V:

Contempt of Despair

He felt it, as keen as a dagger lodged in his heart. As heavy as the silence of a stage, when the crowd does not clap. When the play is done, the actors stand, and there is nothing to greet them. Only the silence.

No heartbeat, the heart too afraid to make a sound.

No thoughts, the mind too paralyzed to comprehend.

No motion, the flesh frozen in animal realization.

There was only the cold, seeping chill. Like a knock of an unwanted visitor, knock-knock, rapping on the door. Slipping a letter beneath the door when there is no reply.

A letter of conscription, he will either march to war, or be exiled from his people. Knowing, beyond measure, that he may never return. There is no choice, no escape.

Casimir exhaled. Pain and suffering, victory or defeat, that’s all there is.

Soft, gentle wind caressed him, the colors of the hospital garden, an electric neon dance of all shades and types of plants, held his gaze. His wheel chair was comfortable, and by now, the lack of an eye, and an arm, had stopped bothering him.

“Ah, I’ve been looking for you, you should have told me you wanted to come here,” the nurse, dressed in habits of black, lined with blue, smiled at him. “The Grand Orator has asked for you.”

Her name was Joy.

She’d been his assigned nurse for the last three days.

Casimir leaned back in his wheelchair. “My friends?”

“I asked for you,” Joy said, placing her hands on his wheelchair, starting to wheel him out. “I’m sorry, but the head doctor hasn’t agreed to it. He thinks you’re still too injured to interact with others.”

These little games, Casimir thought. Isolate, manipulate, smile, endear, build rapport and manipulate.

They wanted him to simply agree and fight.

Yes, Casimir fight. But he would not put himself at the mercy of this Warhost. Yes, he was trapped, put in a corner. A player with no cards, a gambler with no wealth, but he’d dig his heels and show his teeth.

Kick the table over.

Steal the cards from your opponents.

Yell and scream until you’re heard.

If this was a war, then he’d his damned to win any battle he could, one victory after another, until he won this war of his and got what he wanted.

He was Casimor Voreband, and he wouldn’t simply accept his fate as it is.

He was not the unwitting pawn, content to mellowly accept his fate.

“It’s fine,” he smiled a false smile. “I’m guessing the Grand Orator is inviting me for another chat?”

“Oh yes!” Joy beamed. “He was excited for it, between you and me?”

Endear, build rapport.

The little games, the tiny battles. He played along.

“Oh?”

“He’s taking you out of the hospital,” she said. “A change of scenery, and a chance to be a part of the welcoming ceremony, the Warmaster’s coming back today,” her eyes glittered in reverence. “Everyone is in a good mood.”

“You will be welcoming him back?” Casimir asked.

“Oh yes! An entire parade line for him, even the support and logistics units have the day off to come for it,” Joy giggled. “We’ve ran out of flowers.”

He was silent for a moment, taking in the corridors as Joy wheeled him forward. Other nurses, and medical staff, gave her nods and gentle greetings. With bubbly cheer, she responded to all of them.

They passed through the reception lobby, a security officer in in simple coveralls and armor gave them a nod, opening the doors for Joy.

Casimir’s breath hitched.

A city of rivers and trees, of black stone and gold and jewels. A fortress, of returned in full battleplate, of shops and artistry in every breath and corner. Every of it was organized, planned thoroughly.

Every artistic outcropping was a chokepoint.

Every highrise building, standing amidst the lesser buildings, was a defensive linchpin.

The river of Styx ran in gentle streams, twirling around smaller Yggdrasil trees, their roots integrated into the asphalt of the streets. Like bricks connected by roots in seamless harmony.

The sky above was full of clouds and celestial bodies. A planet, with a ring of asteroids around it, moons of radiant white. Stars twinkling bright.

It was pre-dawn, and the sight took away his breath.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Joy said. “It took my own breath away when I saw it.”

Dimly, Casimir nodded.

“I only wish I could use the roots,” Joy hummed. “It would be amazing, to see all the worlds of Boundary.”

“You can’t?”

She shook her head, moving him across the streets. “Not everyone can, only jotuns, warlocks, and veiled can.”

He didn’t ask, he filed the knowledge away.

They stopped before a large square, twins lines of returns standing at full attention. Joy wheeled him to where Rostrum was standing, hands clasped behind his back.

“Ah, nurse Joy, thank you for bringing him to me,” Rostrum said. “How is your day, Casimir?”

“Fine, you?” Casimir wheeled himself to face Rostrum. “Considered my answer?”

