Northern
Cryolume Forest - Minutes Later
The
snow is heavy now, falling in thick, silent sheets that blur the
horizon and swallow the forest in white. The two APCs churn through
the drifts, engines growling low and tired. Their treads carve deep
scars into the snow, the only sound beyond the dull wind.
Behind
them, Spartan and Rho Voss run, no, stagger. Each step is slower than
the last. Spartan's blood has soaked through the black sheen of her
Olympian armor, trailing crimson steam in the cold. Rho's left side
glistens dark, the gaping absence of his arm still weeping sluggishly
despite the armor's partial seals. The forest blurs around them.
Every movement is an act of defiance.
Then
it happens. Spartan's leg gives out, and she collapses to one knee.
Rho Voss catches her, but he's already stumbling himself, the weight
of her pulling him down. The snow rushes up to meet them both, and
they fall together, kneeling, leaning against each other for balance.
The two Olympians, once titans of war, reduced to silhouettes against
the endless white.
"They've
fallen!" a Federalist shouts from atop an APC.
Red
Baron slams his fist against the hull. "Reverse! Reverse! Move,
move, move!"
The
two APCs grind backward, snow spraying in plumes behind their treads.
As soon as they screech to a halt, Red Baron, Liam, and Arturo leap
out, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the tree line for any sign of
pursuit.
"Get
the medic!" Red Baron yells. "Now!"
Their
lone medic scrambles from the second APC, pack already half-open,
boots sinking into the knee-deep snow as he rushes to the fallen
Vardengard. Spartan tries to wave him off, but her arm barely lifts.
Rho, silent as ever, pulls her up with his one good hand, holding her
against him, his breathing ragged and mechanical through the vox
filters.
Red
Baron kneels beside them, one hand on Spartan's armored shoulder.
"Hold on, Spartan, we've got you. You're going to make it."
Spartan's
voice comes through her damaged helm, static-laced and faint. "No…
no, Captain. Keep going." She coughs, and a spray of blood
flecks her visor. "Leave us. You have to get to Karthane.
Someone has to tell the Supreme… Absjorn is here."
Red
Baron shakes his head, jaw clenched. "I'm not leaving you out
here to die in the snow."
Spartan
grips his forearm weakly, the gesture firm despite her fading
strength. "You don't have a choice, Baron. The Venators are
close. You stop now, we all die. Go."
The
medic looks up from Rho Voss, panic in his voice. "Captain, he's
losing too much blood! Both of them are! We can't move them like
this, "
"Then
patch what you can," Red Baron barks, though his voice cracks.
He glances toward the forest, the shadows between the trunks look
alive. "Make it fast."
The
medic works quickly, binding what he can, sealing torn armor with
frostbite-stiff fingers. Spartan's head sags forward. Rho Voss keeps
her upright, his good hand trembling from exhaustion.
Finally,
Spartan forces her head up, visor cracked and glinting faintly in the
pale light. "Tell Magnus… tell him the wolves have crossed the
Forge's fire."
Then
her arm drops. The medic checks her vitals, shaking his head. She's
still breathing, barely.
Red
Baron hesitates for a long moment, staring at the two of them, the
gods of iron and war, broken and bleeding in the snow. Then he looks
back at his men, at the APCs, at the fading daylight.
"Get
them inside," he orders quietly. "If they die, they die
with us, not here."
The
soldiers move to obey, but even as they lift Spartan and Rho Voss
with all their strength, the forest behind them stirs with the
faintest sound, hoofbeats.
The
snow groans beneath their boots as Red Baron takes charge again,
voice sharp and clipped against the rising wind.
"Marshall!
Get over here!"
The
Martian, towering, broad as two men, his red visor streaked with
frost, drops his rifle into the snow and rushes forward without a
word. Spartan is limp now, her armor blackened and leaking hydraulic
fluid like blood. Rho Voss, still on his knees, forces himself
upright, swaying, his one remaining arm clamped around her shoulders.
