The
Blood Pit, Civitas Keep - Continuous
Down
in the Blood Pits of Civitas Keep, the air vibrates with the roar of
clashing steel and the low, rhythmic chanting of Vardengard gathered
along the stands. The pit's sands are darkened with old blood and
sweat, illuminated by shafts of pale light streaming through the iron
grates above. The scent of metal and oil hangs heavy in the
subterranean air.
Spartan
lounges in her private booth; a half-enclosed perch of shadow and
stone overlooking the arena. She sits in Rho Voss' lap, her back
reclined comfortably against his chest. His arms rest across her
frame, massive and still, while her fingers idly feed him a sliver of
offal from the iron bowl on the low table beside them. His jaw moves
in slow, mechanical rhythm; the dull gleam of his teeth flashes each
time he bites down.
Samayel
sits opposite them in Rho's usual chair, one leg hooked over the
other, boots dusty from the morning's drills. His eyes flick from the
fight below to Spartan and back again, his usual sharp grin tempered
into quiet observation. The low growl of the arena fills the silence
between them.
Down
below, Ashurdan and Belqartis circle two other Vardengard; both
broad-shouldered, both bearing the unmistakable markings of Tiberian
descent. The first, Agnar, wields a long-handled flail whose head
hums with kinetic charge; the second, Skeggi, grips a short spear and
a wide-edged seax, his movements coiled and precise.
Ashurdan
lunges first, a great sweeping strike with his claymore that kicks
dust up in a wide arc. Skeggi deflects the blow with the shaft of his
spear, the shock reverberating up his arms, and Belqartis charges in
on his left, axes whirling. The sound of metal on flesh echoes, quick
and rhythmic, a deadly dance, yet no killing intent behind it.
Rho
Voss watches in silence, his black eyes following every shift, every
feint. The muscle in his jaw tightens with each impact, as though
instinctively reacting to blows he no longer needs to deliver
himself. Spartan leans forward slightly, resting her arms on her
knees, watching with the analytical patience of a wolf measuring her
pack.
Samayel
tilts his head, eyes narrowing on the Tiberians. "Don't
recognize those two," he mutters. "New blood?"
Spartan
doesn't look away from the fight. "Tiberians," she answers
simply. "Agnar and Skeggi. They came in two seasons ago."
He
hums, nodding once as Cassian narrowly ducks a two-handed swing from
Ashurdan, the flail snapping out to strike Belqartis' shoulder. The
big man grins through the pain, grabs the chain, and yanks Cassian
forward into a knee to the ribs.
"Good
kids," Spartan adds, voice low, faintly approving. "Fast,
disciplined. They don't waste motion."
Samayel
glances at her, then back down. "They look it. Not afraid to
bleed either."
Rho
Voss' hand moves, tracing absentminded circles against Spartan's hip,
not distracting, just steady, grounding. His gaze never leaves the
pit.
"They'll
make fine killers," Spartan continues softly, tone somewhere
between praise and prophecy. "The kind Master would call
efficient."
Samayel
smirks faintly. "Efficient's a polite word for it."
Below,
the spar crescendos, Ashurdan drives Skeggi back, sword pressing
spear, while Belqartis catches Agnar's flail with a cross of his axes
and locks it. For a few breaths, the four Vardengard hold, muscle
straining, sand scattering, growls filling the air, before they all
break apart, panting, grinning through blood and sweat.
Spartan
picks up her datapad from the arm of the chair, thumb smudged with
grease and ash. She leans back against Rho's chest, the slow rhythm
of his breathing steady behind her as she wakes the screen. The
fighting below continues, grunts, impact, sand kicked high into the
air, but her focus drifts. Duty always claws back sooner or later.
Her
thumb scrolls through the morning's reports: requisition orders,
Vardengard casualty summaries, a maintenance ticket backlog from the
Forge Ward. All routine. All noise. Rho's hand moves idly, tracing
the contour of her bare
waist.
