consciousness.

Maybe that was what bothered him most.

"Does this advice come from my Imperial liaison," Ikharos said. His voice was sandpaper rough, words cracking through. "Or from the man I call friend?"

They are one and the same, Indilic coolly replied.

"Excepting those occasions where they are not. One makes people nervous. The other likes to share spirits with me post-mission."

... They were terrible spirits.

"Worst liquor this side of Torobatl." Ikharos pulled a sheet of warped paneling away from one of the Trespass's thrusters. "When did we become so ruthless?"

We have always been this way. I know I have, and you... I have heard the tales.

"Long time ago."

For the short-lived human animal, perhaps. But not for us.

Ikharos grimaced. "No. Not for us."

I wonder why you shy away?

"Because I really don't know who you are. I don't understand how you can live with this." He paused. "I couldn't. Not always."

Human nature is a selfish beast. I have seen this. It isn't ready to let you go.

"Ironic."

How so?

"Humanity is the most fragmented, self-aspiring species I've yet encountered. The Hive have nothing on us. And yours - yours are the very opposite. Psions love their kin. They love their ancestors. They love their communities, their concerts. You join with the other Flayers time and again."

When needs must.

"I don't get it, Indilic. I just don't."

Indilic crouched next to him. The welfare of the concert outweighs the welfare of a single mind. All Psions know this. The ancestors embrace us when our time falls short. This is our deepest comfort. It softens the universe's cruelty.

"Don't talk like you don't value lives. I've seen your cowards."

Cowardice is a failing. It is the placement of value on one's own survival above all others. It is a sin. It must be excised. Infected flesh must always be scoured lest it kill the whole.

"Am I the infection in that analogy?"

Not you, Indilic murmured. But a concert at war with itself achieves nothing. I am the knife that cuts. Wield me.

"... No." Ikharos shot him a firm look. "I'm not presiding over... that."

The Empress bade me-

"To ensure these men and women obeyed to see this mission through. Vindica'aur's a fool but a well-meaning one. I won't kill her for the crime of her own suicide. Seems... redundant."

Her life is yours. Her death should be on your terms.

"Her life is on my terms and that alone, up until we achieve the parameters of our mission." Ikharos finished with the propulsion systems and welded the panel shut. He sent Xiān a mental prod to test it out. "Do whatever you have to to keep her and hers in line, but I won't abide decimation."

You are merciful, Indilic mused. Mercy is dangerous.

"I prefer to call it grace," Ikharos replied. "It's what gives me purpose in this farce of a life."

Indilic straightened up. I will speak with the Val, as per your instructions o lord.

"Do as you will - within reason."

As you desire. Before he left Indilic tapped Ikharos's shoulder. We should discuss those other forces predisposed to hindering our progress.

"The Disciple."

And the Exominds.

"We have one of their Warsats. They hit the Scorn hard."

The Scorn are resilient. Their intervention only makes our mission more difficult.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Ikharos said reluctantly. "We keep an eye out, but I'm not in the mood to fight a war on two fronts."

Three. The witch-

"Can run as far as she wants." Ikharos took a deep breath. "We'll find her when we've finished up, and Elisabeth with her."

Your contact.

"My orders regarding her stand. Arrest, but don't harm."

She turned to the Hive.

"Yes, I'm aware."

Do you understand my function? Indilic inquired. The function of my assigned station in the legions?

"You're of the Empress's staff," Ikharos said bluntly. "An executioner."

The direct translation is Inquirator-Primaris. The term hails from the defunct Soulrazer Legion, lost to the Midnight Coup. The premise of the legion was founded by none other than the Evocate-General herself - for the express purpose of rooting out corruption amongst the martial ranks.

"Bet you had your work cut out for you after Ghaul had his fun." Ikharos traded the magnatool for a plasma-cutter.

Calus's hedonism was an epidemic, but our - my - true calling came after the Fall of Torobatl, due in no small part to the influence of War Herself. Many considered the word of the Hive under new context. Worlds fell, legions were lost, entire client species rose in open revolt. The Empress pressed upon myself and my peers a new purpose: extrication of Hive paraphernalia, and the eventual extirpation of their entire species from the face of this universe. Indilic paused. So you ask me to spare the human who is as of this moment cooperating with a Hive sorcerer? It is too much.

You say it like I'm the infection now, Ikharos responded. Let's not kid ourselves, the witch is my fault.

And I can't understand that, just as deeply as you cannot comprehend my purpose.

