The
Norther Ravine – Continuous
An
alert flashes crimson across Spartan’s HUD: Battery
Critical. Power Reserves: 13%.
She
exhales sharply, the sound rasping through her helmet. The armor’s
weight drags heavier with every step; the servos whine, hungry for
energy that’s no longer there. She squeezes Rho’s shoulder,
breath fogging the inside of her visor. “I won’t make it out,”
she mutters.
They
stop running. Rho keeps an arm locked around her to steady her
swaying frame. Spartan pries a crimson stick from her belt, the
signal flare, and shoves it into Red Baron’s hands. “You’ll
have to be the one to light it,” she says, voice harsh and low.
“You and the others need to make it back to the General Supreme.
Without us.”
Red
Baron shakes his head, almost snarling. “No. We’re not leaving
you.”
“There’s
no choice,” Spartan snaps. “The cell’s nearly dead, another
minute and I’m a statue.”
Before
he can argue further, the snow erupts.
Vaedran
crashes into Spartan from the side, the impact slamming her into the
ground with bone-rattling force. Akriel and Tzurinn pounce on Rho
Voss at the same instant, their war cries echoing between the cliffs.
The Vardengard come in roaring, a storm of metal and hate, and hot on
their heels thunder the Venator cavalry.
Snow
explodes around them in blinding clouds as hooves strike stone.
Spartan
rolls with Vaedran’s weight, locking his gauntlet as they crash
through the snow, the two of them locked in a brutal grapple. Her HUD
flares with static as warnings cascade across her vision.
Rho’s
leg buckles, but he fights on, catching Akriel’s spear shaft and
twisting it aside as Tzurinn lunges. They fall together in a tangle
of limbs and fury.
Red
Baron stumbles back, the flare trembling in his gloved hand. Dace and
Arturo try to move forward, but the cavalry flood in from every
direction, a rotating circle of death, spears leveled, banners
snapping in the wind.
“Go!”
Spartan shouts, her voice crackling with distortion. “Red Baron,
go!”
Vaedran’s
fist hammers against her helmet. She retaliates with a knee to his
chest, sparks leaping as metal scrapes metal. The armor drains faster
now: Power: 10%.
The
cavalry riders chant, voices rising over the storm: “By
the Absolute’s flame!”
Spartan
throws Vaedran back, staggering upright in the swirl of snow and ash.
“Baron!” she roars. “Light the flare!”
He
hesitates, until Rho screams as a spear tears through his shoulder,
and Spartan looks up at him through the smoke and snow, eyes burning
behind her cracked visor.
“Do
it!”
The
flare ignites, a crimson blaze cutting through the whiteout, painting
the ravine in blood-red light.
The
Venators gleam like rusted angels, their armor turned molten in the
glow. The snow itself seems to burn. Spartan stands at the center,
shoulders squared, breathing ragged but defiant, a dying sun against
the storm.
Far
behind the cavalry line, Absjorn and Cassiel see the flare ignite
against the horizon. The red reflection gleams across their helmets.
Cassiel’s
breath catches. He knows that color.
Absjorn
tightens his grip on his reins. “Signal’s been sent,” he says
grimly. “They’ve called their master.”
The
wind rises into a scream. The cavalry lowers their spears. And the
flare burns, unwavering, in the storm.
Magnus
Tiberius’ Position – Continuous
Magnus
sits tall upon his mechanical steed, black armor reflecting the pale
firelight of the distant battlefield. His battalion holds their
ground across the ridge, the snow curling around them in cold, uneasy
spirals.
The
crimson alert pulses across his HUD. Flare Signal: Confirmed.
Vardengard Signature. Coordinates Locked.
Aulus,
beside him on his own mount, turns his head sharply toward the signal
mark blinking on the tactical display. “The flare’s up, sir,”
he reports, voice taut. “Signal confirmed. It’s them.”
Magnus
narrows his eyes, the glow of the data scrolling against his visor.
“Spartan,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. He
exhales once through his nose, the sound metallic through the
respirator.
“The
Vulcan’s Thunders have their coordinates,” Aulus continues, hands
hovering over the command interface. “Ready to fire on your
command.”
Magnus
stares out over the horizon. Far in the distance, he can see the
faint, pulsing red of the flare through the storm, a dying ember in
the heart of the world. The wind hisses around him, whispering
through the plating of his armor.
