Medical
Bay, Karthane - The Next Morning
The
lights hum softly in the quiet of the early hour, a pale amber glow
tracing the steel edges of the room. Magnus sits between the two
gurneys, the weight of command and care etched into the hard lines of
his face. His armor almost gleams in the pale, overhead lights. In
his hands rests a worn book, The Forger's Testament, the metal
corners polished by years of touch.
He
reads in a low, even tone, his voice deep enough to fill the air
without disturbing it.
"Strike
not to end, but to begin anew. For every blow that shatters makes
ready the mold, and every scar that burns the flesh tempers the will.
The weak seek comfort in the flame's light, the strong become the
flame itself. So spoke the Forger, whose hammer knows no mercy, yet
whose hand shapes gods from what others would discard."
Magnus
pauses there, looking from Rho Voss to Spartan. Both sleep still,
their breathing slow and even, faint glints of metal visible beneath
sheets where the new grafts meet flesh.
He
closes the book softly, thumb resting on the page as though marking
it for later. "You will rise again," he murmurs quietly.
"Stronger than before. You always do."
The
curtain shifts slightly, and Lucia slips in, her movements light and
deliberate. She glances at the two Vardengard, scanning their
monitors. Then her gaze moves to Magnus, and she gives him a small
nod of acknowledgment, reassurance that they're holding steady.
He
nods back in silence, placing the Testament on the small table
between the beds. The sound of the machines, the rhythmic pulse of
hearts that refuse to quit, fills the room as the forge of Invicta's
chosen continues its quiet work.
Lucia
moves with that quiet, practiced grace of someone long used to the
rhythm of crisis. She finishes her check on Rho's vitals, then on
Spartan's, before glancing over her shoulder at Magnus. A faint smirk
tugs at the corner of her mouth.
"You
treat them like your children," she says softly, keeping her
voice low so as not to wake either of the two Vardengard. "The
way you watch over them, the way you read to them. You worry like my
father used to, pacing the floor whenever one of us so much as
coughed."
Magnus
glances up from where he sits between the two gurneys. The faintest
hint of a grin breaks through his otherwise iron composure.
"Children?" he echoes quietly, looking toward Spartan's
resting form. "They are older than both of us combined, Lucia."
"That
doesn't mean you don't care for them like they were," she
replies, stepping closer until she's standing beside him, arms
folded. "And I don't think that's a bad thing."
Magnus
huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. "Perhaps not. But even
children eventually outgrow their father's hand." His eyes drift
briefly toward Spartan, the heart monitor's slow pulse reflecting in
his gaze. "These two have earned their freedom a thousand times
over. Yet here they are, still bleeding for me."
Lucia
leans against the table beside him, her expression shifting from
amusement to worry. "Magnus… the Venators." Her voice
lowers, more serious now. "I have never seen them myself, but I
have seen the aftermath. Rauvis. I thought we had left those zealots
behind."
Magnus'
expression hardens. "So did I." He exhales through his
nose, a heavy sound. "But Absjorn is not a fool. He will not
attack Karthane directly. He will bide his time, test our strength.
And once he sees what the Eldiravan are capable of, he will realize
his holy war is better aimed at them."
Lucia
studies him, unconvinced. "You really believe that?"
Magnus
hesitates, eyes fixed on Spartan's motionless form. "He targets
the Vardengard," he says at last, voice quiet. "He is
obsessed with her. With Spartan."
Lucia's
brows knit together. "Then he will not stop," she says,
almost under her breath. "Not until he gets what he wants. And
if that is true…"
Magnus
looks up at her then, his face still, unreadable save for the faint
twitch at his jaw.
Lucia
folds her arms tighter. "If that is true," she continues,
"then no wall, no distance, and no logic is going to stop him."
Magnus
looks back at Spartan. "I know," he says. "And that is
what worries me most."
Spartan
stirs first with a faint groan, a twitch of her fingers as the metal
digits curl weakly. The quiet conversation between Lucia and Magnus
falls still as the Vardengard shifts on the gurney. The hydraulic
hiss of her chest echoes softly as she draws in a deep, ragged
breath.
