The
Venator Encampment – The Next Morning
Absjorn’s
boots echo through the sanctum long before his silhouette fills the
doorway.
The
mobile church is warm compared to the frozen day outside, thick with
incense, candlelight, whispered prayer, but none of it touches him.
Not the heat. Not the holiness. Not the comfort it is meant to grant.
He
walks down the central aisle with Cassiel’s corpse in his arms,
moving with a reverence that borders on trembling. The Priest’s
massive armor, broken and bloodied, glints beneath the lantern light.
Cassiel’s decapitated head rests atop his breastplate, helmet
placed carefully over the ruined flesh as though dignity could still
be restored by ritual.
When
Absjorn reaches the altar, he lowers the body with the same delicacy
he would use for a newborn child. He settles Cassiel flat upon the
crimson tapestry, adjusts the weight so the corpse lies straight,
then folds the Priest’s enormous gauntleted hands over his abdomen.
The
priestesses gather around him immediately, soft footsteps, hushed
breaths, veils swaying. Their black-and-white robes rustle as they
kneel, as they murmur prayers, as they reach timidly for rags and
holy oils to begin the purification of the fallen.
One
breaks away, darting behind the altar to summon Priest Benedan.
Absjorn
remains kneeling.
He
cannot tear his eyes from Cassiel’s shattered chestplate. From the
folded hands. From the silent helm perched atop the ravaged neck. His
own breath stutters, shoulders shaking once, quickly, shamefully. He
presses a hand over his mouth, then over the ruined armor, as if
trying to warm it. Trying to understand how it had gone cold.
Benedan
emerges moments later.
The
Priest is tall, though not as towering as Cassiel once was,
broad-shouldered, armored in white and crimson. He moves with
measured calm, but when he sees the body his lips part in a quiet
gasp. He comes to kneel beside Absjorn, lowering himself carefully
until they sit shoulder to shoulder before the altar.
For
a moment, neither speaks.
Benedan
bows his head, touching two fingers to Cassiel’s forehead through
the helmet, tracing the sign of the Absolute.
Absjorn
finally breaks the silence, voice a rasp, “…I could not save
him.”
Benedan
turns to him, not reprimanding, not shocked, only deeply, painfully
solemn. “Captain Absjorn,” he murmurs, “no mortal man saves a
Priest. They walk closest to the Absolute. They rise, and fall, by
His will alone.”
Absjorn’s
jaw works, his breath shaking again. His eyes burn, not with tears,
but with something deeper, something wounded, confused, furious,
devout.
“It
was not His will,” Absjorn whispers. “It could not have
been His will.”
Benedan
lets out a long, quiet breath. His hand rests atop Absjorn’s
shoulder, heavy, steady, anchoring. “We will pray for clarity,”
he says softly. “For guidance. For the Absolute to reveal the truth
of this trial.”
Behind
them, the priestesses continue their soft chanting as they begin
gently cleansing Cassiel’s armor, sponges dipped into basins, holy
water running in rivulets through the grooves of his pauldrons.
A
funeral rite.
A battlefield relic.
A loss that shakes the
faith at its foundation.
Absjorn
bows his head again, shoulders hunched, hands clenched into fists so
hard the metal creaks. He whispers through clenched teeth, “Then
pray quickly. For I fear the truth will demand blood.”
Benedan
straightens slowly, drawing a deep breath as the priestesses widen
their circle around the altar. Their chanting softens, thinning into
a gentle hum so the Priest may speak clearly to the Absolute. He
rises to his full height, taller than Absjorn remembers, or perhaps
simply steadier, and lifts his hands over Cassiel’s body.
His
voice begins low, resonant, the sort of tone that slips beneath the
ribs more than it enters the ears.
“Absolute,
Unbroken Father… Shepherd of the righteous… Judge of all that
treads this earth…”
The
air warms around them. Or maybe it only feels that way.
“We
return to You one forged in Your image,” Benedan continues. “One
who bore Your Word as shield and sword. Cassiel, Priest of the
Crimson Mantle. Loyal unto his last breath, steadfast in duty,
unflinching before the wicked.”
