Chapter 5: Moonshine
Zalmar sat hunched over his drink, a clear sweet alcoholic beverage. For Llcyran culture, which appreciated Rhasweaving, liquor under the moon held special significance. For Commander Zalmoon, it brought painful memories. These memories kept looping, echoing:
Unrest and unease. Fires of resentment erupting from the ground-consuming eyes
Ears of Popseed wilting under unquenchable heat
Desperation splits the ground
Waves of sorrow consuming
Towering ladders to stars afar
All the while so many thirst
As fissures tear upon the earth
Tremors dance on liquid ground
Yet industry still goes unbound
Flames of conflict out afar?
Wars unreported gone unseen
Could he redirect this trolley of history?
The sharp and bitter cut of liquor bit through Zalmar Zalmoon’s throat as the fermented Hyiopsa juice shot down to quench the inner turmoil fomenting as the battle progressed. It had only been two hours and the Holy Imperium of D’varoh’s forces had already overwhelmed his entrenchment. He hadn’t been this desperate since his younger years.
He remembered being 200 years younger, a mere 175 Sekaian-Centered Cycles. The Arem droughts had continued through those years, devastating all of the Yghastian city-fleets beyond Rokhast and Thysphatra - a port and secondary capital. As the center of trade, it only made sense that he had worked in the Administration of Account Bureaucracy (AAB), known to the world as the Ushers. Had he known he’d be gathering copper and silt iron from this bouncy-castle of a moon, a mere 200 years from the first Arem Accord, he’d have probably done things differently.
The night was much like the current one, still with an urgent trepidation. The water being fed through state services was being rationed further. He’d sighed a deep sigh, cursing D’varoh under his breath as he slept on his floor mattress within his mobile house vehicle: a boathouse. Despite its limited size – this yacht held more than enough room to serve as a viable and responsible home in the manner of Yghastian’s nomadic life. During months of settlement within the interior of the state, one could invoke the discipleship of Etmos, Eilonhir of travel, hospitality , scholarship, and protection, to secure a guest space on one of the larger Land Busses. These didn’t move much except when migrating at season’s end, turning their massive presence into a great rally point.
Thermidore was ending and the summer’s days were slipping colder into Brumaire, the Fall of Sekaia. And he would probably be living in a smaller Land Bus, a Two Decker. Fortunately keepers existed, an order of Elysian-trained monks dedicated to preserving the estates and possession of those seasonal cities too melded with their environment. These Rhasweavers and Air Tempermancers made sure that neither the land nor neighbors overtake the vacated season-homes of the secondary capital.
This Fall was going to be different, as he and the fellow citizens were going to the fissure that had struck when the Accord was being fashioned 10 years prior. Those rain catchers hadn’t been installed properly. The Sai empire had had difficulty maintaining their workforce and warehouse supply, making fashioned material for the structures hard to come by. This coupled with the trade tensions between the often isolated and mysterious trade nation and D’varoh, made getting supplies from the main Co-signer frustratingly difficult.
Chief Rokuud had come up with an idea however. Perhaps they could dig out a city deep enough to serve as another well. The planet of Sekaia was known to host wells deeper than Arem.
And so, Zalmar Zalmoon had agreed to forsake his role as keeper and join the excavating crew deep in this city they’d named Khaihylo-Klii. This would be the crucible upon which Khaldos would allow Yghastian freedom to reign, away from the technocratic eyes of the independent countries making up the Xelryian Web of Trade. A lie, each confederacy attempting to divide the home world between themselves flipped on the other. A lie that kept an entire race enslaved by a class of oligarchs. This drought they were experiencing was testament to this.
“He’s made his way ahead of our mobile turrets. Our firewalls were overtaken. Our mech unit is disabled,” Kaelen’s update woke Zalmoon up from his day dream.
Removing his helmet, Zalmar’s voice was no longer mechanical, but surprisingly lively for a cyborg.
“Kaelen, intercept him at 2nd lobby, level sub 5. I’ve already alerted Inner Security. We will persuade our guest to join our ceremony.”
Kaelen’s expression, typically a study in detached calm, sharpened. His eyes, the color of polished chrome, fixed on the holographic map, tracing Ronjah’s projected trajectory with chilling precision.
"Understood, Commander," he affirmed, his voice a low, even tone devoid of inflection. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer rippled across his body as he bundled strands into his forearms and shins - a silent acknowledgment of the formidable challenge the intruder posed.
This Shadow’s reputation as a warrior and Tempermantic prodigy preceded him. Kaelen was almost overtaken with a bloodlust-fueled excitement.
