Karthane
Barracks, Federation Wing - Sometime Later
The
Federation wing of the Karthane barracks hums faintly with the cold
groan of its metal bones. The walls are lined with Invictan banners,
the Hammer and Flame, as if the very walls were claiming the space
for the Forge. The heat is uneven, the vents clanking to life only to
sigh and fade again.
Most
of the Federalists are still gone, chasing warmth and drink in the
mess hall. Their bunks stand empty, blankets rumpled, helmets resting
on rifles at the foot of beds.
But
in the far corner, the wolves have made their den.
Spartan's
packs, three of them, twelve Vardengard in all, have turned that
section into their own camp. Cots and footlockers form a rough
circle, blankets hung from bunks behind them like walls. Olympian
armor lines the far wall, suspended from hooks and straps, great,
silent giants, their visors black, their surfaces scarred and dulled
from battle.
In
the center, they sit together.
Spartan
leans against Rho Voss's shoulder, and he against hers. The warmth
between them is quiet, unspoken.
Rho's
hood is still up, scarf still drawn high. His gloved hand moves
occasionally over a small, weathered notepad balanced on his knee,
his voice on paper, where it has lived for years.
Around
them sit Ashurdan, Samayel, Belqartis, Naburiel, Kaelus, Tharn,
Verrun, Apathor, and Meleth. Some sit cross-legged on the floor,
others on the edges of cots or footlockers. A small pile of rations
sits in the middle, dried meats, flatbread, a dented flask
half-filled with spirits. They pass the food and drink around,
sharing without measure.
The
air smells faintly of oil, leather, and smoke.
Spartan
works in silence, a strip of rough cord and the horn of an Eldiravan
Kairn-Vohr in her lap, two feet long, yellowed and ridged, its base
jagged where it snapped free. She carves shallow notches along its
length with a small knife, careful and deliberate, each line clean
and straight.
Ashurdan
watches her from across the circle.
"A
fine trophy," he says, voice low.
Spartan's
lips twitch faintly.
"A
reminder," she replies, not looking up. "Of the one who
thought himself my better."
Belqartis
smirks, taking a pull from the flask before tossing it to Naburiel.
"A
Kairn-Vohr, then?"
Spartan
nods, turning the horn in her hand. The candlelight catches the pale
curve of it.
"His
song nearly cracked my visor. He was strong, until I broke him."
A
few of them chuckle at that, short, rough sounds, the laughter of
soldiers who understand.
Samayel
grins.
"Maybe
hang it over your bunk, eh? Let the Federalists see what kind of
lullabies we prefer."
That
draws louder laughter, even from Spartan, brief but warm.
Rho
doesn't laugh, but his shoulder shifts slightly, just enough that she
feels the silent amusement through his gesture. He scribbles
something in the notepad and tilts it for her to see.
[Make
sure it doesn't whistle when you walk.]
She
exhales a laugh through her nose, shaking her head.
"I'll
make certain it doesn't," she says quietly, setting her knife
aside. "Last thing I need is to sound like a flute every time I
move."
Naburiel
leans back on his palms. "Would still be more musical than the
Eldiravan."
Apathor
chuckles from the corner. "Ita. At least she'd be in tune."
The
conversation drifts easily after that. Stories pass between them,
brief, unpolished fragments of the past days' fight. They speak of
shattered formations, of chemical rain falling from orbit, of the
eerie silence when the Eldiravan songs died. Each voice joins the
circle like the heat of a small flame shared among them.
Outside,
the storm presses against the walls, a constant, dull roar. But in
here, there's something close to peace.
Spartan
ties off the rope through the horn's notches, testing the strength of
each knot. The horn will hang from her armor, a mark of victory and
warning both.
She
holds it up once, admiring the craftsmanship.
Then
she looks around the circle, her packs, her brothers. The last of the
Vardengard on this frozen world.
"Rest
while you can," she says finally, her tone settling the air.
"When the Supreme calls, we move."
One
by one, they nod. Some continue eating; others stretch out on their
cots. The laughter fades into quiet murmurs, then into silence.
Spartan
rests the horn across her lap. Rho's shoulder remains firm against
hers.
For
a while, they simply sit, two shadows amid the warmth, the sound of
their comrades breathing steady around them, the storm still raging
just beyond the walls.
The
storm's voice outside is a low, constant moan, but inside the
barracks the warmth of camaraderie endures, laughter, the rattle of
tin cups, the rustle of fatigues.