It's because I can't kill her. And I can't let her die. Because if she does, and I'm still cursed to dream about her, then I don't have a way out.

And what have you done to rid yourself of her nightmare? Indilic pressed.

... Nothing.

Destro-

"Destroy me," Dûl Incaru whispered huskily. Her form hung translucent above Ikharos as a glazed shadow. She gathered about him like a shawl - arms closing around his shoulders with the rippling strength of a python coiling tight. "Reduce me to atoms. Kill me. Show me you care."

Ikharos's fingers tightened to make fists. The plasma-cutter shattered, spilling Omolon-lubricant all over his hands. "Xiān," he gasped through clenched teeth. A vial of Queensfoil manifested in the air and he grabbed it, popped the cork off, downed the entire contents in one go. The Nightmare faded with a biting cackle. It's not so easy, he angrily thought, firing the words out for Indilic to catch. I can't shrug her off. This is more than the spore-child of Egregore. This is the work of the Witch Queen. She herded me into this. She has me trapped and the Nightmares compounded on it. Calus just hammered it in the final nails.

You killed her.

But she gets the last laugh. Ikharos exhaled. Savathûn's whole MO right there. Still, she's dead, I'm not; this is my fault, so it's my responsibility. Elisabeth's screwed us over but I won't suffer her to die.

She betrayed you.

She had me mistaken for someone else. I just broke her heart.

Indilic paused again. I see.

So? Ikharos pressed.

I will abate. For you and nothing else.

How romantic.

If we are friends, lord... Indilic studied him for a moment. If we are friends then I would ask yjsy you give my words the due a friend deserves.

... Noted. Ikharos made a point of looking the Trespass over. The reasoning escaped him. "Thank you, Indilic."

Indilic bowed and left him be.

He worked through the night. Elisabeth may have said otherwise but the Trespass was his ship. He'd flayed its hide open through dogfights and violent re-entry time and again, and he'd been the one to stitch it back together with his own bare hands. He knew which wounds needed mending and which they could live with. The nose was crumpled, but it had done its job; the cockpit had survived with all flight controls intact. The fuel tanks were a different matter. One of the Void-charged dynamos had torn open in the crash. That it hadn't erupted and taken half the beach was a miracle - and Ikharos hurriedly decoupled it, draining the excess power by hand. It felt... delicious. Reinvigorating. The Void sang to him, that old ghoulish whale cry. To think the universe knew him first and foremost for his fire when this fell power hummed strong beneath his fingertips.

He replaced the dynamo with what amounted to a Glimmer guzzler. A temporary fix, yes, but an expensive one all the same; the converter quite literally devoured the closest thing they had to a universal currency. He wasn't looking forward to the dent it was going to put in his 'fuck around' fund. Could've bought a whole new jumpship ten times over back in civilized space but this was all he had at his disposal. A necessary investment, that's what he told himself. One he was already regretting.

"We're almost finished," Ikharos called. He rapped his knuckles along the Trespass's hull. "How are things looking?"

"Poorly," Xiān replied. Her words trickled in through the implants in his ear canals. "She's not a happy customer."

"We're operational?"

"Yeah, but hella moody. Trespass is being a real bitch. Fuel converter's hooked up?"

"It is."

"I'll feed her some. Try to reposition her."

"Please. Don't want to keep crawling under just to get in and out." Ikharos straightened up and dusted his hands off on his robes. "Run diagnostics. Software's still good?"

"Seems a bit tetchy, but..." Xiān trailed off. "Ike?"

"Yeah?"

"Spectral analysis flashed. Northern perimeter."

"What's it look like now?"

"Empty."

Ikharos frowned. "I'll check it." He pinged the BattleNet and pulled his sidearm free as he strolled along the edge of camp, staring out into the nearby woods. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

Nothing at all.

It was the silence that struck him most. The native animal life was shy as well as strange, but never to such a muted degree. There was actually nothing. Just a vast, endless expanse of deafening silence. Unnatural. Unnerving. He could feel it too. A diluted presence - a cold sterility, lacking the bite of Stasis and the acrid stench of soulfire.

"Raise arms," Ikharos muttered into his communicator. He clicked the Forerunner's safety off. "We have company."

A half-dozen Cabal took up position behind him, slug rifles held tight. A war beast sidled past him and sniffed the air. Ikharos expected a growl. He expected the hound to raise its hackles and give warning. But it just... paused. Tilted its head.