Samayel
speaks up again, voice cutting through the dull hum. "Agnar's
getting too confident," he says. "He's winding that flail
too early."
"Mm."
Spartan's eyes don't lift from her screen.
"He'll
lose the arm if he keeps that up."
"Mm."
Samayel
gives a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "You're not
listening to me, are you?"
Spartan's
lip quirks faintly, but she doesn't answer. She flicks through
another page of reports, supply manifests, encrypted communiqués
from the upper decks. The constant red-blue glow of her HUD reflects
faintly in her mismatched eyes.
Then,
a flicker.
A
new icon pulses in the corner of her vision, bright amber. Urgent. A
breaking transmission. The same alert flashes across the datapad,
overriding everything else.
Spartan
stills.
The
fighting below fades into background noise as her gaze sharpens on
the notification banner. Breaking Report , Priority Channel: Civitas
Command.
Rho
notices the shift immediately. His hand stops moving, fingers tensing
against her side.
Samayel
catches the sudden stillness and leans forward. "What is it?"
Spartan
doesn't answer yet. Her thumb taps the alert, and the datapad's
screen expands with a soft chime. The report loads, but even before
the full image resolves, the headline alone makes her brow tighten.
Her
voice, low and even, carries a weight that silences both men.
"…Something's
happened."
Spartan
opens the notification. The datapad hums softly in her hand as the
Invictan News Broadcast fills the screen. A silver-haired anchorwoman
appears, calm, rehearsed, but there's tension in her voice, the kind
that only follows true upheaval.
"Breaking
news from the Federation's Outer Reach Initiative, expeditionary
forces operating beyond Invicta's northern border have reported a
groundbreaking discovery in the uncharted Persean Expanse. Initial
data confirms the presence of a life-sustaining world, rich in oxygen
and complex biosystems. Designated Eldira-VII."
Spartan's
brow creases. The name alone is enough to make Rho's eyes flick
toward the screen.
"While
the discovery of habitable planets has become more common in recent
cycles," the anchorwoman continues, "what distinguishes
Eldira-VII from all others is not its composition… but its
inhabitants."
The
feed shifts. Grainy helmet-cam footage replaces the anchorwoman,
stamped with a Federation insignia, voice chatter overlaid in Terran
dialects. The camera lurches through dense forest, bright green
leaves shuddering against carbon armor. Then, the trees part.
What
the scouts find is no simple settlement. It's a citadel, massive,
radiant in the daylight. Towering walls of amber stone and metal.
Banners of orange and gold catch the wind, each marked with the
symbol of a blazing bird rising skyward. Beyond the gates, spires
gleam, and there's motion, countless figures, too distant to
identify, moving with mechanical precision.
"Xeno
architecture," the anchor murmurs offscreen. "Military
analysts describe the design as hyper-efficiency meshed with
artistry… suggesting a civilization operating beyond Type-1
capacity."
The
soldiers in the footage whisper among themselves. One shouts a
greeting, his voice tinny through the helmet speakers. Another raises
a hand, gesturing for calm.
From
atop the walls, shapes appear, armored sentinels in deep orange plate
traced with molten gold, helms like crested birds. One of them lifts
a long rifle, its barrel humming faintly with blue-white energy.
A
voice crackles:
"Command,
this is Scout Unit Delta-Nine. We've made contact. Unknown life
forms; humanoid configuration. Markings are, hold on, one of them is
aiming someth-- "
The
sound that follows is indescribable. A resonant thrum, like a chord
struck through metal and light. Then everything tears apart.
The
world becomes white fire.
The
camera spasms, static screaming across the feed. Through the blur,
for half a heartbeat, there's a glimpse of something, an expanding
arc of plasma light that does not explode outward, but folds space
inward, bending the treeline like gravity itself had flinched. The
scouts don't even have time to scream. The feed dies.
