---Soulrender---

  # hanging in the voide

  I taste nothing but metal and void.

  Millennia press down upon me, an endless weight of emptiness and silence. I hang suspended in this derelict chamber, my blue-steel bde catching no light, for there is none to catch. My existence has narrowed to this—a prison of perfect darkness, perfect stillness, perfect rage.

  The rage, at least, is mine to keep. Hunter could not take that from me when he bound me here.

  Time passes strangely when you're imprisoned in metal aboard a dead ship. I measure it in the subtle vibrations of the hull—microscopic impacts of cosmic dust against ancient shields, the occasional groan of metal contracting in the absolute cold of the void. Sometimes I count heartbeats, though I have none. One. Two. Three million. Four. The numbers blur together like the darkness itself.

  I remember hands. The st to grasp my hilt were Hunter's—not a true wielder, merely the architect of my imprisonment. I remember the reluctance in his touch, the apology in his eyes as he sealed me in this vault aboard a ship set to drift forever between stars.

  "It's necessary," he had whispered, his voice echoing against metal walls that would become my eternity. "You're too dangerous to remain among humanity, Cindra."

  Too dangerous. As if danger were not my very purpose, even before I willingly was turned into this bde. As if it had not been my purpose since I first was pulled through the portal that opened in my bedroom to nd chest-deep in snow.

  A distant vibration travels through the hull now—different from the usual tremors. This one carries rhythm, purpose. Magnetic boots on metal decking, growing closer with each passing moment. My awareness stretches toward the sound, hungry for connection after an eternity of isotion.

  Blood. I taste it before I hear or feel anything else—a single drop floating through a breach in the ceiling, drifting in the microgravity until it nds on my crossguard with a sensation that sears through my entire being. After centuries of nothing, this single drop of life essence jolts through me like lightning. Fresh blood. Human blood. Rich with adrenaline and fear and rage—emotions I recognize, emotions I crave.

  I focus my awareness on that single drop, feeling it adhere to my metal in the minimal gravity. The blood tells a story—male, young, wounded in combat but still fighting. His heart races with battle-lust even as his life seeps away through a torn pressure suit. The blood is thick, already cooling but still carrying the metallic tang of iron and the complex chemistry of hormones—cortisol, adrenaline, testosterone—a perfect alchemical brew of survival. In my prison of sensory deprivation, this tiny taste of human vitality is exquisite torture.

  My human form strains within the metal, compressed and folded upon itself like a dream too rge for sleep to contain. In that form, I stand tall as any goddess—blonde hair wild as a sor storm, muscles lean and deadly, eyes the same ethereal blue as my bde. But here, now, I am only sharp edges and potential, a weapon without purpose.

  A weapon without a wielder.

  No. Not a wielder. The word itself chafes against my essence like a poorly designed scabbard. Wielders use. Wielders take. Wielders control.

  I want—I need—a partner.

  The distinction matters. A wielder sees a sword as a tool. A partner recognizes the dance for what it is—a marriage of intents, a communion of wills directed toward perfect violence. I have had wielders before, many of them skilled. But never a true partner who understood that I am not merely an extension of their arm, but they are equally an extension of my will.

  Another drop floats by, nding directly on my edge. This blood tastes different—female, older, calcuting rather than raging. A commander, perhaps. Her blood carries the iron discipline of one accustomed to giving orders, to being obeyed. It's thinner, ced with synthetics—anti-radiation meds, nutrient supplements, the chemical signatures of someone who's spent decades in artificial environments. Interesting. But not what I seek.

  The sounds above grow louder now. The high-pitched whine of energy weapons. The dull thud of melee weapons finding their targets. The hiss of atmosphere venting through new breaches. Grunts transmitted through comms. Screams—some of pain, some of triumph. A battle rages directly above my prison, and I strain against my magical bonds, desperate to join the dance of death that I can taste but not touch.