Kaedor
sits cross-legged near the footlockers, a broad-shouldered giant with
his hair cropped to stubble and a scar tracing from his temple to his
collar. He's quieter than most, but when he does speak, it's always
to stoke mischief.
"Tharn,"
Kaedor says suddenly, tossing a half-eaten strip of dried meat across
the circle, "you eat like a starving dog."
Tharn
catches it, glares at him, and grins. "At least I eat, old man.
You chew like you're afraid of the food fighting back."
That
earns a low roar of laughter. Samayel throws an empty ration tin that
clinks off Tharn's shoulder. "Settle it properly then. First one
to tap out owes the other a flask when we're back on the Bellator."
That's
all the invitation they need.
Tharn
lunges, Kaedor braces, and in seconds the two are locked in a
half-serious grapple, boots scraping against the metal floor, breath
misting in the cold air. The others holler encouragement, banging
fists on lockers and bunks in rhythm.
Belqartis,
still nursing a flask, shakes his head with mock disapproval.
"Children," he mutters, "all of you."
"Old
man," Naburiel counters with a grin.
"Veteran,"
Belqartis corrects, taking another drink.
Laughter
rolls again, easy, warm, human.
Spartan
doesn't look up from her work. The knife makes its final stroke along
the horn, carving one last notch before she threads the cord through
it and tightens the knot with a sharp pull. The Kairn-Vohr's horn is
finished now, pale, ridged, still carrying faint traces of the
enemy's heat-scarring along its base.
Just
as she turns it in her hands, a flicker of blue light pulses in her
HUD, a coded message from Magnus.
Report
to command. Immediately.
Her
lips tighten slightly. She leans toward Rho and whispers so only he
can hear. "The Supreme calls."
Rho
stirs beside her instantly, setting his notepad aside and starting to
rise, but she stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Stay,"
she says softly. "Stay warm."
He
hesitates, then nods once. Spartan brushes her hand along his jaw,
rough from stubble and cold, before pressing a brief kiss to his
cheek. The gesture draws a faint warmth to his eyes, though he says
nothing.
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She
stands, tall and silent, the commander once more.
Moving
to her armor, she fastens the Eldiravan horn at the Olympian's waist,
where the cord hangs firm against the steel plating. The horn catches
the low light, gleaming like a captured relic.
Kaedor,
watching her, smirks.
"Rho's
a lucky man," he says under his breath.
Samayel
snorts. "Lucky? He hasn't said more than ten words since we
landed."
"Doesn't
have to," Kaedor says, deadpan. "Apparently it works for
him."
That
sets them all off again, rough, rolling laughter echoing through the
metal barracks. Rho only lowers his head slightly, pretending not to
notice, though the faintest curve of a smile ghosts beneath his
scarf.
Spartan,
half inside her armor now, catches the noise and shakes her head with
a quiet chuckle. The armor seals around her in a series of hydraulic
clicks, the Olympian coming alive with a low hum of energy. She lifts
her helm, slips it on, and the world narrows to the red glow of her
visor.
That's
when the door opens.
Cold
air sweeps in, along with a burst of noise and voices, the
Federalists returning. Their boots stamp across the metal floor,
their laughter fading to stunned silence as they spot the Invictan
giants occupying their wing.
The
first few soldiers walk past without noticing, too tired, too full
from the mess hall, but then others slow, staring openly. Their eyes
widen as they take in the sight: eleven Vardengard in fatigues,
Olympian armor lined along the wall, their corner marked by the
black-and-red banner of Civitas Invicta.
Even
hardened men falter under that sight.
Among
them are Arturo Phillips and Liam Marshall, mid-conversation until
they nearly walk straight into Spartan.
They
stop short.
Arturo
looks up, and up again, his mouth half open. "Holy hell…"
Liam
elbows him, muttering, "Don't stare, man."
Spartan
looks down at them, visor flaring with reflected light. For a moment,
neither soldier breathes. Then she steps aside, silent and towering,
and they hurry past, their heads ducked as they move toward their
bunks.
The
rest of the Federalists murmur among themselves, voices hushed but
tinged with awe. They all know the legends, the gods of war in flesh
and steel, but none ever expected to share a roof with them.
Spartan
pauses at the threshold. She glances once back toward the circle, the
laughter still echoing faintly, Rho sitting quietly with the notepad
still in his lap, before stepping out into the corridor.
The
door closes behind her with a heavy thud.