To have an opportunity to humiliate such a formidable soldier within all of Sekaia under the rite of Yrgundroh. This martial dance was less about ending your opponent and more about increasing the morale of your forces, and thus their combat effectiveness and potency. And this was done through martial performance.
Without another word, he turned, his movements fluid and economical, already mapping the most efficient route through the labyrinthine corridors of the sub-levels.
Miles away– deep within the humming guts of Zalmar's command facility, Ronjah darted like a shadow in the dim emergency lighting. Flashing purple strobes stretched across his mag-weave armor– microscopic hexagonal etchings peeking through the layered sage-green wrappings.Through telekinetically warped doorways his pale, eldritch mask and hooded cloak pierced the moon-alloy thresholds. The haunting visage was the last thing the cybernetically grafted foot soldiers glimpsed before being pierced by the star-hot lances of plasma sprouting from his gloved fingertips. Their mechanised support vehicles lay lifeless – the modified YD’ARE69Q’s chassis lay deactivated perched in wait within their carefully lined killzones. The Re’anhgrii -D’varoh’s cyberfare warfare specialists had executed perfectly. Information gathered from the earlier lurker hacks had been put to use against GCA’s security systems.
They’d even allowed him a path through the underground complex’s sonic-tram system. They had been thorough enough to have compromised the facility's internal firewalls – usually impenetrable, currently inert, freeing the processing power of his remote lurkers and leaving a clear path into the lower levels.
It was a clever move on Zalmar’s part to embed his command post within GravWhelm Industrial’s Mega-mining complex. It made sense though, given that the underground location and the hard rock encasing the compound made it near-impossible to destroy from bombardment.
A faint, almost imperceptible hum resonated through the floor beneath his boots—the distinct frequency of Inner Security officers running towards him. Ronjah paused, pressing himself against a cold, reinforced bulkhead. He unbundled a few strands with a snap of his fingers. His senses stretched out enhanced by the spent strands, probing the air, confirming the shift in defenses. These weren’t the standard GCA cyber-eugenic soldiers; these were Zalmar’s personal elite, equipped with advanced Rhas-suppression gear and neural scramblers.
They moved with a disturbing, almost synchronized precision, their movements too fluid for the standard augmented soldiers. Zalmar was definitely prepared, and he wasn't leaving much to chance.
Around the next corner, two Inner Security operatives emerged, their dark, form-fitting suits almost invisible in the dim light. Their visors, dark as obsidian, reflected no light, giving them an unsettling, faceless quality. Instead of conventional firearms, they wielded sleek, wrist-mounted energy conduits that pulsed with a dull, oppressive aura—a subtle distortion in the very fabric of Rhas around them. They were designed to nullify, to incapacitate, to persuade.
Ronjah recognized the subtle energy signature; these were wrist-mounted skikar-dart throwers- darks charged with capsules full of tin/ iron dust mixed with gunpowder and charged to discharge a large load of energy.
This was a weapon meant to overstimulate and disorient him before he could defend against his capture. They sought to take him alive, to dissect his mind for secrets, for strategies. A cold fury, pure and electric, coursed through him, intensifying his Rhas.
They wanted his audience? He would supply it, but on his terms.
He burst from cover, a blur of dark cloth and crackling purple energy. His sidearms, etched with Everessence sigils, leaped into his hands. One dart thrower snapped a quick, binding pulse, but Ronjah’s will-bending twisted the localized field, sending it spiraling harmlessly into the ceiling.
He fired the charged ballistic slugs impacting the operative’s chest with a sickening crunch. The second operative charged, attempting to engage in close quarters, but Ronjah’s lightning- remitter essence flared, a controlled burst of raw energy sending a jolt through the operative’s suit, frying their neural network in an instant. They collapsed, twitching.
Ronjah could still hear the thudding of boots. Too many to fight all at once. He sprinted to the elevator and skidding to a stop as he barely made it to the lift. He felt a sharp jolt -a dart had found its target – its impact sprouting flashes of red and bright orange in his vision as his shoulder felt like it erupted. It hadn't been blown off, but he was telling in a raw experience of hurt. Ronjah slammed the button directing the elevator downwards before the metal box descended with violence through the rocky vaults toward his destination: Corporate suite lvl B-5.
He felt uneasy as the elevator approached his destination. The way forward was too easy, too predictable. And those Inner Security officers? They were specifically trained to take down someone like him. If they had had a Wheelie-bot, drones fashioned from a single wheel equipped with sensors, camera, bright lights and nets, he’d have had a harder fight.