Her
eyes flicker open, polychromatic, blue and green. She blinks against
the light and slowly props herself up on one elbow. Every motion
looks like it costs her.
"...Master,"
she rasps, voice hoarse and dry.
Both
Lucia and Magnus turn toward her. Lucia instinctively moves closer,
ready to help, but Magnus stands first.
"I
am here," Magnus says, stepping forward to her side.
Spartan's
eyes find him, unfocused but determined. "If it comes down to
it," she says slowly, "I will go to him."
Magnus
frowns, the lines in his brow tightening. "Go to who?"
"Absjorn."
Her gaze hardens, even through exhaustion. "If that is what it
takes to end this… I will go to him. I will do what must be done to
secure our victory against the Eldiravan. Humanity must overcome the
xenos above all else."
Magnus'
expression darkens, the calm veneer giving way to sharp disapproval.
"No," he says flatly, his voice iron. "You will do no
such thing."
"Master-"
He
cuts her off, stepping closer, tone rising. "I will not allow
you to sacrifice yourself for this war. Not like that."
Spartan
meets his glare without flinching. "That sacrifice," she
says, "is exactly why the Vardengard exist. To bleed, to burn,
to die so that humanity does not have to. That is our purpose."
Magnus
leans forward, the quiet fury of command behind his words. "Your
purpose," he says, "is to live. Do you hear me? You will
not throw yourself away."
For
a long, tense moment, neither speaks. The monitors hum. The low thrum
of distant machinery fills the silence.
Then
Spartan slowly pushes herself upright, ignoring the cables that tug
at her arms and chest. She swings her legs over the side of the
gurney, her bare feet finding the floor.
Lucia,
startled, rushes forward. "Absolutely not, lay back down. You
are still half in recovery, you need rest."
Spartan
shakes her head, wincing as she steadies herself. "I am awake,"
she says quietly. "I am ready."
"Ready
for what?" Lucia presses. "Where could you possibly have to
go right now?"
Spartan
turns her head toward Magnus, the lights catching the glint in her
eyes.
She
doesn't need to say it.
Magnus
knows.
And
he looks back at her in grim silence, because deep down, he already
understands exactly what she intends.
Lucia
sighs softly, stepping back as she sees the silent understanding pass
between Spartan and Magnus. There's no stopping her now, the spark of
command and purpose is already alive again in those strange,
prismatic eyes. Lucia folds her arms and shakes her head, muttering
under her breath, "The curse of your kind… never knowing
rest."
Spartan
swings her legs off the gurney completely and stands, wincing but
steady. Behind Magnus, she grabs her black Invictan jacket from the
table, the heavy, weatherproof material lined with crimson stitching.
As she zips it up, the soft rasp of the zipper echoes in the quiet.
On
the other bed, Rho Voss stirs. His eyes snap open, burning cyan, his
frame rigid and alert even before full consciousness returns. He
doesn't speak, but his gaze follows Spartan as if drawn by instinct.
When she reaches for her gloves, he throws his blanket aside and gets
up, his movements slow but deliberate. He reaches for his own jacket
from the chair beside the bed.
Spartan
glances over her shoulder at Magnus. "I need to contact the
others," she says, her voice still gravelly but strong. "They
need to know the Venators are here. We have to find Absjorn's
encampment."
Magnus
straightens, arms crossed, his presence still commanding even in
silence. "Already done," he says. "I have sent word to
the rest of the Vardengard. Scouts are deployed across the northern
ridge and the tundral expanse. If Absjorn has camped anywhere near
the Cryolume, we will know soon."
Spartan's
jaw sets, but she nods in appreciation. "Good. Then Rho and I
will gather our gear and head back out immediately."
She
grabs the curtain and pulls it aside with a metallic hiss. Rho
follows close behind, tugging his mask up over his face, a worn, dark
fabric that hides his expression entirely, and drawing his hood to
shield against the cold already seeping through the corridors. The
faint whir of new mechanical joints hums softly beneath his cloak as
he moves.
Magnus
falls in step behind them, his steps slow, deliberate, echoing down
the reinforced hall. They emerge into the broader bay where the
Olympian armor sets stand upon their racks, vast silhouettes of iron
and glass, restored, recharged, ready. The armor looms like two
dormant titans waiting for their masters to wake them.