The
Command Room, Karthane - Continuous
The
door hisses open with a pressurized sigh. Cold wind snakes in around
Spartan's armor before it seals shut behind her. The shift from the
howling dark outside to the electric hum of the command building is
immediate, warmth, static, and motion. Dozens of figures move about,
their breath fogging slightly despite the heat vents thrumming
overhead.
Federalists
and Invictans mingle uneasily but efficiently; soldiers and
Praetorians shoulder to shoulder around consoles, holo-screens, and
scattered piles of data-sheets. The Invictans' deep, metallic accents
cut through the softer Federalist voices. Status reports, supply
tallies, unit rotations. The rhythmic beep of comms traffic fills the
air.
Spartan's
armor, black pearlescent plates traced in dark red, draws eyes as she
moves through the hall. Her footfalls resonate in measured, heavy
beats. Frost still clings to her pauldrons, a glittering crust that
melts into streaks under the indoor heat. No one stops her; they
simply part as she passes.
She
reaches the reinforced door at the rear of the building. A Praetorian
guard recognizes her, steps aside, and keys the panel. The door
unlocks with a low tone. Spartan steps through.
The
war room is dimmer than the rest, lit mostly by the ghostly glow of
the holographic table in the center. The map of Nirna stretches
across it in swirling blues and whites, shifting as reports update.
Red and green icons mark armies, fortifications, and trench lines,
flickering occasionally with distortion from the constant storms in
orbit.
Magnus
stands at the head of the table, his Tyrannus armor shedding faint
vapor from the vents along his spine. His helmet rests on the table
beside a datapad, its surface etched with Invictan sigils. He's
unhelmed, his face taut and shadowed, eyes burning with restrained
energy as he listens.
To
his right is Captain Michael Marcellus, stoic as ever, the silver
trim of his Praetorian armor reflecting the projection's light.
Across from him leans Red Baron, his dark Federation armor no longer
crowned in snow and frost, one gloved hand planted on the table as he
argues over terrain data.
Two
other Invictan captains, Cassian Varrus, lean and hawk-eyed, and
Elyon Kaedric, broad-shouldered with a roughness that marks him as a
frontliner, stand nearby, each with their own datapads open.
Their
voices rise and overlap in Latin:
"If
they had a base in the mountains, we'd have picked up heat signatures
by now, "
"Unless
they're using the terrain to mask them, Kaedric. The Eldiravan sing
their way into the earth itself."
"Speculation.
Nothing but speculation. We need confirmation before moving another
battalion into that range."
"And
lose another line while we wait for confirmation?"
Magnus
lifts a hand, just slightly, but the entire room stills. His presence
does that.
He
turns his gaze to Spartan as she approaches, his tone even but edged
with weight even in English, "Shield of Invicta. You received my
summons."
Spartan
nods. The horn trophy at her hip sways slightly with her movement,
its surface catching the blue holographic light.
"Of
course, Master," she says, her voice filtered through the
vocoder.
Magnus
studies her for a beat, then gestures toward the table.
"Good.
You will want to see this."
The
hologram shifts, zooming in on a section of the northern hemisphere.
Jagged white peaks and a deep, serpentine valley appear.
Kaedric
leans in, frowning. "We intercepted another transmission from
that sector two hours ago. No visuals, just resonance data,
frequencies unlike anything Federation tech emits."
Red
Baron crosses his arms. "And you think that means the Eldiravan
are singin' down there."
"Not
think," Cassian Varrus corrects quietly. "Know."
Magnus'
gaze moves over the projection, then back to Spartan.
"We
may have found their stronghold, or at least one of them. I am
sending a recon force north within the hour."
The
air shifts. Spartan straightens slightly.
"A
recon?" she asks. "Or an assault?"
Magnus'
mouth hardens into a line.
"That
depends on what they find."
The
war table hums quietly as the holo-map rotates. Blue light spills
across Spartan's black armor as she leans forward, helmet fixed on
the projection. The terrain lines ripple with topographic detail;
ridges, valleys, frozen rivers cutting across Nirna's northern
mountains.
Cassian
and Kaedric are at it again.
"If
the readings are real, they are deep in the range, further north than
any of our drones can maintain signal."
"Or
your data is faulty," Kaedric snaps back. "Half those
transmissions are just atmospheric distortion. You are chasing
ghosts."
Marcellus
exhales through his nose, arms folding over his chest. "You two
argue like you are married."
Cassian
doesn't look up. "At least I would be right half the time."
Kaedric
glares. "Not this half."
The
jab earns a muted chuckle from Red Baron, but Magnus doesn't join in.
