“Absolute,

  guide my hand. Deliver me from the heretic’s fire.”

  He

  spins his staff wide, striking at both Spartan and Rho, his mare

  screaming nearby, circling protectively, but the two Invictans press

  the attack. They move like twin storms, raw fury and disciplined

  power, hammering from both sides.

  Spartan’s

  blows crash against Cassiel’s armor, denting but not breaking it,

  the sanctified plating holds, each impact leaving deep burn-marks

  from her energized blade. She ducks low, slamming her shield against

  his ribs, forcing his guard high and Rho

  Voss brings his zweihander down like judgment.

  The

  sword pierces through the rear plating of Cassiel’s armor,

  thrusting straight through

  his chest, bursting from the front in a spray of

  steam and sanctified oil. Cassiel gasps, the prayer dying on his

  tongue. His staff slips from his fingers and falls to the blackened

  snow with a hollow thud.

  He

  drops to his knees, one hand clawing weakly at the gleaming blade now

  jutting from his chest.

  

“The…

  Absolute…” he wheezes, eyes wide with disbelief and fire.

  Spartan

  stands before him, breathing hard, blood running down the crack in

  her helm.

  Rho

  Voss holds Cassiel pinned, the massive zweihander still impaled

  through the Venator’s chest. He gives the blade a slow, deliberate

  twist,

  eliciting a wet, guttural gasp. Steam curls from the wound where

  sanctified oil meets Invictan plasma residue.

  Spartan

  steps forward, helm cracked, one glowing eye bright with wrath. She

  raises her sword and points it at Cassiel.

  

“Can

  you see it now?” she growls, voice low and roughened by grief. “Can

  you feel it; the wrath of the Forger? The heat of His

  Forge?”

  Cassiel

  gurgles, blood and light mixing at the corners of his lips. His mouth

  opens as if to pray, but no words come. Only the hiss of escaping air

  and the rattle of the dying.

  Spartan

  exhales hard, the steam of her breath rolling from her visor. She

  drives her sword down into the snow beside him, her gauntlet rising

  to touch the burned metal of his chestplate, fingers dragging down

  the sanctified sigils carved into his armor.

  

“Where

  is your Absolute now?” she whispers. “Tell me, Priest, do you

  still believe He will save you?”

  Her

  other hand reaches up, brushing the side of his helm, almost gentle.

  Almost pitying.

  

“I

  warned Absjorn,” she says, voice trembling with fury. “I promised

  him. The Forger does not take kindly to the desecration of His own.”

  She

  rises, turns, hand still on Cassiel’s pauldron, and looks across

  the ravine. Magnus and Absjorn are still locked in their duel, blades

  flashing in the firelight. She inhales sharply, then roars,

  her voice thundering through the shattered valley.

  

“JOHNATHON

  ABSJORN!”

  Both

  men freeze, swords halted mid-swing. Smoke drifts between them as

  they turn toward her, Magnus in wary silence, Absjorn in disbelief.

  His titansteed paws the ground near him, uneasy.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  They

  behold the sight before them: Cassiel, on his knees. Rho’s sword

  through his chest. Spartan standing over him like divine judgment

  incarnate.

  She

  steps closer to Cassiel, her voice ringing out across the carnage,

  steady and commanding, as though she speaks not merely as a soldier,

  but as something more.

  

“I

  warned you,” she says to Absjorn, her voice cutting through the

  wind. “You would pay dearly. And now you will learn what

  it means to sacrifice. You took so much from me… tried to take

  more.”

  She

  places both hands upon Cassiel’s head.

  

“But

  I am the Daughter of the Forger.”

  Her

  grip tightens.

  

“I

  am His Voice.”

  The

  armor groans.

  

“I

  am His Will.”

  Cassiel’s

  head twists under her gauntlets.

  

“I

  am His Blood!”

  The

  sound is brutal, a sharp snap,

  followed by the wet tear of sinew and sanctified flesh. Cassiel’s

  body slumps forward, lifeless, steam rising from his neck as Spartan

  wrenches the head free, holding it aloft by the top of the helm.

