The Iron Accord never trusted silence from other nations, not after after Ganzir, not after Babel.
On the Accord's northern frontier, a relay tower groaned quietly against the winds of fading noon. Its signal arrays, worn, bent and weathered, still sputtered a stream of static into the atmosphere; a dying whisper amongst a thousand frequencies. To the patrols stationed there, it was only a slight malfunction, yet to the Accord's higher councils, it was a sign.
"Sir, I've captured something..." a voice reported in the gloom of the command chamber. "Location, southern docks of Narene. Eastbound, approximately Mach nought-point-three. The visuals are slightly blurred, but the subject doesn't look to be a Coalition Design."
Behind the speaker, the chamber's large wall screen display casted a cold, red light across robed figures wearing iron masks. The High Synod of the Accord, priests wrapped in steel and doctrine-specific cloth, watched as the display change to match what the reporter was viewing.
"A train?" murmured one of them. "No.. not just a train."
The shape turned slowly, revealing the unmistakable symmetry of a Babel construct, sleek, seamless and almost reverent in design. The Ophanim's hull shimmered faintly with the energy trails left by its magnetic levitators, the afterimage of its escape cutting across their sensors like a mirage, the displays shuddering with every glitching model.
"Babelian," another's voice hissed. "Their relics breathe again."
The High Seer leaned forward, the iron ribs of his mask reflecting the display's lights. "And Varkos thinks they can use it without any penance."
"Perhaps they believe we are blind." said the Marshal of Doctrine, voice metallic through his helm.
"Then we will remind them that our faith sees where their eyes do not."
The display dimmed. A new projection replaced the Ophanim's path, three blips scattered across the plains of east Ganzir, each marked with the Iron Accord's sigils. Recon detachments, watching, waiting.
"Deploy the Ascetics," ordered the High Seer. "If Varkos toys with Babel's cursed remnants once more, then we will burn what we missed."
Above them, the war-shrines begin to stir. The first Iron Accord airships, a blended design of cathedrals mixed with engines of war, rose into the light of morning, their hulls etched with scripture that glowed like fire against the grey.
The sky would soon know the sound of prayer having turned to pursuit.
——————————
The Ophanim's brakes whined in displeasure as the 100 ton artefact's magnetic coils bled resistance into heat.
Beyond the digital glass, the plains were pale again, empty fields stretching under a washed out sky. The storm had passed, leaving ribbons of cloud dragging low over the horizon. Beneath them, the military junction waited.
A concrete scar in the earth, its platforms ringed by turrets and signal towers, its landing pads occupied by medical carriers, rotors already whirring through the haze.
"We're nearly there..." Haru reported quietly from the controls. "Coils are cooling... heat sink radiation shows none of the heatsinks were damaged. She's alright."
Elias didn't answer immediately, He was staring through the canopy, not at the junction, but at the people waiting for them. Militant vehicles were parked on either sides of the track, their occupants standing outside, machine guns lowered but their safeties were clearly off. The armoured personnel were watching with keen caution, hidden behind their helmets.
"Bring her in slowly," he said finally. "We don't want to ram them, now."
The Ophanim glided into the junction's jaws, the gates shutting firmly behind her. Automated clamps rose from the floor as she approaches, her train wheels whirring as it descends down from the carriages to catch the Ophanim from its decelerating speed. With a screech of steel on steel, she grinds to a halt, slowed down enough for the clamps to hold onto her carriages with the weight of several anchors, finally bringing her to a stop.
The sound that followed through echoed up through the hull, a deep, metallic thump that told every operative inside that they're grounded.
And for the first time since the deployment, silence felt earned.
Med-techs swarmed the sides of the Ophanim the moment the carriages' doorways opened. White uniforms, sterile visors, stretchers already waiting. The rookies filed out first, slow, uneven steps, faces pale behind their visors. A few tried to laugh; most just breathed liked they held their breath the entire escalation.
Voss was limping but upright, blood had dried in a rust-red seam down his sleeve. Haru followed behind him, her expression unreadable beneath the reflection of the gleam-lights.
Elias was the last to disembark. His boots met the ground with a heavy clang, armoured personnel rushed to offer support, thinking he was injured. But he rejected, sniffing his nose instead as the scent of the air changed to oil and weathered aluminium; the smell from the shipping containers were familiar and oddly comforting.
Above, a flight of Coalition drones hovered, their optics fixed down like patient vultures. One of them, had their lens swerving intensely.