As
Spartan pulls the lever to open her armor, Magnus speaks. "I
will be joining you this time," he says evenly. "And I am
bringing a battalion."
Spartan
pauses mid-motion, her fingers gripping the lever. "With
respect, Master, that's premature. We don't have enough intelligence
on their position. If you march a battalion out there blind, you
could walk straight into a Venator trap."
Magnus
raises a brow. "And if I send only two wounded Vardengard, I
risk losing my finest weapons."
She
meets his gaze over her shoulder, unflinching. "We've fought the
Venators before. We know their patterns. You send a battalion, and
Absjorn will see it coming before we even reach the frostline."
Before
Magnus can respond, the door slides open with a pressurized hiss.
Captain Michael Marcellus and Captain Red Baron step through, bundled
against the cold, their breath visible in the chilled air.
Both
men come to a halt at the sight before them, the Vardengard already
suited and ready for deployment. Spartan's armor plates lock into
place with a sharp hiss of pneumatics, and she pulls her helmet on.
Rho stands beside her, silent as a ghost, his own armor humming
faintly with charge.
"Spartan,"
Michael says, surprise cutting through his tone. "You are
already up?"
"Work
never ends," Spartan replies simply, sealing the last latch on
her vambrace.
Magnus
turns toward the captains, his voice carrying the weight of finality.
"We are moving out. The Venators are in the region, Absjorn's
forces are establishing a foothold north of the Cryolume."
Red
Baron exchanges a look with Michael before stepping forward.
"Permission to have my company accompany the Vardengard, sir. My
men are rested and ready."
Magnus
studies him for a long moment, unreadable, then gives a curt nod.
"Granted. You will form the forward line. Spartan will lead the
reconnaissance."
"Yes,
sir," Red Baron says, squaring his shoulders.
The
storm outside claws against the steel as the hangar lights flicker to
crimson standby. The air fills with the low mechanical thrum of power
cores awakening, the prelude to war.
The
Cryolume Forest, North of Karthane - Two Hours Later
Red
Baron rides in the lead APC, the vehicle's massive treads crushing
through snow and ice, its headlights cutting pale beams through the
frozen mist. Another APC follows close behind, its hull shuddering
with every bump in the uneven tundra. Behind them, Magnus rides in
the third, the insignia of Civitas Invicta painted stark and black
against the armored plates. The rest of the battalion trails in
formation, their convoy stretching like an iron serpent across the
barren wastes.
Inside
the lead vehicle, Red Baron leans forward in his seat, one gloved
hand braced against the vibrating frame. The cold bleeds through even
the reinforced hull, a constant reminder of the world's hostility.
Across from him sit the Federalists, weary, hard-eyed soldiers, and
beside them, the Insarii Medicae team: Decimus, Spurius, Sisenna, and
Auria. Their kits hang from the walls, filled with instruments that
glint faintly under the cabin lights, ready for whatever the
Vardengard's campaign brings.
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But
Spartan and Rho Voss are not among them.
They
move on foot far ahead of the convoy, several leagues ahead, moving
with inhuman speed across the frostbitten plains. Their armor leaves
deep, rhythmic impressions in the ice, steam venting softly from
their joints as they run.
Spartan
halts suddenly. The wind howls around her, carrying flakes of
glittering snow that cling to the edges of her armor. She tilts her
head back and howls, a low, resonant sound that rolls across the
frozen horizon like a beast's call. It echoes, fades.
And
then, moments later, a distant reply.
Naburiel.
Another
follows, from the opposite ridge, Belqartis, the tone distinct, the
echo rougher, closer.
Spartan
lowers her head, the faintest glint of satisfaction behind her visor.
The pack still lives, still hunts.
To
the far northwest, before the convoy ever left Karthane, Samayel had
already found the Venators, or at least, what passed for their
encampment. He had sent coordinates through encoded bursts. Now,
Spartan and Rho Voss lead the Invictan convoy toward that direction,
not to strike immediately, but to establish ground, to dig their own
foothold into the frost.