  Blood,

  oil, and snow mingle at her feet. The ravine falls silent, even the

  wind dares not move.

  Then,

  slowly, the severed head slips from its helmet and drops, rolling

  across the charred snow until it stops at Absjorn’s feet.

  Rho

  Voss plants a heavy boot on Cassiel’s body and wrenches the massive

  zweihander free with a metallic groan. Before the corpse even

  collapses into the bloodied snow, Rho swings the blade again, a

  clean, brutal arc, and the mare’s head tumbles from its body, steam

  rising from both stumps in the cold.

  Absjorn

  stands frozen where he is, eyes wide, breath misting in the winter

  air. For a long, agonizing moment, there’s only silence between him

  and the Vardengard. His sword trembles in his grip. He looks upon

  Cassiel’s body, the Priest of the Venators, the holy voice of the

  Absolute, fallen like some mortal beast, unmade in a storm of

  Invictan fury.

  He

  cannot comprehend it. A Priest does not die. A Priest does not

  fall. And yet, before him, one has.

  Cassiel,

  his teacher, his mentor, the man who raised him from boy to soldier,

  lies desecrated in the snow, his mare beheaded, his head torn from

  his shoulders. Absjorn’s lips part, but no prayer comes. No word.

  Only horror.

  Magnus,

  by contrast, straightens to his full height. The glow of his armor

  reflects the crimson spatter of the field. He takes in the sight of

  his Vardengard, Spartan standing over Cassiel’s ruin, Rho Voss’

  zweihander dripping, and a low smile begins to form beneath his

  helm. Pride. Terrible, cold pride. He had doubted they could do it.

  He had thought Cassiel too well-armored, too blessed. Yet they had

  proved him wrong. His champions had felled a god-touched man.

  Meters

  away, Red Baron, Arturo, and Liam watch in stunned silence. Snow

  swirls around them like ash. Arturo instinctively makes the sign of

  the cross, whispering a fragmented prayer under his breath, half

  Latin, half habit. “Domine, miserere…”

  Liam,

  despite the shock, feels something fierce claw up inside him, pride.

  Horror and awe, yes, but also pride to have stood with the Invictans

  and seen the unthinkable done.

  Red

  Baron simply stares, visor reflecting the scene, his mind reeling to

  make sense of what he’s seeing.

  No

  one speaks. The only sound is the slow, steady hum of the Olympian

  armor as Spartan turns her gaze back toward Absjorn.

  Spartan’s

  voice cuts across the field like thunder. “Absjorn,”

  Her tone echoes off the stone walls of the ravine, raw with command.

  The wind stills. Even the hum of the Olympian armor seems to fade

  beneath her voice. “Take a look around you,” she calls, stepping

  forward through the crimsoned snow. “The fight is over. You have

  failed. You have disgraced yourself before your god.”

  Absjorn’s

  grip tightens on the reins of Balthamar,

  his titansteed shifting beside him, snorting clouds of steam. He

  doesn’t want to look, but he hears it. The silence. The absence of

  the Venators’ hymns. The world feels hollow without their chanting.

  Slowly, dreadfully, his gaze turns.

  All

  around him lie the bodies of his brethren. The one hundred Venators

  he had brought, all of them, fallen. Malchiel’s body still

  half-buried in the snow outside the ravine. Vaedran, headless, blood

  pooling black beneath the crimson sky. Akriel’s corpse twisted,

  bisected. Tzurinn, chest caved in, leg gone. Cassiel, desecrated.

  There

  is no song of the Absolute now. No divine light breaking through the

  storm clouds. Only the sound of wind and the slow shifting of snow

  over the dead.

  Absjorn

  lowers his axe, the weight of it dragging against the ground. The

  radiant engravings upon its head flicker, once bright with divine

  fire, now dulling to embers. His shoulders sag. He pulls Balthamar

  closer by the reins, the great beast lets out a low, mournful bray,

  as if sensing its master’s despair.

