Nirna,
Planetside - The Fields North of the Cryolume Forest
Snow
falls like ash. It drifts through the shattered skyline of Karthane's
northern frontier, where glass towers lie gutted and blackened, and
trenches scar what used to be paved roads. The Federation line
huddles low, half-buried beneath frost and mud. Plasma artillery
thunders from the horizon, steady, rhythmic, like the heartbeat of a
dying world.
Private
Arturo Phillips grips his rifle until his knuckles ache through the
thermal gloves. His visor flickers with static; the HUD display is
cracked and half-frozen. Around him, the trench walls drip with
meltwater that instantly refreezes. His breath fogs the inside of his
helmet.
"Magazine
check!" Captain Red Baron's voice cuts through the comms, a
Texan rasp, deep and steady despite the storm.
Arturo
fumbles through his side pouch, pulling a single clip. "One
full, one half!"
"Then
make it count!"
Across
the trench, Liam Marshall crouches behind a half-crushed supply
crate, shoulders hunched beneath his frost-coated armor. A giant of a
man, Martian-born, with the kind of strength bred in low gravity and
sharpened by years of fighting for respect. His railgun hums, coils
glowing amber.
"Six
rounds left," he mutters, glancing over at Phillips. "Maybe
seven if I pray."
Arturo
smirks beneath his cracked visor. "You don't pray."
"I
might start," Liam answers, checking the sky as if waiting for a
reason.
They're
not alone in the trench. The rest of their fireteam sprawls in the
narrow channel, faces gray with frost, armor blackened from soot and
time.
Private
Danny Rourke, barely nineteen, keeps fiddling with the safety on his
rifle, thumb twitching. "Pray for ammo instead," he
mutters. "Mine froze up again."
"Try
warming it with your breath," says Corporal Jace Holloway,
older, broad-faced, a grin carved into permanent defiance. He slaps
Rourke's helmet lightly. "Or just throw rocks, kid. Martian over
there'll do the real work anyway."
Marshall
rolls his shoulders. "You volunteering to stand in front of me
when they start shooting?"
"Hell
no," Holloway laughs. "You're too big a target, might block
my shot."
Private
Ken 'Doc' Mallory, the squad's medic, crouches over a portable heater
the size of a lunchbox. The dim orange glow flickers against his
face. "You girls done comparing sizes?" he mutters. "I'm
trying to keep my damn fingers."
The
banter warms them briefly. A fragile thing, flickering between shells
and screams.
Then
Holloway leans back, staring at the bruised gray sky. "Two
months married," he says quietly. "Lydia's probably just
waking up right now, back home, sun coming through the blinds. She'll
make coffee, look out the window, and think I'm okay."
Rourke
snorts. "She know you're a terrible liar?"
"She
married me anyway," Holloway replies, smiling faintly. "Told
her I'd come home in one piece."
Doc
shakes his head. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I'll
keep that one," Holloway insists. "Gotta meet my little
girl. Lydia's five months along. Doctor said she kicks like a mule."
Arturo
smiles softly, letting the image linger. "You'll make it,"
he says. "We all will."
Liam
grunts. "Faith talking again?"
"Always,"
Arturo replies. "Someone's gotta keep it alive out here."
The
Captain's voice rumbles through the comms again. "Damn right,
son."
A
moment of silence stretches between them, the kind born of exhaustion
and unspoken fear. Then, like the sky itself takes offense at their
hope, the Eldiravan guns scream.
Molten
ordnance tears through the snowfield. The trench shudders under the
barrage, walls cracking, dirt raining down like hail. A shell slams
into the ridge above them, spraying shards of molten glass.
"Down!"
Red Baron roars, sliding into the trench beside them. His armor is
scarred black, his crimson visor glowing through the smoke. He
reloads with practiced speed, movements as fluid as breath. "They're
testing the east line again. If it breaks, we're next!"
"Then
we hold," Arturo says, setting his jaw.
"Damn
right we hold," the Captain growls. "We're the wall, boys.
The last damn wall."
The
barrage stops.
At
first, the silence is a blessing. Then it turns wrong, thick,
humming, too quiet to trust.
Arturo
peers over the trench edge. The snowfield ahead glows faintly violet.
Shapes move in the haze, fluid and precise, their steps light enough
to barely mark the snow.
"Eyes
up," he whispers. "They're coming."
Liam
lifts his railgun, visor polarizing automatically. "I see 'em."