For
a long moment, he says nothing. Then his voice cuts through the
comms: calm, final, resolute.
“Fire.”
Aulus
gives a curt nod. “All batteries, fire.”
The
order races down the line.
Seconds
later, the world erupts.
The
Vulcan’s Thunders
roar to life behind them, thirty enormous guns unleashing
their fury in perfect, rolling succession. The sound is less a noise
than a force, shaking the ridge beneath them as if the
mountains themselves cry out in pain. Muzzle flashes tear open the
night in rapid, blinding bursts.
Shells
the size of small vehicles streak into the storm, leaving burning
trails through the snow-choked sky.
Each
one falls toward the ravine, toward the flare, toward Spartan and
Rho.
The
shockwave reaches them even before the first shell lands, the air
itself splitting in fury.
Magnus
watches the tracers vanish into the distance, the light of the flare
swallowed by the storm. His jaw tightens. “Forger guide them,” he
murmurs, not as a prayer, but as a command.
The
horizon still burns in the distance, the thunder of the guns echoing
off the mountains like the growl of some vast machine-god. Magnus’
visor dims against the flare of the missiles soaring skyward, his
steed shifting beneath him as the bombardment continues to roll.
Then
something in his gut twists. A silence beneath the noise. A wrongness
he can’t shake.
He
opens his command interface with a flick of his gauntlet and dives
into the Olympian network. The connection hums to life, threads of
data flickering across his vision, biometrics, armor integrity, power
levels.
First
Rho Voss. Injury to left leg. Internal temperature spike. Armor
strain at eighty-three percent.
Then
Spartan. Powercell: 6%.
Auxiliary cell: destroyed. Suit status: critical.
Magnus’
jaw tightens. That’s too low. Far too low. The Forger’s flame
burns bright in her, but not even that will carry her out of the
ravine alive.
He
switches to open comms. “Lieutenant Marus,” he calls, voice sharp
as a hammer strike.
“Sir,”
Marus replies instantly, from the secondary line below the ridge.
“Mount
up. You and your riders follow me. We’re going in.”
“Yes,
General Supreme.”
Magnus
cuts to another channel. “Decimus,” he barks.
A
calm, clinical voice answers. “Insarii Medicae, standing by.”
“You’re
with me,” Magnus says. “Bring what you need for heavy extraction.
Spartan and Rho Voss are still alive, but they need assistance.”
There’s
a brief pause, the sound of armor plates locking into place on the
other end. “Understood, General Supreme.”
Magnus
closes the feeds and turns his steed toward the ravine. The servos
groan as the machine pivots, its iron hooves grinding deep into the
snow.
Aulus
glances at him from his mount. “You’re going into that
barrage?”
Magnus’
visor flares faint gold, eyes like smoldering embers behind the
glass. “The Forger forged us in the fire, Aulus. We return to it
when called.”
He
draws his weapon free, a long sword, humming faintly with stored
plasma, and spurs his steed forward.
Behind
him, Marus and the Insarii Medicae riders fall into formation. The
artillery still pounds the earth, lighting the sky in molten arcs,
but the column of Invictans rides straight into the storm, following
their General Supreme into the inferno.
Spartan
and Rho Voss’ Position – Continuous
They
are still fighting, still surrounded by the Venator cavalry. Instead
of standing around idly, Red Baron, Liam, and Arturo have joined the
fray against the Vardengard, but they’ve bitten off more than they
can chew. They’ve never fought against Vardengard before, nor have
they ever engaged in melee with them. Bones break, wounds
gush, and still they struggle to survive.
But
then Spartan’s ears catch the distant whistling of incoming
missiles. She barks a commandless signal to Rho. Without hesitation,
she grabs Arturo, pulling him close against her armor, and drives
Vaedran down with a brutal kick. Her diamond-shaped kinetic shield
flares to life despite the battery warning 6%, folding energy around
her like a second skin.
Rho
Voss moves with equal precision, sliding Red Baron and Liam under the
protective dome. He slams Akriel back into the waiting cavalry line
with a controlled swing of his zweihander.
The
missiles descend in a storm of fire and steel. Explosions rock the
ravine, concussive waves smashing snow and stone alike. The heat
lashes against Spartan’s armor, the shield straining, sparking
along the edges.
The
world becomes sound and violence.
