The
Invictan Encampment – That Evening
The
plateau is quiet save for the whisper of the wind and the low hum of
the camp’s generators. The night sky above stretches vast and
indifferent, an expanse of black carved with rivers of pale aurora,
the faint green light washing over the Invictan encampment below.
Spartan
stands near the edge, her cloak rippling against the cold air. In her
arms, the memory of Marus’ weight still lingers, the feel of his
armor pressing against hers, the way his head had slumped against her
chestplate. Now his body rests in one of the mobile stasis pods,
awaiting rites of return to Invicta proper.
Beside
her, Rho Voss
looms, a giant shadow against the pale snow. His armor reflects none
of the aurora’s glow; it devours the light instead. Together they
look northward, where the distant mountain ridges melt into the
horizon, where the colossal
serpentine skeleton
of the ancient creature coils through the landscape, an ossified
reminder of a war long before theirs.
For
a long time, neither speaks. The camp’s noise fades to a distant
murmur, laughter, the clatter of trays, the hiss of machines venting
steam.
The
cold nips at Spartan’s face, reddening her cheeks and nose. Her
breath comes out in small, fleeting clouds.
Then,
at last, Rho Voss
moves. The massive warrior shifts slightly, the snow crunching
beneath his armored boots. He reaches up, slow, careful, and with a
single gauntleted finger brushes against her cheek.
The
touch is almost absurdly gentle for someone who can tear tanks apart
with his hands.
Spartan
glances up at him. Her blue and green eyes, dimmed from exhaustion,
meet the smooth, unreflective black of his visor.
Rho
doesn’t speak, but he reaches into the pouch at his waist, pulling
out his notepad. His handwriting, etched by stylus into its screen,
glows softly in the dark:
[What
weighs on you?]
Spartan
stares at the words for a moment before her gaze drifts back toward
the distant bones in the snow. Her jaw tightens.
“…Spurius
Marus,” she says quietly. “He was still just a boy.”
The
words hang in the air, heavy and cold.
“I
watched him grow up,” she continues, her voice steady but subdued.
“His father, Decurion, fought beside me at Korvall. Held the line
until the end. Marus was barely ten then.”
She
pauses, exhaling sharply. “I promised his father I’d keep him
safe.”
The
wind stirs her hair, pulling loose strands across her face.
“I
know what this life is,” she murmurs. “Death is our trade. Our
blood feeds the Forge; our souls keep the fires lit. But…”
Her
voice falters, just slightly. “It doesn’t make it easier when
it’s one of the children. My children.”
She
glances down, her gauntleted hand flexing at her side. “We’re
forbidden families. Forbidden attachments. But I’ve trained them
all. Raised them through battle and blood. Watched them become
soldiers, leaders… martyrs.”
A
small, humorless smile touches her lips. “It’s the closest I’ll
ever come to a family.”
For
a moment, the only sound is the wind howling through the ravine
below.
Rho
Voss reaches out again, this time his hand settling firmly upon her
pauldron. The weight is grounding, wordless, a gesture that says more
than any vow could.
Spartan
leans slightly into the touch. She doesn’t cry she never does, but
her expression softens, the fury and command slipping away, leaving
only exhaustion and quiet sorrow.
After
a long silence, she finally murmurs, almost to herself, “He died
for Invicta. For the Forger. For me. That will have to be enough.”
Rho’s
notepad flickers again as he writes a single phrase and holds it
where she can see:
[He
will be remembered.]
She
looks at the words for a moment, then nods, slow, deliberate.
“Always,”
she answers.
Spartan
leans gently into Rho
Voss’s arm, or as close to “leaning” as the
heavy plating of Olympian armor allows. The gesture is awkward,
metallic, yet somehow still tender. Her gaze drifts back toward the
mountains, where the wind twists and hums across the ridges like
something alive.
After
a moment she murmurs, “I can hear it again… that howling.”
The
wind wails over the peaks, soft at first, then rising in pitch,
threading through the canyons and hollows until it almost resembles
song, mournful and distant.
“It
sounds like…” she squints, listening. “Some kind of hymn. Or a
lament.”
Rho
tilts his head slightly, his towering form rigid against the cold. He
writes something quickly on his notepad and holds it out.
[You
think it’s the dead?]