The
sound comes next, not the whine of engines, but music. Low, resonant,
alien. The air itself vibrates as the Eldiravan war-chant builds, a
harmony of voices, deep and melodic, rippling through the ice. It's
not sung through mouths but through their armor, through the living
resonance of the battlefield.
Phillips
feels it in his chest first. A faint vibration, then a hum that
rattles his bones. His HUD glitches from the interference, static
rippling across the display.
"What
the hell is that?" Mallory whispers.
"Them,"
Liam mutters. "They're singing."
The
Eldiravan emerge from the fog, sleek figures in mirrored armor that
glows from within, each step synchronized with the next. Arc-blades
shimmer at their sides, and plasma rifles hum like tuning forks in an
unseen orchestra.
"Contact
front!" Arturo yells, opening fire. His rifle barks bursts of
blue light, slamming into the leading troopers. One drops, then
another. But the rest move faster, weaving through the storm like
ghosts.
"On
me!" Red Baron shouts, vaulting up to the lip of the trench,
firing short, precise bursts. The others follow.
Marshall's
railgun roars, a thunderclap that splits the storm. One round tears
through two enemies, sending molten fragments hissing into the snow.
"Keep
that up!" Holloway laughs, rising to fire again.
But
the laughter dies in his throat.
A
plasma bolt sears through the air and punches clean through his
chestplate. The heat cauterizes the wound instantly, but his body
jerks violently, spasms once, and drops. His visor flickers off, one
last spark before the darkness.
"Jace!"
Rourke screams, scrambling toward him.
"Stay
down!" Red Baron shouts, but Rourke's already moving. He grabs
Holloway's arm, then his own body seizes, a violet flash cutting
across his throat. He crumples beside his friend, eyes wide, lips
moving soundlessly.
The
trench explodes into chaos.
Mallory
crawls forward, shouting, "Hold still, Rourke, hold, " but
there's nothing to hold. He freezes halfway, staring at the burns on
his gloves, the smell of ozone and cooked flesh in the air.
Stolen novel; please report.
Phillips
fires until his rifle clicks empty. "God, no, no, no!"
Liam
slams a fresh battery into his railgun, snarling. "You
bastards!" He stands halfway from cover, firing blind fury into
the storm.
"Marshall,
get down!" Red Baron grabs him by the back plate, yanking him
back just as another volley shreds the ridge above them. Shards of
ice rain down, pelting their armor.
When
the smoke finally thins, only silence remains, broken by the wind.
Red
Baron kneels beside Holloway's body, visor dim. His gloved hand
closes the man's eyes. "He had a kid comin'," the Captain
murmurs.
Arturo
sinks down beside him, helmet bowed. "He talked about her every
night."
Liam
leans against the trench wall, jaw clenched so hard it creaks. "They
didn't even get to fight back."
"Then
we fight for them," Red Baron says quietly. "We hold."
Arturo
exhales, the breath fogging his visor. "For Holloway. For
Rourke."
The
Captain nods once, voice low and steady. "Damn right, son."
The
snow drifts heavier now, covering the bodies where they lie. The song
of the Eldiravan fades into the storm, low, mournful, like a requiem.
And beneath the endless gray sky, the Federation line braces for the
next wave.
The
wind howls through the trench. Snow sifts down over Holloway and
Rourke's bodies, thin white sheets settling across their armor like
burial shrouds. No one speaks. The world seems to hold its breat, ,
then the silence breaks.
A
deep, rolling note trembles through the ground. At first, it sounds
like thunder. Then it harmonizes, layer upon layer, rising in tone
until the air vibrates.
Arturo
feels it in his teeth.
Liam's
railgun hums against the resonance, coils shaking in protest.
Red
Baron's helmet tilts slightly toward the horizon.
"They're
not done," he mutters.
The
fog to the north glows faint violet, then crimson. Shapes move,
hundreds of them, taller and broader than men, their armor scaled
like living stone. The Eldiravan line emerges in unison, each step
precise, their songs converging into one immense chorus.
"Positions!"
Red Baron barks. "We hold this trench!"
"Hold
it with what?" Mallory shouts, panic edging his voice.
"With
everything we've got!"
The
Federation guns open fire. Blue plasma bolts streak into the storm,
cutting faint trails through the whiteout. They strike the advancing
Eldiravan, but the xenos keep coming. Shields flicker, armor plates
ripple with self-healing nanostructures, wounds close before they can
even bleed.