Spartan
braces, shield locked, one arm wrapped around Arturo’s torso, the
other jammed into the snow to anchor herself. The kinetic barrier
hums to life, hexagonal light patterns stuttering across its surface,
already flickering under strain. Rho crouches beside her, his bulk
shielding Red Baron and Liam as he drives his gauntlet into the earth
for balance.
Then,
impact.
The
first missile hits like a god’s heartbeat. The ravine convulses,
the air igniting in a tidal wave of heat and concussive force. Fire
washes through the world, orange, white, molten. The snow vanishes in
an instant. Stone screams. The cavalry vanish, horses and riders
alike thrown skyward, silhouettes swallowed by a rolling wall of
flame.
Spartan’s
visor flares white. Her shield bends inward, pixels spiderwebbing
across its field. Warnings cascade in her HUD: INTEGRITY:
42%… 28%… 9%… and still she
holds it. Rho’s armor glows red at the seams, ice melting from his
pauldrons.
The
fire doesn’t stop. Each explosion follows the next, deeper in the
ravine, overlapping until the world becomes one unending roar. The
pressure lifts them off their feet for a heartbeat, gravity dies, and
then slams them back down again. Spartan’s body becomes a furnace,
the powercell screaming, draining itself dry to maintain the shield.
Her
breath catches. Her bones ache under the recoil.
Absjorn’s
Position – Continuous
The
fire and concussive blasts of the missiles erupt like a river of
molten metal, racing up the ravine and spilling out over its mouth.
Foot soldiers caught behind the cavalry are shredded by the inferno,
their screams swallowed by the roar of explosions. The snow melts in
a hiss, stone cracks and fractures under the sheer heat and pressure.
Absjorn
leans into Balthamar’s flanks as the titansteed rears, its scarred
front glimmering under the reflected firelight. One blind eye narrows
against the smoke and flames, muscles straining to keep the beast
upright. Beside him, Cassiel grips his reins, chanting prayers to the
Absolute, fingers white on the polished hilt of his sidearm.
The
inferno strikes, scouring the valley floor and rushing outward in a
wall of heat, yet through some impossible grace, or perhaps the
Absolute’s mercy, both men remain untouched. Their titansteeds
scream and twist, hooves skidding on melting snow, but they stay
alive, burned and seared, yet alive.
Cassiel
exhales, chest heaving, eyes wide. “The Absolute protects…,” he
murmurs, more to himself than to Absjorn. The words are swallowed
almost immediately by another shockwave of fire and smoke racing
behind them.
Absjorn’s
lips curl into a grim, knowing smile. The ravine, meant as a trap,
has instead become a crucible, and it is his enemies who have been
scorched in its furnace.
Spartan
and Rho Voss’ Position – Continuous
The
smoke hangs thick over the ravine, curling around shattered rocks and
smoldering wreckage. Spartan’s shield arm lowers slowly, the
kinetic field collapsing with a faint hum as the last of her armor’s
power drains. She exhales sharply, chest heaving, and the sweat and
ash streaking her face glint faintly in the flickering light.
Arturo
collapses onto one knee at her feet, gasping, coughing through the
smoke. Rho Voss straightens slowly, his vantablack armor streaked
with dirt and blood, rising to help Red Baron and Liam to their feet.
The three of them stagger, leaning on each other, their expressions
tight with shock and exhaustion.
Around
them, the aftermath is horrifying. The Venators lie scattered, their
bodies and velox steeds reduced to smoldering husks. Ash drifts
across the snow, clinging to their hair and armor. Flames lick at the
remains of their banners, hot and ferocious, yet the ravine itself
seems to absorb the carnage, leaving Spartan and her companions
standing in an eerie, smoke-choked silence.
Spartan
presses a hand to her HUD, watching the remaining battery tick down
to near nothing. Desperation spikes. She slams the command for her
armor to open. The mechanisms whine and stutter, the power draining
faster than anticipated. Sparks hiss along the joints.
The
armor finally releases with a violent jerk, panels clanging apart,
hydraulic servos groaning in protest. Spartan stumbles forward,
exhausted, and without enough energy left to slow the release, falls
out of the Olympian Armor. She collapses into Arturo’s arms with a
heavy thud, the impact throwing him backward a step.
