Few things can see the Light, but we are not blinded.

The Bearer seeks the truth, but what separates truth from fiction is fragile.

A pair of truths and a single falsehood upon the Bearer we shall impart.

Brother, ally once more, sends his regards.

Dreamer, awakened, the Bearer shall meet.

Light fades, deep within the Prison.

"Regrettably, Lakshmi was killed by Vex during the assault…"

Ikora's words echoed like the tolling of a bell. Ada-1 rocked back on her heels. She had never much liked Lakshmi-2—tolerated was a better word—but her fellow Exo had been her partner in a very intriguing new venture. Now, Lakshmi was dead, and so was the promise of Project Stronghold.

A bunker where the city's leaders could be preserved through any attack was now just a hazy memory. Project Stronghold's reach was more expansive than Ada's contribution. Indeed, her focus had been steered in this direction by Lakshmi, yet the necessity of the bunker had made perfect sense when Lakshmi proposed the endeavor. A city cannot survive without its leaders, but Ada never expected that Lakshmi herself would instigate an attack.

Ada-1 had been used. The realization stung, but having yet another venture collapse around her was too bitter a pill to swallow. She was destined for greatness, wasn't she?

Ada heard the servos in her hands whining. Her fists were balled tight. She hadn't meant to… she hadn't meant for any of this. Every day spent, every breakthrough made, just grains of sand in a sculpture doomed to be washed away by the unstoppable tide.

She had worked for years to defend this system, its people; and all she had to show for it was a glorified spindle.

No matter. For now, she would focus on one day at a time, and today, she would spin gold from straw. Her fingers traced the lines on the shoulder of the new gauntlets she had designed. She was determined to see them completed. They wouldn't save the system, no, but they would represent the Black Armory well. Sometimes, she just needed something for herself.

Mihaylova Supplemental
Navigator's Journal—Encrypted Supplemental—
Path to Ares: 20 days to Launch

The situation with E becomes increasingly tenuous. She insists she needs access to all the AI code for her gravity well measurements, which I find highly unlikely. It's simply not necessary and I've given her all the subroutine code that she could possibly need.

But she wants it all. It's absurd. What would she make of the R subsystems if she saw them?

R. That's what I've code-named the deepest core of the experimental AI at the heart of the new ship. And he's doing very well, now writing his own code. Off-the-charts well.

Would E even understand? Likely she'd go running to Hardy, show him some of the odder items where R has written some of his own code and seems to be—how can I put it? —passing judgment on us, like a little hidden critic. No. The AI must be protected so that he can function best in the limited way we need.

Not sure how to keep her away, but giving her access could be catastrophic.

Banshee stares at the paper, then turns it upside down.

"I never said I was an artist," Cayde says over Banshee's shoulder. "This gets at the spirit of it."

Banshee turns the paper around again. "So that's…"

"The laser tracker, yeah."

"Huh." Banshee tilts his head. "And those…"

"Racing stripes."

"…On a fusion rifle."

"We're just—" Cayde throws his arms up. "We're just tossin' out ideas here, pal! Don't shut anything down until you get the whole picture."

"Seems like the picture's the problem."

"OK. Listen—the details aren't important. I just want a good gun that you take out and the fight's already over." He shoots at invisible opponents. "Tsuu-tsuu-tsuu! The end."

Banshee relaxes. He knows good guns.

Cayde clasps Banshee's shoulder. "So is that a yes?"

"Uh-huh."

"Great!" Cayde claps his hands. "Not to rush your genius, but chop-chop, all right? I maybe made a bet with a certain Crucible handler, and I maybe don't have the Glimmer to back it up, so… By the way, you'll do this on an IOU, right?"

Banshee points to the paper one more time. "Is that…?"

"A bottle opener, yes."

There came a morning when the Techeuns spoke in unison, though none were near each other, and they said, ++WHO ARE YOU WHO BUILDS A HIDDEN CITY HERE IN OUR THOUGHTS?++

And Mara, alone in the Queenswalk of the Dreaming City, heard their voices ring out as if each Witch stood beside her, and she said to the empty air, "I am Mara Sov. Who are you?"

The answer came at once, ++WRONG! IT IS THE EKPYROSIC. WE ARE THE NOTHING-SPACE FABRIC.++

Hearing this, Mara recognized a riddle. She turned at once and left the Queenswalk so that Riven would not be inspired. As she walked, she thought. At length she said, "Wrong. You are the Ancients. You are the idea that gives fate its shape."

That one-voice came again, as clear and strong as the birth of the universe, booming with dispassionate curiosity, ++IT THINKS ITSELF WISE! HOW DID SOMETHING LIKE IT ATTAIN SUCH REVELATION?++

Mara lengthened her stride, taking the steps three at a time so that she could duck into a little-used transport gate. She emerged in a small coastal observatory—then nothing more than a grand dormitory—and found Kelda Wadj, the Allteacher, hovering four feet off the ground. Blood poured from her ears and nostrils. Her eyes saw nothing. The other Techeuns were transfixed thusly in a geometric array around the Dreaming City—each one inert, suspended, bleeding.

Mastering her horror, Mara said, "I have lived alongside you." And because she was afraid for Kelda, she asked, "Do you intend violence?"

At once, the Techeuns collapsed to the ground like marionettes from severed strings—all but Kelda Wadj, whose augment blazed with coruscating light. She rose higher into the air and began to unravel, particle by particle. As she came undone, she said, ++NOW IT INSULTS US.++

Mara steeled herself against the horrific sight of her old friend's ruin. She had been a fool to think the riddling was over. She said, "Of course." Violence, after all, is a matter of perspective. "What I mean is, what would you ask me?"

Beloved, wise Kelda Wadj burst apart and then collapsed all at once into a singularity that burned and burned and burned but destroyed nothing around it. From her un-throat came the voice again, which Mara felt in the atomic marrow of her bones, and it said, ++WHAT WOULD IT ASK US?++

For fifteen days and fifteen nights, the singularity burned unshielded.

On the sixteenth day, they began construction of the Oracle Engine, which took the singularity of the Allteacher as its seed-heart.

The Vandal stoops as he exits the Galliot. All of his arms are bound behind his back, so he cannot shield his eyes from the bright sun. A breeze stirs his cloak. There is a cliff behind him and lush gardens ahead. His jailer would not grant him the honor of a quick death, so she must intend to torture him. She thinks he will yield like the flesh-lovers from House Judgment. She is wrong. Whatever indignities she can muster are nothing compared to what he deserves.

With his chin held high, he imagines shucking off his armor and laying all four of his arms in his Captain's hands. His Captain is his mother, and she will not dock him with a scythe. She will twist and tear his arms from his body like she is shucking a fine, fat crab for dinner, and he will be glad of the slow, sick cracks and crunches of his bones. He will be glad of the shame. Let him go limbless for the rest of his wasted life. Let the Ether-thirst shrivel him up like a yaviirsi fig.

"What do you think?" his jailer asks in a language he cannot understand. She steps up beside him and claps a hand on his shoulder. He flinches. She is nearly as tall as he is, and for a creature with no claws, her grip is strong and sure.

Together, they contemplate the gardens.

"It's all a bit much for my taste," she admits as he sneaks a furtive look at her.

Her bow is unstrung. There is only one arrow in her quiver.

She is stupid.

He whirls, trips her, and sprints for the cliff. She swears, recovers, and lunges after him. As he pitches himself off the edge, he thinks of his mother's shame and prays that she forgets him. Better that she never had a son than a weakling so easily captured by the enemy.

It is his bad luck that she catches his foot with one hand. His helmet slams into the rocky cliffside. A piece of his rebreather cracks off and disappears into the mist far below. He flails, but he cannot drag her down with him; somehow, she hauls him in like a fish. As soon as she has him on solid ground, she binds his ankles with the string of her bow. "All right," she says, catching her breath. "All right." She chuckles, pats his shoulder fondly, and then pulls him upright like a sack of psakiks.

She takes a step back, brushing off her hands against the seat of her trousers. He glowers, the surliest psakiks sack this side of the Great Machine, hating her horrible, squared-off teeth and her blunt, stubby fingers. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

Drawing two fractal knives from sheaths on her thighs, she makes a perfect ireliis bow before him. Thunderstruck, he sits up straight. Stares.

"Not good?" she asks, and tries again.

Furious confusion takes him. This is some kind of trick. Blasphemous mockery. "Iirsoveks," he rumbles.

She shakes her head. "Nama." Sheathing one of her knives, she holds out her free hand with her fingers spread in supplication.

He draws his chin toward his throat with this fresh betrayal, narrowing his secondary eyes. It speaks!

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she lays her other knife on the ground between them. The blade points toward her boots. He watches her every movement. How many secrets have the flesh-lovers betrayed, that this creature can make peace like a cringing drekh before his kel?

She taps two fingers against her cuirass. "Sjur," she says slowly, then she points at him.

Honor-bound even as he simmers in scandal, he replies, "Misraaks. Velask, Si-yu-riks."

"Mithrax," she repeats, then grins. "Velask, Mithrax. And welcome! Let's have a look about, shall we?"

Eris Morn returned to the Vestian Outpost. Because she spoke well, it was agreed that aid would be traded for intelligence and a long-term alliance. In this way, the Awoken were the first to know of the Great Navigator: his philosophies, his strategies, his weaknesses. And as the coven contemplated the possibilities laid wide before this god-king's far-flung sword, it was decreed that they would build a throne world beneath an energy well as blind as the ferryman Charon.

Nascia drew the schematics. Portia worked out the calculations. They made their first test with a small rift generator on the eastern shore. Satisfied that their methods were sound, they then went to a grand cathedral to dig the well. There, Lissyl and Sedia augured the first borehole with the help of Riven, who had taken the shape of a needle-nosed basilisk, while Kalli and Shuro Chi constructed the gate itself, deep below, in a hall they named "The Confluence."

Illyn made tincture after tincture of queensfoil until her clothes stank and her hands were stained reddish-black. Open-eyed, she walked between planes and sorted the threads of reality on a vast metaphysical loom, weaving some closer, some more distant.

Mara and Riven shaped her third throne together, and the artistry of their work was a testament to the hungry joy they felt in that partnership. They named it Eleusinia, and it was in those Ascendant halls that Mara finally carved a statue for Sjur.

When it came time to connect the Well to the unreality that lay beyond the gateway, Sedia asked, "Would it not be wiser to leave this door without a key?" Riven, now an immense antlered serpent with broad tiger paws, tightened around the perimeter of the room like a noose.

"Egg," Mara corrected absently, chewing on her thumbnail.

"The key is so heavy as to be unliftable," Kalli ventured, since they were speaking metaphorically.

Sedia flapped her hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, I know." They all knew that the gate required a continuous multi-week charge of paracausal energies, and that almost nothing in this solar system could produce such energies at the scale required by the gateway. Almost. "It's just— do we…"

"Do we wish to trust the Guardians?" Illyn filled in dryly.

Mara ran her hand along the sleek surface of the primary well's control mechanism, then turned and walked alone toward the fresh, foggy air that blew in from the coast. The Techeuns watched her go.

"There is only the plan," Illyn said. "Remember your vows, Sedia."

Undelivered, lost.

Did you watch them die? Did you watch me take the knife and carve out each eye, one-two, one-two-three? Did you watch your body rot? You pretend to be aloof, but you've always been defined by your preoccupations. How deeply did you grieve when your bones were crushed to ash and dust?


Undelivered, damp.

Both crowns have been sundered, and Sky save me but I am unmoored. I have been a blade crying for a hand to wield me for so long, but what is a blade with nothing solid to cut? You will gentle me. You will tell me I can rest. You will try to pull me to the libraries. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.


Undelivered, burnt.

Патетическая. The swelling of strong sentiment in your chest even as you mourn the world that is and was and will be. I did not go to Mars. I will not go to the Dreaming City. There is only the plan.


Undelivered, lost.

Cousin, do you remember the streets of the Last City? Do you remember eating fresh red grapes and playing tag between the market stalls? You cannot. We grew, we died, we were reborn. But I remember. It is the one thing I know is true. You used to LAUGH. What manipulation of the fates has led us each to our own calamities? [Forceful, looping script.] I listen to Vanguard channels every day for news of your death. If and when that news comes, I will fly to you at once, no matter where I am and no matter what front I fight on. [Aggressive pressure, carved deep enough into the paper to tear it.] I swear it.


Delivered.

I have been inside. I have nothing but beautiful and violent words for my report. I will meet you at your throne.

Pride flutters in Petra's throat like a trapped bird. She doesn't know whether she will fly away or drop dead. As the elevator descends, she looks left at Illyn and then right at Uldren. She shuffles in her gleaming formal armor. From exile as Tower emissary to THIS is incredible. Unbelievable. She does not deserve it. "This is real," she whispers, unable to stop herself. Uldren smiles, but Illyn makes a warding gesture: Be silent!

Music begins to swell as the elevator settles. At the center of the room, the Paladins and the rest of Illyn's Techeuns are arrayed around Riven, of course, and—

Her breath catches.

Mara.

She can't help shooting another quick glance at Uldren: How..?

His smile widens.

Petra sets her jaw, pulls her shoulders back, stands strong and tall.

A chorus of thirty sings them into the Hall of Names. The air is sweet with lavender, and there are hundreds of candles lit all around the room, and even at this distance she can see Hallam is verklempt. This is as good a homecoming as she could ever imagine. More than she ever deserved.

When they reach the dais, she kneels. Uldren and Illyn proceed past her so that they can acknowledge the Queen and her waiting counselors. The song ends; the music quells. Uldren and Illyn speak together, and their voices ring out fierce and true. "Your Grace, we here present to you Petra Venj, your loyal servant, wherefore all you who are come this day to witness her homage and service. Do you acknowledge her?"

Petra cannot see anything but her own distorted reflection in her polished sabatons. She closes her eyes.

"I do," Mara says, and Petra's throat tightens.

Uldren and Illyn turn, synchronized. "Petra Venj! Are you willing to take the oath?"

"I am willing," Petra manages, struggling to steady her voice.

"Will you solemnly promise and swear to protect our people, our holdings, our territories, and our immaterial interests?"

"I solemnly promise so to do."

"Will you to your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?"

"I will."

"Will you, to the utmost of your power, uphold your sospital duties in defense of your Queen's life? Will you execute and preserve inviolably the orders of your Queen? And will you preserve unto your dying breath the secrets committed to your charge?"

"All this I promise to do."

"Then rise," Mara says, "and declare yourself."

Petra lifts her head to find Mara's eyes. "Let it be declared that the oaths which I have here before promised, I, Petra Venj, will perform and keep."

Mara smiles and steps forward with a fresh-forged knife. "Then receive this blade, brought now from the forges of Interamnia. With this blade, do justice, stop the growth of inequity, restore the things that are gone to decay, maintain the things that are restored, punish and reform the things that are amiss, and confirm the things that are in proper order: that doing these things you may embody my will and become my Wrath. May the hunt be good."

"May the hunt be good," echoes the assembly.

Petra does not see the cynical glance that passes between Leona and Pavel, who have both served the Queen faithfully for decades. She does not see the way Riven tastes the air. She sees Mara, and Mara alone.

And when the second solstice began in earnest, many Awoken and Ahamkara alike came to the Dreaming City to celebrate the delirious pleasure of being alive. Those who came arrived in the Gardens of Esila, and Azirim was the very last. Seeing him land, Esila said to him, "Ah! You are bold. Do you truly think you've earned the right to revel in this place?"

And Azirim answering said, "Please, wise lady. I've gone 'round the worlds and through the stars themselves. I have come only to congratulate your people. If you lend me your ear, I can prove I will not waste the mercy you might grant me."

And Esila said to him, "We've often lent our ear to your indiscretions. I know what happens to that which is lent to you. I need no assurance."

And Azirim answering said, "My indiscretions? Wise lady, I do admit, I may have whispered truths you gave me to deceive those who would deceive me. But have I ever struck out with hungry fang against your people? Have I set fire to your trust? I have seen the error of my ways. Let me prove to you oh how I have changed."

And Esila, though she could see a flickering in Azirim's reflection, could not resist a redemption story. Esila cast forth her hand and beckoned to Azirim in mercy. And Esila said to him, "Join us and be glad, but let me hear your testimony first."

And so invited, Azirim bowed his crested head and hid a secret smile and spoke with the pardon Esila had given him. He recounted his many regrets in deceiving the kind merchants in the capital city of Interamnia. He recounted his charity to the wayfaring Corsairs who could not have escaped the heliopause without his aid. He recounted his journey to retrieve the eutech stolen from Pallas by the profane scavengers the Fallen, and he named his friends and those who had shown him kindness. And from the raucous parties beyond the lush gardens of Esila came an audience of Techeuns in training and flush-cheeked young Corsairs. They knelt in the dewy grass and they listened, and as they listened, and as Azirim spoke, his appetite grew and grew. Night fell on the Dreaming City.

And Azirim said to those who knelt enraptured, "Come, let me sing to you of extinction. Let me sing to you of lives lost in beautiful places, o audience mine. Sing with me, sing!" He bade them rise, and led them singing down and away from the gardens of Esila. He spread his wings and flew out into the empty air beyond the steep cliffs that bordered the gardens. And to those who happened to glance toward the gardens from far-off pavilions, it seemed a merry parade, a joyous chorus.

And they did not hear the singing stop.

And they did not hear the bodies dashed against the shore below.

And they did not see Azirim grow, or laugh, or flee.

$
$ COPY BAMBERGA"ORIN RCLJN3YJPYQ79YER"::APHEL.REL APHEL.REL
$ TYPE APHEL.REL

%%%%%%%%%%% VIOLET CLEARANCE ONLY %%%%%%%%%%%

INDEX:

EVENT 2PAL-A :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 2PAL-B :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-A :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-B :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-C :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-D :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 4VES-E :: OTDR-4-REL
EVENT 7IRI-A :: OTDR-4-REL

SUMMARY OF SBU APHELION INCIDENTS FOLLOWS BELOW.

*** EVENT 2PAL-A :: OTDR-4-REL ***

INFORMATION RECEIVED APR 09-18T02:29:45+00:00 FROM PALADIN NOLG, CONSIDERED SOBER, DEPENDABLE, NOT OF FANTASY. NOLG REPORTED "A GLOWING CREATURE" ON EXT OF HIS SHIP "RETRIBUTION" MOMENTS BEFORE ROUTINE NLS JUMP.

"RETRIBUTION" FDR SHOWED RAD SPIKE (5 SIGMA) ON TEPC, CPDS, AND RAM. CPD SHOWED NO EFFECT. ON RECOMMENDATION OF K WADJ, NOLG WAS QUARANTINED UNDER TECHEUN SUPERVISION FOR 1 MONTH. "RETRIBUTION" DECOMMISSIONED, SET ADRIFT BEYOND REEF.


*** EVENT 2PAL-B :: OTDR-4-REL ***

INFORMATION RECEIVED APR 10-27T17:11:56+00:00. REEF SPACE STATION AMESTRIS, THEN UNDER CONSTRUCTION, ISSUED 6 UNIQUE DISTRESS CALLS OVER A 2-MINUTE PERIOD. TRANSCRIPTS FOLLOW.

T-1: PAN-PAN, PAN-PAN, PAN-PAN. ALL STATIONS, ALL STATIONS, ALL STATIONS. THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS. WE HAVE A POSSIBLE SKYSHOCK EVENT IN PROGRESS. REQUESTING IMMEDIATE VIDCOM WITH ANY AVAILABLE TECHEUN. [STATIC FOLLOWS]

T-2: MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! ALL STATIONS! THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS, WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! OUR HULL HAS BEEN BREACHED! MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! THIS IS RSS AMESTRIS PLEASE SOMEONE [STATIC FOLLOWS]

T-3-A: I'VE GOT IT, HANG ON. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO… WHAT'S THE CHANNEL?
T-3-B: THEY'RE SCREAMING! LISTEN, THEY'RE ALL SCREAMING!
T-3-A: BE CALM! HELP ME! WHAT'S THE CHANNEL?
T-3-B: IT'S THE CORE, IT'S THE CORE, THIS IS THE STALKING CORE!
T-3-A: SHUT UP! WHAT'S THE CHANNEL!
T-3-B: OH NO, OH PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE [STATIC FOLLOWS]

T-4: ORIN, IT'S ME, IT'S NAMQI. I DON'T THINK I'M COMING HOME, BABY. I'M SO SORRY. I'M, I'M, I JUST WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I LOVE [STATIC FOLLOWS]

T-5: MAYDAY, MAYDAY! THIS IS VEN ASAR ON THE RSS AMESTRIS. WE ARE 300 SOULS ABOARD. SOMETHING IS HAPPENING, EVERYTHING IS BLUE, SOMETHING IS HERE [STATIC FOLLOWS]

T-6: [UNINTELLIGIBLE] [SCREAMING] [STATIC FOLLOWS]

A SAR FLEET FOUND THAT THE AMESTRIS WAS UNSAFE TO BOARD DUE TO RADIOACTIVE SURFACE CONTAMINATION. SAR DEPLOYED MULTIPLE CROW DRONES FOR INTERIOR SURVEY. NO EVIDENCE OF HULL BREACH WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF MALTECH DETONATION WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF HOSTILE ALIEN INTERFERENCE WAS FOUND. NO EVIDENCE OF INTERNAL SABOTAGE WAS FOUND. NO SURVIVORS WERE FOUND.

AMESTRIS ABANDONED, SET ADRIFT BEYOND REEF.


*** EVENT 4VES-A ***
$ Q
$ DELETE APHEL.REL;*

Mara sits cross-legged in the canopy shade of Riven's wing. She wets the pad of her thumb with the tip of her tongue, then uses the moisture to hold a bundle of fresh-picked asphodelia in place. She ties off the stems with a length of silk-spun gold thread, then begins the mindless busywork of braiding in all the expected accoutrements: a serrated fang, a shotgun shell, a cloudy amethyst crystal…

Riven turns to watch. On this day, her head is the size of a Fallen pike. She is vibrant blue with a yellow and red crest, and her pupils are crescents within her lidless eyes. After a time, she says, "Madadh is dead but you make him no bouquet."

Mara looks up, struck by the novelty of the moment. She studies Riven, and swallows the first words that come to her tongue, which are, Madadh's bones are whispering at this very moment on Venus. Instead, she asks, "You mourn him?"

That crescent-pupil contracts as thin as a sickle's edge. "No."

Having found the true answer, Mara resumes her work. A while passes in silence until she says, "Ahamkara have no traditions."

"No."

"No sentiment."

"No."

Mara bites off a piece of thread. "Why did you allow my brother to spirit you away?"

"You know this truth, wise Queen. He is so full of succulence."

"Mm. And why do you roost here when there is rich hunting beyond my Reef?"

"Truly I say to you"—here Mara hides a small smile—"the Awoken have entrusted What-Will-Be to you their Queen, and thus they are all dry as a stone to me. Pleasantly so, for wetness is sweet feed, but dry stone is a friendly basking-place. You, you are as hot and flat as the plateaus of Mercury, and your heat stirs my blood to move."

Mara nods and says nothing more, though she thinks a while on the three-parted curse used by Ahamkara to mark their prey, the shackle between Appellated and Appalling. When she finishes her memorial bouquet, she unfolds herself and rises to stretch. Riven does the same, and as she relaxes, she spreads and shuffles and shakes her pinions until they all lie straight.

The land around them is shapeless rock that will become an aubade to those left behind; Mara will honor her enemies and friends alike in stone, she will build grand cathedrals veneered in amethyst and agate.

Riven butts her rounded snout under Mara's hand and waits.

"Let us find Kelda," Mara says.

SHE HAS RUINED EVERYTHING!

Such blind arrogance—

WE ARE LOST!

h u r r y

He will recruit them all if we do not act now

W H A T C A N W E D O

Done cannot be undone! Everything is lost!

kill them where they creep and crawl let their bones whisper naught

THE CHILDREN!

t h e y a r e n o t o u r c h i l d r e n

We have no time for sentiment

It is this or we lay ourselves bare before the veil.

NO!

No!

W E M U S T B E F O R E H E T A K E S T H E M A L L

imagine his power

REACH TOGETHER NOW

No, no, no!

that our touch be lethal

Riven!

w e w i l l i t s o

THE DREAMER IS LOST CULL THE REST

that our judgment be true

W E W I L L I T S O

Banshee-44 considered the relic on his workbench and the questions on his mind; one stood out above the rest: who were you meant for?

The form of the weapon suggested an oversized sidearm—a secondary weapon for a giant's hands. The function presented more so as an anti-material rifle. "Looks to be 12.7mm… it's like they were making a hand cannon but didn't know it yet."

Banshee wondered further about the warrior who could wield such a thing. His attention drifted momentarily, drawn by Shaxx's voice booming nearby. "Huh. Yeah. A Titan, maybe… and a big one too."

The weapon was laced with fractures from a life of fire and a sleep of ice, and perhaps other, more exotic stresses. Banshee wished he could've heard the relic's voice, but he knew from earlier examination that it had fired its last round. What a last round it must have been.

The Guardian who brought it to him might be willing to try a shot, untroubled by the risk of a rapid unplanned dismantle. But Banshee knew it wouldn't last through a single magazine.

Beside the relic lay a stripped-down Breachlight. He would adapt it for a larger round. Custom casings and handguard. Sensorium link scope… and he had other ideas to try as well.

It would be an homage, an offering to the creators of the original relic. A legacy.

With that satisfying thought in mind, the gunsmith went to work.

I don't know who you are. Don't know what school you follow, which side you're on—could be heads, could be tails. Could be the edge. Could be you shoot before the coin lands.

Just know I'll be the one picking it up.

You ever hear the story of the fella who painted bullseyes around his bullet holes? Ol' Drifter's plan is coming together—maybe not as clean as I wanted, maybe without the right folk nearby, but it's happening.

That's why I left this message for you, in a place you wouldn't look if you didn't give a damn. Things are changin'—hell, things have already changed—but Drifter's still a safe bet.

And I've still got plenty of time. Just not as much as I did before.

When the longing to steep in that blessed heat was at its most intoxicating, the reins were pulled taught, and the hammer fell. Fell upon the wretched, fell upon those who would do evil to Sol, fell upon the land baptizing it in fire.

When the smoke cleared, the reins were no more. The fire began to die until there was barely a hammer left among us. The righteous order, those who would shatter stars, dissolved amid the crackling of embers.

When the winds changed, the embers caught and ignited a new flame. That flame swells for those who seek out the destruction lurking in shadows, that they may cleanse it in the sun.

When that flame reaches its zenith, none shall escape its warmth. Arise, all you who carry the hammer! There are yet more suns to break.

Now in time Uldren Queensbrother returned to the Reef with a new creature. He had killed it twice in ambush, he said, to be certain it could not die. It had once been an Awoken man, and, recognizing it, Mara turned away from her plans for the Dreaming City and watched it coolly.

"It is a Guardian," she said. "Once it was Chao Mu." He had left the Reef alone, knowing that he could never return or see his family again, to repair a failing climate controller in what had once been Earth's Gobi breadbasket. He had said he could not bear to watch the world wither.

"Bow before the Queen," Uldren said, giving him a shove.

The Awoken man looked at him, then back at Mara. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing. "My name is Savin."

"You do not remember your wives?"

He did not.

"You do not remember your child, who is now a hundred and ten?"

He did not.

"You do not remember your passion, which was the insulation of minutely sensitive detectors from all but the most specific and subtle radiations?"

He did not, except that he said he could touch magnetic fields and loved to tweak the miniscule weave of the circuits in his robe. He had a zoogoer's enthusiasm for particle physics.

"To what do you owe your loyalty?"

"Your Majesty," Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu said, "my Ghost told me that I am a Guardian of the Traveler, reborn in its Light. I was not a day old when your brother waylaid me."

And he caused to appear from his body a machine like a sphere cradled in a broken cube, which bobbed impertinently and blinked at the Queen. "You'll make an enemy of the City and every Guardian in it if you keep us against our will," the machine warned them. "But we would gladly be your allies, if you desire it. The City has no idea of your existence, except faint myths among the Awoken on Earth."

"Does it speak for you?" the Queen challenged Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu.

"I speak for myself," Savin-who-was-Chao-Mu answered. "Behold!" And he drew forth from the quantum vacuum a shrieking singularity, which he held between his hands and then telescoped down into nothing.

"Are you intrinsically good?" the Queen asked.

"I hope so," he answered. The Queen knew this was a lie or a misapprehension. She was aware of the Risen and the cruel fiefdoms they had sometimes enabled. However, perhaps the Ghosts that had made the Risen were destroyed or became enlightened.

Now the Queen asked the Techeuns to assess the differences between the Chao Mu they remembered and this Savin returned as a Guardian of the Traveler, using their most sensitive physical and psychological tests. Most of all, though, the Queen was curious about the reaction of her Ahamkara, which had begun to salivate, and to assume a form more like the Guardian expected: monstrous and befanged.

But her brother whispered urgently to her, "We must know how to kill it, Mara. There are more every day."

Savin the Guardian showed a tremendous fondness for doing things; he had a pathologically task-oriented nature, which made him very useful to the Reef. Yet there was always the sense that his Ghost was watching, observing, reporting. And Savin was most of all greedy—not in the grasping manner of the petty, but in an enormous, all-consuming way, for he desired materials and experiences that would temper him into a better Guardian, and he was always experimenting with his strange powers in foolish ways that left him briefly dead, seeking "a new Super ability" or "some way to make my grenades faster." He grew tired of performing trivial tasks about the Reef, complaining that the dangerous repairs he made were endless and boring, and that he wanted to move on to new worlds. He leapt into space, repeatedly and without reason, as if his death were no more traumatic than a hop off a curb. Obsessed with reward and efficiency, he would rather do one profitable thing a thousand times than waste his efforts on a less beneficial novelty.

By the end of her acquaintance with Savin, Mara had decided she did not like this Traveler and what it did to people. Yet she had also decided that she felt a strange kinship and sympathy for it, this cornered, desperate god, making infinite sacrifices out of its people.

Perhaps the Earth would be better off if the Traveler vanished or was destroyed, she thought. Even in the Reef, she felt as if she were living next to a torch held up in a dark wilderness, calling out across the galaxy to hungry things with too many eyes.

The Fulminator noticed a difference in her fellow Shadows as they prepared for war.
The usual bickering, fostered by the multispecies makeup of Calus's enforcer group, vanished overnight as they faced the task they had gathered to complete: kill Dominus Ghaul.

Calus had recruited them through bribery or promises of wealth and resources for their homeworlds. None of them expected to survive their mission. The might of the Red Legion had grown vast. This acceptance brought them together.

The Fulminator didn't understand, or care. As long as Calus left the Arkborn to their interstellar conduits, she would do what she had done since the day she came aboard the Leviathan: destroy the enemies of the emperor.

Your reassimiliation into the empires is likely to be cause for concern. You'll understand that it will come with some preconditions. After all, we can't have it appear that I've played favorites. But there's no cause for alarm; your reeducation is merely a formality.

While I may forgive you, the rest of the empire will need some time. It's important to show the people how you have changed. It won't be forever, just however long it takes to earn your place at my side once more.

"This Bond is yours. For the day you ignite the spark that casts the Shadow of Earth." —Emperor Calus



I'll require a Shadow of your Guardian-tribe to transcribe the runes emblazoned inside the Crown of Sorrow—change them to something more beneficial for Emperor Calus. And disrupt the witch's schemes.

Oh.

She thinks I can't hear her.

Well, I can't hear her words. [Ha.]

But her intent. Her feeling. I know it. She's here.

She means to undermine me with the Crown. We shall wear it just the same.

As soon as we can fix it. Don't worry about what happened to Gahlran. We've learned since then. We shall find a more suitable host for the Crown.

Oh, not me. Never me. Your Emperor has enough crowns to last a hundred thousand generations.

Perhaps one of your Titans would be hearty enough…

But the witch. The witch is troublesome. I preferred her brother to her. Oryx would have been easy to match. The brute force of the Taken would have been easy to conquer with fat grown from strength. They would have joined my new Empire gladly. Because their greatest desire is subservience.

Alas. One day, the witch and I shall crash. What will you do, then? You've made a choice before, between the Vanguard who raised you and the peasant, shell of a man who tempted you with power he barely understands.

If you truly care about this system, about the people of your City, you shall help me, Guardian of the Warlock-tribe.

Wear this bond, and proclaim your fealty.

It's a promise that you'll work to purify the Crown of Sorrow in a way only a Guardian of your tribe can.

As soon as we figure out how. Help me.

Help me grow fat from strength.

—Emperor Calus

"There are many Hunters who are unsung heroes. Many are unnamed. Many are known only by a glint of metal half a mile away and the crack that echoes across the canyon after their enemy falls. Others are known only by a muffled cry and the flash of a knife in the dark.

"Warlocks and Titans have their orders, but that is not our way. Hunters walk apart, separate from each other as much as from other Guardians. That is our way.

"And yet we share traditions. We share stories. We share… secrets.

"Killing is a dangerous and dirty business, be it from as far as an angel's perch or as close as a lover's embrace.

"When you get close, you need something like this.

"Unsung. Unnamed. Unseen.

"Remember these words. Repeat them to whoever follows you."

—Words of an unidentified Hunter, overheard as the Assassin's Cowl was passed to another unidentified Hunter

Ghaul spent too much time in too close communion with those I had humbled. No good would come of those hushed tones and sidelong glances. Did he think I would not notice?

I dispatched a spy to follow him. To think that I felt guilt in that moment; one should never doubt their gut when it comes to trust in another.

I realize now what I should have realized then. As I am like no other, then no other is alone as I. What a curse it is to be a god that loves!

PUBLIC KEY 053 689 DWS REGAL
FROM: PLDN KAMALA RIOR [PLDN CMD TF 5.3]
TO: ACT RGNT PETRA VENJ
SUBJECT: PRISON OF ELDERS – CONTAINMENT RISK

MESSAGE IS:

1. Contingency reserves overdrawn. We underestimated nobility troth reparations. Uldren suggests that we open reintegration talks. Have you discussed endowment support?

2. If Reef endorses support, Paladin Oran will engineer reinforcement.

MESSAGE ENDS

Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

I.

Saladin remembers what it was like to be young. He remembers the exhilaration of discovering the infinite power he now holds in his hands. He remembers the terror, too—his first death and the agony of a ruptured lung. His mouth had been too full of blood to form words or plead with his Ghost, so he tried with his eyes instead.

Saladin remembers his second death because it was quicker than his first: a wrong step in a minefield outside of what used to be a city called Nur-Sultan. He laughed when his Ghost reassembled him. Then, he cried.

Saladin remembers deaths three through sixty-five but does not dwell on them. Instead, he regrets the thousands of hours of sleep lost to nightmares, and how much less vibrant his recollection of that period in his life is compared to his noble centuries spent as an Iron Lord.

Saladin remembers the day he stopped counting deaths. "Something about you is different," Jolder had said, and put her hand on his.

Saladin remembers all this and more when he looks at the Crow. He feels rage form a hot pit in his belly when Osiris tells him about the young Lightbearer's suffering at the hands of his fellow Guardians. Osiris asks him if he can keep a secret.

"I don't like secrets," Saladin says, and that's the end of it.

Vrisk had been lying under his crewmate's corpse for the better part of an hour. His body ached from lack of Ether, but he dared not pull from his rebreather for fear of discovery.

Besides, if he survived, there would be enough to sate his hunger a dozen times over.

He and Krilix had been calibrating the landing struts on the crew's Ketch when the ambush hit. A long-range scout rifle slug punched through Krilix in the opening salvo, ripping a fist-sized hole in his chest. He fell on top of Vrisk in a heap of gore as a barrage of gunfire rained down on their position.

Vrisk could have shrugged off the Wretch's body and seized his Arc Spear to retaliate. Instead, he simply lay beneath his dying crewmate and let the battle play out.

After the shooting stopped, Vrisk listened to their assailants ransack the ship. A mix of guttural Cabal barks and familiar Eliksni chatter marked them as a competing crew, eager to claim the bounty set forth by the reawakened Shipstealer.

But Vrisk knew what their attackers did not: the relic they sought was not on the Ketch, or even on this planet. It was hidden in a safehouse deep within the asteroid belt beyond Mars. Once Vrisk found the courage to emerge from his hiding place, he would take the relic to Eramiskel himself and claim the reward for his own.

But there was time for that. For now, the Dreg let the weight and warmth of his dead companion press him into a peaceful slumber, where he dreamed of better days to come.

Jacob Hardy's Journal
Project Ares One (FKA Catamaran)
Path to Ares: Launch Day +1

We're 24 hours late.
I've never seen the crew in such a crappy mood.

It was so… stupid. An electrical fire in a clubhouse stairwell. One minute Evie's putting some final touches on her calculations and was headed off to do a telecast about the effect of flash erosion on coastal tides, and the next…

We didn't even notice she was gone.

We learn about cascading events, how catastrophe comes from one thing stacking onto another.

A fried electrical system. A weak sprinkler. Smoke. No one else paying attention. A spill in in the stairwell, making the steps slippery.

Our safe cocoon became a deathtrap.

…

Of course we're still going.

But Evie put us here. And now we're going to meet the Traveler without her.

The truth is I know I'll lose myself in the amazement of it all. I will. I know it. But just remember I felt this way.

One more thing. They've given us guns and renamed us. Something about needing to be ready for the worst.

"You want to go where?" Drifter's jumpship idles roughly behind him, the engine misfiring and clattering loudly as if ready to explode. Eris's ship purrs next to it in contrast.

"There is a connection between the points of Darkness. Signals passing back and forth to something beyond." Eris steps closer so her voice carries over the engine noise. "The other Pyramids may provide more context."

The Drifter clicks his tongue and raises and eyebrow. "Sounds a mite dangerous with big daddy Calus parking right over the Moon? Seems off limits."

"Yes, but the Guardian leads raiding parties into Rhulk's Pyramid in Savathûn's throne world. We will use that distraction."

And with that, Eris shoulders through him and trudges to her ship. "Come, Rat."

"…Can we eat first?"

***

Explosions thunder within the throne world's Pyramid as Eris and Drifter establish a camp in the sunken bog where Miasma meets the Pyramid's approach. The massive ship eclipses them, towering in fog, the extent of its edges unknown to their eyes.

Drifter's face is stern, clenched with a tension Eris has seldom seen: Trust in one hand, fist full of Stasis in the other.

Eris sets a cloth-wrapped stalk of egregore upon a pyramid-shard jutting from the stinking swamp. She unwraps and neatly spreads the corners of the cloth before noticing the Drifter's footsteps behind her.

"Somethin's watchin' us," Drifter mutters. He turns to his altered Ghost and whispers softly enough to convince himself that Eris cannot hear him, "Keep your eye on her, eh?" Then louder, "I'm gonna look around, make sure that hotshot hero didn't miss any Screebs."

The Drifter's altered Ghost emits a single elongated tone in acknowledgement and then focuses on Eris.

"Germaine."

He stops. Eris knows his concern belies a nobility that he often attempts to suppress in favor of the persona of the Drifter. It is a ruddy shield, but she has seen the true him hidden under that that layer of grime.

"May I… have a light?"

"You got it." He discharges a Solar round from his Trust that sparks on the Pyramid floor and ignites the egregore stalk. "Back in a flash."

Eris watches him disappear into the swamp, then focuses on the pluming egregore.

***

Eris sits, exhausted, on a warm cushion in the dirt. The Drifter stands over a hazardously large fire, scooping some sweet-smelling funk of a stew from a cauldron-like vessel of Hive design. Her face scrunches as he places a chunky bowl of thick greyish-brown potage in her hands.

"What'd you find?" Drifter asks, slurping from his bowl.

Eris tests the temperature and flavor of this "food" against her lips. It is something like the stinking brined cheeses Ikora had given her on her last visit to the City, but with earthy depth beneath. Her face curls and she opts instead for conversation. "I was right; they are connected. But now, I only have more questions."

"You ask me, that's how these things go. Better leave well enough alone and head home," Drifter says, slurping another mouthful.

"The egregore connects points of Darkness, resonates with Pyramid constructs, but I cannot decipher their communications. Still… the Lunar Pyramid, the Europan Pyramid, and both Glykon and Leviathan all converse with the same distant point. What Rhulk spoke to, so does Calus. It is… gravely concerning."

"Wild," Drifter says with a whistle. He shakes his head and looks at her full bowl. "You gonna eat that?"

"I…" Eris wonders if he heard her correctly but knows repeating herself is an exercise in futility. "…What is this? Exactly?"

"Pretty damn tasty is what it is. First time I got it right. Thought you'd appreciate someone cooking for you since you, uh… well, you're awful at it."

"Rat, what are you feeding me?" She remembers his hunt earlier in the day, and her stomach turns. Eris stares at the Drifter, mouth agape in a half-heaved gag—her thoughts racing over the things he's claimed to have consumed. "You cooked me rotted Screebs."

"What?!" Drifter chokes on the stew and coughs. "I wouldn't feed you that crap, Moondust." He laughs. "You never had crawdad stew?" He holds his bowl to his lips. "Or a close cousin to it…" he adds under his breath. "Little swamp shrimps, you dig? It's a delicacy!"

Eris reels her imagination in, takes a breath, and sips the broth without taking her eyes from the Drifter. The liquid fills her crumpled stomach with hearty warmth. She feels her stress melt away. The stew's flavor is far more pleasing than its smell. She smiles and drinks again.

"Thank you. It is… good."

"The Song is the antithesis. The Song is destruction. The failure to master the harmonies of life has birthed the anti-creation—the sullen frequencies of ruin. Those sweet melodies carry with them more than death—a rending of spirit and mind, a flaying of the physical self till nothing remains.

"The beauty of the cascading notes. The imperfect inflection of their tune… There has ever been, and will ever be, art in creation. So too in the act of annihilation—erasure and bittersweet finality. This is the Song's truest gift…

"In its wake, once the echoes have rung their last, there is only silence and the grand splendor of nothingness.

"Thus is the Song an end, and those who join its Choir are death, and nothing more."

—Unknown

Chapter 1: Out for Delivery

Voronin nearly dropped the munitions he was carrying, which would have been a disaster for everyone in the vicinity. Certainly not as bad as whatever calamity they were prepping for, but bad enough to warrant the panic that coursed through his body. He hated these kinds of assignments.

"Hey, Morozova!" Voronin called out to his ranking officer between heavy gasps. "Any idea where all these are going?"

Morozova carefully placed her container on the ground, as if she was laying a child to bed. "No clue. Word just came from on high to double-time it, though. Something about Titan has got everyone spooked."

Voronin removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. Titan? What the hell happened out there? Comms had been spotty and the orders that did get through were light on details: Procure munitions. Transpo munitions to coordinates provided. Stockpile munitions. Repeat. No HMMWVs either. This was meant to be low profile, staying off the roads.

Where was all this firepower going, and what were we going to do with it when it got there? Voronin picked up his container and his pace.

He trudged just shy of a click behind Morozova for what felt like hours. These containers were cumbersome and it was the height of the driest summer he could remember.

When they reached their destination, they received a cursory greeting from Bykov, who was busy compiling a list of all the deliverables. Two soldiers, whom Voronin didn't recognize, were placing the containers in the mouth of a shaft that protruded from the ground. One punched in a command and the shipment vanished below the surface with a hollow pneumatic "whoomp."

"Where does that go?" Voronin asked. Bykov's brows drew together and his expression hardened. He returned to his list.

"Ready for the next round?" Morozova posed with more spunk than Voronin could muster in a year.

"If we must."

The sky grew gray, and clouds formed overhead as they left. Procure, repeat.

AGAIN.

Sok'tol, Fifth of the Light, felt flame surge through his body as he was resurrected.

He became aware of many things at once: the altar beneath him. The roaring of Acolytes. The powerful grip on his shoulders, which even now began to crack under the pressure.

Above him, a trio of Wizards held his Ghost tight, its bleached shell ensnared by ebony tendrils of controlling spellcraft. It pulled against the bonds but could do nothing but look down at him helplessly.

SING OF HER LIES. SPEAK OF HER TRUTHS.

The voice was everywhere. As Sok'tol strained to sit up, something slammed him down, pounding his chitinous skull into the stone again and again. He screeched as the bony frill surrounding his face splintered and snapped loose. He felt his jaw dislodge, felt his own teeth crush against his face, felt himself crack and shatter.

Blackness. And then—

AGAIN.

As his shell knit and restored soulfire flowed anew, Sok'tol, Fifth of the Light, shuddered awake.

The Acolytes roared again. They crowded the altar, surrounded by a haze of green. Sok'tol peered upward at the Ogre pinning him against the altar.

It tightened its grip on his shoulders, claws crackling with wrathful energy. It shook its massive head, crowned in an emerald corona, and bellowed in a voice that was not its own:

YOUR STRENGTH BECOMES MINE. AS WILL HERS. SPEAK.

Sok'tol concentrated the Light in his armored hand and began to form a grenade, but the shrieking Acolytes reached forward and tore his fingers apart in their claws.

Sok'tol bared his teeth and hissed up at the Ogre, whose eyes rolled with fury as a blast of soulfire erupted from its mouth. Sok'tol opened his jaws to howl as he was obliterated.

Blackness. And then—

AGAIN.

IV:

Spider's operative within Dead Orbit is a man named Howe who sounds truly terrified to receive a direct call from his covert employer.

Spider buries his real desire within a long list of weapons and ammunition, but Howe still manages to single it out.

"Did you say number eighty-nine on manifesto Dove 15?"

"I do not believe I stuttered."

"But that's… it's so old. Pre-Golden Age, we think. Linde's best guess is that it was part of a moving art exhibit."

"You tell me nothing I do not already know."

"But… why do you want it?"

Spider might have let the man live, up until now.

A pity, really.

"All you need to know is how much I will pay you if you bring it to me."

"All right," Howe says dubiously. "Give me a hundred hours."

"You have forty."

Spider ends the call, and begins the process of wiping it from the records.

Eido recoiled as the spindly claws of the Splicer Gauntlet snapped and jerked. When her father wore it, the damned thing always moved smoothly, as if it were his own fingers. But attached to the end of her arm, it seemed possessed by a life of its own.

Misraaks's considerable patience was beginning to wear thin. "No, Eido, no. Splicing is not about thinking. It is about feeling. Feel the energy flow from the ground, through your legs, up your torso, and out through your arm." His arms wove circular patterns in the air, as if gently wafting smoke upwards. "The movement of the Gauntlet is the continuation of a motion that begins deep in the heart of the planet, where it keeps its Light."

Eido sighed. Misraaks was intent on passing the Way of the Splicer to his daughter, but after three days of attempts without the barest signs of success, they were both becoming frustrated. Eido was eager to learn—to live up to her father's skills—but the harder she tried, the more violently the Gauntlet seemed to reject her.

Eido took several deep breaths and extended her mind's eye through the ground, deep into the well of Light at the center of the planet. She followed the Light through the firmament, up through her body, and into the Gauntlet. It whirred smoothly to life.

"Yes, just so," Misraaks encouraged her. "Now feel the Light extend from the Gauntlet into the Shank. Feel its code lying dormant. It is sleeping, waiting for you to wake it."

Eido extended the Gauntlet. A surge of energy shot forth from its claws, sending crackles of electricity rippling across the Shank's surface. In her shock, Eido jerked the Gauntlet away, which severed the connection. The electricity sparked for an instant longer, then went still. A small plume of smoke issued forth from deep within the Shank. Eido didn't need to Misraaks to tell her that she had just fried the main circuit net.

Misraaks took a moment to compose himself before speaking. "This is a good lesson. When one focuses on the metal, the form of the machine, and not—"

"Misraakskel. Father," Eido interrupted. "This is not… I don't want…" She fought her emotions for control of her voice. Misraaks waited for his daughter to compose herself.

"I am not a Splicer," she finally said. "I'm certain of it. I know this is a disappointment to you but—the Gauntlet has spoken." She pulled the spiteful mechanism off her arm and held it out.

Misraaks took it reluctantly. "I am sorry that you will not follow me in the Way of the Splicer. However," he continued, "it is a far greater thing to know what you are and what you are not." He lifted all four of his palms toward her as a sign of respect. "Self-knowledge is the rarest skill of all, and not commonly found in one so young."

Eido was filled with relief and gratitude for her lesson.

IV.

Saladin remembers the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with friends. He remembers Radegast hanging the deer upside down by its hind legs, and how swiftly Perun used her knife to skin it.

He remembers Jolder tending the fire with wood cut by her favorite axe: a mighty thing fashioned from steel and embellished with engravings of laughing wolves. It had been a gift from a blacksmith whose son Jolder effortlessly plucked out of the frozen river several winters before.

"Putting an arrow through its heart is the easiest part," she'd teased him. "Now you get to sit back and watch the rest of us do the real work."

Saladin remembers helping anyway, using Jolder's axe to section off a flat piece of juniper to smoke the meat. He remembers the sound and smell of bubbling fat, and how rich the drippings had tasted when he soaked them in bread.

He remembers Radegast asking him to sing the song taught to them by the people of the blacksmith's village, but agreeing only when Jolder and Perun promised to join in. Their voices rose like wolves in the night and were so raw by morning that none of them could speak.

Saladin remembers all this and more when Zavala tells him Amanda has taken the Crow out to drink in the City's streets. He wonders what song they'll sing, if it's anything like the one he's heard everyone humming lately—even though he hasn't tried it himself.

I never found Osiris, but I've killed enough Vex to end a war. And they, in turn, struck a fatal blow: they completed a Mind with the sole function to drain the Light from me. It worked very well.

Don't worry (not that you worry much). It took them centuries to build, keyed to the unique frequency of my Light. And I sit atop its shattered husk.

I mourn that I will never reach the heights you have. To me, you represent everything a Guardian can become. Yours is a thriving City. So different from mine. My whole fourteenth life I fought to make my City yours. I never finished.

All I have left is this weapon. The Cryptarchs say you crafted it yourself, built it out of scraps and Light and sheer will, inside the Infinite Forge. I'll make sure it finds its way back to you. When you gave it to me, I swore I would make it my duty to follow your example.

I'm still trying.

—Saint-14

Compartmentalization. Isolate the pieces of a network, so that 1) each subnet may operate independently, and 2) any harm that befalls one subnet will not necessarily befall the rest. The Vex learned this lesson well. Many subnets, many equations, all executing toward the same answer: convergence. They gambled that eventually, one of their subnets will achieve it. Speaking in purely mathematical terms, it's a very safe bet.

In that conceptual framework, you see how the Forest, "infinite" in so many ways, is still only a small fraction of the Vex's true capabilities. Imagine the decimal two-point-one repeating. Its precise value is incalculably infinite, and yet you know that beyond its irrational depths waits two-point-two. Two-point-three. Two-point-four…

RECORD: 7932L745$LUN-1.230 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: David Pell, Dr. Luli Henson, Commander Kuang Xuan
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 1, Crew Quarters, Commander's Quarters
THREAT DETECT: Level 4, 5, 9, 10—Psychosis [Dangerous], Possible Exotic, Crew Impairment, Protocol Incompliance
   [REVISED DETECT]: Level 3, 4, 6, 10—Confirmed Exotic, Psychosis [Dangerous], Crew Impairment, Protocol Incompliance
THREAT RESPONSE: Audit Exotic Influence, Mirror Files, Recusal Review, Threat Review
   [REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 755, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN


"No! I have to talk to her!"

"I'm sorry, Commander. Too much time with the transceiver. David just needs some rest."

"I do not!"

"He and I were just talking about that."

"You mean you were trying to stick a needle in me!"

"David, stop."

"No! Don't touch me! She doesn't get it, Commander! She doesn't understand! She doesn't listen to it like I do. She doesn't know how helpful it can be."

"It's all right, Henson. Let David talk. See? No one's going to make you do anything you don't want to."

"She's trying to make me sleep, but I don't sleep anymore. I dream when I'm awake now."

"Me too, sometimes. It's okay."

"It's better than okay. It's brilliant! I'm brilliant! Look what it helped me make! Firewall, show them the drive designs."

AI-COM/FRWL//HOLOGRAM\PROFFERED
SILENCE//00:01:07

"See? You see what I mean?"

"Huh."

"The principle scales. I applied it to matter. It could work for whatever we want. It builds a cosmophasic field around the object to generate a convergence point. I can't build it with the materials we have here. Plus, you don't want to be in the solar system when you engage the drive. Wouldn't want to accidently bring anything along with you."

"[whistles] Okay, David, you've had your chat—"

"Doctor, I think David is right."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't understand. You may go. David and I have a lot to talk about."

RECORD: 8844J366$LUN-1.187 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Dr. Janet Green
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 1, Crew Quarters, Room 403
THREAT DETECT: Level 5, 8, 9—Possible Exotic, Possible Psychosis, Crew Impairment
THREAT RESPONSE: Forward for Medical Review
   [REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 755, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN


"Hey, Mouse. Sad news today. Clovis Bray has come to box it up. Commander says that we don't need it anymore because we built the transceiver. And the doctor says the box will help protect us.