Rho
Voss instinctively growls, not loosening his grip on Spartan.
"Easy,
big guy, I'm gonna help," Liam grunts, sliding his arms under
Spartan's weight. Together, the two lift her, one god, one mortal,
hauling her across the churned snow toward the idling APC. The rear
hatch slams open, hydraulics hissing. Steam pours from the exhausts,
mingling with the snowfall.
The
weight of Spartan's Olympian armor nearly collapses the ramp when
they step onto it. The APC groans under the strain, metal flexing,
the interior lights flickering from the sudden power draw.
"Careful,
careful!" Arturo calls, bracing from inside as they heave her
in. The soldiers inside scramble to make room, hands outstretched to
help. The air smells of oil, frost, and blood.
"Strap
him down!" Red Baron barks from outside. "Keep him upright
if you can."
Arturo
and two others fasten the heavy restraints over Spartan's chest and
legs, welding points anchoring her to the hull. Every breath she
takes rattles through the interior like a dying machine.
Meanwhile,
Liam turns back, panting clouds into the frozen air. "What about
him?" he asks.
Rho
Voss is still standing somehow, half-collapsed against the snow, his
right shoulder spurting slow, blackened ichor where the arm used to
be. His gaze is fixed on the forest, always watching for the shapes
he knows are coming.
Red
Baron gestures. "Get him to the other APC. Now."
Liam
nods, looping the Vardengard's remaining arm around his neck and
hauling him forward. Rho doesn't resist, just grits his teeth and
keeps moving, his boots dragging furrows through the snow. They reach
the second APC, its hatch yawning open, engine whining with strain.
"Easy,
big guy," Liam mutters, helping Rho climb the ramp. The soldiers
inside pull him in, securing him beside the side wall as Liam drops
back out, panting hard.
Red
Baron scans the treeline one last time. The snow seems to move
between the trees now, shadows, shapes, things too large to be tricks
of the light.
He
slams a fist against the APC's hull. "Move out! Now!"
Engines
roar. The two vehicles lurch forward, treads grinding through the
snow, exhaust streaming like smoke signals into the darkening sky.
The added weight makes them sluggish, but they push on anyway,
straining against the terrain.
Inside,
the soldiers can feel every shudder of the engines, every echo of
pursuit behind them.
And
as the forest fades into the white horizon, the sound of hooves
follows, faint but relentless, like the heartbeat of something divine
and wrathful closing in.
Karthane,
Arkaelus - Sometime Later
The
engines thunder through the cryolume forest as the walls of Karthane
rise from the blizzard like a black monolith, carved stone and steel
spires crowned in ice. Red Baron hangs onto the side step of the lead
APC, one arm gripping the rail, the other waving wildly through the
cold air.
"Open
the gates!" he bellows, voice cracking through the blizzard.
"Open the damn gates!"
From
atop the battlements, Captain Michael Marcellus leans out over the
rail, his crimson Praetorian cloak whipping in the wind. He peers
down at the convoy below, the massive APCs churning up the snow,
their sides scorched and dented, one leaking coolant and smoke like a
wounded beast.
Marcellus
cups his hands around his mouth. "Baron? You're back early!
What's the rush?!"
Red
Baron cups a hand to his mouth, shouting over the roar of engines and
storm. "We found Spartan and Rho Voss! They're hurt bad!"
His voice is hoarse, almost frantic. "I need to see the General
Supreme. Now!"
The
words strike Marcellus like a bullet. For a second, he just stares
down at the scene below, the Federalist colors, the frostbitten
soldiers, the impossible claim. Then he turns sharply to his
Praetorians.
"Open
the gate! Now! Move!"
Chains
rattle. Gears grind. The massive portcullis begins to rise, layer by
layer, snow falling from its iron lattice as the counterweights drag
it upward. The gates of Karthane part with a low, grinding roar.
