Winterscar was given a wide berth as I recovered my weapons. I admit I was stalling the eventual moment I’d have to power it back on and start asking it questions.

With Father’s knife in hand, the screamers gave up their power cells without much of a fuss. Never sure what the future holds, but more power was never a bad idea. And with each extracted cells, Winterscar’s prone armor would remain on the edge of my sight and mind, waiting.

Waiting for me to deal with reality.

Memory of that pulse persisted in my mind. Some sort of instinct dreaded the thought of feeling that pulse again. And that strange sense that came with it. The feeling of unhallowed knowledge that should not be touched upon. The occult blades and trinkets I’d seen in my life had never felt like this before. No, what had happened was… something.

I’d once read about higher dimensions in mathematics and had an interesting time trying to picture how the fourth dimension would look like. If you cut a three-dimensional object into a slice, what would appear on the slice would be what could be seen by a two-dimensional viewer.

The next dimension up imagined that a three-dimensional object as a slice from a fourth dimensional one. The thought experiment blurred my mind a bit, where at some points I felt I had it and at others, the concept would bleed away in my mind like melting snow.

Feeling for that soul-sense was exactly like that. I knew and remembered how it had felt, a sort of connection to reality itself that I hadn’t noticed or known about before. Except it went beyond a biological sense. More as if consciousness and sentience itself were somehow acknowledged by the universe the same way matter was.

And yet getting a figurative hand on that sense was slippery, as if for some moments I’d be able to comprehend it and at others it would slip by and only remain as a memory. The difference between feeling actual pain and reading a note about pain. Not the same thing, not even in the same league. The concept of pain was there, but the actual feeling was difficult to recall in perfect lucid detail.

I wondered if Journey was suffering the same effects, only the digital version of it. If that was even possible. Was that why his logs had an extra bit of information appear when it was loaded, but disappear when not opened up?

With the last cell in hand, I made my way back to Winterscar, reluctantly. A lingering sense of terror remained behind, making each step in that armor’s direction a deliberate choice.

The dead armor remained prone on the ground, unmoving. No sign of life. I steeled my nerves and kneeled down next to it, one hand reaching down and resting on the chestplate. “I’m not sure if you’re still here, Father. Thank you, if you are. One last time.”

The armor remained silent. Unmoving. A chill passed through my spine, raising the hairs on my arms.

The side clasp for the power cell still functioned. In moments, the spent power cell was jettisoned from its holder at the base of the belt and I replaced it with a full cell. My movements were slow, and careful. The power drained out of the cell and into the armor.

What would happen when the suit was powered on? A strange mix of hope and dread spun around in my gut.

A few seconds passed and Journey’s HUD chimed that connection had been reestablished to Winterscar.

For all that I had thought might happened, the mundane event happened instead: It stayed motionless on the floor.

“Winterscar, are… are you online?”

That etheral voice snapped up on the comms. “Affirmative.”

”Can you tell me more about what happened?”

It went into details. As I spoke to it, it became clear Father wasn’t going to suddenly spring back to live. The armor acted and spoke as if everything was operating as expected. Nothing was different from Journey’s explanation. No amount of digging would discover anything else. I spent a few minutes interrogating the armor and none of its answers were new to me.

“All right, fine.” I gulped and steeled myself. There was still one way to see… “Can you…” My voice faltered, horror creeping up in me again. I pressed forward. It had to be done, I had to know. “Can you turn on the combat engram of Father again?”

“Remote override rejected. Insufficient permissions. Root level permissions required for remote override.”

“What?” Winterscar had stopped squinting at the fine print. “You allowed it a few minutes ago. What’s changed?”

“Root level permissions required for remote override.” The suit stubbornly insisted, giving absolutely no additional information to work around. Despite the monotone response, there was a feeling of… Fear? A twinge of something in the voice. I might have imagined it, however.

Was Winterscar scared of triggering Father’s engram again? Didn’t know armors could get spooked, but just a moment ago I’d found out Journey had some sort of consciousness already. So what did I really know about these ancient armors?

I’ll get it a good therapist when I’m back home, see if that helps it out.

