Drávark was ablaze.
Among all inhabited boundaries within the lower axis of the Conmundia, it stood closest to achieving what could reasonably be called total peace.
Not that this was a particularly difficult feat, its colonies shared the rare condition of a singular, unified dream.
Yet, at the very precipice of that peace, a matter arose that could no longer be ignored.
During a summit convened with the leaders of every major colony, it was decided that the issue would be settled there.
"Must we look solely to the CBC for approval?" one demanded. "Why can't we forge our own path? What more do we require?"
"That is a course only the ignorant would choose," another replied sharply. "Even if we've completed a vessel capable of harnessing that reactor's power, everything we know of what lies beyond the Conmundia is conjecture at best. Any pilot sent out there would be embarking on a suicide mission, nothing more."
"Is it only now that the value of life concerns you?" came the retort. "That's convenient, considering it would be the Riders of your colony most likely assigned. But where was this compassion for the casualties of my Black Handers?"
"Watch your tongue. My Riders do not fear death. What we reject is the vanity of such a flight. And besides, no one bears responsibility for the peculiar construction methods of your colony but you."
"So what? The truth remains that every colony must be willing to wager lives for the sake of progress. That has always been understood. We have all the time in the world to build another vessel if necessary."
"Compose yourself, Chief Diore. Such a proposal was never within the terms of our collaboration. And you were warned, repeatedly, against the reckless metalworking practices adopted by the Black Handers."
"Tch…"
As both the appointed overseer of the project and the leader of the central colony, the burden of decision weighed heavily on Collins Ceaser.
On one hand, the vessel they had constructed was the culmination of blood, sweat, and sacrifice from every colony of Drávark.
To offer it up merely for a chance at recognition by the Cross-Boundary Coalition was, understandably, an absurd prospect.
And yet, they lacked both the authority and the knowledge required to independently join the race to touch the stars beyond the Conmundia.
Deciding on the latter could also mean shattering the pride and trust of their people. But he had to wonder whether those were worth the lives that might accompany that ship to its doom, and the scorn that might befall their boundary as a result.
The boundaries near the Borderlands were already objects of contempt. To falter at such a juncture would do them more harm than good.
"Have you all forgotten the reason for this endeavor?" one leader began. "It is our greatest chance to establish our place ahead of the others. We are the most advanced anywhere in this part of the Conmundia–"
"Most advanced behind the Badgers of Bane, you mean?" another interrupted. "Or have you forgotten where we 'obtained' that reactor?"
"The Badgers? Say, if they're so far ahead, where are they now?"
"How dare you?!"
A table was slammed, and chaos followed.
"Better yet, have them come and claim it back themselves, if a single one of them is still left to do so."
"You have gone too far!"
It went on like this, arguments overlapping and escalating as voices drowned one another out.
"It shouldn't elude us that this is yet another reason we need the backing of the coalition. If Veil were ever to discover what's in our possession, they would have both cause and incentive to seize it from us, along with whatever else they could justify taking."
"To utter such things as the Minister of Defense should bring upon you more than shame."
"What would our citizens think, hearing such talk?"
"It's not just Veil we have to worry about. If the coalition itself decided to seize it from us, there would be nothing we could do at that point."
"But our arrangement would be more flexible than that. They don't know about the reactor, or its connection to the Badgers."
On and on they argued, and Collins could not tell whether they had moved any closer to, or further from, a final decision.
It was headache-inducing.
It felt as though his head was being clenched in some kind of pincer.
Except it was.
When his hands rose toward his face, he felt metallic points digging into his skull from all sides.
Then he felt the skin of his neck stretch beyond comfort.
Only then did the other leaders in the room finally turn their heads toward him.
But before he could read their expressions or gauge what was happening, he felt his head begin to twist, and he knew what came next.
"Wait… please, no–"
Not that he would accept it.
Regardless, it was effortlessly torn free, to the horror of everyone else in the room.
As it was dropped to the floor without care, his body followed, revealing a man standing directly behind him, a four-clawed hook replacing his right hand.
"Now that I have your attention," he said, "it's pertinent that I inform you of something."
"What the hell?!"
"Who are you?! When– no, how did you get in here?!"
"Guards–"
BANG!
The one who shouted fell instantly to the floor following the echo of a gunshot, and the conference room doors burst open.