“I have, I’ve thought much on it, and it remains premature,” Rostrum said. “To ask for command office, when you’ve not served in the Warhost. That is premature, you do not have the experience.”

“I can tenure under a more experience commander to learn the ropes,” Casimir replied, eye sweeping the square. He could almost feel the anticipation in the air.

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Rostrum nodded. “But why not earn the respect of your fellow Returned? Rise up through the ranks as all do. I’ve spoken to your fellows; they did not mind the positions I offered them. Only you did.”

Casimir smiled. “I have higher ambitions, and I know my abilities. It’s only fair I apply them when I can.”

I will not die like cannon fodder.

“Certainly,” Rostrum mused. “However, arranging such a high position for one unproven would disrespect your fellow warriors. However, I can see of fast-tracking you can be done, but first, you will have to earn your rank.”

He was intent on throwing Casimir into the meat grinder first. No, he wasn’t going to let that happen.

“I think fighting on the front-lines would be a waste of my skills,” Casimir said.

“Fear?” Rostrum’s voice hardened. “You dare ask a favour of me, a rank of command, out of fear of death? Utterly unworthy. No, you will not have it unless you show aptitude. You will start tomorrow, and I will have no more of this. Show your mettle, as I know you will.”

Rostrum’s lips rose up in a tiny, almost imperceptible smile.

Casimir’s mouth clamped shut. He’d been outplayed.

Overhead, lightning flashed, a storm forming in an instance. It coiled and rang, strikes of lightning streaking out.

Between one breath, and the next, it struck. A bolt of power, a figure forming out of it that changed the very air.

“Hiesa Roh!” the returned chanted.

It was a gravity in the back of his head. It was a presence in every breath, clenching around his lungs.

“Goven Toh!”

The Warmaster stood at the centre of the parade line, sparks drifting off of him. Three meters of solid steel and machine, abyssal black and brilliant blue. His armor was a mechanized titan of sheer force.

It opened up, and the Warmaster stepped out. Dressed in a simple uniform, wearing a visored helmet that hid his face. It was cracked, a long fissure running across its black glass. A hint of the Warmaster’s eyes could be seen.

“O’Ram O’Vam O'War!”

He jumped off his mech, walking across square with leisure and joy. He walked with royal dignity, head held high, posture demanding attention.

The chants grew louder and louder, until they drowned out thoughts. All-consuming in their clamour.

The Warmaster neared, waving at the soldiery and officers, every step measured.

Casimir felt his heart drum, ba-tum ba-tum like cannons in his ears.

His hands shook, his breaths quivering, muscles paralyzed by the weight of the crowd.

“Warmaster!” he yelled, wheelchair rushing past the parade line, straight into the warmaster’s path. “My name is Casimir Voreband! And I beg you for a favour!”

The crowd was silent.

Rostrum gaped like a fish.

The Warmaster loomed over him, then he spoke. His voice a rich orchestra of emotion, every word spoken with full weight. A king who needed no crown or throne. His eyes orbs of authority, petrifyingly clear even behind the cracked visor.

An image flashed before Casimir’s mind. Of a titan, staring down at an ant.

One word.

“Ask.”

The gravity intensified, his bones creaked, he struggled to draw breath. He felt his heart gripped in a vise, tightening until it almost popped.

Casimir opened his mouth; a gasp came out. Wordless, meaningless. Sparks flashed around him.

I won’t be stopped.

Casimir spoke again, fumbling, sounds blurting out. “I-m-e.” Arcs of lightning drifted out.

I won’t be silenced.

Blood vessels popped, red washing over his vision. Red spilling out of his nose, red drooling out of his mouth, staining his grit teeth. Lightning flashed around him, the steam wafting off of him.

Power burning inside of him, a force of his own will.

The vise grip lessened, the gravity weakened, the titanic presence was bearable.

“Make me a Warlord of my own Warband!” Casimir roared, blood leaking from his eyes. “Grant me command over those who’ve put the weight of their lives in my hands!”

The Warmaster’s eyes, so strangely familiar, as if he’d always known them, locked to his own. Kindly, gently, the Warmaster took hold of Casimir’s wheelchair.

In an instance, the lightning around Casimir faded away.

He wheeled Casimir, grabbing his hand and raising it up, up into the sky in a fist.

The spell of disbelief cracked, soldiers chanted, crowds roared, all eyes on Casimir, as the Warmaster wheeled him down the parade line. It took a moment, they were now cheering Casimir.