Or rather, Kidra will. She’ll be the one inheriting Winterscar. Therapists were expensive anyhow. She’d be here soon, minutes at most. Green dots rapidly approaching my location, from what Journey’s HUD was showing me. I wasn’t keen to ask the armor again anyhow. Part of me was actually relieved that it had denied my request.

I sat back on a wall, and waited for the rescue team to arrive. I didn’t need to wait long.

Once they came in range, it was time to say hello. I pulled myself back up and walked out.

There wasn’t anything cinematic about their approach. Simply a line of human silhouettes, making their way. At the center, walking with steady strides, was the clan lord Atius. The large fur great cloak he wore somehow light enough to sway side to side. The fur shoulders made his outline look massive, likely intentional. He looked every bit like a figure of myth, walking out of the shadows.

Behind him trailed four other relic knights. His retinue. Two were from House Shadowsong. The prime and one of his subordinates. Quite the honor for two relic knights of the same house to be part of Atius’s personal fireteam. The other two knights came from House Ironreach and House Windrunner. Both prime armors, the greatest knights these houses had to their names. The elites, each storied with years of skill honed behind their weapons.

And following behind these legends were three scraggly looking scavengers. They’d unfastened their mask a while ago now. The visibility increase clearly needed in this environment.

Kidra and Ankah walked side by side, while poor Calem closed ranks behind, towering above both and yet out of his league.

My sister had the same grim look she’d always sported, minus the makeup. Long black hair tied in a ponytail by a band that held a few raven black feathers as a stylistic choice of hers. Sharp blue eyes with a piercing gaze that made anyone self-conscious if she glared in their direction. In a house like Winterscar, appearance was another tool among the arsenal of weapons and Kidra had sharpened hers into an edge. Back home she’d usually sport black and blue eyeshadow to double down on this effect, paired with black lipstick. The lack of it was obvious here, no reason to spend time on that outside the colony, a week into an expedition requiring a full body environmental suit.

Ankah was almost the opposite. Tan skin, purposefully done to show off how often she’d get access to the top level skylights of the colony. Good looks were easy to maintain at that level of wealth.

Usually in the colony, she’d wear all kinds of gold ornaments, different ones depending on the day or her inclination. Out on expedition she only wore the minimum. The less metal worn, the less chance for an issue since they conducted heat rather well. I suppose those gold bracelets of hers were essential.

The one feature that always stayed the same were those gold hoop earrings. It oddly surprised me to find her wearing those even now, out on expedition. That can’t be comfortable to wear covered up with a full environmental suit helmet. Then again, Kidra wore her raven feathers even here as a talisman of luck, perhaps this was Ankah’s version of that.

Did they have some sort of significance to her?

Calem was the same as usual. Stern face that fit a massive build he had under that environmental suit. Your typical meathead, and he fully committed to that role. Even his throat looked filled with muscles. People would miss it, but his brown eyes had a twinkle of sly intelligence.

I’d underestimated that man once in the long past. Not a mistake I’d make again.

All three of them seemed on edge as I walked out. Until the moment where I reached up and unhooked my helmet, leaving my face exposed in the cold air.

Of their three faces, Kidra’s was the one to light up. She broke ranks and rushed out to me, wrapping a hug I couldn’t feel through the armor. “I believed you were dead.” She said.

“Well, given my track record, I’d also bet on finding me laying facedown somewhere down here too.” I returned the hug, patting her back all the while. “No offense taken.”

She broke away, scowling, then slapped the side of my shoulder. Journey didn’t bother with a shield. Even a bullet wasn’t enough for the relic armor to use up shields, let alone a slap from a gloved hand.

Atius and the others shortly drew up to me before I could trade another set of words with my sister. The lord stepped closer, and Kidra backed away, almost on instinct. The clan lord had a completely distinct presence up close. He towered over me, a full head and hand above. His armor’s helmet had been secured on the side of the shoulder, a half plate that left the back of his head mostly exposed.

I’d heard Deathless using helmets like these. Just enough plate to trigger the shields and heads up displays, worn more like crowns than proper equipment, though it still covered the full face. Given how easily armor down here was punctured without a shield, I could see why the shields were the important detail.