"Sorry, boys and girls," a voice drawled, "but I don't think your babysitters are on the clock at the moment."
The sharp clack of heels rang out as a woman stepped into the room, her hair strangely slithering up her arm and melding back into her scalp.
"What? Annabeth… what is the meaning of this?!"
The Overseer of Energy was the first to exclaim, understandably so.
"Do you have something to do with this, Morgan? Or is that not your fiancée?"
"You're asking me?" Morgan snapped. "I have nothing to explain when I don't know what's going on either. Annabeth, tell me what you're–"
BANG!
"Would you all do me a favor and shut up for a moment?"
"Sullivan, that one would have been better left alive."
"My bad," she replied, casually shoving the body aside with her foot. "He just wasn't the type to ever stop talking. I've been so fed up lately. Besides, he never actually knew where it was."
The man sighed in exasperation.
That alone was enough to silence any would-be interrupters, leaving little else for him to complain about.
"As I was saying," he continued, "you should be aware that in the time you've spent in this room, every single one of your colonies has been trampled."
There was no immediate response. If there was one to be had, it would have emerged only as bitter, disbelieving laughter.
"If you doubt me, then witness it firsthand."
He lifted a hand, and several holographic screens flared behind him.
"No… it can't be…"
"What have you done?!"
It was a scarring sight.
Aircraft crashed indiscriminately into cities, burning through structures and engulfing civilians alike.
They fell as countless as rain, wave after wave without end.
Worse still, the crafts were being deliberately piloted at every moment, a truth that could only implicate the citizens of a specific colony.
One leader collapsed to her knees, despair hollowing her expression as she watched her riders plunge headlong into the embrace of death.
"How?" someone finally managed. "How is this happening?"
"Sorune's riders may be eccentric," Diore said, "but they would never willingly commit such atrocities."
"What a foolish question," the man replied calmly. "Do you truly underestimate the strength of inclination?"
Any lingering doubt vanished.
Their boundary was under assault by Eminents of overwhelming power.
"Just… state your demands," the Minister of Defense said at last, the words carrying nothing but concession.
"How admirable," the man answered. "For a mere human to recognize futility when it arrives.
Very well." He smiled faintly. "All I require is the location of that reactor. Relinquish it, and we may be willing to cease the extermination of your worthless colonies."
"Aren't we quite generous?"
…
Unlike the others, the Central Colony was forced to confront its threats directly.
The cruelty of that circumstance was dictated by whether one would rather deal with the possibility of an aircraft crashing down upon them or face thorough eradication at the hands of invaders.
In the southeastern quadrant of the colony, a teenage girl hacked and stitched together fragments of what she was handed, assembling them with meticulous care into what she considered a masterpiece.
Behind her, seated atop a mound of corpses, was a young boy clad in black overalls.
He sighed with boredom as he watched her work take shape beneath her hands, still uncertain what appeal it held.
"Why do we have to do this, Jane? Isn't killing supposed to be, like… bad?"
"What gave you that idea?" she replied through her humming. "Have you been reading strange books again?"
"Well, no, but that one time I tried going to 'school,' the other kids called me weird and unfunny."
She tilted her head slightly, though she did not turn away from her task.
"Why is that?"
"They said I shouldn't joke about bad things, like making humans die, because it's bad."
"Listen, Fiérre, humans dying is only bad when it's ones you like."
"Really? Why?"
"Because there's no reason for a human to live if you don't like them. Think about it. If they eat, sleep, and sh*t whenever they want, then they take more away from the ones you do like. That's not good, right?"
"No, it's not. Only the ones I like should have those things."
"Exactly. Now pass me another right arm."
She extended her hand without turning.
"Okay… what kind?"
"I want a fresh one this time."
"What? But there's nobody left in this area," he complained. "I don't want to walk around anymore."
"You don't have to," she said calmly. "Just go ahead and deal with the one that's been stalking us."
Behind a pile of debris, a woman who had been holding every breath and stifling every whimper jolted in shock.
Her initial assignment had been reconnaissance. Observing the unidentified visitors as a security agent, but the moment they began to act, she realized all communication throughout the colony had been severed.
She remained hidden, unable to bring herself to flee and lose sight of them before help arrived.
At first, she had seen only two children.
Then she saw how many casualties they had produced with their bare hands.