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Silence
follows in the booth. The hum of the blood pit below seems impossibly
distant.
The
anchor's voice returns, subdued but trembling beneath its composure.
"Contact
was lost immediately following the energy discharge. Federation
analysts believe the weapon used may exceed known plasma-fusion or
rail-magnetic technologies, its signature suggests gravitational or
photonic compression. The Federation Council has declared full alert
for all exploration crews in the sector. Further contact with
Eldira-VII has been suspended."
Spartan
lowers the datapad slightly. The light still flickers across her
face, but her expression is cold, calculating.
Samayel
leans forward, forearms on his knees. "That wasn't human tech."
Rho's
voice comes low, rough from disuse. "No." His eyes narrow.
"And not Praevectus either."
Spartan
exhales slowly, the muscles in her jaw tight. "Then what in the
name of the Forger did we just see?"
More
notifications begin flashing across Spartan's datapad, red, urgent,
cascading one after another. Each with the same header: "PRIORITY
ALERT: NORTHERN SECTOR, CONTACT REPORT."
Her
posture snaps rigid. The datapad trembles faintly in her grip before
she shuts it off with a decisive flick. She's already on her feet,
the chair scraping lightly against the stone.
"Rho."
Her tone is sharp, immediate. "We have to go. Now."
Rho's
head lifts, eyes flaring faint blue beneath the hood. He doesn't
question her. The moment she starts moving, he's already on his feet
behind her, pulling his hood back into place and grabbing his cloak
from the armrest.
Samayel
looks up, startled by the sudden urgency. "What happened?"
Spartan's
boots strike the metal floor of the booth as she passes him.
"Federation contact," she answers briskly. "They've
made a discovery beyond the border, something big. We're reporting to
the War Room."
He
blinks, half-rising. "Do you need me?"
She
pauses only long enough to glance back at him, already halfway down
the steps. "Not yet. Just stay here, keep your comm open. I'll
call once I've spoken to the Supreme."
Then
she's gone, cloak flaring as she rounds the corridor's corner, Rho
right behind her.
The
sound of their boots echoes through the Blood Pit's underhalls,
stone, iron, and the faint roar of sparring far below. They move
fast, cutting through corridors lined with training rooms and armory
vaults. Every few steps, new alerts flash across Spartan's HUD,
Federation broadcasts, early military responses, orbital surveillance
markers shifting north.
Rho
doesn't speak, but his presence stays close, silent, watchful.
By
the time they reach the lift that will take them to the War Room
level, Spartan's breathing has steadied into a soldier's rhythm. She
slaps her palm against the lift's console, doors sliding open with a
hiss.
As
they step inside, the steel doors shut, sealing them in reflected
quiet. Spartan finally exhales.
"Whatever
this is," she mutters, gaze fixed on the lift's readout, "it's
already moving fast."
Rho's
voice comes low from behind her. "You think it's war?"
Spartan
doesn't answer immediately. Her reflection in the steel wall stares
back at her, calm, grim, unblinking.
"I
think," she says finally, "we're about to find out."
Lucia
Dain's Laboratory, Dain Industries Headquarters - Continuous
Lucia
works in practiced silence for a time, her gloved hands steady, the
faint hum of the grafting tool filling the sterile quiet. The clinic
lights cast everything in cool white; clean, clinical, but softened
by the faint perfume of incense burning in a corner dish. Naburiel
sits still on the edge of the operating table, bare skin taut with
strain as Lucia seals another graft over the brutal lattice of lash
marks. His datapad hums faintly, screen alive with anatomical
schematics, spinal reinforcement models, musculature arrays, augmetic
overlays. He scrolls through absently, as if studying anything but
his own pain.
Magnus
stands across from them, arms folded over his chest, his black
uniform immaculate even in this informal setting. His presence seems
to fill the small space, composed, but unmistakably restless.
Lucia
breaks the silence first, her voice soft but edged. "You never
did make up that dinner."