His armored hand patted the old crusader armor’s other shoulder, as if examining for himself that reality of it. Taking a critical look over the light gold ornaments that still remained intact. “I’ll be damned.” He said, that deep gravel of a smoker’s voice of his, grinding out each word. “I knew Tenisent wouldn’t lie about something like this. Still needed to see it with my own eyes. Wear this with pride, little whelp. Its last owner had clearly been among the elite, a crusader from the looks of it. Large footsteps to fill.”

I nodded back, matching his gaze. “Her name was Cathida. I don’t know anything else about her other than what she’d named this armor. It’s damn good to see you all.”

He grinned back. “We’re all ready to climb down into hell itself to rescue our own. We’re knights. This is what we do.”

The others behind him nodded solemnly at that.

This was the closest I’ve ever been to the clan Lord. I could see every detail of his face, right down to the stubble in his beard. His old eyes washed over me, searching. “Now, show me his body, lad.”

“There’s some circumstances around his armor and death.” I said. “We need to talk about that.”

“Using the armor to emulate Tenisent? I’ve had that on my mind since you let me know. What sort of necromancy have you been up to, little Winterscar? Tell me it all.”

I pointed at the inside of the room, where the armor still lay. “Long story. I’ll try to give you the abridged version.”

He nodded, then waved to the group. “Set up camp, everyone. We’ll remain on site for burial. We resume after. Eat and drink while you can.”

The fireteam all began to unpack, setting up on the scattered metal tables and scavenging around the dead machine bodies.

Atius and I both walked inside as I explained to him the strange events I’d seen. His face went from curiosity to shock, and then deep contemplation as I wove my tale.

“And you’re sure the lights you saw floating off of him were blue? Occult blue?” Atius asked. My nod was all the confirmation he needed.

“Do you know what exactly happened?” I asked him.

To that, he shook his head. “Some parts, I have sound theories. Other parts no. You need to understand, this is the first I’ve heard of someone unlocking the administrator accounts for an armor. That part is a mystery to me. I do have a handle on the occult, however for us Deathless, it’s more… instinctive. Only the warlocks are able to reliably use the occult to empower objects. As for my kin, our abilities are more direct. That pulse against reality, on the other hand, I’d seen it before. I carry it on my belt you could say.” He glanced down at Father’s body. “One of my brothers discovered a technique on his expeditions down. An ability to empower his blade for the next attack. He called it a soul strike.”

“Discovered?”

He nodded. “Has Tenisent explained sanctuary points to you?”

“Honestly? He might have and I don’t quite remember right now. I’ve been a tad busy in the meantime. You know, stress, panic, death, the usual.”

The clan lord softly smiled. “I see you have a penchant for understatements. Further underground, the gods, or more likely the mites if you ask me, have setup pillars that ward away machines. Safezones. If I touch one of these pillars, I gain access to a new spell or ability that pillar stores. I can’t hold over seven, however.”

He drew out his long-sword, though he didn’t turn it on. “My fellow Deathless aside, I’ve seen that rip in reality before. I carry something similar right here.” The ornate hilt looked both simple and elegant at the same time as he examined it. The weapon itself was a clear longsword, slightly broader than my own. I wondered then, what sorts of enemies that blade had seen and felled.

“Breaker. That’s its name.” He flipped it and offered it to me, hilt up. “I’ll be taking it back after, of course. I can see you’ve got a sword of your own now, so I hardly belive you need to hold on to mine for long.” He chuckled. “That blade is quite valuable to me, and likely even older than I am.”

The moment I wrapped my hand around the hilt, I felt something. That soul-sense again. The feeling that if I pushed slightly on the blade, something terrible would happen. And the understanding that I could.

“Hmmm, did you by chance feel something?” Atius asked, watching me carefully.

I nodded. “Yes, my lord. I sense that I can... trigger it in some way. I don’t know what it would do if I did.”

The Deathless nodded. “Seems exposure to the soul pulse made you attuned in some way. I don’t know if that ability will remain permanently etched inside you, or if it’s only temporary. Oh, and don’t trigger the blade. The power is old and fraying inside. I fear I can only use it a few more times before the enchantment breaks for good. Time really does break down everything.”