The
priestesses bow deeper.
Holy
water drips from their cloths like falling tears.
“We
commend him to Your hand,” Benedan says, lowering his arms, “that
he may rise among Your host in the sky and stand sentinel over the
faithful. Grant him rest. Grant him peace. Grant him glory.”
A
final breath. A final bow of his head.
“And
grant us clarity,” Benedan murmurs, quieter now. “For we who
remain walk in shadow. Illuminate the path before Your chosen
warrior… lest he falter.”
He
ends the prayer with the sign of the Absolute, two fingers pressed
first to brow, then lips, then heart. When his hand falls, he places
it firmly on Absjorn’s pauldron. The contact is grounding. Heavy.
Commanding.
“Absjorn,”
Benedan says softly, “what of your forces?”
Absjorn
stares at Cassiel’s still form as though the corpse might yet rise
to answer for him. His throat works. His jaw trembles once before
locking into place.
“They
killed them,” he says, voice hollow. “All of them. Every last
one.” He swallows. His teeth grind. “My soldiers. All two
hundred. The horses. Cassiel’s Titansteed. And the four Vardengard
I brought with me.” His breath hitches, not in grief, no, not
anymore, but in rage sharpening itself against bone.
Benedan’s
fingers tighten on his shoulder. “Then this,” he says gently,
almost soothingly, “is the Absolute’s Will.”
Absjorn
lifts his gaze at that. His eyes burn red, fevered, desperate for
some meaning that doesn’t feel like madness.
Benedan
continues. “He tests you, Captain. As He tested every great warrior
before you. You are meant to be His hammer of judgment, His chosen
instrument of wrath upon the faithless.” His voice lowers, but it
grows no less intense. “A warrior is not forged in ease. He is
tempered by fire. By failure. By loss. The Absolute strips away the
weak to strengthen the worthy. And you, sole survivor, are the proof
of His intent.”
Absjorn’s
breath steadies. But it steadies like a blade drawn from a sheath.
Benedan
turns slightly, surveying the priestesses as they continue cleansing
Cassiel’s broken armor. “We will gather the rest of our forces,”
he says. “We will plan a better strike against the Invictans, once
we deal with the eldiravan hunters marching toward our encampment.”
Absjorn
nods slowly, the motion stiff, mechanical. “Yes… the eldiravan.”
He clenches his fists. Metal groans. “Let them come.”
Benedan
smiles faintly, pride, pity, and faith woven into one expression.
“You will not face these trials alone, Absjorn. The Absolute
Himself walks with you. And when the time for judgment comes… you
will be ready.”
Something
in Absjorn’s chest tightens, then ignites. A vindictive light
glimmers behind his eyes. “Tiberius,” he whispers. “Spartan.
That damned Rho Voss.”
His
hands shake, not with grief, not with doubt, but with the burgeoning
purity of vengeance.
“They
will all answer,” Absjorn says. “They will kneel. And I will
deliver them to the Absolute myself.”
Benedan
bows his head approvingly.
Absjorn
and Benedan walk side by side down the aisle, the warm glow of
candles fading behind them. The church doors loom ahead, heavy and
dark, letting in thin slashes of cold morning light. Benedan speaks
as they approach, his voice low but unwavering.
“I
will accompany you on the next excursion,” he says. “The Absolute
has placed me at your side for a reason. I will not remain behind
while His judgment unfolds.”
Absjorn
gives a short, sharp nod. “Your presence will strengthen the men.
And me.”
“It
is meant to,” Benedan answers simply.
They
push open the doors.
The
cold hits immediately, biting, sharp, merciless. But it’s the noise
that gives them pause. Chatter. Murmurs. Gasps. The gathered Venators
scatter backward in a rough semicircle around the front gate, fear
and confusion rippling through their ranks.
A
Lieutenant forces his way through the crowd, breath misting, helmet
tucked under his arm. He salutes quickly, face pale.
“Fathers,
there’s… there’s been a discovery.” He gestures toward the
gate with a stiff hand. “A body. Left at the entrance.”
Absjorn
exchanges a look with Benedan.
