I. The Formation of the Umbra
The training yards of Obsidios Iubeo were loud. The rhythmic thud-hiss of sparring spears and the crunch of boots on stone filled the air.
In a secluded corner near the obstacle course, Corvin Nyx leaned against a wall, arms crossed. Beside him stood Legion Commander Torian (Legio II), a massive man who looked like he was carved from granite, and Vora, the Matriarch of the Northern Vulpines.
Torian watched the Vulpine recruits running the course. They were fast, but they were small compared to his heavy infantry.
"They're quick," Torian grunted, scratching his beard. "I'll give them that. But if you put them in a shield wall, they'll snap like twigs. They can't hold the line, Corvin."
Vora's ears flattened against her skull. She didn't look at Torian; she watched her people. "We don't hold lines, heavy-foot. We don't stand there and let people hit us. That's a human way to die."
Torian frowned. "It's called discipline."
"It's called being a target," Vora snapped. She whistled—a sharp, bird-like sound.
On the course, three Vulpine scouts dropped their practice swords. They didn't stop moving. They scrambled up the vertical wooden wall of the mock-fort, digging claws into the wood, and vaulted over the top. Before Torian could blink, they were behind the training dummies, drawing knives.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Three dummies lost their heads.
"You use a hammer," Vora said, looking Torian in the eye. "We are the needle."
Corvin pushed off the wall. "She's right, Torian. We have enough hammers."
He looked at Vora. "I'm not folding you into the Legions. It's a waste of what you are. You're independent."
Vora looked surprised. "Independent?"
"The Umbra Auxilia," Corvin named it. "You answer to the Marshall and the Prytanis. No one else. Your job isn't to fight the battle. Your job is to make sure the enemy is bleeding before the battle starts."
He gestured to the scouts. "Recon. Assassination. Night raids. You'll be the terror in the dark."
Vora grinned, her sharp teeth flashing. "The Umbra. I like it. It sounds... hungry."
II. The Mirror (Kyra and Vora)
Later that afternoon, Vora sat alone on a stone bench in the Sanctum Gardens. She was cleaning her obsidian-tipped arrows, her tail twitching nervously. The city was safe, but she still felt the phantom weight of chains.
She heard soft footsteps. Not the heavy stomp of a soldier.
"You're tightening the string too much," a voice said. "It'll snap in the cold."
Vora looked up and froze.
Kyra stood there holding a basket of food.
Vora stared. She saw the human face, delicate and kind. But then she saw the Fox Ears poking through Kyra's hair, and the long, russet tail swaying gently behind her dress.
"You..." Vora stood up, her eyes wide. "You are Kin."
"I am," Kyra said, sitting down on the bench. She patted the empty space beside her. "Sit, Vora. I don't bite. Unless Corvin annoys me."
Vora sat slowly, keeping her distance. She looked at Kyra's clothes—clean silk, soft wool. She looked at her fur—groomed and shiny.
"You are the Mate of the Raven Lord," Vora whispered. "I thought... the rumors said he kept a pet."
Kyra's expression hardened, just for a second. "He doesn't keep pets. He keeps promises."
She offered Vora an apple from the basket. "I was a slave in the Union, Vora. In a pleasure house in Aurum. I know what they do to us. I know they think we're just animals that talk."
Vora took the apple. Her hand was scarred and dirty; Kyra's was manicured. Two lives, divided by luck.
"I ran to the snow to get away," Vora said, her voice thick. "I watched my pups starve because freedom was better than a collar."
"You don't have to run anymore," Kyra said softly. She reached out and touched Vora's ear—a gesture of deep intimacy among their kind. Vora flinched, then leaned into the touch, her eyes closing.
"Look at you," Kyra murmured. "You're a warrior. I survived by being soft. You survived by being hard. But we're safe here, Vora. No one touches us unless we let them."
Vora opened her eyes. They were wet. "He really believes it? The Tenets?"
"He carved them in stone," Kyra smiled. "And if anyone breaks them, he breaks them. Eat, sister. You're safe."
III. The Silver Tongue
In the war room, the mood was less sentimental. Warren Fulkom was looking at a map of the trade routes, spinning a dagger on the table.
"The Union Envoy is a day out," Warren said. "He's making a show of it. Slaves, gold carriage, the works. He wants us to be impressed."
"He wants us to be intimidated," Garrus Vane corrected.
"Same thing to a merchant," Warren shrugged.
Corvin watched his spymaster. Warren had been with him since the beginning—a thief, a liar, and the most effective administrator he had.