They
will be days from Karthane before the forward base is operational,
exposed, surrounded by storm and ice, but close enough to keep the
Venators within reach.
Over
comms, Naburiel's voice cuts through the static: "Found the
site. Plateau ahead, wind-sheltered, iron-rich. Should hold a base."
Spartan
glances at Rho, who gives a brief nod.
"Then
that's where we make our stand," she mutters, her voice a low
growl beneath her helmet.
And
with that, the two Vardengard continue forward, phantoms of iron and
fire, carving the path through the storm for the army that follows.
Invictan
FOB - Two Days Later
Spartan
and Rho Voss move swiftly through the snow, their armored forms
cutting clean lines through the blizzard haze. Their pace is
relentless, each stride a low thud that reverberates beneath the
frost. Unlike the APCs crawling somewhere miles behind, they do not
slow for the terrain.
Where
the ground fractures into yawning crevasses, they leap. Where jagged
ridges rise from the ice, they climb. The Olympian armor groans and
hums with every movement, servos tightening, recalibrating, the faint
exhale of steam marking their trail. The convoy will have to take the
long way around, winding through safer passes, but Spartan and Rho
Voss are built for direct paths.
It
is well past midday when they crest the last ridge. Below, a faint
glow winks through the storm. The plateau stretches out before them;
wide, flat, and surprisingly open, a rare space of stability amid the
northern chaos.
Naburiel
waits at its center. His massive frame looms by a half-built bonfire,
armor dusted in snow. Two others stand with him, Morus and Ashurdan.
Together, they have raised a rough encampment: piles of scavenged
timber, ration crates, and crude signal pylons spiking up from the
frost.
The
moment Spartan and Rho Voss approach, Naburiel lifts his head. His
helm's vox crackles, his voice a low rumble.
"Spartan.
Rho. You made good time."
"Convoy's
still hours out," Spartan replies. "They'll need clear
passage. There are cracks about five clicks southeast, tell Master to
reroute before they hit them."
Naburiel
nods once, tapping the side of his helmet to transmit the data.
Behind him, Morus tends to the growing fire, the orange light licking
against the black armor, casting their silhouettes into something
ancient and beastlike.
The
plateau itself is a fortress waiting to be claimed. The ground here
is layered stone and ice, stable enough to anchor heavy machinery.
The storm walls, built by the mountains' natural curvature, shield it
from the worst of the northern winds.
But
what catches Spartan's eye most are the stones.
They
rise around the plateau in a broken crown, colossal monoliths jutting
from the frost, some shattered, others eroded to their roots. One
remains standing tall at full height, a pillar of pale granite veined
with black mineral. The rest have long since fallen, half-buried
under centuries of ice.
And
farther out, arching shapes curve from the ground, forming enormous
spines that loop into the foothills. They're massive, wide enough for
a man to walk along their lengths, their surfaces worn smooth as
bone. The pattern of them suggests a rhythm, a body once whole: the
remnants of something titanic.
Ashurdan
follows Spartan's gaze. "The locals called them the bones of the
old gods," he says, voice gravel-rough through his helm. "Say
they stretched all the way into the Cryolume forest. I thought it
superstition."
Spartan
studies one of the nearest arches, frost hissing against her armor's
heat vents. "Superstition," she mutters, "has a way of
surviving for a reason."
Rho
Voss grunts in agreement, kneeling near the fire.
Naburiel
tosses another log onto the flames, the sparks rising high against
the pale sky. "This will serve," he says. "The
ground's good. The mountains will shield the north, the bones the
west. We can fortify by nightfall."
Spartan
nods once. "Good. Then we make this our forward bastion."
The
fire roars, casting long shadows over the stones, shadows that seem
almost to move, to coil, to breathe, as if something ancient still
lingers beneath the ice.
Invictan
Forward Operating Base - Hours Later
By
the time the storm begins to thin, the rumble of engines rolls across
the mountains. The first of the APCs crest the rise, snow churning
beneath their treads as they grind onto the plateau. The banners of
Civitas Invicta snap against the wind, crimson and black streaks
amidst the pale white. A convoy of iron and willpower, Magnus'
battalion, has arrived.