  For

  the first time, Absjorn feels it in his bones, the Absolute is

  silent.

  Barely

  two meters away, Magnus

  watches him. The General Supreme stands tall, his armor gleaming

  dully in the cold light. His sword lowers, the blood dripping from

  its edge hissing against the snow. With a slow, deliberate motion, he

  slides it back into the scabbard on his hip.

  He

  glances across the battlefield, the frozen dead, the Invictan banners

  heavy with frost, and then to Spartan. Her shoulders heave, her armor

  still steaming with heat. She drops Cassiel’s helm into the snow

  beside the corpse. The clang echoes sharp and final.

  Magnus

  raises a hand. “Form up,” he orders, his voice calm, low,

  commanding. “We return to camp.”

  The

  Invictan soldiers begin to move, some limping, others helping their

  wounded. The mechanical steeds whir and snort as men climb back into

  their saddles. Rho Voss wipes his blade clean on Cassiel’s cloak

  before resting it across his shoulder.

  Magnus

  strides toward Spartan, snow crunching beneath his boots. He passes

  by the body of Cassiel, by the ruin of the Venators, until he stands

  beside her.

  She

  stands silent, watching Absjorn.

  Spartan

  looks up at Magnus,

  her visor still faintly glowing in the firelight. For a moment, there

  is only silence between them, the snow drifting down, the low groan

  of cooling metal, the soft whine of damaged servos. Then she exhales,

  a hiss of steam from her armor’s vents, and reaches down.

  Her

  gauntlet closes around the hilt of her sword. She lifts it, wipes the

  edge against her thigh, and slides it back into the scabbard across

  her back. The motion is practiced, almost ritual. Then she turns, and

  kneels beside Marus.

  The

  young Invictan lies still, the snow stained red beneath him. His

  armor is broken open where the staff had bludgeoned him, the edges

  blackened from the heat of the strike. Spartan stares down at him for

  a long moment, her breath heavy, her chest rising and falling with

  quiet restraint. Then, slowly, she slips her arms beneath him.

  The

  Olympian armor hums low as she lifts his body. She cradles him

  against her chestplate as though he were a child. Her gauntlet

  brushes a strand of his dark hair away from his face, the movement

  far too gentle for a warrior encased in steel.

  Magnus

  watches her. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes track

  every motion, the careful way she holds the fallen soldier, the way

  her head dips slightly as if in prayer. She says nothing, but he can

  see the sorrow in the weight of her movements. The Forger’s Chosen,

  the Voice of the Forge, mourning one of her own.

  Beside

  her, Rho Voss

  steps forward. The massive warrior places his hand on Spartan’s

  shoulder, his armored palm leaving an imprint of frost and soot. His

  nostrils flare, he can smell the grief, the faintest

  chemical trace of it through his armor’s olfactory vents. Magnus

  cannot, but he sees it all the same.

  Spartan

  rises, Marus’ body still in her arms. Rho Voss turns with her,

  their heavy footsteps thudding in sync as they follow the path of the

  retreating Invictan soldiers, the slow, exhausted line disappearing

  deeper into the ravine, toward the way they came.

  Magnus

  remains still a moment longer, the cold wind cutting through the

  silence. Then he strides to Marus’

  mechanical horse, the machine whirrs as he mounts,

  its servos still functional enough to carry him. His own, Ferrum

  Rex, lies dead behind him, its frame torn apart by

  Absjorn’s axe.

  He

  looks once toward Spartan and Rho Voss, then to Red

  Baron, Liam,

  and Arturo,

  who follow on foot. Their expressions are muted, weary, pale,

  uncertain of what they’ve witnessed. They fall in behind, trudging

  through the snow after the Vardengard.

  No

  one speaks.

  Behind

  them, the battlefield lies still, a graveyard of broken armor and

  shattered faith.

  And

  in the center of it all stands Absjorn,

  alone, the snow swirling around him. His axe hangs limp at his side.