Spartan
exhales, the faintest wisp of a chuckle slipping past her lips.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the wind.” Her eyes narrow a little.
“But… it feels real. Like something calling from the
ether.”
Rho
shrugs, his heavy pauldrons shifting. The steel plates grind softly
against each other. He scrawls another line: [We’ll
find out. When there’s time.]
Spartan
hums in agreement, her eyes tracing the far horizon. “Yes… when
there’s time.”
But
before either of them can speak further, the soft crunch of boots on
snow draws their attention from behind. Instinctively, both turn,
Spartan’s hand brushing the hilt of her sword, Rho Voss
straightening to his full height.
It
isn’t Magnus
who emerges from the dark, but Arturo
and Liam,
bundled in their Federalist coats and carrying metal trays that steam
in the cold air.
Both
men slow when they see who they’ve approached, the Vardengard,
standing tall and silent, outlined against the frozen wastes.
Arturo
clears his throat first, offering a tentative smile. “Uh… we
didn’t see you two in the mess hall.” His voice trembles just
slightly. “Figured maybe you were out here starving to death.”
Liam
adds, nodding toward the trays, “We grabbed some extra from the
kitchen. Stew and bread. It’s actually hot.”
Spartan
and Rho exchange a glance, her pale features lit faintly by the
aurora, his visor blank and unreadable.
Spartan’s
lips twitch into the faintest smile. “That was thoughtful,” she
says softly. “But unnecessary.”
Arturo
blinks, confused. “Unnecessary?”
Rho
Voss taps his notepad. The faint glow of his writing reads: [We
can’t.]
Spartan
nods. “It isn’t permitted,” she explains gently. “That’s
Praevecti food. Vardengard are not allowed to eat it.”
Liam
frowns. “Why not? It’s just food.”
“Not
to us,” she replies. “We have our own sustenance, forged and
consecrated from the Forger’s flame. It binds us to the Forge, not
to flesh.” Her eyes soften a little as she looks at the two young
men. “But you should eat. Both of you. Especially if you were
granted seconds.”
Arturo
looks down at the tray, still steaming, then back at her, uncertain.
“You sure? It feels… wrong. You’ve been fighting nonstop for
days.”
Spartan
smirks faintly. “And yet I’m still standing.”
Rho
Voss writes something again and turns the pad toward them: [Eat.
Before it freezes.]
That
gets a nervous chuckle out of Liam, who shrugs and sits down nearby,
setting his tray on a rock. “Guess we’ll take that as a
blessing.”
Arturo
nods hesitantly and joins him, though his gaze keeps flicking toward
Spartan and Rho, two towering figures haloed in frost and pale light,
silent and still as statues.
Spartan
turns back toward the mountains once more, listening again to that
faint, ghostly howling that threads through the wind.
Liam
leans forward on his knees, blowing on his stew. “So uh… if you
don’t mind me asking, why’s he always writing?” he nods toward
Rho Voss,
whose visor is turned toward the horizon. “He doesn’t talk?”
Spartan
looks at him from the corner of her eye. “No,” she says simply.
“He’s not much of a talker. Never has been.”
Liam
blinks. “Never?”
Her
lips quirk faintly. “Never.”
Arturo,
spoon halfway to his mouth, clears his throat. “What about the
Venators then? I mean… I’ve heard of them. Absolutists,
right? The zealots with the white armor?” He glances between
Spartan and Rho. “Never seen one in person though. Didn’t think
they really, ”
Spartan’s
head lifts abruptly. Her body stiffens.
Rho
Voss turns as well, his head snapping toward the far end of the
plateau.
Something
has shifted in the air, subtle, but sharp. A new scent carried on the
wind.
Spartan
breathes in through her nose, and her expression hardens. “Samayel,”
she says flatly. Then her brow furrows. She inhales again, eyes
narrowing. “Smells like a Venator, too.”
Rho
Voss straightens, already stepping forward.
Spartan’s
voice drops low. “Come on.”
Without
another word, she strides toward the encampment’s far side, Rho
keeping close. Liam and Arturo scramble up, abandoning their trays,
snow crunching beneath their boots as they hurry after.
They
weave through the rows of mobile tents and vehicles, the low hum of
generators and the flicker of campfires painting the night in orange
and steel. Soldiers glance up as the Vardengard pass, then quickly
look away.
