[b]Alexa![/b]

"The story says that we waited for rescue," said Hera, gaze imperial as she watches the boarding torpedoes cut across the rainbow black towards the dark shape of the Anemoi. "But how could we? We did not know that Zeus would come. We did not know the world would change. All we knew was darkness and hunger and hollow hearts. It was us and the void, day by day, and the void was not about to experience character growth."

Her hand flexes. Perfect jewels. Perfect fingernails. These are not practical, not necessary. She would still be Hera if she did not put in the effort, if she appeared in a simple storm-deep toga like Zeus. If she did not appear flanked by peacocks and golden heifers. Vanity, then? Obsessing over her appearance, over the full grandeur and regalia of what it means to be Olympian even when appearing before the least of mortals?

"Every day we were called upon to fall anew. It did not matter if we had fallen the previous day or had stood tall for years. Everything we were was built atop of the void, towers atop a pit. Every day our father sought to use us for the purpose we were designed, to fill his happy home and gut with the laughter of devoured children. We could not resist. We could not disobey. We had not the power. We only had the shadows."

And you can see the shadow as it closes in; the dark shape of the Anemoi, a pitch black dagger against red-green nebulae. You see its batteries fire and with a crash a vast solid projectile shell smashes through the deck next to you. The windows shatter, the air rushes with the void of space - and then stops. The shell sprays a thick weblike compound out behind it that forms a fragile skin over the breach it left, and similarly webs itself into the floor and the molten metal so it cannot be moved.

And then it begins to pump poison gas. Vast clouds of it, thick and billowing and tinged with violet and flashing with particles. It corrodes away metal like acid. All around the soldiers rush away towards emergency escapes - this entire deck will be unusable until a repair Plover arrives to cut the shell out and burn away the toxic webbing growth that is already spreading from the ruptured shell.

"But we had the shadows!" said Hera, rising up with her back to the wall of poison smoke. "And when you live in the void, how bright the shadows can be! How soft! How healing! The absence of light, the absence of power! Light seeps into everything, power is invasive. They want to pry open every thought and secret. But they tire. They weaken. They lose track. The more things they try to control the thinner they spread themselves, and they can never accept that they have enough so they're always reaching for more."

Impact. The ships have collided, through the coiled and shadowed smoke. The boarding teams are starting to cross. The objective is, as ever, the Engines.

"So do not underestimate the shadows," said Hera. "It is in shadow that you can decide exactly who it is you want to be."

[b]Vasilia![/b]

The darkness comes in rainbow colours. Polycromatic eyes open up to face you, clear through the madness of poison smoke. You may have your differences with the Gods, but you know better than to show any disrespect to Poseidon, Lord of the Deep. He will break your ship. He will break this world. He exists because disaster needs a face. And he smiles with the face of the Azura before settling back into scales as blue as the sea.

When the gods come to mortals in human shape the line between them and that god is blurry. Their advice will be divine, and their prowess unmatchable, but they also are that person. Perhaps inspired, perhaps synchronized, perhaps possessed. The exact nature of the dynamic is one for philosophers to argue over, but the tales of failing to heed someone who speaks with divine tongue are told in the language of ruined cities.

Then you stagger out of the smoke before an aged Azura warrior, the cataphract who sat at the right hand of the Satrap. He wears a scroll-badge that lists his battles in flowing calligraphy and armour engraved with oaths. Silver scales flick amidst his sky blue radiance, billowing white robes and disregard for gravity setting him in the air like a martial stormcloud. Rainbow eyes blink at you. His title is no secret: he is the Furnace Knight, and he needs to be treated with the respect due to an entire tank division.

"You wield the Glave, traveler," said the Furnace Knight. "Who trained you? As a show of hospitality to mighty Zeus, allow me to kill your master, for they have done you poor service."

[b]Dolce![/b]

"Duty," sniffs Jil, with a measure of polite contempt. That golden fire still burns even as she is pulled along in your shadow, lantern razor bright. "I suppose that is what good captains think to. I have served under a great many [i]good[/i] captains, Lord Captain. Captains with minds on duty. Captains who were so good at duty that they were extensions of their ship, extensions of their mistresses, extensions of the Empire. I know what it is to have a good captain."

But her mind turns over your admission of your history as a chef. Of your status as a servitor, a bioengineered servant species, an organic machine whose species was built to a purpose. And despite a hostile mind she can find no lie in your gentle voice.

"But duty flows uphill, doesn't it? The obligations of the low to the high. The meek to the loud. And so those bound by duty never blink or turn their heads or look down. Duty, then, sounds a lot like making a virtue out of capitulation to power. And that is [i]not[/i] one of the virtues that Lord Apollo teaches us. Lord Apollo teaches us the kindness to combat cruelty. Lord Apollo teaches us the courage to combat inertia. Lord Apollo teaches us the wisdom to see the cracks in the world."

The ring has slipped and fallen from your horn into a boiling pot. In the crash of steam as she pours the pasta therein into a strainer it vanishes from your field of view.

"I do not [i]love[/i] my work, Lord Captain," said Jil with the courage of a mouse who has been through the jaws of a cat unscathed. "But I suppose most of the good captains I have served under must have thought I did. It must be a balm to those receiving the fruits of duty to imagine that it is given out of unconditional love. That frees them from all the virtues that are not duty. It frees them from sitting in the dark and listening. It frees them from confronting and banishing warrior cults. It frees them from responsibility. I imagine it is a very liberating life to be a good captain, Lord Captain."

[b]Skotia![/b]

You are bleeding, Skotia. You came within a breath of the ender of breath. It cost you, and you will need gentle hands to stitch that bloody wound before long.

You remember the shape of that shadow, the way it coiled, the way it moved, the way it struck with a savagery that reminded you of Bella's movements mere moments ago. You would have died. Bella would have died. But Artemis lashed it with chains for its attempt, until it shrank away from you. It has not offered her your name, has not consecrated a hunt for you, and by the Huntress' laws it may not have you. Your presence, then, will do more to keep Bella safe than anything else.

[Pay a Price despite your 10 Skotia; Thist is a Threat to the World]