Hours passed. Runne didn't know how many. He spent the time pacing the length of the opulent officer's quarters, a prisoner in a cage made of polished wood and silent dread. The absurd General's uniform felt like a lead weight, each golden thread a link in a chain he couldn't see. Martha's final words echoed in the quiet room, a desperate, angry prayer. 'Don't you dare die on me, Veyne.'
'Too late,' he thought, catching his reflection in the dark screen of a wall-mounted monitor. 'That kid died in the command centre.'
The door hissed open. A guard, his face an impassive mask, stepped inside. He said nothing, merely placed a sleek, black data-pad on the desk before turning and leaving, the door sealing shut behind him.
Runne stared at the device. It was thin, cold, and felt unnervingly important. He picked it up. The screen glowed to life, displaying a single, stark message under the military's eagle-and-sword insignia.
FROM THE OFFICE OF COMMANDER DIAVAL BLACKWOOD.
ORDERS: READ IT. ALL OF IT.
His thumb trembled as he unlocked the device. Three encrypted files sat on the otherwise empty screen. He opened the first.
FILE 1: TASK FORCE ROSTER - OPERATION 'ADVENT STAR'
A list of names and faces appeared. His new team. His handlers. He scrolled past a dozen unfamiliar soldiers until two profiles stood out.
-SGT. HARLOW MILLER. Female. Age: 34. Origin: Western Dominion, Cinderfall Industrial Zone. A long service record filled with commendations for close-quarters combat and heavy ordinance deployment. Her official photo was stern, her jaw set, a web of fine scars around one eye telling a story the sanitised report never would.
-CPL. DAMIEN KROSS. Male. Age: 22. Origin: Central Dominion, Paradisia. A graduate of the Prime Wing's feeder program at Bastion Academy. His record was shorter but filled with accolades for "ideological discipline" and "unwavering loyalty." His photo showed him with a self-satisfied smirk.
'A veteran grinder from the Forge and a true believer from the capital,' Runne thought grimly. 'My very own angel and devil.'
He closed the file and opened the next, his stomach churning.
**FILE 2: CONTINENTAL THREAT ASSESSMENT (SUMMARY)**
A holographic map of Antarctica lit up, the five Dominions clearly delineated.
- SOUTHERN DOMINION: Designated 'The Shield.' Populated by a network of military bases and listening posts. Primary function: First line of defence against external threats. Status: Secure but volatile.
- WESTERN DOMINION: Designated 'The Forge.' Dominated by the Transantarctic Mountain Range. Primary function: Resource extraction and heavy industry. Status: Production quotas met, but reports of labour unrest.
- EASTERN DOMINION: Designated 'The Breadbasket.' Vast, terraformed agricultural plains. Primary function: Food production for all Dominions. Status: Stable, pending resource allocation from the West.
- NORTHERN DOMINION: Designated 'The Hearth.' Primary civilian population centre. Location of Bastion Academy and other cultural institutions. Status: Secure, high morale.
- CENTRAL DOMINION: Designated 'The Brain.' Seat of the General Assembly and Military High Command. Location of the capital, Paradisia. Highest population density and technological advancement. Status: Secure.
Runne stared at the data, a wave of vertigo washing over him. He'd lived his entire life in one small corner of one massive piece of the world, completely ignorant of the vast, complex machine he was a part of.
He hesitated before opening the last file. The title alone made him feel sick.
FILE 3: [CLASSIFIED] OPERATION: MIRACLE BOY - PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTIVE
The text was cold, strategic, and utterly damning. It outlined a multi-stage media campaign. It referred to him by the cruel nickname from his childhood. It detailed his travel itinerary: from his current location to Aegis Station for transfer, then onward to Paradisia. It even included bullet-pointed talking points for politicians.
But it was the mission objective that made the air leave his lungs.
OBJECTIVE: Leverage Private Veyne's status as a Terminal Massacre survivor and sole discoverer of the 'Advent Rift' to unify public sentiment, quell civil unrest, and consolidate political support for the military's expanded authority under the new Emergency Powers Act.
He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't a hero. He was a tool. A carefully chosen piece of propaganda, and his entire life's trauma was now a resource to be exploited.
He dropped the data-pad onto the bed as if it were on fire. The room, which had felt like a cage, now felt like a stage, the walls closing in.
The door hissed open again. The same impassive guard stood there.
"It's time."
Runne stood, his shoulders squared, the heavy cape settling around him like a shroud. He followed the guard out of the room, leaving the data-pad and the cold, hard truth of his future behind on the bed.
The walk back to Hangar One was different this time. The stares from the passing officers no longer felt like simple curiosity. They were looks of assessment, of calculation. He wasn't just a dirty grunt out of place anymore; he was a valuable asset being moved. A tool being positioned for use.