“Welcome, Casimir Voreband,” the Warmaster said. “Welcome, Returned, to where I’ve always waited for you.”

“Hiesa Roh! Goven Toh! O’Ram O’Vam O'Cas!” the crowds chanted.

The Warmaster glanced down at Casimir’s, recognizing the lack of comprehension. “Shatter the heavens, break the earths, O’ accursed O’ holy, O’Casimir.”

To the chant of the crowed, the Warmaster wheeled him forward.

The Warmaster took him to the highest tower in the city. So high above, it was nothing short of a small mountain. Waves of guards, saluting with utmost respect, servants and officers, bowing low.

Every step the Warmaster took, every step, clacked against the polished floor with authority. With sheer, undisputed, presence.

It was the presence of a star.

It was the presence of a king.

It was the presence of immutable force.

So he took him to the highest floor, to the roof of it, wheeling Casimir to the very edge of it. Softly, the Warmaster sat, one knee raised, one leg over the edge. Both hands atop his raised knee, his helmed head turned towards the city.

Seconds.

Minutes.

No words, nothing but quiet, silent, watching. Casimir fidgeted, mind whirling, thoughts popping like balloons in his head. Was this a pressure tactic? It had to be, a method to push and-

“You feel it, don’t you?”

Casimir blinked, staring. “Pardon?”

“In every beat of your heart,” the Warmaster said. “You feel it, don’t you?”

Casimir raised an eyebrow. “Feel what, exactly?”

“Hunger, bubbling, boiling,” the Warmaster said.

Casimir stared, unblinking. Expression controlled. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Fury,” the Warmaster repeated. “Anger, hunger, desire. Raw, pummeling against your chest, beat, beat, beat.”

“No, I don’t,” Casimir said, feeling his heart beat, beat, beat.

“You hide it,” the Warmaster glanced at him. “Evade it, ignore it. But it’s a primal thirst, a consuming hunger.”

“No, I don’t,” Casimir repeated.

“At the injustice of it all,” the Warmaster finished.

“I. Do. Not!” Casimir roared, face flushed red, eyes daggers.

“It howls in your mind, screams in your heart, roars in your every breath. This is wrong, this is all wrong, the Imperium, this place, and the horrors that lie without.”

Casimir’s hand clenched to fist.

“You care, you care, you feel it. You’ve gained a hint of comprehension, a fragment of what you fear to know, to voice in your mind.”

“I’m not interested in psychobabble, Warmaster, ”Casimir barely held back a hiss, hand on his wheelchair.

“That if you had to fight as the rest do, against all that horror, you would forget your home, and see this as where you belong. You must be quick, heartless, abuse every chance, take every shortcut. Home is where you belong.”

“Do you think avoid it?” the Warmaster’s eyes behind the cracked visor glimmered. “The worlds of slaves, marched by the magi of the Imperium’s guilds. The holy places burned, the brothel complexes, thousands large slave women. Their warbreeds, trillions large armies of subservient soldiery. An empire built upon the Emperor’s sword, upon his dictums and immoralities.”

“The worlds ruined by Hell, plundered, ravaged, ruined, tortured to fields of billions dead piled high, upon cities of broken skyscrapers, their children impaled upon pikes alive, their souls trapped in their flesh, crying for their mothers.”

The Warmaster looked at Casimir. “The Great Outsiders, and their mutant cults of subjugation, oppression, repression, suppression, exploitation and indoctrination. Trillions large solar-systems, lulled by pleasure, conditioned by pain, controlled by falsehoods and lies.”

Casimir met his eyes back. “And you’re doing this out of the kindness of your hear? You? The grand architect of all of this? A paragon of virtue?”

Silence.

A laugh.

A Regal. Majestic. Laugh.

“The night is long and dark. Its claws storms of steel, its will godborne fury, its voice the unmaker of all that is righteous and exalted. It is the season of sorrows unending, the howls of tyrants unbending, the corruption of horrors unceasing.”

“I will break it. I will sunder it. I will tear it limb from limb. Nothing else is so worth blood and iron, steel and powder, arcana and machina. To cast down the tyrants upon hails of iron and fire, to let slip the beasts of banners and ire upon scourges of sorrow and harrow, to devour false gods and trample their thrones.”

“There’s a price to be paid in innocent blood,” Casimir said, voice low.

“Not a tenth of the price paid in indolence. The corruption and rot must be burnt, cut down from poisoned fruit to toxic roots. Else it will smother us, covering the light and drowning innocence.”