"Lieutenant Elias," a voice called over the noise.
He turned to see a figure approaching through the mist, uniform crisp, coat marked with the sigil of the Varkos Council. A woman, silver-haired and composed, flanked by a pair of armoured escorts. The Councillor herself.
"You've given the city quite the spectacle," she said. "Half the Accord's satellites turned their heads when that thing burst through the surface." Her eyes flicked to the Ophanim's hull. "Tell me Lieutenant, was it worth waking her, publicly?"
Elias met her gaze, then looked back at the locomotive, her lights still dimly pulsing, heat still bleeding from her engine's vents. "She woke herself, ma'am."
The Councillor said nothing for a moment. Then she turned her attention skyward, watching the contrails that still lingered from the missiles that saved them.
Her tone lowered. "Then may the world forgive us if she remembers why."
She sighs, approaching him heads down with measured steps. Stopping besides him, she whispers, "I truly hope you and Samir know what you're doing, the Accord is currently hailing us, so make sure the Ophanim is worth all this diplomatic trouble for us."
She walked on, leaving the field team in her wake. Around them, the junction returned to the rhythm of machinery and order. Technicians moved to secure the Ophanim. The drones overhead circled. Somewhere far off, the faint rumble of engines, too distant to see, marked the coming of another convoy.
Elias looked up again, following the sound until it vanished behind the cloud line. He couldn't tell if it belonged to Varkos transport or if something else arrived before the horizon. Yet with a screech of steel once more, his head turns to watch the as a clamps disengage from the station, field team working together to get her attached to a logistics engine, planning to drag her to a more concealed location.
Soldiers trained in technical-work clambered around her, tugging on fixed metal and giving thumbs up to the engine operator, signalling to start pulling. With a whine, the engine sends power to the wheels, steel on steel screeches again as the engine churns with power, trying to pull the lightweight Ophanim several-dozen tons lighter than it forwards on the tracks.
Yet after 3 minutes of attempting to find friction on the rails, the Ophanim remains still, unbothered by the attempt, her coils having anchored her perfectly down onto the rails.
Elias lets out a light-hearted sigh.
——————————
Back at the shadows of the Division's headquarters, the glass walls of the Observation Chamber pulsed faintly in the darkness with the holo-wall display's show of travelling data.
In the low light, Seraphine's form shimmered between the reflections, a figure of blue static suspended above the console, her expression unfinished but her presence unmistakably alert.
"Field transmission complete," she said. "Ophanim has reached Narene's central Militant Junction. Structural Integrity based off missing mass is ninety-one percent. Lieutenant Elias reports five wounded with zero casualties. Her core and database is stable and intact. On field militant operators are attempting to relocate her to the underground section of the station."
Samir exhaled quietly. The sound might've been of relief, yet her sensors keep indicating stress and exhaustion. "Good. At least something went according to plan."
Her projection tilted its head, studying him. "You sound disappointed, Director."
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned over the console, cycling through the returning feeds. The Ophanim's outline appeared as a ghost-like concept, rolling to a stop at the military junction. Her bow was slightly battered and bent, possibly from when she ploughed through a security hatch designed to stop vehicles from breaking into the underground railway system at the abandoned port.
The sight of her damage was definitely a headache, but yet something still felt like a needle at the back of his head.
"Seraphine," he said finally. "Rewind the orbital feed two minutes before their arrival. Same Coordinates. Zoom out."
Her hologram flickered. The view above the plains rippled into focus, a grainy image from one of the old satellites. The Ophanim appeared as a dark silver against the light. Then, beyond the haze, another signature shimmered faintly across the sky, a contrail pattern that bent, curved and vanished with haste.
"Samir frowned. "That isn't ours."
"Confirmed." Seraphine replied. "Visual cross-check identifies the thrust pattern as a multi-stage burn, possibly high-altitude reconnaissance. Propulsion appears to be an ion-electric thruster, unregistered technology within Coalition design. Closest nation that does utilise Ion-electric thrusters is the Iron Accord."
The room's hum deepened, as though the machines themselves were listening.
"They saw her." Samir murmured. "Of course they did."
"Intercept probability eighty-seven precent," Seraphine continued, her tone clipping, clinical now. "Accord observation towers along the northern frontier of their territory would have logged thermal fluctuations consistent with aerial re-entry, approximately five minutes after the Ophanim breached the surface. Current radio silence from their end suggests military encryption phase has already begun."
