Civitas
Keep - Late Night
Klaxons
blare through the marble corridors of the Civitas Keep; deep,
droning, and absolute. The alarms pulse through every wall and floor,
reverberating like the heartbeat of a wounded titan.
Spartan
storms into the War Room first, her Olympian armor gleaming in the
crimson emergency lights. Rho Voss and Naburiel follow close behind,
the metallic thud of their boots matching the rhythm of the sirens.
At the war table, the Lieutenant in charge fumbles at the console,
trying to keep up with the flood of data pouring across the screens.
"Report!"
Spartan barks.
The
Lieutenant turns, pale and frantic, before quickly stepping aside as
she approaches. "Ma'am, satellite alerts from the Northern
Sector, multiple colonies under siege, fleet reports, "
"Move."
Spartan pushes past him, planting her gauntleted hands on the table's
edge. Her helmet clatters down beside her as she taps the console.
The holodisplay blooms to life, a sprawling three-dimensional map of
the Northern Sector. Entire systems burn red.
The
hum of the table is drowned by the chorus of alarms. Dozens of icons
flash crimson; ships lost, colonies dark, distress beacons flaring
one after another.
Naburiel's
voice trembles, though not from fear, rage. "Nirna… Valis
Prime… Oros IV… Gods, it's the entire border. Every station,
every fleet."
The
footage flickers overhead. Satellite feeds, grainy, cut through with
static, show the truth. Massive, sleek vessels of black metal and
searing gold pour through the void. Eldiravan ships. Their hulls
shimmer like burning glass, each movement methodical, surgical.
Civitas patrol fleets scatter before them, annihilated in seconds.
"Guarding
fleets are gone," Rho Voss growls, leaning forward. "No
signals. Not even distress pings."
Spartan's
eyes widen as the reports stack faster than the display can render.
Civilian transports, entire convoys, erased. Communications from the
colonies come in fragments: screams, static, then silence.
"Shut
it down," Spartan snaps suddenly.
Naburiel
looks over, startled. "What?"
"The
communications. Block them. Now."
"Spartan---"
"If
the public sees this, it's over. We'll have riots from Anicarro to
the Reach. Seal the feeds, redirect them through Command approval
only!"
The
Lieutenant hesitates for half a second, then obeys, typing furiously.
Rho
Voss steps closer, his voice low but sharp. "This is an
invasion."
Spartan
stares at the glowing red border, the massive spread of hostile
fleets pressing deeper into their territory. Her expression hardens,
voice cutting through the noise.
"No,"
she says. "This is war."
The
holodisplay pulses once, another planet flashes red. Another fleet
lost. Another silence in the void.
The
great doors to the War Room hiss open, the heavy steel groaning as
they slide apart.
Magnus
strides in. His hair is unkempt, his expression set like iron. The
sirens paint his face in flashes of red light as he crosses the floor
with a long, urgent stride.
"Report,"
he commands, voice cutting through the noise like a drawn blade.
Spartan
straightens immediately, snapping a salute before she speaks.
"Eldiravan fleets, Master. Multiple incursions across the
Northern Sector; confirmed planetary invasions. Guard fleets are
gone. Civilian convoys destroyed. Communications restricted under my
authority."
Before
Magnus can respond, the doors open again, this time with a clang of
hurried boots and echoing voices. Varric, Lucian, and Tarsa rush in
behind him, all of them half-dressed and visibly unprepared. Not one
wears their dress regalia. Black and grey fatigues cling to them, the
remnants of sleep still in their faces. Varric's hair is mussed and
wild. Tarsa's sleeves are rolled halfway, her wrist display still
flashing incoming alerts.
"What
the hell is happening?" Varric demands, crossing the floor
quickly.
Lucian
doesn't even wait, he stops beside Rho Voss and looks up at the
burning holodisplay. His jaw tightens. "By the Forge…"
Tarsa
moves to the other side of the table, eyes darting across the flood
of reports. "This cannott be real. We were just meeting with
them!"
Magnus
slams a hand on the table's edge, the impact echoing through the
chamber. "It is real."