As
soon as there's room, the two APCs rumble through, engines straining
under the burden of their Olympian cargo. The smell of oil, blood,
and smoke floods the air.
Marcellus
descends the stone stairs two at a time, his boots echoing against
the walls. By the time he reaches the courtyard, the first APC has
already come to a halt. Red Baron drops down from the step, stumbling
slightly from exhaustion, frost steaming off his armor.
Marcellus
approaches, eyes sharp, cloak flaring behind him. "Where are
they?"
Red
Baron gestures to the rear hatches. "Inside. Barely breathing."
The
moment the ramp hisses open, medics and engineers rush in, one of
them shouting for reinforced stretchers, another calling for plasma
packs. The air fills with motion, orders, urgency.
Marcellus
steps aside, watching as Spartan's massive form is lowered from the
APC, armor caked in frozen blood and ice, limbs twitching faintly.
Behind her, Rho Voss stumbles out with help, visor cracked, his
single arm gripping the frame for balance.
Marcellus
turns back to Red Baron. "You did the right thing bringing them
here."
Red
Baron shakes his head, voice low. "You don't understand,
Captain. They weren't just hurt. They were hunted. Absjorn was
there."
Marcellus
freezes mid-step, expression turning to cold steel. "…Absjorn?"
Red
Baron nods grimly. "And he's coming."
The
courtyard falls silent for a heartbeat, the snow falling thicker now.
Then Marcellus straightens, jaw set.
"Get
them to Lucia now!" Michael's voice cuts through the courtyard
like a crack of thunder.
The
medics and engineers rush to obey, working in frantic unison as they
slide a reinforced cart beneath Spartan's massive frame. The snow
around her is pink and steaming, her armor split and blackened in
places where plasma had burned through. Her breathing is ragged, the
faint hum of her Olympian systems sputtering like a dying heart.
Michael
kneels beside her, his gauntlet brushing against her metal-plated
hand. He's seen her stand against legions, the Spartan of Invicta,
the Forger's champion made flesh. But now, for the first time, she
looks small. Fragile.
He
bows his head, whispering beneath the roar of engines.
"Forger,
temper her in your flame once more. Don't let this be the end of
her."
He
doesn't expect a response. But then, her metal fingers twitch, weakly
closing around his hand, holding him for a fleeting heartbeat. It's
barely more than a reflex, but it's enough to make his breath hitch.
When
her grip fades, Michael stands sharply, emotion buried under duty.
His fists clench tight, knuckles whitening in his gloves.
"Move!
Now! Get her to Lucia, go!"
The
engineers push the cart, the servos whining under the weight of
Spartan's armor. Rho Voss stumbles behind them, one-armed, blood
still leaking through the cracks in his plating. The medics flank
him, steadying him as they hurry toward the med bay.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Michael
watches them vanish into the inner gates, then turns on his heel.
"Command
room, now."
Red
Baron falls into step beside him, still covered in frost and grime.
"Sir," his voice is hoarse from the cold and shouting,
"what the hell was that out there? Spartan mentioned Venators.
Mentioned Absjorn. I've never heard of either."
Michael's
jaw tightens as they stride down the narrow stone corridor, boots
echoing on the steel floor. The fortress lights flicker in the storm.
He
exhales, the sound low and bitter. "They are zealots, and if
Spartan says that name," he glances to the side, his expression
grim, "then we're in more danger than we've ever been."
Red
Baron frowns. "Worse than the Eldiravan?"
Michael
doesn't answer immediately. He just stares ahead, past the iron doors
of the command room, past the world he once thought he understood.
When
he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, but heavier. "Worse,"
he says. "Because the Venators don't just kill you." He
pauses, the doors hissing open before them. "They damn you."
The
command room doors hiss open, and the cold from outside follows
Michael and Red Baron in like a living thing, biting, sharp, alive
with urgency.
They
stride down the central aisle between rows of humming consoles.