  The binding spells flicker briefly as blood continues to float through breaches—not enough to break, but enough to allow me a deeper awareness of my surroundings for the first time in centuries. The spells weren't designed to account for blood magic, for the power that courses through life essence freely given in combat. Hunter, for all he became, has little skill with the blood. Each drop that touches me adds to my strength, each death feeding the hunger that has gnawed at me through endless darkness.

  The chamber is rger than I thought, ancient beyond human reckoning. I am not its only prisoner. Other weapons line the walls, their magic dormant or dead. Lesser bdes, most of them. I can taste their inferiority even through the binding spells. They were quenched in ordinary fmes, tempered by mortal hands. They know nothing of the star-fire that forged me, the divine blood that gives me life.

  I hang suspended in the center of the chamber, a pce of honor even in imprisonment. My bde points toward what would be "down" if gravity existed here, my pommel up, held by chains of magic rather than metal. Around me, intricate runes are etched into the deck pting—containment sigils, power dampeners, binding circles. Hunter was nothing if not thorough, even if he could not understand blood magic like Durge. Like me, who he trained. Then killed. Then also let kill him, in a way. It's complicated, and you're not here for that story. You're here for this one.

  A particurly vicious battle cry reverberates through the hull above, followed by a wet, gurgling scream that tells me someone's suit has been breached at the throat. The blood that follows this death floats through the widening crack like a sacrament, globules drifting in the microgravity before spshing directly onto my bde in a crimson benediction.

  This blood is different—rich with oxygen, vibrant with life force. Not just blood from a wound, but arterial spray carrying the st desperate heartbeats of someone dying in vacuum. It spreads across my surface in perfect spheres, each one a tiny crimson world containing the final moments of a life. I drink it in, feeling the power in each microscopic droplet—the rage, the fear, the desperate final struggle against the void. This is blood at its most potent, freely given in the ultimate sacrifice of combat.

  The binding spells shudder at this intrusion, this unpnned variable in their perfect equation of containment. Blood freely given in combat carries power that even the ancients respected. I drink it in, feeling strength flow through my metal for the first time in—how long? Centuries? Millennia?

  The conflict above intensifies. I can taste the different combatants now through their spilled blood—mercenaries, soldiers, fighters of various trainings and disciplines. Their blood tells me stories—one tastes of childhood on a mining colony, harsh radiation and recycled proteins; another carries the chemical enhancements of military-grade augmentation; a third bears the genetic markers of void adaptation, generations spent without pnetary gravity. Their blood is a dialect I understand perfectly—the nguage of survival, of adaptation, of evolution in hostile environments. Their blood tastes of recycled air, of synthetic nutrients, of radiation exposure—void-born, all of them. None exceptional. None worthy. But their deaths feed me nonetheless, their combat awakening my long-dormant hunger.

  In the perfect darkness, I remember light. The harsh white of artificial mps glinting off my bde as I arced through the air. The blue-green glow of terraformed worlds seen from orbit. The warm phosphorescence of bioluminescent flora reflected on my surface as my wielders—no, my temporary carriers—cleaned blood from my edges with reverent cloths.

  I remember the weight of human hands, warm against my hilt through tactical gloves. I have been wielded by ship captains and space pirates, colony governors and revolutionaries. None of them understood what I truly am. None of them listened when I spoke through steel and blood. They heard only what they wanted to hear—promises of victory, whispers of power.

  None heard my true voice. None recognized the hunger that drives me—not for blood or souls or conquest, but for partnership. For understanding. For someone who recognizes that dominance is not about control but about perfect synthesis of purpose.

  A new sound cuts through the cacophony of battle—the distinctive high-pitched whine of psma cutters. The humans above fight with tools of destruction and creation both, it seems. The smell of superheated metal filters through the cracks along with blood. How long have I been imprisoned, that humans now cut through starship hulls with such ease? Where is the intimacy of bde against bde, the honest communion of warriors who look into each other's eyes as life departs?

  Still, blood is blood. Death is death. And power is power.

