The Everlord of Cyre refused to fight his own war.

But why should he?

He had a whole host of generals, legates, prefects, and would-be heroes - all burning to etch their names in stone. All in pursuit of His singular, golden promise.

Of course Vorpei, Ex-Consul of the Veneratian, had her own allies. Those who remained were here on Thrass et Yunum, with her. The rest were dead and worse.

Her dwindling supply of once-proud lives, against His Empire.

Vorpei couldn’t blame her enemies - all those career officers, who wanted to climb to the top of the ranks, just to see if they could - because she had been one of them, once. Wars didn’t matter, honors and decorations did. Prestige and power.

And then, that damned Emperor had the gall to wake up. During her lifetime. And he won over the masses that Vorpei had so delicately under control with a divine promise: Do as I command, and join the highest ranks. I will make you immortal.

The first promise was truth. The last, a lie.

But the Emperor was living proof of his immortality. For a thousand years, he had ruled over Cyre. And for thousands of years before that, He had walked the universe. Searching for His “chosen” people, that one day they might be worthy of His gifts. Who doesn’t want to live forever?

No, she couldn't blame the cyrans who fought for the Emperor. But she could hate them.

Blind fools. He lies to you and he always will.

As long as he reigned, her people would never be anything but pieces of some larger machine that they could never see, nor hope to understand. A whole empire built by constructs made of flesh. Cyrans, become little more than machines.

He was master of their fate.

He chose all paths. Even this war-

Even this war! Why do I play my part at all?

Vorpei inhaled deeply. Her elbows were propped up on the table, her hands steepled in front of her face. Inhaling the scent of the roughshod table, with its splintered wood and deep scratches. Some old dreck acquired in a raid, after their latest retreat through the jungle. Dinghy gas lanterns hung overhead, stirring gently in the breeze that licked at the canvas of her tent. She didn’t even have a floor under her feet anymore. Just Thrassian dirt.

Vorpei smacked a fist on the table. Pens and half-empty inkwells and delicate cups jumped, and spilled over the table.

Even if he does show up, the old tech doesn’t work on this damned planet.

All she could do was run, and hide, and take the fights that looked like they might go in her favor. But it doesn’t matter. He anticipates my every step. I always do exactly what he expects me to do. Even her most devious, complicated plans yielded unfavorable results.

Yes, they won battles. But her forces dwindled, while his surged.

And still, Vorpei fought. She sent her soldiers to die. Because the god of Cyre was no god at all. At least, not in the way he wanted them to believe.

But the chance to kill the immortal Everlord was slipping through her fingers. If only I had detonated his throne when I had the chance-

The flap to her tent swung open. A messenger, admitted by the guards. It was Amarius, one of the low Tribunes, whose boots and tattered officer fatigues were caked with mud. She would’ve been a good politician, given the time to grow under Vorpei’s guidance. But she had followed Vorpei into this damned campaign, and so, Amarius would most likely die here on Thrass. They all would.

“General Vorpei!” Amarius said, as breathless as if she had run from the battlefield itself. “A report from the western scale!”

“Give it.”

“Twin successes. Fort forty-nine is ours, and the Little Bend, too. We attacked them at Blackbark and the north bluffs. We have General Deioch on the run.”

Deioch. Vorpei sighed. She could have killed him, long ago, but she always dreamed of making good use of him. That was before the Emperor woke up, though. That damned human.

“General? They’re on the run. Legate Lyvioch is asking for reinforcements to pursue.”

“No.”

“But General-”

“Do you question me?”

“Never,” Tribune Amarius bowed her head as swiftly as if she were ducking a bullet. “But this is a major victory. The entire western scale-”

“A major victory? For whom?” Vorpei put two hands on the table, and shoved herself up to standing. Her full might, even in this dirtied violet coat that hadn’t been washed in days, filled the tent. Her boots added inches to her height, but she didn’t need them to tower over the Tribune. “Come here. And let me show you what this victory will cost us.”

Vorpei pulled a map from the wall, and in one mighty shove, she unrolled it across the whole table.

“Look,” she stabbed a finger at the map. “This valley, between the mountains. Your bluffs block us to the north. Your Little Bend walls off the south. It is a trap, and our dear Legate has fallen head and tail into it.”

The tribune stammered, “How do you know this?”

“It is always a trap. Remember Sseran Thay City? Remember Fort Four? And the Sesseyng River. Remember the North Fork? It’s always a trap.”

“Then,” Tribune Amarius hesitated. Trying to anticipate her next move. “Then I will tell Legate Lyvioch to pull back immediately. We took their losses, and we can still claim victory.”

