Children of The Spheres

Prologue: The Fraying

My kind speak a single language: power. It is the weight of the universe bending to your will. Those too weak to wield it are merely kindling, fuel for those who take what they desire. This is the essence: to endure, you must dominate. Every strike, every kill, is a test of your right to be. Only those who rise from the ashes of battle can claim their right to Eternity.

***

Watch your pace, Fia.

I'm moving as fast as I can, I snap back through the line, my grip tightening on the hilt of my sword. It's one and a half meters of dark metal, straight and sharp, with subtle angular facets along its edges.

The soldier in front of me barely has time to raise his rifle. I lunge forward, my blade a blur, and see my Phalanx's reflection in his visor—sleek, angular armor, with matte-black gold-trimmed plates tracing the edges. A maroon mantle is draped over the right shoulder, my bulwark shield hanging from the other. The terrifying visage of a Praetorian.

Blood sprays across the walls, his scream cut short as my blade pierces his chest. I twist it, feeling his ribs break under the force, and shove him off, his body collapsing in a heap.

My skates—micro-thrusters embedded along my suit's outer thighs and back—hum beneath me as I glide over the fallen soldier and into the next squad. My shield is already raised, deflecting the incoming shots as I twist and slide toward them.

Even with their faces concealed behind their combat armor, I can tell they're nervous. They know what I am, what's coming for them. They fear me, but if only they knew why I was doing this.

"Too slow," I mutter under my breath. My shield absorbs their fire, the deep grooves in its surface glowing faintly with each hit. Last second, I twist, sword slashing.

The first soldier's neck splits open as my blade slices through, blood spurting across the corridor. I pivot on my skates, the momentum carrying me into the next, my sword cutting through his armor and body like it's nothing—the Phalanx makes me faster, stronger, deadlier.

A part of me almost feels bad.

I continue pushing through the hall, the last soldier raising his energy rifle in desperation. My skates fire, launching me sideways, his shot barely missing me. Before he can react, I've closed the distance, my bulwark shield slamming into his chest with a brutal crack. His ribs shatter under the impact, and before he hits the ground, my sword finds the space between his armor. Blood drips from the matte blade as I tear it free.

How much farther? I ask through the connection, my voice cold, detached.

No response.

Mara? I press.

I'm here, she says, the line unstable. Connection's getting weaker. Good sign. Means you're almost at the bridge.

Still straight?

I'll mark it.

My optics flicker briefly, then recalibrate, and a glowing marker appears ahead, just beyond the next turn.

Things still quiet on your end? I ask, sliding effortlessly through the winding corridor, sword hanging ready in my grasp.

Jammer is still uncompromised, Mara replies, the connection steadying a bit. The Revenant is still trying to hail the surface and its sister frigates, but nothing has gotten out. Yet. Still, this is going far smoother than I thought it would.

They never expected one of their own Praetorians to turn on them, I say, smirking beneath my faceplate. These ships are built to fend off outside threats. But I'm a ghost inside their walls.