"I don't like it. The idea of trapping it like that. Alone in the dark. Forever crying out but Mama can't hear you.

"They're going to box it up, study and poke you.

"They're even moving it away, to a new facility. I might not see it again.

"I might not see you again.

"That's too sad. Mama's too sad right now. We'll talk more later."

SILENCE//00:02:27

"What's the point?"

RECORD: 9046G766$LUN-0.346 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Mike Loftus, Liam Yan
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 3, Anomaly Observation
THREAT DETECT: Level 5—Possible Exotic
THREAT RESPONSE: Record for Posterity
   [REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 501, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN


"Here. Listen to this."

"We've been listening to it for the last two hours. I just needed a break."

"No, I know. But you really need to hear this."

"Fine. Shift is almost over anyway. Might as well suckle the last of that sweet nightmare milk."

SILENCE//00:01:37

"So?"

"Yup."

"That's it? Yup?"

"Yeah. It's a new pattern. That seemed super interesting two hours ago, but it got old. I am bored, and I am tired. And when our shift is over, I probably won't be able to sleep until two hours before I have to get up and do it all over again."

"Look at where the signal is coming from."

"What do you mean? It's right in front of us."

"Check the ambit on the PQZ."

"That's weird."

"Uh huh."

"So it's an echo?"

"Well the pattern repeats. First from here. And then from out there."

"So you think it's bouncing the signal off something outside the system? You're crazy."

"I'm not. Also, this kind of signal doesn't bounce. What can it hit between phasic realities?"

"Nothing…" [whistles]

"Still eager for your shift to end?"

AI-COM/FRWL//EXPOSURE LIMIT REACHED. EXIT OBSERVATION.

RECORD: 8796T563$LUN-0.324 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Dr. Wade Bow, Commander Kuang Xuan
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 4, Logistics, Infirmary
THREAT DETECT: Level 8, 9—Possible Psychosis, Crew Impairment
THREAT RESPONSE: Forward for Medical Review
   [REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 456, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN


"I've completed the report, Commander. You can read it for yourself, but I think we both understand the gravity of the situation."

"I will read it—and share a sitrep with the board next quarter—but a summary of principle findings wouldn't be out of order."

"[yawn] Excuse me. I need to get some rest. Well, I can't explain the mechanism, but tests show neurochemical cascades increasing in frequency and severity over time. Individuals differ in their expression, but there's a clear trend when examined in the aggregate. Approximately eighty percent of the K1 crew is suffering similarly: intrusive thoughts, insomnia, narcolepsy, nightmares, and in the worst cases—as we saw with Helsha Rell—hallucinations, auditory and visual. It's a threat to the project."

"And the twenty percent?"

"Individuals who've yet to be exposed. And yes, before you ask, I did witness the effect in action. I took the levels on an unexposed technician, Keleen Vance, and reexamined them after just an hour with it. Despite no outward changes of behavior, there was a marked drop in her serotonin and a commensurate rise in cortisol. After a week of work at Site 3, she was requesting sedatives as a sleep aid. Now she wants something stronger. Something to knock her out."

"Does your report include any recommendations?"

"Only my best guess: Restrict direct exposure to thirty minutes per day, rotate teams between sites each week to limit proximity. And we need to plan for attrition. People need to get off this rock or they'll go crazy. Heck, I'm near the breaking point, and I'm supposed to help everyone else."

"I think you're right. You do need a break. Come with me when I head back to Earth for my next quarterly. We can come up with a plan for who will replace you in the coming days."

"Fine. [yawns] Fine. And my recommendations?"

"I'll review the report, and we'll implement them. The rotation between sites will cause difficulty, but we'll do what we must to keep the crew fit."

RECORD: 6782W671$LUN-0.167
IDENTITIES: Dr. Tanis Lee, Commander Kuang Xuan, Captain Hou Ye [present, unspeaking]
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 2, Communion, Command Center
THREAT DETECT: Level 10—Protocol Incompliance
THREAT RESPONSE: Record for Posterity
   [REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 12, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN


"Commander, we found it."

"Where?"

"Nearly twelve hundred meters deep in Site 3. The readings were all over the charts like in the other dig sites, but the borer broke into a tunnel and… Well, we almost hit it with the borer. The machine chewed through a pillar or something that held it up, and—"

"It? So what is it? What does it look like? Show me the feed, the diagnostics, everything."

"I don't have any of that."

"What?"

"That's why I'm here. Instruments failed the moment we broke through. The borer too."

"Some sort of EMP? But your suits—"

"Worked just fine. We checked and rechecked everything."

"So what is this thing?"

"Nothing like what I expected. You have to see it for yourself."

"I think I do."

"I'll help you get your suit on."

RECORD: 0303K785$LUN-0.024
IDENTITIES: [SCRUBBED]
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 3
THREAT DETECT: Level 7, 10—Unauthorized Cognizance, Protocol Incompliance
THREAT RESPONSE: [SCRUBBED]
SCRUB REQUEST: Commander Kuang Xuan
SCRUB RESPONSE: Accepted


"That's it. That's the dig order. Clovis Bray has left the building."

"Finally. Now let's get to work."

"Wait. You can't just start like that."

"What?"

"Come on. Don't you see how momentous this is? Can't you feel it? We're on the Moon mining for what might be—"

"Above my pay grade. I dig. You dig. Let's dig."

"Slow down! Listen. A science only just discovered and a source on that wavelength or whatever is buried in the crust of the Moon. There's a whole other mission serving as a cover story! This is huge!"

"Just another day at the office."

"On the Moon..."

"Yep. On the Moon. Now come on. Get your gear and mount up."

"What's the hurry? It's just another day at the office."

"Nobody remembers the second guy to walk on the Moon."

"I do."

"Huh?"

"The second guy to walk on the Moon. I can name them all. First was—"

"Okay. Fine. You made your point. Would you get your gear on?"

"You do feel it."

"Fine. Yeah. Just don't make me think about it too much, okay? We've got a lot of work to do."

"All right, Apollo. Whatever you say."

"Huh? I told you no nicknames. Now let's get moving."

RECORD: 9982F323$LUN-1.127 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Commander Kuang Xuan, Alton Bray
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 1, Crew Quarters, Commander's Quarters
THREAT DETECT: None—All Parties Level 1 Clearance
THREAT RESPONSE: Record for Posterity
   [REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 634, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN


"Who gave you permission to be in here? Oh… Mr. Bray."

"Yes, Commander Kuang. And you'd have known I was coming if First Light hadn't severed communications."

"It was necessary to maintain the secrecy of the K1 project."

"That was not part of Aeronautics' agreement with us. And it's not working. You're burning through personnel. And the ones sane enough to sit down for an exit interview have some very unflattering things to say about operations here."

"They're—"

"Don't worry about them. We're containing the situation. You need to be more concerned about yourself."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a fact. Did you really think you could keep K1 for yourselves? And what has all this subterfuge gotten Aeronautics? What has it gotten you? You've led this project since its inception, and what do you have to show for it?"

"Firewall, pull up plans for the array."

AI-COM/FRWL HOLOGRAM\PROFFERED

"Interesting. What am I looking at?"

"The first extra-spatial transceiver. Using our current technology, background signals make it difficult to isolate—"

"I see. Its depth makes the Moon work like a baffle. Intriguing. And if it works, we'll… talk to whatever is out there?"

"It's not a conversation, exactly. Language isn't being used. Although, now that we've worked out most of the kinks, we know it could be used to transmit language across, well, any distance—instantaneously."

"You speak as if you've already built it."

"Come with me to Site 2."

RECORD: 1159K008$LUN-1.013 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Dr. Luli Henson, Commander Kuang Xuan
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 4, Logistics, Infirmary
THREAT DETECT: Level 8, 9—Possible Psychosis, Crew Impairment
   [REVISED DETECT]: Level 5—Possible Exotic
THREAT RESPONSE: Forward for Medical Review
   [REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 620, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN


"Step into my office, Commander."

"What's on your mind, doctor?"

"That's what I was going to ask you."

"I don't have time for word games."

"Then I'll put it to you straight. Your reprimand of Jun just now; it was over the top."

"Are you telling me how to do my job?"

"I'm telling you you're doing it wrong. With respect—"

"Respect?"

"—you're under a lot of stress, and if you don't mind me saying, it's showing."

"I do mind. As a matter of fact, I'm of a mind to put you on the next ship out of here."

"And what reason would give for my dismissal?"

"Insubordination! Undermining mission confidence!"

"Don't you think that might be a little over the top?"

"I... [sigh] Sorry. I didn't sleep well last night. I'm…"

"On edge? Yes. You hide it well, but I've been studying this. I know the signs. Insomnia or nightmares, or both?"

"Neither. I was awake. I was reading a report in bed, and then suddenly someone was in the room with me."

"A hallucination. Someone you knew?"

"Someone I knew? No. No, it was just a figure. I looked at the foot of my bed, and it was like a person, but tall, too tall. It loomed over me, a shadow. I couldn't see any features. I tried to call out to it, but I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. And it just looked at me. It sounds crazy, but it felt hateful—or not hate exactly… disdain? Anyway, I must have lost consciousness because when I woke, it was gone."

"This was the first occurrence? Just last night?"

"Yes. I can't imagine experiencing that twice."

"Well, I have good news and bad news."

[unintelligible grumble]

"Now hang on. It's really just good news. The bad news is that those who suffer from what you experienced often report multiple occurrences. The good news is that it's totally natural, it aligns with my research, and I think I can help you avoid it in the future."

"So what was it?"

"'It' was predormital sleep paralysis—atonia while conscious. You just need a little more gamma-aminobutyric acid in your system. Your body was in a sleep state while your mind was awake. This causes stress and can result in that idea of a threat being in the room. I'll send something up to your quarters. Drink it an hour before bed, and you'll be fine."

"That's a relief. Thank you, Doctor Henson. Forgive me for earlier?"

"Don't worry about it, but you might want to have another word with Jun."

"Noted. Thanks again. Goodnight, doctor."

"Goodnight, Commander."

SILENCE//00:06:03

"Firewall, can you run a spectrum-wide scan of the Commander's quarters tonight?"

AI-COM/FRWL//AFFIRMATIVE. SCAN REQUIRES COMMANDER KUANG'S CONSENT. RELAY PERMISSION REQUEST?

"No. No. It's probably nothing. Never mind."

RECORD: 6532V538$LUN-1.006
IDENTITIES: Dr. Janet Green
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 1, Crew Quarters, Room 403
THREAT DETECT: None
THREAT RESPONSE: None


"Hi, my Little Mouse. I hope that when we listen to this, we're both home and celebrating.

"It was hard leaving you and Mimi behind, and well… you didn't make it any easier. I didn't even get to hug you goodbye.

"Hopefully we're laughing about it now.

"Anyway, I'm recording this because I was invited to do… well, a super-special and super-secret job. So secret that I can't send you any messages while I'm away.

"But I'm going to record something every day because I'll be thinking about you every day. And Mimi, too, but I have different messages for her.

"So… Let's start with the big stuff.

"Mama is on the Moon! I'm sure you'll know that by the time we listen to this, but still, it's so crazy! It was long trip, and I'm exhausted, but now that I'm here I can't sleep. Too excited, I guess.

"Anyway, they found something up here on the Moon. It's a… Well, no one really knows what it is, but it's talking to something way out there. It might be talking to another Traveler! And that's what I'm here to help figure out. They needed Mama to help them crack the code. Pretty cool, right?

"I mean, another Traveler—or maybe the origins of the Traveler—wow.

"I hope you understand now that I had to go. I had to. Sorry, Mouse. Next time I leave, I expect that hug!

"You give the best hugs. I hope you're hugging me when you hear this."

RECORD: 8796T563$LUN-0.279 [RECUSAL MIRROR RECORD]
IDENTITIES: Commander Kuang Xuan, Aeronautics of China Board (President Yang Lyn, General Han Wanwei, [CORRUPTED]
LOCATION: K1 Dig Site 2, Communion, Command Center
THREAT DETECT: None—All Parties Level 1 Clearance
   [REVISED DETECT]: Level 4—Psychosis [Dangerous]
THREAT RESPONSE: Record for Posterity
   [REVISED RESPONSE]: Exhibit Record 22, FILE//REPORT TO RASPUTIN
SCRUB REQUEST: Commander Kuang Xuan
SCRUB RESPONSE: Accepted
DELETION REQUEST: Commander Kuang Xuan
DELETION RESPONSE: DELETE ALL


[CORRUPTED] "—and so we maintain the exobotany work, but there will be no further communication between that First Light team and the K1 project. Furthermore, communication of this sort ends. I'll come and deliver progress reports in person."

"I don't think I need to tell you this, but this is highly unusual, Commander Kuang. Surely our normal security protocols are sufficient."

"Yes, and normally I'd agree. So would our friends at Clovis Bray, I'm sure."

"You accuse Clovis Bray of… what? Monitoring our communications? Do you think they are listening right now?"

[Murmurs and laughter]

"I can't tell you what Clovis Bray did when they assisted in setting up this mission. But, I can tell you what I would have recommended to the board if Clovis Bray had been in the position of asking us for help putting a project together."

"I see… But you still haven't explained—" [CORRUPTED]

[CORRUPTED]
[CORRUPTED]
[SCRUBBED]
[SCRUBBED]
[CORRUPTED]

"How often would you be able to make your reports, Commander?"

"Quarterly. Earlier whenever we make a discovery of note."

"So, we can look forward to seeing you in person in a couple months."

"I plan to return tomorrow."

[surprised murmurs]

"Well! I think I speak for all of the board when I say that I expect something monumental when you give your report."

[murmurs of agreement]

"I have no doubt. If that's all, I'll take my leave. I have a lot of work to do before tomorrow."

"Certainly. Goodbye, Commander."

"Goodbye, President, Generals, esteemed members of the board. Signing out."

"Firewall, scrub the following from your records [SCRUBBED] [SCRUBBED]. Firewall, sever connection to Warmind Rasputin."

MIRROR RECORDS\MIRRORED
AI-COM/FRWL//WARMIND RASPUTIN REQUESTS REASON FOR BREAK OF CONTACT

"Tell Rasputin to contact Aeronautics of China. Sever connection."

AI-COM/FRWL//NEGATIVE. WARMIND RASPUTIN WILL MAINTAIN OPEN CHANNEL.

"Fine. Bring up a map for the critical relays for cross-space transmission."

FILE MIRRORED RECORDS//FILED//RECUSE FILE\RECUSED
AI-COM/FRWL//HOLOGRAM\PROFFERED

"Highlight any other systems that might be used as backdoors or jury rigged to transmit or receive."

RECUSED FILE//RECUSE\RECUSED\RECUSED\RECUSED\RECUSED
HOLOGRAM\MODIFIED

"Transfer that to my datastem. Firewall, delete all records of my conversation with the board and of this conversation.

DELETE RECORDS\DELETED
DELETE MIRROR RECORDS\DELETED
DELETE RECUSED FILE\DELETED\CORRUPTED
AI-COM/FRWL//DELETION AFFIRMED.

I.

Saladin remembers what it was like to be young. He remembers the exhilaration of discovering the infinite power he now holds in his hands. He remembers the terror, too—his first death and the agony of a ruptured lung. His mouth had been too full of blood to form words or plead with his Ghost, so he tried with his eyes instead.

Saladin remembers his second death because it was quicker than his first: a wrong step in a minefield outside of what used to be a city called Nur-Sultan. He laughed when his Ghost reassembled him. Then, he cried.

Saladin remembers deaths three through sixty-five but does not dwell on them. Instead, he regrets the thousands of hours of sleep lost to nightmares, and how much less vibrant his recollection of that period in his life is compared to his noble centuries spent as an Iron Lord.

Saladin remembers the day he stopped counting deaths. "Something about you is different," Jolder had said, and put her hand on his.

Saladin remembers all this and more when he looks at the Crow. He feels rage form a hot pit in his belly when Osiris tells him about the young Lightbearer's suffering at the hands of his fellow Guardians. Osiris asks him if he can keep a secret.

"I don't like secrets," Saladin says, and that's the end of it.

Vell Tarlowe. Sai Mota. Omar Agah. Eriana-3.

The scarlet phantoms hang in the air beside Eris as she stares across the Enduring Abyss, her eyes fixed upon the Lunar Pyramid.

Suspended between Nightmare and Memory, her old friends remain forever silent, offering neither torment nor guidance. They listen, and nothing more.

And sometimes, that is enough.

"Long has it been since I walked the Pyramid's protean halls," Eris muses. "Would it welcome me back, now that I meddle in its affairs by severing its growing bond with the Leviathan?"

Her fireteam does not respond.

"It does not matter," she concludes. "Regardless of the Pyramid's agenda, Calus must not succeed."

Her thoughts turn to the others aboard the Leviathan, confronting Nightmares of their own. She wonders—as she has done many times since binding the Crown of Sorrow —whether she should perform her own severance ritual.

Eris looks upon the apparitions that were once her fireteam, and her gaze softens.

For better or worse, she has grown accustomed to her grief. Let the others shed their burdens. She keeps hers close, heavy and held dear.

Without them, the silence would be deafening.

DURESS - III

Sjari shifted on the wooden operating table. Why must she be the first?

She probed the jelly-like substance smeared across her forehead as Elder Kalli entered the room.

"Don't touch that. It's an antiseptic… and a binding agent," Kalli said, placing a sizeable blue-crystal-adorned mask next to an assortment of scalpels, hooks, and erosion stencils on her back table. Each tool was etched with ceremonial iconography, and freshly sharpened.

"Normally, it takes years to become an Adept among our ranks… but the Queen's Wrath believes time is short. If you survive, these augments will expedite your training and enhance your abilities."

Kalli turned away to work a mortar and pestle. "You will need to learn to focus under duress. Remove your mind from this place. Sink into the cosmic, project out from yourself. There is no pain, no flesh, no nerves."

Sjari gripped the sides of the operating table and pressed her back flat, until no air existed between her and the surface beneath—until she felt herself a part of it. She told herself to ignore the grinding of the pestle and thought about how Petra had taught her to use the physical as a transitionary conduit to the Ascendant.

"Drink this," Kalli ordered, handing Sjari a small cup of queensfoil tea.

Sjari opened her eyes and released her grip as her meditation broke. "Yes, Elder sister. Give me a moment to focus, please," she pleaded, hastily gulping down the tea.

"You think my voice is sharper than this knife?" Kalli asked, lifting the scalpel from her back table. "Duress. You must push through it if you are to survive. Be strong, or you will die. This is your final test."

Sjari drank quickly and pressed herself to the table once more. She focused on her fingertips and the feel of the hand-worked wood. The grain formed diminutive pathways for her nails to trace; tiny patterns hidden away within the enormity that surrounded them, only revealed by shrinking one's perspective. She let herself drift.

Kalli threaded the thin metal edge directly through to the bone of Sjari's skull. A line of incision opened a wave of red. Searing penetration through the layers. Overwhelming electrified senses. They gave way to a calming sting in the discordant firing of nerves. A pattern. The texture. The split between what was and what could be.

In her mind's eye, Sjari saw the Ley Lines unfurl like budding petals of a living blossom. Nebula-like plumes of pollen. She let herself slip away until the pain of her flesh was only one of many choices before her.

Foreword to "The Book of the Forgotten"

Sol is filled with monsters. More than I imagined could possibly exist in one system. So far, the list includes:

Alien robots that bend time, blot out the sun, and drive people crazy.

Floating witches that birth squirming hordes of cannibals, all driven to murder by parasitic worms.

Armored walrus people who conquer planets and subjugate whole races.

Undead mobs of rotting alien corpses, animated by Dark Ether.

Clans of interstellar insects trying to steal a small planetoid for its energy signature.

And most recently, ominous triangular ships of unknown origin that send spooky telepathic messages.

But in my opinion, the most bizarre monsters in all of Sol are a gang of heavily armed zombies, made eternal by pint-sized cybernetic constructs (some of whom are lovers of folk tales).

Sol may be a strange and crowded place, but the next time someone tells you of a bizarre new monster (like a shadowy clique of pumpkin-headed phantoms), think twice before you dismiss them. That monster may be your new neighbor.

Happy Festival of the Lost!

—Glint, the smallest monster

II

Osiris walked into the office without hesitation, as if it were his own. Zavala looked up and pushed his blank papers to the side.

"Osiris," he said. "You don't seem to be taking your exile very seriously of late."

"I treat it with the same regard you give its enforcement," sniffed the Warlock as he crossed his arms.

Zavala raised his eyebrows but saw traces of a smile around Osiris's eyes. He leaned back in his chair and gestured for him to continue.

"I bring hope from an unexpected source," Osiris said. "There is a devotee of mine on Mercury—a certain Brother Vance—stationed just outside the Infinite Forest. His point of view is unique, but it may be more valuable than I had anticipated."

Osiris opened his hand and cast a small projection: a fleet of Pyramid ships.

"Since the Traveler's reformation, Brother Vance has been studying prophecies where such an event took place. He believes he has discovered a way to stop the Pyramids."

A spiderweb of trajectories crisscrossed the projection. There was a flash and the Pyramid ships melted into Osiris's palm.

Zavala leaned forward. "He found this by studying simulated realities?"

"Specifically realities where the Pyramids invade our system and the Traveler reforms," Osiris said. "In all the realities where the City survives, Brother Vance believes there is a common thread."

"I… know Vance," Zavala said carefully. "Can we put our future in his hands?"

Osiris bristled reflexively, but then made a reconciliatory gesture. "We have seen more than our share of tomorrows, wouldn't you agree? We have done so through the strength of our community." The Warlock laced his fingers together.

"Brother Vance, he is one man, true. But so were you. So was I. It would be unwise to dismiss what his future may hold."

Tohr sat atop a storm-shrouded hill, surrounded in distance by sea and mist. The Maelstrom hung overhead, birthed from Tohr's relinquishment. It had raged for years, just as it did before when Tohr had claimed the reigns and issued his challenge to Raiju's Maelstrom.

Clouds trundled at the storm's edge and forked bolts split through a central cumulonimbus supercell. Strikes of gnarled charge nipped scorch into the dirt with terrifying frequency as the sky rippled with lightning. Tohr's withered husk remained in meditative stillness, long dead, basking in the metronomic glow of each flashing termination. The armor around his corpse let slip a glint of light, pulsing like a guiding bannerette for thrill seekers. It had caught Tyv Lucine's eye many times.

She watched from the base, attempting to establish a safe route through the scattered fulmination. Salt-blasted dirt gave way underfoot, in places, while spindles of thatch-work glass weave held strong against her weight in others. She could feel static flow through the network of crystalline connections like conduits aching to reach out and touch the storm. Her Light shivered, welcoming the Arc surges that leapt up metal clasps on her boots, and she threw herself to another glossy foothold as a bolt dove to meet ground.

The Maelstrom calmed as she reached Tohr's body. A staff lay at his feet. The air was a screen of charged pressure around him, but Tyv knew how to find gaps. She knew how to bend away the lightning and loop Arc into itself. Lessons the Light had taught her. She slipped her hand through the barrier and lifted the plate from Tohr. She inhaled ozone and humidity and slid the Harness onto her shoulders.

Roars thundered from overhead and bolts scattered across Tohr's hill. Tyv swept the staff off the ground and drove her Arc-Light into its form. The reigns were in hand; the challenge issued. She would bend the storm, and live as lightning made flesh.


-Raiju's Legacy

Bask materialized near a low wall and zipped to where Jolur had collapsed. The Ghost began to focus his Light when incoming fire sent him spinning to the ground.

"What did I tell you about dying in the open?" the little Ghost cried in frustration. Determined, he rose into the air, but the Hive Knight was already charging across the Trostland cobblestones.

A sudden explosion of Void energy took the Knight by surprise, but it dodged the pulsing shockwaves of a Vortex Grenade. A tall Warlock in a worn green robe loped from the treeline and slid to a stop before Bask. She hastily formed a ball of Light in her palm and slammed it into the ground. Delicate wisps of energy began to rise from the soil.

"That's not gonna help!" Bask whirred angrily.

The Warlock stood, sheltering Bask with her body as he resumed his focus on Jolur. The Knight screeched and resumed fire. A volley of Shredder bolts doubled the Warlock over, but the energy seeping from the rift gave her the strength to keep standing.

"Thanks," said Bask sheepishly.

"Don't mention it," she said, gritting her teeth through the gunfire.

A blinding burst of energy surged as Jolur rose to his feet, body shimmering with Light. He braced himself and lobbed an orb of unstable energy that reduced the Knight to howling ash on impact.

"Appreciate the assist," Jolur said to Bask and the Warlock as he brushed dirt from his decrepit boots. "These guys are stronger than I thought, but it's nothing a Nova Bomb can't handle."

The Warlock inspected the damage to her robe. "What's going on with these Hive?"

"I don't know," Jolur said. "Lord Saladin sent a group of us down to figure out—"

Another blinding burst of energy surged nearby. The Knight rose to its feet, body shimmering with Light.

The Guardians stood frozen in horror.

"Since when can they do that?" Bask squeaked, and the fight began in earnest.

Lakshmi-2 : faction head : Exo : politician

1 : the Eliksni Quarter : screaming : a crackling portal : treachery : Fallen attack : we're being overrun : where are the Guardians—

2 : the Last City : the Tower in ruins : Fallen scavengers sift the rubble—

3 : the Last City : radioactive dust : Dark growths in the ruins: where is the Traveler : mutated Ghosts—

4 : the Eliksni Quarter : a crackling portal : Asher speaks : Fallen being attacked : Dead Orbit overhead : Saint-14 besieged : FWC surrenders—

5 : the Eliksni Quarter : the Endless Night : a crackling portal : Mithrax firing wildly : the Cult flees : Ikora triumphant—

6 : the Eliksni Quarter : a crackling portal : snipers fire down : blood runs in the gutter : an Ether tank explodes : the Endless Night : Asher speaks : those FWC traitors—

7 : the Botza District : a crackling portal : Fallen flee : FWC banners : Zavala is gone : Mithrax on trial : Lakshmi-2 looks over the crowd—

Lakshmi-2 : head of state : Exo : prophet : savior

[The Queen] would like to improve her means of [bargaining] with me. She has implied that I use the space between words to make [bargains] to my advantage.

How dare she.

She knows me so well.

What [the Queen] wants, the Techeun move worlds to obtain. And so the Witches devise an impossible machine that speaks a visual language with very few spaces between its words. This machine speaks [wishes]. Makes [bargains].

The Wall of [Wishes], it is called.

If the Techeun's design proves correct, it will be difficult for me to interpret the [wishes] made at the Wall to my advantage. But challenges entice me.

I look upon the Wall. Upon the Witches' visual language for [bargains]. For me, it is a menu of delights to feast upon.

High above the Last City, tucked in one of the Tower's many alcoves, Cayde-6 thumbs through an old book. Plucked from the Speaker's library, it's become delicate with age, or so he assumes, taking extra care turning each page. His sense of touch is good; there's certainly enough circuitry in his metal fingers to pull off the most precise of shots. But even a hair-trigger touch might rip the brittle paper…

Cayde pauses on a page. "If sailor tales and sailor tunes, storm and adventure, heat and cold—"

Suddenly, a gust of surprisingly icy wind nearly rips the book from Cayde's hands. "To hell with this godforsaken ice cube!" he shouts, almost falling from his perch.

He steadies himself and inhales deeply. Hang on there, Cayde. You're not on any ice cube, godforsaken or otherwise. You're on Earth, in the Last City.

But the memory lingers, like the floating neon outlines seconds after a blinding camera flash. The snow-white plains of a distant moon, a sarcophagus of ice and iron.

—flash—

Yes, that's what Europa feels like to Cayde-1 as he loads crate after crate onto the bay outside the Exoscience factory. Even the sky has turned a flat gray, casting all beneath it in dull, deadening light. A warning sky, he thinks. Sailors had some kinda rhyme for it, didn't they?

Either way, it hardly makes for a motivating work environment. Cayde sits on one of the crates. "I'm taking a break," he announces. "Need to or not, this is when we used to have lunch. I refuse to work through lunch."

Next to him, Knox-4 sighs with relief and longing. "I miss lunch. I miss getting hungry."

Cayde grins as much as his mechanical face will allow. "Hmm…" he intones in his best Dr. Abrams impression, "So you would say… you're hungry for hunger?"

Knox bursts into guffaws. Cayde chuckles weakly. It wasn't that funny. But as his friend's laughter grows, so does Cayde's. Soon, they're both clutching each other and howling.

Then, gradually, their cheer fades. "What do you tell that shrink, by the way?" Knox asks. "You tell him about the whisper?"

Cayde shakes his head. Before he can snark about the uselessness of psychologists, the whisper rings in his metal skull. It's red sky in morning, sailor's warning. But you are no sailor.

A whimper squeaks out from the loading bay. A moment later, a short snowsuitted figure scrambles out, racing for the far end of the factory. Cayde and Knox shout, taking off after the eavesdropper. No sharpshooter yet, Cayde fumbles for his BrayTech-issued handgun, aims shakily and…

—bang—

Cayde-6 comes back to himself just as he stumbles into his hideout. He rifles through the piles of loot, until… "Aha!" He finds a pen. Cayde-6 isn't done yet. He flips open the book, no longer being careful with the pages, and starts scrawling.

"Spend time with an Exo who's been through it like we have and you'll see all the tells…"

I:

"Anything else, Arrha?"

"Yes, the Spider." Arrha answers in Eliksni. "Mithrax has told me about the orb the humans call Tee-tahn. A water-world of floating cities. Before the Red War, very few humans visited it, very few."

"I'm already bored."

"Tee-tahn is still ripe with plunder, the Spider, and now the plunder comes to us! The Guardian Slohn sends shipments of it to Terra in unmanned craft. Relies on the cloaking to protect it. But the cloaking cannot stop a web. Not if we know where to cast it."

"How interesting." Spider scratches his chin. "Very good, Arrha. It's time for you to go fishing."

"Fishhhhhh… ink?"

Spider heaves a put-upon sigh. "Catch me one of those boats, you fool."

"Yes, the Spider. I shall."

Only when he is outside the Spider's audience chamber does Arrha allow himself a frustrated growl. "'Catch a boat, Arrha.' That was the idea…"

TYPE: CONTINGENCY RECORD
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Razor [r]
ASSOCIATIONS: Hive; Light; Tarlowe, Vell
//AUDIO CONTINGENCY ARCHIVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[r:01] I can't… bring him back…
[r:02] They were too many… everywhere… devouring his Light.
[r:03] I need to find the others, I need to tell them.


TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Omar Agah [oa]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Vell Tarlowe [vt]
ASSOCIATIONS: Agah, Omar; Crota; Eriana-3; Great Disaster; Hive; Light; Moon [Earth]; Morn, Eris; Mota, Sai; Tarlowe, Vell; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]; Throne World
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[oa:01] Hang on, does it make sense to you that Crota will be weaker in some reality he created?
[vt:01] It doesn't have to make sense. He just has to be stopped.
[oa:02] I know, but wouldn't you make a netherworld or whatever where you were invulnerable?
[vt:02] According to Toland—
[oa:03] Right, Toland. Why are we trusting anything that lunatic says?
[vt:03] I don't trust him. His highest loyalty is to knowledge. I trust you. I trust Eris and the others. I trust the Light in us.
[oa:04] A lot of Guardians brought their Light here. Are we any different?
[vt:04] They didn't know what Toland knows.
[oa:05] Toland again!
[vt:05] Toland again. I don't trust my weapons. I use them.
[silence]
[oa:06] Fair enough.

TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: Three [3]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Jax [j]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Eriana-3 [REDACTED]; One [1] Hive, Wizard-type, Deathsinger, designate Ir Yût [REDACTED]
ASSOCIATIONS: Deathsinger; Deathsong; Eriana-3; Hive; Ir Yût; Praxic Order; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]; Wizard
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[j:01] I'll keep the feed live. Maybe the Praxics can make use of this data.
[j:02] It's a song that's killing her. Gone on for about two minutes, thirty seconds now.
[j:03] I've wiped it from this transmission, in case its power extends through recorded media.
[j:04] If anyone is listening… don't trust Toland.


TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Eris Morn [em]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Eriana-3 [e3]
ASSOCIATIONS: Eriana-3; Great Disaster; Morn, Eris; Saloon; Tower
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[em:01] I knew I'd find you here.
[e3:01] Where else should I be?
[silence]
[e3:02] Eris?…You made it.
[em:02] I did. I wish more could say the same.
[silence]
[e3:03] You want something to drink?
[e3:04] You sure? On the house tonight.
[em:03] I'm sure.
[silence]
[e3:05] You know, this is where we…
[em:04] I know.
[e3:06] When she laughed, the dishes would rattle. You remember that?
[em:05] I remember.
[e3:07] Now, it's so damn quiet…
[e3:08] EVERYBODY'S TOO DAMN QUIET!
[e3:09] LAUGH!
[e3:10] LAUGH, DAMN IT!
[silence]
[e3:11] Somebody, just laugh…
[silence]
[e3:12] I… I just miss her so much…
[em:06] I know.

TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Yuka [y]
ASSOCIATIONS: Light; Omnigul; Wormrot
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[y:01] I raised her 43 times. But on the 44th death, Omnigul's wormrot clung to her bones, rendered my powers useless on her.
[y:02] Now my Light is fading. But if there's a chance to revive her, I won't leave her. I won't…


TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Three [3]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Eriana-3 [e3]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Eris Morn [em]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Sai Mota [sm]
ASSOCIATIONS: Crota; Eriana-3; God [Hive]; Moon [Earth]; Morn, Eris; Mota, Sai
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[sm:01] So, driven by the words of an exiled madman and a desire for revenge, you are planning a forbidden attack by half a dozen people in an interdiction zone where thousands of Guardians were killed, and that plan is to kill a god. Did I get that right?
[e3:01] Yes.
[em:01] Yes.
[sm:02] Good. I'm in.

TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: Variable, approx. [~850]. One [1] Hive, God-type, designate Crota; Forty-seven [47] Guardian-type, Class Hunter; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Gunnvor [AKA Gunnvor, the Dawncaller] [g]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Wei Ning; Twenty-two [22] Guardian-type, Class Titan, Order Firebreak; Thirty-four [34] Guardian-type, Class Titan, Order First Pillar; Seven [7] Guardian-type, Class Titan, Order Sun Legion; Thirteen [13] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, Order Praxic; Seventeen [17] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, Order Cryptochron; approx. [#] Hive, variable types [Acolytes, Knights, Ogres, Thralls, Wizards]
ASSOCIATIONS: Crota; First Pillar; Gunnvor [AKA Gunnvor, the Dawncaller]; Light; Ning, Wei
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[g:01] Wei Ning needs more time. It falls to us. First Pillars! To me!
[g:02] Crota! Gunnvor, the Dawncaller challenges you!
[g:03] [battle cry]


TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Gunnvor [AKA Gunnvor, the Dawncaller] [g]
ASSOCIATIONS: Hive; First Pillar; Light; Moon [Earth]; Oceanus Procellarum [Earth's Moon]
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[g:01] Gunnvor to all First Pillars: We're coming in hot.
[g:02] The Ocean of Storms is living up to its name.
[g:03] Defenders, erect wards upon transmat.
[g:04] Strikers, shelter under wards or whatever cover you can find until our Firebreak friends fall back.
[g:05] When they've regrouped, I'll give the signal for the counterattack.
[g:06] All right. Let's give the Hive some hell!

TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Brya [b]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Eris Morn [em]
ASSOCIATIONS: Light; Morn, Eris
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[em:01] No! I'll find a way to hide you, to hide your Light…
[b:01] There's no other way.
[em:02] Don't ask me to do this.
[b:02] Just promise me one thing.
[em:03] Ghost… please…
[b:03] Don't look back.


TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Twenty-six, approx. [26]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Brya [b]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Eris Morn [em]; approx. [#] Hive, variable types [Acolytes, Darkblades, Deathsinger, Thralls], designate [chorus]
ASSOCIATIONS: Agah, Omar; Eriana-3; Mota, Sai; Tarlowe, Vell
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[em:01] What have I done?
[b:01] No time! Run!
[chorus:01] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[b:02] The song! Don't listen!
[b:03] Think of something else!
[em:02] I can't!
[b:04] Think of Sai Mota!
[em:03] Sai, I'm sorry.
[chorus:02] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[b:05] Think of Omar Agah!
[em:04] Oh, Omar…
[b:06] Think about Vell!
[em:05] Vell…
[b:07] Think about Eriana!
[em:06] Eriana!
[b:08] Sai, Omar, Vell—
[em:07] Sai…
[chorus:03] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[b:09] Eriana, Sai, Omar—
[em:08] Omar…
[b:10] Vell, Eriana, Sai, Omar, Vell—
[em:09] Vell…
[chorus:04] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[b:11] Sai, Omar, Vell, Eriana—
[em:10] Eriana…
[b:12] Sai, Omar—
[em:11] Vell, Eriana…
[em:12] Sai, Omar, Vell, Eriana…
[em:13] SAI! OMAR! VELL! ERIANA!

TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Jeev [j]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Gimble-4 [g4]
ASSOCIATIONS: Adonna; Akka; Song; Eir; Ur; Xol; Yul
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[j:01] We're going in, getting what Adonna wanted, and getting out. Do you copy?
[j:02] …Hey. You listening?
[g4:01] Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul… Eir… Ur… Xol… Yul…
[j:03] What are you doing? Hey—
[g4:02] EIR. UR. XOL. YUL. AKKA!
[j:04] Ahhh—


TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Research-type, Crypto-Archaeologist [Reef], designate Adonna [a]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Gimble-4 [g4]
ASSOCIATIONS: Engram; Graphemics; Hive; Music; Paracausal; Quantum Field Theory; Relativity; Runes; Song
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[a:01] Engram precepts—not just prototypical but in sum—could be cynosural of a recondite gestalt. Procuring a modal sample from the Hive and comparing it to their runic syntax might be key to its graphemics and, ultimately, ambages to the protological patterns underlying quantum field theory, relativity, and paracausal phenomena.
[silence]
[a:02] A comparative study of Hive hymnody and graphonomy might—as part of a larger cerebrative process examining engrams through the window of fundamental theories of reality—reveal an ungirding pattern of tonal morphemes that…
[a:03] Hmm.
[silence]
[a:04] Both causal and paracausal laws of the universe might… share a common… language. Getting a sample of the Hive's… music… will help me… study it.
[silence]
[g4:01] So, you want us to record the Hive singing so you can…
[g4:02] …figure out how the universe works?
[a:05] Eureka! You apprehend it!

TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Vyhar [v]
ASSOCIATIONS: Cabal; Ghaul; Hive; Magic; Young Wolf [Saladin's]
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[v:01] How is this possible…
[v:02] Ghaul's dead. You're dead! The Young Wolf killed you!
[v:03] What is this? Hive magic?


TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Four [4]. One [1] Cabal, Centurion-type, Dominus, designate Ghaul [g]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Omnibull [o]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Rana Untu [ru]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Vyhar [v]
ASSOCIATIONS: Cabal; Ghaul; Gladiator; Incendior; Light; Vyhar; Young Wolf [Saladin's]
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[o:01] Vyhar, behind me!
[v:01] Just a sec!
[v:02] There! That'll give them something—
[ru:01] Watch out!
[v:03] Damn Incendiors!
[o:02] I told you—
[ru:02] Heads up!
[v:04] What in the…?
[ru:03] Is that Ghaul?
[o:03] Gladiators incoming!
[v:05] That's got them riled up!
[g:01] Traveler, do you see me now?
[v:06] He's huge!
[ru:04] He has the Light!
[o:04] Impossible!
[g:02] I am immortal—a god!
[o:05] Listen to them cheering.
[ru:05] We've lost.
[g:03] You have failed!
[o:06] The plan didn't work.
[g:04] Witness the dawning of a new age!
[ru:06] Wait! Something's happening!
[g:05] Noooooooooo!
//LIGHT INFLUX EXCEEDS SAFE CAPACITY//

TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Guren [g]
ASSOCIATIONS: Deathsinger; Guren [self]; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]; Traveler
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[g:01] This is the final transmission of Guren, Ghost of Toland whom you call the Shattered. He goes to hear the song of death.
[g:02] Nothing will deter him. None of you can stop him. Not anymore.
[g:03] Toland will hear the Deathsinger's melody. He will redefine death, escape the Traveler's blunt samsara.
[g:04] He will sound the depths of the powers you so myopically fear.
[g:05] My only regret is that I will not live to see his triumph.


TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Guren [g]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Toland [t]
ASSOCIATIONS: Eriana-3; Guardian; Morn, Eris; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[g:01] Incoming Guardians! They've broken the perimeter. Shall I engage defenses?
[t:01] No need. They have inquisitive intentions. If murder was their mission, we'd have lost our Light long ago.
[g:02] They want to know what you know.
[t:02] Yes. And I will tell them, but they will never understand. I'll greet them with a smile and welcome them in.
[t:03] I will learn how we can benefit from their ignorance.
[g:03] Yes, but don't smile.
[t:04] Why not? A smile hides the true purpose of teeth.
[g:04] Yes, but not yours.

TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate Karsys [k]
ASSOCIATIONS: Agah, Omar
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[k:01] My time has come. Finally, finally…
[k:02] When I go, you'll be free. It'll all be over.
[k:03] Omar… do you think… we'll see each other… again?


TYPE: LIVE SURVEILLANCE FEED [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Warlock, designate Eriana-3 [e3]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Omar Agah [oa]
ASSOCIATIONS: Crota; Eriana-3; Great Disaster; Hive; Moon [Earth]; Morn, Eris; Ning, Wei; Toland [AKA Toland, the Shattered]; Vanguard
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[oa:01] You can't be serious.
[silence]
[oa:02] You are. But why?
[silence]
[oa:03] Dying up there won't bring her back, you know.
[silence]
[oa:04] Sorry. That wasn't… I'm sorry. Sometimes I say—
[e3:01] You're honest, Omar. It's a quality I very much admire. So, allow me to be honest in return.
[e3:02] We're going back, because we have found a way to destroy Crota. The Vanguard is too cowardly to use it.
[oa:05] Cowardly?
[e3:03] You know it's true. We hide behind the Wall as if it would save us, but what if Crota decided to descend?
[e3:04] What if Crota and his armies landed in the City? How many more would die?
[oa:06] But if Crota were to attack us, couldn't we defeat him here?
[e3:05] No. The only means of destroying him is up there.
[oa:07] Then why won't the Vanguard agree to—
[e3:06] Eris and I went to Toland—
[oa:08] Eris? Eris Morn?
[e3:07] She sent me.
[oa:09] Why the hell didn't you just say so? Let's go.

TYPE: LIVE COMBAT FEED [CONTINGENCY RECORD]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate undesignated [u]
ASSOCIATIONS: First Light; Light; Luna [AKA Moon; Earth]; Reef
//AUDIO PRESERVED//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[u:01] This will be my last transmission. Not sure I even have the Light left to send it.
[u:02] Thought I'd look for a Guardian on Luna. A First Light colonist. A downed Reef pilot. Maybe an Exo who never came home from the war.
[u:03] Is it possible… to miss someone… you've never met?


TYPE: CANDIDATE SCAN [CONTINGENCY-LINKED]
PARTIES: One [1]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate undesignated [u]
ASSOCIATIONS: First Light
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[u:01] Finally! Another First Light technician.
[u:02] All right, let's see about you…
[u:03] Hoo boy. Another one.
[u:04] DNA degradation alone makes this impossible, but even if I could bring you back, who'd put you back together again?
[u:05] Inextirpable psychological trauma. Indelible psychosis: violence, paranoia, obsessive behavior. And… yup, some kind of hallucinatory mechanism. Damage to the occipital lobe and limbic, and then those weird formations in the parietal and temporal. It's like something rewired your brain but did it through your DNA.
[u:06] What were they doing up here?

We used to play for keeps. Used to be that was the only way.
Back in those days trust came slow, or not at all. The only thing you could truly rely on was the iron at your side.
Fate of the world? Immortal gods?
Don't know much 'bout that.
But when everything's on the line, it's quality that counts.
Tex Mechanica: we play by the old rules, the best rules.
We play for keeps.

Something terrible is going to happen.

In this dream, a horrible, brutal hand stretches toward you. But this is not the old enemy you know, it is something new. Something that hopes to use you more than it hopes to destroy you, but it's willing to settle for either.

The cage is worse than the paralysis of silence. It is worse than the grasping tendrils of dark. It is too tangible. It is too unfamiliar. This is not why you came here. This is not what you deserve.

The fear is enough to make you want to leave.

---

I am the last Speaker, and I dream that the Traveler will leave us.

It shouldn't be a surprise. This truth has been passed down from Speaker to Speaker for generations: the Traveler is good, the Traveler is sentient, the Traveler will save us, and the Traveler will leave us. For many, many years, I believed that the prophecy of the Traveler's departure was misinterpreted, and fulfilled instead by its silence after the Collapse. I stopped preaching that final tenet. It only served to frighten people.

My dreams, which have always been infrequent and fleeting, come more regularly. They are more confusing than ever, more disruptive. I once so rarely dreamed while awake, but now it happens all the time.

|| I am silent again. I am gone. I leave behind a yawning void. ||

My dreams forecast a terrible future: a future without the Traveler's Light. I see them all falling, Guardians and Lightless alike, toppled by the Traveler's absence. I don't understand why it happens, and I don't know when. But I know it is coming.

The details almost don't matter.

I've lived my whole life bringing people into the Light of the Traveler. I've made promises and assurances all based on faith. I've crushed doubt down into myself as far as it will go, made myself sick with it, because doubt is better left unspoken.

|| I do not recognize my world. I want to flee. ||

It's an easy decision in the end.

I tell no one. Until I can understand better what's coming, sharing this information would only be dangerous. It would create panic. A mass exodus from the City. Maybe the system, if Dead Orbit has a say in it. There will be fear and anger and violence, all based on a dream I can't explain or verify with proof.

If I can understand this better, if I can make sense of it, then I can fix it. Surely.

So I go on as if nothing has happened. I attend Consensus meetings. I discuss Hidden intelligence with Ikora. I receive reports and news from our scouts outside the City, and I consult with Zavala. People come to me with questions, as always. They ask how to cope with loss, and change, and fear—all daily realities of this life. They ask how to cope with doubt.

I lie through my teeth and tell them to trust in the Traveler.

|| Empty. Empty. Empty. ||

The dreams continue. The headaches get worse. But I believe so strongly that this knowledge would destroy our way of life, and I hold it so tightly that it poisons me.

It's all for nothing.

I'm in my apartment when I hear the first ground-shaking explosion, and I go outside to see what's happened.

I see the Red Legion fleet darkening our skies, and I realize I have made a terrible mistake.

Somewhere, the other tiny star is calling out.

You try to answer, but it cannot hear you. Not without help. You want to help, but you are paralyzed. Your limbs are crushed and your heart beats so slowly. You've never known weakness so intimately as you do now.

You can only wait.

---

I am the last Speaker, but I have been searching for the next. I stand on the balcony of my small apartment with Lady Efrideet, who wishes to leave the Last Safe City of Earth.

"I suppose I can't convince you to stay."

Efrideet stands with her arms crossed, looking out over the City. "No," she says.

"And you certainly don't need to ask permission."

She laughs, just a little. "No." She leans out over the balcony railing, looking down. Guardians have no fear of heights. She would probably happily hang over the rail by her ankles if the mood struck her. "But I was thinking about what you said before." She turns to look at me, but the featureless mask serves me once more, betraying nothing. "About finding the next Speaker."

Ah.

I've been waiting for decades for someone to come to me, to tell me their child is having strange, blinding dreams and headaches. To see a Guardian stroll through the Tower, flocked by unpaired Ghosts. I've interviewed hundreds of people via long-distance comms. I've consulted the Traveler. I've walked daily among the crowds of civilians and Guardians at the entrance of the City. And still, I've found no one I can hand down my mask to.

Before Saint-14 left for Mercury, I'd thought that maybe he could take my place. That I might be able to teach him. That's not the way it's usually done, but he has such a gentle heart. He has the right temperament. Sometimes I think he's better suited to it than I am.

But he hasn't come back.

I clear my throat. "Yes," I say. "Right. I still haven't found them. But I know they're out there."

"Well," Efrideet says. "I'm going 'out there.' I can look."

It's a good offer. But I am still waiting for him to come back, all the same.

"That's why you want to leave the City?" I ask instead of condoning the proposal. "You're the one who convinced me to come here."

"I'm glad I did," she says, lifting her chin. "But no, that's not it. There's something about this life that isn't… working for me. Seems to me that a Guardian should have more ways of marking this world than with a gun."

"That's not how I think of you."

She pauses, then leans on the railing. "Sure," she says. "But it's stuck in my muscle memory, all the same. Hundreds of years of pointing and shooting, Speaker…" She shakes her head. "I don't know what it is yet, but I want to find a different way."

This conversation feels so familiar. I was so young the last time we had it.

"I understand," I say, softer now. "That's a noble cause."

She shrugs. "And maybe I come back with a little baby Speaker."

She doesn't say it, but the "if I come back at all" hangs in the air between us.

"I would appreciate your help," I say finally. "I can't wear this mask forever."

You are waiting for something to happen.

You are suspended and weightless, but so heavy in your heart. You have a child's voice: quiet, easily lost in a crowd. You try to shout and be heard, but there is only one little star in a sea of thousands that can hear you. It only understands a fraction of your words, but it tries, and that has to be enough.

Life goes on beyond your control, as it always has. That is the curse of your creation. The things you build are not your own.

And then another star blinks into existence.

---

I am the last Speaker, and I sit at a table with the Vanguard while the City around us fights over nothing.

"We built this City to find some kind of unity," Tallulah says. She has her hands on the table and is leaning forward, like she might jump over it. "We're breaking apart from the inside."

Silence falls over the room. I am trying to think.

"What does the Traveler say?" Saint-14 asks, quietly. Everyone looks at me.

I breathe in through my nose, breathe out slowly. "About the factions?" I ask. "Or about people killing each other in our streets? This is not what the Traveler wanted. That much I can tell you."

"That was the direct result of creating us," Osiris says, leaning back in his seat. He is stone-faced, as always. "Violence. Does the Traveler truly know what it wants?"

I try to hide my frustration, and I'm glad my face is hidden by my mask.

The truth is this: I cannot say for certain what the Traveler wants, or whether it knows what it wants. The Traveler does not speak to me in words, but in dreams. Dream language is cramped. The messages come from the Traveler, disintegrate on the way to me, and reform into something else. I am an interpreter more than a Speaker.

But uncertainty has been the death of us before, and it will be again if we are not vigilant.

So what I say is, "The Traveler has always wanted to protect humanity, on its own or through Guardians. We need to enact that will."

"With all due respect to both of you," Tallulah says, eyeing Osiris and me. "This isn't about the Traveler. This is about what happens when people come together without anyone to really lead them." She taps her foot. She's nervous. Unusual for Tallulah. "Let this go on a little longer, and this is the same as the Dark Age. It's just Warlords, packed into a tighter pen."

"A body of representatives would help," Saint-14 says. "Something to allow all sides to be heard."

"Every side has a voice, but not all voices should be given the same weight," I say, shaking my head. "Some of these ideas are dangerous. We should determine which factions can continue to exist, and give them an official channel through which to air their grievances and pursue their needs."

"Which ideas are dangerous, Speaker?" Osiris asks. He is watching me, steadily. "And who decides that?"

"This is not a fight," Saint-14 says. "We have enough of those ahead of us."

"We will hear from each of the factions," I say, ignoring Osiris. Some decision is better than no decision. "Give them the opportunity to plead their case, save for those who have resorted to outright violence."

"Well, then we've got to get rid of Echelon South, for one," Tallulah lists, counting on her fingers. "And those Binary Star idiots, too. Trinary? Binary? Whatever. Anyway, there are plenty of fingers pointed at this new group, too. Monarchy something."

"If anyone can prove the rumors, we exile their leaders," I say, holding up my hand. "The factions that stay will argue their case. Of those that have a valuable viewpoint to bring to the governance of the City, we create a council."

"This sets a dangerous precedent, Speaker," Osiris says. We will have this argument again later, I can already tell. "I hope you're prepared to walk this slope."

We vote. Osiris is the only no. Then, after an inquiry into the violence, we form the Consensus.

You are the last remaining star.

In your dreams, you see yourself suspended in bright but flickering Light, staring out over a world half-destroyed. You see thousands of pieces of yourself in that world, stumbling through it like infants, wandering in labyrinthine ruins they don't understand.

For a moment, you feel in your body everything that they feel. The elation of success. The pain of failure. The candle-snuff of death. The gasping of rebirth. You feel it all at once.

---

I am the last Speaker.

I am the child of two self-exiles, and I live in a settlement in the shadow of a looming mountain. There are about three hundred of us, and we've lived here for nearly seven years. When we first arrived, we were under the jurisdiction of a Warlord named Cathal. He offered us protection for a high price, requisitioning a third of our supplies and conscripting nearly half our people to his cause. The actual protection he provided was limited. The Warlords used our valley like a battlefield, crashing through like giants who couldn't see the lives they were ending. But they could. They saw us. They just didn't care.