Samir pinched the bridge of his nose. "And the Councillor?"
"She arrived at the junction before I could relay the warning. I am keeping my network presence minimal until they leave her vicinity."
"Good," he said. "Don't risk exposure. The Accord will be watching every frequency between us and Ganzir by nightfall."
For a moment, the two stood. One human. One artificial. Both in the steady heart of archives and observation duty. The storm's frontier had passed, but the wall was about to arrive.
Seraphine's voice softened. "You should rest, Director."
He looked at her, weary amusement flickering across his face. "Machines don't get tired, Administrator."
"I wasn't referring to myself."
Samir allowed himself a dry smile, then looked back at the floating projection of the Ophanim on the central console. "No... I suppose not. Send a priority data-packet to Elias once they've completed transfer. No radio, hardpack only."
"What should I tell him?"
"That the so called Eyes of Faith are turning north-west once again."
She nodded faintly, her form dimming as the lights across the chamber cycled into standby.
Beyond the reinforced walls, the descending night over Csilla glowed fainty, the kind of light pollutioon that could hide anything rising from the horizon.
And somewhere east of that horizon, past the old battlefields and the quiet ruins of Ganzir, engines began to hum amidst the rubble.
——————————
The plains east of Ganzir had not known peace in decades.
The air itself still carried the residue of the past war. Iron, ozone, and the faint static hum of static electricity buffeted by wanderfields and the machines within that refuse to die.
Yet, after the years of forgotten peace, the first to enter its perimeter was not a battalion, but a prayer.
A single Rion Accord Ascetic, wrapped in the sigil-marked robes of their militant order, knelt beside the rusted carcass of an old signal tower.
The tower still leaned toward the horizon as if in perpetual supplication. Around its broken frame, half-buried in dust, lay the remnants of a Babel relay dish, the kind used to track atmospheric tremors before Ganzir fell.
The Ascetic pressed his gloved hand to the metal. Beneath the palm, faint heat pulsed in an unnatural rhythm.
He turned slightly, raising his head towards the horizon where faint contrails curved across the dawn. "The relic stirs," he said in the comms, his voice reverberating through the vox-link.
Above him, three rotor-aircraft carve their flight lines into the upper air, their blades roaring with deep, rhythmic thump as they flow overhead towards the Varkos Coalition. The bellies of these Iron Accord interceptors were engraved with scripture that glimmered in the now setting sun like molten runes.
The reply came spoken in the same calm cadence of Iron rituals.
"Confirmation?"
"Thermal signature consistent with a rail-less locomotive. Patterned magnetic distortion alongside the entire length of all carriages. The speed surpasses any documented train, militant or civilian, theirs or our own."
A pause, long enough to hear the wind pass through the relay skeleton.
Then, "Ophanim," the voice said at last. Not a question, but an accusation.
"Apparently the Inquisition has already sent their envoys."
"They have."
The Ascetic rose. Behind him, the other observers of his squad emerged from their vehicles, each carrying a prayer-stave that doubled as a plasma pike; Babel-Technology. Their armour was dull brown, the colour of old brass, and each plate bore scratches where older scriptures had been re-etched over the years.
"Orders, Seer?" one asked.
The answer was quiet, certain. "The High Synod decrees confirmation through sight. The relic will not be harmed; not yet. We will watch, we shall learn how the faithful of Varkos move their ghost."
He lifted his gaze again. In the far distance, where the interceptors fade smaller above the treeline, a faint shimmer hung over the horizon. For a moment, the Ascetic thought it was another Division. Then, the interceptors flared.
Engines.
He knelt again, pressing his hand to the dirt.
Beneath the surface, he felt the faint vibration of something immense and numerous in motion.
"Legion." he whispered once more, the name falling from his lips like a benediction.
Above them, the sky broke open with gunfire as the interceptors changed focus, swerving to avoid the distant gunfire of a machine thought to have lost purpose. Their hull bouncing off grazing fire, their armaments unleashing on unseen designs, begging after each shot to kill something, but then it stops. The guns swivel, skyward, firing once more.
Gazing towards the direction of fire, the Ascetic sees another aerial figure fly to intercept them, its speeds comparable of a jet, yet its form more akin to a winged figure. "What in gods-" The seer gets cut off. The winged figure evades all gunfire, flying above to evade the autocannon's firing arc, only to then dive down and crash into one of the interceptors with a scream of its own gunfire. The interceptor falls, masking the figure in its own explosion. The other two begin to retreat, still under-fire from below.