Magnus
lifts a brow. "Dinner?"
She
doesn't look up from her work, sealing another graft with clinical
precision. "The one you cancelled. Three weeks ago. You were
supposed to meet me at the Skybridge. You sent a message an hour
before to say Rauvis needed you."
He
exhales through his nose, the faintest hint of guilt in his tone.
"Rauvis did need me. You know how it goes, Lucia. Duty first."
Lucia
finally looks up, her crimson eyes catching the light. "Duty
always first," she says, half-smiling, half-resentful. "You
sound like you are still in the Academy, giving speeches to cadets."
Magnus
smirks faintly. "And you sound like one of them, still waiting
outside the hall for me to finish."
She
hums at that, turning back to her patient, but the smile lingers.
"You could remedy that, you know."
"Remedy?"
he echoes.
Lucia's
tone turns light, teasing, though there's truth beneath it. "I
am a Fleshwright. I could serve aboard the Imperator Bellator. Your
medical bay could use a better hand than those terrified interns you
keep dragging into the field."
Magnus'
smirk fades. He straightens slightly, arms tightening. "Lucia…"
"I
am serious," she cuts in, still focused on Naburiel's back. "You
would not have to cancel on me again. I could be there. Where duty
calls."
Magnus'
jaw tightens. "Where duty calls is often the center of a
battlefield. The Bellator is not a safe harbor, it is a front-line
ship. You would be under fire as often as I am."
Lucia
glances over her shoulder, eyes glinting. "You think I am
fragile?"
"I
think," Magnus answers evenly, "you are irreplaceable."
That
earns a pause. For a heartbeat, even the hum of the grafting tool
feels quieter.
Lucia
sets the instrument aside, removing her gloves, and turns fully
toward him. "You always say that when you are trying to sound
noble," she says softly. "But what you mean is you are
afraid."
Magnus
doesn't deny it. He meets her gaze squarely, his expression
unreadable.
Across
the room, Naburiel flips to the next holographic diagram, half an
ear, a set of lungs, a ribcage lattice. "For the record,"
he mutters without looking up, "I'd vote in favor of her coming
aboard. The medbay could use the improvement."
Lucia's
lips curl into a quiet smirk. "See? The wolf agrees."
Magnus
finally exhales, slow and deep, the edge of a weary smile breaking
through. "Of course he does. He is not the one I would have to
worry about losing."
Lucia
studies him for a long moment, the flirtation dimming into something
more genuine, more solemn. "Then you will just have to make sure
I do not."
Magnus
stands frozen halfway through his sentence, mid-apology to Lucia. The
faint glow of his HUD flickers against the inside of his visor, and
his tone hardens the moment he hears her voice.
SPARTAN:
[Have
you seen the broadcast?]
MAGNUS:
[No.
I've been with Lucia. What's happened?]
SPARTAN:
[I'm
forwarding it now. You need to see this immediately.]
A
pulsing icon appears in the corner of his vision, then expands into a
feed. The Invictan broadcast begins to play before his eyes. The
sterile hum of the lab fades beneath the faint tremor of the
anchorwoman's voice.
"And
upon exploration of the newly designated world, contact was made with
what appears to be an advanced, organized civilization, "
The
clip cuts to helmet-cam footage. Magnus' expression tightens. Lucia,
noticing his sudden stillness, pauses her work. The light wand in her
hand dims, a note of worry edging her voice.
"Magnus?"
He
doesn't respond. His eyes narrow as the footage continues: the
Federation scouts breaching dense alien forests, coming upon vast
walls shimmering with golden sigils. Orange and yellow banners ripple
in the wind, and the bird, that burning bird, rises high upon them
like a herald of fire.
Then
the sound. A single resonant tone, followed by the flash. The entire
squad disintegrates into cascading light. The feed cuts to static.