Officers and tacticians look up from holo-displays as the two move
past, their boots clanging on the steel deck. No one speaks. Whatever
they see on Michael's face, the pale fire of alarm, is enough to
silence them.
At
the rear of the chamber, Michael slaps the control switch on the
bulkhead. The reinforced door splits open with a mechanical growl,
like jaws unhinging. He doesn't wait for it to finish before slipping
through the gap.
Inside,
General Supreme Magnus Tiberius stands over the war table, its
holographic surface flickering with continental projections and fleet
data. His eyes rise, the faintest crease forming between his brows.
His tone, calm but sharp, cuts the quiet.
"Michael.
Red Baron. You're back early."
Michael
doesn't answer with decorum, there's no time. He moves right up to
the table, voice tight with restrained panic.
"Venators.
Absjorn. He's here. They attacked Spartan and Rho Voss."
Magnus'
face hardens, but his body stills. The silence stretches, a breath
drawn through iron lungs.
"…Venators?"
His tone is low, measured, dangerous. "Are you certain?"
"Red
Baron's company saw it firsthand," Michael says quickly.
"Spartan's too injured to speak. Rho Voss, barely standing."
The
color drains subtly from Magnus' face. It's not fear, it's anger,
glacial and deep. The thought that Spartan is not here to report
herself says everything. He exhales slowly, as if the air itself has
turned heavier.
"Where
are they now?"
"Lucia's
medical bay," Michael answers.
Red
Baron steps forward then, helmet tucked under his arm, snow still
clinging to his coat. "Sir, we found them out there, twenty
miles north. They were fighting four of… something. They looked
like Vardengard, but not ours. White plate. Red trim. Crosses."
Magnus'
gaze flicks toward him, eyes narrowing. "Absolutist heraldry."
Red
Baron nods, uncertain. "Didn't recognize the marks, sir. We
pulled them out, got them back here as fast as the engines would
run."
Magnus
doesn't reply. He sets his datapad down on the table, the quiet click
loud in the tension of the room. For a moment, he stares at the
holo-map, the shifting projection of Nirna's frozen terrain, then he
turns sharply.
Without
another word, he strides toward the door.
Michael
and Red Baron fall in beside him immediately. Michael glances
sideways, at the fury starting to rise in the General Supreme's eyes,
the weight of command and vengeance coiling in his stride.
Magnus'
voice comes low, dark, steady, "Absjorn dares set foot on
Nirna…"
The
door slides open again with a hiss of steam.
"…then
this world will remember what it means to forge gods in war."
Karthane
Medical Bay - Continous
The
medical bay is chaos held together by discipline, the hiss of oxygen,
the hum of med-mech arms, the bark of Lucia's orders cutting through
the noise like a scalpel.
"Careful
with that harness!" she snaps. "Don't scrape the plates,
hang the armor on the rack and open the spinal cradle. Now!"
Two
engineers obey immediately, the Olympian armor of Spartan towering
like a dark monolith once it's hung, its chest cavity yawning open,
steam curling out like the breath of a dying machine.
Spartan
herself is lowered out, limp, blood streaking the inner plating. The
medics catch her weight and guide her onto the gurney, the white
sheets beneath her instantly turning red.
Lucia
is already there, scanner wand in hand, running it across Spartan's
body. Her eyes flick from the handheld to the holoscreen as the data
spills in: skeletal mapping, vitals, trauma patterns.
Her
lips press into a thin, trembling line.
"Gods
below…"
She
doesn't need the numbers. She can see it, the gash across Spartan's
waist, deep enough to shear muscle and slice through armor. Bones
fractured. Blood loss catastrophic. The display beside her blinks
angry red warnings in a dozen places.
Lucia
curses under her breath, soft, furious, helpless. "What in the
Forge's name did this…"
She
straightens, voice snapping back into command.
"Stabilizers,
now! Get the plasma infusion lines up, two units, maybe three! Prep a
nanite vat for soft-tissue regen and clear Bay Three!"