And there was no chance that the reinforcements would be without any.
Which meant. He was being directed.
He was the prey.
Ronjah gritted his teeth against the subtle insult delivered with his revelation. But he had time. GravWhelmIndustrial had their elevators to the Corporate sublevel skip the majority of the mine levels. Sub level 5 was deep within the moon’s crust. It was a marvel unto itself. Deep in the earth, sat greenery you’d expect at an aboveground wilderness park. The velvet sheen of the hive’s interior was contrasted by outcroppings of trees and bushes, illuminated by blue UV leds. The light cast a somber hue on an area meant to host a wide range of parties.
Tonight, a spontaneous reservation had been made.
A party of two.
A league of war- the gaze of Ieridan and Adrubahk now centered on the duo.
Mirrored approaches to Rhasweaving.
Kaelen’s cold emotional detachment vs. This vengeful shadow of murder.
Shadin vs Elysein.
“Greetings, fellow essenceborn,”Kaelen greeted his visitor as he walked out from one of the many tunnels carved into the stone housing the miles long base.
His voice was smooth, almost melodious, a stark contrast to the blue and gloomy surroundings. He came to a halt three dozen paces from Ronjah, his stance relaxed, yet radiating an undeniable power. There was no recognition in his polished chrome eyes, only an analytical assessment of a formidable opponent.
“Your reputation precedes you Rhasweaver. And a Shadow no less. I suspect the latest murders on this side of the Gestalt Sphere were your handiwork.”
Ronjah wanted to tell him that Idris 7 was on the Home world Union’s sphere of cosmic influence, not the GCA’s. That the Galactic Coalition of Ascendant governments had yet again overstepped its bounds. Its first offense being the desecration of the body. But speaking would only put him and his mission in danger. He was a nameless shadow, no name, no identity, just one of the jathka’s bodyguards. He’d have to put up with the insults.
“What? No answer for me? No counter to my lie - a half truth sold by the likes of Zalmar. Why him? Why here- well, here makes sense I guess. You are the royal family’s hand. This planet is rich in minerals vital to the construction of our world currency. It all checks out. But why all of this trouble to go after a commander? Glassing the planet would be more economical.”
A thrown dagger sidestepped, broke him from his curious probe of his opponent’s motives. He nodded at where he had been standing before continuing to address his assailant.
“I just wanted to point out a pattern. It seems Abymalm’s influence digs deeper into your marrow than I suspected. His influence over Sekaia’s timeline has grown large enough to influence his brothers! Are you sure your allegiance to Ieridan is true and not a shallow show? I merit once this League has resolved, Adrubahk’s lust for violence and control will have molded our landscape!”
Ronjah’s answer was two shots from his sidearms, blocked by Kaelen’s short swords. Despite his antagonism, the atmosphere was void of energy - dead. The hair on the nape of his neck rose, fear finally making its presence known.
“Yes, my fellow warrior. Ieridan and Adrubahk have joined to watch our show. And the fate of our skirmish is to be decided through Yrgundroh!” Kaelen jumped, his body becoming a semi-circle of mag-weave armored flesh and metal.
Blade met blade as Ronjah iron-called two shortswords of his own - standard issue Royal Marine straight blade machetes. It was tempting - very- to go straight to the heirloom weapon, but if Ronjah could, he’d reveal himself to his prey.
“If I were a detective, my royal bodyguard friend,” Kaelen said as he grinned, shoulders bunched and pushing against his opponent, “I’d say because I’m a lover of poetry - this is a vendetta on behalf of the Sarrans. This wouldn’t be the first time the heir of the clan was out to wipe the slate clean.”
Ronjah brandished his blades and leapt at the pale-faced Shadin. Blade met blade again as the deceptively quick two-handed sword denied Ronjah the opportunity to flank his opponent. Ronjah, seeing that conventional tactics wouldn’t work, stretched an arm out toward the sky.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Lances of light arced from his fingers and through the conduits spanning the level- sending brilliant sparks of burnt and burst metal into the air. Seizing the pain and hesitation of Kalen was effortless as the assassin slid behind his Yrgundroh partner and grabbed both inner elbows before driving a knee into Kaelen’s back.
Kaelen roared, releasing a charged bundle of everessence as a Rhas-Shroud- knocking the Shadow back a few paces further than originally intended. This gave Kaelen the time and space to face his opponent.