At
the entrance to the plateau, they see him.
Samayel.
The
man’s silhouette stands out even in the dim light, tall, sharp,
draped in his tattered Invictan coat. But what draws every eye is the
figure he drags behind him.
A
Venator.
Not
just any Venator, an Inquisitor,
bound and restrained. His arms are wrenched cruelly behind his back,
metal cord biting through white armor. A muzzle of black iron is
strapped over his mouth, a rope threaded through it like a leash.
Samayel
gives the rope a sharp tug, forcing the captive to stumble and kneel.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
When
he spots Spartan and Rho Voss, he grins wide and waves with his free
hand. “Ah! There you are!” His voice rings out, chipper and cold
all at once. “Brought you a gift!”
He
yanks the leash again, dragging the Inquisitor forward and throwing
him down at Spartan’s
feet.
The
Venator grunts through the muzzle, his helmet cracked, golden light
bleeding faintly from the fracture lines across his faceplate.
Samayel
dusts his hands off with satisfaction. “Caught him trailing me
through the pass. Thought he’d get the drop on me. But,” he
gestures to the kneeling Inquisitor with mock pride “looks like I
got the drop on him.”
He
smirks. “They always have something to tell, don’t they?”
Spartan
stares down at the prisoner. The faintest, sickly grin curls at the
corner of her mouth.
She
looks back at Samayel, her voice low and edged with a grim
satisfaction. “Then let’s take him somewhere private.”
Her
gaze cuts to Arturo and Liam, who both look pale under the camp
lights. “Fetch the General
Supreme,” she orders quietly.
They
hesitate only for a heartbeat before nodding and running off through
the snow.
Spartan
turns back to the bound Inquisitor. The wind hisses through the
plateau, carrying with it the faint echo of that same distant
howling, as if the mountains themselves are watching.
A
Private Room in the Encampment – Continuous
The
room is cold and silent save for the hum of the base’s generator
far beyond the steel walls. It’s one of the armory storage cells,
small, unlit, reeking faintly of oil and iron. Ammunition crates are
stacked to the ceiling, rows of metallic shells glinting under a
single flickering strip of light.
Samayel
shoves the door open with his boot and drags the Inquisitor
in by the leash. His movements are casual, almost playful, though his
expression is anything but.
He
gives one last pull, then releases the rope. The Venator collapses to
the floor in a heavy clatter of white and red armor.
The
sound echoes.
Spartan
steps inside next, her shadow swallowing the light from the doorway
as Rho Voss follows, sealing the door behind them.
Samayel
circles the prisoner once, grinning faintly. “Thought he’d make
it to your lines,” he says. “Guess he forgot what happens when
you stalk a hunter.” He leans back against a crate, arms crossed.
Spartan
walks forward, slow and deliberate. She crouches before the
Inquisitor and grips the muzzle with one hand. The Venator’s eyes,
pale and burning faintly beneath the cracked lenses, track her every
move.
With
a sharp pull, she
tears the muzzle and mask away.
Metal snaps and falls to the floor with a clang.
The
Inquisitor gasps as the cold air hits his skin, blood streaking one
corner of his mouth. His face is lean, the pallor of it almost
luminous in the dim light.
Samayel
chuckles lowly. “You know what he is?”
Spartan
doesn’t answer, she studies the man’s face as though cataloguing
him.
Samayel
goes on, tone darkly amused. “Inquisitor.
They’re called Vardengard
Hunters.” He lets the
words hang in the air. “They specialize in breaking our kind.
Interrogation, psychological vivisection… all the fun little tricks
the Absolutists like.”
Spartan
straightens slowly, turning her attention fully to the captive. A
grin creeps across her lips, sharp and humorless.
“Then
you won’t be speaking by conventional means,” she says softly.
“That’s fine.” She takes a step closer, voice dipping to a near
whisper. “Vardengard like to play with their food.”
The
Inquisitor glares up at her, trembling slightly but defiant. His
voice rasps, harsh and proud:
“You
will achieve nothing,
heathen.” He spits the words through blood. “The Absolute shields
His servants. Your blasphemies end in fire.”
Spartan’s
grin widens, though there’s no mirth in it. “Then by all means,”
she murmurs, crouching low so her blue and green glowing eyes meet
his directly. “Try to keep your oath.”