"You need a title, Warren," Corvin said.
Warren didn't look up. "I have a title. 'That shady bastard who counts the grain.'"
"Something official," Corvin said. He nodded to Alcides, who tossed a folded sash onto the table. It was silver, embroidered with a quill and a dagger.
"Imperial High Envoy," Corvin said. "You're the voice of the Empire now. You negotiate the treaties. You handle the trade deals. You command the Diplomatic Corps."
Warren picked up the sash, fingering the silk. "Fancy. Does it come with a raise?"
"It comes with a target on your back," Corvin replied dryly.
Warren grinned, tying the sash around his waist. "Good. I was getting bored. I'll get the scholars from Oakhaven to start drafting the protocols. If we're going to play at politics, let's cheat."
IV. The Ageless Gift
As the meeting wound down, Prytanis Orion Kirtide (of Lithos) lingered. The old smith was rubbing his knee.
"Something wrong, Orion?" Corvin asked.
"That's the thing, Lord," Orion rumbled, looking confused. "Nothing's wrong. I broke this knee twenty years ago in a mine collapse. It aches every time it rains. It's pouring outside... and I don't feel a thing."
He held up his hands. "And the scars on my knuckles. They're fading. I feel... light. Like I'm thirty again."
Corvin looked at Garrus. The Marshall nodded. "The men are saying the same. Recovery times are down. I have veterans who should be retiring, but they're running the obstacle course faster than the recruits."
Corvin activated the Void Stone. The violet light washed over the room.
"It's the Ordo," Corvin realized. "It's not just shielding the weather. It's slowing entropy."
"The Void is dense," Corvin explained, thinking through Vesper's theories. "Time moves... differently here. It drags. As long as you stay within the Web, you age slower. You heal faster. We are becoming durable, Orion."
Orion stared at his hands. "So we live longer?"
"Much longer," Corvin said. "But it's a tether. If you leave... if you are banished... the years catch up. You'd wither in a week."
Orion laughed, a deep belly sound. "Well. I wasn't planning on leaving anyway."
V. The Walk of Shame
Two days later. Observa Divisio.
The South Gate stood open. Prytanis Veridian Vex stood in the middle of the Via Obsidia, his arms crossed. Behind him, a full Phalanx of the Third Legion blocked the road, their black shields locked.
A cloud of dust announced the arrival of the Union.
It was grotesque. High Envoy Valen sat atop a massive, gilded carriage. It was painted in garish reds and golds. But there were no horses.
Twenty slaves—men and women in iron collars—strained against the traces, pulling the heavy vehicle through the dust.
Valen fanned himself, looking bored. When the carriage stopped before the black wall of the Legion, he stood up.
"Make way!" Valen shouted, his voice shrill. "I am the Voice of the Ministry! I demand an audience with the Warlord Nyx!"
Veridian didn't move. He looked at the slaves. He looked at the sweat dripping off them, the sores on their shoulders. His blood ran cold.
"You are in violation of the Law," Veridian said. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a projected vibration of the Second Circle.
Valen rolled his eyes. "I have diplomatic immunity, you savage. These are my property. Now move aside, or the Ministry will—"
"Custodes!" Veridian snapped.
A squad of City Guard moved. They didn't charge; they flowed. They slipped past the carriage guards, their Obsidian Rods blurring.
Crack. Thud.
The carriage guards dropped, clutching broken wrists. The Custodes moved to the slaves, using shears to snap the trace lines.
"You're free," a Custodes told a weeping slave. "Get to the city. Get water."
"What are you doing?!" Valen shrieked, clutching his robes. "That is Ministry property!"
Veridian walked up to the carriage. He didn't use the stairs. He grabbed the gilded rim of the wheel.
With a grunt of exertion, the density of his muscles flaring, Veridian ripped the wheel off the axle.
The carriage groaned and tipped. Valen tumbled out, landing face-first in the dirt. He scrambled up, spitting dust, his wig askew.
"You... you barbarian!" Valen sputtered. "You can't do this!"
Veridian towered over him. "In the Imperium, Slavery is Forbidden. You brought chains into my city. You're lucky I don't hang you from the gate."
Veridian pointed north, down the long, black, perfect road.
"You want to see the Sovereign? You can walk. It's sixty miles to Iubeo. Maybe the walk will teach you some humility."
Valen looked at his broken carriage. He looked at his liberated slaves, who were already being led into the city to be fed. He looked at the black wall of spears.
He started walking.