Arcs of lightning and consistent bombardment by shards of glass and paneling concealed Ronjah’s movements. The essenceborn tumbled and spun through the chaos, almost dancing and cutting across the shadin’s own strikes and telekinetic throws –this wasn't just destruction, no, it was far too elegant and choreographed.
“For all your silence, your work speaks loudly of your devotion, Shadow of Akuun, late Hand of D’varoh. Great use of environmental hazards. But my esteemed guest, why not even a simple greeting?”
Kaelen expended a bundle of 17 strands, enough to cause fatigue - into his larynx, forcing out the sentence as a sonic weapon. To his disappointment, his opponent had prepared as his cowl’s mag weave fiber tensed up against his skin and ears to mitigate the sonic disorientation. ‘Perhaps a more cautious entrance would have served me better,” Kaelen mused as he somersaulted back, repositioning for a better angle of attack.
“Sardyn, you take point.” The muffled voice of the commander hurried the eilonkiin along, pushing the Royal marines through the communications spire- built into the mountain where it could survive a mountainslide or bombardment like D'varoan architecture was likely to do.
The elf didn't know why, but he felt pumped - energized. Sardyn of 5th house Once Above, wanted blood.
“Hold and take point,” the commander said, as if reading his mind. “Command wants that comms station taken, not destroyed. Let's try completing their orders for once.”
“Yes, commander Harrington,” Sardyn replied.
The Royal marines took position in front of the welded shutter doors before them.
Commander Harrington nodded to an aide.
“Get me two fire starters to heat and then cool off the doors,” he said, using a hand signal to get his point across.
His aide nodded, sending the same hand signal with the blare of a whistle. Four marines - each wearing a red-orange band across the right bicep - formed up. Two were on either side of the door. Sardyn readied his weapon while the tempermancers sent out and then absorbed lances of intense heat. The barely visible waves of destruction cut across the air, exploding as waves of cold air would rush in and warp the doors inward. Not an elegant or effective entrance. A soft boom from below distracted the doubt from his mind. Their sappers had gotten in. Commander Harrington signaled with a nod and a hand chop. The tempermancers grabbed their plasma lances- more like super-heated fire hoses and channeled their tempermancy through the cutting tools.
Sparks flew as the doors buckled and collapsed. The spire had been taken. They had-
A bullet whizzed by- strangely wide for a D’varoan womphawk. A Royal Marine sharpshooter was precise.
“Sorry, we were expecting reinforced units. Our unit’s call sign is auroch, please state yours.” An iluun.
“Call sign auroch, this is unit call sign salmon. We swim beneath the ravens.”
A pause. Acknowledgement through silence.
“A salute to our victory Jathka’s wing.” Commander Harrington walked forwards past the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the obscured soldiers awaiting behind the flame-scarred bulkhead.
Kaelen’s confidence slowly evaporated as he realized he had been grasped by a drug- fueled mania. It wasn't from the fight – the fogginess that was the powder was starting to fade into a sobering crispness.
A soberness that chilled the air with as much gravity as the dark energy accumulating right in the open court of 2nd lobby sub level 5 – the address of the corporate sector entrance.
This was where the power needed to be concentrated, where it would collect. And with this pawn of the Vashtnal before him having such potency, it might just be enough to-
Kaelen’s eyes widened in pain as he realized the inner monologue was Not him. His acknowledgement of something else snapped like the bones of his spine. But not before registering that he had been stabbed through the back. The sharp probe of black steel was enough to inform him that he had failed.
Failed to account that he was fighting a remitter.
Failed to consider remitters didn’t just shoot lightning- they rode it.
Another sharp pain followed by a cold refreshing spray.
A failed attempt to strike back with his right arm.
Another searing, this time burning pain. The shadow spoke for the first time, his words coming out as a like the soft creaking whisper of a willow branch…
“It's that last hopeful high the bark gives, that we assassins love about the Uboa tree. Where the nightmare finally rests upon your shoulders and the euphoria is SNATCHED. You get just enough insight to distract you from what's going on around you.”
Kaelen choked out a guttural response. Strange, Ronjah hadn't staChapter 5: Moonshine
Zalmar sat hunched over his drink, a clear sweet alcoholic beverage. For Llcyran culture, which appreciated Rhasweaving, liquor under the moon held special significance. For Commander Zalmoon, it brought painful memories. These memories kept looping, echoing:
Unrest and unease. Fires of resentment erupting from the ground-consuming eyes
Ears of Popseed wilting under unquenchable heat
Desperation splits the ground
Waves of sorrow consuming
Towering ladders to stars afar
All the while so many thirst
As fissures tear upon the earth
Tremors dance on liquid ground
Yet industry still goes unbound
Flames of conflict out afar?