At
the lead, Red Baron's APC halts in a hiss of hydraulics, followed by
the lumbering transport carrying the rest of his company, thirty-nine
Federalist soldiers, weary but alive. The doors open and they spill
out into the cold, weapons slung, eyes sharp as they take in the
plateau's eerie beauty. Behind them, the Invictan engineers fan out
in formation, already unloading crates and modular panels. The sky is
streaked with bruised orange light, the fading sun glinting off armor
and metal alike.
By
the bonfire, the Vardengard await. Naburiel stands like an obsidian
monolith, his massive frame barely touched by the cold. Ashurdan and
Belqartis are nearby, overseeing the perimeter. Morus sits
cross-legged by the flames, warstaff resting against his shoulder,
his head bowed, audibly snoring through his helm's vox filter.
Samayel
crouches near Rho Voss, a jagged grin cutting through his faceplate's
glow. "That a new arm I see?" he jests, gesturing to the
polished mechanical limb glinting faintly beneath Rho's vantablack
plating. "Looks a bit too shiny for you, brother. You planning
to start reflecting light now?"
Rho
Voss doesn't answer, at least not verbally. His gauntlet flickers
with soft blue light as a message pings across the Vardengard's
internal channel.
Rho
Voss: [Says the one who still hasn't fixed his coolant leak. Smells
like rusted piss every time you move.]
Samayel
barks out a laugh, the sound harsh and metallic. "Fair. I'll
give you that one."
Spartan
glances back at them, the faintest curve tugging at her lips. "Master
is here," she says.
Sure
enough, the third APC grinds to a halt near the ridge, its rear ramp
unfolding with a pneumatic sigh. Magnus descends first, his cloak
snapping in the mountain wind. Captains Red Baron, Arruns Hortensius,
and Canus Ravilla follow in his wake, their helms gleaming beneath
the pale light. Behind them come Captains
Casiar, Aulus Balbus, and Tertius Crispian, all battle-scarred and
hard-eyed.
The
engineers continue their work in the background, locking modular
walls into place with bursts of flame and plasma drills. The
structures rise swiftly, black and silver skeletons taking form in
minutes, roofs snapping into place under the hum of powered jetpacks.
Magnus
approaches the Vardengard line, his gaze sweeping across them. As he
does so, the Vardengard all take a knee and bow their heads.
"Spartan.
Report."
Spartan
looks up at Magnus. Her armor is still dark with frost and soot, her
voice calm but carrying the weight of command. "We have
confirmed Absjorn's encampment to the northwest, roughly fifty miles
beyond the Cryolume's edge. Samayel scouted the perimeter earlier
this morning. They are fortified, but mobile. Standard Venator
structure, tent basilica, concentric perimeter walls, turrets."
That
gets a quiet murmur from the Federalist officers. Magnus folds his
arms. "And the Eldiravan?"
Belqartis
answers this time, voice low and rough. "They have pulled back
from the Cryolume. Possibly consolidating. We think they are
preparing for another push, maybe even toward the Venators instead of
us."
Magnus
nods slowly. "So they know of each other's presence."
"They
will," Spartan says. "Soon enough."
Magnus
steps closer to the bonfire, its light catching across his massive
silver pauldrons like molten gold. "Then we act before they do.
We cannot allow either to gain ground. We will establish a forward
bastion here, hold position, gather intelligence, and strike when the
moment's right."
Red
Baron, standing at his side, glances toward Spartan. "Permission
for my company to join your scouts, sir. We have been running recon
since we landed planetside, we can keep pace with them."
Magnus
inclines his head. "Granted. Pair your men with the Vardengard
as they see fit. But you follow their lead, Captain. Understood?"
Red
Baron nods crisply. "Understood, General Supreme."
The
fire crackles. Sparks rise into the dimming sky like fleeting souls.
Around them, the encampment grows, steel and light taking shape
against the ancient bones jutting from the earth.
Magnus
turns his gaze back to Spartan. "Tonight we plan. At dawn, we
move."
Spartan
nods once. "Understood, Master."