  Balthamar,

  the titansteed, snorts and stamps beside him, restless but loyal. All

  around are the corpses of his brothers, silent, cold, eternal.

  The

  last of the Invictans vanish into the white.

  Absjorn

  is left with only the dead and the whispering wind, and for the first

  time in his life, the Absolute

  does not answer.

  The

  snow falls heavier now, muting the world to a white silence.

  Absjorn

  stands in the midst of it all, a black and crimson figure framed by

  ruin, a lone survivor among corpses. His breath hisses through his

  helm, shallow and uneven. All around him are the dead: Venators,

  warriors, brothers. Their bodies lie half-buried in the snow, their

  once-radiant armor dimmed and broken, their prayers silenced.

  He

  doesn’t move at first. Just stares. The battle is over, but the

  ringing in his ears persists, the memory of clashing steel, the

  roaring of the righteous, the final silence of the fallen. Cassiel’s

  body lies not far from him, slumped where Spartan left it, the snow

  already clinging to the shattered edges of his armor.

  Absjorn

  releases Balthamar’s

  reins. The titansteed snorts, shaking its plated mane, but stays

  close, loyal even in stillness. Absjorn’s boots crunch against the

  snow as he walks, slow, deliberate, until he stands before Cassiel.

  Then,

  as if his legs can bear it no longer, he drops to his knees. The

  impact sends up a puff of white. His hands tremble as they settle

  upon Cassiel’s armor. The Venator’s body is still warm beneath

  the steel, still leaking a thin ribbon of steam into the air.

  Absjorn

  stares.

  He

  has seen death before, has caused it, lived among it, honored it, but

  never this. Never the fall of one of the Priests,

  the anointed voices of the Absolute. They were supposed to be

  untouchable, immortal in purpose, sustained by divine favor. And yet

  here Cassiel lies, broken in the snow like a man.

  The

  silence presses on him. It is suffocating.

  He

  waits for the whisper of the Absolute,

  for the warmth that has always followed his prayers, that familiar

  divine certainty that he is seen. Loved. Chosen.

  But

  nothing comes.

  For

  the first time in his life, Absjorn

  feels nothing.

  He

  stares down at his hands, bloodied and shaking. His throat tightens.

  The words escape him in a broken whisper, more plea than prayer,

  “Why…?”

  The

  wind answers him, cold and unfeeling.

  His

  voice rises, a harsh, trembling growl. “Why now? Why when I have

  done everything You commanded. Why do You turn Your gaze from me?!”

  He slams his fist into the snow. Once. Twice. A third time. The white

  is stained with red. “I killed in Your name! I burned

  in Your name! I bled for You! I gave You everything!”

  The

  rage takes him, an agony that sears deeper than any wound. He rips

  the cross-shaped sigil from his pauldron, throws it into the snow.

  His armor’s servos whine as he stands, breathing hard, head bowed

  low.

  His

  fury swirls and condenses, turning outward. It finds faces, names.

  Magnus. Spartan. Rho Voss.

  The heretics who desecrated the divine. The false prophets who mocked

  the Absolute and lived.

  He

  looks down at Cassiel again. Slowly, reverently, Absjorn reaches

  down. He retrieves the helm,

  cradles it in both hands, and places it upon Cassiel’s ruined head.

  Then he gathers the Priest’s body in his arms, careful, gentle,

  like a child lifting a saint from the altar.

  The

  snow falls around him in thick, silent flakes.

  Absjorn

  turns toward the horizon, the way they came, the way home. Balthamar

  falls in behind him, the steed’s hooves sinking deep into the

  blood-streaked snow.

  As

  he walks, he whispers under his breath, more vow than prayer:

  “I

  will not fail You again. I will bring You their heads. I will give

  You reason to look upon me once more.”

  And

  beneath the weight of that vow, the

  Venator Captain disappears into the white, carrying

  the body of his fallen Priest, a lone, forsaken disciple trudging

  through the wasteland, dragging the remnants of faith behind him.