They
approach. The crowd parts like a wound opening.
Two
Venators kneel in the snow, frozen mid-step. One holds the dead man
by the shoulders, the other by the legs. They were in the process of
lifting him, carefully, gently, but stopped the instant they saw
their Captain and Priest.
Between
them lies the Inquisitor. Or what remains of him.
His
body is limp, too limp, boneless in its collapse. His limbs sag like
heavy cloth, bones shattered into dust beneath the skin. Frost clings
to him, eyelashes iced white, lips cracked and blue, blood frozen in
jagged rivulets along his armor. His chest is caved inward. His
throat… wrong. Torn. Something carved into his cheek, letters
warped by frostbite.
Absjorn’s
jaw locks.
Benedan
takes in the sight with a slow, reverent breath. Not horrified. Not
shaken. But solemn, knowing.
“A
message,” he murmurs. “The Invictans send us an omen.”
The
priestesses’ chanting from the church behind them fades into the
cold silence.
Benedan
crouches slightly, examining the corpse without touching it. “This
man was interrogated. Broken. Then delivered here with purpose.”
His gaze lifts to the distant treeline. “Their Vardengard must be
near. Watching. Waiting.”
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A
cold wind sweeps across the encampment.
Absjorn
straightens to his full height, eyes narrowing.
“Let
them watch,” he growls. “Let them listen.”
He
steps forward until he looms over the corpse, breath steaming in
harsh bursts.
“They
think fear will soften us.” A bitter, humorless laugh escapes him.
“They do not understand what they’ve made.”
Benedan
rises beside him, placing a steadying hand on Absjorn’s back, not
to calm him, but to anchor him.
“They
understand little of the Absolute’s chosen,” Benedan says. “This
message is not warning.” His eyes harden. “It is invitation.”
Absjorn
looks toward the mountains.
Toward
the unseen eyes hidden in the snow.
And
smiles.
A
slow, murderous smile.
“Then
let us answer.”
Spartan
and Rho Voss’ Position – Continuous
Spartan
trudges through the deep snow, each step a crunching, hollow thud
against the frozen mountainside. The wind howls like some old, dying
beast, whipping snow across the path in frantic curls. She walks a
few paces ahead of Rho Voss, who follows in steady silence, the cold
clinging to their Olympian armor in a sheen of frost.
Her
voice cuts through the storm.
“I
wonder what those pious little Venators will think,” she says,
casual, conversational, almost amused. “Finding their precious
Inquisitor dropped at their doorstep like butcher scraps.”
Rho
Voss gives a quiet grunt of agreement behind his helm.
Spartan
kicks through a ridge of snow, breath a cloud. “Samayel probably
enjoyed delivering it. Bastard always liked a little theatrics.” A
pause. “Absjorn won’t take it lightly.”
The
mountain wind howls again. She tilts her head, tone dropping darker.
“He’ll come at us harder. More desperate. More righteous. Next
time, we don’t just survive him.” Her teeth bare in a grin that’s
anything but friendly. “We kill him properly.”
Rho
Voss nods once, slow, deliberate, approving.
They
continue a few more steps before Spartan suddenly halts. She angles
her head toward the stone face on their right. There, half buried in
drifted snow, lies a narrow, shadowed opening in the mountainside.
Wide enough for a man in armor. Even Olympian armor.
She
perks up instantly.
“Well,
look at that,” she murmurs.
She
approaches, brushing snow aside with a gauntleted hand. A small
cavern mouth yawns back at her, dark, quiet, untouched by the storm.
She
turns sharply, energized, and rushes back to Rho Voss.
Before
he can react, she grabs his hand, her armored fingers clamping around
his with a sudden, eager pull.
“Come
on,” she says, excitement bubbling into her voice.
And
without waiting for his answer, Spartan drags the massive Vardengard
into the cavern’s shadowed throat, snow crunching underfoot, the
wind swallowed behind them.
Spartan
and Rho Voss’ Position – Some Time Later
The
cave is quiet now. Only their breathing fills the stillness, slow,
warm, human breaths rising in faint clouds against the cold air.