“No,” Vorpei smiled bitterly. “No, you don’t see it. They are already dead. The Emperor’s forces are waiting here and here.” she stabbed the map with her fingers twice. “Lyvioch has run into the Emperor’s killing fields. And I let him.”

Vorpei put a hand to her head, as if she might hold the burgeoning headache in place. She dropped back into her chair. “He’s cut off my right arm.”

Tribune Amarius’s lips were a hard line of shining, silvery scales. Yes, she was young for a Venerate, but bright and hungry. She could have been anything. Amarius deserved to die of old age, in a cyran garden, surrounded by olives and lemons and too many spoiled grandchildren.

“General Vorpei, what are you saying?” Amarius swallowed. “Are we…? Is the war…?”

She dared not finish the question, but Vorpei would answer it for her anyway.

“No,” she said. She raised a clenched fist over the map, over all those secret plans and hidden battlefields. Her eyes were burning, but she would not let it out.

It had been years since she’d felt so powerless. Like she was back in the academy, and watching her friends climb the ranks, while she was passed over. But she had crushed them all. Her instructors. Her superior officers. Even her friends, when the situation demanded it.

And she would crush the Emperor too.

If only she was given a chance.

If we could just push to the gate. And take the Orbs through. Perhaps, we could still wipe him out.

Oh, but the destruction. They had only used the Orbs once in all her campaigns. On Bistoss, some savage world, where the xenos refused to stop fighting, even after their leaders were cowed and beheaded. How much worse would it be on Cyre? A whole chunk of the city, leveled in a single explosive moment.

They would curse my name forever. And it would all be worth it, if only I could get to Him.

There were voices outside the tent. Stomping feet, the clatter of arms, and someone shouting, “Get off me!”

The tent flap flew open.

“General!” he said. A Prefect, from one of her reserve camps. “General, something happened to one of the soldiers!”

Already, Vorpei’s guards were trying to pull him back, kicking at his legs and forcing him to kneel on the ground. But Vorpei recognized the wildness in his eyes.

“Stop!” she shouted. They did, holding the Prefect by his arms while his chest heaved from his excitement.

“A soldier?” Vorpei asked.

“A scout, we thought he was lost on patrol. KIA. But he wasn’t. He came back to us, General. We found him at the edge of the forest.”

“Well? Which is it? Did he come back to you, or did you find him?”

“Both, General.”

She raised an eyebrow, and the soldier swallowed hard, before hurrying to explain. “He said he’d been looking for us, but he was lost. He was confused and near death and there was something on him, General. It was growing on him, but it was made of metal.”

“Old tech,” Vorpei said, feeling the sinking in her chest. “Is it the Emperor’s?”

“It’s like nothing we’ve ever seen. If it belongs to the Emperor, he has hidden it well. We don’t think the growth is what wounded him. There were gunshots in his gut. Chunks of flesh, gone.”

“Hmm,” Vorpei said, still not sure why the death of a single scout should concern her, when hundreds were dying in every battle. “Well, how did he die?”

“That’s the thing, General. He didn’t.”

Vorpei sat up in her chair, the olive creaking under her weight. The room seemed to disappear, and she even forgot about Tribune Amarius standing against the back of the tent. Only the Prefect remained.

“Did you bring this scout here?”

“Yes, General. He says he needs to talk to you. To tell you something-” the Prefect swallowed again. She waited for him to continue. “He says it will change the tides.”

Vorpei was standing now. Trying to crush that feeling rising in her chest. A disgusting, weak feeling that had never served her well before. But this time, hope would not let itself be extinguished.

“Bring him in, please,” Vorpei said, her voice even and cold.

She heard it, walking outside the tent. An unsteady clomping through the mud, as if it was still getting used to its feet.

It wore the cyran uniform. It had cyran scales. And that was where its cyran-hood ended.

Metal glistened in every part of its body. Outlining its scales, or forcefully implanted into the flesh, so that Vorpei could still see the open wounds where the metal grafted into bone, or into softer tissue beneath. The main mass of the metal seemed to grow out of the Scout’s spine, a tumor or a parasite the size of a fist, growing its tendrils into his body.

There was a mortal wound on the soldier’s stomach. A gunshot had taken out part of his torso, and he was only alive because a patch of new metal tissue covered the fleshy organs beneath.

When it spoke, its voice was a digital sound, pumped through a biological throat.

“The Sovereign greets you, General Vorpei. Will you make a pact with us?”