"The fuck does that mean?" Ikharos craned his head around to hear one of the beastmaster's response - and a jolt of alarm went through him as the Chieftain half-submerged in the ground grabbed ahold of a Gladiator's legs and pulled them out from under her. She gave a cry, cut woefully short when the ghoul's claws phased through her armour and pierced her throat. Solvent dripped thick and rich from the Scorn's lanky frame.

"Scorn!" Ikharos bellowed. He pointed and the Chieftain died - lanced through with a pillar of Arc - but there were others, rising from the very ground and lashing out at those closest to them. "Scorn" he shouted again, and shot a pair of Stalkers lunging at him from the earth bellow. "To arms, to arms-"

A cold hand caught around his neck. Ikharos wreathed his elbow in Solar and burned through the offending limb with a vicious jerk of his arm. He lashed out, grabbed hold of the Wraith's head until there was nothing left, and he moved on. The Cabal fired haphazardly, often at their own feet as the dead rose from directly beneath them. A handful died before the rest adapted accordingly, activating their jump packs and jetting into the air. It was just as well too because a series of Screebs squeezed out from below and threw themselves at those too slow to get away. Ikharos caught one with a burst of Celestial Fire, but a second smashed its swollen frame against him. The ensuing explosion almost annihilated the entirety of his overshield. He staggered, took a breath, and danced away from the next to find him.

"WARRIORS!" Vindica'aur roared over radio. Ikharos's eardrums rattled from the sheer volume. "TO ME! TO YOUR VAL! WE FIGHT IN THE NAME OF TORO-"

"The Locus is here," Indilic cut in - redirecting Ikharos's comms to a private channel. "It's making for the wounded."

"It wants their pain," Ikharos grimly noted. "Where?"

"It's-"

"Show me," Ikharos snapped. His sensorium hummed as Indilic fed in a secondary feed. Ikharos's right eye clouded with Awoken code and shifted to a top-down view - a Crow's sight, circling above. He saw the flicker of flames that marked the Locus of Communion's progress. It wasn't far. "Moving now. Protect the ships, get our people airborne."

"They're everywhere, lord-"

"Get them airborne now!" Ikharos took off at a sprint, channelling the Arc through his muscles until his very anatomy threatened to pull apart at the seams. The world slowed; his every movement cut a glowing path through it, leaving crackling afterimages in his wake. He leapt over a barrel of black oil, vaulted atop an ammunition crate and jetted with force into the Locus's hulking carcass as he rounded a supply tent - driving a Dawnblade through its side. It stumbled, ceasing its advance on a throng of retreating Psions, and backhanded Ikharos into a tent pole. The steel gave way beneath the weight of his overshield, but the impact left him winded all the same.

"The Val is en route," Indilic whispered helpfully. "Don't expire."

"That's... the goal," Ikharos gasped. He lurched back to his feet. The Locus was already stomping over, having shrugged the mortal blow off like any mortal would a mosquito bite and it raised its censer high into the air. Ikharos Blinked away as it smashed down, fell onto the ghoul's back and fired point blank into the rear of its skull. Soft bone crunched and glowing blue brain bits splattered across his visor. It didn't care. The Locus reached up, caught his leg and swung him down on the ground - hard.

Hands peeled up out from the grass to hold Ikharos down, three-fingered and rotting, but they melted away the moment he surrounded himself with flames. Wisps of burning Solvent rose up around him, fogging up his vision; he kicked the Locus's grip loose and scurried out of the way - only for the censer to swing out of the smog. The impact destroyed his shields outright, but the split second pause allowed him to Blink again past the flaming maul and avoid the brunt of the blow. Ikharos pulled his knife free of its sheath, forced Solar under his feet to propel him upwards, and he thrust the blade up under the Locus's pale chin.

It stared at him with four lifeless eyes - no true individual entity but a vessel, a vehicle for the local Dark Ether collective to coalesce within. Black stinking blood dribbled down over Ikharos's fingers. He tried to pull away but the knife stuck fast. The Locus, grinning, opened its mouth. Saliva and pus ran in strings between chipped fangs; a fat, bloated tongue wriggled like a snake in the recesses of its maw, sickly discoloured. It seemed for a moment as if the beast would take a bite out of him-

-but then it spoke.

"Fire," it croaked with a voice not its own. "Fire is the mark of the Herald of that Final Night. Stamp it out."

The surrounding skirmish abated for a moment on the side of the Scorn. Out of the corner of his eyes, and on the surface of his Light, Ikharos sensed a change overcome the nearest ghouls. The Locus's eyes flashed a bloody red. Tiny Stasis crystals gathered on its cheeks like tears - only to violently shatter and lay its taut skin open.