Their Olympian armor sits abandoned against the far wall like two
empty metal giants, hulking and silent in the gloom. Rho Voss and
Spartan lie together on the spread cloaks beneath them, skin still
flushed from heat, the air around their bodies warm enough to chase
back the cavern chill.
Spartan
straddles Rho’s waist, her palms spread across the broad plane of
his chest, his warmth seeping into her fingers. Their sweat cools
slowly on their skin, but the faint, satisfied smiles on both their
faces linger like an afterglow.
Rho’s
hand rests on her hip, thumb tracing lazy circles along the bone,
small motions that look almost reverent coming from a killer his
size. His eyes stay fixed on her, soft in a way they never are on the
battlefield, never are in camp. Only here.
Spartan
leans down, hair falling like a curtain around them, and presses a
slow kiss to the line of his jaw. His stubble rasps against her lips,
and she brushes her hair back with a soft huff of breath.
A
giggle escapes her, quiet, warm, rare. “You were so afraid of the
cold,” she teases, voice a low whisper against his throat.
Rho
Voss huffs a laugh, deep and quiet. He lifts a hand to her head,
fingers threading into her long black hair, tugging gently until she
meets his gaze.
His
voice, rough from disuse, rumbles out. “Not so cold anymore.”
She
snorts, biting back another laugh. “No, it isn’t,” she agrees,
settling against him.
For
a moment they just lie there, skin to skin, breath to breath, the
storm muffled outside the cave while the last of their shared heat
clings to them.
Then
Spartan stretches, arms lifting lazily above her head, back arching
with a satisfied groan.
“Gods,”
she mutters with a grin, “I’m glad we finally got the chance.
I’ve been dying for it for weeks.”
Rho
Voss actually laughs, a quiet, rumbling, genuine sound.
Spartan
joins him, their laughter echoing softly through the cavern, warm and
human in a world that rarely allows either.
Spartan
lets out a long, sorrowful sigh, the kind that seems to scrape out of
her ribs on its way up. “As much as I wish we could stay like
this,” she murmurs, “there’s a war waiting for us.”
She
shifts, slowly, reluctantly, sliding off Rho’s body. His fingers
tighten on her hip for a heartbeat, an instinctive protest, before
she slips free. Rho rolls onto his side as she rises, propping
himself on an elbow, cheek resting against his knuckles. He watches
her cross the stone floor toward the pile of her clothes. For a
moment, he lets himself imagine a world where this isn’t stolen
time, where life can be as simple as her warmth and his breath.
Life
is better when they’re like this. It’s a cruel truth.
Spartan
pulls on her underlayers with practiced motions, even if each one
feels like it weighs more than armor. Rho finally pushes himself up
and stands, stretching the ache from his spine before he begins
gathering his own clothes.
As
she fastens her boots, Spartan breaks the silence.
“I’ve
been thinking,” she says, not looking at him yet. “We wait until
Absjorn’s army hits the Eldiravan line. Let them chew on each
other. Then we sweep in and ambush from the flank. If we time it
right, we might get a chance to put Absjorn down. Or at least cripple
his advance.”
Rho
pauses mid-buckle, jaw tightening. His seldom-used voice is gravel
when he answers. “Master told us not to engage Absjorn without
him.”
Spartan
shrugs, an almost careless motion, though the set of her jaw betrays
the edge beneath. She zips her jacket up to her throat. “Master is
overprotective. He thinks his presence changes everything.” She
huffs quietly, shaking her head. “I’m not hunting Absjorn. Not
unless the opportunity’s perfect. If we can’t kill him, then
there’s no reason to waste blood trying.”
She
pulls her jacket on and zips it up, clasping each button.
Spartan
tightens the last buckle on her boots and steps past Rho toward her
waiting armor, cold, towering, and lifeless without them inside it.
But she barely gets two steps before his hand closes around her arm.
Firm. Warm. Unwilling.
He
pulls her back, and before she can smirk or tease, he claims one last
kiss, slow, hungry, and final in the way only warriors taste
finality.
It
softens her. She smiles up at him, breath misting between them.