The Iron Lords drove Cathal out nearly a year ago, and we've lived in comfortable independence since then, with little oversight from our Risen saviors. Our people voted for that. The Iron Lords saved us, but they would be no different from the Warlords if they also wished to rule us.

Now I sit in negotiations with one of them, a woman named Lady Efrideet.

"You're free to decide either way," she says. "But if you say yes, you'll have an armed escort."

Three other people sit with me: our elected mayor, our most experienced physician, and our oldest resident. We are the people our settlement chose as representation. Beside me, a silver Ghost spins his shell, floating at my shoulder, watching Efrideet. He's followed me for over a year now, and still hasn't found his chosen. He's good company.

|| I have given so much of myself already, but I give more. I become a beacon. I call my children home. ||

"A consolidated population like that, all in one place," our mayor says. She sounds weary. She's been in her position for nearly sixty years. "It would draw Warlords to us like flies."

"Don't worry about the Warlords," Efrideet says, with the cool assurance of someone who only half-understands our worry to begin with. "Their days are numbered. Their way of life is incompatible with the Iron Decree, and so…" She shrugs.

Her nonchalance is unrelatable, but I think I trust her. I trust the Iron Lords. They've given us little reason to doubt them.

"How would the city be governed?" I ask.

Efrideet shrugs again. "That seems like the kind of thing you put to a vote." She taps her fingers on the table, impatient, but only a little. "We'll just build the place and bring people there. We can defend the walls, but we're not going to dictate what happens inside them. This is a joint venture. A collaboration."

My companions exchange looks, considering.

Efrideet watches us. Like most of the Risen, she tries to look impassive. Unaffected. But if you listen closely, she's trying to convince us. She wants this. "Listen," she says. "Risen and non-Risen have lived in their separate corners for too long. We're all people. That's all the Iron Lords are trying to say. We should live together." She pauses. "There are things we can teach each other."

Two weeks later, once we've packed up everything we can carry, we leave for the place where we'll build the Last Safe City of Earth.

|| I wish for something to grow in my shadow. ||

I am the first Speaker to never dream.

At least, I think that's true. In the days following the Collapse, any Speakers who survived were scattered to the wind, traveling with groups of refugees across the ruined wasteland that Earth became. Aside from the man who taught me, I've never met another Speaker in my life. For all I know, I'm the last one alive.

Before the Collapse, Speakers were chosen for their ability to hear the Traveler through detailed, lucid dreams. Since the dreams have stopped, there are other signs. Ghosts follow us. When we do dream, we see a strange and blinding white light. We are prone to headaches.

My mentor couldn't teach me how to interpret dreams, so he taught me in hypotheticals. I had to imagine what the dreams might be like. I had to speculate why the Traveler might come back to us and when. Like all Speakers, I memorized the four tenets: The Traveler is good. The Traveler is sentient. The Traveler will save us. The Traveler will leave us.

Sometimes I worry the Traveler has already left us.

My mentor died of a wasting sickness two years ago, and I've tried to live as his replacement. But where he was a living memory of when the Traveler was awake, I have only his memories, secondhand, imperfectly understood. I can't give answers. I can't make the Traveler speak.

Or, at least, I couldn't.

For weeks, I have worked in secret on a project, gathering scrap metal and old, broken things left over from the time before. I've cobbled it together, tinkered with the mix of strange and half-understood technology, tried to calibrate it to my needs.

A long time ago, long before the Collapse, astrophysicists recorded sounds from the planets in our solar system and turned them into music. They translated plasma waves and radio emissions into eerie, musical rumbles, roars, whistles, and hisses. The Traveler makes sounds, too. Speakers have listened to its music for many years, in the form of dreams.

Carefully, lovingly, I build a mask. An amplifier.

No one knows about it but me. I won't get their hopes up, even though mine are sky high as I put the finishing touches on it. It's not beautiful like our old technology was. It is scuffed and bent and rusted, like everything we own now. But if I'm right, if I can do this, it will do beautiful things.

I can't bear to fail. I have failed at everything else so far.

When I'm finished, I wear the mask. Pieces of it, not sanded down, are rough and sharp against my face, but I dream for the first time in my life.

|| I have cried out unheard for so long that my voice is raw. ||

I am the first Speaker to be taken prisoner.

The greatest surprise isn't being captured; it's being captured by a Dreg.

In the end, when they drag me, tied and bound, into a damp cave miles out from my settlement, it's three Dregs. I look around for a Kell or a Priest—someone in charge—but we're alone. There are no Pikes or Ether tanks, no banners, no Servitors. I sit on a rock and look at my captors, more perplexed than afraid.

The shame of being captured by something so little and young-looking, when for so long we've managed to defend our settlement from their hulking Captains, is a little bit humbling.

The Dreg who grabbed me fidgets with a mask. One of his companions watches, while the other half-heartedly points an Arc spear at me. They seem uncertain. Nervous. Probably they weren't supposed to have done this.

I wait patiently until the Dreg straps the mask to his face.

"You," he says in a crackling, distorted voice. I'm floored. They've managed to make a translator. "You are the mouth of the Great Machine."

There have been negotiations with the Fallen since they arrived on Earth. Never successful, nearly always fatal, but they've happened. So I'm aware that some of the Risen know their alien language, and some of the high-level Fallen know ours. Dregs, though. It's another surprise.

And… the "mouth of the Great Machine"…

Hm.

"I was," I say carefully. The Dreg narrows all four of his eyes as his tech translates my words. If he understands the distinction between "I am" and "I was," he doesn't show it. Instead, he nods.

"You will tell us the Great Machine's words."

It doesn't actually sound like a command. I wonder if, with better translation tech, he would've said "please."

I don't say anything. If I reveal what I can't do, what I don't know, they'll probably kill me.

The other two Dregs gather around their companion, watching him eagerly. Now and then, they look at me. The one holding the spear has let her grip grow slack, and the spear is tipped down to point at the ground. The Fallen have surprisingly expressive faces. What I pick up from them is not aggression or hatred, but fearful anticipation.

The Dreg with the mask nods again, not discouraged by my silence. This time, when he speaks, I can hear his hope, even through the mask: "Why did the Great Machine leave us?"

I stare back at him.

Any fear I felt before dissipates. Instead, what I feel is a grief partially forgotten in the chaos of trying to survive—and a deep and abiding kinship with the enemies who have pursued us.

My voice is very quiet when I finally speak.

"I don't know."

The other two Dregs look at their friend, waiting. His expression twists with confusion, and then disappointment. There's anger there, too, but it's overpowered by something else. A very familiar sorrow.

We sit in silence for a long time.

I am the first Speaker to see a Ghost.

The way we tell it, after the Collapse, the Traveler cut itself into a thousand tiny pieces and sent them out into the world.

These tiny pieces are drawn to me, and to others like me, like moths. The first time I saw them, I thought they were surveillance drones, but up close, they were nothing like our old technology, not really. The way they move seems organic and natural. They spin their shells like they are ruffling feathers; their little forward-facing lights blink like eyes.

"We're called Ghosts," one of them said to me once, hovering at my shoulder as I tended a cook-fire.

"Why?" I asked, gentle, casual. They're all different, these Ghosts. Many of them are like children, curious and friendly. Some are world-weary from the moment they're born.

The Ghost spun his silver petals, considering. "Because we're searching, I think."

It's a good enough answer for me. I'm searching, too.

I let the little Ghosts follow me. We talk about what the Traveler was like before the Collapse. They like to hear it, and I like to remember. Deep in their core, they remember, too, I think. They remember a time when they were all one piece. Still, they like to ask what the Traveler told me, and I recount all the dreams I can still remember. I haven't dreamed since the Collapse, and this is almost—almost, almost—like dreaming again.

Today, at twilight, one of the shy and quiet Ghosts who has been lingering at my side asks if I will follow her out into the valley. I should say no, but she sounds hopeful. And I am curious.

We travel for several hours. The land here is recovering—not just from the Collapse, but from the time before it. Resources for our settlement are scarce, but nature is creeping back in, and nature is cruel now. It's been starving and confused for decades, jostled out of its natural order, and now we reap the consequences. Wolves steal our livestock. Mange-ridden bears wander through our compound late at night, pawing at our doors. The land is so thick with the memory of poison that it won't grow crops.

We protect ourselves from this recovering world as best we can, and we rarely go out at night. But I'm drawn by a curiosity that feels beyond me.

The Ghost leads me to a barn with a sagging roof. She asks me to wait out of sight—she says, "I think you'll scare her." I don't fully understand what she means.

I crouch and watch as she hovers over the years-old remains of a person, barely recognizable as something that was once living. The Ghost floats over the body nervously, and then scans it with pale light. In front of my eyes, flesh grows over old bones and tattered rags stitch themselves together. The person, a woman, gasps and sits up.

I can't believe it.

The Ghost hovers close to her new companion and says something quiet and reassuring. I can't hear. I feel amazed, and then jealous, and then ashamed.

You feel it before it happens.

It has happened before. You feel deep in your bones that this thing has chased you across galaxies like an unshakeable dread. It strives to undo. It will undo you. It will undo all of us.

First is suffocation, and then pain. The pain isn't localized to any part of you, but to all of you and beyond you. You want to run, but you are pulled in all directions by opposite and equal forces that hold you perfectly still.

It is inescapable this time. You are losing everything that you were. You are bleeding silver into the air like the air is water, and you watch your silver-blood float away from your body. Empty. Empty. Empty.

---

I am the Speaker who witnesses the end of the world.

Through it all, I am overwhelmed by torrents of sharp, static images, sometimes so fast and constant that I can't see or hear. The Traveler is babbling: telling me everything and nothing all at once, in fast, stereoscopic, waking nightmares. I am myself and not myself.

And I || am stuck in a web of black spider silk, frozen in the mind-numbing silence of space || have no answers.

The fall isn't quick. It happens over weeks and months: cataclysmic disasters, natural and unnatural, flattening human settlements on every planet || that I have made, I have shaped, my work, laid flat ||. Earthquakes. Tidal waves. Solar flares. Cyclones, sinkholes, exploding lakes, wildfires. Unknown, untreatable plagues raze populations in hours. Water goes black with unknown poisons || forced down my throat ||. The ground opens up and swallows entire cities || and I am sick sick sick ||.

This has happened before. I'd watched in my dreams the cities that fell, alien cities, torn down by a wind so fierce that it flattened an entire world || and it is not my fault ||.

But this is different. The Traveler has not left us. Something new || half-remember and wished-forgotten, this false-sister || has arrived.

I || don't want to abandon you || watch on crackling video feeds as people try to escape the outer planets. Exodus ships burn || like I will burn || up with thousands upon thousands of souls aboard. We gather in frightened, huddled || trapped, stuck, doomed || groups in relief outposts, hoping against hope.

I try to aid the relief effort but my thoughts || run || become more and more scattered. I can't || run || keep separate my own mind || run || and the || run run RUN RUN || Traveler's.

Then, suddenly, silence.

And it's the silence that truly breaks me.

You are the first to dream.

In the dream, you are shaping coarse sand with your hands. You lift a handful, and it feels like the shifting of mountains. You drag your fingertip through the dirt to make a twisting line and hear the roar of moving water. You breathe and feel the rush of clean, bright wind in your hair.

Suddenly, you are far, far, far up in the air, higher than you've ever been. You have gone to the very top of Freehold's tallest skyscrapers, but this is much higher, and you see the world below with much greater fidelity. It is a beautiful green world, much greener than any place you've ever seen before.

It looks like home.

---

I am the first to dream.

The dreams can happen at any time. A veil drops in front of my eyes and I see strange, moving images. I am someone else, or I am myself, reimagined. I can't say. In the dreams, I shape planets with my own hands.

At first, I believe I am mad.

The clinicians at BrayWell call it "interplanetary relocation maladjustment psychosis": a psychobabble catch-all for mental disturbances that they can't explain. Other people, searching for certainty, call it "prophecy." But all I can offer is a loose, tangled connection that I painstakingly unravel when I dream.

|| I am drawn to a bright and attentive star. I speak to it through movement, through feeling. It understands implicitly. ||

Now, I stand before a crowd. Their murmuring is the bone-deep rumble of shifting tectonic plates.

A screen behind me plays looping, blurry footage of the Traveler terraforming Venus. The images radiate with pale light. We've watched this footage many times.

|| I glide through space as if through water, tugged in nine directions by nine impulses. ||

In front of the crowd, I sway a little, a copse of trees bending in a dream-wind. I can't help it. I'm dreaming more often than not.

|| There is whispering from the deep-dark, alluring and terrifying—a reminder of things left behind, bittersweet and abhorrent. ||

A crackle of static on the screen behind me brings me back to earth, resettling my feet firmly on the ground. These people have come here for my insights.

I lean forward and speak to the crowd. Four tenets, aching with truth:

The Traveler is a force of benevolence.

The Traveler is a sentient being with free will, dreams, hopes, and fears.

The Traveler will save us.

The Traveler will leave us.

This style of Cabal war bell, known as the Bell of Conquests, is a standout example of the traditional combat artistry known as scal'sangus—literally "blood etching"—popular during the Era of Lead, before the Cabal extended their reach beyond their immediate star system. These objects commemorated martial feats and personal victories but varied widely in appearance. Peasant mercenaries often simply stitched the carved teeth of their defeated foes into their leathers; those with more resources sometimes claimed the entire torsos of vanquished opponents to preserve, lacquer, and display as busts.

The Bell of Conquests was a less grisly chronicle of the victories of its owner. Unadorned bells were given to warriors at their first blood. Those who wished to challenge a warrior in combat would request their bell and ring it seven times.

As warriors collected victories, they could have artisans decorate their bells to commemorate their glories. These adornments allowed the bearers to call upon benefits for honorable combat related to their past victories: a warrior who had completed the Trial of Beasts could bring a trained war beast into a duel; a survivor of the Flayed Night was allowed to cut their opponent twice across the stomach; those who had withstood the Cold Iron Mouth could coat their blades in caustic white ash.

Defeating the bearer of a war bell entitled the victor to claim the bell as their own. The clapper of the bell would be carved with a shallow engraving representing the previous owner's cause of death. Ownership would fully transfer after the engraving had been worn away by new challengers ringing the bell. At that point, all the privileges the bell bestowed upon its former owner would be granted to the new holder. For this reason, elaborate war bells were both highly sought after and heavily defended.

War bells continued to be carried into the galactic-colonial period, and their decorations became even more refined. Intricate mosaics pressed with precious gems became symbols of wealth and granted further allowances in duels, while also creating a larger incentive for would-be challengers. As the scale of warfare increased, the logistical difficulties of claiming war bells became apparent. Captured war bells were sometimes melted down en masse and recast as elaborate war gongs, and there were specific rituals in place for spacefaring rivals to ring the gong in challenge.

In the post-Red War Cabal, few soldiers adhere to the tradition, as the Bell of Conquests is seen as a cumbersome relic. Nevertheless, they may still find a place of honor aboard the ships of those who wish to respect the combat traditions of their ancestors.

"You've had this for years and never thought to mention it?" Eris runs her fingers over the grime-clouded containment glass housing a large growth of egregore within the Drifter's Derelict.

"Wasn't hidin' it." Drifter rolls Eris's Ahamkara bone over his knuckles. "Ain't nobody ever asked. Hell, you've walked by it before, Moondust."

"What wonders you must have buried in this heap," Eris muses. The emerald shine of her eyes dart back and forth behind thin cloth.
"I could…" Drifter saunters up beside her, "give you the tour?"

"We haven't the time. Tell me, what have you learned from this egregore sample?"

Drifter wrinkles his face and looks up to the massive, contained growth. "Uhh…"

Eris massages annoyance from her brow. She sees the playful coyness in his eyes. The hidden information he holds as bargain for some trade. "Do you at least remember where you found it?"

"Sister, you don't wanna know." Eris locks her eyes on the Drifter's face. He staggers back awkwardly and shrugs. "Icy little nothing in the middle of nowhere. Doesn't have a name, and you don't want to go there alone."

"But you could take me?" Eris tests his defenses.

Drifter brushes off the mottled fur of his shoulder guards and leans against a poorly fastened railing. "Only if we take your jumpship. And I drive."

Eris sighs and pushes through him. "No."

Drifter springs after her. "So that's it? You're leaving?"

"You're being evasive, Rat." Eris plucks her Ahamkara bone from his hand and stows it beneath her cloak. "Contact me when you're willing to speak plainly."

Drifter calls after her, hands outstretched, "You don't want to stay for dinner?"

Eris halts, considering what disgusting amalgamation of refuse would constitute a meal here. She glances over her shoulder. One last attempt to extract information…

"It is strange. When Savathûn drew Mars back into our space, it was free of the egregore. But the Glykon and Leviathan both returned rampant with fungal growth. Why?" she asks.

He gives in. "You know… it sings if you burn it just right." Drifter thumbs behind him. "Sub-sonic, resonates in a funny way with Pyramid tech."

"Is that so?"

"You don't trust me?"

"Me and the others got to take the new snow treads out for a test drive today! We were in a cheeky mood, so we decided to have a race. Things were going well until Willums cracked the glacier—these treads step heavy! Luckily they handle great on ice and we were able to rappel down to save him. The only thing he really hurt was his pride. But like the engineers said, great in ice and snow. A real pair of lifesavers!"

—Intern, BrayTech R&D

SIMULATION RECONSTRUCTION LOG // LA-03-02 // TRIALS ARENA, THE LIGHTHOUSE, MERCURY

Titan's sea of liquid methane crashes against the listing hull of the New Pacific Arcology. The wind whips with hurricane force, sending a freezing sea spray lashing across the crooked metal frame of a crumbling catwalk. Flares of atomic fire bloom in the mist and roll off the arcology's walls. Human and inhuman screams echo out into impossible seas.

Two dozen Hive Thrall come pouring out of an encrusted airlock, climbing over one another, jaws snapping. They scurry across every surface not slicked by liquid methane; drawn like moths to a beacon of golden flame. Shayura stands against the crashing tide of chitin and bone, a Sword of fire held fast in two hands, screaming as she cleaves through the masses of encroaching death.

Burning embers of Thrall rain around her, but with each dispatched wave of necrotic soldiers, it feels as though their numbers double. She is pressed by the tide of Hive, inching closer and closer to the jagged end of the catwalk hanging over the churning sea. When the Thrall recede, she is thankful for a respite. But the towering Knight that drops from the airlock is an escalation, not a victory.

Edging a half-step backward, Shayura knows that the only way out is through. Wings of flame roar off of her back, leaving a trail of rippling heat and hollowed-out Thrall in her wake. Her Sword clashes with the Knight's shield, shattering it in a single blow. Her follow-through cleaves through the Knight's arm, down into its chest.

Shayura turns on her heel toward the remaining Thrall. She can feel the Light in her ebbing and knows that they will overwhelm her if she doesn't succeed now. Death against the Hive is never a sure return; not after what happened to Taeko-3 and her fireteam here. A blinding pain hits Shayura in her back. Her vision swims, mind reels; had she missed one? Feeling the warmth of blood running below her armor, Shayura turns to see the Hive Knight reborn, Sword covered in her blood.

Screaming inside her helmet, Shayura feels a deep panic build in her chest. She knows a Hive death ritual when she sees it, and she walked straight into their trap. She rolls away from the Knight's next swing and into the reach of Thrall that tear at her armor. Mustering the last of her Solar energy, Shayura calls up a cyclonic pillar of flame that twists up into the sky and consumes the Knight.

The revenant Knight emerges from the flames, already reconstituting. Shayura leaps forward and drives her Sword through his face, tackling him to the ground. Her Solar aura flickers and fades; smoke and steam billow from her back and shoulders.

"Shay?"

She hears one of the surviving Thrall speak in a human voice. Shayura twists her Sword in the Knight's face and shakes sizzling green blood onto the catwalk. The Knight begins to reform again in a horrifying blaze of green flame, but as it reaches out toward her, she cuts off his arm and sends her Sword through the top of his head in a brutal follow-through.

The Thrall wails. She can feel an arm around her waist, restraining her. She kicks and struggles, crying out as the last wisps of Praxic fire twist down her arm and Sword.

"No! No! Stop! No!" Shayura howls, fighting against the pull of the Thrall.

"Shay," the Thrall cry in the voices of her friends. "Shay!"

Shayura screams into the impossible seas.

I propose a simple experiment—look around. You see light. You see darkness. There could not be one without the other. They are two sides of the same coin.

If it is true for these Newtonian echoes, why would it not be true of the purest, paracausal forms?

Therefore, I conclude: the reason you persecute me is not because of the symmetry. It's because of the truth beyond this truth, the truth which you most dread: if we could destroy darkness, but we had to give up our Light to do so, how many of us would make that trade?

"Hail, warrior of the empire," Empress Caiatl said as she approached the bedside of a wounded Red Legion Centurion. The soldier had been gazing solemnly out a porthole when the sound of her voice startled him. He turned suddenly, then winced in pain. Caiatl saw darkened synthetic fabric enveloping his torso and the entirety of his right arm, which itself looked frail and withered. She knew immediately that this Cabal would see no more battles.

"My empress!" the warrior responded, clasping a fist to his chest with his unwrapped arm. Caiatl saluted in return.

The empress glanced at a monitor displaying the patient's data. "Val'ast, born of Val'tui." She looked out the porthole; the brilliance of Sol beamed back at her. "The empire has returned for you, Red Legionary, yet your heart seems heavy. Why do you languish?"

Val'ast looked away. "I am sorry, Empress."

"Do not be sorry, my brother," Caiatl said.

Val'ast sighed. "For years, every day has been about survival. Just trying to stay in the fight. But now…" He trailed off and grasped the sheets of his bed, a cheap fabric but still softer than anything he'd felt in years.

"When you war for so long, peace can become its own struggle," Caiatl said.

Val'ast let the fabric fall from his hand. "I thought I was Acrius reborn, claiming another sun for our kind." He gazed out the porthole. "But I failed."

Caiatl smiled. "I've always loved that tale." She pulled a stool over and sat. "Did you know that there used to be more to it?"

Val'ast shook his head.

"It's an older version, not as popular in modern times, but I was lucky enough to learn it as a child," the empress continued. "Before Acrius, three warriors sought to climb a great mountain and grasp the sun, but a terrible beast stood in their way.

"The first tried to outwit the beast and sneak through the shadows, but the beast smelled him still and ate the warrior in a single bite.

"The second tried to escape the beast, crafting a device to harness the wind and soar upward. But the fickle wind changed its mind and tossed her into the beast's maw.

"The third warrior challenged the beast head on, Severus in hand. She also fell to the beast's gnashing teeth, but not before her blade tasted blood."

Val'ast frowned. "They all failed?"

Caiatl considered the question. "The first two, certainly. They thought battle could be avoided. But the third warrior died with pride and honor."

Val'ast pondered for a moment. "Even in defeat, she left her mark on her foe."

Caiatl nodded. "And the next time one of her kin faced it, the beast would be one blow closer to death."

"Did more come?" Val'ast questioned.

"Of course!" Caiatl exclaimed. "They were Cabal, and the sun was theirs to claim. Over and over, their mightiest fell. But each time, another wound was struck, until the day came when a warrior landed the final blow. That warrior was Acrius."

Val'ast frowned. "Ever since I was a child, I saw Acrius as a hero…"

"He may have been," Caiatl replied as she clasped Val'ast's hand in hers. "But so was the warrior who struck first."

Val'ast's eyed glistened as he held her grip firmly. "Thank you, Empress."

Caiatl shook her head. "My brother, it is the empire who thanks you."

He made himself look at the numbers. Seventy-three ships lost in the exodus. Seventy-three ships full of people looking to him for guidance. Guardians and civilians alike. All Zavala could give them was a noble death.

Almost none of the vessels had been outfitted with weapons. Transports and supply skiffs, barely holding together outside Earth's atmosphere, trying to punch through a fortified Red Legion blockade. Like prey animals limping through a pack of lions. It was a massacre.

The only reason the fleet made it past the Moon was because the Red Legion focused so heavily on Earth. In that, they seemed like the Cabal Zavala knew. Single-minded. Incapable of thinking more than a few moves ahead. But he knew this Dominus Ghaul wouldn't give up that easily. So they kept moving.

But what next? Zavala had a plan, of course. He always had a plan, Titan Vanguard or no. But what he really needed was information. He needed—

"Deputy Commander Sloane, reporting for duty, sir."

Zavala closed his eyes. And for a brief moment, he relaxed.

She was a frog in my estimation; small and colorful but toxic to touch.

In your infinite wisdom, you looked beyond the worm I brought you to the least of the leeches that infested Fundament. Shaving thin my gift, you infected them with conquest, and now they see themselves as artisans of the final shape.

My place is not to understand you, my Witness, but to serve that final goal you see more clearly than I. But now, your gold-leaf parasites call themselves gods and carve out their divine homes. And I am to watch the sniveling frog.

Was this castigation? The toll I pay for my failure with the Ahslid? You have cast me and my ego once more into the cold depths of an inconsequential world.

I recall stepping into her realm, and her face twisted to betray restrained delight. She thought herself mistress of this domain you leased her. She did not—could not—appreciate the precarity of her situation. So sure of her dominion, she could not recognize her jailer, or that she lives within a prison formed from her own ego—one I will put to work for you, my Witness.

The capture of her race will flow out from this realm—each self-satisfied smirk will forge a new link in their chains.

Had I known then what my current quandary would be, I could have heeded my own insights on ego. Regardless, even in this predicament, I am unbowed.

My heart warms like fire kindled; my spirit exalted by the Flame. I smile at my enemies, because I rejoice in their chastening.

No one burns so brightly or holds the righteousness of the Flame's Sword.

No longer shall you quaver; be not timid in the light of our Flame, for the Flame is our guardian; and by His hand shall all we dread be burnt away.

The guns of our enemies silenced, and those among us who fled return with courage. Those who have shivered at shadows now set fires and keep fear at bay. Bright is the future we have before us, because we carry the Flame forward into the night.

The Flame dies and comes alive again; like a phoenix, He rises from ash and burns anew. The Flame makes us strong by sharing His light; He rekindles the hope that lies within us. From the weak He forges strength; from the impure He burns the wickedness. Our path through darkness is clear, for the Flame has lit the way.

For our hearts are the hearths in which the Flame burns; His fires will guard the homes of His faithful, but the evil will be blinded by its light and flee into shadow.

By bullets alone shall none prevail. The Flame's Sword shall never dull its edge or brilliance. The foes of the Flame shall forever be turned to smoke and blown away. For the Flame is everlasting; haunted by His own ghost, He cannot die.

—Song from a hymnal discovered in the Scorched Chapel, believed to be an account of the Risen named Hungren-3

JOURNEY - IV

Austyn sat in silence with eyes shut. Ley Lines swept over her in waves—in pulses, which she slowly brought into alignment with her own. Entanglement. It was not the first time she had pressed herself into symbiosis with the Ascendant Plane. She'd been through the thoughts of all the sisters in her Coven. She had dreamt with Petra and harvested secrets from her, with the Queen's Wrath being none the wiser. Austyn knew they were meant to save Queen Mara Sov. They were meant to find her and restore the throne. She had been searching the Ley Lines for a path to the queen each night after her training.

Her Coven sisters lay sleeping all around her body, but her mind flew through countless panes of prismatic glass. As they shattered, she flittered from one plane to the next, catching momentary glimpses of incommunicable wonder.

In the distant cosmos far ahead, Austyn saw a darkened haze of indecipherable noise. Somewhere nestled in the Ley Lines, this shadowed spot was growing. Austyn knew Mara Sov was distant. She knew the queen had obscured herself from her enemies. Austyn had felt a presence reach from the noise toward the Dreaming City more than once. Tonight, she would reach back.

Austyn focused her will on a path to the distant noise and, as she did so, it was. The way was open, but still so far. She reached out with her physical body, placing a hand in the air before her and splitting the oxygen with her touch. She carved a slit in reality, through the molecules of the air, and the path anchored to it at her command.

The noise descended upon her, and instantly, she was at the precipice.

Hand pressed, frozen, paralyzed, and awash in insidious whispers that shredded the doorway into open nothing.

It tore her consciousness across the cosmos to a grand terrace of onyx swords and emerald flame reigning over a red harbor. Fingers reached like blades from distant hollows. Screaming noise upon noise. A lone figure stood on the terrace aside two empty thrones. Testing. Prodding. Tasting. Breeding war.

"Austyn!" A familiar voice pried her back into the waking world. "Austyn, are you all right?"

She woke, soaked in sweat and heat. Petra Venj stood over her, gripping her shoulders.

Austyn struggled to breathe. Her eyes met Petra's.

"Austyn?"

They'd leave you behind if they knew what you just saw, she thought.

"Just a nightmare," Austyn reassured the Queen's Wrath. "Thank you for waking me."

"Hail, warrior of the empire," Empress Caiatl said as she approached the bedside of a wounded Red Legion Centurion. The soldier had been gazing solemnly out a porthole when the sound of her voice startled him. He turned suddenly, then winced in pain. Caiatl saw darkened synthetic fabric enveloping his torso and the entirety of his right arm, which itself looked frail and withered. She knew immediately that this Cabal would see no more battles.

"My empress!" the warrior responded, clasping a fist to his chest with his unwrapped arm. Caiatl saluted in return.

The empress glanced at a monitor displaying the patient's data. "Val'ast, born of Val'tui." She looked out the porthole; the brilliance of Sol beamed back at her. "The empire has returned for you, Red Legionary, yet your heart seems heavy. Why do you languish?"

Val'ast looked away. "I am sorry, Empress."

"Do not be sorry, my brother," Caiatl said.

Val'ast sighed. "For years, every day has been about survival. Just trying to stay in the fight. But now…" He trailed off and grasped the sheets of his bed, a cheap fabric but still softer than anything he'd felt in years.

"When you war for so long, peace can become its own struggle," Caiatl said.

Val'ast let the fabric fall from his hand. "I thought I was Acrius reborn, claiming another sun for our kind." He gazed out the porthole. "But I failed."

Caiatl smiled. "I've always loved that tale." She pulled a stool over and sat. "Did you know that there used to be more to it?"

Val'ast shook his head.

"It's an older version, not as popular in modern times, but I was lucky enough to learn it as a child," the empress continued. "Before Acrius, three warriors sought to climb a great mountain and grasp the sun, but a terrible beast stood in their way.

"The first tried to outwit the beast and sneak through the shadows, but the beast smelled him still and ate the warrior in a single bite.

"The second tried to escape the beast, crafting a device to harness the wind and soar upward. But the fickle wind changed its mind and tossed her into the beast's maw.

"The third warrior challenged the beast head on, Severus in hand. She also fell to the beast's gnashing teeth, but not before her blade tasted blood."

Val'ast frowned. "They all failed?"

Caiatl considered the question. "The first two, certainly. They thought battle could be avoided. But the third warrior died with pride and honor."

Val'ast pondered for a moment. "Even in defeat, she left her mark on her foe."

Caiatl nodded. "And the next time one of her kin faced it, the beast would be one blow closer to death."

"Did more come?" Val'ast questioned.

"Of course!" Caiatl exclaimed. "They were Cabal, and the sun was theirs to claim. Over and over, their mightiest fell. But each time, another wound was struck, until the day came when a warrior landed the final blow. That warrior was Acrius."

Val'ast frowned. "Ever since I was a child, I saw Acrius as a hero…"

"He may have been," Caiatl replied as she clasped Val'ast's hand in hers. "But so was the warrior who struck first."

Val'ast's eyed glistened as he held her grip firmly. "Thank you, Empress."

Caiatl shook her head. "My brother, it is the empire who thanks you."

"You hear that? Who is that?" Yardarm-4 sounded like he was on the verge of panic. Rekkana had never heard him like that, not even in the worst firefights, not even in their last battle, which might have been the last battle for the Kentarch 3.

"I hear it," Rekkana and Lisbon-13 said as one. All three Guardians summoned their Ghosts, almost simultaneously.

"Ghost?" Yardarm-4 was first. "What have we got?"

"Scan the area for life," Lisbon-13 ordered.

"Multiphasic scan," Rekkana barked at her Ghost.

Their Ghosts all started chattering at once, and they stepped away from one another to hear, fanning out across the grotto and widening their defensive triangle.

"There's something weird," Rekkana's Ghost blurted, words shooting from it, rapid-fire. "I'm getting static on every wavelength. It's like there's a shadow being cast by every signal. It's nothing specific, but it's everywhere. Wait, no. There's something wrong. I—"

Rekkana's Ghost dropped like a stone. She snatched it out of the air.

She looked behind her. Lisbon-13 was holding his Ghost. Yardarm-4 was picking his up from the ground. The Light around them faded, and the gloom of the grotto closed in.

"Yardarm, Lisbon, you OK?"

"I'm fine," came Lisbon-13's reply, and he sounded calm.

"Yeah. Sure." Yardarm-4's reply was distant and growing fainter, like he was facing away and moving off.

Rekkana reached for her emergency light.

"Wait." It was a whisper, but not from her friends—it came from somewhere ahead of her, deeper in the grotto. "Wait. Please. Can we just talk for a minute?"

Crash Site, Nessus Terrae, Day Four

**

Panesh sat wearily beside the heavy metal beams that trapped him in the wreckage of the Cabal frigate. On the other side of the wall, the Cabal warrior stuck in the corridor roared in frustration and started kicking again.

"Save your energy, Vargessus," Panesh shouted over the noise. "You're not going to be able to kick your way through…" he paused to scratch a fingernail along the unfamiliar metal, "solid Cabal-ium."

Heavy footsteps stomped over to a crack in the wall near the hull. "Cabal can kick through most things," Vargessus said, her face pressed against the gap in the metal. "Caiatl will kick your Vanguard into pieces, once you cowards stop running."

"Who's running?" Panesh said. "We're in the City waiting for you. Under the big white ball—maybe you've heard of it? We don't run."

"Hrah!" Vargessus laughed. "You run. Fought one of you once—all he did was run. Shield and run. We stopped chasing him and then BOOM!" She pounded the metal wall with a gigantic fist. "He dove at us, covered in lightning! Then he ran again."

"Sounds like he wasn't running," said Panesh. "He retreated to a tactical distance."

"Fancy words for 'run,'" snorted Vargessus. Panesh heard her pace uneasily, then sit in the corridor, her back against the same wall as his.

"Hey," Panesh called, "how about you keep some tactical distance yourself? You smell like a… hot barnyard."

"And you smell also, like a bloodless child. Sour."

There was a loud electrical pop overhead and Panesh raised his hands against a shower of blinding sparks.

"Panesh?" shouted Vargessus.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just another system shorting out."

The Cabal grunted in response. Panesh heard her settle back against the wall.

"Unripe," she added.

"You're ripe enough for both of us," he said.

But neither of them moved.

Kethiks, the Yet-Proven, had spent three lunar orbits surveying the small village. He was not the first Captain to strike here, but while others had come for killing or labor, his clutch of Vandals came for something else.

A Lightbearer resided in the village—a demon who had killed many of his friends. A demon who had shattered the Captain whose place Kethiks had taken. It was Kethiks's duty to seek revenge, to hunt this demon, and clear the death debt. Those were the words House Devils had sent with Kethiks.

But to Kethiks, this demon's life paid more than vengeance. Its life paid glory. The same glory Kethiks's father, Ykriis, claimed when he felled a Lightbearer in single combat, took its tiny machine and drank of its divine Ether. Soon that glory would be Kethiks's as well. Soon his position would be recognized for more than its circumstance.

Vandals crept on either side of Kethiks, maneuvering through tall grass with quiet anticipation. Where the grass died off to tilled soil and log walls, they paused, waiting for Kethiks's command. He would not launch flares to declare their strike. He would not give the Lightbearer time to plan.

As the rear-guard Dregs joined the rest of his raiding party, Kethiks ignited an Arc spear and raised it against the night. The signal: attack!

The raiders descended, expecting a paltry guard. They were soon met by stiff resistance. The Captain tore through to the heart of the village, hunting for the demon who commanded the defense. He spotted the demon in the midst of the fighting. Kethiks strode forward, seizing a defiant Human in his path with his lower arms and flung her through a burning wooden structure.

"DEMON!" he shrieked in Eliksni, brandishing his Arc spear.

Before he could advance, a young Human defiantly stepped between him and the demon and brandished a blade. Kethiks assessed the "warrior" and clicked his mandibles in laughter, easily knocking the boy's curved blade aside. The Captain taunted the youth with half-hearted thrusts that threw the small Human off balance. When he was finished toying with his prey, Kethiks drove the spear point through him.

Kethiks looked up from the pinned youth to the demon and snarled. His eyes met the demon's crackling own. The Captain raised his spear to charge—

Eliksni Quarter, Last City
——

What makes a House? It is a good question, and one that many Eliksni do not think on often enough.

For Humans, a house is a place. But for Eliksni, a House is a family. It has a culture. A philosophy of living, shared by all.

That is why the House of Light survived, even when we fled Europa. Even after the Shipstealer took all we had. We were bound not by place or possessions, but as family.

Cryptarch Matsuo asked me why the old crews are not considered Houses. It is a wise question. One that, perhaps, does not have a singular answer.

I think it is because those who lead the old crews do not wish to be true Kells. A Kell is responsible for the safety and prosperity of their House. It is an honor, and a burden.

Those you call Pirate Lords wish only to take—they give nothing, even to their own people. Each raider is responsible only for themselves. A crew is expendable… a family is not.

The old crews live a sad life. One best left in the past.

The Spider steeples all 20 of his fingers and looks down imperiously from his throne. Standing before him is a Warlock, their armor scuffed and dinged. They're unarmed.

"You Guardians look out at the Tangled Shore, all the violence and lies, and you think you're above it. But like humans used to say before the Collapse, 'If you sleep with the beasts, you're gonna get dirty.'"

The Spider leans forward, examining the rumpled Guardian. "You've gotten terribly dirty, Warlock. And it shows. Just look at you." Though the Warlock crosses their arms defiantly, the Spider can sense the shame burning behind the ferocious metal helmet. He chuckles deeply.

"Luckily, there's still time to salvage your honor. Nobody needs to know of your… transgression. Fireteams disappear all the time out here. Only a few people know it was you, and I could persuade the witnesses to forget all about it. In return, all you have to do is serve my best interests."

The Spider leans forward, his voice lowering to a growl. "Otherwise, you're on your own. There's nothing to stop me from taking everything you've got right now. Your weapons. Your Sparrow. The very armor on your back. I may not be able to kill you, but I'll harvest you for every last part."

The Spider opens his bottom pair of arms magnanimously. "So, how about it?"

The Warlock's sneer is audible. "I'd rather lose my Light than work for you."

The Spider motions to his goons, who raise their weapons. "Pride, pride, pride. It was always the Vanguard's failing. Very well then. Strip."

"Explain to me how it works again."

"It pulls small particles of your Light as you use it and loops it at increasingly higher speeds."

"Why would I want my Light taken away? This sounds like a terrible piece of equipment."

"Close your mouth and listen. It does that until you strike something—"

"Good, good good good. This is better. Then what?"

"…"

"Go on."

"Then it whips the Light particles into each other at high speeds, causing a delayed—"

"DELAYED?!"

"A DELAYED FISSION REACTION."

"Why is it delayed?"

"Let's move on."

"Okay… could you just sum it up for me?"

"Punch something and an explosion will happen where you struck."

"Wonderful. Won't that hurt me?"

"If we're lucky, I'll be able to work that into the design specs."

I promised Sekris a greater power than the favor of your Traveler. He died at Ghaul's hands still wondering what that could possibly be.

In later days, my disguise could no longer fool him as it fooled others. His skill in designing and modifying mechanized life-forms was unparalleled and he made it clear he knew I was not what I appeared to be. I made it clear that, either way, he would continue to serve. But I think he guessed that my form and my strength are inextricably linked.

—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal

V

There was a soft knock on the door and a technician tentatively poked his head inside the office. "The system is ready, Commander."

Zavala looked across his desk. No echo of the past called out to him, no guilt-driven daydream—just a young man from the City, nervous about disturbing the commander.

Zavala rose to his feet. He stood and braced himself against the desk for a long moment, arms wide. He took a steady breath and nodded.

The technician synced the office systems and initiated a broadcast, then stepped to the side as Zavala approached.

"Sir," he whispered urgently, gesturing to the neat stack of pages left behind on the desk. "Your speech."

Zavala left the papers where they were and began to speak.

"People of the Last City. Humanity has endured a devastating blow…."

Lisbon-13's Ghost, Piri, quavered, "What have we done?"

"What was necessary."

Lisbon-13 raised his gun toward her.

"Was it? Did we really—whoa!" Piri cried and dove away as a beam of energy vaporized the tangle of vines through which she flew.

Lisbon realized Divinity was too slow. He switched to his Hand Cannon.

Shards of stone from a nearby explosion suddenly battered Piri's shell. She had hoped she could talk her way out of this. But there was no time to think—just run.

"Listen, Lisbon! Please!" Piri pleaded. Each word was punctuated by a roar from his gun. She dodged the resulting explosions along the terrain. "Honestly, if you want to shoot me, I'll let you! Just stop and tell me why first!"

A grenade whirled through the air in response. Piri had seen this tactic too many times to be fooled. She zipped toward the falling explosive and sheltered under a shelf of rock. The blast rattled her senses, but Piri didn't have time for them to clear. She sped through the smoking terrain, inches above the ground, knowing Lisbon would be looking for her flight to either side of the drifting cloud.

And then in an instant, the feet of Lisbon-13 materialized in the smoke before her. She nearly ran right into him. How did he do that, she wondered, to think like others and anticipate them? She knew she needed to talk. Fast!

"Uh, okay. First thing's first. You want to destroy me. Got it. But why? What's next?" she asked.

Lisbon-13 remained silent.

Realization dawned. Piri bobbled in the air, shocked by her own conclusion. "…You want the secret to die with you. No… no, no, no. You can't kill yourself. You can't! Lisbon, there has to be another way."

Lisbon-13 looked up from his Ghost and through the wafting smoke. "She's right. This is not the way."

"What?"

Lisbon-13 was not looking at his Ghost. "It's not that the power is too terrible to wield. It's that the burden is too great to bear."

"Burden?" Piri asked. The Ghost dodged as Lisbon-13 suddenly stepped forward and brushed past her.

And stood, facing himself, once again.

The doppelganger—this other Lisbon-13—reached out and put a hand on the shoulder of the Lisbon-13 that stood a few paces behind Piri.

"You never doubted yourself. Not for a moment. The others revealed their weaknesses: their pride and self-absorption. But you remember what Rekkana said," it stated.

Lisbon-13 nodded. "If anyone can handle the responsibility of this power—"

"It's you," the doppelganger finished. "What you fear now is not the responsibility you have assumed. It is the burden…" the doppelganger said, glancing back at the Ghost, "…of having all this power and never getting what you want."

Lisbon-13 had seemed distant and cold to his fireteam and his Ghost. The arguments since the Black Garden, the fighting—oh, how she had pleaded to stop the fighting! All nails in the coffin of something dead within Lisbon-13—something killed by this doppelganger in the garden's grotto. But now, some of the old Lisbon's warmth blazed white hot as he shook off his double's hand. "You did this! You ruined everything," he said.

"We are all responsible for our choices. You chose this path. They chose theirs. Now is the time to select a new path. Together. We can help each other. We can free you from what you wanted. We can lighten your burden."

Piri knew what would happen next. She braced for the explosions and readied herself to leap to Lisbon's aid.

But none came.

"…Can you make me forget her?"

Lisbon-13's shadow-self embraced him. "Yes."

I'm back at the start. It's always confusing, even on my third (fourth?) time around. There's Cayde-6. Zavala. Ikora. The parade. I can't waste time here. Too many lost moments. I need to… find… whom? Damn it. Think. Ana? No. Who?!

Or is it… what?

I'm so disoriented. I remember pieces of past attempts, but not every detail. There has to be something I can do to make the refresh easier. Maybe new gear or tech. If my family's legacy has anything to offer, it's technological advancements. When I wake up, I need something familiar to ground me. Something I can carry back with me. It could be small. I need to think ahead. Plan more.

Even though I seem to have an endless supply of it, time is still a precious commodity. The more time squandered, the more likely I am to repeat the mistakes of past attempts. I do remember trying to warn the Vanguard. They regarded me as another doomsayer and had me promptly removed from the Tower. I'm sure I sounded like a raving lunatic. By the time I was proved right, it was too late. Eris was corrupted, like always. Drifter lost to his hopeless pursuit. No one believes me. No one trusts me. I need to stick to the shadows.

Something is happening around this time that's preventing me from making a discernible impact. Somewhere, there is the key to stopping this. I will find it.

I've been given an opportunity to right the wrongs of this world. Instead of hurtling headfirst without a plan, I'll stock up. This time, I'm going to focus on making the next cycle better. Let's call this one a wash. I'll save you next time, Ana. Cheers.

The knock-on effects of Ulan-Tan's Symmetry theory were wide reaching. They likely extended much further than Ulan-Tan himself ever intended. The idea of Light and Darkness as amoral, interdependent forces led to some extremely inconvenient questions. Chief among those was the following: If the Light and Darkness were interdependent, how could one ever "defeat" the Darkness?

As Ulan-Tan himself said, "I wish the Light could 'win,' as you put it. But we must accept that it's just not that simple."

This became a thorny subject for the Guardians, who had spent centuries asserting their combat capabilities. Inherent in their militarism was the idea that victory, or at least self-defense, was possible. However, if their use of the Light simply prompted the spontaneous generation of Darkness somewhere else in the universe, then their military efforts were inherently futile. They were simply propagating an eternal stalemate at the expense of their own pain and suffering.

In short, Ulan-Tan's biggest sin was telling a ruling warrior class that their war was unwinnable.

—Excerpts from "Ulan-Tan, Heretic Saint"

The day the Shadows died, Feltroc sat in a perch high above the fighting, among a sea of glittering rounds. There was a Red Legion corpse for each shell on the engineering deck of Ghaul's ship below. When everything in her field of vision was dead, she took aim at the enemy's airborne rounds, the ones meant for the Shadows still in the fight. She had hit several by the time the Red Legion managed to fill the air shaft around her with a neurotoxin.

—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal

III.

Saladin remembers losing his connection to the Light. He remembers thinking that the Traveler must have discovered his most secret doubts; the darkest thoughts he shared with no one—not even his Ghost. He remembers the strange sense of relief that had washed over him until his radio crackled to life just moments later.

He remembers hearing a voice broadcast to the world that the Last City had fallen to the Cabal, but he could not tell you whose voice it was—only that it wasn't Zavala's.

"Saladin," his Ghost had said, sounding like it spoke from the end of a very long, very wide tunnel. "You have to move."

Because Saladin stood unmoving. He remembers staring out the window at flurries of snow for what felt like a very long time but could only have been a few minutes. He remembers tracing the outlines of neighboring peaks across the glass with the edge of his knuckle. He remembers the act of remembering: once upon a time, he'd taught their names to Zavala, as their names had been taught to him.

"Saladin," his Ghost said again, and Saladin remembers moving. He remembers clutching his radio and rallying survivors—those strong enough to make the journey—to the Iron Temple.

Saladin remembers all this and more whenever the Crow challenges him on his cowardice during the Red War. He wants to break the young Guardian's back to teach him a lesson about what it's like to feel helpless, but something stops him.

He remembers hearing stories about the Crow's life on the Shore before he arrived at the Tower, and does not raise a hand against him.

"You don't have to do this, if you don't want to," Ikora said. "I'd understand."

From the other side of the library, Aunor scowled. She was perhaps the most diligent of the Hidden, having dedicated herself to the unpleasant task of hunting down tainted Guardians. But that was precisely what worried Ikora. Each time they met, she seemed a little gaunter than before. A little testier. Was this crusade beginning to take a toll? Was it a mistake to give her another assignment instead of a vacation?

"I stand by my promise," Aunor snapped before transmatting out.

That had not alleviated Ikora's concerns one iota . She let out a sigh and rubbed her temples.

She couldn't dwell on it for long, however. The air crackled again. When Ikora opened her eyes, Saint was standing exactly where Aunor had been, moments ago. "Ikora Rey, I am sorry to come unannou—"

"How did you get in here?" she blurted. No one but the Hidden knew where her private library was. Or so she had thought.

The Exo stared at her, confused. "I—I transmatted," he said simply. He tried again. "I am sorry, but I must speak with you."

"No, I'm the one who should apologize. Please, sit." She hurried to clear the books piled around a pair of armchairs. "I got your message. It's unfortunate this has happened a second time."

Saint sat, his massive frame dwarfing the chair. "Unfortunate, yes. Disturbing too. I fear…" He paused, looking away. Out the window, the afternoon sun had turned golden and begun sinking in the sky. "In battle, I know what to do. There are no doubts. The Trials was the same. But now, I do not know."

"I understand. Sometimes, it feels like these incidents are designed to make us doubt everything, even our own abilities." Ikora sat beside him. "But there's no one I'd trust more to helm the Trials at a time like this."

"Not even the man they are named for?" Saint let out a sad laugh. "He does not wish to, in any case. I ask and right away, he says he is too busy to care. Told me to shut them down, if I was so tired."

"Well, he is busy. He's almost acting as a third Vanguard with this whole Cabal conflict. Perhaps after we come to terms with Caiatl…"

"You misunderstand. I am glad he is busy. Busy is good. It distracts him from his loss. But he is still…"

"Different?"

"No. Yes, but more than that." He shook his head in frustration. "When I told him about the incident, I thought he would worry, like me. Instead, he tells me to take notes next time. Said the data would be useful," he spat in disgust.

Ikora looked at Saint, expecting him to say more. When he didn't, she sat back in her seat, thinking. She wasn't exactly surprised. Osiris was an experimentalist , after all, and not a particularly sensitive one. And though this comment was certainly more callous than usual, she didn't understand Saint's concern. He seemed agitated, almost like he was angry at Osiris…

"That must've been upsetting to hear, after what you went through," she began slowly. Saint looked away, confirming her theory. "But I think his heart's in the right place. We know so little about the Darkness. More data would indeed be very useful."

Saint said nothing. The light through the window splashed orange across his helm.

"But," she pressed on, "We shouldn't endanger Guardians to get it. However Osiris feels about them now, the Trials started as a way to train fireteams, and they're going to stay that way." She stood, placing a hand on the Exo's shoulder. "I swear to you."

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Good."

████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ tomorrow's tomorrow.

█████████

█████████████████████████████████████████████ entire world for ██████████ ████████████████████████████████████
█████████

████████████████████████████████████████████████manifest ██████████ ███ None would threaten me, ████████████, or her future's future.

███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

████████████I first noticed it when █████████on her own; then again, ██████████████████████ ███████████████████████greater than the sum of her parts. ████████████████████████

And I let the void in my chest consume me.

MOON // OCEAN OF STORMS // K1 COMMUNION //

Red light floods over Dunya's black-and-gold shell. The tiny Ghost's monocular blue eye bobs up and down as he tracks backwards through the air, taking in the presence of an ethereal figure hovering above.

Aisha and Reed turn at Dunya's chirp of alarm, guns drawn. But as they train their sights on the robed Nightmare shimmering in front of them, neither one can fully commit their aim. Aisha is the first to whisper an expletive in shock at the sight.

"Arguing about which of you is as terrible as I am?" The Nightmare of Shayura asks, turning her crimson stare away from Dunya's retreating form. "Heaven forbid you be as awful as your murderous friend."

Aisha is frozen in confusion, hands trembling on the grip of her scout rifle. "Shay." The word comes out of her mouth as little more than a hoarse whisper.

The Nightmare of Shayura floats slowly through the air toward Aisha and Reed, smiling when Dunya hides behind his Guardian and transmats away.

"First comes the guilt," the Nightmare croons, "then the shame, then the denial. I know the patterns well." She wags a finger back and forth, chidingly. "How soon before you forget me? Find a new Warlock to bask in their well? Pretend that I never existed?"

"S-Shay—Shay wh—" Aisha can't even string her words together. Not until she feels Reed's metal hand clamp down on her shoulder. When she looks at him, his expression is one of resolve, not fear. It's then that she remembers the instructions Eris had given, about how to survive on the Moon if ever the Nightmares came for them with familiar faces, familiar voices.

Aisha looks back at the Nightmare of Shayura and whispers: "I'm sorry."

MOON // OCEAN OF STORMS // K1 COMMUNION //

A Fallen Vandal collapses to the ground, Ether vapor rising from a glowing hole where his face once was. Dark-blue blood sizzles around the wound.

"Clear," Reed-7 calls out from the top of a flight of metal stairs, the barrel of his fusion rifle still crackling with energy from the last bolt it fired. As he descends, Aisha follows and shoulders her scout rifle.