Looking over the blade more critically, the only thing different besides the ornate hilt was soft engravings on the inner side of the sword blade, wording in a strange language. The letters were recognizable, albeit with odd lines. The structure however was complete gibberish. Cum litterā dīvisiōnis dēleō quid adversārium meum colligit

“That writing on your sword,” I said, passing the old blade back. “Do you know what it means?”

He raised the weapon, light catching on the edge. “I would be a rather poor owner if after all these years I hadn’t already figured out what that writing meant. It’s an old imperial language called Latin. Not used as an actual language, rather Imperials use it decoratively on the grander items and scrolls they own, as part of their culture. If I remember right, it translates as such: ‘With the letter of division, I destroy that which unites my enemy.’ Makes more sense why the sword is named as it is.”

“Sounds imperial all right. Any idea what it actually means?”

He shrugged. “I have suspicions. It was a gift, one from a very powerful and rather..” He hummed, thinking over his words. “Let’s say ‘reclusive’ order of Imperials. As for the meaning, the forge smith likely left it intentionally vague to give the wielder room for their own interpretation. They can be dramatic like so, Imperials.”

“Fair’s fair, they think we’re the weird ones with all of our songs.” I gave him a what-can-you-do shrug. The most common gripe pilgrims had with us surface dwellers was the sheer amount of songs we had. To them, it must have looked like we had a song for everything. They weren’t wrong.

“I suppose you have a point. Human culture is vast.” He shook his head, keeping the blade out.

“Did they know about that… aura the sword has? What does it do?” I asked.

“I believe they didn’t know about the blade’s ability. To them, it could have simply been an artifact of the goddess they kept in their vault. Until I happened to touch it. After that, they become convinced the blade had been forged for me.”

He shook his head, smiling. “That part is a story for another time. Of the blade’s true ability, my fellow Deathless I spoke about earlier demonstrated what this kind of enchantment can do: When he imbued his weapon, it could cut beyond the physical world for the next strike he did. I believe Breaker has a more permanent version of that ability infused into it.”

The clan lord’s long-sword flashed blue, active as he swung down on a table, dividing it in half. “The ability however, has very niche uses. See, had I used the sword’s capacity just now, it would have done and felt the same as this cut. You wouldn’t have felt anything. So the result on the surface would be no different. Despite that, my friend kept his ability, even if it took up one of his seven slots. There was one exception where the technique was worthwhile.”

He turned to look me in the eye. “I don’t know why most machines don’t carry over their memories after death, I would have expected them to learn and remember past fights in order to improve. Instead, none of them do. Experience is only gained within their current lifespan. But... Just as humanity has Deathless, the machines have their own champions. We call them Feathers. They appear humanoid, although each has its own unique flair to distinguish itself.”

“Humanoid?” Just how humanoid are they? I glanced up to meet Atius’s eyes, connecting dots together in strange ways. Were the Deathless…. No, that couldn’t be. Could it? “How humanoid are we talking about? Are they able to appear indistinguishable from humans?”

At that the clan lord laughed, “I see where your head is going, lad. No, they have no intentions of hiding among humans. When you see a Feather, you’ll know. Only parts of them look human. As for the Deathless, I have my own theories. But us being rogue machines or sleeping agents are some that I’ve long ago disproved. And I have had a long time to ponder the depths of my own life, with a long list of books and knowledge I’ve used to draw my conclusions. Economics, logistics, polemology, even philosophy.”

He unhooked his left gauntlet, exposing his hands. Then he drew his blade and made a large cut across the forearm. Blood leaked from the exposure, immediately pooling down across the raised arm. It was deep red, closer to black. “As you see, I bleed just like everyone else. As far as I can tell, I both behave and feel human too. Look at the color of the blood however. Far more black than it has any right to be. It doesn’t freeze either.” With his other hand, he wiped away the trail of blood, revealing completely unmarked skin where at least a scar should have remained. “Rapid healing is a trait all Deathless share as a baseline from what I’ve put together. So, darker blood, immunity to the frost, and rapid regeneration. Take a guess where that might lead.”