"Stamp," a nearby Stalker gurgled.

"Stamp out," a Raider chittered.

"Stamp it out," a Chieftain cackled.

An Abomination from somewhere across the camp bellowed, its words lost within the muffling confines of its caged helmet. With his Crow-sight Ikharos watched dozens more Scorn take up the call.

"His flame shall gutter," the Locus continued. The voice was impossibly deep, brutishly guttural. Nothing human there - nor Eliksni for that matter. "His line be ended. His blood be spilled. Death. Death will sate that hunger which never slakes. I yearn. Nourish me."

Ikharos punched the Locus with a hand wreathed in Void, dislodging the knife. He tumbled back to the ground, but the Locus kicked out and knocked him back down.

"Nourish," it gargled. Its pale-eyed gaze returned in force, full of sadistic appetite. "You nourish-"

"Fuck. Off!" Ikharos threw out an open hand and raw energy ripped from the skin of his palm, flaying the flesh from the Locus's frame and driving it back to the ground in a smoking heap. Dark Ether gathered around the remains, already in the midst of reanimation. Ikharos gathered the Light back in for a follow-up strike - only to give a cry as sudden pain tore across the back of his legs. He collapsed, tendons torn and knees splayed open, and would have fallen entirely if not for a cold, skeletal hand catching around his neck.

"This could have ended kindly," Zendolyn-Far whispered into his ear. "I would have finished you painlessly. That was my mercy. That was our bargain, offered with goodwill. You slapped our hands aside-"

"Cut off yours," Ikharos gasped. He reached for her with his killing Light but she doused his power with suffocating Solvent. It lathered over him, constricting his power, imprisoning him within his own body.

Zendolyn's grip tightened until he could scarcely draw breath, claws digging into his neck. Her fingers were long, thin, but incredibly strong. Mechanical. A prosthetic. Something to remember him by. "Watch!" she growled, angling his head towards the trembling shape of the Locus. "Watch and understand - I could have been the one to kill you. Your insult begets a harsher sentence; He desires your suffering. He demands your hollowing. Shelbth will give it to Him."

The Locus stood up, bones resetting and flesh regrowing, but something was dreadfully wrong. Its eyes were different - not red but ringed in strings of fleshy orange, misshapen pupils narrowing at the sight of him.

agony

consumed

him

he

couldn't

think

Zendolyn-Far staggered away and Vindica'aur swung in front of Ikharos, her wrist-mounted power-gauntlet glowing with heat. The spell was broken; Ikharos heaved in air, shaking with aftershocks of memetic torture. He felt Zendolyn rebound, hissing, and on instinct alone he threw out a handheld supernova. She snarled and Vindica'aur swooped back in on her rocket-laden wings, cracking another blow across the Disciple's narrow skull. Zendolyn stumbled away, her armour rent and broken, but the Solvent coated her and as Vindica'aur made a third blow her hand phased entirely through. Zendolyn's tail lashed past, catching Vindica'aur's elbow without care for armour or absorption shield, sinking right into flesh and bone. The reformed Locus took advantage, bringing its censer down on Vindica'aur's back and all but shattering her suit's defense systems. The Val bellowed with pain and fury.

Ikharos splashed golden Solar over his wounds and Blinked into the fray; he summoned the Ruin of Lubrae and caught Zendolyn's tail before it could take the Val's throat. He deflected its bladed tip, summoned a shimmering shield and held it before the Disciple. She huffed with displeasure.

"Suffering is its own reward," she intoned. Her replacement arm shimmered with veins of golden light while the surrounding slates of obsidian shifted with every motion. Raw Pyramid tech. The Solvent dripped from it like sweat. "Her life is ended. Reserving her a few breathes more is an act of misbegotten vanity."

"You gotta stop talking," Ikharos shot back.

"Would you rather we trade in insults? Offer each other witty quips?"

"Just shut up."

Zendolyn flashed towards him, but he'd been expecting it. He fended her off, retreating until he felt the searing burn of Vindica'aur's rockets - and moved with her back-to-back as she did battle with the Locus.

"Indilic," Ikharos breathed. Zendolyn lashed with Solvent-coated claws but the Ruin's shield was of unique enough make to deter them. "Indilic respond."

No answer.

"Xiān?!"

"I'm here!"

"I need back up. We can't hold. Zendolyn-"

"I know, I know, I'm coming to you!"