He
freezes, wide-eyed, gripping her instinctively. Shock twists his
features, not just at the sudden, unprotected fall of the warrior
he’d fought beside, but at the truth laid bare. The legendary
Spartan of Invicta, the armored titan of myth…is not a giant man at
all, but a small, fiercely built woman, battered and bloody, yet
unbroken.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Arturo
swallows hard, holding her tight, the weight of both her body and the
revelation pressing down on him. Around them, the wind stirs the ash,
carrying with it the faint scent of burnt snow and scorched flesh.
Spartan blinks up at him, chest heaving, eyes blazing even as
exhaustion drags at her limbs.
“You…you’re…”
Arturo breathes, words failing him.
Spartan
manages a weak, grim smile. “Thanks for the catch.”
Rho
Voss growls, a low, vibrating sound in his chest, and jerks a hand
toward the approach. Snow sprays as hoofbeats pound over stone and
ice. Absjorn and Cassiel crest the far edge of the ravine, their
titansteeds charging with unnerving precision, eyes locked on the
ragged group ahead.
Behind
them, movement stirs among the smoldering wreckage. Vaedran, Akriel,
and Tzurinn rise from the snow with guttural snarls, their armor
blackened and scorched, dents and splintered plating marking each
with the echoes of the missile barrage. Akriel leans heavily on his
leg, barely upright, but all three are driven by fury, by the sting
of loss, and by the relentless zeal of the Venators.
Rho
Voss tightens his grip on her shoulder, sensing the danger. His cyan
eyes flick to Tzurinn and Akriel as they fan wide, circling him with
predatory intent. He shifts his stance, readying himself to take both
on at once, blades humming along his armor’s edges, every movement
calculated and lethal.
Vaedran’s
gaze locks on Spartan. His roar splits the air as he surges forward,
intent clear, revenge is his fuel, and she is the target. Spartan’s
body screams in protest, pain flaring across broken ribs and deep
gashes, but she refuses to yield. She shoves Arturo aside with one
arm, sending him sliding into the snow, and dives toward the back of
her fallen Olympian Armor.
She
doesn’t climb in. Instead, she rips free one of the swords from its
rack, a blade sized for her, balanced perfectly in her grip. Blood
streaks her forearm, mixing with soot and ash, but she slashes it
across the snow, her eyes blazing. She doesn’t hesitate.
Rho
Voss snarls beside her, the ground shaking with the approach of their
enemies. They are battered, wounded, and exhausted, but the fight is
far from over. The cold wind cuts like a blade across the ravine, but
Spartan plants her feet, raises her blade, and steps forward. The
snow beneath them will soon be soaked with blood again.
Magnus’
Charge – Continuous
The
ravine shudders beneath the thunder of mechanical hooves. Steam vents
from Ferrum Rex’s nostrils as Magnus spurs the iron beast forward,
cloak whipping behind him like a banner of war. Marus rides close at
his flank, his own mount snarling through bursts of frost and
exhaust. Behind them, Decimus and the Insarii Medicae keep tight
formation, and behind them, Marus’ Company, a steel tide
of Invictan cavalry surging down the frozen slope.
The
roar of engines drowns the screams of wind and fire. The Venators
below barely have time to turn before the Invictan cavalry is upon
them.
Magnus
charges straight into the heart of the fray. Steel meets steel, his
sword colliding with the haft of Absjorn’s dual-bladed axe. The
impact sends a shockwave through the ravine, sparks spraying from
both weapons as Magnus bears down, forcing the Venator Captain back
through the snow.
Marus
barrels past his commander, his own warhorse colliding
shoulder-to-shoulder with Cassiel’s titansteed. The impact knocks
Cassiel off balance, forcing him to dismount as Marus twists in the
saddle and draws his short glaive, cutting a streak of silver through
the air. Cassiel meets it with his staff, their weapons locking with
a metallic shriek.
All
around them, chaos ignites, Invictan and Venator alike clashing in
the haze of smoke and snow. The Medicae leap from their mounts even
as the battle rages, rushing toward Spartan and Rho Voss through the
burning wreckage.
Magnus
and Absjorn circle one another, weapons raised, their steeds hissing
and pawing at the ground.
“Absjorn,”
Magnus snarls, voice carrying through the comms and the storm. “You
should have stayed buried.”
Absjorn
grins through the smoke, his armor charred but his eyes bright with
defiance. “And you should have brought more fire, heretic.”