Wars unreported gone unseen
Could he redirect this trolley of history?
The sharp and bitter cut of liquor bit through Zalmar Zalmoon’s throat as the fermented Hyiopsa juice shot down to quench the inner turmoil fomenting as the battle progressed. It had only been two hours and the Holy Imperium of D’varoh’s forces had already overwhelmed his entrenchment. He hadn’t been this desperate since his younger years.
He remembered being 200 years younger, a mere 175 Sekaian-Centered Cycles. The Arem droughts had continued through those years, devastating all of the Yghastian city-fleets beyond Rokhast and Thysphatra - a port and secondary capital. As the center of trade, it only made sense that he had worked in the Administration of Account Bureaucracy (AAB), known to the world as the Ushers. Had he known he’d be gathering copper and silt iron from this bouncy-castle of a moon, a mere 200 years from the first Arem Accord, he’d have probably done things differently.
The night was much like the current one, still with an urgent trepidation. The water being fed through state services was being rationed further. He’d sighed a deep sigh, cursing D’varoh under his breath as he slept on his floor mattress within his mobile house vehicle: a boathouse. Despite its limited size – this yacht held more than enough room to serve as a viable and responsible home in the manner of Yghastian’s nomadic life. During months of settlement within the interior of the state, one could invoke the discipleship of Etmos, Eilonhir of travel, hospitality , scholarship, and protection, to secure a guest space on one of the larger Land Busses. These didn’t move much except when migrating at season’s end, turning their massive presence into a great rally point.
Thermidore was ending and the summer’s days were slipping colder into Brumaire, the Fall of Sekaia. And he would probably be living in a smaller Land Bus, a Two Decker. Fortunately keepers existed, an order of Elysian-trained monks dedicated to preserving the estates and possession of those seasonal cities too melded with their environment. These Rhasweavers and Air Tempermancers made sure that neither the land nor neighbors overtake the vacated season-homes of the secondary capital.
This Fall was going to be different, as he and the fellow citizens were going to the fissure that had struck when the Accord was being fashioned 10 years prior. Those rain catchers hadn’t been installed properly. The Sai empire had had difficulty maintaining their workforce and warehouse supply, making fashioned material for the structures hard to come by. This coupled with the trade tensions between the often isolated and mysterious trade nation and D’varoh, made getting supplies from the main Co-signer frustratingly difficult.
Chief Rokuud had come up with an idea however. Perhaps they could dig out a city deep enough to serve as another well. The planet of Sekaia was known to host wells deeper than Arem.
And so, Zalmar Zalmoon had agreed to forsake his role as keeper and join the excavating crew deep in this city they’d named Khaihylo-Klii. This would be the crucible upon which Khaldos would allow Yghastian freedom to reign, away from the technocratic eyes of the independent countries making up the Xelryian Web of Trade. A lie, each confederacy attempting to divide the home world between themselves flipped on the other. A lie that kept an entire race enslaved by a class of oligarchs. This drought they were experiencing was testament to this.
“He’s made his way ahead of our mobile turrets. Our firewalls were overtaken. Our mech unit is disabled,” Kaelen’s update woke Zalmoon up from his day dream.
Removing his helmet, Zalmar’s voice was no longer mechanical, but surprisingly lively for a cyborg.
“Kaelen, intercept him at 2nd lobby, level sub 5. I’ve already alerted Inner Security. We will persuade our guest to join our ceremony.”
Kaelen’s expression, typically a study in detached calm, sharpened. His eyes, the color of polished chrome, fixed on the holographic map, tracing Ronjah’s projected trajectory with chilling precision.
"Understood, Commander," he affirmed, his voice a low, even tone devoid of inflection. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer rippled across his body as he bundled strands into his forearms and shins - a silent acknowledgment of the formidable challenge the intruder posed.
This Shadow’s reputation as a warrior and Tempermantic prodigy preceded him. Kaelen was almost overtaken with a bloodlust-fueled excitement.
To have an opportunity to humiliate such a formidable soldier within all of Sekaia under the rite of Yrgundroh. This martial dance was less about ending your opponent and more about increasing the morale of your forces, and thus their combat effectiveness and potency. And this was done through martial performance.
Without another word, he turned, his movements fluid and economical, already mapping the most efficient route through the labyrinthine corridors of the sub-levels.