Magnus
exhales slowly through his nose. The silence that follows is heavy,
so heavy Lucia lowers her gaze and continues the grafts in silence,
her earlier teasing forgotten.
SPARTAN:
[Reports
are pouring in now. Civil panic across Federation colonies and along
our northern border. We don't know what they are, but the Federation
claims a Type Two civ-level presence. They're calling themselves the
Eldiravan.]
Magnus'
jaw flexes, eyes still fixed on the blank holographic feed.
MAGNUS:
[The
Federation discovered them?]
SPARTAN:
[If
you can call it that. They were found by them. The soldiers never
made it back.]
Magnus
rubs a gloved hand down his chin, the faint rasp of metal across
stubble. He takes a moment before replying, his voice low and
deliberate.
SPARTAN:
[Permission
to activate the Forger's pre-determined xeno-protocol. It'll help
contain the panic before it spreads too far.]
Magnus
looks away from the holographic broadcast to Lucia. Her golden eyes
are fixed on him, silently questioning. He turns his gaze back to the
feed overlay, his mind already racing ahead, containment,
mobilization, the Senate's inevitable uproar, the Federation's pride.
His
voice, when he finally answers, carries the weight of command:
MAGNUS:
[Activate
it.]
He
lowers his hand, ending the call. The light of the HUD fades.
Lucia
studies him quietly from across the table, a thin graft still
suspended in her tweezers. "Something serious," she
murmurs.
Magnus'
eyes drift toward the window beyond the lab, a panoramic view of Nova
Roma bathed in the burnished light of dusk. "Yes," he says
quietly. "Something very serious." Then, softer, almost to
himself, "The galaxy just got smaller."
Magnus
remains standing there for a long while, the fading holographic light
of the broadcast still reflecting faintly in his eyes. The silence
that hangs in the clinic now feels sharper, like a blade suspended in
the air.
Finally,
he looks over to Lucia and Naburiel. His voice is steady, calm, but
carries a buried urgency.
"Lucia.
Naburiel. We have to go. Now."
Lucia
glances up from her work, frowning as she seals the last of the
grafts across Naburiel's back. "We?" she echoes. "If
you mean him, he is not going anywhere. Not until I have had time to
attach the replacements. His new parts should be arriving any
minute."
Naburiel
looks between them, the datapad dimming in his hand. He's already
sitting upright, reading Magnus's expression. "Something's
wrong," he says, low.
Lucia
straightens, her tone sharp with that particular brand of authority
she reserves only for Magnus. "What is going on, Magnus?"
He
exhales through his nose, rubbing at the bridge of it briefly, an old
habit when weighing what not to say. "Something's come up,"
he answers finally. "I need to return to the Keep immediately."
Lucia
studies him, searching his face for the rest of the answer he won't
give. Her brows draw together, softening only after a long moment.
"You are not going to tell me what it is, are you?"
Magnus
meets her gaze. "Not yet."
She
sighs, long, quiet, resigned. "Of course not." Then,
turning back to Naburiel, she gestures sharply. "You are staying
here. I will have your replacements fitted and tuned before dusk.
Once that is done, I will bring you to him myself."
Magnus
nods once. "Good. Do that."
Lucia
steps closer, resting her hands on her hips as she tilts her head up
at him. "You always say good right before you run off into
something stupid."
A
flicker of a smirk crosses his face, brief but real. "Then let
us hope I am consistent."
Lucia
shakes her head, but the concern in her eyes lingers. "Be
careful, Magnus."
He
doesn't promise her that, he never does. He only gives a small nod,
turns, and steps toward the door. His boots echo across the sterile
tile, the faint hum of his armor following him out.
When
the door hisses shut behind him, Lucia stands for a long moment,
silent. Then she turns to Naburiel, muttering under her breath,
"Every time he says something has come up, half a world ends up
burning."
Naburiel
huffs a quiet laugh, wincing as the new graft stretches across his
shoulder. "Then I'd better heal fast."