"Xiān, I can't hurt them!" Ikharos blocked another flurry of blows but it drove him back. The burn was getting worse. Vindica'aur wasn't sounding so hot either. "Xiān-"

"You almost had her before-"

"Because of you! And the Locus..." Ikharos almost tripped as Zendolyn swung her tail in again. Her wings here flaring and her arm flashing ever brighter. She was a shadow in the halflight of early morning, cold on thermal and signatureless on UV. He could barely see the outline of her form as it was.

"Your glaive can cut her," Xiān said, "and your Light hurts her. Conventional weapons are useless."

"Glaive won't cut it. I need-" But something came to him regardless. Ikharos dropped the Ruin and pulled the Touch of Malice, firing five rounds point blank. The first missed as Zendolyn ducked, but she was too close to avoid the rest. The bullets pierced through the veil of Solvent and spun her back, hitting harder than any handheld firearm had any right to - a power Ikharos paid for dearly as lashes of terrible agony whipped across his body. The black heart at the centre of the gun pulsed rhythmically, all too happy to feast on the pain he offered it. He kept firing until he judged Zendolyn driven far enough back that he could to drop a Voidwall - turning on his heel as the violet flames flared up and shouting, "Val, move!"

Vindica'aur shifted and the censer swung past, whooshing by Ikharos's head. He did not flinch; he pulled the trigger until the Malice drove him to a knee, until blood flecked the inside of his helmet and his head pounded with pressure. The Devourer rounds tore holes through the Locus's flesh but the ghoul kept coming. Vindica'aur stepped in like a boxer and drove the butt of her rifle against its head once, twice, three times. A normal foe would have dazed, if not died of cranial trauma outright. The Locus just leered at her bloodily, grabbed the collar of her cuirass and headbutted her hard. Her helmet remained intact and the Scorn's skull collapsed under the force of impact, but the Locus was quick to heal and Vindica'aur shared none of its regenerative powers.

She pulled away, stumbling, and swung one of her wings around. The steel construct caught the Locus and swept it off its feet. Ikharos kept firing until his arms felt leaden, and he limped over to the flailing Scorn with a hand glowing with Void. He was hungry. He needed to eat. The Locus lashed at him with its own claws but Ikharos caught the limb and his fingers slid through flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter. Matter melted beneath his touch, devoured, filling his body with recycled vigour. The sensation was indescribable; it was the relief of a good night's rest condensed into a single moment. It was a draught of water in a desert, a dead man's final meal. It was a dark delight and Ikharos basked in it.

The Locus wriggled away, maggot-like, and twisted back to its feet. It snarled at them, unhappy, but the Dark Ether worked against the limits of possibility and wove it an entirely new arm How that was possible, Ikharos had no idea, for what the Void took the Void kept.

"Hold it for me!" Ikharos shouted. "We go for the brain-"

But Vindica'aur wasn't listening. Vindica'aur was listing sideways and sprawling bonelessly across the ground. Zendolyn-Far stood above her, her tri-pronged tongue slithering back behind rows of shark teeth. Venom dripped from her reptilian lips.

"There you have it," Zendolyn purred. She leaned over Vindica'aur, claws clacking against the Val's breastplate. "Her last moments of life, prolonged. Is this the outcome you desired?"

Ikharos summoned the Ruin and held it in his offhand. The Locus circled around opposite Zendolyn, trying to find his blindspot - a simple predator to the core. "Xiān," he whispered.

"Ike, we're taking off now, there were so many Scorn-"

"Close in."

"We'll pick you up-"

"The Val too." Ikharos stepped backwards. He could still see the Locus with his Crow-sight but he couldn't allow it to think otherwise. That would lose him precious time.

"Your anchor," Zendolyn murmured. "She is here. Shelbth will make her watch to the end of time. They find pleasure in that - it manifests their being more intently. In suffering you embody them; in death they lose their vaunted influence. Your end will be drawn. You will be a continent unto yourself, your mind a nation. You will shelter their being like so many others have, and you will know it is your actions that led you there. Xhafi demanded your obedience. I offered you mercy. Now Shelbth will lay claim to your being."

"Val first," Ikharos whispered. "I can hold a moment longer."

"Ike-"

"Just do it."

The Trespass glided over them, cutting away the twinkle of artificial satellites, and the form of Vindica'aur melted into transmat. Zendolyn gave a start but she was quick to recover. Ikharos felt the tingle of transmat picking at his body - until the Solvent ran up his legs and held him tight. The process threatened to tear him apart until Xiān let go.