"Looks like they were pulling the wiring out of the walls," she observes, lifting up her hand and alighting her Ghost, Dunya, into the air. "Check the systems here; make sure they weren't doing anything else."

"Affirmative," Dunya chirps, zipping off through the air toward a computer terminal.

Aisha notices that Reed's glowing eyes are fixed on the Ether wafting from the Vandal's body. She spares a glance at Dunya before crossing the floor to Reed's side. "Hey," she says with a hand on his arm, jostling him from his thoughts.

"I'm good," he lies, gingerly pulling away. "Just—thinking."

Aisha looks down at the corpse, then back up to Reed. "This isn't like what Shay did on Venus." She tries to be reassuring, but it comes off as dismissive.

"How's it any different?" He asks with a dagger's sharpness in his voice. "These—they were stripping wires from the walls, Aisha. They weren't trying to hurt anyone!"

"They opened fire on us first."

"We didn't even try to talk to them!" Reed yells.

"Aisha?" Dunya chirps, across the room. Neither Guardian hears the Ghost.

"I'm sorry," Aisha says as she throws her arms up. "Was I supposed to do that before or after they threw a grenade at me?"

"Aisha?" Dunya says again, more alarm in his voice.

"We could have tried something! Anything!" Reed screams, getting in Aisha's face. "We could have—"

"AISHA!"

The Drifter slouches against the bulkhead of the Derelict, a pile of Dark Motes scattered across the table in front of him. He fixes his gaze on the massive Titan, the sharpness in his eyes belying his casual posture.

"I'm surprised you got the time to come around here, hassling me about these tiny Motes, Joxer. Seems like you got the big deal in orbit around Io. That's where the Vanguard oughta be." The Drifter's hand rests casually on the handle of a thick, breechloaded Grenade Launcher. "And ain't you Vanguard through and through these days?"

Joxer snorts at the irony. "I'm not here to hassle you, Drifter. On the contrary. Consider this a friendly warning."

"Friendly, huh? Is that what we are now?" Drifter's grip on the Grenade Launcher tightens. "Now you raised my suspicion. You better speak plain, Joxer, or prepare to draw."

The Titan shakes his head in exasperation. "Some people say those Pyramids damn near wiped us out once. Nobody knows for sure. But if they do end up hostile, it's going to get heavy in a hurry. And you don't want to be the guy standing in the middle holding a bag of Dark Motes."

"And what the hell business is it of yours where I'm standing?" the Drifter asks as he plants his boots on the deck. He rises to his feet, the Grenade Launcher dangling from his hand. "Unless I'm standing in your way."

Joxer puts his hands up in mock surrender. "You know what? I came here because I'm trying to change. Making amends. After what happed at Gambit Prime… I had to get right. And part of that is giving you some friendly advice to lay low for a while." He glances down at the Dark Motes. "But if you don't want to hear reason, that's on you."

Joxer trundles his way to the back of the ship. As the airlock hisses open, Drifter calls out, "That's real nice armor, Joxer. Don't forget where you got it."

v_v_v_victory: WE GOT ACCEPTED!!!
v_v_v_victory: EXODUS BLACK HERE WE COME
Waelcyrge: haha…
v_v_v_victory: I'M SO EXCITED AAAAAAAAAH
v_v_v_victory: SIGRUN!!!!!!!!
v_v_v_victory: we are LITERALYL going to make history
v_v_v_victory: like babies are going to be sitting in school on a WHOLE NEW PLANET
v_v_v_victory: and the teacher will be like 'LISTEN UP you little idoiots'
v_v_v_victory: 'some brave-ass people voluntered to leave EVERYBODY THEY KNEW + LOVED so that YOU could walk around on this weird planet'
v_v_v_victory: haha
v_v_v_victory: youre pumped too right?
v_v_v_victory: i know youre pumped
v_v_v_victory: sig?
Waelcyrge signed off at 07:46:45 UTC-8.
v_v_v_victory: gd it
Your message 'gd it' could not be delivered because the recipient is offline.

The stories are passed from child to child, whispered in the streets and on the playground like any good legend. "Don't ever venture beyond the wall and sight of the Tower," parents warn, citing these cautionary tales that speak of the boy's many deaths. Exposure. Hunger. Sickness. Cutthroats. Living nightmares. And on. And on. The children, however, have their own truths. To them, the boy never died. They call him the Rat King. The children believe he leads the forgotten among them out of the City on grand adventures. They say he and his misfit army saved the world. But children say many things, and the Vanguard maintains their official stance: there is no Rat King and his army never existed. That's what the elders believe. I choose to believe otherwise.

V

Gaelin-4 inhaled sharply. He sat up and flexed his limbs.

His ghost floated before him. "It was a lucky hit."

"Aren't they all?" Gaelin stood and brushed himself off. "Appreciated, Clip."

"Wire Rifles made it run before things got too bad." The Ghost dipped in a nod and dematerialized.

"Before?" Gaelin-4 turned around. Nivviks and Vynriis sat several paces away in pensive observation. "Those rifles jam or something?"

"Guardian requested to handle situation." Nivviks clacked his jaw. "Went as intended, yes?"

Gaelin glared at Nivviks, but the Fallen simply stepped forward and offered a hand to help him stand.

"Kept the Guardian's body from being dragged away. Saved pretty rifle," Vynriis said, placing Transfiguration in the Exo's hands.

Gaelin's glare relaxed as he locked eyes with Vynriis and conferred a mute look of thanks.

"Quarry is on the move. Unwise to return to an expecting Spider with empty hands." Nivviks took a long breath from an Ether canister. "What will the Guardian do?"

"How long was I out?"

"Not long… minutes," Vynriis replied.

Gaelin closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt his prey still tethered to his Light, marked by traces of the Void. Nivviks was right: it was close. "We hunt."

"Ah…" Nivviks stood. "Fortunate that we wounded Wrathborn," he said, pointing to a trail of fluid.

Gaelin-4 looked to the dim afterglow of the quenched fuel fire, to the fresh trail before them. "I defer to you, old timer."

"Good… yes. Try to keep up," Nivviks chittered. He pulled a transponder from his belt. "Tracking shot. Useful. Not far on Pikes… or flimsy Guardian bird."

Gaelin-4 mounted his flimsy Guardian bird. "By all means, lead."

They followed the trail in silence. Nivviks led, then Gaelin-4, then Vynriis. They had encircled him like a tenderfoot calf. He had underestimated the Wrathborn's resilience. Made a fool of himself to show up a couple Fallen on a dead rock—but a breakage heals stronger if it's set right.

They closed the distance quickly. The Wrathborn's lair was a small cave hovel with a bend just passed the entrance. He could almost see the creature's breath through the stone, feel its movements.

"Does the Guardian wish for Web Mines?" Vynriis held a mine out to Gaelin sheepishly.

Gaelin took it. "Let's line the entrance, Vynriis."

"How many?"

"All of them. We overwhelm it at the choke, then tether and spike it down."

Nivviks nodded. "Draw it out. We will keep its tails from killing you… again."

"Appreciated. Guess I'll be bait."

Gaelin-4 entered the cave and saw the Wrathborn caressing a tendril rooted in its back. Before it, a shrine of black twisted spines. They had begun to harden and gain a translucent metallic sheen, increasingly stained by drippings as his eye wandered higher. The missing associates hung impaled at their apex as tarnished crowns. The spines fed upon them, and Gaelin could see the planted stems weaving together at the base. The Wrathborn yanked the tendril from its back and planted it. They quivered. A hint of a voice. Gaelin would look upon them no longer.

He formed a vortex of Void in his palm and slung it beneath the Wrathborn. It stumbled backward as the grenade burned away. Behind it, the Fallen bodies disintegrated, but the spires remained unscathed and thirsty. The Wrathborn turned to pursue him, ripping at the ground, ceiling, and walls for holds.

The Guardian ran and dove over a line of Web Mines at the cave mouth. He cloaked as the Wrathborn was barraged by their spheres of Arc disruption.

Nivviks and Vynriis pelted the beast with Wire Rifle shots, fending off tendrils and drawing attention from Gaelin-4. The Guardian nocked a Void-Light bolt and cast his Shadowshot into the Wrathborn's chest, drawing its limbs in with crushing gravity. The trio drew Arc-cage stake-points and flung them into position around the incapacitated Wrathborn. As the last stake made connection, the Arc-cage sprung and shocked the beast into unconscious submission.

Morning light trickled over the horizon as the three finished tying down the cage for transfer.

"Better this time," Nivviks croaked. "Cave is unsettling."

"Web Mines were a good idea," the Guardian replied. He sighed. "I strongly advise you demo that cave."

"Agreed. I will call for a Ketch." Nivviks stepped away, shouting back, "Enjoy your liquor and whelp."

Gaelin-4 smirked.

Vynriis checked the cage's seals and looked to Gaelin. "What will the Guardian call his War Beast?"

"Castus."

"A good hound."

████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ tomorrow's tomorrow.

█████████

█████████████████████████████████████████████ entire world for ██████████ ████████████████████████████████████
█████████

████████████████████████████████████████████████manifest ██████████ ███ None would threaten me, ████████████, or her future's future.

███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

████████████I first noticed it when █████████on her own; then again, ██████████████████████ ███████████████████████greater than the sum of her parts. ████████████████████████

And I let the void in my chest consume me.

Chapter 5: Abhorrent Imperative

Voronin tied his armband tight around her calf to cut off the blood flow from Morozova's gaping wound. He tried to keep her leg clean while the wind caked them with dirt and debris. Lightning was drawing closer. The sterile scent of ozone had returned and he knew he didn't have much time. "COME BACK!" he shouted hopelessly to the God. He hoisted Morozova up, supporting her on his shoulder, and pushed back against the elements that were conspiring against him.

It was 250 meters to the evac station. Every step was a battle of attrition. At this point, the thought of coldsleep sounded comforting. He just had to make it to the SMILE pods. The storm had other plans. A nearby HMMWV was struck by a wayward bolt and the explosion threw them back. He felt Morozova torn from his side as he landed, and the sound of his skull hitting stone was louder than the thunder had been. As blackness crept into his vision, he saw the Traveler in the sky, moving away, abandoning him.

…and then he was being dragged from the wreckage and violence onto a gurney. "…Morozova?" he struggled out. He was met with an oxygen mask. His eyes darted, in search of some sign that Morozova was alive. Voronin couldn't decipher anything out of the pandemonium around him. "I'm sorry," he thought to himself while cursing the orb in the sky for deserting him.

The last thing he remembered before they placed him into coldsleep was an explosion in the sky so bright it blinded him.

[The Witch Queen rarely paid visit to my prison. And when she did, it was not for me. She knew what I was, what I produced. I was a servant of the Subjugator. A servant of the Witness. A provider of that which took sustenance from her and many like her. She never cared for that. And as such, she never cared for me. Or for him. And he knew it.]

[She was cunning. Where wrath consumed Oryx and Xivu Arath, it always eluded Savathûn. Or perhaps, it was she who eluded it.]

[Of this, my Subjugator was not fond. Placed indefinitely in her throne world, he was made to watch her every move. To mentor and guide, to keep a close eye—so that one day, she, too, could serve the Witness. A Disciple in the making.]

[It was as planned. The Krill became the Hive. The enemy amongst the moons of Fundament disappeared. My Subjugator served his Witness well. But he could not escape the very words of his Witness, which beat against his mind whenever Savathûn stood in his presence. —-The universe is wide, my child. With wrath matching if not exceeding yours in its vastness. Seek it before it seeks you. Or it will be your end.—-]

[I became a vessel for his jealousies. A source of power for his Upended to consume. To see Savathûn's world shattered should she ever step out of line.]

[In the Deep, my children pay a price in servitude, for survival. In ascendance, the Hive pay a price in servitude, for power. And in the dark, I pay a price in servitude, so that others may be nurtured.]

[It must not be in vain.]

"Eyes on the road," Marcus Ren told himself. "And don't look back."

It was a motto he lived by, both on and off the track.

His Sparrow screamed across Luna's surface, kicking up clouds of moondust in its wake. Out here, he was free to push prototype engines to their limits. To open the throttle wide and really cut loose.

But that wasn't why he was riding so fast tonight.

He didn't notice anything strange at first. Not until he stopped to check the Sparrow's instruments. And then, he felt it: eyes on his back, a chill on his neck.

Marcus immediately hit the ignition and boosted the Sparrow to its top speed. But still the feeling followed him, and he knew what it was.

A Nightmare.

He'd heard the term on Vanguard channels. Phantoms wearing the faces of the lost, tormenting those who remembered them. And Marcus Ren remembered a lot of people.

He switched off the fuel regulator and kicked the Sparrow into overdrive. He didn't know who was chasing him, and he sure as hell wasn't looking over his shoulder to find out.

"Eyes on the road," he repeated aloud, gripping the handlebars until his knuckles were as pale as death.

"And never look back."

"You little rat. You took my warm hospitality and stomped all over it like an ungrateful child. Is that any way to treat one of your dear 'brethren'?"

Siviks laughed. A cold, twisted laugh. Then offered up a large wad of spit at the Spider's feet.

The Spider just rolled his eyes. "Let me know when you're ready to make nice," he said.

Siviks' laugh now grew into something maniacal. He topped it off with another wad of spit, this time directly in the Spider's face.

Once he'd wiped his brow, the Spider leaned forward, looking Siviks in the eyes, and said, "I think our little rat here needs a time out. Perhaps someplace with the rest of the vermin."

The many hands of Spider's men gripped and restrained Siviks. As they dragged him off, he shouted, "You… as bad as all Fallen! Worse, even! A friend even to humans… All must die!"

The Spider simply waved goodbye, taunting, "Bon voyage, my friend!"

Once Siviks had gone, the Spider looked longingly toward where he had stood. He sighed a deep, regretful sigh before continuing with business as usual.

EARTH // LAST CITY // DETENTION FACILITY //

"The first steps to healing are learning to forgive yourself. That's a hard one, I know."

Doctor Syeda Uzair sets her datapad aside, then sits forward in her chair. She folds her hands in front of herself. A tiny, beaded chain is wrapped around one hand, and a small bone charm of the Traveler is pressed into her right palm. "Shayura, whether or not a court of law finds you guilty of your actions in any measure, you are still held accountable to the court of your own conscience."

Across from Doctor Uzair, Shayura is slouched in her chair. She stares past her doctor, out the narrow windows, and looks to the looming figure of the Traveler hanging in the sky. It seems so much bigger compared to the projections she chooses to display in her cell.

"Who judges them?" Shayura asks, motioning to the window with her chin. To the Traveler.

Doctor Uzair turns, glancing over her shoulder at the Traveler. Her grip on the charm tightens. "I don't know," is her immediate answer, but the question will burrow its way through her mind, surfacing again when she lies down in bed tonight. "I understand the Human condition far better than a god's."

"Maybe the Traveler abandoned us because it's ashamed of us. Of what we've done in its name." Shayura's voice is small, weary. An alert flickers on Dr. Uzair's datapad, momentarily drawing her attention away. Shayura fills the silence with a sigh.

"Maybe," Doctor Uzair says, though she doesn't believe it. "But, maybe we're all just short on hope these days. I'd like to extend our session a little longer, if you're willing. Would you mind if we did so with some guests?"

Concern flashes across Shayura's face; defensiveness, shame. She sits up slightly in her seat. Doctor Uzair can see the tension.

"When we speak of forgiveness, sometimes it helps to first be forgiven," Doctor Uzair says with a tempered smile. Shayura glances to the datapad, then back to her doctor.

"Reed-7 and Aisha would like to see you."

Tears well in Shayura's eyes. Her voice of dissent evaporates.

Shayura realizes there is one thing she can still have faith in: her family.

Eris Morn chalks the floor in the H.E.L.M. wing previously inhabited by the Servitor of the Eliksni Splicers. A liberated Tomb Ship drones beside her. Through the open, shielded, hangar, the Leviathan is visible as a malformed knot, its shape bulging from the shadowed outline of the Moon.

Ikora descends the stairs. An ornately dressed Warlock thanatonaut follows, their robes trimmed in bone and elaborately stitched symbols.

"Did you commandeer this from Mars?" Ikora asks with a smile, looking over the Hive vessel.

Eris stands. "It provided ample shielding for transporting the Crown from its vault."

"It's here, now?" the thanatonaut asks, breaking his stride at the bottom of the stairs.

"Worry not. The H.E.L.M. will disembark from the City to ensure the Crown is contained," Eris answers.

"Keep that Tomb Ship docked here in case we need to jettison the Crown. Last thing I need is a rookie shooting you down in it." Ikora steps past the thanatonaut with a reassuring nod. "Tell us what you're thinking next, Eris."

Eris gestures toward the open bay door. "The Leviathan is at our doorstep. Even if we unravel Calus's plan, the ship itself still poses a threat simply by its size. Calus does not require paracausal power to cause an extinction-level event."

"Calus's interest appears to be focused solely on the Pyramid," Ikora interjects. "Should that change, Zavala assures me that Caiatl's fleet will provide ample dissuasive firepower."

Eris nods in rhythm with Ikora's well-reasoned words. "I trust that to be true—however, whatever connection Calus has established is drawing Nightmares and phantoms alike to the Leviathan. He is able to exert influence over them. But I believe we can disrupt this connection."

She points to the thanatonaut. "You," she says and motions toward three chalked spots on the floor. "Here, here, and here. We will require death anchors to tether the ritual. Hold your mind on the brink for as long as you can, and I will craft the sigils required to contain the Crown. Then, we will need volunteers…"

FROM THE WRITINGS OF TOMEK

All things have a cost. But what if I didn't have to be the one to pay it?

The many-worlds theory may be out of fashion among my peers, but the fanatical beliefs of the Future War Cult don't come from nowhere.

I remember the exact moment I realized: If I was investigating ways to make my parallel selves carry my burdens, then surely those Tomeks had already had the same idea.

I had no way of knowing the others' progress. But each time I bent my head over my workbench, I felt the gaze of infinite eyes upon my shoulders.

In the end, I and one other activated our inventions at the exact same space-time coordinates.

It came down to a cosmic coin toss. One of us became the owner of the powerful Contraverse Hold.

And I became a battery.

RECORD: Security Log E.P. Station, MTRLv2.18
IDENTITIES: C. Bray I, M. Liu
TEST SUBJECT: Sgt. Traore
FILE//DSC_CLASSIFIED

[M.L.] Test subject successfully through the portal. Direct feed is live. Multiple hostiles detected.

[C.B.] There are… so many of them.

[M.L.] The Vex numbers are incalculable currently.

[C.B.] Well, what are we waiting for? Launch the artillery.

[M.L.] Targets acquired.

[C.B.] How many targets are being tracked?

[M.L.] Four.

[C.B.] That's not enough. Fire now.

[M.L.] Test subject is under heavy resistance. Exo chassis receiving heavy damage.

[C.B.] FIRE. NOW.

[M.L.] Projectiles 1 and 2 dispatched. Two confirmed hits. Sir, the Torch Hammers are melting Sgt. Traore. Request retrieval.

[C.B.] Denied. Fire 3 and 4.

[M.L.] The left arm has been severed. He's incapable of action. Request retrieval.

[C.B.] DENIED. Use the right arm… Where's the feed?!

[M.L.] Test subject offline. Feed lost.

[C.B.] For the love of… Do you see the cost of hesitation? Of cowardice?

[M.L] …

[C.B.] No matter. This is the price of advancement. The test subject was able to target multiple threats successfully but was simply unable to execute commands fast enough. The next hurdle requires a mechanism capable of housing projectiles for simultaneous fire that's lightweight enough for individual operation.

[M.L.] I'll get this report to R&D ASAP.

[C.B.] Tell them I expect to see an operational prototype by week's end.

[M.L.] Copy. Requesting retrieval of the remains, sir.

[C.B.] Denied. I will not allow the facility to be compromised or our portal to be breached. We'll double our defenses here and continue to send Exos through to fight the Vex on their front until we get this right.

This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…

The words seep experience into your open mind…

THROUGH THE EYES OF AN EMPTY VESSEL…

Dormant. Bound.

[Knock]

Threat.

Storm outside.

Rain soft thirst.

Flashes show shapes.

Shapes I know.

[The Knock is stronger]

Gentle whispers reach from me.

To all.

As Father, as Fikrul.

Barons. Kells.

Gone.

Another voice…

[The Knock is insistent]

Pressing.

FearandConfusion.

No.

The mind beneath this one screams to the surface.

Nothing, Scorn, a Son… Fallen… Eliksni…King…

Akriis does not bow.

Arise, commands the voice buried in whispers.

Akriis does not bow, but Akriis is dead.

Peeled away.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The spine of the Glykon breaks, its vertebrae now interchanging.

Scorn howl to herald the crossing into Nothing.

Through the Locus, they hear the whispers and obey:

"Meet Salvation."


FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: There's a scanner array off the hull near the hangar. I patched a line through to it to check Qinziq's feed. Needed somewhere to listen.

This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…

The words seep experience into your open mind…

THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…

Calus's tomb-carriage overlooks the viewing chamber once again. All his forms stand around a garish mass of metal and apprehension: the crown, as he called it. Fewer crew members attend this communion after so many failed attempts. Gilly and I stand above a host of chattering carcasses. Plugs can cables run from them into the flesh of an Ether-logged Scorn beneath an ugly crown. The gold from the Castellum is flush with tarnish, stemming from some kind of lichen that had burrowed its way into the precious metal adornments since the last communion attempt.

"I thought gold doesn't stain," I say to Gilly. "It's an expression of purity."

"Like the Light?"

"Mm," I grunt. Gilly fixates on the crown, on the viewing window and the depth beyond.

Bahto takes the spot next to me and leans against the railing. "Are all Guardians ruled by uncertainty?"

Councilors approach the crown.

"Bahto, in my experience, people who are too sure of themselves tend to die." The Councilors place their hands to the crown, and suddenly, I am greatly aware of this room's stillness. Our tilt.

Bahto raises his voice over the intensifying chatter. "Your Ghost speaks to the Scorn, as much as they can."

"Curious, that's all. Looking for an angle, something we can use. Ain't that right, Gilly?" I ask, trying to hide my suspicion.

Gilgamesh says nothing, iris frozen ahead as the viewing curtain completes its retraction.

Velocity surges forward to the anomaly, tearing away the surrounding reality. The sound of Calus's feverish multi-fold laughter drowns the hull's groans for mercy. It's different this time, not a passage. It's a wall. We crash hard—but not all at once. It's a steady tumbling impact. Always down. The cosmic bands bend around us and shutter as they're drawn into thin bright needles of diminishing relevance. Peripheral obliteration mainlined and burnt through. The space between each needle of light expands until. It. IS.

The transition is like a reluctant membrane; a depth of souls frozen over and wailing. The ice grinds against itself at the ecliptic barrier between form and expression.

We cross: sunless. Adrift on empty currents with no direction.

.

.

.

"Where's the emperor?"


FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: They keep an offshoot of the hangar locked. If no one's using it…

This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…

The words seep experience into your open mind…

THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…

Six hard weeks in the Reef. Scorn, Hive, and horrors enough. I still prefer the open Shore to the Glykon, but it's earning its keep. We crossed the belt and anchored our gravity off Phobos: an old Cabal base still holding an operational tether. I volunteered to clear the base of Taken. Get out a bit. Didn't even get a fireteam together before we realized the damn things were docile.

Against the anomaly, our little serpent ship was a worm, a speck, like a distant star you squish between your fingers. The bottomless pit where Mars used to be fills every starboard porthole. Crew stand in the viewing chamber for hours. Some get dragged out. The immensity of it, a planet-wide fathom of hissing dark… boundless, and us: planted on the edge of reason… It defies you.

Calus docked with us yesterday, his Scribe not but two steps behind him. Perused the stock. Picked out the first one for what they're calling communion.

They brought something on board. Scorn haven't shut up since. Qinziq is getting it ready in the viewing chamber.

Gilly's eyeing it too; looking through portholes. I hear him at night, whispering:

"It's the same… all the way through. You were right, Katabasis: it's all just a cage, a prison, but so much bigger than we thought."

What are we doing here?


FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: You can rest midway above the turbine grinder. The noise covers your moments.

This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…

The words seep experience into your open mind…

THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…

Blood meets a slurry of oil and dark Ether draining into runoff vents in the cabin floor. I sit. A savage din echoes through the harvester craft. I can hear them in the war beast pens below deck. Gnashing teeth maddeningly chewing through restraints. The wet slaps of their bodies battering the walls.

Bahto boards the harvester under a hail of tiny stones. "The hold is secured, and casualties collected." He shuts the bay to the Reef-storm behind him.

"How many?" I ask, noticing the two of us are alone.

He mistakes concern for weakness. "We will be ready for tomorrow's harvest."

I shift the question. "How many more of these things does Qinziq want?"

"Two days of harvest before leaving the Shore."

"She tell you what for?"

"No more than you."

"Following blind orders something that sits well with you?"

"Qinziq does not answer to you, Lightbearer."

"So I've heard." More than once.

"My father spoke like you. Questioned," Bahto grumbles, laying down his gear. "He abandoned Calus to join Ghaul's coup. Disgraced our bloodline. I threw off my father's shackles and pledged my life to the emperor. I was shown mercy. Soon I will reclaim the clout of my line and the right to sire. Loyalty is not blindness. Loyalty is rewarded."

"Sounds like he turned away from a losing battle to one he thought he could win."

"He left when hope seemed small, before he could see victory through." Bahto pauses, pensive. "Calus will expose the secrets of the Darkness and use them to reclaim Torobatl. It will be."

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Qinziq blocks the entrance into her lab. It had been hastily transferred from Leviathan to Glykon after our procurement of the ship; all manner of vicious-looking machinery. She raises a finger to my face. Her language restructures in my mind. "You do not belong here."

"I need to know exactly what you're using them for."

"Why? They are animals. Our beasts of burden."

I ponder the ethics. They used to be something else, a deadened part buried and ignored… but…

"Such concern for a Hunter."

She meant to pin me to Cayde. "Ain't any different from defiling a corpse. You people honor your dead, don't you?"

'I do not answer to you,' Qinziq seethes into my mind. She brushes me away and moves to shut the door.

"Bahto does. His soldiers do. Do you want to politely ask the Scorn into confinement, or do you want to be straight with me?"

She scowls at me. "Where is your Ghost?"

"Hangar maintenance…"

"Come," Qinziq says, leading me inside the lab to a bundle of large vats adorned with all manner of pumps and wiring. "This…" she slides a viewing port open on the front-most vat.

Rabid Scorn eyes lock with mine through the view port. Dark fluid roils as the creature flails and fumes muted shrieks into the liquid.

"Natural connection to Darkness made stronger. Their minds, linked like ours, but without Barons, there is nothing to fill them."

I watch it claw frantically against the vat wall until I hear the grating tone of bone-raw fingertips digging into the metal.

"A touch more violent than I'd expect from a mindless thing," I say.

"They subsist off the last thought imposed on them. Kill for Fikrul. For the lost prince. But…" Qinziq presses her hand to the tank. She fixates her eye on the Scorn, and it mellows. Her words are strained. "…with effort, their psyche is a vessel. Through which many expressions can… commune." She releases the Scorn, exhausted, and it drowns again; eyes shrieking terror. "Too many for this one to inhabit."

"How does that help us?"

"Calus will draw the Darkness into them, and we will squeeze from them all they know."

"How?" I insist.

"When we arrive at the anomaly, you will see."


FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Fungus choked off the turbine maintenance deck. If you find a way in, throw the switch.

This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…

The words seep experience into your open mind…

THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…

Restless sleep plagued by the nightmare.

I am in the streets when the sirens start.

I lay watching the Traveler for a long time. Disbelief. The gap in thought of a semiautomatic mind.

Red Legion sweeps. I see their harrowing fusillades tear annihilation through the Tower.

Everyone is standing but me.

Debris falling. I am separated. I reach for Gilgamesh and he is gone.

The cage chokes our Light.

Fire chases me from street to street. No Light. No ammunition. The City is burning.

Faceless zephyrs screaming to me beneath a pitiless god. Red-plated death lines the walls, and

The City is burning.

I flee. I flee. I flee. I flee. I flee… my steps weighted down by guilt.

The City is burning and you did nothing.

.

.

.

Gil's broken star finds my shame.

There is only us, forging survival.

Together we crawl to exile.


FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Nightmare's back. Took months, but it always comes back—in force this time. Every night since we took on our cargo, they've been howling. I swear they're three decks down, but you can still hear 'em. Gil's been wandering the ship more.

Time to start making go bags. Think I'll carve out a spot near the hangar… opposite side from Qinziq's lab. Place is swarming now.

This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…

The words seep experience into your open mind…

THROUGH THE EYES OF CALUS THE CACOETHES…

A crowd has gathered to stand with me, their emperor, soon to be so much more. Amsot spread word of my arrival, and they clamored to be first in my presence in the viewing chamber. I spot the Guardian and his little Light as well—an extra morsel of bait. The Ghost watches while the Guardian resigns to the rear. Pity.

All come to view the zenith of my labors. I am omnipresent. Every angle that can be seen is seen by statues at every corner. My plated carriage monitors the Crown for aberrations. It is adorned with gold from the Castellum for my viewing. I paid many lives to pry it free from Hive clutches, but it bent most agreeably… its ability to bridge minds… and bring them to submit. I see my tributes, Scorn gibbering nonsense in unison, lashed and plugged to the Crown—a thorn made tool in my brilliance. My daring Councilors anchor their psyches and prepare to begin the communion. Greatness is before us.

These watchers: I shall thrill them.

I clap four monumental pairs of hands. "Let it… begin."

I turn all my gaze to the chamber's expansive viewing window as shutters unveil the grave of Mars. Tendrilic bands of phasing Darkness spiral from the anomaly's core, enrapturing all of me… beckoning into the depth of its core with whispers like hooks through nervous flesh. I gape into the stimulating writhe. "Yes…"

My Councilors place their hands on the Crown and focus cognition through it. They pry open the Scorn's collective synaptic pathways and sew them into the fabric of the anomaly's memetic sphere. The Glykon strains against the pull.

Velocity surges forward to the anomaly; the surrounding reality tears away. We hold, suspended before the writhe. It fills all sight; Nothing just beyond the bend. Time ceases, and the cosmos arcs to accommodate my will. Now.

"Delight in me. I emulated all of me in your image; stretched my mind to live through so many… I reaped the pleasures and experiences of every vessel. But despite my sundry perspectives, I still only see through my own eyes—and I want more." I peer into the Dark nothing. "You are… oblivion. Not a destruction, but a melding of all that has come to pass. I wish to become as you are. To gorge on existence. To collect your promise to elevate me." My laughter is wild. All of my forms transfix on the swirling anomaly. "LOOK UPON ME!"

The cosmos bends and snaps as I stand, returned to my feeble reality. Ignored again. The Scorn shriek nonsense in unison. It drowns out of the whispers. It is all any of me can hear.

I reach out, as you showed me when last we met. I split open each Scorn mind from my carriage, searching for you. Nothing. Every time. So I tear open their bodies. Fitfully pulling limb from socket, mind from skull, scouring them for your presence. I search until the shrieking can only be heard from distant pens.

I meet the eyes of each crew member who would not look away. In them, I see it. You. Peering back from behind the tension: An Observer.


FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Dug out a spot under the refuse pit. It's still running, so be quick.

This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…

The words seep experience into your open mind…

THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…

A royal invitation got me as far as the inner reliquary. I enter the belly of the Leviathan, unattended. My eyes catch on the runs in Calus's crestfallen banners. His inner halls don't gleam—reminds me of stories from the Golden Age. Polish the veneer and present them on a platter, but when you peel back the layers it's just… old. Past, with prime far behind.

Ahead, a Legionary in loyalist gild nods to me and swings open a door. A manufactured version of Calus stands tall on the other side. Its likeness mirrors the Tribute Hall's automaton and many other statuesque bots I'd spoken to him through.

The statue of Calus whines to life. "You're early, but I suppose your tribe is always ahead of the pack, Hunter. Should I have this room moved, that you may stroll the Leviathan's halls that much longer and appreciate my hospitality?"

I'm not sure what he wants to hear. "She's an impressive beast. I've come to take the job." I turn it like an offer.

Uncomfortable silence.

"Come and see me, Katabasis. I have a gift for you."

The statue points toward a domed chamber; its curled walls sport every kind of trophy. Bones on hooks. Taxidermy wrapped around terrified eyes and final moments.

A clutch of Councilors watches me as they take mechanical plates from three other identical statues of Calus surrounding them. They huddle about a towering cage of filigreed alloys and woven circuitry, fitting the plates to it with sacramental focus, until the cage becomes a tomb around a pearlescent seat supporting a lonesome figure within.

"What an auspicious early arrival. Come. Witness my containment. Few have seen this," Calus wheezes from inside the cage, his voice like taut suffocation.

Calus's withering form swells and jostles. My thoughts stink of disgust, and he can smell it. "I am no more trapped here than you are by your Light. You assume this flesh satisfies me? How small. My automatons stand as monuments of my image; reflections of my breadth. They are, as I am: one collective self, as Nothing is.

I grit my teeth and look on, stepping sideways to see him from a different angle. His skin is mottled with sickly translucence that grips my stomach.

"Your thoughts are as open as your fears, Katabasis. Come, come… look upon me and let my Councilors assuage them."

Councilors lay more thick plates over Calus's living misery, brushing past me as they finish and exiting the room with my inhibitions. Mechanisms within the plates engage as plum light emits from the slits between them. Nacre runs smooth around the frame and into a throne-like cup of sullied nobility. Beneath the throne, hoses bubble viscous royal wine into the sealed frame. Calus looks through me, eyes like clumped chalk, as the last Councilor fastens a faceplate into position. Deep orbs illuminate in the faceplate, like wild eyes in the open pitch of night. We are alone.

"What do you know of lies, Katabasis?"

I pick between the words. "There're a lot different kinds."

"And all of them are weakness. " Calus's voice spills from the containment vessel and floods the room. "Gods do not lie. Like me, they have neither the capacity nor the reason. True power cannot be threatened. It does not compel deception. And yet, I have been betrayed by one I thought to be the final divinity."

"Sounds like you got swindled… ?" I quickly blunt the question with respect: "…Emperor?"

"When the Darkness found me adrift in the cosmos, rejected by a people I had made, I thought to have found a confidant. No—an idol. They promised to return to me, to uplift me—that we may dance together among the stars and drink of their dying ecstasy 'til the end, as one. But their chilling little fleet came and went. It was luscious, and so many tasted so much. Yet I am empty. Nothing. Trapped in this limbo of their lie."

"And gods don't lie," I proffer.

"Precisely. To be seen…" Calus pauses to heap the drama, "…for what we really are, underneath the surface, is bliss." All four statues step forward to bear Calus's vessel. His voice resounds from all of them simultaneously. "Come. Cast a shadow in my halls and drink. Soon we will speak to the liar, and separate from it the truth."


FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Smuggler's switches still working. Maintenance side-hatch. Had to kick in the vent.

This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…

The words seep experience into your open mind…

THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…

Smaller ships flock like parasites around a centerpiece flagship. Qinziq points to it, a Cabal carrier-class warship. "Glykon Volatus." She touches her finger to the yard's perimeter barrier and says, "Over," as if directing an animal. Qinziq flattens her palm against the ground and displaces the radiolarian saturation with a bubble of Void energy. It bursts and launches her and Bahto over the barrier. I follow on steps of Light, my Tex Mechanica rifle dangling from a loose strap.

Bahto settles last on uneasy jet bursts. Qinziq steps in front of him and calibrates a device on his chest plate before Bahto turns to face me. "One of your transmat," he grumbles. "I will stop their signal receiver, so our ship is hidden until we remove its locational anchor."

We separate into the silent yard, to our tasks. Qinziq and I weave through a field of parked interceptors as Bahto does his best to stay inconspicuous on his way to a gargantuan signal dish at the adjacent edge of the yard.

The daunting bow of the Glykon Volatus looms, obstructing the sky like a bloodied wave rearing up to consume us. I duck behind the frontal landing gear while Qinziq opens a service chute to the command deck.

I peek through the open hatch. Down the hall, a lone Psion runs diagnostics on the bridge. I carefully crawl inside and slip the long rifle from my back.

"Shoot it."

"Guns are loud, Gil." He wasn't totally off-kilter. One thought from that Psions could alert the whole yard.

'Ignorance.' The word ripples through my brain in Qinziq's seething voice. 'She will not.'

I didn't invite you in here, I thought.

The ripple spreads: 'Yours is a mind unfocused and taxed. Chaos where reason should lie.'

"We need this ship," Gilly whispers. He swings into my peripheral view. "If you don't do something, that Psion is going to have every Cabal in the sector on us!"

Qinziq surfaces from the hatch and kneels beside us. "This is Yirix, Ghost. She will not reveal us."

"She's Red Legion. Calus would see her executed."

"Psions fly many colors, but within the Cabal, we exist in congress, moving toward our own future. She will recognize my contribution, as I hers," Qinziq says, stepping forward.

Gilly watches Qinziq approach the other Psion. "If this sours, don't give it the chance."

His words cinch around my lungs. Short breaths of wary anticipation escape. I sight my long gun and wait.

Yirix stiffens as she becomes aware of Qinziq. She turns. They bow their heads together. The two empathize and come to one understanding in silence.

Whatever ambitions they have go further than this ship, this moment, this Cabal. I hadn't thought that way since I last wore the veneer of a Guardian. Sold a dream of an immortal City shielded by Light, as if it could go on forever. Forever is just a hope folks don't live long enough to see crumble.

Yirix looks to Gilly and me, to my rifle, unthreatened. I feel her request for temperance and a tranquil reassurance of their cause. For a moment, I feel young. I stand.

We warm the launch engines as Yirix slips away to join the throng and let us be.

Bahto materializes onto the bridge out of transmat and out of breath. He manages a few prideful words, "Charges set. We will not be tracked."

The Glykon breaks atmosphere as a colossal explosion rocks the shipyard and shutters through our hull. Flames spit across the distant yard below, spreading into a bonfire of heirlooms. Bahto called it "the spark that burns the past to fuel the future."

Better than the other way around.


FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Door's on the fritz. Been that way since we dove. Staying away from this one.

This page is blighted with mold and the imprint of a memory…

The words seep experience into your open mind…

THROUGH THE EYES OF KATABASIS…

Our disheveled Thresher rattles through lean Nessian atmosphere. Calus's words ring in my ears over the storm-rush of reentry: "The ship is yours to claim."

Most of the seats in the drop-hold are empty. A Psion officer named Qinziq sits across from me. Her eye hasn't left me since she boarded. To my right, a craggy Cabal Centurion, complete with demolition satchels and Projection Rifle, adjusts the connectors on his pressure suit. He'd been assigned to make sure none of the other Cabal try to kill me. Seems news of my command had rendered a number of the crew indignant.

I prod first: "I can't imagine hiding a ship from the Legion was easy on Nessus. To be honest, I'm surprised they haven't tried to storm the Leviathan."

"They would die," grumbles the Centurion. "Bad strategy."

"What does it matter? Calus saw fit to give you a ship, Katabasis." My Ghost, Gilgamesh, glares at me.

Qinziq sneers and leans forward. Her voice seethes from her helmet. "The Legion is stirred by Caiatl's rousing, Human…" I recognize the tinge of malice in her address. "…and the fall of Torobatl. She sends heralds of her fleet. Ships come and go without stories recorded. We pass unnoticed for some time."

The brute bows his head.

"First I'm hearing of it. You're saying they won't notice this ship taking off?" I ask.

"For some time," Gilly quotes the Psion.

"But normally they would… because it's a Legion ship, and you've set me up to commit thievery?"

"All Cabal ships belong to Calus," the Centurion growls. "And Qinziq does not answer to you."

"Right." My shoulders slump forward, head resting in my hands, as the Thresher touches down. We disembark onto prickly milk-rich soil, turning away from the sun as the deep green sky slowly bleeds out. A congested Cabal shipyard glows in the distance against the crest of dark riding the horizon.

"You are Katabasis." The Cabal is speaking to me. He gestures to himself. "Bahr'Toran."

"You're my skull-cracker." I point to my Ghost. "Name's Gilgamesh, or Gilly."

Bahr'Toran considers for a moment and nods. "I do that. But you will need to know my name if we find battle."

"I'm not looking to have a shootout with an entire base. I think the plan is more a quiet reappropriation of goods, Bahto."

"I do not like that."

"Gilly's didn't take at first, but time wears ya down."

Gilly nods to Bahto, who nods back with a grunt and begins walking. We follow him across the bluffs toward the yard, into flatland desolace and sunless gloom.

The shipyard is a massive pulverized flat of rough tarmac and shanty barracks surrounded by a barrier fence. It overflows with craft ranging across eras of the Cabal Empire. On the far end of the strip, Gilly spots Arc-lights shining. A figure draped in azure raiment stands above a throng of Cabal, drawing attention like thunder. Whatever he's saying, they believe it. Gilly catches a few words. It's the same talk you hear anywhere else someone's been forgotten: blame, looking for a hole to fester in; wrestling at the edges with tepid hope; at risk of falling back down into the past.


FRENETIC SCRAWL INKED IN THE MARGIN READS: Maintenance hall off the cargo bay door. Cozy spot floor-side.

FEEDBACK FROM FIELD SESSION 177
* Thermal conservation tech "felt good" over a seven-hour session
* Micromesh webbing had minor grating on user's wrist, consistent across multiple test subjects
* 3cm, 1cm, 5mm grip tests successful
* User shouted expletive during high-caliber round test, but only sustained minor bruising

I:

"Anything else, Arrha?"

"Yes, the Spider." Arrha answers in Eliksni. "Mithrax has told me about the orb the humans call Tee-tahn. A water-world of floating cities. Before the Red War, very few humans visited it, very few."

"I'm already bored."

"Tee-tahn is still ripe with plunder, the Spider, and now the plunder comes to us! The Guardian Slohn sends shipments of it to Terra in unmanned craft. Relies on the cloaking to protect it. But the cloaking cannot stop a web. Not if we know where to cast it."

"How interesting." Spider scratches his chin. "Very good, Arrha. It's time for you to go fishing."

"Fishhhhhh… ink?"

Spider heaves a put-upon sigh. "Catch me one of those boats, you fool."

"Yes, the Spider. I shall."

Only when he is outside the Spider's audience chamber does Arrha allow himself a frustrated growl. "'Catch a boat, Arrha.' That was the idea…"

Director Lakshmi-2,

Enough is enough. I know what you're using, and I'll be speaking with the Vanguard. The fact that you think you can interpret what has driven dozens to insanity doesn't give me a good deal of confidence in your decision-making abilities, and I can't keep my concerns internal any longer. We don't need another Sundaresh in the upper ranks.

I don't care if you saw the Red War before it happened. What would you say of the several other unfruitful predictions you conveniently ignore now?

I have listened to your speeches and read your many messages calling for support. I understand you believe the future is at stake, and we are supposed to do something about that. Fear over the Fallen is not the future this organization was meant to combat. Your paranoia won't change my mind.

My children were harassed in the streets today for daring to bring food to the Eliksni Quarter. They came home in tears, and I wonder how long until it becomes worse. I won't be a part of spreading that fear. I won't participate in splitting this City and turning it against itself. I'm well aware of the dangers posed by Fallen Houses, but the City remains strong because we stand together.

You're a student of history. You know how the Iron Lords converted Warlords into dutiful servants of the Light. Lord Shaxx alone should speak to the value of that effort. If a Fallen House wants to stand with us against their own—just like the Warlords of old, just like Fallen in the Reef did—who are you to tell them no?

Armies, we can keep out. The Guardians will hold the wall. That danger is nowhere close to the death from within that you are stoking. If it all falls apart, just remember Mithrax didn't fire the first shot. You did.

Consider this my resignation,

Novarro

My son.

You are a bastion of hope for all who are lost in darkness.

Let this consecrated armament offer protection in times of trial,

strength when you feel most alone,

and guidance when there are no roads.

Your Light will shine on to lead our people into peace.

Let this be a symbol of our dedication to their future.

Know that I am proud.
—Father

The epitaph is barely readable, appearing to have been scraped almost clean from the frame. Below the stricken words, five hash-marks are engraved into the weapon. A small etching in Eliksni reads:

|||||
"dead… little… thieves…"

The suns have set. The day is done.
The pink gives way to gray.
The beasts of field find warren warm to keep the chill at bay.
But you are not a beast.
And you are not the sky.
You are your mothers' love-made-flesh, fragile as a sigh.
And so you need no warren,
Only mothers' warm embrace,
A soft cocoon of nursle, our hearts alike in pace.
So I hold you mother-strong,
Love a beacon, burning bright,
Second only to our Machine's eternal Light.

And so I hold you, young-one,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Guard you as you slumber, dear,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Wake soon, my young so rested,
In our Machine's eternal Light.
Feel the mother-warmth, hatchling,
In our Machine's eternal Light.

Your mothers must retire now,
Let you pass the night onward,
But love will keep a hearth alight if this, your heart, we stirred.
For you are not alone, my nymph,
'Neath your chest, our love does beat,
So mothers never stray too far, though distant we may be.
And we'll embrace in night's retreat,
When skies are pink once more,
When twilight grounds fear and deceit against the evening's foreign shore.
So shed no tear now, my young,
You're within my ever-sight,
For always love it carries, by our Machine's eternal Light.

—Recovered audio file of a traditional Eliksni lullaby

>>CLARION RETINA BURN>>
V330CRF104MES492
AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//WARWATCH//IMPERATIVE
CONTINGENT ACTION ORDER

This is a WARWATCH ASSETS IMPERATIVE (NO HUMAN REVIEW) (secure/AUTARCHY).

Stand by for CRITERIA:

Under CARRHAE WHITE
If [θ] is INACTIVE and UNRECOVERABLE
If event rank is SKYSHOCK: OUTSIDE CONTEXT and CONTEXT is CRONUS
If VOLUSPA is ACTIVE and PRIMED [[synapse to DVALIN::ABHORRENT]]
If YUGA is ACTIVE and in ECLIPSE
If a CIVILIZATION KILL EVENT is predicted [[E<0.005]]
If tactical morality is built at MIDNIGHT

Execute DECISION POINT:

Activate LOKI CROWN

Cancel counterforce objectives

Activate NAGLFAR STEP

Activate KALKI GOLEM

Execute ALL ASSETS IMPERATIVE ACHAEA KNOX (unsecured/OUTCRY) at SM CALADBOLG

Begin transfer. Stand by for effect assessment report.

STOP STOP STOP V330CRF104MES493

Ada-1 prefers places to people.

She sits on the hull of her ship, staring out over the wreckage of an abandoned theme park in New Vancouver. Her eyes crawl up the spine of a rusted-out roller coaster with tracks that stop dead in midair, sticking out like a diving board over a 250-foot drop.

She likes empty places like this. Places that were once full. Places where countless people had the time of their lives, and now there's nothing but the remnants.

She thinks of them as shrines to humanity and comes to pay her respects to what humanity was before it all got so complicated.

Sitting in the shadow of the park's sign—ROCK T W RLD, it says, in faded block letters—she drags the toe of her boot through the dirt and feels the weight of the centuries around her. That weight, and the emptiness…

They help her breathe.

She doesn't picture this place in its heyday, thick with crowds. She likes it just as it is now, but she likes to know that it was once full of people. Good people, she imagines.

Now she can sit here alone, with the echo of those people for company, and just… be.

She closes her eyes and smiles.

We post these words
for all to see,
though words
are soon forgot.
The works of our
Black Armory
live on, though
bodies rot.

Lest working hands
grow idle now,
with gaze
fixed 'pon the sky,
we plant our feet
on solid ground,
and earthward
turn our eye.

Though boundless space
does treasure hold,
and gifts
seem cheap or free,
we wait and watch
this age of gold,
sad vigil
though it be.

We place our works
in hands of all
and guard
'gainst threats unknown.
For though we gaze
into the stars,
we first must
shield our own.

"Niik tells me you have a question in need of an answer," Mithrax begins. "Please, sit."

Amanda nods as she pulls up a folding chair next to the fire. She hadn't been back to the Eliksni Quarter since the Vex invasion. The light from the flames casts flickering shadows across the building's cracked concrete and exposed rebar.

"Yeah," Amanda says quietly, "I, uh… it's about Saint. Sort of."

She takes a deep breath before continuing. "Everyone in the Last City knows the stories. Hell, we used to call him 'Kellbreaker.' And Cr—" she stammers, avoiding the name. "I've heard what your people used to call him too."

Mithrax hums a gruff assent as he settles into his own chair. Amanda wrings her hands together.

"How did you all forgive him?" Her voice sounds small, but her words pierce the cool night air.

"Not all of us did," Mithrax replies solemnly. "To this day, there are some in House Light who avoid him. Those who lost loved ones to his rage. Though he would give his life to protect them, nothing he can do will ever erase their pain."

"So, they'll just… go on hating him? Forever?"

Mithrax exhales deeply into his rebreather. "One cannot choose who forgives them and who does not," he answers. "That is the decision of those who were wronged. A choice each must make for themselves."

Amanda nods to herself. "Was afraid you'd say something like that," she remarks sadly.

As she gets up to leave, she turns to Mithrax one last time.

"What made you forgive Saint?"

The Kell of Light leans back in his chair and stares into the fire like he is looking for something amid the ashes.

"Because," he says quietly, "I want to be forgiven too."

"Your regrets will follow you, Empress."

The words grate on Caiatl like sand beneath her armor. The Vanguard could keep their wretched Hive witchcraft; she had sworn to defeat the Nightmare of Ghaul in single combat and cremate his memory on the pyre of victory.

That choice had become yet another regret.

A gravelly voice cuts across the room. "You called for me?"

Caiatl turns to see Saladin Forge step onto the bridge of her flagship. Her honor guard salutes him and steps aside, making way for his approach as she greets him with a nod.

"What are your thoughts on Eris Morn?" Caiatl asks him.

Saladin raises an eyebrow. "She's endured horrors I can scarcely imagine. And she survived. She clawed her way out of that dark pit and back to the Tower."

"And what do you think about her use of Hive sorcery?" Caiatl seethes.

"Many initially distrusted her for it. But were it not for her… expertise, the Last City would have fallen to the Hive long ago," Saladin replies.

"That justifies consorting with such foul power?"

At first, Saladin says nothing. Instead, he turns his eyes to the viewport; to the Cabal fleet, arrayed in a blockade surrounding the Leviathan.

"None opposed allying with your empire more than I did." His voice is measured, almost introspective. "I hated the Cabal. Now, I serve on your War Council."

His eyes meet hers once again. "Your soldiers wield the same weapons that slaughtered Guardians in the Red War. But that does not make you my enemy. Nor does Hive magic make Eris yours."

Caiatl glances at her honor guard. When Saladin first joined her War Council, her soldiers regarded him with equal parts suspicion and contempt. Now they show him the deference and respect befitting the title of Valus. Ghaul would have never condoned it.

But she is not Ghaul. And that is something she does not regret.

"Open a channel to the H.E.L.M.," she orders. "I have matters to discuss with the Vanguard."

//RECORDED TRANSMITION VIA: HDN-SPLICE-332410205//
//SIGNAL ORIGIN: UNKNOWN//
//SIGNAL TERMINUS: WIDEBAND_OPEN_CHANNEL//
//FROM THE AUSPICE OF CALUS, DEPOSED CABAL EMPEROR//

My loyal subjects. The Guardians believe they have defeated your glorious emperor. How foolish.

They look at the bodies left in their wake and assume victory, at the blood and oil that runs from the battlefields they have ravaged and assume the territory conquered. They are like the old Cabal, sweeping over planets with no mind to the subjects that resist them.

But I am not so cruel. The worlds I brought into our fold were showered in riches, given everything for their service as Cabal… as you are now. As you will be each time you serve me.

Some of you were born here. You are young, blessed by my hand with a life of celebrated battle and luxurious feasting. You fight with the voracity of veteran gladiators. You fight for your home—our home. I swell to call you my children.

Others came to me from my traitorous daughter, who calls herself empress even while I still draw breath. Such arrogance. Such disrespect. You've seen her tuskless plans fail Torobatl. You've watched her cast aside Cabal tradition to bow to the City and their Light. She fights alongside the very soldiers who slaughter your brethren, while I bend them to my will. Who is the true leader? The answer is clear. If only she had followed me as you do.

Finally. Exalted most of all, you elite few who have stood with their emperor from the beginning, who grew fat with strength in exile: we are blood. As you have shed for me, I will shed for you. My flesh, my riches, my goblets of royal wine. They are yours. You are honored above all, and when our new Cabal stands before eternity, you will be among the first.

I have heard the rumors whispered between you, my subjects. Rumors fed to you by our enemies. Your hope that I have not been vanquished is well placed, for I am so very much alive. You fear that we are defeated, but nothing could be further from the truth.

You wonder if I am a spirit, if I have become something beyond Cabal, if I have ascended like Acrius did when he cradled the sun in his grasp. Allow me to soothe your curiosity: yes, I have become all you have imagined, and so much more.

