The
City of Karthane, Nirna - Morning
The
twin suns rise dim behind a veil of gray clouds, painting Karthane in
a dull orange light that flickers across the frost-slick metal of the
outpost. The air hums with the sound of labor, the rhythmic clang of
hammers, the hiss of welding torches, the low whine of servos.
General
Supreme Magnus Tiberius stands near the entrance of the
Federation-Invictan joint barracks, arms crossed, black and crimson
Tyrannus armor glinting faintly under the floodlights. His broad
silver pauldrons mark his rank as much as the regal, heavy cloak
draped across his shoulders, its edge trimmed in the sigils of the
Forger. Frost gathers along his boots as his breath clouds in the
chill air.
Before
him, a tall, broad-shouldered man stalks through the half-constructed
site, barking orders in a gravelly voice.
"Get
that support beam up! You think that wall's gonna stand itself? Kora,
weld faster, you're not painting a cathedral!"
The
head engineer, Senior Architect Darius Venn, is as infamous as he is
indispensable, a man of iron lungs, iron temper, and a bloodstream
likely half coffee by now. His coveralls are stained with oil and
soot; a pair of cracked welding goggles hang perpetually around his
neck. Despite the exhaustion written in the heavy bags beneath his
eyes, his voice carries like artillery.
Magnus
watches him work for a moment, almost amused. When Darius finally
turns, spotting the towering form of the General Supreme, he snaps
upright, brushing ash from his sleeves.
"General
Supreme," Darius says, voice rough but respectful. "Didn't
think to see you down here with the dirt and bolts. I figured you'd
be in the warm offices upstairs."
Magnus
gives a faint smile. "If I wanted to stay warm, I would have
remained aboard the Bellator. I came to make certain the Forger's
Will is still taking shape on the ground."
Darius
snorts. "Ita, well, she's taking shape, all right. Slow as cold
iron, though, thanks to Federation bureaucracy. We've got half a
dozen different codes to obey now. You'd think they were building
temples instead of bunks."
Magnus
steps beside him, folding his hands behind his back as they walk the
perimeter. "You've done good work, Darius. But I need a few…
alterations made to the Vardengard quarters."
The
engineer frowns, rubbing his chin. "Alterations? Sir, the plans
are already tight as it is. Space, manpower, material, "
Magnus
cuts him a look, calm but cutting. "Darius."
The
man exhales through his nose. "All right. What kind of
alterations?"
Magnus
gestures toward the structure in progress, rows of metallic
dormitories, cold and uniform, meant for efficiency above comfort.
"The current design does not account for their… nature. The
Vardengard are not like other soldiers. They require space to
breathe, to move. Their quarters must match their stature and their
function."
Darius
nods slowly, jotting something into a digital slate. "Bigger
bunks, then. Taller ceilings. Reinforced load-bearing frames to
account for their armor weight."
"Correct,"
Magnus says. "And more than that. A central pit, for heat, for
gathering. Fire is important to them. It grounds them. Give them a
place to burn their offerings, to share their meals."
Darius
raises a brow. "A firepit? Inside a barracks?"
"Vented
properly," Magnus replies smoothly. "And… a dedicated
mess hall. Separate from the Praevectus and Federation wings. They
will eat among themselves; it will avoid unnecessary…
misunderstandings."
The
engineer sighs, glancing over the site. "You're asking for a
luxury build, General Supreme. The men'll whine."
Magnus
looks out across the snow, where the hammering continues. "Let
them. They have not seen what the Vardengard have done for this
campaign. What they have endured." His tone deepens, cold and
final. "They will have their space. Do this for me, Darius."
For
a moment, Darius studies him, the tired old man staring up at the
living god of Invicta, all strength and iron will. Finally, he nods,
rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"I'll
get it done," he says. "No sleep for me again, I suppose.
You'll have it ready before the next snowfall."
Magnus
allows himself the faintest hint of a smile. "I knew I could
rely on you."
Darius
chuckles dryly, already turning to shout at his workers again. "Don't
thank me yet, my Lord. You'll see what it costs when I send the
requisition forms."
Magnus
watches him storm off, his voice booming across the frozen camp once
more.
The
General Supreme lingers a moment longer, gazing toward the northern
mountains, the direction Spartan and her pack disappeared hours ago.
The snow drifts against his boots, and his reflection shimmers
faintly in the frost.
"Forge
their path true," he murmurs under his breath, the prayer
carried off into the cold.
Snow
falls like pale ash, whispering across the frozen concrete. The sound
of hammers and welding fades as Magnus turns from the construction
site, cloak dragging faintly against the ground. His boots crunch
through the frost, each step steady, deliberate, the measured stride
of a man who commands worlds.
He
starts toward the command room, the low, fortified structure ahead
where warmth and light seep faintly through armored glass, when
movement on the main road draws his eye.
A
lone figure walks through the snowfall.
Magnus
halts.
Towering,
broad-shouldered, cloaked in black and red armor engraved with runes
of the Forger's tongue, the figure's presence radiates something
primal, older than even Invicta's steel. Morus.