Waiting for him on the tarmac was a transport craft entirely different from the rugged Wombat he'd arrived in. This was a sleek, shark-like gunship, its black composite plating seeming to absorb the hangar's bright lights. It was a predator, built for speed and lethality, not for hauling troops. As he was escorted up the ramp, two figures already seated in the quiet cabin looked up. He recognised them instantly from the data-pad files.
Harlow Miller was even more imposing in person, a mountain of muscle packed into a military-grade pressure suit. Her braided ponytail was thick as a rope, and the web of faint scars around one eye was more prominent than in her stern profile picture. Damien Kross was leaner, his posture ramrod straight, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face was identical to the one in his file photo. He looked Runne up and down, his eyes lingering on the general's star on his chest with open contempt.
"I still can't believe this," Damien said, his voice the exact sneering tone Runne had imagined. "We're actually doing it. Taking this... mascot to Paradisia."
'Corporal Damien Kross,' Runne thought, his own expression remaining neutral as he took a seat opposite them. 'Graduate of the Prime Wing's feeder program. Commendations for ideological discipline. Of course this is what he sounds like.'
"It's smart politics," Harlow rumbled, her voice a low gravelly sound that seemed to come from deep in her chest. She was examining the edge of a large combat knife. "The proles get a hero, the suits get a distraction, and we get a paycheque. Everyone wins."
'Sergeant Harlow Miller. Western Dominion, Cinderfall Industrial Zone,' Runne recalled from the file. 'She's probably seen more reality in a week than this prick has in his entire life.'
"He's a dormant," Damien hissed, his knuckles white where he gripped the seat. "He has no place representing the strength of the military."
The gunship's ramp sealed with a hydraulic hiss, and a moment later, a smooth, powerful surge pressed them all back into their seats as the craft lifted off.
Harlow didn't even look up from her knife. "The strength of the military isn't just about who can make the prettiest light show, pretty boy. It's about the grinders in the West pulling ore from a frozen mountain so you can have that shiny rifle. It's about the farmers in the East busting their arses to fill ration quotas." She jerked her chin at Runne. "This 'mascot' is just a story to keep them all in line. A job's a job."
The tension hung thick in the air as the gunship hummed through the sky. Runne stared out the reinforced porthole, watching the endless ice sheets of the Southern Dominion crawl by below. He felt like a ghost, listening to two people argue over the nature of his own haunting. The tension in the cabin a palpable thing.
For what felt like an eternity, the view outside the reinforced porthole was nothing but the endless, crawling expanse of the Southern Dominion's ice sheets. Runne stared out at it, feeling like a ghost, listening to two people argue over the nature of his own haunting.
After a few hours, the landscape below began to change. The flat white gave way to the jagged, shadow-haunted peaks of the Transantarctic Mountains, the spine of the Western Dominion. Even from this height, Runne could see the immense scars of industry—sprawling mining operations carved into the mountainsides, connected by a web of transport rails. Faint, orange glows pulsed from deep within the valleys, the light of foundries that never slept.
'The Forge,' Runne thought, the data from the file clicking into place with the visual. 'So that's what it looks like.'
He thought of the stories Martha used to tell him, of the "Old North" from before the Fracture, a land of green forests and warm oceans.
'A different world entirely,' he mused. 'Not like our Northern Dominion... not just more ice.'
***
Hours soon passed and after what felt like an eternity the gunship's engines shifted pitch, and it began a slow, deliberate deceleration.
An automated, female voice chimed through the cabin. "Beginning final approach to Aegis Station. All personnel, prepare for security inspection."
The craft touched down with barely a whisper, its landing struts meeting the polished white floor of the hangar without a single jolt. The air that filtered in as the ramp lowered was sterile and temperature-controlled. This was Aegis Station, the fortified gateway to the Central Dominion, and it felt less like a military base and more like a laboratory.
Guards in stark white and gold armour, their faces obscured by reflective visors, flanked the exit ramp. Their pulse rifles were a sleeker, more advanced model than Runne's standard issue. They were the Aegis Guard, the elite soldiers of the Central Dominion.
"Present identification," one of the guards ordered, his voice a clipped, synthesised monotone.
Harlow and Damien produced their Awakened identification cards, which the guard scanned. When it was Runne's turn, he simply stood there, his hands empty.
"He's with us," Harlow said.
The guard's visor turned to Runne. A thin, red beam of light scanned him from head to toe. A small screen on the guard's wrist flashed with his information. Runne saw the word 'DORMANT' appear in bold red letters before the guard looked away with what felt like visible disinterest.
"Commander Blackwood's directive grants them passage," Damien said, his voice laced with an eager-to-please authority. "They are to be transferred to the Paradisia transit line immediately."
The Aegis Guard nodded once, a curt, mechanical gesture. "This way."