The
Vardengard bow their heads in unison, a silent vow forged beneath the
mountains' gaze, their shadows flickering against the fire like
ghosts preparing for war.
Invictan
FOB, Mobile Command Room - That Night
The
war table hums acid-blue, the map's light scouring every face. The
room tightens, metal, breath, the smell of heated oil, as the
officers trade glances that mean different things: fear, hunger,
calculation.
Magnus
cuts the pause with a cold, measured question. "Which threat do
we prioritize: the fortress that can forge entire armies, or the
Venators who would burn the world for a god?"
What
follows is not a council so much as a clash of doctrine.
Arruns
Hortensius slams a gauntleted hand on the table so hard the
projection ripples. "The fortress is the spine," he says.
"Strike the spine and the body collapses. We hammer the north
with everything, rail batteries, orbital interdiction, a rolling
barrage to flush their maestros out. You let me mass firepower and I
will break them." His jaw is iron. He points to the northeast
cluster on the map. "You do that wrong and the Eldiravan will
sing us into the ground. You do it right and they cannot
orchestrate."
Canus
Ravilla counters, voice taut as drawn wire: "Mass bombardment
alerts Absjorn. It scorches the land and leaves refugees for the
Venators to butcher. And orbital strikes? Our AA in that valley would
eat the payload before it lands. We do not need blind thunder; we
need precise knives. Small teams, Insarii support, surgical takedowns
of maestro nodes. Remove the maestros, the rest fractures. Less
collateral, more effect."
Aulus
Balbus leans forward, rubbing his temple. "You both make good
points, but logistics bind us. We do not have enough precision teams
for both the valley and the Venator pockets. Our battalion is here
now; we can push hardened lines, but not hold all possible fronts. We
should fortify the FOB and strike where we are assured of success. Do
not gamble the battalion on vengeance."
Tertius
Crispian's face goes hard. "Fortify all you like; war favors
movement. Let the Vardengard cut the Venator hunting parties. Draw
Absjorn into terrain that favors us. He is a fanatic, he will chase a
ghost of us. When he reveals himself, we close. No siege; no wasted
munitions."
Casiar,
fingers tapping a restless rhythm, snarls softly. "Guerrilla.
Silence the pylons, blind their sentries, snipe the scouts. Venators
depend on ritual and spectacle. Remove the stage and you remove the
performance. Let the Vardengard be spear and the Praevectus be the
net."
Red
Baron's voice, rough with fatigue and new steel resolve, cuts
through: "My company will go with them. We're light, we know how
to move. If the Vardengard need an anchor, we provide it. Let them
show us the fight. I volunteer my men." He looks straight at
Magnus. "I'm not asking permission to die. I'm offering to be
useful."
The
room erupts. Spartan's visor catches the light; she does not speak
immediately. Her silence is pressure. When she does, it's low and
brutal: "Absjorn hunts me because I live. You will not drag
civilians into his worship. If the Venators hold sway here, Karthane
starves while they argue about doctrine. I will draw him. You will
not throw a battalion away for my blood. But if you must strike the
fortress, do it after the Venators' attention is occupied. I will not
die as bait."
Magnus'
eyes are black glass. "You will not be bait alone," he
says, flat. Then, louder: "No rash orders. We have men, but we
have a future to hold. Decide."
An
argumentative chorus swells. Arruns demands massing artillery now.
Canus shoots back that massing will waste lives and wake Absjorn.
Aulus insists on fortification; Tertius wants to press the
counterattack; Casiar urges sabotage. The voices build to a fever
pitch, centuries of doctrine, personal pride, tactical doctrine,
until Magnus' gloved palm slams the table and silence rips the air.
"Enough,"
he says. Slowly. "We will not fracture ourselves. We will not
trade one apocalypse for another."
He
draws a breath and lays out the plan, surgical and savage and
balanced on a razor.
Magnus
leans forward, palms flat on the war table so the holo ripples under
his hands. His voice is flat and too calm for the storm in the room.
"We will not scatter ourselves. We will not trade a fortress for
a city. I propose one controlled line of action, containment, bait,
and precise surgical strikes. Hear me."
Aulus
Balbus snorts. "Words are cheap. What does that mean on the
ground?"