The
light flickers overhead once, twice, before dying completely, leaving
only the faint azure gleam from her eyes to illuminate the darkness.
Magnus’
Location – Continuous
The
mobile command center hums with faint light and the soft, rhythmic
flicker of holo-maps. Screens display the northern ridges, troop
positions, and the faint blue outlines of Venator signal pings long
since gone dark.
Magnus
stands alone at the war table, hands clasped behind his back,
studying the glowing projection. The flicker of the holo reflects
across his armor, ghostly against the crimson trim.
The
door slides open behind him. Arturo and Liam rush in, breath fogging
in the cold air. They stop short when they see him, posture
stiffening under his gaze.
Magnus
doesn’t speak. He simply turns his head slightly, waiting.
Arturo
swallows as he salutes, a straight hand at the corner of the brow.
“Sir, General Supreme, uh… Samayel brought something in. A
Venator.”
Magnus
straightens. “A Venator?”
Arturo
nods quickly. “An Inquisitor. Spartan told us to come find you. She
said to tell you they were taking him somewhere… private.”
Magnus
is silent for a long moment. Then he gives a slow, deliberate nod.
“And you don’t know where.”
Liam
shakes his head. “No, sir. She didn’t say.”
Magnus
exhales softly through his nose. “Very well.”
They
leave the command center together, boots crunching through the
frostbitten snow outside. The air bites colder than before, a
creeping wind whispering through the metal scaffolding of the
encampment.
They
pass through lines of sleeping soldiers and the glow of portable
heaters. Near one of the larger fires, Magnus spots Morus, curled in
his greatcoat beside a pile of ash and steel, his helmet resting near
his feet, breath puffing steadily in sleep.
Magnus
approaches and stops beside him. “Morus,” he says evenly.
The
old Vardengard stirs, mumbling before sitting up halfway. “Mm?
Master?”
“Where
did Spartan go?”
Morus
blinks, rubbing his eyes. “Munitions… storehouse,” he mutters
sleepily. “Took Rho Voss and… Samayel with her.”
Magnus
nods once, satisfied. “Go back to sleep.”
He
turns to Arturo and Liam. “You two, stay here. You are not needed
any longer.”
They
exchange a nervous look but obey instantly, stepping back as Magnus
strides away into the shadows.
The
sound of his boots grows quieter the farther he moves from campfire
light. The air gets colder. The metallic tang of something else
begins to mix with the frost, the scent of blood, sharp and heavy,
drifting through the night.
He
stops before the munitions store, a tall structure of reinforced
plating and narrow slits of dim yellow light. For a moment, he
listens. Nothing but the distant hum of power cells. Then he presses
the door release.
The
door slides open.
The
light spills out in a thin band across the snow.
Inside,
silence.
The
Inquisitor lies on the cold floor, surrounded by streaks and
splatters of red that stain the steel. The muzzle is gone. The
bindings are discarded. His arms hang at wrong angles, twisted and
limp.
He
is barely conscious, lips moving as if in prayer. Words tumble out,
broken and trembling, praises and pleas to the Absolute, slipping
between shuddered breaths.
Magnus
steps inside. The door seals behind him with a hiss, shutting out the
light from the camp.
The
room is dark. Cold. The hum of the encampment’s generators echoes
faintly through the steel walls, a dull heartbeat beneath the
silence. The lights above flicker, casting long shadows over the
figures within.
The
Inquisitor’s breathing is ragged, wet, uneven. Every inhale
trembles; every exhale comes as a low groan. Blood streaks the
concrete floor, smeared by bootprints, old and new. The smell of iron
and oil has become heavy enough to taste.
Spartan
stands motionless for a moment, visor dim, helm in her hand. Her
knuckles are slick with crimson, but her posture is composed,
deliberate. Rho Voss looms beside her, silent and statuesque, the
edges of his armor glinting faintly. Samayel crouches near the
prisoner, rolling his shoulders, head cocked slightly as though
studying a specimen.
There’s
no sound save the distant wind and the faint clicking of Samayel’s
gauntlets.
The
door hisses open.
Light
floods the room briefly as Magnus steps through. The shadows scatter
around him like frightened birds. His eyes take in the scene, the
three Vardengard, the ruined figure on the floor, the metallic tang
in the air.
He
doesn’t recoil. Instead, a small, grim smile touches his face.