Her
staff moves with precision, rushing to comply.
Beside
them, Rho Voss is being eased out of his own armor, the medics
struggling to free the massive black plates from his frame. His left
arm is gone clean at the shoulder; the stump still seared from
cauterization. He refuses a stretcher, staying upright, though his
knees tremble beneath the weight of exhaustion.
Two
medics catch him anyway, lowering him to a gurney beside Spartan. He
sits on the edge, half-slumped, breathing heavy through his teeth.
Lucia
glances his way, scanning him quickly, then again, more carefully.
The display flashes a full 3-D skeletal map, highlighting internal
bleeding, blunt trauma, and the cauterized stump of his arm.
She
mutters another curse, sharp and venomous.
"Fractures
in the ribs, spine bruised… arterial tear sealed, but gods, it is a
miracle you are alive."
She
turns to the staff nearest him. "Get compression foam on that
shoulder and full analgesics. I want him sedated before he bleeds out
standing up."
Rho
growls low in his throat, defiance even now, but Lucia ignores it.
She's already moving back to Spartan's side, her hands shaking just
enough to betray the tension in her control.
"Stay
with me, Spartan," she murmurs, half to herself, half to the
broken warrior before her. "You have walked through hell before.
You dare not stop now."
The
medbay whirs with renewed urgency, a symphony of metallic clatter and
sterile light.
Lucia's
voice cuts through it all.
"Prep
the replacement matrices, I need full osteo-polymer lattice sets,
Type-IV! Get me a Mark IX spinal graft while you are at it!"
Engineers
and medics rush between tables, crates opening with pneumatic hiss as
chrome-and-carbon implants gleam under the bright surgical lights.
New ribs, spinal braces, bone-anchored regulators, all laid out like
instruments of war.
"Rho
Voss first for the arm mold," Lucia calls, glancing over her
shoulder. "Nanite binding for the joint socket, and gods help
you if the calibration's off by even half a millimeter."
A
call comes through the overhead speaker:
"Operating
Room One ready."
Lucia
doesn't waste a heartbeat. "Move her."
The
medics lower the rails on Spartan's gurney and wheel her through the
sliding door, the sound of her armor's internal systems still humming
faintly, as if refusing to let her go.
Rho
Voss lurches up from his gurney, instinct dragging him to follow.
"No," Lucia says sharply, hand on his chest.
He
stares down at her, eyes burning, his massive frame trembling with
fatigue and frustration.
"You
will have your turn," Lucia tells him, voice softening but firm.
"You move now, you will tear what is left of you apart."
He
exhales, half growl, half defeat, and sits back down, the gurney
creaking beneath his weight. His right hand clenches the edge of the
frame hard enough to bend it.
Lucia
nods once, then turns. The heavy curtain slides shut between them,
swallowing Spartan's gurney in shadow and light.
Inside
the surgical bay, the air turns cold, filtered and sterile. Lucia is
already scrubbing in, gloves, mask, visor, every movement automatic,
methodical. Her two assistants hook Spartan's vitals into the wall
rig; screens bloom to life with glowing readouts: heart rate, neural
pattern, blood toxicity, armor interface failure warnings.
IV
lines hiss softly as they connect, nanite serum and blood stabilizers
pumping into the prone warrior's veins. The dull, rhythmic beep of
her vitals fills the silence as Lucia steps up to the table.
She
stares down at Spartan, half machine, half god, all broken, and
whispers, "Let's get you back together again."
Lucia's
gloved hands move with brutal precision, clamps, sutures, the hiss of
bone-gel as it seals a fracture. The air stinks of ozone and
sterilized iron. No anesthetic, no mercy. The Vardengard are forged,
not comforted.
Spartan's
body is opened to the ribcage, internal organs exposed beneath the
glow of surgical lamps. Her blood runs thick and dark across the
table, steadily siphoned and filtered through tubes. Lucia works
fast, replacing shattered bone with polished grafts, one after
another, a grim rhythm of reconstruction.