Magnus
meets him. "We fortify the plateau and the southern approaches.
Two rings: an outer listening and interdiction belt to detect and
delay, an inner mobile reserve ready to respond. Engineers emplace
anti-air nets, decoy pylons, and AA field masking overnight. No wide
battalion march into unknown ground."
Arruns
slams a fist on the table. "Hold and bait? That plays into the
Eldiravan's hands. Their maestros will keep us deafened until we
break."
"Not
if we break them first," Canus Ravilla says, voice sharp. "We
do not need thunder from orbit to punch holes in the valley, we need
knives. Small, stealth teams. Insarii embedded. We cut maestro nodes
and the rest unravels."
Magnus
nods, eyes never leaving Canus. "Exactly. While Absjorn chases a
provocation, three precision strike cells, Canus will lead them,
infiltrate the valley. They carry dampening charges and conduit
disruptors. No mass bombardment unless we have a clear fire
corridor."
Tertius
leans in, skeptical. "You rely on timing. One slip and your
strike teams are stranded."
Casiar
answers before Magnus can: "Then we buy them time. Spartan and
Rho Voss take the spearpoint. Controlled harassment of Venator
patrols. Rapid raids, false retreats. Force Absjorn into predictable
routes, make him show his hand. Red Baron's company rides with that
element as extraction and light support."
Red
Baron's jaw tightens. "My men hold the bolt line and pull bodies
if needed. We'll do the dirty work that keeps your god-killers free
to do the big cuts."
Arruns
bristles. "You are gambling the battalion's secrecy on two
hunters and an infantry company. If Absjorn smells a trap, he
scatters and his units die alone."
Magnus'
voice drops to steel. "The battalion stays concealed but mobile.
If Absjorn commits his main body, I close with the battalion,
supported by artillery and the Mastodons. If the Eldiravan recover
cohesion instead, the battalion pivots to reinforce the maestro
teams. We keep our options."
Aulus
exhales. "So: hold, bait, strike, and reserve. Who runs the med
and evac?"
Decimus,
when asked, Decimus' name is met with a curt nod from Magnus, steps
forward. "I set a forward triage node with rapid evac corridors.
Insarii and Federalist med evac shuttles on rotation. No exceptions
for Vardengard. Extraction priority is extraction priority. No
needless heroics."
Naburiel,
half-hidden by a hood in the dim light, mutters, "And the
Venator beacons? Their signals will give them sight into our
movement."
Casiar
already has that calculated. "Sabotage teams and long-range
scouts blackout Venator beacons and map their rotation schedules.
Electronic and harmonic surveillance feed the strike teams. If a
maestro node is located, we take it first. No theatrics."
A
tense silence follows. Arruns chews his lower lip, then gives a curt
nod. "I can hold the outer ring. Do not put my artillery on a
parade ground; keep it reserved for when we see openings."
Canus
rubs his temple. "I will take the maestro teams. I want three
more medicae attached and a contingency exfil route. If my teams do
not get out on schedule, I will need suppression."
Tertius
grunts in approval of the mobility and exploitation clause. Red Baron
simply says, "We move when Spartan says. We protect her and the
other Vardengard like we protect one another."
Magnus
lets their responses gather into the plan he wanted. "Containment
here," he says, tapping the plateau on the holo. "Bait and
harassment there. Precision Maestro strikes in the valley timed to
that harassment. Battalion stays as a concealed reserve with
authority to close. Med and extraction channels open now. Sabotage
and scouts run continuous. No orbital thunder without a confirmed
safe corridor."
Spartan's
visor tilts to him. Her voice is low, a rasp smoothed by hard
experience. "If Absjorn shows himself, I will not be bait to
die. I will be the lure that kills him, with extraction ready at all
times."
Magnus
answers with quiet finality. "You will have support and an
extraction window. You do not go alone to die on a pyre. We will not
let you."
The
officers exchange looks, wary, determined, tightly contained fury,
and the war room breaks into movement. Orders ripple outward like a
blade's echo: engineers mobilize, medicae double their kits, scouts
load, Red Baron tightens his men, Spartan and Rho test blades and
backs.