“I
see you didn’t wait,” Magnus says quietly, voice steady. His
hands rest easily behind his back as he walks forward, boots
splashing through the faint puddle near the Inquisitor’s knees.
“Efficient as always.”
Spartan
looks up, visor faintly reflecting the light. “He’s strong,”
she says simply. “He’s been trained to withstand far worse than
this.”
Magnus
nods once. “Then he’ll tell us something worth hearing.”
Samayel
rises, still grinning, the faintest twitch in his jaw betraying his
excitement. Rho Voss stands aside, letting the General Supreme
approach.
Magnus
kneels before the Inquisitor, studies the man’s battered face for a
long, uncomfortable moment. His tone remains calm when he speaks.
“You have come a long way, Inquisitor,” he says softly. “Through
snow and fire and death, just to find us. I imagine you have
something to say.”
The
Inquisitor stirs, eyes flickering up at him, defiance barely holding.
His lips part, a rasp of breath, a whisper of prayer.
Magnus
only smiles faintly and glances at Spartan. “Good,” he says.
“Then we will continue.”
He
rises to his full height, and with a subtle motion of his hand, the
lights seem to dim further, the world shrinking to shadow and breath,
the promise of more to come.
Magnus
stands above the broken man, his shadow cast long across the walls.
The dull hum of the lamps fades until the only sound is the
Inquisitor’s unsteady breathing.
He
draws a long knife from his belt, nothing ornate, just a soldier’s
tool. He studies its edge in the half-light, as though checking for
imperfections. Then he crouches again, level with the Inquisitor’s
face.
“Your
kind are difficult to silence,” he murmurs, tone almost gentle.
“But I have always admired your devotion.”
The
Inquisitor trembles, a bead of blood rolling from his split lip. His
eyes are wide, yet proud. He whispers, hoarse and shaking, “The
Absolute… protects…”
Magnus’
expression doesn’t change. He sets the knife down for a moment and
brushes the man’s hair back from his face, almost tenderly. “Then
let Him protect you now.”
He
drives the knife downward, digging into the Inquisitor’s thigh.
The
sound isn’t loud, a muffled gasp, a sharp intake of air. The
Inquisitor convulses, breath hissing between clenched teeth. His head
jerks, eyes rolling white as the pain blooms.
Spartan
watches from the shadows, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but
her jaw tight. Rho Voss looms beside her, silent as ever, his hand
resting against the pommel of his sword. Samayel grins faintly in the
dark, a predator watching another at work.
Magnus
withdraws the knife, wipes it clean on his glove, and nods once.
“Again,” he says.
The
others move as if guided by instinct. A sound, the crash of metal, a
choked cry, the scrape of boots. The room fills with motion but no
words. The Inquisitor’s defiance bleeds away by degrees, replaced
by ragged, broken breathing.
Finally,
after several minutes, Magnus raises a hand, and silence falls.
The
Inquisitor slumps, trembling, his eyes glassy with pain. It takes him
several attempts before he can speak, his words rasping through blood
and air.
“Eldiravan…”
he gasps. “Ten miles… northeast… marching west.”
Magnus
leans closer. “How many?”
“Hundreds,”
the Inquisitor breathes. “Maybe more… under a banner of flame and
stone…”
Spartan
tilts her head. “The Seraphen?”
The
Inquisitor nods weakly. “Maybe… they burn the sky red where they
pass.”
Magnus
studies him a moment longer. “Venator detachments?”
The
man’s eyes flutter. “Scattered… regrouping east… Absjorn-”
He coughs hard, a spatter of blood marking the floor. “Absjorn…
was meant to drive north. Draw you out… before the Eldiravan
descended.”
Magnus’
jaw tightens. “So the Venators intended to use us.”
The
Inquisitor doesn’t answer, but his silence says enough.
Magnus
straightens. “That will do.”
Spartan
steps forward, her expression still hard, but there’s no
satisfaction in it now, only exhaustion, the sharp edge of purpose
dulled by reality.
Rho
Voss reaches down, seizing the Inquisitor by the collar, forcing him
upright to meet Magnus’ gaze one last time.
Magnus
leans close enough that only the Inquisitor can hear him. “Tell
your Absolute,” he whispers, “the Forger answers in kind.”