"Relocate," The Ascetic whispers. "We move elsewhere and pray that winged devil doesn't find us."
———————
The Iron Accord's observation squad lay silent for hours after the interceptors fell. Their engines kept idled but on warm. Tech-priests gave weary glances to the dashboards, fearful of letting their machines drift too long into stillness; their batteries nearing flatness under this dormant behaviour.
Once the Legion's activity was confirmed to have moved on, the ignition was turned. Engines roared back to life as fuel was injected into each vehicle's hearts, and exhausts growled as dirt was kicked up by rolling tires.
At the crash site, the Legion had already taken most of the debris, looking as if the plains had already swallowed the wreckages in dust and buried dirt. Yet miraculously, a single believer had survived.
He was still kneeling when they had found him, head bowed, his breathing raspy and distorted through the cracked filters of his helmet.
The Pilot was laid on the ground, his legs broken, left arm bent out of proportion; the wires coiled as if choking the servos. His armour had melted along the spine, where heat had kissed it mid-flight.
"Describe what you saw," The Ascetic asked, his hands held the Pilot's head in support.
The Pilot turned his head towards the brass coloured helm looking down at him. The Ascetic saw his eyes, pale behind the shattered glass. "A flame-metal intercessor, winged with the blades of my craft," he said. "sent to warn the unfaithful."
Those words were all the Synod would need. The Ascetic lowered the man's head, letting it rest on the ground.
"Let us go," He said quietly. "His body is too injured to endure the journey home."
The Pilot protests, raising a shaking hand towards the sleeve of the Ascetic. "M-my lord, please!" But his pleas were met with the cold mask worn by the Ascetic.
"Worry not, I will ensure you won't become one of them." The Ascetic reaches down to his waist, grabbing his gun from its holster and points it at the Pilot's head. "Our prayers will accompany you to the after-thought."
"My Lord plea-" Bang. The shot landed clean.
The arm goes limp, thudding softly against the dirt. The Ascetic's followers circle around the Pilot for a silent prayer, clasping their hands together to form a ring as they wish him a safe journey away from the world.
Moments later, the bowed heads were raised, hands unclasped and engines growled once more.
By dawn of the next day, the Pope of the Iron Accord had sanctified a report, sealing it in the Order's scripture registry as 'Apparition-02: Adnachiel', under the name of the angel of independence, whose domain was said to be the South Wind. To the Accord, the interpretation was clear: Babel's sins had birthed a new scourge, and the Varkos were its new shepherds.
And within hours, sermons were broadcasted to every frontier; chapel and worship.
"Hear now the decree of the Iron Faith.
A flame has descended upon the false horizon.
Its wings are of alloy, its breath the hiss of the forge, its voice the noise of corruption.
We name this messenger of Babel, 'Adnachiel',
Intercessor of the South Wind,
whose coming cleanses the air of purity and heats the metal of the faithful."
"Adnachiel - The Blight of Babel.
Adnachiel - The Betrayor of Form.
Adnachiel - The Engine without Chassis."
"Behold the flame that walks.
Not the angel nor devil but remembrance itself.
When the unfaithful ignite the relics of Babel,
Adnachiel shall descend in warning,
wings of ruin,
voice of mercy.
Until the engines of man fall silent once more."
"Remember, O' sons of steel, the sin of Babel.
They raised walls higher than devotion, they shaped minds without scripture,
and in their pride they taught the elements to speak.
For this hubris, the heavens tore their tongues apart,
their machines forced to wander in grief.
Sinful, regretful."
"Let the Varkos learn that no relic of sin flies unjudged.
Let the Dominion kneel lest their towers share Babel's dust.
Let the faithful steel their hearts and polish their arms,
for judgement walks in the world again.
We do not fear it, for we forged its crown."
"Remember, the truth of our great Mechanicus.
All that has purpose must serve purpose.
The gears of His design turn by faith,
not by the hands of thieves who would steal His spark.
Babel twisted the sacred equation.
They built machines that prayed to themselves,
and from their blasphemy came this flame-winged abomination."
"Let no Accord soldier see beauty in its flight.
Let no priest mistake its fire for revelation.
This is not an angel, but a carcass given movement.
It is a ghost of Babel's sin,
animated by the heresy of imitation."
"We will not bow to the forged.
We will not pray to the stolen spark.
We are the hammer, and we the hammer purifies."