Miles away– deep within the humming guts of Zalmar's command facility, Ronjah darted like a shadow in the dim emergency lighting. Flashing purple strobes stretched across his mag-weave armor– microscopic hexagonal etchings peeking through the layered sage-green wrappings.Through telekinetically warped doorways his pale, eldritch mask and hooded cloak pierced the moon-alloy thresholds. The haunting visage was the last thing the cybernetically grafted foot soldiers glimpsed before being pierced by the star-hot lances of plasma sprouting from his gloved fingertips. Their mechanised support vehicles lay lifeless – the modified YD’ARE69Q’s chassis lay deactivated perched in wait within their carefully lined killzones. The Re’anhgrii -D’varoh’s cyberfare warfare specialists had executed perfectly. Information gathered from the earlier lurker hacks had been put to use against GCA’s security systems.
They’d even allowed him a path through the underground complex’s sonic-tram system. They had been thorough enough to have compromised the facility's internal firewalls – usually impenetrable, currently inert, freeing the processing power of his remote lurkers and leaving a clear path into the lower levels.
It was a clever move on Zalmar’s part to embed his command post within GravWhelm Industrial’s Mega-mining complex. It made sense though, given that the underground location and the hard rock encasing the compound made it near-impossible to destroy from bombardment.
A faint, almost imperceptible hum resonated through the floor beneath his boots—the distinct frequency of Inner Security officers running towards him. Ronjah paused, pressing himself against a cold, reinforced bulkhead. He unbundled a few strands with a snap of his fingers. His senses stretched out enhanced by the spent strands, probing the air, confirming the shift in defenses. These weren’t the standard GCA cyber-eugenic soldiers; these were Zalmar’s personal elite, equipped with advanced Rhas-suppression gear and neural scramblers.
They moved with a disturbing, almost synchronized precision, their movements too fluid for the standard augmented soldiers. Zalmar was definitely prepared, and he wasn't leaving much to chance.
Around the next corner, two Inner Security operatives emerged, their dark, form-fitting suits almost invisible in the dim light. Their visors, dark as obsidian, reflected no light, giving them an unsettling, faceless quality. Instead of conventional firearms, they wielded sleek, wrist-mounted energy conduits that pulsed with a dull, oppressive aura—a subtle distortion in the very fabric of Rhas around them. They were designed to nullify, to incapacitate, to persuade.
Ronjah recognized the subtle energy signature; these were wrist-mounted skikar-dart throwers- darks charged with capsules full of tin/ iron dust mixed with gunpowder and charged to discharge a large load of energy.
This was a weapon meant to overstimulate and disorient him before he could defend against his capture. They sought to take him alive, to dissect his mind for secrets, for strategies. A cold fury, pure and electric, coursed through him, intensifying his Rhas.
They wanted his audience? He would supply it, but on his terms.
He burst from cover, a blur of dark cloth and crackling purple energy. His sidearms, etched with Everessence sigils, leaped into his hands. One dart thrower snapped a quick, binding pulse, but Ronjah’s will-bending twisted the localized field, sending it spiraling harmlessly into the ceiling.
He fired the charged ballistic slugs impacting the operative’s chest with a sickening crunch. The second operative charged, attempting to engage in close quarters, but Ronjah’s lightning- remitter essence flared, a controlled burst of raw energy sending a jolt through the operative’s suit, frying their neural network in an instant. They collapsed, twitching.
Ronjah could still hear the thudding of boots. Too many to fight all at once. He sprinted to the elevator and skidding to a stop as he barely made it to the lift. He felt a sharp jolt -a dart had found its target – its impact sprouting flashes of red and bright orange in his vision as his shoulder felt like it erupted. It hadn't been blown off, but he was telling in a raw experience of hurt. Ronjah slammed the button directing the elevator downwards before the metal box descended with violence through the rocky vaults toward his destination: Corporate suite lvl B-5.
He felt uneasy as the elevator approached his destination. The way forward was too easy, too predictable. And those Inner Security officers? They were specifically trained to take down someone like him. If they had had a Wheelie-bot, drones fashioned from a single wheel equipped with sensors, camera, bright lights and nets, he’d have had a harder fight.
And there was no chance that the reinforcements would be without any.
Which meant. He was being directed.
He was the prey.
Ronjah gritted his teeth against the subtle insult delivered with his revelation. But he had time. GravWhelmIndustrial had their elevators to the Corporate sublevel skip the majority of the mine levels. Sub level 5 was deep within the moon’s crust. It was a marvel unto itself. Deep in the earth, sat greenery you’d expect at an aboveground wilderness park. The velvet sheen of the hive’s interior was contrasted by outcroppings of trees and bushes, illuminated by blue UV leds. The light cast a somber hue on an area meant to host a wide range of parties.