Then
he steps back. Magnus turns back towards the door as the sounds of
snapping bones and squelching flesh echo across the room.
Outside
the Munitions Storage – Continuous
Magnus
stands motionless outside the munitions building, the cold biting at
his exposed face. Snow drifts lazily across the plateau, but his gaze
is locked far beyond it, into the distant mountains where the
serpentine skeleton curves along the ridge like a colossal fossilized
god.
Under
the lingering influence of the wyrmglass, the world still shifts at
the edges. The bones of the serpent seem to writhe, and the mountains
blur into the shapes of hollowed, ancient human forms, legions of
corpses half-buried in the stone, arms reaching upward, mouths open
in silent appeal to a god who never answered.
Magnus
inhales slowly, the cold air slicing through his lungs.
Heavy
footsteps behind him.
Spartan
steps out into the cold. She leaves the door open behind her; a line
of faint, deep red trails from within to the threshold. Her helmet is
clipped to her belt, her face pale from the cold and the sting of
wyrmglass visions, but her posture remains iron-straight.
She
joins him at his side without a word, looking out into the same
distant mountains. When she speaks, her voice is quiet but carries
the weight of command.
“We’ll
take the body back to Absjorn,” she says. “Rho, Samayel, and I.
Leave it at his feet. Let him see what’s become of his Inquisitor.”
Magnus
doesn’t look at her, but he hears everything.
“We’ll
keep them weak,” she continues. “Keep pressure on them. They’ll
be limping when the Eldiravan arrive.”
Magnus
nods once, a slow, deliberate motion. “That’s acceptable,” he
says. “And perhaps… Absjorn will see reason. See that fighting us
is a mistake when far greater threats close in from every side.”
Spartan
doesn’t hesitate. “Absjorn won’t see anything but vengeance.
Especially now.” Her jaw tightens. “I killed a Priest, and not
just any Priest. His Cassiel, they had a strong bond. He’ll rain
hellfire down on us until he gets what he wants.”
Magnus
finally turns his head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.
“Absjorn lost more in that battle than he ever has,” he says.
“And he’s about to lose more.” His gaze shifts back to the
corpse-mountain horizon. “He will burn in his own fire, Zorya. And
we will be there to watch.”
Footsteps
echo softly behind them.
Rho
Voss emerges from the doorway. Rho’s gauntlets drip blood that
steams faintly in the cold air.
Magnus
turns to them. “I’m returning to command,” he says. “I need
to check on the other units. Prepare yourselves.” No further words.
He steps away into the snow, his silhouette shrinking into the dim
winter light until the Vardengard stand alone together on the edge of
the plateau.
The
door behind them remains open, the darkness inside swallowing the
last metallic glint of the Inquisitor’s blood.
Spartan
doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to, Rho Voss and Samayel heard
every word exchanged between her and Magnus; Vardengard senses leave
little room for secrets.
Instead,
her attention settles on the dark, wet sheen coating Rho Voss’
gauntlets.
Fresh
blood. Still warm.
She
steps closer, the metal of her boots crunching softly through the
thin crust of snow. Rho lifts his hands slightly, instinctively, as
if to hide them but Spartan catches one before he can. She cradles
his massive, clawed gauntlet between her own, lifting it with a
tenderness that looks almost impossible given the size and brutality
of the armor they wear.
She
brings the back of his blood-slick finger to her lips and drags her
tongue slowly across the ridge of metal, tasting the copper tang
beneath the cold. A low, involuntary purr rumbles from her throat.
Rho
Voss freezes.
His
entire body locks in place, shoulders rising subtly, breath halting.
His fingers twitch beneath her grip. Even behind the featureless
vantablack helm, she can feel the shock radiating off him, the
intensity, the restraint, the force of emotion he never speaks aloud.
A
moment passes. Then another.
He
grips her hand, not forcefully, but with a firm, grounding claim.
Slowly, he leans down, the towering mass of his armor folding with
surprising grace, and presses the sculpted, unbroken line of the
helm’s faux mouth against her forehead.
A
silent vow.
A silent comfort.
A silent answer.
The
wind howls over the plateau, carrying with it the distant, ghostly
song Spartan has been hearing for days. But for this breath, for this
one still moment, the world narrows to two armored silhouettes locked
together in a quiet, wordless exchange beneath the dying light.