Now, with the certainty that they had been aware of her all along, she finally understood the depth of terror they had cultivated within her.
She wasted no time running in the opposite direction, never daring to look back.
As fast as she could, she ran until a strange realization forced her to stop.
The scenery felt repetitive.
As though she were sprinting back to the same coordinates again and again.
She turned.
Both Eminents stood exactly where they had been when she first fled.
And she stood precisely where she had started.
The boy began to stroll toward her, unhurried.
"Keep running. It's okay. It's good to run. I've learned that running toward something is just like flying to the stars."
Panic overtook her as he closed the distance. Knowing what he was capable of, she staggered backward in desperation.
"But you see, the thing about trying to touch the stars is that if you miss…"
She turned and attempted to sprint again, only to collide with something solid, the impact knocking her back.
It was the boy, and he had to turn to face her.
She was back where she started.
"…you fall right back to where you began."
An ear-piercing scream tore through the empty street as her arm was severed in a single, effortless motion.
The screaming did not stop even as the limb was added to the grotesque work of art decorating the intersection.
It only ceased when her gaze accidentally caught Jane's masterpiece, an amalgamation of disfigured, disproportionate corpses arranged at deliberate, unnatural angles.
By appearance alone, they seemed to reach outward from the center of the mass, as though trying to pull themselves free. Their faces were hollow masks, dark cavities where eyes should have been, somehow still capable of conveying a deep, incomprehensible sorrow.
"Behold, my love for life," Jane proclaimed. "I call it… the New Era!"
Whether it was the overwhelming pain or the revulsion at the abomination she had fought so hard not to look upon, the agent expelled the contents of her stomach before collapsing to the ground.
…
He found a woman.
He found the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and to Jiru, that alone felt sufficient to save his life.
Until then, he had been nothing more than another laborer, surviving from one wage to the next, unable to associate his existence with anything beyond that narrow cycle.
Even when the attackers began rounding up select men from the populace, he believed himself prepared to be executed, for whatever purpose they intended his death to serve.
Yet when their leader, an Eminent who introduced himself as Serval, announced that each chosen man would be granted a chance to live, on the condition that they present him with the most beautiful woman they had ever laid eyes upon, something within Jiru shifted.
They were not given the option to flee. Any attempt would be met with annihilation by one of Serval's underlings, who would track them without fail.
It was a sick, twisted game, and even Jiru was horrified by how readily he accepted it.
Was it that he truly wanted to live after all?
Or that he wished, at the very least, to make something of his life?
Or was he simply a pathetic man, discovering that he had always carried the capacity for such betrayal within his heart?
Regardless, his mind had already settled on a target.
A woman he occasionally saw in the market hall.
She appeared to have no close relatives, much like him. There was no light in her eyes, just as there was none in his.
And yet, he had never been able to look away from her.
Now, for the sake of his own survival, Jiru would offer her to the Eminent whose every word made his blood run cold.
He repeated the thought to himself that perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps he was allowing her to live, something most of the colony's citizens would never be granted.
She neither resisted nor struggled as he brought her to the line.
He wanted to curse her for making the atrocity so effortless, but he knew that, unlike him, she was not a fraud. She truly did not care whether she lived or died.
When he returned to the square to present his pick, he witnessed something that forced him to reconsider it.
"Not bad, at least in the face. I can think of sixty-eight of my wives who match it. But the body leaves much to be desired. Overall, not my type."
The man named Serval examined each woman in the rows, delivering his judgment in full view of the man who had brought her.
Yet he was not entirely without mercy.
When a woman failed to meet his standards, Serval granted the man a single minute to sprint in any direction.
Once a minute elapsed, his arm would draw back before snapping forward, unleashing a shockwave that erased the landmass and structures directly in its path. The reach of the devastation varied each time.
This was the opportunity he offered to every man who attempted to bring him a suitable wife.
Though what became of the women left behind was never stated.
There was, however, one exception, when a man was suspected of having brought his own spouse.
Without explanation or hesitation, Serval reduced him to nothing more than a red stain upon the ground with a single, effortless strike.
"This one's a strange pick."
He stepped in front of Jiru, whose body had begun to tremble uncontrollably as his offering was examined.
"At first glance, her build is unremarkable. She's very thin and shows no signs of physical conditioning."