"Ike!"

"Move!" he shouted.

Zendolyn flicked a hand skywards and a tendril of Solvent whipped at the Trespass's hull. The jumpship jerked away from the sinuous limb, right into a hail of Scorn gunfire. The shields held but they flickered dangerously. Ikharos would have offered further instructions if not for the Locus catching him in its arms, heedless of the glaive that found its way into its stomach. It plucked him up and squeezed tight; bones cracked and ribs gave way. Ikharos forced a Blink but was only able to make it a few feet in his haste, and the Locus, scenting his suffering as a shark would blood, turned and lunged for him. Ikharos brought the Touch of Malice up and caught the Scorn's sternum with its jagged bayonet. His back hit the ground and the stock braced against his arm. The weight of the Locus pressed it down hard enough that his shoulder dislocated and all feeling in the limb escaped him.

Ikharos gasped, reached out, caught not the Locus's throat but the rings around the black heart of Oryx himself and he locked them in place. A Taken Blight shot free of the gun's barrel and perforated the Locus's flesh, but it wasn't enough. He held it long enough for the heart within to grow and grow and grow and-

The rings shattered. The heart burst. The Blight enveloped everything - everything but Ikharos himself. By virtue of slayerhood he alone was spared. The Locus was not so fortunate. Its very flesh grew rigid and stiff, only to fall apart as black smoking dust. Its bones, its exoskeleton, even its haunting dead visage melted away before him until nothing was left but a false sky above. Not even Dark Ether remained.

Zendolyn-Far took its place. Ikharos raised the broken remains of his rifle but there was no heart left to wield, and her talons found his flesh all too easily. He opened a hand and unleashed a Chaos Reach, searing her face and forcing her to let go. She retreated into the dark of night.

"Xiān!" he gasped. "Call a retreat! Call it now!"

"We're coming-"

Zendolyn came for him from below. The ground opened up to swallow him whole, but Ikharos raised wings of molten flame to keep him aloft - only for her claws to dig into his waist and catch on bone. She pulled him down, down into her realm until the Solvent bubbled up at the bottom of his visor. Then she started to slice.

Ikharos fired a Nova Bomb into the liquid darkness, flinging him out and glazing the earth with purple glass. He twisted in the air, called on the Darkness and erected a field of Stasis across the ground to keep her away, to keep her from breaking through - only for the rest of the Scorn to fall upon him. An Abomination fired him out of the air with blasts of crackling Arc. A pair of Legionaries rushed to his aid but a Chieftain and its pack of Lurkers cut them off, beating them to the ground with crude mauls until the light left their eyes.

Ikharos pinged the BattleNet with a ping from his sensorium: retreat. Retreat. Run.

A Wraith swung a flaming mace and he stepped past the blow, filling his fingers with Void and consuming the ghoul on the spot. It wasn't anywhere near enough. A Screeb burst somewhere to his left Ikharos fell back from the explosion, flank flaring up with burning pain, and right into the press of Ravagers keen to avenge their patron. One censer smashed across his back and another took his leg out from under him. Ikharos dragged himself up into the air on fiery wings again but a Raider manifested in air above him and tackled him back down to the earth below. He caught sight of the Trespass moments before the shore rose up to meet him - torn away by rising Threshers and flashing Scornfire.

He and the Raider rolled across the sands damned close to the water's edge. His helmet was broken. He still had his Crow-sight but the smoke was rising and the Scorn flooded in by the dozens. Ikharos forced himself to a stop atop the Raider and plunged a hand into its neck, feeding on its mass. Another consolidated behind him and dragged him away from the screaming thing, heaved him struggling into the waters while more and more trampled after them, yipping with animal glee. He tried fighting, he tried pulling free but they heaved him back down, pushing him down into the waves until the seawater trickled in through the cracks in his helmet and his mouth filled with the taste of copper and salt. He thrashed, he burned, he struck them with everything he had - but they kept coming. The horde kept throwing themselves on top of him and Ikharos's world devolved into teeth and claws and searing light.

The pain. The pain followed him into the black of unconsciousness, accompanied by those haunting eyes. He couldn't shake them. Not even into his deepest thoughts, not unto the darkest recesses of his being. They hooked into his psyche, lodged tight - finding space beside that prickly red thing.

It was the feeling of his arm being shoved back into place that roused him. Ikharos swung a fist but his assailant threw themselves away from it.