Then
they lunge again, two titans colliding beneath the smoke-choked sky,
the ravine echoing with the sound of their fury.
Through
the haze of smoke and fire, the Insarii Medicae move with surgical
precision despite the battlefield chaos. One of them, a veteran named
Lucien Varro, breaks
from the group and runs for Spartan’s Olympian Armor. The suit
stands open and motionless like a hollowed giant, the hum of its core
long gone. Lucien wastes no time. He slings his medicae pack to the
ground, unseals it, and pulls out two replacement power cells,
massive, blocky things that glow with a faint Invictan crimson
through their tempered casings.
He
grits his teeth, hefts one under each arm, and climbs the armor’s
leg plating, boots scraping against scorched metal. The machine
towers above him, the size of a small exosuit tank, its internal
servos cold and inert. He hooks his boot into the jointed hip plating
and yanks a release lever on the back, sparks flaring as the first
depleted power cell ejects with a dull clang. The thing
weighs nearly eighty pounds, and he has to catch it before it falls
on top of him.
“Come
on, come on…” he mutters, breath fogging inside his helmet. Each
latch, each connection port requires strength and speed both, and the
heat radiating off the armor’s charred surface makes his hands
shake as he works.
It
will take time. Too much time. But he doesn’t stop.
Meanwhile,
Decimus moves like a storm. His mechanical wings snap open, cutting
through the air as he drops beside Spartan with a metallic shriek.
She is already fighting, blade flashing against Vaedran’s massive
swings. Every blow from his Gilgamesh Armor rattles her bones, even
through the shield deployed from within her arm. The Venator’s
strength is monstrous; each strike sends shockwaves through the snow,
each roar echoing through the ravine walls.
Decimus
wastes no breath. He interposes himself just as Vaedran’s axe comes
crashing down. The blade slams against his wing plating, sparks
bursting out as feathers of alloy splinter and bend. Decimus
retaliates by driving the blunt edge of his wing into Vaedran’s
chest, staggering the Venator back for a breath before he surges
forward again.
“Stay
behind me!” Decimus barks.
“I
don’t take orders from you!” Spartan snarls, stepping forward,
sword raised again. Together, the two of them fall into rhythm,
Spartan darting low and fast, Decimus bracing and intercepting
Vaedran’s killing blows.
A
few meters away, Rho Voss fights on, blood streaming down his thigh
from the wound in his leg. His breathing is ragged, his rhythm
breaking. The remaining two Insarii Medicae sprint toward him,
darting between burning debris. One, Kareth,
slides to his side, opening his kit mid-run.
“Hold
still!” he shouts.
Rho
growls, slamming his forearm into Tzurinn’s jaw, sending the
Venator staggering back.
“Exactly!”
Kareth shouts back, already kneeling, already unfastening a band from
his gauntlet that hums with med-gel and nanite fibers. He clamps it
around Rho’s wounded leg, injecting stabilizers as sparks fly
overhead. The second medic draws his sidearm and fires into the
smoke, covering both of them from Akriel’s advance.
The
battlefield is chaos and rhythm both, a symphony of mechanical whirs,
shouted orders, and the crackle of fire.
And
over it all, Lucien’s voice cuts through the comms, strained and
urgent: “Power cell one replaced, second almost in! Hold the line
just a little longer!”
The
snow still burns red and black beneath them as Magnus and Absjorn
clash like demigods wrought of iron and wrath. Their steeds rear and
twist, Balthamar,
Absjorn’s snow-white titansteed, a living mountain of muscle and
fury, and Ferrum Rex,
Magnus’ mechanical warhorse, pistons screaming and armor plating
biting into the frozen ground with every strike.
Their
weapons flash like lightning, Magnus’ long sword arcing downward
with the weight of his armor and the machine’s hydraulic strength,
while Absjorn’s dual-bladed
axe, each edge crackling with electrified fury, meets
it in a burst of sparks and steam. The air between them screams as
steel meets steel, echoing down the ravine.
“You
ride a machine,” Absjorn spits, his voice amplified
through his helm, his titansteed snorting clouds of frost. “A
mockery of the living. An insult to the gift of the Absolute!”
Magnus
wheels Ferrum Rex around sharply, the mechanical beast’s eyes
flaring crimson through the smoke. “A machine feels no fear,”
Magnus growls, “and knows no pain. Both virtues your flesh cannot
claim.”