"Cervical
brace, now," she snaps, never looking up. A medic slides the
piece into her palm. "Seal the lower grafts. Stabilize the
pelvis line."
The
doors hiss open behind her. The sound of heavy boots, deliberate,
measured.
Magnus
steps in, the lights gleaming off his black-and-scarlet armor. Behind
him, Michael and Red Baron follow, their presence bringing an almost
sacred silence to the chaos.
Across
the room, Rho Voss sits shirtless on the edge of his gurney. His arm
socket is a torn mess of alloy and meat; sparks flicker from exposed
fiber bundles as engineers lock the mounting plate for his new arm
into place. The scent of scorched flesh fills the air.
He
snarls when they drive a tool into the joint, teeth gritting, breath
coming through his nose like a bull. Then, sensing a presence, he
looks up.
Magnus
stands before him, hands clasped behind his back. The General
Supreme's face softens, ever so slightly. "Rho," he says
quietly. "You live."
Rho
smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He grunts and he
raises what's left of his shoulder, then lifts his remaining hand and
gives a slow thumbs-up.
Magnus
huffs through his nose, half a laugh, half exhaustion. But then he
notices it. The subtle tremor. The faint red sheen building at the
corners of Rho's eyes.
The
Vardengard blinks, and blood spills down his cheeks, twin streams
glimmering under the medbay light. His cyan eyes blaze brighter for a
moment, before dimming again.
Magnus'
expression hardens. He knows the cause. He doesn't need to say the
word. Velmira. The substance that keeps them alive, and slowly
destroys them.
He
exhales, low and heavy. "There's no getting it out of your
veins, is there?"
Rho
Voss gives a wet, metallic chuckle.
Magnus
lets out another sigh, a flicker of sorrow passing across his eyes,
then turns away. "You did well. Rest while you can."
Leaving
Rho behind, he strides toward the far end of the medbay, to the
curtain drawn around Spartan's table.
The
soft hum of monitors bleeds through the partition. Magnus hesitates
for a fraction of a second, his hand hovering over the fabric. Then,
slowly, he pulls the curtain aside.
Lucia
doesn't look up. She's wrist-deep in Spartan's torso, replacing
shattered ribs with carbon reinforcement, eyes narrow behind her
visor. "If you are not here to help," she says coldly,
"stay out of my light."
Magnus
says nothing. He simply stands there, gaze fixed on Spartan's
half-rebuilt body, blood, metal, and resilience laid bare.
Behind
him, Michael and Red Baron linger near Rho Voss, both watching the
curtain but making no move to approach. Michael knows better than to
interrupt Lucia, or the General. He folds his arms and lowers his
gaze, the faint hum of Rho's mechanical repair rig the only sound
between them.
The
medbay hums, part forge, part cathedral, all war.
Magnus
steps closer, leaning slightly over Spartan without obstructing
Lucia's meticulous lights. The hum of machines fills the medbay,
punctuated by the rhythmic beep of Spartan's monitors.
"How
is she?" he asks quietly, voice low enough to carry a weight of
concern without disturbing the procedure.
Lucia
doesn't pause her hands, but gestures vaguely toward the monitor, the
glow illuminating the jagged lines of Spartan's vital signs. "Stable.
For now. Repairs are holding," she says, her tone clinical but
not unkind. "These grafts, the ribs, the implants, they will
take time to integrate. Time she won't be happy sitting through."
Magnus
scans the data, eyes tracing the jagged red spikes and blue lines.
Each number, each rhythm, paints the story of Spartan's body pushed
to its absolute limits.
The
heart monitor beeps a little faster, a subtle rise in rate. Magnus
notices immediately. "Her heart…" he murmurs, watching
the tiny fluctuations. The machine almost seems to respond to him as
much as to Spartan herself.