The
room stills.
The
blue light of the holomap ripples across their faces, worlds in
flame, red icons spreading like infection. Magnus leans forward,
bracing both hands on the display. His voice is low, measured, every
word heavy.
"They
have moved faster than I expected." He looks to Spartan. "You
did right locking communications. Panic is our enemy now."
Spartan
nods silently.
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Naburiel
pulls up a side-screen, data scrolling fast. "Our Northern
fleets are crippled. No reinforcements can arrive in time; travel
corridors are being jammed or obliterated."
Tarsa
slams her palm against the railing. "Then we hit back! We cannot
just sit here while they carve through us, "
Magnus
cuts her off sharply. "We will respond. But not blindly."
He
straightens, his shadow cast long over the holomap. "They have
declared war on humanity. On Civitas Invicta. We will answer in
kind."
The
klaxons still blare, yet the sound feels distant, muted beneath the
weight of what's spoken.
Magnus
turns his gaze to the red tide advancing across the stars. His voice
drops, colder now.
"Ready
every ship in the First Fleet. Mobilize our forces. Wake the generals
who still sleep."
He
pauses, eyes narrowing.
"The
Forge has been lit."
Varric's
face is pale beneath the red flashes of the alarm. He stares at the
holodisplay, then at Magnus, disbelief and fury clashing in his eyes.
"They are everywhere, Magnus. We cannot hold that line, half
those systems were not even fortified yet!"
Lucian
slams a fist against the table, his voice a growl. "Then we
fortify them now. I will wake the 9th and 12th. We can have them in
orbit within six hours if the dockyards move fast."
Tarsa
shakes her head sharply, pulling up another feed on the side display.
"We do not have six hours. The Eldiravan are cutting through the
Varn Corridor; we will lose half the Northern Sector before dawn if
we do not act now."
Magnus
doesn't look up. His hands move across the console, fingers tapping
in rapid sequence. "Spartan, deploy the 3rd and 4th Legions to
Nirna and Xyrel. I want the 7th Praetorian detachment with them. They
will hold the planetside fronts."
"Yes,
sir," Spartan answers, already keying in the commands. "What
about the 2nd and 6th?"
"They
reinforce the line at the Phara Belt. If we lose that, the invasion
runs straight through to Anicarro itself."
The
holographic map updates as she works, units flashing blue as they
deploy to red zones.
Naburiel's
voice cuts through the din. "We will need orbital reinforcements
to cover the northern vectors. If we shift too much ground power, the
skies will open up."
Magnus
nods once. "Then the 8th and 10th fleets stay in orbit. Set a
rotation schedule, three hours combat, one hour refuel and reload.
Keep the line alive."
Varric
snaps to attention, fire returning to his eyes. "I will ready
the 9th myself."
Lucian
turns, already halfway to the door. "I will see the 12th moving
before the hour is out."
Tarsa
pauses only long enough to salute sharply. "The 2nd is yours
within the hour."
Magnus
gives a curt nod. "Go. Move."
The
three Generals rush out, their voices echoing down the corridor as
the heavy doors seal shut behind them. The sound fades, leaving only
the hum of the holo-projectors and the low thrum of the Keep's
engines.
Magnus
leans forward again, the weight of the stars reflected in his eyes.
Spartan continues issuing orders, her voice crisp, mechanical,
precise. Naburiel mutters coordinates, running logistics through the
console.
And
then, softly, almost lost beneath the thrum of the holoprojectors,
comes a hiss.
Loki
lifts his head, scales catching the cold blue light. The small,
pearlescent serpent shifts where he lies coiled around Spartan's
armored neck, his green eyes reflecting the stars on the holodisplay.
His tongue flicks lazily, tasting the tension in the air.
"You
were warned," he murmurs, voice low but clear enough to cut
through the hum. "Again and again. The end comes for those who
do not listen."
Spartan's
jaw clenches. She lifts a gloved hand and flicks him sharply on the
snout. The snake jerks back, hissing in surprise, a quick, serpentine
tsk of indignation, as his head bobs once, twice, shaking off the
sting.