He
drives Ferrum Rex forward, feinting a lunge, then brings his sword
pommel crashing into Balthamar’s flank. The beast screams, rearing
in outrage, hooves slashing through the air. Magnus’ voice cuts
through the noise, low and unyielding. “Your horse hesitates. Mine
never will.”
Absjorn’s
fury ignites, pure, righteous, blinding. “You desecrate the art of
war, Invictan!” he roars, slamming his axe down in a storm of
sparks that nearly cleaves Ferrum Rex’s head from its frame. Magnus
leans hard, steel glancing off the horse’s neck plating, and swings
back with all the momentum of the turn. The two commanders circle
each other in widening arcs, their steeds kicking up snow and ash,
the sound of metal on metal like thunder rolling through the gorge.
“You
don’t have to do this!” Magnus shouts, parrying another overhead
strike. “Your war’s already lost, Absjorn! Call your Venators
back, turn your wrath toward the Eldiravan, not humanity itself!”
Absjorn
laughs, cold and hollow, his axe whirling in a vicious counter. “Ally
with heretics? With steel-forged abominations?” he snarls, his
voice booming across the battlefield. “No. The Absolute commands
that the unclean be purged. I will finish you, claim your
Vardengard and your heretic Spartan, and then I will burn the xenos
gods to ash!”
Their
weapons meet again in a flash of molten light, Magnus’ blade locked
against Absjorn’s axe, Ferrum Rex pushing against the titansteed’s
bulk, mechanical pistons straining against living sinew.
For
an instant, both commanders stare at one another through cracked
visors and burning snow, one of steel and purpose, the other of zeal
and conviction, each refusing to yield, their clash the very
embodiment of their worlds.
The
Vardengard Fight - Continuous
The
fight has become chaos in motion, grit, ash, and flame blending into
a blur of violence and noise.
Spartan and Decimus fight shoulder
to shoulder against Vaedran,
the Venator’s armor glowing faintly from heat and damage, the runes
etched along its surface still pulsing with divine light. It’s
clunky, Insarii and Vardengard were never meant to fight together,
but somehow it works. Mostly.
Vaedran
swings like a storm given form, his strikes heavier than hammers.
Decimus meets them with the hard snap of his mechanical wings, each
blow ringing through the ravine as the Medicae turns defense into
weapon. Spartan darts in and out of his guard, her smaller frame
weaving between the sweeping arcs, sword biting into the seams of his
Gilgamesh plate, never deep enough to end it.
Behind
them, Lucien still
clings to Spartan’s inert armor, open like a gaping cavity. He
clicks the second and final power cell into place with a twist.
“Power
restored!” He calls out. “Spartan, your armor’s
ready!”
She
turns, breaking from Vaedran’s latest swing, but the Venator is
faster. He seizes her by the arm mid-turn and throws her
across the battlefield. She hits the ground hard, snow and ash
spraying.
Vaedran’s
voice snarls through his helmet’s vox, low and cruel. “Heavier
than you look, bitch.”
Decimus
roars, lunging forward with his wings outspread, the steel feathers
cutting arcs through the smoke. He slams into Vaedran, driving him
back, only for the Venator to twist, catch him by a wing, and snap
it like a brittle blade. Decimus hits the ground hard, rolling
through the slush and sparks.
Vaedran
raises his foot to crush him.
Spartan
doesn’t think, she moves. She launches herself at Vaedran,
shoulder-first, sword flashing. They collide, tumbling through the
burning snow, a whirl of metal and muscle. When they stop, Vaedran
is on top, his armored hand locked around her throat,
pressing her down.
Her
heels dig into the ash; she kicks his chest once, twice, he doesn’t
budge. His voice grinds through the vox, smug. “You think you’re
the Forger’s flame? You’re nothing but a spark.”
Then,
impact.
Liam
slams into Vaedran from behind, an armored blur of Martian fury. He
locks his arm around the Venator’s throat and wrenches him
back with sheer, augmented strength. The sound that comes from
Vaedran is half-snarl, half-choke. Arturo is already there, grabbing
Spartan under the arm, dragging her up.
“Get
to your armor!” Arturo shouts. “We’ve got him!”
Spartan
doesn’t argue. She runs, limping, blood in her throat, across the
shattered ground toward her waiting armor. The world tilts with heat
and light as explosions crackle in the distance.