“Does it really matter so much?” Casimir said, closing his eyes. “To end lives living happy, content existence, in the name of ideals? To build piles of the dead, in the name of…vainglorious hunger.”

The Warmaster paused, hints of his face behind the visor. “Does anything else matter?”

“Joy matters, pleasure matters, happiness matters,” Casimir said. “To spread despair, pain, and sadness, in the name of stopping despair, pain, and sadness. It’s a delusion, it never works.”

“Shall the innocent unjustly imprisoned accept his prison, for fear of spilling the blood of the wardens?” the Warmaster eyes burned with power, coils of lightning thrashing about him. “Shall we accept tyranny, for fear of spilling the enforcer’s blood?”

“What about their families?” Casimir asked. “Those who had no choice but to serve, or be brutalized. Those who’re trapped between your sword, and the warden’s baton. What of them?”

“Is the learning of the wise, the justice of the great, the prayers of the righteous and the valor of the brave, equal to the servitude of the ignorant, the injustice of the mighty, the chants of the oppressors, and the cowardice of the slaver master?”

Casimir swallowed. “No.”

“No,” the Warmaster said, voice low. “They are not. One is greater.”

Pause, quiet. The two men, sitting side by side.

“Why? Why you?” Casimir asked.

“Life is a war, a war between the sanctified and profane,” the Warmaster said, slowly, gently. “War, between the cursed and blessed. War, between right and wrong. Why me? Because I chose the uphill climb.”

“I chose to batter the gates of Hell and smother its pyres. I chose to break the Imperium and its collars. I chose to cast down the Great Outsiders. I chose to fight and die, for the only thing that ever mattered.”

“All the power? Authority? Armies? Magic?” Casimir laughed. “It has nothing to do with how it benefited you? How much you’ve gained?”

“All of it a means, not the ends,” the Warmaster said. “What benefits does it give me, when I will not take it with me to my second death? What use is power, when it will fade? What use is armies, when all they sow is death? What use is a crown, that heavy burden upon the brow, if all it is ever used for is greed?”

“You’ve turned the afterlife of man into a recruiting ground for an army of the undead,” Casimir mused. “Created a river that turns souls into fuel, made trees with roots that traverse realities, and all of it, simply…a means.”

“It is my megaphone to a deaf world,” the Warmaster replied. “My hammer to hot steel. In time, you understand the tragic extent of this forest of swords and fangs. You will realize, how grief tastes so like fear.”

The two quietly watched the city. The lights, the soldiers and officers, the supply shops and military academies and research centres.

“I can’t understand you,” Casimir said. “All of existence open to you, and this is what you decide? A fight that you’ve spent thousands of years on. You could spend your nights with the greatest pleasures anyone could ever have, and you decide to be miserable?”

“I chose to give heart to a heartless world, to rage in a cry of a silent sorrow, to burn bright the last dawn before midnight,” the Warmaster said. “To have a roaring breath before the stillness. To let loose the beast of possibility.”

Unbelievable.

Casimr stared, everything he’d learnt in his life telling him to deny it. Deny the obvious lies. Deny the wolf in sheep clothing.

“I can’t believe you,” Casimr admitted, looking away. “Nobody does things at their own cost. We are fundamentally selfish; we are fundamentally power hungry and greed. We are fundamentally animals, nothing special. Nothing more.”

“Is it that you cannot,” the Warmaster said. “Or that you do not want?”

Casimir licked his dry lips. He said nothing, unwilling to admit what he felt.

“All of the glory fades, all the pleasures cease, all of the great towers falls and the mighty empires splinter, all wealth and power are lost,” the Warmaster said. “But not valor, not justice, not wisedom, not mercy, not kindness, not strength, not truth. All else may fade, all else dies.”

“But not these, beating in our hearts. Ever and ever more,” the Warmaster looked up at the sky. “They are the last blessing of the righteous, and first curse of the tyrants. Ever and ever more.”

He looked away, away from those eyes brimming with power. Eyes so familiar, so human, so alike his own.

“Only they,” he said. “Only my Warhost of the Returned.”

“The sheer gall of you!” Rostrum hissed, barely maintaining decorum. “First, you stall me and try to weasel your way out of earning your rank. Then, when that fails, you don’t accept what is, by all rights and means, a fair deal. You ask a favour of the Warmaster! What gall you have, you cretin!”

“It worked,” Casimir replied.

Rostrum took a long, shuddering, breath. “I wish to throttle you.”