Tonight, a spontaneous reservation had been made.
A party of two.
A league of war- the gaze of Ieridan and Adrubahk now centered on the duo.
Mirrored approaches to Rhasweaving.
Kaelen’s cold emotional detachment vs. This vengeful shadow of murder.
Shadin vs Elysein.
“Greetings, fellow essenceborn,”Kaelen greeted his visitor as he walked out from one of the many tunnels carved into the stone housing the miles long base.
His voice was smooth, almost melodious, a stark contrast to the blue and gloomy surroundings. He came to a halt three dozen paces from Ronjah, his stance relaxed, yet radiating an undeniable power. There was no recognition in his polished chrome eyes, only an analytical assessment of a formidable opponent.
“Your reputation precedes you Rhasweaver. And a Shadow no less. I suspect the latest murders on this side of the Gestalt Sphere were your handiwork.”
Ronjah wanted to tell him that Idris 7 was on the Home world Union’s sphere of cosmic influence, not the GCA’s. That the Galactic Coalition of Ascendant governments had yet again overstepped its bounds. Its first offense being the desecration of the body. But speaking would only put him and his mission in danger. He was a nameless shadow, no name, no identity, just one of the jathka’s bodyguards. He’d have to put up with the insults.
“What? No answer for me? No counter to my lie - a half truth sold by the likes of Zalmar. Why him? Why here- well, here makes sense I guess. You are the royal family’s hand. This planet is rich in minerals vital to the construction of our world currency. It all checks out. But why all of this trouble to go after a commander? Glassing the planet would be more economical.”
A thrown dagger sidestepped, broke him from his curious probe of his opponent’s motives. He nodded at where he had been standing before continuing to address his assailant.
“I just wanted to point out a pattern. It seems Abymalm’s influence digs deeper into your marrow than I suspected. His influence over Sekaia’s timeline has grown large enough to influence his brothers! Are you sure your allegiance to Ieridan is true and not a shallow show? I merit once this League has resolved, Adrubahk’s lust for violence and control will have molded our landscape!”
Ronjah’s answer was two shots from his sidearms, blocked by Kaelen’s short swords. Despite his antagonism, the atmosphere was void of energy - dead. The hair on the nape of his neck rose, fear finally making its presence known.
“Yes, my fellow warrior. Ieridan and Adrubbahk have joined to watch our show. And the fate of our skirmish is to be decided through Yrgundroh!” Kaelen jumped, his body becoming a semi-circle of mag-weave armored flesh and metal.
Blade met blade as Ronjah iron-called two short swords of his own - standard issue Royal Marine straight blade machetes. It was tempting - very- to go straight to the heirloom weapon, but if Ronjah could, he’d reveal himself to his prey.
“If I were a detective, my royal bodyguard friend,” Kaelen said as he grinned, shoulders bunched and pushing against his opponent, “I’d say because I’m a lover of poetry - this is a vendetta on behalf of the Sarrans. This wouldn’t be the first time the heir of the clan was out to wipe the slate clean.”
Ronjah brandished his blades and leapt at the pale-faced Shadin. Blade met blade again as the deceptively quick two-handed sword denied Ronjah the opportunity to flank his opponent. Ronjah, seeing that conventional tactics wouldn’t work, stretched an arm out toward the sky.
Lances of light arced from his fingers and through the conduits spanning the level- sending brilliant sparks of burnt and burst metal into the air. Seizing the pain and hesitation of Kalen was effortless as the assassin slid behind his Yrgundroh partner and grabbed both inner elbows before driving a knee into Kaelen’s back.
Kaelen roared, releasing a charged bundle of everessence as a Rhas-Shroud- knocking the Shadow back a few paces further than originally intended. This gave Kaelen the time and space to face his opponent.
Arcs of lightning and consistent bombardment by shards of glass and paneling concealed Ronjah’s movements. The essenceborn tumbled and spun through the chaos, almost dancing and cutting across the shadin’s own strikes and telekinetic throws –this wasn't just destruction, no, it was far too elegant and choreographed.
“For all your silence, your work speaks loudly of your devotion, Shadow of Akuun, late Hand of D’varoh. Great use of environmental hazards. But my esteemed guest, why not even a simple greeting?”