She
reaches it, climbs into the open chest cavity, and the machine comes
alive. Plates slam shut around her body, the
internal harness locking her spine into the interface. The hum of
power floods her ears.
Lucien
remains on her back, wings out for balance as he works, his tools
sparking while he fine-tunes the systems, muttering quick prayers to
the Forger as he patches the circuits.
Inside
the armor, Spartan’s eyes narrow, HUD flaring to full brilliance.
Her
voice, now deepened by the armor’s vocoder, cuts through the smoke:
“Are you staying up there, Lucien?”
“Rerouting
your cannon’s power to compensate for the damage. Just move!”
Lucian responds, focused more on his work.
“Hold
tight then, kid.” Spartan flexes her arm, the shield fully
deploying, and snatches her sword up from the snow.
Vaedran
drives his blade into Liam’s
side, lifting him half off the ground before hurling
him down like a broken doll. The Martian hits hard, rolling through
the ash, blood splattering across the scorched snow. Arturo shouts
his name, trying to reach him, but Vaedran turns, his armor creaking,
steam hissing from ruptured vents, intent on finishing the job.
Then
the earth shakes.
Spartan
slams into him at full sprint, the impact like a thunderclap. Lucien
clings to the back of her armor, mag-locks holding him in place as he
braces against the motion, sparks flying from his tools still
embedded in the open maintenance ports.
Vaedran
stumbles back, one hand snapping out to steady himself, sword raised.
His vox snarls: “You think this, ”
He
doesn’t finish. Spartan’s Olympian
Armor moves faster than his eyes can track, the servos
screaming with overcharged power. Her sword crashes against his,
driving him back step after step. Sparks erupt as the two blades
grind, the hum of power cells echoing between the cliffs.
He
swings wild, she ducks beneath it, drives her shoulder into his
chest, sending him sprawling. He recovers, roaring, but she’s
already there, meeting him strike for strike. The difference in their
machines is brutal and immediate, the Gilgamesh plate was built for
divine strength, but the Olympian was built for war.
Lucien
shouts something she can’t hear, something about system stability,
but she ignores it. The Olympian sword hums, a low vibration building
to a scream as the edge glows white-hot.
She
sidesteps Vaedran’s next desperate swing and cuts
upward.
The
blade tears through the weakened neck joint of his armor, slicing
clean through alloy, through bone. The impact is deafening, a single,
brutal motion, and Vaedran’s head flies
free, trailing a jet of burning steam and crimson.
His
body remains upright for a half-second, twitching, then crashes down
into the ash.
Spartan
stands over him, chest heaving, smoke hissing from the vents of her
armor. Lucien grips her shoulder plate, steadying himself.
Spartan’s
visor flickers, systems recalibrating after Vaedran’s deathblow.
Her breathing is still sharp, her mind still hot with adrenaline when
she lifts her gaze across the battlefield, and freezes.
There,
not ten meters away, Marus
fights like a man possessed. His mechanical steed bucks beneath him,
pistons whining, snow exploding under its hooves as he clashes with
the towering Cassiel.
Cassiel
is a colossus,
twelve feet of sanctified armor etched with runes and litanies,
his grand staff glimmering with gold and light. He moves with
terrifying grace for something so huge, the staff sweeping arcs
through the air, slamming down hard enough to shake the ground.
But
Marus holds his own. His sword, broad, serrated, burning with
Invictan power, meets the blows again and again. Sparks and fragments
of frost scatter around them like fireflies.
Spartan
feels a flicker of pride. Tiberian through and through.
Cassiel
bellows something in the old Latin tongue, words drowned by the
chaos, and his next swing shatters the air like thunder. Marus
parries, barely, his mount twisting to help absorb the impact. The
clash leaves a glowing mark across Cassiel’s chestplate, and for a
breathless second, Spartan thinks, He might actually win.
Then
Cassiel roars and brings his staff down again, this time sideways,
the sheer force ripping Marus from the saddle. The Invictan commander
hits the ground hard, metal shrieking as his backplate skids across
the stone. His sword tumbles, vanishing in the snow.
The
mechanical horse whinnies, hydraulics sputtering, trying to circle
back, but Cassiel’s mare
moves first. The living creature, draped in Venator plate and holy
banners, steps between them, her eyes wild, her devotion absolute.