The
Vardengard shaman moves with heavy grace, each step sinking into the
powder with a muted thud. A wolf's skull crowns his helm, its long
fangs gleaming with frost, and the beast's pelt drapes across his
shoulders like a mantle of shadow. His war staff, a fusion of bone,
steel, and charms, clinks and rattles softly, beads and sigils
chiming like windbells. In the cold light, he looks more apparition
than man.
But
he isn't alone.
At
his side walks Lucia Dain, shoulders tucked into a heavy winter coat,
fur-lined hood drawn tight against the wind. Her once-pristine
Fleshwright attire peeks out beneath the coat, and her boots leave
smaller tracks beside the shaman's broad prints. Her hands are buried
deep in her pockets, and despite the cold, there's a spark of
mischief in her step.
Magnus
narrows his eyes, the faintest shadow of a smile curling across his
lips. He strides forward, snow trailing off his cloak like falling
ash.
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Morus
stops before Magnus can call out, his helm turns slightly, as though
he feels the General Supreme's presence before seeing him. Lucia,
noticing, halts too and turns, her smile blooming when she recognizes
the man approaching.
"My
love," she says brightly, voice muffled by the wind. Her gloved
hand lifts to steady her hood. "You look colder than usual. I
did not think gods felt the chill."
Magnus
stops a few paces away, helm held beneath his arm, steam ghosting
from his breath. His expression is hard to read. "Lucia,"
he says evenly, "you were supposed to remain aboard the
Bellator."
Lucia's
smile only widens, that infuriating mix of confidence and defiance.
"Yes, well… the Bellator does not bleed. Your Vardengard do. I
go where I am needed."
Magnus
arches a brow. "We have the Insarii Medicae for that. Their
detachment was assigned to field care."
Lucia
chuckles under her breath, a hint of frost curling past her lips.
"Field care, ita. They are fine with flesh wounds and sealing
armor. But broken bones? Organ tears? Psychological collapse? They
are patchers, not healers. The Vardengard deserve proper treatment,
not field improvisation."
Her
tone softens, earnest beneath the edge. "I am not here to
undermine anyone, my love. I am here because when they come back, and
they will come back, someone needs to be ready for what they bring
with them."
Magnus
studies her for a long moment, his jaw tightening, but the argument
dies before it's born. There's no winning against her once she
decides where she belongs. He exhales, a plume of steam escaping his
lips.
"…You
are impossible," he mutters finally.
Lucia
grins, eyes glinting. "You have said that before. I am starting
to think that is how you say 'I love you, too." She chuckles.
He
turns his gaze to Morus now, the shaman standing motionless, a statue
of iron and bone. The wolf skull faces him without expression, the
eye sockets dark. "And what of you?" Magnus asks. "You
should be in the field with your pack. Why are you here?"
Morus's
voice is low, rumbling like distant thunder beneath the helm.
"Because my pack bleeds still, Master. And when warriors bleed,
the forge must wait. I am not needed in their slaughter." He
pauses, the staff's charms clinking faintly. "I am needed in the
silence between. The moments after. When the steel cools."
Magnus
tilts his head slightly, frowning. "Cryptic as ever."
Morus
inclines his head, faint amusement ghosting through his tone. "Plain
words cannot temper the spirit, my lord."
Magnus
sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. "The two of
you…"
Lucia
laughs softly, brushing snow from her sleeve. "You will be glad
we are here."
Magnus
looks between them, the ghostly shaman and the defiant surgeon, and
shakes his head, though there's the faintest trace of warmth in his
eyes. "The Forger help me. I already am."
They
stand there for a moment longer as the snow falls thicker, muting the
distant clang of construction. The wind tugs at their cloaks and
coats, carrying the scent of metal and frost, and somewhere beyond
the wall, the faint echo of war drums beating from the distant front.
Magnus'
helm display flares red, a sharp, intrusive glow against the cool
blue of his HUD. A notification pulses in the upper right of his
vision, a single word flashing in jagged script:
SOS
ALERT , INSARII MEDICAE BEACON
He
turns his head slightly, eyes flicking to expand the notification.
The tactical map unfurls before him in ghostly projection, a pulsing
red marker blinking deep within the northern wastes. His breath
tightens, crystallizing faintly in the air.
Lucia
notices the change in his expression immediately. "What is it?"
she asks.
Magnus
doesn't answer right away. His voice comes low, grim. "An SOS
beacon. Insarii frequency."
He
straightens, shifting his helm beneath his arm as he looks back
toward the base. "I have to get to the command room. Now."
Lucia
gives him a sharp look, not of fear, but vindication. "You see
my point yet?"
Magnus
doesn't respond. He's already moving.
Lucia
and Morus fall into stride beside him, the great shaman's staff
clicking softly with each step. They pass through the half-built
courtyards and into the main hall, snow melting from their armor and
boots. Inside, the low hum of power systems and distant machinery
fills the air.
Halfway
through the atrium, a soldier rushes toward them, a lean Invictan
with frost still clinging to his greaves, clutching a datapad.