"I
don't want to hear that," she snaps. "War doesn't mean the
end of existence."
Loki
recoils slightly, coiling tighter against her collar. "Not
always," he admits, his voice like wind through glass. "But
this time… I see too much blood, too many burning worlds. Humanity
is not ready for the war it has called upon itself."
Spartan's
teeth bare for a moment, not in anger but defiance. "Then shut
up," she growls, eyes never leaving the red-lit stars on the
display. "Unless you have something useful to say."
Loki
studies her for a moment longer, his tongue flicking once more, slow
and deliberate. Then he settles back against her neck with a faint
rattle of scales, muttering softly, "You'll find I am often
useful, just not in the ways you wish."
The
war room breathes again; orders barked, data streaming, panic held at
bay by duty. Outside, the alarms keep screaming, and somewhere above
the planet's shrouded sky, the Eldiravan fleets draw closer, like a
storm too vast to see, yet too near to escape.
Spartan's
eyes fix on the holomap. The northern sector burns in a sea of red,
but her focus narrows, drawn to a single glowing world pulsing with
enemy signals.
Nirna.
The
name alone tightens something in her chest. The feeds report orbital
sieges, broken patrols, planetary defenses overwhelmed. Her breath
hitches once, imperceptibly beneath her helm's collar. She knows
who's there. Michael. Victoria. Both stationed to oversee evacuation
protocols; non-combatants, transports, children, the wounded. And
now, Nirna is burning.
"Your
focus wanes," comes Loki's quiet murmur against her throat. His
tongue flicks once, tasting the spike in her pulse.
Her
growl is low, guttural. "Quiet."
Magnus
is still speaking with Naburiel about defensive rotations when
Spartan's head snaps toward him. "Permission to go to Nirna,"
she says abruptly. Her voice cuts through the room like a blade.
The
table goes silent. Naburiel looks up first, brow furrowed. Even Rho
Voss turns slightly, the red lights of the holomap reflected across
his visor. Magnus lifts his gaze to her, disbelief in his expression.
"No,"
he says flatly. "Request denied."
"Master,
"
"I
have already deployed two Tiberian Legions," Magnus interrupts,
his tone brooking no argument. "They will hold the line until
reinforcements arrive. You are needed here."
Spartan's
jaw flexes beneath the dim light. "There are civilians on that
planet. And you have sent soldiers, not gods."
Magnus
fixes her with that cold, commanding stare. "Those soldiers have
their own Vardengard with them. That is enough."
Loki
stirs again, the coils around her neck shifting as he lifts his head.
"It would be wise," he says softly, voice serpentine and
deliberate. "Nirna is more vital than you believe. Lose it, and
you lose the corridor to your eastern systems. You lose the heart of
your empire."
Magnus
glances sidelong at the snake, the faintest irritation flickering in
his eyes. "You meddle too much."
"I
observe," Loki replies, his head tilting. "And what I
observe is collapse."
Then
Spartan does it; that look. The subtle softening of the eyes, the
faint downturn of her mouth, the quiet defiance that tugs at whatever
remains human in Magnus's steel-bound resolve.
He
exhales heavily, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a growl.
"Damn you, woman," he mutters.
Naburiel
glances between them, sensing the decision before it's even spoken.
Magnus
straightens, his tone snapping back into command. "Very well.
Not just you. All of us. We go to Nirna together."
Spartan
blinks, surprised. "Master?"
"If
the Eldiravan wish to make their presence known," Magnus says,
turning toward the war table's holomap, "then we will greet them
properly, face to face."
Rho
Voss nods once. Naburiel grins faintly, a grim kind of anticipation
crossing his features.
Loki's
tongue flicks once more, the faintest hiss of satisfaction escaping
him. "Now," he whispers, "you begin to move as gods
should."
The
alarms outside the war room swell again, echoing through the halls of
the Civitas Keep as the first orders go out. Within minutes, the
steel heart of Civitas Invicta begins to beat faster; mobilizing for
war.