Liam
braces the railgun on the trench lip. The shot cracks like thunder,
punching through two enemies. "Reloading!"
"Keep
your head down!" Arturo yells, firing beside him.
The
sky answers.
Twin
beams of incandescent light cut through the storm, enormous, steady,
blinding. The ground shakes as the beams tear into the far ridgeline,
atomizing snow, dirt, and men alike. A wall of heat rushes across the
battlefield.
Arturo
ducks, pressing his helmet against the trench wall. "What the
hell was that?!"
Red
Baron peers up, visor polarizing against the glare. "Siege
Walkers" he says, voice flat.
Through
the fog, colossal silhouettes take shape, six-legged behemoths of
obsidian metal, each the size of a cathedral. Their spines pulse with
energy as railguns fire in measured rhythm, turning the horizon into
molten glass.
One
of them begins to sing.
The
tone is lower, deeper than anything human ears were meant to hear. It
vibrates through the air, through the bones, through the mind itself.
The snow around the walkers moves, rippling outward as seismic
anchors burrow into the ground. The earth folds and reshapes beneath
their feet, turning the battlefield into shifting trenches and
collapsing ridges.
"Jesus
Christ," Mallory whispers. "They're… changing the
terrain."
"Stay
focused!" Red Baron snaps. "Titans ain't our fight,
soldiers are!"
He's
right. The infantry is already upon them.
Eldiravan
foot-soldiers storm through the last stretch of no man's land, firing
plasma bolts and harmonic charges that split steel like wet paper.
When they reach the trenches, they leap, tails snapping, blades and
guns flashing at their tips.
Arturo
fires point-blank at one that lands ahead of him. The creature's
armor bursts, spraying molten fragments. Another lands behind him.
Marshall spins, grabs it mid-swing, and drives his combat knife
through the xeno's neck joint.
More
drop in. The trench turns into a slaughterhouse.
Doc
Mallory screams something incoherent, his sidearm firing wildly. A
tail blade sweeps through the fog, clean, effortless, and his voice
cuts off with it.
"Mallory!"
Phillips shouts. He turns, sees the medic's body crumple, head nearly
severed.
Marshall's
roar drowns it out as he fires again and again, each shot echoing
like artillery. "They just keep coming!"
The
Captain's voice cuts through the comms, iron-hard. "We hold this
line, damn it! You fall back, and Karthane burns for nothing!"
Arturo
reloads, but his hands are shaking. The next Eldiravan drops directly
in front of him, close enough to see its molten breath fog the air
between them. It swings its tail; he ducks, counters with a burst of
plasma straight into its chest. It falls, screeching, a note of
discord in the xeno choir.
The
harmony wavers. Then doubles in volume.
From
the fog, another Titan fires. The impact detonates behind the trench,
the shockwave ripping apart frozen soil. The trench walls collapse
inward, burying men alive.
Red
Baron pulls Arturo out from the debris, dragging him by the collar.
"Phillips, on your feet!"
"I'm
up! I'm up!"
Liam
shoulders his railgun again, snarling, "Give me targets!"
"Anywhere
that sings!" Red Baron yells.
They
fire blindly into the storm. Every muzzle flash paints the snow blue,
then orange, then black. Screams echo through the static, some human,
some not.
Arturo
hears his own voice over the comms without realizing he's speaking.
"They're everywhere, God, they're everywhere!"
Red
Baron grabs his shoulder, forcing him to focus. "Look at me,
son. You stay sharp. You fight till you can't. That's the job."
Arturo
nods, breathing hard. "Yes, sir."
A
surge of violet light tears across the trench. It hits the far side,
disintegrating three soldiers in an instant. Their bodies vanish into
dust.
Liam's
armor is scorched, half his visor cracked, but he doesn't slow. "You
think God's watching this?" he growls.
Arturo's
answer comes quiet, through gritted teeth: "He'd better be."
The
sky shakes again. The Titans keep advancing, one seismic step at a
time. The Federation line collapses sector by sector, yet Red Baron's
voice holds firm, every command a lifeline through the storm:
"Hold
this trench!"
"Rotate
your fire!"
"Don't
give an inch!"
And
still, inch by inch, the trench begins to fall.
Arturo
reloads for the last time. His clip reads 9 rounds. The barrel glows
white-hot, his gloves are scorched through, but he keeps firing. Liam
stands beside him, railgun whining, blood leaking from under his
helmet.