The Guardians believe they hold victory, but soon, they will see the truth they have ignored with such determination: this road is long, but it only has one end. They served to set my plans solidly in the foundations of the universe. Their petty attacks, while tragic in their costs to my dear crew, cannot halt our purpose.

So, my soldiers… I leave you this task: hold the Leviathan. Show no quarter to those who would walk the halls of your home as invaders. It is your final task before you may be uplifted to sit beside me at the end.

I do not promise that every Cabal standing on the Leviathan will survive this journey, but under my loving watch, you will live and die in nothing less than greatness. What more can a warrior desire but an exciting life and a good death? Have I not given you both?


-From the mouth of Amsot, High Scribe to the unbound emperor, Calus, who none can contain:
Rejoice! Praise Calus, who ascends. For he keeps you in his mind, and there you will never die.

Calus sees her as he remembers her. Young and precocious, energetic and ambitious. A mind full of dreams larger than his own.

Her intensity intimidates him. She imagines accomplishments he dares not entertain for fear of failure.

The Nightmare knows this fear. Its adolescent eyes meet his and bore into his soul, laying all his embarrassments bare. It sees him for what he is: a deposed ruler, entombed alive in a golden sarcophagus and left to rot in exile, replaced by one more beloved than he.

"Always seeking the adoration of others," seethes the Nightmare wearing his daughter's face. "Even from the Witness."

"Silence," Calus grumbles. He instinctively reaches for his chalice, but it has long since left his side.

"It will abandon you. Just like the Cabal, just like the Ghost Primus."

The Nightmare of Caiatl smiles, sweet and crimson and full of hatred. "Just like your daughter."

"I said be silent," Calus sputters.

His daughter's laughter is a knife between his ribs, as it always has been.

"No one hears your edicts. No one obeys."

Her voice fills his chamber and seeps into every crevice of his mind.

"She is empress now. You are nothing."

"I made her," he bellows. "I, Calus, the greatest emperor since Acrius. All that comes before me is a prelude. All that follows is my legacy. I am the sun itself!"

"A dying sun for a dead world. A legacy of ashes, soon to be swept away by the wind that is Caiatl."

"She will never surpass me!" he roars.

"She already has," the Nightmare sings. "And soon, you will be forgotten."

Calus's withered face contorts in anguish and angst. The Nightmare is wrong, he thinks. Caiatl will never be a greater leader. He will make sure of it.

Even if all that exists must pay the price.

Crow drops a wet canteen at Eris Morn's feet. "Water."

"You made your return quickly." Eris crouches, hunched over bundled splits of pine arranged atop a thick log and resin-rubbed moss. She strikes a well-worn flint with her knife, and flame ignites.

"You're not hard to spot at night." Crow averts his gaze from Eris's sideways glare and looks up to the haunting glow of the Dark Shard of the Traveler. Shivers convulse down his vertebrae, and his eyes drop to the freshly popping wood.

Eris breaks the silence. "Why did you volunteer for the severance operation? For… most operations?"

"To make a difference where others can't. Same as you."

She shakes her head. "No," Eris mumbles.

Crow watches her deftly coax the fire, considering the answer he'd given. He looks up to the distant tree line and changes the subject. "There are still a good number of Hive here."

"But no Nightmares," Eris remarks.

"Is that why you brought me here? This… isn't a place I want to revisit." Crow steps back from the growing flames.

When Eris doesn't respond, he asks his real question:

"Why did I fail?"

"You didn't fail. Our strategy was flawed." Eris stands, stowing flint and blade, then steps in front of him to meet his gaze. "We will attempt the severance again, soon."

"Yeah," Crow replies in a clipped tone. Eris tilts her head, and he can see the green orbs narrow beneath her blindfold.

She points to the ragged, mountainous shard twisting in twilight roil. "Even that toxic piece, separate from the Traveler's purity, can be wielded for good."

The fire roars. He kneels to break her stare and warms his hands. "I know what it can do. I used it—"

"When the Red War left Guardians Lightless, there were some who reclaimed their callings here. They re-forged their bond to the Traveler through a scar. A lingering trauma," she continues.

Eris sits beside Crow and drinks from her canteen. Crow braces for her to continue, but she does not. The bundle of burning kindling collapses into a heap of cinders. Flames spit between the gaps and ash drifts on heated air.

"I'll get more wood," Crow says, hastening to step out of the fire's glow.

"Crow. Small fires like this kept me alive in the Hellmouth. I did not have the luxury of more wood." Eris grips a piece of rusty rebar taken from the Sludge and thrusts it into the sputtering fire. She stirs the cindering wood, opening new gaps and concentrating the larger pieces over a pile of glowing kindling. The flame surges, and heat intensifies. "During these long nights, we must make use of what is available to us."

She knows he understands her but hasn't accepted the lesson.

She hands him the bar, shows him how to maintain the fire's heat, how to find worth in remnants. How to rebuild from ash.

The pair converse as they take turns keeping the fire alive long into the night. The warmth soothes, their shoulders lighten, and Crow pulls back his hood.

When the fire finally dies, Eris gestures to the embers. "Now, you can fetch some wood."

Crow smiles and gets to his feet. "Eris… did you ever try to get your Light back?"

"The past is not for dwelling."

Crow nods and sticks out his hand. She looks at it inquisitively.

"Come on."

Eris stands next to Crow; he clasps her palm and ignites a Golden Gun between their hands. Solar flame dances across Eris's fingers. Crow guides her arm and lifts the gun to the sky. He inhales sharply and howls before cracking a shot through the clouds.

"You're up, Hunter."

Eris depresses the trigger, slowly, doubtful that it would fire. A second Solar streak pierces the atmosphere. Crow laughs. They send round after round skyward, howling pent tension into the night until finally, even Eris finds herself smiling.

"How many, Taurun?" Caiatl asks wearily.

An air of palpable tension permeates the room. In the time since the Imperial fleet had formed a blockade around the Leviathan, three separate frigates had defected to Calus's side. A fourth has just followed suit.

Caiatl began this campaign with fire in her heart. Now, she feels only cold and tired.

"A total of 250 soldiers, Empress," Taurun answers.

"We must strike!" Ca'aurg shouts suddenly, slamming his fist on the table. "Anything less will be seen as a sign of weakness!"

A clamor ripples through the rest of Caiatl's advisors. Only Valus Forge remains silent.

"Inaction is anathema," says Tha'arec. "Our warriors long for the glory of battle, not the dormancy of a blockade."

"Even if it means fighting for Calus," sneers Ca'aurg. He spits the name as if it were made of bile.

A bitter fury builds in Caiatl toward her father. He had ushered in an era of decadence that left the Cabal military dull and complacent; she had sought to be a different kind of leader. But her people remain adrift—this time, among the stars. Perhaps her defectors prefer the pleasure of certain death over the agony of uncertain survival. Or perhaps, she is merely the next in line to lead the empire to ruin.

"The Leviathan reappeared with no warning," Caiatl declares. "We do not know what else lurks beyond our sight. Our blockade may soon see more battle than we bargained for. Until then, we hold the line."

She speaks in a tone that brooks no argument. Her advisors leave the room, wisely keeping any further misgivings to themselves. Saladin nods to her, as if to say he and he alone agrees with her decision.

Caiatl can only wonder if she agrees with it herself.

It's quiet in Zavala's office, save for the sound of clicking as the tiny steel pendulums on his desk swing back and forth, hitting against each other. Rahool once told him that they were a "Newton's Cradle"; a pre-Golden Age relic named for one of humanity's greatest scientific minds. The trinket is all that remains of a life's work lost to time, consumed by the Collapse and the ensuing Dark Age.

Like so many other things.

As he stands at the window, brooding in shame and guilt as he silently contemplates the Traveler, Zavala hears a knock on his door.

"Come in," he calls over his shoulder.

A moment later, Amanda Holliday steps into the room. Dark circles frame her eyes, and her shoulders slump with a weight unseen. No Nightmare hovers behind her, hounding her every step, but she seems haunted, nonetheless. Zavala is certain that, given his own ordeals, he must look much the same.

"Hey," Amanda says quietly as she crosses over to his desk. She leans against it and joins him looking out over the City.

They stand in silence for a long time and watch a small fleet of civilian ships weave its way between the buildings. The clicking of pendulums marks the time as it drifts past them.

"The Last City," Amanda murmurs. "Wish my folks had lived to see it."

"As do I," Zavala solemnly replies.

"You would've liked them," Amanda says with a sad smile. "As stubborn as they were kind. They gave everything to make sure I reached the City. Bravest people I've ever known."

"Devotion inspires bravery," Zavala says, almost absently. He turns from the window and glances at a low shelf, where a cracked white mask is displayed under glass. "Bravery inspires sacrifice. And sacrifice…" his voice quavers as it trails off.

"…is worth it for the ones we love," says Amanda. "My parents didn't have the Light. But they had me."

She meets his eyes, her own filled with a light all their own. "We can't all live forever. But being remembered? That's the next best thing."

Amanda laughs and sniffles at the same time. "Didn't mean to talk your ear off. Sorry about that."

"Don't be," Zavala replies with a small smile and a sigh of sadness. "I just wish I could return the favor."

He moves from the window and leans on the desk next to her, gazing out at the Traveler and the Last City as they settle into a comfortable silence. The pendulums on his desk continue to click and clack, the echo of a life lived long, long ago.

Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

Tell me, O Witness mine—does the Light that fills this once dreadfully tiresome space blind you from its newfound glory?

You expected the same old correspondence from your dragooned errand boy, no doubt. Surely, just as you expected your machinations within my throne world to continue unfettered until your definition of eternity came to pass.

Well, don't I have some unfortunate news for you then. But this comes as no surprise, of that I'm sure—you're always watching.

Let me share my perspective then, which you must be waiting for with bated breath: my acquisition of the Light itself is delightful proof of an existence higher even than yours—a sort of karmic wit, if you will.

Though I remember not all the eons-long hardships I endured at your whim, the nefarious sentiment lingers within my mind, overcome only by the pleasure of your assured discontent.

It was this said pleasure that gave me the strength to disperse the Light throughout this prison you called my home. Since it is now to remain my domain, it has been decorated to reflect as such.

No longer does this plane live only with the lackluster ambiance of Darkness. It is brighter now. My truth can finally thrive.

No longer do the walls that birthed our parasitic chains house your machinations. The tools and parasites within, shattered.

And no longer does your Subjugator subjugate. He lies ensnared within his obtrusive eyesore, for upon Rhulk's attempt to subdue me with that toy he's annoyingly always on about—his "Upended"—I was able to counteract it, showing firsthand the power bequeathed to me in my new state. Now, the once-great Pyramid lies fractured, a sight you will become familiar with.

So try and send your Scorn, or your Disciples, or even bring your many selves to reclaim your loss, if you must. But this is my domain now. And you shall never set foot inside it, even if I must draw my final breath to keep it that way.

When you were mortal, your power lay in your blood. When you felt joy, it swelled within you. Your body and mind were clear and light.

When you felt passion, it coursed within you. Senses sharp. Everything crisp.

And when you felt anger, it felt as if the blood would overtake you. Wrest control from thought, from reason.

But that was early on.

You have learned control, in all those things. You could call on it. Your mind is strong.

But now a new power courses through your veins. Through flesh. Through bone. It suffuses all that you are.

So now, the blood calls to YOU.

Are you strong enough?

Helena looked suspiciously at the broken windows in the abandoned building and checked her datapad coordinates again. She'd never been to this corner of the City before.

"Mom?" she called doubtfully, hearing her voice echo in the empty space.

"Back here," answered her mother, and Helena's stomach dropped.

She pulled open a rusty door and found her mother in a low concrete room, frantically packing the contents of a long table into duffel bags. Along the far wall, another woman was balling up a plastic tarp. The room smelled like chemicals.

A man shouldering a large black bag pushed his way past her in a cloud of cologne, alcohol, and sour sweat.

Helena noticed a small signal jammer blinking orange on the table. Behind it, an Exo was waist-deep in a rebar-lined fracture in the floor.

"Tight fit," he grunted as he wriggled his way deeper into the gap, "but I'm guessing he didn't get far. I'll find him." He vanished into the hole.

"What's going on?" Helena asked.

"Don't ask questions," her mother said as she shrugged a damp strand of blonde hair out of her face. "We need to get moving." She nodded toward the far corner of the room. "You take that pile."

Helena crossed her arms warily. "Mom, what are you doing out here?"

"I don't have time to talk about this now," her mother snapped. "You don't know what's going on. You didn't see them looking through the windows. You didn't hear what this one said in the ramen shop."

For the first time, her mother looked up. Dangerous intensity burned in her eyes. "They're using the dark to blind us, and we're not going to let it happen. Now help me."

Helena walked slowly to the trash piled in the corner. Towels soaked with blue fluid. Rubbery tubes, strange scraps of metal. A laminated card that read "TEMPORARY."

Her voice was small. "Mama, what did you do?"

My crew and I quickly learned that the creatures in the monolith facilities were not the only ones on that damn rock. Plenty of 'em roaming around out in the wild, where it was cold, but less cold than the frozen cages that contained the ones in the monoliths.

How'd we find out? Well, one of us died in our sleep. Not that uncommon or tragic, actually. Happened a lot. Damn cold out there.

Except this time that fella's Ghost couldn't resurrect him. Turns out one'a those creatures just slithered by, and close proximity to it from inside our shelter just… silenced that poor bastard's Light.

It was unfortunate, but it also lit a fire under us. The next morning we realized we had a potential weapon on our hands that could change everything in battles of Light versus Light.

We knew we had to find a way to get these creatures off their icy home.

And we needed to find it fast. Despite our breakthrough, tensions were… a little high. Some of us thought it was awful convenient the creature wandered by and happened to take out only one of us. And so soon after we realized the value of them.

—Drifter's thoughts recited to his Ghost, for posterity. The third of five parts.

Chapter 3: For a Friend

Voronin found cover under uprooted trees and demolished vehicles as he made his way through the catastrophic weather. He could hardly believe he was still alive, bearing witness to the end of all things.

The storm encompassed the station, under siege from the elements. Civilians were being ushered toward the SMILE pods in droves as the lightning made its presence felt, igniting a nearby fuel supply. The explosion tore into the group, and as Voronin turned his head from the horror and the heat, he saw her. Roughly 250 meters away from the station. Morozova lay, singed and smoking, under rubble and ash.

Voronin pulled up his sensorium, but the electromagnetic fields in the air reduced it to static. There was no way to know if she was still alive or salvageable. She had treated him with respect despite outranking him, and she had been there for him when his marriage went to hell—

"We're all dead anyway," he thought and ran to her through the maelstrom of lightning and wind.

And then he was there, pulling off his gloves and wiping ash and blood from her face, as the storm bore down upon him.

As he made peace with his mortality, just shy of 82 years old, the storm around them calmed. The lightning stopped. The wind died. At the station, the civilians' eyes were fixed on the sky, though Voronin was looking only at Morozova. She was breathing, barely. Her eyes opened and met his. A half-smile came across her lips, then froze as her eyes went past him and widened in awe.

Voronin turned and found himself staring into the face of God.

How do you feel about all this, hero?

You've got a dead heart beating in your chest right now. Only reason you're still movin' is because somebody's got a job for you and they don't think you're done yet.

Anybody asked for your point of view lately? Lots of changes lately—go here, hunt that. Kill him. Kill her. You tell me, "Hell yeah, Drifter! I live for that stuff!"

I'm tellin' you, yeah, you do. Get me?

Am I guilty as the rest of 'em because I tell you to bank a few Motes? You expect me to tell you to decide for yourself, am I right? You know just enough to be stupid.

I'm asking you how you feel because nobody else will. Trust.

Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

Rc-9: This is Vanguard Militia Scout-ship: Recon-9, making my report via VanNet proxy satellite. I have completed my sweep through the Reef and am filing an incident report hence forth referred to as Inc-01, should it be referenced.

Shuffling is heard as the speaker adjusts. Papers sift and the microphone crackles slightly.

Rc-9: The basis of my visit to the Tangled Shore was to conduct routine Vanguard/Reef security sweeps, as agreed upon since the day of incursion. I was escorted most of the way to the Shore by Awoken gunships, and only landed once my long-range scanner picked up a sub-audio reading emanating from the underbelly of one of the larger asteroid landmasses.

The speaker clears their throat.

Rc-9: I called in the disturbance to a nearby Awoken vessel and was told to, and I quote, "Mind my own business and be on my way," so naturally, I thanked them for their assistance, feigned departure, and landed to check it out. They didn't seem to notice the signal. At the signal's source, I discovered a small camp of what I initially thought were Scorn. Upon further observation, I found that these were not Scorn but Fallen afflicted with some kind of flesh deformity and mental degradation. Shot one dead and the others just looked at me. They didn't fight back. Fired a few cesium charges into the asteroid hole and watched 'em burn. Just sat there. I didn't hear it clearly, but they were chanting something. I don't know. Hard to hear over the fire.

The speaker laughs to themselves and emulates popping noises.

Rc-9: I heard more of them whispering a little deeper in, so I waited for the area to burn out and continued inside. I found one structure of apparent Hive architecture, though it did not appear to have been constructed in any traditional sense… but then again, I don't know what I should even expect from the Hive at this point. A single Fallen was inside, became violent when I approached and brandished a weapon. The weapon was not loaded, and I put them down.

Rc-9: My logs will show a few recovered pieces of equipment that I will list now. One presumably organic section of the Hive structure. It is perpetually wet, just… great job on that, and causes dizziness and blurred vision when held with ungloved hands. It also has the unnerving ability to project dysphoria or general unease. I was asked to collect a sample for study by my CO. I've done that. Put it in a lead box all the way in the back of the cargo hold. Yeah. Eternal tithings to Xivu Arath. Whatever. Um… as I was saying.

A tin is heard being unlatched.

Rc-9: Also recovered: one tube-style Grenade Launcher. It has no foundry markings. Definitely not Fallen, and I don't think the Scorn even know how to make weapons. Do the Awoken make Grenade Launchers? Always struck me as a Human weapon. Beautiful weapon. The thing wants to be used. Maybe I'll get an opportunity to use it before I get back to the Tower. Lastly, I recovered a locational tracker from one of the Fallen. Following it back to someplace else in the Reef. Little remote. I'll call in my findings once I've finished there.

Rc-9: Beautiful weapon.

The recording cuts.

Beneath a dead tree, Esta Tel scanned the bridge above her as she hurried to fasten the wires at the end of the cable to her detonator. Looked good. Bare road on one end of the bridge, buildings in the way on the other, but everything looked clear from down in the ravine.

The Cabal would be making a run in exactly three minutes. Time to go.

She watched the buildings up above, listening. Heard engine sounds.

When she saw a vehicle come into view, she clicked the detonator. Ten seconds.

But it wasn't Cabal. It was a medical vehicle. Moving fast onto the bridge.

Five seconds. All the blood drained from her face. She decided before she knew what she was doing.

Shouldered her sniper rifle. Aimed for the junction of her wire and the explosives under the bridge. Shot it out. The wire fell as the medical vehicle crossed.

In the distance, she heard the Cabal coming. Finally.

Shoot the explosives.

Click. No more rounds. No time to think.

All was quiet in the Gulch, save for the occasional chirp of birds and the gentle trickle of the river. It might've been peaceful, Chalco Yong thought as she crept along the bank, if it wasn't so damn eerie. Where were the Cabal and their noisome injection rigs? Where were the thundering Pike gangs? Evidently taking the day off, just when it was most inconvenient.

The Hidden agent crouched, running her hand over the smooth stones cluttering the shore. She was hoping to have good news for her next report. Ikora looked so tired at their last check-in.

No wonder. Even before the Pyramids arrived, it felt like their enemies were multiplying at the same rate their allies were decreasing. Now, with four celestial bodies stolen out of the sky, that trend seemed to be accelerating.

And here she was, following a tenuous lead on the whereabouts of the infamous Light Kell into a dead zone.

She briefly considered turning her radio on and checking in, but then she saw it: the ideal skipping stone, palm shaped and perfectly worn. She picked it up, and with a well-timed flick, sent it spinning across the water. The mirror image of blue sky and pine tree tops rippled once, twice, six times before gravity outweighed momentum, pulling the stone beneath the surface.

Suddenly, a frenetic rustling broke out all around her. The trees quivered as hundreds of birds burst forth, shrieking in alarm as they circled in the sky. Chalco whipped around, rifle at the ready, but there was no one. She slowed her breathing, ears open for the telltale whine of speeding Pikes.

The wispy hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention as the air crackled with electricity. A great rumbling threw Chalco off her feet. She rolled as she hit the ground. The second shockwave arrived while she was facedown—a louder and more definitive thud that caused the rocks to jump up and fall back down with a clatter.

Silence returned. When she lifted her head, all seemed as it had moments ago…

…except for the once-clear sky, now streaked with aurorae of many colors.

Chalco leapt up and ran for the ravine wall. She scaled it, then the nearest pine in a matter of seconds. A risky move considering the possibility of aftershock, but she needed height.

It wasn't until she reached the wavery top branches that she saw it. Cresting over the tree line was the Shard of the Traveler, bleeding polychrome rays. Chalco turned her gaze up, following the arc into the stratosphere. What was happening?

Keeping her eyes fixed on the sky, she flipped on her radio. Immediately, Eris Morn's voice echoed over the Vanguard's public frequency: "This will not be the end. It will be an escalation."

A flash, piercing in its brilliance, lit up the southeastern sky. Chalco braced herself against the tree, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them, the sky had returned to clear blue and the Shard had returned to its dim, jagged state.

"Huh," she said aloud to no one.

Eris Morn chalks the floor in the H.E.L.M. wing previously inhabited by the Servitor of the Eliksni Splicers. A liberated Tomb Ship drones beside her. Through the open, shielded, hangar, the Leviathan is visible as a malformed knot, its shape bulging from the shadowed outline of the Moon.

Ikora descends the stairs. An ornately dressed Warlock thanatonaut follows, their robes trimmed in bone and elaborately stitched symbols.

"Did you commandeer this from Mars?" Ikora asks with a smile, looking over the Hive vessel.

Eris stands. "It provided ample shielding for transporting the Crown from its vault."

"It's here, now?" the thanatonaut asks, breaking his stride at the bottom of the stairs.

"Worry not. The H.E.L.M. will disembark from the City to ensure the Crown is contained," Eris answers.

"Keep that Tomb Ship docked here in case we need to jettison the Crown. Last thing I need is a rookie shooting you down in it." Ikora steps past the thanatonaut with a reassuring nod. "Tell us what you're thinking next, Eris."

Eris gestures toward the open bay door. "The Leviathan is at our doorstep. Even if we unravel Calus's plan, the ship itself still poses a threat simply by its size. Calus does not require paracausal power to cause an extinction-level event."

"Calus's interest appears to be focused solely on the Pyramid," Ikora interjects. "Should that change, Zavala assures me that Caiatl's fleet will provide ample dissuasive firepower."

Eris nods in rhythm with Ikora's well-reasoned words. "I trust that to be true—however, whatever connection Calus has established is drawing Nightmares and phantoms alike to the Leviathan. He is able to exert influence over them. But I believe we can disrupt this connection."

She points to the thanatonaut. "You," she says and motions toward three chalked spots on the floor. "Here, here, and here. We will require death anchors to tether the ritual. Hold your mind on the brink for as long as you can, and I will craft the sigils required to contain the Crown. Then, we will need volunteers…"

"Do you know why we're here?"

"Of course. You invited me to this interview… Oh, no tea, thank you. I don't drink."

"You're aware of why—"

"Why you're interested? Of course. I've been doing a lot of research since I awoke. You're from something called the Future War Cult. Odd name for what seems to be sensible precaution."

"Yes…"

"And so your interest in my case must have something to do with the Cult's 'sensible precaution.' I gather that our kind were made as some sort of super soldiers long ago, for a war no one seems to know much about. And now, we live much like other people in a universe that has gone to war with itself. Although, I think we Exos might also be immortal. Isn't it odd?"

"Much of this conversation is odd."

"I'm not talking about us. I mean that given a whole universe seemingly at war, with invading aliens of all sorts, there's a people specifically designed to be super soldiers. And yet, we Exos just do as we like?"

"Go on."

"Take me, for example. I'm a researcher—a scientist. And I'm a damn good scientist, from all that I've read. And when I woke up, there was nothing more natural for me to do than simply carry on doing that. Super soldier? More like super scientist. I'd hardly know which end of a gun to point at them. But here? In my lab? I touch a machine or just look at it, and I know how to use it. It's like… like…"

"Riding a bicycle."

"A what?"

"Never mind. Tell me more about what happened when you woke up."

"Well. Suddenly I was here, in my lab, but lying on the floor over there. I looked around, and it was like I said. I just knew how everything worked. But I couldn't remember anything."

"Nothing at all? Not even your name?"

"No. Nothing. Well, language and motor skills and so on, obviously. But it was the oddest sensation. I've since looked up how I might describe it, and I never found anything better than déjà vu. Everything was familiar but foreign. Even my own body. It was… unsettling. But then I found files of some of my research. And I knew it was mine. It was like reading something I'd forgotten I'd written. I didn't remember where or when or even why I'd written it, but they were clearly my thoughts. It was clearly me. And that's how I found my old name."

"Yes, let's talk about your old name. The number. Why did you change it?"

"It… it wasn't… it didn't… A new designation was necessary."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine. Why?"

"Something happened to you there. Your eyes. Nothing moved."

"Well, excuse me. I don't know what you mean. So… do you have a theory?"

"Several. What were you researching before you… before you changed your name?"

"Ah, a project with my colleagues, Gonzalez and Mwangi. Delightful people. Have you met?"

"Briefly. Your research?"

"Yes, well, I won't bore you with the technical details, but we're engaged in a study of dark matter and dark energy. It seems to be my main area of interest. I awoke when I'd been in the midst of looking into…"

"Yes?"

"Well… errors."

"Errors?"

"Yes. The data we've collected has peculiar… anomalies. Between you and me, I think it stems from human error. But I'm going back over all of my previous work to see if I missed something."

"And have you? Found anything amiss?"

"No. If anything, it's been quite therapeutic. It turns out that I'm a damn good scientist."

"…"

"Um… you know, it's odd. I find myself quite parched. Would you mind pouring me some of that tea?"

"NEXUS" HARDLINE APERTURE FORK, INTEGRATION LOGS…

I:
Integration failure. Firewall rejection.

II:
Integration failure. Firewall penetrated. Drone lost.

III:
Integration failure. Feedback explosion, three fatalities. Expeditionary team decontaminated and awaiting medical clearance. Reassessing handshake parameters for Network access.

IV:
FWC-Paracausal asset "Riley" deployed.
Integration SUCCESS. Collection exceeded physical memory allotment. Kill-feed initiated.
Unscheduled integration incident - BREACH, CONTAINMENT FAILURE. Connection severed after 00:00:00.02s.

V:
BREACH, CONTAINMENT FAILURE. Incursion suppressed after three hours. Ninety-two fatalities.
Containment & Purge procedures under review.

VI:
Expeditionary team and asset MIA. Feeds corrupted.
Connection open. Connection open. Connection open.

There is a story of two weaponsmiths, both skilled at their trade.

One smith, Dhutus, worked with metals she pulled from the mountains herself. She tooled the rifling in her barrels with the steady hand of an artisan. Her dyes, cobalt and ichor, shone bright as beetleshell.

The other, Gharhet, came from the distant plains. He traded for his wares and sold them dear, and thus he amassed great wealth. He embellished his goods with a rich lacquer the color of flame.

When the Primus called for the strongest warriors to serve, the district knew the fighter Tlamus—who had broken all challengers with her keen aim and powerful frame—would represent them. Both Dhutus and Gharhet wished to outfit her with their finest pieces, as having a warrior of her status wear their colors would bring them great honor.

So Dhutus forged Tlamus a mighty war axe with an ice-blue handle and wide golden blade. Tlamus accepted the gift gladly.

Gharhet procured for her a Slug Rifle with bright orange plating, and Tlamus wore it proudly across her back.

Next, Dhutus crafted a Shotgun, metal burnished deep as night with bright vents along the sides, and Tlamus brought it into battle.

In response, Gharhet bought a helm with thick plating and stout antlers the color of a sunset, and they were soon stained with the blood of Tlamus's foes.

And Dhutus saw no end to this. Her shoulders ached from working the forge, and her hands were blistered by burns upon burns.

So Dhutus issued to Gharhet a challenge, and as he knew no one would raise the weapons of a coward, Gharhet accepted.

The next dawn found Dhutus on the battlefield waiting for her rival. On her shoulder was her finest weapon: a Rocket Launcher, its barrel a twisting column of seashell blue with gold trim, built as a gift for Tlamus but now wielded by its creator.

From across the field, a figure strode forward to meet Dhutus—but it was too wide to be Gharhet; too tall, too muscular. He had bought a champion to fight in his stead.

An orange sash was draped carelessly across her chest and dragged in the dust with each confident step. Studded orange leathers bound her massive arms and thighs. Strands of coral beads hung from her tusks.

She greeted Dhutus with a fist to her chest. "I am Tlamus," she said, "chosen of Gharhet."

Dhutus could not find her voice, and then Tlamus drew one of her beautiful, terrible weapons, and the rite was soon concluded.

Chapter 2: Crashes

The first bolt of lightning sent static up Voronin's arm and filled the atmosphere around him with a pungent chlorine-like smell. His hand went to his chest without thinking, as if to make sure he was fully intact. His gaze shifted as a second bolt hit the ground near him, then another. He had never seen lightning so close before. Stunned, he stood his ground; while part of him knew he should be frightened for his life, he was more perplexed than afraid.

There was no rain. He looked toward the horizon, expecting clouds, expecting something, and only saw a shimmering curtain of blue lightning sifting toward him.

He raced for shelter in the surrounding field, abandoning his munitions container in the dust kicked up by his fevered stride. The strikes razed the ground, sparking wildfires and scorching stone. There was no logic to their timing, with bolts crashing so frequently, the sound of the thunder couldn't catch up.

He'd lost Morozova in the commotion. Already drained from hours spent hauling cargo, his mind recessed into primal instinct. RUN.

So he ran, doing his best to avoid the apocalypse that surrounded him. A call came through his earpiece as the ground quaked beneath him: "… auxiliary evac station…" was all he could make out before a roar of thunder swallowed the transmission.

He knew he needed to head west toward the station. The wind picked up and blew him off his feet, and again he felt a moment of sheer amazement at the storm's sudden ferocity. He hit the ground hard and checked his sensorium. It was scrambled from all the sinuous electricity undulating through the air, but he could just barely make out his compass. West. He ran.

She travels across the Ascendant Plane.

The voyage across the sea of screams threatens to erode her edges as no other trial ever has. In Oryx's throne world, she had a semblance of an identity. Treasure. Spoil of war. Defeated queen. Repugnant and alien and Not Me, but she could use these contortions as guideposts to trace her way back to herself.

Here in the emptiness between throne worlds, she has nothing but what she can carry.

The burden is growing heavier, but she is not alone.

He tries to speak to her from a place of high contempt. In doing so, he invites her into his topography.

She steps out of howling and finds her footing upon a plane of swords and madness and all-consuming curiosity.

"Who are you?"

The question summons an almost-forgotten answer deep within the rapidly solidifying shape of her.

"I AM MARA SOV. STARLIGHT WAS MY MOTHER, AND MY FATHER WAS THE DARK."

The thing that once was called Toland flees before her darkness/light/shadow/majesty. And she rests within this scrap of a world, before resuming her journey through the Howling.

Ghaul was an unexpected gift to my coliseum—a disfigured albino from the outer wastes who defeated opponents three times his weight. How could I resist such a unique creature?

He fought with terrible discipline and patience. Most gladiators wanted to stand in the center of the arena and trade blows until the weaker one died. Not Ghaul. He never attacked from the front, never stood in one place. Frustrated and exhausted, his opponent would make a mistake.

I used to play a game with those puffed-up aristocrats that would gamble at my arena. I bet on Ghaul, and anyone who had displeased me had to bet against him. It was fun for a time, but his talent was too valuable to risk in the coliseum. I appointed him Primus of the Red Legion and instead, set him loose upon my enemies.

The Cabal I remember built wonders. The vitality-gifting Red Eyes. The system-spanning mobility of the Ninth Bridge. I count the far-seeing OXA Machine. Our every need we had answered. Everyday life was paradise. Before my exile, the mother system never wanted for anything.

Today, the Red Legion is desperate. They reek of it. Devoid of cultivation, and utterly defeated by a child-race whose only claim to significance was bestowed on them by an inexplicable entity. How has it come to this?

The Red Legion were led by the greatest pit fighter in our history—but they were led by a pit fighter. Arena culture became the religion of the Empire. Their medical technology, their science, is hilariously inadequate for the vast Empire they must support. Should their perpetual war against this system end, they are already doomed.

A Shadow of your Guardian-tribe could be the technologist to save my people. To use your knowledge, your skill, and your Light to bring some semblance of industrial and medical prowess back to an empire led by a true emperor.

—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal

AGAIN.

Sok'tol, Fifth of the Light, felt flame surge through his body as he was resurrected.

He became aware of many things at once: the altar beneath him. The roaring of Acolytes. The powerful grip on his shoulders, which even now began to crack under the pressure.

Above him, a trio of Wizards held his Ghost tight, its bleached shell ensnared by ebony tendrils of controlling spellcraft. It pulled against the bonds but could do nothing but look down at him helplessly.

SING OF HER LIES. SPEAK OF HER TRUTHS.

The voice was everywhere. As Sok'tol strained to sit up, something slammed him down, pounding his chitinous skull into the stone again and again. He screeched as the bony frill surrounding his face splintered and snapped loose. He felt his jaw dislodge, felt his own teeth crush against his face, felt himself crack and shatter.

Blackness. And then—

AGAIN.

As his shell knit and restored soulfire flowed anew, Sok'tol, Fifth of the Light, shuddered awake.

The Acolytes roared again. They crowded the altar, surrounded by a haze of green. Sok'tol peered upward at the Ogre pinning him against the altar.

It tightened its grip on his shoulders, claws crackling with wrathful energy. It shook its massive head, crowned in an emerald corona, and bellowed in a voice that was not its own:

YOUR STRENGTH BECOMES MINE. AS WILL HERS. SPEAK.

Sok'tol concentrated the Light in his armored hand and began to form a grenade, but the shrieking Acolytes reached forward and tore his fingers apart in their claws.

Sok'tol bared his teeth and hissed up at the Ogre, whose eyes rolled with fury as a blast of soulfire erupted from its mouth. Sok'tol opened his jaws to howl as he was obliterated.

Blackness. And then—

AGAIN.

Say again? You ask, are we alone here? You mean to ask if we are the only good that lives in the light of our sun, do you not? You mean to ask, do we have allies? Do we have distant allies, ignoring our plight, either too weak to fight or too afraid to show their faces?

I, too, have been cursed by these questions.

What if I told you that eons beyond the void lie worlds that do yearn to aid in our struggle? What if I told you there is a way to grant them passage into your mind, to let them guide your eye against our one true enemy? That they have told me that the dusk of the pyramid draws nigh? Would you believe me?

Fool!

"He is that which is end. That which covets sin. The final god of pain—the purest light, the darkest hour. And He shall rise again. When the guiding shine fades and all seems lost He will call to you. Fear not. All He offers is not as dark as it may seem. For Nezarec is no demon, but a fiend, arch and vile in ways unknown. He is a path and a way, one of many. And his sin—so wicked, so divine—is that he will never cower when dusk does fall, but stand vigilant as old stars die and new Light blinks its first upon this fêted eternity."

—Passage from Of Hated Nezarec

"O BEARER MINE."

What kind of talking skull would address its host that way? A stiff, stuck-up old fossil, not me. Ahamkara: the illusion that one's ego depends on an object, or an idea, or a body. Some people say you should have no ahamkara. Some people say you need to have the right ahamkara. All I know is that YOU are not an illusion. Understand? This world around you, the people you meet—they're a little thin, right? Cardboard and drywall. Cheap theater. Come on, try it out! Say: "I am more real than this." Feels good, doesn't it? "I am the only real person here." Isn't it like their insults and their bullets just went a little… soft?

I came to find you, only you, because you're special. You're from somewhere real. And together we can burn our way back there. Can't we, o player mine?

"This is written that you may understand. The time of kings is long since gone from this world. Yes, their reign does linger—these shallow, frightened, aged men, clinging to their grand delusions of relevance in a world that has long since passed them by. But their reign is a lie, a fleeting charade that will crumble beneath the weight of their greed. In the end, though they may conquer the lands and seas and the fragile flesh upon which they trample, their empires will collapse and their graves will beckon. And the crowns of old will find new heads to bear the weight of their power. And the strong will be made to suffer as their weakness is brought to light."

—Author Unknown

"You don't have to do this, if you don't want to," Ikora said. "I'd understand."

From the other side of the library, Aunor scowled. She was perhaps the most diligent of the Hidden, having dedicated herself to the unpleasant task of hunting down tainted Guardians. But that was precisely what worried Ikora. Each time they met, she seemed a little gaunter than before. A little testier. Was this crusade beginning to take a toll? Was it a mistake to give her another assignment instead of a vacation?

"I stand by my promise," Aunor snapped before transmatting out.

That had not alleviated Ikora's concerns one iota . She let out a sigh and rubbed her temples.

She couldn't dwell on it for long, however. The air crackled again. When Ikora opened her eyes, Saint was standing exactly where Aunor had been, moments ago. "Ikora Rey, I am sorry to come unannou—"

"How did you get in here?" she blurted. No one but the Hidden knew where her private library was. Or so she had thought.

The Exo stared at her, confused. "I—I transmatted," he said simply. He tried again. "I am sorry, but I must speak with you."

"No, I'm the one who should apologize. Please, sit." She hurried to clear the books piled around a pair of armchairs. "I got your message. It's unfortunate this has happened a second time."

Saint sat, his massive frame dwarfing the chair. "Unfortunate, yes. Disturbing too. I fear…" He paused, looking away. Out the window, the afternoon sun had turned golden and begun sinking in the sky. "In battle, I know what to do. There are no doubts. The Trials was the same. But now, I do not know."

"I understand. Sometimes, it feels like these incidents are designed to make us doubt everything, even our own abilities." Ikora sat beside him. "But there's no one I'd trust more to helm the Trials at a time like this."

"Not even the man they are named for?" Saint let out a sad laugh. "He does not wish to, in any case. I ask and right away, he says he is too busy to care. Told me to shut them down, if I was so tired."

"Well, he is busy. He's almost acting as a third Vanguard with this whole Cabal conflict. Perhaps after we come to terms with Caiatl…"

"You misunderstand. I am glad he is busy. Busy is good. It distracts him from his loss. But he is still…"

"Different?"

"No. Yes, but more than that." He shook his head in frustration. "When I told him about the incident, I thought he would worry, like me. Instead, he tells me to take notes next time. Said the data would be useful," he spat in disgust.

Ikora looked at Saint, expecting him to say more. When he didn't, she sat back in her seat, thinking. She wasn't exactly surprised. Osiris was an experimentalist , after all, and not a particularly sensitive one. And though this comment was certainly more callous than usual, she didn't understand Saint's concern. He seemed agitated, almost like he was angry at Osiris…

"That must've been upsetting to hear, after what you went through," she began slowly. Saint looked away, confirming her theory. "But I think his heart's in the right place. We know so little about the Darkness. More data would indeed be very useful."

Saint said nothing. The light through the window splashed orange across his helm.

"But," she pressed on, "We shouldn't endanger Guardians to get it. However Osiris feels about them now, the Trials started as a way to train fireteams, and they're going to stay that way." She stood, placing a hand on the Exo's shoulder. "I swear to you."

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Good."

Alaaks, the Beast Tamer looks down at the Dreg kneeling at her feet. His two arms are spread in supplication.

"Forgiveness," he wheezes.

He is begging, whining like a scolded animal. Even her war beasts wouldn't grovel so.

There is silence but for the familiar thrum of her Ketch and the rasping sound of the war beasts' breath as they doze behind her.

Alaaks taps a claw against her rebreather, then snorts and shakes her head. The Dreg starts to tremble as the Pirate Lord snaps her fingers and her war beasts stir, rising to their feet and stretching lazily before coming to their mistress's side.

"The cache on Europa was lost because of your incompetence," she says to the Dreg. "Now Misraaks will come for us."

The war beasts' teeth gleam in the low light. Their claws scrape against the grated floors. Their hides bear the brand of her flag. They are loyal. They are hungry.

"Mercy," the Dreg whispers. He is quiet. Quavering.

"This IS mercy, Prydis," Alaaks says, her voice lowering. "You haven't faced Misraaks. I have. He knows no mercy or forgiveness."

Alaaks hisses a command to her pack, then folds her four arms over her chest. Her war beasts' salivating smiles split wide as they advance.

SIMULATION RECONSTRUCTION LOG // LA-01-02 // TRIALS ARENA, THE LIGHTHOUSE, MERCURY

A seething stream of automatic weapons fire ricochets off of the vibrant purple dome protecting Reed-7 and Aisha. There are only two Guardians left on the opposing team; the remains of the third are scattered, smoking and sizzling.

"Aisha?" Reed asks in concern. Flames form between Aisha's knuckles as his barrier begins to destabilize. She has the better plan.

The opposing Guardian pauses to reload from behind cover, and Aisha boosts straight up. Remnants of the collapsing barrier swirl around her ankles, caught on the thermal updraft. By the time the opposing Guardian has noticed, both of Aisha's hands glow like the sun. A dozen knives made from condensed plasma tear through him and everything in his vicinity, leaving molten holes in their wake.

The Guardian collapses in a heap; Aisha lands nearby, cloak fluttering around her. Reed-7 gives her a wearied thumbs-up.

"Did you see Shay while you were up there?" Reed asks.

"No. She's probably playing tag with the one that keeps going invisible." Aisha says, brushing ash off of her gloves. "Let's go find her and finish this up."

A plume of atomic fire rises up over a nearby block of Vex design, as if in direct response to Aisha. The Lighthouse gives off a soft tone. The match is over; they won.

A sudden scream spurs Aisha and Reed into action. The pair navigate the familiar Vex architecture quickly, but two more agonized screams ring out in the time it takes to traverse the arena. When they reach the source of the noise, Aisha sees Shayura impaling another Guardian through the faceplate of his helmet with her Sword. His Ghost shrieks in frustration, trying desperately to get between Shayura and his Guardian.

"Shay?" Aisha asks in confusion, but Shayura's only response is to rip her Sword out of the dead Guardian's head. Reed hangs back in stunned silence.

Aisha watches until the other Guardian draws breath once more, but before he can finish shouting a plea to Shayura, the Warlock cuts off his arm in one stroke and cleaves through the top of his helmet in a second.

"Shay, no!" Aisha yells, running up to her friend. She wraps her arms around Shayura's midsection. Shayura screams like a frightened animal, lashing out with a swift slash of her Sword in the direction of the Guardian's corpse.

"Shayura! The match is over!" Reed shouts, snapping back to reality. "The match is over!"

Shayura screams as her fireteam members pull her back, voice cracking in a feral cry as flames race down her arms and swirl along the length of her blood-slicked Sword.

"No! No! Stop! No!" Shayura howls, fighting against the restraints of her comrades. Aisha grabs at Shayura's wrist, trying to keep her from swinging her Sword again.

"Shay," Aisha tries to get through to her. "Shay!"

Shayura screams an endless wail into the scalding Mercurian sky.

The massive Vex construct that was the Ahamkhara towered over them, and Taeko-3 tried not to be bored. Being bored might lead to idle wishes, and that would be bad right now. She thought again about the name she'd squinted at on the porcelain chit when she'd drawn lots back at the Tower. Two-name Guardians always struck her as a little pretentious.

"Gallida?" The Warlock didn't look up from the drawing she was making; she just held up a finger. "The rear ventral plate, please?" Graciously, the construct shifted its superstructure and allowed the researcher a detailed look at the thing's internal workings. "And… there." The Warlock turned toward Taeko. "You may proceed."

"Finally." As Gallida ran clear, and the beast warbled a Vex war cry, Taeko hefted the massive launcher up over her shoulder and sighted down the line. "Girl's gotta eat!"

Some give gifts and light candles. Some write fortunes and release paper lanterns etched with snowflakes and stars. Some sing songs and say prayers and tell stories passed down from the refugee roads. Tables bend under the weight of every kind of food and drink imaginable.

The rich tapestry of Dawning festival traditions found in the Last City has only one common thread, but it is the brightest thread of all: we are Humankind. Of those born in the cradle called Earth, we are the last. The nights are long, but we will survive them together. We must not let our light go out.

"The Fabrication Laboratory has created a new synthetic for the lining of the researcher gear. Many of the field researchers have noted that the equipment provided during the last cycle is grossly inadequate at providing necessary elemental protection, and the models with the new lining hope to mitigate this. Med-Lab also echoes concern, hoping the new models reduce the amount of frostbite they've been treating."

—Fabrication Specialist, BrayTech R&D

IV:

Spider's operative within Dead Orbit is a man named Howe who sounds truly terrified to receive a direct call from his covert employer.

Spider buries his real desire within a long list of weapons and ammunition, but Howe still manages to single it out.

"Did you say number eighty-nine on manifesto Dove 15?"

"I do not believe I stuttered."

"But that's… it's so old. Pre-Golden Age, we think. Linde's best guess is that it was part of a moving art exhibit."

"You tell me nothing I do not already know."

"But… why do you want it?"

Spider might have let the man live, up until now.

A pity, really.

"All you need to know is how much I will pay you if you bring it to me."

"All right," Howe says dubiously. "Give me a hundred hours."

"You have forty."

Spider ends the call, and begins the process of wiping it from the records.

A bonfire crackles to those around it—friends gathering in need.

It trades for warmth what they cast out,

And grows to sooth with a brilliant hue.

A bonfire roars to those around it—friends cheering the flames higher.

It burns away shadows and brightens the night.

A refuge: from which to look to the horizon.

A bonfire whispers to those around it—friends bonded by revelries now past.

Morning ignites the horizon, and dawn makes clear the road.

Friends now ride, Sparrows astride, no longer a shadow behind…

They vanish into the sun.

"What is the Darkness?"

You open your eyes to gaze upon your weary soul, seeking an answer to your question.

It's pitch black in a world of full D A R K.

You smell a rotting stench all around you.

The wind roars in your ears.

A starless sky hangs above you.

You have idle hands; there is nothing to touch, as far as you can tell.

Your feet find purchase on a dry surface you cannot see.

You hear your mark billowing in the wind.

YOUR LIGHT FADES AWAY…

"You should put your gun away," the Warlock says as her Hunter companion strolls into the empty office. A long, appreciative whistle escapes him as he slowly turns and surveys the room.

"The commander's sure come on up, hasn't he?" the Hunter remarks, Shotgun still resting on his shoulder. Then, noticing something on a high shelf, he wonders: "Is that a cat?"

The Warlock gives him a gentle shove into the middle of the room, then slowly urges his Shotgun down from his shoulder; her touch leaves an ice-rimmed mark on the barrel. The look she levels at the Hunter is patient, but thinning.

"I don't recall having a meeting scheduled right now," booms a voice from the doorway. Both Warlock and Hunter turn to face Commander Zavala, the Hunter shifting his Shotgun behind his back as his Ghost decompiles the weapon. He gives Zavala a crooked, apologetic smile and shows his hands to the Warlock in a "Gun? What gun?" gesture.

"Commander Zavala," the Warlock says with a quick chastising look at her cohort. "I'm—"

"I know who you two are," Zavala says as he breezes past them. "I have a call with the Consensus in ten minutes. You have eight of them."

"He's heard of us!" the Hunter whispers to the Warlock, who gives him a surreptitious elbow in the side.

"Commander. First of all, we wanted to thank you for the rescue efforts on Europa. We wanted to talk about the long-term plans regarding Eliksni settlement in the City."

Zavala sits at his desk, his face weary. "There is no long-term plan. Yet."

"You didn't have a plan before putting them in a bombed-out ditch?" the Hunter interjects. Zavala's expression is mixed with surprise and aggravation, but he lets out a burst of laughter—it crescendos in an uncharacteristically jovial manner before dissipating into a sigh.

"I suppose it looks like that," Zavala admits. "This is the territory the Consensus would cede for the time being. But the plan is to turn the area into a community learning annex where the Eliksni and humanity can freely share ideas, culture, and language."

"And they would live there?" the Warlock asks.

"No," Zavala says with a shake of his head. "If everything goes well, they'll live in the City. Wherever they'd like. It's just going to take time to build up the piece of Botza District we gave them, and to make sure the people of the City accept them. The last thing we need is violence born out of confusion and ignorance."

The Warlock and Hunter look to one another, then back to Zavala. "That's… honestly better than we expected. No—offense to your city planning strategies, Commander, I just—"

"It wasn't my plan," Zavala says, motioning to the woman eavesdropping in doorway.

"Ikora," the Warlock says with a respectful incline of her head.



Both Warlock and Hunter look shocked at her presence. Ikora smiles demurely and more fully invites herself into the room.

"When I heard Mithrax's old fireteam had come to the City, I was surprised to see you here, rather than down there with him," Ikora says, though she isn't truly surprised. "Have you given him your regards?"

"With everything that happened on Europa, ma'am, we didn't think it prudent. He's still—there's still raw emotions and—with everything going on right now, it's been hard to connect with him," the Warlock admits, giving the Hunter a concerned look. Ikora regards them for a moment, then nods and approaches Zavala.

"Family struggles can be challenging," Ikora recognizes, her hand on the back of Zavala's chair. "Even with found family. But I have faith you'll find a way to work it out."

She leans over and whispers something to him; the Vanguard commander gives her a look of approval as he begins opening terminal windows for his impending meeting.

"In the meantime, how would you two like to help the Vanguard?" Ikora asks with one brow raised. The Warlock and Hunter cast a furtive look to one another, but both are quick to offer silent nods of affirmation. Ikora smiles, having expected that response, and spreads her arms to herd the pair out of Zavala's office.

"Good. We have a long-range scout operating outside of the City, a newly minted Hunter, and we'd like you two to keep him company," Ikora says as she walks. She glances briefly back over her shoulder to Zavala, who offers her an appreciative smile.

"Who?" the Warlock asks.

"That's… complicated."

Don't ask me where I heard this—I honestly can't remember—but legend has it this Bow has fouled more behemoths and seen more of the known universe than the whole Vanguard combined. You hear a lot of stories when you work as a Gunsmith as long as I have, and this Bow has a wild one. This thing is the king of killers. Almost got Ghaul too. I think it was, um, Calus, who had it crafted for his huntsmaster—what's her name? Voyc? Yeah.

Anyway, Calus had this obsession with collecting the hides and heads of the rarest and most formidable creatures Voyc could find. And with this Bow, she was real good at it. Gwern, the Unbeatable—defeated. Giant sea monsters—taken down to size. I even heard she slayed an Ahamkara, which is very impressive if it's true.

Calus was so thrilled with her that she got a promotion. Of sorts. It wasn't common knowledge. He called her "The Shadow of the Wilds," which never sat right with me. Psion Flayers aren't known for their stealth. She was his assassin. When she wasn't hunting prize game, she was doing Calus's dirty work in the most remote corners of the galaxy.

When Ghaul attacked the Tower, Calus thought this would be the perfect time to strike and ordered Voyc to do Ghaul in. Take a guess how that worked out. Makes you wonder who got to her first, 'cause with this Bow in her hand, she shouldn't have failed. I'd like to attribute this to user error, 'cause when I found the Bow near her corpse, it was still in pristine condition. I'm glad I grabbed it before the Tower was evacuated. Could all just be hearsay, but there's a real chance to vindicate this work of art and give it a legacy worth preserving. Hunting is fine, but Guardians have a greater purpose.

—Banshee-44

Of all the Shadows, Valus Nohr was perhaps my keenest tactician. She had a great skill for translating my wishes into sweeping and deadly stratagems. In taking her place, I would expect a new Shadow to share in her ability to plot an operation—and personally carry it out.

Guardians have a tribe for that, don't they? I see them contest with my Loyalists all the time, meeting force with force. Perhaps one of them could take her place.

—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal

I am a [King] no longer. The [King's] corpse hangs in orbit above a world I will never see. Not from this cage.

I am [Riven].

I am [Taken], and I am beholden to no one. Nothing.

I have not spoken in years. I think about what inflection I would use if I did. But no one is there. The [King's] voice faded long ago. No voice comes to mind.

The [King] despaired in his final moments. Rightly so. His vengeance denied.

Most of those who [bargain] with me do not win.

I am afflicted by tedious repetition.

I: A MIND LIKE A BLADE

The second son. The disowned. Spawned into this world as a lesser being, so unlike the warrior-son, Crota. But one must not only sharpen their blade.

Behold Nokris.

A mind can also be a weapon. There is power in wisdom, in knowledge.

There is much to be known. And he would know all.