Jiru's leg quivered violently, and it took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to flee on the spot.
"Yet there is something else," Serval continued. He leaned closer, bringing himself face to face with the woman, who offered no acknowledgment of his presence, nor of her surroundings.
"You… die," he told her.
She did not react.
"Very well," he went on. "Kill the man who brought you here."
Jiru stumbled backward as the command was issued, but it drew no response from her.
The next instant, the Eminent burst into laughter, soon joined by his subordinates.
"How delightful," He declared between laughs. "She has no will of her own, yet my inclinations do not affect her. How truly amusing."
He placed a hand upon Jiru's shoulder.
"You have excellent taste for a normal human. You've earned yourself two minutes."
Only double the time.
That was all he offered for a satisfactory selection, two minutes to escape the catastrophe he would soon unleash.
Jiru did not waste a second dwelling on it. He ran as fast and as far as his legs would carry him.
No stray thought crossed his mind, no premature relief took hold. He was still in mortal danger, and his odds of survival were scarcely better than if he had been granted only a single minute, given the reach of Serval's devastation.
When the two minutes expired, a force tore across the colony, pursuing him, threatening to swallow him whole.
If there was anything left for him to do as he awaited the outcome, it was to pray that the woman he had traded away would not curse him for the remainder of his life, should he survive.
And if he were to die, he could only pray that she would not be soon to greet him in hell.
…
Someone had severed the power supply to every available portal, and the culprit, a lanky man clad in dark leather, laughed hysterically as he cut down each worker at the operating site.
As they scrambled for their lives, he pierced them with knives he seemed to conjure from thin air.
An SOS had been transmitted through the foils to Veil once the attackers were confirmed to be Eminents.
Yet the only means by which assistance could arrive had been deliberately crippled, leaving Drávark to fend for itself, without hope of intervention.
Still, as he staggered through blood-slick halls strewn with mutilated bodies, a knife lodged deep in his flank, Tierno could not suppress the frustration regarding the crushing responsibility he now bore.
In truth, there was a contingency regarding the portals.
Cutting their primary power was an anticipated tactic, though only a handful of engineers, including Tierno, knew of the alternative.
It was a concealed, auxiliary portal. One that demanded as much power as the standard models but lacked the self-preservation systems of newer designs, rendering it a last resort.
It would require a manual activation, one that would divert all remaining power in the Colony to open and sustain it for only a few fleeting seconds.
Ordinarily, Tierno would never have felt compelled to take such a risk. But he was an engineer, and his pride would not allow him to abandon a solvable problem.
He dragged himself onward until he reached the unmarked, rusted door leading to the portal, only to hear a voice behind him.
"There you are."
A sharp pain tore through his left shoulder blade, followed by several more as knives buried themselves into his legs. They met no resistance as they pierced his body.
By then, he could no longer scream. The strength simply wasn't there.
He collapsed to the floor, immobilized and fading fast.
"I knew somebody was missing," the Eminent chuckled. "I can't have anyone left who can say they survived Stone."
With that, the man pranced away.
Some time later, Tierno began to crawl.
He dragged himself inch by inch toward the door, painting the floor red as he went.
"Freakin' bastard," he muttered. "Couldn't even finish me off."
He cursed his own stubborn resilience as he forced the rusted door open.
He cursed the fact that he still struggled forward as though he cared about the fate of those who might yet survive.
And he cursed that it had to be him, of all people, to die looking like someone admirable.
'I should've just stayed home today… damn it.'
That was his final thought as he reached up and pulled the lever concealed behind a hidden panel.
A violent surge of light flooded the dull chamber, and a young woman leapt through the portal, immediately catching his collapsing body, grief plain on her face.
Four others followed close behind.
"Lieutenant, let me try to heal him," one offered, kneeling beside her.
"No need," she replied quietly. "It's already too late."
She gently embraced the engineer before speaking again.
"Thank you… truly. You can rest now. Leave everything to us."
She lowered him to the floor, silently vowing to return, then rose to her feet.
A massive, slab-like blade materialized in her right hand as the portal behind her sealed shut.
"Let's move."
"Roger!"
On September 16, 19 A.C.D., Second Lieutenant Alicia Damion of the Nithya Branch, Veil-0056, touched down on Drávark with a four-person squad.
And began the reprisal of the Central colony.