Around
them, the Federation dissolves into chaos. Smoke, ash, fire. The
ground itself trembles with each Titan's step.
And
through it all, the endless singing.
Not
human. Not merciful. Not meant for ears of flesh.
It
fills the world, drowning the screams, the gunfire, the prayers.
The
line trembles under the assault. It begins with a sound like the sky
cracking open, the harmonics of the Eldiravan chant deepen, the air
itself vibrating with their wrath. From the fog, their silhouettes
multiply. This time it isn't a probing advance. This is the storm.
Phillips
barely has time to reload before the horizon ignites. The Aegis Titan
Walkers emerge from the white haze like mountains in motion,
six-legged giants moving with seismic weight, their hulls glowing
with molten seams. Their railguns thunder in rhythm with the choir
housed within their cathedral bellies. The song that follows isn't
music, it's punishment made sound.
"Jesus
Christ…" Marshall breathes, his voice lost under the roar.
The
first barrage lands in front of the trench line, tearing whole
sections apart. Shockwaves kick up plumes of frozen soil. Men vanish
in sprays of red mist and snow. The trenches buckle, flood, and
collapse in places where the ground liquefies under seismic tremors.
"Hold
the line! Hold the, !" someone yells, but the words die in the
thunder.
The
Eldiravan infantry follow the barrage like a black tide.
Rows
of towering soldiers, scaled and armored, march through the flames
with rifles singing their own murderous rhythm. Each footfall
trembles through the permafrost. The snow whirls around their shapes,
turning them into phantoms of iron and fire. Their tails arc through
the air, striking and slashing, bladed tips hissing with energy as
they dive into the trenches.
Phillips
fires until his rifle overheats, until the barrel smokes and the
recoil bruises his shoulder. Marshall screams beside him, slamming a
bayonet into the chest of a descending Eldiravan only to be thrown
backward, skull cracking against the ice. Blood seeps into the snow.
Phillips
shouts his name, firing again, point-blank. Marshall groans, slowly
rolling himself back up to his feet, his rifle somewhere in the dirt
of the trench.
More
soldiers fall, torn apart, crushed, burned. Red Baron's voice
crackles through the comms, raw and sharp: "Keep firing! Every
second counts! We hold them here!"
But
everyone knows it's not survival anymore.
It's
stalling death.
Then,
it happens.
Hundreds
of streaks slice across the sky above, white-hot and shrieking
through the clouds. They burn against the dim heavens, trailing
contrails of fire that fracture into glowing shards. For a moment,
even the Eldiravan look up, their chants wavering.
Phillips'
HUD blinks. Incoming. Friendly. Six markers bloom red on his visor,
directly ahead of their position.
"Ten
markers! Confirmed friendly descent!" another voice calls out on
the comms, high with disbelief.
Arturo
swears. "They're coming… they're, "
Before
he finishes, the first impact slams down less than a meter in front
of the trench.
The
world explodes into motion, snow, fire, dirt. A wall of force throws
them to the ground. The air burns in their lungs.
"Take
cover!" Red Baron yells, voice shredded by static and fury.
A
second impact follows, then a third. Each one closer. Each one
heavier.
Shockwaves
roll through the trenches like hammer blows. Snow blinds them,
rattling helmets and shivering steel.
"What
the hell? What is that?!" Arturo shouts.
Liam
wipes frost from his visor, eyes wide. "That's not artillery!
That's not, "
The
fourth and fifth impacts come as one. The sixth is deafening, a
detonation that seems to shake the world apart. Silence follows, the
heavy, ringing kind that makes it hard to breathe.
Smoke
and snow drift, curling upward like ghosts. Their HUDs still flash
with active markers.
"They
didn't miss," Red Baron mutters, rising slowly, weapon ready.
"Something's still coming down…"
The
haze begins to part.
Shapes
move inside it. Tall, deliberate, inhumanly calm.
Jetpacks
hiss through the snow, controlled descents rather than crashes. The
ground trembles with each landing, snow geysering outward in rings of
force. Six forms kneel, their armor steaming, their surfaces glowing
faintly from reentry.
Phillips
watches, unable to move. His pulse hammers in his ears.
"What…
what is that?"
Red
Baron doesn't answer. His eyes are fixed on the figures as they rise
from the smoke, silhouettes of plated giants, weapons catching what
little light filters through the storm. The air hums with their
power.