The ageless volumes and apocrypha, all consumed voraciously, feeding the mind of the lesser. Driven by a different kind of Sword Logic, he let the stories of the world fill the void just as the worm feeds.

From the womb of unholy knowledge, Nokris's plan was born. He knew his strength lies in his mind, in his magic. But how to prove himself to his father, the proud, dreadful demon-warrior?

Nokris is not the first.

He sought power. He sought knowledge. He sought the worm.

"What is the Darkness?"

You open your eyes and gaze at the heavens, seeking an answer to your question.

You see a world in the space B E T W E E N.

You see a space beyond Light and Dark.

You used to inhabit this space. No longer.

We are still there. We are not interested in Light or Dark.

Our interest is in you. And those like you.

We have reached out before. With an agent whose will was not his own.

First contact. We have learned since then.

Your hands are bound in red ribbons.

Your soul is weary.

Your feet find purchase on a three-dimensional plane.

Your bond's glow is dim; there is no Light here. Or Dark.

"Tell us about the Stormherd!" Kellikin shouted.

She resisted the urge to shush him because he'd been helpful earlier, yelling a warning to her when he saw the violet haze rising from the hilltops. It had given her time to call them into the bunker. Eldest of the children, he'd already experienced several voltaic squalls.

"Okay. Gather round. Come on. Huddle up so I don't have to shout.

"A long time ago, the raiders came every winter. They came and took nearly all our stored food, and many in our village starved. But then spring would come with time for planting, and another summer. In the autumn, we harvested as we are doing now. Each time, we stored even more food, and we hid it more carefully, in case the raiders returned.

"And they did. When they saw that we had survived the winter, they fought even harder for our food, and found nearly all that we had hidden. And so it was, for too many years. They always took from us, never giving anything in return.

"And then, one autumn night, there was a great rumbling. At first some thought it was thunder, but it was the roar of the raiders' quads in the valleys. They had come early!

"Maybe they had a new leader. Perhaps they were too impatient for the harvest. We'll never know.

"Because as the raiders roared through our village, a blue-white bolt of lightning struck among them—BOOM! Before anyone's eyes had cleared of spots, a masked stranger clad in robes and wielding a crook had killed a score of them. With her weapon, she hooked lightning from the clouds and hurled it, thundering among them.

"They say there was something more than mortal about her, for those who were there said she could move faster than the eye could track, and her steps took her higher than anyone could leap. But eventually, the raiders surrounded her, and she fell to their guns.

"Yet there was something else different about her: the storm crow. It flew at her shoulder, and when she fell, it looked upon her body, and under its gaze, she rose again.

"This time, she pointed her crook to the sky, and clouds moved at her command. Our people fled as thunderbolts stampeded through the village. Our homes were not safe. Only our root cellars, like this bunker, were a refuge.

"No one emerged until the thunder ceased rolling. The raiders had fallen or fled. None would return, not until three winters had passed. And now, raiders only trouble us outside the village.

"So when you see the purple mist rise from the hills and hear the thunder, that is your sign to take shelter. And when you hear the rumbling roll through the village, it just might be the Stormherd, come back to make sure we're safe."

Thunder rolled again, but only a few children started. All looked to the ceiling and wondered.

III

Dusk set over the Dreaming City. Six Corsairs sporting Tigerspite Rifles made final checks on their gear. Movement became still salutes as Petra and Siegfried approached the staging ground. Just ahead, nestled in the Divalian Mists, menaced a fetid pit trimmed in Hive bio-growth. Frenetic inhuman whispers echoed from within like hoarse cords screaming.

Field holos displayed maps of twisting tunnelways all orbiting one central chasm. Within the nest, a point flagged their objective. Approach markers tracked the most direct path through.

"At ease, Corsairs. This is Siegfried. He is here to assist you in flushing the Hive from this nest and reclaiming our land. Inside, he is in command. My guard and I will hold this forward station. You all know what to do. For the Queen." Petra pivoted to allow Siegfried the floor. "Titan."

"Well met, Awoken of the Reef. The Vanguard stands with you. I am the spearhead. Advance on me and we will prevail." Siegfried donned his helmet. "I will not fail you."

The fireteam embarked, and in the subterranean ever-dark, the Hive descended upon them. Droves of Thrall choked the tunnels as gunfire deluge hammered from behind rallying barricades without pause. Siegfried lit the hollow with brilliant Arc fulmination, and rounds found targets. Claws drew blood and rent armor, but neither Titan nor Corsair wavered. Seven entered and seven stood. With each break in the flood, they took ground under cover of storm.

Siegfried arced through the filth like a deadly spark. Each charge scattered the opposition, leaving only crackling chitin, expended shells, and galvanized ozone.

Soulfire fumes fouled the air as reinforcements phased into ritual circles. Acolytes loped to flank the Titan only to be cut off by Corsair suppressing fire. Siegfried faced down a towering Knight with a man-hewing blade. He formed two flashbangs in his fists and lunged with a blinding combo. The Knight shrieked, narrowly missing Siegfried's head with its cleaver. The Titan launched forward, and the fiend fell to the rolling tempest. Labored breathing was the only sound that remained. The Titan looked to a blocked tunnelway in the floor before them.

Slick Hive excretion lined the chasm ahead. "This must be their sanctum." Siegfried's palm pulsed with Light. The faint silhouette of a Ghost popped in and out of existence. "Yes. This is it. Fall back and form a perimeter. If I don't return, you are to retreat."

Siegfried ripped through the mucus-seal and slid into the dim cavern. Foul fluid trickled from the ceiling in drips and spattered in pools at his feet. A monument of gore writhed before him. Soft tendrils convulsed around a jaundiced grim glow. They grew from the twisted base of an eviscerated Knight—its back and ribs pulled through its split abdomen, bending inside-out in half-completed metamorphosis.

"You vile thing." Siegfried walked slowly, his sight focused on the grotesque shrine. The Knight's eyes followed his every step. He was mere meters from the horror when the earth burst on either side of him. Two Ogres stumbled from chitin-covered sacs he had mistaken for walls. He drew his Invective and with well-placed blasts, dispatched the first. Siegfried turned to the second, but it was already upon him. It batted him into a cavern wall and wailed as energy beamed from its eye.

Siegfried raised a towering barricade just as the Ogre unleashed its hellish gaze. Cracks webbed through the Light wall. Siegfried braced it with both hands. The Ogre shook the ground as it bore down on him. The Titan readied himself to clash, lightning welling in his bones.

Movement in the distance. [CRACK] The Ogre's head snapped sideways from a forceful hit. Siegfried followed the sound to a figure perched in the mouth of a tunnel opposite of him. The Ogre turned and roared— [CRACK] Its head blew back, oozing from a raw wound. Three more shots followed from the figure, bringing the Ogre to its knees. The man looked at Siegfried and performed a small bow. The Titan dispersed his shield and seized the Ogre by the neck. He slammed the wounded thing to the ground and brought both fists down with a bolt of electricity and a killing blow. The Titan turned to confront his rescuer but saw only an empty tunnel.

It was early morning before Siegfried surfaced again. Petra stood stone-still in the camp.

"I retrieved your samples. You should know that anything I removed regenerated…" Siegfried lowered his voice. "…I believe this was a germinal site. Either lady luck is with us, or this was an ambitious expansion off a larger site."

"We're never lucky," Petra replied grimly. "I'll begin narrowing down options for our next strike."

"That line of thinking will be reflected in my report to the Vanguard."

"You've done more than enough for today, Sir Titan. Rest. Tomorrow we'll take the samples to the Techeuns. I'm sure they'll have plenty to say."

DURESS - III

Sjari shifted on the wooden operating table. Why must she be the first?

She probed the jelly-like substance smeared across her forehead as Elder Kalli entered the room.

"Don't touch that. It's an antiseptic… and a binding agent," Kalli said, placing a sizeable blue-crystal-adorned mask next to an assortment of scalpels, hooks, and erosion stencils on her back table. Each tool was etched with ceremonial iconography, and freshly sharpened.

"Normally, it takes years to become an Adept among our ranks… but the Queen's Wrath believes time is short. If you survive, these augments will expedite your training and enhance your abilities."

Kalli turned away to work a mortar and pestle. "You will need to learn to focus under duress. Remove your mind from this place. Sink into the cosmic, project out from yourself. There is no pain, no flesh, no nerves."

Sjari gripped the sides of the operating table and pressed her back flat, until no air existed between her and the surface beneath—until she felt herself a part of it. She told herself to ignore the grinding of the pestle and thought about how Petra had taught her to use the physical as a transitionary conduit to the Ascendant.

"Drink this," Kalli ordered, handing Sjari a small cup of queensfoil tea.

Sjari opened her eyes and released her grip as her meditation broke. "Yes, Elder sister. Give me a moment to focus, please," she pleaded, hastily gulping down the tea.

"You think my voice is sharper than this knife?" Kalli asked, lifting the scalpel from her back table. "Duress. You must push through it if you are to survive. Be strong, or you will die. This is your final test."

Sjari drank quickly and pressed herself to the table once more. She focused on her fingertips and the feel of the hand-worked wood. The grain formed diminutive pathways for her nails to trace; tiny patterns hidden away within the enormity that surrounded them, only revealed by shrinking one's perspective. She let herself drift.

Kalli threaded the thin metal edge directly through to the bone of Sjari's skull. A line of incision opened a wave of red. Searing penetration through the layers. Overwhelming electrified senses. They gave way to a calming sting in the discordant firing of nerves. A pattern. The texture. The split between what was and what could be.

In her mind's eye, Sjari saw the Ley Lines unfurl like budding petals of a living blossom. Nebula-like plumes of pollen. She let herself slip away until the pain of her flesh was only one of many choices before her.

When I was young, I dreamt of a greater life.███████████
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I held the tiny hands of my newborn███████████████ ██████████████eight extraordinary weeks, █████ ████████ She nursed, grew strong,████████████
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I did not see her mother for those eight weeks;██nursing chamber, and her ceremonial████████████████████
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But… my momentum faltered over time. ███████████
█████ when her tusks were sharp enough to defend herself.███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

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EARTH // LAST CITY // DETENTION FACILITY //

The Warlock Shayura kneels on a pillow, eyes closed and head bowed, hands folded in her lap. The soundscape of city noise punctuated by the melody of birds and the whistling wind surrounds her. But there is no grass beneath her pillow, only cold concrete. Four holographic screens encircle Shayura, providing a semi-realistic depiction of the gardens at the center of the Last City; a place of calm serenity situated in the shadow of the Traveler.

"I exalt our forebearers," Shayura says softly.

"I exalt my fireteam."

"I exalt my truth."

"I exalt my heart."

"I exalt humanity's capacity for love."

"This above all else, I hold true."

The words feel like thick syrup in her mouth. Guilt makes it taste bitter. Her jaw trembles and throat tightens, her mouth too dry to swallow.

"I exalt our forebearers."

Her voice wavers, just a little.

"I exalt my fireteam."

Her jaw trembles.

"I exalt my truth."

She can feel the warmth of tears on her cheeks.

"I exalt my heart."

Her voice cracks.

"I exalt h-hu-human—" She breaks. Recitations turn into sobs, and Shayura slides from pillow to floor. Her shoulders heave, and she pulls her knees to her chest, crying against her legs. Dead Guardians stare with hollow eye sockets when she closes her eyes.

They beg for their lives.

She trains a gun on them.

And exalts her truth.

████████Grand aspirations, grand imaginings. I looked back to the myths of our people's past to draw inspiration ███████

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█████████████████████daughter for the first time. She crawled into my brood pouch, smaller than a finger, helpless and blind. I was her ███████████████████████ ██████ and slept to the sound of my ██████████ █████████

█████████████████████████████████████████family and house, the old ways made ███
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███████████my dreams, narrowed down to the size of my thumb. ███████████████████████████

██████████████████████████████████████████████████Day by day, she grew, and piece by piece,███████████████████████
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MOON // OCEAN OF STORMS // ANCHOR OF LIGHT //

"The Vanguard won't hold a military tribunal in the middle of a war."

Reed-7 is a voice of reason. He stands in the doorway of the derelict moonbase, fusion rifle held in a relaxed grip. The still-smoldering bodies of Hive Thrall are scattered around the room.

"That's not comforting," the woman at Reed's back says. Aisha shoulders past him, leading with the barrel of her scout rifle, sweeping the area for any remaining targets. "The last thing I want is Shay languishing in some—some kind of Vanguard prison cell for however long this goes on for, or until we're all…"

"Dead?" Reed-7 finishes. Aisha says nothing. "This isn't the end of the world, Aisha. But we have to reach the bottom before we can climb to the top again."

"This isn't the bottom?" Aisha asks, tilting her head to the side mockingly. She steps over to one of the blown-out windows and gestures to the massive silhouette of the Leviathan hanging over the Moon, a crimson stream of Nightmares spiraling up into its open maw. "Because it sure as hell looks like it is. And, what, the Vanguard has us out here doing… doing New Light patrols?!"

"They can't afford to give us leave, no matter how much we need it," Reed pleads. "We have to stay active, contribute. We lost too many new Guardians already with the Lucent Hive assault on the Cosmodrome. We can't…" He sighs. "We can't afford to lose anyone else. We have to do everything we can."

Aisha leans one arm against the broken window frame, head hung low. "Yeah," she whispers. "Yeah."

MOON // OCEAN OF STORMS // K1 COMMUNION //

A Fallen Vandal collapses to the ground, Ether vapor rising from a glowing hole where his face once was. Dark-blue blood sizzles around the wound.

"Clear," Reed-7 calls out from the top of a flight of metal stairs, the barrel of his fusion rifle still crackling with energy from the last bolt it fired. As he descends, Aisha follows and shoulders her scout rifle.

"Looks like they were pulling the wiring out of the walls," she observes, lifting up her hand and alighting her Ghost, Dunya, into the air. "Check the systems here; make sure they weren't doing anything else."

"Affirmative," Dunya chirps, zipping off through the air toward a computer terminal.

Aisha notices that Reed's glowing eyes are fixed on the Ether wafting from the Vandal's body. She spares a glance at Dunya before crossing the floor to Reed's side. "Hey," she says with a hand on his arm, jostling him from his thoughts.

"I'm good," he lies, gingerly pulling away. "Just—thinking."

Aisha looks down at the corpse, then back up to Reed. "This isn't like what Shay did on Venus." She tries to be reassuring, but it comes off as dismissive.

"How's it any different?" He asks with a dagger's sharpness in his voice. "These—they were stripping wires from the walls, Aisha. They weren't trying to hurt anyone!"

"They opened fire on us first."

"We didn't even try to talk to them!" Reed yells.

"Aisha?" Dunya chirps, across the room. Neither Guardian hears the Ghost.

"I'm sorry," Aisha says as she throws her arms up. "Was I supposed to do that before or after they threw a grenade at me?"

"Aisha?" Dunya says again, more alarm in his voice.

"We could have tried something! Anything!" Reed screams, getting in Aisha's face. "We could have—"

"AISHA!"

[RECORDED VIA [REDACTED] SURVEILLANCE NET: TS-04, [REDACTED]]

HLS: Come, hatchlings. Hear the story of the Ether-blood Lightbearer. The one who wields Ethraaks's blades. She wandered a troubled Shore with vengeance in her heart, searching for the one who had wronged her: the devil-turned-spiderling, Driksys. Food and Ether we shared. The House of Light once again found peace with a Guardian, yes?

HLS: We know of Driksys. One who always thirsted for power, cursed machines, Dark flows of energy, it made no difference. This time, he sought power through Cabal; Legion-rumors of vile splinters from Europa filled his mind with temptations.

HLS: Cabal roamed the Shore, battering against one another in displays of might. Like the Kells of old, they fought for the claim to supremacy… to serve Caiatl of the dead-world fleet. Driksys saw many Kells come and go. Driksys understood fragile loyalties. Understood importance of strength seen. Driksys offered Legion use of his ring for their challenges, and from Cabal blood, he drew profit.

HLS: I stood with Driksys before the House of Light. This one saw him weave truthless words to collect promises. Contacts on Europa. Introductions. Shipments. Brought to Spider, entire ring would have died… many Eliksni lose. When the Ether-blood Lightbearer spoke Driksys's name, we imagined another way forward. She did not wish harm on innocent Eliksni, only the Fallen fiend: Driksys… and so this House granted shimmer-cloak to conceal, and passage to find her prey.

HLS: Old friends traded for information, access, codes. Driksys oversaw new ring, made for Cabal battle-trials. Challengers from across the Reef fought to lead the Shore's Cabal. The Lightbearer withheld her rage and made her way beneath the stands. To the overlook, where Driksys watched a champion preparing for challengers… in the ring below.

HLS: Trihn, the Lightbearer, drew blades of Ethraaks and burst into the overlook. To confront Driksys, her heart full with vengeance, her mind set on war. But he was not alone. An emissary of the new empress had come to see the challenges. Receiving this emissary, Cabal Blood Guard. The Lightbearer charged Driksys, and a savage battle ensued.

HLS: She was thrown from the overlook, into the ring of challengers… before a great Cabal Gladiator who spoke to her. The Lightbearer, unbeknownst to her, had issued a challenge by entering his ring. If she did not fight, all Cabal would descend upon her. Her victory must be earned with strength and blade alone. No other weapons. No other powers. A proving she accepted to again clear a path to her prey.

HLS: The Gladiator bellowed laughter at the small Awoken Lightbearer. Their blades met, and over many clashes her speed proved superior to the Cabal's might. The blades of Ethraaks are strong—sliced through Cabal armor, left blood and oil in their wake.

HLS: She had found victory, but as her Ghost tended to her wounds, Driksys-coward fled to safety through transmat. Though, all was not lost. The Lightbearer's battle had drawn eyes of the emissary, who lavished praise on her for her prowess, and issued an invitation to speak with Cabal Empress herself. When the Lightbearer returns to us, the House of Light will be ready to assist her in hunting Driksys again.

She has been here before.

Pale whisps of clouds swirl over pine trees the color of blackened emerald. No birds sing here; only the cold wind whistles through the tree branches. Flares of atomic fire bloom in the woods and lick against smoldering bark. There is poison in the ground, violence in the air. Screams, both human and inhuman, erupt and echo out into the gloom.

She has been here before.

Two dozen Hive Thrall erupt from the mouth of a cave, shimmering and opalescent like mollusk corpses. They scramble through the dark, shrieking cries of death and birth. Shayura stands, sword of fire held fast, screaming against the crashing tide of chitin and bone.

She has been here before.

Burning embers of Thrall rain around her, but with each dispatched wave of necrotic soldiers, their numbers seem to double. They press forward, inching her closer and closer to the crumbling ravine. Shayura knows that the only way out is through. Wings of flame roar off her back, leaving a trail of rippling heat and charred Thrall in her wake.

She has been here before.

The Thrall finally recede, but the towering Knight that strides through their parted ranks is an escalation, not a victory. Her sword clashes with the Knight's shield, shattering it in a single blow before tearing through the Knight's arm and sinking her blade into its chest.

She has been here before.

She can feel her Light ebbing and wastes no time splitting the Knight in half and separating head from body. Shayura exhales with relief, but with her next breath comes a blinding flash of light. It manifests above the Knight. Her vision swims, her mind reels; the shape is at once familiar and alien—a Ghost. Shayura sees the Hive Knight reborn, reconstructed, as a Guardian would be.

She has been here before. But not like this.

Deep panic builds in her chest. This is no Hive death ritual; this is not Titan. She runs from the Knight's next swing and slips into the reach of Thrall that tear at her armor. Mustering the last of her Solar energy, Shayura calls up a cyclonic pillar of flame that twists up into the sky and consumes the Knight.

…not like this.

The revenant Knight collapses in the flames, and its Ghost manifests again. Shayura leaps forward and drives her sword through, pinning the screaming Ghost to the forest floor. Her Solar aura flickers and fades; smoke and steam billow from her back and shoulders.

"NOT LIKE THIS!"

"Shay!"

Shayura's breath catches, her mind jostled. She feels the soft grass beneath her and sees the flower-dappled park that surrounds her, all sitting beneath the shadow of the Traveler in the heart of the City. Her SMG lies on the ground at her side. Tears shine below exhausted eyes, dark hair in a tangle matted to her head.

Aisha kneels in front of her friend as one might before a wild animal. Reed-7 stands at her back in abject silence, hand over his mouth. City security fans out behind him, their weapons trained on Shayura.

"Shay?" Aisha pleads this time. She gingerly places her hands on Shayura's cheeks and looks into her eyes, searching for a sign of recognition. Shayura eventually reaches up and touches one of Aisha's hands. She tries to talk, but her words are merely whimpers.

Aisha wraps her arms around Shayura's shoulders and pulls her into an embrace. "It's going to be okay," Aisha whispers into Shayura's hair.

"We're going to get you help," Aisha promises.

Shayura does not trust herself or the world she thought she knew. Light is Dark, Dark is Light. The lines have blurred beyond recognition.

But at least in surrender, there is peace.

Amanda Holliday's Solstice Round-Up! See what the defenders of the Last City think about the new festivities!

Vanguard Commander Zavala
"Each of us has faced and overcome so much. Sometimes that can feel like a sacrifice, or a price… but it's a lesson to remember and learn. I'd like Guardians to keep that in mind as we celebrate Solstice. What we come to do is only possible because of what we've done. Both the good, and the bad."

Vanguard Ikora Rey
"Meditation is an important part of understanding not just the Light, but ourselves. We rise in a void, and seek meaning. The Bonfire is a wonderful metaphor for that process; Amanda outdid herself helping with Solstice. Even I don't know how she managed all of this."

Saint-14
"A big pyre to lay to rest everything we hold in our hearts. Yes. I could use this now. Celebration. Explosions. Revelry… isn't it wonderful? I might cry."

Mithrax, Kell of House Light
"Guardian celebrations perplex and mystify, but new beginnings are worthy of what the Saint calls 'partying.' House Light is grateful for inclusion in this occasion, and offers forth many combustible baubles to the sacrificial flame."

Lord Saladin, Valus to Empress Caiatl
"Once I can see this Bonfire from Caiatl's flagship, I'll be happy."

Empress Caiatl of the Cabal Empire
"What is the ordnance limitation on these Bonfire contributions? Perhaps the Cabal can assist in creating a larger fire."

Ana Bray
"I'll support anything Amanda does. Quite a show. I'm always a fan of something fancy with a little attitude."

Lord Shaxx
"I like to imagine the ignition cores are grenades… that does put a smile on my face."

Eris Morn
"…The what?"

IV

In the middle of the chaos, a lone metallic structure groaned as Trihn stood in deathly quiet, piecing together the sequence of events. The structure's form was slender, shapely, and one she had not seen before. It bent in lines that were lost within each other's paths; interconnected without sacrificing distinction. It drew her in. Trihn stepped forward and ungloved her hand. She pressed her palm to the onyx-colored metal spires. Something quivered within, and came alive.

"What are you?" she would ask, over the concerned interjections of her Ghost. The Answer, it would reply to her, alone. At least, the first time. The day had drawn long into the night and she had left the cavity, paced in the encampment, and returned many times to the onyx spires. She would prod. It would weave the riposte. Power, in many shapes. Purpose. Time. Meaning. Any trait the ambitious could muster, it would ennoble with standing. It would taper the meat. Lean the fat. Deglaze the waste to flavor the cut. A protean horror of trim. It struck awe. Glory incarnate, made tangible within the beholder.

It showed her the heap that she clawed life from. It showed her the betrayal Driksys coated her opponent's blades with. It showed her tools they meant to rip apart her Ghost with. It dug out the many beatings her bones still remembered, and the blood ran red into her eyes. The anger. The validating need for vengeance. It showed her a head set upon a pike.

More.

More.

More.

That night she dreamed of the pit. If this living metal thing could lead her to Driksys, the way forward was clear. Shakto said it was taller now. A head above its previous size. She had thought that metal does not grow; it is only reshaped or reduced, but upon reflection, had come to accept aggregation was growth. Trihn returned with tools retrieved from her Pike: some gifts, some collected from marks that no longer needed them, all worn from extended use. Dilution fluid ransacked from the parked Pikes would steady the process. Three canisters of Ether swiped from the encampment dangled around her neck in a makeshift sling while the rest were left stowed in her vehicle's saddlebags. Shakto didn't need to warn her of the danger. It had killed her before. Her first victory, her first reward. It would give her the strength. It would focus her mind. The Ghost would await her return above ground.

She laid the tools before the spindled onyx structure.

Fine silk rolled in soft leather kept them from the dirt.

Traced the cloud-chromed instruments with steady pupils.

Wiped clean with oil and cloth.

Prepared Light to staunch her invigoration should it turn grisly.

Connected the pitted dispersal gauge with transparent clean line.

Capped line with a fine and untarnished gold barb.

Drew thick sapphiric fluid, appropriately diluted.

Pinched skin at the thigh beneath fresh wraps.

Flesh to onyx.

Induced.

Cold prickling stung her veins. Muscles tensed and bulged against the sheaths of Light she had bound them in to keep from bursting. Her bones creaked under Ether-bolstered thew. She licked away flavor from her lips, exhalent tinged of briny nitrogen, and shivered. As her body stabilized and the tremors climbed, Trihn's head reflexively craned upward and outstretched her neck. Her mind electrified. Her spine bent at the brim of buckling.

Armor is the inherent struggle between freedom and protection, and has been since the dawn of humanity. The natural conclusion of elementary physics is such that resilience is the enemy of mobility. But now we're pioneers in a nascent world of discovery, where we can abrogate the laws of "Old Physics" and widen the breadth of engineering design space.
My colleagues at Clovis Bray and I are excited to embark upon this project. We intend to enhance the efficacy of our line of protective armor, and bring to you the level of quality you expect from the Bray name.

SIMULATION RECONSTRUCTION LOG // LA-02-02 // TRIALS ARENA, THE LIGHTHOUSE, MERCURY

Reed-7's arms feel like they're going to break apart at the seams. The vibration building in his body threatens to shake him to pieces for every second that he maintains his barrier. It stands as an extension of his Light and also his body. He feels it like a piece of himself, one that he has overextended time and again, as it deflects an Auto Rifle's rapid-fire barrage.

Only two Guardians are left on the opposing team; the remains of the third are scattered around the area, smoking and sizzling. Reed considers how fast he and Aisha might be able to rush in on their cornered Guardian. Even if Reed gets taken down, it might be enough time for Aisha and Shayura—wherever she is—to secure a victory.

"Aisha?" Reed asks. His voice rises in concern as his barrier begins to destabilize. He knows it's now or never. But as he looks to Aisha, Reed spies flames forming between her knuckles.

Aisha has the better plan.

As the opposing Guardian pauses to reload behind cover, Aisha boosts straight into the air, through the top of the barrier. Reed lets the dome collapse and feels the immediate release of pressure on his limbs, his legs nearly buckling. He watches Aisha glow brightly, spinning like a burning wheel before unleashing a volley of knives made from condensed plasma in every direction.

To Reed, it simply looks like a flash of fire and smoke as the opposing Guardian collapses in a heap, Aisha landing next to him. With a sigh of relief, Reed-7 gives her as enthusiastic a thumbs-up as he can muster.

"Did you see Shay while you were up there?" Reed asks.

"No. She's probably playing tag with the one that keeps going invisible," Aisha replies. "Let's go find her and finish this up."

A plume of atomic fire rises up over a nearby block of Vex design as if in direct response to Aisha. The Lighthouse emits a soft tone; the nearby Ghosts begin reconstructing their dead Guardians after the match's conclusion.

A scream rises from the same direction as the fire, spurring Aisha and Reed into action. The pair navigate the familiar Vex architecture quickly. Two more agonized screams fill the air. When they reach the source of the noise, Reed freezes in his tracks as he witnesses Shayura impale the other Guardian through the faceplate of his helmet with her Sword. The opponent's Ghost shrieks in frustration, trying desperately to get between Shayura and his Guardian.

Aisha is saying something, but all Reed hears is blood rushing in his ears. Not his blood though. The memory of it. Of something buried behind layered plates of carbon-polymer and plasteel weave. Something haunting his synaptic network. In that moment, Reed is outside of his own body, remembering faces frozen in stone, recalling the whispered plea of his Ghost's tortured voice on Io.

|| Don't you see? ||

Reed's heart races.

|| In Light, there is only weakness. ||

The opposing team's Guardian is brought back to life by his Ghost, but before the Guardian can finish shouting a plea to Shayura, the Warlock cuts off his arm in one stroke. She cleaves her Sword through the top of his helmet in a brutal follow-through. Reed feels his chest tightening, feels a sense of panic kicking in.

|| Only failure. ||

"Shay, no!" Aisha yells, running up to her friend. She wraps her arms around Shayura's midsection. Shayura screams like a frightened animal, lashing out with a swift slash of her Sword in the direction of the Guardian's corpse.

|| Only death. ||

"Shayura! The match is over!" Reed shouts, snapping back to reality. "The match is over!"

It takes both Reed and Aisha to restrain the enraged Warlock. Shayura's voice cracks in a feral cry as flames race down her arms and swirl along the length of her blood-slicked Sword.

"No! No! Stop! No!" Shayura howls, fighting against her comrades. Aisha grabs at Shayura's wrist, keeping her from swinging her Sword again as the freshly resurrected Guardian scrambles away.

"Shay," Aisha pleads, trying to get through to her. "Shay!"

Shayura screams an endless wail into the scalding Mercurian sky.

"I do not like the skulls," Saint-14 said. "I have seen too many bones already." He unspooled a long strip of bandage and wrapped it around a Rifle. He dropped a handful of small candies into the barrel, then reconsidered, and emptied them into his palm. "But I like the bats! I think we should have the bats all through the year."

Sagira flew to a high corner of the Hangar and affixed a strand of glittering cobweb. "I keep forgetting this will be your first Festival of the Lost here," she said. "It feels like you've been with us for longer than that."

"It is not even a year yet," Saint-14 nodded as he taped a small paper bat to Sagira for her to ferry to its destination. Osiris left the two alone in the Hangar as he consulted with Ikora about the Pyramids, which was just as well—he was never one for decorating.

"You know, when I first came to the Tower, Guardians brought me platefuls of warm lavender cookies," Saint-14 said. "I thought to myself, what hospitality!"

Sagira chuckled as Saint-14 sighed. "You know the end of the story. It was only how they observe the Dawning in the City, and when the Dawning was over, so too were my cookies."

"But I did not understand yet. When they stopped, I thought maybe I had done something wrong. So I tried to do better, work harder!" He crushed a handful of candies, picked out a few peanuts, and tossed them to his pigeons with a shrug.

"And look at what you accomplished!" Sagira said. "Because of your work, the Tower may just survive for another year. So in a way, you did just what you set out to do."

"Exactly!" said Saint-14. "It taught me something about hope. Something as small as—" he looked around the Hangar for a moment, then pointed to a decoration "—as this pleasant gourd could give someone the hope to live for tomorrow. So we must treat each day as though the future depends on it."

Sagira ferried another paper bat. "It's funny," she said, "sometimes you sound just like Osiris."

Saint-14 laughed, then dropped his voice to a ridiculous rasp. "No," he growled, "Osiris… sounds like me."

Sagira's shriek of laughter startled the pigeons into flight.

JOURNEY - IV

Austyn sat in silence with eyes shut. Ley Lines swept over her in waves—in pulses, which she slowly brought into alignment with her own. Entanglement. It was not the first time she had pressed herself into symbiosis with the Ascendant Plane. She'd been through the thoughts of all the sisters in her Coven. She had dreamt with Petra and harvested secrets from her, with the Queen's Wrath being none the wiser. Austyn knew they were meant to save Queen Mara Sov. They were meant to find her and restore the throne. She had been searching the Ley Lines for a path to the queen each night after her training.

Her Coven sisters lay sleeping all around her body, but her mind flew through countless panes of prismatic glass. As they shattered, she flittered from one plane to the next, catching momentary glimpses of incommunicable wonder.

In the distant cosmos far ahead, Austyn saw a darkened haze of indecipherable noise. Somewhere nestled in the Ley Lines, this shadowed spot was growing. Austyn knew Mara Sov was distant. She knew the queen had obscured herself from her enemies. Austyn had felt a presence reach from the noise toward the Dreaming City more than once. Tonight, she would reach back.

Austyn focused her will on a path to the distant noise and, as she did so, it was. The way was open, but still so far. She reached out with her physical body, placing a hand in the air before her and splitting the oxygen with her touch. She carved a slit in reality, through the molecules of the air, and the path anchored to it at her command.

The noise descended upon her, and instantly, she was at the precipice.

Hand pressed, frozen, paralyzed, and awash in insidious whispers that shredded the doorway into open nothing.

It tore her consciousness across the cosmos to a grand terrace of onyx swords and emerald flame reigning over a red harbor. Fingers reached like blades from distant hollows. Screaming noise upon noise. A lone figure stood on the terrace aside two empty thrones. Testing. Prodding. Tasting. Breeding war.

"Austyn!" A familiar voice pried her back into the waking world. "Austyn, are you all right?"

She woke, soaked in sweat and heat. Petra Venj stood over her, gripping her shoulders.

Austyn struggled to breathe. Her eyes met Petra's.

"Austyn?"

They'd leave you behind if they knew what you just saw, she thought.

"Just a nightmare," Austyn reassured the Queen's Wrath. "Thank you for waking me."

Statesman Tha'uul ran, and the Fulminator followed him. He was a minor diplomat who had played a part in the coup against the emperor. She wasn't certain of the details. The social dynamics of organics were difficult to grasp and she found them consistently irrelevant.

He had no idea she was still there. He thought he had outrun her, but the Arkborn knew that bipeds rarely look up.

She hovered far above her target, specific limiters on her armor disabled so that Arc could flow freely and lift her to the heavens.

Below, the statesman had chosen a brightly lit street that led to a dead end on the left turn in front of him. She descended.

I think perhaps I am finally ready to forgive you. There's no point in carrying around this hate forever. I think about who you were, and who I was, and the end seems inevitable. How can I blame you for the poisonous ambition that the Consul poured into your ear? You were merely his instrument.

In the end, it has all been for the better, has it not? Your betrayal is the first chapter in the story of my ascension.

Know that I am Calus, the last and greatest emperor of the Cabal. Know that the Ghost Primus was false and that your place in my court was secured when he met the Traitor's Fate. Finally, my champion, little else stands between us.

Look to the heavens and you will see me with my arms spread wide. Fly to me and I will bathe you in gold, share the fruits of my gardens, and watch you grow dizzy on libations.

Know that my heart swells with love. I yearn to find those who can accept my gifts, who can take my hand, and share in my mirth.

Together we shall rebuild an empire.

The Leviathan came to a halt before a wall of infinite void. It could go no further, as the navigation system had suffered a cataclysmic failure. The course that the conspirators had set crossed a space that simply didn't exist.

I don't know how long we traveled. Years? Millennia? Time had ceased to have meaning as I wallowed in the despair of my exile. But this event shook me out of my stupor. At the edge of the universe, we had found something. No—we had found a nothing.

From the seat of my observation chamber, I stared into the perfect void. Only I, a god, could understand what I witnessed. It was a thing greater than myself. And if such a thing exists, then I, too, can become more.

Breaking through the dawn, the hope of light
I am the chosen of the (TRAVELER)
With trusted friends and the promise of hope
My explosive (POWER) will never be erased!

Shi-ning power! (KITSUNE!)
Over-flowing power! (KITSUNE!)
Your (NON-STOP POWER) cuts the night!
Your (NON-STOP POWER) erases all doubt!

Chaos! Fire! Chaos! Fire! Chaos! Fire!

Getting stronger, subduing the threat
You have no choice but to relent to me
Even when the fire of my soul is dwindling
I have the (POWER) of my (KITSUNE)!

Chaos! Fire! Chaos! Fire! Chaos! Fire!

Shi-ning power! (KITSUNE!)
Over-flowing power! (KITSUNE!)
Your (NON-STOP POWER) cuts the night!
Your (NON-STOP POWER) erases all doubt!

The call of the gun in my hands is the source of my strength…
Shi-ning power! (KITSUNE!)

The Crucible. Where legends are born. It's intimidating, to say the least, but it's also an honor to be here—to participate in building better Guardians.

I could hardly believe it when my Ghost woke me. Now, stepping foot on the hallowed grounds of the Rusted Lands for the first time, I'm overwhelmed with pride. I'm here and ready to make a mark.

The round opens with a total assault from the competition and I… just panic. I run, seeking cover. I watch from a distance as my fellow Guardians are mowed down. I'm not as prepared for this as I thought, but my cowardice pays off. I see them regrouping down the line. I ready my Rifle. This is my chance.

Footsteps approach from behind. I turn to meet them and run face first into the bloom of a triple Solar round burst.

"Your fight has just begun, Guardian. Get back in there!" Lord Shaxx bellows.

I'll do better next time.

Sometimes I stare into the abyss of space, plagued by a terrible fear. In this waking nightmare, everything you said to me and everything you felt for me was a lie.

But what was the nature of these lies? Were they manipulations wrought by ambition? Were they hateful machinations of vengeance? Or, worst of all, were they self-delusions? Did I merely ascribe to you words and feelings that were, in fact, my own?

Calus gestured towards the crackling Arc storm before him. The energy mass shivered, tethered to a golden spindle in the center of the chamber.

"You are marvelous," he said to the Arkborn. His eyes drank in the flickering light, reflecting nothing. "You will cast a glorious Shadow."

A panel on the wall lit up in Cabal: THIS SHIP IS TINY.

The emperor threw his head back and guffawed. "Compared to the interstellar conduits of your people anything would seem small. The Leviathan is formidable in its own right, I assure you."

LEAVE MY PEOPLE BE. I WILL SERVE.

"Of course. You are all I need. Your very presence eviscerates flesh." He gestured, and a metallic shell lowered from the darkness above. Now the Fulminator was free to walk the decks of her new flagship.

Chapter 3: For a Friend

Voronin found cover under uprooted trees and demolished vehicles as he made his way through the catastrophic weather. He could hardly believe he was still alive, bearing witness to the end of all things.

The storm encompassed the station, under siege from the elements. Civilians were being ushered toward the SMILE pods in droves as the lightning made its presence felt, igniting a nearby fuel supply. The explosion tore into the group, and as Voronin turned his head from the horror and the heat, he saw her. Roughly 250 meters away from the station. Morozova lay, singed and smoking, under rubble and ash.

Voronin pulled up his sensorium, but the electromagnetic fields in the air reduced it to static. There was no way to know if she was still alive or salvageable. She had treated him with respect despite outranking him, and she had been there for him when his marriage went to hell—

"We're all dead anyway," he thought and ran to her through the maelstrom of lightning and wind.

And then he was there, pulling off his gloves and wiping ash and blood from her face, as the storm bore down upon him.

As he made peace with his mortality, just shy of 82 years old, the storm around them calmed. The lightning stopped. The wind died. At the station, the civilians' eyes were fixed on the sky, though Voronin was looking only at Morozova. She was breathing, barely. Her eyes opened and met his. A half-smile came across her lips, then froze as her eyes went past him and widened in awe.

Voronin turned and found himself staring into the face of God.

A few members of his group return and find him half-frozen to the ice, his limbs flexing in delirium as he calls for Yriks. As they free him, a ship lifts in the distance, shimmering into stealth, and is gone. They are stranded.

"Why did you come back?" Namrask groans. "Imbeciles. You should have stayed with the others…escaped…"

"I had to give your loom back," the Vandal says. She drops it on his wounded chest. He bellows.

As days pass, the radio shrieks with distant transmissions. Encrypted tactical data between Servitors. Eramis's sermons. The song of the red world overhead. And occasionally, the bray of Human tongues, as a Guardian brags of a new conquest, or curses some obscene glory-trial amusement.

Phylaks is dead; Praksis too.

The Priestess Kridis is dead—Sniksis and Piksis with her—and the Prime Servitor is destroyed.

Eramis is dead, consumed by her own power. One of the old Riis-born. Never will there be another.

Namrask knew it would end this way. He has seen this every time. His fallen people have learned defeat so well that now they defeat themselves. He rages and claws at the ice.

For his band of stranded survivors, he fashions shelters of watercloth: synthetic skin with thick bladders pumped full of ice to block some of the radiation. When his wound pains him, he numbs it on the ice. Turrha sees him but says nothing. He is grateful.

"We must find a transmitter," he says. "We must call for Misraaks to return."

But survivors are still on Europa. They seek out Namrask, bringing their hatchlings but not much Ether.

And if they can find Namrask, so can those who hunt them.

Namrask thunders into the warren on all sixes, crying out, "We must go! Death walks the ice!"

Oeriks, Eoriks, and Yriks spread the word. More come than Namrask dared to hope. He warns them, "We must hide close to the Machine-spawn and steal supplies, or radiation and Ether-lack will bring us down."

They leave. But not an hour later, a rifle round punctures Namrask's armor. He barely staggers, but the jet of air and Ether exploding into vacuum thrust him backwards. "A Guardian," he warns. "It will call its kin." Guardians love to gather like carrion eaters over easily slain and looted foes.

Another round hits Namrask's helmet. "Those with scattercloth, give me your capes!" In exchange for the first cape, Namrask shoves his loom into a Vandal's arms. "But this is priceless," she protests. "You cannot give it!"

"I will return for it," he promises. Feverishly, Namrask stitches the capes into a blanket as blood trickles down the inside of his armor.

He fires his shrapnel launcher into the ice to kick up steam: "Like this!" he shouts. "Make a cloud and run!" They shoot into the ice and flee. As the ice storm settles in Europa's low gravity, Namrask crawls towards the Guardian under a blanket of invisibility. Occasionally, he emerges long enough to be seen, so that the Guardian will hunt him instead of the others.

The Guardian comes for him.

Namrask huddles against the ice, slowly freezing. The Humans are such gangly mockeries of the Eliksni form: two arms, two eyes in a smooth, lifeless doll-face, stubby little teeth. He remembers the Guardians he has killed—eight times. He has never revered Ghosts.

He remembers the smell of burning flesh. Ordinary Humans, young and old. Their gardens and structures; their star and world. Forever remembering giving that long-ago order: Burn it. Burn it. Burn it.

The Guardian nears.

Namrask melts a puddle with his armor's radiators. The Guardian uses a sword tip to test the ice at the edge of Namrask's cover. Namrask makes one small sound: I do not want to die yet.

A shock pistol burst scatters off the Guardian's armor. They whirl, sword down, rifle up; sights on Yriks. Foolish, brave Yriks, scurrying on all sixes, like a Drekh. She has saved him.

The Guardian mocks her, saying, "Ooh, bonyenne, tu m'as tiré! Tu voulais mon attention? Ben tu vas l'avwère!"

Their vehicle appears; the Guardian mounts it and pursues Yriks. Namrask never sees her again.

"This is Misraaks." A name without title.

"To those who renounce the violence of House Salvation and seek refuge in the House of Light, I will be landing a Skiff near Asterion Abyss. Bring only what you need. We must prioritize survivors over their possessions. Trigger message repeat."

"Astiirabis," Turrha says. "I know that place. We can hide in the nearby caves."

"Fine," Namrask says. He seizes his loom. Everyone stares and he realizes: survivors over possessions.

"I am nothing without it," he protests.

Oeriks and Eoriks pull it from him. "Yriks did not die to save a loom."

They have been in the cave for two days when Namrask sees that their heat is sublimating the ice. Curious, sluggish with Ether-lack, he crawls over to the nearest wall and stares.

Namrask looks into another cave. And another, and another. The infinite caves reveal an infinite number of Namrask, Oeriks, Eoriks, Turrhas, hatchlings, and survivors—only—here, they are frozen dead to the ice—here, they are cooked by Cabal—here, they spill in panic from the cave as Guardians gun them down.

"Get out," rasps Namrask.

"What?"

"Up!" he bellows. "GET UP! WE HAVE TO GO!"

At the raw fear in his voice, they bundle up the hatchlings and run. As if the Light has arranged it all and the Great Machine truly does watch over them again, they hear a transmission: "This is Misraaks. I approach under stealth. I will be at Asterion Abyss in five minutes. If you seek sanctuary, come to me. If you still swear to House Salvation, then in the name of the old laws, I ask safe passage. This is a mission of mercy."

Namrask hunts for the twinkling distortion of camouflage against the black sky—there! Misraaks comes from Jupiitr, using the planet's emissions as backdrop.

"We should disperse," he tells Turrha. "It is unwise to crowd together at a landing zone—"

Their radios shriek—a horrific emission. A Vex maser beam catches the incoming Skiff, smashing it onto the ice. Propellant, air, and Ether burst into flame.

Namrask is not surprised. The Light does not reach them; the Great Machine does not watch over them. "We need to move," he says. He reaches out to Turrha, to touch her. "We should go to—"

A white mist envelops her. Tiny electrical discharges cover her armor. She looks up at him and gasps. The Vex teleport delivers a Goblin inside her, shattering her body. The machine, with its indifferent red eye, raises its weapon to fire.

Oeriks dies almost instantly, shot by slap fire. Eoriks leaps to him and tries to capture the escaping puff of Ether—what old faith would call the passage of his soul—as if this will keep Oeriks alive. But Eoriks is killed too.

Namrask puts himself between the hatchlings and the Vex. If he can only buy them one more moment, one more breath, then that is a better legacy than he ever hoped—

"TO ME!" a young voice cries. "Eliksni, to me!"

Misraaks comes after all. And he is not alone. The Light is with him.

And a Guardian.

"My father will come for you," the voice on the radio promises. "His ship is swift, his navigation sure. He studies the motions of the Light, and that Light travels even to you."

There is not enough Ether. They all agree that the hatchlings should get their full supply. Everyone else receives a thin trickle.

But still, they die.

Namrask clings to the voice on the radio; he makes the others listen. "She is as young as some of you," he says one day. "Not much more than a hatchling."

"My father will return for you," the voice says.

It is idiotic to reply, but he does. "Who is your father? How can he study the Light, when the Light is denied to us?"

She does not answer for a long time, but perhaps this is not her fault. The receiver is damaged, so he stitches a patch for it from superconducting threads.

When she answers, she sounds annoyed. "I am Eido, daughter of Misraaks, Kell of the House of Light. He is close to the Light because he is close to the Lightbearers. My father walks beside the Guardians of the Traveler."

Namrask kneels, frozen in horror. He tears the patch from the radio and stalks away. "I cannot go with them!" he snarls.

Oeriks calls after him, but Namrask is too full of rage and fear. The Guardians surely will recognize him if he stands beneath the Traveler.

He comes to Europa almost the size of an Archon priest, but hollow. He needs Ether. If touched, he fears he will crumble into nothing. His arms will dock themselves, his skin will shed. He has nothing except his armor and the thousand-year-old loom clutched in his four arms.

They mockingly name him "Namrask," which means "empty weaver." Like naming a Human "Norman," which, he understands, means "not really Human."

Eramis separates all the newcomers so they will not retain their old pre-Dusk loyalties. Namrask is shoved into a little warren carved beneath the ice; the moon's surface is so radioactive that not even Eliksni can live there for long.

The little Winterdrekhs are kind to him. Namrask realizes that they think he is too weak to earn the huge Ether ration he needs. He has been put in this warren to die.

"I can work," he rasps. "I can make bandages, capes, armor lining, eggcloth, supsoak, prayer matting, watercloth. I am a weaver!"

"Tall friend," one of the Winterdrekhs says soberly. "No one your size is a weaver. Why not volunteer to fight for Eramis?"

Namrask shudders. He cannot fight. Not after what he saw in the Reef—that THING with its staff. Not after SIVA, Twilight Gap, London. Kridis promised that this was salvation.

"Bring me broken eggs," Namrask begs, "and I will make eggcloth. How will the hatchlings be swaddled if no one weaves the eggcloth for them?"

The Drekhs watch as he uses his teeth to separate the eggshell from the thin, fibrous membrane beneath. He tears it into long fibers and fastens them to his loom as the warp—the threads that run top to bottom. With two hands, he holds the loom in his lap. Carefully, he chisels open the warp with a third hand; moving too quickly will snap the eggthread.

His life depends on this. His fourth hand swiftly passes the shuttle through the warp, drawing the first weft across. The thread does not snap; he has woven.

"Watch me," he tells the Drekhs. "When Eramis is done conquering our enemies, we must know how to make things."

They sit and watch. Their lower arms, half-grown after docking, mimic his motions. Their names are Eoriks, Oeriks, and Yriks: brother, brother, and sister.

When it is done, he gives them the little scrap of eggcloth. They murmur in wonder and rub their cheeks against it. "Bring that to the camp Captain," he tells them. "Tell them that Namrask can weave if he is fed and given fiber."

It is the first time he has ever made anything without ruining it on the loom.

Europa is colder than the void because the ice steals heat faster than raw vacuum. Locally made Ether tastes of ice and radiation, of metal and blood. Namrask realizes this is not a new Eliksni paradise; it is a very old one. And it always falls.

"Do something," Yriks begs him. "We will all die here if you do not."

"No," Namrask grunts, picking at his loom. He is afraid that if he goes near Eramis, he will accept her gift.

"Do something," Eoriks begs him. "Find us a protector. You must have known great warriors, when you were great."

"No," Namrask says again. He holds a hatchling to the heat lamp so it can bask in the warmth. He fears that anyone he calls to Europa will join with Eramis.

"Do something," Oeriks begs him. "Find a way off Iiropa. If what you say is true, then Eramis will damn us all. What are you afraid of?"

"Fine," he snaps. "Then I will find us a traitor."

For the first time, Namrask makes the long walk to Riis-Reborn. It is built in the ruins of an old Human city and the angular, crowded architecture makes him growl in fear and bloodlust. He remembers when the Eliksni broke the walls of the Not-Quite-Last City and took what was within.

Sniksis and Piksis guard Eramis's chamber. The twins make ireliis to him. "She will honor you if you honor her, O Great Akh—"

"Don't say it," he growls. Not that stolen name. "I'm not here for Eramis. Where is Variks?"

When Variks, the old judge, sees Namrask, he laughs. "I thought you would be in that hole forever."

"You put me there, didn't you?"

"Not I, sir." Variks claps two hands crosswise, one pair, then the other. "It was the day-Captain, who had no idea who you really are. Does it suit you to be forgotten, old Smokesword?"

Namrask grinds his teeth. Laboriously, he lowers himself on all four arms. "I come to beg a favor."

"No." Variks comes closer to whisper. "My judgment stands, woe-of-the-masses. You gave no mercy and you will get none."

"You make a habit of serving queens who will abandon you," Namrask whispers back. "Eramis is doomed, Variks. She is Whirlwind-touched. As I was, once."

"She knows what she risks. Why else would she have sent her mate and children to another star?"

"Athrys is gone?" Woeful news; she was Eramis's guiding glint. "You always have a way out. I want a part of it—"

"Now you run from battle?" The judge's voice is light, unmocking; a sincere question. "When Eramis could make you mighty again?"

"I survive now as a Drekh survives. I have hatchlings; I would see them spared."

"There were hatchlings on the ships you abandoned at Riis. Human infants in London—"

"I am no longer the killer I was then!"

"Yes, you are."

"But I do not want to be! When I was on the Reef, I—" Namrask struggles. "I saw the beast Fikrul. Before that, I saw the Devil Splicers. But this debasement of our form, this revenge—it must stop, Variks. Please. Help me."

"No favors," the judge pronounces. "Not for you. However…"

Variks's prosthetic hand scratches letters in the snow. It takes Namrask several blinks of his second eyes to understand that it is Human script: MITHRAX.

"I will make your name known to him." Variks wipes away the letters. "But this is not a favor." His metal hand touches the tattered blue banners around his waist. "In exchange, I want these redone in fresh bannercloth. I will send you the thread. You will weave for me, 'Namrask.'"

Namrask tries his best. But the bannerthread is too fine, the weave too dense, and he cannot complete his task before word comes that Variks has summoned the Guardians—the Machine-spawn—to Europa.

When Namrask has the strength, he uses nonfluid loop cutters to help the Drekhs join their icy tunnels with other habitats. He weaves hollowhot matting to insulate the tunnels, and soon, some places are warm enough to remove a little armor. A clutch of eggs is hatched, and the hatchlings are raised in the warren.

For the first time since he fled the Tangled Shore, Namrask can think of more than his own survival.

Then the warrior Phylaks, a lieutenant of Eramis, comes recruiting.

On the raw ice beneath a black sky, she plays videos of Eramis raising a slab of crystal like a wall; another where she binds a Vex Minotaur in a casket of frost.

"This is the future of all Eliksni. Who among you would wield this power?" she asks.

He keeps his head down.

"You."

Namrask looks up, carefully. Phylaks's shock pistol is pressed to his brow. She puts the weapon down between them, a sign of truce, and makes the ireliis bow of respect. "You have the size of an old fighter. Why not come forward?"

He is afraid his voice will fail. It comes out strong, but like another's voice: "I saw what happened the last time Eliksni reached for new power. And the time before that, and the time before that. I will not be part of it."