There was only one thing I knew that could fix itself, wasn’t hampered by climate, and had a black coloring. “You’ve got an armor spirit mixed inside your blood?”

“The first theory I had, and all this time later, still the most probable theory. A variation of an armor’s spirit that doesn’t tend to an armor at all, but rather made to inhabit a human. It doesn’t speak either, the only voice in my head is my own. I have no control over it, it simply heals me rapidly through minor to serious damage. There are limits. There’s plenty of damage that can’t be regenerated, like decapitation. Deathless always return to life somewhere in the world nearby, and our bodies disintegrate on death.”

“Like how the armor spirits consume matter?”

He nodded. “Yes, lad. Exactly like that. The only hole in the theory however are the Feathers - they’re not stupid opponents. Far from it, they are our mirror match in almost every way. We can’t kill them - at least not permanently. They can use the occult like we can, and it’s clear they remember past fights and learn from them. And while the Deathless seem to all be noble souls, the Feathers are cruel and sadistic, reveling in causing pain above all else. They would have certainly adapted their weaponry to catch a floating armor spirit or at least tried to experiment.”

Atius re-equipped his armored gauntlet slowly, taking his time as he explained the details. “I’m still around, and so are my brothers and sisters through the decades and centuries. Therefore, the Feathers must have failed. I suspect our spirits work differently than the armors in ways we don’t have the tools to measure.”

“And your friend, you said he kept that special strike of his for a reason? Does it sever a Feather for good if he kills one?” I asked.

He shook his head at that, chuckling. “Were it be so. No, if killed by the strike, the Feathers still return at some point - but a year or more later, not hours. Which is useful enough to hold on to. Feathers are not the strongest opponents the machines can field against us, they are, however, the most dangerous in my opinion. Taking one out for years is an excellent trade. From what he’d learned, the strike must have ripped through something important to them. When he struck, it felt as if reality had bent at the edge of that blade, much like what you described happened with your old man. The same happens with my own blade, of the few times I saw fit to make use of its capabilities.”

Gauntlet secured, he turned his gaze to the sliced table, pointing at it. “It only works on living foes. Inanimate objects like this table wouldn’t have that pulse. Had I struck down a rat with my sword truly powered however, you would have felt it. Which begs the question - at what point does a machine stop counting as an inanimate object? A question my brother in arms didn’t know the answer to. And one I do not either.”

He knelt by Father’s body next, hand outstretched to the chest plate. “We’re entering territory that isn’t well understood, lad. I suspect the Deathless and the armor spirits might have something in common. And here, this armor’s spirit was mimicking your Father’s motions while his body still inside, less than an hour after his death. Likely too soon for the lady of the deep to ferry his soul away. Body, mind and soul all separate but overlapping each other. That feels significant to me. Assuming there is such a thing as the soul. I still haven’t found answers to questions like those yet.”

I shuddered at the sudden intrusive thought of my Father returning as a Deathless, with no memory of his trials or his triumphs. A blank slate where there had once been a life that went through struggle, desolation, despair and ultimately resolution. It left an utterly bittersweet taste in my mouth, an anathema.

If Atius noticed my thoughts, he didn’t make a mention of it. “I know little more than you do, lad. Or if any of what I’ve said connects to one another. And the armor refuses to reactivate this engram?”

Nodding, I gave him a demonstration. “Winterscar, activate Father’s combat engram.”

The armor promptly spat out its usual response. Lord Atius remained quiet, contemplating the answer. “Perhaps a set of external circumstances had to happen to allow it to bend the rules as it did? Or something changed in the interim between then and now. Maybe the armor only allowed it due to the dire situation. Danger inspires a lot more than peace.”

He rose and took a step back to the outside. “Regardless, we’ll conduct some experiments once we return. Let’s put his body to peace for now and discuss this once we’ve returned to the colony. The man deserves at least that. He’s done his time.”

With deft hands, I lifted Winterscar and followed the clan lord out of the house.

All the relic knights had formed a semicircle around the parameter, facing inwards, prepared for this moment. The scavengers and Kidra dotted the outer edge of the semi-circle. The three eyed me with different looks. Kidra with her usual impassive eyes, Ankha with thinly kept disdain - which, to her credit, had clearly dialed down compared to her usual look. And Calem with… respect?