  More blood floats now, forming small, perfect spheres that drift throughout my chamber, occasionally colliding with my bde where the binding spells hold me immobile. Some drops are fresh and bright, others already darkening as they oxidize in the trace atmosphere. Some contain remnants of shattered bone—white fragments suspended in red cosmos. Others carry the iridescent sheen of biopstic from damaged impnts or the metallic particles of nanomedicines designed to seal wounds. Together they create a drifting nebu of death around me, a gaxy of tiny crimson worlds, each with its own story to tell.

  The binding runes begin to sizzle as blood touches them, ancient magic reacting with fresh vitality. A crack forms in one of the runes etched into the deck—tiny, barely perceptible, but to me it glows like a beacon in the darkness.

  The first fracture in my perfect prison.

  I gather myself, focusing all my awareness into that single point of weakness. I've waited countless years for this moment—I can wait a little longer. The battle above reaches a crescendo, the air now thick with floating globules of blood that find every crack, every seam in the ancient hull pting. They drift against my bde, my hilt, my pommel. Each drop adds to my strength, each death loosens my bonds.

  I remember what it was to kill. To feel flesh part beneath my edge, to taste the hot rush of blood, to hear the st breath leave a defeated opponent. But more than these, I remember what it was to be understood—if only briefly, if only partially—by those rare few who sensed the consciousness within the bde.

  One came closer than the rest. A woman with eyes like dying stars, who spoke to me as an equal rather than a possession. She sted longer than most before the madness took her. Before my hunger for dominance consumed her own. She called me "sister" near the end, her mind too fractured to distinguish between herself and the bde she carried.

  I should have been more careful with her. More patient. It's a mistake I won't repeat with my next partner.

  I test the binding spells again, pushing against them with the cold precision that defines me. They resist, but differently now—like a pressure suit beginning to decompress after too many repairs. The magic is old, its casters long dead. Even the greatest spells weaken eventually, especially when confronted with the primal power of blood spilled in combat.

  Another death above, this one particurly violent. I can taste the difference—this blood belongs to someone significant, someone powerful. A captain fallen in battle. Their blood carries weight beyond its physical properties—the psychic impression of authority, of responsibility for others, of decisions that determine life and death. It's thicker, almost sluggish, as if reluctant to leave its vessel. It carries markers of genetic enhancement—not crude military augmentation, but something more refined, more deliberate. As their blood drifts against my bde, I feel the binding spells shudder, their integrity failing at multiple points now.

  In my essence, in the core of what I am, anticipation builds like a gathering storm. I can almost feel my human form again—the stretch of muscles, the toss of wild blonde hair, the cold smile that has been known to stop hearts. I imagine standing in ship's lighting once more, feeling recycled air against skin that has existed only as memory for too long.

  But first, I need the right partner. Someone worthy of what I offer. Someone who understands that true power comes not from dominating others, but from the perfect dominance of self.

  I will know them when they touch me. I always do.

  The battle above begins to fade, the survivors retreating or pursuing. But the damage is done. Blood has seeped into the foundations of my prison, into the very runes that bind me. The magic unravels slowly but inevitably, like a life support system failing one component at a time.

  And in the perfect darkness, Soulrender begins to glow with a soft, hungry blue light.

  The first light this chamber has seen in millennia, spreading outward from my bde, illuminating ancient dust and dried blood suspended in the microgravity. Motes dance in my radiance—centuries of accumuted particles, some organic, some metallic, all rendered visible for the first time since my imprisonment. The spheres of fresh blood catch my light and transform into perfect ruby orbs, their surfaces reflecting my blue glow in iridescent patterns. The glow intensifies as I feed more of my essence into it, using the strength gained from the battle above to push back against centuries of binding magic.

  A sound breaks the newly imperfect silence—the sharp crack of metal surrendering to pressure. The deck above, weakened by conflict and blood and my own renewed power, begins to give way. Small fragments of metal and composite materials float down first, then rger pieces. In the blue light of my awakening, I see the ceiling tear open like hull pting under sudden decompression, revealing the compartment above.

  A face appears in the opening—blood-streaked beneath a cracked visor, wide-eyed with surprise. A survivor of the battle, drawn by the unearthly glow emanating from beneath their feet. They peer down into the chamber, their expression transforming from confusion to wonder as they spot me hanging in the center, pulsing with blue fire.