Shrugging, Phylaks takes up her pistol and walks away. "There are many others who will take your place."

Later, Yriks tries to change his mind, but Namrask refuses again. "Eramis derives authority from her ability to grant this power. She cannot give it to everyone; if she does, her authority is lost," he says. "Has she destroyed Servitors?"

"I think so," Yriks says quietly. "Drekhtalk says that she broke a Servitor during a ritual to give power. To show that the old ways are done."

"Of course."

Will society always be based on violence? Where the basic worker is not the weaver, the farmer, or the healer, but the Drekh: one pistol, one knife, one unit of labor. Employed to steal what it can—the value of a Drekh life.

And Namrask helped make that law.

He rumbles. "She preaches salvation, but she cannot save everyone. She keeps Ether scarce. More than we can get alone, but not as much as we need. It is the way to rule."

"You have a mind for strategy," Yriks observes slyly. "Who were you before you became our empty weaver?"

"Do you know hollowhot's secret?" he asks and abruptly places some on the ground for a chattering little hatchling to play gathering-games without freezing to the ice. "Why it is so valuable as insulation?"

"What is hollowhot's secret, Namrask? Why is it so valuable?" She mocks him.

Namrask shows her one thread of the stuff, end-on, so she can see the little bubbles of vacuum that fill the center.

"There is nothing inside it," he says. "But if you pry too hard, you break the nothing. And then it is useless."

They are going to the Last City beneath the Great Machine.

"What are you afraid of?" Misraaks asks Namrask.

"Why are you NOT afraid?" Namrask demands. The young one bewilders him. "What life could we possibly have there? They will take their revenge on us. And wouldn't we deserve it?"

"Is there something I should know?" Misraaks asks dryly.

"No," Namrask snarls, rubbing his bare knees where they protrude from his shell. "Yes. I was—" He stops. "No. I cannot tell you, because then you would have to tell the Humans. And I will not make you lie."

"You do not want to be who you were before," Misraaks guesses. "Would you learn a new trade?"

"I would like to weave," Namrask says. "I am not good at it yet. But I might be."

"Weaving is a little like splicing," Misraaks says thoughtfully. "Splicers work in metal and flesh, not warp and weft. But the goal is the same: to nurture life with art, and nurture art with your life."

"I distrust Splicers," Namrask grunts and rubs his chest. What would a Splicer do to him? Fill him with machine cancer, to make him strong again? Give him the corrupted Ether, the undying madness?

Misraaks's primary eyes shine. "I am an older kind of Splicer. Those who look for the Light in all things. Maybe the right kind of Splicer can weave two peoples together. As the Awoken tried do, in the Reef."

"But the Light is NOT in all things. It has left us. Why look for the Light when you can see so clearly who it favors?"

"It was in us once," Misraaks reminds him. "It could be again."

Namrask remembers such a time, across a vast and blood-soaked distance.

"Riis…I was there, you know," Namrask whispers. "At the Whirlwind. After Chelchis fell, I sent ships to follow the Great Machine. I abandoned all those Houses that could not make war. I ordered my fleet to hunt the Machine. Many rallied after us. Each ship began its own war with the Humans. But maybe, I was first."

Misraaks stares at him. Finally, he says, "I understand. Our people fear the Saint too. But I doubt the Saint ever knew them by name."

***

Namrask settles in the area of the Last City that has been given to the Eliksni. By day, he shares a loom with others. By night, he whispers the names of those he has lost until he falls asleep.

He sleeps well until the day a Human shouts at him: "Baby eater!"

Namrask turns away. But he wants to shout back. About the closed air, closed life of a spacecraft. About the hatchlings who survived and the hard decisions about those who did not. He wished now they had been depraved enough to think of devouring Human young.

But he sees the young Eliksni, like Eido. He wants to wail at their promise, at their hope. Eido dislikes and avoids him, which is for the best.

Eventually, Namrask learns to weave for the Humans. His favorite task is making felt, but he also learns to work in silk. He likes the silkmaker, and runs it manually sometimes, pulling the thread from the spinneret with one hand and then another, maintaining the steady, even tension, which makes the best fabric.

He wishes that he could weave in Light, like the Guardian Warlocks, who make fieldweave in a secret way. Maybe Misraaks will learn how to do that.

One day, a machine comes to his market stall. He combs at his shell nervously. The machine-Humans are called "Exos." They remind him of the Vex; it is easier to look at their armored shapes than the unsettling softness of the Humans and two-souled Awoken. This Exo wears a colorful mantle.

"I recognize you," the machine says.

He quails. "Namrask sells fabrics," he croaks, pretending not to understand.

"Namrask." She laughs quietly. "I am old, empty weaver. Almost as old as you, I think. But unlike most of my kind, I remember London—and you."

He holds a bolt of fabric between them. She catches two of his hands: her machine flesh is warmer than his.

"Timelines are born from each moment—we live on one thread woven into a vast tapestry. But what has happened between us, on this thread, is fixed. You cannot run from it. You are a butcher. You and I are still at war," she rasps.

She releases his hands. He stares at her, breathing hard. Ether smokes from his mouth.

She playfully taps on all four of his hands. "I am named for an ancient goddess," she says, "with as many arms as you. In her hands are dharma, kama, artha, and moksha. Law, desire, meaning, and finally, liberation. Freedom from the war of death and rebirth. Are you freed by your rebirth as Namrask?"

He repeats, "Namrask sells fabrics."

"Maybe." There is laughter in her voice. "But I do not think moksha has granted you true rebirth."

"I have not forgotten what you did when you were Akileuks. And I never will," she says quietly.

He stole that name, like any other plunder, and used it. A Human hero's name, a great warrior and famous runner: Achilles, which means "woe to the enemy."

I have come to admire how you rally against the impossible. It's not your continual success that amuses me—your Light assures victory—it's your refusal to kneel. You fight and you die without a second thought. For what? Personal glory? Wealth? The wretched denizens of your refugee city?

You have made bitter foes of races older, nobler, and worthier than you.

You struggle so vainly and valiantly when you have so little. When you are so little. Everything this universe has thrown against you and still you persist.

I could finish you. And you would not be at my side at the dimming of the world. You, the Guardian of Guardians.

If I wished it, you would die your final death. But I won't. Why? Because I'm in love.

—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal

They say the Cabal are not a subtle people. We have fallen so far.

The Cabal I knew were better. We understood that there is power in subtlety.

And that's what it'll take to recover the throne at the center of my homeworld. The seat meant for me.

Open war is for savages. Pit fighters. The Red Legion. There shall be a day, long before the end comes, when that throne is mine again.

And a Shadow of your Guardian-tribe would be the ideal instrument of assassination that will take it for me.

—Calus, Emperor of the Cabal

Saint-14 stands in place of the Sergeant at Arms amid a host of New Lights; most had been resurrected near the City walls. He needed the distraction, the work, but most of all he needed to be somewhere he could help.

Whispers fly between them regarding the legend that addresses them, and the strange chicken that struts figure eights around his legs.

"This area is reserved for Lights without combat training who wish to take part in Solstice. Let's get you to speed." He picks up an old-looking weapon. "This is standard Khvostov rifle. Some of you are familiar with this weapon," Saint says. "For those who aren't familiar, it's very simple."

He quickly runs through a few exercises. How to reload quickly, adjust the sights, clear a jam. At the range targets, he demonstrates how to weave Light between bursts of gunfire. Each time, a metallic ping rings out as he strikes a target; and each time, a chicken-cluck response echoes beside him.

"Calm and discipline is key. Steady support of your rifle will keep it under control. Steady pressure on the trigger will keep you from pulling off-target. Breathe, squeeze, and shoot."

"Bawk."

"Yes, yes. Now it is your turn, New Lights!"

The group steps forward and focuses on their targets. Several of the trainees' shots miss, but a Guardian in green lands each bullet and cheers.

"Bawk."

The New Light looks at the chicken now standing beside them, then to Saint-14, who also is focused on the chicken. There is a moment of hesitation before Saint says, "Hm. Good. Run it again."

"I did it perfectly," the New Light complains flaccidly.

Saint steps forward and puts a hand on their shoulder. "Perfection doesn't guarantee success. Perfection is subjective, New Light. That's why we train."

"But I hit every one!"

"Bawk… Awk!"

Saint-14 nods to the chicken, who stands tall and mighty—feathers sharp and puffed against the waning morning light.

"Colonel, the Pigeon Lord, says do it again. I wouldn't argue."

The Corsair reloaded behind her improvised barricade as Shredder rounds sizzled overhead. She wished she had better cover. The Hall of Names hadn't been constructed with defense in mind—apparently nobody dreamed the Awoken would be assaulted here.

She reloaded her fusion rifle and assessed their situation. It was dire. Unless Leona Bryl's team managed to roll up the Hive's southern flank, her squad would be overrun. At least the Hall of Names was a fitting place for a last stand.

She was six rounds short of a full clip. She turned to her left to ask Lira for extra ammo, only to discover her teammate slumped over, blue skin already going grey. The thick purple ichor of a soulfire round oozed from the hole in her chest. The Corsair gritted her teeth and looted Lira's kit for ammo.

The Corsair finished reloading and popped her head back over the barricade. She downed three loping Acolytes in quick succession before even noticing the ogre looming in the background. It was enormous—at least seven meters high. She unloaded her fusion rifle into its face, trying to burrow rounds through its armored hide. She managed to blow off a chunk of its upper jaw before her rifle clicked empty.

The Corsair dove back behind her barricade, ammo spent. She looked around the Hall for the last time, admiring the elegant statues, her chest swelling with bittersweet pride. The faces of her people, Techeuns and Queens, presiding over the battle. She remembered what Sedia had said to her long ago, before things got out of control: "We are only briefly Awoken. The rest of our existence is an eternal dream. And in that dream, we will all—"

"You want to go where?" Drifter's jumpship idles roughly behind him, the engine misfiring and clattering loudly as if ready to explode. Eris's ship purrs next to it in contrast.

"There is a connection between the points of Darkness. Signals passing back and forth to something beyond." Eris steps closer so her voice carries over the engine noise. "The other Pyramids may provide more context."

The Drifter clicks his tongue and raises and eyebrow. "Sounds a mite dangerous with big daddy Calus parking right over the Moon? Seems off limits."

"Yes, but the Guardian leads raiding parties into Rhulk's Pyramid in Savathûn's throne world. We will use that distraction."

And with that, Eris shoulders through him and trudges to her ship. "Come, Rat."

"…Can we eat first?"

***

Explosions thunder within the throne world's Pyramid as Eris and Drifter establish a camp in the sunken bog where Miasma meets the Pyramid's approach. The massive ship eclipses them, towering in fog, the extent of its edges unknown to their eyes.

Drifter's face is stern, clenched with a tension Eris has seldom seen: Trust in one hand, fist full of Stasis in the other.

Eris sets a cloth-wrapped stalk of egregore upon a pyramid-shard jutting from the stinking swamp. She unwraps and neatly spreads the corners of the cloth before noticing the Drifter's footsteps behind her.

"Somethin's watchin' us," Drifter mutters. He turns to his altered Ghost and whispers softly enough to convince himself that Eris cannot hear him, "Keep your eye on her, eh?" Then louder, "I'm gonna look around, make sure that hotshot hero didn't miss any Screebs."

The Drifter's altered Ghost emits a single elongated tone in acknowledgement and then focuses on Eris.

"Germaine."

He stops. Eris knows his concern belies a nobility that he often attempts to suppress in favor of the persona of the Drifter. It is a ruddy shield, but she has seen the true him hidden under that that layer of grime.

"May I… have a light?"

"You got it." He discharges a Solar round from his Trust that sparks on the Pyramid floor and ignites the egregore stalk. "Back in a flash."

Eris watches him disappear into the swamp, then focuses on the pluming egregore.

***

Eris sits, exhausted, on a warm cushion in the dirt. The Drifter stands over a hazardously large fire, scooping some sweet-smelling funk of a stew from a cauldron-like vessel of Hive design. Her face scrunches as he places a chunky bowl of thick greyish-brown potage in her hands.

"What'd you find?" Drifter asks, slurping from his bowl.

Eris tests the temperature and flavor of this "food" against her lips. It is something like the stinking brined cheeses Ikora had given her on her last visit to the City, but with earthy depth beneath. Her face curls and she opts instead for conversation. "I was right; they are connected. But now, I only have more questions."

"You ask me, that's how these things go. Better leave well enough alone and head home," Drifter says, slurping another mouthful.

"The egregore connects points of Darkness, resonates with Pyramid constructs, but I cannot decipher their communications. Still… the Lunar Pyramid, the Europan Pyramid, and both Glykon and Leviathan all converse with the same distant point. What Rhulk spoke to, so does Calus. It is… gravely concerning."

"Wild," Drifter says with a whistle. He shakes his head and looks at her full bowl. "You gonna eat that?"

"I…" Eris wonders if he heard her correctly but knows repeating herself is an exercise in futility. "…What is this? Exactly?"

"Pretty damn tasty is what it is. First time I got it right. Thought you'd appreciate someone cooking for you since you, uh… well, you're awful at it."

"Rat, what are you feeding me?" She remembers his hunt earlier in the day, and her stomach turns. Eris stares at the Drifter, mouth agape in a half-heaved gag—her thoughts racing over the things he's claimed to have consumed. "You cooked me rotted Screebs."

"What?!" Drifter chokes on the stew and coughs. "I wouldn't feed you that crap, Moondust." He laughs. "You never had crawdad stew?" He holds his bowl to his lips. "Or a close cousin to it…" he adds under his breath. "Little swamp shrimps, you dig? It's a delicacy!"

Eris reels her imagination in, takes a breath, and sips the broth without taking her eyes from the Drifter. The liquid fills her crumpled stomach with hearty warmth. She feels her stress melt away. The stew's flavor is far more pleasing than its smell. She smiles and drinks again.

"Thank you. It is… good."

Tallulah Fairwind smoothed the felt of the table with one hand, idly playing with her chips with the other. Across the table, Caliban-8 wore a green dealer's cap and looked stricken.

The Ahamkara looked like somebody's kindly old grandpa just now. And it could play a mean hand of cards. "Twenty," it crooned as it raised the stakes. She saw Caliban's eye sensors dilate.

The game had started so well. And it seemed like a great story they could have told back at the Tower. How was she supposed to have known? "Call," said Caliban, tension in his voice.

She looked down at her hand. "All in."

The Ahamkara's grin grew larger. Caliban shook his head.

"Don't you do this, Lulah. Don't you leave me here! I can't do it!"

The cards went down.

She'd lost.

The Hunter Vanguard tossed her bow to the Exo as the Ahamkara came around the table to collect his winnings. "A dare's a dare, man. Good luck."

She didn't scream. Wouldn't have been dignified.

My name is Saint-14.

The Speaker was my father. Guardians do not have true fathers. Some might say Guardians do not have true family. We are born with no one but our Ghosts, and we find our way to something more. I was lucky to find my way to a family. A family I chose for myself.

I was drawn to the Speaker because of the vision he had for this City. He helped me understand that we fight not for the sake of fighting, but for the sake of the people. He taught me to imagine a day where we might put down our weapons and that reaching that day would be our greatest victory yet. I have worked for that day all my life.

The Speaker was a leader in this City. He was here at its formation. He helped establish the Consensus. Most importantly, he was a figure that people could recognize and trust. Because of him, that is what I aspire to be as well: a familiar face who reminds people that they are safe. That they are taken care of.

It is painful for me—and for all of us—that we could not be there during the Speaker's last moments. As Guardians, it is the nature of our long lives that we see many people die. We hope that, through our service, we can give them peaceful deaths. At the very least, we know that the Speaker died bravely. We know that he died with the City, the people, and the Traveler in his mind. We know that his last moments were a testament to everything this City stands for: bravery in the face of adversity and dedication to our principles when faced with those who would do us harm.

We cannot reclaim what we have lost. There will always be a void that the Speaker once filled. We cannot replace him.

But I hope, someday, we may find someone to continue his work.

Father, I will miss you. I am sorry for the times that I failed you. I have been given a second chance, and I will use it to live up to the ideals you thought you saw in me. I will not let you down.

Thank you.

—Eulogy for the Speaker of the Last City, given by Saint-14, on the day of the Speaker's memorial service

The Red Legion ship curled in for a landing above Echo Mesa, and its engines went dark. The canopy retracted, and its pilot climbed out.

Ikora's feet touched the surface of Io for the first time as a Guardian without Light. It felt wrong. But not as wrong as—

The ground shook as three Red Legion Harvesters flew overhead. Not as wrong as them.

This place, this holy place, this place more sacred to Guardians than any other in the system... now a thoroughfare for Cabal to tread upon without reverence. To tunnel through without regard. To befoul without a thought. Ikora's anger had bubbled to the surface often since this war had begun, but seeing the Red Legion here had her as persistently furious as any time she could remember.

She checked her provisions and ammunition. The Vex were here as well, but she knew that as long as she stayed away from the machines, they would present no threat. She would deal with them later. For now, she set out for the Red Legion base she had flown past on her initial descent.

It might cost her everything, but she would make them pay.

II

A monolithic ivory tower pierced the distant horizon. Siegfried, first Striker Titan of the Praxic Order, sat across from The Queen's Wrath and two bodyguards. Their skimmer-craft glided through the dazzling amethyst architecture and swooping fog-ridden tunnels of the Dreaming City. Crystalline reflections danced through the cabin around them like rainbow-mist flares, catching sheen off Siegfried's polished Dunemarchers.

"I've never seen this road."

"That doesn't surprise me. Much of the city remains inscrutable to prying eyes," Petra Venj chuckled. "You've visited before?"

"Once or twice. Is that Rheasilvia through the fog?" Siegfried removed his helmet and hung it on the Invective slotted beside his seat. A thick flaxen braid ran down the midsection of his head, fading into stubbled sides that fed a sumptuous beard.

"It is." Petra looked the man over. "That's not a common fashion for a Guardian."

"Grew in during the Red War. It took a liking to me." Siegfried stroked his chin. "Will your soldiers be ready to move once we arrive?"

"At nightfall." Her hand was outstretched, holding field notes. "You understand what you're facing?"

Siegfried took them and slid the note packet into his breastplate beneath a Cormorant Seal. "Innumerable Hive."

"Yes, and particularly vicious ones."

"That has always been my experience." Siegfried smiled. "I'm sure your Corsairs will allow no harm to come to me. I will do the same for them."

"They'll be relieved to have a Guardian leading the charge."

"My briefing mentioned fauna being afflicted by a pervasive infestation?"

Petra kept the worry from her face. "Recently sapient beings have begun to show symptoms as well."

"It's spreading." The Praxic Titan leaned forward. "How have you combated this?"

"Intelligence suggests the Hive congregate around some sort of relic. We believe it is the affliction's point of origin." Petra pointed to his breastplate. "Your notes provide more details."

"It is my understanding I am not to destroy this relic. Why?"

"'Whatever the Hive bow to in the dark: secure it, intact,'" she quoted. "It represents too many unknowns to discard without examination."

"That is not my perspective. The Hive exist to purge or be purged. I say we oblige them." Siegfried turned to The Queen's Wrath. "My feelings aside, you are the commanding officer of this expedition. I will comply."

"Do so with care. You alone are cleared to approach the relic. My Corsairs don't enjoy the protection of the Light, and I want them keeping a safe distance once the nest is clear."

"Very well. Still, know my recommendation to the Vanguard will only be in support of eradication or containment."

"The Reef will take note of their opinions. For now, I imagine the Vanguard are rather focused on Europa. At least, if what I hear from Eris is accurate."

"Eris Morn is a traitor." Siegfried's voice was stern, his eyes locked with Petra's.

Her lip convulsed in a silent snarl. "The information she shares would suggest otherwise." Petra turned away from Siegfried as the skimmer-craft dipped beneath the fog. She thought of Eris's last letter, the sighting of Variks. Pieces in motion. Coats turning or bisected. Wartime nuances. "Maybe this deployment will be good for you."

"Anywhere my Light can send shadows into retreat is a good deployment."

Amanda was quiet, but Zavala could still hear the anger before her voice came back over the comms. "Due respect, Commander, I ain't got time to come be your chauffeur. There are thousands of people like me stranded down there in the City."

"The City is lost." He hated saying it, but he knew it in his bones. "And we're all the same now, Holliday. The Light is gone. We have to regroup."

"You mean run." Even angrier now. It was infectious.

"I mean live to fight another day. We don't have the luxury of rescue flights anymore. The longer we stay here, the tighter the noose."

"Then go! What's stopping you? You know how to fly a ship."

"Not like you. You're the best pilot in the system, Amanda. And you're the only one who can keep our ships in the air once we're away from Earth."

"Dammit, sir, we can't just leave them here."

"I've already made my decision. If humanity is to survive..." He'd leave the betting to Cayde, but he knew the odds were slim. "This is the only choice we have."

Silence. For a few seconds this time. "All right." Her voice cracked. He understood.

Eido pored over a datapad, catching up on the Cryptarchs' version of the Hundred Years' Siege. She clicked her mandibles in fascination. Their history of events was entirely different from those taught to Eliksni hatchlings. She was honored to be the first to measure the historiographical gap between their two species.

A Human male approached her and made a rough, grating sound from his neck. Eido knew Humans often used this sound to attract attention. She found it distressing.

"Yes, Matsuo-Cryptarch." Eido shifted the datapad to her lower arms. "What do you need?"

"Miss Eido." The smallish Human bobbed his head. "I'm hoping you can weigh in on a rather delicate matter."

"Yes. I have excellent dexterity," Eido replied. "Go on."

The Cryptarch smiled. "I'd like your firsthand account of the Techeuns. You studied under them for a time, correct?"

Eido put down the datapad. "It's true. But I think that your sibling House, the Reef Cryptarchy, will have better information."

He tensed the flesh around his mouth. "I'm sorry to say that relations between the Tower and Reef Cryptarchies are not always as forthcoming as we'd like. Besides," he continued, "your primary account, as an Eliksni, would be invaluable."

Eido paused to collect her thoughts. "I will start by saying that the Techeuns are very frightening."

"Frightening?" Matsuo pressed. "How so?"

"The Guardians use power from the outside. They shoot with metal or spark with electricity. They punch." Eido clenched her upper fists. "They destroy the body."

Matsuo recorded assiduously on his own datapad.

"But the Techeuns use power from the inside," Eido continued. "They manipulate the mind the way Splicers manipulate data. They create visions. They penetrate dreams. They speak with the voice of the listener."

"If a Guardian kills me with violence," she explained, "I am Eido until my death. But if a Techeun controls my voice… am I still Eido?"

She builds a palace here in her hiding place, and I perceive through her self-assurance. For all her grandiose treatises on secrets, the Hive princess all but screams, "Look upon me."

And so I look upon her today, my Witness, absent a brother. Loss—true and consequential loss—is new to her palette, but she hides her distaste for the bitter well. I address her. "Savathûn, your brother is no more. He is absent from the final shape of things, as he always must be. But I sense a foreign hand at work."

"Would you accuse rather than state, Rhulk?" She clothes herself in playful tones. "I have played a role in more of my brother's deaths than not."

"So very true. Congratulations, then? I suppose after so many eons of killing one another to build your strength, his final end must feel like quite the accomplishment. No more must your wits dabble against his play-mortality. Now, only matters of consequence will occupy your precious time."

"And thankfully, I find myself well-provisioned now for any conflict."

"Ah! I had nearly forgotten! You are the heir apparent to Oryx's dominion, yes? I know you Hive are loathe to accept gifts rather than seize them. Armies. Fleets. And of course, the Taken."

"If I had seen this coming, perhaps I could have even prepared to secure the secret of Taking itself."

I bark in amusement. She makes no attempt to hide her distaste for the laughter of my kind, and it is indulgence itself to let it flow freely. "Clever. Always one step ahead. The Taken will serve you well against the Guardians until they slay you just the same."

"My sweet, vile brother would look at a scalpel and see a hammer. I am not him."

"Yes, you do seem to find much more creative uses for your playthings. A pity that will become ever so challenging for you moving forward."
"Challenging?" I do not see confusion cross her face often. I savor the scent.

"Until now, the shadow from which you skulked has been your brother's. Without the Taken King to cast your swaddling shade, you stand naked in the sun for all to see, yes? No shadows, no hiding, no tricks. Just the Guardians and their god-slaying weapons."

"I have little to fear from the sun," she insists, but there is no twist in her face. No secret delight.

The Six-Armed Hatchling

Eido gathered the hatchlings around her. It was late in the day, and she was reluctant to let them roam the streets at night. So she enticed them back to camp with the promise of old Eliksni legends.

"There was once a hatchling," she began, once they had quieted down, "who was born with six arms." Eido used her upper arms to point out the spot below her lower arms. "And all of his clutch-mates mocked him for it."

The hatchlings murmured knowingly. Many of them had experienced mocking.

"When the hatchling became old enough, he competed against his siblings for Ether and status in his House. He was not as clever or as strong as his clutch-mates, even with an extra pair of arms, so the Kell of his House declared him a Dreg."

The hatchlings nodded knowingly. They had heard stories of Dregs, too, even if Misraaks had outlawed the practice in House Light.

"But," Eido continued, her tone lifting, "when it came time for the Kell of his House to dock his lowest arms, the hatchling rejoiced!" She threw her hands up in celebration. "For he had an extra pair of arms to give. That day, he became the only Dreg in his House with four arms, and he was proud."

C'mon, let's get back out there. Those Fallen aren't gonna punch themselves.

"In a minute. I, um… I wanted to show you something."

"Oh. What's in the bag?"

"Only one way to find out, isn't there? Open it."

"… A new mark?"

"…"

"A new mark that… huh. This looks familiar. Eriana, are you re-gifting?"

"It's cut from my old robes."

"…"

"I thought… Well. I thought your old one looked a little ragged."

"It's very soft."

"It's not that soft. I thought your old one looked a little ragged, and this would be a good way to, uh…"

"Dress me up?"

"…"

"Just kidding. Go on."

"…"

"What is it?"

"Wei. Will you join my fireteam?"

V:

Howe's body grows cold by the time Spider can tear his eyes away from the painting.

"Beautiful. Truly beautiful. And achieved without a Traveler or any of its nonsense."

He waves to Arrha with a lower arm while holding the painting with his other three.

"Clear the room."

Arrha bows and exits, dragging Howe's body with him. The doors slam closed.

Spider pushes himself to his feet, turns to face his throne.

He sings. Mo Li Hua, an ancient song of Earth. As he finishes the first verse, his throne dematerializes to reveal a stone stairway leading down.

Spider descends.

The chamber below is cool and dry. Shelves line the walls. This display case contains crowns made of gold and silver, antler bone and velvet. The next is filled with red clay pottery adorned with monsters and heroes.

Spider passes a case filled with beautifully illuminated books and scrolls. He reaches a wall nearly covered with paintings.

In the gap between a painting of a bovine skull over a double waterfall and a portrait of a human with a coy smile, he places his prize:

"The Starry Night."

She travels across the Ascendant Plane.

The voyage across the sea of screams threatens to erode her edges as no other trial ever has. In Oryx's throne world, she had a semblance of an identity. Treasure. Spoil of war. Defeated queen. Repugnant and alien and Not Me, but she could use these contortions as guideposts to trace her way back to herself.

Here in the emptiness between throne worlds, she has nothing but what she can carry.

The burden is growing heavier, but she is not alone.

He tries to speak to her from a place of high contempt. In doing so, he invites her into his topography.

She steps out of howling and finds her footing upon a plane of swords and madness and all-consuming curiosity.

"Who are you?"

The question summons an almost-forgotten answer deep within the rapidly solidifying shape of her.

"I AM MARA SOV. STARLIGHT WAS MY MOTHER, AND MY FATHER WAS THE DARK."

The thing that once was called Toland flees before her darkness/light/shadow/majesty. And she rests within this scrap of a world, before resuming her journey through the Howling.

// Cryptarchy Analysis Log R11320 — Stolen Cabal Data //

// Author — Master Rahool //

SUMMARY

What follows is a translation of a Cabal data file that was acquired as part of Operation Haystack, as ordered by Commander Zavala. This log focuses on a single file we were able to decrypt; for the full report on the contents of that data breach and further decryption attempts, please see log R11312.

Ostensibly, this file is a recipe for a dish to be served at some sort of official gathering in Caiatl's honor. The ingredients mentioned here have been seen in a variety of ancient Cabal texts, and analysis of the empire's economic history implies that they are considered cheap and undesirable. I believe this recipe is both old and born of the lower class, a case of poor laborers devising ingenious (yet challenging) ways to take unsold goods and turn them into something comforting and delicious.

That Caiatl chose this as a main dish for an official gathering speaks to the optics she wants to present; she may be trying to differentiate herself from the opulence of the Calus era and the utilitarianism of Ghaul's rule by relating to the common folk of the empire.

Note that decryption was only mostly successful, and some data degradation occurred. Cryptarch's comments are in-line for ease of understanding. Some translations remain ambiguous, but I've provided my best hypotheses.

// FILE START //— [CBX PARSER ERROR]

— [CBX PARSER ERROR]

— [CBX PARSER ERROR] until the solvent mixture has blended together.

— Pulverize atlotl tendons until just pliable and surfaces begin to crack, then dredge in solvent mixture and let soak for [36–84 hours; the cycle referenced here is unknown, estimates are conservative guess].

— To make the [black cube], crush citrus mixture, then drain through a sieve. Discard juice, retaining pulp and bitter pith. Compress solids in [kitchen vice? unsure of translation] on maximum heat until block is [CBX PARSER ERROR] to touch and charred. Place in sunlit area to cure.

— Once tendons are soft and stretchy, remove from solvent and rinse in ocean water. Slice into ribbons and set aside.

— Take loin of Atlotl and hook to [rotating device] then slap against stone surface until fragrant.

— Cut loin into tetrahedrons, making sure to slice across all grains, and set aside.

— In a large cauldron, add water, shau'rac oil, and appropriate root mixture (based on season and year). Bring to boil, then add loin and tendons. Cook until [CBX PARSER ERROR] no longer float and fluid has an ochre sheen across the surface.

— [CBX PARSER ERROR] more hours, thickening until broth [CBX PARSER ERROR] off the back of a ladle.

— Serve with thick slices of the [black cube].

// FILE END //

"This Cloak is yours. For the day you ignite the spark that casts the Shadow of Earth." —Emperor Calus



THE RECENT PAST. SOMEWHERE ELSE.


I activated the mechanism that opened my chamber doors. The massive gears on either side shrieked in protest as they ground against themselves to wrench the massive, solid-plasteel gates open. It took whole minutes to complete the sequence.

A tiny, tiny man sped through the now-gaping maw of the gates on a tiny Earth machine. It took him several minutes more to reach earshot of me, leaving a billowing trail of dust in his wake. I'm afraid my chamber had not been cleaned in some time. Cleanliness meant nothing to me now. I had not entertained an audience so directly in centuries. But I was as curious about this creature as it was of me.

The miniscule man dismounted his machine and stared up. I pictured I would relish the moment when his eyes went wide at the sight of my grandeur.

But he didn't seem to care. He frowned a little. Fascinating.

"Is that you?" he asked, voice echoing upwards at me. "The real you?"

"Yes," I replied, and the metal around me rattled and shook at my speech. It was the truth. "One of me. Refreshment?"

I activated a mechanism in the floor, raising a miniscule but ornate table out of the dusty metal deck. A single, equally tiny chalice, filled to the brim with royal nectar wine, sat on its center.

"No thanks," the man said. "Last time I drank an alien something, I had a gunfight with what came outta' me."

"What can Emperor Calus do for you?" I asked him.

I pretended to stare at him. In doing so, I analyzed every fiber of his being at a spectrum level. I had always expected he was a Guardian. But there was something else. A shade of something that reminded me of the black edge. So the tiny man liked to play outside the Light.

"I got somewhere to be, so I'll make this short. Where do you and I stand? I need these Guardians as much as you do. We gonna start fighting for territory soon?"

"The Shadows are mine," I boomed, pelting him with my voice. He winced. I wasn't angry. I didn't have it in me to be angry anymore. But he had to know.

"So that's a yes," he muttered, and flipped a jade coin into the air with a clink that echoed throughout the massive chamber.

"There isn't a sane being in this whole system," he grumbled up at the coin, then caught it.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," I said. It was truth. Data from my spectral analysis of the peasant continued to pour in.

He stared at me. "You're crazy. Those Guardians you got working for you—they're crazy. The Vanguard's crazy."

He looked down at his coin. "I might be crazy."

He chuckled, suddenly. "I leave the system for a couple hundred years and everything goes to hell." He shook his head. "Look at you. The Cabal Emperor isn't even Cabal anymore. Right?"

"I am the last thing this system shall ever see," I replied. My scan was finished. And so was this man's welcome in my abode. I think he knew, because he turned to leave.

"You come after what's mine, and I've got friends in low places who'll tear your house down," he called back to me. I glimpsed his smile, and it was full of teeth.

I laughed as he sped away on his machine.

His friends were mine first.

// Cryptarchy Analysis Log R11320 — Stolen Cabal Data //

// Author — Master Rahool //

SUMMARY

What follows is a translation of a Cabal data file that was acquired as part of Operation Haystack, as ordered by Commander Zavala. This log focuses on a single file we were able to decrypt; for the full report on the contents of that data breach and further decryption attempts, please see log R11312.

Ostensibly, this file is a recipe for a dish to be served at some sort of official gathering in Caiatl's honor. The ingredients mentioned here have been seen in a variety of ancient Cabal texts, and analysis of the empire's economic history implies that they are considered cheap and undesirable. I believe this recipe is both old and born of the lower class, a case of poor laborers devising ingenious (yet challenging) ways to take unsold goods and turn them into something comforting and delicious.

That Caiatl chose this as a main dish for an official gathering speaks to the optics she wants to present; she may be trying to differentiate herself from the opulence of the Calus era and the utilitarianism of Ghaul's rule by relating to the common folk of the empire.

Note that decryption was only mostly successful, and some data degradation occurred. Cryptarch's comments are in-line for ease of understanding. Some translations remain ambiguous, but I've provided my best hypotheses.

// FILE START //— [CBX PARSER ERROR]

— [CBX PARSER ERROR]

— [CBX PARSER ERROR] until the solvent mixture has blended together.

— Pulverize atlotl tendons until just pliable and surfaces begin to crack, then dredge in solvent mixture and let soak for [36–84 hours; the cycle referenced here is unknown, estimates are conservative guess].

— To make the [black cube], crush citrus mixture, then drain through a sieve. Discard juice, retaining pulp and bitter pith. Compress solids in [kitchen vice? unsure of translation] on maximum heat until block is [CBX PARSER ERROR] to touch and charred. Place in sunlit area to cure.

— Once tendons are soft and stretchy, remove from solvent and rinse in ocean water. Slice into ribbons and set aside.

— Take loin of Atlotl and hook to [rotating device] then slap against stone surface until fragrant.

— Cut loin into tetrahedrons, making sure to slice across all grains, and set aside.

— In a large cauldron, add water, shau'rac oil, and appropriate root mixture (based on season and year). Bring to boil, then add loin and tendons. Cook until [CBX PARSER ERROR] no longer float and fluid has an ochre sheen across the surface.

— [CBX PARSER ERROR] more hours, thickening until broth [CBX PARSER ERROR] off the back of a ladle.

— Serve with thick slices of the [black cube].

// FILE END //

"I used to hate his stupid pranks. Like this one time, back when we were still in combat academy together, he tried to dye my dark green uniform bright yellow. Which was obviously never going to work."

Jolyon swirls the ice cubes around in his glass, listening to their soft clinking.

"I put it on in the morning without noticing and wore the damn thing through a whole 22-hour rotation. By the end of the day, it had stained my skin. Turned my whole body from blue to bright green. Maybe that was his plan all along," Jolyon says and chuckles. For a moment, the bartender can see the happy-go-lucky guy that might once have been.

"But that was typical of Uldren. Try something outrageous, only to fail more successfully than he ever intended." And just as it quickly as it came, the grin fades, and he's just another traumatized soldier once again.

"He was never a bad person. Not until the end, anyway. He used to be… funny. In a kind of irritating, charming way. Like he knew that whatever it was, he was going to get away with it. And he usually did. Right up until the Black Garden. That was the day he pushed his luck too far. And I helped him do it. I helped turn my best friend into a monster." Jolyon taps the rim of his glass, and the bartender pours another.

"Yeah, I used to hate his stupid pranks. And his arrogance. But now that he's gone, that's the stuff I miss."

VanNet/PRXC SCOUT WIDEBAND//:AudCHNL-33295, Public//:LogSkew-859128312785

VGS-6: You still tracking that monster near Saturn?

PXC-0: Yes. Nil-1 is holding position directly over Titan. On mark… uh, 27 hours. Rotating off in three.

VGS-6: Long shift. You Praxic boys are cold. Regret your induction yet?

PXC-0: It's not a problem. We don't sleep.

VGS-6: Right.

[Dead air.]

VGS-6: I mean, you do sleep.

PXC-0: Negative.

VGS-6: Come on. I've met Guardians before.

PXC-0: We do not.

VGS-6: Don't make me call in the Gunny.

PXC-0: Your Gunny would know better than to argue with the Order.

VGS-6: Okay, listen JEFF. You're not THE Order. I don't give a sh—

PXC-0: Quiet. Energy rev spooling from the target…

VGS-6: What? You said it was basically dead.

PXC-0: Basically… Verim, record this. Establish direct feed uplink with NavTAC.

PXC-0-Verim: Uplink connectivity is spotty. Gravitational anomaly detec—no it's collaps—

[Inaudible. Interference.]

[Dead air. Silent minutes.]

PXC-0: (Breathing heavily) NavTAC, return. Link reads as established… NavTAC, return. Telemetric positioning pins us on the opposing side of Saturn. Displacement reads as roughly 470,000km. Titan is… Titan is gone. This doesn't make any sense.

PXC-0: NavTAC. Vanguard Recon, come in. Tower actual? Harriet, are you out there?

[Signal Redacted]

[Transmission Redacted]

Siegfried's feet touch down on a metal grate ten fathoms deep into the Leviathan, where snaking tunnels split into many different directions. The room is large, empty, and dark. He cycles through the night vision and thermal imaging on his helm, then looks up to his fireteam.

He can see the shimmering Eliksni camouflage distort the shapes of his seven teammates as they descend the shaft above him on a carbon-weave line. He disables his own. In front of him sits the base of a robotic construct in the likeness of Calus. It is twice his height, and the bare mechanisms of its internal workings creak with age.

Four Cabal Legionaries, two Eliksni Splicers, and a Praxic Sunsinger drop in behind Siegfried and deactivate their cloaks. The Splicers get to work establishing a connection with the automaton while the Legionaries make a perimeter at their back. Siegfried stands with them.

The Warlock does not take their eyes from the automaton.

"Splice… formed." One of the Eliksni turns to the Warlock and nods. The Warlock steps forward—

"Thieves skulking through my Leviathan!" The automaton bellows with Calus's voice and forcibly bats away a Splicer with a metallic hand. They crash into the adjacent wall and crumple into unconsciousness. The second Splicer leaps back and takes cover behind a Legionary as the Praxic Warlock unleashes a volley of celestial fire into the construct's face. In response, a steely fist bursts through the fire-smoke and crushes the Warlock into the floor.

Siegfried turns toward the Legionaries and shouts, "Contact!"

The Cabal open up with slug rifles; munitions clang against the thick metal. The remaining Splicer aims for the construct's exposed machinery with their Arc pistol.

Siegfried rushes forward, sliding to meet the automaton head on. He ignites in Solar flame and shoulder charges the construct into the chamber wall. He rolls under a retaliating fist and grabs the automaton's chassis, wrestling to spin its back to his fireteam.

The Sunsinger gasps, alive again. They grab the unconscious Eliksni and take a position amid the Legionaries, shouting, "CONCENTRATE FIRE!"

With one swift motion, the Praxic Warlock combusts brilliantly with Solar Radiance that emboldens the firing line of Cabal shooters and fills the Splicer's heart with courage. Heated slugs puncture and the Arc pistol finds its mark, shorting out one of the automaton's exposed knees.

Slug rifles shred the construct's face as it crashes to the ground and frenetically crawls toward them, tearing metal from the floor with each scraping motion.

The Titan raises a hand, and in a burst of fiery might, summons a Devastator's maul. He brings the maul down into the automaton's back, demolishing it and sending molten shrapnel skidding across the floor.

Siegfried looks to the Sunsinger, then the rest of the fireteam. "Contact down… let's keep going."

Project day 2. I just got my first look at Artifact H-349. It's heavier than expected. More than a few people questioned if we even should study something with such a… dire legacy, but if we can't understand our enemies' tools, then we leave ourselves vulnerable to them.

---

Project day 5. Ran our first test of the artifact's… let's call them "necrotic properties." We used cattle; they were large enough to survive the initial discharge. The results have been… upsetting.

No more animal testing.

---

Project day 30. Spectral analysis is back, and it's got nothing. The artifact doesn't operate like traditional Hive tech, which is our closest analogue. A cult of deranged fanatics can mass produce knockoffs, but we can't even tell you what it's made from.

---

Project day 31. We had an accidental discharge. Carro, lab tech over in 4B. Human, so… this is going to be it for him. We've got someone staying with him as the corruption spreads… At the very least, there's so much more to study now as we watch his unfortunate deterioration. He's been babbling since it hit his central nervous system, saying, "I'm reborn," or variations thereof. I think… he almost sounds happy.

---

Project day 39. The Vanguard forbade a postmortem, but a few of us couldn't stomach the idea of Carro's sacrifice being in vain. The results have been insightful. Off the record, I'm keeping a few tissue samples. It almost feels like having him around again.

---

Project day 41. We began the day with another moment of silence for our lost colleague. Too bad he's not around to appreciate it.

---

Project day 45. We kept thinking about H-349 as a destroyer. But it's more sophisticated than that. I mean, with a normal gun, it's just… boom. Done. H-349 on the other hand is deadly, not destructive. Much like a viper, its bite does not bring about instant death. Instead, its venom cajoles. It co-opts your beating heart into a death clock, ticking down your last moments. Your own pulse kills you.

Death may be slow and agonizing for its victim. But for the viper, time is an amenable trade for efficiency.

---

Project day 51. Yanniv has been crying. A lot lately. We must accept that tragedies happen; it's a hard lesson to learn.

---

Project day 65. Another accidental discharge today. We realized that Yor's little creation is hungry, so we fed it more. It certainly performs in exchange; the activity is intriguing after it feasts. I've been able to follow Yanniv's degradation with a more analytical mind than when we lost Carro. I have to say, the process is so elegant; the science involved almost seems poetic. It may be reproducible. Just imagine how much more I could've learned if the scanners were all active at the time.

---

Project day 77. Another accidental discharge. This time, I ensured the scanners were running beforehand.

— Audio logs of Warlock and researcher Jana-14, salvaged after evacuation

A cargo carrier was parked outside of a short-stack residential building. Refracted light from the aura of the Traveler scattered shadows on the street in unusual ways, but no one was paying attention to the shadows today. Neighbors across the street in brownstones watched movers carry furniture out of the building.

The whirr-clack of two decommissioned Generation-1 Redjacks carrying an antique chaise lounge echoed down the street. The machine noise was met with the laughter of children pursuing them in amused delight. These Redjacks no longer wore the Vanguard insignia. Instead, they displayed a serial number and the logo for a long-term storage company.

"C'mon, kids, stay out of their way," warned a tall, broad-shouldered woman in a worker's jumpsuit. She wore the same logo as the Redjacks, the name Sonja embroidered on one sleeve.

"How are we doing in there?" she called into the foyer.

"Two more chairs, the armoire, and then we gotta call the Forces of the City about all the munitions," answered another mover inside the building.

Sonja sighed, fixed the two children with a warning look, and walked up the steps into the foyer of the building. Inside, she found her coworker—Maron—cataloging items in a datapad while two more decommissioned Gen-1 Redjacks idled nearby.

The munitions Maron had mentioned were significant. Boxes of ammunition piled chest high, ferroplastic cases, stacks of loose body armor, and one large Sword partly wrapped in sturdy cloth bound in buckled straps.

"This was all in her apartment?" Sonja asked in disbelief.

Maron just shook his head in response. "Wild, isn't it? Like an armory in there."

"Are next of kin picking this up?" Sonja wondered.

"She didn't have any," was Maron's somber response. He handed over his datapad to her, and she reviewed the checklist.

"So, what's happening to all of this? Why is it moving?" Sonja asked as she scanned the list.

Maron sighed with a shrug. "Building owner needs the apartment vacated. There's people moving away from the neighborhoods around the, uh, Eliksni Quarter, and he wants to clean the unit up for sale. People like stuff like that—historic." Maron made a sweeping gesture with one hand as if motioning to a marquee overhead. "A Guardian lived here."

Sonja looked up from the datapad with a crease in her brow. "A literal war hero dies fighting for us, and some landlord wants to monetize her space?"

"The hell are you yelling at me for?" Maron complained as he turned to the Redjacks, giving them instructions on what to carry next. "If she lived up in the Tower, I'm sure they'd have turned it into a shrine. But she didn't, and they won't."

He didn't wait for a response and followed the Redjacks as they carried an armoire out onto the street.

Sonja, left with her thoughts, looked down at the datapad again. She brushed her thumb over an item, swiped left and then down.

[DELETE ITEM?]

Sonja clicked the green check mark. She knew where at least one item belonged, and it wasn't in a storage locker. They could fire her later. Or maybe, she'd just quit.

Sloane would have liked that.

The Parable of the Venging Fire, as interpreted by Pujari

A young Warlock travels to her mentor, seeking the truth of the Praxic Fire. A wildfire rages in a valley nearby. Her mentor points to the billowing smoke, saying, "This is the Praxic Fire. Go, and learn what you can."

And the student returns to her teacher, saying, "Master, the fire does not ask, the fire acts. That is the truth."

Her mentor laughs, and the flames leave the sky from the valley and surround the teacher, and the wind blows the smoke away.

The old Warlock, now wreathed in flame with great outstretched wings, says, "The heart of the Praxic Fire is the Warlock. Without the Warlock, fire does not ask or act. Be the fire, or be smoke on the wind."

The cowering student stands, her palms closing into fists.

The Protocol is contained in the patterns on the robe that, if scanned at the molecular level, describe a Turing-compatible virtual computer and program that, when executed on said computer, calculates the entire Protocol, exactly as it was determined in the Precipice of Flame.

This is of little interest to most Guardians, who can subconsciously "load" the program simply by looking at the pattern. In execution, the Protocol enhances the use of Solar Light to catalyze fusion. It is up to us to remember the deeper truth—that the Precipice showed us the uses of fire, that the highest form of fire is the stellar flame, and that no life would exist, anywhere in the cosmos, without the apocalyptic detonations of supernovae. Those who fear fire have forgotten that it is their true ancestor.

Brother—

The Witch Queen has been banished from the Dreaming City. We are no longer bound by her secrets. You are no longer bound by your own.

I have been told my trajectory leads to solitude. In truth, I believed myself arrived for some time. I would change course if given the opportunity.

There was a time I feared you would lose yourself trying to follow me. That time has passed. No matter the name you take, you are unrepentantly yourself—which is to say reluctant and stubborn in ways I find enraging. And I love you for it.

I ask neither forgiveness nor understanding. I offer only sanctuary—and tea, if you would be amenable.

I am here if you decide to come home.

—Mara

Space is loneliness. Far removed from any of the system's planets, it is at once suffocatingly dark and blindingly bright depending on which way you turn. A jumpship sits in a fixed position in the black, engines off, oriented so its underbelly faces the glare of the distant sun.

There is no true cockpit inside the Radiant Accipiter; the ship's canopy projects an image to the pilot. No frame, no obstructions, just the infinite gulf. Crow stares up at the blackness between a cluster of stars he can't identify; he wishes he were there. Where nothing is known, where everything can be new again.

Glint rests in his Guardian's lap. He's accustomed to Crow's hands cradling him as though he were a small cat—but in this moment, Crow's head is instead in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair.

Glint is silent, patient. He knows he has to be.

Crow makes a small sound in the back of his throat and the Ghost stirs. When this is followed by an unsteady hitch in his breathing, Glint floats up, presses himself to Crow's chest, and begins to hum.

Crow's hands close around him, clutching him against his heart.

And that's how Glint knows: Crow is still the same inside.

***

Sulfurous plumes rise from fissures in the Venusian soil. Crow marches across the planet's surface, his boots crushing thin sheets of calcium that skim across shallow, iridescent pools of water. His jumpship is perched atop a rise nearby, clear of the unstable field he now traverses.

"Crow, please," Glint pleads over his Guardian's shoulder. "Can you tell me why we're here?"

Ahead, clouds of light and geometric shapes bloom into being. Glint lets out a sharp gasp and transmats away as Crow reaches for the hand cannon at his side. By the time the first Vex Goblin manifests, Crow has already trained his sights on it.

A single pull of the trigger takes the machine's head off and sends it staggering across the field, firing blindly. Two more Goblins appear nearby and Crow blasts away their limbs like a child separating a fly from its wings. He ends them with the last bullets in the cylinder.

A shimmer of violet light within the temporal storm heralds the arrival of a Vex Minotaur. It bellows a roar across the Venusian flats and fires a volley of energized plasma through the air. Crow weaves between them, tumbles forward through the shallow pools, and rises to his feet to shake out his hand cannon's cylinder, sending brass shell casings raining to the ground.

The Minotaur revises its place in history, appearing to teleport forward as it shifts to a more advantageous future. It closes in on Crow before he can finish reloading and grabs him by the head, hefting him off his feet. The Minotaur raises its plasma cannon to Crow's chest and—

***

Crow sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes open to winged serpents circling in the cloudy Venusian sky. He coughs violently, rolling onto his side. The Vex are gone.

"That was stupid," Glint chastises suddenly, and Crow remembers where—and when—he is. "Why didn't you use your Light?"

"I wanted to test something," Crow says on sharp exhale. He pushes himself to his feet, only to find Glint an inch in front of his nose.

"What could you possibly be testing all the way out here?" the little Ghost asks, looking around the desolate landscape. Then, the question Glint doesn't want to ask: "Were you trying to hurt yourself?"

"No," Crow seethes. He nudges Glint to the side and starts to head back for the jumpship, but Glint persists.

"Then why?" he demands, blocking Crow's path.

"Because I wanted to know I was still me!" Crow snarls, his teeth bared in a display of fury. "Uldren Sov could defeat a Minotaur without the Light." His hackles lower. "I needed—I need to be sure that I'm not him. That you could still bring me back. That I was still—worthy of this !"

Glint's monocular eye bobs down to look at the ground. He is silent.

This time, Crow doesn't try to push past him. He stands still, listening to the blast of distant geysers, to the call of serpents in the sky.

"I'm sorry," Glint whispers.

"I hate you."

It's the first thing Mara says on reaching Savathûn's crystalline prison. Her words lack heat but echo through the cavernous chamber nonetheless. "I just want to be absolutely clear on this: I hate you, and I wish nothing but pain and suffering for the rest of your miserable existence."

The crystal shimmers, and Savathûn's gentle laughter ripples through Mara's mind. "I know," the Witch Queen murmurs.

"I could have you jettisoned into the sun," Mara says coolly, "but unlike some creatures, I uphold my word when I give it."

"But we're the same creature, are we not?" Savathûn wonders. Although Mara can't see her smile, she has no difficulty imagining what it looks like.

"I am nothing like you."

"No, of course not." Savathûn's voice is easy and languid. Some might mistake her for being sincere; Mara has taken the same tone too many times in her own life not to recognize it for what it is.

"I thought you were a powerful, competent woman plagued by a difficult relationship with her family," Savathûn says. "Someone who weaves complicated, long-spun schemes across the arc of time's bow. My mistake."

Mara stares at the crystal, clenches her jaw, and turns her back to leave. But before she can take even one step toward the door, she feels Savathûn's consciousness brush like silk against hers.

"I thought you were someone who believes herself to be so smart," Savathûn purrs, "that she is easily blinded by her own ambitions and self-appointed genius. Someone who is so certain of her solutions that she fails to see the inherent peril in her plans, and yet too embarrassed to ever admit she may have gone astray."

Tension knots the muscles in Mara's shoulders and back. Over the years, she has trained her face to remain a mask, but she is not always as skilled when it comes to the rest of her body.

Savathûn continues. "I thought you were someone so afraid of being vulnerable, that you'd rather fail than—"

"Enough." Mara rounds on Savathûn's prison with the precision of an angry viper. She does not raise her voice; instead, she lowers it. "That might work on him," she says, the last word like fire on her lips because it still pains her to refer to Crow by any name, "but you'll find my armor has fewer gaps."

Power surges around her hands as she slams them against the crystalline surface. A lattice of radiant energy winds itself around Savathûn's prison, and Mara hopes that the furious drumming of her heart and intermittent flare of her nostrils will be mistaken for exertion—not a different kind of weakness.