"General Supreme!" he calls out, slowing to a halt before
Magnus and snapping a salute. "Sir, the beacon's coordinates
just came through. Forty miles north of Karthane. Broadcasting from
an Insarii unit."
Magnus
takes the datapad with a curt nod. The red marker blinks again on the
holographic display, the words LIFE SIGNAL: NULL flashing underneath.
His jaw tightens. He hands the pad back to the soldier and continues
forward without breaking stride.
They
enter the command room, a vast space of dark steel and cold light. At
the far end, the war table glows with tactical overlays and regional
scans. Magnus strides up to it, helm under one arm, cloak trailing
behind him like a banner of blood and shadow. Lucia and Morus flank
him on either side.
He
opens a channel on his internal comms, the frequency encrypted to the
Vardengard network. "Spartan," he calls, voice echoing low
through the chamber.
No
response. Just static.
Magnus
narrows his eyes, repeating more firmly, "Spartan. Respond."
A
moment of silence, and then...
"This
is Spartan." Her voice comes through at last, filtered and
distorted through the armor's vox, deepened to a harsh masculine
rasp.
Magnus
leans over the table, one hand braced on its edge. "Your Insarii
beacon is active," he says. "What happened?"
A
pause follows, brief, heavy. Then Spartan answers, "One of the
Insarii succumbed to his wounds. We were ambushed by a pack of
bonejackals."
Lucia
stiffens slightly beside him, eyes darting to the tactical
projection.
Magnus's
tone sharpens. "Casualties?"
"Minimal,"
Spartan replies. "One dead, one… missing an arm. The rest
still capable of combat. We've secured the site and are continuing
north. Mission remains underway. We're making better ground than
expected, given the conditions."
Magnus
exhales, the sound low and heavy, but his expression remains
unreadable. "Understood," he says after a beat. "I
will send a recovery team for the fallen Insarii. The beacon will
guide them in."
"Acknowledged."
The
line goes silent again, leaving only the faint hum of machinery and
the flicker of blue light over their faces.
Magnus
shuts the comms and straightens, the faintest sigh escaping him, the
kind only men like him ever let out when no one's meant to hear.
Lucia
folds her arms, looking up at him with something between sympathy and
accusation. "This is exactly what I meant, Magnus. You cannot
expect field medics to handle this alone. They need proper care,
proper recovery. You need me down here."
Magnus
doesn't look at her. His gaze remains fixed on the red marker pulsing
forty miles north.
"I
know," he murmurs.
Behind
them, Morus stands silent, the charms on his staff clicking faintly
in the hush. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, heavy with the
cadence of old ritual.
"The
Forge claims its due, even from the strong," he says. "But
every flame needs a keeper to tend the embers when the battle ends."
Magnus
turns just slightly, meeting the wolf skull's hollow gaze.
"Then
we will make sure there is something left to tend," he replies.
Magnus
watches the red pulse on the tactical table fade into a steady,
static marker.
He
turns to Morus, his voice firm, commanding.
"You
will lead the recovery detail," he says. "Take a skimmer
and two squads of Praevectus. Bring the body back intact. Burn
anything that gets in your way."
Morus
gives a slow, solemn nod. The wolf skull dips slightly, its hollow
sockets catching the cold light. "It will be done, Master."
Lucia
folds her arms, watching the exchange. "I will have the medical
bay prepared," she says, her tone brisk but touched with quiet
pride. "When Spartan returns, the injured Insarii will be
treated immediately. I will see to it personally."
Magnus
inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Good."
Morus
brings his fist to his chest, the Invictan salute, the charms of his
staff rattling softly. "Then I'll make ready. I will wait at the
gate."
Magnus
watches him go, the towering figure fading into the hall's shadowed
light until only the whisper of bone and metal remains.
The
moment the heavy door closes behind him, the silence shifts. The air
feels warmer.
Lucia
steps closer, her gloved hands slipping into her coat pockets, her
breath visible in the cold air. "You know," she says
lightly, "there is one small detail you seem to have overlooked,
my love."
He
turns his head slightly, one brow lifting. "And what is that?"
She
tilts her head, eyes glinting. "I do not have quarters down
here."
He
studies her for a long moment. Her tone is unmistakable, soft,
teasing, threaded with something that cuts through the iron weight of
command. He exhales, low through his nose, as if debating the wisdom
of what he already knows he'll say.
"My
quarters," he says at last. "They are yours until new ones
are assigned."
Lucia
smiles, slow and knowing, the kind of smile that could warm
froststeel. "Generous of you, General Supreme."
Magnus's
gaze lingers on her, a flicker of something human breaking through
the mask of discipline. "Just do not make a mess of the place."
She
chuckles quietly, stepping just close enough that her shoulder grazes
his arm as she passes. "I will try not to," she murmurs.
Then, glancing back over her shoulder, she adds, voice a velvet
promise: "Let us hope nothing interrupts us tonight."
Magnus
doesn't answer, but the faintest curve of a smile ghosts across his
lips as he turns back toward the war table.