“It worked,” Casimir repeated.

“Stop. Saying. That,” Rostrum groaned. “Please, it grates on my nerves murderously, and I do not wish you, of all, to be the first to break my self-restraint.”

Nurse Joy shrunk in on herself, trying to make herself as small as possible as she pushed him along in the wheelchair. “Blessed be His wrath,” she muttered quietly.

“I have to highlight the fact that nothing you can say, could possibly ruin my mood, Rostrum,” Casimir hummed. “And please, start addressing me as Warlord now.”

Rostrum pursed his lips. “I am beginning to dislike you.”

“So long as its not a terminal case,” Casimir replied. “I can live with it.”

The Grand Orator sighed, raising hand as they came to a root of the tree. With a flash of lightning, reality and space warped. They returned back with a bolt, sparks dissipating around them.

Before them, a large warehouse, nearly a full thirty meters large. So large, it was one of the largest buildings Casimir had ever seen. “This is?”

“Titan holding facility Zero-Zero-Two,” Rostrum replied as they walked in. A set of guards, bearing large, bulky rifles, waved them in. The doors of the warehouse opened, sliding horizontally as they revealed what lay inside.

Scaffolds surrounded it, mechanical drones flying in and out around it. Sparks from welding torches falling down, as plates of metal were replaced. Its optics, a sleek v-shape, glinted sky blue, black of armor, blue of accents.

Twenty meters of steel and flesh, of reactor and muscle, of blood and energy. Augmented by veritable hundreds of tons of machine. Its head was open, splayed open like a wallflower, brain and bits of computers intertwined.

Racks of missiles, each holding no less than sixty missiles, were being loaded on its back.

“Titan unit six-six-six,” Rostrum swept a hand towards it. “Operational name, Morningstar, and as of six minutes ago, by order of the Warmaster, nigh certainly your coffin.”

“Correction, Grand Orator, likelihood of operational failure is 86% percent. 14% below certainty range,” a machine man said, walking down a scaffold ramp. “The Seven Hour Raid stratagem is theoretically perfect.”

“Grand Machinist Four’O,” Rostrum inclined his head. “How soon will it be ready?”

Four’O was made of steel and motors, sleek white, large but thin. His singular red optic gleamed a harsh light. His fingers and joints, made of black plastic, stood out amidst the white.

The Grand Machinist clasped his hands behind his back, idly staring back towards the titan in the bay. “Unknown.”

Rostrum raised a brow.

“Delays in handling the thermonuclear missiles expected. Armoring is complete. Cockpit capsule prepared. Yggdrasil-roots will need to be replaced, Morningstar has rejected this batch. A synergy error,” Four’O gestured towards the titan’s open skeleton, ethereal white roots being taken out of it.

Casimir mouthed thermonuclear missiles, staring at them being loaded en-masse.

Nurse Joy twiddled her thumbs, anxiously waiting for this to be over.

Four’O continued.

“Binary ballistic beam rifle is loaded, lightning field shield is ready. Laser arrays require re-adjustment, halo blitz drone wing has been upgraded, wrist hardpoints have been armed with kinetic magnum gatlings. Hyper-bazooka fully prepared, ammunition has been adjusted to allow usage of the thermonuclear armaments. 360-manuver-thrusters installed.”

“I see,” Rostrum said. “Your best estimate?”

“Impossible without Warlord preparedness overview,” Four’O optics focused on Joy. “Mistress Moonwind, I reiterate upon you to cease utilization of shapeshifting within my presence. It is aggravating to my visual cortex processing.”

Casimir stared at her, she winked at him. Anxiousness and anxiety gone.

“Apologies, Grand Machinist,” she made a curtesy with her skirt. “I’ve taken an interest with this one.”

He took a sharp breath, rewinding every moment spent with nurse Joy. Not a single one stood out to him. A perfect infiltration, without a single hint of it. His hair rose on end.

“Acceptable,” Four’O said. “Has he been informed of his task?”

“No, nor of the coming campaign,” Rostrum said, tracking Moonwind with the corner of his eyes.

With a flourish of her hands, her nurse outfit became a black dress. With a flourish, she turned her hair into a braid of red, gold of eyes. With a few steps, half dance, half walk, she sat on one of the ramps behind Four’O.

“Shall I?” she said, hand on heart, smile on lips.

“Go ahead,” Rostrum sighed. “Stopping you is beyond capacity.”