Cassiel
advances, each step measured, the sanctified cross at his staff’s
head gleaming with a holy white fire. Marus tries to rise, blood
painting the snow beneath his helmet.
“Marus!”
Spartan shouts, already spurring forward. Lucien holds on tight,
cursing as the Olympian’s stabilizers kick in, snow bursting
outward in her wake.
She’s
almost there….
The
mare cuts across her path, faster than she thought possible. It
rears, iron-shod hooves flashing. Spartan barely raises her arm
before the impact slams into her chestplate. The force throws her off
her feet, sends both her and Lucien crashing through the
drift.
Warning
lights flare red. Systems shriek.
Spartan
shoves herself upright in time to see Cassiel looming over Marus. The
Venator’s shadow stretches across the snow.
“Yield,”
Cassiel intones, voice like thunder.
Marus
spits blood, eyes blazing. “To you? Never.”
Cassiel
hesitates only long enough to murmur a prayer. Then he brings
the staff down.
The
strike lands with a sound like a cathedral collapsing.
When
the snow settles, Cassiel stands over a motionless body, steam
curling from the shattered ground beneath him.
Spartan
freezes where she stands, breath catching in her throat.
Lucien
whispers, “Forger… he’s gone.”
Her
hands clench. The vents on her armor flare red.
Spartan
looks up at Cassiel and moves.
Rho
Voss’ Position - Continuous
Rho
Voss stands half-buried in the snow, a mountain of blackened steel
and fury. His left leg trembles, the damaged servos whining each time
he shifts his weight. Around him, the air crackles with heat and
blood, steam rising from his armor vents with each breath.
Akriel
and Tzurinn
circle him like wolves, both wounded but relentless, their Gilgamesh
plate glinting in the pale light. Behind Rho, Kareth
works with frantic precision, welding, clamping, injecting power into
the damaged limb. Sparks dance across the snow, sizzling as they die.
“Almost
done,” Kareth mutters, voice tinny through the comms. “Don’t
move, don’t you dare move.”
Rho’s
laughter rumbles through the channel, low and rough.
Akriel
darts in first, blades like twin streaks of lightning. Rho pivots as
much as the damaged leg allows, bringing his zweihander
around in a brutal parry that knocks one sword aside but lets the
other slip close, too close.
Akriel
leaps, driving a blade into the seam between Rho’s
shoulder strap and pauldron. Metal gives way with a shriek.
Rho
bellows, staggering, blood spraying across his chestplate in a hot
arc.
Kareth
slams the last power coupler in place and yells, “Done!” before
stumbling back with Opiter,
both diving clear as Rho shifts his stance.
The
moment they’re clear, Rho surges.
The
servos in his repaired leg scream, but they hold. Power
surges through his frame, his armor coming alive with the full wrath
of the Olympian core.
He
grips the zweihander in both hands.
The
blade swings. A wide, sweeping arc. Akriel’s
left arm comes off clean at the elbow, spinning through the air
before vanishing into the snow.
Rho
pivots on the repaired leg and reverses the swing. Tzurinn
tries to parry, too slow. The blade bites through his thigh and tears
free with a thunderous crack, sending him sprawling with a
scream.
Akriel,
roaring, charges again. Rho meets him head-on, their blades clanging
once, twice, before Rho drives the pommel of the zweihander into
Akriel’s helm. The blow rings out like a gong. Akriel stumbles
backward, dazed.
Rho
steps in close. One-handed now. A short, savage swing. The blade
bites deep, halfway into Akriel’s ribs. He gasps, choking on his
own breath, blood freezing in the air between them.
Rho
kicks him free, sends him crashing into the snow.
Then
he turns to Tzurinn,
who’s clawing at the ground, trying to rise on one good leg. The
Venator’s fury is unbroken, his eyes wild behind the shattered
visor.
Rho
lifts one massive foot and brings it down on Tzurinn’s chest.
Thoom.
He
snarls out like a command, another stomp, armor buckling. THOOM!
Another deep, guttural
growl.
A
third. The snow shudders beneath the impact. The chestplate caves
inward with a metallic crack, and then there’s silence.
Steam
and smoke rise from Rho’s armor. His breathing steadies.
Behind
him, Kareth approaches slowly, voice soft over the comms. “Your
leg’s holding. Power’s stable.”
Rho
plants the zweihander in the ground beside him. He looks down at the
bodies, then across the field toward the others still fighting.