"Letta!" they snapped. "Eka eddyr néiat onr fjandí!"

Ikharos blinked, panting. The ground beneath was moving but... no, not Solvent. Solid wood. Or bone. The texture was hard to place. There was water beneath it - a whole body of it. A boat. He was on a boat. A small one. "... Who?"

"I am trying to help." The figure knelt down beside him. His robes were cut from the navel up, baring the worst of his wounds. Or what should have been the worst of his wounds; there were hardly any marks present. He ached, oh, he ached but... the pain.

It wasn't what it should have been. Ikharos refocused on his saviour. "... You."

Formora held out her hands placatingly. "Do you want my help?"

He stared.

"Your arm hasn't set. Let me-"

Ikharos grabbed his dead arm and shoved it back into place. He almost caught his tongue between his teeth, the pain was so great. "Fuck..."

"That was reckless," Formora chided. "Dangerous. You may have caused yourself further injury-"

"Where are we?" Ikharos croaked. He didn't like the taste in his mouth. Dried blood was worse than wet. He tried to sit up. but his back twinged with a sharp pain and the groan came unbidden. The sun shone too brightly overhead. It was giving him a headache.

"Far enough away that the Scorn won't trouble us." Formora cautiously closed in. Ikharos stiffened and spared her a warning look, but something gave him pause. She looked... different. The lines on her neck, the gills - the skin around them was changed, given over to a faint piscine iridescence. For some reason it didn't surprise him. It should have.

He didn't like what this place was doing to him.

"I'm alive?" Ikharos dubiously asked.

Formora gave him a strange look. "Yes?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I shouldn't be."

"You shouldn't be alive?"

No. No, he shouldn't be. If he was dead- no. No, unless the Scorn had destroyed his remains utterly Xiān would have needed something to bring him back. But here he was. Not dead. But where was she?

"What about…" Ikharos paused. "Where is everyone? What happened?"

"They fled," Formora said warily. She watched him carefully - as carefully as one would a rabid beast. "The Scorn overran your camp. I intervened to save your life."

"I told you to go."

"I know."

"Why didn't you?"

"We both know why." Formora turned suddenly. She reached for something - he tensed - and returned with a fold of bandages. "May I continue?"

Ikharos thought it over. "How'd you do it? How'd you get past those Scorn?"

"You're in pain-"

"How?"

Formora looked at him a moment longer. "Magic."

"Magic."

"Yes."

" And you've treated me with magic?"

"I have."

Ikharos inhaled sharply. "I don't like sorcery."

"You don't?"

"Not if I don't understand it." Ikharos raised a hand to his chest. He reached for his Light... and he found it. Faint. Subdued. Spent. But there.

That meant he was still connected to the Traveler.

That meant-

That meant Xiān was still alive. Maybe others with her.

"Where..." Ikharos cleared his throat. "Where are we going?"

"Alagaësia," Formora said softly. "I'm sailing back to Alagaësia."

"... The mainland." He grimaced and straightened up. "Fuck."

"Home."

"Why?" Ikharos looked for his helmet but it was nowhere to be found - and his suit's radio with it. He tried to reach out with his sensorium's limited range until his vision blurred. No one answered his pings.

He was alone. He was lost.

"Because I am finished with Vroengard," Formora told him. "That island promises nothing but death for us."

"Us?" he echoed.

"The Scorn drove you away."

"My people-"

"They're either dead or moved on."

Ikharos swallowed thickly. "Where are my weapons?"

Formora paused. "I have them," she admitted.

"Give them back."

"How will I know you won't turn them on me?"

His Light was too weak to manifest but the Dark came to him eagerly. Stasis filled his hands, bulging between his fingers. "I don't need them to kill."

"Then why do you need them at all?"

"Sentimentality." Ikharos watched her expression. "What else?"

Formora regarded him a moment, then pulled a Hunter's knife free from her packs on the other end of the boat. She passed it over hilt first. Ikharos took it with tentative gratitude - the weight of it eased that ball of stress in his stomach by some small margin. "You're still hurt," Formora pointed out. "Will I continue?"

"I've got it." Ikharos sheathed the blade and turned the Stasis onto himself. Shards gathered around shallow lacerations and torn skin, mending his flesh with solid crystal. There was a bite on his leg that proved particularly irksome; it looked halfway infected, with the surrounding skin an ugly red shade. With a grimace Ikharos forced the Stasis in, cleaning the wound out and filling it in with glass. It wasn't the instant relief of Solar but but something messier, weaker, but easier to control.