“Reality is, roughly, two states of existence. The Inside, and the Outside, within which is the Void, and the Shroud, the Inside is where all universes exist. Where physical laws, rightful sense, and living beings exist,” she made a circle with her hand. “Think of reality is a circle, where universes are bubbles, they have things inside of them, and things outside of them.”

“The Outsiders,” Rostrum murmured.

“Outsiders born in the Shroud between the Inside, and Outside, are Near Outsiders, small, controllable, killable” Moonwind said. “Those born to the Void are the Far Outsiders. Thought-Things, entities of untold power and knowledge, monarch wielders of the very fabric of the Inside itself.”

Four’O snapped his finger, catching Casimir’s attention. “Far Outsider entities, classification Divinitas, God-Things.”

“They rule most of the Inside,” Moonwind said. “And they spend their time building the Boundaries, connection bridges between one Inside and another. For the sole purpose of waging war upon one another.”

“Total war,” Four’O said. “Complete conquest of reality. No possibility of negotiation. Far Outsider display megalomania, psychotic hate of infringement upon territory, abusive sympathetic tendencies.”

“But you don’t use the Boundaries, do you?” Casimir asked.

“The Yggdrasil does that task for us, fed and watered by the Styx,” Moonwind said. “Its roots are impossible large, ands its daughter trees act as relays. Ethereal, imperceivable, relays.”

“Invasion launch points, an instantaneous travel system,” Casimir muttered. “Forward operating bases, all but waiting for you.”

Moonwind smiled. “Yes.”

“The Imperium, and Hell, how do they do it?” Casimir asked.

“The Imperium builds Majora Gates,” Rostrum said, sitting besides Moonwind. “They use lesser Gates to travel from one solar system to another, setting up colony worlds. But to travel between one inside, and another, they drain the suns of hundreds of lifeless solar systems.”

“With magi,” Casimir said, more than asked.

Rostrum nodded. “Reality is so vast, that using any straight line, one can arrive from one Inside to another. All of that energy, gathered across thousands of years, is used to punch a hole in the bubble of one inside, reel it in, and create an extended tunnel. A Majora Gate, for the Imperium’s legions to travel through.”

“Which takes time,” Casimir said.

“Inversely proportion to size of tunnel,” Four’O said. “Manipulation of nearest Insides results in more coherent time-space relation. Larger increases result in less coherency. Space-time relations less direct.”

“Hell, however,” Moonwind said. “Exists wherever a given Scourge wants, so long as it can perceive said place, and from within the depths of hell, they can only see souls. At any given moment, a Hell Scourge could decide to invade any soul bearing place. Thankfully, only Scourges can do that, and they are, relatively, limited in number.”

“Amendment,” Four’O interrupted. “Divinitas class Hell entity, Dredge, presumed to exist. Possibility of capacity to move all of Hell, and Scourges, conceivable and likely.”

“The Dredge does not exist,” Rostrum said. “Hell is too disunited and trapped in endless war to have a master. Otherwise they would have exterminated every last living thing in their violence.”

Four’O and Rostrum locked gazes.

“Disagreement withheld for purposes of planning,” Four’O gave in. “Hypothesis remains sound.”

Rostrum snorted.

Casimir felt a headache coming on, never the less, he understood the scale of things. “And my role in all of it?”

“You will never be accepted as a Warlord, unless you have the history to prove your worth,” Rostrum said. “Otherwise, your authority and standing would be in question. You will be a lesser among the Hall of Lords, council of the Warmaster.”

“The Warmaster has shown you favor, Casimir,” Moonwind said, slowly, softly. “He will send you to a Boundary where one of the greatest champions of the Warhost fell. The Cyrsal Boundary, the Boundary blocking the roots from reaching your home.”

He felt his heart beat.

He saw his children smile.

He heard a laugh, and a kiss to his cheeks.

Casimir snapped out of it.

“Warlord, of mask Abaddon,” Moonwind murmured, hurt in her voice. “Paragon, hero, survivor and leader of the Warhost of the Scented Ones. He has given you a chance to claim your worth without dispute, to rise, where another has fallen.”

“The Far Outsider, Hier’Barbata, has taken over the Cyrsal Boundary, and has given spawn to children, scions of his will. Weaker, lesser Far Outsiders,” Moonwind stood up, all but stalking towards him, hand pointing towards the titan. “The Warmaster plans a campaign to eliminate him, to free the roots to advance further.”

Four’O raised his palm up, and a holograph of a solar system was project. A single line, arcing across, with a seven hour timer read out below it. “Seven Hour Raid stratagem, utilizing Titans, an offensive infiltration and softening assault.”