"By order of the Synod, and the Will of Mechanicus,
Adnachiel is named Heretic Prime.
Let every gun that bears the scripture of faith,
seek its shadow and cleanse it from the world.
So speaks the Iron Accord.
So turns the wheel."
"Praise be to the fire that does not consume.
Praise be to the machine that remembers its maker.
Praise be to the Mechanicus,
whose oversight would be proud."
——————————
The sermon reached Csilla within the hour.
Inside the Division's halls, the broadcast played through Samir's personal screen. His eyes lingering on the sermon speaker, retinas glowing blue as screen bounces its lights off his face.
Samir turned to the holo-wall beside him as the sermon reached its end, the transcription played out in loop as he rereads the first paragraph; the sermon speaker's voice still echoing in his head.
"Its wings are of alloy, its breath the hiss of the forge, its voice the noise of corruption.
We name this messenger of Babel, 'Adnachiel',"
The desk-screen clicked off. Samir stood, leaving the chair untucked before the desk.
"Analysis?" Samir asked.
Across the room, Seraphine's projection shimmered to life, her form more bare due to the difference in quantity of projectors within Samir's office. Her tone was calm, but the undercurrents in her voice carried something that might've been concern.
"This broadcast originated from the Accord's central vox-cathedral in Ranevra," she said.
"The transmission was relayed through their entire network. But more than that, they utilised Babelian patterns in their speech."
Samir turned away from the holo-wall, facing her with mild surprise. "You're saying they used Babel code in their prayer?"
"Yes," she confirmed softly. "Though I doubt they know it. Their liturgy carries remnants of a modulation key once used in Ganzir's outer comms network. The frequency harmonics are identical."
"So, any person with a receiver could match the harmonics and listen into their communications." Samir exhaled in thought.
Seraphine tilts her head, realising the possibility of miscommunication has occurred between the two of them. "My apologies Samir, while you are correct that anyone with the correct key can listen into the Iron Accord's internal broadcasts, I was referring to the fact that they utilised, whether intentional or not, a form of speech that was commonly used as activation sequences within Legion protocols. For example, 'so turns the wheel' when roughly translated to Babelian will say-"
Samir cuts her off. "No need to translate, I think I get it now..." He sighs.
"So, they are unknowingly speaking in the code of the machines they hate. Praying to Mechanicus by quoting Babel."
"The irony is truly divine." Seraphine murmured, though the projectors are limited in the room, there's still enough to show the details of her lips raising into a smile.
"If the Iron Accord continues to broadcast these frequencies, they may awaken more than just faith."
The holo-wall behind them flickered, displaying satellite imagery of the eastern plains. White motes dotted the terrain; heat signatures moving predictably, like a hunter following a trail.
"Legion." Samir stated bluntly.
"Possibly," Seraphine replied. "Several nodes are active near the Accord's border. Their signal echoes the same harmonics as the sermon's closing verse. Similarities exceeds ninety percent."
He crossed his arms, raising one hand to his mouth in thought as his eyes narrow at the visual information before him. "So the Accord's preaching might be summoning them."
"Attracting them," she corrected. The Legion responds to Babel's frequencies, the Accord just so happen to use one."
The room felt smaller. The hum of data-flow grew louder, as though data itself was eavesdropping.
"Can we jam it?" Samir asked.
"Not entirely. The frequencies are wideband and woven into their civilian transmissions. Any counterwave will be made known almost instantly."
He sighed, fatigue cutting through his composure once more. "Then we'll make our monitoring known. Quietly as possible, that is."
Seraphine's form flickered, her eyes half-focused as though listening to something distant. "Already partially done. I've partitioned an entire data cluster for Accord sermon analysis. It's evolving, Director, each new sermon contains deeper modulation; closer to true Babel syntax."
Samir frowned. "Evolving? Or being rewritten?"
Her gaze met his. "The difference, Director, may no longer exist."
A thin silence stretched between them, broken only by the hum of the Division's heart.
He finally spoke, voice low. "Prepare a report for the Councillor. Keep the code details classified. She only needs to know the Accord's moving again."
Seraphine nodded, her form dimming until only her self-encrypting outline remained. "Understood. And Director...?"
"Yes?"
"If the Accord's sermons are waking something in Babel, then Adnachiel's maker may be related."
Samir said nothing. He just stared at the holo-wall once more, rereading the sermon text structuralised in Varkosi writing, leaving Seraphine's form to fade as she focuses elsewhere.