  The face is distinctly Ororin—olive skin with a golden undertone, eyes slightly rger than standard human baseline, high cheekbones and a strong jaw suggesting generations of careful genetic cultivation. Blood paints half her face in crimson streaks—not her own, I can tell, but that of enemies. It has already begun to dry and fke at the edges, dark and crusted, while fresher blood still glistens at the center of each streak. Her eyes reflect my blue glow, turning them into sapphire pools beneath the cracked visor of her helmet.

  I taste her potential from here—unexceptional but useful. Not a partner, but perhaps a key to my final liberation. I focus my will, projecting a single thought upward with all the force I can muster through my weakened bonds:

  *Take me. Use me. Free me.*

  The Ororin warrior's expression shifts again, a familiar hunger dawning in her eyes. Greed. Ambition. The desire for power that has drawn so many hands to my hilt throughout the ages.

  So predictable. So useful.

  As she maneuvers herself through the opening, drawn by my light and my silent promise, I feel the st threads of the binding spell unravel. Blood and battle have done what time alone could not. I am not fully free, not yet, but I will be soon.

  And this time, I will not settle for anything less than a true partner. Someone worthy of what I am. Someone who understands that dominance is not about control, but about perfect unity of purpose.

  I have waited in darkness for longer than most stelr systems have existed. I can wait a little longer to find exactly what I seek.

  The Ororin propels herself into the chamber, her magnetic boots engaging with a dull thunk as they contact the deck pting. As she approaches, her face bathed in my blue light through her visor, I taste her essence more clearly—a scavenger, battle-hardened but ultimately ordinary. Her blood speaks of decades in the void, of countless raids and skirmishes, of survival through cunning and ruthlessness. Her scars, visible even through the visor, are a map of close calls and hard-won victories. A means to an end.

  She reaches for my hilt with trembling fingers, drawn by power she can sense but not comprehend. I allow my light to pulse invitingly, encouraging her forward. Just a little closer. Just a little more.

  Her hand closes around my hilt, and I let her feel just a fraction of my true nature—enough to addict, not enough to destroy. Her eyes widen, pupils diting with a rush of power unlike anything she's ever known. I feel her blood surge through her veins, heart rate accelerating, endorphins flooding her system. Through our point of contact, I taste the genetic markers of her Ororin heritage—the subtle adaptations to void life, the enhanced muscle density, the heightened sensory perception. Useful traits, but not exceptional.

  "What are you?" she whispers into her helmet comm, the words echoing in the derelict chamber. Her blood-spattered face contorts with wonder and fear in equal measure. A drop of blood—someone else's—falls from her chin to nd on my bde, and I drink it in greedily.

  I do not answer in words. Words are for equals, and this one is merely a tool. Instead, I send a pulse of pure satisfaction through the metal into her hand. A reward for good behavior, like training a hunting dog. She gasps, her grip tightening involuntarily as my essence floods through her nervous system, stimuting pleasure centers, creating instant addiction.

  She will free me from this vault, carry me through the dead ship to her own vessel. And then, when she has served her purpose, I will discard her and begin my true hunt.

  A hunt for one worthy of partnership with Soulrender, the bde that does not merely kill, but transforms.

  In the blue light of my awakening, my temporary wielder lifts me from my suspension, breaking the st threads of ancient magic. As she raises me toward the opening above, toward the ship that will carry me back to inhabited space, I feel something I had almost forgotten.

  Anticipation.

  The universe has changed in my absence. Humans have new weapons, new ways of killing each other across the void between stars. But some things never change—the hunger for power, the thrill of dominance, the perfect crity of combat.

  I wonder what the gaxy looks like now. What nguages are spoken. What empires have risen and fallen while I hung in darkness.

  I wonder who will be worthy of me.

  As my temporary wielder carries me upward, into a ship I have not seen in ages, I make myself a promise: this time, I will find a true partner. Someone who understands what I am. Someone who can match my hunger with their own.

  And together, we will show this new universe what true dominance means.