I walked to the center and lowered Winterscar in their midst.

Lord Atius stepped forward first, head bowed and watching the armor with a critical eye. The blood remained frozen on the plate, the last trace of a brutal fight.

Sounds of a single sword being unsheathed filled the cavern. Atius had drawn his weapon once more.

The four knights behind followed with their own motions, each taking off their helmet to the side and drawing their weapons out. Two took out knives, while the other two came from houses wealthy enough to own a long sword of their own. Those defaulted to their swords instead of knives.

In this ring of blades, they had left a gap. A gap for one more knight.

I walked over and took my place among them, turning and drawing out Cathida’s long sword. Now my own blade. I’d have to inspect it further to see if she had named it.

As one, we lifted our blades, extended out to Father’s limp body. Only Atius kept his blade to the ground as he stepped forward and spoke.

“I’ve seen very few people turn their life around like Tenisent managed.” He said to the assembled group. “He found himself at the bottom of a pit, a pit that claimed countless others before him. And he dug his way out, by claw and by teeth. What I say next might sound callous to you, Keith and Kidra. I hope instead, that it’ll bring you some amount of comfort. It does for me.”

He turned his gaze up to meet mine and then looked to my sister. “I strongly believe he’s exactly where he needs to be, on a path to reunite with his wife. As far as I could understand the man, Tenisent has been waiting for this moment for a long, long time. Tell me Keith, as the last one to witness his struggle, do you judge that he died on his own terms?”

I could hear metal knocking over the chest plates of all the relic knights, each using the hilt of their weapon. A sign of respect to the departed. I drew my sword down to the ground as Atius brought his own up to join the circle of blades.

The question stayed in my mind, and I had to answer it seriously. Now that they had labeled me as the speaker of the dead, I was to judge his life. Did Father die on his terms? Did he die as a follower of the white? Did he die at all? I couldn’t know. Death wasn’t the end in this world, but only to a tiny few.

Even if I give up, I still fight to the end, as all Exodites should. His voice drifted back into my mind, the memory still clear and lucid.

If I knew why… surely, I would have been a better man already.

I know… I know why…

“Aye.” I finally answered. “He died as he lived. I stand as witness and judge him true of heart.”

My blade rose back up, signalling I had said my peace.

“Don’t weep for him, celebrate him.” Atius boomed. “He would consider it a life lived in full and complete to the very end. That’s all that I need to hear myself.” He turned his gaze back down to Father’s still body, taking a step forward. “May your journey with the Lady ‘O death be a swift one, Tenisent. Rest in peace among the gods, and may you be reunited with family and old friends. Fireteam, present blades.”

The clan lord lifted his sword high, then rammed it down into the ground, the edge glowing bright blue for a second. The rest of the knights mirrored his movements. All blades lifted to the heavens, then sank down into the ground in front of their wielder. A burial out on expedition. I knew what would come next.

Atius began, both hands laying on the hilt of his sword, a slow tempo to his words. The first lyrics to the song of the dead. “In life we served... the call of destiny. To live, to fight, to stay free of the blight. Until… we reached the end. ”

The rest of the knights joined in unison, unprompted by any command. “Oh’ see, oh’ see, oh’ lady of the deep. Oh’ see our hearts, and weep in defeat!”

A haunting melody, written right in our scriptures. The full accompaniment of everyone’s voice had a quality of its own, becoming a deep timber that resonated all around. No one’s voice could be recognized individually, but the collective voice became something greater than the sum of all parts.

“The gods rose up and held the darkness back. And we, and we, upheld the journey back. O’ knight, O’ knight, O’ follower of the white. Go forth, Go forth and join the gods above.”

All of us sang, even the Shadowsong prime. And for that one moment, all animosity was left behind to give respect to one who had served the clan, right to his last breath.

We sang each verse and each chorus.

Soon, we reached the end of the song. All voices faded off, only Atius’s was left. “Beware, beware, the glyph of unity.” His voice went low and soft, slowing to a complete stop. “Beware, beware, that glowing destiny. Go forth, go forth... and be free.”

Next chapter - The mission we came for