“You will the vanguard,” Moonwind sat besides him, kneeling down to meet his gaze. “You will be given a daughter seed of the Yggdrasil, and through use of the mother Yggdrasil, you will pierce through the Boundary of Cyrsal, into the throneworld of Hier’Glyoth, eldest of Hier’Barbata.”

“Three operation stages required,” Four’O used a finger to highlight the simulation. “Insertion into the outer area of solar system, and usage of full armor-thruster to enter engagement range, upon which full armor purge is used. Deployment of mass scale thermonuclear armaments upon all sensor detected military installations. Air raid utilizing onboard armaments to clear a landing zone, largest population size city prioritized, for Warlord exit out of Titan.”

“City?” Casimir asked.

“For a daughter seed of a Yggdrasil to grow so quickly, it needs souls, mass amounts, the more, the faster and stronger it grows,” Moonwind said. “Nine out of every lives will be fed to it. The faster it grows, the greater its reach.”

“Fed a city of population three million, daughter tree growth will encompass a continent within twenty-four hours,” Four’O added. “Far Outsiders hamper reach of Styx, utilization of local resources necessary.”

Realization dawned on him, he glanced up at the titan. “And when the tree is fully grown?”

“Deployment of Warlord’s personal Warhost will commence, vanguard honor will be given, the Cyrsal Boundary campaign will fully commence,” Four’O turned off the holographic projection. “Primary goal, capture of scion Far Outsider, Hier’Glyoth. Due to lack of Warhost numbers, your Warhost will be reinforced by the Warhost of the Blood Wolves.”

“Its your chance,” Moonwind eyes were full of kindness. “A favor, from the Warmaster of the Returned.”

Home.

The path home, it was in sight. So close, so near, it was not trick of the light.

I’m going home, it rang like a chorus in his head.

“Until then,” Rostrum said. “You, and your group, will need to pass the Selections, you, as apprentice of mask Bloodwulf, Warlord of the Blood Wolves, and for you, and your yet to be named Warhost, you will need to chose among whom will be given to what selection.”

“Relevant information will be passed to you,” Four’O said. “The Selections will begin in four days, choose optimally. That is all.”

“The Warmaster has decided to honor you,” Rostrum said. “And that means you will either die, or be worthy of said honor. Your worth will be decided in the coming days.”

Moonwind stood up, leaning in, placing her head on his shoulder. “Rostrum, I know what mask name to give him.”

“I won’t try to stop you,” Rostrum said. “Go ahead.”

“The only appropriate name, a poetic one,” Moonwind started.

Casimir turned his head towards her.

“Casimir, of bane-mask Abaddon, the dead returned to us, the fallen, risen once more.”

A piece on a chessboard, each tile of it a universe, the distance between two tiles an endless expanse of the dark. Another name, another face, another piece, in the Warmaster’s bid to a win a conflict spanning lifetimes.

What was a hundred years, to that immortal man who’s mere presence coiled like gravity? Who’s mere existence was black hole, crushing others in its grip.

Nothing, and now he was a part of that. A part of his legion, his horde, his army spanning this war eternal. This would be his greatest victory, or his most bitter of defeat. But either way, there could be no other direction.

There could be no other path.

Courage in the face of the obscenity he’d found himself facing. Mad resolve and tenacity in the face of titanic powers, far beyond him. Now, now and forever more, he was bound on the tightrope.

On one side, the pits of hell ready to swallow him.

On another, the mechanisms of the Warmaster’s thunderous ideals.

There was only one way out, to win. To win. To fight and win. To stride across the tightrope’s treachery and win. Win. Win. Win.

Victory or defeat.

It was a song.

Return or dissolution.

It was a mantra.

Death or life.

It was a chorus.

Casimir grinned, all teeth on display, eyes sharpened daggers, glinting as he stepped out into the courtyard. With one hand, he slicked his hair back, a few stray locks hanging over his eyes.

On him, was the uniform of a Warlord. His uniform. Made entirely for him. A jacket lined with blue, a pair of black trousers, a black shirt with blue buttons, black gloves, a mask of cast steel, of horned demon snarling.

And a sigil, imprinted on his shirt’s breast pocket.

Besides him, Azaghul of the Blood Wolves Warband stood besides him. Hands clasped behind his back.

Casimir held the mask in his hand, his breaths even, head held high.

“The Selections,” Azaghul grunted. “Am I to take them as finalized?”