When he looked up he found Formora hanging over him, watching transfixed as the Dark took root. "What?" he grumbled.

"How do you do that?" she quietly asked.

"Because I will it," Ikharos evenly replied.

"You desire-"

"Will. Not desire. It's no dragon magic."

Formora shot him an irritated look. "It's magic. Magic is desire."

"Yours. Not mine."

She crouched beside him. "Will you explain it to me?"

Ikharos ignored her and pulled himself up, pausing as the boat shifted under his weight. The vessel was a slim, flimsy thing - more like a canoe really. There was a mast at the centre with a triangular sail drawn taut against the wind. "I need to find my soldiers."

"You won't find them on Vroengard. And I won't go back."

Ikharos looked around. There was a small dark blotch on the horizon behind them, shadowed over by the midday sun; the island, if he had to guess. It was the only thing in sight. "The mainland's east of us, right?"

"It is."

"How far?"

"Several days of sailing, provided the weather remains fair. I doubt it will."

"Can you be more exact?"

"Near fifty leagues."

"That's too far."

"We have no other option. We have Vroengard at our backs and Alagaësia ahead. The only other islands we may encounter are rocks populated solely by crabs."

Ikharos pursed his lips with displeasure. He didn't like it. Time was a commodity and he was hesitant to spend it needlessly. "I need to find them..."

"If any survived surely they would make for safer grounds."

Yes. Yes, they would, but... "I shouldn't be here," Ikharos muttered. "I shouldn't be alive."

"Yes," Formora said irritably. "You've said as much."

He considered drawing his knife then and there to finish the job. A quick death, painless as he could manage; if Xiān had a part of him she could bring him back wherever she was, but that was a big if. He hadn't prepared for this scenario. Stupid. Senseless. Dark Age tactics took precedence - leave your Ghost with a finger, a tooth, something to keep you close. He'd been foolish. Now they were paying for it. If she didn't have a piece of him... then suicide would strand him in death. There was no guarantee she would find him if it came to that.

"Well?" Formora pressed. "Are you decided?"

"On what?"

"Vroengard lies behind us, Alagaësia ahead. You could remain onboard or you could swim back. The choice is yours."

"I'm in no condition to swim," Ikharos muttered, but he contemplated it all the same. Washing up dead wasn't a bad idea. Not if there was a chance Xiān was still there. But why would she be? No. The original plan had been to relocate. She wouldn't stick around. Not with Disciples on the prowl.

"You're not," Formora agreed.

"Isn't much of a choice then."

"No. I suppose it isn't." She lingered.

"If you're looking for thanks," Ikharos said softly, "then you're looking in the wrong place."

"Life is cheap for you," Formora said with a sneer.

"Yes. It is." Ikharos pulled his knife free. Formora nervously stepped back but he ignored her and unclasped his Osmiomancy bracer, laying forearm bare.

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping my options open." Ikharos brought the knife down. The pain came quick and sharp but the Stasis drowned it out with cold numbness. He couldn't afford to heal with Light. It would undo everything. Instead he allowed the Darkness to stem the bleeding - an artificial clot. He put the knife aside and gingerly picked up his hand. "Do you reckon the tide'll bring this back shore?"

Formora didn't answer. Her expression was one of shock and disbelief.

"No?"

"What... what are you doing?" she demanded incredulously.

Ikharos froze the hand solid. He didn't want the local fish getting any ideas - or another mosasaur for that matter. I'll find you, he thought, or you will me. One of us will get lucky. Ikharos braced against the rim of the boat tiredly, already faint. He tossed the hand over his shoulder - out of sight, out of mind. He heard a splash as it hit the water's surface and bobbed along with the waves.

"Why would you do that?" Formora snapped. She knelt down beside him and grabbed his arm, raising the stump up to inspect. Ikharos hadn't the strength to shove her away. He said nothing. "Humans," she angrily continued. "Onr fólk hàvr eyddr hofudar."

The words imprinted on his mind. A shiver ran through him; an insult in a dragon's tongue. Ikharos closed his eyes and pretended to be elsewhere. Formora whispered something else under her breath. The pain dulled. He didn't have it in him to say thanks. That would have been too close to admitting defeat.

"Stop that," he said irritably.

She ignored him.

"Stop-"

"Slytha," Formora intoned. She drew a hand over his eyes and Ikharos's world faded back into darkness.

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!

And that's the first story arc crossed. Should be able to fire these out quicker now that I'm settled in my new place.