She
pulls away, but she does it gently, her fingers drifting down the
length of his sleeve… brushing his palm… sliding along his
fingers until they slip apart. Only then does she turn back to the
dark shell of her Olympian armor. She climbs inside, the plates
sealing around her like a coffin rediscovering its occupant. She
tucks her helmet under her arm, its visor catching the faint blue
glow of the cave.
Behind
her, Rho draws his face mask up over his nose, hood shadowing his
eyes. He finishes the last ties and straps with efficient motions
before stepping into his own armor. The machine takes him back in
with a hiss of pneumatics and a low hum, as if recognizing him.
Spartan
snatches up their cloaks, shaking the dust from them. She tosses one
to Rho, and he drapes it over his pauldrons in a dark sweep of
fabric. The other she swings over herself; the clasp snaps shut at
her collarbone with a metallic click.
Together,
they walk toward the mouth of the cave, footfalls echoing, armor
heavy, breaths controlled.
The
moment they step outside, the world changes.
The
wind hits like a blade. The cold is merciless, ancient, and uncaring,
gnawing at steel and flesh alike. The Nirnan Mountains stretch in
every direction, white, jagged, and endless. Snow whips sideways in
violent sheets, erasing the horizon. Nothing but ice, death, and the
promise of war. Side by side, they descend back into the frozen hell
awaiting them.
Samayel’s
Position – Sometime Later
Samayel
crouches on the knife-edge of the ridge, his silhouette nothing more
than a jagged shadow against the storm-churned sky. Below him, the
world is on fire.
The
Venators have slammed into the eldiravan like a wave of steel and
devotion and shattered on impact. The mountainside is a battlefield
carved by blood and song. Gunfire rattles the air, explosions flash
in brief suns, and beneath it all, the hymns rise.
Their
hymns always rise.
A
few meters behind him, Red Baron and Arturo tend a tiny fire, its
glow swallowed by the snow before it can even warm the air. Liam sits
on the other side of it, cleaning frost from the sensor of his rifle.
But
it’s the singing that pulls Red Baron and Arturo to their feet.
Quietly,
without needing to speak, the two trudge across the crunchy ice and
settle on either side of Samayel, men drawn by the ghost of
familiarity.
“Those
songs…” Red Baron murmurs, brows furrowed beneath his
frost-rimmed goggles. “It’s Latin, yeah? Don’t know what
they’re saying, not really, but...” He pauses as the melody
shifts, echoing across the cliffs. “I swear I’ve heard that one
before.”
Arturo
snorts, pulling his scarf tighter around his nose. “We all have.
Church stuff. My mother dragged me to Mass enough times. That one
down there,” He points to a section of the Venator line where the
hymn rises stronger, louder, desperate. “I don’t know the words,
but the tune? Aeterna something.”
“Aeterna
Lux,” Samayel says without looking at them.
The
two men blink.
Samayel’s
voice is calm, almost bored, as he watches Venators fall under
serrated eldiravan spears, banners dipping, blood misting in the air.
“They’re begging their God to make them ‘a lantern in the night
of war.’” A pause. “A foolish request. They die just the same.”
Below,
the eldiravan raise their own song, low, harmonic, resonant. Not
hymns but weapons. Their voices ripple through the stone itself. The
terrain shifts subtly under the Venators’ boots; a ridge bulges, a
slope angles, an avalanche pauses in mid-threat as if held by
invisible hands. Eldiravan Veyr’Kael walk untouched through gunfire
as if wrapped in wind-woven shields.
Red
Baron shivers, not from the cold. “Christ…”
Arturo
swallows. “Their songs do… that?”
Samayel
finally glances at them, amusement curling faintly at his lip. “Yours
lift spirits. Theirs bend reality.”
Another
blast shakes the mountainside. A Venator choir belts out a verse so
powerfully that even the wind hesitates; yet their line buckles all
the same.
Red
Baron huffs an incredulous, shaky laugh. “And you can just…
translate that stuff?”
“I
know all their hymns,” Samayel replies, gaze dropping back to the
carnage. “Every verse they sing. Every prayer they choke on. Every
plea they offer before dying.”
He
tilts his head as the melody shifts again.