Lucia
glances up, eyebrows slightly knit. "It's not unusual," she
says, though she keeps her hands steady. "Even unconscious, she
reacts to familiar stimuli. Her body knows who you are."
Magnus
lets that hang in the air, a heavy weight between them. He watches
the monitor again, voice softer this time. "How long?"
The
heart spikes again, a tiny flutter across the display. Magnus' eyes
narrow slightly, a mixture of recognition and concern. "She
hears me," he says quietly.
Lucia
shakes her head without looking away from her work. "Standard
recovery. Full stabilization, integration of grafts, tissue healing…
weeks at least. And knowing Spartan," she adds, a faint smirk
tugging at the corner of her mouth, "she won't stay in the bed
once she wakes."
Magnus
exhales, a low rumble against the medbay's sterile air, and allows
himself a brief pause, taking in the stillness of Spartan lying
there, bloodied, rebuilt, unbowed. His presence is quiet, but
palpable, almost a tether for the Vardengard in the midst of her
slow, painful recovery.
Spartan's
hands claw at the sterile sheets, jerking upward with surprising
strength. Magnus steps back instinctively, his towering frame
reacting to the sudden surge of energy. Lucia freezes mid-motion,
scalpel hovering, eyes wide. The assistants leap forward, one on each
arm, gently but firmly keeping Spartan pressed against the gurney.
Her
polychromatic eyes blaze as they open fully, darting around the
medbay. Panic and confusion flash across her face for a heartbeat,
the monitors spike, heart rate climbing in tandem with the thrumming
tension in the room.
Then,
she sees Magnus, his expression calm but concerned, and the sight
seems to anchor her. Her gaze shifts to Lucia, steady and
professional, hands moving with quiet authority. Spartan's shoulders
tense, then relax. The claws of panic retract. Her heart rate
gradually settles, the beeping of the monitors smoothing back into a
steady rhythm.
She
exhales sharply, a sound somewhere between a snarl and a sigh, and
Magnus lets out a low breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"Easy," he murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for
her to hear.
Lucia
exchanges a quick glance with her assistants, nodding subtly. "She's
responsive. That's… good," she says, though her voice carries
a note of disbelief at Spartan's raw willpower even in this state.
Spartan
blinks once, twice, then shifts her head slightly, focusing fully on
Magnus. Her breathing evens, and her hands curl into weak fists,
resting on the table. The fire of her defiance hasn't dimmed, only
tempered for the moment by recognition and trust.
Magnus
steps closer again, hand held out lightly, but he doesn't touch her
yet. His voice is calm, steady. "You are safe. You are not
leaving the medbay yet. But you are here… you are alive."
Spartan's
gaze lingers on him, her breathing slow but controlled, and she gives
the faintest of nods, acknowledgment more than compliance. Her body
may be broken, but her mind and will remain unbowed.
Spartan's
lips part slightly, voice hoarse and strained. "Master…"
she rasps, barely above a whisper, but her polychromatic eyes lock
onto his. She forces the word from her throat again, this time adding
the name, "Absjorn…"
Magnus
leans closer, crouching just enough to meet her gaze. His expression
is calm but edged with concern. "I know," he says quietly.
"Red Baron and the others told me everything."
Spartan's
eyes narrow slightly, frustration and pain flaring. Her breathing is
ragged, and she struggles to push herself upright, though her body
resists. "What… do we… do?" she manages to choke out,
each word costing her effort.
Magnus
places a steadying hand lightly near her shoulder, careful not to
interfere with the ongoing procedures. His voice is firm, yet
measured. "Rest," he says. "Right now, you do nothing
but heal. I will figure out what comes next. Absjorn will not wait
forever, but neither will we."
Spartan's
gaze lingers on him, searching for the fire she's always relied on in
herself. She lets out a short, frustrated growl, then finally slumps
back against the gurney, her strength spent, accepting, if only for
the moment, that she must trust Magnus to act while she recovers.