Kaelen expended a bundle of 17 strands, enough to cause fatigue - into his larynx, forcing out the sentence as a sonic weapon. To his disappointment, his opponent had prepared as his cowl’s mag weave fiber tensed up against his skin and ears to mitigate the sonic disorientation. ‘Perhaps a more cautious entrance would have served me better,” Kaelen mused as he somersaulted back, repositioning for a better angle of attack.
“Sardyn, you take point.” The muffled voice of the commander hurried the eilonkiin along, pushing the Royal marines through the communications spire- built into the mountain where it could survive a mountainslide or bombardment like D'varoan architecture was likely to do.
The elf didn't know why, but he felt pumped - energized. Sardyn of 5th house Once Above, wanted blood.
“Hold and take point,” the commander said, as if reading his mind. “Command wants that comms station taken, not destroyed. Let's try completing their orders for once.”
“Yes, commander Harrington,” Sardyn replied.
The Royal marines took position in front of the welded shutter doors before them.
Commander Harrington nodded to an aide.
“Get me two fire starters to heat and then cool off the doors,” he said, using a hand signal to get his point across.
His aide nodded, sending the same hand signal with the blare of a whistle. Four marines - each wearing a red-orange band across the right bicep - formed up. Two were on either side of the door. Sardyn readied his weapon while the tempermancers sent out and then absorbed lances of intense heat. The barely visible waves of destruction cut across the air, exploding as waves of cold air would rush in and warp the doors inward. Not an elegant or effective entrance. A soft boom from below distracted the doubt from his mind. Their sappers had gotten in. Commander Harrington signaled with a nod and a hand chop. The tempermancers grabbed their plasma lances- more like super-heated fire hoses and channeled their tempermancy through the cutting tools.
Sparks flew as the doors buckled and collapsed. The spire had been taken. They had-
A bullet whizzed by- strangely wide for a D’varoan womphawk. A Royal Marine sharpshooter was precise.
“Sorry, we were expecting reinforced units. Our unit’s call sign is auroch, please state yours.” An iluun.
“Call sign auroch, this is unit call sign salmon. We swim beneath the ravens.”
A pause. Acknowledgement through silence.
“A salute to our victory Jathka’s wing.” Commander Harrington walked forwards past the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the obscured soldiers awaiting behind the flame-scarred bulkhead.
Kaelen’s confidence slowly evaporated as he realized he had been grasped by a drug- fueled mania. It wasn't from the fight – the fogginess that was the powder was starting to fade into a sobering crispness.
A soberness that chilled the air with as much gravity as the dark energy accumulating right in the open court of 2nd lobby sub level 5 – the address of the corporate sector entrance.
This was where the power needed to be concentrated, where it would collect. And with this pawn of the Vashtnal before him having such potency, it might just be enough to-
Kaelen’s eyes widened in pain as he realized the inner monologue was Not him. His acknowledgement of something else snapped like the bones of his spine. But not before registering that he had been stabbed through the back. The sharp probe of black steel was enough to inform him that he had failed.
Failed to account that he was fighting a remitter.
Failed to consider remitters didn’t just shoot lightning- they rode it.
Another sharp pain followed by a cold refreshing spray.
A failed attempt to strike back with his right arm.
Another searing, this time burning pain. The shadow spoke for the first time, his words coming out as a like the soft creaking whisper of a willow branch…
“It's that last hopeful high the bark gives, that we assassins love about the Uboa tree. Where the nightmare finally rests upon your shoulders and the euphoria is SNATCHED. You get just enough insight to distract you from what's going on around you.”
Kaelen choked out a guttural response. Strange, Ronjah hadn't stabbed or slashed at his neck.
He looked on as the Shadin’s torso cooked from the intense heat channeled through his flesh.
Ronjah unspooled severely strands, lifting Kaelen’s still breathing nugget above his head.
“Do you feel it fellow essenceborn? The celestial weave is shifting. The Everessent nodes are shifting from the league of despair - to the leagues of war. Ieridan may have carried you to victory, but Adrubbahk rules the days, son of Abymalm,” Kaelen forced through the pain.
Blood streamed through the corners of his mouth as he smiled. Son of the Vashtnal ruling fear, tyrants, and despair was a fitting insult.
Ronjah, for what it was worth, appreciated the humor in the insult. He looked the wounded warrior deep into his eyes before smashing him repeatedly against the ground until sure the corpse was a corpse.
Ronjah nearly folded as he sighed, his body as loose as the furred hood extending from his masked helmet like a mane. Looking at the mass of pulp resting at his feet, the jathka shook his head. The irsu he had just killed was around his age.
Redeemable. If he was permitting witnesses.