“If
you wish, I can tell you the next line as well.”
Below,
a Venator standard falls.
Arturo
and Red Baron exchange a look, uneasy, fascinated.
Samayel’s
grin widens by a fraction. “Curiosity,”
he murmurs, “is a dangerous appetite in a war like this.”
And
still, the hymns rise.
Before
Red Baron or Arturo can muster a reply, a voice cuts clean through
the cold.
“Curiosity
isn’t dangerous,” Spartan says from behind them, “Ignorance
is.”
Both
Federalists jolt so violently they nearly fall off the ridge. Red
Baron lets out a strangled noise; Arturo’s hand flies to his
sidearm before he realizes who stands there.
Samayel
doesn’t even flinch. Of course he doesn’t. He only exhales a
short, smug breath through his nose.
Her
visor tilts down toward the two Federalists. She stares at them,
silent, unblinking, for a cold, heavy second. The kind of second that
feels like a blade suspended above a throat.
Red
Baron swallows audibly. Arturo tries not to.
Then
Spartan’s voice softens into a smirk beneath the helmet. “Feds
are cute when they’re startled.”
Red
Baron’s blush hits instantly. Arturo’s hits just as fast, but his
comes with a stuttered “…M-ma’am?”
Samayel
laughs, an easy, unbothered sound, and reaches out to punch Spartan’s
pauldron. The impact rings softly off her armor.
“Look
at that,” he says, grinning wide. “You’ve terrified them.”
Spartan
shrugs, amused. “If they’re that jumpy, they shouldn’t be up
here.”
Below
them, the battle rages, hymns, screams, and war-songs clashing like
storms. The wind howls through the ridge, carrying the scent of blood
and ozone.
Samayel
snorts at Spartan’s jab toward the Federalists, then tilts his
head. “So what’s the plan, then?”
Spartan
doesn’t answer right away. She watches the battlefield instead, the
Venators clashing with the Eldiravan, hymns meeting war-songs, faith
crashing against fury. She lifts a hand, waving his question away
like smoke.
“Master
wants us to watch,” she says. “Observe. Report.” A low breath.
“He doesn’t want us interfering yet.”
Arturo
wheels toward her, incredulous. “But they’re humans too!” he
blurts. “Those Venators, they’re people! Shouldn’t we be
helping them? Fighting each other is pointless. It’ll just… it’ll
just wipe us all out!”
Spartan
laughs, sharp, amused, with no warmth in it. She drops to a knee
beside him, resting one armored hand on the other knee as she leans
forward. “If things were different,” she says, “I’d already
be down there painting the snow red. But Venators don’t listen.
They don’t bend. They don’t reason. To them, everything outside
their scripture is heresy.”
Arturo
doesn’t back down. His brows draw tight. “Then someone just needs
to explain it to them. Make them see we’re all the same. We’re
all human!”
Samayel
answers before Spartan can. “We’re not,” he says simply.
“Praevectus are not human. And Vardengard…” He taps his own
chest, “we are something else entirely.”
Arturo
shakes his head stubbornly. “You look human. All of you.
Just, bigger, stronger, sure, but still human.”
Spartan
rises with a small grunt of effort, brushing snow from her greave.
She pats Arturo’s shoulder, gentle, but still enough force to rock
him a little.
She
starts walking back toward the campfire where Rho Voss and Liam
linger, but she speaks over her shoulder, voice dropping into
something older. Heavier. “Sergeant,” she says, “you’re
confusing shape for substance.” Her
helm turns just enough that he sees the faint glow of her visor. “Two
creatures may share a face and still be nothing alike. Humanity isn’t
bone or blood. It’s choice. It’s what you do when the
world turns to ash.” A beat. Snow drifting around her. “The
Venators chose devotion over mercy. They chose purity over peace. And
we…” she taps her chestplate, “we were made to be weapons.”
She
turns fully back toward the fire. “Don’t mistake resemblance for
kinship.”
Then
she goes to rejoin Rho Voss and Liam, leaving Arturo standing there
with the cold wind biting at his cheeks and something colder twisting
inside his chest.