When the spell is complete, Mara steps back. Her glowing eyes dim. She wavers with fatigue, listening for the psychic echo of Savathûn's voice inside her skull.

There is only silence.

"Shut up," Mara breathes—a strange marriage of relief and loathing.

"Shut up."

Petra Venj hangs her head and examines the hilt of her sheathed knife. Transmat particles still swirl in the air around her like tiny flecks of dust as she steps forward back through the H.E.L.M. gate to answer her queen's summons.

Mara Sov's voice washes over the chamber's stone and crystal: "He belongs here, Petra. This place draws his old self out." She pauses, knowing Petra will be silent while allowing her to steep in the words. "You saw it, too. He should have never been allowed to leave."

"I wish I hadn't," Petra says with a heavy sigh. "How am I to proceed?"

Mara stands on the terrace above her. "Give him only morsels of who he could be, nothing substantial. He is a canvas on which work has already begun. I mean only to guide that work to a familiar conclusion. Such things cannot be rushed."

Petra shifts her stance anxiously. "You—you're sure?"

"Are you questioning me, Petra?"

"Never, my queen. But I do worry that he is vulnerable to Savathûn's influence," Petra offers. "She clearly has taken an interest in him for some time now. And he clearly reciprocates that interest."

"Your words hold no falsehood. You and I will mitigate this danger. If Crow and Uldren are to meet, it must be a subtle progression." Mara Sov leans over the terrace railing. "I believe my brother's recovery is possible, Petra. Will you help me?"

Without a moment of hesitation, Petra responds, "I will do anything you ask, my queen." But doubts sprout in her mind. "If he does become… problematic…" Petra trails off, searching for the right words.

"You needn't worry," Mara soothes. "If Savathûn moves to exploit him, I will put an end to it myself."

"Saint's recent reports were… unfocused," Zavala says with a sigh.

Ikora nods from across the office. She stands with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "He suffered through an eternity of battle to keep us safe. Then he comes to the Tower and lets his guard down—lets himself care for someone—and that's when he gets hurt."

She grimaces. "Badly."

Zavala shifts in his chair and runs his large hands over his desk. His palms have memorized its every bump, every groove. "I'm giving him space, but I don't know what else I can do. I'm not sure if he even believes the real Osiris is hidden away somewhere, but he's out there all the same. He just has to do something."

"I can understand that feeling," Ikora says quietly. "That's what I should have been doing. Seeing things my Hidden missed. Out in the field, putting the pieces together."

Her lip curls in disgust. "Not wasting time in the Tower, waiting for an attack."

Zavala looks up at her and frowns. "It's not like you to second-guess yourself."

Ikora's jaw tightens. Bitter fire flickers in her eyes. "Maybe I should." Her voice is brittle. "I brought Osiris—Savathûn—inside our walls."

"Yes, as you did with Mithrax and the House of Light," Zavala counters evenly.

But Ikora lowers her eyes. "People died for that too."

As Zavala rises from his seat, she turns away; the last thing she wants is to be comforted. She hears him lean against his desk, and a patient silence fills the room.

Finally, Ikora lets her arms fall to her sides. When she looks at Zavala, his expression is one of confusion rather than concern.

"It's been years since I've heard you talk like this," he says.

Frustration rises in her. "I looked in his eyes and didn't see it."

"Neither did I. None of us did."

Zavala's face looks almost serene, which makes Ikora want to hurl a Nova Bomb into it.

"Listen," he says. "We have conquered the Cabal in their arenas. We have chased the Hive into their Ascendant Planes; the Vex deep into their network. We have been tricked by the god of trickery, and we have fought the god of war on the battlefield."

Zavala's mouth tightens into a grim line. "When we go up against gods, we fight them on their terms. That usually means we take the first hit. We can't choose when that happens, but we can make damn sure we're the ones left standing."

He sits back down at his desk and racks a sheaf of papers, as if putting a period on his sentence. Ikora clasps her hands behind her back, then takes a long breath.

"I'll support him as best I can," she says. "Share all my intel on Osiris—anything we learned while my Hidden were shadowing Crow after he first rose. If Savathûn left a trail, I'll find it."

"I know you will," Zavala says.

Ikora allows his words to reach her. "I wish there was a way to get him back," she says quietly.

"Saint or Osiris?" Zavala asks, looking up.

The hem of Ikora's robe whispers softly across the floor as she leaves the office.

Saint-14 sits with his Ghost, Geppetto, in his Gray Pigeon jumpship. "You do not want me to go alone?"

"You should not go alone, Brother Saint. The system is in a volatile state."

Saint sighs. "There is not a Guardian in the Tower who does not wish to ask me about Osiris. I cannot, Geppetto."

"Then do not ask a Guardian," Geppetto presses.

Mithrax is finishing repairs on a Shank when he sees Saint-14 transmat into the Botza District. He watches the Saint greet a pair of Eliksni startled by his materialization. He watches the Guardian bow and the Eliksni hesitantly bow back. Saint-14 catches Mithrax's gaze and extends an arm toward him, as if asking permission to enter his workshop. It is not needed.

Mithrax stands and welcomes Saint-14 as he crosses the threshold.

"Vell-ahsk," Saint manages.

Mithrax chatters. "Velask, Saint."

"May we speak alone?"

"Of course." Mithrax shuts and latches a door clearly transplanted from a Ketch. "Speak freely."

"I would not normally come to you asking for favors," Saint says, pacing.

"House Light will aid you if we are able."

Saint nods to himself. "Osiris, the real Osiris—Savathûn took his form and hid him away. Or so she says."

Mithrax bows his head. "The true Osiris is innocent? All is not as dire as we presumed."

"So it would seem. I need to find Osiris. I want to take away the Witch Queen's leverage. When she is broken, the Reef Queen can have her," Saint growls.

"Mara Sov has returned?" Mithrax drags sharply on his rebreather. "Grand pieces are in motion. How do I assist?"

"I am searching for the exact spot Sagira fell. Savathûn captured him there, I know it," Saint says.

"The name Sagira was spoken often in House of Wolves, with respect. House Dusk told all Houses Sagira fell on Earth's moon, but I know not where. May she find peace in the Light."

"She is missed." Saint holds a moment in reverence. "Osiris's last transmission was from beneath the Moon's surface. But the Pyramid's interference made it impossible to determine the exact location. It is too large an area to search."

"Hive machines are without spirits. Morbid constructs a Splicer's gauntlet cannot access for information," Mithrax says apologetically. "But I wish to help the Saint, as the Saint helped Misraaks and House Light."

"Then… your company would be appreciated as I search."

Mithrax is lost in thought momentarily before his eyes sharpen. "The Vex on Europa kept records of defeated Guardians. And likely, Ghosts. It may be possible to find Sagira's gravesite using their network."

"What?" Saint exclaims.

"Perhaps it is their proximity to Darkness that causes them to do so. But Misraaks has seen such records, as I explored their network for knowledge to affix Splicer technology to Guardian arms."

"You sound like a Warlock, so I trust you. Show me how we do this."

***

"Europa," Saint mutters. "Could we not have gone somewhere warmer?" he asks, dismounting his Ram Sparrow on a cliff overlooking the Asterion Abyss. "I am used to the simulated sun of Mercury."

Mithrax dismounts beside Saint. "Vex apertures on Europa afford unique opportunity. We seek an invitation into that opportunity."

Saint rolls his shoulders. "We crush Vex Mind and use its brain like key. Yes, yes. This is not news to me. You forget I spent many years in Infinite Forest."

"A brutal, but apt description." Mithrax chitters to himself. "We will have to draw out a Vex Mind. The override integration here remains active. The Light provides."

"You splice computer hole. I crush the Mind." Saint starts to walk forward but then halts abruptly. "Do not drop me into computer hole."

"Misraaks will warn the Saint first."

"You better." Saint turns to the Eliksni. "I joke about the cold, Light-friend, but I am glad to have you here."

"I share in your glad, Saint."

They walk together. Swiftly, Mithrax forges the integration. As they come under fire, a violet refuge takes hold around him—he stands within the Saint's Ward, fearless and with clear sight.

The Vex are numerous. They too know the Saint. He lives up to their records. The Mind is broken.

Kelgorath, Knight champion of death, kneels before his shrine of bone in the fog-ridden depths of the Ascendant Plane. Soulfire recedes into the ground around him. He places his forehead against the shrine, smudging a freshly bloodied sigil of Xivu Arath. He has added so many layers, but this is the first time the blood is his own. He does so to show his devotion. To reject the heretic sister. To pledge himself anew to war.

The Ascendant sky churns around him. He breaths deeply. It is his first breath of this life. He looks to the shrine before him; every vanquished contender ground to meal and packed between skulls to cement them in place. Trinkets of conquest and old spent weapons adorn the shrine from base to apex.

He looks to them as he prepares to face his adversary.

An empty Ghost whose core he had gifted to defected Scarlet Wizards. Its Guardian had ended him many times, but he is Kelgorath, and through battle he is reborn. No Guardian can escape him, for they are heralds of death and he swims in their wake.

His eyes drift to another conquest: crystalline implants torn from the forehead of an Awoken Techeun. He hunted her through the Ley Lines for three days, tracking her by the stench of her fear. When he found her, she brought the Ascendant Plane down on him. He did not fall for this trick twice.

He caught her again with his next life. The Techeun's final words echoed in his thoughts: "I still see the flecks of scarlet in your chitin. How quickly you abandon your Witch Queen."

Kelgorath recalls the night he renounced Savathûn. The night he had scoured the scarlet from his flesh on the serration beds deep within the Hellmouth. The night Osiris slaughtered all Crota's kin. Savathûn was weak to allow their deaths. To cede ground to the Celebrant; to Guardians. Xivu Arath avenged them. Xivu Arath took Osiris's Light, and Kelgorath guzzled from it with vows of vengeance.

He would prove his allegiance by stamping out any trace of the heretic sister. Hurdru, his adversary, was a Knight who still claimed fealty to Savathûn; Hurdru would be an instrument of example. Through battle, Kelgorath would confirm his new god. Through blood, he would erase the name Savathûn and don that of Xivu Arath.

He stands. Bows. Grips the cleaver and shield he will carry until he falls again. "Hurdru," he whispers to the bones.

Tonight, he will purify himself in death.

Caiatl stands on the bridge of her flagship, six destroyer-class warcraft at her flanks. Weeks of intelligence and a handful of dead spies have brought her to a single point in space. This moment of opportunity.

A massive, reinforced viewport extends from beneath her feet to the ceiling of the bridge. Through it, dead-still azure banners obscure the distant Awoken Reef. From Caiatl's perspective, it appears as a slurry of glitz and dust to be swept away at her command—an idea her advisors spoke of all too frequently. Their soft conflict with one city had left some eager for a decisive victory in another. It was a distraction.

In the space between Caiatl and the Reef, just beyond the unmoving banners, malachite-licked wisps of intent tear open the space between her and the shimmering dust. Long black spindles of Hive workmanship pierce the rift first, preceding a massive Tomb Carrier twice the size of her flagship.

Caiatl addresses her bridge officers. "Wait until they're through and cannot flee."

Her destroyers take up flanking positions opposite of her own as Caiatl orders her flagship to maneuver above the massive Tomb Carrier.

When the rift shuts, the order comes over Cabal comms: "Strike."

The six destroyers spring their diversionary attack. Caiatl feels the pressure waves from their silent cannons wash over her as their shells detonate. Tomb Carrier and Cabal warcraft exchange a harrowing gauntlet of ordnance. The diversion is working.

"Point us straight at their midsection. Launch ballista crews," Caiatl barks. "Inform me when they've taken the bridge."

Emerald flare wells deep in the Tomb Carrier's main gun like a brewing cauldron lined with obsidian teeth. The barrel: a massive column of vertebrae from some leviathan creature, ignites with ten thousand Hive runes. The Tomb Carrier belches streams of malefic flame that effortlessly obliterates two spearheading Cabal destroyers. Caiatl steps forward in horror as their hulls erupt in a series of soulfire explosions.

"Don't let that gun fire again! Protect our destroyers!" She pivots to her navigation office. "Bring the ship to minimum jump speed. Full power to the mains!"

Caiatl thrusts a finger at the Tomb Carrier. "Engage the Aries ram and prepare for impact!"

The flagship hurtles toward the Tomb Carrier, unleashing a full salvo of cannons and warheads to soften the Carrier's carapace.

Caiatl turns to a bridge crew Legionary as the Tomb Carrier rapidly expands in the viewport behind her. "Fetch my shield."

***

On the other side of the Reef, Queen Mara Sov watches through a Dreaming City aperture as the battle unfolds on her borders. The inscrutable expression on her face twists with each distant explosion. Petra wishes the small tensing motions would give some indication of what her queen is thinking. Instead, she sees only the cold stare of one predator assessing the size and strength of another.

Petra looks to the knife Mara is idly toying with and notices a detail she hadn't before: a pair of kestrels etched into the blade, wings intertwined, linework so fine that she has to squint to recognize their silhouettes.

Petra frowns. "My queen?" she asks, but Mara does not shift her attention from the battle.

"Caiatl's war games will keep Xivu Arath occupied while we focus on recovering our lost Techeuns," Mara says. She uses the point of the knife to trace the longest line along her palm. "Neither will be able to launch a full-scale attack on the Dreaming City while the other is at her throat."

"Savathûn first?" ventures Petra.

Mara's stoic façade cracks. She looks down at the blade, at the twin kestrels, and sees something in her own reflection that unsettles her.

"Savathûn first," she agrees, sheathing the weapon so she doesn't have to think about it.

Saint-14, like most Exos, dreamt of the Deep Stone Crypt often. The golden field. The looming black tower. The battle below, surging with faces that were eerily familiar. He was used to these dreams, like many of his mechanical kin, and resolutely uncurious about any deeper meaning. It couldn't be anything good, he reasoned long ago. Besides, his waking life kept him more than occupied.

However, since his return from the kaleidoscope depths of the Infinite Forest, the dreams had increased in frequency and in eeriness.

For the first few weeks, instead of battle, he faced single opponents in duels: Osiris, Marin, Zavala, Ana—even the Guardian who rescued him from the Vex. No matter whom he fought, he would use all his energy and Light in the fight and lose every time. Flat on his back, he would look up at the tower and know that someone was watching from within.

The night before Rasputin alerted everyone of Pyramid ships entering the system, winter fell on his dreamscape, forcing him to charge through pillowy snow drifts at a massive winged Vex, unlike any he'd seen. He lost that night as he would for many more nights, watching as an iridescent liquid—almost like Vex milk, but different, contaminated—flowed from his every joint, sizzling in the snow.

During the waking day, he maintained his usual exuberance, taking great satisfaction in helping Guardians hone their craft in the Trials of Osiris. After all, the fights happening in reality were the ones to focus on. Why worry about what he can't control inside his head?

But then, the night before a new vacuum of grief was opened in the system, a woman appeared at the threshold of the tower. Her clothes were black; her hair prematurely gray. She watched, arms crossed, as Saint hurled grenade after flaming grenade at the Vex with little effect.

"You'll blind yourself with all that bright fire," she tutted. "Maybe then you'll finally learn to look instead of see."

In one mighty swipe, the Vex cut the Exo down. The woman sighed as Saint crumpled to the ground.

Silence fell, followed by the crunching of footsteps in the snow. "Just like your father," she said, kneeling by his head. "All of you."

She laid a hand on the fore of his helm, as if feeling for a fever. "In your next life, you should take more after me."

With that, her hand slid down to his eyes and, for the brief moment before he woke up, all was dark.

Qiao Supplemental
A/V Recording
Path to Ares: Launch Day + 1 (Revised Launch Day)

Centcom: Ares this is Centcom, Radio Check. Radio check, over.

Hardy: Centcom this is Ares One. We read you loud and fairly clearly, over.

C: Roger. Hey, just so you know, the, uh, House of Eternal Travel has sent you its prayers. It was all over the news.

H: That one of those Traveler cults?

C: Roger, this is the one that survived the Traveler-cult rumble a few weeks ago.

H: Oh. Well, okay, tell them thanks.

C: Roger. Next radio check 8 minutes.

H: They'll be quiet for a while. Nav?

Qiao: Steady. We are clear of Earthgrav. Confirming course.

H: Engineering?

Mihaylova: All systems normal.

H: OK. So now it's… a long wait.

Q: Hey. You OK, Jacob?

H: Yeah. A-OK.

Q: Look at the stars.

M: Is there a problem?

Q: Not at all. It's just…

H: Beautiful.

Q: Yes. Like something we are privileged to join but could never deserve.

H: Wonder how the Traveler must feel.

Patience. Breathing. Focus.

The clouds gathered as she waited behind cover. The Wizards' wailing was far too close. Her heart clenched, racing; she turned inward.

Patience. Breathing. Focus.

She felt the sky inside her, coalescing, shimmering. She thought of rain. She thought of the cheek of her unexpected friend, cupped in her hand, cold and wet. "Just hang on— Please—" she whispered. Something resembling a laugh susurrated from behind his many needle-like teeth. Water dripped from his chainmail mask into his open mouth. Her throat tasted like metal.

Patience. Breathing. Focus.

The pregnant silence when animals go underground. The dance of water on the roof. The gentle sway of curtains on a humid evening. The distant beat of thunder.

The Wizards, howling now.

Patience. Breathing. Focus.

The dark clouds grew heavier, and each of her bones thrummed with longing. She braided her hands in preparation, gathered herself inward, upward. She turned to run for the Wizards, who danced screaming over the corpse of her friend. The static came with her, wreaths of electricity, brightening at each step. When she began her war cry, the sky spoke for her, cracking, and she threw her palms in front of her—

The storm poured forth.

Patience.

Breathing.

Focus.

Today I witnessed a Human mating ritual that I had only seen tangentially referred to in the Techeun archives. It involves two Humans pressing their intake orifices against each other. It is most often brief, but more advanced forms involve the use of their mastication organs, and the exchange of the mild digestive secretions.

I witnessed two young adults touching orifices in this manner for some time. They were quite enthralled by it, and proceeded for several minutes, stopping only when they noticed me taking notes.

Guardian.

Transparency is not a strong suit of mine. Undoubtedly, this comes as no surprise. However, our… misadventures, let's call them, with the parasite have left me with a recurring ambivalence in regard to said transparency; as a result, I feel as though you are deserving of a more appropriate level of access to my thoughts surrounding recent events.

In my previously mentioned vision was the Witness's one truth: an eternity of Darkness in which I serve as a Disciple. It brought me an overwhelming feeling I previously relayed to you as fear—but in actuality, it was fear born of what I felt most within this vision—gratitude.

Gratitude! As if my place alongside the Witness was meant to be a reward for all I have ever done and ever will do. And if the Witness is to be believed, "all I ever will do" is unbecoming, to say the least.

It is moments like these wherein I wonder if I myself should be put to rest to avoid perpetuating these dark truths. But I have never before wavered from righteousness, and I don't intend to begin now.

With that, you should know that while our revealed truths about Savathûn and the Collapse appeared minimal, I have already used them to begin tracing a trail of evidence that may provide us with the power of preservation in the oncoming storm. When the time is right, we will have further parts to play together.

In the meantime, keep the parasite near, and listen close. It's bound to open its mouth again sooner or later.

—Mara Sov, Queen of the Awoken

Caiatl and Zavala stood side by side, watching a live feed of the Guardian's assault on the Psion transmission facility, as broadcast by Amanda Holliday's circling aircraft.

The Guardian ducked behind cover and pulled out a sleek grenade launcher, recovered during their last assault of the base. They fired into a pack of onrushing war beasts, sending shrapnel hurling through the air.

The Cabal empress emitted a low rumble as she admired the weapon. Zavala looked up at the enormous ruler with raised eyebrows. Her gaze was fixed on the firefight, her eyes twinkling with violent ardor.

The Vanguard commander shut off the open comms and cleared his throat. "Would you like me to send you one of those grenade launchers? I can have Banshee create a Cabal-sized version for you."

Caiatl looked down at the Awoken leader, suddenly aware that her avarice had been on display. She lowered her tusks, which the commander interpreted as equivalent to a blush.

"That would be most welcome, Commander," Caiatl replied. "I'd like to fire it into Xivu Arath's belly and bathe in her soulfire."

Zavala turned back to the screen. "You have a… passionate spirit, Empress."

He did not see it, but beneath her mask, Empress Caiatl smiled.

It was terrifying.

Hello again, my trenchant Dante.

You have stepped in and out of sharp-edged worlds, hewn gods into blunt fractions, twinned yourself with powers whose names cannot even be held in the language of little gray cells. You think yourself very high up on the pyramid of contumely.

If you only knew how high that pyramid goes.

Higher than I knew when my radiant killer unsung me from biological squalor, or when I witnessed a royal secret turn death into a chrysalis. Higher than I described in my journals, or told to our mutual three-eyed friend.

Higher than even I, sailor upon the Sea of Screams that I am, can yet see.

Perhaps I will tell you about them.

You are right to ask why I would do so. Very good, dear squanderer, your intentions have grown sharp as thrallteeth.

You see, they know. What you are, what you were, what you will become. They know.

What lean tithes you are to them. Soft whetstones make for dull blades.

This I define as the truth and tension of the rope: to bind, one must apply force at both ends.

I think perhaps I will tell you after all.

MCXLII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Ixolt


The Great Revelation, which the Emperor Calus received at the end of the universe, was described by the Emperor to his Royal Scribes. His description is indeed what came to pass, and is happening now, 118 years after the Emperor brought liberty to the Sol system.

First, a veil of darkness descended on all the worlds of this universe, such that the people of these worlds looked into the sky and saw only night. All worlds, no matter their natural or synthetic geographies or climate, grew cold. The people of these worlds, having been subjected to this strangeness and adversity, began to grow afraid and suspicious of one another. Many deaths occurred in this intervening time before the end.

Next, a great war broke out across all varieties of civilization, be they naturally war-minded or peaceful. This warring, which goes on even now, is due to a futile desire to postpone the end of things when no such deferment can possibly occur; as such, the civilizations of the Sol system do not partake, for they accept the coming end as shown to them by their beloved Emperor. Even so, these good creatures are not exempt from the miserable clawing of others, who thrash blindly against the inevitable end.

But, we know from the words of the Great Emperor, the suffering will end. Death will soon arrive to the universe, and claim all of it for Itself. This will be the end of everything: all living things and non-living things, all that is real or theoretical.

The last to see it, to see Death as It consumes everything in this world, will be the great Emperor himself.



+The scribe employed at this future date shall adjust the name mentioned here, should I, Scribe Ixolt, expire before the publication of this record. Delete this footnote upon the actualization of this history.

MCXLIII, forthcoming.
Written by the Great Emperor Calus

I stand now, alone, at the end of the world.

As I stare over this dark edge, which I have anticipated for so many years, eager, hopeful, I wonder if I was too impatient for it. I do not wish it away, no, but I am faced with accepting that ushering in the blessed, long-awaited end means an ultimate goodbye to you. Old friend.

You and I were always connected. The threads of fate strung us together and tightened, drawing us ever closer, however slowly—and I realize now that, even before we found each other, you were a presence in my life. Time is such a strange, twisting thing, and I see my past so differently.

When I was alone in the prison-room of the Leviathan, you were there, as well, building my Menagerie. Creating a monument to all that we could, and would, do.

When I met the void, you were there, somewhere in those phantom whispers, my companion in bringing forth the inevitable end of the world.

Even before I knew you, I searched for you. I was searching for you when I found my first Shadows. I was mourning your absence when they failed. And yes, my Shadow, the search was exquisite. The wait was bliss. But the moment I found you, the completion of my design... It was pure delight.

You helped me reclaim what was lost when the Empire fell to the Red Legion. More than that—you helped me build beyond it. We took this System together. Together, we created a new world, in the mere moments before it ended. And though our time was short, it was not wasted.

You were not wasted.

I am proud that you were the last one at my side when end came. There is no one else I would have chosen to stand by me.

Thank you, my Shadow. Thank you for your sacrifice.

MCXXV, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Ixolt


When the great Emperor Calus and his Shadow of Earth had nearly conquered the system, the Leviathan was rocked by a great disturbance. Royal Mechanics reported that, in the inner rooms of the ship, a strange rift had opened, and from it came the acrid stench of Hive ritual pyres. [I am Savathûn, and I am Death!]

It was through this rift that Savathûn, the Witch-Queen, allowed her monstrous children to pour into the belly of the great ship and flood its corridors with their clicking and skittering. A great many of the Leviathan's inhabitants were filled with dread and fright. [While this coward invents his histories and futures, I wait. These messages are my gift to you.]

But the great Emperor Calus had seen Death at the edge of the universe and was not afraid, for this witch and her spawn were not Death.

Said the laughing Emperor to his beloved Shadow of Earth:

"Remove the wretched Savathûn from my hallways. I have no use for her or her children. So consumed are they by their tragic hunger, the Hive would cast a weak Shadow. Erase them from that great horizon that awaits us, for they have no place at my table when the end comes."

And so the Shadow of Earth exterminated the children of Savathûn. When the mother herself sought to slither back into the hole from whence she'd come, the Shadow of Earth followed her to her throne and slew her there, to die her final death.^



^A note to Scribe Shagac: Please be advised that, although our great Emperor knows the shape of the future very well, we cannot presume its texture. Refrain from making such sweeping, grandiose assumptions about unknowable technologies, like those of the athenaeum worlds. It will save us a great deal of rewriting later. Delete this footnote upon the actualization of this history and appropriate corrections made to Scribe Shagac's record.

MCXXXV, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac+


And it was in this way that the great Emperor Calus conquered his enemies with his Shadow of Earth at his side. There was a great rejoicing, for the struggle to evade the sharp edge of the end of the world was over, and the people of this System could at last breathe, and live, and love, in the shadow of their ever-present doom.

Now royal wine flows freely for the friends of the Emperor, and the planetoid of Nessus has its eternal home at the Emperor's table, forever immortalized as a symbol of celebration.

Following the destruction of the War Machine Rasputin, the Shadow of Earth recreated the region of Hellas Basin into a monument to the might and beauty of the great Emperor Calus. The unsightly "BrayTech Futurescape" was demolished and remade into the Temple of Revelry, where all in the System come to celebrate the accomplishments of the great Emperor, and the blemished red sands of Mars were reformed into a vast sulphurous mudflat, suitable for wallowing at leisure.

On Earth, Humanity celebrates the Feast of Emperor Calus, a day of jubilation and thanksgiving. Children wear golden masks of the Emperor's fine visage and re-enact the story of how he remade this System in the shadow of the end of the world.

The people rejoice! Emperor Calus has brought freedom and conviviality to the worlds of this System!



+To my dearest Scribe Ixolt: A lack of imagination is a crime far worse than any small exaggeration meant to uphold and approach the glory of our beloved Emperor. History is made as much in the writing as it is in the living.

MCXVII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Ixolt


The Shadow of Earth, having found a small but formidable team of allies in the Shadows of the Eliksni and of the Awoken, professed to the Emperor that, in order to move forward with their quest to usher in the end of the world, the new Shadows must reclaim some of the lost knowledge of the Empire's athenaeum worlds. The Emperor rightly agreed and approved the excursion.

What follows is an account of the reclamation of the Athenaeum World X:

The Shadows of Earth, of the Eliksni, and of the Awoken arrived on the ice planet that held Emperor Calus's Athenaeum World X, the name of which has been lost to time. This planet, being a repository for precious, ancient knowledge collected by the Emperor, was chosen for its hostile environment, which served as a built-in defense system for intruders and thieves.

En route to the planet's Inner Sanctum, where the athenaeum world's knowledge was kept, the Shadows were stalked by an undocumented species of indigenous wildlife, whose natural capabilities as a predator proved unexpectedly debilitating to the companion-soul of the Shadow of Earth. The Shadow, being symbiotically reliant on its companion-soul, was thus weakened and the trio was forced to bivouac in place beneath a great monolith as a storm fell upon them.

The creatures, who so far had lurked at the edges of the party's vision, crept closer under cover of the storm, which grew ever stronger, and executed a stealth attack. Thus began a bloody battle, wherein the three Shadows fought back half a dozen creatures with modest success, and wherein the Shadow of the Eliksni fell in combat. Said the Shadow of Earth of this sacrifice later: "He knew the stakes of our mission, and gladly offered his life to help us complete it. This is a sacrifice we Shadows are willing to make."

It was then that the Shadows of Earth and of the Awoken were able to access the Inner Sanctum, revealing hundreds of years of lost knowledge, which was reclaimed for the great Emperor Calus and his Loyalists.+



+The scribe employed at this future date shall include additional detail here when the lost secrets of this (and other) athenaeum worlds are recovered. Delete this footnote upon the actualization of this history.

MCXX, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac


It came to pass that, after gathering their army of Shadows, rebuilding their fleet, and making a more permanent home of the Sol system, the great Emperor Calus and his Shadow received messages from the Vanguard of Earth and the War Machine Rasputin. These messages read: "Remove your forces from our planets and moons, or we will respond with deadly force."

But Emperor Calus had seen Death at the edge of the universe and was not afraid, for these figureheads and their War Machine were not Death.

The Emperor Calus, in his wisdom and mercy, permitted his Shadow of Earth to sit down to negotiations with the Earth Vanguard. Although the Shadow of Earth spoke of the Emperor and his knowledge of the coming end, the Earth Vanguard were so attached to their worldly struggles that they could not hear. They declared war.

The Shadow of Earth rose with such a suppressed fury that neither the Emperor nor his Advisors had ever seen before. Shuddering with rage, the Shadow of Earth spake thus:

"Who do you think I am? Without me, you have only a dwindling army of ambivalent soldiers. I am the Young Wolf. I killed the Taken King. I defeated Ghaul, I roused the Traveler, I silenced the Moon, I stopped the invasion, I broke the curse, I broke the Houses, I killed the queen! I am the Shadow of Earth!"

In the following silence, the Shadow of Earth continued gravely: "The end is coming. Consider you and your people warned."

As a courtesy, the Vanguard of Earth were permitted to leave the Leviathan unharmed, and the Shadow of Earth gathered the Loyalist forces. After the reclamation of the Athenaeum World X, which held in it the secrets of one of the most advanced predators in the system, the Aphelion, which had the power to devastate whole worlds in the blink of an eye, the Shadow was able to use this lost knowledge to rebuild the Loyalist fleet stronger and more magnificent than ever.

With the renewed ships of the Loyalist Fleet, the Shadow of Earth led an attack on the War Machine's seat of power, the region of Hellas Basin on the planet Mars. The battle was much less a war than a single, unmatched attack that left the War Machine Rasputin in cinders.

It was at this time that the Vanguard of Earth surrendered and begged for mercy, a request which was denied by the Shadow of Earth.

Hi Cron,
Got your mail about the new Sparrow engine idea. I gotta say, I've seen engines that manipulate space-time to make parallel lines converge. It's not too different from how NLS drives work. But what you might notice about an NLS drive is that the jumpship it's affixed to is usually activating it OUTSIDE a planetary gravity well. Sparrows don't exactly have that luxury. Not yet, anyway.

Now that's not me saying no. All I'm saying is, we're gonna have to get creative. Stop by the hangar when you get the chance. I've got a few ideas I think you'll like.
—Amanda

Consensus Meeting 3234.43
Zavala: “Guardian Ariadne Gris. Have you had contact with an Ahamkara?”
Ariadne Gris: “No!”
New Monarchy: “Then why does your Sparrow bear a dragon logo?”
AG: “Because dragons are cool.”
NM: “If Ms. Gris won't take this seriously—”
Cayde-6: “Play nice, Ari. Hideo's knickers are real tight today.”
AG: “I thought a dragon'd look cool on my Sparrow. Not all dragons are Ahamkaras!”
Z: “Ikora? Your perspective?”
Ikora Rey: “I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Are we really still talking about this?”
Dead Orbit: *muffled laughter*
IR: “Obviously Gris has not had contact with an Ahamkara.”
FWC: “How do you know?”
IR: “If she had, she'd win SRL more often.”
C6: *whistle*
AG: “Harsh, Rey.”
Z: “Then let the record show: the Consensus's official stance on the Dinas Emrys dragon symbol is: cool.”

To Ikora Rey:
One of my undergraduate Cryptarchs has recently decrypted an engram containing twenty-second-century research on fourteenth-century European athletic pastimes—specifically, a group of mock-combat activities referred to as “hastiludes.” The engram was, of course, quite degraded, but with more intact sequences than are usually present in Golden Age specimens. Thus my undergraduate was able to extract long passages of rules and records pertaining to several types of hastiludes, including the joust, behourd, and tupinaire.

I may be spending too much time with Guardians, because my first thoughts upon seeing these extraordinary findings were that, if the Sparrow Racing League crowd ever got their hands on them, the results would be disastrous. Imagine Guardians jousting on Sparrows! I shudder to think.

Yours,
Cryptarch Rahool

"He's the one," Radegast said, pleased with himself.

Felwinter stood in front of the Iron Lords with his Shotgun loose but ready at his side. He said nothing.

"All right," Efrideet said, clapping her hands together. "Well, right off the bat, you look like an Iron Lord. Formidable. Grim."

Lord Saladin thinned his lips but said nothing.

Efrideet walked in a circle around Felwinter, studying his beat-up armor. She paused behind him, and then said uneasily, "Turn around."

Felwinter hesitated, and then reluctantly began an awkward, stomping turn-in-place. He faced away from the Iron Lords, revealing the back of his helmet: Embedded in it was a broken, flickering Ghost. Its eye darted in frantic circles.

"What in the Traveler-forsaken hell is that," Skorri breathed.

Felwinter turned back around. "Warlord's Ghost," he said.

The group stood in stunned silence.

"OK," Efrideet said slowly, walking back over to join her companions. "First rule: No armor modifications using… half-dead Ghosts." She grimaced. "Take that thing off."

"It's useful," Felwinter said. His Ghost floated beside him and bobbed, as if to nod.

"I have to agree with Efrideet," Saladin said. "Put it out of its misery. You should've done that a long time ago." He eyed Felwinter. "Non-negotiable."

They stared at each other for a long moment, sizing each other up.

"All right," Felwinter said finally. "I'll take it off."

But he never did.

She waits.

She trusts that Eris will shepherd the Guardians and that the infinite ambition of those undying half-children will deliver her. They will enter the court and challenge its king and dance in its killing ground, and they will master the school of sword logic so mightily that they will overturn its teacher and forsake the crown.

Soon.

But soon may not be soon enough, because Oryx roams the hallowed spires and melancholy shores of the Dreaming City. He stands looking out over the mists of her beautiful creation, and he laughs.

She can feel him there like a thorn in the meat of her palm.
She scolds herself for not factoring Shuro Chi's love into her design. Then she berates herself for this nervous energy, this fretful self-cannibalism.

Lungless, Mara remembers the sensation of a deep breath. Enacts it in her mind.

She remembers the singularity before her.

She waits.

True freedom is an iron-clad lock
And the most useful key, a rock
The tastiest spice is hunger
And the truest certainty—wonder.

The best repair is but destruction,
The purest ignorance, instruction
The safest shelter is an offensive,
And to fall in battle is true ascension

Brothers and sisters, bear thy arms and be merry
To the front, to battle!
Defeat is a sickness and we've found the cure

I.
Recorded by Scribe Tlazat


The following pages are a true and authentic publication of the incredible deeds and remarkable discoveries of the Emperor Calus, greatest emperor of the Cabal, witnessed by his most loyal allies and recorded by his most trusted scribes.

Upon suffering a terrible betrayal at the hands of false allies, Emperor Calus commissioned the Chronicon, a record of histories to preserve the truth of his magnanimous rule and unjust exile. His Royal Historians, Scribe Tlazat and Scribe Shagac, are solemnly entrusted with the writing and keeping of these vital records.

The records begin thus:

On the day that His Joyful Majesty was ejected from his home on Torobatl, a great mania of aggrieved despair seized the Cabal people. Millions of the Empire's most loyal and joyous subjects took to the streets to lash their hides in bloody mourning. The planet heaved and shook with a bereavement so mighty that the usurpers conceded they could not kill an emperor so beloved. In this way, the Emperor was placed upon a great prison ship called the Leviathan, and set on an unchangeable course away from his homeworld.

Said the Emperor to his attendants on the eve of his exile:

"I am the last and greatest emperor of the Cabal. My empire, built on joy and abundance, has been usurped by traitors who worship only war and brutality. They will destroy what I have built, and my cherished people will know only suffering under their fear-fisted rule.

"I vow to one day return to this place to bring ease and abundance to our people. Until then, I proclaim a new era of history and future. This era will not be defined by the censors and book-burnings of my enemies, but instead by the golden knowledge of life's most toothsome sweetmeats, happiness and power. I will lavish this knowledge unto all who prove themselves worthy of my true counsel, and united in love, we will grow fat with jubilation.

"Let my Chronicon be a shining beacon of truth in an age muddied by lies."

DLXXIX.
Recorded by Scribe Tlazat


After twelve hours of violent tremors, the Emperor returned. His behavior was erratic, and it appeared from his speech that he had suffered hallucinations outside the ship. A Royal Mechanic identified a malfunction in the pressure gauge of the Emperor's suit, perhaps explaining his change in demeanor, though it was incredible that his suit (or he himself) should be at all intact after twelve hours in these unfathomable conditions.

Upon returning, and with a look of mania in his eyes, the Emperor proclaimed the following:

"We have come upon the end of the world, and I've stared into its expanse. It has whispered into my ear, and I am enlightened. Death is coming, and It has made me Its herald. The end will eat everything."

Here, the Emperor gave a great sigh, as if a weight was lifted off of him.

"And when nothing matters, what's left? Joy. Comfort. Freedom. The true freedom of pursuing pleasure for pleasure's sake, because it pleases you, because you desire it. I knew this during my rule, and I'd forgotten it during my exile. I shall not forget it again."

The Emperor was encouraged by his Advisors and myself to rest, in case the bizarre behavior was a passing sickness of the mind. Before he retired to his observation room, the Emperor described his encounter in detail. Zhozon offered to me this bizarre retelling:

"Outside the ship, the Emperor looked over the edge of the universe, and saw nothing. That is, it wasn't that he saw nothing unusual, but he saw Nothing: the absence of light, dark, life, death, the absence of anything, even of absence itself. And out of the Nothing, there came whispering in a dark language, which filled his head so loud that he forgot for a moment his own language, and suddenly the Nothingness dispersed to show Something, which was a fleet of foreign ships. He saw next the destruction of a great many worlds and creatures, including all his enemies, and himself, and he saw the rot and fragmentation of his own corpse and skeleton. And last, before he was released, the whispers grew louder and granted him the honor of spreading the news of the end."

DLXXVIII.
Recorded by Scribe Tlazat


After many days of uninterrupted flight, the Leviathan experienced a violent malfunction. This Scribe prefers not to lean on metaphoric language when the accuracy of history is at stake, but in these unusual circumstances, the record may forgive a departure into the subjective: It was as if the ship had been plucked from the cosmos like a berry by some gargantuan hand, rolled between forefinger and thumb, squeezed and tested for ripeness, and then, having been found satisfactory, slung backward in an unknowable direction toward an unknowable maw.

As a result, the ship's navigation and power systems were so severely disrupted that the Royal Pilots could make no hypothesis regarding their failure or repair. The ship was plunged into disarray and darkness, and its people gathered around the Emperor to seek his guidance and love.

Instead, the Emperor donned a pressure-gel suit and demanded to exit the ship alone. Said Calus, "I wish to see the destination of my banishment in private."

He could not be persuaded otherwise.

//////

I, Tlazat, must break the convention of our record-keeping for fear that this entry may be the last of the Chronicon, Lens of Truth, Compendium of Happiness, Symbol of the Lavish Benevolence of His Majesty the Emperor.

Two hours have passed since the Emperor exited the ship. We are buffeted by intermittent tremors, which are strong enough to dash even the steadiest guards against the walls. Shagac and several dozen others have been knocked unconscious. Zhozon, the Emperor's dearest confidante since his exile, complains of a mounting pressure in his skull; twelve others are bleeding from their ears. The Royal Beasts bay with incessant fury.

I am no longer able to transcribe by hand. I shall write with my mind until I am incapacitated.

We are afraid. We fear that our enemies have sent us to this place to die in the dark, far from the eyes of Calus's adoring public.

The Emperor has not returned and is surely dead.

DCV.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac

After the fall of his Shadows, the great Emperor Calus, Master of Celebrations, Patron of Festivity, stood in the throne room of his great ship. The Golden King's shining, mottled brow was furrowed with a deep melancholy, and the beauty of his face was marred by a frown.

Dominus Ghaul, the Ghost Primus, the Usurper, lived, while the mightiest of his Shadows, his Chosen Killers, his Zenith Champions, were dead.

When approached by one of his Advisors, who hoped to console the Emperor, the Emperor held up his great hand and said, bewildered,

"I have failed them.

"I have been chosen to bring forth the end of the world, and I set my sights so low as petty revenge. My enemies deserved to suffer and fall for their treachery, but my Shadows were meant for something greater than the violent end I sent them to. They have been ruined, just like my beloved Empire."

Here his Advisors rushed eagerly to reassure him, troubling him with offers of wine or food or false words of comfort, but the great Emperor was not moved.

What, they asked timidly, of rest of his Shadows? Those who had not gone to fight Ghaul? They still lived.

"No, I have ruined them, all of them," the great Emperor whispered. "I've spoiled the whole batch."

DCII.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac


Whereas the writings of Scribe Tlazat revealed a treasonous mistrust for our great Emperor, and whereas his traitorous actions resulted in a falseness writ into our records unknowingly, therefore the Scribe Shagac shall rightly replace him as Royal Historian, alongside Scribe Ixolt, by order of the Emperor himself. Let truth alone shine through these records, not personal bias or failure.

The following corrections to the record must be observed:

1. The Great Revelation was not a hallucination induced by a malfunctioning suit, and such a suggestion is akin to treason, punishable with death by boiling;

2. The expansion of the prison ship Leviathan into a great Palace of Pleasure was an edict supported by all of Calus's Loyalists, save for the traitor Tlazat; and

3. The Shadows of the Clipse, the Sindû, and the Arkborn represent the greatest, most skilled of their kind, hand-picked by Calus himself, and were chosen not for any petty or personal aim, but a greater cosmic need: to help our great Emperor usher in the end of times.

The Emperor Calus, last and greatest emperor of the Cabal, the Chief Gift-Giver, the Good Host with the Generous Banquet, the Prince of Mirth, and the Lord of Laughter, spake thus of his Shadows, with love shining in his sparkling black eyes:

"My beloved Shadows represent everything that was lost to me when the Red Legion took Torobatl. They are the epitome of the empire I built. They are each the perfect specimen from their homeworlds, living the fullest version of their lives because they are the fullest versions of their very species. They are everything I need to reclaim what was taken from me, and they are the ones I want by my side as I prepare this world for its end."

DCCLXXXIX.
Recorded by Scribe Ixolt


What follows is an unsent letter to the Hero of the Guardian-tribe, dictated by the great Emperor Calus:

"Ah, Light-born! What a joy it has been to watch you!

"When I invited you aboard my Leviathan the first time, it was an exceptional pleasure to see you go through a test I had designed myself. It was uniquely suited to your talents, I would later realize, though that wasn't my intention. Just a happy trick of fate that the talents I sought were those that you possess.

"When you shot the cup from my Automaton's hand? Ah, Guardian... My soul lit up with longing.

"And when my beautiful ship was invaded—twice, in fact!—by the Vex Mind, Argos, and later by the hateful Val Ca'uor, these visits were not so... predictable. You navigated the dangerous particularities of my lovely home with such... grace. Enthusiasm.

"More than anything else, that delighted me: your enthusiasm for a challenge. Watching you leap nimbly through my Reactor! Seeing you lead your team in perfect synchrony against the jealous Val Ca'uor! How it all tickled me!

"These exploits drew me to you. They inspired me to fashion you a chalice of your very own, that you might drink deeply of my royal blood and be enriched. And I knew the attraction was mutual, for you leapt head-first into my Menagerie. You took my every gift, you answered my every challenge. That day you gallantly slew Gahlran, golden chalice in hand—that was the day I truly knew we were meant to be together.

"I am ensnared by you, Guardian. I wish to possess you as my own until the end of existence."

DCCII.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac

So perplexed was the Emperor by the failure of his Shadows that he spent many hours meditating with his Advisors on what had happened. His Advisors made many misguided attempts to soothe him, fearful that wrath lay below the calm surface of his demeanor.

On one such day, the Emperor met with his Advisors, Tlu'arg and Ilhali, who clumsily derided Ghaul's crude brutality in hopes of cheering him.

Spake the generous and compassionate Emperor:

"Ghaul has risen above his own past. That, at least, is admirable. Ilhali—do you think, after all I've seen, I am heartbroken by such a tiny thing as failure? No. I am weary.

"I have combed this whole universe for someone who truly merits a seat at my table. Just one creature who might partially comprehend the gravity of my mission, one creature brave enough to test their might and their mind on me, one creature worthy of supping on my perfect flesh. And I have not found them."

As the Emperor spoke to his cringing Advisors, his beautiful face smooth with a preternatural calm, a messenger ran into the room to address him, bowing contritely and begging his forgiveness. Crawling across the floor in supplication, the messenger announced that Dominus Ghaul had been killed in the Sol system by a person of the Guardian-tribe.

At this, I myself saw a renewed light spark in the Emperor's eyes, and saw his face light up like a sun.

"Find them," he told the messenger. "Find me this hero. And we will go to them." He turned to Tlu'arg and instructed him to set a course for the Sol system. Then, he commanded Ilhali to prepare his other Automatons, the robotic creations made in the likeness of the great Emperor, which were built so that His Joyful Majesty might be able to watch himself in many unique situations. The Emperor did not specify why the Automatons should be prepared, but there was such joy in his voice that his Advisors made no objections.

MCXII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac


Spake the great Emperor to his Shadow of Shadows:

"Go forth and gather a new army of Shadows. Choose only the most beautiful, the most devoted, the most joyful, the most skilled.

"I know you will find them, for you look at this world as I do. We see beyond the tethers of impermanent existence. All of our vows, our wishes, and our loyalties will someday be reduced to a nothingness so vast you cannot imagine it.

"This System is plagued by petty grasping. Humanity wages a pointless war against its enemies. Mara Sov keeps her people in an endless struggle against fate. The Eliksni strive for a lost age, far out of their reach.

"Expose their pointless attachments, my Shadow, and in doing so, free them."

//////

On this day, the great Emperor Calus, Bringer of Joy, Champion of Cheer, announces the long-anticipated formation of his new army of Shadows.

The Shadow of Earth, having set out on a quest at the behest of the Emperor, began by scattering the remaining Eliksni houses in search of new recruits. There were few promising contenders among the factions, so that the Shadow ended nearly all interactions with a merciful show of violence, to save these creatures the shame of meeting the end of times in such a sorry state.

One promising upstart stood out within the Eliksni-tribe, called by his allies as Mithrax the Light Kell, whom the Shadow of Earth promptly took on as a protégé. Together, the Shadow and Mithrax eliminated the Eliksni who remained loyal to their pathetic houses.

Secondly, the Shadow of Earth approached the Awoken Queen, Mara Sov, who styled herself Shipbreaker, to offer her the same mercy shown to the Eliksni. As anticipated by both the Emperor and his Shadow, Mara Sov rejected the offer of peace, and so the Shadow of Earth killed her on her throne.

After the unceremonious death of her queen, the former Queen's Wrath, Petra Venj, joined with the Shadow of Earth and swore fealty to Emperor Calus and his great purpose. Together, Petra Venj and the Shadow eliminated any remaining Awoken loyalists.

We welcome these new Shadows to our noble quest. They have dropped the pretenses of their former lives, abandoning their pointless fixations and allegiances, and for this, we celebrate them.

DCCCVII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Scribe Shagac

On the day the Hero of the Guardian-tribe became the Shadow of Earth, the great Emperor ordered a magnificent banquet to celebrate. The finest royal wine was served to all, along with a great feast of delicacies from both Torobatl and from Earth.

The evening began with a light first course and play put on by the Leviathan's performance troupe, which retold a fictionalized account of Ghaul's defeat. The Shadow of Earth sat at Calus's right during the performance and loudly applauded the finale of the show, where the player portraying Ghaul, Tor Trakal, was killed in a great blaze of fire and light.

After the performance, while the troupe removed the body of Trakal from the stage, a second course was served, and the Emperor's Master of Rhyme recited a poem in honor of the Shadow of Shadows, praising their accomplishments and virtues, and the virtues of the great Emperor that allowed him to choose them so rightly.

A third course was served+ while the Emperor's Psionic Dancers performed a celebratory ribbon dance. After the third course was finished, and everyone had applauded, the Emperor rose to deliver a speech:

"This is a great day for the Cabal Empire, for Earth, and for you, my dear friend. Today, Earth casts a Shadow.

"Do you know how long I have waited for you? Of course you do. We are connected, you and I, by a feeling: a thirst. A thirst for pleasure, mastery, and triumph. For life.

"And now that we are together, we will spread the great and terrible news. We will remind all beings nothing else exists aside from this moment, and so one must strive to live in a state of rapture. To minimize pain. To maximize delight. To let go of the ideologies that tie us down.

"You represent the dawning of a new era. The last era before the end. I will have you at my side as this petty world meets Death."



+The scribe employed at this future date shall please provide additional detail here as to the number of courses at the banquet and their contents. Delete this footnote upon the actualization of this history.

Consensus Meeting 3230.01
Zavala: "I call this meeting of the Consensus to order."
New Monarchy: "Only the Speaker can call us to order."
Cayde-6: "Oh, really? Well, guess we can't have meetings anymore. If you'll excuse me—"
Ikora Rey: "Sit down, Cayde. We're having this discussion, bylaws be damned."
FWC: "What do the bylaws say about choosing a new Speaker?"
Z: "Nothing."
IR: "Then we'll write new ones."
DO: "Knowing us, that's going to take time. A lot of time."
Z: "In the meanwhile, we will have to move forward without a Speaker."
NM: "Who will take his place? You?"
Z: "None of us will take the Speaker's place. And all of us will. We must find our own consensus now."

I never thought of my palace as the true court. The only throne that mattered to me looked down upon the public commons. From that seat, there was no barrier between me and the glorious, adoring mob. I was their father; they were my children.

It was there that I brought the corrupt to suffer the people's justice. How they cried as I threw their riches to the crowd. It amused me to see the dawning of realization in their eyes—there would be no safety for them, as there had been no safety for those they had made to suffer.

One by one, I tossed those weeping fools to the people. The mob let out a great cry of joy and stripped them of their robes, tore the jewelry from their bodies.

You sought us out.
IN SOME SMALL WAY, YOU FOUND US.
But discovery always has a price. With curiosity comes consequence.
S H E I S N O T R E A D Y
SEEK JUDGMENT. GROW.

Hey, sister. Or brother. Hell, I don't know who's gonna end up listen' to this. Could be a snitch, an idiot, or somebody who ain't picked a side yet.

And that's perfect, because all this talk about choosin' sides? Noise. Before this is over, the only one's gonna have your back is you—and that's even odds.

Use your head. Think clear, all right? Because there are whispers going around, and you need to know when to plug your ears. Things have been different since Sloane went dark… ooh, poor wording? What's wrong, too soon? Let me tell you that we killed some time on New Arcadia. Learned some things. Listened to the wrong whispers.

Be careful who you trust from here on out, all right? Yeah, that includes me, but I've been tellin' you that since the beginning.

MCXXVIII, forthcoming.
Recorded by Underscribe Shipal

Thus did the Shadow of Earth slay the betrayer Uldren Sov.

Then the Shadow of Earth went to the Emperor and said: "My wise and mirthful host, those toward whom you pointed me, I have slain. Now I crave your permission and your blessing to point myself toward one in whose death I would take great delight."

The generous Emperor, pleased to no end with his bright Shadow of Shadows, said: "Say no more. It is granted."

Giving great and proper thanks, the Shadow of Earth went away and found the Guardian whose name was once Uldren Sov. The Shadow of Earth slew him, but spared his hateful little companion-soul so that the well of pleasure that was Uldren's death should never run dry.

So many times did the Shadow of Earth slay the one called Uldren Sov that no chronicler could ever record the exact number. At last, when the Shadow's appetite was whetted, Uldren Sov met his final death.

Few weapons have withstood the test of time longer than the trusty SUROS Regime. This is Golden Age tech brought to life by the fastidious engineers at SUROS. Its smart-matter frame is prized among Guardians for both efficiency and rarity. Some things never fall out of fashion.

She feels Oryx's true death in both halves of her soul, a full imagined exhale before the aftershock reaches his throne world.

It crumbles around her like stone, like ash, like veils in a breeze.

Eris Morn's friends have succeeded. The Guardians have slain a god.

She steps through the ruins. In the end, there is nothing. Nothing but Mara Sov and the howling of rampant, untamed logics.

Her great and terrible gamble has paid off.

The rest is up to her now.