His eyes never leave Spartan. He's patient. Watching. Waiting for her
to speak.
Spartan
studies the map in silence for another moment. Then, in that soft,
southern lilt; the faintest trace of her place of birth buried under
the clipped Invictan cadence, her voice filters through her helmet
speakers.
"When
the Eldiravan pulled back from the trenches," she begins, slow,
measured, "they didn't scatter. They moved north. Every unit we
engaged 'long the line retreated the same way."
Her
gloved finger taps the map, enlarging a swath of white ridges marked
with faint red energy traces.
"If
you're gettin' frequencies from the mountains, that ain't
coincidence. It's coordination. A song needs a source and the north's
singin' loudest right now."
Her
visor turns toward Magnus.
"But
you didn't call me in here just to confirm what they already
guessed."
Magnus'
mouth tugs faintly at one corner. A near-smile, gone before it can
form.
"No,"
he says, tone even. "I would not waste your time with theories."
He
gestures to the mountains on the projection.
"I
want you to take your pack at dawn and scout it out. No large
detachment. Stealth and speed. I trust your judgment on the ground."
Before
Spartan can respond, a voice cuts through the low hum.
"Then
we'll go with him."
Every
head turns. Red Baron stands straight, his coat settling around his
armor, the firelight from the table catching the silver trim at his
collar.
The
silence that follows is sharp enough to hear the holo emitters buzz.
Spartan's
helmet tilts toward him. "Negative," she says flatly.
"Federalists'll only slow us down that far north."
Magnus'
gaze flicks to Red Baron. "You understand what the Vardengard
are?" he asks, tone carefully neutral. "Few can keep pace
with them and fewer survive trying."
Red
Baron meets his stare without flinching.
"I'm
aware," he answers. "But if the Eldiravan have a base out
there, I want my men to see it with their own eyes. My Company's
already bled for this ground. We'll keep up."
A
quiet beat passes. Even Marcellus looks mildly surprised.
Spartan
takes a step forward, voice edged with restrained irritation.
"With
all due respect, sir, I don't need to babysit a pack of worn-out
Federalists."
Magnus
raises his hand. The air stills. Spartan stops mid-step.
He
regards both of them, expression unreadable, then says simply,
"He
goes."
Spartan's
jaw tightens beneath her helmet. She growls low, mechanical through
the filter, half frustration, half reluctant acceptance.
"As
you wish, Master" she mutters. "We'll move at first light."
Red
Baron inclines his head once. "We'll be ready."
Magnus
nods. "Good. Dismissed."
Michael
pauses by the door, one hand on the frame. The others, Kaedric,
Cassian, Red Baron, file out, the murmuring of their conversation
fading into the cold hum of the command building beyond. When the
door shuts, the war table's light paints the room in quiet blue
again.
Michael
glances over his shoulder at Spartan, the faintest smirk tugging at
his mouth.
"Never
heard you speak English before," he says, switching smoothly to
Latin now that the Federalist captain is gone. "You sound like
you are from Terra."
Spartan
lets out a short, amused snort through her helmet's filter. "That's
because I am," she replies, her drawl soft but noticeable.
Michael's
grin widens. "Figures. I knew there was a bit of old Earth left
in you somewhere."
Across
the table, Magnus is still standing, arms folded, his expression
unreadable except for the small, amused glint in his eyes. Spartan's
visor tilts toward him.
"Why
have the Federalists join us?" she asks flatly. "We could
scout the range in a day. With them, it will take a week."
Magnus
nods once, slow and deliberate. "It is inconvenient," he
admits. "But good for them, and perhaps good for you and your
pack as well."
Spartan
shifts, her armored boots clinking faintly on the metal floor.
"We
do not need a reminder of what we are fighting for, Master," she
says. "We need efficiency. You will send Insarii with us, will
you not? That will drag us down enough as it is."
Magnus
straightens, tone firm. "That's enough," he says, not
raising his voice but slicing the air with command all the same. "Red
Baron's Company is going with you. End of discussion."
A
low growl reverberates from Spartan's helmet, more instinct than
defiance. She scoffs, visor turning away.
Magnus
lets it linger for a moment before his voice softens. "Have you
eaten?"
She
exhales slowly. "We have. Dried goods we made on Rauvis."
Magnus
sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Of course you did."
He looks up again, tone shifting toward weary fondness. "You
will have a proper mess hall tomorrow. I will see to it when the
engineers arrive."
Spartan's
visor lifts slightly, a flicker of acknowledgment in her posture.
"Understood."
