"You pursue the impossible, my lord." Sevatar's voice cut through the bridge once more. "I won't belabor the point—but my stance remains."
"The 'impossible' is my specialty," Fujimaru countered smoothly. "Must I list my achievements? Or remind you that you once thought this—" She gestured at his armor, "—was impossible?"
Sevatar's own words had ensnared him, but Astartes cognition pivoted swiftly: "Nostramo is a liability. Cutting losses is the pragmatic choice."
A strange sorrow flickered across Fujimaru's face. "That… would be too cruel."
She left the statement hanging, shifting gears with resolve: "But you're right. Nostramo is Legion property. Its corruption demands a Legion solution—I should've acted sooner."
Pacing her tiny central platform, she muttered rapid Nostraman: "Too long absent, too soft—they've forgotten I wasn't elected by honeyed words. Harsh rule breeds rebellion, yet leniency made them bold. Perhaps the entire aristocracy needs…"
A twitch. Then another.
Muscles spasmed unnaturally, twisting her expression into something fractured. Conrad recognized it instantly—he'd spent a lifetime shackled to the same curse:
A vision. Raw, unbidden, crushing in its clarity.
Fascination surged. For all his disdain toward this farce, Conrad needed to see how she'd weather it. Yet unlike his own apocalyptic episodes—hours-long, room-wrecking ordeals—hers lasted mere minutes before she gasped back to awareness, sweat-slicked and shaking.
"Duration?" she rasped, releasing the now-crushed railing.
"One minute, twenty-four seconds," Sigismund reported.
"Felt like three hours," Fujimaru smiled wryly.
Servants swarmed with towels and water. Conrad noted the discrepancy: her episodes were tame compared to his. Had the Emperor rigged this trial? Or did she possess some technique to temper the visions?
"What did you see?" Sigismund asked softly.
Predictable, Conrad sneered. Mortals always craved futures they couldn't grasp. His own Sevatar had asked the same, time and again.
"The usual." Fujimaru's tone suggested rote repetition. "Nostramo's destruction. A galaxy aflame. And… things too blasphemous to voice. Nothing new."
Sevatar latched onto the least consequential phrase: "You saw Nostramo's end."
"A possible end," Fujimaru corrected. "Not inevitability."
"Your visions never lie." Sevatar's voice was armored, but Conrad smelled the despair beneath. "If it's fated, let us be its executioners."
"And this is why Shen handles diplomacy, Sigismund oversees discipline, and you, Sevatar, remain my First Captain." Fujimaru sighed. "You're too… result-oriented."
Sevatar's retort bypassed his brain: "You praised that trait six Terran days ago."
"Context matters! And don't cherry-pick my words!" She smacked the railing, her exasperation undercutting any gravitas. "You excel at tackling tangible outcomes—but prophecy isn't a puzzle to 'solve'! A vision might unfold tomorrow, or a millennium hence, or never!"
For a fleeting moment, Conrad almost objected—his own visions had proven relentlessly accurate—but he bit back the rebuttal. Her point stood: obsession with inevitability was its own trap.
"But if we know the outcome—"
"Knowing changes nothing! We still live now!" Fujimaru's patience frayed. "You don't skip to the last page because you glimpsed the ending! And no field ration or troop transport jokes!"
Conrad barely stifled a snort at the tonal whiplash—especially when Sevatar actually looked chastised.
"In some ancient Terran tongues," Fujimaru continued, "'future' literally meant 'not yet come.' And what's 'not yet' shouldn't override now. Because 'now' is how we reach 'then.'" Her conviction burned quiet but bright. "So even if Nostramo explodes tomorrow, I'll spend today making it slightly better. Clear?"
Sevatar yielded with a bow. As Sigismund stepped forward—
—Time froze. The domain bent to its true master.
"Mortal thinking," Conrad sneered, materializing at last.
Fujimaru met his gaze, smiling faintly.
"I am mortal."
Pride, soft but unshakable, laced her words.