“Yes,” Casimir said, watching as familiar faces were led into view. “They are.”

Azaghul clicked his tongue. “A Warlord, and given a bane-mask, without even having earned it. Warlord Bloodwulf will break you in your selection.”

The man flinched when Casimir turned, silent glaring pinning him down. “I look forward to that,” Casimir paused. “Do you have anything else of value to add?”

“No,” Azaghul said, bowing and making speeding out of the courtyard.

One by one, they walked into the courtyard, staring at Casimir with a mixture of disbelief and surprise. At his empty eye, covered by an eye-patch, at his empty sleeve, hanging limply.

“I ain’t a bettin’ man,” Leonardo grinned. “But guessin’ by that smug lookin’ dress o’ yours, then we’re goin’ somewhere.”

“He cut a deal for leadership,” Victoria muttered. “Your audacity is unbelievable.”

“Leadership,” Byre raised a brow. “It seems we’re not going enjoy the hospitality for much longer.”

Rosaline blinked. “Please don’t tell me we’re going back into danger. I was so happy to be safe,” she raised her hand, carefully painted and manicured nails. “They even have nail paint and designer shirts. For free.”

“Bribed with nothing but vanities,” Mohamdou hummed, gentle humour in his voice. “I suppose we know where your loyalties lay?”

“It was free,” Rosaline grumbled. “Free. Its not a bribe when its free.”

“Ain’t no such thin’ a bein’ free,” Leonardo rolled his shoulders. “Not with these types a’ folk. Ain’t that right, boss?”

Casimir took them all in, one by one. Dressed in new clothes, healed of their injuries, an unspoken tension in their eyes.

“You all look good,” he said instead. “How did they treat you?”

“Divide and conquer,” Byre said. “Kept us separate, tried their best to make us join. Not subtle, these ones.”

“And?” Casimir asked.

“Ain’t none of us broke,” Leonardo grinned, hand on the tip of his hat. “Ain’t none, ‘cept her,” he gestured at Rosaline.

“Oh, come on! It was free! And I was bored!” Rosaline complained. “And it turned out fine! So stop picking on me, you asshat.”

Leonardo chuckled. “So, what’s the plan boss?”

“The dice are cast, I presume?” Mohamdou asked.

“What’s next, where are we heading?” Byre questioned.

“A heads up would be nice if I need take off my heels, yea?” Rosaline opined.

“You made a deal for us, allow us to return the favor,” Victoria declared.

Casimir closed his eyes. I don’t deserve this loyalty. He’d done nothing to truly earn it, not yet, but now he will. Now, he must.

“Mohamdou, your perfume,” Casimir all but ordered, taking out the knife.

The perfume bottle was thrown at him, Casimir caught it, opening it with his teeth, and spilling it over his hand. He spat it aside, and placed the knife between his teeth, he raised his palm towards his mouth.

One flick of the head. One quick turn.

His eyes glinting lights.

His blood splashing red.

His pain a flashing, sharp pulse.

With his bleeding palm, he took hold of the knife, and threw it back at Mohamdou. Droplets of blood dripped from it.

Casimir Voreband raised his bloody palm up.

“Before your eyes, here I stand unbowned, unbroken, undefeated, unshattered, here I stand, my resolve the will to make hell tremble in dread. My resolve the fire to burn the night to ash.”

He met each of their faces, staring into their eyes. “When you feel fear, I shall be your courage, when you feel weak, I shall be your might, when you are lost, I shall be your guidance. Your light in abyss, your beacon in the mists. Now and forever more, now and ever more.”

“You will never bow, you will never break, you will never shatter, you will never be forsaken. By your shoulder, at your back, side by side, one for the other, I shall stand. For you, through heaven’s bliss and hells fury, I will stand. Will you stand by me?”

He closed his eyes, knowing, without looking, what they would reply.

“Aye.”

“You dun’ even need ta’ ask?”

“Until I return to God in his heaven.”

“We are royalty, and our loyalty is ironclad.”

“Obviously, I’m not that much of a bitch.”

Casimir opened his eyes, sparks arced around him. Power coursing in his veins, in a flash, a bolt of lightning struck his hand, burning the wound shut.

Embers drifted about it, a wafting fragrance in the air.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the Warmaster standing atop a rooftope, watching him, watching them. Moonwind besides him, smile on her lips, head on his shoulder.

“I am Casimir Voreband,” Casimir said, voice thick with resolve. “Warlord of the Returned, master of the Warband of the Scented Ones.”